I’ve been paying a lot of attention to advertising signs and billboards while on the road lately. I don’t text and drive during my frequent travels, but I do take the occasional peek at the signs along the way.
Once you’re in the news business, you’re never really out of the news business. Which is why I’m still obsessed with the news business.
I was lamenting time’s passage the other day in a Facebook post, about how a person seems to have all the time in the world when he has nothing to look forward to, but the moment you find someone you really like and would love to spend all your time with, somebody upstairs hits the fast forward button and before you know it, your time’s up, she’s …
Isn’t it funny how we obsess over the little things?
I’m clumsy. Awkward. A klutz. Always have been.
It is well documented that I am not a handyman.
I hate heat, so this is not my favorite season. Actually, in South Carolina we have only two seasons: Hot, and Christmas. It’s not Christmas.
We live in a pastoral little hamlet, Widdle Baby and I.
I have to stop watching HGTV. It’s giving me a complex.
Life as I know it has become manifested in the dim, blinking brake lights in the distance, having left me behind.
Sometimes you just need to buy the shoes.
Last year it was the Summer of Monopoly – a golf shirt the color of every street on a Monopoly board.
There’s this stranger who yells at noisy kids, shakes his fists at speeders in the neighborhood, glares at youngsters who thump the subwoofers in their cars at sub-atomic testing, and has yet to understand most of the applications on his cellphone.
Remember the mean kids in high school? The ones who did mean stuff to impress their mean friends, then laughed about it, because they were mean?
There’s never a dull moment at Crazy Acres.
In my defense, it looked cool and refreshing. Cool as in temperature-wise, not style, and refreshing, as in maybe a little aromatic relief from this ridiculous heat.
Thanks to Facebook, I know now which Brady Bunch kid I’d be, what kind of dog I am and how long I would survive a zombie apocalypse. (Jan, beagle and forever—my husband is handy with a shotgun, and I swing a mean cast iron skillet. I think we’d be OK. You thought I was going to say I don’t believe in zombies, didn’t you?)
I drive a lot between here and Atlanta, sometimes twice in a month.
Sometimes I watch life go by and think, “Wow, I haven’t been surprised in a while.”
I’d like to thank all who have written, called, visited, emailed and texted since my mother’s death. You’ve soothed me and made me remember the good times.
This is an update on my very first Fanfare for the Common Man column titled “An Ode to Jeffrey.”
A look at some news—recent and not so much—that made me shake my head…
I have so many blessings, it’s a crime to complain. So I won’t. Except for one… leetle… thing.