There’s an outside chance that I’ve seen every episode of “Saved by the Bell.” (The original class, not those poseur “New Class” kids with the token Screech.)

My eyes welled up a bit the first time I saw “Somewhere in Time” starring Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour.

My eyes welled up a bit the first time I saw “Robocop” (the part where all the cops turn against him and start shooting him and it’s just very sad).

I not only settle for the path of least resistance, I settle for the path that lets me sleep until noon.

I once had a dream where I was dressed as a superhero, and I was strolling up and down in front of other superheroes solemnly intoning: “I trust we’re all going to be extra careful on patrol tonight.  Now more than ever we must protect the citizenry.”

Girl drinks are tasty and they have cute colors.

My high school prom date (junior year) threw up on the highway because I took the turns too fast on our way back from a nice dinner.

Put “Achy Breaky Heart” on the jukebox and there’s a better-than-average chance that I’ll burst into song.

Even if there’s perfectly good food in the house, I find it almost impossible to resist the clarion call of a frozen pizza--the gross kind that bleeds greasy orange sauce.

Despite the universal female disdain for “tighty whities,” I always feel as though boxer shorts are the first garment one dons on the way to assembling a full-fledged clown suit.