Two weeks ago, my daughter, the arts writer for The Los Angeles Times, called in tears.
“I’m covering the Oscars Sunday and I have bronchitis and 101 degree fever,” she wailed. “What am I going to do? I have story deadlines all week. I need to buy a new dress. I need a manicure, a pedicure and a blow dry. I will never get it all done. I will show up on the red carpet looking like a street person.”
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