The Featured Post Blog

A collection of the featured posts as they appeared on mo'time

by: nobleknightil

Due to poor planning, we somehow had my parents and the inlaws at my house at the same time. The overlap was small. Yet our mothers still managed to embarress the hell out of me.

The Jelly Bean story, in my last post, of course needed to be shared. But then my mother decided she'd add a tale of ME to the mix. Wonderful!

So the story she tells is of me when I was 3.
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posted by: howard at 23:21 | link | comments (1) |

by: limine

turned off the lights in the kitchen just to bask in the pinky orange glow. couldn't read the paper but you know that's a good thing now and then. just the sunrise and a cup of tea and a purring kitty.

drive to work was magnificent. clouds of a million colors. sun lighting up the mountains. the flatirons stood out like bright red hands waving palms facing out saying fear not fear not fear not.

everybody at work said wow did you see that sunrise this morning did you see the mountains they were violet and green and gold and orange and yeah she said it woke my boyfriend up while i was getting ready he woke up to look around and say the room was full of color and oh my said betty the bookkeeper the lord painted the sky this morning and we sat outside on the patio with our coffee just to feel the colors and man said one of the attorneys i darn near drove right off the road looking east to the clouds and the sunrise and west to the mountains and it was too much all too much and everybody said wow did you see that sunrise this morning it was magnificent.

last night was so dark. dark dark dark. the dark night of a short dark day.

and yesterday tempers flared and tears flowed and deadlines were demanding and people had reactions to shots and dogs had kennel flu and clients were screaming and traffic was terrible and settlement conferences were not productive and court clerks were pissy and the building says we can't have a real live wreath because it's a fire hazard and bitchy office politics and jealousies and snipey comments and blame and nobody really wants to have to deal with any of it really we all just want to go home and oh 'tis the season.

'tis the season for a meltdown.

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posted by: howard at 09:50 | link | comments |

by: 120pages

trying to find the turning point is like trying to remember the best thing I've ever eaten. but I would say it was looking over at my plane and the pilots in it who would tell me yes I was going home to Ben or no too bad you missed last call and it would be a long night at the LAX united terminal holding my pizza box in which was definately not anything close to the best thing. though I did eat it every bit of it once I got inside the plane the other passengers staring at my Wolfgang Puck pizza box all of them knowing that's why I held them all up kept them all sitting there but I didn't care because they let me on the plane. maybe that was the turning point.
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posted by: howard at 02:01 | link | comments |

by: zithereen

Several years ago I waited tables in a small town in  Ohio. Strange to me now that I recall the time fondly. At the time, I was reeling from a broken heart I had  helped to break.  I was a college graduate waiting tables, housesitting for a prof on sabbatical--literally with no home to call my own. I had applied to graduate school and been denied admission by every program, including the one from which I would eventually graduate. I was driving a powder-blue minivan with wood paneling, that had no heater. Include the fact that I lived a 20 minute drive away, in a village with a woman last named Boop.
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posted by: howard at 21:01 | link | comments |

by: TheMissingScrew

"Coincidence – in the neighbourhood, decided to stop by your favorite joint," she’ll say. "Thought you might be dining here."

We won’t ponder the improbability of this instance; we find that Happenstance works perfectly well to conjure elements of humor in our story.

"Sorry, gotta go. In the middle of a business meeting!" he’ll say, and rush back inside.

Natasha will sit reapplying red on the skinny of her lips. She’ll look annoyed. "Where were you?" she’ll pout at him. "I ordered the rose wine." With a manicured hand, she’ll pat her Wonder Woman-like wig.
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posted by: howard at 22:51 | link | comments |

by: giuli

thus spake Amadeus:
120 jumping jacks on an otherwise lethargic night can make one pass out and dream of Mozart.

What's that tune? It sounds so familiar.
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posted by: howard at 11:30 | link | comments |