The teenage girl lowered knotted bedsheets out her second-story window. I sat in the shadows of my balcony, enthralled by the “show” at the apartment building next to mine. When the bedsheets reached the ground, one of two boys loitering on the lawn wrapped the end of the sheet around ...
Last night I had this dream that longtime friends stopped by my place. While I chatted with Jim, Gina pulled a couple of laundry baskets from the closet and sorted my dirty clothes conveniently piled on the floor. “I was just about to get that,” I said after she finished. Not even ...
I have reached the baggy years of life. I know this because of a meme I read the other day: “How to be an adult: Have a bag of cords, a gift bag full of gift bags, a plastic bag full of plastic bags, and bags under your eyes.” I’ve been bagged. It’s like someone prowled through my apartment and peeked — but didn’t have the courtesy to steal even one bag of plugs, cords, cables, chargers and adapters that don’t fit anything I own anymore but I keep because — say it with me — I might need that one day. I’m thinking of braiding the wads of power cords, phone ...
The only “password” I had to remember growing up was my locker number. And I wasn’t always eager to use it. My textbooks were in that locker. And, my nose suggested, a dirty gym sock or two from the previous semester. Even when I didn’t want to, I remembered my locker password. My ...
Nobody likes a tattletale. Especially not a smart-mouth, know-it-all electronic one. My auto insurance company recently convinced me to download an app for my phone to score my driving and maybe earn a policy discount for being wonderful. Do you remember when you almost messed up and a ...
My hand hovered over the mug. Would today be the day I won the lottery? My fingertips brushed past blue, green and yellow before pinching the red one. Yes, let’s try the red one today. I tugged the red ink pen out of the jam-packed coffee mug. Clicked it. Tried to write. I pushed harder through a swirl of circles. The nib tore through the notepad, but spilled no ink. “Another dud,” I muttered. “How is it that I possess hundreds of pens, none of which work?” I jammed the dead and dried ink stick back into the crowded mug. “Oh. Yeah. That’s why.” I sighed and ...
