I am an excellent packer. And I certainly should be, given the number of times (and years) that I have needed to pack.
Note to Readers: Sharon Randall is taking a week off to spend time with family. The following column was published in October 2012, when she lived in Las Vegas.
The toys were taking over. Not my toys. I don’t have any. And not my husband’s toys, either, though he has plenty — basses and guitars and ukuleles and plastic fruit noise makers.
When asked what I do for a living, I’m tempted to say, “I’m an entertainer. I stand half naked in public, baring my soul and juggling live chickens.”
WASHINGTON — When President Donald Trump's internal polling suggested he was trailing Democrats in crucial states earlier this year, it did what any campaign would do: tried to bury the bad numbers.
NEW ORLEANS — Louisiana's governor says floodwaters from the Midwest are severely hurting people who make their living from coastal seafood, so he's asking the federal government to declare a fisheries disaster for the state.
As the father of an adult daughter and son, plus the grandfather of four knucklehead boys (Hurricane, Tornado, Crash and Train Wreck), I’ve learned some things about love.
Someone sent me an email about a gas station in South Africa, where the owner posts daily “inspirational” quotes on a chalkboard in plain view of customers and passing drivers.
Recently I heard a joke that seems fitting for Mother’s Day. I would gladly cite the source, but I don’t recall where I heard it, just as I often don’t recall where I left the glasses that are sitting on my head. Here’s the joke: