Sam in the Sun

It was the best of Sundays. It was the worst of Sundays.             Let’s just start all of this by prefacing that I was still groggy from sleep – and that I was rushing.             Let’s also conclude that, prior to further discussion, accidents happen. And accidents are, by definition, not on purpose. They are also, by their very own nature, generally a result of some act of carelessness.             And so it came to be that, while hurriedly putting in eye drops, I instead put anti-fungus cream drops into my right eye. The result was an instantaneous pain so excruciating that it rivaled, in no particular order, my: (1)    C-section (2)    VBAC (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean) (3)    Several cosmetic surgeries on various parts of my body (4)    Several medical surgeries on other various parts of my body (5)    Adult: Tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy; jaw surgery; quadruple wisdom-teeth extraction; braces; and last, but certainly not least… (6)    Kidney sto

Well, we’ve gone and done something wholly egregious. So much so that we have become the almost anti-Christ of the neighborhood. What have we done that’s so horrific, you ask? We posted a sign. Not just any sign. A sign that reads: Those two sentences have caused an uproar larger than a Mormon leaving the Tabernacle. People mutter not-so-nice comments. They glare at us. People whose dogs aren’t with them now walk across our lawn as if to say, “As a human I can do more damage.” No, you can’t, unless you intentionally go to the bathroom on our lawn, or in some way vandalize our property. I love dogs. I’m not going into how much because then it will sound like justification, as in making some homophobic comment and adding, “Some of my best friends are gays.” Truth is, dogs are fine. I just can’t stand some of their owners. As the saying goes, “One bad apple can spoil the whole bunch,” and one bad dog owner can ruin it for everyone.

I am hearing a lot these days about a Japanese woman who is into decluttering your home and life. First it was Feng Shui, then it was the Norwegian death cleaning, now it’s her “method.” Well, I’m here to tell you that there is no system – outside of the obvious – for getting rid of stuff. For a short while I ran an organizing company. I learned a couple of things, and one of them is this: People like their stuff. They like to buy things and hold on to them. They like surrounding themselves with some form of protective barrier that makes them feel safe. And the ironic part? That sense of security is a “house of cards,” so to speak. It’s stuff. It can be gone at any time. And all of that stuff just makes it more difficult to live. The more we get, the more we want. The more we have, the more we have to lose. Then we get strung into the fear of losing it, so we collect more to feel more grounded. Trust me. I know. I was the same way. Without a doubt, the very be

I guess that I’ll never be fit for office work. Or work that involves being around anyone else more than once for any length of time greater than fifteen minutes. This means that I’m not suitable for doing anything other than becoming an underwater explosives scuba diver, or working as a tunnel driller, or maybe spending years doing some type of animal research in some remote jungle or the Antarctic. I can give you three reasons why it’s best if I work in isolation. 1.       People do annoying stuff in offices. Don’t ask me why, but at three different places where I have worked (not spas), three different men, all at high-management levels, have felt it best to perform personal hygiene at work. The first time that I heard the snip of nail clippers, it took me a while to connect not being in my own bathroom at home to the noise I was hearing. “Who in the heck thinks, ‘Gee, my nails are getting long. I need to trim them. Let me reach right here in my handy-dandy office dra

                        This is a hearty and resounding thank you to the coworkers who – without physical touch or visible weaponry of any kind – managed to fell me and resign me to bedrest. You know who you are. You are the ones who, because whatever you do is more important than what the rest of us do, decided that the workplace could not live without you for twenty-four to forty-eight hours while you recuperated from symptoms meant to warn you to rest. You don’t have to be contagious to stay home and take care of yourselves. Fortunately, you didn’t. You reserved every day of your Sick Time, Holiday Time, Floating Holiday Time, Annual Time, Authorized Leave and any other form of Comp Time you have. Good for you. Now you can use your Sick days for what they’re really meant to provide – additional days to go watch your child play baseball or a host of half days so that you can extend long weekends and get more time off at holidays. Lucky for me, I don’t have to worr

            I bought a Total Gym the other day.             Two days later, I am sore from the assembly. I have yet to use the machine itself.             Phase 1: The Warm Up : Began when the delivery-truck driver, the one who drives the loudest vehicle outside of a garbage truck, managed to somehow sneak up, open his bone-rattling, squeaky rear slide-down door, unload a dolly, off load a 350-pound box, get it to my front door, deposit it, ring my doorbell, race back to his truck, re-load the dolly, close the slide-down door, start his roaring engine, and accomplish his getaway – somehow without me hearing or seeing him.             These are the delivery people, who at Christmas, will ring the bell and wait for ten minutes to hand you a box containing eye shadow – in exchange for a tip, mind you.             At 2 p.m., I got a text notification that the box was delivered at 1:33 p.m. If their schedules are so streamlined, and they are talented enough to drop a box off wit

I recently lost a diamond anniversary band given to me by my now ex-husband. It had a single row of five spotless diamonds, each one large enough to be in its own setting as a solitaire. It was from Belgium, purchased during a visit to the diamond capital of the world, and it represented – at the time – the buying and selling of four cars, three homes, and the birth and raising of two children. It meant a lot sentimentally, and it was worth a lot financially. So when it dawned on me that I had lost it, when I had turned my house upside down and inside out, when I had searched every bag and nook and cranny and inspected my jewelry box a dozen times, I was more than a little upset. My parents were visiting, and my mom saw, by the look on my face, that I was terrified and sickened. Now the interesting thing about loss is this: Your mind will take you to one of two places. You are either going to visit the past, and ask yourself rhetorical questions, such as, “