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While my kids are giving their brains a break this summer, my head is working overtime.

I’m trying to learn the latest schedules for my kids’ summer camps and activities, which change weekly, along with the logistics of driving everyone around. It requires a lot of last minute cramming.

“Morning drop-offs at 8:30, 9 and 11 and afternoon pick ups at 12, 12:30 and 2,” I recite to myself. “Swim lesson at 4, swim lesson at 4, swim lesson at 4,” I say over and over, trying to commit it to memory.

My brain gets lazy during the school year, when the routine stays pretty much the same.  For nine months, I manage the schedule and logistics by rote.  I slide by, without much thinking at all.

But during the summer, I really have to apply myself, in order to learn everything I need to know.  My kids offer tips.

“Note cards,” advises my high school daughter.  “You learn the information while writing it down, and then you can use the note cards to study.”

I give the note cards a try, writing where I have to be at what time each day.  It is useful because the schedule becomes clearer to me.  However, I still manage to miss a pick up time and leave my daughter waiting.

“I think I need to test you on the note cards,” admonishes my daughter when I arrive late.

At home, with note cards in hand, my daughter quizzes, “Where’s your first drop off tomorrow?”

I know I have to be in Alameda, Piedmont and Rockridge, but I’m a little fuzzy on the order.  Sensing my hesitation, my daughter answers, “First you go to Rockridge, next to Alameda and then back to Piedmont.”

Overhearing us, my youngest daughter pipes in, “Why don’t you use a mnemonic? It always helps me.”

In this case, it would be RAP (Rockridge, Alameda, Piedmont), which is easy to remember.  But I know there’s one day when I have to go to Berkeley first to pick up a friend’s daughter.  Not sure if BRAP would spring to mind.

My son enters the room dressed in his swim trunks and flip-flops. “Don’t I have a swim lesson now?” he asks.

My older daughter looks at the note cards and says reproachfully, “You don’t have anything written here about swim lessons.”

Oh boy, I forgot the swim lessons.  I grab my car keys and son, and we race to the door.

As I’m leaving, my youngest daughter yells out, “Do what I do.  When nothing else works, just write it on your hand.”

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I’m loud, messy and not composting properly, which makes me a bad neighbor.

Instead of putting used coffee grounds in the compost bin, I carry them to the front of my house and spoon them onto my lawn where a mole has taken up residence.  I’m following advice from gardeners who believe the bitter taste of coffee grounds repels moles.

I haven’t found it to be true.

Watching the molehills multiply, I could even conclude the opposite:  a mole loves a good cup of coffee. When I get a look at my lawn each morning, I have no doubt it keeps the mole in my yard up all night.

When the mole first moved in, I really hoped we could be good neighbors, maybe even friends.  I wasn’t bothered by the mole pushing around dirt in the flowerbeds or kicking up dirt at the edges of the lawn.  (I was open-minded to his taste in landscaping.)

But he has gone too far.  He is tunneling constantly, digging up huge chunks of grass and leaving behind gigantic piles of dirt.  Not very neighborly of him, I’d say.

So I’m doing everything I can to persuade him to move. While the coffee is brewing (for the coffee grounds), I’m also slicing up garlic.  I sprinkle garlic in the mole holes on more advice from gardeners who claim it will send moles packing.

Some days, I take it a step further and add castor oil to the mix, which is another recommendation I’ve heard for repelling moles.  It reminds me of stories from the old days when the foul taste of castor oil was used as a punishment for naughty children.  It’s worth a try on my naughty mole.

I have to conclude this mole isn’t very sensitive to taste, because none of these efforts have any effect.

It makes me wonder if he’s sensitive to noise, as moles are reported to be.  To find out, I’ve recently planted mole sticks, which are in-ground spikes that create constant sonic vibrations, sort of like a round-the–clock dance party.  Apparently, moles are not party animals and, according to gardeners, will hit the ground running.

Seeing two new piles of dirt on my lawn today, I know the mole is still in residence.  I can’t seem to bother him, but when I think of all I’ve done, it bothers me.  I’ve always considered myself a live-and-let-live sort of person, and I like to think of myself as a good neighbor.

It’s time to stop.  No more dumping kitchen garbage on the front lawn or cranking up the sounds.  Sooner or later, the mole will move out, once he has consumed all the grubs.  At least that’s what I’ve heard gardeners say.

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It’s hard to put into words everything I learned in kindergarten.

But as my son finishes kindergarten, I can say that we’ve both mastered the star words taught this year.  Star words are high frequency words, such as “the”, “at”, “on”, that are prevalent in reading and writing.  Educators believe by focusing on these words, children get a jump-start when first learning to read and write.

To try and make it fun, I came up with a game of constructing sentences using only star words. My son and I would scatter cards with the star words onto a table and try making sentences out of them.  It was plenty challenging because, with words like “in”, “to”, “is” “am”, “do”, “yes” and “no”, something always seemed to be missing.

What was missing was a person, place or thing. Trying to put together a sentence without one of those is like trying to play dodge ball without a ball (or without other kids).  Luckily, as the year progressed, we started accumulating personal pronouns, so we were rolling with “I like you” and “He can do it”.

But still, something was missing.  I concluded it was interest or excitement, because these were some pretty boring sentences.  The game picked up when we got verbs with a little more action, and we were able to make “Come with me” and “Look at this” and “Go and see”.

The game really hit a peak when “play” and “love” showed up.  Those two words can spice up anything.  My son’s all-time favorite sentence using star words has got to be “I love to play.”

What I’ve learned from the game is how to be succinct. I sometimes find myself talking in star words even when I’m not playing. I’ve been amazed to discover how much I can convey with so little.  When my daughter is preparing to go out, wearing the shortest shorts I’ve ever seen, I’ve got it covered with “No can do.”

Those times I start speaking in star words can be confusing to others, because I’m known for my tendency to run on. When my husband asks me to read and comment on something he has written for a business project, I say, “I like it.”  By the way he stands waiting, I can tell he’s expecting more.

Having accomplished so much this year, my son and I can hardly wait for what comes next.  If our early reader books at home are any indication, we soon could be moving on to colors and animals.

It’s exciting to think about what we could do with a “dog” and a “cat”.  To be honest, I’d even be thrilled with a “rat”.

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If you listened to what they say about girls, you’d never want one.

At almost any gathering of mothers who have daughters, I can count on the term “alpha girl” to crop up, usually to describe some other mother’s daughter.  Sometimes I hear “queen bee” or “mean girl”.  These expressions refer to a girl who calls the shots in her peer group.

People commonly use language of this kind when talking about the social dynamics among girls today, a subject well covered in articles and books, and also popularly depicted in television shows and movies.  The prevailing view is that relationships among girls are characterized by power struggles that lead to cruel and underhanded treatment of each other.

It seems to be all I hear people say about girls.  Right from the start, when my first daughter entered kindergarten ten years ago, another mother with a son, not a daughter, said to me, “I’m glad I won’t be dealing with ‘mean girls’.”  (She also happened to be a psychologist.)

Now after two daughters and lots of exposure to the world of girls, I’d say this behavior surfaces occasionally, but that’s not all I’d say about girls.

I recently observed a gathering of a dozen middle school girls at my house.  Each time a girl arrived at the door, an exuberant cheer rose from the others already assembled.  Then a tangle of arms wound around each entering girl, like a straight jacket in a suffocating group hug.

As they settled down to a game of Truth or Dare, I couldn’t help overhearing.  The answers to questions such as “What’s your most embarrassing moment”, “What’s your craziest dream” and “What’s the worst gift you ever received” were met by shrieks of laughter.  In the freedom of their company, they showed no inhibition.

Before too long, the beat of music rattled the walls, and the whole house seemed to move and shake.  I stuck my head in their room to see what was happening.  All 12 girls were on their feet, hips swaying, hands out front, bouncing together doing the “Waka Waka” dance. Their faces shone and their teeth glistened, as laughter kept rising and bursting like surf at the shore.

When it came time to go, the whole group of girls surged to the door.  With heavy sighs, they took their leave.  The last thing I heard was one of the girls calling out, “I love you guys. See you later.”

Nothing compares to the ease, exhilaration and joy that girls feel in each other’s company. When people talk about girls, they should say that too.

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Nothing seems to be working any more.  I’m not referring to our government or the economy.  Right now, I’m talking about the sandwich.

The peanut butter and jelly, tuna salad, and hummus are leaking, because of holes I’m finding in bread that I buy at the supermarket. It’s a problem I haven’t encountered before.

While preparing my son’s sandwich, I’m discomfited by the sight of strawberry jelly oozing out holes in the slices of sourdough. It’s got me seriously reconsidering the expression “greatest thing since sliced bread”.

When I first noticed holes, big enough for my finger to go through, in most slices of a new sourdough loaf, I figured that I just bought bum bread.  But I continued finding holes in subsequent loaves that I brought home.  I came to the conclusion that it was strictly a sourdough problem, and then to my dismay, I discovered I was wrong. Now I’m looking at holey whole wheat.

“What the heck is happening with all these holes?” I asked myself.

It’s the subject of lots of online conversation about bread baking.  The holes are a result of the yeast used in bread that causes air bubbles in the dough.  Among artisan bakers, holes are highly desirable. “Light-as-air, hole-riddled loaf” writes one baker in lofty praise.

But among novice bakers, it can be a source of frustration.  “A ruddy big hole” curses a British baker from her home kitchen. “I have to start all over.”

Of course, none of this explains why I’m recently finding holes in commercial bread from the supermarket.  The holes could be unintended mistakes or perhaps commercial bakeries are going for a more artisan look to their breads.

I do know that it’s causing a whole mess of trouble for me.  “My hands are so sticky,” wails my son, while holding up his hands streaked with jelly, after eating his sandwich.

Standing in front of the shelves of bread at the supermarket, I deliberate over which one to choose.  I’ll grab one loaf and then decide it feels too light, a sure sign of a whole lot of holes. I’ll switch it for another and then another.

At home, I spend time rooting through the bag of bread, searching for slices without holes.  It’s like trying to grab a handful of trail mix without nuts or a section of an orange without seeds.

The bottom line is I don’t want holes in my sandwich bread, just as I don’t want holes in my socks. (While I’m at it, the same goes for my pocket, shopping bag, garden hose, and AeroBed mattress.)

What I really want right now is something that works.  I’ll settle for something small, such as the sandwich.

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Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about a little girl named Rachel Shtokfish.  I never met Rachel, who died in 1942 when she was nine years old, but my daughter talks about her.

My daughter, Lily, has become acquainted with Rachel while preparing for her Bat Mitzvah, the Jewish ceremony that recognizes 13 year olds as young adults.  Lily received Rachel’s name and biography from Remember Us, an organization that invites those who are approaching their Bat Mitzvahs to remember and, in some way, honor a child who died in the Holocaust.

According to the given information, Rachel was born in 1933 to parents Lea and Yosef Shtokfish.  She lived in Lublin, Poland and she died in 1942 in the Holocaust.

It wasn’t much.  My daughter plans to honor Rachel by sharing the memory of her with gathered family and friends at her Bat Mitzvah.  If possible, she wanted to try and find out more about her life.

Remember Us suggests doing research and provides the names of websites with databases on Holocaust victims. Together, Lily and I found a record written in Hebrew by a cousin of Rachel’s who survived the war.  It offered the same scant information, although it specified that Rachel was born in Lublin and lived there for the extent of her life.

Still searching for more, Lily decided to research the life of Jewish people in Lublin before the war.  “It could give me an idea of what Rachel’s life was like,” she explains.

She learned that Lublin had been an important center of Jewish religion, education, culture, and social life, where Jewish people made up one-third of the population.  There were 12 synagogues, two Jewish newspapers, a Jewish hospital and Jewish citizens owned many businesses and participated in a wide variety of commercial and social organizations.

Then Germany invaded Poland in September 1939, and everything changed in Lublin.  The Jewish people were forced out of their homes and businesses into a Jewish ghetto, where they lived until around April 1942, when the majority was sent to the Belzec extermination camp in southeast Poland.  The remaining Jewish people were sent to the nearby Majdanek concentration camp in November 1942, and the ghetto was demolished.

My daughter doesn’t take time to dwell on the tragic end of Rachel’s life, perhaps because she saw it coming, like already knowing the ending of a book before you read it. Finding out about life in Lublin prior to the war seems to fill in some blanks, because Lily says, “I feel as if I know her a little better.”

Despite everything we don’t know about her, Rachel has become real to us.  While talking about her, she has taken shape in our thoughts.

Most of the time, it feels gratifying to bring the memory of Rachel to life, no matter how little we know.  It’s a positive act coming out of a dark event.  I sense how meaningful it is to my daughter to simply remember her.

But at times, I must admit that I find it hard to think about Rachel at all.  I’m overcome by the horror of her experience, even though it happened so long ago.  I feel a piercing sensation in my chest, physical pain over the loss of this little girl, something no mother ever wants to imagine.

It’s the same feeling I had recently when I learned of the nine-year-old girl who died in Tucson.  Another little girl lost before her time.

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With a little luck, it’s going to be a good year.

But luck can be pretty capricious, so you have to work it, which is something well known in my family.  When it comes to working the luck, my mother-in-law, Eva, is the master.

If a circumstance calls for knocking on wood, Eva effortlessly integrates it into her conversation, like an acrobat who’s juggling while riding a unicycle. “Your cousin Carolyn finished all her college applications.” Knock, knock, knock. “Now she’s just waiting to hear.”  Knock, knock, knock.  “I hope it works out the way she wants.”  Knock, knock, knock.

Eva is an expert at both summoning good luck and banishing bad luck.  The goals are more or less the same; it’s just the tactics are different.  When my son enthuses about a trip to Florida he’ll soon be taking, Eva responds by chanting  “toi, toi, toi”, an old world custom of hers for warding off evil.

Under Eva’s influence, everyone in the family tries hard to solicit luck.  While driving in the car with my kids looking for a parking space on Piedmont Avenue, I notice my youngest daughter rubbing a pocket size Buddha that she carries in her purse, which she claims brings her luck.  “There’s a spot,” she jubilantly cries.

Another time, I find my oldest daughter frantically searching for a pair of volleyball shorts.  When I point to four identical pairs of volleyball shorts on her bed, she looks at me with dismay and replies, “No, I’m looking for the ones that helped us win at the last tournament.”

My five-year-old son finds luck in more than just stray pennies he picks up.  He believes that a white pebble, a black feather and one red Skittle candy, discovered on separate occasions, bring him luck.  (Watching him get them off the ground, I always hope he won’t pick up anything besides luck.)  He keeps his own stash of lucky items, enlisting one or another, as he deems appropriate.

Among us, my husband stands out with his unique ability to identify luck.  He finds luck in guises that most of us miss.  After I sneeze multiple times in a row, I’m always comforted when he responds, “Something good is coming your way.”

I’m definitely the weak link, when it comes to courting luck. It doesn’t come naturally to me, perhaps because I wasn’t exposed to it growing up, unlike the rest of my family.  If I’m being entirely truthful, you could also say I have my doubts.  I have a hard time believing these things are truly lucky.

But I’d like to believe.  The next time I start sneezing, I’d really like to believe it was more than just another cold.

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The more the merrier at the holidays, I always say.

So when houseguests stay longer than expected, like the painters at work in my house, I try and make the best of it. The painters are completing a renovation that was supposed to be done before the holidays, but as these things go, they’re not quite finished.

Treating the painters like family, same as I do all my houseguests, makes having them around a little easier. When I hear strains of “Feliz Navidad” coming through the walls from the painters’ radio, I call out “Can you turn the music down?” (It’s what I’m always asking my kids.)

When coming for a visit, painters bring a lot of stuff, but I’m learning to work with it. Their white drop cloths, which are underfoot everywhere, have taken some of the effort out of holiday decorating. I no longer worry about dribbling pine needles all over the floor, while adorning tabletops and mantels with greens. It only takes a couple of shakes of the drop cloth out the door, instead of multiple laps with the vacuum. Also, the drop cloths simulate snow nicely, giving the house a seasonal something extra.

With painters constantly around, I don’t ever have to be alone with my thoughts. So when I’m in the kitchen debating whether I prefer the rugelach cookies I baked with apricot preserves or the ones without, I have a painter taste them and give me an opinion. (I’ll be baking more without apricot for the holidays.)

Lucky for me, there’s always an extra pair of hands. When I can’t quite manage opening the door, while balancing boxes of gifts I’m taking to the post office, a painter nearby steps in to help. As I turn to go, I say to him, “Can you lock up behind me?”

When setting up for a holiday gathering, the painters are also a big help in figuring out party flow. I note whenever they head from the living room to the dining room, they take the roundabout route through the center hall. It makes me think that’s where I should set up the drinks table.

The biggest challenge during this hectic season is getting time to myself. The painters have an uncanny ability of finding me, even when I lock myself in the bathroom to take a long winter’s bath.

But if I didn’t have so many guests in the house, it wouldn’t feel quite like the holidays. It always feels like a big let down, when things quiet down in January

This year, however, things might be different. I’m not sure the painters will be done by Christmas.

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I think it’s crummy when families can’t agree.

In my family, we can’t agree on when it’s necessary to use a plate for eating. My husband, who’s cranky about crumbs, argues you should use a plate, bowl or other dishware whenever you’re eating. On the other hand, my mother-in-law is casual about crumbs, and when she eats buttered toast in the morning, she forgoes a plate asserting a napkin is enough.

Some of my family take my mother-in-law’s side, and others line up with my husband, so when we spend time together over the holidays, it’s like two opposing teams taking the field.

The team that favors the plate always plays with more polish. For example, when my oldest daughter eats an energy bar as a quick breakfast on her way out the door, she shines with her use of a large dinner plate. No crumbs off sides of the plate. When she’s done, she simply whisks the crumbs into the compost bin for extra points.

I’m definitely on the side of the plate. Out of necessity, however, I’ve come up with my own signature move, when the pressure is on. If I’m still eating and I see the clock is running out, but I need to get out the door in the morning, I carry my plate to the sink. Then with one hand, I finish eating my whole grain muffin over the sink and, using my other hand, I rinse my plate before putting it into the dishwasher. When my crumbs go directly down the drain, I’ve really scored.

The other team, by comparison, has a more relaxed style of play. When my youngest daughter eats an energy bar, she doesn’t bother with a plate. She eats the bar right out of the wrapper, not concerned whether she’s going to fumble a crumb. As far as she’s concerned, if she never has to wash another plate again, then she has won.

My son is no fan of the plate, but as a five-year-old, he has to play by others’ rules. It doesn’t stop him, however, from taking control of the game. Typically, even though he uses a plate, crumbs go everywhere but the plate. When he’s done eating, he displays exceptionally fast hands by brushing the crumbs off the table to the floor. By doing so, he figures he won’t incur any penalties.

However, there is a time when we can all see eye to eye. Sitting down for the big feast, each of us takes a plate and loads it up with food and fixings, as we give thanks for our bounty. It’s at moments like these that we’re happy to be all together on the same team.

But it only lasts so long. Near the end of the meal, my son can no longer be contained. On the buffet among the desserts, he spies snickerdoodles, his favorite cookies. He cuts loose and executes a quick grab and run. It’s one sweet play.

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As long as kids have been around, parents have been waiting for them to come home.

And while waiting, sometimes parents worry. It’s a low-grade kind of worry. Like when you have a slight temperature and the thermometer reads 99 degrees. You’re not really sick, just feeling slightly off.

I get this feeling occasionally, waiting for my teenage daughter to come home at night. I don’t know exactly where it comes from, just as I can’t always figure out where I picked up a cold. When it hits, I try different remedies.

First, I try a dose of reason. I tell myself there’s no cause for worry, even though my daughter isn’t home yet, because she’s out with friends, who I know are responsible. She’s in a safe area, not far away. Another parent, someone I’ve known for years, is driving her home.

But when my daughter still hasn’t arrived, irrational thoughts start creeping in. They’re small at first, like tiny bug bites. I attempt to ignore them, but then the itching begins. I hope everything’s okay. Maybe something has happened. Nothing’s wrong, I hope.

As my worrying flares, I try soothing it with a cup of tea. The steam rises from the cup, covering my face in a veil of warm mist. The heat of the liquid in my mouth spreads through my limbs. Any minute, I anticipate, the calm will set in.

However, I can’t keep my eyes from going to the front door, solid and unmoving, waiting for my daughter to push through it. But the door stands still, and I’m feeling a little funny, like something I ate doesn’t quite agree with me.

I start doing some yoga, which always relaxes me. I sit on the floor, put the soles of my feet together and start the breathing exercises that accompany yoga. Take in a deep breath, and count one, two, three, four, five.

But instead I find myself counting the minutes on the clock on the wall. I watch closely as the second hand makes a full rotation. One minute. I continue my breathing exercises, still counting. Five minutes. More time passes, and my daughter’s not yet home. Between breathing and counting (and waiting and worrying), my head is starting to feel heavy, as if a headache is lurking.

I’m taking in another breath, when I hear a clinking of keys outside. The door swings open and my daughter steps inside. I let out a big exhale. My head is suddenly clear.

I’m struck by how good I feel, as I get ready for bed. I put my head down on the pillow, without any worry, knowing that my daughter is safe and sound at home. It’s the only cure I know.

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If I were stranded on a desert island, and I could take only one thing, I know exactly what I’d bring.

It would be one of my friends. Not one particular friend, any of them. Whoever it was, she’d undoubtedly bring a bottle of sunscreen and extra water to share. Then she’d figure out how else to help.

If it were my friend Roxane, she’d probably bring along her extra deep Igloo ice chest. (It could come in handy for keeping things cold on a desert island.) Roxane has brought it before to keep my pasta salad cold for my daughter’s volleyball team at all-day tournaments.

Of course, if I were stranded on an island, my kids would be there too, because you never find yourself alone if you’re a mother. But it wouldn’t feel like I was in over my head, because this friend of mine would always be ready to lend a hand.

For instance, if Betty was there, and one of my kids needed to be somewhere (maybe the other side of the island), but I had to stay with the other kids, she’d offer to drive. Not only would Betty drive my daughter, as she does all the time, she would also treat her to dinner on the way home.

If I needed something that I didn’t have on hand, I could count on this friend of mine to come through with it. Chafing dish, kid’s ski clothes, latest parenting book, recipe for brisket. (Who knows what I might need on the island.) If she didn’t have it, she’d find someone who did.

If it were my friend Justine, she’d take it a step further. I wouldn’t even have to say what I needed, because she would just know, like when my son broke his foot and she brought over rolls and rolls of sticky plastic wrap to keep his cast dry in the bath.

Being stuck on a desert island wouldn’t deter me from looking for advice and recommendations on everything. Family travel tips for overseas? Chiropractor for a teenager? Hairdresser who cuts a great bob? Martial arts instructor? Hebrew tutor? Piano teacher? Andrea, Cathy, Elena, and Sheila – if any of these friends were along, they’d go out of their way to share everything they knew.

On that island, I’m sure there’d come a day when I was feeling a little under the weather, but life and its duties would still go on. If I had a friend along, I know I’d get through it just fine. If it were my friend Maria, she’d offer to bring over soup, as she has done before.

Some days, when I’ve got my head down, juggling all of life’s duties, it can feel as if I’m alone on an island. But then I hear from one of my friends, and I know I’m not alone anymore.

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I try to choose my words carefully, no matter what the occasion. Whether I’m responding to an Evite for a child’s birthday, ladies’ night-out or swanky soiree, I ponder what to write in the comment box that accompanies my reply.

I’d prefer to simply click “Yes ” and be done with it. But invited guests have the option of including a comment and, because everyone does it, you run the risk of appearing less than enthusiastic if you opt out. The lyrics “every party has a pooper” come to mind. (“And that’s why we invited you.”)

So I furrow my brow and consider what to write. Like everyone else, I read the comments of others, not just because I’m nosy, but I might pick up some ideas. For example, I could go over the top with good manners, like one guest who writes: “Thank you for the invitation. I’ll be there. Thank you again.”

Maybe I could even take it a step further by adding yet another “thank you”. Three of a kind beats two of a kind. But that seems a bit showy. I certainly want to be polite, but I’m more comfortable being understated. Perhaps I’ll go with a simple “Thanks” somewhere in my comment.

Many guests throw around the exclamation point, something else I can’t see myself doing. The comments vibrate with “I can hardly wait!” and “I’m so excited!” and “How fun!” Probably the last time I used exclamation points with such abandon was back in middle school, when signing friends’ yearbooks with messages like “Stay cute!” and “I’ll never forget you!” and “Don’t ever change!”

But I don’t think I can carry it off anymore. (The same is true with the Dorothy Hamill haircut I wore back then.) I’d like to convey enthusiasm, but I’d tone it down a bit. No attention grabbing punctuation. I could let my words do the talking, such as “It sounds like fun”. Period.

When you come right down to it, all the guests’ comments end up sounding pretty much the same, because there are only so many ways you can say, “Yep, I’m coming.” I have to resist my own impulse to try and come up with something original. At a minimum, I don’t want to write exactly what the other guy does.

So I review the comments carefully. I note a handful of “Looking forward to it”. I also see “It’s on my calendar” and “I’m planning on it”. And the perennial “I’ll be there with bells on!”

It looks like all the standards are taken already. When that happens, I resort to the common practice of Evite guests, which is to take what others have written and alter it ever so slightly, by changing the word order or punctuation.

I mull it a little more before finally deciding what to write. Perhaps not “I’ll be there with bells on!” But “I’ll be there with bells on.” Period.

And “Thanks”.

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Lately, I haven’t been treating my friends very well. I’m ashamed to say I haven’t taken the time to see them or even thought about them at all.

That’s something Fred and Ted, two of my oldest friends, would never do. They always put their friends first. I’ve watched them do it time and time again in Big Dog . . . Little Dog, a book I repeatedly read to my son when he was in preschool.

But my son has moved on to kindergarten, and his taste in reading has moved on too. He’s no longer interested in spending time with Fred and Ted or our other old buddies such as Carl, Bingo, Jack, Owen, George, Jeremy and Little Quack, all characters in books we used to enjoy. So we’re shutting them out.

It’s a rotten way to treat your friends. You’d think my son and I would know better considering all the lessons on friendship we’ve gotten from these books. But to be fair, we’ve never read about a situation quite like this – how to tell your friends you’ve outgrown them and you’re moving on. A little awkward, I’d say.

I’ve been trying to imagine how our old pal, Carl, would take it, if we said we were ready to move on. He wouldn’t get too worked up. Carl’s a Rottweiler with the attitude that life’s too short to worry about other people’s issues. (Every year for him is seven dog years, you know.) He does exactly what he wants all the time. If Carl wanted to still be friends, regardless of what we said, we’d still be friends. Pretty doggone simple.

Our old buddy, Bingo, would probably see it as a challenge, if we said we were looking for new friends. A little friendly competition, she’d say. When Bingo races cars, she does everything she can to win. She works harder than the other racers, who happen to be male, in order to get ahead. (Yep, typical.) I can’t see Bingo letting anyone edge her out.

I don’t think we’d run afoul of our duck pal, Little Quack, if we said it was time for us to go. In fact, he’d do everything he could to help, because no one’s as good a friend as Little Quack. He always treats others the right way. As far as friends go, Little Quack swims circles around everyone.

Boy, just thinking about all these guys makes me miss them. I can’t imagine better buddies. After spending so much time together over the years, I’ve come to really know them.

At the moment, I’m still getting to know our new friends. My son is into reading Greek myths right now. They’re the classic tales of gods, such as Zeus who tosses thunderbolts around when he gets mad, and goddesses like Athena who has been known to turn others into spiders when she’s crossed.

Truthfully, I’m finding it a little hard to warm up to this crowd. Also, I can’t help thinking when the time comes, they won’t make it as easy to say goodbye.

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Since returning with my family from Italy, I’ve been trying to capture the flavor of Italy at home. But I can’t quite grasp it.

It’s as tough as trying to grasp slices of eggplant off the grill, as they slip from my tongs, while I’m attempting to prepare a classic dish we enjoyed on our trip. In Italy, they call it “verdure alla griglia” which is essentially grilled vegetables.

Food not only sounds better in Italy, but it tastes better too. Of course, we’d eaten grilled vegetables before going to Italy. But the ones we ate there didn’t look or taste like what we’ve had before. Trying to duplicate this dish at home is proving to be a rather large challenge, sort of like trying to paint a copy of the Sistine ceiling on my kitchen ceiling.

According to my family, on my first attempt, I cut the eggplant too thick. “In Italy, it was sliced so thin, I could see the sunset on the Tiber shining through it,” my husband reminisces.

It’s a struggle trying to cut the eggplant just right. When I slice it too thinly, it crumples like a used tissue. Other times, I cut it unevenly around, so it’s thin on one side and thick on another, resembling a flat tire on a Vespa.

My family tells me that my plate just doesn’t look like an Italian one, even though I use exactly the same vegetables. “Remember how the colors of the eggplant, zucchini, pepper and onion, drizzled with olive oil, shimmered like Venetian glass,” sighs my daughter.

I try arranging the vegetables in different ways. Sometimes I create circular layers, reminiscent of the Roman Coliseum, or occasionally I separate by color. But in the end, it all runs together like two flavors of gelato on a hot summer day.

Most vexing of all, I can’t seem to achieve the taste my family remembers. There’s no doubt that the vegetables in Italy were seasoned simply with salt, pepper, and olive oil. So I ask myself, “Shouldn’t it be easy?” “Si” I reply in Italian.

But the answer is really “No”. “I think you need to use more olive oil,” my daughter critiques, “or maybe more salt.”

In my effort to achieve authentic Italian flavor, I’m considering all components. Maybe it’s a matter of sea salt versus kosher. Possibly I have to grind the pepper myself rather than using ground pepper from the supermarket. Perhaps I need to try one of the dozens of Italian olive oils available.

I’m not giving up, although I’m beginning to wonder if it’s even possible to duplicate. There’s an essence to the Italian life that’s hard to define. But I know it has something to do with Italy’s mesmerizing history and culture. And with eating grilled eggplant on the Tiber at sunset.

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Like all busy parents, I try hard to fit everything in each day.

So when my daughter’s teacher gives me five kids to drive on the school field trip, I gulp knowing my car can only fit four. “Oh no,” I respond, explaining my predicament.

The teacher has my number. She has seen my type before – someone who needs a little extra help with the math. “If we have two cars with seven seats each, one car with six seats and another car with four seats, how many seats do we have?” she quizzes me.

Rapidly running the numbers in my head, I come up with 24. Knowing that’s the same number of students we’re trying to transport, I’m certain I can figure this out. After a quick survey of the other parents driving, I find the one empty seat. Problem solved.

With growing kids, finding shoes that fit is another kind of problem. “My toes hurt,” complains my four-year-old son. I remove his shoes and try to put on a different pair. I push. I pull. I pant. Despite multiple attempts, none of his shoes seem to fit –it’s as if his feet have grown overnight. The only solution is to let his toes hang out. So even though it’s a crisp 50 degrees, I tell him what he is always dying to hear: “You can wear your sandals”.

Some days, it’s about fitting everything into the schedule, which is especially true after school when the commitments really stack up. On an average day, my schedule with three kids reads: 3:20 PM dentist appointment; 4:00 PM Hebrew school; 5:00 PM volleyball practice in Berkeley for one kid; 7:00 PM volleyball practice in Lafayette for another kid. Then I have to factor in pick-up times (the former are drop-off times), making dinner, homework help, and other daily chores.

Often, something unexpected comes along. “I have to bring homemade cookies to school tomorrow for a bake sale,” drops my daughter en route from the dentist appointment to volleyball practice. I furrow my brow, as I think about how to fit this into the schedule. I conclude that I can bake cookies some time between 9:00 PM volleyball pick-up and 5:30 AM wake-up the next morning when my alarm clock rings.

With all I attempt to fit in every day, I’m grateful when anyone tries to help. For instance, when I ask for a medium cup of coffee at Peet’s, I appreciate the barista’s question as she takes my commuter coffee cup: “Are you sure you don’t want a large coffee – I’m pretty sure it will fit in here?”

After staying up late to bake cookies the night before, I’m feeling tired. So I reply, “Yes, give me a large.”

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I admit it. I was scared. It was time to renew my driver’s license in person at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

It wasn’t the reputation of the DMV – long lines, endless waits, bureaucratic service – that had scared me but people’s reactions when I mentioned I was going there. “Oh no,” a friend responded, her eyes doubling in size, resembling the hubcaps on my SUV. Similar reactions from others had persuaded me that the actual experience might be even worse than the reputation.

“What a nightmare,” I muttered, as I pulled my SUV into the DMV parking lot on Claremont Avenue in Oakland, packed with so many cars that it brought to mind the number of Toyotas recalled recently. My eyes began flitting left and right in search of a place to park. To my amazement, I spotted an open parking space right in front.

Stepping out of the car, I glimpsed the long line of people snaking out the front door. “Horrible,” I groaned. I went to the end of line and strained my eyes to read the sign ahead. It indicated that anyone with an appointment should go to the window on the left. Following the recommendation on the DMV’s website, I had scheduled an appointment, so I headed to the other window. Surprisingly, no one was in line there.

Standing at the window, I looked warily at the woman working behind it. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked politely. I replied affirmatively and she quickly found me on a sheet of paper in her hand. She gave me a number and said, “It shouldn’t be too long.” Catching me off guard, she gave me a big smile.

Looking for an empty chair, I surveyed the overcrowded waiting area. “Awful,” I grumbled. But I spied an empty chair with a big man on one side and a woman with two young children on the other side. The chair was hardly visible between the bulk of the man and the children who were playing in front of it. I hiked over to the chair and started to sit down. Unexpectedly, the man slid his chair over to give me room, while the woman pulled her children out of the way and gave me a warm hello.

I began focusing on the numbers flashing on monitors. B051, F028, G011. The odd combination of letters and numbers didn’t suggest an obvious sequence, so I had no idea when my number would come up. “Oh boy,” I muttered. Unbelievably, my number started flashing on the screen.

Another friendly and efficient person was ready to help me. It took all of three minutes, and then she sent me to another line to get my picture taken. When I saw the five people in line ahead of me, I mumbled, “This should take awhile.” But in a matter of minutes, I was at the front of the line and ready to have my photo taken. As the woman operating the camera took the photo, she said “That’s a great picture”.

I was starting to really like this place.

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In parenting, no lesson is too small.

That’s why I’m coaching my son on how to make small talk. He wants to play with someone he hasn’t played with before at preschool, and he doesn’t know quite how to start.

“Mention the Batman book you got at the library,” I advise him. Engaging in small talk is the ideal way to break the ice when you’re trying to get to know someone. It’s exactly what I do when mingling at a cocktail party with people I don’t know. If there were a class for it, you’d call it Party Chatter 101.

The expression on my son’s face tells me he’s not impressed with my advice. He may have a point — some small talk might be, well, too small. He could use a little more juice to get things going.

I try again, “Ask him if he likes Batman.” This would be a woman’s approach at conversation. Either by nature or socialization, women know how to be engaging. By asking others’ for their opinions, you flatter them. As a social technique, you can’t beat it, particularly when you really listen to what a person has to say – something else women tend to do well.

But my son doesn’t appear to be listening, so I have my doubts about his success with this approach. It occurs to me I may be aiming too high, not focusing enough on my audience.

So I throw out, “What about asking – who’s your favorite superhero?” Here’s an example of an open-ended question, which I’ve heard experts tout as a surefire way to get any kid talking. Furthermore, in my experience, when the larger subject of superheroes comes up, little boys can really rev up. Just like the Batmobile.

However, if there’s a strong difference of opinion, I wonder if this surefire question could become incendiary. Can someone on Batman’s side of the aisle find common ground with Ironman’s side? One thing I know for sure – never ever mix politics with small talk.

I’m starting to think I could use a little help. (Maybe a superhero can rescue me.) But my son saves the day by coming up with his own answer. “I’m just going to ask him to play,” he says.

“You’re right,” I reply. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

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Far out in the middle of Lake Merritt, I spot a Canvasback duck gliding through the water. A little closer to shore, I see a Lesser Scaup duck, an American Coot, and a Canada Goose. Even closer, on the walking path in front of me, I see a Big Straw Hat woman, a Cal Sweatshirt man and a Double Stroller mother.

Whenever I walk around Lake Merritt, I find myself cataloguing the variety of bird and human species that make up the rich habitat.

“Oh look,” I say to myself. “There’s a Peet’s Coffee Cup man holding hands with a Noah’s Bagels woman.”

It’s common to witness signs of love at the lake. I also see a Silver Hair Senior man shuffling arm in arm with a Silver Hair Senior woman. Out on the water, I spot a Mallard male duck with its showy green head and a Mallard female duck with its drab brown head swimming together on their own. (They say that Mallards mate for life.)

But at the lake, they don’t only come in twos. I watch as five Seriously Toned Young men run by laughing and jawing, followed by four Fancy Athletic Clothes women deep in conversation. And on the lake, a large group of Double Crested Cormorants and Herring Gulls are having a confab of their own, lined up on the log booms that float in the water.

Not everyone who comes to the lake is looking for company. Some are engaged in solitary pursuit. I notice a Huffing Puffing woman running by herself, passing a Tuned Out man wearing earphones attached to a MP3 player. On the shore, I see a lone Western Gull wrestling a clam shell to get at what’s inside. (The way he’s guarding the clam tells me he wants it all to himself.)

But those who appear to be having the most fun aren’t alone. I pass a Preening Proud father with a Teeny Tiny baby nestled in a chest pack. I go by a Pampering Proud woman holding the leash of an Itsy Bitsy dog wearing a hot pink coat. Overhead I hear the honking of Canada Geese as they fly together in formation, looking like a glider swooping through the sky.

For the most part, the bird and human species don’t mix. Perhaps it’s one of those unspoken social rules — everyone should stick with their own kind. But this is Oakland, so it doesn’t surprise me to find someone who challenges the social rules.

Near the Rotary Nature Center at the lake, I notice a Yellow Cardigan woman standing in front of a fence that protects birds that reside behind it. She seems to be conversing with the birds using a blend of human and bird sounds.

As I study her more closely, I’m struck by her long neck that arches like that of a Canada Goose and her nose that has a bit of a hooked tip like a Double Crested Cormorant. It occurs to me that I really need to revise the way I catalogued her. I’d say she’s more of a Yellow Double Crested Goose. Just another of the species you find at Lake Merritt.

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Yeah, I know what they say. When you have a problem, there are no easy answers, no cheap fixes and no magic solutions.

But that’s not what Robert says when I tell him about the crack on my living room wall. Robert works at Grand Lake Ace Hardware on Grand Avenue, where I always go to get problems off my chest.

I describe the crack to Robert: “It starts at the corner of the room, climbs up about nine inches and then drops precipitously, like those cliffs overlooking the ocean on Highway 1.”

Robert doesn’t appear too ruffled by what I’m telling him. Without hesitation, he leads me to the back of the store, where he hands me a jar of spackle and explains what to do: “Apply it with a putty knife, let it dry, and then you can paint it.” Well, that sounds easy. At $1.79 a jar, it’s also cheap.

It feels as if a huge boulder, like the sort that might fall off a cliff on Highway 1, has been lifted from my shoulders. I won’t need to call a contractor, who’d say he’ll try to come next Tuesday at 3:00, when he’ll actually come next Friday around 11:30 (when I’m not home). I also won’t get the contractor’s bill that’d make me wish I’d opted instead for oral surgery, at the same cost, which I’ve been putting off.

When you find someone who really listens, like Robert, it’s hard to let him go. It’s also hard to stop at just one problem. There’s more, I confess to Robert. “My son threw a football, which turned and twisted like a torpedo, before striking an electrical outlet plate and cracking it.” Robert doesn’t even raise an eyebrow as he directs me to the aisle where I can find a new plate. The cost is 39 cents.

I keep going: “There’s an unsightly scratch on the hardwood floor in my daughter’s room, caused by the metal feet on her bed frame which shift around.”

I give a big exhale as I finish. Robert tells me that I need cushioned rubber cups to put under the feet of the bed, so it doesn’t move. He points me to the rubber cups which cost $2.99 for four.

With all the great advice Robert has given me, I hesitate to bring up the scratch on the floor again. Even I know a problem like that will require redoing the entire floor; sanding and finishing by a professional at a hefty cost. But Robert is marching ahead. He goes to an area which stocks household cleaning products. He grabs a Zenith Tibet Almond Stick and tells me that it will hide any scratches and I won’t even know they’re there. Could this really be – a magic solution?

Don’t let anyone tell you there’s no such thing as an easy answer, a cheap fix, or even a magic solution. You can find them at the hardware store. Just ask Robert.

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Starting the new year, I’m on a diet. My goal is to consume less online news.

It’s a test of my will power, because I have the bad habit of clicking on every news story that catches my eye while working on other things online. Opening up my home page recently, I noticed the news item “Bay Area highways second-worst in the nation.” No big surprise, but I really wanted to know – where do you find worse highways than here?

However, I have to learn to resist the temptation. I won’t quit reading the news, but I need to limit the times I indulge. No more all-day snacking.

Recently, I’ve really let myself go. It’s not enough to read “Obama hails big victory on health care.” I also have to click on “Health care bill’s winners and losers” which in turn leads me to “Side deals criticized.” I can’t stop at just one.

My lack of self-control can wreak havoc with my schedule. After I drop my son at preschool each day, I have only two and a half hours to write, run errands, fulfill school commitments, and so on. Recently, I lost 26 minutes as I read “Climate change advocates criticize Copenhagen outcome,” followed by “Rapid rate of species loss rising,” and finally “Scientists say earth on track for epic die-off.” I never made it to the grocery store that day.

I know I’m completely out of control when I take time to read stories with no redeeming value. It’s like eating junk food. Although I was able to restrain myself from reading “Tiger Woods hurt in car accident in front of Florida home” and “Tiger Woods cancels yet another meeting with state troopers,” I couldn’t resist reading “More women claim affairs with Tiger Woods.”

But I really have to watch out for certain hard news stories. When I’m in the middle of a something and I stumble upon “Obama to send more 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan,” it stops me in my tracks. It’s difficult to digest, and I suddenly lose my whole focus.

More importantly, a story like this deserves more than a fast read, wedged between other things. And, it won’t go away with one quick click, after I finish reading it.

So, instead of nibbling all day long, I’m trying to read the news just twice a day. I give it my full attention. Take time to chew it over.

Now if only there was a way to make bad news, such as the decision to send more troops to Afghanistan, more palatable. Then maybe I could get rid of this unpleasant taste in my mouth.

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