Pretty much everything about life changes when that last kid walks out the door. We think we should make the most of these adjustments, these changes. Most were easily anticipated but as always, some things are unforeseen.

Over the past year, we have had to relearn how to shop and cook for just the two of us. That fell into the unexpected for me. I don’t know why, but it was not something that I thought of before the clearing out of the nest.

Throughout our nearly three decades of marriage I have been the primary cook in the house. The kids call me at least once a week to ask things like “How long do you cook a chicken?” or “What’s in that stroganoff you make?” or “ What was that stuff you made that one time that was so good?” About two hours, cream of mushroom soup, and carbonara.

I like to eat, so early in life I figured out how to cook the things that I wanted to consume. A natural offshoot of cooking is shopping, so I learned to do that too. I’m such a hunter-gatherer. With three kids, I had to be!

Usually a trip to the grocery store involved multiple shopping carts and severe wallet damage. By the time the three bottomless pits were teenagers it required a small truck and a second mortgage. Should the spawn choose to come along, only perfect weather, no traffic, fast driving, and sheer luck could get half of the provisions home before ingestion. One red light and there would be nothing left but empty wrappers, paper products, and canned goods… but that’s only because they didn’t like to eat paper and I had learned to check them for can openers before we left. On one of these homeward sprints I’m pretty sure they were trying to start a fire in the back of the van. Luckily I pulled into the driveway right as I started to smell smoke and they were tearing open the meat. After that, I learned to check for matches, lighters, flint, sticks, charcoal, grills, skewers, and long handled forks… even if we were just going to the Kwik Sack for gas.

So there’s been a bit of an adjustment from shopping for a ravenous pack of teenaged wolves to supplying two middle aged wandering gypsies. Even more so when the eating habits of said gypsies are completely different.

I like meat. Almost any meat. If it squeals, moos, gobbles, baaas, swims, pinches, or clucks, I’m all over it. Skin it, pluck it, or scale it, and lob it on the fire. Veronica calls herself “a meat avoider,” not a vegetarian, an avoider. As near as I can tell, that means “Let me try a bite of that pork chop, it looks way better than this salad.” She claims that it’s my fault that I never get a carnivorous dish to myself because I make things look so good while I’m eating them. I can’t help it, I like food.

But back to the point: it’s hard to find foods sized for just one or two people. We are now punished for not buying the “family pack” of half a cow. I used to celebrate finding 27 lbs. of Grade A beef on sale for pennies a pound. Now I get to buy the one strip steak for tonight’s dinner at $27 a pound, what a deal!

Yes, I could break up the giant bargain packs and freeze the portions but how long will it take me to go through a side of beef all by myself (and of course Veronica’s bites as she avoids the stuff)? The answer is…. longer than it takes frozen meat to turn into that strange crystallized cardboard space-food product it becomes in your freezer. The bargains may not be available, but these days the final bill is certainly less of a shock. Dozens of dollars instead of hundreds. I’ll take that and like it.

Still, my transition from vats of spaghetti, cauldrons of soup, and Fred Flintstone slabs of meat to dinner for two is far from complete. I know there are only two of us and I know that Veronica hardly eats any of the same things that I do (sneak attacks from her fork notwithstanding) but sometimes I can’t help myself. I must have burritos. Then I have to buy the whole can of green chiles, tortillas come by the dozen, there is only one size of can of refried beans, and nobody sells less than a pound of meat, or cheese for one, or half heads of lettuce… so… I either eat burritos for three days straight or we get a really cool science project going in the back of the fridge.

I’ve found though that there are some things can help. First, cook different foods. No more big pots and whole chickens, now it’s grilled or broiled meat and a smaller side dish. No more striving to fill bottomless bellies with massive amounts of starches. I bake a couple of potatoes instead of mashing several dozen. I cook a small pan of rice, not a washtub-full, a small bowl of pasta with tuna instead of literally pounds of the stuff with gallons of red sauce. Pasta and rice are great because I can cook just the amount needed for today and the rest keeps almost indefinitely. Tuna is one of the few things that actually comes in a can the right size for one or two people. Not so much with the crushed tomatos.

It also helps to plan ahead a bit. I try to think about a second meal when I’m shopping. A small roast makes great sandwiches the following day. Fish goes into a salad. That extra steak or pork chop is mighty good with eggs the next morning. Most anything can be tossed into a can of soup to dress it up or mixed together with other leftovers to form a new meal. To me cooking is all about experimenting anyway.

Oh, and by the way, there are a lot of fates worse than eating burritos for three days straight… no doubt I’ll do it again soon.

Visit GypsyNester.com.

Looking for love? Boomer humor writer Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant has taken a new interest in boomers — and those older and younger — who are. Her latest book is “Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause,” which might make her the perfect person to decipher the search for love … as soon as she finds her bi-focals.

Recently I was at a coffee shop waiting for a friend (one of my New Year’s resolutions is to show up everywhere ten minutes later so other people occasionally have to wait on me). I picked up a copy of my local newspaper and a copy of our local senior paper to keep myself occupied. Little did I know how much fun I could have comparing the personal ads across the age spectrum. As a recently divorced 50-something woman, I thought there might also be something for me to learn from this little sociological experiment.

I was intrigued by this ad: “Outgoing student, 19, free spirit, Espresso addict. Must love reggae and Arrested Development.” I admire this girl’s chutzpahI didn’t become a free spirit until my late forties. And, how well she seems to know what she likes.

Perhaps this one is from her grandfather: “SWM (single white male), 78, seeking good dancer. Prefer sweet, intelligent, attractive lady who can still drink caffeine.“ Why is it that all the men who dance are either single or over 75 or both? Not that I wouldn’t happily dance with anyone, but I’ve found that most guys in their seventies and eighties who are still dancing are actually quite good at it, and I feel like Cloris Leachman when I take the floor with them.

Many ads for people under 60 include the author’s astrological sign. I guess it’s a holdover from the days people met in bars and there were only two pick-up lines: “What’s your sign?” and “What? I can’t hear you, the band’s too loud!” The guy who wrote “Tall, dark, and passionate Gemini, 27. Let’s do something where we don’t have to be quiet” may possibly have shared too much information. Anyone who knows their Zodiac might be happy to become involved with an inquisitive, charming, and upbeat guy, if they don’t also know that he is restless, fickle, and superficial.

There were some ads I just wanted to answer myself so I could get to know the people who wrote them. Like this one: “84 year-old lady who loves camping out and motorcycles. Looking for a man who doesn’t whine about his age all the time. Send picture please.” Now there’s my octogenarian role model. I like how she insists on a photo too. She’s not interested in just any old geezer with a Harley.

A lot of love-seekers under 40 are careful to state that they are “ … not looking for anything long-term, just some fun for now.” It seems they have this in common with many daters over sixty, including “WSF, 74, ISO kind, affectionate, not sexual, grandpa type to be best friends. Light drinking OK.” And “Bored? SWM 78, seeks slim well-groomed, SWF for ballroom dancing (lessons paid for if you promise to let me lead.)” Here we go again with the dancing. It’s like they’re taunting me.

It’s also very interesting to look at the phrases younger and older daters use in describing themselves and what they’re looking for. Just as a lark, try to guess the age of each of the following ad writers (don’t peek at the answers at the end unless the suspense is eating you up inside):

1. Cuddly teddy bear
2. Attractive, loving, lonely gal
3. Computer geek
4. I am a Pisces
5. Great father, loyal, honest, strong bones
6. Enjoy e-mail friends
7. Help find my tattoos
8. I enjoy dance, golf, romantic dinners, and stimulating conversations
9. I’m young, not stupid
10. Drama queens or persons with drug, alcohol, or mental health issues need apply
11. Wacky bleach-blonde vegan
12. Good cook, light smoker

If you’re looking for love in the classified ads – whether in the paper or online – keep on hunting. Because unlike jobs these days, whether you’re 20 or 90, it seems there’s a perfect match for everyone.

1 (23), 2 (67), 3 (82), 4 (41), 5 (50), 6 (88!), 7 (63), 8 (37), 9(23), 10(64), 11 (19), 12 (80)

Jane’s latest book is “Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause“

Her Web site is Laugh With Leigh-Anne

David and I offset this consumed-with-kids pitfall with “date nights.” Admittedly, most of our date nights were spent talking about the kids, ordering soda water to get the baby puke off my little black dress, and worrying that the nanny cam may have malfunctioned. Difficult as it was to apply lipstick while avoiding chocolate covered toddlers — date nights were not to be given up.

No excuses to delay were allowed. If there was ever an excuse to bail on a date night, David and I had it: the projectile vomiter. As an infant, one of my children could hit a rented tuxedo from a hundred feet away. No kidding.

Here’s how we avoided the flying spew: The babysitter was hired to arrive two hours before we left. Then, making a huge deal of it, we would “leave” the house. While the sitter dealt with the obligatory screaming and yelling by the kid(s), we cleverly used the diversion to sneak back in. Then we got ready. We always made sure that the babysitter was equipped with Pixie Sticks and onion milk so we could make a clean, unnoticed exit. Not only we were able to go to the party, but we saved thousand of dollars in dry cleaning bills.

Sex on date night was mandatory (I apologize to my kids in advance, I know how gross the thought must be to you). We found that it was very important to have sex while not wearing sweats and trying to ignore a kid pounding on the bathroom door. Also, if the soda water worked properly, I was always at my sexiest on date night. I was also sure to wear perfume, as soda water isn’t a magic elixir.

All kidding aside, every once in awhile we were reminded about who we were as a couple. When that happened, we were sure to point it out — we made a BIG DEAL ABOUT IT. Trust me, this is really important. It showed us that now that we are about embark on our new lives as Gypsy Nesters, we have a foundation to build on and, more importantly, remember what that foundation is.

Be advised: Every once in a while a date WEEK is also necessary. It takes at least five dinners to stop talking about the kids. This is the breeding couples’ equivalent to the WILD WEEKEND. Remember those?

, a Ph.D. in Human Resource Development who has just written a book called “Happily Un-Married: Living Together and Loving It!,” has written this piece for BoomerCafé about the change in habit for so many of us. His bottom line is, what goes around, comes around.

The way couples define commitment is dynamic. In our parents’ time, pre-1960s, few couples lived together without virtue of marriage. If they did, no one ever talked about it. Now, due in part to all the boomers who shacked up in the ‘60s, got married in the ‘70s, divorced in the ‘80s, and raised the first generation of children to come largely from broken homes, cohabitation is back with a vengeance.

Since so many of the children of baby boomers fear a failed marriage after seeing it in their own lives, nearly ten million couples are cohabitating instead, living together in an attempt to learn from their parents’ mistakes. And the fact is, many of these parents who made those mistakes have gone back to cohabitation themselves. Living together is not just for the twenty-something crowd.

Try before you commit, is a logical yet frequently discredited approach to building a successful relationship in the shadow of decades of failed marriages. While the U.S. leads the world in divorce, when it comes to cohabitation, we are playing catch-up with our European cousins who have some of the highest cohabitation rates in the world. This time around, we have the opportunity to get it right, to make cohabitation a successful institution rather than a failed social experiment as it was in the ‘60s.

But our motives have changed. We no longer cohabitate to rebel, to indulge in free love, or to reject our parents’ values. Instead, our motive is fear-based: we don’t want to make the same mistakes our parents did, and have another failed marriage ourselves. This time around, we need to take a totally different approach to improving the fitness and sustainability of our live-in relationships. We need a clear, step-by-step method that is not touchy-feely, judgmental, or complicated, and is based on the reality of what it means to be in a committed relationship in the 21st century.

“Happily Unmarried: Living Together & Loving It,” shows how to use business strategies to support any live-in relationship, so couples can be successful, committed, and happily un-married. Just think of it as a join venture.

1. Develop a common vision for the relationship to define why the relationship exists— before the shock that can happen after moving in together;

2. Write measurable objectives— determine how you will know if the relationship is progressing “according to plan,” and how to productively re-evaluate the relationship on a regular basis to either end it constructively, or to deepen it;

3. Develop and market a relationship “brand”— a “love logo” to head off the judgments and criticisms of friends and family before they start;

4. Merge “mindstyles”— to eliminate common battles like… how to spend the holidays, what to do with household possessions … how to cope with children from other relationships;

5. Create clear job descriptions— pinpoint each partner’s chores to prevent battles over simple things like who takes out the trash!

For a boomer, it may be your 20th, 25th, maybe even your 30th reunion. You may or may not have attended any of the prior gatherings. Either way, the nervousness remains, because you still remember those old high school insecurities. Will I know anyone? Will I be welcomed? Will I have anyone to talk to? Am I too fat (or bald)? Will my high school sweetheart be there? Has he or she changed as much as I have? Will he or she even remember me? Will that football player (cheerleader) I had the crush on know I am alive now? The answers are: yes, yes, yes, no, maybe, yes (definitely), maybe, yes.

The main answer to the biggest question (Should I go?) is, ABSOLUTELY YES. Going back to your childhood is a wonderful experience, and it evens out some of the unfair memories we all have. The others have aged the same number of years you have; they have lost their hair, gained some weight, married, divorced, moved, changed careers, and had a mid-life crisis or two.

In the process, they have all become your equals. The cliques of our past no longer exist, and everyone laughs and remembers and hugs and cries and promises to stay in touch. (Most don’t, but don’t take that personally either.) There are a few laughs when you realize that the prom queen is the one who gained the most weight; that the football hero flunked out of college and now works in a bank; and the ugly-duckling, shy girl from English Lit is now CEO of a production company in California.

There are a few tears too, as you realize your best friend from 9th grade is still your friend, and you are ashamed of letting so much time pass without communicating. You are prettier than some, thinner than some, and as proud of your kids as everyone else. You will drink a little too much, laugh too loud, do the Twist again, (maybe need a chiropractor the next day!), and sit up in a coffee shop until 4 a.m. talking because you can’t bear to part from those old memories that have become so precious.

You will renew the affection for old friends, become friends with someone you did not particularly like in Algebra class, and maybe leave with a crush on that guy or girl you never realized was even in your Biology lab (boy, did HE turn out to be a HUNK)! You will leave with a warm heart, a pocket full of new e-mail addresses and phone numbers, and a promise to do it again “soon.” You will mean it, but don’t be too hard on yourself if life gets in the way and you forget to write or call.

These friends share something with you that will never be forgotten, and you gain more than any price you pay to be there. What is your biggest gift? Acceptance of the kid in you. The one who never felt quite popular enough, pretty enough, athletic enough, or smart enough. Life has evened out the differences, and we have all made some pretty cool contributions to the world.

That’s a nice thing to know. That reunion is one place to find out.

We drive a short distance to the court at a nearby lake park. Living in central Texas where football is a tradition but not tennis, there is seldom any competition for the space other than the occasional basketball players there to use the combined court. The view of the lake, the grass, the other people recreating all make me feel a little more alive just being there.

We started out rather proper with scoring, rules, and advice that I had read on the internet. It was fun enough at first. But after a period of beginner’s adjustment and enthusiasm, my husband’s innate frustration with his inability to master the serve started bogging us down. Yes, I had the pleasure of being the “wiener” most of the time, but this was not what we signed on for.

Recently as we drove into the parking lot in front of the court, we were surprised to see another couple playing there. They were so vigorous, they appeared to be twenty-something: a sort of hippie-looking guy (it’s Austin) and a rather beefy freckled girl. They were all over the place. WHAM WHAM WHAM, UGH UGH UGH They went for every shot no matter what. They were in constant motion. None of this “time out to gather balls and stroll to the service line.” This was guerrilla tennis.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that I knew the woman. She was playing with her husband and they are both about our age. I asked how long they had been playing. She said as long as they’d lived across the street from the court. I’d guess about ten years. Hmmmm.

I decided then and there that these people were on to something. Not only aerobics, but endorphins and, just as important, fun. All that score keeping and serving had become a drag. We even lost count half the time trying to remember where we were scorewise before someone had had to go retrieve balls. I am competitive but all I really wanted to do now was hit the crap out of the ball and keep moving. So what if it lands in the doubles space or even outside the court line?! So what if it’s already bounced twice! Just pounce on it and hit it with everything you’ve got. That’s my new philosophy.

We’ve started playing this new reformed version with no scoring and little emphasis on serving. Balls fly constantly. Also, when I miss a shot I think I should have made, some old high school language flies that I thought I’d heard the last of. That’s okay. I can work on it. Bill seems reinvigorated as well. We are now more suitably matched, so to speak. I had suspected I would need medieval weaponry one day to return his shots once he really let loose. I can see that day coming and not so distantly. But now I welcome it. I don’t want to play like a girl, unless it’s like the woman I saw that night giving it back as good as she got. I want a mad racketball-like scramble with lots of running, jumping, grunting, and gasping. A visceral siege with the satisfaction of knowing we’ve mustered all our forces and given it our best.

We play at night in near triple digit temperatures. Bill suffers from severe sleep apnea and gets up at 4:40 to commute to town at 6:00. I’ve had back spasms so bad they required three Percosets to assuage the pain. Still, we play on for simple love of the game even if these days there technically is no real “game.” To paraphrase Cool Hand Luke, in a game where “love” means “nothing,” sometimes nothing can be a pretty cool hand.

We’re never too old for some things. Sex is certainly on that list. So is romance. But so is the need from time to time to renew some lessons we might have forgotten to make sex and romance successful. Denny Durbin is the author of “

Sex sells, to baby boomers, to senior citizens, to Gen-Xers, and to everyone else. And it’s proven on a daily basis in the worldwide media. No matter where you look, there’s a perfectly bronzed, bikini-clad body trying to sell something. It has become so common, lots of us don’t even pay attention anymore. On any given day you pick up a magazine or newspaper, glance at a billboard, or turn on the TV, and there they are: they’re not baby boomers, they’re the supermodels of this world, wearing as little as the law will allow. If you’re like me, you barely notice. It’s just part of the day.

On the other hand, if you’re a married man and your wife walks out of the shower, still dripping wet with a tight towel wrapped around her, you had better stand up and take notice. Even though this may be a daily routine, it’s a one-man show, and you are that lucky man. This is where you bathe her with smile-provoking compliments and score major points.

That’s right, the small, everyday occurrences and compliments are the foundation for a lasting relationship.

If you think it’s that once-a-year trip to Hawaii or the Bahamas that’s going to build a stronger relationship though, you might be a little off target. There is absolutely nothing wrong with going on a romantic getaway, but the key to having the time of your life starts way before you head for the airport.

Lasting relationships require daily maintenance, vigilant effort, similar, if you will, to the caliber of service a corporate jet may require for smooth operation. It’s not so much work as it is effort. As long as both parties make a daily effort, you’re on the right track to a sustainable, rewarding life together.

10 valuable tips to maintaining a relationship:

1. Communicate and relate – this is where it all starts, and in some cases, where it ends. You must be willing to talk about and discuss all facets of your life. A big mistake in relationships is thinking that your partner would not understand or might have no valuable input on a troubling matter. After all, who knows you better?
2. Be unselfish – now that there are two of you, every decision should be based on what’s best for both of you. You actually have to care.
3. Make a commitment – it’s truly amazing how many people in relationships still think the pastures may be greener over the next hill. When you find the one, stop looking. In the early stages it’s hard to tell if you’ve found your lifelong mate. But if you don’t give it 100% commitment, you’ll never know.
4. Show appreciation – make it a daily routine. Nobody knows what you’re thinking. You have to say it and show it daily. Never assume your partner knows you appreciate her.
5. Have respect – pay close attention to how you introduce your loved one to friends and associates and be proud to introduce her. You two decide what’s acceptable. Is she your girlfriend, lady, partner, fiancé, or wife?
6. Don’t insist on perfection – it doesn’t exist, so don’t set your standards too high. Stay focused on all the great things you love about her and try to ignore the small things that might annoy you. In reality, the annoyances are insignificant when compared to the big picture.
7. Ensure acceptance – acknowledge the unique, strange, and maybe even unfamiliar traits she brings into your life. Everyone was brought up differently. With an open mind, you can laugh together about different traditions.
8. Try new things – learning new things together for the first time makes memories you can share for life.
9. Laugh – every day, just like taking vitamins, laughing is the number one cure-all for every relationship. Laugh with each other, and sometimes at each other. It’s hard to be mad when you’re laughing.
10. Find activities – anytime, anywhere, never pass up the opportunity to do something together. Walking, hiking, biking, swimming, cooking, dancing, or just watching the sunset. Just make sure you do as many things together as possible.

Marriage is at an all-time low in America. Many of today’s newlyweds look at marriage as a window of opportunity (a few years of love, sex, and security), rather than a lifelong commitment. Divorces are up, among boomers as well as other groups, and dating is today’s most popular pastime. In the dating process, everybody’s on his or her best behavior, but when it evolves into a relationship, that’s when the ten tips come into play.

People are living longer today, and even if you enjoy the bachelor life and are set in your ways, there is nothing like the love of a good woman to take your life to the next level. The more mature you get, the more you like companionship, as well as the satisfaction of knowing you have someone to share your life with through the good times and bad. Most people will agree that growing old is not something they look forward to going through alone.

The hidden pleasures of maintaining a relationship far outweigh the small amount of effort it takes to keep both sides content. In the middle of every day, walk up and hug her, kiss her on the cheek, hold her for a minute, and tell her you love her. It will recharge her deep inside, and what do you think it will do for you? It will power you up and make you stronger and more fulfilled because the love you give her is secondhand. You feel it first, give it to her, then she returns it to you. It’s like a magic, energizing triangle. It’s one of the greatest feelings on earth, and just goes to show the saying is true – what goes around comes around.

When I met Marty I was nearly convinced that life after fifty would be better alone than with partner who could not see me, could not recognize something familiar in my eyes, and had no lexicon for the artifacts that clutter my kitchen windowsill.

In the corner of the windowsill, there’s a very deep oyster shell yanked from a narrow gut on the eastern shore of Virginia. Two plastic gibbons with their arms raised commemorate the day at the Philadelphia Zoo when the gibbons were most in touch with their carnal side and friend Babs and I laughed to tears with admiration. An owl made of shell and bark is a reminder of days spent in graduate school far from the beach or the forest but on the hardscape of Temple University’s North Philly campus. A tiny clay bear sits solemnly assured of his importance as a Mother’s Day gift. There are corks, just a few when there could be an acre, one from The Great Wall Chardonnay, another from the serene and frumpy valley that bears my middle name Edna.

Next to the corks, the black and yellow Jitterbug— a jointed cigar-shaped fishing lure with a wide metal “wobbleplate” at its mouth to make it stagger and bubble on the water’s surface. I found the Jitterbug while drifting in my kayak. Tangled on some rocks, it had been left by the first owner who didn’t have boots or the eyesight to retrieve it. The Jitterbug is just one of the countless objects from moments spent before I met Marty.

When I met Marty he was concerned that whatever filament of attraction he had managed to attach to me would break if we did not share our thoughts every few hours, at least by email if not by phone. He was concerned that, with silence, I would be repelled by his nearly bald head, freckled crow’s feet and perhaps the belly that filled in between us when we kissed.

Yet when distracted from his inner voice, he appears comfortable in his stocky male body. A bit taller than me, he is thick and grounded like his Russian heritage; he looks like a man who should enjoy his beets several ways. He dressed in a black t-shirt that has a dark grey Fender guitar logo fading into the front, jeans, and slip-on black canvas sneakers with tiny white skulls decorating them, as if some Talbot’s designer had visited the catacombs. I looked at the shoes a lot on that date. I know the contentment from quietly wearing shoes designed for your children; we walk happier than our peers wearing acceptable loafers. We didn’t have to convince Mother to buy them either.

But as I looked at the shoes more and more I wanted to see Marty’s feet. I imagined that there would be hair on the top of both feet and on each blunt and full-sausage toe. I wanted to see them looking unabashedly male, built like heavy machinery for sturdiness and utility. I wanted to see them as if I had been his wife of thirty years and awoke like Snow White, to marvel, to be familiar, to know them, to suddenly realize those feet had carried him through a full and different shelf of artifacts to this night, to be warm on the cool summer park bench, next to me.

Jane Mohler Pigott lives in Bucks County, Pennsylvania.

David and I have one chick left in the nest. He graduates from high school in June. And I am marking the days. I keep a gigantic calendar and mark a red X each day. For my son’s sake (and to avoid horrified looks from house guests), I keep the calendar between the mattresses of my bed.

I’m fully aware how bad this looks, so I will explain myself. I LOVE MY KIDS! Good, now I’ve got that out! But,when June rolls around, I will have spent almost twenty five years of my life raising them. I deserve this dirty little secret.

Such callousness does not make me impervious to the emotional milestones along the way. I recently received my son’s cap and gown picture taken at his school. My heart literally stopped when I saw it. I have spent many moments in the privacy of my bedroom looking at this and his other school photos and wondering how my baby has gotten so big. And in time I will be strong enough to take the photos down from the ceiling above my bed. Maybe when we put the house on the market.

I have learned that it pays to plan ahead so you can avoid random emotional outbursts. My oldest daughter will never forgive me for my coyote-like howling from the front row aisle seat at her graduation ceremony. So I have resolved that on my son’s graduation day, I will not sit in the vicinity of any of the following people:

1) Other mothers graduating their youngest child
2) Single mothers graduating their only child
3) My husband

The school community at large will thank me.

I have similar plans for my son’s last Tuesday with us, the last macaroni and cheese dinner, his last dentist appointment, and of course, the last time he throws his shoes and socks into the middle of the living room floor. Trust me, it pays to have your bases covered when you have the tendency to be an emotional wreak.

If all else fails, I can just take a peek under my mattress …

[Read more from David & Veronica at their Web site, The Gypsy Nester.]

Movies rely on a soundtrack to carry a story forward and my life is not much different. Like those before me and those after, I married much too young, believing I would manage to succeed where others had not. Some of my dreams turned to disappointments, which eventually led to that other “D” word, even though Carly Simon warned about the mundaneness of it all when she sang That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be.

And, like Carole King, I had to finally admit that it was indeed too late. They were great songs when they didn’t hit the bull’s eye. Greater songs when they did.

Now my children — the glorious melodies from an inharmonious marriage — have moved on to make their own way in the world. In this day of angry rap and blatant sexuality, I wonder what their soundtrack is. Sometimes I catch them borrowing what had been mine, appreciating the sounds of yesterday and carrying them over to today. But it is not always the case. When I tried to get my daughters to listen to a particular Jackson Browne song from a CD I’d recently purchased, they rolled their eyes and dashed off. But what did I expect? How could they possibly appreciate where I’d come from when they are trying to make sense of their own whys and hows of life?

So, in the quiet of my home, I pour myself a glass of Merlot, hit play, and believe Jackson Browne and I are in total agreement when he sings, “No one ever talks about their feelings without dressing them in dreams and laughter. I guess it’s just too painful otherwise.”

Indeed. What insightful old friends I have.

That’s why the way I think of them is, they are a part of my past. A history. Yet, they are very much present. I’m talking about the friends I’ve made along life’s journey, some having died, others simply fading away. And others that have managed to resurface due to the mellifluous impression they left upon me at one time or another. I began replacing these old friends once my timeworn stereo with the broken needle had gone the way of the dinosaur, with CD versions, cherishing once again the music that had brought color to my sepia-toned world back when Herman’s Hermits told Mrs. Brown she had a lovely daughter.

For as long as I can remember, music provided not only inspiration for me, but enjoyable company. I have a vivid memory from when I was a young thing in school and was escorted with my classmates to the auditorium to hear my first orchestra performance. Since it was the high school band, I’m sure there were wrong notes hit, but not long after the concert began did one of my classmates nudge another and whisper, “Look at Carol.”

Their giggles broke my reverie and I was immediately red-faced at having been caught being lost in the strings of the violins. Watchful students ready to laugh at me again kept me from enjoying the rest of the concert, but as I grew older and graduated from 45s to full-length albums, I found I could spend hours alone in my room with Dionne Warwick, the Guess Who, and yes, even Herman’s Hermits, and hear that my dreams and yearnings were validated by the songs sung.

My love for music was so strong that I attempted to teach myself to play the piano and guitar. However, without the direction I needed, I never accomplished either endeavor. Still, I kept my favorite radio station on hour after hour and stayed tuned while Dusty Springfield gave way to Joni Mitchell, and Paul Revere and the Raiders rode off into the sunset while Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young appeared on the horizon in a smoke-filled haze. The sound was fresh and, even though I never conquered the piano or guitar, the songs inspired me to write.

Remaining holed up in my room for hours, I’d compose the most doggerel poetry ever written. I’d roll one sheet of paper after the next into my second-hand Smith & Corona, bottles of Wite-Out at my side, and would clickety-clack incensed rhymes to express my teenage angst, angst that had been galvanized by my parents’ inability to understand both the free-loving world I wanted to belong to and the war-torn world thousands of miles away that I was protesting. I’d blast Buffalo Springfield’s warnings For What It’s Worth from my bedroom, where a peace sign poster hung on my wall showing solidarity about a cause for which I had little understanding. Pot was smoked, baked into brownies and, on one particular amusing evening, replaced the oregano for the pizza sauce a friend and I had made. All the while the tinny sounds of Whiter Shade of Pale and Fortunate Son blared from my cheap record player.

Alice knows all about this. Go ask her when she’s ten feet tall.