The Light Touch / The Valentine's Day survey A scientific study based on evidence from the erudite publication "National Exposure" concluded that when it comes to communication, women are ahead of the game. A Valentine's Day survey posed a question to a group of men and women: What do you believe is the key ingredient to a successful relationship? She: "The most important element in a relationship is the willingness to communicate openly at all times, and talk about feelings." A typical couple on an ordinary Sunday. Would you rather watch sports than talk to me? What can I do to make you feel better? He: "On your way up, honey, could you bring me a bag of Cheese Doodles? I'd get it myself, but I'm kind of tired." [...] could you bring me those Cheese Doodles? Two guys sitting around watching late night TV. Guy #2: "That's Lulu La Boo-Boo, the new Hollywood sex symbol." Guy #2: "Why can't I have a meaningful conversation like this with the wife?" A couple is in therapy because the woman claimed her husband was unwilling to share his innermost thoughts. The study determined that men and women need to get to the point and avoid extraneous rhetoric. He: "No, but you're a nice person with good teeth, a cute figure and you make a mean pot roast." The study finally concludes that while keeping the lines of communication open sounds good in theory, it can be risky business, and should be avoided at all costs.

Op-Ed / Out-of-town criticism, piled high on wry Before Westport Weston Nursery School, even before moving permanently to Westport, we would spend our summers at Compo. For many, Westport is the space between our beloved jetties. Every Saturday my dad and I drove up South Compo to the blue deli with the cracked gold sign. Inside were the greatest foods and the most important people in the world. Legends buying hand sliced Norwegian smoked salmon and mistakenly calling it lox. Pounds of fresh golden black Caspian caviar sitting in the same help-yourself refrigerator that held dozens of quarts of freshly squeezed bright orange juice. The Pulitzer Prize winner, Bill Sherman, says to me, You gotta write what you know. No, it's human interest people want. The man seemed puzzled but handed over the money and was about to pick up his bags when Mr. Gold snapped at me, "Help this gentleman with his food." Bridgeport was the manufacturing and shipping hub and Danbury was hat making capital of the world. Before long, Desilu Productions had set up shop and then every painter, writer, and photographer, longing to get away from The City, suddenly had a cottage at The Old Mill. We serve only the best! was printed in two colors on the thick plastic containers that lovingly housed the chopped chicken livers and whitefish salads. In the car my father asked why, if I'd met Hollywood producers and actors and politicians, I would call the owner of a deli, Sir. Westport has more financial advisers than artists. Should I write the clientele has changed and it's impossible to maintain the same level of quality without the same level of volume? [...] screw off back to New York, and leave the complaining about Westport to us.

Editorial / No easy choices in school budget His proposed operating budget of $100.5 million for 2012-13 -- while not flat as the finance board asked -- calls for a slim 2.5 percent increase over current spending. [...] that's a first-blush budget the Board of Education is free to trim. How Landon proposed to keep spending in check, however, has predictably ruffled some feathers, and the loudest squawks so far are about reductions in elementary-school gym classes and the elimination of French-language study for sixth graders. Gym teachers protested to the school board last week that physical education was a necessity, not a luxury, and that cutbacks would feed into rising child obesity rates. The town recreation department offers scores of age-appropriate activities to keep kids moving. [...] the last time we checked the statutes, it was not considered child abuse to unplug the video-game controller and escort a child into the backyard to play a real-world game. "At the risk of being chased out of here with pitchforks and torches, I'd rather you raise my taxes than cut any of this," she said. [...] even if the school board is swayed and adds money to the budget, the finance board and representative town meeting will likely be waiting with their own sets of knives.

It's a crash, not an accident, when someone is so impatient to shave 30 seconds off her trip across town that she follows too closely, then plows into the car in front of her when that driver stops suddenly for a squirrel scrambling this way and that. [...] it's a crash, not an accident, when someone knowingly races along at 15, 20 or 25 miles over the speed limit, then hits a patch of ice or leaves or sand or whatever, a patch one should always expect at that time of year. Nearly every day, it seems, local websites show photos of what are euphemistically called "accidents." Thanks to air bags, seat belts and sturdier construction, we're walking away from wrecks that just a few years ago would have killed us. [...] despite all the evidence to the contrary -- the photos in the Westport News and on WestportNow; the tales told by friends and family; even the scenes of carnage we pass by every day (slowing down to stare, then speeding up again as soon as we're gone) -- we do the same thing each time we get behind the wheel. The stretch of the Post Road near Fairfield, from the Lansdowne condominiums all the way to Shake Shack, has gotten the most publicity, but a couple of weeks ago a woman crossing from Playhouse Square to her job at Dattco was struck too. She was the one given a summons, for crossing against the light, but odds are didn't suddenly step into moving traffic. [...] every morning, as I make my way to Staples High School, there's a guy jogging down Long Lots.

The Westport Historical Society's installment "Next Stop Westport" reminded me not only of the role Westport played in 1950s television but in my own initial experience with the town. While house hunting, we entered home after home of real grown-up people. The real estate agent drove us up the long drive of the frozen Long Shore country club. [...] on Compo South, crouched the minuteman statue, erected to commemorate the 1777 attack on British troops, It was Lucy to me, in black and white and shades of grey just as she had been the late night re-runs. Instead of trying to finagle her way into show business as she always had in Manhattan, Lucy, in Westport, directed her efforts into fitting into country life and forging new friendships. [...] when the hatchery said that they could only ship them by the dozen, did I remember Lucy's family room overrun by chicks when I agreed to the increase? [...] in the toddler music classes, all the moms looked so put-together. I imagine my worries had more to do with embracing my adult life than it really did with Lucy's desperate attempts to stay in the good-graces of the townspeople of Westport.