Author: Laura Packard

I have just learned something life-changing. As in a MIND BLOWN type of way. Almost as close, but not as significant, as the day you figure out there’s a tiny fuel symbol that lights up on the dashboard of your car to tell you which side of the tank you need to pull up at the gas station beside. 

Warning: Might not be suitable for small children, teenage boys and/or men with weak constitutions. Recent text exchange with one of my best girlfriends: Me: Can I write about your uterus? Her: Absolutely! LOL!

No spoilers, promise. Who knew a single show that first aired eight years ago could worm its way in to my cold, steel, anti-fantasy lovin’ heart? 

Although, I am not sure what this phrase even means. I have never raised one so I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. I do know it has something to do with dirt, snails, and pulled puppy dog tails. Later, I know because I have carpooled lots and lots them, come fumes of Axe odor masking body spray that doesn’t hide the body odor but makes you roll the window down even in the pouring rain.

I have a new neighbor, y’all.  He paces about outside talking loudly, dawn to dusk, at everyone and no one in particular. He’s always looking for food, Cheetos are his fav, and a cold beveridge. His brown hair is disheveled and, most days, he looks in desperate need of a bath.

“Pick me, pick me,” a tender voice pleaded from the middle of an aisle at the back of a toy store. There were hundreds of stuffed animals spilling over wire racks in every size, every shape, every color. And beneath what appeared to be a rainbow waterfall of wonder, there he was: almost entirely hidden, deep within the lowest shelf. Only a tiny white paw stuck out like a friendly wave. The man had finally found what he was looking for. The one who he would take to his forever home.

I was strolling under these glorious, gothic live oaks with friends last Saturday. More family than friends, actually; Charlie and I were back together again with the members of the Chevy Crew: Sully and his wife Denise, Fitz and Sandra, Dade and Lydia, and honoree inductee Joye and her husband Taylor.

I’ve been thinking a lot these days about the health of our shared Union.             Especially with all the ugliness that swells up, morphing into something more powerful than ever before heading into election day.             First to say, I am not a political columnist. I’m a humor columnist, so I will stick to what I know best.

There has been a shift in my life. Not a seismic one. Not earth shattering, in a thrown to my hands and knees shook-up kind a way. That would be a major change I’d like to think I’d recognize and immediately attempt, somehow, to correct, and shakily try to face the day.

I watched something a few weeks ago that strangely ended up being a life saver during a bittersweet summer. I want to pass it along now as a flotation device, of sorts, in case anyone else needs it to keep their head above water while drowning in copious amounts of tears.