Joni Edelman

“I don’t even know what to say, Joni. Your baby isn’t alive.”

Here’s something that isn’t rocket science either, Stephen Hawking: Diets don’t work.

Our relationship has been a little complicated. I've loved you a lot, and I've loathed you at least that much, but mostly you've just gone unnoticed. Except for those 5 to 7 days every four weeks when you made your presence quite evident, what with the river of life blood and the random excruciating, and from what I can tell, unnecessary, contractions.

No, Bill Cosby isn't my dad. But he was like one to me growing up.

You can work your butt off and still be left with a tummy. Bummer.

They will 

I'll never forget the day I discovered the name for my mental illness.

Let's get to it—a primer on The Sex.

By baby three, well let’s just say things are a little anticlimactic, at least where furnishings are concerned. Hand me down crib. Check.

She says she’s worried that the cat, whose name is Jack, doesn’t know what’s going on. She tried to explain to him that she was leaving for a while.