Beverly Hills with Grace

We didn't take a vacation this year - even a little one and I felt badly for Grace. Her sisters had something to look forward to every summer when they were growing up, so I decided to take Grace to see a Broadway show here in town. She loves theatre so this seemed a good consolation.

I purchased tickets to "Spamalot" online. When we sent the older girls to New York for their Christmas present two years ago, we got them tickets to this show and they raved - so as show day grew nearer, we started getting excited.

Today was show day. After getting dressed, we left at 11:30 for the 2:00 matinee. I wanted to give time for traffic and a quick bite at the restaurant there at Los Angeles Theatre Center. We made fairly good time and finally did arrive, with minimal traffic, at about 1:00. I pulled into the parking garage and told the attendant that we were there for the show. He looked at me blankly. I said: "At the Ahmanson". He cocked his head and furrowed his brow. I said: "Spamalot. Matinee". He said, "I don't think there is a show today." I assured him there was. He asked if I had my tickets. Of course I did! I pulled them out of my purse. There it was, right there - in black in white. Thursday, 2:00 matinee. Next week.

Now what. We were dressed and there. And she deserved to do something.

"Hey Grace, do you want to have lunch in Beverly Hills?", I ask.

"Have I ever been there?"

"I don't think you have."

"Okay".

I took Wilshire Boulevard all the way from where it begins at Grand Avenue, and headed west, pointing out landmarks along the way.

"There is the old Sheraton Town House where my first husband and I spent our honeymoon". Now how weird was that to point out? "Oh", she says. Bless her heart. She has a mother who is not always playing her "best game".

"There's the old Bullocks Wilshire when department store shopping could include lunch and a fashion show..." "There is the first building I ever worked in in Los Angeles..." (I looked at the building and suddenly realized how many times it shows up in my previously mentioned fascinating dreams. Interesting.) "There is where the Brown Derby used to be before a bunch of idiots tore it down to build that piece of crap..." "That is what is left of the old Ambassador Hotel which housed the Coconut Grove and where Robert Kennedy was killed..." "This is the fabulous apartment I lived in when I was 22. It was built in 1936..." I was enjoying this tour . And so, it appeared, was Grace. Either that or she is excellent at faking it for my benefit. I had forgotten how interesting Los Angeles could be and how great it was to do the tour.

We finally got to Beverly Hills. Beverly Hills was a place to dream about when I was 10. Beverly Hills doesn't really mean much to Grace. It doesn't offer the magic it once held. Grace knows it is supposed to be a big deal but she really doesn't get why. To her, "old Hollywood" means Mel Gibson. And Beverly Hills looks like a lot of other places now days. So I had to talk it up some. But really, how do you talk up the significance of Nate 'n Al's Deli to today's 10 year old? "Carl Reiner is a regular!" Grace: "Was he a big star?" Me: "Well, not really a big star. But he is famous and he wrote for Dick Van Dyke and Sid Cesear and their shows!" "Cool. Were they stars?"

We eat at the Cheesecake Factory.

After we eat (she, the mandatory "chicken fingers", me a salad, and both of us share the chocolate fudge cake), we walk in the stifling heat and I begin to try to point our stores of interest on Brighton Way. I can never explain "Geary's" to her. She wants to care but it will never mean to her what it needs to mean in order for her to care. It is of a bygone day. Or a day when there is ridiculous money in her life.

"Wanna see Tiffany's?", I ask. This is a 'strike gold' moment. "YEAH!" she exclaims. Off we go around the corner to Rodeo Drive - she is impressed by the parking lot. This will be good. We take the elevator up and there, she sees the store. She smiles as we walk into it but I can see almost immediately, she is a bit disappointed. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires are not on display galore. There are lots of silver charms and silver hearts. "Amanda has that", I show her. "Oh. Yeah". No one even remotely resembling Audry Hepburn was there. The most impressive thing she saw was a little coffee table that looked like a Tiffany box. Yeah, not so much see in old B.H.

So we sit outside for a moment - mostly to give the parking attendant enough time to come back from parking my car. And then, a nice young man comes walking out of Jose Eber's salon and asks us of we would like to get a free make-over. Grace is embarrassed but I convince her: "Oh Grace - this is a big deal. This is Jose Eber's salon!" I'm really selling it for her. There has to be something special for her today. The nice man tells her Amanda Bynes has her make-up done there. The roles are reversed. Is she a star? Apparently. Grace is finally sold.

I guess things are slow everywhere. We both sat down and they spent a lot of time on us. Well, a lot of time on me. Grace took 5 minutes and looked fresh and lovely with pale gloss and sheen on her rosy cheeks. It took significantly more time to touch me up. Specifically, one hour and $600.00 worth of product. And I will say - she (an amazing makeup artist named Mary Phifer) made me feel beautiful. Of course that is in the eye of the beholder. But here are the results:

I walked out with considerably less than $600.00 worth of cosmetics but they put one liner, one shadow, and one pencil in a shiny black bag with a pretty logo and pink and orange tissue - just like a present. I made a comment about what a fuss they make with the bags and the nice young man reminded me that: "This is Beverly Hills". Indeed it is.

At one point a very sweet and well put together and beautiful lady walked into the store and said that she had been watching us get made up and she felt she needed to tell me what a pretty daughter I had and that she "looked just like a young lady should look". This endeared her to me immediately - I would have hugged her if I wasn't afraid that I would muss her hair - but Grace was flattered and happy and she felt special.

It turned out to be a really good day for both of us. I'm glad we had it. However, while school starts Monday, she will be absent on Thursday because I owe her one Broadway show.

Emailing God

I get bored with patience. I feel like I am floating in the vast void of space, waiting to figure out "what next". It is possible to look for work, look for opportunities, look for "signs", and still feel like you are going nowhere. I realize that I am still wanting things to come easily.

I honestly feel like God has something in mind for me. But I do wish He would just write me an email or something. With a little nod to Ellen, perhaps it might look like this:

To: God@Heaven.com

cc: Doubtingthomas@heaven.com

Dear God:

Please forgive the fact that I haven't been in any sort of regular contact with you of late. You know that you are constantly on my mind. I am so grateful that you know my thoughts but it would be really great if you could respond to a few of them - specifically - what should I be doing with the rest of my life?

Love,

(your fan)

Valri Smith

P.S. I cc'd Thomas because I thought, as a fellow "doubter", if you didn't have time to respond, he might.

To: ValriSmith@ymail.com

cc: DoubtingThomas@Heaven.net

Dear Valri:

Yes, I know your thoughts so please be advised that I am aware that I am not, in fact, constantly on your mind. Please try to remember that there is no foolin' Me.

I wish I could tell you how many requests per minute I get from people like you who want to know what they should be doing. Were I not God, the sheer volume of it would be exhausting to even think about. Fortunately, for Me, it is not a problem.

Okay, so you want to know what to do with your life. Well, let's start with the basics. Where is your heart these days?

Your fan,

God

P.S. This is really not Thomas' line, so no need to cc him further.

P.P.S. I was able to intercept this from the web but Heaven is not a company, as such - more of a network so please note the correct address.

To: God@Heaven.net

cc:

Dear God:

You're a fan? Really? I sincerely cannot imagine why. I am a mess. And a big fake. And I'm sorry I tried to fool you with that "you are constantly on my mind" line. I thought it might endear me to you. Silly me. So really, you're a fan? How come?

XOX,

Valri

To: Valrismith@ymail.com

cc:

Valri:

It seems you have gotten off track. Did you want to know what you should be doing for the rest of your life or are you looking for Me to fan your ego?

Yours,

God

To: God@Heaven.net

cc:

Dear God:

OMG! I did get off track. I guess I just got caught up in your comment about being a fan of mine. I suppose you are a fan of everyone, huh? Okay. Well it is good to know I am in good standing with you.

So I scrolled back and saw that you had asked where my heart was these days. Well, I suppose my heart lies in doing something creatively. I am enjoying writing my blog - have you read any of it? And I think I have a gift for speaking - (thanks). But I know both of these areas are hard to crack. I guess I'm hoping you might open some doors for me (or gates - ha ha - get it?).

I also need to make enough money to buy medical benefits. So could you work that out as well?

Much love,

Valri

To: Valrismith@ymail.com

cc:

Dear Valri:

Whoa! Let's be clear. Guidance I am all over. But you have to do the work. Have you read anyof my book? I would love for you to show me one example where personal success came without some work and sacrifice on my peoples' part. And let's be clear about "personal success" as well. If you are looking to find your own "glory", you're totally on your own.

But let me address your heart. The direction you're leaning is not hard to "crack". Investigate it on the web. Its all there for you. I can work with what is on your heart. "Be still and know..." - remember that one?

Here is something else. You write that it is good to know that you're in "good standing". Don't be so quick to jump to that conclusion. Yes, I'm a fan (primarily because you are My idea in the first place), but that doesn't mean its "all good" between us. I am really getting irritated with the little pity party you keep throwing yourself. In case you haven't noticed, you're the only one showing up for it these days. Disney was a job, not a life. Also, your performance at home is really disappointing of late. Get over yourself already. Do you really think that holding grudges is something I am okay with? You have a big issue with pride - you are hearing this from Me! You've heard the expression. Mark My words: You are setting yourself up for a Grand Canyon kind of fall.

So here is what I want you to do. Put your house in order. Set aside your pride and apologize to your family for acting like such a baby these past few days. Repair your immediate relationships. Continue to look for work. Write in your blog (yeah, I've read it. Some posts better than others...) - seek speaking engagements. Follow up on leads people offer. Write your dad. Lose the weight already. Get off the couch and walk a little bit maybe. Investigate health care plans. Take leaps of faith. Help anyone in need. Feed the poor. Clothe the naked. Think about Me constantly. For real. Constantly remember the times you have put it all in My ballpark and how I never let you down. Not once. Hope. Love better. Prioritize. Train your eyes - and you will see Me standing at the paths you should take.

Let's start with that for now, okay?

Love,

God

P.S. It is really true that I want an intimate relationship with you, but that "OMG" thing. I am God, after all. A little respect??

P.P.S. Your "open gates" joke was kind of lame.

To: God@Heaven.net

cc:

Dear God:

I can't say that I'm not a little disappointed - but you already know that. I was hoping for some kind of magic wand or something I guess. So I guess I have to get busy. So I'll need some help staying on track - I assume you'll be there for that?

Respectfully (with love),

Valri

To: Valrismith@ymail.com

cc:

Dear Valri:

You bet. Now go for it!

Your fan,

God

P.S. Enjoy "Spamalot" on Thursday. Its hilarious.

Week 3

Down another pound and I didn't expect that considering I did eat a hamburger (yes - I did!). But still moving toward the right direction. I guess. S-L-O-O-O-O-O-O-W.

Still having difficulties with the video upload - but all my clothes still fit.

More Battling on the Home Front

I have started to write several different posts since the last one. They are all drafts. I cannot get through any of them. For one simple reason. I am really ticked off and I can't really concentrate on anything else.

I haven't wanted to write about it because to many, I imagine that I will seem like a registered weirdo. At the very least, many will shake their heads and say that I am not being realistic - in this day and age, and all. The fact is I really am two different people. The woman the world gets, and the one my family gets. Oh, its so schizo (to quote a phrase).

To the world at large I am fairly sophisticated and understanding. At home? Not so much. At least not the understanding part. I can forgive multitudes from the world at large - my family, I expect much more of.

There is this show called "Gilmore Girls". On it, the fabulous Kelly Bishop plays the role of Emily, the main character's mother. She is a study in hardcore, matriarchal defeat. She is no-nonsense, unyielding, unemotional. The words "I love you" are spoken more as a matter of fact, than for reasons of warm and fuzzy. (Bob was "Mr. Warm and Fuzzy", to the extreme. I provided the balance. I was hardcore. To the extreme.) And though you really have to watch 100 episodes to see it, Emily loves her daughter more than her daughter will ever know. No one likes the character. My girls laugh at her and roll their eyes at her and talk about how awful she is. They don't think I know that they compare me to her. I love her. At home, I am her. So with that background, here we go...

It has been my experience for the past many, many years, that my children, and I do not see eye to eye on a lot of things. So it should not be surprising to me that now, as the older girls are coming into adulthood, things have not changed. In fact, while I don't have to endure the smart-ass, back talk, sneaking out and other, similar tortures of high-school, now what I have to listen to, ad nauseum, is: "I am an adult. You may no longer tell me how to live my life". Fair enough. Except that they are still living at home. Not at all because they want to be. But the economy being what it is, they are caught a bit over a barrel.

Please note as well, that I am not gloating in this experience. I truly believe that the best thing that could possibly happen to them would be for them to move out. I would get a break from the constant tension and they would get a good dose of "grow-up". (Gee, I don't have the money to go to the 30th concert this summer - I have to pay rent tomorrow...)

Recently, I blogged about trying to figure out how to be a mom to semi-adults. I received some very well thought out, reasonable comments. Comments that were wise, encouraging made a lot of sense - but, but, BUT...

Let me give a hypothetical situation here. Let's say that you appreciate and, in fact, need, a house that is clean, neat, and orderly. You have children who have challenged you in this area since they could walk. You endured dirty bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchens all throughout high-school. You yelled and screamed to no avail because, they, by nature, do not have the same issues with keeping things picked up as you do. Your droning was as irritating to them as their messiness was to you. But they were yours and as such, you spent 18 years sucking it up and taking it!

Then, as if by miracle, they graduated and went off to college where they lived as they pleased. They stepped over all their clothes on the floor and their beds were never made. Their bathrooms may have, for all you knew, been breeding grounds for all sorts of bacteria and disease, but did you care? NOT IN THE LEAST! Because they were on their own and there, in "on-your-own-land" they are free to live however they please. And they are happy as well. Mom is not breathing down their necks. Everyone getting along a little better.

But then, they come home. And they bring their messy habits with them. And your lovely house is breeding anxiety for you again. You tell them to clean their rooms and bathrooms. They say: "You cannot tell me what to do anymore. I am an adult. I can do as I please."

Now I know that everyone reading this is thinking : "Oh no. If they are going to live at home, they have to clean up after themselves or they can figure out how to live somewhere else. They are being rude, spoiled, and unfair."

So why, when it comes to values and behaviors should it be different?

Now I have to begin by saying that my girls are great. They are all in school, working toward their goals and trying to lay foundation for their lives. They are, for the most part, responsible. They are good, kind, contributing young women and I am, for the very most part, very proud of them. I am grateful for who they are.

However...

The last time I checked 19 and 20 were not 21 - ergo, I do not have to be understanding about drinking. I know it goes on, especially in college and dorms and sorority houses, but that does not mean I have to look the other way in my house. Yet they, with their new "legal adult" status, truly believe there is nothing wrong with drinking at a party and have actually said those exact words to me. After illegally acquiring beer and God knows what else, and taking it to the beach after hours, and drinking it, illegally, at a birthday party, I listen to my eldest say to me "We didn't do anything wrong." Is that the most ridiculous statement you have ever heard or am I just going insane? I hasten to add, there were non-drinkers at the party responsible for getting everyone home safely - my daughters are very responsible about that. But then, what do you say when they break a 2:00 a.m. curfew because they won't drive after having been drinking? Of course the most important thing is to never get behind the wheel after they have been drinking and you want to acknowledge and are grateful for the responsibility they have shown in staying put. But they have broken curfew. And they have been drinking. What about that? (And yes, they have a curfew because nothing good happens after midnight - I don't care how old you are - and I'm not going to lay in bed wondering if they are home or not - I don't care how old they are.)

And while she has been in a nearly two-year, serious relationship with a very nice guy, it is still NOT okay with me that my daughter stay the night at his house if she feels like it. "What is the big deal", she asks me, as if she has never met me before. "Mom, I'm 20 years old! Its okay with his parents" - hello, hello, HELLO?????????

Now when I was 20, I smoked, drank sometimes, had tried pot more than once, stayed out too late, and had made some unfortunate choices with boyfriends. So there it is. I did stupid things. But my mother, God rest her lovely soul, became a hippie when I was 15 years old and she adopted all the misguided attitudes that the 1970's puked out. She was somewhat left of far left. She embraced the idea that young people should feel free to express themselves so long as no one got hurt. (Of course we didn't realize why we felt hurt until thousands of dollars in therapy helped sort all the mess of the 70's out for us, 25 years later.) By the time I was 16, I didn't really have any rules to follow. And my mom was beloved by all our friends. She lived in that "well-they-are-going-to-do-it-anyway-so-I'd-rather-they-did-it-at-home" crazy house. She was cool. But she was also wrong. Period.

By the time I became a mom, I had a whole different point of view going on. We had a strong faith and we raised our kids in that faith. It was all there for them to look at and take on - or not, if that was their choice. But there were no surprises. It was all there, laid out and very understandable. Smith house had two columns: Okay and Not Okay. Okay?

So I'm not hiding anything. Yes, I did it all when I was your age darlings. And your point is?

Still, we're at odds. And there is some animosity happening. And I have heard the words: "This reminds me of high school". And if you had been here during high school you would know what an angry thing that is to say. And I hate it. Because it hurts my feelings. I know they are trapped. I know that if they could afford to move out, they would. They don't want to answer to me anymore. And I get it. I don't blame them. But they are here. So it is really their turn to suck it up and take it. Because they may be legal adults now but this is my damned house.

And I love them more than they will ever know.

An Unexpected Date With the DMV

This morning I was trolling the job sites when I came upon one for which I am a fit. The position is an outside sales position so it asked about the validity of my driver's license. It is at this moment that I remember it had expired on June 21. It is August 19, so I am a tad late in the renewal process.

I grabbed my purse and headed for the DMV. Now as far as DMVs go, the Thousand Oaks DMV is pretty nice. It is clean, relatively uncrowded and right next door to a "Coffee Bean". Still, the DMV is a decidedly depressing place to be.

No matter which DMV you enter in the whole of the United States, you walk in and are immediately assaulted with the starkness of a government office. At my DMV, it is even worse for the fact that some well-meaning employees have tried to brighten it up with all that a $3.75 decorating budget will allow. The permanent cork board panels that line the walls have been "spruced up" with corrigated paper boarders and cutout letters from the local "teacher supply store" along with "Don't Drink and Drive" posters - giving the entire place the "wish-you-could-forget" look of a high school principal's office in the 1970's. The unforgiving florescent light bounces off the dingy formica flooring and reflects onto all of our faces making everyone take on the sallow complexion of people who are waiting on a bread line.

I stand in the first of several lines and prepare my little speech. Once I get to the front of the line, they have no interest in my little speech. They hand me a number (G092), a form and point to a stand-up table to fill it out. Once completed, I enter the waiting area and take one of many hard, plastic seats. To wait. For a long time.

I pull out my blackberry, praying for an email to read. No such luck. Further, I have nothing to email anyone about so I put it away. I people watch. What is interesting is that absolutely everyone in there has the look of someone who is either in big trouble or desperate need. No one dresses to go to the DMV. Apparently several don't even brush their hair to go. Everyone looks sloppy. Moms accompanying their 16-year-old "driving hopefuls" up to the window look suspiciously like moms called to school to get their kids out of some kind of trouble. The 16-year-olds stand there silently, with their jaws hanging open as if basic language skills were something they were still trying to master. The rest look like they have been gathered up in a paddy-wagon and hauled in for engaging in some illegal activity. Like cock-fighting or something. Shabby shirts, shabby jeans, shabby shoes. Nothing shabby chic in the place. I look down at my own feet. I am wearing a 5-year-old pair of flip-flops that are comfortable but visibly falling apart with scattered remnants of a 6-week-old pedicure. I need to shave my legs. My white skirt has a coffee stain on the hem from a mishap this morning. I am at one with the landscape.

I wonder at this phenomenon and finally realize that if you took the entire group and transplanted it from the DMV into a park or a mall, a people-watcher would assign every one of us a much better back-story. It isn't the people at all who are strange. It is entirely about the environment. This revelation actually makes me feel a little cheerier about the whole experience and I am able to cast off the "loser cloud" that seemed to attach itself to me as soon as I walked through the door.

My next activity is to watch the digital screen to see when my number is called. I have been sitting for so long in this uncomfortable, un-padded chair that my rear end is numb. I can't wait to be called, but oddly, as they get closer and closer to my number I start feeling the anxiety of waiting for a bomb to go off. What is THAT about? They get to G091 and I almost pee my pants, staring, without blinking at the screen until I think I am going to scream and then it flashes "G092" and I exhale. It is then that I realize that I have been holding my breath and when I stand up, I nearly fall over from the dizziness of having not breathed in way too long. I quickly grab hold of the chair to gain my bearings (lest they think I am drunk) and head up to window 5 where again I begin to give my prepared speech. Again, they don't care to hear it. They take my forms (without looking at me), look me up on their computer screen, tell me I owe them $28.00. I hand them my debit card, get my receipt, and then I get my punishment for not taking care if this on time.

I had received a notice in the mail sometime before my birthday telling me that I could send in my $28.00 and that I didn't need to come to the DMV for a renewal - it would be mailed to me. Keep the same license. No test. Here, I am told that I will be taking a test. I explain to the woman at the window that I had received a letter in the mail telling me I did not need to take a test, I simply had to send in the money. She looked up at me for the very first time since I walked up to the window (are they trained not to acknowledge you?) and gives me a weary look that says: "and you're telling me this story because..." I accept my punishment, submit to the eye test and await instructions. I am told that I need to go to window 18 to have my photo taken. At this point, I nearly start to cry. I know that my pleadings will be lost on this woman so I shuffle like "dead man walking" over to window where I will take my chances with another

overworked government employee who works in a dungeon.

Once there, I smile sweetly and ask if I can go home, put on some make-up and come right back. She has clearly heard this request before. Request denied. I stand in front of the the camera and feel like I am facing a firing squad.

In my 34 years of driving I have never had a driver's license photo without make-up. If you read my blog, you will know that I often leave the house without makeup but I never take a photograph without it. Never. EVER. Now I and every vendor, retailer, or official who ever asks to see my I.D. will have a permanent visual evidence of the unfortunate day I went the Department of Motor Vehicles unprepared. The woman who took my picture hands me the test, points me toward the testing area and by the time I reach it I already have worked out how to get a new photo. I will simply tell them it was inadvertently tossed with junk mail and pay the price to get a new one made. Relief overtakes me and I am prepared to try to remember driving rules. Happily, it is incredibly easy. They have clearly handed me the "give-the-poor-old-lady-a-break-she-just-had-to-take-a-picture-without-makeup" test. Here is an example directly from the test:

You are driving on the highway and your cell phone rings. You

a) let it go to voice mail

b) answer it - it may be important

c) check to see if your voice mail is full before answering it.

See? I got the pity test.

Another line and I hand another woman the test where she grades it (missed one!) prints out a temporary license, tells me when to expect the new one, and hands it to me - all without ever making eye contact. (This must be some sort of internal contest.)

I am officially freed from the experience. I leave, feeling the fullness of life once again. Once home, I get ready to accompany my husband on an errand run. We have several to do as both of us have business to take care of. After we get in the car, I ask what is first on the agenda. We are trying to sell the old Volvo. We need a copy of the pink slip. We're going to the DMV. I kid you not.

Ladies on a Lake

Sunday, I was invited to join a bunch of girls to go out on a boat on Westlake . Debbie, Vickie, Diane, Janice, Rica (the recently turned 50 Rica) and me. Four of us are here in this photo. During opening confessions, we learn that I am the oldest. But I was going to be pleasant. I digress.

Westlake is not a natural lake. It was built years and years and years ago and I don't know why they built it. But if it was for no other reason than to allow me to spend a few hours floating on a boat with some girlfriends in the middle of it, it was an excellent idea. For me, floating through the fingers of a man-made lake, big beautiful homes with beautiful landscapes and mature trees along the "shores" is like floating through a Ralph Lauren campaign - a fantasy where candle lit dinners after tennis, on your outdoor deck, waiving to your friends and lifting your wine glasses to them as they breeze by in their boats, are routine. (As if I ever played tennis.)

Wait, don't leave - I'm coming back...

So we boarded at 4:00 and after some initial hysterics as we headed toward the rocks, we were off. I knew how lovely this afternoon was going to be because Bob and I had the pleasure of a pleasure cruise with our friends Wendy and Ed recently - they also live on the lake. Diane had brought her iPod filled with "Meet the Beatles" and early Motown. I have to tell you that I almost started to cry when I heard Paul McCartney croon "I'll Follow the Sun". I don't think I've thought of that song in 45 years (I'll do the math for you - I was 7), and it had been my favorite as a little girl Beatle fanatic. It was an absolutely perfect moment. I was wholly happy.

Two of us are married, three divorced, one widowed. We talked about our kids, our jobs (or lack thereof), and music. I got a call from my daughter Jenny telling me about something very romantic that had just happened to her. When I hung up the phone, I told my friends and we all sighed and giggled like a bunch of schoolgirls. Then we all told of our most romantic date. We talked about men. We talked about dogs (well, they did). We talked about being kids and being friends and being unsure of the future. We talked about sex. We told funny stories. We told funny stories about sex. We laughed. Our "captain", Rica, would go out to the middle of the water and turn off the boat, and we would just drift - toward oncoming traffic, bouys, whatever. Occasionally, we would nervously say: "Rica, we're going hit that boat", or "Rica, you're going to hit that buoy", and she would just say calmly, "oh, thank you" or "they'll go around us". She was very calm. And why not?

We imagined what it must be like to live in one of those houses and all wished we could. We pretended we would all retire there. With or without husbands. We ate brie and crackers and veggies and hummus and chips and cake. And we drank - me water but there was wine and margaritas. And slowly we sailed and we sailed and the world just disappeared.

Mostly, there wasn't much going on. Nothing significant to write about. But it was significant because it was about being comfortable in our own skins, with people we trusted, to say everything wanted to or to say nothing at all, to relish a few hours where we could slip into a world where nothing else existed but floating with a warm breeze in a world we don't live in - before heading back, at 9:30 to a world where everything had been on hold and waiting for us to attend to it. And I am reminded of yet another Sondheim lyric from his show "Into the Woods":

Just remembering you've had an "and" when you're back to "or"

Makes the "or" mean more than it did before.

Now I understand!

And its time to leave the Woods.

Now its time to leave the Lake.

Week 2 - More Eh on the Vegetarian Diet

Having trouble uploading the video but week 2 offers similar results to week 1. In a nut shell (or less actually) one pound lighter. I guess this is going to be a lesson in patience, which is not one of my virtues. I hope you all will "hang in there" for a year because at this rate, that is how long getting to my goal is going to take.

Are They My Kids Or Are They My Grown-Ups?

I am in a state of mom madness. I have a daughter, 10 (in training to turn into a teenager and drag me through hell - for the the fourth time!), twin 19-year-olds and one 20-year-old. All are currently living at home. Amanda, my oldest, is here for one semester to take a class that is not currently offered at SJSU and Christine and Jennifer are in their second year of community college before transferring to university. And then there is Grace, going in to 5th grade. So basically - full house.

So here is my mom mantra: "I am not your friend, I am your mother".

Let me back up a bit and give you an historical perspective on that statement as it pertains to how I was perceived in my home. To say I was not popular with my girls (or some of their friends) would be a gross understatement. First of all, I believed it, I meant it and they knew it. Secondly, in holding my ground, I guaranteed myself at least 4 years of being absolutely hated and despised. In case you're wondering, this was not fun. (Did you hear that girls? I did not have fun "ruining" your lives!) And I think it could probably be scientifically proven that it is during this 4 year hate period that women of similar mindset start to look like old hags with gray hair, wrinkles, and saggy butts. Its exactly the same thing that happens between the first and last day of any U.S. president. Look at the pictures. Same 4 years.

On the other hand, women who come out of this period looking great have either had surgery or, have shitty kids. Because they chose to be "a friend". Obviously I am over-generalizing here. There are exceptions but needless to say, my daughters would have rather had a "friend". And had I caved, I would look fabulous. Have you ever noticed how Lindsay Lohen, Brittany Spears, Paris Hilton, and the Kardashian girls all claimed, as teens: "my mom is my best friend".? Sexy, youthful moms. I rest my case.

Amanda used to routinely tell me with snarl and contempt in her voice (as well as in every fiber in her body), that her other friends had "nice" moms who they could tell "anything" to. To that, all I could say was that my girls didn't need to tell me "anything". Because I already knew "everything". And I wasn't about to be "understanding" about any of it. I wasn't going to talk it over, over a latte at Starbucks. I was not going to make it easy for them to do what I knew they shouldn't be doing - even though I knew everyone else was doing it. Even if I had done it at their age. Especially if I had done it at their age. So if they were going to defy me anyway, they were going to have to work hard at doing it because it was going to require stealth planning and strategy to get away with it. Sometimes they did. But often, they didn't. Hence, hate.

Okay, so we really are beyond that now. They've grown up and become adults. Well, semi-adults. At least in my mind. Which is where mom madness comes in. While I am in full mom mode for my 10 year old, I am supposed to be - what? - to my older girls? They are legal adults now, but still unexperienced young people. They want to make their own lives. While still living at home. Uh - I think not.

I mean, I still have rules, right? And when they are living under my roof, they abide, right? Or they can get their own place, right? Right??

Except, it looks an awful like when they were in high school. And as much as I feel I am entitled to set the rules in my own home, I kind of feel like maybe their freedoms should extend a little beyond a later curfew. But I don't seem to be able to let go of them as my children and embrace them as adults. At least not while they still leave messes all over the house.

The truth is I do not know how to be a mom to semi-adult. I don't know how to be okay with choices they may make that I do not like. I do not know where to draw the line. I do not know how to try to "discipline" them for breaking the rules - without feeling like an ass. And I think there hasn't been enough time between the time they hated me and now for them to warm to being friends. And frankly, I'm not sure I can be their friend until they are 52 with college aged daughters of their own.

So I'm left out here in "mom limbo". But I've got to figure it out or I am going to look like absolute hell by the time they graduate college.

Work Hard, Play Later

Christine answers, perhaps not so candidly. But she definitely got the message.

Monday Sermon

Grace , through the kindness of good friends, received tickets to the Jonas Brother's concert at the Staples Center on Friday night. A HUGE fan, she had the time of her life and was as excited as I have ever seen her. She came home and breathlessly chattered on about her experience until she was hoarse. But before she went to bed, she told of another "new experience" she witnessed that night. The sight of a homeless man, laying inside a cardboard box with his back to the opening. And she could see that he was crying because his shoulders and back were shaking rhythmically, in the manner they do when you are wracked with sobs. It was him she remembered when she got into bed.

Say what you want about Michael Jackson. He was very weird at best, but he wrote, without a doubt, the most amazing anthem for social responsibility ever. And if every single person took these words seriously, we wouldn't be fighting about health care reform, joblessness and homelessness. Its called "Man in the Mirror" and in the unlikely event that you haven't heard it, or couldn't make out all the words, here are the lyrics:

I'm gonna make a change, for once in my life

Its gonna feel real good, gonna make a difference, gonna make it right

As I turn up the collar on my favorite winter coat

the wind is blowin' my mind

I see the kids in the street with not enough to eat

Who am I to be blind pretending not to see their need?

A summer's disregard, a broken bottle top, and one man's soul

They follow each other on the wind you know, cause they got nowhere to go

That's why I want you to know

I'm starting with the man in the mirror, I'm asking him to change his ways

And no message could have been any clearer

If you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.

I've been a victim of a selfish kind of love, its time that I realize

That there are some with no home, not a nickel to loan

Could it be, really me, pretending that they're not alone?

A willow deeply scarred, somebody's broken heart, and a washed out dream

They follow the pattern of the wind you see, cause they got no place to be

That's why I'm starting with me.

You gotta get it right while you got the time

Cause when you close your heart you close your mind.

I don't know what I can add to that. Except that I have a heightened awareness of need these days. And even in unemployment, I'm one of the lucky ones. I know there are people from all walks of life in desperate situations right now - you do not have to look far to find them. There has never been a time when the phrase "There but for the grace of God, go I" has been so close to home.

So, when you are at the grocery store and they ask if you want to donate one dollar to the cause - do it. If you get a legitimate solicitation over the phone for the needy - give to it. If you are asked to donate something - find it and donate it. A little bit here and there by everyone can change everything. Sponsor a child, pay someone's rent, stock the food banks, give blood, give time. Tithe. And then, tell no one. The treasure in heaven you store will be worth it.

Finally, before you log off your computer, go to Kiva.org and check out what a loan of $25.00 or more can do for people around the world.

And all the people said - amen.

What a Difference a Party Makes

Yesterday started tough. I was out of sorts getting out of bed. I felt all day like I had to pull myself back from the edge. You know those days. When people irritate you for nothing more than breathing.

These kind of days are particularly difficult days for my family because the minimal measure of patience I usually operate with is gone entirely. Everyone tries to stay out of my way - but unless they gather up their things and move out altogether, its useless.

So sorry, family. Again.

Further contributing to my irritation was the fact that we had an obligation last night. Now it is important to note that the day before, it was a party we were going to, but yesterday it turned into an obligation. And I was wishing Rica was turning 50 next year when I would certainly feel better. And besides, Rica doesn't look anything like 50 so the fact that someone was making it a big deal was frankly a little insulting to the rest of us half-centurions who, when revealing our age, don't even get the courtesy of a feigned look of surprise. So Happy damned Birthday Rica.

But happily, we went and the obligation turned back into a party.

We live in the most beautiful place in the world, Thousand Oaks/Westlake Village. We have rolling green hills and blue skies, the Santa Monica mountains, protected space, oak trees and a beautifully planned, pristine community. No window bars. No graffiti. Google us if you don't believe. And there is a neighborhood in Westlake that is on the lake and all the houses have their own boats to sail around in and it-is-sublime! So we were off to a good start when the party turned out to be there.

It was a smallish dinner party held on the deck of her ex-mother-in-law's house (yes, that's how much everyone loves Rica), right on the lake with candles and twinkle lights and nice people. We watched the sun set and it made gorgeous gold and pink colors on the water. Bob and I wound up sitting at a table with friends we have known for many years, along with a couple of new people who we really liked. We were pretty loud. Such is our nature. The primary conversation was over whether or not to legalize marijuana. Mostly - and I was surprised - the occupants at our table were for it. For the record, I am not. More interesting to me was the fact that I was the only democrat at the table (except for maybe the new people) so go figure. It just goes to show, conservatives can, under the right "influences", be the life of the party. (I'm going to catch hell for that remark - so please, all my republican friends, its just a joke.) But with that said it spawned a lively debate which was, in spite of the controversial nature of the subject matter, fun.

Also - and this was great - an old friend of ours told me, just as a matter of fact (and without any kind of flirtatious or inappropriate inference), that he thought I was beautiful. And I am going to presume that he was not talking about my mind. Not that a beautiful mind isn't something to want, but who wants to hear about it at 52?

But mostly, I just was aware. Aware of how blessed I am. Friends, my darling husband, celebration, good food, good conversation, good music, beautiful surroundings. The birthday girl was an inspiration as well. She accepted tribute after tribute with grace, laughing with ease and, with extreme good nature, laughed harder than anyone else when it was discovered (under scrutiny) that one of the photos of her that made up a displayed collage of her life, revealed a bit more of her body that one would normally present in public. I would have died. Rica, charming and lovely, thought it was hilarious. So it was. A lesson in rolling with the punches. And so, I ended my day in a much better place.

Oh those crazy 50-year-olds!!!

Week One - Eh

I CANNOT CONTROL WHAT FRAME THE VIDEO FREEZES ON. (I know you are laughing, Ted!) I do not walk the earth looking like this.

The good thing about video blogging your diet is that you can't lie.

Forward

So I did hear a final word from the company that was trying to hire me. They are a small company and they cannot offer what I was asking.

In a way, there is relief in this word. The job was really far away. The hours would have been tough. The benefit package was a big obstacle. SO that leaves me back in limbo. Ah well.

I was just on mediabistro.com and watched a little short called "Lemonade" about people who have been let go from the world of advertising and done something completely different with their lives. I think this is finally sinking in for me. So - all those in favor of me making six figures writing this blog all day say "aye".

You laugh but people do. Not me necessarily, but people. And there may be a few dollars in it down the road if this continues to grow.

Or there may be a book in me. My friend Cindy says my life is like a John Irving novel. Anyone still like John Irving?

Here's another idea: I finally get the real estate license my husband has been nagging me to get and go into business with him. The market is opening up slightly to investors. His business seems to be picking up a little bit. Plus, after 18 years of marriage, I know how to get along with him - or not - based on what the situation calls for. The only risk factor in such an endeavor might be homicide. But there is probably insurance for that.

Or I might wait for the right thing to come my way - whatever that is.

The fact is, nay say all you like but God has been providing for us. Income has been coming from here and there, keeping us in a good place. I do not presume this will last beyond today, but it has given me a respite and I am content in it. And I would LOVE to do something new. And I think my purse is really getting cleaned out so that when I jump in the deep end (and I feel it coming), it won't weigh me down. In fact my purse might just offer some buoyancy.

And maybe I will become a motivational speaker. I would love that. I've mentioned this before. Motivational speaker may sound crazy but in this little "Lemonade" film I just mentioned, one guy got laid off from his job in advertising and pursued a new direction by becoming a woman. What I am suggesting is not nearly as complicated.

Reconnected

Well, the game is still on. The offer I thought was coming and then assumed was not coming may still come. And this makes me feel relief. Until I get the offer. Or don't. I know my game.

In the meantime, I am making connections. And reconnections.

So here's the thing about Facebook - it can be very addictive, trivial, and a heavenly tool for procrastinators, but, it can also connect you to people you had lost. It is true that some people should stay lost, but usually those people know who they are. In any event, one of the many I have recently "found" is Jane.

Jane is this free-spirited Angelina Jolie-like beauty, bohemian, brainiac with a positively golden honey singing voice who was a very good friend to me when Anne died. She stepped into action and got the twins free diaper service for a year and was around quite a bit. As a matter of fact, Amanda called Jane "mommy" first, primarily because she heard Jane's son calling her that, but she clearly felt comfortable enough to do it. And I wasn't her mommy yet.

I met Jane when we were both in a 1987 Theatre West production of "A Little Night Music" (see above - she's on the left; me on the right). We stuck together after that.

Jane bakes pies. From scratch. Every Thanksgiving eve. She bakes enough to feed three armies and has all her girlfriends over to bake with her. I used to go. We would bake, and laugh, and drink too much, and dance in the kitchen, and make a horrible mess, but it didn't matter because housekeeping was never one of Jane's passions. People were.

Jane and her then husband Drew had amassed a huge group of artsy-fartsy friends (and I mean that in the most flattering of ways) - and I was one of them (in a "conformist" kind of way). They threw fun and intelligent parties. For her 30th birthday, out in the backyard all lit up with twinkle lights, there must have been 75 people there plus children. My girls were there. They don't remember because they were running around in diapers but they were caught up in the incredibly happy and creative energy of that evening. We each had to stand on a makeshift stage and perform something for Jane. Everyone was there - actors, writers, musicians, directors, artists, as well as a few sane people - and so we were entertained with song, dance, readings and letters to honor Jane on this night. It was full. I cannot tell you how terrifically fun and memory-worthy it was. It hearkened back to what I imagined were the days of the 20's and 30's, when people had "salons" or traded words at the round table of the Algonquin room.

Okay - so back to me.

I had lunch with Jane today. We guessed it had been about 10 years since we last saw one another - and it was probably more because I don't think Grace was born yet. In any case, we didn't have near enough time to catch up but it was wonderful to see her again, to talk to her again, to remember everything I have mentioned above and had forgotten about. And here is what I walked away with: I am so grateful for this time away from working and the corporate world. SO grateful. I would not have made time for this kind of re-connection. I was busy and it would have been inconvenient. And I don't think I would have thought it was important. But memories - good and bad - so easily fade and disappear. If you are not called to remember a person or who they were to you, what they meant to you, what they did for you, then their contribution in making you who you are is of little consequence. And I'm thinking that that is a very sad thing. If you let people go, you lose a lot of yourself. You cannot get old with old friends. And this is why you must keep them. Yeah Jane!

Make the time.

Under Water

About 4 years ago we were enjoying a vacation on Maui and had taken a catamaran to the small island of Lanai where the snorkeling is amazing. Usually. Except for the day we went. As often happens in the tropics, we experienced a bit of tropical weather and the ocean was rough. When we finally got to the designated area, with all our snorkeling gear, we were met by huge waves crashing right on the beach. Anyone with any experience swimming in the ocean understood that to get in without being hit you had to wait for the wave to crash and back in to the water as it retreated - before the next swell took speed. But Grace was a novice. She couldn't walk in her fins and she was very afraid to get in the water.

We were anxious to get Grace out beyond the waves so she could see the gorgeous tropical fish that we had remembered from a previous trip. The older girls and I were already out there, beyond the breaking point when I saw Bob, wearing his fins, pick Grace up, stand with his back to the ocean and begin to walk backward into the water. But he was slow and he did not see the enormous wave racing toward them. Grace, who was holding to his chest and looking over his shoulder, did. I too, saw what was about to happen - as well as the look of sheer terror on my little 6-year-old's face. I heard her scream just before a 6 foot wave crashed over them both and swallowed them whole. I swam as fast as I could to where they had been standing. They popped up several seconds later about 20 feet away. Bob was still clinging to Grace, and Grace - eyes wide open and still registering terror - looked like she had just been shocked into a coma.

I knew the kind fear she had. I had awakened from nightmares as a child like that. Where you open your mouth to scream and no sound comes out. It took us nearly a year to get her back into the water without a floating device. Even if she was only in knee deep.

I can tell you that as a member of the "formerly employed club" some days feel like that. The news is not helpful. Every newscaster, be they local or national, report all the latest unemployment numbers and then tell you how much worse its going to be tomorrow. Then the well coiffed talking head tells you how (s)he - at station WXYZ - wants to help all of us unemployed out there in TV Land find a job. They smile sincerely and you wonder how they do that. Then they cut to footage of the latest in an endless stream of "job fairs" being held in Long Beach or Torrance or City of Industry or anywhere other than local. Then the camera zooms to three men in khaki pants and polo shirts standing behind a booth for "Pep Boys Auto Parts and Service". Something tells me that there is no place for me along side Manny, Moe, and Jack.

I am really blessed. We're not in a place of panic. We can weather this for a good long time. Not necessarily comfortably, but we can weather it nonetheless. I am very aware that there are many living in tent cities - not unlike the days of Herbert Hoover - which is so hard to wrap my mind around. Life is going to look different moving forward - whether or not we see a full recovery. Nothing will feel as secure as it did before. I will be slower to spend and quicker to give. Awareness. There will be more of that.

In the meantime, when I have days like these, when it feels like a giant wave is about to overcome me, I will try to remember that someone is holding me and, while I do not mean to diminish the experience - especially for those who are desperate, we are stronger than our circumstances. In the end, while the wave can hit you, overtake you, disorient you, and leave you gasping for air - it is only water.

iPhone Dreams

And I just wanted a "Princess" phone. Which I never got , by the way. We all dream for a few things we will never have. This is one of hers.

Reality with Ann

I get daily emails from Ann Taylor. Actually they show up at about midnight every night but I'm splitting hairs. Now I love Ann Taylor and I know she is in trouble and I want to help her but I can't. I do not currently fit in her clothes. Not that I don't try.

Every morning I awake to my blackberry flashing red. There are usually a couple emails waiting for me, Facebook notifications, spam, and Ann. Taylor. And when I was skinny, she never gave me the time of day. I paid a lot of money for her classic clothes, clothes Audrey Hepburn would have worn, some of which are still hanging in my closet, waiting patiently for my body to find their way back to them. I never heard from her then. But now, she sends me daily reminders that she has amazing, beautiful things waiting just for me at 20% off! Even the new stuff. And, in denial of what the deep recesses of my mind knows, I click on the photo and see all the beautiful things and think: "That would look great on me". Were it not for the fact that I am not 30 or skinny or flawless anymore, it certainly would look great on me.

But I am undeterred. I still quite see myself as I was then. I am completely not kidding. And you know what? I know there are millions of other women who are blind to themselves - so get off my back! And off I go with my groovy plum colored, patent leather bag (from Ann Taylor) to the Oaks Mall (a truly beautiful mall as far as malls go) and I bee line straight to Ann Taylor to see these beautiful things for myself. I love the minimalist design of her stores. Blonde wood and lots of space. I go directly to the the display that stands right beyond the store entrance. This display speaks and it says: "Valri! Where have you been? We have a brand new designer we want you to meet. We can finally start the party!" And then I look at the tags. Bad party. $70.00 for a t-shirt. Oh please. (There was a day when I would not have blinked at that. There was a day when I owed Ann more than $1000.) But I have a 20% off coupon and I quickly calculate. That makes it $56.00. For a T-shirt. Pass. Pass forever.

Still, I must peek. I look at the sizes. They have 2 in size 6, 4 in size 8, 3 in size 10. That's it. Any larger sizes were either snatched up or were never there. I presume the latter. Why is Ann emailing me??

Pressing on, I go looking at the sale racks. In the larger sizes there is very limited selection. It is about this time that one of the lovely sales women walks up to me with a lovely smile and asks, lovely-ly, "Can I help you?" I am not fooled. I know that her "inner dialogue" (actor talk) sounds a little more like this: "Is she kidding? Does she own a mirror?"

And yes I do thank you. But it lies. However, the dressing room - in this economy - does not. Even on sale, I cannot overlook a fabric stretched too far.

What happened? I don't understand. I look exactly the same! I haven't gained any weight. True. I have not gained any weight. Since yesterday. Since 1999, pre-baby? Oh yes. Quite a bit.

There is incentive in this store.

Lose/Lose

Why is it that I always see the glass half empty, I always have buyers remorse, the grass is always greener elsewhere? I wish I just could KNOW what I want and be confident about it. Since I don't, every crossroads feels like a perpetual state of lose/lose. And as it happens life has put me (and millions of others) right in the middle of the 405/101 interchange. (For those not familiar with Los Angeles, this interchange is roughly the equivalent of hell.)

A week ago, I wrote about an offer I thought I was going to get. The interview went well; we were talking salary and benefits. I suspect that what I was asking was outside of what they expected to pay but they had said that my experience was of value to them and so I felt that they might make adjustments. I also knew they were seeing other qualified candidates (and there are many these days) but truly, my biggest fear was what I was going to do when I got the offer.

As of now, it appears I am not getting the offer. The publisher had indicated that he would get back to me by the Friday that just passed. So, OF COURSE, I am in a panic that I didn't get the job.

The truth is, I cannot work for less than the package I asked for. Its not about ego, its about realities. So in this case, there is nothing I could have done. But while last week I was feeling cavalier about the benefits of this job, today I am thinking how rare it is to be looking at a triple header: a place where you like the people, the job is interesting, and offers opportunity for success. Even if it is an hour way from where you live. And even if you do have to get used to getting up in the morning.

I am still in the running for another job I have interviewed for. This one offers a much more substantial package - it is a bigger company - but who knows if I will get that offer?

And while I didn't feel a hint of it in my recent interviews - in prior interviews (as well as those to come), the fact is not lost on me that I am old for this industry. Oh I know, no one discriminates based on age or sex or race or religion or sexual orientation. Except for when they do. And in years past, when thinking about the realities of my industry being youth obsessed, I wondered about cosmetic surgeries when I got to be this age. But now that I am this age, it feels weird to consider such a drastic measure for a job. I think I would become very resentful. To say nothing of how I would feel if I came out looking like Halloween. But people do it.

All I can say is that I don't think being born in 1957 is working to my advantage in this economy. If I'm not careful I might start feeling Willie Loman-ish.

On the other hand, also within this past week, I have been approached about 3 possible speaking engagements. And I have been given some encouragement about writing a book based on a previous speech I gave. So this is all going in the direction of "the dream". "Signs" a-plenty! But man, oh man! As you may have guessed, I'm scared to death about the possibility of getting "the dream" too.

Jump.

The "August Project"

Wish me luck. Seriously.

Our Time

One of Stephen Sondheim's least successful shows was "Merrily We Roll Along", based on the play by George S Kaufman and Moss Hart. It chronicles the lives of three people - backward. The show starts "now" and tells itself in reverse until the beginning - where we see the three friends just graduating from school and fully believing in all their hopes and dreams. It ran only 16 performances. The most famous song from the score is probably "Not A Day Goes By" (which you likely still have never heard of), but the finale of the show is an anthem for youth who are sparked with the thrill of a world of possibilities that has been beckoning, and one they can't wait to enter, even if it is with a bit of fear. Its called "Our Time" and its not a great song, but it is one of my favorite songs ever.

The orchestrations are what really resonate with me. There is a sense of sustained anticipation you hear in the strings. Chimes sound like dreams being unleashed, the brass and wind instruments sound like the comfortable, untried courage of the naive. Overall, it sounds respectful of believing.

Okay that was an embarrassing display of grandiose and romantic talk over a mostly unmemorable show tune - but to me, the song itself feels like promise. And I remember the feeling. It was grand.

Hopefully you've guessed that I am not getting all dopey about about a song. The fact is, I attended, along with my family, a bat mitzvah for the youngest daughter of one of my oldest friends in the world. It was surreal to look at my older daughters and her oldest daughter and think that Jackie and I were only a couple of years older than they are now when we met. When I count backward...

Never mind.

First of all I should say that Jackie is only one year younger than I but she looks virtually the same as she did nearly 30 years ago. So, by the way, does her mother. Excellent genes. But the point is that it isn't hard to look at her and be back in 1980 - 23 years old and just starting our "adult" lives. We worked for Kelly Services - the temporary help company - along with Meg and Peg and others who are mostly absent from my life, but still present in my heart. We did an awful lot of things I get really mad at my girls for doing now. We kept ourselves entertained by playing stupid pranks on each other at work (filling the receiver end of the desk phone with cold hand lotion comes to mind). Jackie would often crawl under her desk for a nap at lunch (such, apparently, were her nights). We wrote silly notes to each other, competing with each other to write in the teeniest handwriting imaginable in order to feign extreme humility. (We did not need reading glasses then. To read those notes today would require coke bottle glass). We thought we were hilarious. And in fact, we were. Jackie had a strand of pearls that she believed was inappropriate for her to wear until she was 30. I remember thinking she may as well throw them out than wait so long to have any use for them. We were idiots. But what the hell - it was "our time" and the world was all about us. We all had eternity ahead of us with nothing but doors wide open.

I know that as we were living them, our lives felt ordinary. None of us thought to ourselves: "Wow! We're living through disco!" or "This is the Reagan era. I wonder what's next." There was no next. There was just "now". Why would we ever think that "The Breakfast Club" or "Flashdance" would date us? We wore leggings over our jeans. We had lots of padding on our shoulders. We had big hair and bigger earrings. We went through a recession during the 80's. It meant absolutely nothing to me at the time. Our worlds were still very small back then. The dreams we dreamed were of a future where our circumstances changed but we didn't. I don't think either or any of us back then ever imagined a day when we would cherish our spanx or look in a mirror and ask: "What happened to my neck?"

And why should we have? How could we have? Every experience was new and made our hearts beat a little faster. We felt everything a little stronger. We were a little more fearful, but we had a little more courage. We drank champagne and ate brie and went to dinner parties in chic cocktail dresses. The music then, was written for us. The movies then, were made for us. The 80's were about us. And we believed, unconsciously or not, that it would always be about us. We dreamed of being in love, of being married, of having children. We dreamed of having wonderfully successful careers. A teacher, an actress, a businessperson. We dreamed of being homeowners. We dreamed of travel. And security. And happily, miraculously, we all got most of what we dreamed of. But it does look different than how we dreamed it and getting it felt normal. The luster of dreaming had worn off in the getting. Still, the lyrics of this song, hokey as they may sound, kept running through my mind that day:

Feel the flow, Hear what's happening

We're what's happening

Don't you know

We're the movers and we're the shapers

We're the names in tomorrow's papers

Up to us, man, to show 'em

So it was kind of strange, this bat mitzvah. I had one foot in the day and another in yesterday. And it was oddly disorienting. But then, as we were leaving, we chatted with Rick for a moment (Jackie's husband, who, by the way, was there from the beginning too) and he said something that brought everything around full circle for me. Looking at his family and then at mine, he observed: "I like that we all turned out okay".

Indeed we did. And I like that too. Dreams fulfilled.