It’s Sunday morning. I pull the New York Times Magazine from the fat stack of newspapers on the breakfast table, fully intending to read the informative, thought-provoking articles inside. But I get no farther than page two, because that’s where the real estate ads are – the ones with the floor plans. Read more.
You know your kids have turned into grown-ups when they listen to your advice. I don’t mean take your advice. I mean listen – gently and kindly – as you talk away . . . Read more.
Los Angeles is an awful place. It is 469 square miles of bumper to bumper traffic, sinus clogging air pollution, starless nights and unrelenting summer sun . . . Read more.
Christmas has gotten to be a scheduling nightmare. Peter lives in Minnesota. Christina lives in Southern California. Jon and I live in Northern California. That puts 400 miles between us and our daughter and 2,000 miles between us and our son. Not exactly over the river and through the woods. Read more.
There’s no such thing as a presentable evening bag that can hold what a woman – a real one – needs to put into her purse these days. Read more.
It’s an Indian wedding with all the trimmings — drums, gongs, garlands of flowers, priestly blessings and flocks of women wearing gorgeous saris. I’m a Westerner. What do I wear? Read more.