Mardi Gras is a pretty big deal here. It’s a party spanning two weekends, with multiple parades, various entertaining events, and the usual assortment of beads, beers, and bare boobs. Also: jambalaya. And Dachshunds.

He stayed away from her for a very long time. He sent someone to fix her heat and her oven, and, as the weather grew warmer, the broken heat wasn’t really a big thing anymore, anyhow.

My father gave me a Victoria’s Secret gift card for Christmas, which is weird on many levels.

Feeling like an idiot, Tucker drove. The Porsche was as zippy and responsive ever, but Tucker’s hands on the wheel were tight with tension, and he barely noticed where he was going or what he was doing.

Jean-Marc Trenier, ignoring the stir he was creating, walked into the Harvard Club and paused in front of Perkins’ table.

Tucker was a little worse for wear. That had clearly been Kingsley’s intention. Kingsley dropped him off at his house with a little wave and went zooming off with the silver Porsche. Tucker frowned after him. Kingsley could be damn clever when he wanted to be.

Tucker Trenier looked at the silent, stationary luggage carousel and forced himself to face the truth. His luggage was not there. He was so exhausted, so bleary-eyed, that even after forcing himself to face the truth, he could not make himself move to the little office to report his missing luggage. It took him several more dumb minutes before he forced his feet over there.

Thanks to a small blizzard, I had an evening free to drink and live-blog Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with my friends Electric Boogaloo and Hystrix. Here is the result.

The next time it snows, call in sick to work-just don’t point your boss in Echidna’s direction, please!-and enjoy one of these top five things to do with a snow day:

Once upon a time, my high school best friend’s spirit guide chose a dog for me. Specifically, a small brown dog who “doesn’t bark much.”