Elizabeth Kennedy Is So Chic.

Maybe The Point Is That Any Marriage Is Work, But You May As Well Pick Work That You Like.

My Version Of An Irish Exit Has An Air Of Deception To It, Because It Includes My Asking Loudly, “where’s The Bathroom?” And Making Theatrical Looking-around Gestures Like A Lost Foreign Tourist. But Then, Instead Of Finding The Bathroom, I Sneakily Grab My Coat And Leave.

I Say If You Love Something, Set It In A Small Cage And Pester And Smother It With Love Until It Either Loves You Back Or Dies.

There Is Some Pressure When You Are A Woman Doing What I Do That You Must Support All Other Women Unconditionally, No Matter What They're Projecting, Or Writing, Or Producing, Or Putting Forth As Their Art. I Think That's Equally Arbitrary And Random And Unfair, And Kind Of Sexist. The Secretly Sexist Way. I Have Really High Standards For What I Think Is Funny. I Have That For Everything, And I Think It Would Be Disingenuous Of Me To Blanket-ly Love Everything A Woman Has Produced Simply To Make A Statement That We're All In This Together.

What? I Have A Cold. Don’t Get A Look Of Terror On Your Face. The Worst That Could Happen Is That You’ll Get A Cold, Too. You Don’t Have To Theatrically Purell A Thousand Times A Day And Look All Panicky Every Time I Come Into The Room.