Like many people who have been stuck at home, I’ve become a novice birdwatcher. Some of the birds I see are easy to identify, like the wild turkey that wandered into the yard, or the two vultures that decided to perch on my back deck one day. (Let me say that again: There were VULTURES. On m…
I think I have found my favorite place in the new house: at the kitchen table, fresh cup of coffee, looking out the window at the front yard and its stretch of flower beds.
I don’t do yard work. It’s not my thing. I’m bad at it. I’m allergic to sweat. I wilt in the heat. In any division of duties, I have always taken the inside job.
Four months ago, if you told me I needed to “flatten the curve,” I would have thought you were referring to my hips.
My world got a little bit brighter the first time I ordered groceries via Instacart. Somebody else would do my shopping for me? Is this how the 1% live?
Remember when online personality quizzes were fun? “Which Disney Princess Are You?” (I’m Jasmine). “What Would Be Your Fate in The Hunger Games?” (I would win! But only because I ran away and hid really well).
Just as there as those of us who watch the Grammys just to see who’s going to get bleeped, or the Oscars to see how low the cleavage can go, or the Golden Globes to see whom Ricky Gervais insults, there are those of us who watch the Super Bowl solely for the commercials.
Here I sit, with all the world’s collective knowledge, spanning thousands of years, at my fingertips, funneled through wires and through the air into a remarkably tiny machine balanced on my lap.