Nothing so tried my young patience as the words, “Allow six to eight weeks for delivery.” Six to eight weeks took as long as three years to crawl along by a little boy’s hourglass. The only thing that took more time to arrive than “allow six to eight weeks for delivery” was ...
I still wonder what time it was when those two trains crossed. You know the ones. We met them in third-grade math class story problems: “A train leaves the station in Chicago at 3 p.m., headed to Cleveland, at an average speed of 47 mph. Another train leaves Cleveland at 4 p.m. for ...
I miss road maps. They were like fitted sheets for the car — wonderful to keep things in place, but nearly impossible to refold. Sometimes it was easiest on your blood pressure to crumple them into a ball and cram them into the glove box, which is your closet or junk drawer on wheels. We ...
I didn’t notice my wife sneaking into the living room. I fumbled for the remote. Too late. I was caught on the wrong channel. “Again?” She shook her head and tut-tutted. “That stuff isn’t real, you know.” “It was just a peek,” I whined. Terry glared at the screen. Two sweaty ...
For the 27th time in almost as many days, I strode out of the living room, turned down the hallway and smacked right into a bookshelf. “Yeow!” I shook my arm. “I’m bleeding again. My arm is beginning to look like Swiss cheese — the black-and-blue variety.” My sympathetic wife ...
I pout when my wife treats me like I’m a 6-year-old boy. She stops me every morning when I head for the door. “That shirt’s wrinkled. How did it get so wrinkled?” I shrugged. “I dunno. I didn’t touch it after I ‘hung it up’ on the floor a couple days ago.” Terry fixes me ...
