Nancy Roman

Advice From My Best Friend – Part 3

OMG – Theo’s daily Twitter advice continues to grow more popular!

Two months ago, I said that Theo is more popular than I am.


He just took over my Twitter feed.

As of yesterday, my Twitter is no longer called Not Quite Old.

It is now officially



I am determined, however, to keep this blog my own. This is the place for Not Quite Old.

Writing about ME!  Only. Me. Me. Me.

Except of course, that Theo will be my guest blogger.

Once in a while. Like today. As a genuine celebrity and Twitter sensation, he insists.

Here are a few of his recent tips:












How Old Is Mr. T?

Remember when you were a little kid and you’d meet some other kid in the playground or at school or in a store?

One of the first questions you always asked was, “How old are you?”

You were a little obsessed with age. You certainly didn’t want to play with a kid too much younger than you, because that would mean you were a little bit of a baby. And you didn’t want to play with someone older, both because they would not want to (see above) or if they insanely did want to, they would probably beat you at everything. Because an extra year in those days meant tons of extra experience.

As you got older, that age-obsession went away.

Okay, so it didn’t exactly.

It just got re-routed into a more subtle measurement:  Success.

Is this guy making more money than you?
Is this woman already married and having children?
Does she still have the same hairdo as in high school? – and the male corollary: Does he have more hair than you?

And secretly – to yourself only – you added the qualifier:

And are they younger?

Maybe you didn’t go down that he-is-more-successful-even-though-he-is-younger-so-therefore-I-am-a-failure road very often.

But holy cow, I sure did.

I compared myself to others constantly. With the age qualifier added.

In my younger days, the age qualifier often helped. I didn’t mind (too much) if a person was more successful, had a better job, or made more money – as long as they were older than me. Because, well, they just had more time at it. Just like knowing that my older sister was bound to beat me at crazy eights.

It bugged me more when I saw women marrying and having children who were younger than me. They were supposed to wait their turn, thank you very much. How rude.

Then I got into the stage, in my thirties, where I also worried about age as it related to looks. Was she older than me and looked better?  Was I older but looked younger? – which is what I always somehow decided.

I can remember the day –  May of 1983. The local paper listed all the famous people having birthdays. And there he was:

Mr. T.

The A-Team was a big hit on television, and Mr. T was the larger-than-life (literally) star.
and that day he was listed on the birthday page. (no internet back then). He was 31 years old.

I was 32.

I left my office and threw that newspaper on my best friend’s desk.

“Mr.T is younger than I am!!!” I hollered.

She became hysterical.

But not in the way that I was hysterical, of course.

But I couldn’t see the hilarity of my situation.

I was furious.

I did not want to be older than Mr. T.

It was all downhill from there.

I could no longer hide my age obsession.

I need to know how old everyone is.

As it relates to me.

Even now.

When I watch old movies, I look for the character actor. Was that humorous old sidekick actually my age?  Did you know, for example, that Hattie McDaniel was only 44 when she played Mammy in Gone With The Wind?

How much younger than me was the heroine?  Was I old enough to be her mother? Meg Ryan, for example, is ten years younger than me. Not so much. But when I saw You’ve Got Mail, and envied her hairdo and her simple but cute clothes, I wondered whether I was too old to pull that off.

Now I watch TV with Wikipedia open on my laptop.

How old is Vanna White? Should she start wearing pastel sweater sets?
How about Mark Harmon? Will he have a heart attack running up those stairs?
Should the NYPD have forced Lenny Briscoe to retire before the Law And Order ever started?
How is it that the guy playing Tom Selleck’s father is 78 years old and Selleck is 73?
How is it that none of the teenagers on Riverdale look like teenagers?
And Tea Leoni on Madam Secretary? I’m fifteen years older. Can I copy her shoes?

And most horrible of all – reruns of The Golden Girls. I’m older now than those actresses were then. Should I buy some flowy tops? Have fluffier hair?

And the point of all this:

What the hell does it matter?

Why do I care?

I’ve been trying to figure this out.

I don’t think I am unique – I am pretty sure there are plenty of other people with an age fixation. But I don’t think it’s universal either, since I see lots of people who truly don’t care what age anyone is. They relate on a different plane.

I think perhaps my obsessive focus on the continuum of age is rooted in the idea that I never really found my place in it.

I’ve always been a little unstuck in time. A little unsure. A little adrift.

I’ve felt too young. Or too old. The little kid that admired my older sisters and envied my baby brother. The baby-face flat-chested teen that the boys had no interest in. I bumped through years (and years) of college – one day childish and the next day older than the professors.

My work years were a mystifying but inexorable transition from the smart-alecky girl younger than her subordinates to the oldest person in every meeting, answering to younger and younger smart-alecks.

And now I am retired, and I still don’t know where I belong.

What do retired people look like?  Should I go gray and buy sensible shoes?

Sometimes (often, to be honest) I feel more attractive now than thirty years ago. But am I delusional? Do I look like an old fool in my Zumba class?

I know it doesn’t matter. I should just please myself in what I do and how I look. The nice thing about being old is that you can truly disregard what anyone else thinks.

I know age doesn’t make much of a difference in how you feel. My mother at 94 says she feels like the same person inside that she was sixty years ago. The outside has changed, but she’s still her.

And I agree that she’s the same.

The problem with ME being the same – is that I am not sure who that is.

Except that it is someone older than Mr. T.




Mr. T and Me.  Then & Now. I think we both look better now.



P.S.  – Amazon is offering the Kindle version of my novel, LUCINDA’S SOLUTION.. for just $1.99 through October 6.  Here’s the link.







I was speaking recently with a friend, and he said that he finds himself more fearful now that he is older.

He said, “I feel vulnerable. Now that I am old and not as strong as I used to be, I worry that someone could hurt me. That in a bad situation I might not be able to protect myself. It’s a terrible feeling to have to think about that.”

I was impressed that he could share that vulnerability with me.

But part of me wanted to laugh.

I didn’t, of course. He was thoughtful, sincere, open. So I was open with him as well.

“I understand how that feeling of vulnerability can be overwhelming. But think about this:  IT IS WHAT GIRLS FEEL EVERY DAY. Girls – from the time they are small -understand vulnerability. We know that there are others who are bigger and stronger and can hurt us. We are aware – all the time – of the danger that may suddenly surround us. But we never let it stop us. Don’t let it stop you either.”

Here is my blog from two years ago. It seems timely once again.



Girls are brave.

Some men know this. I think many do not, because they cannot share the same reality. Most try.

Girls are brave.

We know from such an early age – before kindergarten probably – that in general:

  1. Boys are bigger.
  2. Boys are stronger.
  3. And a few – just a few, but an important few – are rougher and meaner.

We know these facts.

But yet we go on with our lives. We live day to day with the implicit – and sometimes explicit – vulnerability. And yet we put it aside and go on.

Everyday things. We don’t even think about them. But underneath the surface, we know that any moment can be dangerous.

We all – boys and girls both – are vulnerable as children. Bigger kids can hurt us. We know this for sure. And although adults overwhelmingly would give their lives to protect children, we are warned again and again about the adults who could do us harm.

But boys (for the most part) can outgrow their vulnerability.

Girls keep it for life.

Women know that in general:

  1. Men are bigger.
  2. Men are stronger.
  3. And a few – just a few, but an important few – are rougher and meaner.

Yet we go on.

We walk alone to our cars at night.

We ride buses and subways and trains and taxis, and allow people to see where we are going, to see our habits and our schedules.

We shop with purses that can be grabbed. We carry too much – our arms are full. We try on clothes in dressing rooms with curtains that don’t quite exactly close.

We rent apartments and buy houses, and call repairmen and let them in.

We work overtime in half-deserted offices, dark corridors, shadowy stairwells.

We travel for business and pleasure. We walk through airports. We check into hotels. We ride elevators.

We drive alone – knowing that if we are broken down on the side of the road, the person who stops may not be stopping to help.

We get lost. We ask strangers which way to go.

Ordinary things. Not dangerous things. Except maybe. Sometimes.

Yet we go on.

We go on because we know that the odds are in our favor. That most men will love us and treat us with kindness and respect. And perhaps will be there for us in our most vulnerable moments. Help us when the minuscule fraction of mean and rough men might do us harm.

And we try our best to be strong enough to take care of ourselves.

But we know. It could happen.

Sexual assault is real. It doesn’t have to result in physical injury to injure us.

Here is my story. It’s a small story. Nothing really – not compared to what others experience.

I was nineteen. I had been visiting friends in Hartford, Connecticut, and was waiting for the bus that would bring me the twenty miles back home to Bristol.

It was a warm June day, 1970, and I was a teenager. Yes, I was wearing a miniskirt. Perhaps to some that makes it my fault.

It was the middle of the afternoon. The bus stop was crowded with people waiting for their various buses on busy Main Street.

A man approached me. He leaned into me, and I backed up. He continued his intimidation, and I continued to back up, until I was pressed against the wall of the building behind me.

He put his hands on me. Pressing my shoulders to the wall with his thumbs near my breasts. His face was inches from mine as he leered. I was motionless with fear. Many long seconds of fear. (or was it just a few?)

The bus arrived and I slapped his hands away and ran to the curb.

When I boarded the bus, I told the driver that a man had “bothered” me (the euphemism of the time, and that I was afraid he would get on the bus. The driver had me sit right behind him, assured me that he would not let this guy touch me again. He told me to point the creep out if he tried to board the bus. Thankfully, the creep did not board.

And it was over. Just a small, short, unpleasant experience. Not much. Nothing, really.

But here’s the thing.

This was a crowded bus stop. The sidewalk was full of people. These people saw this happen. They watched. I saw them watch.

If one person had said, “Hey, stop that,” it might have ended before he touched me. But no one said anything.

And back on the bus, safe but shaken, a man in a business suit approached me and asked if I was all right. He had been there.

I asked, “Why are you asking now? Why didn’t you say something at the time?”

He answered, “I thought perhaps he was your boyfriend and you were just having a fight.”

I realize that this episode was not a big deal. It did not affect my life in any significant way. Women have experienced much, much worse.

But I did learn a few things:

That women are always vulnerable, not just when we are alone.

That some people, like that kind bus driver, will help if they can. But other people may not step in and help us. They may look the other way when a woman is in danger.

And I think most discouraging of all – that some people may feel that if a woman is in a relationship, that gives the man a right to touch her like that.

We are vulnerable.

And yet we go on.

Because we are brave.

Because it’s nothing. Right?





Love Your Stuff

Recently I wrote that I love my things, but my things don’t love me back. (The Things I Love)

And I do love my stuff. But I often find myself minimizing my stuff.  You know, pretending that I don’t care about it or that I only bought it because it was on sale – the kind of thing you say because you don’t want to seem to be too boastful about all your stuff.

And something happened a couple of days ago that left me thinking about loving my possessions.

We went to one of our numerous county fairs. It was incredibly hot for September and the fair was crowded. And since it was the last day, most of the events were over. My husband and I were trying not to eat too much junk. Given all of that, we were not exactly having a good time. I was cranky and sweaty, miserable and complaining mightily to my equally miserable husband. I mean, for God’s Sake, even the Apple Fritters tasted horrible. So there I was, visibly gaining weight by the second right through my sweat on food that didn’t even taste good!

I stopped off at the restroom. Now restrooms at the county fairs can be nasty places, although this one wasn’t too too awful. They have an attendant making sure that people flush and clean up and not make a mess because for some reason, people are disgusting at the fair. (Perhaps because they are hot and as cranky as heck?)

Well, I managed not to have a melt-down in the hot restroom and as I was washing my hands, I watched a young girl and her mother. I would guess this girl was maybe eleven or so – not a little child but not a teenager either. That awkward age. I love that awkward age, by the way – those kids are unbelievably interesting, if anyone ever bothers to listen to them.

Anyhow, this young girl was changing her shirt, right in the center of the restroom. Because she had bought a little top and wanted to wear it immediately.

And here is what she said – on that miserable steaming day in that putrid bathroom:

“Oh my God, Mom. It’s perfect!  I love it! I LOVE it!!!!

This was a black racerback tank top with a heart or rainbow or some other trivial design.

And the girl was right.

It was perfect.

BECAUSE she loved it.

I went out and rejoined my husband and he bought me a gajillion-calorie frozen cappuccino.

And I felt a lot better.

I went home and gave a little extra love to some of the things I love: my shower, my aromatic shampoo, my hairdryer, my makeup, my pantry, my air conditioning, my comfortable flipflops.

And I put on a black racerback tank top.

Today, for my daily tip from Theo on Twitter,  I posted:

tip new things


Working Just Enough

Years ago I went out to San Diego to attend a wedding.

I had never been to California before.

I think now – at the place I am in my life right now – I would fit in quite well.

But thirty-five years ago, it was quite a shock.

Because I met people who were enjoying themselves.

I couldn’t fathom it.

I met four women who lived together in a rather small apartment. Each worked part-time: waitressing, office work, cleaning houses.

I met a guy and his wife who were caddying at a golf course.

We all went to a Padres game (the first Major League baseball game I ever saw, and I saw a grand slam home run, by the way). All these folks came with us to the game. It was a weekday afternoon. No one I met said, “Sorry, I have to work.”

We went to Tijuana for a little shopping. We went to the beach. We went to the zoo.

No one said, “Sorry, I have to work.”

These folks didn’t have much. They were – in my mind – one shaky step ahead of bankruptcy. They all seemed to work just enough to avoid eviction. They owned a couple of changes of clothes. One or two had a car – an old car. It was a life lived in flipflops and sunglasses.

I have to admit – I was appalled.

I was working my ass off in Connecticut at a fifty-plus hour/week job. I had just finished graduate school while working full time. I had recently been promoted and working towards the next one. I had a decent apartment, no roommate, a late-model car, a closet full of clothes and shoes. I had purchased a dress for that California wedding, but wasn’t sure how dressy the wedding would be, so I bought a second dress – just in case.

One day on this trip, just before the wedding, I was making conversation with the husband of the husband/wife caddy team while he prepared a memorable and deliciously simple dinner, and I remarked at how many people worked only part-time.

“Is the job market really soft out here?” I asked.

“Not really, ” said the husband. “It’s the weather.”

“The weather?”

“Yeah. It’s just about perfect here every day. If you worked all the time, you couldn’t enjoy it.”

“But if it’s perfect every day, you could work more and you would still be pretty sure of having beautiful weather when you got a day off.”

“Ah,” he said. “But why not enjoy it more?”

How lazy was that!

How would he ever get a car?

How would he ever have a nicer apartment?

And what about the latest clothes?

And the satisfaction of a great job and money in the bank?

Where was his ambition?

Why was he living hand-to-mouth, day-to-day?

Why was he not planning for the future?

Why couldn’t he see the big picture?

What a fool he was.

But thirty-five years later –

Now I know.

Because I see the big picture.

He really was living day to day.

He really did have an ambition.

To live day to day.

To live each day.

To live.

What a fool I was.


The San Diego Zoo. One of the only photos from that trip. I have no photos of the people. But the giraffes were enjoying the weather.




College Advice

I am fortunate enough to have two separate generations of nephews and nieces. Once my sister’s kids were just about grown, my brother started a family. I think that was very considerate of him to give me a chance to spoil only one set at a time.

And my second set is now growing up. The oldest went off to college this week. 

So I thought it would be appropriate to repost my college advice – he is very much like me, so perhaps I can help him just a tiny bit to be just a tiny bit less like me.

It’s a week or so late (since I wrote this two years ago in August….) but I am hoping my nephew can still save himself from being me.




It’s August, and of course we are already being inundated with back-to-school advertising.

When I was a kid, I hated seeing those ads for school clothes and newspaper flyers for pencils and notepads. It was August. Not time to think about school. Give me another month of wonderful summer, please.

But since school seems to be starting earlier every year – semesters are starting before Labor Day now – I’ll jump on the back-to-school bus with some college advice.

What I have learned in my forty-one years since college (and yes, that means I was an undergrad until I was 24; let’s just say I changed my major a few times) is this:

Don’t take yourself so seriously.

Maybe kids don’t these days anyway. Maybe college now is all about weekends and selfie-sticks.

But I think there are probably a lot of kids out there like me.


I studied hard. I took extra courses. I wanted that 4.0 GPA. I wanted my professors to think I was special.

Oh I’m special, all right. But I am also sure, looking back, that not one single professor remembers me.

And though I didn’t make a 4.0 GPA, I did manage a 3.8. And you know what – it still took me ONE YEAR to get a job as a clerk.

I did learn a lot in school. And I even remember quite a lot of it after more than 40 years. That’s the best thing about being a serious student. I learned shit.


You know those old people who always reminisce by saying, “I have no regrets”?

No regrets?

Holy Bleeping Cow. Are you kidding me?

I have a HUUGE pile of regrets.

So for those serious-worrier kids who are already stressed about going off to college, I’d like to express a few of those regrets. For whatever it’s worth.

I regret not attending a single sports event in my multiple years in college.

I regret not going to more parties… (although I don’t regret not getting falling-down drunk).

I regret not ice-skating on the campus pond. Or even bringing my ice skates to school.

I regret not telling Stanley that I really liked him a lot. And Sean. And Steven.

I regret studying alone in my room – instead of going to the library or joining a study group.

I regret not staying up all night giggling with my roommate.

I regret not taking advantage of all the music and arts available every single week at school.

I regret not streaking across campus when that was all the rage.

I regret taking on extra-credit work when I did not need extra credit.

I regret not going to the local hotspot once in a while. I worried that it was a firetrap. And yeah, it did eventually burn down – but not for a few years.

I regret those beautiful early May days when I studied for finals, when I could have been laying out on the lawn in a bikini, still studying for finals.

So what I am saying – to Type-A teenagers, if you still exist:  Work hard, learn a lot – but also: ENJOY college. Don’t pass up your opportunities to have fun. To really FEEL like you are in college – on your own for the first time.

Oh yeah, one more:

I regret not calling my mother and my father and my sisters and my brother every single day to tell them I loved them.



The Things I Love

Years ago, when I was just starting my working career, I rented a tiny apartment from a very nice older couple.

These folks, Mr. and Mrs. Manchester,  were really old. I mean, they must have been the age that my husband and I are now. But of course, that made them very old indeed to me at the time.

They had a lovely old house with a detached two-car garage in their backyard. Years before, the husband had built a studio apartment over the garage for his own mother, where she had lived for many years. After she passed away, the apartment stayed empty for quite some time, and eventually, they decided to rent it out.

They rented it completely furnished with all the old woman’s things – which was perfect for a young person like me who had nothing. There were furniture, pots and pans and dishes, a vacuum cleaner and an ironing board and iron (I love to iron, by the way… I really do.) The tiny kitchen had a two burner stove and a bar-sized refrigerator. But that was perfect for me, since I ate mostly canned ravioli and hotdogs.

I had a very-low paying but promising job that had taken me eighteen months to find. As an English major, my office skills were sparse, but I knew the alphabet. I could file and type. And the small nonprofit I worked for did not have a big staff, so they were happy to get someone with good brains, who’d work for peanuts. And it wasn’t long before they encouraged me to acquire some business skills – by paying my tuition for an MBA.

In the meantime though, I had plenty of nothin’ and was happy to have a pot for my ravioli and an iron, even if it meant I had to wash my hair in the old claw foot tub.

And my landlords were generous and kind and smart. They left me veggies from their garden in the summer and cleaned the snow and ice off my car in the winter.

I often stayed for a cup of tea with the missus when I stopped by on the first of the month to pay my rent.

Their house wasn’t fancy but it had a warm well-used kitchen, good furniture (including a baby grand piano) and some interesting art in all the rooms.

One day over tea, I notice some beautiful plates on display in the dining room.

“Those are really lovely,” I said.

Mrs. Manchester aid, “Thank you. They are very old family heirlooms. They are precious to me.” She added, “Do you see that the one on the right has been broken and glued back together?”

“I see that now,” I said.

“My grandchildren broke that piece three years ago. Knocked it off the wall.”

“What a shame.”

She laughed. “If my own kids had done it I would have strangled them. But when it’s your grandchildren, you say, ‘Oh, that’s okay, sweethearts.’ And you get out the glue.”

“I guess so,” I answered doubtfully.

“I thought my heart would break,” she said. “But it didn’t.”

Years later, I surprised myself by becoming rather a business success. I eventually got myself a beautiful condo and lovely expensive furniture, including some antiques. I acquired fine dishes and crystal and a few good pieces of art.

Of course, I had to clean the snow off my car myself, so there’s that.

Also eventually, my adorable sister had a bunch of adorable kids, and my nephews and niece became an important, loving part of my world.

Mostly I visited – and babysat – at their place, which was childproofed in every inch of every room, of course.

My place was a bit more fragile.

But I loved having the family over. When I wasn’t working like a maniac of course… which was most of the time.

So there’s that.

And one day when my family had come to visit, the kids were playing in my spare bedroom and there was considerable noise emanating from that direction.

My brother-in-law frowned. He said, “I worry about all your beautiful things when we come here. Sometimes I think we shouldn’t visit until the kids are out of college.”

And I thought of Mrs. Manchester and laughed – like she laughed when she told me the story of her family heirlooms.

“Oh no!” I said. “You – and the kids – can come anytime. You are always welcome here.”

“But what if they break something precious?” he asked.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I love my things. I really do. But you know… my things don’t love me back.”



My heirlooms. Only one set loves me back.




Not Giving Up

Earlier this week, my husband and I stopped for ice cream, which was practically mandatory as it was ‘buy one, get one half price’ day at Carvel.

We don’t usually take full advantage of BOGO day, which I think annoys my husband because the offer is for sundaes, but I would rather just have a nice cup of vanilla, thank you. So my little cup at half price is not as much of a bargain. I have tried to convince Hubby that we save even more money this way, since the sundaes are more expensive to begin with. But savings 50% off something expensive does seem to have more appeal. I lessen the sting of buying something cheaper by getting one size larger than I normally would. That way Theo can have a bit too.

But this little anecdote really doesn’t have anything to do with the bigger anecdote.

Which is this one:

We sat down at a long picnic table where a man and woman already occupied the far end. They were old, very old. Perhaps almost our age. Perhaps a bit younger.

The man wanted something, and it appeared from the conversation that he wanted it quite badly. I didn’t hear what it was that he wanted, as I was a little late in my eavesdropping.

But the woman asked him,

“What would you give up for it?”

This, I think, is a very good question.

They got up and left and I never heard the answer.

But I started thinking about that question and my answer.

What do I want and what would I give up for it?

Well, naturally I want world peace and a cure for cancer and justice for the poor and abandoned. I guess I would give up quite a lot if I could have all three. Some people even give up their lives. That is astounding to me.

The closest I have come is when my nephew was diagnosed with cancer. He wasn’t even two. He was so desperately ill, and I wondered – especially in the middle of the night – if there is a God and whether he could or would help this little baby. I wondered if someone told me I could change places with this small child – if I could take on his cancer so he could be healthy – would I? I thought about that a lot. I decided I would. I would rather have cancer myself than to see it in that sweet kid.

Once I knew that about myself, I felt a great sense of comfort. And my nephew survived and is a teenager now. He’s well – in every way that one measures wellness.

I’m still not sure I believe in God, but if She exists, I think She mostly helps doctors and nurses to do their jobs well.

And what about me personally? What do I want?

I would like my novels to be recognized and successful, for one thing.

But you know, as far as what would I give up? I don’t think I have to give up much. Because I like them, and I am proud I wrote them. So they are already successful to me.

But oh, if everyone else loved them! That would be pretty sweet. But extra really. I’m good right where I stand.

And wealth!  I want to be a billionaire.

What would I give up to have an endless supply of money?

Well, I wouldn’t want to work at a job I hated. I wouldn’t want to be unethical in my dealings or have to lie constantly. I wouldn’t want to move away from my friends and family. I wouldn’t want to be hated. I wouldn’t want to give up a single year of my life for more cash.

So what would I give up to be rich?

Not nice weather. Not my favorite songs. Certainly not my pets.

Maybe coffee. But maybe not.

And of course I would like happiness now and through the end of my life.  Well, I think I am okay there too. No one can predict the future of course, but I see a happy future.

What would I give up to ensure future happiness?

How about worry and envy and resentment?

You would think that those are easy to give up. Not so, I see. No one wants to worry. No one wants to be angry. And yet, like most people, I am. Often.

I hang onto my hurts and grudges like they are the flags that define me. I nurse them in my heart.

I need to take much better care of my joy.

While I sweep away my resentments with the toaster crumbs,  I need to take out my joys and look at them over breakfast every morning. And admire how everlasting they are. How strong.

I wouldn’t give them up.

Not the books I have written. Not the books I have read.

Not the walks I have taken. The sunrises and sunsets I have seen.

Not the flowers I have planted and seen bloom around me.

Not my pets. Not Theo the dog. And not the cats – not Thor nor Niko nor Athena – not even cranky old Lillian. Not Moonlight the horse.

Not my friends. Not my old friends from childhood. Not the new friends I have made.

Not my family – and not their health. Not my husband. Not my mother. Not my sisters nor my brother. Not their families, including my in-laws, my nieces and nephews, and the children of my nieces and nephews.

And if I should lose some of those I love – and I will, of course, eventually – they are still everlasting.

Everlasting in my joy.

I’m not giving that up.

You can keep the money.







Alternate Endings

Do you ever wish that the writer of the book you just read or the movie you saw would have consulted you before she decided on that particular ending?

I do.

Sometimes it is simply historical reality that makes people or characters act the way they act. But I see so many occasions where there could be a much more interesting outcome.


Take Jane Eyre, for example.(my favorite book since I was twelve… and still 55 years later.) In 1847, Jane could hardly embrace immorality, but when you think about it, she does anyway – despite the mores of the times. She returns to Edward Rochester not knowing that Rochester’s crazy wife is dead. She returns to him willingly, aware that he already has a wife. So Jane was plenty subversive – for 1847.

But how I would love it if, when Jane Eyre returned to Thorncrest, she had found everything pretty much as she left it. Mad Bertha still alive, still living in the attic. And Jane stays anyway – her own decision. Married (by love and commitment only, not by the church) to Edward, she has a family of her own, including Adele. And Jane takes good and compassionate care of Bertha, too, for the rest of their lives.


I love the movie Baby Boom. I am willing to suspend all logic and reality to accept that Diane Keaton can inherit a baby from a long-lost cousin, and that Diane had never so much as held a baby in her life. And I even accept that she can be her ditzy self and still hold a high-level management position. I can accept that she gives it all up for a falling-down farmhouse. I accept it all because Diane is adorable and the baby Elizabeth even more adorable. And because she gets to say “screw you” to her big, important job.

But.  Oh, how I wish Diane Keaton went to Vermont to that ramshackle farmhouse and fixed it up and didn’t meet a handsome veterinarian. And liked her life anyway.


I loved Friends. I never missed an episode. I planned my Thursday evenings so I could be friends with all those friends. I loved every quirky one of them.

Phoebe was my favorite. I just wish she had pointed out a lot more often to Monica and Rachel how fantastic it is to be completely independent. Not needy. And honest without a trace of meanness. You do not have to lie to get out of an unpleasant situation.


I was on vacation at Cape Cod (in a tent, as I was one of many penniless students) when every other song on the radio was Rod Stewart’s Maggie May. No matter where we were and what we doing, when we heard that mandolin, we would all stop – and sing.

But I wish Maggie May had said, “YOU feel YOU’RE being used??? Get your freeloading ass out of my house, and go back to school. Learn something!”



My dog-eared, yellow-paged, underlined, illegibly annotated, 50-year-old copy of JANE EYRE.



Insulted? Maybe not.

Years ago I went to a party and there was a guy there I had not seen in years.

He was surprised to see me.

Because six months earlier there had been a murder in my town, and the poor young murder victim bore the same last name as mine.

And this distant friend exclaimed, “Oh my God!  I was sure that murdered girl was you!”


As in, “Although we have seen each other hundreds of times, I had forgotten your first name” sure?

Or as in, “I wasn’t surprised that you would be murdered, since we’ve all wanted to kill you at one time or another” sure?

Either way, I was pretty insulted.

But now, more than 40 years later, I don’t think so.

Not that it has taken me 40 years to get over it… no way…

Just that if that happened today, I would see it in a totally different light.

Because I don’t get insulted much anymore.

Because I am the arbiter of what is insulting.

And hardly anything is.

Like when someone told me they hated a certain movie, but that it was the “kind of thing I would like.” Well, now I just think they must mean sweet, simple and touching. Yes, I am like that.

Like when someone commented that I wore an awful lot of makeup. Well, now I just think, they mean that my makeup looks so perfect I look like I had it done by an expert. Yes, I am that good at it.

Like when someone said my dog runs around like a maniac. Well, now I just think that they think my dog is so energetic and fun-loving. Yes, I have raised a happy dog.

Like when someone told me I needed to work on my management skills. Well, now I just think that it’s not in my nature to criticize another person’s work. Yes, I am kind like that.

Like when someone came to dinner and brought her own food because my cooking is not up to her standards.  Well, now I just think how much money I just saved because she was generous enough to bring the main course. Yes, I am grateful like that.

Like when someone said that I had a stupid laugh. Well, now I just think that I laugh like a nut all the time because so much in life is so nutty. Yes, I am happy like that.

Like when someone wrote a review on Amazon and said my first book was predictable, unreadable and a complete waste of time. Well, now I just think…

Um, no.

That hurts.

Yes, because I am sensitive like that.



My books. The core of my vulnerability.