I like doors open. Glass doors are good too. See through.
I’ve finally come to terms with our house guests.
They sit on my desk, like four weird sisters, and watch me as I write, reminding me of Goldie Hawn and Meryl Streep in the campy Death Becomes Her.
As I sit at my kitchen table, a war is raging above me.
The little jeep went first, sold to a cousin who would give it a good home.
It was time to clean out the closet. I went through old clothes, deciding what to keep and what to give to good will.
The first dish that arrived was baked chicken, breaded and full of flavour.
I’ve seen him a few times, always on the Yonge subway line in Toronto.
So this is Christmas, and the only thing that may make this season less than holly-jolly for me is the burgeoning question: how many thank-you note