Mary Novaria

I'm currently mortified because I didn't send thank you notes after my birthday this year. The flowers have long since drooped and died, but other presents -- a couple of gift cards, an adult coloring book (very Zen), a cuff bracelet -- are tangible reminders of my negligence. It's not like me and I feel guilty. It's not that I'm not grateful. I am. And I was raised better than to blow off this time-honored tradition and most basic piece of etiquette. My mom drilled into me as soon as I could write, it seems, the importance of acknowledging a gift-giver's thoughtfulness and generosity. After every Christmas and birthday she provided me with stationery, stamps and addresses, and hounded me until I wrote my notes. The year she gave me sealing wax and a brass stamp with an "M" on it I couldn't wait to get to the task so I could light the deep red wax like a candle and watch, mesmerized, as it dripped onto the back of the envelopes. I'm gratef...

As seen in the Huffington Post. One of the most humbling things about my kids growing up is realizing that I still have growing up to do myself. I'm a reluctant empty nester. And while I'll always be my kids' mom, having the chicks out of the roost and on their own means I've had to adjust the way I parent. Contrary to the hardwired inclinations that tempt me to coddle and meddle, I'm learning to stay out of their way and let them live their lives as the adults they've become. It's not easy. Sometimes I want to have a tantrum. I swear yesterday I was driving the middle school carpool, but suddenly, somehow, both of my children are in their 20s. They also live 2,000 and 1,600 miles away, which, while gut wrenching at times, just might make it easier for me to live and let live and more difficult for me to become a stalker. This way, I can't drive by to see if their cars are in the driveway, show up with a healthy lunch at their workplace or intro...

This piece first appeared in the Huffington Post.  This is my fifteenth Father's Day without my dad. He died of heart failure four days before St. Patrick's Day, a couple of months shy of his 79th birthday, and after a year of hospice care. He took his last breath quite peacefully while I sat by his bedside with my mother and Seamus, my parents' big, fluffy, orange and white cat. I was stunned by how clear it was that my father's spirit had left his body. Only his earthly container remained. A shell of him lay still and quiet and cool on the bed ... but he was gone. And so was a family history I'd neglected to plumb.  Some people seem to be supernaturally connected to loved ones who've gone on to the great beyond. Not so for me. Oh, I can imagine what my father might say or think about something, what movies he'd like to see, or what books he'd be reading if he were still here. And I've wondered how much he might know about our earthly lives h...

This piece first appeared in the Huffington Post. (Posted 10/22/2014)  I am the cyber equivalent of the lady who's rescued too many cats, collected too many tchotchkes and saved years worth of newspapers and magazines. That's right. I am an email hoarder. I love my technology. I just don't know how to tame it, and most of what I'm getting is from virtual strangers -- literally and figuratively -- and these strangers aren't sexy and intriguing like Scarlett Johansson in  Her . While a 2011 study  (Frost, Steketee and Tolin ) found 18 percent of hoarders actually have OCD -- Obsessive Compulsive Disorder -- I believe mine is caused by FOMO -- Fear Of Missing Out. What if I miss a two-for-one offer on pears or chocolate covered strawberries... or the chance to win dinner with the President if I donate today... or worse, the latest celebrity breakup? My email got this way because I can't say no. Sign up for our newsletter? Sure! Receiv...

This piece appeared March 12, 2014 in the Huffington Post. I was almost run over crossing the street the other day. Near misses happen in my busy neighborhood with alarming frequency, but this one came perilously close to flattening me -- closer even than the day a motorcycle drove right up onto the sidewalk. Despite the broad yellow stripes indicating a pedestrian crosswalk and the familiar, red, octagonal sign painted STOP, it was obvious the woman in the Mercedes SUV wasn't going to. When I halted in the middle of the street, she finally glanced my way and hit the brakes. "Oh, I didn't see you," she said, unremorsefully as she rolled down her window. "I was just looking straight ahead." (Didn't we learn in Driver's Ed to look both ways before proceeding into an intersection?) "You didn't even come to a complete stop," I scolded, with upturned palms. And that's when I heard the voice of a jogging stranger. "Aw...