I have something to tell you, and it’s going to be hard. This is my final column in the Denton Record-Chronicle. This has been my last week with the newspaper I have been a part of for more than 33 years.
I ran across one of my favorite columns today when I was looking back through my file labeled “Off the wall.”
There may be a warrant out for my arrest. Or a BOLO (Don’t you just love that sexy cop talk? I owe it all to Rizzoli & Isles.)
“I slept with my new purse and took it with me to the potty and to get coffee,” my daughter informed me. Ahhhhh, she has the gene. As far back as my grandmother, Flossie (“Bossie” to those who loved her) Dutton, the women of my family have loved to shop, particularly for shoes and handbags.
I may have dozed off in my recliner and dreamed it this morning when I thought I was watching the morning news, but I think I was awake and viewing a stunning new addition to the I-this-and-I-that population. It was hailed as the latest thing (and we all know we have to have the very latest I-thing) in electronics.
My daughter insists that I come clean, and I suppose she’s right. OK, last week when I wrote about the unfortunate exploding black cherry Jell-O cola salad incident, I was wrong about her bringing the goofy-looking guy to the family get-together.
You know how it is sometimes, when you’re doing something and part of yourself is doing it and the other part of yourself is levitating about a foot over your head watching what you’re doing and saying, “Oh, this is going to be bad.”
I heard from Pat Boone one day last week. He said to ask you how’s your mom-n-nem.
Their young faces are more weathered now, and they've grown mustaches and beards and calluses on their feet. The smiles under the facial hair are just as big in photos on their Facebook pages as the day before they left home.
The shelves are beginning to show some empty spots now and there are stacks of pallets lined up for shipping things away. There’s a sign in Hastings’ front window announcing something I never wanted to see. “Store closing,” it reads; the number of days that I can visit my favorite bookstore and coffee shop are finite.
“It is apparent, Donna Kaye, that the inmates are running the asylum over there.”
I blame Irving for the whole thing. Let’s face it, with all that construction going on, you can’t get to anywhere from Irving, and certainly not Fredericksburg.
They were married on Groundhog Day, 1946. Dad had just shipped home from World War II, an unwilling tourist in Africa, Italy, Germany and France.
There has been a development on Hickory Street at Carroll Boulevard. Something of import has happened, and I don’t know why. What’s more, I’m afraid to ask.
Goodbye, Big Gulp. So long super Slurpee. New York City’s Mayor Michael Bloomberg is criminalizing soft drinks over the size of 16 ounces. And if it becomes the law of the land in the Big Apple, how soon will it seep into the Lone Star State?
Jacob Mills and two of his buddies are poised to embark on a great journey — a march across the Appalachian Trail from Maine to Georgia that encompasses 14 states and 2,100 miles.
Christi and I have firmly rejected the idea that Lexie is dead. We texted each other all through the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy on Thursday night with pithy comments about the stupidity of that many overeducated people sitting around a crashed airplane with five matches making four tiny fires that eventually all went out, leaving Mere with one match, which went pfft! when she struck it and died, just like Lexie did.
The chair clutched my derriere firmly and then let go as a hammer worked its way up and down my spine.
Considering that on Monday I backed into a new Lexus and on Tuesday Kiefer took a whiz on my office surge protector, it wasn’t such a bad week, I guess.
The judge looked sternly over his bench at the woman standing before him.
I heard from my friend Pam Rainey this week. She had a story to share. It has always been my theory that us girls can get through anything if we stick together.
It’s the ultimate prize egg, though I’m not sure that the Easter Bunny has the muscles to lug it to a good hiding place. It’s going to show up way too much for sport in all the usual spots, nestled among the tulips or perched in the elbow of a tree branch.
It’s about the circumference of a stop sign but much redder and shiny to boot. A family of four could live comfortably inside with room in a zip compartment for a pet and even a renter or two. It’s my new sexy, fashionable big bag, and I love it.
I had no idea how many of my friends were awake at 3 o’clock in the morning. But today when I was roused by the wet kisses of a dog who thought it was cookie time and I couldn’t go back to sleep, I found myself on Facebook.
“Yikes!” Christi yelped and coughed and thumped herself on the chest with her fist. “I think you might have too much alcohol in The Recipe!” My daughter, her friend April and my friend Cheryl were helping me get ready for the book-signing party at my house last Saturday.
“You threw away all my food!” The kitchen cupboard fairly sparkled in its cleanliness. And its emptiness. “Why did you throw away all my food?” I asked my daughter as she proudly stood aside for my inspection.
And so the Pekingese took best of show at the Westminster Kennel Club dog show on Valentine’s Day. That brought howls from some of my friends, who thought the German shepherd was the obvious choice.
Maybe it was the high altitude. We had only a glass or two of autumn wine for lunch, so alcohol wasn't the problem. Could have been the dark-chicken-parts main dish, I guess, the something-yucky-in-aspic or the cherry brandy in the cake. Donna Fielder
EDITOR’S NOTE: Donna Fielder is on vacation this week and will have numerous photos to show you next week should you make the mistake of showing up in her office. This column is a reader favorite from December 2004. Donna Fielder
