A group of unshaven, bleary-eyed men milled about our local Target store Saturday morning, waiting for it to open. I realized with a sinking feeling they were there for the same reason my son and I were: to grab any Pokémon cards the stock clerks might have put on the shelves the night before. (Read the rest of “Beware the Pokémon”)
About a year ago my neighbor Sophie called me up.
“I’m pregnant!” she announced excitedly. Before I could congratulate her she rushed on.
“You call your husband right now and tell him to come home. I want you pregnant by tomorrow morning.”
She has always been a take-charge kind of woman, but this was pushing it just a little bit. (Read the rest of “Baby Blues”)
There’s no better ice-breaker than moving into a brand-new housing development with ten other families.
It’s an instant, equalized community where everyone has exactly what you do: extreme mortgage payments, dirt back yards, and sheet/blanket/beach towel window treatments.
Our first summer, we held countless potluck barbecues in the cul-de-sac. While the kids played, we grown-ups discussed deep, soul-wrenching topics like, “Who Got the Best Deal on Their Floor Plan,” or “Who Spent the Most on Ugrades.”
It was our neighborhood’s honeymoon time. (Read the rest of “You Better Wave”)
