“Anne, are you killed?” shrieked Diana, throwing herself on her knees beside her friend. “Oh, Anne, dear Anne, speak just one word to me and tell me if you’re killed.”
“What would Emily Post do?”
“The machine doesn’t have Coke, it has Pepsi. A feeling of defeat chokes me. Will nothing ever go right for me again?”
Rarely do fat female role models appear in the United States (um, or elsewhere), so I put a hold on a copy at the library.
“It was a class called ‘Math Methods for Junior Learners,'”said Netta dryly. “If he could squeeze any Communist doctrine into that, he deserved a prize.”
For a whole week, some amazing book bloggers will be celebrating the release of Heather’s novel by inviting her into their webspace to talk about this funny, kick-ass novel filled with magical-realism.
By night she plays piano in a whorehouse, but by day she runs a bookstore she owns…
“…I yell loud enough for the neighbors three houses down to hear A racist lives here! A racist lives here!”
Once upon a time, last semester, I took a course called International Foods. I did this because I liked the idea of eating at school, and also learning in a room that had ovens.