Any scenario that ends with me hugging someone who isn’t hugging me back hasn’t exactly gone as planned.
There are few things worse than flying home for your father’s funeral, but I managed to find one: flying home for your father’s funeral while sitting next to a screaming child. On a 14-hour flight.
I used to ask myself, on the occasion of my birthday, what my mother was doing when she was my age. It started out as a fun little game. Sometimes the answer was “working in a chemistry lab” or “getting a Master’s degree.” It was always different from what I was doing.
Right, so, I have two spleens. I’m not sure what the odds of that are, but I will tell you, based on the look on the ultrasound technician’s face, that I do not believe they are high.
Boston has yet to open its arms to me. It’s a place for insiders and people with an innate sense of direction, neither of which I am. They have shockingly few street signs here, and the subway lines are like spokes on a wheel, which funnel people out of the city center but don’t let you go between neighborhoods. How welcoming.
Born in Milwaukee, raised in Maryland, and a brief stint in Memphis. More recently, Emily spent three years abroad as a reporter for The Cambodia Daily in Phnom Penh. While she misses riding a motorbike to interviews and living in a treehouse, she does enjoy the fact that cannons are fired with regularity outside her office on Boston Harbor, and that people in New England can generally handle their snow. Her weakness? Sour cherries.