I believe that if you have never been tempted to dance to “Pumping Up the Party” by Hannah Montana, you are already a little bit dead inside.
I believe if coffee were declared illegal, a cartel of PTA moms would be powerful enough to rival the Colombian drug lords within six months.
I believe teenage girls are secretly running the world. Otherwise, the success of Twitter makes no sense.
I believe bikini waxing gives me the right to think of myself as brave.
I have trouble accepting the idea that James Bond could actually drive like that without getting someone killed, but I do believe it is possible that Daniel Craig and I could run into each other somewhere, in an elevator maybe, or an airport, where we would bond over a shared passion for olives and wordplay and exchange phone numbers.
I believe my husband would be okay with this.
I believe Post-it Notes are invisible to children.
I believe my teenage son secretly does know which day the garbage goes out.
I believe that scrubbing toothpaste off the sink while blow-drying my hair gives me the right to think of myself as an effective multitasker, even if I end up with toothpaste in my hair.
I believe I am the kind of woman who sports a tattoo in some sexy location. I just don’t think I need a tattoo to prove it.
I believe everybody is sanctimonious about something and that recognizing this fact makes me a better human being than most people.
I believe that my failure to develop a working system of organized family life is the result of deliberate sabotage and not a flaw in my system of charts, thumbtacks, hooks, storage containers and Post-it Notes.