She may be the most hated blonde in America after Gwyneth Paltrow.
Where were you when I needed you? Hmmm?
Cut it out, Christie. Knock it off, Raquel.
Someday we’ll all be outfitted with contact lenses, even those of us with 20/20 vision. And it won’t cost a dime. In fact, if you don’t really need the lenses, their manufacturers will pay you to wear them.
OK, here I am back in December getting ready to crank out these peanut butter balls I only make, for good reason, during the holidays. Peanut butter? Check. Powdered sugar? Check. Butter? Check. Chocolate chips? Check. Parafin? Check — though getting harder to find all the time. Doesn’t anyo…
The only modern-day reality show I’ve ever seen was the first episode of “Survivor.”
Friday, Nov. 22, 1963: University of Arizona classes were over for the morning and I was driving to lunch at the Alpha Phi house, a sorority I had pledged as a freshman two months earlier.
We ate, we drank, we stood, open-mouthed, in front of some of the world’s greatest monuments.
It’s always nice to be praised by out-of-towners, especially by a San Francisco writer who popped into Tucson earlier this year, did a quick look-see, and pronounced our little burg “hip.”
Once upon a time, my kids had what was then considered a high-tech gizmo: one of those See ‘n Say toys, where you dial an image of a certain animal, such as a cow, pull a string, and out would come something along the lines of, “The cow says ‘moo.’”
Where do they come up with these studies? The latest to be bandied about asserts that we are happiest at age 23 and again when we reach 69.
Garbo said it best: "I vant to be alone." Good luck with that in today's overconnected world - both for movie stars and ordinary folk.
Score one - or maybe two - for the Luddites.
OK, so it's all out there. My emails, my phone calls, my ceaseless surfing on the Internet.
Just about every day now, I send up a silent hosanna along the likes of: "Thank you, Oh Great One, for allowing me to raise my children before texting, sexting, Facebook, rap music and 'Gangnam Style.' " To that I must now add, "the exorbitant admission price for theme parks."
Some took a bullet for the children. Months later, others would shield them with their own bodies under an avalanche of brick and lumber. They were the first of the first responders: the teachers of Newtown, Conn., and, later, Moore, Okla.
Think flying with a squalling child in the seat next to you is hell? Try flying with a goat. Or maybe a monkey. Could happen, thanks to the animal's status as a certified emotional-support animal, or ESA, as it's known in the lingo.
Hey, I put my new shoes on - thanks to what may be a dying breed.
It is a great, gnarly beast, its roots burrowing deep beneath the caliche, its boughs reaching up to the heavens.
OK class, today's math problem is: Joe is buying a bottle of water that costs $1.97, total. He gives the clerk a five-dollar bill. Joe's correct change should be:
I'm a drip. So are you, and you, and all you multitudes of miserable souls who dare not stop to smell the roses, lest your nasal passages begin to hydrate in some socially unacceptable way.
If you are reading this without first having to remember a password, congratulations - and may the printed word never die.
Just about every day I give thanks that I am no longer the mother of teenagers.
Some time back - OK, it was 20 years ago - a couple of researchers posited, as researchers are prone to do, that dogs can and do bark "at everything and nothing, anytime of the day or night."
Ah, it's that time of year again. Time to welcome all those who come to the desert seeking its warmth, its mayonnaise- and jalapeño-slathered hot dogs, and its gargantuan array of "Old West" souvenirs - quite possibly the largest assortment ever seen this side of China.
We used to call them junior highs, reserved for kids who'd reached the seventh, eighth, and - in earlier days - ninth grade here in Tucson. None of that middle school or K-8 stuff we largely have today.
Here in the Old Pueblo - also known as 50 Shades of Beige - the last tamale has finally slid down the old gullet and all that remains of Christmas are the 347 needles (fake or real) that you'll be vacuuming out of the carpet until our first 100-degree day.
Every year, I drag out the list, dog-eared and faded - and so ancient that it originated on a typewriter, rather than a computer keyboard.
The question I knew would eventually come arrived the day after Thanksgiving, halfway between the movies and the walk to Santa's workshop in the mall:
Every year, someone trots out that Norman Rockwell painting showing a family from the 1940s gathered at the Thanksgiving table. Centerpiece, of course, is the turkey, all fat and golden, waiting to be carved.
No matter who wins on Tuesday, there will be cries of impending doom, along with a great gnashing of teeth, rending of clothes, and a run on sackcloth and ashes down at the local "dollar" store.
We come from the sea. We return to the sea. It's a draw I've felt nearly all of my life, mainly in the San Diego area. For years we camped along its beaches - beaches in some cases soon to be smothered in golf courses and fancy resorts.
What?!! Are you out of your minds?!! A few weeks ago, an article ran in this very paper promoting a young, obviously delusional couple who had remodeled their kitchen back to the Avocado Epoch.
My first "tent" was a bedspread. My first "bed" a blow-up mattress with a leak of undetermined origin. No need to ask why I no longer go camping.
Maybe it's a good thing. Was it just a couple of years ago that women of a certain age were lamenting the fact that young women had little idea - or appreciation - of the battles that had been fought for equality?
Timing is everything. As the first swell of what has now become a tsunami of retiring baby boomers, we've enjoyed the benefits of Medicare for a couple of years now.
I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream. Well, except for Scottsdale, that is.
Summers, not winters, are what I best remember about being a kid. Winters were sensible shoes and scratchy sweaters, multiplication tables and trudging to school.
Come Wednesday there will be parades. There will be watermelon busts and pie-eating contests. And there will be bombast - both pyrotechnic and oratorical in nature.
They are the sturdy, no-nonsense names parents once bestowed upon their sons. Names like Elijah and Elihu, Johannes and Gustavus. And they are all father to me - many generations removed.
It is a voice that would never sell diapers. Or cosmetics. Or remedies for erectile dysfunction. Yet we know it instantly, dripping with sarcasm and scorn.
You done good. When I read the other day that C.E. Rose K-8 School had won a national education award for excellence, I just about busted my buttons.
I was a stay-at-home mom. I was a working mom. I was lucky. Both were by choice. If there were any "mommy wars" out there, they raged far from my consciousness.
My mother was a wonderful cook. She used four electrical kitchen "gadgets" that I remember. One was a toaster - the heavy chrome kind that was worth repairing if it broke. The other three were a small hand mixer, a turkey roaster that she only used once a year, and a waffle iron so heavy it …
Johnny Cash sang it best: "I hear the train a comin,' it's rollin' 'round the bend."
Tide? Seriously? I thought my husband was joking when I came home from running errands and he said, "Lock up your Tide." Then I heard the news.
I grew up on Tucson's south side, in one of the town's poorest neighborhoods. But it was a working poor neighborhood, filled with fathers who worked with their hands, and mothers who raised kids but often worked outside the home as well.
I should be used to it by now. Once again, a store I patronize on a regular basis is ready to throw me under the bus, hoping to woo a younger customer.