I got a fan letter on the back of a prison menu. And I remember thinking, 'Well, they get pie. It's not so bad. They get pie on the weekends.' I want to say blueberry and also a Boston cream pie. Not so bad.

I think my level of fame will drop back down. I think it’ll recede. In fact, I know it will. That’s life on planet earth. And I’m okay with that. Besides getting tables at restaurants and special treatment at the airport, what else is there?

I was taken to an examining room where a big butch nurse practitioner came in and asked me if I was pregnant. “No way!” Was I sexually active? “Nope!” Had I ever been molested? “Well,” I said, trying to make a joke, “Oprah says the only answers to that question are ‘Yes’ and ‘I don’t remember.’ ” I laughed. We were having fun. The nurse looked at me, concerned/annoyed.

Most of my work is done before we start shooting, preparation work, so my normal day begins when I start writing, it might even be the night before.

I want every day to be the most boring news day ever. I want every day to be about spelling bee champions and baby basketball. It's better to have no comedy material than a horrific news day.

(My proudest moment as a child was the time I beat my uncle Pierre at Scrabble with the seven-letter word FARTING.)

You transition as a mother from literally just pulling a booger out of that person's nose whenever you see one until at some point they assert: "No, I'm a person. You can't fix my underpants on the subway."