Exactly seven years ago, following an incident involving my husband and the whereabouts of fresh garbage bags in our kitchen, it occurred to me that if I should elope with a handsome construction guy, or suddenly disappear for any reason, my sweetie might be ill-equipped to deal with the ordinary requirements of daily living. So,
Forgive me if I indulge in a bit of nostalgia, but for this essay it seems appropriate. I’m referring to an old radio program called “Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons.” If you admit your age is hovering somewhere near four score, perhaps you can remember listening to the broadcast with your parents as you
Today is blog day. But more importantly, it also happens to be my 40th wedding anniversary, and I have decided to honor the occasion with an essay. So what you’re about to read will be a little bit funny, a little bit serious, a little bit sentimental, and the rest of it downright mushy! Given
I was involved in a fender bender the other night. No air bags inflated and no one was hurt. But the left front fender of my car is a dented, ugly mess and will remain so until I hear from the insurance adjuster. I do hope he calls soon, because my poor car, while drivable,
Glancing up, I realize that my title is a bit ambiguous. The word “pack” can have many meanings, such as “a pack of gum,” or a “Cub Scout pack.” Or carrying a concealed weapon. So let me state at the outset that the following is not intended to be a sequel to Orange Is The
Please don’t stop reading. I promise that, despite the title, what follows is not a downer. Rather, it’s an observation, a practical consideration, and maybe even a little bit funny. What precipitated my seemingly ghoulish reflection was an actual conversation I had with my husband, a semi-retired attorney, who, for the past three years has
When I was a young married person, I would sometimes find myself in the company of an older married couple who had been together for a very long time. And it was impossible not to notice that they would frequently disagree over the most unimportant subjects. And this disagreement would invariably lead to an argument.
When it comes to decluttering, the world seems to consist of two types of people: those who are able to divest themselves of inanimate objects once they’ve outlived their usefulness, and those who would sentimentally cling to an old rubber band. Darned if I know why letting go of things is so difficult for some people,
