I read a comment recently that had never occurred to me and I thought it worthwhile to pass along:
I'm Just Saying
My mother may have not had have had the chiseled body of Madonna, but man o’ man, in her prime, she had a forearm like Popeye. She had to- in order to tackle her yearly holiday cakes.
It is well known in the medical field that a doctor will cringe when, outside his or her office and particularly at cocktail parties, they are approached by someone who seems to think nothing of asking, “My Momma is about to have surgery but the doctor wants to take her off blood thinners. Is that a good idea?”
Well, if you don’t eat meat, what do you eat?”
Not satisfied with his two completed marathons, my fella Paul dropped a bombshell casually during breakfast.
Okay, let’s see what happened this week:
The senate changed hands, US Weekly reports that Bruce Jenner is now free to live as a woman and...
Human beings just landed a probe on a comet.
This new frozen yoghurt place up the road is going to be the death of me.
This past Monday night, Oct. 27, taking back roads home from Greenville, South Carolina, what did I see in the window of a modest brick ranch out the passenger side window?
A Christmas tree.
Y’all: a six-footer, festooned with lights and doing its best to create a cozy ambience as the day’s Indian Summer ebbed into the mid 70s.
I tend to be hyperaware when synchronicity occurs. But even if these events seem meaningful, and I’m quite sure they must be meaningful, generally I can’t figure out why.
It sits staring down at me from the top of the refrigerator, smug in its power, attractive in its red and black, Scottish plaid, container:
The most enormous tin of Walker’s ‘Premium Short Bread Collection,’ pure butter cookies you’ve ever seen.