One day during my lunch hour in downtown Cincinnati—I lived and worked there in the 80’s—as I walked toward Fountain Square, two gals came at me, arm in arm. The younger woman’s grin was the spitting image of her mom’s. When I stepped in front of them, they stopped walking and talking, their limbs suddenly stiff, their eyes
I’ve come a long way, baby. From being the scarediest of cats about so many things. High bridges, for instance. And death. For the longest time, my parents sheltered my brothers and me from post-mortem matters. It wasn’t until the eighth grade that I attended a funeral, my paternal grandfather’s. In the back of the
The boss I loved and hated resembled Albert Einstein with a tan. Thanks to Clinique bronzer. Okay, so I didn’t actually hate him. It just took me a super long time to forgive him after he made me weep in front of the whole staff. I don’t cry easily, but he could be vicious. “That
Confession: I stockpile Facebook statuses. Hey, don’t judge me. My ammo pile of cleverness is for your benefit. My goal always being to educate, inspire, and/or amuse you. There is, however, one status I was too chicken to post: ”Don’t feel sorry for me, but I’m lonely.” From time to time, posts like this appear
