Charlize “Charlie” Edwards finally has it all: a house in Silverlake, L.A.’s hippest neighborhood, two fabulous best friends who always have her back, and a great (though hectic) job as the personal assistant to Hollywood’s hottest movie star, Drew Stanton. But best of all, Charlie has a newly feathered love nest with Jordan, the sexy photographer she recently started dating.  Maybe Charlie’s journal of smart-alecky life advice—which she’s always been better at writing than following—has finally helped put her on the right track.  Unfortunately for Charlie, Drew is causing complete havoc on his new movie set, her eccentric family is descending upon L.A. for the upcoming holiday season, and her love life may be back to square one.  Jordan has left L.A. to work on a film shooting in Paris, where the women are gorgeous, sophisticated, and possibly after her man.  And Drew’s handsome new producer, Liam, is an old crush who has reappeared to tug at Charlie’s heartstrings. Charlie’s torn between the misery of waiting for Jordan and the tingly feelings she has for Liam. But there’s nothing misery—or seduction—loves better than a great glass of cabernet. "Delightfully funny... loaded with hilarious one-liners... [and] filled with tips for the heroine's future great-granddaughter that are insightful and witty." -- Romantic Times (4 stars) Praise for A Total Waste of Makeup : "A sweet tale of the Hollywood dating scene." -- Chicago Sun-Times “Gruenenfelder, a Hollywood screenwriter, knows her setting and her craft. Well-written characters and a wicked sense of humor help this debut stand above the usual chick-lit fare.” – Library Journal “The perfect love guide for every girl (and their granddaughters and grandnieces).” --Cecilia Ahern, author of P.S. I Love You and Rosie Dunne "A hilarious cast of characters and the funniest, coolest heroine since Stephanie Plum...you will not be able to put this one down." --MaryJanice Davidson, author of Undead and Unappreciated Kim Gruenenfelder lives in Los Angeles with her husband and son, and continues to avoid anything even remotely resembling a real job. In addition to her books, including A Total Waste of Makeup and There's Cake in My Future , she has written feature films, episodic teleplays and two stage plays.  Chapter One Do not read and reread a man's text message, or e-mail, or listen to his voice message, over and over again. Do not try to delve into his words for hidden meaning, or call your friends to get their opinions on "what he really means." It's a message, not the Constitution—you're not supposed to study it. I'm sitting on my living room couch, an empty bag of Doritos to my right and an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights to my left, writing a book of advice for my future great-granddaughter. Why am I writing a book that won't be read for almost a hundred years? A few months ago, I started thinking about all of the things I wish I had known when I was sixteen and wish I could remember now that I'm thirty. I began my book a few months ago by telling her things like: You should never have a job that you hate so much you think, "Thank God it's Friday" every week of your life. Not to mention: You won't meet your future husband at a bar. And, my favorite: Some days are a total waste of makeup. In the past week, I've come up with a few other pieces of advice I like, such as: If you are going to show up at someone's house unannounced, call at least five minutes in advance. This gives your hostess four minutes to race around the house collecting dirty dishes to throw in the sink, and another minute to plan your death. All women think they can utter the following phrase: "If I had a dime for every sane member of my family, I'd have a dime." Never drink wine from a box. And just now . . . Do not read and reread a man's text message, or e-mail, or listen to his voice message, over and over again. Do not try to delve into his words for hidden meaning, or call your friends to get their opinions on "what he really means." It's a message, not the Constitution—you're not supposed to study it. Which is stupendous advice, if I do say so myself. So stupendous that I must immediately ignore it, walk over to my computer, and stare at the e-mail on my screen: Charlie, you're overthinking this. Have fun at the Halloween party. Talk to whomever you want. As you said before, we'll figure this out when I get home. No worries. Crap. What did Jordan mean when he wrote that? That we're a couple who trust each other, and therefore I can have fun talking to whomever I want while he's away in Paris? That he likes me, even though I've insisted that we should be on a break while he is in Paris? That he's already on the set sleeping with the Second A.D.? The past six weeks have been alternately perfect and hideous, and the hideous parts may be my own damn fault. I recently wrote to my great-granddaughter: You know wha