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I don’t shop at WalMart.  I can give you a host of reasons, but it probably all boils down to the fact that I don’t like buying my underwear and groceries at the same place.

Trouble is, it’s so darn convenient to pick up that six-pack of cotton briefs.  The packaging certainly makes you think that the product meets the minimum fashion and comfort requirements.  And, it’s right there.   Ready to throw in the

I tend to think I’m taking middle age pretty well.  I do what I can to stay healthy and postpone the inevitable as long as possible.  Much as I hate exercise, I drag myself out of bed more days than not, and work up a good sweat in the name of reducing stress and preventing heart disease and osteoporosis.  I quit the nightly ice cream habit several years ago, and take whatever herbal supplements the latest medical studies show will stave off memory loss and keep me performing at optimum capacity.

Still, I’m saving up for retirement, in more ways than one. 

Beca

Experts have said for years that parents need to dialogue openly with their kids about sex. 

Trouble is, when it comes to explaining the facts of life to kids, there’s plenty of talk and theory, but I have yet to meet someone who doesn’t wince at the prospect.  

For good reason. 

I mean, say what you will about honest and straightforward communication, but there really is no dignified way to explain the sex act — especially to the person who exists as a result of your participation in it.

And isn’t that the crisis every child faces in learning the facts of life:  realizing, “that’s how I got here.”

I was one of the first of my friends to get married.  In the early years, I remember keeping up with the many wedding invitations, as, one by one, my friends married. 

Then there were the baby years.  Lately, we’re getting graduation announcements, and many of our friends are celebrating precious-metal anniversaries.

Including us.

Rednecks and fireworks are a standard Independence Day combination.

Something about the adrenaline rush from the flame, short fuse, and subsequent explosion.  And the retelling of close-call stories.

This Fourth of July, I’m a little more concerned than usual.  Kentucky recently changed their fireworks laws, which means we no longer have to travel to Tennessee to purchase “the good stuff.”

Yes, when it comes to fireworks, there are categories.  And we definitely want

I’m not exactly sure why it is that manly meals mandate meat as their culinary epicenter.

Perhaps something about the concept of a sacrificial offering. 

I do know, my husband will never be a vegetarian.

I should have had an inkling my husband was a foodie.  It was an often-referenced fact that his mother’s letters as an overseas missionary read like a grocery list, detailing the many delicious meals she served guests in her home. 

The stack of graduation announcements grows by the day this time of year.  

Each year, the long standing traditions that mark the end of high school give rise to a new group of boo-hooing mamas, sitting through the seemingly endless parade of children in adult bodies, dressed in cheap polyester gowns and ugly caps, waiting for the moment when their child crosses the stage so they can capture it on the flip camera for posterity.

My first kid graduated high school last year.  And honestly, I had no idea what kind of emotional wreck I might be.

Last week, I watched a man in a check-out line balance a bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates and a 12-pack of Bud Light. 

In preparation for Mother’s Day. Obviously.

There are signs everywhere:  “Just what Mom wants,” and “Don’t forget Mother’s Day.” 

We all know Mothers’ and Fathers’ days are holidays created as money-makers for card companies.  It has to be that way.  Because children would never initiate Mothers’ Day on their own.

Every spring, I’m reminded of the principles of reduce, reuse, recycle. And not because of Earth Day.

It’s all the garage sales.

For those of us who live in the country, spring offers amazing opportunities to reduce, reuse and recycle, right in our back yards.

Literally.

I have numerous friends who achieve HGTVesque looks for their homes by shopping garage sales.  I tell myself every year that I need to master that skill, though thus far it eludes me.  And I haven’t had much success holding a garage sale myself, either. 

In fact, my kids like to remind me, the only item I ever sold at a garage sale was a scooter, which they wanted back about an hour later.  The quarter the lucky buyer gave us for it was no consolation.

When we moved to the farmette, we were told our small town sponsors an annual “get rid of your