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Being an overly cautious sort, I’ve been reluctant to jump the gun in sharing some exciting news. Explaining just how meaningful this is will require a more introspective post in the future, because personal finance is a subject that — to the amusement of some and confusion of others — I’m quite passionate about. My […]

All four installments are now complete. Sorry for doing it piecemeal. This month has been off to an inauspicious start, but I should have some good news to share soon, possibly within the next few days. And if anyone liked the Whirlpool post, I might try something similar with whatever I watch this weekend —

You know those goofy quizzes where you get a point for each infraction you’ve committed? Things like playing hooky or joyriding, recreational indulgence in various substances, or killing a man in Reno just to watch him die? My score is probably equivalent to, or lower than, that of your average nun. I’ve never been drunk,

Night two of the return-to-melatonin experiment was slightly better than the first, for anyone keeping track at home. I wasn’t awake for hours at a time, staring into the darkness while imagining myself in a remake of Laura Branigan’s “Self Control” video, dancing unrhythmically while lip-syncing “I, I live among the creatures of the night.”*

It was 4 am when I heard the first beep. I’d already been staring at the ceiling of our darkened bedroom for what felt like an eternity, unable to sleep as Crankenstein performed her usual overnight routine beside me. Her movement and murmurs provided just enough distraction that I wasn’t entirely sure if the noise

Freda Payne’s “Band of Gold,” one of my favorite songs of the ’70s, is about a woman’s pain and disappointment after marrying a closeted homosexual. The true meaning of its lyrics escaped some listeners in 1970, and if you heard it on the radio without knowing the artist, you might momently confuse it for a

I’m on day five or six of what Crankenstein believes is an upper respiratory infection. Last night was the most annoying yet — despite OTC meds, I was coughing, wheezing, choking and sputtering, partly because my neck’s still impeding my ability to swallow. I couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t sleep, and we knew this morning was

On the first Christmas Eve that Crankenstein and I spent together, before she went to a midnight church service while I hung out with her cat, we stopped by my parents’ house for dinner. It was a casual, secular affair attended mostly by atheists and Jews — my parents, siblings and maternal grandma — and marked

In which I explain the fate of the Golden Girls episode guide while maligning content-scraping bots and plagiarists.