"Dear Mandy,” the email started and what followed was perhaps one of the top four oddest questions I have ever been asked by a stranger. ... “How do you pick a watermelon?”
‘That’s not the way my mama does it,” he said and it must have taken everything I had not to knock him senseless. Granted, it was more than 20 years ago ... but I am certain I gazed upon him not so kindly. It actually may have been our very first newlywed bone of contention. His mama’s way was perfectly fine and produced wonderful results, I could attest. But my way was just as good.
Mike’s flip-flops, size 11, died Tuesday, June 18, 2013.
‘My dad is so cool, he can jump really high. Higher than anyone else in the world,” one little girl said to another little girl, and it made me smile to hear the two of them debating their fathers’ cool factor in the line at the post office.
It’s happening again, I noticed just the other night. The luciferin is combining with adenosine triphosphate and making luciferyl adenylate and pyrophosphate on the surface of the luciferase enzyme.
Some people think that giving to charity means throwing coins into a bucket at Christmastime, writing a check each year, or leaving money behind after they are gone.
The loud bang startled me and made me jump. What just fell from behind the door? A bat. Another baseball bat. How many bats can one family have, I thought as I picked it up from where it had rolled on the hardwood floor.
There is a little something I’d like to address that’s been bugging me for quite some time — practically all of my life, if I really think about it.
I thought I was a good mother. After learning of the extraordinary feats of some other mothers, however, I gained a whole new respect for another mothering world — the four (and more) legged one.
I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure my dog thinks he’s better than me.
The move wasn’t far, just a few miles down the road to a two-story house framed in pretty greenery and with a little back patio all laid out in brick. It would be great, I thought.
"Guess what I saw today?” I ask no one in particular, simply voice out loud to the only two other people in the room at the time, my husband and my 15-year-old daughter. She sits curled on one end of the sofa, he on the other.
‘See, I told you, Mom,” the young man said as he held his mother by the arm and turned her around in my direction, not two feet from me and uncomfortably teetering on the cusp of my personal space.
I have learned many things in my lifetime, quite a few lessons that repeat themselves over and over again. One, however, never gets old. After 22 years of marriage, I still get a thrill out of seeing the look on my hubby’s face when I pick up a hammer.
The lady stood at the foot of the off ramp wearing blue jeans and a green flannel shirt. Her hair was pulled back from her face, free of make up or lipstick. She didn’t appear to be particularly young, or old either, for that matter.