It makes me happy to work. And it makes me a better mother to be a happy person.

My mother opened a bank account for me when I made $60 on my first day of work as an extra. She's that kind of mother.

I eat like a horse - my mother still brings me Cadbury's chocolate from Britain; I do have a very healthy appetite - but I work out.

To lose my mother just as I'm right on the brink of crossing that threshold over into a career, it was pretty compelling. My entire career is my mother's work, for me.

My mother gave birth to me on the floor of our apartment in Mecca with only my toddler sister to help her because my father was at work and no male guardian was available to take her to a hospital.

My father died when I was young, and my mother, Ruth, went to work in an office selling theater and movie parties. She put me through private school, Horace Mann, in Riverdale. She sent me to camp so that I would learn to compete. She was a lioness, and I was her cub.

I have a sister, in particular, who's 13 years older than me. So growing up and watching her - watching her go to work, especially - was hugely influential to me. As the youngest, with a sibling that's a decade older, I had certain things that I would go to her about instead of my mother.

My mother, a very eclectic listener, had the first Doors album and gave it to me when I expressed interest in the band. It was one of the first records I ever had. As the years passed, the babysitters who used to look after me would bring their Doors albums to the apartment, and that's how I got to hear their later work.

My grandmother used to cook for eight every day - sitting down lunches and dinner, the way you do it in Italy, you sit down. And when my parents could afford their own place, I went with them but still my mother used to work but used to come back from work to cook lunch for my father, come back from work, cook dinner for my father and me.

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