Why lose your cool over brassieres, slurping and Kim K? Life is passing you by.
There is this bra commercial that depicts a series of beautiful women celebrating a “wireless” (read: comfortable) contraption designed to be the answer to all your brassiere complaints. It’s still a bra, an unremarkable “foundation”, an undergarment by any traditional definition. It is purported to be better because it doesn’t have the bones of a true secret kept by Victoria, or the luxury price range of La Perla. No big deal, right? It’s a bra.
But in the middle of the incessant television sales pitch…
I had no idea that I had been paralyzed by fear until that syringe needle hit my deltoid muscle and I felt myself exhale.
The pharmacy staff asked me to hang around for 15 minutes, “Just to be sure.” I tried to sit, but no dice. My feet felt too happy. I skipped around the pharmacy like Snow White in the magical forest, humming, plucking items from the garden shelves and swirling about. I’m sure my eyes were twinkling while small blue animated birds braided my hair.
For 11 months and two weeks, I had been smothered by fear. But…
Anthony held the distinction of being the person most likely to be banished to the time out zone which, in Miss Humphries’ afternoon kindergarten class, was just a corner in the darkest part of her otherwise lively and colorful space.
It seemed that he was perennially in this Kinder-Siberia, looking defiant, with gray Sen-Sen stains on the outside edges of his mouth. I never really knew what his crime was, but I think he usually worked alone. He may have broken a toy over someone’s head, or shot off a BB gun at recess. Or maybe he didn’t put the…
I was one of 51 seventh-graders getting ready for the Marieville School dance. It was December, and this was to be our first introduction to society, right there in the gymnasium.
It was a big night. With her shiny black Singer, my mother had made me a gold satin, quilted, high-waisted, A-line maxi skirt with a matching bolero vest. I wore it over a black smocked blouse with poet sleeves and a pair of black patent leather shoes from Kinney’s. My hair was piled up with holly and baby’s breath. I was a brand-new person. A woman, nearly. …
I’m scrambling an egg for the dog. The coffee is percolating, and my husband’s laptop is pinging. Do you want some juice, he asks as he pours his own.
I say, No, thanks, but I am not surprised when he pulls out a second glass, pours a short orange juice and places it near my coffee cup on the breakfast table.
It’s actually nice that he served up a morning OJ for me. But he isn’t listening.
One night a few years ago, one sister-in-law, observing my husband and I bump blindly, though pleasantly, into each other in the kitchen…
My daily walk is a political metaphor
Since Covid reached global pandemic status, I have maintained a daily walking routine that has helped to maintain my emotional equilibrium in the face of panic, fear and frustration.
Everyday, I open my phone’s podcast library and buoyantly walk outside where I head toward my happy place, our town beach. Half of my walk takes place on the “main road,” a rather narrow rural street with no sidewalks where even during the slowest months, the chance of meeting a fellow traveller or two is high.
Nice day today!
I just left Walgreens where I bought a new thermometer. I had registered a temp of 99.9 degrees F at a funeral service this morning and wanted to be sure that the reading had more to do with the heat of the sun outside than it did with my own internal temperature.
As I checked out, the clerk asked if I would like to make a donation to “teachers.” She explained that the funds would make possible the donation of supplies this coming school year.
I am a teacher. I made a donation.
The next clerk over said, “People have…
Baby Boomers are spoiling their pets so lavishly that they are helping to create the next Generation P
I had breakfast this morning, al fresco, at a sweet little bakery in a beach side town. I was with Joe and Myles. Joe is my husband. Myles is our five pound Yorkie. We three spent the entire meal talking with the people at the next table. The conversation centered solely around their six-month old pup, and our sweet old guy. Our neighbors were cooing and clucking and baby-talking the entire time. Maybe we did a bit of that as well. …
As stories of Providence’s long-serving, twice-convicted mayor stubbornly persist in print, podcast and play, it’s time to introduce the Buddy Cianci that I knew.
This is the story of two interviews. The first took place two months after I took a new job in Providence as a reporter for a fledgling weekly, and the second, when I was about to resign as that same paper’s managing editor nearly seven years later.
I left an editor’s position at a Newport (R.I.) newspaper for a job closer to home, where I joined the staff of Providence weekly with the promise of a…
I’m starting to look like the Night King. This was a sudden revelation while still in my own Game of Thrones afterglow, as I peered into a 15X LED Magnifying Mirror from Hell.
I can see him. He’s about to rear his ugly head, and place it on my shoulders. My good eye followed the faint lines on my cheeks that have no place to go but deeper. I squinted. Not good. I relaxed my muscles. Better. I decide that I can no longer use facial expressions.
I don’t know how to become an old lady. No one offers lessons…
I don’t know why I do this. Just a former journalist, now teacher of high school journalism and English, devoted wife, and mom of a true gentleman.