Friends are the twenty-first-century version of extended families.

Swingers are all from the suburbs and consequently brain-addled by car pools, shopping malls, and welcome wagons.

Lots of you know me as a lone, hard-bitten columnist, prone to lurking on deserted rocky promontories while searching for my muse.

There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth.

Contrary to popular cable TV-induced opinion, aerobics have nothing to do with squeezing our body into hideous shiny Spandex, grinning like a deranged orangutan, and doing cretinous steps to debauched disco music.

The moment you decide that you're a grownup now, and therefore must put away foolish things like staying out all night or cruising down strange highways is the moment you will lose that ineffable glow of youth. If you don't believe me, look around. Study those people who would rather go to shopping malls than dance halls, who think the height of depravity is bidding two no trump with only fifteen points. Every single one of these people has a stringy neck.

[On her dogs:] I have four now. My friends tell me if I get any more they'll have to hold an intervention.