e hadn’t even made it down the aisle before the marital drama began. “This is the worst place I have ever stayed,” sobbed my mother-in-law as she checked into the hotel I had chosen for her—and for our other 90 wedding guests. Considering that she had grown up in the slums of Mumbai, this was a pretty harsh statement. On top of the hotel fiasco, the plane ride had been stressful, the morning coffee served cold, the drive to the wedding location too long... and clearly I was to blame. She brought me, the mild, no-drama bride, to tears. I was completely freaked out, wondering what kind of family I was marrying into. Did they expect a subservient daughter-in-law who would bend to their every whim? Was this going to be the reality of my cross-cultural marriage? This was not how I had imagined it.

The mail keeps coming, sometimes six or seven pieces in a day—glossy postcards, clever come-ons, thick envelopes full of promise and opportunity. “12 Nobel winners” one proclaims; “Vibrant intellectual community...producing 11 Rhodes Scholars since 1986” another attests. The packaging varies slightly—a close-up of a brunette in lab goggles squinting at a test tube; a brochure featuring hip, diverse co-eds chilling on a sunny quad—but the hook is the same: Come Here and Become Somebody. The economy may still be sucking wind, but evidently the college admissions gauntlet is going gangbusters. I’m convinced that it, along with 20 percent off coupons from Bed, Bath & Beyond, may be all that’s keeping the United States Postal Service afloat.

Food Face plate is just begging for you to play with your food. Finally, a way to prove your mother wrong.

~ The Daily Muse

At the beginning of the current economic upheaval, I was forced, as were so many single women I know, to cut my expenses severely. Like other women, I realized I would need to begin by divesting myself of the household help. The first to go were the chauffeur, the butler, the day cook and the bartender, all of whom knew I hated to see them leave. I watched them trudge slowly as a group down the long driveway to the wrought-iron gate, heads held high, attempting to disguise their reluctance. I personally will never forget that morning, though I hope they will in time.

Wiping away a few tears with the tip of my scarf, I found myself handing pink slips that very same day to the gardener, the personal trainer, the concierge and the onsite hairstylist, most of whom seemed to have sensed it coming. I suppose I was the last to admit how dire my circumstances had become. With these mainstays on the way out, I couldn’t rationalize retaining other key personnel, so I wrote out a brand new batch of slips for the spiritual advisor, pastry chef and piano-tuner, the latter slightly less difficult to let go of since I discovered I’ve never actually owned a piano. I asked the accountant to write out his own slip, for I felt he really should have had the foresight to offset this particular crisis in the first place.