I loath insurance companies.
There, I said it. And to be honest, I doubt I’m alone in my repugnance. Because really, who hasn’t been screwed by their insurance provider? And I use the word provider rather loosely. I think the more appropriate term should be Rip-Off-Artists, hence to be known herein as ROAs.
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I don’t know who I am.
Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying I need to find myself, like the popular phrase of the 70s. I’m talking about heritage, my family roots, that sort of thing.
You see, both my parents never knew their biological fathers. Both Mom and Dad were raised and eventually adopted by men their mothers later married; men I knew as my grandfathers. Continue reading
So I’ve been writing my Sunday blog for exactly a year now and I’ve learned something: I made a mistake when I started. And what might that be? Well, for some reason I thought I needed to post 5 blogs all at once to kick off Now Don’t Get Me Wrong. But I was wrong.
Turns out literally 10 people saw the 4 blogs following my first post. I presumed folks would be so enthralled with my writing, they’d read beyond the first one. Again, wrong. If you weren’t one of the devoted 10, I forgive you. Now here’s your chance to redeem yourself…
While my three friends and I huddled on the cold steel floor of the single engine Cessna, I struggled to remember what possessed me to want to hurl myself from an airborne metal tube. 
Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not crazy. At least I think I’m not. But still, I seriously questioned my sanity while checking my parachute pack for the tenth time. My curiosity was not based on its technical construction but simply to confirm that it was still on my back. Continue reading
It sits safely tucked away on the back shelf in my garage. During my once-a-year purging, I come across its cold, musty leather with worn straps barely holding it together. The feel of it in my hand is cool and tight around my fingers and it smells of leather oil. I love that particular scent because it brings back fond memories of my childhood.
When you’re an 8-year-old tomboy, the best gift you can receive is your brother’s baseball glove that helped the Indians win the Little League Championship. Continue reading
My back when out a couple weeks ago. Where it went, I’m not sure. But it’s out and it isn’t in a big hurry to come back.
I’ve been lifting more than usual lately and not the beneficial kind of lifting, like at the gym. No, I’m lifting gargantuan wired cages and cat traps for our nonprofit cat rescue, Marin Friends of Ferals. (Yes, it’s a shameless plug.)
The scene of the crime happened in my garage. While lifting my twelfth trap, I felt a searing pain shoot through my lower back and thought: Have I been stabbed? Then I said (to nobody in particular, since I was alone), “Oh, that’s not good.” Continue reading
Now Don't Get Me Wrong 