My ugly charm bracelet and the lovely novel, The Charm Bracelet.

I have a problem picking up random (read: ugly) jewelry. I'm not talking about a "you'll regret that later" necklace at Target. I'm talking about "I can't believe Grandma ever wore that and I can't believe someone bought it at our garage sale because I figured we'd just throw it out" pieces.

Hi. I'm cool.

Anyway, I have this charm bracelet that is either amazing or completely terrifying. I think it's from the 50s or 60s, and it has uniform charms with "Here, let me strip all the fun out of your teenage years" sayings engraved on them.

Some gems:

• Stop and think before you drink -- then don't. (OK, I get this one.)
• Don't let your parents down. They brought you up. (Geez oh Pete. Like kids aren't under enough pressure already.)
• Choose a date who would make a good mate. (I appreciate the rhyming, but do I have to be thinking about marriage at the junior prom?)
• At the first moment turn away from unclean thinking -- at the first moment. (I find this one hysterical. AT THE FIRST MOMENT! AT THE FIRST MOMENT!)
• Don't show off driving. If you want to race go to Indianapolis. (Was drag racing really a big issue with the teen girls who were wearing CHARM BRACELETS?)

So, my charm bracelet is a bit of a downer. And I'm a crotchety old biddy for being mildly annoyed by the lack of commas. Or I'm a hipster and wearing it ironically. Whatever.

But if you want a charm bracelet that's awesome ... I have a book for you. (See what I did there?)

I was very fortunate to get an advanced copy of this beauty. The Charm Bracelet by Viola Shipman is a lovely novel about mothers and daughters and secrets and small towns and pulling apart and coming together. I loved it.

Lolly is starting to forget things. When there's a little accident and her daughter Arden is called back to the small town she left behind long ago ... well, there are stories to be told and family issues to be straightened out. And when Arden's daughter figures out that she has a grandmother she didn't know about? Well, it's on.

The author has an ear for dialogue and a wicked sense of humor. This is a heartwarming story about the sometimes perilous terrain of family relationships, and about bonds that last through it all. I might be making this sound a bit treacly, but it isn't at all. It's just a great story about family. And it's funny. And it would make a great gift for Mothers Day. Just sayin'.

On a scale of 1 to 5, I give The Charm Bracelet 5 dog families that are working together.

 What have you been reading lately?

Abusing loved ones for fun and profit.

One of my pals recently admitted to hiding from her kids. She was lying low so as to leave a tricky parenting situation to her husband. Their girls - ages 4 and 7 - were having a nuclear war.

The younger one had licked her older sister's nightgown.

The scene was dramatic in the way only girls that age can manage. The older sister was stomping around, refusing to wear the nightgown. Because her sister hadn't just licked it - she'd licked the inside. Meanwhile, the younger sister had wedged herself between the wall and a couch and was laughing maniacally.

Ahh.

I don't have a sister, so I don't have first-hand experience with that kind of torture. I am, however, an older sister to a little brother who is obviously very, very lucky.

The nightgown licking made me think of my own torture devices. My brother Poochie had this tiny pillow that was, of course, called Baby Pillow. And he had to sleep with Baby Pillow. This was when he was, like, 3. This wasn't last year.

Anyway, my way of torturing Poochie was to threaten to "suck the freshness" out of Baby Pillow. He would scream and I'd grab Baby Pillow and bury my face in it and inhale loudly. I was ensuring that Poochie would have the opposite of the "cool as the other side of the pillow" experience.

Bwah ha ha.

When I mentioned this to our mom, she had no recollection of it. This is proof that we all have selective memories because I did it all the damned time. So, she didn't remember me sucking the freshness out of Baby Pillow, but she was quick to mention the time I convinced a 4-year-old Poochie that our real parents lived in a Winnebago and were coming to pick us up for Christmas.

Heh. Yeah, I totally got in trouble for that one. But really, I've just always been very creative. Plus, I think I was at a disadvantage being the oldest child of two youngest children.

Or maybe I was just bitter about having shorts up to my armpits. And yes, this was the summer everyone thought I was a boy. Why do you ask?

My mom was hard-pressed to choose just 1 instance of her older sisters torturing her. Here's her winning example:

When we lived on West State Street, my bed was at the top of the stairs with a little closet door next to the head of my bed. I was told that after dark the closet monsters slid under the closet door and got under my bed and would grab me by the feet when I went to get into bed. As a result, I would launch myself across the room into bed and get in trouble with Mom. I think after Mom yelled at me for the gazillionth time she found out why I was doing this every night. [Know I did it for a long time ... and you KNOW how athletic I am, so it wasn't easy.] I don't even know if they got in trouble, but I was rather gullible.

This made me laugh so hard. I've been present when my mom told her sister this story. My sweet, beautiful, wonderful aunt just CACKLED. This cruel sister showed no remorse.

I have to admit that I admire her style.

I don't necessarily feel bad about sucking all the freshness out of Baby Pillow. I probably should, but ... ehh. Poochie's fine. Baby Pillow is fine. And I was a creative kid.

What did you do to get under your siblings' skin?

Yoga pants are the new housecoats.

An older lady who lives down the street appears to have a uniform. Every time I see her, she's sporting some sort of housecoat/smock and a men's t-shirt. Her legs are always bare, even in the bitterest cold, and this worries me. But she smiles from behind her huge red glasses and calls me "Hon."

At first glance, it's easy to look at Neighbor Lady's ensemble and think, "Oh, brother." Let us be honest: the men's t-shirts are neither flattering nor coordinated with the housecoat/smocks. And sometimes there's both a housecoat and a smock, and the patterns don't go together. Comfort seems to be the focus here, not high fashion. Nor low fashion. Ahem.

But judge not lest ye be judged! Because today, I was feeling an ugly little bit judgey ... while walking my dog in yoga pants, a green fleece with a broken zipper, and a t-shirt that was of another, totally not complementary green. I was Clashy McClasherson. I was just walking around the block and picking up poop, so who cares?

Let us celebrate our freedom from fashion!

Neighbor Lady was just picking up sticks in her yard. Who dresses up for that?

And then it hit me. My grandma had an assortment of housecoats. They were comfortable and to be worn around the house only. Neighbor Lady is just stretching that window of appropriate venues a bit.

And I have an assortment of yoga pants. They're comfortable and to be worn in yoga class only. But, since most of us don't go to yoga class, they're to be worn at home only. But like most of my peers, I'm stretching that window of appropriate venues a bit.

Yoga pants are the new housecoats. Which is all hilarious and fine until we fast forward about 40 years. The lady people will be wearing whatever the third generation of housecoats will be. And they'll look upon us yoga pants-clad octogenarians with a mix of disdain and pity. Just how I'm looking upon my housecoat-clad neighbor.

But really? Neighbor Lady has one up on the women of my generation. Housecoats can hide a multitude of sins. And, they have pockets.

Pockets!

But yoga pants? Ain't no secrets nor storage when yoga pants are around. Yoga pants show the world your business whether you're 40 and in pretty good shape or you're 80 and have parts hanging everywhere.

The housecoats have the upper hand here, obviously. Gen X women, we have made a tactical error.

In which I vomit like a lady.

Now that I'm 40, I don't party like I used to. Which I guess is a good thing, lest I be the creepy 40-year-old at the frat party.

But the good news is that I can now hold my liquor, unlike my younger, frat-party-attending self. Now, I am a woman. Whiskey? Yes, please. Neat.

I recently had a fun girls' weekend in New Orleans. We didn't hit Bourbon Street or dance on any tables. No. Instead, we did a walking tour of the French Quarter called Drink and Learn. At 2 p.m.

You guys. This tour was beyond excellent. It was really fun. Each of us got a little cross-body bag with four sealed cups, some straws and napkins, and a recipe card. We'd walk to a spot in the French Quarter, and then our hostess would tell us to open up the cup with the pink sticker, and then we'd drink while she told us about the history of that particular beverage and New Orleans as a whole.

Super fun. Super interesting. Except it was super hot that day. So, there was some a-drinkin' going on when there should have only been a-sippin'.

The tour was 2 hours. At the end of those 2 hours, we were ... happy.

There was a guy on our tour by himself. We adopted him. All 5 of us then hit another bar, wherein we drank grasshoppers and pink Cadillacs. Then, we hightailed it to a bar with ... karaoke.

On the way, BFF was feeling the NOLA vibe. "I could really go for a cigarette," she said.

She is a nonsmoker. She bought some cigarettes. I am also a nonsmoker. I smoked a cigarette and felt ALIVE! I felt like I was in college and invincible! I figured I should probably buy some overalls and get my hair cut into The Rachel because it was the late 90s all over again and I was soooo cooooool.

Well, I was cool when I wasn't focusing intently on the lit end of the cigarette because I vaguely remembered that of the 10 cigarettes I smoked in college, I used roughly 8 to accidentally set things on fire. I wasn't meant to be a real smoker. I didn't have that coordination.

So, we smoked our cigarettes and then? Well, after an afternoon of drinking, we did what any normal women would do. We sang karaoke. And at 5:30 on a Saturday, the karaoke queue was wide open, so our little group did some serious damage.

And yes, BFF and I did sing "Islands in the Stream." And I was Gladys Knight to my sweet friends' Pips for "Midnight Train to Georgia." But, perhaps most importantly ... I belted "Delta Dawn," in honor of my dad.

Yes, I'm under a disco ball, wearing a giant scarf. It seemed like a good idea.

For some reason, this song is just kind of Our Song. I felt kind of guilty singing it without him, but BFF contended that I did him proud.

At some point in the evening, we ate. And then we went back to the karaoke bar and I sang "Be My Baby" by The Ronettes. Yeah, Phil Spector is crazypants, but he produces a heck of a karaoke song.

It was good, good times. Until it wasn't.

It was in the back of the Uber that I started feeling a little green. This was around 11 p.m. And by the time we were back in our condo - because ladies of a certain age need nice accommodations - I was feeling more green. Yellowish green. Ugly green.

I hadn't puked from over-imbibing since the night I got drunk off cheap vodka after dropping my brother at the airport so he could move to Europe. The day before that, our mom had had major surgery.

That was 12 years ago. I'd slept on the floor of the bathroom and prayed, promising God that I would never, ever, ever drink again if He'd just let me live. Or, if He wanted to kill me, would He mind doing it right quick-like so that I could stop praying for death?

But that was then. As a 40-year-old, I decided that I would probably feel better if I threw up. I was rational as hell. I went to the bathroom, shut the door, and took out my contacts. Then, I pulled my hair back, because women are always prepared. I puked in the toilet, flushed, washed my hands and mouth, and then brushed my teeth. Like a fucking lady.

I didn't sleep on the bathroom floor, convinced that tile was the greatest invention in all the universe. I just went to bed with a bottle of water. And although I felt crummy in the morning, I wasn't desperate for McDonald's french fries.

No, I just felt dumb. Dumb, but human. Really dumb once I realized that yeah, it wasn't the liquor. It was the cigarette and being too buzzed to realize that I was drinking beverages with cream in them. Because that's a good idea when dairy isn't your friend.

I guess you're never too old for bad decisions.

Follow your dreams!

I'm going to start a new business. A business that's based on my true gifts and talents.

Yes. As I'm sure you already guessed, I'm going to open a pet-naming business. Because I'm really good at naming pets.

It came to me in a dream. I dreamed that I bought one of these modern condo-looking fishbowls.

This is totally an affiliate link because if you buy this beyond-awesome fish bowl, I want to know, and I want to be your friend.

Anyway, in my dream, the condo fish bowl was inhabited by 2 goldfish: Irv and Charlene.

I think we all agree that those are the best goldfish names ever, with the possible exception of Goldfish Meir.

My subconscious is clearly very, very talented in the realm of pet naming. And so, it's my duty to offer my gift to the people.

My Guy is supportive of this new venture, and did point out that he was the one who named the 2 pugs we used to pass regularly. He dubbed them Steve and Yolanda, and those are pretty fantastic pug names. I may consider bringing my husband in as a business partner at a later date.

But in the meantime, I'd like to offer a free sample of what I have to offer.

Let's say you need to name a lizard. Might I offer up Walter, Elvira, and Senor Wiggletail as options?

Or maybe you need to name a very mean cat. Clearly, naming is the best way for you to get back at a feline asshole. Consider channeling your revenge with a moniker like Bertrand, Nefario, or maybe just He Who Shall Not Be Named.

As for dogs? Well, let's just say I once named an emotionally unstable doxie with Cleopatra eyes "Ralphie."

I have mad street cred there.

Need a pet named? Let me know in the comments and I will hook you up.

Also ... why yes, I am somewhat sleep-deprived. Why do you ask?

Like Kim K. But with less butt.

I've become 1 of those women. Evidently, I now have a stylist.

My Guy and I attended a gala benefiting the local children's hospital. It was a party! For the children! In a moment of generosity, I bid on 2 hours with a personal stylist. You know, to get the bidding started.

You know that chardonnay they serve at banquets? The free wine that after the first sip you think, "Oh, that's not good?" But after the third glass, you think, "Damn, that's a mighty fine wine?" Well, that same beverage helped me keep bidding on the services of the stylist even as the bids went up. After all, it was for the children!

So, I ended up winning 2 hours with a personal stylist. She can help me go through my closet or take me shopping.

"OMG. Your hangers don't even match?"

Except now I'm somewhat paralyzed. What do I say to a stylist? Here are some options:

• "I would describe my personal style as 'OK?'"
• "I work from home and don't want to look like a frazzled mom because I don't even have kids and actually have time to spend on my appearance even though I obviously don't?"
• "I wear jeans and t-shirts and Banana Republic stopped making my go-to t-shirt so can you please just recommend a new t-shirt brand? Thanks."
• "I used to be skinny and somewhat fashionable but now I'm 40 and I don't care. Well, I care, but I don't care? I just don't want to look Amish? Does my hair make me look Amish?"
• "I look dorky but I'm actually really cool. Like, mega-cool. Just take my word for it. Please?"
• "I recently hurt my foot so all I can currently wear are sneakers, but that doesn't mean I'm Generation: Easy Spirit. See also: I'm mega-cool. Just take my word for it?"
• "Please don't make me shop at Forever 21."

I'm torn between 2 options. The first is that the stylist and I will become fast friends, and she'll introduce me to all her stylish friends as "My FAB friend Becky - you know, the one with all the great accessories who's always so pulled together and such an inspiration to me both creatively and as a human being?" The second option is that the stylist will berate me for being so completely unfashionable and will then describe me to all her stylist friends as "That HORRIBLE woman with the jeans that were hand-me-downs in 2004 and who must appear homeless 97 percent of the time and who basically looks Amish except less stylish?"

These seem like the only 2 options.

The truth of it is that we all want to look our best. And we all need a fresh set of eyes every once in a while. But also ... I feel like I'm dressing for a part that I haven't yet defined.

I'm not a mom. I'm not a corporate denizen. I'm a writer, but not a sweaty, hardboiled journalist or a flowery romance novelist. I'm 40. I'm 40 and I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

There. I said it.

Yes, I am a big spender.

I have discovered the witching hour for grocery shopping. Obviously, the best time to shop is at 2 a.m. because the store is deserted with the exception of some drunks. They are provided for our entertainment.

But for those of us who prefer to shop during the day? And away from people? Because people generally don't understand basic cart etiquette? Turns out that 2:30 on a Wednesday afternoon is a pretty chill time.

It was just me and 1 other lady in the whole of the produce section. No randos abandoning their carts on a diagonal so as to block all the apples and all the root veggies. No soccer moms on their phones, leaving their $500 purses open and unattended in their carts while they grab organic arugula. I'm no thief, but even I want to grab a purse every once in a while just to say, "See? Do you see how easy it is? Do you see how stupid you're being?"

I'm great fun at parties.

The thing about the produce section is that it makes me feel slightly crazed. Not because of my purse-snatching proclivities. No, I feel loopy because it's the location of my greatest splurge.

When I was but a wee lass o' 30, living in a not-great apartment and trying to get my freelance business up and running, money was tight. Real tight. Trying-to-only-spend-$20-a-week-on-groceries tight.

During those days, I was crazy skinny. It was great. But I was skinny because I was unhappy, and I was skinny because I did crazy things like limit my yogurt intake to 2 cartons a week. I wasn't trying to cut back on dairy. No, those 89-cent cartons of Yoplait were a splurge.

I knew I had made it when I started buying yogurt with abandon. Some folks know they're successful when they buy a car or nice clothes. For me? It was eating yogurt every day. Like a boss. Whenever I bought 7 cartons of yogurt, I felt secure.

Now? Now, dairy is not my friend. We broke up. And I don't feel the need to limit my grocery spending, although I am constantly amazed that my husband expects to eat every day. But I still try to be smart about our grocery dollar.

My big splurge? Cilantro.

Hey there, cilantro. Say 'hi' to your mother for me.

I know. I know! It costs anywhere from 50 cents to a dollar. And I buy a bunch each week. Because it makes me feel fancy.

It used to be that whenever I made a recipe that called for fresh cilantro, I'd just throw in some dried cilantro and muddle through. It was fine.

But then? Then, I realized how amazing real cilantro is, since I'm not of the sad group that thinks it tastes like soap. And even though most recipes are fine without it, I buy it and I use it. I even use it when it's just called for as a garnish. Because I'm worth it! And it makes me feel like an adult and a good cook and possibly also a princess. Because nobody scrimps when it comes to garnishing for royalty.

My cilantro habit probably costs me about $30 a year. Decadent? Obviously. But it's worth every penny.

What's your big splurge?