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Shovel Trouble

Hey. You know how it snowed? And there was snow on your car? Well I’ve got a surprise for you. It‘s not any more! I know. Let’s jump up and down. How’d the magic happen, right? Well I went outside in the cold and cleaned it off. You're very welcome, my pleasure, no trouble at all. I almost enjoyed being outside in the fresh air. Anything for you. Oh, by the way. Just a small thing. In the future, maybe after the rainy season, you may see a tiny bit of rust. Like a line of it here and there. Mostly on top of the car but also on the hood and trunk areas. Roughly where snow would be if your good friend here hadn’t cleaned it off wayyyy back in winter. Brrrrrrr, right? Gosh it‘s cold. From the shovel scratches, silly. You shovel snow, you don’t kiss it away. I was shoveling the sidewalk and the next thing you know I was being helpful to you. Steel-bladed shovels work great! Yeah, let’s go see how great it looks. Look there. Isn’t that friendly, that one almost says “Hi!”
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The More Times Change, The More They Stay The Same

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Love the online version of The New York Times . Love, love, love it. However—and this has a big capital H, followed by a long pause wherein I don’t type—however, a recent mailing they sent caused me to heartedly question our future together. First off let me share with you that I am grateful every time I peruse their online edition, and have been for more than five years. There is no paper to unfold and fold, no ink smearing my fingertips, no yellowing newsprint stored in my recycle bin, and no trudging said paper off to the Duxbury town dump. (I don’t abide calling it a “transfer station.” “Dump” gets us where we need to go 75% quicker.) Most enjoyable, though, is not having to pick through murders and robberies and other garbage to find my science and health news. Unlike the printed paper, online I see only headlines and snippets until I click a specific article that I choose to read. This makes for less junk going to my subconscious. I keep a clean mind, see. So, I’m reading th...
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The Last Diaper

“Like many girls, our oldest was a piece of cake. She woke one morning a few months before her third birthday and declared that she was going to wear 'big girl underwear.' Just like that, she was done. Our boys, however, paid us back with interest. Both of them had to be dragged into the bathroom and cajoled with promises of presents and special treats. Our middle boy would only sit on the potty if he could listen to '70s-era country music. To this day, every time 'Rhinestone Cowboy' comes on the car radio, I involuntarily check the back seat.” —C.J. Kaplan
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