Editorial Reviews. chancromaslodis.ml Review. site Best Books of the Month, April Tina Fey's new book Bossypants is short, messy, and impossibly funny. Compre Bossypants (English Edition) de Tina Fey na chancromaslodis.ml Confira também os eBooks mais vendidos, lançamentos e livros digitais exclusivos. Spirited and whip-smart, these laugh-out-loud autobiographical essays are "a masterpiece" from the Emmy Award-winning actress and comedy writer known for 30 Rock, Mean Girls, and SNL (Sunday Telegraph). Before Liz Lemon, before "Weekend Update," before "Sarah Palin," Tina Fey was.

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Spirited and whip-smart, these laugh-out-loud autobiographical essays are "a masterpiece" from the Emmy Award-winning actress and comedy writer known for. Download pdf Online Bossypants By Tina Fey (ebook online) #site https:// chancromaslodis.ml?q=Bossypants Synopsis: In her acceptance. Download Bossypants by Tina Fey PDF/ePub eBook free. The wonderful memoir “Bossypants” has jokes, anecdotes and unsolicited life advice.

In other cases, to get the best work out of people you may have to pretend you are not their boss and let them treat someone else like the boss, and then that person whispers to you behind a fake wall and you tell them what to tell the first person. I am the boss! I hope you enjoy it so much that you also download a copy for your sister-in-law. Origin Story My brother is eight years older than I am. I was a big surprise. A wonderful surprise, my mom would be quick to tell you.

Fey and her change-of-life baby. The day before I started kindergarten, my parents took me to the school to meet the teacher. While my parents talked to the teacher, I was sent to a table to do coloring. I was introduced to a Greek boy named Alex whose mom was next in line to meet with the teacher.

We colored together in silence. I was so used to being praised and encouraged that when I finished my drawing I held it up to show Alex, who immediately ripped it in half. Got it. During the spring semester of kindergarten, I was slashed in the face by a stranger in the alley behind my house.

Most people never ask, but if it comes up naturally somehow and I offer up the story, they are quite interested. Those sweet dumdums I never mind. It was not a black guy, Ricky, and I never said it was. An Oscar-y Spielberg movie where I play a mean German with a scar?

My whole life, people who ask about my scar within one week of knowing me have invariably turned out to be egomaniacs of average intelligence or less. And egomaniacs of average intelligence or less often end up in the field of TV journalism. So, you see, if I tell the whole story here, then I will be asked about it over and over by the hosts of Access Movietown and Entertainment Forever for the rest of my short-lived career. But I will tell you this: My scar was a miniature form of celebrity.

Kids knew who I was because of it. Lots of people liked to claim they were there when it happened. I was there. I saw it. Crazy Mike did it! Adults were kind to me because of it. I was made to feel special. I accepted all the attention at face value and proceeded through life as if I really were extraordinary. And I shall keep these Golden Globes, every last one!

My mom said it was too soon and that I would regret it.

S3, Ep. 12: Books as our biographies

But she must have looked at my increasingly hairy and sweaty frame and known that something was brewing. A few months later, she gave me a box from the Modess company. Through their spunky interchange, all my questions and fears about menstruation would be answered.

Here is a real quote from the actual edition: A book, a teacher or a friend may provide her with some of the facts about the menstrual cycle. But only you—the person who has been teaching her about life and growing up since she was an infant—can best provide the warm guidance and understanding that is vital. Well played, Jeanne Fey, well played. The explanatory text was followed by a lot of drawings of the human reproductive system that my brain refused to memorize.

To this day, all I know is there are between two and four openings down there and that the setup inside looks vaguely like the Texas Longhorns logo. I shoved the box in my closet, where it haunted me daily. There might as well have been a guy dressed like Freddy Krueger in there for the amount of anxiety it gave me. I was ten years old. When we got home I pulled my mom aside to ask her if it was weird that I was bleeding in my underpants.

She was very sympathetic but also a little baffled. At that moment, two things became clear to me. I was now technically a woman, and I would never be a doctor. Rosalind wrote the nonfiction book Queen Bees and Wannabes that Mean Girls was based on, and she conducted a lot of self-esteem and bullying workshops with women and girls around the country.

The group of women was racially and economically diverse, but the answers had a very similar theme. Almost everyone first realized they were becoming a grown woman when some dude did something nasty to them. I experienced car creepery at thirteen. Anyway, I was walking home alone from school and I was wearing a dress. For me, it was when I bought this kickass white denim suit at the Springfield mall. I bought it with my own money under the advisement of my cool friend Sandee. That turned-up collar.

The jacket that zipped all the way down the front into a nice fitted shape. The white denim that made my untanned skin look like a color. I was twenty-three and honestly, there was no need. My whole setup was still factory-new. But I had never been and I had some insurance, so why not be proactive about my health like the educated young feminist I was?

I slipped on my pumpkin-colored swing coat with the Sojourner Truth button on it and headed to their grim location in Rogers Park. All the windows were covered, and you had to be buzzed in through two different doors.

This place was not kidding around. I was taken to an examining room where a big butch nurse practitioner came in and asked me if I was pregnant.

We were having fun. Even Michelle Duggar would have flinched at this thing, but I had never seen one before. I was awakened by a sharp smell. I think I hit you in the cervix. I just went out like she had hit a reset button. When I woke up the second time, the nurse was openly irritated with me. Did I have someone who could come and pick me up? Then she asked if I could hurry up and get out because she needed to perform an abortion on Willona from Good Times.

In the space of thirty-six hours, they taught me everything I know about womanhood. They taught me that you could make a reverse tattoo in your tan if you cut a shape out of a Band-Aid and stuck it on your leg.

They taught me you could listen to General Hospital on the radio if you turned the FM dial way down to the bottom. Wildwood is a huge wide beach—the distance from your towel to the water was often equal to the distance from your motel to your towel. As a little kid, I almost always got separated from my parents and would panic trying to find them among dozens and dozens of similar umbrellas. What about the hips? Were they too big? Too small? What were my hips?

I thought there was just fat or skinny. This is what we get? Joyce DeWitt is our brunet representative? The standard of beauty was set. Small eyes, toothy smile, boobies, no buttocks, yellow hair. My daughter has a reversible doll: Sleeping Beauty on one side and Snow White on the other. I would always set it on her bed with the Snow White side out and she would toddle up to it and flip the skirt over to Sleeping Beauty. I did this experiment so frequently and consistently that I should have applied for government funding.

The result was always the same. You could put a blond wig on a hot-water heater and some dude would try to fuck it. Snow White is better looking. I hate to stir up trouble among the princesses, but take away the hair and Sleeping Beauty is actually a little beat. Sure, when I was a kid, there were beautiful brunettes to be found—Linda Ronstadt, Jaclyn Smith, the little Spanish singer on The Lawrence Welk Show—but they were regarded as a fun, exotic alternative.

Farrah was vanilla and Jaclyn Smith was chocolate. Can you remember a time when pop culture was so white that Jaclyn Smith was the chocolate?! By the eighties, we started to see some real chocolate: Halle Berry and Naomi Campbell. That was the first time that having a large-scale situation in the back was part of mainstream American beauty. Girls wanted butts now. Men were free to admit that they had always enjoyed them.

A back porch and thick muscular legs were now widely admired. And from that day forward, women embraced their diversity and realized that all shapes and sizes are beautiful. Ah ha ha. Now every girl is expected to have: Caucasian blue eyes full Spanish lips a classic button nose hairless Asian skin with a California tan a Jamaican dance hall ass long Swedish legs small Japanese feet the abs of a lesbian gym owner the hips of a nine-year-old boy the arms of Michelle Obama and doll tits The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes.

Everyone else is struggling. These are dark times. Back in my Wildwood days with Janet, you were either blessed with a beautiful body or not. And if you were not, you could just chill out and learn a trade. How do we survive this? How do we teach our daughters and our gay sons that they are good enough the way they are?

We have to lead by example. Instead of trying to fit an impossible ideal, I took a personal inventory of all my healthy body parts for which I am grateful: Straight Greek eyebrows.

They start at the hairline at my temple and, left unchecked, will grow straight across my face and onto yours. A heart-shaped ass. Permanently rounded shoulders from years of working at a computer. A rounded belly that is pushed out by my rounded posture no matter how many sit-ups I do. Which is mostly none.

A small high waist. Good strong legs with big gym teacher calves that I got from walking pigeon-toed my whole life. Wide German hips that look like somebody wrapped Pillsbury dough around a case of soda. If I ever go back to that beach in Wildwood, I want my daughter to be able to find me in the crowd by spotting my soda-case hips. And if I ever meet Joyce DeWitt, I will first apologize for having immediately punched her in the face, and then I will thank her.

Also, full disclosure, I would trade my feet for almost any other set of feet out there. Delaware County Summer Showtime! All names in this story have been changed, to protect the fabulous. Gay Wales In , a young Catholic family man named Larry Wentzler started a youth theater program in my hometown called Summer Showtime.

It really is a terrific model for a community program. In the process, all the kids would learn about music, art, carpentry, discipline, friendship, and teamwork. Larry built a beautiful bird feeder, and the next thing you knew—full of squirrels.

He promptly broke up with me to date a hot blond dancer girl to whom he is now married, God bless us every one. You know, to test batteries before I put them in my Walkman. Those first few nights of being freshly, brutally dumped and sitting alone in the box office were not so great. They loved me and praised me. I was so funny and so mean and mature for my age! Before my evening shift, I would hang out with my new friend Tim, who ran the costume department. Parents of the world, this is where you want your seventeen-year-old daughter spending her summer—snorting her DQ Blizzard out her nose from laughing so hard.

The only person funnier than Tim was his meaner, louder, higher-pitched brother Tristan. One family, two impressively gay brothers. That summer I got to know four families in which half the children were gay. What Wales is to crooners, my hometown may be to homosexuals—meaning there seems to be a disproportionate number of them and they are the best in the world!

But I was filled with a poisonous, pointless teenage jealousy, which, when combined with gay cattiness, can be intoxicating. Like mean meth. You guessed it, old Battery-Tester Joe. I got to watch him in the show every night and then count my stubs in a four-foot room while he and the blonde left to get pizza. And if he had, she probably would have shoved it up her twat and tried to turn it on. This is the kind of mean stuff Tristan and I bonded over.

The unstated thing that Tim and I had in common was that we had crushes on all the same boys. The only difference was, I was allowed to talk endlessly about my feelings and Tim was in the half closet. He certainly never made a move on anyone. His crushes would manifest themselves in other ways.

Lots of teenage girls have taken comfort under the wings of half-closeted gay boys, but how many of us can brag that her two best friends in high school were twenty-five-year-old lesbians? I met Karen and Sharon one day in the middle of our giant thousand-seat auditorium. Karen was the improv teacher and Sharon was the head scenic painter, and the three of us found ourselves spellbound by the spinning mobile of profanity that was hanging from the ceiling.

Karen and Sharon had been a couple at some unspecified time in the past but were now just friends with asymmetrical haircuts. We spent days and weeks doing nothing, calling one another ten times a day to schedule our nothing-doing. Do you remember what a cultural phenomenon homemade nachos were? We just stood around eating crackers. You know that game Celebrity that you and your friends invented in college?

It was developed by NASA to keep girls virgins well into their twenties. And second of all, we played it better than you because we played it four nights a week. We wore it out. Playing Celebrity Boff with two half-closeted gay guys, two lesbians, and one straight girl made for an easy game.

Antonio Banderas appealed to all sectors. They welcomed these weirdos they were weirdos in other ways, not because of their sexual preference with open arms and fed them all until they were sick. I guess I should also state that Karen and Sharon never hit on me in the slightest and it was never weird between any of us.

The straight boys quickly learned to be accepting and easygoing, and the straight girls learned over the course of several years to stop falling in love with gay boys. By August, I was coming out of my gloom. I took a free afternoon dance class where we basically just did jazz runs back and forth across the lobby. Since I had been thrown over for a dancer, this stung.

But I persevered. I was the youngest person in our group of friends and I always had a curfew. I was notorious for freaking out when it was time to go. After the Greatest Summer I had to take eleventh-grade health in twelfth grade.

I had postponed it the year before so I could take choir and Encore Singers—it was kind of a big deal to be in both, whatever. I was alto 1, but sometimes they had me sing second soprano. In downtown Philadelphia. Stop asking about it! The health teacher, Mr. Garth being lured into a van by Paul Lynde. But there was no turning back. He had already eaten half of it. My blood started to boil as he continued. Just get out of there and tell the nearest adult. It became clear that my school life and my Showtime life were separate.

I was a teetotaler at the time, and none of my close friends were big drinkers. I went with Karen and Sharon, and the place was already packed when we got there. There was an unclaimed dog turd in the hall outside the bathroom. People sat in small groups, talking about the other small groups that were just out of earshot.

My ex and the dancer made a brief appearance, but I held my head high. Reviews Review Policy. Published on.

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More featuring humor. See more. Thank You for Coming to Hattiesburg: Todd Barry. Yes, the massively famous comedian. I have billions of fans all over the world, so I do my fair share of touring. My original plan was to book one secondary market show in all fifty states, in about a year, but that idea was funnier than anything in my act.

So, instead of all fifty states in a year, my agent booked multiple shows in a lot of states, plus Israel and Canada. Thank You for Coming to Hattiesburg is part tour diary, part travel guide, and part memoir Yes, memoir. Just like the thing presidents and former child stars get to write.

Follow me on my journey of small clubs, and the occasional big amphitheater. Watch me make a promoter clean the dressing room toilet in Connecticut, see me stare at beached turtles in Maui, and see how I react when Lars from Metallica shows up to see me at a rec center in Northern California. Secrets and Stories from Stage, Screen, and Interwebs.

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Joan Rivers. When her daughter Melissa gives her a diary for Christmas, at first Joan is horrified—who the hell does Melissa think she is? That fat pig, Bridget Jones? But as Joan, being both beautiful and introspective, begins to record her day-to-day musings, she realizes she has a lot to say. About everything. And everyone, God help them. The result? Jojo Moyes. Where We Belong. The Virgin Cure.

Ami McKay. The Painted Girls. Cathy Marie Buchanan. Uganda Be Kidding Me. Chelsea Handler. Leaving Time with bonus novella Larger Than Life.

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Tina Fey Bossypants PDF 7f3a48393

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Kate Morton. Where'd You Go, Bernadette. Maria Semple. The Luminaries. Eleanor Catton. The Martian. Andy Weir. The Cuckoo's Calling. Robert Galbraith. I've Got Your Number. The Orenda. Joseph Boyden. Rainbow Rowell.

Alix Ohlin. Pretty Girls. Karin Slaughter. We Are Water. Wally Lamb. When Breath Becomes Air. Paul Kalanithi. Career of Evil.


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After a series of failed experiments with Caucasian men, I discovered that what I am really into is Caucasian men. The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo. There was an infestation of gypsy moths killing the trees in our neighborhood.

Also, I will send you a nice ham serves twenty. The twin house I grew up in was across the street from the border of West Philadelphia where Don Fey grew up. Sue Monk Kidd. As a little kid, I almost always got separated from my parents and would panic trying to find them among dozens and dozens of similar umbrellas.

Content Protection. Revenge Wears Prada.