Way to go! We knew you could do it!! You're on your way!!!! [Insert generic, ultimately meaningless platitude here!!!!!]

The older I get, the more I respect my parents and people of their generation who seemed to not only have common sense; they used it daily. Which is why they never ever had to come across something like this. My ff (facebook friend) Debbie mentioned something on her wall today that mystified me so of course I had to hop on line this evening to look around.

I’m sorry to tell you that there was an assortment of cards with this message. Who could have imagined this? Honestly, the only correct inside message on this card should read: "… and congratulations on learning to read as a toddler!"

I have questions. Of course I have questions. Who sends these? Grandparents or aunts and uncles who are insane? Condescending "friends" from the moms club who just can’t help themselves? The local furniture store soliciting business for families in the youth bed market? Nannies who are tired of changing diapers?

Well, if you’re like me, you immediately start to list other occasions that have belied any card-giving status. Until now, that is. But before we go there, let me also tell you that an enormous selection of cards already exists for the following occasions:

Getting your braces on

Getting your braces off

Getting your contacts

Getting your first period

Getting your ears pierced

Earning a first chair position

Becoming a Big Brother, Big Sister, Aunt or Uncle

Congrats on your recital

I could go on, but I won’t. Greeting Card Universe (“any card imaginable”) offers 1,083 congratulations cards, fifteen in potty-training alone. (Fifteen. Fifteen messages about peeing and pooping on a potty chair. People have spent less time thinking about the text in eulogies or wedding vows.) Far be it from me to intrude on their already fertile field of greetings.

But let’s try to inaugurate a few more, shall we?

You lost your first tooth! Grammy and Grandpa are so proud of you!!! (Wait a minute. Just checked. These cards exist.)

Let’s try again:

No training wheels? WOW!!

What a big girl you are! You feel asleep all by yourself five nights in a row!!

Awesome!! You’ve eaten all your vegetables!!

Thanks for biking to practice once a week! So proud of your carbon-footprint awareness!!!!

Good job! Your geography diorama is amazing!!!

Congrats to our Science Fair participant!!

All our best wishes to the Chess Club second alternate!!!

But why limit this to the joys of early childhood and school highlights. Surely there are lifelong moments that don’t get their due as we linger in the card aisle. How about these:

Way to go! Heard you purchased your burial plot!

Congratulations on finding that loose change in the sofa!

Great news! You read nine complete New Yorker's this year!

Wow! Super pedicure!

World's Best Junk Drawer Organizer!!! Way to go!!

To my dearest friend: I could barely tell about your Botox. Nice!!

And my favorite:

So happy for you! You’ve had your last period!!!

Once again, I'm falling back on my fallback. There are two kinds of people in the world: people who buy "we're so happy for you and your potty" cards and people who are endlessly amused by people who buy "we're so happy for you and your potty" cards.

If only there were an escape from this. (Read on. See what I did there?)

You can’t make this up.

Well, you could but no one would believe you. This, I promise you, is entirely true.

As I drove home from work today, I thought: “Wow! I guess I don’t remember falling down and hitting my head very, very hard during the earthquake this afternoon. Because there is no way what I’m hearing on the radio could be true.” Through the magic of technology and satellite radio, I pulled over, replayed it a few times, and jotted down every word.

You may recall the song, Escape, the inexplicable number one pop hit from Rupert Holmes that told the lovely little story of an adorable couple who were bored and unhappy together. The man discovers a classified ad – match.com for the twentieth century – from a woman looking for love; a woman who sounds like she just may be the answer to his dreary, mundane relationship. He writes his own horrifying little response to her and suggests they meet in a bar where – surprise!!!!! – he encounters his wife instead. And no, it doesn’t turn ugly and accusatory. Instead, they’re equally amused by each other’s deception and rediscover that they simply love each other to pieces. (Please. I just read the lyrics again and it’s even more horrible than I remember. Detested it in 1979 and I detest it still.)

In a moment of marketing genius, I have to admit this: Ashley Madison.com could not have chosen a more appropriate tune than Escape to deliver its singular message of cheating, deception and the right approach to attracting someone other than your spouse. It’s the perfect subconscious musical cue to forty, fifty and sixty-somethings, committed to having an affair. So without further ado, I give you: the new Ashley Madison.com jingle, sung (sort of) to the tune of “Escape.”

My wife’s on Ashley Madison, looking hot as hell.

And I would totally hit that, if I didn’t know her so well.

My wife’s on Ashley Madison, I guess it’s something she needs to do.

I’d be a lot more bothered, if I weren’t there, too.

“ ______.”

To quote a favorite colleague: Christ on a bike.

If you’ve read this blog even occasionally in the past, you may recall how I feel about AM.com and her detractors. If you want to catch up, try this and this.

All that said, and all those prior posts notwithstanding, I’m kind of stunned by this jingle. Let’s review, shall we?

Leaving aside the fact that a man finds his wife’s profile on a website dedicated to matching up one cheating spouse with someone else also in a committed relationship, and his first reaction is that she looks “hot as hell”…

Leaving aside his charming expression of his own attraction to her – “I would totally hit that” - before he disparages her personality…

Leaving aside the fact that after finding her profile and then dismissing her, his only additional reaction is little more than a virtual shrug: “I guess it’s something she needs to do.”…

Leaving aside the idea that he isn’t going to cast the first stone since he is also featured there…

I am almost speechless that the text includes the correct use of the subjunctive mood: “…if I weren’t there, too.” You just don’t find that construction very often in advertising.

You also rarely find this: a promise you can take to the bank. Ashley Madison doesn’t quibble: Where affairs are guaranteed. Finally. A company with some integrity.

I keep telling myself that more than halfway counts as almost there. Right?

Fully seven months into the year, I haven’t yet given up on the run. (For first-time readers, I’ve committed to making a virtual run from my home in Pennsylvania to Toronto, Canada, a total of about 450 miles, this calendar year.) I’m on track to make it to my destination – sort of – by the end of December. In fact, I’ll probably overshoot it to some degree. All of this defies any rational explanation since my running history up until about a year ago was non-existent and my form, style and ability as a runner are not only severely limited, they too, are basically non-existent.

So where am I? As of the end of July, I was somewhere in the neighborhood of Smith’s Corner, NY, approximately 288 miles from home. In case you haven’t been there, Smith’s Corner is near Griffith Corners, NY. It’s also just more than eight miles from Frink’s Corner, NY. And, why yes, it’s just about ten miles from Plants Corner, NY. What exactly makes up all these corners and what they’re on the corner of is beyond me but they sound charming, don’t they? Wasn’t the name of the place in ‘Our Town’ a corner??? Grover’s Corner, maybe? I love the Americana, the small town charm, the Andy-of- Mayberry of it all.

I also learned that there are no less than seven mobile home parks in the area. I’m not sure if these corners and the nearly housing developments are related.

All I can say for myself is that I really can’t give it up now and I don’t think I will. I’m more than halfway in every way!!! Only five months left to the end of the year with only 161 miles left to go. That sounds so reasonable. Although even imagining that sounds like a reasonable distance and a reasonable amount of time still sounds unreasonable to (non-runner) me.

I’ve tried to figure out why this seems to be the time of my life when I’ve finally committed to running for fitness and health. The expected answers don’t quite get to the truth of the matter. Sure, I want a healthier cholesterol level and a reasonable blood pressure reading. I want to avoid the diabetes that my mother encountered in her fifties and has lived with for the past thirty years. I want to lose some weight (always.) But none of those goals or reasons are particularly new.

No, the more the miles add up, the more I realize the purpose for this year’s run. Although to be honest, the purpose behind it is an illusion, really: An illusion of control. More and more, it feels like there is so little I can control in my life. Even more disturbing: could I ever? Was it all an illusion?

But this is true: I do control the numbers I put on my running log. I control the intensity of the run. To a large degree, I control the frequency and the distance of each run. I say “to a large degree” because even when I say I’m going to quit, I never do; and I almost always make the minimum I’ve set for myself for that day. I’m largely in control of my own mind as I rack up the miles and stay committed to this number and virtual trip.

And thank God for it. Control over my running feels like all I have these days.

More on this – on a related but different topic – to come.

On kites, kids and college: Hold on. Let go. The perfect combination.

For every parent packing up their own personal BBBBB (Best Buy / Bed Bath Beyond) for a son or daughter about to move out and begin a college career: hang in there. You did your best - most of the time anyway - and now you need to step away.

What follows is a piece that may speak to you. It's been a few years since I published it but maybe it will give you a little something to think about as you make the transition. So if I could offer a word or two, it would be these: Hold tight. Let go.

Enjoy.

For many years, one of our annual summer vacation rituals was kite-flying on the beach. We’d arrive just as dusk was on its way out and nightfall on its way in. For years, we guided the kites our boys held in anticipation of the perfect breeze. Some nights, we found that perfect combination of air, string and nylon that resulted in soaring specks of color in the night sky. Other times, we couldn’t seem to catch the wind, or we pulled too tightly on the string and crashed the kites into the sand, or we somehow lost the string altogether and watched our kites drift away and out of reach.

We still carry on that ritual, mostly for my niece who is younger than her cousins and enjoys our mini-kite festival every year. (Lately, my boys, their dad and their uncles toss around a football while my sister and I wrestle the kites into the air.) The thing is, even when we’re successful, and one or more of our kites have reached a high point, we turn to each other and ask: now what? Hold that thought.

Last week, we moved our oldest child into college. Because I can’t seem to relax about managing all the details about situations like this, I spent a lot of time leading up to moving day checking off lists and times and logistics about the process. I spent almost no time checking on myself and the new place I would move into once our son left home.

So we packed and then unpacked. Plugged in and wired up everything, made a bed, hung up clothes and found a new place for the bits and pieces of his life that he carried with him. We met the young man - the stranger - who would share the dorm room and possibly share a lifelong friendship with him. We met his parents, too, and tried to answer, in a matter of twenty minutes, these questions: who they were, what they believed, how they raised their son and whether or not they were people of character and principles. (I told you I couldn’t relax about stuff like this.) Thankfully, my first impressions told me the following: friendly, approachable, bright people, who held the same values in terms of education and love of the arts. They raised a polite young man, who was clearly dedicated to his studies, and they were committed to supporting him to help him succeed.

As the moving in ended and the moving on began, my son and I hugged goodbye – and spent an extra couple of seconds hanging on while we did. Then, just eighteen and half years after he arrived, my oldest son walked away in one direction and I in another.

A few months ago, I received an email from a friend who read a column I wrote about my children growing up. In it, Joanne artfully expressed the challenge we all face in raising our children. She reminded me that raising children is kind of like flying a kite: hold on too tightly, and a kite doesn’t get very far. Give it too much slack too soon, before the wind has really caught hold and it can move freely without danger, and it comes crashing to the ground. But when you can find that perfect ratio of give and take while holding the string that connects you and the kite, it soars almost effortlessly into the sky.

I experienced the “too much slack vs. too tight” ratio last week during the move into college. In fact, it almost felt like I dropped the string. I gave my son a generous amount of freedom. He was ready for it; it was the right time to set him on his own path. He took off; maybe with a bit of shakiness at first, but he’s soaring now.

The kite is airborne. Which brings the inevitable question: now what? I don’t have that answer yet. Maybe we just enjoy the flight. We watch the kite flutter, and even dive a bit from time to time. We help it move ever higher, and keep letting that string out even more, more than I would have ever believed would be possible. We watch it climb and dance and create its own path as it crosses the universe – and are amazed.

But we never quite let it go.

A pantyliner just for you. And you. And you.

Before I get into my latest incrankulous marketing moment, let’s get a brief refresher on 21st century western civilization. Specifically, we have the following television programs assaulting us on a regular basis, in the name of entertainment:

Keeping Up with the Kardashians

Real Housewives of Everywhere You Can Think Of

Holly’s World

My Super Sweet Sixteen

Teen Mom

16 and Pregnant

Jersey Shore

Skins

Bad Girls Club

The Girls Next Door


If I wanted to label these very generously, I could put them all in the “isn’t giving everyone a chance to express themselves a wonderful thing?” bucket. I could put them in the enlightened and forgiving “no barriers, no rules, no judgments” bucket. Or I could add them to the “Lighten up, Francis” bucket.

On the other hand, I could use my fallback, overused phrase that too often captures my feelings: we’re doomed.

If you aren’t familiar with most of these shows, congratulations and hope you’re enjoying C-SPAN, Rick Steves and the Nat Geo channel. I’ll admit I’ve never watched a single episode of any of these programs but I know enough about them to know they’re base and juvenile. They’re mindless distractions full of caricatures masquerading as real people.

But that’s not really what this post is about. I’ve listed some of cable’s most offensive, lurid, unprincipled (and most popular!!) shows to put some context around a recent marketing program from Kotex. It's built around something called U by Kotex Tween line, products that are no doubt an attempt to encourage proper spelling among adolescent girls. Kidding. The pads and liners are designed to fit a young girl’s smaller shape comfortably. Got it. As a woman who remembers the “belt” required in the old days (How hideous and dark-ages were they?), I applaud the good sense that resulted in these products. Unfortunately, the good sense may end there.

The pads also include “tween-inspired” designs and the package has glitter on it. I don’t know what tween inspired designs are. Perhaps they’ve added a silhouette of Justin Bieber to the pad itself. Or a shimmering Edward Cullen. Turns out they’re colorful hearts and flowers and swirls. I’ve always believed that getting your period isn’t exactly a designer moment and not one bit of glitter will make it more festive. But I’m not in marketing at Kotex and maybe this initiative will add more fun to the entire experience, at least for tweens.

Brief aside 1: I want Kotex to introduce “woman-of-a-certain-age” inspired designs on pantyliners. (They can skip the package glitter.) I’m thinking a Colin Firth / Hugh Jackman / Josh Holloway / Hugh Grant / Brad Pitt combo pack would do it.

Brief aside 2: And as long as they’re adding a design, they can add a little microchip, similar to the kind that get embedded in greeting cards these days. You can imagine this, right? Believe me, there were times in my life where I would have celebrated the arrival of my period by opening up a pad that played “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Right? You would have, too, admit it.

Back to Kotex and their tween products. Here’s the part of the marketing story that really startled me. Keeping in mind the list of programs that introduced this post, programs that reach everyone who has basic cable or a satellite dish, you may be surprised to learn the following statistics, courtesy of the Kotex research:

One in three young girls has no idea what’s happening when she gets her first period. One in three. Has NO IDEA. Disturbing.

Four out of five Moms feel “only somewhat or not at all” prepared to talk to their daughter about her changing body. Four out of five. That’s 80%. “Only somewhat.” Or “NOT AT ALL.”

What? How is this possible? I can’t figure out what’s so complex or confounding about being “prepared” to talk with your daughter. How could it be that when we had exactly twelve channels on our television sets and no Google, no “Real World” and no daycare centers in the local high schools, our mothers found a way to inform themselves – and us - about our changing bodies? They handed over that belt, that enormous pad, designed very specifically to fit every woman on the planet, and then explained that we were growing up. I don’t think my mother felt over-prepared or under-prepared to discuss this rite of passage with her three daughters. As I remember it, she was calm, pragmatic and factual. Very little drama, with just the right amount of “you’re growing up!!” emotion on her part.

I can only assume that about 30% of the tween girls who watch “16 and Pregnant” don’t learn one thing about menstruation and conception and pregnancy. Isn’t there at least one moment in every episode where the young mother explains the failure of her birth control, the absence of her period and the confirmation of her pregnancy? Certainly this chain of events would prompt a question or two from the audience. Then again, maybe that explains “16 and Pregnant.” Maybe no one is asking, nor answering, questions.

In typical 21st century fashion, Kotex has turned to the web to refresh their message and help inform and yes, empower, mom to “pick her day to talk to her daughter about her first period.” God forbid moms didn’t feel empowered to do so. The press release I read included this nugget: “…Kimberly Clark believes informing moms and tweens on the topic is the right thing to do because so many are unprepared for menstruation and reaching tweens at this age can mean building strong relationships for life.”

Translation: “We want young girls to use Kotex products from day one so they use them for the next forty years.” Fair enough. Product loyalty is key and every marketer wants a customer for life. But the part about “so many” being unprepared is confusing. Then again, their research and statistics seem to indicate everyone is confused: the girls, one third of whom are uninformed at best and terrified at worst when they get their first period; and their moms, 80% of whom are “somewhat” or “not at all” prepared to discuss menstruation with their daughters.

The only good news I found in this story was that no experts or advisors used the phrase “teachable moment.”

I can only wonder if Trojan has been watching this product launch with interest. What’s next? Condoms with "ink" on them? Condoms covered with team logos? I can’t wait to read about that campaign.

Oh, and P.S. Kotex just wrapped up a “design your own pad” contest. More on this in another post. Honestly, it’s just too nonsensical to add this discussion.

Six months in. Six to go.

This post is overdue and apologies to anyone who may have wondered about my whereabouts. (Thanks to those who sent a note! Very kind of you.)

No, I haven’t given up on the run, and no one is more surprised than I. In fact, I found myself more than on track as I hit the six-month mark. We’ll see what the next six months bring in terms of time, health and stamina.

I’m somewhere near Dansville, NY, which as far as I can tell from Google, is the nation’s number one spot near something else. And if I were more of an “outdoor” girl, I’d be delighted to find myself living there on a year round basis. From the town’s Chamber of Commerce, I learned the following (bold my own):

Just five minutes south of the Village is Stony Brook State Park with 130 trailer and tent sites. Letchworth State Park—the “Grand Canyon of the East”—with its breathtaking waterfalls, can be found 15 minutes to the west. Dansville also has three other major campgrounds in the immediate area.

Fishing, boating and hunting, and snowmobiling are in ample supply in the surrounding hillsides and nearby lakes and streams. Swain and Bristol ski & snowboard centers are both within 30 minutes of Dansville offering ample winter recreational activities.

Dansville is surrounded by fertile farmland, rolling wooded hillsides, lakes, streams and is adjacent to the southern part of Livingston County. With a population of around 6,000 Dansville offers small town charm, yet is near some of New York State's largest cities. [Rochester - 45 miles north; Buffalo - 65 miles to the northwest, Corning - 60 miles to the south. Let’s face it, when you’re in upstate NY, an hour plus drive to somewhere else is around the corner.]

Located near the scenic Finger Lakes, Dansville offers numerous attractions year round. Nearby are Letchworth (The Grand Canyon of the East) and Stony Brook State Parks, SUNY-Geneseo, SUNY Alfred, Alfred University, Wineries and Ski resorts.

Brief aside: Just as when I "ran" near Clark's Summit, PA, my past beckons. I had clients near Alfred, NY about twenty three years ago and drove here to see them and spent time in the area. I remember stopping into a drugstore / coffee shop at the time. [In the dark ages, there were no Starbucks in every hamlet in America and almost every store or restaurant was by default, "local."] There were coffee cups of all kinds hanging on hooks behind the counter and I asked about them. The woman there told me her customers - the people in the town - just leave their own mugs in the restaurant so when they come in, they each use their own over and over again. Makes everything easier on everyone. The staff knows everyone by name and by coffee mug. I kind of love that. [If anyone knows if this place is still around, in or near Alfred, NY, I'd love to hear about it.]

So here it is by the numbers as of July 1:

239+ miles complete

210+ to go to reach

Goal: 450(ish) from Allentown to Toronto(ish).

I’m ahead of my pace by about 14 miles, which I still can’t quite explain. And July has started out strong. If my back, knees and hips hold out, I’ll be in good shape to finish on time and reach my numbers.

And what have I learned? That I’m not a “natural” runner. Every mile, while not torturous, isn’t entirely enjoyable. Shouldn't it get easier? Or more fun? (I'm really asking. If anyone has any wisdom here, I'd appreciate hearing it.) My timing has picked up and I’m mostly back to my regular pace – running 3.25 miles in about 34 minutes. At my age, and given my lifelong history of non-athletic pursuits, I think that's respectable. Reminded myself this month a few times that running with music results in a longer and faster run. Added The Princess Bride and Toy Story 3 to my TV running playlist. Acknowledged once again the relentlessly sentimental Irish genes in me (thank you, Dad) when I teared up at the end of The Natural and Everybody’s Fine, after catching only the last fifteen or twenty minutes of each.

And on that note, I think I’m being too hard on Dansville. The town hosts the New York State Festival of Balloons every fall, which sounds lovely. It may even have a coffee shop with mugs for everyone in town.

I should have run slower.

Well, I know I'll feel safer in the air, now.

“We are conducting a top to bottom review of the way we operate our air traffic control system. We are all responsible and accountable for safety–from senior FAA leadership to the controller in the tower. Employees at the FAA work diligently every day to run the safest air transportation system in the world. But I will continue to make whatever changes are necessary to ensure we concentrate on keeping the traveling public safe.” FAA Administrator Randy Babbitt, April 16, 2011


“…the agency and the controllers association said they are also working on developing new work schedule "principles" aimed at reducing fatigue. They said those principles will be ready in 14 months if not sooner…” USA Today, July 1, 2011

Clearly, this is getting top priority in terms of research and a plan of action.

In a display of uncommon common sense rarely found in a government agency, the FAA has gone on record with some new rules: air traffic controllers may now listen to music and read "appropriate" materials in order to remain awake and alert during their shifts.

Let’s face it. We have nothing but government agencies in DC. If I had to fix the “sleeping on the job” problems in control towers from coast to coast, I’d turn to at least one of them for some help. Why not try?

From the ‘Glass Is Half-Full’ department: The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) and the National Institutes of Health (NIH) will fund a multi-million dollar study to conduct preliminary, exploratory research to begin to get a rudimentary understanding of the sleep / wake cycles of air traffic controllers. Since they appear to be the only adults in America able to sleep easily and soundly without medical assistance, mimicking the conditions found in air traffic control towers in bedrooms across the country may bring an end to insomnia, or at least teach the rest of us how to grab a nap anytime, anywhere. The researchers expect to publish an abstract of the study sometime in the fall of 2019.

From ‘The Answer Is Right Under Your Nose’ department: The National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) will sponsor a photo contest, where controller’s can post creative, hilarious images of co-workers asleep on the job. Citizens can vote on their favorites on the NEA / ATC fan page on Facebook. Prizes include a year’s supply of Perfect Liquid Protein, plus two gadgets that may help keep the winner alert and responsive: Light Relief Light Therapy and the Sunlight 365, all courtesy of, coincidentally enough, Skymall. The runner-up gets a choice between a packable walking stick and a genuine Handmade Irish Shillelagh, both perfect for awakening a dozing colleague.

From the ‘Turning Lemons Into Lemonade’ department: To keep people awake and alert, and to add some “fun” to the job, the Congressional Budget Office (CBO) will sponsor 24/7 Texas Hold’em Tournament, open only to FAA ATC employees. Players log in and then ante up at the beginning of each shift. If and when an aircraft demands their attention, they sit out a hand or two. Winnings get deposited into PayPal accounts and five percent of each evening’s proceeds will be paid toward reducing the deficit. A CBO spokesperson claims this alone will get the budget into the black in about eleven weeks.


Finally, from the ‘Silver Lining’ department: the White House has expanded its “Let’s Move” initiative into control towers from coast to coast. Controllers can now use a Sit-N Stroll Deluxe, a Spring Flex UB and an ePulse Heart Rate Monitor band to make sure no one overdoes it while they log miles on a stepper and build upper body strength, all while never leaving their desks.

The FAA itself continues to address the problem in that special way only a government agency can: by throwing more money and people at the problem. Now we have two people doing the job of one by adding more personnel to the towers where controllers have fallen asleep. This not only creates more wakefulness, it creates more jobs.

If only the private sector would follow suit – and hire two people to do a one-person job - we’d have everyone back to work in no time.

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.