It’s been a rough week. It seems I got problems coming out my ears.
I just found out my tax return was rejected, and Amazon and PayPal say my accounts have been hijacked. To make matters worse, my phone provider and bank have both shut down my accounts.
What am I going to do?
Well, there are several companies wanting to give me cash advance loans at a killer rate. Maybe it’ll all work out. Regardless, I never should have checked my email today; this is just depressing.
Oh wait, I’m in my spam folder.
There are some things in life that are just scary, and checking your spam folder is one of them. You never know what’s lurking in there, but you have push through and just do it. As soon as you don’t, something important will inadvertently be trashed by the spam filter.
Smart people keep their email addresses as private as possible. For me, I have an email address that I use only for things that I know will result in spam; such as, when you’re registering for an online site and it requires an email to register. The spam radar goes off and I hand over my covert address. I thought about naming it email@example.com, but I thought I should be a little nicer than that.
Working at a newspaper, though, our email addresses are published all over the place. As a result, our spam folders are overflowing with useless bits of junk.
It’s not all bad, I guess. Turns out there’s a person who has a crush on me. I just have to click on the link provided to connect with him (I’m assuming it’s a him). I always knew Prince Charming used emails and not white horses to impress the ladies.
But in most cases, the spammers clogging my email seem to be confused about who I am. They seem to think I’m a very popular male who gets a lot of undeliverable faxes.
Fortunately, one very important message was delivered successfully. I have inherited an obscenely large sum of money from an Arabian prince I didn’t know I was related to.
This just might be my last column. It seems my ship has finally come in.
It’s been a rough week. It seems I got problems coming out my ears.
That one time Dad shot a nail through his hand
“Hey, guys. I shot a nail in my hand with the nail gun. I need to go to the hospital,” my dad said as he calmly interrupted my mom.
The pages of summer
My summers often started with a turn of a page. Although dives into a pool’s cool blue waters and riding horses colored the illustrations of my summer, the words I read nestled up in the corner of the children’s library defined my summers. I wasn’t reading literature that changed the world. The authors who wrote “The Saddle Club” series and Judy Blume weren’t necessarily blazing the trails of profoundness. But, they were doing something just as meaningful: Inspiring children to reach for books.
School’s Out for Summer
Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” raucously blared through my elementary school’s end-of-school party; while kids bopped their heads, oblivious to everything except the eve of summer break, as teachers looked on with dismay. The PTO-sponsored bash was headed up by my mom. She had chosen the Alice Cooper number for the party — despite the questionable character of the cassette tape’s cover — based on the song’s seemingly appropriate title for the last-day-of-school soirée. However, the lyrics for the song were not as appropriate as the party she had planned. Long story short: The song came to an abrupt halt. But, the party did continue. And later, so did the laughter.
A day in the life
My love for words was written into a hobby at an early age. I wrote stories about the nature I witnessed from my window, experiences I shared with my Pap and anything that came to mind. From age 9, most of my moments were stories my mind hadn’t written yet. For me, writing was the tool that enriched my experiences. If I went to the children’s museum and saw something that struck me, I’d write about it.
Facebooks threads into more than I expected
“Lindsay, what’s on your mind?”
I immediately thought, “I’d have to be pretty self-centered to think my ‘Facebook friends’ would care about such an answer.” So, the section stayed blank on my profile for far longer than most.
After 18 interviews, copious note-taking, endless discussions and picture browsing for a story about something bigger than its parts — i.e. Kokomo Speedway — is nearly finished. To be honest, I’d never been to Kokomo Speedway until last year. I grew up watching the Indy 500 and picking a name from a hat, but my racing knowledge ended there. But, when you fall in love with someone who fell in love with Kokomo Speedway — most likely when he was still in the womb as his mom watched his dad race — your knowledge increases, exponentially.
Earth Day: Experience it every day
“No litterers allowed,” stated the sign I drew up with peace signs and flowers with extra power that adorned my bedroom door as a kid. Growing up, I was a litter patrol lady. Toss a banana out the window? You were going to face the wrath of a 6-year-old. Leave a soda can at the park? Oh my, a mistake you don’t want to make. My cousins would purposely provoke such opportunities for nothing more than to get the entertaining spiel of keeping the Earth safe from a 6-year-old. I encouraged institutionalizing recycling in our household and double-checked trash cans to make sure recycling objects didn’t make their way into the wrong places.
The Waving Girl
She was born on land, but her soul was given life from her love of the sea and the lives it carried. Her journey started simply and ended sentimentally. During the in-between, she was the symbol of home to the hearts of maritime travelers: At night, she was the illumination of guidance. At morn, she was the breeze the sea gently exhaled. For 44 years, she was ingrained with the Savannah River’s sand — just as she was ingrained in the minds who witnessed her waving handkerchief interrupt a sun ray’s storyline. S
Never too late for April Fool’s Day
This will be my last column for the [friday] section, as Kokomantis has been promoted from corner-side spectator to Lifestyle Editor ... Just kidding, late April Fool’s Day joke! I look forward to writing my column every week just like I look forward to my favorite “holiday” every year. For 364 days, I plan pranks of all varieties for my beloved day that’s dedicated to flipping my family and friends out.
The Egg Battle of 1990
Easter may be a time of sugary sweet Peeps and darting for hard-boiled eggs dressed in their Easter Sunday best. For me, it’s been about that and getting back to my roots. Growing up, my family and I nestled into my Pap’s motor home and headed for the mountains of West Virginia – our annual Easter Sunday home for my entire childhood.
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- That one time Dad shot a nail through his hand