Complaining is a snap! If America were to hold a Complaining Olympics, I'm certain I'd have a shot at gold for most of the indoor events. Complaining is natural and highly contagious, like Ebola, or some of those sniffles the birdies and piggies are trying to give us. So, what do we do about it? Do we keep complaining, or do we start to call out life's joys as a bit of neuro-linguistic programming to change our wicked ways? Let's try that. Let's start celebrating tiny little things that matter to us. I'll go ...
Alice is dead. The housekeeper in the center square of mod sitcom entertainment has passed away at 88, leaving her Brady Bunch without their rudder.
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I overheard something funny as I was munching on a sweet snack last month. I didn't catch much of the conversation, but I did hear, "I need hot fudge." I thought it was hilarious.
Editor's note: Columnist David McCoy is on vacation. This column was originally published in 2011.
Do you remember that 1970s movie called, "The Way We Were," with Robert Redford and Barbra Streisand? I didn't see the movie, but I remember the title because Streisand sang the theme song on the radio, over and over and over.
Have you ever encountered incompetent handymen? Maybe you wanted a few damaged roof shingles repaired, and instead, your hired hands installed new toilet seats in your bathrooms because they were too afraid to scale the roof.
Last week, while out of town and staying in a hotel, I had a most exasperating experience. I was snoozing away in my fluffy rented bed, and when it came time to wake up, I didn't quite make it all the way. I woke just enough to see a little bit of sunlight, and a glimpse of the walls, but nothing looked familiar, so my brain stayed closed for business. That's when I had the notorious, "Where am I?" experience. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know the state, the country, the day, the ...
Last week, while out of town and staying in a hotel, I had a most exasperating experience.
If you're a man who's been invited to a wedding, you need to heed my advice so you know what to do at these alien affairs.
As a kid, I hated Sunday mornings with a passion I now reserve only for unimaginable evils such as genocide and raw onions. Sunday - "the day of rest" - was far from restful for me, and I blame it on a weekly ritual, "dressing up for Sunday school."
Let your mind wander back to kindergarten, and think about those simpler times and all the fun you had. It doesn't matter where you come from; you have to admit that kindergarten was fun. You played with toys, sang songs, colored pictures of fire trucks, and learned radically new concepts like sharing and the letter Q.
There's an interesting picture hanging in the bathroom of a particular shop here in town.
I wish the weather would stop playing games with us here in the South. It wasn't more than a few weeks ago that I slipped into a pair of short pants for puttering around the house.
Spring is here, and after we sailed past Good Friday and the risk of frost, it is now planting time! I've bought seeds and pots and I'm ready to plant something.
I decided to let my remaining hair grow a lot longer than it normally does, and someone suggested I "must be in a mid-life crisis." Well, yeah! I've been in a mid-life crisis for at least 12 years now, and I have no intention of ending it anytime soon.
Gentlemen...you need to go to baby-holding school. You know how you get when you're around newborns. When the parents come by with their little bundles, you lay your arms by your sides and say, "Let someone else hold it ... first." Yes, you actually say "it." And what's this "first" business? You know you have no intention of being number two or number 20. You don't ever plan to hold that baby. Women hold tiny babies all the time, but we men act like those little creatures are sticks of dynamite wrapped in radioactive poison ivy. Well ...
It happened again today. Something was wrong with the gents' toilet and I wanted to wash my hands. What to do? What to do? Yep. I did it. I washed my paws in the room marked "Ladies." The door was wide open, no one was in there and the sink was calling my name: "David ... David ... come wash up in here." If you've ever heard a sink calling your name, you'd best just give in and not argue. It's bad enough to admit that sinks talk to you, but once you're seen arguing with porcelain fixtures ...