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The Retreat

This afternoon, with some trepidation, I checked my texts, DMs and a couple of email inboxes, looking for unanswered (and often unopened) messages that have accumulated over the past few days. It’s become a familiar pattern recently: I don’t really want to talk much with family or friends. Nor do I want to grocery shop […]

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Crankcast: ‘The American Look’ Edition (or, Staring Grimly at Salad)

Here’s the conversation Crankenstein and I had about The American Look earlier this week, along with a discussion guide for anyone who wants to skip around: Unfortunately, I had to delete about 60 seconds of additional Angels talk that Muriel disrupted. In it we referenced Police Woman’s rampant sexism (which Crankenstein wants me to write

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Another Short One

There’s not much to report today, other than last night was even more sleepless than usual despite a big improvement in physical comfort post-Botox. I’m currently almost too tired to see straight, which hopefully bodes well for tonight. If I can erase just a little of the sleep deficit that’s ballooned over the last couple

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Don’t Cry Out Loud

Bravely stifle your tears, just as Melissa Manchester taught you — for the first time in 89 years (though it probably feels like 800), I’m not sharing any photos of strange objects tonight. But I’ll be back at it soon enough, because a post I’m currently working on includes an anticlimactic reveal of the sayonara-to-student-loans

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Jazda!

We’ll get to the Madrid Open in a minute, but first let’s take a look at something I had to correct prior to finishing the cottage. Crankenstein will probably squint and ask “What’s the difference?”, which I suspect is also what would happen if I switched places with any short brunette — or maybe even

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A Brief One

I’m trying to get into the habit of writing something here (almost) every night just so I don’t disconnect any more than I already have in recent months. Tonight I’m tired and don’t have much time to throw anything together, but maybe this weekend Crankenstein and I will do our own version of an Oprah’s

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Meh

At the academic clinic where my movement disorder specialist works, each exam begins in the waiting room. The doctors collect you themselves so they can observe your movement, a pragmatic ritual that has an unintentionally humanizing effect on harried physicians who might normally appear inaccessible in their sterile white coats. One of the reasons I

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