I’ll keep it brief, but it just seems fair that you come along with me in my attempt to return the engagement ring (ring, ring, ring . . . no answer)to MVNO company it’s best I not marry.
I’ll keep it brief, but it just seems fair that you come along with me in my attempt to return the engagement ring (ring, ring, ring . . . no answer)to MVNO company it’s best I not marry.
I thrust my hand out as a warning. Palm forward. I was serious. “I am in a good mood,” I said, “don’t mess me up.”
In the late 17th c., the English borrowed ménagerie, dropped the accent sign—of course they did, what with the French/English competition for the world wealth and dominance—but that’s a different story.
It was the toaster that caused this, wasn’t it?” I ask. I stretch full body on the bedroom carpet, lift a back corner of our matelassé bedspread, and place my hand on Scooter’s right front paw.
I had plated a rare steak, buttered peas, and salad and placed it on a TV tray, then, for a reason I don’t remember, momentarily walked away.
“She was right,” you know.” Scooter’s speech was a bit slurred. The edge of his small pillow was in his mouth as he lifted it from his bed.
It is so like us, we humans.
When we discover that we can do something, like make atomic bombs, combustible engines, angel-food cake, a ghastly scene, plastic, DDT, great music, or in this case, sheet glass; we are simply apt to do it.
Am I about to get a talking to?” Scooter asked.
Today, early this morning, looking at a setting full moon in a dark sky, curiosity grabbed my attention. “What is it about the number Twelve?”
Scooter to Mom, “Why are we sitting in the cockpit of Jim’s boat, not ours?”
Hour after hour, what I then called stars, burned, blazed, and silently blasted across the northeastern sky.
Earth is fearless. Every summer she barges into Swift-Tuttle’s elliptical territory where a gang, a shower, of its offspring loiter, kicking stones around the galaxy
On it goes with blood, bricks, and bowls flying between young intellectual elites in this Harvard College food fight.
“You can call it a Tulip tree if you choose to, but that’s no Tulip tree. It’s a Magnolia.” So said the university student with snobby certitude.
We had invited this preppy girl to our home for Sunday dinner (thinking she might be a suitable date for our bachelor son). She stood in our kitchen, looked outside with us through broad windows at our huge Tulip tree standing guard at lawn’s edge, and smartly straighten us out. Our Magnolia, our Dinnerplate Magnolia, was just off to the north, at the edge of our wooden deck.
“What do you see here, Scooter?”
“I didn’t do that.”
“No, you didn’t. You aren’t in trouble. What is it you see?”
“Lilly.”
“Lilly? Oh, no, not what do you smell. Turn off your nose and tell me what you see?”
One stinking letter off on the FIFTH try! ONE Stink’n letter. It’s got to be an ‘M’ or a ‘K.’ Which?