ACT I
While my husband Danny drives us down the highway after our Valentine date, I wax philosophical. Philosophy is not one of Danny’s strong suits.
Me: I wish I could get over the whole, “I want everyone to like me,” thing.
Danny: So do I.
Me: I bet I’m not the only writer who has friends that don’t understand. Like Dave Barry. I bet some people don’t like Dave Barry.
Danny: I don’t know. Dave Barry seems like a pretty likable guy.
Me: Yeah well, What about Erma Bombeck?
Danny: Isn’t she dead?
Me: Or Stephen King. I bet he gets all kinds of crap from some of his friends.
Both of us: Silent for a minute. Continue reading
