Facebook has totally turned me into a stalker. No, not a stalker like Cristin KeleherI (I know where to find the frozen pizza without breaking and entering), but one of those people who really needs to cut back on the cyber connections and brush up on her human connections (that does sound a wee bit murkily unwholesome, but you get what I mean).
If I could entertain your attention for a bit, I have a story to tell.
Once upon a time there was a nurse called out for a check-up on a home health patient to see if the woman should go to the hospital. Yes, the nurse was getting paid, as this was her job, but I know very few people who would sign up to serve in the medical field for free (and I have yet to meet a rich LPN or RN, for that matter).
I may risk the wrath of Baby Boomers and elitist hipster wannabe songwriters everywhere, but I have to say it, I donâ€™t dig James Taylorâ€™s music. Yes, I know he didnâ€™t win five Grammyâ€™s for nothing and his lyricism is pretty splendiferous, but how a guy manages to span a career of 40 years with songs that sound exactly the same makes me think that some lambs were sacrificed to the Dark Gods of Tuneage in order to hit the Billboard 100.
Hello, my name is Sophia and I am a slob.
Here are the steps for developing your very own conspiracy theory:
Step 1: Read a state or federal law (preferably a long one) on your own without consulting any background or supporting information. Having preconceived notions is optional, but will speed the process.
Step 2: Do not call any agency personnel, any groups who may be interested in the legislation or anyone who could provide you with clarification.
Step 3: Talk amongst your friends and other like-minded people to determine what the law says.
Step 4: Agitate.
I am pushing the envelope of life, liberty, the pursuit of better tee times and age 61 (age 60â€¦thatâ€™s 16 Celsius, which sounds a whole lot better). And I have opened the envelope to monthly USPS missives on the ravages of COPD, AARP life insurance and my friends at the Neptune Society. Yes, we have become something of a Cremation Nation. Keep those cards, letters and email submissions coming. After all, my personal spam filter sucks and I donâ€™t feel so good myself.
Yep, the above headline and subhead refers to yours truly. Some who read this may be snickering with former knowledge of this, or nodding your head vigorously in agreement. To you I offer up a heartfelt apology. I donâ€™t know what I was thinking. Actually, brainpower probably didnâ€™t have much involvement. I have no excuses and Iâ€™m sorry for my behavior.
A flake is defined in the Urban Dictionary as: (n.) An unreliable person; someone who agrees to do something, but never follows through.
Hey there, dear reader-and-a-half. Again, I have been tardy in fulfilling my columnist duties, and for those of you who couldnâ€™t find anything to wrap your Haddock and chips in, I apologize. I pondered penning a column about the amusing folly of designer Michael Korâ€™s Astroturf bikini (a veritable bargain at $540), but that subject turns out to be quite skimpy, both literally and literary. Plus Iâ€™ve had more pressing matters on my mind lately.