I don’t know about you, but when a blogger wears a strip of bacon on her shirt — clarification: a picture of bacon — I’m going to be interested. When deliciously low-carb recipes follow, I’m bound to be infatuated.
Before you read this column, chant this line: “This is not about me. This is not about me.”
You know how going to your spouse’s class reunion can be a labor of love? You’re there, hanging out with people you may only see at reunions, smiling at insider jokes you don’t understand and watching your other half dance with others a little maniacally as they project their inner high schooler.
Camo Man and I are exhausted. As I write this, we are fresh from school conferences at McLoughlin High School.
It doesn’t take much to light the flame under my secret addiction. Not Facebook, since that’s no secret.
Dear Camo Man, Happy first married Valentine’s Day, Honey. Not that we need excuses for romance ... our days are filled with it.
I spend a quite a bit of time parenting my daughter in a repressed rage.
Another Thanksgiving has come and gone with the familiar face absent from the holiday table. This seems as good a time as any to finish a column I have been writing in my heart for months now.
I recently wrote -- whined -- about no longer being able to find the kind of sheets I want. Those crisp sheets woven so tightly your sleeping body barely leaves a dent. No soft stuff, ridiculous thread counts or "special" finish. Just sheets that feel baked in the sun on flat rocks somewhere very hot.
Our Valley has definitely become a destination for wine and fruit enthusiasts. Bicyclists, photographers and musicians also seek out what this community offers.
There is a silent crisis in America begging to be addressed.
It’s morning. So early that the night remains steadfast in the sky, not ready to relinquish its reign.
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