I'm a technical writer-editor who works and lives in the DC Metro Area with my wife and our family. When I'm not writing standard operating procedures and hounding my colleagues about the necessity of plain language, I'm usually walking around the house in my jammies, questioning my life choices. Occasionally, I share some raucously funny slices from my aging mind and its deteriorating filter and then wait patiently by the phone for an angry call about my questionable sense of propriety.
Jokes
Perforated eardrum (n.): A condition diagnosed by one’s toddler as they shove a LEGO brick progressively deeper into a parent’s ear until the answer to “Does it hurt?” is “yes.”
On Sunday, I pulled a fossilized pistol out of the creek by my home. The scrawled initials read “T. Rex,” and I marveled as I cradled a relic of the world’s most dangerous small arms dealer.
Between texting and calling, I prefer showing up at your door to see the look on your face when you tell me you’re not home.