“I bet you get a lot of crap about your name!” mused the car rental clerk while typing my driver’s license number. Whether instigated by Austin Powers, The Slasher Killer, or my own insecurities, being me hasn’t been easy. I cope by creating my own fun.
Come December and you begin looking for Christmas gifts for the young set, you learn you’re not as grown up as you thought.
If you’ve ever been in a mall and lost your kids, you can imagine how Joseph and Mary felt running around looking for Jesus. For three days.
Vikki handles my road trips better than I handle hers. I dislike when she’s gone and it’s just Camille and me. Not because of Camille, but because I’m less adept at being mother AND dad than Vik is.
Perhaps you know that feeling. That what-time-of-day-where-am-I?-sensation, made more disorienting by the place you find yourself when you’ve awakened.
I needed to vent; to write down my 2 cents about the folks who cannot drive shopping carts. I pulled out my phone to Tweet. And that’s when Wayne-o came to mind: “Notes written on____.” Wayne Tweeted before Twitter.
Despite my own non-singing snobbery for banal lyrics, atonal voices, or sacrilegious album covers, I greatly enjoy the efforts of artists who have recorded Christmas music. I am ever-open to being surprised when I make a new discovery. Like anyone, my musical appreciation depends on my mood…
Lecturing — I prefer storytelling — was Dad’s most successful endowment, which I’m afraid anyone who has spent time with me, my siblings or Myers grandchildren – even those who never met him – will attest.
She was awakened early and reminded of her request: That they take the trip to the polls BEFORE Mom went …