Joyful Musings: Tell Susan your tale of growing up with too many siblings. Actually one could be too many. Let’s hear it.
Skate. Ski. Walk. Cover your face, of course, but take off your pajamas and get outside, beneath the sky.
My most recent adventure has been to aisle 5 of Market Basket. I believe the closest I’ll get to an iceberg are the mounds created by the snow plows.
Santa Claus number one is Exhausted Santa. He’s got kids climbing all over him, he’s ready to keel over, ready to climb under the covers until July. He’s done. Exhausted.
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.