I laughed with my brother over our connection of attendance at thousands of wakes, remembering how going to a wake was a night out with one or both parents, kneeling in front of a corpse a major part of our childhood.
Eileen was the cool kid who grew up across the street on Florentine Gardens in Springfield, Massachusetts. I’d known Eileen long enough to remember her family dog Pierre roaming the neighborhood.
In a world where vegan, gluten-free and paleo seem to be taking over the lexicon of every dietary conversation, it’s a relief to know potato chips can still star.
And this week, I muse joyfully on not only basking on being a “Bad Mom” on occasion but basking in the glory of being human, alive and entirely less than stellar in the matronly aspect of my life.
I love red – the bold red, not the orangey Nancy Reagan red, not pinkish red, not feint red, rather, the red of heart, of blood, of crimson.
I observed Bernie Sanders as he sat in the car while people gathered to ensure all was ready for his speech. As this little car had no tinted windows, I watched as the former presidential candidate sat, looking to see if he would pull down the visor and check himself out in the mirror. He did not.
I have absolutely no desire to know anything about the Kardashians. Nothing. I do not watch “Keeping up” with them nor have any desire to know who is pregnant, who is dating whom, which character is doing anything.
There is nothing so blissfully wonderful as a stellar whoopie pie. Nothing. A good whoopie pie is pure bliss, pure chocolate and worthy of musing joyfully for days, weeks, months…
Joyful Musings: There are words I no longer hear much: record player, eight track, fellow, slacks, dungarees.
I like the idea of using Funeral Favors as a chance to clear out some of the junk, er, I mean treasures I’ve found over the years.