If Women Can Sleep Their Way To

I Am A Member Of A Small, Nearly Extinct Minority Group, A Kind Of Urban Lost Tribe Who Insist, In The Face Of All Evidence To The Contrary, On The Sanctity Of Being On Time. Which Is To Say That We On-timers Are Compulsively, Unfashionably Prompt, That There Are Only Handfuls Of Us In Any Given City And, Unfortunately, We Never Seem To Have Appointments With Each Other.

I Wonder Whether Our Adoption Of Shrink-ese As A Second Language, The Move From Religious Phrases Of Judgment To Secular Words Of Acceptance, Hasn't Also Produced A Moral Lobotomy. In The Reluctance, The Aversion To Being Judgmental, Are We Disabled From Making Any Judgments At All?

When You Live Alone, You Can Be Sure That The Person Who Squeezed The Toothpaste Tube In The Middle Wasn't Committing A Hostile Act.

How Many Of The People I Know - Sons And Daughters - Have Intricate Abstract Expressionist Paintings Of Their Mothers, Created Out Of Their Own Emotions, Attitudes, Hands. And How Many Have Only Polaroid Pictures Of Their Fathers.

Normal Is Getting Dressed In Clothes That You Buy For Work, Driving Through Traffic In A Car That You Are Still Paying For, In Order To Get To A Job That You Need So You Can Pay For The Clothes, Car And The House That You Leave Empty All Day In Order To Afford To Live In It.