One meal a day is enough for a lion and would be for all of us if all we did all day was swat flies.
All of a sudden, I feel very old and very tired. Maybe when I get to California, the smog, brush fires, floods, and earthquakes will cheer me up.
My mother won’t admit it, but I’ve always been a disappointment to her. Deep down inside, she’ll never forgive herself for giving birth to a daughter who refuses to launder aluminium foil and use it over again.
Grandma told me Mama was once caught by the Principal for writing in the front of her book, “In Case of Fire, Throw This in First.” I have never had so much respect for Mama as the day I heard this.
I never go to a college reunion that I don’t come away feeling sorry for all those paunchy, balding jocks trying to hang onto youth. I feel sorry for the men, too.
Cats invented self-esteem; there is not an insecure bone in their body.
For the first two years of a child’s life, we spend every waking hour tryibg to get the child to communicate. Then we spend the rest of our lives trying to figure out how we can reverse the process.
I’ve always been intrigued with the variety of answers this generation will give their children who ask, “Where did I come from, Mommy?” They will range from “Number 176 vial in Buffalo, New York,” to “You were defrosted.”
My son did not show signs of a money deficiency until he opened his small fist in the nursery and found it was empty.
I got so much food spit back in my face when my kids were small, I put windshield wipers on my glasses.
If I raised my hand to wipe the hair out of my children’s eyes, they’d flinch and call their attorney.
The age of your children is a key factor in how quickly you are served in a restaurant. We once had a waiter in Canada who said, “Could I get you your check?” and we answered, “How about the menu first?”
A member of the committee slapped a name tag over my left bosom. “What shall we name the other one?” I smiled. She was not amused.
One son appears in stereo – a transistor in one ear and the phone in the other...
Last year I gave seventy-four phone hours to soliciting baked goods for the Bake-A-Rama. I was named Top Call Girl by the League.
Phone are wonderful instruments, but I wouldn’t want our daughter to marry one.
I read one psychologist’s theory that said, “Never strike a child in your anger.” When could I strike him? When he is kissing me on my birthday? When he’s recuperating from measles? Do I slap the Bible out of his hand on Sunday?
People are always asking couples whose marriage has endured at least a quarter of a century for their secret for success. Actually, it is no secret at all. I am a forgiving woman. Long ago, I forgave my husband for not being Paul Newman.
I think it’s time we women stopped carrying supplies for the entire family. If children don’t have room to carry their own toys, if men don’t have pockets in their pants, tougho.
A kitchen without an ironing board? Are you kidding? It’s un-American. It’s like Simon without Garfunkel.