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I like to read, a lot. Having a baby has slowed me down some, but I’m still on a two- or three-book a week habit. So people keep asking me, with an, ahem, addiction like mine why I don’t have a Kindle or a Sony Reader or Nook or an iPad for goodness sake? Why don’t I spare my husband his aging back and take only one thin electronic gadget on vacation, rather than weighing down my luggage (plus appropriate surcharge) with the top ten picks from my To Be Read pile?

Though I was born in Brooklyn, I’ve never been inside a New York City public school. By the time I came of age to attend school, the schools were so “bad” that private or parochial school was a must. Even in my inner-city Brooklyn neighborhood of East New York, about half of the kids on my block weren’t enrolled in the public schools. All that was before the Reagan revolution’s endless tax cutting, “starve the beast,” supply-side, Republican economics became all the rage.

If you really want to annoy me, then all you have to do is spout the cliché, “We’re a country of immigrants.”

I have made a lot of bad decisions in my life: dating the wrong men, dating the wrong men too long, borrowing too much money for a “name brand” education, buying a fixer-upper (a.k.a. money pit) in a never-quite-gentrified neighborhood.

Call me Scrooge.

I just received the annual year-end letter from my accountant, advising me on ways to minimize my tax burden. Charitable giving, it says, is one of those ways.

Today, I found out my father is dead.

Well, not today. I wrote that sentence almost six years ago, and I still think about the way I found out my father had died. In true Boolean fashion, as I did from time to time, I entered my father’s name into a database. Whether I was playing fast and loose with Google or searching through the nooks and crannies of the extensive database of my previous employer, LexisNexis, I can’t recall.

Here we go again.

I’m old enough to remember when someone else came to your car and pumped gas. My mom, or grandma and I, would sit in the car and a guy (it was always a guy) in all white or denim blue coveralls would “fill ‘er up,” check your oil, maybe add water to your battery, wipe your windows and send you on your way.

Last week I walked up to a stand at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market selling about ten varieties of heirloom squash. I believe strongly in eating a diverse, seasonal diet – so I was interested in trying one of the varied varieties of squash that wasn’t the usual, commercially popular butternut and acorn varieties.

When I come home from vacation, it seems that everyone from the disgruntled customs agent to my friends and acquaintances always ask if I’m glad to be home. The answer is never a resounding yes. Sure I’m glad to be home to see my five geriatric pets. I’m glad that I have more than three pairs of pants and two pairs of shoes to wear and can stop living out of suitcases. Sure I’m glad to bathe in my own shower and have access to a free washer and dryer. But am I glad to be home here in America? Not really.

Do you trust your doctor? I don’t trust mine. Why? you might ask. The reason is simple. She relies far too heavily on the conventionally accepted wisdom of “science.” My doctor has recommended a low-fat diet (reliant on processed foods with high fructose corn syrup, no less). My dentist promotes fluoride.