"A Change Will Do You Good" - some man

I have heard tell that 50 is the new 30. Mostly I have heard myself telling it to others. And were it not for the fact that biology is telling me otherwise, I might even believe it.

Let me just say a few words about menopause. A very few. It sucks.

Yes, there are all the irregularities of being irregular. There are the hot flashes. There are the unwelcome surprises. There are the mood swings. There are the daily trips to WebMD to make sure that all your abnormalities are normal because your mother never told you it would be like this. And if any man experienced this, they would think they were dying.

But the most insidious aspect of this mid-life change is what it does to your brain. Periodically I am at a complete loss of clarity, thought process, even simple words fail me. I forget things. I lose things.

A Recent Conversation in My Home:

Bob: "Where's my phone".

Me: " You left it on the table by the... you know... that big thing... over there... YOU KNOW... oh God! WHY CAN'T I THINK OF THE WORD??? Bob! Oh c'mon - HELP ME OUT. You know what I mean - its right there - this is stupid - that big thing right there - across from the table - oh God! I am going to lose my mind - what is it???"

Bob: "You mean, the door?"

Me: (humiliated) "Yes. The door. Thank you".

A Recent Activity:

Me: (thinking) "I left my shoes in the family room. I'm going to get them so that I can put them away". Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk (13 steps to the family room). "What did I come in here for???"

A Recent Rant:

Me: (Yelling from my bathroom.) "Okay which one of you girls took my brush? I am so sick of looking for things that belong to me and finding they are GONE!" Oh don't even answer because I know all I am going to hear is that none of you took it, which will totally piss me off.Because none of you will ever fess up. Yes, the brush fairy came to re-claim it. Damn it! If you can't find your own brushes - GO BUY YOUR OWN and quit getting into MY stuff!!!!!!!!Someone bring me back my brush! GIRLS! Get up and start looking for my brush!!! (One of the girls walks into my bathroom and produces it from the drawer. The same one I already looked in. The one where it belongs.) "Oh. Well it wasn't there a second ago" (Did I actually just say that?)

A Recent Car Ride:

Girls: "Mom can we roll the window down?"

Me: "No. I have the air on."

Girls: "But mom, its hot in here."

Me: "No its not. Its very comfortable."

Girls: "Because all the vents are blowing directly at you."

A Recent Assessment:

Me: (Looking in the mirror) "Who is that?"

I think it is a real testament to our sex that we all go through this without doing damage to ourselves or the world at large.

But the very, very worst part about menopause is this: I never, ever, ever want to have another baby. Ever. I will never change my mind about that. But soon, it will no longer be my choice. It will simply be a fact. And that makes me want to cry.

(Did I mention that you cry all the time?)

Oh Puh-leeze

The "Beer Summit"? I mean, for real?

Anxiety - Why Is It My Middle Name?

This whole transition period of my life is really getting to me. I finally feel like I've come to some terms with it but I can tell I've reached my tolerance level because I am beginning to think I am dying. Again.

I am a practicing hypochondriac. If they gave degrees in this I would have my PhD. My specialty is cancer. I am forever giving myself cancer. I must say here that it isn't my intention to make fun of cancer. Or hypochondria, for that matter. Both are debilitating. I have had two cancer scares in my life and ongoing battles with the latter. Neither are funny.

What I do find somewhat humorous though is the predictability of it. Just as I feel I've gotten on top of whatever frightening "Goliath" I am facing, I start fretting over dying. Its like squeezing an old balloon in your hand - no matter how you try to squish the whole thing, a piece of it pops out through your fingers. Somehow, it survives. Such is the case with anxiety. Once you think you've got it nailed, it just shows up in a different place.

The funny thing about hypochondria (not so funny actually) is that it waits until you've gotten everything else in order to rear its ugly self. And then it laughs at you because you cannot, no matter how you try, control dying. Hypochondria is the ultimate disorder for control freaks. Those crazy nut jobs who feel that the world would stop turning if their own little plans don't pan out. And that would be me.

I am not inclined toward another walk with Celexa, not that there is anything wrong with it, its just that I have to find another doctor and blah, blah, blah, endless blah...

So what's a girl to do? I decide upon that age old standby. I pray.* And this is what I hear:

"I am in your midst. It is not about cancer or jobs. It is about Me. Seek Me where you are. Seek Me in this moment...I have plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future... Why do you fret about your health? What stops you from going to a doctor? If there IS something, catch it in time! But remember I am The Healer. Let Me heal your mind... Worry = immobility. Concern = action... Worry is not of My nature. I worry for nothing. But I often have concern and there I take action. Let this be your model."

And there you have it. A reassurance that worrying is not only a monumental waste of time, God Himself doesn't want you to engage in it. Sometimes I have clarity about what its all about.

In 2005, my family went on a mission trip to South Africa with our church. We stayed at a orphanage in an AIDS ravaged community in the Kwazulu Natal region of the country. Upon arrival, I saw children, without birth parents, running around on parched earth, playing with each other in old shoes, tattered (but functional) clothing and with what looked to be beat-up, second-hand toys and equipment. These children enjoyed a much better life any other resident in the community. Because of the support from outside organizations, they had small houses to live in, three meals a day, medical attention, and a "house mom" who nurtured and cared for them. Yet all I could see was what they didn't have and my initial thought was - if only we could take them all back to America.

What I learned was that these children, children who live with the possibility that death could take a friend or even themselves - every day - had far exceeded the level of contentment I had in my own life. They had been raised with unwavering faith in God and had watched as God provided. Assisting each other as they saw a need was as natural to them as breathing. It was absolutely amazing to me to see a 12-year-old, "rough and tumble" boy pick up a crying baby and bounce it on his knee without blinking an eye. Or a girl, in the midst of playing a game of soccer, stop the ball to run and lift a child who had fallen off her crutches some 30 yards away. Without being asked. Without looking to see if someone else would do it first.

The very last thing these children needed was to come to America where they would be exposed to a culture that worries, a culture that has blurred the the very distinct line between want and need, a culture that is mired in the belief that worth is tied to your ability to keep up with or exceed the lifestyle of your neighbor. A culture that says me first, and then, if there's time, you.

The children of the Lily of the Valley orphanage never showed worry (although, arguably they had much to worry about). They were not immobilized by fear or depression. They did demonstrate concern. And upon that, they acted.

Can you imagine if we all stopped worrying? Stopped worrying about whether or not we own a home or have more than enough in the bank? Stop worrying about the price of gas or what the stock market is doing? Imagine if we could carry with us the contentment and confidence that God would, as He promises, supply our needs, and that we ourselves would not think to stop what we were doing to pick up a neighbor when he fell off his crutches.

Perspective. Perspective = peace.

* Let me be clear. I am a firm believer that Celexa and prayer can walk hand in hand. Celexa has been known to be a gift from God.

Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho, Its Back to Work I Go. Maybe.

Prolonged unemployment is an extremely dangerous thing. Like any other "job" you might have, it doesn't take long at all until you've found yourself in a comfortable "routine". I can't tell you what I am doing all day, but I can tell you that I feel fairly busy. And while I was depressed a while ago, I am no longer because I've been working on that "dream thing" a lot. Plus, I have never been a morning person so I'm not getting up before 8:00 on any morning. Actually, closer to 9:00 if I tell the truth. I've turned back to "teenage time" and I don't go to bed before I have heard Craig Fergenson's monologue. So anything new will be a jarring interruption. And I feel I've had enough change in my life this year, don't you?

But alas, my cobra will run out. And I need to be responsible. And the neighbors may start complaining directly to me if I don't find a way to hire a gardener again. So I may have to say yes if I get the call I think I might get this week.

The job interview I tried so desperately to get to recently, the same one I had to write a follow up letter about myself for - that one - they called me in for a second interview last week and apparently it went well. (In spite of relaying a far-too-personal-for-second-interview story about myself.) We are in salary and benefit negotiations right now. If they find the budget to afford me, I guess I'll be working again.

I will say that I truly do like the people I interviewed with. It is a small company and I think the job would be interesting. I'd travel a bit and I would like that again, I think. The negatives: it is far, far away from home. And because my territory would be the east coast, the hours begin early. I mean E-A-R-L-Y. The kind of early that "wakes you up 6 different times every night for fear you've slept through the alarm" early.

I know this potential job offer is a really good thing. It would be a time for rejoicing for millions of Californians who are currently out of work and living on the edge so I feel tremendously guilty about not being on my knees praying for it to happen. But you see, I've got this dream thing going on and I'm not certain how that and a full time job will co-exist.

At this moment, I am sitting on my unmade bed in the middle of the day, my windows open, staring at the view of my tree and the valley below. There is a very comfortable breeze blowing through; peaceful. I am blogging and making plans. I have some exciting things to ponder and pursue. And I am barefoot. I could be on the phone, or across the desk with a client, trying desperately to close business and make my quota. I could be filling out endless forms, useless reports, and working hard to act like someone I cannot abide is someone I have the utmost respect and admiration for because that's business politics. Let me see, which should I choose? (Hint: this is a math question.)

Well, the very comfortable breeze pays me nothing. So you know the answer. And so do I.

TWINS!

Today is Christine and Jennifer's birthday. They are 19. This is impossible.

I remember the day they were born. I talked a bit about it in a previous posting about Anne, my friend and their birth mother. They were born at 3 p.m.-ish - I'd need to check the birth certificates. Christine beat Jennifer by only a couple of minutes.

I'd come to the house the night before to be with Amanda while Bob took Anne to the hospital. In the morning, Bob came home to get Amanda; Anne had been admitted because she was only 7 months into pregnancy and they were going to try to keep them "in" for as long as they could. I stopped by to visit her when she found out they were going to do another cesarean. Anne was very upset but I had to go to a rehearsal. I left rehearsal just in time to be there as Bob was suiting up. He looked so nervous in his disposable white gown and cap. He had booties over his shoes and he sat in a chair, staring at the floor and tapping his foot - just like a million movies you've watched where the dad is waiting for delivery news. I did feel sorry for him though. When the doctors finally called him in, he was gray. I didn't fully understand - he'd been through this before, but he told me later that a cesarean can be a little unnerving. But then, so can a natural birth. Let's face it - the whole birth process, no matter how its done, looks like it shouldn't be happening. Actually it feels like that too.

In very short order, they were finally born and I was there when they wheeled Anne out of the delivery room on the gurney. She looked exhausted but relieved. She looked up at me and said: "I feel so much better!" No kidding. With two growing babies in her tiny tummy (she was barely over 5 feet) she had started looking like she might explode. Bob took a photo of me at just about that moment. Its a weird picture. Its just of my face. But I kept it because it reminds me of exactly where I was and what was going on.

I was there the day Anne learned it was twins. I was living in a little guest house on their property. They had rented out their home for a year because Bob was on tour with Debbie Reynolds in a production of "The Unsinkable Molly Brown". They had a short break so they came home for a couple of days and we all crammed into my little space. Anne called me at work to ask if I could come home. She was crying because she had just returned from the doctor and the news of twins scared her. I stopped at the store and bought two roses to give her but by the time I got there, she was fine. She said she was ashamed of herself for feeling scared. She decided this was a blessing from God and was now thrilled. Bob seemed absolutely fine as well. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth. I remember saying that I thought he would have been nervous or overwhelmed or panicked even about the news. He looked at me and said: "No! We'll be fine. This is great!" That night, Bob and Anne took my bed, I slept on a sleeping bag on the floor and Amanda was in a little port-a-crib. Like camping. We'd all gone to sleep but I was abruptly awaken to the sound of Bob's voice saying: "I'll be ready for this. I've got to get ready for this. OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!!!!!!" I sat up in the dark, jolted and disoriented, and asked with urgency: "Are you alright?!?!?" No answer. He was asleep. Then quietly, in a sleepy voice I heard Anne say: "Yeah. I know. He does this all the time."

They are exactly the same people they were the day they came home from the hospital. Jennifer is impatient and demanding (although she does not agree with this assessment) and Christine is quiet and retiring. And both are beautiful and incredible girls.

Did I mention that they went to Italy this year?? Oh, I was livid. They got on Travelzoo one morning in June and saw a spectacular deal on an 8-day trip to Italy. Never mind that they had never been there. Never mind that they didn't speak a word of any language other than English. Never mind that they needed to buy a car. Never mind that they didn't have 2 nickels to rub together. Never mind that they hadn't done one iota of research. They booked the trip without saying a word and left 4 days later. I couldn't speak, I was so mad. I was mad because I haven't been to Italy yet and it the one place I've always wanted to go. I was mad because I haven't been there yet because I couldn't afford to take all six of us. I was really mad because they had the courage to do what I didn't do at their age - because I was afraid. They are going to do just fine.

It took me several years before I stopped thinking of myself as the "second mom". Now, 19 years later, it doesn't occur to me. Anne had once told me: "You know Valri, you should never have children." Then one night she saw me taking care of Amanda and the next morning she said: "Well, maybe you could have one." Pretty funny. I had a dream not too long ago that Anne showed up from nowhere and wanted her family back. I was so happy to see her but I was not about to turn anyone over to her. They are mine - completely. And I know they feel the same way about me. I know this because they roll their eyes at everything I say to them - just as if I had been the one being wheeled out on the gurney that day in July - only 19 years ago.

A Prayer Request

One of the people I have re-connected with on Facebook is Margie. She's Margaret now, but she's Margie to me. Outside of my family, I have known Margie and her sister Kathie, and their parents, Mr. and Mrs. Braham longer than anyone else in my life. There was about a 35 year gap between the last time I saw them and when we found each other again but it feels like there wasn't any time lost.

Margie left me a message today that her mom has been battling a particularly difficult form of cancer for a long while. Her doctors have decided they are going to move forward with a more aggressive surgery - and Margie asked me for my prayers.

In the summer of 1963, my parents bought their first home in the then orchard-filled town of Fremont, California. It was a three bedroom house in a new development called "StarliteHills". One night, before move-in date, my dad took my sister Linda and me to the house to have a "look-see". When we got there, the electricity had not been turned

on yet and it was dark, but there was a house across the street with the lights on. My dad thought he would see if he could borrow a flashlight so we went over and knocked on the door. Mr. Braham opened it, my dad introduced us and we were invited in while Mr. Braham looked to find one we could use. We met Margie that night, she was about to turn 7 and she and my sister Linda (already 7) went off to see Margie's bedroom while I stayed with my dad and held his hand. And there, on the floor was Mrs. Braham, changing Kathie's diaper. (So strong is this memory, I even remember the diaper pins!) Kathy had just turned 4 but seeing that she was not a baby, like my sister Lisa, I thought she was old to have a diaper and I made a remark along those lines. Immediately, I felt my dad squeeze my hand to let me know I was out of line. Mrs. Braham just smiled and said "yeeeeeeas" , drawing out the word in a kind, understanding, motherly way. I remember clearly being embarrassed that I had said something rude, but Mrs. Braham, with her demeanor, let me know I was off the hook. I was 6 years old.

The Brahams were devout Christians and because of that, my parents didn't get too close. Neither my mom, nor my dad were inclined toward church. The Brahams went every Sunday. Sometimes, my sister and I would go with them. It was fun, I thought. I liked Sunday school. It was nice putting on a Sunday dress and going to church with the Brahams.

But let me tell you what made Mrs. Braham most special to us. She was a Beatles fanatic! She had the "Meet the Beatles" album and every other subsequent one and she was responsible for turning us into life long Beatles fans. She would beam when Linda, Margie, Kathie and I would pretend to be the Beatles in her living room, playing air guitar (and air drums) and singing along with the albums. For hours. The Beatles became the primary theme for our play and Mrs.Braham often led us in self made Beatles parties and crafts. When the Beatles came to San Francisco for the first time, we had planned to be at the airport to greet them. Mrs. Braham later thought better of it and instead, we made lots of "We Love You Beatles" signs and we stood on top of the picnic table in their backyard waving and screaming at the plane we thought was theirs as it flew over the house. We saw "A Hard Day's Night" and "Help" with Mrs.Braham. And when John Lennon made the infamous "we are more popular than Jesus" comment, she put the albums away, but as soon as he apologized, Mrs. Braham was quick to forgive and the records made their way out again.

Mrs. Braham also had a little nervous (?) habit and she would hum the same two notes repeatedly throughout the day. She hummed in a low register but the interval was the same as the first two notes in the song "People". I liked this little habit and began to mimic it and take it for my own - until my mom made me stop.

Mrs. Braham redecorated their spare room a lot. Also known as "the music room" (Mr. Braham was a music teacher), I mostly remember when she made it into a sea scape. Along with many maritime artifacts that were placed around the room, she hung fish netting on the wall, with starfish and abalone shells caught in it. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

One night, when Mr. Braham took Margie and Kathie for an overnight trip somewhere, Mrs.Braham dropped by late in the afternoon and said she was very lonely for her girls and asked my mom if she could borrow Linda and me for the night. My mom agreed and we were off to an adventure of staying at our friends house - while they weren't there. I was excited to see what our friends' lives were like after dark when we were all in our own homes winding down for the evening. I don't remember much from that night except that when we were in bed, Mrs. Braham bent down and kissed us both good-night. I couldn't remember her having done that before so it was strange and wonderful all at once. This pretending to be Mrs. Braham's daughters was so much fun that we made pests of ourselves all day the next day and she was patient with us but I know she was relieved when her real family returned and she could send us home.

It had been several years since I had seen the Brahams, but when I was 18, I made a decision to become a Christian and I went to be baptized at a local church. Because my family wasn't religious, I did this on my own, without anyone there to take note of the event. After I had been "dunked" and changed clothes, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Braham. They happened to have been there and she was thrilled! I remember her telling me that they were both sitting in church and feeling a little "bored" until they heard my name and she was just so happy for me. And I thought it made complete sense that of all the people of my childhood, if not my own family, the Brahams would be there to mark the day with me.

Helen Braham had a round, pleasant kind face and sweet smile. That's her in the photo with her daughter Kathie, circa 1960's Beatles days. I just saw a recent photo of her and Mr. Braham (Larry) on Margie's Facebook. She looks exactly the same - only older.

We can all look back on our lives and point to a few people who, for whatever reason, have been special and memorable to us. Mrs. Braham is one of mine. I cannot hear an old Beatles song without remembering happy, wonderful memories of my childhood. Mrs. Braham is responsible for many of those. Understandably, she is fearful of what lies ahead of her. She has my prayers before, during, and after her surgery. And may I ask, if you pray, will you be kind enough to remember her too.

Hannah Montana Should Not Live Here

Grace is watching reruns of Hannah Montana and the Suite Life of Zach and Cody. She has watched these episodes so many times in rerun that she actually knows the lines by heart. Please take that literally, because it is true. She also watches something called The Wizards of Waverly Place and The Jonas Brothers show - basically anything that runs on the Disney Channel - no matter how insipid (with all due respect to my former employer). Now all these shows are great and appropriate for my 10-year-old but I have come to hate the Disney Channel. In trying to fool myself into believing that I am "spending time" with my daughter, I sit in the room with her while she watches for eternity - and I read or do what ever I want to do. And so, I hear and see the programs again and again with her. Until I have to leave the room. Letting her continue to watch -over and over and over and over - infinity.

I am a horrible mom.

THERE IS NO EXCUSE. But here's my excuse. There's only so much time you can spend in the world of a non-adult - whatever the age - before you need to slit your wrists. No matter HOW much you desperately love that person. BECAUSE, as an adult, your attention span is different, your energy level is different, your time schedule is different, and your interests are different. There are some grown women who do love to play endlessly with kids (my mother was one of those, my daughter Amanda is another) but I think they are a rare breed. I know lots of moms who claim to love to play with their kids but its a fake because while they may do a lot of stuff with their kids, they usually bring one of their friends along for the ride too. And that friend invariably brings her kids. Even I could do that.

However, when you are at home during the day, and all your friends are at work and you live on top of a hill where the nearest other child is a car ride away, Hannah and crew start to look pretty good. To her credit, she is safe and wholesome so I approve of her as a friend, so to speak. But it cannot go unnoticed that Hannah and all her cronies completely ignore my little girl sitting on the other side of the flat screen. And when my daughter starts speaking their lines - from memory - before she hears the characters saying them, I know she is in desperate need for a little human interaction.

So, I need to put my daughter first for a while. "Hey Grace, why don't you turn off the TV and let's do something." She turns to face me and with sarcasm beyond her years she tilts her head downward, raises one eyebrow and looks at me with a "you're kidding, of course" look. I raise both my eyebrows and win the staring contest. "What do you want to do?", I ask. "I dunno. " Sudden enthusiasm overtakes her. "What about Twister!" (I'm wondering what Hannah is up to already). "Uh, not Twister, okay? Wait a minute! Is your room clean yet?" "No." "Okay go clean your room and then we'll go do something". She drags herself down the hall. I have just bought myself 40 minutes. The room should only take 10 but my kids don't like to clean (see previous post). So I take a moment to consider what we could do together that would not bore me senseless within 15 minutes and not make a bigger mess than the one I'm looking at right now. Clearly, we have to leave the house. Did I mention it is 110 degrees outside?

"Hey Grace, do you wanna go to the mall?"

"Can we buy anything?"

"No."

"Then no." Okay she's just like me.

I try again. "What about a movie?"

"What movie?"

"I dunno, what about Ice Age 113, or whatever sequel it is?"

"Nah."

"What about Harry Potter 109? Is he a grandpa yet?"

"Nope I'm going to see that with Jennifer. I'd go see 500 Days of Summer with you."

Who is this child??????

I rack my brain trying to think of something both of us are interested in doing. She's not a baby anymore so I can't just take her to the park and let her climb stuff. But she's not a teenager so I'm not taking her to her movie of choice either.

She comes up with an idea. "Why don't we go to the pool!"

We happen to be the only house in the neighborhood that doesn't have a pool in the backyard so we belong to the Conejo Family Country Club, not to be confused with North Ranch Country Club or Sherwood Country Club where the Mercedes in the parking lot is the lowest present on the auto hierarchy chain. Our club has no golf course or tennis court or well appointed locker rooms, restaurants or staff dressed in white. We have soccer mom vehicles in our parking lot. BUT we have something they do not! A glorious pool! And normally, I would say that Grace had come up with a marvelous idea. Except! This summer it appears that the economy has hit everyone and no one has gone away - they are all at the club. Which means that I must either wear a towel around me all afternoon or wear a paper bag over my head. Because walking around in a bathing suit is just out of the question!

I scramble. "Hey, what if instead, we pack a picnic dinner and take it to the pool and go swimming with daddy tonight!" Jackpot! "Yeah! That'll be cool. We'll go swimming when its dark?" "Yes!", I respond with a wave of relief.

So we've got it figured out. I finally know what we're going to do. But we have about 5 hours till dark.

"So can I watch TV for a while, mom?"

I realize I have been running in place. What am I going to do? "Okay, but can you watch something other than the Disney Channel" (at least I take a stand).

"Sure", she says. Then she changes the channel to Nickelodeon and throws me a quick "gotcha" smile.

I am a horrible mom.

But tonight we went to the pool and swam alone in the dark. And it was divine!

Jan's Number

Among all of the loose papers that poured out of "big black" (my purse) was a phone number. It was familiar. It was also local. But I couldn't place it. I had to punch it into my cell for the name to come up so I could identify it. It was Jan's.

How is it that you can be best friends with someone one day, and the next a virtual stranger? I seem to have a knack for that.

I have never been very good at juggling a lot of people. I have always been envious of those who are able to keep in regular contact with seemingly hundreds of friends for years and years on end. I can't comprehend how that is done but I have a lot of friends who manage it. I wish they'd give a class.

Jan is this great gal who liked me right away. And I liked her. Right away. She is FUN! She is hilarious. And she does everything well. I mean everything. Really well. She especially does friendship well. She welcomed me into her world and it was fabulous! I loved being Jan's friend. We talked most everyday. We worked out together. And we laughed together. A lot. So how is it that today I can't even recognize her phone number?

We didn't fight. We had no formal parting of the ways. And while I can't tell you when it happened, I can guarantee that it was I, not she, who dropped the ball. I know this because I have dropped the ball before. This realization has compelled me to examine what kind of friend I am and I have spent the better part of today thinking about it. How is it that I have lost touch with someone who has added so much camaraderie, kindness and love in my life. To say nothing of color.

I'm not interested in playing the blame game, but I will say that growing up, my parents did not have a lot of friends. Any really. At least none that they sustained. As an adult I learned that when we were little and my parents were really young, the couples on the street we lived on were into more, shall we say, intimate social games (I was shocked!), and my parents didn't want to play. But we moved and nothing really changed. My folks kept to themselves mostly. I did not grow up with neighbors having dinner (or even coffee) at my house. My parents never spent any time at all on the phone "catching up" with anyone - unless it was a parent or sibling. I have no fond memories of watching my mother get ready for a big party. They didn't "go out". I certainly never saw my parents ready the house for guests by planning menus, getting out anything "good", or feeling that festive gaiety that comes with the anticipation that "company" was coming over. I'm not saying that it never happened - just so sporadically that I have no recall of it. I didn't watch them entertain. I did not watch them "being friends". My parents had a routine. In fairness, there was not a lot of money in our house for dinner parties or going out. My parents may have decided that it was just easier to stick to themselves since they weren't able to participate in a lot of things the neighbors were doing. Generally, my mom and dad went to work, came home, ate dinner, talked to us, watched some TV and went to bed. The end. Weekends were much the same but instead of going to work there was grocery shopping, house cleaning, laundry and watching old movies on Sundays on Channel 36. As a result, while I did yearn for people and friends to fill our home - to give it balance - to lighten it up, for Pete's sake - I had no one to model for me how maintaining many people in your daily life was done. It is a skill, you know.

Today, I have many wonderful friends. I really do love them all. But I have not developed the skill to integrate them fully or indefinitely into my daily or weekly routine. And then it came to me. I think I kind of rotate my friends. Whoa! That sounds terribly unkind and dismissive. Did I just say that? Rotate? Like underwear? How hard can it be to keep in touch? What am I spending all my time doing? This is not a conscious effort, but when I think about it, I see a pattern. And if I was being rotated, I think my feelings would be hurt.

I do socialize to some extent every week but I fit it into the routine, rather than having a routine fit into something much more meaningful. Does this mean that the time that I have set aside for friends has had to fit somewhere between Reality TV and a Lean Cuisine? Have I substituted "The Real Housewives of New York" for real people?

Is it possible that I have more of a routine than a life? It seems that in dumping my purse, a phone number and a compact mirror fell out and I am forced to face the face I need to face.

I am grateful for all the friends I have that have accepted me in spite of my lack of priority. It seems I must find the little black book and make a lot of phone calls to a lot of people I love. I am not looking forward to calling Jan. That will be hard. Jan is very organized and I suspect she "dumps her purse" at least annually. If I fell out of her purse, she may very well have not put me back in.

The Truth

I have a second interview with one of the companies I have recently been talking to. I am nervous about it.

It should be mentioned that I am not nervous that I won't get it. I am nervous that I will. Having spent the past several months without a job, I am no closer to knowing what I want to do than the day I was laid off. My conscience won't allow me to continue receiving unemployment insurance in this economy if viable work is available and offered, but I am frightened of taking something because I need to and then being unhappy. I don't want to be unhappy. Especially if I have to travel outside a 10 mile radius to do it. I want more time to ponder it. A little more time. Like, indefinitely.

My ideal job would have me sitting in a beautiful office. I would interact with clients and be pleasant to people. They would be pleasant to me. I would have no quotas or deadlines. I would simply do manageable work as it came in. Manageably. I would be called upon to entertain clients. But only lunches and never dinners and I would not have to drive. It would be within 15 minutes of my home. It would offer flexibility in schedule so that I could take care of personal business when it came up without fear of some colleague half my age looking at me disapprovingly because I didn't take my career seriously and resenting that I make twice as much. It would be a company that is solvent with no chance of folding or downsizing. It would offer comprehensive and excellent medical benefits. It might even offer a pension. Certainly a matching 401K. Oh, and six figures. Heard of any?

That is my ideal office job. This is my dream job: I would write of life's experiences and difficulties, mine and those I have observed. I would write of what I have learned. I would write of faith. And somehow it would be interesting and entertaining and funny and I would go to interesting places and talk to thousands of people I do not know and I would be a motivational speaker. There. Its out. That is what I want to do.

(Insert cricket sounds)*

Okay so I lied; I do know what I want to do. But really, who wants to just say that? That's like saying that you want to be a "celebrity spokes-model". It sounds stupid. Except I have seen motivational speakers. I have been moved by them. I have been entertained my them. And they can be impressive. They can make you feel differently and point you in the directions of making positive changes in your life. And Lord knows we could all use some of those. A purpose, remember?

I have a better shot at getting a job that matches my first description but here is the deal. I am going to try to do it. I know I would be good at it. It does not mean that I won't get a real job. I have to pay bills and we do need benefits. But I am going to try to pursue this little, ridiculous dream and see where it takes me. I am going to try to have more than "more of the same". "The same" has been good. "The same" still has its place, but I'm playing in the second half now and I may as well try to pass the goal line - to get there I need to take a risk, jump in the deep end, dream a bit bigger. And completely dump my purse.

I will post this, I will post this not, I will...

(*I have blatantly stolen that line from my friend Ted who is hilarious, a real writer, and who used it in his own blog, and it made me laugh out loud.)

Cleaning Day

Today is house cleaning day. So was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Need I go on?

I carry in "my purse" a list of chores that need to get done in perpetuity. I wish I knew why I can't get a handle on it. Or won't. Yesterday, a friend of mine, in the same boat as me, learned she didn't get a job she was hoping for. Her response? She cleaned, vacuumed and polished her home. What a productive way to deal with frustration! I don' t know how I have been dealing with my frustration but this I can tell you - the dirt is piling up. My carpet looks like I raise farm animals indoors.

It used to be that on a fairly regular basis, I would wake up with cleaning on my mind. I would get up early, put on a pot of coffee, begin what would be several loads of laundry and, with a cup of joe in hand, I would go from room to room with my basket of cleaning supplies, mops and vacuum cleaner. I would go sweep through the house from one end to the other without stopping. I would do all this work, still in my pajamas until I got to the last room: my bathroom. After scrubbing it clean, I would lay out clean clothes on my clean bed in the clean master bedroom of my clean house and then jump in the shower. Once fresh and dressed, I would emerge - completely satisfied, happily admiring the vacuum tracks in the carpet (stepping gingerly so as not to disturb them so soon) and feeling that I had accomplished something wonderful. And then I would do whatever I damned well pleased. GREAT DAY!!!

But that was before I had to share a space with as many as 6 people at once and all their friends. Not one of my kids wakes with cleaning on their minds. They go kicking and screaming into the task every time and they don't do the job I would do. And if I invest my time in cleaning out a room, I need be absent from it for mere moments before a mess starts to happen - as if by magic. Black magic.

No one walks gingerly over the vacuum tracks. No one even notices them. No one else seems to feel the satisfaction of leaving a room exactly how they found it. I appear to be the only person who craves order - and I just don't get it. I cannot just "close the door" because I KNOW WHAT'S BEHIND IT! And then I start thinking about it, and then I have to open the door, and then my eyes start rolling back into my head. The girls' closets are the stuff of "Fibber McGee and Molly" scripts. (And if you don't know who they are, google it. Keep in mind of course, they were before my time, as well.)

For a while I had a cleaning lady. She came on Fridays and left before I came home from work. By the time I arrived I was supremely disappointed because crap was already accumulating everywhere - as if no one had ever heard of a drawer or a closet. I could barely see the tracks she had made on the carpet with the vacuum (and my cleaning lady made professional vacuum tracks) and I finally decided it was not worth the money. I could bitch for free.

I know that all this mess is here because life happens in my house and I am powerless to stop it. Not that I want to stop life, like breathing life, but I do wish I could destroy all evidence of it tearing through the front door. To be fair to myself and my family, most people I know who have a really clean home have less people inhabiting it and a housekeeper who comes twice a week.

In spite of the fact that I live in one, I am one of those people who can't make friends with a messy house. Seeing dust and dirt, smudges and pillows tossed askew on a chair, leave me feeling as though I am suffocating. So in general, I feel like I have chronic shortness of breath. And my house is one thing I thought I would get control of as an unemployed person. I was actually looking forward to it. Yet since getting the pink slip, the only thing I have accomplished is the cleaning out and organizing of two closets. As I write this, I am staring at a kitchen that is so filled with dirty dishes, clutter, and garbage that needs to be taken out that it would just be easier to move.

If only I could.

Damn.

Fear of Jumping

I googled myself this morning. I googled myself under both names - maiden and married - and from the number of times I pop up (several pages! sometimes even in Korean !) it would appear that I am fairly important. I was shocked! I felt like a mild celebrity for a moment.

I started to click myself (that sounds a bit odd) and found the following:

• My name in a couple of old reviews from plays I did a million years ago.
• My name (and photo - and even voice!) listed with "original Los Angeles Cast" of an Off-Broadway production of "Dog Music" (from a million years ago).
• My name listed multiple times in association with 2 episodes of "Wings" I did a million years ago.
• My name associated with media kits from magazines I represented a million years ago.
• My name associated with organizations I have belonged to or charities I have contributed to.
• My name in Linkedin.
• My name in Facebook.
• My name appearing as a result of photo tags in Facebook.
• My name in a PR release promoting me as a "guest speaker" at my church.
• My name associated with random selections from this blog.

Let me tell you what is really fascinating about this - at first glance it all looks very impressive. But scratch the surface and it says absolutely nothing.

Now my life has not been about nothing. But as I reflect (ad nauseum) these past few months, there is a lack of clarity as to whether or not my life has been about something.

In the "My-Life-Has-Not-Been-About-Nothing" column there is, wife and mother of 4, breadwinner, Sunday School teacher (for a while), actress (dabbler), charitable contributor, friend, sister, and daughter. And all those things are good things - I'm not knocking any of it. I'm happy with all of it and even proud of of it. But early on in this blog I wrote that I am not altogether certain right now of who I am. Those words sound highly self-involved and laughable - like a line from the script of "Hair". And its a little late in the game to be returning to the flower child era. That being said, as there is a tombstone in my future somewhere, I'd like it to say something more than: "Here lies Valri Jackson Smith, beloved wife and mother. Oh. And she sold advertising."

What I'm thinking this morning is that it really comes down to is who have I served? As I write these missives here, reading them over, hearing the sturm and drang buzzing in my head it occurs to me right now that all this fear that I keep talking about, this lack of purpose, this confusion about direction would disappear if I could figure out "serving someone".

Let me tell you - its not the "serving" part I don't get. I am excellent at being served. If you've read any of my posts, you'll note that I've chosen a rather effortless, "peel me a grape" sort of path. One that has been satisfying for me and my family. But to reiterate what I have said previously, I feel I just sort of sat at the table while life served me up a virtual banquet and I have grabbed the attractive, low-hanging fruit, along with my share of the fattening stuff. (Not that it has been a breeze - it has not. I have worked hard. Sometimes.) I don't feel one bit guilty about any of it either. But if you've read my previous posts, you'll also know that in the absence of this buffet, I am at a loss for, well, not just the party but for anything to eat - to continue the metaphor. I have a growing sense of urgency I had better go learn how to plant some fruit trees. And that I'm going to have to get accustomed to doing the serving.

If you haven't picked it up by now, I need to say here that I am a Christian. And I talk to God. Rather a lot. Interestingly, He talks back. (No, not audibly.) He has been talking to me for a very long time and I have written down a lot of what He says. Its kind of a phenomenon. And no, I'm not a lunatic, or even a fanatic. No one other than my daughters (and maybe occasionally my husband) would pin me as crazy. I think if we listen, God speaks to everyone in some form or another. Its just in my case, He seems to have a lot to say - as it pertains to my life. (I am not getting any messages for the world at large.) I have often taken it for granted by selectively listening.

I believe that all He is asking me to do at the moment (ALL?!?!!) is to put my faith in Him and jump in the deep end. Even if I don't think I can swim. Especially since I don't think I can. I think He is saying there is more than "more of the same" out there for me. And it is in this new arena that I will find the purpose and direction and freedom from fear that months of inactivity has forced me to face. In this place I will find the kind of work that is fulfilling and I will begin to experience "something."

Can I tell you that I am nearly hysterical at the thought of it. I am so not kidding. I am so afraid of drowning in that pool. Particularly right now - in this economy, at this time in my life.

Regardless of an individual's faith, or lack of one, millions of us are in this boat right now. And there will be more. And as much as I (and others) may hate it, and I mean really hate it, we have to start asking ourselves, even in this time of uncertainty, hardship, and seemingly lost security, if maybe at this stage in our lives we're not being offered an amazing, maybe once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to move on. And then we have to ask ourselves if we have the guts to grab it.

On Dreaming

Being unemployed has been very hard work. Emotionally, at least.

Looking for a job has been depressing. First of all, as a resident of the once great but now bankrupt state of California, there are very few jobs to be had. Even fewer that pay near to what I was making. Fewer still that offer the benefits I received. Almost none at all in my industry. And even fewer in any industry that will consider me, in spite of my resume, without the college degree that I so regretfully lack. (In my case, it isn't a matter of finishing my degree. It is a matter of not having spent a single day in college.)

Initially I had thought that I would be scooped up within weeks. I worried that I wouldn't have enough time between jobs to enjoy a little break. There were a couple of jobs that I truly did want - two I still wish I had gotten but I came into the game way too late. A third job should have been a no-brainer but I couldn't have done a better job of sabotaging myself if I had employed military assistance. (Among other things, in a cover letter, instead of writing that I had been recently laid off, I wrote that I had been recently laid.)

The hardest part of this, I think, is that life has been fairly easy for me. For the most part, it has pretty much fallen together nicely in terms of being taken care of. As if by magic, without asking, terrific opportunities have presented themselves to me over the years and I have just stepped into them. And as a result, we have been very comfortably "middle class"; the "American Dream" happened to me. We own a nice home. We have cars for everyone. We take nice vacations and travel. We go out to eat at restaurants and have nice things and nice clothes. We socialize at dinner parties and weddings and bat mitzvahs and even the occasional debutante ball. We volunteer and give of our resources. We go to church. It has been good. And that life, has stalled. Maybe forever. Opportunities are not floating by for me to step on. I am still trying to come to terms with that.

At the same time, there has been a part of me that has always resented having to hold a job. I have envied those women (or men) who have their days free to explore museums, new restaurants, play tennis, volunteer, travel, shop - at whim. In my mind's eye, I could see myself fitting in very well to that kind of lifestyle. So here I am now, with my days free. Admittedly, I didn't walk into it voluntarily so that makes a big difference, but I find I am equally resentful at not having something to do everyday - other than trolling Monster, et al. I am lacking a purpose. Without it, all the museums, restaurants and tennis courts in the world hold little appeal.

When I was working, I don't guess I felt like I had a purpose, but I was so busy being responsible and maintaining a lifestyle that I never had to think about it. When I became bored or unsatisfied I just waited for the feelings to pass. Since unemployment, I have had nothing but time on my hands to contemplate my boredom and dissatisfaction. To feel as though I am addressing that, lately I have been doing a lot of talking about "re-inventing" myself. Lots of talking the talk but in truth, I have NOT been willing to walk the walk because I am secretly waiting for another opportunity to fall from the sky. You see, when you are accustomed to allowing the circumstances of life to invent you, you come to realize that you have put yourself at a deep disadvantage. When you let life happen to you - even if it is a very good life - you learn to ignore your dream. Here's one thing I have figured out: No dream = no purpose.

I have many, many personal reasons for why I believe in God. Evidences, actually. In fact, I see God in the midst of all that is happening right now. There is some peace in that. But that has not stopped me from being afraid. Very afraid. Because if God wants me to find my purpose and follow my dream (and as scary is it is for me to even think it, I must admit that I do have one), it won't look anything like what I've been doing in the past. It would be something entirely new. And there is no logical or responsible reason in this world why I should even think about it, let alone begin to pursue it. It isn't at all that I am afraid that our standard of life will shift to living "smaller". I think everyone is going to have to embrace that and I frankly, don't think that is a bad thing. What has me paralyzed is the idea that I may be required to pursue something different and that I may fail.

It is a bit unfair that at this age, I might need to learn to think like a 20-year-old and believe that the world is my oyster again. Dreaming may have come naturally to me when I was 20 but I have lost my ability. Dreams are nothing but risk. As such, I'm not a fan. I would rather be safe. Except that it has become clear that if I wait for something to happen to me, my future could be extremely grim. With continued purposelessness.

Has God brought me to such a time as this? Because these times are not for the faint of heart. As to the strength of my heart? The jury's still out.

Death of a T-Shirt

I would like to know, PLEASE, why my husband can be completely counted on to not be able to be counted on. Not in the BIG things - he loves me, he works hard, blah, blah, blah. But if something is important to me - and isn't important to him, he will invariably feign interest and then, once I've left the room, he will let it drain straight of out of his brain through his ears.

I have this taupe colored tee. It was expensive. It has great detail. It is a central part of my overall wardrobe as it goes with everything. Further, and most importantly, it looks really good on me. For any woman who has the miserable fashion misfortune to be big busted, finding something that hangs well and doesn't make her look like she is shopping in the maternity department is very difficult. I am such a woman. And for a woman my age, the idea that someone might possibly wonder if she is wearing maternity clothes is enough to keep her from leaving the house at all. (Not that it would be impossible, but it would be embarrassing.)

So this morning, coming home from church, I stopped the car in front of the driveway and asked princess Grace if she would please go pick up the newspaper and bring it into the house. You would have thought I had asked her to cut the grass with tweezers. After much whining and groaning, she opened the door, took the 4 apparently unspeakable and painful steps to the paper, climbed back into the back seat (for the remaining 5 second drive to the house) and, so that we could be quite clear about what a complete imposition the request was on her life, she belligerently tossed the paper into the front seat. Naturally, the paper hit the cup of coffee I was holding and coffee splashed all over my taupe tee. Any spiritual benefit I may have received from this morning's sermon flew out the door at that moment. I didn't even get to carry it through lunch.

Now you need to know that I realize this is not a life changing catastrophe and normally I wouldn't flinch at splashed coffee on stuff I wear around. A little "Spray 'n Wash" and we're in business. But this, as I mentioned, is an important shirt. I ran into the house, took it off, pre-treated it and put it immediately into the "we-promise-this-speed-will-not-ruin-your-delicates" cycle, with Woolite. All by itself (which I never do).

About 20 minutes later, I left with Grace to go have her hair cut. (It was my great pleasure to have a full day of whining and groaning with Grace.) Half way to the salon, I remembered my tee in the wash. I pulled out my cell, pulled over, dialed Bob. Had he not picked it up, I would have turned around - BUT HE DID!!!

"Bob", I said, " this is important". To make certain he was listening, I waited for a response. "What is it?", he asked me. "My shirt is in the wash". I should tell you that Bob was in the car when the damage had been done so he was well aware of the pressing nature of the subject at hand. "I don't know whether or not the girls plan to do their laundry", I went on, "but my tee is in the washing machine and it CANNOT be put in the dryer. Please go take it out and hang it up in the bathroom to dry." "Okay, honey. I'll go do that right now so I won't forget". "Thanks, Bob. Bye". And off I went. Tra-la.

Not once did I think of it again. I was not bothered by how I would put together various other items in my closet without the benefit of this one, neutral, miracle shirt that makes many fabulous, nice fitting outfits out of completely random and unrelated pieces. I did not concern myself today with wishing I could have breast reduction surgery so that I didn't have to go out and try to find prescription sized apparel for my upper half. Again, tra-la.

When I got home with Grace, nearly three hours later, the house was empty. All the girls were out and so was Bob. I had managed to get Grace to cooperate with the stylist and cut about 5 inches from her snarled hair. I had found her a dress and shoes to wear to a wedding we are attending next week. I had even found a dress for Amanda, whose college closet does not include a basic cocktail dress. I deserved to lay down and close my eyes for a few minutes. And it was during this 30 minute snooze that the story goes sour.

When I got up, the girls had already come home. I went to talk to Jennifer. Chat, chat, yadda, yadda, and then back into my room. Suddenly, my mind's camera flashed a photo of Jenny's room. The sheets were missing from her bed. I ran down the hall. "Jennifer! Are you doing laundry?" "Yes." "Was my shirt in there?" "Yes, but I put it in the dryer."

Aaaaaarrrrgh!

She brought it to me. It looked okay. But I put it on and the sleeves are a little too snug around my biceps. The seams are slightly puckered. And now it is stretched too tightly across the bust it used to camouflage. It is ruined. I went to anntaylor.com. The item is no longer in stock. And Bob is not home yet so I can't kill him.

I called him and I got the usual apologies: "Oh no! I can't believe I did that! I feel terrible! I even wrote it down so I wouldn't forget! Are you sure its ruined? Oh Valri, this is really awful. I am so sorry..." And I imagine him thinking about what he wants for dinner while he's talking to me.

I'm sorry but I am SO pissed off! When I think of the times in the past 18 years that I have heard: "I'll pick it up for you", "I'll tell the girls what you said", "I'll take care of that", "Don't worry, I'll bring it right back", "I promise not to lose it"... like so much gas rising into the atmosphere. And what's more, nearly every woman I know has a similar complaint about her husband or some guy. I am sick to death of hearing how men think "differently" than women. How they don't have the capacity that women have to remember details. I am tired of carrying around all those "details" in my head. My head is so heavy with details I have to remember that it feels like a sandbag perched on top of my neck. And I'm not buying any of it. I think, at the root of it all is a simple truth. They don't care.

I saw on the Discovery Channel that technology has advanced to the degree that the world actually no longer needs men to survive. This apparently, is a fact. Admittedly, I would miss them a great deal but if they want to stay in the game, as it were, I suggest they get with the program.

In the meantime, my husband owes me a new shirt. And when he gets the bill, I assure you that is one detail he will not soon forget.

On Being Right - Part II

Yesterday I was having some fun with "being right all the time". I acknowledged what I always knew: being "safe", or in other words, "free from fear" is what motivates me. And then I wrote that it was the most important thing to me - "even above happiness". My first reaction to seeing that written on a page was to backspace and write something else but the more I looked at it, the more I realized it was true. And I hadn't expected to go there when I started writing yesterday. It certainly wasn't something I wanted to look at. So, for my own sake - I posted it.

I've spent some time trying to make something out of that revelation, to tie it up nicely in away that would not embarrass me. The fact is, I can't. Because I don't have an answer. At least not yet.

I did begin to think though, about how we all, over time, have collected what I can only think of metaphorically as barnacles. We establish thoughts and behaviors and if we're not careful, they stick to us - as ugly or useless as they are. And I carry a lot of barnacles of fear. I am sure I am not alone. I do wonder what I'd look like if I could remove them though.

It is true that I feel most at peace when I know everyone is in good health, money is in the bank, bills are paid, the house is clean, everyone is behaving and on a good path. I think most people would feel the same way. But what I've never mastered (or attempted to master) is the ability to embrace the fact that those things will never line up together. And sometimes nothing lines up at all. So peace eludes me for the most part.

It occurs to me that maybe it is in embracing the lack of safety in life that leads to the peace I am looking for. God certainly doesn't promise an easy go of it. And we are certainly all going to die some day - and not a ONE of us knows when. Financial security is unfathomable for 95% of the world's population. And historically, it is those who have stumbled hard who have risen to be leaders. I know that through pain you find purpose. I want so badly to be the exception. But how many opportunities have been missed, how many doors un-opened, how much peace not experienced - all in the name of "being safe"?

This "I'm Always Right Club" started as a joke - but if you ask my family they'll tell you that I do thrust it upon them. It is a lonely club to be truthful. I know this is something I really need to examine and change. Not just for my family, because they'll follow their own paths regardless of my attempts to put them on mine. I need to stop clinging to perceived "safety" - for me. Perhaps that's what this time in my life is all about.

I already know that this "I'm Always Right Club" ID card will be the hardest thing in my purse to get rid of. I'll keep you posted.

On Being Right. All the Time.

Deep within a side pocket of my purse, zipped up and completely forgotten (but carried with me nonetheless) is an old, weathered but indestructible I.D. card that assures me of my lifetime membership in the "I'm Always Right Club". This membership offers all the advantages usually associated with an exclusive club and has peripheral benefits and entitlements as well. It gives me free access to the "I Get the Last Word Club", the "Shut Up and Do As I Say Club", the "I'm Not Interested in Discussing It Club", the "If You Don't Like My Rules You Can Always Get Your Own Place Club", and occasionally, when provoked to defend my membership, the ace-in-the-hole "Don't Eff With Me Club".

It is an interesting fact that no other person in my family has a legitimate membership in this club, although they might try to convince me otherwise. The evidence of their lack of proper credentials is the fact that they regularly disagree with me. It is another interesting fact that none of the members of my family acknowledge the legitimacy of my membership. But no matter. I have, throughout my life, at least for as long as I can remember, exercised the rights and entitlements my card allows me.

I should also mention that my benevolent nature keeps me from over-exercising the use of my privileges. I more often than not yield to the outside world - that being friends and colleagues. I exercise my rights, almost exclusively, in my home.

From the time I was a teenager still living , of course, in my parents home I have always had the uncanny ability to know what was right. I would watch as my sisters got into scrape after scrape, made bad decision after bad decision and thought, often out loud, what idiots they were. I was, you might have guessed by now, "the good girl". Relatively, of course. From a very early age, I had an extremely acute awareness that responsible, risk free behavior led to peace in our household. And because there was rarely peace in our household, watching my sisters, and often times even my mother and father do or say what I considered to be stupid things could be unbearably frustrating for me. Interestingly, this lack of peace was something that everyone else seemed to adjust to and my efforts to make everyone behave were either ignored or ridiculed. I had some acceptance of this attitude because I was not, after all, the head of my parent's household.

But lo and behold, one day I was the head of my own household. Knowing what was right and following rules had managed to take me to a lot of places I never knew I could go, so I had great confidence in "sharing" my infallible knowledge with my own family. I would have a peaceful and harmonious home. Oddly, it hasn't worked out so well.

Not so funny, actually. When Amanda was in high school, I saw very clearly where her choices and behaviors were headed. As such, I forbade her many, many things - friends, activities, internet access. In all honesty, I was right in doing so because there was a lot of bad, dangerous stuff going on. But it didn't keep her from regularly sneaking out in the middle of the night. And I could not come to any reasonable terms with that. For all my desire for peace, our home was a complete war zone. Similarly, while my twins were less involved in "the party girl scene", their lack of interest in their grades set me completely on edge. Bob's capacity for "understanding" I saw as a monumental weakness. And I'll bet there isn't a neighbor in a one mile radius of our house who hasn't heard me on a rampage.

Let me tell you what is really at the core here. I truthfully cannot comprehend that the people I love don't want the same thing I want. And if I have to think about the one thing I want over all others, it is to be safe in all things. Even above being happy.

Seeing that in print has put me at a complete loss for words and I think I have to walk away from this for a while.

Anne

I have this fading black and white photo of my friend Anne. It is my favorite photo of her and it sits on a bookshelf but I carry it in my head as well. It was actually a picture of both of us but I cut myself out of it and then put her image alone in a frame. She was leaning up against me; in heels she came up to my shoulder. She is holding a super-sized coke with both hands from some fast food dive we were at. The straw is held in the corner of her mouth and she wears the sweetest smile, her eyebrows raised (as if she was mildly surprised by the photographer) which punctuate her glorious almond shaped eyes. She is wearing a light colored sweater and her hair is piled loose on top of her head and she looks so darling you can't help but like her instantly. She is the pixie. The best friend. The girl next door. She is 17. And without this girl, I have no story.

At 17, after having been voted "Most Talented" (and believing it), I fancied myself going straight to Broadway after high school. However, a year after graduating, I found myself sitting in a cubicle, somewhat west of New York - specifically - San Jose, California. I was punching a time clock at Montgomery Ward's Service Center, taking calls from people who's refrigerators went warm or who's washing machines stopped spinning. I may have worked my way up to "chief complaint taker" and married someone from the parts department were it not for the fact that one of the repairmen there - a guy by the name of Ron Habina (and a thespian at heart) - told me about an upcoming audition for a production of "Peter Pan" at the San Jose Civic Light Opera. I went and I was cast. As a pirate. (It was a start.) A little 16 year old girl named Anne Fallon was also cast. She played Wendy. She was perfect.

Anne had a naive enthusiasm and a childlike "wonder" about her. In truth, sometimes it was a little annoying - she giggled constantly and I would sometimes wonder if she was for real. She was a shameless flirt. She loved boys. She loved an adventure. She liked to be "just this side" of naughty. And yet she was truly an innocent. Over the years, I came to realize that Anne was completely genuine. Giggling was a natural part of who she was. We were roommates for a short period of time. We shared an apartment while we were in another show together but after that show closed, Anne moved to Hawaii to live a dream and I moved to Los Angeles to think about one. I didn't see her for several years after that.

When Anne and I did meet up again, about 8 years later, we were surprised to learn that we lived within blocks of each other. I don't remember how we found each other again but as soon as we spoke on the phone, we agreed to have lunch the next day. I couldn't wait to see her and as I walked up to her house I tried to imagine how much she might have changed. She opened the door and I'm quite sure my jaw dropped to the ground. She had re-fashioned herself into a mini Dolly Parton, complete with extraordinary "Parton-esque" enhancements. Her hair was teased up a full half foot above her scalp. Her mini skirt was skin tight and she wore fish net stockings, stiletto heels, lots of eyeliner and long false eyelashes. All this at high noon in the mid 80's. I am ashamed now to say that I was embarrassed to go out to lunch with her that day but it is completely true that as she walked by, people stared. She looked like a "working girl". It is also completely true that she thought she looked beautiful. Anne became my absolute dearest friend. Fish net stockings and all. She knew what she was about and she didn't give a flip what anyone she didn't care about thought of her.

She threw a party one night for all of us who had moved from San Jose to Los Angeles. She called to ask me if she should invite some guy named Bob Smith. She couldn't remember him but she had been told he was part of the circle of friends. I told her that yes, I knew him from other parties I had been to (in fact, he had been in Peter Pan with us!) I told her that she should invite him but that she should also expect him to arrive very late. I was married at the time and my husband and I left Anne's party before Bob arrived but from all accounts - sparks flew the minute they saw each other and Anne called the next day to tell me Bob had sent roses.

Two years later they married. She toned her look way down to reflect a more conservative lifestyle. After a year, Anne became pregnant and gave birth to Amanda Marie. A little less than a year later, she became pregnant with twin girls - Christine and Jennifer. All Anne was interested in was being Bob's doting wife and being a mother. Her aspirations included someday being yard duty mom at their school. She had found her purpose. She took it seriously. She was going to live her dream.

I couldn't relate at all. But I was still big in the picture. I had recently divorced and was living in a little guest house they had made for me so that I could get on my feet. I was saving money so that I could go to Europe and find my destiny. I had been carrying a growing feeling inside me that something big was about to happen. I was anxious to meet whatever that was. I thought it would be a new job or a romance. It was neither.

The night before the twins were born I got a call that woke me. Anne had gone into labor early and they needed me to come over and stay with Amanda. Once there, I crawled into their bed, went back to sleep, and had a dream that Bob and I were together, with lots of children, living in a strange industrial building. It was a weird dream because I had no romantic feelings about my friend's husband but it was one of those dreams that felt real. For that reason, it kind of stuck with me.

The babies were born that afternoon, cesarean and 2 months premature. Anne was so tiny and it had been a difficult pregnancy. I was there when the doctors told her that they had to deliver them. It was one of the few times I saw her cry. Shortly after 3:00, they were here, they were okay, and Anne and Bob were relieved. They were premies though, and when Anne was released, she came home without them.

They were still in the hospital when she died. She had developed a large swelling in her neck. She was telling me that she had "slept on it funny". I remember being at her house and reminding her that her mother had died young and telling her that while I knew she would be okay (and I did truly believe that she would), she should see a doctor. Two days later she went and she was admitted. She had an aneurysm and they scheduled her for surgery the next day - a Saturday. She called me at work from the hospital and said that she was so relieved to be there and that she knew the doctors were going to take care of her. I remember being a little irritated with her that she had waited so long. I hadn't realized that she had been worried herself.

Later that afternoon, she asked me if I would stop by the hospital. She said she wanted to talk to me. I was in a show at the time and I was exhausted. I begged off, promising to be there when she came out of surgery. I hung up the phone and that was the last time I ever spoke to her. I learned later that she had called another of her friends, Debbie, and Debbie had told her that she was afraid Anne would die - I still can't believe she said that to her! But Debbie also told me that Anne had said that she was afraid of that too. I wonder if that is what Anne wanted to tell me. For the rest of my life, I'll regret not going to see her that night. 19 years later, I still miss her.

I had Amanda the day of the surgery. Bob was with Anne right before they wheeled her in. He told me that he had started to cry and that Anne had looked him straight in the eye and told him not to. The surgery lasted hours. Too long. They couldn't save her. We learned later that she had a rare genetic disease called Vascular Ehlers Danlos. Her mother had died of it. There had been no diagnosis prior to Anne's death. It was unexpected to everyone. And that night, when Bob came home, he fell into my arms and cried and I knew that this was the "something big" I had felt was coming. I knew that somehow, I was going to be a part of this family's life. One month later, when the babies came home, they came home to Bob. And because I was living on the property, they came home to me.

In time, we became a family. Bob and I married and I have been the only mother the girls have known. Amanda remembered her for a while. One day when she was about 3, she was coloring at the table and out of the blue she said: "I remember my mommy. She be'd beautiful and she take'd me everywhere". It broke my heart. Those memories are all gone now. And oddly, while there are no life experiences to connect them, all three of them are very like her in many ways: not simply appearance but personality traits, mannerisms. Jennifer has her giggle.

I don't think about it much anymore. It is just my life. But when I do give some thought to it, it still amazes me that in 1976, a repairman told me about an audition that led me to meet a young girl. This meeting led to a seemingly ordinary friendship that set in motion a series of events that over the years dramatically altered the entire course of my life, Bob's life, three little girls' lives, and how many others? Even Grace could not have been born without Anne. Anne's dream, her life, became my dream, my life. Only God could design such a story.

Lost in my own memories, I am thinking about an assignment the twins were given in high school. They were told to make a scrapbook of their lives so far. One of the pages had to be titled: "If I could see one person one last time it would be..." I knew they would write of Anne. They didn't. They both wrote: "Grandma". I wasn't upset but I did tell them I was surprised. I asked them why they didn't choose their mother. Their reply was simple: "Mom, we didn't know her. You did."

For my story, I suppose that is all that was necessary.

Its My Pity Party and I'll Cry if I Want To.

I feel like I am plucking petals from a daisy. I want a job. I want a job, not. I want a job. I want a job, not. I want... This daisy seems to have no end to its petals.

Today has been one of those days that doesn't count. I feel rudderless and purposeless. I also feel completely unmotivated. So where does that leave me? Very unsatisfied.

I'm not kidding when I say that the most interesting part of my week days of late has been my dream life. It must be that there is so little going on during the waking hours that my brain is working overtime at night to keep itself amused. And the dreams have honestly been fascinating. I'd share them but my husband assures me they lose a lot in the translation.

So today is a Monday. I know this now. I didn't when I woke up. When newly unemployed, I used to think it was fabulous to wake up and not know what day it was. "What day is it? Wednesday? No? Then what? Who Cares? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!..." Now, when I wake in the morning, if can't name the day it feels as though I may as well be drinking whiskey out of a paper bag. This morning? No clue. I had to look at my blackberry. "Okay. Monday". At the same time, I noticed it was 6:10 a.m. The world is getting up. I rolled over and tried to re-start my incredible dream (something about being able to walk on the ceiling...). When I looked again, it was 9:20. 9:20!! How can I still be in bed at 9:20? How should I start my "work" day? (Diane Sawyer has already finished her work day!) I do have several Facebook messages. I'll begin there. (Hey! Its something.) I go through them one by one and see that they are ALL comments from people I don't know who added to a comment I made on a comment someone I DO know made on their "wall" (???????) Delete.

I get up and have the first of what will be several cups of coffee. I go to my computer and begin writing a follow up letter for my recent interview. This is my primary task today. I have been asked to write an email explaining why I want the job, what I can bring to the table and how I might go about doing it. I stop and wonder if the interview had gone better, would I have been asked to do this? Yes, I would have. This is part of a screening process. It will determine whether or not I go to the next level. Its similar to being asked to give a presentation. Basically, I need to write a sales letter about myself. I ponder the point of the accomplishment based resume (see previous post.) I have thought about it. I DO want the job. I think. Well maybe not. Do I? Well I guess I do. I do. I liked the people. And I know I'd be good at this job. It offers an interesting challenge for me. I know print sales but this magazine represents the travel industry - an industry that would be new for me - and that would be fun. Its 11:30. Time for breakfast. Rice Krispies. Snap, crackle, pop! Whatever.

Writing this letter winds up taking me all day and I'm still not sure it gets a gold star. Its now 3:00 I'm still in pajamas. I am, officially, pathetic. I proof the letter and hit "send". Off it goes to face judgement. I imagine them pulling petals from a daisy - "We want her. We want her not..." The fact is, I'm not sure if this is a job I want. But I know I want the offer.

And that, my friends, is how you throw a Class A Pity Party. And I guess we're all entitled occasionally. But lest I fall into the pit of hell again, I have made a list for tomorrow. Lists ensure accomplishments take place, and accomplishments ensure satisfaction. My list begins early in the morning with housework that has piled up. It includes a manicure and a hair appointment. It includes putting fresh flowers from the rose garden in the house. It includes more job searching, networking, and research for my next interview. Which, by the way, is on Wednesday. Hopefully I'll remember what day that is when I wake up.

Hope. And faith. Always.