So Something Blew Up in Brooklyn Last Night

One a.m. in Park Slope. We’re dead to the world sleeping. Well, I am. And Cara is likely thinking of beating me with a shoe due to snoring. Then….


Something explodes. And a smoke alarm starts going off. Somewhere. Trying not to have a heart attack and wishing I hadn’t spent the afternoon at a friend’s eating red beans and rice and drinking bourbon, I pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt and flip flops.

I ran into the backyard. Looked up, down and all around. Nothing. Just the infernal beeping of that smoke detector (which actually gives the smaller of the dogs fits). Went through the apartment out onto the street. Looked up, down and all around. Nothing. Just that infernal beep…

Well, the smoke detector stopped before I could even figure out where it came from. Sound travels funny in our neighborhood. It sounded as loud in the front as it had in the back. It could have been coming from our building or three buildings over.

I walked up the stairs in our apartment building. Listening at each door. Seemed no one was awake. No lights on. No smoke. No funny smells. Went back down and listened to the basement door as if it would tell me something. No sounds from down there. The door wasn’t hot. No smoke. Walked back outside again. Back yard. Nothing. Front. Nothing.

No one yelling anywhere. No sirens. No nothing. I swear if Cara hadn’t heard it too I’d be questioning the whole thing today, wondering if I’d dreamed it all.

They’re Called BABY Wipes

One day, in the last ten years, I was standing in someone’s bathroom, going about my business, when I noticed a tub of Baby Wipes on the back of the toilet. This struck me as odd as there were no babies in the house. If there were no babies in the house, what could they possibly be . . . using . . . the . . .

Continue reading “They’re Called BABY Wipes”

A Quick Medical Question

All things being equal, why would one arm pit sweat more than the other. And not just a little more, a lot more. Like, hypothetically speaking, if one were to wring out a t-shirt, nothing would come out of the left side, but the drippings from the right could probably fill up a bucket.

It’s arm-pit cancer, isn’t it? I just know it. Arm-pit cancer. Great. Now there’s a dignified death.