Whenever I see a family and one child is trudging slightly behind everyone and crying, I want to lean in and whisper, “Someday you will write jokes.”
It’s not the holidays until I see two minivans with red noses lock antlers over a parking space at Target.
Happy anniversary to the almond at the bottom of my purse.
I opened my front door and saw a coyote in the yard and said “Oh, sorry” and closed the door like I’d walked in on an unlocked bathroom stall.
My parents are happily celebrating their 50th anniversary. “That will be you and me one day,” I quietly whisper to the gym membership I can’t cancel.
I want to be wealthy enough to leave notes for the housesitter like: “If the leopard seems bored, jog him on the treadmill. He can watch The Parent Trap.”
Popular misconception: women brag about designer clothing. Most women I know whisper “This was $7 at TJ Maxx” or “I grabbed the wrong bag at LAX and two hitmen are chasing me, but look, free romper.”
ME: My dog loves it when I work from home.
DOG [to camera, opening beer]: Between you and me, it’s incredibly inconvenient. I had shit planned today.
The real you is what happens when you walk into a surprise spider web.
How enormous was the spider I just found in my bathtub? It put down its Kindle, grabbed a nearby towel, and muttered, “Does nobody in this house knock?”