I'm A Summer Baby, So I Usually

I Can Say With A Solid Degree Of Authority That I Am A Selfish Person. I Spontaneously Forget The Names Of More People Than Not, Unless I Want To Make Out With Them. I Will Take The Last Square Of Toilet Paper Off The Roll Without Thinking Twice. I Tip Taxi Drivers So Poorly I'm Amazed None Of Them Have Run Over My Foot While Speeding Off.

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.

I Do Think New York Prepares You For The Crossection Of Personalities And Realities On Display When You Leave The Country, And I'd Live Somewhere Else If I Had A Reason Or Burning-the-the-point-of-discomfort Desire To Do So.

The Year Most Of My High School Friends And I Got Our Driver's Permits, The Coolest Thing One Could Do Was Stand Outside After School And Twirl One's Car Keys Like A Lifeguard Whistle. That Jingling Sound Meant Freedom And Power.

I Have Come To Understand Myself As More Of A New York Writer, Or More Of A Woman Writer, But I Don't Feel Like That While I'm Writing. But I Think That Most New Yorkers Would Object To Calling Me A New Yorker. I Didn't Grow Up Here.