What I miss most about the place I used to call home.
Not nearly as big or unwieldy as my Granny’s purse, but she’d slow clap for me and tell me I’m moving in the right direction. And then she’d see how hard she could hit one of her kids over the head with this thing.
… and then touch my phone and now whatever was on your hip will end up on my face.
A roundup of ideas for the father who probably isn’t 73 years old and would rather write a letter in his own blood than spend $45 on a pen.
I know he’s begging for another cat, but you are the voice of reason in his life. None of these things require a litter box.
Looking this over, I kind of wish my closet was this organized.
I could always toss out the trademarked Holiday by Heather advice and tell you to hand him your credit card and hit the nearest mall. But what if he’s color blind? What if he gets lost? What if he brings back clogs?
If only the women who lived in the Victorian age could see us now.
For those of us who are going to check just ONE MORE TIME to see if all the lights have been turned off.
Ditching the sports bra because she made the effort to learn Beethoven.