As everyone knows, this economy stinks. Ben and I know it better than most people, perhaps; we have both been laid off from our jobs, and despite being generally spoiled, we are facing the realities of tightening our belts. No more happy hours at the Yard House with ahi poke appetizers and Thai pizza. No more outlet shopping, spending money on shoes we really don’t need whatsoever. No more toys for the kids, except on birthdays and Christmas.

Which means I had to take a serious look at my Diet Coke habit. I’m a well-known Diet Cokehead and can easily go through a 12-pack in a day. We’ve long since gone from good California zinfandel and craft brews to Yellow Tail shiraz and Bud Lite, but the Diet Coke habit needed looking at, too. So one day I went to my left-hand pantry and beheld: Tea.

I buy tea the way some women buy shoes or bath salts. I can’t go to Cost Plus or any other specialty store without being seduced by some interesting or exotic tea. So half of our left-hand pantry — fully one-quarter of our available dry-foods storage space — is packed with myriad packages of tea. So I’ve resolved to ease up on the Diet Coke, which I have to buy, and explore the teas, which I already have, instead.

It rocks. Yesterday I had a cup of oolong, a cup of brown rice green tea, a cup of green tea with coconut, lemongrass and ginger, and some just good old plain black tea from England. This morning it’s black tea with peach, and up next I’m pondering either rooibos or perhaps some white tea with jasmine or with pear (I have both, of course). Quite apart from the antioxidant benefits, which they say are considerable (who are THEY and why do they care about my tea?), I’m having a hell of a time just enjoying the pleasures of drinking tea, which I’d quite forgotten.

Ben laughed yesterday and said that these are the pleasures of old age — you come to appreciate tea, you start to really savor hot soup. So be it. But if you need a comfort in tough times, break out the tea, put your feet up, and breathe in the steam. It really works, and it’s so much cheaper and cleaner than psychoanalysis, drug abuse, whoremongering or a messy breakdown.

Ben and I are sort of in mourning today. Late last week, CBS announced that it was changing the local talk radio station, 97.1 FM, to (YET ANOTHER FUCKING) Spanish-language station. And I almost cried.

97.1 is, or was, the home of my beloved Adam Carolla and Frosty, Heidi and Frank. Of course, if you’re not in L.A. or one of their (FUCKING FORMER) syndication markets — or if you haven’t heard me have on about how great they are — these names probably don’t mean very much to you. You might understand if you’re a Howard Stern fan. These were my friends who drove to work with me in the mornings and picked up my kids with me, and goofed around and kept me company in the car and made me laugh. A lot of Angelenos felt this way. But apparently more Angelenos than that are Hispanic. So my radio friends are gone.

Friday’s shows, the last ones, were damned near funereal. Worse, I now have nothing to listen to on the car radio. I hate all of the available music stations, unless and until they come up an Elvis Costello/Jenny Lewis station. Of course this means those two get more airplay in my car on CD. Apart from that, it’s the local AM news station. Damn, damn, damn.

Ben and I have noticed that whatever we like gets cancelled or discontinued. The example which pops to mind is this completely awesome frittata Trader Joe’s used to sell, which was wicked good and which we bought and ate often. Of course, they don’t sell them anymore. I suppose it’s because what we like is usually different to what everyone else likes. I’d be better off if I listened to Beyonce and watched American Idol. So much for social diversity. So much for individuality. And so much, damn it, for 97.1.

Adam, my friend: Mahalo for all the great radio. I know we’ll hear from you again. Frosty, Heidi and Frank: You’ll be back, hopefully not in some cityful of ASSHOLES.

Just for Going Like Sixty, who made foul mention of my dreadful faux Dorothy Hamill wedge from 2007, I give you: My original Dorothy Hamill wedge from the ’70s. I would dearly love to have the face back, the sulky attitude hasn’t changed much, and I daresay the haircut is better too.

Last week, American author John Updike died at the age of 76 — of lung cancer, like both my parents. (I’m going to publicly flog any of my kids who takes up cigarettes.) I was sad to see him go. It’s always good to read in a book, or see in a movie, a truly accurate depiction of a marriage — not a miserable one, not a blissful one, but a real one. The two most real depictions of marriage I’ve ever seen are in the movie Fargo (between the pregnant police officer and her husband) and in John Updike’s Rabbit books.

The Rabbit arc encompasses four novels: Rabbit, Run; Rabbit Redux; Rabbit is Rich and Rabbit at Rest.  (There is also Rabbit Remembered, but I don’t count that one because Rabbit is already dead.) They follow a Pennsylvania car dealer through his entire life, from his teen years to his death. And the central element of Rabbit’s story is his marriage to Janice, his first and only wife.

Oh Lord, do these two put each other through hell at times. There is sporadic adultery on both sides, substance abuse, the accidental death of one of their children, their adult son’s cocaine addiction, separations, recriminations, and sometimes just the plain old sense of I hate you so much right now that rears its head in every long marriage. (Come to think of it, it’s probably even more common in short marriages.)

But Rabbit and Janice stay together until Rabbit’s death. It puts me so much in mind of my parents, until my dad’s untimely death cut short their marriage just short of the 50-year mark. Why aren’t more people writing and making movies about this sort of marriage?

Anyway. John Updike taught me a lot about what true love really is. If you haven’t read his novels, they’re wonderful and I highly recommend them. Goodnight, Mr. Updike, and thanks.