Bonnie shares her top resolutions for 2015.
Christmas arrives early at the mall, but it is celebrated forever in memories held dear.
Frozen OJ cans, toothpicks, Morton salt among the constants.
Chores may not be fun, but contribute to family life.
Tucsonan diagnosed with Political Commercial Overdose.
Lack of student knowledge more alarming than proposed exam.
Bonnie celebrates 50 years of marriage and memories.
Relying on memory - instead of app - boosts brain.
Shoe ad sparks a bit of controversy over finding "Mr. Right Now"
Years ago, when all the manufacturing jobs were being outsourced to third-world countries, we ink-stained wretches used to joke, “Well, at least they can’t do that with our jobs.”
Forget wine cellars, trend is now luxurious suites for dogs.
Attempts to spin cigarettes as environmentally friendly go up in smoke.
Letting kids explore is a valuable, difficult part of parenting.
The eternal jeans question: to wash or not to wash
It began with a pair of flip-flops and a stubbed toe. It ended with a .45 perched on the hip of a very angry man in line in front of me at the prescription counter.
I lived in the desert five decades before I saw my first rattlesnake not behind glass — one up close and all too personal.
Oh, it was a beauty, a silvery flash flecked with rainbow hues. And it was mine, all mine, if only for a minute or so.
‘Sticky and disgusting” used to be my youngest granddaughter’s favorite assessment of certain things she found objectionable. I told her it would also be a great name for a punk girl band.
“Birds do it. Bees do it. Even educated fleas do it.”
She may be the most hated blonde in America after Gwyneth Paltrow.
Where were you when I needed you? Hmmm?
Cut it out, Christie. Knock it off, Raquel.
Someday we’ll all be outfitted with contact lenses, even those of us with 20/20 vision. And it won’t cost a dime. In fact, if you don’t really need the lenses, their manufacturers will pay you to wear them.
OK, here I am back in December getting ready to crank out these peanut butter balls I only make, for good reason, during the holidays. Peanut butter? Check. Powdered sugar? Check. Butter? Check. Chocolate chips? Check. Parafin? Check — though getting harder to find all the time. Doesn’t anyo…
The only modern-day reality show I’ve ever seen was the first episode of “Survivor.”
Where do they come up with these studies? The latest to be bandied about asserts that we are happiest at age 23 and again when we reach 69.
Garbo said it best: "I vant to be alone." Good luck with that in today's overconnected world - both for movie stars and ordinary folk.
Score one - or maybe two - for the Luddites.
OK, so it's all out there. My emails, my phone calls, my ceaseless surfing on the Internet.
Just about every day now, I send up a silent hosanna along the likes of: "Thank you, Oh Great One, for allowing me to raise my children before texting, sexting, Facebook, rap music and 'Gangnam Style.' " To that I must now add, "the exorbitant admission price for theme parks."
Some took a bullet for the children. Months later, others would shield them with their own bodies under an avalanche of brick and lumber. They were the first of the first responders: the teachers of Newtown, Conn., and, later, Moore, Okla.
Think flying with a squalling child in the seat next to you is hell? Try flying with a goat. Or maybe a monkey. Could happen, thanks to the animal's status as a certified emotional-support animal, or ESA, as it's known in the lingo.
Hey, I put my new shoes on - thanks to what may be a dying breed.
It is a great, gnarly beast, its roots burrowing deep beneath the caliche, its boughs reaching up to the heavens.
OK class, today's math problem is: Joe is buying a bottle of water that costs $1.97, total. He gives the clerk a five-dollar bill. Joe's correct change should be:
I'm a drip. So are you, and you, and all you multitudes of miserable souls who dare not stop to smell the roses, lest your nasal passages begin to hydrate in some socially unacceptable way.
If you are reading this without first having to remember a password, congratulations - and may the printed word never die.
Just about every day I give thanks that I am no longer the mother of teenagers.
Some time back - OK, it was 20 years ago - a couple of researchers posited, as researchers are prone to do, that dogs can and do bark "at everything and nothing, anytime of the day or night."
Ah, it's that time of year again. Time to welcome all those who come to the desert seeking its warmth, its mayonnaise- and jalapeño-slathered hot dogs, and its gargantuan array of "Old West" souvenirs - quite possibly the largest assortment ever seen this side of China.
We used to call them junior highs, reserved for kids who'd reached the seventh, eighth, and - in earlier days - ninth grade here in Tucson. None of that middle school or K-8 stuff we largely have today.
Here in the Old Pueblo - also known as 50 Shades of Beige - the last tamale has finally slid down the old gullet and all that remains of Christmas are the 347 needles (fake or real) that you'll be vacuuming out of the carpet until our first 100-degree day.
Every year, I drag out the list, dog-eared and faded - and so ancient that it originated on a typewriter, rather than a computer keyboard.
The question I knew would eventually come arrived the day after Thanksgiving, halfway between the movies and the walk to Santa's workshop in the mall:
Every year, someone trots out that Norman Rockwell painting showing a family from the 1940s gathered at the Thanksgiving table. Centerpiece, of course, is the turkey, all fat and golden, waiting to be carved.
No matter who wins on Tuesday, there will be cries of impending doom, along with a great gnashing of teeth, rending of clothes, and a run on sackcloth and ashes down at the local "dollar" store.
We come from the sea. We return to the sea. It's a draw I've felt nearly all of my life, mainly in the San Diego area. For years we camped along its beaches - beaches in some cases soon to be smothered in golf courses and fancy resorts.
What?!! Are you out of your minds?!! A few weeks ago, an article ran in this very paper promoting a young, obviously delusional couple who had remodeled their kitchen back to the Avocado Epoch.
My first "tent" was a bedspread. My first "bed" a blow-up mattress with a leak of undetermined origin. No need to ask why I no longer go camping.
Maybe it's a good thing. Was it just a couple of years ago that women of a certain age were lamenting the fact that young women had little idea - or appreciation - of the battles that had been fought for equality?