It's natural to worry about an inheritance when an older parent remarries, even when the new spouse is closer in age than Anna Nicole Smith, 26, was to Howard Marshall, 89, who died a year after they wed. Smith tried for a hefty share of her late husband's estate.

Angela, a middle-aged owner of a small business, heard recently that her 89-year-old father Charles was getting married to Mary, his 78-year-old girlfriend.  Angela’s reaction? While genuinely happy for her dad, she also felt fear, because she was worried that her inheritance was in jeopardy.

A few weeks ago I asked Sandwich Lady readers to send in their stories about aging parents’ remarriages.  A few shared very frank thoughts about their mixed feelings.  It took years for Marilyn, one reader, to come to terms with her dad’s four marriages.  Another reader, VeggieSandwichGeneration, wrote that “There was a new woman in our space and she struggled to let us into what she didn’t realize, or didn’t care, had been our space prior to that.”

“I think in our heart of hearts we all want the best for our parents, just as parents want for their children,” wrote Amy, whose dad married her mother’s best friend. “It is when the things that our parents find to be best for them are different from that picture of the ideal, engrained into us from childhood, that it is difficult to know how to proceed with the new course of things.”

Along with gathering these insights from Sandwich Lady readers I also have spoken informally to some friends and acquaintances whose parents remarried at a late age. One is Angela, who was brave enough to wander into dangerous territory and talk about money if I disguised her name.  I suspect many other midlife children secretly worry about their inheritance  — and feel a lot of shame about it afterwards — when their parents take another spouse late in life.

Angela, who is childless and never married, said that Charles began dating his girlfriend Mary just five months after the death of his wife.  “Dad told me when Mom died that he was going to go downhill,” Angela recalled.  But less than half a year later, he was dating again.

Her octogenarian dad changed from dejected to dashing, and Angela was genuinely happy to see Charles have a new zest for life.  Charles and Mary moved in together, and the couple began traveling and socializing with friends. “I couldn’t have thought of anybody who was more perfect for my dad,” Angela said. “She even was a better companion to him than my mom in some ways.”

But when Charles announced in January he and Mary would be getting married (“I’m afraid of what the neighbors think about us living together,” he confided to his daughter), some unwelcome thoughts began to bubble up in Angela’s mind.  As she put it:  “I really do need an inheritance.  I’ve been single all my life.  Dad knows this and I am hoping he will still take care of me.”

Angela grew even more concerned when she asked her father when he and Mary would tie the knot, and he said, “I don’t know…I have to complete some legal work first.”  She was hoping that he was talking about a pre-nuptial agreement but can’t be sure.  To make matters worse, Charles refused to elaborate.

Charles has never been upfront about his finances, even when he was married to Angela’s mother.  The mother controlled most of the money and didn’t share much information either. “My parents would never discuss money when we were growing up,” Angela recalls.  “We didn’t know if we were poor or rich.  They held their cards so close to the chest.”

Mary has children of her own, as well as property that she acquired during her first marriage.  Angela is guessing that a pre-nup would benefit Mary as well.  But nobody is talking and she can’t be sure.

Many might argue that aging parents have the right to spend all of their money if they so choose, and nobody should rely on an inheritance as a financial lifeboat.  Even a few older people embrace this idea – look at the thousands of bumper stickers that announce, “I’m spending my children’s inheritance.” I remember one acquaintance who once told everyone that “When I die, I want to have just enough money to pay the guy who shovels the last shovel of dirt.”

Yet I can’t help but feel sad for Angela, who has struggled to build something for herself without a husband and was counting on an inheritance.  She is not unlike the aging spouse who gets jettisoned for a trophy wife, but without any divorce laws that provide for her.  I think that Charles should at least share his plans with her so she can know where she stands.

Many midlife people worry about leaving something to their children, especially in an era when young people are having such a hard time amassing wealth of their own.  Estate lawyers get very rich showing us how to preserve as much as our nest egg as possible for our heirs. And I suspect nearly every middle-aged person also wonders how much their parents are leaving them in their will, even if they never bring it up.

Of course, unforeseen circumstances can eat away at an inheritance:  a costly illness, a nursing home stay, tax code changes, a weakened Social Security system that requires that older people draw down more of their own savings just to get by.  And yes, a new spouse can be one of those unknowns as well.  So can an aging parent’s preference to enjoy more of their hard-earned money.

Angela says she is happy that Charles has found love again, and feels a lot of “shame and guilt” when she worries about her inheritance.  Still, she can’t help worrying and Charles’ silence is not helping.

I think that the baby boomers need to start the difficult conversation about inheritances.  We need to share our own estate plans with our kids (indeed, we need to HAVE a plan first..How many of us don’t?)  Aging parents need to be up-front about what their heirs can expect, even if it means being frank about their plans to spend all their money, as is their right.  And all parties should bear in mind that there are no guarantees.

I cannot tell a lie...this is the best pie ever, for President's Day or any time.

For decades, my Aunt Rita gave my dad a totally-made-from-scratch cherry pie every Washington’s birthday/Presidents Day.

Her pies had that classic, homemade character, without that machine-made look you get even in a decent bakery pie.  The lattice was pleasing but not precise; the thick crust around the rim bore her knuckle’s imprint; a crescent of cooked, dark red filling usually oozed over part of the edge and congealed.  We always hated to disturb the pie’s homespun beauty by cutting into it, but that fleeting thought usually lasted just a few seconds.

A culinary Olympian, Aunt Rita used only canned sour cherries, sugar, cornstarch and almond extract in her filling. The filling was sweet but not overly so. This commitment to making the filling from scratch never wavered, even when the supermarkets began offering jars of ready-made fillings — those cloyingly sweet, impossibly red mixtures with a few dozen cherries floating around like shipwreck victims awaiting rescue.

Rita’s crust was also homemade, and she always nailed that finicky balance of flour and shortening.  The crust was latticed on top, flaky but with a small core of chewiness under the thick rim.  That soft part under the thick circumference was my favorite part, especially when some pie filling stuck to it. I’d dip that thick crust in whatever filling remained, like using Italian bread to mop up those last drops of sauce.

While Aunt Rita was a purist in the old days, over the years she became more practical.  Partly in response to the jaw-dropping price for a can of sour cherries, she has tweaked her traditional recipe.  Now her filling is a happy mix of two cans of sour cherries — cooked with sugar, cornstarch and almond extract — and a jar or can of the pre-made cherry pie filling.  Can’t say it takes any less time, and making one of these will still set you back at least $12, but it is chock-full of cherries, sweet but not too sweet, and beats those store-bought pies anytime.  And while you can substitute your favorite homemade pie crust for this, I am happy to report that even Aunt Rita, who is now 90, has given that up for a good ready-made crust.   But after making my own (see photo here) with a Pillsbury ready-made crust, I suggest going for the full Monty and making your own…it does taste better.

So this President’s Day, bake up this pie for your first family, or for a cabinet of your dearest friends.

Cherry Pie

2 cans tart cherries, drained (save the juice)

1 jar (21-23 oz.) prepared cherry pie filling

1 cup cherry juice (from the canned cherries)

1 cup sugar

¼ cup corn starch

6 drops red food coloring

4 drops almond extract

2 prepared unbaked pie crusts (your own recipe or ready made)

1 T butter, unsalted

Milk, for brushing the crust (optional)

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Mix sugar and cornstarch.  Put in saucepan along with 1 cup cherry juice; and stir well and cook over medium heat until thick and clear.  Add red food coloring and almond extract and stir.  Let cool, then combine with tart cherries and prepared cherry pie filling.  Line a 9-inch glass pie pan with one of the prepared unbaked pie crusts, and pour in cherry mixture.  Dot with butter and make a lattice from the second crust (Weave the lattice on a piece of wax paper, then invert onto top of pie and peel away the paper.)  Crimp edges with your knuckles.  Brush top crust with milk if desired.  Bake 50 minutes to an hour, checking frequently, until golden brown.  Cover the perimeter with a strip of foil if the crust begins to brown too much.

Makes 8 servings.

This morning I learned that Words with Friends has has helped several formerly-random opponents to fall in love! Here is the Wall Street Journal’s wonderful story about it, just in time for Valentine’s Day.

The phenomenon shows the power of social media, which apparently now includes games as well as internet dating sites such as match.com, in bringing people together.  While my husband and I met the “analog” way — working side by side at the school newspaper at Penn State — I have to say that Words With Friends has definitely spiced things up.  It is the only time we are truly ruthless with each other, allowing us to indulge a totally competitive side that never permeates our other interactions.  This morning we gave each other wonderful goofy hand-made Valentines.

And while I am happily married and not looking for love, I have enjoyed meeting new WWF friends who have been great competitors.  Thanks to JaggedCell, georgegeorgegeorge and lanceshaubert for some terrific games.

Jeffrey Zaslow (right), who died yesterday, with Randy Pausch (left), the Carnegie Mellon professor whose "Last Lecture," delivered shortly before he died from pancreatic cancer, was immortalized in a Wall Street Journal story that Zazlow wrote.

Saddened to hear that Jeffrey Zaslow, the Wall Street Journal reporter who immortalized Randy Pausch’s “Last Lecture,” died yesterday.  Tragically, his car went off course on a snowy street and crashed into a truck.

Zaslow covered Pausch’s last lecture, bringing the Carnegie Mellon professor and his life philosophy to international renown.  Pausch died of pancreatic cancer in 2008 but not before he gave us some wonderful guidelines for living our lives — guidelines that found their way to a worldwide audience thanks to Zaslow:

“Brick walls are there for a reason. They let us prove how badly we want things.”

“Wait long enough, and people will surprise and impress you.”

“If your kids want to paint their bedrooms, as a favor to me, let ‘em do it.”

In a field in which covering money, power and politics is considered the pinnacle of one’s career, Zaslow never lost sight of what was really important.  He deployed his jaw-dropping writing talent to spotlight not only Pausch but also many other “soft” topics — such as fathers who tuck notes into their daughters’ lunchboxes, and the sadness he felt when he saw the wrecking ball demolish a stadium he loved in his youth.  In a world thirsty for real heroes (and not just celebrities with savvy public relations advisors), he helped write biographies of two: “Sully” Sullenberger, the pilot who safely landed his plane in the Hudson River, and former Congresswoman Gabby Giffords.

His reporting was thorough, honest and heartfelt without being mawkish.  It appealed to both blue-state cynics and the red-state family values crowd.  And in a world preoccupied with billionaire tax returns, Mideast tribal warfare and the latest Kardashian capers, Zaslow wrote about what was really important.

I’ve read that many fathers, powerful men, started writing lunchbox notes to their daughters after reading his column about it.  Imagine the hundreds of women who will now have higher standards for the men in their lives because of this.  And on a broader scale, imagine the many thousands if not millions of people who’ve vowed to follow their dreams, work harder, believe in themselves and be better spouses, friends and parents because Zaslow introduced them to Pausch’s ideas.

One nagging question is how Zaslow found a platform at the Wall Street Journal, a newspaper that celebrates money, power and the ruthless people who pursue it.  Especially in the past few years, as part of Rupert Murdoch’s empire, the Journal has moved so far to the right that I barely recognize it any more.  I think it’s a testament to the power of Zaslow’s writing that he was able to command a following from this unlikely base.  And while I hate the fact that the Journal has become such a mouthpiece for the right wing, I am glad that they recognized the value of Zaslow’s type of reporting.

I often get disheartened when I watch the news.  We have so many ways to get it now, but the focus never wavers from bad news and sensationalism.  The anchors and reporters are blow-dried, focus-group-tested, strident and often righteous. Some deliver the news in an aggrieved voice and I always wait for an eyebrow to arch up, involuntarily signaling where they stand. I especially hate when a group of panelists try to out-shout one another.  It gives me a headache.

We need more reporters like Zaslow – people who are willing to train the spotlight on what’s right with the world, and on people who show us how to live, with both journalistic rigor and gentleness.  RIP, Jeffrey Zaslow.

Indolence is an underrated virtue. In small doses it can fortify us for our demanding lives. I totally recommend it as an occasional tonic, like a juice fast or a massage. This early 1900s painting is by Frank Markham Skipworth and totally summed up my mood yesterday.

The happiest people, I’ve been told, have a sense of purpose: a mission they are passionate about, children to care for, a class to teach, a milestone to reach. They are energetic and industrious, unable or unwilling to stay still. They have things to accomplish every day, and a brightly burning drive to fill their plate with things that have to get done.

Inertia has always been my greatest enemy. Once I overcome it I can keep going like the Energizer Bunny. That’s why each morning, after finishing my third mug of coffee, my comfy fleece robe starts to feel like chain mail, protecting me from the needling tasks ahead yet weighing me down. So fearlessly I cast it off, dress for the day and keep going…until mid-evening when my battery runs out the second I sink into the couch and disturb its throw pillows for the first time in 21 hours.

But yesterday I tried an experiment: a full day of being a total load.

The idea was hard for me, because my entire adult life I’ve always had a job and/or small children to give me a reason to get out of bed and keep moving. Even our vacation days were usually spent going someplace or getting ready for a holiday or guests. The idea of a day of indolence conjured up images of frowsy, depressed women in Snuggies or shirtless, unemployed men in drawstring sweatpants, drinking Mountain Dew and watching As The World Turns, Beavis & Butthead, and commercials for tech schools and personal injury lawyers.

Yet on the occasions when I’ve been sick, or when a storm forced us to cancel plans and handed us a windfall of time, I secretly relished having an excuse to do nothing. So yesterday, after a morning walk with my friend Jane, I decided that I would live the rest of the day like a total load, by choice.

After some time reading the New York Times online and playing Words With Friends, I fortified myself for an undemanding afternoon by making tomato soup and a Panini of sourdough bread and cheese. With my insides sedated under a blanket of carbs, and dressed in my fleece shirt and loose jeans with an extra few percentages of lycra, I sank into the couch and reached for the television clicker. Hundreds of channels but nothing I really wanted to watch. So I powered up the laptop and found the web site for PBS, and spent more than four hours catching up with “Downton Abbey.”

While the first episode demanded some attention, by the next one I had caught onto the story line and let the characters, the scenery, the plotting and back-stabbing carry me away. I even went to the PBS page to get a synopsis of season 1 and to rate the characters – how likable or despicable they were. (O’Brien, Thomas and Vera got the lowest grades.)

“Shouldn’t you be blogging or something?” asked my husband, up for a break from his normal 10-hour day.

The phone rang a few times, flashing familiar numbers on the caller ID, but I didn’t bother to answer. Even interacting with humans was more effort than I wanted to make right now. The only time I rose was to brew some tea and to look in the refrigerator. I found some homemade peanut butter cups, made by a friend who came to our SuperBowl get-together, and ate one, a little bit at a time. I kept the sharp knife at the ready so I could carve off a little piece whenever the mood struck. By an hour later I had consumed the hockey-puck sized treat.

John came home from school and I barely asked him about his day, so deep was my chocolate coma and my absorption into the World War I-era romances and scandals of Downton Abbey. I took a break from my indolence to quiz him in social studies for a test, to drive him to wrestling practice, sip a glass of wine and warm up some meatballs for dinner. The rest of the evening I lay on the couch, talked on the phone and watched more Downton Abbey. It went so fast and before you know it, it was time for bed.

Today I am looking at a list of jobs to do, things I need to accomplish before the end of the day. But I look back at yesterday without a shred of regret, although I doubt I could live that that all the time. Sometimes the best way to power up is to power down, to push “control/alt/delete” and forcibly shut down all those simultaneously-running tasks. My energies thus re-booted, I am ready for whatever the day brings.

This album cover from The Who in the 1960s was prophetic -- they have sold out more than any other classic rock band, shilling for several car companies.

The Superbowl comes in five days.  Along with anticipating the epic battle of the Pats vs. the Giants, we also look forward to the equally epic commercials.

No doubt at least one of them will feature a song from the 1960s or 70s, especially if the target market includes middle-aged people with expanded waistlines and wallets.  Watching the ad will take us back to a time when we were skinny and rebellious and cool, and we will feel wistful and nostalgic.

Does anybody else feel a little discomfited when a former rock/counterculture/youth anthem turns commercial?  It’s like seeing your high school crush walking the streets in the red light district, or working at Walmart.  Even Ferris Bueller, who epitomized coolness for those who grew up in the 80s, gets spoofed in a Honda ad on Sunday.  (The ad is brilliant, by the way.)

Indeed, most of these ads are brilliant – we watch because they dazzle us with 21^st-century special effects, even as they make us nostalgic with songs from 40 years ago.  Michael Bay directed the Chevy commercial featuring Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride.” It’s impossible to stop watching.

Yet seeing Led Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll” in a Cadillac commercial (which during Led Zeppelin’s heydey was a car for gangsters and 70-year-olds) feels sad and crass. Almost as sad as seeing Robert Vaughn (the actor who played “Napoleon Solo” in the 1960s TV hit “The Man From U.N.C.L.E.”) shilling for a personal injury law firm on late-night TV.  The Who – which had a 60s album entitled “The Who Sell Out,” have sold out big time, lending their songs to Nissan, Saab and even Hummer.  In a real ironic twist, their song “I Can See For Miles,” from “The Who Sell Out” was co-opted by Sylvania for a headlights ad.

Even one of my favorite songs from the psychedelic 60s – Status Quo’s “Pictures of Matchstick Men,” a 45 record that became scratched from my overuse — showed up in an ad for Target last summer.

Maybe advertisers want to give their product some edge with people who are no longer edgy by reminding them of when they were.  The ads rewind us to the thresholds of our adulthood, when we had loads of time and anything was possible, and when we’d scurry to the record store and scan the cubbies of 45s for the latest AM radio hit.

So here’s a list of some of my favorite sellout songs, with a few links to the ads that have forever tarnished their memory…songs that stirred me as a teenager and young adult and that now remind me of how quickly the years have passed.  I’ve also included two sellouts from newer bands.  I first heard these on a commercial and liked them enough to download the entire songs.

So I guess it can work both ways.  Maybe the ads will introduce a new generation of listeners to some great classic rock, and give them one more thing to talk about with their parents.

Please add to this list!  And for more reading about the intriguing topic of music in TV commercials, visit this excellent blog, musicontv.

My List of Top Colossal Sellouts

“All Together Now” by The Beatles (Cover version, for Budweiser)

“Won’t Get Fooled Again,” by The Who (for Nissan)

“Do Ya,” by ELO (for Monster.com)

“Happy Together” by the Turtles (for Heineken and others)

“Magic Carpet Ride” by Steppenwolf (for Chevy)

“Vertigo” by U2 (for Apple)

“Picture Book,” by the Kinks (for Hewlett Packard)

“Pictures of Matchstick Men,” by the Status Quo (for Target)

And two newbies:

“Chelsea Dagger,” by The Fratellis (for Amstel Beer)

“How You Like Me Now,” by The Heavy (for Kia)

Jack, left, with his best friend Bobby and his daughters Jeanne (top left) and Sheila. Jack and Bobby have been friends for more than six decades and have kept each other company as Jack battles pancreatic cancer.

Most of us thankfully can depend on family members to support us day in and day out during the worst of times. How many of us have at least one great friend who will do the same?

Last week I spent time with Jack and Bobby, a pair of 74-year-old buddies whose friendship started in second grade and never waned. Now Jack is dying of pancreatic cancer, and while he has a loving family, the visits from his old buddy cheer him the most. My story about their friendship was published in the Marlborough Enterprise.

Like the Kennedy legends with the same first names, Jack and Bobby were often inseparable. The brotherly bond between the two men – a bond that has stayed strong despite competition from their large families, busy careers and many other commitments – got me thinking about how our childhood and young adult friendships evolve as we grow older. The bonds that we forged so long ago never go away, but they become rusty and forgotten as other relationships and commitments divert us. The occasional email or holiday card reawakens fond old memories – the whispered secrets at a pajama party, the long sob-fests following a heartbreak, the rum-soaked revelry at a shared beach house — but we tend to move on when the Christmas cards are thrown away and our lives intervene.

That didn’t happen for Jack and Bobby. I think one reason is that they both stayed in the same community except for the time they served in the Marines. But there’s something more: both frankly admit that the pain of being in troubled families made them cling to each other emotionally from the beginning.

Both spoke of the need to escape their parents’ drinking problems and fighting at home, when they were just little kids. Bobby said they both had plenty of other friends, but Jack was the only one who understood what he was going through. As the years went on they remained there for each other – chipping in for gas, doing home improvement projects together, serving as honorary uncles to their growing families, helping each other to be better fathers because they wanted their own kids to have a better family life than they did.

And in their twilight years, they drove each other to the hospital for surgeries, checkups, chemotherapy. Over the past few weeks Bobby has been sitting beside Jack’s hospital bed, sharing stories about boot camp and making him laugh.

If we’re lucky we have buddies like this in our lives. I feel blessed to have my own great friends, some of whom go back to toddlerhood. Others are our neighbors, book club friends, college friends, work friends, terrific adults we met when our children became friends. We trade gossip and child-rearing tips, watch the big game together, bring them casseroles when they are sick, pick up their children at school when they’re stuck. We are there for each other.

Still, no matter how great a friend we try to be, we can always be inspired by the depth of Jack and Bobby’s friendship. It was forged in their childhood pain and it has sustained them in good times and bad over more than six decades. It will continue even after Jack draws his last breath.

Jack’s daughter Jeannie says, “We take good care of him but there’s nothing like the emotional support he gets from Bob. We value him as a dad but having Bob here validates him as somebody else.”

OK, as a new honoree I need to do several things. First is thank those who nominated me. Kevin, from voicesofglass.com, is chronicling his journey back from mental illness and is one of the bravest bloggers I’ve met. Trippingdifferently.com is a very enthralling blog about the life of a Singaporean family living in Switzerland (where we, too, have family, in Geneva.) Thank you both!

I also need to share seven random facts about myself, so here goes:
1. I have six children and stepchildren, including two beautiful daughters named Rachel.
2. Kraft macaroni and cheese is a guilty pleasure.
3. I can’t remember what you told me yesterday but am a savant with lyrics to obscure rock songs and B-sides.
4. At age 4, I got a safety pin stuck between my teeth.
5. I love playing Beatles on the piano. My 13-year-old son just learned to accompany me with his trombone on “Got to Get You into My Life” and my heart is bursting with joy.
6. I am married to a brilliant, kind, funny and hardworking man who also does my dishes.
7. I am outwardly neat but my closets are a disaster.  This is a metaphor for many other facets of my life.

Finally, I’d like to pass this award along to 15 wonderful bloggers! Here goes:

http://lifewithblondie.wordpress.com/

http://veggiesandwichgeneration.wordpress.com/

http://mostlybrightideas.wordpress.com/

http://youarenotsosmart.com/about/

http://raisingmyrainbow.com/

http://pastaprincessandmore.wordpress.com

http://afterthecommercial.wordpress.com

http://mushandmarzi.com/

http://lanceschaubert.org/

http://whatweatetodayuk.com/

http://thefoolishtruth.com

http://torilynn42.wordpress.com/

http://mikaleebyerman.wordpress.com/

http://nonstepmom.wordpress.com/

http://robinhardman.wordpress.com/

One does not "get out of" this Rolls; one "emerges" from it.

Going to the New England Car Show in Boston last weekend was like going to a huge family reunion. Within each clan – the Chevys, the Volvos, the Fords, the exotic relatives from Italy and Germany – one could see see how each bloodline has evolved over the years.

Some of these newborn models don’t look anything like the ancestors that I remember from my more than four decades of driving and noticing cars. (The Mustang is a happy exception). The car companies probably want it that way, as they tweak their designs and their marketing to appeal to a new generation of car buyers. Along with adding new features, they surely study the emotional attachments that people have to their cars and the psychology behind their buying decisions.

But as we grow older, does anybody else have a hard time shaking long-engrained images of a brand?

Sexy car; not so sexy brand name (Dodge).

No matter what kinds of sleek new designs the company unveils, the brand name “Dodge” still evokes the image of a car that your least-favorite teacher used to drive in the early 70s. It sounds too much like “stodgy.” Dodge had a sweet-looking retro version of the Charger at the auto show, and it did attract a lot of onlookers. But it is still a Dodge.

I think Dodge should create a brand new subsidiary to make cars with a cooler-sounding name and hide the fact that they own it, like Gallo did with their “Turning Leaf” wines.

Our son Jesse spent a lot of time around the Volvos, since he owns three vintage models. The brand attracts a large and devoted brand of aficionados like Jesse, who likes to tinker with them and can do most of the repairs himself. (Jesse has been a motorhead since birth, often going to sleep with a Matchbox car clutched in each hand.) But the Volvo will forever remind me of the middle-class suburban Philadelphia neighborhood where I once lived. When a new Volvo appeared in a neighbor’s garage, usually a move to a tonier swim club came around the same time, and the for-sale sign went up in front of the small house about a year later. The Volvo was the harbinger of a new, more comfortable financial stage, like a pre-teen boy’s jump in shoe size just before he grows taller.

BMW will always be the first word in the phrase “-driving yuppie scum.” My least favorite executive at the company where I once worked drove one. His second trophy wife was usually with him. Even though my beloved brother-in-law has one I can’t shake that first image.

Toyotas and Hondas seem to be the vehicles for the proletariat; solid, dependable and unglamorous. But I have a special attachment to Toyota because my dad drove them 20 years ago; they were more glamorous back then, especially the Cressida. It was a far cry from the old Pontiac Rambler station wagon that he once drove, later announcing that it was “the worst car I’ve ever owned.”

This car reminds me of the Calgon bath oil beads commercial when a lady takes a bath in a tub in her back seat.

The Hyundais, which a few years ago had a pretty tinny image, has been making cars that are both solid and stylish now (full disclosure: I drive one.) Their new luxury “Equus” is so big that the back seat includes an adjustable footrest. It reminds me of that old Calgon bath oil beads commercial when the lady takes a luxurious bath in a tub under the floor of her back seat. She presses one button to draw a curtain and give her privacy from her chauffeur; and another to retract the floor over the tub.

The Rolls-Royce Phantom, the nearly $500,000 car on display at the car show, reminded me of “King Joppi,” the James Earl Jones character in Eddie Murphy’s “Coming to America” film. King Joppi emerged from one of these (you don’t “get out of” a Rolls; you “emerge” from it) preceded by attendants casting rose petals before him.

“If you own a car like this,” remarked Jesse, “you don’t drive it yourself.”

Jesse’s girlfriend Stephanie was drawn to a tuna can-sized Fiat that looked like it could park sideways in a parking space. I was appalled at the back seat, which looked barely big enough for our guinea pig. But I could picture Stephanie, who looks a bit like the young Elizabeth Taylor, tooling around in it like a heroine of a Fellini movie. A Fiat makes me think of Rome, where my sister and I saw thousands of them when we visited decades ago.

Whether it’s a proletarian Honda or a stunning but repair-prone foreign sports car, our vehicle preferences are at least half emotional. Consumer Reports and J.D. Power may influence us, but our long-engrained memories will last longer than the new-car smell.

And speaking of which, does your favorite car name pass the “anal” test?

Jesse told us about this popular pastime, which involves taking the name of the car and adding it to the word “anal.” Try this with the Ford Probe, Fiesta, Explorer and Fusion.

A whirlwind courtship followed, and Joe and Maggie, both in their late 60s, were married within a year after the mother had died.  Laura and her brothers were stupefied, especially when they saw their father doing things that looked strange to them:  dressing differently, vacationing in Palm Springs, becoming less and less like the man who shared their pain of losing their mother.  They would squirm when Maggie would talk effusively about how great it was to have a “lover” in her life.  When Joe died a few years later, his children felt a mix of grief; relief that Maggie was out of their lives; and outrage when they found out how much Joe left her in his will.

I bring this up because over the past month several acquaintances have talked about their mixed feelings about their older parents “moving on” to new relationships. On one hand, they feel glad that the parent has the chance for companionship as he or she moves into their twilight years.   On the other hand they may mistrust the new partner, especially if the parents’ relationship ended in divorce or they are still grieving over the other parent’s death.  They may not like the new partner, especially if he or she is very different from the first one.

And as with any relationship, money can complicate things.  Some children mistrust the motives of the new spouse, who may or may not want to influence how their inheritance is spent and might be called upon to make decisions about the parent’s long-term care.  While Anna Nicole Smith was vilified for her share of her husband’s estate – after one year of marriage – she maintained that she gave him one of the happiest years of his life.

One of the reasons I started this blog is to serve as a place for adults to talk about how their relationships (with parents, spouses, kids) evolve as they grow older.   I’d love to hear from some of you about your experiences and candid thoughts about an older parent’s remarriage.  My plans are to publish a blog on this topic around Valentine’s Day.  And it goes without saying that names and other details would be disguised to protect your identity (as I did with Laura’s story.)

My hope is that we can all learn from one another’s perspectives.  Feel free to comment below or send your thoughts privately to my email – catherinebuday@gmail.com .  Thank you!!!!