I’ve been hosting Thanksgiving dinner since 1977 when my mother passed away, leaving me to assume the role of “holiday hostess” – much to the chagrin of my poor taste-deprived family and guaranteeing me an annual nervous breakdown. How’s that for a run-on sentence? With less than two weeks to prepare I’d better get cracking.
Next week the class of 65 and all their friends will celebrate the life of one of our own and it won’t be one of those somber depressing affairs.
Gary Florreich (above right) died almost one year ago and the world is strangely quiet since he left..The memories are coming back by the truck load. The good looking guy on left is Scotty Murrah, Fluff’s brother.
At 1 a.m. I awoke in a cold sweat and proceeded to experience a break down brought on by too many decisions to make and my habit of taking bad advice and the easy way out.
I won’t go into details but suffice it to say I had been spiraling out of control for weeks and had reached the edge if my sanity, if not the universe, A small puff would have blown me beyond Earth’s gravitational pull, and I would have sailed off to another planet – without my lipstick or my peanut butter – the two things I will never go without.
Years ago, I began keeping a daily “journal”. Frankly that’s just a pop culture word for “diary”. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t use that journal to rant about what needs ranting about and listing all the small miracles – aka blessings – that are imbedded in each day.
At first, I bought expensive leather-bound blank books in which to record my observations, and the things I wrote were designed to make me sound like a cross between Martha Stewart and Ann Landers.
Apparently so if you watched the news yesterday. Women all over the country were whining about these unsolicited gestures that “bombard” them while walking city streets. Oh pity the abomination!
Well, weh weh, you cry babies. Stand tall and savor the satisfaction of knowing someone appreciates the way you look. I mean why else do we spend hours on our hair and