In this excerpt from her book, Ellen Rogers explains how a trained capuchin saved her son’s sanity, and maybe his life.

I consider myself something of a tragedy snob.

Having lived through some pretty terrible losses, I’m not easily undone. When I was 24, I got married in a hospital sunroom down the hall from the surgical ward where my father fought for a few last months of life. My husband, Ted Sullivan, was diagnosed with cancer when our daughter Megan was 2 and I was pregnant with our second child, Ned. Our little family soldiered on through Ted’s grueling treatment and the long, sad hospice days before his death. When Megan was 4 and Ned 18 months, their father, my husband, was gone.

A second marriage brought two beautiful stepdaughters, Kerry and Mindy, plus my three youngest: Jake, Maddie, and Anna Kokos. But our blended family unraveled after Mindy died at age 23 of melanoma. That world-rocking loss was followed by a bitter divorce. Somehow I’d managed to get us into a new house, juggling everyone’s activities with the demands of my business. Things were looking up. The younger kids were doing well in school. Ned was thriving as a senior at the University of Arizona, and we had all been rewarded with the joy of Megan’s wedding to true-blue cop Ron Holsinger. A miracle of modern love and a high-flying trapeze act of daily logistics, the Rogers-Sullivan-Kokos-Holsinger family was doing okay.

And then the phone call.

“Are you Edward Sullivan’s mother?”

Something about the way she said it. I could tell our world was about to fall apart.

“Your son’s been in an accident.”

Extensive injuries. Condition grave. Come immediately.

Walking into the ICU late that night, after two insanely tight flights from my home in Boston to the hospital in Tucson, I expected the spiderweb of tubes and IV lines. The apparatus of life support was nothing new to me, so I figured I was prepared for what was to come. But when I saw the medieval torture device that encompassed Ned’s head, I had to steady myself on the bed rail.

“What…what is that thing?”

“It’s called a halo,” said the nurse. “They put it on in surgery to secure his head to his neck.”

I damn near fainted.

The doctors delivered the news: “Major brain trauma, C1-C2 fractures, shearing… There can be no expectation of functional recovery with a devastating injury like this.”

Devastating. The word hit like a wrecking ball: to overwhelm…to render desolate…to lay waste. I listened and nodded, but I couldn’t accept it.

Not for Ned. Not my son.

Ned was strong and fit, a lifelong athlete, and one of the most motivated people I knew. As a kid, he’d driven us crazy with his collection of hoo-rah! inspirational sayings.

“Mom,” he once admonished when he found me watching Project Runway instead of unpacking groceries. “Procrastination is the thief of time!”

Now, seeing him so damaged, I scrolled through my memory, searching for something from his catalog of wise sayings that approached the gravity of this situation.

I reached through the halo and stroked Ned’s stubbled cheek.

“Winston Churchill,” I whispered. “When you’re going through hell…keep going.”

High-risk surgery was required to secure Ned’s head to his spine. His body was so compromised that he might not survive the operation. “What would you do if this were your son?” I asked one of the doctors.

“I’d fly him back to Boston for the surgery to be near his family. He’ll need all your support. Then I’d get him to a spinal cord injury specialty hospital like the Shepherd Center in Atlanta as fast as I could.”

A few weeks later, I was face-to-face with the surgeon at Massachusetts General Hospital. “It went well,” he told me in the exhausted post-op hours. “He’s stable. Doing as well as we could have expected.”

“Thank God,” I said and released a breath. “So now…what?”

“Now we watch and wait,” he said.

My least favorite mandate. I’m neither a watcher nor a waiter. My response to any situation is Do something.

I spent every day at the hospital, and when I left at night I told myself that Ned was in the care of the best doctors and nurses, that he was not alone. But I knew better. Ned was utterly alone. This man who would forever be my little boy was adrift in the dark—unable to speak or move or breathe—one blink for yes and two for no was all he had. My boy—my articulate, charming, “I can do anything” boy—couldn’t even say anything.

Eventually the swelling from the injury and the surgery began to recede. Ned tried to mouth a few words when he had the strength, but the movement was so minimal, it was impossible to read his lips. The effort was excruciating, so we developed an alphabet card system where I’d run a finger across the letters until he blinked a “stop” signal, then start over again, running a finger to the next letter, spelling out brief, stilted messages:

M…O…M…

“I’m here, Ned. I’m here.”

H…U…R…T…B…A…D…

“I love you, Ned. We all love you.”

H…E…L…P.

Tiny signs of improvement gave us courage. One day Ned miraculously took a breath without the ventilator. It was a lifesaving device, and we had been so grateful for it, but when the day came that Ned could breathe on his own, we were happy to get rid of it. Ditto for the medieval halo. Once that was removed, Ned could be hoisted over to sit in a chair to look out the window. His world was expanding now. He even went outside to get his first breath of fresh air in weeks.

These steps forward, along with antidepressants, seemed to pick up his spirits. He’d give a little smile to the nurses and mouth “Thank you” when they came in to help him. One day, he made a “kiss” with his lips when I was leaving. Later, for the first time in many months, Ned would speak. It would be sudden and surprising and I would rejoice like I had when he uttered his first syllables some 20 years before. Though he didn’t sound like himself, the effort was pure Ned. It was the best “Hi, Mom” I’d ever heard.

Three months after the accident, we medevaced Ned to the Shepherd Center in Atlanta. Until now, the hospitals had been about saving his life; Shepherd was about getting on with it. He gave his all in physical and occupational therapies. Ned was introduced to a wide range of possibilities including assistive technology to access a computer, and a sip-and-puff device to drive his wheelchair. Meanwhile, I was learning to use a Hoyer lift to transfer him from his bed to his shower chair or wheelchair and to manage his feeding tube. It was hard for both of us. We tried to reimagine our lives. Ned was determined, and despite grueling days, nerve pain that no drug was able to beat down, and pockets of despair, we all kept pushing forward.

It’s funny how you get used to things, how after a while even the arduous routine of a hospital can seem reassuring. I had never thought of it in those terms, of course, until the day our Shepherd case manager told me we needed to firm up a discharge plan.

Discharge plan? Ned couldn’t walk, he could barely communicate, and his beautiful young body was racked with pain. How could we possibly take him home? I was the sole breadwinner, so I had to get back to work. We were running on empty as it was. There was no way I could take care of Ned myself. He needed to be fed, shaved, showered, transferred to his wheelchair, taken to therapy—wait, did I need a wheelchair van? Ramps to get in the house? Skilled people to help with his medical needs?

Check. Check. Check.

Suddenly, and not for the first time, I was overwhelmed by the foreverness of the injury. “Okay,” I told the administrator, without a glimmer of a plan. “We’ll bring him home.”

Home is where the heart is. It’s also where the teenagers live, the married daughter comes to visit, and the college son comes home with his dirty laundry. And let’s not forget the dogs. I’ve tried to maintain an attitude of There’s always room for one more, but—one what?

When we were at Shepherd, the hospital staff had introduced us to an organization that trained assistive dogs for wheelchair-bound people. They brought a magnificent trained Lab. Ned wasn’t interested.

“We…have…dogs,” he said flatly. His speech was slow and monotone.

“I know, but…” I had another idea. I knew it might sound ridiculous. Still, it was worth a try. “Didn’t we once see something about trained monkeys? I’m serious. I saw it on 60 Minutes or something.”

Ned rolled his eyes and rasped, “Mom, try to get…a couple of…those flying monkeys…from The Wizard of Oz. Maybe a cowardly lion, too.”

“You’re hilarious. See you later.”

Back at the hotel that night, I checked my e-mail. Scrolling through my in-box of encouraging notes, I came to a message from Maddie and Anna’s school.

“Oh!”

I read the message again. “Dear Parents, You are invited to Friday’s assembly where Helping Hands: Monkey Helpers for the Disabled will be visiting.”

I’m a pragmatist. But I couldn’t help thinking this might be a sign.

A little more than a year later—after an understandably long and intricate application process—Megan Talbert, the executive director of Helping Hands, was standing in our living room, introducing us to a 21-year-old capuchin monkey named Kasey.

“Bonding is the key to everything,” she said, as Kasey leaped gracefully to Ned’s shoulder.

“She’s beautiful,” he said softly.

“I never thought I’d use the word elegant to describe a monkey,” I said. We greedily soaked up every detail that we could about Kasey.

“She weighs about five pounds—the perfect size for her job. She was a star at the Monkey College, graduating with flying colors. Capuchins can live 35 to 40 years in captivity, so she is in the prime of her life.”

Just then Kasey jumped up on the bar and dove into a dish of cashews, then she launched herself over to the coffee table, where she paged through a copy of People magazine. Finding nothing of interest in the exploits of Lindsay Lohan, she returned to Ned’s shoulder, leaving us breathless. Suddenly, the air in the room seemed lighter, full of oxygen and joy. It was simply not possible to look at that funny little face without experiencing a feeling of pure happiness.

Still, there was much work to be done. That first day, Megan and an occupational therapist, Jill, showed us how to set up Kasey’s cage and position it in Ned’s room (a process that would continue to confound us for weeks). They also showed us how to prepare her chow (in Tupperware, shaken, not stirred) as well as her other seven meals each day, and, most important, how to talk to Kasey and ask her to do the things Ned needed her to do.

I was intrigued by Megan’s uncanny understanding of Kasey’s complex vocabulary; the monkey was really noisy. Every squawk, whistle, warble, and trill, every peep-peep and skee-kit was nuanced.

And she definitely had her preferences. “She has several polar fleece blankies she likes to snuggle with,” said Megan. “She also has her favorite toys”—a black pleather coin purse that Kasey zipped open and shut; a plastic bath book, Mimi’s Toes (about a monkey in a bathtub); and a little roller coaster unit with chubby beads (a miniature version of that toy in every pediatrician’s office).

Meanwhile Jill was outfitting Ned’s wheelchair with a treat dispenser so he could offer Kasey a dollop of peanut butter on his finger.

“The treats help train Kasey to come to you and do tasks,” Jill told Ned. “Everything should be followed by a peanut butter reward.”

“Okay…. It’s just…” Ned’s hand was pretty much immobile. He shook his head, discouraged.

“Relax. We’ll keep tweaking the position.”

Jill worked with Ned until he could bend his finger enough to grab some peanut butter.

“Excellent.” Jill squeezed his shoulder. “Over time, Ned, the exercise of giving her the peanut butter may help you gain mobility in this hand.”

I couldn’t help it; my mind leaped ahead to Kasey helping Ned regain full use of his left hand. Maybe his right hand, too. And then his legs, and then maybe someday, he’d&8212;

“Let’s start with the basics,” said Megan. “Ned, ask Kasey to ‘come, sit.’”

“Kasey,” Ned said eagerly. “Come sit?”

She shot him a blasé look and didn’t budge—like a strikeout at a singles bar.

“Try it with peanut butter,” said Megan.

He scooped up a dollop. “Kasey, come sit?”

That did it. Kasey flashed to Ned’s lap and greedily licked off the peanut butter, but then she was back on Megan’s shoulder within seconds. Ned couldn’t mask his disappointment.

“That’s it?”

“She’ll come around,” Megan reassured him. “Time and patience. Meanwhile, learning the basics takes repetition.”

Ned nodded tightly, but I could sense his frustration. By the time he and Kasey had finished practicing their task, he was riding waves of nerve pain triggered by the commotion. Time to call it a day.

“Don’t worry about Kasey,” Megan said, preparing to leave. “She’ll be curious tonight, following everything that’s going on. She’ll probably watch a little TV with you. Kasey loves TV.”

That evening, as predicted, Kasey perched on her bedroom shelf, watching as we transferred Ned to his bed. She seemed particularly fascinated with the workings of the cranky old mechanical lift that took up a huge amount of real estate and looked like it came from the same medieval torture chamber as the halo. I always held my breath when I saw Ned suspended in the contraption; it looked ready to topple at any moment. Kasey seemed to have the same reaction.

I positioned Kasey’s cage so she could keep one eye on Ned and the other on the TV, then went to get the monkey chow Megan had prepared. Kasey pinwheeled with joy when she saw it coming.

“Wow,” Ned laughed. “Dinner and a show.”

This felt like a precious step forward. I turned out the light and whispered, “Good night, you two.”

Thrusting Ned and Kasey together&8212;ready, set, bond!&8212;was like trying to build a cathedral out of Popsicle sticks. Small steps forward were almost always followed by noisy stumbles back. It didn’t help that our newest family member was something of a diva. She screeched at the dogs and my teenagers, and squawked if I moved her cage just a little bit too far or too fast. What’s more, she required a regimented routine of feeding, manicuring, and cleaning that added yet more stress to our household. On the upside, Kasey provided Ned with constant visual stimulation. Even when she wasn’t doing much&8212;playing with her toys, reading her book&8212;he watched her with endless fascination. They were interested in each other; that much was clear. But after the first few months of working together, Kasey was still acting like Ned was nothing but a boulder she had to climb over to get her peanut butter.

“This is normal,” Megan told us. “It takes time to build the relationship.”

“How much time?” I was afraid to ask.

At least Kasey was expanding the repertoire of tasks she could perform for Ned. She could fetch the remote, and bring him a bottle of water, put a straw into it, and bring it to his mouth, Ned rewarding her with peanut butter each time.

But repertoire was one thing. Rapport was quite another&8212;Kasey was often standoffish, aloof even. We were discouraged. Ned needed connection and engagement. Instead he would lie for hours staring at the “Welcome Home” sign that still hung on the fireplace.

Every so often, there were hopeful signs of friendship. Kasey would stay on his lap for an extra second before leaping back to her cage. One day she pounced on a big stuffed monkey Ned’s grandmother had given him, which perhaps Ned was getting “too friendly” with. Another day I watched in amazement as Kasey, who loved to scribble on any surface, dragged a pad of paper onto Ned’s lap, held a pencil in her hands and, using her feet to hold the paper securely in place, made some fine-looking hen scratches. When she had finished her first draft of Mimi’s Toes: The Sequel, she handed the pencil to Ned, in the monkey version of occupational therapy.

But the days were long, and despite all our efforts with Kasey and otherwise, Ned’s nerve pain wasn’t going away.

“There’s the constant, underlying, sucks to be you sort of pain,” he explained to me. “And then there’s the lightning bolt ripping through my entire body sort of pain. It’s like my tongue is on fire and my hands are stuck in an ice bucket.” On this particular day he was having the lightning bolt kind. We’d tried everything, in the hospital and at home. Medication, massage, hot packs, cold packs—nothing seemed to help. I was beside myself as I helplessly watched my son suffer.

“Mom,” he called out. “I’m on fire! Mom&8212;please do something!”

I didn’t know what I could do, but in that moment I looked to Kasey like I’ve never looked at another creature before. What did she see? Hope? Desperation? Somehow that dear little monkey understood just what was needed. As soon as I took her out of her cage, she clambered up on Ned’s chair and wrapped her tail around his neck. With a deep, guttural “hoo-hoo” that was more like a whisper, she carefully positioned herself on Ned’s chest, right over his heart. Both of them were very, very still. And then&8212;I don’t know&8212;the anguish that had been so visible in Ned’s face, his contorted expression, suddenly disappeared. His pain was beginning to recede.

Thank you, God. Thank you, Kasey.

“It’s amazing, Mom,” Ned said to me later that evening. “Kasey comforts and relaxes me like no drug. Do you think she actually knows how I feel?”

I looked over at Kasey, nonchalantly zipping and unzipping her purse. “I don’t know&8212;Kasey? What do you think?”

To which Kasey responded with a smug shrug and a “Skee kit.”

“Just doing my job.”

Adapted from Kasey to the Rescue: The Remarkable Story of a Monkey and a Miracle (Hyperion), by Ellen Rogers.

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You often don’t notice the signs of addiction until it’s a boiling crisis. Here are the warning signs that every woman should know.

When my phone rings, it’s not just crummy news. Often, a heartbreaking event has occurred. Like last week, a woman called crying: “I came home from the hospital, I’d been quite sick and there he was, drunk again, wearing nothing but my housecoat! Before I knew it, he had a knife to my throat.”

That caller was a 67-year-old grandmother from the Midwest describing the irrational behavior of her husband of 42 years, a retired physician. Her family was outraged by the news and demanded he get help. Although her husband’s problems had been smoldering for years, it wasn’t until the flames became impossible to ignore that she sought help. Why did she wait so long to act? There are a few reasons: Dr. Robert Friedman, medical director at Seabrook House treatment centers, reminds us that families all too often protect the addicted by keeping up appearances: “Many families have a culture of secrecy. We all have such busy lives, we’re moving so fast and have our hands full with managing our schedules. So it’s all too easy to let what’s unpleasant, hard to bring up and talk about get swept aside.”

People also wait for things to work themselves out. One study has found that it takes friends and family, as a group, seven years to admit there is a problem. That’s eighty-four months! Wait, worry, pray. Repeat. You hope things will just resolve themselves, but you have a sinking feeling the situation is just getting worse. And you’re right.

The sad truth is most addicts struggle in plain sight. We see them, we share their pain. And when that “last straw” occurs—a car accident, an eviction notice, an obesity-related stroke—that escalates a life into crisis, it’s rarely the case that those gathered around didn’t see it coming. It’s simply that they didn’t want to acknowledge the problem or they didn’t understand that addictions rarely work themselves out.

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‘Tis the season? Yes, it is— but Donna Brazile would like to mention a few other occasions ripe for gift giving:

1. When an out-of-town guest asks to stay with you
Perfect time to deliver a hotel voucher. If you have the means, the luxury of a little space allows you to enjoy each other’s company even more.

2. The anniversary of the death of a parent
Losing family hurts like nothing else. Sending your friend a little something lets her know you’re thinking about her on a difficult day.

3. Always-a-Bridesmaid Day
I’ve spent thousands on showers, weddings, babies—and for the record, I’m happy to do it—but sometimes it feels as if the world is built for couples. A small token for those of us who never married or had children? That’s nice.

4. Lifelong-Friends Day
Okay, this is another holiday that doesn’t actually exist, but I think it should, so how about we start it together?

Where to Shop: Discover hundreds of perfect presents with the Oprah.com Gift Finder

More Advice from Donna Brazile

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Honestly. With all due respect, love, and admiration, sometimes we just don’t get you. Would it kill you to tell us how you feel once in a while? How many times do we have to go, “Notice anything new?” before you realize we’ve done something interesting with our hair? Why do you take so many insane risks? And what’s with the road rage? We asked a panel of smart, funny, surprisingly candid men to clear up these and a few dozen other unsolved mysteries.

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October 8, 2010 – A new study issued by Accenture and the United Nations finds that while the overwhelming majority of business leaders believe that focusing on sustainability correlates with higher performance, the concept is still not woven into the operations fabric of businesses due to 5 critical obstacles.

The study, “Can business do well by doing good,” finds that 93 percent of CEOs surveyed globally see sustainability as important to their companies’ future success. Across a number of parameters, corporate commitment to sustainability has increased since the last time a similar CEO survey was conducted in 2007. The report also found that these CEO’s are caught between the long-term perspective needed to realize the benefits of sustainability and the short-term pressures of earnings results.

The greatest value provided by Accenture through this report is that it outlines 5 major dilemma’s faced by CEO’s when attempting to integrate sustainability into operational practices at their companies. The five dilemmas are:

• Can I afford to invest in sustainability-oriented product and service lines when I’m getting mixed signals from consumers and enterprise customers?
• How do I develop the right talent capabilities to manage sustainability as a core business, given the many things that I’m already asking my employees to do?
• How can I move my business toward a new way of assessing corporate value that takes into account sustainability practices when the metrics are so elusive?
• How can I make long-term sustainability investments when the regulatory environment is not clear or consistent within or across different countries?
• Why should I invest in sustainability initiatives when there is no evidence that the investor community will reward me for it?

Only when sustainable business practices are factored accurately into valuations, through widely accepted metrics, will capital begin to flow to those companies that are most sustainable. Central to this transition is a paradigm shift in the concept of value and corporate valuation: from the short term to the long term, and from a purely business focus to a broader understanding of a business’s impact on society.

For more information on these issues, and to gain some insight into how Accenture suggests CEO’s approach these issues, read their report

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We’ve all watched them, in wonder: the happy-go-skippy social butterflies who are on everyone’s must-invite guest list. They love the world and the world loves them back. What’s their terrible secret?

First, it’s no secret. Making personal connections (including fun and breezy, whenever, wherever, undemanding relationships) is about regularly putting your good intentions into action and knowing that enthusiasm trumps experience, hands down. Just master a few social tricks and get out there and use them. Here are my top 10. Pick a couple to test drive, and as your confidence grows, tackle the rest!

Bust a Mood

To have fun, you’ve got to be fun. Sure, sometimes we are just not “in the mood” to be social, but I know you know how to fake it. And here’s the weird part: Scientific research proves that putting a smile on your face will actually conjure the desire to feel like smiling. (And we know that smiling, like yawning, is contagious, so do it.)

So if an impending event is filling your stomach with unsocial butterflies, just interrupt the broadcast with some happy thoughts—your wedding day, one of your epic childhood events or your own children’s epic events. Your greatest golf shot, some fantastic trick the dog did that proves his human intelligence and your favorite flavor of ice cream all made into a parfait of pure, unapologetic joy. Even something like, you know, how great your backside looks in your favorite jeans (or your favorite someone else’s backside). Hold and concentrate!

If your mind wanders back into negative territory, redirect it back to Happytown. Oh, and remember to wear something colorful that helps pick up the mood and is better than a frowny-neutral gray, black or brown.

Create a Memory

Do you have “blank canvas” jitters when walking into a party? So hide behind a camera. Taking snapshots is one of the quickest icebreakers in a social situation. Also, the mad flashbulb frenzy makes everyone feel like an instant celebrity. And the cool part is distributing your catch later. Photos are the most cherished heirlooms, and with digital photography, you’ve got a billion chances to get the most amazing shot. The key is to avoid being a nudge, constantly telling everyone to “get together.” Just hold the camera above the crowd and snap wildly, randomly, intensely—the fun is seeing what you get when you upload the shots.

Might sound like a total yawn, but spending some quality time with your camera manual is your best bet for getting the best images. Features like “portrait mode” and “continuous shot” make kids and animals easier targets. Adjusting the shutter speed allows you to capture movement minus blur. Use your auto-focus to get all the faces in the frame.

Back at the ranch, play around with visual variations, like the black-and-white mode, or enhance your shots with brightness and contrast features (as we like to say, “fix it in post”). But most importantly, spread your photos around, ASAP, using your favorite photo-sharing site, like Flickr, Picasa or Shutterfly.

Rock Your Specialty

Claim ownership of a “specialty” you love to whip up and keep the ingredients on hand. Whether it’s after the kids’ baseball game or the place for the late-late, after-after party, make your address the crew’s place to be (last-minute guests always welcome).

Consider a meal that rocks around the clock—for example, a well-made omelet is delicious morning, noon and night. Keep eggs, butter, salt and pepper stocked, along with your an eight-inch nonstick pan. Whatever you have on hand that day makes the plat-du-jour—cheese, herbs, ham, onions, even crème fraîche, smoked salmon and caviar! The Web is loaded with advice, recipes and obscure techniques for styling your specialty—even desserts!

Extend the concept, if you like, to a house cocktail that swings all ways as well. Theclassic Bellini is simple and inexpensive. Or you can jazz it up with Pomegranate and Cranberry. In any case, you should always have something sparkling within reach!

Introduce Yourself

A sudden attack of shyness when you don’t know a soul in the joint is quite possibly the most universal human experience. But walk through the door expecting to have a great time, and you will. Prep yourself for every situation by reminding yourself that something new and surprising and amazing can always happen—like falling madly in like at first sight with a new friend or simpatico business partner or finding that missing clue to some mystery of the world that you’re trying to solve.

Ease into the situation by relying on tried-and-true ice-breaking methods that date back centuries: Walk up to someone, thrust out your hand, smile and say, “Hello, I’m _____ , how are you?”Etiquette was not designed as torture; it’s a ritual that helps you and everyone else survive these awful, awkward, terrifying social encounters.

A few conversation sparkers will help you cruise the room; but understand that enthusiasm for life is the magnetic force that attracts others, not your résumé, your expensive new possessions or your encyclopedic knowledge about an obscure topic. No one is impressed by a been-there, done-that, know-it-all, hate-it-all or have-it-all. Just know a few things about a few things and keep them at the ready in your pocket.

Share intriguing observations as a start: “I just went to a baseball game last week, and I’m wondering why the viewing area is called the stands when you actually sit in them.” Even better, issue a question: “I’m taking a straw poll. Was learning cursive in school really necessary?”

Last, always remember you’re not the only mingle-phobe in the room. At your next get-together, make yourself useful by swooping in and giving aid and comfort to the other guests who are having blatantly rocky starts.

Know How to Play

As in, play a social game for fun, leave obligations behind and have a ball! When I was a kid, my parents told me to pick an instrument and pick a sport. It wasn’t about learning how to win or lose or building college application activities, it was about getting me involved in the world, involved with people, building social experiences, building relationships.

A little friendly competition is a wonderful way to cement friendships. So whether it’s Texas Hold ‘Em, mah-jongg, bunco, Scrabble, darts, bocce or golf, find or start a pick-up game and make it a regular thing. If you’ve been itching to play music, start a little skiffle band. You don’t have to rock a stadium to get satisfaction; playing with friends for friends is where it’s at. (Actually, it would be nice if could rock your local old folks’ home.)

Short on conventional musicianship? The digital world came to your rescue with the Guitar Hero and Rock Band video games. Short on the game box setup? Low-tech is just as much fun. Obtain a Led Zeppelin record and host an air guitar shred-off. Recruit an air drummer and an air bass player. In short, get the band back together!

Sometimes Be an Ear, Not a Mouth

I know, we love the sound of our own voices, but once in a while, one of our friends will really need us just to listen. Sometimes the conversation might be a lot of give and take, advice and speculation, soul-searching and puzzle-solving, but sometimes you just need to be a giant ear for an hour. My husband says he can tell when I need to get my words out; he just lets me talk and talk and talk, while he inserts the occasional “Wow” and “Oh, I didn’t know that” and “Really?” I’ve had conversations where I barely said two words and then received a thank-you the next day (“We had a great time together!”). Huh?

Experts in the human condition call this “active listening.” You’ll be most helpful if you can remain nonjudgmental (i.e., don’t visualize your friend’s troubles through your own—perhaps clogged—filters). Think of it as a little respite from our duty to pay a lot of attention to ourselves. Be supportive! The time will definitely come when you need it. Again and again.

Share the Wealth

No, not things that cost a ton of dough. I mean, give the things that cost you very little but are of massive value to others. Starting with compliments, all the way up to giving your time to your community. You’ll feel like part of something bigger, something wonderfully social.

Certain occasions do call for a gorgeously wrapped little gift, and I am always, always, always looking for a few clever ideas to keep under my hat, the kind of gifts that work in multiple situations—birthday, get well, et al. For example, I love the book The Proust Questionnaire. It’s based on a century-old fad, made famous by the classic French writerMarcel Proust. Modern journalists often use the list of questions as a model for interviews; you may have seen it in action on the back page of Vanity Fair and on Bravo’s Inside the Actor’s Studio.

The book’s a great gift for hostesses, friends and family. There are blank questionnaires in the back of the book as well. For quick infusion of sugar, grab a silver whistle and attach a note to the gift that reads: “I super-like you, I hope I don’t blow it!”

Join the (Digital) Mainstream

Some of us are addicted to Twit-book, and we know who we are. For those on the opposite side of the aisle, those who live in perpetual fear and suspicion of socializing on the interwebs, I’m here to say: Relax. Once upon a time, it may have been cool to resist the three-times-a-day invitations to join. Facebook and othersocial media won’t replace actual, live, in-flesh human interaction. In fact, they can enhance your offline social life because nowadays that’s how a lot of people are sharing important information. It’s not just status: single, but “Mom’s having surgery on Thursday, send flowers to County Hospital, Room 606.” If you’re shunning Facebook because you think it will kill your social life, you may be killing your social life.

Want to keep up with your closest friends and family on Facebook but don’t want to expose yourself to people you didn’t even talk to in high school but now want to friend you as part of a relentless campaign to get armies of friends? Make a Facebook page for your pet dog, your pet canary, your imaginary friend from childhood—so only people who really know you will be able to find you. (And don’t forget to flip on all the appropriate privacy settings—ask a teenager for help, even if you think you don’t need it.)

It’s an easy way to just check in on old friends, and see what’s going on in the world. On that note, Twitter is becoming a great way to check in with the latest news because so many news organizations and companies are issuing insta-messages through Twitter.

Get Acquainted with a Classic

If you learn how to make one cocktail in this lifetime, make it a martini. It’s required knowledge for a passing grade in Western Civ 101, up there in the canon-lands, along with the little black dress, a single strand of pearls and the original icons of elegant style, the Ladies Hepburn (Katharine and Audrey).

Whether dry or dirty, the evolution of the drink has left some forgetting that the classic is made with gin, not vodka. Purists claim that stirring is the correct method, so Mr. Bond’s preference for a shaken concoction, well, what he’s really ordering is a Vesper, a cocktail that he himself named after the double agent who won his heart in Casino Royale.

Once you’ve mastered the classic recipe, customize it with your own signature blend of fabulousness.

2 1/2 ounces gin
1/2 ounce dry vermouth
1 green olive
1 lemon twist
Cocktail pitcher or mixing glass
Cocktail spoon
Cocktail strainer
Chilled martini glass
Ice

Pour ingredients into an ice filled mixing glass. Stir for about 30 seconds with a long mixing spoon. Pour into the chilled martini glass. Garnish with an olive or lemon.

One classic deserves another: Concoct a gin and juice cocktail for guests who might not feel like tackling the more formidable martini. Keep juice (like peach or pear) and a bottle of ginger ale in your pantry. Pour 2 ounces gin over an ice-filled glass, top with juice and a splash of ginger ale, then garnish with fruit or herbs you might have on hand (skip it if you don’t, because it’s not worth running out for).

Remember to Say Thank You

Strap in, I’m going to write something extremely controversial here: Yes, you can thank someone with an email or a phone call. We all know traditional thank-you etiquette calls for a handwritten, snail-mail note, but I’ve seen it happen all too often: You keep meaning to find a nice thank-you card or choose some pretty stationery. But something comes up: a crisis, some project at work, football season. And time passes, as it does. Before long, it’s too late. And then a chance encounter with the would-be, should-have-been recipient of the phantom note sends you slinking into the shadows, quivering in breathless social shame.

Yes, write thank-you notes! It’s a little social confection everyone loves to receive. But if more than a few days go by and you haven’t mailed it, then for goodness’ sake, send an email or make a heartfelt call. It’s a million and 12 times better than doing nothing at all. The rule of thumb is if you thank someone digitally, the email should include more personal thoughts to help make up for the absence of the personal touch your handwriting evokes.

Recount a funny moment from the event, ask for the dessert recipe if you loved it and comment on how amazing your host looked. Attaching a photo is always good for bonus points, but what you want the recipient to feel is the love. You know how exhausted you feel after hosting an event—cleaning up the house, busting your buns in the hot kitchen, serving dinner or tea or whatever, making sure everyone has a raucous good time and then cleaning up again afterward and dragging the trash to the curb. So break out the gracious words, and thank ‘em any way you can!

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Keeping your guard up in a relationship is guaranteed to keep the love out, too. Couples therapists Harville Hendrix and Helen LaKelly Hunt share the dazzling revelation that saved their own marriage—and could help anyone’s.

“When it comes to love relationships, things are often not what they seem,” Harville Hendrix and Helen LaKelly Hunt write in their bookReceiving Love—and you might say the two of them, marriage therapists married to each other, are their own best object lesson. Seven years ago, although they were writing best-selling self-help books, training therapists, and leading couples workshops throughout the world, their personal union was crumbling.

On the verge of divorce, they tripped over the snaky root of their discontent. “One morning, when we were most troubled,” Helen says, “we were in our bedroom and I asked Harville, ‘Do you believe that I love you?’ Harville thought about that for a couple of seconds and said, ‘No, I don’t think you do.’ I was distraught. I could only respond, ‘Given all that I do for you and our life together, how could you not know how much I love you?’”

Harville understood that his feelings were irrational, he says, but alienation was stubbornly entrenched. No matter what Helen gave him emotionally, it had little impact because he suspected there were strings attached. “Only with time and reflection did I realize that I was not able to recognize genuine love when it was offered,” he says.

As they began to contemplate the problem, in much the same way that the minute you think about having a baby, you see pregnant women everywhere, Helen and Harville noticed that a sizable number of couples they’d worked with were stuck in the same cold place. For instance, there was the wife who told her husband she needed him to express more affection—then resisted his kisses and kind words because, she said, they didn’t feel genuine. Another husband admitted that when his wife offered verbal support, he shut down and didn’t respond. And when a new father took time off from work to help his exhausted wife with their twins, she refused to let him do his share. “As far as I could see, she was undermining my gift of love,” he complained in therapy.

The struggle to understand and ease this kind of self-inflicted isolation grew into Harville and Helen’s book. “The common wisdom,” they write, “is that romantic relationships would stay happy if people did a better job of giving to each other. But that’s not what we’ve discovered. We’ve found that many people need to do a better job of receiving the gifts their partners are already offering. It’s suprising how often the compliments, appreciation and encouragement of a well-intentioned partner make no dent in the armor of an unhappy partner.

Harville ticks off the ways we deflect what we secretly crave: by devaluing praise; by assuming the other person is insincere; by criticizing the sender of a positive message for not getting it right, not doing it on time, or not doing it often enough; by not listening; or by feeling embarrassed. We also block loving words by hardening our chest and stomach muscles.

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Attention mothers of sons: Women of the future are counting on you. Valerie Monroe tells how to bring up a good, kind, happy, mindful, nongrunting husband-to-be.

I was describing in prodigious, enthusiastic detail the trip to Japan from which I’d just returned with my then 15-year-old son. “And he’s so much fun to travel with,” I went on to my patient friend. “His observations were really interesting, and when we met new people, he was such a good listener, and he seemed willing to try almost anything,” I said.

“Well, of course he’s a fine companion,” my friend said. “You raised him to be.”

I felt a sharp urge to deny that, as if she’d accused me of something selfish. But I have raised a boy who’s smart and observant, sensitive and kind, who listens well and is remarkably honest and articulate about the way he feels.

Lest you think I’m bragging—oh, never mind, I am bragging—there are many more mothers like me who’ve broken what William Pollack, PhD, calls the boy code, the persistent, largely unspoken but pervasive belief that we should bring up boys to be stoic, to hide their feelings, to become quickly independent of their parents (their mothers especially). In short, not to be like girls. Pollack, assistant clinical professor of psychology at Harvard Medical School, and author of Real Boys, believes that for boys to be happy and healthy, they must be allowed to have feelings, to show empathy, to be able to express the range of emotions encouraged in girls. Until I had a son, I thought, well, naturally you want to raise your child—boy or girl—to have a full emotional life. Then I tried to. And I discovered that there’s a big difference between believing a boy should show his feelings freely and actually having a boy who does.

When my best friend’s older son and my son were both around three, her boy delighted in swathing himself in glittery tulle and prancing around with a fairy wand. My friend took it in stride, providing generous amounts of fabric and making aesthetic improvements—more sparkles, a bigger star on the wand, etc.—to her son’s great and often delirious satisfaction. On the face of it, I supported her and her boy, but I confess I was also relieved that my son didn’t express quite the same level of interest. It was such a small thing: A boy, barely out of babyhood, innocently enraptured by clouds of tulle—why was it even the slightest bit threatening to me? For the same reason that when my mother (an adoring grandmother in every way) saw my son weepy with hurt feelings when he was ten, she asked me reprovingly, “Do you think it’s good for him to be so sensitive?” Or that when a friend who noticed him at 14 snuggling with me on the couch later asked, “Is he interested in girls yet?” A sensitive, affectionate boy risks being perceived as a “mama’s boy, tied to her apron strings.” Isn’t it interesting that we have no such phrases to describe a girl who is attached to her mother? And that “daddy’s girl” completely lacks the pejorative connotation?

My mother’s and friend’s questions scared me because they suggested that the closeness between me and my son was in some way inhibiting his path to a healthy manhood. Should I have sent him signals that I expected him to reject the intimate bond established between us? There are many reasons mothers might feel the need to withdraw from their sons, says Olga Silverstein, family therapist and author of The Courage to Raise Good Men. We’re afraid that we’ll contaminate our boys with “female” qualities. We believe that boys must grow away from their families, and so we want to protect ourselves and our sons from the inevitable pain of separation. We think we’re incapable of modeling qualities important to becoming a man, or that our closeness will make him homosexual. Or we believe that because he is male, he is unknowable to us, or that our affection and bond will be construed as seductive.

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It’s easy to see why Megan Wargula spoiled her two border terriers: They’re adorable! O steps in to help transform these neighborhood nuisances into model pets.

Reader Name: Megan Wargula
Age: 35
Profession: Marketing manager and stationery entrepreneur
Family: Husband Michael Harbin, 39
Hometown: Woodstock, Georgia

“You know when you see spoiled-rotten kids, and you think, ‘Who raised them to act this way?’” says Megan Wargula when dog trainer Victoria Stilwell arrives at Wargula’s home. “That’s our dogs.” Her two border terriers, Finlay, 6, and Riley, 3 (above), seem eager to prove her point. Finlay yaps and paws the kitchen cabinet in search of food, while Riley, distracted by a squirrel in the backyard, unleashes a deafening howl. Wargula scolds them halfheartedly and apologizes.

It wasn’t always this way. She and her husband, Michael Harbin, got Finlay as a puppy. If they overlooked any misbehavior, it was only because he was so darn cute! But when they added Riley to the family, the 15-pound dogs egged each other on, becoming rowdy and noisy, and snapping at other pets in the neighborhood. Then last Thanksgiving at Wargula’s parents’ house, Riley jumped up onto Wargula’s lap during dinner, splashing scalding gravy onto her arm. The incident sparked a family argument, and her normally canine-loving parents asked Wargula to leave the dogs at home in the future.

“We’ve got a mess on our hands,” Wargula admits. Stilwell, star of Animal Planet’s It’s Me or the Dog, agrees—but explains that her strategy focuses on bringing the humans into line, not the canines. “Owners often get angry with their dogs for conduct they’ve encouraged,” she says. After listening to Wargula’s complaints and observing the dogs for only a few minutes, Stilwell can see three main problem areas:

Bad Behavior #1: Relentless whining and barking. Says Wargula: “If they see a squirrel or a lizard in the backyard, it’s mayhem!”

Wargula’s mistake: Regularly letting the dogs out when they see a critter they want to chase rather than ignoring the bad behavior. “Unfortunately, this has taught them, When I bark, I get to go out,” says Stilwell.

The solution: “From now on, the only thing that will get them what they want is quiet,” Stilwell instructs. “If you have to endure 30 minutes of barking, use earplugs! Wait for that silence, and it will come.” Stilwell cautions that a burst of frenzied barking might precede this promised silence, as the dogs express their frustration. “That’s how you’ll know it’s working,” she says.

Bad Behavior #2: Terrorizing other dogs, particularly the neighbors’ golden retriever.

Wargula’s mistake: Taking the dogs on fewer walks to avoid the problem rather than dealing with it directly.

The solution: “They’re terriers!” says Stilwell. “They need an outlet for their energy.” Because their behavior is worse when they’re together, she prescribes an hour a day of individual walks until the dogs learn to be civil; only then can Wargula walk them jointly. Next, Stilwell addresses the aggression. She takes Riley for a walk and instructs Wargula to borrow the neighbors’ golden retriever and walk her down the opposite side of the street. Sure enough, Riley yelps and pulls at the leash when she sees the larger dog. Immediately, Stilwell turns Riley around and leads her back toward Wargula’s house. When the dog stops barking, she pivots and resumes the walk. After several repetitions, Riley figures out that barking will get her nowhere, and she passes the retriever without incident.

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Keeping your guard up in a relationship is guaranteed to keep the love out, too. Couples therapists Harville Hendrix and Helen LaKelly Hunt share the dazzling revelation that saved their own marriage—and could help anyone’s.

“When it comes to love relationships, things are often not what they seem,” Harville Hendrix and Helen LaKelly Hunt write in their bookReceiving Love—and you might say the two of them, marriage therapists married to each other, are their own best object lesson. Seven years ago, although they were writing best-selling self-help books, training therapists, and leading couples workshops throughout the world, their personal union was crumbling.

On the verge of divorce, they tripped over the snaky root of their discontent. “One morning, when we were most troubled,” Helen says, “we were in our bedroom and I asked Harville, ‘Do you believe that I love you?’ Harville thought about that for a couple of seconds and said, ‘No, I don’t think you do.’ I was distraught. I could only respond, ‘Given all that I do for you and our life together, how could you not know how much I love you?’”

Harville understood that his feelings were irrational, he says, but alienation was stubbornly entrenched. No matter what Helen gave him emotionally, it had little impact because he suspected there were strings attached. “Only with time and reflection did I realize that I was not able to recognize genuine love when it was offered,” he says.

As they began to contemplate the problem, in much the same way that the minute you think about having a baby, you see pregnant women everywhere, Helen and Harville noticed that a sizable number of couples they’d worked with were stuck in the same cold place. For instance, there was the wife who told her husband she needed him to express more affection—then resisted his kisses and kind words because, she said, they didn’t feel genuine. Another husband admitted that when his wife offered verbal support, he shut down and didn’t respond. And when a new father took time off from work to help his exhausted wife with their twins, she refused to let him do his share. “As far as I could see, she was undermining my gift of love,” he complained in therapy.

The struggle to understand and ease this kind of self-inflicted isolation grew into Harville and Helen’s book. “The common wisdom,” they write, “is that romantic relationships would stay happy if people did a better job of giving to each other. But that’s not what we’ve discovered. We’ve found that many people need to do a better job of receiving the gifts their partners are already offering. It’s suprising how often the compliments, appreciation and encouragement of a well-intentioned partner make no dent in the armor of an unhappy partner.

Harville ticks off the ways we deflect what we secretly crave: by devaluing praise; by assuming the other person is insincere; by criticizing the sender of a positive message for not getting it right, not doing it on time, or not doing it often enough; by not listening; or by feeling embarrassed. We also block loving words by hardening our chest and stomach muscles.

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