Last Saturday night, the hub and I found ourselves doing what many married couples do on a late spring evening: walking toward an informal gathering on someone’s porch. What made this so unusual for me is the fact that my husband works on weekend nights, so I’m rather out-of-touch with the whole schmoozing scenario.  The get-together was a quick “wine and dine” before a group outing to Marlton to watch my husband perform. While I’ve always known just the right thing to say to young’uns, walking into a gaggle of grown-ups I barely know makes me feel as if I’m wearing a Depends on the outside …

According to the calendar, we are now officially in the midst of spring. And, because it is spring, many of you out there are contemplating a massive, dust-disrupting, whole-house shakedown also known as “spring cleaning.” This is something I haven’t done in years, although I do feel qualified to write about it because at last count, I have wiped the kitchen counter approximately three hundred and sixty-three thousand, four hundred and eleventy-two times. My husband has never willingly wiped a counter. This is one of the fundamental differences between men, women and lower forms of life: …

Most of the time, he played the trombone in the Navy Band, a handsome dark-haired young sailor sitting behind the trumpets and saxophones. Every once in a while, he’d be asked to step to the mic, where he would transform himself into a singer of his own creation, Larry Wilder. Into his seventh decade, my father could still remember, vividly, what it felt like to sing and to swing, to be that slick crooner, making the girls swoon. Although he never said as much, I imagine he wished on many stars to become a professional musician. Instead, he went to college and made a vocation of insurance, …

As I write this, I’m a bit cranky. Everyone agrees it’s been a very long, very dreary winter with lots of rain, endless gray skies and no big snow events. Those who believe a rotund furball named Punxsutawney Phil can predict an early spring were ecstatic when the li'l guy didn’t see his shadow, thus encouraging us to think sunny, spring thoughts. Alas, Phil is like many meteorologists in that his forecasts are wrong 99 percent of the time, yet he still has a job. This is not spring, people! This is a continuation of winter that probably won’t end until the day before Memorial Day when the …

I don’t think it’s a gross generalization to say we all remember the first one. I was in my late 20s, auditioning for the part of "Cheery O’Leary" in a never-got-off-the-ground ad campaign for Chicago tourism. With brown hair and brown eyes, I didn’t look the part of an Irish lass, but I had the brogue down pat, and I was cheery—in a maniacal, desperate sort of way. We wannabe lassies were waiting in a muggy ballet studio with mirrored walls, each one of us reciting lines to our silver selves while using peripheral vision to scope out the competition. As I leaned in closer to flick a wayward …

Marley (of Marley & Me) was the first best-selling hero of what I call the “bad dog” memoirs that have flooded the market over the last six or seven years. In an effort to jump on this gravy train, I have been feeling the urge to commit Lulu’s story to paper. With all the treacly life lessons I’ve learned from our dog, I could make zillions of dollars and retire to a life of leisure, or at least provide for my canines after my demise, a la Leona Helmsley. “Trouble,” Leona’s Maltese terrier, was awarded $12 million dollars when Leona passed away, which means Trouble could buy all six liquor …

Last week was the 50th anniversary of Betty Friedan’s groundbreaking work, The Feminist Mystique. I’m sure you were all celebrating like crazed peahens, weren’t you? I know I was! My first reaction to this milestone was to try and remember if I had ever read this very important tome. I started to keep a reading log not too long ago because I read a lot and, after a while, it all runs together. But 50 years ago I was only 9 years old. I’m pretty sure I was more interested in candy necklaces and Nancy Drew back then. Later, I had a college boyfriend whose mother earnestly pressed the book into …

Living in Mo’town, you might have brushed off the recent immigration reform news saying, “That has nothing to do with me.” We do live a rather sheltered existence here in leafy suburbia, but if you eat Jersey tomatoes, cranberries or blueberries, seasonal workers probably harvested them. If you employ a lawn service, you are probably helping the economy of Guatemala or Mexico. Going out to dinner? Depending on where you go, there’s a good chance that many in the kitchen crew, dishwashers and busboys are here illegally. Immigration reform affects all of us. Just ask Mitt Romney. At the Florida…

Even though I love my job at the library, I am always happy when Friday comes and goes, leaving me with several days of less structure and more junk food. And how delightful to wake up on Saturday morning to a blanket of snow! Who doesn’t love a good "snow event"? I was almost envious, texting with my younger son who is hiding out in his dorm room in Boston. Two feet of snow is an invitation to partake in Hot Pockets and sloth—two of his favorite things! After spending three years in Southern California, we moved back to New Jersey in 1994, specifically to East Oak Avenue, where we rented a …

She was my first crush, my first hero.  The Webster's Dictionary definition of a hero is “any person who has heroic qualities and is regarded as a model or an ideal.” Some heroes, unfortunately, are not particularly heroic. Yes, they look fearless up on the screen, 20 feet tall with their nostrils flaring or their fists flying. And yes, we idolize them as they cycle through the Tour de France or hit one homer after another. But the true measure of a hero comes when the game is over, or when the cameras are gone and it’s just fan and idol. Are they brusque or are they kind? Do they seem to …

Last week at the library, I watched as a little boy labored over a cursive writing worksheet. His eyebrows were pinched together in concentration while his tongue furiously worked his upper lip like a windshield wiper. Fingers gripping a stubby pencil, he toiled over the loopy letters. He was working so hard and, being a sucker for a hardworking little man, I commended him on his fine work. He smiled shyly, then went right back to his task. Later, when the young writer needed help finding a book, I asked him what grade he was in. I hadn’t thought of cursive writing in so long I marveled it …

I am not a big fan of reality television, although I will admit to having a bizarre fascination with Honey Boo Boo and her clan. Not because I enjoy Toddlers & Tiaras (yet another reality show), but because I love her nickname. If I have one regret, it’s that I was never asked to join the Mafia, because those guys have the greatest nicknames: Cheesebox, Benny Eggs, Bobby HaHa and Momo, to name a few. Our family watched the first few seasons of American Idol, before our interest waned and we moved on to other mind-numbing pastimes—like trying to figure out Lost. Needless to say, we’re the ones…

It was business as usual as I shared another New Year’s Eve with Rod Serling: He smoked, I ate my weight in cookies left over from the holiday baking orgy. It was inevitable we would find ourselves together again, Rod and I, since we’ve been a pre-midnight duo for at least 12 years. For those of us growing up in the '50s and '60s, the Twilight Zone was our “must-see” TV. We were as obsessed with spacemen as young’uns today are smitten with vampires. We fretted about flying saucers. We practiced hiding under our desks and in coatrooms during frequent air raid drills at our sturdy brick schools…

After a terrible misstep in Congress Tuesday, the perpetually orange House Speaker John Boehner and his Tea Party cronies saw the light and approved a $9.7 billion Band-Aid (bill H.R. 41) for the victims of Hurricane Sandy on Friday, 66 days AFTER the storm. Never mind that the victims of Hurricane Katrina saw their much-needed aid begin to flow a mere 10 days after the storm. We’re from Jersey and NYC—we’re all rich. Who needs government handouts? Anybody tuning into the media after Tuesday’s blocked vote was treated to classic Governor Christie bluster and finger-jabbing, as he called out …

Here's what's wrong with New Year's Eve: forced gaiety and amateur sots. Here's what's right about New Year's Eve: absolutely nothing.  Yes, it's the beginning of the new year, a time to start fresh. But when did getting sloshed in tinsel tiaras and dorky hats become part of the celebration? You might be asking yourself, “Gosh! How did Marsia become so jaded about such a beloved holiday, which is also known as an excuse to get drunk and sloppy?” Read on, friends, and you'll have your answer.For several years, when I was living in Brooklyn and working for THE famous music video channel, I …

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Moorestown,Lack of parking near Main Street was getting us down.The lot was fenced off all around old town hall,And EDAC was celebrating out at the mall. Mo’towners were nestled all snug in their beds,whilst visions of fine dining danced in their heads.Maybe Emeril or Paula, well Vetri for sure!Perhaps Morimoto, with a crab soup du jour. On the library roof there arose such a clatter,Perhaps ‘twas my critics? Ah well, they don’t matter!Perhaps ‘twas Mark Morgan, he’s put up a new show!He’s cast all of Moorestown, 20,000 or so. But at the …

Growing up, my family was not big on holiday traditions. It might be my mother’s fault, since she was from Brazil, and despite being a very Catholic country, Christmas there is so relaxed as to be just another Saturday or Sunday. I spent one Christmas in Brazil when I was in my 20s. My aunt and uncle bought a Charlie Brown tree that was mostly for my benefit, but whose meager branches only served to sadden me. My young cousin Pedro got an “homen aranha” (Spider-Man) costume and spent the morning trying to climb the veranda walls, falling down then shrieking. After breakfast, we went to the …

Nothing is funny today. There is a pall hanging over this holiday season, a grief-filled cloud, brought on by yet another horrifying mass shooting. How can we make sense of a world where a loved one, a beloved child, can walk out the door, never to return because of a random act of violence? And how horrible that these senseless acts of violence have become so common that they could literally happen anywhere at anytime. What kind of world have we created? My usual Monday morning column was written before Friday’s shooting. It was fluff—a festive piece about holiday traditions around the world…

Happy shopping everyone! This is the first year EVER I didn’t have my shopping done by the end of November. I’ve been a bit distracted by superstorms, aortic calcifications and Fiscal Cliff—whoever he is—but I am now ready to wade into the fray and tackle anyone who stands between me and a good bargain or a great steak. In other words, I’ve got my shopping on. Tonight, it’s you and me, Boscov’s. Who doesn’t love a good bargain? If you can’t find gifts here for most of the people on your list, you need to come with me. I know how to dig and find gems. On several shopping forays, I have found …

What kind of idiot drives themselves to the ER at 4 o’ clock in the morning? I know that sounds like the beginning of a very lame joke, but when your insurance doesn’t cover joyrides in ambulances and you’re still paying for the fun-filled, $700 ride you took in August, you will ride a unicycle to the closest ER if necessary. You will hop if need be, or at the very least, you will drive yourself, which is exactly what I did toward the end of October. The subtitle of this column could be "The Kidney Stone That Wouldn’t Die"—except kidney stones never die. They’re supposed to get flushed out of…