Okay, let me start by saying that I was wrong. I was wrong because I had pulled over into a bus stop. I didn’t want to but it was the only clear space on the block (on any block) since un-melted mounds of snow take up a lot of room. But I was lost and before I drove any further I wanted to make a phone call to verify the address of where I was going, and get my bearings. CLICK HERE TO READ THE BLOG
While my aging and ailing Honda Civic is in the shop getting some impromptu but very necessary repairs I had to rent a car. At 30 minutes to closing I took what was left on the lot, which happened to be an adorable, red Fiat 500 Sport. With an aversion to calling things by a number instead of a name – that perhaps hails back to Star Trek Voyager’s character, Seven of Nine – I’ve taken to calling my Fiat 500, Jellybean. With a car this tiny, food shopping at Costco is out. However, from a parking perspective, Jellybean is perfect for New York City. But not everybody is a fan.
Empty boxes are like the police. You never have one when you need it.
I needed a box but I didn’t want one. I knew where to get it though, so off I went to my local Staples; aisle eight, on the left. When I caught sight of the boxes I felt the prickle of tears and I slowed down. But it wasn’t slow enough to keep me from getting there. I had no idea what size I needed so I picked a large because he had a lot of stuff. And I stood there for a while in the aisle just holding the box, wishing I didn’t need it.
A friend invited me to go bowling and I didn’t just say “no,” I said, “Hells no!" You know it’s serious when you add the “s.” Why such a vehement reaction? Is it the inherently unsanitary nature of the game? You’d think so, but for some reason my Inner Neat Freak is not disturbed by the idea of sticking my digits into those dark, germy holes or slipping my feet into shoes that other people have been wearing for decades. For me, it’s a childhood thing. No, I wasn’t beaten with a bowling ball or abandoned in a bowling alley. The problem is my Dad was a fantastic bowler. And when I say fantastic, I mean great, amazing, could’ve gone pro. My Dad went to bowling tournaments and won trophies. When he stopped bowling, he continued to coach and became a league official. That’s a lot to live up to.
*Our Dear Rolie passed away on January 2, 2014, from old age and kidney failure. If love could have kept him alive, he would be immortal. We adopted him in 2006 when he was about five to seven-years old. I'm reposting a story I wrote about him back in 2008. Please enjoy, comment, and share. - Leighann
Dog is God spelled backwards, and like God my Cocker Spaniel has many names. His given name is Rolie, but his nicknames include Mr. Nubbins, The Mister, The Spaniel, The Carpet Weasel and, of course, His Lordship. Ironically, he answers to none of these since he's mostly deaf. My Little Old Man is about eight-years old, set in his ways, and not about to change. I, as the supposedly superior and adaptable human, have had to adjust to his habits and temperament.
Dear Urban Erma Fans,
Thank you so much for reading, enjoying, commenting, and sharing my posts this year. It was hard to choose, but here are my favorites. I hope they're yours too. Have a happy, healthy and prosperous 2014. - Leighann Lord (The Urban Erma).
- Sorta Senior Moments: BLOG | PODCAST |VIDEO
- The Library It's Not Just Books BLOG | PODCAST | VIDEO
- Dresser Drawer Time Machine BLOG | PODCAST
- Little Miss, Young Miss, Old Miss BLOG | PODCAST
- Make Time to Waste Time BLOG | PODCAST
- Real-Life Math Problem BLOG | PODCAST
- Happy Black Men BLOG | PODCAST
- Rob Base is Not Dead BLOG | PODCAST | VIDEO
- Hi Tech Huxtables BLOG | PODCAST |
- Going Green and Seeing Red BLOG | PODCAST | VIDEO
- Borg Going to Budget BLOG | PODCAST
- My Bank, The Vendor and Me BLOG | PODCAST
Dec 16th, 2013 by theurbanerma
Last night a man said to me, “You have a very beautiful forehead.” Those words in that combination were so unexpected that I wasn’t sure how to respond. I mean, what could I say but thank you? I should’ve been mildly uncomfortable as the man stood there recklessly eyeballing my frontal lobe and trying to explain the context for his remark. Admittedly inebriated, he told me about a study that correlated the shape of a woman’s forehead with her fertility. Well that makes sense. And it explains all the imaginary children I have; three daughters and one son. Besides, you know what they say: big head, big womb.
* Republished from The Urban Erma March 2011
A close friend recently hosted a “Game Night” and all of us who attended were charged with bringing our favorites. Rising to the challenge, I brought a goodie bag full of old school: dominoes, cloth and wire jump ropes for Double Dutch, and a sack full of classic metal jacks. You heard me. Jacks! Yeah, I took it there. You can’t get metal jacks anymore. You see, now we care about children choking on small metal objects, in my generation not so much. I’m not saying parents ate their young back then, but they didn’t see the need to over protect us from toys made with lead, asbestos, mercury, or depleted uranium.
The Big Named Car Service That Advertises on TV that I normally use recently doubled their price for a trip to the airport so I called The Small Local Neighborhood Car Service instead. Spoiler alert: It was a mistake.