Our internet has been out. For days, weeks, months. A ‘good’ day is when it drops, oh, maybe 20 to 30 times. And while I loathe to use my column as a way to shame any provider or name them, publicly, sometimes I feel that when we complain, Paul and I are just whistling in the wind.
News anchors have all been atwitter at the bold proclamation of love from a Nairobi lawyer, who goes by the name, Kiprono, and is offering President Obama 50 cows, 70 sheep and 30 goats in exchange for the hand of his beautiful and eldest daughter, Malia.
Shauna White, a comely blonde reporter based in Toronto, Canada, is featured in a video that has now gone ‘viral’ around the world, showing first hand how commonly lewd behavior as well as sexual harassment still prevails.
This past week has seen the shared birthday of my two favorite ladies: my mother in law, Christine, and my dearest daughter, our Jack Russell, Bonnie.
Both born May 7, 80 years apart.
Perhaps it’s because I came from ‘depression era’ parents, but boy, I hate to see food go to waste so with this in mind, for the third time in a week I entered the house with yet another bouquet of asparagus from the garden.
Without a doubt, one of the largest television audiences of the year tuned in to watch the transitioning of Bruce Jenner into his what is, for him, his true sexual identity.
This time of year when we are obliged both to stay indoors from the deluge of spring rain, as well as write checks to Uncle Sam, it’s not uncommon to feel a bit like a chained dog: defeated and wanting to do much more than allowed.
Ever since it has been reported that the 90’s sitcom, ‘Coach,’ is returning with a new home at NBC, I guess it’s not surprising that those loyal to the original show have besieged me with emails asking, “Are you going to be on it?”
I figured this would be a good forum to reply and the honest answer is...
After hearing what I thought I heard on the local news as I was leaving the living room with a basket of laundry in my arms, I had to do an abrupt about-face and rewind in order to be clear.
Last Sunday I threw myself an enormous pity party: table for one, face down on the bed, enough Radiohead filtering through the speakers to convince anyone to taste steel, shoved coldly against their back molars.
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