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!)

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• 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!

We sit at our favorite table in the back of Alice’s Tea Cup, our favorite weekend breakfast spot. Per usual, the girls wear the sparkly fairy wings they were given on the way in. Their porcelain cheeks glisten with fairy dust that has been known to cure skinned knees. Toddler nibbles her banana bread, moist and brown. Baby gobbles her blackberries. Husband and I hold court, sipping green tea, waiting for our poached eggs to arrive. It is the portrait of Saturday morning civilization.

Until.

Until there is a grating crescendo in the normal brunch symphony. A droning voice breaks through din of controlled chaos at our table. Two words carry.

“Ivy League… blah blah blah… Ivy League… blah blah blah… Ivy League.”

Now, Husband and I are usually pretty good at tuning others out, at focusing on each other and the girls, but this becomes too much. We stop talking. And listen.

“I once worked at Polo. Can you believe it? I know. I was a polo shirt specialist. I knew everything about those shirts and everyone was so impressed, so impressed, but I was like… I am wasting my education. I shouldn’t be here. I mean I am applying to Ivy League law schools. I mean, really…”

Husband and I smile at each other. Sip away. Break banana bread into tiny bits for Baby.

“I mean, honestly, the only thing that is truly wrong about living in Tribeca and I have the hardest time getting to Bergdorf’s. It’s really a pain.”

At this, I turn to look. I can’t help it. I see him. He’s on the smaller side. Has meticulously-plucked brows. He wears, yes, a Polo shirt. He runs his hands through one of those long/shaggy/preppy lacrosse-player-haircuts. His wife, blond, pleasant-looking, clutches her swollen belly. She is very pregnant. I look away.

“Ugh. We have to go look at cabinets after this. Shoot me, right? They cost as much as a BMW but are not even cool. Ugh. Oh, honey! Remember when we went on that purse hunt? When we had to cajole that Chanel bag out of that guy at Barney’s???”

At this, Baby, now supporting an amazing blackberry goatee, swivels in her highchair and gives the obnoxious man a good old piercing baby stare. Apparently, the guy sees her doing this.

“Everyone stop moving. Stop talking. We are being watched.”

He is not smiling as he says this. He must be kidding.

I don’t think he is.

“Jesus, babies freak me out.”

I’m sure this is lovely for his pregnant wife to hear. And for my Baby to hear.

“I just wish I was a lawyer in the old days. Honey, remember when you had your associates run out and buy you jeans? Little suckers. Those were the days.”

They are lawyers. All four of them. The other couple says something about working in the Public Defender’s Office, but I can’t really hear them because they speak at a Normal Person Decibel.

“Well, you should at least move to the South or to the Midwest. Where there is actually some crime. Hell, there’s nothing going on there, but at least there are murders. Hell, those places are practically known for their murders.”

Husband and I stare at each other in disbelief. Our eggs have arrived. Our waitress rolls her eyes and mutters so sorry before slipping away. And Husband and I smile. At her before she goes. At each other. At our girls who giggle in oblivion. Baby turns around to stare some more. Again, the man makes some crack about the sheer horror of being observed by a one-year-old.

“Well, this is blogworthy,” I say to Husband. “This guy should be a character in my next book. He’s that bad.”

Truth be told, he would not be a good character in a book because he is a caricature. A living and breathing and horrendous cliche.

And then Husband takes the words right out of my mouth.

“I have to get a picture of this guy,” Husband says. He pulls out his iPhone, fiddles with it, and pretends to help Baby with her food.

He gets a good shot. A perfect shot.

A shot which I immediately envision posting on my blog. How perfect!

(But then I come to my boring old senses and decide that I will not do this because I am a good girl and I have no interest in going the snark route on this blog. Because I have no interest in posting an actual picture of an actual person who was just trying to enjoy a subdued brunch of tea and scones on a Saturday morning. Right.)

As he and his party pay the check, Mr. Obnoxious continues to blabber on about everything offensive.

Ivy League!… Chanel!… I am basically just a sperm donor!… The South? Yuck!… Did I mention I played lacrosse in college?… I am a lawyer!… Ivy League!

Talk about Ivy League insecurities.

__________________

Describe the most obnoxious person you’ve ever encountered. Come on. No holding back. Tell me. (Even if it’s me. Hey, I blab from time to time about the Ivy League – witness this post. Maybe I am just a milder version of this monster? Uh oh.) Do you have an impression of Ivy Leaguers (or New Yorkers or Americans or lawyers) that is at all like this terrible guy? Do you think that people act this way because they are profoundly insecure or because they are missing some socialization chip? Do you think people like this have any clue how obnoxious they are? Is acting like this an intentional, attention-seeking ploy?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

* {Wonderful musing on the exquisite escalator that is parenthood} The Moving Staircase from Being Rudri.

* {”Striving for balance is a losing game”} The Suck Factor of Life Balance, + Passion as a Cure to Stress from White Hot Truth.

* {Always ask the big questions – even about blogging} Why We Read Blogs from An Attitude Adjustment.

* {What inspires you to blog?} Inspiration: My Journey in Blogging from Coffees and Commutes

* {”Part of evolving is our capacity for reinvention”} Who Do Think You Are? from The Halfway Point

Okay, she didn’t eat a human eyeball. This wasn’t Survivor. Just a rip-roaring Saturday night out on the good town. But pictures of Branzino balls? Not so pretty.

And I would have and should have at least posted a picture of a discrete stand-alone eyeball because this might be sending the wrong message, but said pictures – even of cartoon eyeballs – made me want to gag a bit. Which is a sign of something unto itself. And so. We have here a very undisgusting sketch of the human eye. I quite like it.

But I digress. I have a story to tell. (And stories to coax from you.)

I already told you about my Saturday night. But I didn’t tell you about an important part of the night. The part when my very good and very proper friend reached over and plucked the black beady eyeball out of the birthday girl’s whole fish and then ate it. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t witness the entirety of this event. When my eyeball-eating-friend flashed a mischievous grin and reached her fork across the table and said I will eat that eye, I may or may not have excused myself to go to the bathroom.

But she ate it. The eye of a fish.

Apparently, in some cultures, this is good luck. Dad was known to eat an eye or two in his day to shock us. But for me, someone who ducks for cover when they bring me a whole fish instead of pretty white filet and shivers at the sight of skin, this was a big deal. A big enough deal that I have chosen to devote an entire blog post to one ill-fated Branzino eyeball and what this late eyeball means to me.

I am an unadventurous eater. Once upon a time, I was pretty much willing to eat everything. Sure, when left to my own devices, I favored mayonnaise and white bread sandwiches and Sour Patch Kids, but I distinctly remember eating mussels and venison and rhubarb. And today I will not go near these and so many other things. (I am allergic to rhubarb, but no one believes me.) Today I won’t even eat lobster which greatly offends some people I know. I am not the pickiest of eaters, but I like what I like. I am not good at tasting new things.

I am not an adventurous person. It occurs to me that how adventurous we are in our diet is connected to how adventurous we are in our lives. I don’t think it is a coincidence that someone who avoids foods based on what they look like (I do not like fish that look like fish, anything with bones, sardines give me the willies) is also a person who is afraid of flying and non-organic dairy and most everything else.

This is not just a silly post about an eyeball. Well, it is mostly a silly post about an eyeball. But it is also more. These things matter. What we eat, how adventurous we are, how open we are – these things inform who we are. And then add kids to the equation and things get even more complicated. Our kids watch us. They watch what we eat. They watch what we don’t eat. They notice when we run away from an innocuous fish on a plate. Or when we race the cart past the tank of lobsters at the grocery store. This is not just about us and our foibles.

This is about living life. The good life does not necessarily entail gobbling up eyeballs at swanky restaurants. But I think it probably does involve taking risks, trying new things, tasting new things. If we are so stuck in our (squeamish) ways, so appalled by novelty, are we truly living?

This is about eyes. Fish eyes, yes. But also our eyes. The way we see things and ourselves and the world. The way we absorb our moments. The way we process the hue of celebration and laughter. The way we perceive life. Emerson said, “To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again.” That moment when my good friend ate an eye? It was silly and beautiful. It was a unique picture I will not forget.

This is about stories. What is life without stories? Silly stories? Serious stories? We bloggers and writers and people? We are story-tellers, living our days, living our material, acting and reacting to the characters in our chapters. Our days are pages. Pages stuffed with words and questions and pictures. And each of us lives and loves and laughs toward an unknown conclusion.

So, yes, this is about one eyeball. But it is also about more. It is about the fraught and frivolous tapestry that is human existence. It is about adventure and aversion. It is about so many things. But instead of enumerating those things, I would like to sign off and go enjoy this serene snow day with my two tiny girls. They are still in their PJs and just on the other side of my office door. And before we play, before we dive into the books and boardgames that await us, I am going to tell them a silly story. A true tale. I am going to tell them that Mommy’s friend at a fish eye. I anticipate smiles and silly faces and amazement and some brilliant laughter. We’ll see what I get.

____________________________

Okay, it’s your turn. Tell me your craziest food story. It can be about you or someone you know or someone you saw on TV! What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten or seen someone eat? Are you an adventurous eater? Do you think there is a connection between bravery in diet and bravery in life? Are your kids good eaters or do they subsist on a diet of, say, chocolate milk and Veggie Booty? Just asking.

I need your advice on something. That something? Advice. So, yes. I need your advice on advice.

I’m not sure whether you’ve noticed this, but I try not to give advice on this blog. I do not publish promising posts telling you how to streamline your soul, or declutter your existential closet, or be a perfect parent. I do not do this because I am not equipped. I am one person. One flawed individual who is fumbling and stumbling her way through life. Just like you are. (Sorry, but you are.)

So, instead of dispensing advice, I tell stories here. And ask questions. And offer tiny pieces of me.

But the other night I broke my own unwritten-and-now-written rule about not giving advice. Husband and I went out for dinner at Fulton on the Upper East (delicious) with one of my best friends and her husband. This was a real treat because my friend has an eight-month-old and does not get a sitter very often. Anyway, we went out. We ate delicious food. We laughed a ton. About life and love and little babies. I made it through most of the meal. We were eating these fabulous donuts (yum) and talking about sleep patterns. My friend told me that her little girl sleeps through the night every night. We all know this is major. I congratulated her. And then I asked if she rocks her baby to sleep. She told me she does.

This is when I looked at her and said something I perhaps shouldn’t have. “Stop doing that. Take this week and teach her to fall asleep on her own.”

I was adamant. Husband and I joke that we might not be perfect parents, but sleep is one department in which we have excelled. I have strong opinions on sleep. But ones I don’t usually preach. At a festive dinner with friends no less.

My friend didn’t seem offended. But as I write this, I wonder if she was. I hope not. I will have to call and apologize.

But is giving advice something for which we should apologize? Or is giving advice sometimes a good thing even if it is tough to hear?

A few days ago, I published a post announcing the arrival of my new nephew. I explained that as much as I would like to, I cannot just hop a plane to Chicago to meet the newest member of the Donnelley clan. Many of you chimed in, congratulating my sister and my family, echoing my praise for modern technology. But one of you didn’t play as nice. One of you, a friend of mine, pushed me to rethink my plans to stay put. You said,

At the risk of sounding pushy (oh well I’ll take the risk), I say call the airlines and jump on a plane. We all travel for funerals, travel for the celebrations too. I am a slave to technology but you can’t smell that baby in a video and they grow very fast, as you well know. Just a comment, file it where you’d like.

I read these words and I grew a bit defensive. In my mind, I started listing all the meetings and commitments I have this week. All the reasons why I can’t just go. But my defensiveness faded and quickly and I felt myself nodding. This is life. This is a big deal. The biggest of deals. I can go. I will go.

These words that popped up in my cozy little comment box? They were advice. And I didn’t necessarily want this advice. But I needed it. Thank you, Lauren, for the push. Thanks for the comment. I will file it right here.

Right now, I am signing off. I have a flight to book.

________________________________________________________

Any advice on advice? How to give it? How to take it? Are you cautious about dispensing advice to others? Do you find it difficult to hear and heed the advice of others? Do you agree that sometimes the advice we don’t seek is the best advice of all?

I was three sentences into a different post this morning when my BlackBerry buzzed. I checked it. And there it was. The message I’ve been anticipating for three weeks now. Longer, actually. A message from my good friend. One whom some of you might remember. A friend who went through a very close call with pneumonia and swine flu at the tail end of her pregnancy. A friend who beat the odds and delivered a healthy baby boy, a mini miracle not long ago. I had not seen this friend in going on two months.

Her message: Come now. We are awaiting your arrival. Just pumped so we can catch up!

I saw these words and hit “save draft” and closed my computer. Rapidly, I tossed my things into my bag and ran outside. In the bitter cold, I threw up my arm and a taxi stopped. The ride was a blur of stoplights and green. We emerged from the park and before I knew it, I was there. At a place I knew. In a moment I knew would arrive.

I exchanged pleasantries with a nice-looking doorman. I walked past a glittering Christmas tree. I took a quick elevator ride. And then I walked in. To my friend’s home, quiet and serene. I tiptoed down the hallway into her living room and there she was. Gorgeous. Glowing. Standing there in the sun-blanched room clutching the little man himself. And I approached, blinking back tears. I gave her a cautious hug and studied that tiny face. The wispy lashes and button nose. The bow lips. The silly sprinkling of hair. He looks just like his Daddy. I told my friend this.

We sat down at the small table. And we talked. She unpacked the sugary confections I’d brought and placed them between us. But we didn’t indulge. Not then. We savored words instead. In broad, forgiving strokes, we talked about the scary road she’d traveled. A road that apparently also included a botched epidural and feared blood clot in the brain. I told her how radiant and skinny she looked and we joked about my little postpartum secret. We talked about our very good friend who just welcomed her beautiful second daughter on her thirtieth birthday. There was laughter. There was conversation. There was silence. The good kind.

At one point, I noticed that there were tears in my friend’s eyes. And she said, “I don’t even know how to thank you for your words. For your blog posts.” I told her she didn’t have to, that I wrote those words because I wanted to. And needed to. But she persisted, patently not plagued by the Pathetiquette that engulfs me. She told me that my words brought great solace to her and her husband and her geographically scattered family throughout this ordeal. She told me that her mother now reads my blog every day. She said those two words over and over. And they began to sink in. They did.

Thank you.

I took one last look at her little boy, pink and perfect in peaceful slumber. And I suffocated my friend with another hug. A less careful one this time. And then I walked back down that hall, traveled back down that elevator, muttered a quick goodbye to that nice man at the door. I walked back out into the relentless cold. My mind and heart swollen, I walked. Aimlessly.

I turned the corner and saw a familiar sign. A Starbucks sign. I marched toward that sign. I walked in. I waited on line with bundled strangers. Uncharacteristically, I ordered a decaf. I was plenty buzzed already. And though the store was packed, there was a little table in the back. One right near an outlet. I smiled.

I sat down. I plugged in. I logged on. I opened a new post. And I began to write, to pound away at this trusty keyboard. The words came and now keep coming. Here I am. Yards from my friend and her new love. Saying thank you. Thank you for being strong. For reminding me what matters. For letting me come glimpse that darling doll, for letting me witness the profound power of new life. For the sugar that is friendship.

Thank you.

And while I am on a roll,  I have someone else to thank. Another woman. A different kind of friend. But a friend indeed. An exquisite writer and thinker. On her brilliant blog Daily Plate of Crazy, she goes by Big Little Wolf. In the past week, she passed along the Sugar Doll award to me and two of my absolute favorite bloggers Kristen and Goldfish. Per the wise Wolf, this particular accolade is is “bestowed for delightful and thought-provoking writing” and I am humbled and honored to receive this nod, this early Christmas gift from such a talented and thoughtful woman.

Now it’s my turn to pass along this sweet prize. And it’s a tough call, but I have chosen another new friend of mine: Jane of Theycallmejane’s Blog. Each and every day, I lap up Jane’s words, curiosities, and heartening optimism about this big, bad world we share.

Alas, a long and meandering post. But long and meandering like good days and good lives. And if you look closely at my words, affectionately jumbled here, there is a focus, however scattered. On sugar dolls, new and old. On close calls. On the lasting power of words. And on two words in particular. Two words that are hard for some of us to say.

Thank you.

Happy Friday, friends.

(Now it is off to Bergdorf’s pour moi. I need a dress for a certain upcoming holiday soiree…)