My girlfriend recently purchased a package of OSCAR MAYER Selects Angus Beef Franks. When she got them home and started to prepare her meal, the odor from the package told her …
I don’t know about your Nor’easter, but my Nor’easter dumps a lot of snow! But it’s so lovely. When I go out in the middle of it to feed the birds (those little flying mosquito-eaters), I shovel a bit.
“What?” you exclaim. “You shovel in the middle of the storm?”
Of course I do. Now, in the middle of the storm. Why should I? Let me count the ways.
Is this the scenario of your post-holiday feasts? Bodies strewn all over the living room furniture. Belts loosened. Groans of regret fill the air. “I’ll never eat that much again!”
Fifteen minutes later the hostess enters the room and announces dessert is ready. Groaning ceases. Bodies haul themselves into upright positions. Glazed eyes become focused. “I suppose I could manage just a little bit of something-something.” The living room empties and the dining room overflows.
The steady stream of passengers making their way to their airport departure gates suddenly breaks down into a series of eddies around which men swirl as the women are halted by one quavering word.
The young voice instantly brings nearby mothers of all ages, creeds, nationalities, and ethnicities to a state of alert so high, Homeland Security is jealous.
“Papa??” The little voice rises in pitch and volume, kicking into gear the auto-locator inherent to members of The Mom Tribe.