The “corporal punishment” debate blew up last month when Minnesota Vikings running back Adrian Peterson was indicted after allegedly beating his four-year-old “with a tree branch,” leaving welts and abrasions on the boy’s body.
A story in the Sept. 29 issue of USA Today said that soda makers like Coke and Pepsi cared about the obese state of this country.
I wrote something a few weeks back about a new watch called simply SLOW. The manufacturers took off the longer minute hand and left you with the shorter, and more slowly moving hour hand.
My mind is all over the place lately. I blame it on hormone shifts but the less we talk about that, the better.
I found two cool shirts on the clearance rack at Wal-Mart.
Remember when it was fun to fly the friendly skies? Back when flight attendants were called stewardesses, traveling by airplane was special. Meals were served and the cabin crew was glad to see you. Passengers dressed up, there was plenty of seat room and screaming babies were strapped to the wing. (Just checking to see if you were paying …
I’ve been paying a lot of attention to advertising signs and billboards while on the road lately. I don’t text and drive during my frequent travels, but I do take the occasional peek at the signs along the way.
Once you’re in the news business, you’re never really out of the news business. Which is why I’m still obsessed with the news business.
I was lamenting time’s passage the other day in a Facebook post, about how a person seems to have all the time in the world when he has nothing to look forward to, but the moment you find someone you really like and would love to spend all your time with, somebody upstairs hits the fast forward button and before you know it, your time’s up, she’s …
Isn’t it funny how we obsess over the little things?
I’m clumsy. Awkward. A klutz. Always have been.
It is well documented that I am not a handyman.
I hate heat, so this is not my favorite season. Actually, in South Carolina we have only two seasons: Hot, and Christmas. It’s not Christmas.
We live in a pastoral little hamlet, Widdle Baby and I.
I have to stop watching HGTV. It’s giving me a complex.
Life as I know it has become manifested in the dim, blinking brake lights in the distance, having left me behind.
Sometimes you just need to buy the shoes.
Last year it was the Summer of Monopoly – a golf shirt the color of every street on a Monopoly board.
There’s this stranger who yells at noisy kids, shakes his fists at speeders in the neighborhood, glares at youngsters who thump the subwoofers in their cars at sub-atomic testing, and has yet to understand most of the applications on his cellphone.
Let’s get this out of the way early — I watched three World Cup soccer games last weekend on TV for a total of a half hour of edge-of-my-seat soccer action.
Remember the mean kids in high school? The ones who did mean stuff to impress their mean friends, then laughed about it, because they were mean?
There’s never a dull moment at Crazy Acres.
In my defense, it looked cool and refreshing. Cool as in temperature-wise, not style, and refreshing, as in maybe a little aromatic relief from this ridiculous heat.
Thanks to Facebook, I know now which Brady Bunch kid I’d be, what kind of dog I am and how long I would survive a zombie apocalypse. (Jan, beagle and forever—my husband is handy with a shotgun, and I swing a mean cast iron skillet. I think we’d be OK. You thought I was going to say I don’t believe in zombies, didn’t you?)
I drive a lot between here and Atlanta, sometimes twice in a month.