To return to my point, fresh from my success with the house, I saw a picture of a chicken coop. It was adorable, like a doll-house with a little wooden door and two tiny windows, with shutters. It reminded me of the Little Tykes playhouse that daughter Francesca used to have when she was little, or those green plastic houses in Monopoly that you put on Baltic Avenue. I always preferred the houses over the hotels, even though the hotels earned more rent, which gives you an idea of my money management skills.

Anyway when I saw the picture of the coop, I said to myself, I want that little housie, so I guess I have to get some chickens. So now we know which came first, the chicken or the coop.

As it happens, this summer project is fun for everyone in my family, meaning Francesca and me. We went and picked out seven adorable chicks, and we learned new vocabulary words-Brown Suss.e.x, Wyandotte, Araucana, and Australorp, which is a black chicken and not a resident of Australia. They're all pullets, which means girls, so it took us days to pick their names because we wanted a theme. First we went with Miss Pennsylvania, Miss New Jersey, Miss Delaware, and so on, but they peep like crazy so we tried Sheryl Crow, Alanis Morrisette, Barbra Streisand, and Judy Garland. Then we couldn't agree on seven girl rock stars, which is clearly what these chicks are, so we decided the dominant one should be Princess Ida and the rest are all other characters from Gilbert & Sullivan, which cla.s.ses up my house. which means girls, so it took us days to pick their names because we wanted a theme. First we went with Miss Pennsylvania, Miss New Jersey, Miss Delaware, and so on, but they peep like crazy so we tried Sheryl Crow, Alanis Morrisette, Barbra Streisand, and Judy Garland. Then we couldn't agree on seven girl rock stars, which is clearly what these chicks are, so we decided the dominant one should be Princess Ida and the rest are all other characters from Gilbert & Sullivan, which cla.s.ses up my house.

We hang with the chicks all the time, watching them grow, singing to them, and trying to get them to love us. The first week they fled from us in fear, flocking at the corner of the cage, but now they're eating out of our hands, literally. They coo, cluck, and gurgle, and today I'm going out to buy a baby monitor so I can hear them in the house. I'm sure this has nothing to do with Francesca's graduation from college and undeniable adulthood, but call the police if I try to nurse these chicks.

Ouch.

We obsess on raising and lowering their heat lamp, and we clean their b.u.t.ts, called "vents," with mineral oil so they don't "paste up" or, well you guessed it. We also talk about painting the chicken coop pink, since it was an all-girl production, or drawing fake flowers and vines on it, because why not, then considered painting it like a sorority house with Greek letters above the door, or maybe a little theater, since the chicks are all Drama Queens.

So I'm back to paint chips and shutter colors.

I'm thinking Egg Yolk Yellow.

What I Did on Summer Vacation

I had originally decided that daughter Francesca and I would skip a vacation this year in favor of a staycation, but that was before I realized how much I hated saying staycation, which isn't even a word. So I grabbed my VISA card and made a few phone calls, and we were off to a place no Scottoline has ever been.

Hawaii.

The excitement started before we even got there, because of Michael McDonald. Please tell me you know that Michael McDonald sang with the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan, who made the soundtrack of your life, or at least your freshman year at the University of Pennsylvania, circa 1974. I spotted him in the airport, recognizing him instantly from my fantasies. You know you're getting older when the grayest head in the place is the one man who does it for you.

Of course, I made Francesca go over to him with me, which she did, and I introduced myself and started gushing, though she pulled me away before I suggested anything untoward.

Who raised this kid?

So then of course I have the best luck ever and Michael McDonald shows up on our very flight, which lasts like 29,373 hours so I can stare at him as he watches the movie ( hours so I can stare at him as he watches the movie (Prince Caspian) and gets up to go to the bathroom (only three times).

I like a man with a strong bladder.

And then how great is it that when we get our baggage, the only luggage left is his and mine, which shows that we were meant to be, if you don't factor in his wife.

What a fool believes, a wise woman has the power to reason away.

And then Francesca and I end up on Maui, which is ridiculously pretty, if only I could enjoy it. Because all I like to do on vacation is sit on my b.u.t.t and read in the sun, which is what distinguishes a vacation from a staycation, wherein I sit on my b.u.t.t and read in the sun for much less money.

But Maui offers so much to do and Francesca is the adventurous sort, so in no time, I find myself snorkeling in its teal blue water, watching green-striped eels and spotted manta rays. By the way, I can't swim, a fun fact about me you may not know. So I'm the only adult in the Pacific wearing an inflatable vest.

Six-year-olds point and laugh.

At one point, I have to struggle out of the water to sh.o.r.e, so I do my best doggy paddle while Francesca waits on the beach for me. She tries to be patient but by sundown, it gets old. She says, "Dead bodies wash up faster."

I cannot disagree. Glug.

Then we sign up for the snorkeling cruise, which means that we spend two hours on a catamaran sailing to the island of Lanai. In case you don't know, a catamaran is a two-hulled boat that causes you to throw up, which I do.

The next day we are scheduled for a horseback ride down the crater of Haleakala. FYI, Haleakala is a dormant volcano that rises 10,000 feet into the air, and another fun fact about me is that I'm afraid of heights. I'm too terrified to drive the road to the summit, which snakes along various lethal cliffs, so I pay an extortionate rate to be driven there, only to realize that I cannot pay anyone to ride the horse down into the crater for me. So I suck it up for the next five hours, over trails that go up and down for three thousand feet, over lava rubble and coa.r.s.e sand. Francesca tells me it was starkly beautiful-a rust, black, and green landscape that looks like Mars, dotted with unusual silver sword plants that grow only in Hawaii-and I'm taking her word for it. road to the summit, which snakes along various lethal cliffs, so I pay an extortionate rate to be driven there, only to realize that I cannot pay anyone to ride the horse down into the crater for me. So I suck it up for the next five hours, over trails that go up and down for three thousand feet, over lava rubble and coa.r.s.e sand. Francesca tells me it was starkly beautiful-a rust, black, and green landscape that looks like Mars, dotted with unusual silver sword plants that grow only in Hawaii-and I'm taking her word for it.

My eyes were closed.

I survived only by placing my trust in my sleepy old mare, who can do Haleakala with her eyes closed, just like me. Her name is Princess, so there's something else we have in common.

Much later, back at the hotel, I order drinks that are also found only on Hawaii. The Lavaflow, a pina colada with strawberries, and a perfect Mai-Tai, and the next day I am sitting happily on the beach, reading James Michener's Hawaii. Hawaii.

Now that's a vacation.

Shake It Up, Baby

Okay, I'm officially confused, and it's not rocket science. It's about my latest trip to the food store.

Here's what happened: I shop at Acme and Whole Foods, because I can't buy everything I need in one place. Acme doesn't know from wheatberry salad, and G.o.d forbid that Whole Foods sell Splenda. I even have to go to a third store for pet food, but that's not the point.

Back to Whole Foods.

We all know it sells hippie food at designer prices, but I love it for all its crazy and delicious choices. Also, the samples are incredible. Whenever you're hungry, you should go directly to Whole Foods, walk around, and eat anything attached to a toothpick. Better yet, grab five and put them in your pocket.

The cheese cubes travel better than the chicken quesadillas.

But to stay on point, Whole Foods has every fruit possible in its produce department, where you can choose from organic or "conventional." I always buy conventional because I am conventional. Also it's cheaper, and I like my apples pretty. If they sold plastic apples, I'd be happier, but either way, I appreciate Whole Foods for its euphemistic "conventional." They could have called it "for people who cheap out on their family" or "for people who choose style over substance" or "for people who think a little DDT never hurt anybody." people who choose style over substance" or "for people who think a little DDT never hurt anybody."

But they didn't.

So I went to Whole Foods with my shopping list and was happily collecting mangoes and multigrains when I came upon an endcap that showed an array of mysterious plastic tubs, each larger-than-life. The labels read: whey protein powder in natural vanilla flavor and whey protein powder in natural chocolate favor.

I blinked, bewildered. The only whey I'd ever heard of came with curds and a spider.

Next to the whey powder were big vats of soy protein powder, also in chocolate and vanilla, then next to that were tubs of Green Superfood Berry Flavored Drink Powder and Green Superfood Chocolate Drink Powder, made with "organic green foods." All of the powder tubs came with a 28-ounce "Blender-Bottle," like a sippy cup for grown-ups.

It was dizzying. They were clearly some kind of meal replacement, so I was looking at a wallful of drinkable food. Just add water. That's my favorite kind of cooking.

I spent the next hour squinting at the labels, comparing the nutrition facts and deciphering the language, such as "includes Free-Form Branch Chain Amino Acids." Now, I don't know about you, but when I want to cheat on my diet, I head straight for the amino acids. Especially if they're from the branch and not the main office. Which is so not free-form.

There was even a big white tub of MegaFood, which immediately got my attention. If I were going to put any prefix in front of the word "food," it would be "mega." Except, of course, for pizza. I looked but couldn't find any MegaPizza-Food, which would have made my day.

I bet Acme has it. Next to the Splenda.

Instead I had to settle for the DailyFoods Organic Greens Dietary Supplement, which billed itself as "revitalizing greens for women over 40." It promised "detoxification," but I wondered how I became toxic. Was it merely the act of turning forty and being a woman? Or maybe it was those frozen margaritas over vacation. Or that time I ate all the Snickers out of my daughter's Halloween candy. Which happened for the entire ten years she went out for Halloween.

Amazingly, the tub of girl powder had vitamin A, vitamin C, and vitamin K, which I didn't even know existed. It also had riboflavin, niacin, folic acid, and 19 mg of chlorophyll, which is the powder equivalent of eating your shrubbery.

Plus it had "Anti-Aging SuperFoods," and I'm so there. If there's anything I'm anti, it's aging, especially as applied to me. I'm also anti-dying, but not even Whole Foods sells that stuff.

Or if they do, it's really really really expensive.

Bottom line, even I could figure out that the powders were packed with more protein, vitamins, and minerals than anything I had in my shopping cart. I looked at the shiny tubs of powder, then I looked at my lame cart of old-fashioned broccoli, pears, and lettuce. Suddenly, it looked so terribly ... conventional.

How had I come to the food store and bought all the wrong things-food?

Obviously, anything in the tubs was superior to the groceries in my cart. For starters, all the stuff in the tubs was one word, with capitals even-FoodState, SuperFood, DailyFoods. How can a lower-case banana compete? And broccoli doesn't come with a BlenderBottle.

So I'm confused.

If you could make all food taste like chocolate, why wouldn't you?

And why have a meal, when you can have a meal replacement? You can throw away all your silverware-and your teeth.

And who wants dumb, old-fashioned peas when you could have powder with "Cold Fusion FoodState Nutrients"? This is food that splits the atom, people. Or maybe fuses it together. I don't know, I always forget what cold fusion is. Clearly, this food is way smarter than I am.

Maybe it is rocket science, after all.

Eggistential

I have a problem to solve, and I'm talking about something really hard, like programming a VCR, or marriage.

I'm talking about what to eat.

Here's what happened.

I used to eat everything, including red meat. Hamburgers, steaks, the whole thing. I loved rare roast beef with extra Russian dressing, which I used to order at a place called the Corned Beef Academy. That's how much of a meat eater I was. Even my restaurants were carnivorous.

But then daughter Francesca was born and we started going to a petting zoo that had the cutest calf in the world. Brown eyes like melted Hershey's Kisses, and a spongy nose as pink as the inside of a conch sh.e.l.l. In no time, I'm naming the calf and visiting it way more than anyone should. Francesca lost interest, but I didn't, and after a time, I felt too guilty to eat red meat. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't an ethical thing. I just couldn't take the guilt.

Then years later, I saw the movie Babe, Babe, starring a baby piglet. I know that was only a story, but I saw that Hollywood piglet do everything the fictional piglet was supposed to do, so I started feeling too guilty to eat pork chops and bacon. You starring a baby piglet. I know that was only a story, but I saw that Hollywood piglet do everything the fictional piglet was supposed to do, so I started feeling too guilty to eat pork chops and bacon. You have to be crazy to quit eating bacon. Bacon is the meth of meats. have to be crazy to quit eating bacon. Bacon is the meth of meats.

And to be clear: If you eat meat, I don't judge you, I envy you. I want to be you again. I don't know what to eat anymore, because it gets worse: As you know, I have these chicks. They need a special fence with a top to protect them from hawks and stuff, so until the fence gets built, I sit and watch over them like a chicken security guard. In other words, I get no work done and spend way too much time watching them, and you know where this is going.

Now I can't eat chicken.

First off, they're all cute and little, like cartoon chicks. You remember Sylvester and Tweety Bird. I Taw a Putty Tat! How can I eat Tweety Bird? Even with fresh rosemary?

Plus, they do cute things. They make adorable peeps and coos. When they drink water, they throw their heads back like they're gargling. They run around gathering tiny twigs and running back inside the coop with them, like me after a sale at Neiman Marcus.

And each chick has a different personality; b.u.t.tercup is a show-off, Yum-Yum bosses everyone around, and Josephine never shuts up.

They're women, remember?

The Bard Rocks, the black-and-white chicks who make up the chorus, love to be held. They're soft as a pillow in the crook of my arm, and their little feet are warm with blood. They even stay still while I kiss them, and I've become a big-time chicken kisser.

I try not to touch their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

That would be weird.

So now I can't eat red meat or chicken. I even look at eggs funny. Is a yolk a future Yum-Yum? Or is it just yummy?

When does chick life begin? It's not an existential problem. It's an eggsistential problem.

Remember, I'm not preaching at you, because I'm not even morally consistent. My car has leather seats, and I own a leather jacket. I buy leather shoes by the boatload. As long as I don't eat them, I don't feel guilty.

Meantime, all I can eat is pasta, bread, and oatmeal. I went from a no-carb diet to an all-carb diet, all because of guilt. I've gained five pounds, and now I feel guilty about that.

And tofu isn't the answer because I've done everything possible with tofu, which means drown it in something with flavor. I rotate teriyaki sauce, soy and ginger sauce, and even tomato sauce, which could cause me to forfeit my Italian-American credentials, should it come to light.

I make protein shakes like they're going out of style, and now I'm even getting sick of chocolate.

What's the matter with me? How can I change it? What should I do?

All I know is one thing: I'm not getting a goldfish.

Willing

I'm making out my will, and, as you can imagine, I'm having the time of my life.

Or death.

It's a laugh riot to contemplate your own demise. Not that it takes a will for me to do it. As you know, my mother taught me that I can perish at any moment, especially if I stand near a toaster during a thunderstorm. But I never had to make so many decisions, all of which involve things that take place after I'm dead. You'd think that at some point, I'd get to stop worrying, but no. Evidently, death isn't all it's cracked up to be. I bet my skin doesn't even clear up.

But I look on the bright side. If I had died when I was a struggling writer, I'd have nothing to leave but three maxed-out credit cards and a very hungry dog.

Bottom line, now I have to decide who gets the do-re-mi when I'm gone, which is easy. I have only daughter Francesca, and she's cashing in. I told her this morning, and already she's looking at me funny.

I'm locking up the steak knives.

I'm telling you now, if something happens to me, we all know who did it. She's smart enough to make it look like an accident, so don't believe a word. She went to Harvard, remember?

But who inherits is only one of the decisions I have to make. A harder question is raised by the living will, as opposed to the dying will, I guess. You know what a living will is; it's a piece of paper that says what you want to happen if you're completely incapacitated, like me after a head injury or two Cosmopolitans. The main question is do I want the plug pulled? I say no.

"You're kidding, right?" my lawyer asks, over the phone.

"No. In fact, I want that plug duct-taped into the socket, so it doesn't get kicked out by accident on purpose. And while you're at it, get me an extension cord, a surge protector, and a generator, right by my bed. Just in case. And padlock it. Did I mention that my kid went to Harvard?"

"You mean that you want your daughter to visit you for years and years, even though you're in a coma?"