Post Covid Scissors Sale!

Shannon Kernaghan Shan-Bang-clse-up-web400 Post Covid Scissors Sale! Humor

(from online ad) FOR SALE: JW SHEARS, 27 TEETH

Funny backstory on these scissors: about five months ago my wife was frustrated with her hair. But salons were closed with the Covid lockdown, so I offered to help by trimming a little. Surprisingly, she agreed.

First, I consulted my University of the World: YouTube. Hair cutting looked pretty easy, at least after watching my max retention limit of three videos. “I’ve got this!” I shouted to Shannon. “I’m off to the beauty supply store to get some hair cuttin’ tools.”

Home again, I was excited to show her my purchases. Instead of smiles, she freaked out at the price. “But these are pro shears, babe, gotta have the best. After all, it’s YOUR hair.” With a little convincing (plus her desperation), I pulled out a kitchen chair and motioned for her to sit. “Relax, I got this.”

I wouldn’t let her watch me work or take a peek until I’d finished. Twenty minutes into my styling, something seemed different from the YouTube results. Oh well. Based on the growing hair pile at my feet, I’d done enough.

“You can look now!” and I pulled the towel from her shoulders. She hurried to the bathroom mirror. I expected joyous exclamations and was ready for hugs because once again in our years of marriage I’d saved the day . . . not a sound. Hmn. Not quite the reaction I expected. Wow, I thought, this is gonna be great. Maybe I can cut other peoples’ hair–

She raced from the bathroom and barrelled towards me: “What the f*ck! Why did I trust you with scissors?!” Her face turned an unhealthy shade of red. “It’s a good thing I don’t have to go any where for the next few months, as if that’ll be enough time for your hatchet job to grow out! This is worse than when my mom cut my bangs!”

I heard more curse words as she stomped away, and that’s when she yelled, “Get rid of those scissors! It’s either me or them, one of us goes!” I promised to make them disappear but simply hid them in a drawer . . . until she found them yesterday.

PS things are slightly better now that her salon opened again. “Jeez,” said the stylist. “You sure have lots of straggly bits . . . I’ll have to take off tons to get these sections even . . . did you have a fight with a weed whacker?”

REDUCED PRICE IF YOU BUY TODAY! I’m still sleeping on the couch. Please help.

Reflective Surfaces Are Scary!

Shannon Kernaghan Beholder-400 Reflective Surfaces Are Scary! Humor

When do you consider yourself old? Do you base aging on a number? Or on how many daytimers you’ve filled with events through the years? Or do reflective surfaces have the final say?

Anyone with an opinion will argue that age is a state of mind. Me? I say that age is a state of mirror. I’m putting my money on the reflective surface theory.

There are other ways to remind you of the dwindling sand in your hourglass. I call them “age assisters.” My age assister caught up with me recently in the form of a teenager. She did the unthinkable: she offered me her seat on the LRT.

In theory, this gesture sounds generous and thoughtful. Her offer was the sign of a well-behaved youth, aware of the world around her and alert to more than what’s happening on her Instagram page. 

After declining the offer, I thanked her, saying I’d be getting off soon.

Despite my short ride, there was plenty of time to study her flawless skin while I stood and gripped the overhead bar. There was more time still to wonder when my hair last shone like hers, without the boost from caustic chemicals and pricey products.

Then I weighed the facts: I wasn’t carrying bags of groceries and none of my limbs were bound in a cast. Here’s where things turned ugly. Instead of being thankful for her generosity, I screamed in my head, “Does she think I’m old? It’s not fair! I’m not ready!”

Sigh. “It’s official, I’m getting old,” was my next thought, with less drama. My self-assurance came to a clichéd screeching halt as quickly as my LRT ride.

But I’m over that negativity today. I’m back to my positive self with little more than an unexpected kick start.

Why such a turnaround? This morning a group of young men in their twenties drove by and whistled at me from their car, yelling a phrase that included “Hey baby!” and “nice [undecipherable body part]!” I spun around to make sure no one else was standing behind me, at least no one younger. And then I scanned my own body, in case I was dragging toilet paper on my sneaker.

Since the vehicle traveled past quickly, those young men had no idea what was beneath my ball cap and sunglasses.

But who cares? As an aging woman, I don’t mind occasional attention from strangers, even those who yell from their vehicle and confuse me with someone younger, or someone else entirely.

Today I’m fast-walking to the gym where a good workout might hold back a few of those falling sands.

Wait . . .  the gym has mirrors. Better leave my glasses at home. What I don’t see will thrill me, not kill me.

Gotta Have Sole

Shannon Kernaghan Gotta-Have-Sole-400 Gotta Have Sole Humor

I associate myself with Vogue magazine like I associate myself with Albert Einstein. If Vogue and Einstein were in one room discussing Prada and Pi, I wouldn’t have much genius to add to either conversation.

But the acceptance that I’m a simple jeans and sneakers consumer doesn’t stop me from buying the occasional Vogue magazine. Why the purchase, when I don’t aspire to wear the uber-fashions and overpriced strips of linen and leather? Because I like the purdy pictures.

While flipping through a recent issue, thick as a phone book, I developed tunnel vision and focused primarily on the pages with shoes.

Many of the styles would be perfect for women with the polymer stance of a Barbie doll. One pair that stand out (pun intended) have immeasurably high heels and are bent in the middle at a severe right angle.

I’m a fairly typical woman. If I slip on a pair of heels, I instantly feel great. Not only am I taller, but I’m thinner. According to the charts, my weight and height are magically the ideal specs for a 21-year-old in perfect health.

Perhaps shoes are being sold solely for closet ornamentation. One fact is obvious: many of the shoes splashed across Vogue’s pages are not designed for long walks.

If I slipped on a pair for a night out, I’d need an air-lift from the parking lot to the restaurant entrance. From there, a host would have to carry me to my table.

But my feet would look divine. And for the few seconds I could totter to a standing position, my legs would look even better. Immobility is a small price to pay.

I smiled after hearing the latest fashion quote: “Your feet are the new face.” For anyone with bunions, corns and a medley of foot or nail fungus, this is one dismal discovery.

The announcer went on to ask, “How far would you go to fit a stunning stiletto? Would you shorten a toe? Inject collagen into your heels? Shave down a bone to achieve the perfect peds?” Eww.

I fret over an impending teeth cleaning at the dentist’s office. The odds that I’ll anesthetize myself to cosmetically alter my tootsies are as likely as me owning that $1,000 pair of Manolos or Louis Vuittons.

Someone in the shoe industry did a survey and discovered that 37% of women would wear high heels, even if their feet were uncomfortable. Those shoe industry moguls must be the same brains behind the term ‘toe cleavage.’

I’m not sure what toe cleavage is, but I hope I don’t have to start buying a bra for that. Worse, would I need ten of them?

If Einstein were alive today, the equation for Pi would need some reformatting: energy (E) equals mass (m) times the speed of light (c) squared . . . as in square-toed pumps and wedge heels are what’s sizzling hot for this fall season!

Wrecked & Reimagined

Shannon Kernaghan Wrecked-400-2 Wrecked & Reimagined Humor

I was recently inspired by on Ohio artist I discovered online. Dave collects thrift shop paintings and alters each one with a Star Wars scene. Instead of space, the backdrop for R2-D2 is a beach; battle grounds for the Rebel Alliance and the Galactic Empire are bucolic country sides.

I wanna try that! On my first attempt to find something suitable to add my own spin, I spotted a small professionally framed piece at my own nearby thrift shop.

For a whopping four dollars, I brought the piece home where I did more examining. On the back, the title – Melbourne High School – and its painter – Kenneth Jack – were written on two small rectangles of hard paper.

After a quick online search, I learned that Kenneth Jack (1924-2006) was an Australian artist who created 100 signed prints of this school, painted in 1953.

Wow! Instead of a piece I could guiltlessly enhance (read: destroy), I snagged a signed print going for $350, and already in a quality frame!

Before removing the paper backing to examine the print, I stared at Jack’s signature and title on those two little rectangles. Then I looked more closely at the online page where I found the original photo.

“Wait a minute,” I said aloud to my husband. “Why does the writing on my frame look exactly like the artist’s handwriting? This can’t be good!”

There it was, or in this case wasn’t – the bottom of the print had been cut off to fit the frame’s mat! Those two rectangles were taken from the chopped section!

Two questions: How could anyone wreck a signed print, especially a ‘professional’ framer? And how did this almost 70-year-old Aussie print end up in a thrift store in Edmonton?

Since the print was pre-wrecked, I added my own mixed media spin of Botticelli celebrating nudes, where 1490s Italy meets 1950s Australia meets 2020 Canadian crow heads.

I present to you ‘CrowBot Jack.’

Beauty – and artistry – is in the eye of the beholder. As well as my first piece of wrecked and reimagined art, it will be my last. You’re welcome.

Current monetary value? Zero. Wacky unknown backstory? Priceless.


             To see Dave’s reimagined art:

audio version song
Sunset Beachz


Bah Humbug

Shannon Kernaghan Humbug-Insta-web-post Bah Humbug Humor

Coronavirus isn’t the only Grinch to steal Christmas. My brother Timothy, three years older, decided to play Scrooge and deliver the deets on Santa Claus.

Tim chose a quiet moment. We stood together on a street corner in front of our school, waiting for a break in traffic before crossing. With festive glee, Tim updated me on the truth about St. Nick and his Xmas elves.

No need to go “aww” in sympathy because I don’t recall feeling devastated.

Come on, an aging man in a red suit who visits once a year and trades cool gifts for room-temperature milk and a few Dad’s cookies? Even at age six, I sensed some implausibility. Also, I sensed that a lone worker, despite his alleged jolliness, couldn’t possibly slip down a gazillion chimneys during one night of the year.

Anyone that efficient would already be off the North Pole gig and working with Elon Musk at SpaceX.

And after a gazillion glasses of milk with an equal number of sugary cookies, we’d have one lactose-intolerant elder on our hands, complete with hyperglycemia.

As for those tireless flying reindeer, my six-year-old attitude towards anything invisible was generally, “No way, show me!” Due to my cynical roots, I refused to memorize the names of Santa’s reindeer. Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph. That’s all I got.

That cynicism included boycotting the song “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” When forced to sing during our school Christmas extravaganzas, I lip-synced the words. I was a prepubescent forerunner to Mariah Carey and Milli Vanilli.

My early cynicism has company – political correctness is part of this tinsel-draped picture. Retailers shiver, and not from the crisp air or Covid-19 restrictions currently placed on their stores. They’re also nervous to say “Merry Christmas” to consumers like me. Instead, many play it safe and proclaim this phase of candy canes and crèches as the “12 Days of Giving.”

Am I insulting both Christians and abbreviation-phobes alike by writing “Xmas” in my quest for brevity? Suddenly I’m as nervous as my neighborhood retailers.

Regardless of varying beliefs and traditions observed around the globe, I’ve grown to cherish the season. I’m no humbug because I’ll embrace every excuse to make merry with friends and family – when I’m legally allowed to do any embracing. Either way, I plan to reminisce about the year’s adventures and highlights. At least the highlights feel like adventures after a few cups of eggnog. Perhaps it’s the lactose talking.

I plan to cuddle up with my sweetheart to enjoy the movies that represent some of my own festive traditions – A Charlie Brown Christmas, the 1951 version of Christmas Carol and Christmas Vacation with its wacky Griswolds.

Whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Human Rights Day, Bodhi Day, Yule or Kwanzaa, deck your halls and let the spirit of the season bring peace and generosity to your hearts and chimneys.

Turns out my darling brother has edged lower on the scale of Xmas Grinches – in 2020, Covid-19 takes the humbug fruitcake.

Hey Tim, can we talk for a minute? There’s something I’d like to share with you about the Easter Bunny. You might want something stronger than eggnog.

Audio version song
Soft Feeling

Welcome to My Hairy Bubble

Shannon Kernaghan hairy-shan-website Welcome to My Hairy Bubble Humor

The topic of hair leads the list of everyday challenges for humankind. Is there any other body part so regularly fussed over and featured? Note: while writing, I’ve entered a brain bubble called “denial” to pretend that I’m living in a post-COVID universe where all we have time to complain about is our hair. Plus, the re-opening of hair salons in my neighborhood has bolstered me with enough courage to expand on hair, in all of its timeless (and annoying) glory.

Now, on with my bubble: we have either too much or too little of this exasperating dead protein. And wherever hair grows, it’s never quite the right color or texture or length. 

Fashion choices are extensive: you can braid, bleach and back comb; consider a cut, crimp and curl; flip, fluff and feather if ya got it; perm or straighten; and finally, trim and tint ‘til the cows come home. Or, more likely, until you run out of money. Hair care is spendy!

For unwanted hair, you can laser, pluck, shave, sugar, and wax.  Hair is constantly in the process of coming or going. Not long enough? Walk into your salon short and severe; walk out long and luxurious with Lady Godiva extensions.        

At least there’s gender equality in our suffering. Men deal with eyebrows that join to form a uni-brow, five o’clock shadows that arrive before noon, and backs with enough hair to keep a horse warm through winter. Worse, hair sprouts from ears and nostrils yet gives up the follicle ghost where most needed – on top.

If your head is beyond hope, you can fake it with falls and wigs. There’s also instant hair in a spray can for those shy spots, but better hope your date doesn’t decide to run a few fingers through your locks. Spray-on hair is a serious form of false advertising.

More recently there’s a battalion of ‘manscapers’ across the globe who define ‘tidy’ for women and men alike as no pubic hair. None. Now ‘clean’ I can understand, but tidy?!

“Have you done something with your hair?” is a loaded question. If the word order is altered – “WHAT have you done with your hair?” – the observation becomes more insult than compliment. Those critiques should be reserved for concerned parents and brave partners. True friends will love your hair, no matter how badly you destroy it, even when they’re thinking, “Yikes! What size bowl did you use for that hatchet job?”

Mother Nature and her pixie tricks have created an unfair handbook on hair. Where you want it, hair grows skimpier or not at all, and where you don’t want it, it reappears within days. The true winners are manufacturers who sell hair their add and subtract products along with the advertisers who convince you to buy them.

If anyone knows any good jokes, please send them my way. I’d appreciate a detour from hair screaming for a touch-up, eyebrows aching for an arch, legs longing for a shave, and other parts waiting for an eye-watering wax.

Time to slip on a ball cap so I can enjoy this hairy bubble while it lasts.

And stay back! Everything looks better from a safe distance of six feet.

Patent Doll
Freedom Trail Studio

You Call This Retail Therapy?

Shannon Kernaghan Therapy-400 You Call This Retail Therapy? Fun Humor Lifestyle  retail impulsive shopping impulsive behavior

I enjoy a good sale. The best experience is one that melds impulsiveness with rock-bottom prices.

Last week I set out to buy a box of bandages. Instead of going directly from the store’s First Aid aisle to the cashier, I wandered past a section filled with sale items. 

The write-up on one of those items read: “Sick and tired of snoring? Relief is right under your nose.” The front of the box pictures a couple in bed. The man is asleep, mouth open, while the woman is wide awake with eyes that stare towards the ceiling. Her expression? “Kill me now.”

Flip the box over. The “after” shot shows the couple sleeping contentedly. His mouth is closed and hers is upturned in a happy smile. She wears glossy lipstick.

I bought it and saved $6. When I finished pawing through instructions and packaging, all that remained was a tiny piece of opaque plastic resembling a clip-on earring.

At bedtime I re-read the instructions: “Once in position, you can move about, lie down to sleep and even take a run.”

Now why would anyone wear this when running? People might pant, but they don’t snore.

More helpful notes: “The nasal dilator tips are to fit comfortably against the septum.” Since the illustration was too tiny to be useful, I looked up the definition of septum: “The dividing wall or membrane between bodily spaces – compare dissepiment.” I did compare and found “See septum.” 

I was running out of patience. And night.

Then I applied lipstick. Not really but I should have, as a courtesy to my husband. After all, the contents in my bedside drawer scream anything but sexy. The foam earplugs shout, “Turn down the TV, I’m trying to sleep, dammit!” and my cumbersome mouth guard hollers, “Stop clenching your teeth!”

Did I mention the snoring gadget is for me? My husband also snores but with my earplugs in place, I’m oblivious.

By 4:30 a.m. I yanked off the contraption. The instructions had referred to a dilating action; I only experienced pinching, like the slow strangle of tight socks.

As for the dilator with its claims of no sticky strips, no skin irritation and no side effects, I’ll add my own critique: no work.

If my husband doesn’t like my occasional snorts and snuffles, he can move to the couch. At least I won’t have to bother with any lipstick.

After all of this retail therapy, I may need some actual therapy!

audio version song
by Topher Mohr and Alex Elena

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A Wooden Leg Does Not a Pirate Make

Shannon Kernaghan wooden-leg-400 A Wooden Leg Does Not a Pirate Make Humor Challenge Childhood Farming Pirates  president jimmy carter #shannon kernaghan

In 1978 President Jimmy Carter proclaimed the first Sunday in September after Labor Day as National Grandparents’ Day. The idea originated from a woman in West Virginia whose motivation was to persuade grandchildren to listen and learn from the wisdom of their grandparents.

This special day reminds me to appreciate my own family tree. Take my grandfather, a hard-working and good-natured farmer. He had a wooden leg, the result of a war injury. As a farmer, dealing with a missing limb must have been a daily challenge although my mother says she never heard him complain.

Today, prosthetics are made of lightweight polymer and flexible titanium capable of increasing agility and mobility. None of that innovation was available for my grandfather’s leg: his was a heavy and unwieldy contraption held in place by a bulky harness and shoulder strap. Although it had a knee hinge, the mechanism didn’t always work unless my grandpa gave it a couple of hard thumps. He told my mom that the knocks were to show it who was boss. Grandpa also swore this leg had a mind of its own.

Correction: Mom said he did complain one day when he started to limp and couldn’t put any weight on the prosthetic. Climbing in and out of his tractor produced a stabbing pain at the place his thigh joined with the artificial leg.

Sitting on the side of his bed at night, he told my grandma that he was glad the day was over, that he’d have to see a doctor about his sore leg . . . until he unstrapped the harness. Lodged in the leg’s socket was a ring of keys.

“Hey, I’ve been looking for these all day!” and he started to laugh. His pain was from several jabbing keys! It never occurred to him to take off his prosthesis and check. “Too busy,” he told Grandma, caught up in his laughter.

One of the advantages of a wooden leg, he bragged, was that it would save his life if he ever fell into deep water. His theory was tested while canoeing with a friend. When the boat capsized, the leg floated but it didn’t help my grandfather – he was trapped below the water’s surface while the leg bobbed above! The true lifesaver was his friend who dragged him to shore. Since that day, the leg became known as “Troublemaker.”

Even after Grandpa passed away, the artificial leg continued to cause trouble. My mom was enlisted to bring it home from the hospital. But what was she supposed to do with it? She decided to phone the Salvation Army and the charity agreed to pick it up. An entire week went by.

While waiting, nobody wanted Troublemaker in their bedroom (I was scared of it!) so Mom propped it inside the front hall closet behind our coats. When Grandma phoned to say she was driving in from the country for a visit, Mom called the Salvation Army again and explained the situation.

“Please,” I overheard her imploring conversation, “I don’t want my mother to see his leg, it’ll be too painful for her!” Still no truck.

An hour before my grandma arrived, a driver picked up the leg and my mom could relax.

Her relief was short-lived, however, when days later someone from The War Amps phoned to inquire about the prosthesis. He wasn’t happy to hear that she’d given it away and informed Mom that it had been “on loan” for all those years.

“You want it back?”

“If it’s not returned by the end of the month,” he said, “you’ll be charged its full price.” That leg might have been low-tech and well-used, but it was still expensive.

With a quavering voice, Mom called the Salvation Army and explained that now she needed the leg back. She had to make more inquiry calls the following week and explain the story each time. Finally, a woman answered and said, “Oh, YOU’RE the leg woman. We got it, we found your leg!”

The same driver returned to our door and plopped the limb, now missing its sock and shoe, onto our WELCOME mat.

“Hey lady,” he said. “Tell the owner to make up his mind about his body parts!” and he turned on his heel.

My grandfather would have laughed if he knew about the commotion caused by his wooden leg. “See? he’d say. “I told you Troublemaker had a mind of its own!”

Audio story backing track
Papa Hammond
by Urban Pastiche from Sony Sound Series

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Hollywood, Here I DON’T Come!

Shannon Kernaghan Star_Hollywood-Here-I-DONT-Come_Kernaghan Hollywood, Here I DON’T Come! Challenge Adventure Career Fun Humor Lifestyle Memoir  talent star drive shannon kernaghan hollywood audio story

I know why I’m not a Hollywood celebrity – I don’t have “star drive,” that necessary trait for a person to succeed on the stage or screen. I also lack another key factor: talent.

Sure, I’ve made my lukewarm forays into the world of acting. Years ago, I took a few script reading and improv courses. And while living on the west coast, I did extra work in a dozen series and several movies.

When I read about an audition for a local filmmaker, I blew the dust off my skimpy acting resume. Although no pay was involved, the challenge sounded like fun and I scheduled an appointment to read at a nearby hotel.

After memorizing my lines, I skipped to that audition. But reading lines at your mirror doesn’t compare with doing the scene across from a stranger. When it was my turn to read, the script sounded completely foreign in my ears. I stammered and stumbled.

If bungling my lines wasn’t bad enough, my confidence plummeted when the director suggested I try again. “But this time,” he said, “don’t move around so much, and try to be more . . . quiet.”

“More quiet, okay, sure,” I said, wearing an idiot grin. What really went through my mind was, “What did I just do, flail my arms and shout?” At that surreal point, all I could focus on was remembering my lines and staring at the adorable scriptwriter, the one who read the other character’s lines. In the story, I was supposed to be his mother.

“I WISH I had a son as cute as you,” I thought, and then realized I’d spoken aloud as the group started laughing. Laughing is too strong; make that awkward chuckling. Not only was I a bad actor, I felt like Mrs. Robinson, surrounded by a crew young enough to be my children.

Surprise, surprise, I didn’t get the part. I couldn’t even give away my gratis acting services.

While leaving the hotel, I had a flashback: I was doing extra work at a rundown movie set in Vancouver. After pulling off a shapeless dress three sizes too large from wardrobe, I sighed at the end of a long night. The actors and crew were cranky, the bag lunches were stale, and someone yelled at me during a take when my shoes made scrunching noises on the dirty floor. Plus, I wanted to tell the actor playing an FBI agent to stop mumbling and speak up!

The highlight of the shoot was when a camera fell and knocked a man unconscious. I remember thinking, “This two-bit series will NEVER get off the ground. What a dump.”

That two-bit series? The X-Files, listed as one of the longest-running science fiction series at 12 seasons. Turns out the mumbling agent Mulder was played by David Duchovny and I was in the pilot with him.

The truth is out there: I’m a bad actor. Time to shelve my dreams of a Hollywood star and stick to writing, where I can invent my own characters and flail my arms until the cows come home. Or shout until I’m blue in the face. Pick a cliché and I’ll be there. With bells on.

 audio version song is 
Three Kinds of Suns” 
by Norma Rockwell 

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Confessions of a List-oholic

Shannon Kernaghan Confessions-of-list-400 Confessions of a List-oholic Humor Lifestyle Relationship  obsessive list free confession

I envy my husband. He lives a list-free existence. Paul never makes a to-do list and has no plans to start. Me? He calls me a “list junky.”

For appointments and meetings, that info goes straight to my phone calendar, which is the logical use of current technology. But if you open my purse, you’ll find three old-school lists on three scraps of paper held together with a paper clip. The first is titled TODAY, the second TOMORROW and the third MISC. for those tasks in need of future attention, somewhere between this week and the next century.

Lists are like maps, guideposts to chart my daily course. When we leave the house for errands, I know exactly what’s required to make my life manageable. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, so lists are no replacement for setting goals. (Note to self: add “Set Goals” to MISC. list.)

If I have a dozen tasks on my current list, I take pleasure in crossing off each one as it’s completed. It doesn’t matter if I finish everything, as long as I know what I could be doing if I end up in a mall or various parts of the city.

At the start of each day, I re-write a new TODAY list, bumping unfinished chores onto it and jotting down fresh tasks.

Here’s one benefit to this routine: nothing is forgotten when we travel. “Wow, you remembered my lucky hat!” Paul will say. I’ll smile and shrug, knowing that I owe my organized life to a 99-cent pen and a few pieces of recycled paper.

I’m also a list mentor. I convinced my husband’s friend that life becomes more productive and less stressful with a list. He followed my advice and awoke the next morning to a reminder on his cell’s calendar: PHONE BILL. Then he spent the next hour trying to recall which Bill he was supposed to phone – he works with three!) and why was he supposed to call this Bill? It wasn’t until late afternoon that he remembered: PAY THE PHONE BILL! At least he tried. Hey, good list making takes practice.

Maybe some people should continue to limp along through their list-free worlds, accepting missed appointments and undelivered dry-cleaning. Apparently they’re happy, even if they forget to mail that Welcome New Baby card before the child begins college.

The reason my husband doesn’t need to make lists? “I’m no fool,” he says, “I have YOU to make them for me.” (Note to self: be more spontaneous!)

*Note* Backing track on audio is “Space Coast” by Topher Mohr/Alex Elena 

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