By Jeanne Martinet

As most savvy New York hosts know, when you throw a large cocktail party, you can expect approximately 60 percent of the invitees to attend. Of the 40 percent who don’t come, most have a scheduling conflict or illness and are truly sorry to be missing the affair.  So, what if you immediately offered these people an alternative—a kind of make-up party?
That’s exactly what my friends Ned and Donna did. They held a big cocktail party one Saturday night and invited the people who sent “regrets” to a smaller party the very next Saturday.

Now, Ned and Donna are people who do not entertain very much, so at first it sounded crazy to me that they would decide to have two parties in a row. But this nonhosting tendency on the part of this couple is in fact why the double party idea was perfect for them. Once they had managed to find the impetus to entertain, whipped their house into guest-ready shape (cleaning it from top to bottom, even rearranging the furniture) and stocked the larder with staples like soda, snacks and booze, the second, smaller party was a veritable snap for them. They even had leftover wine and supplies that the guests from the first party had brought them.

Having two parties in a row may sound exhausting, but it can be much more efficient than spreading them out. You can pay back everyone you owe an invitation in a spectacular one-two punch. Really, it’s like getting out all the painting equipment to paint a room and then deciding that, while you’re at it, you may as well paint another small room at the same time.

Also, having a second gathering is a great way for the hosts to soak up every bit of fun they can; after working hard to make a party happen, hosts can feel it is over too quickly. Most people I talk to who, for one reason or another, had dreaded hosting a party are so energized afterward they wonder why they don’t host more often. Might as well have another party while you are in the mood!

You can also employ a similar version of this kind of party clustering when you find you have more than one dinner party you need to give. Instead of hosting one dinner one month and one another month, have a dinner party weekend. Make one big pot of something hearty and fabulous—say, oxtail stew, boston butt or chili–then hold two dinner parties one after the other.

Contrary to what one might think, the second set of guests are not getting shortchanged, because by the second dinner you are probably more relaxed (having cleaned and shopped like a madwoman before the first one), and often the Italian pot roast you spent hours making is even better the second day.

Of course, in the case of back-to-back dinner parties, the guests must not know about each other at all. While a make-up cocktail party is like being offered a wonderful consolation prize, being part of a double dinner party weekend can seem more like a prize cut in half.

The one rule to follow when hosting consecutive parties is that you can never let the people at the second party get the idea that your first party was in any way more enjoyable than the one you are having with them right now. You want them to feel fortunate and much sought-after, as if you are going to extra trouble just for them—which, in a sense, you are.

The people who could not attend the primary event should feel flattered that you have gone out of your way to extend your hospitality to them. It’s as if you are saying to them, “I want to have you over so much I will even have a do-over just to get you here!” even though it is really a case of a relatively easy two-for-the-fuss-of-one for you.

Speaking of two for one, I somehow got to go to both of the lovely parties given by Ned and Donna. Not fair that they invited me to both? Hey, there’s got to be some perk to this whole Miss Mingle thing!

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Read her blog at MissMingle.com.

By Christopher Moore

Over many years, Charlie Rose spent a tremendous number of hours in my bedroom. Before discovering the life-altering advantages of the DVR, I often ended my day with Rose on public TV. So his move two weeks ago to the CBS morning program sent my routine into confusion.

Rose, an official Man About Town, did not just bring a new table and passion for run-on sentences to CBS This Morning. He also came with a couple of new cohosts: Gayle King, Oprah’s official best friend, and Erica Hill, who is not actually new—she’s a holdover from the prevous incarnation of the CBS morning show. The flaws of her new cohosts make Hill look better every day.

All of this is important to me because I’m addicted to morning TV. These days, I bounce from the media monster Today to the chatty Good Day New York and the clubby Morning Joe, but I go way back. I was a little kid who knew who David Hartman was.

As a fan of fake intimacy, I like watching morning anchors pretend to like each other. They desperately try to create a sense of community, often copying each other along the way. They sometimes insist they are a “family,” even though in these families, the members get tossed around from show to show with disconcerting speed.

Also fun: watching high-profile talents pretend to be interested in the range of topics they tackle. If there was anything more compelling on American television in the last few decades than watching Diane Sawyer appear in cooking segments during her Good Morning America days, well, I missed it.

So This Morning is right up my alley. Rose is known in Manhattan and D.C. for being an A-list party guest. Watching him in the morning, all sluggish mien and dead eyes, seems simultaneously hilarious and scary. By the end of week one, he had such a bad cold that it was painful to watch. If he were still alive, Dr. Kevorkian would be on speed dial over at CBS.

The new show opened with a thoughtful 90-second review of the news, Eye Opener. Most of the attention during the premier week, though, went to King’s interview with Michelle Obama. She insisted she was looking forward to campaigning for her husband, but failed to come up with any reason anyone would support him. As usual, the disengaged first lady took a pass on getting involved in important political matters. This is not Eleanor Roosevelt we’re talking about.

It takes two, though, to come up with an interview this bad. King was obsequious in talking to someone she described as a friend. Dismissive of Jodi Kantor’s new book, The Obamas, King did not, so far as I recall, bother to mention the extent of her support for the first family. According to a quick trip to Fundrace.HuffingtonPost.com, one of my favorite websites, King gave thousands of dollars last year to Obama Victory Fund 2012.

Obviously, it’s a new era in American journalism. We don’t even pretend to be objective any longer. Fine. Objectivity never really existed, but fairness could. So could full disclosure. Yes, I’ve wondered whether and which candidates deserve my financial support. But did CBS News really need to send King to interview her buddy the same week it ran ads about taking a fresh, hard-news approach on This Morning?

Couldn’t Rose have done this interview? Sure, sometimes he answers questions he himself has asked, but he could probably have handled the assignment.

Ah, I’m being cranky. King has a certain game presence, and I’m one of 17 people nationally who watched the show she did on OWN. She’s a TV personality; being a newswoman would be a separate matter.

King is a natural at fake intimacy. Sometimes, though, news judgment is called for—especially when the bosses are bragging that they have it.

Christopher Moore is a writer living in Manhattan. He is available by email at ccmnj@aol.com and is on Twitter
(@cmoorenyc).

By Bette Dewing

“We often need as much to be reminded as to be informed” are among the wisest words ever spoken. Thank you, Dr. Samuel Johnson.

And we must remember Martin Luther King’s dream of a nation where content of character matters, not skin color.  Surely that means not valuing “physical attractiveness” over character. Recent research shows that so-called attractive members of Congress are the ones who get the most TV coverage (“Looks Matter as TV Covers Congress,” New York Times, Jan. 6). Once, the women’s movement denounced this general attractiveness bias, and I’m seeking others concerned that the now decades of related research stored in one of my file cabinets do not go to waste.

Indeed, I recently started going to the EIS Housing Resource Center’s organizing group because of decades of research on a number of frustrating crusades about public safety. How I wish you’d heard the January meeting’s powerful talk on fire prevention by Kevin Anderson, an FDNY Safety Education member. It takes an impassioned speaker like Anderson to effectively inform and remind.

“We must remember,” he said, that fireplace embers caused the fire that killed three little sisters and their grandparents.

“It would likely not have turned deadly if smoke detectors had been working.” These foremost fire prevention tools must be placed up high and checked every month—and several are better than one.

Julie, a savvy business executive, marveled, “He said so much I didn’t know!” like the fact that carbon monoxide detectors must be replaced every five to seven years and extension cords should be used only temporarily, never for high power users like TVs and space heaters, and must be in mint condition and UL approved. I add: Make installing additional wall outlets affordable!

Power strips must be checked for capacity levels. Some lamps, too. Anderson fears screw-in-type fluorescent bulbs because their bases can dangerously overheat, another reason to support the Light Bulb Freedom of Choice bill! (A recent East End Avenue penthouse fire was reportedly lamp-related.)

“And use only battery-powered candles!” he implored.

Throw baking soda, never water, on small grease fires. Keep a large pot cover handy to smother small stove fires, but call 911 and get out with anything larger, especially in a non-fireproof building. No building is entirely fireproof, but those with steel beams and all-concrete walls and floors keep fire contained. Marble floors “crumble with heat.”

Use only fire department-approved window gates and never place anything on fire escapes.

Instructions for devising an escape plan and other vital information is found in the Fire Safety for Seniors brochure that was shared with our group.

“It’s for all ages,” said Anderson but, he stressed, “50 percent of fire victims are age 65 and over.” So let’s study and discuss this life-saving booklet, at least monthly, when we check our smoke detectors. Call 718-281-3870 for a copy.
Build we must on the unprecedented outpouring of public grief and nationwide media coverage of the deaths of Lily, Grace and Sarah Badger and their grandparents, Pauline and Lomer Johnson, to finally make fire prevention a top nationwide priority.

And now two deadly local fires: The Times’ “Fleeing a Fire, Only to Realize That One Child Was Left Behind” tragically reminds us that the family of the 7-year-old boy in Brooklyn did not have an escape plan. The death of a woman, age 38, in a fire in an abandoned Harlem building where she and a friend had reportedly taken shelter did not receive print coverage.

First we must be informed and then reminded, reminded, reminded!

dewingbetter@aol.com

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

“They have your wallet over at The Mansion [Diner],” said my doorman last Monday morning.

He was referring to my new, blue, rectangular Michael Kors wallet that holds my life and that I thought I’d never see again.

The previous Saturday I had run errands, traveling light with only what I could fit in my pockets: my iPhone and trusty MK.

Earbuds in place, I powerwalked across 86th Street to the sound of my iTunes library.  Due to technical difficulties, I needed both hands to fiddle with the iPhone. So preoccupied did I become with my music that it took me a minute to acknowledge that my purse was sliding out of my coat.

I ripped my earbuds from their sockets and turned quickly, expecting to find it on the ground. It was nowhere. This is what baffled me: How could it not be on the sidewalk? It had fallen only seconds earlier.

I retraced my steps from the 86th Street side of The Viand Diner to Second Avenue in front of The Heidelberg. I went there and back at least 10 times, then along the whole stretch of 86th Street from First to Second. Nothing.

How could it disappear so fast? I couldn’t understand, unless someone hot on my heels had seen it drop and picked it up.

“I think you got your pocket picked,” my husband, Neil, surmised. Either way, my stuff was gone.

Luckily, I’d made copies of the wallet’s contents so I knew what I was missing. I called credit card companies and the bank, as well as the credit monitors—Equifax, Experian and TransUnion—who help prevent identity theft. (FYI: Reporting to Equifax is enough, as they alert the other two.)

With this behind me, I had the rest of Saturday and Sunday to wait out so I could take care of the rest on Monday: Social Security card replacement and a new driver’s license. Plus the less crucial replacement of museum membership and library cards, et al. I suddenly went into mourning for my Duane Reade FlexRewards card.

Sunday afternoon, I took the advice of some credit card reps and reported the loss at my police precinct.

Even though I knew they wouldn’t dispatch the SWAT team in search of my possessions, it seemed like a good idea to have a record of the incident.

I’d never been inside a station house. I found two officers behind a rather tall desk. My neck started hurting from looking up to tell my tale of woe. I filled out a multipage form, then the officer had to copy what I wrote on to his own report, plus write down my story of what had happened. This took forever.

Sunday night I didn’t sleep, too anxious waiting to begin my rounds of calls, voice recordings and the dreaded trip to the DMV and Social Security office.

But the next morning, my doorman let me know a man had found my wallet. He had come by around midnight on his way to work his overnight shift. There was some mixup with the night doorman, who wasn’t sure if he should buzz up so late. The man said he’d come back before he went home at 8 a.m., but I couldn’t wait and ran over to the diner.

Everything was inside MK, except my money and MetroCard. (Note to whomever has both: Hope you are someone who truly needed them. Enjoy.  And thanks for ditching the rest.)

Of course, the big shout-out belongs to the man who returned my “life.” I always like to believe I can count on my fellow New Yorkers, and this one proved me right by working overtime.

Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Jeanne Martinet

I don’t usually travel on the subway with a white plastic Venetian face mask, but that’s what I was doing last Monday night.

I wasn’t wearing the mask, I was merely holding it in my lap. And yet, almost immediately after the train left the station at 23rd Street, a cute guy with super-chic eyeglasses got up from where he was sitting across from me and approached. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you,” he smiled, “but didn’t you just LOVE it?” He wiggled his eyebrows in a conspiratorial fashion, nodding at the mask.

The “it” he was referring to was Sleep No More, the experimental piece from London theater group Punchdrunk, which I had just had the good fortune to experience—hence the mask (every audience member must wear one during the show.) Avant-garde and utterly unique, Sleep No More is part theater, part haunted house and part art installation held in a 100,000-square-foot warehouse in Chelsea. It’s hard to get tickets. After you have seen it, you definitely feel as though you have been initiated into a special, elite club.

It was not premeditated on my part, but by carrying the mask, I was advertising the fact that I had just come from this play. The mask would mean nothing to those who were not in the know. But for anyone who had “checked in” to the McKittrick Hotel on 27th Street (the setting for Sleep No More), it was like having a secret banner, a sign that read: “I’ve just been to the coolest thing in New York.” I proceeded to have a truly fun chat with the cute guy about the show.

This kind of recognition and subsequent bonding frequently happens when you are carrying theater programs. After I saw The Normal Heart, I sought out other people who were holding the program after I got on the subway at 42nd Street; I had been so moved by the performance that I was looking for people to talk to who were in the same emotional place I was. (They were not hard to find; besides the programs, they had the same stricken looks on their faces as me.)

Whether it’s a public television tote bag, an admission sticker from the race track or an ink mark on your hand from the hottest New York nightclub, this kind of visible “prop” can identify you and attract like-minded people. It’s a sign that tells someone he probably has more in common with you than he might normally have with a stranger. That the two of you have shared an experience, whether it be an art exhibit, a concert or a political demonstration. He has found someone who is in his “club.”

Even a Mets cap, to another Mets fan, can provide an opening for conversation, though that’s not exactly a small club. A souvenir from the World Series would be better. Like the Sleep No More mask, a souvenir from the World Series illustrates that you are in an exclusive club.

It’s the exclusivity, as well as the shared experience, that engenders a great conversation. There’s nothing like that “We’ve got a secret” feeling you get when you run into a stranger who is carrying something that only a few people have or would recognize. The smaller the club, the more excited you are to run into someone who is a member.

New York is one of those places where, on any given subway car or street corner, there are probably people with your sensibility or life experiences hidden among the crowd. You can’t tell much by clothing, though if someone is wearing a nun’s habit, you might surmise they are religious, but if someone is draped with a New York City Marathon warming blanket on the day of the race, you know they have just completed a 26.2-mile run. And if you yourself have ever run a marathon, both you and the runner are going to be more than delighted to engage in conversation. You are practically meeting up with a soul mate.

For me, in the case of my Sleep No More compadre, it was like discovering a stranger who had had the same vivid, beautiful, disturbing dream I had. When my fellow theatergoer got off before me, at 50th Street, I felt almost sad. Some other people who got on to the train cast odds looks my way, as if they were expecting me to subject them all to some kind of unwelcome dramatic presentation. But I just smiled and held proudly onto the mask, my secret emblem of the evening.

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Read her blog at MissMingle.com.

By Christopher Moore

Now that we can go back to ignoring Republicans in Iowa and New Hampshire for another three-plus years, let’s concentrate again on city life. Especially since the hottest thing in cold New York this January is the grid.

Yes, the grid, as in the way the streets were laid out in this city. It’s the toast of the town—and it only took 200 years.
Through April 15, Tax Day, The Museum of the City of New York is presenting a new exhibition, The Greatest Grid: The Master Plan of Manhattan, 1811-2011. This amounts to one of the city’s treasures, the museum itself, paying tribute to another, our urban design scheme.

The Greatest Grid has a book, too, as so many exhibitions threaten to, and the oh-so-smart chair of the City Planning Commission, Amanda Burden, is an exhibition chairperson. All of this attention is part of a 200th birthday party for the grid, otherwise known as our way of life.

Is that an overstatement? Probably not. Just visit those city streets and see the dynamism inspired at least in part by smart design. The grid, like so many valuable things about this crazy place, is easy to take for granted. At least one published writer has admitted a certain dislike for downtown streets sans numbers. The commenter insisted years ago that he likes “living on the grid” and pretty much nowhere else.

Small-minded? Probably. But so many of us, when we stop and think about it, might agree. The grid looks especially good to a New Yorker after he makes the dire mistake of traveling somewhere else.

Go to Washington, D.C., and get lost in the excessive diagonal nonsense. Bond with Boston, yes, but get ready to navigate around the Big Dig. Head to Los Angeles and engage in the old debate about whether there’s a there there. Or just stay in town and enjoy an afternoon in Greenwich Village. The streets keep bumping into each other down there. Charm and confusion combine.

Right in the Village the numbered streets start, as does the delightful sense of knowing where you are. Say one thing about the whole of Manhattan: We’ve got a there. And the there goes on and on and on, with one neighborhood seeping into another. A thoughtful front-page New York Times piece last week by Michael Kimmelman, headlined “The Grid at 200: Lines that Shaped Manhattan,” championed how our city forefathers thought ahead.

While admitting that our borough “lacks the elegant squares, axial boulevards and civic monuments around which other cities designed their public space,” Kimmelman smartly points to the advantages: easy navigation, endless street life and an easy way to speedily assess distances. The challenge Kimmelman makes us think about is clear: Can we “live up to the grid?”

It’s a wow of a question in a wow of a column. It’s a political question too. Still, the grid is experienced personally, one pedestrian at a time. People here remain passionate about the streets they walk.

In this big city, neighbors talk with a potent mix of enthusiasm and criticism about the changing streetscape. The comings and going of local businesses. Whether and where we can fit in another needed school. How the parks are being maintained, managed and utilized. Those of us in studio apartments think of everything outside the door as our backyard. Like Americans with picket fences, we urban dwellers care about what happens in our backyard.

The grid deserves its birthday attention. Compared to so many European cultural capitals, our scheme is young. The layout we call home seems like it must have been around forever, especially since it is so entrenched in our collective consciousness, but in the grand sweep of time, the grid is in its early years. The mark, though, has been made.

To celebrate this birthday, take to the streets. There’s always some sort of party happening out there.

Christopher Moore is a writer who lives in Manhattan. He is available by email at ccmnj@aol.com and on Twitter (@cmoorenyc).

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Welcome to your first week of change.

Five days ago, you most likely made a resolution involving one of the big three. With any luck, your agreement with yourself to exercise more, weigh less (always No. 1 on my hit parade) or stop smoking and/or imbibing will last out the week.

It’s easy to blame New York City for one’s inability to stay on track—too many restaurants serving too-large portions, not enough time to get to the gym, job too stressful (or no job at all) to go without a cig or drink.

But what if you’re a thin non-smoker/drinker who hits the Equinox treadmill at least three times a week, yet still feel stuck in a “same $?&! different day” mindset? First you need to figure out what your (less than obvious) addiction is.

According to Unhooked: How to Quit Anything by Dr. Frederick Woolverton, a psychologist and addiction specialist in Greenwich Village, and Susan Shapiro, an author, journalist and professor at NYU and The New School, “Addiction is a compulsive reliance on any substance or activity that…is used to alternate emotional states that would otherwise feel intolerable if one did not use.”

Can you not start your morning without a jolt of Joe? Do you check your cell with the frequency and urgency of someone on Obama’s call sheet? Has your workout routine become compulsive (an example of how something healthy can take a turn for the unhealthy)?

What gives Unhooked its credibility is that in it, both authors share their personal stories of addiction and how they used the techniques they write about to unhook themselves. Shapiro, a one-time patient of her co-author, admits to being addicted to book deals (aside from this latest one, she’s published five memoirs and two novels in eight years). Before her career could consume her, she cut back on freelance to do charity work. Most the stories, however, are case studies of Woolverton’s very relatable patients.

Psychobabble-free, Unhooked offers compassionate and common-sense advice. If you’re trying to drop a few pounds, stay out of the bakery. Want to beat gambling? Stop hanging out with those who are “in it to win it.” Then there’s my favorite: Have a get-away excuse at the ready in case you find yourself in the company of people unsupportive of your new lifestyle choice.

Might I add that, for all its major temptations, Manhattan also has a wealth of ways to help yourself: therapists, 12-step programs, hotlines, volunteer opportunities—help yourself by helping others—and classes to redirect your energies, as well as service providers like personal trainers.

There are also some things you can do on your own. Switch from coffee to tea; you may meet a handsome Earl Grey-er. Set the alarm on your cell so you only look at it every 15 minutes. And exchange one of those exercise classes for another that lets you pursue a new interest—ceramics, anyone?

The book also addresses why people relapse, which boils down to never really getting to the bottom of what hole your habit is trying to fill. Woolverton says that after some success staying clean, people will test themselves, wanting to believe they’re in control and can have “just one.” They would probably have better success passing an exam in high school French.

So before you sit down to your nightly, mesmerizing six-hour Facebook routine, decide to make it only three and use the rest of the time to write in a journal, rearrange a closet or read a book (like Unhooked), because nothing will change unless you change something.

Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Bette Dewing

Protecting life and health always tops this column’s mission.

The tragic Christmas morning Stamford, Conn., fire that killed three young sisters and their maternal grandparents prompts an overdue focus on fire-related danger. While unsafe disposal of fireplace embers was the fire’s reported cause, had smoke detectors been installed in the mansion that was under renovation, it might not have been deadly.

The tender age of the three sisters inspired thousands of sympathy “notes” on Facebook. Their grieving uncle wrote, “What my father [the grandfather who died tried to rescue his granddaughter] would be saying now is ‘Keep those smoke detectors in place and working!’” Social media would be truly beneficent if such life- and health-saving concerns were more frequent topics.

Hopefully they will be, if the girls’ devastated parents and other close kindred make fire prevention a worldwide priority. Their bereaved mother, Madonna Badger, is a top New York City ad exec with Badger &Winters, a factor that, along with the age of the three sisters, accounted for the tremendous media coverage that the story received. She has the talent and wherewithal to do just that, as does the girls’ father, Matthew Badger.

Surely no suffering matches that of one who loses a son or daughter at any age; even when parents are separated, no one else understands their grief as well as the other one does. While it may not mend this marriage, these sorrowing parents can be an unbeatable team working together to honor their beloved daughters and their grandparents, Pauline and Lamar Johnson. Also, remembering the grandparents’ recent move east to be near their granddaughters could help the extended family cause.

A little-noted fire danger story warns of the enormous dry Christmas tree hazard, which started a recent fire in a Staten Island home. Oh so miraculously, off-duty firefighter Steve Carl was driving by with his family when he spotted the flames and risked his life to rescue three 60-plus residents. A dog sadly died from smoke inhalation.

So post this urgent warning on Facebook and Twitter: Get those dry Christmas trees out of the house—pronto! Your neighbor’s, too. Fire officials are agreed that dry fir trees and faulty decorative lights start many fires.

But how to stop this diabolical, deliberate murder by fire?

I doubt that much (any?) Facebook attention was paid to Lillian Gillespie, 71, who was torched to death in her Brooklyn apartment house elevator by a disgruntled handyman she had befriended.

Yet, this mother and grandmother daily lived out her church’s “love one another” commandment at home, with neighbors and former post office colleagues. Her abominable killing so deserves an Occupy-type movement against the epidemic of revenge slayings and entertainment violence—evidenced in yet another new ABC series called Revenge! How long, dear Lord, how long?

But here’s the rare movie that can do great good for the elderhood cause; The Iron Lady thankfully includes a hard look at Margaret Thatcher’s elderhood, reflecting the harsh, often cruel and unjust realities of late life in general. A.O.Scott’s New York Times review notes the good fortune of having “cheery-minded professionals” as caregivers, yet Thatcher is mostly alone, sometimes forgetful, with seemingly few visitors. Her daughter comes by sometimes, but “her twin brother, Mark, unseen in the film, is far away in Africa, the distance emphasizing his mother loneliness and isolation.”

It’s the commonplace loneliness and isolation of elderhood stories that must get out there—and on Facebook and Twitter, too.

dewingbetter@aol.com 

By Alan S. Chartock

If I were these people, I would make the following resolutions:

Gov. Andrew Cuomo: I resolve to clean up the Democratic conference in the State Senate by backing good, progressive, honest Democratic candidates rather than collaborating with the Republicans. I vow to remember that in 2016 I will be running for president of the United States, and some Democrats will have long memories and accuse me of being a bad Democrat. I will keep my distance from Rupert Murdoch—people are beginning to talk. Speaking of talking, before my run for president, I really have to get some coaching about my regional dialect.

Democratic Assembly Speaker Sheldon Silver: I resolve to keep on keeping on. Even under the worst kind of fire, I have kept my progressive principles and supported the things that brought me to the Legislature in the first place: helping people with education, health care and the environment. Speaking of the environment, I resolve to put a stop to the hydrofracking nonsense. Finally, I have to give way on the redistricting mess. It really isn’t right for me to draw lines that maximize my chances to control the Assembly, and I know it. After all, there are so many Democrats in the state that we can’t lose. The Republicans, on the other hand, really do have something to worry about.

Republican Senate Majority Leader Dean Skelos: I resolve to play fair. People are getting tired of my flip-flopping on things like a fair reapportionment plan. I realize that it is probably the only way I can preserve my majority, but do I really want to be known forever as “The Man Who Perverted Democracy”? There’s also a cynical notion going around that I’d buy off some dissident Democrats in order to stay in power. Pretty soon, voters will have a really bad taste in their mouths. On the one hand, I keep telling people that this is coalition government at its best; on the other, I make sure that the Democrats in the Senate are not allowed to participate in the process.

New York State Democratic Minority Leader John Sampson: I resolve to stand tall and share power with people of all persuasions in my conference, not hog power for a select few of my colleagues. I will throw out any clown in my Senate Democratic conference who even sounds corrupt. I resolve to never, ever be pushed around by thugs like Pedro Espada, Hiram Monserrate or Carl Kruger. I realize now that once the stink gets on you, it can never be washed off.

Sen. Chuck Schumer: I resolve to never, ever give the appearance that I would use my clout to get my brother-in-law a federal judgeship.

Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand: I resolve to raise more money in a shorter time than anyone else in the Senate. Hey, if that’s the way this game is played, that’s what I have to do. I didn’t write the rules. I resolve not to give the suckers back undue influence for what I have raised.

Hillary Clinton: I resolve to be the most admired woman in the United States, again.

Arthur Ochs Sulzberger Jr.: No matter what it takes, I resolve to keep the world’s best newspaper, the New York Times, afloat.

President Barack Obama: I will read Jean Edward Smith’s superb biography, FDR. I will study every page carefully. I will emulate FDR’s love of the game and his guts. I will defend our Social Security program to the end—ditto Medicare. I will take my message to the people. I will recapture the spirit of the last presidential campaign and this time I will do what I promised.

The Occupy movement: We will stick with our agenda and bring the message about financial and political corruption to the people. It will be our mission to tell people what they ought to know about our banks and financial institutions.

Alan S. Chartock is president and CEO of WAMC/Northeast Public Radio and an executive publisher at The Legislative Gazette.

By Jeanne Martinet

At first, I was shaking in my boots. I had been about to plunge into my usual last-minute holiday shopping when the friend I was going with bailed on me. Who wants to negotiate the teeming hordes alone or try to make quick decisions on items without another eye to help? It’s like running a marathon all by yourself. But then I reminded myself that solo shopping can also be the best shopping.

It was when I was shopping for bathing suits last summer that I had my shopping epiphany (if one can have an epiphany about shopping): There is really no such thing as shopping alone if you are willing to open up to strangers.

Shopping for bathing suits, if you are a woman, is like being held hostage in a tiny, airless room with harsh lighting and being forced to confront all your deepest, darkest, ugliest secrets. The small room is the store dressing room and the secrets are what has happened to your body over the past year.

I was out of town, shopping by myself and feeling unhappy about not having anyone to help me in my pursuit of the perfect suit. I was even more unhappy that the only good mirror was outside the dressing room, forcing me to display myself to other shoppers. But soon I began to notice another woman coming in and out of her own dressing room, also trying on suits. I could tell she was in the same state of mind as me. “How do you think this looks?” I ventured to ask her.

“I liked you in the other one better, the blue one,” she said. “That one really looked terrific on you.”

She was polite, the way a stranger would be. But hers was also an entirely objective opinion, maybe even more than a friend’s would have been. A friend might have taken into account my particular insecurities and usual clothing preferences. She might have even rushed me so we could get to lunch. And while talking to salespeople can be enjoyable, the honesty of store employees can never be entirely trusted. I gave this fellow bathing suit shopper my opinion on her selections, she on mine, and we were both successful and happy. I left with two great suits.

Not only can solo shopping be more efficient—you can focus on your own purchases—but it is also rewarding the same way traveling alone can be. When you travel alone, you are forced to engage with people you don’t know. It’s good to think of the other shoppers in the store as fellow travelers. I know it’s my mantra, but interacting with strangers is broadening to the mind and beneficial to the spirit.

OK, so shopping the week before Christmas may not be exactly “broadening,” what with all of the jostling and standing in line and having to witness the occasional shopper’s meltdown (“I came all the way down here and you’re out of f***ing stock?!”) And there is no great joy in being stuck in crowds. But you know, some fun parties are like that too, right? And aren’t they worth it in the end?

Of course, holiday shopping “mingling” can be difficult because people are tired, frustrated and stressed. But if you can avoid the occasional raging shopper, the rest of the world can be your shopping comrades-in-arms. “Do you think an 8-year-old would like this cobra piggy bank?” you might ask someone. Or “Do you think my mother would like this apron with ‘Your opinion is not in the recipe’ on it?” When you find someone in a store with whom to compare gift choices and ideas—let’s face it, you are not going to be able to find a salesperson anyway—it can be really fun.

Mostly, it is satisfying to talk with other people because it makes you realize you are not alone. You are not the only person who has to buy presents for 15 people in three days or has a crazy aunt for whom it’s impossible to shop. You are not the only person who is worried about the money she is spending. You are not the only person who hates the days leading up to Christmas.

And you are not the only person who doesn’t get everything done. If you didn’t find that special clipboard with the LED light on it for your father, don’t fret. Just put it on the list for next year. It’s much more important that you stopped to chat with some of your fellow overconsumers along your merry way.

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Read her blog at MissMingle.com.