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I bump into Melinda on my way down the hill, but almost don’t recognize her. I’m getting better at recognizing people while we’re all in disguise, clueless Bandidos going about our days, keeping our distance. …


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A whopping total of five emails were sent today without the promised attachment. The response to such an event is a good measure of the recipient’s personality, particularly during this time when we interact mostly in the digital world, all of us from our remote pods. Some of us are running around like headless chickens while others wear crisply ironed button-downs to every Zoom meeting. Bless their hearts and those of their dry cleaners.

The client who sent a curt two-word response (“No attachment.”) prompted a conversation with my mom about which saint is in charge of procuring diarrhea for…


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The new toaster oven has a little knob that you turn to get it into different modes. It’s kind of magical. Put it on bake, and it bakes just like a heavy duty full-size oven. Put it on reheat, and you got yourself a microwave minus the possible cancer. It can toast of course, and broil, and roast; there’s even a cookies mode that I’m very intrigued about. …


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Let me guide you through the steps that may be necessary to read a book. It sounds like it should be simple, right? Well, believe me, it isn’t.

First, of course, you must acquire the book. I don’t recommend borrowing one from a friend, because let’s be honest, you will forget to give it back and there will be this unspoken resentment that haunts your relationship forever. So let’s not go there.

You may be tempted to just tap tap tap on your phone and get free shipping on a bestseller at the worst price — yes, that evil corporation…


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When I first saw snow, my first thought was, I might be able to talk to my client without screaming in the background. See, now that I am never alone, I look at life through the lens of someone taken hostage in her own home by a riot of pint-sized lunatics. …


Photo by 傅甬 华 on Unsplash

A fire alarm going off in the middle of the night in a house of thorough sleepers goes like this.

The setting is pristine silence, a puffy and gentle calm enveloping four tired humans and a silly dog that believes she’s a human herself. All five of them are soaking in every ounce of rest in their soft, warm cocoons; crisp white sheets for some, cheerful cartoon characters on well-washed fabric for others. Then a motherfucking beep that is louder than you would consider appropriate. Granted that it’s an alarm, but really, is that necessary? Three long, blaring beeps are…


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“Do you ever wonder how different life would be…,” he pauses for effect, searching my eyes, “… if we all had tails?”

“I really wonder about you sometimes,” is my absent-minded response, but he doesn’t hear me, as he’s already launched on a soliloquy about how most other animals have tails in some shape or form, and aren’t they useful?

He started 7th grade remotely last Thursday. His brother started 4th grade in the next room. Rather than backpacks, this year the object of everyone’s attention, the identity token that quickly gives classmates a glimpse about who you truly are…


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At first, I laughed it off. I opened the junk drawer, scanned the menagerie of debris that lives in there, and registered that the mailbox keys really weren’t there. Huh, where did they go? They’re always reliably in the drawer, tangled with the rubber bands and spare hearing aid batteries and likely-dried-up pens and many pairs of scissors of various sizes. It hit me at that point that perhaps that wasn’t such a great place to house the mailbox keys, but how do you change a habit so ingrained? It’s not like they could go in the silverware drawer, or…


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I should have taken it as an omen that the moment I first set foot on this country, in the summer of 1998, my name got sweetly and swiftly butchered. I had never given my name much thought, as it came with the territory of my family’s heritage. See, my grandpa and I did some research one lazy summer and certified that for at least the last couple hundred years, pretty much everyone in my family was born in this one rural province in Spain. …


Photo by Celeste Horrocks on Unsplash

Time is a series of wormholes now, arranged as if an engineer at Six Flags had been giving a blank check and complete freedom to go fully nuts. The structure that guides our days is gone, no matter how old you are, or who you vote for. Without a place to go and a boss or a teacher to keep us accountable, some standards have swiftly made a beeline for the window. My older one’s hair looks as if a young pair of robins decided to settle their nest there. The younger one questions why he still has to brush…

Teresa Lagerman

Hudson Valley // Musing about donuts 60% of the time

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