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I watch for her, sweaty children in masks making their way from the clubhouse. Her pink backpack precedes her and I wait, anxious: Did she make it ok? Sid she stay dry? Did she love it? As she turns, her frown confirms my worst fears.
Slowly, she makes her way towards me, her arm juts out, middle finger upturned in my face.
Read moreI can pick up accents. It's kind of a gift.
Drop me anywhere in the western hemisphere (so far) and I can pick up the cadence, the lilt, the structure and the pronunciations of someone else's mother tongue. Places I've experimented with this include, but are not limited to, Wisconsin, Canada, New England, the Deep South, Ireland and England. Scotland is the lone exception. It it an impossible - though beautiful - accent.
And I used to do impressions.
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We just celebrated Matt's birthday this week, and like all things with Big Plans, the day got little out of whack. I came down with a bad full-body cold and the weather dipped below freezing, so our fun day out with Ash in the city was a no-go.
I decided to redeem the day by special ordering snow (thanks, God) and designing a subway art picture to commemorate the life Matt and I have lived together all these 13+ years. I've seen these everywhere online and thought to my delusional self, "That can't be that hard." And in truth, it wasn't. I just picked an idea - cities we've called home - played around with fonts and layouts, and voila! Homemade pressie for husband of the year.
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Asher picks his nose before falling asleep. Every night, without fail, it is the last thing he does before closing his eyes. I know this because I am always beside him, sharing his twin bed, listening to his music, trying to coax him to sleep. On nights like tonight it takes just minutes. He plays with a couple of action figures, rolls to his side, picks his nose and out like a light.
Other nights are long and loud and full of tears, his and mine.
Read moreI was just thinking last week that I should write a post on my obsession with the You’ve Got Mail apartment.
You know the one: Kathleen Kelly’s shabby chic brownstone walk-up, home to the lone reed and upright piano, walls covered in books and mementos, and open window overlooking a beautiful autumn New York City morning.
I’ve laid awake at night, trying to figure out this apartment’s dimensions (Is it a studio? U-shaped? Does the kitchen lead into the bathroom?), imagining where I would put my mother’s secretary or the wall shelf my husband built me six Christmases ago.
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