It is entirely possible to drive yourself crazy trying to determine which vitamins and supplements to take, what medical tests to have, and then to actually swallow the pills and plow through the tests.

We could spend days on end reading about the latest research and talking to doctors and nutritionists about it all.

Hundreds of websites advise, lecture and scare us, often filled with blatant contradictions, errors and stupidity. A great deal of the content on site after site appears to be rehashed, regurgitated and recast from other sites. Take it from me. I’ve been a journalist for over four decades. I may not be able to tell a real Kelly bag from a fake, but I know unoriginal content when I read it.

Knowledge may be power, but I feel absolutely powerless to make an informed decision as I make my way through so much unedited, unfiltered and unreliable information.

Do I take fish oil or chia seeds (any relation to Chia pets)? How much calcium? With iron or without it? Do I have a lung xray or a lung CT scan?

I am going to sound like an ad now, but FOF will never present anything but clear, original, concise and expert content on critical subjects such as our health.  We’re working closely with brilliant, dedicated docs from The Cleveland Clinic and elsewhere to give you information you can trust every single time.

Check out some of their advice now.

Imagine a group of 15 and 16-year-old Haitian boys who lost both their parents and brothers or sisters in the devastating earthquake. They’re left to their own resources to find food and shelter. Organizations are trying to locate family members who may be living in the countryside, but many of the boys have no one. They’re also told they’re too old to be taken in by local orphanages.

They band together to protect one another. They’re excited about starting school again, so they can make something of themselves, one of them says.

I heard about these boys on National Public Radio this morning. It saddens me deeply to think about young men sleeping in makeshift tents and searching for food.  Could I invite one of them to live with me? He could finish high school and have the promise of a future.  He could teach me French, too.

When I bring the idea up with friends and family, they tell me to forget it. “It’s not possible.”  “You can’t do that,” they say.

“Send money,” one advised. “That will feed, clothe and shelter earthquake victims for a long time.”

No question about that. But all the money in the world can’t buy a mother’s love.

Anyone who follows this blog knows I had a little “work” done on my face less than two months ago. Although my looks aren’t dramatically different, I think I look fresher and somewhat younger.

I'm too old for Woody, no matter how old I look

I’ve noticed something slightly disturbing as a result: I’m getting more attention from men on the street. I don’t mean they’re falling all over themselves to get my phone number (oops, I mean e-mail). But they are smiling more, making small talk and glancing my way.

Why does this bother me? Because it confirms and emphasizes how superficial and ridiculous men can be.

I didn’t have the face work to attract men. I have a man. I wanted my outer coating to more closely mirror my inner core. I am not a shread bit different.

I  am sixty three today, gentlemen. Don’t let my face fool you for one minute.

I had a beatnik-themed party when I for my 13th birthday, in 1960. I vaguely remembered playing spin-the-bottle. I had an intense crush on Neil Maltz, who was about 5 inches shorter and 20 pounds slighter than I. I don’t remember the outfit I concocted.

My sweet sixteen party was at a Manhattan restaurant called La Fonda Del Sol, in what was then the Time Life Building. I can still taste the rich, luscious Mexican chocolate candy cake. We gave maracas to all my girlfriends. I wore a pale aqua chiffon dress. It was a Sunday afternoon. My uncle took pictures, but it turned out his camera wasn’t working, so all we got was one fairly dark photo.

My best friend, Lois, threw me a surprise party for my thirtieth birthday. It wasn’t really a surprise, but I made believe it was. I remember throwing up in her bathroom for hours because I drank too much. I also remember my father being there. That’s about it.

I gave myself a party for my fiftieth and only invited fun people, whether I knew them a week or decades. Edgar, my boyfriend 14 years my senior, came up from Florida, where he was retired. I had been with him 9 years at that point, but he still felt threatened if I paid attention to anyone but him. He turned out to be a Class A Creep, but the party was great.

I turn 63 tomorrow.  Lois (the same Lois from 33 years ago) and her husband, Eliot, are taking David and me to dinner. Birthday parties don’t hold the same fascination to me.

David found the perfect card for me!

I don’t care much about presents either.

My children, sisters, nephews, David and Douglas, brothers-in-law, friends, health–and, of course, dog Rigby and cat Remy–are all the presents I need.

P.S. My friend Jane turns 63 tomorrow, too. Happy birthday Jane.