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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.
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.