A. I write. I complain. I parent. I sleep.
A. Being bitter is not such a bad thing.
A. Who am I? The Dalai Lama? Sheesh. Actually, I have many ways to describe perfect happiness (and none of them have anything to do with achieving inner peace or letting go of old resentments) : a solid nine hours sleep, finishing a good first draft, selling my writing for cash money, making my seven-year-old laugh so hard she begs me to stop, warm brownies, new jeans, obsessively watching a television series with my husband (Buffy, Veronica Mars, Battlestar Galactica, the first couple seasons of Lost), seeing someone who's wronged me get their due, coming up with the perfect comeback, bantering, knowing I'm right in an argument and being able to prove it, playing with puppies. I think that just about covers it.
A. Death. Duh.
A. Paris. Duh.
A. "I mean, right?" "Y'know..." "Totally." "Annoying." "Oh. My. God." (Wow. This is depressing. This makes me sound like a Valley Girl. I am a girl. I do live in the Valley. So...like... totally.)
A. Not figuring out sooner what exactly it was that I loved to do that I could also make money doing.
A. Playing electric guitar.
A. I have three: Picking a perfect partner in my husband. Raising my daughter to be a delightful human being. Being able to earn my living as a writer.
A. Fast thinking. Good listening. Large vocabulary.
A. Myself, but richer. And taller. And immortal.
A. My sharp wit.
A. The Boy Who Lived.
A. Watching television.
A. Getting paid to write down my snarky thoughts and feelings on a variety of topics. Oh. I'm doing that.
A. Self-awareness. The ability to articulate feelings. Good fashion sense.
A. Pizza (but with an endless variety of toppings, so I wouldn't get bored).
A. The Way I Am (Ingrid Michaelson), I'm Gonna Make You Love Me (Jayhawks), Nothing'severgonnastandinmyway(Again) (Wilco), Not Ready to Make Nice (Dixie Chicks), The Luckiest (Ben Folds)