Some days it's had to choose what to write about, to stop or pause the inner dialogue long enough to settle on one topic. And some days, as during this week, it's hard to be, if not cheerful, at least - oh dear, this is difficult - non-committal? Don't dwell on depression. Difficult when you had the dinner guest I had last night. I'm still getting over him. You know the glass half-empty, half-full image. Well, he sees dirty water in a cracked glass and complains about it. He was really vicious about it last night. vicious and profane and vituperative and bitter. Well, he's unhappy. Perhaps we all are, most of us. The American writer Russell Baker said that there is as much happiness in a bottle of wine as most of us can bear. He also said you should never drink a martini more than fifty feet from your own bed. Something like that. I'm not checking right now. My point is, and I do have one, is that most people are not basically happy. Contentment is the most you can hope for, except on special (martini) occasions. I said in my book BEGINNINGS: A BOOK FOR WIDOWS, dealing with my and others' grief, that happiness is a by-product, not often achieved and not for long. However, I believed, and still do, that it is our obligation to dispense joy. That's why we send birthday cards and take soup to neighbours, and talk to strangers. My grocery delivery person this week, for example, works out regularly and gave me some physical training tips. How would I know that if I didn't talk to him? Oh, and remember Thumper's mother (in Disney's Bambi)? "If you can't say anything nice, don't say nothin at all." I can't believe I'm referring to Disney! The world according to Disney is not a good one for women. Move on. Oh dear. Have a nice day, and if it isn't, I don't want to hear about it.

There was an article in last Sunday's New York Times about "living in filth". It was making two points. One is that our houses are far less clean than in our grandmother's day. We're talking middle class here, houses like the one Judy Garland (Esther) lived in in the movie "Meet Me in St. Louis". Two is that men, in spite of all the hoo-hah and the claim that they're shouldering some of the burden, don't. Women, whether working outside the home or not, and most of them are, still do the drudge's share of the "shitwork" as Gloria Steinem called it. So they do less. So our houses are dirtier than they were. It used to bother me, all the things I had to keep clean to be considered a good "home-maker". Good Housekeeping magazine had a regular column on how to clean and take care of everything; Emily, I think her name was, Taylor and her husband, Henry, who showed how to do it and made you feel guilty. That was before Martha Stewart built an empire based on fussiness, perfection and guilt. And that was in the interim years before nannies and live-in housekeepers for the rich became more common aids, and making do with cleaning ladies for the rest of us, when the stay-at-home mother did volunteer work and used her college degree to give her children an enriched upbringing. (??!!) . In my day, a cleaning lady charged $5 plus transportation (streeetcars in Winnipeg), and a nice lunch, for a 9 to 5 day of cleaning. I almost lost a friend who had the same cleaning lady, because the woman used to tell my friend that my lunches were nicer than hers. Men have had great fun over the years mocking women who clean up before the cleaning lady comes. Well, yes, of course, but not too much. The trick was, you had to make the cleaner believe you were incompetent and couldn't survive without her. Not hard, but I didn't like them patronizing me. Even lately, my current helper saw me doing some filing (a never-ending task) and said, "Is good you have some pass-time." No one understands what writers do. Anyway, I do have help now. Friends assured me on my 80th birthday that even though I lived alone and wasn't dirty, I was, after all, 80 years old and could use some help. Guilt free. I keep the kitchen and the bathroom clean for hygiene's sake but I always hated dusting. So Maria comes once a month, shovels me out and dusts me off. She just arrived. She doesn't know what a blog is. Sometimes I wish I didn't.