Sick From My Stomach To YoursI receive a an e-newsletter from Questia (an online library). I don't read it, but I've been too lazy to unsubscribe.
Or too canny.
So I get a new issue on Friday and here's what I see in the preview panel:
Does Writing Make You Sick to Your Stomach?
No, not writing. Reading what I've written makes me sick to my stomach.
I found a pages of notes from Gloria's birthday dinner (June 30) this morning. Here's one of them:
I'm just as glad as you are that I can't remember what that meant. I do remember that I was in a French restaurant when I wrote that down, though.
Those notes also reminded me of a conversation we had. Gloria was talking about her advancing age (41), and she said "I'm already dreading fifty."
"Fifty is nothing," I said. "I thought forty was the big deal."
"People live longer," she said. "Fifty is the new forty."
Later, I was mentioning something that I was going to write up in the column, and she said "I always sound like a shrew when you write about me. I wish you'd include some of the funny things I say."
"But I do," I protested. "I include all kinds of witty things you say."
"Witty," she said. "Not funny."
"Honey," I said, "Witty is the new funny."