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I thought I had a perfect life. Not a Leave It to Beaver perfect life. I didn’t wear pearls and Chanel suits while cleaning the house, greet my husband at the door with a martini, or neatly solve my children’s problems in thirty minutes (including commercial breaks). Still, I thought I had my own little version of Perfection in Pennsylvania. I owned a four bedroom house nestled in the rolling hills of beautiful Lancaster County, had two healthy children, a comfortable bank account, and a strong marriage. At the risk of sounding cliché, life for me was . . . perfect. Then my husband came home and told me . . . . . that we were moving to Korea (I’ll bet you thought I was going to say he’d had an affair. Honestly, in the months that followed, I secretly wished he had dropped that bombshell, and not the Korean one.) I had known moving to Korea was a possibility, but like Cleopatra cruising down the River Denial, I refused to see the asp until it slithered up and bit me. One day I

My friend called to share some heartbreaking news. She had been to the doctor and had learned that she would not be able to have children. A dream she had nurtured for years had died a sudden and unexpected death. She was devastated and I was devastated for her. I felt profoundly sad and powerless. I, the verbose writer, was at a loss for words. I waded through the clichés and platitudes that flooded my brain, desperate to find the one comforting phrase that would buoy my friend’s sinking spirits. “When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window,” just didn’t seem enough. I could not conjure the words that would illuminate the mystery or lessen the inequity of her infertile status. She cried uncontrollably, questioned her purpose on the planet, and beseeched me to explain why this terrible thing was happening to her. I didn’t have the answers. All I could do was cry along with her and repeatedly utter, “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.” Listening to my friend’s soul-wracking sobs

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=finXDHZ2_fU We have heard the word diva used to describe musicians and actresses, but what exactly is a diva?  Diva has become such a common, over-used word that it can even be found plastered on the bums of sweatpants worn by little girls. So, I am not being capricious when I say that Molly Muffin, my ten pounds schnauzer poodle mix, is a diva. She sleeps with her head on my plush, ridiculously-expensive, ergonomically-designed pillow. In fact, she will not sleep on any other pillow. She likes to have her fur dried with a blow drier when she comes back from a walk in the snow or rain. A few times a day, she brings her toy and drops it at my feet. If I do not pay heed, she will nudge it closer to me. If I still do not respond, she will move close to me and stare with a haughty, imperial gaze. She does not cower, does not back down. Her gaze is unflinching, her stance determined until it is simply impossible for me to ignore her summons. Wh

I wish I were as adventurous in my diet as I am in other areas of my life. I wish I were like my younger brother who is positively fearless when it comes to sampling foreign foods. On a visit to China, he tried calves tongues, squid, and monkey brains served in the half skull. (Of course, he spent the next ten days suffering from a wretched, hallucination and fever-filled illness that sent him to the ER). When I went to China, I filled my suitcase with trail mix, cereal bars, and peanut butter sandwiches. While my friends were licking the juices of a fried duck from their fingers, I was nibbling on Nilla Wafers. While they sat around an enormous, round table fashioned with a lazy-Susan piled high with noodles, boiled seaweed, pork filled dumplings, bowls of sticky rice, a scaly fish with a monstrous sized black eyeball floating in coagulated goop reminiscent of toxic ooze, I secretly and thankfully consumed the Pringles I had stashed in my purse. Days in Beijing: 4 Local food con

Fourteen years ago, on a blustery day early in December, I sat at a kitchen table, my belly swollen with the pregnancy of my first child, listening to my mother-in-law regale me with stories of Christmases past. Although I had been married to her son for four years and was due to give birth to her first grandchild, I hardly knew my mother-in-law. My husband and I had met in Spain while serving in the United States Air Force. We dated long-distance, eloped, and then finally settled down in a place that was on the opposite side of the country from where his family lived. There hadn't been the opportunity to get to know his mother before this extended visit. So, as I sat there rubbing my aching, itchy abdomen, I found myself eager to hear her stories. One story in particular sparked my imagination. She described her childhood in New York City and told me the thrill she got each year as she would stand outside the department store windows and gaze at the wondrous Christmas decora

It was not m y first time in the City of Light. I had been to Paris several times before. During each pilgrimage, I had paid homage to the gods of art at the Louvre, the d’Orsay, and Carnavalet. I had contemplated life while sitting in the cafés. I had given thanks for my many blessings at Sacre Couer and Notre Dame. I did the same things this time. I took my ritual batobus trip down the Seine, stood in line with the masses to view the Mona Lisa, and listened to the soulful strains of a jazz tune while sipping a hot chocolate in a cozy café. Logically, I know that I am no different from the millions of other devout Francophiles who visit Paris on an annual basis. Emotionally, though, I feel I am quite different. Deep down, I know I love Paris more than everyone else. I alone appreciate her unique beauty and history. I alone am rewarded with wonderful, serendipitous moments. Like the time I was invited to tour rooms that are normally closed at the Chateau Fontainbleau. Another visit,

On a cold, rainy Sunday morning late in December, before the first rooster had cocked its doodle do, I found myself wandering through the nearly empty streets of Tongeren, a small, quaint town in Belgium. Founded in 1257, Tongeren is the oldest city in Belgium and has a long, rich history. Sacked and burnt by Louis XIV’s troops in 1677, it was revived in the 1800s. Since then it has become a Mecca for antiques dealers and bargain hunters. Every Sunday, vendors from all over Europe descend on the town to take part in the weekly Flea Market. My mission in Tongeren that morning was not unlike Louis XIV’s mission three hundred years ago. I planned to march over the cobblestone streets, scout the terrain, observe the locals, press forward until I had penetrated the heart of the city, and perhaps gather some booty along the way. Of course, the Sun King left the town in utter ruins and on my mission my fiscal status was the only thing to suffer the threat of ruin. I began on the outer ring of