I Yearn To Be A Woman Of

Amen,' I Exclaim, Accidentally Spitting Out A Raisinet. I Pick Up The Chocolate With A Kleenex And Stuff It In My Purse. Ten Bucks Says A Month From Now I'll Have Forgotten About It And Will Finally Have Said Heart Attack When I Assume A Rat Shat In There.

The Living Room Is A Monument To My Impulsive Spending Habits. I've Got More Than Two Hundred Dvds, Including Cinematic Greats Such As Monkey Bone, Corkey Romano, And A Night At The Roxbury, Leading Me To Believe Not Only Do I Have Awful Taste In Films, But I Also Have A Chris Kattan Fixation. What I Don't Have Is $4000 Earing Intrest In A Money Market Account.

Maybe I've Moved To The Dark Side, But It's Clean And Nice And We Never Run Out Of Toilet Paper.

Quinn Cummings Is A Master Story-teller And Her Book Is Nothing Short Of Delightful. Her Insights Into Topics Like Celebrity, Parenting, And Cats With A Taste For Homicide Are Pithy And Uproarious And Not To Be Missed. Notes From The Underwire Is Charming, Hilarious, And Just Snarky Enough To Be Ultimately Satisfying.

Fletch Then Kisses Me On The Forehead Before Opening The Cabinet Under The Coffeemaker To Grab Placemats And Napkins. Retrieving These Items Is His Job Because I Kind Of Don't Like To Bend. I Also Refuse To Carry Anything Heavier Than My Purse.