I know. This doesn't explain my Law & Order obsession. I prefer to think of myself as complex.

We are the dumbest people ever. Okay, maybe not the dumbest. But certainly the most vapid, empty-headed, insipid, trite people ever. We are. And I have proof.

But first, let’s step back a few decades, and visit primetime television circa 1964. Remember actor Dick York? From 1964 to 1969, in a grand total of 156 episodes, he portrayed Darrin Stephens, the agitated but devoted husband of one beautiful witch, Samantha, on the primetime comedy, Bewitched. Lovely. In 1968, Dick York disappeared from the cast, almost by magic, and was replaced by another actor, Dick Sargent.

Here’s how CBS and the producers of the show explained the change in the cast to viewers. “Samantha” addressed him as “Darrin” the first time we saw him on screen and he responded. It took the audience, including me at the tender age of 9 years old I might add, about three seconds to process the following (challenging) bit of information:

The other guy: out.

This guy: in.

Got it.

No one had to tell us what happened to the other Darrin. No one had to write a script explaining how Darrin #1 had been killed in a tragic accident and how Samantha found new love in yet another man who, interestingly enough, worked in advertising at McMahon and Tate, and was also named Darrin Stephens.

I’m leaving aside the fact that in this same series at least two actresses portrayed neighbor Gladys Kravitz and two actresses played Louise Tate. Admittedly, neither role was a lead in the show but still; no one was ever confused or concerned about the changes.

Then again, you have your “Bonanza” cast changes from the ‘60s and ‘70s. Pernell Roberts chose to leave the show and his character, Adam, was conveniently relocated to Australia. Actor Dan Blocker died unexpectedly after surgery as the last season was about to begin and the producers responded by killing his character, “Hoss,” instead of hiring another actor for the role.

This notion of the viewing public having the intelligence God gave a flea started to get some additional traction in the 1970s and 1980s.

Who could forget M*A*S*H*? Instead of replacing Wayne Rogers in the role of “Trapper” John McIntyre, M.D. (a character and role resurrected in an entirely different series by the previously noted Pernell Roberts) the show sent McIntyre home and introduced Dr. B.J. Hunnicutt, played by Mike Farrell. And as the saying goes, war is hell. When McLean Stephenson (“Lt. Henry Blake”) left the show, the creators killed Henry.

Then there’s Cheers. Nicholas Colasanto, playing the beloved “Coach,” died and the bartender who took his place was a younger man with the same sweet disposition, Woody Harrelson playing Woody Boyd. (Please note the actor name matching the character name. This will come up again later.)

My favorite ridiculous story about stars and characters and our seeming unwillingness to suspend disbelief is from the sitcom, “Valerie.” Or should I say, “Valerie’s Family.” Or should I say, “The Hogan Family.” Remember this?

Valerie Harper started on her road to television sitcom fame playing the best friend, Rhoda Morganstern, on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, where Mary Tyler Moore played “Mary.” Harper eventually leaped to her own spinoff, “Rhoda,” playing the lead this time.

Like MTM, she somehow moved beyond a character name and in 1986, she starred in “Valerie,” playing Valerie Hogan, the mother of three sons. When she quit the show after just one year over her contract, she was replaced by the ever-perky and ever-popular Sandy Duncan, playing a close Hogan family relative who joined the household after Valerie “died.”

Let’s take a moment here to pose a question: one season? Are you kidding me? After one season we were all so connected to and fond of Valerie Hogan that we just couldn’t give her up? Why not hire Sandy Duncan, call her Valerie and be done with it?

I don’t know. But I guess I shouldn’t be all that amazed that CBS may in fact be killing off Charlie Sheen’s character, Charlie Harper, on Two and a Half Men. Was the character that nuanced? That deep? So complex that in the hands of a lesser thespian, viewers would have suffered in dismay as they watched a new “bad guy” on the show?

Exactly.

What I can’t figure out is why more producers don’t take their cue from Bewitched and just replace the actor / actress who is not available for whatever reason and move on with someone new playing the same character.

I can hear the outcry already. Impossible! There could never be another Hoss. Or another Coach. Or another Henry Blake. Or another Charlie Harper.

Nonsense. Of course there could be. But producers and creators seem to buy into their own fantasies to the point where they get delusional. According to IMDB, Jean Stapleton was the only realist on All in the Family: When the show was ending its run, Norman Lear spoke with Jean Stapleton (who was growing weary of playing Edith Bunker) about how they would respectfully have Edith die. She said, "Just have her die off, she's only fiction." Lear paused, then said, "Not to me, she isn't."

And there it is.

Look, I love characters and stories and I love feeling like the people we love in stories or on television or on film are real. But they’re not and never will be. And we all have our favorite portrayals and favorite characters. Firth = Darcy. Stallone = Rocky. Gable = Butler. Garland = Dorothy.

But then again: Connery – Lazenbi - Moore –Dalton - Brosnan – Craig = Bond. Then again (again), a tuxedo and a martini can work miracles.

Pause your brain in one room; resume it in another. Or not. Whatever.

Reason # 7,458 we are doomed as a society: Direct TV. Well, it’s not really the idea of Direct TV or digital programming that signals our downfall. It’s more that our entertainment needs seem to have become all but obsessions at this point.

Exhibit A. You know that Direct TV commercial? It opens with a man watching a movie or television show. On the screen, we see some kind of CGI robots or droids or whatever they are in a battle of some sort. In other words, a scene almost no woman alive would watch on purpose with much enthusiasm, much less be concerned about missing the whole thing or part of it if they left the room. But back to our male viewer: In the midst of the action, the guys hits “pause,” walks into his kitchen, and on another very beautiful, very ‘this year’s model’ flat screen TV, he hits “play,” and continues to watch the scene.

And what was so important in the kitchen? Why did he need to leave the comfort of his living room to spend time in there? Good question. I’ll tell you what he wasn’t doing there. He wasn’t standing at the stove stirring the risotto. He wasn’t trying to distract himself while he spooned strained peas into his squirming toddler. He wasn’t even taking food out of the oven and to settle down in front of the set to continue watching the movie while he ate dinner.

So what was it? What interrupted him to begin this whole mini-drama? What disrupted his entertainment and called him away from room # 1? What could possibly be so important and demanding that he had to resume watching in a new room?

He had to get his microwave popcorn. Some MICROWAVE popcorn. That takes something like three minutes to prepare.

Dear God.

Let’s dissect this for a moment, shall we?

A viewer enthralled with a scene. Got it. (We’ve all been there although in my case, I can practically guarantee you there was a Hugh or a Colin or a Brad involved.) In the Direct TV commercial, the guy is so enthralled that he doesn’t want to miss a second of the action and he stops the action before walking into another room. Fine. We’ve all hit pause. But he can’t wait to continue watching so he starts the action up again in room # 2, because forcing himself to find his way back to room # 1 to resume watching the original scene is just too painful and demanding to imagine.

Fine. Sure. We all refuse to miss a moment of anything on a screen. We have digital recorders that allow us to pause a live broadcast and start it on command. Or stop a streaming movie and start it when we want to watch again. Or record a movie on one set and watch it on another. Super. I don't object to technology.

I object to our attitude. Our entitled, oblivious attitude about what we think we need to own in order to feel validated as technology-savvy consumers. To feel like consumers who are ahead of - or at least keeping up with - the game. But even that assessment sounds snotty and entitled, too, doesn’t it?

Try thinking of it this way. My boys told me about a tweet from Drew, an artist who writes Toothpaste for Dinner, that went something like this: “I was using the light from my laptop to look for a Skittle I dropped and remembered that millions of people don’t have clean drinking water.”

Yup. What he said.

Honestly, I could do this all day. Ironically, many of these men probably said the same thing.

You know who was really happy to read the Representative Anthony Weiner news?
Governor Arnold Schwarzeneggar.

You know who was really happy to read the Arnold Schwarzeneggar news?
IMF Chief Dominique Strauss-Kahn.

You know who was really happy to read the Dominique Strauss-Kahn news?
Senator John Edwards.

You know who was really happy to read the John Edwards news?
Representative John Ensign.

You know who was really happy to read the John Ensign news?
Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi.

You know who was really happy to read the Silvio Berlusconi news?
Representative Christopher Lee.

You know who was really happy to read the Christopher Lee news?
Representative Mark Souder.

You know who was really happy to read the Mark Souder news?
Representative Eric Massa.

You know who was really happy to read the Eric Massa news?
Governor Mark Sanford.

You know who was really happy to read the Mark Sanford news?
Governor Eliot Spitzer.

You know who was really happy to read the Eliot Spitzer news?
Representative Vito Fossella.

You know who was really happy to read the Vito Fosella news?
Senator Larry Craig.

You know who was really happy to read the Larry Craig news?
Representative Mark Foley.

I can do this all night, folks. Sadly, that’s the truth. And I haven’t even left the political arena yet. Let’s not get into sports, entertainment and business leaders.

Otherwise, the list could quickly get unwieldy.

New York State (of mind)

So close….but not quite.

I am hovering on the NY border, just this side of Elmira, New York as I head to Canada on my virtual run. By the end of May, I had logged just over 200 miles with 250 more to go. Incredibly, that puts me on track to hit my 450 mile total by year’s end, and land me about thirty miles north of Toronto, Ontario Canada. Believe me, no one is more surprised than I at this tally.

Couple of things I learned this month, most of which I should have figured out about forty years ago. First: when you go out of town for an overnight trip, it’s probably not worth dragging your running shoes, shorts, and a T-shirt to get in a couple of miles. There are two reasons for this. One: Given the time of year and the state of commercial aviation these days, a two day trip rarely seems to work out. You sit in an airport for the better part of a day waiting for your delayed and ultimately cancelled flight. Your subsequent travel compresses into one day to accommodate your schedule which means the out of town run never happens.

In my case, it was a one-day out and back to Houston, plus the roundtrip drive to Newark, with the added bonus of sitting in a meeting for about four hours. Sixteen hours spent sitting in a car / the middle seat / a conference room chair isn’t nearly as enticing as it sounds. I spent the next two or three days recovering from the trip and even contemplating a run is difficult when you can’t quite stand upright the next day.

And two: Even when your travel starts out as planned, it’s not worth packing your duds because it probably won’t end well. Despite any delusions you hold about how and when you plan to run, it’s unlikely you’ll get one in when you have a 4:45 wakeup call to meet a client for a meeting by 6 am. And you won’t get it in the next day either, after you get stuck in Charlotte at midnight and then have to wake up (again) at 4:45 to catch the 5:30 am shuttle from the hotel to the airport to get your flight home.

And three: Running a 3+ mile loop in my neighborhood feels refreshing and good and absolutely do-able on a cool Saturday morning. It feels exactly the opposite of that on a hot Friday night.

But I did learn this as well: a few days off doesn’t mean it’s over. A sore back doesn’t necessarily mean you’re sidelined forever. Building up to a previous pace after some recovery time off won’t happen overnight but it’s possible and a worthy goal. I suspect there could be some kind of metaphor for life’s challenges hovering around the edges here but then again, maybe not. I leave it to you to decide.

So to summarize: five months in; seven to go. About two hundred miles on the books; just less than two-hundred and fifty to go. That’s 35.62 miles a month. Or 8.9 miles a week. Or 2.226 miles four times a week.

That I can do.

Hamlet was right: The play IS the thing.

NOTE: I spent many hours as a "theater mom" while my boys enjoyed participating in a number of theatrical productions and musical performances during their high school years. For years, I've likened the hours I've spent as an enthralled listener to a spa treatment: the ultimate relaxation and balm for my soul at the same time. Too many time to count, I've been beyond proud of them as they would confidently stride across a stage and capture the audience with their vocal gifts.

The post below reflects back on those years and is my small thank you to "theater kids" of every age who will never lost the sparks that makes the magic happen.


As Hamlet proclaimed: “The play’s the thing…” I don't have nearly the subterfuge Hamlet had in mind by quoting this line but I will say this: he was right. Backstage, as I stand in silent awe of the tumult and talent surrounding me, I think I understand him at least form one perspective. Just as certainly as night follows day, this season finds hundreds of students experiencing the culmination of months of hard work and dedication: the high school musical.

What’s endlessly remarkable to me about the whole enterprise is the absolute passion of every single person concerned. But in the marathon run up to opening night, I wonder if that passion sometimes gets overshadowed by the “business” – the lists, tasks, details and sure, stress levels – that creates the well-oiled machine of a show that “works.”

Set designers start with a plan, and then follow it up with hundreds of details surrounding the construction, painting and portability of each piece. The talented crew has little desire to stand in front of a spotlight but their work helps every moment, every nuance come alive on stage. They step up to build it, to paint it, to move it – and then they step down; out of sight, behind the curtain.

Lighting and sound techs want nothing more than to make sure everything is seen and heard precisely as planned for the audience in the darkened theater. They transport us to a different time and place as they create the mood and allow us to enter the world of the story. A dark forest feels like a dark forest; a raucous tavern sounds like a raucous tavern. And although they, too, work out of sight, we see and hear their work throughout a successful performance.

Musicians move us with every note. Sitting unobtrusively in the dark, they help create the mood of the story that unfolds on stage. The score makes us laugh, makes us tear up, or cues us at critical moments. Musicians touch us with stirring anthems or delicate harmonies as they accompany the vocalists, and add texture and layers to each piece.

Costumes, makeup and props create entirely new characters out of the everyday teenagers who step on stage to entertain us with drama and song. Ultimately, we’re face to face with the actors and actresses themselves. The months they spend moving thoughtfully from place to place on stage, blocking a scene one way, then another, then another and then possibly another before settling on exactly who stands/moves/sits where and when appears casual and spontaneous during a performance. The turn, or nod, or touch that appears unpracticed and genuine goes through a number of versions before it becomes second nature to the character and the performer.

Dedicated directors want nothing more than to help every student have fun, improve their skills, and enjoy their experience. They, too, sit quietly in the dark, or walk the halls backstage, as the performance unfolds. Everything is in the hands of their students, and they surrender it all to the curtain up cue.

There comes that point where they know every move, they know every word, every note, every cue, every set change. They simply can’t know it any better. But the question is: what do they know? They’ve spent months concentrating on the dynamics, the marks, the costumes, lights, sound, and make-up – yet I hope they remember the whole, not necessarily the pieces.

As theaters go dark this spring, I wonder: what does this all come to – when the final note plays and the curtain falls? Surely the participants take something away from the experience as they return full-time to their real lives and leave the show behind.

Sure, no one wants to drop a line or miss a cue – but now and in the years to come, I hope the actors, technicians and musicians have learned so much more than the mechanics. I hope they discovered that, at its best, the pure essence of theater transports all of us beyond the everyday world.

I hope they’ve found the heart of the show; and the commitment they made to express that heart with every bit of their being. I hope they recall how the lighting they created looked soft and entrancing; how the set they built evoked exactly the right atmosphere; how the words they delivered or music they performed emerged from a place they had not fully explored until exactly that moment; that moment of fulfillment and triumph on stage.

This is about the joy and passion for the craft, about collaborating and celebrating each other’s gifts. It’s digging deep, and bringing what lies within them to the surface for all to see.

You’ve created that miraculous, unforgettable, always unique experience called theater. To everyone who has already taken their final bows this year, and to those who are about to: thank you. And as they sang in Les Miz: here’s to them; and here’s to you.

On coloring, outlines, and no lines.

It may take me a while, but I eventually get there. By “there,” I mean it takes me a while to connect the dots, to follow the threads that weave themselves throughout an event or a series of events. Before we go any further here, let me assure you: this post isn’t going to be deep, or at least what passes for deep for me.

No, it’ s just one of those light bulb moments that probably switched on for millions of women before me. Let me explain.

A few days ago, I saw several posts on Facebook showing a princess and her prince – Cinderella, maybe - along with two other characters, and the wardrobes and colors on the drawings were reminiscent of those worn by the party at Westminster a few weeks ago. But for me, I was immediately back on my parents’ front porch, on a warm spring or summer morning, with a coloring book, crayons and nothing but black and white pages that were just waiting for my touch.

I remember sitting there with my sisters and our friends, as we all colored in the pages then looked over each other’s work. Since I didn’t raise girls, and I’m not around them these days, I don’t even know if girls do this anymore. All I know is we had fun more than forty years ago. And here’s what I remember most: if I wanted my pictures to look really spectacular, I would outline them, then darken each detail line before adding the overall color to the entire page. Wow – I could probably be a professional artist, I thought.

So where’s the light bulb? What did this remind me of? Something about those pictures and coloring but something that wasn’t about them and wasn’t about crayons. Something from my current life. I’m getting there.

A day or two after seeing the Facebook pictures, I’m standing in front of the mirror, with no fewer than three tubes or jars of cream in front of me. Believe me, I have plenty to choose from: The eye restoration complex, the positively ageless lifting and firming eye cream, and the divine eyes ultimate youth eye treatment eye contour cream. The deep wrinkle treatment, deep wrinkle night cream, hydra firming cream, age repair lotion (note: the label advises you to consult a doctor if using this on children under six months old), skin firming moisturizer, and dramatically different moisturizing lotion. The reversing Gelee transforming lift and glycolic vital renew. (I don’t even know what that one means.) These represent products from eight different companies.

Don’t get me starting hair products.

Then we have the other extreme: tools and materials to create, not erase, lines. If you were to document the makeup in my cabinet, you’d find at least three pencils: eyebrow, eyeliner, and lip liner. A few of those get pretty regular use, although the eyeliner less so than in years past. Once I’m all moisturized and treated and lifted and restored and repaired every morning (well, almost every morning), the artistry really begins. Because some lines you want to enhance a little and others you need to restore a little.

I dutifully stroke and massage various bits into various parts of my face, and then follow up with the daily “outlining” required to stave off the signs of my life. And it hit me. Who knew? I’ve been training to follow the lines since I was about 6 years old. Every morning, and most nights, I spend a little time exfoliating, gently cleansing and/or foaming away the cares of the day from my face, then follow the lines and the various wrinkles, marks and general blahness of my 50+ skin with some of the products listed above. Except now, instead of highlighting the lines, I’m trying to erase them.

A dubious goal with almost nothing to indicate I’m making any headway.

So the question is this: does the daily ritual satisfy me because it’s an attempt; because at least I’m trying; or is it ultimately just the activity I built around my growing collection of jars and tubes and bottles? And is that collection little more than substitutes for the Crayolas I wielded with such confidence forty-six years ago? Is all of this an attempt to capture a princess moment of my own?

That’s a little depressing.

Maybe it’s really more about the fact that one day, much sooner than I'd ever expected, I find myself absolutely and indisputably in the throes of middle age. I'm surrounded by co-workers who could be my children. In fact, I'm one of the oldest people in the department. And I think: if all this is true, why don’t I know more about life? Why am I still so mystified on a daily basis? How am I getting so much of it wrong?

I admit the following: I don’t know the formula or the perfect ingredients for a blissful, idyllic marriage. I don’t know how to raise children that will never take a wrong turn. I’m often conflicted, often doubtful, often full of trepidation. Somewhere along the line, I thought confidence and certainty would come along with aging. All I got were the lines.

So maybe I can’t spend time outlining the folds of a princess dress in a coloring book and then coloring it in. I get it; I can’t quite list that as an “interest” on my resume. But I can outline my lips with a perfect shade of reddish gold and color them in. Some days, that will have to suffice as the only thing grown up thing about me.

On proms, pleats and Peter Rabbit

Over the past week or two, I've enjoyed reading so many Facebook posts about high school proms, and looking at the pictures of young people enjoying their evenings.

This post is a reflection on my first "prom as a mom" experience, going back to 2006. Whether this is the first or last prom night in your house, I hope the parents who read it find a moment they recognize in it. Do we all feel something like this as the experience unfolds?

Enjoy.

On one hand, I watched the tuxedo-ordering event for the senior prom unfold in bemused silence. Never had so many questions about so many details been posed to so few people who had not one definite answer between them. And why would they? Who ever imagined how many choices you have in a formal wear shop? Suit without stripes, suit with stripes. Long or regular length jacket? Shirt with one inch, half inch or quarter inch pleats? Maybe no pleats. Bow tie or not, in black or in a coordinating color, striped or plain? Vest or cummerbund? In black or matching color or coordinating pattern? Jewelry: all black, black and silver or black and gold? Shoes: round or square toe style? Oxfords or loafers? I didn’t make this many decisions about what I wore to my wedding.

We began with the sample tuxes on display in the store, samples that turned out to be not quite right. After paging through a catalog to find just the right one, my son and his girlfriend made another half a dozen choices (see above) before finalizing the entire transaction.

On the other hand, as I watched the sales clerk help my son into a jacket and smooth it out to make sure of the size, I was terrified. The fit was very nearly perfect, and he buttoned it with confidence as his girlfriend nodded that it looked good. I thought so, too, but as I think back on it, the tuxedo jacket kind of disappears. In my mind, I see my two-year-old lay his little winter coat out of the floor, slip his hands into the sleeves, and flip it over his head to show me he can do it “all by self.”

The white dress shirt he selected was a very distant relative of the t-shirts and casual clothes I see daily. The crisp quarter-inch (not half-inch, not full inch) pleats would create just the right look under the black vest. The sales clerk took his collar and sleeve measurements, and in my mind, I remember another ‘dress’ shirt he used to have: the little blue one from pre-school days. I see him wearing it over his t-shirts - unbuttoned - because “Peter Rabbit never buttons his blue jacket.”

I noticed the shine of the dress leather shoes, the final touch that would add the perfect formality to the evening clothes. He reviewed the choices and decided on the round, not the squared off style. In my mind, he stands before a row of shoes in a discount store. I see him search the display for sneakers that feature his favorite cartoon or movie hero of the day, complete with lights in the rubber soles. He and his brothers would wear out those Velcro light-up shoes before they would outgrow them. “Watch me, Mommy! Watch how fast I can run with these!”

They selected a tie that will match her dress perfectly and add a touch of color to the black and white formal wear. But I look past that one and instead see the dozens of clip-ons and bow ties - so tiny! - he used to wear. I see Daddy teaching him and his brothers how to tie a “real” tie.

On our way home that evening, we talked about flowers. I felt just a little delighted - and surprised - when he casually named his girlfriend’s favorite flower. When did he find that out? Does he know my favorite flower? (Do I even have one? Am I losing my mind?)

The whole event was more than the sum of its parts. Yes, it was about a special suit of clothes and a dance and a girl but it was more than that, too. I didn’t realize it at the time but we walked through an unmarked door, my oldest son and I, and it’s unlikely we’ll be able to turn back. The sign on the store indicated a formal wear shop but it should have read: This way to adulthood. There was a moment during the tuxedo rental experience when I watched him change just a little bit, right before my eyes. I had those familiar feelings of displacement I’d felt occasionally over the past few years.

But this was more than another sappy, corny “Sunrise, Sunset” moment. This time the feelings arrived all dressed up, proud and confident, complete with a pocket square, a set of cufflinks and shiny shoes. They were inescapable. And impressive. And in my mind, they were unforgettable.

Today’s fun marketing fact: Condescension has no age limit.

A couple of posts ago, I wrote about an annoying little ad campaign that implored women to “have a happy period.” The idea that a company did enough research, then focus-grouped and tested the idea of labeling a healthy fact of female life as “happy” in order to convince women that we could actually endure – and enjoy! – menstruating for about forty years or so felt incredibly condescending to me.

As I noted, it would seem that men never have to endure marketing campaigns that label certain necessary products as “happy” in order for them to buy them. Example: Have a happy shave! Or how about this: Don’t worry about that annoying jock itch – be happy! Or this: Don’t call it ‘having to get up from a sound sleep to pee in the middle of the night. Call it claiming your own happy moment of peace in the still of the night.’ See what I mean? Sounds ridiculous, right?

Apparently, women’s products can’t get marketed and sold based on their attributes, benefits and price. I don’t need to feel an emotional connection or create some sort of bond with a tampon before I’ll purchase it but you'd never know that based on the commercials that sell us these.

Well the good news for me as I grow older is that if there is a God in heaven, soon enough I can stop caring about having a happy period (or even an unhappy one as a matter of fact. Fingers crossed, I’ll celebrate that occasion in about five months.) The bad news is that the hits just keep on coming. A few years ago, I read about – and then hoped online to experience – a place called Menopauseland. I’m not joking. Yes, exactly like Disneyland, except it’s Menopauseland.

Well, not exactly. Menopauseland was a cyber community, courtesy of Amerifit brands and their supplement, Estroven, developed to ease the symptoms of menopause. According to BrandBuzz, the creative agency behind M-land, their goal was to reach the “fastest-growing user group of the Internet,” women of a certain age. Their microsite on the web enabled them to learn more about their customers and hone their message even more effectively as a result of the research they could conduct and measure.

Their national television commercial depicted a menopausal – well, I assume she was supposed to be in menopause – woman, enjoying the delights of a gorgeous, sunny, private spa-like retreat, complete with an anonymous cabana-boy type of guy handing over a towel and massaging her shoulders after she emerges from the pool. Her voiceover narrated a postcard she dropped in the mail to a friend: something about the fact that despite the many kinds of travels she’s taken throughout her life, she’s never been anywhere as liberating as “here.” I guess we were supposed to assume the cabana boy had something to do with that liberation but it’s unclear.

The narration continued and informed women about how Estroven could help them manage their “journey” into another life stage beyond menopause.

Fine. Lovely. I hope Estroven eases symptoms many women could find annoying or even debilitating. But that’s not really my point. I’m back to the same thing I asked about having a “happy period.” What are we – six years old? It feels like any company marketing women’s products to women needs to convince us that we can – and should – have fun while we deal with somewhat intrusive (but healthy) life stages. In other words, there is no need to be down in the dumps about cramps, mood swings, hot flashes and night sweats. Pre-menopausal women who don’t feel joyful every 28 days or so simply need to adjust their attitudes and instead enjoy their happy periods. And thanks to Menopauseland, women who somehow don’t understand the bliss connected to the end of their child-bearing years need to hop onboard an express train to Menopauseland to savor the journey and get their heads on straight.

I’m absolutely positive that no other generation of women – women by the millions who passed through menopause without so much as a hint of something called Menopauseland – would have sat quietly by and witnessed such nonsense. But this isn’t any other generation. It’s Baby Boomers, the generation that demands all new rules all the time for all that life has to offer. According to an article in The New York Times, “baby boomers by the millions are entering menopause, and its talked about in the open.” Amerifit's research informed them that women believe “Menopause isn’t the end of anything; it’s the beginning, it’s positive.”

Fine. Lovely. If that's true, why create a cyber-theme park called Menopauseland to convince us? Can’t we learn about Estroven and how it may ease some symptoms without making it a playland? Oh, that’s right. It’s because we’re women. If we’re not happy, we're not going to have fun. And if we’re not going to have fun, we’re going to pout and be bitchy to everyone around us.

Estroven seems to have found a moment of clarity because I think they closed down Menopauseland. At least I couldn’t find it on their website. They’ve updated their campaign. Now their commercials show women holding up signs, signs that ostensibly “say something good about menopause.” Whatever.

Look, I’m all for clever and captivating marketing and advertising campaigns. But that doesn’t require a patronizing, juvenile or aggravating attitude. We need women communicating the truth to women, yes? Without the cutesy nonsense?

Don’t count on it. More to come in the next “women’s” post. Stay tuned.

The road not taken might be the way home.

When I’m around new moms, I play a role I never imagined: the elder statesman (stateswoman?) among working mothers. Women in the forty-plus demographic embody the first generation of “modern” women who earned degrees and entered the workplace in large numbers. Somewhere along the line, many of us married, had children, and kept our day jobs. I guess that makes us the prototype for the next generation.

I find myself facing younger mothers, full of questions and incredulity, mostly of the “how did you ever do all this?” or “how did you make this look so easy?” variety. As they look to me for words of wisdom - big mistake - I look back at them and their young children and think, ‘So soon! This stage will be over and you’ll wonder how it all flashed by so quickly.’

Yes, caring for babies and chasing toddlers is exhausting. You learn how to interpret almost every move your child makes and figure out how to meet his or her every need. It’s rewarding and exciting because as they grow, you watch them - day by day, inch by inch - become the person they were born to be.

But the older my children get, the more they teach me about being a mother. They’re teaching me to listen; that it doesn’t really matter how tired I am on any given night, or what I may have on my “to do” list. The “on call” aspect of motherhood that begins with overnight feedings doesn’t ever really go away. Example: when one of them wanders into the TV room at eleven p.m. and sinks into a chair across the room, it’s time to perk up and be ready to listen. At that moment, he’s reaching out, even in the most unobtrusive way, to say, “please listen to me” and sometimes the words aren’t the most important part of the exchange.

They’re teaching me to relax. When they were growing up, the best part of our lives mostly happened around the dinner table, four or five nights a week, when we talked and laughed to see where that would lead us. The dinner table has fewer people around it these days but when it’s full, we usually sit around for hours and unwind together. We solve nothing; we debate everything; we challenge each other; we tell incredible stories. Their beliefs and their point of view on everything from Princess Eugenie’s hat (a total non-issue for them) to a madman in a mansion in Pakistan (a very big deal) captivate me.

Years from now, I hope I’ll remember what amazing memories they had for details about absolutely everything. I know I’ll remember their unquenchable thirst for random yet interesting facts. I’ll hear the music they made in the house every night. Every day, even now as they are beyond high school and making their way into adulthood, they teach me that they’re so much more than the “numbers” we use to measure our children, so much more than projects and grades and tests.

As young adults, they’re pulling me – reluctantly – into the next stage of being a mother. The one where you observe, and offer a thought or two that may just have some basis in reality but nonetheless feels intrusive and smothering to the recipient. The one that teaches you to have patience, and trust that they'll reach out if they need any of the following: help, a shoulder to cry on, a trusted confidant, a place to vent, an objective observer, or money. The one where you want to scream – and sometimes do: “Please, please trust me! You’re making an enormous mistake!” But you try to convince yourself that some mistakes may have to happen once, just so they never happen again.

They’re teaching me, incrementally and relentlessly, how to let go. I remember one night years ago, when one of the boys was upset about an audition at school. He wouldn’t share many details, except to tell me that he “blew it . . . I was terrible.” I tried to reassure him that he almost certainly did better than he imagined but he refused to discuss it.

Turns out, he did want to talk about it - just not to me. He spent at least an hour on the phone with a friend - a girl - and she was able to give him the comfort I couldn’t. This was becoming more and more the norm.

I felt lost. I felt disposable and replaced and irrelevant. I also felt - reluctantly - enlightened and proud to watch him as he “grew up.” It was natural that he would want turn outward - to a girlfriend - for the reassurance he needed. It was right that he should begin to loosen the ties I worked so hard to weave. But still, it felt strange.

Before he went to sleep, I shared some of these feelings with him. I told him I understood he needed some independence and privacy. When I hugged him goodnight, I said something like, “I get it - but I miss you.”

He seemed to “get it” too, and reassured me quietly, “I’ll come back.”

Here’s the thing: I’m trying to balance the “spread your wings and fly” schmaltz with the “why don’t you ever call [or text or Facebook or IM] your mother??” guilt trips. Haven’t quite worked that out yet. The reality is this: I want to admire their independence. I want to watch them grow and find their way and build a life. But I also want them to remember that sometimes, the road not taken during times of trouble might be the one that leads home.

I don’t NEED any of my boys to come back home in order to feel fulfilled or “successful” as a mom. I just want them to know they can. And I’ll be here.

Still not completely there but at least I'm moving again.

The best that can be said about April is that it's over.

The miles I put into the record book were nothing compared to the days that were marked off with big X’s instead of mileage through the cold hard month of April. It was frustrating to feel like I was 92 not 52, and watch the days tick by with nothing but inactivity to show for them. But the month is over and we’ve moved on to May.

You may recall that sciatica sidelined me for about two weeks. In fact, according to my grid, I didn’t run a single step from April 6 until April 20. All I could think was, “Well, this is no good! This isn’t getting me any closer to “Can’t even find it on a GPS, Canada,” which is a northern suburb of Toronto. Plus, Joe was getting WAY ahead of me on his run to the balmy south.

But the good news is, I had somehow banked a couple of miles ahead of my quota. Put it this way: Although I ended April about seven miles behind in my monthly goal, I’m not behind on my annual goal. So far on the year, despite my month on and off the DL, I’ve remained about 8 miles ahead of my goal.

The better news is I seem to have recovered my health. Nothing like a debilitating ache to remind you to be grateful for simple mobility. So where am I? Almost 160 miles north of Allentown, just south of Sebring, PA, near the Tioga State Forest. It looks very lush on the Google map; I can only hope the scenery would take my mind off the not 100% comfort I have in my right leg were I really running along the trail.

I’ve been taking it a little slow – still getting in a 5k or near it with every run but it’s taking me a little longer, or I find myself walking about a quarter mile or so. I’m giving myself until the end of May to get back to “my” time which is not at all fast but is comfortable for me: a 9 ½ minute mile or so. Then I’ll start to add some speed or distance or both.

For now: I’m grateful to be upright and mobile. For anyone keeping track: that’s four months in; eight to go. As of today, I’ve logged about 161 miles and have 288 to go. That’s just over 36 miles a month for the rest of the year. Or about 9 miles a week. About 2.25 miles a day, 4 days a week.

I figure by this time next month, I’ll have entered New York or be very, very close. And if Lawrenceville, New York is close, can Toronto, Ontario be far behind? Well, yes. Yes, it certainly can be.

But I’ll get there.

In honor of the happy couple....

Read an article today in Us, or People, or OK or something like while I was indulging in that great spring equalizer among women: the pedicure. Because of the article and the worldwide romance we've all witnessed over the past few days, I'm re-posting a column that appeared a few months ago on Jewish World Review.

Now, this should by no means imply that Catherine Middleton Windsor did any such preparation for her big day. But she and her Prince do seem to have found their "ever after."

Sadly, at least someone who sends a daughter to Princess Prep must believe a dream can come true for their own little darling.

Hope you enjoy.

Awake at night in Allentown. Again.

Once again, my subconscious is alive and well.

I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night because like a number of people I know, I find myself startled awake by some idea or situation that simply will not leave my mind and as a result, I can’t fall back to sleep.

Since I slept poorly last night, I felt very tired by about 3 pm and tried to take a nap this afternoon. It was mostly pointless for quite a while and then I fell asleep. You know how I know? My dream.

I’m not going into every detail here – you’re welcome – but the highlights include the following:

I had a new boss at my current company: Barack Obama.

After several delays, he and I had a meeting in an enormous unfamiliar, conference room.

He handed over sheets and sheets and sheets of legal pad pages, all containing notes and figures. Nothing more formal than that – no reports, charts, or presentations.

He went on to tell me that my sales of $14,000 (I’ve not been in a true sales position for many years) were inadequate. I told him that figure wasn’t correct; that it was significantly higher but he didn’t seem to hear me.

Bottom line: I lost my job.

I’m still not a big believer in dreams but here’s what I learned from Dream Moods: Your Dream Symbol Interpretation.

To see a stack of papers in your dream, denotes lots of stress and lots of responsibilities. And surprise - I'm not handling it well.

To dream that you lose your job, represents instability and insecurity in your waking life.

Fired: to dream that you are fired from your job apparently has nothing to do with your career. It's a symbol of something else and a desire to end it. As a bonus, I"m "supressing" what I really want out of life.

I'm just a party waiting to happen, right?

To all this may I simply say: no kidding. Suffice it to say, life is more than a little challenging these days for many, many reasons. Working on it with limited success but I’m trying. Not one bit of it is welcome or easy. Despite my glacial efforts to make positive change, it would seem that even when I‘m sleeping, I can’t seem to find any relief.

I’m kind of tired of using the OTC sleep aids, which are not really a solution. So if anyone has any ideas about overcoming this nighttime wakefulness – ideas that really work – I’m listening.

For the record: I don't need to love everything. And neither do most women I know.

NOTE: this is the first in a series of posts that will - my hand to God - lead to some kind of conclusion. Fair warning to anyone who will get three sentences in and think: "For God's sake, not this 'women's s--t, again! Really, Renee?" STOP NOW. You've been warned.

Now, onto the post. And be happy.

If anyone is looking for proof that the women’s movement has landed in the twenty-first century with a decided thud, turn on your television set. Women may think we’ve attained equality of the sexes - whatever that was supposed to mean - but we’re wrong, at least according to one major consumer products company. Turns out that for about five days every month, many of us turn into needy, easily satisfied, empty-headed whiners who just want to be pampered. Don’t believe me? Okay, remember this ad campaign? Sadly I do. I went something like this:

During a certain week of the month, to quote the ad copy, “looks like it’s time to bloat, whine, pig out, cry for no reason and smile.” But hey, it doesn’t have to be a sad, gloomy couple of days. Gosh no! It can be a “happy” time. The new campaign reminded women that in addition to buying one particular brand of protection, they could overcome their monthly nuisance by doing small things for themselves that will add delight and contentment to these dreary days. Some suggestions: by all means, take a cab for once. Put on some nail polish, or as they so subtly suggested in their print campaign: “If your claws are out, you might as well paint them.” (I’m not making this up.) Eat some cookies or some chocolate! Crown yourself ‘Queen for the week’ and indulge yourself.

Just stop this. Right now. And forget about the affront to women this whole campaign represented. The question is this: Does everything in our lives have to be ‘happy’ for god’s sake? Some things, like a monthly cycle, just ain’t that happy most of the time. I’d call it normal and I’d call it natural but I’m not willing to go so far as to call it happy. And it absolutely does not warrant this kind of “treat yourself - you deserve it” drama. I’d have thought we’d moved past that about thirty years ago but I’d be wrong about that, at least according to the focus groups.

When the ad agency tested the idea of “a happy period” with groups of women, they were “ready for this,” according to the product’s brand manager, as reported in The New York Times. The brand wanted to make an emotional connection with women because their research told them that women respected the brand but they didn’t love it.

Can we pause on that for a second, please? “…they didn’t love it.” Do we need to love it? Do men need to love the stuff they buy?

This is so annoying for so many reasons. I guess no matter what we face during our monthly cycle, we can manage it with some chocolate, some grooming or some “me” time. Any of these options will make us feel better, even if we have to run the kids halfway to Philly and back five days a week for soccer camp. Or maybe a woman has to run the school board meeting. Or the company sales conference. Or the country. But don’t you worry for one single second about the added stress that accompanies that one special week every month. Have some candy or a cookie and feel better! (God forbid we should try doing some stretching, or walking or any other form of exercise, which could help alleviate any discomfort once a month.)

Is it just me or is this entire campaign built on the antique notion of women as the weaker sex?? Lesson one: Working women can’t be trusted to handle the really big stuff because we’re out of commission at least a few days every month. Fortunately, this lasts for only about forty years of our lives. Lesson two: For non-working women, God help the people in their lives - husbands, friends, and neighbors - who encounter them during a bad moment each month.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just too cranky today. Wait...checking a calendar....oh, good. This is not my fault! It’s just my ‘happy’ time again.

You might say competent is "the new black." Or "the new forty." I wouldn't but whatever it is; I like it.

What’s wrong with being competent? I’m not sure when that word developed such a negative connotation in our collective view although I suspect it was right around the time just about every student in every second grade around the country was enrolled in the “gifted” program at school. Around the same time our national pendulum of imagined ability was swinging a wide arc pretty far away from “average.” But I digress.

I checked several sources and not one of them indicated that the act of being competent is a “negative.” Webster’s Comprehensive Dictionary defines the word as “having sufficient ability or authority.” The Oxford University Press Dictionary takes it a step further and then defines competent as “having the necessary skill or knowledge to do something successfully.” Secondarily, they define the word as “satisfactory or adequate, though not outstanding.”

You might say that’s damning with faint praise, but given the stories that dominate headlines of the day, doesn’t competent sound pretty darn good? No? Consider this: What if the response and solutions offered to address the economic meltdown during the fall of 2008 had been termed “satisfactory or adequate?” Or how about the devastation that resulted from the Oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico? Wouldn’t we feel better if we could've called that response “satisfactory or adequate?” Ditto the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I rest my case.

I’m taking this opportunity to launch a campaign to reintroduce the word ‘competent’ into our national lexicon. And yes, can I get an “amen!” on that?! Some genuine enthusiasm, satisfaction and confidence in our voices when we use it? We can do it. We really can. Let’s try.

“How was the customer service rep when you called about that mistake on your invoice?” “Competent! He was competent!”

Or how about this: “Did you get the report you requested on the survey results?” “Yes, she did a competent job.”

“How was the city snow removal last winter after the big storm?” “It was competent! What a relief.”

Who wouldn’t welcome this? How content we would be if instead of waiting to be wowed by the creative geniuses we hope to find in our families, our schools, our employers, our communities and our elected officials, we were all nicely satisfied with competence. I’ll take competence any day.

It’s all about expectations. Somewhere along the line we decided that when it comes to quality of life, good enough wasn’t good enough. We want outstanding. We need exceptional. We desire unprecedented success in order to deem anything worthwhile. And the sad fact is that much of this expectation for “the best” in every facet of life was the result of exactly nothing. We haven’t grown increasingly smarter. We’re not more clever than we ever were. It’s little more than an outgrowth of what Alan Greenspan rightly called “irrational exuberance.” Competence was viewed as just one baby step away from failure, or at the very least, from the dreaded “average.”

Being competent has been severely underrated; we should give it its due. In fact, in light of the endless blame, the divisive rhetoric and the lack of responsibility being spouted by so many government officials these days in the wake of our deficit, our involvement in the Middle East, and the relentless employment malaise, I submit the next candidate searching for wholehearted support from Americans of every political stripe adopt this slogan as his or her campaign tag line: “The competent candidate.” Talk about capturing the public’s attention! Imagine what could be accomplished simply by competence!

Where’s Harry Truman when you need him? I’m sick of everyone who claims to have the answers, or lists the excuses, or calls for investigations or spends time passing the buck. I’m already tired of the 2012 Presidential campaigns. I suggest we choose to support candidates who show by word and deed that they can do the job at hand. While we can’t predict the circumstances that may arise to challenge any leader’s ability, we can hedge our bet by voting for garden-variety competence over flash any day of the week. I can’t help but think we’d all be much better off supporting candidates who demonstrate that they have limited interest in their legacies or in their own re-election but have relentless interest in the situations right in front of them. And guess what? It just can’t be a bad thing to leave behind a legacy of competence. What a concept.

On Quik and bag lunches, AKA: the bad old days

Two seemingly disconnected but real life memories occurred to me in light of some of the latest headlines:

Memory 1: I have this amazing soft spot in my heart – and elsewhere – for chocolate milk. I come by it honestly and with great affection. In fact, it wasn’t until I saw “chocolate milk” listed in a quiz titled something like “favorite kids’ treats you miss as an adult” that I realized I might be some kind of chocolate milk freak. Did that mean all adults didn’t drink chocolate milk? Who knew?

This is the result of a girlhood memory. Too many times to count, I heard this request from my Dad at some point during the evening: “ ’Nays, make me a glass of chocolate milk.” And because he retained just the littlest bit of his boyhood Brooklyn home in his voice, it sounded kind of like “Chaulk-lit milk.”

So there you go: I grew up spooning out the Quik, watching a grown man drink chocolate milk pretty regularly. (I have not one memory of my Mom ever requesting or having a glass of her own.) My siblings and I must have stirred up our own glasses of chocolate milk at the same time but I can’t quite remember doing that.

Memory 2: For about fourteen years, my husband packed lunches for our three sons to carry to school. The reason he made them was simple: he did it very well. He spent real time on their sandwiches, creating popular, delicious “main courses” for them five days a week, as opposed to what I would do: slap some lunchmeat between slices of bread, use few if any condiments, and call it done. The boys would often remark in the evening how tasty a particular sandwich was that day. They never said that to me. (Saying I have a knack for creating sandwiches is like saying Charlie Sheen has a knack for creating a calm, spiritual atmosphere wherever he goes.)

Other than the great vs terrible sandwiches, their dad and I took the same approach to their packed lunches: a sandwich, a piece of fruit or some grapes or carrots, plus a pudding cup, or Jell-o, or String cheese or a cereal bar of some kind, or maybe one other kind of treat. We also offered beautifully decorated hard-boiled eggs for a few days every spring, following PB&J on Fridays for six weeks every Lent. (They were my specialty.)

I did write notes to the boys once in a while and tuck them into their bags. And everyone knows one note = 47 really good sandwiches.

You can imagine my incrankulous response to the headlines in the news about food in schools. One story reported on schools in the D.C. area banning chocolate milk from their cafeterias, in an effort to address childhood obesity and remove the high-fat, high-sugar drink from cafeterias. Their confounding choice came down to this: students getting less calcium and fewer nutrients as a result of the ban or students taking in more calories and sugar by drinking chocolate flavored milk. Uproar from parents and students alike led to the drink being reformulated into a “healthier” version and reinstated in many schools. Sounds delicious.

The second news story goes a bit further than addressing the “problem” drinks in the cafeteria. Teachers and administrators reported seeing too many unhealthy lunches over the years and believed that students would get better nutrition by purchasing lunch in school. New rule: Students may not bring a packed lunch from home. They must buy what the school offers in the cafeteria.

This might be the perfect time to pause to ask this question: For God’s sakes of America, what is going on here? Schools and parents are beside themselves because children are drinking five cartons of chocolate milk a week. Administrators and teachers are horrified at the chips and sodas included in the lunches some students carry to school each day.

You know what might be a good idea, right about now? You know it – I know you do. Moderation. Remember moderation? Neither do school administrators.
Go right ahead and serve chocolate milk; but serve it just once a week. You’re concerned about the packed lunches that contain cupcakes, not carrots? Sure you are but what do you do about the lunches that have the carrots not cupcakes? The phrase 'baby and bathwater' springs to mind.

Since most physical education classes are just short of a joke these days, here’s an idea: everyone gets up and takes a walk around the school or around the perimeter of the gym or the cafeteria for the last 5 minutes of lunchtime everyday. That way, you address your concern about what’s in the lunch bags by encouraging activity to offset it. Sadly, five minutes of activity a day or twenty-five minutes a week may be all the exercise many kids get these days.

Or how about this: offer students a reward for bringing a healthy lunch from home. A healthy lunch five days in a row gets you credit at the school store. Or a “library late fee forgiveness” voucher you can use the next time you have an overdue book. Talk with business in the community and see what you can cobble together for prizes.

Obviously, I don’t have the answers. But making rules - just because you can - is never a good idea. The question is this: What does it profit a man to ban Fritos in a lunch box if the alternative is a plate of chicken nuggets or mozzerella sticks?

And I'm sorry, but the idea of a childhood that is chocolate-milk-free just sounds kind of sad.

I am really, really old. Well, for the past two weeks, anyway.

Sciatica: pain, tingling, or numbness produced by an irritation of the nerve roots that lead to the sciatic nerve. The sciatic nerve is formed by the nerve roots coming out of the spinal cord into the lower back. Branches of the sciatic nerve extend through the buttocks and down the back of each leg to the ankle and foot.

Note to Sharon: I'm right there with you, sister.

And let me just say: this kind of nonsense isn't getting me any closer to Toronto!! I started limping around two weeks ago, was quite debilitated for several days following that, and finally gave up on even walking on the treadmill about ten days ago. Because not being able to walk and drive everyday isn't an option, I finally saw a doctor and now have a prescription. I feel better after only two days of meds but the bad news is he told me not to run for about two more weeks.

So there it is. A month ticking by, with only a handful of miles on the books to show for it, before I became the non-walking, non-running wounded, with an aching butt (which I didn't even know was possible) and an aching leg. Fabulous.

The last time I felt this kind of pain was around the 11th month of a pregnancy, when I was literally limping around Giant one evening, hanging onto a cart so I didn't fall over. (I'm not a martyr, really. I don't think I would have attempted shopping if I were in pain before entering the store. It kind of came over me quickly and pretty strongly.)

So the good news / bad news here:

The good news: I'm not pregnant.

The bad news is: at least the last time I experienced this, at least I ended up with an adorable baby, or two or three. (I can't remember which pregnancy this was.)

This time, I end up behind - so to speak - on my run to Canada. I may push that 'no running for two weeks' window.....hmmm. Just a mile or two or three. (Looking for any advice here from someone who has dealt with this successfully.)

If not, then onto May and a bit of a 'make up for lost miles' kind of month. Yay.

Despite my recent posts, I still believe in love.

Husband or Boyfriend: You Make the Call: A Wedding Season quiz for the alert bride-to-be

This quiz is my gift to brides-to-be, about to spend their lives sleeping beside, and putting down the toilet seats of, the men they love. If you don't do very well and find yourself uncomfortable at the end of it, don’t postpone the big day. Just go into it with a little more information than many of your older sisters had when we said, “I do” and ... you're welcome.

Let’s begin.

1. You’re dining with two other couples, including women you've befriended through your job. As you pull into the parking lot, you turn to the man of your dreams and say: “Okay, they're Ken and Dana, Mary and Chris. Right? Remember?” Your companion that night is:

A. your husband

B. your boyfriend

Correct answer: A. Your husband always enjoys these evenings enormously but will barely recall one scrap of information about anyone between occasions. You recite crib notes before every get-together. You: “I worked with Dana and her husband is the engineer? Mary works freelance and her husband is the cop?” [Your husband is concentrating; possibly on the clues, possibly trying to remember who played right field for the Phillies in 1964.] “Anything sound familiar?”

He retrieves a shred of knowledge from his memory, and with a look of satisfaction he declares in triumph: “Chris follows Penn State? And Ken is the cyclist?” Atta boy.

Never correct: B. Your boyfriend knows exactly who they are. Couples don’t categorize friends until they’re about to marry and are drafting guest lists and seating charts and overhearing the inevitable “bride or groom?” question posed by ushers the world over.

Fun fact related to question 1:

As a dating couple, you see friends regularly.

As a married couple, you have his and her friends you see bi-annually, until you have children. Then you see them every leap year.

2. The man who obsesses about the dog’s burned out four-inch-square patch of dead grass on the perimeter of the yard will ignore the twelve inch gouges your son’s football cleats left in the center of the kitchen floor. This keen eye belongs to:

A. your husband

B. your boyfriend

C. the landscaper you paid $7,800 (plus shrubs) to upgrade your property.

Correct answer: A or C. But the landscaper will comment on the damaged linoleum before your husband does.

Never correct: B. Your boyfriend doesn’t know you have a yard.

3. It’s after ten p.m. The man across the room wants a little snack and asks: “Do you have any ice cream?” He is your:

A. husband

B. boyfriend

Correct answer: A or B. This is a trick question, with the latter being slightly more logical but that doesn’t matter. My husband is perennially curious and surprised about the food in our kitchen. Despite the fact that he does more grocery shopping than I, he continues to ask, “Do you have any chips?” “Do you have any cookies?”

It couldn’t have been this way when we all lived in caves and wore animal skins. Did the men ask the women, “Do you have any mastodon?” "Did you save any of those nuts and berries I gathered?"

4. It’s snowing and the roads are treacherous. You’re behind the wheel and your hero has dug out a reasonable path in the snow and ice for the car. He wants you to give it a shot and he straightens up, backs away and calls out: “Now...cut the wheel!” He is your:

A. Husband

B. Boyfriend

C. Tow-truck guy

Answer. All of the above. All men say, “Cut the wheel” and I guarantee you there is not one woman alive who has ever said it. I always make the wrong move, and my husband in his infinite patience will shout over squealing tires, “Stop!” as he shakes his head at my lack of fluency in his language.

5. You stand before family, friends, God and everything you hold sacred, as the man beside you pledges to love and cherish you - cherish you! - for the rest of your life. He is your:

A. Husband.

B. Friend.

C. Confidant.

D. Advocate.

E. Beloved.

Correct Answer: All of the above.

Note to developers: not everything needs a website.

“Don’t be the last to know.” Ominous, right? “The last to know what?” you may be wondering. It’s a pretty good tagline as those things go.

This is one of those times of kismet where I find something that reminds me of a previous post. A little while ago, I included a reference to an abomination titled AshleyMadison.com in a blogpost and in an effort to be equitable; I offer this cyber-response for your consideration: Cheaterville.com

This is a website that masquerades as a public service but it’s nothing of the kind. It’s a way to identify and humiliate cheaters online and inexplicably, humiliate those being cheated upon at almost exactly the same time.

Say you have a friend and you know her husband is having an affair. This kind of knowledge is never pleasant nor welcome. You want to do the right thing but what is the right thing? You can’t quite convince yourself to tell her because it will be sad, and difficult and risky, but she has a right to know, yes? Let’s read what Cheaterville.com has to say about their purpose and then discuss.

In a world where temptation and lust are facilitated by online media, where does moral accountability fit in? With terms like discreet adultery and cyber affair, how is the truth to be told and where can it be found? Cheaterville was created with one goal in mind, keeping you ahead of the heartache -- even when it hurts. So whether you’re a victim, perpetrator or curious acquaintance, Cheaterville can give you the inside scoop on that special someone before you’re another heartbroken mess writhing in the wake of Ms. Madison or Craig and his lists.

Cheaterville gathers information from a variety of sources using our proprietary advanced search engine algorithm. Our database will show you postings from other Cheaterville members on a specific person and information gathered from the web. If you meet someone and want to know if they are playing it straight, or playing you, Cheaterville will let you know if they are married, have a sordid past, or a crazy ex! If you’re in a relationship and want to make sure your significant other stays on the straight and narrow, Cheaterville can alert you if anything is posted about them – good or bad and free of charge.

Got that? That means you may be off the hook. Instead of confronting the horrible truth face to face, you can send someone a link to Cheaterville and leave them to it.

So we now have a website dedicated to exposing cheaters and measuring our dedication to our relationships. Why not – we have them for everything else. I refused to register for the site because I already get too much spam but I think it works like this:

1. Sign up – for free

2. List specifics about the cheater you want to reveal, including telling the story behind their behavior, posting a picture, and warning others away from the heartbreak that’s surely waiting for them.

You can also search for a cheater by filling in his / her name and location. But even if you don’t have a cheater to report and no one to check on, the site offers some diversions. Read the “Top Cheaterville Posts,” and vote on “Cheater of the Week,” based on the stories posted about their transgressions. The “Post of the Week” carries a $100 prize for the best story about a cheater. Or play “Whack a Cheat” or “Sheen Shoot Out.” (I’m not making this up. I earned 250 points playing “Whack a Cheat.”)

This is America after all so, yes, you can shop on Cheaterville.com. In addition to the T-shirts, mugs, and mouse pads, I found boxer briefs and thongs, a journal and a keepsake box, a gym bag, beach tote and a messenger bag, a stadium blanket, presumably to display at the football game you attend alone, and a Christmas ornament. (A Christmas ornament?)

Aside: I haven’t been on a date to meet someone new in almost thirty years but let me just say this: if I were in a relationship and in an intimate moment, or about to be, I might find myself suddenly distracted and possibly even called away on an emergency if I saw the Cheaterville boxer briefs. Hmmmm. A Cheaterville gym bag in the corner wouldn’t exactly inspire confidence and trust, either.

I’ll give the company this: they built a better mousetrap, or saw a need and filled or even better, created a need and then filled it. They tapped into the power of the web and turned the plot of “The Dilemma” into a website everyone can visit, to post or to check on posts.

The watched something like AshleyMadison.com emerge and succeed in the marketplace and thought: what about the people left behind? Don’t they deserve a site of their own? Where is their justice?

I can't answer that. But here's the bottom line for me. There just isn't much about an adulterous affair, or cheating on your partner that I find entertaining. I don't need to play games or vote on "cheater of the week" to amuse myself.

But I do know we can hop on AshleyMadison.com to look for a date while we’re married or committed and everyone we meet there will understand. We can go on Cheaterville.com to report a cheater (although presumably not someone we met on AM.com) or check on someone’s track record.

It’s easy. It’s the way of the world. And sorry - it’s depressing.