Snarkshelf

Diamonds Are Newt's Best Friends

2012-01-21T17:07:00.003Z

In honor of today's South Carolina primary, I have a new game. To show some respect to both Newt Gingrich's $500,000 line of credit at Tiffany and his reported request for an open marriage, let's play:

"Rock's Off: What Would It Take For You To Shtup Newt?"

Ready, let's go:

Key ring, $275.

(Oh hell, don't insult me. NO)

Tiffany Jazz diamond drop earrings, diamonds in platinum, $6,300.

(Still no)

Grace ring, platinum and diamonds, $4,900

(pretty, but no)

Pear-shaped pink diamond ring, $1.2 million

(Elizabeth Taylor-sized no)

Custom gold-sapphire-diamond necklace, $155K

(Oscar Night no)

Round diamond platinum bracelet, $110,000

(down payment on a nice house-sized NO)

Residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, priceless

(Presidential seal no. And I also wouldn't vote for you if you were the last candidate on Earth. OK, maybe if you procured the pink diamond. But then I would have to tell CNN's John King about it).

On Movies I Have Seen This Winter Break

2011-12-30T22:09:00.004Z

I've been catching up on my movie-watching this winter break. Some I paid for on-demand and in theaters. Others I have stumbled across on cable, some for the second time, others for the 322nd time. Here are some thoughts, in the order in which I viewed them:

1. The Muppets - Yes, I am now in the demographic where my teenage son will not see such a film with his parents, so Mr. Snarkshelf and I saw this one ourselves. It was, eh, just OK. I wanted it to be funnier. I did like Kermit's mansion being stuck in 1977 - I swear we had the same brown couch in my house in the same year - and Animal's anger management class. Also, my husband's hometown looks exactly like Smalltown. I feel a song coming on...

Dude, Xanax.

2. Young Adult - Why didn't I think of this movie? It was so brilliantly bitchy, it is like Diablo Cody read my mind.

Here is the gist of it. Charlize Theron plays the (ghost) writer of a young adult novel series. To the folks back home in Mercury, MN, she is hot shit, but in reality she lives in a messy condo, is a depressed alcoholic who can barely get out of bed in the morning, and passes out facedown in her clothes watching "The Kardashians" every night.

She gets a email birth announcement from her high school boyfriend, who seems dim but happy back in Mercury and just had his first baby with his cute but simple wife. So, naturally, Charlize sets out to rescue him from all that, you know, misery.

Back in Mercury she meets Patton Oswalt, the class dweeb (but really smart and nice) who is equally as damaged yet more levelheaded than she. While she was a pretty, pretty princess in high school, he was beaten by the town bullies and is still disabled.

Where the movie goes is really dark and funny, and of course, for Charlize, pathetically embarrassing. It lives out NO ONE'S fantasies of "What ever happened to...?" (which of course none of us have anymore because of, you know, Facebook) unless of course your fantasy is that your class's homecoming queen eats at KFC by herself often and is a total disaster.

The best part of this movie? No Hollywood treatment. If it had the Hollywood treatment, Patton Oswalt, who is about five feet tall and chubby, would have been played by Ryan Reynolds wearing bad glasses to make him, um, nerdy. Then Charlize's Mavis (now played by Sandra Bullock, natch), would have realized old boyfriend be damned, love was right here all along. They get together and live happily ever after in Mercury, where she writes a bestseller. The end.

Doesn't happen that way at all. Now turn up "The Kardashians." This is the one where they are talking about boobs.

She is totally a pig. That's why I love her.

3. Friends With Benefits - Speaking of the Hollywood treatment, I caught this rom-com on cable the other day. It was like two different movies stitched together with threads as skinny as Mila Kunis' jeans. The main plot point in between is for Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis to run around in their underwear (see also, Love and Other Drugs with Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhall).

The first half, the movie TOTALLY makes fun of rom-coms and their accompanying cliches (so much so, there is even a movie with a movie with a climactic scene, of course, at a train station). The writing was kind of snarky and snappy. I had high hopes, but knew better. Those types of relationships - they didn't have a hashtag-worthy name back when I was single, but trust me totally existed. You know who you are - never ended well. They usually just .... ended. Usually when one of the parties found someone they enjoyed having sex with more than their friend with benefits.

So of course, Mila Kunis overhears Justin Timberlake telling his sister "I don't like her...we're just sex partners" (because you know, like she's gorgeous and they set up the whole first half of the movie making her out to be the coolest girl EVER. You know how men just hate hot girls who drink beer and want no emotional attachment).

That's when Mila Kunis pouts and frets and we head into Katherine Heigl movie territory. Also, the hilarious non-story storyline thrown in for no good reason? Richard Jenkins as Justin Timberlake's father who has Alzheimer's. It's so cute! He does things like take off his pants in public but otherwise he is totally normal! My father has Alzheimer's. It's not cute. Suck it, Hollywood people.

Anyway, can you guess what happens in the end. Will Justin and Mila continue sportfucking? or will they realize they were made for one another? Hmmmmm.

I'm hot; you're hot. What would be the odds that we would be attracted to one another? Mull that over during this five-minute naked montage.

4. Eat Pray Love - Again. I saw this movie I hated which was an adaptation of a book I hated the first day it came out last year. Read my review here. I caught about 40 minutes of it on Starz the other night. I stuck with Julia Roberts from her unfulfilled relationship with James Franco (oh, boo-hoo) to eating pasta and not having sex in Italy.

Still like nails on a chalkboard. My husband actually sat through some of it. He is a good man. I think I will stay with him instead of fleeing to a gelato stand I heard about in Rome.

Nope. I still HATE this movie.

5. The Sound of Music - It's now a Christmas Eve classic on ABC! Yes, you know every word and every song and it's sappy and you know Julie Andrews is the worst nun ever to consider the convent, but still a classic. The Captain is, well, a dick, but put a guitar in his hands and he is an ole' softie - who will still stand up for Austria. Take that, Nazis. This one is worthy of the Hollywood ending.

Cry me a river, Julia Roberts. Leaving the convent, taking on seven kids and fleeing the country on foot. Now THAT's finding a purpose.

What should I watch over the remaining long weekend?

Anthropologie: A Friday Night Field Study

2011-12-10T17:10:00.004Z

So last night, Mr. Snarkshelf and I went out on a real date. And by that I mean a trip to our local Lifestyle-Center-Downtownian-Outdoor-Mixed-Use-Center, where we enjoyed dinner, gelato, a movie and some window shopping.

We were under strict orders from our son to stay within the parameters of streets x and y and under no circumstances were we to cross into the territory I call "high school alley," the domain of (duh) high school students on Friday nights. Nothing would be a bigger bummer than to run into your parents at Chipotle.

So we stayed down the street, where Mr. Snarkshelf accompanied me into Anthropologie. He had never been in that store before, which is no big surprise. Anthropologie is not for the male species. It is a shop full of lace and ruffles, hand-knits and appliques, crystal things and purses. There are candles that smell good and a rack full of drawer pulls that look like they were pried from Grandma's bureau.

It was, if you will, like an anthropological study. Men are practical. My husband takes inventory of his closet twice a year, and replaces what needs to be replaced. Usually socks, two dress shirts (one white, one blue) and three pairs of khakis.

So a place like Anthropologie is very mysterious. What purpose does that tiny bowl serve? Why does that sweater have short sleeves? Won't your arms get cold? Why do you want a dress that has the same fabric as my mother's sofa?

I must say, taken individually, some of Anthropologie's stock looks quite good. But all together in the confines of the gardenia-smelling store, it is like you have taken a trip to a parallel universe.

Shopping there is a fantasy, even for me. In Anthropologie, I am 21-year-old Indie girl. I am Zooey Deschanel, and I can rock a crinoline skirt while I ride my vintage bicycle to my guitarist boyfriend's apartment. He lives above a pizza place. We met at work at a coffeehouse.

It's my fantasy. Just go with it.

Anthropologie makes me believe, for a minute, that I need a lime-green, leather journal (to tote in the basket of my bicycle and to write down deep thoughts), I can wear a sweet little sleeveless dress with a bow at the neck but lots of space to show off my (imaginary) thin, tattooed arms.

Your thoughts, they are deep, Indie Girl

What drew me in last night was a skirt in the window. It was an A-line. It had little birdies and houses embroidered on it. It was perfect for my Indie girl fantasy life. I could pair it with an orange mohair cardigan and giant horn-rimmed glasses when I go to the Neon Trees concert.

"What do you think?" I asked my husband of nearly 18 years, who thinks I look good in most of what I've got. "Could I get away with birdies?"

He averted his eyes towards a candle that looked like a poetry book. "Um, maybe ... or no?"

I put the birdies back. Maybe if we sneak around the back, we can avoid our son and still make it to Pottery Barn before the movie.

I have this other fantasy that if I buy eight little lobster pails there it is like I am at Kennebunkport.

Bye-bye birdies

No, seriously, goodbye. Nothing to see here, lady.

What's On My Mind, Monday Edition

2011-12-05T18:18:00.010Z

Hard times - When you are a Clevelander, you are used to this. There was never a boom. The economy has been busting several times over as long as I can remember. The city defaulted when I was a kid. The Flats were revitalized and abandoned and revitalized at least four times. Unemployment is way into the double digits.

But this story just makes me sad: Cleveland State says its 17-story building, Rhodes Tower (named for former Governor Jim Rhodes, whose mark was made authorizing the National Guard to shoot those kids in 1970, so yeah, sad from the start), is going to close up shop.

That tower is the iconic symbol of Cleveland State, a large, mainly commuter school in the middle of a downtown that, see above, has seen better days.

University officials are in a quandary, but their list of woes could be a metaphor for the city itself. The tower, built in 1970s, has design flaws that make it impossible to tear down (it sits atop a library) and impossible to maintain ($37 million to renovate - but also major asbestos abatement that would cost $900,000 per FLOOR).

And you wonder why college tuition is going up.

Can't they turn it into a casino, even with the asbestos?

Read the rest of the story here.

I want to go to there - Over the weekend I discovered an Internet show called "Live From Daryl's House." It is my new obsession. Here is the basic premise: Famous musicians come on over to Daryl Hall's (yes, of Hall and Oates fame, but stick with me here) to jam with Hall in the acoustic studio of his 200-year-old farmhouse, and also to talk and watch food being prepared and eat.

It is totally brilliant. It is like a combo of "Wayne's World," "The Barefoot Contessa," and "MTV's Unplugged."

Here's the deal. Hall and Oates were the first albums I bought and the first group I loved. Then they got really popular (think "Maneater," et al), and I moved on to the Beatles and the Grateful Dead and The Who. Before they were pop radio manstays of the mid-80s, though, their music was great in a 1970s singer-songwriter way. All these years later and "Kiss on My List" not withstanding, Hall clearly has the respect of his peers and a new generation of musicians.

On the Internet show, an eclectic group of musicians stop by to strip it down and sing the old stuff. Here's Todd Rundgren, drinking a martini on the lawn. Hi, Robby Kreiger and Ray Manzarak from the Doors. Welcome, Toots and the Maytals. Guster, hello, let's make meatballs and sing "Rich Girl." A must-see is Matt Nathanson, a current fave of mine, singing his song "All We Are," as well as The Band's "The Weight," and "One on One" in front of the fireplace.

If anyone from LFDH is reading, please book the following: Keith Richards to work in the garden and sing "Sara Smile;" Bob Weir, Jackson Browne, Cobie Calliat, and Adele. That is all.

He's been doing these shows monthly since 2007, and all of them are on line. Check it out. Here's a sample:

WTF? Finally, it is Dec. 5. Christmas is three weeks away. I went to Target at 12:30 on a Monday to buy garbage bags and couldn't get near the place. Why? I don't celebrate Christmas, so someone educate me as to why it involves 20-hours a day of shopping for three weeks. Thanks.

"I Melt With You." Only If I Can Put My Head in a 500-Degree Oven First

2011-11-20T15:45:00.007Z

Flipping through the cable On-Demand menu the other night, I came across a movie. "I Melt With You," that got some buzz earlier this year at the Sundance Festival.

The basic synopsis of the indie film, On Demand now but opening in theaters in a few weeks, was four college friends, now in their mid-40s, get together for their annual boys-only retreat and reflect on various parts of their midlife crises.

Hey, I'm in my mid-40s. OK, go on. It stars Rob Lowe (Squee! So it must be like "About Last Night," but 25 years later, right?), Thomas Jane (playing a complicated teacher, much like his role as complicated teacher Ray Drecker on "Hung," right?), and Jeremy Piven (playing a twitchy, big money bigshot with a long-suffering wife, like his Ari Gold on "Entourage," right?).

OK, I'm in. Plus, based on the title, like the Modern English song, so there will be lots of 1980s music, right?

Not exactly (though Piven is completely Ari Gold in this flick). Plus, "Entourage" regulars Carla Gaugino and Sasha Gray show up later. Stay with me.

Here's the plot of the movie: They meet up at some big mack daddy beach house in Monterey with enough drugs to kill Jimi Hendrix 10 times over. In fact, the entire first 30 minutes of this movie is the boys partying down (how did they get all that stuff on a plane, anyway? Just one of many WTFs). At first I said, "Hey, I was at that party in 1984!"

But then it just kept going. More drugs. And more. Did I mention that Rob Lowe plays some kind of Dr. Feelgood who arrives with a giant doctor's satchel of Oxycontin and syringes and the like? At one point, he snarfs a handful of pills like Cookie Monster at a rave. Morphine, nom, nom, nom.

Then the movie (without giving too much away) moves into threesomes, flashbacks of the Challenger disaster, some convoluted pact made 25 years ago that makes no sense, some barf, fishing, death, more drugs, death, a joyride, syringes, more barf, a couple of nervous breakdowns (I felt close to my own, OMG), cigar smoking and crying. Plus, the Dead Kennedys are playing!

The plotless plot, which makes no sense for 118 of the 12o minutes, sort of comes together in at the very end, at which point I said "Seriously?"

In the climactic scene, Carla Gaugino, in the silliest casting ever as a nosy cop with two much time on her hands, chases Thomas Jane on a cliff in a Hitchcock-style pursuit, but with a jerky camera and screechy "Psycho" music.

In fact, most of the movie has screechy music, camera cutaways and extreme closeups stolen from "The Shining" and "Eyes Wide Shut." I kept waiting for it all to add up to some bigger meaning. Alas, it just led to more vodka and secrets.

So to repeat, this is not "The Big Chill." How I wish it were "St. Elmo's Fire." It could have turned into "Weekend at Bernie's" which actually would have made it more entertaining.

Want 80s nostalgia? Go see "The Muppet Movie." Want to reflect on that life didn't turn out exactly the way you planned back when you were an idealistic college student? Reconnect with your fraternity brothers safely on Facebook.

And if Thomas Jane is invited to your weekend getaway, decline and stay put in your split level of disappointment and bills. Don't say I didn't warn you.

An Archaeological Dig Through the Back Closet

2011-11-13T16:37:00.004Z

Spurred (shamed?) by a large number of visitors staying with me Thanksgiving weekend, the Snarkshelfs embarked on a big closet-cleaning project on Saturday.

It was a productive morning, with all kinds of things making their way to the donate and throw out pile.

Somewhere in between is the island of lost wedding presents.

You know you have some of these, and the longer you have been married the more lonely these gifts become. My lost wedding gifts were not actually lost. I knew exactly where they were for 17.5 years; they just very quickly gathered dust when the reality-check of life became much more essential than a gravy boat.

The lost wedding gifts are items you may even have thought you wanted way back, when you were imagining what your grown-up, married life would be. They may have been items your mom demanded you put on your bridal registry (not copping to the fact she herself has a closet of lost wedding gifts, circa 1961).

You may have thought you would have a contemporary house one day, thus a metal sculpture sits unloved in your condo. You may have thought about formal sit-down dinners for 12, not pizza for four. You may not even be married anymore, which means the lost wedding gifts were divided or donated, along with your money and expectations, in a much lonelier fashion.

Among my lost wedding gifts:

* A bread maker. This was the hot wedding gift circa 1994. It last saw a loaf of challah in about 2000. Carbs and the middle age waist are not going to live happily ever after. A freecycle shopper is picking it up late today.

You don't even eat bread anymore, lard ass.

* A set of the heaviest, leaded crystal, expensive, gold-rimmed wine glasses - ever. Seriously, fill one of these with a little Pinot Noir and I can barely lift it. Did I register for these because I thought I was serving Passover at Buckingham Palace? I wish I could remember.

Salut! This will dress up that Two-Buck Chuck

* A platter we call "The Wimbledon Trophy." This is a round dish that measures nearly three feet across. It has a rough, pebbled glass surface. It is a work of art. If I had a high-ceilinged contemporary home, I would leave it on the big dining room table always.

Alas, I have a three-bedroom Colonial with no defined dining room. Once every couple years, I take the Wimbledon trophy it from the basement storage room (it won't fit into a cabinet; think orphaned bicycle wheel) and fill it with sushi or mini desserts and it looks fab. The rest of the time, it takes up space.

Did you know you can fit 200 little lemon squares on here?

I am going to give it to BFF Justine, who has a Contemporary home and a large dining room. At least it can breathe the air there, even if it becomes a receptacle for permission slips and bills.

* A fully outfitted picnic basket. Never used. Not once.

Just another reminder that you, indeed, do not live in a Ralph Lauren commercial.

There are wedding gifts in my home that are well loved. I know exactly where they are. A stainless steel set of dining utensils that gets used every day. A cobalt blue souffle dish that is my go-to for all kinds of serving. We are still cooking with a mid-priced set of T-fal cookware, circa 1994.

Some of the most used items have a couple of nicks and cracks from overuse, kind of like their owners.

Housewares, like marriages, have to evolve. Some dishes have broken and been updated. Cloth napkins get stained and replaced. Like hairstyles and skirt lengths, housewares go in and out of style. Today's bread machine is tomorrow's maxi dress.

I am still hanging on to the pasta machine and the soup tureen. They make me look not a day over 30, right?

Dancing in the Streets

2011-11-10T15:36:00.009Z

Dear Penn State Frat Boys,

Dude! It's me, Snarkshelf. I saw you on ESPN last night! That was you with "JoePA" painted on your nipples, hooting behind the broadcaster guy, right? So awesome. Reminded me of the kickin' time we had at the Purdue game last season. I have never seen someone pound beer bongs like that before 10 a.m. So awesome.

I know! I can't believe they fired Joe Paterno, either. That is so WRONG. I love that man. He's like God here in State College. So. Wrong.

OK, now that I have your attention, boys, let me tell you why I am really writing. I am asking you to respectfully step off the lamp post you knocked into the street last night and listen up. I am here to school you in perspective.

I know you have had some great times because of Joe Paterno and his coaching skills. But this is not about you.

The treatment of the boys in coach Jerry Sandusky's Second Mile Foundation was criminal. The way the coaching staff looked the other way was despicable. And the reaction from students in State College is horrifying. Running down to Beaver Avenue or whatever the hell you call main street over there or cheering outside of Paterno's window shows me you just don't get it.

I am a graduate of a similar sort of old State U. football place (Go Buckeyes). I was known to take part in a snowball fight flash mob or two. I remember when they aired disgraced legendary coach Woody Hayes' funeral LIVE on TV.

Post college, I spent many years reporting on both crime and sports. I followed Maryland, a place where they look for any excuse to burn a sofa in the streets, for a few years. Students similarly worshiped Gary Williams (really, if they are going to call the campus "Garyland," where do you go from there?). This was only a few years removed from Len Bias and the (rightly so) dismantling of that coaching staff, but a million miles away from the students in the mid-90s. The Terps were winning again! Yay! You da man, Gary.

I often took the unpopular side when it came to some sorts of sexual assaults. One of my big stories way back was William Kennedy Smith, who may or may not have date raped (you're familiar with that concept, right? Yeah, I thought so) a woman he met at a Palm Beach bar.

I am not a Take Back the Night marcher (though that group has never tipped over a news van, as far as I know). Yes, no means no, but it starts with women taking responsibility for not getting blackout drunk and going home with a guy they just met. Like I said, unpopular view, but it starts with thinking about yourself. I know you are familiar with THAT as you don't want to take the fun out of your beloved Saturday tailgate.

In Jerry Sandusky's case, there was no "he said, he said." A grand jury investigation is indicting him on 40 counts of unspeakable acts against children. Read the Grand Jury report. There were multiple people who saw actual acts that could not be misconstrued as anything but criminal. I had to digest it in parts because it is so horrible.

And the Penn State staff? They looked the other direction. You witness a child getting molested in the shower ON YOUR CAMPUS and you maybe mention something to someone? How about reaching in the shower room and slamming coach Sandusky into a sink and calling the cops?

Instead, they let Sandusky keep his access to the Penn State facilities and said maybe he should stop showering with kids so much.

Everyone from the top down in that football program needed to go. This isn't about football, though I do think it is going to get worse. If Sandusky molested those young boys, who is to say there wasn't a Penn State player or two abused along the way as well?

Someday, you will be a parent and you will cringe at the thought you danced in the street protesting the school's (correct) decision to fire the coach.

Someday, you will also likely live in a community similar to Fairfax County, VA, where I live. You will be a parent with high standards who lives among other parents with high standards. You will use your mob mentality and no-longer-so-youthful energy to bully school administrations over things like the grading system or closing an underenrolled elementary school or AP vs. IB and what is right for our children.

Someday, you will be a sports parent. If you found out your child was abused by a coach, you will likely try to kill him with your bare hands and not dance in the street in protest of his firing.

Someday, probably not that long from now as he is 84 years old, Joe Paterno will die. His funeral will likely be broadcast LIVE on TV. And the eulogy and tributes will be about a good man with a historic tenure and record who did a bad thing by letting things get out of control on his watch.

Like Woody Hayes. And Maryland's Lefty Driesell.

And Richard Nixon (I know, I know, you skipped American History 103 that day because it was Greek Week and the Kappas were having a party. You can Wikipedia the basics. I will wait).

In the meantime, pipe down. You have forgotten what you are protesting. Please scrub the blue paint off your face. This isn't game day.

Go back to the spot where you were last night and help clean up some broken glass. Then I want you to go to Mclanahans store, which is selling "blue out" T-shirts to wear to Saturday's game. Proceeds will help Prevent Child Abuse Pennsylvania.

Then you and the brotherhood of self-centered jerks can resume your pregame tomorrow. Because, you know, it really is all about you. WE ARE PENN STATE! Right?

Oh, and call your mother.

Sincerely,

Snarkshelf

Ohio State, Class of '86

Are You A Child-Sized Man? Didn't Think So

2011-10-20T23:06:00.001+01:00

There is a new trend sweeping urban areas from Brooklyn to Berkeley.

It's not vegan cupcakes. It is more global than that.

I present to you......the child-sized man.

Do these flat-front pants make me look old? Like 23?

I started noticing it this summer. Occasionally I will see a child-sized man walking around Reston Town Center on a break from Google or some other techie company. He might be shopping at the Apple Store or JCrew.

Go to an urban area, though, and there are armies of them. Usually young, usually hip. Sometimes the look is topped off with horn-rimmed glasses. Occasionally, he can rock the argyle sweater vest.

Wait, wait. I know this! 14-30-30, right?

But the fashion choices can't obscure the real question - how did you get to be child-sized? Is it an exercise thing? A gay thing? An eating disorder thing?

Or did you just look at your genetics and say "yay...now I can buy 28-inch waist pants forever!" ?

It would be easy to say this is a young man's thing, because, really, it is not difficult to be slight when you are 20. But I know some child-sized men over 40. What gives?

What is the criteria for "child sized?" you ask. I would say anyone under 5-foot-8, 150 lbs. But I will grant exceptions.

Last summer, Mr. Snarkshelf (a normal man-sized 6-foot, 190-something, 45 year old) was a groomsman in his brother's sort-of-hipster wedding. He was told to buy a certain suit at JCrew. I feared for the results.

This is JCrew's very slim Ludlow suit, as modeled by a child-sized man:

What up, Slim?

It all worked out though, as the groom had picked out the more realistic Aldridge cut, for a man-sized man.

So if you know the answer, please clue me in. In the meantime, I will be splitting a salad with my artist friend Clive, flipping through Details on his iPad and picking out new glasses.

It's all good, as long as he does not buy this:

If I am going to be 130 lbs., I might as well rock it.

Let's Have Lunch

2011-10-01T19:31:00.009+01:00

My father made all the friends he ever needed in about the third grade.

That was approximately 75 years ago.

Real-life buddies, 1949

This group went to high school together (Class of '47). Many of them went to State U. two hours down the road together. They were frat brothers and each other's groomsmen. They bought houses in the same neighborhoods - heck, two of them lived on our street for 20 years.

No one moved away, and the years ticked by with various successes and failures.

Businesses were started and babies were born. Vacations were taken and anniversaries were celebrated. The Cleveland Browns won and lost and won and then usually lost. Then they moved to Baltimore, but the town got a new team, so my Dad and his friends dusted off their tickets and started over.

Kids grew up and then there were grandkids. Some of these guys retired. Some kept going, even though their feet hurt. The ones who invested well took winters off, as any good Clevelanders do, hightailing it to Boca or Palm Springs. But they returned in May.

Every Monday for the last 15 years or so, these guys had lunch. There was a core group: the restaurateur; the haberdasher; the ob/gyn; the concert promoter; a couple of salesman; the accountant; a bookie; an insurance guy (also a bookie); and some friends whose jobs I never knew, but they always drove nice cars.

They took turns picking the restaurant and paying. I liked to tease them, when I saw them, about the Olive Garden. Some of these guys were flush enough to order everything on the menu at any restaurant from New York to Vegas and never look at the bill. But once a month or so they went to the Olive Garden just because they liked it.

"You get breadsticks and salad! It's good!" one of them them explained to me.

My Dad was the first member of the Monday lunch club with spotty attendance. Six years ago, he had a stroke, which led to giving up his driver's license, as well as additional health problems. No matter, the restaurateur or the concert promoter picked him up and off they went. Even when it became tougher to speak and harder to follow a conversation, my Dad still looked forward to those lunches. Those guys could still make him laugh. That hadn't changed.

Eventually, Dad's troubles got bad enough he entered a nursing home. The lunch group officially "retired his number." Often, several of them stopped in on the way back from Monday lunch, bringing the party to him.

"It's kind of amazing," I said to my mother. "Not just that all of these men are still alive, but they still live in town and still run around together like high school ended two years ago."

"It is," said she of the blunt style. "But the next 10 years ain't gonna be fun."

In April, the OB/Gyn died. He was a nice man who delivered me, wrote me my first prescription for birth control pills and saw my mother through her first fight with breast cancer.

In July, the haberdasher died. I remember his store was once the place to get a leisure suit. It had long since closed.

Saturday, it was the restaurateur. He was still doing the hands-on, long hours of running a business until this year. My mom went out to lunch with him two weeks ago. Then his heart condition got the worst of him.

My Dad can't really leave the nursing home these days, so my mom - 11 years younger - makes the rounds of funerals and condolence calls. She hasn't told him the restaurateur died. She says she might not right away.

"What's it going to help anything?" she said.

True. The memory impaired can remember the old days. The recent past? Not so much. That's why at the nursing home they play big band music over the speakers and have "I Love Lucy" on the big screen.

My Dad can remember the street he grew up on but has trouble with whether he ate breakfast today. So no harm in not keeping him up to date. We will eventually.

If I were him, I would rather think it was 1964 anyway. Everyone was young. The Browns still had a chance. And no one had opened an Olive Garden yet.

I Don't Know How She Does That

2011-09-27T22:30:00.007+01:00

I am not a fan of the chick flick. OK, most chick flicks. I will watch "27 Dresses" if it is on, but mostly because James Marsden is so adorably cynical in his role as a would-be Pulitzer Prize winner forced to write about weddings. I always save room for "When Harry Met Sally," though it is heading for being dated 22 years later.

I like "Wedding Crashers" and "Bridesmaids." I loathe "Eat, Pray, Love" and "Sex in the City 2."

So without seeing either of them, I will write the Snarkshelfian reviews of two new releases "I Don't Know How She Does It" and "What's Your Number?" They really are bookended chapters of the same book.

I blame Carrie Bradshaw for both.

Carrie was the highly unrealistic witty, unlucky in love freelance sex columnist journalist heroine, played by Sarah Jessica Parker in the SATC HBO series and in the movies. Our heroine Carrie was emotionally about 14 years old, pranced around in hot pants and stiletto heels, apparently made big bucks working for a free, alternative weekly paper (in real life, she would nearly quailify for food stamps. They don't take those at Samba Sushi, last I checked). Carrie squealed and giggled and did the happy dance when someone was paying attention to her.

So "I Don't Know How She Does It" appears to be the sequel. What would happen if Carrie Bradshaw had a couple of kids and finally got a job where she had to do more than wiggle her fingers? Why, she would be stressed out! Let the hilarity ensue!

My husband likes me even though I have a JOB! Squee!

I actually read the book "I Don't Know How She Does It" when it came out a decade ago. It was mildly amusing and took place in England. But really, the movie should have been made about a decade ago, because the Mommy Wars, they are older and more tired than most of the moms I know.

We've been over this before. Working Moms sometimes envy Stay at Home moms. Stay at Home Moms sometimes envy working moms. Everyone has complicated reasons for their choices. There is always going to be one smug bitch on either side who can make you feel bad about yourself, no matter what your choice.

Sarah Jessica Parker perfected this dance with Carrie, where she would naval gaze and write pithy phrases like "What do men really want?" (answer: sex while the football game is on and for you not to ask them that question) or "Can Women Have It all?" (answer: nope. not all at once) and call it journalism.

In this movie, based on its Rotten Tomatoes score of 17 percent (which means very, very rotten), she squeaks and giggles and whines and pratfalls her way through both the board room and the PTA meeting, proving adept at neither and insulting the millions of real women who do their best every day.

Hey! I am a working mom with the same list. It makes for a boring Faceook status and an even worse screenplay.

On any given day, every mom I know juggles varying amounts of balls in the air. Sometimes she drops one. That's life. No need to beat ourselves up about our choices and our errands. And no need to make a movie about it.

"What's Your Number?" could be the prequel, before Carrie Bradshaw stopped hating herself for wanting to live New York and started scoring shoes and investment bankers.

Here's the premise: 30ish-year old Ally loses her job and around the same time she sleeps with guy No. 19. She also reads somewhere that a woman's chances of getting married drastically drop if she has more than 20 partners.

So, she spends her severance money and time tracking down ex-boyfriends, rather than updating her LinkedIn profile. Ally wants a do-over! Perhaps one of them is Mr. Right, she just didn't notice the first time around? She NEEDS to stop at 20 or she. may. never. get married.

Yeah, you read that right.

First, in this era of the Slut Walk, really?

Second, there is no subtraction. There may be regret. But you can't subtract. Trust me on this.

Third, the preview clip I keep seeing is when she goes to visit her gynecologist ex-flame, who doesn't remember her until her gets a look at her va-jajay in her pap smear. That might be the unfunniest movie scene ever, for women and for doctors (and va-jajays). Somewhere, both Betty Friedan and Hippocrates are spinning in their graves.

Fourth, no woman - and certainly no man - would ever run around giggling and saying "maybe I slept with too many people?" (and if it were Sarah Jessica Parker it would be punctuated with a giggle and a "squee" and a funny frowny face).

Fifth, you would never run maniacally around spinning these wheels. Snarkshelf girl code rule: tell one close friend your number and certainly never - assuming you are not punished for your choices - tell your husband. My BFF Justine vaguely knows my number, which is somewhere north of Princess Di on her wedding day and south of my college friend - we'll call her College Samantha, after the more realistic SATC character.

The post-sexual revolution, pre-AIDs early 1980s was in some ways a better time to be a woman. It was the era of Jennifer Jason Leigh in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" having sex with the stereo salesman AND Mike Damone and scuttling out for a hasty abortion on a Saturday afternoon. She was not struck dead. She didn't have last-minute remorse. If she were a real person, her eventual number was probably way higher than 20 and she got married anyway.

Back to College Samantha. She had a lot of sex. She kept a list of her conquests taped up on the inside of her closet. Virginal girls in fair isle sweaters who heard about "the list" would sheepishly knock on the door and ask to see it. Samantha would show them.

The list grew. The legend grew. College Samantha never for a minute pretended any one of these men was really her boyfriend. There was never a "I wonder if he likes me?" or "Why isn't he calling me?" and certainly no "Oh, squee, I better slow it down or I may NEVER get married (frowny face)."

There was a lot of "been there, done that, he's stupid, he's hot, he's even stupider, what kind of fun can I have tonight?"

Eventually she did find a boy she really liked and the legend of the list faded away. Eventually, she also got married (to someone else). She wasn't struck by lightning, and I am sure if a random guy from the era came to her office, she would scarcely remember him either.

I wonder what ever happened to the list. Is it in some scrapbook somewhere, like pictures of keg parties from the same era? Was it burned when she moved in with that first boy she really liked? I am going to Facebook her later and ask her.

The moral of the story: College Samantha owned her behavior, as would any self-respecting woman post-Sandra Dee and pre-Ally-of-the-shame-and-unrecognizable va-jajay.

There was not a frowny face written anywhere on that piece of notebook paper. Unless the guy couldn't seal the deal. Why doesn't someone make a tragic rom com about THAT?

Oh, I can't add past 20. So my odds of finding Mr. Right are super.

Are You There, Facebook? It's Me, Snarkshelf.

2011-09-24T15:57:00.004+01:00

Facebook? Is that you? Hi! You remember me, don't you? We lived on the same street when we were little and I remember...Oh, wait. That was something, I wrote ON Facebook not TO Facebook.

I am a little confused. It has been a rough week in the social media world (or my social media world, but isn't it one and the same?). Facebook decided to speed it up so you can see everything you friends do in real time. A running feed of every LOL ever written. Next, they will introducing a "timeline" so you can further curate the museum of you. Every breakfast, every party, every fake witty line you've written since the beginning of time. Or the beginning of Facebook. Is it the same? I told you, I am confused.

This comes the same week as the company where I work, where I spend a large part of the day on Facebook for my job, changed the software, the page layout and the ways to integrate said social media. And the software spellcheck broke, but that is a whole other headache (and I apologize ahead of time if the word "shit" accidentally gets into a headline sometime soon).

That sound you just heard was my tired eyeballs popping out of my head.

I know my job is at a start-up project owned by the corporate behemoth and I know that Facebook was a start-up project that's now sort of its own corporate behemoth, but can't we just stall like sharks who might die if they stop moving? Maybe the sharks are just tired. I know I am.

Here is my own personal Facebook timeline (in case you can't wait for the upgrade).

I was born. Then about 42 years ensued. Then I needed to get in touch with the founder of Scrabulous, and the only way I could reach him was through this thing, Facebook. So I joined. Then my account sat empty.

Then my neighbor Lisa was on Facebook, and that was great. Because even though she lives about 33 steps away from me, it is uphill, so I don't go over in person much. This way we could communicate online (which is good, because we are on opposite ends of the political aisle and that's where all lively debate belongs).

Anyway, the next thing I knew, everyone was on Facebook. Hey, it's all my college friends and their friends and anyone I ever drank a wine cooler with in the 1980s. It's all my old boyfriends and their kids' little league pictures. It's my whole high school!

I have all these young co-workers now, and I am friends with them both on their "professional" page (kind of thin, since they have only been in the profession for about a year), and their "personal" page, where there are approximately 1,700 fraternity party pictures on each profile. After a while all the straightened hair and the big red keg party cups look alike and I can't tell whose page I am reading.

But Facebook will remind me! I know that one of them is listening to The Arctic Monkeys on Spotify right now (I don't even know what that means) and that another one just checked in at Chipotle. In real time! Yay!

Meanwhile, I do not have a professional page. My personal and professional are all the same in Facebookland. I am confident there are no Jersey Shore-style pics of me dancing on a table. Crazy night out snapshots are usually of a potluck with my book club or some such middle-age pursuit.

I think we were out without sensible shoes. Woo-hoo!

In reality, I will continue with Facebook. What was a diversion has now turned into the hand that feeds me, two steps removed. But I can't help wondering if there new changes will make millions of people just say "it is too complicated, I am stepping off." Or "it is too banal, I have ADD and don't want my eighth-grade girlfriend notified every time I read Perez Hilton."

It makes me long, in theory, for a simpler time, when we got our news printed on paper a whole day later and you actually had to leave your house to get the town gossip. You were surprised when you went to your class reunion. The past was left in the past. Want to be friends? Dial a phone.

Doesn't mean I am going back there. But I admire people who do, as well as those who have not elevated it to daily use.

My mother in law, the Jewish Joan Baez, lives in a little New England town with 1,800 residents. She is actually on Facebook too, yet she also has to walk or drive to the general store to pick up her mail. She chats with the postman - he's an actual face, not a carefully crafted "this is the best picture of me ever" face - about the weather, the residents, the news, whathaveyou.

I am certain Spotify, Chipotle, LOL or Foursquare never come up. The townspeople of Westmoreland get through the day without videos of babies sneezing, knowing that Roger likes Banana Republic or that Michelle had a good night with great friends.

When they want to reset their privacy functions, they close the door. I am certain some of the 500 million Facebook will now too.

Stuff I Don't Get, Vol. 62

2011-09-15T23:09:00.003+01:00

Today's "Stuff I Don't Get" is from three of my favorite topics: fashion, TV news and politics.

1. Missoni For Target - This designer created a limited-time-only line for Target. Now, I love Target, and I think it is genius to get expensive designers to create a line for the store.

But

This

Hideous.

Exhibit A:

And yet - Target sold out of this crap in a matter of hours! People lined up outside, and now they are selling it on eBay - for prices five times the Target price.

Even the Emperor wouldn't wear these new clothes.

"When I went home and remembered what I missed, I wanted to cry," one Target shopper told a California newspaper.

I am crying AT you, not WITH you, lady.

2. Anderson Cooper's daytime TV show - Let it be on the record that I adore Anderson Cooper. I love his silver hair. I love the way he hustles to big stories. I love that he loves "The Real Housewives."

I stood next to him on a street corner at a news event once and had to beat back my inner fangirl.

But his new daytime show, "Anderson." is horrid. I have tried to watch it twice. Think "Phil Donahue," circa 1979, but dumber because the world should be a lot more sophisticated now.

The audience is all women and the topics seem like they are all for women. Even Oprah moved beyond that after a while.

Today's guest was Sarah Jessica Parker, shilling her new movie (which also looks horrid, but then again, I am NOT an SJP fan) "I Don't Know How She Does It." Anderson asked SJP hard-hitting questions about like "SJP, how do you do it all? What's the secret?"

Then he threw it to the audience, where one member said "SJP, how do you find time to stay fit?"

Really?

Please, AC, in the name of Edward R. Murrow, please, please get back to war zone. Or at least to the evening show. Or I am going to have to crush on Matt Lauer and that would just be sad.

You are too cute to pander to the stupid.

3. Sarah Palin in 1987 - There is a new book out called The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin. The highlights have been released to various media. So here is what we know: that Sarah Palin might have had a fling with basketball player Glen Rice in 1987, before she was married, and she might have done some drugs back in the day.

Yeah, so?

Except for violating the woman sportswriter code of "please don't sleep with an athlete, you stupid slut," why would anyone care whom SP slept with 24 years ago? It wasn't like any of this was last week.

I am secretly thrilled that it has come out that someone thought I was hot, even with my 80s perm.

Don't get me wrong. I can't stand SP and would not vote for her if she was the last candidate running for anything. But I don't care about her sex life circa 1987 or ever, unless she slept with Dick Cheney - because that would be equal parts icky and funny.

Also, she is not running for anything just now. Or so she says.

So I won't read the book, and that will free me up for reading up on more pressing political issues. Like Michele Bachman's gay husband.

On Sept. 11

2011-09-11T15:57:00.005+01:00

I care where these guys were, not where you were.

It is not yet 11 a.m. and I have to tune out. I will skip news coverage, Twitter and all other social media today, and if you know me, that is no easy task.

I am opting out because Sept. 11 coverage has turned into a hive of white noise that has drowned out the real tragedy.

The problem with a big, horrible event like this is the advice to "never forget." So no one can. That means "disaster porn" on a dozen channels." The planes are flying again and look - here is some never-before-seen-footage of Tower 2! That means undiscovered audio tapes of messages left on voice mail. You've got Rudy Guiliani in his own words, George W. Bush in his own words and children who never met their father in their own words.

Of course, it is still heartbreaking a decade later.

The problem with a nation's tragedy is it becomes a tenuous tragedy. "Where were you?" queries turn into missives like "I was in my cubicle at Sprint" when I heard the news or "I was in eighth-grade history class" or "OMG - I will never forget the day NYC was attacked because I once visited there."

This morning, I turned on CNN, and with the backdrop of the solemn observance at Ground Zero you had anchor/reporter John King dramatically going on about how he covered the events of that day. Um, John, that's your job. You were safe. You are here. It's not about you.

If I were the family members of an actual 9/11 victim, I would be furious. They have suffered real loss, and in our country's efforts for unity, that loss has been diminished by Tiffany ads in the New York Times saying "We will never forget." The NFL season will kick off today, and I am sure there will be uniformed officers and a moment of silence and a flyover, followed by "Let's play ball!"

That's kind of a metaphor for America this last decade. In 2001, we watched, we cried and life stopped for a few days. Then everyone bought a flag and life went on, except you had to take your shoes off at the airport.

For most people, the vow to never forget comes around on the anniversary of 9/11. The rest of the time it is complaining about the security line at the airport and criticizing the Patriot Act and overthinking the minutae of our own lives. That wave of patriotism that united us right after 9/11? It's turned into a culture war of Tea Party vs. Those Who Hate America.

So, you who watched 9/11 unfold on the TV in the safety of your own home. That recollection is yours, of course, but I am already irritated.

It's about the 3,000 people who were killed, and the soldiers who went to war afterwards. I wonder what Lauren Manning, who was burned over 80 percent of her body after she escaped the World Trade Center, or the widows of 343 firefighters who went into the World Trade Center and never came back, are thinking they read stuff like "The Hollywood Reporter asks stars where they were on 9/11!"

Paul D from Jersey Shore says he remembers he was working at a Honda dealership.

Alex McCord from the "Real Housewives" recalls how she....watched the events on TV.

And a whole bunch of people are talking about their cubicles.

Is this how we will never forget?

What I did on my summer vacation, new media style

2011-09-06T20:17:00.006+01:00

I took the summer off. I know my 60 fans missed me.

But I am back, and hopefully ready to blog. So here was my summer in 140-character, Tweet style form:

1. My brother-in-law got married on the Chesapeake Bay. There were boats.

2. Wedding site: I now have my summer home picked out if I ever get really, really rich. #agirlcandream.

3. My autistic nephew had a bar mitzvah. He did great! Everyone cried.

4. There was a veggie juice bar. They did not have that in the #shetl.

5. The swim team had a so-so season.

My new summer home. Someday.

6. My son went to sleepaway camp - his
sixth and final year.

7. He wrote me one letter. #youshouldwriteyourmother.

8. I went to three yoga classes all summer. I think we have broken up.

9. I just don't have time for you anymore. Namaste.

10. But I now work out at home with my BFF, Jillian Michaels. What's her real name? #secretlyajew #Julierosenblatt?

11. I got an even number of nastygrams to fan mail since June.

12. Books I read: Love is a Mix Tape; Drinking: A Love Story; Bossypants; A Long Strange Trip: The Inside History of the Grateful Dead.

13. Spoiler Alert: You know how that last story ends. #tragicmemoirs.

14. I flew with my son to San Francisco. If you know me, you know I am crazy early - or at least on time - always.

15. And yet we missed our flight. Dulles + United + summer = #incompetent.

16. We had a great time in California. Husband, son, other family, Berkeley envy.

17. I could be a vegan if I lived in Berkeley.

18. Speaking of which, I have given up meat, chicken, diet coke, most alcohol, most dairy. I know, #nofun but #healthy.

19. If you are in Sonoma, you should go to this place. #yum.

20. Also in Sonoma, a great hotel spa. My husband went with me. He's fancy like that now.

How was your summer?

Mail Call for Mr. Weiner

2011-06-07T20:35:00.009+01:00

Dear Anthony Weiner,

It is extra insulting when a member of the tribe does something really bad. We Jews make up one percent of the population in the United States. We have to stick together, and, if you have ever attended Rosh Hashanah services in my hometown, there is evidence we do.

When Bernie Madoff stole all that money from other Jews, people were equal parts sad and livid. "How could he do that to his own people!?" they cried. When you walked up to that podium yesterday, I said "No...no, OK here he goes." From Mark Sanford, we expect that kind of frat boy behavior. From you, the formerly menschie guy from Brooklyn, we expected better.

Fully clothed is a better look for you

I am so disappointed in you. And since I know you have been busy with your, um, electronic correspondence in 140 characters or less, I have intercepted some the long form emails from Jews you have let down.

Here is a selection:

Anthony -

I sat next to you all through junior high. Thanks for letting me cheat off your algebra test. I was way out of your league then and am way out of your league now. You will always be a nerd, no matter how much you bench press (nice pecs, though). or how much you yell at John Boehner. I regret making out with you at Marcy Markowitz's spin the bottle party.

Sincerely,

Mindy Bernstein Horowitz

Syosset, NY

I am so glad I married Dr. Horowitz - a real mensch - and not you!

Dear Congressman Weiner -

I was doing my bar mitzvah project on "Great Jews of the 20th Century." It came down to you, Adam Sandler or Mila Kunis. I ripped up my paper and am starting over. Mila Kunis is hot anyway.

Sincerely,

Aiden Goldberg, age 13

Boca Raton, FL

You're uninvited to the party at the Sheraton, too.

Dear Mr. Horowitz -

I am a retiree in your congressional district. I voted for you in every race. I knew your mother. Shame on you. Keep your schmuck away from the camera, you schmuck.

Thinking of going GOP in 2012,

Sol Rubin

Brooklyn

I know I look like that guy from Seinfeld. What is the Twitter, anyway?

Dear Anthony,

We were thrilled when you asked to marry my daughter. We heard Jews made good husbands. You disappoint me, and every other interfaith mother-in-law.

Signed,

Huma's mom

She thought you were a "catch."

Anthony -

Did we not talk about boundaries in therapy?

Dr. Naomi Adelstein, LCSW

How do YOU feel about what you did?

@RepWiener: Wassaup? Letz talk about your stimulus package. Hit me later @SexxyShiksa.

Tweet ya later, hot stuff.

Midnight in Paris, Noon on Facebook, what's the diff?

2011-06-05T14:05:00.005+01:00

Son of Snarkshelf and I went to see the new Woody Allen movie "Midnight in Paris" yesterday.

That was a much better decision than last weekend's viewing, "Blue Valentine," but live and learn, mother of a teenager. We both loved "Midnight in Paris." We also loved "Blue Valentine," but let's just say it was a little, um, educational for my son.

To review:

"Paris" was clever in a way Allen hasn't been in a long time. Owen Wilson and Rachel McAdam (yes, you will smile at the thought that in some twisted movie universe this is a sequel to "Wedding Crashers," where the same couple was last seen peeling away from a reception and making up their next line o'bullshit "We're a folk singing group from Salt Lake City....") are great. Wilson does a good job as Allen's neurotic avatar; McAdam is the kind of clueless ingenue that three decades ago would have been played by Diane Keaton.

Story line: the couple is on a trip to Paris (accompanied by her very rich, very Republican parents). Wilson is a writer captivated by the literary and artistic history of the city; McAdam just wants to shop and eat.

Walking down one of Paris' quaint cobblestone side streets one night, a car (filled with F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald and a lot of champagne) picks up Wilson. He finds he can time travel, and soon he is partying every night with Hemingway, Picasso, Dali, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and the rest of the creative heavyweights of Paris in the 1920s.

Owen WIlson's short tie defies the ages. Perfect for time travel.

If only he lived in THAT time! Then everything would be fabulous (and he wouldn't have to deal with his increasingly grating fiancee). Except he meets a woman in the 1920s - who wishes she lived in Le Belle Epoque, Paris' golden era of a few decades earlier.

Moral of the story: the old saying "wherever you go, there you are."

At the core of this movie was the flip side of nostalgia. And with the popularity of Facebook and other social media connectedness, everyone in my age group should see this is a (funny, engaging and with lots of yummy Paris street scenes) as a cautionary tale.

These days, lots of folks in my middle age crowd - OK, myself included - are spending crazy amount of time thinking about the past. Thanks to Facebook, I'm connected to 100s of people with whom I went to high school and college.

We are further connected through subgroups like "Growing in up Cleveland in the 1970s" and "Camp [girls camp I attended]" and "We want a Michael Stanley Band Reunion." (The latter was a popular Cleveland band back in the day. Trust me, we really don't want an MSB reunion).

Thirty years have scrubbed the past clean of the bad stuff. The camp girls have a particularly busy message board where they chat about the synchronized swimming show and beloved counselors and the lyrics to the James Taylor songs we sang after dinner. That's great, and I enjoyed all those things.

But is anyone talking about the mean girls I still remember, the cabin politics, the raging strep throat I had in the summer of 1975? I am noticing that the nerdiest girl in our cabin - the one who was always picked last for teams, was left out of the private joke - she is not contributing to the nostalgia thread. In fact, she probably wants no reminders of the "good old days."

How many times recently have you heard of someone who reconnected (again - thanks, social media) with "their long-lost high school" boyfriend or girlfriend? It is happening all the time. Best of luck to them, but I am skeptical that 48 year olds can capture the magic of being 17, simply because you are not 17 anymore.

What did I have to worry about at 17? Nothing! That's why 1982 is my "Le Belle Epoque." Who wouldn't want to go back to a time when you had this list of concerns? 1) how does my hair look?; 2) I will buy that! Daddy will pay the bill; 3) where's the party?; and 4) I am tan.

Lost in the nostalgia is the reality: I probably had an eating disorder. I barely graduated from high school. The economy was terrible. I fought with my boyfriend a lot.

Similarly, Wilson's character in "Paris" is forgetting that the Depression and World War II were right around the corner, and that lots of those 1920s creative types were suicidal alcoholics. And there was lots of syphilis.

So if I were to be Owen Wilson/Woody Allen and pick a time traveling spot, I'm taking 1977, New York City. Mick Jagger and Bjorn Borg - and how's this for synergy? -Woody Allen are gonna pick me up in a tricked-out Camaro. We're heading to Studio 54, where we're going to dance with Liza Minelli, then head over to CBGB to watch punk rock emerge right before our eyes.

Dear Rolling Stones, pick me up at midnight at the corner of 1977 and WTF. Bring Qualludes and members of The Who as well, OK?

Pay no attention to that summer's Son of Sam murders, the blackout, the junkies and the crumbling buildings in lots of Manhattan (they'll all be expensive condos and a Whole Foods in 35 years, mark my words).

See what I mean?

Son of Snarkshelf and I discussed the movie over leftover pizza.

"I guess what he was trying to say is the best time is the one you are living, so you should find a way to be happy there," he said.

Smart boy. In 20 years will be trying to recapture the magic of being a high school freshman?

Favorite Things, Post-Oprah Edition

2011-05-26T00:11:00.004+01:00

OMG. OPRAH! Don't go!

OK, truth be told. I tuned in today to see Oprah talking directly at me (OK, and a gabillion other viewers). She told me to live my best life! To believe in myself! I can do anything!

I will get back to you if I succeed.

I actually haven't watched Oprah much in a couple of years, so I missed the big lovefest with Beyonce and Jerry Seinfeld and Jamie Foxx and Aretha Franklin this week.

But there are a couple of things I rally liked. I though Oprah and BFF Gayle on vacation was brilliant TV. She walked out of the wigwam hotel! And who would blame her? Discovering Suze Orman = brilliant. Love her. Dr. Oz and Bob Green? Not so much; they never told me anything I did not already know. Don't get me started on Rachael Ray, either.

What I really, really liked about Oprah was her "Favorite Things" shows. She would feature the ordinary-but-brilliant, like some lemon square she discovered. She would gift the audience with stuff that was truly oprahlicious and fabulous, like a cashmere bath towel. Either way, I listened.

The big question everyone is asking this week: who will tell us what to do? What do read? How to eat? What Favorite Things to buy? I will, that's who.

So I give you Snarkself's Favorite Thing, summer edition:

* I will not be offering a basket of goodies to my many millions (hundreds) of readers. You're on your own. Sorry.

1. Good shampoo. Stop using that drugstore crap. Aveda. Matrix, Keratase. Go.

2. Chocolate kisses. I always have them in the house. So basic.

3. Tory Burch patent leather flip flops. Your cuteness factor goes up by 1,000 percent if you do not wear rubber footwear.

Stop shopping for footwear at CVS. I am getting these in pink too.

4. Crest Whitestrips.

5. An iPhone. I have no more need for an alarm clock, a camera, a scattered music collection, a newspaper or seeing a friend in actual person. It's all right there. Genius.

6. This little pet fur remover thingie.

Also brilliant!

7. Lemon coconut cake from the Amphora Bakery in Herndon, VA

8. Opi Nail Polish in Sweetheart. Second choice: Bubble Bath

Sweetheart goes with everything

9. Tinted moisturizer. Bobbi Brown or Clinque Almost Makeup.

10. Wheat Thins. My go-to food. I have given up almost everything else, but not the fake wholesomeness of sugar crackers.

All I need is this Sunbrella sectional with monogrammed pillows

2011-05-15T18:05:00.004+01:00

Since it is now Spring, I realize now what has been missing in my life.

It's not peep-toed pumps. It is not a pot of impatiens. It is not Claritin.

It is the realization that I do not live in the Pottery Barn Outdoors catalogue. Some time ago, I lamented I did not live in the Athleta catalogue. I am past that. I have made peace with the fact I cannot, in fact, run around town wearing the Shakati swim top and paddleboarding overto Starbucks, despite the fact that my town is indeed connected by a series of lakes.

If the Athleta catalogue makes me feel bad about my abs, then the Pottery Barn outdoor catalogue makes me feel bad about my home. Let's take a tour, shall we?

1. Lemonade in a decanter. You, pedestrian, serve it out of the carton. Go ahead and pour in some Newman's Own. I won't tell. You can get it MONOGRAMMED too. (I actually may buy this one. Without a monogram).

2. It is tough to tell where the deck ends and where the beach begins. At your house, the deck ends, and then the beach begins about 150 miles away. We don't make a sectional that big.

3. If you lived here, you would have household help to rake the rocks, uncork that Sauvignon Blanc and pick up whatever kind of woodsies fall off those vines.

4. Yes! I have been looking for just the thing on which to place around the chess set at the base of the dock!

5. Would it be overkill if I put this on the front steps?

6. Clambake!

Take My Advice

2011-05-12T19:37:00.001+01:00

I didn't attend my college graduation. Since I was on the 4.75-year plan, my final semesters boiled down to filling some requirements (damn, you dumb remedial math!) and having my diploma mailed to me, about four months after I began my entry-level job.

Also, it was from this university, so, really, with 15,000 students in the class of 1986 (Ok, '87), did anyone miss me?

But I like a graduation speech as much as the next writer, so I present to you Snarkshelf's Graduation Speech If She Were Ever a Speaker: What My 46-year-Old Self Would Tell My 22-Year-Old Self." I am available for the class of 2012. Just saying.

Dear Class of 2011:

As you prepare to enter the real world, take this advice:

1. In the real world, there is no Spring Break.

2. Those 10 besties you are sitting next to right now? In 20 years, one will still be your confidante. You will know all about her boyfriends and her husband, the miscarriage and money, the good times and bad. The other nine? You will have forgotten their names.

3. Don't wear flip flops to work. Ever.

4. It is never a good idea to date your boss.

5. Your first job will suck. Don't let it kill your dreams. The next one will be much better.

6. Don't look back at pictures from this era and think you looked fat. At 22, it is hard to take a bad picture. Unless of course you really are fat. Then you should probably work on that.

7. Things you can wear now but I will hunt you down and slap you if you try this after 32: tube tops, jeggings, dresses that stop at mid-thigh, tie dye.

8. That tattoo is a mistake. Please listen to me.

9. You are now old enough to stop being embarrassed by your parents and start learning from them.

10. In 20 years, your teenagers will be embarrassed by you. Karma.

11. By now you should learn to manage money and cook five things.

12. If you have to move back into your parents house for a while, you should still learn to manage money and cook five things.

13. Your first apartment will have an ugly couch, and maybe no air conditioning.

14. On the first 60-degree day next spring, you will want to put on shorts and head down to the quad to play Frisbee. Your boss will not think that is OK.

15. There is a good chance you will have a starter marriage.

16. So there are do-overs! Good to know.

17. Your mother was right, put on a little lipstick.

18. You should move once or twice to a strange city. You will learn from it, and, if you play it right, you could have a new identity.

19. That nose ring is gonna work against you unless you want to be a 30-year-old barista or vet tech.

20. At work, whether it is (for now) waiting tables or on Wall Street, always make eye contact and never say "you guys."

What's your best advice for the Class of 2011?

The Battle Hymn of the Mother of The Only Child

2011-05-08T14:03:00.009+01:00

On Mother's Day, I would like to give a special shoutout to the mothers of only children. You know who you are. You are the ones attending school events unencumbered by "the baby."

You can drive a Volkswagen Beetle if you want, carry a teeny purse free of sippy cups and get back your "me time" a lot quicker.

We take up less space on the scenic overlook.

I did not set out to have an only. Medical karma, timing and knowing my limits just made it work out that way. Nearly 15 years in, I can't imagine it any other way.

Growing up, I don't think I knew one single only child. Families had two, three, four kids at least. These days, there are more, but out here in the suburbs, the 2.5 kids stat still probably is the norm.

Still, when I meet someone with an only child, I give them the "Oh, I knoooowwwww" nod." Do people still say "What are your kids doing this summer" to you, even though they know full well there is just one 'kid'? Ask you when you are going to have more? (say what?) Ask if he is lonely? (he's not) Ask if your marriage is OK? (yikes).

Here are some things I have learned along the way:

1. You will feel different. I first noticed this at my very first preschool back-to-school night. Our students were turning 3; every single mom at that meeting was either very pregnant or toting a very small infant.

I felt a little like one of those cartoon ladies that says "OMG! I forgot to have (more) children!" Lesson learned though - never let a cartoon lady influence or some other moms at school your family planning.

I went out and bought myself an expensive purse the next day. "I don't have diapers to carry around anymore, suckers." (But if I change my mind, I will swap it right back for the Kate Spade diaper bag).

2. Your "life" is smaller, but that can be a plus. Having an only is a more compact system. We never outgrew our three-bedroom house. I can drive a Prius. Son of Snarkshelf has been to Europe and Costa Rica. I never did those types of things until I was 30. My son, either by coincidence or not, has several friends who are onlies. They go on great trips too.

At my house, we do more with less.

I have friends with three kids who have not finished a conversation since 2001. They are on their third minivan. They have to be three places at any one time, and something usually goes wrong. I am not saying either lifestyle is a better lifestyle. I am just saying I have time for window shopping. My friends with a vanful of kids would envy the window shopping, but they really don't have the time.

3. What about the sibling thing? He never asked for one. For many years, I would check in with my son once a year to ask if being an only bothered him. "Not really," he said. Then he would go back to reading his book and asking if we could have sushi for dinner.

I have one sibling, my brother, Spike, who is less than two years older than me. Like many families, we have a love-hate relationship. We have been bickering for nearly 50 years. When I want my son to get a taste of the sibling thing, we head over there for a visit. I think he comes away with a headache and the realization that his mother is emotionally still 14 years old when she gets around her brother. Conclusion: what's so great about THAT?

4. You are blissfully exempt from both scrapbooking (it gets redundant with pictures of THE SAME DAMN KID) and having one of those ridiculous stickers of your family in stick figures on the back of your car (that is not a van).

5. Milestones that go quicker: You have to suffer through Disney World once or twice, then YOU NEVER HAVE TO GO AGAIN. I look at the balance in the college account and don't burst into tears because I know it only has to cover one kid. It will be (mostly) enough. I only had to eat six Fairfax County Public Schools Thanksgiving lunches.

There is a downside to that, though. The empty nest years we hear about are knocking at my door. My son is in high school. I am on a need-to-know (and need-to-drive) basis now. There are many times I am alone in my house. That's still a rarity for the big families I know. For me, it is a ticking reminder that my job - to get him to age 18 without an arrest record, a street fight, an expulsion or rickets and with reasonable manners and future job skills - is nearing the finish line.

And it is much, much too late to chuck it all for the Kate Spade diaper bag.

I am not that sentimental, so I prefer to look forward (except sometimes when I am, of course, alone in my house and I pull out old baby pictures). Being the parent of an only is like a long book with short chapters: you can turn the pages very quickly and practically skip right to the ending.

We're already planning for five years from now, where, if I have done my job correctly, my son will be in college, and my husband and I- with mixed emotions, of course - can trade our suburban house in walking distance of the elementary, middle and high schools for a two-bedroom condo somewhere much more exciting.

Some 30-year-old with a tote full of sippy cups will be thrilled to take my place here in the house on the corner.

The Breakup

2011-05-06T19:56:00.004+01:00

To: Bravo

CC: The Housewives of NYC, OC, NJ, etc.

From: Snarkshelf

Dear Housewives,

It's not you, it's me. No, wait. It IS you.

We have had a good couple of years, but now we are done. Being the reality TV hound that I am, I was infatuated with you for a long time. I have been there from the beginning, chatting about Laurie's new boyfriend or Jill's fugly apartment with my real-life gal pals. Is rehashed one of your bad parenting decisions or ridiculous fashion choices as if I were picking on one my my actual frenemies.

I stuck with you through Bethenny being dateless to being pregnant and now, according to next week's previews, getting an eleventymilliongallion dollar buyout of her Skinnygirl margarita concoction, which shows that idiots will buy anything from a famous person (as the bottled stuff, as invented by Bethenny, tastes like Scope. Here is how to be skinny: don't drink. Alcohol is sugar. You're welcome).

Does this drink make me look fat? OK, does it make me sound shrill, then?

Anyway, I liked you at first because, well, many of you were actual wives. I liked seeing how you were just like anyone else - trying to keep your kids from smoking pot in the house and working and figuring out life. Sure, this "drama" was set against a fancier backdrop than my own abode and in a place with either much better weather (OC) or window shopping (NYC). But when you got right down to it, it was life in general.

Then many of you got divorced, so very few of you are "wives" anymore. Then many of you went bankrupt or into foreclosure, so while I enjoyed the storyline of gifting your daughter a BMW for her birthday, I realized the joke was on me. You never made one single payment. The car was likely repossessed.

Act zany. Bravo is paying.

Tamra's diamond-studded Rolex for her 40th birthday? A producer-supplied prop. All those marriage vow renewals (A season staple in Housewives-world)? Poppycock - and paid for by resorts in exchange for air time.

Soon, the shows became scripted product placement. Our relationship dies a little tiny death every time I hear "I decided..." as in "I decided to gather all the girls (cast members) and take a weekend in San Francisco," or "I decided to throw a little Botox party," or "I decided to meet Ramona for lunch at the Il Bianco and talk about what she said last night."

I would like to see "I decided I would pay for that $4000-a-night suite at the Fairmont in San Fran," or "I decided to look up dermatologist-to-the-stars Dr. Olaf's California license," or "I decided Il Bianco told Bravo we could film there." That would restore your credibility.

Some of those products are your own (see, Skinnygirl margarita). And some of them are horrifying. You've got Ramona's Silpada Jewelry and now a line of wine. Gretchen's got some godawful makeup line; has no one noticed that her skin is horrible? It is dry and broken out and overly makeup-ed at the same time. Run, cosmetic shoppers, run!

Alexis has a dress line! And a Filipino seamstress she bosses around. The creations look they they come from Victoria's Secret's "fashion" catalogue. Lynn makes bracelets!

Oh, and everyone's a model. It's not a season without the wives walking some runway somewhere.

I'm a model now, Bitches!

But those are not even the plot points that bug me the most. Simply put, there aren't any anymore.

Last night's RHONYC was something about someone saying something to someone at someone's party. Then someone else had lunch with someone and told her what someone said. Then someone else had lunch with some other people and they role played what someone would say when they talked to someone about it. Then someone complained about someone some more. Then they all screamed at each other.

The gist of it was: Ramona came to your party and you did not have Pinot Grigio for her. The nerve!

What part of Pinot Grigio do you not understand?!?!!?!

Say what, ladies?

Seriously, my head hurts. It is like you are speaking a foreign language that I did not learn, and that is puzzling to me because 1) I go out to lunch a lot; 2) I never shut up and 3) I am a former mean girl who could expertly manipulate both conversations and people.

So, enjoy, girlfriends. I will be sitting out the polo match in the Hamptons and Peggy's new boobies and Tamra throwing a drink at Jeana. I will never know if Bethenny ever stops crying or if Jason's nice parents ever realize that she is emotionally about 14 years old. (sidebar: her therapist, while very nice, should also lose his license for showing therapy sessions on TV).

I will never know if Peggy or Alex become homely top models over age 40 (I am guessing not). I will never know if Tamra's new dude plays for both teams (I am guessing yes). I will have to live without Jill Zarin's bullying.

Andy Cohen, you can stay. You are funny.

I feel better already, and will have enough time on my hands to resume my modeling career.

Love, Snarkshelf

Four Days and A Fascinator

2011-05-03T19:25:00.003+01:00

I know you can get your news from lots of places. So I I bring you "Four days of news in pictures and an economy of words."

Fabulous.

Hunky.

Glovey.

Fugly.

Hilarious.

Furious.

Dead.

Dude.

Every wedding is a royal wedding

2011-04-26T21:38:00.005+01:00

There is something so big happening this Friday. No, it is not the local high school production of "The Scarlet Pimpernel," where Son of Snarkshelf will be part of the stage crew. My mother in law will be in town, so that will be fun. Perhaps we might do some mulching.

In case you have not watching approximately 10,000 TV hours leading up to the Friday's big story, I am here to remind you that Prince William and Kate Middleton finally - FINALLY - will get married on Friday. (Editor's note: Is a Friday wedding a British thing? 'Cause if you do that around here, people will just think "cheapskate.")

Anyway, this is apparently is the biggest story EVER because The Today Show has been leading the 7 a.m. hour - the part usually reserved for news about Iraq and John Boehner and missing white women -with breathless updates about souvenirs and Middleton's weight and all things British (Editor's note: Listen Meredith Viera, you cannot rock one of those hats. You are from Rhode Island. The kids in the old neighborhood would beat you up if you wore that).

Now, I know that this is big because Middleton is middle class, though her parents made millions selling glow sticks and paper plates and pinatas in a mail order party supply business. As they say across the pond - brilliant!

Congrats, Kate. You give girls hope. Even 46 year olds.

Kate (can I call you Kate? Catherine seems so formal, so stuffy...oh,wait) gives regular girls hope because ANYONE can meet a prince, charm the tabloids, not develop bulimia, rock a wrap dress and become queen. Anyone (Editor's note: would this be a good time to tell you about my highly developed fantasy circa 1984 that I would meet John F. Kennedy somewhere? Manhattan, perhaps, or maybe just strolling on the beach in Hyannisport? And that he would be charmed by my permed hair and quick wit and I would become the first Jewish Kennedy wife from the Midwest, Jackie and my mom would be besties and I would be a fashion icon to millions. Like Kate, I dream big).

The ordinariness about Kate Middleton appeals to everyone who ever read a fairy tale. She got her prince. Hopefully, they will live happily ever after (Editor's note: Crikey, the Windsors' have a bad track record, but a toast to you kids.)

Fergie, the one they would rather not mention. I always liked her.

The ordinary (but very attractive) Kate is relatable to any former bride or bride-to-be. So I give you my primer for a princess wedding:

1. It doesn't matter whether your wedding is at Westminster Abbey or at the Sheraton Reston. On your wedding day, you are a princess. Now go see if your daddy will spring for that stagecoach.

2. It is your big day, so you deserve to have your imprint on everything. Kate gets shot glasses and plates and pins and entire souvenir shops. You get little tins of mints, ordered from an online store similar to the one Kate's parents started. You can customize the colors though.

3. Defer to grandma. I wanted to get married in a gazebo on the grounds of an inn on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. My parents, who were paying for this soiree that took place in 1994, said "OK, but 30 people can come, and your 93-year-old grandmother won't be able to be there, and how will you feel then?" That ended that discussion. The wedding was in Chagrin Falls, Ohio and Rose Goldberg was in attendance.

Similarly, I am sure the Queen put the kibosh on Kate's destination wedding plans as well.

Seriously, she wouldn't attend if the big day were at the beach.

4. You are the bride. You can make your bridesmaids wear anything. Go ahead, put them in teeny-tiny hats or dresses with butt bows. It's your day. Kate's fashion choices will live forever in world history. Yours, ordinary bride, will be relegated to eBay, the back of my closet or photos on Facebook (which I will un-tag).

Kate can wear this. You cannot. Please listen to me.

5. Speaking of Facebook, Kate has paparazzi to stalk her on her honeymoon. You have Facebook photos. No one really cares about a shot of the royal couple taken from a half-mile away. And sadly, no one really wants to see all 68 photos of you and your husband from every tourist perch in Hawaii. Edit, newlyweds, edit.

So I raise my glass to you, William and Kate, and you too, Mr. and Mrs. Ordinary Bride and Groom. May your new life be filled with reasonable in-laws, a gift registry with no duplicates, bridesmaids who behave themselves and a nod of approval from grandma.

L'Chiam!

In Which I Am Filled With Gratitude and Benign Growths

2011-03-21T22:36:00.007Z

Well that's 72 hours of my life I'll never have back. Thank God.

As I mentioned yesterday, last week was a series of biopsies, both for my mother and me. Those biopsies were part of the family crest of lots o' cancer.

My results came in this morning though. Good news! Negative.

Now, I am not a hypochondriac. I pride myself on my good health. I get a cold maybe once a year. My blood pressure is low. I eat lots of edamame and hardly any meat. I have given up diet soda. I don't smoke. I barely drink. I go to the gym five times a week.

I was certain my luck was running out. The family legacy not only has lot of cancer, it has lots of cancer young, as in 30s and 40s. I am the same age - 46 - as my mother was when she began her battle with the disease.

But the news is good (for me, at least. We are still waiting on my mother's results from last week). They say check back for another MRI in six months. Then we can do it all again. Whheeeeeeeeee.

I will see if I can pencil in a test. I can barely fit in a manicure, so I for sure don't have time for cancer. I have a teenager and a job. I have a husband who travels a lot. I have a social life, I have plans. I have to run the swim team snack bar, and save journalism.

I have to organize BFF birthday lunches. I have to make sure there are groceries in the house and that the bills are paid. I need to make sure my son does not get trampled by the "Race to Nowhere" yet doesn't fall behind on the road to college. I need to Twitter.

Meanwhile, Woody Allen is my favorite hypochondriac. This is kind of what this weekend was like:

The Inheritance

2011-03-20T13:21:00.011Z

Some families have a photo gallery of ancestors - an Admiral there, a General there. Maybe a priest or a rabbi, and a few cute babies.

In my house, it is the wall of dead people. On my mom's side of the family, pretty much everyone dies young. I never knew my maternal grandmother. She survived breast cancer in her 40s and dropped dead of an aneurysm at 52.

She lives in photos as the 1960s lady at the country club, wearing her pearls and holding a highball, standing next to her husband. That guy, my maternal grandfather (who looks exactly like my brother does now), died at 60. Leukemia.

They had four kids. My mom is the oldest. Her younger sister was gone at 55. It was less than four years from a lymphoma to a bone marrow transplant to her early exit. Her son is 42 now and has had leukemia for about seven years.

My mom had her own cancer bout. She was 47 when she had an aggressive breast cancer diagnosis. Surgery, chemo, radiation. It's been 25 years, but she has lingering side effects - scar tissue, chronic pain, some poor lifestyle choices and the utter shock of still being alive at nearly 72.

Some families inherit freckles or artistic talent. We have cancer and a dark sense of humor. If the grim reaper stops by, we'll invite him in for coffee.

Last week, everyone went to the surgeon. Doctors are certain my mom has widespread cancer. Could be the old one returning, could be a new one. Either way, bone scans and other tests confirm it is in lots of places. Last Monday, she had surgery to pull out a lymph node and study where the disease was coming from and determine how to proceed.

Said mom: "We all gotta go sometime, and I don't know if I want to treat it aggressively. You can hardly find parking at University Hospitals."

That's her message to the grim reaper: "Eh, come over if you want. But I'm not going to meet you downtown."

A couple of days earlier, I went to buy a purse. The Kate Spade bag literally sung to me from the display at Nordstrom Rack. It met all my requirements: Big enough to hold all my crap (actual, not emotional. You'd need a duffel bag for that). Zipper on top. Well-made brand. Springy shiny material. Total shopping score; I was happy.

That lasted five minutes. While I was signing the credit card slip, the phone rang. It was my doctor's office. As part of my ultramegaeveryoneinmyfamilyhadcanceryoung survellience, my MRI came back not so good.

I am in approximately year 22 of the let's-watch-you-closely program. That means mammograms every year. Sometimes twice a year. There are lots of cysts. Lets stick needles in them and drain them. Then let's do it again. How about some genetic testing while we're at it?

About a year ago, a surgeon told me to get an MRI and come back in six weeks. I dragged my feet for about nine months (I was busy, OK?). Then I got one. Then I forgot about it for a few days. Then I went to buy a purse.

So Thursday, they stuck me back in the MRI and biopsied the four suspicious spots. In case you ever have one of these, I just want to warn you, it was state-of-the-art and medieval at the same time. You lie face down in the MRI for 45 minutes so they can map the spots where they want to go. Then they drill holes in you. Seriously. Like a dentist's drill. OK, so there was local anesthetic, but you could still hear the "whhhiilllllllwrbirrrr" of the drill. There was some blood involved.

I'm sorry, were you eating breakfast just now?

This week, my mom and I are both waiting for biopsy results. She's shocked to still be here. I am exactly the same age now as she was when she started down the oncology rabbit hole. So I am not at all surprised at the appointments in my planner.

Whatever the results, I can handle it. I have the perfect purse.

Dear Grim Reaper: Up Yours. Signed, Kate Spade

Karen and Justine's Big Wednesday Night Non-Literary Adventure

2011-03-03T02:36:00.011Z

I know, I know, I know. I know. It's been so long that I have Snarkshelfed (shelved?) that I actually forgot how to log in to the site.

But I remembered. I have been very, very busy with my job that pays me to blog. So I stare at a computer screen and write and tweet and all that stuff, so when I have a spare moment, I just can't bring myself to do it all again. Plus, I hardly ever have a spare moment, since being based in cyberspace means there is no clocking out. Ever.

Anyway.... I had tickets tonight to hear the author of this book speak at a book reading in downtown DC. I read the book a couple of weeks ago, and I really, really liked it.

The premise of the book is 50 is NOT the new 30, so you unless you really are going to be 30 and go live in a group house and get a semi-entry level job and start dating a 32 year old, you better embrace 50.

That means making peace - but doing what you can to fight - the stubborn flab around your middle, dealing with the fact you will have an empty nest sooner or later, and that you might get squeezed out of your current job, so have plan.

Hey, no one ever said I was an optimist. Neither is author Tracey Jackson. That's why I snapped up two tickets to her book reading moderated by famous Washington Post writer and social doyenne Sally Quinn and told my BFF Justine to make arrangements - we were going downtown on Wednesday night!

I left Son of Snarkshelf with instructions to do his homework. Meanwhile, Justine, who has three children, orchestrated a complicated dance of picking the youngest up at day care, picking up the middle child's soccer teammates, delivering middle child and said teammates to a conditioning clinic, and some other stuff I forget because I have my own errands to run.

Justine gets to my house about 5:20 p.m., and we head downtown, normally a 16-mile trip. Do you live near DC? Then you know 16 miles could mean 20 minutes or two hours. You just never know.

Perhaps you've heard - the traffic in DC is crazy bad. I am talking it is a clusterf**k most of the day, in all directions. OK, maybe not on Sunday at 10 a.m., but rush hour on a Wednesday? My husband laughed at our plan of maybe we were going to try and eat somewhere in Penn Quarter first.

After spending 20 minutes in highway traffic, we made a spot decision to bag the traffic and take the Metro the rest of the way. Sounded reasonable. So then we parked, walked, bought farecards and got on the train. After three stops, I calculated it my head: seven more stops. Then we have to change trains and go one more stop. Then take the slow escalator. Then walk another couple of blocks.

There goes dinner. And if there is no dinner, what is the point of going downtown? That is not an existential question; I get crabby if I don't eat.

Tickets to this thing were only eight bucks, and I already read the book. It wasn't like I had invested in Springsteen tickets or anything. THEN I would have planned ahead.

"How pathetic would it be if we bagged this plan and just went to eat in Arlington?" said I.

"Not bad at all," said Justine.

A Rorschach test or a Metro map? Discuss.

So, instead of going to book reading about how we should suck it up and make friends with middle age, my slightly less middle aged friend and I went to a tapas restaurant in Clarendon. There was some sangria involved, and a good time was had by all.

Clarendon is in Arlington, in the state of Virginia. Which means, in fact, I am now so old I can't even cross the Potomac River. Too much work.

And that also brings me to the question, who else went to book reading? Because the target audience for the book for sure lives in Reston or Rockville or Columbia or Lorton, and, as I have just illustrated, there is no easy way to get kids where they need to go and maneuver your way through I-66 or the beltway or even damn public transportation.

OK, ladies. Let's see if you can even find your way off the cul-de-sac.

Which is why it is even funnier that the dinner conversation was all DC, as in "when I lived in a group house in Dupont Circle in 1988...," and "I used to park in Mt. Pleasant and walk six blocks in the dark. Way before gentrification," and "Remember Mr. Days? My feet used to stick to the floor of that place."

I am sure the book reading about nearing 50 was fun if you could get there without clearing your whole schedule. I missed the lecture; I had some sangria in a different zip code.

Which so proves that 46 is not the new 29.

Namaste, bloggers

2011-02-08T03:13:00.011Z

Exciting news in Aol/Patch Land Monday morning. Aol - my employer - bought the Huffington Post! We're "this" much closer to world domination. Squeeee!

Even though Arianna Huffington is now my boss's, boss's, boss's, boss, Patch editors were still invited to dial in to a couple of conference calls on Monday to listen to Arianna and the boss's boss's boss talk about the merger and the future and to know that Arianna loves Patch. Good news all around.

I, for one, am very happy. Not because Arianna Huffington is a politico I can believe in. Not because I heart The HuffPo, which I do. Not because the future of journalism is firmly online and I am excited to be here. Not because when Arianna came to speak to Patchers at a big meeting we had in October, she was wearing a dress I really liked and that probably cost as much as my car. OK, maybe this made me a little happy: on the conference call on Monday she was talking about bringing cookies to the New York office.

I am mostly a fan of Arianna Huffington because she likes to talk about balance. Patch editors can desperately use some balance.

I love Patch, she said. And yoga and cookies. Sign me up!

Arianna Huffington has written and spoken many times about how, a few years ago, she had a series of anxiety-related illnesses and has since been on quest for health and peace ever since.

She wanted to share the health and peace so much that she opened the Huffington Post Oasis at the 2008 Democratic National Convention.

To back up, as a journalist, when you cover a big, huge multi-day event, it SOUNDS much more fun than it really is. World Cup, Super Bowl, political convention. Seriously, you can see it a lot better on TV.

When you are there and working it is a lot of this: lugging at best your laptop and at worst your luggage for miles; eating bad food; eating not at all; sweating in the heat; looking up from your laptop and realizing you've been at it for 12 hours and the last media shuttle to the hotel has already left.

I once lost 10 pounds at the US Open. I've been at the Meadowlands too late to call a cab. I have blisters on my feet from that damn Democratic Convention that still have not gone away.

Anyway, since I was at the 2008 convention to write fun features and follow celebrities around, I had heard about the said HuffPo oasis, but it was several days before I could actually get there. Some media types had scoffed - conventions are about red meat and black coffee and late nights! Why does the media need yoga and aromotherapy? That's such new age bullcrap.

Dude, seriously?

Off I went to find this spot of peace. It HAD to smell better than the press tent. There is was, on the second floor of your basic Denver office building. Oasis, indeed. It was the mothership. For me, anyway.

There were yoga mats and candles. Apparently, I had just missed Katie Couric learning to do a headstand. There were swagtastic gift bags - Huffington's book "Fearless," along with tomes by Dean Ornish and the Canyon Ranch staff. Pangea cosmetics face scrub. Cucumber moisiturizer.

There were smoothies and organic chocolate and big. soft pillows on which to sit. They were giving massages. There were celebrity yoga teachers (Sean Corne, if you follow along; she asked where I practice). There were candles and headbands and energy bars.

Celebrity yogni Seane Corn and some green energy drinks at the HuffPost Oasis. That's what I call clubbing.

This was change I can believe in. I wrote a story about it. I would link to it, but my former employer charges money for the archives. Or maybe just for stories on left-leaning touchy-feely stuff getting in the way of politics. Whatever. Very un-yogalike.

There were celebrities. Sure, Arianna Huffington was there often throughout the week. When I stopped by, Daryl Hannah was sitting in a folding chair, putting band-aids on her foot blisters (told you, being there in person has its drawbacks, even for Hollywood), drinking an Honest Tea and talking to me about Obama.

I left the oasis with a goody bag and that balance Arianna was talking about. "Come back tomorrow," the smoothie PR girl said, throwing a bunch of peppermint lip balms in my bag.

Oh, smoothie girl, I wish I could. Absolutely my happy place.

Those lip balms were specially branded, maybe even especially created for, Yoga Journal, to give away in Arianna's lounge. I don't know what's in them, but they are the best. Two and half years later, I still have a couple in my purse. I love them. I will be sad when they are gone.

Is that a metaphor for my career? Perhaps. But now that Arianna Huffington is on board, I am eagerly looking for the next oasis. With lip peppermint balm and energy bars.

Huffington Oasis Peppermint Lip Balm in my home office. When do we get the Aol issue?

Win One For The Rust Belt

2011-01-28T20:31:00.012Z

Today officially marks the day I can be excited about the Super Bowl. I do not believe in a two-week buildup period. A week or so is just fine.

This year, we have a Rust Belt matchup in which I can believe, too. If you are from the Midwest this is very exciting.

I may have mentioned, I am from Cleveland. Now, Cleveland last made it to a championship game the year I was BORN, which means it has never been in the Super Bowl. The Browns have come close though. In case you have forgotten about those five AFC Championship games, the hometown paper, using all sorts of bloggy, YouTubey technology and "where are they now?" non news, last week chronicled the many ways the team has blown its chances.

Sigh. One usually has to wait until Cleveland is IN a big game before rehashing all that. Well, played, Plain Dealer. A pre-emptive strike?

Since Cleveland might never be in the Super Bowl, Green Bay vs. Pittsburgh is like the next-best thing. These are cities I understand. These are people I understand. Dallas is a place with humidity and cowboy boots, so I don't understand it. Miami? halter tops and toned midsections, so, nope. Phoenix, Nashville,Jacksonville, Seattle? Golf courses, country music, sailors and Pacific Northwest outdoorsiness.

In case you were wondering, this is the pool at the Eden Roc in Miami and NOT the Ramada near the Cleveland airport.

Cleveland, Green Bay and Pittsburgh (as well as Detroit and Buffalo, but not Chicago, because they have Oprah) share many of the same personality traits. Here is a primer - in case you want to visit.

1. Where are you from? - People in Rust Belt cities - save for Mario Lemieux, Vince Lombardi and the head of the Cleveland Clinic - tend to have always lived in that city. When they say "Where are you from?" it is different than in my current neighborhood in Virginia, where the answer could be Scotland, France, Texas, Military all over the place, Ohio or California.

They mean what high school, or even, what elementary school or what street. Chances are, if you mention the street, they knew the previous owners of your house.

2. Weather? Yes, please - Folks in Rust Belt cities are used to bad weather. This is why no one from (see above) California, Texas or France wants to move there. Winter comes about Nov. 15 and sticks around till May Day. It is cold. It snows. After a while no one notices. Big storm coming? In other places they shut down the schools and you curl up with cocoa. In the Rust Belt you go to work, to school, wherever. If things came to a halt in bad weather, I would still be in the second grade.

Football fans in Green Bay remember the Ice Bowl. Fans in Cleveland talk about the wind whipping off Lake Erie every Sunday. Twenty degrees? Excellent. The beer will be cold at the tailgate.

Here is an example:

3. It's all about the sausage - Rust Belt cities are not places that pay attention to fat grams or leafy greens. These are places for perogies and cheeseheads, bratwursts and Pittsburgh's Primanti Bros. restaurants, who popularized putting fries on a sandwich. Brilliant!

"Do you want fries with that?" is not really an option in parts of the Rust Belt.

4. It is fashion not function - Especially if you are going to a football game. You''ll need a parka. And some hand warmers, a couple of hats and long underwear...

In Green Bay....

Cleveland...

or Pittsburgh.

One word: Layers. And go, Packers.

Market Research. With Cheese Fries.

2011-01-24T00:01:00.008Z

Just got done watching the NFC Championship Game. Let me just say, in the name of my new obsession, the life and legend of Vince Lombardi, go Packers. And go get a copy of "When Pride Still Mattered." We can discuss it later.

I will be skipping dinner though. Football commercials will do that to you. Here are some new products I learned about during the game:

* Pizza Hut makes The Big Dipper, a surfboard-sized party pizza that breaks apart into playing card sized pieces, perfect for dipping.

The Big Dipper. Does not come with Fritos.

* Burger King is selling something called the Stuffed Steakhouse Burger. Said stuffing is jalapeños and chunks of cheddar cheese.

* Kraft now sells a giant pouch of macaroni and cheese, and packages it with the breadcrumbs, so you can dump it in a casserole and call it homemade.

* Taco Bell has invented the Beefy Crunch Wrap Burrito. It is a big beef burrito that has Fritos IN it. OMG. That's kind of genius, especially at 3 in the morning!

* Hot girls sell Miller Lite (I knew that already).

Here is the discussion that goes on at the HQ for those companies.

Marketing specialist I: So you'll see here that one-third of Americans are overweight, and more than half of them are obese. I believe we can capture the obesity segment by listening to our focus group of fat guys who still live at home. We've gathered a couple here today for market research.

Fat guy who still lives at home: I would eat this burger if the cheese was baked into it and topped with more cheese.

Marketing specialist II: That's a great idea! Now tell me what you eat when no one is looking.

FGWSLAH: Well, sometimes I get two burritos and combine them in to one and sprinkle a bag of Fritos in between the layers.

Marketing Specialist I: (Jon Stewart style) Go on.....

FGWSLAH: What if you took the homestyle macaroni and made it into a patty and deep fried it? I would eat that.

Somewhere, right now, someone with an MBA is translating his notes, and the FGWSLAH is dreaming about gravy.

Taco Town. If this place really existed, men would eat there.

One could argue that food commercials during women's programs are equally wrong. You've got Jamie Lee Curtis shilling yogurt that makes you poop. You've got the Special K Challenge. You've got an hour of Oprah with commercials for soy milk, Slimfast and self esteem fixes.

This is where men and women differ. Men are all about addition. Women are about subtraction.
I am sure men watch the spots for the Beefy Crunch Wrap Burrito and say to their friends "hey, that looks kind of good." The women, on the other hand, will, in public, say about anything except the yogurt or the Slim-fast, "I'd never eat that."

Without question, no woman I know will cop to eating the steakhouse burger or the Fritos.

They will shake their heads disapprovingly at the surfboard of pizza, the Bob Evans sausage, the Pepsi and the Denny's Grand Slam. They will avoid eye contact during peanut butter commercials and when the Keebler elves are on. If there were a focus group, they would say "that looks good, but can you make it without the chocolate coating? Can you remove the fat grams?"
This is the time of year when Weight Watchers turns it up a notch (look! Jennifer Hudson is kind of thin now) and yogurt commercials literally dangle a bikini and a calendar in front of us.

Woman food Not woman food

Somewhere, tonight, there is a yogurt saleswoman who is buying up all the TV time not on the Super Bowl. There is a FGWSLAH at the the drive-thru. And a whole demographic of women trying not to admit they dream about Dove bars.

In Praise of Mowgli Mom

2011-01-19T18:47:00.014Z

All this talk about "Tiger mothers" has gotten me thinking. What kind of a mother am I? What kind of a mother was my mother?

"Tiger Mothers" is a moniker that goes all the way back to a week or so, as Yale law professor Amy Chua has gained publicity for her book about Chinese culture, and how Chinese mothers demand the best from their kids - straight As, musical proficiency, no time wasted, no TV, no sleepovers. Granted, she sees how she rode her kids too hard, but the book is still getting lots of chatter.

Should we be doing that too? Am I too lenient?

No, you cannot have a boyfriend till you are 21. Now go practice your violin.

You don't even need to be Chinese to second guess yourself. That's upper-income America for you, no matter what your culture. I see this every day, but was particularly schooled in it when I sent Son of Snarkshelf to Camp Smartypants for a few weeks last summer (pipe down! It was to study filmmaking, though the other classes full of Tiger Cubs were "elementary debate skills" and "math test prep").

I was just saying to a friend this morning that I subscribe more along the line of Wendy Mogel's parenting. Mogel is the author of "Blessings of a B Minus," which says you have to give your child to tools to succeed, but step off. They need to see for themselves the consequences of not studying or coming in last or even second. THAT's where kids get the drive to succeed, not by banning fun. WaPo editorial writer Ruth Marcus agrees. She wrote on this very topic today too.

I have given up the fantasy that my child will be a concert pianist, a Pulitzer Prize winner or an Olympic athlete. I have also given up the dream that your kid will be too. You can spend your days plotting practices with the precision of a NASA control room expert, pay thousands for coaches and tutors and ban video games all you want. It may pay off. It may not.

In the end, it comes down to your kid: they are going to do what they want, the motivation comes from them, not from you. Those college students with the eating disorders and the suicide threats? Maybe they would have been better prepared for life if they had been allowed to be less than perfect once in a while.

Which brings me to my own mother's parenting style. My mom was a strictly hands-off kind of parent, even when the school called and said my brother - we'll call him Spike - was in the principal's office for the 13th time.

Dads of the day worked and traveled for work and went to football games with their buddies. They did not go to parent-teacher conferences or chaperon field trips or make the school supply run after the first day of the term. Never.

So it was up to the moms. And my mother was ... a Mowgli mom (I just made that term up. Do you like it?). I use the name Mowgli because he was the little human boy in "The Jungle Book"

who, in lieu of parents, was raised by a bear and a panther.

Mowgli in his natural habitat.

Snarkshelf in her natural habitat. See the resemblance?

So there weren't really jungle animals in our house. But there weren't exactly parents all the time either.

My mom, the Jewish Betty Draper (same great figure; same bad attitude and pack of cigarettes), did what she had to do - drive to the damn dance lessons, make the grilled cheese sandwiches - till Spike and I were in high school. Then Spike (17 months older than me) got a driver's license and a car. Mom got a job, and it was nothing but jungle animals - OK, the wrestling team - at our house.

I could forge my mom's signature easily and wrote notes to cut - even drop - classes. Spike and I probably had a 4.0 gpa combined. Want dinner? Cook it yourself. Clean clothes? You know where the washing machine is. This is the method of the Mowgli mom.

At one point, we had a summer cottage 10 hours away in upstate New York. My parents would leave us home alone for a couple of weeks at a time. They set us up with a MasterCard, a freezer full of frozen steaks and macaroni and cheese, and the sage advice to call a plumber if anything overflows. And to use birth control.

These days, the neighbors would call social services; Thirty years ago, they just told you to keep the firecrackers in the yard to a minimum after midnight.

Things overflowed. Firecrackers went off. Pets were lost and then found. The wrestlers showed up, and they could usually be counted on to give me a ride somewhere.

And you know what? I have street smarts because of it. The street was a winding road of split levels and contemporaries on acre lots, but still. I can problem solve and know real danger from hyperbole. Spike and I both turned out OK. Even better than OK.

I could have been supervised in Tiger fashion, but I don't believe ANYONE was doing that in the 1980s. And I don't know if anything would have turned out differently. My parents could have stuck around and banished all the boys from the house and made me be home by 10 and accept only As. I am still not sure I would have been headed to Harvard or the Olympics or Julliard.

So on the parenting scale you've got Tiger Moms on one side and Mowgli Moms the other.

The rest of us should find a place in the middle, somewhere East of Yale and organic salmon but West of macaroni and cheese and the wrestling team.

Dear Kids - Wish you were here. Don't burn the house down, and get into college when you get a chance, OK? Love, Mom and Dad

On the J-word, and why I won't wear a tennis bracelet.

2011-01-10T03:12:00.013Z

I can't believe it. I missed the casting call for this show.

I mean, really. I have all the qualifications: I am Jewish. I love reality shows. And I could write the anthropological guide to all things Jewish American Princess-related.

In fact - and this a true story that I can only just now laugh at 30 years later - I was once awarded a trophy by my senior class as "Biggest JAP." Um, yeah. And there was some competition there, let me tell you. But more about that later.

By now, the producers have probably cast what one blog calls "the JAP answer to Jersey Shore." I will have to watch from my rec room on the non-Jappy side of a non-Jappy town in the South, where, try as some lawyers' wives might, they don't know Prada from Pravda.

It was only a matter of time before this appeared on television, you see. Even in this politically correct, revoke-don't-ask-don't-tell, "happy holidays"-era, it is still great entertainment to see groups of people living up to their stereotypes. This is why Jersey Shore is a hit. And the Real Housewives of every city, but particularly New Jersey and Atlanta, and Tim Gunn is a God and Andy Cohen is my imaginary gay boyfriend.

For every scene you see on TV, there is a producer whispering "now act gayer," "get drunker," or "Maybe you should curse at her in Italian and call her a whore?!' "

For the new show - let's just call it "Jappy Shore" - I am sure they will be egging them on:

"Talk about how much your shoes cost" or "brag about what you spent on your son's bar mitzvah, and throw in some Yiddish words, m'k?" "And remember, you are a fabulous, special, special princess!"

Holy antisemitic stereotypes.

I have already seen this show before

And this one too.

Here's the thing: Jappy is a state of mind. Truth be told, it's not about the stuff like a Marc Jacobs bag, the Searle coat, the diamonds. You can have all those items, but if you are a person with perspective and who is a good friend, then you are not Jappy, even with a Brazilian blowout.

Here are some examples :

Jappy: Demanding a Gucci bag. Not Jappy: getting a job and buying your own Gucci bag.

Jappy: Talking about your stuff. Not Jappy: Having stuff and not talking about it.

Jappy: Being mean to the help, More specific example, my friend, Therapist Trixie, went to a Caribbean resort. The other (you guessed it, the J-word) guests were so awful to the wait staff ("I said I wanted SWEET n' LOW ") that Therapist Trixie left her daughter's almost-outgrown clothes behind as a sympathy offering. That would be an example of not Jappy.

I used to be the former. I was the kind of high school girl who grew up in a house short on parental supervision and large in credit card access. I had a stack of sweaters as tall as I was, and a permenant scowl on my unlined face.

I was the kind of post-college woman who was cut off from the American Express love around 22. Want another purse? Get another job, sweetie. I still shopped, but had a growing stack of my own bills to pay.

Then I got married. We have lots of nice stuff. My son goes to sleepaway camp and has been to Europe. But his parents are both journalists, so there is a bank account end game.

Also, my husband is from New Hampshire. He didn't grow up with this cultural stereotype. They ordered practical clothes from LL Bean and went to Manchester once a year for shoes.

The other New Hampshire Jew. She is also low maintenance.

At some point, it becomes Louboutins or the mortgage. I gotta go with the mortgage. Because, you know, without a roof over your head your nice shoes will just get ruined.

And since that mortgage is for a house in a very low-key town, the bar is not set that high.

Which is very....liberating.

Free at last. Kate Spade, almighty, free at last!

In fact, it is a careful stereotype-busting image (inner and outer) I have been after for a while. My nails are manicured, but never long and never any color than pale, sheer pink. I don't wear bracelets or big earrings. I will not spend $200 on a pair of jeans or on real Uggs or wear my yoga clothes all day or carry a purse with fringe or stud things on it.

I tip well and hang up the phone at the grocery checkout. I volunteer. I've always had a job. Until very recently I cleaned my own house because I hated the idea of someone doing it for me.

So, high school superlative committee, I'll understand if you would like me to give the trophy back. I will come over there in my scratched Prius (cloth seats) and my jeans from Old Navy (I will not, however, take off the diamond earrings I wear every single day). I am sure there is someone else who can fulfill the stereotype better and ride her True Religion jeans and sense of entitlement all the way to a television career.

I, for one, will watch every single episode.

On the NY Times and Keepin' it Real

2011-01-05T20:51:00.005Z

Mommy, where did we come from?

I love the New York Times.

It is the beacon of what all other newspapers - you remember those, don't you- should be. They cover arts, food and travel like no other publication anywhere. I want to eat at Momofoku, shop at Bergdorf's, become a patron of Lincoln Center right this minute, because of stories I have read in the Times.

But two stories in the NYT recently really got me thinking: Is the NYT deeply reflective of crazy narcissism spun out of control everywhere? Or are they just writing about actual stuff that happens to New Yorkers that does not happen to people in other places?

Story No. 1. Woman waits until her 40s to have babies. A bunch of IVF treatments did not work. She gets a donor egg and two surrogates to carry "twiblings" - essentially twins grown in different wombs to cut down on the risks associated with twin pregnancies.

The writer of the story goes on and on about how she wanted a relationship with everyone - the pretty egg donor, the surrogates, blah, blah blah. Approximately every other paragraph was something like "We wanted..." "I envisioned...." "I wished.."

"I wanted to find carriers who would be like female relatives — women with whom it was fun to shop for baby things and who would give us advice on actually caring for the babies and make it all seem doable. While this desire seemed natural to me, I was surprised by how differently other people saw it."

Why not just put this ad up: Help wanted: "Handmaid's Tale" style incubator to be BFFs with spoiled rich lady. Your womb, my money. Let's have lunch!"

Apparently, I was not the only one irked by this. There were 25 PAGES of reader comments on NYT web site.

Story No. 2: A couple of weeks earlier, the NYT Vows section had this piece about the wedding of a couple that met and fell in love while they were married to other people. They became friends when their kids were in pre-K together, the families went on vacations together... and then told their spouses the way it was going to be.

“I didn’t believe in the word soul mate before, but now I do,” said Mr. Partilla, who is 46 and in January is to become a chief operating officer of Dentsu, a Japanese advertising agency.

They finalized their divorces this year. “I will always feel terribly about the pain I caused my ex-husband,” said Ms. Riddell, 44 and working freelance.

“It was not what I ever would have wished on him.” Or on her children. My kids are going to look at me and know that I am flawed and not perfect, but also deeply in love,” she said. “We’re going to have a big, noisy, rich life, with more love and more people in it.”

My problem isn't the leaving your spouse part - that happens every day, and hooking up at preschool probably isn't that unusual. It's the NYT writing a story about these self-involved twits and their pompous fabulosity.

The NYT heard from lots of readers about this too. How about quoting the bride's ex-husband? Maybe he doesn't think this is a love story worthy of a national newspaper. How about the kids? Maybe they are not so thrilled.

But the real, underlying annoying part of these kinds of stories - it is really all about the money. Anyone care to guess what six failed IVFs, an egg donor and a pair of surrogates costs? Anyone? I am thinking upwards of $150,000 at least (more if the spoiled rich lady was really serious about going shopping together).

The newlyweds? He's a COO and she's a TV reporter. Do you think the regular people at YOUR preschool are blissfully happy every single day? Probably not. But the thought of just up and making a whole new family would likely wreak severe financial and emotional havoc, so you learn to love the life your with. It's just not practical to stop and think about soul mates and unicorns and fairy tales when you have bills to pay.

Like the old adage goes "More money = more problems."

Katie Holmes needs this $10,000 Birkin bag to hold a big bundle of money and a sack of problems.

(By the way, The Washington Post does this a little bit too. Two stories from the last few years come to mind - a woman who was dealing with the power outage from a summer storm...by escaping to her Bethany Beach house, and a front-page story about Washingtonians who can't keep up with all the driving around they must do while raising teens, so the solution, naturally, is to send them to boarding school).

Anyway, those of us living authentic, not-as-self-involved lives will be right here, not growing made-to-order babies in a farm of surrogates or trashing our families and hoping that everyone understands or escaping to our second homes.

We'll be doing what we do.

You'll never read about it, though.

US Weekly Told Me To Put Down the Nachos and Drink Some Water

2011-01-01T16:57:00.007Z

Salad, dummy. Salad.

Greetings from Duck, NC, where I have contributed to the following assaults on my digestive system/wardrobe over the last five days:
Key Lime Pie
Bloody Marys
nachos
nachos
quiche
French toast bagels
champagne
beer
baked ziti
chili
crab balls
french fries
cookies
cookies
cookies
7-layer bars
7-layer dip
mozzerella sticks.
wine
Cheese-covered stuff
chocolate-covered stuff

In other words, it has been an excellent vacation!

So I decided to kill everyone's post-holiday chocolate-covered vacation buzz by picking up both US Weekly and People, both of which have the Jan. 1 "How The Stars Lost Weight!" issue.

Researcher Dianne is here with me to share the tips with you. Because, you know, the second we get back home we need some guidance - and I don't want to hear any "sensible" diet tips such as "eat less, run more."

Dianne and I will give you some of the best quotes, but in case you don't speak tabloid, we'll interpret for you.

"On nights when I had a cookie craving, I grabbed a bottle of water and went online to read stories of weight loss inspiration," - random weight loss success lady in People.
Translation: "After I made myself throw up, I searched online for more bulimia disguising tips.

"To curb a candy craving, chew a zero-calorie piece of licorice root," US Weekly.
Translation: You are a sucker

"Fruit and yogurt for breakfast, salad for lunch and broiled fish and steamed veggies for dinner. I do some cardio for at least 20 minutes a day." Jennifer Aniston in US Weekly.
Translation: You are not me. And my publicist lies. It is 3:20 on the treadmill.

"Stay hydrated, move your body. Sleep, eat all day long and smile," fitness guru Mandy Ingaber in People.
Translation: "That doesn' t mean with Dr. Pepper and Burger King, fatass."

"Even better than eating ice cream is understanding it and what it takes to burn it off," ad for Alli diet aid in People.
Translation: Ice cream really isn't that misunderstood. It speaks a very simple language: Read the label.

"When I finished eating but still wanted more, I allowed myself a plate of salad," random weight loss guy in people.
Translation: "When I saw that my wife had a bagel with cream cheese....I was arrested on domestic violence charges."

Sometimes, A Broken Hot Tub is Really A Metaphor

2010-12-29T23:58:00.008Z

A year ago, this week I was on vacation with my favorite neighbors. The house was kind of crummy - broken hot tub, rusty fixtures, general drab shabbiness - but it was on the beach. I would shower and never felt clean. About halfway through the week, I got the call that my job was eliminated. In other words, my hair looked bad and 2010 was unknown territory.

Turns out it 2010 was pretty good territory. Yes, I sat on the couch for about five months. OK, I sat on the couch and stared at my reflection in the own mirror and went to yoga and out to lunch a lot. But you get the idea - it was the first time in my adult life other than a blissful-but-meager three-month maternity leave that I did not have a job.

I sent out resumes that I am sure were unimpressive and made me sound terribly unqualified for anything other than writing irrelevant features for this publication. I had a mid-midlife crisis. My elderly father got sicker. My jeans got tighter. A college boyfriend announced he would be living as a woman from now on. A dear relative dropped dead. My husband jetted off to South Africa for the summer. Then for kicks, I rounded out the year with a surprise, short-lived middle-age pregnancy.

Lots of good stuff happened, too. I started this blog and confirmed I could make people laugh. I did not work for half the year, and we did not go broke. In fact, we had more money in the bank than ever. I got a new job - a great job - combining old-school journalism and new media for this company. My jeans stopped getting tighter. My husband came back - and brought gifts. I found a really nice therapist.

So here I am on vacation again. Same crowd. Same beach. House is way, way, way nicer. The hot tub works just fine. The sun is shining. I stayed back from happy hour this evening to participate in a work conference call about reaching our year-end goal that they said couldn't be done. There will likely be bonuses.

It's a sunny end to what could have been a dark year. So I would like to offer some thanks:

* To my husband - who puts up with my moods and the occasional bad decision on my part. It is true - you have to marry the person who has the exact opposite personality as yours. I am loud and always in a hurry. Mr. Snarkshelf is thoughtfully quiet and takes his time. It works.

* To my friends - and I have some really good ones (two of them are sitting in the OBX vacation home with me right now). Even if they have heard my stories before, they laugh anyway. They listen to my gripes (which can seem never-ending). They stick with me even though I drink way less and eat way more. They get my jokes and understand I must be in bed by 10 p.m.

* To my son - because he is 14 and still will hang out with me, will cook his own dinner if he doesn't like what I am offering, and takes usually will take 'no' for an answer.

* To my mother - who is an endless and accidental source of humor for me.

* To my employers - for giving me the freedom to do what I want to do, without leaving my community. Plus, they want me to go out to lunch and talk on my iPhone. What is not to like?

* To my new friends - New job has brought me fun, young co-workers and new relationships with acquaintances who are learning to cover the community. It's all good.

* To my husband's extended family - Just because they are nice.

* To my cats - because they just want to know that my lap is nearby.

I am sure 2011 will bring the equal number of good times and bad (but hopefully no surprises). I hope to be back in this same spot the last week of next year, giving thanks for what's gone right and telling Leslie to mix me a Bloody Mary.

They call it house league because I like to spend time at my house

2010-12-17T19:04:00.005Z

My name is Snarkshelf, and my son is an average athlete.

There, I said it. Surely we can be friends anyway.

I live in an extra supersporty town in an extra supersporty county near an extra supercompetitive city. But I am sure you do, too. People love to compete - for jobs, for grades, for admission to the gifted and talented program, and most of all, a spot on the travel team.

It matters not which sport it is or to where said team is traveling. Just that you are traveling.

My son is not traveling. He plays what they call "house" league soccer in fall and spring. He is not the star of the team. He does fine. Mostly plays defense. His job is to get to the ball and kick it out of the way.

Italian National Soccer Team. They travel.

In the summer, he swims for our neighborhood swim team. He is not the star of the team. He does fine. He shows up at practice on a regular basis, wins or places in the second-level races, and loves the donuts and pranks that are part of summer swim league.

In the winter, he Facebooks.

He does not participate in off-season conditioning, strength and agility training or indoor soccer/swim leagues. He does fine.

But little by little, year by year I have run out of things to talk about with half the people around here. It's not their fault. It's an extrasupersporty world, I just live in it.

Here is how this happens. There is a subset of parents I know for whom athletic goals are of utmost importance. Not just their kids' - but also their own. They plan their days, nights, weekends, vacations around them.

They train for triathlons with an actual schedule. They go running in a snowstorm. They drive enormous SUVs (hauling kids and equipment all the time) with ski and bike racks on top. They have not eaten dessert since 1989. They lift and crosstrain. They have a trainer (sometimes two) and a goal.

Naturally, they have children who are five-sport athletes. That's right, during most seasons that means two sports - 5 a.m. swim practice and 5 p.m. basketball practice or 4 p.m. basketball practice and 6 p.m. lacrosse practice. I live by the work-eat-lounge-sleep clock. They are on the practice-drive-practice-eat-practice-drive-sleep clock.

So it's no wonder we have run out of things to talk about. In extrasupersporty world, small talk goes like this:

"What sport is Ryan playing this season? Oh, and what other sport?

"Sorry I am late, we rode our bikes 30 miles to get to the lacrosse tournament this morning. Then we rode back and swam laps."

"Gotta go. I only have a couple of minutes between my workout and picking Courtney up from school to get her to her practice. She's on travel; not allowed to miss even one!"

Just driving carpool here in Competitiontown.

I have few answers and plenty of body fat. They know it. That's why we are not close friends. In the tradition of their summer swim team children, my BFFs are only here for the snacks.

I am all about the balance. I go to the gym. I do yoga. I do those things often because exercise keeps me relatively sane and healthy. It is a part of my day, most days, that I fit in before I do the other thousand things I need to do (see the accompanying errands-laundry-blogging-reality TV watching cycle). It is but one facet in a multifaceted life.

I have completed a couple of 5Ks in a respectable (for someone with no training schedule) time. I

can do the crow pose in yoga. I might even clap for you in the annual Reston Triathlon.

Crow Pose. Not an actual picture of me. But you get the idea.

And I have an athletic goal too!

That my jeans fit.

On living a "December to Remember" life

2010-12-06T13:31:00.003Z

Here is how I mark the start of the holiday season:

It is not carols playing on the sound system at Target. It's not that I can't find a parking spot anywhere. It is not the Christmas cards that arrive in my mailbox or Black Friday specials or Peppermint Mochas at Starbucks.

For me, it is just not the holiday season without Lexus' "December to Remember" commercials.

You know the ones - the highly stylized oeuvres with twinkly music, beautiful people. Handsome husband surprises his wife with the gift of a shiny, new car. With a red bow on top!

When those spots come on, I stop whatever I am doing and watch, which I guess is what the ad agency had in mind when they came up with it. It is not so much that I want a Lexus (but if I could, I would drive the hybrid RX300, just sayin'). It is I want that life.

In "December to Remember" world, the Lexus is parked outside of a big, perfect house in which the perfect family lives. They are wearing perfect clothes (even if it is Xmas pajamas, they are probably cashmere and those go well with big diamond earrings too, you know). Clearly, the couple has a perfect relationship, because husband must come up with a gift so spectacular that wife will coo, hug him and run out to the driveway in her Uggs.

(or, he is covering up a transgression so large guilt can only be assuaged with a $60,000 car. Hmmmm.)

Now, I live a pretty good life. I have a cute house in a nice town. I have a cute family. I have Uggs and diamond earrings. We drive newish cars, but no Lexi are in the driveway. We're not big on big gifts over here, which is good, because in the real world, after I took the big bow off my Lexus (a white or silver one, in case Mr. Snarkshelf finds an extra 60 grand hanging around), my reaction would be "Shit. Now we have another $600 in car payments each month."

"December to Remember" makes me feel bad about myself. It is saying to me "someone is living this life - and it is not you. Ha ha." You, Snarkshelf, live in a world where bills must be paid and perhaps if we showed the outside of your house the first reaction would be "they should probably replace that rotting windowsill."

I feel the same way about the the Athleta catalog (you could live this life if you had these yoga pants - and these abs), the Pottery Barn catalog (you could live this life if you had these napkin rings)and Pampered Chef parties, where the hostess will try and sell you a double-decker pie basket "for when you are invited to someone's house and want to bring more than one homemade pie."

One little basket can give you a big inferiority complex.

So December - not really one to remember, unless it was like last December, which featured a giant snowstorm and a "Merry Christmas" layoff notice from my longtime job - will continue around here without a Lexus.

What is on the schedule - same old, same old, but featuring a little Hanukkah, a little laundry, the neighborhood cookie swap, and finally, my annual trip to the Outer Banks with my neighbors. We might even bring top-shelf liquor and my panini maker.

Somewhere, I am sure there is someone (not on Madison Avenue) sighing "I want her life."

(PS - clearly someone else feels the same way about "December to Remember." There is a parody!)

The totally true holiday tale of a blogger who needs a biology lesson

2010-11-30T17:29:00.009Z

Whistler's mother, Baby Snarkshelf's mother. We're all about the same age.

I may have mentioned that I loathe holiday letters. So I will not bore you with the events of the last year (which really have been chronicled here, and on my Facebook page, and in your ear if we are real-life friends).

I will just tell you an honest-to-God true story about what happened in the last week. Ready? Let's go.

First, my dad, who has been on the downward stroke of dementia and living in a nursing home the last few years, took another slide and wound up in the hospital. It ended up being sort of an extended stay, and we are now facing some end-of-life/quality of life decisions that may have to be made in the near future.

So I amended my plans to go to Boston for Thanksgiving and set my Prius last Tuesday in the direction of Hillcrest Hospital, Cleveland, Ohio.

First, I went to the gas station. Then, I almost threw up. "Well, that's weird," I thought to myself as I hit the road.

Wait. What? You don't think.....

That's not possible.

But it is. Two home pregnancy tests later (one at the Truck Stop in Breezewood, Pa. - I swear I am not making this up - and another later that day) said postively positive. DID I MENTION I AM 46 YEARS OLD? OK, well then did I mention my less-than-stellar history of making babies when I was in my 30s (see exhibit A: my only child, who is in high school)?

Still true. So here is how the rest of the week went:

* Adjust Dad's oxygen tube.

* Google miscarriage rates over 45.

* Remember for a minute how cute Son of Snarkshelf was as an infant.

* Think about being 50 and having a 3 year old.

* Calculate my potential due date - the day after my 47th birthday. Yeah, don't laugh out loud.

* Call my husband in Boston every two hours with a new freakout angle.

* Read web sites that say it is "virtually impossible" for a 46 year old to conceive with her own eggs.

* Laugh

* Cry

* Cry some more

* Talk to the rest of my family about this news. Also, about feeding tubes and living wills and physical therapy.

* Count on one hand the number of women in my family who have lived longer than age 55. Count on no hands the number of women who have made it out of their 40s without cancer.

* Help feed dad pureed Thanksgiving dinner back at the nursing home (released from the hospital on Thursday, as this story does have an ending)

* Eat Thanksgiving dinner at my cousin Alice's.

* Call several BFFs. "Happy Thanksgiving. What's in your stuffing? Chestnuts? Yum... now listen to this.." That splash I heard was definitely Leslie's head falling into the gravy.

* Contemplate miracles and God and the circle of life and blah blah blah.

* Contemplate getting "Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans" tattooed on my midsection.

* Think about movie stars having babies at my age.

* Think about real life, middle class working moms with teenagers having babies at my age. (Um...anyone?)

* Secretly remain in awe that my insides all of a sudden think they are 30. All this time with my young coworkers = the fountain of youth?

* Make jokes with my brother about starring in some parallel universe version of "Juno."

* Remind myself I as as dumb -perhaps even dumber - than a 16 year old who thinks "It can't happen to me." Maybe I can be like a middle-age Bristol Palin. When does my "Dancing with the Stars" gig start?

* Put mixed emotions and hormones in a cocktail shaker. Sprinkle with a few tears. What do you have? An icy cold glass of "You Are a Dumbass."

This holiday letter has an ending, just stick with me.

Eventually, I hightailed it back to Virginia and straight to a doctor (not an easy task on a holiday weekend). Blood tests confirmed what I already knew, and a sonogram showed what the web sites warned me about: The miscarriage rate in someone YOUR AGE is sky high. And that is what basically what was already happening. And still happening. (I'm fine. Thanks for asking).

Again with the mixed emotions.

Is there a moral to this story? Maybe. You may look 39 but sometimes feel 70, and the parts that matter may believe they are 28. You may Botox and yoga and eat broccoli to hold back time at 46, or you may cry at the IVF doctor's office for two straight years around age 30. It is possible to be both old and young, smart and dumb, crazy and sane, happy and sad and to think about birth and death - all at the same time. The end.

So how was your Thanksgiving?

Have yourself a merry little...Wednesday night

2010-11-29T23:34:00.008Z

Santa's cousin, from the Jewish side of the family. He's jolly. He's fat.
He's got doughnuts.

I may have mentioned it, but until I was 20 years old, I was in exactly one house with a Christmas tree.

Yes, digest that for a moment while the Klezmer band gets warmed up.

In the parallel universe that was my little shtetl, I mean suburb of Cleveland, I had heard about Christmas but only really had one friend who celebrated the holiday (that would be Dawn, the very gorgeous black dentist's daughter in my class).

Out there in the rest of the world, I imagine it was the flip-side, as in "I have heard of Jews, but don't really know any Jews (except for Dawn, the very gorgeous daughter of Jewish doctor Bernstein. She is in my class.)."

Jews have Hanukkah. And let me tell you, Hanukkah is not Christmas. Not by a longshot.

A few simple reasons:

Who can remember when it is?

You know when Christmas is - Dec. 25. Every year. The whole world shuts down for about a week. Your office is closed. There is no school. You can plan a big vacation around it.

Hanukkah moves around the calendar, often starting on a random weekday. Sometimes it is nearly as far from Christmas on the calendar as Thanksgiving. For instance, this year Hannukah starts on Wednesday, Dec. 1. Have you done your shopping yet? Planned a big vacation? Me either. In fact, we still have to take the recycling to the curb that night.

There is no mascot

Thanks for stopping by, Judah.
The skirt thing will never sell in the red states. though.

You can't compete with Santa. Don't try, because there is nothing that cute about Hannukah, which technically celebrates the miracle of oil in a lamp lasting eight days. So a Maccabean soldier in sandals? Could be sexy, but not cute for little ones. A menorah? Please. Jewish star? Too Jew-y. There is been a fair stab at Hanukkah Harry, but he never caught on.

There are no decorations. Or clothes.

Uninspiring earrings. Let's celebrate!

See that Pottery Barn catalogue over there? With the ribbon and the angels and the pillows that say "Silent Night" and the little stuffed reindeer ornaments and the basket of pine cones? Yeah. that one. It is but one example of how fabulous your home would look - if you only celebrated Christmas.

There really are no Hanukkah decorations. Yes, one could buy a string of letters that spell out "HAPPY HANUKKAH" and tape them up over the mantle. We have a menorah. It is a nice one. But it is but one candleabra. I am not about to build a tree out of them.

Same goes for clothes. Christmas is for kitchy - ornament earrings, a sweater with a reindeer, what have you. Good luck finding a Hanukkah sweatshirt. Even if you did (I am thinking blue, with a full-blazing menorah with sequins flames), your officemates would take a step back and say "I don't get it."

So what do we have? Gambling and fried food. It is sort of like Atlantic City. Dreidel is essentially a dice game with chocolate coins. Hanukkah is also a holiday that mandates the eating foods fried in oil.

So bring on the doughnuts. Tie them up in a handcrafted little monogrammed bag surrounded by candy canes and decorated with little Santa stickers. And bring one for Dawn, too.

Party of .... let me check the calendar

2010-11-21T14:05:00.010Z

Most importantly, the whole family was there for our own kid.

Yesterday was the end of the line for a two-year stretch of bar mitzvahs for the Snarkshelf family. There were the ones of my friends' kids; then my kid's friends; then my kid; then a couple of the younger siblings of my friends' kids.

Now is when we rest. Then we'll go to a stretch of weddings in 15 years. Ah, the circle of life, blah, blah. blah. So yesterday (great job, J, in case mother of J is reading this) also marked the rounding off of the math problem for Mr. Snarkshelf. He made it to slightly less than one-third of said soirees.

Mr. Snarkshelf is a sports reporter. When do sporting events occur? On weekends. When do most weddings, bar mitzvahs and other fancy-schmancy milestone parties happen? On weekends. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case.

"You know," said one friend of a friend yesterday. I have known her for a decade. "I don't think I have ever met your husband."

Seriously, he is not being rude. It is what it is. When we met, I was a sports reporter too. Just like many doctors bond over long hours in residency and military folks often pair up with others in the service, journalists often end up with other journalists. Crazy hours and deadline pressures take some understanding. At one of my first jobs, I worked on the copy desk from 4 p.m. to midnight. The mark of a good boyfriend was whomever would stick around until the last deadline was over. None of them did.

"What do you mean you have to work Saturday night?" was the common whine.

Eventually, I moved into a much more manageable end of the news business, although deadline pressure has gotten much worse because with the Internet, news truly never stops. But that is for a whole other column.

My husband works a lot of nights and most Saturdays. He is on the road about half of those Saturdays. Every couple of years, he goes to the World Cup, which means about seven weeks away.

You say: "Save the date for our wedding." We say: "On OUR calendar, it is the Colorado Rapids at DC United."

The upside of that is he is home a lot during the day, has never seen the inside of a work cubicle and has a boatload of hotel points. Want to see him? Stop by at noon on a Tuesday or call him at the Manhattan Beach Marriott.

It reminds me of Goodfellas, where Lorraine Bracco explains about her mafia marriage: "So were weren't married to 9-to-5 guys. So what?"

Yes, exactly like that, except with more laptops and fewer guns.

Anyway, the conversation now goes like this:

Party guest: "Where's your husband?"

Me: "Working. It's a crapshoot whether he can attend. But he made it to his own son's. Let's dance!"

Or this (for the 33 percent of the time I have a plus one with me):

Party guest (to Mr. Snarkshelf): "What do you do?"

MS: "I am a sports reporter"

Party guest: "That's the coolest job ever, man. I wish I were you. Do you have to stay for the whole game? Can you get me Redskins tickets? And do you know Wilbon?"

Sigh.

After nearly 17 years, I am used to this. I have no self consciousness about attending a wedding solo - though I am probably maddening to the hosts for throwing the table headcount off to an odd number. If I was not comfortable going places solo, I would never go anywhere. (Also, I would probably be divorced; many media marriages fail very quickly for this reason).

So we're over the party hurdle and on to my next worry: Son of Snarkshelf's high school graduation. It is but 3 1/2 years away. And it falls smack in the middle of World Cup 2014 in Brazil.

Patch him in via Skype? Let him follow the ceremony on Twitter? Or save up for a plane ticket to jet in from Rio for the event? In any case, I am working on my explanation now.

Oh, whatever. Sometimes it is more fun to just dance with your girlfriends anyway.

I Heart Craigslist

2010-11-12T15:28:00.005Z

So many people I know love garage sales and Craigslist. I do too, but for a different reason.

Mostly what I hear from my friends is how they like to buy from both of those places. The bargains! I got 10 books for $1! I got this sofa for $40!

Even though I might have mentioned that I like to shop, I don't shop at garage sales or on Craigslist. What I am is a champion giver-awayer.

What's missing from this picture? That's right: ME!

I live in a house with limited storage space. No garage = no place for the accumulation of more stuff. And no place to have a garage sale. It is actually a good system. It forces one to cycle things in and out of the house eventually.

Many people have been the beneficiaries of my small closets. BFF Justine's bonus baby (um, yes, said baby arrived after all the baby gear had been given away) has Son of Snarkshelf's old dresser in her room (prettied up with pink drawer pulls, of course). Somewhere out there there is a 1996 model baby swing that has been passed to approximately 45 new Northern Virginia mothers. It's OK, I don't need it back.

A couple of years ago, when I realized buying bunk beds for Son of Snarkshelf was a horrible mistake, I offered those up on Craigslist too. OK, I sold those, but for less than $200 - with mattresses and ladder. It was a good deal for the buyer, who might have been living in a two-bedroom apartment with four kids. Happy to help him.

I sold one other thing too - a glider-and-ottoman combo to some very appreciative expectant mom. That item was so overpriced when I bought it, I just could not give it away. But somewhere, someone is rocking a baby to sleep on it right now. Enjoy.

Meanwhile, I have given away hundreds of books; buckets of toys; a top-of-the line Peg Perego stroller and its cousin, the Peg Perego high chair; bags and bags of clothes; and a slightly cat scratched but really comfortable sofa.*

Peg Perego is Italian for "Lady, for real? You could have had a Gucci purse for this kind of money."

(*One complaint. The Snarkshelf Craigslist etiquette rules say, if there is an offer of free stuff, please don't email me back with "Can you give me the dimensions? Are there any pets in the home? Can you send me more pictures? It is FREE; you are going to have to take risks).

This week, I am cleaning house again in the "If You Give Moose a Muffin" method. You know, if your hot water explodes and leaks, it is going to ruin the carpet in the basement. So you are going to get new carpet, so that means you will have to remove all the crap from said rec room, which means you can now give away another truckload of toys. And then you will want to paint the rec room because the carpet looks so good.

Also, hello home repair bills; goodbye, Alaskan vacation we were thinking about taking.

Last night I put these items on Craigslist: About two dozen board games, a Jr. tennis racket and a 1994 model fax machine. Within an hour, all had been spoken for. The games are going to an afterschool program. Happy to help. The fax machine (surprised anyone needs one these days, but whatever) will avoid ending up in a landfill.

Paying it forward cancels out all the paper Starbucks cups I go through and the times I forget to bring my own bags to the grocery store.

Next up: The world's ugliest chair. I actually have TWO in this print, which were purchased during a Shabby Chic-induced psychosis in 1997. Please help rehab me so I can move on in the pursuit of good taste. Thank you. Oh, and you can have this one for free, of course.

Hellp Meeeeee!

The (non-digital and perhaps cracked) lens tells no lies

2010-10-31T13:07:00.014Z

Once upon a time, I was the youngest writer in the room.

When my co-workers - most of them grizzled, old-school sportswriters who remembered the days of copy boys and evening papers - would reference, say, the World Series of 1979, I (A fresh-faced newbie of 23) would chime in with "I was a freshman in high school! So naturally, I did not cover it. Ha ha ha."

"Say, kid, get me rewrite. And see if you can get Babe Ruth on the phone!"

Ha ha, indeed. Fast forward a lifetime. Well, not a lifetime, actually, but a big chunk of it: That job, then another, and another. A couple dozen more World Series. A husband, a child, a house. Remodeling, bills, mortgage, summer camp, said child's teen years. The demise of newspapers. Layoff, aging parents. Gray hair, reading glasses, gravity. College for child looming.

So here I am now, oh my god, the oldest writer in the room. How the heck did that happen? Well, chronologically, if you count upwards from 1964, you arrive at...oh, you do the math.

Refer, please, to the layoff referenced above. Six months ago, I took a job with an online news operation. It skews young and very fun. My closest co-workers are in the 22-26 year old range. The bosses are 30. The big bosses are 35.

The job is a blast. I feel like I have been set free from the death march my previous employer was on for the last five years. All good.

Except now I am the reference point. I went to a companywide meeting last week, traveling with my 20something coworkers to New York. There were some late nights, some loud music, some networking. There was talk of new engagements, recent breakups, getting a first apartment. Also of new media, old media, leggings, fashion magazines and our new iPhone4s.

Ooh, shiny perks are welcome at any age. Watch me report an entire story - with video - using only my phone.

The thing is, I don't feel that old. I don't think I look that old. The gray hair is colored. The gravity is being counteracted by a variety of measures. I tweet, I text, I blog. I try to keep the comments of "In 1987, when I was working on the copy desk..." or "when I got married 17 years ago..." to a minimum since 1987 was the year some of them were BORN.

I discovered one co-worker and I went to the same college....25 years apart. No use in playing the "do you know so-and-so game." Seriously?

It is all in good fun, until the party goes past 10 (I have to crawl into bed); or dinner is served (recalls the days when I, too, could eat french fries; Now I am just another middle age mom on a perpetual diet); or when the ironic childhood nostalgia is trotted out. You know, like the cookie monster T-shirts or Retro soccer shoes - like my 14-year-old son's friends are wearing.

What's really sobering is when you see the pictures. I have some fun ones from the New York trip. Pictures don't lie. Line me up with other women in their 40s, I look OK for my age. Line me up with a bunch of 25 year olds and there it is - are those jowls? And where did my eyes go?

Or it could have just been the lighting in the Amtrak bar car after midnight.

Cheers.

After midnight in the bar car. Totally past my bedtime.