The photographer in my head says: Give me peace. Flash. Give me release. Flash.

A male chauvinist pig isn't born, he's made, and more and more of them are being made by women.

This isn't about love as in caring. This is about property as in ownership.

If there’s any trick to doing a job you hate . . . Mrs. Clark says it’s to find a job you hate even more.

Of all the priceless objects left behind, this is what we rescue. These artifacts. Memory cues. Useless souvenirs. Nothing you could auction. The scars left from happiness.

For years now, I've wanted to fall asleep. The sort of slipping off, the giving up, the falling part of sleep. Now sleeping is the last thing I want to do.

To hell with housework, our top priority has always been between our legs.