Listen, I’m a 48-year-old copywriter with two kids in school, a wife who runs her own art gallery near Trastevere, and a commute that involves three different bus lines and a scooter ride through the chaos of Piazza Venezia. For years, I tried digital calendars—Google Calendar, Trello, you name it—and every single time, I’d forget … Read more
I’m a 48-year-old logistics manager living in the western suburbs of Chicago. Every winter, I watch my 2018 Honda Accord get caked in road salt and grime from the Eisenhower, and I used to spend $30 a month at the automatic car wash just to keep the paint from corroding. Last February, I tried a … Read more
Look, I’m a 48-year-old copywriter who takes the CTA Blue Line from Logan Square to the Loop every morning. For years, I carried a fat leather wallet that dug into my hip on the train and made my back pocket sweat like a deep-dish pizza in July. Last winter, I lost it twice in the … Read more
I live in a 900-square-foot condo in Toronto’s Liberty Village, and every winter, my wife and I wage war against the same enemy: the grey, gritty sludge that melts off our boots and gets tracked across our engineered hardwood floors. I bought a cheap steam mop last year, thinking it would save time, but it … Read more
I’m 48, a freelance copywriter living in a cramped flat in Clapham, and for years my desk looked like a war zone of pay slips and takeaway coffee cups. The real pain? London’s damp, grey winters make any attempt at greenery feel like a losing battle—my last “desk plant” died within three weeks because I … Read more
Look, I’m a 48-year-old copywriter living in a three-bedroom townhouse in Mt. Eden. My cat, a 9-year-old Ragdoll named Baxter, has gone through three different vets and about $200 worth of rejected premium wet food in the last year alone. I was at my wit’s end, wasting money on pouches he’d sniff and walk away … Read more
Let me paint you a picture: I’m a 48-year-old accountant living in a cozy 60-square-meter flat near Trastevere. My wife loves doing her nails after work, but our tiny bathroom counter can’t hold a full salon setup. Last month, she tried a cheap kit from a local market and ended up with glitter all over … Read more
I’m a 48-year-old dad working as a copywriter from our Prenzlauer Berg flat, and let me tell you—nothing kills a morning faster than trying to curl my wife’s fine, shoulder-length hair when Berlin’s damp, grey winter air turns every strand into a frizz bomb. I’ve burned her hair with cheap irons, spent a fortune on … Read more
You know the drill. You’re a 48-year-old guy in a cramped Murray Hill studio, trying to shave your back before a 45-minute subway commute to Midtown, but the humidity makes your skin break out by the time you hit 42nd Street. Last summer, I wasted $300 on a cheap IPL device from a local drugstore … Read more
I’m a 48-year-old dad living in a two-bedroom unit in Parramatta, and I’ve been burned before by cheap DVD box sets that skip like a scratched record. Last summer, I bought a “Complete Collection” from a dodgy seller, and half the discs wouldn’t play—my kids were furious, and I wasted $80. Living in Sydney, where … Read more