Tamarah Rockwood

Occasion: You are invited to your friend's wedding. YAY! WEDDINGS! You want to go. But then you can't. Bummer.

Don’t say the following: “Maybe they’ll remember me!” “I bet they would love to get a message from me!” “Contacting the popular kids while we are in our 30s is a fantastic idea and doesn’t look desperate at all!”

There comes a point in every writer’s life when their brain just refuses to work.

"So, Hollywood's perfect couple is not just having a conscious uncoupling ... they are going the traditional route with a full divorce."

The last episode of “MyCoffeePot & Me” aired 2 years ago when I woke up to an unresponsive pot.

"I just can’t see Donald Trump on the ballot as being the most disgusting thing in the world. Right? I mean, there must be things out there that are actually more disgusting than Donald Trump."

My brain seems to have stopped functioning at its full capacity, and I am simply going through the motions of loading the car and unloading the car at this point. Kids? Check. Purse? Check. Shoes? Check. Towels? Purely optional. Sunblock? Check.

You really, seriously wanted this week to be different!

I worry about the food I give them. I worry about the clothes we have for them. I stress over the amount of time I spend with them . . . or don’t spend with them. When is it enough, and when is it overpowering?

Was I hungry? Was it low blood sugar? Were my feet falling off? Was I crazy? Was I dying?