Spitball Army

Perfect Hair Guy asks what I think of his Filipino mail-order bride idea. “I really value your opinion.” Suddenly I’m without one.

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7:30 AM appointment for truck service and tire rotation. I roll out of there at 8:17. My secret: one dozen Dunkin’ donuts.

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one more piece of pie / crapped out on the floor in a tryptophan coma / waking plans for a leftover turkey sandwich  #CNFtweet  #TGtimeline

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Nothing says “Breast Cancer Sucks” like a foot-wide chocolate chip cookie with “Faith & Hope” written on it in neon pink icing.

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Combo? Cheaper than just sandwich and drink. So I sat in the car tossing out fries, wondering if I could induce an avian coronary.

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Facebook recommends fan pages to me based on my friends’ personal interests: Jeff likes Mitt Romney; Danny Ray likes Samuel Adams.

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The greasy spoon waitress lets out a whoop and waves the ten-dollar tip in the air. She shoots a glance at my table: a challenge.

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We sit in Mom’s open garage on rollators, like old folks. Deaf Guy across the street belches periodically; we laugh, then wait.

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1965. We nab sweet snacks from the kumquat tree and honeysuckle vine on the way inside for a dinner of fish sticks and Jell-O.

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Mimosas line the Southern highway off-ramp, pink and green preppy parasols nodding to the traffic. There’s not a college for miles.

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