A catalog of the stuff in my apartment
If the set dresser for the movie of my life had the gall to decorate the coffee table belonging to my celluloid self with the actual books actually sitting on my actual coffee table, I think I’d accuse the production’s art department of homophobia. The books are: A little on the nose, don’t you think? […]
The dermatologist I went to as a teenager used to call me “Moose.” He had an avuncular manner and always wore a visor with two inset magnifying eyepieces so that he could get a good look at his patients’ hideously clogged pores. I think “Moose” was supposed to set me at ease or maybe make […]
Lately, I’ve been listening to a language-learning podcast to work on my Spanish. My husband, Frank, is a Spanish speaker, and when he’s angry, he really does rant in the mother tongue, à la Ricky Ricardo. I’d like to know what he’s saying about me. Besides, Frank has made an effort over the years to […]
Indirect Objects 