I have no sex appeal, which kills me. The only way I can ever hear heavy breathing from my husband's side of the bed is when he's having an asthma attack.

I've learned to have absolutely no regrets about any jokes I've ever done.

"I wouldn't go over here to Lisa Rinna and I would say 'Are those breasts real, are you wearing underwear?'"

I want to be buried in a Valentino gown and I want Harry Winston to make me a toe tag.

I'm sure some of you are wondering whether my breasts are real. Let me just explain to you. This one is, this one isn't.

Your proudest moment is to watch your egg not just function, but to achieve on her own.

I must admit I am nervous about getting Alzheimer's. Once it hits, I might tell my best joke and never know it.