Ah! The Thea -tah!

This morning I had to wake up at 6:00 because Grace had two shows for local schools and I had to have her at the theatre - in makeup - by 8:00. When the alarm went off I saw that my blackberry was blinking red. A message!! From dad. He sent me a link to an article from the New York Times saying the ratio of unemployed (14+ million) to available jobs (just over 2 million) was the worst ever. Good morning!

I rolled over to see that my husband was not there. I was too tired and cold to track him down but when the alarm went off again I managed to find a way out of bed and pattered down the hall. He was on the couch with a blanket with one dog at his head and another at his feet. He said I was snoring.

Great! I'm unemployed AND I snore. And I so wanted to lead a glamorous life.

Grace, excited to be doing something on a weekday other than school, was no trouble this morning. She got herself ready. I, on the other hand, could not get moving. The problem for me came down to the fact that since this is community theatre, parents are required to volunteer and today I had to be backstage for both shows to make sure the kids were quiet and didn't miss cues. Now kids are fine, and this was certainly not a difficult job - like say - hanging lights or building sets - but these are theatre kids. You should know that "theatre kids" are very smart for the most part, and they tend not to be in the kind of trouble other kids sometimes get into. But as the theatre in "theatre kids" implies, there is almost invariably drama. Not the least of which is coming from my own kid. So 6 hours of sitting backstage with budding thespians just seemed to me to be too long plus a month.

We arrived on time but as lovely as this venue is (and it really is lovely) I was reminded that this was community theatre and not a union contract by virtue of the fact that there was no coffee to be found. I allowed myself a few minutes to recover from that revelation, refocused, and set about to be today's "kid wrangler".

These kids are really very sweet kids and they have found their passion - at least for now. The thing about a theatre kid is that everything about the theatre is discussed ad nauseum and with such passion. Words like "brilliant" and "amazing" and "phenomenal", uttered liberally from the mouths of 11-year-olds, fill the air. Phrases like "incredibly talented" and "moving to New York" spill from the lips of blase teenagers. And above all, there is the spontaneous bursting out of show tunes. And apparently there is a show tune written for every occasion. And Grace is a diva in training - most annoying! And I was exactly like them when I was a "theatre kid". In fact, I was worse.

At the grand dame age of 15, I knew every teeny bit of trivia from the theatre there was to know. I knew who won what Tony for the past 10 years and who was going to be up for them this year. I knew what was in previews and what was opening when - who was in it and who was directing - even if I really didn't know who they were. I knew where Bernadette Peters was born. And I knew

the lyrics to every obscure Sondheim song that was thrown out during out-of-town tryouts. Backward. And you didn't even have to ask to get me to regale you with one amazing theatre story after the other. I'd tell them with affected worldliness as I flicked the extremely long ash from my Virginia Slim menthol.

Here I am as the sophisticated, brassy, sexy, world wise, somewhat tarnished, con artist/evangelical crusader, Reno Sweeny - in a community theatre production of the Cole Porter musical "Anything Goes". As an "incredible talent", I was confident that I could bring this role to life by drawing on all the wisdom, experience and understanding I had acquired, 3 years before I could legally drink.

And did I mention that I was "brilliant"?

The Monstrous Experience of Monster

Perpetually applying for jobs through Monster.com, et al is extremely frustrating. Here is how it goes:

You find a job post you hope that: a) it isn't just a protocol post because they have actually already filled the position within or with a buddy, b) they are really sincere about the EOE thing, c) by seeing the job 5 hours after it posted, you aren't already too late.

Next, you go to your "Linkedin" page and see if any of your "connections" currently work there, have worked there, or are less than two connections from someone who works there. If you are unfamiliar with "Linkedin" it is structured like any other social media network but it focuses on your business contacts. Instead of "friends", as they are called on Facebook, you have "connections". It operates under the "6 degrees of separation" theory, letting you know if you are 1, 2, 3 or more "connections" away from someone you want to get in front of. But let's face it, if you want to see the VP Sales of XYZ company, a recommendation from a "connection" to a "connection" to a "connection" ain't gonna help you at all. I have over 100 "connections" and so far they have been of no use. Aside from actually being my friends - for the most part.

As it happens, I am appallingly lacking in "direct connections" to businesses I am applying for. It is, however, directly attributable to the fact that there are still no jobs in my industry. SO for the most part, my resume and a cover letter go out - into the great black hole of the world wide web and presumably eventually reach their destination along with uncountable others who are applying for the same job in the same manner. And sadly, I must say, that is usually the end of it. Which means I am available to watch "The Bonnie Hunt Show" by noon. Or exercise.

Hi Bonnie!

You learn to "read" between the lines on these job posts as well. "Entry level" or "2 years experience in (fill in the blank) or related field" means: "This job doesn't pay what most people in this field are willing to work for so we're taking a look outside". "Salary: $40,000 to $250,000" means: "This job pays $40,000. Period. You might make $250,000 if you have magical powers". Health benefits means: "For you. If we offered coverage for your family, we would have said so". "Aggressive go-getter who likes to be his/her own boss" means: "Commission only". "4 year college degree or equivalent job experience required" means "4 year college degree required". And you really hope that "EOE" doesn't mean "so long as you match the image we are carrying around in our heads".

Once you click "apply" for a job, you usually are directed to a questionnaire that asks all the questions that can easily be answered by reading your resume - which they have asked you to attach. Then you move on to more specific questions. Even if the job description says that a college degree is not required, you are asked which college you graduated from (in my case I have to put "N/A"). I am then directed to a question that asks what level of education I completed and it always says "High School or GED" which really bothers me because there has always been a stigma attached to "GED" and to have "High School" thrown in with it makes obvious that there is now a stigma attached to High School as well. But it is where I fall, so there I go.

Now here is where they get sneaky. It is against the law to ask someone how old they are in the application process or interview. It is especially important for me because there can be erroneous and pre-conceived notions about what a "seasoned" applicant can bring to the table and you want a chance to get an interview before they know how old you are. This way you have an chance to dazzle them with your charm, if not your expertise, and get them to forget that you could easily be their mother. SO I get really ticked off when they ask the YEAR you graduated and asterisk it by saying that providing this information is mandatory. How do they get away with that? I am so tempted to fill in that blank by saying "1975 which means I am 52 and the AARP keeps calling me and I have to dye my hair because I have so much grey and I am in menopause so I am very gassy as of late and I may need thyroid medication and I'm not available for interview this Thursday because I have to attend my fourth funeral this year and you would probably rather hire my daughter".

The final section is the section where they tell you "by law, you are not required to answer the following questions". This is where they ask your sex and your ethnic background. But if you don't answer, you fear that they will assume you have an attitude or that you have something to hide. As far as ethnic background, I want to check all of them because I really have a bit of everything, save possibly, Asian. But I am recognized as "white" and my legs surely attest to that - so that is what I check.

Then you attach your resume and fret over a cover letter which they probably won't read anyway and then you hit "send". Bye bye!

Now every so often, they respond. They respond by sending another questionnaire via email, which you fill out and return via email. Then you hope to get a call, where they will schedule a phone interview (which I always ace) and then they schedule a face-to-face. And hopefully you move up the ranks to employment nirvana. A place I still aspire to.

So in the meantime, I am starting pilates, I have lunch with friends, I volunteer, and I blog. Nice work if you can get it.

Introduction to Pilates

Here's a tip: if you think you are going to need your legs for anything - like, say, walking - on a Monday, don't start pilates training on Sunday.

My friend Julie is a certified Pilates instructor and has all the equipment in her home and she was kind enough to offer to show me the "basics" so that I would be ready for a class. I should tell you that Julie, a health and nutrition fan, has a body that is nothing short of aspirational. She is a couple of years younger than I am, but she looks half my age. Her posture is amazing - I have never seen a back so straight. Looking at her provides incentive. I should also mention that another friend of mine, Linda, similarly into health and fitness, is equally perfect looking - there must be something to this...

But I digress.

I cannot remember the name of the machine but to me it looks like one of those Nordic Trac machines turned on its side. I am familiar with the Nordic Trac system. I have owned three of them and I found them very useful for hanging clothes and such on.

Julie got on the machine and demonstrated some basic exercises, all the while telling me what she was going to be teaching me to do. It looked absolutely graceful and effortless when she did it; instinctively, I knew this was a lie from the pit of hell. I told her that. She admitted: "Oh, you're going to be thinking about me tomorrow!" She was right. Julie has not been off my mind since I got out of bed.

Here's the thing about pilates. It requires more focus than I am currently capable of. You must keep your hips square, your shoulder blades square, your breathing focused (in through the nose, exhale through the mouth at exertion and "knit" your ribs together as you exhale), lift your legs (in various positions) in complete isolation from the rest of your body, and slowly put them back down (as though you are "moving through peanut butter") and concentrate to insure that both legs are exercising with equal effort. My left side, it turns out, is stronger than my right side and this was particularly difficult. As a person whose feet roll inwardly as I walk, I had to add the task of keeping the ball of my feet centered on the machine to my list of focus challenges. So the upshot of all these multiple things I needed to keep in mind was this: to lie flat on my back with my hands at my side, one foot resting on the bar while lifting the other (straightened) leg straight up and then back down, took a full 15 seconds to mentally prepare for and another 15 seconds to execute. 30 seconds. One leg lift. This was going to be a loooooooooong class. Fortunately, Julie was understanding so I did the best I could but I can tell you honestly that the first part of my body that started to hurt was my brain.

I can tell you that there is a lot of stretching in pilates. It is designed to strengthen your core muscles which is something I am in real need of. And the stretching feels so good. At first. Today I met some of my muscles for what is apparently the very first time in my life and they are absolutely rude with all the screaming they are doing.

Julie also introduced me to this long, dense, styrofoam-y tube. It was to be used for the outer thighs, otherwise known as - well never mind. Julie explained that the muscles in the outer thighs get very tense and gnarled and it is important to massage them. Now you must understand that when I think of a massage, I think of the soothing, relaxing, ecstasy of Swedish massage. Julie, I came to understand, meant deep tissue. So when I balanced myself against this tube on the floor and rolled my body upward, I experienced a whole new kind of tortuous pain. I can only liken it to being hit across the thigh with a wooden baseball bat - it honestly brought tears. I could not believe that I was not black and blue when I got up off the floor. Julie said I needed to go out and buy one of these things. Oh yeah - I'm gonna run out for that one.

By the end of this instruction, while I had not done anything particularly strenuous, I was sweating and shaking like a wet puppy. It was embarrassing. But this darling girl was very encouraging and patient with me and when I stood up she asked me how I felt and I have to tell you, I felt better! I felt straighter and I truly felt lighter. And that felt sooooooooo good!

So I go back for more tomorrow. And while I am fearful of what it is all going to feel like this time, I am anxious for that endorphin rush. It will be worth it. Even if I'm on crutches on Wednesday.

Thinking

I think that if God wanted to say anything to us right now it would probably be to rest. I think He would say that we have learned to run like mad though our lives, conditioned ourselves to win, win, WIN at any and all cost and that we have totally lost the point. I think He would say to take this time in history to stop and think about not so much what we have gotten ourselves into and how we're going to get out of it, but why we care so much about all the wrong things.

I think He would say that being comfortable is close to being dead - that life is about what can be done without having to look backward to make sure all your stuff is still there.

I think He would say to stop worrying, that anxiety and stress will rob you first and kill you next. I think He would say to go back as far as you can in your memory and find Him in all the places He was - and realize how it is that you're still here to think about it.

I think He'd ask us why we doubt His existance, when we don't doubt the wind. We can't see that either - but we can see it's effects and feel its power. I think He'd ask if we know how many shades of green there are.

I think He'd tell us that if we were quiet and trusting, with very little effort we would actually see Him everywhere around us. He would tell us that if we paid attention, we'd see miracles, even supernatural ones, every day.

I think He'd tell us that its not what happens here, but what happens next that counts. I think He'd tell us that we can learn a lot by watching ants.

I think He'd tell us that not only do we not know everything, we don't know anything. I think He would tell us not to limit his love and his mercy or his understanding. I think He would tell us that we are going to be surprised by what the entire story of His truth is - because we really can't grasp it. I think He'd tell us that we would be surprised at who and what has disappointed Him. I think He would tell us to leave judgement to Him. I think He would tell us to really try to get the compassion thing right. I think He'd tell us to remember that Jesus didn't just die for Christians.

I think He'd tell us to say thank you because this may be all there is and it has been a lot. I think he would tell us that we should not be fearful of talking to others about Him - He wants to be on people's minds so that He can ultimately be in their hearts. I think He would ask us how we could be embarrassed to talk about Him when nothing would or could exist without Him.

And I think He'd ask me, personally, "why do I need to keep repeating myself?"

The Nerd Within

I've been thinking a lot about my fear of putting myself "out there". It is strange. When people describe me, for the most part, they use adjectives like "confident" and "funny" and "smart". And I don't feel like any of those. I feel like I play at being those things - but I am not those things.

Now how is that? I have to consider the fact that if I "play" smart and funny and confident all the time, chances are, I am that. So why do I feel like such a "faker"?

In thinking this through, fifth grade flew into my brain and I had my answer. There is a really geeky girl that still lives inside. I can feel her now - Valri Jay Jackson, 5th grade, Mrs. Zahtilla's class. I remained a geek through Jr. High school (See actual un-retouched geek photo from 7th grade below.)

On the playground of Patterson Elementary, I began my tenure as a nerd. Nerds invariably begin their careers in P.E. class. I was always the last one to get picked for school sports. And while you've heard many people say that about themselves, what they don't tell you is that the humiliationisn't about being picked last. You can deal with that. It was the knowledge that when it came down to you and that one other tragically uncoordinated person, the captain who got to choose the lesser "loser" of the two of you always smiled triumphantly - the unspoken sentiment being: "At least I didn't get stuck with her!" Occasionally that smile was accompanied by the self-satisfied laugh of a real bully. Then as if the knife weren't deep enough, the remaining captain would always groan dramatically as if he had just lost a million dollars on a stupid bet. And you were left standing there with nothing to do in your own defense but smile like an idiot as if to say: "I'm glad I'm on your team" - as though you were oblivious to the fact that you were the very last person left and no choice could be made instead of you. All you really wished was that the P.E. teacher would just cut you a break and let you play hopscotch by yourself. Worse than that though, was when it was your turn to be captain, and every kid was screaming at the other captain to please take them. In the face of a mob of kids begging not to be paired with you, there is no idiot smile to cover the embarrassment. You can do nothing but apologize sheepishly to every kid you picked, as they throw you dirty looks for having ruined the game for them. I remember meeting those looks with the same repetitive phrase: "Its just a game." That mantra did not save me. Yes indeed, nerds are born - and broken - in P.E. class.

But it does not end there. (Uh-oh. I'm on a roll...)

I became a play yard pariah and let me tell you, if you can't make it at recess you are stuck being pals with yard duty. And once the kids see you chatting it up with yard duty staff, then its set in stone. You are a geek and you may as well be walking around with cat-eye glass frames held together by a bandaid at the nose bridge and braces with head gear. You are faced with having to carve out your own kind of nerd-ism. In my case, I became teacher's pet. I was the good student and good girl. There, with my knobby knees and unshaved legs and undershirt instead of training bra (which every other girl in the school got to wear), I stood straight and awkwardly tall for good citizenship awards, and spelling bee champions, for fine penmanship and raising hands for knowing the answer to every question the teacher asked in class. I stood for dressing like my mother told me to dress (like an idiot) and doing what I was told to do, even when I wasn't at home. I stood for hiding in the bathroom stalls and running to the teacher for protection. I stood for pixie haircuts and for panties showing on the monkey bars. I volunteered to help serve hot lunches so I wore a hair net and put milk cartons on trays and then scraped uneaten food off dirty trays all during lunch hour - for the sole purpose of keeping me occupied and off the playground for the longest free-period of the school day. And I made the mistake of telling my teacher that I looked up a new word in the dictionary everyday. There after, the teacher would use me as a shining example of industrious dedication to educating myself and would ask me daily to share my new word. My recitation of 5-syllable words and their definitions were met with snickers and rolling eyeballs. I seemed helpless to do anything to change my situation.

Once, for a science project on insects, I had to catch a bug and watch it for a week. I caught a spider and put it in a shoe box with holes in the lid. I decorated my shoe box colorfully and labeled it with pride: "My Incest Box". Upon discovery, my parents (with stifled laughs) made me make a new box and correct the spelling. I kept asking them what the word I accidentally misspelled meant. They wouldn't tell me. So when I got to school, seeing an opportunity to strike up a conversation, I asked a bunch of 6th graders what it meant and they made fun of me all week. I finally looked it up - and was still unclear of the meaning (as I'm sure the 6th graders were too), but the realization of my dorkiness stung as if that spider had crawled out of my "incest box" and bitten me.

And then there is the self torture of constantly comparing yourself to the most poplar girl in the school. I remember her SOOOOOOO well. She was cool and she stood up for herself and all the boys were crazy for her and all the girls wanted to be her best friend. When she was out with her family, she always walked 10 yards ahead of them. When she went out for Halloween, she dressed like herself and said she was going as "a hippie". And she had boobs. And she kissed boys. Her name was Linda. And she was my sister.

(Are you weeping for me yet?)

In 6th grade, I ran against a new kid for class president and won. (They like me! They reallylike me!! - uh, not so fast.) My new position didn't help my status and I remained unpopular and nerdy until mid 8th grade year. The last straw came when I was invited to the beach for this girl's birthday. Her name was Paulette. Once we were there, she said: "I invited you because you're not very popular and I'm not very popular so I thought we could be friends". I resolved at that moment that I was not going to be a geek anymore. I knew I was unpopular but I was not going to listen to someone else - sitting at the bottom of the barrel as I was - tell me I was unpopular. Paulette had clearly resigned herself to it. Not I! I did not become friends with Paulette. I moved on.

I pecked my way out of my ugly duckling shell and eventually emerged a swan of sorts - because I was fortunate to find something I loved and was really good at. Theatre. And the theatre department is nothing more than a group of former (or still evolving) nerds and misfits. Paradise. I became popular within my circle and ultimately in broader circles until I guess I became free to become who I wanted to become. And so, many years of a wonderful and blessed life later - here I am.

My years as a nerd (age 10 through 13) clearly still reside within me though, and sometimes hold me back a bit. The experience of walking so long outside the circle can sneak in without warning and get in the way of moving forward or taking risks or putting myself out there to do what I need and want to do. I'm fairly adept at overcoming the self doubt at this point of my life although each time I face it, I have to start from scratch.

I will say that on the positive side of things, my years of exile to "outcast land" in school made me very sensitive to the underdog. I can spot the inner panic of social insecurity a mile away. And whenever I saw it in my girls it caused me pain nearly beyond my ability to endure it. My darling Christine dealt with it all through school and I prayed like crazy for her. But knowing that pain also gave me the ability to say the right thing to her from time to time and I remember one evening in my bedroom, sharing my memory box with her and taking her through my painful years. She opened up and told me she wanted a friend too. We prayed together that God would send Christine a good friend. We bonded that night. (And by the way, God came through for her!) And when I pick Grace up from school, if I see a child (sometimes even Grace) standing on the outside of a circle peering in, I make a point of finding things to praise about that child in the presence of the others: "Oh my goodness, you look so beautiful today. You know, you could be a model. Have you ever thought of that?" or something as simple as "Every time I see you something inside me has to smile!" I don't know if I'm actually doing any favors - I hope I'm not adding to the trouble. But I am compelled.

Oh man, I've gone on a long time about this. But for all the many who walked in my shoes once upon a time, you know the experience is rich in drama and comedy, right? We never completely lose the memory of the pain and so we periodically have to go back and try to embrace it. The stuff that books and plays are made of. We'll call it "The Nerd Within".

Oh, can the Pulitzer be far away?

A Matter of Relevancy

Okay. I really need to get a job. I mean Really. Need. A job.

I am going to be frank. It is blowing my mind that I don't have a job yet. A job that I want. That offers benefits not only for me but for my family as well. Not because I deserve to be working after relentlessly searching for a job, but because I have not been employed for monthsand that has never happened to me before.

So, in all this free time, what have I become? A superlative housekeeper? A gourmet cook? An avid reader of the New York Times best seller list? No, no, no. Have I become thin and fit? Hell no! I have enjoyed having a break and it has been nice to be busy doing nothing for a while but in the end, I do not know how to do unemployment and it is stressing me out.

As I fret over the length of my absence from the work force, I wonder why so much of our self-worth is wrapped up in our jobs. It is interesting that I continue to read advice to the unemployed and see that, in fact, the longer you go without work, the likelier it is that a prospective employer will think there is something wrong with you. Evidently, you have to get snapped up in a jiffy to retain any of your shiny value. Even in this economy. If you don't, you just look like some old rusty can on a shelf in the garage.

But yesterday, I met with a woman who is just getting started in my old career and I offered to help her "learn the business". She is getting no salary or benefits, only commission (a new and unholy phenomenon) and so I was happy to lend my expertise for free. Besides, how can you charge a consultation fee for something that takes all of 30 minutes to fully explain? A cup of coffee at Peet's seemed a more than adequate compensation and I was happy to have somewhere to go after dropping Grace at school.

It wound up being a very good experience for me because what I thought was something any monkey could do (print ad sales) isn't so easy to grasp after all. There is a learning curve and definite strategy involved. In the two hours we had together, I realized we'd only scratched the surface. I had taken my success and knowledge for granted. I had assumed luck was the driving force behind me. But in fact, my knowledge of the industry, and my years of experience in it, is of value. And while I have been told this for a long time, this was actually the first time I really believed it.

Not that it matters. The magazine industry is a dead man walking. There are virtually no jobs in it. Anyone still in print ad sales is holding on to their job for dear life while trying to get trained in some other, preferably "emerging", media. Gone are the days when you can switch from one magazine to the next. Even the head hunters who specialize in media sales have zero jobs for magazines. And if one does crop up, there are 100 qualified candidates of excellent repute with an advantage over me: A college degree (and that is a whole other topic to write about soon).

Still, it is encouraging to know that I didn't just float through a career.

So, as I write this, I am bringing myself back from the proverbial garage and into the house. I may be gathering rust but while I wait for opportunity to knock again, perhaps I can learn to cook after all. And the house could use some real cleaning. And we know about the thin and fit issue. The point is, I have been validated. If the professional industry at large cannot see that - you know what? - eff 'em. (Well not really, because you know, I would love for you to hire me and I would be a great and loyal employee, and I would...).

But really, I refuse to be irrelevant.

My Funeral

Grace is in a community theatre production of Cinderella and yesterday was a mandatory work day for all parents. Bob and I went to strike the set of the show that just closed and did as little as possible while still trying to look "involved". The truth is, we are too old for heavy lifting. I was never so grateful for acrylic nails as yesterday when they rendered me helpless for some of the icky work. Still, we came home sore.

However, we did have a very interesting lunch break. Bob and I drove to the Denny's around the corner for a quick "Grand Slam" breakfast/lunch and as we were eating what is certainly the stuff that heart attacks are made of (and perhaps because of it), Bob blurts out: "I know what I'm going to do for your funeral - I've got it all planned".

This statement completely caught me off guard. I thought he was joking and then I realized he was not. I wondered if he also had my murder all planned out.

I asked him WHY he had given any thought to it, let alone have the whole thing planned and he explained that when he and I recently sang at the funeral of a friend's mother, one that had some very lovely elements, he got to thinking what he would do for me. I thought it presumptuous that he would assume I was going before he was, but since I would certainly prefer it that way, I decided not to quibble about it. I asked him, what, then, is my service going to be like.

First of all, it is going to be held in a beautiful church with lots of stained glass - which he knows I love. Our church is a wonderful church but it is of the modern architecture variety and not only does it not have stained glass, it has no windows. So good - he's considered my feelings about the venue.

Next, he says that once everyone is seated, he will open with the theme to "On Golden Pond" which is one of my most favorite pieces of music in the entire world. I will often play that ten times in a row for the serene and happy place it takes me. I hadn't realized that Bob had paid attention.

He went on to describe that he would show a montage of video and photos from my life and break it into three parts, starting as me as a girl and moving through my life. For the section showing my youth, he will play the Beatles (yeah!!) song "In My Life", and select other music that I love to represent other times. There will be Broadway show tunes.

The pastor will speak, the family will speak, and then he says that he will tell everyone who wants to - in advance - that they can speak - but he must know in advance because he doesn't like that moment when the pastor says "if anyone would like to say a few words about (blank) they are welcome to come up now" and then no one comes.

He will end with a recording from one of the speeches I have given that is inspirational and then he will have hired a choir to come in and sing my absolute favorite hymn ever. It's called "Here I Am". And then he will open the doors and it will be over.

Can I tell you how unbelievably pissed I am that I will not be there?

The only down side was that I tried to listen to "On Golden Pond" in the car today. I'm afraid I couldn't. I couldn't hear it without crying for myself. (Such a pity!) He may have ruined it for me in this life.

So here's the thing. This conversation was very bizarre but it made me absolutely love that man all over again because he knows me. He knows me enough to know exactly what I would have wanted my funeral to be like. He loves me and he wants it to be nice. For me. And so now I guess I have to plan his. It will begin with Jimmy Durante singing "Make Someone Happy". I have to figure out the rest.

This is certainly the weirdest, darkest, morbid, bizarro, love letter exchange ever. And what can I say? We're the bizarro Smiths. I guess that explains it all.

And Don't We Love Kanye?

You know, I really do have to love him because there is nothing more fun than watching a celebrity who loves himself so much that it never occurs to him that he is nothing more than a complete ass. It has been done before. (Think Tom Cruise and his "Matt you're glib" comment to Matt Lauer - misusing the word and acting as if he was some sort of expert in the field of psychology by virture of being a follower of the ever creepy L. Ron Hubbard.) Yes, its been done before - but never so well.

My blackberry went wild with FB notifications - all about his obnoxious rant - I hadn't been watching so I had to google it. I have watched it at least 10 times since then, in utter amazement. I tried so hard to get into his head to try to imagine what level of "god" he must believe himself to be to just interrupt an acceptance speech with his "better idea" on national television? Can you spell N-E-E-D-S-I-M-M-E-D-I-A-T-E-I-N-T-E-R-V-E-N-T-I-O-N? It was like watching someone jump off a cliff, to prove he could fly with no idea he was just falling. And oh what a joy ride it was for the rest of us.

As for Ms. Swift - I feel bad for the public humiliation but this will probably do more for her career than the stupid award ever could. I mean - why are they even giving awards for music videos?

Anyway, I'll admit to shallow - but there is nothing more shallow than these endless award shows designed for nothing more than ratings boosts anyway. I had a really fun time watching those 3 minutes of it. And I LOVE that he was asked to leave. It just doesn't get any better than that.

I know. Shame on me.

This Guy I Was Watching

I've been taking Grace to rehearsals for a show she is in for several weeks now. Sometimes I get there early and I wait for her in the car under this big tree in the parking lot where I am largely obscured.

Recently, I sat there and watched a man, seemingly in his mid to late 30's. He had a scruffy beard and he wore baggy, knee length running shorts and a red T-shirt with some advertisement on it and leather sandals. He had a stomach that looked like he really enjoyed beer. He sat on a bench just outside the entrance to the theatre with a Samuel French script in his hands and he clearly thought he was alone. It became apparent that he was there to audition for something.

I gotta say, I wouldn't have ever pegged this guy to be a thespian. He looked like he worked on cars or something. I couldn't hear him but I could see his lips move as he read the words and often and abruptly he would jump up and start acting the piece. I guess it must have been Shakespeare or something because he would start to fence with an imaginary sword and I have to tell you - he was transformed. He moved like fencing was something that was second nature to him. He showed confidence as he gestured and and turned and confronted and yielded and I was absolutely mesmerized! He would stop for a moment and sit some more, reading, with lips moving and then abruptly jump up again and begin to act and honestly - this guy was good!

I wondered if he was as good as he was because he thought he was alone. I wondered if he had known that he was being watched if his performance would have suffered. And then I wondered how many times I am less because I am "being watched".

I think I need to work on being my "authentic self" more.

Oh lord - I sound like Oprah and I hate that!

That guy was really good. I hope he got the part.

Song for a Hero

A year ago today, my dear friend Pete Kish was killed in the most horrific train disaster in California history. He left work and boarded the Metrolink train for home and you'll undoubtedly recall that his train collided with another. Because he liked to ride in the first cabin, we hoped that this one time, he had sat somewhere else but the next morning his death was confirmed. Mercifully, Pete had been killed instantly.

Many tributes have been paid to Pete - deservedly so - he was a truly wonderful and remarkable person. A true family man who lived a life of integrity and kindness. He had overcome a difficult childhood and he and his wife, Janice, made a commitment to making the right choices, doing the right things, and creating a loving household. Grace and their daughter Lori were best friends since they were babies and Grace loved to be at the Kish house. She remarked on the peacefulness there. Unlike the crazy Smith house, no one yelled there. And of all my male friends, I would say that my feelings toward him were feelings one would have for a brother. We did not agree about everything but it was no matter. He was like family. He was a devout Christian and lived a life without hypocrisy. I still can "see" him walking through my front door or sitting in the living room, or in his home, sitting in his chair or cooking in the kitchen. I still "see" him throwing his head back in laughter, or staring off in the distance for a moment with raised eyebrows and pursed lips while he considered a remark or an observation made. But I know where he is now and I have made peace with it.

So one year later, as we prepare to attend a memorial service being held this afternoon, it is not so much Pete as Janice who is on my mind. Bob and I, along with our pastor, were with her when we got the news. She did not cry. Shaken to the very core, in that moment, you could actually feel her pulling every ounce of courage she had within her body and making the excruciating moment-by-moment decision to put one foot in front of the other. One of the first things she said was "I think we should pray". Her thoughts went immediately to her two children, Lori (10 at the time) and Alex, just to turn 18 in 2 weeks time. She willed herself, heroically, to do more than function. She willed herself to live.

Naturally, as the Kish's are dear friends, Bob and I, along with others stayed close. And her sister and brother-in-law were her rocks, but it was Janice who took over. She, by strength, determination and example, led her family through the dark.

Intuitively, she knew that her children (especially Lori) would fear losing her, so she set about - immediately - to get herself in the best health possible. She changed her diet, started serious exercise and took extensive medical tests to assure her children that she was was healthy and would not be leaving them. (She looks terrific now, by the way.)

Unfathomably, two weeks before Christmas, their house caught fire due to a contractor leaving oil soaked cloths in a corner of their closed garage. They were all taken to hospital for smoke inhalation and then moved into a hotel until they could find a house to live in for the next 9 months. (They finally moved back into their home this week.) But Janice was a rock. And while I imagine she had many tearful nights behind her closed bedroom door, she never faltered in public - with her friends or with her children. She led them through this terrible year of "firsts" with strength, courage and even humor. I watched with admiration as she left her role of dutiful wife and mother, reliant on Pete, behind - and stepped into a role that can only be described as the Captain of a ship in serious distress, determined to keep it not only floating, but moving

forward. She did not turn over any responsibilities; she learned everything - all the things that had been taken care of for her. She conquered the computer (although, and I laugh, she still can't manage the remote to the TV), paying the bills, the complete financials of her household and all the mountains of unreadable legal paperwork involved with Pete's death and transfer of benefits, trusts, etc. She has become a force for insurance agents and lawyers to recon with. She is not anyone you mess with. And I am nothing short of amazed by her.

When Pete was with us, I spent most of my conversations with him. Since the accident, I have spent a great deal of time talking and listening to Janice. She has extraordinary wisdom. She has extraordinary love. She has an extraordinary story. She has emerged from this terrible year victorious. And I don't think I would have.

The greatest tribute that I can give Janice though, and the only one that will be truly meaningful to her, is to say that there is no doubt that as Pete watches over them, he is full of pride for her. And at the core, I know that her monumental effort and struggle to rise above the unthinkable tragedy of his death, devastation to her home, and the unbelievable difficulties they have faced these past 12 months, to not crumble or retreat, to not just hold her family together but to see them through, were motivated by her strong desire to honor him. They were that kind of couple. And she is that kind of person.

Janice Kish is a hero.

A Night at the Theatre

Bob and I went to the Ahmanson last night.

Unemployment has given me a new pastime. People watching. And those who attend the theatre are very interesting. Taking the escalator up from the parking lot, we were in the midst of a large group of aging artistes. They are the ones in their 50's and 60's who still look pretty good and pretty hip and have the appearance of being politically liberal and intellectual. The women all have either very, very short gray hair or long thick salt and pepper hair pulled pack into loose buns or ponytails. They all wear mid-length skirts with flat shoes and scarves or pashimas in vivid earth tones with gold thread woven through them. Their jewelry is hand crafted - metals and beads - no diamonds or gems. You easily imagine them living in clean but cluttered town homes - old buildings - near, or in, Beverly Hills - south of Wilshire. Books everywhere and large abstract oil paintings sitting on old wood floors and resting against the wall. And cats. At least two of them. The men in this group had balding heads and what hair was left was on the long side. And they bare the mark of bohemian authenticity: cat hair on their sweaters. These people were the real deal. I was not feeling well last night so I threw together something comfortable and wore no makeup; Bob is balding and in need of a haircut. Despite no cats and an authentic suburban, minivan lifestyle, by appearance, we fit right in.

Well, we were all in for a treat (or not) as we sat for 3 1/2 hours to watch what is no doubt the granddaddy of all people watching plays: August Osage County. This play won many Tony's in 2008 and the Pulitzer. As we filed into the Mezzanine, I was struck by the fact that there appeared to be a very large contingency of high school students among us as well. None of us could know what we were in for.

You can google it to get the story but the bottom line is that this play re-defines the dysfunctional family. There are some really big laughs. I had mixed feelings about the acting - much of it I felt was "stagy". But enough of my "review". After a very long and difficult Act I, we retreated to the lobby for air and I saw immediately that the high school students were completely unaffected. Can they relate to this play at all? Nope. They may have had the thrill of seeing a Pulitzer winning play but it was clear that the real thrill for them was the opportunity to "try-on" flirting with each other somewhere unfamiliar, outside of school. They are very adorable.

Back for more abuse in Act II - again a lot of laughs but the matriarch of this family is so mean, so vicious, so angry that when I found myself feeling sympathy for her I knew at once this is something you probably wouldn't want to admit to. (So here I am telling everyone.) The problem with plays like this is that there is something familiar about each of the characters - you recognize in some sense the people and the drama - which, I suppose, is what makes it so compelling. I imagine there is a sharp increase in appointments made with therapists in the area during the run of such a play. Had I had one, I would have logged a call by the second intermission...

We stayed seated for the second break and tried to decide if we liked this play or not. Act III unveiled all the horrible secrets - so many that it defied believability - and it had what Bob and I agreed were three false endings, meaning we thought the play was over and it wasn't.

At last, at 11:00, a standing ovation (Bob and I remained seated - who would know?) and off we went, with the high school students (giggling and looking absolutely no worse for the wear) and the aging artistes back to the parking lot. I tried to imagine how this group felt about this play. Would they be talking about it over toast and coffee in the morning? Had it been an "important" experience for them? Would their "Playbill" be left on the coffee table to encourage philosophical conversation with visiting friends?

We got into a conversation with one of the couples on the way to the car. Everyone in the play was either severely damaged, or a loser, or just plain vile (save two characters) and we made comparisons to Ibsen or Eugene O'Neill or even David Mamet. We had just seen the most celebrated play of the 2008 theatre season; a deep look into the just how horrible it can all be. We tried, briefly, to draw some conclusions and finally, Bob said: "Well it leaves you with a lot to think about". To my surprise, the ageing artiste woman replied : "Yeah, like, 'what's the point?'". Thank you!! I looked at her and knew immediately that she had made a happy home for her family. They drove off, I could complete their "story" - imagining them back in their cluttered town home - with their books and paintings and cats. And there, they treated each other well. A better play.

In the end, what it a good play? Everyone important seems to think so. Ten years ago I certainly would have thought so. It was well crafted. Was in interesting? Well, yes. Did I laugh? Absolutely. But was it really worth 3 1/2 hours of my time to watch a catastrophically wounded family play for a while in their individual and collective agony with not a glimmer of hope for a single one of them in the end? Uh, no. Yes, it was thought provoking, but I don't want to think about it. I'd much rather think of the stories behind all the people who came to the show. They all end well, though no one gets a Pulitzer.

Think about that.

Week Four - Two Weeks Later

Well, in the end, it didn't go so hot - this vegetarian diet thing. First of all, I am not one. And that, apparently, is a problem. I mean, even though it was a 4 week experiment, knowing that it is coming to an end and counting first days and then minutes before I could have a steak is defeating the purpose a bit.

So I have to try something new. I had this great idea once. I thought I would write a book - journaling my own weight loss through the "eat less, move more" method. The catch was that I would take a photo of myself every day, in the same spot, in the same clothes and then I would print the photo at the top of each page and it would become a little flip book so readers could see - in fast motion what you could accomplish only in slow motion in real life. But I thought it could be encouraging. I mean, if it was me reading this book and if I turned the pages one at a time and saw no change and then flipped through them fast and could go, "ah ha", then maybe it could be motivating. But I am tinkering with the idea again. Of course no one is buying books these days.

A less good idea was to publish a book of my own recipes - the idea being that I am such a bad cook that you won't eat at all. But that idea came from a dream I had and those ideas usually disappear 30 seconds after you wake up for a good reason.

Another good incentive is to constantly look at photos of me thin. Of course that could

encourage spontaneous episodes of weeping and visits to "the black hole" as well, as I have no program that will take 30 years off. I can't even do it with a flip book. But for the hell of it, here is me, 30 years ago (actually 33), and thin.

I hate that girl.

On the Beatles

I am watching "Help" with my daughter right now. It is a ridiculous movie. But I don't care because I am in love.

I am quite serious about that. I am in love with the Beatles. Each one of them. My heart skips a beat at their charm. I pine for them. I long for them. Of course, the Beatles, individually and collectively are much more than just musicians and rock stars. They are an entire part of my young life - so much so that I cannot extricate them from who I remember myself to be during a 3 to 4 year period of my young life in the 60's. They are the most significant memory of my first and second grade year. Their music - their early music - became part of the fabric of my being.

My very first memory of them was when I was 6 years old, seeing them get off a plane somewhere in America and it being covered by the news. My grandpa was visiting at the time. He was an amateur opera singer. He looked at them with disgust and said: "Oh for God's sake, they look like a bunch of girls". Eager to please my grandpa, I pledged my disinterest in them and said "I could never like them". But I lied because I watched the Ed Sullivan show later that week and forever more, I was in over my head.

A crush? Oh man, no! It went way beyond a crush! They were an obsession. I had a whole fantasy life built around the Fab Four. They were adorable. Just this side of "bad", they were still safe - not like the Rolling Stones - who scared me. The Beatles matched. They, in their grey suits and ties with high collared shirts and matching hair. They with their Liverpool accents and winking and "knowing" smiles. They made you feel like they really would like you if they met you. At 6, I believed that they were kind and good and they would take care of me if they knew me. Like I would be the most important thing in the world to them - if they only knew who I was.

It was Paul that I was over the moon over. I was jealous of Jane Asher for being his girlfriend and even though I was only 6, I would pretend I was her and at night I would close my eyes and imagine I was on a date with Paul. My hand was his lips and we would kiss. And that was the full extent of my mad and passionate affair with Paul McCartney. Well that and kissing his picture. I know, I was young - but think Snow White and Prince Charming - the Disney version...

As the Beatles evolved over the years, and I grew older - I still loved them - but not like when I was 6. Their music was certainly much better in their later years but I would choose to listen to the early Beatles over Sargent Pepper or the White Album any day. Not because I don't love Sargent Pepper or the White Album - I most certainly do. But they do not evoke the heart fluttering, emotional response from me that the early albums do.

As an adult, I have naturally followed their lives and careers and have tremendous appreciation for their contribution to music and our culture in general. I remember where I was when John Lennon was killed and I cried when George Harrison died. I stifled a squeal when I saw Ringo once in Santa Monica. I was thrilled to see Paul on Letterman recently and when my girls saw him in concert this summer, Jennifer called me from her cell phone so I could listen to him live. Loved that.

And as I sit here watching "Help" with my daughter I am trying so hard not to choke because I cannot hear those songs - any of them - without being moved, nearly to tears. I don't want her to see me welling up and have her ask me why I am crying. Because I can't explain it. It is a feeling that is very full because a part of me lives in this dumb movie we are watching. It is crazy but I'm telling you, it runs deep. And I realize I long for the innocence of the time, for four charming young boys who belong to that time, and their music so magical that I can still feel the flutter of the heart of a little girl, 6 years old at the time. They still show up periodically in my dreams. Honest to God, they do. I still love them in my dreams. But in my dreams, they love me back - like we were very old and dear, dear friends.

For those of you who may have decided - after reading this entry - that I am completely unhinged, what can I say? I will love them till the day I die. And honest to God, I am watching them sing "Ticket to Ride" and I have tears in my eyes. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

God Shows Up. Again.

God really exists. This is a statement of fact and I have so many, many stories that prove it and perhaps I will blog about all of them eventually. But yesterday we got further evidence.

Christine had a big car accident. She was looking at another accident on the side of the road and slammed into a car that had come to a quick stop in front of her. The collision forced the car in front of her to hit the car in front of it.

Christine just bought her first car in June with her own money. She no longer has a car. She was badly bruised and was taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital because the shock of it caused her blood pressure to drop and she fainted. But she is absolutely fine. No broken bones, no lacerations. Just lots of ugly bruising. Mostly from the seat belts. The car is totaled. As well as the car ahead of her - but no apparent injuries to the driver. And I don't know what is going on with the car ahead of that one, but Christine was the only one who went to the hospital and we are, naturally, grateful that she and everyone else are okay.

When I got the call I was sitting and enjoying the newly air-conditioned house of my friend Janice. She is just moving back into her house after it had been basically rebuilt after a fire back in December. My cell rings and I see I have voice mail messages waiting as well. Bob had been trying to reach me. He did not sound good. He said: "Christine's been in an accident". I stopped breathing for a minute. My mind automatically goes to her lifeless body on the side of the freeway with a sheet over it. I gasped that gasp you gasp when you hear something un-hearable. I go blind and deaf for a second. I can't read his tone. The tone in his voice could have been anything from "Boy, we really didn't need this" to "she didn't make it". He quickly told me she was okay but had gone to the hospital and we needed to get there. All those emotions and thoughts in a 5 second span. Headache on its way.

Once I knew she was okay, really okay, I switched into practical mode and started firing off a ton of questions: "Was it her fault?" Yes. "Is her car totaled"? Don't know. "Was anybody else hurt?". Don't know. "Was there extensive damage to the other car?" Don't know.

Okay. Now what? Oh sh-t!!!

I got in the car and drove to the hospital and felt my shoulders rising to ear level and I could not get them back into place - even when I tried. The sky was still filled with smoke and the sun had started its daily descent and so everything was a dirty orange and I started to feel that big black hole gaining ground on me to try to suck me into it. Grace was in the car too - being particularly chatty I might add - about nonsensical things and it was all I could do to mindlessly "uh-huh" her and not scream. I put on my special CD of all my favorite music and played the theme from "On Golden Pond" over and over again because it is beautiful and serene and I thought it would help but it didn't. Grace protested. Couldn't she move it to track 15? "Jump" by Van Halen? No, no. The suggestion of jumping was far too powerful at that moment. By the time I got there I was getting what my grandmother used to call "the vapors" - whatever that is - except I know that it involves feeling like you're going to faint.

My brain couldn't wrap around the fact that my daughter had been in an accident; had caused it. Jenny was there waiting for me. Bob was on his way. We went back into the little area where they had her on an IV and a monitor and her face had black all over it - what I later realized was the gun powder from the air bag. But I knew she was fine. I knew this because she was on her cell phone. So I just started seeing dollar signs. Emergency room: Ka-chink. X-rays: Ka-chink. Ambulance: Ka-chink, Ka-chink, Ka-chink. Deductibles, raised insurance premiums, potential lawsuits? So I was relieved to hear the doctor had written her a prescription for Vicodin because I was going to need it.

And all through this I am aware that for some reason, God had protected her. She was okay and it didn't have to end that way. But here is where I really started to feel God:

1) I heard her telling her friend on the phone, "I don't know how I am going to pay for this". I didn't expect that. I had expected that she would tell us she was sorry and then wait for us to take care if it. And of course we will do everything we can to help. But she was taking full responsibility on her own and that, without sarcasm, was a miracle - a great moment I will never forget. There, in the midst of an awful experience, I was proud of her.

2) The previous day, we suddenly realized that our auto insurance was about to expire at midnight. I went to pay it online but saw that the money wouldn't transfer for 4 days. Normally (and I know this is really bad), I would think to myself, "Oh whatever! So what if its a little late? They'll have the money before they even notice its late". But for some reason, I looked up their address and drove down to their office and wrote them a check right there. Had I not done that, Christine would have had this accident as an uninsured motorist. And that would have buried us.

3) Once we all got home, after we had something to eat and watched TV and started to think about sleep, Jenny went into her room and found something strange sitting on top of her bed. She had never seen it before. Neither had anyone else in our house - but there is was, sitting - strangely - in the middle of her bed - from completely out of nowhere. It was this weird, oversized charm. It was kind of cheesy looking. It was about one and a half inch square and it had an angel on it and it read: "Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly".

And on my life, I am totally NOT making that up.

Lunch with my Homegirls

Yesterday I had lunch with Meg and Jackie. I hadn't seen Meg since my 50th birthday party. I saw Jackie at her daughter's Bat Mitzvah a few weeks ago, but prior to that, it had been years. The photo here is from the early 90's, when our friendship was already over 10 years old. The photo was taken at Peg's house - but Peg moved to Ohio and I see her even less frequently.

Once again, it was a sweetly strange experience for me because seeing these two wonderful friends had me reliving a fat Rolodex full of memories. I began my adult life with these women and it is truly moving to see them again. Of course, menopause only heightens the sentimentality of it all and I actually got very teary at the table but there isn't anything I can do about hormones gone wild.

We did a lot of catching up - mostly on our kids - nearly all of them are now in college. We were there for each other's bridal showers, weddings, baby showers, birthdays, anniversaries. And now, there is something so wonderful about looking into the faces of old friends, ones that have aged (well I might add) and still see the girl. It is a lovely phenomenon, one of the good things about growing older. I have said it before. We will always be young with old friends.

Meg initiated this lunch. Meg grew up in Los Angeles, one of eight children in an Irish-Catholic family. Her mother went to Mass every day. Her license plate read 10HLMRYS or something like that. Translated, it said: "10 Hail Mary's" because Meg's mom always said the Rosary prayers before a family trip in the car. Her dad owned a dairy business and together her parents had a wonderful love affair. Her dad asked for her mother's pillow when he was hospitalized shortly before his death. I thought that was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

They lived in such a lovely, warm home with a big rounded porch in the front yard and a beautiful back yard; Meg and Pat held their wedding reception there. I remember that whenever I was there, I would wonder what it must have been like to grow up in that house. I think it must have been crowded but loving with an emphasis on compassion and understanding. Meg told me that her mother had a rule: if a boy asked Meg or her sisters out, they had to agree to a date at least once. Her reasoning was that if the boy had mustered up enough courage to ask for a date, he deserved to be said yes to at least one time. The girls didn't have to agree to a second date if they didn't want to, but I remember even in my early twenties being moved by the incredible kindness of that rule and I am sure there are many boys who remember a pleasant date with one of the Boyle girls. They were raised well - everyone of the brothers and sisters are grand people. In fact, one of them grew up to be Father Greg Boyle.

If you have not heard of Father Greg, please google him. He is one of those people who prove that one person can make a huge difference in the world. He has devoted his life to working with and ministering to the gangs of East Los Angeles. He has saved and built lives. His vision produced "Homeboy Industries". Part of the complex houses a restaurant called Homegirl Cafe - and this is where Meg asked us to meet her for lunch.

I'll be the first to tell you that I had never been to this part of downtown Los Angeles before and I was a little intimated - lots of tattoos and piercings; physical markings we have come to, frankly, fear, as gang identification. But you quickly forget that. Our waitress was charming (in spite of what looked like a painful lip piercing) and the food was out of this world (especially the mango salsa). Their "uniforms" are t-shirts that say: "Homeboy Industries - Jobs Not Jail".

After lunch we were treated to a tour of the impressive facility. There is a bakery where former gang members work and make breads and pastries and are growing their contracted business. Upstairs there is drug counseling, personal and spiritual counseling, two medical rooms where local doctors donate their time to remove gang tattoos (using state of the art medical technology that has been donated). It is a gruesome process so those who endure it are dedicated to changing their lives. All this is free. They also house a charter school where those who work there can continue their education and get their diploma. They are held accountable. If the don't do their school work, they don't get clocked in. They offer "Daddy and Me" classes for single fathers. They offer job training and computer training and they run and staff a bakery, a restaurant and a gift shop.

Our tour guide was a soft spoken and respectful former gang member who told us of a life I could not fathom. His arms and neck were covered in tattoos - and while he had had some removed from his face, they were still distracting. He was a drug dealer at 14 and soon became his own "best customer". He robbed people for his addictions and went to prison where he was traumatized. After getting out, he tried to go straight but relapsed. He accepted that he was a drug addict and resigned himself to a life of misery. But his "brothers" from Homeboy Industries found him, picked him up and refused to give up on him. He is now clean for over a year. We have often heard the phrase : "What would Jesus do?" Let me tell you. He would do this.

So of course the economy has not been kind to them and they are in need of money. And unemployment to these people is not at all the same as unemployment for me. They need help. If you want to be a blessing to someone, please go to http://www.homeboy-industries.org/ and participate in their effort to raise money to keep operating by contributing to their "virtual car wash". This is important work. And if you get a chance, go down and visit. Have the whitefish tacos - they're delicious!!

Meg, Jackie, and I walked back to the parking lot and promised to get together more frequently, something we promise to do every time we see each other - about once every 5 years or so. I sincerely hope that we do this time. But if we don't, I will wait patiently until I am 57, and be so glad to see these women who will always be my friends. And I have no doubt that I will look in their faces and see girls again.

Too Hot

I had a terrific lunch with friends today, with a good story behind it, but it will wait for tomorrow because today is the hottest, most humid day on earth and the sky is filled with smoke because Los Angeles is on fire and we are (apparently) the only people I can think of in the entire universe who had the opportunity to get central air conditioning in previous years (when I was employed) - and PASSED. Now that I am not employed, this day is a horrid reminder that now I cannot spend the $12,000 to get something that I firmly believe is the only thing coming between all of us living to see another day and spontaneous combustion. Africa was cooler than this.

It is also because of this heat that I cannot report my final weight after one month of vegetarian (well almost) eating. You see, the heat has me retaining water as if I were 71 months pregnant. I had to soak my hand in ice to get my wedding ring off because it was cutting off my circulation and the only "shoes" I can fit my feet into are flip flops - so - if I do get a job interview I will be taking "business casual" to a whole new level. When the temperatures return to normal, I expect that I will shed about 14 pounds of water and have a happy report for you.

Until then, I shall crack and egg on my hand and watch it cook while the earth continues to hurl itself toward the sun.