Writing is something that I've always loved. That stems from my love of being a reader.

Point? Maybe you aren't a Carrie or a Samantha or a Charlotte or a Miranda. Maybe you're just you.

I'm very detail oriented. I think that's why people enjoy my memoirs - because I tend to remember everything.

Over the summer we chatted one night while Angie stripped a bed, changed wet sheets, comforted and repajamaed a toddler, and chased down a car of speeding teenagers while shaking a brick at them, never once interrupting the conversation or setting down her margarita. The only reason this woman isn't president of General Motors is because she's chosen not to be.

Really? If I could hate my trainer? That would be ideal. I'd prefer to despise this person with the fire of ten thousand suns. So when I walk - nay, crawl - out of here at the end of my workouts, I want to lull myself to sleep by picturing my very talented and inspirational trainer getting hit by a bus. A bus that I am driving.

Fortunately, all it takes for us to be of one mind is some buttercream frosting.

Maybe I've moved to the dark side, but it's clean and nice and we never run out of toilet paper.