I reached the gigantic height of five feet two during the age of my most profusive bloom. Now that the bloom is definitely off the rose, I’m five—uh, five feet nothing. I could really use those two inches back.

Does a single woman living alone in a three-bedroom house really need three toilets with bidet seats? The overwhelming answer to that is—Yes, damn it!

But I remember the rain. The rain on the roof. Lying in bed and hearing the comforting, cleansing rain.

Complaints are what I do.

Let us sing our way into the new year, where a brighter light shines.

I have many failings as a mother.  Could the worst be my inability to produce a decent dinner?  I’ll let my three kids take a vote on that.  Mealtimes with Mama might come up on top.

Note: I will never say on getting old. Why face the truth?

In my walk around my North Shore neighborhood today, I marveled that in this time of pandemic, when people claim to be suffering from isolation, I noted—once again—that the ability to say hello or even nod when one person passes another, even on the opposite side of the street, seems to be an anathema.

I have a neighbor who obsessively waters his lawn during the summer months.  So obsessively does he manipulate his sprinkler—imagery here?—that his lawn is brown in spots because the grass has turned into a muddy field.

What do people have against shade?  Meaning, what do people have against shade provided by trees?  Meaning, people living on suburban plots of a quarter acre.

I don’t have a romantic nature. I suppose the three best words to describe me would be cynic, pessimist, satirical. I do not swoon.

Reading: I can’t remember when I wasn’t reading. The written word surrounded me, not spoken because I can’t remember my parent’s ever reading to me.

I had finished writing “The Moroccan” while my husband was on sabbatical in Israel.

I will confess to sometimes being extremely lackadaisical.

I don’t understand why…

Why I like playing canasta: I’m basically not a game player.