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There's a lot I can't watch; there's a lot I can't read.
I'm obsessed with narrative — with the construction of stories, the vagaries of multiple viewpoints, the power of well-told tales.
Some people just have magic, don't they? They have magic and the minute you meet them, you know. You can just feel it.
I'm about to turn 41 and I am making some unpleasant discoveries about being a woman who's about to turn 41.
There's an article in The New Republic this month that will scare you to death about waiting until you're old (relatively speaking) to have kids.
Hey, you know what's annoying? People who have terrific lives and wonderful luck and great friends and family who love them and lots of everything they need who still manage to find stuff to complain about.
My little family reads the newspaper at the breakfast table every morning, passing the sections back and forth over toast and eggs and coffee and tea while we chat about the day ahead.
They say the best humor comes from pain, so maybe that's why the people I run with are all so hilarious.
I have always loved the Frog and Toad children’s books, and my favorite story in that series is one called “Alone.”
So what is the very last column I write in my 30s supposed to be about, anyway? All the stuff I’ve learned up to now? All the mistakes I’ve made and how I’ve grown from them? Bleah. That’s so boring.