natalie's next adventure...

nat & zach

Wed, 15 May 2013 13:20:30 -0400

I’m Nat. That’s Zach. We’re madly in love. Sometimes it’s more maddening than lovely.

Nat: Pours her heart out about Zach ending his paternity leave, worried about being alone with newborn daughter, conflicted about being a working or stay-at-home mom.

Zach: Consoles her. Then, without skipping a beat… “I can’t believe my rice exploded the other night in the microwave.”

Nat: “Why are you still thinking about that??”

Zach: “I’m reminiscing.”

Nat: “Reminiscing about rice?”

Zach: “Yeah.”

Nat: “Wow.”

Portrait of a Not-So-Perfect Pregnancy: Part One

Wed, 15 May 2013 12:56:13 -0400

My sister was the ideal pregnant woman. Twice. She planned her pregnancies, entered into them in the healthiest way possible, relished being with child, had no problem gaining weight, ate whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted (and it stayed down!), and breezed through it all with a patience and positivity that is now reflective of her parenting style.

I’ve had a slightly different experience. (Please note, it’s slightly TMI and I apologize in advance.)

Mine’s gone a little something like this…

While on a relaxing and over-indulgent trip to Lake Como, Italy, let’s just say “things happened” and I woke in the middle of the night after the happening knowing two things. One, I had a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI) and two, I felt certain I was pregnant (more on that later). At the time, you couldn’t have convinced me which was worse.

My husband and I frantically called down to the front desk to be told in very broken English — neither of us speak much Italian — that there was an all-night clinic on the other side of town. So off we went in a taxi to the clinic in sketchy town where we paid our cabbie to wait for us (The last thing we needed was to be stranded at 3 a.m. in the middle of nowhere, not speaking the language with a raging infection inside of me and my unborn baby). We struggled once more to communicate with the poor doctor on call.

She didn’t speak a lick of English, and my spotty Italian wasn’t getting us anywhere. In a last ditch, frantic effort, I asked if there was any chance she spoke Spanish. She did! Did I? Well, I did. Once upon a time. In high school and college, but it had been years, and I was rusty at best. You’d be amazed what the mind is capable of when in dire situations. Suddenly, I was rattling off words I didn’t even know I knew. It wasn’t so much medical or technical terms, more like “pain” and “down there,” but she got the gist. I hadn’t been that proud of myself and my language skills since I was 25, drunk and trying to impress guys. (C’mon, we’ve all been there. There’s something about being intoxicated that makes you want to speak a foreign language.) I managed to convey what was going on and obtain a prescription for antibiotics to clear up the infection.

Next stop? The only all-night pharmacy to pick up said meds. Thankfully, the cabbie was still there. He drove us up to a little slat in the side of a graffitied brick wall and I rung the buzzer. Within moments, a set of eyes were peering back at me. This time, I chose to stay silent and let my piece of paper do the talking. Soon enough, I was paying for my pills and on my way to relief.

But first, I had to go back, pack and take a five-hour train ride to our next destination: The Amalfi Coast, a beautiful, scenic trip if you’re not burning below and having the constant urge to use a public, tiny, mobile, lurching bathroom. Within a day, I was feeling like myself again. Except different.

Inside, I knew I was pregnant. I didn’t feel physically changed, but mentally, it had all shifted. My husband thought I was crazy, but I was convinced. Did that stop me from drinking wine every night and eating questionable cheese? No. I was in Italy! Can you blame me? (If you can, please don’t comment below.) And, really what were the chances I was pregnant? We weren’t trying, (TMI alert again!) and every story I’d ever heard was how difficult it was to conceive. How couples had actively tried for months, years even, while using calendars, charts and medical intervention to help it happen. I’d never had a pregnancy scare in my life. And, once I went off the pill after ten years, I had been diligent, much to his dismay, about using condoms. Except, of course, this time.

I tried to put my irrational thoughts out of my head and enjoy the rest of our trip. But during moments like when I was walking through Capri up a ton of stairs in 95-degree heat, I knew. A fairly fit person, I was finding it much harder to climb than I should have. On a boat to the Blue Grotto, I started feeling queasy. Now, I practically grew up on the water, spending most weekends on my grandparents’ boats and never ever got the slightest bit seasick.

Back home in CA, I raced to the drug store. Those two minutes were agony. And when the negative sign appeared, I was met with a mixture of elation, confusion and sadness. My husband was smirking with his “I told you so” expression as he gave me a consolatory/celebratory hug.

With just a few weeks until I started a new job, I fulfilled all the obligatory rituals: running errands, spending time with friends and seeing every doctor for my annual check-ups. While at the dermatologist, she convinced me to get a chemical peel for the hyper-pigmentation I had accumulated over the years from being a fair-skinned sun lover.

The next morning, I awoke to an inferno on my face. I darted to the bathroom mirror to see Sloth from The Goonies staring back at me. I shrieked. My husband came running in and the look on his face confirmed it. I was a freak.

My face was so swollen and inflamed that I was unrecognizable. The doctor said there would be some redness, but this was molten lava. I immediately called her on the phone and shared my saga, to which she replied it was normal what I was going through, feeling and looking like. I said nothing about this was normal and demanded she see me. I was in her office thirty minutes later. Her staff could not stop staring at me as I waited for her.

She walked into the room and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, you weren’t kidding!” I wanted to kill her. Yeah, this was my idea of a funny joke, how I got my giggles these days. She proceeded to spend the next thirty minutes consulting books and others as to what to do. Really reassuring. I promise this woman is board-certified, works in a posh area of LA on high-profile clients and came strongly recommended. I wasn’t seeing some quack in Compton, although I might as well have!

Next, she brought out the big guns: steroid creams, antibiotics, pain relievers, gel-infused packs, hydration machines… I even had a few sessions in a hyperbaric chamber à la Michael Jackson.

After a few days of being on such a strenuous cycle of healing, I started to look a bit better, but I felt worse than ever. I had terrible cramping, as if my period would come at any minute, but it never did; my breasts were sore and I was unbelievably tired. I convinced myself it was due to being abroad, having a different routine and schedule, being on a ton of meds… all of it surely wreaked havoc on my health. Then I started having intense pressure in my lower abdomen. In all of my years of being on this planet and a woman, I had never felt this sensation before.

I knew what I had to do. There was one remaining test in the pack of two I’d purchased and it needed to be used.

This time, the sign came within seconds.

This time, it was positive.

To be continued…

nat & zach

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 12:30:32 -0400

I’m Nat. That’s Zach. We’re madly in love. Sometimes it’s more maddening than lovely.

At the airport…

Zach: Give me your purse; I’ll carry it. (Looks down at himself.) I’m now carrying 4 bags. What are you bringing to the table?

Nat (8.5 months pregnant): I’m carrying a HUMAN.

I'm Pregnant... and Freaked Out

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 12:23:00 -0400

I’m pregnant… and freaked out.

While being a mother has been on my life list for as long as I can remember, I did some serious soul-searching before I decided to embark on this journey. I even went so far as to tell my mother and sister it was off the table completely — partly to push their buttons, but also prepare them for the possibility that it might not be for me.

Ultimately, I decided that while I could live a full and happy life without children of my own by committing myself to being the best aunt and volunteer imaginable, I realized not becoming a mother would be one of the biggest regrets of my life. I believe with everything in me that in addition to other roles, I was put on this earth to become a mother. I have so much love to give, amazing role models and a large community of phenomenal friends and family members who will enrich a child’s life. I’ve also learned quite a lot in my 33 years, and continue to work hard on myself. I believe that all of this will help to shape and mold the person — and parent — I’m becoming. And while I’m overjoyed at the prospect of the road ahead, I’m equally terrified.

I’m the kind of person who throws herself into situations that scare her, who believes that if she’s not slightly nervous or uncomfortable, she’s not learning, growing… or living.

So, I’ve done it again. Before I could overthink it, talk myself out of it, before I was perhaps fully ready, I jumped.

And I’m so lucky I landed where I did. I’m grateful that it didn’t take my husband and me months or years to conceive; I’m grateful that we were able to get pregnant at all.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous — or honest.

Today, there’s so much pressure on women to fill multiple roles at once: The perfect homemaker who also maintains a high-level career; the good wife; the has-her-shit-together mother; the glowing, happy, positive preggo… And, for the most part, I think I’ve got it down. (Although my husband might argue, and rightfully so, that my “perfect homemaker” could use a little work.) I’m a career woman, wife and a happy and positive (glowing hasn’t quite reached me yet — here’s hoping it finds me soon!) pregnant person, but when I have a moment to really think about it (which, admittedly, isn’t often these days, given the aforementioned roles), I panic a bit.

I’m worried I leapt too soon. That I don’t have all the tools to be the best mother possible. Scared I don’t and won’t know what I’m doing. Fearful of the unknown. More terrified of the known (studies, statistics, friends’ horror stories). I’m worried about giving up my life as I know it. Then, I instantly feel guilty for thinking that way, for not being the perfect, unselfish “Mother Earth” type. For not immediately thinking about all the women — and men — out there who are struggling to have a child of their own or, worse, grieving for one they lost.

While I’m a firm believer in living one’s own life and working on fulfilling yourself before bringing others into this world, I often wonder: If I had kids earlier, would it have been easier to adjust? Making my way through my third decade, I’ve had so much time to be independent that the notion of another human being truly depending on me — beyond needing a shoulder, friendly ear or smile — is rather daunting.

At 33, I’m certainly the “appropriate” age to become a mother. Except I feel more like 22. Like a child still myself. Unprepared to raise another. I wonder if that will ever change?

Until then, I’m going to try to embrace feeling young in mind and at heart and embracing my new role — uncertainties included. Like everything else, there’s must be that often talked about, seldom achieved balance out there somewhere. Wish me luck trying to find it!

nat & zach

Wed, 20 Feb 2013 22:31:00 -0500

I’m Nat. That’s Zach. We’re madly in love—sometimes it’s more maddening than lovely.

Nat to Zach: “I want nachos.”

Zach: “The cheese is bad and the chips are stale.”

Nat: “I want nachos.”

Zach: “I’ll go to the store.”

Nat: “Drive safely.”

Zach: “You were supposed to say, ‘Don’t worry about it.’”

Goodbye, Hello, Goodbye...

Wed, 20 Feb 2013 22:29:45 -0500

I said I was done with New York.

Over the weather, the small spaces, the hard living.

Said I didn’t want to have children there.

So, after 10 years of nomadic Manhattan living, my husband and I picked up and moved to Los Angeles. And, after a tough transition, I fell in love with the sunshine, reveled in the quality of life, discovered a challenging, fulfilling and fun new career, made some fantastic friends and finally started to put down some roots.

Confident my family would be raised here, we recently put an offer on a charming three bedroom home complete with guest house and the outdoor area of my dreams. As any homeowners — or home contenders — can attest, the process was a roller coaster of emotions. Traipsing through a plethora of places, debating whether each was for us or not — and having to do so under a time constraint — surveying and staring down other potential buyers, and, ultimately, deciding to plunk down our life savings on a leap and a dream, then waiting all the while envisioning our lives there: decorating our little girl’s nursery, walking to the quaint bakery ‘round the corner and hosting weekly cookouts at our new urban utopia. Did I mention the outdoor space?

A week went by. As we frantically hit refresh on our email and checked the volume on our phones, we finally got word. The sellers were taking it off the market. Perhaps my hand-written note conveying how much we loved their home, how we envisioned starting our family there just as they had years before, celebrating birthdays and holidays, making traditions, creating a life, their house soon ours made them realize how special it was and that they weren’t ready to part with it. Whatever the case, one thing was clear: It wasn’t meant to be. The dream of our first family home would have to wait.

Licking our wounds, we decided we’d give it a few weeks until we got back out there. Rebound romance is one thing, homeownership is quite another.

Several days later, I got a call from my husband who was on a business trip in New York. His boss resigned. They wanted him to fill the role. I immediately knew what this meant. So did he. We were moving back to New York.

We always said for the right opportunity, we’d be open to moving anywhere. This was exactly that, the kind of life-changing situation you don’t turn down. Unless of course you, say, live across the country, just moved there two short years ago from the same place they were asking you to move back to, the place you’d always love and miss but swore you were done with, the place your husband had already moved back to once, making this his third time there. Unless you waited for, took a chance on and started a new career you are thriving at that’s only six months in and not as easy to come by back east. Unless you are seven and a half months pregnant with your first child, found doctors you feel comfortable with, a lifestyle you love and are this close to the dream of your little girl’s toes in the sand.

But I knew it was something I had to do: For him, for her, for our family. And, so, within a week’s time, we were saying yes. Yes to New York. Again.

It’s a hard place to say no to. There’s an undeniable energy percolating the air, a vibrant heartbeat pulsing the streets. There’s something that shines within you when you’re there, hell, when you even think about being there, a light that had been, unwittingly, dimmed for two years. The mere notion of returning ignited it again.

So, overall I’m excited. Excited to return to the longest home I’ve known, to experience that magic again with a fresh mindset and new set of eyes, to call my daughter a New Yorker — and a native one at that.

All the while, I’ll greatly miss my adopted home of sunny, Southern California and mourn for the interrupted dream of a life well lived here.

But, much like marriage, I vow to focus on the positives, work on my relationship (with NYC) and make the most of it. So the weather isn’t perfect year round, where is it (Don’t say L.A.!)? Sure space may be limited and at a premium but the backyard is the world’s greatest playground. And, yeah, the living may be hard at times but it sure is fun.

You never know what life’s going to throw at you — or how you’ll react. So I’m learning to stop the planning, stop the proclamations. Instead, I’m going along for the ride, baby and all.

nat & zach

Wed, 12 Dec 2012 14:45:00 -0500

I’m Nat. That’s Zach. We’re madly in love—sometimes it’s more maddening than lovely.

For the Homeland fans out there…

Zach to Nat: “You’re my Abu Nazir.”

The Padlock That Broke the Camel's Back

Wed, 12 Dec 2012 14:28:47 -0500

I met “Jane” day one, freshmen year of college. All blonde and bows, she bounded down the hall like a Labrador puppy. At first, I didn’t know what to do with her endless energy, but she caught my attention and made me laugh. Once we figured out how to negotiate our differences, our friendship quickly grew and, soon, we were inseparable. We shared everything: clothes, late night eats, tears, hopes and dreams, spent time at each other’s homes, wrote letters when we weren’t together and supported each other through everything. I was certain it was a friendship for the ages.

Then Jane met “Eric.” A sweet, humble and all-around good guy, Eric was the quintessential boy next door. And, quite literally, he was. He lived down the hall and, almost immediately, Jane and Eric coupled up. They fell hard, fast. I was thrilled for my sweet friend. I wanted to hear every detail, was their date night photographer and became their consummate third wheel.

But when we returned sophomore year, the brisk fall air swept in another, different girl. Somewhere, somehow Jane became, well, Jane; the bubbly, free-spirited girl I met a year earlier, replaced by a formal, controlled and uptight woman. Her studies and Eric became her only focus and I, along with her other friends, faded into the background.

It’s hurtful to watch your best friend slip away with no control over the situation. After plenty of tears, some sleepless nights and constant over-analyzing about the loss of our once-tight bond, I focused on others and myself, figuring that part of our friendship was over for good.

Then Eric went abroad — and Jane resurfaced. Ecstatic to have my girl back, I didn’t hesitate, question, judge or address the previous year of abandonment. My sunny, silly sidekick was back, we were having a ball and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that. The rest of our junior year was bliss. I was convinced whatever it was that happened — a phase, a funk — was behind us. For good.

But senior year when Eric returned, so did the other Jane. The one who shut everyone else out. The one who forgot to be real. Her hardened, formal edges were back and there was no softening them, no matter how hard I tried.

Once again, my girl was gone. Despite the fact that we lived together, I never saw her. My other roommate and I were cut off. She slept at Eric’s every night and when she returned to get clothes, she was icy and distant — and that was when she actually spoke to us.

And, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I awoke one night to a loud beeping. Once I realized it was coming from Jane’s room, I went to investigate. She was, of course, not there but when I went to open her door, I couldn’t. Confused and groggy, I tried to force it open to no avail. I cleared the sleep from my eyes, looked closer and discovered an industrial-sized padlock, the kind that truckers use, on my roommate and best friend’s door.

We went to school in a sleepy town. We lived in a very safe, charming little brownstone with several secured doors between us and the street and an 80-year-old woman at our feet. Our entire student body was under 2,000. Our neighbors were Amish! It was hardly padlock territory. But it was clear that the new accessory was not to keep criminals out, it was to keep us, her two best friends, from coming in.

With the discovery of her hardware purchase that early morning twelve years ago went my faith in our friendship. It was the last straw. We would never recover from this. It sounds so silly but that lock spoke more than she ever could.

I was devastated. I tried to speak to her about it, to ask her what I had ever done that would elicit such an irrational act, what had gone so wrong, hell, what she had in that room… it didn’t work. She was defensive, aloof, uninterested. And that was it.

Over the years, I performed the obligatory friend rituals: traveled to and attended her engagement party, shower, bachelorette and wedding with a smile on my face and genuine happiness for my long-lost friend who found her happiness.

Since then, we’ve drifted. To her credit, she’s made more of an effort than I have; my will died the day her trust did.

There have been other Jane’s along the way and it never gets easier or less painful. But not every friendship is meant to run the course of time. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way over the years. Jane and her padlock were a large part of that.

I have nothing but well wishes for her and her family. I truly hope she’s found what she’s looking for and that, somewhere in there, a bit of the old Jane has shone through. I miss her. And I know, deep down, she does too.

Was there a life-changing, can’t go back moment for any of you and your friends? Have you struggled with the loss of a friendship? I want to hear about it and any advice or thoughts you have about repairing friendships.

nat & zach

Fri, 31 Aug 2012 09:58:00 -0400

I’m Nat. That’s Zach. We’re madly in love—sometimes it’s more maddening than lovely.

An oldie but a goodie.

April 2009. A month away from our wedding.

Nat (to server): “I’ll have the vegetable soup.”

Zach (to server): “I’ll have lasagna.”

Nat to Zach: “I hate you.”

Favorite Things

Fri, 31 Aug 2012 01:33:00 -0400

It took me years to start my own blog. I was pro, then anti. I had no interest, then I fought the sudden urge. Ultimately, I felt like I had nothing to say. And who would care anyway? Then I wore a pair of shoes. And the rest is history. I woke up bright and early the next morning flooded with thoughts about the experience and felt compelled to write. And I haven’t stopped. HuffPost came calling and now I blog for them, collecting those posts (and others) here. But there are more ideas, inspiration, things that don’t fit so neatly into my musings catalog. I’m OCD when it comes to my thoughts. They must be organized, there must be lists, they must make sense. So I thought perhaps I should start another blog for those ideas. But it’s too much work. Too confusing. Too indulgent. So, to hell with my neurosis. I am now, in addition to the written pieces, posting whatever it is I’m interested in, feeling, thinking, trying, observing…

I love getting tips and tricks from my friends, hearing product endorsements from real people I trust instead of advertisements or editors with an angle and talking deals, steals and splurges but, often, my friends and I spend most of the meal bitching about bosses and commiserating over problems with our significant others and family, that the good stuff goes by the wayside. Well, not here. Saddle up for a new, very originally named (sarcasm) series called “Favorite Things”. Yes, it’s à la Oprah except less Montecito, more Mercer St. I’ll kick it off but stay tuned for new installments from my hip, fashionable, influential friends.

I try to start every morning with a Glowing Green Smoothie (recipe in The Beauty Detox Solution by Kimberly Snyder, C.N.). It makes me feel healthier, less sluggish and, yes, a little more glowing!

I have a love/hate relationship with Physique 57. It’s torture but it works—and fast. I notice quicker results there than anywhere. If you’re not in NY or LA and don’t have a cardio barre type class near you or don’t feel like paying (They’re not giving them away but it’s far cheaper than a personal trainer!), get the DVD’s!

When I’m not in Under Armour workout gear, I live in skinny jeans (currently loving my AG Jegging) and an American Apparel or J.Crew Vintage Cotton T. V-neck style. This cut is the most universally flattering. I accompany either with Havianna flip flops.

Anyone who knows me, knows I’m always cold! So more often than not I have a hoodie with me. Right now I’m living in my Splendid one. It’s assymetrical, super soft and, of course, striped. I have a stripe addiction.

After frying my skin in my youth, I am now obsessive about sunblock (I pray it’s not too late!). I love Neutrogena’s Ultra Sheer Dry-Touch Sunblock. It doesn’t feel greasy, smell or make me break out. But if I’m caught out and about with no protection and a face full of make up already, Bare Minerals Natural Sunscreen is the best. Just whip out the brush, powder up and you’re protected!

Speaking of protection, I don’t go anywhere without a pair of shades. I’m really into color these days to brighten up the face and take it up a notch from my usual muted specs. These electric blues look exactly like Ray Ban’s but I got them at Target for 13 bucks!

I have a Listerine Pocket Pack or two in every purse not to mention car, my husband’s coat pocket… It’s never a bad time to freshen up. This way, your mouth feels and, most importantly, smells clean without chomping on gum. (Pet peeve!) Along with the packs, are several Blistex Medicated Lip Balms. I’m obsessed with having soft, moisturized lips and like that you can feel it working.

When it comes to make up, I don’t like to wear a ton but couldn’t live with out my MAC eyeliner in Teddy, which I’ve worn for years and my Maybelline XXL Pro Extensions mascara (I’ve tried all the expensive brands like Dior, Chanel, etc. and I like the drugstore kind the best.). On days I want full coverage, I love Stila’s Foundation Plus Primer. Two steps in one (all for that!), your makeup goes on smooth and everything stays put longer. Plus, it feels light and photographs well. Two more (not shown) are Nars Orgasm Blush, which looks great on every skin tone, giving a sun-kissed, natural glow, and Revlon’s Photo Ready Finishing Powder,it’s translucent, sets everything in place and controls shine.

As fair as hair goes, I’m pretty low maintenance (Read: Lazy and cannot do it to save my life.). Plus, it’s an annoying combo of oily at the roots, dried out on the ends and, like most blondes with old age, I’m now naturally mousy (brown) and get it highlighted, so I try to spare myself some washing. That’s where my life savor Klorane Dry Shampoo comes in. I’ve tried almost every other kind out there and this is by far my favorite. Although it’s not cheap and some cans leak and run out before you’ve used it all—bain of my existence. I’m praying they perfect the can and drop the price but, until that happens, I’ll continue to bitch because it’s the best and saves me so much time, effort and money in the long run.

Finally, let’s talk scent. Years ago my friend bought me Jill Stewart’s Night Blooming Lily perfume and I’ve been using it ever since. Almost every time I wear it, someone notices and compliments the fragrance. It smells like, you guessed it, lilies! But it’s not too floraly. It’s light, fresh, slightly sweet and clean and I love it.

I’d love to hear what your favorite every day things are!

Escaping a Toxic Environment

Tue, 28 Aug 2012 22:51:28 -0400

We’ve all been in them. Situations so dire we lose hope, becoming the very person we pitied, dreaded, swore we’d never become. We talk of an exit like a dream scenario: a child running away with the circus, an adult winning the lotto and immediately quitting their job (not to mention the detailed disbursement of riches: 10 percent to charity, 10 to parents, 10 to splurge, 20 for dream home, 50 in savings). But somehow, we can’t seem to envision a world in which we get there. Capable, otherwise strong, able-bodied beings paralyzed by fear, believing the hype, fearing the backlash.

I’ve been in quite a few dysfunctional situations in my life: bad relationships, unhealthy work environments. And no matter the category, the symptoms are similar: broken-down self-esteem, misery-loves-company companionship, excuses like rain drops.

But while unhealthy intimate unions can wreak havoc on the psyche and may inform the way in which we treat others, it’s usually an insular thing. Group dysfunction, however, is far-reaching and often much more dangerous. They say there’s safety in numbers, there’s also destruction.

My first experience with toxic circles began like most — in middle school. Her name was “Shannon.” Up until she arrived, we were a blissful, naïve little bunch. Most of us had grown up together, performed in dance recitals, shared many a sleepover and were on track to ride out our middle and high school years together, tight as ever. Then she showed up.

Within weeks, we turned on each other. Shannon decided who was in and who was out. One day you were popular and pretty, the next you were a pariah, with no warning, no bearing on your behavior or actions, simply her whim. She had the power and she abused it. Heavily. If you didn’t agree with her, didn’t laugh at her jokes at the expense of others or talk trash about your friends, you were her next target, and God bless you, because her bad side was everyone else’s backside. You were ostracized. No one would face or acknowledge you despite it having been done to them the week before — how horrific it felt, how they were raised, how much they knew it was wrong. They were just thrilled to be accepted again and did whatever it took to stay there, in her good — albeit evil — graces. Shannon transferred before high school, but it was too late. The damage was done. She came, she terrorized, she left. We were never the same.

It began in middle school. It should have ended there too. But we all know, sadly, that’s often not the case. I had a few more experiences through college and post but, thankfully, I was experienced enough to avoid the drama, speak up for my friends and myself and maintain some shred of dignity. Since Shannon, I’ve made a conscious effort to surround myself with trustworthy, unconditional, loyal and uneasily-influenced friends, so it wasn’t until I entered the working world that the toxicity returned.

Despite the professional setting, those with power and plenty on their plates, those who know better are often caught up in office drama, choosing sides and spewing names. Bullies come in all shapes and sizes. They also manifest in all ages and professions. Just like middle school, in the corporate world there is a cool crowd with a penchant for hazing. And although the behavior is similar, the ability to remove oneself from it is likely harder. After all, beyond your reputation, your paycheck, career and livelihood are also at stake.

As a newbie, you’re tested, humiliated and alienated, but you suck it up and trudge on. Eventually you earn your place as newer souls are indoctrinated. There’s a level of pride and confidence that comes with seniority, being a veteran. You’re finally accepted and, initially, that’s enough for you. But eventually that too wanes, and you realize how silly it all is. You realize who you’ve become and, disgusted with yourself, start to break away from the group and forge your own identity. But it doesn’t come without a price.

As soon as they smell indifference, independence, you’re a target again. To blend in, strike a balance between individual and included, you laugh at the occasional joke, roll the obligatory eye, knowing it’s wrong. With each disparaging remark you champion, a bit of you erodes. This is not who you are, who you want to be. You are better than this. Better than them.

In winemaking, there’s something called bunch rot, in which one bad grape infects the group. Toxic friend and work situations are no different. By definition, toxicity is the degree to which something can damage. Make no mistake, these are damaged people — once smart, free-thinking, well-respected individuals now broken down to think and act like a vicious, rotten herd.

These cultish environments lead you to believe you are fortunate to be where you are, can never do better, there’s another waiting to take your place. Those that leave are ingrates, “depressives” — no matter how many years you gave, how hard you tried, how amicable you think you left, you are the enemy. Others are encouraged to shun you, engage in the shit-talking. The ringleader feels more secure — and less inclined to lash out — the louder the laughs. And so you do it; you laugh at what you know is wrong. You contribute in the ripping apart of your friend, your former colleague. It’s just easier. Knowing, hoping one day you too will be a refugee, doing all you can to better your situation in the meantime, adopting the mantras, lying to others and yourself. You are happy. It’s just temporary. Everyone else is doing it. It’s not that bad.

Until it’s finally your time. You’ve woken up, gathered the strength, gotten a better offer, had a life-changing experience… Whatever it is that is propelling you forward, upward, past the muck, the insipid and incestuous clone-like clique, you do it. You — gasp — leave.

You’re filled with a rush of emotions: elation, paranoia, sadness, relief. You seek shelter with other survivors, celebrate with drinks, commiserating about how bad it had gotten, exchanging war stories, your scars like badges of honor.

Away from the brainwashing and the negative influence, you realize how self-consumed you’d become, how jaded, how bitter. And, little by little, each moment without your toxic crutch, you become you again, realizing just how crippling your situation had been. You start to think like an independent, no longer part of a petty pack. You become kinder, lighter, sunnier. And soon it all starts to feel like a dream. A beautiful, shameful, fucked up dream.

You move on. You work on and better yourself. And you wait. You wait for the next embattled soul to wise up and join your fray. And you welcome them with outstretched arms and a cold beer. No “I told you sos,” no “What took you so long?” not even a “How could you do that to me?” because they know and, with one look, you do too. It wasn’t them. It was the atmosphere, the influence. After all, you once were there too. And you don’t “get it” until you’re gone. And once you are is when you really start living again.

Attention Employers: Please Look Past the Pedigree

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 12:23:00 -0400

Up until several months ago, I could count on two hands the number of interviews I’ve had in my life. Every few years, there’d be something: college visits, a new job but, thankfully, I usually passed the proverbial test the first round to avoid additional probing. That all changed when I recently left my job of seven years.

I’ve been out of the mix for a while but, apparently, it’s a bit like dating. I’m back in the pool with thousands of others, forced to up my outdated and rusty game. A once confident, self-assured, “I’ve got this” woman reduced to a second-guessing, over-analyzing, fidgeting fool. “Will I be liked?,” “How do I stack up to the others?,” “What should I wear?” and “How much of my true self do I reveal?”

And that’s before walking in the door. Then there’s the butterflies, the nausea, the “Do I have any food in my teeth?,” “What’s my hair doing?,” “Am I appearing too eager?” and “Why did I just say that?” It’s exhausting. Not to mention, time-consuming.

Looking for a new job is a full-time job. And, for those with a current gig, who has time for that?

It’s also much more complicated than it seems. While you smell less like desperation than those couch-surfing and praying for a paycheck — and have office tools at your ready, there’s the need to be secretive (making up “doctor’s appts,” perhaps even going so far as to elaborate on your fake, TMI ailment, printing resumes on the sly and ducking out to take calls on your cell), creating an additional level of stress.

And those are the best case scenarios because, more often than not, you hear crickets. No need to print or pass off anything, no phone calls to negotiate because, most likely, you’ve sent off your resumes to the great, wide, corporate abyss never to hear back. What happened to the days of correspondence? To a real, live person letting you know they received your application and it is or is not being considered? I can handle rejection, what I cannot take is endless wondering. Even a nice form letter would do, anything to let me know that my information has been received, read and passed on, something to indicate that I should stop following up (there’s a fine line between persistence and stalking). Really it’s in the employers’ best interest to get me off their case!

The lack of communication is not the only thing that’s changed. Much like dating all of the rules have.

For starters, seven years ago, I didn’t have to worry about a social media presence. And, now, many companies are adopting the theory of the more interviews, the better. I had nine with one particular company. Nine. In three different cities. The last six were one-on-one, back-to-back in rapid fire succession. I didn’t have time to use the restroom or get some water let alone think!

Before gearing up for said interviews, my brother-in-law sent me a Wall Street Journal article about the new trend in interviewing. Apparently, the popular line of questioning with forward-thinking companies is puzzling. Literally. Puzzles. Now, instead of asking about experience or testing you on skills, interviewers are doling out wacky word problems.

“You are shrunk to the height of a nickel and thrown into a blender. Your mass is reduced so that your density is the same as usual. The blades start moving in 60 seconds. What do you do?”

Um, WHAT?? I failed Physics, which is why I didn’t go into math or science and why I am not interviewing for a position where I would ever even remotely need to answer this kind of thing. It’s supposed to show creative reasoning. I think the only reason(able thing) would be telling the interviewer to take his nickel, his blender and shove it.

Another company requested both my high school and college GPA’s. Now, I’m no Fulbright Scholar but I held my own in school. But the idea that a company wouldn’t even consider an applicant before really getting to know them based on a number that they earned — or didn’t — in my case 15 years ago is absurd to me. It may be an impressive place to work, but it’s not for me. At this stage in my life, I don’t want to give my all to a company that I can’t believe in or get behind.

While commiserating with a friend about how elitist it’s gotten, she told me about a prestigious entertainment agency that hires only Ivy League students and pays their entry-level so minimally that the only ones who apply, certainly survive, are trust fund babies. This furthered my fury.

There are plenty of kids who struggled in school and are now doing amazing things in this world and, conversely, others that managed to maintain a perfect score and, yet, have amounted to nothing. Does being able to test well, have the money for a tutor or cheat the system really speak to character and work ethic? Does a less than stellar record seal your fate or bar you from achieving greatness? Who says who we were, or who we tested to be, decades ago determines who we are today? Who says Ivy League equals quality and community school — or lack of higher education altogether — signals failure? In my experience, some of the best, hardest-working, biggest-achieving, finest people came from nothing, struggled through life and now, not only have something to prove, but also have compassion and appreciation for others, instilling in them a strong sense of decency and philanthropy.

Technology, progress and the modern world aren’t always advantageous. By upping the ante, we’re missing the mark. What gets lost in scores and achievements is personality and humanity. As candidates, we’re obsessed with having the “perfect” answer. As employers, we’re concerned with what’s on paper and how tough the interview makes us appear. As a result, the true essence of a person — their passion, character, decency and individuality — is often overlooked. And, I’m afraid, if we’re not careful, we’ll create a Stepford society of workers, a clone-like corporate atmosphere devoid of diversity.

So, employers, next time, you’re surveying the prospective field, please don’t forget to widen your selective scope. There just might be an amazing applicant or two who didn’t earn a Harvard degree but has more heart than your current roster combined and one hell of a backstory. I’d take that over a perfect GPA any day.

Writing in the Digital Age: Beware of Bullies

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 12:08:49 -0400

I started blogging for HuffPost three months ago. My first post was about shoes. I knew they were slightly controversial at the wedding I went to but when it comes to writing, I’m always surprised if anyone besides my mom reads my stuff. A few days later, AOL picked it up and put it on their home page. In between major news stories like the death of Beastie Boys’ Adam Yauch and the latest on the John Edwards trial was a shot of my husband and me with the headline “It was Straight Up Harrassment.” Talk about a debut!

Then, the shit storm rolled in. The blog received over half a million hits in the first day and there were plenty of comments to accompany that traffic. Many were lovely. Most were not. Since then, I’ve written about everything from cooking and baking and leaving my job and finding myself to S&M. Along the way, I gained both fans and enemies. And, I expected as much. I’ve done my share of blogging on big sites (usmagazine.com, theweddingchannel.com) and thought I was prepared for the negativity.

Writing in the digital age is an interesting concept. While you receive immediate gratification, you also allow instantaneous feedback. On one hand, there’s the ability to communicate more readily with your followers; on the other are the haters. Two years ago, while reading the first comments on the aforementioned sites, I cried. Anonymity, it appears, breeds hatred. I was called ugly, told I needed a facelift and that I should spend more time fixing my face than on my writing. It apparently incites delusion as well. I was also informed I needed to lose 400 lbs. Yes, 400. If they had said 20 or 30, I might have been offended but over triple the amount of my actual weight was absurdly funny.

Over the years, I’ve grown a thicker skin and was prepared for some haters this time around. I just didn’t realize how many and precisely how vitriolic they would be. In the past few months, I’ve been called shallow, stupid, sheltered, self-centered, a bad friend and a selfish civilian and those are the tame words. I’ve also been threatened and stalked. (Before I get more comments: I’m not playing the victim. I’m simply illustrating my experience to speak to a greater problem.) And, I know I’m not alone. For every hateful comment I’ve received, I’m sure there are just as many, if not more, out there for every other writer not to mention actor, singer, television personality, teacher, mother and kid.

As light-hearted as the shoe piece was meant to be, it became somewhat serious and far bigger than my Choos and me. I’m saddened by the negative comments. Not because I can’t take it. I know a silly piece on shoes doesn’t determine my value. I know my choice of words was intended in a playful and fun way. I know I donate a considerable amount of time, money and belongings to charity and my husband buying me a nice gift doesn’t detract from that. I know I don’t judge my loved ones or think I’m better than anyone. I know my family and friends are good people, love me and simply didn’t agree with my taste in shoes and that’s okay. But too see others, complete strangers, unleash the way they did on another (It wasn’t just me, they attacked each other in the comments too!), was disheartening.

More recently, I wrote about my disappointment that a select group of Penn State fans were reacting selfishly and insensitively to the NCAA ruling. I understand it’s an extremely sensitive topic. I knew writing even one word would evoke all kinds of emotion and was prepared for the difficult commentary. After all, my main goal as a writer (and reader) is to spark conversation and debate, to resonate with some and challenge others, to see differing sides and points of view and to gain a better understanding of myself, the world we live in and the people that inhabit it.

I believe in freedom of speech. I believe everyone is entitled to his or her opinion. I believe that in order to receive the good, you must also accept the bad. I don’t expect everyone to like or agree with me and welcome different points of view. But it’s gone too far.

In addition to the cruel and harsh commentary, my background and personal information were brought into the fold, I was inundated with hate mail (everywhere I turned, every social site you can think of, plus my personal email account) and my family and I were threatened. But, I’m not so much scared for myself as I am for our country.

When we can’t address issues, have a discussion, difference of opinion or express ourselves in a healthy, calm, mature manner, without resorting to name-calling, bullying and threats, we just escalate our problems. How are we to ever better ourselves and our society when topics arise and, instead of presenting our point of view in a clear, level-headed way, when instead of trying to see the other side, we erupt and lash out? How is that getting us anywhere? We complain about how politics and politicians turn us off with their smear campaigns and vendettas but are we really any better?

The amount of time and emotion complete strangers spend knocking others is depressing. I’m horrified at the level to which the hatred has risen. It’s gravely misplaced. I’m certain that energy would be better served elsewhere, somewhere productive, somewhere positive.

I’m not getting on a soapbox, I’m simply saying: Let’s be kinder to one another. Let’s do away with the drama and conduct ourselves in a way we can be proud of. Let’s take a deep breath, be the bigger person and give one another the benefit of the doubt. Let’s vow to resolve instead of react. And, let’s please step out from behind the computers and anonymous names and support each other. Life’s hard enough without the haters.

Making Friends Part 2: Is It Easier Come Parenthood?

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 11:50:42 -0400

Last week I wrote a piece about the challenges of making friends post-twenty-something that sparked quite the dialogue. I received more comments and followers than with most blogs thus far. (I also received many a friend request.) And, unlike the others, almost all of the comments not only agreed with me, they were positive and kind. (I must say I’m not used to that!) It turns out, you concur it is really hard to make friends post twenty-something. So, with that in mind, I decided to continue the conversation.

I think one of the reasons it’s so challenging is because we’ve become accustomed to a relative ease in the friend-making department, making the alternative rather jarring. We might not be the best at athletics or math, may never be a good knitter or nail that yoga headstand and our muffins may always turn out a little less than perfect, but we’ve got socializing down! It’s second nature, a no-brainer. After all, we’ve been doing it since birth.

During childhood, there is no shortage of neighborhood and school pals, we’re constantly in activities and are much more uninhibited. College is the Costco of veritable friendships. There’s an abundance of choices — every shape, size and interest, all fairly accessible. Everyone’s new, eager and on the same mission. We’re meeting hall mates, classmates, teammates and all of their mates. Post-college, we have new jobs and new cities filled with all the other young, happening and mingling. Even the mid-twenties are still quite approachable. At that point, there may be steady significant others, but we’re meeting their friends, our friends’ partner’s friends and so on.

When parenthood finally comes, the burden gets a little easier. With friends, that is. Like puppies in the park for single men, a child is a new parent’s excuse. Mini-me’s are the perfect entry way into friendship. There are classes, play dates and, once again, school and a reason to stick around and chat, no awkwardness necessary. Kids are a natural, comfortable icebreaker. “How old is yours?”, “What’s his name?”, “Henry, meet Stella.” And you’re off! Soon, you’re carpooling, picnicking and BBQing with your new pals, all thanks to your offspring.

But that in-between time — pre-kids, post twenty-something — is tricky. Most have chosen their city and their field, partnered up and committed to their lifestyle. They’ve explored their friend options, choosing those they want in and weeding the others out. There are no vacancies.

Considering my current lull, I was hanging my hopes on an influx of new faces come parenthood. My older sister, a mother of two young boys, always tells me, “You haven’t met some of your best friends yet.” I thought she was right. I thought that’s the way it worked for everyone. She moved out of the city and into the country, knowing no one, but once her first son arrived and she got him involved in baby gym and music class, she was friendless no more. However, she may be one of the lucky ones as her theory, and mine, was proven wrong recently.

At a family reunion last month, I caught up with my cousin, who just moved from Pennsylvania to Colorado with her husband and infant daughter. She, too, thought making new friends in a new city would be easier with her little one in tow. There was no shortage of opportunity, she told me, and she even exchanged a few emails (a young, lonely mom’s digits!) with other mothers. She wrote, she waited… she got nothing. If an adorable little wing woman can’t seal the deal, what hope do the rest of us have?

After writing the first friend blog, I heard from many of you in your forties, sixties and even seventies and eighties. According to you, with or without kids, young or grown, sadly, it never gets easier. It appears friend-making at all ages and stages is increasingly difficult.

I don’t think social media helps our case. We’re drawn to stay inside, surf the net and survey other’s lives with their friends instead of getting out and making our own.

Unless, of course, you write a blog about having no friends! Then, they come out of the proverbial woodwork! I’ve received over a dozen or so invitations and counting, many I’m accepting as a social experiment of sorts. (This terrifies my husband. He’s threatening to sit in back of the coffee shop in the event my new buddy is less into talking, more into stalking.)

So, stay tuned for my third installment where I detail my friend-making progress. Hopefully I’ll have some good news to report, maybe even some tips or tricks for those of you out there also looking. Hopefully, I’ll also have some fun… that is, if I’m not picked off first!

Making Friends Post 20-Something Is Harder Than Meeting a Mate

Wed, 01 Aug 2012 01:59:55 -0400

I moved out to Los Angeles a little over a year ago, knowing I would take a hit in the friend department. It was my choice to move. I dreamed about it for years. I wanted to experience West Coast living, trade my winter coat for a wetsuit, pick up my tennis game, spend the whole year outdoors and take long weekends exploring the great state of California in my (obligatory) convertible. The only thing that held me back from doing it sooner was fear. Fear that I would be too far from friends and family, that I would miss them too much and that we would grow apart. Fear that I would never find anyone that would quite measure up… and fear that I would.

However, my husband and I, just married and without a family of our own yet, figured it was the perfect time to be adventurous. So, we faced our fears and booked a one-way ticket to La La Land. And, thank God we did. We love it here. Our lifestyle is lighter, healthier and, arguably, happier. But that’s not to say it’s been easy.

We moved in mid-December from our window-encased, walk to work, brave the elements Manhattan high-rise desperate for sunshine, and for the first two weeks it rained. Profusely. It was nonstop, side-pounding, soul-drenching hail. My husband was busy (with work events each night) and I was depressed. The few friends we had here were also otherwise engaged with job functions and holiday parties and I was left to unpack our house alone, my tears mimicking the rain.

Frantic to call home, best friends, anyone that felt warm, comfortable and knowing, I rang and rang but the time difference proved to be quite the challenge. Once I woke and was driving to work, they were already there. My lunch hour coincided with their afternoon meetings, and late-day coffee break with their dinner. When I finally got out of work and headed home, they were likely in bed already. Who knew three hours could be so alienating?

I went from working in a fairly sizeable New York office with plenty of buddies to a small outpost in LA with only a few bodies and many different personalities. People there were sweet enough but no one really meshed, nor did they care to. To make matters worse, Los Angeles is particularly challenging because the main means of transport is driving. Not only does that limit bonding to a few drinks (one, if you’re a lightweight like me), but also with people so scattered, it’s hard to agree on a destination. In LA, if you have to cross the 405, it’s not happening.

After a challenging day at work, in need of a glass of wine and some commiserating, there was only one option: myself. (I’ve never been a solo drinker. To me, that’s a slippery slope. It’s like being left alone with an entire batch of cookies. I can’t be held responsible.) I love me some alone time, but after endless nights and weekends by myself in new, unsettling territory, I craved companionship. It was clear what I had to do: I needed to make some new friends — and stat. But how?

I thought back to the advice I’d repeatedly given over the years to my single friends looking to meet a mate: Get involved, do things you love. So I signed up for a charity, found a Pilates studio and tried a book group. And, like my friends have reported back countless times before — which I never quite believed until now, for various reasons — none of them worked. I also tried becoming closer with the few people I casually knew out here to no avail. I’m not sure whether it’s the distance, the already-full schedule or just plain me, but any way you slice it, we’re not hanging out and that bums me out.

Moving to a new city, you would think, would help. And, it does. A bit. There’s more of an effort on my part to get out. (Toward the end of my stint in New York, I was content to couch-it.) But, for those that aren’t, the feeling isn’t exactly reciprocated. Let’s face it, most people don’t get to see the friends they do have all that much. The ones they’ve invested years in, the ones who know their quirks and flaws and accept them anyway. Why would they willingly take on new friends they have to get to know and add them to the increasing list of people they never see? We so spend much of our lives making introductions, put in awkward situations and being “on” that, when we’re not, we want to be comfortable. And, if you’re like me, you do so while in elastic waist pants with the aforementioned batch of cookies. It’s like Cheers. Did Sam, Norm or Diane want new people in their home? No! And neither do the late-20, early-30-something Angelinos. And I can’t say I blame them. But where does that leave me?

I was at Whole Foods the other day and a girl-crush-worthy fellow shopper in line behind me asked me about the snap peas I was holding. We chatted for a moment about my produce when I noticed her handbag. It was quilted. It was chic. It was Tory Burch. Naturally, I told her I loved it. She returned the compliment, appreciating my blouse. We were clicking! I imagined us meeting up for morning yoga, shopping for our organic goodies, tossing them in the car and then skipping to fro-yo and loading up on all the bad toppings together. Everything within me said to keep on chatting, that this was her: my new sidekick! But, instead of continuing the convo, I panicked, grabbed my bags and left. I didn’t want her to think I was hitting on her, nor did I want to appear like a loser with no friends, desperately trolling the grocery aisles for an adult, childless play-date. I couldn’t help but think it would be so much easier if it was a romantic interest. At least then, there’s more of a primal urge to make the move, certainly more than swapping recipes and fashion tips!

Meeting a significant other is hard, no doubt. But, I would argue, making friends in your late 20s and early 30s is harder. At least with a romantic interest there’s flirting, chemistry and incentive. And, maybe even the added benefit of making friends with or through them. Now that I’m married, in my early 30s, currently working from home and in a new city, never before has making friends been so challenging.

And, I know I’m not alone. I’ve had this conversation with plenty who share my plight. So, if there are so many of us in the same boat, what are we waiting for? Let’s sail… to Friendship Island, grab some margs and get to chatting!

My single friends would tell me that, while I may think it’s slightly easier, finding a mate is more important than another friend. And they may be right. But lovers come and go. Friends are forever. Right? At least that’s what I’m banking on. Don’t tell me otherwise! I’m not good at making new ones, remember?

Ultimately, I’m blessed to have many great friends both long-distance and local and I need to focus on them. But, hey, if you know of someone, preferably sane and a lover of wine and cookies, who’s in the LA friend market, let me know! I make a mean snap pea side dish.

Do Not Forget Who the Real Victims Are

Mon, 30 Jul 2012 00:14:00 -0400

I didn’t go to Penn State. But I know many who did. I’m from Pennsylvania and plenty of my friends and some of my family spent four years or more in State College. Growing up, I knew who “JoePa” was before I could read and, in my teens, sported frayed and faded Nittany Lions boxers to bed. I know the fans, I know their loyalty and I know their spirit. And I knew the NCAA ruling on July 23, 2012 would be received with heavy hearts and mixed emotions. But, I must say, I’m extremely disappointed by the way in which some are responding to the sanctions.

My news feeds are peppered with postings from alumni and fans in outrage over the sentencing. The comments, which range from defiant to ignorant, make me sick. Many of the statements and attitudes read less like support and more like hostility not to mention insensitivity. I appreciate standing by your school when times are tough and that the Penn State legion are not fair-weather folk and I respect their resilience and the belief that they will, one day, rise again. I feel for those who have given their lives to making the university a great place only to have the name tarnished in this way and it sucks for the current students and athletes but what was the alternative?

It’s a difficult thing in life when innocent bystanders, rule-followers and good people, trying hard to live their lives by the book are punished by proxy because of a few bad eggs. But that’s life. Weren’t we taught as kids that it isn’t always fair? I certainly was.

The thing that cannot be lost here, that matters more than sports ever will, is the sanctity of the human spirit. If it’s stripped from anyone, anytime and people in power, aware of the situation, ignore it for any reason, we are failing as a society. We further fail when the wrongs start to be righted and our response is one of selfishness.

I understand being disappointed that your alma mater is the subject of negative attention and that games you played in, attended or cheered on are now considered losses but, c’mon, people, put your pride aside and grasp the bigger picture. Numerous boys — that we know of, likely many more that we don’t — had the ultimate violation made against them. Their childhood robbed, innocence stolen, trust taken, lives forever changed — the ramifications and ripple effects so tremendous they will be felt for generations to come.

This is not about a football team or a university. This is not about wins, losses or records. This is not even about one, sick man or an entire organization that, by averting their eyes, turning their heads and closing their mouths ignited this detrimental problem. This is about the children.

I don’t care how great the speeches were, how long the team reigned supreme or how many titles were secured. None of that negates the fact that years upon years of abuse were overlooked and numerous helpless, hopeless little boys were left to cope in silence. Those children didn’t have a voice. Any one of those officials, if they cared more about human life than victories or glory, could have been that for them. They failed them. They failed us.

How do you excuse that abomination? This is not a difference of opinion. It’s not about disagreeing with taste or style, coaching or playbooks. It’s not even about a man’s transgressions. It’s about right and wrong. And power, money, ego and greed.

We teach our kids to display good sportsmanship, to accept defeat and be gracious when they lose. What is it saying when this kind of thing happens and we stomp our feet complaining about what welost instead of those boys? We teach them to be honest, decent, kind people and to stand up for themselves and others. So what do we tell them when the people in charge, the coaches and mentors, the leaders they look up to acted more like followers and cowardly ones at that? Because it’s no longer t-ball and, instead, a Division I school it’s now somehow acceptable?

Consequences exist for a reason. Sadly, this kind of thing is going on all over our country — in our homes and in our schools. The verdict doesn’t take away the pain of those violated nor will it eradicate all of the sexual predators out there but, if far-reaching, example-making, harsh punishment was not enforced and instilled, it would be as if we were saying it was okay. Okay to turn the other way when our children are being molested and raped. Okay because it wasn’t us who did it. Okay because if we pretend we didn’t see it, suspect it, hear or read about it, it almost didn’t happen. Okay because we’re afraid of the ramifications. Okay because athletics, records and a legend and otherwise good man’s reputation are at stake.

I’m relieved Penn State is being made an example of. I’m thankful they’re finally being held responsible for what they ignored and covered up for so long. I’m thrilled that the money they’re fined will go to victims of child abuse. Hopefully others will pay attention, speak up, the sickos will zip up and we’ll start to put an end to this epidemic.

Many of you still have your happy memories from Happy Valley, untainted from the stripping of the record and fining of the school. But those boys? Those boys most likely spent their young lives being afraid, ashamed and alone. And you can bet that those incidents manifested in their adult lives, causing trouble for their family and friends and that they’re now grown men still having nightmares, fathers to little kids who can’t get too close to daddy because he doesn’t like to be touched, sons to parents whose hearts broke years ago never to be repaired. And, in their wake, there are most likely others being abused because those who never sought help, never spoke up, are repeating the vicious cycle of violence. And there are boys and girls, living carefree summer days right now, unaware that their innocence is about to be stolen, their life forever tainted the moment the next sexual predator walks into their world.

So every time your knee-jerk reaction is to hop on the bandwagon of “it’s not fair” or “innocent people are being punished for something they didn’t do,” think about those kids, now adults, and their kids. Think about how fair it was for them. Think about your own children, grandchildren, nephews and nieces. Think about any innocent human life being violated in such a horrific way. They’re worth the losses, aren’t they? If this ruling makes one person, just one, speak up, stand up, blow the whistle or seek help for for a voiceless child, isn’t it worth it? While the ruling doesn’t take the pain away or erase the past, and to many of you, it doesn’t seem just, it’s one step closer, no matter how small, to ensuring this kind of thing never happens again. And, I, for one, think that’s worth a few titles.

Attention Ladies: Prince Charming Doesn't Exist-- Neither Does Christian Grey

Sun, 22 Jul 2012 19:42:37 -0400

The other night, I stumbled upon a bad reality dating show. Not far in, an attractive girl sobbed, “I wanna be with someone that I know is my Prince Charming.”

The following day, Carrie Underwood’s “Good Girl” came blasting through my car speakers. “Hey, good girl… You want a white wedding and a hand you can hold… Want a fairy tale ending, somebody to love.”

That night, The Bachelorette was on. I tuned in for the eye candy, which quickly turned to eye roll as Emily lamented, “At the end of the day, I’m still a girl who wants that fairy tale ending.”

Frustrated, I moved on to Oprah’s Next Chapter. Surely she would have something more enlightening. Nope. The Kardashians were her guests. And, you guessed it, as Kim was discussing the implosion that was her 72-day marriage, she whined, “I wanted a life that I’ve always pictured my fairy tale life to be.”

Within a 48-hour period, I was inundated with several — like it or not — influential women with a platform perpetuating this notion of fairy tale love. Granted, the caliber of programming I was watching was debatable, so consider the source and feel free to judge. But I’m clearly not alone. Millions support this kind of entertainment and I’m one of them.

I’m not free of blame when it comes to spreading these ideas, either. Last month, I wrote a blog about choosing to have my dream wedding over a house down payment and, boy, did I get skewered. I understand why it was controversial. But I’m the biggest dreamer there is. I think it’s perfectly natural, healthy even, to dream. How would we ever achieve anything big or small if the initial spark wasn’t there? How can we teach our children that they can be anything without also telling them to believe in something bigger than themselves?

But there’s a difference between dreaming and striving for a goal and hopefully obtaining said goal and waiting and acting on fantasy. Fantasy is great for role-play for children and, ahem, adults, but it should remain in the bedroom. When the belief of the unattainable holds us back from living in reality — growing, maturing and remaining grounded — we have issues. When these falsehoods are bolstered by the entertainment industry, misguided and lost souls are convinced that fairy tales exist, further propelling them into a life of delusion.

I love a romantic comedy as much as the next softie, and even though I leave the theater waxing poetic about how intense, brooding, passionate and sexy (I could go on!) Ryan Gosling is, I know it’s an act. He is, after all, an actor. He may be fantastic in real life but, like every other person on this planet, he, too, comes with baggage. And having a healthy relationship with him that lasts also takes work.

Yes, I wanted a dream (wedding) day but when it came to my marriage, to the person I was choosing to spend my life with, I was extremely serious. Practical, even. I thought long and hard about the kind of partner and life I wanted and did a great deal of work on myself to get there. When I was finally healthy and happy, he came (back) into my life. And, after years of friendship and dating and many long discussions, we made the mutual decision to marry.

That’s not to say we didn’t fall passionately in love. We did. We had an amazing courtship and honeymoon phase that was better than I could have dreamed. But when it came time to talk forever, we sobered up and sorted things out as rational adults. No damsels in distress or princes present.

There are amazing guys out there. Guys that will impress and awe you. Guys that could, gasp, rival Ryan Gosling. I’m fortunate to be married to one of them. He’s made my life easier, more peaceful and more fun. He sacrifices and compromises for me daily and my happiness is his number one priority. But is he a prince? Hell no! And I’m no princess. (I can hear him scoffing now.) I’m a piece of work. So is he. He’s flawed, makes mistakes, we argue and he, like me, falls short sometimes.

He may not have 12-pack abs, a movie star’s salary or red carpet style (Sorry, babe!) but he’s a good man. Ladies with their mile-long, superficial lists, the ones who dress themselves up and dumb themselves down for the VIP crowd, hoping for, perhaps getting the coveted man who will make their fairy tale dreams come true, where does that lead? For most, unlucky and unhappy in love when he trades them for a younger model. Literally.

Look, there are no guarantees. People grow and change, life happens and we don’t know how others, let alone ourselves, will react to the struggles or the successes. My husband could leave, too. Do I think that will happen? No. I’m confident because I know who I married. I know his character and his values and they match up with mine. We put in the time pre and now post-marriage to work on the relationship and ourselves, we take our vows very seriously and neither pretends or expects to live in Fantasy Land.

And while he’s made my life better, he didn’t make it complete. The notion that you need a mate to complete you is foolish and, ultimately, dangerous. If we place the responsibility of our happiness, purpose or completion on anyone or anything other than us, we’re cheating ourselves out of our full potential. Frankly, I hope my life is never complete. The yearning to better myself, learn more and reach that next level is what keeps me going.

I don’t have it all figured out. Far from it, but I do know that marriage, or any relationship, is a deal, a pact, a negotiation, and I’m sorry for those who think that’s unromantic. Marriage and relationships aren’t romantic, they’re realistic. There can be romantic moments and, to me, there’s nothing more romantic than promising and committing your life to someone, building a home and a family, facing the world and growing old together, but it’s not all roses, champagne and helicopter rides. And it’s my belief that those that view it any other way will have a harder time than those of us that don’t.

There’s no recipe, no secret. If there was, we’d all be living happily ever after. But sadly, there’s no such thing. We have to forget what the books have told us. There is no fairy tale ending, no Prince Charming. There is hard work, compromise, sacrifice, heartbreaking and trying times, soul-searching, faith-leaping and, yes, dream-fulfilling, pinch yourself moments, too. But life can’t be all about the latter. Any solid foundation to a healthy relationship is built on the former; it’s only then that the latter can happen and be fully appreciated.

So let’s rework the stories. Or, better yet, write our own. One with regular people doing everyday and extraordinary things, reaching for their dreams, picking themselves up when they fall and learning along the way. No tiaras, castles or princes needed.

As I finished writing this, Jennifer Lopez was on GMA talking about whether she’s open to marrying again. Her answer? “Yes. For me, the biggest dream is the fairy tale and I’ll never give up on that.” Keep fantasizing, Jen.

The Night Tom Cruise Put a Spell on Me

Mon, 09 Jul 2012 15:00:00 -0400

When the news of the Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes split broke, I was saddened for all involved, especially their daughter, but certainly not shocked. I immediately thought back to the infamous W magazine article on Katie from August 2005 (http://www.wmagazine.com/celebrities/archive/katie_holmes), soon after they started dating, where a seemingly smart, articulate girl, was suddenly regurgitating lovesick, juvenile stock phrases and mantras not at all in accordance with the questioning and deferring to her “best friend” of six weeks, reported Scientology handler and new mouthpiece, Jessica Rodriguez. I couldn’t help but wonder if those influences (Tom’s control, Scientology, strangers) had anything to do with their demise. It was such strange behavior. It was if someone had put a spell on her. Something I was vaguely familiar with…

Media outlets from all over the world converged on Rome to cover the nuptials of the year. There were hordes of television crews, reporters, photographers and fans and Tom welcomed it. He sold plots outside the castle where they would wed for $10,000 a pop and encouraged his most famous pals, colleagues and acquaintances to attend, even inviting his nemesis Brooke Shields. He wanted this to be a who’s who and, boy, was it ever. I was there too. My employer at the time, Us Weekly, sent me along with a team of others to cover every moment of the A-list, action-packed weekend.

It started, as most do, with the rehearsal dinner, which was held at a local restaurant in the heart of town. I had never seen so many gatherers outside of one spot. The streets were blocked off, police and security blanketed the area and thousands of spectators were clamoring to catch a glimpse or get a shot. I couldn’t move. It was like being in the mosh pit of a rock concert. I half expected Bella, the forgotten daughter, to be passed back soon. Fans kept jumping up to see over the rows and rows of heads in front of them, trying desperately to view the passageway that security blocked off. There was a great deal of murmuring and speculation, “Who was invited? When would they arrive? What would they be wearing? Would she be there?” She, of course, was Suri, the only offspring of Tom and Katie, the one, perfect child so good-looking that people alleged was not real, conceived in a lab, a Scientology sorceress created to take us all down.

The decibels of the crowd reached a fever pitch. Shrieks and yelps so loud, I was temporarily deafened. Cars had started to arrive. They were followed by a hush as the spectators held their breath and covered their mouths as they nudged and pointed with each door that opened. Soon, they erupted again.

“Will! Jada! Jenny, Jim, Jennifer….”

One by one, the bona fide celebrities popped out of the chauffeured driven cars. Dressed in their finest, flashing megawatt grins and perfectly placed and whitened teeth.

Then, out of a black Escalade parked at the top of the cobblestone street emerged the family of the hour. In true Tom fashion, he had the driver stop yards in front of the restaurant so he and his fiancé—the one from Dawson’s Creek, the one sixteen years his junior, the one who dreamed of marrying him—could make the grandest of grand entrances. They trotted down the hill, not an intentionally misplaced hair out of place, Katie navigating the tricky pavement perfectly in five-inch stilettos, Suri nestled in Tom’s arms. Like any other soon-to-be betrothed couple, they were beaming. But these two had a little something extra it seemed. There was an aura about them; it was if they were lit from within. (Perhaps Tom had them genetically engineered for this very event.) The spectacle was intoxicating. These were true superstars. They managed to transcend everyone in their orbit without speaking a word.

The party was private but we would later learn that they rented out the restaurant, holding an “intimate” dinner for 80 of their nearest and dearest. The feast was family style—Italian, of course. Naturally, Tom was close with the owner (who isn’t he friends with?) so he chose to have the event there. The rest of the details were scarce but I imagined how Tom likely held court telling hilariously detailed, animated stories, complete with intense stare culminating in his signature toothy grin and gargantuan guffaw, from his days on the set of Top Gun and Jerry McGuire, captivating everyone’s attention, his guests hanging on his every word, delighting in the front row seat to Hollywood’s inner sanctum. I envisioned Katie, or Kate, as he called her, recounting how Tom proposed at the Eiffel Tower, gushing about her romantic man, his poetic words and the stunning view and pictured precocious little Suri entertaining everyone with her quirky expressions and innate charm.

Once they were inside the restaurant, I retreated to the Hotel Hassler, where the couple was staying in order to obtain the obligatory reporting (Were they holding hands? How did they seem? What did they say?) as they returned to their penthouse suite above the Spanish Steps. I was happy to get in from the cool air, shoving and shrieking. I met one of my colleagues and we grabbed a table in the cozy, quaint lobby bar, securing some champagne. We’d been working round-the-clock since we touched down days before and had earned it. Since the dinner wouldn’t be finished for another hour or two, we were off the hook for a bit. After filing my findings, I kicked off my shoes, curled up on the couch and ordered a cheese plate, dishing with my coworker about office gossip while nibbling on Rome’s finest formaggio. Eventually, the screaming commenced, which meant only one thing: the Cruises were back.

Bracing ourselves for the cold and the crowds, we rushed outside. After a frenzied flash, our subjects were whisked into the hotel and disappeared amidst a sea of bodyguards and attendants. I returned to our banquette, jotted down some notes and took a sip of my bubbly as I overheard a familiar voice. It was distinctive. It was from the Bronx. It was Jennifer Lopez.

When I looked up, sure enough, sitting at the next table were Jennifer, Marc Anthony, Brooke Shields and Leah Remini. Trying not to look too stunned, I smiled sweetly and averted my gaze.

But I knew what we had to do. We had to try for comment. After all, that’s why we were there, why the magazine had paid big bucks to send us over, stay at the luxurious St. Regis and expense the crap out of Rome. My colleague and I exchanged knowing looks and went in for the quote.

“Hi,” I said, as calmly as I could manage, just a simple, everyday hello to one of the world’s biggest stars. The kind of greeting you’d give your neighbor: friendly, polite and nonchalant. Right. At this point, I was accustomed to interviewing stars at events and on the red carpet and did so nerve-free. But over drinks in an intimate hotel in Rome during arguably the biggest entertainment weekend of the year was quite another thing. I gathered myself, pretending I was speaking to Jenny from my block, not the block. Leahi Remini and Brooke Shields joined in. Just a bunch of girlfriends: Jennifer, Leah, Brooke and Natalie sipping champers and chatting, your typical Saturday night.

They knew we were reporters as we had identified ourselves and, although they didn’t want to comment, were very sweet. We eventually excused ourselves from the group, not wanting to overstay our welcome and made our way back to our table, which was close enough to see them but far enough away that we couldn’t hear.

Within moments, several huge men appeared and surrounded each exit. As soon as they were at their posts, the bride and groom walked into the bar. They had changed clothes and were wearing almost identical dark jeans and grey cashmere sweaters. They joined the star-studded table to a reception of cheers and applause. I couldn’t get over the fact that I was witnessing this, but, moreover, couldn’t believe Katie was spending the night before her wedding with near strangers. I was actually sad for her. I couldn’t help but think she should be with her family and loved ones, not faux friends no matter how famous. After catching a quick glimpse, I put my head back down to give them their privacy. But, apparently, one look was one too many.

No sooner had they sat than one of the burly bodyguards came up to our table and informed us that we had to move. Were there more people coming down? Of course we would make room for them. No. There were no others but our presence was not welcome. With that, another guard came over and soon both men were helping my cohort and me up. They quickly escorted us to the end of the room; we were now ten tables away from the wedding party with no one in between. None of the women seemed bothered by us but Tom, the man who sold plots at a castle and courted the media, the man who spends over two hours on a press line, was bothered by our mere existence. To some extent, however, I understood. He didn’t know us and didn’t want anyone intruding on a special moment during a very special time in his life and I respected that.

But what happened next was so bizarre; it will haunt me forever. Very aware that the groom was none too happy with us being there, we made it a point not to look at the other table. We had gotten our fill anyway and were knee deep in office drama, making the other crack up with our accounts of the workplace weirdos. As I was listening to my coworker recount a story about a particular person’s most recent outburst, I noticed something moving in the background. When it persisted and I became too distracted to listen, I glanced up to see what it was. It was Tom, crouched down, placing one elbow on his knee and then alternating quickly with the other elbow to the other knee, swaying his body and his head back and forth, side-to-side in a ridiculous rhythm. It was like a mix between a seductive dance and a robotic trance. He was clearly trying to get my attention. Tom Cruise was trying to get my attention! If only it hadn’t been in such a creepy manner. Traveling from his spastic body to his face, our eyes met.

In what I can only describe as a sadistic stare off, his eyes locked on mine and I swore I saw laser beams shoot out. After several seconds, which felt painfully longer, I untrained mine from his. I didn’t know what to do next, whether I should laugh, cry or… run. What was that? If he really wanted us to leave that badly, why hadn’t he sent his swat team to remove us again? Or why didn’t Mr. “Shake Hands with the People” just ask us himself? Instead, he used his voodoo to put a spell on me and tried to remove me by burning a hole into my soul. Whatever it was, it was weird. And it worked. I stayed for a few moments as not to look too obvious and then got up and left with my colleague—quickly before we were sacrificed to Scientology.

It was clear that Tom likes control and will go to any lengths to obtain that over another. Like many successful stars, politicians and businessmen before him, his stratosphere status and extreme wealth have allowed him to create an inner circle of enablers. Individuals who agree with him, play by his rules and protect him and his perfect image. If Katie wanted to be part of his world, she had to follow suit. Blinded by her love, the fantasy of her childhood dream coming true and the diamonds, private planes and Barneys shopping sprees, she was a goner from go, willing to do whatever it took to be Mrs. Tom Cruise, including converting to Scientology. Presumably, once the honeymoon phase was over and the boundaries, barriers and limits outweighed the romantic notions, Katie tired of playing her most famous role. The spell on this particular fairy tale had finally worn off.

But Tom’s princesses will be okay. After all, they have the means in which to continue to live a very privileged life, it’s evident that Suri doesn’t lack for love from either parent and like Nicole Kidman (who spoke publicly about the sacrifices she had to make being married to Tom in a 2008 Glamour magazine article, saying, “I felt it was my job to put on a beautiful dress and to be seen and not heard.”) before her, Katie will likely find healthy, normal love, more proportional to Toledo than Telluride, and may even marry again and have a few more kids.

And, Tom will stay Tom. He’ll remain committed to his craft, continue to make blockbuster films and, eventually, pluck another rising starlet, give her the world, prompting her to fall hard, fast and foolishly and forgo her values, opinions and friendships for a life as the wife of the most famous man in the world.

When is the Right Time to Have Children?

Sun, 08 Jul 2012 14:41:00 -0400

I’m sick of myself. I am. I talked a big game about waiting to have children in order to live my life. And I have. I’ve checked numerous items off the bucket list, climbed the proverbial corporate ladder, traveled extensively and indulged (a.k.a. partied) enough for a lifetime or two and I enjoyed every minute of it. But enough is enough. I’ve finally gotten to the point where, despite my full life, I feel there’s more.

I’m ready to trade my independent and selfish ways for a life with more purpose. I want to challenge myself, step outside my comfort zone and discover another role and side to me. I want to give selflessly and endlessly to another. I want to be a mother.

As an avid, albeit amateur photographer, perhaps I should put this in photography terms: I can’t take one more picture of my husband and me. I will, of course (hello, trip to the Amalfi Coast this summer!). But I’m longing for a new subject. I’m ready to start a family of our own and raise children that I can help guide, watch grow and, yes, document along the way.

For most of my life, I’ve babysat. From the age of 12 (what kind of crazy parents let a baby watch their babies?) to age 25, I took care of kids pretty consistently. Once I started making enough money of my own without the side gig and supplemental funds, I took a hiatus. Since then, I’ve had two nephews and two nieces come into the world. They are the loves of my life and by far some of my favorite people. They’re also the best birth control possible! After a few full days with them, my husband and I return to our carefree life and decide to wait a little longer. But, after years of delaying, I’m finally ready.

I want to delight in my children’s firsts and once again see the world through fresh eyes, giddy (and grumpy) temperaments. I’m prepared for the challenges, excited for the lessons and thrilled at the thought of putting someone else first. And it’s about time.

At 33, I’m eight years older than my mother was when she had her first child and for her generation, that was considered late. During my first visit with my new OBGYN, she looked down at my chart and, upon seeing my age, remarked, “Oh, you’re young!” I was thrilled. I thought for sure she’d lecture me about being behind. Then she asked if I had kids. When I said no but that I’d like to someday, she recoiled and replied, “Ohh,” as if she wanted to retract her previous statement.

But, despite her disgruntlement and my desire, this is not a public proclamation that it’s go time. So, Mom, please don’t alert extended family that we’re trying, because we’re not. Not just yet, anyway. After all, we have that trip to Italy to photograph first!

I’d love to know, for those of you that are mothers and fathers, how and why you decided it was time to start a family? And, do you wish you did it sooner?

Letter to My 18-Year-Old Self

Sat, 23 Jun 2012 01:28:00 -0400

I recently returned from a ten-day trip back east to spend quality time with some quality people.

As is ritual now, my mom and I cleaned out yet another part of the house together. My parents, nearing retirement, are in “downsize mode,” causing my mother to purge, well, everything. I imagine on my next trip, I’ll find my bed gone and a sleeping bag in its place.

This time, we tackled my closet. Among a plethora of tragic trends (bomber jackets, oversized overalls and twelve years worth of assorted gowns — cheesy, satin prom and homecoming dresses, dated sorority cocktail confections and “I want you to be able to wear it again” bridesmaid dresses which were, of course, never worn again), were several file boxes stuffed with tattered love letters, rambling-filled journals and touching notes and cards from family and friends. As I picked through my past, analyzing each word, I was surprised and amused. Overall, I was comforted by and thankful for the wonderful relationships I had and have since lost and those that still remain. And, I couldn’t help but feel a bit nostalgic as I began to reflect on who I am now compared to the girl I was then.

When you think back to your younger self and where you’ve come since then, are you satisfied or sad? Upon reflection, are you who you said you’d be? Who high school pals and ex-boyfriends saw you becoming? Who yearbook entries and superfluous awards painted you out to be? Have you measured up? Does it matter?

Despite our best intentions, we can’t possibly fulfill all the promises we made, can we? The lofty ideals, supersized dreams and ambitious promises were heartfelt, sweet and apropos of a young life that has yet to enter the real world but, ultimately, things get in the way and we change, mature, make mistakes and sober up.

Despite all my years with a corporate, year-round job, I’m somehow still conditioned to think in terms of the school year. Maybe it’s because we’re currently in a season of change with school’s cessation, graduation, commencement speeches and summer in full swing. Or perhaps it’s all the more profound because my life right now resembles that of a collegiate: end of an era, period of transition, carefree days coupled with some deep reflection and the start of something new, foreign, intimidating and thrilling. Like a kid all over again, I have a few months off and am facing transition come September. Mine’s a change in career, not a new home or school, but no less daunting. When I think back to my 18-year-old self and what she was going through: fear, excitement, anxiety and hope, the sentiments are the same. However, with fifteen years on her, I’m slightly more experienced and, therefore, more prepared.

With that in mind, I wondered, if I could do it over again, knowing what I know now, what would I do differently? What would I tell her?

I would tell her that the number on the scale doesn’t determine her value. Neither do bad bosses, bullies or boyfriends. That the minute he makes her feel unworthy, she should leave and not to wait for the second, third or twentieth time, no matter the excuse he has or she tells herself. That her confidence, character and contentment within herself are what make her attractive and that’s far better than the perfectly poised, leggy, busty, shiny-haired, designer-draped stunner who’s pumped full of laxatives and secretly hating herself. I would tell her to love fully, live freely and speak kindly, to embrace every walk of life no matter what the cool crowd says, to wear sunscreen, stop when she’s full, and know that five drinks are more than enough. I’d tell her to be honest (mostly importantly, with herself), to confess and confide in loved ones, despite what they say; that we’re all in this together and sharing our struggles makes all the difference, to chart her own course and not be constricted by other’s opinions, rules or ideals. I would tell her that her scars from those that are narrow-minded, insecure and unfulfilled make her far more interesting and compassionate. And, I would tell her to have fun, not to worry so much, not to be so hard on herself. I’d tell her that she’ll be okay and that, ultimately, things work out and those that don’t are one hell of a lesson, not to mention, story.

Then again, perhaps she could tell me a thing or two. Despite life’s uncertainties, she was a confident, fearless dreamer, seeing the good in everything, not yet tainted by anything or anyone with a glimmer in her eye and on an insatiable quest for the best, taking advantage of all that life had to offer and making no excuses or apologies. She was actually quite impressive. I hope there’s still some of her in me. I hope I’ve made her proud. The journey continues…