And in case you wondered, he’s a she. And she doesn’t live at the North Pole. No, she resides along with 13 amazing elves Down Under in Cottesloe, a beach-side suburb of Perth, Australia.
So the story goes…my friends Sharon and Jim will be living in Australia three more years. They’re transplants from California by way of Texas. When they moved to Perth last year, they were strangers in a strange land. But that’s never been a problem for Sharon. She’s the person you might meet in the grocery store as you’re both reaching for the frozen diced potatoes. Next thing you know you’re chatting about her delectable recipe for that bag of spuds.
You leave the store with each other’s phone number, cook the dish together the following week, and before long it’s as if you’ve been friends forever. That’s when you thank your lucky stars you ran out of frozen diced potatoes the very day Sharon did. Continue reading →
Years ago I read that during the filming of Gone with the Wind, Vivien Leigh was quoted saying Clark Gable had atrociously bad breath, making intimate scenes with him extremely unpleasant. To this day I can’t watch a Clark Gable movie without thinking about that and wondering if his female costars held their breath in his presence. His response? “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Just a guess…
Yep, definitely holding her breath
Movie stars have a certain image they portray on screen and it sometimes crosses over into real life. Many are glamorized and idolized — all those words ending with “ized.” But the truth often contradicts our impression of them, don’t you think?
Now don’t get me wrong; we all know the persona is an illusion the movie industry created. Still, nobody wants to hear the awful truth, like Bradley Cooper stinks. Yep, you read that right. He’s a…
Every muscle in my body is screaming. They’re not at all happy with me today. That’s because I started running again after a long lay-off from a knee injury and general laziness. Actually, running is too strong a word for what I actually do. It’s more like a slow jog. Some might even consider it meandering.
I’ve always been a slow runner. Even when I was training for a couple sprint triathlons with my bionic friends, Pam and Margo, I never became faster over the months. They assured me if I kept it up and did interval training I’d get quicker. Didn’t happen. A million years ago I was a miler on my high school track team. But I wasn’t fast then either. I think I’m programmed for endurance. Except for now, when my endurance is on hiatus.
Anyway, in school I had absolutely no talent for running and never practiced except when the team did. And even then I spent more time gabbing with friends than actually doing any running. It was more a social event for me than anything. Still, I could keep up with the pack for the first half mile but that’s where they lost me. I think my fastest time was a dismal 7.5 minute mile. Talk about embarrassing.
Thanksgiving began with a phone call to my friend Sue.
Me: Just a heads up I may need you later today, so keep your phone nearby. Sue: What’s up? Me: You’re my one phone call I’m allowed from jail. Oh, and don’t forget to remove the turkey from your oven before coming to bail me out. Sue: Okay, will do.
You may be able to deduce from this conversation that Sue knows me well enough to realize one of these days I’ll be arrested for helping animals, probably cats, and if that means doing something illegal in the process, so be it.
Tennis is my passion so I hope to be playing into my 90s. My first obstacle is living that long. Then I’ll need to have my wits about me, which is already questionable. Then I have to be a smidgen ambulatory. Yes, it will be ugly tennis but some would say that describes how I play today. And they would not be wrong.
To be competitive in tennis, we generally partner with and play against those within our rating bracket. I’m rated 4.5. If you don’t play USTA tennis, that statement means about as much to you as the Theory of Relativity means to me. My point is, I enjoy competition.
You see, I’ve always been a tomboy. At least that’s what they called it when it was unusual for girls to be just as athletic as boys. Being a tomboy was a stigma because I wasn’t “a feminine young lady.” People didn’t know what to make of me. But things have changed. Today, female athletes are on boxes of Wheaties and the cover of Sports Illustrated.