Stress is a Virus

Stress is a virus.

I think it might even be contagious.

My middle daughter is currently stressed .

She has an inexplicable stomach disorder that does not allow her to keep food down. She gets nauseous at the first bite of food and then she throws up for hours at a time.

Her stomach is raw and hurts. She is stressed.

We don't know if stress caused this condition, but the condition caused stress, so it's a viscous loop.

She is 2500 miles away and I feel her pain.
I feel nauseous too.
My muscles are spasming in my neck and back.
I am having trouble breathing and swallowing.

I don't know how to help her because the doctors say nothing is wrong.
She has tons of medications to take: antacids, anti-nausea, anti-anxiety and anti- depressants.
Nothing seems to be working.

She even went to the hospital the other night and they said, "Nothing is wrong." But clearly "something" is wrong.

She has anxiety. She's had it before her illness.  I have anxiety.  I've had it before her illness. We both sometimes try to live with it or pretend it doesn't exist.  But this time her anxiety won't shut up which made both of ours much worse.  We sometimes laugh about this being part of our connection:  Two neurotic talkative Jewish women... but this time we are not laughing.  

She feels helpless. I feel helpless. I can't think about anything else.

They say a mother can only be as happy as her saddest child. So my saddest child is doubled over in pain and confused. So I am in pain and confused too.

She is staying with her father and stepmother in Los Angeles. They are at a loss too.

The doctors just keep saying take the medicines and try to eat. I keep saying the same.

Meanwhile, I am trying to take my own advice: breathe, be patient, sleep, eat and exercise. But like her, none of it is working right now.

Pain in the Neck

I woke up this morning and my body hurts slightly less than yesterday. Yesterday, my neck and shoulders hurt so bad that I thought a body part was going to snap off. It's hard to be in a "good mood" when your body hurts... and mine hurts a lot.

People always ask me, "Why does your body hurt so much? You are in good shape. You exercise regularly. You get 8 hours of sleep. What makes it hurt so badly?"

I don't know. It could be age-related. It could be arthritis. It could be competitive tennis. But I have to admit, I think this started in college.

I knew it was tension then. I was putting all this pressure on myself to get straight A's. That kind of pressure results in everything BUT straight As. Lots of B's and a handful of C's. When you are trying that hard, nothing flows. I thought when I get out of college, it will be better.

Not exactly.

I went from being in college to a secretarial desk job. I was glued to a chair answering phones and typing. Occasionally getting up to get someone a cup of coffee or copying papers. I thought to myself, "When I get promoted from the desk, I will be able to comfortably sit on a sofa and do my work (mostly reading) from there."

It took several years to get "off the desk," but then I just landed on another desk. The next desk was in my own office, but it was too small of an office to accommodate a sofa. So I thought, "When I get promoted, I will have a bigger office and THEN I will have a sofa that I can sit comfortably and do my work."

Eventually, I got promoted. My office got bigger and I had a sofa! But if someone walked by my office and I was on the sofa, it looked like I wasn't working (even if I was.) I suppose I could have closed my door, but the phone was always ringing, so I had to be at my desk. Then came computers and email and you could never be away from your desk.

My neck and back ached chronically from sitting hunching over reading. But it wasn't the desk, it was the stress. I was anxious to get through the volume of material, troubleshoot the politics of corporate life, and always trying to be on top of all that needed to be accomplished every day.

I thought to myself, "One day I will work for myself! I will have a comfy chair to read in, and I won't be a prisoner to the volume of material that I have to get through each day. I will be my own boss and won't have the constant fear of making a mistake, falling behind, saying the wrong thing or just being called out because my boss was in a bad mood and needed to blame someone for something."

But now I work for myself. I no longer have a corporate job. I can now work from the sofa...

But I don't.

I still work from a desk. More specifically, my daughter's high school desk that I took over when she went off to college years ago.

My neck, back, and shoulders still ache, but I am starting to think, it might not be the desk, the job or the work.

I am always searching for a solution. I spent years going to chiropractors, acupuncturists, taking vitamins, stretching, pilates, massage, and exercise. They all worked giving me a few minutes of relief, but nothing long term.

So now I work less, play more, meditate, do yoga, play tennis, eat healthily and limit all stimulants. You know how much that helps? Only a little.

The common denominator is me. I was born this way. Hardwired. It is my brain chemistry that is sending information to my muscles to tighten up like a drum, so I perpetually feel like there are knots in my neck, back, and shoulders.

What I probably need is an elephant tranquilizer, but I have no interest in being tired. I like my energy. I just want to have my energy without feeling like my muscles are constricted like they've been shrunken and dried up like driftwood... ready to snap.

This must be where the expression "pain in the neck" comes from. I suppose I should be grateful because the other expression "pain in the ass" would be worse. Although, I feel like my pain in the neck makes me a pain in the ass.

Meanwhile, my youngest daughter, just shy of becoming a teenager, who has spent the last few weeks of summer vacation sleeping until Noon and spending all day on her iPhone in bed. I am not exaggerating. I mean ALL day. She's not talking or texting on her phone. She simply watches Netflix, plays games, reads fan fiction, draws, looks at Instagram and reads "Top 10 lists" on Buzzfeed.

I am afraid that she will fall into an abyss of becoming a social recluse and losing interest in activities and all that life has to offer. But then I look at myself and say even if you follow all the rules, get an education, get a job, get married, have children, have a career, become successful, save money, move to paradise, eat well, exercise and get 8 hours of sleep every night, you might still wake up wondering why you feel stressed.

But the irony is that my pre-teen is REALLY happy laying in bed all day and sleeping 14 hours. Maybe I should take a page out of her book. Maybe I should take a week off, lay in bed all day, watch Netflix and play games on my phone.

If only someone would do my laundry, grocery shopping, take the dog out, make dinner, do the dishes, pay the bills and organize my life.

ISH

I think "ISH" describes me in so many ways.

Smart-ISH
Pretty-ISH
Funny-ISH

Isn't "ISH" the B of letter grades? Depending on the curve, it could be a B+, but in the wrong group easily a B-.

ISH is the Vice President.
The #2.
The runner-up.
To the masses, ISH is better than most. Almost Famous.

The opening band for a legendary rock star.

ISH is almost on time.
ISH is more casual.
ISH is more relatable.
ISH is more accessible.

Straddling between the everyman (or everywoman) and the King (or Queen).

The "wingman" to the flirt.

The "understudy" to the lead in the play.

ISH is adjacent to prime real estate. (e.g. Beverly Hills-ISH)

But to the person who only arrives at "ISH" status, it is a lifetime of working very hard for a handful of semi-precious stones. No crown jewels.

But there are great advantages to being ISH.

You straddle greatness. If something opportunistic were to happen, you could inherit a throne (ala career greatness, status, fame or even fortune).

But if you never rise to your full potential, no one is truly disappointed. After all, you were only talented-ISH.

Some of us who are only ISH, succeed strictly due to persistence. Many "greats" burnout, peak too soon or just fall out of fashion.

Good news for us that we are only ISH to begin with.

ISH. It's a good place to start. It's not even a bad place to end up.

Dear Patience

I have become obsessed with the notion of patience.

Maybe because I find it so elusive.

I am trying to understand patience. I am trying to obtain patience.

Is patience like a deity? Do you need to "believe" in it to "have" it in your life?

Can I join a temple or a church and pray for patience?

Is patience a daily affirmation? If I used it as a mantra in my meditation practice would I have more of it?

There should be a World Organization that grants patience to those less fortunate. I am sure I would be eligible.

Is patience the secret sauce to life?
Does patience make us more beautiful?
Does having patience make us live longer?
Does having patience give our adrenal gland a vacation?
Does patience lower blood pressure and cholesterol?
I think there should be a patience hotline when you are desperate.

Or at the very least, someone should start a website called "Dear Patience," where you can write into and get advice when you have lost all of yours.

Learning to Meditate

It was clear at the end of last year that even though I was freed from the shackles of corporate life, I was almost no better off emotionally than I was sitting in my corner office with the stress of my old job. I had changed my career after thirty years, and moved my whole life, but I was still working myself into a frenzy.

By returning to Hawaii, I was coming back to a place that represented both paradise and a bit of self-imposed purgatory. There were less things to distract me from myself here in paradise, but the very things that were creating stress in my city life, were also pleasant distractions from my own neurotic thoughts.

I had met virtually every goal I set out to do in my personal and professional life, and yet, I was still on an emotional rollercoaster as I continued to search for purpose and meaning. I realized that it is the way I am wired and I needed to do something to break this pattern of anxiety and negative-thought patterns.  

So six months ago, I finally did something truly radical (or, well, radical for me.)

I started taking meditation classes.

Interesting to say the least.

Transcendental Meditation (TM) ads had been popping up on my Facebook page and a number of things occurred to me. I had been studying to practice meditation for years. Various friends throughout my life had always said to me, "You should try meditating." So I did yoga, pilates, acupuncture, massage, read books on meditation, bought apps, journaled, periodically sat quietly and even said, "Om." I continued to read every self-help book on diet, anxiety and negative- thought patterns.

I had basically done everything EXCEPT actually meditate. I had tried to meditate a few times, but sitting quietly for 20 minutes in an upright position actually just made me anxious, uncomfortable and almost had the opposite effect that it was supposed to. When I had attempted to practice, I would find myself distracted and then immediately beat myself up for "not doing it right." So I gave up.

But TM training proposed to give me specific instruction, a mantra and I wouldn't have to "mindfully" monitor my thoughts, watch my breath or sit in a specific kind of position. I would be coached, given my mantra and I would be on my way. The hard part is the doing it. It is a "practice" not an arrival... or a thing you check off a list like a boob job.

After years of doing everything "meditation adjacent," I was going to try the brand name. Move into the actual zip code. Invest in the Mothership.

I contacted the TM organization to find an instructor on the island.  There was only one.  She teaches out of her home, so we set up a time to meet for my first session.

In some ways, my teacher was straight out of central casting. She was older. Somewhere between 60 and 70. She had bright blue eyes and spoke in soft whispers.

She was warm and friendly and clearly loved what she does. She was also completely bald. No hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes.

I immediately admonished myself for judging my TM teacher.

Did I expect her to be beautiful?
Did I expect her to have a halo?
Did I expect her to have all the answers?
Did I expect her to be brilliant?

The answer is yes. I expected her to have all of those qualities and more.  I had a lot of questions for her.  Questions like:

Is religious chanting the same as meditation?
Is kneeling and praying the same as meditation?
Is long distance running the same as meditation?
Is taking an afternoon nap the same as meditation?
Which came first? Yoga or meditation?

My teacher couldn't answer these questions. She was surprised by the specificity of my questions and my desire to create these connections. I wanted her to connect all the dots of my cursory knowledge of religion, spirituality and alternative healing. She was not equipped for this conversation nor did she care. She was there for only one thing: to teach me how to meditate.

The Transcendental Meditation way.

I listened to her lecture and did as I was told. She performed a "gratitude" ceremony in Sanskrit. The ceremony felt longer than it should. The incense was particularly smoky and in my face. Although I was supposed to keep my eyes closed, I smelled something burning, so I discreetly peeked through one eye just in time to see the altar cloth starting to catch fire. I suggested that maybe she should throw some water on it. She stayed on script, patted out the fire, and went about her business finishing the ceremony.

We then sat on her sofa in her very rustic house. It was funky and eclectic. She sat next to me on the sofa. Her watery blue eyes were big and highlighted by the turquoise blue top she was wearing.

I was given my "mantra." One word. No meaning. "It's a sound," she said. We had to repeat it multiple times out loud in a normal voice, and then a few more times very softly, and then I was never to say it out loud again. I asked her how to spell it. She said she didn't know.

She had never seen it written. She was given thirty mantras to memorize and dispense to her various pupils. She selected the one that was right for me. I don't know how she knew what that would be. She asked NO questions about me. She literally knew nothing about me, except that I was a woman, and I was sitting in her living room trying to learn to meditate.

We "practiced" saying the mantra silently for a few more minutes and then we did a full 20 minutes of meditation. There were leaf blowers and lawn mowers rattling in the background. The incense continued to pollute the air with an unusual amount of smoke and an overwhelming scent. My mind was racing. She didn't give me instructions on how to breathe or even what to do with my hands. I had to pee and I had an itch on my nose. I wasn't sure if I was permitted to shift my weight and get comfortable or not. I kept saying the mantra in my head. Trying to figure out the spelling and where the syllables were in the pronunciation. My mind was racing with images and thoughts, judgments and doubt. I felt like I was in a prison and was so distracted by the smoke and the noise of the gardeners.

This was NOT what I was hoping for. Where was my peace? My enlightenment? My joy?

Finally, it was over. She asked me in her whispery voice, "How was that for you?" I told her, "Painful." I told her that all the smells and sounds of the environment were amplified like a horror movie. I was not comfortable and didn't know if I was allowed to move. Although I repeated the mantra for the ENTIRE 20 minutes, the images, thoughts and worries never left my brain. Now I remembered why I had never meditated more than a few times for a few minutes. I think it's easier to get a root canal. At least they numb your mouth and turn on music.

She smiled a toothy smile. "Perfect," she said.

What??? How is being physically uncomfortable and never quieting your thoughts perfect? She said, "Whatever happens happens. The mantra is always there to help guide you away from those thoughts if you would like." No. The mantra was like a badly subtitled movie. The various spellings that I had given it laid over the images and thoughts that raced through my head. I was neither relaxed nor energized. I did not connect to my teacher, her environment, my meditation experience, or my mantra. In fact, I had to think about it for several seconds, before remembering what the hell my mantra was.

If that wasn't bad enough, I was supposed  to practice on my own that afternoon, and I still had to come back for three more sessions.

Ugh.

Why couldn't we just use "Om?"

I knew that mantra. I liked that mantra. Why did I need a mantra that I couldn't see, remember or spell?

So I went home.

Frustrated.
Confused.
Judgmental.
Guilty for being judgmental.

Worried that I had fallen into some kind of infomercial scam. (Because Hollywood celebrities, "Swear by TM.")

But that afternoon, as instructed, I sat on my bed “to practice on my own.”  I have this beautiful, serene bedroom, which I spend absolutely no time in except to sleep at night. So, finally, I was going to take advantage of this beautiful room and try to meditate.

My little white fluffy dog, who follows me everywhere, was eager to sit on the bed with me. I had asked my TM teacher about meditating with my dog on my bed. She said, "As long as he doesn't disturb you during the 20 minutes. Dogs are loving creatures, but they can draw the energy away from you." So I told him, "If you can settle down for 20 minutes, you can stay with me while I meditate."

I sat down and closed my eyes. I folded my hands in my lap and my little hyper, poorly trained dog laid down at the edge of the bed and closed his eyes too. He sat like a little angel and was as quiet as a mouse. There was no incense blowing in my face. There were no altars about to catch fire. There were no leaf blowers or lawn mowers shrieking off in the distance. Everything was still and peaceful.

It was the greatest 20 minutes I can remember in a long time.

Ursula

Ursula is back and she's in rare form.

Ursula is my alter ego... and she is a bitch. She is the voice in my head that says things like: "I told you so" and "Don't be an idiot." I named her Ursula after the sea witch in Disney's The Little Mermaid. In the movie, Ursula steals Ariel's voice. When I am feeling stuck, Ursula steals my voice (confidence) too. Ironically, I don't picture the sea witch when I think about Ursula. Ursula looks more like Edna Mode (the costume designer) from The Incredibles. (Edna was the one who says to Mr. Incredible: "My God you've gotten fat" without batting an eyelash.)

Ursula showed up today because I needed to write a summary for this blog. It's a simple question: "What's your blog about?"

Why does that one question completely stop me in my tracks every time? Why can't I just say it in one or two sentences? Why is this so hard and creating so much doubt? It goes back to the "peanut gallery" commentary that I got back when I shared the "book" with family and friends.

"Who is going to read this?"
"What is it about?"
"Why would anyone care?"
"What are you trying to say?"
"What is the point of the story?"

Oh shit. I don't know. So now as I try and summarize it, I am completely blocked with Ursula saying, "You're an idiot." I am going to try to figure this out by just writing my way out of it:

Dear Ursula:
F*ck you.
I mean really.
I am so tired of you showing up and telling me why I CAN'T do something.

(Remember in elementary school when someone asked you a question and your answer was simply: "Because.")

Because Ursula.
Because I wrote these emails, that became a journal, that became a book, that became a blog. Because I am going to launch this blog and I might not have a good answer as to what it is about OR why someone should read it.
In fact, there is a hell of a good chance that NO one will read it OR like it.
But at least I wrote it and it was fun.

I used to mock corporate retreats where they would bring in coaches (meeting facilitators) to lock us in a hotel conference room for days at a time to come up with our mission statement for the year.  Or re-brand our network. Now I get it.  Now I understand the import of a logo.  A tagline.  A mission statement.  The elevator pitch if you will.  How did I spend 30 years in corporate America and miss how crucial this actually is?  Here I am trying to figure out a summary for one project.  A project that I wrote.  I created.  I envisioned… and I can’t even sum it up to one line.  Kind of crazy.

The irony is that I could actually change the tagline/blogline every single day if I don’t like it. But somehow it continues to be this personal goal to get it right before the launch.  To make sure that it speaks to me.  Represents me.  Amuses me and clarifies the endless question:  “What’s your blog about?”

It is definitely about life.  Definitely about reinvention.  A second act.  Definitely about Mondays.  Definitely about neurosis… and writing.

I wrote this journal because I was stressed and I was trying to find answers.

I wrote this journal because I wanted to learn how to write.

I wrote this journal because I spent my whole life juggling work/life balance and I had none. I wanted to start a new career (work) that had balance (life). I thought if I started writing maybe something would manifest.

I wrote this journal because I knew that I couldn't be the only woman on the planet who was trying to figure out her second chapter in life.

I wrote this journal because I was tired of feeling stressed all the time and I thought maybe I would find answers in writing.

I wrote this journal because I needed to find the humor and irony in my privileged life that didn't feel so privileged.

I wrote this journal because I was tired of reading self-help books that weren't helping. So I decided to help myself by writing.

I wrote this journal because I was in transition and I thought it would help me stay sane.

I wrote this journal because I thought maybe I could get rid of Ursula once and for all.

So f*ck you Ursula (or Edna) or whomever that naysayer is that lives inside all of us.

Mondays Are A Metaphor

Welcome to 52 Mondays... the blog.

I always like to manage expectations, so I need to warn you, I can’t promise that I will deliver you something every Monday.  I can’t even promise you that I will write on a Monday.  I will do my best, but there is a good chance that I might write on a random Tuesday.  So I just want you to be prepared.  I might not even be able to generate something every week.  

The original 52 Mondays were an exercise in maintaining my sanity and it gave me a path to follow when I was feeling rudderless.  

Now Mondays are a metaphor.  I no longer hate Mondays… and I am truly grateful for that evolution.  

Mondays are now just a placeholder for exploring ideas and feelings and the occasional rant.  

Mondays are a forum to share whatever topic (personal, professional or existential) that comes up.  

I look forward to hearing from you.   So feel free to comment or write me an email.  I would love to hear your thoughts too!

Happy Monday(s)!

Writing Constipation

I suppose I could have come up with a better title, but I went with whatever came out first.

I have writing constipation. They should make a stool softener for that. The writing constipation has been this way for awhile. It all started with sending my book out "wide" (and by "wide" I mean 8 or so people).

After completing the first 52 Mondays, I thought maybe there might be an opportunity to turn it into a book.  I thought maybe it would be one of those books you pick up at the airport that would be light reading.  Perhaps it would speak to the working woman.  Or working mother.  Or someone who has a challenging job.  Or just someone in transition in their life.  Or maybe just someone who was having a bad Monday.  

So I have spent the last 3 months trying to convert this journal into a book. I got a lot of notes back. I wanted a lot of notes.

Careful what you wish for.

Now I can't open the book to do a rewrite. Every word, every page represents what is wrong. Nothing is right. Well the cover is right, because it is a beautiful piece of artwork which someone else did. (Thank you, Sujean!)

So at least I like the cover.

But even the title seems no longer appropriate. It was 52 Mondays, which was intended to be a real time journal. A journal in an attempt to manage my sanity during the final weeks of my corporate life. But none of that happened.

My final year of corporate life came to a screeching halt just three months after I began writing. Followed by weeks of uncertainty as I transitioned into a new career and a series of moves. Not metaphoric moves. Actual moves. The packing up of offices. The packing up of homes. The moving of homes. (Three homes over the course of six months.) As for my sanity, I didn't manage that well either. Different job, different career, different home, different location... same neuroses.

A year and a half later, I "finished" the book, but it now needs a rewrite. An overhaul. But I am stuck. Which means I need a tow truck or the writer's version of AAA to help rescue it... or maybe to rescue me.

Now the book has become the embodiment of my self-doubt. The book was supposed to help me figure out who I was? What I wanted to be? What I wanted to do? The book taught me how to write. The book taught me about patterns of thinking. It led me to meditation. It showed me how much I love writing and collaborating.

But then the music (or my muse-ic) stopped. I don't have a book. I have a collection of journal entries with some old stories conjured up by those journal entries.

I no longer hate Mondays. But that has so much less to do with writing the book, than just leaving corporate life.

But I am full of doubt. Writing the book was the most fun I have had in years. I felt like it was a culmination of all the work I had done professionally and emotionally. I felt like I had completed something that I had set out to do.

But when the feedback came back and some people couldn't relate. Or that it was a little schizophrenic. Or that it lacked a cohesive arc. Or that it felt unsatisfying in the end. Or that it felt privileged (that's the hardest note to hear). I couldn't recover.

I was talking to my sister (who has been a big inspiration in my writing) and she said, "Why don't you turn this into a blog?"  

I thought that was a great idea.  Except for a couple of things:  I have no experience writing a blog. I have no experience reading blogs.  I am slightly computer illiterate (except for my prolific email writing).  

I like the idea of having a blog, so that I would keep writing.  I just want to make sure I am doing the "right thing?" Part of me is really excited and part of me wonders if I am undermining my dream of publishing a book.  Are they mutually exclusive?

To Blog or Not to Blog?  That is the question.

The Last Monday

It's my last Monday of the year. Number 52.

I survived a year that ended up being quite different than I thought it would be when it started.

I thought it would be the countdown of my last year as an executive. What was supposed to be a slow and torturous grind to a halt.

I imagined that it would be tough to stay focused and I would be marginalized to the point of invisibility.

I thought that I would have to work twice as hard to overcome the assumption that I would just be "phoning it in" during the final year.

But then everything changed.

January the company approached me about my future.
February the company restructured.
March the company allowed let me to lean back.
April the company made me a producer.
From May to August, the company gave me a TV series to produce. All while buying, selling, remodeling, homes and moving three times.
From September to December, I worked hard to develop new projects... but nothing sold.

So now my teeth are clenched, my shoulders are tight and my stomach acid is churning with stress, because I worry that I won’t be successful in my new career.

I am trying to stop and take pleasure in the little things that make me happy:

Playing tennis.
A glass of red wine or a cold beer.
A great latte.
A great dessert.

I am even trying to meditate. (Okay not exactly meditating, but instead of having negative thoughts, I remind myself to say "Om" for a minute or two.)

But when I am in this kind of mood, I worry that tennis is shredding my achy joints, alcohol is bad for me, coffee makes me anxious and sugar causes inflammation.

Even my fantasy life comes with an editor.

What I have learned, 52 Mondays later, is that it's not about Mondays.

Mondays are a metaphor for life.
There are good days and bad days.
Highs and Lows. We all have our patterns.

It doesn't matter whether I live in a big city.... or in "paradise."
It doesn't matter if I work for a big corporation.... or for myself.
It doesn't matter if I am an executive.... or a producer.

I still suffer from anxiety. The kind that comes and goes. The kind that has specific and non-specific triggers. I realize that the circumstances and people change, but the anxiety rears its ugly head anytime I feel like I am not in control. So the pattern is not the proverbial THEM... it's ME.

I should have realized this when I did everything possible to change my very busy, very hectic, very anxiety-producing life to an entirely NEW life. All changes in the right direction. All positive. All enviable.

But  as they say in Buckaroo Bonzai:
"No matter where you go, there you are."

Or as I like to say:
I moved to paradise, but I came with me.

Sigh.

But I am grateful for a lot of changes that I made this year:

I love the serenity of my home office.
I love not having to commute on a jam-packed freeway.
I love not having to dress up and wear high heels.
I love not having to attend daily meetings for the sake of meetings.
I love being home for my youngest daughter.
I love having my little dog at my side.
I love being able to make my own hours.
I love not having homework every weekend.
I love not having a boss.

All of  my projects might turn into something.

But it is quite possible that they won't turn into anything.

There are days where it feels like anything is possible…

And days where I feel like I am going to go crazy.

But perhaps the biggest change of all is that 52 Mondays later...

I no longer dread Mondays.

Maybe that’s my biggest accomplishment of all.

52 Shades of Neuroses

Given the rollercoaster of emotions lately. I am thinking about re-titling this. Perhaps 52 Shades of Neuroses is a more appropriate?

It's a bird.
It's a plane.
It's a book.
It's a blog.
It's a diary.
It's a collection of essays.
It's a bunch of random thoughts, doubts and self-indulgences.

It's "52 Shades of Neuroses." It's "52 Mondays."

I'm Going To Need Thicker Skin

I got a call yesterday from one of my daughter's classmates at college. She is going to do an internship at my old company this Spring and wanted my advice.

Whenever I hear someone wants to go into the entertainment business, my first reaction is to talk them out of it. I started both of my UCLA classes with this speech:

"It's a shitty business. It's a cutthroat business. It will eat you alive. It will infect your marriage(s), your children, your friendships and your overall well-being. It's a business you should only pursue because you can't imagine yourself doing anything else. It is a business of sheer perseverance, luck and timing.

Sometimes, if you can just survive it longer than anyone else, you will find yourself in charge.

If you absolutely MUST work in the entertainment business than my advice is:

Work harder than everyone else and develop a thick skin."

Here I am giving advice to a 21-year-old college senior, but really it is the advice I should be giving myself.

I find myself feeling demoralized as projects that I am putting together just aren't selling. It has thrown cold water on my proverbial camp fire and I can feel myself flaming out.

I am less interested in reading, meeting, traveling or unearthing new projects. I just want it to be different, better, more fun and more fruitful.

My more mature self knows that it takes time. My future self says hang in there. Every day is a new day. You've only been at this for six months.

Meanwhile, I'm going to need thicker skin.

My Old Frenemy: Stress

My teeth are clenched.

I feel anxious.

My left eye is twitching.

I can't fall back to sleep.

But I don't want to get up either.

I remember this feeling. This is my old frenemy: Stress.

We have been on-again/off-again roommates since I was very young. I keep thinking that I've outgrown Stress, but he just keeps coming back.

I do not like this old friend and Stress brought a new friend with him this time: Doubt.

I've met Doubt before, but we were never close. Doubt is only an occasional visitor, but has never stayed at my house for any length of time.

Doubt showed up this morning because I am headed on another business trip to LA.

Doubt remembers that my last business trip was so unfruitful. On my last trip, I received an email just as I was touching down on the tarmac at LAX. The network I was scheduled to meet with had finally read the script I sent them and decided it was too much like something else they already had.

Had they told me this even a day earlier, it could have saved me a trip and an $800 flight.

Then, my animation project also took a setback. The network we pitched it to said that the project needed to be much more adult. That is code for "raunchier." I don't want to do a raunchy low-brow show. I wanted it to feel like family entertainment that plays on two levels (kids and adults), but that is currently not in fashion.

I don't know why I am surprised by any of this. I know that the statistics of selling something are very low. Even lower for getting something made and even lower for it being successful. As I told my classes at UCLA: "Getting a show on the air is like winning the lottery... twice."

But in spite of that, I am heading back to LA. I have a four-and-a-half hour flight, so I need to be productive. Air travel is actually one of my favorite times to write. Quiet time. No texts, no emails, no phones, no dogs, no kids, no husband, no meetings, no laundry, no chores, no grocery shopping, no errands and no cooking. So I am completely free to write uninterrupted!

Or...

I could watch the first season of Parenthood that I downloaded on my iPad.

My brain is telling my body that we are at war. The message to my nervous system and adrenal glands is that I am in imminent danger... which is simply not true. So there is only one logical conclusion:

I am insane.

I have known this for a while, but I am usually good at keeping it under control. I am a highly functioning insane person. The problem is that when my physical body starts to hurt too much, I can't fake it as well. My clenched teeth and the tightness in my shoulders are constant reminders that the insanity is coursing through my veins.

Maybe I just need to exercise.

I was supposed to have 52 Mondays where I counted down to the end of my career and then I was going to feel closer to freedom and happiness. Instead I HAVE freedom and SHOULD be happy, but I remain with almost all of the same issues that I have always had. I think I have faulty wiring. I keep wrapping my neurons in some kind of metaphorical electrical tape, but the current that flows through me is too strong and I am in danger of short circuiting.

Thanksgiving

I made Thanksgiving dinner this year.

I haven't hosted a Thanksgiving in forever.  Mostly because I hate roasting a whole turkey.

I know what you are thinking. "Roasting a turkey is so easy! You just cover it in butter, stick it in the oven, and cook it on low all day."

My mother and grandmother made extraordinary Thanksgiving dinners when we were growing up. Every one of my siblings loves making Thanksgiving dinner. Every one of them loves roasting a turkey.  

Everyone but me. Somehow I missed the "memo" on how to roast the perfect turkey.

I tried to make a whole turkey... once.  It was a very long time ago and it left me moderately traumatized. I was a 25 year old newlywed (first marriage) and I thought I should make the Thanksgiving dinner.  I had mastered all the side dishes over the years. I had just never made an actual turkey.

6 am. Thanksgiving Day, 1989.  I got up early to get a head start. I was ready to conquer the bird. I just didn't know what to do first? Do I rinse it off? How do I stuff it? How many hours do I really need to cook it?

So I called one of my brothers. In those days, when I would call him, like most older brothers, he looked for any opportunity to tease me about anything he could. I said, "I need help." He was like, "What do you mean you need help? Haven't you ever made a turkey before?" I had to admit that I was the only one in the family who didn't get the "roasting turkey gene." So he proceeded to guide me through it like mission control talking to an astronaut in outer space.

He tells me to stick my hand up the turkey and remove the stuff from inside. "Wait.  What stuff? Remove it from where?" I ask.

How was I supposed to know that the giblets and neck were stuffed up the butt of the turkey for safekeeping? By the way, it's not safe at all, because you can't cook a turkey with all of its "stuff" jammed up inside of it.

"I don't want to put my hand up the turkey's butt," I said. He was in hysterics laughing at me.

But I couldn't find the "stuff" that he was talking about.  (Apparently, my turkey was still partially frozen, which is why I couldn't get it out.) The whole thing was incredibly gross and my hand was getting frost bite from the frozen cavity where I was attempting to dig around. I ended up having to wait a few more hours until it thawed out more to try again.

Eventually I got it into the oven. I opened and closed the oven door every fifteen minutes like a nervous mother watching her baby sleep. I was worried that it wouldn't turn golden brown, or be moist enough, or cooked through, or the stuffing would be undercooked and my guests would all get Salmonella poisoning and die.  

Everyone survived but I vowed NEVER to roast another turkey again.

Side dishes, however, I excel at. So that’s what we are eating this year: side dishes only, no turkey.

Most of my family is on the mainland this year so we are hosting a small dinner.  My husband doesn't like roasted turkey, my sister-in-law and her partner are both vegans and my youngest daughter only wants cucumber sushi rolls for Thanksgiving.  (I know how weird that sounds.  It's because one year we went to a hotel buffet that had platters of sushi available and that was her favorite Thanksgiving ever.)

I decided to throw in some gluten-free options as well. I planned the menu and did my grocery shopping days in advance. I went to four different markets to get all the ingredients: almond milk instead of regular milk; coconut oil instead of butter; etc.

I got a late start on cooking because our family spent the morning playing Pickleball. By the time I got home, there was no time to shower or eat. I needed to get busy. I had decided to make ten dishes from scratch and each one of them was more labor intensive than the next.

I quickly realized two of my recipes were Cuisinart dependent. No problem except that my Cuisinart was in Los Angeles. That just translated into a lot more hand chopping, mixing and freaking out. I was also missing two key ingredients for my chickpea vegan loaf and one of my gluten-free peach cobblers. So now I was running behind, sweating like a pig, starving and improvising.

Normally making dinner for six people is easy for me, but I felt this extra pressure because it was Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe I was overcompensating for not serving the traditional roasted turkey... not that anyone would have eaten it anyway.

Or maybe I felt like I had to make the meal extraordinary because I feel like I have nothing else going on right now. If I was selling or producing TV shows, I would be "too busy" to make Thanksgiving dinner. But since I am not, I feel like I need to be the perfect homemaker. This could very well be the only other career I have if this producing "thing" doesn't work out.

In the end, this one-woman-cooking-show turned out pretty great.  My turkey meatloaf was moist and delicious.  My chickpea vegan loaf came out awesome.  My roasted Brussel sprouts were a big crowd pleaser. My yam casserole was divine.  My whipped potatoes were creamy and delicious.  My stuffing was excellent (even though I cheated and used the boxed kind).  Not everything was perfect.  My collard greens were a little soggy and underappreciated, and my peach cobblers were a little mushy. Nevertheless, my husband thought it was one of the best Thanksgiving dinners ever!

My daughter, on the other hand, said she missed having cucumber rolls.

Sigh.

Diary of a Mad Housewife (Former TV Executive)

Seriously? How did it get to be Thanksgiving week? In Hawaii, there is very little demarkation of seasons.  It's pretty much summer all year round with a little more rain in the winter.  But it could be Memorial Day for all I know.  

I have a sense that we must be getting close to the holidays, because I begin to carbo-load and crave baked goods. Especially pumpkin anything.  

Or perhaps I am craving the comfort of warm baked goods, because I am feeling out of sorts. Producing (or developing) is hard work. I read and write every day, but some days there is no one to respond. The studios and networks are busy. My partners, writers, animators and producers, miss their deadlines.

Sometimes yesterday's BRILLIANT idea is a lot less brilliant the next day.

Somedays I am just tired and would rather look up recipes for gluten-free banana bread. Knowing perfectly well it won't be as good.

I find myself domesticating a lot more. If I can't be producing a television series (or supervising up to twelve series a year as an executive), I find the need to do a lot more laundry. I also go to the grocery store a lot more. I also cook a lot more. I bake a lot more. I also wipe down the counters a lot more. Some people might say "obsessively" more. I even bought a SECOND crock pot. Don't judge. It was on sale at Costco.

The true highlight of last week was when my 12-year-old found these "crock pot cooking liners" at Target. No more scrubbing the insanely unwieldy crock pots for an hour after making a "simple meal" with my hands. Game changer!

This has turned into some kind of tragic remake of "Diary of a Housewife." No longer a high-powered television executive. No longer a player in the game of Hollywood life. Not even a TV producer at this moment. I am now writing about crock pot liners. The irony is not lost on me.

When You Least Expect It

All of those meetings in LA last week, and still no one is calling.

The "hurry up and wait" is the worst part of this business.

I have to remember that sometimes success is not linear. Sometimes success comes after years of preparation and often times when you least expect it.

When I left my job, at one of the big networks back in 2000, one of my bosses said to me, "Why would you ever leave a broadcast network to go to a cable channel? They don't even have any shows on the air." I responded by saying, "If I put just one successful show on the air, I will be a hero. If I fail, I will be out of a job in two years and no one will remember I was ever there."

At that time, basic cable (USA, TNT, Lifetime, FX, etc.) were not remotely competitors to broadcast television (ABC, NBC, CBS & FOX), which was still king. 

When I went to head up Scripted Programming at that cable channel, I took only one script with me. A script that we were unable to find the right lead actor for. I was betting that my old network would eventually give up on the script. Two years later, my new cable channel acquired the script and turned it into a series.  That series broke all kinds of records for basic cable. It was a huge hit and ran for several seasons.

The following year that lead actor was nominated for an Emmy. The cable channel had never been nominated for an Emmy in such a prestigious category. It was a big deal.

While I had been to the Emmys a number of times, this was the first time I was going alone. I was going through a divorce, so I was not offered a "plus 1" ticket. My bosses were married, so they brought their wives and sat together in the same row. I was in a separate row in a completely different part of the auditorium.  Sitting alone.

As I have mentioned, award shows are stressful enough. You start getting ready (hair, makeup, manicure, pedicure, the right dress, the right shoes, the right purse) hours before you go to the actual event. Then you have to leave at least two hours early because of traffic. It is truly an all day and all night event.

But dressing up in black tie attire and driving yourself in bumper-to-bumper traffic is another level of stress. My "best friend," who worked for another network, had offered to take me in her limo, but then changed her mind at the last minute, so I had to drive myself.

I arrived by myself. Sat by myself. Feeling quite out of place and alone.

When they announced our star had won, we all jumped up. He went on stage to give his speech and then I heard MY name. He was giving a special thanks to me. 

As I exited the auditorium, dozens of people were congratulating me on my "shoutout." For a moment, I was famous too. My "best friend" called me and said, "If I had known that you were going to win the Emmy, we would have taken you in our limo." (Yeah.  I thought that was tacky too.)

The "shoutout" probably did more for my career than all the years that preceded it. Success is not always linear and sometimes it happens when you least expect it. I had told my former boss, at that broadcast network, I only needed one hit. I finally had one. Ironically it was because they passed on the script that enabled us to make it as a hit show and win our very first Emmy!

So as I wait to sell my first project, I have to remember that it took almost three years for that first hit to come, when I made my big move from broadcast to cable 16 years ago.

But today the phone is not ringing and my projects are not selling, so I am feeling very much alone in that single seat in the metaphoric auditorium of Hollywood. 

I Need A Pep Talk

My brain is full. My muscles are tired.

I have gone over the speed limit... even for me.

I am back on a plane heading to LA again.

I have three new projects that I am taking out this week.

I am starting to have stress dreams again. I'm not sure they ever stopped. I feel very uncertain of this whole trip. Clearly, I am feeling like I am not in control of anything.

I am grateful (every day) to not be in my old job. I am grateful to have survived it, learned from it and benefited from the education and reaped the rewards. Why would I think producing is any easier or faster? It takes time.

ALL good things take time.

Monday's pep talk for the crazy.

I have also lost my funny these last couple of weeks.

I went looking for inspiration on social media, but there is so much horrible stuff right now due to the Presidential election. Even the political satire is not cheering me up.

What am I so freaked out about?

Who cares if I never produce another show?

Who cares if I never sell a show?

Apparently, I do.

Can We Talk About My Feet?

When I was young, I wore a lot of "bad" sneakers with no arch support. You know the kind: Converse, Keds, Vans, etc. In the summer, we wore rubber sandals that cost $1 at the drugstore. Again, no arch support. Bad for anyone. Deadly for someone with flat feet... me.

When I became an executive in television, it was very important to look the part. Most women wore high heels because, let's be honest, they make you look taller, leaner, more professional and more sophisticated.

In spite of always working in an office, I was often on my feet a lot. By the end of the day, my feet were so achey that I couldn't bear the thought of walking back to the car. If I had an evening event (e.g., drinks, dinner, a screening or an audience taping for a sitcom), I just wanted to die.

So why not bring a change of shoes? Why not just wear flats? Because I was a moron... and I guess vanity got the best of me.

Of course, now my feet have arthritis and bunions. The mere thought of putting a high-heeled shoe on sounds worse than having my fingernails pulled out.

The single best thing about being a producer is that I wear a tee-shirt, yoga pants and flip-flops (technically Birkenstocks) when I work at home. When I am in LA for meetings, I wear a tee-shirt, jeans and sneakers (with arch support). I absolutely love it.

After four years of working remotely from Hawaii, I got the offer to come back to LA for a bigger position and one last "tour of duty."  After I excepted the job, the company needed a new headshot for the press release about my promotion.

The publicity department was very specific about the headshot being corporate, but not too corporate. I found a photography studio in our one and only shopping mall. I made an appointment and explained to them that I needed a corporate headshot, but it had to be of a certain caliber for publicity distribution... blah blah blah.

Meanwhile, I had absolutely no corporate clothing on the island. I needed something professional, but not stuffy. Not a suit, but not a flow-y dress either. I found a cream-colored dress that was just right at a store at the mall, but it was not easy. It was probably a size too small, but I squeezed into it because it was the only one and it was just the right look I was going for.

I made an appointment with my hairdresser, who has a become a dear friend. I told her that I needed to straighten my hair, not too straight, but not too glam either. She did my makeup too. I told her that I didn't wear much makeup. It needed to look like me, but not too much like me. I needed to look professional, but not too severe. I needed to look polished, but not too theatrical. Exhausting.

So off I go to the "portrait studio," where they took me into the back room as I waded through beach balls, umbrellas, oversized sunglasses, costumes of all kinds and a lot of little kid props. We found a director's chair, where I sat and tried to look casual, but professional. It took about an hour to find just the right balance of happy, but not giddy. Relaxed, but not too relaxed. Professional, but not uptight. The ridiculous-ness of this is not lost on me.

Between buying the dress, getting my hair and makeup done, getting to the photo studio and getting enough different options that the publicity department might find one they could use, the sun was starting to set and I was starving. I stopped at a health food store to grab a protein bar to hold me over on the drive home.

As I was paying for my over-priced protein bar, a man in a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops comes up to me.

"Damn!" he said.

I looked over my shoulder to see who or what he was referring to.

He was staring at me. "You look like you just walked out of some fancy Century City law office. So either you're not from around here or that is the best Halloween costume I have ever seen."

I started laughing.  I had completely forgotten it was Halloween. 

In hindsight, he was right. I was wearing a costume and I was playing a role. I had been playing a role my whole life and now I was returning to the stage to play the role one more time... for a three-year run.

Meanwhile, my feet were already killing me and all I did was have my picture taken.

Why Am I Not Exhaling?

I have been reading a lot. Autobiographies and biographies mostly. I forgot that I like to read. I am also reading fiction. Not a big fan of fiction... unless of course it reads like non-fiction. I think that means, I really like autobiographies. Memoirs. Stories about people's lives.

Maybe that's the psychologist in me. I like hearing people's stories. I like hearing about people overcoming adversity and finding a theme to their life. Or better yet a purpose or calling.

I think we all are searching for meaning and purpose. We all want to be great at something... even when we feel like we are often failures. Age gives you the perspective to discover that we are all good at something. It might be something small, but we can still be experts in that.

I am very good at organizing things. Not everything, but I like order. I like order so much that one might call it a "disorder." Organization helps me think clearly. It makes me feel productive. It defines me. It also makes me crazy because, as much as I like order, I hate chaos. Since life is more often chaotic, I find myself feeling agitated a lot.

I was watching Jimmy Kimmel the other night. President Obama was his special guest. Obama has this cool ease about him now. You can see the visible exhale. You can see the sly sense of humor. You can see the horse on the way back to the proverbial barn. Kimmel said something like, "You are kind of coasting now." Obama said, "Well, I don't want to jinx it. I still have a few months in office." That's how I feel!  But how come Obama looks more relaxed than I do?

So why am I not exhaling? What am I afraid of jinxing? Did I just compare my career in television to being the leader of the free world? Oy.

When I talk to my friends from my old job, I listen to them talk about the endless meetings, the scripts, the corporate off-sites to discuss the brand, the re-brand, the strategy, the new direction, the post-mortem of failed shows and the endless politics of structure and restructuring. I can't believe that was ever my life and I am so grateful to be out of it.

Shut Up and Get Back to Work

My series premiered last night. Radio silence from the studio and the network.

Crickets. It's like it never happened.

Sigh.

I have had dozens and dozens of TV series premiere before, but this was the first one that I ever produced. I somehow wanted it to feel different, but it didn't. It was just like when I was an executive. Sometimes people watched. Sometimes people didn't. Sometimes it took months (or years) before I knew that a show even had a fan base.

I have been having crazy dreams lately.
Stress related dreams.
My anxiety is back.
Anxiety of the unknown.

The mania of selling, moving (twice), remodeling and moving again, changing careers, promises of new ideas, writing, reading, developing, talking, meeting, almost selling, traveling, producing, editing, new schools, new homes, new friends, old friends, birthdays and more birthdays... the ferris wheel is slowing down and the anxiety is settling back in.

Maybe I need to embrace the possibility that there is simply no work. Development is a slow process and a lot of talking to yourself... or in my case, my long distance assistant. But I am starting to have doubt that anything will materialize.

Scripts that I have been overseeing are just not coming in that well. They are all fine. Competent. But where to sell? Who will read? Who will buy? The marketplace is too saturated. Everyone wants bigger names. Bigger packages. IP! This is the new Hollywood buzz word term. It means "Intellectual Property." Aka pre-existing titles. It can be anything: a book, movie, video game, toy, someone famous. I literally know a writer who couldn't sell a TV idea, so he's writing the book first, then he will sell the book as IP, just to sell it as a television series.

Ok. Shut up. Stop complaining. A few weeks ago I was high as a kite that everything was possible... now I am crying into my beer. Ugh! I even hate the cliches that I've chosen for this week.

I need inspiration. I tried doing a Sudoku puzzle this morning. I finished in just a few minutes... only to discover it was the "easy" one. So I moved onto the crossword puzzle. Almost finished that too, but then I remembered it's Monday. They always give you an easy puzzle on Monday. It's probably supposed to make you feel better about yourself. It didn't.

I feel like I am on a negative jag. I get a little OCD when I have too much time on my hands. I start noticing every spec of dust on the countertops. I find myself reloading the dishwasher, because no one else maximizes the slots properly. I find myself gossiping about others and getting super "judge-y" about everyone. I don't like that person. That's how unhappy people behave... not happy people.

I should be a happy person.
I am a happy person, so why am I tossing and turning at night?
Why am I so worried about work?
Why am I super judgmental right now?

I am feeling geographically marginalized today. I live on a small island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Why should anyone take me seriously as a producer?

But if I lived in LA, there is no guarantee that I wouldn't be just another producer.

Besides, I don't want to live in LA, work in an office, wear tight clothes and high heels, work too many hours, not exercise, not look at nature, and rat race around in traffic. This is the list my husband loves to remind me of when I start complaining that I should be living in LA in order to build my career as a producer.

I want to be home with my little white fluffy (co-dependent) dog, eating healthy food, enjoying the serenity of my garden outside of my home office and being able to pick up and drop off my daughter at school.

Ok then. It's settled. I need to shut up and get back to work.

Sweating the Small and Big Stuff

Last night's presidential debate was like watching a divorce proceeding. It had all the makings of divorce court: mud slinging, name calling and threatening someone you used to be friends with. Gross. When it was over, I felt like I needed a shower and a Xanax.

The world is topsy turvy and I still wake up with my own self-consumption of minutia. I know perfectly well that the world is dealing with:

The devastation of Hurricane Matthew in Haiti.
The refugees of Syria.
The hate crimes in our own country.
The gun violence still out of control in schools.
Worldwide poverty.
Viruses being spread by mosquitos.
Cancer.
Destruction of the ozone layer.
Whether or not sunscreen is saving us or killing us?
Whether or not bottled water is saving us or killing us?
Whether or not cell phones are saving us or killing us?

And yet I still woke up on this Monday morning and thought to myself:

Why haven't I sold a TV show yet?

Seriously? Am I insane?

I spent thirty years in an industry that I couldn't wait to get out of.
I moved to Hawaii.
I am safe.
I am healthy.
I have a wonderful family, but THAT is the FIRST thought I had this morning?

It's Monday and I have no meetings.
No scheduled phone calls.
Only one script to read.
Why am I not celebrating?
Why am I not playing tennis?
Why am I not out riding my bike?
Why am I not having lunch with a friend?
Why am I sitting at my computer?
Why am I filing paperwork?
Why am I actually worried about this?

I found myself actually blaming the presidential debate on my intellectual malaise. I thought if I hadn't wasted 90 minutes of my life, watching the mud wrestling match they called a debate, I would have read something or written something that inspired me to come up with something interesting to further my career today.

I would have spent less time worrying that my bank is charging me $15/month to have a business checking account. I would have spent less time on whether or not my insurance bill should go in my "production company" file or in a separate insurance file. Should old bills go in a "receipt" file or a "bill" file? Should I change my bright yellow hanging folders to a new color theme now that I am in business for myself? WTF? I am losing my mind.

Monday. Sigh.

I should be more grateful.
I get to dress casually.
The weather is beautiful.
My little white dog is sleeping peacefully at the foot of my desk.

I should not have a care in the world... and yet, I seem to be worried about everything today.

If only I could sell a TV show.