Toward the end of his life, my uncle began to issue dire warnings. He was old, had seen a lot, and the wisdom he acquired over the years made him cognizant of many things, one of which was that the world was on its last legs.
I so dislike working out that I'm suspicious of people who claim to like it. Ditto cold weather, kombucha tea and Tuesdays, this last owing to the fact that I, as a child, had to take piano lessons on Tuesdays, and I'm still not over it.
Last week I submitted my first-ever proposal for a solo art exhibit of my small wooden house sculptures. It was a long time coming.
About four years ago, at the juncture of no pandemic and Pandemic with a capital P, we adopted a little 9-year-old dog that had fallen on hard times.
One of my favorite things to do is to write resounding negative reviews of movies I have not seen in full.
Recently it was brought to my attention that I am impatient. This is what I call, in the spirit of the "Friends" episode whereby Phoebe pretends not to know something she SO knows, "brand new information."
Last week I dreamed I was in first grade again. In the dream, however, I was no longer a child. Instead, I was returning to first grade as a 60-year-old.
This morning there was a vulture in our yard, sitting high up on the railing of the little bridge that leads from my husband's office door to an insignificant spot in the yard.
I was sitting across from my mother at the breakfast table recently, listening to her extol the virtues of my siblings and me.
If you follow me on Facebook, you might have noticed I've become a builder of tiny houses.
