A WOMAN’S POEM: He didn’t like the casserole, and he didn’t like my cake. He said my biscuits were too hard, not like his mother used to make.
I didn’t make the coffee right, he didn’t like my stew. I didn’t fold his pants, the way his mother used to fold his pants, the way his mother used to do. I pondered for an answer, I was looking for a clue. Then I turned around and smacked the shit out of him, like his mother used to do.
The bed runner, a colorful fabric strip typically placed at the foot of hotel beds, might seem decorative but serves severa practical purposes. Travelers often use it…
Destroys Dementia, Inflammation, Pain, Arthritis, Osteoarthritis (Don’t Spend More at the Pharmacy) Natural remedies have gained attention for their potential to ease symptoms of chronic conditions like…
I had a friend. She was brought up by her great-aunt and lived with her. Her life was hard, and she was always depressed. I felt sorry…
A 6-Year-Old Girl Stole My Daughter’s Lunchbox, and the Teacher Sided With the Thief—So I Taught Them All a Lesson When my 6-year-old daughter came home upset…
An old blind cowboy accidentally wanders into an all-girl biker bar, finds his way to a barstool, and orders a Jack Daniels. After sitting there for a…
When my mom passed away from cancer, I was just 14. The one thing that kept her spirit alive in our house was her antique Steinway piano….