It’s not everybody who can brag that their aunt was one of the world’s foremost authorities on bats’ ovaries. (OK, maybe the only one?) Even my mother, tiring of explaining her physiologist sister’s unique life work, would describe physiology to inquiring friends as something you did to rehabilitate invalids.
Every teenager at some point ponders the question, “Just how stupid ARE my parents?” The query is usually related to some activity the teen has in mind that they’re fairly clear the folks wouldn’t approve of but which they really (like, REALLY) want to do anyway. So assessing the stupidity quotient of mom and dad is critical to the process.
When I read recently that new studies suggest that there could be a connection between calcium supplements and heart disease, I officially gave up on medical science. Sorry, science, it’s just over between us.
When I first moved to San Diego, I was puzzled that people invited me out for coffee or lunch “if it’s not raining.” Did restaurants and coffee shops in sunny places like San Diego close in inclement weather? Efforts to get to the bottom of this were initially unsuccessful until it was finally explained to me why Southern Californians don’t go out in showery conditions: It’s wet.
I was thinking about writing a guide on how to be a good mother-in-law, but truthfully it can all be summed up in two words: “Shut. Up.”My long-time motto, to which I have, alas, faithfully failed to adhere, has always been “A closed mouth gathers no feet.” As anyone who has read my column for a while might guess, letting an opinion go unvoiced is not my strong suit.
One of the advantages of living in such an upscale community as La Jolla is that you get to see – and yes, sometimes even ride in — a lot of cars you could never afford.
At an Easter brunch with friends, we were discussing the difficulty of finding good financial investments at a time when real estate has been problematical and most conservative vehicles are paying less than 1 percent.
In a similar (if less volatile) market some years back, my now-husband, Olof (whom I was dating at the time), concluded after considerable contemplation and, more to the point, a lot of observation during weekends he spent at our house, that the investment of choice was allowance futures.
I’ve written before about my wonderfully ethnic family — French Catholics, DAR Protestants, Russian Jewish refugees, plus a smattering of Northern European famine flee-ers, all yearning to breathe free. Actually, to be accurate, the French contingent were more yearning to breathe rich. Already a well-regarded textile expert in France, my great-grandfather was recruited to come to the U.S. Northeast in 1901 to manage a woolen mill which he ultimately ended up owning; numerous expansions later, the mill became the largest tax payer in the state.
I simply refuse to be defeated by sterling silverware. But so far the tally is flatware 3, Inga 0.
This is an ode to our two local hardware stores, Meanley’s and Hammer & Nails, along with my fervent hope that they stay in business forever. Big-box hardware stores like Home Depot certainly excel at range of merchandise, but there is no substitute for humans who a) you don’t have to flat-out tackle in the aisle to get them to help you and b) actually know something.