Though author Cynthia MacGregor enjoyed reading the humorous books of such writers as Bombeck and Kerr in her minimal spare time, back in the ’70s, she couldn’t relate to their stories. Unlike those suburban moms, MacGregor, mother of one child and no longer a wife of anyone, lived smack in the heart of New York City. What’s more, her abode was an eight-room professional-and-living apartment that also housed her growing newspaper publishing business. Bombeck and Kerr’s concerns were septic tanks and suburban PTAs. MacGregor’s worries, on the other hand, were hiding the last banana from famished employees, protecting visiting clients from a fleet of paper airplanes launched by deadline-harried employees seeking stress relief, and defending communal chicken lunches from marauding office cats.