FARGO — On my very first day of first grade, I excitedly followed my other classmates out the door when the teacher hollered “recess!” Imagine my disappointment when I learned “recess” meant going outside to play dodgeball rather than entering a room where we would eat a giant pile of peanut butter cups.
The minute I saw the TV, I knew we were in trouble. My mother has upgraded almost every television in her large bed-and-breakfast with modern flat-screens, save this one bedroom. The room — located in the back of the house, decorated with oil paintings of pheasants and outfitted with extra-long twin beds — is a favorite of hunters during pheasant season. It is probably the most no-frills room in her B&B, and the men who stay there don't mind a bit.
FARGO — I'll never forget the day. In many ways, it was a day like many others. Blue sky. The sounds and smells of lawn-mowing in the distance. That slight crispness to the air that suggests cooler days are coming. But one thing set this day apart. It was the day that I received a truly odd object in the mail. It didn't come from a politician. It wasn't emblazoned with phrases like: "Closeout Sale!" Or: "Grand Opening!" Or: "Final notice!" Or: "We want you back!"
So my friend's son is studying for his driver's test. It's quite a process, which seems to involve written tests, fees, waiting periods and various driver's education classes. Like everything else, it seems a lot more complicated than it used to be. I am almost positive that I was able to get my driver's license — which means I was fully qualified to take the family brontosaurus for a spin — by age 14.
Oh, how I'd forgotten. It's been years since my nieces and nephew were toddlers. But I'd somehow forgotten what it was like to be around a human being who is somewhere between 24 and 36 months of age. Oh sure, I've witnessed the occasional meltdown in the middle of Target. I know a few adults who act like 3-year-olds and — trust me — it's not nearly as tolerable as when the misbehavior comes from a cherub with huge, blue eyes, chubby toddler cheeks and the disarming ability to switch from sociopathic grifter to "Gertie from E.T." in a nanosecond.
After a lifetime of battling what to eat in order to triumph over the scale, I've realized that I've been asking the wrong question. Maybe the reaI question is when to eat. It's true. One of the latest trends in dieting seems to be "intermittent fasting," a method of alternating mini-fasting periods with regular food intake as a way to lose fat and build muscle. Along the way, intermittent-fasting proponents claim this eating style can do everything from enhance cellular repair and increase brain function to control insulin levels and burn belly fat.
FARGO — For most of my life, I resisted domestication. Yes, for a while I was married and lived in a rambler, but even then I fought my own little (largely imaginary) battle against becoming a Great American Homemaker. I brazenly snubbed the norm by: a.) Refusing to buy chalk-painted signs about the lake; b.) Resisting the urge to watch HGTV; and c.) Covertly hiring Merry Maids to clean the house whenever my then-husband was out of town.
Dear Friend: Thank you for agreeing to take care of my dog. I knew you were the right person for the job when you told me about the summer you spent giving insulin shots to your son's aged goldfish, Emil. I also truly appreciate that you did not mind the waivers and paperwork, including the "Do not even consider not resuscitating" order and the agreement that you will: Act as a marrow/stem cell/kidney donor, should Kita require it;
FARGO — You know how most people look after a vacation? They're rested and golden brown from lazing on the beach. They may be sporting the cool LouBoutin heels they bought in Paris or the $300 haircut they got from a Manhattan salon. They regale people with wonderful stories of running into Jon Bon Jovi at that northern California winery or zip lining over the Grand Canyon at sunset. I don't look like these people.
We can hang onto grudges, slights, insults and snubs for years. But who knew that a single act of kindness could last longer than all of them? My mother is a kind person — the type who quietly sends money when a niece composes a Facebook post about a financial worry — and tells no one about it. She's a faithful churchgoer, but her demonstrations of faith don't end when Sunday Mass does.