Green Acres

I’m a planner by nature, which typically involves ordering tickets well in advance and peppering the calendar with Important Dates. Unfortunately it also means I don’t get my money back when Hurricane Irene rains on my plans to see outdoor ballet, or when small children throw up on the way to a show

Judging only by the sheer number of bugs and assorted growth experiments ongoing in our kitchen, you’d either imagine us to be a family of budding entomologists or that I have some repressed desire to teach pre-school. Nothing could be further from the truth. Our nature investigations are part exper

It would seem the French elections have touched a raw nerve over here. Sarkozy’s concession to Presidential rival, Francois Hollande, has spawned a flurry of headline histrionics. It’s been hard to find a media outlet that actually put the poor man’s name on the front page. Instead they seem to be c

I’ve long aired my contempt for US Airways and their officious flight staff. The fact that I still fly with them only proves a willingness to be handled like a naughty preschooler in return for more convenient flight times and connections out of Albany. And the upside of my continued loyalty is airm

It’s always fun going out to see my husband’s band play. Years ago it was all about the scene, playing deliberately hip NYC dives like CBGBs and The Continental while Guiliani cleaned up Times Square. Somewhere along the line, day jobs upstate, mortgages and school meetings crept in to fill the days

The summery weather has everyone rushing about like spring lambs. It helps that the past week was school break and my excitable pre-schoolers were eager to forage for fairy house supplies, dig in the vegetable garden, feed baby lambs, and even help shear a sheep. We included a day trip to Magic Wing

Sixteen months ago I wound up at the local YMCA purchasing five personal training sessions for my husband’s Christmas present. They went over in much the same way as the selection of Clarins Men facial products and the Ab Lounger had a few Christmases past. At least the Ab Lounger had raised the ant

I hate to bang on about this but the arrival of another confessional tome riding into town on its publishing advance is hard to ignore, especially given all the hoopla. After the searing academic focus of Amy Chua’s Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, prepossessed Mareille Guiliano’s French Women Don’t

If you habitually check any form of social media, you’ll have noticed it’s currently awash with pictures of jammy travelers sunning themselves, sipping cocktails, and lounging on impossibly pristine beaches. When they are not doing that they are cavorting in tranquil turquoise waters or pointing the