My redhead friend J. tells me (and rightly so) that I don't have to write/blog for anyone but me. Which is true. And yet I feel obligated to this blog as much as I do to the neglected friendships of way too many smart, funny and terrific women for whom my days are too short.

So here are a random collection of thoughts from recent days.

1. Nancy Gibbs writes in Time Magazine this week that 'we want our Presidents to have faith, but we won't allow them to show it.' (Pardon the paraphrasing, but that's basically the message.) You know what? I could not give a rat's ass about the President's faith. I care whether or not he (let's face it, it's still gonna be a he for some time) takes care of the country, repairs our connections with other nations, fixes the economy, and stops making a jackass out of everyone he supposedly represents. I don't care whether anyone I know goes to church, unless he or she is sacrificing my children or pets at the altar. And there are days, I confess, when I might hand over one of them anyway. At least to scare some sense into them.

2. I was on the airport shuttle last Tuesday, riding from McCarran Airport to the Las Vegas Hilton. I was drunk on three hours' sleep and a looming second bout of strep throat in three weeks. The little buslet was jam-packed with snarky salesmen on their way to schmooze at Infocomm, and the guy sitting in front of me was sharing an incredibly inane conversation with his fellow salesbot. I was alternately playing solitaire on my mobile and trying to sleep but his laugh kept jostling me-- he literally bellowed "HAW HAW HAW!" on a regular basis. I've never actually heard anyone do that. It was so bizarre and unpleasant.

3. I got this month's issue of More magazine, and it features Jamie Lee Curtis, in honor of her upcoming 50th birthday. They did this great layout with her, where a photographer friend of hers followed her around for a full day, and Jamie Lee then picked a word beginning with "f" to illustrate everything. (Nope, no fucking in the published pics.) What I loved (besides the totally voyeuristic feeling of checking out how she and Christopher Guest live) was her very matter-of-factly saying that she just no longer gave a shit about anything she was "supposed" to be -- which is why she's not really acting anymore. She wanted to go away gracefully and just live her life (affected not a little, I'm sure, by the fact that her brilliant hermit husband makes mine look as outgoing as Bill Clinton), and decided that she was just going to let go.

The whole magazine (once you get past the very obvious and slightly annoying "we're 40+ and FABULOUS!" message that assaults you from every page, except the ads for Botox, Restelayne, and various other injectables) kind of does that -- says that after 40, you can just stop giving a shit what everyone else thinks and find your way to be happy. I liked that message. I don't think you have to look at it from a selfish point of view. In fact, if you think about it, everyone says about motherhood that a happy mother makes for a happier child, so why doesn't that make sense for everything else? If you're happier at work, doesn't that make your environment a little better? If you only buy shoes that feel comfortable, doesn't your whole body feel better? (Apparently, Jamie Lee gave up stilettos, so already she's my hero.)

I'd like to shed expectations and just live and work for what feels good... but probably a little bit of expectations (showing up for work, general hygiene, etc.) are healthy, too. I'll wait until I'm 70 and then really stop giving a shit.

4. So I went to Las Vegas for four days, to give a speech at this conference. They scheduled me for 8:30 on Friday morning, which is basically saying "we doubt anyone will show up anyway, so we'll just put you here." Before I left for Vegas, I went to the doctor because I knew I was coming down with strep (caught just after my birthday last month -- and suffered horribly for several days). I saw the physician's assistant, who absolutely refused to believe I could have it again.

"You take allergy medicine," she said. "You must have allergies. That can make your throat hurt."

"Not like this," I croaked. I denied any of the symptoms she listed, despite her persistance. No runny nose, watery eyes, itchy ears, sneezing, coughing, or wheezing. Just a blisteringly painful throat and lingering fatigue. Then she says that she can prescribe medicine over the phone -- just go off to Vegas and wait two days for the results.

"I have to give a speech on Friday," I said. "I'm not going to be anywhere near a normal pharmacy. Just please give me the medicine, and I'll wait to start it until I hear from you." I finally talk her into it, but not before going through a litany of why I can't take amoxicillin (don't ask, just know it means WAY too much time in the bathroom), even though it was made for the treatment of strep (she said).

I didn't leave without my scrip for Zithromax, which I promptly dragged to Target for a fill. And, like the obedient girl I was trying to be, I packed it in my suitcase and didn't touch it until I called the doc's office Wednesday for my test results.A voice mesage left back for me an hour later confirmed that I'd tested positive for strep.

"Well, DUH,&quo t; rang out through the Nevada mountains (or would have, if I'd had much voice by that time), and I trudged back to my hotel room to force down the first two pills and pass out in the bed.

So there I was in Las Vegas, the US tourist Sleazenyland , and I was sick, exhausted, and on a shoestring budget. My pal J. had been hoping to come with me to get away (I figured the hotel room was already paid for, why not come and play with me when I didn't need to attend meetings?) but I emailed her to say that she should be grateful the flights were too expensive -- she would have been trapped in 109-degree heat with my blast furnace throat in the hotel room, smokers in the casino, and entirely-ridiculously-exp ensive food everywhere. Phooey.