Armed with a laundry-payment card — to activate the washers and dryers — as well as detergent and dryer sheets, they were taught to wash their own clothes. Continue reading
I’m listening to my youngest — now a teenager — COUGH and I’m praying he won’t develop the laryngitis I suffered from recently (see “Silence in the Man Cave” part 1, part 2 and part 3). If there’s anyone who genuinely enjoys talking as much as his network-news-correspondent mom, it’s my youngest.
I remember when he was about 5 or 6, on Saturday mornings, the door to our bedroom would creak open. Only a small hand reaching up to the doorknob visible. Continue reading
I’ve now had the cold-from-heck, also known as the newsroom plague, for six days. With the bug firmly embedded in my throat, I drove to my doctor’s office.
“Do you have an appointment?” a slightly irritated receptionist says to me.
“No.“ I squeak while shaking my head and pointing at my throat.
Receptionist says, “Well, you should call first and ask when — “
Me: <shaking my head furiously now with a pretend phone in my hand> “Voice. NO. Phone TALK? Can’t!” Continue reading
I have officially reached the pity party stage since “Silence in the Man Cave, part one.”
Please understand, very little takes me down.
I once suffered shingles while on assignment in the Midwest. But after a trip to the emergency room and with antivirals in hand, I managed to get BACK on the road and was working the next day. Continue reading
I’ve been thinking a lot about the human voice as I’ve contracted a bug that’s left me — and I assure you this rarely happens — SPEECHLESS.
Actually I do have a LITTLE voice left, but I sound kind of like Yoda from inside a vacuum cleaner bag. That explains why the desk assistants at the CBS Network, where I’m employed, took a while to understand I was calling in sick: “Me … ILL … no work I can do. Voice broken, it is….”
It’s also a reminder that though I make a living talking to people, there is more than one way to convey a message or tell a story. Continue reading
So, I’m sitting in the little red Honda that I’ve owned since my boys were babies and their child safety seats were firmly strapped into the back seats, but this time my oldest son is sitting in the front seat and NOT on the passenger’s side!
He’s in the DRIVER’S seat. His lankly legs tucked under the steering wheel and his tall back pushed up against the back of the seat. Ready to learn how to drive!
The Fitbit is a device that contains a 3D motion sensor that accurately tracks your calories burned, steps taken, distance traveled and sleep quality.
I have pants.
If my pants fit, I’m doing OK. If they don’t fit, I need to lay off the potato chips and run more.
As chance would have it, his school is full of predominately dark haired, beautifully brown-eyed students.
SO. He has become the go-to example in his biology class.
He said, “Mom, anytime she (his teacher) needs to point to an example of recessive genes, it’s ME: ‘Blonde, green eyed- oh heck! Just look at William.’” Continue reading
My youngest is chatty and cheeky. The other day he walked past me — music blaring from the cell phone in his pocket.
“Where’s that music coming from?” I asked.
“I’m just epic,” he said. “Like Darth Vader. I just walk into a room and music starts playing!”
My oldest is more serious — feet firmly planted in the world of teenager-hood. He answers most of my questions with a grunt and greets my jokes with a two syllable version of Mom. Imagine “Maahh-uum,” complete with eye roll. Continue reading
“Why do you need so many clothes for work?” My youngest asked me. I’m not surprised he’s asking. For most of my career as a TV and Radio Anchor/Reporter in the Pacific Northwest a tweed jacket, jeans and boots — with my hair neatly braided back — suited me just fine about 10-and-a-half months out of the year.
And if my work clothes tended to be business-casual, my at-home garb was completely laid-back; consisting of cotton or flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks. It was the uniform of choice for cooking, cleaning and rolling around on the floor with toddler and then grade-school-aged sons after my ‘day job’ at the news station. Continue reading