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Earlier this summer, when Anthony Weiner's, tragically-, hilariously- and eponymously-named member was waving around in the media, I was watching a news show featuring his rise and fall, so to speak, with my son.
It's said that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. No one actually says that in front of me, because I'm known to take umbrage when I'm compared unfavorably to the arthritic, untrained dog.
I'm going to jinx everything by saying this, but Phoenix is The Place To Be. We don't get hurricanes (unless you count that little weak-sister scare we had a few years back that was supposed to come charging up the Sea of Cortez and level the city and instead dropped maybe a half-inch of rain) nor do we routinely encounter earthquakes, tornadoes or Snowmageddon.
Tell the truth: are YOU the insensitive lout who is taking the last cup of coffee in the office break room and not brewing more?
It's late (or early, depending on how you look at it) on the morning of Dec. 25 and Santa Claus may have finished his work for another year, but like many men, he has come home from the office to find a note from the missus: "Nicky: sorry I couldn't wait up. I left a pitcher of mojitos on the kitchen counter.
What follows is a true story, though the names have been changed to protect the innocent.
A close friend and I were ensconced in the armchairs next to the pick-up counter at the local coffee boutique, as is our wont on a weekend morning (at best, we view this once-weekly chat as cheap therapy; at worst, we're just hiding from our kids).
I was visiting with a close friend recently, who also happens to be a staunch ... well, let's put it this way: she sits very far on one side of the political aisle.
Recently, I had my biannual date with my periodontist, which usually involves a nice hygienist cleaning my teeth and then poking around with a little pointy thingy and calling out numbers and sometimes she says "Uh oh," and then gets the nice doctor who sometimes has to do things to my mouth that make me long for ground glass to chew on, if I have any teeth left.
Ten years ago a neighbor child appeared at our door, wondering if my oldest son, then 6, could come out and play.
It was dark, there in my Pit of Despair® and I wanted it that way.
Please take a moment to pity the poor mother who wants something special for Mother's Day and has to resort to the usual old tricks of leaving magazine ads around the house or turning up the volume and coughing "I'd like that" during commercials.
Dear Child of Mine:
Dear Mom, Interrupted:
Did you know that the first emergency room was established in 1911 in Louisville, Ky.? Did you know that the first patient at that long-ago ER was my great-grandmother?
Do you remember TV doctors from the ‘60s and ‘70s?
Old joke: What’s the difference between a Playboy centerfold and a pregnant woman? Nothing, if the pregnant woman’s husband knows what’s good for him.
There’s a magnet on my refrigerator that says, “Come along inside ... we’ll see if tea and buns makes the world a better place.” Just below that, there’s a magnet presenting the counterargument, “If hunger isn’t the problem, then food isn’t the answer.”