There are numerous perks to renting a 100-year-old house, chief among them guessing which paint layer belongs to which decade and just how much lead is in the chips you keep plucking off the carpet.

But there is a special kind of thrill in renting a 100-year-old house that has not been maintained whatsoever, and whose owner has in fact stated numerous times that she does not desire to spend so much as a dime fixing it. Benefits to this approach to property management include being able to live in a two-bedroom house two blocks from downtown and paying a little less than the average going rate for that privilege.

Read More

Last Thursday I boarded a plane and flew to Denver hot on the heels of the beau, who was there for work. The reason I went is because I suspected he was having multiple affairs. No, I'm just kidding. Though whenever he travels, which is regularly, I pretend he's galavanting around on a tour of sexual favors. "STOP HAVING SEX WITH STRANGERS," I text him every night that he's gone. This joke never gets old.

I also like to remind him not to die whenever he goes away on business, or briefly leaves the house on an errand, or sits in a chair and browses the internet on his laptop. Danger is everywhere, and he must remain vigilant. "STOP TRYING TO DIE," I tell him often. I'm pretty sure my tireless efforts are the only reason he's still alive.

Read More

So, you may have heard. Sitting down is pretty much the worst thing you could ever possibly do for yourself.

When you sit down? Your risk of cancer, diabetes, heart disease, common cold, allergy, leprosy, rash, scurvy, hangnail, and bad hair goes up a whopping 237 percent. When you sit down? All the electricity in your legs shuts off. That's right: sitting down is effectively your signature on a permission slip that states, "Let my legs fall off!" Just like that. Tomorrow, you are probably going to wake up with no legs, the flu, and a cowlick even the strongest hairspray can't tame.

Think about all the people you've known who have died. Did you ever see them sit down? YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT. 

Read More

My neighbors. Let me tell you about them.

Firstly, I am happy to report that Horse Girl and her ghetto boyfriend appear to be moving out FOREVER. What? I never told you about Horse Girl and her ghetto boyfriend?

Well. LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THEM.

Read More

Sunday night we lugged our suitcases into a stranger's house that somehow contained all our stuff exactly as it was left well over a week ago — or was it a lifetime ago? No matter. Nothing matters when you forgot to bring your heart back home with you at the end of your trip.

Read More

Visiting my family in Michigan always leaves me feeling a little bit like I’ve slipped the fragile bounds of reality and wound up in an alternate universe entirely.

For instance, one day while I was there I found myself tussling with logs. Like, the wood kind of logs. That come from trees. I don't know about you, but here in California, I never have any kind of interaction with trees that strays outside the boundaries of looking at them. Sure, we have regular old normal trees in the Golden State, which will certainly come as a surprise to those who think California is one giant tropical beach caressed gently by the shade of palm fronds and overrun by the supertanned gay Hollywood liberal Jewish media elite. And if a tree were to fall down here, where I live, well, I would simply wait for the proper authorities to come and haul it away.

But in Michigan, when a tree gets sad and falls down? Well, ma'am, the proper authority is you. You can't just leave it there splayed across your folks' property, you have to go around helping your dad pick up all the branches and twigs that broke off and then sawing up the tree into logs and stacking them. To use as firewood, or something. Or possibly contests involving brute strength. Or maybe you can set up a lawn chair nearby and just hang out. Have a drink. Hi, logs. Hi. What's going on with you? Feelin' a bit sappy lately, eh?

Ha ha! Ha! Ahh.

Read More