I have been known to have flights of indecisiveness, particularly when it comes to things that don’t really matter or have little consequence. Chicken or steak for dinner? Cous cous or pasta? The blue sweater or the black one? Paper or plastic?

See what I mean?

But when it comes to life’s big decisions, e.g. buying a house, picking an oncologist, I have laser-like focus. When I watch shows like “House Hunters,” which you all know I love, I usually recommend that the buyers purchase the first house they see as it always seems perfect for the family. Why do these people need to see more houses? To see if something better exists? Who knows. All I know is that when it comes to the big decisions, I jump in head first.

Maybe I trust my intuition. Or maybe I’m just crazy. (No answer required.)

Malcolm Gladwell summed this type of thinking up in “Blink,” in which he asserts that all major decisions can be made within the first two seconds of looking. Basically, the less—but better—input we have, the better equipped we are to make the right decisions about just about anything. Interesting concept.

I was thinking about this the other day because I have been mulling over getting a new dog. You all know how much I love my little Westie, Bonnie, but sometimes I feel like she’s lonely. The kids are at school all day, as is Jim, and I’m up in the attic all day, a place she only dares to venture up to if she’s got a burst of energy. After all, it’s three floors up, and the loveseat is nice and comfy and warm. Worried about her mental health, I’ve spent a few minutes searching Petfinder.com, where with a couple of search words, you can find the dog of your dreams in an instant. If I had gone with my initial instinct, with the blessing of my husband, of course, I probably would have already adopted a dog. But I have made the mistake of having everyone weigh in and of course, have heard my share of “bad dog” stories which has led me off the path of dog adoption and onto the path of showing Bonnie more love so that she doesn’t get any lonelier.

Yes, getting a new dog is a big decision, but is it really that big a decision? Jim and I saw five houses and made offers on two. I’ve been known to walk into a car dealership and walk out with a new car. I have made decisions that come with a host of possible negative consequences in an instant. Try this new melanoma clinical trial even though you may have ulcerative colitis or the rest of your life? Where do I sign?

So I am trying not to over think it. All of the major decisions that I’ve made in my life have been made in a split second and they have all turned out incredibly well. Heck—I decided to quit my job while driving over the bridge from work one night just because it was a beautiful night and the sun was hitting the Hudson a certain way. That was a great decision and I’ve never looked back. The only difference between that decision and the dog decision is that these other decisions might not have come with the predilection for barking or urinating on the floor. Or worse.

I’m going to stop thinking about this for a while. If the time is right, and Jim buys in, I’ll head to a shelter to see if someone begs me with their eyes to take them home.

Right now, however, I have bigger decisions to make as lunch is approaching. Peanut butter or chicken soup?

Maggie Barbieri

Almost seventeen years ago, I was a young mother who had a newborn during one of the worst winters the Northeast had ever weathered (no pun intended). This meant that my maternity leave—yes, the one that was three months long and seemed like it would be an eternity before I had taken it but what was really the blink of an eye—was spent shoveling snow, breastfeeding, shoveling more snow, and gazing longingly out the window to see if I could venture out with an eight-pound baby strapped to my chest. My house isn’t that big so walking the floors—her favorite activity—took all of about six minutes, even if I did it ten times in a row. Outside was the way to go, but with the sidewalks slick and icy, there was no way I was going to make the trek down the steep stairs in front of my house with a baby wailing in a sling across my gigantic bosom. It was just too dangerous and with my predisposition to klutziness, a recipe for disaster.

One day, the weather broke. It was early March and the snow was now almost gone, the streets wet but not slippery. I stuffed the baby into the front-facing pack and headed out into the cold, whereupon I came across another young mom and a tiny toddler—about eighteen months old—walking up the street, apparently as happy as I was to be out and about after a winter trapped indoors. The mom looked familiar but we didn’t know each other; we came to find out that one house separated us and we both had small kids. The toddler had a cloud of white curly hair not unlike cotton candy blowing around in the breeze, his hands protected by mittens, his parka pulled up around his ears. His name was Spencer and he was the younger of her two children and possibly the cutest child I had ever seen.

Spencer and his family were our neighbors up until five years ago when the opportunity to purchase a house on the side of a hill with a meadow in the back presented itself. We stayed in touch as you do when you aren’t neighbors anymore—a quick hello in the grocery store, or a wave as you pass on the street, everyone racing to their next destination or carpool pick up. “We really need to get together!” we would say and we would mean, but it happened only rarely. In the past five years, I was also dealing with a cancer diagnosis and had kind of holed up in the house, so the opportunity to see our friends dwindled as I struggled with treatment and its attendant difficulties. All of us worked full time and had kids to raise. Spencer and his brother made it a point to come to a prayer service on my behalf, though, and Spencer visited every Halloween without fail. We looked forward to his visits; he was now a rangy teenager with a penchant for anime and a creative streak. He would come for candy and to touch base, telling us how much he missed the old neighborhood and his friends here. We never considered Halloween to be officially over until Spencer came in whatever getup he had come up with and got his requisite Three Musketeers bar. Once he had come and gotten his candy, we would shut off the porch light and go to bed, another Halloween now in the past.

This past summer, I got a call from Spencer’s mom: he was turning eighteen; would we come to his birthday party? We were delighted by the invitation but found it a little strange that an eighteen year old would want a birthday party replete with old fogies like me and my husband. We found out when we arrived that it was a surprise and the reason for the party was fraught with emotion. The next day, on the day Spencer would actually turn eighteen, he was enlisting in the Marines.

Spencer and his family were profoundly affected by the events of September 11, 2001. Spencer, it would seem, had been so affected that he wanted to join the Marines and fight for our country. His parents were ambivalent, to say the least, but trying to support their son. The party was to be a celebration of his life and his ambition; we all had a blast, eating lobster tails and steak and drinking delicious wine and celebrating this young man with an incredible goal.

I focused on how much fun the party was and tried not to think about this tow-headed young man heading off to Parris Island in March. I have kept my emotions pretty much at bay since August, even when I thought about the party and what it meant. However, when I heard the doorbell ring at 9:30 p.m. last Sunday night—Halloween night—and heard the kids race down the stairs shouting “It’s Spencer!” I declined to come out of my bedroom. I couldn’t face the thought of seeing Spencer for the last time on Halloween night, here to collect his Three Musketeers bar and to say hello to us as he has every year since he was two years old. He was dressed as a woman, and a pretty convincing one at that, according to Jim and the kids. He was going to dinner with some friends but told them that before they got to their destination, he had to stop at our house to say hello and get his candy. It was tradition. Next year, he’ll be somewhere else and we’ll have to find another way to figure out when to shut off the porch light.

The next day, I sat at my computer working, like I do every day. The phone rang and it was a friend asking how our Halloween was. She wasn’t expecting me to burst into tears but when I explained why I was crying, she understood. She said that every time she sees a list of names, bios, or photographs in the paper of young men and women who have paid the ultimate sacrifice, she stops and reads them, offering a silent prayer. She knows that they are someone’s child, someone’s grandchild, a brother, a sister, a husband, or a wife. They deserve to be remembered and to be celebrated for their commitment to something bigger or greater than many of us will ever know. They deserve to be counted.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think the little blonde toddler in the parka would grow up to be a Marine. There’s not much more to say on the topic except that our friend, Spencer, will be in our daily thoughts and prayers while he serves his country proudly. But most of all, we want him to know that we look forward to the day when we can give him a Three Musketeers bar on a Halloween night not too far into the future.

Maggie Barbieri

In another week, life as we know it will return to normal.

Why? You ask.

The election will be over.

I know I say this every year, but I have never seen so much mud-slinging as this season of the mid-term elections has brought. In New York alone, we are assaulted by negative campaign ads—apparently the only kind that exist anymore—on a continual basis and when we’re not being forced to watch those, we are receiving robo-calls every hour imploring us to vote for a certain candidate.

In my opinion, they all stink.

In the governor’s race here in the Empire State, we have a Buffalo bazillionaire running against a rather bland, yet effective, Attorney General. We have several people running for State Senator, none of whom I know a lot about except for the fact that one has recently lost a lot of weight and was featured in a Vogue spread. I don’t know how that’s going to affect the things that matter in our state if she is elected, but at least she’ll look good making some changes? I’m grasping at straws here.

We have another candidate running whose campaign placards around the village boast “Women 4 Ball.” If you couldn’t guess that his last name is “Ball” you might wonder what the women of my village were actually supporting. I, for one, am not supporting ball of any kind, except maybe Jet football. (We’re 5-1…go Jets!)

Then, because I’m lucky enough to live in the tri-state area, we’re subjected to negative campaigning that relates to the races run in Connecticut. So, if I get bored with Ball or the bland, yet effective Attorney General, I can watch former WWE chairwoman Linda McMahon beat the verbal stuffing out of some guy who pretended he was in Viet Nam but was really only a reservist stationed in Nova Scotia or some hotbed like that. Newsflash: Peggy’s Cove is not as dangerous as Dien Bien Phu so don’t try to pretend it is. We, the people, are a little smarter than you give us credit for.

Then, there’s the gubernatorial race in California with candidates Jerry (I dated Linda Ronstadt) Brown and Meg (eBay) Whitman. The only thing I know about these two candidates is that they, or their political operatives, have both used a derogatory word to describe the other and that it rhymes with “bore.” Nice.

It has gotten so bad that I don’t know who is running for what or what their platform is or even if they have a platform beyond “Hey! That guy stinks!” This election season is bringing out the worst in everyone with any single message being diluted. There seems to be an incredible amount of anger in the country, which to my thinking, is about six years too late, but that’s a post for another time.

Is there an honest politician left in this world? Is there someone who can run a campaign with integrity without resorting to calling the other guy/gal schoolhouse names and dredging up a missed credit card payment from their college years? Is there any basic decency, not to mention courtesy, left in American politics? It would seem not. And that, to me, is even more disappointing than a candidate who doesn’t know that yes, Christine, there is a separation of church and state in this great land. And because of our Constitution—a masterpiece of tolerance and acceptance—you can practice wicca, free from fear of persecution.

What’s going on in your states, Stiletto faithful? (And you Canadians on board can comment and laugh at us…I give you permission.) Is it as disgusting, and off-message, where you are as it is here?

Maggie Barbieri