Rhonda’s Blog

It was a status update on Facebook that started it.  “Goodbye, shrub,” a friend wrote.  “Hello, teenager with very fragile, tenuous cellphone privileges.”  I could only guess what had happened. 

You might remember it.  It happened on an ordinary day, a Friday, to be exact, at the local coffee shop, my favorite place in the world to create.  Sitting there

For nearly four weeks now, they’ve been gathering in parks and streets, stretched out in sleeping bags, marching with signs, tooting horns, and banging drums.  They’re American citizens, this ragtag

When Rome is burning, the ship’s going down, and the local Huns are breaching the walls, that’s when I say it.

Sure enough. “Mom!” His voice was urgent. “I need you to edit my essay before second period.” Sighing, I poked the “on” button to start more coffee and trudged upstairs

Many times as I write, I feel the thrill of it; the joy of creation; the indefinable, indescribable exuberance of crafting something good.  Often, I laugh out loud in that

If marriage, then, isn’t a Disney production, the girl isn’t Cinderella, and the boy’s not Prince Charming, how does a real romance look?  It’s tricky, nailing it down when real

Today is Monday, tomorrow’s Tuesday, and I’m thinking of T’s.  I’m mulling over things that tickle my gizzard and things that don’t and what do you do with those? I’ll

“It’s like nailing Jell-O to a tree.”  That’s what we wheeze to each other, The Mister and I, from our points of collapse on the living room floor.