Within 24 hours of posting information about my new book, someone was already complaining on Amazon. This person was nice enough to repeatedly state she was a fan of my writing, but found the title to be disappointing, and wildly lacking in imagination. I’d been planning to tell the story of how Why Moms Are Weird came to be, so here goes. Continue reading
Last night ended with three of us laughing and gasping in an elevator. I said, “Well, this is the strangest night I’ve had in a long time.” The other two quickly agreed.
I ended up at a bar with a new friend, who happens to be a very pretty girl. Now, listen. I’m aware that I live in Hollywood, where most girls are much prettier than I am. It’s not like I consider myself to be one of the hottest things on legs, but I am getting a little tired of being that girl. It happens whenever I’m out with my pretty single girlfriends, and we end up at a bar.
It: I’m the “other one.” As in, “I’ll take the blonde; you take the other one.” “I want to talk to the hot chick; you distract the other one.” “Do you think they’re gay? The other one’s pretty short.”