My conscience won’t go on vacation. I can slather it with sunscreen and lay it in the sun, I can buy it maps and take it sightseeing, I can dress it up and take it out for a romantic dinner - but it refuses to go on vacation.

While I’m trying to have fun, my conscience continually lectures me. Although I try to explain that a vacation is time to do and eat things you don’t at home, it won’t listen. My conscience nags me most about exercise. It insists I make time to exercise on vacation.

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When I read package labels in the supermarket, am I the only one who thinks I’m reading about “health” food? A food manufacturer makes his products low fat. That sounds healthy, right? Wrong. The products have so much sugar I could serve them for dessert.

I recently read that the average American eats two and a half pounds of sugar a week. First, who are these average Americans? If they eat that much sugar, shouldn’t they be easy to see? By eating natural sugar in things like apples - plus anything that means sugar because it ends in “ose” - plus man-made sugars like high fructose corn syrup, I supposedly see an average American every time I look in the mirror. How come if I’m constantly on a sugar high, I find this depressing?

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Sometimes, husbands are really annoying. For an Irish, redhead like me, this can cause problems. During private sessions with clients and over many years of marriage, I’ve discovered a few tricks to avoid homicide when faced with you own beloved husband disguised as the village idiot… May these tips help you avoid temptation…

1. Pedicure. Pretty toes are very good to look at while you are having a “talk” with your husband about whatever said grievance is occurring. As the ridiculous phases float out of his mouth you can distract yourself by watching the light reflect off your pretty toes. Hot red means business!

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I admit it. I need a twelve-step program for people addicted to mail order catalogs. I was clean and shopless for eight months. I was able to put every catalog that came in the mail into the wastebasket without opening a page.

Unfortunately, my resistance crumbled when I was marooned in a doctor’s waiting room without a magazine - not even a three-month-old copy of Newsweek. The other patients, who were also trying to be patient, had taken all the reading material except one, dog-eared catalog.

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