Dear Santa
I took the liberty of scratching out a last-minute wish list, on the off chance that you care.
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I took the liberty of scratching out a last-minute wish list, on the off chance that you care.
It seems I sprung a wee leak. And being neither a potty-oblivious infant nor a nursing-home resident, I’m confused.
Peek behind a shower curtain or peer under a sofa cushion and you let loose a veritable geyser of chaos.
I don’t know what a goal kick is because I don’t spend my sideline time watching fútbol — I spend it ogling hot daddy coaches.
With the holidays approaching, I asked some friends what they think of thank-you notes, and I was surprised to find people staunchly divided on the value of these mannerly missives.
On October 31, the world population is expected to hit 7 billion.
Sucked into countless school fundraiser sales — whining and grumbling all the while — I’ve slung chocolates and coffee.
Santa Barbara author Jenna McCarthy’s new book, If It Was Easy, They’d Call the Whole Damn Thing a Honeymoon: Living With and Loving the TV-Addicted, Sex-Obsessed, Not-So-Handy Man You Married.
As a parent, I’m hoping to impart some life lessons to my son by modeling proper English in my texts.
If tenderness is the opposite of violence, then perhaps shutting down the ole shag factory is a reasonable whack at peace.