I Resolve. Again.

Oh crap! Its December 30th and time to formulate a bunch of resolutions that never seem to make it past the 10th of January. But let's try again, shall we?

Number one: For the 12th year in a row, lose weight. In past years, this resolution has also been called "bikini by birthday" and then the more modest "bathing suit by birthday". Now we could easily call it "less stress on your knees by birthday". Or "give the ol' ticker a break by birthday". I have 50 lbs to lose. Five - Oh. And at an aggressive goal of 2 lbs per week (which no one maintains), that would put me just about there by June 21 when I will be one year older. And that, by the way, is spelled: Ooooo-Ellllllllll-Deeeeeee-Eeeeeee-Ahhhhhhhhhhrr. And it makes me consider as well, if I lose this weight, having lost the elasticity of youthful skin, will I look like a basset hound? These and other questions I must ponder.

Number two: Find a job. This is a brand new resolution - and one that I find is, to a degree, out of my hands. So perhaps I should say "Continue to pray to find a new job. One with benefits for the whole family." Of course, assurance of success in this resolution would have to include a subset of resolutions, those being A) Have a college degree bestowed upon me and B) become 35 again. And I'm totally up for that one! Of course there is another, previously mentioned resolution that couldn't hurt either: lose weight. I have learned it matters.

Number three: Learn to cook. Because I have learned to make a couple of fabulous dishes that are about 400 calories. Per bite. Now I need to learn to make delicious things that take absolutely NO effort (and that seems to be key) that are low in calories and healthy as well. So that I can maybe lose weight.

Number four: Exercise. I have experienced that it is not so much "use it or lose it" as it is "use it or watch it fall to the floor". I understand that there is another benefit to this resolution. I hear you lose weight.

Number five: Be more disciplined. Create a schedule and stick to it. Includes time for prayer and devotion, time for reading, time for exercise. Every day. Which means I would necessarily stick to the resolutions. Which should lead to - lose weight.

I'm seeing an overall theme here...

Back in the Saddle

Well, its December 26th, the presents are opened, left-overs in the refrigerator, house needs cleaning and I'm on the computer trolling job sites.

Christmas has left me optimistic but each job listing that I KNOW I can do, offers challenges in getting past the computer screening process. Meanwhile, Bob's business keeps plugging along - real estate being "The Little Engine That Could" these days - at least for us. There is enough in the pipeline to make me feel relatively secure and by the way, what ever happened to me getting my real estate license? Time to blow the dust off those books. Again.

I feel oddly anxious. Learning to take one day at a time is a challenge. I feel in many ways I have been successful but then I look around and and wonder what things will look like tomorrow. While I was on Disney's payroll until April, assuming I don't get a job by Thursday, I will have spent the past 343 days not working - and that is just so completely weird. I have dreams of past jobs and being back at them. Round Table Pizza. Montgomery Wards. Kelly Services. Nickelodeon. Disney. I am sort of reliving my life while trying to work out my future in my sleep. Then I wake up and have no idea what to do with myself.

I am looking at all the bells hanging on our Christmas tree and remembering the famous line from "Its A Wonderful Life" when Zuzu says: "Look daddy! Teacher says that every time a bell rings an angel gets it's wings". Knowing that a teacher would no longer be able to make that statement to her class without threat of losing her job because of a lawsuit brought on by organizations dedicated to protecting the rights of those who suffer irrevocably from talk of angels in a public building, perhaps we can change it to: "Look daddy! Teacher says that every time a bell rings, an unemployed California resident gets a job". Why not? Its as good a fantasy as angels getting their wings to the sound of bells. At the very least it could be encouraging.

Another movie comes to mind. "Leap of Faith" where Steve Martin plays a scamming evangelical preacher. He delivered one of my favorite movie quotes ever: "There is only one thing bigger that the 'big fear'. That's the big faith!"

Merry Christmas

Well, in spite of the fact that I was done shopping and wrapped on "Black Friday" as previously reported, there was still a lot of last minute craziness to contend with before the day was done. The girls had a lot of wrapping to do still, we attended the 6:00 service at our church, we opened the traditional Christmas Eve present (pajamas), we played a game of Scrabble and we watched the annual airing of "Its A Wonderful Life". Again. That movie is 63 years old.

So here it is 1:09 Christmas morning and I am just getting around to getting to bed. And I'm not terribly tired which means I will be tomorrow morning. But I have to pause and write what is on my heart right now.

I am not an "evangelical". I have many friends who practice other religions or faiths. Some of my friends believe in an universal god, or god as an energy. Some don't believe in god at all. But I am a Christian and I believe in God as a creator of all things and that Jesus is the Messiah and Savior. And if that offends anyone today, well so be it.

But here is what is on my heart. Untold instances where my faith has been rewarded in evidences of answered prayer. A promise of forgiveness and love and peace. And what gets so confused by so many because of so few is the fact that Jesus did not come to condemn but to save. Which means he has mercy and love for everyone. No matter who, no matter what. You can't earn his love by good deeds. You can't so something so wrong as to be outside of his grace. He simply loves us. Period. Whether we like it or not. This means he loves Christians AND EVERYONE ELSE. Jews, Gentiles, Muslim, Buddhists, gays and straights, criminals and saints, the mega rich and the starving poor, and even the most horrible of us. And all that is required is that we accept him - of our own free will. Not because someone brainwashed us. Not because someone scared us with fire and brimstone. Not because we were "born Christian". Because we needed him and wanted him. And if we seek him with our hearts we WILL find him and we will have the peace he promises in this life and the next. And we come as we are. And what happens after that is up to you and him because it is a unique relationship. And no one can tell you otherwise. But the truth will set you free. Jesus said that he was the way, the truth and the life. And this is what I believe. This is what I know.

So I give great thanks this morning for a miracle that happened two thousand years ago. It has sustained me this year and for many before. And while I sincerely wish you a Happy Kwanzaa and a Happy Hanukkah too, today I wish everyone a Happy Christmas. Because it is Christmas.

And God bless us everone.

The Magic of Santa

Santa is wonderful. I do not understand parents who choose not to bring their children up believing in his magic. He has played such a great role in my life and the lives of my children.

When I was little, I remember the whole idea of Santa - his house at the North Pole, his elves, his reindeer, his coming down MY chimney, his letters left at the hearth thanking us for the cookies and milk as one of the great treasures of the world! I would pray Christmas Eve night to please, please make me go to sleep so that he could come (since everyone knows Santa can't come until you're asleep). The poem "Twas the Night Before Christmas" was not a poem at all, but rather a first hand experience - no an evidence - that Santa did come! As if I needed evidence. Santa just was. Everyone knew it. After all, presents that were not there when the whole family went to bed the night before were there! How else could it be explained. As if I needed an explanation. Santa just was real. One of the wonderful, magical facts of life.

One of the greatest joys of my parenthood was creating the reality of Santa for my girls. I remember telling them when the twins were 3 and Amanda was 5, that if they woke up and found new slippers on the floor by their beds it meant that Santa had come and they could get up and have a look. The next morning Amanda came running into our room gleefully showing us her new slippers: "He came!! He came!! Get up, he came!" The twins were still a little young to understand it all so I went into their room where they was sitting on their beds with smiles knowing that something wonderful was happening, but not sure exactly what. "Look Christine," I said, picking up her slippers to show her. I had gotten them little Disney slippers - the toes of which had little Minnie Mouse heads on them. "Look what Santa left for you". And then, her precious little face lit up with her famous smile. She looked at them and then at me and I could see she felt the magic, the love and the wonder of it all and I will never forget that moment as long as I live because I thought to myself: "I gave my babies this".

For years Santa came to our house the week before Christmas. Sometimes Mrs. Claus came

too. We would tell him in advance some of the girls' accomplishments and activities so he was able to come in and talk to them of it. This just solidified to them that he really did "know when they'd been bad or good" and at Christmas time I could always count on exceptional cooperation from them. Santa and Mrs Clause would talk to the girls and sing songs with them. They'd always read a story and give them a candy cane. They would tell them all the news of the North Pole like which reindeer was not feeling too well, which elf won employee of the year. It was fascinating. But every year Amanda would beg to see the reindeer. Santa always had to come up with a good reason for her not being able to see them. Fortunately we live at the top of a hill so the reindeer usually stayed at the base of the hill to graze on neighbor's grass (we didn't have much for them at our place). One year, shortly after Santa and Mrs. Claus left our home, I happened to see in the black sky outside our living room window the flashing red light of a distant airplane. "Look girls!" I shouted. "Come see - there's Rudolf!!" Oh my gosh - they squealed with delight, jumping up and down, they screamed "There's Rudolf! There's Rudolf! There's Santa flying away. Bye Santa!" They ran around the house and danced and sang. They could not believe their good fortune for having actually seen Santa and his reindeer flying through the air.

When Grace was born, the girls only had about a year of believing left in them so we all focused on Grace and made sure she got all the same experiences for the next several years. (Except Santa didn't come to the house anymore because as wonderful as Santa and Mrs. Claus are, they don't come cheap!) But one day near her 7th Christmas she announced she didn't believe in Santa. Most of her classmates didn't believe and she had figured out that reindeer could not, in fact, fly, nor could Santa get his fat self down a chimney. I for one was not ready for my baby to give up on Santa. We had been invited to a friend's Christmas Eve party and they were to have the best Santa appearing that night. I told Grace that the real Santa would be there and that she should reserve her judgement until she saw him. She just rolled her eyes.

Later at the party, Santa held court and read and talked and Grace just sat there staring at him suspiciously with her arms folded. When he asked if anyone had any questions, her arm shot up. He looked at her and said: "What do you want to ask Santa?" She replied (with a "prove it" tone in her voice), arms still folded across her chest: "How do reindeer fly?" He drew her right up in front of him and we snapped this photo of his response to her. "Do you believe in me?", he asked. Grace reluctantly nodded her head. "That's what makes reindeer fly!" And that was all she had to hear - he was real to her all over again. And it made Bob tear up. Me too.

So Grace is 10 now and the girls are all grown up and this is the first year in nearly 20 that Santa is not coming to our house. It is strange. But I know he'll be back when the girls have their own children. And hopefully they will draw upon their own magical memories to be able to start it up all over again. I may leave out milk and cookies anyway. Wouldn't it be marvelous if there was a note waiting for me in the morning?

Amanda

To say that my daughter Amanda and I have had a tumultuous relationship would be a tremendous understatement. I wonder if it is because we share no genes that we have such a difficult time understanding one another. She is very much like her birth mother, Anne. Since she only was with her mother for the first 20 months of her life it is amazing to me to see the similarities. I loved Anne like my sister. I love Amanda; she is my daughter. But the wild and crazy qualities that make an ideal sister are not necessarily the same you would hope for in a ideal daughter.

Now you need to understand that Amanda is a truly great person. She is a people magnet and people don't just love her, they LOVE her. (Like an ideal sister.) Part of what makes people love her is 1)There is absolutely nothing Amanda wouldn't do for a friend, and 2) There is apparently nothing Amanda wouldn't do. Period.

This has been the case with Amanda since the beginning. At first it was darling - she was fearless, jumping into every experience she could get into. But once she got into elementary school it became clear that this was a girl who liked to live on "the edge" and I have spent my life avoiding the edge. You can fall off the edge. I was determined to make certain that she didn't fall. But what I was to learn was that no one, least of all me, could tell her what to do. Her fierce independence wouldn't allow it. She saw herself as the pilot of her own plane and she was not about to become anyone's passenger - even if they just wanted to teach her to fly. She'd figure it out on her own. And while she crashed on occasion - she didn't burn.

Now don't get me wrong. She doesn't do drugs. She doesn't belong to a cult. She doesn't walk naked through the streets (at least I hope she doesn't - she might have... Oh God! Lalalalalalalalalalalalala-I-am-not-hearing-hear-that-thought-lalalala..) But Amanda, like Anne, loves an "adventure". "An adventure" is defined by something most people wouldn't do and preferably, offers a little bit danger. Oh! and yes - if it will piss me off - it gets thrown to

the top of "1,000,000 things Amanda needs to do before she dies" list. Least among those 1,000,000 things to do that pissed me off was to make sure that no photo of her existed without either a modern day Ann-Margret, sex kitten, kissie pose or one that featured her tongue. Most everything Amanda did in high school pissed me off. I am still picking the pieces of my brain off the ceilings from the uncountable times my head spontaneously exploded upon learning what she was up to. And as you have gathered by now (if you've been reading my blogs), "Live and Let Live" is not my motto. Mine is more "An Eye for an Eye". So I feel fairly certain some of her brains are up there co-mingled with mine. We were at war for four long years. It was painful. At one point she wanted to go to court to seek legal emancipation from me. Honest to God, that made me laugh for months. As if! But actually, sometimes it was that bad between us.

ANYWAY, I'll spare you all the stories. And in fact, they are not all bad. She could be charming and lovely and very kind and good. But if you had a rebellious child in high school, you know. If you're not there yet, good luck. The point I want to get at is that it all changed with college. Three years into university and away from me and she is perfect - well almost. She is an incredible student. She has a goal that she is making happen - by herself. She is responsible. She is kind. She is compassionate. She has amazing self control. She is a grown up. And yet...

And yet... we still have a hard time understanding each other. Trying to find our way is a bit like one step forward, two steps back. And when she makes choices I do not agree with or are in conflict with my beliefs, I feel like I am being slapped in the face. With an iron skillet. So this week, we had a big confrontation. About something that is very important to me. Not so important to her. And she chose to cross a line her dad and I drew and everyone involved got very hurt by the uproar it caused. And it still feels bruised.

BUT...

The Ehlers Danlos Syndrome Network Cares charity was one of the 100 out of 500,000 charities competing that won $25,000 from Chase Bank's Community Giving program/contest by gathering nearly 2,000 votes via Facebook. And while many people worked very hard to get people to vote (including myself), Amanda was relentless. Once she had exhausted her list of 700+ "friends" on Facebook, she got her friends to give her their passwords and she went after their friends. Working way past midnight, when college kids are just coming to life (like vampires!) she'd go on "chat" and I could see the numbers adding on the totals. She took her computer to school and to church and hounded people. She did it constantly and she didn't stop until they closed the voting polls.

And she did this because she is determined to save her sisters. And she will do anything it takes. She told me she had a conversation with God. She told Him she wanted to do something

HUGE! He told her to get started with this. She also told me she knew we would get the money because God told her He would make it happen. I am not going to argue with her because God talks to me as well. He told me not to worry about my girls - that they are going to be alright. But seeing Amanda's faith in action put me to shame. And if God is using Amanda - in spite of the fact that she crossed my "line" - perhaps I better let it go. Because apparently what is important to me isn't so important in the bigger picture. She is, after all, not my little girl anymore. She is an adult.

She's an amazing woman, Amanda. And you would LOVE her! I do.

The Nutcracker. Again.

My husband, Bob is a dancer. He's a really good one too. Half his career was spent as a dancer and I still love to see him tap. I don't know how anyone does that and he does it really well. But he's also a ballet dancer. Which comes with its drawbacks. Namely, we have to see The Nutcracker every year.

Now I have nothing against the Nutcracker but there are parts of it that are V-E-R-Y-S-L-O-W. Particularly everything in the first half. And then the second half of the second half. (In fairness, I have seen it uncountable times, sometimes more than once a year.)

When we were first married, Bob could never sit still. No matter what he was doing, watching TV, doing dishes, etc., he would do it while he did a barre. At night, he would go out on the lawn and dance with an ancient, heavy iron boat anchor (yes, a real one) and leap and dance with it to build his strength. He would work relentlessly on his "turns in second", building up to doing 32 in a row. He could jump and do a double pirouette in the air before landing. He could do lots of beautiful things that I don't have the names for. He would video tape himself and wince at his mistakes or strut with pleasure at his success. It was impressive, yes, but over time, it drove me nuts. He would watch Nureyev or Barishnikov and begrudgingly give them their due, but would gleefully point out their weaknesses. I didn't care - they looked flawless to me, but what the heck - it made him feel better to "level the field", as it were.

Every dance company where we live produces an annual Nutcracker. There are a zillion to choose from, it seems. Years ago, when we first moved here and he danced with one of the local companies, he danced rather significant roles. He would strut his stuff (or leap his stuff or pirouette his stuff or whatever other impressive ballet maneuvers he could do "back in the day") to some of the more exciting music from The Nutcracker. Especially the Russian Dance. We watched him excitedly as he spun nearly out of control to the wild applause of the audience at the big Civic Arts Plaza here in town. We're on year 9 or 10 and the past several years his roles have diminished in direct relation to his speed and abilities. Any dancer will tell you, dance is a sport - an extremely taxing one and it takes a terrible toll on a dancer's body over time. Bob gets up each morning with stiffness and occasional pain and waddles his first few steps until he gets in gear. In stubborn denial, he blames the mattress.

He was in rehearsal Thursday night and the timing was off musically. He turned too soon and got hit in the mouth by a ballerina. Out came half his front tooth. So much for the delicate flowers we see prancing around the stage. Those chicks are lethal!

So this year, at 49, Bob is the "Mouse King" which requires little athletically. He is also

"Mother Ginger", his opportunity to dress in drag and be rolled out on to the stage by about 50 little children hiding under his skirt.

That I want to see!

Part II

Saw it. Bob was hilarious as Mother Ginger. Milton Berle reincarnated. Just hilarious!! After mugging it up with raised eyebrows and kissy-faces to the children flowing out from under him, he fanned himself, primped himself, posed himself, led the audience in applause for the children, feigned demureness, flirted comically and as they rolled him off stage, he opened wide his arms and mouthed the words: "I Love You ALL!" He got lots of laughs and applause. And he did it all without totally upstaging the children. No easy feat.

He was ridiculous. I was very proud.

The Value of Impressionism

Oh. My. Gosh. WHY can't my house stay clean for 24 hours? Please unlock that mystery for me. Someone???? I am sitting in the family room, a fairly simple room that flows into the kitchen. Yesterday it was in very nice order. Today the chairs are askew and the cushions misshapen. The coffee table has several different papers belonging to any number of people in my family and I have no idea whether or not a single one of them is important. To my left is a plate that once held a quesadilla and a half empty coffee cup from this morning. In front of me is a plate with dessert crumbs and a mug with a lifeless tea bag floating in it (sitting next to an empty coaster) -both from last night. The bar stools are a study in organizational corruption, one of them is holding a belt. In the kitchen every other cabinet door is open. A large brown paper bag holds bagels Jenny brought home last night, on the counter is baking soda, crumbled paper towels, coffee, two pans on the stove, assorted glasses, cups, and mugs, a bag of tortillas, two empty cereal boxes, two bottles of TUMS, and one dripping faucet. It would take so little to keep it up. And yet, so much.

So I take my glasses off and it all becomes a blurr - like some sort of still life from the impressionist era. I look at it all through my fuzzy, uncorrected vision and try to find the artistic beauty - and while I may not be successful, I am at least distracted. Distracted enough to pick my glasses up and not put them on again until I stand and leave this room to walk to a tidier one.

My Christmas Affair with Robert Goulet

Okay - so you know when there is something that has played such a strong and significant role in your life that it is part of your very fiber? The reconnection with it - or even the memory of it - brings on such a flood of feelings that you simply cannot wrap your head around it? Such is the case with Robert Goulet's "This Christmas I Spend With You".

Every Christmas my mother would bring out our three Christmas albums and they served as the harbinger of a magical month. The first album escapes me, the second was the Nutcracker Suite and Linda, Lisa, and I would dance on our toes with the Sugar Plum Fairy, and then there was Robert Goulet. The jacket was an impressionist style illustration of Robert (I feel I can call him that) in tuxedo against a red background. His hands are folded on his lap and he looked as though he was happily surprised to see that it was me making a grand entrance down a spiral staircase (which we never had) and delighted to learn that he would be my escort to the Christmas party of the season. "Haaaaay!" he seems to be appreciatively saying. (I had a bit of an imagination back then. Never mind that I was 7.) The title track was the first on the album and it began with the happy sounds of violin strings being plucked in that way you heard a lot of back in the 60s. And then the dreamy Robert Goulet singing: Maaaaaaaaaark-this-holidaaaay-Mmmmmark-it wellll. Nooooote-how-perfectleey-rright. It fellllll. Yeeeeeees it's Christmas. But somthinnng-is neeeeew because thiiiiiiiiiis Christmas. I spennnnd-with you". But it wasn't really the fantasy of romance that meant so much to me. My heart was filled with joy at the sound of his voice because Robert Goulet was back and that meant Christmas.

I'll bet I have listened to this album a thousand times in my life. I cannot remember a single Christmas without it in my childhood. Every single note of every single orchestration of every single track is sealed in my brain. I can "hear" the phrasing, the cadence, the vocal styling of every lyric. Every time I hear it, I am back on Sawleaf Street somewhere in the early to mid 60s - walking up and down the street to kill time on Christmas Eve, wishing the hours would speed up. My mother wearing Christmas tree ornaments in her ears (yes - real ones - with the hooks and everything), my dad whistling "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" through his teeth. The cold, crisp California winter air, our beloved homemade Christmas stockings that my darling Auntie Barbara made for us were brought out (my mother yelling at us to take them off our feet!) The tree with the big multi-colored lights (not the teeny twinkly white ones!) that got so hot when you touched them they would burn your fingers, and colored lights across the roof line of all the houses. Christmas Eve, "special bulletin" interruptions on TV with newscasters reporting unidentifiable flying objects - only to learn it was Santa and his reindeer flying all over the world! The one present we got to open on Christmas Eve (always pajamas - a tradition my sisters and I have continued with our own children) and uncountable other random images - some that I can't fully conjure, but are cherished nonetheless. Christmas day was far less memorable than the weeks that led up to it. Not because Christmas morning was a disappointment, it wasn't. But the magical, joyful anticipation that led up to it was over.

I don't know what became of the actual album. Lisa made us a cassette tape of it about 10 years ago but last year I found it on ebay (in cassette form) and shipped it off to some place in Washington where they made 4 copies of it on cd and I gave it to my sisters and my dad for Christmas. Because it cannot possibly be Christmas without Robert Goulet.

I'm listening to it now. And if you want to, you can go to www.robertgoulet.com and click on the blue icon called "Other Robert Goulet Christmas favorites" and hear the entire album. But if it isn't part of your fiber, it will likely not do for you what it does for me. It simply takes me to the Christmas of my youth. And that is where, ultimately, I think our hearts are supposed to be a Christmas. And I hope you all have a song, an ornament, a photograph, a smell, a memory that takes you there.

Next Installment: Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol

The Shoot Charities, Don't They?

I have been insanely busy these past 10 days or so. I have agreed to help three different non-profits and all three have immediate needs. I haven't completed any of the projects yet and am feeling like a big walking disappointment.

I have to say that a major priority of mine since last Wednesday has been in trying to get votes for Ehlers Danlos Syndrome Network Cares (the disease my girl have) through Chase Community Giving on Facebook. Chase Bank (for those of you who haven't been bombarded with requests), has $5,000,000 to give to the 100 charities - out of 500,000 competing charities - who can get the most people to vote for them. We have till midnight Friday to get as many votes as we can and the small group of us who are really rallying have become crazy with the need to wind up one of those 100. We investigate as best we can to see which other charities are doing better than us, and then, how much better, and then, how many there are. Everyone has 20 votes to spread across 20 different charities and we withhold votes we would otherwise give if it seems that those charities might be in direct competition with us or if they seem to have too any votes already. We strategize as to how best to ensure votes from our friends and associates and how to get our friends to get their friends to vote. All of this has to be done on Facebook. Every one of us working on this have exhausted our "friends" lists, sending mass messages, personalized messages, and generalized posts. We are literally hounding people. Those of our group who are college aged have done tremendously well because they have thousands of "friends" (something until this week I thought was ridiculous!). Our little tiny charity has over 1000 votes to date but we need at least 1000 MORE in order to really have a shot and then I'm not even certain. And so we talk to each other, and strategize some more and our laptops are glued to us - even in the bathroom. It is unbelievably time consuming. I was up until 1:00 last night thinking "just one more" and let me tell you, you can "just one more" yourself to death. And I am happy to do this because it is worthy of my time. It is incredibly important. And I am overwhelmed with emotion and love for everyone who is voting for us and especially for the family and friends who have taken this effort on as their own - not the least of which is my daughter, Amanda who has spent literally every waking hour not dedicated to studying for finals, working for this cause. Yesterday, she took her laptop to her classes and personally made sure every single one of her classmates voted.

But in the midst of this, I was ticked off. And I couldn't figure out why. Until this afternoon.

There are so many of us in this competition with such need for our own important causes and all of them (well, almost) are worthy. We are all passionate about what we are doing. And Chase asks us to answer the question: Which do you think is more important: Helping the Homeless, Curing Diseases, or Helping the Environment? How do you answer such a question? And because this campaign requires you download an "app", Chase is able to collect data on everyone who votes (so far, nearly a million people) so they are greatly benefiting because they can now solicit directly to us, and for weeks, we are are running around like chickens with our heads cut off to win what every other charity deserves as well. And suddenly, this afternoon, I am reminded of the movie "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?"

"They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" was a movie that came out in the 70's (yup! I saw it first run) with Jane Fonda about the marathon dances they used to hold during the great depression. You had to dance for hours with nothing more than 15 minute breaks for days on end to try to win $100 or something. People paid money to come watch as women literally held up their sleeping partners with their arms, on their backs, keeping their feet on the floor so that they wouldn't be disqualified. Every so often to diminish the numbers, they would blow a whistle and everyone would have to run until they blew the whistle again. Those who collapsed from exhaustion would be dragged off the floor and sent away without a single penny for their efforts. Every single one of the contestants was desperate for the money, to pay for food for their children or shoes for their feet or a ticket to someplace where there might be work again. And some people actually died during the competitions.

Now no one is going to die from this. And $5,000,000 is going to be split between 100 deserving charities so there is no denying that this is a wonderful thing, but the fact that we are in a cut throat race to out-do those we should also be rooting for is unsettling. In the case of my charity, were we to win, lives would most certainly be saved. But the same could be said of most of the charities out there. Though in my case, we are talking about my daughters. So there my passion lies.

In the end, this is a marketing campaign for Chase, wrapped in "philanthropy". And there is nothing at all wrong with Chase trying to build their business. But I'd have felt better about it had we been asked to submit a proposal for a grant. I really, desperately want my charity to win, but if it does, it will most certainly be at the expense of children who are in need of fresh water in a third world country or some other, similar need. And as wonderful as I will feel if we win, I won't feel good about that.

I've been writing this for too long. I have to get back to getting votes. And that isn't a "button" sentence to end this. That is exactly what I am going to do.

http://apps.facebook.com/chasecommunitygiving/charities/235097 - also Lily of the Valley AIDS Foundation and CareNow.

The Tree

I have started four different posts - all are in "draft" and I cannot get them finished. I am overwhelmed by all the demands of this past week - and nothing is completed.

I am sitting in my living room - alone - which is really great. There is no noise, save the dishwasher, and I have put the tree together. By that I mean the three big sections of the big expensive fake tree we bought six years ago (because I was always afraid of fire with the real ones), have been assembled, fluffed and plugged in. For years we went out in early December to every tree place in the city and would spend $100+ on a real 6' Douglass Fir. By the third day I couldn't smell the pine anymore and by Christmas week 50% of the needles were on the floor and the other 50% resembled matchsticks begging to be lit. Plus the carpet was soaked from trying to water the base of the tree and missing. Every. Single. Time. So the genuine Douglas Fir fake is now part of our holiday tradition. And Glade pine scented air spray if anyone insists. I notice now that a string of lights has permanently gone out on my fake tree. Oh well. We'll survive this season with a tree that has a black hole.

Everyone is out. Bob is at rehearsal (he's the Rat King in the Nutcracker - did I mention he's a ballet dancer?), Grace is playing outside with her friend. Jenny's at work. Amanda and Christine are out trying to figure out how to buy a real tree. I just got a call asking if they could bring home a little one to put in Grace's room. I cannot find the floor in Grace's room so I'm thinking that is a no go. In fact, I cannot find the floor in Amanda or Christine's room either. Guess my answer.

I have to get up soon and pull down all the boxes of ornament and house decorations. I spent many years being completely insane about the season so I have about 10 boxes and bins chock full of stuff. I don't pull down more than 4 anymore. It starts to feel too claustrophobic. In previous years my house didn't resemble my house so much as a Christmas crap store. Now I have the tree and only a few other things but I can breathe. I have a friend who takes a week to decorate her home (with two trees!) and leaves it up all through January as well. Now THAT is holiday cheer. And I was there once before to see it and it is gorgeous. But for me, the whole thing comes down January 2nd - no exceptions. And doesn't it feel like I just put it all away about three weeks ago or something?

Tonight though, we will have hot cider and sugar cookies and put on Christmas music and we will go through the ceremony of finding all our favorite ornaments and putting them on the tree. I will likely lose my mind at some point and yell at everyone to slow down or they will break something and once everyone has left the room I will rearrange the ornaments so they make better sense - but this night is something the family looks forward to. And when it is all done, I will sit alone with a fire, stare at the tree and think of my mom, who had Christmas magic within her and who I miss desperately every year at this time. And as it happens today would have been her 73rd birthday.

But now I must go because I hear what I know are NOT Santa's reindeer on the roof. Grace and her friend have somehow gotten up there and are running around, I'm sure thinking that they can't be heard. I swear, Grace is getting coal.

Black Friday (or Have I Lost My Mind?)

After a surprise Thanksgiving (more on that later), I arose at an unholy and other-worldly hour that is known only as 4:00 a.m. - to experience for the first (and last) time, "Black Friday".

According to Wikkipedia, the term "Black Friday" was coined in 1966 by the police of Philadelphia to describe the mess of pre-Christmas madness that descended upon the city the day after Thanksgiving, and brought forth traffic jams, crowded sidewalks and jammed malls.

I can tell you that there was no such activity at my mall. A modest number of well-behaved, albeit half-dead, people showed up for it but let me tell you, it is still "black". If for no reason other than the fact that everyone there appears so painfully exhausted and strung out from the previous evening's feasts that the mall looked like a quarantined facility for black plague.

Both Amanda and Grace got up to go with me (Amanda to shop; Grace for bragging rights at school on Monday). We tried to get the early hour sales-on-sales and we were successful. From Pennys, to Macy's, to Urban Outfitters, to Brookstone, to Best Buy, ALL shopping is done and we got away with unbelievable and ridiculous savings (really!) but - at a price. The three of us are in a coma from which we may never fully emerge.

I cannot tell you what great deals I came away with because my girls sometimes read this but I sent Amanda and Grace off by themselves so that I could gather gifts for all the girls without them seeing. When I was done buying for Bob and the girls I had five bags, so bulky (mostly due to size and/or weight of gift and not quantity) that I could have used a fork lift to get to the car but alas - not a forklift to be found. So there I was, a lone woman, half dead, lifting, dragging, dropping, re-adjusting, swearing, gathering, huffing, puffing, dropping again, re-adjusting again, trying not to cry in frustration and drawing a tremendous amount of attention from everyone I passed, bumped into, or came in radius of 100 feet of, slowly making my calamitous way through the festively decorated hallways of the mall, through the parking lot and finally, to the trunk of the Volvo. I was surely the morning's entertainment: a virtual one-woman show illustrating everything awful and horrendous about Black Friday - the person everyone looks at, shaking their heads and whispering to their companions: "promise to shoot me if I ever look like that".

But in the end I was victorious - I am DONE! I do not have to buy one more thing. Nor will I. And BEST of all, I just finished wrapping all of it!! I am feeling your envy...

And now, I am hungry but there are no leftovers because (and I told you I'd get to this), there was a little misunderstanding about an invitation made last month to a friend to "drop by" on Thanksgiving, and about an hour before we were to sit down, he and his girlfriend showed up for dinner. Out came the extra leaf of the table, two more place settings and at the last minute, we made room. I was thankful, mostly, that they hadn't arrived mid-dinner which would have been so embarrassing for everyone.

In spite of the surprise, the change in plans, the unspeakable hour I woke to get my shopping done - I am extremely happy. I have the entire rest of the season to relax and enjoy. Further, I spent - on the whole family - less that what I typically spent for one person in previous years. Christmas will be small but unemployment has forced me into letting it be what it should have been all along. Christmas will be about what it is supposed to be about.

And to all a good night!

Thanksgiving Eve

I am happy to report that I have that holiday eve excitement going, even though this day is much like the last (meaning it isn't "special" that I'm not going back to work on Monday). What that means is that holidays truly are special in my heart and are not special(in my cynical old age) only because they mark time off from my job.

It feels different and sparkly - even if all we're doing is watching a National Geographic program on King Tut (which we are). Christine is at work and Amanda is either in class or at her boyfriend's house. Jennifer is on her computer, Grace is grooming her feet, the dogs are lazily roaming around, Bob is stretched out absorbing his beloved history programming and I am just collecting my thoughts.

One of our traditions is to set the holiday table the day before - which we did - and I get a great deal of pleasure looking at a beautiful table. And as I look at the table, I cannot help but think

back to a year ago and what a different life I had.

A year ago, I had a house full of people. My dad was visiting from Copenhagen, my sister Linda and her youngest son were here, and our friends the Barrett's had come with their two sons as well. We had gone to "Lister Party Rentals" to rent a table, chairs, and linens to accommodate all 13 of us. We had to set it up in the living room. And it was all very exciting.

The reason that we had such a large gathering last year was not so much about Thanksgiving but because Christine and Jennifer had their debutante ball on the following Saturday. Now before you roll your eyes and think "oh puh-leeze!", let me tell you that while it was a traditional ball, it was not a "coming out" or an "introduction to society" like they used to do. It was a ball given by the National Charity League to commemorate 6 years of community service given by my girls and their "class"through membership in the organization. Granted, you can easily say that to throw a lavish ball in order to recognize and celebrate young women for doing something they should be doing anyway is a bit over-doing it at least. Obscene at worst. But in fairness to all the debutantes, while they all enjoyed themselves, I don't think a one of them cared if they debbed or not. In my view, the ball was for the moms - myself included - for our six years of service and at least four years of fighting with our daughters to fulfill a commitment they made before they were old enough to know better (age 12).

But it was a sensational evening - as it had been the year before at Amanda's ball. And I have to confess that it may have meant more to me than anyone else there. Dressing in a beautiful ball gown with my entire family dressed to the nines looking exquisite and Bob in white tie and tails, dancing to a superb orchestra, being treated to a superlative dinner in a breathtakingly beautifully decorated ballroom at a fine hotel and retiring late in the night to a comfortable and elegantly appointed suite was a dream come true for me. It is the stuff of my girlhood fantasies. As a young girl and well into early adulthood, I was fascinated with the history of "Old Hollywood", with all its spectacular and royal-like, red carpet events and often wished I had been born at that time in history. A traditional debutant ball is as close as you get to that kind of glamorous night. And for me, it was worth all 463 collective battles I had with my girls to get there. And while I fully recognize now that this ball was something we could not afford to do in view of being laid off two months later, I am glad that I didn't know it then, because it was wonderful.

So this year is much different. Everything in our lives has changed, And for Thanksgiving this year, it's just the Smiths - which is nice. All the food was bought on sale (we've had the turkey in the freezer for three weeks). Missing are the gourmet chocolates and beautiful floral arrangements I had last year. No trips are being planned for the holidays. I am contemplating being at the mall at 5:00 a.m. to catch the massive Christmas sale prices on the very few items Bob and I have agreed to get the girls this year.

And I am so grateful! Because in spite of this being the scariest year of our lives, God has provided for us in so many ways. Bob's business has picked up enough to keep us comfortably above water during my unemployment, I have enjoyed having some time off after 34 years of full time work, I have given more of myself this year than ever before, and I can honestly say that I love my family more than I did a year ago (yes, my darling Amanda, even you).

And I have my beautiful table.

My Dinner With Marsha.

Courtesy of Facebook, I reconnected with another old friend, Marsha. She and her husband, John, were in town from New York for a few days and hosted a dinner party at this great little Italian restaurant in Toluca Lake I used to eat at a lot when I worked at Disney. (Prosecco's on Riverside Drive if you're local.)

Marsha is an actress. I met her a million years ago in 1977 when she and I did Fiddler on the Roof with the very talented but personally awful Theodore Bikel up in San Jose. I played the eldest daughter. Marsha, in spite of being slightly older than me, played my younger sister - the one who falls in love with an idealist and chooses to follow him to the abyss to freeze her butt off in some hovel, in poverty, in Siberia - all for love (I would love to see that sequel!) But this isn't about Fiddler. This is about dinner.

Marsha is extremely talented. Acts, sings dances - she's got the full package. Plus she's pretty smart. PLUS she understands, pursues, and enjoys the evidence of her own personal growth which she has always taken very seriously, unlike, say, me who is all for personal growth so long as it doesn't require a lot of self examination. And I think by nature, it does. So there you go. Anyway, she's very impressive.

It had been about 15 years since I last saw Marsha. I found her on Facebook about a year ago. Her photo looked like it must be very old because she still looked about 35 and assuming that she was still slightly older than me, that youthful look was impossible (unless of course there had been airbrushing - which was entirely possible) . Imagine my horror as I walked into the restaurant - with my glasses on - and saw Marsha, now at least 15 years younger than I am. We hugged for a long time which was good because I needed some time to recover. I cannot tell you about the first couple of minutes of our conversation because I was busy scrutinizing her face for signs of any surgery. None whatsoever. She is an anomaly of nature. (No, it isn't fair but be happy for her freakishly youthful appearance, Valri. The grass probably looks greener from her side of the fence as well. Surely she admires your cool cell phone.)

It was wonderful to see her again. She is in a long-running, off Broadway show, doing voice work, and doing what she has always wanted to do. John had a successful acting school in San Francisco and is now teaching in NY - while still working in TV and writing books. They clearly love one another, the connection between them is palpable. There is respect.

Anyway, they had several friends come to Prosecco's - a couple of whom I knew from long ago (that was fun!) and two in particular who sat next to Bob and me and were fabulous people. (One was 62 and looked no older than me - I need to hook into what ever time warp these people have found!) and a really lovely time was had by all. John and Marsha were perfect hosts, moving expertly up and down the table to visit everyone. Forget about fine wine complimenting the food - they compliment the fine wine. And I couldn't figure out what made this dinner so different from others I have attended. Until now. And I think it has to do with that personal growth thing. The commitment to improving themselves: learning, experiencing, focusing on the positive, loving, refining. They are the fine wine. After 15 years of absence I can see that they have grown better with age.

Or in Marsha's case, with youth.

It's Official. I Am a Hillbilly.

I swear it is not my fault. Months of unemployment will do this to you. But I drove my daughter to school this morning in my pajamas and a sweater. And sunglasses - so no one could possibly recognize me in my car.

For years, it has driven me insane that my girls sleep till noon or later on any given day off and then don't get dressed until 9:00 p.m. when they want to go out. Or conversely, they would come home from school at 3:00 and having no where to go, would put their pajamas on. My mother had a word for this: Hillbilly. It was the supreme insult (no offense to real hillbillies - if there really are real hillbillies.) But what it meant in my mother's eyes was slothfulness and a lack of social graces and/or acceptability so extreme as to be visible to those around you. The first evidence of Hillbilly? Pajamas in the daytime. (Second evidence? Chomping on a wad of gum with your mouth open.) It was ingrained in my brain and to see my girls actively engage in visible hillbilly-ism was torturous. So I had rules. If the sun is out you cannot be in pajamas. Period.

Well, the sun has been out for hours. I have come home from dropping my daughter off from school. I am sitting on the couch - still with pajamas and sweater. And the only reason I have to get dressed is that I need to be at a friend's at 11:00. Were that she were only blind.

Getting dressed has become a daily obstacle to overcome. I mean, I do it. I just hate it. Looking through a closet of work clothes collecting dust on the shoulders is such a bore. I do not need to get dressed to get on the internet to look for work. I do not need to get dressed to make phone calls. I do not need to get dressed to eat. Or to make the bed. And I don't have to get dressed for Bob. Bob sleeps dressed. (You think I joke - but if he is wearing a polo shirt on Wednesday, it doesn't come off until Thursday morning when he showers - which makes him the biggest Hillbilly of all - in a backward kind of way. But that's Bob so I give up!)

So here's the deal: one MUST get dressed to retain a modicum of self respect. And so the fact that I actually drove in pajamas this morning is a little alarming. I do , in fact remember back in elementary school, I often saw moms in bathrobes and curlers dropping their kids off. And Mrs. Hansen down the street, drove in a penoir and winked at the Principal. But no one does that today. Women drive their kids to school in work out clothes - ready to practice health and fitness before whatever else it is they do that does not include looking for a job because they don't have to.

But I have to. And in talking to other people in similar circumstances I am learning that pajamas seem to have become the uniform of choice for those working at finding work. And this just seems big time wrong since the rule of thumb is: "Dress for Success". Success is not going to find me in my pajamas. Because if it does, it will excuse itself for having made a mistake and walk away without leaving its card. Perhaps I should do what I make Grace do. Lay out my clothes the night before. Because it is dawning on me that a pair of comfy, old flannel jammies that are "pilling" with time are a really easy place for depression to hide and grow.

At least I'm not chomping on gum.

This One is Important. For Real.

I have been fooling with a way to open this post. Can't find one so I am just gong to say it: My twins have a disease. Currently there is no real treatment and no cure. It is called Vascular Ehlers Danlos, or VEDs and it took the life of their birth mother. It is not going to take their lives and the reason I know this is because when we learned that they had it, 10 years ago, I felt strongly that God was telling me He had it covered for them. But that doesn't mean that there isn't work to be done.

The night Anne died, I told her doctor that Anne's mother had died, at a young age, under strange circumstances. I knew that she had an aunt who had died at a young age too. It wasn't until we lost Anne that the puzzle pieces started to fit together and there was a clear diagnosis. Initial tests for the children gave false negative reads but after Anne's brother, who had also tested negative for the disease, died in his 30's 8 years later, the girls were tested again and we learned that Christine and Jennifer had the gene. They had the disease.

There were certain indications. People with VEDs often have large eyes, small noses and translucent skin. In truth, they are often very beautiful as was Anne; as are my girls. They often are born with club feet. Anne, her brother and her sister had this condition. My girls do not. We have been very careful with the girls.

In the most basic of terms, VEDs attacks the collagen in their bodies, making it brittle and unable to hold together their organs. What occurs most often in VEDs patients is spontaneous arterial rupture. All of their organs are vulnerable so excellent health is key. Once we learned of their condition, they did not participate in sports. We watched them carefully. We avoided things that could be hard on their bodies.

We had been counseled not to tell the girls until they were young adults so it wasn't until two years ago that we told them. It has been a very difficult thing for all of us, especially them to live under. Amanda was inconsolable for a time - trying to reconcile how her darling sisters should have this horrible thing and she does not. But they have done extremely well; it hasn't slowed them at all - I believe because they too have faith that they will be taken care of. I am immeasurably proud of them. And we have had so many people praying for them for so many years. If you need evidence of the power in prayer - please leave me a comment and I will get back to you.

Interestingly, Grace has a form of Ehlers Danlos as well. This is such a bizarre coincidence that it defies all earthly explanation. Grace had to have inherited this gene from either me or Bob. Which tells me that Ehlers Danlos is a lot more common than originally thought. Grace's form is not life threatening but it can be debilitating. Her joints are loose, also a connective tissue (or collagen) disorder. In a nutshell, her joints can fall out of place easily and the threat to her is similar to severe arthritis as she ages. We work hard to build the muscles around her joints. She too, is excused from sports.

But what does it all mean? Well it means that I am supposed to do something about it. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm going to start here. Recent research in France has given some very promising news about the use of beta blockers in VEDs patients. It appears that they help protect against arterial rupture. More research needs to be done. Funding is desperately needed.

There is an organization called Ehlers Danlos Cares at www.ehlersdanlosnetwork.org. If you go

to this site and click on "Donations", you will see that we are trying to raise $75,000 to begin funding more research in Maryland. Perhaps you can contribute something, anything. Next, if you are my Facebook friend, go to my page and click on the "Chase Community Giving/Ehlers Danlos Network Cares" icon and vote and then add the app to your FB wall and ask your friends to vote and add it to their wall, and so on.

I believe that God has my girls covered - and it could easily be an out and out miracle that saves them. But maybe the miracle is that you will read this and pass it on.

And God bless you!

Oh That Bob!

I haven't written much about Prince Bob, the husband, because frankly I don't know where to begin. Suffice it to say he is a really good egg - a person that always gives the benefit of the doubt, loves unconditionally, and lets stuff roll off his back. He often acts before he thinks which can be very funny but sometimes very awkward. The exact antithesis of me. Often, he drives me insane but he also offers some really good stories. Always in retrospect. Here is one of them - I was reminded of it by Christine today.

When Christine was in 5th grade, she attended a Christian Elementary School. The fifth graders there always attend "outdoor school" for a week, where they learn about science and stuff, always from a Christian perspective (and while I am a Christian, I am not always in agreement, but that is another story...) SO this particular year, I went along with the class as one of the parent chaperones. This one morning, I'm sitting in the cafeteria with Christine's teacher (whom I really liked) having coffee and breakfast and we were in some conversation when she refers to "the incident" with Bob. I asked her what she meant and she replied "you know, with the police?" I'm sure I turned into a ghost. "What?!?" I asked. To which she replied: "didn't he tell you?? "Tell me what??" "Oh my", she said. "Oh I figured he had told you. I don't feel like it should come from me but I guess I have to tell you. But its all okay now, really." Which is a nice way of saying: "Don't have a heart attack, okay?" Here it is.

Christine has always been a rather soft-spoken girl and when she was young she was a little shy and insecure, which made her a target for mean kids. Well, there was one boy in her class who really bullied her. Bob dropped her off and picked her up from school everyday and one afternoon, Christine pointed the bully out to him on the playground. As Bob drove by, he rolled down his window and said to the boy: "I'm gonna get you." Well there is NO EXCUSE for that. That was a horrible thing to say to any person - let alone a child - but Christine was in the car with him so Bob figured the boy knew why he said what he did. And like I said earlier, Bob often acts before he thinks. So anyway, I guess the boy was terrified. He evidently didn't recognize Christine in the car with Bob. But the next morning, when Christine got to school, everyone was talking about the old man who had threatened the boy. Christine and others were questioned by teachers as to whether or not they had seen anyone matching the description of the man and the car at the school. Christine knew immediately and didn't know what to do. Apparently the boy had told the school (and police) that an old man in a blue Windstar had threatened to "get him" and that he had "his girlfriend" in the seat next to him. (Christine was his classmate and only 10 at the time). Anyway, an announcement went out to the entire school via the P.A. system so everyone was on alert for this "criminal". And my poor little Christine knew all the while that they were talking about her daddy and she was terrified. The whole school was abuzz with this drama and Christine spent her recess and lunch trying to hide. She prayed that no one would figure it out. Next morning, Bob's car was seen pulling out of the school driveway (after dropping Christine off), and someone went to the Principal's office with the license plate number and called the police. The school notified the teacher that the police had been called. Once the bell rang and all the students, including the bully and my daughter, were sitting in their seats, the teacher led the class in a prayer:

"Heavenly Father, as you know there was a man at our school recently who threatened one of our students. Today we were blessed to have gotten the license plate from his car. Lord we pray that the police are able to find and apprehend this man and take him off the streets so all the children in this community can be safe. In Jesus' name we pray. Amen."

Poor Christine, she started sweating and her heart was beating really fast and she nearly fainted. Can you imagine sitting in class with a bowed head and folded hands, listening to an entire class praying that the police would catch your dad and throw him in jail? I could just die thinking about it a full 9 years later. Of course the police showed up to our door - and within an hour the entire episode was resolved. Bob explained to the police, apologized to the family - it was a non-incident. It was over. And the entire family agreed not to ever tell me. Which is always a mistake because I always find out.

And this story, along with oh so many others, lives on in infamy as part of our family lore.

This first photo is a picture of the extremely old, unmatched socks he wore on our wedding day. The second is Bob at an elegant white tie affair we attended. By now you get it. He's just that kind of guy.

Optimistic Voices

I didn't think I could ever watch "The Wizard of Oz" again. But tonight, surfing through the channels, Grace spotted it and said she wanted to watch (for the hundredth time). Jennifer was
also home and agreed - so we tuned in just as Dorothy was going to meet the Scarecrow. Somehow - unbelievably, I got hooked. And I was 7 years old again, sitting on the floor of our house on Sawleaf Street and watching it on our ancient Zenith TV set - in black and white.

It was on annually, with Danny Kaye as the host, and every kid in the neighborhood got excited about it. As a child, you prepared for these special evenings of entertainment. They were something to look forward to for a whole week and the day of the airing, the entire street of kids was planning for the viewing! Moms bought "Jiffy Pop" and it was like a holiday.

My sister and I would be bathed and in pajamas by the time the show started. My mom would walk us through what it looked like when Dorothy opens the door onto Munchkinland and the flowers were "every color of the rainbow". Even in black and white you could see that something had changed. It was wonderful to finally see it color but I don't think that anything beat having my mother describe it to us. And it was this scene that I remembered this evening. My mother making it magic for us - even in black and white.

And my very favorite song from the movie - "Optimistic Voices" as the four friends leave the field of poisoned poppies and dance toward the Emerald City - clearly in view:

You're out of the woods

You're out of the dark

You're out of the night

Step into the sun

Step into the light

Keep straight ahead for the most glorious place

On the face of the earth or the sky

Hold on to your breath

Hold on to your heart

Hold on to your hope

March up to the gate and bid it open

Isn't that the most perfect lyric?

Breakfast at "The News Room"

I had breakfast in Beverly Hills this morning with two friends from my Disney days. Meryl started working for the company one month after I did (and is still there) and Jennifer had been my marketing director for years. Jen doesn't work for Disney anymore but she was out from New York to attend an event hosted by her current employer. Both of them looked great (Meryl had a great pashima! and Jennifer looks slimmer) and it is very easy to "fall back into place" with people you have known for so long.

We ate at the "News Room" on Robertson - a very cute little place that serves healthy food - which means there wasn't anything on the menu that excited me at all. I had scrambled eggs. They made a point of saying in the menu that they were cooked with no butter or oil. I was afraid I might get a "naughty girl" look if I asked them to go ahead and throw some butter in the pan - I mean, I would be deliberately missing the point entirely, so I had them throw some cheese in there instead. Not bad. Just eggs. For $9.50. (And thanks ladies for treating me!)

It was fun to talk about how everyone was doing and what was new. Meryl has a big personality and she is always entertaining to be around - great laugh. Jennifer is very insightful. And she seems to have a pulse on everything that is going on. Both are really smart. But it was interesting to be on the outside of it. At times, I felt mildly out of place - that sort of third wheel feeling you sometimes get when you feel like you're only peripherally "in the game". As though we were all talking about a movie that I hadn't seen yet. I found that feeling fascinating because I was only so recently in the thick of it. And then, both Meryl and Jennifer spoke of the vacation time they were taking before the year end and it was so weird because while they were telling me how many weeks they were taking at the holidays, combining paid company holidays with earned vacation time, I, for a nano-second felt a tinge of jealousy and thought: "man, why wasn't I that strategic in requesting my time off?" And then, a nano-second later, I remembered: "oh yeah. I have time off in permanence." Still very weird. I don't know what it's like at other companies, but we really were a family. And this whole layoff thing feels like I'm a victim of divorce.

What else? Our waitress was adorable but she was an actress, poor thing. Seeing her reminded me how glad I am to be out of my twenties. Extremely out of my twenties. But when she asked us if we were all headed off to work, I didn't answer. I worried that if I answered, my face might cry again.

Wow. Am I whining? I shouldn't be. It's not like I am holding a tattered old coat around my shoulders, looking longingly into restaurant windows. (Well I might have looked longingly into the window of "The Ivy Restaurant" across the street from the "News Room" - but only because they offered savory fare cooked in butter.) We are doing fine, thanks to Prince Bob and a lot of business he has generated through his work in a commercials and real estate. And God has timed those checks to the day that we need them - unbelievable. We're fine. But still. Indeed.

But still --- it was wonderful to see these women again. And I know that I will see them again. And I am so glad for that. They are, after all, part of my family.

I drove back to the 405 via Sunset Boulevard - through Beverly Hills - passing grand and beautiful old homes, The Beverly Hills Hotel, both east and west Bel Air gates, UCLA, and uncountable, gorgeous, lush landscapes of rich green lawn, manicured hedges and shrubs, splashes of color from flower beds, cascading bougainvillea, and endless mature trees of every kind and color - reaching across the boulevard so that you can drive under a canopy - I love that!! And it reminded me of visiting Great Grandma in Sacramento when I was a little girl. Back then, it looked a lot what I was seeing on this drive - only the houses were smaller. At night, from my Grandmother's street, you could see the lit dome of the Capitol building and it was beautiful. I felt like all was right with the world back then. Driving the boulevard, it felt like that again.

Perhaps it is. I love my friends. Nice visit. And fewer calories!

Phone as Appendage

Okay, so in church this morning, standing in line to get communion, is a teenage girl. Text messaging. I'm...I'm...I'm at a loss.

When I was a little girl, back in the 19-fabulous-60's, we had one phone in the house. It hung on the wall of our kitchen. We had no area codes and if you wanted to call someone outside your town you had to "dial 'O' for operator". It had a rotary dial and it made a te-te-te-te-te-te sound when you let go. For a while, we even had a party line - which meant you had to pick up and listen before you dialed because someone else, living at a completely different address, might be using the shared phone line. There were phone booths everywhere around town and to make a call from them it cost 5 cents. There was only one telephone company - Bell. And guess what? We lived to tell the tale.

And if we were in the mood for correspondence but had nothing more to say than "Hey!", we waited until we had just a bit more on our minds and then we wrote letters, stamped envelops and mailed them (without the "e"). And getting a letter was always really great!

And, in fact we did this through the 60s, through the 70's, through the 1980's and into the 1990's.

Now it is 2009 and I just got my phone bill covering 5 phones. We have a "plan". I assure you, we have spent a lot of time making sure that we have the best possible rate for our use (it is still ridiculous) and it includes "unlimited texting". But one of our phones has 4,792 text messages on it in one month. One month. ONE. I did the math averages. Assuming 30 days with 12 waking hour per day, someone in my family is texting, on average, 13 times an hour. That works out to 1.083 texts every 5 minutes. Who, I BEG tell, has that much to say to anyone?

I'll be the first to admit that I cannot imagine life without my blackberry. But with that said, I am still trying to come to terms with the idea of "phone as appendage". I am all for communication. Cell phones and email and the internet have made life, in many ways easier. But I swear, I would happily give it all up to return to a life with one phone on the wall and a heavily used mailbox outside the front door.

I have spent a little time thinking about why the rampant use of all this communication technology is so offensive to me. And I think I have put my finger on it. The idea that life in general is so unimportant that any moment in life - a quiet moment, a joyful moment, a moment of brilliance, a moment of intensity, of reverence, of intimacy, of importance can and will be interrupted by the buzz of a vibrating cell phone with brain dead messages from any number of several hundred installed "friends" like: "You're hot!" or "whazzup?"or "I'm bored but XOXOXO!!!" is something that makes me want to start slapping people really hard. Then, as if swimming in a sea of stupid, the recipient will invariably and immediately respond to said text, allowing it to take precedence over whatever else might be going on ("I <3 U 2") or some other coded or misspelled message. And I have seen bone heads galore driving around town or on the freeway - one hand on the wheel, the other expertly punching the phone pad to say something that is more important, at that second, than being safe. I have sat in movie theatres and seen the glow of the a multitude of phone pads while people are texting madly. And then, someone at church cannot even focus long enough to free herself from whatever irrelevant conversation she has going. And you may think - "oh c'mon. It's nice to be able to keep in touch so easily." Yes but the arrogance and conceit that one must have to believe that any random thought they think up is worthy of being read, worthy being sent through time and space to satellite and back to earth, worthy being shared at all - astounds me. It's akin to being constantly interrupted by an annoying child - with no one taking a firm had with him. I want to beat the hell out kids like that.

There is some hypocrisy here. I have called people while I am shopping, or I'm in the car (hands free, of course). I couldn't write this blog if not for the same technology that I loathe. But at least I'm not sending it to you. Sadly I have to admit that I am not unlike anyone else in this world of technology and if we're not texting from our cells, we're talking on our cells or we're on Facebook or Skype or iChat and Lord in Heaven !! - does anyone EVER SHUT UP? There is no doubt in my mind that in another hundred years one of our hands will evolve into an iPhone. With apps.

My Face Betrays Me

Today was interesting. I went to Grace's school earlier than I normally do to pick her up so that I could go into the office and pay her monthly tuition. I went into the office and sat down to write my check and the secretary there, knowing I have been unemployed, asked me how it was going. I began to tell her how we have had to make a lot of adjustments but how really okay we were and how I am still looking but how difficult it has been due to my age and lack of college degree and how I still felt very hopeful because I know that there is something new for me out there and while I don't know what it is I am excited because I know that it's coming. And while I was talking I could feel the muscles in my face involuntarily moving into "crying position". I didn't cry. I didn't even feel like crying. But my face, I could tell, cried. And I know the secretary saw it and I felt so embarrassed. Like she thought I was putting up a brave front. You know, I can sort of deal with not having a job. But it is very hard to deal the the feeling you get after months of unsuccessful searching that you are not, for some unknown reason, desirable in the job market. I long to feel "on top of the world" again. Most days I really do feel fine and hopeful for whatever the future holds, but there is clearly something going on deep inside, something I'm not even consciously feeling, that is still not over being laid off. Whatever it is, my face knows it.

Jennifer

Last night Jenny's boyfriend was over. I like him because whatever else may be wrong with him, he will at least sit down and talk to me and not act like its some sort of medieval torture. So last night, instead of dragging out all the naked baby pictures, I drug out all the stories. The bad ones. Because they are funny. Jennifer was irritated with me and asked me why I never tell good stories about her. And I felt a little badly about that so I thought it would be a good idea to post a little something on each of my girls to tell the world how great they are and how proud I am of them and how much I love them. And I promise to get to that part. But first I have to tell you the bad stories. Because they are funny. (And Jenny is going to be soooooooooo mad at me!) Hi honey!

Jennifer was born pissed off. She didn't just cry - she screamed and she'd scream at you. It

wasn't just about wanting something. She was mad as hell, and as such, usually got attention right away. This first photo catches her just before she was about to have a fit.

She was also the most beautiful baby I had ever seen in my life. To this day, I have yet to see a baby that rivals her beauty. (Lori Kish came close). People literally stopped us wherever we were to look with amazement at her. I remember taking her to the mall with me once and I was trying on a dress in a dressing room. The sales girl came in to assist me and when she saw Jenny laying there in her little carry seat, she called all the other sales girls in to look at her.

When Jenny was a baby, she used to bite her twin, Christine. We'd put them in a playpen together and after a little while, we'd hear Christine start a mournful cry. Invariably, we'd go in and there was Christine with a circle of big red teeth marks on her little arms or legs or back. We'd admonish Jennifer: "No! That is very bad. No biting!" and we'd pick Christine up to comfort her which would just make Jennifer mad so her face would turn 16 shades of red and she'd just stare at us and let out a banshee holler. So one day I heard this now familiar cry for help from Christine and I ran in to see the familiar teeth marks and there sat Jennifer with a "well my job is done" look on her face. Having had enough, I picked Jennifer up and oh so slowly and gently I started to bite Jennifer until I could get a little squeal from her. Once she felt it - she let out a blood curdling scream and I looked at her and her eyes had filled with crocodile tears and she looked at me with a "I thought you loved me, why would you do that to me" look and I thought I would die. Obviously, she, at the ripe old age of 1 year, had not made the connection I was trying to impress on her. Why had I done that? Remember - I was an insta-mom. What the hell did I know? From then on, we separated them into two playpens if they had to be left alone for a little while. Having lost her teething toy, she moved on to biting my shoulder whenever I held her.

When Jenny was between 3 and 4, we were enjoying a picnic on the beach. After a couple of bites, Jennifer set her sandwich down on the blanket next to her, a seagull hurried over and stole it from her. Jennifer was LIVID! She was so mad it made me laugh - but what came next topped it all. Shaking her little fist and as loud as she could manage she yelled at that bird: "Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack!!!" Clearly she believed she was yelling at him fluently in his own tongue.

Jennifer was never one to just embrace what she didn't didn't want to.

She was often disappointed by experiences she had thought would be fun and for a while, she

showed no interest in anything at all so we sort of had to force her. We put Jenny and her sisters into dance. Here she is, posing to commemorate her first dance recital. She was never a girlie girl.

Similarly, even when it was seemingly in her best interest, she would go kicking and screaming. She didn't mind telling Santa what she wanted for Christmas but she didn't like having her picture taken. And she'd clearly take even Santa DOWN, if she had to.

When she was 7, she was adamant about dressing herself. One cold winter day when we had our friends the Barretts visiting, we were all dressed in sweaters and thermals and she decided to dress for the beach - mid July. I insisted she put on warmer clothes, and as always, it was a looooooooong battle (Moooooom! Its not even cold!!)but finally she relented because I was the mom. Once she returned, dressed properly, I told all the kids to go into the bedroom and find a game to play. Dragging her knuckles and lower lip on the ground with her, she muttered "What are we supposed to do? Have a sweating contest?" Ah, that's my little smart ass!

Her Girl Scout leader regularly asked me if I was sure I wanted Jennifer to stay in Scouts. She refused to wear her uniform and never stayed with her troop - but Jenny liked Girl Scout Snow Camp so she stuck it out - much to her leader's dismay.

She was intimidating to most kids. She never learned to edit herself so she would just be frank, at a time when most little kids want only to please. Jenny would get in your face. She was the shortest kid in her class but you better not mess with her or Christine cause she'd eat you for lunch. She went to Christian elementary school and would throw pencils during chapel. She was exasperating and I worried she would wind up with a million tattoos, riding on the back of a Hell's Angels bike.

What happened instead is that she took her lack of tolerance and turned it toward injustice. She cannot abide unkindness or neglect and will always stake a claim for the underdog. She has decided to go into nursing and she will likely end up in the Peace Corps or something like that after graduation because she wants to help the most unfortunate.

She doesn't care a wit about money (though she likes to spend it) and is embarrassed by extravagant consumption. She is the most well read 19 year old I know. She has the style of Audry Hepburn and Grace Kelly and has the talent for original fashion like Diane Keaton. She is equally comfortable dressed down or being glamorous. She is a Christian and when others acted like that was not cool, she let it roll off her back. She has a strong moral compass.

She can also still be a big pain in the ass. She can whine, and yell, and swear like a sailor, and pout, and have a tantrum - sort of like me. But she is also the only one of the four girls who will just see that the house needs cleaning and do it, without being asked. And she does a good job.

And she really wants me to love her. And I really, really do.