(For the record, I’m not sure what the deal is with these frogs. Presumably, the lone frog is envious of the palpable intimacy between the other two frogs? What matters is that they are green. And cute. And froggies are Toddler’s favorite animal.)

With a triple-barreled Irish name like Aidan Donnelley Rowley, you’d think I have grand plans today in honor of St. Patty’s Day. Not so much.

Actually, that’s not true. I do have grand plans. It’s just that they are no different than any other Wednesday plans. I will spend exactly nine hours solo with my girls. (Not that I’m counting.) We will play newly-acquired board games. (Hungry Hungry Hippos rocks. Fact that Baby threatens to swallow those little white “snack” marbles that are meant to be fodder for plastic hippos and not human children does not rock quite as much.)

After Husband takes Toddler to Preschool, Baby and I will hang in our PJs for a bit. Then we will attend gym class where she will show up all the big kids with her tumbling skills. Then we will kill some time bond at Starbucks. Then we will pick up Toddler from school where the girls will insist upon using the water fountain in the hallway and then spill copious amounts of water on the threshold of the Head of School’s office door. And then we will head to the diner where I will dutifully order mac & cheese and dinosaur nuggets from the kids’ menu and then bribe Toddler with chocolate ice cream so I can finish my salad (and her fries). And then we will hightail it home for one nap and one quasi-nap. And then we will do everything in our power to destroy the living room, play ceaseless games of Hungry Hungry Hippos and wait until Daddy comes home from work. At which point, it is bath, bed, and beyond. Takeout. TV. Night night.

Aren’t you glad you asked? Wait, you didn’t?

My bad.

The point here is that, no, I have no wild and woolly plans for this special day, but I wanted to include the word “green” in the title. And that is not illegal. I checked.

Alas, this is where my post turns more serious. You ready?

ENVY.

It is an ugly beast that lurks in the dusty corners of our homes and heads and hearts. None of us is immune to envy.

What amazes me, what truly amazes me, is that there are good chunks of time where I (consciously) feel zero envy. One friend loses her baby weight in 3.5 days? Good for her! One friend lets it slip that she got a raise and now makes a million a year? Bravo! She so deserves it! One friend’s three-year-old is reading chapter books? How fabulous! What a tiny braniac!

But then.

Then there are some days, soggier days, existentially creaky days, when I’m not so chipper. One friend’s husband whisks her away on a surprise trip to Europe? That’s so cheesy! What ever is he compensating for? One friend runs a marathon in under three hours? She is ruining her joints. One friend has that fabulous new Chanel bag? Gross! Material things do not make us happy.

One cyber-colleague has a bazillion comments on her blog post today? Whatever. Comments mean nothing.

No, wait. Comments mean everything! I am just flailing in a corrupt pool of competitiveness, a toxic sea of envy. Lovely. Just lovely.

Recently, I read two wonderful and relevant blog posts on this topic. First, Rebecca of Diary of a Virgin Novelist penned a very honest and compelling post about the shock of envy she felt when a friend of hers quit her job to write fiction. Rebecca confesses her initial bitterness and admits her first thoughts, “She is going to beat me to it. She is going to show me up.” Second, Celeste of Perusing Celeste, opened up about joining this blogosphere and feeling periodic surges of envy when reading others’ well-written blogs. In her post, she explains that when she reads an exceptional piece of writing, a dreaded feeling swoops in: “Never in a million years could I have found the words to say it that well! Why can’t I write like that?  I will never be able to write like that.”

And so. It occurred to me – and occurs to me now – that this envy thing is universal ergo worth addressing. My utterly non-expert take?

Insecurity breeds envy.

Insofar as we are all insecure from time to time, insofar as we all have our fair share of not good enough moments, we also feel envious of others from time to time. When in the throes of insecurity and doubt, we often can’t help but bemoan the seeming successes and perfection of others.

And here’s the interesting thing: I think envy has little or nothing to do with its object and everything to do with us, the feelers of it. When we are down and out and floundering, it is possible to be envious of almost anyone. But when those insecurities wane, when our confidence resumes, we are more apt to celebrate the good fortune of our peers.

Do you buy this decidedly unoriginal hypothesis? Because I do.

And having this trusty hypothesis in my arsenal is helpful on days like today, when sweet little girls run the show, bossing their well-meaning mom around, making her sweat and plead for justice and order and quality naps. Yes, theories, sturdy psychological theories, come in handy on these days when insecurities rise to a boil and envy – of people with an ounce of control over the trajectory of their moments or people with moderately tidy living rooms – becomes a distinct possibility.

A man whom I have never heard of named Saint John Chrysostom once said, “As a moth gnaws a garment, so doth envy consume a man.” And I agree. Envy is no good. It eats away at the edges of our goodness. It leaves holes in our happiness.

But can we control envy? Can we limit its impact? Can we keep it from consuming us?

I don’t know. But speaking of being consumed, I am consumed with pride. Toddler, ever the digital native and precocious artiste, created the following masterpiece on my iPhone.

What is it? It is a poetic rendering of Mommy’s brain after a Wednesday with her darling girls.

(Don’t be envious. I’m sure your kid is smart too.)

___________________________

• Do you agree that none of us is impervious to envy? Do you think that envy is an inevitable product of competitiveness?
  
• Do you agree that insecurity breeds envy?
• Do you think we can control the amount of envy we feel?
  
• Do you think envy has any redeeming aspects? Do you think it motivates us or paralyzes us?
  
• How do you handle the successes of people close to you?
• Do you ever experience envy of other parents or people?
• Have you ever experienced blog envy?
• Do you have any fun plans for St. Patrick’s Day?
• Thoughts on the frogs?
  

There are twenty-four hours in each day. There are 168 hours in each week. There are 8736 hours in each year. There are, on average, 672,672 hours in each lifetime.

So what?

The so what here matters. Our days, our weeks, our years, our lives, are made up of hours. And how we spend these hours, these sixty-minute chunks of time, is important. How we spend these hours – and with whom -  informs how happy we are.

So, yes. Here is my decidedly unscientific hypothesis: There is a direct correlation between hours and happiness.

Now, if you have spent more than five minutes chez ILI reading my musings, you know that I don’t believe in Happiness, in the Platonic, capital H species of well-being. Once upon a time, I penned a post called You Are Not Happy. And I stand by my assertion. You might be happy. But you are not Happy. All of this is to say that however satisfied we are with ourselves and our lives, however passionate we feel about our families and our careers, we can all stand to be happier.

Do you disagree?

Didn’t think so.

And so. It occurred to me that a simple way to be happier is to have happier hours, more minutes and moments where we do things that make us smile and celebrate and savor existence. Okay, fine. But what do we do? How do we do this?

We talk. We question. We imagine. We dream.

We have conversations with other people – interesting and interested people – about things that matter to us. All of us.

I have said this before, but for me happiness is conversation. Talking about ideas, weaving words, examining the canvas of life alongside others… These are the things that rev me up, that slacken my angst, that make me feel alive and engaged.

And so. A while back, I had a little idea. It started as so many ideas do. As a tiny seed. And the wild winds of a busy life threatened to blow this seed away. But the seed was sturdy and stubborn and took root. In the soil of my dreams and of my days. And from it, something grew. Something great. Something I am finally ready to tell you about!

HAPPIER HOURS!

Next week, forty or so women will gather in my home for the very first Happier Hour. We will come together to sip words and wine. This will be the first in a series of monthly events that will loosely resemble salons of days past. In case the only breed of salon you are familiar with contains blow dryers and gossipy women, read the following Wikipedia words:

A salon is a gathering of intellectual, social, political, and cultural elites under the roof of an inspiring hostess or host, partly to amuse one another and partly to refine their taste and increase their knowledge through conversation. These gatherings often consciously following Horace’s definition of the aims of poetry, “either to please or to educate” (”aut delectare aut prodesse est”).

Forget the ‘elites’ bit. This is an inclusive endeavor. And whether or not I am an inspiring hostess remains to be seen. Next week’s group and future groups will be made up of a wonderfully diverse array of women. As of today, there will be at least one of each of the following “groups” in attendance on Tuesday: mothers, lawyers, teachers, bloggers, entrepreneurs, television execs, nutritionists, newspaper reporters, screenwriters, agents, writers, non-profit directors, models, social media mavens, bankers, brokers, and publicists. But most importantly? There will be people. Living and breathing people with eyes to look into and hands to shake.

This makes me happy.

This makes me happy because as much as I adore this online world (oh and I do), I’ve been craving conversation, long and lush and unwieldy conversation, conversation that cannot be edited, with flesh and blood people. This makes me happy because I think that when we become adults and marvelously mired in ceaseless personal, professional, and personal obligations, it becomes hard, so hard, to meet new people. There are only so many hours in the day.

Next week’s soiree, like all future Happier Hour soirees, will have a topic, a focus, a thread. Next week’s topic? Happiness. And I figured, go big or go home. If I was dreaming, I might as well dream. And so. I sat down and brainstormed speakers. Who would be the perfect guest of honor, someone who could come and speak and start a dialogue about happiness? I didn’t have to think for too long. There was an obvious choice.

Gretchen Rubin. Blogger extraordinaire and author of #1 NYT Bestseller The Happiness Project, a book some of you might know I loved. I have met Gretchen a few times and she is lovely. Gretchen was kind enough to write a wonderful blurb for LIFE AFTER YES. So I reached out. I asked. And she said yes!

And so. I am pumped. Beyond pumped. I could not have taken this from dream to reality without the wisdom and support of three colleagues: My delightful publicist Sarah Burningham of Little Bird; and Kelly Hoey and Eunice Rho of the incomparable 85 Broads. Without these women, these friends, I would still be flailing in a sea of abstraction, and stalled at the itty-bitty seed stage. (Thank you, guys. I can’t wait for the inaugural glass-clinking a week from today.)

I announce this today not just to keep you abreast (that word always makes me giggle) of what’s going on in my life, but because I want each and every one of you to be involved in this. I want your ideas. I want your questions. I want your suggestions. And I want to keep you in the loop, to tell you about the conversations that carry on here, in my physical world. I do not say ‘real world’ because that label is not the right one. My physical world and my blog world are both real, very real, to me.

Speaking of my blog world… Because I am not the type of person who can stop, I am already thinking ahead. Of a virtual version of Happier Hours, a way to congregate women (and men too!) around this country (and world! hey, why not?) to discuss big ideas (think: Happiness, Devotion, Commitment, Privilege, Parenthood, Balance, Forgiveness…). I have no idea what this digital diva will look like, but I know she will be pretty. She is still in the seed stage, but if history is any indication, she will grow. And beautifully. Stay tuned.

This? This is about dreaming aloud and together. This is about thinking big and boldly. This is about hurling practicality and prudence out the window. This is about fabulous and foolish daring.

This is about having good conversations.

This is about the happiness of our hours. This is about the happiness of our lives.

Oh, and wine.

(Yay!)

_______________________________________________

• Do you agree that there is an intimate connection between hours (how we spend them, and with whom) and overall life happiness?
• Do you agree that it is much harder to meet new people once we get older and settled into patterns and rhythms of adulthood and responsibility?
• Do you have any specific thoughts on happiness or questions you would like me to ask Gretchen or the group?
• Do you agree that we can all stand to be happier? To have happier hours?
• Would you attend an event like this for the words or the wine? To be enlightened or amused?
• Do those of you who spend many hours online (blogging or reading blogs) have a hankering for a real world equivalent of the exchanges that go on here? How many of you will be here for BlogHer this summer?
  
• Would you be interested in hearing about, or taking part in, my future online incarnation of Happier Hours? If so, leave a comment indicating your interest and I will add you to a list of “virtual charter members” for this digital effort!

A few weeks ago, I returned to Dalton. My beloved second home from K-12. The place where I learned to read, write, and play the trumpet. I went in on a Friday afternoon to speak to a fifth grade class. It was Sister I’s class. She invited me to come in and talk about LIFE AFTER YES and the publishing process. And of course I agreed. But I must admit something. Making a cameo in her classroom made me impossibly nervous. But I shoved the nerves aside and I arrived. Clutching an advance copy of my book in sweaty palms, smiling a shaky smile, excited beyond belief.

My sister was wonderful. She met me in the lobby. The same lobby where I used to meet my friends before soccer practice. She led me to the room where she spends her days educating smart and curious kids. And the kids were amazing. They were quick on the approach. They studied me with keen eyes and promptly declared that Sister and I look alike. And they were right. We do.

And then I sat in the front of the classroom, twirling nervously in a black desk chair, talking about my own life after yes. About stumbling into a dream I couldn’t deny. About working hard and writing hard. About traveling down dark paths to destinations unknown. And I also talked about less lofty, ephemeral things. Things that were presumably a lot more interesting to a pack of eleven-year-olds. Things like book covers and vampires. Yes, vampires. On that topic, I had little expertise.

I loved the questions. The raised hands. The kids asked the most intelligent, nuanced, searching questions. One girl told me that she loves to write and that she has started several stories that she can’t seem to finish. She wanted to know if I had any advice. And we all know that I am haste to dispense wisdom, but I was put on the spot and I said something. I told this girl to write when she felt compelled, to give her stories the space they need, to finish them when they were ready. Her young smile, sheepish and smart, was priceless.

One kid asked if I always knew I wanted to write and I said no. I said that I always loved to write, but didn’t know until relatively recently that I wanted to write. And then another student asked me if I came up with my own title. And I said yes. Because I did. And then another soft-spoken girl asked if the process was all that I thought it would be or whether there were surprises. And I told her both. That it was everything I thought it would be, but that of course there were surprises.

There always are.

But the best part of the day? By far? Seeing my own sister in action. My big sister. The leader of the Donnelley sister pack. Sister I has always been exceedingly smart (she learned to read at age two and skipped Kindergarten), but she is also exceedingly modest. I had heard through the glorious Donnelley/Dalton grapevine that she is a wonderful teacher and very well-liked and respected, but on that day I got to see it. How she handled her kids with a mixture of humor and affection and firmness. How she alternated between questions that had answers and those that were not meant to be answered.

The day was incredible. Going back to Dalton was without a doubt one of the best experiences I have had since inking my book deal. And I think I am too close to that day to know why exactly. Maybe that day was so big for me because when I stepped into that colorful classroom, I could picture myself as a fifth grader – a quasi-studious tomboy in a green wool Celtics cap – eager to learn and eager to live. Maybe because I was given the sweet opportunity to talk about the twists and turns of the past eighteen months, and a fascinating process it has been a tremendous privilege to enjoy. Maybe because the happiness I felt on that day confirmed for me that this is it. That I have arrived. That whether or not LIFE AFTER YES is a sparkling success or dismal failure, this, right here, is where I am meant to be.

Ultimately, I think the reason that day was so important to me is actually quite simple. I think that for some reason, for some foolish and elusive reason, I have been reluctant to call myself a writer. Which is plain ridiculous because the moment I began hammering away at the trusty keyboard is the moment I became a writer.

Those of us who write? We are writers.

But that day? Standing up there in front of those bright young things talking about my life and my story and my book? It made it real. Exquisitely real. I walked out of that classroom and out of that school and back into my city and I felt different.

I felt, finally felt, like a writer. A real writer. And this is good. Because I am one.

I am a writer.

(It feels good to write this.)

(It feels good to believe this.)

__________________________

• If you have any questions at all about writing or publishing, ask away.
• Have you ever been given a glimpse into the professional world of one of your siblings?
• What were you like in fifth grade?
• Have you gone back to visit your grade school?
• Why do you think so many of us who spend our days writing are so reluctant to call ourselves writers?
  
• What is the deal with vampires? Why are they so hot these days?
  

*Little experiment in generosity here: If you have a blog post you are particularly proud of, please leave a link to the URL in the comment box and (as long as it is not wildly inappropriate or offensive), I will Stumble It. I got this idea from a recent post on social media written by the lovely Scary Mommy. She “stumbled” a link of mine and I received a groovy boost in traffic that day so I am paying it forward. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with writers supporting other writers, huh?

First order of business. Thank you. For holding my virtual hand through my soggy Sunday moment and its precarious aftermath. For leaving a trail of words. For your existential echoes. It dawned on me after publishing yesterday’s post that one surefire way to feel not good enough is to set insane expectations for myself that only a robot could meet. Like, say, vowing to respond to every single comment left on this blog. Like promising to have a blog post up by 6am each morning. In an ideal world, these things would happen. But I am beginning to suspect that this world, this wonderful world, is not ideal. No, it’s real.

*

A few weeks ago, Husband and I went swimming with the girls in South Carolina and Toddler said something that I can’t stop thinking about. She wore both a water ring and water wings and she said to me, her little voice stuffed with panic, “Mommy! Help! I keep floating to the deep, deep part!” And like a good mom, I threw my arms around her and hugged her and assured her that she was okay and that we were in fact in the shallow end.

The shallow end.

Lately, my pool is lacking a shallow end. And this is odd. Because I used to be plenty shallow. Embarrassingly shallow. I used to subsist on shopping trips to trendy stores and celebrity gossip. I used to obsessively sample fad diets in an effort to be skinny and hot. I used to camp out at the gym for hours a day, spinning away, going nowhere. I used to panic when I was late to get my highlights touched up.

But somewhere along the way, life got delightfully deeper. Maybe it was becoming a wife or a parent or a fatherless girl? Maybe it was becoming a writer or a blogger or a Professor of Insecurities? Maybe it was flirting with the often harsh and humorless realities of adulthood, of aging, of lingering mortality? I would wager that it was all of these things.

But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I think I’ve swung too far in the other direction. What matters is that I miss my shallow end. I miss the superficial things I used to enjoy. I miss watching mindless reality television and searching for the most flattering jeans. I miss talking about celebrities.

I miss my goofy, silly, blondeness.

And so. I am reclaiming it. Consider yourself warned.

I came to this conclusion yesterday afternoon. We all know that I’m epiphany-prone and yesterday was no exception. I was talking with my friend (and superstar nutritionist) Lauren Slayton. I asked Lauren to meet me because I want to up the ante health-wise in my life. I want to focus on my body, on my nutrition, on the health of my young family. I want to feel more energetic and do what I can to prevent cancer and to raise good eaters. At the end of our meeting, I said to Lauren, “It’s so funny because for so many years I watched what I ate and worked out because I wanted to look hot, but now my priority is to be healthy.” And as I said this, I realized something.

I want both. I want to be healthy and hot.

“I want to be hot for my book party!” I said to her and she smiled. Truth be told, it’s not about losing weight. But it is about looking my best. Far more importantly though, I would like to feel my best. And then Lauren and I talked about this, whether it is shallow to want to maximize our attractiveness. Whether it is shallow or selfish to want to feel amazing. And we didn’t come to any ready conclusion. Maybe it is a bit shallow to want to be hot. But I think that’s okay. I think that’s more than okay.

We all need a shallow end.

At least I do. I love the deep end. I do. I love writing about the complex and shifting depths of human existence. I love scrutinizing the universal insecurities that shake our days. But I cannot do this all the time. It affects me. Maybe this is foolish, but it just occurred to me that I might not have control over most things in life, but I do have control over what I write about. And this is an important awakening for me. Because what I write about affects what I think about and what I think about affects how I feel and how I see the world.

This is all a long-winded and clumsy way of saying what Toddler said so succinctly,

I keep slipping to the deep end.

But there is a shallow end. A silly end. There still is. And writing about its mere existence makes me smile big. And so I will write about it from time to time. Not all the time because I love the deep end too much. But some of the time. And maybe by writing about the more superficial aspects of my existence, I will find my way to my shallow end once more. And if and when I get there, I will celebrate the fact that I can touch the bottom. And I will splash around a bit.

The blonde is back, kids. Get ready.

___________________________________________

• Is your pool of life more shallow or more deep?
• Do you think it is selfish or shallow to want to look good?
  
• Do you think there is something about adulthood that encourages us to drown out our shallow end (pun very much intended and amazing)?
• Are you more or less shallow than you used to be?
• Do you think that there is something important about cultivating a bit of shallowness or superficiality in life?
• Does the content of your writing affect the content of your life, how you feel and see the world?
• Could you stand to be healthier?
• Could you stand to be hotter?

I am not good enough.

These five words, these five terrible words, floated through my head last night. And I have no idea why really. And as quickly as they came, I banished them. My intellect took over. I told myself that there is no such thing as good enough. That Good Enough is a cruel modern myth.

But this wave of perceived inadequacy was too strong to ignore. So I allowed myself to dwell on it, to roll it over in my mind. I even polled the Sunday night crowd on the Twittersphere.

I wrote: Have you ever felt not good enough? Well, it sucks. (Sorry for my moment of insecurity.)

I wrote it because it felt good to record this moment. To acknowledge its fierce and fleeting presence. But I was overwhelmed with the replies. Several people responded and quickly to tell me that they feel these five words all the time and particularly since becoming a parent. Ah.

Apparently, it is not just me.

What is this all about? Why are there so many smart and talented and funny and happy people who are weathering these silent storms of insecurity? Why are these five words so universal?

I don’t know. I can’t speak for the masses, but I can speak for me. And so I will.

These days, I am a bit overwhelmed. No, I am a lot overwhelmed. I feel stretched thin. I feel exhausted, exquisitely exhausted. I qualify in this way because the things that are exhausting me are things that also bring me immense and incomparable joy – the babies, the blog, the book, the marriage, the man, the move. These are things I cherish and celebrate and would never trade. But these are a lot of things.

Babies. In my life, there are two little girls. Two little girls who sing and cry and dance and collect umbrellas and toothbrushes and stickers. These days, these two little girls look me straight in the eye and say, in words and sentences, Mommy, I want you to stay. Mommy, I want you to play.

Blog. In my life, there is one burgeoning blog. A blog that is bringing me more joy and juice than I could ever have imagined. This blog is growing and thriving, moving and grooving, and has become a profound pipeline to tremendous colleagues and incomparable conversation. These days, my blog says to me, Nurture me. For here is where you are learning to be vulnerable and vulnerability is the ultimate strength.

Book. In my life, there is a book. A book that’s about to debut in the world. And two other books that are part on paper and part in my head. The characters are real. They dance in my dreams and whisper in my ear, Don’t forget about us. Your future? It’s on our pages. So write them. Write us.

Marriage. In my life, there is a marriage. A good, sturdy marriage. A union that’s stuffed with affection and humor and fidelity. But even that marriage has a voice, Pay attention to me. Celebrate me. Do not take me for granted. Even the most magical marriage takes work.

Man. In my life, there is a man. A handsome and happy and humble man. A man who loves me and understands me and tolerates my ways. And he says to me, sometimes aloud, I am here. Look at me. Let yourself relax and enjoy this. Me. Us.

Move. In my life, there is a new home. Almost finished. The walls are up. The floors are down. This home says to me, I will welcome you, but don’t forget to say goodbye to your old home. Where so much happened, where you became a writer and a wife and a mother, where you lost your father and found your passion.

These days, I am many things. I am a mother. A blogger. A writer. A wife. His wife. A woman on the move.

These are wonderful things. These are amazing roles. This is a good life.

But I am overwhelmed. I am tired. I am smiling and squinting and struggling through long days. The bounty is brilliant, but it is also a lot to carry at once.

And so. I don’t know, but I think that is why I had that moment. That slippery Sunday moment when five words floated through my head, one by one, forming a sentence I don’t like, but one I understand.

I am not good enough.

Because maybe when we are happy and harried and stretched and spinning, we have moments where we feel like we cannot hack it. Where we feel less than. Where we feel, well, not good enough to tackle the tangled trappings of our good and busy lives.

And so. Instead of pretending I didn’t have that moment, I decide to acknowledge it. Right here. To honor it even. Because it was a real moment. A raw moment. A universal moment. A human moment.

A moment you’ve probably had before too?

___________________________________

• Have you ever felt inadequate when caught in the throes of real life?
• Do you think blogging encourages vulnerability?
• Do you feel like by doing so many things, we are stretching ourselves too thin?
  
• Do you think this phenomenon of trying to do it all and have it all is part and parcel of humanity? Of modernity? Of parenthood? Of personhood?
  
• When these five words float through your head, how do you cope?

(Say whatever you want. That you understand. That you don’t. That I’m a spoiled brat. Just speak up. Tell me what I already know. That I’m not alone in this.)

ILI DAILY CHARMS: TRUTH VIA COLLEAGUES

* Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be a baby, to be pillowed by unconditional and uncomplicated affection? I do. Please read this tiny and gorgeous post by Boy Crazy blogger Elizabeth.

* Do you sometimes feel something shifting? A “subtle change in direction”? Take a moment to read this post by new buddy Claire Bidwell Smith of Life in Chicago. It’s simply stunning.

* Today friend and fellow blogger Gale of the wonderful new Ten Dollar Thoughts talks food and resolutions and vows to eat her veggies. Later today, I’m off to meet with esteemed Foodtrainer and advice-giving friend Lauren Slayton. Should I follow Gale’s lead and go vegetarian for a bit? We will see what Lauren says. Stay tuned…

* Are you “demand resistant”? Click over to the lovely Gretchen Rubin’s Happiness Project and weigh in.