My friend Jane, a fellow voice actress, invited me over for dinner tonight. Jane is the friend I wrote about in a prior post, who’s getting married in July. The one who attracts men willy nilly, while I’m still working up the nerve to maybe consider online dating. I predict Jane’s marriage will be OK because tonight she’s cooking something her fiance can’t stand to smell. She’s doing it…
(Any man reading this, who finds me, even the least bit attractive, should stop reading now. Your bubble will be burst. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.) Two days ago, after my shower, I dared to do something I’m a little afraid to do anymore. I slowly approached the magnifying mirror thinking I might check the state of my eyebrows. It’s one of those tap-three-times-for-the-brightest-light-magnifying-mirrors, and I was…
I have now been in this apartment for about 29 days. It’s hard to remember exact numbers because I was between bouts of near-vomiting when I moved, but that’s pretty close. Yet, I am still not completely unpacked and my bedroom looks like it belongs to someone on “Hoarders.” Does it bother me? No, because a hideous dachshund taught me a valuable lesson in my younger days that…
If you’re in a state that’s not Florida, California or Hawaii, right now you’re probably dreaming of spring. I live in California and I apologize up front. It just happened this way, I didn’t really plan it, so don’t hate me. I never gloat over the weather because I could be killed at any second by a terrifying mother of an earthquake. That pretty much evens things out…
Since this is flu season and you’re probably suffering through a pretty crappy winter, I wanted to post my mom’s chicken soup story and recipe. If you’re sick and miserable, at least you’ll be sick, miserable, laughing and well fed. If you’re able to read this story and not laugh, you should probably go to the hospital; you’re dying. As for the rest of you, reading this story…
These were the names on my street in New Brighton, Pennsylvania when I was growing up: Pfeiffer, Schaeffer, Smeltzer, Pfleghar, Anderson, Golbertson, Tunno. It’s like those second grade quizzes where you pick the one that doesn’t fit. The 50’s and 60’s were not the diversity-loving present. I was born only 10 years after WWII ended, and back then things like internment camps were a reality. My parents wanted…
My most vivid memory of my mom takes me back to Saint Joseph’s Elementary School and the cultural event of the year, the Christmas play. In first grade, Jan Rigatoni (not her real name) got to portray a “cute toy doll” sitting in Santa’s lap. She wore a beautiful light blue dress with a big bow in the back and a very fluffy petticoat AND she had a…