And that's when things got weird

As I stood in line at Market Basket last week, the guy in front of me peered into my cart and asked: “You got a cat?” The visuals of my purchases — six cans of 9-Lives sliced beef in gravy, a 3-lb. bag of Friskies dry food and a store-made spicy tuna sushi roll (trust me on this: Market Basket sushi is good) — combined with my cat-hair-covered yoga pants made it pretty clear signs that I’m a cat lady. I was hungry and not in the best of moods (aka hangry), so I replied: “Nope, that’s my lunch.” As I turned away, I realized I was being a bit of a jerk so I reengaged. “I’m kidding. I have cats.” “Cats?,” he asked. “Yes, I have 12.” That response ceased all interest in his chatting me up, just as I intended. Call my actions anti-social, or just plain rude, but I think we’ve all found ourselves in situations where we don’t feel like making small talk with people we know, let alone strangers. And if you haven’t felt this way, you’re probably on a short list for sainthood. As for...

St. Mary's Lynn Class of 1992. That's me, seemingly about to fall and ruin the class photo.  My 25th high school reunion is next weekend. I have exactly nine days to find a suitor, get married, have 2.5 kids, adopt a puppy, install a white picket fence, and lose 20 pounds. Totally doable, right? If I start on the fence this afternoon, I may be able to pluck that off the list but the rest just isn’t going to happen before next Saturday night. And it likely never will (sorry to break it to you, Mom). Had our class reunited at 5 or 10 years out, I might have been able to pretend that I had actually accomplished some of what are considered life’s major milestones and 21- or 26-year-old me likely would have done so with elaborate tales of grandeur. However, the emergence of social media has completely obliterated the ability to pull something like that off today (which is probably a good thing). And the trend toward “social oversharing” has also eliminated a lot of the int...

A  colleague once took me to the driving range to teach me the basics. After a few swings and misses, I finally connected with the ball. It ricocheted off the divider and somehow sailed behind me, nailing him between the legs. As he folded toward the ground, I apologized profusely. I then gave away what remained of my bucket of balls while my friend tended to his. I never tried golf again. And not surprisingly, no one, especially my male friends, has since offered to teach me. Luckily, Essex Media Group has several skilled golfers on its staff who make up for my shortcomings by providing  North Shore Golf  readers with top-notch writing about the game. But having grown up in Lynn, I do know Gannon Golf Club very well. As a kid, I sledded the hills of the course, which was then known as Happy Valley. As a mischievous teenager, my friends and I would sneak onto the course at night with our backpacks filled with cheap beer for parties. And as an adult, I’ve attended man...