Miss You, Daddy

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

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

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

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?

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...

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!

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.