My sister Angie gives me outrageous material for my stand-up comedy. She’s a bona fide nut case, a paranoid schizophrenic, bipolar, manic depressive—you name it—Angie fits every disorder that isn’t wired to reality. 

They say all the love you give comes around. But I am not sure. So, until next year, I’ll walk around in my father’s shoes for a while — begging for affection (but only partly). Are you mad at me, I ask; you smile — I throw

Myrna is pleased somebody invented Post-it notes.

She likes the speed with which a paper square

Can be peeled from its family.

She especially likes those in assorted colors,