True and Not Too Political

Did you know I used to be a newspaper columnist? Shortly after I was married in 1989, the newspaper for which I worked as a graphic designer and occasional feature writer, offered me the opportunity to write a weekly column. The main reason, aside from earning a degree in journalism and working as a reporter, feature writer and the managing editor of other publications, was that my office was right next door to the newspaper’s managing editor.

It was another case of WHO you know being every bit as critical as WHAT you know.

At the time, we lived in northern California, and my husband worked at the Pacific Stock Exchange, which meant he had to be in downtown San Francisco by the opening bell. (The stock market operates on New York time). This gave us what we called an “oh-dark-thirty” wakeup call. I only had to put my car in DRIVE and coast down the hill to downtown Montclair Village to get to my office, and so I always got an early start.

My office was in a quaint, two-story building separate from the newsroom, and I shared the space with the managing editor. We had a lot in common. Aside from our chosen fields of study and our experience as editors, another thing we had in common was our love of getting to work early, before all the mayhem. Each morning, we drank tea and ate pumpkin muffins purchased from the village bakery below us, and had lively conversations about current headlines and neighborhood happenings.

One day, when I believe we were talking about the Milli Vanilli lip-syncing scandal, my officemate burst out laughing at something I said. (Wish I could remember what it was). “Michele,” she said after choking on her tea, “You should write a column.”

Per her instruction, the next day I placed two sample columns on her desk. One was funny (about baby showers) and one was serious (about my sister being called to serve [in the first] Gulf War). Apparently, they were just what she was looking for, and she gave me the job as a LIFESTYLE section columnist.

“There are two rules,” she said. “Number one is that your material has to be true. This isn’t a venue for publishing fiction. And number two is, don’t make it too political.”


I called the column “First Person Plural.” It wasn’t because I was schizophrenic. It was because of my new life with my new husband, when I went from being a “me” to being a “we.”

I/we followed the rules for a little over two years. Everything I wrote—stories about our life, our dog, our garden, coworkers, softball and volleyball teams, disc golf, the Grateful Dead (!), etc.—was true. Sometimes I couldn’t resist dipping into the political waters, especially during the great social debate about sexual harassment evoked by the Supreme Court selection of Clarence Thomas; however, I always added something personal—something indicative of my/our LIFESTYLE.

I developed a respectful readership. Most (but not all) of my mail was positive, and sometimes—because of the headshot above my columns—I was recognized on the streets of the East Bay in towns like Berkeley, Oakland and Piedmont, California.


I’m no longer a columnist. These days I write both blogs and books. (BTW: My second published book is a collection of my columns with updated commentary. It’s called The Things I Wish I’d Said). Because I’ve recently finished a book manuscript, my third novel, I have more time on my hands to blog. This is why you’re hearing from me more frequently.

Writing blogs to a blogger is like doing pushups to an athlete. It’s just a little literary workout. And being a blogger is a Twenty-first Century name for being a columnist. The ideas and leads come the same way (in the shower) and the process is the same (sitting at the computer and typing). The differences are there are no deadlines, I have no editor, and I have no rules.

Also, I don’t get paid.

I’m still writing about my life, hoping always to find a reader who might relate to a story or find a smile. Everything is true, although I admit sometimes I do stretch or alter certain facts for the sake of . . . for the sake of, well, I don’t know. Since I’ve become a fiction writer, I’m much more comfortable with making shit up.

But this is true: Starting in third grade, my teachers told me I was a “good writer.” I then came of age during the Watergate scandal, and after I saw All the President’s Men, I wanted to be an investigative journalist like Woodward or Bernstein. In my middle age, however, I’ve grown terribly weary of politics and think the current political climate in this country is a disgrace. It feels like a waste of time and energy to discuss political issues. People are so passionately attached to their opinions, there’s rarely room for intellectual conversation.

That notwithstanding, yesterday I took a chance and put in my two cents about the health care debate. The blog generated many, many hits and, as far as I can tell, lost me only one “fan.”

Meanwhile, I’m not sure what I’ll write about tomorrow or the day after that . . . but it will most likely be about my kids or my friend Beaver or my role as a soccer mom or novelist or resort owner or jewelry designer . . . whatever comes to me in the shower.

And for the most part, it’ll be true and not too political.

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If You’re Not for Health Care Reform You...

1. Haven’t been denied coverage
2. Haven’t paid your own premiums
3. Haven’t watched your premiums go up as much as 45% per year
4. Haven’t had a sick child
5. Haven’t experienced a serious injury
6. Haven’t gone bankrupt trying to payoff medical bills.

And, as demonstrated by the debate and subsequent vote in congress, if you’re not for health care reform—at least the current version of reform on the President’s desk—YOU are a Republican.

I’m neither a Republican nor a Democrat. In fact, I detest partisan politics. I won’t form my opinion on an issue because President Obama and Nancy Pelosi tell me how to think. Nor will I enter a debate using phrases I’ve heard from Rush Limbaugh or Newt Gingrich.

I am an American citizen who strongly believes our nation is in dire need of health care and health insurance reform. I realize it’s what our government is trying to accomplish. It’s been a messy—even UGLY—process, but the debate in itself, has demonstrated the true nature of a democracy.

I may not like every aspect of the bill President Obama has just signed into law; however, I believe it’s the first step in getting on the track to reform. Let’s stop fighting and name-calling and deal with it, shall we?


When it comes to why I feel we need health care reform, my opinion is based on the following:

I am a small business owner. It’s a sole-proprietorship, where we pay for our own medical insurance. We do not have a dental plan. This means each time we go for a cleaning or a crown, we pay full pop (Did you know crowns can cost as much as a thousand dollars apiece these days?) Fortunately, we are a healthy family. Most of our doctor visits are preventative in nature. We keep our appointments, issue our co-pays and go back to living healthy / lucky lives.

Two years ago, however, my child had an accident and broke her arm. It required surgery. At the time Blue Cross/Blue Shield—a reputable insurance company—covered us. As customers of BCBS, each October, the month I officially aged, I received a letter informing me our premium was going up. Then again in December, the month of my husband’s birthday, a second letter came announcing yet another increase. Since we weren’t getting any younger, there was no end or cap in sight.

After my daughter’s fourth cast came off for good and all the bills came in, in spite of our BCBS coverage, we still faced close to $4,000 in expenses not covered by our plan.

Now, this may not seem like a lot to people with a lot of money—those people who make $200,000 per year or who have homes valued at $700,000 (i.e. those facing taxes proposed by this bill/law)—but to people who work just as hard in less lucrative professions and who pay rent rather than own a home—or who’ve already paid out $6,000 in insurance premiums, which have only covered part of maybe four annual checkups . . . it’s a big financial burden.

We paid our bills and then shopped for new insurance. With the new company and the new underwriting, our premiums were cut in half; however, we soon learned that they paid for, well, nothing. Then when our birthdays rolled around, the premium went up 45%. So, we found yet another company and are currently keeping our fingers crossed that this one will be a good one . . . at least until the birthday letters come.

I was happy on Sunday night when I learned this health care reform bill passed in the House of Representatives. Again, it’s not because I agree with everything the bill proposes. It’s because I agree with what the bill represents. What it represents is the first step toward truly necessary reform.

It also represents the first time in a long time that Congress has actually accomplished SOMETHING other than just perpetuating ugly and unproductive partisan politics.

Doves on Our Doorstep

It happens every spring. Just outside our front door we have a talavera sconce that becomes a nesting shelf for a pair of love doves. They take turns sitting atop two white eggs, which rest on a thin collection of twigs and branches. The doves have grown so accustomed to our comings and goings, they stay put when we breeze past.

Male and female mourning doves look the same. Generally, the male takes the day shift and the female is on the nest at night. It’s a continuous incubation period that lasts 14-15 days. Both Mom and Dad are often in sight. When one is on the nest, the other is nearby, keeping watch from our courtyard wall.

They are monogamous birds, and in warm climates (like Tucson) are active breeders. They may raise up to six broods per season and will return to the same nest again and again.

Whether or not we’ve had repeat tenants on our doorstep is unknown. They all look alike to me. What I do know is that they’re definitely squatters and they don’t pay a dime in rent.

I’ll update when the hatchlings come to life and will have, according to my research on mourning doves, 11-15 days to snap a photo.

In Search of an Empty Calendar Square

No one in this family can complain that life is boring. On the days where I don’t want to get up and face another day filled with calendar notations about places to be and things to do, I tell myself it’s just a phase. Because of our kids’ ages, and because they’re healthy and active, (and because neither has a driver’s license) we’re at a point in our life where we’re just too flippin’ busy.

And we’re almost at the point where we’re going in five different directions:

1. Dad’s going to work in his office.

2. Mom’s going to work in her office.

3. High Schooler is either going to a sporting activity or a group date.

4. Middle Schooler has a sporting activity and Facebook.

5. Little Dog (appropriately named #5 or “Cinco”) has the backyard. She’s out there yapping right now because a bird has had the nerve to perch on a tree in her territory.

Happily there are still things we do as a family. And on this beautiful Sunday morning on the first day of Spring, praise the Lord, the thing we’re all doing is SLEEPING IN. We’ll get to volleyball practice, homework and the exciting fieldtrip to CIMI (Catalina Island Marine Institute) by the end of the day.

And tomorrow we’ll face another calendar square filled with appointments and obligations. We’ll see it fly by and wonder where all the time went.

I wonder, does anyone know what phase it is in life when things slow down? Please free to comment. I would like to hear from you.

Glad I Didn’t Pay Someone To Do This

Xeriscape Landscaping. (Pronounced ZERO-SCAPE). It’s a term familiar to desert dwellers who recognize the need to conserve water. The word comes from the Greek xeros, which means “dry.”

We have a xeriscape design in our backyard, where we make use of not only cacti and succulents to beautify the overall look of our outdoor rooms, but also the plants that do require regular watering are grouped together. It’s generally a low maintenance yard, particularly during the winter.

Of course, it was especially low-maintenance for us. For the last decade we’ve had a landscaping company taking care of it. Unfortunately, it seems as though this company has gone out of business. Since January, our guys—Tommy and Jerry—simply haven’t shown up, and phone calls have not been returned.

Having a messy yard was something we could live with during most of the winter. It was a cold, rainy season and we spent a lot of time indoors, ignoring our outdoor rooms.

BTW: By messy I mean an abundance of mesquite tree scrap. We have several mature mesquites on property and they are among the messiest trees in existence. If they’re not shedding bean pods, they’re shedding leaf clusters and rice-sized leaves that dry out after the winter freezes and then fall to the ground like snowflakes.

Well, it’s Spring, and there’s a party about to happen. There’s nothing like a party to get you thinking about cleaning up your house. So, yesterday, a gorgeous, sunny day in the Sonoran Desert, we enlisted the help of our kids. All four of us spent the afternoon cleaning up the scrap, and by sundown, it looked good.

Unfortunately, there was one problem. Along with the spring temperatures have come the spring winds. And this week has been very, very windy. (It’s so windy, that my bff Beaver walked off the golf course on Tuesday in the middle of the club championship!) Damn if we didn’t wake up this morning only to find a fresh new deposit of mesquite scrap littering the formerly impeccable grounds.

We have one more day before the big bash and I think we’ll wait until the last minute to do another blow. Sure glad we didn’t pay Tommy and Jerry to do what they do.

On another note, when we checked the pool heater we found that over the winter all the wiring had been eaten away by a tribe of nasty packrats, rendering it useless. The maintenance guy who DID show up today told me it wouldn’t be worth it to replace the parts.

Bottom line on a new pool heater? Three grand. It’s being installed tomorrow, and I have only one word to say about that:

"RATS!"

Did You Hear About the Cozzens?

We haven’t been to the movies together since just before Christmas, when we saw The Blind Side. It was a toss-up between what turned out to be Sandra Bullock’s Oscar-winning performance and the Hugh Grant/Sarah Jessica Parker film, Did You Hear About the Morgans. We both enjoyed The Blind Side and felt it was the right choice.

This morning, a windy Tuesday in Tucson, turned out to be not a very good outdoor workout day. Indoor workout days point to the elliptical machine. We’ve found the best way to pass the time on the elliptical is to watch TV while tallying up the miles and burning off the calories.

Today, we felt like a movie. So, while Mike jumped on the machine first, I used the On Demand feature on our DirecTV system and ordered Did You Hear About The Morgans.

At least I thought I did.

The film started out very dark. There was man waking up early, who then woke up his little brother. He met a group of guys in a locker room—actors we recognized like Matt Dillon and Laurence Fishburne—and they put on uniforms and showed off their guns. I thought it was strange that Hugh Grant and Sarah Jessica Parker would be in a film with these dudes.

Pushing the MENU button on my remote, I checked to make sure I had ordered the right movie. It clearly read: “Did You Hear About the Morgans.” I didn’t know anything about the story, other than it was supposed to be a comedy. The synopsis said it was about a couple in the witness protection program.

Okay . . . so we continued with the guys in the locker room and watched them get into armored vehicles. We figured the crime was about to happen, and that at any moment the Morgans would appear and be the witnesses.

Mike was sweating away, breathing heavily, while I snuggled up with a blanket, waiting to see what Sarah Jessica might be wearing and for this crime to take place. The lulling back-and-forth of the elliptical and the darkness of the film were putting me to sleep. Meanwhile, the guys in the armored truck made their pick-up and delivery. And there was no crime. No witnesses.

WTF?

I checked again. “Did You Hear About the Morgans” came up once more as the title of the film. We were thirty minutes into this thing and I was still trying to conjure up a way for the cute black guy, the rookie on the armored vehicle team, to get hooked up with Grant and Parker.

“You still think you’ve got the wrong movie, don’t you?” offered Mike, now about five-hundred calories lighter.

“I’d say I’m pretty certain.”

I explored the DirecTV menus and saw there was another On Demand film called Armored starring, of course, Matt Dillon and Laurence Fishburne.

DUH!

Obviously DirecTV had a programming glitch. I confirmed this by calling and made sure I didn’t get charged $5.99 for the wrong movie. And when I finally got a supervisor on the phone (after an automated system nightmare and a woman who was on the first day of the job and simply couldn’t understand my problem), both Mike and I were into the action film and wanted to see the outcome.

In the meantime, the Cozzens comedy team came up with several different plot scenarios merging these two films. And frankly, I think our versions were more entertaining than what was erroneously broadcasting into our bedroom.

I’d share them, but I promised my husband I’d keep it all in the witness protection program.

Is Soccer Coach Innocent or Guilty?

A couple weeks ago a story ran on the front page of the Sunday paper, the Arizona Daily Star. It was about two local club soccer coaches who had lost their coaching privileges due to allegations of inappropriate conduct. I was quoted in this article.

The reporter on the story found me through an “Internet search,” because my daughter belonged to the club where the coaches were last employed in Tucson. She’s no longer in this club, but because I was a team manager last year, I was on some kind of list. Apparently so was our phone number.

Turns out I knew the coaches in question, however, I had no idea about the allegations and found the story shocking, disturbing and sad. These two men were very good coaches, and my daughter never had a problem with either one. The reporter asked if I thought the club owed it to the membership to share the information about the allegations, which were upheld by the AYSO (Arizona Youth Soccer Organization).

I really wasn’t sure. I didn’t know how I—or my daughter—would benefit by having this knowledge. If anything, I simply wanted to know the truth, and by answering the phone that day, this reporter made the truth of the story my business.

So, after I spoke with him, I asked a few questions of my own. (I used to be a reporter, too). I found out that the club administrators were not officially made aware of the AYSO decision against the two coaches because neither was employed by the club when the ban went into effect. And because of a lot of inter-club politics/competition/fighting, the club in question wasn’t willing to talk to the reporter, who—as it turns out—happened to be a coach for one of the competing clubs.

Suddenly, the story smelled a little bit like a conflict of interest. I confronted the reporter on this “allegation,” and he claimed to have no inside information about the case and no knowledge of the depth and drama between competing local soccer clubs. He also claimed his editor was fully aware of his personal involvement with local youth soccer.

Anyway, because representatives from the club that formerly employed the accused coaches wouldn’t talk to the reporter to provide a lot of pertinent details to the story/case—and it didn’t have the obligation or even the legal right to inform past and current club members about the allegations—this became the job of the newspaper. And it used a sensational front-page headline to do so.

Unfortunately, I don’t believe all the facts were presented.

Consequently, the article succeeded at tarnishing the names and reputations of the coaches (and the club) and follow-up articles further reported that one of the coaches (the one still coaching soccer in California) resigned from his university coaching job as a result of the story. Turns out that like me, his employer first heard of the allegations when this reporter phoned him looking for background/comments. The university reportedly completed a background check on the coach before hiring him, however, the allegations ultimately upheld by the AYSO weren’t filed until after he left Arizona.

I’m still not sure I’ve heard all the “truth” to this story. The main thing I did learn is that the general public does NOT understand the difference between “allegations” and “charges.” Yes, the AYSO claims to have found sufficient reason to uphold the allegations, but no formal or criminal charges have been filed. The coach had an attorney at the AYSO hearing; however, the attorney wasn’t allowed to speak. Further, I understand there were conflicting documents by the accuser, who essentially accused him of “flirting.” And because the paper used the phrase “sexual misconduct,” he’s been labeled as everything from a “scum bag” to a “sex offender.”

Meanwhile, the coach continues to deny the accusations and according to the newspaper (and my sources as well) is planning to appeal his case.

This newspaper has played a powerful role. The reported accusations—regardless of whether or not they’re true—have caused a good coach to go down in flames. (BTW: The ban on coaching youth soccer is effective nationwide). If the allegations are ultimately found to be without merit and no charges are filed, one can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever be able to regain his reputation as a successful and valuable coach. Either way, will there be another front-page story?

I also wonder if there’s ANYONE who truly believes in our criminal justice system’s concept that the accused are INNOCENT until proven guilty. How about you?

Death of a Saguaro

It’s a sad day in the Sonoran Desert. We don’t complain about abundant rain in the desert—ever. Unfortunately, however, when the ground gets very soft it’s possible that a shallow-rooted giant will be unearthed. Such was the case for the 35-foot mature saguaro cactus in our back yard.

Boom. It fell to pieces.

We didn’t hear it fall, only discovered it dead on the desert floor. Looking at it all twisted and gnarled—broken and sad, it feels like we should get out police tape and make an outline.

The saguaro is a slow grower and takes a decade to grow its first inch. After 75 years it will grow arms. It’s exclusive to the Sonoran Desert and is protected by the Arizona Native Plant Law.

Clearly, Mother Nature has no respect for this law.

We knew this saguaro—number two of three on our property to go down since we’ve lived here—wasn’t in the best of health, and noticed it leaning like the Tower of Pisa for several months. We suspect it suffered from “saguaro rot,” which is a bacterial infection.

Regardless of the cause of death, we’re all saddened by the loss.

"I Am Suck"

It’s a terrible phase.

I struggled with a manuscript, wrote in a vacuum and finally got to the words, THE END. I read it from start to finish and thought it was okay. I sent it off and didn’t look at it for almost two weeks. And then finally, I had the courage to read it again.

Oh no. It’s crap. It needs a lot of work. It doesn’t make sense. Who is going to get this? Why would anyone be interested? This is just far-fetched and unbelievable. The whole thing has just been one big waste of time.

It’s a terrible phase.

My friend, Robin, a wonderful and talented author/performer/recording artist, once told me it’s called the “I am suck” phase, and many artists/writers go through it. I went through it with the last two novels I wrote and each time, it led me to massive editing and rewriting. Back then I had it in me. Now? I’m not sure. For right now, it’s led me to a sleepless night.

It’s a terrible phase.

In her first book, Piano Girl, A Memoir, Robin illustrates this so-called phase as an ongoing voice in her head called “the voice of doom.” She overpowers the voice with hard work and determination. The fact that she’s extremely talented also gives her power over the voice, and she ultimately succeeds again and again. I wish I had that kind of resolve. But frankly, I’m tired.

It’s a terrible phase.

Perhaps when it comes back from the editor and a few chosen readers, there will be some helpful suggestions—at least some guidance to help get me into the phase of once again feeling good about the work. Because right now the mantra in my head is only telling me, “I am suck.”

Milka—What?

I, for one, didn’t give a single thought to actress/party-girl Lindsay Lohan when I first saw the E-Trade commercial that originally aired during the Super Bowl. And now, thanks to her $100 million lawsuit alleging E-Trade illegally used her name, she’s forever attached to this commercial.

Does anyone else smell a publicity hoax? It’s an absurd lawsuit that has succeeded at getting her name in the news and E-Trade’s commercial shown again and again on television. And this is just the kind of crap the media laps up. Lindsay has already been labeled as a lesbian, a lunatic and a lime-light-loving narcissist. Why should she be phased by being called a “milka-holic?” If anything, that’s the kindest thing she’s been called.

If she owns a copyright on the name “Lindsay,” or has any supplemental rights to its use, why isn’t she suing the hundreds of thousands of parents who’ve opted to give their children this name?

Two years ago I was in a copyright dispute over use of the word BUNCO (or BUNKO), which we wanted to use in the title of my second novel (ultimately called It’s Not Your Mother’s Bridge Club). Prior to publication, my publisher contacted the World Bunco Association, located in southern California, announcing the title (The Bunco Chronicles), which was a story about a group of women who play the popular dice game. He hoped to generate an association with this organization and promote book sales to this target audience. Instead the response he received was to “cease and desist” in the name of copyright infringement.

Leslie Crouch, association president, claimed to hold all rights to the use of this word for many things, including book titles. In spite of my publisher’s and his attorney’s rejection of this claim, we met with her and attempted to negotiate a deal. Turns out she wanted fifty percent of the royalties, which most would agree was almost as absurd as Lindsay Lohan’s price tag. Considering most copyright deals fall between three and ten percent, it all felt like a great big bunco operation.

We soon learned the World Bunco Association only had “supplemental” rights to the word and according to our research (which included conversations with ten different attorneys) Crouch wasn’t entitled to have exclusive use of the word. This doesn’t mean she didn’t have the right to sue if we did use it. And although we believed she wouldn’t win the case, we’d spend far too much in legal fees defending our right to use the word bunco (even if we spelled it with a K). No one but the lawyers would have made a dime off my little bunko novel.

It could have been a win-win situation for the book and the association but everything about the ordeal ended up feeling wrong. So, we changed the name of the book.

Reviews were good but sales were modest at best. My small publisher doesn’t have a big publicity department and I, unfortunately, am not as narcissistic and lime-light-loving as Lindsay Lohan. I haven’t pounded the publicity pavement as much as I should have if I wanted the novel to be a true success.

Damn! Why didn’t I give my alcoholic character (Tara) the name Lindsay? Maybe Lindsay Lohan would have sued me for $100 million (or fifty percent of the profits) and my book would have been all over the news.

Live and learn.

Q: How Do You Get Your Teenager to be Sweet Again?

A: Let her go on a date

She’ll be fifteen very soon—so soon, she’s planning her birthday party. But for now, she’s still fourteen. And she doesn’t look it. Ask anyone. Last month when she was trying on dresses for the Winter Formal dance, the saleswoman kept bringing sophisticated, low-cut, sexy dresses to the dressing room.

“Can you please stop bringing these little numbers that make her look like a dominatrix?” I asked. “She’s only fourteen.”

Our assistant, herself barely beyond her teens, dropped her jaw. “OMG!” she gasped. “I thought she was at least seventeen!”

I’m not sure at what age a dominatrix outfit becomes appropriate, but when we added the three-inch heels to the little black dress we ultimately chose, this six-foot blonde did not look like a freshman on her way to her first high school dance.

Every parent of teenagers will warn you how quickly they grow up. When you’re carting around sweet, little babies or have a toddler grasping your hand and smiling at strangers who admire them, you may hear the words “just wait!” a few too many times. We also heard, “You’re going to have your hands full!” and “Better get your shotgun ready for when the boys come calling.”

Our daughter was not comfortable with the attention she received when first starting high school. Not only did we feel she was too young to date, she also knew she wasn’t ready. But last night, something changed. She said “okay;” and we said “okay,” and no one had to hunt down a shotgun. All the rules were met, the formalities observed, and the only thing her daddy asked the boy was, “are you a good driver?”

“I’m an excellent driver,” he said. And he drove her home a few minutes before her curfew. Everyone was happy.

With our seventh grader away at a party and our freshman on a date, that meant we had the house to ourselves, and it was a lovely evening in front of the fireplace for mommy and daddy. We recalled how many times we’d heard the words, “Just wait!” and couldn’t help but smile.

Was this what we were waiting for?

O-Plump My Way to High-Maintenance Lips

Have you ever known someone who was so beautiful, that every time you saw her, you couldn’t help but crane your neck and take notice? I have a friend who is a few years younger than I, who has turned my head from the first day I saw her.

She claims to be “high-maintenance” and I’m not quite sure if that means she requires a lot of assistance from others to help her maintain her lifestyle or if she’s referring to the amount of time she spends maintaining her personal appearance. She once told me she gets up early everyday and hits the gym, before returning home to blowout her hair, eat a full breakfast, and get her kids off to school. Then she heads to the office and puts in a full day’s work there.

Whatever the case, you have to admire her. She takes a bite out of life, and without question, she looks good while doing it.

When we first became friends, she insisted we had similar hair and promised she could teach me how to tame it. It involved a trip to an upscale beauty supplier and the purchase of an expensive blow dryer, hairbrush, and glossing product. “You should try this mascara, too,” she said—a subtle attempt at the complete makeover. I bought it all, but admit I never quite mastered the ability to use the equipment. Nor did I adapt the desire to become a ‘high-maintenance’ woman.

Frankly, I don’t go out that much. And my kids and my husband don’t mind a makeup-free face and a curly ponytail protruding from the top of my head. (At least I don’t think they do). And if I ever feel dumpy, I either go for a run or jump on the elliptical and watch programs like Project Runway or Real Housewives recorded on my DVR. These so-called reality shows never fail to me make me feel a lot better about myself—and my life.

Meanwhile, the last couple times I got together with my beautiful friend, she pulled me aside and coated my bare lips with an intoxicating substance that has caused me an addiction.

“Try this,” she said, while producing a small silver tube with a pink cap. “You’ll totally love it. It brings out the natural color of your lips and livens ‘em up at the same time.”

I took the bait and applied the clear substance to my otherwise thin, unremarkable lips. After ten seconds, all I could say was, “WOW!” Not only did my lips transform into a lovely shade of pink, they swelled up to the point that I looked a bit like Meg Ryan after the collagen injections.

Well, not really, but the buzz in my lips got me a little high. It’s fair to say my vision was probably distorted. Plus, I wasn’t wearing my reading glasses, so I couldn’t see what I really looked like in the mirror.

This remarkable lip jazz is called O-Plump by Smashbox. And I’m totally addicted. Oddly, so are my naturally plump-lipped daughters since I couldn’t help but share the experience with them.

The labeling on the tube suggests this “intuitive silky lip enhancement” will transform your lips into a “plumped-up pout.”

Okay, whatever. It’s far better than Carmex (the substance to which I was addicted in college). I have to say, I love the O-Plump because of the color, and because my beautiful friend recommended it.

Don’t Mess With Me

I am the meanest Mommy in town. Don’t mess with me.

With this statement, I’m addressing my kids as well as anyone who deals with my kids. And by the way, this includes the kids to whom I gave birth, and the kids I love.

Trust me, I love a lot of kids in this town.

I’ve been a soccer coach—soccer MOM—a volleyball coach, a reading coach, a writing coach, a room mother, a mom helper, a carpool driver, and to many of these kids, an active mentor and a passive Facebook friend.

Know this: If you deal with my kids, I’ve got my eye on you. I’m eternally grateful to those of you—teachers, coaches, counselors, youth group directors, etc.—who have served as wonderful examples and guiders. Some of you understand that their time as children is brief and precious. I have no use for you if you have even the slightest negative influence upon them . . . unless, of course, they can learn something important/relevant about the world due to your negative impact.

And if you harm my kids or the kids I know and love, rest assured, I’ll be willing to miss a deadline or pull a muscle to expose you.

Sorry About the Blog

My email inbox often contains messages with tips about successful blogging. I wish I had time to read all of them. Those I do read, consistently note the importance of consistency in posting. Apparently, I have a failure of a blog. No matter how hard I try, I can’t be consistent.

I’m afraid I’m stretched far too thin and simply don’t have time to keep up the posting. It’s not like when I was a weekly newspaper columnist in the San Francisco Bay Area and someone actually paid me to express my feelings on any number of subjects.

I wonder, do newspaper columnists still exist or has everyone turned to blogging?

Anyway, as a sometimes blogger and an active novelist who is just beginning to see the light at the end of the manuscript, I’m living in another world while I work. If I worked in a vacuum tube the new novel would have been completed by my first self-imposed deadline; however, I work in a home. It’s an active home filled with kids, laundry, dirty dishes, a chihuahua who prefers to poop inside on chilly winter days, occasional houseguests, a calendar filled with car pools, soccer games and volleyball tournaments, and a business telephone line that won’t stop ringing. Unfortunately, most of the calls are from solicitors wanting me to buy something rather than customers who want to buy something from me.

Does ANYONE know how to get these people to stop calling? Every DO NOT CALL list or method of getting the computers to throw out my number has failed. I really don’t want to be rude when there’s an actual human on the other end of the phone who’s just trying to do his job, but damn it! I’m just trying to do my job too.

Because of distractions and time limitations, blogging has had to take a backseat to my real jobs. Blogging for me, and most likely for many writers, is like exercise or training. And I think it’s easy to neglect exercise when our lives become too hectic. (I haven’t been on the Elliptical since Monday!) Writing a novel, on the other hand, is more like running a marathon. Let me put it this way: when I run an eight-minute mile I feel really good about myself; however, if I manage to write eight pages in a day, I’m ecstatic. Some days, I settle for a single page and remind myself how difficult it can be.

Now, given I’ve already responded to 23 emails this morning, taken three calls and responded to two voicemails, AND I’ve managed to whine my way through another blog, it’s time to go back to my Irish Twins. I’m really dying to find out what the younger one is going to do next.

Twelve at Twelve on January 12

Today is January 12, 2010 and if you live in Tucson, wherever you happen to be at 12 noon, city officials are asking that you stop, look around, and collect whatever trash you see . . . for twelve minutes.

There's no sign-up involved, no report required, just an eye for litter, two hands for collection, and a trash bag.

I have my own beautification project this morning—a hair appointment—which could have me sitting in the stylist's chair at 12 noon. If so, I promise to sweep up my follicles. If I'm finished, I'll be the blonder, more perfectly coiffed woman picking up the stuff I usually run past during my morning workout.

Twelve minutes at Twelve Noon Today. Let's help keep Tucson beautiful.

Cash for Cookies

With one exception, I have a problem with turning our children into door-to-door vendors. There’s something about putting them on a par with Fuller Brush and Encyclopedia salesmen—not to mention the Jehovah Witnesses—that feels wrong.

Over the years my kids have been asked to sell everything from magazine subscriptions and wrapping paper to holiday poinsettia plants. I wouldn’t let them sell the subscriptions; however, with the poinsettias, we had a choice of donating a mandatory $200 to the soccer club instead of having them go door-to-door, so my principles took a backseat. We sent them only to trusted houses in the neighborhood and after four years in this club, built up a clientele.

The other exception I make when it comes to selling things door-to-door is for the Girl Scouts. I’ve ordered Girl Scout cookies from my front doorstep for as many years as I can remember. There’s something irresistible about not only the cookies themselves, but also about the polite little girl in uniform doing her job for her troop and her organization.

Well, now even that experience has been tainted.

Yesterday, the sweetest little girl you can imagine rang the bell. Accompanied by her daddy and her big brother, she asked us if we were interested in buying her cookies. My daughters flew to the front door to put in their bids for Lemon Chalet Cremes, Thin Mints and Tagalongs. (I could order a case of Tagalongs for this household and it would never be enough.) We soon learned that our little neighborhood Girl Scout only had one box of Tagalongs available, because as it turns out, the Girl Scouts are no longer taking orders. We could only buy the boxes she had on the wagon parked next to her. And there was more:

“We’re only accepting cash for cookies this year,” said the daddy. “It’s because last year the Girl Scouts took in over $200,000 in bad checks.”

Two-HUNDRED-thousand? That’s a horrifyingly large number. I remember reading last year that Girl Scout cookie sales were down by some 20%, and the economy was to blame. But to couple that with $200,000 in losses? I haven’t been able to verify this number, so I can’t say for certain it’s fact; however, obviously something big enough and bad enough caused the organization to drastically change its cookie sale technique.

I purchased four boxes and came up with the cash, including three dollars worth of quarters. If I could have placed an order and ultimately written a check, this little Girl Scout would have made far more money from our craving for Tagalongs.

I realize times are tough and as a business owner, I understand what it means to deal with the occasional bounced check. In fact, I’m dealing with a sizable one right now, and it’s taking far too much time and causing a lot of frustration. It galls me no end that someone has the nerve to pay for a product with fake money and then act surprised and appalled when the case gets filed first with the police and then with the district attorney. Pay attention: Writing a bad check is an illegal act.

In other words, IT’S AGAINST THE LAW YOU IDIOTS.

I wonder if the Girl Scouts are going to take additional steps to teach their scouts the hard realities of modern day business. They’ve set the bar for successful door-to-door sales. Now they need to teach the girls about dealing with the criminals who make their cookies crumble. Perhaps it won’t be too long before they add a BOUNCED check badge to their lineup.

A Lousy Textcuse for Communication

At the risk of invading my children’s privacy, I can’t let this one slide. Breaking up with someone by text—be it a best friend or a boyfriend—is bullshit. It’s weak. It’s bad form. It’s pathetic, lazy and, well stupid. And SOB if it didn’t happen to my kids not once but twice this week.

Text messaging, or texting, has its place and I have used it to communicate more than I ever thought I would. Usually, however, it’s about meeting times and places and sharing sports scores with those who couldn’t make it to the game. I’ve even learned to let punctuation slide and use shorthand on words like “2” and “ur” and “k.”

It’s especially handy for communicating phone numbers or for contacting your nephew across the country to have him supply the punch line for a joke you just couldn’t quite get right.

Texting is handier than email and certainly briefer than a conversation. It has its positive place in communication technology. But to use it to break up with someone?

That’s just bullshit.


I think we’ve all had occasion to make a phone call knowing it was more likely we’d face an answering machine rather than have a conversation; however, that’s usually for things like regrets to a basket, botox, candle, clothing, jewelry, taser or Tupperware party. Email has been another outlet and I, for one, check my email in-box far more than my voicemail. These have become not only handier but also accepted forms of communication. After all, not all of us are equal when it comes to social communication skills. And really, these days, who has the time for a conversation?

But are we really ready to completely dump the art of conversation when it comes to our personal relationships? 

Our kids sure seem to think so.

At first I thought it was funny that junior high kids who claimed to be “going out,” did so by having a strictly texting relationship. They didn’t go bowling, bike-riding or to the movies. As far as I could tell, they didn’t even talk to one another. Instead, they texted—even when they were in the same room. They “went out” by texting and they “broke up” by texting.

In high school, however, the relationship/s appeared to mature a bit. There was little texting and a lot of time spent together, albeit primarily in group settings. Come to think of it, I remember hearing a few complaints that the ultimate bad breakup boy in this story was pretty lame about responding to texts and therefore, he rarely showed up to the movies or to the parties. I started to think some time ago that he wasn’t a very good boyfriend. And he sure proved it last night when he finally figured out how to use the text messaging function on his phone.

My daughter will be fine and she rebounded very quickly. In fact, over breakfast this morning it was she who used the word “weak” to describe the text breakup. I, on the other hand, could only come up with a few annoying clichés such as “you have to kiss a few frogs before you find your prince;” and “there’s a lot of fish in the ocean . . .” And, of course, I pointed out how stupid it was for him to send the text on a Wednesday when he had to face her in school the next day. If he had any brains he’d have waited til Friday to drop the breakup bomb.

On our ride to school I reminded her that the best response—maybe even the best revenge—was to continue to be excellent. She not only can rely on herself, but also on some pretty great friends to help remind her how truly excellent she is. Hopefully, she’ll learn from the experience and soon forget about the boyfriend and his rude breakup method. After all, the poor dope didn’t know a good thing when it was in front of him having a real conversation or when it was spelled out in text messaging.

A Daughter’s Tears

We did the right thing last night by demanding the Wii turned off, rooms cleaned, and new semester notebooks and next-day’s outfits be readied by ten p.m. We did the right thing by waking them at nine yesterday and demanding they get ready and go to Sunday school. We believed it would soften the blow of the six a.m. wake-up call on Monday morning after two weeks off of regular school. Certain aspects of parenting aren’t too difficult to figure out.

And then there are other aspects.

We’d said our goodnights by ten, climbed in bed and turned on a DVD—one definitely inappropriate for kids, but one I soon learned our teenager had already seen at least four times. Twenty minutes into it, there was a soft knock on the door. We hit the pause button. Without a doubt, we knew the knock had come from our younger, more innocent daughter. What we didn’t expect, however, was to see her tears and hear her say, “I can’t sleep because I’m nervous about going to school tomorrow.”

She spent most of her break playing with her sister and then also with a good friend when she returned from an out-of-town Christmas visit with extended family. Throughout the break, our daughter was joyful and fun, seemingly without care. And then she received a bizarre and hurtful text. It was from another friend, who told her she no longer wanted to be “best friends,” and didn’t want to hang out with her at school anymore. In spite of having other friends, it broke our daughter’s heart and, truly, there was nothing we could do to fix it.

Why? Because we didn’t want to climb aboard the “Drama Triangle.”

 

The Drama Triangle, also known as “the Victim Triangle,” the “Emotional Triangle,” and even the “Blame Machine,” was introduced by Dr. Stephen Karpman in 1968. (It is also called the “Karpman Triangle.”) It’s a toxic social behavior dyanamic involving three roles: The Perpetrator; The Victim; and The Rescuer.

The key word/role in this triangle is VICTIM. The Victim is at the bottom of the triangle, and according to Karpman, is the anchor of the dynamic. The Victim fuels the energy, and in spite of where a person enters the triangle in any given situation, victimization spins the triangle, and each person involved can and will do time in the position of Victim.

Briefly, the roles are defined as follows:

The Victim places blame and looks for someone to pity her, rescue her, or take responsibility for her.

The Perpetrator attacks the Victim as a means of retaliation, believing she has a good reason behind her actions. Her attack makes her feel powerful.

The Rescuer is the self-proclaimed “good guy.” She feels better about herself for believing she’s saving the day and often takes pride in helping others while failing to take care of herself. Meanwhile, not only does she foster dependency, she often ends up feeling resentful when the Victim fails to thank her, thus becoming a victim of the Victim.

And round and round they go, spinning from point to point to point. It’s a bumpy, uncomfortable ride.

 

Last night’s tears could have easily cajoled me into the Rescuer role, a natural place for any woman, particularly a mother. I’m very familiar with that place on the triangle, not only in situations within my own family, but also with other relationships in my life. But thanks to a timely conversation with a friend at church yesterday, also a mother and a student of psychology, she pointed me in the direction that helped me to avoid the Drama Triangle. She mentioned the Karpman Triangle by name, and reminded me of the power one has to first recognize behavior patterns and then to make the right choices to avoid toxic or unproductive outcomes.

This morning I collected a pile of tissues as big as a snowman’s head from my daughter’s nightstand and tossed them in the trash. Then I drew the Triangle diagram and asked her to point out her role. Naturally, she pointed to “Victim.”  Over waffles I explained the roles as best as I could and then we talked about her learning to take responsibility and believing in the ability to take care of herself. I told my beautiful daughter that she had the POWER to escape the cycle. “Whenever we fail to take responsibility for ourselves, we end up on the triangle,” I said, quoting material I had found on the Internet after speaking with my friend. If the girls at school starting teasing her about her hair, her size or accusing her of things she didn't do, she had a choice to make in how she was going to respond. With tears? Or with strength of character.

Finally, I gave her a slip of paper and asked her to put it in her pocket. “You always have a choice,” it read. I suggested she take it out and read it anytime during the day if she started to feel like a victim of adolescent girl behavior at school.

Then I put her on the bus and prayed to the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. God, I hope I helped her.

A Penny for Your Thoughts on 2009

1. What did you think of 2009? It began on a positive note. I believed the country was headed toward change. I bought it. But here at the end of December, it doesn’t feel like much—if anything—has changed, besides the fact that like the President, my hair has gotten grayer.

2. What do you think was the news story of the year? The US Airways plane landing in the Hudson River.

3. What happened this year that you never want to hear another word about? Tiger Woods’ conga line of mistresses.

4. What was your favorite song of 2009? Can’t answer this. I listen to “my kids’ music” when I’m driving them all over town and frankly, it’s all crap. Will SOMEONE please send me some GOOD new music?

5. What did you accomplish this year? Increased business revenues in a down economy; wrote/published 100+ blogs; moved ahead on my newest manuscript; made several new friends from my daughter’s new soccer team; re-established contact with my brother—although once again, I haven’t heard from him in weeks; stayed physically fit; managed home, kids, marriage and business and feel it’s a happy home.

6. Did you learn anything new this year? Yes. Vocabulary words, of course, and a new method of telling whether or not the moon is waxing or waning. I also learned how to use a Nikon D90 camera.

7. What are you looking forward to in the new year? Using my new camera; watching my daughters play soccer and volleyball; laughing with my husband (because it’s my favorite thing to do); and finishing my manuscript.

8. What are your plans for New Year's Eve? Going to a party.

9. What's the best thing you ever did on a New Year's Eve? I learned the words to “Auld Lang Syne” from my friend Jeanine during a snowstorm. Everyone should know the words to this song—and their meaning—on New Year’s Eve.

Happy New Year everyone. Thanks for reading, and all best to all of you in 2010. Stay in touch.

Love,

Michele

A Bad Hair Blast from the 1980s

All it takes is a brief look back to determine with absolute certainty that the 1980s were filled with a lot of big, bad hair.

I heard from an old friend today, someone I’d actually given up for dead until a surprise message turned up in my “in” box. Thank goodness for the Internet and a thing called Google. This woman, who actually served as a bridesmaid at our 1989 wedding, got in touch after Googling my name. I believe the search led her to my blog, which led her to my author website, email address and, to one of my books, The Things I Wish I’d Said. Given this book was, in part, a lot about my life shortly after I was married, she remembered a lot of it. I’m not sure whether or not she remembered why we fell out of touch, but truthfully, it’s not important. I am very happy to hear from her.

My longhaired bridesmaid included good news about her life and then, hit the old photo albums and made a few scans. “Here are some of the hundreds of pics I have from the times we shared,” she wrote. I couldn’t wait to see which ones she chose.

The first was of Mike and me as Phil Donahue and Oprah Winfrey on Halloween, circa 1987. I remember we had only one ‘Mr. Microphone,’ (that yellow thing in his pocket) and fought over it all night saying things like, “Caller, you’re on the air!” I also remember doing a pretty decent pass as an African-American person. That was until an actual African-American friend showed up at the party and told me that my “blue eyes would never allow me to pass as a sistah!” There was no question, though, that Mike was the spittin’ image of Mr. Donahue.

She also included a photo (at top) of what looked like a double date, with one of the guys who stood up for Mike at our wedding. Neither Mike nor I can remember if it was a set-up, but we know nothing ever brewed between the two of them. Perhaps it was because of the cigar in her hand???

There were others, but I thoroughly enjoyed seeing the picture at left, of three girls in their late 20s at a San Francisco comedy club. I’ve known the blonde woman since elementary school and she currently lives in Tucson, not too far from us. Her son and my daughter correspond more than we do, but we get together when we can. She’s one of those people that no matter how much time elapses, we can pretty much pick up where we left off.

I’m not sure the same can be said for my bridesmaid. It’s been close to 20 years since I’ve heard from her. But for a moment today, this blast from the 1980s reminded me of a very carefree and fun time in my life. I’m grateful for the memories.

And I absolutely do NOT miss the hair. Thank you Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuusan.