A Literary Cocktail is moving to its new home at:

aliterarycocktail.blogspot.com

I do hope some of you will stop over and have a look.

Warmest regards,


Irene

Irene Wilde

In America, in the lower grades, schools teach a class they call English or, when they feel like being specific English/Language Arts. I believe in the lower grades this is intended to cover two of the three “Rs” – namely “readin’ n’ writin’” even though one of the those “Rs” is spelled with a “W,” which could be why they don’t teach the three “Rs” anymore, it was just too confusing. (Don’t get me started on ‘Rithmetic.)

My Child, The Wilde Child, nearly 13, has been attending school...

Irene Wilde

Apologies to The Devoted Three and others. Your humble correspondent has been less than chipper since the start of the New Year, and the strain of staying awake at least 8 hours a day, and multitasking things like breathing and walking, has taken its toll. But let’s not dwell on these things. My apologies for last week’s silence and on to the next bit.

I have only three real goals for 2009. The first is to be more active. Challenging my daughter to Wii Tennis and Wii Golf until...

Irene Wilde

Welcome back everyone! I hope this finds the Devoted Three all safe and sound and hopefully not too broke. So, what did Irene do over her hols? Lots of reading, of course, a responsible amount of imbibing, and suffered through the worst personal disaster a hard-working, 21st Century , Angeleno can live through (more on that later).

First to the reading! All sorts of books in my stocking this year. I fell further in love with Tim Gunn after reading his “Guide to Style, Quality...

Irene Wilde

Back home, Kat had boxed up enough ornaments off of our tree to decorate any three. Life with our father had produced in us the desire, perhaps even the need, to celebrate even little occasions and to celebrate big occasions in as much grand style as we could afford. We figured we were owed. She had also plated up some of the Christmas cookies we’d baked a day or so before and was wrapping them in saran tied with curling ribbon.

“They’re out,” she informed me. “That Son of a Bitch...

Irene Wilde