I’m not so big on gifts. Correction: I’m big on Oprah-style gifts, like “We’re buying you a house!” or “Say hellllloooooo to your new ISLAAAAAAAND!” (Either a kitchen or tropical one would be fine by me).
It was with a keen interest that I sat through the season premiere of “Mad Man” in July, which was presented with limited commercial interruption by BMW.
Despite what countless others before me insisted to the contrary, when I was pregnant I postulated that any kid born to me would be the exception to all the classic pratfalls of childhood, like nose picking, an unhealthy obsession with belly-button lint, and adolescence.
I can’t imagine living somewhere where the seasons don’t change, as autumn is indisputably my favorite time of year. Like brightly colored leaves crunching under every footstep, steaming mugs of hot cider, howling winds and the smell of wood-burning fires, nothing says fall like football.
I enjoyed being raised in the suburbs, but lately I’ve been thinking I might be a wee better off today had I been raised on a farm, or in a lumberyard.
It’s only just August, but that back-to-school smell is already in the air, as evidenced by the abundance of late summer and early fall catalogs splayed with monogrammed backpacks and fleece jackets that keep showing up in my mailbox.
No one is more surprised than me that an invitation to Chelsea Clinton’s wedding this weekend has yet to appear in my mailbox. Actually, no one is surprised but me.
I like being the center of attention, just not on purpose. As such, parties have long played a complicated role in my life. Eating cake is a tremendous way to pass the time, but I prefer that the name written on it be someone’s other than mine.
Like the Eskimos, who purportedly use dozens of words for “snow,” my daughter has developed countless ways to whine. Although instead of using lots of words to do it, she uses only one: “Mama.
Dear Al, It has become regrettably apparent that you have something in common with an oil company (BP), a soccer player (Landon Donovan), and Mel Gibson: You all seem to be having a very, very bad summer (although to be fair, Mel actually just seems to be having a bad life).
Quick: name a soccer player. Oh, and don’t say Pelé, David Beckham, Brandi Chastain or your fifth grader on the travel team. It’s not as if they don’t count, of course.
While some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them, it is quite possible that the latter two might never befall my daughter.
