Arla McPeek's blog

My oldest son describes it like a very bad dream.

“We were in church. The bulletin said it was time for some kind of musical thing to happen. My mom stood up with a bunch of other people and walked toward the front of the sanctuary. With growing horror, I realized everyone else was reaching for an instrument and my mom” (here he pauses for effect) “was reaching for a microphone.”

His exact words: “With growing horror.”

My classical music trio has a problem. We’re ready to market our group as a band for hire, but we can’t agree what to call ourselves. If we spent half as much time practicing our music as we’ve put into thinking of a name, we’d be playing Carnegie Hall instead of trolling for wedding gigs.

I‘ve always thought naming a band would be fun, especially a rock band. O, to be a carefree rock band! They can practically use a random word generator and take any combination. If the resulting name’s a little puzzling, so much the better.

I spend so much time and money at the grocery store they should give me a parking place with my name on it. When they see me coming, all the employees should form an honor guard, lining both sides of a red carpet and scattering rose petals in my path, or at least coupons. However, times are hard, and they can’t give me the treatment I deserve. At least they play songs I know while I shop.

I was almost late for exercise class today because I stopped for donuts first. Everything turned out for the best, though. I was able to count the dash through the parking lot as part of my cardio.

Plus, the sugary glaze on my apple fritter effectively glued tiny pieces of fruit into the dough, upping my fiber intake. I’m all about making healthy choices like that.

I am convinced that I am critically short of some vital nutrient that's only found in potato chips. There's no other reason I would crave them the way I do.

I especially like the ones that have somehow gotten folded in the cooking process. Potato chip manufacturers looking for a premium market niche might consider selling bags that contain only folded chips.

There’s ordinary cold. There’s January-at-the-North-Pole-cold. Then there’s soccer season in Michigan.

Many of the most uncomfortable hours of my life have been spent on the sidelines of a soccer field at Maltby Intermediate School, huddled against an icy wind that goes right through me. However, it’s worth it, because I know whichever of my sons is playing will be too tired to fight with his brothers that night.