My doctor gave me one of those heart-to-heart talks: You need to lose some weight and exercise more, he said. The "or else" was implied. I know that being overweight increases your risk of heart disease, diabetes, strokes, and a million other bad things. But I just had to ask: Am I really overweight?
Forget trips to the psychic. Increasingly, Facebook has become our conduit for talking to the dearly departed.
The voice message left on our home phone sounded very convincing. Authoritative and with a hint of menace, the caller said that the IRS Crime Investigations Unit was about to file charges for tax evasion against us -- but if we called them back right away and could explain a few things to the caller, perhaps our imminent prosecution could be averted. But only if we called him back right away.
Retirement planners used to talk about the "three-legged stool of retirement income -- Social Security, traditional company pensions, and personal savings." Nowadays, many of us are sitting on legless stools.
I have two sets of friends: There are the brick and mortar ones who I meet for dinner, spend holidays with, and text -- and then there are my virtual friends, who are the people I have gotten to know online and who I frequently feel that I know just as well.
Peggy Scott just returned home from a lovely jaunt through Italy and Greece with her college daughter, Abigail. Abby was finishing up a semester abroad and her Mom joined her over there. Peggy's Facebook feed was filled with photos. It was a trip where Abby, having spent the semester abroad and with a newly acquired knowledge of all things European, took the lead.
I spotted something on Facebook the other day that caused a parenting flashback. A woman posted how her overweight husband was at a school function when at some point during the festivities, her young daughter whispered in his ear and asked him to please leave. Why? Some of her classmates were commenting on his weight, calling him things like "fatso."
It's safe to say that Clippers soon-to-be-former owner Donald Sterling is a poster boy for how not to apologize. Surely, it can't be that hard, even if you are a multi-billionaire who likes to parade around with strange-looking chicks on your arm. (I'm sorry; that was an uncalled-for and mean remark.)
I've been around the dieting block a couple of times myself. OK, more than a couple. Right now, I'm in that unenviable spot of having no clothes that fit comfortably while I'm in a stare-down contest with summer. Who's going to blink first: My need to lose my winter poundage or that bathing suit I won't wear unless I do?
We are now in the meanest time of a high school senior's life. A few weeks ago they had to commit to a college and by now, word has trickled out about who is going where, who got in where, and more importantly, who didn't get to go where they wanted.
It was one of those icky moments that, if you are a woman, you have likely experienced. It may have been years ago, but it might as well have been yesterday because you still remember it in vivid detail -- including how vulnerable you felt, how powerless you must have seemed.
This may be the easiest post I ever wrote. You want eight reasons why your child doesn't write thank-you notes? Here you go.
When it came time to teach my 16-year-old daughter to drive, the division of parental duties was a clear and obvious choice: My husband would do it and all parties involved would do their utmost to keep me as uninformed as possible. Trust me, it's better this way.
Lots of professions have fallen to the sword of technology. I, for one, would vote to restore travel agents to their former place in the food chain. Travel agents may stand alone in things the Internet didn't improve.
Life, overall, is pretty sweet. Aging turns out not to be the demon I feared. Largely, I'm happy and healthy and know how to throw the car in reverse for those times when I'm not. But on a recent nasty commute home, I thought of 7 things that would so sincerely improve life for midlifers (at least this midlifer.)
A month ago, we went to the most expensive Bat Mitzvah celebration I ever attended. It was expensive -- for us -- because somewhere in the middle of a Grand Ballroom at the Millennium Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles, my husband lost one of his hearing aids.