Lately, a lot of people have been telling me what to eat. This is a new development. Of course, there was a time when my parents told me what to eat, but I always thought once you got past that stage, you were on your own.

Not so. Just the other day I was having lunch with a man I had never met before, in a restaurant I suspected to be vegetarian (no meat on the menu being one clue). “I guess a diet coke would be against the rules here,” I said to the waiter, who said yes, but he would carbonate the water if I liked. (Do I look like Bozo the Clown?)

“You can’t drink diet coke,” my dining companion said. “It has something awful in it that will give you stomach problems.”

Well, in fact, I was having stomach pains at that moment, but I suspected they were from some stringy black thing in my polenta I could not identify. I was hoping it was some form of exotic mushroom. Beyond that, I didn’t want to speculate.

But the point is, when did it become so dangerous to order food in polite company? Just a week earlier, I’d been instructed by another person I had just met not to eat sugar, dairy or wheat. Still another pointed out the murderous intent of tomatoes in a tin. On second thought, she ordered, “Don’t eat anything out of a can.”

So my heart goes out to the Arizona students suddenly placed under house arrest by the food police.

Nanci Aiken, director of Tuscon’s Children’s Success Academy for kids in kindergarten through fifth grade, has banned white flour, refined sugar, and any processed food from the school premises. Birthday cupcakes? Dream on. It’s fruit and nuts for them.

The list of banned foods is substantial – American cheese, canned fruit, flavored yogurt, white bread, peanut butter made with sugar – even Oreo cookies.

And there are no exceptions to the rule, said Nanci Aiken, the school’s director. “You don’t need a cake,” she said. “They can have nuts, or fruit.”

“I feel like the Wicked Witch of the West a lot of times, but it makes such a big difference,” she said. “When you eat sugar, especially by itself like a candy bar, you get a rush and crash. An apple will not give you instant gratification or a rush, but it lasts longer.”

School Bans American Cheese, Oreos | The FOX Nation.

I don’t doubt that the school’s director is correct in her praise of the apple, and for the most part, I support the many attempts to improve the eating habits of American youth. Michelle Obama’s White House garden? Go for it—but also note that on her daughters’ spring break, the First Lady took them to a Brooklyn pizza parlor known for lines around the block.

No, Michelle is smart enough to know that rigid adherence to whatever is currently deemed a “healthy” diet is likely to produce a generation hell-bent on eating junk. Show me the four-year-old who’s denied any sweets at all, and I’ll show you the kid throwing up in the corner, the first chance he gets to overdose on chocolate.

So here is what I wish for those students in Arizona, deprived as they are of such grammar school staples as Girl Scout Cookies and Hostess Cupcakes: Learn to love whole grains and vegetables, legumes and nuts, fish and herbal tea. Every so often, allow yourself an unhealthy treat. But when you go out to eat with somebody else…keep your judgments off his plate.

Elizabeth–known as Libby–Post has died. Post, who  inherited the manners mantle from her husband’s grandmother, Emily, left this world in a suitably gracious fashion, on April 27, at age 89, after dividing her time in recent years between Vermont and St. Petersburg, Fla.

“Libby was very open minded, fair and flexible,” said daughter-in-law Peggy Post on Tuesday. “She was full of common sense and kindness. Not at all pretentious and not at all stuffy.”

News from The Associated Press.

Of course she wasn’t stuffy! Post started advising us on what to say, how to act, during the ’60s–when etiquette was the last thing on anybody’s mind. Today, when the web has created a whole new terrain of etiquette, how would she respond? Certainly not by posting booze-guzzling photos on her Facebook page–or even by sharing 1,243 photos of her grandchildren’s escapades.

Though she was not born a Post, Libby eagerly joined the family business. Her advice wasn’t double-edged or snarky: Sincerity is a Post trademark. So here is what I, a casual reader, learned from these Post mavens:

1) How to set a table. This might seem inconsequential, but think about it–what would happen if we didn’t know that the fork is on the left, the knife on the right–to say nothing of that endless progression of formal dinner silverware?  You can’t just place them at random, according to your whim. Chaos would ensue.

2) What to do when somebody dies. This is a big one. There’s the wake and/or memorial service, sitting shiva, various religions’ periods of mourning. Your best friend’s grief is one thing–but how to handle the grief of  a coworker or your sister’s aunt? The Posts were there, sympathy notes in hand.

3) How to address a Senator. Or Ambassador. Or Queen. I mean, this doesn’t pop up often, but when it does–you got to be ready. Small talk at hand.

4) The awful wedding invitation. How to answer? What to give? And just how long do you have to get it there?

5) Manners are about kindness. It’s easy to equate etiquette with snobbery, but at root, how you behave indicates your respect for others. Any others.

How sad that in the era of Tea Partyers and Birthers, late night gabbers and congressional grabbers, we seem to have lost that anchor, to be drifting away from kindness, from putting others at ease, toward the screeching world of reality TV.

I went to a lunch yesterday for feminist author Naomi Wolf, who has an interesting piece in the April issue of More magazine, debunking Marcus Buckingham’s recent book, Find Your Strongest Life, which concluded that American women today are more miserable than ever–thanks, apparently, to their hard-won social and economic freedom.

In her piece, Wolf argues that the whole point of feminism was to unsettle the status quo, to give women the freedom to challenge restrictions we had previously taken for granted. If women are less satisfied, it means they are less complacent. She also suggests that we need to move  from a feminism rooted in individualism toward one more focused on community.

There have been tremendous advances for women in my lifetime, but I have to say attaining happiness never seemed a primary goal for most women I know. We set out to lead richer, more emancipated lives, and despite the Founding Fathers’ phrase, freedom isn’t an automatic prescription for personal joy. Wolf, deeply influenced by recent trips to developing nations, proposes an interesting challenge to the conventional concept of happiness–for both men and women:

So where does all this stoking of feminine discontent leave us? In a great place to learn about real contentment. All of this could be an opportunity for us to be not just freer (a value cherished by all waves of feminism) but also wiser. It would be salutary for women (and men, for that matter) in the West to grow out of their 40-year adolescence—their long, eye-rolling whine—and to actually take the next step toward true maturity.

First, let’s rethink the definition of happiness. Most people quote the Declaration of Independence’s phrase “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” as if it means that being personally fulfilled is the promise of America. But personal gratification is not what happiness meant in the eighteenth century. It had much more of a connotation of the fortunate condition of using one’s fullest capacities in the service of a larger good. Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin and even Jane Austen all use happiness in this sense, rather than in the sense of personal gratification. That is a nice place to start redefining.

What Price Happiness? – Page 5 – MORE Magazine

You can read more of Naomi’s thoughts–and the predictable backlash to her words in the comment section– in my Speakeasy report on the lunch. Which leads us to another question: Why is feminism a dirty word–to so many women,  as well as men?

I was so disappointed when a recent report that Elizabeth Taylor was engaged to marry again proved false. How wonderful to think of La Liz, 78, whirling down the aisle (well maybe not whirling, but with any luck, walking) for the ninth time! What color dress would she choose for this ceremony? Over the years, she’s gone from white to green to yellow. And who, this wedding around, would serve as Father of the Bride?

But Taylor’s cooler head prevailed. “I’ll never marry again,” she said, post-Larry Fortensky, and apparently she meant it. She will not be tying the knot with Jason Winters, 49, as fond as she is of the Hollywood manager.

Not so sensible is Larry King, 76, whose marital history predicts he’ll be donning another tux just as soon as he can shed his wife of 13 years, Shawn Southwick, 50. Indeed, if rumors prove true, he may put on that top hat to marry Shawn’s sister Shannon, 46. Shannon would be wife number 8, marriage number 9, for the irascible talk show host—but who’s counting? Certainly not King.

Which is why Taylor is here to help.

Elizabeth: Larry, darling, you and I have a lot in common—

Larry: We slept together? I don’t remember that.

Elizabeth: No. Of course not. I mean, not that you’re not an attractive man—well, actually, you’re not—but anyway, I don’t make it a habit of sleeping with men I don’t marry. But I’m not here to talk about you and me.

Larry: Thank God. You had me worried there, for a minute, Liz, considering you’re 78. I mean, I don’t go for women who look like my mother.

Elizabeth: Your mother? Larry, you’re 76.  Think about it.

Debbie Reynolds: Ha! You think he thinks with anything but his–

Elizabeth: Debbie, don’t say it. We’re on the air.

Larry: Debbie Reynolds? What are you doing here?

Debbie: I’m the girl next door. Just popped in with some coffee cake.

Elizabeth: Entenmann’s! I love Entenmann’s! Debbie, you’re an angel.

Larry: You two still speak?

Elizabeth: Why wouldn’t we?

Debbie: Oh, Elizabeth, he’s talking about Eddie, which was like 100 years ago.

Elizabeth: Eddie? That loser? What’s he got to do with it?

Debbie: Speaking of losers, what’s Larry doing here?

Elizabeth: He’s distraught. He’s going through his 8^th divorce.

Larry: Well, I’m not really that upset. I’ve got another chick lined up.

Debbie: Of course you do. And I hope she has a respirator by the bed.

Elizabeth: Debbie! No need to be rude to our guest. He’s asking for our help.

Larry: I thought Elizabeth would understand.

Elizabeth: Understand what, darling?

Larry: I want to hold onto my money.

Debbie: Then stop pulling out your—-

Elizabeth: Debbie! You are the girl next door!

Debbie: That doesn’t mean I haven’t been around the block.  I’m 78.

Larry: Seriously, girls, I got a problem here.

Debbie: Out of Viagra, sweetie?

Larry: And they call me inappropriate.

Elizabeth: Just ignore her, Larry. She never got over Harry Karl. But anyway, when it comes to your finances, one word: Perfume.

Larry: Perfume? I’m a guy for god’s sake. And a macho guy, if I do say so myself.  I mean, screwing sisters! Not even Hef would dare that.

Debbie: Get a grip, Larry. They’re 50 and 46. We’re not talking centerfold here. Unless they’ve got an offer from AARP.

Larry: They’re hot. They’re sisters. They’re 30 years younger than me. What’s wrong with that? Liz goes for younger men.

Elizabeth: Not necessarily, Larry. I just like men of a certain age—35 to 50, to be precise. Check my record.  I may be getting older, but my guys are staying the same.

Larry: You’re losing me here. You lost me at the perfume.

Elizabeth: Why? I’ve made a bloody fortune from my perfume.

Larry: You’re right. I’ll need millions and millions for the alimony. Liz, you have White Diamonds. What should I call my cologne? I always liked Old Spice.

Debbie: Old Fart? “The scent that clears a room.”

Elizabeth: Debbie! Stop it!

Debbie: Okay, okay. Randy Grandy? Senior Stud? Kinky King?

Elizabeth: No, no, we need something elegant. Something that speaks to the real Larry, the essence of a talk show giant, but with an exotic undercurrent. Let me see…maybe something French…Eau de Laurent?

Larry: Nah. I’m not eau de nothing. I’m Larry King Live. That’s it! We’ll call it Alive! I like that…Larry King…Alive…

Debbie: Ha! You wish! Call it what you will, it still smells like old Depends to me.

Just when you thought you were condemned to a life of tofu and kale, science is abuzz with new dietary rules. First comes a report from Cooking Light–the Southern bible of low calorie cuisine–that hey, chicken skin isn’t such a bad thing. Fry it up–in canola oil–and it might even qualify as health food.

I immediately sent this link whirling to my fried chicken-loving pals, who, by the way, swear by Popeye’s (Colonel Sanders is the runner up), if they can’t make Mom’s themselves.

Then, a new study in Germany concluded that a bar of chocolate a day will slash your risk of heart disease and stroke.

Whoa–what comes next, deep fried mallomars?

But wait a minute. Turn the page, and here’s another study: Fatty foods–hey, wouldn’t that be chocolate and fried chicken?–are as addictive as cocaine and heroin.

Cocaine and heroin? Did they throw Ecstasy into the mix?

Well, let’s look at this more closely. Studying rats–I’m actually beginning to feel sorry for rats, despite the number I see on the New York City subway tracks–the researchers fed the little critters a diet of bacon, sausage and cheesecake. (Mmmm..sounds like rodent heaven to me.) Then, a second set of rats–similar to those infamous dieting monkeys–was given healthy fare.

Okay–so the junk food rats ate twice as much. Even when–and how cruel is this, even though I’m not a fan of rats–they were zapped with bolts of electricity, the junk food eaters simply refused to stop eating junk. Not only that, but when deprived of the fatty foods, they lay down and refused to eat at all. No carrots and spinach for these guys! Dunkin’ Donuts all the way!

Once again, science has led us into a mind-boggling maze. The rats, accustomed to such tests, will find their way out. Can we say the same?