What do you say to God when he is talking about taking a golf trip around the world's most famous courses and you haven't even been to Paris? And you have a tattoo that suddenly seems trashy and your clothes don't fit right and you wish you had never left Kentucky.

But as he walked out the door, I remembered that "Art is a guaranty of sanity." And money isn't. And I would hate golfing around the world when Paris is waiting.

An excerpt from I am Bossy

An excerpt from My Messy Thrilling Life

Late… long after we were over… I slid off the bed and stared at the dark wall and screamed. I screamed and screamed. The whole house echoed. When it was over – when the wood gave up the noise and the cries faded - I stood, pale and ghostly, and haunted the very same rooms you were just in. Doors you’d just passed through. Chairs you’d just left. It was muggy last night and there were thunderstorms. The air was charged. Electric. My nightgown clung to my legs and sparked as I moved and haunted.

An excerpt from Fridaville

Once upon a time in a land far away—112 miles from a decent hair salon to be exact—lived a muckle of frizz named Bossy. And this Bossy was in the habit of getting her hair cut by people who made her cry, until she met an Italian boyfriend who believed in embracing the Inner Curl.

But Antonio was expensive. Not new-roof expensive, but ticket-to-Arizona expensive. And so Bossy had to look elsewhere, and that elsewhere was in the produce aisle of her local grocery store where Bossy asked her friend where she got her hair cut, because this friend is a super cute Yoga Instructor with yoga clothes and a yoga physique and damp yoga curls springing around her neck.

They chatted about their problem hair and by the end of the day Bossy had an appointment with the Yoga Instructor’s hairstylist because Bossy failed to recognize that the only way Bossy is going to truly look like the Yoga Instructor is by doing actual yoga.