A journalist observes life in the far north.
It’s a member of my growing list of tormentors. Jade sits at the No. 1 slot after pulling a pan of ziti from the kitchen counter so that it shattered on the floor, leaving bits of glass all over our dinner.
The hare is suspected of raiding my garden. Or maybe it’s voles. The lettuce and sun flowers are decimated.
Also on the list is my homeless aunt’s social worker, who needs to grow a pair and come up with some ideas on how to help her get her life back on track.
I won’t bore you with the rest of the list except to say that day care providers should know the difference between a 100.6-degree fever and a 106-degree fever, which means you call 911.
After listening to a one-year-old scream all morning, I am supposed to be packing for a weekend camping. But I desperately want to lay my head down.
I wish my kid would learn to talk. Her current shrill manner of expressing herself is driving me mad.
Note to self: Do not have the IUD removed and get pregnant. Right now, the idea of bringing more screaming into the house sounds like torture.