When children reach the age of sixteen, they discover the meaning of life: car keys.

If I had my life to live over I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.

Sex in the nineties is boring. The problem is that it has gone from an active act to a spectator sport. We watch people make love on television and in films. We call 900 numbers to hear what someone would do to us if they weren't sitting in a boiler room of other dirty talkers reading from a prepared script.

There are few things in this world more satisfying than having your son teach you how to play tennis, unless it is having a semi-truck run over your foot.

Remember, you can lead a fifty-seven-year-old body to motherhood, but you can't make it stay awake.

You show me a boy who brings a snake home to his mother and I'll show you an orphan.

I was a closet pacifier advocate. So were most of my friends. Unknown to our mothers, we owned thirty or forty of those little suckers that were placed strategically around the house so a cry could be silenced in less than thirty seconds. Even though bottles were boiled, rooms disinfected, and germs fought one on one, no one seemed to care where the pacifier had been.