I’m not sure if this is a good or bad thing but I do know you can't shut it down. And, as an LCSW and former school social worker I can tell you that girls that read (anything!) are likely to fair well later on. Instead of taking books off shelves as some propose, I say we lobby Fendi and Marc Jacobs to make inner slots for BOOKS just as they do for IPods and phones. That's what I call 'joining them'. P.S. I confess to a secret stash of Harold Robbins novels even as I transitioned from Long Island to Ann Arbor and loftier material.

As for my daughter of the 'teen tour travails', she did sell Cutco knives the summer she turned 18 and earned several thousand dollars and blew most of it that fall on Kate Spade bags. My husband and I were devastated but the lesson she learned now that she has graduated college and is working and (semi) supporting herself is that it was a huge waste of money and she'd love to have those dollars back. She thinks long and hard these days about where her money goes and more importantly, where she gets her self worth. So it took a few years. But, as those of us with older children say, '25 is the new 18'. And, under the heading of ‘be careful what you ask for’, the son who wanted to live in Roslyn actually attends Hofstra Law, which is just an exit or two down the highway, and counts the months until he can get off Long Island! Okay, so I’m smiling just a bit.

Although my next book marries memoir/cooking/self help (and world peace while I'm at it?) I've also begun to outline a YA (which is why I focused on this article) and when I mentioned to my agent that I was going to begin to explore what's out there, she said NO, Please don't! I'm not sure if she speaks for the entire publishing world but my sense is that there are a lot of parents of middle and high school kids at the editorial level who would like a little less Malandrino and lot more Mockingbird. This doesn't bode well for my main character, who finds meaning in a lip gloss...but I'll let you know.

For now, here's my product placement: It’s very early in the morning and while I'd love to tell you that I'm sitting here writing in Prada P.J.'s and Jimmy Choos, the only brand names I'm really accessing are 'Gevalia' and 'Advil'.

But in the real world the realities of shelter and sustenance and lifestyle seem to take precedent over passion. I suspect that one of my children would adore being a coach and the other would be content walking dogs in Manhattan but neither one of them would earn enough to satisfy their tangible needs and neither one would consider it, at least not now, at an age when the possibility of happiness on all fronts seems, if not within imminent reach, possible. And I don’t blame them. But here’s a thought: Every financially successful person I’ve ever heard says that the key to their success was being passionate about what they were doing.

For me, it’s a no-brainer. I get to work at my passion every day. Although I didn’t have this opportunity until about eight years ago, I have it now and that’s all that matters. Even with all the ups and downs of agents, editors, publishing, marketing and sales, I am grateful for every single day that I have the privilege of being a writer. The ‘passion’ experts advise that you can identify your passion with this question, ‘What are you doing when you lose track of time?’ For me, it’s when I’m writing, reading, or cooking. Okay, and maybe also during a Michigan/Wisconsin Football game. Since I doubt my alumni will be calling me any time soon for defensive tips it’s a good thing that singing the UM fight song or doing the Badger ‘jump around’, remain my hobbies. But writing? Hours go by, literally. And cooking? Let’s put it this way. Every morning I write, and when I’m finished I pick out a recipe for dinner and go to the market for the ingredients and come home and cook. This is my routine most days, broken up only by book clubs, research, and of course, another incredible bonus of being a working writer, the ability to stop everything in order to read a good book. So I get to play with my passions every single day and don’t think I don’t know how lucky I am. It’s for this reason, because I know how great it is, that I want it for my kids.

In truth, I didn’t get here purposefully; it was by accident or at least by some other design. Yet it’s too tempting not to try and reconstruct what I’ve learned in order to form an opinion or perhaps even a blueprint on how to do it. In retrospect, that clearest of all visions, I see that I was always supposed to be a writer. There were definitely signs, huge neon ones, if only I’d been paying attention. Every step of the way I’d been writing, whether it was rhymes at age 7, poor poetry at 16, witty letters in college, and eventually, essays as a concerned citizen. When I volunteered at school it was not as class mother, but as literary circle chair. Even as a social worker, it should have been obvious. The average social assessment is a page and a half-mine were 5-6 pages long.

So if there were signs and I ignored them, what is the average person to do who doesn’t happen to see any? I have a theory. Passions or talents are like certain viruses, and lie dormant within each of us. Just as you can have a predisposition to an illness I believe we are all predisposed to at least one, and perhaps many, gifts, or ‘things we are meant to do’. With a predisposition to an illness, thankfully, unless certain physical or environmental events occur, a person does not get sick. It’s the same with a talent. You’ve got to create activity, try to catalyst some reactions, do what you can to make the passion live and grow. Don’t do what I did and ignore the signs, make a point of looking for them. To the task of figuring out ‘when you lose track of time’ I would add, figure out when you’re ‘in the zone’, when ‘it all feels right, as if you’re doing what you were meant to do’. I’m pretty sure that you can’t make changes until you identify what it is you want.

Finally, even when you figure out what your passion is, it may not be practical to make it your life’s work at this time. You may not be able to leave your CPA job to pursue flower arranging. But, the key is to start to add bits and pieces, even a little bit at a time. Maybe you could take a course on Saturdays for now; you never know when one step is going to lead to a rewarding and surprising other. For me, had I not felt the need to write such sensitive and complicated social histories I probably would not have learned as much as I did about character development and even plot. Go figure. Now, when I question why I waited so long to start my writing career, why I side-tracked to social work, I realize that social work was not a detour at all; not only does it inform all of my novels, but it was actually necessary practice for the thing I was always meant to do.

I’m not sure if I’m any closer to a definitive road map for marrying one’s passion to one’s work and I’m not sure I’m any closer to helping my children do it, but I do know this, tonight I’m going to call them both, I’m going to suggest that one adopt an inner city soccer team in need of a weekend coach and that the other volunteer at the ASPCA. Because like I said, you never know.

At last year’s CCFA (Crohn’s and Colitis Foundation) dinner, a lavish affair sponsored by the Modell family, who’s son succumbed to years of ravages from Crohn’s, our friends’ twenty-four year old son was a featured speaker. He stunned the audience by peppering his speech with blunt references to the symptoms and humiliations of the disease. In mixed, black tie, company, he used expressions such as “bloody stool” and “anal fistulas”; not exactly appetizing dinner conversation, but the effect was profound. This group of 1000, which included top doctors and gastrointestinal surgeons, guests with ill family members, and still others suffering themselves, a group that should be least likely to be embarrassed by the terms of bowel disease, squirmed.

So imagine how that poor teenage girl just entering high school or a new bride in the first year of marriage, or a young mother with school-age kids, feels. How do you go on a date, to the prom, to dinner, on vacation, to a PTO meeting, on a car trip or to the office, when you have little or no warning before you need a toilet, any toilet? And the unspoken biggy: how to be intimate, feel sexual, desired and desirous in the face of real physical issues, side effects from meds, and the humiliation of having a ‘disgusting’ disease? I’ll tell you this, I’ve been navigating all of it for almost twenty years and I’ve decided that after the meds and the right doctors and the alternative therapies there is one, single, unifying and helpful tool; a sense of humor. Yes, I advocate for myself, constantly check out the research, occasionally participate in a clinical trial and even make my own, probiotic-on-steroids yogurt. But if I didn’t step back and laugh once in awhile, or more, I’d be lost. Unknowingly and most certainly unintentionally, CCFA recently gave me the chance to do just that.

CCFA is an amazing organization with a plethora of resources, information, and support groups for every age and stage of disease but occasionally they misstep. Last year they sent out ‘emergency cards’ to members; bright purple, and with large white letters, these cards announce, ‘I CAN’T WAIT!’ Flip the card for further details and you learn: “The cardholder suffers from a chronic gastrointestinal illness and MUST be allowed to use an available restroom.” Lovely. And in a pinch, even necessary. But if there were any doubt about the shame of this disease just imagine having to present that card. Dignity’s last stop. Or, (she said sheepishly) here’s my note:
I can’t wait!

It’s no wonder no one wants to talk about Crohns’ and Colitis. We have no pink ribbons, no cute tee shirts and very few Rallies for a Cure. Although recently, we did get a slogan: Got Guts! We also have disturbing seminars (Your Colon: Diarrhea has many colors.) and articles (Rectal Mucus: friend or foe?). Yes, I jest. But see, even you are starting to feel better about all this bathroom talk and you don’t even have the disease! Recently I was on the phone with my sister-in-law, who has her fair share of bowel issues, and we were having one of our frequent discussions about movements, cramps, and gas. “Twenty years ago” she said, “when we were running around at the clubs, who knew that ‘doody’ would turn out to be so important?”
Like I said, ya gotta laugh. Now that can’t wait.

Now, you may wonder, how could I possibly hear her through ‘You make me want to shoop’ or ‘Rosalita jump a little lighter?’ Exactly. Can you imagine how loud she was talking? By the time I upped the volume on my Ipod loud enough to tune her out my eyes were bulging out of my head from the decibel level and I had to make an executive decision; deafness would not be an acceptable price to pay for this workout. I tried to stay positive. Maybe she was talking about something really interesting. Better yet, maybe she was talking about someone I knew! No luck. Here is a recap, from memory, of the conversation: “So I told her that it was her turn to pick up the kids because I did it last time and even though it was a holiday schedule that shouldn’t affect the rotation, you know? Don’t you agree? I’m right, right?” Apparently she was because whatever the other person said fortified her even more. “I know! That’s what I said! And Allison told her the same thing.” Now I start to worry. Apparently there is another mother involved, Allison. How long can it be before she calls in? But little did I know that it wouldn’t be another call to perpetuate this annoyance.

By the time I hit minute 32 I have turned off the Ipod and given up all hope of musical Zen when someone gets on the machine to my right. I steal a quick glance and pray that this person has less than 13 pieces of personal equipment to organize. Luckily, I see only Ipod and water, a good sign. I am about to try and make the obligatory eye contact that will both alert her to the talker on my left and align her to me in spirit. She looks my way, I make my move, and just at that minute, she begins to wave excitedly to HER. It takes only a minute for HER to notice, and shout into the phone, “I’ll call you right back.” And then, “Allison! We were just talking about you!” It is almost too funny. I am now treated to a repeat of the entire conversation and am tempted to interrupt and ask Allison if she agrees that the carpool rotation shouldn’t change just because of a holiday. Instead, I weigh the options. I would really like to ask HER and ALLISON to be more respectful. Not only can’t I exercise in peace but now they are having an entire conversation across me. But do I really want to be the woman at the gym who tells other women what to do? No I do not. Also, they are younger and one of them is skinnier than me. Does that make a difference? I don’t know. Maybe. The gym is not exactly a hotbed of nourishing self esteem, forgive me if I'm not at my most self-assured in Spandex and a beater. Anyway, by the time I think it all through it’s minute 53 and I’m so proud of my endurance that I don’t care that much. A few minutes later when HER cell phone rings again, it’s almost too much, but by then I’m getting off and swabbing away the germs and who knows? Maybe it's the endorphins or the calories burned or maybe the call could be for me. One hour on the Arc? It just might be George Bush after all.

Bosco can no longer run around in puppy circles all over our lawn, diving under bushes and through hedges to escape the chase of his ‘alpha’ sister. He can’t see to try and grab the rope out of her mouth when she taunts him, a game that used to excite her endlessly. And occasionally he makes the mistake of stumbling onto her bone, or near her water bowl, or tagging a little too close behind (a result of his adapting his nose to take the place of his eyes) and in the process bumps into her butt. Then she will think nothing of whirling around and taking a bite of out of his ear and giving it a good wag before letting go; she has made him bleed more than once; this from a female dog who has never bit anyone, man or beast, in her life. In fact, when people come to the door and see the size of the dogs and ask if they’re friendly, our usual reply is ‘Oh yes, they generally like to LICK their victims to death.’ But now we’re not so sure. If this gentle, good-natured eleven year old dog can morph into psycho she-bitch with her lifelong companion can we really assume that she is to be trusted at all?

Once again, my theory that illness claims the family as victim along with the patient is proven out. Not to trivialize my father’s dementia, but I see so many parallels with his decline and that of our brown lab. He too, forgot where he was, where he was going, and why. He too, became a source of annoyance, with frequent outbursts that made no sense. Bosco cries a lot. We think it’s because he no longer has the visual cues to see that I am on the couch or my husband is in the chair or that Bailey is on her bed. My father believed he was much younger than his eighty-five years and that he had important meetings to attend. He often demanded to be taken to those meeting much in the same way that Bosco demands to be let out, fed, stroked. And I find myself coping with our blind dog much the way I coped with dad. I recognize that it isn’t just about the person, (or the canine) and it isn’t just about their misfortune and loss. There aren't any answers and even less satisfaction in going down the road of ‘why’ and ‘what for’. Just like with my dad I realize that sometimes it’s about the lessons for the rest of us. What kind of person am I in the face of a disabled family member? What kind of character do I have?

Bosco is a good dog. I know he didn’t ‘deserve’ to go blind, just as I knew my father didn’t deserve to lose his dignity. I don’t go there. Instead, I try to appreciate the inconvenience as a challenge to be a better person. When Bosco cries or Bailey snaps, I try to take a deep breath, and crack a smile, and say out loud that we are living in a loony bin. I remember that my dad is no longer around to take to fantasy meetings and that makes it a little easier to go and wipe up the blood or let Bosco out for the twentieth time today.

Choices this morning are plentiful. I can read about Hillary Duff in concert, make the shopping list for the upcoming holidays (did I really agree to have my niece and nephew and their two boys ages 3 and 8 weeks in my new dining room?), exercise (oh yeah, that’s really happening on 4 hours sleep), or write. Somehow, not much of a choice. It occurs to me almost every day how lucky I am to have found this thing I do, this compulsion rather than vocation. Writing is both a verb and also a noun, I now hold it, it juts out from me as an emotional limb, no doubt formerly dormant until a set of circumstances sparked a rather remarkable growth spurt; the stub became an appendage, the girl evolved to adapt to her new world not unlike an amoeba or paramecium. Was it empty nesting? 9/11? Who can say why we adapt or change or embrace a new tool? And I have stopped looking back, wondering why I began to write and wondering why I didn’t begin earlier. If I find the answer will it matter?

Here’s what I know: I have a friend who is angry. You could argue that it’s easy to be angry in the world today, that we all exist in a borderline Post Traumatic Stress state and only time will reveal the ravages or not of spending a lifetime poised for fight or flight. But you could also argue that this lady has so much to be thankful for; fabulous family, health and wealth, comforts of all sorts. And yet, she has a chip, an edge, and an attitude that is so ugly and repellant it makes you want to shake her. I am tempted to say, “Hey! Are you going to your job at the factory today to put dolls’ arms on dolls? Because someone has that job and it’s not you--so lighten up and put a damn grateful smile on your face!” Would it matter? Under the heading of ‘things learned’ is this; you can’t change someone else, only how you feel about them. So this is what I do; I turn away and resolve to be extra grateful every day to counteract her negativity. I will put extra good karma in the world and in some skewed way I imagine I can affect the overall good and tip the scales back, back to when we were kids and didn’t’ worry about suicide bombers or falling buildings, back to when the only time we even heard the word ‘beheading’ was during a visit to the Colonial Era exhibit which had a square with stocks and a guillotine.

There are three things I’m most proud of; first is the work I do in my intimate relationships with my family, immediate and extended, (this includes the few close friends I also count as family). In the end, how you treat the people you care about and how they treat you is really all that matters. Second is the aforementioned work I do on myself to stay healthy and positive in the face of all the regular stuff that can wear you out and also in the chronic, enough already stuff, you know, the crap that keeps coming back to test you no matter how clever a navigator you are. And third, I am so proud to count myself a member of the writing community, to grow into and give back to the writing life. There are so many unexpected gifts, some tangible (I get to speak and volunteer and mentor) but there is something else, more subtle, less defined, a sense of having a talent, yes, but more, a sense of having developed another chamber; possibly it’s akin to what devout yogis call another level; I am many things, have many titles, some lofty others corporeal, but also I am this thing that propels herself out of bed at ungodly hours and barely stops (all right always stops) for coffee and wafts (yes, dammit, wafts!) up to the ‘writing space’ and melts and leaks and leeches onto the page. Ahh. And so often it just doesn’t get any better than that. So there is really no choice. Whenever there is time to fill there will be web pages to surf and mindless errands to run and puttering, certainly puttering as an option. There will be ailments to stress over and scenes to replay (did I really say that—exactly what number glass of wine was I on?) but in the end I always choose to fill the space the same way; I write. Whether it’s with an extra limb or chamber or level, it’s what I do; as if my body now manufactures this calling like a chemical, a spiritual serotonin. I write to enjoy I know I also write to survive. It’s what I do to make the anger go away. It's what I do to make sense of this new world. It’s what I do to make sense of me and my family in it.

I am so sick of people telling me to stop and smell the roses, the coffee, or the cappuccino. Even the ones that don’t actually say, ‘now that you’re older’ are implying it. Here’s what I’d like to say to people who want me to appreciate the little things. Have you been paying attention? As The New Older Woman I am not expected to be so peaceful. I am too busy having new ideas (Perhaps I’ll take up French or adopt a small orphan from the Sudan) and ‘aha’ moments (Now I know why I hate my mother-in-law! She’s a constipated bitch!). I am too busy to even make the coffee. I grind my own flax seed, take 72 vitamins a day, I spin, (at the gym, not uncontrollably by myself) and construct dinners so complex with antioxidants and Omega 3’s that Dr. Andrew Weil calls me for recipe ides. On my next vacation I will be building dwellings for the Yanamamo tribe in South America. I will get there through a series of bungee jumps through the rain forest. So you see, you can’t have it both ways, you have to pick. Either 50 is the new 40 or the new 60; one or the other. It was bad enough juggling job, carpool, and hubby as supermom; I will not be morphing into some sort of Super Senior who gains wisdom and patience but still loses the body fat.

I’m told that some people who overcome a serious illness or pray for a miracle and receive it are changed forever. When I was trying to sell my first novel, I swore to myself and to whatever superior being happened to be on call that if I were published I would change many things: I would be a better person, I would not sneak onto the express lane with 22 items, I would explore my disturbing sympathy for people who commit road rage. Now, two novels in with a third on the way and a fabulous publisher, I have made good on none of them. Well, perhaps I am a slightly better person. But this is primarily because I get to do something I love every day and not because I have any clarity or have grown as a person. In fact, sometimes when I’m avoiding doing my work I fantasize about inviting all the really bad drivers over to my house for salad, only I wouldn’t wash the lettuce. Hey, if they can change lanes on the highway without signaling, surely I can play a little Russian Roulette with E coli. Okay, did I really say that out loud?

My point is, I have a friend who has mellowed into that blissful, Zen-like state of appreciation. She takes things day by day and lives every moment to the fullest. Uch! Who wants to go to lunch with her? She may have learned the meaning of life but I’ve learned a new word for her; b-o-r-i-n-g. She no longer gossips and what’s worse, she gives everyone the benefit of the doubt! I hate that in a person.

As an author, I get to do a lot of book clubs and reading groups, which I actually love, despite the fact that I get asked the same questions (Did you always write? Yes, of course, I came out of the womb and asked for a pen and paper and promptly wrote my mother a short note thanking her for the daily servings of Haagen-Dazs Cherry Vanilla and the quick trip down the birth canal) and sometimes blatant questions (did you practice the sex scenes before you wrote them? Um, uh, next question?). But occasionally I get asked a really stupid question. Last month someone raised their hand and asked why it doesn’t say ‘The End’ at, well, the end. Seriously, you can’t make this up. I wanted to say, “I don’t know, maybe because it’s not Jack and the Beanstalk?”
But instead, I took a few deep cleansing breaths and tried to absorb positive energy. It didn’t work. The only thing I really wanted to inhale was a nice tall glass of Merlot.
Since then I’ve decided to forego the search for inner peace and celebrate my inner, inpatient, bitch by coming up with a new word to describe my preferred state; it’s called Kvetchity; a combination of kvetchy and crotchety which is especially evident when talking to insurance companies, Dunkin Donut servers, or irrational checkout clerks who think that 22 items are so much more than 15.

Last week I was feeling especially kvetchity when an airline cancelled a flight I had booked six months ago and wanted to put me on a connection instead of a non-stop and charge me a hundred dollars for their mistake. Even worse, after 40 minutes on the phone with the agent I was disconnected. I can tell you that I tried, I really tried. I went outside and cut some lilies. I came in and put them in a jar and tried to let the fragrance and flora soothe me. I then went and made myself a nice big cup of cappuccino. Then I poured that hot coffee all over those nice, yellow lilies and I felt much better!

Celebrated mother’s day on the heels of a new book pubbing and the eve of a son’s college graduation; naturally, it was a mother’s day ripe for philosophizing and if one were so inspired, sentiment. And although it was a happy day full of laughter and comfort, all I could think of were Anna Quindlen’s words, “…all my babies are grown now.” A bittersweet mother’s day and not because of the company (my daughter and husband) or the food (Tabla-what could be more interesting) but because of the juxtaposition. There I was, celebrating with two of my three ducks, and thrilled at the prospect of my third duck finally leaving the wilds of the dairy land (Wisconsin) and coming home in a couple of weeks but still sad at the idea that it is yet another ‘last’. My last child leaving school. A few weeks ago I remarked to a friend whose daughter was finishing her last days of high school, ‘take care, the ‘lasts’ come fast and furious now.’ And indeed they do.

It is with heavy and happy heart that we prepare to fly to witness and honor and yes, celebrate, this achievement, but I can tell you, I lament that there will be no more orientations, move-in days, roommate angst, class conflicts. No more debates about monthly stipends, spring break, and summer jobs. No more worries about party poker or beer pong, or the girl from down the hall who may or may not be good for him. This whole person belongs to the world now and will mostly make his own way. Surely there will be first apartments and in my son’s case, law school, so the student is still prolonged but I don’t kid myself, it’s his journey now, as out of my hands as it could be. I celebrate and am awestruck by the young adult he’s become; an incredibly positive addition to society if I do say so myself, but I confess to this one last remnant of an ache; I wish I had him back for just a little bit. Just one bath where his golden curls twisted into circles, one lunch where he plastered little pasta shells onto his nose, even one tantrum where in his case, his angriest act was declaring that he was going to sleep! I celebrate the man as I miss the little boy and it is with tissues and smiles that I go to sleep tonight, the night before we fly to mark this achievement, an achievement that belongs not just to him but to his father, who guided him through the missed at bats and the insecure teens, his sister, who tolerated his obsessive toddler devotion and awkward high school obnoxiousness, and to me, who loved every wonderful, awful, memorable moment of his last twenty-two years. Last night I had two of my three ducks, and two better ducks there couldn’t be, unless there are three, which there soon will be. And ultimately, that’s what I’ll cling to, the best part of this ‘last’. That at last, I’ll have all my ducks in the same general pond, almost in a row. Lucky me.

Like everyone else, I would like to say that I don’t condone Imus’ remarks, and like everyone else, I was rooting for the Rutgers’ Women’s Basketball team all along their journey. I am a huge sports fan so I don’t say this lightly; I was familiar with Stringer, with Essence, even with Heather Zurich who played in the same high school league as my own kids. I would also like to say that I have never, ever listened to Don Imus’ radio show; not once, not ever. In general, I don’t like that kind of humor, can’t stand Howard Stern, and would rather drive in silence. So, why am I nauseated and disgusted by the way it all played out?

Look, I’ve noticed for years that the culture of rap has been seeping into white society. First the white kids adopted the dress; low, baggy pants and chains, then the music, all of those CD’s with warnings and yes, I’ve heard them; I’m not debating the quality of the music which is a matter of personal taste and even perhaps a totem for an oppressed people, but this music is violent, often anti-woman, often anti-life, definitely obscene. I would also like to say, at this point, that I am no prude. I’m old, yes, but even my grown kids would tell you, I never censored their music or their clothes, am pretty open-minded for a mom. But, when a segment of society, no matter how justified, adopts profanity; really gross profanity, and sexism, as an emblem, even as a quasi-battle cry, and it’s influence is so far reaching and pervasive that it seeps into the culture of a whole society, the seepage is going to dilute the nastiness and the shock. Eventually, it may even devalue the message.

So you end up with a Don Imus or a skit on Saturday Night Live or even an impromptu improvisation in a middle class high school hallway that is a mistake, because humans do make them. And in reflecting the language, someone goes too far or may even sincerely believe they are being humorous and not offensive. Honestly, that’s what happened here. Bad choice? Yep. Racist? No. Not when high school kids are going to parties themed ‘pimps and hos’. The ‘gasp’ of horror has been removed from so many awful slurs, and this is a problem.

For years now my husband and I have noticed and lamented what we call the slow and steady degradation of society as reflected in popular media. This mouthful means that we can’t get over the language that’s used on prime time TV, not so much cursing, but words for bodily functions that gross us all out. Today, they are de rigueur, no one blinks. We’ve all accepted a kind of lowest common denominator of taste. Again, I am not suggesting that we adopt a conservative, right wing, family values platform, only that we hold ourselves to a higher standard of decorum and personal pride. Is it any wonder that a decline in taste is followed by looser standards for everything, be it twenty-somethings hooking up with anyone and everyone with no emotional commitment or celebrities using and audiences supporting and even demanding outrageous language and behavior that will, surely, offend someone?

The fault is not solely with Don Imus. He was doing ‘a bit’. Whether he was over the line or not doesn’t really matter. We have created a society where he might not have been. You can’t put it on the CD’s and in the movies and not expect cultural osmosis. I realize that as a white woman there are probably pieces of the argument I can never understand and I welcome anyone with a different point of view to respond; I would love to learn what I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for the African American community to see their styles, lyrics, and language play out on white teenagers. I imagine it’s a mixed bag; a sense of annoyance (and we never get it right, either) but perhaps also a bit of pride; it’s always nice to know you can influence; there’s power in that and validation and hope.

I also wonder what it would be like for me if Don Imus had used a slur against Jews, because I’m Jewish. Since he didn’t use the ‘N’ word, I can’t compare it to the ‘K’ word. I have to think of something that makes it apples to apples. So if he said, ‘those big-nosed cheapskates’ (or shysters) would I have been offended? I have to say no. Rude? Yes. Bad taste? You betcha. Worth eight days of media coverage and press conferences and Imus losing his job? Give me a break. We should all have been outraged at his antics and our collective shock jock appetites long before this faux pas, long before he had the chance to sap the joy out of a group of young women who stand for heart, spirit and everything that is good about all of us.

Perhaps you think I’m being overly dramatic to compare dining to a celestial act. But the sensation of melting liver sliding down my throat on a magic carpet of perfectly black and blue tuna was languid and angelic enough to invoke prayer. I gush, I know. But let me tell you more. First, I consider myself somewhat of a ‘foodie’. This past month has seen me at the tables of Country, Babbo, Gin Lane, The Bar at The Modern and The Soho House. Let me give you our groups’ opinions respectively. Country: predictable. Babbo: too many organs (I’m sorry, this wasn’t my comment, it belonged to my husband, who feels that if you are going to serve exotic body parts you should at least call them something friendly like sweetbreads—which makes him think of muffins. Note to self; husband not invited on next trip to Umbria.) Gin Lane; barely average. The Modern: fabulous. Soho House; best for brunch. Now……you can see that a restaurant that moves me to mine my vocabulary for accolades will have to be quite something.

Now here is the other piece: I do not have a great stomach, meaning, I have no business mixing the rich and myriad flavors and genres of foods often found on tasting or other multi course menus. After my first meal at the Inn, sleep was long in coming, as my stomach protested, not violently but still, in its own nagging way. So what did I do the second night? Exactly the same thing: knowing full well that I’d be propped up, hands making small soothing round circles on my belly until at least 2 or 3 am. But did I protest or even hesitate? Not at all. And later, just as I predicted, my mouth was still hot and bothered, still stimulated, still saying ‘Oh Baby’ while my stomach said ‘not tonight dear’, but in this case, it was the one and only time where ‘no’ did not mean no. And in the morning…I didn’t regret a thing.

Anyway, instead of a birth-day, I declared a birth-month. We all know people from various parts of our lives; social friends, sports buddies, co-workers, old friends. So what I did was remind everyone that it was my big birthday and when they asked what I was doing I replied ‘nothing much.’ When it’s your BIG birthday people immediately step up (either because they are so glad it’s not THEIR big birthday or because they know that they can certainly handle taking you out for a meal) and that’s exactly what they want to do, take you out. So I let them. I booked lots of lunches and dinners with all the different groups. Forget having a big party. It’s over in one night and then what do you do? I just did the final count and my birthday celebration came in at 7 lunches and 4 dinners. How are you going to beat that?

Then, in another stroke of genius, I told my husband not to get me a big present. I told him I wanted to go away with him. Are you getting the idea here? Depending on when and where you go you can really extend the celebration. My birthday was in the second half of February and our weekend away isn’t until later this month. This was brilliant planning on my part. Plus, do you really think that when we’re away in antique and jewelry country he’d begrudge me a little present? Here’s another good thing about doing it my way. All those people who take you out to eat, who may barely remember to call on your other birthdays, feel obligated to hand you something on your BIG one, so they bring trinkets! I’m not talking major jewelry or a fabulous bag but still. Who couldn’t enjoy a gift certificate for a massage, a cookbook, or a new bottle of Chanel?

So here are my thoughts on turning…ahem. A BIG birthday is one that really sucks, the one you spend alone, or in a hospital bed, or with a troubled child, or broke. That’s the one you have to be afraid of, not the one that is divisible by five. If you’re not in any of those dire situations, believe me, you are having a very nice, and very minor, little day.

When I was growing up we had diaries. First of all, you had time to write in them, sprawled on your pink quilt, surrounded by stuffed animals. If you didn’t get to write for awhile the only ones who knew about it were you and you. Or possibly the diary, but only if you had named it like Anne Frank did, and if you were prone to personification, as I was; I used to rotate my stuffed animals from the shelves to my bed so they wouldn’t ever feel left out. Now I do that with the kids. Each day I decide which one is the good one. Son got all his law school applications out? He’s in the lead. Daughter received a letter of praise from her new boss? Uh oh, now she’s in front. Every day I tell one of them that they’re ‘the good one.’ They actually laugh. It’s possible they don’t believe me. Or maybe they do. These days it doesn’t take much for them to laugh at me for any number of reasons.

Still, I do have a good excuse for slacking off and it’s not the usual although the usual did occur: holidays were a crazy time, one son sick and taking the LSAT’s and a daughter switching jobs, plus a bit of traveling and several speaking engagements (these don’t constitute a good excuse because they really take up more anticipatory emotional time than physical). The main excuse is the new book. Not the one that’s coming out in April, that’s well out of my hands by now. I’ve come to think of publishing like fashion; you are always working at least two seasons ahead and whatever’s selling now is definitely not what someone will want later. Also, both groups have their share of wackadoodles. And I don’t mean the writers!

The real reason I haven’t blogged is I’ve been concentrating on the new book because it’s been about one third done since last May and I decided it probably needs to be a little more than 100 pages if it’s going to sell for the $32.95 that I think is fair for my pearls of genius. Probably if I’m going to charge that much I should also lose some of the cliché’s like pearls of genius. Just a thought between me and me. Besides, if anyone balks at the price I’ll happily accept a trade paperback deal for 14.95 but don’t tell.

So. I will try to be more vigilant about blogging, but my excuses are in place: I am hard at work, actually close to two thirds done, and without jinxing anything, it’s going great and I’m in the zone. And for this reason, my writing day lasts anywhere between three and five hours and after that I am too burned out to do any more, plus I am out of pearls. Wait, scratch that. I am out of gems. Still a jewel metaphor but I like it. Anyway, my apologies in advance to anyone in addition to Carron in Scottsdale who may have been reading this thing and expecting more. I will try to do better. But in case I don’t, it’s because the sun was in my eyes.

I first noticed the difference when I began baking. Remember when they told us that nesting was one of the signs of impending labor? I think it might be a menopause trigger, too. Suddenly I am Betty Crocker, sending care packages of cookies and brownies to a son who attends college in a capitol city where believe me, they sell plenty of baked goods. Not that he has many complaints, just questions. “Um, thanks mom, we love the food. Are you okay?” Well, maybe not. I have just made my hotel and air reservations for his graduation in May and I think the care packages have escalated accordingly. What in the world will it be like to have no children in school?

Another clue came when the stores started stocking up on Halloween candy. You know, back in August! I became surly, Grinch-like, grumbling around the candy like a demented cartoon figure. “…too commercial, bah….earlier every year…damn costumes…” I assume this has something to do with the fact that I haven’t had kids participating in Halloween for a long time. There was that nice (very short) stretch where they were too old to trick or treat but young enough to enjoy giving out the candy but that is a mere blur now. Now I worry that my kids, each in separate cities celebrating in much more adult ways, survive the holiday. While at home, I remain on a street which 364 days of the year is called “Fabulous wide suburban delight street” (obviously it’s not called that but I’m not about to tell you the real name) and one day of the year it’s called “Halloween Central.” I’m talking busloads of kids shipped in. I’m talking evil looks given to those who have the nerve to come home from work in a car between the hours of five and seven. I’m talking $75.00 dollars worth of candy even if you get the sale bags for under $2.00 or buy in bulk at Costco. The only positive thing I have to say about the holiday is that it’s a built in workout; I don’t sit down for three hours. This year I found myself checking the forecast a full week before and, I confess, praying for rain. Or an early snow. So naturally this year God has sent us the nicest day of the season for Halloween. Seventy and sunny. I guess we know whose side She’s on. So what’s All Saints for Bah Humbug? I know. Passages.

Here’s the latest tip-off that my focus is changing. On Saturdays and Sundays, I have an order for reading the New York Times. It’s been the same since I was single. Until last week. Last week I found myself in The Real Estate Section before The Book Review. And not just any part of the real estate section: vacation properties. What’s up with that? Suddenly I am fascinated by a ‘waterfront in Narragansett’ and ‘secluded island gem on Casco Bay’. Life is changing. No more stressing over the manipulative soccer coach or my daughter’s scruffy boyfriend. No more midnight trips to the 24 hour CVS to get emergency poster board for a project that was assigned two months ago. No more crying behind dark sunglasses as we drop a freshman off at the dorm. We have a new agenda; Thanksgiving in the mountains (or on the lake) with a group the size of a small republic, summers of long drives, antiquing and dining in country restaurants on eco-friendly fare prepared by burnt-out, refugee chefs from 4 star New York city restaurants, the perfect glass of Cabernet made more so because it’s sipped at dusk on the deck with ‘that view.’ It could be worse, right? At least it doesn’t involve an early bird special. Still. Things are slipping out of something into something else. I’ll just have to go with it. But first, I’ll require sustenance to deal with the most perfect Halloween on record; off to raid the candy bowl (crate) for a Kit Kat.

You tell yourself not to be unreasonable. Or jealous. You’ve always thought you were the kind of person that feels happy for others, roots for others, and most likely you are. But the toxic friend has a way of making you doubt yourself, it’s what they do, what they’re good at it, and if you really want to know, what they need to do to feel happy. They learned the pattern long ago and no one’s ever been rude (or strong) enough to set them straight. Not that you need to either. Sometimes engaging in confrontation actually is more toxic than just avoiding it. Just remind yourself of what’s really going on and don’t feel bad. It’s like the Shakespeare line about ‘protesting too much’. You know the truth: really happy people don’t need glitzy press releases for the world and don’t need to undermine your happiness to secure their own. It’s not just that really happy people can afford to be classy and not brag. Really happy people are generous of spirit. Their self satisfaction is not threatened by your happiness. They know what your buttons are and go out of their way NOT to push them. They omit their good fortune until you are feeling better about yourself, not because they think you aren’t big enough to celebrate with them, but because they are too big to ask you to.

Good friends are like clean air and pure water. We need them to survive. The world is a tough enough place without having to decipher mixed messages and dodge emotional bullets from those who pretend to have our back. Good friends approximate the habits of really happy people. They try to help. If you need a job, they offer to network. If you need to lose weight, they offer to walk with you. If you need to bitch about your ___________ (husband, kids, life) they don’t act horrified but instead offer you some tidbit about how their (husband, kids, life) sucks too.

Faux friends are much more worried about these areas than you know. That’s why they need to put the perfect spin on and to make you feel insecure. They are under the mistaken impression that somehow you feeling bad will make them feel better, even though it never works for them, andeven though they continue to feel miserable inside. The pattern continues until one of two things happen: Either you continue to feed this dysfunctional dynamic, often for years, and you become someone you don't recognize or even like, or you see it for what it is; a negative and unhealthy relationship that you’re above, and take action
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As you can tell, I’ve had a little bit of experience with this and it’s still a raw subject for me. Is it the suburbs? The northeast? Is there a special type of unhappy and unfulfilled soul that flourishes here amidst the apple orchards and strip malls? Whatever the root, the problem is huge. We all run to the gym and buy organic and pop multi-vitamins but all of that can either be enhanced or neutralized by the subtle manipulations of our friendships. Toxic friendships can take their toll on your self-esteem, your sense of self, your sense of humor, and even your other relationships. They can teach you to mistrust and to be defensive. They infect. Sadly, sometimes you have to cut these people out of your lives. Kind of like cancer. If you’ve done the chemo and the radiation and the bad cells keep coming back, you’ve got to take extreme measures. Surgical measures. You can’t change them. You can’t divert them. Sometimes, you just have to grab your knife and run for the hills.

Years ago, before 9/11, I wrote the outline for a novel I’ve since abandoned. It had to do with white slavery and the snatching of white, blond teenagers from wholesome American locales like shopping malls. Needless to say it was sparked from the deep, fearful parts of my heart. I abandoned the book because I’d set it in Afghanistan, having chosen that country as much for my ignorance of it as my gut impression; dark, dusty, and oppressive, especially to women. I had begun research and had even collected news articles, beginning to get a feel for the people and geography so I could authentically set the book. This was in the summer of 2001. After 9/11 and Osama I couldn’t begin to go there. So I’ve waited for the time to be right and I believe my outrage is just hot enough to bring back to a boil and my psyche just healed enough to settle into this disturbing subject, this horror of not knowing. One thing I expect is to set it in a different locale, perhaps one with a distinctly Dutch Caribbean flavor. Stay tuned. And pray for all the missing children and their families.