Jeffrey Mitchell was Nancy Reagan the first time I saw him. I don’t mean he was dressed up as Nancy Reagan. I mean that he was Nancy Reagan. The red power suit, the pearls, the sweet, soft voice dripping with ironic disapproval…Jeffrey’s portrayal of the former first lady was uncanny.
Just Say Yes to an ’80s Christmas was my dad’s first performance with the legendary Harrisburg Gay Men’s Chorus, and between raunchy parody songs of Christmas classics and 1980s pop ballads, Nancy Reagan provided campy commentary and snappy jokes.
And oh yes, it was just as fantastic as it sounds.
Hello and thank you for remaining part of our family during these uncertain times!
I would like to start by recognizing Dicky McGonigal, Jenny Norris-McGonigal, Alice Ray Drinker McGonigal, Mark McGonigal, Jeff McGonigal, and the rest of the Executive Team who fearlessly lead us through the Covid-19 pandemic with aplomb. Not only did they manage to increase our earnings in both the second and third quarters, but they did it all while working from their home offices! As we all know, that was no easy task, especially when having to coordinate their childrens’ virtual school schedules with their nannies.
I need to tell you about the best bologna sandwich I’ve ever had.
I realize that most people don’t have specific memories about bologna sandwiches…or even specific feelings about bologna sandwiches…but years later I can tell you every delicious detail about that sandwich. It was that good.
The year: 2013. The place: The Red Rock Corner Store in Red Rock, PA. The time: I dunno. Probably lunchtime. Time is a meaningless construct.
It was Sweet Lebanon Bologna on wheat bread, and at first glance, it looked like a normal, run-of-the-mill sandwich; bread, meat, condiments, lettuce. No big deal. Then I…
It will come as a shock to absolutely no one that I was a teenage Drama Queen.
To clarify, I was both an avid participant in my high school’s drama program, and I was prone to having big, overly dramatic reactions to minor inconveniences. This was typically accompanied by the slamming of doors and a whole lot of this:
The sun isn’t even awake yet, but she’s already a failure.
It’s the formula this time. She mixes the powder and water and realizes too late that she has grabbed a bottle from the dirty side of the sink. She has to start again. As she dumps it, she does the quick math in her head; 29.5 ounces in the can. The can was $34.99. 2 ounces in the bottle. How much money per ounce? It doesn’t matter. It’s liquid money oozing down the drain. Money that they hadn’t planned for and definitely didn’t have to spare.
It is, after…
I’m about to stop being polite and start getting real, y’all.
(…omg stop no way no you’re not you’re just curvy you’re so pretty you’re not that fat you’re just big-boned…)
Look, I’m not chubby or chunky or thick or big-boned or curvy…I am a fat lady. I’ve been varying degrees of fat for most of my life, and while I can blame a very small part of that on a combination of lousy genetics, getting older and having a kid, the majority of my weight issues come from my borderline-obsessive love of doughnuts and poor eating habits…
The whole thing started because my husband likes to pee outside.
We’re not weirdos. We live on several acres of woods and don’t have neighbors. Yes, it’s peaceful. Yes, we’re very lucky. Yes, we have bears. (No, we’re not moving somewhere closer to civilization, Dad!) There’s a deck off of his office, and (if the mood strikes in the evening), my husband enjoys standing out there, taking in the sweet sounds of the evening forest…and peeing on it.
Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t do the exact same thing if given the opportunity.
It was during one of these evening respites…
My Dear Sir,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that I did not offend by assuming that you identify as “sir.” Perhaps your preferred title is Dude? Or Bro? Or DudeBro? Please know that I write this letter as a token of my utmost respect and admiration.
Saturday last I found myself in dire need of various sundries and middle-aged white lady necessities; matching patio cushions, scented candles, wooden Made-in-Taiwan signs displaying “Live Laugh Love” in a fancy font, etc. As I perused the Home section of my local Target store, silently yearning for times long past when…
Deck the halls with strangers’ cast-offs, falalala la la la la! Yard Sale Season is upon us!
For those unfamiliar, Yard Sale Season is the second most magical season in a Pennsylvanian’s life, second only to Deer Season, which follows shortly after. Yard Sale Season is that glorious time betwixt the very first spring thaw and the very last fallen oak leaf. It’s a time when communities come together in the spirit of peace and love and old junk.
Oh, I don’t have any advice on how to spot a great deal or how to haggle. That’s not what we’re…