The most amazing question I’ve ever seen asked of an advice colmunist comes from this week’s Dear Prudence column on Slate. Viz:

Dear Prudence,
I am happy. I’m 23, and I have a wonderful life, the best husband (of three years) any woman could ask for. He is my soul mate. We crack jokes to each other, about each other, and we don’t take offense. We are honest and trust each other 100 percent with everything. We have two children, 4 and 2; they are happy. We take them out, we play with them, we read to them, they are our little miracles. They are so well-behaved in every way. We are not rich, in fact, we live paycheck to paycheck. We don’t have a lot of extra money, but I believe the things we really want will come in time, after paying what little debt we have left. We don’t have a lot of friends, mostly because all our old ones are off doing drugs and other things we don’t approve of. My husband and I come from really bad family situations, horrible divorces, abusive family members, and we have grown up less than fortunate. We made the best out of our lives so far and really look forward to our future together and with our children. Are other people this happy? Or are we just weird?

—Always Smiling

Prudence’s response was perfectly fine but I’d love to have a write-in contest for the best possible answer. The pithier the better, folks, although profundity is not prohibited.

This is how I’ve felt lately:

Now that Mr. Ben is taking the Bar even as we SPEAK, it’s even worse. I can’t concentrate on anything. My joints hurt; I’m tugging at my hair like I’m nine years old again and going to CTY for the first time with the big kids. … God, I remember how scary that was. The funny thing is of course that the fear never went away. Any time I approached a summer camp experience, even if I’d been at the very same place the year before, I worked myself into a Gordian Knot of anxiety about the unknown. Once I spent the first few days of camp in the infirmary recovering from what should have been excitement.

I’m older now! More resilient! And Xanax is my back up plan. (That’s a bit like “God is my co-pilot,” what?) I did manage to make gnocchi this weekend from scratch, with the help of a chipper friend, in between meals out with my two brothers and sundry male cousins. And I took my new shoes to Ditmas Park, to Chinatown, and, as a reward for them because they’d been so good, on a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. That last was a bit too much for them, or rather for me, but what is life if not one learning experience after another?

You know spring is over when there’s finally a movie worth seeing in a theater. Of course, currently, that movie is playing in only one theater, but I think that’s going to change. It’s small and charming, exactly what an indie should be. Not perfect — the songs really don’t need to go on quite so long, I mean, after about three minutes we get it — but lovely and romantic in the Before Sunset/After Sunset vein. And the redhaired main character has an Irish accent. MMMhmm.

You also know spring is over when summer hours start. Summer hours! Out at 12:30 on Friday to enjoy the 90 degree weather! This reminds me of when my high school used to release us on Fridays at 2:15, even though the point of that was that we could rush home and help our mothers prepare for the sabbath before sundown, not frolic in the sunshine like heathens. Still: thanks, German Mother Publishing Company Conglomerate. I appreciate it.

The heat is helping soak my wounded pride. I went to the dentist this morning for the first time in over three years, and they had to take x-rays, and I rewarded them for that by making their jobs almost as difficult as they could be. At least I didn’t actually throw up on them. I could have, you know. I had tears in my eyes from holding it back.

Also, Pinkberry tried to poison me yesterday. I found shreds of plastic in my lo-sugar fruit smoothie. And my shoes? That I spent too much money on because I finally thought I had found the perfect soft pretty easy-to-walk-in sandals? Gave me a blister. Because nothing’s perfect, friends. That’s the life lesson. Sweet diet goodness AND dental hygienists AND the footwear you use to run from both are all out to get you. Any way they can.

Luckwise, my family seems to have stumbled into some bad lighting lately. At least it’s Memorial Day Weekend. My mom should be coming home from the hospital today; my dad starts chemo Tuesday; and I’m off to Westchester with Mr. Ben for a bit to escape the dangers lurking in the city’s frozen yogurt.

Nora Ephron, c’est moi.

You know what drives me crazy about this Don Imus craziness? The way everyone who in any way defends him makes sure to call him “an equal opportunity offender” (one example here).

They mean he has insulted:
Gays
Women
Jews
Blacks
Asians
(as Timothy Noah has aptly demonstrated)

Who’s missing? The people in power.

How is “Don’t worry, he hates EVERYONE (except people his own size)” a defense? How is it better to be an *indiscriminate* demeaning thoughtless loudmouth?

While I don’t have much love for that ambulance chaser, Al Sharpton, and I don’t necessarily think Imus should be removed from the air, I’d like us all to stop and agree for a moment that spreading ones hate around does not making hating better.

Sigh.

Any day on which Kurt Vonnegut dies is guaranteed to be sad, but the cold driving rain outside and the other bad news that keeps piling up isn’t helping. Here, in Vonnegut’s honor, a poem of his that appeared in the New Yorker:

JOE HELLER

True story, Word of Honor:
Joseph Heller, an important and funny writer
now dead,
and I were at a party given by a billionaire
on Shelter Island.
I said, “Joe, how does it make you feel
to know that our host only yesterday
may have made more money
than your novel ‘Catch-22’
has earned in its entire history?”
And Joe said, “I’ve got something he can never have.”
And I said, “What on earth could that be, Joe?”
And Joe said, “The knowledge that I’ve got enough.”
Not bad! Rest in peace!

– Kurt Vonnegut

New mantra
Originally uploaded by shorterstory.

A couple days ago, I had to use my lunchbreak to have a follow up doctor’s appointment. I didn’t have terribly high hopes: I expected to tell the doctor, yes, the pills work — I was beginning to have an anxiety attack and they forestalled it, just as they should. (Well done, pills!)

Being a doctor, however, he couldn’t help asking me more questions. At first I was somewhat embarrassed, being unused to this “therapy” thing. But he kept asking “Why?” to whatever I said and before I knew it I was telling him about my monster ex-roommate and how she made me FEEL.

It turned out that what stressed me out about her is not so dissimilar from what’s stressed me out about the wedding: both relate to the very cliched sense I have that I’m not quite ready to be an adult yet. (I know! So rare among my age group.) While chiding me gently on this point, the doctor reached over and started scribbling something on a pad; then he handed the note to me.

I burst out laughing. “It must be true, ’cause it’s on letterhead,” I said.

We’ll see how well my magic feather works the first time I really have to fly. But for now, suffice it to say that the idea of it — and its presence in my bag — makes me absurdly happy.

You might not think it possible, but I assure you, it is a real — if enjoyable — condition: an overdose of honey. It can afflict you when you throw together pancakes for breakfast but forget the syrup, and are forced to resort to what other sweet things you have on hand, and then at the opposite end of the day, you dine at a Cretan restaurant whose name, S’agapo, translates to “I love you” and whose appetizers and desserts alike come preserved in delicious, delicious amber.

In between doses of honey, how did Mr. Ben and I celebrate turning six? By going to PS 1, of course! and then to the Museum of the Moving Image, where after playing around with the interactive exhibits we saw a 35mm print of the last film Orson Wells made, a Godard-ish essay/documentary called F for Fake.

The best part about the day though was that we were blessed with Good Subway Luck. If ever you have need to burrow into Queens, make sure you first appease the right spirits, because if the G comes speedily, and then the R does too, and then again, and THEN, to top it off, the 3, you will have a completely different day than if you’re stuck waiting 20 frozen minutes for the privilege of riding on each.

On another note, I now have an rx. I haven’t filled it yet, but I will, and then I will be SuperEster, or so I’m told. If I only become Ester-Who-Can-Make-It-Thru-the-Wedding-Planning, that’ll be good too.

me: i want streamers, pink streamers that go all the way across the ceiling and all the way down to the floor. i want pink bears, four huge pink bears, one in each corner of the room, and a pink disco ball sprinkling pink light all over the room, and a stereo playing Carrie Underwood. … what do you want for valentines day?

him: not to have to do any of that.

me: done.

little did i realize when i was a moony thirteen year old, upset that all my friends were “falling in love” while i wasn’t — while, in fact, the only boy who had professed love for me was a tall drink of water at summer camp who didn’t know how else to say “please take your shirt off,” the dumb punk — that the ideal valentines day is when you feel no pressure to do anything. in fact i’m going drinking with a couple girls from The Nation after work (sugar-free cranberry juice for me, please!). maybe i’ll learn something!

technically, i guess, i’m also cheating. i don’t have to care about v-day because several days thereafter, mr. ben and i will turn six years old. that seems much more significant to me. six years old, ready for first grade and, apparently, marriage. and if, on a valentines day six years ago, some girl hadn’t coldly turned down a rose offered by mr. ben, none of this would have happened. imagine.

Some people have weekends. Others have Days of Fun that begin in the village and end at Build a Bear!

His name is Krackden. I know because I have his birth certificate, and also because, when the computer made a mistake, I had to re-dictate his name to the chipper fellow at the cash register. That’s K-R-A-C-K-D-E-N, with a K. And the scowl the chipper fellow gave me was absolutely worth it.

My friend Becca named hers The Best Little Bearhouse in Texas. Bearhouse for short.

Q: What’s better than a lingering dinner at Babbo to celebrate, at long last, an engagement or two?

A: Maybe Heaven. I don’t know. I can’t vouch for the quality of their cranberry upside-down cake with nutmeg gelatto.