I make my living as an advertising copywriter. Yeah, I know. You're thinking Melrose Place, Larry Tate and all that. I wish it were half as glam. No one has a chilled pitcher of martinis waiting when I get off the 5:14 to Brewster. I've never saved an account over lunch. And my mother-in-law rarely sits on the refrigerator wearing billowy chiffon.

Actually, I guess there are worse ways of getting cash. No one's going to die if I write a bad headline. Working in your typical agency setting requires minimal protective apparel. And, these days, I get to fool around on Macs most of my waking hours.

On the home front, Richard and I are bearing down on 19 years of domestic bliss. Note the use of a typically-male name. You sharper readers, no doubt, understand. Trixie, a lovely calico, plays the role of our youthful ward. (For those of you who've cruised around other personal home pages, insert the typical "world's most wonderful pet" spiel here.)

Since 1995, I've been lucky enough to call San Francisco home. I could go on and on about how wonderful life here is, but I won't. Suffice to say that I'm happier than any human has a right to be. Of course, a few years ago I felt the same way about life in Manhattan. And before that, Texas.

Speaking of Texas, it was at the University Of that I learned my overriding life philosophy. Namely, you'll save yourself a lot of frustration if you look at life as a never-ending multiple choice test. When you don't know the answer, check C and move on.

What have I left out? Lots I know. But I'm bored. If you just have to know more, use that email thingy.