Joni Edelman

Suffering is America’s favorite thing to do. We starve ourselves to lose weight, and we’re a success story. We don’t sleep, and we’re just getting SO MUCH DONE. We do a thousand things a day and involve our kids in a thousand activities, because somehow, in some perverted way, that makes us successful.

Welcome to #RavsWriters, an opportunity for you to get to know some of the outstanding human beings who fervently type to make Ravishly the aw

Are the advances worth the trade-offs? You be the judge.

Help. Me. Please. And by help me, I mean, bring me my jumbo size jar of

I’m lucky to be smart, to have an astonishingly good memory. Or maybe I’m lucky to be bipolar.

If you decide pit or leg hair isn't a big deal, then bam! It's not a big deal.

I want my kids to have an understanding of the truth of sex, the ins, the outs, the details no one wants to ask anyone—least of all their mom.

When I was little, any time I got an insect bite or stubbed my toe, I had to ask my mom, “Am I going to die? If I was going to die from this, I’d already be dead — right?” I also had a 30-minute prayer that I needed to say at each meal or else everyone would be poisoned and die. And corners. I had to check all of them before I went to bed.

...I’m going to help you! By “help” I mean “tell you all the things that didn’t work.”

I did The Today Show, and after that spent 45 minutes talking to Inside Edition. If you're confused, imagine how I felt.