Let’s face it, I have a body that no designer would love. Furthermore, no designer designs for it. I am of peasant stock. Perky breasts now droop, my 22-inch waist decided it was too small for my hips. To sum up, I’m dumpy.

So, another year has come and gone and I have to say—so what?

When I married my Israeli husband so many years ago, I had a feeling that would be the end of the Christmas tree for me. Saving the forest one Hanukkah candle at a time? But Christmas trees were part of my youth. A festive part? Let’s not go there. Yet.

Why is every single day cluttered with things I don’t want to do? Why do the clothes need washing and folding and being put away? Why does the dishwasher need emptying? Why is there crap on the floor that wasn’t there yesterday, and why do I have to get out the vacuum cleaner to take care of it?

Our country was never what you thought it was. There was racism and isolationism and all sorts of discrimination, all those isms we were actually on the path to overcoming. And then— Well, we’re just not anymore, are we?

Happy birthday to me.

Where is the likes of Victor Borge now! Well, okay, we still have Mel Brooks and his brilliant movies and Carl Reiner’s laugh-out-loud “Enter Laughing.” But really, there would be long stretches before I found something to laugh at. Perhaps that’s why I married my husband. He has provided a constant, if perhaps unwitting, source of amusement.

Now, my husband is a rather mild-mannered man. And yet, when he gets frustrated, I recede into the background and pretend I have no idea who he is. Take, for example, our TGV ride from Paris to Nantes.

When I was a young girl, okay, before most people can remember, I used to enter the flower-arranging contest our elementary school held each spring. I wasn’t good at much, but I seemed to have a knack for arranging flowers. Fortunately, I had plenty of opportunity to find the ones I needed.

Squirrels: Are they my least favorite mammal? Maybe, maybe not. It depends on who’s living under my deck at the moment. Raccoons or skunks? One time I had a woodchuck, another a possum. But are any of them as unrelenting as squirrels? Well, okay, yeah, they are. But let’s get back to my “pet” peeve of the moment: Squirrels.

Does anyone else read the New York Times book review section and wonder about the “authors” in the “By the Book” section? I use “authors” in quotes because a lot of the authors the Times chooses are celebrities and not those slogging away, day after day, to create a cacophony of words for your delight.

One day, as all four of her children were sitting around the kitchen table, my mother, smoking her cigarette, announced out of nowhere that she would always love our father more than she would love any of us.

I, the second born, was named Carolyn Ann, the Carolyn after my grandmother Caroline, called Carrie. The year I was born was a big year for everything Carol. In my elementary school class there were four Carols and there was I. I have gone through life being called everything except Carolyn. It’s Carol, or Carol Ann, or Caroline. But I happen to like Carolyn. One time a friend asked me what my Hebrew name was. I told her, “It’s Carolyn.”

I never knew why my father had such an intense dislike of me, but it certainly cast a pall over my childhood and adulthood. He was nasty to me; he was nasty to my sons. I will give him this much. He was nice to my daughter.

When I was four, we moved to Highview Avenue in Nanuet, New York. My mother always assured us it was the best street in Nanuet, possible because it was on a hill and some of the houses were quite old.

Why do I find the desert so appealing? I have no idea. It’s a siren song, calling to my soul. Not to mention its pallete of colors that changes as the light changes. I longed for the desert. But how to get there?

My sister hated me. Was it my brilliance that turned her against me? Or was it that time when I encourage her to stick raisins up her nose and my mother had to dig them out.

But back to my preparations for what would be my first and only wedding. So far. No morning of pampering, no make up artist or hair stylist, no decent shower because everyone had taken a shower before me and the water was COLD!.

My parents never read to me when I was a child, but I knew books were important.

Art. I still remember our art teacher’s name. Mr. Shubert. He was a very nice, mild-mannered man, but he never recognized my talent. I had the distinct impression he thought I didn’t have any.