Iridescent blue flecks of sky speckled throughout the sparkle of black diamond. Labeled “Emerald Pearl” granite, the name paled to reality. The sample square glowed like a living organism, oozing dazzle.
“God,” I screamed. “I am exhausted. I am crazy busy. I can’t do any more. If I’m supposed to do this, you’re going to have to show me in a big way. BIG. Do you understand, God?”
With no new bark on top, the ground rose up to meet every sole, happy to be brought into the warm house. I became a shrieker. “WHO DID NOT WIPE THEIR FEET? SOMEONE WILL DIE.”
Suddenly there was a glop of marshmallow cream under my skin. Jell-O under my shirt. A bizarre pillow of wiggly jelly rivaling St. Nick’s.
If a cure only existed, I could have another 600 hours or so in my lifetime to do other things. And that’s just thus far.
It’s going to be raining babies this year for our family.
As a health reporter for this newspaper, I don’t actually dispense medical advice, but report on those who do. And every year, like clockwork, I trot out warnings about the upcoming flu season and recommendations from public health officials. I try to make sure readers know where they can most conveniently get vaccinated against influenza.
Last year, almost exactly 12 months ago, I laid a burden at your feet. You didn’t ask for it, but I could no longer lift the weight of my son’s absence alone.
There are five children running around the home of Christina and Kevin Magnaghi, ranging from preteen to preschooler.
Today I am unexpectedly filled with a need to talk about my village. The one I grew up in and returned to 20 years later — kicking and screaming, but that didn’t last past the first year.
The afternoon is chilly, verging on frosty. I’ll leave work soon and head home to cook dinner. On the menu are sauteed mushrooms, mashed cauliflower — my latest drug of choice — and a green salad.
I am writing this in October, the official month of all things pink. You know, the color of breast cancer awareness. And store shelves were completely pinked out well before October, as if buying pink merchandise is the only answer to the problem.
Readers, do you know what time it is? It’s time for another chat with eldest daughter, known best as MacMama.
Polly called. She rarely does, so when it happens, I listen. She hated to ask a favor, she said, but there’s a dog in trouble, and could I help? “I’ve tried everything I can think of. Maybe you can get the word out.”
It started in my bedroom, under the creaky, scarred wooden desk.
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