Save Me From The Drumming Boy

One of my favorite things about Christmas is the music. I especially like the magnificent chorales singing with such gusto and emotion. The old English carols where revelers go wassailing, the Nutcracker, Vivaldi's version of winter.

Not in contention are the "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" pop songs -- bearable only because their life span is those few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Frankly, by Christmas Eve I'd like to roast the singer's chestnuts on an open fire.

I'm not sure what it is about "The Little Drummer Boy" that brings out the Scrooge in me but the excessive ba-rum-pa-bum-bumming undoubtedly is a factor. It's also the molasses-speed it's sung in. Chunks of my life are frittering away while the kid bangs on that blasted drum.

Everyone has a breaking point -- the moment where you'd spill secrets of the universe just to make the torture stop. For me? Lock me in a room with "The Little Drummer Boy" CD and I'll tell you anything you want to know in record time.

Kitsch to the Nth Degree

Only a week left for shoppers to participate in the retail frenzy otherwise known as Christmas. Shoppers not just trying to find the perfect gift but the perfect gift on sale. Too much pressure. No wonder people have that glazed look.

One toy store is staying open for 88 hours straight. Marketing departments have given up on cleverly naming the numerous sales. Now it's just Monday Sale! or Wednesday Sale! Black Friday and Cyber Monday seem so long ago.

Perhaps I might make a gift suggestion: the President Obama Chia Pet. Frankly, I don't know whether to laugh out loud or shake my head at the disrespect. After all, the Washington, Lincoln and Statue of Liberty versions are also available -- on the same shelf with SpongeBob.

The creepiest thing about it is that, "in bloom", it looks like he's sporting a lush green Afro.

Kitsch to the nth degree? I think liberals and conservatives could agree on at least that.

Leave the Leg Warmers to the Bolshoi

Pull up your leg warmers, ladies. Squeeze into that 1980's leotard. Jane Fonda is back in the exercise biz.

Remember those rigorous exercise videos? A lithe, ultra-thin actress guiding you through a workout boot camp -- no smiling allowed. Millions of us bought into it -- literally. She went from award winning movie star to fitness guru faster than you could chant the "no pain, no gain" mantra.

Her new DVDs are for seniors and boomers. Age-appropriate exercises for geezers and we geezers in training. Presumably the routines will get me to break a sweat and not any bones, tone muscles that long ago lost their fight with gravity and tighten a core area that's doing one terrific impersonation of Tweedledum.

Sounds great! Of course I have to actually do the routines, not unlike the ten other DVDs in my "jeez I feel like such a cow and am going to do something about it -- no, seriously" collection.

I just pray she doesn't try to make leg warmers retro.

Bored? Ask for a Refund

Steve Martin was all over the news this week not because he had his audience rolling in the aisles, but because he had them dozing in their seats. According to an NPR blog, the New York venue where he was interviewed about his latest novel offered a refund for being bored.

Is this the new trend or simply a freak incident? Just think of all the boring movies, plays and lectures you've sat through. All the books you've skimmed in a futile search for a few well-written paragraphs. You can kiss the wasted time goodbye, but if we can get some of the cash back it might ease the pain.

I like the idea in principle but how do you prove boredom? Do you need evidence of your actually nodding off or the number of times you checked the time? Is there paperwork involved? An essay to compare and contrast? Do you have to leave before the end in protest. Is it more difficult to prove I was bored if I stay til the end hoping it will get better? It's like the people who eat all their food in a restaurant and then complain how bad it was.

Is it retroactive? If so, how far back can I go? What if the movie was billed as a comedy and you didn't find it funny? Does that count?

So many questions, I actually hope the New York refund was an isolated incident. I'm getting bored just thinking about it.

A Tryptophan-free Thanksgiving

Something just wasn't right about Thanksgiving this year. I think it's because I didn't have the traditional feast. That's right -- no turkey, stuffing, yams, cranberries or pumpkin pie. I never realized how much a traditionalist I was until I decided to do something, well, nontraditional.

In San Francisco, it's crab season. Fresh crab ranks high on my yummy scale and I know a lot of people who serve it up for their holiday meal. This year I jumped on the crustacean bandwagon. Delicious, yes. Full of memories, no.

Thanksgiving sparks all variety of stories. My first turkey was cooked with the giblets in their little bag inside the bird. Who knew they were in the other end? Or the year I turned the would-be gravy into a foaming chemistry experiment because I couldn't remember whether to use baking soda or powder.

I have no such memories connected with crab. Not yet, anyway. So let me start one: this is the first Thanksgiving I was able to make it through the meal without secretly unbuttoning my pants. And, since crab is tryptophan-free, there was none of that pesky nodding off after dinner.

But like everything else there is a downside -- a cold crab sandwich the following day just doesn't have the same appeal as that leftover poultry.

Losing the Fitted Sheet Battle -- Again

To be honest, I've never been the best housekeeper. My apartment is neat, uncluttered and I mop, dust, vacuum and scrub regularly. You know, the basics. I'm just not the housekeeper my mother was.

She ironed our underwear, towels and sheets. I always thought that was a tad above and beyond the call but of course I never said anything out loud. She would be displeased to know that her youngest daughter currently doesn't even own a working iron. Before you imagine me a ball of wrinkles, you should know that I am on very friendly terms with the dry cleaner downstairs. Their "in by 7 out by 5" policy is a lifesaver.

Mother never really showed us how to cook or do housework. Perhaps she hoped we'd osmose it or, way better, marry someone rich enough to provide a maid or two. In her dreams! Neither happened which is why, 40 years later, I still can't fold a fitted sheet.

Is there some secret to this? Does it involve a grasp of geometry -- folding angle to angle? Or is origami a better approach? What if I treat it like fine Japanese paper? Will I wind up with a neatly folded sheet -- or a locust perched on a lotus blossom?

I lose the fitted sheet battle every time I fold laundry. My solution? Roll the damn thing up like a sleeping bag and shove it in the linen closet. However, if you should meet my mother in that great big laundry room in the sky, tell her how orderly my apartment is -- and evade any questions about wrinkled sheets.

The Anti Anti-Aging Argument

Go to your local pharmacy and you'll find an array of anti-aging products -- creams, gels, lotions all promising to slow down the aging process. Buy ours and you're sure to be mistaken for your twenty-year-old daughter. Buy theirs and you're sure to be carded next time you go to a club.

While these products might have some actual benefits, I remain wary of their effectiveness. And I certainly don't cotton to the message they send -- getting older is some how bad. Wrinkles are the new leprosy. Soon we'll be wearing little bells to warn the unwrinkled that we're approaching. Children will point. Colleagues will turn away. The subway seat next to us will remain empty.

We are The Wrinkled. Pooh-poohers of botox. Debunkers of Madison Avenue's look-younger campaigns. Admirers of the Keith Richard's look. Crow's feet? We've got 'em. Frown lines? Bring 'em on. Turkey neck? Oh, please don't make me go there. My entire anti anti-aging argument falls apart when it comes to the dreaded turkey neck. So far camouflage like turtle necks and scarves have been successful but I'm open --- waaayyyy open --- to suggestions.

Letting Go

A minimalist. That's how I'd describe myself. I've never been a collector of stuff. In fact, too much stuff makes me uneasy and I feel compelled to offload some of it.

You see I've always had this dream that should I wake up some morning and want to run away, I could tie all my stuff in that proverbial red bandanna and go. Granted, I've yet to take action on that dream but I'm not giving up on it either. So if you some day see a white haired woman along the highway toting a bandanna on a stick, just honk.

Now here's the problem. I can't seem to apply my minimalist red bandanna theory to my closet. I have clothes in there from 10 years ago -- maybe longer. One jacket has so much shoulder padding it looks like I could play for the NFL.

Come on. Fess up. Raise your hand if you have something in your closet from your hippie or disco days --- maybe both! Hot pants? Go-go boots? Anything tie-dyed? Anything tie-dyed bearing a peace symbol?

Most of my things just don't fit anymore. I keep them mainly as incentive to lose the 20 pounds I've gained the past couple of years. Right! And those pounds will melt away as unicorns frolic in the forest of World Peace.

That line between delusional and hopeful gets more blurry every day, yet I just can't put my skinny jeans in the Goodwill bag.

An E-Reader In My Future?

I am an avid reader. Have been since I was a kid. The day I got my first library card ranks in my Top 20. I finish a book, I'm ready to start another one. Can't stand that interim bookless feeling.

There's something comforting about the feel of a book. Turning the pages. Placing the bookmark to monitor your progress. I can spend hours in a bookstore or library reading dust jacket blurbs, letting the pages fall open to random chapters, scanning the dialogue and analyzing the cover art.

No doubt -- I do indeed love the actual physical object known in the vernacular as a book. Okay, okay, I'm stalling. It's confession time: I am pondering buying an e-reader. There. I said it. I feel like a traitor, a heretic, a turncoat, a cheat, Don't I owe some loyalty to all those bookstores and libraries that have fed my habit all these years? Will I ever be able to look the librarian in the eye again. Will the bookseller somehow know that I'm going electronic? Perhaps I'll start wearing a giant "E" on my shirt to further ostracize myself from the good people who remain true to The Book.

Let me explain before you all pile on with reasons to loathe e-readers. I just finished a 900 page book. That's a few pounds of paper and I got an upper body workout just holding it every night. That's when I started to toy with the e-reader idea. If there are other 3-inch thick tomes in my reading future.....

I doubt that I could do it cold turkey. Cut off books altogether? Too extreme. What's next -- a world without chocolate? Besides it would take some time to wean me off of curling up with a good book. I just don't get the same glow over a plastic gadget made in China.

She Died With Her Pearls On

During the 1980's I lived in Los Angeles and signed on to various freelance advertising and public relations projects, including the annual holiday parade sponsored by one of the Hollywood TV stations.

Big name celebrities -- plus the usual B-listers and wannabes -- waving at the crowds from a shiny T-bird convertible or company sponsored float. It was live TV. Cue the driver. Cue the marching band. No room for mistakes. The sheer excitement trumped any jitters.

Following the parade, we were treated to an after-party with munchies to die for -- plus an open bar. This is where you could rub your exhausted elbows with the likes of Jimmy Stewart and Carol Channing. Easy to become star struck around such glitterati, but I never went gaga or drooled over anyone until.....

There she was -- flashing that warm, motherly smile that so enveloped me as a kid. I couldn't help myself. I walked up to Beaver and Wally's mom and gushed. And ever June Cleaver on and off camera -- she hugged me!

I bring this up because Barbara Billingsley died a few weeks ago -- probably with her pearls on.

Bus Ahoy!

I have been car less since 1996. I sold my last car when I moved abroad and, when I returned, I moved to a city with laudable public transportation. Of course I endlessly complain about the service, fare hikes, surly drivers and fellow passengers who, I am convinced, are put on this earth with the sole purpose of challenging my resolution to be more kind.

So nothing new or interesting to report about the actual riding of the bus. But I did notice something about the waiting for the bus. I tend to stand facing the direction from which the bus is coming and, oddly enough, others at the stop do likewise.

Did you ever see flocks of birds at the beach all facing the same way? Now visualize those birds with MP3 players plugged into their ears toting leather backpacks. Voila! A typical downtown bus stop image. Of course our position has absolutely no bearing on the prompt or delayed arrival of said bus. Only Zeus, God, Buddha or Simon Cowell actually have any control over actual bus schedules.

I like to think that we're scouts on the look-out for the behemoth diesel wagon to take us on our way. Bus ahoy! And everyone hopes to be the first to call it.

Puccini and Peanuts

Opera definitely falls into the category of high brow culture. I've been to seven or eight operas, mostly the Italian ones, with a Wagner thrown in for variety.

My confession? I've fallen asleep in some of the best seats in the house. Rather pricey napping, wouldn't you agree? My opera appreciation campaign was short lived. I finally had to admit that I simply didn't care for it. A smattering of arias is the best I can do. When you surround that with hours of drama, I shut down.

Here in San Francisco the opera company performs in a beautiful venue, but once a year they simulcast a performance at the ballpark. It's free and makes opera available to everyone. This year an estimated 30,000 people showed up.

I hemmed and hawed about going. Should I give it another try? The experience would certainly be different with so many people, outdoors, on a big screen. Plus, it's difficult to doze off in those ballpark seats so no worries there.

Why didn't I go? The concession stands. Somehow listening to the opera -- a high brow experience (see paragraph above) -- while noshing a hot dog and guzzling a Bud -- a delicious but definitely low brow experience -- just didn't gel in my mind.

Imagine Pavarotti performing before a beer burping audience. It makes my world tilt on its cultural axis -- and I don't even like opera.

I Flip-Flop Over Flip-Flops

In between errands I perched myself on a bench in Union Square. If you've ever been to San Francisco you know it's the hub of the city, teeming with both tourists and locals. It's a great place to take a shopping break or nurse a latte. For me, it wins any and all awards as the best place to examine variations in the gene pool -- otherwise known as people watching.

At the risk of sounding utterly simplistic, humans do indeed come in all shapes and sizes -- a real salmagundi. A real what? OK, OK, I have to confess I've loved that word forever and, frankly, find it difficult to work into a conversation. So let me show off just this once. Salmagundi is of French derivation meaning a medley or mixture.

Did I learn it in French class? Hardly. In French 101, we were always entering the class, opening the windows and asking what our fellow students called themselves. Salmagundi was the name of a deli I frequented during the 70's mainly because I loved the name.

But I digress. Back to Union Square. Body types? Some could pose for Reuben, some for Picasso. Some would do well on the basketball court, others should look into checkers. Hair colors that match no shade in the natural world. Flat bellies. Round bellies. Really round bellies. If it's an assortment you want, we humans certainly have it.

But can you guess what one clothing item more than half had in common? Flip-flops.

I wore flip-flops as protection from whatever disgusting fungus thrived in our high school locker room. I have a hard time shifting those little rubber soles from the mental category of shower sandal to fashion statement. Perhaps a few more visits to Union Square will help.

Raise Your Hand If You Own One

So let's get right to it. Raise your hand if you or someone you know actually owns a chia pet. I didn't think so.

I'm probably not the first to tell you that the holidays are just around the proverbial corner and that means a deluge of TV ads for the critter. Is it just my memory or have they been using the same commercial for, well, let's just round it off to eons shall we?

It sounds like the perfect gift for the office secret Santa or one of those no-gifts-of-more-than-$10 holiday parties and yet I've never heard of anyone who has either given or received one.

This is not a criticism. Simply wondering who the demographic is. There must be a website, a twitter account and perhaps even a chat room for chia lovers. I'll have to do a bit of research.

But if I don't find anything, I'm sticking with my theory that it's akin to the fruit cake legend -- there is just one in the entire world, it's making the rounds and it's coming soon to a Christmas tree near you.

After the Beep....You Know the Drill

The answering machine and voice mail -- are they the same thing? -- are great communication conveniences. For the caller, you can leave a message and avoid the hassle of repeatedly calling back.

And it puts the callee in control. You decide who gets to vault that personal screening wall you've carefully constructed. No time to deal with a chatterbox? Don't want to explain why you blew off the dental cleaning? Let the machine take the call.

However, I think there needs to be a manual on how to leave a message. Name and number are, of course, essential. But listen up, class. Can you say "succinct"?

Some people feel that beep is a signal for them to ramble endlessly. I have a few friends who've sowed the seeds for a new game show. All they need is Alex Trebek to make it work. Since I'm not answering the phone, they recite a litany of places I could possibly be and reasons why I'm not picking up.

Maybe you're out doing something fun -- or maybe I'm scrubbing the toilet. Maybe you're taking a nap -- or maybe I've run off to Vegas to be a showgirl. Maybe you're working late -- or maybe I'm in Oslo accepting the Nobel Peace Prize.

Wherever I might be and whatever I might be doing, I am not answering the phone so please leave a message -- a succinct one -- after the beep.

Zapping Our Tiny Tootsies

It's getting more difficult to find shoes that fit well. Seems there's a small growth that's pitched camp on the outside of my foot. Perhaps it's the vestige of a sixth toe or some other evolutionary flaw. It doesn't hurt. It's not unsightly. It just means my shoes need a wider toe box. Certainly there are more important things to worry about.

But I can't help wondering where it came from. Analyzing the results of a self-inflicted multiple choice podiatry quiz, I just may have found the culprit: the shoe fitting x-ray machines found in nearly every shoe store in America during the 1950s. If you're of a certain age, you know what I'm talking about. If you're a tad younger, let me explain.

Before mom paid out hard earned cash for shoes we'd quickly outgrow, the salesperson would have us step into a contraption that zapped our tootsies right through the shoes. Next, wriggle your toes to be sure there was room for those young feet. The machine had three viewing points -- one for the customer (me), another for a companion (usually mom) and another for the salesperson.

Personally, I found this fluoroscope x-ray machine fascinating. It was like a really cool science fiction toy. I'd stick my feet in while the salesman was fetching additional shoes or mom was distracted. Hey, I was 5! What did I know about radiation?

As dangerous as it might have been, you have to admit it was a brilliant sales tool. Talk about finding the perfect fit. Interested in a fluoroscope x-ray shoe fitting machine factoid? According to the Internet, the same industrial engineer designed the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile.

Remember that next time you play Trivial Pursuit -- or eat a hot dog.

A Coffee Shop -- When You Need Peace & Quiet

I've always thought of the coffee shop as a center for conversation. It's a relaxing place to meet a friend or to strike up a discussion with the person at the next table. Comfy chairs, music, a cup of tea and a warm pastry -- the perfect formula for sharing ideas. Kind of like the salon societies but with caffeine.

Recently I stopped by a neighborhood cafe with a friend. Something just didn't feel right. Everyone was nursing a large cup of something. Everyone sat facing the same direction. Everyone had their laptop open. Tapping of the keyboards was the only audible sound. Is this study hall or Starbucks?

It's official. Wi-fi had made coffee shop conversation an endangered species. Oh, people are talking -- just not to anyone in the same room.

Watch Your Head!

Last week at my favorite Thai restaurant I happened to be seated facing the restroom. Far enough away so it didn't spoil the dining experience, but close enough to see they'd made what I suppose was an improvement. They've added one of those crawling signs above the door to inform patrons whether it's in use or not. Smart idea, yes?

But there was another message that caught my attention. After it changed from "occupied" to "not occupied" and back again, it also said "watch your head". I silently asked myself "why, what's it gonna do?". Then I thought perhaps it was the other meaning of "head" as in the john on a ship. Not too far fetched and a bit of a play on words since it was, after all, a bathroom.

Me? A word freak? Absolutely! I entertain myself endlessly playing with words. I especially love it when words are misused as in "The Russians use the acrylic alphabet." Now that's funnier than any TV sitcom line.

But to get back to the "watch your head" sign --- I had to check it out. I waited for the sign to say "not occupied" then approached. You could drive a Hummer through that bathroom door. I needed two hands to lock it. Did the restaurant cater to a secret clientele of really tall people -- a basketball team perhaps -- who might have to duck?

Our server -- a lovely Thai woman with English limited to the restaurant business -- didn't understand my question so the mystery remains. Meanwhile I'll enjoy my coconut soup and watch my head when I use the restroom -- just in case.

Saddle Shoes, Anyone?

Where I live kids are going back to school tomorrow. That's why they look so depressed today -- another vacation spoken about in the past tense. Another essay on what I did last summer -- should I make up an Amazon adventure or stick with the standard archaeological dig near the pyramids? Who's the new teacher and, most importantly, what's that mystery lunch on the cafeteria menu?

I actually liked going back to school -- well not to math and science classes but I usually found social studies pretty interesting. Of course, it was always presented through a Catholic school filter so I can't vouch for objectivity.

Alright -- enough educational kissing up. The real reason I liked going back to school was the shopping. There were the mandatory pens, notebooks and other school supplies. But for me -- a bonus. Every September I was the lucky recipient of a new school wardrobe. If the plaid skirts, navy blazers and penny loafers were supposed to inspire me to greater academic heights I missed the point -- sorry mom and dad -- but I sure looked good struggling through my multiplication tables.

Recently, I've been thinking about how I'd love a pair of saddle shoes. Must just be that time of year.

The Cleaver's We Were Not

"At Joe's Appliances we're like family." "Mary's Diner -- it's like eating with family."

Is family really a selling point? Perhaps if your parents were June and Ward Cleaver or your last name was Von Trapp.

For some, family conjures up a quiet dinner exchange where Billie and Janie shared anecdotes about their day, while everyone listened politely and, when they finished, everyone told them how interesting their stories had been.

For me, family conjures up a loud, bickering dinner exchange where Billie and Janie tried to share anecdotes about their day while everyone interrupted and, when they finished, told them they needed a haircut.

Regrettably, this happened before the popularity of TV reality shows. Bring in a camera crew for just one of our dysfunctional Thanksgiving dinners and some network could have made ratings history.

I dreamed of being adopted by my best friend's family. They never argued. Their mother was beautiful and they had a kindly live-in grandmother. I knew this was as close as I was ever going to get to the Cleaver's and I got down on my little elementary school girl knees and prayed they'd realize that I had indeed been born into the wrong family and would make arrangements with my parents.

Of course, now that we're all older my family isn't the Jerry Springer Show it used to be. But can you see why I might be a tad wary of shopping at places that treat me like family?

Mail Order Sex Pills -- To Buy or Not to Buy

Every so often something I actually want to read mistakenly slips into the spam function of my e-mail, so every so often I check the spam box just to make sure I'm not missing anything important.

This past week was one of those "every so often" points in time so I checked. Nothing of importance --- unless I planned on a Viagra shopping spree. I counted seventeen e-mails selling it or other erectile dysfunction drugs. One of them had "legendary sex pills" on the subject line. Another accepted Visa. Still others tried to lure me into opening the mail with lines like "top drugs for men", "sex medicine" and simply "male pills".

Oh, yeah -- three ads for breast enhancement were also mixed in.

Are they legit? I get the distinct mental picture that some of these pills are made by a guy in his pajamas with his twenty-seven cats curled up around the mail-ordered lab equipment in his garage. I'm all for the entrepreneurial spirit but I'd like to know that the drug maker at least passed Chem 101.

If I were a guy concerned about my sexual performance, I'd want to be damn sure these "male pills" were truly, well, manly. Granted, they might be a bargain, but they also might be the same formula your girlfriend takes for PMS.

The Venting Store -- Coming Soon to a Mall Near You

NPR recently aired a piece about a venting store in China. The shop, for women only, requires that you don a helmet and gloves and fork over a fee. Once protected and paid in full, you're free to throw, smash, break or otherwise demolish anything in the store.

It wasn't clear just what the ladies were destroying but I assume it's inexpensive Dollar Store merchandise probably made in China. Can you spell irony?

Actually, I think it's a great idea. Just think of all the times you wanted to throw, slam or hit something because you were pushed over the edge by an idiot in traffic, a colleague in the adjacent cubicle or the pizza guy who smothered your order in pepperoni and you're a vegetarian. Yes, we know you didn't throw, slam or hit something but wouldn't it have felt great if you could have?

This could be a lucrative business, albeit with a tad of overhead what with having to replace your stock every day. But, to paraphrase "Field of Dreams", if you throw it they will come.

Of course a good gym workout, deep breathing or a yoga class calms you down. But just for a change ---- imagine dropping by the mall to break things for an hour. Could be a whole new kind of retail therapy. After a few visits to the venting store, you might decide you don't need that Prozac refill after all.

The Venting Store -- coming soon to a mall near you.

Mammograms We Have Had -- And Hated

Let me begin by saying that I fully agree that women should have annual mammograms. Yearly screenings have saved countless lives and should be part of any health regimen.

That said....what the hell is up with that machine? Lay your girls on the little plastic tray. Then let a stranger squeeze them like a mozzarella pannini.

"Don't move" says the technician. Don't move? Thanks for telling me. I was about to break into a lusty tango.

"Don't breathe", says the technician. Don't breathe? Thanks for telling me. My lungs need a break from all that, you know, respiring.

Surgeries are done through an incision the size of a paper cut. The hearing impaired can have implants so they too can be bothered by the person next to them talking loudly on their cell. You'd think that someone could invent an effective mammogram machine that wouldn't be so painful.

Perhaps if men had to submit their testicles to the same procedure, patents for a kinder, gentler machine would be pending.

Am I Blue?

I was chatting with a neighbor recently in front of her apartment when another local passed. I've seen the woman many times and we usually smile or nod a greeting. That's the extent of our connection. Civility.

"She's bipolar, you know, " said my neighbor. No, I don't know, nor do I want to know the mental diagnoses of minor acquaintances. And while we're on the subject, how do you know? If you're her shrink, then shame on you for blabbing. If you're just a nosy neighbor then shame on you for gossiping about a very personal matter.

A friend was going through a rough patch and feeling down because of it. The group solution was to deem her condition "depression" and prescribe Prozac or whatever the drug du jour is.

Jeez, can't a person just be plain old sad anymore? You have to admit that sometimes life really sucks and feeling blue is the proper emotion. Trashy novels and mega-doses of Rocky Road will eventually bring a person around. Want to see someone far worse than you, just for a lift? Try watching daytime TV and be thankful you've not yet reached the low point of moaning to a national audience.

Remember freshman year when we took Psych 101? We felt utterly qualified to analyse family, friends and our pet cocker spaniel. Fast forward to 2010. Watching Dr. Phil is like Psych 101 without the term paper and exams. It hardly makes us qualified to slap a mentally dysfunctional label on anyone.

Another Uh-Oh Moment

Think of all the times in your life you realized you made the wrong decision or just didn't think things through. Well, maybe not all of them or we'll be here a while. Just pick a few juicy ones so we can move on.

If we're lucky, those uh-oh moments morph into ah-ha ones and a growth experience ensues. This phenomenon seems to happen frequently to Oprah viewers. The rest of us mortals struggle with the "what was I thinking?" inner monologue. My own recent bout of angst would have put Hamlet to shame.

Good thing we come out the other end with a litany of resolutions. Kind of like New Years Eve but without the champagne and confetti. We promise to keep our own counsel, to be prepared, to look at all sides. But like most resolutions these, too, are fleeting and long forgotten until we find ourselves in another predicament. Then it's back to square one and, like Yogi Berra said, it's deja vu all over again.

My favorite uh-oh moment happened to a matador in Mexico recently. He was in the ring with a charging bull when he -- the matador, not the bull -- realized that he really wasn't cut out for this line of work and ran out of the arena to the jeers of bullfight fans. No word on his change of career but if you're in Mexico City come tax time, I'd probably avoid the CPA in the tight sequined pants. Ole, amigo, ole!

How Many Times To Say 'I Do'?

If I were looking for a husband, I'd consider someone who'd been married once before -- maybe even twice. Making a marriage work isn't always easy and sometimes we make mistakes the first time 'round.

Divorce doesn't carry the stigma it once did, but is there -- or should there be -- a limit to how many times a person can get married? Maybe we could implement a quota system? We each get maximum 3 and if you can't make them work --- well, you probably have more problems than leaving your soiled boxers on the bedroom floor. When the guy tells you he's been married 3-plus times aren't you even a little bit curious why?


It's not just men, either. I read that Elizabeth Taylor might wed again. Granted, I read it in one of the tabloid rags in the dentist's office so feel free to question the veracity. She has been married at least 6 times though. Part of the appeal is the idea of rubbing elbows -- well, more than elbows -- with a celebrity. But in the real world, would a guy be interested in a woman with so much mileage on her marriage odometer?

The quota system would put the kibosh on anyone hording husbands or wives. Think of all the people looking for Mr. or Ms. Right. The system would help spread the love -- and more importantly, put an end to those godawful bachelor/bachelorette reality shows.

When I'm 64...

I've always thought the Beatles "When I'm 64" was a pleasant novelty piece. Not one of their best but certainly fun listening. I was probably 24 when I first heard it and paid little attention to the lyrics then or the numerous times I've heard them since.

Next week I actually turn 64 and the words I once parroted have now become the deep, ponderous quandaries of my life. Will you still need me? Will you still feed me?

Some people stuff themselves with chocolate cake, break out the champagne or bungee jump on their birthday. I opt for the dark side and use it as a reason to analyze my life over the past year. What did I accomplish? What did I learn? And it really wouldn't be a thorough examination without the penetrating question of whether or not I'm happy. Psychoanalysis covers these topics over years of therapy. I try to wrap it up in a few mentally and emotionally frenzied days.

I amble down memory lane, thankful I'm not yet shuffling down it. I pray that any future decrepitude not include a walker with day-glow tennis balls. Wrinkles? Well I'm far from being mistaken for Keith Richards, but I'd agree to a nip/tuck around those sagging jowls. Gravity and my jowls are in constant battle and the "Big G" is proving victorious.

One year closer to becoming an official alter kaker -- cheaper bus rides, movie tickets and, hurrah, senior discounts at Ross.

Happy Birthday to moi!

Birthday Greetings -- From Your ATM

I stopped at the ATM this morning to perform the utterly mechanical task of pressing just the right buttons in just the right order. My reward? A feeling of affluence, albeit temporary, knowing there are a few $20s in my pocket.

I have performed this task hundreds of times. Different ATMs. Same procedure. I don't usually pay close attention to the screens since I don't need a home equity loan nor do I care to transfer any balances. I see the ads but ignore them.

But this morning was different. That home equity/balance transfer screen that I regularly pooh pooh was absent. Instead, the ATM wished me a happy birthday. Well, that got my attention!

I'll admit to cracking a wee smile. I'll also admit to being a tad startled. How do I actually feel about my first birthday greeting of the year coming from an ATM? Do I tell friends who send belated greetings that they've been one-upped by a cash machine! When we talk about personal computers, that isn't what we have in mind

At least it was just a visual. What if the machine had actually said happy birthday? Whoa! Shades of Dave and Hal from "2001, A Space Odyssey".

What Kid Wears a Cloak?

In the 1950's we didn't have lockers in the corridor -- at least not at my elementary school. We kept our things in the cloakroom.

The cloakroom? Sounds positively Dickensian. Besides, what first grader wears a cloak? Granted, parkaroom doesn't have the same pizazz but it's certainly more accurate.

Plus, it wasn't really a room -- at least not in my elementary school. There were hooks for our jackets and eye-level shelves for storing our lunchboxes.

Ah, the lunchbox -- the original status symbol for our generation. That cheap metal sandwich container, complete with thermos, spoke volumes about how cool you were, even at six years old.

Dale Evans, Queen of the Cowboys, smiled back at me from my favorite lunchbox. As I ate my baloney on Wonder Bread sandwich, I'd imagine riding off into the sunset on Buttermilk. That's her horse, for those of you using your brain cells for something more productive like finding a cure for cancer.

Now I tote my lunch in an eco-friendly insulated zip-up bag. No pictures. No fun.

So who would adorn my grown-up lunchbox? Probably Mother Theresa. Having her smile back at me would be a reminder to question what I'm doing with my life.

Bipedal Bumper Cars

Walking in downtown San Francisco is like tackling an obstacle course. There are trucks unloading, delivery people, taxis, construction paraphernalia, trash and various other things to watch out for -- normal fare in any city. Now there's the added obstacle of my fellow walkers.


Thanks to technology we walk with eyes cast downward. We're shuffling our music, tweeting that we literally bumped into someone, checking our e-mail and programming our phones. We bob. We weave. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Oops! Sorry! We're all playing a game of bipedal bumper cars.

I have become a defensive walker. My pivoting techniques put Heidi Klum to shame. I can veer left and right on the proverbial dime.

But sometimes I feel like Clint Eastwood in one of his classic westerns. I see the guy coming towards me completely absorbed by his phone. My course is fixed. Will he look up in time to avoid a collision?

Hey, I walk the same route every day. Ya gotta keep it interesting!

Fiber on the Side, Please

Nutritionally speaking, we tend to go through fads. Low-fat and fat-free were sent from marketing heaven to make us believe we could eat an entire package of Mallomars without gaining an ounce. And so we gorged, wondering why our jeans were getting snug. Realization! Fat is not the enemy but the very giver of flavor to most foods. Take out the fat, you take out the flavor. Cardboard Mallomars just don't satisfy that chocolate craving. Solution? Up the sugar levels. Still no/low-fat but we're zoning in and out of near diabetic comas.

Now the dietary buzz word is "fiber". Indeed, a well functioning intestinal tract is something to strive for. Leafy greens and whole grains should be part of a well-balanced diet. Got it!

But does it have to be in everything? The latest advertising for a popular brand of sugar packets boasted its fiber content. Sugar and fiber in the same little envelope? While it may be some kind of nutritional milestone, it's difficult to wrap my head around the concept.

What do you think of when I say "sugar"? Sweetness, candy, sugar plum fairies, and all that's enjoyable, comforting and tasty. Fiber -- well, there's simply no joy in fiber. It's one of those you-know-you-should-eat-it-so-you-do foods. Mom forced you to eat your vegetables. She probably never made you eat sugar.

Two lumps of sugar, please. I'll take my fiber on the side.

Mother's Day Guilt

Mother's Day is a boom for brunch-serving restaurants, florists that deliver nationwide and, of course, all things Hallmark. It's also a day potentially riddled with guilt -- yours. Just forget to call and you'll experience ice that could sink the Titanic.

She says she understands but she's hurt. After all, she gave birth to you and it was long and painful. My mom couldn't remember the pope's name and number but she told the tale of labor and delivery as though it happened yesterday. She was prone to exaggeration and went for maximum effect in her stories so my newborn head grew bigger with every telling -- kind of like fishermen who talk about the one that got away.

Mother was the Empress of Guilt. When we misbehaved she'd pray for us. I mean down on her knees seriously fingering the rosary beads. The prayers were soft, but the dedication -- please help my disobedient children or something in that vein -- was loud enough for all to hear.

She was the Mistress of the Heavy Sigh. Hers were Tony award winning sighs that oozed serious disappointment. In a contest between Olivier, any of the Redgraves and my mom -- well, it simply wouldn't be a contest.

S P A C E !

Americans have a strong sense of personal space. There's plenty of room for all of us in this vast country so we like to spread out whenever possible. It's part of our history. Those 19th century pioneers settled the west because the prairies gave them the elbow room they craved.

That need for space is part of our cultural DNA. Notice the look on people's faces when they're jammed into a subway car or sitting bumper to bumper on the freeway. Watch a person take a step backward if someone stands too close during a conversation. And then there's that undefined distance we keep while waiting our turn at the ATM. We seem to innately know just how far that gap should be so as not to intrude on the banking privacy of another.

So why doesn't this sense of space carry over to the supermarket? I have shopping cart bruises on my ankles inflicted by people who feel their progress down the cereal aisle is a NASCAR event. Apparently, hunting for bargains on canned tuna can't be done while steering a grocery cart. So much for multi-tasking.

At the check out counter we covet our turn on the conveyor belt. It signals that the burden of grocery shopping is nearly at an end. But, may I remind you -- yes, you, the one bumping my butt with your grocery cart -- that I can only move as fast as the person in front of me. Unfortunately, that person has just realized he forgot an item, misplaced his discount grocery card and abandoned his children in the cookie aisle. So you -- yes, you, the one bumping my butt with your grocery cart -- should probably move to another lane where you can find a new butt to bump in a futile attempt to rush the process.

The guy in front of me is going nowhere soon -- so let me give him some space.

We Think It's a Whale....

Spring is whale migration season along the West Coast. Unfortunately as they move northward to feed in Alaska, some lose their innate GPS and mistakenly hang a right hand turn into the San Francisco Bay. While we humans love to watch them, the creatures are separated from the pod and undoubtedly terrified by the multitude of hovering news helicopters. Film at eleven.

Before you think you're logged into a PBS nature blog let me clarify that my point is not about the dead whale in the Bay last week. My point is about the news coverage that surrounded it.

It was a slow news day -- just after the European airspace opened and just before SEC employees got caught conducting, shall we say, non-governmental business. The media was hungry for just about anything so finding a dead whale -- and a baby one at that -- was 6 o'clock news pay dirt.

There were numerous Earth Day tie-ins since the whale's belly was filled with various plastics. Marine biologists spoke to reporters. The Coast Guard was interviewed about towing the carcass away. Par for the course for local news.

But my favorite bit of questionable journalism was when a reporter said the Coast Guard had found what was "believed to be" a gray whale. Believed to be?! I'm no animal expert, but I think if I found a dead mammal the size of Rhode Island floating in the water, I just might conclude that the critter was indeed a whale.

Come on media -- stick your neck out, make a statement, stop mincing around. What's next? The alleged whale?

No Neckties for the Docs?

You've probably heard news reports about people who develop infections as patients in the hospital. Poorly sterilized utensils you might think. Or the staff not properly washing their hands. Or maybe there really is a fly in your soup.

All possibilities, but we've overlooked something rather obvious --- the doctor's necktie. It doesn't make you sick because it's in bad taste, a hideous color or loud enough to wake the surgical patients. It makes you sick because it could be teeming with bacteria. A veritable Manhattan of germs held in place by a Windsor knot.

Imagine where that tie has been all day -- or maybe you'd rather not. The Doc has been examining patients with a variety of ailments and diseases. And now it's your turn to watch that silk petri dish dangling over your sick bed.

It's not just neckties. According to an AMA study, there is some evidence that other clothing items and accessories spread disease as well. The group is developing dress code policies to minimize the problem, but they'll have to catch up with medicos in the UK. They've had a dress code since 2007 that requires medical personnel to be jewelry and clothing free below the elbows.

So if your doctor isn't wearing a tie next time you see him, remember that he's not just getting a head start on casual Friday.

Isn't a Gift Always Free?

"Take a test drive and receive a free gift", read the ad. "Try our product for 30 days and we'll give you a free gift", barked the infomercial. "Thanks for stopping by our kiosk," said the sales associate. "Here's your free gift."

I am an admitted word maven. I love language -- when it's used correctly. When it's not, my built-in annoyance meter goes into overdrive -- and that's been happening frequently of late.

Expressions like "join together" and "continue on" make my jaw clench. They're redundant, repetitive and say the same thing. Is there any other way to join but together? If we don't continue on aren't we going back?

These and numerous others push me to the edge. But "free gift" leaves me teetering on the brink. The very nature of a gift is free to those who receive it. Did the Magi tell Joseph and Mary they brought a free gift of myrrh for the kid? Did the Trojans say anything about that giant gift horse being free. And think of Santa Claus. He's the master of gifts, but have you ever heard any Christmas carol mention free ones.

Unfortunately, the "free gift" concept has become a solid part of the Madison Avenue lexicon. Perhaps they're just trying to help us distinguish between all those pesky gifts we have to pay for.

Easter: Symbolism or Sugar?

Easter Sunday. The holiest of days in the Catholic faith. There's the resurrection of Christ and all that it symbolizes for the Church. But, as kids, we celebrated for different reasons.

Lent was over -- all 40 long days of it -- and we could go back to eating candy. I'm sure if someone did a survey of the number one thing Catholic kids gave up for Lent it would be candy. No tormenting siblings or sassing parents would probably be runners-up. Hey, we were just kids -- not exactly up to the task of ending world hunger!

For us Easter was all about the candy: jelly beans, chocolate bunnies, marshmallow chicks, chocolate eggs -- all served in one pastel basket. A sugar bonanza on a par with Halloween.

And we actually believed that the treats were delivered by a giant, mutant rabbit who hippity-hopped his way into our living room while we slept. What gullible little tykes we were.

Today I eliminate the middle man -- er -- rabbit. And I don't really care about the cheap "made in China" basket. I just roll that shopping cart down the candy aisle at my local supermarket and fill 'er up.

"The Last Supper" Menu

Nearly everyone is familiar with Leonardo's acclaimed "Last Supper". It ranks right up there with "The Mona Lisa" as one of the more famous works of art. Scholars have long pondered the religious themes. Art historians have studied the numerous lesser versions.

Now there's a group of obesity researchers in England who are looking at the paintings from a completely different angle. Food -- specifically the amount of it on the table in the various renderings. Researchers studied 52 versions and noted that the more recent ones depict about 70% more food, thus reflecting periods of affluence and abundance in a culture.

Perhaps we need to put the kibosh on further 21st century versions. The way Americans eat, we could soon see fast food wrappers, Chinese take-out containers, or super-sized cola drinks at that holy repast. Of course, if the artist is into a more healthy diet, they'd opt for bran muffins, edamame and tofu.

Pomegranates -- With Chocolate, Please

Pomegranates -- currently high on the list of wonder foods. Tauted as a source of anti-oxidants and vitamins. Could be, but has anyone calculated the time it takes to pry those little berries from their comb. Plus you have to eat a lot of them to feel satisfied. I'm not sure it's worth it.

Compare it to crab. The shell cracking. The separation of the meat from the innards. Unbelievably messy. Time consuming. But what a payoff!

But let's not blame the innocent pomegranate. We've all fallen for the hype that accompanies the cult of omega-3s, fiber, lo-fat, non-fat and whatever is the diet du jour. One of the TV docs recommends the fruit -- et voila -- pomegranate jam, juice, ice cream, chips are available at your corner grocer.

I admit to falling -- hard. My latest sortie into the world of pomegranates was a total impulse. The siren song of dark chocolate covered pomegranate seeds wafted to check-out lane number 7 where I waited to unload my shopping cart.

Chocolate -- ah, food of the gods! I'll eat almost anything covered with it. Here before me, in one small package, was the promise of chocolate and nutrition -- a combination made in heaven. The very idea of chocolate made me weak. If I were a captured government agent, all the enemy would have to do is give me chocolate and I'd blab atomic formulas in a New York minute.

I caved. The noshing began on my way to the car. Nearly half the package was gone before I got home -- and I don't live that far from the market. I never did read the label to find out the nutritional benefits. Nutrition be damned! Chocolate made my world go 'round.

Phoning In Your Sins

In elementary school, the nuns taught us how to confess our sins. The whole procedure was a bit daunting for a 7 year old. At that age, you really had to dig deep for sins. When I refused to eat broccoli was I disrespecting my mother or just being stubborn? Both were sins according to the nun's list of possibilities so it was just a matter of which commandment I chose to violate. Of course, locating sins became easier the older I got but the actual confession part remained as daunting as ever.

In case you don't know about confession here's how it goes. First you examine your conscience. The easiest way is by commandment. Start with the first one and mentally scroll through the other nine. That should give you a list of no-nos to tell the priest for which he will forgive you, pending your saying a few prayers.

It's all supposed to be anonymous but I always felt the priest could see through the mesh screen that separated us and, after 8 years of elementary school, I was sure he recognized my voice. I was afraid he'd tell my parents what a sinner I was, but it's all confidential even the mortal -- or "you did what!" -- sins. Ah, the trauma of Catholic school.

According to NPR, the French have modernized the confessional process by inventing a, well, phone line to the Lord. Just dial the number, press trois, et voila, you're asked to spill your sinful guts.

Do you think there'll be an app for that on my smart phone?

Rise & Shine -- If You Feel Like It

I had a sneak preview of retirement recently and I have to say I can't wait for the real thing. Early in my six week lay off from work, I found it surprisingly easy to fall into a lack of routine. I'm neither a sluggard nor a slacker. I've been working since I was 16 -- nearly 50 years. I'm no math whiz but I estimate that my alarm clock has gone off approximately 10,000 mornings.

Knowing that you can wake up and get up when you feel like it is one of my definitions of heaven. (Another is unlimited snacking on Rocky Road with no consequences on the poundage front, but we'll save that for another time. ) You can roll over, doze a bit, breathe deeply, ponder your day, examine your life, plan breakfast, outline that novel you hope to write. You set your schedule and it doesn't include reporting to an office by 8:30.

Now I'm back to the routine of work (and regular pay checks). The alarm clock? Well, make the count 10,001 mornings.

Microscopic Type; Macroscopic Fees

Let me apologize in advance for any typos in this piece. It's my eyes. They're blurred, bloodshot and bulging from trying to read the Customer Agreement pamphlet sent by my credit card company.

As you know, the rules change next week and the companies want to make sure we understand exactly how they're going to gouge us with new fees.

The opening paragraph -- the shortest in the entire piece -- manages to squeeze out a sliver of warmth with a "thank you for choosing our card". After those skimpy three lines -- jeez, we wouldn't want you to gush -- it's down to business. You, the lowly card holder can do this. We, the masters of your financial domain can and will do that.

I skimmed it. I scanned it. But who is actually going to read an entire 17-panel brochure printed in microscopic font? Not many of us and the credit card company knows that. They've covered their behinds in those 17 panels and the important information we, the consumer, need to know could well be in one of the panels we never actually read.

Cash, anyone?

The Bling You Don't See

Bling -- we've been adorning ourselves with it for centuries. It's fun to sparkle and shine. The right amount looks glamorous. Too much makes you glitter like a disco ball.

Earrings, rings, chains, bracelets, broaches -- highly visible bling, bling, bling. But some women are wearing unseen bling --- in their genital area.

It seems that a TV star, famous for whispering to ghosts, mentioned on a talk show that she sports vaginal bling. She started doing so after a bad break up at the suggestion of a friend. She described it as "vagazzling" and recommends it as a painless, harmless way to lift your spirits.

Vagazzling -- there's a new word for you Urban Dictionary.com folks -- involves applying a small gem or two or three to your vajayjay. Note: a glue gun is not recommended.

The hidden bling could be a pleasant surprise for a lover, but everything in moderation. You don't want to look like a runway at LAX.

Public Debt -- No Laughing Matter

I recently found this item from Fox News.com. Brent Baier reported it last July but the message still resonates:

"The Treasury Department has decided that it no longer needs a humor specialist for its Bureau of Public Debt. The department had been advertising the position for about a week, but announced this morning the job was no longer required. The original post called for an individual to conduct seminars teaching participants how to use humor to improve communication and relationships, alleviate stress, and prevent burnout.

Applicants were advised they would be required to create cartoons on the spot about jobs in the Bureau of Public Debt. The Senate Democratic Policy Committee Chairman Byron Dorgan, the Democratic Senator from North Dakota, squashed the effort saying: "Of all the agencies, the Bureau of Public Debt should know that there is very little that is funny about today's economic conditions."

No comment from me. I'm trying to imagine those impromptu cartoons.

Nighty-night or Nightmare?

Most of us appreciate a hotel with good service and are quick to criticize those that don't provide it. We like the fluffy towels, the heated toilet seat, all the TV channels, the fruit bowl and whatever additional niceties we can muster.

Your list of "now that's pampering" might be different than mine but I suspect we agree that a hotel in the UK has overstepped whatever pampering boundaries exist. How? By supplying bed warmers.

So what's wrong with that you ask. Your mental image is probably some high tech hot water bottle or heating pad or designer label bed socks. All of these are toasty, practical -- and, in this case, completely wrong.

Shift your mental image -- big time. Think live person. Think live person in pj's. Think live person in pj's rolling around in your bed. Live person in pj's gets out. You get in. Granted the bed is warm but is this nighty-night or a nightmare?

What qualifications do you need to get a "bed warmer" job? Are candidates asked about their hygiene habits? I assume it's part-time with evening hours only. Jammies supplied? Are you supposed to watch? Chat? Do they work for tips? How much?

Even though the administration's looking for ways to create jobs, keep your fingers crossed that "bed warmer" isn't on the Labor Department's list of promising new careers.

Word Play

Ever heard of www.freerice.com? It's a vocabulary game site in which you select a definition to sometimes challenging words. Get it right and a United Nations food program donates rice to the hungry.

It's a great time filler -- or killer -- and I not only learn something but also help feed the world. So far I've made it to level 46 out of 60 and there I am stuck.

When I play Free Rice I dissect the more difficult words, looking for a prefix or suffix that might unlock the meaning. It's also one of those times that I can actually use my two years of high school Latin. As a freshman, you'd rather be learning anything but the nominative or ablative case. Knowing that Gaul is divided into three parts is at the bottom of any sophomore's "fun facts" list.

But to my surprise, some of what I thought was useless information lingers in a long dormant brain cell or two. When challenged by a level 46 Free Rice word it comes to life -- along with a glimpse of the nun who taught the subject. She was so old we were certain that she was actually with Ceasar on his trek.

My new favorite word -- from Level 45 -- is "cacography". The "caco" is a Greek prefix meaning bad, poor or harsh; the "graphy" is writing or script. Thus "cacography" means bad handwriting or spelling. I don't know when I'll be able to use the first definitiion in a conversation since so few people actually use cursive these days -- but that second definition abounds in e-mail.

Sure you can use typo if you want to. Cacography just has so much more pizzazz!

Calling All Cougars

Do you consider yourself a cougar? Looking for something to do later this month? May I suggest the Cougar Convention in -- where else -- Las Vegas? You could even be voted Miss Cougar.

Apparently, cougars are a growing breed (which doesn't say much for men our age). There's a large enough market to have at least two of the larger cruise lines offer cougar themed vacations. Think "The Love Boat" but with Betty White falling for one of the Jonas Brothers. Cradle robbing and shuffleboard -- now that's a full schedule.

And just so the cubs -- that's what the younger men are called -- don't feel left out, there's a Cutest Cub in America competition January 30th near San Francisco. Now that has to come with some serious bragging rights and there's an after-party.

The cougar, the cub. It all sounds so Animal Planet. Men have been drooling over younger women for ages and I haven't heard any critter names for this type of May-December romance -- unless gold-digger-with-daddy-issues is some rare Amazonian species.

Cool Kids Rule -- Still

Some members of a dating website for the beautiful people who over-indulged during the holidays might wish they had just said no to second helpings.

Anyone can apply to this site, but only a few are chosen by those already in this elite group. I'm not sure what standards of beauty are used to judge who gets in, but I assume you won't find any Keith Richards look-alikes in the listings.

So first you're screened to get in, then apparently you're monitored throughout your membership. If current pictures show that a week of mom's home cooking or an additional slice of pumpkin pie have taken up residence around your middle, you could be asked to leave the site.

Wow -- memories of the cool kids in high school -- except now their faces have cleared up.

Time to Break Those Resolutions

It's Monday, January 11th. Not too late to wish people a Happy New Year. And just enough time to break the resolutions made in earnest less than two weeks ago.

I'm not passing judgement. Actually, less finger pointing was one of my resolutions so brava for me. But if you want to know how many days I've exercised or how far I've walked on any given day, I will instantly list all the reasons why I didn't, couldn't, wouldn't or shouldn't have -- laziness and denial not included. I'm about 9,000 steps shy of the recommended 10,000. That figure could change significantly if I didn't feel guilty about counting paces from the sofa to the fridge.

All this making and breaking of resolutions is stressful. We've failed. We're weak. We lack motivation. I am of the Scarlett O'Hara school of thought: tomorrow is another day. Hurray -- that gives me all of today to figure out an excuse for not exercising tomorrow.