We’ve seen so many of them on store shelves for years. Packages and kits that make a meal or dessert, and all you do is add water or just a few ingredients. I’ve passed them up thousands of times, but this shopping trip was different.
I was 16 when we first got cable in 1978. By the time it reached Southern Michigan, the technology had achieved an almost-mythical status: cable was this mystical electronic IV, of sorts, that hooked into your television’s bloodstream and made it an all-seeing, trash-talking R-rated genius. Kind of like the drug in “Flowers for Algernon.” (I never actually read “Flowers for Algernon,” but I did watch the movie version of it. On cable.)
They are large twin rooms with two rows of throne-like chairs with built-in footrests. The chairs in one room are green, muted red ones in the other, with a glassed-in nurses’ station between the two open spaces.
Dear Old Bag: I personally do not like your title. Anyway, in response to the never-ending problem of who pays for a date: Maybe your readers would be interested in how I resolved this non-issue.
Dear Old Bag: This may seem petty to you, but it has become a sore spot that I am finding it hard to overcome. My husband of 45 years has complained about my food one too many times.
Administrators at a California high school sent five students home for refusing to remove their American flag T-shirts on Cinco de Mayo, a Mexican holiday, because it would be “insensitive” to be displaying Old Glory on another nation’s day of celebration.
OK, I’m going to sound old now. I’ve been trying to avoid this. There’s a subtle self-consciousness that settles over you once you reach the far side of 40: “Don’t say anything that betrays your age,” it tells you, “Don’t gripe about progress. Don’t lament the current era or compare it with a previous one. Don’t complain about new-fangled inventions and don’t EVER use the word ‘newfangled.’”
This month is a chocolate lover’s dream, and if you’d like to surprise your sweetie with a little morsel of homemade goodness, these are four of my very favorite recipes.
Put away the cookie cutters, icing and candy sprinkles—at least until Valentine’s Day. We’re starting off the New Year with a fresh, kicky and absolutely delicioso gazpacho courtesy of one of my favorite food bloggers.
“Write a short essay,” my English teacher told us, “five books that changed my life.”
Oswald Nelson, at age 13, was the youngest person to become an Eagle Scout. Oswald went on to become Ozzie Nelson, the father in “Ozzie and Harriet.”
In the August issue, an American Woman’s letter stated, “I would like your help in starting a movement” (this was in regard to each person treating the other with honor and respect).
There’s the English language as you and I know it, then there’s the vernacular native to politicians and bureaucrats when pseudo-communicating with the hoi polloi that I call “Govspeak.”
I wish I had known about this treat years ago when I was living in British Columbia, where it originated.
We the people are being wronged. This exceptional young representative republic of ours is being diverted away from its founding constitutional principles toward a centralized government monolith whose primary purpose is a perpetuation of power and self-interest while shielding its questionable activities from public view.