When it comes to social media, we all like to put our best face forward. Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat are showcases for the best moments of our lives — vacations, children’s birthday parties, dinners with friends. Read the full storyPUT ON A HAPPY FACEBOOK! Real life is messy — but don’t let your social media followers know that
If memory were eyesight, I’d be Mr. Magoo.
When she was a preacher’s daughter growing up in Oxford, Emiley Cox could never have imagined her life as it played out last Sunday night on live national television.
Every small town has that one notorious crime. In Anniston and Calhoun County, that distinction belongs to the Black Widow.
Their names echo through the centuries (Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy).
As a father, it’s important to find teaching moments wherever I can.
"It’s time …"
It was well past midnight last Christmas Eve, and I was sweaty and suffering.
I was finishing up a phone interview when my 8-year-old daughter burst out of her room like she’d found a nest of evil clowns living under her bed.
I owe my greatest passion to a woman I didn’t like very much and who, I’m pretty sure, didn’t really like me either. Not that I can blame her. I was kind of awful.
There have been "The Gospel According to …" books published on everything from "Star Wars" to Starbucks, from The Beatles to Harry Potter. There are books on the gospel according to superheroes, Disney, even the alternative rock band Radiohead.
YouTube has stolen my daughter.
For the previous couple of years, as features editor for the Opelika-Auburn News, I had done various creepy things for Halloween stories.
When Jellybean pokes her head around the corner of her bedroom door, pencil and workbook in hand, it’s to gauge my mood.
I hold on to some things because, deep down, I worry about forgetting particularly good days or things that my children and I did.
As summer turns to fall, Brett Buckner's attention turns to the Star’s third annual HorrorFest, a buckets-of-blood marathon during which he will watch 31 horror movies in 31 days.
The blood was still churning in the water and the bikini-clad, blonde damsel had just barely escaped the jaws of the man-eating (or, in this case, woman-eating) great white shark when my 8-year-old daughter used a handful of buttered popcorn to steal my attention away from the movie screen.
Why was I lying awake at 3 a.m. with a Spice Girls song stuck in my head. Because my 8-year-old daughter is a sadist.
My first concert was Alabama and Juice Newton. Not a lot of cool points in that statement, but I was maybe 8 years old — same age as my daughter.
There’s nothing more soothing than emerging from the shower to a chorus of screams.
Father knows best … or so we’ve been told.
"Happy Moron."
Things I never want to hear my 8-year-old daughter say: "Before using Viagra, make sure your heart is healthy enough for sex."
I’m increasingly torn between busting my daughter for lying or enjoying the outlandish stories that fall from her lips.
Parenting is the proverbial slippery slope. One wrong step and your greatest accomplishment could grow up to be your worst nightmare.
To her daughter, Tobi Komornik Gerson was many things.
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