Last week, I succumbed and signed up for Twitter. I had sworn that I was going to be the last person on the planet to join this crazy 140-character-driven-communications Whatever, but I like trying new things.

I have to admit, though, that I’m having trouble with the question, “What are you doing?” That’s the opening teaser presented by Twitter, which must be answered in no more than 140 characters (not words).

Is this a trick existential question on the order of “Who am I?” which requires a deeply thought-out philosophical answer and which, if I’m not careful, I could get wrong? Or, does anyone really care what I’m actually “doing right now”?

In any case, my impulse is to write “none of your business,” but that would probably not garner much of a “following.” I’ve come to learn that attracting a following is the entire point. Just like back in high school (as everything so often is), I get to compare my following to that of others, and so far, my following is pitiful. It may stay that way, too, if I don’t jazz up my tweets. Thus far, I have written:

Tweet One: I’m eating some dark chocolate and drinking some green tea and missing my beloved cat who died on Feb. 9.

Tweet Two: Just had dinner and wonder what the heck am I doing on Twiter and who cares anyway?

Tweet Three: Well, that was a big duh, spelling Twitter as Twiter, sorry about that…

I’m from a generation that values privacy; so, this new world of divulging every little thing about one’s mundane life is rather unsettling.

After I plunged in with my pathetic tweets, things got creepy. I received an unexpected email telling me in the subject line that Mario Colarumbo was following me. Oh, great! Now I’ve attracted a stalker!

I don’t know what I expected (well, nothing frankly,) but who is this Mario person, and why is he following me?

Then, it happened again and again, more followers. I eventually calmed down, checked them out, and since they seemed like reasonable and interesting non-stalkers, I began to follow them, too.

Well, now I’m hooked, and I can’t wait to be followed. When I check on my email and there are no “following-you-on-Twitter” messages, my spirits sink. Must get better material!

At some point during my initiation into all things Twitter, I began to wonder what would Noah have tweeted if he’d had Twitter back in the day. My apologies to Mr. Noah, but I imagine his tweets would have gone something like this:

THE YEAR: 2349 BCE. NOAH’S TWITTER NAME: Cannotswim

FOLLOWING: One. FOLLOWERS: 732

Tweet One: Kinda worried about this Ark thing…You think he’d be concerned that I don’t know from cubits…

Tweet Two: Ezekiel is cheesed off. He got red in the face when he heard. He yelled, “Dad always loved you best.” I didn’t ask for this, you know…

Tweet Three: I wanted to nix the snakes, but He wouldn’t let me. Just once, I wish he’d let me manage my own Ark.

DAY ELEVEN OF THE FLOOD. FOLLOWING: One. FOLLOWERS: 349

Tweet Four: Getting pretty gosh darned noisy in here-can’t sleep…and the smell! Whew…

Tweet Five: Shem and Ham are OK with the “no procreation” edict, but Japheth has issues…Hope his mother can knock some sense into him.

DAY TWENTY-NINE OF THE FLOOD. FOLLOWING: One. FOLLOWERS: 227

Tweet Six: Don’t know how much more of this pouring rain I can take. Haven’t heard from Ezekiel in awhile, probably won’t speak to me again.

Tweet Seven: Sprang a leak. Fortunately, had plenty of elephant dung to patch the hole.

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN OF THE FLOOD. FOLLOWING: One. FOLLOWERS: 0

Tweet Eight: He said it’ll soon be over. Can’t happen too soon if you ask me. Japheth still unhappy. Mother no help.

Tweet Nine: I guess everyone’s pretty mad at me-no tweets in days. Can’t wait to get a cuppa and talk to someone face to face. Never again do I want to hear the question, “What are you doing?”

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

Ever since the Boys of Enron slipped their greedy hands into our pockets and stole our lunch money, I’ve been on a mad mission to conserve energy. 

My favorite energy-saving trick is to dry my clothes outdoors on a dryer rack which I purchased from Target and set up on my deck. I’ve never once found bird poop on my clothes. I hadn’t even thought of that possibility until my sweetheart, Steve, moved in with me six years ago.
When I first saw him put his freshly washed clothes into the dryer on a sunny day, I tapped him on the shoulder and said, sweetly, “Oh, honey, I’ve found a great way to dry clothes and cheat PG&E at the same time!” I pulled out the dryer rack and demonstrated.
“Nope,” he said. “Not gonna do it.”
“But-but, why not,” I asked, mystified.
“Bird poop. I don’t want bird poop on my clothes.”
“But, I’ve never-”
He waved me away and started the dryer.
“OK,” I said. “Give up a month’s pay to PG&E, see if I care!” He ignored my remark and walked away. I cringed at the sound of the dryer’s every energy-sucking tumble. Maybe I should have reconsidered the whole moving-in thing, but love does stagger on and, besides, there’s always make-up sex.
Around the same time I learned about what I (lovingly) call his “bird-poop phobia,” I was made aware of some of my own shortcomings. Who knew (or cared) that I seldom dry my hands thoroughly after washing?
I went to hug him one day and he backed up, saying, “Ewww, your hands are wet.”
“What?” I said, feeling ever-so-sensitive at this hint of rejection.
“Your hands-they’re wet.”
I looked down at them. “So?”
“I love you, but I don’t like wet stuff, especially your wet hands all over me.”
“But,” I said, rising to my defense, “that’s what air is for.” I quickly wiped my hands up and down my legs. “That and sweatpants.” I held them up for inspection. “See? All dry!”
I hadn’t lived with anyone for nineteen years before Steve moved in, and I was unused to negotiating day-to-day domestic differences with anyone but my cat. I decided to consider this as a training opportunity in case the U.N. ever asked me to help with that pesky squabble among warlords in Somalia.
In addition to the hand-wiping thing, I had to promise Steve that I would no longer turn off the circuit breaker for our dishwasher right after it finished, or rather seemed to finish, its cycle. With my old Whirlpool, it was easy to tell when the cycle was over-all its lights went out. But, with our new Maytag, even when the cycle appears to be completed, some of its panel lights stay on for awhile-forever, in my opinion.
Since I hated wasting electricity, my habit had become to turn off the circuit breakers when I finished using my appliances-a money-saving tip I got from The San Francisco Chronicle. But one day Steve informed me that by turning off the circuit breaker too early I screwed up the entire wash/dry cycle and would I please just let it turn itself off when it darn well wanted to. Oh, all right, I thought, if it makes him happy, why not?
It’s taken us awhile, but we’ve finally settled into a domestic routine that works about 80% of the time. I no longer borrow his tooth-whitening strips without asking; he, in turn, now tells me when he’s eaten the last of the oatmeal; and, despite his dislike of anything wet or “gommy” he voluntarily cleans the carpet after our kitty, Turtleman, has vomited. Also, I keep my wet mitts off his copy machine and buy most of his shirts; he, in turn, unloads the dishwasher without being asked.
My biggest struggle has been to learn when to keep my mouth shut. Instead of blurting out, “My God, you ate the whole jar of cashew butter? What are you, nuts?” I now clamp my lips together and walk away.
And, I suspect that on more than one occasion, Steve has refrained from saying, “Was that bird poop I saw on your shirt out there on the deck?”
There’s more than one way to conserve energy.
***
Rosie Sorenson’s work has appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, the Contra Costa Times, and the Berkeley Daily Planet. Her essays have also been broadcast on KQED-FM as part of its Perspectives series. Her essay “Safe Haven” was named Listener Favorite for 2006. She won Honorable Mention in the Erma Bombeck International Writing Contest. Her work also appears in the upcoming 25th Anniversary edition of Mobius, the Poetry Journal. Readers can read more of her work at www.damngoodwriters.com/.

Taking care of twenty-three homeless cats is like being The Enabler in twenty-three marriages. When friends suggest a Twelve-Step Program, you say, “No, really, everything’s fine . . . .”
I wasn’t always like this. I used to be a serial monogamist, but now, I’ve lost all control, and it’s not my fault; do you hear me? Not-my-fault. Nick Manelli, a.k.a., “Uncle Nicky,” got me hooked thirteen years ago, and he did it in plain sight.
I was out for an innocent stroll around the lake near my home when I saw him drive up in his tricked-out red convertible. He was carrying two heavy bags. I watched the first cat trot up to greet him; then another, and another and another and another. You get the picture. Since I had seen only one cat on my previous walks, I stopped to ask him what was going on.
He reached down to give each of his cats a little scratch behind the ears, a little food, and said, “I’ve been doing this for seventeen years now,” and, just like that, I was a goner. I already had a Siamese cat named Muffin at home and plenty of cat food, so I rationalized: I’ll just feed the cats who come up on this side of the hill-what could it hurt? And now I’m in so deep I couldn’t get out even if I wanted to.
At last count it’s twenty-three that I’m feeding, fixing, and, like any good spouse, counseling. I like to think that I’m putting my psychotherapy training to good use. If anyone were to set up a hidden camera to follow me on my rounds-well, let me put it this way, I’d hate for that video to end up on YouTube.
There I’d be on the small screen yelling at a chubby black cat, “Dammit, Blackberry, come back here and eat. Leave Sweetie Pie alone!” And then I’d say to Sweetie Pie, a small, highly sensitive gray tiger, “Don’t let him push you around so much,” but she’s one-third the size of Blackberry, and she hates him. Last year, an emergency trip to the vet to clean up a bite wound in her side cost me $80. I suspect that the evildoer was Blackberry, but I can’t prove it. He’s as sweet as pie to the human who feeds and pets and talks to him.
On down the hill near Buster Hollow, I’d be caught on camera telling Girly-Girl, a sassy Tiger of a cat, how beautiful she is, and how smart, and “what a good mouser!” (I always try to rescue the mouse, but I know it’s important to her to be acknowledged for her mighty huntress skills.) She’s also a self-designated leader, walking several feet ahead of me down the path, frequently looking over her shoulder to make sure I’m still following along.
One day, just to mess with her, I started weaving from one side of the path to the other. She kept up with me for a few feet, zig-zagging back and forth. Then suddenly she stopped, turned around, and smacked me on the ankle with her paw as if to say, “You think this is funny!? I’m your Guide Cat-come on, Girl, get with the program!”
Next, I’d be seen petting Buster, a chubby Cheshire with four white paws and a white bib. He mysteriously appeared at the lake one day, and I spent the next three years wooing him. He would always stay about twenty feet away and watch as I knelt down, fed, and petted the others-Green Eyes, Blackie-One, Sonny Gray (Sweetie Pie’s son), and Prancer. Each time I saw him, I would call out his name, but he’d keep his distance.
Then, one afternoon, while I was kneeling on the road, feeding Green Eyes on my right, I noticed an unfamiliar cat pressing against my left thigh. It took me a few moments to realize it was Buster. I very slowly placed my left hand on his back, kept it still for while, then moved it up to his scruff. He froze. There I was, participating once again in the nine-thousand-year-old bond between cat and human.
During all the time I’ve spent with them, I’ve marveled at what big suckers they are for human touch, even the older ones. If ever I can lay my hands on a cat just once, he’s mine forever. Call me the “Cat Whisperer” or call me nuts, I don’t care-I am beyond the reach of any recovery program.
I’ve tried to trap Priscilla, a beautiful Siamese-Tabby, to get her fixed, but she has outsmarted me every time. She’s another “highly sensitive” cat, who likes very slow, gentle caresses on her cheeks-not for her the rowdy petting that the guys enjoy. She appeared at the lake two years ago and a year later suddenly came over to greet me by licking my hand.
Six months back, Priscilla gave birth to a kitten whose face is reminiscent of a baby bear. That makes number twenty-four. I’ve tried to resist, really I have, but yesterday I was certain that I heard the opening strains of Wagner’s “Here Comes the Bride,” and another sound-was that the familiar “pop” of a Fancy Feast can being opened?
“With this ring…” Oh, no! Would someone please stop me before I marry again?
* * *
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

I’m the only one I know who’s had fun during a colonoscopy.

The sole reason I signed up for it was because my brother had recently had a cancerous polyp removed from his colon, and he urged me to get checked out, too. Fine. I’ll go. Just don’t bug me anymore, OK? Big brothers can be such a pain.
I’d heard all the terrible stories and looked forward to the procedure about as much as one would look forward to a beheading. I hadn’t planned ahead of time on yukking it up with the Kaiser staff, but once I got there, I was the belle of the ball, or should I say the Countess of Camp Colon.

 
Just two days prior to the procedure, I’d received a shipment of copies of my first book: They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow. It’s about my thirteen years of caring for a colony of smart, funny feral cats. I brought along a copy and some business cards but left them with my partner, Steve, in the waiting room while I was whisked off to begin the epic journey of Rosie’s innards.

 
A case could be made that I was overtaken by a bout of “whistling past the graveyard,” because as soon as the nurse with the clipboard began asking me the standard medical questions, I started babbling away about the cats of Buster Hollow, about my book and the fact that I planned to use it to raise money for organizations that care for homeless cats, blah, blah, blah.

 
“And,” the nurse said as she proceeded through her list, “have you ever had diabetes, cancer, or…”

 
“No, but I sure have a great book about cats, you wanna see it? Don’t go away, I’ll be right back.” Steve was shocked to see me prance back into the waiting room, wearing the hospital gown over my clothes, and paw through my canvas bag to find the book. “See ya,” I said breezily as I looked over my shoulder and raced back to the procedure suite clutching my book.

 
“Well, that’s lovely,” the nurse said as I proudly held up the book. “Now, then, we need to finish the paperwork.”

 
“Ok, shoot,” I said, still holding up my book so the other nurses could see it and cluck approvingly.

 
“Do you have a family history of…”

 
“Oh, wait! I forgot to get my business cards,” I said and rushed back to Steve and my canvas bag.

 
“Here,” I said and handed one to her as well as to several other nurses admiring the book.

 
“Why, thank you,” I said as one by one they told me how lovely it was.

 
“OK, time to start the IV,” my nurse said. “Do you have any problems with this?”

 
“Uh, no,” I said, and turned my head. “Just make sure you get it right the first time, ha, ha.”

 
“I’ll be very careful,” she said, and after only two tries, the IV was installed and waiting for the good drugs!

 
“I forgot to mention that I’m very sensitive to medication-a little goes a LONG way with me, you know? If 50 mg. would be the normal dose, it would only take 10 mg. to make my head spin off its axis.”

 
“Sure, just tell that to the nurse who gives you the sedation.”

 
“Ok, but…”

 
“They’re ready for you now, Ms. Sorenson,” the assistant said as she came to fetch me.

 
“Oh, well, all right-let the games begin!” I said and picked up book, my business cards, and purse and followed her into the procedure room. She asked me to undress from the waist down and just leave my things on the chair behind the curtain.

 
After I’d exposed my bottom and pulled the gown around it, I sauntered over to the table and hopped on. The assistant took my blood pressure and placed the oxygen-thingie into my nose, while the nurse-with-the-good-drugs consulted with the doctor about the dosage. She then injected the Fentanyl and Versed into the IV line.

 
I don’t think I was ever totally out of it because I remember seeing something pink and mobile on the movie screen in front of me. I also have a faint memory of unclutching my hand to reveal a white business card and handing it to the doctor right before she inserted the probe.
“D’youlikecatsthishwebshitesheckitoooooooooooowt?” I heard someone say.

 
* * *

 
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

I have finally found the answer to life’s most persistent questions. Here’s how it happened.
Last week I was listening to the radio, half-listening, really, until I heard a commercial from Orchard Supply Hardware announcing an awesome sale on blue tarps. “If you’re looking for a solution to that pile of junk in your garage,” said the announcer in his deep baritone, “look no further than a blue tarp—now on sale at OSH. If you’re needing to cover up that unsightly unfinished patio project, why, a blue tarp is your best friend. Come on down today!”
So that’s the answer. Blue tarps! Who knew? Just think of all the problems we could solve with a blue tarp! Take Sarah Palin, for instance. One minute, she’s the darling of the right-wing Republicans, and the next, she’s their worst nightmare who has no intention of quietly going away. What’s a frustrated Republican operative to do? Why, dash over to OSH, buy some blue tarps, and voila—problem solved! As they say, “Under tarp, out of mind.”
“What’s underneath that blue cover?” you ask. Why, nothing—just move along. But, you swear you hear groaning? Better adjust your meds, my friend.
If it could work for her, just think what it could do for, say, Iraq. Might cost a few million dollars to stitch a gazillion tarps together, but, hey, it sure as heck wouldn’t cost more than the $12 billion per month we’re already spending. And, it would do wonders for our sewing industry, provided we didn’t outsource it to Halliburton. When asked about that unending sea of blue in the Middle East, we could just say that it’s our new surge protector.
Now then, on to Iran. Don’t you think Ahmadinejad would look swell in blue? Maybe a tarp with a scalloped hemline just to remind others of how special he really is. And let’s not forget North Korea—why not just slap a blue tarp over that Kim Jun Il fellow—presto, change-o, no problem-o!
What about those smart folks on Wall Street who have brought us a new tune—“Give-Us-That-Old-Time Depression?” Blue tarps for all, but not before we take back the trillion dollars they finageled out of Congress.
Okay, so now that we’ve solved some of our pesky political problems, let’s look at a few additional uses for those wonderful blue tarps—how about Paris Hilton? Or maternity-looking tops for non-pregnant women? Baggy, butt-crack-revealing pants for teens? Bottled water, Hummers, health insurance companies? Simon Cowell, Reality Television, and Martha Stewart?
I mention Martha Stewart because I believe she has flown under the radar of domestic terrorism for too long and I’d like to see her punished—oh, nothing harsh, really, just dip her in flour and roast her slowly in a 325-degree oven until she forgets everything she knows about using Chanel pantyhose to tie up rose bushes. (Just as I write this, of course, my partner Steve hollers out to me that I’m burning the pasta, yet again! Thus, my fear and loathing of Martha—she’s everything I am not and don’t want to be, but think I should be and I hate that.)
I am not now, nor have I ever been a domestic goddess. Those cooking classes I took as a teenager in 4-H didn’t stick. And sewing? Egads! The one blue and white checkered chemise I made (with LOTS of help from my mother) not only failed to win a prize at the Henry County Fair, it didn’t even fit. My housekeeping skills can best be described as “casual.” Ditto for filing systems. System? You mean people have “systems”? I kinda sorta know where some things are, like my computer and printer, but the rest gets kind of hazy. Even when I spend hours tidying up my office it still looks like a monkey went mad in there. I don’t know why I even bother.
Come to think of it, why not just toss a blue tarp over my entire house? Under tarp, out of mind.
* * *
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

It’s gotten so bad lately, what with the conflagration in our economy, the mess in Iraq, and the startling arrival of that moose-eating, beauty-pageant-smiling humanoid, that I’ve taken to making animal noises. Cow noises, in particular. You know-for those occasions when words don’t care enough to send the very best?

I discovered quite by accident one day that if I kept my lips together, thrust my tongue against my hard palate, and squeezed the air out of my diaphragm while at the same time vibrating my vocal cords, I sounded just like a cow in distress and, let’s face it, isn’t that what we all feel right now? A lot of DISTRESS!!! Read the rest of this article »

I SO want to be Michael Phelps. Oh, not because he’s a demon swimmer, but because he gets to eat 12,000 calories a day! Has to! Every day! That’s close to what I eat in a week!

Can you imagine the guilt-free, unrestrained pig-outs? The unlimited Kentucky Fried Chicken, the chocolate cake, the blueberry muffins, the mint-chip gelato, the mashed potatoes, the chocolate . . . omigod!! Of course, you’d have to work out like a maniac so you wouldn’t gain 300 pounds, but still, just the idea of unabashed food debauchery is very appealing. Read the rest of this article »

So, there I was, driving down interstate 80 on my way to the El Cerrito Farmer’s Market, when I realized I had forgotten to bring along my canvas shopping bag. Damn! I felt certain I was going to end up in Recyling Hell because now I’d have to use at least three plastic bags to pack up all the carrots and other veggies I planned to buy. I could stick them down my pants, I supposed, but that might attract some unwanted attention. No, I’d just have to return home with the poisonous bags and drive them over to the landfill myself, praying for forgiveness all the way. Read the rest of this article »

Ok, I admit it-I caused the recession. You know how economists are always advising consumers to spend, spend, spend their way out of recessionary slumps? Well, that’s a problem for me because I don’t care that much for possessions. I drive a 1993 Nissan Altima with a patch of bondo on the passenger door, wear sweatpants I bought at Target in 1999, and top them off with t-shirts I purchased last year at Walgreens-five for $10.00.I can’t relate to the “Sex-in-the-City” addiction to Manolo stilettos, Vuitton purses, and Prada dresses, and, as you might imagine, I was underwhelmed by the recent movie. The pursuit of trendiness has always struck me as odd since you can never possibly be “in” for more than twenty minutes, even if you could snap up every hot, to-die-for item at Bloomingdales. Read the rest of this article »

I may have to start shopping at Macy’s again. Oh, not for the clothes, but to thank them for AT LAST placing an ad in the “San Francisco Chronicle” that women can adore.Macy’s soft-core ads of females have appeared in the “Chron” for years. You know the ones-a nubile young thing wearing the latest in skimp, looking out at the reader with her “Come-get-it-big-boy!” stare. As a heterosexual woman, I’ve never figured out why these Macy’s ads should look like the covers of “Playboy,” which in turn look like the covers of “Cosmo.” It’s not like I’m going to drool over the models who appear there. Read the rest of this article »

According to the relationship experts who sent me an announcement about an upcoming seminar, it’s no longer enough to have a regular old, vanilla-style marriage. We now have to have “Smart Marriages.” From the pages of this same brochure scream the titles for break-out sessions on “Hot Monogamy” and “Ultimate Relationships.” I feel as if I were walking around the county fairgrounds and hearing the cries of the carneys: “Cold beer, ice cold beer! Hot Monogamy! Come on in-get your cold beer, your Hot Monogamy-win this stuffed bear for the little lady!!” Makes me tired just to think of it.I wonder what these so-called experts would say if they could peek in on my “marriage” to Steve. I use quotation marks around the word “marriage,” because although we’ve not legally tied the knot, we’ve entwined our hearts and lives for the past nine years. Read the rest of this article »

It’s getting so you can’t eat or buy toys or fly these days without making sure beforehand that you’ve updated your Living Trust. You never know when Mr. Free Market will strike you dead.

Just the other day, I pulled up to the drive-in window at McDonald’s and instead of being asked, “Do you want fries with that?” I thought I heard the woman say, “Do you want salmonella with that?”

I said, “Nope—had that last week. Just give me the e-coli, please.” Read the rest of this article »

It was love at first type the minute I laid hands on my IBM Correcting Selectric II typewriter—Big Blue.

I acquired my clackety-clack friend for $200 after I burned out an identical one typing my 80,000-word first, last, and only novel. Some of the scenes were too steamy even for that sturdy guy.

My Blue Boy may be old, but he can still kick some derrière. When’s the last time you fired up a thirty-three-year-old computer? Read the rest of this article »

Tubby flew into our lives six weeks ago after my sweetheart, Steve, hung up the hummingbird feeder I’d purchased in 1990 but never bothered to put up on the deck.
Within an hour three hummers arrived: Tubby, Susie, and Kevin. Tubby earned his politically incorrect name because of his huge potbelly and because he easily dwarfed the others.

“Good Lord,” I said, when I first spotted him. “How can he fly when he’s so fat? He needs to go to Weight Watchers.” Read the rest of this article »

Last week, I saw a young woman driving a small blue sedan with personalized license plates: “LLB?SK8”. I couldn’t imagine at her age possessing enough faith in a relationship to have it embossed on metal for all the world to see. What would she say to the DMV clerk if (or more likely, WHEN) her relationship ended? Let’s listen in on the conversation:

“Good afternoon, Department of Motor Vehicles.”
“Hi, this is Linda—”
“Yes, Miss Barnes, how can I help you?” Read the rest of this article »

Whatever you do, don’t sneeze into voice mail while you’re doing your banking by phone—you’ll end up sending your assets to Kazakstan. Oh, sure, you might get them back one day, but do you know of a Trader Joe’s that accepts tenges? Didn’t think so. Read the rest of this article »

Ever since the Boys of Enron slipped their greedy hands into our pockets and stole our lunch money, I’ve been on a mad mission to conserve energy.

My favorite energy-saving trick is to dry my clothes outdoors on a dryer rack which I purchased from Target and set up on my deck. I’ve never once found bird poop on my clothes. I hadn’t even thought of that possibility until my sweetheart, Steve, moved in with me six years ago. Read the rest of this article »