Once upon a time, on the zippered edge where two cities meet, there was a bra.  It was a bra of unremarkable color - darker than beige but lighter than mocha - whose cups stood proud if lonesome. It was a bra of indeterminate size - bigger than an A cup but smaller than Milwaukee. It was a bra with a story.  *Actual bra not pictured One May afternoon this bra suddenly found itself lounging in the westbound lane of Center Ridge Road, not far from a Taco Bell restaurant. Its hook-side pointed to one zip code; its eye-side, another. It was out of place in so many ways. But how did it get there?  Did it take flight from atop a load of laundry traveling in a cracked plastic hamper in the back seat of a 1998 Toyota Corolla, soaring through a rolled-down window to exciting lands unknown?  Had it been hastily stuffed into the cup holder of a late-model Mercedes during a moment of stolen passion, after which incriminating evidence had to be hastily discarded? Was it torn from...

The Little Limes were beautiful. In early summer, the so-called-petite hydrangeas sprouted thick green leaves and a profusion of pale green blossoms that faded to white then pink. Their light scent drifted around the patio attracting winged things.  After winter set in for good, the leaves broke off but the blooms dried into shades of caramel, sand, and chestnut that lingered on the stalks. Then the brittle blossoms swayed against the white snow. Yes, they were beautiful. For another time, another garden, a life where no one perpetually needed to pass through. Here, now, they were flower-heavy and weight-bent and wild-grown. I tried to tame them, really I did. Every spring I trimmed the shrubs down to a diameter of less than two feet. I wound a circular tomato plant trellis around each bush to coax it to carry its own weight. And I spoke sweetly to them, asking them to please bloom upright like their rosebush neighbors and not crowd the patio stepping stones. Please - be polite, be...

This week, the powers that be announced Bed Bath & Beyond is closing for good. The news wasn't surprising, but I still feel disappointment. It was a store for seminal changes in life. Going to college, moving into your first apartment or home, getting married, getting divorced - any situation that required starting anew.  With its closing, a few generations of consumers lose a store closely tied to our milestones and memories. We're left with only the part that is Beyond. BBB was often the go-to place for buying (or registering to get gifts of) towels, storage options, organization, bedding, small appliances, dishes, cookware, and more. With the help of his mom, my husband bought several cart-loads of items there when he purchased his first home just before we met. We registered there for wedding gifts, most of which we still use 15 years later.   Local columnist and author Connie Schultz recently  shared a poignant story of shopping at BBB after a divorce. Shor...

I want to live on the edge, but with a 401K and a black minivan where I can blast Snoop Dogg. I want to have a wedge-shaped yard chock full of outdoor accessories, to buy in bulk, and hear the latest gossip about who got an HOA violation for her grass being over the 8-inch limit even though she measured it and it was only 6 inches, thankyouverymuch.  I want my kids to ride their bikes in circles until they get dizzy and fall down, and then go set up a lemonade stand on the main road to snare homeowners who aren't lucky enough to live in our spherical utopia. I want to live that cul-de-sac life. Upper class of the middle class. There's something extra special about a suburban street terminating in a bulbous dead-end. It sets apart residents of that circular community-within-a-community while also bringing them closer together. Closer than those aloof residents who enjoy seemingly unlimited street parking, anyway.  Translated literally from French, cul-de-sac means "arse of ...

Sometimes grief grabs you by the heart and squeezes so hard that love comes out.  Five years after moving into this house, I finally painted the master bedroom. Last weekend I was crawling along the floor foot after tedious foot, cutting in where the baseboard meets the wall, splitting the long straight lines of white into two colors - like a before and after - when I stopped for a second to consider the moment.  And I thought,  I wish my mom could see me in this good life.   Tears pricked my eyes and heavy sadness fell on me like a thick blanket. Grief is like that sometimes, sudden and blinding. I wanted to cry. I wanted to lay down right there, brush in hand, and dissolve into sleep. Most of all, I desperately wanted to see my mom and have her see me, so far from where I was when she left.  The windows of the room were open, an unusually warm spring breeze drifting in. My husband was mowing. The man I moved 1200 miles to join, near family I had just met, in ...

In the epic battle between a 41-year-old female with zero plumbing experience and a Bradford White 50 gallon electric water heater, I have been triumphant.  This was a war I never intended to fight, a battle brewing for more than four years.  Beneath the glare of a single bare lightbulb, the beast waits in its lair. In the first days after we moved into this beautiful house, I noticed our hot water was measly. Wimpy. Unimpressive. It was very warm at best, never up to the challenge of being truly hot. On the advice of our builder, I cranked up the water heater's two heating elements over and over until they were set hot enough to boil us, but the water temperature at our faucets and showerheads was still unexceptional. I was vexed, but thought it was a minor inconvenience we'd just learn to live with. Yet the thorn in my side slowly festered. About two weeks ago, the hot water inexplicably became even less hot. Now I was taking daily showers with no cold water added whatsoever...

Just before 2 p.m., I was gathering my things for a school pick-up run. Bag? Check. Sunglasses? Check. Mask? Check.  Suddenly, multiple smoke alarms in my house started blaring simultaneously. I froze in fear. There was no explanation, there was only the ear-splitting screech of dire warnings in stereo. DANGER! Like a thousand pigs squealing Weird thoughts go through your head during a perceived crisis. My first panicked thought was our security alarm was going off, but 1.) I hadn't turned it on yet and 2.) I was the only one in the house, definitely not intruding. My second thought was I wasn't currently cooking, so it wasn't a burned dish smoking in the oven or a pot holder I accidentally set on fire like that one time in college. (PSA: Do not leave unattended pot holders on the stove, lest you turn on the wrong burner and they go up in flames.)  I frantically rushed around two floors and a basement while sniffing the air like a bloodhound, but I couldn't see or smell...

Dear Buyers, Congratulations! You are soon to be the new owners of an 1,840 square foot (not including the finished basement) colonial in a highly desired and constantly revolving neighborhood. This was our first home, both individually and as a couple. We brought three Boston terriers and two children (in that order) home through these doors, and we move on with a lot of excitement and a measure of sadness. I wanted to leave you a few notes about the place we're leaving behind. Between the two houses on either side we've had five sets of neighbors. We borrowed a pick-axe from one and a rake we forgot to return from another. The same rake neighbors borrowed eggs from us during a cookie-baking emergency, and we attend each other's kids' birthday parties. I hope you become as fond of them as we are, enjoy some drinks by their fire pit one night, and maybe loan them some sugar sometime. We will miss having them next door to us, and my kiddos will really miss pla...

The summer after I gave birth to the baby, I treated myself to a new swimsuit. It was one of those forgiving tankini styles in black, with strategically placed blue ruffles. Dillard's was having a special sale, so I got some free gifts with my purchase -- a set of cheap flip-flops two sizes too big and a pair of ugly plastic sunglasses. I knew I would never use either but felt guilty throwing away items that were perfectly good, so I left the items in a bag on my bedroom floor until I decided what to with them. That was in 2013. One entire presidential term came and went while that bag sat on my floor. (Thanks, Obama.) I am not a good housekeeper. Clutter tends to follow in my wake , from winter shoes I may need to wear tomorrow to bills I need to sort through to toys I should give away. And when I begin to feel overwhelmed by raising two tiny, needful humans and living through a time of deep political unrest that may affect my family's sole income stream, my housekeeping...

It's June. Look out -- summer is coming. Ah, yes, summer in Ohio...those approximately 12 days in late July, when the temperatures creep up to a balmy 84 degrees and Lake Erie averages about 72 degrees. If you go, don't forget to bring a wet suit for wading -- the water's about 6-10 degrees colder than Livestrong.com recommends for vigorous exercise . Even triathlon competitors wear wetsuits in water colder than 78 degrees. There is no way this Gulf of Mexico girl is taking a relaxing dip in that. Instead I will chill on our newly outfitted back deck, which now features a large cantilever umbrella to shield my fish-belly white skin from the sun and a 36-inch ottoman on which to prop my feet. My happy place All that I'm missing is a fruity adult beverage. Unfortunately, my knowledge of alcohol ends at how much rum to put in a Captain and Coke. So when I need an easy fruity drink recipe, I yell one of my favorite battle cries: To Pinterest! I type in the wor...

Between the ages of 7 and 12, I lived on a dead-end road two miles south of nowhere. There were only eight houses on the gravel road, and none had children except ours. We had something like three acres, but at that age I thought our yard went on for miles and miles. We picked blackberries that grew along the barbed wire fence to the west and ran from the snakes that sunned themselves in the overrun, empty lot across the street. But what I remember most fondly was the tree. There grew one climbable tree in the back yard. It was of indeterminable species; I only know it was the kind with thick bumpy bark that grew lacy, pale green lichen throughout the year. I dragged to my tree two old boards from a deconstructed picnic table, wedging one in the deep V that split its trunk into two Siamese twins. The other I balanced precariously among some larger branches about halfway up. I spent most of my hours playing there in my wildly complicated imaginary life. I had multiple imaginary si...

We have new neighbors next door. They're a nice young couple. It's their first house, so they haven't had time to collect the finer accoutrements of suburban living, like pruning sheers or a shovel. With fall coming on soon, they also haven't put much effort into sprucing up the neglected landscaping. I don't mind. My bushes need a trim too, and that's no euphemism. There was one weed in particular growing in their side yard, right up against the house, that seemed very nasty. Actually, it looked like at any moment it would take the house hostage and begin making unreasonable demands. I should have taken a picture, but frankly I'm not sure it would show up in pictures. Like a vampire.