As a child, my number one best friend was the librarian in my grade school. I actually believed all those books belonged to her.

Early in my life I had made a pact with myself. I would never eat anything that moved when I cooked it, excited the dog, or inflated upon impact with my teeth.

The family. We are a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another's desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms. . . and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together.

. . . but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute - look at it and really see it - live it - and never give it back.

The mole rat is the only rodent born without a fur coat. With a good lawyer, someone would pay for that little oversight.

Being a child at home alone in the summer is a high-risk occupation. If you call your mother at work thirteen times an hour, she can hurt you.

Maybe you know why a child can reject a hot dog with mustard served on a soft bun at home, yet eat six of them two hours later at fifty cents each.