For the past few years, my husband and I have been engaged in a sort of memory-loss Olympics. We are constantly keeping track of who forgets more.
Black Thursday is more commonly known as Thanksgiving, a day when families -- dysfunctional and otherwise -- gather to over-eat and give gratitude that they are able to. While the day after Thanksgiving has long been the traditional kickoff of the holiday shopping season, the starting bell has been ringing earlier and earlier each year.
Who knew that the keys to unlocking the mysteries of the universe could be found in a garage sale? Actually, the keys to the universe's mysteries were...
My 17-year-old daughter has been playing soccer since she was 5. One year of club soccer sent her running back into the arms of our local AYSO -- something that had little to do with her skill set and more to do with just wanting to have fun at a sport she loves.
I am about to turn 65 and am eligible for Medicare. But it appears that things between me and Mr. M are already off to a rocky start. Frankly, I think he's a lying cheating bastard who promises to love and care for you like nobody's business but then -- at least from what I keep hearing from friends who have already spent time in his company -- it turns out he's all talk and no action.
Weddings and anniversaries seem like one-day events to me. What matters more are the things that transpire on all the other days of the year -- how you treat each other, how you make one another feel, what kind of partnership you have running the show that is your life together.
Lately, I've been giving a lot of thought to my commune -- the one I plan on forming when I'm older and widowed and my kids are launched into lives of their own. Think I'm alone in the commune-planning department? You'd be mistaken.
As the drama unfolds and fingers of blame are pointed at the Secret Service over recent breaches of security at the White House, we have a bit of good news/bad news to report.
Death isn't what scares me. Dying is. And that's because the act of dying today is too often accompanied by medical interventions long passed the point where the patient's prognosis would suggest their futility. Why should dying be so hard?
Last week, I had one of those absolutely awful days. In Internet-speak, it was a 'Worst. Day. Ever.' I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say when I got home, I did something unusual: I phoned a friend.
The say that eventually the child becomes the parent. In my mind, that's a situation that comes much much later in life when parents are old and frail and need help getting around. But I recently learned otherwise.
I had to smile when a colleague emailed that she had to work from home that day because she needed to wait for the plumber. She's a virgin home owner, which is to say that when she and her husband bought their first house just a few months ago, she hadn't a clue what bidding adieu to a landlord meant. Mostly what it means is that you spend a lot of time waiting for plumbers.
By the time my 40-something year-old mother gave birth to me, I was already down to just two living grandparents -- and one of them was in a home for the aged.
Some doctors seem to have embraced the airlines' model for doing business -- you know, the one where they now charge fees for things they used to just do for free.
About a month ago, I was standing in front of the Woodstock display at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland Ohio when it happened again. A guy about my age, wearing a baseball cap over what I assumed was a balding head, sized me up and asked: 'So, were you there?' I nodded 'yes' and then what happened is pretty much what always happens.