Do you ever splurge on yourself? If so on what?   Anyone who reads my blog knows I am a fan of handbags.  Two years ago, when my husband and I were planning a trip to Paris for my birthday, a close friend asked us to buy  for her a Louis Vuitton tote bag. She was celebrating a special birthday and was willing to splurge a large amount of money on this designer tote bag. She knew that it would be cheaper in Paris and, we agreed to purchase the bag for her.

Last month, I shared proud parent moments involving my daughter with whom her mom and I celebrated another achievement the month before.

For more than six decades, I had a great streak going.No fillings.No crowns.No root canals.Not even a single cavity. Basically, my teeth were the stuff of dental legend.  And then... it happened. Out of nowhere, one of my molars turned on me. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a chair, mouth wide open, being told that my perfect record was about to be absolutely shattered. 

As I write this I am experiencing a sense of melancholy and I ask myself why? Clearly, it is because we will soon return "home" in the north.   "Home" Where is "Home"? If "Home" is in the north, why am I experiencing meloncholy?

We live in a world of acronyms and initialisms. Acronyms being the initials of words forming a grouping of letters that is pronounced as a word. Initialisms, on the other hand, are a grouping of initials that is pronounced as individual letters.

I was thinking about those “politics and religion-free” zones we create? They’re predicated on the notion that talking about politics or religion always leads to arguments, hurt feelings, and broken relationships. I have determined them to be of little value; in fact, I find them to be harmful.   

I’m curious if you have a story or a tip.    To some degree, most of us have responsibility for bringing in new business.  It is one reason we come to a networking group – to expand our business referral sources (of course, in Gotham along with the strong sense of community inside our family).

When I was young, my mother insisted that my brother, sister and I eat dinner together every weekday at 5:00. Actually, she never called it “dinner,” she called it “supper.” Supper at 5:00 was our routine throughout my childhood.   My father, on the other hand, had supper when he came home from work. My mother would sit with him while he ate. My brother, sister and I had to stay out of the kitchen while he ate so he “could relax.”