Uplifting And Positive News
Of all the punch lines I never planned on, this must surely be it. Somehow, I, out of all people, wake up today on the third anniversary of being married to a perfectly imperfect man. A man with more quirks than a roomful of brilliant physicists. After all, what could be quirkier than a man who loves me and treats me with such kindness and respect? Yeah, me. The forever-single gal who must’ve dated every non-commital man in America. Yeah,
Oh, yes I did. Simply did what any other crazy dog lover would do. When I saw a new survey announcing “The Most Popular Dog Names In America,” I clicked. Clicked first. Ahead of checking out any stories on world peace, the volatile stock market or the environment, for surely, knowing where my dog’s name placed on the survey was more important, more pressing than any of those matters. I see you and your dog nodding, “Yes, of course.” It’s
My cousin is doing well, thank you very much. She survived a life milestone which I had no idea was supposed to be so challenging. And yet, as it often is with life passages, things like puberty, parenthood, or gray hair, we learn from those who bravely go before us. My cousin has picked her grandmother name. As my mom’s first cousin, she’s actually kind of late to the grandparent game. Her older daughter hasn’t had kids and her youngest
My family needs to talk. It’s not so easy. “Ah, yes, raising two teenagers,” you nod in compassion and understanding. Yes, thank you. But that’s not it. Well, it is many days. The problem, I’ve diagnosed this week is something bigger. It starts at the beginning. We don’t speak the same language. Ours is a family with folks raised in California, the Midwest, and the South. The basic problem–no one can agree on how to speak. I’m talking simple pronunciation.
Joy. Today, I’m thinking about joy. Joy, the name of the wife of good friend, Brian. Joy, the emotion instantly drained from Brian’s heart when he received that phone call a couple weeks ago. Maybe you’ve gotten one of those phone calls, Dear Reader. One with the worst news possible. While Brian was working out of town, Joy was involved in a single-car accident. He was on the next plane back home, staying by Joy’s side for 10 days. Stayed
I am that lady in Seat 12B. Maybe even stuck in that middle seat of 27D. I’m that lady you’re trying to discreetly poke your travel partner. “Check out the woman over there,” you whisper. “She’s crying her eyes out.” Dear Reader, what is it about airplanes? The altitude? The recycled air? The isolation 36,000 feet above the ground? Whatever it is, I’m a goner. Just say, “Boo,” and I’ll start crying. Watching a movie, that on the ground would
You know those warm, fuzzy gushy feeling columns you read around Mother’s Day? I’ve written a few myself. (Like this and this.) Yeah, this isn’t one of those. Oh, it’s about motherhood, all right. But this one is more like hitting the motherhood panic button. A button I hit the other day while, don’t get too excited, sewing on a real button. A button that had fallen off one of my girls’ school uniforms. That’s when I realized– These children,
I wasn’t born. This fact was relayed to me by my slightly older brother. About the time he was six and I was five. The traumatic childhood memory of this revelation came flooding back to me this week, thanks to an endearing news item I stumbled upon. I read how two parents in England who got tattoos to match their young daughter’s unique birthmark. Ah, birthmarks. They run through my family. I’m talking the port wine stain kind. They are
“How do you pick your friends?” What an awesome question I was thrilled to get recently from a certain young person in my life. Let’s talk “The Picker.” The one that selects the friends you choose to have in your life. My own Picker has been shaped and modified for the better by three wonderful friends over the years. Thank you, Gina, for explaining it all boils down to fruit. “Picking good friends is like walking through the produce aisles
Get out the gloves and nice dresses. My daughter and I are heading to High Tea at a fancy schmancy hotel here in town. It’s what we do each year to celebrate the anniversary of our adoption. And I do mean OUR adoption, as she was 11 when we met, 13 when I married her dad. 14 when the judge made legal what was already long official in both our hearts. When a kid is a certain age, she has
