WriteOut of Her Mind

Monday mornings are sacred to me, much like Sundays are for most.

No, I didn’t get a Toyota 4Runner. Yes, I’m angry about it. Sure, I’ll get over it, eventually.

Oh my goodness, we’re getting close now. Christmas is right over there. I can feel it. 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that I took care of the contents of my own stocking, because the Carpenter wouldn’t dare (it still rhymes).

Hey Santa, I thought you and I  had something special. 

There are two things I will experience every Christmas season without fail: mixed nuts and mixed emotions.

It’s fair to say that when it comes to communication by text (or any other form of written conversation, or like, conversation in general), my spouse, the Carpenter, is monosyllabic. 

I don’t know if you can read the joy in this column. I can’t convey it accurately with words, but I want you to feel it, experience it and share it with me when you read the following statement. Ready? 

I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I walked through the door of the church I was christened in, but when I saw the sign outside saying “Open for Prayer,” it was an invitation I felt called to accept. 

I didn’t want another device. 

I always smile when I see a man in a store holding the purse of the woman he’s with, while she tries on clothes or flips through the racks. 

As my Grampa Jack used to say, “The world is going to hell in a handbasket.” 

Sometimes, the only way to get something done around my house is to ask my husband, the Carpenter, if he would like me to go ahead and start the project without him.

I’ve been a seeker of validation for much of my life. 

I believe the kitchen is the heart of a home and the dining table is the centre of gravity for all who live in it.