You meet a girl. Maybe she’s pretty, maybe she’s smart, maybe she’s funny. Maybe your parents like her. Maybe you get really lucky, and she’s one or two of those things. I got ’em all. That’s a lot.[to Midge]
Life isn’t fair. It’s hard and cruel. You have to pick your friends as if there’s a war going on. You want a husband who’ll take a bullet for you, not one who points to the attic and says “They’re up there.”[to Midge]
All that applause for me? What am I, putting out after? One standing ovation, everyone goes home pregnant.
Why do women have to pretend to be something that they’re not? Why do we have to pretend to be stupid when we’re not stupid? Why do we have to pretend to be helpless when we’re not helpless? Why do we have to pretend to be sorry when we have nothing to be sorry about? Why do we have to pretend we’re not hungry when we’re hungry?
Sometimes I tune people out, but mostly because they rarely have anything useful or interesting to say.
It’s the bras. And the girdles and the corsets, all designed to cut off the circulation to your brain, so you walk around on the verge of passing out, and you look at your husband, and he tells you things, and you just believe them.
Is it really necessary to be that beautiful? Because frankly, it’s incredibly unfair. It’s not enough that women have to compete with other women, now men are getting in the mix? You can’t have it all. You can’t run the world and have all the pretty underwear, too. The competition wasn’t stiff enough with the hoards of slutty secretaries roaming the Earth?