I'm Just Saying

Just like Forrest Gump!

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It was during our Saturday night tradition of watching our favorite recorded “Brit-coms” with a generous gin and tonic each that my phone rang and I made the motion to answer it.

“Why don’t you turn off the ringer?” Paul asked, slightly annoyed as he put ‘Doc Martin’ on pause.

Women have killed for less

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‘I wonder,” I thought, pulling myself out of the slop in front of the manure pile beautifully cloaked in the snow of a recent winter storm, “how long it would take for Paul to come looking for me if I had really hurt myself just then.”

What's the deal with Anderson?

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Having finally put up the tree with Bing Crosby serenading me from the stereo and feeling all cozily tucked up on the couch with a cup of tea, I wanted to write you a nice, cuddly, Christmas column. I really did.

But somebody just fell through the floor of a trailer in Anderson and found a mummified body covered in cat litter, y’all.

Sticking with the Stone Age

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Paul has given me an ultimatum, and I don’t like it. “Look,” he began last Saturday evening while I was kvetching (not bad for an Episcopal gal) over the lack of anything decent to watch on television, “If you would let me buy a flat screen, we could get Netflix On Demand.

Friendly inspiration

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Standing behind the kitchen island as I added milk to a mug of hot tea yesterday evening, the soft autumnal light ebbing through the storm door caught my eye and, entranced by the canopy of stained glass that was being created through the leaves of the Carolina maples, I immediately began to search for a pen.


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