The wages of sin are death, but by the time taxes are taken out, it's just sort of a tired feeling.

I don't have a bank account because I don't know my mother's maiden name.

Remember when you were considered an environmentalist when you didn't throw junk out the car window? I sure do miss that simpler, happier time.

It is the best part of the night. The classic interactive lines are 'Where are you from? What do you do for a living?' I almost always get something interesting.

It is my wish to die of unique causes, perhaps in a high-speed tricycle crash, a bizarre stapling incient, or as a result of inadvertently sucking my brains out through my ear while trying to untwist the vacuum hose.

I don't have a bank account because I don't know my mother's maiden name and apparently that's the key to the whole thing right there. I go in every few weeks and guess.

Speaking of happy successes, after years of struggling to lose those few extra pounds every mother puts on during adoption, particularly when the doctor orders bed rest, in 2004 I sent my assistant to the Gap in dark glasses with a fake ID to purchase my first pair of Easy Fit jeans.