Prenuptial agreements with a social media clause are on the rise. Yep, you read right. Before the exchange of rings, before the public declaration of love, before the sappy Best Man’s toast, couples are ensuring their privacy in print.
Once again, as predictable as the tides, I’m smack in the congested middle of the end-of-school-year marathon. Where a few years ago, I scrambled to cafeterias, classrooms and auditoriums for my children, now I’m rushing around for the grandkids.
Ana Veciana-Suarez: "I’m no foodie, and my plebeian palate can hardly be considered discerning, but I have noticed that bowls are no longer reserved for soup and cereal. They’re also for noodles, for meat, for fish, for fried chicken — for anything, really."
What we pay those who are entrusted with our most precious resource is an embarrassment — and a moral crime. Yet teachers have been underpaid and underappreciated for generations, very likely because classrooms have long been considered a women’s place and the formation and guiding of children women’s work.
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.”