Ms. Roshell Goes to Washington
The Tinsel-Town tourist revels in her own reverence, confessing that our nation’s capital is more dazzling than the Sunset Strip.
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The Tinsel-Town tourist revels in her own reverence, confessing that our nation’s capital is more dazzling than the Sunset Strip.
When I backed out of my driveway and entered into the real world of driving, I was like a small, fluffy bunny in a pit of angry, rabid Rottweilers.
Across the world, young women are being kidnapped, raped, and shot to death while pursuing an education.
It turns out that even Hall of Famers strike out 70 percent of the time, but the statistic doesn’t soothe me. Why are we asking 8-year-olds to do the near impossible?
Last month was the first time in our 10-year history that our book club just sort of didn’t meet.
Sandra Tsing Loh comes to S.B. to talk about her new menopausal memoir, The Madwoman in the Volvo: My Year of Raging Hormones.
I’m bossy. It’s not an endearing quality, nothing to brag about. But my classmates and I can attest that it’s absolutely accurate.
I have a rule against drunk shopping. The policy sprang from necessity after attending my first-ever school fundraising auction.
At the recent launch party for my newest book of columns, Broad Assumptions, I held a contest inviting guests to submit the first and last lines of a column they’d like me to write.
“How do I look?” It’s a funny question coming from a woman with severe bed head, a drooping lip, and prune juice stains on her hospital gown.