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My friends and I do a lot of reading about careers, family, feminism and all the attendant cultural baggage.
On the way to school this morning, my boys played the car game. Spotting makes and models, spouting information about horsepower and options, keeping tabs on who called the coolest cars.
If you have ever seen an episode of “Regular Show,” then you know something about why I love being in my 40s.
There's a sound coming from the playroom upstairs -- a lilting, tuneless little thread of noise that persists through the cacophony of hundreds (thousands?) of Legos being plundered.
I was giddy at the idea of an e-reader — all those stories dozing behind the sleek screen of that slender tablet
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.