Advice from my teenage self

I know I should be writing about Thanksgiving today, and I will, but something else is on my mind today.

We were on our way to dinner last night when my daughter ran into a group of her friends from school. They were all coming from the beach (and earlier at the mall). You could see the look of hurt on her face.  

I remember that feeling so well. I remember junior high school cliques. I remember not being included too.  

We all do.

I’ve been thinking today about my own experiences back then.

I had a “best friend” from the 3rd to 9th grade was one of the “cool girls.” She was the one who taught me to smoke cigarettes. She was the one who dared me to kiss a boy at a party. She was the first girl I knew who shaved her legs. She was the first girl I knew who wore a bra. She was the first girl I knew who did not wear a bra (when “tube tops” became popular in the 70s). She was the one who dragged me to my first rock ‘n’ roll concert. She was the first one who got me to smoke pot (which I always hated and still do). She was popular with the girls… and the boys all thought she was “hot.” I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She was my “bad girl” influence. 

But she was also super judge-y and often made me feel very insecure. She was a mean girl and she was mean to me even though we were “best friends.”

After junior high, we ended up going to different high schools and eventually, we lost touch for almost twenty years. In our late 30s, she found me through early social media and reached out. After hours and hours of getting reacquainted via email and telephone, we ended up rekindling our friendship. She has been a dear and close (albeit long distance) friend ever since. We email regularly… almost as an homage to years of passing notes to each other in class.

When we first got reacquainted, she apologized for being so mean to me when we were kids. I didn’t expect an apology. Nor did I need one. But I was curious to know why she was so mean to me back then. She told me that she acted that way out of jealousy.

Really?! Didn’t see that coming. That would have been awesome information to know a couple of decades ago.

I was someone’s BFF at the expense of my own confidence, self-esteem, and point-of-view. I took a backseat to their whims, their preferences, their ideas and their opinions because they were jealous of me? Fascinating. How many times have I done this in other aspects of my life? Who else did I not stand up to, or express myself honestly to, because I felt less important, less popular, less attractive, less valuable? Did I allow other people in my life to treat me poorly for the same reason?  

But my friend said she was jealous of me because “I always had my sh*t together.” That’s not exactly the way I remember it. My mother had died and my father was absent... a lot. I often felt lonely, and like most pre-teens, I felt awkward and unsure of myself. I felt like my frizzy hair and my shapeless body were the essence of my very existence. The only thing I had was the “gift of gab” and I was driven to do well in school. I just didn’t know how the rest of my life was going to turn out.  When you’re that age, you often feel kind of hopeless and not in control of your own destiny.

In spite of that, I found my path. Not a linear path… and certainly not an easy one. But, in some ways, it turned out even better than I imagined. I survived my disappointments, my rejections and my heartbreaks. As for my childhood best friend, she has become my pen pal, my confidant and, in many ways, my most reliable and trusted friend over the last 15 years. I am so grateful to have her back in my life every day.

If only I could have known back then, what I know now?

So today, as I find myself questioning my future in a very similar way to the way I did when I was younger, I’m going to give myself the advice that I didn’t have back then.

Do NOT be worried because you feel uncertain of your future.

Do NOT be worried because you are uncertain of how you will make a living next year.

Do NOT be worried because you are unsure if your blog is reaching enough people.

Do NOT be worried because people you love are hurting.

Do NOT be worried because you feel helpless to help them.

Do NOT be worried because you are doubting your ability as a producer.

Do NOT be worried because you are doubting yourself as a writer.

Do NOT be worried because this work is hard.

Do NOT be worried because you are uncertain of what to write next.

Do NOT be worried because your neck is stiff and your shoulder is achy.

Do NOT be worried because you feel blue today.  

Be Patient.

Be Positive.

Be Confident.

Be Open.

Be Available.

Be Happy.

Be Yourself.

Be Honest.

Behold.  Something great is coming.

Feeling Gloomy

It’s a gloomy day today.  Drizzling on and off. I am listening to Jazz music, trying to find some solace, but it’s not coming.  I got a lot of bad news last week.  

One of my friends is suffering from terrible depression and anxiety.  Although she has battled with it before, the last six months she had made an incredible breakthrough. She started feeling really good again, dating, working, traveling and feeling hopeful for the first time in a long time.  But a few weeks ago, it started to creep back.  First slowly and manageably.  Now relentlessly and less manageably.  Work is becoming overwhelming for her.  Her dating life has suddenly come to a halt.  Her energy is so low that getting out of bed is difficult.  Her appetite has diminished.  I am trying to help her, but I feel like I am too far away to have an impact. I feel her sadness.

Tuesday I got the terrible news that a friend of mine has breast cancer.  She is in her late 40s and has two little kids. I know a lot of breast cancer survivors, but this still hit me hard.  Maybe because she’s younger than me.  Maybe because she’s slightly older than my mom was when she was diagnosed.  Maybe because she had to tell her two little kids. Two little kids that are around the same age I was when my mom told me she had cancer.  Maybe because she is also Jewish, Type A, a big executive and we are so much alike. It resonates profoundly with me on every level. I ache for her and her children.  

Wednesday my Dad went to the hospital.  He is 90-years old and has survived his own cancer, surgery and radiation this year.   He’s in good spirits and they are only keeping him for more observation.  But this too has made me sad.

So this week, I just feel gloomy and sad.  It’s not even my sadness.  It’s a collective sadness for people that I love.  Things I can’t control.  Things that are inevitable and impermanent, but things that bring me profound sadness nonetheless.  

So I think I will take my helplessness and channel it to a prayer for my friends and to my dad who are all struggling today.

I feel your sadness and I want so desperately to make it disappear.

Chasing Rainbows

This morning, as I was driving my daughter to school, there was a particularly spectacular rainbow in front of us.  Since I was driving the car, in the rain, in traffic, I couldn’t reach for my phone to snap a picture.  But I thought, “Once I drop her off, I will be able to pull over and get a great photo."

The rainbow was so clear.  It was a full one, from end to end.  But just as I pulled into the carpool line, the clouds opened up... and water just dumped out of the sky. The rainbow was gone.

I thought, “It will be sunny on the other side of the highway. I could get my photo over there. We’re only talking about a few extra minutes of driving.”  

It was sunny on the other side of the highway, but dark clouds had erased the beautiful rainbow. So I thought, “I will drive around and find a different perspective.  There must be another one.  Maybe even a bigger one. A better one?” I drove around for another 10 minutes but there were no rainbow in sight.  I thought to myself… “Am I literally chasing rainbows?”

I needed to get home to start prepping tomorrow’s dinner.  I am having a very small Thanksgiving this year, but that’s what I said last year. I ended up waiting until the last minute and I was sweating bullets trying to get it all done.  So this year, I promised myself that I would get a head start on it.  

But I’d really rather be out chasing rainbows for awhile longer...

(As it turns out, my daughter had actually snapped the picture I had been hoping to get.)

Hurricane Harvey

It struck me when I saw Harvey Weinstein’s grizzly mug on the cover of Time Magazine, that we’ve had two "Hurricane Harveys" this year.  

One obviously came with only a few days notice before it wreaked havoc on the city of Houston and its outer lying suburbs. It left incredible devastation in its wake.

The other one was 30 years in the making and the trail of his wake has barely begun to surface. The damage that was done to his victims is slowly revealing itself. But the damage it has done to “Hollywood” is pretty ugly too and will continue for many years to come.  

Sexual harassment has been a dirty little secret in Hollywood (and many other industries) for decades. Now the veil has been lifted and people are talking about it openly. Harvey Weinstein is not the first person to take advantage of his unyielding power and use it for ill-gotten gain. But alongside Bill Cosby, he is the latest to be revealed... and now there is a movement to stop it in its tracks.  

Truth be told, I didn’t know Harvey Weinstein very well. I met him once or twice. I knew people who worked for him for a very long time. The rumors I had always heard were not about sexual harassment, but that he was a classic Hollywood 500-pound gorilla. A guy who yelled and screamed. A guy who hired and fired people on a whim. A guy who could make your life very miserable, if you got on his bad side. A guy who could make or break your career. A classic bully. A big scary bully.  

So that is another dirty secret in Hollywood. We have bullies. Again, every industry, every school, every business, every club has bullies. But Hollywood has some of the biggest, and they are powerful, and they are rich... and that just makes it worse.

I have worked for a lot of bullies. Men and women. Young and old. Working for a bully can deprive you of your self-esteem, your sanity, and your health. But in Hollywood, you are taught to “tolerate” that behavior. If you don’t tolerate it, you are out. If you don’t tolerate it, you don’t deserve to be promoted. When I started in the entertainment business, we barely had Human Resources departments. It was just the way it was.  I took it.  I survived it.  I succeeded in spite of it. But just because you survive it (and are promoted) doesn’t mean it ends. Bullies are everywhere. Sometimes it is your boss, sometimes it is a powerful producer, actor or director. I hated it and I hated myself for tolerating it.

In some cases, I stood up for myself.  Often times for others. Sometimes standing up for myself got me fired. Hollywood is like the military. It beats you down and builds you up, so that it can make a “man” out of you. It made me tough, but it also made me compassionate. In some ways, I think it made me a better leader. 

Looking back, I am not sure how I would have (could have) done it differently.  The problem is with the culture.  Those bullies were empowered by someone… at some point. So it comes from the top.  It has to come from the top. It starts with role modeling and zero tolerance for bad behavior. It starts with kindness and human decency.

Hollywood is about to tackle sexual harassment head on, but we need to address both sexual harassment and just plain old-fashioned harassment. Harvey will be the poster child for this crusade. He is the embodiment of taking advantage of his power and using it against women who were his victims. Predatory behavior must be stopped in its tracks.  But I believe, it is the abuse of power to be the fundamental issue. It’s not just a Hollywood issue, we see it in the political system and everywhere there is hierarchy.  

I think Robert Fulghum said it best in his book, “All I Really Need to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten."

1. Share everything.
2. Play fair.
3. Don't hit people.
4. Put things back where you found them.
5. Clean up your own mess.
6. Don't take things that aren't yours.
7. Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.

Existential Musings At The Dog Park

There is a really nice dog park near my house complete with: poopie bags, waste receptacles, water bowls, shade and benches for the dog owners. They even have one side for little dogs and one side for big dogs.  It’s kind of great.

I decided I was going to take my dog there over the weekend.  We tried this once before (at a different dog park), when he was little, but it didn’t go well.  Most of those dogs were about 75 pounds bigger than he was.  They came charging at him to say hello.  Sniffed his butt... and then considered using him as a chew toy.  He was traumatized and we never went back.

But that was five years ago, and I hoped this dog park was going to be a better experience, so off we went.

For the most part it was a better experience.  Unfortunately, my little dog wasn’t that interested in being in this lovely gated space with his own kind.  He did follow around one dog (a male dachshund) who seemed to pee and poop his entire body weight during his visit. I think my dog was impressed by this little “waste management factory” on four legs. Other than that, my dog didn’t play with the other dogs and he looked kind of bored.

As I was observing the pecking order and social dynamics of the dog park, it occurred to me that a dog park is a bit of a metaphor of human social environments.

It falls somewhere between a playground and a singles bar… for dogs.

My dog is neutered, so he’s not that interested in “picking-up” girls, nor is he that interested in playing with other dogs. To him, the dog park is more like a “Mommy & Me” group to help him socialize with others.  But since he's kind of a "momma's boy," he was mostly interested in hanging out with just me.

I would think he would love to be somewhere outside where he can run freely, but apparently it is more fun to run around on his own property, where he can get lost by squeezing through the hundreds of holes in our fences.

But it started me thinking about how hard it is to make “new friends.”  

I would think all dogs want the same things: a playmate and the freedom to run off leash.

But maybe that’s more of a “big dog” thing?  Maybe small dogs are just more insecure, so they don’t “bond” or “play” as nicely with other dogs?  When we go for walks in the neighborhood, my dog acts like he owns the neighborhood.  He barks at big dogs who aren't even looking in his direction, but he wants to remind them that he's the boss.  Or at least, he thinks he is.  Little dogs are often very bossy.

It makes me wonder… What kind of dog am I?

Ideally, I aspire to be a big Golden Labrador.  Big enough to not get pushed around, but sweet enough that I can be trusted.  Labs are kind of the perfect dog.  They are loyal, cuddly, loving and protective, but they are not perceived as a threat.  Their only shortcomings are that they shed and their tails tend to “sweep” coffee tables.

But I am probably not carefree enough to be a Labrador. They are loving creatures who have no “off” switch for play time. They are the party animals of dog breeds.  They will keep playing until they drop. 

I am a big fan of Bulldogs... particularly the English ones. Bulldogs get a bad rap as being unfriendly watchdogs.  The truth is they are really adorable and loving.  But they tend to be a little lazy and they sleep a lot, so I am probably not a Bulldog either.  

I am too much of a work horse. Too much of a rule follower.  Which probably makes me more of German Shepherd. Hyper-vigilant.  Loyal.  Intense.

Maybe there is an existential conflict in all us.  What we want to be vs. what we are?

For what it's worth, my little dog thinks he's a Rottweiler.  

Mommie Dearest

I think last night I might have officially lost any hope for becoming “Mother of The Year.” In fact, I might have put myself into a Joan Crawford-like category for “Crazy Mother of the Year."

It all started after picking up my youngest daughter from volleyball practice after school. I dropped her at home to get her homework done while I went to an afternoon yoga class. In addition to doing her homework, I reminded her to bring her dirty laundry into the laundry room and tidy-up her room. She had two hours to accomplish these three tasks. Then she would basically free to do whatever she wanted with the exception of watching TV (which we really try to limit during the school week).

I returned home two hours later and she was “still doing her homework.” Hmmm. That was a little suspicious, but I went with it. She said she was starving and asked when dinner would be ready? I had already made turkey meat sauce earlier in the day, so all I needed to do was boil some pasta. I said, “I could have dinner on the table in about 15 minutes.” She said, “I am going to shower while the pasta is cooking.”  

As she headed towards the bathroom, I asked her if she had brought her dirty clothes into the laundry room yet? Nope.  

“Did you tidy your room yet?” Nope.

“I was doing my homework.”

“This whole time?”

She nodded yes. So I asked, “Then are you finished with your homework?”

“Almost,” she replied.

You can see where this is heading. I took a deep breath, fed the dog, sorted my own laundry, started cooking the pasta and setting the table. Even after all of that, my daughter was still not out of the shower. So, I decided to see what was taking so long. I was hopeful that she was busy tidying-up her room and gathering her dirty laundry. But as I approached her room, and then the bathroom, I could still hear the shower running. Not good.

I felt my inner-control-freak start to awaken.

I turned the corner and could see that she was still in the shower and, at the back end of the shower, was a clear plastic bag hanging from a towel hook. Inside that plastic bag was her iPhone playing an episode of cartoons on Netflix.

Yes, she was watching television IN the shower on her iPhone. No, she is not allowed to watch TV during the week.  Yes, she was supposed to be taking a “quick” shower. Yes, she was supposed to be cleaning her room. Yes, she was supposed to be bringing her dirty laundry into the laundry room. Let’s not even mention the fact that was wasting water… a ton of HOT water no less.   

Meanwhile, her room remained an unmitigated disaster. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere. The laundry basket was overflowing with clothing and every single pair of her dirty socks were UNDER her bed. (Mind you, I was only gone SIX days.)

To say “I lost it” would be a gross understatement. I overreacted in such a profound way. I was screaming. (Maybe at the top of my lungs.) ARE YOU F*ING KIDDING ME??????

I know. I know. I said the F-word. To my 13-year-old daughter. I thought about it when the words came out of my mouth. I know this is very, very bad. But I bet a Child Service caseworker would side with me if they had a teenager too.

While I continued to rant (uncontrollably) about how this was totally unacceptable, I grabbed her phone (in its protective plastic shower case) and proceeded to get down on the floor, crawl under her bed, and pick up her dirty socks.  Then I proceeded to collect her dirty underwear, dirty tennis clothes, dirty volleyball clothes, dirty school uniforms and a ton of other clothes. Clothes on the bed. Clothes on the floor. Clothes in the hamper. Clothes next to the hamper. Clothes on her bookshelf. Clothes on her desk. Piles of clean clothes that I had washed (the Sunday before I left), were still neatly folded under dirty clothes that had been thrown on top of them.

I was still yelling.

I gathered everything up. Marched into the laundry room. Screaming at my husband as I passed through the kitchen, where he sat calmly enjoying a glass of white wine and reading “The Economist.”  

I then proceeded to sort through five loads of laundry. Yes, every week, there are five loads (not including sheets and towels) of laundry, because we all do sports. But here's the thing, I didn’t have any dirty laundry this week because I was in LA and did my laundry there. So why am I literally waist high in dirty laundry on this Monday night? Because, in my absence, my daughter must have decided to change her clothes three times a day and everything ended up on the floor. Whether it was dirty or not.

Sigh.

By the time I got the first load into the washing machine, checked on my pasta (which was slightly overcooked at this point), my teenage daughter was dressed, standing in the kitchen, and trying not to cry.

Having been down this road with two kids already, I’ve come to realize it’s always a little bit of an unknown if teenagers cry because they genuinely feel remorse for not following the rules.

Or if they cry because they got caught doing something they weren't supposed to be doing.

Or if they cry because they just lost their cell phone privileges.  

So, I took a deep breath and apologized for my inappropriate choice of words and for yelling. I explained that I don’t like being a “helicopter parent.”

I would like her to monitor her own homework.

I would like her to tidy-up her own room (without being reminded).

I would like her to do her best in school and in sports.  (I emphasized HER best.  She does not have to be THE best.)

With any time left, she is free to watch TV (on the weekends), Snapchat, Instagram, play on her phone or hang out with friends.  

At this point, her Dad jumped in and reiterated the importance of making her bed, keeping her room tidy and making her school work her top priority. He then decided to take this opportunity to point out that her mother (me) is a “neatnik.” While he never expects her to live up to “my” standards of “neatnik-ness,” she must do the bare minimum. Somehow the life lesson that I was trying to teach got turned into a mockery of what might be considered my tendency towards obsessive-compulsive behavior. (I suppose there is some truth to that, but it is also those qualities that were currently getting the laundry done and dinner on the table too.) They both had a good chuckle at my expense and dinner was served.

After dinner, my daughter went back to her room to print out a paper for school. I finished doing the dishes and then went to help her with her remaining algebra problems from the night before. When I walked back to her room, she was passed out on her bed with the lights on and on top of the covers. It was only 7:30 pm. I insisted that she was “fake sleeping.” This was clearly avoidance behavior, because she had gotten in trouble, and didn’t want to work on her math. I stood over her like an insane drill sergeant commanding her to wake up and finish her homework. I waited and waited. She didn’t move. I checked for a pulse (no seriously, I did). She was fine, but I still thought she was faking. So I turned off her lights but took her computer out of the room.

I came back at 9 pm (her actual bedtime) and she was still asleep and curled up in the EXACT same position. Still no blanket. Hadn’t moved an inch. I put the blanket on top of her this time and said goodnight. She slept through the night until I woke her out of a dead sleep at 6:30 am for school. She had slept for 11 straight hours and didn’t remember anything after she went to her room and printed her paper.

So she wasn’t fake sleeping. She wasn’t ignoring me. She was just exhausted. Probably exhausted from playing in a tennis tournament over the weekend. Exhausted from a long day at school and then volleyball practice after school. Then two hours of homework. Then a lunatic mother screaming her head off, because she shouldn’t have been watching TV (in the shower no less), when she should have been doing the minimum of her chores. After a big lecture, followed by a comfort food dinner, she simply passed out. She is 13-years-old and has grown five inches in the last year... and she is tired.

Everything was back to normal today. She gave me a big hug when I dropped her off at school and we both said, “I love you.”  I have to remember that sometimes kids just want to be kids (which includes watching mindless cartoons when they should be doing their chores).  And sometimes moms lose their sh*t because we are trying to keep it all together... while buried in dirty laundry. 

Just Another Manic Monday

I got back from Los Angeles yesterday. LA is not just my hometown, but also the place where most of the television business occurs, so being there is always a whirlwind. I jammed in meetings and meals with writers, studio execs, network execs, my 90-year-old dad, my middle daughter, my brother, my cousins, errands, movies, shopping, reading scripts, giving notes and writing into six adrenaline-fueled days. I never know if these trips will be fruitful, or just wheel-spinning and exhausting, but this was a great trip. I was going a million miles an hour... and I was loving it.  

The best part was spending quality time with my middle daughter… who has thankfully made a complete recovery from this summer. We ate. We laughed. We hung out. We shopped. We even got mani/pedis.

I flew back to Hawaii feeling really happy that my trip was so productive and fun, but I was starting to run on fumes.

My husband and youngest daughter picked me up from the airport. My daughter had just finished playing tennis in a Juniors tournament, but was anxious to play more with me when I got home.

Let me stop here. This never happens.

My husband and I love tennis.  We each play four times a week.  We play socially and competitively.  Our youngest daughter has had a racket in her hand since she was three years old. Now, at 13, she is an excellent player but she has never “loved” it the way we do.  She takes lessons and plays in tournaments, but is almost never interested in just going to practice or play socially.  So when she says, “I want to go play tennis,” I take that invitation very seriously.  No matter how exhausted I am.

So, in spite of getting up at 5am to catch my flight, I went home, lathered on my sunscreen, put on my tennis clothes and packed up our gear to go play a match with her.  We had a great time. She came very close to beating me for the first time (which was the best part).

I raced home afterwards, because my husband had made arrangements us to play in ANOTHER tennis match later that afternoon. After our match, we stopped to have a cold drink at the bar with friends. It was after sundown and I desperately wanted (and needed) a hot shower. But by the time we got home, I needed to get dinner on the table and then I got my long awaited shower.

Around 9pm, I went to check on my daughter’s progress with her math homework. She needed to go to bed. I needed to go to bed, but algebra was standing in our way.

An hour later, I finally crawled into bed. I had been up for 20 straight hours. I worked the entire five hours on the plane. I played four hours of tennis after I landed, and then I had an evening of making dinner, doing dishes and solving math problems.  You would think I would have passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow.  

But no.

My anxious little (dare I say manic) mind started racing with all the things that I still needed to do:
I forgot to start the laundry.
I needed to coordinate the carpool schedule for my daughter’s volleyball matches this week.  
I needed to go to the grocery store.  

My husband and daughter did do some grocery shopping while I was gone, but they only bought a few important items: Pop Tarts, ramen, tortillas, and cheese.  

Not kidding.  Not a fresh vegetable, fruit or protein in sight. (Okay, cheese is a protein, but my daughter doesn’t like cheese except on pizza, so I’m not counting it.)

Why is it when I leave for a week, my family eats like they live in a college dormitory?

I had to fight the mania to get out of bed and do all of these things right then. I could still feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins from all the stimulation over the last six days. I needed to close my eyes, but there was one other thought keeping me wide awake.

While I was in LA, I got the call telling me that my “studio deal” is about to expire and they are not renewing my contract. That means, for the first time in 31 years, I will not have a guaranteed income next year.  I will now be a freelance producer (and writer).  BUT it will be entirely up to me to figure out how to get paid for that privilege.  

I was (moderately) prepared for this.  That’s the life of an independent producer.  But suddenly it just became very real.

My husband refers to me as a “belt and suspenders” kind of girl. Someone who likes EXTRA security. The “belt" has been my years and years of working in corporate life. The “suspenders" have been a dozen different multi-year contracts at various companies.  Ironically, in spite of all of those “contracts,” I have NEVER felt secure in a single job that I have had over my long career.  

So come January 1st, the “rubber will hit the (proverbial) road.” I will officially be on my own.  I will no longer be wearing a belt or suspenders.  I could argue that I hung up my "business suit" over a year ago. and I am now wearing my yoga pants to work.

Yoga pants may not say “power suit,” but I am infinitely more comfortable than I ever was.  

I just hope the elastic holds up… and I can continue making a living in my new life as a writer and a producer.  

If not, at least I am dressed and ready for an impromptu "downward dog,” meditating and writing this blog with a blissful smile plastered across my face.

Namaste.

Buried Treasure

For the past hour, I have been held “hostage” at my bank in Los Angeles. I am trying to close a safe deposit box that I opened in 1995.  Last month, the bank decided that they would like to charge me an annual fee for this box.  A box that has been free for the last two decades. By the way, a free safe deposit box was the least they could do given the ten different accounts that I have had at this bank over that time.  I tried to call them and close the box from Hawaii, but apparently you have to close a safe deposit box in person.  So here I am.

Thankfully I have a copy of my latest bank statement, my safe deposit box key and 17 forms of picture ID.  In spite of that, two different bank associates can’t find my “original contract.”

This is all to CLOSE a box that is in my name, at my bank, in person, with all of my banking information and photo IDs.

So I am not sure what the hold up is? Perhaps because my “original contract” predates the bank using the Internet and computers and was 3 kids, 3 dogs, 2 cats, 1 hamster, 2 marriages, 8 jobs and 6 houses ago? So I can see how it might be an old file, but they have the original signature card and they have my most recent address.

The ridiculous part is that the box is probably empty.  There might be a penny stock certifIcate, from a defunct boat building company, that my ex-husband bought when we were first married in the 1980s.  But other than that, I think there is nothing of value in this box. At this rate I will never know, because the bank is closing in 8 minutes, and there is no end to this bureaucratic (literal) paper chase.  

If it weren’t for the principal of being charged for the use of this box (that I no longer need), I would just walk away.  But they have me here now, and I don’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon.

It turns out, I was right about one of the items in the box.  I kept that worthless stock certificate, decades after the company went bankrupt, as a reminder to never buy penny stocks again.

But there was one other item in the box.

A letter I wrote to my oldest daughter, 22 years ago, on her first birthday.  

I have often said that time is my greatest commodity.  So I am truly intolerant of time wasted.  

This bank had just wasted a precious hour and a half of my time. An hour and a half of an already tightly-packed schedule for a week of meetings and other obligations.  But finding this letter to my daughter was a gentle reminder that time is precious... and it goes very, very fast if you aren’t paying attention.

90 minutes ended up being a small price to pay to open up this time capsule and find an emotional treasure inside.

A reminder of just how deeply I felt about my first baby on her first birthday.  
A reminder of how nervous I was that she would turn out okay.  
A reminder that I was bumping around in the dark, trying to figure out how to be a working mother, without screwing things up.

22 years later, she has turned out pretty great.  

Now I get to share this birthday card with her to remind her just how much I loved her... and still do.

So, in the end, it was worth the wait.

Happy Monday

I am coming to LA to do my other job.  My real job because writing is not (yet) how I make my living.  I am a TV Producer which means I need to be meeting with writers, studio executives and network executives.  So I am going to LA to do some of that.  

In my first year of producing, I came to LA every month or so to pitch a new project. Somehow I thought it would be easier.  I thought that I would pick a writer, come up with an idea, run it by my studio and I would sell it to a network.  But it was not that easy.  

At all.

It took about six months before I sold my first project.  

It’s a process.

When people ask me, “What are you up to?”  They expect me to talk about my television projects. My projects that I am proud of.  My projects that I have in the pipeline.  My projects that are getting made.  But my projects are all in various stages of development.  Some are further along than others.  But when people ask you about your television projects, they want to know what they can go home and watch right away.  They are not interested in what you might make someday, maybe, in about a year… IF ever.

What I really want to talk about is writing.  My writing.  This blog. This project that I’ve been working on for months and months. Almost two years of my life, as a writer, are contained on this site. Now that I’ve shared it with my friends and family, it’s actually “live” and it’s scary, but it’s also really, really fun.

But in the week leading up to my “come check out my blog email,” there was one person I hadn’t shown it to yet. My husband.

I love my husband. He might be the smartest person I know, but all of that intelligence comes with a price.  He is extremely cautious and at times very critical (although he would say the same about me).

My husband read the “book” and was (mostly) encouraging.  He loves books.  He loves to read.  So he thought writing a book was (mostly) a good idea.  

But when I decided to convert my book into this blog, he started referring to this as my “vanity project.”  That term reminds me a lot of the term “trophy wife” or other such catch phrases that marginalize people and their assets to something dismissible.

He finally sat down and started reading some of my more recent posts. When he finished reading, he looked at me with concern and said, “You can’t put THIS on the internet.”  

It was a true gut punch. One week before I planned on announcing my blog, he had just thrown a 500 pound cold wet blanket on my bonfire of joy.

“What do you mean I can’t put this on the internet? It’s a blog. It’s the book just expanded because I kept writing.”

He said, “But anyone could read this?  Why would you want that?  You are opening yourself up to ridicule, criticism, money scams, identity theft, con artists and stalkers.”

“Huh?”  was all that came out of my mouth.  Has he actually ever seen the Internet?  It’s not like he doesn’t have two computers, an iPad and an iPhone.  I’m not sure what he thinks people have been doing on the Internet for the last 15 years.  

But moreover, I’m not making a sex tape.  I am not publishing my diaries.  I don’t mention his name, the names of our children or even the name of my dog for that matter.  I asked him what the difference is between a book and a blog?  He said, ”A book is not available to everyone.  They have to buy it.  The internet is free and permanent.”  

So, if I charged for this, it would be different?  

We debated back and forth about the difference between buying a book online and the internet. The permanence of a book you can’t edit vs. the impermanence of posts you can change.  We debated the difference between autobiographies, stand-up comedians, famous people who talk about their feelings and unknown people who talk about their feelings and then develop a following from that. Apparently, the real issue is that I am honest about my feelings about stuff (not even anything controversial).  Just stuff.  But somehow he fears that this can only lead to bad things.

This debate went on for days.  Why would I want to do this?  What’s my ultimate goal?  No rational person would ever write about something and let the whole world see it.  Apparently, he has never seen YouTube, Instagram or read the thousands and thousands of blogs written by housewives, comedians, business people, teenagers and the like.

Finally, we found a compromise. I would write under a pen name.  

So, two weeks ago, 52 Mondays had its official premiere. I invited a few dozen friends to check out my blog.

But as soon as I clicked send on the email, the crazy thoughts began swirling in my head:

What if they didn't see my email?
What if they can't open the link?
What if they can't navigate the website?
What if they don't know how to share it?
What if they don't comment?
What if they don't like it? Awkward.

Maybe it was too much?  
Maybe I am too much?
Maybe I can’t write?
Maybe I shouldn’t write?
Maybe my husband was right?
Maybe it shouldn’t be a blog?

Here we go again… Hello Ursula.

I find myself saying, “Don’t be attached to the outcome.”  It is the number one principle of being Zen.  

But I am too attached to the outcome.  Which makes me sad that I am not more Zen.  But part of being Zen is not judging.  Not judging others.  Not judging yourself.  So, I guess I failed the second rule of being Zen.  

I also killed a fly in my kitchen this morning.  I am pretty sure that killing anything is not Zen.  So strike three.

Now it’s Monday.  I woke up feeling pretty unenthused about having to travel to LA.  I have no new projects to roll out to the networks on this trip.  The weather report says that it is going to be over 100 degrees in Los Angeles this week, which seems a little hot for late October, and I don’t love the logistics of traveling to begin with.

But in spite of all of that, I was really excited about getting up this morning and writing a post.  I wasn’t sure what I was going to write about, but I knew a five hour flight was going to be the perfect time for a little self-reflection.  

I made it through TSA security pretty fast (which is always a bonus), so I decided to have lunch at one of the airport bars.  Nothing looked good on the menu, so I went with a cold beer and french fries.  I felt like a rebel.  No salad.  No protein. Alcohol in the middle of the day.  Was I on vacation?  Nope.  I was getting ready for my business trip and I was celebrating my inner bad girl. 

The french fries were piping hot and crispy.  The beer was ice cold and bubbly. Suddenly I realized that in spite of my reluctance to go to Los Angeles today, this Monday was turning out pretty great.  

That’s when I remembered.  Every Monday, for almost two years, I have been working on this project that I love. A project that has almost “died on the vine” many times, but continued to thrive.  A project that sometimes fills me with self-doubt, and may not have any financial reward, but a project that gets me out of bed in the morning... because I am writing.  

So I was thinking that the secret to curing the Monday Blues is to do one thing that you love every Monday.  Something that you look forward to.  For me it is writing.  I’d love to hear what it is for you in the comments or send me an email.

And next time when someone asks me, “What are you up to?” I think I am going to start saying: “I’m writing a blog… and it’s awesome.”

Making Menopause Your Bitch

Here’s the deal, unless you are a gay man living in a bubble (that is without a 40+ women in your life), menopause affects us all.

Because you are either going through it, or you will go through it, or your wife is or is about to go through it or your co-worker is… someone is in imminent danger of irrational behavior.

And for those of you going through menopause, or perimenopause, right now. You are not alone.

We all thought PMS was bad: monthly mood swings, cramps, cravings, weight gain and the rest of it.

Menopause is a little bit more insidious. It slowly moves into your life and you’re not even sure what it is.  

Suddenly your body doesn’t look like it used to. Suddenly you feel a little crazy, but not the kind of crazy that lasts 72 hours, it’s like a tsunami of crazy. It comes in waves, with almost no warning, and you don’t know how long it will last or when the tidal wave will recede.

We’ve all heard the horror stories about hot flashes, expanding waistlines, plummeting sex drives and thinning hair. The struggle is real.

But then there is this overwhelming desire to hurt someone. Usually your spouse. Every little thing they do (and have been doing for years) suddenly feels like an epic BFD. Poor bastards don’t even know what’s happening because they’re like, “What did I do?”  

The answer is everything. You are breathing too loudly. Snoring too loudly. You left the toilet seat up. The toothpaste cap off. Your coffee cup is still in the sink. You never empty the dishwasher. You forgot to take out the trash. You left your smelly sock on the floor. You are late. You are lost. You are a man… and we might have to kill you now.

Here’s the good news ladies… it passes. It’s yet another test of our strength. Our moral compass. Another character building lesson. Just hang in there.

Here is the secret to making menopause YOUR bitch… rather than it making YOU the bitch:

You must exercise and start eating right. You’re not going to want to. You’re going to want to wallow in all the cliche foods: pizza, ice cream, alcohol and french fries. Occasionally, that’s ok, but it’s no longer your go-to plan. If you want to conquer your inner bitch, there is only one way through it. You need to exercise. UGH right? Sorry. But I’m telling you, it’s the secret sauce. Every day. Something.

If you have never exercised in your life, I would start with walking. It’s the easiest, cheapest, safest, most convenient. Start with around the block. Or somewhere where you feel inspired. A park. A path. An easy hike. If walking isn’t your bag, then start taking classes. Yoga or Pilates are the most gentle and you will find a lot of other like-minded people in a beginner’s class.  

I alternate between tennis and yoga mostly, but during perimenopause I was recovering from an injury and couldn’t play tennis so I started riding a bicycle. It had been about 20 years since I had ridden one but I still rode almost every day. Sometimes just a few blocks. Sometimes 20 miles. I was in the best shape of my life and it quelled my desire to choke the living sh*t out of my husband who was oblivious to my inner hormonal rage. Eventually I went back to tennis and then back to yoga (which I should have never stopped).  

This truly will be your path out of the wilderness. It’s a must. It will keep your body in shape. It will keep your endorphins firing. It will keep you distracted from the little sh*t that pisses you off. It will keep your loved ones and co-workers safe.  

So for the sake of everyone’s best interest. Put down the ice cream scooper, get off the sofa and get moving.

The Health Department Just Called

The health department just called.

I’m not kidding. Apparently my youngest daughter’s school is so small that when multiple kids are out sick (my daughter has been home for two days with a chest cold) the health department gets notified.

Seriously?

I can’t count how many days of school I missed when I was little or how many my three children have missed over the years. The health department has NEVER called before.

The woman was super nice. Very concerned. “How is your daughter feeling? When did she come down with symptoms? Has she seen the doctor?”

Yes, yesterday, and they looked at her ears, eyes, nose, throat, took her temperature, and did a rapid strep test. The results? They said, "She probably has a virus.”

Btw, that is exactly what I knew that is what the doctor was going to say. This is not my first rodeo. This is my third kid and I know the drill: Antibiotics are a last resort. Most everything is viral to begin with. If they don’t get better, sometimes a secondary bacterial infection can occur, then they need antibiotics... blah blah blah. It’s a waiting game. They get better on their own, or you wait for the secondary infection to arrive, and THEN you get a prescription for antibiotics.

I told the woman on the phone all of this. She replied, “Was she tested for the flu?”

There’s a test for the flu???

I said, “No, but she did get a flu shot two weeks ago.”
“The flu shot doesn’t cover all strains of the flu.”
(No sh*t Sherlock.) 

“Okay, but if they were worried about the flu, wouldn’t they have tested her for it?”
She replied, “Not necessarily.”
“What are they going to do for her if she has the flu?”
“They will give her Tamiflu or something equivalent.”
“But that won’t cure the flu?”
“No, but it will let us track her in our files,” she said.

I see. So I should get her out of bed, dressed, wait in the freezing cold waiting room to see the same doctor who saw her yesterday to test her for the flu, so that maybe they can give her medication to lessen her symptoms, but not cure her, all because the department of health would then be able to track this in their files?  

Hmmmm… I think I’ll pass on that.

Nevertheless, this phone call has made me paranoid. I don’t like ambiguity.

Yesterday, I left the doctor’s office with confirmation that she just needs rest and fluids. Today the department of health has called and made me feel like she is Patient Zero for an island-wide epidemic.  

I need to wrestle my inner-neurotic-Jewish-mother to the ground and go make her another cup of tea with honey.

Favorite Child

When my eldest daughter went off to college, we got a puppy.  

The first time we met him, he had his head tucked under the sofa with his little white fluffy tushy sticking out the other end. I think he thought if we couldn’t see his face, he would be invisible.  

I worried about him being skinnier than the rest of the pups.  You could see his ribs and he felt a lot lighter than his littermates.  My husband thought he looked “lethargic.”  But my youngest daughter loved him, so we took him anyway.

When we got him home, our new little puppy wouldn’t eat.  He was too afraid.  My youngest daughter suggested letting him eat out of my hand.  He liked that, so I went through that charade twice a day for weeks.

My eldest daughter accused him of being “her replacement” and that I was developing a mild obsession with my dog. She started referring to him as the "favorite child.”  It has become running joke in the family.  But five years later, she still won't call him by his name.  She just says "favorite child."

It’s really ridiculous.  A parent does not have a favorite.

Admittedly, I do talk about him a lot… but he’s really loveable.
Admittedly, I do take a lot of pictures of him… but he’s really cute.
Admittedly, I do feel bad when I leave the house even to run an errand… but he doesn’t like being alone.
Admittedly, I do buy him special food… but he does have allergies.  
Admittedly, I do have him groomed every month… but his coat is very difficult to maintain.
Admittedly, I do spend a lot of money on vet bills… but he was born with some congenital issues.

But to say that he is my favorite child is just a (slight) exaggeration. He just happens to be perfectly adorable, unconditionally loving and we have a special bond.  

He sits in my office all day while I work.  He follows me wherever I go. When I take a shower, he lays on the bathmat until I get out.  He sits beside me during my meditation. When I practice yoga, he does his downward dog during my downward dog.  

But he is not perfect.  He has a tendency to bark a lot.  Yes, this might qualify him as a “yappy little dog.” Also, when he is outside, he does not respond to the simplest of commands, and he is also a runner.

He does not “come” when you call him.  
He does not “stay.”  
He does not even respond to his name.

Okay, so that is a little bit of a problem.

Most of the time, he stays on our property, but yesterday he decided to roll around in our freshly planted flower beds (that had just been watered).  My perfectly groomed/all-white angel came into the house covered in mud from head-to-toe. No big deal except that it took me an hour and a half to wash him, dry him and brush out the mud.  

So today, when he went outside to do his business, I was careful to keep him out of the mud.  But something was bugging him.  He kept sniffing around the deck.  Something was under there and he needed to find it.  Next thing I know, he’s leaping off the deck and disappearing under the house. A moment later, I saw a shrieking feral cat, followed by a ball of white fluff, and then they were both gone, through the fence and into our neighbor’s yard. I started yelling because I have no idea how far he had run.  We live on agricultural land and the lots are two acres each. There is no easy way to find him. Thankfully, our neighbor heard me and offered to help me search. After 30 minutes, he pulled up with my  “little angel,” covered in mud (again) and with sticky green thistles throughout his coat.  This is wayyyy worse than yesterday’s mud roll.  I was furious.  

He knows he was a bad dog.  He knows that I was freaking out that he might be lost forever.  He knows that he should not have run away.  He knows that he should not get filthy, because it means another 90 minutes of pulling, brushing, washing and drying. It was like combing out broccoli covered in taffy. But he didn’t care. He’s a dog.

Sigh, he’s definitely not my favorite child today.

Unfortunately, the bad dog photo doesn’t do it justice, because even his “mugshot” is so cute.

Still Meditating

It has been over six months since my first meditation class and I am still meditating. It has become part of my everyday life.  Like brushing my teeth or taking a shower.  

But I have to admit something, meditation is not always easy.

There are some days I close my eyes and try to sit quietly for 20 minutes and it feels like 20 hours.  

Some days I find myself peeking at the clock.
Some days I find myself desperate to stop and jot something down on my grocery list.
Some days I can't stop thinking about how hungry I am or what I want to make for dinner.
Some days I can't get comfortable.
Some days I am so wired that I simply can't sit still. 
Sometimes I am so tired, I just want to sleep.  

The afternoons are particularly difficult when I am trying to “squeeze” in 20 minutes between picking up my daughter from school, taking her to sports, trying to exercise myself and then getting home to make dinner, feed the dog, eat dinner, do the dishes and take a shower.  

But when I am not rushed and it is quiet, it can be quite joyful.  

Like life, sometimes meditation is a real challenge.  But the overall benefits of learning to be alone with my own thoughts 20 minutes a day/twice a day has been transformative. I find that I am infinitely more creative and I have more clarity in my thinking.  

Meditation is a practice. Kind of like life. You have good days and bad days. You don't arrive at a destination when you practice meditation, you simply alter the journey.

Breakdown, It's Alright

A friend of mine was telling me that she stayed up all night watching the news coverage of the Las Vegas massacre.  She wanted to stop watching, but she couldn’t.  She woke up in the morning emotionally and physically exhausted and while she was on her way to work she heard the news that Tom Petty had died.  She said she pulled her car over the side of the road and just broke down and sobbed. She felt so numb and helpless; it was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.

I think we are all so overwhelmed by all of the terrible news lately.  Hurricanes.  Domestic terrorism.  Hate crimes. Even the looming threat of North Korea threatening to drop hydrogen bombs.   

It was Tom Petty’s own prophetic lyrics that came to mind as she told me her story:

Breakdown
Go ahead and give it to me
Breakdown honey take me through the night
Breakdown now I'm standing here can't you see
Breakdown, it's alright
It's alright
It's alright

My thoughts and prayers go out to all of those who have suffered and are suffering from Harvey, Irma, Maria and Las Vegas.

As for Mr. Petty of the Heartbreakers, hearts were broken at the news of your passing.  May you rest in peace.

I Am Not An Uber Driver

Last time I was in LA, I must have pressed the wrong button when requesting an Uber to get to the airport.  It now thinks I am a driver and I keep getting notices that I am not making any money with a “Weekly Pay Statement” of $0.00.  It then says, “Let’s fix that and get you to start earning!

The irony is that I don't even live in Los Angeles and I don't even own a car there. 

The superstitious part of me fears that this notice is the ghost of Christmas future. If none of my projects go into production soon, then this weekly notice will be a subtle reminder that I am not making any money as a producer, so I might NEED to start driving for Uber. (No shame in that.  Just not exactly what I had in mind for my second career.)

The sad part is that I don't know how to go to the website and dissuade the app from thinking that I am a driver.

If that isn’t bad enough, this whole misunderstanding is because I am over 40 and I really need to be wearing my reading glasses whenever I am doing something on my phone.  If I had seen what buttons I was pressing, I wouldn’t be having this issue with Uber.

But meanwhile, it’s Monday.  I just spent two hours on the phone with my cable company trying to find out why they arbitrarily raised my bill $12 this month.  Apparently, the “introductory promotion” I had has now expired.  Did I really need to spend two hours to learn this?

Perhaps I should have activated my Uber driving status and picked up someone for a ride to the airport.  It would have saved me the aggravation on the phone with the cable company, and I could have covered the cost of the additional bill this month.

i miss you, Carrie Fisher

I just finished “The Princess Diarist”  by Carrie Fisher.

I am obsessed with Carrie Fisher.

I love her writing.  I love her tortured soul.  I love her sense of humor.  I love her honesty and self-deprecation.  I love her self-awareness to know that her fans were obsessed with her "Princess Leia" alter-ego and not actually her.

I love the heart-wrenching honesty in which she writes about her complicated relationship with her mother in “Postcards From The Edge.”  I love her transparency and wit about addiction in “Wishful Drinking.”  I love her fearlessness in writing about her mental illness in “Shockaholic.”

I love when she equates signing autographs at Comic-Con to lap dances. I love that she never felt confident about her body or her sexuality until she learned that Princess Leia was the object of gratification for millions of young boys around the world.  

I love that she talked about how she failed to appreciate her young face until it later “melted” as an older woman.

I love her unapologetic obsession with Coca-Cola and cigarettes.  (If I weren’t such a control freak, those would be at the top of my list too.)  I love her loyalty to her French Bulldog named Gary.

I liked Star Wars.  I liked that Princess Leia was fun and refreshing as one of the early females heroines with “sass.”  

But I was never obsessed with the movie franchise like millions of others.  To me, Princess Leia is just a great character with a really unfortunate hair-do.

Carrie Fisher, on the other hand, was a complicated human being.  Carrie Fisher was a world-class storyteller and a writer that truly speaks to me.  Carrie Fisher was the one who inspired me to write. Carrie Fisher was the one I would wait in line to meet.  Not Princess Leia.  

Princess Leia has been memorialized in memorabilia and film and even in a wax museum.  Carrie Fisher will live on through her books which bring me great joy and inspiration.  But I am sad that I will never get to tell Carrie that it was “Carrie” who inspired me to write and find humor in the mundane and the absurd.

I miss YOU, Carrie Fisher.  May your tortured and hilarious soul rest in peace.

Lady Macbeth

You'll be happy to know that the six hours I spent procrastinating yesterday from doing any real work paid off... a little.

I ended up washing all of the slipcovers on my white sofa and they came out almost as good as new. Unfortunately, the upholstered frame of the sofa remains yellowed and stained, so I still needed a professional to come in and steam clean that part.  

By the way, washing the slipcover cushions was not as easy as it sounds. First of all, there were seven over-sized covers and there is nothing "slip" about them. They are made to fit "tight as a drum" and they are almost as hard to take off as they are to put back on. It was like putting on Spanx on a hot humid day. 

Meanwhile, while I was on this washing/bleaching frenzy, my Old Navy white canvas sneakers also got a second life.

By late last night, I started to feel like Lady Macbeth. (If Lady Macbeth was trying to clean white canvas from chocolate stains and dirty dog prints rather than blood from her hands.)

But what causes these compulsive cleaning jags? Is it truly work procrastination? Or is it in the hope that if I get these things done, I will have a clearer mind to work.

I am not sure I know the answer. Meanwhile, I was making turkey chili this morning, while waiting for the furniture cleaners to arrive, and I accidentally splattered some tomato sauce on my white shorts in the process. I was tempted to run into the laundry room and bleach my shorts too, but I decided to get back to work instead.

I think that qualifies as progress.

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Procrastination

I have been very busy procrastinating on everything this morning.

I have been taking out the trash, taking clothes to Goodwill, bleaching old canvas tennis shoes and I am now attempting to get a chocolate stain off of a white sofa.

I have become Martha Stewart with a compulsive OCD twist. Except that I am not baking wedding cakes or crepes. I am literally bleaching a bucket of old shoelaces in an attempt to get them white again. I just realized that I need to sew one of the slipcovers on the sofa before I attempt to wash the stain off. I don't believe that these stains will actually come out, but somehow it is very important to try.

Why am I suddenly having DIY cleaning frenzy? Because it's Monday? Because my husband is out of town and I have more free time to do projects? Or because someone casually asked me, "How is your book coming?" 

When I told them that I had converted it into a blog, they said, "Oh? Are you sure you want to do that?" They paused when they saw the look of horror on my face. Then said, "I mean, what is the blog about?"

I said, "Well... you read the book. Right? It is about transitioning from one career to another, reinvention, discovering patterns and trying to break them. It's about other people's misconceptions of a "perfect" life. It's about trying to create a better life by finding your passion and breaking old thought patterns. I guess it's just about life.  But the story kept going."

Let me clarify. I was stumbling to find the response. I was tongue twisted and defensive. I felt embarrassed and uncertain.

That question keeps haunting me... "What is this blog about?" When I cannot sum it up in an easy TV Guide logline (which I now call my "blogline"), I get paralyzed all over again. Who will read this? Who cares? Why am I writing?

Sigh.

My $19 Old Navy sneakers are pretty trashed. My white sofa has doggy footprints and chocolate stains.  My endeavor to clean these things will most likely be futile and I will have wasted hours trying.

But the alternative is going back to work. I have projects that require creative fixes, but I don't have any creative solutions today.  So my inner Martha Stewart is going to procrastinate a little longer.

Houston We Have A Problem

I was on a roll. I was writing again. The words started flowing. The endorphins started flowing and then it came to a crashing halt... again.

Houston. The hurricane and the floods. 50 inches of water. Non-stop news coverage. Devastating photos. Neighborhoods destroyed. Animals drowning. Families left without shelter. Freeways under water. I can't stop looking. I can't stop talking about it. My husband is a news junkie and, worse, he has a particular obsession with natural disasters. So he keeps showing me pictures.

But I am to blame too. I keep looking at social media. 1 MILLION homes have been destroyed. How can I even think about finding something cheeky to write about when it was the biggest recorded hurricane in history?

I thought maybe as the water began to recede and the winds were no longer 180 miles per hour, maybe life would return to normal.

But no.

Hurricane Harvey has come and gone. But now it's more violent cousin Irma is on its heels. Irma has just devastated St. Marteen and is heading directly for Florida. Again, I can't stop looking at social media and the photographs. 90% of St. Marteen's structures have been wiped out. But Irma's not done, she's heading for one of the most populated cities in our country.

Meanwhile, Mexico had a massive earthquake. There are wildfires out of control in the pacific northwest. It's as if Mother Nature has had enough of us on her planet, and she's trying desperately to shake us off her planet like a dog with fleas.

I find myself paralyzed again. I am grief stricken and unable to focus. So I am writing about the source of my sadness in which I feel powerless and guilty. Powerless that I cannot do anything to prevent or solve these massive crises, and guilty that I am still bothered by my own daily minutia.

I need to stop looking at social media and I need to start researching charities to donate money to help the cause.

Food & Fatigue

Is it just me or are you tired today too?

I feel like I have been hit by a truck.
Sometimes three day weekends do that to me.
Or maybe it was the impromptu Labor Day BBQ that I decided to have Monday night after feeling the pressure to do something Labor Day-ish?

I can't even take credit for this BBQ. My husband did the grilling and he bought potato salad at the last minute when I realized I had a bag of potatoes that went bad. I was annoyed that he didn't buy the potato salad from the deli counter. Instead, he bought it from the refrigerator section and it came in a big plastic tub. So there really wasn't that much "cooking" involved. But somehow I was doing dishes for hours after they left.

I did bake homemade chocolate chip cookies. My daughter was over the moon because I followed the Toll House recipe exactly. Usually I attempt to make them "healthier,"  which really bugs her. But this time I didn't substitute white flour for almond flour. No dark chocolate chips for semi-sweet. No coconut oil for butter. I used the fully recommended white sugar with no maple syrup substitution. They were totally old-fashioned, as my grandmother and mother used to make, and she loved them. I ate about six of them myself. Then I felt like I needed a nap immediately.

Ah yes! I remember why I don't eat those kinds of foods now. They make me feel exhausted and they open the proverbial Pandora's box to eating hell. At the BBQ, I ate an entire bowl of salt & vinegar potato chips by myself, washed that down with two beers, a hamburger on a delicious Hawaiian sweetbread bun. I even gorged myself on the plastic tub of potato salad.  I hate to admit that it was actually delicious.

But I have been tired ever since.

I know I spend a lot of time talking about my complicated relationship with food.

I love food. I love cooking. I come from a family that almost does not know how to socialize without food. My dad is 90 years old and the highlight of the each day is going out to eat.

It's is not about vanity as much as it feeling good. It is really about a lifetime of experimentation of what food does and does not do to my body. I can eat almost anything in moderation. But certain foods "trigger" an addict-like behavior. So I try to avoid them when possible.

But I believe our bodies are delicate machines. The older we get, the more delicate the machinery is. In my case, it's not just physical, but mental. So I am on a permanent mission to try and figure out just the right balance for my body to work at its optimum capacity.

A huge factor in managing my anxiety is limiting stimulants. As much as I love coffee and sugar, I have given both up again. While I am not militant about small amounts of sugar, the less caffeine and sugar I have the less anxious I feel. It's pretty simple. In my corporate life, I had a daily ritual of an afternoon Coca-Cola to get through the long afternoon of back-to-back meetings. 

Now that I work from home and my meeting schedule is much less demanding, the Coca-Cola has been replaced by afternoon meditation and/or exercise. 

Food is my drug. If I don't take my drugs as prescribed, or if I have an accidental Labor Day weekend overdose, I pay dearly for it.  My joints ache. I don't sleep well. My stomach hurts and now I want to go back to bed.