Love grows on trees at Park Avenue and 91st Street.

If you don't have a valentine, it's just one long, miserable day of Everyone Is Having More Fun Than You. If you're in a relationship, the day is still fraught: Will he remember? And if he does, will he give you something ghastly, like an "I Wuv You" teddy bear? Worse, what if you give him one of those gag gifts meant to convey "on second thought, let's just be friends," and he produces an engagement ring? 

My husband, too, had always been ambivalent about V-Day. So, naturally, when it came time to get married, the two of us hatched a devious plan: Let's tie the knot on February 14! Then, we figured, we'd have something genuine to celebrate on this most Hallmark of holidays, and neither of us would ever forget our anniversary. Brilliant, right? Well, sort of.  

It turns out that the year we married, February 14 fell on a Sunday. We wanted to get hitched at City Hall, which is only open on weekdays, so February 14 was out. We did a little asking around and were told that Wednesday, February 10 would be the least crowded day. So Wednesday it was. That's okay, we thought; it was close enough to Valentine's Day.

Then our families got wind of our plan to "elope" and refused to be left out. So on Saturday, February 13, three days after our real, legal City Hall wedding, we had a blessing ceremony at St. Michael's church in Connecticut—we called it The Show—for a few loved ones and friends. Now, years later, the question remains: Which is our real anniversary: February 10, February 13 or February 14?

This is not an idle question. Every year I plan for our anniversary on February 14, only to have my husband wake me on February 10 with something lovely, like breakfast in bed and a card, wishing me happy anniversary, and there I am sheepishly trying to explain that I don't have anything for him yet. Last year, I wised up and got his gift and card ready for the 10th, but this time he was empty-handed, thinking we were going to celebrate on the 14th. Cue the wacky sitcom miscommunication:

She: "But you said..."

He: "But I thought..."

Together [slapping foreheads simultaneously]:"Oh, no!"

This year, to make matters more confusing, we chose to have our anniversary dinner last Saturday, February 6. This time, though, I decided to feel things out:

She: "Just to clarify, do you foresee any sort of exchange of cards or tokens on February 6?"

He: "I hadn't thought about it." 

She: "So when do you envision a possible exchange?"

He: "What do you mean?"

She: "Well, do you see it on February 10, or February 13, or Valentine's Day?"

He: "I have an idea. Why don't you just have everything ready, so when I spring it on you, you'll be prepared?"

That, dear reader, is what I have done. The card has been chosen. The gift has been purchased. I am all ready for Cupid, whether he should materialize tomorrow, Saturday or Sunday. 

Ain't love grand? 

All that's missing are the animated bluebirds.

I should make this more clear. I believe people are basically good. It took me years to reach this conclusion, and I can't say there aren't times—every single day—in which I despise humanity. I could, and do, rant furiously about dog owners who leave their animals' droppings on the sidewalk for the rest of us to step in, or New York drivers who actually speed up when a pedestrian crosses in front of them. Rudeness abounds in this city and everywhere.

And yet, I was here during the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks and have seen the way ordinary people pull together in a crisis.  Since then I have found myself on occasion looking around a crowded subway or a hot, understaffed store and thinking, If something unthinkable happened and I needed help, any one of these strangers would come to my aid. I know I would help them and have on many occasions—opening doors for old people, giving up my seat to moms with babies, running after someone who drops a letter on the street.

I'm not trying to paint myself as perfect, because I am most certainly not. But my faith in the people of New York is so unshakable, I guess I'm thanking them in advance. In doing so it appears I've built up a rather large stockpile of good karma, which seems to be coming back to me all in one week.

Consider:

1. I am doing a mountain of wash in our building's overburdened laundry room. There is a backlog of other people doing laundry. I am forced to wait for a dryer. I go upstairs and set the timer so my wet laundry doesn't lose its place in line. When I come back down 20 minutes later, an unseen somebody has already put my laundry into a dryer for me, and paid for it.

2. I get on the bus, only to realize my fare card is out of money. No problem, I tell the driver; I have an emergency fare card in my purse. The bus starts moving. I find my second Metrocard. It doesn't have enough fare, either. I'll get off at the next stop, I promise the driver. Don't be silly, says a woman sitting behind me, and pays my fare.

3. I am at the market. The cashier asks if I have a discount card. "I don't," I tell her. "You really should," she tells me. "I know," I tell her. "Do you mean one of these?" says the customer behind me, and hands her card to the cashier, who swipes it, saving me four bucks.

"It's the funniest thing," I say to the customer, after thanking her. "Inexplicably, people have been doing nice things for me all week."

"People are nice," she says, and wishes me a lovely day.

(Object in photo is smaller than it appears.)

I'm excited about it and plan to show it to my editor (who will hopefully like it and buy it) after the first of the year. To do that,  I need to finish three chapters and an outline between now and Christmas.

I have the idea; I have the outline; now I just have to write the thing.

Sometimes that's easier said than done. Here's how my day went on a recent Friday:

 7:30 a.m. Wake up. Big writing day today!

8:30 a.m. But first, the gym.

10 a.m. Workout finished; time to go home and write.

10:05 a.m. But first, a shower.

10:06 a.m. But before shower, steam room.

10:15 a.m. Okay, now shower. Hurry! Big writing day!

11 a.m. Home. Time to write. After breakfast.

11:01 a.m. Which I'll make after I empty the dishwasher.

11:03 a.m. Boy, the kitchen cabinet doors are grimy. How did I not notice until now?

11:04 a.m. A quick wipedown with bleach and water should do the trick.

11:05 a.m. Wedding ring looks grimy, too. I'll put it to soak in ring-cleaning jar in bathroom. Everything will sparkle!

12:30 p.m. Kitchen cabinets look fantastic. Time for breakfast. Not so fast: Stove, dishwasher, refrigerator, coffeemaker and toaster look filthy compared to pristine cabinets. Bleach and water wipedown for them, too.

1:30 p.m. Kitchen is immaculate. Might as well mop kitchen floor to finish the job.

1:45 p.m. Might as well mop bathroom floor, too.

1:50 p.m. Bathroom walls are really grimy. How did I not notice until now? More bleach and water.

2:30 p.m. Bathroom walls look amazing! Time for breakfast.

2:31 p.m. Might as well clean the rest of the bathroom first.

3 p.m. Okay, now breakfast. Then novel time. 

3:01 p.m. Perfect kitchen and bathroom are putting rest of apartment to shame.

4:30 p.m. Apartment is now dusted, vacuumed, mopped. Ahh! Breakfast, finally, then writing.

4:31 p.m. Where is wedding ring?

4:40 p.m. WHERE IS WEDDING RING?

4:50 p.m. Dear heaven, did it fall off at the gym? Forget breakfast. Must go to gym to check.

5 p.m. Heart palpitations. Sweating. Wedding ring not at gym. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.

5:30 p.m. Oh, right. Wedding ring is at home, in cleaning solution. Heart attack averted.

5:31 p.m. Forget writing for the day. Too physically and emotionally drained.

5:32 p.m. Breakfast.

I write this while waiting in my living room in trepidation, my hair coated in dye. Bluish-gray dye, to be specific.

I would not have admitted I dye. (A woman's beauty rituals are her own business, no?)  But the fact is already patently obvious, what with my hair regularly mutating from dark brown to auburn to copper and back again. In a city where salon color can cost hundreds, I also consider it a point of pride that even in a good economy I do it myself for $10. (I also do my own pedicures and my own eyebrows. And sometimes, out of desperation, I cut my own bangs, though I suspect it makes my stylist snicker.)

But this time, I'm not sure how things are going to turn out. You see, I did not set out to color my hair blue-gray. I intended to color my hair Clairol Perfect 10 shade 6.5A, Lightest Cool Brown. In dye parlance, "cool" means a shade without red or gold tones. I chose this one because I like to go darker in winter, and I wanted to cover up the aforementioned coppery blonde, which was starting to look alarmingly like this.

I'm hoping the only reason the dye looks blue is because it's cool. Not because, say, somebody in the factory accidentally put the mixture for "Crazy, Unnatural Slate-Gray" hair color in my "Lightest Cool Brown" bottle.

Okay, my 10 minutes are up. Please excuse me while I rinse out...

...

Whew! I like my new color. It's not blue at all. Here's the best photo I can manage, taken from my computer camera (note the self-cut bangs):

I will not be quitting my day job to go into professional modeling. Or the photography business. However, perhaps I could be a colorist? 

Ladies, if you would like to try dyeing your own hair, here are some tips I've learned over the years.

1. Choose a natural-looking shade very close to your own color. Don't go more than two shades darker or lighter. If you have brown hair and want to go platinum blond, that's a job best left for a professional. Trust me.

2. If you want highlights, it's better to skip those two-step highlighting kits and go to a pro, unless you have infinite patience and unlimited time to individually paint on the highlighter ten hairs at a time. Otherwise you'll end up with broad, stylized stripes that are only flattering to a rare few.

3. Follow the package directions to the letter.

4. If you color a lot, the ends of your hair are probably darker than your roots—not good. Keep things even by putting conditioner on the ends of your hair while it's still dry, then coloring. The conditioner will help keep the ends from absorbing too much pigment.

5. If you hate the oversaturated look your hair has right after coloring, shampoo with your regular shampoo immediately after rinsing out the dye. (Then use the conditioner that comes with the dye after you rinse out the shampoo.) Your hair will come out more natural-looking.

6. A lighter color conceals gray better than a darker one does.

Happy coloring!

Make that "hate to fly." I find it terrifying. Once I get on the plane I am usually okay, but only because I've worn myself out after days in a state of weepy tension, envisioning my own demise. Yes, I know I'm being ridiculous. I know the plane ride is statistically safer than the cab ride to the airport. But the prospect of dropping 35,000 feet out of the sky is more alarming than any potential fender-bender on the Triborough Bridge. So, the statistic doesn't help.

Nor does the 4 a.m. wake-up time, the bleary robot shuffle through airport security (bare feet on cold floor, unpack laptop and place in bin, haul suitcase up and wrestle it onto conveyor belt). Nor does the bad airport coffee, the inhumane seating arrangements (good morning, sir, you don't know me, but for the next 6 1/2 hours I'll be sitting in your lap). Nor does the crush to get out of the plane; nor does the bus to the rental car, the rental car to the rented accommodations. By this point I'm cursing my decision to take a vacation, and questioning exactly why vacations are considered pleasurable and relaxing in the first place.

So, although I'm embarrassed to admit this, I rarely travel anywhere unless forced.

But I had to be in California on a weekend that coincided with the annual October get-together of my core group of former college sorority sisters. In recent years I haven't gone to our girls' weekend so often (see: Terrified of Flying, above), and I missed my friends. On the other hand, I also worried how, and whether, we'd get along. Over the years politics have become extremely important to me, and many of my sisters' views fall on the opposite end of the political spectrum. Our lives, too, have diverged; I live on the East Coast, most of them live on the West, and a couple live in the middle. I wondered if we would have anything in common.

Well, it turns out we did. In fact, all political and cultural differences vanished as we hung out together in Hermosa Beach in this beachfront cottage for three days, drank my friend Blythe's fizzy vodka lemonade, ate a lot of Mexican food, and relaxed while staring at the ocean. It turns out there's not much to be upset about in such circumstances.

Oh, and one more thing. On the first morning of our vacation, we awoke to find a group of Hermosa Beach firemen playing beach volleyball not twenty yards from our door. Yes, that's right: Firemen. Playing volleyball. I took this photo of them, which, though hardly reflecting the true gorgeous volleyball-playing fireman awesomeness of the scene, at least proves I'm not making this stuff up. 

 What could be more appealing to half a dozen vacationing sorority sisters?

I'm already looking forward to next year's vacation.

But if you're in or around Rye, New York (that's in Westchester County), this Thursday, October 22, from 7 to 8:30 p.m., do stop by the Rye Free Reading Room. That's the local public library, right on the Rye village green. I'll be reading from and signing Mating Rituals of the North American WASP.

And if anyone has suggestions for what to wear (because this does not work for fall), please let me know.

Photo by the Rye Record.

This was the scene on Tuesday. I was even obnoxious enough to take a photo.

It was Tuesday at noon. I was returning home after a photo shoot for ForbesWoman, the magazine I work for. (I'm the style editor.) All morning we'd been photographing a beautiful and dressed-to-the-nines executive. We had been awash in $7,000 suits and $900 stilettos for several hours.

When I'm interviewing very wealthy women, I have a rule: Don't even try to dress like they do. Most of my wardrobe is years old and purchased on eBay or at consignment shops, and I always fear something I'm wearing might have once belonged to the lady I'm now interviewing. So I have learned to go in the opposite direction and dress like a quirky avant-garde creative type who can take fashion risks these women can't.

But risks also can go wrong—as was the case on Tuesday, when I decided to put on the  skin-tight pants I got a few weeks ago. Though I bought them to wear like leggings under long sweaters, they are more structured than leggings: Thicker fabric, a real waistband, a button, a zipper. On Tuesday I had an inspiration—"I can wear these like pants!"—and went to work with just the pants and a top, no long sweater. How sleek and minimal!

Then I got to the shoot and caught a glimpse of myself. If there were a reality show called When Fashion Attacks, I could have starred in it. Good heavens, I realized. They may have a button and zipper, but these are not pants; they're leggings. I am wearing leggings in public, with nothing covering my backside.

This is how I came to be at the cheapo clothing chain H&M, desperately shopping for a long cardigan to wear RIGHT NOW, and realizing they were taping an episode of What Not to Wear just ten feet from me.

Now, I am the consummate blasé New Yorker. When there's filming in the city (which there often is), I yawn and cross the street to get away. But this was What Not to Wear, really the only television show I watch, where in each episode they give an unfortunately dressed woman a style makeover. I love the tart-tongued but ultimately kind hosts, Stacy and Clinton. I've also crossed paths for other stories with some of the hair and makeup pros, including the huggable Ted Gibson.

None of these people was on the scene at H&M—it was the point in the show where, having been told what would look good on her, the guest is sent out to shop for herself. "I"m really overwhelmed," the woman I saw was saying as she pulled a red blouse off the rack. (They always say they're really overwhelmed—you have to wonder if that line is scripted into the show.)

I wanted to say helpfully, "That color is wrong for you," but did not. I wanted to sidle up to the producer, slip her my ForbesWoman card and tell her I've always fantasized about working on What Not to Wear, but I did not. I would never interrupt filming or shamelessly self-promote. Heavens no. I did, however, catch the camera-girl's eye, mouth "What Not to Wear?" and give her a dorky thumbs-up. Then I hung around nonchalantly for as long as I could until I started to feel obnoxious and walked away. You see, I would never, ever, be obnoxious, not I. No way.

That should have been the end of it, except that I coincidentally decided to leave the store exactly as they were about to tape the What Not to Wear woman leaving the store. She and I wound up at the top of the Down escalator together, and I knew the camera crew was thinking I'd deliberately planned this. So mortified was I that I forgot to be a cool professional. I stepped onto the escalator, and as I passed her—she had obviously been instructed to wait at the top for a moment—I said, sotto voce, "You're going to look great!"

"I hope so," she said. "It's overwhelming."

And here's where I turned into an idiot.

Instead of continuing on my merry way down the escalator, I had the brilliant impulse to climb back up to the top, where she was still waiting to get on, and see what outfits she'd chosen. Have you ever tried to climb a descending escalator? You keep climbing and climbing but you stay in the same place.

So there I was, treadmilling like an H&M hamster a few steps below her. The sweater I'd picked out dropped onto the escalator, and I was trying to grab it before it went down without me. And the woman had this understandably panicked, I'm-dealing-with-a-crazy-person look on her face, and finally she said, "Um, I think they want me to come down alone."

And I turned around and looked down and saw the camera-girl pointing the camera right at us. Or, more specifically, right at my long-sweaterless backside.

Now I'm terrified that whenever this episode happens to air, there I'll be, trying to scramble up the Down escalator, dropping clothing as I go.

Worst of all, I'll be wearing leggings as pants.

*Update! The episode aired Friday, January 15. The makeover recipient was Leanne, a witch and psychic from Salem, Mass. She ended up looking gorgeous. Thankfully my rear end was nowhere to be seen. 

I sometimes roll my eyes at seemingly chirpy and simplistic women's-magazine articles. But this one is different, I think.

I truly enjoyed researching and writing it because of the experts I spoke with. One of my favorite pieces of advice came from Bernie Siegel, M.D., a surgeon who has written of the link between spirituality and healing. He told me every penny carries on it three spiritual symbols—and I now reflect on his words every time I find a penny on the street. (Yes, I now pick up pennies off the grimy streets of New York, so you know I must be taking Siegel's advice to heart.)

My other favorite tidbit came from Zen priest, mother and author Karen Maezen Miller, who shared the simple act that can help you be a more patient parent. She calls it the "magic elixir," and I do believe she is right.

You'll find their advice in the story, of course. The October 2009 issue of Ladies' Home Journal (with The View on the cover, as you can see) is out now, or read an online version here.

1. Bill from Big Love. Not the actor, Bill Paxson. The character, Bill Henrickson. Don't ask me why I would be attracted to a character who is not at all my type. He's earnest. He drives a big gas-guzzler. He hunts. Also, polygamist. Also, fictional.

Can't help it, though. I like the way he talks. My crush began when he told Margene, his third wife, "I wasn't complete until you, and our fine sons." (I only remembered the "fine sons" part, but would you believe there are links out there to Big Love quotes? Go figure.) There was something about that phrase, "fine sons." It was so old-fashioned and gallant. Maybe it's not Bill Henrickson I have a crush on, but the writers of Big Love.

2. Barack Obama. Seriously, look at him.

But despite his boyish charm and, you know, the whole Leader of the Free World thing, this is a friend-crush. I just want to hang out and drink beer with him and Michelle. Honorable mention: Joe Biden. I know he's politician-y. Still, sexxxxxy.

3. James Dyson, the designer/engineer. You've seen him on the commercials for the Dyson vacuum cleaner, the one that "never loses suction." Perhaps my oddest crush of all, but, honestly, I find him irresistible. I imagine that one day his wife was complaining about their shoddy vacuum cleaner, and he brought her a Pimm's cup and said in that British accent, "Chin up, love. I shall invent a vacuum that never loses suction," and then went down to his workshop and worked until he got it exactly right. Sigh. Plus, blue eyes. And did I mention that accent?

As for the least sexy man alive? Easy...

Jon Gosselin.

*Update: My husband points out that "real-life crush" is not the same as "sexiest man alive." He is correct. I phrased that badly. Darling, YOU ARE BY FAR THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE. There. That should settle it.