Tina Plew Whitlock is a former South Carolina Gamecock softball great. Her big bat helped her 1997 team win the SEC tournament that year and a tr...
Last week I walked out into the front yard, fired up the leaf blower, and burst into tears.
My reaction was not triggered by the sorry condition of my yard (which would have warranted a totally justifiable, full blown, hysterical meltdown in less serious days) but because I finally had time—actual moments strung together in sequence— to blow the dang leaves.
The relief I felt at that moment was tangible.
And that’s kinda weird.
Since we moved to the woods years ago, I mostly think of birds as the slightly maniacal, always startling, winged nuts that fling themselves into our closed windows.
I’d like to claim it’s because I keep our windows so crystal-clear that the birds can’t help but assume they’re flying safe on the horizon.
But as the bazillions of spiders—as well as the occasional Amazon driver familiar with our house—clearly knows, that’s an outrageous lie.
My “baby” sister recently turned 50.
The milestone called for a celebration that brought the three sisters together. That means, frankly speaking, the need to pack some Depends. I know, TMI, but I never escape a reunion with my sisters that doesn’t dissolve into a pool of laughter, resulting in the need for, well, a back-up plan.
It’s just a consequence of togetherness.
Being with my two younger sisters (I am the dinosaur in our threesome) never ceases to amaze me. How is it that three so completely different human beings can come from the same womb and the same parents? And yet, unless mom hooked up with the milkman at some point, that’s our story.
My sister Tracey had the privilege of having a best friend.
A true best friend.
She met Wendy the very first day of their freshman year at St. Joe's University in Philly. It was 1986 and they were both blessed: they were living in the best city in the best decade ever -- and they had each other.
They always had each other.
Does everyone act like a moron around “celebrities” or is it just me?
At a DC restaurant a few years back, Willie from Duck Dynasty was there in the back of the room, giving me license, I reasoned at the time, to act like a clown.
I positioned myself between occupied tables of Washington’s elite and took a selfie featuring Willie over there in the background – him oblivious – just so I could post a social media pic confirming I had been within feet of a REAL LIVE FAMOUS DUDE!
75 years ago on Monday, January 27, troops rolled into the Auschwitz death camp. It was 1943 and the Nazi captors, fearing the wrath of allied forces as they came face to face with the evidence of Nazi atrocities, fled.
75 years later the memory -- and just as importantly the outrage -- of those atrocities inflicted upon some six million, mostly Jewish victims slaughtered by Hitler and his Nazi regime, is likewise fleeing, chased away by apathy and time, and by utter ignoramuses who accuse those with whom they disagree politically of being a "Nazi" or "Hitler."
A strange thing happened a week ago when the media dropped a "bombshell" story. It turned out to be true.
Iran was launching bombs at military bases in Iraq where US troops are stationed.
Our son is at one of them.
For a few hours Tuesday night, things got very real.
He joined the South Carolina National Guard right out of high school. It enables him to serve his country while going through college and helping to pay for his education.
We're a week into new resolutions and I can confidently say that I've already broken more resolutions than I will keep the rest of the year. I know this because I've been down this road before. Last year in fact. And the one before. Decades of Resolution entrance and exit ramps are in my rearview.
It's how I roll.
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year! Time to declare who rules and who drools! Time when a pile of people we mostly never heard of but know they’re important because they say they are, offer us their nominees for the world’s most assorted fabulous people in any number of categories.
At what age do you officially feel like an adult? I’m asking for a friend. Oh, heck. It’s me. I really, really, really want to know. I’ve been waiting on the feeling since I turned 18, I guess. I don’t know what I am expecting to feel exactly – something akin to what I experience when I’m with my mom – that I’m-in-the-presence-of-someone-who-really-knows-what-they’re-doing – feeling.
Oh, man. I know this little ditty is going to make a few folks ‘round these parts a little crazy. No! Don’t scroll away! It’s not about politics. It’s not about some pressing social issue we’ll never agree to disagree on anyway. It’s…it’s…it’s about Rivalry Saturday.
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