Sex and the single mother ... doesn't exist!
And I, Claire Marsh, should certainly know, because these days my to-do list looks like this:
Bring daughter ZoŽ to a birthday party, where twenty second-graders will be encouraged to play ice hockey.
Help ZoŽ with impossible school projects -- just how is she supposed to create a complete ancient Irish village?
Bring ZoŽ on a series of play dates with obnoxious kids. Hope that their nannies are actually paying attention, because their Upper East Side mothers and Wall Street fathers sure aren't.
Don't get me wrong, I LOVE my daughter. She was the best thing that came out of my marriage. (What can I say about a guy who dumped me for an older woman?) But there's something seriously wrong when my daughter -- and my thirty-year-old sister -- have better social lives than I do. After all, I'm in my twenties; I'm still cute! When do I get my very own play date?