Serenely going about my cooking business last night when husband piped up to alert me about the latest Trump-fueled travesty. “Get this, they plan to lift the ban on importing elephant ‘trophies,’ ” he said. I confess that I prayed for a
We have president-elect who thinks climate change is a non-existent hoax?
A ardent climate-change skeptic to oversee the EPA transition?
I can’t even.
I now have a burning desire to go out and turn that overloaded, stinking compost bin. More than willing to sacrifice more fingernails.
And I’m betting that recent cursing record will not stand.…
I spy a pantry moth staring at me from the ceiling of the cereal cabinet, and I erupt. “This can’t be happening! I did EVERYTHING! By the book!” I pound the counter until I catch the worried look on my husband’s face.
I lost four (or maybe ten) days last week, after my daughter insisted that something be done about the pantry moth invasion that I’d been ignoring. I rolled up my sleeves and emptied every cabinet containing food (or signs of moth activity).…
I cut the crusts from my daughter’s sandwich, basking in the glow of attentive motherhood, as well as the the self-righteous satisfaction of being a composter. The nutrition in the crusts of this organic, 100% whole-grain bread baked by artisans paid a living wage, shall…
I see it splayed out there on the sidewalk like the entrails of the critter the cat has brought home for adoration. The new phone book is here. Countless beloved trees killed to make this piece of crap that I do not want and will not use, laid out here like it’s some kind of prize. Great choice, humanity: chew up the lungs of this planet so that we can keep making these dinosaurs that are out of