Iíve been paying a lot of attention to advertising signs and billboards while on the road lately. I donít text and drive during my frequent travels, but I do take the occasional peek at the signs along the way.
Once youíre in the news business, youíre never really out of the news business. Which is why Iím still obsessed with the news business.
I was lamenting timeís 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 timeís up, sheís …
Isnít it funny how we obsess over the little things?
Iím 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. Itís not Christmas.
We live in a pastoral little hamlet, Widdle Baby and I.
I have to stop watching HGTV. Itís 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 Ė a golf shirt the color of every street on a Monopoly board.
Thereís 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.
Letís get this out of the way early ó I watched three World Cup soccer games last weekend on TV for a total of a half hour of edge-of-my-seat soccer action.
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?
Thereís 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 Iíd be, what kind of dog I am and how long I would survive a zombie apocalypse. (Jan, beagle and foreverómy husband is handy with a shotgun, and I swing a mean cast iron skillet. I think weíd be OK. You thought I was going to say I donít believe in zombies, didnít you?)
I drive a lot between here and Atlanta, sometimes twice in a month.
Sometimes I watch life go by and think, ďWow, I havenít been surprised in a while.Ē
Iíd like to thank all who have written, called, visited, emailed and texted since my motherís death. Youíve soothed me and made me remember the good times.
This is an update on my very first Fanfare for the Common Man column titled ďAn Ode to Jeffrey.Ē
A look at some newsórecent and not so muchóthat made me shake my headÖ
I have so many blessings, itís a crime to complain. So I wonít. Except for oneÖ leetleÖ thing.
You might notice I no longer sit while covering sporting events.
My mother had a small head. I know that because Iím wearing her floppy sun hat. Iím wearing her floppy sun hat because she left it to me when she died on April 25.