I may have found my calling late in life; the job that uses my storytelling talent for a new audience. After a few minutes of superficial consideration, I’ve decided I want to be an entertainer at children’s birthday parties. Specifically, my grandchildren’s parties.
I may be making more of this than I should. It’s probably nothing, but there it remains, a trivial thought, a burrowing disquiet that gnaws at me in unlikely moments. I suspect the concern is as common as a runny nose in kindergarten. I worry about getting old. There, I said it. And in a public forum.
Is it possible to suffer from partisan whiplash? Does political trauma classify as a medical condition? Can oppositional behavior disorder include uncooperative acts and negative words aimed at elected opponents?
Since the dawn of time there have been zealous parents; men and women who have scrimped and sacrificed, battled and cajoled, walked five miles and sat for hours — all in hopes of helping a beloved child. In the past few years, however, that zealousness has curdled into outright obnoxiousness.
Of course reading a book in print, holding its sturdy spine in my hands and sniffing the peculiarly intoxicating scent of paper is a far better experience. Duh. That some people can’t understand the superiority of that tactile experience confounds me. I can’t imagine forgoing such a pleasure.
Florida just passed a bill called the “Sunshine Protection Act” that asks Congress to allow the state to stay on Daylight Saving Time year-round. But Daylight Saving Time can wreak havoc on the body’s natural time-keeping rhythms.
You can imagine my absolute delight when I read that Ford selected Miami-Dade County, my home, to be the first large-scale test site of its new self-driving cars. Really, really, really, the future is clambering up my front porch. (Oh, be still my heart!)
I had forgotten about the soothing qualities of being outside, the therapeutic motion of weeding that is both mindless and invigorating. I hadn’t been doing much gardening, and certainly no weeding, for a while. Allergies, lower back pain and too many activities — the bane of the modern world — had cut into the weekend time I typically allot for this chore.
In a world of dueling political memos about the FBI, at a time when we seem to squabble about anything and everything, I’m spending the next few days nourishing my beleaguered optimism. I’m tuning into the Winter Olympics.
About six weeks ago, as we welcomed the new year, I turned around to The Hubby in bed and mumbled words that I still, despite indications otherwise, want to believe: “I have this gut feeling that 2018 is going to be better. I really, really feel it.”
Two ethicists have published a report, “Our Sexual Future with Robots,” that looks into the future of the robot sex industry. It may only be a matter of years before artificial intelligence will use facial and voice recognition as well as algorithms that detect emotion to make an encounter more … well, more emotionally satisfying.
Appalled, repulsed, without words to describe my dismay, I tune in to the latest installment of a modern horror story for which we all must accept some blame: 13 Southern California siblings shackled to their beds with chains and padlocks.
I have a post-doctoral degree in folding laundry. I know how to pleat and crease and double up with the efficiency of a mother of five whose four boys played years of sports. Millions of laundry loads later, turns out there are actually two devices that can accomplish this onerous chore, the Foldimate and the Laundroid.
Something about the new year — the turn of the calendar page, perhaps, or the numbering change on dates — promises both a closure and an opening. For most of us, January is the month of empowerment and commitment, decrees and determination.
The mad rush to Christmas, that stressful sprint that makes me swear off the holidays every year, is finally over and I’m chilling at home. I need the downtime after spending the past week sleeping too little and eating too much, sweeping away crumpled tissue paper and cleaning up after guests. Not to mention partying and dancing and gorging and imbibing.
The violent gang from North Miami is suspected of killing at least a dozen people 15 years ago. The sprawling criminal case against them is already the most expensive capital murder trial in Florida history, and the first member is only now coming to