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The very first time I got to drive by myself, I took a bunch of my friends to school and was caught by a motorcycle cop going 90 miles an hour on a back street.

I went out with some old friends and we were having fun. A couple of them were very intoxicated. When I went to leave, I refused to let them drive. So when I got pulled over, I was the driver.

When he realized who he'd pulled over, the policeman shook his head in disbelief. He told me of all people I should know better. He gave me a real dressing down, but let me go.

A drunk truck driver ran over me. I was in a Volkswagen. It was horrible. It sounds like a cliche, but anything that doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I give a lot of credit to my dad, who was a very strong guy.

When I first got my driver's license, I was hit by a drunk driver. He was coming off of a freeway, and I was hurt pretty badly from somebody driving really fast.

I remember the moment when it hit me. I was walking down Amsterdam Avenue on the Upper West Side, and it felt like I was literally walking out of a jail cell that I had been in. At that moment, I realized I could shave if I wanted. It was up to me and no one else.

My husband's a stunt man, and he dragged me to stunt driving school with him because I hate driving and he felt that it would help to make me feel more comfortable. And it did in certain ways, and in certain ways I'm still not.

I crashed my bicycle on the way to my first date with my ex-girlfriend and was cautioned by the police.

I was hit by a car when I was 13, and the rumour was immediately that I had been playing chicken with the car with my best friend Kenny in front of the Nutmeg Pantry, which was the only shop in Sharon. In fact, the guy who hit me was inebriated.