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Don't be fooled by the New York City postmark on this letter -- I'm a Wisconsin mink farmer, born and bred.
Here at Barb’s, we think big. We think brutal. We think volume-discounted wholesale gladiola bulbs.
This apartment is in Verto Heights, in the only Swap Zone of the city. About 11% of the Salt Lake City apartments are in this zone.
“Would you like some ice chips?” Chef Aut asks me. “Ice is for penguins,” I say. “And chips are for Brits.”
I didn’t have a chance to respond as that monster of a machine came back around, running over a cardboard standup of Neo from "The Matrix."
Baby wearing is very in right now. You can do the dishes, vacuum, or paddle a lifeboat out of your flooded neighborhood.
You might guess that my embryonic study schedule has engendered absconsion from social connections, but let me disabuse you of this insipid notion.
Now, I’ll admit. I knew the words that I was singing were not in fact “words.” They were more like syllables strung together.
I will eat at a restaurant alone, as long as I can tell a friend to show up ten minutes after I’m seated and join me.
"When we stop for snacks, don't buy the Cookies 'N' Creme Hershey's bar. I bought one last year after my soccer tournament and it made me gag."
Boys and girls can be friends. Girls and statues can be friends. Girls and statues can hold hands, if they want. Or kiss.
During the ten-minute break between sessions, line up your children's stuffed animals in a giant single-file line leading directly to the bathroom.