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Dear Mom,

Now that I am out on my own and have to clean my own bathroom, do my own laundry, make my own meals, and be my own taskmaster/cheerleader, I have a new perspective of the love, care and hard work you put into raising me.

Thank you for standing your ground when I tried to guilt you or out-negotiate you into letting me have whatever I wanted. I remember you told me that stuff "can’t fill you up." I’m beginning to understand what you mean. Like you said when I was eight, "We

It is hard to believe this is the third anniversary of the day the world began to turn with a little less love on its surface... a little less laughter, with the loss of the fiercely fun-loving and subtlety brilliant mother, wife and friend, my friend, Shann.  I remember the year that she died ... too damn soon, ridiculously early, how shocking that G-d had called her to Him when she was just spreading her wings here on earth. I wrote this then; I hold her in my heart today...

I just received a holiday card and I could barely tear my eyes away from the picture. It’s not that it is an exceptional photograph – just a happy candid,

When I was in college, I’d never heard the term “binge drinking.” We used words like “hammered,” “trashed” and, well, “happy hour.”  I’m sure there were many nights when I had three drinks in less than three hours; while I never passed out or lost time, I know I made some of my stupidest decisions after sipping something strong.

Now that my son is entering the age where he’s curious about alcohol, my concern is heightened. Pay attention to your kids’ conversations and you’ll hear about friends drinking to excess on the weekends; filling water bottles with liquor, and stealing beer from their parents’ fridge. (Note: do not tell your kids that alcohol doesn’t freeze; you’ll know if they’ve been swiping your vodka when the bottle bursts.) I read jus

To say I am an optimistic person is like saying Lady Gaga has some interesting outfits. I am the real-life incarnation of Pollyanna. I am so upbeat it can be annoying to some people (most notably, my teenage son). I can’t help it. It’s scientific. A group of behavioral researchers did a study years ago that showed that every person has his or her own predetermined level of happiness. No matter what happens, the person eventually returns to this happiness level.  You win the lottery? Sure, your level goes up … for a while. Then it bounces back to whatever normal is for you. Your partner dies suddenly? The level drops – dramatically and perhaps even continuously. But eventually your level of happiness returns to its original state, or at least pretty darn close.

Of course, I’ve had my ups and downs; days when I’m blue or a little out of sorts. There was a three-month period during my senior year in college when I could barely drag myself to class. I also know what it’s like to have hormones playing havoc – making me cry for no reason during adolescence (and again, these days, during the jo

Last week I heard an interview on the radio that was so moving, I sat in my car – in my driveway – for 30 minutes so I wouldn’t miss a minute. NPR’s Michel Norris was speaking with Nancy Brinker, and it was mesmerizing to hear her story. For most people, the name Nancy Brinker won’t ring a bell, even though she has had a tremendously positive impact on the lives of millions of women.

In 1982, Nancy founded the famously pink Susan G. Komen for the Cure. Susan was Nancy’s only sister; she died of breast cancer in 1980 at the age of 36. But before Susan died, Nancy promised her that she would “do everything in her power to end breast cancer forever.”  Today, Susan G. Komen has given nearly $2 billion to cancer research and prevention, and is one of the leading grassroots groups of cancer survivors and philanthropists.

As I listened to Nancy, I wondered: How must it feel to have watched your sister suffer with breast cancer, while you yourself could do nothing to ease her pain or chan

I wanted to love Glee. I really did. From the hyped-up hype from my friends and family (both virtual and actual), it sure sounded like a show I would love. After all, I was the original Gleek. I spent my childhood playing in the back of a local theater called Duffy Playhouse, where my mother was the star attraction. It was ancient even then – velveteen seats so worn in spots the metal casing showed through … the overpowering aromas of pancake makeup, 1000-watt lights and wood varnish.

My mom was community theater royalty. She starred in (or stole the show of) nearly every production for a decade – from Annie Get Your Gun to Funny Girl; Oklahoma! to South Pacific. In one of my earliest memories, I am sitting on my great-grand

The day I turned 16 I did not get a car. As the fourth child, there was usually someone around to drive me where I needed to go, or sometimes my father would let me borrow his green Pontiac LeMans. When my last sibling left for college – taking his old Monte Carlo with him -- my father leased a Chevy Nova.  I thought it was one of the ugliest cars ever to hug the highway.  Today it’s so vintage it almost looks cool.  My Nova was temperamental and cranky – stalling every time it rained. (Did you know that “No va” translates roughly to “Doesn’t go” in Spanish?)  I didn’t care. I had a car.  Freedom!  A ride to the beach so I could smoke cigarettes behind the Bible College with my best friend.

Most nights I would get in my car,

I remember it clearly, though I can’t say whether this is because it was so unusual to see my mother behave this way, or because the story has been told so many times in our family.

It was 1971; I was 11 years old, the youngest of four children. Our family was busy – school, sports, activities, work, life. If my mother ever felt stressed, I never saw it. Sure, she got frustrated with us for not cleaning our rooms or forgetting to call if we were running late, but she always had a lot of energy and such a positive spirit. She volunteered for charities; she played tennis every day; she had a busy social life, and she had dinner on the table for us every night at 6 p.m.

After a divorce, when we finally decide to step back out into the dating world, we often don't feel pretty enough, thin enough, smart enough ... it's a shame that we are so hard on ourselves, because I interviewed more than 50 single men - all ages, incomes, sizes, backgrounds -- and they told me they are not nearly as critical of us as we are of ourselves! Most of the time, they are just glad we showed up for the date! And what got

     I remember it clearly, though I can’t say whether this is because it was so unusual to see my mother behave this way, or because the story has been told so many times in our family.

     It was 1971; I was 11 years old, the youngest of four children. Our family was busy – school, sports, work, life. If my mother ever felt stressed, I never saw it. Sure, she got frustrated with us for not cleaning our rooms or failing to call if we were going to be late, but she always had lots of energy and a positive spirit. She volunteered for charities. She played tennis every day, She had a large circle of friends, and she had dinner on the table every night at 6:00 p.m.

     That’s why this night stands out so sharply. We sat down to dinner on a typical school night. Dinner at our house was loud, laugh-filled, boisterous. It’s where I learned almost everything I know about life, relationships and work ethic  – wi