Notes from the Real O.C.

The Power of….Wallowing in Self-Pity

2010-09-08T16:09:00.000-07:00

It seems like the book “The Power of Positive Thinking” has been around my whole life…and I guess it pretty much has, since positivity (I think I made that word up—yay me!) guru Norman Vincent Peale first inflicted it on the world in 1980. I was 11 then, a wee wisp o’ a lass, but I remember the book’s place of honor on my parents’ bookshelf.

The book’s admonishments to “Believe in Yourself,” its reminders that “A Peaceful Mind Generates Power,” and of course, the wisdom of “How to Get People to Like You” have grasped the imaginations of millions of people around the world. The book has been printed in 30 languages. I didn’t even know there were 30 different languages on the planet! (okay, well I did—heard that somewhere.) Apparently, whether you reside in Billerica, Massachusetts, Anaheim Hills, California, Londonderry, England or Tianjin, China, the desire to be happy, wealthy and well-liked are pretty much universal desires.

So in an effort to buck myself up during some less than stellar months, I decided to pull that book off the shelf, blow the dust of it, and take a cruise through it. Yes, I do own a copy—a high school graduation gift from “Auntie Ellen,” my mom’s best friend at the time (apparently they didn’t apply enough “positive thinking” to their relationship because they parted ways not long after I entered college).

I settled into the crook of the love seat, glass of pinot in hand, and began to leaf through it. As I did, I’d hit a particular subject (“How to Have Constant Energy”) and think, yeah, sure, makes sense. Turn another page (“I Don’t Believe in Defeat”)—oookkkaaaayyyyy, you may not BELIEVE in defeat, but it’s bound to happen at some point. One more page (“Relax for Easy Power”)—tried that, it didn’t work.

As I leafed through it, I found myself in the unusual position of being annoyed by its positive outlook. Which is quite hilarious, since “positive” is in the title of the darn thing! I mean, duh!! Wasn’t “positive power” what I was looking for? At one point, my feelings about the book changed from polite interest to outright annoyance. I actually questioned whether Dr. Peale wasn’t just having a huge one over on all of us. I know, of course, that was just my bad mood talking. But I after reading the chapter entitled “Prescription for Heartache” I couldn’t help but help wonder if the author has ever felt that singularly unpleasant feeling that if even one more thing goes wrong, you’re just going to jump off the nearest tall building and be done with it?

So this train of negative thought lead me down a path I usually try to avoid, lest the little beasties who hide along that dark road reach out and grab me and keep me there permanently. But for once, I allowed myself to actually consider this thought: “Why not be bitter?”

Gasp! Me, thinking in such terms. Me, who has made such an art of looking at the bright side. Who sees a silver-lining in a pitch-black cloud-drenched sky? I admit it; I succumbed. At least for a little while. I wallowed in self-pity. Not only did I wallow, I completely immersed myself in the muck of “my life completely sucks.” I rolled around in it. I submerged myself. Covered myself in it from the little grey hairs that sprout out of the top of my head when it’s time for to see my stylist to the end of my overly-large and somewhat Fred Flintstone-like big toes. And it felt good.

Because, I must admit, there is a dark attraction to wallowing in self-pity. Self-pity is the one emotion you that conversely makes you feel worse, while making you feel better at the exact same time. No one understands me. No one has ever felt as bad as I do at this very moment. It’s different for me because I’m more sensitive than most people. Things are easier for everyone else than for me. Self-pity is, perhaps, the epitome of self-indulgence. And as anyone knows who has ever eaten an entire stick of pre-made chocolate chip cookie dough (as I have been known to do after spectacularly bad break ups), can attest self-indulgence feels good.

At least for a while. But truth be told, my brief sojourn down the dark path of complete self-indulgence bored me after a little while—and left me feeling guilty and slightly sick. Just like I feel after eating that cookie dough!

So after about 10 minutes in the “my-life-completely-sucks” mud puddle, I emerged….dirty, tired, sick at heart, but ready to clean myself up. Because (and here’s my positive nature coming out) despite what is undeniably a difficult time in my life, there are sooooooo many things I have in my life that makes every minute—even the bad ones—worth it.

The chief among these are my friends. Over and over again, I think how incredibly blessed and lucky I am to have people in my life I can call, if needed, at 2:00am. And they WILL be there.

So I guess I learned a lesson about the power of wallowing in self-pity. Oh, boy...here she goes! A “life lesson!” I imagine you rolling your eyes right now. But wait! It’s a good one—or a fairly decent one, anyway. Self-pity IS a powerful emotion, to be sure. But it’s the wrong kind of power. Rather than give you what you need to move forward, self-pity is so strong it holds you back. Believe me, getting out of the self-pity wallow was easier said than done…because once you’ve jumped in it, little bits of that nasty muck cling to you. It takes a while to scrub them away.

So I retrieved Dr. Peal’s well-intentioned book from the floor where I’d tossed it. I didn’t open it up (I still find its perkiness a bit annoying) but I did brush the dog hair off it (my dog Daisy sheds copiously—at any given time, big puffs of her fur are floating around the house and cling to whatever happens to be around, i.e.: socks, table legs, and the occasional thrown book) and put it back on the shelf. Perhaps sometime I’ll open it up again and try to find answers. Or maybe I’ll find a different book.

Or maybe, I’ll write a book: The Power of ….who knows. I guess a title will come to me when I finally figure it out myself.

Notes from the Real O.C.: Cleaning Out My (Mental) Closet, a.k.a.: Holy crap! I didn't know I still had this thing!

2010-08-22T17:45:00.000-07:00

Notes from the Real O.C.: Cleaning Out My (Mental) Closet, a.k.a.: Holy crap! I didn't know I still had this thing!

Cleaning Out My (Mental) Closet, a.k.a.: Holy crap! I didn't know I still had this thing!

2010-08-22T17:38:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me (and even some who don't, thanks to my propensity for telling my troubles to random people in elevators) knows that since about January I've been going through a sort of mid-life breakdown. Well, breakdown is too harsh a word. Crisis? Predicament? Calamity? Whatever. Basically, I realized that I needed to make some very important (read: life-altering) decisions and I just didn't wanna. (insert pic of me sticking out my tongue here.)

So, being the queen of distraction (I'd like to blame adult A.D.D. but that's just shorthand for an uber-short attention span combined with a heightened ability to procrastinate beyond all reason) I found ways to divert myself from the hard decisions at hand. Most of those ways included ingesting copious amounts of alcohol and not less than five skull-busting hangovers ( I promise you, a hangover at the advanced age of 41 isn't a pretty site). I dropped 20 pounds, but I can't say I worked hard at it--I lost complete interest in food for about four months. It's easy to get back to your high school weight (less than, actually) when just the idea of putting food in your mouth makes you want to vomit. The ultimate diet plan, eh? Move over Weight Watchers! I killed myself with volunteering, applied for a hundred jobs I didn't want (no interviews though--the laugh's on me), and sweated my way through re-planting my entire backyard by myself. All so I wouldn't have to think. Brilliant plan, right? Especially since while I was doing all these things, all I really was doing was thinking about the things I didn't want to think about. In other words, try your hardest NOT to think of a blue-eyed polar bear for the next two minutes....ha ha.

Thus, seven months of angst. But things are better now, mostly because I've finally made the hard decisions. Plus, (and here I get really corny, so either break out the tissues or be prepared to roll your eyes) I have been amazingly fortunate to have friends who have literally pulled me--kicking, screaming and scratching--through this period in my life. If it weren't for them....well, all I can say is that I love them more than life itself, and have come to realize what that phrase "family isn't what you were born into--it's what you make it" really means. My friends ARE my family. Okay, now you can roll your eyes.

So, in a symbolic nod to my new frame of mind, I decided last week to tackle my closet. Which, as disconnected as it sounds from my seven-month long dilemma, actually made a ton of sense. My closet isn't big--my house, built in '71, sadly lacks closet space AND storage (male architect, obviously--wink) --but it was positively crammed to bursting with over a decade of stuff that I couldn't seem to part with. Which in a weird way is what I realized has been going on with my brain the last half-year plus. Too much STUFF in it.

I'm talking about the stuff that we all accumulate over time. The expectations, the aging-thing, the guilts, the desires, the petty jealousies, the regrets, the bitterness, the resentment, the holy-hell-how-did-time-get-away-from-me-so-fast??s. The excuses--always a fave of mine. If I hadn't been doing (fill in the blank) then I could be (fill in the blank) by now. And so on.

So I started pulling stuff out of my closet, and with every removal (and some stuff was pretty hard to get out, given how packed in it all was--I mean, really, does anyone, anywhere, need 67 pairs of shoes???) I felt my spirit lighten a little. Away went the dress I wore to my 10-year high school reunion--a tight, panty-grazing, electric blue number with mesh cut-outs on the side. Not because it doesn't fit (depression as diet-aid, don't forget) but because it's from a time in my life where partying was about all I did, and that is definitely a "party girl" kinda dress. I'll admit: letting go of that was hard--I'd always envisioned a day I would put it on and hit the town. But putting it in the "donate" pile felt good--and that feeling that I still need to be 27 went with it.

Next went about 35 pairs of shoes (hey, I know I kept 32 pairs, but a girl's gotta have choices!). That was tough too, because every pair seemed to have a special association with it. I wore these on my date with that super cute "actor" who'd been an extra on Titanic. That pair was from my first big meeting as a freelancer in San Diego. The other pair--the stiletto black sandals with silver accents--was my first $100 splurge. Those ratty Avias--complete with blood-stain from a popped blister--are my "first marathon" shoes. But into the "donate" pile they all went (well, except the blood-stained Avias--nobody in their right mind would want those stinky, gross things). As did my need to obsessively revisit past events. I'd spent most of the last seven months going over and over and over past decisions, ad nauseum, as if by constantly picking at them I could somehow change the consequences that resulted. I realized as carefully laid those sandals down in the pile for some other woman to wear that I can't changed what I've already done any more than I can change the orbit of the Earth around the sun.

So on it went--for three solid hours, I culled, cleaned, evaluated, and ultimately dumped more than half my closet. And looking at the space (wow! I can actually see my clothes now, rather than guess at what they are based on their color and position) I felt an indescribable sense of lightness. Like I'd actually accomplished something worthwhile. But it was more than finding freedom among the shirts, dresses and belts. It was also realizing that letting go of "stuff" isn't going to kill me--material stuff or mental stuff.

For me, at least, holding on to "stuff" from my past truly prevented me from moving forward. Especially my expectations of what "should have been." I was so entwined with the idea of what I should have accomplished/achieved by this point in my life that I had almost become resentful. A resentment I covered with a quick and ready smile, true, but it was there nonetheless, like a bitter cherry inside a really yummy looking chocolate.

Letting go of the guilt--which was accompanied by several bridesmaids dresses I'd been holding onto out of a weird superstition that by getting rid of them, I would somehow adversely affect the marriages of the friends I'd worn them for--was probably the hardest for me to do. I love guilt. I wallow in it. It's probably the reason I'm such a gun-ho volunteer. Guilt for things both large and small. Guilt for breaking someone's heart (in the ironic justice of the universe, I realize now that he was my soul mate and I would give anything to go back in time and respond differently when he said, "I love you."). Guilt for making selfish choices that haunt me to this day. Guilt for thoughtlessly spewed words that I can never take back--even though the people (one person in particular) I said them to have probably forgotten them by now. Guilt that I didn't try harder. Guilt that I made decisions out of fear and uncertainty, rather than be brave and do what was right for me.

So what now? I have a relatively clean closet and a relatively clean mind (there's still a smidgeon of that guilt left, like that cobweb in the topmost corner of my closet that I can't reach). And I'm feeling better than I have in months. The funny thing is, I hardly even realized that I had so much crowding my pea-sized brain, but obviously it has been there for quite a while--like that electric blue dress. I don't need it anymore. Either the dress or the angst. It's freeing, really. More room in my closet--both closest--to fill up with the things that I actually want to own. Like my future.

Take the Leap...But Do Try to Avoid the Scorpions Under the Rosebush

2010-07-19T08:32:00.000-07:00

"The jump is so frightening between where I am and where I long to be. Because of all I may become, I will close my eyes and leap." --Mary Anne Radmacher

Sometimes inspiration comes from the most unlikely places. The above bit of wisdom I read, of all things, on a greeting card in a drugstore in Omaha, Nebraska. I remember that I gasped when I saw it. It spoke—no, shouted out—to me almost as if it had been written specifically for me alone and me alone. I snatched it up from the card rack (sending a dozen other cards cascading to the floor in my excitement) and bought it immediately. I brought it home and propped it on my desk. Ever since, it’s resided in my office, a daily reminder of the change I so desperately want to make.

But in the year that has passed—particularly the last six months—though I’ve made some positive steps towards moving forward, I’ve frequently found myself bogged down by a weird sort of torpor that threatens any forward progress at all. Usually, that inertia centers on thoughts that include (but aren’t limited to) “Well, its not that bad.” Or, “Why do I deserve better?” Or even, “What if I’m wrong? What if it’s a mistake??”

But all those thoughts (and their related meaner-spirited siblings like: “I can’t do it”, “What’s wrong with me?” and “Why can’t I just be okay with this?”) are really rooted in one thing: Fear. And I suspect that fear is what holds most people back from making the decisions they truly need to make to live full and fulfilled lives.

The inspirational quote above addresses that quite nicely—shame on me for taking so long to recognize it. “The jump is so frightening…” she begins. Well, yeah! You’re standing on the edge of a precipice—it’s not a really wide gap in the earth. Maybe 6 or 8 feet. You’re on fairly solid ground. Both feet are planted. You’re safe. But you look around and where you’re standing is barren, a few dried husks of tumbleweeds, lots of rocks and some dust. Or maybe you’re side of the precipice isn’t even that bad—there’s grass (albeit sort of dry and unwelcoming), maybe there’s a few thin trees. There might even be a bench to sit on (but watch out for those splinters!)

So you stand on your side of the precipice, shade your eyes with your hand, and look across longingly. After all, it’s not that far of a leap. You could do it…6 or 8 feet. Just take a running start…

But… while you can see that the other side is lush and green, with full trees dotting the landscape and—wait, is that silver reflection a stream?—you don’t really know if it will be any better over there than it is over here. You think it probably will be. You want to believe that it is. But the fact is, you don’t really know.

What you do know is that you are safe on your own side of the precipice, the side you’re already familiar with, the side where you know what areas to avoid because there are snakes curled up under rocks. You know that if you wait long enough eventually it will rain and you’ll get the water you need then. You know that while it may not be the best side, it is your side—and do you really want to give that up for the other side of the precipice that has no guarantees? The side that looks good but might be hiding a nest of scorpions under a rose bush? But underneath it all, you’re really just scared. What if you take that leap, but miss your footing on the other side? You slip down the side of the cliff, struggling to find purchase, hands bleeding, nails peeling back as you grab desperately for a root or rock or something to hold onto. But you fall anyway…

So you stand, undecided, scared, worried about the drop. The longer you stand there, the more you tell yourself that it’s not that bad on your side. Eventually you shrug your shoulders, stop looking at the other side of the precipice and decide to make your life where you already are. But you still glance over to the other side from time to time over the years and imagine what might have been, had you only had the courage to make the leap.

No great reward ever came without great change—and great risk. We’ve all heard the stories of people who’ve put everything on the line and five years later are happier and more fulfilled than ever. The corporate exec who leaves a solid six-figure income (and grueling, exhausting job) behind to pursue a dream of starting her own firm—and somehow, against the odds, succeeds. Or the work-a-day Joe who recognizes an amazing opportunity and borrows against his 401K to invest…and it works out beyond his wildest dreams. Or the man or woman who longs desperately to start over, get a fresh start in another place and decides to just do it—and makes an unimaginably happy life in a new location. We probably all have friends who’ve been through such a transition.

And I could come up with an equal number of examples of where taking a risk turned out to be the worst possible decision that person could have made….but I won’t go there, because that’s exactly the kind of thinking that paralyzes me—much like the person standing on the edge of the precipice and pictures themselves falling into the bottomless gap between the two places. If you dwell on the negative, you psych yourself out and can’t move forward. And that’s true in everything—the big meeting, the big game, the big speech, the big performance.

So knowing that the potential reward is so great, why am I so freaking scared? Why is anyone scared when they are making a life-altering decision? It’s because as human beings, most of us seek safety and reassurance. Very few of us are risk-takers. And that’s okay. I’m not criticizing those who prefer the safe side of the precipice to the unknown landing on the other side. There’s a lot to be said for security and familiarity. And the comfort of knowing which rocks to avoid, lest a snake chomps down on your ankle.

But there is also a lot to be said for stepping out of your comfort zone and taking a chance. One way or the other, it will work out. Things always do—even if they’re not in the way you hoped or even imagined. And that’s where I am now. Because when I picture staying on this side of the precipice for another year or five years or a lifetime, my heart sinks. And really, when it comes down to it, I want my heart to soar.

So because of all I may become, I will close my eyes and leap—and hope that wherever I land, I will find what I’m looking for there.

**Mary Anne Radmacher, I discovered via Google search (gotta love google) is a writer/artist in Oregon. I love her attitude about life/love/finding your passion. She articulates how I feel, but have trouble discerning. Check out her page at http://www.maryanneradmacher.com/about.php.

I Want to Believe

2010-07-13T18:19:00.000-07:00

In the never-to-be-forgotten TV show “The X-Files” there is a poster on the office wall of the character of Fox Mulder. The poster features a shadowy, grayish image of a flying saucer accompanied by the words “I want to believe.” Of course Mulder, played with broody and damn-sexy intensity by David Duchovny, was desperate to believe in the little green men from outer space. Because, if you were a fan of the show, you’ll recall that Mulder’s little sister was kidnapped by aliens when they were both children. So there had to be aliens…otherwise, our man Fox had to be, well, crazy.

However the show solved the “are aliens-are-real-or-aren’t-they-dilemma” I don’t exactly recall, but I do vividly remember that poster on Mulder’s office wall. But for me, it wasn’t aliens I wanted desperately to believe in. It was God.

Wha--??? Me, having doubts? Me, the avid church go-er? Me, devoted fundraiser for the church’s capital campaign, the former Sunday school teacher, et al? Yup. Me. But then, I’ve never been one to take anything on face value—as much as I may have wanted to. The idea of God—or the concept of an omnipotent being who controls every single aspect of life in this world, from whether the Patriots win their big game to how many seconds the light stays red when I’m running late for work—is extremely difficult for me to get my head/heart around.

The last decade has seen my most concerted effort to truly believe. Because I do want to—after all, who wouldn’t want to believe in a God who takes care of everything, who has it all handled, who can help and guide and love unconditionally? Sounds good to me—life is freakin’ hard most of the time, and there is great appeal in the idea that someone bigger than me has it all under control. That there is a plan. That all the crazy, painful, maddening, confusing stuff that happens in the world has a purpose. We just don’t know what it is yet. (*sigh*)

But the more I attended church the last 10 years, the farther away from God I seemed to get. I did all the right things—went to church every single Sunday, volunteered like a mad-dog on every church committee I could get on, donated hours of time on the capital campaign committee to raise money to build a church-affiliated school, joined a Bible study, and committed to raise my daughters in the church. I figured eventually I’d find my faith, or faith would find me.

But listening to sermons left me cold—every week we were told again and again how horrible we all are and how only Jesus’ love will save us. What I wanted to hear—what I needed to hear—was how you take a 2,000-year-old story and apply it to modern life. The volunteer committees were good—I’ve always been passionate about helping others—but the things I would suggest were politely rejected. And to be fair, they had been doing things a certain way for a very long time and I was doing my best to shake things up. My Bible study was a flop—the first one I went to I brought a bottle of wine and the women looked at me so askance you would have thought I’d come in with horns sprouting out of my head. I laughed out loud when the Bible study leader asserted with calm confidence that the earth was only 6,000 years old—I thought she was joking. But she looked at me with such pity and sighed a deep, heaving sigh that basically communicated to me that I was a hopeless case.

Coming around to faith has been easier desired than accomplished. I have too many questions, ones that I can’t seem to find a satisfactory answer to. “You just have to have faith” isn’t working for me. Some would argue it’s not my place to demand answers of God, but I would answer back that it’s not fair to demand belief but not provide proof.

I’ve been admonished to read the Bible, that I will find all the answers there. I’ve read it. Several times. Perhaps I need to read it again, but if there are answers then either I am inept at finding them or they’re so deeply hidden only another reading—or another 10 readings—will reveal them to me. But I lose patience with the Bible. Or, I should say, I lose patience with people who tell me that every single word in the Bible is true and inspired directly from the mouth of God. The idea of Jonah surviving three days in the acid-laced belly of a whale unscathed is just….not possible. Or that Lot’s wife turned into an actual pillar of salt. Or that Noah managed to put two of every single animal and creature that walks, crawls or slithers across the Earth into a big boat to save them from an world-destroying flood. When I offer up that perhaps the stories in the Bible are just, well, stories, I’m told I’m not only misguided but willfully choosing not to believe.

But perhaps the most perplexing to me of the Christian tenants is the idea of being saved. I love the idea. It is an extremely comforting idea, that simply by believing I will live a life of everlasting peace and joy in a place so incredible that my pea-sized brain cannot even begin to fathom it. I have a choice to either “accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior” or not. And herein lies my problem. They say it’s a “choice” but it’s a false choice. “Either you love Me or you go to a lake of fire and fry. But hey, it’s your choice.” That’s the spiritual equivalent of a mother saying to her child, “You can chose to eat this dinner or I’ll feed you to the alligators. But hey, it’s your choice.” I mean, really? What kind of “choice” is that? That’s not a choice, that’s extortion. Either I believe or I spend eternity in a lake of fire. Huh? I want to believe because my heart has accepted and my head agrees, not because I’m threatened with endless torture.

Which brings me to my final thought on religion and Christianity. According to the teachings of my church, if you don’t believe no matter how good a person you were on Earth, you die and you’re in eternal torment. It doesn’t matter if you were honest, forthright, kind, considerate, et al. Yet if you were the worst kind of serial killer in the world, if you “accept” Christ even one second before you die, you’re living it up in Heaven at the right hand of God. It just doesn’t make sense to me. My beloved dad, for example, not being a “believer” (he believed in a higher power, certainly, but generally felt as tepid about religion as I do) is roasting on a slow spit down below. He was a wonderful man, a man who would give you his last beer or the shirt off his back. I asked about this once in Bible study. And was told (kindly, I suppose) that, well, yeah. My dad was in Hell. Not really what I wanted to hear. And if the person saying it thought I would feel closer to God after she said that, well, her words had the exact opposite effect.

Why did I choose to share all this? This is the longest post I’ve ever written. I did so because I cannot be the only person out there who has these thoughts, feelings and fears. It seems like it sometimes. My husband has no patience for my musings—he has had the not inconsiderable advantage of being raised to believe unwaveringly. (Plus he’s fairly convinced that I’m going to hell anyway because I’m a Democrat.).

I have several friends who are big believers—one in particular who awes and inspires me with the depth of her faith. But I worry about offending them by telling them my doubts. My girls are being raised strong Christians—I can give them that. I think it’s extremely important to give kids that foundation of faith so that later on, they aren’t tormented by questions like I am. Or, if they have questions, they have the security of knowing there is a path home to faith.

And I guess the final reason I’ve chosen to share this is that it’s a way for me to reach out to others who might be able to help guide me on my journey. But I don’t want to be pushed or pitied or punished. I’ll resist. But I do wish there was someone who could patiently walk me through it all without judging. One thing for sure, I didn’t write this to disparage religion or God or believers. I have nothing but the deepest admiration for people—of any faith, of all faiths—that have a true and heart-felt commitment. Christianity is a marvelous thing, and I’d really like to be a part of it. But right now, I feel like there’s a locked door keeping me out…but there is a small window in that door, and when I peer inside I see that true faith can fills those holes in people’s hearts and lives, and especially, in their souls.

Maybe this post will help me find someone who has the keys to open that door—or, if not the keys, at least knows another way in. And then I’ll have my own poster—much to Fox Mulder’s chagrin—that will simply say, “I believe.”

Finding the Passion...No, Not That Kind of Passion, Silly!!

2010-06-13T10:10:00.000-07:00

I spent a great deal of last Saturday night discussing “passion” with strangers. No, not “passion with strangers.” And no, I don’t mean on a blue website, deep in the middle of the night when everyone else is asleep. So if your mind made a little foray into the gutter, you’d best take it out right now and put it on the right path! (wink, wink)

No, the topic of “passion” came up in the course of dinner conversation. I was at a surprise birthday-dinner party, given in honor of my husband’s boss. We sat at a round table with several of his co-workers. Nice people, all. Educated. I doubt there was one among us who didn’t have his or her MBA (except, of course, for me…I barely squeaked out of college. When they handed me my diploma I ran from the stage with it in my hot little hand, afraid they’d say, “Wait! We made a mistake! Get back here!”) In any event, the conversation was smooth and non-controversial, and a little dull. But such is the stuff of office parties. You are still, really, at “the office.”

But since it was not my office—or my co-workers—I had a little less to lose than my husband, who was intent on “polishing relationships” and “developing cohesion.” Yes, because that is a fine goal at any social occasion. In any event, I was a bit bored. But I was good. I nodded and smiled, I made small talk. I chipped in a bit of conversation here and there. And only once did I try to steer the discussion away from the “future of the semi-conductor market,” which is quite possibly the most boring conversational topic EVER (in my never to be humble opinion—and, conversely, I am sure there are those out there who think my passion for music is a dry-as-dust conversational topic too).

The conversation at last got interesting when one of the gentlemen at the table—a very nice man with a kind face and earnest way of speaking—talked about his son, a college student with plans to be a composer. The guy was incredibly proud of the boy, who apparently is some sort of genius musician. But he was worried that his son would never have a “real” job, or make any “money.” But, he added, with a wry shrug of his shoulders, the kid has passion, and hopefully it will all work out.

I was immediately at attention. I love the idea of someone having a true passion for something in his or her life, be it a career, a hobby or another person. I firmly believe that without passion, life—your home life, your work life, your romantic life— becomes a dull and rather sad place to be. To me, passion is more important than money, than recognition, than even a long life. Because who wants to live ‘till 99 if they’ve never experienced that particular thrill of true zeal, of true belief?

So I guess I said all this or something very like it to the man who was worried about his musically inclined son. And because I am me, I am sure I said it with, well, passion. And everyone seemed to have an opinion on the topic, ranging from passion being “overrated” (a rather bitter comment from one young man who looked like he had spent most of his life reading about adventures rather than actually having them) to passion being “essential” (in the words of the young wife of an account exec, who looked at her husband with such admiration that there was no question what kind of “passion” she was talking about.)

We all agreed on, however, that as you get older, finding and maintaining your passion is harder than ever. The conversation changed direction (to the passion of semiconductor sales, I think), but the essence of what we talked about stuck with me. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it all week.

I talk a good game about passion, but sadly the last couple years have taken their toll on my ability to actually feel it. I’m not talking physical/sexual passion—in the right mood, that’s a no brainer. I’m talking about the passion that keeps you going on a new project long after everyone else goes home for the night. The passion to rekindle a dream; take it out of the little box you’ve put it in, blow off the dust, and hold it up to the light.

So if the passion is lost, how do you find it again? That’s where I am right now. I think I may have an answer, and it’s pretty simple.

Go outside.

Huh? Yeah, that’s an answer. No, really. When you’re cooped up—in a house, an office, a mall—your attention is narrowly focused on your immediate surroundings. And your surroundings don’t change that much from day to day when you’re inside—the desk is in the same spot week after week, the couch is always in the living room (it may change angles every year, but it’s still essentially the same). And when you’re limited by your surroundings, uninspired by them, your passion begins to ebb away little by little. Such little ebbs that you hardly notice it’s gone until one say you go to draw upon your passion to help get you through something, and the passion account is empty.

Outside, though, is limitless. Just look up at the sky. Notice the color, the shape of any clouds drifting their way across. Look long enough and you’ll realize you can actually see the curve of the sky as it makes its way across the horizon. When you take a moment to look up, you may feel something surging back into your soul—passion.

Do something physical. The other day I went on a long bike ride with a girlfriend. At the end I felt incredibly regenerated—almost a new person. We talked endlessly as we rode along, and somehow talking while riding bikes was more productive than just sitting in the local Starbucks and chatting over coffee. The repetitive motion of the turning tires cleared my mind. I found myself talking about things I never expected to say out loud. It really helped me.

The years are gonna happen whether we want them to or not. It’s up to us if we live them fully—with passion—or just float along. I've become quite the little paper boat bobbing along in a stream the last few years. I don't want to be that little boat anymore. I want to be a captain! Okay, lame analogy. Whadda ya want? It's 2 am.

But passion doesn’t just magically appear. It’s something we have to work at, cultivate and maintain. And once you find it (or rediscover it) its essential to encourage it, to make it grow. Sounds like a plant, huh? I guess in a way it sort of is—a plant will obviously shrivel up and die without care; passion will do the same thing. And imagine—if we’ve got another 30 or 40 years of life in us (and statistical averages bear that out), wouldn’t it be great to live those years with meaning? With passion? I plan to.

To paraphrase a line from “Steel Magnola’s” (a movie I love despite its over-the-top corn factor): “I’d rather have five years of amazing than a life time of nothing special.”

Belly Dancing, Botox, Tattoos...Mid-Life Crisis, Mid-Life Reinvention or Mid-Life Rebellion?

2010-05-28T00:04:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago I was enjoying a rather pricey and extremely delicious bottle of wine with a few girlfriends. The conversation turned, as it is wont to do, on a number of topics. We skipped along, one subject leading to another, talking and laughing in that excited way people have when they really enjoy each other's company. One of the topics we skipped lightly over was that of the storied "MidLife Crisis." Not our assorted husband's mid-life crises--only one actually went out and bought a convertible Jag (and he has to share it with his wife.) No, the subject we danced over was our own mid-life crises.

But as these conversations often go, we spent maybe a minute on this and then flitted off to something else--I believe we started talking about sex, which, as everyone knows, is a far more interesting subject than whether or not we're going through early 40s angst.

But over the next two weeks, my mind kept returning to the subject of a woman's mid-life crisis like a bee to a particularly tasty flower. The idea intrigued me, because until someone brought it up, I figured mid-life crises were pretty much limited to the male side of the coin. The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that not only are women as susceptible to those bouts of mid-life doubts as men, but perhaps even more so. Women, after all, (and here I am really, really generalizing, so if you are not one of these women, please don't take offense) are the ones who are more likely to adapt to accommodate the needs of others, rather than the rather than the other way around. In motherhood, in marriage, most women are likely to set their own desires aside for their families. Heck, Dr. Laura has made a whole industry of telling women they aren't accommodating enough and that is sole reason their marriages are rocky.*

So by the time a woman hits her 40s, it's very likely there is a definite feeling that she's just done putting everyone else's needs before her own. And she may very well be getting ready to put her own needs to the forefront for a while.

So all this stuff was swirling around in my mind when I came to the sudden and somewhat obvious realization that I am going through my own version of a mid-life crisis. Now, I'm not gonna go out and buy a jag (not that I could afford it) or take up with that young, too-hot-for-his-own-good blond guy who works out at the gym (I'm certain he knows I have the "flames-down-below" for him--it's the drool on my chin that gives it away). But I have started doing things that four or five years ago I never would have even considered doing. One of those is taking a belly dancing class. Another is the Botox I got a while back (if you read this blog you know all about that), or finally getting that "Gallagher" (my maiden name) family crest tattooed on my hip.

But it's more than these superficial changes. Beyond just the surface stuff, I've renewed my interest in spirituality. For years I've just gone along as the "good wife" attending the church simply because I thought it was what would make my family (read: hubby) happy. But after 10 years, I realized (well, I really knew all along) that I wasn't fulfilled. So now at 41 I finally have the confidence(or, at a minimum, am working on creating the confidence) to stop going to church for a while until I can figure out exactly what I'm looking for. It's been tough--you know my hubby is a deacon and he's been disapproving of my deviance from the expect path. Not tons of support there. But my friends are supportive, one in particular who made a spiritual journey of his own a decade ago. I seriously doubt that were I not going through this "midlife crisis" I would be on this spiritual journey now.

The other thing that I've rediscovered is my identity as a woman. Beyond the whole "mommy" thing, I mean. I love being a mom, don't get me wrong. But I've let that role define me far too long. I sort of let the "woman" part of me be overtaken by the "mommy" part. I never was the "sweats-and-tshirt" mom or the "Lee Riders mom-jeans" mom--not even the "i can't drink because my kids will think bad of me" mom (both my girls learned to pour wine through the Vinturi by the time they were five) But whenever I thought of myself, I always thought along these lines, "I'm going to the store to buy healthy food because I'm a mom," Or, "I really need to vacuum the house because I'm a mom," even, "I have to get a facial today because I'm a mom." Then one day--a fairly recent day--it hit me: I'm a mom, duh, but I'm me first, and I deserve to do things for that reason and that reason alone.

And lastly, all this mid-life introspection has helped me crystalize my goals. With all the falderall of raising two active girls (I spend far too much of my life in my car, ferrying them from one practice to another) it was all too easy to put things off because I'm a mom. But my "mid-life crisis" (for lack of a better term) has helped me realize that putting off my goals and claiming it was because of the kids is just an excuse--a bad excuse at that. Lots of women accomplish amazing goals as moms with young kids (uh, JP Rowling anyone?). I sort of let my goals slide 'cause I was lazy...honestly. Well, not lazy, in the strict definition of lazy. But lazy in that it was easier to make excuses than progress. So now I guess I'm using this point in my life to sort of re-invent myself--or, better put, re-discover myself.

And to be completely, dead-honest with both myself and you, there is absolutely an aspect of mid-life rebellion. There are things I want to do. Period. So I'm going to do them. I really don't give a fart in a windstorm (thanks for the phrase, my Irish dad) whether other people think these things are okay or not. Like the Botox. Or the belly dancing. Or the tattoo. Or the sky-diving my friend Sue and I will do this summer. Or learning to ride a motorcycle at long last. I didn't do them before because they weren't the "right" or "safe" thing to do (in my somewhat narrow perspective of what is/was "right") Now, thanks to my "mid-life rebellion" I want to have these adventures. They're mine to relish....or regret. Hopefully relish!!!! And there is a real sense of freedom knowing that I'm making choices based on what I want, instead of what I think others want.

The next time I am sitting around with my girlfriends drinking wine (which should happen fairly soon--we're pretty regular with our wine consumption) I am going to steer the conversation back to what we so lightly touched on those weeks ago. The subject of a woman's mid-life crisis. I am really, really interested in whether other people feel the same as me...or if I'm hanging out here in the wind all by my lonesome. Somehow, I suspect, I'm not the only one going through this. In fact, I'd lay money on it. As with all things, it's better to go through it with friends at your side. Then it's no longer a crisis, it's a party!

For a really interesting read on the whole woman-and-mid-life-crisis thing, check out this article from More: http://www.more.com/2035/2640-midlife-crisis-how-women-cope/2

*On a personal note, I bought into that idea for a long time, even going so far as to buy Dr. Laura's "The Proper Care & Feeding of Husbands." After all, I thought, it must be MY fault my marriage was blah--not long work hours, distractions, bills, or over-familiarity. But the book's advice was a no-duh--I'd already been doing everything listed in the books as "sure fire" ways to make your man crazy for you again. After months of trying to give him even more attention, even more sex, and even more endless compliments ("Thank you soooo much for putting your underwear in the hamper! I know it's a huge inconvenience."), I gave up on "The Care & Feeding of Husbands" and went back to plain ol' me. In all fairness, though, one of my very best friends says the "Care & Feeding of Husbands" book saved her marriage. Rock on to her. But for me...not a super success. So not everything works for everyone.

Beauty and the Botox

2010-05-12T22:13:00.000-07:00

For the last couple of years, anyone who knows me knows I’ve been debating whether or not to succumb to the oh-so-Orange County trend of getting Botox. After all, I’m 40+. Botox seems like the next step in a natural progression that includes coloring the (gray) hair, buying more expensive anti-wrinkle creams, and making a trip to the gym a thrice (or quadruple) a week event.

So what was my hesitation? After all, most of my friends have had it, and they are gorgeous testaments to the power of cosmecuticals. It wasn’t the money, either—‘cause, let’s face it, I already spend $120 plus on my hair every five weeks to cover my family legacy of prematurely grey hair (I got my first one at 27—now at 41 I’m likely 50% grey, if I allowed myself to let it grow). At $10 a unit of Botox every 3/4 months, surely it was worth the investment to keep myself looking young (or, youngish, at any rate). And it wasn’t “judgment” from friends or family—I am one of those incredibly lucky people who are surrounded by friends who love me even when I make foolish decisions. I knew that even if having Botox made me look like a female version of Lon Chaney, my friends would simply smile, shrug and hand me a glass of wine. And it wasn’t the glowering disapproval of my hubby, who considers all cosmetic surgery—even the inject-able kind—the “height of vanity.” After all, he can SAY that, but I met him AFTER I started hiding my grays and using the expensive face cream. (lucky for me he never reads my blog...you'll see why in a few sentences...)

I think it was simply the fact that having Botox would be admitting to myself that aging is an undeniable fact and that I’m a bit afraid of it. Not too many women—or men, for that matter—will admit that aging scares the crispy crap out of them. Most of my friends say—sincerely, I know—that they are looking forward to being the “spunky old lady” who plays poker and goes to Santa Barbara wineries and Indian Gaming Casinos. I, personally, am not looking forward to that…the idea of being a “spunky old lady” fills me with dread. Perhaps that’s because at 41, I still have not accomplished nearly all the things I set out to when I was 20…and now that I’m well into "beginning middle age", I fear I will never accomplish them.

But I am COMPLETELY digressing….anyway, the long and short of it is that I DID it! I finally had the Botox. Yup. The baby-version, anyway. Two weeks ago. My friends who have been doing it since they were 35 think I’m ridiculous for letting the fact that I succumbed take over such a large part of my mental energy. And perhaps they’re right. But this wasn’t like going to the gym or getting highlights/lowlights in my hair. This, to me, anyway, was a tacit acknowledgement that I’ve officially entered the battle against aging. And I’m going to go down fighting (because I’m fated to go down, why not do it with a little spirit?)

Please don’t think I’m superficial! I’m not, really. Well, a little. But aren’t we all? Otherwise, who would ever go to the gym or wear decent clothes or even bother to put on deodorant in the morning? Or whiten their teeth? Or get a haircut? Or pluck their nose-hairs (men...)?

Again, I’m digressing (again—can we say ADD anyone?). So…baby-version Botox. The “minimum” for my age/skin condition/wrinkles. The aestheticians that “shot me up” was named Nancy and she was just about the nicest woman you could ever hope to meet. She was extremely easy to talk to—no doubt she found my hesitation a little silly (being in Newport Beach and all) but she patiently answered all my questions. Together we decided to do the minimum, and see how I liked it. She warned me not to “expect miracles” with such a low dose, but promised me that I would see improvement. I ended up having 5 units in my forehead, 5 units between my brows, two under each eyebrow, and 8 in each crowsfeet area. And damn!! The ones in my forehead stung like a M-Fer!!!!! I felt like there were bees stinging my face. Who knew the forehead had so many nerves?

I left the aesthetician’s office that day feeling absurdly pleased with myself. I had finally done something. After spending a year hemming and hawing about getting Botox, I finally had made a decision—for good or for ill. And I was fairly bouncing on my feet as I went back to my car. I wondered if people “knew” I’d taken such a step in the fight against the inevitability of age?? And if they knew, would they admire me or look at me in dirision…or simply not give two farts in a windstorm? (have to thank my dad for that particular idiom).

So after the requisite 3 – 7 days, I definitely DID see changes--especially in my upper eyelids. Pre-Botox they had begun to sag a little—not hugely noticeable, but enough that I saw it when putting on my eye-make up. Now easily 5 years were erased from my upper lids. My forehead, too, looks terrific. Not stiff and immobile—she gave me such a small dose, for which I’m eternally thankful. I can still give my kids “the look.” The crow’s feet area is relatively unchanged—in the right light, it looks like there are fewer lines, but it’s hard to tell. I call the crow’s feet a “wash.” And I guess I did expect miracles—I admit to being a bit disappointed that I don’t look 25 again. But I definitely look better rested. I guess that says something, huh?

So when July rolls around and it is time for me to do it again, will I? The short answer is, yes. I will. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about—I look at Botox as maintenance, like dying my hair or my trips to the gym or even my membership in Weight Watchers (at 41 I’m still able to look decent in a bikini, thanks in large part to the “points system” of Weight Watchers.). The long answer is still somewhat fraught with ambivalence. I sometimes wish I didn’t care so much about what I looked like that Botox even came into the equation. I wish, at times, that I really were one of those women who embraced aging as an old (pun intended) and welcome friend. But I’m not. I’m who I am, and amongst my many quirks and qualities is the desire to maintain a pleasant aspect to my appearance. Not for others—but for myself. At least as long as I can.

Your thoughts??

This Is How I Want My Life To Go

2010-03-16T13:54:00.000-07:00

Very rarely are you afforded the opportunity to truly revisit your past. I was blessed (or cursed; after you read this post, you can decide) to have had just such an opportunity this morning. I was trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to organize my upstairs office. I kept coming across "mementos" from my past...a letter here, a photo there. Shows you how long it's been since I've really cleaned out my files, huh? Tucked deep inside a manilla folder with various other notes, poems, and short stories was the following missive...written by me, on May 26, 1998. The title of the piece I wrote myself is "This is How I Want My Life To Go." Here it is:

This is how I want my life to go

Professionally

I want to be a known and well-respected writer of fiction in the novel form

I want to be twenty-nine years old when my first breakthrough occurs; and thirty when my first book is published

I want to make 100,000+ per year, within the first three years after my book is published

I want to publish a second book at thirty-two and an additional book every three to five years after that

I want the words to flow from me as easily and effortlessly as my thoughts do

I want to tap into the emotions of the reader through character-driven stories.

I want people to feel I’ve reached them on a level only their most intimate friends and family do

I want to connect with the reader so they will know my characters as they know themselves

I want at least one of my stories, at some point, to be made into a movie, or have a movie based on it

I want to be focused, committed, and driven to finish my stories

Personally

I want an improved relationship with my mom

I want to be closer to my sister and help her through the problems she is dealing with

I want to believe in Jesus as the Son of God, not just as a peaceful teacher

I want the connection of spiritual belief

I want to maintain a healthy, loving relationship of mutual respect with Dave.

I want to marry Dave within the next year and a half

I want to have my first baby when I am thirty-two years old and my second when I am thirty-four

I want to stay at home with the children and raise them to be productive, happy people

I want to find a unique balance with my writing and my family life

I want to keep Dave inspired and in love with me through the duration of our relationship so he continues to provide the emotional support and affection I need

I want to wake up with a positive frame of mind every day

Socially

I want to find a group or organization in which I believe so I can volunteer my time and money

I want to have a circle of close friends with whom both Dave and I blend perfectly

I want those friends to be in approximately similar situation to us; with children close in age, live in the same community, share similar values and believe, and still be different enough as t provide stimulating friendships

I want to be physically fit so I can do the things Dave and I enjoy; bike riding, rollerblading, hiking, etc.

I want to enjoy exercise more so I won’t be bored by some physical activities

I want to read one new book each month, of any type, whether fiction, biographies, or histories

I want to nurture and maintain a close friendship with Maureen, despite the long distance between us

I want to go to cocktail parties and holiday events several times a year, so I can dress up in lovely clothes and see Dave in a tux

Living Conditions

I want to live in a spacious, attractive home with a view of the ocean

I want to live in a community of upwardly mobile young professionals who take a great deal of ride in their homes and families

I want to get to know my neighbors

I want to live in this home by the time I am thirty-one years old

I want to have beautiful furnishing; yet usable and practical

I want to have two fireplaces in my home and a very large yard

I want to entertain in my home, so that friends and family come to thing of my home as the gathering place so special events

I want to be close to a lively, fun restaurant/shopping area

Financially

I want to be able to buy virtually anything I want if I need it, so can think of a compelling reason as to why I want it, without worrying about the cost or its effect on the family budget

I want to be able to treat people to dinner and lunch, just because

I want to be able to buy a gift for someone without worrying about having to have a reason

I want to wear better quality clothes and not worry about the price

I want to be able to take the family on vacation every year

Miscellaneous

I want to buy a newish (two years or newer) car every three years

I want buy Dave the convertible Porsche for his 40^th birthday

I want to have my wedding outside in a garden, with just 60 or so guests

I want to honey moon in Europe

I want to go to sleep every night with Dave’s arms around me

I want to be happy

I wrote this essay when I was 29 years old, and all things still seemed possible. I am turning 41 on Saturday; more than a decade has passed since I typed this up. Reading it now, from the distance of 13 years, stirs up feelings of nostalgia and unease. I'm peering back at myself through time..and seeing myself as I was then. Would the person I was then, if she happened through some magic to meet me now, be surprised and a bit disapointed that the dreams did not come true...or would she be excited by the things on the list that were checked off...I just don't know. I would like to think she'd like me...and appreciate my efforts, my sincerity.

One thing reading this essay has showed me, though, is that despite the fall of years I'm still fundamentally the same person I was then...a bit of a dreamer, but not unfoundedly so. I'm going to study this missive from my former self. Finding this has been like finding a gift to myself from my past. I've been in dire need of an infusion of passion in my life the last few months. Of hope. This short essay, written by a girl with dreams in her eyes and hope in her heart, may be just what I've been looking for. Happy birthday to me...

How To Talk to Your Children About Your Family's Financial Problems

2010-02-24T13:02:00.001-08:00

How To Talk to Your Children About Your Family's Financial Problems

Posted using ShareThis

You Can't Make Spaghetti in a Crockpot...and 9 Other Important Life Lessons

2010-02-23T15:32:00.000-08:00

When I was younger and didn't know much, I always figured that eventually all my questions about life would be answered. Imagine my shock now that I'm nearing 41 and have realized that not only have my questions not been answered, but that every day brings new questions. So I'm trying to take my life lessons where I can, and hopefully put them to good use. The last week has been an especially good one for learning things I probably should have known already. So I thought I'd share a few of the should-have-been-obvious ones that nevertheless took me real life experience to learn:

You can't make spaghetti in a Crockpot
If you put a vase of tulips on the kitchen table, your cats will believe it is their own personal salad bowl
You can't get rid of cobwebs on a 20ft cathedral ceiling by throwing barbie dolls wrapped in hand towels at them
Plants don't water themselves
In FaceBook world, time passes at approximately double what it does in the real world (as in, "Oh crap! I've been on FaceBook for an hour??!")
Every mother has, at one time or another, eaten the cold, greasy, leftover crusts of her child's grilled cheese sandwich
It you expect a kid to be a pain in the butt, he will be
There is no magic to make the heartache go away
Sometimes the best thing to do is just sit with your friend while she cries her heart out
The more I know, the less I understand

Turn Valentine's Day into a Weekend of Family Fun!

2010-02-09T17:00:00.001-08:00

Turn Valentine's Day into a Weekend of Family Fun!

Posted using ShareThis

It's All Chemistry to Me

2010-02-08T10:23:00.000-08:00

A couple months ago I wrote a blog post titled "Why It's Important to Cheat on Your Spouse." It was a tongue-in-cheek perspective on how to put the "spice" back in your marriage. I suggested remembering your spouse as the person they were when you first met. Seemed to make sense to me: after all, who doesn't remember that amazing spark you felt when you first met the person you were destined to share a roll of toilet paper with? I figured that a little mental "time travel" back to when you first met your DH or wifey could, perhaps & with a little luck, bring back that spark.

And so lo! As I was reading this morning's paper (yes, I am one of the few who still subscribes to a daily paper) and came across an article that completely solidifies my rather nebulous assertion that it's all about the spark. "Why I Get a Kick Out of You" (above-the-fold, Health Section, LA Times) details how scientists have found a cocaine-like reaction in the brain when love "works its magic." So that heart-pounding-head-thumping-hands-sweating-inability-to-think-clearly condition that overwhelms when you meet "the one" is actually on par with illegal drugs! (well, that explains alot...)

Study participants (whom had been in romantic relationships at least one month but no more than 17 months) were put into MRI machines to scan their brain while they were shown pictures of their romantic partner. In case after case, the part of their brain which houses the reward and motivation systems was flooded with dopamine--with the attendant side effects of excessive energy, losing sleep, euphoric feelings and separation anxiety.

All of this was sort of "no duh" to me. After all, most of us have experience that obsessive passion that comes with the beginning of a new relationship. But what struck me about the scientific study, however, was that when they studied the brains of people who had been married for 20 or more years, 30% of those in long-term relationships had similar output of dopamine.

So you can look at it in a couple of ways: 30% of people are just as passionate about each other as the day they met (or at least one of the partners is; the study didn't specify if both felt that way about each other), 70% of people have fallen somewhat "out of love" with their husband or wife, or their love has changed through the years from passionate to companionable.

Those 30% are really lucky. I wonder if they realize how lucky? I'm a romantic by nature, but after a decade+ of marriage, I wondered if it was possible for anyone to even remember what it was like to be "in love"--much less feel it every single day. When I read that it is still possible after years of marriage and its attendant ups-and-downs to be just as in love with the person as the day you said "I do," well, I decided I want me some of that!

So how do you take a so-so marriage out of the doldrums? Is there even a way to regain the passion? I wish the study had said whether or not those 30% who are still madly in love with their spouses had ever gone through a patch when the thought of being single again held particular appeal. Since it didn't, I'll have to go on my gut instinct that those people really just chose well--and figured out a way to work through conflicts without jeopardizing their relationship.

So back to taking the marriage out of the doldrums (I've always loved that word, no idea why). According to the article, the people who were still passionately in love were still dong those "little things" you hear so much about. Yeah, blah-blah-blah. We've all heard it. But it is surprisingly difficult to keep those "little things" going after you've been committed to someone for a while.

So here's your cheat sheet, as it were:

Call or text during the day to say hi.
Pick up a thoughtful gift "just because."
Listen and be supportive.
Use a kind voice when speaking to each other.
Do things together--even taking a walk in the evening strengthens the bonds between couples.
Take a class together, just for fun. The excitement you'll feel about learning something new may transfer to your spouse, helping you recapture what brought you together in the first place.
Know and respect what your spouse values: their careers, their spiritual beliefs, their political leanings, their hobbies and interests.
Be a friend to your spouse
And sex! Sex! So important to a relationship--perhaps the most important thing. The hormones oxytocin and vasopressin are released during sex. And these two hormones are what causes humans to bond with each other.

Personally, I'd add another: spend time with couples you know who are in the 30%. Of all my friends, I can think of three right off the bat who have the sort of marriage I've always envied. So with luck, by spending more time with these friends, both my hubby and I will see how they interact with each other and perhaps learn a bit about how to keep the passion in a relationship, through years and kids and finances and illness and all the other things that turn red-hot chemistry into lukewarm mush.

So while I am putting my own advice to work ( i.e.: remembering what it was like with my husband when we first met) I'm going to also put into practice some of the suggestions from this morning's article. Like most couples I know, my husband and I are committed for the long haul--but wouldn't it be nicer if that long haul was filled with passion, excitement and joy, rather than just that shared roll of toilet paper?

Ripple Kids Helps Children Channel their Natural Desire to Help Others

2010-02-03T15:32:00.001-08:00

Ripple Kids Helps Children Channel their Natural Desire to Help Others

Posted using ShareThis

The World's Most Annoying--and True--Saying

2010-01-28T10:47:00.000-08:00

"Hard work beats talent if talent doesn't work hard."

Man, oh man! Was there ever a more eye-rollingly obvious phrase? It's right up there with "penny wise, pound foolish," another phrase brilliant in its banality. Both phrases sum up common-sense in a way that people simply don't like to hear: that success takes hard work.

The heck you say! No, really. We've all known people with an innate talent--perhaps they're astonishingly good with numbers. Or a brilliant writer. Or a phenom on the field. An artist who's talent--even at a young age--simply awes. Over time, we see them reach a certain level of success and then--bam! It's like they hit a block wall. With the passage of time, the potential they had sort of leaks away. And then... they're gone. On to whatever life they're going to lead--without the success their early talent hinted at (and in some cases, even promised).

Because talent only takes you so far. There's a certain arrogance that comes with true talent--a sort of "How could they not want me?" that is implied with the oohhs and ahhhs gifted people grow up with their whole lives. Hearing how "terrific" you are for being able to do something can actually be limiting. There comes with those compliments a sense that you're already so "good" you don't need to work on it any more...and in the meantime, the people with less talent--in some cases, much less talent--surpass you because, well, they're taking what bit of talent they do have and working harder than you.

And for those who have the true talent AND put every ounce of themselves into working hard to not only maintain but grow that talent...well, for them, the sky truly is the limit.

So what to do? If you've got one of those preternaturally gifted kids, how do you encourage talent without, well, ham-stringing them into thinking they're "so" good they don't have to keep working at it? Or, how 'bout this scenario...you were one of those lucky enough to be born with a gift, and then you squandered it? Truth is, I'm no genius (what??? You thought I was, didn't you? wink wink). But it seems to me that it's never too late (another trite phrase, I'm fulla 'em today) to rediscover that talent, that gift, and do something with it.

Because I'm no expert on child-rearing, I'm going to dispense with the "here's how to raise your super-talented-kid-so-they-don't-turn-into-an-insufferable-brat" advice. Instead, I'm going to spend a little bit of time with the later scenario--the one where you were the one who got bypassed by the less-talented but harder-working masses. And at the risk of sounding uber-arrogant, I know of what I speak, because I was one of those talented kids who let it get away from me, in part because I figured that I was good enough (better than most).

I was a very talented writer as a kid. My mom has kept some of my old stories from kidhood, and I read at them and am astonished that I could write so stinkin' well. But as I grew up I didn't pursue "writing" as a career--I ended up in public relations, which I thought would be much more glamourous than sloggin' it out as a lowly staffer or intern on a magazine. I did use my writing skills in public relations--mostly to write puff pieces on how "Product A" would not only change your life, but it would make you smarter, sexier, and better endowed to boot. But the ha-ha was on me--I burned out on the hard-core PR after 10 years or so. That natural gift for descriptive passages and visual writing was stupefied by years of "state-of-the-art," "ground-breaking," and "target demographic." Ughhh!!

(Side note:I still do write marketing pieces, website text, and news releases for a variety of small clients, so if one of my wonderful clients is reading this, the aforementioned "puff" pieces don't pertain to you. I also write articles for on-line publications and the once-in-a-while article for a small print magazine that "pays" me in copies. Lucky me--my mom always asks for one)

Like many out there who hit the "40s" (eeee gads!), I find myself re-evaluating what I want to do with my life. And I'd like to finally pick up what I neglected/rejected so long ago. I can't be the only one out there who wishes they'd pursued a particular talent with more vigor when they were younger. There is no reason that at 40 or 42 or whatever age you can't find a way to resurrect that talent and do something with it--something worthwhile that makes you want to get out of bed each morning. (Now, granted, if you were the top football player on the 1980 Pop-Warner team or a Rockette circa 1988, your options may be a little limited in the post-40 world.)

So after much thought, research, and intuition here are the steps I'm pursuing to finally turn "hard work beats talent if talent doesn't work hard" into my own personal motto. They're writing-specific, but I figure they can be adapted into whatever you're trying to "re-capture."

1. Brush up on my writing skills. I've been writing PR & marketing pieces on and off for nearly 20 years, and I've gotten into some habits that may be making my writing a bit...tedious. I'm taking a writing for magazine class online this spring.

2. Find someone--or "someones"--to be accountable to. My goal is to transition into magazine writing; however, unless I am forced, it is easy for me to fall back into old habits and simply stick with what I know. Taking a class will--if nothing else--make me accountable to someone outside myself (because I'm far too easy on myself)

3. Detail my goals. I'm in this stage right now. I know I want to write for magazines, but I need to narrow it down. What kinds of magazines? What sort of topics? What knowledge do I have that I can share--and who wants to buy it? These and countless other details (yuck--details, not my fave subject) need to be thought through in order to create realistic goals for myself.

4. Work at it every day. And by "it," I mean spending a set amount of time every single day--every day--following through. (Working hard...ha! There is is again...) I'm going to work on "my" writing every day for 2 hours a day. So from the magic hours of 8:30 - 10:30pm every day, I am going to focus on my writing career.

5. Begin to think of myself as a "writer," rather than "someone who writes." It sounds like a non-existent distinction, but truth is, until you begin to see yourself in a certain way, it is easier to put off your dream. It's like saying, "I'm going to get fit" or "I'm going to stop smoking." As long as you have that "going to" qualifier in front of it, you'll find it easy to put off or set aside what you know you really need to do. "Someone who writes" writes when they feel like it or has the time. A "writer" writes. Pure and simple. Under any conditions. Under all circumstances. They write because it is who they are. When I begin thinking of myself as a writer, I think I finding the time to actually write will be easier--or if not easier, more important. Make sense?

So the phrase "Hard work beats talent if talent doesn't work hard" is a bit annoyingly obvious, but also completely and totally true. As someone who thought for years that talent on its own was enough to get by, I'm now changing my way of thinking. Whatever happens over the next few years will be determined in large part by how much hard work I'm willing to do--not just whether I had the ability to do it.

And next I'll get on that other annoyed sigh-inducing phrase "penny wise, pound foolish." (wink, wink).

Professional Illustrator Teaches Anaheim Hills Students How to Turn Imagination into Art

2010-01-20T13:48:00.001-08:00

Professional Illustrator Teaches Anaheim Hills Students How to Turn Imagination into Art

Posted using ShareThis

Time Together: Better than SuperGlue to Strengthen Your Bond

2010-01-20T13:26:00.000-08:00

I'm a stranger-talker (unlike, say, the famous "Seinfeld "close-talker). If I'm in line somewhere, say a Panera's or a Starbucks, chances are I'll talk to you. I'll make some comment about one thing or the other. The vast majority of people are friendly enough to chat back (once in a while I get one of those fake "ho-ho" laughs that really means, "Willya leave me the heck alone already?")

Part of my urge to talk to others in line is that I really do like people--I've had some very interesting conversations in line at the DMV. You really can learn alot from the little old lady in the flowered hat. The other part is that I hate the silence that typically accompanies standing in line. It's a weird silence, half-humiliating, half uncomfortable. So I make an innocuous comment or a little joke to break the oppressive air. It's the same reason I start conversations in elevators.

Once in a while, these casual, killing-the-time-in-line conversations detour into all-out confessionals--not by me, but by the person I'm talking to. I've been told about shaky marriages, disappointing career moves, lost savings, and medical conditions. Once, while in line at a coffee shop with my sister, the woman I'd been chatting with behind me actually removed her shoe to show me a disturbing growth on her foot. (All I could do was nod politely--I wanted to say, eeeeeuuuuuuwwwwwwwwwww gross! but that really would have been rude. Of course, one could then question how rude it is for her to have removed her shoe in the first place, but I digress.)

These occasional confessionals got me to thinking, though--how many people out there are missing those important connections in their lives that help them get through the day (and night). I suspect that there are many of us out there--with friends, family, even husbands and wives--who feel like that fundamental link to others is frayed or missing. Once you've lost it, it can seem next to impossible to re-establish that vital bond that makes you feel valued. So when someone--even a stranger--shows a bit of interest in you, the need to have someone for Pete's sake listen to you overwhelms you and you end up sharing far more about yourself than anyone needs or wants to know.

(Besides, that's what blogs are for. Wink, wink)

So how to re-establish connections? It might help to really think about why the connections were lost in the first place. In my own life, there have been relationships that have fallen apart for a very simple reason: one or the other person did not put in the effort to keep the relationship going. Seems fairly obvious, right? Think about it though: when you first meet someone and there is that *spark*--and I'm talking platonic sparks, too, like between two people who just know they're destined to be best friends--you do what it takes to keep tht spark going. You call the person, you spend time with them, you have conversations with them about, well, anything. A conversation doesn't have to be "deep" or "emotional" to be revealing--or bonding.

What to do? Uh--duh...seems fairly obvious. Yet interesting how we all need to be reminded of it (including me): put in a little effort! If you feel something is slipping away from you--be it a best friendship, a marriage, a collaboration with a co-worker, what have you--invite that person out and talk. Not about the fraying (or frayed) connection, but just about, well, stuff. Get back to spending time together. It doesn't have to be hours upon hours upon hours of "quality time." Even a 1/2 hour at a local coffee spot can go a long way towards strengthening a relationship.

I know people are busy, but come on! Making time for the people in your life you value most should be a priority. "But I keep connected through Facebook!" Uh-uh. Facebook--and I'm a frequent user and likely it's biggest fan--is a pale substitute for real communication. FB is great for keeping up with the basics of friends' lives (especially if they live a distance away), but if you really want that bond, that connection, that unassailable link, you need to spend time together. Would you conduct your marriage only through Facebook? See....

I remember chatting with my seat-mate on a business flight about 10 years ago. He was talking dispiritedly about how his grown children never called him any more or came to see him. I asked him if he ever called or invited them over. I will never forget the look on his face--total shock. As if the idea of him calling his kids had never crossed his mind. He immediately said, "Nah, they don't want to hear from me." How on earth did he know that? I had recently lost my own dad (a young man, only 49). I told my seat-mate I would have given anything to talk to my dad again, and that he needed to give his kids a call--give them the chance to have him in their lives. I have no idea if he ever did it--we changed subjects, the plane landed, we headed off into our different lives. But I think about that man from time to time. I hope he did call his kids. It's hard work to re-establish a bond, but it will be incredibly rewarding.

So next time you're in line somewhere and the person next to you starts an idle conversation, you may look around and see me standing there. Or you might find someone who may be a little lonely, a little lost. Friendly conversation can go a long way towards making someone else's day better. Then take a moment to call up somebody you care about where the bond that brought you together may be fraying around the edges a bit. And make that all-important plan to spend some time together.

Children's Museums Are the Perfect Way to Teach Love of the Arts

2010-01-14T15:45:00.001-08:00

Children's Museums Are the Perfect Way to Teach Love of the Arts

Posted using ShareThis

Meip Gies: What We Can Learn

2010-01-12T16:05:00.000-08:00

Meip Gies died yesterday.

If the name is unfamiliar to you, don’t worry: it was to me as well. Yet the woman played perhaps the largest role in preserving the life experience of someone who, 35 years later, played a huge role in my life: Anne Frank. And I am talking, of course, about the one of the widest read non-fiction books of all time: "Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl.”

A Real Girl's Diary

I was 10 when I read the book for the first time, and it changed me at a fundamental level. Until then, I’d been pretty much unaware of the sheer brutality with which people can treat each other (minus, of course, certain experiences with schoolyard bullies). At first, I didn’t believe my mom when she said it was a real girl’s real diary. How could that be? I wondered. How could people kidnap and kill other just because they were a certain religion? It just seemed so wrong. I’d been fortunate to be raised in a mixed neighborhood with parents who taught that we judge people on who they are, rather than what we fear about them. I literally couldn’t get my mind around the concept that other people didn’t believe the same thing—and were willing to kill because of it.

I strongly identified with Anne. Like me, she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. I tried to put myself in the position of this girl, just a few years older than me, who was forced to hide out for two years in the attic of the very business her dad had worked in. Never leaving, rarely even moving around. Relying on others for food, protection, and simple human kindness.

An Ordinary Woman Faced an Extraordinary Test

And that’s where Meip Gies came in. For the two years the Frank family secluded themselves in the attic, she brought them food, blankets, books to read, and news of the outside world. A young woman herself, only in her 30s, and a Christian (so apparently “safe” from the German’s hunt for “undesirables”) she quite literally risked her life to protect the family. And we know how the story ends: the Frank family was eventually betrayed and rounded up by the German SS. Meip was nearly killed when they were discovered; it was only through the pity of a German soldier that she was allowed to escape punishment.

The death of Meip Gies saddened me, even though I was unfamiliar with her (I vaguely remember reading about her years ago and I know she is hailed as a hero in throughout the Netherlands and in Jewish community). I pictured myself in her position: what would I have done, if faced with the same choice she was: either help this family, let them try to manage on their own, or turn them in. One article I read about her quotes her as saying it was a simple choice. Had she not helped them, she would have faced a lifetime of regret and sleepless nights. And that, to her, was worse than the risk of death she faced.

Helping Others is Simple in a Civilized Society

We all like to think of ourselves as “good people.” I know I certainly feel good when I donate to charity, go to church, organize a fundraiser or help out a friend. I think (not exactly in words, but you know what I mean) “I’m a good person; I’ve made a change in the world today.” And then I can live with other things I do that are perhaps not so “good” (like arguing with my husband, yelling at the kids, or deliberately not letting in the car in front of me because I’m in a bad mood.)

But I propose that, even under the economic strain our society has been in since December 2007, it is relatively easy for us to be “good.” The majority of us have the necessities we need to get by—and often, more than the necessities. America is, by and large, a civil society. Not always, but much of the time. We don’t bludgeon our neighbor over the head because we want the steak he’s grilling on the BBQ. We don’t punch the server who is taking forever to take our order. Generally, we help each other out. We like to think that, even in extreme situations, we would stand up for others. Fight for them. And some do—certainly the members of the military do. Police officers and firefighters regularly take risks to help others that the rest of us find unimaginable.

A Uncivilized Scenario: Helping Others at the Cost of Your Own Life

But there is nothing civil about the scenario faced by Meip Gies in the spring of 1942: An invading army has captured your country. The officers of the law you relied on for protection have been murdered or have surrendered. All around you people are being rounded up—because of their religion or some other aspect that makes them “undesirable”—and taken away, never to be seen again. There are enemy soldiers everywhere. People all around you are turning in their Jewish neighbors for fear of being considered a sympathizer and having their own families kidnapped. You are literally at risk of imprisonment and death for even protesting against the treatment of your fellow human beings. And your boss—a man you admire and respect—comes to you for help.

You are put in the position of literally laying your life—and the lives of your family—on the line for others. This is not like donating a hundred dollars to the Fred Jordan Mission so the hungry can be fed. This isn’t delivering groceries to homebound seniors. Those are wonderful things, good things, and not to be discounted, but they’re not the same as actually risking death for another.

What Would I Have Done?

So when I put myself in the scenario Meip faced, it becomes more difficult to “be good.” Some people will instantly and righteously claim: “Oh, no doubt, I’d help them out.” And some of them likely really would say “yes” immediately. But others might not—they’d fear for their lives, the lives of their children, they’d fear for their livelihoods. They’d need time to think it over and access the risks. As I walked the dog this morning I thought about what I would do, if the situation in the Netherlands in 1942 suddenly became the situation of Orange County in 2010. If someone I knew came to me for protection from being hauled off God-knows-where, would I help him or her? I like to think—and I do believe—that the answer is yes.

But what if it was someone I didn’t know who desperately needed my help, in that situation? Again, after some thought, my answer is yes. What if it was someone I deeply disliked? Again, yes (perhaps with some reservations...). But of course, in real life we often act differently than we do in our heads.

She Couldn't Save Anne, But She Saved Anne's Experience for Us

Meip Gies was an ordinary woman, a secretary. She acted in real life the way most of us hope we would act if faced with that situation. In the end, two years of effort couldn’t save the family—Anne and her sister died of typhoid, their mother of starvation (she intentionally stopped eating after her beloved daughters died) in the camps. But what Meip did manage to save was Anne Frank’s life experience. A terrible experience, to be sure, but one millions of people all over the world have learned from and made changes because of. After the SS soldiers took Anne and her family (and two others who had taken refuge in the attic) away, Meip went upstairs and gathered what was not torn apart by the Germans. Among the papers strewn about was Anne's diary. When Otto Frank returned years later after being liberated from the concentration camp, Meip presented the diary to him as a memento of his little girl. Evenutally, Otto had it published, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Meip herself put it in a Washington Post interview many years later, she was “glad that (I) could help fulfill Anne’s lifelong ambition of being immortalized through her writing.”

Making Resolutions Gives Your Child a Goal to Shoot For!

2009-12-21T12:31:00.000-08:00

As 2009 bids the world goodnight and 2010 can be seen peeping around the corner, Americans’ thoughts turn to the symbolic fresh start the New Year brings. According to a 2007 CNN survey, 60% of adults take this yearly opportunity to turn over a new leaf by making resolutions that range from the ubiquitous “lose weight” to the excruciatingly specific “avoid the 405 on Fridays between 3:00 and 6:00pm.”

Just like adults, children benefit from making resolutions. Whether a child is mid-way through kindergarten or getting ready to tour colleges in the spring, the key to helping a child put their best foot forward in the new year is making sure their resolutions are in writing, specific, measurable, and, most important, their own.

Break Out that Pen

After being told what to eat, how to behave, and when to go to bed, the idea of having some control in their life is exciting for kids. New Year’s resolutions let children take charge of a certain aspect of their life and run with it. That’s why writing those resolutions down is so important. It makes them real—plus, seeing resolutions in print lets the child prioritize what is most important to them. It gives them control.

Encourage your child to focus on two or three main resolutions; more than that is overwhelming to a child whose daily life is already filled with responsibilities.

Be Specific and Measurable

“”Clean my room every day” and “get better grades” may seem straightforward to adults, but to a child, these resolutions are much too broad. Does “clean my room” mean even under the bed (where the monsters live)? “Get better grades” is overwhelming to a student who studies diligently but can rise no higher than a B- in Calculus.

By outlining exactly what the resolution addresses, the child knows what is expected of him or her. With a simple change of wording “clean my room every day” becomes “make my bed every day.” The resolution suddenly becomes measurable—as will the child’s grin of accomplishment when they realize they’ve made their bed every day for a week. The victory will inspire then to keep making their bed. And “get better grades”? Children generally know whether or not they are truly putting in their best effort in a particular subject. So when “get better grades” becomes “study math for 30 minutes on weekdays” children are no longer discouraged by the vague and intimidating “get better grades” resolution. They know what they need to do and they’ll earn those grades.

Let Your Child Come Up with Their Own Resolutions

The impulse to “direct” your child’s resolutions can be overwhelming. You may not see the value in “put my pencils in my red pencil box at the end of the day.” Keep in mind that your child is much more likely to keep their resolutions if they have come up with their list on their own. A little guidance from you can be helpful if your son or daughter is having trouble coming up with ideas, but ultimately, your support of their resolutions is truly most important to your child.

Remember, “practice my handball game” is just as important to them as “take a greater role in office decision making” is to you. Being a child comes with its own unique pressures and rules. Keep that in mind, and even if the resolutions they come up with don’t make sense to you, you will at least understand why they chose them.

Follow Your Child’s Example

60% of American adults make resolutions—and studies show most abandon them by Valentine’s Day. When it comes to setting resolutions you won’t break, use the same guidelines you’ve set for your child: put them in writing, be specific, make them measurable, and make sure they’re one you truly believe in. Together, you and your child can celebrate the New Year—and all you’ve accomplished—all year long.

Put "Take-a Breath" on Your List

2009-12-07T09:29:00.000-08:00

Here's a scenario many will find familiar: you have carefully complied a list of "things-you-absolutely-must-do-or-the-world-will-come-to-a-shuddering-halt." You set out with grim determination to see them accomplished. You actually believe you will, against the odds, get them done--quickly, efficiently, and without complaint. And then....

Your list evaporates the moment you get to your desk (or enter the cluttered kitchen, the frantic construction site, the busy store, etc.). You stand there for several minutes, nonplussed, wondering what the heck it was you needed to do today. It's like your brain has stopped working. You consult your list, only to be baffled by your own dashed off hieroglyphics. Is that letter a "s" -- or is it the number 8? And why did you write, "Moo-lah get, base flight"? You know it meant something (or at least you hope it did) when you wrote it down, but you've since forgotten what your own short-hand was meant to describe. It's about a thousand times worse if your a left hander with atrocious handwriting (ahem, such as yours truly): not only can you not understand what you meant, but you can't read a single letter of a single word.

Such is my life these days. I am running around frantically half the time, doing a bunch of stuff not on "the list" because I can't read my own handwriting--or I've left the list "somewhere safe" only to forget where it is. Thus, I spend much of my life feeling like I'm whirling around, actually accomplishing very little. Or so it seems on certain days.

And the resulting feeling? Stress--mind-numbing, heart-pounding, headache-inducing, sex-drive-killing stress. And I'm not the only one pulled asunder by this particular bugaboo.

According to a November 2009 study released by the American Psychologicial Association, 75% of us (Americans, in this survey, although I would be surprised if it was much different in other countries, considering how interconnected we are all these days) suffer from moderate to high levels of stress in the last month: 24% extreme and 51% moderate. Imagine that: waking us, day after day, feeling that wrapped-in-a-straitjacket pressure. Especially after spending a night tossing and turning, as 47% of survey respondents reported. Or, here's more:

45% report irritability or anger
43% report fatigue
40% report lack of interest, motivation or energy (sounds like depression to me, which, I suspect, is also an outgrowth of sustained stress)
34% report headaches
34% report feeling depressed or sad (see? Told ja)
32% report feeling as if they will burst into tears (I've done this myself, several times, in the last few moths)
27% report upset stomach or indigestion as a result of stress

So what happened to us? Oh, sure, life has never been the bucolic, fluffy-cloud existence we'd all like to believe it was at one point. But there have been times that the collective American stress-level has been relatively low. So what's the change?

The dire economy is a handy scapegoat--and does, legitimately, play a role in the reported increase of stress from fall 2007 (when the Great Recession began). But there's more to it. According to some psychologists, the ever-increasing pressure brought to bear on workers by 24/7 access to electronic devices is a major source of stress. There is simply no getting away from the job. Period. (my husband received four work -related "emergency" calls ON Thanksgiving--and he sells silicon chips. Biiiigggg emergency. And did he answer take the call mid-turkey? You guess.) Email is a huge source of stress for many people--and studies have shown people can actually become addicted to checking email. 43% of people in the survey actually sleep with their email devices nearby, to listen for incoming email. That's just wrong. Add to that 24/7 cable news, where with the click of a channel you are treated to horrifying disasters from every corner of the world, bloviating commentators intent on ripping our society into enemy camps, and the soft-core porn of vicious celebrity gossip, and it's little wonder our brains are close to bursting.

Even the good things cause stress--having a baby, buying a house, and Christmas have a score of 40, 31 and 12 points on the Holmes-Rahe scale, respectively. Actually getting what you want, in and of itself, can cause stress. (On a side note, I follow the satirical website "The Onion" and watched the funniest "report" about Pres Obama going out for cigarettes and never coming back. Very funny stuff--yet with a grain of truth, as all jokes have. If there was ever a man who is under stress, it's that poor man. I swear, his hair gets more gray every day. I wonder if when the Pres looks back on it, if he's ever sorry he got his wish to step into the highest office in the land? Inheriting a recession, two wars, a healthcare system in shambles, et al.? A perfect example "be careful what you wish for...")

So what to do about it? Health care professionals proscribe diet, exercise and valium. Maybe not Valium--Paxil works pretty well (do I speak from experience? I'll never tell). I'm just kidding about the Valium and Paxal. The vast majority of doctors turn first to recommending exercise and relaxation to help with stress. But despite our doctors admonitions, fewer Americans actually are taking time out for themselves. In fact, I do believe that "taking time out for myself" is on my famous list, but seeing as how I can't find my list, I'll never know. EHealth MD advocates "Tuning In, Analyzing, Responding" to deal with stress, but to be quite honest, that's just three more things to put on my list of stuff I'll never get to. Plus, if I start that, then I'll probably find even more things in my life that stress me out than I was even aware of .... thus, causing more stress. Sigh.

So here's my proposal: make a new list. What??? Seriously. Take your list (if you can find it, that is) and rip it into many tiny little pieces. You'll note two things right away: 1.) the world does not come to a shuddering halt if you don't get the things on your list done and 2.) your brain will (fingers crossed) suddenly begin working again. Now that the dreaded list is gone, make a new list. Really. With just three tasks:

-Take a breath.

-Turn off the email device.

-Stop watching TV.

That's it. Simple. Yet of all the tasks in the world, these as possibly the three hardest to actually accomplish. But I can (virtually) promise that if you do, you will find that all the other things you need to accomplish suddenly will seem easier. And you won't even need your old list at all.

Which is just as well, because if you're like me, you've either lost it or can't read your own handwriting anyway.

The Empty Seat at the Table

2009-11-30T09:14:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, according to my highly unscientific FaceBook observations, many of my friends freed their Christmas boxes from exile in the attic and began the fun (if somewhat arduous) task of decorating the house for the holidays. I, too, spent the majority of Sunday afternoon decorating (and toasting the season with several glasses of egg nog, natch--compete with a dash of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum). I then wandered around my house, admiring my handiwork. I'm an over-the-top fan of faux pine boughs. My house now looks like a pine tree exploded in it--but in a nice way.

As I meandered from living room to family room to kitchen, adjusting a wreath here, straightening a candy dish there, I envisioned upcoming Christmas dinner. In the past, we've had as many as 24 people here. And since my dining room is approximately the size of a teaspoon, we've moved chairs and couches out of the the living room and replaced them with those 6-ft tables you get at Costco. It's the only way to fit everyone in. This year my younger sis is taking on the Christmas dinner challenge--possessed of a larger dining room than I, it is unlikely we will have to cart all her living room furniture off to the garage to accommodate the hungry hoards. And I'll be helping her cook--we plan to make a day of it, along with my mother, her mother-n-law, and her sis-in-law--cooking, talking, drinking wine, making candy, the whole bit. It will be the kind of day that, for lack of a more original phrase, makes memories.

And when we all sit down at the table that evening, it will be a wonderful time with family--it always is. Nevertheless, there will be an empty seat at the table. In a parallel universe, my dad is sitting in that seat. He's smiling, laughing, piling food on the plate, drinking tea (always tea--with milk and copious amounts of sugar). Perhaps he's even talking about that near-miss in '97, when (thank God) doctors narrowly missed catching a blood clot in his lungs that came this close to killing him.

But that's a parallel universe. In ours, my dad actually did succumb to the blood clot in his lungs. Misdiagnosed repeatedly for the last two weeks of his life, he died, 49 years old, on his bedroom floor in the early morning hours of April 2, 1997. It wasn't until the autopsy that his cause of death was discovered. There's a whole story there about the aftermath of this discovery, but even all these years later it is incredibly painful to talk about. Suffice to say that anyone who believes that bringing a lawsuit against a medical group is easy--or a way to 'get rich'--they need to talk to someone who has actually been through this particular kind of hell before they pass judgement.

So nearly thirteen years have passed, and with them, twelve Thanksgivings, twelve Christmases, the birth of seven grandchildren, and various other milestones that he never lived to enjoy. Knowing my dad, he would be scolding me right now for dwelling on what never-was, instead of what-is. He would wish for us to honor his memory by living to the fullest the years he never had a chance to experience. But it's hard. So hard. He was such a good man, with so much left to give. The rock of our family, really. And he was robbed by circumstances and human error of the rest of his life. Sometimes it is all I can do not to be bitter. It can be a genuine battle not to succumb to the somber certainty that life makes absolutely no sense at all, it is all random, and there is no meaning behind any of it.

So I fight the urge to be angry. The fight against anger has gotten somewhat easier as the years have gone by, though the pain of losing him is still as fresh as the day it happened. When he died people, with the very best of intentions, told me that "everything happens for a reason" and my heart would "heal over time." But it cannot fully heal--the scar left behind is deep and jagged and still bleeds. And as for there being a reason for losing him--well, pardon me, but there is no "reason" that could possibly justify the loss of a man such as him. I do wish that my faith was a strong as my husband's, who firmly believes the hand of God guides everything and there is always purpose. And perhaps as years go by I will finally find peace with what happened, but for now there is still a lost little girl inside me who still wants to blame God, rightly or wrongly.

Fortunately for me, these forays into bitterness and anger are few and far between. One of the gifts my father left me was strength. When I feel like I just want to wallow in the unfairness of his death, I am strong enough to (usually) pull myself out of it. I remember what was special about him, and I think about what he would want for me--and my mom, and my sister and brother, and the seven grandchildren he never got to meet, and his many friends. He would want us to live every minute of our day with enthusiasm and good humor, with arms wide open. The last thing he would want is to see me crying over my keyboard.

So this Christmas, like every holiday of the past decade, there is an "empty seat at the table." But thought my dad may not actually be sitting there, what he gave to us--his love, his intelligence, his strength of purpose--and what he wished for us--simply, to live our lives--is there in his place and in our hearts. And because of this, Christmas will be exactly what he would have wanted. A wonderful time with family.

Happy Holidays and love, Kim

Dealing with the "Pit of Soul-Sucking Negativity"

2009-11-20T12:08:00.000-08:00

I am closely related to a cynic.

Yep. It is the tag he proudly bestows upon himself, as if being a "cynic" was some sort of badge proclaiming his higher intellectual capabilities. Every aspect of his being is narrowly focused on projecting the image of a jaded, world-weary soul who is alone in his ability to see things for "how they really are."

But sadly, for him and anyone who happens to spend more than a few minutes with him, the only "ability" he has is to see the ugly, negative, and hateful about other people. And he makes his opinions loudly clear--whether he is referring to some public figure, a coworker, a segment of society or, if you're unlucky enough to be in his sites, you. He cannot see the good in anyone or anything because he flatly refuses to believe "good" exists. In his view, people are only out for themselves, and even when someone does something nice--even something as innocuous as smile or offering a glass of ice tea--he or she is doing it for ulterior motives.

He wasn't always this way--and occasionally there are flashes of the man he might have been, had he not so carefully nurtured this studied persona of cynicism. I know he does it to protect himself from rejection, but unfortunately for him, by acting the way he does he is virtually guaranteeing that the rejection he so deeply fears will actually happen. The simple truth is: nobody wants to be around a guy who is the pit of soul-sucking negativity. And as he is rejected, his attitude is reinforced. It's a terrible cycle that can't be stopped but anyone but him.

I know many families have their own version of this person. Dealing with them can be exhausting and downright depressing. With Thanksgiving a mere six days away, and the attendant stress that inevitably accompanies bringing families together, the question becomes: how do I deal with this person? Because let's face it, they won't change. It's up to us, as the sisters, brothers, aunts, parents (name your relation) of this person to figure out a way to put their negativity in perspective, and ensure the day is a pleasant one for everyone. I know, it doesn't seem fair that we should have to accommodate an a-hole, but sometimes, in the interest of peace, we have to be the bigger person.

So here are six tips I've used in the past to deal with Mr. Soul-Sucker that have been reasonably successful:

1.) Don't argue! This one should be obvious, but as much as I've tried to pound this into my own brain when dealing with "the cynic", I've risen to his bait more than once. His eyes positivity light up if he thinks an argument is coming, and because he truly is a highly intelligent man (IQ in the 140s) who reads constantly (thus having tidbits of knowledge I have no way of instantly responding to in the middle of an argument, i.e.: "Chilsholm vs. Georgia, 1793 as applied to overreaching state governments, ala public schools") and likes to override whenever someone else is speaking, he will "win" these arguments, leaving me angry, frustrated, with my mood in tatters.

2.) Smile. Smile, smile, smile, even if it feels like your head is going to crack open from the effort. Even if you feel your insides seething and broiling. By smiling, you accomplish two things: 1.) you show them they are not getting to you (even if they are, do your best to keep that smile on your face) and soon they will move off that topic and 2.) You will soon start to feel better. You will realize the humor of the situation, and you will feel yourself start to relax. I promise this works. An added bonus: you're not playing into their negativity, and thus helping keep positive energy in the room.

3.) Have sympathy. The hell you say! Sympathy for that pompous jerk? As if! But truly, many of these cynical, emotional black-hole types are deeply unhappy people. Imagine what it would be like to wake up every day feeling so angry and frustrated with the world and the people in it? There must be very little these people look forward to. All they have is their negativity. And that's really not very much, when you think about it.

4.) Put them to work. Yup. I've noticed that when I ask my cynic to help out, he grumbles, but he does it fairly willingly. Give him or her a simple but important task like setting up an extra table or bringing in some chairs. It keeps them busy, makes them feel important, and best of all, gets them out of your hair (even if it's just for a little while).

5.) Don't just walk away! I'm sure you've probably heard the exact opposite, and believe me, I've tried it, but all that does is add fuel to the flames, and you end up with either 1.) that person following you into the next room to continue his or her negative ravings or 2.) angering them and thus incurring their wrath at a later time, mostly like at the dinner table just after the blessing is said. Instead, smile politely (smile, smile, smile!), thank them for their input, and excuse yourself with an "reason". As in, "That's very interesting, but little Johnny is giving the cat a bath in the toilet and I really must attend to the situation." You get the idea.

6.) Tell them you love them. Nothing is guaranteed to throw a negative person off-balance quicker than saying you love them. Because deep down, it's what they want--need--to hear. Inside, they are hurt little children who can't believe that anyone could love them. By telling them that you do, you're taking them outside of their own pain and disappointment, even if just for an instant, and giving them a glimmer of warmth. They may not respond--they may even laugh in your face, as has happened to me--but they will hear it. And they will think about it (hopefully in a positive way!).

Of these, the most successful for me thus far seems to be #3--have sympathy. In the big picture, nothing my cynic says will effect the overall outcome of my life (caveat being: unless I let it.) His rants about the government, or the public schools, or the guy who painted his house, or the neighbor down the street, or the drivers on the freeway, or the checker at the grocery store, or the rude teenagers, or the incompetents he works with...ad infinitum...don't change the fact that my life, and my dealings with others is, on the whole pretty positive. Keep this in mind when dealing with your "negative nancy" and you'll find that you can have a smooth, happy, positive holiday no matter what they say or do.

Oh, and a last, unofficial tip: at the end of the night as they're leaving, give them a tight hug, a big sloppy kiss, and tell them how terrific it was to see them. That'll show 'em.

Happy holidays!

Good sites with more tips on dealing with complainers, grousers, whiners, and other soul-suckers in out lives, check out these sites:

Life with Confidence

Self Growth.com

Suite 101

Bon-Bons, Mimosas & Soap Operas

2009-11-13T10:01:00.001-08:00

I stretch out on the couch in my silk robe and slippers. It's nearly noon, time for my favorite soap. I arrange my box of chocolate truffles ever-so-carefully within hands reach on the coffee table, careful not to block my view of the 60" flatscreen. I pour myself champagne with a touch of orange juice (my version of a mimosa), don my Bluetooth, and dial up my BFF so we can discuss the antics of the sexy villainess while we simultaneously watch "The Days of the Nights." My laptop is balanced on my thighs, so I can track FaceBook happenings all the while. I am (dramatic music, please) a stay-at-home mom.

Right. Anyone who has ever been a stay-at-home mom (a phrase I loathe because no one in that situation I know ever actually stays at home) is laughing hysterically at the idea of watching soaps and eating bon-bons. And the idea of a mimosa at mid-day, while as intoxicating as that may be (both literally and figuratively), is not likely to happen any time beside Sunday brunch.

And really, no one I know has ever really accused me of eating bons-bons and watching TV all day (except my husband, once, when we were in a fight).

Oh, sure, I've gotten the well-meaning but patronizing, "Raising kids is the hardest job in the world," and "It's nice that you have the choice." I've also gotten the passive-aggressive "Good for you! I don't know how you do it--I for one couldn't sit around all day and watch kids." (said in a sticky-sweet voice, of course). But most people seemed genuinely happy for me, and respectful of the choice I'd made. And from my SATM (stay-at-home-mom for the uninitiated) friends, I hear similar stories of support.

So why is it, then, that the other SATMs I've known over the years are so dang hard on themselves when society is coming around to realize just how important the job of raising kids is?

It's a question I've given alot of thought. I know some fantastic women, many of whom have not only have BA or BS degrees, but advanced degrees--Masters, Doctorates, JDs, specialized certifications. They've left careers as lawyers, accountants, social workers, teachers, managers, tech support--you name it, and I likely know someone who put that career aside in favor of the kid-thing. I see them at the kids' school, running NCSA meetings (our school's version of PTA), planning exhaustive (and exhausting) fundraisers, organizing huge school events, busting their humps hour after hour, day after day, year after year, as if trying to prove to others that despite not being in the workforce, they're still a valid, contributing human being.

It begs the question, who are they really trying to prove it to? (And when I say "they," I include myself as well.) And what are they trying to prove?

My personal and strictly non-scientific observation of many dear SAHM friends over the years indicates that they are, by nature, overachievers. The same fervor they invested in attaining their various degrees and professional accolades are transferred, by default, onto their job as Mom. Somewhere in their deepest heart-of-hearts, they don't feel that "just" being a mom is enough, and they have to add more to their already brimming plate to feel complete.

This is a gross generalization, I know. There are many, many women out there for whom the epitome of womanhood is raising a family and being a wife, and I toast them. But it has to be acknowledged that some women--like me--love their children, love their role, yet feel a longing for more. There are only so many park days and zoo visits you can do. Only so many educational books you can read to them. Only so many nature walks you can take. The vague feeling of "something's missing" can be covered by sloppy kisses and enthusiastic hugs for a time, but it is still there.

And that's why, in my opinion, many SAHMs take on so much--to fill that small but possibly growing hole. The years between 2001 and late 2007, when I was completely out of the work-for-pay world (as opposed to the work-for-hugs world) I about killed myself volunteering, while raising two small children. I took on Moms Club President, running our church's Harvest Festival, co-chairing the school's Silent Auction Committee four years in a row, working in the classroom, running copies, hosting food drivers--you name it, I did it. I did it because I needed more. Playing dollies endlessly with two little girls just didn't cut it for me. And I felt guilty about it. So I invested what little spare time I had in volunteering.

I spent years spinning--until I finally came to the realization that it was okay for me not to be completely fulfilled by raising munchkins. Once I let go of feeling guilty about it, I was able to enjoy both my girls and my volunteer activities much more. And, though it seems counter-intuitive, I was actually able to "let go" of some of the volunteer activities that were killing me--like chairing the Silent Auction (a mind-bending exercise in coordination, planning and implementation).

So now I'm building a business from home again. Not having quite the success I'd like, but having some. And the best part is, that tiny hole in me, the hole that needed filling (and that I felt guilty about needing filled) is smaller now. I think there is a way to find balance. But you have to be willing to allow yourself to know that balance is needed. Make sense?

Ultimately, I wouldn't trade those one-on-one (or, when Nati came along, two-on-one) years with the girls for anything. But I do wish I'd acknowledged, years ago, that small, empty, gnawing feeling in my stomach that I was missing something. Perhaps then I wouldn't have driven myself so crazy trying to fill it by volunteering, and just accepted the fact that I need work to feel fully validated.

And what of the bonbons, mimosas and soap operas? I'll save those for when I'm retired...oohh, I can hear the hysterical laughter of retirees right now...

Why It’s Important to Cheat on Your Spouse

2009-11-05T10:36:00.000-08:00

Haha! I knew that headline would grab your attention! Hey, didn’t cha know? I’m a swinger. Riiiiiiigggggghhhhhttttttt. Sure, I may joke about running off with the super hot guy who plays Dean on “Supernatural,” but I’m sure after a couple weeks his snores would annoy me with the same level of irritation that my husband’s do.

So no, I’m not advocating cheating. But what I do advocate is finding a way to rediscover what it was about your spouse that caused those stomach-flipping butterflies and that nervous smile when you first laid eyes on him/her across the crowded room. What it was that made you check your messages every ½ hour to see if they’d called. Or that made you take a little extra time to get ready for a date (did I say a little extra time? I used to spend hours trying on outfits before dates with my not-yet hubby)

When you’ve inched past the decade mark in your marriage, it can be exceedingly difficult to recall the thrill you felt the first time your and your beloved’s lips met. Especially when it’s just past 8:30 in the evening, you’re folding laundry, and your husband is asleep on the couch, snoring loudly with his mouth wide open. In the day-to-day act of living (and all the lovely and annoying things that go with it, like paying bills, cleaning toilets, the ups-and-downs of careers, leaky roofs, morning breath, that extra 10-lbs you swore you’d lose by now…not to mention the sometimes ugly arguments that are part of even the best marriages) the fire that made your heart race uncontrollably whenever you were around them is now just a thin wisp of gray smoke wafting lazily up from the dying embers of romance…

Okay, that’s a little hyperbolic. And I do have married friends who swear their flame is hotter than ever and if that’s so, then I say, “Rock on, sista!” But for the rest of us, perhaps not so much. And that’s not to say we don’t love our spouses as much as our “flames still burnin’” counterparts. It’s just saying we need to find a way to re-ignite that flame before it burns out completely.

And that’s where “cheating” comes in. I reach down into my memory and pull out my image of my DH as he was when we first met. Younger, of course—but at 48 he still is smokin’ hot for an “old” guy, thanks to daily work outs, a rigorous regime of vitamins and good genetics (and hair—still has most of his hair, graying of course, but it’s there). But what I try to envision in front of me is the 36 year old who impressed me so much with his intellect, his travel (he’s been to 30 countries), his commitment to healthy living, his willingness to go along with me wherever I wanted, be it roller-blading at the beach or out to Julian to pick apples. He also had a ton of friends who took me in like I’d been part of the group for years. Plus, he was a flowers-and-cards kind of guy. Hard to believe now, but he was. He even wrote poems to me.

He’s still the same guy, now buried underneath a high-stress account manager job, work-related travel (he’s gone every couple weeks for days at a time), a second mortgage, the needs of two growing kids, a tough economy (we said bah-bye to more than half of our net worth since December 2007 thanks to the stock market—and wouldn’t you know it, the stocks that are coming back around again now are not the ones we still own), commitments at church (he’s a deacon, and feels exceedingly guilty that he’s missed the last three Sundays because of kids’ activities—as opposed to me, who is pretty happy to have an excuse not to sit in the third row), and, well, just life.

And I’m not the same, either. I don’t like to admit it, of course, but it’s true. And it’s not just the extra “baby” pounds that never seemed to go away (oh, you have to exercise to lose weight? Go figure!). And it’s not just the smile lines around my eyes that are there even when I’m not smiling. I’ve got my own stuff to deal with—from the proverbial “family” issues, to career uncertainty (do I go full-time somewhere with a guaranteed paycheck, or continue to build my freelancing career?? *sigh*).

So when I fantasize about the guy who used to live in the skin now occupied by my husband, it’s not cheating, exactly, but it is sort of being with someone else—the person he was when we first met, and it was all exciting and new. It may sound strange, but it’s actually helped us. Because knowing that guy is still in there, buried just under the surface of the husband, has made me want to be more of the person I was when we were first together. Less quick to complain when things annoyed me. More willing to see his point of view. Eager to partner with him and give him my support, rather than roll my eyes or give one of those heavy “whatever” sighs.

So if you’re looking to strike a match to that last unburned coal of romance, try summoning up a mental vision of your spouse as a lover—as your lover, the one you would have done anything for. And keep that picture in your mind when you kiss them, when you take them in your arms…or even when you watch them, asleep on the coach, mouth wide open and snoring, at 8:30 in the evening.

PS: And going to a romantic restaurant once in a while doesn't hurt either--and I mean one that does not include chicken fingers on the menu. Leave the kids at home and pretend you're still young and hotter than you-know-what for each other. Here's some of the OC's best romantic spots for rekindling the flame...

French 75, Laguna Beach

La Cave, Costa Mesa

Manhattan Steak & Seafood, Orange

Mozambique, Laguna Beach

Orange Hill Restaurant, Orange

Rusty Pelican, Newport Beach

Studio, in the Montage Resort, Laguna Beach

The Cellar, Fullerton

Where is the line between supporting our kids and pressuring them?

2009-11-02T15:36:00.001-08:00

I tossed out a comment once while chatting with a friend that for all the effort and money we’re putting into our girls’ athletic activities, they’d better get college scholarships! It was one of those off-hand remarks said in a joking tone that was meant to just fade into the fabric of the conversation. Yet while the rest of the conversation has completely left my mind, that tossed-off joke has stayed with me. It haunts me. Often the sentence has flitted through my mind in completely unrelated situations. It baffles me, because it was just a joke…right?

But it’s said there’s truth behind every joke, and I guess if I were to be completely honest with myself, I really would like one or both of the girls to win athletic scholarships. In fact, if I want to be painfully honest with myself, and by extension, you, I sort of expect that they will. If they don’t…I’ll be disappointed.

I understand that admitting a truth like that makes me look like a horrible parent. Parents are supposed to love their kids unconditionally, and whether or not they earn a scholarship, athletic or academic, to college should be far, far, far down on the list of why we love our kids. Yet (I believe) for every mom or dad out there upon whom it suddenly dawns one day that, hey, I’ve got a truly gifted kid there, the thought of college scholarships isn’t far behind…

Which leads me to (at last) the topic of this blog: our expectations of our children. What is realistic? Where is the line between support and pressure? And who draws that line?

My girls chosen sports are running and gymnastics. My 10-year-old started with Track & Field six months ago, and is now in cross-country. At this point she’s earned several medals and has a 6:26 mile time—her goal is to get below 6:00 by the beginning of Track season in January. My 7-soon-to-be-8 year old is in competitive gymnastics, and has collected a mess of medals of her own, and will be going to State Finals in two weeks.

So how much is too much? Is running 20+ miles a week (between conditioning and races) too much for a 10-year-old girl? Or is 12 hours a week of gymnastics too big a burden for a child who is still mastering her times tables? Other parents say that as long as the kids “enjoy it” it’s all right—and as long as they keep their grades up.

I examine my heart; I get into that really uncomfortable place where my own unrealized dreams are hidden. How much of their success is really about me? And when it comes down to it, that’s the question every parents needs to honestly ask themselves when trying to determine how much is simply too much (or, conversely, not enough) for their child. If a child is asking to “take a break” from a sport or club or activity, it’s time to step back and allow that break. That doesn’t mean they won’t come back to the activity; it may mean something as simple as the kid is just plain tired. It could also mean that parents’ expectations have taken the child into an arena that they, the child, doesn’t have his or her whole heart invested in. That being said, the child could be very good at that sport or activity—but if their heart is not in it, then where’s the joy? And that’s when we have the responsibility as parents to look at our motivations.

While watching my girls, I am part of them. I am Sam as she dashes across the finish line. I feel it when she expels that deep, pent-up breath. I feel the air swoosh past my own face as Nati does flies around the uneven bars. Her hands hit the mat as she arches into a double back handspring, and my palms sting. But it’s not fair for me to keep them in an activity because of the feeling I get watching them. That’s when support becomes, in my opinion, pressure. When it ceases to be about them, and becomes about me.

But, as every parent who has a kid who’s exceeded expectations should know, ultimately the most important thing is to keep it all in perspective. It may lead, somewhere down the line, to a scholarship...or not. As a mom, it's my job to make sure I don't get carried away in what should be their life experience...but that I do give them the support, encouragement and time they need to be as good as they can whatever they choose to do.

And make sure to keep puttin' dough in that college savings account!

A Very Inclusive Club

2009-10-20T13:06:00.001-07:00

I love my hair stylist.

It’s true—she’s wonderful. Sweet, sexy, talented—all the things a good stylist should be. She’s also become a friend, which makes my every-five-weeks (gotta lotta grays to cover up!) visits to her even more enjoyable.

As it sometimes happens when you’re in close proximity to someone for better than an hour (especially in the semi-confidential setting of the stylist’s chair) talk often turns to relationships. At this morning’s appointment, talk turned to past lovers. No, no, we weren’t doing the “oh, I miss him so much” thing (especially for me—my last “real love” prior to my husband was almost 16 years ago). We weren’t mourning the loss of the “almost.” She’s in a blissfully happy relationship, and I have been one half of a mostly successful marriage for over a decade. We’re both committed-type gals.

It was a really insightful conversation. I left feeling somehow lighter; it was a relief that I wasn’t the only one out there who still feels certain ways about certain things.

Then, driving a short distance up the road to a Peet’s Coffee in Anaheim Hills (where I’ve been doing a lot of my work lately—being at home is not necessarily conducive to actually working, I’m discovering) I spotted a group of people crossing from the office buildings to the smattering of restaurants across the way. As I watched them walk—three guys and two girls, laughing, talking, obviously looking forward to enjoying a fun lunch together—it occurred to me that every one of those 20-to-30 something people had, at one point in their life, had their heart broken. Just like me. Just like my stylist. Just like my friends. And anyone else who has managed to survive the dating world past the age of 25. And it made me think about the impact these lost loves have had on all of us—and how, even after many years away from them, even years after you know the last shred of love you had for them is gone, these lost loves still have an influence in your life, however small, and the way you view the world.

For me, it is a small, dull ache, like an old bruise—along with an absolute certainty that he was not the right guy for me. I spent years in my 20s, following the split, trying to “get back” at him (which was really quite hilarious, considering that we stopped all contact after our break up and he had no way of knowing what I was up to). I played the “I don’t want to get hurt” card on every date, and in turn, hurt others. It took a very long time for me to open up my heart again, and by that time I was nearly 29, much more settled and focused. I also had something I didn’t before—perspective. Not everything—including the break up—was about me. We just were not right for each other—it was to his credit that he recognized it before I did. His credit, and his unbroken heart.

And I'll admit to this: now and then I do wonder what he's up to. And I have googled him once or twice. I even found him on Facebook, though we are not "friends." In my circle of close friends, most have admitted that, like me, they still have a special place in their past for the one who changed their view of the romantic world. And they, like me, despite normal curiosity about their "past love," are for the most part happy with the journey their life has taken them on, and the person they've taken that journey with.

So I'm part of a very large, very inclusive club: the club of people who've had their heart broken, stomped on, crushed, twisted, torn apart, and otherwise mangled almost beyond recognition. And I'm also part of the club whose members (all of us, it would seem) discover that hearts really do mend, though it takes time, energy, effort, and most of all, perspective. I think, for the most part, these two clubs are actually one and the same. Because after all, most of us end up in a long term relationship. It may not be with our first love (in fact, 9 times out of 10 it's not) but it is with, God willing, our real love.

What I Signed Up For

2009-10-14T21:43:00.001-07:00

This is not what I signed up for.

Whenever a particularly onerous duty falls my way in the course of my day-to-day activities as a mom/wife/general all-around household troubleshooter, this thought sneaks its way into my brain. No matter the roadblocks I’ve put up—this is what a mom does or this isn’t as gross as it could be, at least—the thought creeps in.

Yesterday the thought became un un-ending mantra as I carefully (and while holding my gorge) extracted a—and this is where it gets truly gross and I apologize—large and painful poop from my dog’s rear end (using about 6 layers of paper towels of course!!). The poor dog—incredibly constipated. (My fault, I’m sure—I let her eat several left over pieces of filet the night before from the girls’ unfinished dinner plates.) After a day of straining to get “her business” over with, she just made it worse. So when she finally did go, it didn’t all come out and—well, you get the picture. The poor thing was whimpering in pain. So my brave daughter Nati (whose express goal is to be a veterinarian when she grows up) held up Daisy’s tail while I did what I had to do. Eeewwwww. The dog felt better instantly, and quickly returned to her normal, happy self. And while I washed my hands in ultra-hot water at the sink, sudsing up to my elbows, that thought circle around in my head.

This is not what I signed up for.

It occurred later this evening when said-same lovely girl Nati “accidentally” twisted the handle off the bathroom faucet and water started shooting up (she was trying, she explained later, to see what would happen if she took the handle off—and I still don’t really know how she managed that—it takes a lot of strength. She’s 7!) Anyway, amid heaps of towels and hysteria (Nati is terrified of floods—my fault; I let her watch “Deep Impact” when she was four, and she’s never looked at water the same way), I managed to screw the handle back in, all the while trying to calm my screaming, sobbing child and reassure her that there would be no flood. The rushing water stopped—stopping the tears took longer.

This is not what I signed up for.

But fortunately, those moments are far and few between. But when they do occur, it confirms a simple truth: being human, we're all susceptible to the idea that somehow, some way, life hasn't turned out the way we'd thought it would (or thought we deserved). I for one (and I doubt many of the people I know) would have imagined when they decided to "take the plunge" that part of that new role might include frantically yanking towels off their ranks to stem the upward rush of a spouting bathroom geyser.

It's a simple truth that we all give tacit acknowledgment to, yet seldom seem to think applies to ourselves: life is hard. For some it's hard in tragically life-altering ways--a loved one's sudden death, the loss of what was thought to be a secure job, the breakup of a marriage, the devastation of one's entire life savings in a Ponzi scheme (ala Bernie Madoff)--and for others, it's hard in little ways that build up, up and up until the cumulative effect makes each day less bearable than the one before: a spouse that, day after day, year after year, works 14 hours days, comes home, works some more, and shares no conversation with you more in-depth than "Did you get the mail?"; a car that breaks down again and again and again; a thoughtless neighbor who lets their dog poop on your lawn despite your requests that they stop it or has one loud, ear-thumping, end-at-3am party after another, knowing you have a baby in the house; a relative who has made it his or her personal mission to dominate every holiday with their own bitterness and frustration. Life is hard because of both huge things and little things.

But's its all just life--that's my point. And all of us being human, it's easy to fall into the "this is not what I signed up for" trap. Don't get me wrong; I'm no Polly Anna eager to tell you to put a smile on your face and just muddle through it. And I'm not particularity religious, either--I'm the last one who will tell you "It's all part of God's plan. We can't see it now, but someday we will." (Having heard this trite phrase from several well-meaning but clueless people at my dad's funeral, I can tell you from personal experience that those words are not comforting. Sorry.) But I will say that if we understand--as friends, spouses, neighbors, colleagues and people who share the same block/city/country/world--that we're not the only one out there having a rough day, I think we will all better for it.

So what did I sign up for then? In life? In marriage? In parenthood? I signed up for the good stuff: the successes, both large and small, that give me enough energy to move to the next level--be it planning a fundraiser that brought in gobs of cash or making a recipe that actually tasted like it was supposed to; the small moments, like the way Daisy leaps with excitement each and every time she sees me even after the briefest of absences; the warm, sleepy goodnight kisses from my girls just before they drift into dreamland. The friends I love, the people I admire, the places I've been fortunate enough to see in my life.

So yeah, yesterday, I spent my fair share of thought-energy thinking This isn't what I signed up for. But then, when I really gave my day the thought it deserved, I realized that it actually was what I signed up for-- I signed up for taking myself out of the "center" of it, and putting someone else there. That's why even though "helping" Daisy last night made my stomach do the long, lazy flip-flop that tell me I'm about to puke, I didn't hesitate to do it because I knew she needed me. Or stanching the bathroom flood (both of water and Nati's tears). I signed up for letting the guy in the car in front of me ease in, and for holding open the door for the harried mother with three little ones and only two hands. I signed up for listening when an ear is needed, for advising when an opinion is sought, and for holding when love is the only thing that will make it "all better." I signed up for doing my part to make the world (my small piece of it, anyway) a little better than I found it--a work in progress, always.

Art in the OC...It Does Exist!

2009-10-08T11:10:00.000-07:00

The title of this post is strictly tongue-in-cheek. Much to my never-ending delight, there are a significant number of galleries in the OC, from the "that's-as-good-as-anything-I've-ever-seen-in-LA" Bowers Museum in Santa Ana to the "the-view-rivals-the-art-collection" of the beach-side Laguna Art Museum. Sprinkled throughout Orange County, from the Gallery On Glassell (a lovely little place in Downtown Orange which features Southwestern Art) to the Muckenthaler Cultural Center (in Fullerton; line drawings; paintings; pottery; with the occasional concert series thrown in for good measure), aesthetes will find places filled with art that makes the heart sigh and the mind soar with possibilities.

And the OC art environs don't end with the visual variety--we have theater that ranges from uber-smart (The Chance Theater in Anaheim has some productions that will take your breath away--currently playing "The Seagull" by Anton Chekov) to the family-flavored fair featured at The Curtain Call Dinner Theater (you won't want to miss "Singin' in the Rain"). Plus, I'm proud to say that OC theaters include the world-class Orange County Performing Arts Center (which has productions that rival Broadway's--Spamalot, anyone? Opened on the 6th). The Renee and Henry Segerstrom Concert Hall is a beautiful piece of architecture (I've only been to two events there, though, and likely will not go again unless forcibly dragged. The seating situation--five stories of undulating levels with a low guardrail--gave me such a bad case of vertigo that I actually ended up hyperventilating. A very sweet but obviously wary seating host had to talk me through it. True story. That being said, if you're not afraid of heights, you should go...of course, I didn't know I was afraid of heights until I went...hmmmmm)

Plus, the Argyros Stage at the OC Performing Arts offers edgy, contemporary fair that will please those looking for something that propels them to the next level. And of course, who could forget our local college drama departments? Cal State Fullerton's drama department hosts amazing productions for the low, low price of just $9 a seat--and every seat is a good one.

So anyone who dares look down on those of us "behind the Orange Curtain" (a phrase I hate but in many cases--especially politics--is eerily apt) for not having any "culture," (I'm talkin' to you, LA) I beg to differ. As a aesthete (okay, okay, I'm showing off--an aesthete is just a fancy, aren't-I-brilliant word for 'art lover') I consider myself pretty well versed in all things artistic Orange Count has to offer. But this past Saturday night, I learned that "pretty well versed" really doesn't mean jack in the big scheme of things when it comes to the world of art. Because art is more than a once-a-month trip to Laguna to cruise the galleries or a once-a-season production of The Sound of Music with my girls. It's moving beyond the expected places, to those where you might not have even thought about.

My dear friend Larissa Marantz (she of OC Art Studios, Rug Rats, countless children's books, and, who can leave out, the wonderful portrait of President Obama for the Manifest Hope exhibit during the inaguration) was invited to show her Obama painting (she has two) and painting of Lilly Ledbetter (Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act--signed into law after 10 years of struggling to close the pay gap between men/women doing the same job) at the Studio Del Sotano Gallery in Santa Ana. Now, unless you're not from around the OC or have been living under the proverbial rock, you know that over the last 8 years or so, downtown Santa Ana has been striving to redefine itself as an artist/art lover (aesthete--hee hee) haven where people can breathe in the magic of local artists.

So along with my other dear friend, Melissa, an aesthete like me (okay, I swear I will never use that word again!! Geesch!) I went to see Larissa's installation. It was the Santa Ana's Art Walk, a once-per-month celebration of the local artiste. The gallery owners are there, doors wide open, offering wine and assorted goodies for all. I'd never been to the Art Walk before and I must say, I was tremendously excited to go. Not only was it a bit of an adventure--I'm always, always, always up for trying something new--but it also provided me with the opportunity to check out this part of the SA I'd always heard of but hadn't had a chance to explore.

The Santa Ana Art Walk was all I hoped it would be. It was a phenomenal night, perfect weather. The rather smallish crowd in the street gave way to street vendors with interesting things to look at, although nothing quite caught my eye to buy (maybe next time).

I could give you a blow-by-blow description of which galleries we went in and what we saw. But what fun would that be? I'll tell you what made an impression on me, instead, in the order that I remember them (both good impressions and what-the-hell-is-that??-impressions):

1. Larissa's paintings (of course--I am so thrilled to see her in a gallery. She's worked so hard & derserves it so much)

2. "Tape." Yup. A blank white canvas with a smattering of torn blue painters tape in the upper left corner.

3. Naked girl live installation. This was a real girl. Best Boobs Ever! I was both impressed by her bravery and jealous because, unlike me, her boobs don't reach her belly button (give her another 22 years, though!!)

4. Military poet. This was a very moving scene. Melissa, whose husband Brian is retired Marine, struck up a conversation with a retired soldier dressed in full camo . A soldier/poet who, during active duty, was one of those poor souls whose job was to tell families that their loved one had died. She drew his story out of him, and I just listened, my heart breaking. Will never forget that encounter.

5. A painter from CSUF (her name I can't remember--arrgghhh!! She deserves recognition--even on my lowly blog. If I can remember it, I'll post it) who painted children's artwork with such a deft hand that the results looked like they came straight from a child's imagination. the ability to create such amazing work truly moves my soul. I could hardly tear myself away.

The rest of it all whirls together in a pleasant, fuzzy sort of fog. I really enjoyed myself. The Art Walk in Santa Ana is now on my list of must-do-agains. There will be art you love, art that perplexes you, and art that makes you think. The important thing is, the art is here. Right here in the OC.

To TV or Not to TV...To Each Their Own

2009-09-29T11:01:00.001-07:00

Had an interesting conversation with my 10-year-old today. It's amazing how often I come away from these brief interludes with real insight. Kids are pretty much as straight forward as they come--'till they hit 12 or so, and then they learn the much coveted-in-the-preteen-world skill of conversation avoidance--so I know I can trust what she says. I still have about 20 months before Sam hits the big 1-2, so I can pretty much rely on her to speak her mind (for the time being, anyway).

So this morning as she's shoveling down eggs while perusing the Lillian Vernon catalogue that arrived in yesterday's mail, she casually states, "My friends like you, but they think you're kind of mean."

I was astonished. Mean? Me? I thought I was the cool mom--or, if not the cool mom, at least the mom least likely to embarrass (well, not if you ask my other daughter, Nati. She says I'm mortifying--a word she learned from the "Harry Potter" books--because I always try to kiss her goodbye when I drop her off at school). Anyway, I of course had to have an explanation. I was, truth be told, a little hurt. I really like all of Sam's friends (a sweet group of girls with some of the biggest hearts around--already volunteering, raising money for charity, and generally trying to save the world at the tender ages of 10) and the idea they thought I was mean bothered me.

"Well, they think you're mean because you won't let me watch TV."

Ahhhhhh. Of course. In the world of the average 10-year-old, what happens on iCarly is at least as important as what is going on in social studies--in a way, I suppose, because Carly's adventures sort of are social studies. So when Sam's friends ask her is she's seen the latest show and she is forced to admit she hasn't, due to Mom's strict no-TV-during-the-week rule, well, I can see how that would be interpreted as "mean."

The TV-restriction isn't a punishment. It's not due to a belief that the world is going to hell-in-a-hand-basket or that shows today aren't the wholesome Brady Bunch-esque parables of my own childhood. I'm not even very religious, so it's not about shielding the girls from the "evils" of Hollywood.

The TV restriction came about this summer for one very reason: my children's reaction to television--which is to say, their non-reaction.

Unclear on what I mean? Here's a visual for you: A few months ago I walked into the family room where the girls were watching some show or the other on my husband's larger-than-ever-possibly-necessary-unless-you-run-a-sports-bar TV (65 inches--literally takes up most of the wall). I said "hello" to them pleasantly, naturally expecting a response.

Nothing.

I walked over to them. They did not turn my direction, acknowledge me in anyway--their eyes didn't even flicker in my direction. I waved my hand in front of their faces. No change of expression. Nati's mouth hung open (I swear I saw a bit of drool on her chin) and Sam sat twirling a loose strand of hair while she watched Zach and Cody enter into another ill-advised scheme.

I've seen this comatose-by-television condition before. Most strikingly several years ago when I went to visit a new friend who had two pre-teen sons. The boys were on the couch, staring blankly at the screen and eating chips. She tried in vain to get their attention so I could be introduced. The boys never even twitched. They communicated through their lack of response that not only was I not important as a guest, but that their mother was not worth the bother of answering. That still stands out in my mind--not just because of their rudeness (which not to put too fine a point on it, kids do need to respect adults--or at least pretend to) but because of the disregard with which they treated their mother. Obviously there was some other dynamic at work in that home, but still....TV played a big part in it.

So when I saw my girls unresponsive and blank-faced in front of the TV, I decided I was through with it. I let them watch 'till the end of the show (sheer dumb luck saves the day again) and then turned it off. They wailed like I'd killed the cat. I explained that they were going to play. Yes, play. With each other. Or, barring that, they were going to have friends over. For geesch's sake, we have a playroom, pool, and a huge slope in the back yard with a tree to climb on. Plus about a gazillion toys. Go play, I told them again. They looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

And it wasn't like they were TV addicts--they didn't even watch that much TV in the first place. The girls were already limited to 2 hours of watching a day. The problem as I saw it was, though, that when they were bored or out of ideas, the first thing they would turn to to fill the empty time was the "boob tube" (a favorite phrase of my late dad's). I wanted more from them--and for them. They're smart, creative kids. but the TV took away their chance to be as inventive as I knew they could be.

It took about three days of grumbling, and then, suddenly, they stopped begging for TV. They found other things to do. Sam has become quite the rock collector (actually, too much of the rock collector--she has a huge tub under her bed filled with rocks of all kinds--including a few pieces of broken concrete--gleaned from the slope in our backyard). She's also discovered the joys of collecting caterpillars and keeping them in jars, where they turn into chrysalis and eventually butterflies (the last batch turned out to be fuzzy-antennaed moths). Nati loves to garden, like me. Give her a few empty pots, some potting soil, seeds or seedlings, and she's happy for hours.

Now, the girls TV watching is limited to weekends only. And a terrific thing has happened. They don't clamor for Saturday morning cartoons the moment they roll out of bed. They play Barbies or American Girl Dolls, or read books, or head outside (once as early as 6:15am; I had to drag them back in out of concern for sleeping neighbors) to run, jump and climb the tree. TV is quite literally an afterthought.

I know that my approach is not for everyone. Some moms and dads see TV as a great way for the kids to unwind. Or, they may need the TV to keep the kids occupied while they pay bills or make dinner or something equally important. And I'll be the first to admit, when my kids were younger and less able to look after themselves, Zaboomafu, Barney, and Between the Lions were my go-to babysitters when I needed a few minutes to breathe.

So am I mean? Sam and Nati don't think so...embarrassing, maybe ("Stop trying to kiss me, mom!") but ultimately they understand why the no-TV rule stands. So yeah, Sam misses the latest episode of iCarly. But in its place she gets butterflies to raise, rocks to collect, books to read...and adventures of her own.

Disney Half--Back on the Road to Runnin'

2009-09-18T16:45:00.000-07:00

Note: This post was written immediately after the Disney Half Marathon on September 6th, but I neglected to post it in a timely manner. I thought I'd re-visit it and write it a little better, but life got in the way. So here it is, unedited and probably a little rough. xoxox

Yesterday, September 6th, was the (drumroll please!!) Disneyland 1/2 Marathon. I've been building up to it--although, interestingly, not actually training for it--for the last four months, ever since I reached deep into my wallet and pulled out my Mastercard to pay the (gasp!) $120 registration fee.

It would be my first race (loosely referred to as "race" since there is no way in God's green Earth I was even within wishing distance of placing a top spot--or even a spot in the top 100) since last September, when I ran the Disney Half Marathon. That little excursion re-injured the disks in my back that I had originally thrown out of whack in May (2008) and sent me directly into physical therapy. After a few months of exercises that looked like a piece of cake when done by my PT but were actually muscle-straining agony when performed by me, my back was as good as it was gonna be. That being said, it was still achy enough to wake me up a night once in a while and touching my toes was a thing of my past.

So naturally, I was afraid to try to run again. I'd gotten the original injury over-training for the 2008 San Diego Marathon (I just had to get under 4 hours--ha ha on me, since instead of doing it I was laying prostrate on my couch eating Vicodin by the double handfuls and calling my husband to help me to the bathroom whenever I had to pee). I was pretty sure I'd hung up my Avias for good. But after a while, whenever I'd sit at my desk, I'd look at the various race medals hung up on the wall next to me, and think, "Wow, I'd really like to do at least one more..."

So before I had time to think better of it, I signed up for the 2009 Disney Half. I'd already done it two prior years (2007 & 2008) and had tons of fun (despite the soul-searing heat of the 2007 race--90 degrees at the 6:00 am start). And once it sank in that I'd actually committed to do it, I started to worry.

Oddly, though, I didn't train much. The farthest I ran prior to the Disney Half this year was 6 miles--6 miles!! And I was planning to run 13.1?? What was I thinking??? Many of my friends hinted that I was a little crazy. My husband went so far as to call me certifiable. And to be honest, there were a couple weeks where I agreed with them. I was in no shape to run a half. I'd just eat the $120 and not do it--after all, I had the perfect excuse (my baaaaccckkkk...).

But then, my 10-year-old daughter's Girl Scout Troop Leader told me with a big, happy smile that the whole Troop had signed up to attend the Disney Half to hand out waters and cheer on the runners--all because of me! Well, obviously there was no getting out of it now. In the weeks before the event, I ran 3 - 4 days a week, 3 or 4 miles a day. Short runs, but endurance builders. Up a long hill, then a mile and a half at a slight but continual incline. My back protested, but not overly so. I'd worked so much on my core during PT that my stomach muscles were stronger than they'd been since I was in my 20s (of course, they're hidden by a layer of fat that was non-existence when I was younger, but if you push real hard, you can feel the six pack hidden under there). The core muscles support your back and take off much of the pressure. So note: if you have a back injury, strengthen your core.

But I was nervous. When my dear friend Janelle and I went to the Expo the Friday before the race to pick up our numbers, shirts and goodie bags, the chrysalis in my stomach released not one but several large-winged butterflies, and they were not happy. But that's not to say that I didn't feel the familiar pre-race rush. I love race expos--if you're a runner, and you've been, you know what I'm talking about. The charged up atmosphere of all those about to test both their physical and mental endurance...well, it's contagious. Anyway, mixed in with the adrenalin were those alarmed butterflies. I just didn't know if I would be capable...I comforted myself with the thought that there were several medic stations along the course, along with the thought that if I did collapse, somebody would stop and help me...right? Right?

The morning of the race was cloudy and cool--maybe a few degrees over what I consider ideal race temp (I like it around 58-60 degrees--the bod heats up quick). There was a cloud cover. At 6:02am, corral B got the gun, and we were off.

I'd made sure to tell everyone that my goal was just to finish, that I wasn't in it for a time, but secretly I had to finish it at 2:30 or less. I'd even picked up a timer bracelet at the Expo the day before. Not only had I picked up the 2:30 bracelet, but I also picked up a 2:15 bracelet. (A timing bracelet is a little paper bracelet that goes on your wrist. It has every mile listed and where you should be, time-wise, when you hit that mile. For example, if you are trying for a time of 2:15, you need to be at the first mile by 8:50 or something like that). Anyway, my fastest Half Marathon had been the Huntington Beach Half 2008 at 2:05:18. My "least best" was the 2:18 I'd done at the aforementioned incredibly hot 2007 Disney Half. In that race, had it not been for my BF Jackie, I would have succumbed to heat prostration and general discouragement.

So anyway, in spite of my protestations that I didn't care what time I'd get, I really, really, really wanted to get somewhere between 2:15 and 2:20. I even strategically placed myself next to the 2:15 pace group.

And guess what? Right up until mile 6 (when I got stuck in a 3-mile long line at the port-o-potty) I kept on pace with the 2:15 group. I was astonished...

And my final finishing time? According to the official race time on my chip, it was 2:19:21. I'd done it. A little part of me grumbled that if I hadn't had to pee so gosh darn bad, I would have come in 3 minutes sooner, but really, if I had skipped the potty, I would've been runnin' in wet shorts, if you get my meaning.

And I had alot of things going for me, don't forget. The weather cooperated--I didn't get sun until mile 10, and then it was on my back, rather than in my face like the poor souls who had the misfortune to be stuck in corral G (start time: 6:26 am). I had my tunes--just downloaded "Kings of Leon" and the "Best of 311" to keep my feet moving when my mind wanted to stop. Plus, most importantly, I had those girl scouts--along with their 10 x 6 banner that said "We Love You Kim!" How can you not run well when you have a huge banner dedicated just to you, accompanied by 8 smiling (if tired) faces?

So the 2009 Disney Half Marathon is now a memory that I am so, so glad I have. And now I have something else to look forward to...in the world of running, that is. I've already signed up for my next Half--the Carlsbad Half Marathon in January 2010. This time, I promise, I will train!! (maybe I can get back up in the 2:00 - 2:15 range--hey, you never know!--wink wink)

And as long as those girl scouts are there to cheer me on, I have no doubt that I will!

The Downside of Looking at the Upside...

2009-08-26T09:06:00.000-07:00

One of the tritest phrases in the English language is “look for the silver lining.” As in “yes, the stock market wiped out our retirement savings, but the silver lining is that I still have my health so I can work until I’m 80.” Or, “True, my husband cheated on me, but the silver lining is that at least he didn’t cheat on my with someone like that woman from ‘Fatal Attraction.’” Or, a personal favorite that I actually heard with my own ears: “I know he stole the client from me and stabbed me in the back, but the silver lining is at least I’m assisting him on the account.” True story, from my days contracting at PR firms in San Diego. The girl who said it was a wide-eyed, sweet-souled junior account exec who by now has either saved her sanity (and that sweet soul) and abandoned the PR field altogether, or has in the intervening years shaken off the mantle of optimism and replaced it with clear-eyed, hard-edged realism (in other words, she has since thrown offending client-snatcher under the bus.)

Until very recently, I have been the master of looking for the silver lining. Always. In every single situation. When the walls crumbled around me, I’ve been the one to say, “Well, hey, yeah, I know life is caving in on us, but working together to rebuild it will bring us closer.” I’ve been that benighted-eyed optimist who refuses to let “stuff” get me down. The Annie of attitude. Perhaps even annoyingly so (one of my dearest friends, who loves me and knows me best, has said that on more than one occasion).

But over time. I’ve started to alter my perspective a bit. It’s been more than the economic meltdown (which to be fair, with the stock market nearing the 10,000 mark again, may be on the beginning of a recovery—of course, we’d sold much of our piddling remaining stock we had prior to the upswing, natch), or even my wild overindulgence in volunteering, which left me feeling slightly dizzy and almost hung-over with do-gooder-ness. It’s more been the dawning realization that my tendency to always look at the bright side of life was in part a way for me to hide my true feelings about a particular situation. I’ve realized that looking at the silver lining isn’t always the right thing to do. Sometimes seeing and acknowledging that a situation has gone awry is what you need to do.

By immediately jumping on the “let’s think positive” I’ve been denying myself the opportunity to feel the disappointment or frustration that was inside. I felt bad about being angry. As if anger was a nasty boil that needed to be lanced, less someone see me angry and –gasp!!—think bad of me.

I’m not advocating embracing anger and beating everyone over the head with it. That’s no way to solve any problem. That just alienates people and makes you look a little off-balance. But what I am saying is that it is okay to feel anger, or frustration, or disappointment, and not force yourself to gloss over your feelings, as if those emotions had no validity. Those emotions can give you clarity, whereas denying them will only give you ulcers.

I know of what I speak. The last month has been a trying one. In fact, the whole year has been—I can’t remember ever hoping so fervently that the year would just hurry up and end, as if by changing the calendar from 2009 to 2010 will magically change circumstances. I’ve told myself hundreds of times over the last months, “Look on the bright side!” and “Everything’ll work out.” And that ol’ chestnut, “Everything happens for a reason.” And of course the ever-wise “It’s all good.”

So if that was so “all good”, why did I end up one day collapsing on the kitchen floor, hugging my dog and crying hysterically, all because I broke a casserole dish? Obviously, my “out-of-the-blue” crying attack was more than the dish that had slipped from my hand. It was then I realized that faking it might fool some people—but not the people who knew me well. And I especially couldn’t fool myself, at least not for long. My poor dog. She’d probably thought I’d lost my mind.

I’m still the generally positive person I’ve always been, but I have been allowing myself to feel the emotions—disappointment, frustration—I’ve been holding at bay for so long. At least a little. I’ve found that these emotions have galvanized me to take the initiative to get myself into a better situation, rather than wait, look for the silver lining, and hope everything will get better. So I guess…I’m being positive about being …negative? Not really. But at least, at last, I’m being realistic.

An Obvious Lesson it Took Way to Long for Me to Get

2009-08-23T10:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I clicked the "follow" button for Tony Robbins on Twitter.

Tony Robbins, you say? Tony Robbins, the toothy, tall-haired self-help guru of the '90s? He of the ubiquitous life seminars, personal growth tapes and Personal Power workbooks? Yup. Him.

Years ago, his face, with its long-tooth, almost predatory smile, was inescapable--it peered out at passersby from bookshelves, billboards, and late night infomercials. Tony Robbins was part of the background landscape of my life, like the Mazda Miatas that zoomed around on the freeways and the self-consciously sarcastic TV shows like "Roseanne" that were so popular at the time. Back then, I always smirked at him. I was in my 20s in the 90s, Tony Robbin's heyday, and was pretty certain I already knew everything. I figured anyone who'd buy into the change-your-life schtick he was selling was a loser and I had no use for them anyway.

Now that I actually have some real life experience under my belt, I'm a gentler judge of character than I was back when I thought everything--relationships, career, the world--was all about me. I realize now that many people do find themselves stuck at various points in their lives. Learning techniques to move forward is far better than wallowing in inertia. Some people take community college courses. Others go to therapy. Still others find a guru, ala Tony Robbins (actually, I believe he goes by Anthony Robbins these days). And people like me, try to muddle through it on their own.

For about a year I've been muddling. The girls are older and don't need me as much, my frantic days of volunteering are mostly behind me (I have taken a sacred, cannot-under-pain-of-death-be-broken vow to never be the committee head of a silent auction/dinner dance again), and I can only have so many lunches with friends before feeling useless (not to mention bloated). I do have things going on--I'm co-authoring a cookbook, plus working on a spec article for Runner's World about youth running clubs--but I've still felt that I haven't moved forward with my life for a very long time.

I suspect, from the casual and sometimes intense conversations I've had with friends, that many people are in a similar situation. At least, I'm reassured, I'm not alone.

So what to do? That is the questions I've been wrestling with for the better part of a year. How to move forward. Then, last night, in a rare conversation with my husband (the man is so busy at work he rarely has time to eat dinner, let alone engage in long conversations with the likes of me) the answer--at least, what I think may be the answer--revealed itself.

Acknowledge your strengths, and build upon them. Let everything else go.

Seems obvious, I know. But let's delve into it a little deeper. I'll be the subject. My greatest strengths are writing and interacting (on both a social and professional level) with people. I'm also pretty good at art, public relations, and marketing. I make a fair pass at decorating and design, too. And therein lies the problem for me--and for most people in my situation, I suspect. I'm pretty good at alot of things--but don't really excel at any. The reason I don't excel in one particular area is because I haven't focused on developing any one talent. I've been all over the board--I've taken art classes, writing classes, I've made abortive attempts at re-starting the public relations consulting business I had when I was in my 20s, I started a less-than-successful mural painting business. And the result is that I haven't made any forward progress. I've been floundering around in a mess of my own creation.

And last night, Dave gently suggested I let it all go--and just pick one thing, one thing, to strengthen. And once I'd pick that one thing, I'd need to commit to it. So that's the decision I've made. And when I brainstormed by list of strengths, the top one was writing. And since I have already started (albeit a short way) down that path, I will (try to) let the other things fall to the wayside and put my effort into building my writing muscle. That's not to say I won't still paint the mural or two. But instead of scattering my efforts around in alot of places, I'm going to pull them in and focus on the main thing.

Sort of like Michael Jordan. I know--not exactly a right-on comparison, but it will do to underscore my point. Basketball legend. Tried baseball--not as good. Tried golf. Not his true thing either. So it was back to basketball, where arguably he should have stayed all along.

And as for Tony Robbins--ahem, Anthony Robbins--while you won't find me at any of his seminars any time soon, I have to admit that the daily affirmations that come across in his Twitter feed are pretty encouraging. And I guess when it comes down to it, when you're stuck in a rut, sometimes one of the most important tools to get yourself out of it is a belief in yourself--and a bit of encouragement from others.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

2009-08-10T15:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon my girls and I saw a commercial that sent all three of us into gales of laughter--albeit for very different reasons. The commercial I refer to is a real side-splitter, one of those rare "bids for attention" that actually succeeds in getting the viewer to watch the entire thing. It is a commercial for Staples. In it, a giddy father swoops along happily in a Staples store, two solemn-faced youngsters trailing him in silence. He laughingly waves pens and note pads and staplers in the faces of his kids before carelessly tossing the supplies into his cart. Then he does a little jig up the isle, positively glowing with joy. The cheerless children mope along, while the music in the background warbles, "It's the most wonderful tiiimmmmeeee of the year!"

Yes, school begins again. For us, it starts in less than two weeks--12 days to be exact. And while there is a part of me that is going to be doing a little celebrating of my own (altho I doubt I'll be dancing through the aisles at Staples like the dad in the commercial), I know that I am going to miss the girls desperately. We've gotten into a self-sufficient routine that is as comfortable as it is predictable. And as much as I like to fly by the seat of my pants (as evidenced by my lack of focus, commitment, or any other form of adult-esque maturity) I like that, during the summer, I know just what my day with my girls is going to be like.

This year, I find, I'm having a bit harder time with the idea that they will soon be headed back to the hallowed halls of learning. They're getting older--going into 5th and 3rd--and they just don't need me as much. Their growing independence comes out in little but undeniable ways--the other day before heading off to the beach, I started putting sunscreen on my oldest daughter. She said, "Mom, I can do it" and took the bottle right out of my hands. I was a little stung--after all, no one can put on sunscreen like a mom, right? I woefully predicted she'd miss a spot and end up with a burn, but she did a good job--the aloe vera gel stayed in the medicine cabinet that night. My youngest daughter has already grown impatient with my pursuit of her for hugs and kisses. She's a cuddler--but on her terms.

But of course (and perhaps this is part of the reason I'm not looking forward to the advent of school in a week and a half) when it comes to homework, they are definitely not independent. Homework is a grueling two-hour-a-day test of my ability to actually help them understand what they're supposed to be doing. The show "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?" would laugh me out of the room--throughout Sam's fourth grade year, I proved more than once than I'm not even as smart as a 4th grader.

My favorite (ahem) example of this is when I tried to help Sam with some pre-pre-algebra sort of stuff. I vaguely remembered the general principal from 6th or 7th grade 30 years before. I gamely tried to demonstrate how to beat an algebraic equation into submission using just my brain. I'll never forget that day--Sam and I were in the waiting area at my other daughter's gymnastics class, sitting at a table reserved for siblings with homework. There were four or five other kids there in various stages of homework frustration. And try as I might, I just couldn't help Sam with her math. At last in desperation, she asked a couple other moms who were hanging around for help with her homework (yes, having your daughter give up on you helping her with math is a singularly humiliating feeling). The other moms gave it their best shot, too--but in the end, I decided my answers had to be the right ones, and instructed Sam to write them down.

The next day when she arrived home from school, I could tell by her face she was struggling between tears and laughter. I suspected I knew why...and sure 'nuff, she pulled out her graded homework from the day before. Her answers --ahem, my answers--were wrong. Every single one. I found myself in the unique position of trying to explain to my kid why I didn't know how to do fourth grade math. I couldn't explain, so I directed her that next time she needed to know what x equalled, she could go ahead and ask her dad!

So now with school right around the corner, the kids are excited to see their friends again, worried about increasingly difficult homework, and hoping they get nice teachers. I am excited for them, and glad for myself that I'll be able to get back into a routine of my own. I have several article proposals out there that I'm waiting to hear back on (and one idea is, in my never-to-be-humble opinion, so good that I've already started my research--after all, how could the magazine possibly turn me down??) plus the cookbook Stargrazers that I'm co-authoring. I've got plenty to keep me busy. I'm also trying desperately to finish my writing website so when potential clients ask me if I have a website, I can answer them in the affirmative rather than hem and haw and generally look like a behind-the-times ass. And I just finished writing my one year plan for moving from the occasional freelance work to full-time freelance writer. So I definitely won't be bored when they trundle off to school.

But once the elation of seeing them off for another year wears off, and the strains of "It's the most wonderful tiiimmmmeeee of the year" fade away, I'll miss them. And our own special summer routine.

The Houseplants Are Taking Over My Life....

2009-08-05T09:54:00.000-07:00

I love flowers. A walk through a lovely garden lifts my spirits in a way only matched by a spontaneous hug from one of my girls. A vase of flowers on my battered kitchen table--whether it's a $1.99 handful of daffodils from Trader Joe's stuck in a water pitcher or a $100 bouquet dripping with roses, iris and gerberas--never fails to bring a smile to my face. Trees are a favorite, too--I actually cried when our contractor had to dig up three backyard trees to install our pool (leading my dear friend Larissa--www.larissamarantz.blogspot.com--to give me a touching book entitled "Our Tree Named Steve" which actually made me cry even more).

But perhaps even more than flowers and trees, I have a special connection to houseplants.

I know, I know. The eye rolling starts here--go ahead. It won't make me feel bad. There are times I roll my eyes at myself.

My home is stuffed with houseplants. With the except of the bathrooms, there is at least one, and more likely two, plants in every room of the house--and it's a fairly large house. The patio, too, is smothered by them. Dieffenbachia, being difficult to kill, (I may love plants, but a more than a few have fallen victim to my over-watering, overfeeding, and, well, over-tending) prevail throughout, but in the kitchen you'll find African violets (I'm especially proud of that one--I got it for a Mother's Day gift 8 years ago and it's still happy and blooming) and an orchid given to me four years ago for my birthday. Going from room to room, you'll also encounter spider plants, Mother-In-Law Tongue (also known as "Snake Plant"--wonder if that was intentional--tee hee), Peace Lily, Philodendrons, Bromeliads, and a 5 foot tall something-or-other (I've never been able to figure it out) that I've had with me for 13 years--it initially started as a cut from a neighbor's plant in a cup of water (she didn't know what it was, either) and it now takes over an entire corner of my bedroom--and shows no signs of slowing! In five years time, I may have to cut a hole in my roof to accommodate it's ambitious growth.

Houseplants are, to me, a bit like pets. They are totally, completely dependent on me. If I don't water them, they die. If I don't feed them, they grow listless and tired. If I don't care for them, their spirit fades. If I miss a Friday morning watering session, I'm wracked with guilt and can't sleep until every plant is watered. Every plant--including the ones on the patio outside. Two weekend ago I was jolted out of a warm, drifting-off-to-sleep doze when I suddenly remembered I'd forgotten to water the plants. I tossed and turned, telling myself they would survive until morning, but at last I got out of bed (it was nearly 1:00am--the cat, cradled in the crook of my bended legs, meowed in protest) and watered every single plant. Feeling vaguely stupid and more than a little worried about this apparent tendency toward OCD, I went from room to room with my watering can. Visions of myself as an old and weird lady (excessive plants, excessive housecats, weird smells) flashed before my eyes.

This morning, in a sudden burst of industriousness, I decided to clean the leaves of all my houseplants. A spritzer bottle, a soft cloth...how long could it take to wipe away six months of accumulated dust from the leaves of my botanical babies? After half an hour of spritzing and wiping, I was distressed to realize I hadn't even made a dent in the number of plants to clean. So I decided to do something I've never done before, just to get a handle on the size of my leaf-wiping job. I decided to count my houseplants. And patio plants, natch.

27 houseplants. 25 patio plants. 4 at my front door. 2 on the balcony. That's...58 potted plants...ooooohh, wow.

I may have officially crossed the line.

So what to do? Well, while the fact that I care for 58 potted plants every day gave me a bit of a turn (if I was the cat-lady, someone would turn me in to animal control), I have no plans to get rid of a single one. They make me happy. And in this world, if you find something that makes you happy, go with it.

Now, that being said, if there ever comes a time when navigating my way through my house due to excessive greenery becomes a challenge, I officially give you permission to relieve me of a few of them.

As long as you promise to find them a good home.

Interested in houseplants? Here's a terrific website: www.houseplants-care.blogspot.com

A reunion from the didn't-go-to-that-school perspective

2009-07-30T14:58:00.000-07:00

Wow! I can't believe it's been two weeks since I posted a blog. I just returned home from a week-long trip to Omaha. I brought my computer, intending to use the downtime to write a blog post or two and check my FaceBook (can't live without my FaceBook!) but alas, my power cord lay on my bed at home where I'd left it in my frantic pack-myself-pack-the-kids rush. So I only had an operable computer for a couple hours (that Mac promise--5 hour battery life--is a buncha bunk!). Long enough to moan on FaceBook how much I already missed my friends, check my fave online news sources and '*plink!* there went the battery. I was computer-less for five days.

So why, oh why, were we in Omaha? My mid-western born & bred hubby had his 30th high school reunion last weekend. His parents are still there, same house he grew up in, so we decided to extend the reunion weekend into a rare summer Omaha trip. Typically we go in the winter for one holiday or another, and he usually makes it back in the fall for one Cornhusker college football game (you can take the boy out of Nebraska, but ya can't take the Cornhusker out of the boy...eeeooowwww, that kinda sounds icky...but I digress). There's actually plenty to do in Omaha. Great museum, beautiful public garden, fun down town "old market" area...and unlike sunny Cali, the state has barely been touched by the recession and there is construction around every corner. Omaha's worth a visit if you're every traveling cross country. But again! I digress! I am supposed to be writing about what it was like to go to his reunion from the don't-know-a-soul spouse perspective.

So his reunion was essentially broken into two main outings--the casual Friday night mixer and the more formal reception at the local country club (yes, they do have country clubs there--in my naivete and smugness when I first ventured to Omaha 11 years ago, I assumed all they had was corn stalks). Let me preface by saying I really didn't want to go to either--I am a firm believer that there is absolutely no need for spouses to attend a reunion. I mean, really, how can you possibly flirt with your former high school love (and possibly the possessor of your virginity) when your wife or hubby is standing right at your side? Or how can the ol' gang reminiscence about the hilarious things that happened at band camp when every inside joke needs to be explained to the spouse with the "I can't believe you did that" expression on their face. And I had already gone to one reunion with Dave, his 20th, and spent the evening chatting with other neglected spouses while Dave chatted up his exceedingly pretty and slim (and newly divorced) former high school girlfriend at the bar.

But eventually, he won me over by promising that no way, no how, was he gonna leave me. Even with his assurances, I didn't really make up my mind to go until the week before. My thought was I'd hang at his parents' house with our daughters, watch a movie, read, whatever, while he and the guys from the football team joked about the time they almost got arrested for a dine-and-dash escapade. But I did end up agreeing to go, mostly because it seemed so darn important to him.

Ha! It was important until we got to the Friday night mixer. Overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of people at the restaurant/bar (his graduating class was 700--senior alone!!) and probably half that number was at the mixer, Dave seemed to forget I was there. Immediately he was swooped upon by a tall, blue-eyed former track teammate who was probably quite the hottie in his day and was still not bad to look at, despite a hairline that was rapidly making its escape to the back of his head. I stood there, the dutiful, smiling spouse, trying to join the conversation with what I hoped were witty sallies and well-placed questions. Then a few other guys joined them, and before I knew it, I was looking up at the broad back of someone who had unquestionably been a football player.

At last Dave shouted over to me that he would get us a couple drinks at the bar, and went off with his friends. Approximately half an hour later, neither my drink or my husband were within my reach. I finally moseyed up to the bar and found the one vacant stood. I figured I could order my own darn drink. I chatted for a while with the bartender (and exceedingly good looking mid-western boy of about 22--a nice distraction) then decided to make the most of the situation. I spotted Dave in a far corner with his buddies, laughing uproariously, spilling their drinks, and clapping each other on the back. I decided not to join them, lest beer be split on the new dress I'd gotten for the occasion. I wandered around for a while, smiling pleasantly at people who couldn't figure out who the heck I was, sipping my wine, and casting about for others who, like me, were on their own.

An hour later, a group of us (the Spouse Club, we called ourselves) had gathered at a back table; me, three other wives and two husbands, and had ourselves a grand old time. It was really fun, all things considered. Nebraskans (all those in this group with the exception of myself and one husband who was from Kansas City, were from Nebraska) are warm and genuinely nice people. Everyone seemed to take their abandonment with good cheer--with the exception of one woman who seemed to get more and more P.O.'d every time she glanced at her balding, somewhat portly husband across the room. He was talking animatedly to a dark-haired, middle-aged beauty who seemed overly interested (even to me) in whatever he was saying. At last that member of the Spouse Club was annoyed enough to go home, figuring her hubby could find a ride. Yikes...

See? That is why you don't bring spouses to reunions!

At 12:30, I was ready to go home, too, but Dave was still having the time of his life so I decided to call a cab and head back to the in-laws on my own. When I found him and said goodnight, he looked guilty and stricken at the same time. "I didn't realize it had gotten so late!" he said by way of excuse.

On the way out--reason two you don't bring spouses to reunions--a pretty brunette who looked nowhere near old enough to have graduated in 1979, threw her arms around my husband and said, "I had such a crush on you in high school! I just loved you!" And when they finally pulled apart, I introduced myself with a big (if somewhat forced) smile on my face.

I'm not against a little flirting with a former flame--in fact, I think the ego boost is something we all need from time to time--but watching it happen was a little, ahem, uncomfortable.

But apparently Dave was the hit of the night, because he told me in the car on the way home that two other women had confessed similar adolescent crushes on him. And to be fair, he still looks amazing. He's super fit, hasn't lost much--if any-- hair, and is virtually wrinkle-free (the turkey!). He was one of the best looking guys at there. So I can see why a couple of women felt compelled to tell him that they'd put his picture under their pillow when they were seventeen.

The formal reunion was the next night, and upon bended knee Dave promised that we would stay shoulder-to-hip with me the whole time. Which he did--right up until another long-lost friend spirited him away to reminisce. After 20 or so minutes feeling rather like a horse's ass, someone else, not my hubby, brought me a glass of wine, told me I was a good sport, and went off to talk to someone else. Eventually I found two members of the Spouse Club from the night before (the crowd at the reunion was nearly as large as the one at the mixer) and talked with them while Dave and his friends caught up.

But it was all to the good. When Dave rejoined me at dinner, and later for dancing, he was smiling as broadly as I'd ever seen. He really had a wonderful time. Promises were made all around to keep in touch, and several of his friends asked him if he was on FaceBook yet. So after six months of telling me I needed to get a life every time I checked my friends' status updates, he is opening his own FaceBook account--at the very least to see some of the pictures everyone took.

And as for me, I doubt I will be attending his 40th with him. I stick by my conviction that reunions are for the ones invited, not the wife or husband they might feel compelled to bring along. That being said, if I hadn't gone, I would not have met the terrific spouses that shared that back table with me. I exchanged emails with a few, and perhaps we will become lifelong friends. So who knows? Maybe I will attend that 40th reunion with him after all--if only to reunite with the friends I made this weekend.

One persona at a time, please

2009-07-13T11:45:00.000-07:00

I turned 40 a few months ago.

Yeah, yeah, I know; I've mentioned this at least 160 times in the last few blog posts. Yesterday, as I mindlessly peeled pistachios for a dessert dish (and popping every third one into my mouth) I finally realized why turning 40 has turned into something of a personal obsession. It's because it's time for me to let go of the role I've played the last 10 years or so and move on to the next phase of my life. And that scares me, so instead of moving forward, I've found something else to expend my energy on and focus on--that I'm 40, and aging is no longer a vague concept but an actual reality.

My life has sort of been divided into decades, each with its own "persona." During my 20s I was the young professional, working in PR and racing to met deadlines; dating, partying, essentially spending my life in the typical self-centered mode of your average 20-something. I did have other goals for myself, loftier (in my youthful opinion, at least) goals that had to do with writing the "great American novel" (uh-huh) but somehow those goals got shunted to the back of the line in favor of having dinner with clients and preparing presentations.

So I met my hubby when I was nearing 28, married him at 29, and popped out a baby at 30. The second one came at 32, and I spend the remainder of that decade doing the mom/wife persona--whatever I thought that should be (my wife/mother thing veered wildly at times from Dr. Laura to Roger C. Shank.) My career took a back seat to kids, and the goals I'd had in my 20s that had taken a back seat to my career fell even further into the abyss of "someday I'll get to it". I spent hour upon countless hour shuttling my kids from play-dates to dance to gymnastics to piano lessons to the park and 'round again. When they got into school I threw myself into volunteering life as if my life (or theirs) depended on it.

If that weren't enough, in my quasi-guilt that I wasn't contributing by holding a full-time job, I volunteered for several local non-profits from the local Library Foundation to children's charities to community groups. At times I was busier planning fund-raisers than I would have been had I actually worked outside the home.

But I've realized over the last few months that my kids don't need me as much, either. They're content to spend the day--all day--with very limited contact with me. Plus, my wild overindulgence in charity work quickly burned me out--not to mention irritated my husband to no end ("Darnit, Kim! If you're gonna work this hard, you might as well get a job and get paid for it!"). So where I used to be the center of my children's rather limited universe, their universe has now expanded considerably and I find myself on the periphery. And that's fine--it's absolutely how it should be, in fact--I'd be worried if it wasn't. But I find myself with time on my hands that I never had before--and trying to figure out what to do with it.

Yes, I am freelance writing. The summer season is slow, though. And so I have time--at last--to mull over next steps. It's like I've suddenly awakened from a dream where I am now edging toward middle age--the years have gone by astonishingly fast.

But what do I want my 40s to be? I'm at the proverbial "crossroads" (in other words, a mid-life crisis). According to silvercentury.org, on average the American woman lives to be 81 years old. So at 40, I am nearly halfway done with my life. Wow. So the question becomes, with half my life now behind me, what do I want the next half to be? The kids obviously don't need me as much, I've limited my volunteer hours--both at school and in the community--to sane levels, and I've got one freelance writing project in the hopper right now.

So while I'm now in the process of developing the "persona" of my 40s, at least I now recognize why I've been so obsessed with turning 40. That's something.

I have a vaguely formed idea of what my 40s should be. I'm working on it. It has to do with finally making the time to write the book that's been in the back of my mind for the last 20+ years. Plus, I'd like to focus more of my freelancing on writing magazine and Internet articles, rather than just corporate and business stuff like fact sheets and news releases. Don't get me wrong; I truly enjoy the corporate stuff. There's no reason why both can't be part of the career I fashion for myself. Also, I'm currently writing a cook book with a friend (www.stargrazers.com) and that in and of itself will play a large part in shaping the direction I go as I head further into my 5th decade. (yikes--did I really write that?? But it is--the beginning of my--gulp!--5th decade!)

So now that I've figured out why I've been so mopey about being 40, I can use that energy to focus on a new direction--and a new "persona." Hmmmm.....published cook book author has a nice ring to it....

Grow old gracefully? Nah....

2009-07-07T11:52:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh, 40. I remember my mom turning 40. I was 18 at the time, and remember thinking that she looked pretty decent for somebody so, well, old. So when I turned 40 a few months ago, the memory of that smug evaluation of my mother hit me like a baseball bat--a baseball bat made of chagrin. Here I was, turning 40, and...looking pretty decent for somebody so, well, old.

And of course, I'm obligated to say that 40 isn't "old." I'm compelled by self-preservation to drop such forced-perky lines as "40 is the new 30!" and "You're only as old as you feel." Well, I'll tell you--when I look at myself in the mirror when I wake up in the morning, I know 30 never looked like this...not even after a long night in Vegas. Yeah, 40 is the new 30 if 30 has bags under its eyes, boobs you can hide an Ipod under, and the beginning of neck waddles. Alright, maybe I'm not that bad in the morning...but you can hide an Ipod under my boob (I'm very entertaining at cocktail parties).

But the "old as you feel" line is pretty true--most of the time I really do feel like I did in my 20s. Sometimes it's a real shock when I look closely in the mirror. The mental image I have of myself is what I looked like at about 24 (sans the rock-hard, 7-day-a-week-at-the-gym-body, of course). I exercise 3 or 4 days a week, I make an effort to eat "right" (whatever that is, depending on which magazine you're reading), and I take my vitamins and my Move Free Advanced (glucosamine for the not-yet-feelin'-it-in-the-knees crowd).

My mom, now 62, interestingly enough says the same thing--that she feels like she's 23. And then she looks in the mirror and says, "Who the hell is that??" And I have to laugh, rather rueflly I admit, because I know that someday I'll be saying the same thing.

So! My dilemma--which really, shouldn't be a dilemma. I am thinking it's time for Botox. Yup. In fact, it may be past time. Yesterday at the beach my 10-year-old looked deeply in my eyes. I anticipated a compliment--you have pretty eyes, mommy! Something along those lines. So I smiled at her, waiting, and she said, very seriously, "Mom, you have alot of wrinkles around your eyes."

"Hey, it's sunny! I'm squinting!" I protested.

"No," she replied, "They're always there."

Huh.

The reason I've been hesitating is because I wonder if my motivation to "do the Botox" is merely vanity. Why can't I just grow old gracefully? Is there really anything wrong with wrinkles? If I start Botox, am I really eager to keep doing it, ad infinitum? Am I trying to look 20 again? Do I even want to be 20 again? And, the question that I've mused over most of all: what message will I give my two daughters if I do get Botox?

My husband, a corn-fed mid-westerner who looks a full decade younger than his 48 years, is neutral on the subject. (I suspect he'd rather I get a boob job--he's pretty tired of my hide-the-Ipod trick). My friends are terrific supporters--and too my surprise, when I bring up the subject many of them have told me they've taken the Botox plunge already. Who knew? I always thought they were just blessed (darn them!) with really great skin.

So the conclusion I finally came to is...I'm gonna do it. And no, I don't want to look 20 again (an awful year anyway, between bad roommates, big breakups and crappy jobs). I just want to look as good as I possibly can for my age--40. After all, that's why I exercise regularly. That's why I avoid fast food and (usually) pass on dessert. And why the Estee Lauder anti-wrinkle line takes up the entire top shelf of my bathroom cabinet.

That's not to say there isn't alot to be said for letting nature take its course--you should see my mom. She's a knock out in her 60s, and has never been near a needle. But she's told me that had a solution to her crows-feet been around when they first began to make an appearance on her face, she wouldn't have thought twice about it. In fact, she thinks I'm silly for even thinking about it at all. I just need to get my saggin' ass to the doctor!

Next dilemma so figure out...should I get a tattoo??

Whadda ya mean ya can think fer yerself?

2009-06-30T06:24:00.000-07:00

As the mom of a just-turned-10 year old daughter, I recently had a revelation that knocked me back two steps. My girl is her own person.

No duh, mom.

Yes, I know. It's an obvious observation. Why it took me until she was 10 to realize this indisputable fact I don't know. Well, that's not exactly true. Until now, I've always looked at my girl as an extension of myself. What I value, she values. What motivates me, motivates her. My interests are her interests. And for the first 9 years or so of her life, these assumptions of mine seemed pretty solid.

Oh, sure. She is--and always has been--very different from me. Where I'm impulsive, she's measured. Where I'm eager to befriend, she's cautious. Where I see shades of grey, she's a purist. Yet these differences didn't, in my view, mean we were different. She was just another part of me.

That's why it often comes as a genuine surprise--at least it has for me--when we, as parents, realize that the little ones we've raised have their own ideas on what is important in their lives.

So that's where I am now. Though she's little still, I can see the person she's going to be coming through more and more with each passing day. And she isn't going to be a carbon-copy of me. One marked difference between us is the issue or right and wrong. She's a real "law and order" kinda kid--minor infractions like illegal u-turns or talking to a man in the grocery store (it doesn't matter that the man in question is the produce guy--in her view, I'm married, thus men should be off my radar, period) send her into lecture mode. It's actually quite entertaining--I give her a kiss and promise to do better, all while trying to hide my smile. And the kid absolutely can't lie. She gets red-faced and sweaty, she stammers, and finally collapses into guilty-relieved giggles. I, on the other hand, have perfected the art of "truth-massaging," especially when it comes to hiding recent purchases from my husband! ("This old thing? I've had it for months!")

And she's becoming someone I deeply admire, too. One of my biggest (and I do mean this--it has caused me huge problems in terms of missed opportunities and failed forward progress) shortcomings is my inability to concentrate. That's probably why I like writing this blog--I can pound out an essay in an hour, post it, and move on to the next thing. And for me, there is always a "next thing," even if it is nothing.

My daughter, in sharp contrast, is one of the most determined people you will ever meet. It's not just in school (where she tackles each assignment like it is a personal challenge that will determine the outcome of her life) but in sports as well. A couple months ago, she joined a youth running club that has produced some of the nation's top runners in the youth division. The first day of practice was grueling. She ran a total of four miles that day, not including the various drills. I watched her apprehensively from the stands as she bolted around the track again and again and again. The last few times around she was crying with effort, and the coach took her aside and asked her if she wanted to take a break.

I was half-way out of the stands, ready to take my little girl home and put her in a warm, relaxing bath and write off the whole experience (it was rather traumatizing for me to watch my then 9-year-old go through such obvious discomfort). But my girl didn't want the break. She got back on the track and took off again. After practice, she looked up at me, her face dirty, tear-stained and pink, and said, "Can I come back tomorrow?"

Which leads me (finally, I'm sure you're thinking) to my revelation that, yes, the tiny bundle of baby I still see when I look at my daughter really has grown into a person of her own. There is a good chance that this fall my daughter will be the fourth on a youth cross country team that has gone on to national competition the last several years. The Nationals are in Reno in December. So as we sat around the dinner table, excitedly dreaming aloud about the possibility that my daughter may go to Nationals this winter, and I asked her who she's like to go with her, since our budget will allow only one parent.

I am not sure why I asked her that. Maybe I wanted to give her the choice. Or maybe I just wanted an ego-boost--after all, I'm her mommy. But after a brief moment of consideration, she announced that she would want her dad to go.

"If I can't have you both, I want him," she said in a conciliatory tone. "After all, he knows more about running than you do."

True 'nuff. My husband is a lifelong runner, and went to state twice as a high schooler, back in '78 and '79. My daughter's practical--and competitive--nature won out over any inclination she had to pick mommy so mommy's feelings wouldn't be hurt. And that's a good thing. I would never want her to live her life based on whether or not she thought the decisions she made would hurt mommy's feelings. That's no way to live a life. And no good parent would want their child to make their decisions that way.

I'll admit, her words did sting. But it was a very small sting. I smiled at her and agreed wholeheartedly. He'd be the right choice to prep her for a big race--he's big on expectations, careful with praise, and very clear-headed. And that suits the kind of person she is becoming. Level-headed, determined and very, very focused. I, on the other hand, with my emotions flapping about for everyone to see, would be a better cheerleader and nurse than coach.

I can only speculate at this point what kind of person my daughter will eventually be. But I know that observing her transformation through the loving eyes of a mother will be both poignant and fulfilling. She is her own person, and one I couldn't be more proud of.

Too Close to Home

2009-06-22T14:00:00.000-07:00

Two things happened over the weekend.

One is completely superficial. I had my hair colored on Thursday (gotta hide those crazy grays--they pop out of my head like live wires!!). Over the weekend I went swimming in our pool with my two little girls. Despite using this "amazing" spray on protectant which claims to be the enemy of all things salt, sun and water related (in other words, it promised my hair would be fine during swimming), my hair, upon later inspection, has subtly changed color. There's definitely an orang-y hue to my otherwise brown tresses (ahem--dyed brown tresses). So I need to call up my hair stylist and beg for help. And that means dipping into my cash reserves (if you read my post a couple back where I described my new "cash only" lifestyle). And that means I'll have to work my budget to accommodate an unexpected visit back to my hair dresser.

Okay, so how sorry do you feel for me now...??

The other thing that happened is that I got a life lesson that walloped the hell out of me.

So...you know how life has a way of giving you lessons in humility when you least expect them? Well, in the midst of my annoyance about my unexpected Oompa Loompa hair, I got one of those lessons.

There has been this beautiful house for sale around the corner from my house for about 18 months. It is simply a lovely home--spanish/Mediterranean style home with professional landscaping and a 180 view of orange county. Nestled into the side of a hill, the house is three stories and tiered with decks that follow the lay of the slope. Over the course of the last 18 months there were several open houses, each with the accompanying flier--the pictures on the flier showed an interior that matched the exterior for loveliness. I'd never met--never even seen--the people who lived there. But I felt like I knew their house.

Since the house was first put on the market in early 2008 (or perhaps late 2007) the price has dropped from 2.1 million to 1.9 to 1.5 to 1.2...and down, down, down. There was even a period of time when a big yellow sign outside the house proclaimed "Price will drop $50K a week until its sold!!" Still no sale. I thought I knew why--gorgeous house, with an amazing view...but for $2 million I'd probably buy a home in a gated community, maybe someplace a little more exclusive. Oh, don't get me wrong--the neighborhood is great. But only that house and four others on the same street were valued that high (except, of course, during the height of the now-defunct real estate market, when our regular two-story house was valued at the ridiculously high price of $950K.)

Every day as I walked the girls to school, we walked right past the house, always pausing to admire it and speculate about who might eventually buy it. Then, from time to time, I saw a car on the street next to it with lettering on the windows that read : "We Buy Houses." My heart ached a little every time I saw that car. "We Buy Houses." Obviously, the family in the house couldn't afford to wait for a buyer any longer. So this was how it ended for them...

After that, the familiar "For Sale" sign came down. The house was quiet for a long time. Then, this weekend, I was driving home. Like always, I passed the house. There was a hand-lettered sign that read "High Quality Furniture for Sale." Impulsively, I pulled over and stopped, letting curiosity get the better of me. I felt a little guilty as the gentleman of the house (a man not much older than me, as it turned out--maybe 45 or 47) approached me with such a friendly smile that I wondered if it was his house or if an auctioneer was helping them liquidate.

I looked around, taking in the house. It was as gorgeous inside as the pictures on the open house fliers showed. I stood on one of the tiered balconies and took in the amazing view. I went from room to room, admiring the carefully decorated areas.

Everything was just right--exactly how I would have liked to do had I the money or decorating savvy. The furniture was all super high-end--Henredon and Charles Fine Furniture and Treasures. On my budget, Pottery Barn is high end. I couldn't afford anything in the house (in the back of my mind I thought that I would finally get a new kitchen table if they had one that I liked and had a price tag less than $1000 bucks. But alas, while I liked the kitchen table, even at fire sale prices it was 4x the amount I could afford--and too fancy for the likes of me, anyway. Inlaid mahogany, gracefully curved wrought iron legs, mother of pearl touches. And that was their kitchen table! Like I said, I'm a Pottery Barn kinda girl.

Anyway I got to talking with the nice man who'd greeted me when I came in. Turned out it was his home. Perhaps he'd had a long day and was just waiting for a friendly face. Or maybe he was the kind of guy who shared personal information at a whim. Whatever it was; as we talked, he revealed to me that they had to sell the house and furniture--completely liquidate--at whatever price they could get because his wife had been very ill and had several surgeries. Their insurance didn't cover it. He didn't mention what the illness was and I didn't ask--all I needed to know was that whatever it was, it devastated them. Perhaps seeing my look of sympathy he said, no, no, it was okay--the only thing that mattered was that his wife was alive. They were going to start over.

You have no idea how much I wished I could buy that kitchen table now, no matter that it was way out of my budget and way too fancy for my little house. I shook his hand, wished him well, and left.

The rest of the weekend I couldn't stop thinking about this family and their situation. It made my new orange 'do not seem like such a big deal. When I told my husband about it, I actually cried. I was incredibly touched by the man's words--the only thing that mattered was that his wife was alive. It made my heart ache for them to think that all they've built up, saved for, worked hard to achieve was being taken from them because of an illness. How would they start over in their mid-40s? I couldn't imagine how I would be in that situation.

And then, I happened to read that over 60% of bankruptcies in the US are not--as so many like to sanctimoniously declare--due to "irresponsibility" and "lack of self-discipline."(see: http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/06/090604095123.htm or http://www.consumeraffairs.com/news04/2009/06/health_bankrupt.html) Over 60% are due to medical costs. People are losing their homes daily because they cannot pay their medical bills--and that is with insurance! It is ridiculous! People shouldn't have to choose between the roof over their heads and their health.

I won't spend a ton of time on the politics of the dismal state of US health care. But I will say I think it's terrible that we are the only first-world country in the world that does not provide its citizens with health care. (see this interesting article on our politicians' great health care--the modern equivalent of Nero fiddling while Rome burns: http://public-healthcare-issues.suite101.com/article.cfm/health_care_for_the_us_congress) It's so short-sighted not to care for our citizens--we end up paying twice as much as other countries that do provide health care for substandard care in many cases. But just as bad is the "I got mine" attitude so many people seem to have. That seems to be changing--I truly hope it is. We will certainly see.

For months I've been reading similar stories of people losing their homes because of a catastrophic illness. I venture to say that it truly could happen to anyone. In 2004 I spent a week in the hospital and nearly died (a story for another time). Our bill was over $35,000. One week!! My husband's insurance paid 80%, but we were still left with thousands of dollars of bills. We managed it, but suppose my illness had required a month in the hospital? Two months? A year? We certainly would have lost our home had we been in that situation. Like this family.

And so life has a way of giving us the lessons we need to be decent human beings. And that was a lesson I apparently needed. So yeah, I've got orange-y hair (at least until Jocelyn has room on her very full schedule) But I also have a roof over my head. And, God willing, my health.

Miss You, Daddy

2009-06-17T04:30:00.000-07:00

The digital clock by the side of my bed read 5:32am. My alarm wasn't set to go off until 7:00; what had awakened me? I pulled the covers over my head, eager to drift back into sleep. Then I heard it--a soft but insistent knocking at my front door.

My heart lurched. I was instantly awake. No one knocks at your door that early in the morning unless something is wrong. I jumped out of bed and pulled on a robe. I opened the door to find the guy from the next apartment standing there, a combination of embarrassment and concern on his face. His Edison uniform shirt was only partly buttoned up. He held a silver thermos of coffee in his hand.

"Hey, hate to wake you, but I've got bad news." He gestured towards the narrow stairs that led from the apartment door down to the street. "Come on."

Somewhat warily (after all, it was barely past dawn and I barely knew the guy more than to say 'hi' ) I followed him down the stairs.

"Look," he said. I followed his pointing finger.

My red Honda Civic coupe was in its accustomed place at the front of the building. I glanced at it. There didn't seem to be anything amiss. Then it hit me: my sweet little car--the one I was so absurdly proud of, my first big purchase at $12,00 (a fortune to then 23-year-old me)--was up on blocks, all four tires gone.

"Oh my God," I said.

"Yeah, that was my reaction, too," he said with a lopsided, self-conscious grin. "Look, I'd love to help you out, but I gotta be at work. You have this?"

How was I supposed to answer that? It was 6:00 in the morning, I was in my PJs and a robe, and my car was on blocks. I had to be at work by 8:00. Of course I didn't "have this."

I called the police, who took a cursory look, filled out a report, and told me there was basically no chance they'd ever find the guy who took my tires. That was it. I remember standing at the curb next to my violated car, watching the police officers drive away. I had absolutely no idea what to do next.

And that was how it happened that an hour later, my dad was at my apartment, hunkered down next to my car checking out the damage. Fortunately for me, there was no damage to the car itself. I just needed tires.

I burst into tears.

I was barely out of college and had next to no money. I was on the "dating diet"--basically, I would date anyone who asked me out as long as we were going to dinner. The thought of spending hundreds of dollars on tires was overwhelming--especially when a few hours before I'd had perfectly good tires and they were stolen right in front of my own apartment.

So my dad called a tow truck, and we headed over to Goodyear. We spent an eventful morning there, buying tires (ahem--he bought the tires). He said I could pay him back whenever; he was just happy to know I was safe. He put his arm around me and reassured me that everything would be okay. I remember feeling profoundly grateful that he was there.

He died just under five years later, 49-years-old. An undiagnosed pulmonary embolism took his life and devastated our family.

The hard-working, loving man who was quick to smile, slow to anger, and eager to debate politics and religion with me at the slightest provocation was suddenly and irrevocably gone from my life.

It has been 12 1/2 years, and there is not a day--and often, not an hour--when I don't think about him. Contrary to what people told me (with best intentions, I'm sure), time hasn't "healed all wounds." The pain of the loss is as fresh now as it was the early morning hours of April 2, 1997, when another pounding on my apartment door awoke me--only this time, it was my brother, who had driven miles and miles to break the news of our dad's death.

All these years later, the pain is still as fresh. All that time has done for me is provide perspective.

I am one of those very, very blessed people who had a great relationship with their dad. That's not to saw we always saw eye-to-eye (in fact, one of our favorite things to do was debate each other--you name it, we could always find the opposite sides of the same coin and tussle over it until the coin dropped to the ground and rolled out of sight). Our relationship was great because I always felt secure--and I know he felt that way, too. We both knew that no matter what, we would always love each other. We respected each other. He was one of my closest friends.

At the time he died, we were talking on the phone almost every day. I was by then in my late 20s, on the cusp of making a decision that would change my life forever. His death tore me down to my very foundation; an earthquake that ripped my entire world apart. Everything changed.

At times I wonder if he hadn't died, how my life would be different. I suspect many things would not be as they are now. After his death, I foundered around looking for something or someone to hold onto. The decisions I made immediately following his loss weren't made with a clear head--or heart. Or his always-good advice.

It was worse for my mother, who had built her life around him. Her subsequent emotional fall out was frightening in its intensity. My brother, sister and I floundered through our own grief to help her as best we could. I don't know that we succeeded; she has never been the same. She's found a kind of happiness in the grandchildren we've all given her, not a single one of whom ever met "Grandpa Bob." But sometimes, even all these years later, when I look in her eyes I can see that she is really only waiting for the time when she is reunited with our father, wishing that time would come sooner rather than later.

I am lucky to have had him for a father, as brief a time as it was. My heart goes out to those who are unable to move beyond past issues to create true closeness with their dad. I wish I could talk to them, tell them, to treasure and value their dad, and to remember that he is only human. Whatever the mistakes a father may have made in the past--or, for that matter, the mistakes the child may have made--there can be forgiveness, on both sides, and ultimately, closeness.

While the pain of his loss is still as fierce, at least I can be so, so grateful for the relationship we shared. My memory of that early morning trip to Goodyear Tires is as vivid as if it happened yesterday. The impact of his early death made all my memories of him more clear, and that much more precious.

There are thousands of such memories--my first memory I can recall is of him picking me up and swinging me around in the air. I was 3 years old. He was in his Navy whites, having just come home from duty. We were in the kitchen. The sunlight was streaming in the window above the sink. I can tell you exactly what the pattern on the linoleum floor was. I see if as if it is a movie. In that movie, we will forever be, as we were then: him, so young and handsome in his uniform, not even 25 years old, and me, a laughing little girl in long brown pony tails. Flying around that bright little kitchen forever.

So on Father's Day, as we do every year, my daughters and I will visit him at Crestlawn, lay some flowers on his grave and say a few words which I know, in my heart, he hears. And then, I'll tell them a story about "Grandpa Bob" from one of my many precious memories of him.

Miss you, daddy.

"Real Housewives of Orange County" We're Not

2009-06-12T15:01:00.000-07:00

Full disclosure: I do not watch "The Real Housewives of Orange County." Likewise, I've missed out on the accompanying phenomenon of "The Real Housewives of New York," "The Real Housewives of Atlanta," and the newest (I think) incantation "The Real Housewives of New Jersey." These shows make me roll my eyes in exasperation. Real people cannot possibly act the way the commercials portray them. So I've mostly ignored these shows, which I feel actually do more harm than good to the area they purport to represent.

That being said, I am not a reality TV snob--one of my guilty (and I do mean guilty!) pleasures in life is watching aging rocker Brett Michaels in "Rock of Love." In that case, I am the gawker on the freeway, hoping that a body will be pulled out of the twisted mass of smoking metal at the side of the road. And in the case of "Rock of Love" the show always delivers.

So moving on...two of my best friends, Jeanette and Jackie love the"The Real Housewives of Orange County." A morning coffee with the girls invariably leads to a discussion of the previous episode. So I (albeit rather unwillingly) know more about the shows than the average avowed non "Housewives" watcher.

So last night I was channel checking and came across the "Real Housewives of Orange County" reunion show. After watching for a brief two or three minutes, I just had to turn the channel. These women were just so damn mean to each other. It was like watching "Mean Girls: The Middle Aged Years." But "Mean Girls" the movie is a hilarious send-up of high school cliches (think "Heathers" altho not quite as dark--or, hate to say it, as good). "Housewives" is supposed to be "real."

Yeah, yeah. I know. Mean makes for good television. If the housewives sat around telling each other how terrific the others are, no one would watch. What fun is there in hearing, "I really admire you for overcoming that terrible situation with your values still intact."?? But please--at what cost just to be on TV? For god's sake, isn't life difficult enough without actively trying to emotionally injure another person?

And yes, I realize I'm being a bit hypocritical. If you've seen "Rock of Love" (and it's okay to admit it, you can be anonymous here) you know that those girls can be both mean and physically violent. But the difference is between the two is that in ROL, the girls are forced to live in close quarters and are given incredibly stupid "challenges" to win the love of a possibly-bald (why, oh why, does he wear that bandana all the time??) and undeniably over-the-hill ex glam rocker whose hey-day was a decade before these girls were even born. It's a total set up, obviously intended to create as much friction and drama as humanly possible. "Housewives" is pitched as "real" women, living their "real" lives.

From the episode re-hashes I've heard over cafe mochas with Jeanette and Jackie, the "housewives" actively dislike each other. And make no bones about it. They set out not just to hurt each other, but leave deep emotional scars that won't heal without extensive surgery. But, Jeanette and Jackie insist, the women are friends.

What the old saw? With friends like these who needs enemies? The phrase made flesh, truly.

So I don't watch the show. My choice. Gotta love the remote control! I'm sure there are plenty out there who feel the same about Keith Olbermann -- whom I love and would have hot, sweaty, (if imaginary) sex with in less time than in takes him to choke out: "Rush Limbaugh is the devil." (Reference the never-ending and rather hilarious battle between Olbermann and the right-wing radio personality)

Geez! I can really go off on a tangent, can't I? It's a gift. Actually, I really only do this in writing--I'm a total goober on the phone, rarely able to think of a thing to say. I'm not even that good in person unless I feel very comfortable (or I've had copious amounts of alcohol, and then I mostly talk about how much I love you.)

So anyway! What I intended this post to be about--and the topic I will now get around to--is my own friendships. Real housewives of Orange County we're not. A TV audience watching us would more definitely yawn, because we really are more likely to give each other compliments than sling insults. We don't even do those passive aggressive slams like, "Wow, that's a daring outfit." We all genuinely like each other.

I mean, duh. Of course we like each other. But what is so truly special about my close friends is how much they inspire me. As broadly different as my friends are--different income levels, political persuasions, career paths, personal situations, life outlooks--they all share that commonality. Every single one of my closest friends--without exception--has a specific trait that I want to emulate: among them, determination, intelligence, grace, patience, creativity, open-mindedness, empathy, persistence. While I have these traits to a certain degree, being with my friends helps draw them out, hone them, sharpen them, perfect them.

And another wonderful thing about my friends just occurred to me as I sit here on a Friday night, alternately watching the Tivo'd season finale of "Supernatural" and writing this post: we all support each other. We genuinely celebrate each other's successes. We are mercifully free of "frenvy."

Oh, sure, I joke that I want Larissa's art career or Jackie's fabulous legs. And it's an open secret that Jeanette's gorgeous Villa Park home is the home of my dreams (I'd buy it and everything in it if I only had the $3 mill or so it's worth!) My bf/sister seems to have found the secret to keeping her man desperately in love with her--yeah, I'd love to know how she's managed that! Is it a special perfume?? Mel's laugh and blond hair can stop the conversation in a room. Mo's self-confidence is impressive--as is her knowledge of most any subject you talk to her about, from politics to baseball to babies. And Bev has overcome a nightmare past to be one of the most genuine people I know. Give me free reign and I'd fill the page with the traits I admire about my best friends. But the point is, rather than feel envious of my friends, I strive to be like them--and I hope, in some small way, they feel the same about me.

I would challenge a camera crew to follow us around for a while. Sure, they won't get the back-stabbing (we have an unwritten rule in our group about gossip--nobody does it) but they will get real people facing real situations. Supporting each other, and loving each other. You want drama? Two years ago I had to wean myself off a three-year Paxil prescription--a month of my life that I wouldn't have gotten through without daily, near-hysterical calls to my friends. Marriage ups and downs and ups--from "He's amazing!" to "We got in a fight" to "I can't spend another day with that a--hole" to "Maybe it will work out" to "He's really trying" and back around again and again...anyone who has been married more than 5 minutes understands those!

And they'll get the fun stuff, too--like our summertime Pink Flamingos, a traveling party hosted by a different friend each month. Weekend get-aways--Jackie, Jeanette & my trip to Chicago two years ago--who knew a city could be so exciting?? My 40th birthday party. It was the best birthday of my life--what I remember of it, that is (wink, wink)--when we all jumped in a limo and went down to Laguna, had a great dinner, met cute boys (men, actually!) but still managed to behave (well, in my case, it was only thanks to my somewhat sober sister, who kept an annoyingly close eye on me so I wouldn't make a complete jack ass of myself around said cute men). Or hanging out at Jackie's 'till 2:00am, sitting in the jacuzzi and having extremely serious discussions over nothing in particular.

In thinking about it, maybe that's why I find shows like "Real Housewives of (name your city)" kinda sad and why I don't watch them. The idea of women who are supposed to be friends (aren't they? Or am I missing the point entirely?) going out of their way to tear each other down. But then, they're the ones on TV and I'm not, so what do I know?

All I know for sure is that I'm lucky to have the friends I do. Now I want to know, when are we gonna get our own show?

The Dog Ate My Credit Card

2009-06-08T11:56:00.000-07:00

I am lucky. And it is pure luck--no forethought or planning or even common sense has given me what so many out there long to have: zero credit card debt. That's right. I am one of those. Every month when the credit card bill comes (and there is only one card) it is immediately paid off. To the penny.

And it is through no doing of my own that I am in this fortunate state.

I have to give my man props here. He is financially responsible to a fault. No money in the budget for a new couch? Forget it, man--you're living with sofa circa 1999. Want that cool round dining table from Pottery Barn? Save for it. You can do it--just trim the grocery budget a bit and put the excess aside (I've been trying that for about 4 years now, and still have only managed to save about 25 cents). Vacation? If the dough ain't there, it ain't happenin', baby. Sorry. Get use to the view from the patio.

I'm not complaining--altho I must admit, that during the heady days of 2004 - 2007, I complained alot. Everyone I knew was upgrading this and refurnishing that, buying that shoe and going to that place. I remember bugging my husband endlessly for that round black Pottery Barn table, and protesting his "save for it" attitude angrily. After all, we were using (and still are, hardy-har-har on me) the table he and his first wife used for the seven-plus years they were married.

But in those same years, we upgraded the kitchen and put in a fab new pool, using funds he'd carefully budgeted. It was okay. It worked. And now, with daily newspaper reports of people mired in seemingly inescapable debt, I find myself eating a bit of financial crow. Had it not been for the clear-eyed pragmatism of the man I married, I could very well have been in that same situation myself.

However, conversely, over the years we developed the habit of buying everything from gas to gum to groceries with credit cards. My husband insisted we use the card on any purchase over$10. In retrospect: huh?? If I spent $10.50 on Starbucks coffee for a meeting, I had to use the credit card. Movie tickets, mani/pedis, jaunts to the drug store, you name it. I got used to using the card for everything over time. But as you might predict, something happened--I began to lose track of a credit card as real money. I mean, what's $20 more bucks for a pair of sandals for the girls from Target, right? It's only $20 bucks. It wasn't like I was going about and spending huge money on something (like that Pottery Barn table...). Just a tiny bit extra here and there.

And as long as the bill was paid off every month and we earned the airline miles and special rewards, it was all good. Plus, with the cool Quicken computer program that enabled us to download our credit card purchases to our computer, we could easily see what we were buying--how often and how much it cost. The credit card company made it very easy to become very reliant on them--even for a financially savvy guy like mine who made sure the debt never carried over.

But the recession has changed things for us. Like many out there, my husband is compensated partly in bonuses. And like many out there, his company has cut bonuses. Add to that the inescapable fact that I'm not making what I imagined I would by now as a freelancer (leave it to me to re-start my freelancing gig smack dab in the middle of the worst recession in 80 years), and you see a couple with decreased spending power but the same spending habits.

And for the first time ever, when the credit card bill came in, we were in real danger of not being able to pay it off. We did, but it meant a much tighter month. So I proposed to my husband an idea that he latched onto right away (something of a surprise, given that his opinion of my financial skills is pretty low).

I suggested we go on an all-cash basis. Yup. All cash. He would give me a certain amount every two weeks to manage all the household/kids' activities/parties/pets stuff that I am in charge of. Everything but gas. I wasn't really sure he would agree to it; after all, he'd run things his way for the last 10 years and it had worked out pretty well, over all. But he recognized the same thing I did-- that those extra "$20" here and $30" there days had to end. It wasn't just me picking up a cute dress at Target for one of the girls, or stopping at Barnes and Noble spur of the moment to by the latest edition of "Writer's Market." It was him, too--a new game for the Wii here, a $300 trip to Cosco--you bought what?? Using the credit card made it waaaayyyy too easy to spend more on crap. I mean, really. You should see my daughters' closets. Does any kid under 10 really need 13 pairs of shoes? Really?

So I took my credit card and stuffed it way down deep in my wallet, behind the store club cards, business cards I've picked up here and there, ancient receipts, and the like. I really jammed it in there, so pulling it out to pay for stuff is not nearly as easy as it used to be--either figuratively or literally. And I'm trying to organize what seems like a huge amount of cash (which I am keeping in a bank vault 10 stories underground at Gringotts, guarded by terrible and menacing trolls which will not hesitate to put a serious hurt on anyone besides me who comes close to my stash--including my husband. In other words, a bank account) Just seeing that amount of "real cash money"--which was determined by the average amount I spent each month on household "necessities"--was daunting. How could I possibly spend it all? Yet I did, with my good friend the credit card. Every month. Yikes.

I'm feeling optimistic about the new all-cash plan. It will mean less spur-of-the-moment purchases, fewer spontaneous trips to the mall. But it may also mean that we save more--and that I may be able to get that cool round black dining table from Pottery Barn after all.

check out these cool sites on budgeting, by the by. They've been a huge inspiration.

http://money.cnn.com/magazines/moneymag/money101/lesson2/

http://personalbudgeting.suite101.com/

http://www.articlesbase.com/personal-finance-articles/the-household-budget-and-emergency-fund-894829.html

How to Feed Your Soul on $3 a Day or Less

2009-06-05T12:00:00.000-07:00

In a parallel, just-like-ours-but-ever-so-different multi-verse (see the TV show "Fringe" for a definition if you're not a sci-fi geek like me), I am a professional artist. You've seen my paintings in galleries from San Francisco to Laguna Beach and right on down the coast to La Jolla. You've read of me as the premier California artist. You may even be holding in your hand this instant the glittering invitation to the grand opening gala of my new gallery in downtown Laguna.

I've just given you a peek at my daydreams when my life as an ordinary person wears me down a bit. Driving the kids to practice or folding laundry I often lapse into this fantasy. It's a fun fantasy, and one that some times makes my heart hurt a little because I might have made a pretty good artist (altho I am not arrogant enough to say I would ever have come close to the unparalleled success of my daydreams).

Truth is, I was blessed with some artistic talent from the time I was a small child. My mom saved some of my drawings from when I was around 3/4 years old, natch. I was astonished when I saw them--I had gobs of talent. But as I grew up I never thought much about it. I used it alot--one of my favorite presents to give to childhood friends were drawings, which they always seemed to love. I made intricate hand-made cards for my parents.

One of my mom's forever favorites of these was one I gave her and my dad for their anniversary when I was about 8. On the front it showed a couple holding hands as they gazed into each other's eyes, with a glorious sunset in the background. On the inside I'd written "Make Love Each Day." Naturally, being 8, I had no idea what sent my parents into gales of delighted laughter when they read the card. I remember distinctly my dad saying, "We do!" My mom still has that card!

But life happened and I never did anything with my talent until it hit me in my mid-30s that maybe I should have done the art route instead of PR. I did end up taking art classes, but I didn't have the time to devote to learning all the basics I so desperately needed to know (I have a screwy thing with proportions--all my people look like long-limbed mutants with overly large eyes). It ended up okay--I spent a couple years doing murals and painting furniture for friends & family & the occasional customer, and countless hours drawing coloring pages for my two daughters, who much preferred my drawing style to that of the Disney coloring books (gotta love my girls; always my biggest cheerleaders). It's all good. I would have made different choices had I known then what I know now, but who, when you really think about it, doesn't feel that way about something in their life? Which explains why "If I knew then what I know now..." is the most overused phrase in the entire world.

Very luckily for me, one of my best friends did take the art route, and the world is a better place for it. Larissa Marantz (yup, she of the Obama inaugural painting--check out her blog at www.larissamarantz.blogspot.com) is an amazing artist whose work has been featured not only in books, shows, the OC Register (cover of the A & L section, natch) but also, you guessed it, Laguna Beach. In fact, if you are headed down to Laguna Beach, take a look at the light posts. The one right on Ocean & PCH (right near the big white lifeguard tower--or is it a lighthouse? All these year's I've been going there and I still haven't figured that out) you will see the huge banner she painted to celebrate the city of Laguna. She also happens to be an instructor at LCAD, so she has real ties to the community.

So last night she and I and her hubby Keith went down to Laguna to see her huge banner on proud display. It was very exciting for me, because just such a thing has been part of my "me-as-famous-artist" fantasy since the very beginning. Seeing her success is thrilling for me, not just because I adore her and am glad for the good things in her life, but because she actually took that God-given talent and is sharing it with the rest of us. While my art is limited to the occasional mural, drawings for my kids, and doodles on the church bulletins during services (yes, I have earned many a scowl from my husband, a church Deacon, for covering the words to the hymns with drawings of women in evening gowns, but dude! Ya gotta admit, sermons can be pretty dull!) hers is out there for all of us to enjoy. And as her recognition grows, more and more people will have the same warm feeling in their chest as I do when I look at her work.

So after taking several pics from a variety of angles of her banner, the three of us toured the many art galleries along PCH and in down town. Since it was the first Thursday of the month, it was Art Walk. Galleries are open until 9:00 and there's wine and cheese. And if you know me, you know art and free wine and cheese will get me every time (don't even ask what I'd do for a piece of dark chocolate!)

With each gallery we went in, I felt the stress of the day literally falling away. Art does that for me. Looking at art fills a hole in my soul that I usually don't even know is there. Art feeds my soul. While I typically like images of people, a bold landscape will get me every time. With each painting, my soul filled a little more. (I overstuffed myself at the Louvre in Paris, tho--spent 10 hours there and at the end of the day I couldn't remember a thing I saw...)

One of the best parts was actually getting to talk to the artists themselves. Regular people who just happened to have an amazing talent. One of the best artists and friendliest people we met last night was Patrick Whelan, an amazing illustrator and fine artist whose ability to paint people (my fave subject) just blew me away. And finding out that each of these oil paintings took just a week to complete was astonishing. (I, on the other hand, have been working on a painting of a girl getting ready for a date since the last months of the Bush administration. And it's only 1/3 completed!) And Patrick even indulged my request for a picture--lucky me!

On the far end of the spectrum from Patrick (art-wise, anyway; he was just as friendly & open) was a young guy who goes by the name "Boey." You ever have a drink out a Styrofoam cup, then doodle all over the cup after you're done? (say you're sitting in a really boring meeting and it's all you can do to keep yourself from going insane?) Well, Boey has created an entire mini-empire out of Styrofoam cups and Sharpie drawings. Seriously. He has drawn intricate pictures on ordinary cups, encased them in plastic--and viola! Art. Really, super cool. I took a pic of them but it didn't come out well...you'll have to check out his website to see for yourself. www.rectangletriangle.googlepages.com.

There's soooo much more, but if you've made it to the bottom of the page I salute you. I do tend to run on a bit! Next month, Larissa and I are headed down to Art Walk again. And if you, too, feel like feeding your soul (you don't have to be an art lover--the gorgeous sunset over the glowing blue ocean will do it) you're welcome to meet us there.

And as for the $3? Parking. Right, Keith? (wink, wink)

Yoo hoo! Has Anybody Seen My Sanity?

2009-05-29T10:33:00.000-07:00

If you've spend any time in my kitchen at all, you likely have noticed the plethora of magnets adorned with pics from 50s-era advertisements. Lovely, wholesome women basking in the glow of motherhood and wifery (hey, ma, I coined a word!) As opposed to the cheery phrasing the ads most assuredly held 50+ years ago (from a real ad: "Look at the money my smart wife saved with Philco!"), the magnets are adorned with phrases like, "They're not looking, I could escape!" and "I'm one cocktail away from proving his mother right." My personal favorite--a lovely young miss, staring out of the confines of her magnet with a wistful expression, accompanied by the words, "Her greatest regret was not having more sex."

I'm sure you've seen these novelties in those trendy, self-consciously hip boutiques that feature $85 aprons and chick-lit novels with faintly sardonic titles like "Some Like it Haute." I love these silly magnets. Whenever I happen to glance at them (which occurs several times a day, given their location smack in the middle of the fridge door) I can't help but smile a little. Their sentiment--and the juxtaposition of smily happy 50s wife with the sarcastic yet oddly cheerful 'tude of today--strikes a chord.

It sounds a little strange, summing up your life in a collection of sarcastic refrigerator magnets, but at this particular juncture of my existence, it feels right. I spend vast amounts of time simply trying to hold it together. Example? Tonight, after rushing around all day like the proverbial headless chicken, I found myself setting the table with dishes straight from the dishwasher. No big deal, right? I was placing the last fork next to the last plate when I realized the dishes hadn't been washed yet. But it gets better. For a second (actually more like 3 or 4) I considered just using them anyway.

Mom of the year, right?

I ended up not forcing the girls to eat off of last night's dishes. Luckily for them, there were still clean bowls in the cupboard. Yeah, eating steak out of a bowl isn't the way it's normally done, but at least they weren't consuming bits of left over sushi with their t-bone. Yeeewww...

I was done, though. With the girls, I mean, not the dishes. They weren't being particularly naughty. They were just being themselves--squealing, laughing, playing the perennial favorite dinner game "ocean" (wanna play ocean?--mouth opens, resplendent with masticated food--see?). I didn't yell, though. I didn't even raise my voice. I just folded my arms on the table and laid my head on them, waiting for the chaos around me to subside.

And it was at this point I could have broken down into hysterical sobs (no, it wasn't just over the dishes thing, or even the exceedingly challenging day I'd had--late for every appointment, and every red light seemed bent on making me even later--I'm not a total martyr. Life is stressful right now on alot of levels, just like it is for everyone right now). My other choice was to just laugh it off. I've been blessed with the ability to laugh off most situations. It's usually pretty easy for me to just see the funny side of every situation. But tonight I just wanted to sit there at the kitchen table, the remains of dinner all around me, my head on my arms, and just feel sorry for me. You ever feel that way? I hate even admitting it...

But a strange thing happened. Suddenly, it got quiet. No just quiet, but eerily quiet, as if every living creature in the house had disappeared. Even the dogs ceaseless panting fell silent. I looked up and was met with two solemn-eyed little girls, watching me with a caution that was both sweet and amusing. I had a sudden realization. Had I yelled at their misbehavior, they likely would have continued it. Yelling mamas are easy to ignore, I've discovered. But utterly giving up was something they'd never seen before. My youngest gave me a big hug. My oldest did, too (crushing my pinky toe with her track shoe in the process). I smiled in spite of the pain from my protesting toe. My heart melted just a little as they squeezed me between them. We exchanged "I love you"s. Then they dashed upstairs, each trying to out-race the other to the shower.

I'd love to say my mood instantly lifted. It didn't. But after they'd been tucked in (our nightly "Harry Potter" read aloud, prayers said--Nati saying hers while hanging upside down off the headboard of her bed but they still count, right?--and kisses doled out) I came downstairs to attack the load of laundry that waited for me on the couch like a giant lazy dog. With the majority of the day behind me, the house quiet at last, no more appointments to meet, no more red lights to fight, I was finally able to see the humor in the day.

Those refrigerator magnets strike a chord because they are true. The image of the smiling mom/wife is what we present (or try to) the world. The flip comment underneath the picture is how we feel, but would never admit (except, perhaps, to our very closest friends after a couple glasses of wine). In any event, I can't possibly be the only person out there who feels this way--else, who is buying all those refrigerator magnets??

Teaching a brick to fly...

2009-05-27T09:55:00.000-07:00

Despite my best efforts thus far, the brick known as my business refuses to grow wings and fly.

In other words, I've been trying to launch a writing career.

No, I am not one of those who thinks they have the "Great American Novel" buried somewhere in their imagination and need only to find the proper tools with which to dig it out. Perhaps in the heady and self-centered days of my youth I did--I distinctly remember telling my high school friends I would have a novel published by the age of 20. (snicker) As you can surmise from the fact my name appears no where on the best sellers list (or, for that matter, on Google) I never wrote that Great American Novel.

That's okay, though. Over the years I've gotten some perspective on both my dream and my writing. I love to write. In fact, I do have several stories and even a completed novel hidden away. None of them are terribly good, but writing them was both cathartic and a lesson in reality. I like re-reading them and remembering who I was when I wrote them. Much of what I wrote was based on what I was going through at the time (the ones written in my mid-30's are about as full of upper-middle-class housewife angst as you can get--a fictional affair with an 18-year-old grocery store bag boy? Really? Yet my friends will remember the crazy crush I had on "Sancho the bag boy" at the local Vons when I was 35)

But one thing I was always really good at was public relations writing. During my 20s and earliest 30s, I worked for a variety of public relations agencies and companies as a PR and marketing freelance writer, creating brochures, news releases, white papers, corporate positioning papers, mission statements--you name it, and I wrote it. And I loved doing it. I loved the challenge of shaping an image out of words. I liked putting my clients' ideas into words that their target markets responded to. It was almost like not working. I made decent money, too: $50 - $75 an hour depending on the project. It was almost ideal (except during those dry spells with which every self-employed person is intimately familiar and, of course, at tax time).

So it was with these things in mind that in December 2008 I decided to re-start my PR and marketing writing business. I didn't imagine it would be that difficult--after all, when I did it in the 90s, getting clients was pretty easy. What I had forgotten was that at the time I started my writing business in the 90s, we were in the midst of the Internet Boom and anybody who could string three words together in a cohesive sentence could be hired as a PR writer. Well, maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit. I was a good writer. But times were different, and there was more money around to hire people like me.

So it was with a bit of over-confidence that I launched the current incarnation of my business, Kim Haman, Writer. I sent out dozens of letters, cards, and writing samples to businesses that were similar to the ones I'd worked for in the 90s--mid-sized companies with small marketing departments and PR and ad agencies that needed extra help.

Ah, the brick.

My follow up calls revealed that 10 years is alot of time to be out of a business like mine. (Intellectually I had known that, but somehow I thought I'd be above the fray) Of the few people I was actually able to talk to (I'm assuming the rest were trying to spare me the humiliation of being told "No" in person, as opposed to just letting me draw the conclusion on my own), almost the first words out of their collective mouths were "What's your website address?" There were also unfamiliar terms like "SEO" and "Social Media Optimization" and "Keyword Stuffing." Huh?

What a difference a decade makes! So I found myself not only back at square one, but actually less prepared when I'd been a 25-year-old with nothing but a little talent and alot of hutzpah. I realized I needed to study up on all that had changed in the corporate writing biz over the last 10 years.

Despite my grumblings, I found much of it pretty interesting. I bought a couple books called "The Freelance Writer's Bible" by David Trottier and "The New Rules of Marketing & PR" by David Meerman Scott. These were amazingly helpful to me. These two books more than anything else I read or researched helped shape my business plan. My plan is to get back in the game sooner rather than later--although right now, I'm still the dorky kid waiting on the sidelines to be chosen for a team, praying I won't be subjected to the humiliation of being chosen last.

So that's what I mean when I compared building my business to teaching a brick to fly. It's not getting off the ground nearly at the speed or height I would have thought after working at it steadily for six months. Granted, the brick/fly thing probably isn't the most accurate analogy out there--after all, I do have a few clients right now, terrific small companies that have been gracious enough to give me the opportunity to help their businesses grow. It's just not going to be as easy as I thought it would be.

See? You never stop learning. If it was too easy, I probably wouldn't appreciate it as much, just like in the 90s I just took for granted that the first prospect I called would hire me on the spot--because they usually did. This time, it's gonna take just a little more, like becoming much more Internet-savvy, launching a website (finishing it up this week: www.kimhamanwriter.com) and figuring out what SEO means.

And who knows? In years to come, the Great American Novel might squeak out of me. But for now, I'll be thrilled--more than thrilled--if Kim Haman, Writer stretches its wings and flies.

Makes Ya Wanna Run!

2009-05-25T10:23:00.000-07:00

Today is the 2009 LA Marathon.

When I opened my eyes this morning, I was instantly aware of two things: I was slightly hung-over from the four glasses of wine I'd had at a friend's welcome-to-summer party last night, and that my running shoes were lying in a small, dispirited heap next to my closet. I'd worn them to the track a couple days before--not for my own workout, but to watch my 9-year-old practice with her track team. My running shoes were a reproachful reminder to me that while I have a great deal of passion for track, marathons, and the sport of running in general, I haven't run a race since last September's Disney Half Marathon. It's been nearly 9 months.

And the third thing to cross my mind as I slid out from beneath the covers of my warm bed into the chaos of the girls clamoring for pancakes outside my bedroom door ("Mommy, we're sooooo hungry!") was my friend Jackie.

She's running the 2009 LA Marathon--and is likely still doing so right now, at 10:42 in the morning. Last year, we ran it together--we crossed the finish line with hands clasped at a solid if uninspired 4:52. The important thing was that we did it together.

I pictured Jackie now at the start line, bouncing on her heels to keep herself warm in the cool morning air, knowing she was feeling excitement and apprehension in equal measure. I selfishly hoped she missed me. I sent her good luck via mental express, and went downstairs with the girls at my heels to make them breakfast.

It was only 6:37am (my children have absolutely no respect for Saturdays, holidays, or their mom's overindulgence in Cabernet) and I was feeling rather muddled. My husband, who'd just come in from a 6-mile run of his own (sick with a cold, hung over, going on 3 hours sleep--you name it--he never misses a run), asked me if I was going to watch the Marathon.

Instantly I was awake and excited, the vestiges' of the half-hangover dissipating like smoke. He turned on the TV for me (why he has to turn it on is a long, frustrating and ultimately silly saga that has to do with my complete inability to work a universal remote) and found live coverage of the LA Marathon. The wheel chair racers were on their way and the elite runners had just begun their journey. The camera panned to the thousands of people waiting for the their turn to dash across the start line. I felt a moment of complete and utter envy that I was not there among them. In other circumstances, I know I would have been.

I don't have a big dramatic back story to share of why I haven't run a race for so long. I injured my back last May (last May 25th, to be exact) training for the 2008 San Diego Rock 'n' Roll Marathon. I had the goal of breaking 4:15. It was to have been my fourth marathon, (2 LAs, one previous Rock n Roll). My previous PR was 4:21:26.

To many competitive runners, that's not an especially impressive PR. But to me, it was an amazing accomplishment. I'd spent a lifetime avoiding running just on general principal--it was boring, too hard, it made my boobs bounce and hit me in the eyes (okay, maybe not that). But I'd never been interested in it. I wasn't a particularity athletic girl. I was on the High School Drill Team for a while, and then a cheerleader, but back in the 80s (yes, I'm old) song and cheer was vastly different than the competitive juggernaut it is today. It was more about smiling, being enthusiastic, and knowing the difference between a offense cheer and a defense cheer. And luckily we had the Head Cheerleaders to tell us which cheers to perform, because honestly, not being particularly knowledgeable about football or basketball (the two sports we cheered for) I would not have known the difference.

So last year I decided I would best my amazing (in my eyes, anyway) achievement by hitting 4:15. If I could hit 4:15, I reckoned I would be a REAL runner, someone who had taken the leap from recreational runner to someone who really had what it took to be a winner (I know, I know). So I completed a 21 mile training run--ignoring the entire time the small but nagging twinge in my back. In fact, I pushed myself even harder that training run than I ever had before, leaving my running companions far behind me in a dash down Taft Ave. that left me feeling exhilarated and a bit smug. (yes, karma is on it's way...)

The next day, I went to a weight training class with a friend, figuring that weight training was an important component to running that I couldn't bypass. I remember hearing the crunch in my back when I lifted a weight--and the sharp, stabbing pain that went with it. I mentioned to my friend in an off-hand manner, hoping she didn't think I was using the aching throb in my back as an excuse not to lift weights. I gritted my teeth through the pain, mentally calling myself a woos/wus (?? spell?? I've never figured out how to spell that word). I was also beginning to feel the first stab of panic--I had never felt anything quite like this in my back, and I was worried. The San Diego Marathon was just 10 days away.

But, to my lasting chagrin, I wasn't done being an idiot. After my friend dropped me off at home, I decided that the metal decorative bench in the back yard JUST HAD to be moved. No tomorrow. And certainly not by my husband, though he is vastly stronger than I. So knowing that it was a mistake and determined to do it anyway, I tried moving the bench.

You know that sound a stalk of celery makes when you break it in half? Yup. That sound. That was the sound I heard as I fell to the ground in agony only experienced in childbirth. I lay there, feeling like a doll with a broken back. Until that moment, I'd never really gotten it when people complained of bad backs. I'd always held people like that slightly in doubt--after all, it couldn't be that bad. Now I knew. I really knew.

Eventually I made my way back to the house and then to the couch, where I remained in various stages of agony for the next few days. I finally made it to the doctor, who clucked her tongue at me for abusing my body to such a degree. She ordered x-rays and sure enough, I had a slipped disc. Not bad (although with my level of pain I thought for sure she would have found my back full of slivers of broken glass) and definitely heal-able. She laughed in amusement when I asked her if I could still run the San Diego Rock 'n' Roll Marathon.

Thus started a regiment of physical therapy that really worked--or seemed to , until I jumped the gun on my healing and ran in the Disney Half Marathon last year. Two karmic punishments resulted from my completely ignoring my PT's advice not to run quite yet: my IPOD broke at mile two (I'd never run a race without my music and found the experience boring and grueling), and I ended the race back at square one with my physical therapy. Yup.

So I was much smarter this time. At the end of several months, my PT declared me as good as I was gonna get (lucky for me, my injury did not necessitate surgery) and said I could try training for a 1/2 marathon again, albeit slowly and with great care. She wasn't overjoyed with my determination to run another 1/2 marathon, urging me instead to try a few 10ks.

But a funny thing happened when my therapy was finally over. Even given the green light to train, I just haven't done it. I've been going to the gym regularly (I've even lost a few pounds) but I hadn't been able to get up the gumption to train for a long run. The longest I've gone since March was 4 miles--the resulting back pain was mild but it was enough to freak me out. In a last ditch effort to inspire myself to "get back on the horse" as it were, I paid my $120 (yikes! gulp! Holy crap!) entry fee to run in the 2009 Disney Half Marathon. But I did that last week and I have yet to run 10 feet, much less started the training I'll need if I'm going to actually get my $120 worth.

But this morning, watching with ever growing excitement in my heart as Kenyan Wesley Korir dashed past Russian Tatyana Petrova at mile 23 to claim the winner title in a race-busting record of 2:08:23, I found the inspiration I needed. And I ran--from the kitchen where I was preparing pancakes to the family room where the TV was so I wouldn't miss any of the marathon. The girls' pancakes were alternately overcooked and underdone. For the first time ever I found myself wishing we had a TV in the kitchen.

Picturing myself with Jackie running last year, I suddenly knew that I would run in a race again. The excitement, the thrill, the amazing feeling of accomplishment I got from running those past marathons and half marathons (a total of seven events since January 2007) was not something I was willing to let slide away.

So shortly following watching the winners break the ribbons, the girls begged to play with the Wii. (we have only one TV--yes, I know, that makes us a strange exception to the three-TV standard of most families) so I let them (they'd eaten their burned-on-the-outside, gooey-on-the-inside pancakes without complaint and I figured the deserved a reward). I headed upstairs, where the unmade bed and lonely-looking pair of running shoes called to me. I put them on and snugged the laces.

I'm heading out for my run now--I'm going to take it slow--maybe the old 3.1 mile route I used to take when I only had a free 1/2 hour to run. And now it's 11:42 and Jackie should be coming up on mile 23, if my calculations are correct. I'll think about her as I'm running, try to shoot some mental energy her way. Because 23 is where the wall is, at least for me. And maybe, just maybe, as I'm finishing up my 3.1, she'll be running over the finish line herself, and in some small way, she and I will be finishing up our run together after all.