Women have often been told by psychologists that we suffer from a two-word phrase, a rather vulgar one, the second word being, ‘envy,’ in regards to what men, exclusively, have. I have always found that accusation both ridiculous and insulting.
I'm Just Saying
I write this column from the office I will be occupying for the next five days while the battered floors of our IHOP are being refinished:
The beer cooler at the local Spinx station.
In all my years as a stand-up comic, I’ve never been unable to provide a snappy, ‘come-back’ to a boisterous heckler. Indeed, if you hand them enough rope, they usually end up hanging themselves and making a comic’s life much easier.
Glowing, glowing, gone...is the term I read online to describe the plight of lightning bugs around the world.
When I watch the national news, I am always staggered by men or women who say, after suffering through a particular event — the details which are often unimaginable — the crisis somehow brought them even closer to their spouse.
It may be one of the signs of the apocalypse.
And friends tell me I may want to browse Nostradamus as well.
About a year ago, I was charmed to see Caroline Kennedy, promoting a collection of her mother’s favorite poems, being interviewed on television.
It wasn’t that I was particularly interested in Jackie’s literary taste, but I was riveted by the fact that Caroline easily recited several poems, without faltering, by request.
The heart of the racing documentary that I co-produced a year ago, JB Day, passed away last week at the age of 80. But his life deserves so much more attention than what was limited to in column inches, for his obituary.
Anna from the feed store bought a new horse.
Technically, a pony.
“He was bred to race but he just stopped growing at 14.1 hands,” she explained, totting up my order of timothy and alfalfa hay, shavings, two bags of grain and a Snickers, “So they had to figure out something to do with him.”
The mechanical sorting through my mother’s things with empty cardboard boxes and piles of newspapers scattered about her empty apartment gave me pause- the moment that strikes all of us after the death of a parent:
Is this it? Is this all there is to show for more than 92 years of life?