In the last half decade or so, I’ve come to think of titles like bras: necessary packaging, holding everything together. The last thing I put on. Lately when I have to come up with a title, my husband and I play a game: he throws puns at me until one sticks. It’s quickly becoming my favorite game.
Here is the rejected batch from my latest column.
My Aunts Make Me feel Like a Marillion Bucks