Dear Diary, I used to write in you each night before going to bed. You were like a best friend forever except you’d never talk behind my back or give out my locker combination. On your pages, I recorded my deepest secrets for posterity, or at least until I broke up with my current boyfriend. (At which point, Dear Diary, I burned you to obliterate those memories forever. Thanks for forgiving me.)
I am clinging to supper like a desperate and damp piece of toilet paper on a slippery sneaker. I hold on by a thin thread of two-ply ultra-soft. My grip is tenuous, yet tenacious. They will not break me. Supper has been a mainstay at my house for as long as I can remember. My parents practiced the meal-time concept up to three times a day and must have passed along the supper gene to me. Unfortunately, I don’t think the DNA transferred to my kids.
I am an inside-my-head type of person. I often have complete and satisfying conversations involving just me, myself and I. My inner monologues can be captivating. (Oh yes they can.) It’s not a case of me being the most interesting person I know — far from it. It’s more about how I process the universe. I have to mull things over in my head like a hundred times. Talk amongst myself. Then they start to make sense. Sort of. Some would say this makes me an introvert, and I guess they’d be correct.
Some inventions are too good to be true. Hotel pool towels aren’t one of them. I’m referring to the thin, white terry cloth impersonators with the distinguishing blue stripe down the middle that possess the absorbency equal to less than half of one side of a Q-tip. Heck, I need two of ’em to dry off my elbow –— and that’s before I go into the hot tub.
My husband and I recently went on vacation. He served as trip photographer because his phone was smarter than mine. I’m in a number of the pictures. You can see me smiling by the pool, standing on the beach, eating lunch on our condo balcony. We took lots of shots. He took care not to put his finger in front of the camera lens. Hardly any of our pictures are blurry.
Superman, Wonder Woman and the Incredible Hulk all possess superpowers, but I enjoy supremacy even greater than X-ray vision, unlimited strength or the ability to fly. My capabilities come from grocery lists in my pocket and canned goods on aisle seven. It’s the power of food acquisition, and I’ve assumed extreme control. Those of us in the know, know it doesn’t get any better than that.
“Blackmail is an act involving unjustified threats to make a gain or cause loss to another unless a demand is met. It may be defined as coercion involving threats of public exposure, physical harm, criminal prosecution or for the purposes of taking the person’s money or property,” according to Wikipedia and Merriam Webster. Under federal law, blackmail is considered a serious crime. It’s a statutory offense, in the same league as burglary, embezzlement and forgery. We’re talking major stuff here.
I tell my kids not to hate things. You can dislike Brussels sprouts, but there’s no need to hate them, not really. The word “hate” itself has become a buzzword for political incorrectness. No one wants to be accused of being a hater. As a parent, I should follow my own advice — lead by example and be a good role model. Still, there are things worthy of my strong, strong dislike — and maybe even the “H” word. There, I said it. There are some things I hate.
To Whom it May Concern (you know who you are): I am tired — and quite literally so — of being overlooked and underappreciated. I am not acting catty when I contend that I am maliciously maligned and misunderstood. My patience with this matter is wearing categorically thin and I demand change. The conditions under which I am forced to exist have become unbearable and I am therefore petitioning for living adjustments effective immediately, or yesterday, if possible. Complaint No.
When I was in school — and dinosaurs roamed the earth — everyone took a class called typing 101. We wrote about the quick brown fox and lazy dog using our eight fingers without hardly any effort from our thumbs. My right thumb was responsible for only one button — the space bar. My left thumb had the day off. Today, kids learn keyboarding and have probably never laid eyes on a typewriter, but the bulk of their typing isn’t done on either and typically involves nearly zero finger participation. That’s because the hipsters among us don’t type anymore; we text.