Hapless Gov. David Paterson got a little ... um, happlesslier last week.
My name is Elizabeth, and I’m addicted to J.J. Abrams.
There’s no “Ground Zero mosque.” Of course, there was also no participation by Iraq in the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks.
I found myself deeply saddened to realize that so many women, overweight and otherwise, struggle with their weight because, at the core, they go through life wondering if they are good enough.
What does it say about our national mood that two of our biggest preoccupations last week were with people who whimsically quit their jobs?
It might come as a surprise to today’s students, but making fun of a teacher is nothing new. Yup, we did it, too. Our target? Any teacher who had the guts to show up with bad breath, out-of-date clothes or who just had the gall to send us to detention.
I’ve been tapped to take part in a “celebrity goat milking contest” at this year’s county fair. I have never touched a goat.
Well into my ninth month of pregnancy, I waddled into the gym every day and hefted myself onto the treadmill for a hearty 2.5-mph walk.
Roswell Army Air Field officers investigated the incident. And by “investigated” ufologists mean “covered up.” And by “incident,” they mean “crash landing of a UFO."
When you live 10 miles to the nearest town, plenty of your parenting is done in the car. On any given day, you might catch me tooling down the highway doing a rundown of the ABCs, singing the “Itsy Bitsy Spider” or — during summer construction season — offering my vast knowledge of the inner workings of skidsteers and forklifts.
Let’s face it, except for someone trying to sneak into a bar with fake ID, nobody minds being mistaken for a younger version of himself.
We’ve had a turbulent past, the county fair and I. As a kid — one growing up in the heart of suburbia, mind you — I thought the fair was great.
Ever wake up in the morning and can’t seem to get one foot in front of the other? Then you bump into the bathroom sink, knock over your glass of orange juice, drop a file of perfectly organized papers and scratch your rearview mirror against the garage door on the way out of the house. And you think, “I should just go back to bed and start all over again!”
Televangelists — like video stores and pop artists who can sing in tune — aren’t what they used to be.
Ranking presidents is, at its essence, a historical parlor game. But it is not without its lessons.
With July looming before me, I walked past the flag display at the store a half dozen times before I caved. Look, Mommy, it’s a flag! my little guy said over and over. I looked at his eager face and thought of the parade we would attend for Independence Day.
Hard to remember, now that Lincoln is an iconic pillar of history whose visage has been reproduced on Mt. Rushmore, U.S. currency and countless “Presidents’ Day Sales” circulars, but that first election was anything but a landslide.
We work so hard to keep our children safe that it becomes unfathomable to consider torturing them. The numbers tell us otherwise: Child abuse happens, and it happens with disgusting frequency.
The Volunteer State (that’s Tennessee’s nickname; it’s also known as the “Big Bend State,” the “Hogs and Hominy” state and the “Scarfs up All the State Songs” state) is far from alone in having unusual official songs. One can only wonder at the maudlin sentimentality suggested by titles like “Home Means Nevada,” “Hail, South Dakota” or “Utah, We Love Thee.”
Not long ago, I realized that if you want to raise a child who stops to smell the roses, you have to actually let him stop and smell the roses.
