Insert Sadface

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Yesterday a woman at the park suggested that SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) just *might* be real. In that instant I had a vision of body slamming her to the ground and screaming, "No shit? YA THINK?". It was sunny outside right then. So bright was the sun that I was starting to sweat and was squinting to watch Asher play with his friends. Instead of getting myself arrested, I closed my eyes and pretended I was on the beach. Within the half hour, the sun slipped away again. It was a tease. A filthy tease.

My sister suffers from S.A.D. and years ago when she told me this I tossed it around in my head, realizing that it made a lot sense. I mean, who the hell can live without sunshine? Fictional characters, that's  who. And yet, I'm sure there are people out there who are so busy that they hardly notice the correlation between the local 75 days of rain and the 50 divorces filed at the county courthouse. I am guessing those might be the same people who don't spend a lot of time outside even when it is sunny or perhaps those people are not responsible for any children under the age of 20. Numbers, numbers, psychology stuff.... We good? OK.

Around here, the rainy season is something that is prayed for by Catholics, Latter Day Saints and all eight Jewish families. In fact, because California supplies a quarter of the nations food and nearly 50% of YOUR produce, you better drop to your knees too, because if we don't get the rain, you're going to pay out the nose big time to put dinner on the table. Knowing this, it's hard to begrudge the clouds, and yet.... yet...

I wake up to fog. Fog drifting below the hills, clinging to the trees. I look out the bedroom window and half expect to see William Wallace wave to me just beyond the fence. I WISH to see William Wallace, actually, so I can have something to think about besides the annoying Spare The Air alert that prevents me from lighting a cozy fire and cheering the place up a bit. I drink a large cup of coffee and dress in the recommended layers of sensible boots, warm socks and three shirts that I can peel off as the day goes on and pile back on just after I pick the kids up from school. I play music, loudly, without caring who hears. I turn on every light in the house. I light candles. But it's no use. I am pale. The rain is dripping down the side of the house where the gutters are clogged. The dog is depressed. Insert sad face.

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Diary excerpt. New Jersey, my living room, my head, 2011:

 Oh my god, I am so bored. My brain is useless.

“Vroom! Vroom! Crash!”

“Oh, my gosh! we’re sisters!”

I loathe you, Barbie. Bad parenting, right here.

Wow, she’s beautiful. My daughter is so beautiful. How did that happen? So innocent, it’s breaking my heart. Someone will break her heart one day. Parenting the the worst. Job. Ever. Helpless.

“Guys! No Fighting!”

“I”m listening.”


They have no clue how much I love them. By the time they figure it out, I’ll be old. Really old.

I hate it here. I hate it here. I HATE it here. But the schools are great. The kids seem happy. Wouldn’t they be happier if I was happy?

Which example do I set? The one of selflessness or the one about being responsible for my own life, building my own happiness?

Moving is such a gamble. I hate gambling. Hate.

Did he just dance?

“Are you dancing? Awesome!”

He danced. He’s a goofy, talented, sweet genius, that boy! He’s so tender. so loving. I cannot believe how much I love him.

Poor guy is tired. Why doesn’t he sleep more? I’m a shitty parent. He needs more sleep.

My kids are s well behaved. I’m doing something right, but what? Everyone says I’m doing a good job. Which part am I good at? Not the yelling. I yell. Probably screwing them up.

I wish I had a maid/cook/nanny. Never mind. No nanny. I hate leaving them with someone else. I wish there were three of me. Then I’d get stuff done.



“It’s okay. You’re fine. Shhhhh....”

I’m so very lucky. I know that. Too lucky. I have so much to loose. It scares the shit out of me. 

I need to live forever. I should call my mom. I miss my sister/brother/parents. 

I wasn’t there enough for my nieces/nephews. I had no idea how hard it is to be a parent. I was so stupid.


“Rod Torque Redline is fine. No, he’s ok.”

“Can our Barbies do something besides go to a dance or move to NYC?”

“Yes, you have school tomorrow.”

“Don’t cry. There’s no reason to cry.”

“You MADE this?”

She loves art! Yay!

“You made this? I love it!”

I have to teach him how to hold a crayon. I think he should know how to do that by now. He can tell jokes and remember everything I say but he can’t hold a crayon? WTF?

He’s only 3. He’s only 3.

If we go somewhere else, I’d have to homeschool. Homeschool is best anyway. But it would kill me. They’d hate me. I’m not equipped. I’d fail. Shit. Calculation and tough skin work in a corporate career, but not at home. I’d be militant. I’d be the worst of my parents.

“Because TV is bad for your brain.”

“Because candy isn’t good for your body.”

“Because it’s not nice.”

It would be nice to go out alone for dinner. 

Somewhere else. Far. Maybe southern France.

Maybe we should move there. Why not?

Huh. I’ve lost/gained weight.  Weird.

Look how tall my kids are. Growing up so fast. To fast. STOP GROWING up! Don’t grow away!

They’re amazing. My kids are amazing. I can’t believe how kind they are.

This is so beautiful, it hurts.

When a soldier has a moral disagreement with what his government wants him to do, so he doesn't do it, he is a "traitor".
When a corporation has a disagreement with what the government wants them to do, so they don't do it, they are called "brave".
Lives were at stake in both scenarios, we're told.

Explain that one to me.

The Traitor

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There's an argument, an opinion, that a soldier who gets disillusioned with his duties while at war and walks away from his post  to get drunk one night and is captured by terrorists deserves to be abandoned. A soldier whose mental health might have been compromised doesn't deserve the chance to be made well. There are those who believe that a fellow soldier is guilty until proven innocent. 

It must be devastating to discover that not all soldiers agree with their orders. Even more so, it must be a shock that soldiers, every day, are called upon to abandon their moral, human values, in favor of orders from higher ranks. Not all soldiers are proud. Not all soldiers believe in the System.
I get it it.
Just like it's a horrible pill for me to swallow that there is so little human compassion, right here at home, where there is no blood on the streets, no sound of gunfire to wake me at night. Here, it is a good place to sit snug in our homes and judge the actions of others whose every cell is forever changed, forever tried by what they have seen, heard, smelled and felt.

We are not all the same.  Thank all the gods, we are not the same.


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"For what is joy, if it is un-recorded and what is love, if not shared?"

A quote from season 3 finale of Call The Midwife. In agreement with that, I find myself having a lot of regret about not recoding more of my thoughts while raising my kids. Time is flying by. Fast.

Yesterday I told Mike that I now realize that raising my children is the best thing I have ever done. Of course, that is a common thought. But I mean that, in comparison to my career or my travels or any good thing I have ever done, I now realize that this is the most valuable thing I have ever done for the world, in general and it is the thing I have been most good at, simply because it is a job I have held longer than any other. Ironic, after all I have thought previously.

Being a mom is not what I thought. It's more intense. The hours are longer. The reward is invisible to everyone except the person doing it. There's no glory. And people who don't do it full time really don't know what it's like any more than I know what it's like to be a working mom or a single guy at 40 years old. Doing it while divorced is not the same either. I'm not saying it's harder, just that it is not the same. There is a monotony that is fought against, a consistency that is longed for and a loneliness that occurs without warning in stark contrast to the fact that you are never, ever, alone or without tasks to do.  I love my job. But it IS a job. The lack of respect for the intelligence it takes to be a good stay at home parent is astounding.

So I record it today. 
Best job I ever had. It defies logic. It humbles me. It makes me feel more in place than I have ever felt before. I got this right.

Possible Return

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Screen Shot 2014-05-17 at 8.30.04 PM.pngI might be getting back to writing. Might. BIG MIGHT. I hate promising and not delivering. But the last year I have written hardly anything. I guess I finally reached a point in my life when I couldn't share. 

I've been reading my old stuff. Reminiscing. Once in a while I read something and I am shocked. I find a gem under some unfamiliar title and I think "I wrote that?" 

Writing. Therapy. Same thing. I guess I haven't wanted to go to therapy for a while. Anyway, if you are out there reading, Hello from the edge.

Here's some insight I wrote back in December 2002.
"My theory is that writers write because they have no where else to go with the thoughts and feelings inside them. We spend all day being whatever kind of person we deemed will get us by without being locked up. And then we come to the keyboard or the journal, the pen and we dissolve into the blank space, filling it with truths; what really happened, what we really saw."

Bittersweet Snow

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Some people think life is supposed to be more happy times than boring times; more delight than sorrow. As if there is a scale at the end of the road and if you don't end up with more amazing stories of laughter and fame and money that you somehow botched the whole thing up, did it wrong. But I know that's a lie. Life, by definition, just IS.

It's the people who are keeping score who are getting it wrong.

The Hard Part

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9599351405_c35076ed71_z.jpgI dropped my kids off today at their new school here in northern California and they were both crying. I drove to the grocery store, feeling like utter shit, and cried in the Whole Foods parking lot. Not because I am a bad parent. I know I'm not really. But because this part of relocating is hard and there is no way around the hard part.

California is great. The weather, the food, the parks, the beach, our house. It's all awesome and we know it. We have all, at different times, remarked on the relief, the pleasant changes that have taken place in our lives in the 4 weeks that we have been here. But newness that brings such excitement also brings a lot of tension and stress. 

See, if you've never been the new kid, you don't know what it's like and you don't know how to be compassionate to newbies. You have to be taught that. You have to be taught to reach out on a daily basis. That's not something other parents don't think about so much when they send their well adjusted kids to school who already have BFF's or already have a spot on the soccer team. It's not something they think about when they are standing around with other new parents waiting to pick up their kids after school either. 

I'm very shy. I always have been. But I learned to fake it long ago when I was the new kid at school. I counted it up; I was the new kid six times in my years of going to public school. SIX. That's not counting college or PI school. The anxiety of standing around by yourself while other kids talk to each other and play is excruciating. No amount of reassurance from mom or dad makes that better. The only thing that can fix it is a friend. If I had to choose today between a few million dollars and a reliable friend for each of my two kids, I'd choose the friends without hesitation.

This might explain why I can't stop thinking about my oldest friend, Stephanie, lately. We hardly talk anymore except on FB, but today, more than ever, I am so thankful for the day she told our 5th grade teacher, Mr. Pierce, that I could sit beside her in class. I am also equally thankful for every day after that she sat with me, waited for me at recess and played with me outside of school. All this time in our 33 years of friendship she has joked that I was the brave one. But I've known that I owed her big time for taking me in, for "friending" me in the truest sense of the word. A true friend really does make all the difference.

So, while moving to a great place like Marin County is absolutely wonderful, there are still really hard parts about doing it. There are very scary days, in the beginning, when we feel terribly alone hoping to meet someone who will stand beside us. Someone to have lunch with, someone who knows our name, someone who makes us feel brave.

As I said, unless you are the new kid, you may not know how important this is. Until now. But what new kids need most if for you to take the lead long enough so we can get the hang of things. Until we are no longer the new kid.

530398_4942941448361_565626313_n.jpg1) My husband's holiday party wasn't nearly the unbearable public rant of My-hatred-toward-employers-who-rob-employees-of-joy that I thought it might be. Probably because there was an open bar and I was not the one drinking heavily. That's the trick, you see. I suspect Abigail, who arranged the party, told the restaurant, "Do NOT let one glass remain empty. There better be an Office Hangover tomorrow." Because those servers were on that shit, sneaking up with a tray full of alcohol while people were in full swing of a good story, passing out cocktails like they were band flyers.

2) Also there was unlimited guacamole. UNLIMITED. The caviar of southern California, baby. I am very sorry all of you weren't there with me.

3) Nearly everyone complimented me on my kids. I knew it was wise to give birth to those buggers. Best social crutch ever.

4) A few people, namely Jonathan and Basak, loaded me up with sweet somethings about my writing. Even though I write so little. Even though Jonathan hates Facebook, he claims he is my top internet stalker. The drinks were not getting to me, but my head grew three sizes when he got specific about brilliant things I have said on the Internets.

5) I did not (purposely) insult anyone.

6) We saw Lucy Liu on our way to the car lot. She did not seem to recognize me, though. (:  We also saw vintage refrigerators. I took a photo of the latter.

7) It was probably hard for Mike to navigate the drive home because, as I said, my head was so full of self righteousness and a determination to write for the Huffington Post that it must have been difficult for him to see out the window. But we made it.

8) When we got home, I checked out my lottery scratch-off's that were the evening's party favors. I won $1. Thankfully, I was too tired to be angry about this.

Norman Miller

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An incredibly wonderful person whom I once had the honor of working with died this week. From cancer. I learned about it through online social networking. I had to re-read the post over again. I checked Twitter. It didn't seem possible. Norman Miller? Proper Management? Well, he seemed immune to... anything that could take a man down.

"He carried a silver briefcase."

It's the first detail that comes to my mind when I remember Norman Miller and 1996. And though it probably pales in comparison to the myriad of other things he did, for me, it sort of is a symbol for who he was then and what I learned from him. 

I showed up at Caffe Milano in February of that year looking for a job as a server. I was newly divorced, newly relocated to Nashville and quite desperate to survive in the music industry. Word of mouth led me to the downtown venue, not yet open, construction in full swing. The original founder/creator of Caffe Milano, Pino Squillace, along with Restaurant Manager, Lori Bowman, hired me as an Assistant Restaurant Manager, a title unearned, that boggles my mind today. I worked with Lori for only a short time before being moved to the position of Assistant to the Board of Governors. Norman was a chief investor along with other Nashville notables in the music industry. 

I spent most my days with Steve Lorenz, Secretary to the Board of Governors. That is to say that I spent most of my time worrying if anyone was ever going to make money, how much money our investors could stand to lose, wether or not paycheck money was in the proper accounts and how long we could all keep working our unbelievable hours. No one from those early days of Caffe Milano had it easy.

To make matters more uncomfortable, the club shared offices with Proper Management, Norman's company. I knew nothing of the magnitude of influence and respect that Norman had within the Christian music scene, but over the course of my time there, it became apparent to me that I was well out of my league. On that same thread, Norman had no desire to run a restaurant/music venue. Protecting his interests, as well as his artists, he simply wanted the problems fixed, the customers and staff happy. But there he was, at our staff meetings, pen in hand, perfectly dressed, slacks just pressed, not a hair out of place, an edge in his voice as he tried to move us to the point of our stories, to the beginning of any solution. 

Back then, Norman had a glass desk. His office was always pristine. When he packed his briefcase up for the day to go home to his wife and son, he left the area magazine perfect. If Norman was coming down for lunch in the restaurant, we scrambled. At staff meetings we listened to his blatantly honest reviews with all the fear of todays reality TV show contestants. He did not mince words. He did not get personal. He delivered the news calmly, in his slight British accent, with a leaders presence I have yet seen duplicated. 

For the most part, Norman and his team did their thing while those involved in Caffe Milano hobbled on. But sometimes our worlds mixed and the stark contrast of our successes were laid out for us to see. One such incident that I cannot forget was an afternoon when James Hodgin and I went into the VIP room that overlooked the club to discuss the nights schedule. Norman had used the room before us and someone had left a Kinko copied booklet on the coffee table. On the cover was the name Avalon. James and I knew this was a new singing group that Proper Management was in the process of getting off the ground. Inside was a 5-10 year plan for the group. Basic details, right up to when they were projected to go Gold, go Platinum and win Artist of the Year. You see Norman was good at what he did and he could make that kind of plan and be right. Which of course, he was, as Avalon went on to become even more successful than was eluded to in the booklet we found that day. 

The confidence, the intelligence, the efficiency this man possessed!  I guess we were all a bit intimidated by him. That being said, if you know me, you know how I admired him. He was brilliant. Everything I ever wanted to be.  
I remember him so well and with such fondness because he was all that and human too. HIs humanity and compassion were in his conversations with his friend Steve, when he spoke of his wife, when he chatted one on one with any of us at any given time. He was polite, charming and encouraging. Power ruins even the gentlest person, but Norman kept his reality in tact. 

I know most people will think about Norman and speak of all the amazing things he did within his industry. The roster of artists he elevated and the productions he created are, indeed, incredible. But I love my memories of tired Norman looking at me and Steve saying "I don't care how it gets fixed, just fix it." I love that he listed to us, that for all his accomplishments he was still a man with a family, a job to do and integrity that never wavered. As crazy as it is, I learned so much from him in the every day stuff. I am better for having known him.

Norman, thank you. May your journey go on.