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 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.
It’s that time of year when millions flock to the airport while others flock to the grocery stores, and those who actually live in flocks, wind up on the dinner table, filled with stuffing.
Paul and I have made reservations. With zero guilt.
It was a lovely thing to be asked by an enthusiastic group of seniors, who had chosen my novel for their book club, if I would consider driving to their group residence to speak about it.
Well, of course I would, I thought, the elderly dears.
You know who won the biggest prize on election night?
Peace.
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