Looking back with Lot's Wife

I (your name here) do solemnly promise that I will not eat another buttered dinner roll or piece of chocolate, unless it is the last piece in a box and I want to save it from being wasted; and I will keep this promise until I can fit into my high school graduation outfit, or until February 1st, whichever comes first.

Up this morning trying to think through the last five days before Christmas:  I have four gift cards to buy at the bank--Visa cards so general that you could buy anything you want except dope or crafts from farmers' markets. There are two presents to mail which I should just mail because the more I think about it, the larger it looms as a job and the later the presents are going to arrive and the guiltier I feel, which in turn makes me want to mail them even less because they're going to be late so the packages should be even bigger and better so they were worth waiting for--so I should go buy more stuff to put in the packages so they'll be even later because I just can't make myself buy anything else.  Ever again.  At least until January. I also have two presents to buy for my sister and my brother-in-law.  I gave my brother-in-law a great present last year, a shirt he put on right away and "never took off" according to my sis.  So now I can never buy him a...

This is the bull that attacked me yesterday when I was out walking in the fields west of Springville. Okay, clearly I’m still alive so I’m lying, but really, he was racing towards me, stopped only by three teeny strands of barbed wire.   I about died of a heart attack.   I didn’t even know where I was so I couldn’t call anybody to come get me.   So I did the next best thing.   I kept walking, and walking, and walking.   Those farm blocks are loooong.   Finally someone came along and picked me up and returned me safely to my car.   I was about two minutes away from it by car.   But I walked FOREVER before that. Okay, not forever.   But it felt like it.   

I’ve been on a journaling binge lately.   I do this occasionally so I can remember that I actually can think.   Otherwise I become just a chore monkey. Don’t get me wrong.   I love a good list of chores to check off. It’s just that when you’re old you tend to make stupid lists of stuff that doesn’t really need to be done.   Have you ever asked somebody who was old to do something and they’ve said they have to clean the house?   What’s to clean?   Two old people creeping around?   The worst that’s going to happen is the remote getting greasy from potato chip fingers.   So, while I still have giant list of chores everyday, the list includes a lot of stuff I used to blow off.   Writing in your journal is a great way to “get in touch with yourself.”   And if you’re a person whose heyday was in the seventies, you’re compelled to search your inner soul.   Just like you’re compelled to wear granny dresses and hiking boots a...

We’ve been watching Downton Abbey on PBS and now I know what’s wrong with our life.   WE HAVE NO SERVANTS!   And I want some.   The idea of having someone obsessed with getting my hair right every day?   And oh, my heavens!   Having it be their job to make my bed and pick up after me?   And my job would be to go to dinner every night and sleep until 10 and come down for a great breakfast someone else has made.   It sounds like Embassy Suites, my favorite hotel.   Of course, I’d have to sit down everyday with cook and plan dinner, but I love sitting down and planning things.   And I’d have someone to drive me around all the time.   Doesn’t that sound relaxing?   Our servants would be smart, nice people like the Downton Abbey servants, and they would love working for me and want my family and me to be happy and have our house look great all the time.   You have to admit, this has its appeal.   I wouldn’t wa...

I hope when I die my Judgment Day moment will turn out to be like those pictures of me in ninth grade when I thought I looked so horrible, and in retrospect turned out to look pretty much like all the other ninth grade girls in the world. Not The Ugliest Ninth Grade Girl In The World, which is what I thought I was. That’s all I’m hoping for, I just don’t want to stand out as a sinner. I’m hoping that in comparison to say, Jack the Ripper, who hopefully will be right in front of me in the Judgment Day line, they will say, “Good job. You don’t have to spend the next ten thousand years shoveling coal,” or whatever it is St. Peter's helpers say to Moms Who Didn't Do All the Things The Other Moms Did When They Compared Themselves To Other Moms Who They Thought Were Perfect, Which They Did Constantly. (If that's a category, which it should be.) I’m thinking about this because it’s my birthday and I have a physical coming up soon and, honestly, I feel like I’m get...

This is a column about fear, cream, and New Year’s resolutions. A very wise woman once said to me…actually it was a teacher in a class I went to with a friend at a graduate business school in France, just outside of Paris. Which, of course, is another story entirely. Anyway, she said you should never make a business decision based on fear. So let’s say you want to open a candy shop, but you’re afraid your candy isn’t good enough or that you won’t be able to market it well enough. Or your friends might think you’re an idiot to go into business for yourself “in this economy.” Or, or, or, or. You should really decide whether or not to open a candy business based on what kinds of candy you make well and what you think people will want. You should have confidence that you can make a good business plan and follow through with success, or that you have the good sense to recognize where your plan should be tweaked to make it a success. Maybe you should sell rainwea...