Like many people who have been stuck at home, I’ve become a novice birdwatcher. Some of the birds I see are easy to identify, like the wild turkey that wandered into the yard, or the two vultures that decided to perch on my back deck one day. (Let me say that again: There were VULTURES. On m…

Not to brag or anything, but I’ve been practicing self-isolation for a couple of weeks now, and I’m pretty good at it.

Ah spring! The daffodils are blooming, the birds are chirping, something in the house is beeping.

A few months ago, my husband and I were in the midst of some serious downsizing when he looked at me and asked, “Are we keeping the piano?”

Remember when online personality quizzes were fun? “Which Disney Princess Are You?” (I’m Jasmine). “What Would Be Your Fate in The Hunger Games?” (I would win! But only because I ran away and hid really well).

Just as there as those of us who watch the Grammys just to see who’s going to get bleeped, or the Oscars to see how low the cleavage can go, or the Golden Globes to see whom Ricky Gervais insults, there are those of us who watch the Super Bowl solely for the commercials.

Here I sit, with all the world’s collective knowledge, spanning thousands of years, at my fingertips, funneled through wires and through the air into a remarkably tiny machine balanced on my lap.