There are two official definitions of the word deadline. One is the absolute last date or time at which something must be completed, and the other is a historical reference to a line drawn around a prison beyond which prisoners will likely be shot.
On a recent visit to my hometown, my mom and I had a fabulous time going through old pictures. Wearing pajamas and drinking wine late into the night, we covered her floor with evidence of the past.
Meet Mike. He is my daughter Chelsea’s Golden Retriever puppy, and he owns us.
When a friend sent me the official Buzzfeed “How Oprah Are You?” quiz, I was able to check yes to 36 of the 75 questions. This makes me, according to them, “A Little Bit Oprah.”
Since I declared that I was living for 40 days as Fauxprah (Oprah without the $3 billion), my life has been dramatically different. I have people. Today, I will tell you about two of them who are near and dear to my heart and some other key body parts: my personal chef and my personal trainer.
I want to be Oprah. Just for a little while. Unfortunately, I am short $3 billion, so I will call myself Fauxprah.
It was a weekday morning and I was buzzing around doing what females do when they climb out of the shower and realize how late it is. I flipped myself upside down, twisted my wet hair into a towel, and whipped myself upright. The very next second I found myself face down on the tile, completely weightless.
Of all 12 of them, December is the best month. While we’ve been staring at holiday decorations since Halloween, they are now legitimate. Everywhere your gaze falls, there is some statement of celebration.
Imagine hosting a Thanksgiving with the classic menu of turkey, gravy, potatoes, green bean casserole, rolls, and cranberry sauce. If you have four guests, their diets could be gluten-free, vegan, low carb, or Paleo. There is not one single dish of the classic Thanksgiving menu that would be on everybody’s plate, and the gravy isn’t on anyone’s.
I recently had the experience of taking two trips without a cell phone, which was surreal. No cell service is bad enough, but no actual phone? I honestly didn’t know what to do with my hands.
Jeri was always a little bit of a hypochondriac. That is why she didn’t tell even her husband when she took their 2-year-old son, Jerod, to the pediatrician to be tested for cystic fibrosis.