The Creative Nest

I am actually pretty good at small talk. There, I said it. I can talk to strangers, chat with coworkers, make conversation with the person standing next to me in line at the store, and somehow find something to say to just about anybody. Weather? Sure. Weekend plans? Absolutely. Traffic? I can make that work. I can take whatever random little topic is floating around and turn it into an actual conversation. Small talk doesn't bother me. What does bother me is trying to have small talk with someone who apparently did not receive the memo that small talk is supposed to be a two-person activity. You know the type. You walk up and say, “Hey! How was your weekend?” They say, “Good.” That's it. Just good. No follow-up. No additional information. No conversational breadcrumbs. Nothing. So you try again. “Do anything fun?” “Nope.” Oh. Okay. Now I'm doing all the work. At this point, I have apparently become the host of a talk show that nobody agreed to appear on. I start throwing o...

There’s something about a neighbor’s house that turns even the most rational person into a full-time storyteller. You don’t even mean to do it—it just… happens. One day everything is normal, and the next, there’s a random truck parked outside at 7 a.m., and suddenly you’re mentally casting a whole reality show. There’s something about a neighbor’s house that turns even the most rational person into a full-time storyteller. You don’t even mean to do it—it just… happens. One day everything is normal, and the next, there’s a random truck parked outside at 7 a.m., and suddenly you’re mentally casting a whole reality show.  It starts small. A new car shows up. Okay… maybe a friend. Maybe family. Totally normal.  But then that same car is there the next day. And the next. Now questions are forming. Is someone staying there? Is this temporary? Or are we witnessing the beginning of a “he said he’d only be here for a week” situation that turns into six months and a folding chair on the...

At first, I thought nothing of it. Then I noticed the movement. People weren’t walking through their house — they were skating . Room to room. Full speed. No hesitation. No traction. At that point, my brain made a decision and never looked back. They had every light on in the house, which basically turned their place into a live-action set. If you don’t want to be observed, you can’t turn your home into a glowing fishbowl. Those are the rules. I swear their floors are made of roller skate rink material. These people were zooming from room to room like they were late for something very important that did not involve me. And twice — twice — it looked like someone took a fall in the dining room. I saw rapid movement… and then suddenly… nothing. Just gone. Did they fall? Did they slide into another dimension? Was the dining room claimed as a casualty of the rink? We may never know. What really got me was the commitment. No phones. No pauses. Just frantic, purpose-filled mot...