I will tell you this for nothing:
The infomercials and slick one-page ads
Are all true.
You can lose those forty pounds.
You can tone up those abs.
You can have a dazzling smile
While dressed in the latest designs.
But of course you won’t,
Even if you try,
And if you try it won’t be
Long enough or hard enough.
Something always gets in the way
Of the workout and the preparation
To skitter you off the rails
And back to the wreck of your life
Where the carpet collects stains
And the mold takes over the cold salad.
A lovely Saturday morning. I had things to do, time to do them, and nothing of any urgency. That’s one of the many perks of retirement — no need to rush.
It was a holiday weekend and I wanted to prepare myself for the racket I knew was coming in my neighborhood. Fireworks (illegal, but what the hell, right?) and neighbors blaring their cars’ bass until the speakers burn out.
I went to Best Buy, a place I normally avoid because Amazon.com offers nearly everything cheaper, but I didn’t want to wait because of the holiday mail schedule.
This morning I watched the “dignified transfer” of remains from the latest attack in Afghanistan. Biden, his wife, and a dozen or so military folks were standing at attention as each basket was carried by six soldiers into the waiting hearses.
It made me remember how Bush refused to have the return of dead soldiers televised. …
metrics, stats, SEOs, monetization, and marketing, oh my!
Back in the Olden Days circa 1970s, a person simply sat down at the typewriter or used pencil and paper and wrote whatever was on their mind. Sure, it could be aggravating to retype when it came time for rewriting to improve the quality, but it was all there in black and white. There was the added bonus of a lovely sense of accomplishment as you pulled the freshly typed page out of the typewriter with a jaunty snap: “Look what I wrote!”
Alas, I can no longer just sit down and…
I’m the last person I expected to have cancer. After all, I was invincible, and cancer and other bad things only happened to other people.
So when the diagnosis of a rare blood cancer was made, I went through the usual denial. I felt fine, I told the hematologist. “I think I’d know if I had cancer. I know my body pretty well.”
Much to his credit, he did not laugh in my face. He explained they had found the cancer during a routine pathological examination of tissue removed during a surgery to replace a cervical disc. …
My mother has spent most of her life in a small southern Kentucky town. She’s been in a small nursing home in that town now for several years. It seems to be a good nursing home, owned by one of the less despicable national health care conglomerations.
The nursing home just called me today. They’ve found one person with COVID this week, isolated them, and were just calling to let families know. No, it wasn’t my mom or any of the patients.
I forgot to ask if it was the Delta variant. Frankly, I’m tired of trying to keep…
Giving permission to search the car,
forgetting the three pounds of crack cocaine in the glove compartment,
and smoking a joint while he pretends he’s not
driving a stolen car with expired tags and a broken brake light
and two 38s in the back seat.
He’s cooperating with the law. See how gracious he is
to open the passenger side door?
He says he’s never been arrested, not mentioning
those six times down in Florida which don’t count
because it was last year and in another state.
He lifts his hands in amused astonishment when asked about the
The few non-bird-owning friends I have left often express surprise, even alarm, as to what I might be doing in my spare time. I was once known as a woman who was always prompt, who accomplished whatever tasks needed doing, the one who always organized the next yard sale or gathered signatures for a petition. Someone you could depend on.
Now? Well, let’s just say that now I bear more than a passing resemblance to one of those fascinating individuals whose lives have shrunk to orbit a much smaller universe, a world they have created to support the one all-consuming…
During the darkest days of the plague, I would often don my mask and go to the YMCA nearest my house. This essay came out of those days.
The first thing I always notice is the water fountains, the spouts tightly wrapped in plastic with hastily printed notices not to use them until further notice.
The wrapping is always neatly done and securely fastened with zip ties. In fact, everything I see at the Y is neat and clean, organized just so. Nothing is done halfway.
Before I step onto the second-floor walking track overlooking the gymnasium, I tuck my…