Monday:

Why don’t you get a memento mori tattoo to remind yourself that your time on the planet is fleeting and that the grave awaits? Ever since I adjusted to having multiple sclerosis, I’ve known that this is something I need inked into my body. I want it on my thigh, where all the stupidity started, about the size of a playing card. It will show a skeleton holding up a champagne flute and looking all ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and it’s going to be fabulous. I have several ideas for the look, I just need to get it designed and done. You all should remember that you’ll die. I didn’t think I would for decades, but I know better now.

Tuesday:

Why don’t you buy every cookbook ever published by Ina Garten, more commonly known as The Barefoot Contessa? I’m a total ho for Martha Stewart and Julia Child, but gentle reader, I will readily admit that nobody puts together a better cookbook than Ina. They are fabulous. And the recipes are always successes. I can’t tell you how many times I have cooked something from some book of cookery only to let it go to waste. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way with Ina. Start with Baretfoot in Paris. There is this divine salad dressing that is too simple but too delicious. Then there’s an eggplant gratin that makes me swoon. Her next book, Cooking for Jeffrey, comes out next month, and I’ve already got it on preorder. Cook like a contessa, reader.

Wednesday:

Why don’t you add ricotta cheese to everything? I didn’t do this until the other day, but now I can’t get enough. And, if you go to ALDI, you can get some delicious whole milk ricotta on the cheap. I’ve swirled it into soups, slapped it inside of omelettes, used it to finish off a plate of sumptuously roasted vegetables, and more. It enriches everything I add it to and adds a certain je ne sais quoi. I won’t ever live again without a ready supply of ricotta. It’s replaced my reliance on heavy cream. I doubt either are healthy, but I can’t say that I really care. It’s so tasty!

Thursday:

Why don’t you demand a filmed release of the play, Blithe Spirit, with Angela Lansbury? There is no finer theatrical performance, reader, but I’m sure I needn’t tell you again. I’ve repeatedly gushed about the magic of seeing Angela up there on the stage doing a weird parody of the “Dance Like an Egyptian” song as she scuttled across the stage in the midst of a paranormal possession. IT IS DIVINITY. And, now that it seems that my queen is no longer planning to return to Broadway, it’s so important to preserve this magnificent show on film. I want it streaming through Netflix by year’s end. Demand this, readers. I have.

Friday:

Why don’t you hire somebody to work for you in a domestic fashion? Nobody has butlers or maids these days, and I find that tragic. If I should ever have children — and the sweet lord knows that is unlikely — they will most certainly grow up with staff. I mean, in these dire economic times, it is basically a service to the nation to support the unemployed by having them scrub your bathrooms and trim your trees. If I made more money, this is probably the first thing I’d do. I still might.