Deanna Watson

Today is my friend's birthday. And I haven't a clue where she is.

At only one point in my life did I subject myself to some stupid tanning tricks.

Had Facebook been around in the 19th century, Mark Twain might have said: "It is better to refrain from posting on Facebook and let people think you are a fool than to allow your status update to remove all doubt."

Let me get this straight.

Every Easter since I became a mother, I've found a sweet little treat on my front porch.

Don't let folks try to convince you that the only reason the world knows the name Trayvon Martin is because the liberal media wanted to shove it down your throat.

At least once a week, sometimes twice, I want to ask a certain letter writer, "Do you like beating your head against the wall?"

I was almost a Carol. That's what my father wanted. Carol Fran.

This has been one of those weeks that change your life.

Roland Martin, meet Gilbert Gottfried. Perhaps when the CNN political contributor blurted out, among friends at a Super Bowl party, his opinions on an underwear commercial aired during the big game, he hadn't remembered what happened to the voice of ...

The climatic scene in "The Natural," where Roy Hobbs, bleeding into his stark-white jersey, hits the winning home run into the stadium lights and rounds the bases beneath explosions of glass and gas, remains one of the most iconic endings ...

Someone, most likely my grandmother, told me to always behave as if three people were watching: your mother, your boss and God.

The passer-by who took photos of a severed head found beneath the Hollywood sign last week may seem like a rather morbid, opportunistic character, but some editors might call him something else: A freelancer.

The headline screamed of days gone by, but sadly those days are still here.

If I behaved as the majority of our representatives in Washington, D.C., I'd never be asked to serve on another nonprofit board again.