The same goes for portion control. I'm careful about my portions, but not at the movies. All movie candy has one portion size. Two hours.

Movie popcorn isn't food, it's gambling. You never know if you'll win or lose. Most often, you lose, because movie popcorn can taste like blown-in fibergla.s.s insulation or paper, salted. Sometimes you win, and get a bag like I had the other night-a lovely canary gold, freshly popped, tasting of real Jersey corn. That's one win in forty-odd years of movie popcorn. Yet, gambler that I am, I know that I'll hit the jackpot again someday. That's why I keep playing movie popcorn.

In contrast, the appeal of movie candy is its very predictability. If movie popcorn is a date, movie candy is a marriage. It always tastes the same, so much so that you can have a certain go-to movie candy for years. Raisinets has been my favorite movie candy for the past decade. It never disappoints. It always tastes chewy, soft, chocolaty, and vaguely healthy. My relationship to Raisinets has lasted longer than both my marriages, and cost me far less.

Before Raisinets, for me there was only Goobers, again for almost ten years. It wasn't cheating to switch from Goobers to Raisinets, because both are in the same movie candy food group, namely Chocolate Contaminated by Natural Foods.

The decade before that, I always went with Whoppers, which were from a related food group, Chocolate Contaminated by Unnatural Foods.

I used to love Whoppers, chocolate-covered malted milk b.a.l.l.s that come in a faux milk carton, a reminder of their fauxdairy origins. I stopped eating Whoppers only when I kept encountering what daughter Francesca calls the Dead Whopper.

The Dead Whopper looks alive on the outside-smooth, round, shiny, and almost brown. But as soon as you bite down, you know. The Dead Whopper collapses instead of crunching, and flattens to a gummy rock. It doesn't taste like chocolate, it just tastes brown. And there you are, stuck with a cheekful of Dead Whopper and no napkin. It takes trust to eat candy in pitch darkness, and the Dead Whopper breaks its vows.

So I divorced Whoppers. I aim for quality control in my candy marriages.

Back in my youth, my movie candy came only from the High Maintenance Group, composed of Jujyfruits, Dots, and the immortal Jujubes. This group contains fruit plastic pressed into unrecognizable shapes and tinted the color of unpopular crayons. I used to love candy from this group because I was younger and had more time to deal with their candy drama. into unrecognizable shapes and tinted the color of unpopular crayons. I used to love candy from this group because I was younger and had more time to deal with their candy drama.

The High Maintenance Group required a do-it-yourself dental scaling, right there in the movie seat, with your fingernail. It was labor intensive, not to mention disgusting. Picking your teeth and eating what you retrieve is acceptable only for eight-year-olds and under.

The High Maintenance Group also required you to hold the candy up to the movie screen to determine its color/flavor. I can't tell you how many movies I saw through a Lysol-yellow Jujyfruits filter. I liked only the red and black Jujyfruits, so I had to perform the ritual of finding them by the light of the screen, then dumping the orange, green, and yellows back into the box. In no time, only the colors I hated were left, so I had to rank them, then eat them in descending order of hate.

It required a lot of decision-making, for a candy.

No candy was more high maintenance than Jujubes, the founding candy of the group. I think they may be defunct now, because I never see Jujubes at the movies anymore. I admired Jujubes for their moxie, not to mention their enigmatic name. They weren't people-pleasers, like Raisinets. Jujubes dared you to like them. They made too much noise, as if they wanted out of their narrow box. They could crack a molar. Their colors were profoundly ugly. They tasted like drill bits.

And you know what?

I miss them.

I Miss My Father

You know that Mother Mary is extraordinary. Father Frank is, too, though he has pa.s.sed away. The fact that he is gone seems simply beside the point. I'm still a daddy's girl.

Let me tell you why.

Oddly, I'll start by telling you what Father Frank was not. He couldn't fix everything; he didn't have all the answers. He wasn't one of these all-knowing, omnipotent fathers who solve all problems, handle all situations, and generally stand in for G.o.d or, at least, Santa Claus.

He wasn't a tough guy, either. He couldn't even bargain for a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve. Once we ended up paying $50 for the Charlie Browniest tree on the lot. The asking price was $35 but he gave the tree guy a tip for lashing it to the car.

Nor was he a sugar-daddy kind of father, granting all the requests of his adored, and only, daughter. In fact, though I was always adored, I found out at midlife that I wasn't even his only daughter.

I learned I had a half-sister, whom he had fathered while in college at Berkeley. She had been put up for adoption in California and eventually came to find him. He opened his arms to her, even though my meeting her was like a bad episode of her, even though my meeting her was like a bad episode of The Patty Duke Show, The Patty Duke Show, which may be redundant. which may be redundant.

So he made mistakes, some with blue eyes. By the way, before you feel sorry for my half-sister, she got a wonderful adoptive family. I got The Flying Scottolines. At least I wrote a novel about it-in fact, several.

My family is a miniseries.

Above all, my father loved life. He liked everybody and he ate anything. I cannot remember him not smiling. When he found out my brother was gay, he went down to South Beach to help him open a gay bar. I'm not sure who got the first dance.

He was agreeable and easy. I remember once he told me he'd seen a certain movie, and I asked him why, because it had been badly reviewed. He said, "That's where the line was going."

He was a reliable man, too. An architect, he never missed a day of work for sickness or any other reason. He loved his job, always. Any trip in the car would take us somehow past a construction site, and he'd get out and explain how the building was being constructed. He was always home at 6:15 for dinner and he always fell asleep on the living room floor, afterwards.

Sleeping on the floor is a big thing in my family.

Of course, he was most reliable about me. We talked all the time, about everything. He always asked what I learned in school that day and listened carefully to my answer. He helped me with my trig homework; he taught me to read a map. He drove me and my friends everywhere, both ways-no trading off with other parents for him.

He clapped at every high school play, whether I had a big or little part. When I was older, he beamed through every book signing. At one of my signings, someone said to him, "You must be very proud that your daughter is an author." little part. When I was older, he beamed through every book signing. At one of my signings, someone said to him, "You must be very proud that your daughter is an author."

He replied, "I was proud of her the day she came out of the egg."

And he was.

I felt his love and pride all the time, no matter how I screwed up. When my first marriage foundered, about the time daughter Francesca was born, I quit my job and went completely broke. He didn't have much money, but what he had, he offered to me. When I found a job part-time, he babysat for Francesca every morning, made her breakfast, and took her to school. From him, she learned that it was possible to toast a bagel with the cream cheese already on top.

She will never forget that.

Nor will I.

Sometimes I feel sorry for fathers. And I wonder if they feel sorry for themselves. It's as if they're the supporting actor of parents, or second-best. It's like we have a Father's Day only because we don't want them to feel left out after Mother's Day. In a d.i.c.k-and-Jane world, it's moms who get top billing, and fathers who are simply, at best, there.

But may I suggest something?

There's a lot to be said for simply being there.

My father was always there. And whenever he was with me, I knew it was exactly where he wanted to be. There.

And I feel absolutely certain that, even in this day of cell phones and BlackBerrys, he wouldn't be checking either of them when he was there. In all my adult life, I have never met anyone who was so completely there.

There is underrated. There is a sleeper. There doesn't get much hype, but there is about love and devotion. About constancy and sacrifice. much hype, but there is about love and devotion. About constancy and sacrifice.

Here is my wish for you: On Father's Day, may you be lucky enough to have your father there.

Baby Bird

I am a woman who likes routines, but now that daughter Francesca is home from college for the summer, the times they are a-changing.

By way of background, she is my only child and I'm a single parent, so it's just the two of us. Even so, I had gotten used to the empty-nest thing. I liked everything being in order, or at least in my favorite form of disarray. I had my own hours and habits. I walked in the morning with the dogs. Worked all day. Cooked something simple and light during the evening news. Worked at night or read, guilt-free. Showered as necessary.

But my baby bird is back, and she's wrenched my life out of shape. For example, I had to move all of my winter clothes, boxes, and books out of her room, as she insisted on having a bed.

Annoying.

Also, she thought it would be fun if we got a kitten, and I went along. But somehow we couldn't leave with only one kitten, so we got two. When we took them home, I learned that one plus one doesn't equal two, when it comes to kittens. Looking at my house now, you would think I hired a kitten wrecking crew. Their names are Mimi and Vivi, and they're conspiring as we speak. They shred toilet paper. They climb table lamps. They surf throw pillows. By the way, we already had four pets-three golden retrievers and a bossy Welsh corgi-and you can imagine their happiness at the new arrivals. The goldens think the kittens are delicious. The corgi thinks she gave birth. They surf throw pillows. By the way, we already had four pets-three golden retrievers and a bossy Welsh corgi-and you can imagine their happiness at the new arrivals. The goldens think the kittens are delicious. The corgi thinks she gave birth.

My schedule is a mess, too. Francesca's become a vegetarian, so we go food-shopping all the time. We're in the market, squinting at labels and scanning for magic words like cruelty-free. What's the alternative? Pro-cruelty? Obviously she's right, but all of a sudden, I'm spending too much of my life around produce. Plus, I'm carb-free, which means that we agree only on celery.

I don't recognize my own shopping cart. I buy Bocaburgers and tempeh like they're going out of style. This is food you couldn't pick out of a lineup. Bocaburgers look like coasters, and tempeh looks like fibergla.s.s. I've eaten Bocaburgers, so I know they're good with ketchup, because everything is good with ketchup. As for tempeh, I have no idea what it tastes like or how to prepare it. I'm thinking sauteed. With ketchup.

Worse yet, Francesca likes clean clothes, which I regard as picky. Living alone, I have gone months without doing laundry. I work at home, and the UPS man doesn't care if I wear the same T-shirt and shorts all week. So does he.

But now dirty clothes make a high and aromatic pile on the floor. Francesca and I play Laundry Chicken, to see which one of us breaks down first and washes the clothes. I suspect that at the middle of the pile is a kitten. Two kittens.

Still, no matter what, I refuse to iron. Nor do I want her to iron. In fact, I don't own an iron and will not buy one. Women shouldn't iron, ever. It's our wrinkles that make us interesting.

And there's a drastic difference in Francesca's and my hours. I keep Normal Hours, and she keeps Vampire Hours. I used to wait up for her and worry. Now I go to sleep and hope for the best. Even when she stays home, she's up late watching TV or talking on the cell phone. Did you know that at any given hour of the night, three billion sleepless young people are updating their Facebook profile, friending each other, or announcing their newly single status? If only we could harness their energy, we'd be less dependent on foreign oil. best. Even when she stays home, she's up late watching TV or talking on the cell phone. Did you know that at any given hour of the night, three billion sleepless young people are updating their Facebook profile, friending each other, or announcing their newly single status? If only we could harness their energy, we'd be less dependent on foreign oil.

Our entertainment choices differ, too. I don't go out much, but last weekend, I suggested that we go see a movie at seven thirty. She talked me into seeing the ten-thirty show. I fell asleep in the movie, twice, and she had the gall to wake me up. What does it mean if even Brad Pitt puts me to sleep?

Don't answer.

Plus she bought a box of fresh Raisinets and a bag of popcorn, which reminded me that carbs practically demand to be eaten, so now I've fallen off the wagon.

You get the idea. My daughter has disturbed my empty nest and she'll be home all summer.

And you know what?

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Fashionista

I'm not sure when I officially stopped mattering, but I think it began at age 40. I know this because I'm a great reader of fashion magazines, and InStyle InStyle recently told me that I no longer mattered, if indeed I existed at all. recently told me that I no longer mattered, if indeed I existed at all.

They didn't even let me down easy. And I subscribe.

The article I was reading was called "Great At Any Age." It was about beauty tips for women as they got older, and the article was broken down by age groups. The first page was addressed to women in their 20s and told them that "nothing topical gets rid of cellulite completely."

Funny, I can remember my 20s, and it was the one decade of my life that I didn't have cellulite. I had an orange Mazda, my first VISA card, and several thousand law school applications, but no cellulite.

Never mind. I turned the page The second page was addressed to women in their 30s and informed them that their "skin was thinning." That didn't ring true to me, either. Every woman knows that as she gets older, her skin doesn't get thinner. On the contrary, it gets thicker. Those of us who used to be thin-skinned simply stop caring about what people think of what we say, write, do, or wear. I always thought this was called perspective, but boy, was I wrong. InStyle told me so.

I turned to the next page, which was addressed to women in their "40s+" and told them that "gentle exfoliation" would stimulate their circulation "for a smoothing effect." I wasn't worried that I wasn't smooth, but nevertheless, I resolved instantly to start exfoliating and to be gentle about it.

I turned the page. But there were no more age groups in the "Great At Any Age" article.

The "Great At Any Age" article was over.

The top age limit to be Great At was 40s+.

Now, wait.

I had thought I was Great At Any Age, because that's what they told me at the top of the page. But they really didn't mean it. I was Great Only At The Ages of 20 Through 40. They were the only gals who got their own age categories, instead of being lumped in all together. What about the ages of 42, 47, 52, 65, 75, 79, 83, and older? At those ages, I wasn't Great. I might actually Suck.

The article should have been called: "Sucking At Any Age Over 40."

I flipped the page and tried not to take it too much to heart. After all, as I say, my skin is thicker now, and nothing bothers me anymore.

The next article was ent.i.tled, "How to Wear ... a Sporty Jacket." The ellipsis are theirs. Don't ask me why. I'm 40s+ and can barely take care of myself in the bathroom. Ask a twenty-year-old with cellulite.

Anyway, I was excited when I saw the article about how to wear ... a sporty jacket. I'd never thought about how to wear ... a sporty jacket. I had always a.s.sumed that you ... put your arms in the sleeves and slipped it ... over your shoulders. But what do I know? your arms in the sleeves and slipped it ... over your shoulders. But what do I know?

I was eager to learn about sporty jackets.

Only one problem. The sporty jacket article was addressed to age groups, too. Since when does a sporty jacket come with age limits? This is America. I always thought I could wear ... a sporty jacket at any age.

Boy, was I wrong. Again!

Unbeknownst to me, sporty jackets had a shelf life. In fact, I I had a shelf life. I'd thought if I was alive, I mattered, but had a shelf life. I'd thought if I was alive, I mattered, but InStyle InStyle set me straight. set me straight.

Oddly, the age groups for sporty jackets were different than the age groups for cellulite creams. The first page of the article pictured a sporty jacket with a hoodie, for women in their "20s/30s." The second page showed the same jacket with a white shirt for women, in their "30s/40s." The third page showed the jacket with a set of plastic beads, for women in their "40s/50s."

Whew. What a relief. A number with a 5 in front. I did exist, at least as far as sporty jackets were concerned.

But I was confused. I existed for sporty jacket purposes but not for cellulite cream purposes. Doesn't this seem backwards? I don't want to reveal too much, but my 40s+ self has more need for a cellulite cream than a sporty jacket. Unless the jacket is sporty enough to cover my tushie.

Plus, the article raised new questions. Am I too old for my handbag? Too young for my ballet flats? Are my clothes snickering at me behind my back?

Then I thought of something. InStyle InStyle didn't ask me my age when they cashed my check for the subscription. didn't ask me my age when they cashed my check for the subscription.

Ya think they'll ask when I cancel?

Hollow Bunnies

I'm wary of writing about religion, and though I want to say a word about Easter and Pa.s.sover here, you'll see that the following has more to do with saturated fats than Christianity or Judaism.

I was raised in a family that qualified as the Worst Catholics in the World. We didn't go to church because my mother was excommunicated, since she had been divorced before she married my father. And if my mother wasn't going to church, none of us was. As a child, I understood only that the Church didn't like my mother, and since I loved her, I was on her side. So for me, Easter was about chocolate.

And plastic.

What I remember about Easter morning was that my brother Frank and I got a pink plastic basket full of green plastic gra.s.s. Nestled within were chocolate eggs from Woolworth's, cream-filled, and a huge chocolate bunny, unfortunately hollow, because we were on the low-rent side.

I feel nostalgic for those multi-colored mornings, for neon-orange peanuts and chrome-yellow Peeps. For fat jellybeans, from before there were "gourmet" jellybeans that taste like popcorn or daiquiris, which is against nature. When I was little, all jellybeans tasted the same.