The water is my friend. The water is my friend. The water is my. . .(Sigh). I scurried away from the pool’s edge. No amount of chanting could convince me that the chlorine-laced water wasn’t waiting to swallow me into its depths.
Anxiety was heightened by the leftover liquor lingering in my veins. Who on Earth decides to enroll in a Saturday morning swimming class? Oh yea. . .me.
Dip. Roll. Shake. Drop. Flip. And Repeat. This was the dance of the shrimp last night as I coated each little critter and fried it to a golden crisp. Cooking has never been my thing. Rerun childhood episodes of teachers sneering, “What’s cooking, Cook?” will do that to you. (Eyeroll.) Cooks certainly isn’t the world’s worst last name, but it does come with high expectations.
Amidst fluttering paper fans and strumming organ chords, I couldn’t help but notice the absence of green in the sanctuary’s St. Patrick’s Day crowd. (more…)
A round of giggles shot through the public library. Slightly annoyed, I look up from my laptop, like a librarian glaring over her glasses’ rim. The culprits? One gangly girl, three rowdy boys and a wiry guy in his late 20s sitting at a nearby table.
A curious bunch indeed.
Hustle and bustle characterize Monday mornings on the train. The whole phenomenon is intriguing: Hundreds of riders heading to various destinations sharing the same air in intimate proximity — doing all they can to maintain a sense of personal space.
