“My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.”

Humor is a spontaneous, wonderful bit of an outburst that just comes. It’s unbridled, its unplanned, it’s full of suprises.

Volunteers are the only human beings on the face of the earth who reflect this nation’s compassion, unselfish caring, patience, and just plain love for one another.

Housework can kill you if done right.

Sometimes I can’t figure designers out. It’s as if they flunked human anatomy.

My theory on housework is, if the item doesn’t multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?

It seemed rather incongruous that in a society of super sophisticated communication, we often suffer from a shortage of listeners.

Pregnancy is the only time in a woman’s life she can help God work a miracle.

Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence.

When my kids become wild and unruly, I use a nice, safe playpen. When they’re finished, I climb out.

I just clipped 2 articles from a current magazine. One is a diet guaranteed to drop 5 pounds off my body in a weekend. The other is a recipe for a 6 minute pecan pie.

A grandmother pretends she doesn’t know who you are on Halloween.

Housework, if it is done properly, can cause brain damage.

Maybe age is kinder to us than we think. With my bad eyes, I can’t see how bad I look, and with my rotten memory, I have a good excuse for getting out of a lot of stuff.

When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, ‘I used everything you gave me’.

There’s nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.

A member of the committee slapped a name tag over my left bosom. “What shall we name the other one?” I smiled. She was not amused.

I spend a lot of time in bed when I’m off. But if I’m feeling adventurous, I’ll go to a gallery.

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.

Just think how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.

I remember really vividly kneeling by my bed as a nine-year-old, saying my prayers and asking God to give me boobs that were so big that if I laid on my back I wouldn’t be able to see my feet.

Don’t go to bed with any woman crazier than you are.

I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I have to convince half the world’s population that my body is not their bed.

My flowers rot beneath my bed. I was too selfish to part with them. I hope their deaths don’t bring hexes. Did I say flowers? I meant my exes.

The monsters are no longer under our beds.