Every now and then I will rummage through old books–correction, old children’s books that I have kept since pilfering them from my elementary school’s library and, more commonly, received as gifts from adored, overseas English aunts who always mailed them, as Julie Andrews would approve, in ‘brown paper packages, tied up with strings.’
I'm Just Saying
My friend, Ruby, who is relatively new to the area, texted me in a pickle.
“I’m going to a baby shower and I’ve not seen any baby boutiques in the area,” she wrote.
“Google, baby,” I shot back, while tacking up a horse in the barn.
“Google ‘baby’?” she replied. “Instead of baby boutiques?”
I’ve jinxed us.
Harry, stop it.
Please—you’ve given me PTS (Post traumatic ‘Spare’) Syndrome with this blitzkrieg of promotional publicity for the tell-all tome about your family, to the point where I’m now adding to the media furor surrounding it.
I must admit, I’m quite impressed with the women featured in a recent article that proudly proclaim that, because they have frozen their eggs, they can “have a baby anytime I want!” and “I don’t need a man, just a donor bank,” as well as, “I’m 37 now and I plan to wait until I’m 40 before I have a baby!”
It started innocently enough.
When your house backs up to 300 acres of woodland and you don’t have either a composter or garbage service, it’s very easy, at least for me, to, well, lob that apple core behind me when walking into the barn, or that half a tomato that went bad in the fridge.
Or that banana peel.
Sometimes, when I check in on social media, particularly Facebook, I almost have to steel myself to read and respond to posts that are outpourings of grief.
Alright, there is a word for applying human characteristics to animals: anthropomorphic.
The times they’ve been a’changing!
The one time of year that our I-Hop (what else can I name our A-frame cabin?) looks appropriate with its Swiss angles is Christmas. Then our cramped abode is transformed into something of a chalet.