copywriting. jumbo style.
My parents don’t like to throw things out. Neither do I. Steven keeps saying, “apple, tree” whenever he sees evidence of a hereditary hoarding pattern. And since we’ve been living here for a month, he’s had many opportunities to say it. Here are some of the things my parents hold onto: A ziploc baggie of… keep reading…
I found two plastic bags of moldy muffin scraps in my tote this morning. They taught me an important lesson about creativity. (OK, that’s a major stretch, but why not make old bread products a teachable moment? Plus, let’s face it, everyone’s “lessons” on the internet are pushing it.) Here’s the backstory: I can’t snack these days…. keep reading…
Yesterday was a good day for people yelling in public. I don’t mean they were having a good day. Judging from the yelling, two out of three were not. But it was a good day for spotting them. There was the lady, trim, groomed, late 50s, designer bag, skinny jeans — the picture of a middle-aged, upper middle… keep reading…
Steven, my husband, has party anxiety. I should say, pre-party anxiety, because he’s always fine once he gets to the party. Like the one last night. The minute we got there, I looked at him like, “See? Aren’t you glad we came?” And he looked back at me like, “OK, this ain’t so bad,” because we’d… keep reading…
“Who escalated first? WHO ESCALATED FIRST?” “You obviously think I escalated first.” “When you said that penises make immoral decisions, that was incredibly offensive.” “Your anger impinged upon me, bitch. I’m not apologizing because you still haven’t apologized to me!” “This stuff is not spoken, but it is so felt by me.” “You keep calling… keep reading…
This summer, I’m a restaurant widow. My husband, Steven, kicked off the season by opening a new restaurant in Soho right after Memorial Day. (Sessanta in the SIXTY Soho hotel. Tell them I sent you!) When your spouse has just opened a restaurant, you don’t see them much. I know, “restaurant widow” is not at all a… keep reading…
The woman waiting for her cappuccino was standing at the counter, facing squarely into the work station, yelling to the barista. “YEAH, NOW I’M RETHINKING IT, I’M RETHINKING THE WHOLE THING!” Her cappuccino? She wanted to switch to a latte? But her tone wasn’t the slightly higher, “excuse me” pitch you use when you ask… keep reading…
I’m used to getting catcalls on the street. I’m sorry, that was a typo. I meant to write, I used to get catcalls on the street. These days, if I hear someone yell something lewd or make a kissy sound, I roll my eyes like I always did, then realize that’s presumptuous and do the 16… keep reading…
They’re predicting 3 feet of snow, the mayor is saying it’ll be the worst our city has ever seen (it won’t be), and everyone has already run to the supermarket to buy all the bread. Not me, though. I have bought no bread. I was busy eating burp-y Italian food. While everyone else was panicking… keep reading…
Was the Woolworth’s from my childhood, on 79th and Broadway, special? Probably not. I bet the residents of the Upper West Side kvetched about it when it moved in in 1957, and said “FAN-tastic. Another Woolworth’s,” in the same way we all do now about another CVS or Bank of America. But I have a soft… keep reading…
