A few years ago, and after two different workshops on "How To Write A Half-Hour Comedy," I completed television pilots, both of which I considered to be terrific and ready for bids by production companies. But when I received notes from my instructors, classmates, and even a Hollywood agent, I thought, Well that was fun, and tossed their comments in the trash and my months of work into a file cabinet.

Actually, the only person judging these various recipes was I, in the midst once again of switching from dinners purchased at supermarket hot bars to home cooking. My most recent dive into healthier and cheaper menus was inspired not by a New Year's vow, but through the writings of author Roxane Gay. 

was startled. She stared at me as if I had stepped on a hidden bomb and my body burst into hundreds of pieces. In a way, I had tapped into something dangerous: my anger. As I unleashed my fiery response to her complaint about me, instead of defending herself or fighting back, she did something unexpected: she apologized.

Tommy so loved our house on Dakin Street in Chicago's Independence Park neighborhood -- with its front porch, back deck, and his vegetable garden -- that he vowed he'd only leave, "feet first." And sadly, that's how my second husband departed the home we had shared for 12 years. I'm reminded of his declaration because now, in my latest apartment, I'm having similar feelings about permanency.

watched as she stepped on the scale. After she dropped the large white towel that our health club provides, I continued my gaze while she studied the digital numbers roll, and then settle.

 She's in her 30's; I thought to myself, for if she were any older, certain body parts would've begun to plunge. The tush was delightfully rounded, unlike my flat one - an unfortunate gift from my mother's side of the family.