It’s ironic that coming off of her chick lit books, these stories reveal Kargman as a totally cool, earthy, foul-mouthed (“I just write like I talk and I curse all the fucking time,” she says), seemingly un-chick-lit-y kind of woman. As she put it in the title of one of her chapters, she’s something of a “Wednesday Adams in Barbietown;” the only one not sporting Patagonia fleece at her new boarding school: “that little mountain logo may as well have been an active volcano that Pompeeii’d everyone’s ass into fleece for all eternity,” and supporting her three-year-old daughter when she told a classmate to “fuck off,” saying: “Oh, okay, well, she used it in the right context then!”

It’s a short read made even faster by her quick wit and wicked comedic timing, and true to her book’s mantra (a Woody Allen quote) “Comedy = Tradegy + Time,” Kargman somehow even found levity in her decidedly unfunny battle with cancer, “Tumor Humor,” in fact. “No sooner had I signed my contract [to write this book] did that shit go down.” she says. “I feel like laughter can be the best medicine—that cliché exists for a reason.”