Some serious soul cleansing, Halloween style.

When I was a very little kid, I was left of center to say the least. It got me noticed. Fourth born, third girl in a busy household. I pretended to speak different languages, I made up stories and plays, my favorite toy was a Mr. Clean bottle named Jenkintown.


I was also feisty. I had no problem standing up for myself. I defended my every action. I was never wrong. I routinely kicked my sisters in the shins with heavy orthopedic shoes. 


My mom loved this about me.


But at some point my originality lost out to the powerful need to be socially accepted beyond the family. And my spunk morphed into a raging case of insecurity.


My mom didn't love this about me.


It was fourth grade when my friend had a Grease/birthday/Halloween party. That's bound to be a good time, right?


We carefully crafted an outfit, gluing the perfect felt poodle on a beautifully sewn skirt, then pairing it with a cardigan and my father's high school ring on a chain around my neck.


When I showed up to the party I was the only "before" Sandy. Oh, the Halloween horror! Everyone else had black stretch pants, big hair, heels and leather jackets like the end-of-the-movie transformed Sandy. The "You're the One That I Want" Sandy. I barely held back tears and refused to look at the bright side. Apple bobbing is infinitely easier with a ponytail! 


My mom took the drama personally. The 50's were her formative years, wholesome and well-groomed. Now her very own daughter yearned to tease every hair on her head and slut it up a bit. I still harbor guilt, though clearly Mtv was to blame.

Behold my mom in all her 50's glory! You can almost hear Hound Dog playing in the background.


Somehow, through the many decades, houses bought and sold, the packing and moving and storing of stuff, the poodle skirt stayed with me. Literally. So when Lu was trying to decide what to be for Halloween this (her fourth grade) year, I dug in the attic and emerged with a well-preserved skirt lovingly designed by a grandmother she never knew. 


Of course, I had to add my own creative touch – zombie makeup, a nod to the 50's themed Thriller video of my generation. Nostalgia wrapped in nostalgia. Lu loves the gory details and is blissfully oblivious to the full emotional circle her outfit completes.

Your question for the week. What was your most memorable costume?


Happy Halloween!

Is it Monday already?

Just a few weeks in and I'm making excuses. 


My goal from the start was to create a post every Friday. Not because I think you are desperately waiting for my next update, but because I work best with a schedule. It's not unlike clean sheet Thursday. Forget the moon cycles, you could keep an accurate calendar by the scent of fresh pillowcases wafting out our windows.


But what a busy, crazy week I had. Jon's been away on a project and wrangling three children alone is both physically and mentally exhausting. I try to remain chipper and remember how fortunate I am to be home (all the time, some would say tethered) watching them grow, providing for their every need, nurturing, loving, fighting the urge to drop it all and flee with only my wallet and a loose plan. The sad truth is debit cards are traceable.


On top of the regular routine last week, I ran a race on Sunday and could barely walk for several days. Then Bunsen had a stomach issue and needed to go out many times throughout the night. Add in clubs and sports and Daisies and class projects all happening at once. And laundry. Lots of ongoing, perpetuating laundry.


Then the (cute) thread that weaves its way throughout my every day just tied the tangles tighter. I put books on a shelf, she takes them off. I clean the floor, she tosses mashed bananas. I open the pantry for a snack and disaster ensues.

(It's funny how limp and inadequate my excuses sound in writing. I'll continue anyway.)


Jon finally came home on Thursday night – tag out! – but instead of tackling that overflowing laundry basket or engaging me in my first mature conversation in forever, he spends over an hour on the phone with a bank representative fighting a $12 fee applied to Lu's account. It was a mistake and needed to be fixed, but oh my Lord, that poor soul on the other line. Jon connected the entire banking crisis to our 9 year-old's meager savings. For the record, I would have assumed it was valid, paid the fee, and advised Lu to walk more dogs. 


Then Friday came and Friday went. And the weekend was its usual blur.


Now it's Monday morning and I'm finally posting. I know your sense of relief and joy are overwhelming. 


My question for you: If you could drop it all and get away for a long weekend by yourself, where would you go and what would you do?


I'm thinking most people will share my opinion. Tropical island, spa and an iPad. More specifically, I want access to big tubs of mud or something warm and therapeutic in which to soak.


But maybe you'd rather hike a remote trail, shop in Paris, or meditate at an isolated ashram. I'll take any option above. Just promise that the laundry will be folded before I return.

Happy 13th birthday to my firstborn!

As of today, we have a teenager in the house. But so far she's not talking back or testing boundaries. Probably because she has an electric zappy collar and is just a dog. Though just seems very unjust.


I grew up with dogs. My first dog, Barko, was hit and killed by a car right after we moved to a new (old) house on a busy road. One of my most vivid early memories is of my father cradling him post accident. Awful. Dusty came when I was in third grade. She shed a lot, barked a ton and would eat entire raw chickens left to thaw on the kitchen counter. 


Into adulthood, I knew I wanted/needed/craved the love of a dog. But being married to a very practical, realistic man, we waited until we bought a house with a yard and had reasonable schedules. Once that checklist was complete (and squeaky toys were acquired) we drove to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and picked a puppy from a litter of 11 yellow labs bred to work. Bunsen wasn't the runt, but she was a very close runner-up. No hunter was interested in her 4 lbs. of fluff. I was.

Getting Bunsen marked the official beginning of my very own family. I had a rough many years after my mother died feeling unwelcome and unaccepted among the people I depended on, so it was immensely satisfying to finally have a house to call home and a life for which I was responsible. I had control. And I wasn't going to screw it up.


What I quickly learned is that you can't control much of anything when it comes to another soul – person or pet. Is there a better preparatory lesson for having children someday?


Bunsen was never a happy-go-lucky, dopey dog that people automatically adore. She is suspicious and fickle. She is tentative and anxious. But she is also 100% docile. There is not an ounce of aggression from cold nose to (nervously) wagging tail. 


Bunsen has many, many quirks. She hates the wind or sudden shifts in barometric pressure. She doesn't like cars and will pant heavily for the duration of any ride, around the block or across the country. She stretches when she's self-consious. I have never been able to conduct a thorough tick check or get her to sit with the girls for a picture. No way. She knows when something's up. A chirping smoke detector, my niece's text alert or the dreaded "Biggest Loser" beeping scale will cause hours of uncontrollable shaking.

Bunsen was once a total spaz, I mean energetic dog. She ran around like a maniac, jumped on people without warning, and could not get the hang of a leash. 


Now she is rickety. She has trouble with stairs and can no longer leap with ease onto our bed at two in the morning. She'll whine by my ear until I get up and give her a boost, fully realizing that her crazy dreams and terrible gas will prevent me from falling back to sleep. Last night, I put a pillow (Jon's) by her bum to diffuse or at least deflect the toxicity. It will burn your throat.


The past thirteen years in our lives were momentous. We settled into marriage, had kids, moved, changed jobs, suffered loss, found joy, grew, aged. 


Bunsen has been a soothing constant through it all. She still expects to be let out and back in about 100 times each day. She still gets a treat for doing pretty much anything. She still lets me kiss her a lot, wrap her in blankets like a "Bun-chilada," and doesn't seem fazed by the baby's relentless idol worship – of her food bowls mostly – or Lu and Edy's sporadic appreciation. Edy made her a birthday card before breakfast this morning.

Considering her fear of extreme weather, I don't know that Bunsen would protect us with a tornado approaching. But she does seem genuinely thrilled to see me when I return from a quick errand and stares at me with a kind of knowing that is on a different, better level than human. Or maybe it's her cataracts?

Steady, predictably strange, submissively sweet Bunsen. Happy birthday to you! (And to Joby and Lourdes Leon, too.)


Your question this week: What animal has had the biggest impact on your life? I don't say pets because if you never had pets, maybe it's Lassie or the bunnies that eat your garden every summer.

The idea for this post came to me in the shower.

Honestly, it did. You see, I could not wait to use the exciting shampoo I bought at Sephora. Such a thrill to try new things! So fancy, because I'm worth it. I admit, it was the bottle's cool design that made me swoon. It feels like aluminum, but is definitely not aluminum, and the graphics are science-y looking. Surely it was concocted in a lab with polymers and what not and my hair will never be the same.


Total disappointment followed. The watery goop that poured from the beautiful bottle didn't produce any lather. None. There it sat like Elmer's on my scalp. I even rechecked the label to make sure it wasn't conditioner. Nope. Shampooing restructurant, it read, meaning restructuring shampoo for those of you who aren't 1/40th French like me. Seeing no other option (all naked and vulnerable), I mixed it with Jon's Suave which bubbles like crazy and was likely procured using doubled coupons and a mail-in rebate. By Jon. Because we are opposites in every way.


This may come as a surprise, but I don't typically splurge on beauty products. My make-up routine is basic and boring and I don't replace any of it until I see a news story on how bacteria growth in blush will cause permanent paralysis. And I'm not easily persuaded by slick marketing. I spent many years in the industry so whenever I see an ad, even the best and most clever, I imagine a team of "creatives" pitching the concept and I'm instantly unimpressed.


But that damn bottle. It got me. It called me over with just a look, then it won me over with its space-age feel. All is not lost, however, the faux metal feels good on Beazy's sore gums.

Product packaging. Marketing. Advertising. Sometimes it works. Many times it's terrible. But terribly memorable is a good thing, right? Because memorable is the ultimate goal. My head is spinning. 


There are two current TV ads that make me cringe and giggle. Then cringe some more.


First I offer up Febreeze Air Effects. Unsuspecting people (I imagine friendly tourists) are grabbed off the city street, blindfolded, and led into a kitchen strewn with rotting meat parts or a filthy apartment containing perhaps a body under the bed. When they confess that it smells lovely, like lavender, and then remove the blindfold to reveal the horrifying scene, it doesn't persuade me to buy Febreeze for my own mounds of rancid flesh. Rather, it causes me to panic for the mental health and safety of everyone involved. Including the person possibly under the bed.


Then there's Activia! You know you can't just say it, you need to sing it! I like this commercial because I know Activia got in tons of trouble for making claims about digestion and weight loss that it couldn't support. So the new ads are super silly in their careful wording. Some doctor/scientist/smart guy (who probably crafted my crappy shampoo) points to charts and explains rather boldly how Activia speeds up "intestinal transit." It helps you poop! Oh yes it does! Fiber will do that.


Which brings me to your question for the week. What is your favorite current advertising campaign (good or bad) and why is it so memorable? It's a light topic, but will be fun to reflect upon many years from now. 


A little pop culture for your paper trail.

Don't let go of your giddy.

It’s not hard to remember the Christmases of my childhood. That nervous mix of anticipation and joy. The butterflies. The giddy excitement.

What is hard? Trying to access that feeling again. As an adult. Snarky and easily annoyed. Christmas magic = over-marketed hype. It used to be different. Better. Because we waited all year. To get presents, to sing songs, to watch Specials on tv.

Just the percussion on the CBS indentifier is nostalgia overload! 

Now stores start promoting Christmas in October and kids seem to get what they want when they want it. Including holiday Specials on dvd. Let’s watch The Grinch in April! The thrill of waiting is gone. 

I know I sound like my 85 year-old neighbor who frequently tells me how much better things were when her kids were small. Seriously. She works it in to most conversations, like there’s anything I can do about the fact that my kids are kids in 2011. The roads were less busy, people were less busy. Apparently bluebirds serenaded from her windowsill. It was real nice. Was, was, was.

I’m not like that. I don’t think the world today is awful. A mess maybe, but we’ve endured worse. When I’m down about the current state of affairs, I recall the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, Scotland. It’s a steep street that leads to the city’s castle. Once upon a time, those accused of crimes (meaning not necessarily guilty) were put in barrels with metal spikes and rolled down the hill. Ouch. If you survived, they took you back up for another go. People would come out to watch. Good entertainment in what was considered a very civilized town. And don’t get me started on the plague. Or slavery. Or petticoats in the heat, infant mortality, and the general lack of convenience associated with self sufficiency. I like grocery stores.

Even 50 years ago when my neighbor was hooping it up with her young family, there were lots of sordid happenings, we just didn’t talk about it or feature the details on 24 hour news channels. Many suffered in silence. La-dee-da. Slip on your penny loafers and smile.

(This post has taken a heavy turn and for that I apologize. See? Snarky and annoyed.)

What makes me think of all this now? Because there is something that still stirs my jagged, jaded soul. And the more I wait for it, the better it feels. Fall weather. No one’s trying to sell it to me. It just happens. When it’s good and ready. After a long, hot summer. After countless sticky, humid days. Crisp and breezy autumn air mixed with bright sunshine and billowy clouds will tie up my gut in knots of pure joy. The smell of leaves and apples. A warm cup of coffee in my hands on a cold morning. A refreshing sense of renewal that seems to wash away the summer muck.

So here’s my question for you to jot down, answer, and then put away. (If you’re doing the exercise explained in my first post, which I suspect many of you aren’t, though I wish you would.) When was the last time you felt a genuine wave of excited anticipation?

I think it might be 50 and windy on Sunday. Look for my next post to complain about putting coats on babies and putting (jamming, wrestling) bundled up babies in car seats.

My third baby has no baby book. Just a Rubbermaid tub.

Over the years, the baby books I bought for my older girls were eventually put in the bottom of a big plastic container where I now toss their artwork, birthday cards, doctor stats, team pictures, good test scores, certificates of achievement, you get it. I date everything first, then in it goes. And there it is.

I like this concept. It’s quick, organized, but not overwhelming and impossible to keep up.

In the theme of this blog and my books (read my first and only other blog entry for clarification), I’ve decided to start a collection of my own. Maybe I’ll add cards, but probably not artwork or my latest height, weight and head circumference.

Mostly, I plan to write. Put it in a box. This box, which I won at an auction last Saturday night when it was full of chocolate. 

Now it’s empty and I’m drinking a health shake. More on that later.

I encourage you to get a box, too. Or a tub. Maybe a basket. A bag? Your choice. Fun!

Next fill it with your thoughts. I will prompt you, if needed. One question every week conveniently written in purple. Write down the question, your answer, and don’t forget to date it. Then put it in your box, tub, basket or bag where it will wait patiently to be reread someday. A little piece of you on paper.

Want a real life example of this theory in action? Ha! I have one! It’s a Gap shopping bag full of notes from my best friend in 8th grade, who’s still my best friend by the way and whose handwriting hasn’t improved. Fifty plus folded squares of paper, each one funnier, sillier, more profoundly special than the next. This will be just like that, minus the raging pubescent hormones and references to Duran Duran. 

Now I have pictures from 8th grade. They are nice once you get past the ridiculous trends. (I wore a tie - yes, a skinny, navy, knit tie - to my aforementioned best friend’s batmitzvah and there is a whole album of that fashion disaster probably still sitting on her mother’s coffee table.) But my point. Pictures are great. Words are greater.

Ready for your first question to answer? It’s a good one.

Oprah says “do what you love.” Oh, Oprah. That’s very easily said when your Montecito mansion is already built and the lavendar fields are thriving. 

For most of us, we do what we need to do -- to earn a paycheck, care for our families, stay semi-healthy. Like this protein shake I’m currently sipping. Berries, yogurt, banana, spinach, flax seed and some strange powder the very enthusiatic vitamin store owner convinced me to buy after methodically decoding metabolic charts oblivious to Beazy’s desire to pry herself free from my arms.

So I ask, if you were to do anything else with your life, besides what you already do, what would that be? No need to factor in schooling or your current burdens (Beazy!). Pure fantasy. 

I know what I wouldn’t do. I wouldn’t do anything that puts me in constant contact with nature or away from the comforts of home. That is for sure. I’m not farming anything or living overseas where I need to “immerse.” I definitely wouldn’t pick the hospitality field. No restaurants or bed and breakfasts for me. People pleasing. Yuck. I wouldn’t choose the glamorous life of an actor or performer either. Bleh. Too much attention makes me extremely uncomfortable. Even this blog tests my nerves... and I only have three followers.

Now go get your paper and I’ll get mine. At work, at home, relaxing in your Montecito mansion, it will make today go faster. And add to your future in a way that’s impossible to measure.

Write on, sister! An inspired business and my brand new blog.

Welcome to my blog!

It’s a little or maybe a lot strange to use a modern forum to write about not using modern forums. Let me first admit that I love technology and social media and everything that’s fast and immediate. I like that I can turn on my computer and read about whatever or reach out to whomever.

But I also believe that we are losing so much when we don’t express ourselves in a way that is lasting and fulfilling.

Here’s the back story. Let’s get it over with.

My mother died when I was 18. I knew almost nothing about her apart from what she did for me. I was a typical teen and didn’t see the value of knowing more. She was a woman facing death and was not happy about it. Our relationship stunk and that is that. It didn’t help that she hated having her picture taken. Or that my father remarried quickly and we never talked about her again. Or that her three brothers subsequently dropped out of our lives. Sometimes I think, Oh yeah, I had a mother. Sad.

Then my sister, with whom I was very close, was diagnosed with late stage ovarian cancer when she was just 38 and the mother of young twins. She fought hard for two years but the disease spread beyond control. At home on hospice care, Gail had a few days of lucidity. She suddenly and ferociously became preoccupied with writing. (I think it had a lot to do with our mother. When she died, she disappeared.) We went searching for something to make it easier for Gail. We settled on pretty stationery. She wrote a deeply moving page and a half before losing consciousness.

There you have it, my “aha” moment. I started a small, completely local business printing books that help painlessly pull information to document your life. With a portion of every sale going to two great charities. Simple.

And now a blog to help promote the business which helps promote the (almost) lost art of writing. See, it all makes sense. Sort of. Stay tuned.

A couple of pledges:

No future entry will be crazy long. They are meant to be read and enjoyed and not heavily pondered.

They won’t all be about journaling. That would get old. My goal is to offer a brief diversion, maybe a relatable laugh, and encourage you to write something down. Something funny, something poignant, maybe even something boring because your present day boring may not seem so boring when you’re looking back.