April doesn’t end quietly. It never has. If anything, it lingers, stretching itself into one final, charged night where something in the air feels different.
April doesn’t end quietly. It never has. If anything, it lingers, stretching itself into one final, charged night where something in the air feels different.
At a certain age, you stop caring about trends and start caring about survival. And by “survival,” I mean the survival of your wine glasses.
Today’s blog is about a habit I began about eight years ago and I stick to even more loyally than any new year’s resolutions. I
I used to wonder why both my father and my father-in-law ate meals like competitive speed-eaters. Blink, and their plates were empty. Before I could
I woke up yesterday morning with my head spinning, a buzz in my ears, and shortness of breath. I knew without even pulling out the
Ah, youth, that magical, awkward, period when we convince ourselves that the meaning of life is located on a chiseled jawline, a six-pack, and the