14 Reasons I Want to be Royal

I want to begin by saying Happy 90th Birthday to Queen Elizabeth.

Now, reasons I want to be Royal:


I would get to travel all over the world. For free.


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I could play with the royal corgis.



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Two words: Personal stylist.




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Cute hats—I mean, fascinators.



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Millions of people all around the globe would love me. I suppose it’s improper of me to call them my subjects, but that’s what they would be.



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I would get to be in People.


Personal chef.



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When I got married it would practically be a national holiday.



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Same with having a baby.



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If I got sick of where I was living, there are lots of other palaces I could go.



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I could make announcements on the royal balcony.



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Have fun with George and Charlotte.



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Have designers vying for me to wear their clothes.



It’s Not Just a Tattoo…

I have no tattoo (surprise, surprise) and am not looking into getting one. You could say that I have gotten stuck more times than I would care to, so I am not going to do it voluntarily.

I have family members who have them, my younger sister being one. I could cry when I think of Sarah’s tattoo, which is slyly placed on the inside of her foot. It says “ubuntu” in my handwriting. She spent a semester teaching in Africa and got it when she got back. The word “ubuntu” is an African proverb that means “I am because you are.”


It’s not even on my body, but that tattoo means so much to me. Let’s say Sarah and I didn’t get along as kids. I know what you are thinking, what siblings do as kids? Our arguments were worse. Please don’t judge me, but you could say that I purposely tormented my two siblings, believing it was my right. Sarah got the brunt of it. I feel awful now.

Whenever I see that tattoo there is a mixture of guilt and extreme love for my middle sister.

But she now thinks it’s her right to take trips “browsing” in my closet, maybe as payback. I suppose I owe her that much.

Summer Morning

I had no idea about what, I just felt like writing today. I guess you can call this a post about nothing. Actually I have a point; it’s just not the most important.

What’s your favorite season? I am a warm-weather person. I love summer. Feeling 95+ temperatures on my skin and looking out my French doors and seeing the backyard full of color is my favorite. I have wonderful summertime memories: Playing in the sprinklers (this was obviously before the drought), riding bikes after dinner, and also after dinner visiting with Mary, the elderly woman across the street. So sweet, but as with lots of old people, she could be cranky. Mary would be puffing on her cigarette, while complaining our very uppity next-door neighbors.

About September, though, I was ready for winter. I had grown sick of my summer wardrobe, but would need it for at least another month. I would look at sweaters and long to wear them. I was tired of hearing the air conditioner click on longed for the dead-skin smell of the heater the first time it’s turned on for the season.

I guess you could me fickle. But I guess I shouldn’t complain. It is currently 9:48 a.m. It is 73 degrees, but there’s supposed to be a high of 92. People in other parts of the country would kill for such weather! I am in the backyard, the sky is bright blue, the plants are full of color, and Maggie is taking a nap in the shade.

No sweater needed this morning!

No sweater needed this morning!

I guess I shouldn’t complain about my wardrobe—maybe sweaters are overrated.