My husband must be a masochist. Both his mistresses are needy, expensive and abusive. They are reliable only in that they will always let him down. Donna regularly steals him from me for weeks at a time. And more than half the year, I am a football widow.
Tilly is my fourth mannequin. My house is getting full. So stop asking me if I'm going to have another kid. We're totally at capacity over here with our only child, two dogs, four fake people and all the roly-polies my daughter sticks in her pockets.
Like many other corporations looking to make hay out of the environmental movement, Xcel has been greenwashing with gusto. The new image comes replete with chirpy narration, crisp graphics and opaque accolades.
My husband is tall. Without heels, I don't reach his chest. That's right. He's lanky and has exceptionally and borderline-disproportionately long monkey arms, and no buttocks whatsoever. Just a flat leg-back connector. He's not big and tall. Just tall.
I tried --unsuccessfully -- to join the cult of the beturners, folks who buy something with the explicit intention of using it one time and returning it. It's part stealing, part retail-borrowing, and pure evil. We all know about beturning, but no one likes to talk about it.
My bike's name is Cerise -- French, of course, meaning cherry red. I call Cerise my "moving meditation," with no distractions, no radio, no cell phones or passengers or coffee cups balancing on the console. Just me, Cerise and my skirt.
My first encounter with this object was in the kitchen. For some reason, it was drying on the stovetop: a shiny silver one-foot-tall statue of a flying hotdog on a triangular podium. So many thoughts raced through my mind. Oh, so many.
Dexter Payne's new CD, Pra Vocè ("For You"), delights listeners with the swing-powered sounds of Brazilian choro and baião. But the Colorado clarinetist's sound started with a more Manhattan muse: Clarabell the Clown, from Howdy-Doody.
In this story, it's a real-life competition to defy death. Because the punishment of knocking off first will mark the culmination of a nearly four-decade-long practical joke -- quite possibly the longest ongoing joke in the history of prank-manship.
My friends now like to sneak in my name in karaoke with "I Kissed a Girl." If I protest, it becomes a big deal and draws attention. But the one time I went along with it, the DJ complimented my "impersonation."
My husband grabbed the neckline of his top, which was kind of simultaneously the waistline, too, and he pulled -- Hulk-like -- and ripped it down the middle. I felt my heart rip with it. He wadded it up and smashed it into the large trash bag that stood, brimming full, between us