Category Archives: Figuring Stuff Out

Japan

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The images are inconceivable.

The pain and fear they must be feeling is beyond comprehension.

I watched a story last night about a mother and child who were washed out to sea by tsunami. I can’t get it out of my head. The young mother was doing everything in her power to hold on to her infant daughter, but she was outmatched by the power and magnitude of the waves and debris. They were eventually separated, and the baby was lost. That feeling is far too awful to imagine. Even so, I flash what if that were me thoughts in my brain. What if that was my child being ripped from my arms? I shutter and jerk, like I suddenly stepped off a curb in a dream. Then I thank God, in this moment, that she’s fine. We’re fine.

But, what about them?

There are so many stories. Breaking news plays like background music. CNN has replaced Nick Jr. in my home, and I can’t seem to bring myself to change the channel. Even if I could, it wouldn’t shut off my head.

Earthquakes… tsunami… nuclear threat?? How much more can these poor people handle? When will enough be enough? How much is too much? Haven’t we passed that point yet?

“1000 corpses washed to shore” just ticked across the bottom of the screen… 2000 more bodies found under rubble? An estimated 10,000 dead. Possibly more? When will the numbers stop?

We live in a world where anything can happen.

While we hope and pray that anything will mean something good for us and our loved ones, the fact that anything could be something so horrific makes me cringe.

My daughter is in my arms as I type this blog. I fight to blink back tears. But, I can’t.

Hold your loved ones closer, tighter today. Remind them how much you love them. Be thankful for your beautiful life and all the blessings and stresses which come with it. Appreciate your friends and family. Be thankful that you have food and shelter, and a spare blanket to keep you warm. Some people don’t have a spare anything.

There are too many malnourished, mistreated, sick, abused, impoverished, pain-stricken souls in our world. They need our help. Right now, Japan needs our help, and we must do whatever we can.

We can’t help thanking God that it’s not us. But, that doesn’t mean we should think of this as something happening to them.

In a world where anything can happen, you never know when the tide will turn, when the shoe will be on the other foot, when we and they will shift. Please take a moment out of your life and do something to help someone in need. It is our duty to help. It is our privilege. People are fighting for their lives and for the lives of their children… our children.

We are one world.

This is not about them.

This is about us.

If you want my opinion

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I broke up with a credit card company last week, and they sent me a survey. It was your basic ‘how did you like our service?’ type survey. Um, I would think it should go without saying that if I liked it, I wouldn’t be dumping your sorry ass. Do they really want to know, on a scale of 1 to 10, how much I hate them?

The world is inundated with surveys. Telemarketers call us at home, asking for just 15 minutes of our time… always during dinner, or at least that’s the excuse I use to get off the phone.

They want answers for everything: market research, political opinions, customer feedback. I don’t recall the last time I walked through a mall without someone with a clipboard approaching me for just a few minutes of my time or trying to corner me in the food court. Product surveys, service surveys? How about surveys about surveys and your survey experience? I’m sure those exist too.

Who takes the time to fill these out? Someone must, or why would they be so popular?

I’m constantly getting emails asking me to take surveys from home, promising I’ll make millions. I’m sure you get those too. I signed up for one, in my early 20s, and quickly learned that it wasn’t for me. It takes more than time; it requires stamina to fill out survey after survey on every topic imaginable. To this day, I still receive the occasional email begging me to come back and take another survey.

This got me thinking. Since we’re already such a survey friendly society, wouldn’t it be fun, or at least funny, to have a survey ready to go for other situations?

How about…

1 – First Date Survey: A first date survey would be an excellent opportunity to get feedback on your dating skills, and there’s no better way to show that you care about your date’s feelings and opinions. Of course, you’ll want to choose your moment carefully. And, no matter what you’ve been told, waiting a whole three days is not a good idea! For accurate and timely results, I recommend picking a moment near the end of the date. The question is do you hand it to your date before or after the big first kiss? Before, and not only can you find out if they’re ready and willing, but you can ask about style and technique preferences (Q: on a scale from 1 to Niagara, how much tongue is too much?), while you take time to pop a Mentos. After, and you can get feedback on the kiss itself. Either way works.

2 – Jury Duty Survey: Jury duty takes all day and they ask so many questions. Why not hand the judge, lawyers and fellow jurors a brief opinion survey and ask a few questions of your own? But keep in mind: you snooze, you lose. Different states have different rules. There’s no way of knowing if or when you’ll be randomly chosen again. And, who knows? Maybe this will somehow alter your odds of getting selected. Surely, you won’t be getting sequestered. You certainly don’t want to miss the opportunity!

3 – Neighbor Survey: If you rent, why not corner your neighbors by the mailboxes or on their way in/out of the building. If upscale is more your cup of tea, have your doorman hand the surveys out for you. Ask questions about noise level concerns or weird smells. You may be the weird, noisy, smelly neighbor, and you’ll never know unless you ask. While this would work best (or maybe worst) in an apartment building setting, homeowners can do it too. Why not hand out surveys on your block or around the neighborhood? How do you like my parking? How annoying is my dog? Or, rate my Christmas decorations.

4 – Parenting Survey: If you’re lucky enough to have your kids move out or go away to college at 18-ish, why not pass them a survey while they’re packing? Ask your son or daughter’s opinion on your parenting abilities or how they’ve enjoyed their extended stay. It’s a great opportunity to get an additional opinion on whether you should turn his/her bedroom into a home office or gym. Remember, nothing says I love you like a survey.

5 – Relationship Break-Up Survey: You get the old “it’s not you, it’s me” line. Instead of crying, pleading for another chance, begging for breakup sex or wasting your breath asking a ton of why me? questions, why not whip out a survey instead? Imagine the look on your new X’s face. Priceless!

I’m sure there are plenty of other examples.

With the economy in its current state, maybe this is an untapped job opportunity?

Personally, I’d love to sit around all day and write surveys! Wouldn’t that be fun? If you’re the one writing them, you could make them about whatever you want, and even sneak in a few subtle jokes, double entendres or subliminal messages here and there just to see if anyone’s actually paying attention. I mean, why not? You could corner the market on all sorts of surveys.

But, please don’t ask me to take your survey. On a scale of 1 to 10, they’re such a waste of time.

Lyla Calling

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When I was a teen, my parents complained that I was always on the phone. It’s the classic battle between parents and adolescent girls. My daughter Lyla is just a toddler, and I can already relate.

Last week, after searching for my cell phone for nearly three days, I finally found it inside her crib, under her pillow. She’d managed to somehow smuggle it in there and hide it. She made good use of her time too, managing to change my ringtone, make a few calls, and delete my incoming call list (leaving me no way of knowing who may have called). Last but certainly not least, she took two pictures of the ceiling in her nursery and one of her hand. While impressed, I was also grateful that she hadn’t yet figured out how to get into my voicemail. I’m sure she would have wreaked all sorts of havoc there too.

It probably goes without saying that Lyla loves playing with phones. Any phone will do. Cell phones, blackberries, land lines, mine, yours; she has no preference. She has plenty of toy phones, and she practices on them. But, she prefers to play phone on real phones.

While playing, she occasionally dials out. If you’ve called me recently, she might even call you back. Typically she dials the same people, mostly relatives and friends, usually those on speed dial, but she also likes to switch it up every now and again by pecking randomly at the caller ID list or by making selections from my contact list. She’s partial to names that begin with the letter “A.”

Whenever our home phone rings, she runs to answer it – not a problem when it’s someone familiar. But, about a month ago, a telemarketer called and she answered. My plan was to let it ring until the voicemail picked up, but she felt compelled to take the call. I assumed that the caller would realize she was too young to buy whatever he was selling and eventually hang up, but he was persistent. My daughter listened politely to his whole pitch before handing me the phone, at which point all I heard was, “can you put your mommy on the phone?” At least she listens and takes direction! Not planning on buying the New York Times, I apologized profusely and hung up.

About a week ago, we were at the pediatrician’s office for Lyla’s 18 month checkup. While she and I waited our turn in the waiting room, of all places, the office phone rang. Before the receptionist had the chance to answer, Lyla had already put her own hand to her own ear and said, “Hello?”

To be fair, she actually says, “Huh-whoa,” but still.

Whenever our home phone rings and I answer, she mimics me (or mocks me, if you will). She runs around me, in circles, with her little hand to her ear shouting “Huh-whoa? Huh-whoa!” the whole time. It’s 100% impossible to ignore.

On Friday, she was playing with my cell phone when she, accidentally or perhaps on purpose, called my husband’s cell. His is usually the last number dialed out, so that was an easy one. When he answered and realized it was her calling and not me, he expected to at least hear me in the background laughing. When that didn’t happen, he quickly dialed our land line from his blackberry (AKA: his work phone).

“Are you with Lyla because she just called me?” he asked. “She’s playing in the other room,” I replied as I promptly ran from one end of our apartment to the other. We live in New York. Believe me, it wasn’t far. When I got to her, she had my cell phone in one hand and our second house phone in her other hand. My husband voice echoed through both. Lyla had removed the land line from its cradle and “answered” it. When I entered the room, she looked up at me innocently and handed me the home phone, as if to say “it’s for you,” while maintaining her current conversation with her daddy on my cell.

In all fairness, friends and family frequently call and ask to speak to Lyla. She’s an excellent conversationalist. When her grandma calls, Lyla walks away with the phone, takes it into her nursery for a little privacy, sits on the floor and has a full conversation. She says things like “bubble” and “cookie” and “baby.” Her grandma listens intently and occasionally propels the conversation forward with questions like, “can you say puppy?” Lyla responds accordingly. After 30 minutes or so, depending on how chatty Lyla’s feeling, eventually she simply says “bye” and hangs up.

I think back to the time before Lyla entered my life, back when I knew everything. A close friend and I, both childless at the time, were having a typical conversation about kids these days, and I recall saying something like, “Well, part of the problem is that 14 is way too young to have a cell phone.”

People often say that motherhood changes you. And, maybe I’ve changed. But these days, I have to laugh when I hear myself wondering out loud, “Is 18 months too young to be added to our family plan?”

All Worked Up

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Why do we insist on getting ourselves all worked up over nothing?

We’re running late! Oh no, we’d better hurry up. And, then we get there and have to wait because everyone else is late. Now, we’re early. How did that happen? Being early is suddenly worse than being late. OK, so let’s freak out over that now, or over all the things we must be missing out on because this happened. Let’s freak out for the sake of freaking out. If nothing else, it will give us something to do, while we wait.

In the summertime, about once a week, I lose a flip-flop and I freak out until I find it. Why? It’s only a flip-flop.

Why are the little things such a big deal? Is it because the bigger, more important, life altering things are typically beyond our control?

Why do we sometimes convince ourselves that others dislike us? Or, that they are mad at us? Is it human nature to desire being thought about, even when those thoughts are negative? Sure, we’d prefer positive, but we’ll take what we can get. Or, is it simply our nature to second guess ourselves to the point that we second guess our loved ones too? We’re good enough, smart enough and gosh darn it people like us… right?? Why is that not enough?

Life is a pressure cooker, so why do we feel the need to self-inflict even more pressure? As if the pressures of adulthood, survival of the fittest and the universe combined weren’t already enough!

Last week, I found myself querying a literary agent, who I’d queried three years ago after completing the first draft of my first novel. She rejected me back then. I can’t say that I blame her. Back then, I swallowed the rejection and moved on. It was my first try at writing a novel and she was my first query. My first try at a cartwheel was just as poorly executed. The difference? I gave up on cartwheels long ago. Writing is my dream. I will not give up. Therefore, I will only get better.

Imagine yourself drunk-dialing an X – – or better yet, an X who dumped you! Yuck, I know! Unless you’re a serious masochist, why would you even consider doing that?? With that same rationale, I wouldn’t normally re-pitch an agent who previously rejected me. But, FaceBook influenced me to try again. Damn you, FaceBook!! The agent, it turns out, is a friend of a friend. Yep, FaceBook Kevin Bacon’d me. It taunted and teased me to actually “friend” her, but how lame would that be? “Um, excuse me. You’re my friend’s friend, so, uh, do you want to be my friend too?” I may be lame, but I’m not that lame…

Instead, I went another route, grew a pair and emailed her directly, pitching my second novel this time (while unfortunately reminding her of my first). Admittedly, I threw in our mutual friend’s name for good measure. Yes, I name dropped. It’s so unlike me to do that. And, even more unlike me? I did it without first telling the mutual friend. I know!!! Then, for the next three days, I freaked out over that. I imagined them sipping wine together, laughing at me and quipping, “Val who?”

After a few days, I decided to email my friend, confess and hope for the best. He wrote me back immediately with the sweetest note. Turns out, he wasn’t upset. He didn’t mind one bit. He even wished me the best and meant it. I felt great knowing I had his support. Why did I get myself so worked up??

The next day I lost a writing contest. Here we go again! Although this wasn’t my first loss/rejection, by a long shot, along this crazy and intense journey toward publishing, I got very upset. Somehow, it hit me harder than usual. Maybe I’d convinced myself that I would win. If you know me, that shouldn’t surprise you. I’m always convinced I’ll win. Why did losing this time make me feel like such a loser? It was, after all, just a contest. 10,000 people entered, not everyone can win.

When I chose to quit my day job and write novels, deep down I knew it would be hard. I knew it would involve endless rejection and that I’d need a tough skin. I knew all of that, and yet I’m only human. It’s hard not to take things personally; I’m a person.

It’s OK to get all worked up. I believe it serves a purpose. It reminds us that we are alive with passion. I’ve always been and always will be a passionate person. When I hope and dream, I hope and dream big! Yes, that’s right. I’ve got high-apple-pie-in-the-sky hopes and dreams, and passion for days (weeks, months, years). But, I’ve never had more passion, drive and commitment than I have right now.

I am a writer. I plan to do this forever. I might not succeed right away, but failing is not an option.

Now, where’s that effin’ flip-flop?? I know it’s around here somewhere.

I Look Great Drunk

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It was recently brought to my attention that I look great drunk. I don’t mean to brag…

OK, stop it. I didn’t say I’m more attractive when you’re drunk. I have no idea whether or not your alcohol consumption has any direct or indirect link or influence (so to speak) on my appearance or your perception of my appearance. I’d like to think that a few drinks in either direction wouldn’t entirely change how I look to you.

But, if a drink helps, well, then drink up!

This isn’t to say that I think I look awful sober or anything. It’s just that I look more attractive while intoxicated. It’s true. Pictures don’t lie and while flipping through hundreds of them (not all of myself, I promise) the other day, I started seeing the pattern.

Granted, it took me a while to identify the actual pattern because I’d had a few drinks (not true).

Anyway, the photos in which I was either holding a drink, in a setting where drinks were being served or clearly slightly-to-somewhat-more-than-slightly (I’m 1/2 Irish, but aren’t we all?) inebriated were notably more attractive than the no drink, dry setting and sober selections.

I even asked my husband to confirm my theory and (after first confirming that it wasn’t a “does my butt look big in these jeans?” type trick question) he actually kind of agreed.

What can I say? I’m a good-looking drunk! It seems, the alcohol may have given me a glow of sorts, an unexplainable airy quality, a certain gin-es sequa, if you will.

In layman’s terms, I looked hot.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and when I was beholding a margarita (on the rocks with salt, please!), I was looking (and feeling) quite fine.

It’s hard to say for sure, but I imagine this phenomenon probably has more to do with the increased level of confidence and reduced inhibition that comes with having a cocktail (or two) than the actual alcohol itself. And, while I admit there weren’t any photos of me stumbling, falling to the floor, completely shit-faced, ‘where the hell am I and how did I get here?’ drunk, I doubt those pictures would have been as attractive. I probably wouldn’t have saved them either.

While few and far between, I’m sure I’ve had those moments (i.e., college, 21st b-day, every St. Patty’s Day and New Year’s Eve for as far back as I can recall, my NBA going away party, my 20s). Luckily, my friends and family were never so mean as to snap and save blackmail shots of me. Or, maybe they were too drunk to remember where they put them? Either way, phew!

Now, before you jump to any conclusions… I’m not planning on adding beer run to my weekly To Do list or making daily trips to the liquor store to improve my outward appearance. I have enough to do already, and besides, it’s just not a priority for me these days.

Being a mom, my outward appearance is more about sweat pants, headbands and hair clips. I’m satisfied with that. My satisfaction increases exponentially when I manage to make it through a whole day without getting pooped on, peed on, or covered in apple juice. But, had I discovered this link between beauty and binging 10 or so years ago, perhaps I’d have been singing a different tune. Of course, I didn’t need a reason to drink back then.

These days, the drinks are even fewer and further between (and thank God, so are the pictures). As a full time writer and stay at home mom, coffee is more often my beverage of choice (and necessity). Don’t get me wrong. I still enjoy the occasional cocktail and the even-less-occasional buzz. But, now, I’m happily married and the mommy to a very sweet and mischievous toddler. Most days, I’d choose a shower or a nap over a drink.

Besides, since becoming a mom, my tolerance (the one I worked on for many, many years) has diminished. Back in the day, I was proud to say I could hold my liquor. Hell, I could hold yours too! To this day, every time I see an ice sculpture, I remember the days when I’d happily step up to the ice luge, ready and willing to take a shot of Jim Beam. Yep, I was that girl! I laughed at the notion of being hung over, and I could drink most of my friends, guys included, under the table (or even over the table when properly challenged).

It’s been a long time since I’ve attended a party with an ice luge. In fact, the last seven parties I’ve attended each had balloons, bubbles, ice cream and cake instead. I honestly can’t recall the last time I was challenged to a drinking game of any kind. And, that’s OK!

I’ll happily work the bubble machine, instead of the funnel. I’ll make cupcakes instead of Jell-o shots. And, as for “quarters,” well, it’s no longer a game. It’s a choking hazard. We try to keep those and all small objects as far out of our daughter’s reach as possible.

These days, I have a completely different list of priorities. I’m someone’s mom! She tops that list, and you know what? I wouldn’t change a thing.

Plus, I’m a much cheaper date. I still look great, but it only takes one drink to get me there.

Cheers!