Every Saturday or Sunday, I drive the hour or so to the little college town where my daughter lives and studies. We sit on a picnic table outside her apartment and talk while she digs into her favorite take-out pizza I’ve brought from home. The meetings usually wrap after an hour or so; she …
The great author of history, David McCullough, writes on a manual typewriter. So did the late playwright Sam Shepard. Tom Hanks owns dozens of typewriters, his favorite of which he uses to type thank you messages, noting a quick e-mail doesn’t convey real effort or gratitude.
Dinner last night was an omelet with potatoes in it. With the cupboard pretty bare and the car too encased in ice to drive to the store, I rummaged around in the kitchen and found enough to throw something together. The potatoes came from a can. It was a plate of brown, bland food.
One vitamin C, two vitamin Ds, two Bs, a cod liver oil capsule and half an allergy pill – that’s the morning routine. At night it’s a different amount of the same things, minus the allergy pill.
Of all the many disheartening words spoken in reaction to the horrific events at the U.S. Capitol Wednesday, these struck me as the most sad.
The come-ons arrive in the mail a few times a week.
So, I’m reading the transcript of an interview I did for a television story, and the truth jumps out at me.
Jacques Pepin is making me feel bad about my cooking. Every time I check in to Facebook, our handsome French-American elf pops up from his Connecticut country kitchen, uninvited and, increasingly for me, unwelcome.
Back when people were going to live concerts, I’d shake my head at news reports of fans camping in lines outside the venue, hoping to get tickets. My work as a TV reporter sometimes had me covering those stories, as well as the ones back in 1983, when surly parents lined up at stores to buy …
The package arrived on the doorstep this week, tossed there in its dark blue bag by the delivery man. He had parked the van up on the road and ran just far enough down the driveway to hit his target.
Wednesday was a bad day for shoes around here. Wednesday was also National Dog Day, so maybe Waylon the collie thought he deserved a treat.
If there’s a record for going the longest without looking into a mirror, I think I might have broken it. Not since the cave woman days before the creation of glass had a female gone so long without checking on her face.
The farmer and I order takeout from a locally-owned restaurant about once a week – our way of helping small businesses during the pandemic.
The philodendron was dead, killed because of the coronavirus, but not by it.
A photo of the dress popped up in my Facebook feed – a garment so whimsical it stopped me from scrolling by.
This is far down the list of things I should be worried about, but let’s get to the furry elephant in the room.
The nostalgia is getting out of control around here.
Today they will learn to sew on a button. Tomorrow, ironing a shirt. After that, checking the oil in the engine.
So we’re not supposed to touch our faces these days. We’re also supposed to cough into the crook of our elbows and wash our hands while singing “Happy Birthday,” but the most important way for an individual to keep the virus away is to not touch the face – not anyone else’s and definitely no…
The Facebook algorithms know I’m 60 now, and that I wear makeup. They’re smart, but not smart enough to know that I don’t wear false eyelashes, contouring or eyeshadow. The algorithms keep sending me ads for these things, apparently unaware that I’m not buying the products.