I hate my underwear.

All of it.

This is what I lie awake at night thinking about, usually around 2 a.m., because that’s when I flop over and invariably get a wedgie.

No matter what chonies I’m wearing, they always ride up on me and I’m not sure what that means — if I am, ahem, “outgrowing” them or if the elastic is shot because they’re old or if it’s because I need to stop rummaging through the bargain bins during Nordstrom Rack’s 25 percent off Clear the Rack events for my unmentionables. I choose to believe it’s that latter reason. Or maybe the middle one.


Also, in other underwear-related news, I knew Captain Underpants long before he was a Hollywood big shot. A friend who’s an elementary school teacher introduced me to his books many years ago. Love. I bristle at the suggested age level of 7-10.


So…. I’ve signed an NDA.

Juicy, right? Nah. Eight years ago, I was on a Food Network show, “Throwdown with Bobby Flay,” and I had to sign paperwork that was the legal equivalent of a pinky swear that I wouldn’t give away the outcome before the episode aired.


I have updated my list of Famous People I’d Most Like to Have Over For Dinner to include Jamie Foxx. I had no idea he was so funny and charming. I mean, I guess I should have.


I don’t care if it’s Yanni or Laurel. I’m tired of stupid debates that take over the internet. Or, maybe I’m just mad because I’m so out of the loop that I have to look up these memes, which is even dumber.

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