Keeping up with the Jeffersons.
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You know how the song goes. I'll just put a verse of it here: Fish don't fry in the kitchen; Beans don't burn on the grill. Took a whole lotta tryin', Just to get up that hill. [...] Finally got a piece of the pie, hi, hi, hi, hiyah, uh, hi. Something like that. My memory may fail me, but I love the song. And, like the Jeffersons, I've moved on up, got my pie (no meringue because that's like pudding, and I hate pudding). My piece of the pie? I've created a website. I have. I'm just not entirely sure how. I know, I know, I can hardly...
You can go home again…it's just frustrating.
Thomas Wolfe wrote, "You can't go home again." (At least, I think he did). But you know what: you can. I do it every Sunday. Mainly because I don't want to miss Nana's cooking; it's in a class of its own...and I love going home, I do, but you want to know a secret: It's also quite often very aggravating. Why is that? Why is going home such a frustrating experience? Sometimes, I think, it's because as soon as I open that front door and step inside, I'll see that nothing has changed, and I'll feel like I haven't changed either. And I hate that feeling. Despite...
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