Let Inga Tell You

Advertisement
Featured
DMV, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. The first time your license expires after you turn 70, you have to show up in person at the DMV regardless of how good a driving record you have. I guess they want to make sure you haven’t gone blind and that you still have enough synapses firing to pass the written test. I decided to get my Real ID at the same time.
From time to time, my husband has observed: “It must be really hard living inside your head.” Alas, this is often true. I wish brains could have an off switch where you could say, “OK, we’re done for today! Do not even THINK of contacting me again until at least 7 a.m.” But my brain just never wants to quit. Around 2 a.m. I wake up and start pondering both ponderables and imponderables. They just won’t go away no matter what tricks I use to get them to shut up.
After our beloved English bulldog Winston died suddenly of a heart attack in our living room in 2016, Olof and I were so flattened that we swore we’d never have another dog. But a local rescue agency with radar for mushballs asked us to foster several dogs “just for a week,” and before we knew it, we were suddenly the adoptive parents of Lily, a 7-year-old 15-pound bichon-poodle with rotten teeth and breath so bad it could scorch your eyebrows. This was apparently why she had been relinquished by her former owner.
I hope you’re paying attention because this is a serious subject. I’m talking toilet paper roll inflation. There was a time, and I’m talking like five years ago, that toilet paper rolls were pretty standard. This, of course, was because the toilet paper dispensers in most bathrooms were pretty standard, too. But then Double Rolls came along — twice as much toilet paper in one roll so you presumably only had to change it half as often, unless you had a toddler who liked to grab the end and run through the house with it. (I once had such a toddler.) Or in a moment of temporary insanity, you went for the street food in Tijuana. (No amount of toilet paper in the world will cover that.)
In honor of the 10th anniversary of “Let Inga Tell You,” and having run out of pretty much anything else to say (not that this will stop me from writing the column), I have been mining my memories of Pleasantville High School Class of ’65 and our subsequent reunions in my last two columns. Try to contain your excitement. In order to get people to read past the first paragraph, I’ve been intentionally inserting the name of my Pulitzer-prize-winning classmate, Dave Barry.
Advertisement
Latest
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement