I have wrap rage. And I am boiling mad. Get out of my way, and let me wrap my hands around the scrawny neck of the packaging engineer who invented impossible-to-open plastic packages.
As a child, I was amazed my mother could produce a tissue on demand. Whenever one of her children had a runny nose, a spot of blood or sticky hands, my mother produced a tissue out of her purse. Now, I do the same, but my purse is less of a purse and more of a miniature suitcase.
Last week, I arrived at my hotel in Denver and opened my overnight bag to discover I’d forgotten to pack my dress shoes and a pair of long pants. But I did find two dog treats at the bottom of the bag.
Let the countdown begin! 7 … 6 … 5 … 4 … By the time this column appears, there will be exactly one week until the first part of the U.S. Highway 40 construction project is completed. The bad news is: What will we complain about now?
Strange things happen at my house. At night, things disappear or multiply. For example, all of my pens have packed up and left on summer vacation. I have searched and searched, and there are no pens to be found. My entire house has morphed into a pen-swallowing Bermuda Triangle.
Dr. Von Fleaburg and I got to daydreaming about what it would be like for parents to have applications they could download into their children. Why should phones get all the apps? The possibilities are endless. Here are just a few.
This week, I decided to go through my "Column Ideas" folder and pull out some interesting trivia and tidbits — all guaranteed to make good conversation this weekend. Read on to learn a new word and to find out when people say they wouldn't mind texting.
By the time I finally reach the hospital, everyone already knows about the reward. “Your mother,” the nurse says with a suppressed laugh, “is offering $1,000 to anyone who gets her out of the Intensive Care Unit.”
Lies. It’s amazing how many little falsehoods I tell myself every single day. Most of them are harmless, and many fall into the category of diet and exercise. In an effort to free up space in my brain and promote healthier thinking, I have listed all the lies I told myself in a 48-hour period.
Ah, spring: the happiest, most hopeful time of the year. The trill of a bird awakens me, red robins are easy to spot among the budding branches, and hearty crocuses poke through the sun-softened earth. Every day, the carpet of snow rolls back a little more to reveal a surprise: a forgotten garden tool, a flowerpot, even a patch of patio. And mud.
@joannepalmer: Hello, Mother Nature, are you there? @mothernature: Of course I’m here. I work 365 days a year, 24 hrs a day. What’s up, I just got out of the shower. @joannepalmer: You’re, um … real?
It’s time for spring training! Inspired by the Olympics, terrified by the impending arrival of bathing suit season and mortified by my winter caloric intake, I have made a firm commitment to get back in shape. Nothing, I repeat nothing, will stand between my workouts and me.
Sadly, I have come to the conclusion that I will never be a secret agent, spy or FBI agent. I am upset by it and have spent a few hours moping around the house, but the truth of the matter is I can no longer perform an essential job requirement of a spy: remembering passwords. How many pets, birthdays and children can one person have?
In celebration of this dog-loving town, I’ve provided some dog horoscopes for all you canines out there: Social networking on your DogBook account may bring you the help you’ve been waiting for and the support you need.
I’m training for the XXII Olympics! I’ve decided to go for a spot on the U.S. Curling Team in 2014. All the years I’ve been sweeping the kitchen floor, I thought I was just cleaning the house. Little did I know I wasn’t cleaning but training. No longer will I regard housework as a necessary evil, something to avoid at all costs or, gulp, a chore.
For the first time in ski area history, Aspen is trying to be like Steamboat. Wow! Aspen finally has decided that it might be a good idea to be friendly to its visitors. Last week, Aspen announced an “Adopt a Tourist” promotion. Here are some hypothetical chats between Aspen hosts and potential visitors.
Dear Olympic Committee: This is a letter of protest. The start of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games is less than two weeks away, and there are no events, no time trials and no competition for mothers. Motherhood is the most physically and mentally challenging activity there is, and yet the Olympic Committee fails to recognize us.
I hate January. There are 31 long, dark days to watch your mailbox for W-2 forms, get ready for the State of the Union snooze fest or, if you are truly bored, ponder whether Tiger and Elin will reconcile. Ho. Ho. Hum. If your brain cells died off by the tribillions in December, you may not have enough brainpower to contemplate anything more complex than hand sanitizer.
Food. It’s not what’s for dinner anymore. Guilt is for dinner instead. As more and more additives, chemicals and yucky-sounding ingredients such as hydrogenated oils and high-fructose corn syrup creep into our food, eating — once the simplest of pleasures — has grown increasingly complicated.
A new year calls for some new words of wisdom, sage sayings and pearls of wisdom to curl up and contemplate: ■ Make new friends but keep the old — especially the ones who have houses in warm places. ■ Better to date a first-rate man in a second-rate car then the other way around.
Nothing says I love you like a tarantula. Like many people this year, my bank account was no match for my son’s Christmas list. I thought he understood as we talked about it, and I cautioned him about getting his hopes up.
You’re invited to my annual Howl-i-Day Party on Dec. 23 at 1822 Bow-Wow Drive. I’ve made my guest list and checked it twice — no alpha dogs are in sight! There will be lots of spiked dog-nog, kibble kabobs and our usual holiday howl-a-long.
What happened to my face? Barely six weeks ago, I turned 29 again, but my face reflects a different reality. It seems to be trying to win first prize in some prune look-alike contest. Overnight, I have morphed into a “woman of a certain age.”
I’ve been picking up on a lot of turkey chatter lately. As I’ve been diligently yet surreptitiously eavesdropping, nearly all of the conversations I’ve been privy to go something like this: “Did you hear what happened to me last year? It was a disaster!"
Don't expect to find anything healthy to eat at a college football game. No one is selling veggie burgers, smoothies or fruit salads. You can, however, expect to find foot-long hot dogs, brats and burgers glistening with grease.
When will I find a job? When will the recession be over? When will my house sell? Bee Herz has the answers. Herz is a psychic medium. Faced with conflicting and confusing news reports about the economy, the recession and the housing market, some people are getting their information from alternative sources.
The balance in my checkbook has barely recovered from the SmartWool sale and SSWSC Ski & Sport Swap when, much to my delight, I spied with my little eye one more - the Mountain Hardware Wholesale Inventory sale this Saturday.
Sorry, Broncos, but I don't care about your season
Lock me up. Throw away the key. Revoke my Colorado driver's license. I don't like football. I don't watch football. I am not a Broncos fan.
Fall and winter have collided. The result? A dazzling display of frosted trees, buttery aspen leaves and "snain" - that half snow, half rain thing that's been falling from the sky.
I love odd behavior. I love it so much I keep a running list of strange habits and quirky behavior in a notebook on my desk. On my list are things like, "Wearing a baseball cap to bed," "Can't kiss in the bathroom," and "Sorting M&M candy by color."
Chocolate always makes me feel better, and chocolate and chicken soup together may pack the punch I need to send this cruddy head cold packing.
I just finished reading "The Book of Useless Information," a quirky little reference book that is oddly uplifting. It is compiled by The Useless Information Society, which seems like a lofty title for people who come up with factoids.
I hate math. Which is why I sometimes have to have a little help from People magazine. This horrifying realization came to me the other night when my son quizzed me on his math homework.
Profile: Woof, I'm Bowser, a bearded collie. My owner spends so much time on social networking sites that I decided to give it a try, too. I guess the first thing I need to do is post some information about myself and try to make friends.
Dear Mom and Dad, I am so excited. I had to write and tell you about my new job in Steamboat Springs. A friend and I have opened the first local medical marijuana dispensary! Isn't that great?
All 20-year, full-time residents should be rewarded with a lifetime ski pass. Conservative calculations show these people have worked about 100 hours per week since moving to Ski Town USA while happily serving as local ambassadors. What do you know, I qualify!
"Mom, you are a turkey vulture!" My son shrieked, embarrassed and horrified that his mother would slow the car down to inspect a free couch on the side of the road. Comments like these make me wonder, why don't children come with prerecorded messages?
One of the many things I love about living in Steamboat is that I don't have to dress up to go anywhere. Jeans and shorts are appropriate for almost any function, including the biggies: graduations, weddings and funerals.
Serious fudge fans know there's only one place to buy fudge in Routt County - from Carolyn White, known as the "Fudge Lady," at the marina at Steamboat Lake State Park.
Consider the legume. This odd-sounding word resembles the noise you produce when you have a swollen sore throat and can barely swallow. Or the choked-up noise a clogged toilet makes when you try to flush it.
The recent behavior of South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford finally tipped the scales in favor of a subject I've wanted to write about for a long time. Male menopause.
Something is wrong with my cell phone. It has taken over my life. We have a strange and complicated relationship. I believe it owns me.
Dear President Obama, I am feeling a little ho-hum about our national holidays. They are a great time to get paid not to work, unless you are self-employed like me, in which case you get to enjoy not working and not getting paid.
Dozens of worms are busy turning my newly created compost pile into fertile soil for my garden. They are hard at work converting eggshells, coffee grounds and bits of bread into rich, dark, earth-smelling soil conditioner. The worms are also absolving me of a tiny bit of Green Guilt.
The heat from the boat dock warms my beach towel as slowly, one by one, I feel the muscles of my body begin to let go.
I think I might be able to take advantage of one or two lazy summer days before the snow flies, but first I have to "summer-ize" myself, the yard, the dog and my bike. I need to buy more sunscreen, find my swim goggles, fix my summer sandals and do something about the brown spots in the yard. My to-do list is long, and my days are a flurry of hurry-scurry activities.
A new dance craze is sweeping Routt County, and it's called "The Flowerpot Shuffle." No fancy footwork or music is required. Just grab the nearest flowerpot and you'll be ready to go.
Insanity is doing the same thing twice and expecting a different result - which is why I avoid cooking as much as possible. My failure rate is astronomical, and my cooking confidence has suffered.
No other activity inspires dread in women quite as much as selecting a swimsuit. I'd rather walk barefoot across a field of broken glass than face a winter's worth of excess in the mirror.
The following report summarizes the surveillance operation conducted by P.I. Palmer on a typical afternoon as parents picked up their children after school.