Ahhh, June…a wonderful month with the end of school and the beginning of summer, but for June brides, it can also the beginning of a new life adventure–a wonderful or terrifying adventure.

This June marked my 21st year of marriage.  Considering, more than two decades ago, I walked down the center aisle of a small church wondering if it would last, I suppose it’s remarkable, but considering the 50+ year marriages of my parents’ generation, it doesn’t seem like much.

A favorite Mexican proverb says “Cuando una mujer es lo suficientemente madura para escoger a un compañero correcto, ella ya ha estado casada por años”. Roughly translated, it means “By the time a woman is old enough to choose a good mate, she has been married for years.”  Or as  Dr. David Schnarch says in his book, Passionate Marriage, “Nobody is ready for marriage–marriage makes you ready for marriage.”

Someone recently wrote a bio on me, in which I was called an expert on marriage.  I laugh each time I think of it.  It seems to be a contradiction in terms, as the only individuals arrogant enough to think they are experts on marriage are most-likely single.  Whether it is our successes, or our failures which make us expert, learning about marriage isn’t easy. I’ve learned a few things along the way, but I know way more about weddings, than marriages.

I couldn’t count the number of weddings I’ve attended.  As a child I attended the weddings of people my parents knew, later came the weddings of my own friends, now I am often invited to the weddings of my friends’ children.  Over the years, I’ve seen weddings in all sizes and colors.  I’ve attended weddings built around holiday themes–Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Christmas, and even Halloween.  I’ve witnessed marriages in small living rooms, and great churches.  I’ve been served obscenely-expensive food on fine china at some weddings, and potluck grub on paper plates at others.

At this point, I’d like to think I’m sort of an expert on weddings–not a Martha Stewart or Colin Cowie expert, but still very much a wedding aficionado.  Every wedding is different, but whether the bride & groom are wearing silk or denim, they are optimistic believers in the happily-ever-after.   Almost without exception, there will be two people who believe they can go the distance, but I’ve attended weddings where even the bride & groomed seemed to know they were doomed before the Bridal Chorus began. One such wedding, was on  where the groom was conspicuously absent from the reception. At another, the bride was shouting obscenities at the groom within moments of tying the knot–or perhaps the noose.

When I truly believe the couple is doomed, I usually send an R.S.V.P with a lovely card, but who can know which couples will succeed or which will fail?   How some couples eke out years of marital bliss, despite the head-scratching of friends; is a one of those intimate secrets that only some couples know.  Like the secret oath of a fraternity, you will not learn those secrets, unless you are inducted into the very exclusive Benevolent Order of The Happily Married.

But enough about marriage–on the big day it’s all about the dresses, decorations, and flowers; a very auspicious celebration for things yet unknown. It is much ado for the “I do”.  If we understood what was ahead, perhaps we’d be less inclined to eat cake and toast champagne with such jubilant capriciousness.  We often imagine that marriage will be an unending romantic state, but it’s often far from romantic, challenging even those with the most impeccable qualities.

Perhaps God was afraid of letting me raise a girl, as I have only sons.  That’s too bad, because if I had a daughter, I’d save her some trouble by teaching her some of the useful things I’ve learned about men, life and marriage.  I’m not jaded or cynical, just experienced.  I tell girlfriends planning weddings, not to listen to me, lest my remarks persuade them to call it off.

I don’t regret having married, but I am often astounded at how difficult it can be to live in harmony with another human being.  The fundamental differences between men & women, as well as those of each individual’s personality, guarantee the joys in marriage will be tempered with the challenges of reconciling those differences.

Marriage is sharing, and while that sounds very nice, even small children understand sharing means giving up stuff you’d rather keep.  You give up some of your stuff in return for some of their stuff.  That’s great, if their stuff includes things like a generous inheritance or a beach house in Malibu, but it is more likely their stuff is at least one family member you won’t like, and furniture you can’t decorate around. Of course, they get half of your stuff, which means they get to embrace your oddball behaviors and the mismatched pieces of your emotional baggage, which will be the wrong style, but still enough to guarantee that as a couple you’ll have a full set.

For each and everyone who is bold enough to stand in front of family and friends pledging their all–I have one thing to say GOOD LUCK.  You’ll need it!

When we are very young, we look forward to being older.  Once we’re grown, it loses some appeal.  There isn’t much I miss about being a kid.  I’m glad I conquered my fear of boy-cooties, and glad my mother doesn’t dress me anymore, but except for being able to eat cookies without thinking about calories, or being forced to take a daily nap, the only thing I really miss is the do-over.

A miss at jump rope, a ball bouncing through the hopscotch,  or a bee interfering in a game of jacks,  could all be fixed with a do-over.  The do-over granted another chance, one which would hopefully have a better outcome. Grown-up life would be almost as carefree as childhood, if everything we did, came with a do-over.

Our lives are full of choices, actions and decisions.  Some are the result of careful consideration, others happen without reason.  Unfortunately, no matter how things happen, there are times when a do-over would be helpful.  Imagine having a do-over for financial matters like your 401K or credit card debt.  Being given a chance to erase mistakes, would eliminate the need for condoms, divorce lawyers and auto-insurance.  It would largely keep our closets skeleton-free.

Starting life over after a divorce, relocating to a different city, going back to school because you want something different, even rehab can all be a do-overs, but unlike those of the playground, they don’t erase the past. Unfortunately, even with a do-over, there is always the possibility of a worse outcome.  It’s risky to bet on a better oucome, because it requires weighing our current known situation, against unknowns.  The older we are, the more difficult it can be to consider starting over mid-life.

Leaving the past behind, takes tremendous courage.  If you are faced with such a decision, you may even wonder if it’s possible to reinvent yourself.  A person considering returning to school, may consider how old they will be when they finish, but getting older will happen whether or not we make changes.  While, it might be scary to put our lives on hold to pursue something we want, it is sadder to resign ourselves to staying in a situation, because of the fear of failure.

We don’t always get it right.  Sometimes we need a Mulligan.  The second chance isn’t always better, but we never know unless we try.  If we get it wrong, we can always hope we haven’t used all our do-overs.

“It’s the biggest media event since the death of Michael Jackson!”

I haven’t regularly watched TV in almost two years.  I take time to watch an NBA game, when I can, but  I’ve generally lost interest in TV.  Even as a non-watcher, I find it impossible to keep TV out of my consciousness.  Radio, social media, and newspapers cover TV, as if it were news.   I often feel I’ve watched stuff I haven’t.  Even the commercials become part of pop-culture and our collective psyche.

Recently, thousands brewed espresso, set their alarms or DVRs, so as not to miss The Royal Wedding.  It was “must-see” TV.  That same week, I received the above tweet.  It referred not to The Royal Wedding, but the death of most-wanted terrorist Osama Bin Laden.   At the time, I was blissfully far from continual news and having to listen to those who stretch a few sketchy details into hours of coverage.  I was mercifully spared the torture of listening to comments on other peoples’ comments, or interviews with experts who know little more than the viewers, of the thing on which they are commenting.

Nevertheless, I was struck by the remark above and how our obsessive interest in celebrity often  becomes more important than the real issues that used to constitute news.  From most of my friends, the response to the death of Bin Laden was an enthusiastic, “Hell yeah!”, but there were those who were merely miffed that shows like Desperate Housewives and Celebrity Apprentice were pre-empted.

As the news unfolded (or failed to) we were subjected to more inaccurate and insubstantial coverage.  Controversies about the story, replaced the story.  Why was Osama buried at sea?  Why was the government keeping the pictures from the public?  Did Osama deserve to die?  We were also learned the names of Nick and Mariahs’ twins, heard the latest news of  the would-be king & his bride, and finally got a break from Charlie Sheen, American Idol and Trump’s quest for Obama’s birth certificate.

The tabloids at the checkstand, declared Oprah is gay and Osama begged for his life.  Through popular magazines we learned Marie Osmond wore her original wedding dress when she remarried her first husband in an LDS temple and Kirstie Allie has lost 90 lbs. while dancing with the stars.  Oh yeah, and in case you missed it, a natural remedy for impotence was found in Osama’s medicine cabinet.

The media makes everything a circus, but the tent with the freak show is still the biggest draw.
For all of my adult life, the media obsessively covered Michael Jackson and Lady Di until their tragic deaths.  Whether it was the glamour or the tragedy, there seemed no point at which we’d had enough.

Remember the how long we had to listen to the outrage when Michael Jackson held his baby over a balcony for fans to see?  It was as if, no mother had ever seen her husband toss a baby into the air, while fearing the worst.  If it hadn’t been Michael Jackson, it would have been much ado about nothing.  Yet, Jacko’s act caused weeks of discussion, finger-wagging and tsk-tsking.  Finally, we had proof he was an unfit parent–as if the litany of his other odd acts, like naming a child “Blanket” or making his kids to wear masks & veils wasn’t evidence enough.

Kato Kaelin, Camilla, Paris, Kim Kardashian, and Spencer Pratt are just a few of many, whose celebrity is based on nothing except association with celebs or media over-coverage.  There are politically-outspoken personalities like Donald Trump, Cher, Julia, and Sean Penn who believe their celebrity status makes their opinions valid for the rest of America, despite the fact that most of them live lives far different from the rest of us.  But if you don’t embrace the politics of Hollywood, the media provides alternatives like Joe the Plumber, Snooki and Cindy Sheehan.  Like all the other celebs, they are just people–people who are really no more interesting or knowledgeable than you or I.

We are obsessed.  Being privy to the drama and failings of the lives of others, should serve to remind us they are ordinary people with the same problems as the rest of us.  Nevertheless, we continue to fawn, spellbound and eager for more details.  In the meantime, the real news which affects us, is edged out of our periphery, so  stations can secure ratings.  We know more of  Susan Boyle and Nadya Sulliman, than of our government’s economic policies  & practices.  We are more interested in the coterie of the red carpet, than the details of Obamacare.    We more likely know the names of Jackson’s chimp or Siegfried’s tigers, than the terrorist animals who threaten our security.  Like drivers craning our necks to see an accident, we want to know the gory details, even when we know it’s in our best interest to look at the less interesting stuff in front of us.

I never wanted a dog.   Still  don’t.  Keeping animals strikes me as an incredible nuisance and expense, both things I try to keep to a minimum in my life.  Nevertheless, I have a dog.  The details of dog ownership, do not thrill me, but the d-o-g is working into the household with relative ease.

Beloved Soul Mate has wanted the boys to have a dog since they were born, as he is convinced that dogs are a necessary part of a childhood.   (I am proof, this is not true, having successfully reached adulthood without the aid of a dog.)  He also believes dogs teach responsibility.   (This is one of many things dog-owners would have us believe, despite the fact that it is usually “Mom” who keeps the house-pets from dying of starvation or dehydration.)  The dog knows nothing that isn’t retated to food, and he’s in charge of teaching the kids what many parents fail to teach????

So how does someone who doesn’t want a dog, end up with a puppy?  Perhaps you are imagining a scene where someone like me, is taken in, by an adorable wide-eyed puppy, before they have the chance to gather their wits.  My adventure as dog-owner began at an adoption event with an abundance of adorable dogs, but I assure you I was not swayed by sad eyes or wagging tails.  For me, the decision to acquire a dog was cold & calculated.

In my lexicon of stuff every parent should know, is the idea that it is good to let a kid desire something before giving it to them.  In our culture of surplus & consumerism, we often inundate our children with stuff they never wanted because of our own whims.  Desire is a pleasure-enhancing part of life.  It is a great motivator which increases the satisfaction of finally getting what was desired.  Not only that, but learning to wait for things we want, is a necessary life skill to cultivate.

My son’s desire for a dog had reached critical mass.  I had held him off with a variety of  low-maintenance pets as long as was practically possible.  In my last attempt to buy time, I had promised him we could have chickens.  Over the preceding years, he & I had visited shelters & attended various adoption events, but we had yet to find “the” dog.

Since Beloved Soul Mate IS a dog person, he wanted to choose the dog, but his ideal dog and mine were not the same.  He is partial to the kind of dogs I find abhorrent, lumbering, slobbering overly-enthusiastic large dogs.  I was looking for a smallish dog, that wouldn’t ruin my life, carpets, shoes, or any other part of my comfortably-appointed home.  I wanted a dog who looked like he belonged to a boy.  This ruled out anything resembling a bedroom slipper or anything that couldn’t jump high enough to nab a Frisbee from mid-air.  The dog had to have endearingly floppy ears.  He couldn’t be taller than my knee or have a tail that would whip martini glasses off the coffee table.  (I’m not a martini drinker, but if the dog was a disaster, I anticipated becoming one.)  The tail criterion eliminated all the Old Yeller, Rin Tin Tin and Marley-type dogs.

Then it happened.  We were about our usual errands, when we stumbled upon an adoption event.  There he was–the dog of dogs.   A lively, but sedate puppy, who looked like he might age well.  As luck would have it, Beloved Soul Mate was out of town.  It was done.  I became part-owner of a dog.  This particular little fellow had been rescued in Tijuana.  Like others who have crossed the border for a better life, he is now beneficiary to all things American, including health care he doesn’t pay for.

If Beloved Soul Mate was surprised to learn that in his absence, I had procured a dog, he was more surprised to discover I am an exceptional dog-owner.  He was also surprised to realize I love the puppy.  The puppy is irresistable, but it has less to do with the creature, than the conviction that all living things are worthy of kindness and respect.  (I was good to the hamsters & reptiles too, even though I would have been happier to bury them, than to tend them.)  I have no respect for those who take pets, only to dispose of them when they cease to be enjoyable.  For me the decision to take any animal is a “til death do us part” responsibility.

The dog is here.  It is in my best interest to make the experience as pleasant as possible for both of us.  The dog and I, are both as happy as lottery winners.  He has acquired a yard, a boy  and has adopted a woman who will assure he is well-trained and well-fed.  He intends to care for me as best he can and we get along well.  It  helps that we are both early risers, with a love of a good midday nap.

The dog is very malleable and has quickly learned most of the things he needs to know.  He is proving to be both calm & smart.   He neither fouls my floors, nor barks at stuff of no consequence.  He is still learning and so am I.  In seven or eight years,  I will know whether or not it is possible to teach an old dog new tricks.   In the meantime, the dog is constructing his thesis on whether or not a new dog can teach an old gal new tricks.

A friend asks if I’ve noticed how boring Facebook has become.  Obviously, he’s not  reading The Wall Street Journal and Business Week, or he’d know Facebook is now bigger than ever.   But as we all know, bigger is not necessarily better.

I was once Facebook-resistant.  Picturing the same kinds of loners who once populated early social networks–aka the BBS bulletin boards, it was my perception that cyber-friends were a poor substitute for real friends.  Routinely, I received e-mail invitations from my real friends to join.
Ignore.
Ignore.
Ignore.
Delete.

When a particularly intelligent and vibrant friend, who surely had better things to do, sent me an invitation,  I could no longer resist.  I had to know why someone like him would be “facebooking”.  In a matter of days, I was connecting with people from all phases of my life.  I was chatting with friends and relatives in other cities, seeing the latest pictures of their children, and swapping bits & pieces of life.  Facebook was to people, what a pencil cup is to a desk–a convenient place to keep all within reach.

I did my share of quizzes, exchanged a few pokes and caught up with people I hadn’t spoken to in years, before realizing the usefulness of Facebook. I could organize a get-together, inviting all the people I wanted there, hire entertainment and never even have to pick-up the phone.  After the party, I could share all the photos without being bothered to make reprints.  Major time-saver, but that was only one aspect.

Facebook was like a never-ending cocktail party.  I could come early and stay late.  I could see who was there and make excuses to exit if things were dull.  Like Cheers, it was the place where everybody knew your name–fresh, friendly, live and intimate.

The  first 50 to 100 friends in my circle were people I knew pretty well.  That circle grew and spawned more circles.  Soon, circles were overlapping circles, which is exactly what is supposed to happen–except that to me it seemed the sociological equivalent of an environmental disaster–climate change.  With a small group of old friends, everyone could be completely unguarded.  The bigger the circle grew, the less intimate it became.

Then came the tweaks.  In response to growth, Facebook was constantly being modified.  There were tweaks to make Facebook better functioning for the growing volume of users.  There were tweaks in response to how “friends” use the site.  Realizing the size of this voluntarily-captive market, many adjustments were made to tap into the wealth of marketing information and to increase potential revenue. The never-ending cocktail party seemed to be undergoing a never-ending facelift.

In it’s early days, Facebook was just another on-campus group–like a friendly fraternity, but like it’s founder Mark Zuckerberg, it quickly progressed from university to big business.  It didn’t take long to realize Facebook users would tell advertisers what they liked and what they used; thereby suggesting what they were likely to buy.  Conversations between friends provided valuable marketing information to would-be advertisers.  Those who “liked” a page became a self-identified target audience already assembled to hear the next marketing message.  Facebook says tapping into this was a way of “personalizing” each user’s experience.  Nothing says “personal” like being bombarded with corporate messages, eh?

When I started thinking about whether Facebook was indeed less interesting, I was convinced it was evolving into something less attractive than it’s earlier form.  I suspected that as people’s networks grew, they would be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information presented.  (Facebook tweaked that by using an algorithm to weed out people they thought might bore you.  When word of this got around, Facebook decided to again allow users decide for themselves who the boring people were.)

Having large groups of “friends” meant some people would be less likely to share the details of their lives and that the sheer volume of “friends” would limit the amount of quality dialogue that could practically take place.  It seemed inevitable, the more friends one had, the less “friendly” the atmosphere.  It was less personal.  Whereas, once it was mostly the friends you would have liked on speed-dial, the “friends” list was beginning to resemble the metropolitan white pages.

Would the depersonalization of Facebook signal the beginning of the end? It  hardly seems so.  People have always devised ways to connect with others.  In the 1930’s psychologist Jacob Saul Moreno,  realized the benefit and need of social connections and began trying to diagram models of how people formed social networks.  Throughout history, people have sought out affiliations with others who shared their interests or values.  Before Facebook, there were many online entities trying to help others connect.  Classmates.com and Six Degrees were two of the forerunners,but CompuServe, AOL and Prodigy were key in redefining the computer as a social outlet.

It would seem that no matter the forum, people have a primal need to connect with others.  Studies have shown, the quality and size of our social web, greatly influences both our sense of well being and our physical health and longevity.  Which means that the next time your spouse criticizes the time you spend online, you can reply, “Shut up, I’m trying to outlive you.”  (Not that you would,  I’m just saying.)

Incidentally, it is exactly comments like that one that could land you in divorce court–then again so could Facebook. The BBC recently reported that Facebook was implicated as a cause for 1 in 5 divorces in the UK.  One would assume this is because of the ease of initiating an affair online, but it is also probable such affairs would never occur, if good company were as readily available at home, as online.

I have come to terms with the fact that I am a “connector”.  No matter how many annoying modifications are made to my favorite social forum, I will probably still visit.  Just as AT&T, who once told us to “Reach out and touch someone“, is now losing market share because other companies have come up with better ways for us to stay in touch, when Facebook loses the qualities which caused its popularity, something else will likely displace it.  In the meantime, the rest of us will still go to Facebook when we need a lift–the face(book)lift.   

Facebook Factoids

1 in 13 people across the world use Facebook.

Facebook’s current population is roughly equal to that of the European Union.

48% of young people get their news from Facebook.

People talk to more people online, than they do in real-life.

The average user has 130 friends.

Extroverts have the most friends and the information on their profiles tends to be an accurate reflection of their personalities.

Shy people spend the most time on Facebook, but have tend to have fewer friends.

Women comment much more frequently than men.

Facebook’s heaviest-users (those under age 35) reportedly check their face book all day long, including while driving, while at work, while on vacation and  even after sex.

The average user creates 90 pieces of content a month.

Q.  How much cocaine was Charlie Sheen doing?

A.  Enough to kill Two and a Half Men

It has reached critical mass.  I don’t even watch TV, and I’m suffering from too much Charlie.    Charlie Sheen is far from being a teacher or role model, but I believe everyone can teach us something.  Even though he’s no Dalai Lama, here are a few things we can learn from Sleezus, the prodigal son of Martin.

1.  You needn’t be a rock star, to party like one.

The truth is, anyone can party like a rock star.
A Malibu villa is a nice venue, but any trashable hotel room will suffice.  Rock star-scale partying is a thing best done in moderation.  If you should pursue this activity with regularity,  A.  you may become convinced, as Charlie has, you are a rock star  and B.  you might begin to sound like one.

Unfortunately, you will not sound like an ever-cool McCartney or Clapton, instead you will sound like the addled and aged Ozzy Osbourne.

2.  Goddesses are good company.

We all need people.  Nice and lovely women make very good company, but when it comes to goddesses, there is an optimal number.  A woman can surround herself with many goddesses, she will know when she has too many, as they are apt to become catty or backstabbing.  (Goddesses are prone to jealousy.)

However since two goddesses + one man is a crowd, wise men will limit themselves to one goddess at a time.   This is necessary, as true goddesses are not accustomed to sharing men.  If you find your goddess doesn’t mind sharing, it is likely you have been duped by porn stars posing as goddesses.  (Mistaking porn stars for goddesses is a common mistake men make.)  Which brings us to the next lesson…

3.  Sharing is nice, not easy.

Some things are easier to share than others.  Movie popcorn, sandwiches and rich desserts are easy to share;  people you sleep with and kids from a previous marriage–not so much.  While having a buffet-choice of bed warmers might seem desirable, it presents a smorgasbord of complications–such as ex’s with anger-management issues.   However,  if one is prone to entertaining the affections of many women, hopefully, they are smart enough to learn the true nature of women, for instance, women DO kiss & tell.  (See next lesson.)

4.  Girls Talk.

One night she’s cooing in your ear calling you an Adonis and complimenting your Tiger’s blood prowess.  Next morning, she’s angry you didn’t make coffee and is calling the press to tell them you’re an abusive drug-crazed jerk with an Adonis complex.

5.  Tigers kill.

Apparently Tiger‘s blood  isn‘t good for you either.   Somewhere, in a lab funded by federal grant money, there are probably scientists trying to find out if there is a correlation between tiger blood and the aberrant behavior of those afflicted with Mad Cow disease.   Because the number of men with tiger’s blood coursing through their veins is limited, more study is needed.

(My personal theory is Tiger’s Blood is street slang for TOO MUCH CRACK.)

6.  Neither stars, nor stardom last forever.

Shooting stars burn out and fall to the ground–so do smoking & snorting stars.

7.  It’s all about me.

The most important lesson of all:  It doesn’t matter that you’re from a famous family, it doesn’t matter how many hit screen credits you have, or how many goddesses you can afford.  “Whose your daddy” can’t make up for too many nonsensical rants on network television.  At the end of the day, it’s all about who you are.

Okay, Charlie chaplain, your work here is done.  I forgot my watch,  but I think your 15 minutes of used-to-be famous is just about up.   Be a good little rock star from Mars and run along to rehab so we can free up the telly for the next celebrity crash & burn.

·

The Container Store–it’s a big store that sells stuff to put things in.  I don’t know that women really go so gaga for containers, but The Container Store has made MILLIONS selling them, because as keepers of the home, women are expected to keep the house neat and there is a notion containers promote order.

I know of no scientific evidence to suggest women are more tidy or orderly than men; and in many cases, the opposite is true.  Being neat is no more natural, than always smelling good (another thing men have come to expect of women).  Nevertheless, even working women are supposed to be able to keep an organized home.

Men like order. They not only like it, they need it. Therefore,  it should come as no surprise that the founders of  The Container Store, were men, as were many of the organizing gurus who convinced us containers were the secret to having an organized life.

And the point is?

Continuing on from the last post re: why men make strong women weak, I want to address a thing that continues to fill even the strongest woman with insecurities.  It is the age-old problem of when he doesn’t call (though this theme has many variations).

At any age, women wonder what’s going one when “he” doesn’t call, text, write . . et cetera.  When her brain is preoccupied with thoughts of someone special, not hearing from that special someone will quickly fill her mind with questions.

Did I do something wrong?  (I knew I should have worn the other dress.)

Was he maimed in a terrible accident?  (Maybe there was a train derailment, a freak water cooler explosion.  Maybe he was attacked by suburban feral cats.)

Has he lost interest?

Is there someone else?

When he hasn’t called it’s because he isn’t thinking of you!   There are only two reasons for this.  Obviously, the first is  he doesn’t care.   Assuming you can reasonably eliminate that first reason, the second is a perfectly sound justification for what may seem like insensitivity or nonchalance.

It’s the damn containers.  Men’s heads are a small-scale version of The Container Store.   Their brains are arranged just like that emporium of baskets & bins.  There is a department for Office Stuff–the things they think about at work.  There is a place for Outdoor Stuff, things like sports, motorcycles and boats.  There is a place for miscellaneous Home Stuff, like the wife and kids–including a large section devoted to Bedroom Stuff.  Each of these sections is full of small compartments and containers, by which they keep their heads organized.  Despite the fact that they can’t find their socks or organize the stuff around them, within the confines of their own world, they have everything neatly compartmentalized–including you!

Men don’t function well with too many things bombarding them.  They tend to function best, when they can be singularly focused.  If they are thinking about work, they are probably not thinking about you.  If they are thinking about football, they are probably not thinking about you.  If they are watching a movie, they are probably not thinking about you.

When they are operating in the compartment full of work stuff, they are not thinking about who needs a ride from soccer practice, or picking up the shirts at the cleaners.  It is the reason they forget birthdays and anniversaries, it is the reason they won’t remember anything you said during the 4th quarter, it is the reason they go days without calling.

When they justify behaviors which seem uncaring to us, by saying they had other things on their minds, it sounds like a lame rationalization, but unfortunately it’s true.    A woman can be concentrating on a dozen things, and performing more than one task, but it is unlikely she will stop thinking about the people she cares about.   (Remember, they are simpler creatures than we are.)

If only The Container Store sold something in which women could store their fondness until it were convenient.

Sunday is the big day.  It’s a bad day for dieters, but a good day for pizza delivery boys.  It’s a bad day for those who don’t like Clydesdales, but a good day for those who like commercials with Clydesdales.  It’s a big day for gamblers, and a bigger day for bookies.  It’s a great day for winners–especially those who beat the odds at the sports book.  It is a sad day for fans of the losing team–and the best day for fans of the winning team. It’s a huge day for my friend Jenn, whose love of The Steelers borders on religious devotion.  Even while living in Chargers territory, this Pittsburgh zealot managed to incorporate a Steelers motif into her wardrobe every single day.  If there’s a lingerie store called Frederick’s of Pittsburgh, she probably has them on speed-dial.

I’m a little jealous–not of her ability to tastefully wear black and gold, but of her love of the game and her team.  I’ve don’t enjoy football enough to be a true fan, but I’ll cop to being a bandwagon fan.  When the whole city gets Charger Fever, it’s contagious and I’m susceptible.   It’s pathetic how quickly I turn into a lightning bolt lemming.  If our home team were better, my wardrobe would probably rival Jenn’s.

When it comes to football there are two kinds of women–those who are fans and the rest of us.  Depending on your level of fandom, Super Bowl Sunday is either the happiest or saddest day of the season.  For me it’s the best day of the entire season, because it is the end of the season.  On the other hand, the end of the season means no more three-hour long afternoons without anybody needing anything from me.

I love the Sundays when the men of my household are all held hostage by the big screen.  I like to make game-food, then disappear.  They are oblivious.  I could walk naked through the room, they’d scream and cheer, but they wouldn’t notice me.  I could switch out the wings and replace them with Snausages.  They’d wonder why the food wasn’t as good as usual, but they’d probably just smother them in guacamole and keep eating.

Since I’m easily occupied, I’ve never considered either option.  While they revel in the wonder of HD plasma, I am free to enjoy unencumbered sweet solitude.  While they commune with the big screen, I am happy to commune with this small one.  I might read a good book, work on a project or go out for a latte & a pedicure.  It’s all good.  The season is almost over.  I hate to see it end, but there’s always next year.

The big kahuna, the perennial heavyweight champ of New Year’s Resolutions is losing weight.  Fats off to anyone who vows to make this the year they will lose unwanted weight.  It isn’t easy, but it’s a worthwhile goal.  To show my support, I’ve compiled a list of my own suggestions how to end the year healthier and happier.

I’m no diet guru, but I shed some weight this year.  Throw out the diet books, here’s the plan that worked for me.

To begin with you’ll have to be ready to make some changes and eliminate deeply ingrained unhealthy habits you’ve practiced.  For this reason, the first step may seem drastic, but I assure you it’s necessary.

1.  PURGE
It’s hard at first, but you have to get rid of the things that are weighing you down.  It’s time to let go of hurts and bitterness.  It’s an out-with-the-old catharsis.  Flush away the grudges and bad feelings.  Once you’ve done this, I assure you’ll feel lighter.

2.  LOSE IT!
Get rid of people and things in your life which weigh you down.  Distance yourself from high-drama relationships and conflicts.  Leave the heaviness behind.  You’ll notice an immediate spike in your energy once you stop allowing  others to drain it.

3.  FEED
Once you’ve started getting rid of unpleasant things, you’ll develop an appetite for healthier things.  Feed your spirit.  Enjoy old friends and make new ones.

4.  SHARE
Smaller portions are very satisfying.  Share what you have.  In no time, you’ll be amazed to discover how much you have to left over.

5.  GET ACTIVE

Get in the habit of stretching.  Go outside your comfort zone to explore new possibilities and try new things.  Exercise your head & heart by going after a new pursuit.

6.  ACHIEVE YOUR GOAL
Avoid over-processed thoughts and toxins. If you can’t eliminate all the toxic people in your life, at least try to avoid them.   Travel lightly through your world.  Don’t carry everyone’s baggage–and reduce your own.  Stop looking for offenses where there aren‘t any.  Once you’ve practiced this, you can watch the heaviness roll off you.

It’s all good.  In no time at all,  you’ll be lighter, healthier and happier.  Here’s wishing you a year of lightness!

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

Certainly, Charles Dickens was referring to the holiday season when he penned those words.  It is the best of times for children who have the luxury of just waiting for the sweets, gifts & festivities.  It is the worst of times for those who attempt to orchestrate the magic.

Fall is fading, and the holiday season, with it’s shopping-days numbered, is upon us.  There are only a few weeks in which to hang lights, buy gifts, prepare the house, abuse the credit cards and become a testy wreck before the holidays.

I’m not a Grinch, but the season exhausts me.  Each year, I vow to simplify, to separate the tinsel from the tangible to focus on what really matters.  Then, before you can say “On Dasher and Dancer, on Prancer and Vixen”, I’m in the kitchen making red & green popcorn balls, or braiding boughs of holly.  I’d enjoy Christmas more if it wasn’t over so quickly.   I like having a tree, lights and decorations, but the effort required for them, never seems to be worth their short-lived glory.

Still each year, as I put away the dishes from the Thanksgiving feast, I am eager knowing once the wishbone is broken, the Christmas season has begun.   I anxiously wait for the first moment of awe for the newly hung Christmas lights, and the time when it is officially acceptable to play Christmas carols.

I don’t mind the shopping, cooking or cleaning, but dread the decorating and despise the wrapping of gifts.  I am inconvenienced by the way that the month of December is commandeered by invitations and obligations.  I fear the inadequacy I’d feel if I didn’t bake cookies for the kids or find the right presents.

I’ve put the Christmas mix on to get me into the right spirit.  Listening to a few carols, I will contemplate the season and prepare my mind.

First cut: Deck the Halls

Who can resist the catchy tune with a fa-la-la-la-la refrain?!?

STOP! Don’t listen–it’s a trick! Subliminal programming intended to get me off the couch to start decorating.  What is with the gay apparel line?  Does this mean I have to wear awful garments given to me by well-meaning relatives without rolling  eyes or asking for receipts?  Guess, I’d better go retrieve the festive sweater his mother sent.

Fast forward: We Wish You a Merry Christmas.

That’s more like it–nothing but glad tidings in this song–and an edict to produce a figgy pudding.  Mental note to self:  Add figgies to my shopping list.

Skip that song . . What’s next?

Oh Christmas Tree

Delightful.  Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree.  How lovely are your branches.

If the branches are so lovely, why do they require three boxes of  tiny twinkle lights and gobs of glittering glass from the attic?  When do we get to the verse about how to get  pine needles out of the carpet on January 3rd?

Next cut:
Here we go a Wassailing.

Dang, we’re fresh out of Wassail, which is too bad, because I could use a drink about now.  Maybe I’ll just have a beer.  Hey, that’s not bad.  If  I close my eyes, I can almost believe it’s wassail.  In fact, I see tiny reindeer and a benevolent fat man running a sweatshop full of elves busy building me an iPhone.

What’s next on the mix?
Silent night?
Perfect, I’m tired.  I think I’ll turn in and try Christmas again tomorrow. This holiday stuff is starting to make me feel warm & fuzzy–then again, it might just be the beer.