So, yesterday I broke down in tears, and I am totally not making this up. Didn’t plan it -- simply a spontaneous eruption. Granted, being mostly Italian, my tears are not shocking news, but still, this was not due to the typical causes: loved ones injured, lost shoes, brownies burned, wounded soldiers returning from overseas, puppy mills, wishing I could eat the burned brownies (shouldn’t the process of burning them burn out the calories? Just saying...).
Just read another “news release” on the Ebola crisis in the United States ... boy, those are six words you never thought you’d say -- “Ebola crisis in the United States.” And, I’m no genius, but this didn’t have to happen, did it? I mean, here’s what essentially occurred:
Everyone’s back in school now, including me. No, not as in TAKING classes to BECOME, say, a doctor, but as in TEACHING classes so that I can afford to GO to the doctor. I’m very excited to return to the classroom, though, especially to teaching middle and high school students, because I am totally out of the loop on what’s cool nowadays ... for example, it’s probably not cool to say “nowadays”.
She was born five years ago today. She had lots of silky brown hair, tea-rosey cheeks, 10 fingers, 10 toes, tiny cherry lips, and a hefty set of lungs. She had her own ideas about things from the moment she was in the world, and she believed everyone needed to hear them immediately ... strongly ... loudly. She refused to open her eyes for quite a while, squeezing them shut throughout her howling disapproval as she was being weighed, cleaned and measured. In fact, the only thing that began to soothe that angry tirade was ... her grandmother’s voice.
I had a speaking engagement last week, before a group of wonderful, kind people...plus the men were hot. The topic of the meeting this month was Child Safety. I thought they were kidding. I’m a humor writer, I reminded them. Yes!, they answered delightedly...Funny!...about child safety.
So, there we were: Moving Day, 2014. Hotter than the basement of hell, with humidity that was flown here personally from the darkest tropical jungles on the African continent possibly by a swarm of tsetse flies, one of which had bitten or stung Kevin (one of the six hunky moving men) five or six times after becoming trapped inside his T-shirt ... or, it could have been a bee, but still ...
Moving Day is lots of fun, so much so that I’ve decided to capitalize it! This way I’ll never forget ... how much fun it is, I mean. Otherwise, I might make some silly pronouncement like I Will Never Move Again As Long As I Live, and miss out on all the big fun!!
Thursday was September 11 – my daughter's wedding anniversary. They were married 15 years ago, on a hot September day in Charlotte ... a really happy day. Thirteen years ago, on their second anniversary, my daughter and her husband had taken off work at Wachovia Bank, and planned to spend the whole day together, starting with a romantic breakfast for two. They were just sitting down, watching "Good Morning, America," when that first plane hit the first tower.
I’ve finally sold the house, and in a desperate attempt to be able to pack up this entire house in only three or four boxes, I decided to have a yard/garage sale ( I use the two terms interchangeably because, please, you take the stuff out of your GARAGE and put it in your YARD -- what’s the dif?!)
A friend of mine was having a birthday, the same friend at whose home in the mountains I was staying for the summer, so I thought I’d throw her a birthday party, you know, in case I ever want to go back to the mountains and live in her house, like tomorrow, like permanently, like forever ... I’m just saying. So, in the interests of, well, my being able to do that, I won’t reveal her age -- she’s a bit sensitive about joining me in hot-flash hell -- but she was agreeable to the birthday party, as long as it was held in a meat locker because the heat has reached insanely anti-birthday levels.
Do you remember the friendly neighborhood drug store? We used to call them drug stores, because that’s where we went to get makeup, toothbrushes, Hershey Bars and drugs. But, then that “someone” with nothing better to do decided people might think they could buy makeup, toothbrushes, Hershey Bars, and DRUGS there, and changed the name to Pharmacy.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!! ... Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell, I’m just so freakin’ mad! Twice this week, some scummy scammer has tried to take advantage of me, and I still don’t get it -- what kind of people do these things? The fact that both dirtbags (yeah, that’s right, “dirtbags” -- like I don’t watch “CSI”?) were totally disappointed in the size of the loot they’d never get is the only thing that makes me smile.
You know, there are few things in life that are guaranteed to cause my friends and family to collapse with what I like to call “laugh cramps” than when I injure myself. I don’t mean to suggest that they are not generally sympathetic and concerned, but ... well, yes, I guess I do; these people are cold, I’m telling you, stone cold, heartless human beings.
Every summer, my brother-in-law, Gregg’s, parents rent a house at Emerald Isle, and Gregg’s whole family – including my sister, Susan, and their three teens – comes down from Ohio for a week’s vacation.
There is one kind of husband that invariably causes a longing envy in virtually every woman on the planet. He is not necessarily the hottest or even the cutest; he isn’t always the smartest or the funniest; he’s not automatically the tallest or the most romantic. No, this husband has something much greater, much more important than any of these virtues: This husband can actually fix stuff.