“C’mon guys!” I bellowed from the kitchen, “You’re late!” One by one, they appeared at our table, each carrying a heavy attitude. My husband had always thought my family meetings were pure nonsense. All this nicey-nicey talking was a complete waste of his Sunday leisure time. When he grew up, you did what your parents…
Memories
A not-so-open letter to Starbucks
Dear Starbucks, I have a confession to make. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I’m only interested in you for one thing. No it’s not your iced caramel macchiato. It’s not your over-enthusiastic androgynous employees with bolts in their faces. It’s not your cooler-than-thou ambiance, replete with black and white photography and the…
The Skin and Bones of Contention
At some point or another in a marriage, a wife faces a delicate dilemma: How to incorporate her husband’s deer head, bowling trophy, concert poster, stereo speakers, bar lamp or autographed sporting equipment into the home d├®cor. In nineteen years of marriage to my Navy husband, I’ve learned that solving this domestic quandary involves compromise,…
The Armchair Olympian
“I used to be a sprinter,” my husband said recently while lying prone on our couch, watching the Olympics with a bag of tortilla chips placed conveniently on his middle-aged gut as if it was some kind of living chip-dip platter. Is he being serious? I thought to myself incredulously. “Are you being serious?” my…
What I believe about Hell and hand baskets