As the days grow shorter and the nights colder, I'm reminded of what makes me happy, no matter what the season.     
 
Here are three of my favorites right now.

 * Whenever I’m feeling cynical, I head for The New York Times Vows column. 
 
While reporting weddings has been around since the paper’s original issue, in 1851, the publication took a radical turn
in the early 1990s. 
 
That’s when traditional wedding stories—those select few that only profiled couples from blue blood lineage and
old world money—were substituted with very different copy.
 
In its place, the column shifted to weddings about firefighters, office workers, teachers and even a homeless couple. When same sex marriage became legal, the Times also became the first major newspaper in the country to publish notices of gay marriage. 
 
But no matter who’s featured, the emphasis is on the back story.  So besides ceremony details, Vows reports on how
a couple met; their courtship, and the predictable stumbling blocks before reaching the altar.  
 
One of my favorites is the story of Colleen Ryan and David Cleary.  Unaware that they had worked in the same building for five years, and against the laws of probability, the two kept seeing each other for months on buses, in restaurants and in bagel shops.  Finally, suddenly alone in an elevator, they introduced themselves.  I also adored reading about Maureen Sherry and Steven Klinsky, who met one rainy night when Klinsky looked out of the window of a Manhattan cab and ordered the driver to stop after seeing Sherry walking down the sidewalk in tears.  And then there’s 98-year-old Gertrude Mokotoff and 94-year-old Alvin Mann, who met at the gym.
 
Love is love, and Vows keeps my faith in its magic.
 
www.nytimes.com/column/vows
​

 * When I start to think that people don't read books anymore, I remember the Little Free Library movement.
 
It began quietly, a little more than a decade ago, in Wisconsin. 
 
That’s when Todd Bol built a model of a red one-room schoolhouse with a white roof and bell tower, filled it with books and put it on a post in his front yard. A bit larger than a birdhouse, Bol came up with the idea as a tribute to his mother, a schoolteacher who loved to read.  Bol’s neighbors and friends quickly embraced the idea, so he made several more and gave them all away. 
 
It wasn’t very long after that friend Rick Brooks began talking to Bol about ways to expand the idea.
 
Brooks pointed out the positive impact of community gift-sharing networks, especially focusing on the free “take a book, leave a book” collections available at so many coffee houses.  As their conversations continued, Bol and Brooks kept creating and giving away Little Library houses, engraving each with official charter numbers; small grants and informal partnerships helped keep up with the demand.  
 
Then, in 2011, the Little Free Library attracted national media attention.  The growth was astonishing after that: one year later, there were 4,000 Little Free Libraries in neighborhoods across the country.  In 2015, The Little Free Library Book, with chapters detailing the non-profit’s mission, history and instructions for establishing one’s own Little Free Library, was published by Coffee House Press.     
 
Here in my little beach town, there are five Little Free Libraries within a mile of each other; I’m sure there are many more I haven’t found. 
 
Some are simple wooden boxes; others are splashed with rainbows and decorative writing.  Some have mostly children’s books; others are stuffed with adult novels. I’ve borrowed a book or two, especially liking the fact that I can keep one as long as I want (even forever, but I hope no one does).  I’ve also contributed paperbacks that I no longer need; I like the idea of someone in my community having the chance to enjoy them.  
 
Todd Bol passed away last month. 
 
But in his final days, Bol remained dedicated to the mission of the Little Free Library.  
 
“I really believe in a Little Free Library on every block and a book in every hand,” he said.  “I believe people can
fix their neighborhoods, fix their communities, develop a system of sharing, learn from each other, and see that
they have a better place on this planet to live.”
 
https://littlefreelibrary.org/


​* If you were around in the 1970s and loved great television comedy, you stayed home every Saturday night. You had to—because that’s when The Mary Tyler Moore Show came on. 
 
Moore—only a few years from playing Dick Van Dyke’s stay-at-home wife Laura Petrie—starred as Mary Richards,
a 30something, independent woman who moved to Minneapolis and found work as a news producer at fictional WJM-TV.  A central female character who wasn’t married; dependent on a man, and not a virgin was a rarity then, and viewers lapped it up. 
 
But the other characters, realistic and complex as well, made the show shine, too.   
 
For those actors who played them, the roles meant instant fame and for many, their first steady paychecks. 
Edward Asner was Richards’ boss Lou Grant; Valerie Harper played neighbor Rhoda Morgenstern, and Ted Knight
was dim bulb news anchor Ted Baxter. Stars of the future, including Henry Winkler, Bruce Boxleitner and
Peter Strauss, showed up in small, one-time only parts.  And while the show was a comedy, topics included
infertility, divorce and addiction. 
 
I was a sophomore in high school when The Mary Tyler Moore Show premiered, and I never missed an episode. 
Mary Richards’ life, one of dinner parties, interesting men and a satisfying job, was something I wanted to have, too.  But I also loved Richards’ vulnerability—best seen in my favorite episode, Put on A Happy Face, where everything that can go wrong does go wrong in the course of one week.  
 
Watching today, there’s also a certain quaintness about the show.  Richards used a manual typewriter, and the newsroom’s archives are all stored, in alphabetical order, in cream colored file folders.  Of course, there was no Internet, microwaves or voice mail.  Nonetheless, the show still resonates, and more often than not, has me laughing
out loud. 
 
All of the seasons are available on Hulu, but most of the episodes can also be viewed free on YouTube.    
 
www.hulu.com/series/the-mary-tyler-moore-show-00122c74-2b9f-451c-8cfd-8d130fcb10d6
 
 
What makes you happy these days?   

​

​So many jobs that teenagers used to get hired to do in The Olden Days—without a hint of irony, this is how my daughter refers to my wanton youth—have vanished.  
 
At least in our sweet beach town, I’ve never seen an actual bicycle riding paperboy.  It appears that this rise-at-dawn, you’ll-get-a-ton-of-exercise task is now being done by middle aged adults in sensible vans, probably because they’re struggling to make ends meet since living wages are becoming as rare as an affordable house.  The same seems to be true for pulling weeds and pushing lawnmowers.  And thanks to automation, I also haven’t noticed any teen pinsetters in any bowling alleys I’ve visited in the last decade.      
 
Still, there was one young person gig I couldn’t imagine ever going away. 
 
That was the pizza delivery guy (or gal).
 
Usually a local high school senior or a community college student, usually driving an okay car still able to toot its way around the hood, the hours are flexible, and the tips make it a pretty good deal.  In fact, delivering pies was one of the first jobs a neighbor’s son scored, and he liked it okay.  During one four-hour shift, he told me he’d once pocketed $92. 
 
But now, Domino’s—the second largest pizza business in the United States, its annual gross sales are $8 billion—wants to take even this job away. 
 
Yup, as I write this, the cheesy pepperoni giant is in the midst of a six week experiment—delivering pizzas without drivers to customers in Ann Arbor, Michigan, home of its corporate headquarters.
 
Here’s how it works.
 
For selected pizza lovers, their round meal arrives in a special gussied up Ford Fusion equipped with radar and a camera, but no one gets out of the car. (For now, a Ford engineer is behind the wheel, but the front windows are blacked out to guarantee zero interaction.)  When their pizza is ready, customers must instead leave their couches and TV remotes behind, go out the door, and meet the car at curbside.
 
Once at the special black and white car, they next type a four-digit code into an exterior car keypad.  After that’s done, a magic rear window opens and allows customers to pick up their order from a specially-heated compartment.  Customers are chosen randomly, and receive a phone call if they want to participate.  If they decide to try it out, they’ll then get a text letting them know the car is about to pull up. 
 
There’s more: in the years ahead, not even a four-wheeled vehicle may be needed. That’s because the company is also testing delivery using—wait for it—drones.  
 
These kind of no-humans-involved transactions seem pretty odd to this Girl Clown.
 
Then I remember that the future has always included leaving jobs behind.
 
Indeed, a quick Google search of once important jobs that are now obsolete—and yikes, some were around when I was well into adulthood—yielded more than a few examples.
 
There was the lector, a person hired to read out loud to cigar makers while the latter did their repetitive work.  Paid via the pooled wages of the workers, he would sit in a chair on a raised platform so that most of the laborers could hear him read whatever requests were offered up to him.  And if you’ve seen any movies about the old timey newspaper business, you’ll for sure have seen someone playing a copy boy—essentially, an errand runner in charge of delivering news and press releases to reporters and editors on deadline, usually ripped from clattering wire news services machines.  
 
Other non-existent jobs of yesterday include lamplighters, persons who manually lit the gas lamps that used to line
city streets, and ice men, who delivered blocks of ice to homes with ice boxes (also known as the first refrigerators).  
There were also Dictaphone operators, most often secretaries who would transcribe memos and letters that had
been dictated into a machine by her boss.  About the size of a bulky shoe box, it was a device, in fact, that I had
to master in the mid-1980s.
 
And while we’re at it, let’s get into the iPhone.
 
Seemingly single handedly, these can’t-leave-home-without-it devices haven’t just replaced switchboard operators.  They’ve also superseded folks who used to manufacture and sell alarm clocks, timers, flashlights, calculators, photo albums, address books, day planners, video cameras, maps and a lot more stuff that I can’t think of right now.  Sooner than later, I’m expecting a Zippo lighter, fly swatter and luxe Swiss army knife to be part of the package, too.  
 
But it’s not all that bleak.
 
That’s because for every job that isn’t around anymore, another and often better job slides into its place.
 
So, if the Dominos experiment works, there could potentially be tens of thousands of test vehicles on the road, and that will take more designers and engineers, not to mention state-of-the-art mechanics, radar and camera technicians who need to be on hand to service all of those cars.
 
And while there aren’t any more lectors, there are certainly a lot of stand-up comedians doing their shtick out loud at clubs (whose owners hire managers, food preparers, bouncers, servers, busboys and bartenders) around the world.  
 
Moving on to the extinct copy boy, the Internet has instead exploded with all sorts of jobs that have everything to do with writing, editing and managing news sites, blogs and other information driven web site addresses.  And there are some well-paying careers that are completely brand new, such as those in renewable energy; advanced robotics, and all manner of computer coding, support and development. (The latter could be exactly where today’s teenager might be happiest anyway.)  
 
It’s a brave and sometimes scary new world out there, for sure. 
 
There’s one more thing.
 
I want to take part in at least some of this—because once I stop learning, I’ll stop living.
 
Have you, or a friend or family member, ever had a job that’s now obsolete?  I look forward to your comments
​and stories!  

(Note:  Given that millions of kids are starting school this month, I thought this would be a timely topic for my first September post.)
  
Once upon a time, we were feared and reviled.
 
Yet out of the entire population of the world—7.5 billion and counting—there are still 900 million of us out here. 
And while it seems that the latter number is a pretty hefty one, it’s really just 12 percent of the populace. 
 
However, we also aren’t going away anytime soon.  In fact, our numbers are growing.
 
Yup, I’m left-handed.
 
In other words, I’m also known as a southpaw and lefty; other names we’ve been called are clumsy, awkward and even perverse. And let’s not forget the festive phrase “left-handed compliment,” which means taking pleasure in what otherwise is a mistake. 
 
Luckily, I was well into adulthood when I discovered that not so long ago—and still around in some places today—being left-handed was thought to be an affliction.
 
My own, positive memory is crystal clear. 
 
I am almost five years old, and rays of sunlight are pouring into our first grade classroom from the solid wall of windows, yes, to my left.  Miss Kelly has handed out those chunky yellow pencils, perfect for tiny hands and fingers.  We also have one sheet of butcher-thin paper on our desks, the kind with broken blue lines to indicate where to draw
the alphabet.
 
“Pick up your pencil in the hand that feels most comfortable to you,” says Miss Kelly. 
 
I’m in the back and don’t think twice; it just feels easy and good to use my left hand. When I look up a few minutes later, I’m surprised that everyone around me is writing with their right hand.  Silently, I think, “Oh, that’s interesting,” but that’s about all.  (Still, in our very right-hand world, I long ago learned to use this “other” hand for many tasks, including ironing clothes, using a computer mouse and scrubbing floors.)   
 
But others, including my father and The Hubster, had very different experiences. 
 
My right-handed dad—born in 1919—curled his hand into a painful looking, claw-like “C” shape whenever he had to write anything down.  When I asked my mother why he held his hand the way he did, she said that he had been forced as a child to do so.  There were no other details. 
 
As for my music educator husband, his mother and her four sisters were all left-handed and he was, too.  But at the Catholic elementary school he attended in the 1950s, writing this way was considered—and he was told this, flat out—evil.  That said, he says that not only has he learned to live with the adjustment forced on him, he has benefitted from
it.  “I found it quite easy,” he says, “to learn to play many musical instruments that require small motor skills from
both hands.”  
 
But the blame shouldn’t fall completely on those long-ago teachers and nuns. 
 
After all, they were only ascribing to all of the folklore and superstitions about the awfulness of being left-handed—tales, it turns out, that have been around for thousands of years. 
 
For instance, the forever landlord of Hell—the Devil—has long been portrayed, both in stories and pictures, as being left-handed.  As a matter of fact, it was said that he baptized followers with his left hand.  Indeed, in France, witches there greeted the Prince of Darkness with their left hand. 
 
Superstitions include the belief that if your right palm itches, you’ll receive money.  But beware if your left palm needs to be scratched, because then you’ll be giving money away.  Some also believe that it’s bad luck to pass a drink to another person with your left hand. 
 
And when it comes to the tradition of wearing one’s wedding ring on our left ring finger, there’s a reason for that, too.  It seems that the ancient Greeks and Romans believed that wearing the marital band in this spot fended off the evils associated with the left hand.           
 
I sort of see where these beliefs may have started.
 
Because, what do you know, there are several studies that show that we lefties are prone to learning disabilities that the rest of the population doesn’t share.
 
One, conducted in Australia in 2009, concluded that left-handed children performed worse than right-handers when it came to vocabulary, reading, writing, social development, and gross and fine motor skills.  More recently, in 2013, a Yale investigation boasted scarier statistics: its research claimed that we are at a much greater risk for ADHD, mood disorders and dyslexia.  Here, scientists also found that a full 40 percent of patients with schizophrenia, or similar brain disorders, wrote with their left hands.  Others swear that those with autism tend to favor their left.     
 
On the other hand (pun intended), a whole lot of Very Cool People are left-handed.
 
There’s Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr, as well as Oprah Winfrey, Seth Rogan and Jon Stewart.   Surprising to me, a disproportionate number of our Presidents have also been left handed; we’ve had eight in the White House, including George H. Bush, Bill Clinton and Barack Obama (for the record, Donald Trump is not).  And, I also think our numbers are increasing—from four percent in 1920 to 12 percent today—not because there are really more of us.  Rather, my theory is that it has more to do with the fact that those born writing with this hand are pretty much no longer being forced to make a change.  
 
One more thing.
 
I’m honored to be on this list.   Heck, I’ve always been a little quirky (although I would hope, especially for friends
and family, that it’s in the best sort of way), and being a southpaw—excuse another pun here—fits right into my
Girl Clown narrative. 
 
Just as snugly as a left-handed baseball mitt.   
 
What are your thoughts about left handedness and left-handed people?  I look forward to your stories and comments!
 
P.S.  Yes, it’s true: we lefties even have our very own yearly holiday.  Find out more, at
http://www.lefthandersday.com/. 

My regular person wasn’t around, which meant I needed to find someone else who was. 
 
Yup, I was looking for an I-like-gardening type who was willing to pull weeds ($12 an hour, cash), and who also had the muscle—helming a wheelbarrow with shovel—to spread lots of mulch around my large corner lot.  
 
The latter area is a gently sloping hill, and is mostly filled in—lots of thickly growing ice plant (I called them freeway flowers as a little girl)—with a smattering of pink geraniums, wild roses and jasmine.  
 
I can use this kind of labor every three months or so, and for a long time, the woman who did it all was amazing.  She showed up on time; followed directions exactly, and always had a smile for me.   
 
The down side is that she’s what we once called a hobo.
 
By choice, she has no car, no phone and no watch. Once, after asking if I had an extra can opener (I did), she plopped down in my dirt driveway and ate lunch—peachy-hued salmon out of a tin can.  The only way I can contact her is via two cell numbers; one belongs to a friend, who seems to roam as much as she does, and the other is the number for her grown daughter, a full-time student whose life is way more mainstream.   
 
The daughter always tells me that she’ll pass on my request as soon as she hears from her mom.  We think she’s busy picking avocados up and down our California coast right now, but we aren’t sure.
 
This led me back to square one, but I thought I lucked out when a neighbor told me about someone she had used. 
 
I called him and we had a good conversation.  A few more texts and a few days later, he showed up and we met in person.  As it turned out, he had another landscaping job that day—probably one that entailed more money—so, he introduced me to a buddy who had come with him, and then left.  That man did a great job. 
 
But I will never ever call the first man again.
 
That’s because he crossed a line, big-time, within 30 seconds after greeting me.
 
We shook hands first. 
 
Then he said, “Okay, honey.  I’m here, so just show me what you want, honey.”  He repeated this endearment at least two more times in the same number of minutes.  Not only did him addressing me this way feel unsettling, it also felt demeaning, creepy and sexist. 
 
I’d like to tell you that I immediately stood up to him.  I’d also like to tell you that I did so by locking my pair of steely eyes on him, and in no uncertain terms, ordering him to cut it out.
 
But I can’t tell you either of these things because I didn’t do either of them.
 
However, after giving him instructions of what needed to be done—but with my back turned away—I did say, “Don’t call me that.”
 
“Oh, are you okay?” he replied, starting to follow closely behind me. “Is everything all right?”
 
I got to my front door, still unable to face him, and mumbled, “Yeah, it’s fine.  I just don’t like to be called that.”
 
For someone who considers herself to be a very good journalist who has rarely been afraid to ask questions, as well as
a feminist who minored in women’s studies in college, I’ll admit this:  it wasn’t fine at all.  Moreover, I’m ashamed of
my behavior. 
 
While I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, I also know that I’m from an old-timey generation that doesn’t much believe in women making a lot of noise, much less a lot of fuss, when men say things that make us feel uncomfortable.   
 
In fact—and I’m embarrassed to admit this now—when I was a young teenager, I was flattered when a man whistled
​at me.
 
Then, why was my gut screaming that I needed a steam cleaning after he used this endearment over and over?  Had I been too sensitive about it all?  Maybe I should have acted like a duck, and let his name for me roll off my back like water?
 
I wasn’t sure.
 
So, hoping for feedback, I went on Facebook and posted an abbreviated version of what had transpired.  I then asked if it was okay for this near stranger, one whom I had hired to work for me, to address me the way he had.
 
I received more than a dozen comments, nearly all of them from women, and I’m happy to report that most everyone felt like me.
 
Comments ranged from “Not cool at all!” and “Demeaning and sexist… educate him,” to “One of my pet peeves!  I’m not your honey!!!!” and “Definitely not okay.”  Another female friend jokingly wrote that I could have defused the situation by calling the man “dollface” after the man called me what he had.  (The Hubster’s response to this: “Well, that could have been a powder keg.”  On this, I agree.)
 
Three men responded as well.
 
One, a fellow Clown College alum who is still actively clowning around, seemed to think the gardener in question deserved some wiggle room. Different cultures, he wrote, have different ways of seeing things.  “I deal with this all of the time when performing for different nationalities,” he wrote. 
 
Another man, one I had worked with on a long-running television show, had so much to say that he commented several times.  First, he wrote, “Great idea to spend your entire day correcting every dude, honey, man, sweetie, buddy and bro.”  (I’m pretty sure he was being sarcastic.)  He then went on to say that over the years, he has lost count of the number of women who have called him honey, “And it’s not a big deal.  They are some of the nicest people I’ve ever met.” 
 
The last man, a friend I’d met on another TV show, said the entire scenario was a tough call all around.  He explained that in Texas and parts of the South, “It’s an endearing term, not meant as demeaning or harassment.  But I guess in California, it’s no, huh?”
 
The answer to that question is a resounding yes. 
 
In fact, here’s a simple rule to follow if you’re on the West Coast and meeting a woman for the first time.  And nope, it doesn’t matter how young or old said female is; what she looks like, or even what the circumstances are.
 
Address her by her name.
 
They call me Hilary.
 
What do you think?  Was it okay for a semi-stranger to keeping calling me “honey?”  I look forward to your comments!

​In another life, when I was a spanking new college grad and took the F train from Brooklyn to Manhattan every weekday, I had this boss.
 
Just a tad older than yours truly, David always arrived before me and always left after me.  Not only that, he wrote books—swashbuckling sci-fi yarns that actually got published.  Our assignments weren’t easy-peasy, so I knew he wasn’t penning these manuscripts during the day. 
 
After he told me he worked on them at night, I asked him when he slept.
 
“Sleep?” he said, somewhat bemused at my naiveté.     
 
“Sleep!  I never sleep!  You’re kidding, right?  Who sleeps in New York?”
 
I still remember this story when I think that even today, living in a sweet little beach town, I find it difficult to relax.
 
It’s not that I can’t make the time.
 
While there are always chores and errands to run, I no longer have a small child to attend to.  The Hubster is also perfectly capable of taking care of himself (although when it’s time to sew on buttons, iron shirts and fix dinner, I’m the more capable one).  I also have the huge blessing of no longer needing to work full time.  
 
Yet I still make to-do lists—either on a legal pad, or in the tiny pink notebook nestled in my purse, or even in my head—every day.  (And for those who believe that living in a beach town means living in a bubble, it doesn’t. That’s especially true now, when things to do always include calling and emailing and sending postcards to my elected representatives.) 
 
And why is it that when those tasks are not accomplished, I somehow feel not just not industrious, but lazy and guilty?
 
It’s not because I don’t know how important it is to take time off for my mind, body and most important, spirit.  That’s the reason I’m doing my best to enjoy my grown up coloring book; getting to the library more, and trying to take one day of rest every week, otherwise known as a stop day. 
 
Yet, perhaps I still feel restless because I’m realizing that no one’s mortality is infinite, most especially mine.  
 
(The Hubster noted my fidgety nature early on.  For our first Christmas together, he presented me with a hummingbird ornament.  “This,” he said, “is your spirit animal.”) 
 
After all, we all have such little time on this planet. 
 
Thinking about that, there’s no way I’ll ever get around to reading everything I want to read; writing everything I want to write, and seeing every movie I want to see.  There’s also little chance that I’ll be able to travel to all of the places I daydream about.
 
So instead of trying so hard to make every day a “full one,” maybe it’s time to give some wiggle room to my definition of “being productive” and “getting things done.”
 
This needed adjustment became even clearer when I recently read about New York City police detective
Steven McDonald.
 
In the summer of 1986, McDonald was a 29-year-old cop who had been a patrolman for less than two years.  Working for the NYPD was more than a job: it was family tradition, with both his grandfather and father once serving on the same city police force.  It was also a time when the Big Apple was struggling with soaring rates of homicide—nearly 6,000 murders that year.  (In 2016, there were 335.)
 
On July 12, the world that McDonald knew came to an abrupt end.   
 
Patrolling Central Park on that sunny day, McDonald was shot by a 15-year-old teenager named Shavod Jones. The kid fired twice at the officer, then, standing over McDonald’s crumpled body, shot a third time.  
 
“A doctor spoke to my wife and me,” McDonald would later report.  “He said that I would be paralyzed from the neck down.  I would be unable to move for the rest of my life.”  To make matters even worse, McDonald had been married just eight months, and his 23-year-old wife, Patti, was three months pregnant. (Six months and 10 days after the shooting, which was also the day that Jones was sentenced to a maximum of 10 years, son Conor Patrick was born.  A few decades later, he chose to follow his father into the NYPD.  One week after his release from prison, at age 25, Jones died in a motorcycle crash.)    
 
Here comes the part of the story that amazes me:  Steven McDonald forgave Shavod Jones.
 
In fact, remaining on as a first-grade detective, and traveling in a motorized wheelchair and the aid of a respirator to
help him breathe, McDonald dedicated the next three decades to a purposeful path—one that probably didn’t include making to-do lists.
 
Instead, until his death at age 59 earlier this month, McDonald made the choice to speak about love.   
 
He did so by talking to rookie and veteran cops alike, telling them to always think about safety—but to also always
treat everyone with respect and kindness.  He believed that cops could—and do—make a positive difference in people’s lives.  He took the same message to hundreds of schools, and also made pilgrimages of reconciliation to Northern Ireland and the Middle East.  McDonald even kept up a prison correspondence with Jones, who had had a troubled history of delinquency and emotional turmoil. So revered was McDonald that on the day of his funeral, thousands of fellow officers filed into St. Patrick’s Cathedral to pay their respects.
 
There are a myriad of ways to be productive.  I’m still wrapping my head around a lot of this, but maybe, the true definition has little to do with being in constant motion like a hummingbird.  
 
Instead, it might very well mean this: no matter how you choose to spend your time, don’t waste it.
 
What is your definition of productivity?  I’d love to hear your stories and comments! 

​This Girl Clown knows that there are really only two reasons to miss work. 
 
One is to celebrate your birthday. 
 
I’ve felt this way for a long time.  Come to think of it, I probably got the idea that our day of birth should always be the most special day of the year after discovering Dr. Seuss’s classic 1959 book, Happy Birthday to You!  
 
In this magical Technicolor story, a little boy in the land of Katroo (or maybe it’s another planet; that’s never made clear) is whisked away by The Great Birthday Bird.  This feathered friend then takes the child through an enchanted day, including a stop at The Birthday Flower Jungle; a skyway ride pulled by tightrope walking goats, and a dive into the famous  Mustard-Off Pools (after gorging on hot dogs on a spool).
 
Finally, after day is done, The Birthday Bird flies the child home—happier, richer and fatter—snuggled sound asleep in what looks like the comfiest dog bed around.       
 
So if the anniversary of your birth falls on a workday, please, life is too short. 
 
And since very few of us know how many birthdays we have left, play hooky and revel in the things that make you happy.  (Just make sure to plan ahead, and that cake and ice cream are in the mix.)
 
The other reason isn’t festive—as a matter of fact, it’s horrible.     
 
That’s when you’re down with a nasty cold or flu. 
 
Given that there are more than 200 different strains of these viruses waiting to pounce on us at any given time, we’ve all been here.  (Life and death emergencies, of course, are an entirely different ball of wax.)      
 
Now, there are those—and I was once in this arena—who not only come to work feeling achy and out of sorts, but show up hacking and sneezing around everyone in their path.    
 
This is definitely never A Good Thing to Do.
 
I learned this lesson while working on my first television show. 
 
Our offices were in a fancy Hollywood high rise with windows that couldn’t be opened, so we all breathed the same stale, recirculated air. (Who says that working in TV isn’t glamorous?) When a co-worker got really sick, but still came to work, it was guaranteed that I’d catch whatever she had.  Predictably, I soon had her horrible bug, but because it was my first gig of this kind, and I was terrified of being let go, I, too, kept showing up. 
 
When I finally realized that I had to go home, I was too weak to do much on my own.  After not answering my phone for days, my mother drove from my childhood home to fetch me, where she fended off calls from my boss who threatened to fire me; made me eat clean food, and insisted I stay in bed for days on end.    
 
The experience taught me that losing a job (in the end, I didn’t) is far better than losing one’s health. 
 
Still, being home sick isn’t how I prefer to spend my time. 
 
For one thing, there’s the expense. Even when it’s not necessary to bring out The Big Guns (seeing a doctor to score antibiotics, which I’ll only do when forced to), there are always lozenges, Kleenex and sleeping aids to buy.  There are also cans of chicken noodle soup (oodles of noodles are required), orange tea, fresh lemons and honey. 
 
And then, be prepared for the inevitable falling behind—something that those of us who run households can relate to.
 
Laundry doesn’t get done.  Neither does washing dishes, grocery shopping and paying bills. Then, knowing that these tasks, and so many more, will all have to wait until feeling well enough to do any of them—when there will then be double the work—leaves me unsettled. 
 
So, while some folks will insist that my only job is to get better (and my colds are usually three days coming, three days here, and three days going), I feel utterly depleted and completely unproductive. 
 
For one thing—and this is a tough one to explain—the light is different.
 
Usual events that aren’t a big deal (a dog barking outside for no discernible reason, a dumb Facebook post, missing my daily walks) now make me way sadder than they ought to make me.  With my schedule out of whack, I know I’m more vulnerable when I’m sick.  But as the years pass, I also sink into a bit of a depression.  In other words, there’s a negative mental component that simply wasn’t there when I was younger.  (Friends the same age tell me this is true for them as well.) 
 
I wish I knew how to fight harder against this part of a cold. 
 
Listening to happy music; reading a favorite book, or even watching a funny movie or television show, doesn’t help as much as they used to.  Telling myself, over and over and over, that I’m bound to feel better sooner than later is really the only thing that keeps the light from going away completely.
 
Is there a lesson to all of this? 
 
Absolutely.
 
I’d much rather miss work because it’s my birthday. 
 
How do you celebrate your birthday?  How, too, do you battle the mental negativity of a cold?  I look forward to your stories and comments! 

​Each in their own way, and each in their own time, Confucius, Plato and Socrates are considered to be the wisest of the
wise philosophers.   
 
But with one story making the news right now, I’m going with the Zen of Mick Jagger. 
 
That’s because it’s all there in Jagger’s 1969 song, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” 
 
Co-written with Keith Richards and featured on the album Let It Bleed, this eminently singable tune has also been rated the 100th greatest song of all time by Rolling Stone magazine.  Told in first person, the lyrics are about a party, but are also said to address three big topics of the 1960s: love, politics and drugs.  The chorus is pragmatic and steady, and at the same time, uplifting.
 
For a lot of us, it’s also the essence of the song. 
 
“You can’t always get what you want,” wails Jagger.  “But if you try sometimes you just might find, you just might find, you get what you need.”  
 
In the case of Jennifer Cramblett, a 38-year-old woman who lives in tiny Uniontown, Ohio, population 2,802, she wanted a baby, and she wanted one badly.
 
I’ve been there.
 
After nearly two decades focusing on a writing career, I suddenly had an urge—more accurately, an intense, this-isn’t-going-away desire—to have a child.  So extreme was my baby fever that I couldn’t attend friends’ showers, and if I saw someone pushing a stroller, I’d need to cross the street.  In fact, sometimes my hands would start shaking, literally, at the sight of an infant.
 
I never give up unless I’m absolutely forced to, so I willingly went through six years of invasive, painful and costly infertility treatments.  That meant well over 50 artificial inseminations; three IVFs, and a famous clinic whose clients included Brooke Shields, Roseanne and Jane Seymour. 
 
Toward the end of this journey, I was gently told that it might be time to look at other options.  My choice was adoption, and nine months later (an interesting coincidence), I brought my daughter Katie home from China.
 
Clearly, adoption wasn’t my first choice.
 
But becoming a mother this way ended up being the right decision.  I didn’t get what I thought I wanted, but I absolutely got what I needed—a smart, spirited and beautiful child who has completed me in a myriad of ways.
 
Jennifer Cramblett went down a different road.
 
After purchasing donor sperm from Illinois-based Midwest Sperm Bank, she soon found herself pregnant by donor number 380, a Caucasian man with blonde hair and blue eyes, just like her partner, Amanda Zinkon.  All was going well until five months into Cramblett’s pregnancy: it was then that Midwest informed Cramblett that it had mistakenly shipped her the sperm of donor number 330 instead.
 
This donor was African American. 
 
On October 21, 2012, Cramblett gave birth to a healthy but noticeably biracial baby she named Payton. 
 
Obviously, this child was not what Cramblett had wanted, and the new mother was not pleased.  The sperm bank apologized profusely and gave her a partial refund.  According to official documents, the slip-up was the result of a clerical error.
 
That should have been the end of the story, but Cramblett wasn’t satisfied.
 
About two years after Payton was born, Cramblett filed a lawsuit alleging wrongful birth and breach of warranty. 
 
It wasn’t that she didn’t love her daughter, she said.  She did, and in fact, went on to say that she couldn’t imagine life without her.  She also said that her case has nothing to do with race.       
 
But Cramblett has also stated that she had been “raised around stereotypical attitudes about people of color,” and because of this, “has limited cultural competency” around African Americans.  Subsequently, the wrong insemination led to “an unplanned transracial parent-child relationship for which she was not, and is not, prepared.” 
 
Moreover, Cramblett says that both a sociologist and social worker have told her that both she and Payton will
eventually require long-term individual and family counseling, as well as relocating to a town that is “more racially and
culturally diverse.”  
 
The case was thrown out of court, but mostly for technical reasons.
 
Perhaps that’s why the judge strongly encouraged Cramblett to pursue a second lawsuit, advising her that she might win if she charged Midwest with negligence instead.  
 
That’s exactly what Cramblett did this past April, although a ruling has yet to be announced.   
 
But Cramblett’s story has made me think, long and hard, about the difference between getting what we want, and getting what we need, especially when it comes to our children. 
 
What about the parents of the 6,000 Down Syndrome kids born each year in the United States?  What about the more than 400,000 children enrolled in special education programs in our country because of autism?  Or, how about the moms and dads of the 8,000 babies annually diagnosed with cerebral palsy? 
 
Then again, consider those kiddos—whose stories we’ve all heard and may even have a personal connection to—who are born healthy, but end up severely compromised, cognitively and physically, because of a horrible accident or disease?  
 
Who should the parents of these children sue?  And if they could sue, would they?
 
It’s clear to me that Jennifer Cramblett is on a slippery slope.
 
I’m not denying that her road isn’t a challenging one.
 
She probably will leave the 98 percent white community she lives in, which she now says she wants to do anyway to make a better life for Payton.  She probably will end up cutting off all ties between some family members and long-time friends who can’t get past their racial intolerance.  And mark my words: in a decade or so, Payton and Cramblett are likely to have epic fights, especially once her kid finds out about the lawsuits.  (For the record, Cramblett believes this scenario is unlikely.)    
 
Yet the bottom line is this:  Cramblett is now the mother of a sweet little girl.  For whatever reason, she didn’t get the child she wanted. 
 
But like Mick Jagger says, she should perhaps try to find that Payton may be what she has needed all along.
 
What have you really wanted and didn’t get, but later realized that you still got what you needed?  If you have any thoughts about Jennifer Cramblett, I’d like to read those, too!  I look forward to each and every comment! 
 
p.s. Families of children with special needs may already be familiar with the 1987 poem "Welcome to Holland."
For those who don’t know about it, here’s a beautiful video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r15PuYoID94

They arrive about once a week, always unannounced, yet always expected.  
 
And although they come from the same place, they’re never the same.  One glance sends most of them to the circular file, but there are a few that earn a spot on the coffee table—at least for a few days.
 
I’m talking catalogs.  
 
Specifically, the hard copy, snail mail kind.  Maybe it’s because I’m from The Olden Days (as my daughter calls my generation), or maybe it’s because I know my brain processes things better when I can hold something in my hands.  Whatever the reason, I actually enjoy perusing these paper catalogs way more than seeing the same stuff online.  
 
I was surprised to learn that the first mail-order catalog in the United States was published by Tiffany’s, in 1845.  But definitely the most popular and most far reaching in the latter part of that century—and for many decades to come—was the Sears and Roebuck catalog, which offered not only trousers and sewing machines and bicycles and corsets, but for a time, prefabricated houses and automobiles.  Known as The Wish Book, it was once an astounding 1,500 pages; offered 100,000 products, and reached some 20 million Americans—at a time when our population was 100 million. (Learn lots more about this mailer to beat all mailers, at  www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dyx4WzcND14.)   
 
Given that I came into this world just a little bit later, the first catalog I pined for was the Speigel catalog (www.spiegel.com/catalog).  
 
That’s probably because every TV game show I watched as a little girl gave out gift certificates from this Chicago-based company, which specialized in fine women’s apparel.  And since I’d learned all about the wonders of Speigel from a magic box, it somehow seemed that its clothes must be the chicest and most sophisticated ever made, sprinkled with a dash of enchantment that wasn’t available anywhere else.    
 
(Of course, this was long before I actually had the good fortune to work in television.  This turned out to be as satisfying as any job I’ve ever had, but it was never magical. Indeed, when I finally got a Speigel catalog in my hands, I was stunned at how shoddy the products looked.)     
 
As a young adult, my next love was The Vermont Country Store (www.vermontcountrystore.com).   
 
One word describes its brand: nostalgia.  Flip through its pages, then order the candy and lotions and other sundries you remembered as a child, as well as the sturdy jumpers and practical bathrobes your grandmother might have worn. 
 
Once, I saw (and bought) coffee syrup to stir into my cold milk.  It was yummy, and because this was pre-Internet, not available anywhere except New Hampshire (or so the mailer said).  The Christmastime edition is always extra fun, advertising dense fruitcakes, chenille slippers and a dazzling array of holiday themed flannel sheet sets.  
 
Then, in the years I was longing for a baby, and for a time after I brought my girl home, I couldn’t wait to get my
Lillian Vernon catalog (www.lillianvernon.com). I especially loved Lilly’s World, which still features brightly colored sleeping bags, lunch boxes and backpacks, all of which scream the need for personalized monograms. I had a Lillian school bus themed coat holder on my bedroom door (naturally, with my name on it), and when my daughter was very small, a friend ordered a set of personalized wooden blocks for her, which I think I enjoyed more than she did.  
 
But by far, my favorite catalog is Hammacher Schlemmer (www.hammacher.com). 
 
Maybe it’s because the name is funny, or maybe it’s because it’s mentioned in “Goodbye to All That,” arguably the most famous essay by Joan Didion.  Or it might be because radio superstar Fred Allen sang “Hammacher Schlemmer, I Love You,” on Broadway in the 1929 staging ofThe Little Show (check out a recent audio clip here, at www.youtube.com/watch?v=Olc_VzqXIV0).
 
As it turns out, the Hammacher mailer has been around for nearly 170 years, which makes it the oldest surviving catalog in America. 
 
Once marketed to electricians, builders and mechanics—in 1916, every piece of hardware it sold was purchased by the Russian government—Hammacher now offers unexpected products for those who don’t know what to do with all of the extra money they have lying around. 
 
So, it’s here that the yacht and polo set can find The 55 Language Translating Scanner (every item description begins with “the”); The Movable Feast Cooler Cart, and at only $40,000, The Three Dimensional Labyrinth Orb.  I doubt I’ll ever order anything from this New York City company, but its imaginative—and sometimes pretty crazy—items are always fun to peruse.
 
I’m not looking forward to what will probably happen to all of these catalogs I so love.
 
Yup, I expect that sooner than later, these terrific mailers will no longer be personally delivered by my mailman.

​As The Olden Days group passes on, going paperless will no doubt save a lot of trees, and will absolutely appeal to customers my daughter’s age.
 
But that doesn’t mean I won’t miss them… and the memories they’ve brought with them.   
 
What’s your favorite catalog, and why?  I look forward to your comments and stories!     

Back in the day, Barbra Streisand had a mega hit that’s also the title of this post. 
 
Now, I’ve been doing it myself.
 
Filling in a coloring book, that is.
 
Who knew that spending hours with a glass jelly jar filled with sharpened colored pencils and a for-grown-ups-only, complete-the-pictures pad could also help reduce stress; make my brain slow down, and sometimes, even be the catalyst to a good night’s sleep?
 
Given that I’m a foodie, it’s appropriate that the book I bought is called Color Me Delicious.
 
However, the contents appealed to me not so much because of the dishes it shows, but the world it portrays. 
 
Turn the pages, and you’ll see hands happily roasting s’mores and a birthday cake with perfectly positioned frosted flowers.  Other sketches show a front porch with silly jack o’lanterns; keep going, and you’ll see a jumbo mug of hot chocolate and gingerbread houses.  This rose-colored version of life suits me fine, since I purposely didn’t want anything too complicated.  (No surprise here that my selection is from Taste of Home, a publishing house known for comfy recipes that make you feel like you’re hanging with Beaver Cleaver.)
 
I’ve noticed a few of these books around for many months, but didn’t pay them much attention until I saw one at the home of my daughter’s tutor.
 
“Oh, a friend gave that to me,” she said.  “She said I needed to relax, and she thought this would do it.”   
 
The tutor hadn’t yet tackled any of its pictures, but given my issues with sleeping at night, the idea piqued my interest.  When she suggested that my daughter might use one while tackling a specialized listening program, we decided to check out the biggest bookstore in our area.
 
There, we found displays on both the store’s first and second floor, easily totaling at least 40 choices.  Who knew this coloring thing was so popular?   I especially liked the city-themed ones, Paris and New York among them.  However, my kid ultimately decided on a thick, almost hardcover one featuring lots of intricate mandalas that would make me nuts. 
 
I wish I’d saved myself some time, and gas, by checking out our local supermarket first. 
 
Yup, between the paper towels and frozen pizza, I found nearly two dozen books to choose from. A block away, our one-stop hardware store boasted a dozen different books, smack in the center aisle.  Google some to buy, and a whopping 600,000 results come up.   
 
What happened to what used to be an activity exclusive to the preschool set?
 
Well, like so many great ideas, it took just one person to turn the coloring book industry on its proverbial head. 
 
And like so many who are chockful of creativity and imagination, this person is not only talented and did the work, but had luck on her side. 
 
Her name is Johanna Basford, and prior to her breakout coloring book success three years ago, the 32-year-old Scottish artist peddled a different sort of merchandise.    
 
In a studio located on her parents’ trout and salmon farm, also in Scotland, Basford’s medium was silk screening; specifically, she designed hand-printed wallpaper for luxe hotels and boutiques.  But after the 2008 crash, Basford
was forced to close her workspace, and became a freelance commercial illustrator for clients that included Starbucks and Nike.
 
Then, in 2011, a United Kingdom-based publisher saw Basford’s work online and thought her sketches would be perfect for a children’s book. But Basford had another idea: how about a grown-up coloring book? 
 
“It got kind of quiet for a moment,” remembers Basford.  “Coloring books for adults weren’t much of a thing then.”
 
So, the artist spent the next nine months coming up with the template for her first book.  A labor of love, she worked on the concept at night, keeping her paycheck career going during the day.  The initial publisher decided the concept was worth the risk, and in the spring of 2013, debuted My Secret Garden. 
 
A 90-page collection of beautifully intricate black-and-white ink drawings of leaves, flowers and birds, Basford’s first book has now sold 1.4 million copies around the world; been published in 22 languages, and last year, made the top 10 list of Amazon’s best-selling books.  Her three subsequent coloring books--Enchanted Forest, Magical Jungle and Lost Ocean—are also doing very well. 
 
And while Basford’s books focus on nature, it’s possible to now find a coloring books on dozens, if not hundreds, of other themes.  In fact, much like knitting clubs, coloring book gatherings are now popping up around the world, meeting in cafes and in homes.  Too, many aficionados buy more than one book so they can keep several going at any one time.  
 
Once I began to color, often at night when my household is at its quietest, the runaway success of these books makes complete sense.
 
After all, the books take us back to childhood, when life, at least for most of us, was both kinder and simpler.  And according to at least one psychologist, the relaxation that coloring gives us also lowers a specific and active part of the brain that’s affected by stress.  Put another way, coloring has the ability to take us away from worrying, an activity that already takes up way too much of my time.
 
In fact, I think it’s time to find a few more coloring books.  Lucky for me and so many others, I’ll have a whole lot to choose from.    
 
What do you think about adult coloring books?  I’m looking forward to your comments and stories!
 
P.S.  Find out more about Johanna Basford at www.johannabasford.com.
 
P.P.S. One more thing: if you’ve never heard Barbra Streisand sing about her coloring book, here’s the best rendition yet:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=pp-RgmR5KKg.

 

​As Mr. Rogers liked to say, today was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
 
Here in our sweet little beach town, the sun was shining (but not too hot) and a breeze was blowing (but not too windy).  It would have been the perfect time to grab a cup of coffee at the café adjacent to our pier; take a hike along the ocean bluffs just north of us, or even head to the library for some reading.    
 
I washed my kitchen floor. 
 
Maybe that’s because this particular routine often ends up being quiet and mindful.
 
It begins like this: the trash and recycle wastebaskets are taken out and emptied from their custom drawer.  Next, before returning the bins to their place, I clean the inside, and then the baskets themselves, all with warm lemony detergent and a dash of bleach.  Everything is then dried with a clean dish towel, and the trash container gets a fresh white liner.  
 
Next up are the speckled linoleum tiles.
 
The starting step is a thorough sweeping, which involves a whisk broom for tricky corners, and a regular sized broom for the rest of the room.  I’ll then get one of my used-expressly-for-this-purpose, old toothbrushes to retrieve the infinite dust balls and dog hairs that multiply underneath the stove, refrigerator and dishwasher.  Then, sweeping again.
 
Now comes the main event.
 
With a bucket of new lemony suds at my side, I get down on my hands and knees and scrub every square inch of floor, as well as the baseboards.  Depending on the level of grime, I’ll change the bucket three or four times.  Finally, for the piece de la resistance, I retrieve a trusty Swifter mop for one last polish.  
 
The whole routine takes a little more than an hour, and it’s done twice a month.
 
It might surprise you to know that I’ve never, ever, felt like I’ve wasted my time.    
 
Indeed, after the floor is shiny and somewhat new looking, smelling so clean with a hint of bleach, my barefoot feet
do a celebratory happy dance around the kitchen.   If my toes could sing, they’d be warbling a very happy tune right about now. 
 
I can’t really explain why the whole experience makes me feel so good, except that there’s something about keeping my house spic and span that also, somehow, feeds my soul. 
 
In an odd way, it’s a meditative experience.  Too, it doesn’t hurt that after the cleaning is done, there’s a real sense of purpose and accomplishment, much more so than a stroll on the beach could ever accomplish.   
 
As it turns out, I’m not alone in this thinking. 
 
Indeed, there’s an ancient deity supporting me all the way.
 
The Greeks called her Hestia, and 3,000 years ago, she was the virgin goddess of the hearth, as well as guardian of family life and the temple. 
 
As a way of worshipping her, women of that day turned to Hestia for inspiration, transforming their dwellings into homes of beauty and comfort.  And even though Zeus—the King of all of the Gods—allowed Hestia to sit in of the center of his celestial home so that she might receive the best gifts from common mortals, she never had a human form. 
 
Rather, her presence was an eternal flame burning on a round hearth.  If we choose to seek some sort of spiritual encounter with her today, we might open ourselves to Hestia’s calm, orderly and peaceful presence, especially when presented with mundane tasks that involve our homes.       
 
As a matter of fact, if Hestia could have a BFF right now, she would probably be Cheryl Mendelson, author of
Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House.  An instant classic when it was first published in 1999,
this encyclopedic tome (there are more than 800 pages) remains the go-to book that tells you everything--really everything—about housekeeping. 
 
It’s in here that you’ll find not just a chapter on cleaning kitchen appliances, but a glossary of sanitizers and disinfectants.  There are many illustrations demonstrating the correct way to fold tablecloths and socks (there are three methods), as well as a template on proper clothesline hanging.  Basic home sewing, which includes a comprehensive list of what goes into a sewing basket, gets space, too, and of course, the proper care and maintenance of floors, including stone, cord and wood. 
 
Mendelson is absolutely on to something. 
 
Because while cleaning my home makes me feel good, it turns out that living in a clean home is pretty darn good for
​me, too.  
 
There are the obvious reasons, of course.
 
Regular cleaning greatly reduces the presence of dust and other allergens, which can help those with allergies and respiratory problems literally breathe easier.  Sanitizing surfaces prevents bacteria from growing, and simply tidying up and organizing a bit ensures the chance of less injuries.  And let’s not forget that sweeping, mopping and vacuuming all
burn calories.
 
But consistent housecleaning is also good for one’s heart and soul—and there’s compelling research to back that up.
 
A detailed, 2013 study at the University of Indiana seems to offer proof.  Here, nearly 1000 African Americans between the ages of 49 and 65—a group with a high risk for heart disease—were tracked to compare their levels of physical activity with how clean their homes were. 
 
The scientists’ conclusion?  Those with the tidiest homes were also the healthiest and most active.  Furthermore, the study suggested that encouraging folks to maintain their home’s cleanliness might be more important than encouraging them to walk around their neighborhood on a regular basis. 
 
And while the findings were a surprise to those who led the research, a Time magazine article goes on to say that they shouldn’t have been.   The story then quotes Florence Nightingale, the pioneer of modern nursing, who once said, “The connection between health and the dwelling of the population is one of the most important that exists.” 
 
Then again, there’s that one room in my home that I don’t clean, or even venture into much.    
 
That would be The Bedroom of The Teenage Daughter.  
 
Clean and dirty clothes are intertwined and strewn on every available surface. The wastebasket is full to the brim (we once found a very jolly field mouse there), and let’s not talk about the piece of furniture littered with paper that might be a desk.  
 
Still, I am confident that one day—hopefully, sooner than later—my child will make one of my many wishes for her come true. 
 
With age and maturity, she will become more aware of how important it is—for both her mental and physical health—to live in a clean and uncluttered environment.  One day, she will realize that not only is this the best way to live, it’s also the happier way to live.    
 
Flinging her arms wide open, she will welcome Hestia to her hearth.
 
What are your thoughts about keeping house?  I look forward to hearing from you!