I grew up in the burbs of LA.

I once sat on the jury for a two-week murder trial, then overslept on verdict day.

A car insurance adjuster was a goon to me over the phone six years ago and I still occasionally fantasize about running into him at a bar while looking my hottest, having him hit on me, only for me to reveal to him, “George, it’s me… the girl whose Honda Fit you wrongfully refused liability for.” What can I say? Old claims die hard.

Once, I jokingly called my father a ‘pussycat,’ but didn’t realize how crucial it was to include the ‘cat’ part. That was my first young lesson in the dangers of shorthand.

My relationship status with my house plants? It’s complicated.

I can’t get enough:

• continental breakfasts

• Bob’s Big Boy cherry coke

• early solo matinees