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.
This week I returned from five days in my hometown, the warm and cheerful Centerville, Ohio. (We always refer to it that way, since that is what is on the wooden welcome sign at the edge of town.)
I had been putting off cleaning out the guest bedroom walk-in closet for so long that moving out was beginning to seem like a viable alternative.
In Bessemer, Alabama, four and a half miles off Highway 459 at Exit 1, there is a plot of land that is oddly untouched by time. This is Camp Fletcher, and it is here today because a young black woman named Pauline Fletcher just wouldn’t listen.