Let’s be real for a second… St. Patrick’s Day is a week away, and the panic is starting to set in. No, not the "did I remember to pay the electric bill" kind of panic (though, let’s face it, that’s…
Let’s be real for a second… the 80s were a wild time. We’re talking about an era that gave us mullets, shoulder pads large enough to land a Cessna on, and enough hairspray to punch a permanent hole in the…
Congrats. You’ve survived another 365 days of avoiding your inbox, pretending to enjoy kale, and wondering when, exactly, your lower back decided to go on strike. Let’s be real… birthdays after thirty aren't exactly the sugar-fueled bouncy house parties they…
Let’s be real for a second… the "Live, Laugh, Love" era is officially dead. It’s buried in a shallow grave next to low-rise jeans and those weird chevron prints from 2012. If I see one more "Mama Bear" shirt in…
Welcome to the bleachers. It’s 92 degrees, the guy sitting behind you is yelling at a shortstop who definitely can’t hear him, and your $14 stadium beer is slowly sweating through its plastic cup. You’re three hours into a game…
Let’s be real for a second… Mother’s Day is right around the corner, and the pressure is already mounting. You know the drill. You walk into a greeting card aisle and you’re immediately blinded by an explosion of pastel pink,…
Congrats. You’ve survived another 365 days of avoiding your inbox, pretending to enjoy kale, and wondering when, exactly, your lower back decided to go on strike. Let’s be real… birthdays after thirty aren't exactly the sugar-fueled bouncy house parties they…
Welcome to the bleachers. It’s 92 degrees, the guy sitting behind you is yelling at a shortstop who definitely can’t hear him, and your $14 stadium beer is slowly sweating through its plastic cup. You’re three hours into a game…
Let’s be real for a second… Mother’s Day is right around the corner, and the pressure is already mounting. You know the drill. You walk into a greeting card aisle and you’re immediately blinded by an explosion of pastel pink,…
Let’s be honest for a second… baseball season is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s several months of overpriced beer, questionable hot dogs, and sitting on cold, hard aluminum bleachers while the guy behind you screams at the umpire like…
