Tag Archives: Life

Here’s Why You Should Never Boil Chopped Broccoli

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Can I do nothing fright? First, comes the news that I’m boiling my potatoes wrong for mashing; then, it turned out I’ve been using my colander wrong this entire time.

And recently, I spotted an Instagram reel that changed how I view boiling broccoli.

If you’re anything like me, you’re used to chopping your broccoli into florets and adding it either to a steamer or boiling water. But it turns out you don’t need to face those green crumbles all over your chopping board to begin with, and you might not even need to whip the board out at all.

Andrei Emelianov’s Instagram page andre_lifehack, which is filled with (you guessed it) life hacks, revealed in a video that a better way to boil broccoli is to impale the stem with a chopstick or skewer, turn the broccoli upside down so the head is submerged in your pot’s water, and then lay either side of the implement on the rim.

This keeps the veg in place as it cooks ― and when it’s done, you don’t need to drain it. Simply remove the entire head and chop off the florets you want, mess-free.


Huh!

Yep! Lots of commenters mentioned that it’s wasteful to discard the delicious (and fibre-rich) stem, but you don’t have to ― save it and chop it for a pasta bake or grate it for tasty fritters.

Of course, nutritionists say boiling broccoli means you lose a lot of nutrients in the water, so if you choose to steam it instead, simply trim the stem of the entire head so the whole veg can fit in your lidded steamer basked.
You can save the trimmed stem for later. And even if you’re not boiling or steaming your broccoli, you can use one of Andre’s other food tricks shown in the video; turn the broccoli head upside down and run the water through the florets that way when washing it, rather than using the less-effective floret-side-up approach.


Any other tips?

Yep! The reel is brimming with wisdom.

For instance, you’re better off chopping a large veg (like squash) by placing a knife along the side of the gourd and rolling the whole vegetables. It makes the cut much easier.

Also, you’re probably cracking pistachios open wrong ― rather than pulling two sides of the shell apart, try pushing them together until they snap for a simple release.

Loosen grapes from their stalk by placing the whole bunch in a tea towel and gently rubbing the top half of the terrycloth parcel ― they’ll gradually evict themselves from their woody homes.

And solidified, cakey spices that are stuck in a jar can be loosened by circling the base of another spice jar over the inverted bottom of the affected container.

Lastly, you can cleanly remove flour from the bag by spinning a balloon whisk in the bag and lifting the filled utensil from the bag ― it’s amazingly mess-free.

You can see the tricks for yourself here:

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Hoard Gu Pots? Oh, Do We Have Excellent News For You

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I didn’t realise until I moved to the UK that the glass ramekins used to hold Gu desserts are basically a second currency here.

People hoard them like dragons with gold coins, stacking them high in the cupboards under their sinks; and just as a giant winged reptile can’t actually spend any of the treasures it guards, I’ve never seen a glass-gathering Brit use one of their coveted cocottes.

Well, no more. Recently, I discovered something that’ll finally render your ramekin collection useable; it turns out that Pringles lids fit perfectly onto the containers, turning them into endlessly useful little storage pots.

That’s pretty handy, actually

Yep! One user commenting on Gardener’s World says that they make a “sterilisable, re-usable, airtight seed soaking/stratifying jar” that “stands up to boiling water well, does fine in the fridge and microwave too.“

You can write whatever you like on the lid with a marker before wiping it off when you want to reuse it, they add. The commenter had created holes in the lid of her food package waste hybrid container and used it for seeds.

You can see how perfect the combo is on this Reddit post, which led some commenters to say “Came downstairs to discover this in the kitchen holding cloves of garlic. Mum’s the real snackrchtiect [snack architect].”

I’ve just used to hack to store some leftover garlic mayo from my takeaway pizza ― you could also use it for bacon grease, or even spilled spices.

There’s more!

Looking for a sustainable (read: cheap) DIY Christmas pressie? You could fill the pots with your DIY spice mixes or tiny microwave mug brownie ingredients (bar the wet ingredients, of course).

I’m also obsessed with these easy Gu pot candles (though they don’t require a lid, necessarily).

Perhaps you could share a giant tin of loose-leaf tea with friends in their own individual lidded Gu pots ― and hey, who am I to stop you from wrapping some twine around the neck of the pot and creating a little herbal tea-style label with their name on it to add to the end of the string?

Or, you could simply stuff them with snacks like pretzels and send ’em on their merry way. One thing’s for sure, though ― ’tis the season to clear the Gu pot graveyard in your cupboard.

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A Guy I Once Dated Is Now Famous, And It’s As Weird As You’d Imagine

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My daughter was asleep in her room down the hall, and my husband and I gathered our bowls of popcorn and settled on the couch. I had my feet up on the coffee table, was comfortable in my sweatpants, and I relaxed into the cushions as my husband hit “play” on the newest episode of one of the most popular series on TV in recent years.

And just a few minutes into it, who should appear on screen but my ex-flame?

Let’s call him Mike. He always shows up when I least expect it ― and I really should expect it by now.

Every time it happens, I groan and ask my husband, “Is that Mike?” even though I already know it is.

“Yep,” he answers. He’s never as surprised as I am.

It all started with a commercial over a decade ago. I was watching the Detroit Red Wings back when they were good, and when the second period ended, there was Mike, laughing with some stranger on a couch. I don’t even remember what the ad was for because I was so shocked to see that familiar face staring back at me from my TV screen.

That was the first time I asked my husband, “Wait, is that Mike?”

They don’t know each other personally, but he’s known of Mike since he met me 15 years ago, when we used to go to my brother’s comedy shows and Mike was also onstage. My husband has always thought Mike is hilarious ― and he is, but still, it’s weird.

Then one night, we decided to watch a popular comedy, and there was Mike, only for a minute — but he was there, nonetheless. I’d know those rolling eyes and that crinkled forehead anywhere. I still asked, “Is that Mike?” I just couldn’t believe he had made it to Hollywood.

A few years later, while watching a highly anticipated remake of a popular movie from decades ago, guess who showed up in a pivotal scene, and guess who thought she might be seeing things? “Wow, he’s really made the big time,” I said out loud, astonished, more to myself than my husband.

Little did I know he was just getting started.

“Mike keeps popping up in my life in the most unexpected ways. I guess I should be used to it by now, but every time it happens, it feels like the first time.”

I have kissed many men. Most of them I haven’t seen in years. I know the possibility of running into them on the street is highly unlikely. And even if I did, there would be some I wouldn’t recognise or even remember. But Mike keeps popping up in my life in the most unexpected ways. I guess I should be used to it by now, but every time it happens, it feels like the first time.

I met Mike on spring break during my senior year of high school. I was with three of my girlfriends, and he was staying at the same hotel just down the hall from us with three of his guy friends. When we all bumped into each other, we learned that we all lived in the same state less than an hour away from each other.

We hung out with them the entire week, and by the end of the first day, I was already in love with Mike. He was funny and handsome. He had a suaveness to him. He was as smooth as the lines he used.

I felt like I was Sandy from “Grease” and Mike was my Danny. We played in the waves, kissed near the rocks, and I refused to believe that our romance would soon be over. Our brief affair felt more like a dream than reality and I didn’t want to return home, where I knew it would be difficult for things to continue. I may have been smitten but I wasn’t a fool ― we were 18, living an hour apart, committed to attending colleges on the opposite side of our state ― and I knew there was no real future there.

But, to my surprise, I later found out he was taking acting classes with my brother. What were the chances? So, after every show, we’d end up reconnecting. Ultimately, we couldn’t get past the distance, and eventually, he moved even further away to pursue his acting career.

There was a time when Mike and I weren’t all the different. We both liked acting and singing. We both liked “Rent” and the Barenaked Ladies. We both had big dreams for the future.

The day after Mike appeared at a major award show and I saw him onstage with so many other actors I greatly admire, I drove to my local community college campus and half-boasted, half-lamented to my composition students that someone I used to make out with had won.

There I was, making peanuts teaching 19-year-olds how to properly use a comma. It was hard not to compare myself to Mike — and easy to feel jealous of his fame and success — but then again, teaching college had been my big dream for the future. So why, when I saw him on that stage, did I feel so unsatisfied?

I had never really wanted fame ― not since I was in middle school, anyhow. And even then, I’m not sure I really wanted it. I mean, what 12-year-old doesn’t think they want to be famous? What I really wanted was to teach and write. I didn’t have dreams of moving to LA or New York. I loved the state where I grew up. And in addition to wanting a husband who was sweet and funny and kind, I also wanted one who was grounded, loyal and dependable ― things Mike could never really be while chasing an acting career. I wanted a family. I wanted stability.

And I’m happy to say I was lucky ― I got all of that. My life is much like many other middle-class Midwesterners: I have a job I care about, a modest home we’ve almost paid off, a wonderful, devoted husband, and a sweet kid I’m crazy about. Sometimes I write things that some people read, but for the most part, my life is quiet. And it’s exactly how I always wanted it to be.

After I wrote this essay, I ran to the grocery store and bought my daughter a new toothbrush. I couldn’t help thinking about Mike and how he doesn’t have to do his own grocery shopping anymore. He can probably pay people to do that. And I felt a twinge of jealousy again.

“There I was, making peanuts teaching 19-year-olds how to properly use a comma. It was hard not to compare myself to Mike — and easy to feel jealous of his fame and success.”

Mike’s life is filled with red carpets, designer suits and appearances on late-night talk shows — the exact opposite of quiet. The exact opposite of my life ― a life I love. So what’s the problem?

I guess it’s that these days ― maybe more than ever before ― we’re always comparing our lives to everyone else’s lives. And social media has made it even easier to measure how we’re doing against how someone else is doing ― or at least how they appear to be doing. We scroll through Instagram and see our friends ― or complete strangers ― boasting about their exotic vacations or fabulous home remodels or the good grades their children are getting, and we do our own boasting. We look at Twitter and see someone got a promotion or a book deal or a new car, and we share our own successes. But we all know that social media doesn’t always show the reality of someone’s life, and even if and when it does, should that make us feel any less worthy or that our lives are any less worthwhile? Of course not.

What we need to do ― what I’ve needed to do ― is remind ourselves that the grass is often greener and that we have our own blessings to count. There are always going to be people who have more, who have done more, who know more, but if we get and stay wrapped up in that game, we’ll never win ― or we’ll be too busy to realise that we’re already winning.

I followed Mike’s Instagram for a while. And I ooohed and ahhhed at some of his posts, but I also wondered if he would ooooh and ahhhh at any of mine if he were to see them. Maybe catching a glimpse of my adorable daughter or the family gatherings I cherish might make him a little jealous of my life. Who knows? In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Jealousy isn’t the point.

Even though I’m not (yet!) the bestselling author I hope to be one day and even though I’m not the Broadway star I dreamt of being when I was a kid, I’m happy, and that’s an incredible thing to be able to say.

It’s sometimes easy to forget that when the famous guy I once dated pops up on my TV, but hopefully, from here on out, whenever I see his face, I’ll be reminded that dreams come true ― both his and mine.

Jennifer Furner has essays in the anthologies “Art in the Time of Covid-19” and “A Teenager’s Guide to Feminism.” She has been published in Motherwell, Folks, Santa Fe Lit Review, Belmont Story Review, and others. She lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with her husband and daughter. For more of her writing, visit her website, jenniferfurner.com.

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23 Of The Funniest Tweets About Cats And Dogs This Week (Dec. 2-8)

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The Funniest Tweets From Women This Week (Dec. 2-8)

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I’m A Middle-Aged Woman. This Is What Happened When I Got A Happy Ending Massage.

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Way back near the beginning of pandemic, I had a real-life “Good Luck to You, Leo Grande” experience.

If you’re not familiar with the movie (now streaming on Hulu), a retired widow (Emma Thompson) hires a fine-ass sex worker (Daryl McCormack) to find some sexual adventure. (Spoiler: Adventure is found.)

In my case, there was no green-eyed Leo Grande. However, I did have two (2!) people working over my middle-aged body. Also, they weren’t official “sex workers,” though it did involve both sex and work.

I was getting a “hands-on bodywork session,” basically a massage with a (possibly) happy ending. Oh, it was all on the up and up. It was through an organisation, let’s call it Yonis R Us (YRU), that hosts retreats in glamorous locales where women of all ages (seriously, ALL, like up to extremely senior citizen) learn to connect with their bodies, their sexuality and their desires.

And yeah, a happy ending might be had, but the bodywork sessions were about more than that. It was about allowing yourself to accept pleasure and feel sexual without any of the body image/performative/goal-oriented pressures of a lot of hetero sex.

Getting rid of that last bit was going to be a trick for me. I enjoy spending my leisure time worrying about things like that new spot on my leg (fatal????), people who don’t text back immediately (dead???) and the like. My monkey mind doesn’t just chatter away during my rare attempts at meditation ― mine is more howler monkey, always on duty, hyper-vigilant and screeching from the treetops, alerting me to a constant stream of imaginary peril.

To be honest, I was secretly looking for a Magic Vagina Whisperer, someone who would force me to chill the F out, know what I wanted even before I knew it, and could play my body like a piano, or whatever musical instrument is the equivalent of my body (Bagpipes? Theremin?).

When Nanette*, the founder of Yonis, messaged me one day and offered me a private session that night, gratis, I was immediately like, “Yes, please!” It was to date, the best media perk I’ve gotten, and I am a person who recently received a huge box of weed products hand-delivered to my door.

About four seconds later, I panicked. The letting-strangers-touch-alllllll-the-naughty-bits wasn’t the issue. I’ve interviewed several sex workers and came away convinced that sex work is an important helping position. Providing loving sexual touch to people who aren’t getting it, for whatever reason, is a gift. I had no moral quandaries. Viva getting touched by a kindly, trained stranger/specialist!

But on that particular day, I was not feeling super fuckable. I already had a full-on pandemic body going on, even though we were just barely into it. Underneath my Bao–like belly, I was sporting a bush with the aesthetics of an abandoned parking lot.

As Emma Thompson told Vogue about the extremely last-minute preparations for her role in ”Good Luck to You, Leo Grande,” “I couldn’t go off to a health spa in anticipation of forthcoming nudity.”

Nor could I, Emma. I couldn’t lose the belly in one day, and in a flash of liberation, I decided I would leave the bush in “as is” condition. I was gonna own this “forthcoming nudity,” goddammit. The idea was strangely empowering. “Screw it!” I thought. “This is my body. Behold!”

That night I pulled up to a charming little house tucked down a shady lane somewhere by San Diego. I was greeted at the door by Nanette, who is short, curvy and warm, like a sexy fairy godmother. She introduced her associate, Rod Steele,* who is blonde, muscled and pretty much an ideal specimen of manhood, as well as being a lovely, gentle person.

There was a spacious living room and a large wooden dining table laden with snacks. I picked at the spread while we had easy talk about…something? Finally they asked me to go into the bedroom, disrobe and get up on a table similar to a massage table. I draped a sheet over myself and waited.

When they came in, they spoke to me gently and started giving me a massage. If you find yourself in a situation where two people want to give you a massage, I’d recommend you take them up on it at once. It was pretty great.

I closed my eyes as they introduced elements of sensation play, always asking permission first. There were scarves draped up my thighs, a little wheel toy with pokey things ― the idea was to stay in the moment and really focus on the sensations.

Somebody eventually started touching me where the bathing suit covers. There were some consensual flicks of a flogger and the introduction of a butt plug. It’s odd that I can’t remember the specifics of who was touching where, otherwise I could give you a play-by-play, like “Bishop to e5.”

What does stand out is that it was dawning on me that I wasn’t even close to having an orgasm, and I (ridiculously, I know this!) felt like I should ― like it would be polite to do so. And it felt absurd that it wasn’t happening. I was being stroked and lavishly feted by two gorgeous, sexy and attentive people. But I was lying there wondering if their hands were getting sore, and they regretted doing this for free.

So there I was: naked, the stimulation increasingly amping up and still not having an orgasm.

Eventually (two minutes? 700 years?) they brought out the big guns, the hallowed Magic Wand. If you’re not familiar, the Wand is a giant vibrator that’s pretty much a jackhammer for the lady parts. If there ever was a vibrator that could easily be converted to gas power (rip cord and all), it would be the Wand.

They applied the Wand, but my body would not succumb to it. I felt my monkey mind cockblocking the insistent ministrations of my electric lover. “Shit, it’s still not happening!” I thought, which for the record, is pretty low on the list of arousing thoughts.

Then it dawned on me. I thought about my best sex ever and how raw chemistry goes a hell of a long way towards arousal. Yes, the simple biological manipulation of body parts is a huge part of sex, but it’s just one part of a complex mix of lust chemicals, scents, the almost divine touch of someone who really does it for you and the particular appeal of a partner’s jawline/chest/thigh/thick dick/whatever.

In this case, all manner of diligent rubbing wasn’t gonna be enough. It’s the same reason a glory hole wouldn’t appeal to me. I’d need some backstory.

Here, I couldn’t just lie down on the massage table thing, spread my legs and get lost in it.

In discussing the “problems” of sex in “How to Think More About Sex,” the delightful School of Life co-founder Alain de Botton writes, “Great sex, like happiness more generally, may be the precious and sublime exception. During our most fortunate encounters, it is rare for us to appreciate how privileged we are. It is only as we get older, and look back repeatedly and nostalgically to a few erotic episodes, that we start to realise with what stinginess nature extends her gifts to us — and therefore what an extraordinary and rare achievement of biology, psychology and timing satisfying sex really is.”

But I digress. Through all this, the Wand was determinedly buzzing away, perhaps puzzled, not understanding why I was resisting its charms. I didn’t know what to do, so finally I mentally pulled up the images of my favourite porn. If you must know it’s the one with two college guys who, against their supposed straightness, get too turned on and simply must bone each other immediately.

Eventually, less being swept away by inevitability and more “I will make this happen,” ala Annette Bening “I will sell this house today!” in “American Beauty,” I had the orgasm. Check. Not huge, but there. Hey, way to ruin goalless pleasure with a goal, self!

Once the “sex” part was done, we moved back out to the living room. I sat on a couch, and Nanette and Rod settled in on each side. They snuggled in close and handed me an exceptionally good popsicle. We talked about what had gone down and how it was for me. Rod suggested I give the plug another try sometime. I had another popsicle (this is unrelated). It was A+ aftercare.

In the end, I still completely support this kind of work. If you can lie back and enjoy being attended to by two eager pretend lovers, get yer butt on up on that table. (Statistically, it’s likely that you’d dig it: Multipartner sex is the most common fantasy, according to Justin Lehmiller’s “Tell Me What You Want.”)

For me and my howler monkey mind though, the most thorough fuck of the night was the mind fuck I gave myself. It wasn’t ideal, but lessons were learned. Sex with another person who hotly desires you as much as you desire them is a rare and beautiful thing. This was not it. But it didn’t need to be that. It occupied a different space.

In this space, you can be sexual without worrying about pleasing another (or, like me, you can worry about it anyway) and that feels important. You can go to this place, go really deep sexually and emotionally with two other people, then be on your merry way, with no emotional reverb. And you might even get some popsicles out of the deal.

*Names had been changed. Except mine, which was probably a bad decision.

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Red Flag Symptoms Of Highly Contagious Infection That’s Spreading Across UK

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People in the UK are being urged to be on the lookout for symptoms of whooping cough, also known as pertussis, which has been sweeping the nation.

Whooping cough is a bacterial infection of the lungs and breathing tubes. It spreads very easily and can sometimes cause serious problems. As a result, it’s important for babies, children and pregnant women to get vaccinated against it.

There has been a 250% increase in cases of the illness compared to last year, according to Express Healthcare Management.

Earlier this year, the UK Health Security Agency revealed there was a seven-year low in maternal whooping cough vaccination uptake, leaving mothers and newborns at risk of hospitalisation.

With the rise in infections, pregnant women are being urged to get vaccinated as soon as possible.

Professor Beate Kampmann, of the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, told The Sun: “The rise in cases might be because of missed vaccination appointments, possibly during the pandemic.

“Severe disease is almost entirely preventable if the mother is vaccinated in pregnancy and her protective antibodies reach the baby through the placenta and protect until the baby gets its own vaccines.

“It is therefore important that everyone looks at their vaccination records to check if they might have missed this vaccine, which is given with the routine childhood immunisations and in pregnancy.”

Symptoms of whooping cough

According to the NHS, the first signs of whooping cough are similar to a cold, such as a runny nose and sore throat (a high temperature is uncommon).

After about a week, you or your child:

  • will get coughing bouts that last for a few minutes and are worse at night
  • may make a “whoop” sound – a gasp for breath between coughs (although young babies and some adults may not “whoop”)
  • may have difficulty breathing after a coughing bout and may turn blue or grey (young infants)
  • may bring up a thick mucus, which can make you vomit
  • may become very red in the face (more common in adults)

The cough may last for several weeks or even months.

Ask for an urgent GP appointment or get help from NHS 111 if:

  • your baby is under six months old and has symptoms of whooping cough
  • you or your child have a very bad cough that is getting worse
  • you’ve been in contact with someone with whooping cough and you’re pregnant
  • you or your child has been in contact with someone with whooping cough and have a weakened immune system.

The NHS notes that as this is highly infectious, your GP may prefer a phone call.

Call 999 or go to A&E if:

  • your or your child’s lips, tongue, face or skin suddenly turn blue or grey (on black or brown skin this may be easier to see on the palms of the hands or the soles of the feet)
  • you or your child are finding it hard to breathe properly (shallow breathing)
  • you or your child have chest pain that’s worse when breathing or coughing – this could be a sign of pneumonia
  • your child is having seizures (fits)

If you think that you or your child may have whooping cough, it’s essential that you speak to your GP.

For babies under six months with whooping cough, there’s an increased chance of problems such as dehydration, breathing difficulties, pneumonia and seizures.

For children and adults, it is less severe but can still cause problems such as sore ribs, hernia, middle ear infections and urinary incontinence.

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We Fought To Keep Our Dog Alive When He Was Diagnosed With Cancer — And I’m So Grateful We Did

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As we pulled into the parking lot, space No. 8, I tried to tell myself that this was all one big misunderstanding.

“Hopefully this doesn’t take too long,” I told my husband and our chocolate Labrador, Bill. In September 2022, we were still parking outside in an allotted spot and calling the veterinarian’s office to let them know we had arrived before entering the building.

Bill bounced around as the technician took down his vitals. “There is no way my dog, the one sitting here begging for treats and attention, has cancer,” I thought to myself, almost numb to the questions we were being asked, like if Bill still ate.

“Yes, of course he still eats,” I wanted to scream. “He also still plays and pulls on the leash during walks and barks at anyone he sees on the sidewalk.” But the words were trapped in my throat, tucked beneath my N95 mask.

We found ourselves in the veterinary oncology office after our 6-year-old dog developed a cough. I had taken Bill to his primary veterinarian, fully expecting an antibiotic and a $500 bill. Instead, she told me his lymph nodes were slightly enlarged and she was going to aspirate them “out of an abundance of caution.”

“Sometimes it’s cancer,” she said casually, “But Bill is young and healthy.” Those words would haunt me.

When the oncologist came into the room, she confirmed what I was wishing against: Bill had B-cell lymphoma, a cancer that’s treatable, but incurable. Left untreated, he had weeks to live. With treatment, we could hopefully get a year or more.

Just three months prior, my husband and I experienced our fourth consecutive pregnancy loss within an 18-month period, coupled with the devastating news we would not be able to have children of our own. A lymphoma diagnosis for one of our dogs felt like a cruel blow from the universe.

During my fourth pregnancy, I spent months in bed fighting for my life and the one inside of me. Bill would curl his body up against my shoulder so I could rest my head against his back. I’d crawl to the bathroom, too weak to walk, and he would follow, resting his head on my feet.

The upside, the doctor told us, is that chemotherapy doesn’t manifest in dogs the same way that it does humans. Because it’s used to preserve quality of life – not be curative – Bill would never know he was sick, he wouldn’t lose his hair, and any mild side effects, like an upset stomach, could be well managed.

“Some lymphoma patients have lived a long time,” she said.

“That will be Bill. He will be the outlier,” I thought to myself.

And so began the fight for Bill’s life – one that I will be forever grateful to have had the opportunity to endure. Choosing to fight Bill’s lymphoma was a privilege, as it comes with a price tag that is simply not feasible for many families, and we are endlessly grateful we had the ability to make that choice. Surely, a dog who had walked through hell alongside us ― including licking tears off my face as I miscarried my third pregnancy on the bathroom floor at home ― deserved to have his paw held through his own battle. For us, there was no Plan B.

Bill got his first treatment on his seventh birthday. Chemotherapy treatment was new to both my husband and myself. I feel most prepared ― and capable ― when I’m armed with knowledge, so I showed up to Bill’s chemotherapy each week ― always parking in spot No. 8 ― with a list of questions. Our family developed a routine of weekly chemo appointments, and fostered a relationship with his care team that resembled old friends, not medical staff.

After five months, Bill completed his chemotherapy plan, donning a graduation cap, and we cheered in the parking lot as he raced to greet us. We spent two cancer-free months together before the cancer returned. Determined to enjoy more time together as a family, Bill began another chemotherapy protocol that kept us in a state of bliss for more than six months. In some ways, Bill’s lymphoma diagnosis put a dog’s already-too-short lifespan into hyper-focus and left us wondering: How can we make every day his best day?

"Bill graduated his first round of chemotherapy with a parking lot celebration, complete with a graduation cap and a small parade with his oncology team in the parking lot."

Photo Courtesy of Kait Hanson

“Bill graduated his first round of chemotherapy with a parking lot celebration, complete with a graduation cap and a small parade with his oncology team in the parking lot.”

Everything about the 13 months we gained thanks to treatment was an intentional effort to savour joy in both big and small moments. My husband and I began taking both of our dogs with us wherever we went, like car rides to get “pup cups” for no other reason than spending time together, and stopping to delight in the ordinary, like crawling into bed as a family of four to watch a movie.

Normally a couple who travels frequently, we opted for things we could do with our dogs instead. We took trips to the beach, where Bill ripped through our rental property covered in sand, a road trip to Kentucky, in which both dogs decided they hated riding in the car and whined for nine hours, and visited plenty of wineries, where Bill always insisted he get the best seat in the house. What may have previously irritated me left me smiling and grateful. I look back on every photo I took during that period (more than 10,000) and I don’t see cancer; I see happiness.

Because the author and her family lived in Hawaii for most of Bill’s life, the beach was his happy place.

Photo Courtesy of Kait Hanson

Because the author and her family lived in Hawaii for most of Bill’s life, the beach was his happy place.

On a Friday morning in October 2023, Bill didn’t eat the food I put down. Instead, he looked at the bowl, looked at me, and turned around to go back to bed. I texted his oncologist: “Can you see Bill today?” On the way, Bill enjoyed his head out the window the entire time and even smiled when we pulled into spot 8. Bill loved his oncologists and care team, and whenever we got to the parking lot, no matter how he felt, it was like an internal switch was flipped and he rallied.

Throughout that day, Bill had bloodwork, ultrasounds and internal scans ― all of which came back clean showing normal lymph nodes and organs. “He looks great, all his lymph nodes palpate normally, but something is definitely off,” I remember his doctor saying as Bill rested his head on my feet. But by the end of the day, Bill was eating, wagging his tail, and ready to come home. That night, we enjoyed celebratory crab cakes and Bill, in true form, tried to steal them off our plates.

At 4 a.m. I woke up to the sound of my husband telling me something wasn’t right. Bill hadn’t slept and seemed restless. I flipped on the overhead light and one look told me this wasn’t the same dog who was attempting to eat dinner off a plate last night. We administered fluids into Bill like we’d learned to do from his care team, hoping to perk him up, but it was no use.

“Bud, just tell me what’s wrong,” I whispered into his floppy ears as dawn broke.

Our oncologist met us at the hospital, and after another thorough physical examination where Bill presented normally, we all agreed it would be in his best interest to get some supportive care in the hospital. We walked out of the hospital that morning with only his collar and leash, and it symbolized a reality I wasn’t ready or willing to accept yet.

“Bill won’t eat for us. I also need to let you know that his white blood cell counts and platelets are tanking,” the ICU doctor told me on the phone the next morning. “We have reason to believe his cancer has moved aggressively to his bones.”

Bill and the author's husband at the hospital

Photo Courtesy of Kait Hanson

Bill and the author’s husband at the hospital

Puzzle pieces in my brain began shifting into place, and I suddenly felt stupid for thinking we had cheated cancer. By that night, we knew one thing for sure: Bill deserved to spend any time he had left with the people he loved most.

We brought him home and got in bed together for what would be the last time. Restless and unable to sleep, a feeling of dread nestled into my stomach. As the sun began to rise, I half hoped my lethargic best friend had done a 180 overnight, and I rubbed his back with an ounce of hope. Instead, he inched to the edge of the bed in an attempt to escape my cuddle smothering.

For more than a year, people had told us that we would know when it “was time” by the look in our dog’s eyes, a fact I had mentally filed in my brain’s “empty platitudes” folder.

“His eyes are a different colour,” I said to my husband when the morning light finally illuminated our room. I felt like the air was being sucked from my lungs.

That day, we pulled into the same spot that had comforted us for so long, for the last time. So much had changed since the first day we claimed spot 8 more than a year prior, and we walked into the clinic without a phone call, unmasked, and carrying the dog who once plowed through the doors. Alongside my husband and the team that had cared so deeply for him, I kissed Bill’s velvety ears as he took his last breaths.

"Even at his darkest moment, Bill was smiling."

Photo Courtesy of Kait Hanson

“Even at his darkest moment, Bill was smiling.”

“I feel like an idiot for being so hopeful,” I told one of Bill’s oncologists as she escorted us out of the building through a private backdoor that day.

“Hope is how you get through it,” she replied.

From the outset of his diagnosis, we had promised Bill one thing: When the bad days began to outnumber the good days, we would carry out our final act of love. At the time, we had no idea if that meant an extra month or an extra year. We stopped counting days and instead began counting moments – and we made good on our promise to him in the end without hesitation or regret. I think that was the lesson in all of this, directly from Bill himself: Life is too short not to savour every single moment and make it count.

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This TikTok Creator Wants Us To Pick Up An Actual Newspaper

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Every day, Kelsey Russell wakes up, eats breakfast and scans the day’s top headlines — but not the way you and I do. She props up her phone camera, pulls out a print newspaper or magazine, and hits “record,” spending nearly an hour laying out the deets of an article for her followers. Then, it’s off to class.

Russell, 23, is a pretty unconventional influencer. While her content has landed her at brand events, award ceremonies and even on “The Drew Barrymore Show,” the secret to her success can be found in her daily routine.

After classes — Russell is pursuing a master’s degree in sociology and education at Columbia University — she leaves one educational institution to return to another: her Harlem apartment. She winds down most evenings by scanning news pages, first for her own enjoyment and then for her audience’s clarity-driven consumption. Another hour is spent annotating the pages and researching in preparation for the comprehensive TikTok she’ll film the next morning.

“I got a subscription to the Sunday New York Times — the physical copy — for my birthday, and I think that bad, Gen Z biddies should read the newspaper,” Russell said, in her first media literacy-related piece of content this past summer. “And in order to bring back the newspaper, I’m going to literally document, every day, what I learn.”

This post marked the beginning of her journey to break down articles from various newspapers and magazines on TikTok. In a few months, Russell amassed an audience hooked on her snappy personality and her knack for synthesising information in a palatable and colloquial way.

Sourcing information from both local and national outlets, Russell largely tackles stories abut politics, economics and social justice through the lens of communities of colour. In a time full of uncertainty and a thirst for news and analysis we can rely on, Russell offers a port in the storm of information swirling around us.

Russell credits her father for her penchant for print media. Images of him sitting at the kitchen counter in their Atlanta home, newspaper in hand, are cemented in her mind. During her undergraduate studies at Boston University, he’d often mail her articles that reminded him of her ― most of which Russell kept but ignored. However, in 2020, there was an investigation in her home state that changed her perspective.

When Ahmaud Arbery, a Black man, was killed by three white men in Georgia, Russell’s father quickly became well-versed in the details of the case ― long before most mainstream publications caught on. He felt empowered to be ahead of the curve on news that affected his community, and this got Russell thinking.

“Being Black ― the fact that we’re just out here getting murdered, like everywhere. I realised, there’s something in print media where there are always going to be journalists trying to cover really small local towns,” she says, emphasising the importance of telling our own stories when we need to.

Russell’s lived experience as a Black woman is not the focal point of her videos; she aims to focus mostly on the subjects and sources involved. However, being a Black person wholly informs her quest for knowledge and her digital career.

“I think about it every day,” Russell says, referring to her racial identity. “Coming from a family of educators and entrepreneurs, we value education so much because we know people can’t completely take it away from us, yet they continuously try to.”

At a time when educational gag orders and the striking down of affirmative action threaten access to education for marginalised groups, the Black community’s history of creatively seeking liberation through knowledge seems prescient.

“The oppression of thought, learning and education has not [happened] solely to the Black American community,” Russell says. “That has been a tool used since the beginning of this earth to oppress. But Black Americans are the best example to look at what happens when you limit people’s access to reading, to writing, to education.”

This oppression is part of both our history and our present situation, Russell tells me. And she wants to be part of disrupting that.

There are dangerous and largely false narratives about Black Americans that mainstream media outlets often perpetuate. Our achievements and our agency are often disregarded or omitted, and it’s time to subvert that. “For me, the importance of being a Black woman is that I will continue to interact with these white supremacist media while I also uplift media that is not a part of that regime,” Russell says.

Russell’s TikTok content is as much for herself as it is for her community. Although she has become a trusted news resource for her audience, reading print media has also become integral to maintaining her mental health.

“I felt the sense of anxiety leave my body,” Russell says, recalling how she felt after making her first newspaper-related video. “It was all because I picked up the paper, which seemingly should be a thing that should make me more anxious, more depressed, and it didn’t. It actually felt like a healing moment.”

Russell says she fell back in love with learning about the world, no matter how grimy it is — because there are also beautiful moments of happiness and empathy to home in on.

Just a few months ago, Russell was in the same boat as many Americans, grappling with anxiety and choosing to avoid the news. But drawing on advice from her therapist, Russell invoked her childhood zest for information and read the newspaper to face her fears without potential distraction from digital devices.

Information overload, increased misinformation online and digital fatigue are fixtures of life for Gen Z. Despite this, Russell believes that we should double down on our engagement with news — not turn away from it. We can be the front line of a media literacy revolution if we continue to have discerning, galvanising scholars like Russell to guide us.

“Just because we have so much information doesn’t mean we know how to process it, and doesn’t mean we know what to do with it,” Russell says. “Do everything you can to not go numb, because your emotions are the coolest thing ever. The way you feel about things, that’s what gives you passion. It’s up to us to interact with the news institutions that already exist, to either change or demolish [them], whichever one we want to do.”

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Looking For True Love? First, Find An Orange Peel

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Professionals will tell you to be on the lookout for lots of green flags when it comes to romance. Patience? Check. Consistency? Double check.

But now, TikTokers have added another sign of true love to look out for ― and it involves orange peel.

If you’re not familiar yet, the orange peel theory “is pretty much how it sounds,” TikToker @neanotmia explains.

“You may really like eating an orange, but some people find peeling the orange to be an unpleasant task,” they shared (*nods in long nails*.)

So, you might ask someone ― your partner, a friend, a family member ― to peel it for you. And how they react can indicate where your relationship stands, some TikTokers think.

How? It’s just an orange

Well, that’s sort of the point ― it’s all about how your loved ones respond to the tiny, everyday problems we all encounter.

“The possible reactions are, ‘no, you can peel the orange yourself,’ or ‘(scoff) fine, like, you’re welcome,’ or ‘I’d be happy to peel your orange for you, no problem,’” the TikToker continued.

“Or maybe they proactively peel the orange for you because they already know that’s a task you don’t like to do.”

She then points out that you, yourself, might be bewildered by such a request, wondering why the person asking for your help can’t handle such a seemingly small deal.

But, as she says, “it’s not literally about the peeling orange ― they’re asking you for a small favour to see your reaction, to see if later, they can ask you for bigger favours.”

It’s about how you make each other feel when you’re in need, @neanotmia says. “It may be baby steps to building that trust.”

Some app users called a woman who went viral for sharing that her boyfriend brought home egg whites after learning she hated separating them for her baking a prime example of the theory.

In short, it’s all about making your partner’s life a little easier, and anticipating your needs when you can ― be it egg whites or orange peels. Aww.

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