One day, in 1982, for 15 minutes, my hair was perfect.

A young bride can put on makeup at 6 in the morning and look fabulous at midnight. I have about a 15-minute window where I actually look good, and then I have to wash my face and start over.

I'm married, which means that instead of occasionally wondering about men from afar, I actually live with one and can be constantly astounded by the strange male brain.

My mother had always taught me to write about my feelings instead of sharing really personal things with others, so I spent many evenings writing in my diary, eating everything in the kitchen and waiting for Mr. Wrong to call.

In 1976 I wrote a lot about women trying to claim the right to work.

In the '80s, I thought I'd be a success as a woman if I were the president of a billion dollar company, had a sensitive soul-mate husband, two bilingual children, buns of steels, and a compost heap. In the '90s, I pretty much feel I'm a success if I can get through the afternoon without eating a cheesecake.

Allow yourself to graduate, every five years.