OK, it scares even me. Over the years, as new phrases came into the vernacular, my kids would hear them at school, start saying them at home, and pretty soon even mom was using them. Well, most of them. But now, more and more phrases have come into common use, which annoy me beyond reason. I know: it’s the first step toward terminal curmudgeonliness. I fear I’m steps away from morphing from the kid-adoring neighbor lady to the one who rolls out onto her front porch in her walker and hurls epithets at the skate boarders.
When my first husband and I were married, an insurance salesman advised us only to insure ourselves against serious losses: his life and my contact lenses.
I’ve finally come to understand the basic connection between grandparents and grandchildren: They really want to get out of diapers, and we hope never to get into them.
My husband Olof’s parents and mine were similar in many ways and the one precept that they both held most dear was the intrinsic value of child labor. No job was too menial or too boring if it paid.
I’ve known my husband Olof for a long time, so it was somewhat of a surprise to learn that he was masquerading as someone named Giselle who does outcall services. Fortunately, he’s recently retired as I do think this could have impacted, and not in a positive way, his security clearance.
Every election, I conclude that robocalls are God’s way of punishing people who still have land lines.
As a single working mom, I couldn’t spend much time at my kids’ schools during the day, which is probably how I got suckered into organizing an authentic Roman feast for my son’s classically-ennuied seventh-grade Latin class. An end-of-the-school-year celebration, it was an evening event so I really had no excuse.
I’ve written before about my neighbor Bob’s cat, Tiger. Or actually, former cat Tiger. This wonderful kitty passed away last summer despite heroic treatments to save him. Bob was devastated. But a new and happy feline chapter has begun.
Now that the holidays are well over, I think it’s appropriate to discuss the role of the family photographer, which is about as unappreciated a job as there is. Year after year, occasion after occasion, there is nothing but complaining as the (self- appointed) family archivist attempts to herd the surly assemblage into some kind of order and snap a few pics for posterity.
The day before Easter, I was at the supermarket, which was crowded with ham and chocolate bunny shoppers. Among the other customers was a mom who had a 3-year-old girl in the cart’s seat and a 5-year-old boy riding in the basket. Every 10 seconds or so, the boy reached up and poked his sister in the back causing her to emit a soul-piercing shriek at the top of her considerable lungs. Mom, who was presumably suffering from adaptive catatonia, or alternatively had just undergone an elective lobotomy, never said a single word. Dead-faced, she plodded on.