I Don't Understand How You

I Think That Most New Yorkers Would Object To Calling Me A New Yorker. I Didn't Grow Up Here.

There's Already A Marriage Clock, A Career Clock, A Biological Clock. Sometimes Being A Woman Feels Like Standing In The Lobby Of A Hotel, Looking At The Dials Depicting Every Time Zone In The World Behind The Front Desk - Except They All Apply To You, And All At Once.

I Don't Understand How You Can Be A Decent Writer And Not Know People.

Air Travel Is The Safest Form Of Travel Aside From Walking; Even Then, The Chances Of Being Hit By A Public Bus At 30,000 Feet Are Remarkably Slim. I Also Have No Problem With Confined Spaces. Or Heights. What I Am Afraid Of Is Speed.

I Was Taught That Candles Are Like House Cats - Domesticated Versions Of Something Wild And Dangerous. There's No Way To Know How Much Of That Killer Instinct Lurks In The Darkness. I Used To Think The House-burning Paranoia Was The Result Of Some Upper-middle-class Fear Regarding The Potential Destruction Of A Half-million-dollar Westchester House The Size Of A Matchbox. But Then I Realized The Fear Stemmed From Something Far Less Complex: We're Not Used To Fire. Candles Are A Staple Of The Judaic Existence And, Like Many Suburban Residents Before Us, We're Pretty Bad Jews.