On any given day, there are countless reminders that I am an old person. Not least of which is the pain in my lower back when I uncurl my body from the driver’s seat of my car. There is also the fact that I now prefer to sit when putting on my panties, for fear
Admittedly, I’m not a big fan of nostalgia. My capacity for fondly recounting the good old days is about half a cup. Sure, I have pleasant memories of growing up in the 40s and 50s, but I’m not about to initiate a petition for the return of Howdy Dowdy, or lobby the fashion industry to
Six days and counting, and I continue to eat my way out of Florida. More good-bye dinners with friends we will not see for six months. So what if my clothes have gotten tighter? I am more than compensated by the fact that the non-use of my stove and dishwasher is a great energy-saver. “Where
April is a month that seems to inspire poetry. However, Chaucer, who praised April in his prologue to the “Canterbury Tales” would certainly not have agreed with the opening line of T.S. Eliot’s famous poem, “The Wasteland,” quoted above. But then again, Chaucer was not a woman who had to face the terror and humiliation
In a temporal sense, living in Florida as a Snowbird is a lot like experiencing a second childhood. Not only do we once again have more time to play, but our very concept of time itself has strayed from the calendar year. In reality, our days do not flow from January to December. As children,
I was in a doctor’s waiting room the other day catching up on my magazine reading (see “Death, Taxes, and the Annual Exam,” February 29, 2016), when the title of a particular article captured my attention: The Disappearance of Older Women. Had this been the National Enquirer, I would have assumed that it was another
Question: What do the Presidential primaries and my new web site have in common? Absolutely nothing, except for the fact that they are both happening today. So welcome to my new home and my new title “An Unfiltered Wit.” Since it is a Super Tuesday, I thought it fitting for my first essay on this
It has been said, by Ben Franklin, I think, that the only things in life that are certain are death and taxes. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a third item to the traditional twosome, the annual physical exam. A call from my doctor’s office reminding me that another year has gone by is now
The other night, in a restaurant, my husband happened to encounter a woman he knew from high school days. This is not unusual. My husband frequently runs into people from his youth. In fact, I once wrote about this phenomenon, which never fails to amaze me. (See “State of the Reunion,” March 2, 2015.) Growing
Dear Readers: I beg your indulgence on two counts: one, for beginning this essay in the manner of an 18th century English novel, and two, for again writing about our new dog, Sam. I promise this will be the last time. Perhaps I shouldn’t promise, but I will try my best not to further subject
