On November 22, 1963, I shot President John F. Kennedy from the grassy knoll at Dealey Plaza in Dallas, Texas. What is amazing about this is that I was not even born until three years later.
I invented the Internet. Did too.
My older kid is 18, in college, and more popular than the Beatles were in 1965. If her dad and I didn’t have VIP passes, we’d never see her.Sure, Yo-Yo Ma’s good. But in a true fiddle-off, I could totally take that guy.
I can’t throw a Frisbee.
In blind testing, most Americans prefer my brand of light sweet crude to whatever Abu Dhabi or Shell or whatever is selling. I don’t know why. Because it’s homemade? Stickier? You tell me.
I am proud to accept the newly created position of Secretary of Grammar and Spelling Correction on President Obama’s Cabinet. You will not dangle that participle on my watch.
I am three hundred and twenty years old. My beauty secret? I drink human blood.
So I’m shopping with Imelda Marcos in 1972, celebrating the declaration of martial law, and she wants this crazy pair of gold brocade-blue paisley shoes that go with nothing. “Get them, Imelda,” I tell her. “Get those gold-blue paisley shoes with the crazy toes. You own this place. Get them ALL.” And she did. It’s my fault that nice lady went nuts. I’m telling you, I’m bad.
I wear black. It’s the color that shouts to the cosmos, WHAT? Bring it. I’m right HERE, home skillet. Take your best shot.
People sometimes ask me, Anne, what would you consider your best work? That’s a tough one. Magna Carta or Gutenburg Bible? It’s really a matter of taste.
When I was working on the White House technology task force in 2000, Andy Card asked me for advice on a communications strategy. Simple is best, I said, and presented him with Dixie cups and string. They probably should have asked me if I was a Republican before they gave me that job.
It really isn’t that hard, you know, working with enriched uranium. Once you’ve separated the isotopes you’ve pretty much got it.
My greatest regret is probably putting that guy Murdoch on watch patrol for the Titanic, that night in 1912. Bad call. But I did have a feeling: You know, I thought, this’ll make a great movie.
My younger kid is 12, more than an inch taller than I am, has the body fat of a mosquito, and eats like a truck driver. When we drive anywhere, she has to stick her head out the window like a giraffe. Tunnels are a problem.
It’s not that I can’t do Sudoku. It’s that I won’t.
I never wear all my rings at the same time. Please. No one needs to know that I won that many Super Bowls.
I dream of visiting every single TGIFriday’s in the continental United States. You know, like in “Dances With Wolves”: before they’re gone.
I am happily married to my first husband, Jim. My second husband, “Mad Men” hunk Jon Hamm, still thinks he’s happy with his gorgeous screenwriter-actress girlfriend. I’ll wait, Jon.
My car is a Hummer that runs on used vegetable oil and prayers.
I sleep hanging upside down, like a bat.
Have You Seen My Missing Child? I left her in the car for five minutes a few years ago when I ran into 7-11 to buy cigarettes and I haven’t seen her since. She’s blond and her name is Dakota Fanning. Please, I’d appreciate any news you have.
Last week, Osama Bin Laden sent me his latest tape. When I started rewinding it (be kind, I thought: rewind before you send to the Feds), I noticed the threats turned into stock tips.
I can’t enter any room unless someone drapes it with red bunting and plays “Kashmir” first.
In case anybody’s still looking for that bag of O.J. Simpson’s that went missing in 1994, it’s in my closet.
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