The thing I longed for as a teenager is now an object of neglect and scorn. I've grown to hate my telephone.

The signature of a truly enviable woman is the tenacity and continuity of her women friends.

I'm perpetually curious as to what happened to all those supposed prodigies who were singled out while I and my coterie of far more interesting malcontents passed on.

Bruce was a genius, conveniently born on Christmas Eve with, according to my mother, Messiah potential.

Sometimes I want to clean up my desk and go out and say, respect me, I'm a respectable grown-up, and other times I just want to jump into a paper bag and shake and bake myself to death.

I wrote my first play, Uncommon Women and Others, in the hopes of seeing an all-female curtain call in the basement of the Yale School of Drama. A man in the audience stood up during a post show discussion and announced, “I can't get into this, it's all about girls.” I thought to myself, “Well, I've been getting in to Hamlet and Laurence of Arabia my whole life, so you better start trying.”

Being a grownup means assuming responsibility for yourself, for your children, and - here's the big curve - for your parents.