Life has changed with the pandemic, but love has not.
More than a quarter century ago, I teased my good friend, Sister Libby, about her ugly nun shoes. Indignant, she claimed that she wore orthotics because she had bad feet. At the time, I walked around in medium-high heels, leaning decidedly towards the pointy-toed kind. High heels gave way to fashionable flats and wide sneakers.Continue reading “Imelda Marcos—Not!”
GG was an archetypical Pollyanna. She made lemonade.
The latest addition to my wardrobe is a finger glove.
The Bobe, or Babushka, was the old crone in the faded sepia photograph in the dusty family album or, at best, in a tiny frame tucked behind a vase on the credenza. I was not going to be that person. Long before I discovered dozens of websites full of cool names for grandmothers, I knewContinue reading “They Call Me Dalma”
Bob’s chirp—staccato and loud enough to jar me from my stupor—was followed by her ritualistic head bobbing and a softer, rolling chirping. I lay there, eyes still closed, forcing myself to listen to her gentler song, trying to wake my brain and force myself back into full consciousness. Bob began singing again and playing withContinue reading “To Sleep or not to Sleep”
I drank the Kool-Aid. I wore the undergarments. I had bouts of anorexia. I was so concerned about saggy skin that I wore panty hose with my bathing suit.
The mangoes arrived in the daily mail. Five large, rosy pink and green Valencia Pride mangoes, not yet ripened to their full sweetness
The French writer Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr is quoted as saying, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,” which translates as, “The more things change, the more they remain the same.”
Running away from home when you only had a partial weekend to make your getaway and return in time to resume your responsibilities was not easy, not to mention finding a co-conspirator to share costs and a destination palatable to both.