At my age, it’s more fun to shop for my daughters than for myself.  (Those 3-way mirrors aren’t as friendly as they used to be, and  it’s so hard to find a dress that covers the aging zones and still looks chic, I sometimes wish I could just throw on a Hefty bag.)  So when Elizabeth had a party dress emergency recently, I offered to do a mall run.

There’s a mall that I like because I know it so well. Due to its proximity to my daughters’ elementary school, I used to spend much errand time there, buying everything from the girls’ first shoes to their first bras. I’ve got that floor plan down; I can buy socks in less than eight minutes.

I knew what my route would be  even before I’d parked: I’d pop into Betsey Johnson, then shimmy over to Out Of The Box and on to BCBG (after stopping in at See’s Candies for a free, energizing sample).  If those stores yielded no good frocks, I would move on to the big guns, the department stores that weigh down either end of the mall, their massive doors open like jaws.

Betsy Johnson’s inventory was exceptionally hookery, O.O.T.B. too country club, BCBG too ordinary. More importantly, my internal divining rod, the one that directs me towards bargains, was quivering, shifting my body in the direction of  Bloomingdale’s.

Occasionally, under the influence of this device, I have made unwise purchases—a  certain lichen-colored, overly-hairy sweater springs to mind—but for the most part, it is unerring. So, even though I don’t much like to enter Bloomingdales except to buy their exceptional frozen yogurt, I let the divining rod guide me to the second floor, to a massive sale rack, jammed with limp, sale-weary garments.  My hand, as if controlled remotely, reached between a couple of garish size 14s and pulled out a glowing dress.

It was a gold, stretch satin Nicole Miller, size 0, reduced from over $400 by 70%.

I walked straight to the register, where, thanks to some department store combo of sale events, the price was further reduced until the dress was almost free. I paid and left quickly, before the management realized how flawed the discount system was.

As I exited, I heard a bell ring, which I took to mean that some retail angel had gotten his wings. He may have received another promotion when Elizabeth tried on the dress: It was perfectly amazing on her. (She wouldn’t allow me to post the picture.)

But then, she’s at that age when she could wear a Hefty bag and look good….

Here’s one sure-fire way to cure a New Year’s hangover, to wash away the sins of 2011, to start 2012 with an active heart and pink skin, and to provide yourself with bragging material for at least a couple weeks.

All you have to do is hurl yourself into Boston’s Dorchester Bay (and that water is about 40º, tops), along with maybe 700 other people, at the crack of dawn (well, 8 a.m., which may seem crack-like after a night of New Year’s Eve revelry) on January 1st.

This, of course, also means appearing publicly in a bathing suit after two weeks of holiday indulgence, which, for me, would require more courage than the icy water part. However, some who take what’s called the Polar Bear Plunge, do it costumed, like one guy this year who dressed as one of the Three Little Pigs. Think pink plastic body suit, toilet paper roll for a snout. (Don’t judge. Would you rather wear a Speedo?)

My sister-in-law, Ellen (pictured here in a red towel), does the Plunge every year. She is 60-ish, swims year round and is therefore very fit and looks good in her bathing suit, and has no grey hair. (I know this last fact is irrelevant but I find it so enviable that I have to mention it.) While I don’t envy her the experience of that frosty splash, I admire her for doing it.

Think about it. Setting aside the insanity of going Polar shortly after your last sip of New Year’s Eve champagne, there are some positives. First, the Plunge is a tradition (in its 109^th year) and, in uncertain times, it can be helpful to embrace those markers that give life structure. Second, it’s an exercise in community bonding that is not Facebook. Third, I’m told you feel much better when it’s over than you did before. (This would be true for me only if the Globe photographer did not capture me in mid-leap in last year’s tankini.) We need all the legal, feel-good activities we can get.

So I applaud Ellen, from the (L.A.) sidelines, a place from which I will comfortably continue to cheer her on every January when she Polar-izes. I may be too much of a wuss to freshen up in a Boston bay, but I thank those who do it for reminding me why it’s a good idea.

Penn Station was a zoo, as it always is pre-Thanksgiving, but I was looking forward to what I thought would be a peaceful, zone-out, clickety-clack, two-and-a-half hour train ride to Old Saybrook.

Sadly, the “quiet car” was full, bursting with silent people. In the rest of the train, large families trolled for seats, people squawked into cell phones, electronic devices leaked game noise, and food smells wafted. . Thanks to my aggressive behavior (shadowing a big guy who bulldozed his way through the crowd), I secured one of the few remaining seats in a decidedly un-quiet car.

I glanced at the lady next to me and, in that mini-assessment you do with strangers, I thought, she’s older, a grandmother, dyed hair, nice coat. It took me a few minutes to realize that she could easily have summed me up the same way.

The lady pulled out her cell phone–no, it was not a smart one–and made a call.

“Well, we were supposed to be on the 172 out of New York (pronounced ‘Noo Yawk’) at 3 but they bumped us to the 46 at 4. It’s all right, all trains go to the same destination. (Listening pause.) Yeah, but it’s okay, they all go to the same destination. Did you get the turkey?”

I deduced from what followed that it was her daughter on the other end, because the lady was so relaxed about dissing her chosen cooking method.

“What? You’re gonna brine (‘broin’) the bird? Aw, don’t do that, Shelley, it adds salt (‘sow-ult’).”

She came back to the top of her conversation loop: “Should be there by 7. Woulda been earlier (‘uhr-leeyah’) on the 172, but they all go to the same destination. Don’t broin it, hon.”

She hung up and dialed again. “Hi Pearl. Yeah, they bumped us from the 172…Shell wants to broin the bird. I told her (‘huh’), no, too much sow-ult…they all go to the same destination, thank Gawd.”

A young man approached us. “Ma’am, is your husband seated in the car ahead?”

He was addressing the other lady, not me. “Yes,” she said, cautiously. The young man had not washed his jeans or face lately, and he smelled like an avid drinker.

“I’m sitting next to him, if you’d like to switch seats,” he said, as intensely as if he were notifying the lady of a lottery win.Mrs. Nice Coat gratefully made the switch, leaving me seated with Mr. Dirty Jeans, who snapped open his laptop and a thermos containing something with a  high alcohol content. He played a video of modern dancers in a frenzied performance, and he moved with them, as much as one can in an Amtrak seat.  He danced with his hands and upper body, feet tapping and stomping. He’d stop for a thermos break often, then he’d beat his tray rhythmically, muttering “I love you, Leonard Bernstein.”

The activity in the seat next to me was distracting, but that was not the reason I missed my stop. The conductor neglected to tell us where we were when we paused in Old Saybrook. When questioned later, he said, “Oh, our loud speaker doesn’t work too well. Usually I walk through the cars and tell people what stop is next.”

“But you didn’t chose to do that today?” I asked, channeling Cruella DeVille.

“Nope,” he said, cheerfully oblivious to my deadly tone.

So, I (and other pissed off Old Saybrook wanna-goes) disembarked at New London, a stop well down the tracks from our desired one.

Yeah, the trains all go to the same destination, except when they don’t.

Reward for this dubious train ride? The delight on the faces of my ninety-something parents when I finally showed up and regaled them with the (slightly exaggerated) story of my travels, and one fabulous (un-broined) turkey.

While I am baking ugly but delicious Christmas cookies, wrapping a cat calendar for my feline-obsessed brother, wondering why none of my seven pairs of black shoes seems to work with my Christmas party frock, wishing I had some peppermint bark, debating whether to send a holiday card to the ex-friend who made rude remarks about the mulled wine I made, and fretting over what to get my husband for Christmas when I know all he wants is Lakers tickets and new socks, I am listening to the Christmas CD I made some years ago, and I’m getting a kick out of it.

While you are tangled up in pre-holiday moments, take a listen. It might be just the thing.

• Children Go Where I Send Thee – Listen Now >
• Ain’t That A Rockin’ – Listen Now >
• Mary Had A Baby - Listen Now >

All songs from my album Not A Traditional Christmas.

I get it now. I was wondering why everyone is so disgusted by Herman Cain’s infidelity but not by Newt’s.

I mean, yeah, Newt’s transgressions go back a few years, but does that make them less bad? Do the skeletons in the closet get a hall pass after a certain amount of time?

Maybe not, but apparently Newt has figured out the effective way of shaking off blame. He talks to The Almighty.

“I found that I felt compelled to seek God’s forgiveness. I do believe in a forgiving God…And I do feel, in that sense, that God has forgiven me, has blessed me with an opportunity as a person.”

Republicans bought this, and they have forgiven Newt, too. If Herman Cain wants a future in politics, he would be well advised to follow Newt’s example and schedule a forgiveness session.

Should Newt be the nominee, he will need support from a whole lot more people than Republicans to win next November. Gingrich has been tagged as (among other things) the person most responsible for our current gridlock politics. If he is to be granted his dream “opportunity as a person,” he might need to apply for a forgiveness upgrade that encompasses sins beyond adultery.

My husband is an avid football fan, and in an effort to spend more couch time with him, I’m trying to get a handle on the sport.

Last Monday, for example, I struggled to remember (rather than ask Tom for the eight-hundredth time) whether that night’s game was pro or college ball. (I recently learned that there is an order to this, rules as to who plays when.)

I’m developing a system for keeping it straight. If the teams are called the Packers, the Saints or the Steelers, I’m golden: I know it’s pro. If they are things like Badgers or Ducks or other varmints, I smell college. But I was thrown recently when I learned of school teams called the Tide and the Trojans.  Maybe there are so many damn college tams they ran out of appropriate animals. Nobody wants to be called the Sloths or the Titmice, so they eschewed the whole critter thing and opted for macho names invoking the ocean’s motion and condoms.

Another of my football appreciation exercises is an attempt to remember which city each team is from. The other night, for example, the Saints were playing on their home turf. Certain that I knew where that team hailed from, I thought I’d show off for Tom. Noting the sweat dripping from the Saints’ locks, I casually said, “Wow, looks like it’s unseasonably warm in St. Louis.”

“Atta baby, move the chains!” Tom yelled, too engrossed to notice my display of expertise. “Look at that! It’s a thing of beauty!” he said, scarfing down a fistful of popcorn. “It’s poetry in motion!”

While I have used the latter  phrase in reference to, say, the Alvin Ailey dancers or Ryan Gosling, I have never used it to describe football.  But when they did a slo-mo  replay of some barge-size annihilator whacking the quarterback, sending him into a  mid-air flip from  which he recovered landing gracefully on his feet with the ball still in his hands, I was willing to admit that qualified as poetic.  (Maybe more Hallmark than Yeats.)

Next thing I’ll be working on is that thing that happens about twenty minutes into a game, when the TV becomes, to me, like a lava lamp. I stare at it, but my mind is pretty much 100% elsewhere.

Meanwhile, I’m prepping for the next game. I heard the Bears are playing, and by the weekend I swear I will know if they are pro or college (the forest animal name suggests college but I will Google), what city they are from, and if I have the energy I might even find out who the quarterback is.

The new iPhone4S, with its voice control software (called Siri) is about to become my (and millions of other people’s) best friend.

People who are getting to know Siri tell me that her female, slightly robotic voice responds to your every command. She’s like an assistant you don’t have to pay minimum wage. When I get around to buying this phone, I think it’s gonna be a game changer.

For starters, if somebody sends you a text, you can ask Siri to read it to you. Then you dictate a response and Siri will send it back. No more standing around for an hour trying to get your oafish thumbs to deliver a coherent message.

You want to know what the weather’s like today? Ask your phone goddess. Siri will tell you, and no snarky reply like, “Really? Too much of a lazy ass to step outside and see for yourself?”

I’m told you can also ask her for directions (although if you are male you are unlikely to use this feature) and she can tell you where the nearest Starbuck’s is and whether or not it’s your sister’s birthday and what hotel you should stay at in San Francisco and all kinds of stuff.As long as she doesn’t get too familiar—I don’t’ need her opinion on, say, whether I look fat in these pants—I know I’m going to love her.

What I’m really hoping, when I get my hands on the iPhone4S, is that, in addition to all her other tricks, she is capable of being a sous chef. I volunteered to make an apple crumble for my book group–I know, what was i thinking?–and and I’d love it if she’d peel those damn apples.

I’m guessing I might have to wait till the next generation of iPhone for a Siri who can perform that and other services. Who knows what she’ll be doing for us when the iPhone5 rolls out of the factory? Massage? Pshycotherapy? Grocery shopping? I can’t wait.

I wonder if she’ll be able to provide me with Ryan Gosling’s cell phone number.

Republicans demanded explanations from Chris Christie and Sarah Palin. I’ve had a few inquiries myself, and here is my response.

Why I’m not running for president:

1. I could never have Presidential hair with that D.C. humidity.
2. I’d have to wear jewelry like Hillary’s and a pants suit whose jacket would NOT provide adequate butt cover.
3. On those Air Force One flights, I could not knock back a chardonnay ad watch Xmen: First Class.
4. I’m pretty sure security would insist I wear a disguise when accepting a pizza delivery.
5. My closet is so full of skeletons, it’s like a Halloween party in there.
6. I’m a Democrat.
7. My house would have to be white.
8. Whenever I had a VPL, millions of people would chat about it on the Huffington Post Style page.
9. I’m guessing martinis would be frowned upon.
10. What, in these shoes?

I do not have a green thumb. On my watch, plants usually perish rather than prosper. But I am newly motivated to hone my gardening skills, after hearing about Snoop Dogg and the 85-pound rutabaga.

The story takes us to Cardiff, where a Welsh farmer, Ian Neale, grew the largest rutabaga in histoy. The gnaraly looking vegetable (also known as a swede) weighed in at 38.92 kilos. Typically, achievements like Neale’s are noticed only by a handful of gardener geeks. But this vegetable caught the attention of Snoop Dogg.

Turns out Snoop grows things too. If you check out this video of him reaching out to Neale, , you’ll see his impressive crop in the background. (I’m not sure what it is, but it looks a lot like something my stoner cousin grows in his backyard in Berkeley.) While Snoop’s plants look plenty robust, he apparently seeks to grow them to “Jack And The Beanstalk” proportions. When he got wind of Neale’s uber-swede, he invited the farmer to come to his show in Cardiff, and then backstage to swap growing tips.

Neale declined at first, but then accepted, and got the VIP treatment after the show. He had a ten minute audience and a smoke with Snoop—no tobacco was involved—and told him to use a product called Root Grow.

While Neale says he “would not pay” to see Snoop Dogg in concert again, he’d happily accept a free ticket (and, presumably, another sample of Snoop’s crop).

I guess it’s too late in the season to attempt to grow a zucchini the size of a dachshund or a tomato as big as my head, but I’m posting the picture you see here (taken some years ago) in hopes that Snoop will mistake me for a gardener extraordinaire and invite me backstage too. (Between you and me, I may or may not have grown the pumpkin, but I did raise the kids, sans Root Grow.)

P.S. Here’s a recipe for rutabagas. By my estimation, Ian Neale’s could feed abut 190 people.