1. Put away the yarn.
2. Call your dealer
3. Snort.
4. Repeat.
The remaining 7 steps can best be left by wordsmiths with familiar sensibilities on guilt.

Drip, drip.
Crackle….crackle…
Papers…shuffle…
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Huh? Oh.

She was not the first person who thought she might escape death. Death was like soup during this time of her life, that had been left on a long table, far out of reach, and had gone cold.
She preferred Pop Tarts anyway–a better metaphor. Even out of reach she preferred to eat them sans toaster oven. She even liked frozen Eggo waffles. These were the foods of her college days, centuries ago, another world, marked by things that seemed more urgent than death, when eternal rest was simply boredom.

Dear Sarah-Jane,
We are writing to you, to invite you, and your spouse to our baby shower. Men are allowed at showers now. There will be beer.
And barbecue. Wear whatever you like. Within reason. We’d love to have you!

P.S.–Official invitation in the email. We also texted you. And posted it on Facebook!

The yogurt flared from the plate like something machined with anger. I was projecting of course, trying to be a temperamental artist, donning the dinner table with something passionate and eye-catching.  I failed on all counts. I could not even use the word  “cansaquaga” to describe my stunted effort at expression. The word “cansaquaga” did not exist and yet desperate to enliven the meal, I made usage of the word, when my utensils fell from my hand and I was left with nothing but my napkin.

And the tailor arrived late in the afternoon to take my measurements. He wanted–longed–to start work that day. I informed him of a party I was throwing. I suspected he longed to come to the party as well. I did ask him, by the way. But he politely declined. Which surprised and annoyed me, as he displayed such an outburst of anticipation for the event, as if he knew people who would be there, of which I suspected he would, given his clientele and the mere suggestion of his influence of style. For all I knew, he could very well have sewn for all my party guests. At any rate, he declined and shortly thereafter left with my measurements. I was now alone–left to ponder the rather politeness of this man and his even more politeness of his refusal to attend the party. I wanted him there. I wanted him.

If you ever tell any one, I’ll never speak to you ever again.
Oh, wait. Never mind.

It was an emotional affair between two peas in a pod. For emotional affairs are akin to one pea saying “I’d love you to make me stop thinking about the other person,” And the other pea obliges.

The flag bared over the verdure like victory. My lawn came alive. That’s what flags do. They incite plants, give them honor and bearing.

And that’s great because because my garden means everything to me and a seal of approval–even a self-assigned one with a drape of stars and stripes works when something like a lawn is so temporary.

I will drape a flag over my door too, hoping for the same effect. I’ll wear it as a pair of shorts, to show that the United States has a sense of humor.

I’ll stare and reflect and find meaning, try to remember the words that I used last time when staring at something for so long.

She could not remember his name though she’d known him for years. She was trying to introduce him to the hostess.  His name far outstripped her, and she had to reach long and wide for just the first letter…just out her treat. She was not drunk. Nor was she nervous. She was quite adept at introductions and did them with flair: drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, lips glossed, hair coiffed, dress rustling easily.
Except for this time. And her inability to recall his name had nothing to do with the fact that he was good-looking. Beauty never threw her off, never took her breath away.
Before things became to awkward, he introduced himself.
She was shocked when he said his name was Thomas. She’d been calling him Tonio for years.