Fighting Finn

Things I Invent at My Day Job

2012-01-25T16:02:00.000-08:00

And by I....I mean we. Things WE invent at our day jobs. Because I work with some pretty creative women. There's Jules, Michelle, Lucia , Megan and Wendy. There was Deb. Technically we still work with Deb only it's in a different capacity. Long story that she should write about, if she hasn't already.

Several bloggers coincidentally writing great blogs like So What Are You Making for Dinner? (Lucia), Closet Fashionista (Megan) and Sh*t My 6-Year-Old Says (Deb). Julie is working on turning her life story into a Chelsea Handler kind of a book. Wendy could design the cover. Michelle could make it into a movie.

We work at an agency but our offices are in the boonies. We have about 3 lunch options total. It's not like we're popping out to grab something from Cosi in the City. When noon rolls around we tend to take our weird leftovers, Smart Ones, vegan specials -- and heat them up in the microwave. Then we sit around and cook up ideas for inventions. What we would do if we didn't work at this agency in the boonies?

These are my favorite inventions so far:

Broken Spirit

A new fragrance for women who've given up on their dreams. This was GENIUS product naming by Deb. I think it would smell something like the skinny clothes you've put in a giant plastic tub in your basement. Slightly musty and let down.

Spankles
Spankles would become all the rage in shapewear - for the gal whose feet and ankles are one.

Middle-Aged Butt Branding
Sure the younger set has embraced sweatpants with brands emblazoned across their butts. Juicy. Pink. UCONN. Whatever it is, just slap it across the back of your pants and go out jogging. Our idea is to brand sweatpants for middle-aged women. We'd emboider them with snappy slogans like: Flat. Bumpy. Cold. Worn Out. Once Great.

Real-World Barbie
Along the same lines as our sweat pants, these Barbies would represent real women. Jiggly Julie. Big-Boned Becky. Our caravans would be stocked with Cream of Mushroom soup and Smirnoff.

Fun Nursing Homes
In my last year of high school, I worked at a nursing home for Jesuit priests called The Campion Center in Weston, MA. At the Campion Center, the priests and brothers had happy hour in the evening. It wasn't wild and crazy, but they had a drink. "Why should people at the end of their lives be denied a glass of wine," said Lucia. Our fun nursing home would have happy hours like Mariachi and Margarita Mondays. Maybe date night? What the hell.

You may be old but you're not dead.

Fun Nursing Homes in Hawaii

Very similar to our other concept, except we get to live in Hawaii. And somehow Dog the Bounty Hunter would play a role.

Stay tuned.

I'm So Tough I'm Like That Guy in Silverado

2012-01-23T17:29:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, we went to the not-so-nearby mall to look for a couple of obscure things. First stop, FYE for XBOX headphones for my son. In the store, there were bins filled with discount movies. One of my favorites - Silverado - was on sale for like 4 dollars. But it was some kind of 2-disk collectable set, and in my mind I couldn't afford to take on 2 disks. "It's just too much," I said to myself.

That's how I think.

Silverado reminds me of other Lawrence Kasdan films I love. His son is in the movie business now so you young kids might recognize the last name. Grand Canyon that was another good one. He's well known for The Big Chill, but that's not my favorite.

Silverado is just a fun movie with a great cast. Young Kevin Costner, Danny Glover, Kevin Kline, Brian Dennehy, John Cleese, Rosanna Arquette, Linda Hunt, Lynn Whitfield, Scott Glenn, Jeff Goldblum, etc. You couldn't even afford to make this film today with all of these actors.

A pivotal scene in the movie takes place when brothers Scott Glenn and Kevin Costner learn their family has been targeted by the bad guys and their young nephew Augie kidnapped by the evil McKendrick clan. Scott Glenn's character has already been attacked by the McKendricks, beaten then dragged by a horse. He's barely recovering from his injuries in a cave when he hears his nephew is missing. On the brink of death, he musters all his strength to save his kinfolk. In a truly tough guy scene, he strips the bandage from his head, clearly showing he is not going to take any crap.

Now back to me.

I've been sick for about 10 days. But I needed to work. Because of course, this is America and what would happen if we took a sick day? I took half a day off then realized I needed to go in. People were counting on me. Not to rescue them like the young boy in Silverado. Because they had immediate copywriting needs for the purposes of marketing stuff.

The two are very similar if you think about it.

So I ripped that bandage off my head and went into work. To write draft number 7. Of copy that will appear only one time. In an ad that no one will remember. And that's how tough I am.

PS This is an actual line from Lawrence Kasdan's wiki...

He graduated from the University of Michigan with an MA in Education, originally planning on a career as an English teacher. Upon graduation, Kasdan was unable to find a teaching position, so he became an advertising copywriter, a profession he did not enjoy.

Photo Card

2011-12-05T17:03:00.001-08:00

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Abs Start in the Kitchen

2011-11-23T07:11:00.000-08:00

In late summer, my husband and I started a new diet called the Belly Fat Cure. One of the baseball moms lost 30 pounds doing the diet only - no exercise - and the change was noticeable. Belly fat is unfortunately my problem. I don't know if you know this but you can have a butt the size of an aircraft carrier and be relatively healthy. But fat around your belly is a killer. It's basically fat surrounding your vital organs, the ones you need to live. And in the end, your vitals need some breathing room or they will suffocate.

So my husband and I both started this diet because we both have the same body type. Thin legs and belly fat. Much less than me in his case, but some. The diet is a modified Atkins plan. You can have small amounts of carbs and sugars but it's pretty limited. For example, you can have 15g of sugar per day. My oh so healthy greek yogurt with fruit was 17g. By breakfast, I'd had my entire day's allotment of sugars.

You can however eat sausage, eggs, and use half and half in your coffee. No fake sugars though. That was eye opening. No blue or pink or yellow ones. Instead we use something called stevia. It's a "natural" diet sugar if there is such a thing. Stevia has also come under scrutiny but so far has not been shown to cause cancer in lab animals. We have to drink these sodas called Zevia that you can only buy at Whole Foods for a mere $5 per six pack. Obviously we are drinking limited amounts of Zevia.

By the way, I am still planning to walk into Whole Foods and ask for Velveeta.

My husband has obviously lost weight on this diet. His pants are too loose, he has to cinch his belt tighter. I, on the other hand, seem to have lost weight in my ass area. As I've said before I already have my Uncle David's ass, sliding downhill as it were. That's okay, I'm fine with having a smallish butt, BUT I thought I was going to lose major belly fat. That's what the book said. In that department I've seen less change and I am definitely not cured. I have noticed some improvements like my arms seem to be shrinking? But I still have a belly and it's staring at me like, "What the heck? How much more stevia do I have to endure?"

My husband works at a digital advertising agency. One of the big ones. I've only seen the place from a distance. But I'm guessing it's pretty hip and cool and sleek, etc. The atmosphere at work is like the show Entourage except my husband is in his 40's, not his 30's. And this agency is in Connecticut, not LA. Still everyone who works there must be glib, wear metrosexual clothes, be proficient in snark. Knowing flash or HTML is on the list too but not as high as glib.

One of the men who works with my husband is an MMA guy in training. He's twenty-something, single and on a mission to be buff. He's already there by the way - as far as I can tell. But he wants to be more buff. He wants an 8-pack or a 12-pack, as many visible ab muscles as a human being can have. My husband has conferred with him about our diet and exercise - I'm not exercising at all so that was a very short convo. And joy of joys, the MMA guy has agreed to put together a workout program that won't require us to go to the gym!

I'm picturing us befriending the local butcher so we can punch meat before sunrise.

My excuse for not working out has been I don't have time to make it to the gym. And what a beautiful excuse it's been. I've used it for about a year now. Coincidentally around the same amount of time it took me to grow this belly that I now need to cure.

On vacation this week, I'm showing off my belly. I used to hide it from the sun. Then I started traveling and I noticed how many people outside of the US just let it all hang out. Sometimes the women are topless and their bellies and boobs become one big area. That's my plan now. Let it all hang out. Every once in a while I'll say something in the limited German I remember from sixth grade to pretend I'm not from here, and it's okay for me to wear a bikini with my belly on display.

Haben Sie einen krankenschwester? Was machten Sie? (Do you have a nurse? What are you making / doing?)

Wait. Sorry I got distracted again. Okay so coming full circle back to the name of this blog, Abs Start in the Kitchen. As we were sitting by the pool this week I asked my husband what his MMA friend would say about my belly. And he said, "Abs start in the kitchen."

And then my husband said, "I bet you're going to write a blog about this, aren't you?" And he was right.

A Very Short Blog About Osteoporosis and Brad Pitt

2011-10-18T07:19:00.000-07:00

As part of my annual physical, my doctor ordered blood work to check on all my vitals. I was pleasantly surprised to learn I am in good health with one exception. I have a slight Vitamin D deficiency. I assumed this was the result of living in a semi-permanent state of sunshine deprivation. Apparently it is also an indicator of potential problems with bone density.

I am trying to be mindful of my posture so I don’t end up hunched over as I get older. But I don’t know that I am winning the fight.

This past weekend I saw an older man I see all the time who takes a vigorous walk along a busy street here in town. He walks very quickly and he carries a short stick that pumps up and down as his arms swing from side-to-side. He’s the picture of health except for his posture. He’s got the distinctive curve in his back that is a sign of osteoporosis.

I was driving down that busy street with my husband when I saw the older man. I said, “Look, it’s a glimpse into my future. You know, when I get older.”

My husband said, “I’m not getting older.”

“Really,” I said. “That’s interesting.”

My husband said, “Look at me, hon. I’m Benjamin Button. I’m getting younger.”

And that, in a nutshell, describes the difference in our worldviews.

Like Fingernails on a Chalkboard

2011-09-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

This blog inspired by Deb (the motivation to write, not the mother involved)

About two weeks ago, I went into the City to get a facial. I can't say that I see much of a difference or any difference for that matter, but it was nice to go in on the train and have some quiet time to myself, or so I thought.

It was late afternoon on a Saturday.The ride in was quiet. I read an old Oprah magazine I'd bought like two months before and hadn't read. There was a great piece about Emily Mortimer the actress from Dear Frankie, Lars and the Real Girl and regrettably the new Pink Panther series. She's wonderful and it's a great story about shyness and overcoming insecurity even as an adult.

I had a lovely facial, nothing painful or smelly. Just a nice quiet hour of relaxation. Then I got back on the train to come home. Two very cute kids entered the car I was sitting in and their mother followed. She looked pissed. Granted she had two little kids and an infant seat and a stroller and two bags and quite a few extra pounds - but she looked pissed.

The father arrived with the baby and they all took their seats on the train. The boy looked to be about my son's age - maybe 12. He had a very sweet face, big dimples and long hair. He was reading a book when his mother started to fixate on his fingernails. "Oh my God, would you look at your nails?" And it just kept going and going and going. "You can't finish your book until you cut your nails."

One thing I've learned as a parent is to choose wisely the lines you mark in the sand. Because kids will test you. So you better feel strongly about the point you are arguing. This mom kept hammering. "Luke, cut your nails. Do it, or I'll do it for you. And you don't want me to do it for you."

It's one of those stock lines parents use that doesn't actually make any sense. As a kid I would be thinking, I don't want to do this. You're volunteering to do it for me. Sounds like a good deal.

With that threat lingering in the air, the mother stood up and walked to the bathroom. The son turned to his father and said, "Did you ever argue with her even when I was young?"

"You're being a fresh kid."

"I hate when adults say fresh."

It's hard to explain but this next part was actually kind of sweet - a father and tween son bonding over swear words while the overlord was in the bathroom.

"Okay, how about I call you a douchebag?"

"I'm not saying you have to call me a douchebag But I'm not 5."

Mother returns to son picking at his nails with a piece of paper. "What is he doing? Picking his fingers with a piece of cardboard?"

I watched and wished I'd sat anywhere else on the train. My fleeting "me time" coming to a sudden halt. I felt really sorry for this little kid being bullied by his mother over something so silly as fingernails. Really?

But I also felt for the mom . I've been there. Fat and wearing unattractive stretchy pants. Loaded down with so much crap you feel like a pack mule. Food on your shirt. Exhausted from not sleeping. Wanting to control something. It's unfortunate that the one thing she chose to control that day was her son, and his nails and his reading.

I felt like saying, "Lady if your kid is reading anything, you should be grateful. Your kid has a sense of humor. Your kid is healthy. Your kid is bright. Give it a rest."

But I didn't say anything. I hope her son grows Howard Hughes fingernails the minute he turns 18.

How Not To Do Social by Netflix

2011-07-18T10:12:00.000-07:00

How Not To Do Social Media by Netflix

This summer Netflix announced they would be restructuring their pricing plan, raising prices by 60% for those customers who have both the streaming media and DVDs by mail plan. In a breezy blog post from Netflix VP of Marketing Jessie Becker, they explain the pricing increase as follows:

“Why the changes? Our selection of TV episodes and movies available to stream has grown dramatically, and as a result most members want us to deliver unlimited TV episodes and movies two ways: streaming instantly over the internet plus DVDs by mail. The price increase will allow us to continue to offer the popular plan choice of unlimited TV episodes and movies streaming instantly along with unlimited DVDs.”

What Netflix failed to mention, or perhaps notice, was a) the majority of their customers use the DVD option (approximately 80% according to Tony Wible, an analyst with Janney Capital Markets) and b) their streaming media library is limited. For example, a customer can watch all the episodes of seasons 1-4 of Psych via streaming, but the final season is only available via DVD.

No Comment is Unacceptable in Social

Customer reaction on social media was immediate and deafening. Once highly popular with its 22.3 million customers, Netflix saw firsthand what happens when a brand comes under attack via social. Comments on Ms. Becker’s blog post exceeded the 5,000 maximum in the first day and they ranged in tone from disgust and anger to expletive-filled rants. Comments like this one were everywhere:

In this economy, you opt to increase the price for my current subscription by this much? Well hey, guess what? Unless you seriously upgrade and update your streaming content, you'll be losing a long-term customer. And I'm sure I won't be the only one!

Contrary to social media rules of engagement, Netflix both deleted comments and did not respond to comments. Nothing. Nada. The sound of crickets.

On their Facebook page, it was more of the same, with nearly 70,000 comments along the lines of:

Dear Netflix,
After 3 years, I'm sorry but it's over. If I switch to Blockbuster I will have a greater streaming selection, with newer movies, plus games, and it will cost me only 75% of your new rates. It’s been great, but it’s over. It's not us, it’s you. Enjoy the bankruptcy.

Again Netflix responded by deleting comments. Customers took it as a challenge, and began posting the CEO Reed Hastings’ email address. The comments kept coming, apparently faster than Netflix could delete them. And still no response.

On Twitter, Netflix became a trending topic. Tweets were flying like “Dear Netflix: Are you trying to save Blockbuster?" and “Netflix customers see red after price hike http://bit.ly/nwleC9 (via @cnn).” Still nothing from Netflix.

Losing Sight of Your Customer Base

In the meantime, Netflix stock prices rose and fell as the market tried to figure out what would happen. Blockbuster jumped on the bandwagon by touting lowered prices to the media and customers. And Redbox looked more and more like the way to go.

Surely Netflix will survive, but their brand has been tarnished. As one angry customer posted on their Facebook page,

How sad that after years of holding a subscription and being a walking advertisement for Netflix, that we are stopping the use of your services. Greedy, greedy, greedy. Way to show your long term customers, who helped pave the way for your extreme success with a higher price. BRAVO to whoever had this brilliant idea. Goodbye Netflix, HELLO REDBOX!

In stark contrast that same week, another brand stood out as a shining example of how social media should be done. Actress Mila Kunis, star of Friends With Benefits, accepted a YouTube invitation to the Marine Corps ball from a soldier stationed in Afghanistan. The video, posted by Sgt Scott Moore with 3rd Battalion 2nd Marines, received 3,246,366 views in the first week.

When you are fortunate enough to have customers who are “a walking advertisement” for your brand, it pays to engage and respond to them on social media sites. Take note from the mistakes of Netflix.

Death by Spanx

2011-07-15T13:30:00.001-07:00

I read recently that Oprah has an entire closet filled with shapewear. I own a few pieces that I rely on heavily to keep everything sucked in, at least between the hours of 9 and 5.

For the past couple of weeks, my back has really been bothering me. I think it's partly due to stress, partly due to lifting Daisy our new puppy, and now, I'm beginning to think, it is in part due to Spanx.

I mean if you think about it, wearing Spanx is no different than foot binding or corsets. Sure there's no whale bone involved in today's version. But you're applying pressure for long periods of time, a practice that could almost certainly lead to back pain. Or front pain. Name your poison.

Of course the alternative is unthinkable. A life without Spanx simply isn't worth living....

My 13 Year-Old Loves a Refreshing Cocktail

2011-06-29T18:36:00.000-07:00

Here's how it happened. As best I can recall. Our son is 13 this year and has led a kind of sheltered life. You really cling to the one, when he's the only one.

At any rate, my husband and I decided this summer, pretty much out of desperation, that Will needs to have more independence. He needs to take on some chores. He needs to have more room to roam about. He needs to stay busy because both of us are working full-time.

So I gave him a mission and a little cash, and sent him to the grocery store to pick up some of his favorite drink from his trips to Savannah - a bottle of Arnold Palmer. An Arnie Palmer is a mix of lemonade and iced tea. Very popular in the South / hot places.

Will rode his longboard to Stop and Shop and bought two big bottles of this concoction.

Then there was something about a lady yelling at him for riding his skateboard in the store. He couldn't remember exactly.

Moving on.

He made it home and brought my change back to me.

Mission accomplished! Well done!

AND he even remembered to put the first bottle he drank on the kitchen counter in the recycling area / next to the microwave. As I was taking the empty bottle out to the garage, I noticed the label read Arnold Palmer Cocktail Mix.

Cocktail mix?

Apparently Will didn't read the label closely or he would've seen he had a choice between the Arnie Cocktail just add one part vodka - and the Party Pitcher with 8 ounces of vodka.

On a positive note, it does contain 6% juice!

Steven Seagal Kicked My Ass

2011-05-20T11:19:00.000-07:00

This is my fave of all my Steve Seagal blogs

My brother called to tell me there was a film crew setting up shop in nearby Stamford and they were looking for help. They'd put up a huge sign in the window of their temporary offices with contact information. I've been writing a screenplay and taking film classes and I'm dying to work on an actual film set.

My brother gave me the phone number and then sent me a link to a classified ad on Craigslist. Results, the ad included an email address so I wouldn't have to make an embarrassing phone call. At 43, I'm guessing I'm not your typical intern / production assistant applicant.

I sent my resume and a cover letter to the email address in the ad. Maybe I shouldn't have used the phrase, "I know this sounds crazy, but I'd love to work on a movie and I'm a huge Steven Seagal fan."

Yes, it's one of my secret shames. I love Steven Seagal movies. I don't know why. They are idiotic and he is really just plain ridiculous, but there's something about him and his never-changing formula that I love. When he shows up wearing a full-length leather car coat or quasi-Asian smoking jacket, I know somebody's going downtown.

The working title of this movie is Marker. When it's released, it will probably be something like Death Marker or Death Comes a Marking.

My brother called me again. "Did you call them?" he asked.

"No. I emailed my resume."

"You have to call them. They're not going to respond to email."

"Fine, I'll call them."

Ring, ring. Someone picks up the phone.

"Hi, my name is Becky and I sent my resume in yesterday. I understand you guys are looking for help on your movie."

"How did you get this number?" she said, sounding very paranoid.

"My brother gave it to me. He sent me a link to your Craigslist ad." Just a thought. If you're trying to keep something a secret, you probably shouldn't hang a big sign out your window and put an ad on Craigslist. "I sent my resume to you yesterday," I said.

"What's your name?"

"Becky Risher," I replied.

"Right, yeah, I remember you," she said, now leaning toward smug.

"Why did I scare you?" I asked. "I mean, I'm not a stalker or anything."

"Right."

"Well do you still need help?"

"Have you ever worked on a movie?" she asked.

"No, but I can do lots of things."

"Like what?", she said. I thought I heard her typing in the background or perhaps whispering something to a co-worker.

"Well I can type. I can make coffee. I'm really good at finding things because I'm a researcher."

"You know, I think we're good for now. But we'll call you if anything comes up."

"What was your name again?" I asked.

"Meriwether."

"Meriwether? Like Lee Meriwether?"

"Who?"

"Lee Meriwether. From Barnaby Jones."

"Who's Barnaby Jones?"

Forget it. I knew I was sunk. I was just thinking how I might've played it differently. I was embarrassed to be blown off by a 20-something smugster named Meriweather.

Still I am compelled to watch Steven Seagal movies. There's something about him. I went to his official website when I started writing this blog to see what he had to say about himself. The home page states that Steven is an accomplished actor, musician, martial artist and philanthropist - a man of many facets. He's also just completed filming Marker and a critically-acclaimed blues album called Mojo Priest.

You're my Mojo Priest Steven. I don't give a damn what Meriweather says.

NB I think if I'd gone on to explain the Lee Meriweather reference, that the show starred Buddy Ebsen during his sexy years before he became Jed Clampett, well I think Meriweather would've peed in her pants laughing. Laugh all you want Meriweather. You'll pee in your pants plenty after you have a baby.

Afterbirth

2011-05-17T06:28:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, we moved a lot. My dad worked for IBM and we definitely lived the I Been Moved life.

The second-to-last place we moved while I was still at home, was a small town called Westport, Connecticut. Today, Westport is one of the wealthiest communities in the country. In 1978, it was still a place where a middle-class American IBM family could live and prosper. Sure there were the occasional Paul Newman sightings -- but he was just out grocery shopping at Hay Day or grabbing a beer at Ship's.

Moving to Westport was a tough transition from sunny Southern California. We didn't have the right clothes. We didn't talk the same way. It was fricking freezing during the famed Blizzard of '78. It's a long story that I tell in detail in my blog Middle School Blues.

My first day of school I was sitting in the office and a boy walked by and winked at me. I thought to myself, "I am not in Kansas anymore." Or Cali. These kids were going to be tough. And they were tough.

There was a kid on the bus named Jeb. He was older and popular and cool. And I was none of those things. Jeb started calling me "afterbirth". To this day I don't know why. Worse, I didn't know what it meant. And we didn't have the Google back in those days so I just sat there wondering. Now I know what it means. I have firsthand knowledge since becoming a parent.

Yesterday I was on Facebook where my now Facebook friend Jeb posted the sweetest picture of himself comforting his son who had a rough at-bat in a baseball game. I couldn't stop thinking about that picture and how much we've all changed as a result of growing up, getting married, having kids, getting divorced, losing a parent, losing a friend.

Good for you Jeb. Way to grow up and become a good man.

Can You Go Home Again?

2011-04-13T03:14:00.000-07:00

Next week, we're going to Austin for a long weekend. I lived in Austin briefly as a child. My brother was born there. My dad went to the University of Texas. We're going to get the lay of the land, see what's what, check out the bats, etc. In September of 2010 I was in Arlington, Texas where I was born. I was there to attend my grandma's funeral. My brother and I made a very quick trip home to Texas.

We were living in Austin when my dad left grad school before finishing his PhD. With two little kids he needed a real job and he found one with IBM. I Been Moved. And we did. We moved alot. At first, we moved in and around Texas. In a way, that was okay because we always had our grandparents living in Arlington. We went to Arlington all the time. I remember the towns on the route from Houston to Arlington. I knew we were getting closer when I heard those names - Ennis, Midlothian, Waxahachie.

Then we started moving out of Texas to Raleigh, North Carolina; San Marino, California; Westport, Connecticut; and finally Weston, Massachusetts. My last year of high school was in Weston, Massachusetts. That was a tough one. After high school, I went to Tulane University for college. I even moved during college - spending my junior year in Paris, France. Then I moved back to Weston, back to Westport, on to DC, back to New York, Raleigh again and now I'm in Fairfield, Connecticut.

When you move as often as I do, you don't really have a place to call home. But I dream of a home. Some place I could go back to, eventually. Because I don't think Connecticut is it. I hope this isn't it. This can't be it, right?

Fairfield is a cool little town.We're close enough to the City to take advantage of City life. We've got live music, some decent restaurants, a downtown and several beaches. I use the term beach loosely because here in Connecticut the beach is on Long Island Sound. It's rocky and the water shimmers with pollutants. But it's pretty from a distance. We lived here in Connecticut for almost 4 years when I was a kid. That was a long stretch for us. So I have many friends here, and I run into old friends all the time.

In September when I was in Arlington, I had this strange feeling about being in Texas. It felt familiar, like I think home must feel to people who lived somewhere all their lives. It was hot, the streets were wide and you could see everything because the land is so flat. Six Flags looked different, kind of small and run down. There are strip malls everywhere, not my favorite. But the feeling was familiar.

I was traveling with my brother Clay, the one from Austin. Clay spent the formative years of his life in Boston, going to high school there and then on to BU. Clay is not a patient person. I think this may be the result of the whole Boston thing. Angriest drivers on the planet, but that's another story.

In my haste, to keep up with Clay and get out out of the airport rental car place, I left my bag of travel sample beauty products in the rental car bathroom. When we got to our hotel, I made a quick trip to the nearby Walgreens to replace said samples. A lady working at the cosmetic counter asked me if I was going somewhere. I explained that I was traveling here to Arlington for my grandma's funeral. She came around the counter and gave me a hug. Let me tell you, that would never happen in Connecticut. Not in a million years. Not if we were being attacked by aliens. And for a minute, I sort of freaked. It was so strange to me that people could be so sweet.

But that's how people are in Texas. Not all of them. And they may not mean it. But they say hello to strangers, they hold the door, they let you pull your car out of your parking spot without blasting their horns. And that feels familiar.

At Granny's funeral, we had the usual assortment of distant relatives, some of them examples of the worst of what a poor education, lack of job options, and growing up in the South can do to a person. But there's my Uncle David in his Wrangler jeans and cowboy hat and boots. Also a product of Texas.

It's kind of a funny story about Uncle David. Uncle David is my mother's brother. My mother that my dad is no longer married to. But Uncle David showed up to his ex-brother-in-law's mother's funeral, drove a ways because he lives in Grandview now. He drove up because that's what decent people do. We were all happy to see him, including my dad.

At the last minute, he became a pall bearer. My dad has replaced all his major joints at this point so David took his place when his knee started to falter, and he carried my grandmother to her grave. After the funeral, we said our goodbye's. David got in his huge truck and drove off. And my brother and I got on a plane back to New York, and back to Connecticut.

I don't know where I'll end up but I hope I find home some day. Maybe in Austin. We'll see.

I'm Cleaning My Oven

2011-03-27T13:42:00.000-07:00

As I sat, rather knelt, in my shower yesterday cleaning the floor, I thought about how nice it was to have a cleaning lady, if only briefly. Lourdes aka Lola would come every couple of weeks and clean everything, even the windows. I think I loved Lourdes more than I love my husband. And that's why I miss her so much.

I interviewed a potentially new cleaning lady after Lola's cellphone stopped working and I couldn't find her. Nice lady but a little high maintenance. Or a lot. She said she would have to charge me $50 more than Lourdes. Because of the commute.

See, I thought that was kind of funny. Or ironic. Or ironical. If you're Madonna. Or Gwyneth Paltrow.

I thought it was kind of funny that she had to charge me more to commute because essentially, I mean the very nature of being a cleaning lady, is that you don't work from home. It is impossible to telecommute if you're a cleaning lady.

It is possible to telecommute if you're an obscure blogger, out there in the blogosphere making absolutely no money doing what you love. But the money issue forces you to get another job, say whoring yourself as a PR flack as I've done on more than one occasion. Sure you dread every single phone call you make on behalf of some a-hole client who thinks they invented sliced bread...but you CAN telecommute.

Choose your careers wisely people. But that's another blog, for another day.

So I didn't hire her. Because the last thing I need is more high maintenance in my life. And frankly I don't think she should be paid extra for commuting to her job cleaning my house.

Unfortunately for everyone here, I don't do windows. Unfortunately for me, I have way less time to blog because I'm cleaning my house.

Allowance

2010-12-26T18:12:00.000-08:00

Lately my son has been saying the most profound things to me. I want to write them down but he says them in the car or right before bed and I forget. About two weeks ago, I picked him up from jiu jitsu and he was explaining how he was wrestling with a girl named Gabby. She's 14 and she's the niece of the owner so clearly has a leg up. But she beat Will again tonight.

I asked Will what he thought about that.

And he said, "That's okay mom. I'm not some guy who thinks women can't do things. Women can do whatever they want."

Also this month my son decided he wanted to get back on the allowance thing. He kept saying I'll do whatever you want but make a list. And I kept saying you know the list. Make your bed. Put your dishes away. Blah, blah, blah ad nauseum.

I made a list. And he started doing the things on the list.

But, he doesn't necessarily do them first thing. Or the way I would. Or in the correct order according to my system. That's in my head. That must be correct. Because it's in my head that way.

So the other night I was clearing away dishes in his room. He said, "Mom, I'll do those things in my own time, if you let me."

And I thought, doesn't the meaning of allowance have something to do with allowing?

Feeling Very @TheBloggess

2010-11-20T14:38:00.000-08:00

I really love @TheBloggess aka Jenny. She is funny all the time but some of her posts I love the mostest are recounting conversations she has with her husband Victor.

Last night my husband and I has this conversation that reminded me of her.

Me: Remember that time you said I was the last one? That you'd never marry again?

Roy (not his real name): No.

Me: Sure you do. Remember how I was feeling all superior until you went on to explain that you'd never marry again but you'd have sex again.

Roy: Oh yeah.

Me: So how long would you wait?

Roy: Huh?

Me: You know, until you had sex again?

Roy: I'd wait a year.

Me: A year until you had sex or a year until you started dating?

Roy: I'd wait a year to start dating and then in another six months, I'd have sex again.

Me: So a year and a half all told?

Roy: Yes.

Me: Liar.

Me (again): What if at the point when you decided to have sex again, you had a wooden leg?

Roy: They don't make them out of wood anymore.

Me: Well let's just say they did.

Roy: That's a ridiculous premise.

Me: Okay what if you had a prosthetic face? Or half a prosthetic face like the Phantom of the Opera.

Roy: I'd be incredible. Women would love me.

Me: Right. And then you could perform at the Winter Garden Theater for thirty-five years.

Roy: That was Cats.

Me: Oh

BTW the photo above is my husband if he were a character in the second longest running show on Broadway, Cats the Musical.

The first longest running show on Broadway? Phantom of the Opera.

I should've married Andrew Lloyd Webber.

About Andrew Lloyd Webber from his official website: He was knighted in 1992 and created an honorary life peer in 1997.

Honorary life peer?

It's A Process

2010-10-24T17:29:00.000-07:00

You hear this phrase all the time in Ethiopia. "It's a process." In English. Just like that.

Someone will be speaking Amharic, a local dialect, and then say in English, "It's a process."

It's a very popular phrase in say customs or immigration as you might imagine. But it's something that pervades or permeates the culture.

It's a giving in to or relinquishing power to the idea that forces are in play beyond our control. It's something that in a developing country is ever present. It's something ever present in a developed country too. The difference lies in our perception.

In Ethiopia water and power are commodities that can come and go. In the US, transportation is a given, but we are unable to control say the number of accidents on I-95 or a downed train on Metro-North. We think we can. But we can't.

In Ethiopia, the thinking is this too shall pass.

Here in Connecticut the thinking is I can drive illegally on the shoulder or honk loudly enough to change my outcome. The truth is we are the victims of time. Time is killing us. Literally.

"It's a process." It's said with resignation. It's not that people in Ethiopia are giving up. It's that they have enough experience with delays in customs or downed Internet or traffic accidents to know that they may very well end up spending hours in a day not doing anything productive.

For an American, this would be painful. This would require Tums or Prevacid. Americans can't wait.

One lesson I am beginning to learn as I get older, is to look at the continuum. Things take time, even though time is what we lack.

Really we have the time, if we think of life as a process. We don't have forever. But we have years. Years to change our health. Years to work on our marriage. Years to become whatever we dream.

It's a process. Maybe the most valuable lesson I've learned lately.

Goodbye to the Fighting Finn

2010-10-09T05:05:00.000-07:00

ARLINGTON, TX - Inez Risher, a long-time Arlington resident and business owner, died Monday, September 13, 2010. She was 95.

Mrs. Risher was a force to be reckoned with and her legacy lives on with the family members she leaves behind. She and her husband of 62 years, Jim Risher owned Risher's Furniture at 108 N. Collins Street. For nearly 50 years, she sold furniture to generations of loyal customers who often came by just to chat.

Although many people would consider it unusual for a woman to start a business in the 1950's, Mrs. Risher never gave it a second thought. She worked seven days a week, wheeling and dealing, from behind her rickety desk that sat on an unforgiving concrete floor. She did her hair, got dressed up and wore pretty, not sensible shoes. And she always drove a Cadillac.

Mrs. Risher was born to Lempe and Arthur Lindquist on October 9, 1914, in Monessen, Pennsylvania. Her parents were both from Finland and Mrs. Risher only spoke Finnish until she began attending school. Later in life, she still used Finnish phrases particularly when trying to discipline her unruly grandchildren. She met and married her husband Jim while living in Canton, Ohio.

The couple moved to Texas from Ohio when their young son and only child developed asthma. The plan was to continue on to California but they made a pit stop in Arlington and never left. Her son, Jimmy as she called him, grew out of his asthma and went on to become a star athlete at Arlington High School.

Unwilling to bend to tradition, Mrs. Risher was at her core a businesswoman. She kept a tidy house, she made a mean pigs in the blanket but her stove was broken for the last 20 years of her life. In a 2001 interview, she said, "I like to work, and I'm very happy that I can work. I guess I've never had a job that I actually disliked." She did love to garden and maintained a beautiful home on nearby Meadow Oaks. She had many beloved pets that she spoiled to distraction.

Mrs. Risher followed local and national politics and was an outspoken Texas Democrat. Heaven forbid someone mention FOX News or the Republican party at the dinner table.

She had a tendency to give people too much credit, literally at her store, also in her life. Her husband played the heavy. At 6' 6" nobody dared mess with Grandpa Jim. Except his wife. He did whatever she asked, in part because he knew there was no sense arguing with her. And, because as time wore on, he seemed more in love with her every day.

Her wicked sense of humor and infectious laugh will be missed.

Character Building

2010-09-13T16:17:00.000-07:00

As if my tens of readers haven't had enough of baseball, Fall Ball officially began this week. My son Will doesn't typically play Fall Ball but this year is different. This year he was scouted. He's twelve by the way.

I won't go into the particulars mainly because I'm afraid they'll take it out on my son. He was scouted by a club team all summer for, I think, being a big hitter. Turns out his hitting is off right now, probably the result of taking time away from baseball to do things like swim and learn to surf. "Blasphemy." they said, in little league inner circles. You can't learn anything about baseball from swimming.

Well maybe that was the point.

They don't like that on this new team. Because why? Because when his hitting is off, he's of no use to this team. Because you can't make it to the Show if your hitting is off. Oh wait, there is no Show when you're twelve. I forgot.

And so did they.

His coaches that is. They forgot. Let me repeat that. There is no going to the Show when you're twelve. There's also no going to the Show when you're 40 and coaching twelve-year olds. There is however, an opportunity to encourage and teach a love of the game.

The August issue of Esquire featured a "What I've Learned" interview with Larry King. In that interview he said, "Hockey I can teach you in a day. Basketball is basically an understandable game. But it's impossible to teach baseball to an adult — too many nuances."

My son was defeated this weekend after striking out multiple times and then being benched for most of the next game. I made him go running with me, do laundry with me, make his bed and other chores that are inevitable as we get older. I told him, "If nothing else, baseball should be fun. Baseball is a game. Work is a chore."

When they start the game, they don’t yell, “Work ball.” They say, “Play ball.”

NB: Dear Coaches on Will's new team. Take a look at this photo. This is Will hitting yet another homer. I wouldn't count him out.

Our Business Post-Katrina

2010-08-31T02:23:00.000-07:00

I wrote this blog for client Bruise Relief and I liked it.

Saturday, August 29th marks the fourth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. With three named storms to date and Danny forming in the Atlantic, the threat of another hurricane is always on our minds.

Our own experience post-Katrina was like many others in New Orleans, from evacuation to our eventual return. In fact, Bruise Relief was still in development when the storm hit and we were delayed almost a year before getting back on track.

The delay, the storm and upheaval that followed, what that did to our community was devastating. And as a community we are still recovering. But we are recovering.

How we do business changed as a result of Katrina. Plans we’d made to outsource manufacturing and marketing to other parts of the country, we brought home to New Orleans. In fact, we believe our local partners are even more capable now than they were before the storm. Our manufacturer upgraded equipment. Our advertising firm was revitalized by employees who’d left and come back.

The business community here in New Orleans has been so supportive, urged on by local Bruise Relief fans that literally walked into retailers demanding the product. Imagine CVS and Walgreens calling us for more stock.

As we’ve branched out to other parts of the country, our Bruise Relief ambassadors are also getting a warm reception in Atlanta, Dallas, DC, Houston, Los Angeles and Miami. We know people love the product but we also believe they want to be a part of re-building this community.

We have all of you to thank for our success. Before Katrina, Bruise Relief was an idea. Now we’re a business with products in 7,000 stores nationwide including CVS and SuperValu stores as well as Walgreens regionally. We’re also online at Drugstore.com, Target.com and others.

One of the characteristics of post-Katrina New Orleans is entrepreneurship and a willingness to help other entrepreneurs. This came from the Katrina experience and represents a willingness to be self-sufficient, a great desire to help others succeed and a lot of out-of-the-box thinking…

After all, it’s easy to think outside the box when the box is gone.

A Funny Thing Happened

2010-08-04T03:53:00.000-07:00

Here's what happened. I kid you not. I went to this Christmas / Hanukkah party in 2009 and almost everyone there was unemployed. Either they'd been laid off or as freelancers the work dried up overnight.

I was in pretty much the same boat. I had two small clients left but had drained much of my savings. Then I got a call. I was in the library and I got a call from my friend Marybeth who is my friend Lou Lou's sister.

I've known Marybeth since Lou Lou and I were in college together in New Orleans at Newcomb College of Tulane University. I stress the Newcomb part only because Tulane decided to close Newcomb post-Katrina. Now Newcomb is this pretend "Institute" but we all know what happened Scott Cowen, President of Tulane.

Okay I'm getting off track.

Marybeth called and said, "Hey would you be interested in going to Ethiopia?" I think at first she was just trying to convince me to write some copy for her website. Then she said it again, "Hey would you be interested in going to Ethiopia?" And so I did. And so I did.

When I got back from my trip to Kolfe Orphanage in Addis Ababa, I realized I needed to get back on the horse. The freelance horse. Cold calling. Working my contacts. Get some money rolling into my checking account. Then I got a call from my friend Steven Stark, host of said Christmas / Hanukkah party for the unemployed. He had a referral for me. Unlike almost everyone else in the United States, Steven had too much work.

For example, Steven had to write copy for a commercial involving Playboy bunnies and his client Macanudo cigars. Then Steven had to fly to LA to oversee the shoot with the Playboy bunnies. Poor Steven.

So there's Ethiopia and Playboy bunnies and work. Finally some work.

I started as a freelance copywriter on-site. I went to work everyday for an agency writing web copy for multiple sites. It was very strange. Having been a freelancer for about 15 years, the idea of going to an office everyday was strange. The water cooler conversations, rehashing episodes of Lost or whatever the cool show is now. The intrigue, the politics, the hard work. I was in over my head.

Then a funny thing happened. I got into a groove. I made some friends. We went to Subway together. Then they offered me a job.

Working for the man. The man who has insurance. The real kind. With a plastic card and shit. Never underestimate the power of the word insurance. Or IN-surance as they say in Texas where I'm from.

It's been a big adjustment. The only way I can really explain it is to say it's like when I first got married. And I was all, "Whadd'ya mean I have to tell you where I'm going?" As jobs go, it's pretty cake. The people are nice. Like actually nice. Mostly we just work. Very few meetings about nothing. Most days I'm out of there by 5:30. And there's the insurance.

I'm reading this book by Laura Munson called A Story of Unlikely Happiness. So far, so good. I actually read the Modern Love column in The New York Times that launched her career. I could relate.

The thing is I don't know her story. I will by the end of this book. What I like already is that she is a writer. She wrote in obscurity for years - 14 books according to the one she finally published. That's me. Writing in obscurity. Down to about 1 blog per month now that I'm insured. Laura Munson reminded me to get off my ass and keep writing. In obscurity. Ad inifintum. Here I go.

N.B. I was talking to my friend Marc at work and I told him I used to work at The Washington Post. He said, "You worked at the Washington Post? Wow, how far you've fallen." And that's what I love about Marc.

Also I don't have to tell my husband where I'm going. He knows I'm going pee.

The Ones That Got Away

2010-07-22T17:51:00.000-07:00

Tonight I was thinking something. I had this idea to write about something. It may be one of those things that is so hurtful I shouldn't write it. But I was ... wait that's my husband on the phone.

See I have these work husbands / twitter husbands / high school husbands / that I am in touch with regularly. I have a real husband obviously but these guys are out there waiting to be more charming or younger or basically unaware of what a pain in the ass I am.

In real life.

So tonight I was in touch with my twitter husband / work husband / and high school husband at the same time, and I felt kind of weird about it. They are all dear to me in different ways. Really dear to me. Like in ways I sometimes can't explain to my husband. But should I explain to my husband?

The thing is. Here's the thing. My husband knows. He's always known. I've always kept my options open. Because marriage is wow. Marriage is forever. And I never believed in forever.

Work / twitter / high school husbands are all so lovely. And there's this. They don't really know me. The married me. Marriage is rough. Marriage is like fighting over laundry. Marriage is buying a minivan kitted out with a VCR.

Until once in a while you glimpse an older couple who've been together forever. Forever. Argued over laundry until they are blue in the face. And they are still in love. Or like my grandparents, particularly my grandfather, who seemed to be more in love the day he died than maybe the day he married.

I hope.

A Man Needs a Maid

2010-06-04T01:53:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, my dad had tons of records. LPs they're called. Vinyl. You can only find them in vintage stores or garage sales these days. You can glimpse them in the John Cusack film High Fidelity.

One artist my dad loved is Neil Young. I was thinking about a song on Young's Harvest album entitled "A Man Needs a Maid." Young writes, "Just someone to keep my house clean, fix my meals and go away."

About six months ago, I started working full-time hours for a client. For the fifteen years prior, I have been steadily self-employed, running my own agency and then freelancing. When you work for yourself, you get used to calling the shots. You also get used to other fun stuff like being self-insured at $1,500 per month. Still there's something to be said for having the freedom to come and go, being able to run away to Ethiopia for example.

The adjustment to working full-time outside my home has been tough. In some ways, it's great. I know where I'm going everyday. I have my lunch buddies. In other ways, it feels very strange.

The biggest issue for me has been getting used to being away from home. We had to find after-school child care for our son. I can't throw a load of laundry in the dryer whenever I need to or wear crappy sweat pants all day because no one is going to see me anyway.

Mainly I've noticed how quickly my home fell into disrepair. I can feel the dust collecting on my bare feet. Clothes that need ironing are piling up in the basement. We eat out more often than in the past. Homework is a disaster. I can't make lunch everyday for my son.

These are the issues all working women face. I've always looked with envy at the other moms who are so organized. Even when I was at home, I wasn't organized. But my house was clean and the laundry was done and I cooked.

I was at a baseball game the other day - pretty much my entire social life at this point - and I was talking to other moms about what they have in their purse. I did have Advil that one of the dads needed. I have money, chapstick, a coin purse and a brush. But there are those mothers who have it all. Socket wrench? Check. Tourniquet? I can fashion one out of a handkerchief. Nail file, snack items, motor oil, cake knife, matches, corkscrew, flashlight, etc. All there and somehow neatly tucked away but at the ready for any occasion.

I can't even find my keys.

Now my house is in a permanent state of neglect. I'm not sure what the desired state would be, but I think ideally I would be able to find my keys. When you are the maid and the math tutor and the nanny, it's annoying. It's difficult and thankless. When you're a working mom, you really need a maid.

My husband and I were talking last night about work and stress and what we really want to do when we grow up. He asked me what I wanted to do and I said lately I've been obsessing about buying a truck. Not a new truck, but an old truck. A pick'em truck as my grandpa used to say. My husband said, "What are you going to do with a truck? Drive a bunch of baseballs around?"

"I'd head west," I said.

I was driving to work one morning and I heard the Avett Brothers covering a John Prine song called "Spanish Pipedream". I got the chills when I heard this refrain:

Blow up your TV. Throw away your paper.
Move to the country. Buy you a home.
Plant a little garden. Grow a lot of peaches.
Try and find Jesus, on your own.

NB I'm dedicating this blog to my friend Lisa C. who is one of those moms who does it all. I learned a very important lesson from her. Throw the dirty athletic cup into the wash with the rest of the baseball uniform. Now why didn't I think of that?

I'll Never Be French

2010-05-05T14:59:00.001-07:00

I'm reading a very funny book by Mark Greenside called
I'll Never Be French. I haven't finished it yet but the premise
is he follows a woman to France for the summer and ends up living in Brittany, at least part time.

Something like that happened to me although I haven't yet had the good fortune to make France my semi-permanent home. I did live in France as a student and fell in love with the country and the people. But the women were a mystery to me. I was a junior in college then and not really a woman myself. But I could tell these women, even the college students, weren't like the gals back home.

That's why I enjoyed the rare opportunity I had this year to live in close quarters with a French woman. I warned my friend Sylvie before we left for Ethiopia that I would be taking notes. And I did. So here's my homage to Sylvie and other French women who have become less mysterious to me but remain something to aspire to versus something I am.

Here's what I learned from living with a French woman.

French women invest in fashion

Maybe they learn it from their mothers or maybe it's part of the secret code, but French women understand that great fashion is timeless. They make investments in stylish, timeless pieces. A great trench coat, a classic handbag. When you amortize the cost over a lifetime of use, it actually makes more sense to spend big.

Of course this brings up another quality French women have.

Fait la regime

French women are very aware of and also take action to keep themselves in good shape. One thing I have to say is that while in France I did experience some of the most ridiculous workouts I've ever seen. In that regard, American women kick ass. I went swimming and there were couples making out at the edges of the pool. I went to aerobics and people were smoking outside of class. But, French women manage to stay pretty much the same size throughout their lifetimes, hence making investments in fashion, makes sense.

Fait la regime you'll hear all the time in France and it's basically a commitment to very quickly turning around any weight gain by dieting. There's no packing on 25 pounds and holy merde what happened? French women and men closely watch their waistlines and make quick adjustments where needed to slim down. So their size is their size, for a lifetime.

French women paint

After spending a day in an Ethiopian orphanage cleaning bathrooms and god only knows what, we came home to our spare little room and collapsed on our spare little twin beds. I don't remember what I did but it wasn't much. My friend Sylvie on the other hand took out a small sketchbook and watercolors and proceeded to capture a scene from the day's events in her book. And I remember thinking wow. First she had the thought or preparation to bring paints. Second, this was obviously something she did as a habit. Third, how cultured? Like a lost art, no pun intended.

French women have really nice underwear

You know when you get Victoria's Secret catalogs, or sadly no longer get them because you're not their demographic anymore, whatever, a-holes - but I digress. You know when you get those catalogs and you think, mmm that probably hurts. Or geez I really don't think my butt will look like that in those. Well French women are wearing that underwear. It's not so much even that it's tiny or lacy, it's just that it matches. I mean my underwear collection compared to Sylvie's is appalling. I should be appalled. What am I thinking? I'm dead? I'm wearing the underwear of the dead.

Come on American women. We need to step it up. Go see your local bra whisperer. Find a beige and a beige that match. Or isn't torn. Or isn't from 1984.

Come on.

French women moisturize

I never really thought about moisturizer until I hit 40 and now I think about it, but I'm not really committed to it. Eh whatever, right? Oh I forgot my sunblock in the car and it's like 200 yards from here so I'm not going back. My friend Sylvie always wears sunblock and always puts on moisturizer. And it shows.

French women don't take shit

This was interesting for me if not a bit uncomfortable but I really noticed this quality when I was travelling with a French woman. French women do not take shit. Whatever Protestant-based or Catholic, Quaker, Pilgrim-based guilt American women seem to carry around, French women do not abide. We were flying to Dubai and the guy in front of me basically reclined his seat into my lap during take-off, something that is technically illegal according to made-up airplane laws. Well Sylvie immediately pointed out his mistake explaining that my tray table was now positioned directly under my rib cage and he needed to remove it, all in a way that was charmante. He moved...and then I think he went to fetch us some free champagne from first-class.

Because while American women are intriguing, even beguiling, French women are extraordinary.

"One is not born a woman. One becomes one." Simone de Beauvoir

The Starfish Story

2010-04-16T14:44:00.000-07:00

A funny thing happened over Easter weekend. First I did something my mother asked me to do - that is go to church. Second, I heard during the sermon the Starfish story that I'd heard a few weeks before in Ethiopia.

I sometimes think I have a bit of the shine, like Scatman in the Shining. It's just a touch. Sometimes I think things right before they happen. Sometimes I stop fighting and something really weird or coincidental happens.

Back to Easter. My mom sent me this email because we'd been through a rough patch. My son was bitten by a dog that animal control was then planning to put down and all was a big mess. Some other stuff too but I don't want to invade everyone's privacy. Just a weird rough patch.

So my mother sent me an email with subject line: a radical idea. She suggested we go to church on Palm Sunday. She said it seemed like things were so much easier for us when we lived in Raleigh, NC and that might have been the result of regularly attending church at The Good Shepherd on Hillsborough Street.

One thing I will say is that in many ways I am very proud to be a (lapsed) Episcopalian. Because for many of us that means an accepting, even liberal church. That's not always the case, witness the Anglican bishops who want to make homosexuality a crime. But my church in Raleigh and my church in Westport, Christ and Holy Trinity, these churches welcome everyone. Even me. Now that's saying something.

We did not attend Palm Sunday mass and in fact I was kind of steamed at my mom because the truth is I live by the golden rule, for the most part, even though I no longer regularly attend church. My brother often says surfing is his church. Fly fishing is his church. You don't need incense and putting on your best duds to be in church. That's what I believe too.

But, at the last minute, on a whim, we decided to attend church on Easter Sunday. Frankly, I think that's also bollocks just going to church on Easter and Christmas. But there I was racing around my room trying to remember what church clothes I had.

We decided to go early, get in and out. Episcopalians are famous for that. We're not a very touchy feely group. We do our Nicene Creed, our Communion then it's a quick coffee hour and we're off to play golf. But that's really the essence of what I love about my church. To me it's private. Not private like you don't show kindness or you hide it even. But it's a way of life you choose to live by and all the rest are trappings.

We made it to the 7:30 service. That's am people. It's usually what I call the old lady service - old prayer book, no music, no muss no fuss. But it was a bit more crowded it being Easter and all. A little music and a guest speaker, a bishop who gave the sermon that day.

Bishop Laura Ahrens I think her name is. She looked a little sunburned. Friendly. Kind of quirky even. The sermon she chose to give was the sermon about the Starfish Story. I don't know why but I've never heard the starfish story before. The first time I heard it was in Ethiopia in February.

We'd spent a day in Addis at the boys orphanage at Kolfe without accomplishing much of anything. We spent hours at the Addis Home Depot choosing paints only to find out our choices were white, orange or black. They had paint rollers, but they didn't have the roller handles. We'd carefully chosen cleaning supplies that would last the longest only to find out there was no water that day and therefore no way to dilute them.

No water day. That's what they told us. What does that mean? How can 135 boys have a "no water" day?

So I sat there glumly thinking what the hell am I doing here and my friend Eileen came up to say hi. I don't really have a poker face so I guess she picked up on my frustration. And she said to me, "Well you know the starfish story, right?"

"What," I asked.

"The starfish story. You know. A boy is standing on the beach throwing starfish back into the ocean before they get trapped on land. A man walks by and says why bother when there are so many and you can't save them all. It won't make a difference. And the boy says it makes a difference to that one. And to that one."

Eileen told me that story and my thinking began to change. The more obstacles we encountered the more I began to think maybe the most these kids can hope for is to spend some time with someone who cares.

And "no water" day will be just a fact of life.

I couldn't believe the bishop repeated the starfish story. I'd even worn a scarf I bought in Ethiopia for the first time that day. I must have the shine right? It's a sign that I need to stay focused on the important things in life. Like making sure my son is safe. Like not forgetting the boys at Kolfe. And not taking for granted the fact that making an effort, even if that effort ends in epic failure, matters.

I was leafing through our handout for the service and in the back was this message from Donald Coggan, former Archbishop of Canterbury:

One of the most important errors about Christianity is that it is a recipe for being good, that its primary purpose it to tell people how to improve themselves as life goes on. That is a great fallacy. Christianity is essentially a story - a story of what God has done about our great enemies of sin and death."

I love a good story.

Flesh and Blood

2010-03-20T16:57:00.000-07:00

My own flesh and blood, son Will, was bitten this week by a dog. It's a pretty tragic situation BUT I am not going down that path in this here blog today. I promised my tens of readers that my next blog would be about saggy middle-aged skin or slagging on my husband. My husband has been kind of an ace lately so skin wins.

Just for a moment though I would like to say how much I love the word slag. If I were English, I would use the word slag all the time. I'd be all, "I'm totally slagging on you, Portia." Or, "Slag that, Hermione."Alas I am not English.

So here's what happened. We don't have any mirrors in our house. I don't know that it was intentional but it's the case nevertheless. Recently we installed a fairly large mirror in my son's bathroom. Thankfully it's a thin mirror not one of those fat mirrors they install in bathing suit changing rooms. I'm so accustomed to running around not knowing what I look like that I was caught off guard when I glanced my arm in the mirror. Thin mirror mind you.

"Oh my God!" I said to no one. I had that separation going on that grandmas have. I can see my arm bone / muscle and then there's this swinging flesh below it. Now listen, I've never been a girl with ripped arms. I got lucky with my legs. But arms, no. Constant battle. BUT my arms were as ONE. Now they are as TWO. Now one part goes one way and the other part goes the other way.

This can't be. I'm actually on the thin side right now having just come home from Ethiopia with a stomach bug. Sure I haven't been to the gym in 2 months but come on. COME ON!

I'm at a loss. I don't even know what to do for arms that are as TWO. There's no exercise for that. I need the bottom part of my arm surgically re-attached to the top part of my arm, like Steve Austin when he became the Six Million Dollar Man. There's no jazzercise class that's going to fix this problem.

I'm one of those people on The Biggest Loser, who lose weight but no matter what they do, parts of their body keep moving long after they stop walking.

The thing is, what snapped me out of it, was my son getting bitten by the dog--his flesh exposed in a big way. It's sort of weird to think of ourselves on a cellular level, on a tissue level. But that's the truth. We are cells and tissue and blood and other funky looking shit.

So on a positive note, because I am an organ donor, anything the doctors want to salvage can be more easily found because my mortal coil is shuffling off. Apparently starting now.

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause; there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
--Hamlet, William Shakespeare

NB I saw Jude Law in Hamlet and I don't care if he is 5'9" and has slept with everyone including his landscaping crew. He's hot. "Just slagging on you, Jude."

How to Say Goodbye to Benjamin

2010-03-06T14:37:00.000-08:00

This is the one I can't get out of my head. This is the smile I can't forget. I know I've been a bit morose lately so I promise my next blog will be a hilarious take on my marriage or a foray into sagging middle-aged skin.

But this one I've been thinking about and had to write.

Benjamin is Beniyam Kefele. He is 14 years-old and in the 11th grade. His favorite subject is English and his best friend is Ephrem Kibru.

Benjamin is one of over 130 boys who live at Kolfe Orphanage in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. He has a kind face. Little dimples appear when he smiles. He is thin like all the other boys but he is tall.

We played a game one day. The boys were sitting on the steps to the rec room and I suddenly realized one of them looks exactly like Tiger Woods. Then they all wanted to know who they looked like. Ephrem you look like Jimmy Stewart. Of course they're too young to know Jimmy Stewart. The older boy, he looks like Brad Pitt with his new goatee. Then they asked about Benjamin.

I was stumped. I said I had to think about it.

It occurred to me later that night that he looked like Usher. So I told him the next day.

"Oh yes. I like Usher," he said.

We'd greeted each other in the standard Ethiopian way. It's sort of how men greet each other in the US, by clasping hands, pulling each other close, and bumping chests. Only I kiss the boys on the cheek too. I don't think I'm supposed to do this but I do.

Benjamin greeted me and then we went to work again. The day before we'd bonded over paint. We were painting and we kept trying to clean up but we'd get our hands dirty again. It became a running joke.

More painting that day. New black latex paint that was very difficult to clean. He always smiles this boy even with black paint all over him.

When we finished painting we moved on to the next project, photographing the boys for the non-profit's website. He left briefly and returned with a huge American flag draped around his shoulders. More smiling. He loves this flag.

In a storage room we were photographing boys, one by one. The idea is to create a visual record of them, their ages and their "future jobs". Their dreams, their ticket out, what they want to be some day. Never mind that we learned later the Ethiopian government will choose what they study, if they are lucky enough to study. Today it was about their dream.

Later I was invited to see Benjamin's photo album. He showed me photos of the parents he remembered, dead now. Photos of him with his twin brother China. Photos of him with his brothers at the orphanage--photos carefully arranged in an album.

As I sat there, maybe 8 other boys sat with me on a tiny bunk bed mattress. When I first came to the orphanage, it made me uncomfortable how close they came to me. They wanted to see my iPhone or they wanted to read the bios I was writing about them. They would pin me in a corner.

If you know anything about Finnish people or Scottish people, my other clan, you know we're not a touchy feely lot. They would sit so close to me I felt their skin, their bones. I felt one of the boys flicking my hair behind me. Then Gitane, another boy, started twisting my hair like my son Will used to do when he was a baby.

This was a very special moment for me. First, I conquered my fear of being so close to them. Mainly I felt accepted and loved. Like one of them.

I did some interviews with the boys, compelled to pull back into observer mode. As I sat scross from them asking how the hell they ended up here, I knew I didn't or couldn't understand anything about what had happened. This isn't reality TV. They aren't screaming or yelling or throwing things. They sat there quietly describing waking up to a dead mother and a neighbor taking them to an orphanage.

When I had to go, Benjamin walked me to the car. He started to cry but he was crying in that sad way big boys do because they can't cry out loud anymore.

I waved goodbye and held it together until we left. Then I started crying thinking about Benjamin and the others. How can I say goodbye to him, to all of them?

I don't know.

Disappointments Large and Small

2010-02-26T05:54:00.000-08:00

This morning I had an email from Beniyam one of my sons back in Ethiopia. I'd asked about everyone on campus including their pet dogs. The puppy, Jerry, died. He doesn't know why. Some kind of disease he thinks.

One thing I've learned traveling outside the US, is that in a place as poor as Ethiopia, animals are often neglected. Pets are a luxury that most cannot afford. The boys at Kolfe orphanage had three dogs. Now only the two older dogs remain - Jumbo and Bob.

For the boys at Kolfe Orphanage, losing a pet is a disappointment, but it's one of so many that I doubt they will give it much thought. After interviewing dozens of boys who don't know their birthdays and can't remember what their mom looked like, the puppy's death is just another twist in the road.

Before going to Ethiopia, a volunteer collected hearing aids to donate to some of the children who are losing their hearing. We had to choose two boys and two girls for testing and hopefully fitting with a hearing aid. Thankfully we didn't have to make that decision -- the orphanage directors made it for us.

We took two boys from Kolfe Orphanage, Dejene and Ephrem, and two girls from nearby Kechene Orphanage. We never even asked the girls their names. They were young, maybe 6 years-old. Both were signing, not speaking. Even I was thinking this doesn't look like a problem that can be solved with a hearing aid. After driving for an hour, waiting for an hour and then being tested, the doctor explained the girls could not be helped at all. Even in the US, surgery would only marginally impact what they could hear.

The two boys were in better shape. They could still hear. So the doctor asked a volunteer to bring them both back again the next day. For whatever reason, no one thought to show the hearing aids we had to the doctor during the first visit. More hours of driving and more hours of waiting and the doctor again could not help them because the hearing aids were made for adults and wouldn't fit in the boys ears.

The kids had to pose for a picture for a donor back in the States who wanted to see how her donations were being put to good use. Standing in front of a chart of the ear canal, the kids looked out with serious faces. Why should they smile? After hours of time spent with strangers they were no better off than they were before we arrived. Only we had given them hope when there was no hope.

The girls both seemed very uncomfortable. One of the girls had an expression I've only seen on much older people. Her friend would sometimes smile. They both looked like they'd seen more than any kid should. I did get them to smile once by showing them how to make a video on my iPhone. They videotaped me and played it back. For an American kid, I think it would be the equivalent of Criss Angel making himself disappear. Magic.

Moussa-Ali lives at Kolfe Orphanage. Moussa is about 8, one of the youngest kids living there. One evening, Moussa cut his ankle pretty badly. I just happened to bring band-aids and Neosporin with me that day. Just like my son, Moussa didn't want me to touch it. He didn't want me to hurt him. I was trying to tell him I wouldn't hurt him but he didn't trust me. Why should he?

The next day we came back and Moussa's ankle had the purple betadine (I guess) on his ankle but it looked like it was swelling and that the band-aids were dirty. I offered to give him new ones but he declined. Then he changed his mind. After making a big deal of it, I realized I didn't have any big strips left. Only the small ones. I put Neosporin on the cut and then reapplied the dirty old band-aids. I'm sure it hurt and his ankle looked like it was getting infected, but Moussa just sat there quietly. What else could he do?

As an American, it's hard to imagine what life is like for these orphaned kids. Sometimes they have water and sometimes they don't. They have food but no protein and no fruits. A pencil is a valuable commodity. There are artists without paints. Athletes without shoes. Injured kids who can't even get a clean bandage. At night, they are alone on campus. The adults are gone and the kids are by themselves. I asked one of them what would happen if a boy got sick during the night. "Wait until the next day," he said.

Almost uniformly the boys told me they liked campus life. They are happy at the orphanage. I found this hard to believe, but the more we traveled around Addis, the more I could see they were grateful for a bed and food, even if they don't like the food.

Getamelkam is a 16 year-old boy who is only in the ninth grade. His name means God is Good in Amharic. He said, "I don't like this campus. This campus is useless. I love the mother and father I lost." He's lived in orphanages for 10 years after both his parents died when he was 6.

In this bit of film, you can see the two girls we took to have their hearing tested. Note the expression of the girl on the left. I remember this word from German class in 6th grade. Weltschmerz. World weariness or sadness for the world. That's the expression on this girl's face.

Am God

2010-02-22T11:55:00.001-08:00

"Am God," he said. "Am God."

"Sorry I didn't catch that."

"Am God."

"You're name is God," I asked?

"He's not God," said Yoftahe. "He's Gat."

Yoftahe is our driver here in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. His English is impeccable. He went to boarding school and college in the US. His boarding school was in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. That was some cruel joke his parents played on him sending an Ethiopian boy to Amish country.

Am God is Gat, an extremely intelligent Ethiopian boy living in horrible conditions. As my fellow bandmate on this magical mystery tour put it, Gat is very refined. He also speaks English very well, like Joftahe.

Gat asked my religion. "I am an Episcopalian," I said. Then Gat launched into a brief overview of the Anglican Church.

Gat is lucky. He's one of the lucky ones at Kolfe Orphanage, home to 132 boys aged 8 to adult. Gat is lucky because Gat is smart. Gat can make it out of here. He can scale the walls surrounding this orphanage and make it on the outside.

"Am God," he said.

NB Gat is on the right in this photo. He's wearing a shirt that says "Do It for Johnny".

Bull Riding is Easier than Parenting

2010-02-05T07:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was frantic. Late for school. Forgot to pack my son's lunch. Racing, racing. When I get rushed I can't think. It's funny because in an emergency, I can think. I remain calm. One time my son started choking on a piece of food in an airport. He was really little but we'd taken the CPR course and I remembered the finger swipe. Just like that, swipe, he was okay again.

But something about being frazzled while say driving to school really throws me for a loop. My son was talking and talking. So I turned off the radio thinking that would help. More talking. Reading street signs. "Enterprise Rent-a-Car," he said. "We'll pick you up." Apparently he's memorized their slogan or working on a new campaign.

Then he said, "Mom, do you know Enterprise Rent-a-Car is a bull riding sponsor?"

"Nope."

"You don't even care, do you?"

"Nope."

"Well they are."

"Could you please stop talking Will? You talk all the time and I can't think."

Then he gave me that look. That look that says, "That's really wasn't called for."

I run into Dunkin' Donuts to get a small light and sweet and 3 munchkins (for him) that Will insisted he needed. Again, even though we were late.

I got back in the car and apologized. "I'm sorry for what I said. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings." Really a chicken shit way out because of course I hurt his feelings.

"That's okay," he said. "I know I talk a lot."

"Why do you talk so much? Are you trying to give people information?"

"Yeah I guess so."

When we got to school I went in with him to deposit a check in his lunch account that was sitting at a zero balance. I said goodbye. Usually he gives me a kiss but we were inside the building now with witnesses so he started to walk away. Then he turned around to give me a kiss, I think because the coast was clear.

On the way out of school, I ran into his guidance counselor. We nodded hello and then she turned and called my name.

"Will's here today, right? I mean he's in school today?"

"Yes I was just dropping something off for him. He's here."

"Okay because he's won this big award. They're giving it to him today."

"What award? Does he know anything about this? He didn't say anything."

"No. It's a surprise. Only one boy and one girl in each grade gets it for being a good citizen. His teachers are so proud of how hard he's working and how much progress he's made."

His guidance counselor starts tearing up and then I start tearing up, standing there in front of school.

As if she hadn't noticed, I said, "I'm sorry I'm tearing up."

"Me too. It's a really big deal."

I drove away feeling like crap that on the day my son was being honored as a model student, I was giving him a hard time. You parents know what I mean. It's those times when you punish a child, only to find out they were making something for you when they made that mess.

The floor is covered in macaroni bits and paper but they hand you a little necklace just for you.

NB Bull riding is my son's latest. He wants to know where we can find a bull riding school. Anyone?

Do I Dare?

2010-01-22T06:12:00.000-08:00

In late 2009 I started helping out a Long Island charity run by Mary, the sister of my college roommate. Helping might be too strong a word but I did a bit here and a bit there. The organization is called Operation Hearts and Home and they provide aid to orphaned children in various parts of the world.

Right now their focus is on Ethiopia and trying to help three orphanages that are housing older children who are unlikely to be adopted. Instead, they want to prepare them to become independent adults by providing an education and materials needed to get that education like financial aid, school supplies, and shoes, because you can't go to school without shoes.

Last Thanksgiving, Mary called to say a volunteer going on a trip with her to Ethiopia had dropped out for medical reasons. She wanted to know if I could go in her place. I jumped at the chance but we couldn't make it happen. The other volunteer's ticket was non-transferrable (of course) and I didn't have the $2,000 it was now going to cost to go at the last minute.

The Thanksgiving trip was designed to make preparations for a second trip Mary was planning for this February when she would be bringing a group of volunteers with her. She wanted to make sure their housing and transportation were organized. Also she was trying to get materials together to do various improvement projects for the orphanages.

All along Mary has been sending me updates about the February trip. She organized a group airfare that was about $1000 cheaper. She sent lists of what the kids needed and asked me to forward to my network. Then she called me yesterday and left a long message about some options to help me pay for the still very expensive trip. I could find a rich corporate sponsor who needed a tax write-off. (I'm not sure there are any rich corporate sponsors left.) I could pay for part of the ticket and she would try to help me find the rest. She would pay me to write during the trip, as there would also be a photographer in the group.

There a million reasons why I shouldn't go to Ethiopia in February. It's next month for one thing. It doesn't make much sense financially for me. The trip is over my son's February break and Valentine's day. I'll be leaving my family for ten days. Yada yada yada.

On the other hand, there was a time when I would've said screw it, I'm going. My mom and I used to travel together when I was in college and when I got out. She'd say, "Hey want to go to Egypt then we could meet some of my friends in India?" I'd say "Sure! Just tell me when."

We had big adventures. In Egypt we took a tour with a crazy group of Americans, Brits, a New Zealander and a rather dour Canadian who took an immediate dislike to me because I didn't know where Banff was. I probably couldn't have pointed out Toronto or Vancouver either but I can now.

Egypt was so fun but everyone got sick. Everyone. I think it was the boat trip down the Nile. One morning I saw one of the crew dipping the tea kettle in the Nile. I was a kid. I didn't really put two and two together. The New Zealander was so ill he fainted on the toilet and smashed his nose on the sink. My mom and I repeatedly had to go outside potty, not number 1. I lost 15 pounds in a week and a half. But I saw the Pyramids. I saw the Nile and Karnak and Cairo. Incredible things.

India was another matter. We were meeting a friend of my mother's who had a daughter studying there. The friend is Jonathan Demme's mother-in-law coincidentally. We actually recovered physically in India although at that point I was pretty much on a strict diet of dal--smushed up lentils. India was out of this world. So beautiful and colorful but so poor. Where Egypt, at that point, welcomed Americans and our music, culture, movies. In India multiple people asked to take a picture of me. I was an alien to them.

We spent too much time in Srinagar on a houseboat on Dal Lake. It was freezing. We burned our books to stoke the fire. My mother tried to teach me how to play bridge. Famed LA divorce attorney Melvin Belli stayed on the same boat. In their guestbook he wrote, "Quoth the raven, Nevermore." The houseboat owner, Mohammed, didn't get it, but we sure did.

The thing is, I did it. We did it. We didn't stop to think about the dangers or lack of medical facilities or any of that. We just went.

I'm not like that anymore. Or I haven't been. I'm always talking myself out of even little adventures like going to hear a lecture in the City.

At Tulane, I had a professor who taught Yeats and other poets. Mainly Irish poets and writers. He was Professor Finneran after all. By the way Professor Finneran, nobody wears a blazer with elbow patches in New Orleans. Anyway we dissected T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Even then as young as I was, this poem frightened me. I could feel the life draining out of this man as he grew old. I could see how much routine and the pressures of society can turn you into a coward. I particularly loved this stanza:

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces
that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your
plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

Do I dare? Do I dare? That's the question right? Can I pick up and go to Ethiopia in three weeks? Should I?

Totally along the lines of Eliot and equally profound, one of my favorite movies as a teenager was The Breakfast Club by the great John Hughes who died unexpectedly last year. Ally Sheedy's character says at one point, "When you grow up, your heart dies." Told you it was profound.

Here's to hoping my heart won't die and maybe I'll find my mojo in Ethiopia.

And on a lighter note, another fave John Hughes film was Sixteen Candles. Click to see the memorable "No more yanky my wanky" scene.

Nudie Pictures

2010-01-19T10:24:00.001-08:00

This weekend I was thinking about my friend Peggy and this little girl she used to babysit when we were in high school in the 06880. The girl's name was Shannon but we called her Shamu (not a whale reference, just a nickname). She was adorable. Her tongue stuck out just a little. I don't remember why.

One day we took Shamu to Compo Beach. At the end of the day we brought her into the changing room to get cleaned up. Even with two of us watching one small child, Shamu managed to get away. She made it out of the changing rooms and started running down the beach. I actually heard someone yell, "Naked running baby. Naked running baby." Sorry Shamu's mother if you ever find this post.

We caught up with her before she made it to Norwalk and brought Shannon home safely later that day.

I was thinking about how cute a naked baby is and how comfortable pretty much all kids are with nudity while they're still young. My son was literally a nudist until a few years ago. Suddenly. I have to close my eyes, turn my head, close the door. I understand. He's growing up and he certainly doesn't want his mother to see his prized possession.

My husband wants a nude photo of me. This is pretty much the most terrifying request my husband has ever made. I'm pretty sure I was a nudie just like my son, but now I don't even own a full-length mirror. I think my body is holding its own but things are rearranging themselves without my permission.

On Saturday morning I was getting dressed and my husband snuck up behind me with his tricky iPhone camera / spy gear. I managed to grab a pair of jeans to hide behind but he took a photo just the same. I threatened to mess with his stuff if he didn't delete the photo but he wasn't having it. He didn't even fall for it hours later when I asked if I could borrow his phone.

Later he showed me the photo and the thing is, I was sort of shocked that I looked pretty good. Granted the parts I managed to cover up would've been the worst of it.

I was wondering how we go from gleefully running naked toward a crowd of beachgoers to my cowering in the corner of the bedroom shielding myself with a pair of jeans. "Naked running baby. Naked running baby."

NB My husband and I exchanged the following messages as he was riding the train into the City:

I'm looking at your nudie pic . . .
Don't show anyone!
Too late, my 2 seat mates love your hair! JK! LOL!
Lol

Oy is it 2010 Already?

2010-01-18T08:21:00.000-08:00

I've been lamenting my never-changing blog. That same old one staring me in the face day after day. Not writing has given me the opportunity to discover some other great blogs out there in the blog-o-world. Some of my new finds are:

All very different. All terrific. So many others out there too. Pauline who writes about Pirates. You might think, hey pirates...doesn't seem like there'd be enough material what with pirates being pretty rare and all, except those guys off the coast of Somalia. But she's doing it, and it's a pleasure to read. Some of them crack me up, like the Bloggess' rants about her husband who must have the patience of Job. Some of them are heartbreaking like Sweet and Salty dealing with the death of her son.

What's amazing to me is how much we're all pouring out onto the page. And how sort of calming that is to me. I'm not alone because I know The Lady of the House is feeling just as crazed as I am after a day stuck at home with the kids. I loved Suzanne's most recent Blogworthy? Noepe's always posting interesting links. And though I know we pulled different levers on voting day, I have to say he consistently uncovers articles that make me think about the status quo. Hard to be Both she's an old friend and a writer, writer. She's been so encouraging.

Too many good writers. I think that's the trouble. I started to get intimidated. I was reading The Bloggess' comments and the comment writers are funnier than me. What to do with all these writers and why should I even bother? I don't even have a focus. I'm just throwing shit out there to see what sticks.

Growing up my mom was a writer, still is. She was just voted--you guessed it--a top blogger in Savannah. My brother is a writer. I'm surrounded. And they were both writer, writers. Published journalists with a byline getting paid to write.

So for a long time I ran from writing. I wrote in secret in journals. I wrote stories that I never shared. I just found a bunch of stories I wrote when I was living in DC working at The Washington Post, not as a writer, as a researcher. I wrote quite a bit then now that I look back on it. Particularly in light of the fact that I was sharing a one bedroom apartment with a Miss Shaughnessy and a Miss Mulderrig, one of whom worked at the Dubliner, my home away from home. Also the Tune Inn. Spent a great deal of time at the Tune Inn.

The reason I started blogging in the first place was to find a way to express myself, my crazy thoughts, my uncertainty. Is this all there is? That's how I started this decade. I was thinking, "Is this all there is?" I don't know. The older I get, the more I feel time flies. On the other hand, the older I get, the more I understand the continuum. When I turned 40 I promised myself I would focus on writing. A few years later, I decided I'd better be more specific. So I'm righting the ship, it's just going to take awhile.

My blog is where I go to write about what I want. To say whatever I want. It doesn't begin with the words, "For Immediate Release". It's just me, my kid stories, making fun of my husband, writing about whatever strikes my fancy. So screw it. I'm back. I'm writing. I get very nice comments from people who read my blog, thank you very much. But I needed to remember what is important and that is blogging makes ME feel better.

My Old Blog is here in case you didn't know.

Grasping at Thin

2009-12-21T16:07:00.000-08:00

For my age. For my location. For my peer set, I'm still pretty fit. Not thin. But fit. At Christmas, or really it begins at Thanksgiving, I climb on to a slippery slope known as holiday weight gain. "Hey it's the holidays. I think I'll eat a bunch of nuts covered in crap I used to spackle my bathroom. "

My neighbor just brought over a chocolate mousse. Not an ordinary MOOSE mind you. This is chocolate mousse swimming in Oreos. Like mousse itself wasn't fattening enough. And god love her, I'll eat every bit of it. "Thanks Shelly," I'll wave to her, my arm fat swinging in the wind. (The Hanging Gardens of Babylon according to Erma Bombeck)

Sometimes I think about letting it all go. Bring it. Bring on the skinny legs, huge belly. Bring on the holiday sweaters with stirrup pants. Bring on the "dressy" track suit.

Like a long lost lover, I occasionally glance my gym. I think to myself, "Don't I know you?" Then those horrid recollections come flooding back like the time I took that Pilates mat class and the smell of AXE body spray.

As I sit here blogging, I can feel my muffin top longing to escape my mid-rise jeans. "Please let me out," she says. "I can't breathe. "

Suck it up muffin top. I'm not ready to let it all hang out. I'm picturing a slow descent beginning with Spanx worn daily and then those whale rib numbers that Scarlett O'Hara wore, until one day I walk up to my husband, unzip my velour track suit jacket, and my stomach drops to the floor.

Erma Bombeck also wrote, "Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the 'Titanic' who waved off the dessert cart. "

My One and Only

2009-12-14T18:19:00.000-08:00

Tonight I was rambling around twitter as I often do now, and I came across a friend of a friend @Military_Mom. She'd just posted this message:

"Please pray like never before, my 2 yr old fell in the pool."

Then a friend @ShellyKramer broke the bad news. This mom's 2 year-old, a little boy, drowned.

I have a boy Will and he's 11. I've always been a bit superstitious about Will because he's my only child, despite several failed attempts at pregnancy. He's the boy who finds the rusty tin can if you know what I mean. He's had face glue and stitches and a rotator cuff problem. He's not the injury magnet that some other kids are but he's not exactly treading lightly in this world.

The other thing about Will is that he really is an extraordinary kid. He's just a gem of a human being. So I worry. About Will.

I remember first seeing the movie, "Stand by Me" and then reading the Stephen King short story, "The Body". In that story, a boy, a golden boy like my boy Will, dies while intervening on someone else's behalf. And deep down I've had this fear about my Will. First of all, he's a boy who would intervene. And he's my one and only.

I always worried because Will was my only child. I thought losing your only child would be worse than losing a child when you have other children. But I know now that can't be true. Losing a child, your only or one of three, is the same. It's unfathomable.

This morning I scolded Will for not logging his reading, for missing the bus, for being disorganized. Tonight I feel afraid. I feel thankful and guilty.

Makin' Bacon

2009-12-10T08:02:00.001-08:00

Yesterday we had a two hour snow delay. I decided to use that time while my son was still home to make some bacon. That's not code or anything. I actually cooked bacon.

I have this theory that I can put the bacon in the pan, walk away, and come back to turn it from time-to-time. This theory never works but I keep trying. It's an ADD issue. When I'm standing there staring at the bacon, it feels like an eternity. When I walk upstairs to check my email, come back down to check the bacon, I've burned it.

I burned four pieces yesterday right out of the gate. This is organic bacon mind you so that was about $1.50 in bacon straight into the bin. Not Niman Ranch bacon which is so expensive, we'd be forced to eat the burned bits. But I digress.

The whole ADD thing is definitely a family trait, although I can focus for long periods of time if I think it's important. For example, when I'm writing. Cooking and laundry and those types of chores bring out the worst in me. I think I can multi-task when in fact, I cannot.

My son asked me if I'd ever read a book twice. I said, "Sure, lots of books." When I was growing up I loved Little Women. As a swoony teenager, I read Pride and Prejudice repeatedly. I love Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I read that one from time to time for inspiration.

"Wow I can't imagine reading a book twice," he said. Like it would be the equivalent of 40 lashes or being boiled in oil. I was thinking about Little Women and how insanely boring a book like that would probably sound to a modern kid. No gizmos, no high-tech, no sex, no nothing.

My new twitter friend @Ieastmykidzsnack wrote this hysterical blog the other day. She was talking about bad driving habits and that our "forefathers" wouldn't have been so distracted while steering their covered wagons. She referenced Mary Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie "sexting in Braille".

Little House on the Prairie would have about as much appeal for modern kids as say decoupage or tying knots. If it doesn't light up or talk or connect to the Interweb, today's kids don't want it. This thought made me feel very old, like I'm spanning the gap between my generation and iRobot.

When I got out of college, I moved to New York and worked in Midtown. At that time, Horn & Hardart automat was still open for business on 42nd and 3rd. The automat concept must've seemed like XBox to someone in the early 1900's, when they first came on the scene in the US. Early adopters surely feared this food that appeared in a window, like magic. Much as I fear first person shooter games. Horn & Hardart eventually closed. No more magic.

It's no wonder the automat went the way of the dodo. Why stand in line with a tray, pay and eat sitting down when you can grab a Cheesy Gordita Crunch on the Go? I don't need no stinkin' plate. I'll eat standing up while texting and studying for my Master's.

Here's an excerpt from Little Women when the girls wake up Christmas morning and are thrilled to find a book under each of their pillows:

"Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things."

I can't imagine the look on my kid's face if he woke up to a book on Christmas morning. No Wii game. No laser-powered rocket launcher. A book.

I don't know how the kids of my kid's generation will turn out. Despite my ADD issues, I did read Little Women more than once and I loved Little House on the Prairie (until I got older and realized how gay it was compared to say Joanie Loves Chachi). Hey when did Scott Baio start playing the piano?

Sorry I drifted off again. At least I'm not cooking bacon.

NB Click to see the ultimate homage to bacon by Jim Gaffigan

My Vicious Circle

2009-12-03T09:51:00.000-08:00

Three of my friends are facing cancer scares. Tomorrow I'm having lunch with one of them. Yesterday a friend had a biopsy. Over Thanksgiving another friend flew to Northern California to say goodbye to her sister who is in stage 4.

It's taken me a long time to make these friends. I'm a pretty shy person at heart. I can talk to anyone one-on-one, but walking into a cocktail party full of people I don't know is like agony. My three friends are all very different, have very different backgrounds but they share a common thread.

At this point in my life, I'm not interested in talking to someone who is all "Up with People". Actually another friend of mine just met an "Up with People" person. That's not for me. Unless she's willing to share some "Up with People" dirt, because you know there's dirt.

My three friends were all willing to share their flaws with me. That's what I like. I've recently become closer to a high school friend I didn't know very well. We ran into each other at the gym and I was explaining my theory of looking for chinks in the armor. She exclaimed, "Oh I love the chinks," which didn't come out right but I totally got it.

I know many women who put on that face, that suburban "my children are perfect, my marriage is perfect, all is perfect" face. Well I am deeply flawed so I don't know what we're going to talk about after I run out of nice things to say about my son. He's perfect or nearly. I am not.

My three new friends, and all of my friends that I have now, are willing to admit their flaws. That quality makes them perfect to me. Those flaws are the things we laugh about or cry about. It's the imperfections, in my humble opinion, that make us interesting and beautiful.

Sometimes when I run or sneeze, I wet my pants. Just a little. Hey I had a ten pound baby, okay? One of my friends lost custody of her young son to a jerk of an ex. But they've spliced together a close relationship as adults. One of my friends admits she's not that close to her dying sister. One of my friends has a daughter that doesn't fit the timeline of her marriage. One of my friends is almost surely getting a divorce.

We're all flawed and imperfect and ridiculous. For me, it's easier to let it all hang out.

Digging in the Dirt

2009-11-24T08:10:00.000-08:00

My son is digging for buried treasure in our yard. Muttering to himself, “Jewelry, rings, bracelet, something. I’ve got to find something so I can be rich.”

To say he is covered in dirt would be excessive. Dusting is too little. Patchy, mottled, spotted perhaps. It’s running the length of his shin from the one knee he is using to support his efforts. His shorts have a ring around the seat. Dirt is sticking to the green ice cream stain on the front of his shirt. The rims of his nostrils are brown.

“Mom, how come I can’t find any buried treasure?”

“Sometimes you have to switch locations.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“You know, change your spot.”

“Mom, I don’t need this stinkin’ shovel. I’ve got a great idea.”

The boy practically herniates himself trying to lift our broken garage door.

“Need some help?”

“Nope.”

Enter new pogo stick, gift from grandma for Christmas. “What’s he doing?” says my husband, who is bunched up on a short wicker settee. My husband loathes wicker.

Sticking the bottom of the pogo into the hole, my son begins to pump the handle up and down like a jackhammer.

“Well, mom, that flattens nothing out. Well mom, that flattens everything out. Yep, I just need these three things. The shovel, the clippers and the pogo.”

This conversation would go on whether or not I was present to hear it.

I’m tempted to bury some treasure in the hole when he runs inside for dinner. But what effect will that have? Maybe he’ll think there is treasure in every hole, reward from every effort. It will likely end this activity that has gone on successfully for about 1 ½ hours, giving me a chance to write. These are the things you think about as a parent, when you have a moment to think.

Keep digging Will. The digging is reward enough.

NB. I wrote this piece about 4 years ago but I liked thinking about that day. Especially my husband suffering in the wicker. Good times.

Inspiration

2009-11-20T03:02:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went to the gym for the first time in about a month. I've been dealing with contractors and sending out work samples to prospects. So I let the gym slip.

I was looking for inspiration or motivation, reasons why I should go to the dreaded gym. One of my facebook friends said simply, "Get your butt down there." That's really all it is. Making the time. And overcoming my fear of swine flu stagnating on the treadmill. Also avoiding the various rush hours from the mommy brigade arriving promptly at 9am to the swingers who start showing up around cocktail hour.

Where to find inspiration? Typically when I wake up, at least these days, my brain starts in immediately. A flurry of bad thoughts about I gotta do this and I gotta do that. What, another load of laundry? Please let the dishwasher be empty. When are the sheetrockers coming? I have to get out before they arrive.

Mainly I have to get out of my house by 8:30 to avoid conversations with my general contractor. In an earlier blog post, I referenced a typical conversation I have with my GC.

Fred: "Yeah I was on this job and the homeowner was like all pissed off because these other guys came in and it's all FUBAR'ed and now I gotta fix it. That's what they all say to me, 'Freddy, make it go away.'"

Me: "Uh-huh."

Every time he saves the day. It's amazing.

Except for that time last week when he dropped his table saw in my garage. Then the saw fell into some metal object that then fell on my scooter and cracked the fender. Here's what my scooter looked like before:

Oh there was also that time when he knocked himself out with our garage door. Still not sure how that happened.

My mom says I should be patient with these guys because they have hard lives and they aren't as fortunate as I am. They drink too much. They're divorced or in some kind of murky relationship with their kid's mom. Fred's got a girl. They've been together 7 years. I think he likes his dog more than he likes his girl. His face lights up when he talks about his dog Deak. His girl, not so much.

But I digress. Inspiration, inspiration, looking for inspiration. I went to Dunkin' Donuts to get my morning coffee and I ran into one of the guys in the klatch. There are two guy klatches at this Dunkin'. I don't know why the image persists of women sitting around gossiping over coffee when all I see are man klatches.

This guy is in the older guy klatch. (He sits with the guy who hoards napkins.) Normally we exchange hellos but he was running late and didn't see me waiting for my coffee. As he was chatting with the Dunkin' lady he asked her how to translate "beautiful but cold day" into Spanish. Something about fria. He repeated the phrase twice with a big smile on his face, happy to be learning something new.

As I pulled out of the Dunkin' parking lot, I saw a group of high school girls running down the street-- a local high school cross country team I am assuming. One girl was about 20 feet behind everyone else. All the other girls were running in a pack in front of her. She was a little bigger than the others, but not much. Normal by most standards. But the other girls were thin and tall with perfect pony tails swinging in the wind as they left her in the dust.

What I noticed about the lone girl running behind was that she didn't look downtrodden. She actually had sort of a grimace on her face, a look of determination. This girl was running her own race.

You actually can learn something new everyday. You can be running dead last and that's okay. Inspiration. I found it at Dunkin' Donuts of all places.

Bad Twitter

2009-11-13T08:02:00.000-08:00

For the most part, say 99.99% of the time, Twitter is a shiny, happy place. People tweet about their lives, their work, their passions. They are supportive and complimentary when conversing with their tweeps.

Sure there are some porn boys and girls and one time I got a very strange message from a guy called @Iheartpantyhose or something like that. He wanted to know if I was wearing any. I felt sort of sorry for him, looking at this twitter pic of a very young man wearing only pantyhose. Because no one wears pantyhose anymore.

I got in the middle of a dust-up on twitter one night when two women got into an argument with @dooce and her husband @blurb. I banged out a quick blog, made some mistakes that I corrected, not before insulting at least two of the people involved. One woman used some very choice words to explain why it was none of my business. The other @lydahl became a follower and I'm following her as well.

There are some passive ways to mess with someone on twitter. It's actually a tactic for growing followers to follow someone, they follow you, and then you dump them. There are tools you can use to check who is following you and who is not. I use http://www.friendorfollow.com/

Another is http://www.followwatch.com/. I think followwatch notifies you when someone dumps you. I don't mind when one of those "Make Money on Twitter" guys stops following me. But there have been a few legit ones that made me think, "What did I do?"

Recently, I started following this new guy @telesticles. I found him through another guy @TheUserPool. @TheUserPool is pretty interesting. His twitter bio is: You might call me a technology geek....I'm also the guy fucking your wife at work. @TheUserPool followed me first and I followed back. We DM'ed a few times and he seems pretty nice. It just so happens he has a ragin' sex life.

So @telesticles... his deal is he picks a twitter trend, almost all of which are inane. Yesterday was something about holla and today is #youknowyouruglyif (misspelled) and #arealwife. So @telesticles finds people using these idiotic phrases and he starts messing with them. Most of the people he's messing with are young women, wearing lingerie or in other "sexy girl" poses.

To @badgal69 he wrote, "Here's the real question: does #arealwife speak English. Because you sure as hell fucking don't.

Here's another one: Ass clown alert for @marcusbowers. Specific mockery not necessary. He does it for you.

A couple of days ago, I re-tweeted something from @telesticles and we exchanged the following:

@fightingfinn People don't always know what they're getting into when they RT me. I've been known to waste a lot of time just being a prick.

@telesticles You don't scare me.

@fightingfinn I'm not really a scary person. Just more of a malcontent and a grump. So long as you're fine with that, I'm fine with that.

Okay I get it now. Underneath it all, he's not a bad guy. Maybe even a nice guy, though his
twavatar looks like a box turtle on crack.

More insight from @telesticles: "Repurposing a proposal for a campaign designed to defraud an old client into a proposal for a campaign that will defraud a new one."

At last I understand. He's in the marketing business, probably advertising. A cautionary tale.

Top 10 Signs We're Living in Bizarro-world

2009-11-12T06:34:00.000-08:00

Levi Johnston, appeared at the 2009 Fleshbot Awards, celebrating amateur and professional porn. There he told a reporter Sarah Palin was smart not to dish about him on Oprah saying, "She knows what I got on her." Yes she done did know, Levi.
Balloon Boy's parents, Richard and Mayumi Heene, will be charged with a felony and misdemeanor respectively, but will only serve probationary sentences. Thankfully, they will continue to be parents to their three young boys.
In the current issue of O Magazine, Oprah writes about using her voice as a force for good and a revelation she had while hiking in the Colorado woods. She asked of the universe, "What would you have me do?" and the aspens whispered back, "Take the high road." In this spirit she graciously offered to be the person who unveiled the chimp mauling victim's face for the first time on TV.
Mike Tyson was arrested and charged with battery for punching a photographer at LAX. He did not, however, bite the man's ear off so it's considered a win-win for both.
Kenneth Feinberg, Obama's executive compensation czar, is concerned a 50% cut in pay to Citigroup's top executives will drive talent away from all companies receiving a US taxpayer bailout. Andrew Hall, a Citigroup trader, may earn as much as $100 million this year because his contract precedes the bailout. I don't know how he'll get by on that kind of chump change.
The Filipino extremist group responsible for kidnapping then releasing an Irish priest is called MILF. I'm not going to be the one to tell them.
Carrie Prejean, former Miss California USA, was outraged by interview questions regarding a sex tape she made with a boyfriend claiming, "Christians aren't perfect." She went on to say, "Homosexuals aren't perfect either but they're more not perfect than Christians so they deserve to be smote."
Michael Jackson's funeral cost more than $1 million including $600,000 for his crypt, $35,000 for his clothes, $12,000 for invitations and $5,000 for extra special dirt.
Britney Spears twitter account was hacked but the account has since been reverted. Now the real Britney is tweeting about lip-synching her way through Australia.
Modern Warfare 2, a first-person killing game, sold 4.7 million copies on the first day of release in the US and UK. Msnbc columnist, Winda Benedetti, describes the rush she felt when in hand-to-hand combat with a (fake) human being bad guy, she plunges her (virtual) knife into his (pretend) belly and he takes his last breath in her (imaginary) arms.

Is This All There Is?

2009-11-11T06:01:00.000-08:00

The eternal question. Things are not going my way right now and according to my astrological chart, according to my mom reading it, things won't be going my way for several months.

I'm sitting here, Will home again for another bogus school holiday, and his whistling is driving me nuts. I'm waiting for the contractors to show up. Angel with his sad face. Fred with his non-stop talking. Rock, a ginormous human being, who may be called Rock because of his stature or because of his specialty, sheetrock. All the noise, noise, noise, noise as the Grinch says.

I have to break it to Angel that my husband is still not happy with the paint job on the house. And he'll look at me with those sad eyes, wondering when the hell he's going to get paid. I'll have to listen to another story from Fred, in which, in general, he is the saviour of some homeowner like me who's been screwed three ways till Sunday by other contractors. Fred, not even Superman does that much saving.

They're all here, all the time. On ladders in my window, talking to me when I'm on the phone, leaving their crap everywhere. It's like having 10 children or 10 husbands.

One time I was taking a shower and walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. I thought they were all gone but Benjamin was still in the house. Thankfully, his back was turned and he's sort of hard of hearing so I don't think he saw me as I scampered away.

I sat down this morning to watch a 20 minute film, Helicopter by Ari Gold. In that short span of time, I was interrupted 6 times, Three phone calls. One I urgently need your help mom, because my video player won't rewind. One my cable modem is jittery and screwing up the video. And finally, Angel, breaking window glass in the backyard.

There was a chance I would go to Ethiopia with a client next week but they couldn't work out the plane tickets. Literally, I thought YES! The sweet release of flying 20 hours to Addis Ababa, landing in a place where no one knows me, without reliable phone or Internet. Just quiet.

There's another chance I can go in February and I am praying the travel gods will grant me permission to fly, fly away.

In this film Helicopter, the director's mother is killed in a helicopter crash. She was 47 years-old.

Follow this link to watch Helicopter: http://vimeo.com/6887916

The Mom Haircut

2009-11-02T12:38:00.000-08:00

I'd been thinking of cutting my hair off until about two weeks ago when I got a very cute cut at Chez Shay in Fairfield. Now I'm feeling better and less crazed about doing something dramatic.

I haven't had short hair since I was a kid when I took the scissors to my own head. The results were not great. I was no Meg Ryan in French Kiss. My son said if I cut my hair too short, I'll look like one of those Frankenstein dolls. He means a troll.

Then my husband chimed in and said if I cut off my hair I would look like a nesting doll. Here I am with my new haircut and 5 mini-me's. Frankly I don't care what either of them says. I may just cut it all off.

Maybe I'll remind my husband that it costs about $300 to keep my hair in this style and this color. That's about $1500 annually. I could cut all my hair off and wear a scarf just like these little babushkas.

I'll admit, it's tough to pull off cute short hair. Katie Holmes has cute short hair. Of course, she's married to a megalomaniacal psycho-freak but her hair is darn cute.

But it's a slippery slope from Katie Holmes' cute mom hair to WTF was Katie Couric thinking mom hair. Seriously, all those image consultants, one of the highest-profile jobs in news EVER, and this is what they come up with for Katie Couric?

I think that's the #19 at Supercuts next time you go, Katie.

And then there's the long slow slide into grandma hair that you get "done" once a month and then don't touch. That hair that was the reason Spray Net was invented. That hair stays in place through all kinds of weather, kept neatly tucked away in a pointy plastic rain cap. That hair smells like maple syrup and cookie dough which may in fact be trapped underneath all that Spray Net.

Grandma hair says, "I've earned the right to this helmet head and by golly you'd better not touch it." For now, I'll keep my shoulder length, out-of-control, freaky curly hair. I'm enjoying having curly hair after a childhood filled with barrettes that slipped off and waterfalls hanging limply to one side. I may go completely crazy and buy those Bumpits "as seen on TV".

We'll see what my husband thinks about my new beehive.

People Will See Me and Cry

2009-10-19T08:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder where I been, who I am, do I fit in? No I don't really. But I was thinking about Irene Cara and Fame.

My husband said to me, "Are we in such bad shape creatively, as a country, that we're remaking Fame?" Um, yes we are.

I've been to see a slew of movies recently, almost all of them terrible. I went to see Couples Retreat this weekend. The film had its moments, none of them funny. From the beginning, I thought to myself, "Hey, maybe I should've listened to Rotten Tomatoes."

Is his Junk Showing?

Couples Retreat opens with a powerpoint presentation involving "ball cancer" aka prostate cancer. Really bummed because this is yet another idea in our screenplay that is now out there, been done and poorly.

Then there is this bit where Jason Bateman breaks into Vince Vaughn's home causing the alarm to sound. Vince has to call his alarm provider and give the code word, ass-tastic. Might've flown if he'd left it at that but he chose to spell ass-tastic and then repeat it and then Jason repeated it and then I nodded off.

I also saw The Proposal -- spoiler alert, just pop in during the last 30 minutes to catch Ryan Reynolds shirtless, then naked. Betty White, an unbelievably talented comedian, is ridiculous as the dotty grandmother. And Sandra Bullock has done something to her face, not sure what, but it is entirely line-free and sort of waxy.

I saw The Ugly Truth with Katherine Heigl and Gerard Butler. I'm a fan of both actors but was shocked by the crassness and really just tacky love story that was to my horror, written by three women. "Flicking the bean" is a new expression I learned. That's all I can say about The Ugly Truth.

I know that critics are a dime a dozen and hey the truth is I've been sitting on my crappy-ass screenplay for years now. But as an audience member who has actually paid $7.25 just to get in, excluding popcorn and medium diet coke, I think I deserve better. Really I haven't even set the bar very high. Die Hard? Seen 'em all. Sandra Bullock rom coms. Check. As previously stated, I have a thing for Steven Seagal movies. So really, very low bar. (No knock against Katherine Heigl who was also in a Steven Seagal movie.)

I'm tired of Seth Rogen, Paul Rudd, this guy and Jonah Hill. Couldn't you cast Paul Rudd with Katherine Heigl and Seth Rogen with Gerard Butler? Or Vince Vaughn and Zooey Deschanel? She can sing and he can dance.

Shake it up a little bit. Go crazy. Take chances. I mean isn't the movie business the riskiest business of all?

Twitter and Real Life: When Worlds Collide

2009-10-15T05:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I found out one of my twitter pals lives in Norwalk, CT about 20 minutes from my house. I've promised to keep her identity and location a secret from the rest of the twitterverse. She's one of those masked men on twitter with neither picture nor location given. Her twavatar is a fuse box.

We came to the realization that we were neighbors through a circuitous route. We were talking about Bob from The Biggest Loser. (Just Bob, no last name) We were talking about Bob because my husband is working on a website for Bob's latest promotion, NUT-trition, a joint-venture with Planter's. I guess my twitter friend decided to take a closer look at me and figured out I was from Fairfield, CT.

At first, I felt sort of alarmed by her proximity. A big part of twitter is the anonymity, the mystery, the fake ID's. Sometimes I wonder, "Hey what does @badbanana look like in real life?" Or I'll say to myself, "Is that guy flirting with me or is he just waging an aggressive twitter follower campaign?"

I think @ArrogantGrump was flirting with me but he's since moved on to greener pastures.

This morning I had two unique Direct Messages from new twitter followers. Most of the time, the messages are along the lines of thanks for the follow and check out my system for making thousands of dollars on twitter. Or check out my naughty video. One lady asked me to help her pay for her 11 year-old daughter's college tuition. Needless to say, I feel my priority is to put my own 11 year-old through college.

New follower @kazukitakizawa in Hawaii asked me to help him move his 10ft tall s culpture with link to said sculpture. A quote-unquote Auric Shelter, the piece, installed at the Uni versit y of Hawaii at Manoa, was designed to reduce students' stress during finals week--using principles of color therapy. @kazukitakizawa is asking twitter followers to donate $4,000 to help with moving the sculpture from place to place, reducing stress all along the way.

Another new twitter follower offered me a free download of his new ambient alb um. I took a listen this morning and it's kind of nice. For a moment I was transported to a time and place when I could afford massages and spa treatments. I was having sensory memory of almond oil and incense.

It's tricky water we're navigating on twitter. Me and my new friend in Norwalk. The sculptor and the maker of ambient music. Who knows what we're like in real life?

Now crickets are chirping on the ambient album. We're all crickets out there in twitterville. Making odd, soothing music in concert with millions.

The Fight

2009-10-12T13:21:00.001-07:00

Today I had an argument with my husband and I went too far. Now he can't look at me. That's not a good sign. That means, "I'm not even mad at you anymore. I just can't stand to be around you."

In any marriage or long-term relationship, there are arguments and people say things they don't mean in the heat of the moment. In my humble opinion, based on 12 years into this relationship, civility is the first thing to go between two people spending night and day together.

First it's a feeling of comfort that you know all their little quirks. Then those quirks begin to wear thin. My husband really loves that I can't find my keys. Ever. I love that he folds his receipts with origami-like precision, a process that takes about 5 minutes. He's a little bit anal, I'm a little bit ADD. The bloom is off the rose as they say.

The difficulty in many relationships is remembering to be civil to one another even when you want to kill someone for doing that annoying thing just one more time. Do unto others. Judge not lest ye be judged. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife. Oh wait, that's something else. (My husband loves when I use humor to avoid serious discussions.)

All I can do now is apologize and wait it out. Hopefully he'll forgive me in a day or so. Tonight we get to have the awkward dinner with my family and pretend to be in love, happily married, close. At a minimum, I know I will be civil. I owe him that at the very least.

Independence Day

2009-09-30T05:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a really good day for my son Will. He actually turned to me at one point and said, "Mom this is a really great day."

After meeting with Will's middle school teachers and guidance counselors the week before, we all agreed Will's primary issue at school was self-reliance.

To that end, we sent him off to school yesterday with a mission. He had to, on his own, find the after school Homework Club and navigate the late bus home. Mind you, last week I'd given him instructions not to take the bus home--that I would pick him up instead. It turned into a fiasco of epic proportions that ended with both of us crying, lost and finally reunited after about 45 minutes.

I began to get anxious around 3pm, the normal end of the school day. I was anticipating a call from someone along the lines of , "Hey we've got your kid here and you might want to pick him up." Instead, at 4:15 on the money Will came strolling off the bus with a big smile on his face. He'd done it all by himself!

Will is our only child and he's a gosh darn good one. My husband likes to tell the story of the moments right after he was born. Rod put his hand on Will's chest for the first time. He just sat there looking quietly up at his dad. Calm, happy, with thick head of hair that the nurses parted on the side.

I used to think I would have more input into how Will grows up, that my job was to mold him. Now I think Will was born the way he is and my job is to not screw him up.

I heard this interview on NPR last weekend. Michael Feldman's guest on Whad'Ya Know? was screenwriter / essayist Paul Rudnick. Rudnick told some very funny stories about Hollywood and writing the screenplay for the Addams Family. He loved writing for these unconventional children Wednesday and Pugsley. Rudnick says this about parenting:

Also I'm a firm believer in the fact that anyone's personality is basically formed about 6 seconds after birth so parents should stop worrying so much You know if your child is going to grow up to become a serial killer or Vice President or whatever it is so out of your control You know I say just treat'em like time bombs.

While I tend to agree, particularly now in this insane age of helicopter parenting, I think I was molding Will's behavior in a sense. Because I didn't have faith in him, Will was losing faith in himself.

I still believe Will was born the way he is and I should support that. But I can also see that by not supporting him, I was changing his personality. He'd gone from that first 6 seconds of serene happiness to self-doubt and fear.

As we were walking to school this morning, I said to Will, "I'm really proud of how well you did yesterday. I underestimated what you were capable of doing."

He said, "I know. I underestimated myself."

Georgia Couple Finds Safe Harbor in Connecticut

2009-09-29T06:51:00.000-07:00

Christopher and Sandra Yarborough were in Connecticut to collect the Jenny, a 25-foot sailboat they bought from an owner in Southport. Shortly after setting out on their journey to Florida, their trip abruptly came to a halt when the Jenny ran aground at a nearby beach.

With a damaged rudder, no gas and no water, the Yarboroughs were in serious trouble. In the distance, they could see people running up and down the beach. Sandra Yarborough said, “The water was so big and it was very windy. If one of those waves hit us, we felt like it would turn us over. Then we saw the people coming out of their houses. They got us off the boat.”

Mr. Yarborough was shaking when the two were brought to safety. His rescuers were concerned he might have hypothermia but he was feeling fine within an hour. Both of the Yarboroughs have survived major health crises. Christopher Yarborough, 59, suffered a stroke in 1999, which paralyzed his left side. In 1982, Sandra Yarborough, 57, was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and given only six months to live. Although she continues to move in and out of remission, her doctors felt she was fit enough to make the voyage. “I tend to beat the odds,” she says.

The Yarboroughs were housed temporarily in a nearby inn but they were anxious to get back to their boat and be reunited with their pets Greenie, a 3 year-old Jack Russell and Ralph, their 17 year-old orange cat. The Jenny, the Yarboroughs and their pets are now safely berthed at the Fayerweather Yacht Club in the Black Rock section of Bridgeport, Connecticut.

Club members have been working furiously to get their boat into shipshape for the trip from Connecticut to Cocoa Village, Fla. Timing is critical as the season is already beginning to change in Connecticut. Originally scheduled to set sail this past Sunday, some of the club members asked that the Yarboroughs postpone the trip for a couple of days to pull the sailboat of out the water and make doubly sure she is seaworthy.

On Friday, another captain, Bob Butler, took Sandra Yarborough out on his boat, the Whisper to guide her though the route they’ll be taking next week. “The trip gave me a point of reference that I can see, so I’m not just navigating from charts,” said Yarborough.

The voyage from Connecticut through New York City can be tricky, including navigating the treacherous Hell Gate passage between the Bronx and Queens. The Jenny will make her way through New York's East River, sailing under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, and on to New Jersey.
Their newly found friends in Connecticut are concerned for their safety but recognize the grit and determination the Yarboroughs have to make their trip South. To that end, the members of Fayerweather Yacht Club have banded together to support the Yarboroughs in their dream. The boat repairs, gas for the boat, and housing the boat have all been paid for by the yacht club. Club members have also donated $300, a GPS system, autopilot system and new battery. When the Yarboroughs set sail next Wednesday they will be surrounded by well-wishers, people they might never have known if they hadn’t run aground in Connecticut.

The Yarboroughs first stop is just past Executioner’s Rock near New Rochelle, New York. Prior to the Revolutionary War, British soldiers brought colonial prisoners to the spot to be tortured and ultimately drowned. Sounds scary but the Yarboroughs aren’t spooked. “No. I’m not really nervous. I have my faith. The Lord has never given me anything I can’t handle,” said Sandra Yarborough.

As Georgians, the Yarboroughs might not have expected to be greeted with this outpouring of Northern hospitality. When asked if she was surprised by the kindness of strangers in Connecticut, Sandra Yarborough said, “I take people on how I meet them, not on what I hear about them. These people, they claim they don’t have wings. But I see their wings all the time.”

Dooce in Twitter Smackdown

2009-09-21T14:54:00.000-07:00

In the PR biz, you know at some point your client is going to take a hit. A product is not well-received, an executive says something stupid or your numbers hit the skids. It's just a fact of life. One thing I've always told clients at this critical juncture is, "Don't worry. Americans love an underdog."

After all, we are a nation that watched Rocky four times. Or was it five?

Right now, as we speak, one of the biggest mommy bloggers out there, Heather Armstrong, is in an all-out war on twitter (@dooce). Beloved for her brutally frank writing about mommyhood and marriage, she has over a million followers. Maytag recently learned their lesson when they tangled with Dooce. After a negative experience with one of their washers, Ms. Armstrong repeatedly twittered DO NOT BUY MAYTAG, revealing she'd been offered machines for free by other vendors.

In this very astute piece about Dooce vs. Maytag, writer Anna asks if this is Brand Bullying. She calls out Dooce's recent change in bahavior from twitter "broadcaster" to conversationalist. Before most of her tweets were just sent out there into the universe or she would occasionally reply to @blurb (her husband) and other close friends. Suddenly she began engaging her audience, using the @twittername convention to give a shout-out to readers and followers.

Tonight, there is something else afoot in twitterland. A few bloggers @lydahl and @namechanged began making negative comments about @dooce. It may not seem like it, but this is either courageous or downright crazy. It's like David messing with Goliath.

Twitter at this point is still primarily populated by people on their best behavior. You get the occasional porn bot (or more than occasional) but for the most part people are using good manners, smiley faces and exclamation points to show their enthusiasm.

Tonight, that went to hell in a handbasket. Dooce instigated a program called "Monetizing the Hate". The idea is to take all the trash talk written about Dooce, put it in one place and then "litter the entire thing with ads". So aside from the mommy blogger swag, speaking engagements, book deal and other revenues enjoyed by Ms. Armstrong, she would also make money off her hate mail. Ingenious really.

In all fairness, Dooce has said she planned to donate all the money from Monetize the Hate. Still, the idea did not sit well with some of Dooce's followers like @lydahl and @namechanged who called Dooce out in a public forum on twitter. Then Dooce's husband @blurb got involved in response to @lydahl calling their behavior #douchebaggy, saying "Stop being insecure."

A few samples of the exchanges going on in the twitterverse:

@apuraja: @blurb @dooce are you guys really so corporate sellouty as it seems? Ducking for cover as poop is thrown my way.

@juliamstewart @blurb @dooce don't worry if you have old fans complaining, you have new ones like me enjoying everything

@sunnyhunt @blurb douchebaggy? No. Do I feel a growing disconnect? Yes. Love reading you and Dooce but growing harder to identify and enjoy lately.

Douchebaggy? Sellouty? Like a twittered down version of cursing. For now, a few little-known bloggers have become the underdog, joined by others if only in our chicken-shit minds. But the tide will likely turn at some point and @dooce will become the underdog. We are a society that can't abide too much love. Every once in awhile, we like to knock our heroes off their pedestals.

NB @namechanged isn't an actual twitter username. After seeing this post, she sent me a very sweet missive asking me to mind my own (f-word) business. Sending smiley faces to you @namechanged.

Juan Martin

2009-09-15T11:56:00.000-07:00

I rarely watch tennis because I prefer to play. Last night was the men's final at the US Open and while I hadn't planned it, I did watch the match. Juan Martin del Potro played Roger Federer. Del Potro is from Argentina and quite a lovely specimen. Unbelievably del Potro came back from losing the first set and being down in the second set to win.

While watching, I was also twittering and pulling for del Potro. Roger is a great guy and all but come on. He hasn't lost a match in years. So del Potro, in reality the person pretending to be del Potro, started following me on twitter. The real del Potro I found out sadly is @delpo

I ran upstairs to tell my husband. about my new follower. "Del Potro is following me. He's following me," I said.

"He's not really your type," my husband said. "With the facial hair and all."

Honestly, I could overcome my aversion to facial hair with JMDP.

To allay his fears that I might run off with Juan Martin, I said, "You don't have to worry."

He said, "I'm not."

My husband has a thing for those old school girls like Angie Dickinson and Barbara Eden.

So I said, "Hey maybe Angie Dickinson will follow you."

He said, "Isn't she dead?"

Ebb and Flow

2009-09-14T08:01:00.000-07:00

Friday was 9/11, always a sad day particularly the closer you live to the City. I ran into my neighbor who was going camping with his little girl. I remarked that the rainy weather was not ideal for camping. He explained that a group of guys and their kids go every year to commemorate friends and loved ones lost on that terrible day.

My son had some homework to do on Friday afternoon. I came in the room and heard him chatting on the phone with one of my friends. He had her on speakerphone and she asked that I take the phone from him. She wanted to speak in private. She was having a miscarriage and wanted my advice.

Her doctor advised going to the ER but she felt that was extreme. Under any circumstances, the ER is a place to avoid. Particularly during something as emotionally difficult as a miscarriage, hanging out in the ER for hours is not ideal.

I suggested trying to find another OB center that had the sophisticated ultrasound equipment her smaller town doctor did not. She did find a smaller ER and was able to get in and out in a few hours versus the many that it usually takes.

My friend had arranged to come visit the next day. I assumed she'd want to cancel but she felt the distraction would be a good thing. So the trip here was still on for Saturday evening. On Saturday afternoon, I had a baby shower for another friend. This friend is having a baby by surrogate. I've never met anyone who's done this before so it was an interesting day.

When I arrived, I actually sat next to the surrogate mom. I was sort of wondering who the lady was in Laura Ashley conservative versus New York hipster moms that made up the rest of the shower attendees. We spoke briefly and I found out that she has two children of her own and this is her second time acting as a surrogate.

Such a strange experience that must be to carry a child for someone else. In fact, the surrogate mom carried twins the first time and then gave them up to another family. The loss I felt after miscarriages and the loss my other friend was experiencing losing this pregnancy, it seems so vivid to me. I can't imagine how you mentally come to terms with bearing a child and then giving that child up for adoption.

At the end of the shower, the mom-to-be was opening all of her gifts. This is Westport so we're talking extravagant gifts--two Tiffany teething rings, endless onesies, toys and books. My friend said at one point, "What the expression? A cacophony of riches?" An embarrassment of riches. That's the saying she was looking for but couldn't find.

The gift that most touched her was a little quilt handmade by the surrogate mom. In one corner, she'd embroidered, "Carried with love, forever in my heart." The mom-to-be broke down in tears.

An embarrassment of riches, it's true. Another very fortunate baby will grow up in Westport, Connecticut. Maybe the surrogate mom feels an embarrassment of riches. Because she can have children, she's decided to carry children for women who can't.

She sat there amongst the glitter and glam in her simple dress, giving what is priceless to my friend. For one friend, a baby is coming. For another, a baby is lost. I remembered the poem Joe Biden read during Friday's 9/11 ceremony.

"Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on."
--Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

September 11, 2009

2009-09-11T07:08:00.000-07:00

New York strikes me as a City of low simmering kindness. It's not overt by any means. My brother tells a story about taking the subway in New York. The first time Clay came to visit me in the City, he decided to take the subway to my apartment in the West Village. He was standing in the middle of a busy station holding a map. According to legend, a young man was running past on his way to work. Without breaking stride, he asked my brother where he was going. "Christopher Street," Clay said. "Take the 1 or 9 downtown," said the New Yorker, and he kept on running.

My husband and I were together in New York for our first Christmas. We were standing in Rockefeller Center, surrounded by the throngs. The sun was going down and the lights were coming up. My husband kissed me under the tree. A woman turned to us at that moment and said, "It's nice to see two people in love." Her accent was unmistakably New York.

Maybe New York could only offer the smallest acts of kindness before September 11th. After all, the City is such a big place with so many people living in so many different circumstances. I have seen kindness seeping through the cracks of her tough veneer. On September 11th, those kind gestures flowed freely.

What to do on this anniversary? I'll say prayers. I'll cry no doubt watching survivors at Ground Zero. I want to find an appropriate, respectful way to mark the day in my own life, now outside the City.

I have decided to be openly grateful for my family today. I'm going to try like hell to be kind to my husband and my son. And when I find myself losing patience with my son for spilling soda or my husband for not putting his dishes in the dishwasher, I'll try to remember what others have lost and wish they could have again.

I am wrestling now with the concept of courage in my daily life. What am I capable of doing in spite of fear? I cannot imagine the courage of standing by a disabled friend unable to make it down the stairs of a burning building. Or being disabled and realizing that to attempt the stairs might prevent others from making it out alive. What must go through the heart of a man at that moment?

Today I hope I can muster the courage to be vulnerable. Let kindness seep through the cracks of my own guarded self.

The Bus

2009-09-04T15:13:00.000-07:00

I'm reading a bunch of stuff now about New Orleans for this screenplay I've been working on with two friends for longer than any of us can remember. I know Rosey's had two children in the process and Lou Lou adopted Lillian.

Just finished Plenty Enough Suck to Go Around by Cheryl Wagner and moved on to New Orleans, Mon Amour by Andrei Codrescu. First of all, I love Andrei. Second, I love that he writes one and one-half page essays. I mean that's my format. That's my sweet spot only I'm missing some or much of his talent.

Codrescu wrote this essay entitled Two Americas. It's about taking the bus because he doesn't drive. Personally, that is my preference as well. I hate driving especially here in the Northeast where everyone is, pardon my french, un cul. You can figure it out...

The essay begins, "There are two Americas: There is the America that drives, and there is the America that takes the bus. If you watch television, the only America you see is the America that drives. The America that drives lives on the other side of the TV screen from the America that takes the bus."

That's me. That's my life. I'm not taking the bus but I'm here in the only part of Fairfield where buses are a part of life. Fairport we call it. The edge of Fairfield near the city of Bridgeport. Bridgeport is the porta-potty of Fairfield County. There's no other way to put it. There are parts of Bridgeport that are nice. And there are so many other parts that we think, "Wow. I bet that was a lovely home once."

But for the most part, if there's crime in Fairfield County, it's in Bridgeport or was perpetrated by someone in Bridgeport. The thing is here in Fairport, we're just on the edge. Surrounded by really some of the nicest people you could meet, young and old, cool and stodgy, but we are a band of brothers battling petty and not so petty crime.

When you live on the edge, it's sort of a strange place. Like I used to live in Southeast Capitol Hill when DC was the murder capital. I lived in New Orleans when it was the murder capital. Maybe the fact that I'm in town creates a "murder capital" type environment. I don't think I should tell the neighbors.

The first time my Dad visited me in DC, my friend and roommate had just been robbed and beaten. Dad immediately went to the hardware store and installed a new deadbolt, this on top of the metal bars that covered every opening in our apartment. I'm sure he was afraid for me and if I'd had any sense, I would've been too. When you live in the shit, you learn to navigate the shit. When you live on the fringe, it seems okay...until someone gets robbed.

Our neighbors, one my my faves, put up a For Sale sign this week. I think they've had enough between a tacky quasi-commercial property across the street and possibly the news of a stabbing/baseball incident at the Subway about a block from their house.

They moved here from New York with a daughter and a son on the way. No doubt thinking surely Fairfield will be a lovely place to raise a family. Unfortunately, like many of us what they could afford at the time was Fairport. Not quite apple pie, not quite crack den. Somewhere in the middle.

But tonight, I'm looking outside watching typical suburbia. My neighbors are cooking out, spraying the hose and learning to ride a two-wheeler. It doesn't get more apple pie than that. Maybe it's possible here on the fringe to accept the two Americas: the people who drive and the people who take the bus. Or at least learn to live with it.

Middle School Blues

2009-09-03T08:49:00.000-07:00

My son's first day of middle school. I didn't want him to go. Not in that, "Hey maybe home schooling is not that bad after all" kind of way. I just wasn't ready.

When my son was three, we enrolled him in a Montessori school. He was still little but my husband and I were both working full-time and couldn't take care of him during the day. Let's just say, he was not a willing participant.

Every morning I would drop him off and he would cry and cry. Then I would cry. There's really no worse feeling than walking away from school seeing your little boy crying in the window. Finally my husband started dropping him off because I couldn't take it. Of course, when he dropped him off, Will went happily on his way.

This morning I was starting to tear up thinking about Will going to middle school. My husband would have to take him to the bus stop. Plus I figured it would be totally uncool to have both parents at the bus stop. But I knew I would start crying and that would be way uncool.

I went to two middle schools. The first was Huntington Middle School in San Marino, California. I loved that school. Then mid-way through seventh grade we got the news we were moving again (thanks IBM). My second middle school was Bedford Junior High in Westport, Connecticut.

My friends know the story of my starting at Bedford. My mother decided to take the train cross-country. Unfortunately, she didn't anticipate the blizzard of '78 and getting stuck in New York. Unfortunately for us kids, my dad was in charge of getting us ready for school. Dad took us to the Army Navy store to buy new clothes. My OP shorts and Vans weren't cutting it in the frozen tundra. Granted there was no Gap back then, but the Army Navy store? Basically my brother and I could've posed for Bowhunter's Quarterly...that's how cool we looked.

So I showed up at Bedford Middle School in my camo pants and greenish-brownish down jacket. Thankfully, I had the Cali thing going for me - the mystique of the California girl. Then they found out I was really from Texas and said pin instead of pen and tin instead of ten. Teased unmercifully, I finally eliminated any trace of a Southern accent. Mostly what I remember about middle school was sort of this strange balance between utter happiness and naked fear. There was the whiff of sexuality, the stirrings of mischief and the occasional misdemeanor. As the perpetual new kid, I learned pretty quickly how to navigate the water. That's a useful skill for blending in but it's not really helpful when it comes to standing out. I'm learning that now in my forties.

My son Will called out to me, "We need to get going." Then he walked out the back door. Even in fifth grade I gave him a kiss every morning before he got on the bus. They'll be none of that in middle school, I'm sure. As I watched him walking off, I held back tears. Looking at him walking confidently toward his future, I felt sentimental for my little boy. But he's not a little boy anymore. And I have to let him go.

Ben Bradlee at the Herblock Foundation

2009-08-28T08:33:00.000-07:00

Ben Bradlee's birthday was August 26th. It's hard to explain how such a slight man could cast such a long shadow. He has a booming voice, movie-star good looks and as Mike Lupica recently said, "He should've played himself in All the President's Men."

In 2004, Mr. Bradlee gave a speech at the annual Herblock Foundation Prize & Lecture. I was there along with many others who worked at The Washington Post along side him. Here are my notes on his remarks The New Culture of Lying.

A quote from Stanley Walker, 1940's New York newsman. "What makes a good newspaperman? The answer is easy. He knows everything. He's aware not only of what goes on in the world today, but his brain is a repository of the accumulated wisdom of the ages. He is not only handsome, but he has the physical strength which enables him to perform great feats of energy. He can go nights on end without sleep. He dresses well and talks with charm. Men admire him; women adore him; tycoons and statesmen are willing to share their secrets with him. He hates lies and meanness and sham, but he keeps his temper. He is loyal to his paper and what he looks upon as his profession; whether it's a profession, or merely a craft, he resents attempts to debate it. When he dies a lot of people are sorry, and some of them remember him for several days."

At some point during the investigation of any story, a good reporters knows or senses when a source is lying. We've become immune to lying, from selling beer or war or soap or candidates.

During Vietnam it became difficult to believe the official version. JFK didn't have to lie about affairs because no women ever came forward. He lied about Addison's because he didn't want that coming out. Under Nixon, 40 people went to jail including the Attorney General. Our public figures were lying with a straight face. We ran some 400 stories about Watergate. At some point, we knew they were lying. We knew it. We felt it. We couldn't prove it.

Gerald Ford was not around long enough to lie significantly. Reagan lied about being a signal corps photographer who filmed horrors of the Nazi death camps.

In November 1983, Reagan told visiting Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir that he served as a photographer in the US Army unit assigned to film the Nazi death camps. He repeated the story to Simon Wiesenthal the following February. Reagan never visited or filmed a concentration camp. He spent the war in Hollywood, making training films with the first Motion Picture Unit of the Army Air Corps.

Another favorite Reagan lie was that Mount St. Helen's caused more pollution than cars. After opining in August 1980 that "trees cause more pollution than automobiles do," Reagan arrived at a campaign rally to find a tree decorated with this sign: "Chop me down before I kill again."

The Big Lie? I did not have sexual relations with that woman. Clinton changed the relationship between the press and the President. While he admitted to being evasive, testifying falsely, misleading testimony, he never said he lied. Still hasn't.

As for this President (George W. Bush), we will see how history plays out. I'm guessing that Weapons of Mass Destruction one will come back to haunt him.

And now the big shots of American business are comfortably in step behind them. Those tobacco executives claiming they knew nothing. Thank God we got Martha. Crisis averted.

The Blank Page

2009-08-28T07:40:00.000-07:00

As I told a twitter friend the other day (@misslizzyc ) sometimes you just have to write a bunch of stuff that you later delete. Or as she put it #JUSTBANGITOUT. Every writer has their rituals for breaking through writer's block, but mine is pretty straightforward. I've learned to just suck it up, sit down and write. Here goes...

I had coffee with a friend yesterday. We had this really funny conversation about moving in new directions. She's been raising her two little boys, freelancing after leaving her full-time job as a big-time producer for ABC News.

Earlier in the week, she came running in the house with a cucumber from her garden. She proudly showed the cucumber to her six year-old son and he said, "Mom I think you should get excited about something other than cucumbers."

Today my son ran a mile without stopping. I was really excited for him because he'd convinced himself he couldn't do it. He had this ear-to-ear grin on his face. Then he promptly began attempting to blackmail me saying, "Mom since I ran a mile, maybe you should buy me some Yu-gi-oh cards."

"I think I'll just congratulate you on your accomplishment," I said.

Then this bit of wisdom from my eleven year-old, "Maybe running the mile is my reward."

My producer friend covered the OJ trial, school shootings, war, you name it. For now, she's growing vegetables. But she's gearing up to get back in the game. Maybe a new game with new rules. For me, I'm working my way back into news. I've been on the other side, doing PR, long enough.

Our reward systems have changed dramatically. I mean on the one hand, my friend won an Emmy. And I worked at The Washington Post with Herb Block, Ben Bradlee, Bob Woodward, Gwen Ifill and the list goes on. Then the reward was the prestige. There's nothing like that feeling of saying, "I work at The Washington Post."

For now our rewards are cucumbers and running a mile. Maybe we're learning what my son did today. Whatever your accomplishment, no matter how small, the reward is doing it. Today it's vegetables, but tomorrow we're talking Emmy.

George Clooney and Elisabetta Canalis

2009-08-17T13:25:00.000-07:00

For anyone who read my old blog (www.fightingfinn.com), you know I like to devote about 25% of content to George Clooney. So kicking off this here new blog, I've decided to write about George's latest lady friend, Elisabetta Canalis. I'm not sure why George continually pursues these other women when I'm right here. But he does. So I will. Continue. To write.

Today in my dungeon of a laundry room I was thinking about all the things I probably have in common with Elisabetta Canalis, how we are almost interchangeable. Here's the list:

Elisabetta is a stunning brunette. I am also a brunette underneath all this blonde.
The name Elisabetta ends in "double consonant--a" sound. So does my name Rebecca.
George and Elisabetta met in Rome. I've been to Rome.
George is 48 years-old and Elisabetta is 31 years-old. I'm somewhere in between.
Elisabetta models underwear. I wear underwear.
Elisabetta works in television. I've been on television. Yes The Roy Rogers and Dale Evans show counts.
Elisabetta played a naughty nun in the film Virgin Territory. (what you never heard of it?) I dressed up as a nun for the Beaux Arts Ball at Tulane.
Elisabetta has EMINEM tattooed on her forearm. I once owned the 8 Mile soundtrack.
Elisabetta has two X chromosomes. So do I.
Elisabetta frequently appears topless in photographs. I frequently appear topless in my bathroom window, much to the chagrin of the house painters next door.

Julie & Julia & Me

2009-08-16T12:47:00.000-07:00

My husband and I see movies all the time, often apart from one another. Today I went to see Julie & Julia because as he said, he "had no interest, zero interest, absolutely no interest" in seeing the film. It's too bad he missed this one because I think he might've had some insight into my inner crazy.

Everyone talks about the food in Julie & Julia. The food is amazing, there's no doubt about that. But the movie is about two women who get to a point in their lives when they are lost. They feel they have no purpose, Julia the wife of a diplomat in Paris and Julie working in a thankless job for the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation.

I know that feeling because that is exactly where I am right now. I'm writing but are you really a writer when you're just a blogger or a copywriter? People ask, "What do you write?" And I correct them saying, "Oh, I"m not a writer writer."

It took me nearly three months to start this new blog after the demise of my old blog. In that time, granted, I've been living in a cloud of plaster dust and silt. But I stopped writing long enough to figure out that when I stopped, I got rusty.

With Julie & Julia, both women whole-heartedly throw themselves into a writing project. The difference between me and them is they don't give up. They keep going. I thought my three year screenplay project was a record-breaker until I learned Mastering the Art of French Cooking took eight years to produce. Julie Powell blogged in relative obscurity for a year before being "discovered" by The New York Times.

I dream about being discovered by The New York Times, or High Times for that matter. But I'm still out here blogging in obscurity. The truth is I don't deserve to be discovered at this point. I give up at the drop of a hat, just because it's hot or my house is a disaster or whatever the raison du jour.

I lived in Paris like Julia. I'm from Texas like Julie. But I don't have their stamina. Yet. Wish me luck finding my way. The writer's way. A writer writer.

Trophy Wife

2009-08-05T12:27:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I dream about being a trophy wife. I wonder how that would feel?

I was thinking about it today as I was painting my bathroom. I was standing on the Little Giant (that my husband bought from an infomercial on TV). I was standing on the Little Giant, trying to balance one foot on the ladder and one foot in various other positions from the corner of the bathtub to the window sill and I was thinking, "I wonder what it would be like to be a trophy wife?" I bet I wouldn't be balancing on the Little Giant painting my bathroom ceiling. That's what I bet.

I have to listen to music while I paint. I'd also prefer to be drinking a cold beer but it's the afternoon and a little early to hit the sauce. So I'm cranking classic rock, aka the music I grew up listening to. Floyd. Pink Floyd that is. "You can't have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat. " I don't know exactly what Mr. Floyd was relating but I do know those words evoke a scene from Oliver. A grim existence.

Intermittently my son is appearing in the bathroom to show me magic tricks he's learned on YouTube. It all started with Criss Angel Mindfreak. Now there's a man who will have a trophy wife. God knows why, but that's another story.

My son loves Criss Angel so he started watching him on YouTube and then he started looking for videos about magic tricks and VOILA that's how we got to where we are now - me poised precariously on this ridiculous ladder and my son popping his head in from time to time to show me a new trick. Some are better than others but he's at a disadvantage, because from my position on the ladder I can see pretty clearly most of the sleight of hand he is attempting. But I act like I'm baffled until he returns again to show me a new one. Short of the coin dropping straight to the ground from its hiding place, I am going along with the show.

I guess it doesn't occur to my son that I'm sweating profusely having chosen a humid, midday start time for painting. I'd avoided it most of the day until I had no choice. In fact, it started raining almost the very minute I stopped painting. I'm up on a ladder, sweating, holding on for dear life and he wants me to stop for "just a minute" to watch magic tricks.

At any rate, back to my original question. What's it like to be a trophy wife? I don't think they paint bathroom ceilings. Of course, they must spend at least twice as much time in the gym as I do. Unless she is a trophy wife from New Jersey. If the Housewives of New Jersey are any indication, I am already a trophy wife.

If I were a trophy wife, the nanny would be watching magic tricks. I'd be at the gym with Steve my personal trainer. Chef would be preparing a delicious, light meal for dinner. Maybe I'd go shopping or stop in for a frappucino in my cute as can be Mercedes.

If I were a trophy wife I'd promise to be a lot better behaved than any of the Real Housewives. And I'd find some nice little person to stand on that ladder and paint, paint, paint.

At this very minute my son is watching a magic trick involving a Mexican centavo. I'm pretty sure I'll be asked to find a Mexican centavo sometime in the next 5 minutes.

Rich Marcucio: A Community Partner

2009-08-03T08:57:00.000-07:00

Rich Marcucio is the Store Manager of the Stop & Shop on Villa Avenue in Fairfield, Connecticut. He’s worked for Stop & Shop since 1984 and plans to retire eventually. For now he keeps this busy store running smoothly as he and his associates serve some 21,000 Fairfield residents every week.

In 2000, Marcucio and his department heads were invited to come down and see firsthand the programs at Operation Hope of Fairfield. As he puts it, “When you’re doing fundraising, you need to make a connection in order to get behind something. All of us came back amazed at how much Operation Hope was doing – from the day-to-day meal serving to the pantry and all the other programs.” It was a turning point for Rich and his associates at Stop & Shop.

Although Rich has been involved with local charities for twenty years now, he feels a strong connection with Operation Hope. “We are in the food business so I thought it would be a perfect fit to support a food pantry. But we’ve learned Operation Hope is much more.” Rich and his team routinely raise money and encourage food donations at the Fairfield store. On a weekly basis the store has a collection area where customers are invited to drop off non-perishable food and other household items. Marcucio speaks glowingly of his customers, who he says are some of the most benevolent he’s come across in his career.

“We’ve actually seen an increase in donations in the last four to five months in spite of this economy. It’s nice to see our community step up when you know there are people out there making a choice between buying food and medicine or paying their mortgage. To see this type of generosity from the people of Fairfield restores my faith and keeps me going.”

All told, Rich and his team have raised $136,000 in food and cash for Operation Hope since they began eight years ago. Carla Miklos, Executive Director of Operation Hope Fairfield says, “We are so lucky to have the Villa Avenue Stop & Shop as our friend. Rich is very committed to helping us serve those in need, and his entire team of employees and suppliers really come through to make his events and other efforts a success. We are truly blessed to have such a dedicated community partner.”

Aside from the daily collection box, the associates at Stop & Shop raise money by running a hotdog cart on Saturdays. The main event however is the annual car show and a great example of a group of people coming together to support a common cause.

The car show is a program Rich has run for many years. It began with a single car owned by Davidson Company in Cheshire, Connecticut. Davidson had recently purchased a race car and as a promotion offered to bring it down to Stop & Shop one day. They raised $400 selling hot dogs. Local shoppers and car fans got to meet the driver, get autographs and see the car.

Today that same idea has grown to include 80 cars of every variety. Vendors donate their time and prizes. Davidson provides the forty trophies and their race cars. Polar Soda donated mountain bikes for a raffle. Volunteers from People’s Bank participate. Rich and his team plan, manage and work at the event. The people of Fairfield come out in droves, bringing their cars and their donations. Each car receives an empty box and attendees are encouraged to place a non-perishable food item in the box of their favorite cars. At the end of the day, trophies are awarded to the winners and all the food and cash proceeds go to Operation Hope. In 2008 they raised $5,450.

Marcucio says, “I have people who’ve been transferred to another store who come back just for the car show. It’s a great day for the store, for this community and a chance for our employees to let their hair down a little bit.”

Another annual event is the holiday giving tree. The store adopts one hundred children, fifty of whom are from Operation Hope. Each child receives a gift from either a Stop & Shop associate or a customer. Rich makes sure every child is taken care of at the end of the day. “If all the kids don’t receive gifts, we take care of them anyway.”

Operation Hope also serves as a resource for Stop & Shop. A program participant went from pushing carts four years ago to becoming a full-time grocery employee. It’s a two way street according to Marcucio.

“When you do something for someone else, you always feel good. It never fails.”

New Blog

2009-07-29T07:08:00.001-07:00

Dear Blogger,

I give up. I've tried unsuccessfully for over a month to publish to www.fightingfinn.com and it's not working. I tried all the fixes suggested from using my IP address in Settngs to changing the domain name. Apparently this is a fairly common problem for people using FTP to import to their own domain. (I can't believe I know what any of this means.)

I feel like we got married and now you're forcing me to change my name. This isn't what I wanted but not blogging is causing my writing skills to rust. Just twittering all the time is leaving me incapable of stringing together more than 140 characters at a time. I'll change my name Blogger, unwillingly, so I can keep writing. I suppose it's better than living in a garret somewhere. Although those garrets are almost always in a place like Paris.

I've got to get back in a groove, Blogger. I was getting pretty good at the snappy 600-800 word post. Now I'm out of shape. I'm wearing a velour track suit, smoking, watching those whipper-snappers lap me around the track. But I'll catch up Blogger. As far as I'm concerned, we're still married but you're sleeping in the guest room.

Sincerely,

The Old BattleAxe