A Very Jersey Christmas

Food, glorious food. I've had a lot of it in the last week. In fact, a tin of mom's Christmas cookies are staring at me now, with their puppy dog eyes, wondering why the hell I'm having a banana for breakfast.

Christmas in Jersey was a great time. I got a headstart on the overeating on Saturday night at Avenue in Long Branch, the restaurant where my friend is the chef. First of all, the restaurant is right on the beach. I don't normally make it down to the shore in the winter so I sort of forget that it's still there making waves in December. Winter at the ocean is a very cool thing. Literally and figuratively. My friends, brother and I had one of those meals that I'll remember for a long time. Everything we had was delicious. Short ribs that were so full of flavor that a tear of gratitude comes to my eye just thinking about it. The steak tartar...wow. Even the side of brussel sprouts was a little bowl of tasty magic. And the wine. I know nothing about wine but I love when people who do suggest wines that will go with my meal. The reality is that most types would probably taste good to me. But I like to think that I do actually taste those oak undertones that pair nicely with the pappardelle. Or something like that.

My parents and I saw Sweeney Todd on Sunday. Loved it. Absolutely loved it. First of all, it became apparent to me that I have most of the show memorized. I saw it when I was in high school and then must've listened to the soundtrack more than I remember. The movie stayed very true to the show so I was able to sing along (in my head) with most of it. I thought Johnny's lack of singing skills might ruin it, but he was great. And Helena made an excellent Mrs. Lovett. The story is so fantastic in a Shakesperean tragedy sorta way. Tim Burton did a great job of creating just the type of dingy, creepy London town where one would tend to find a murderous barber and his sketchy pals.

The family Christmas Eve and Christmas Day festivities were a grand 'ol time. The usual blend of overeating, overexplaining the Yankee Swap gift exchange game and then screwing it up anyway, competitive billiards, and just the general hilarity ensues when you throw my family in a room together. If you haven't seen it in action, it's hard to explain. There's the comedy that happens because we all think we're hilarious, but then there's the real comedy that ensues because we're ridiculous.

Christmas morning began with my parents, two of my brothers, and I watching at least three hours of the Dog Whisperer. I'd never seen the show before but am now a huge fan. It made me want to get a dog just so I could try out Cesar's training techniques. Then my other bro, sis-in-law and nieces showed up, bearing Guitar Hero. I can't quite figure out why it's so addictive but even now, I really wish I was perfecting my skillz on "Hit Me With Your Best Shot." I think if I just played it for about 4 hours straight, I might be able to get up to the medium level.

Now I'm listening to my brother's annual CD compilation of some of his favorite songs from the past year. Good one, Joe. I really dig the Spoon tune.

I better go. I have a lot of Christmas cookies to eat before it's time to make a resolution to not eat so many cookies.

In the air there's a feeling of chaos

Working at non-profits often means chaos at the holiday season. Now I'm in a fairly quiet desk job in which holiday chaos is minimal. There were about 6 years in a row where I had to work every major holiday. At the time, I was a little resentful of that fact, but now, in a very sick way, I miss it.

In my former job as a professional friend to the elderly, the holiday season was the busiest time of year. On Thanksgiving day volunteers delivered turkey dinners and flowers to over 500 elderly. Christmas was the same routine with the addition of personalized gifts. Plus there were holiday parties for the elders, cards sent out and a general tizzy that buzzed through the air from October to December.

The holiday season officially started on October first with the addition of the Holiday Assistant, Bea. "Welcome to LB!" Bea yelled, as she walked in the front door. She yelled this every morning. Bea can't help but make an entrance. Her southern charm, biting honesty and general sassiness were the final ingredients in the recipe for the holiday season at LB.

Giving personalized gifts meant finding out the Christmas wishes of over 500 elderly. This was Bea's primary job and one that no one else could do as well. Some people's graciousness caused them to act as if they didn't want anything for Christmas. This is where Bea's sales experience shined. "Oh, come on, Mildred! Don't tell me you don't want ANYTHING!" Sometimes she'd suggest an item to be paired with the gift they received from us the previous year. "I see here you received a pink robe last Christmas. How did that work out? Could you use a pair of nice white slippers to go with that?" When really grasping for ideas, Bea always presented the same choice. "Can I interest you in a small bedside radio or maybe some See's candies?" If a customer decided to settle on the See's candy, Bea always followed up with the question, "Soft-centered or nut chews?" When I laughed at these options, Bea straightened me out. "Some of these folks ain't got but one tooth! They need something soft!"

There were a fair amount of elders being visited that did not speak English. Ideally, this meant finding volunteers who spoke their native language, to call the elders and ask them what they wanted for Christmas. Or, it meant, Bea screaming into the phone, slowly. "I SAID....SMALL BEDSIDE RADIO? SEE'S CANDY?" Eventually she'd hang up and just make a decision. "I think Mr. Wu would really enjoy a Wallgreen's gift card."

The other side of that Christmas gift process was finding 500 people to fulfill these wishes. Thanks to the graciousness of our fellow man and woman, it was not that hard to find people interested in getting a gift for an elder. Keeping it all organized was another story. The phone rang all day long. Elders confirming their visits and making requests like, "I usually go out to get the paper at 10 so if the volunteer comes at that time, please tell them to wait for me." Then gift givers called with detailed questions. "Hi...I'm getting the gift for Rosemary who's 86. It says that she'd like a medium sized robe. Do you think she'd prefer terrycloth or silk?" Contrary to popular belief, I had not memorized the wishes and needs of the over 500 elderly who would be receiving gifts, but I got great at making these decisions on the fly. "Oh, Rosemary! She's kookoo for terrycloth! Happy Holidays and thanks!" Meanwhile I've got Fred on the other line. Fred lived down the street from the office and would show up and/or call at least every other day to bitch about something.

Fred: Mary. I need to change my Christmas gift request.
Me: Sorry, Fred. It's too late. Santa's elves have been given their orders and are already at the shop.
Fred: Jesus, Mary. Can't you do this for me? What the hell? I'm asking you for one favor.
Me: Ya know what, Fred? Gift giving really loses its luster when the recipient is so freaking demanding. Santa will not screw you over. Have a great day!
Fred: (Angry mumbling).

We hang up. The phone rings immediately.

Fred: Hey Mary. When I was born I was so ugly that the doctor slapped my mother. Have a great day!

The real irony was that Fred had asked for a basic gift and wanted to switch it to something equally as basic, but we had already decided to give him a new bed, because his was a piece of crap. He cried when it was delivered. He made the staff go over to his apartment and take pictures when he put his comforter on it. Sometimes I miss that grumpy old pain in my ass.

Bob, another old guy who lived right by the office, was Fred's opposite. He was very appreciative and always positively gay. And by gay I mean cheerful. And he liked dudes. His thick accent made it clear that he was from Boston, but San Francisco was his one true love. When I asked him if he missed the east coast, he said in his high-pitched raspy voice, "Not really. San Francisco is my city of liberation!" One year Bob requested a cd player for Christmas. He liked to walk around the neighborhood and hang out at the coffee shop, so we got him a discman. One afternoon a co-worker and I met Bob for coffee, and he sat across from us, sipping his coffee, with his brand-new GIGANTIC headphones plastered to his head, and grinned from ear to ear. "Ya know what?!", Bob shouted, after some silence. "On My Own was the only good song that Celine Dion EVER sang!!!"

Another aspect of holiday season at LB was the donations that rolled in. And by rolled in, I mean those that I, and my co-worker Cristin, picked up from various locations around the city. It was a total crapshoot on whether the things were usable or not. One day we did a pick-up at a church in the outer reaches of the Sunset District. About 14 gigantic garbage bags full of donations. Garbage bags were the appropriate container for most of these items. My favorite item was a magnet that said, "Mary's Central Shrine." Because I don't have magnetic pants, I put it on the filing cabinet next to my desk. The stained mirror was another gem of a donation. It was, of course, broken in many pieces by the time we got back to the office, thereby ruining a perfectly good bag of used make-up and dirty clothes.

And let us not forget the hundreds of emails that would come in each day, many from people interested in volunteering for the holidays. Some would give a bit of unsolicited background on their interests and what led them to contact our organization. For example:

Hi. There is a possibility I may not be here for Christmas, but if I am, I would really like to volunteer to visit with some elderly people. When I was younger I had a couple of very tame pet goats that I used to bring to nursing homes for visits. I also used to take my dogs to visit troubled teens. Please contact me. Thanks, Cheri, age 31.

The preparations for Christmas Day were intense but the actual day was a beautiful case of well-organized chaos. On Christmas Eve, volunteers wrapped and organized gifts, carved turkeys, and helped set-up the gigantic room where the Christmas Day festivities took place. On Christmas morning, volunteers arrived at the crack of dawn to begin making the meals. Other volunteers took charge of the volunteer snack station. The same guy showed up every year in his Santa suit to spread cheer to the masses and help direct incoming volunteers to the right location. Many families made volunteering just a regular part of their Christmas Day. Then at about 10am, the visiting volunteers began arriving to pick out an elder or two to visit. They'd go through the stations, get the gift, the flower, the food, and then be on their way. Everyone was in a great mood. Music played. People that got to know each other just from volunteering together every Christmas reconnected and caught up on each other's lives. I felt lucky to be a part of it all.

Then the calls would start coming in.

"Hi...I was assigned Roger Smith. My young daughter and I showed up at his apartment and he answered the door without pants on. There was porn spread out on his bed." Whoopsy daisy! Gotta amend Roger's record in the database when I get back to the office!

Then we had the "emergencies" like, "MARY! There is no cream cheese at the volunteer food station! We've got hundreds of bagels and no one knows where the cream cheese is!!" Suddenly I was giving a random volunteer the keys to my car and the directions to the nearest grocery store.

Aside from a handful of panicked calls, and a number of fake emergencies, most of the visits went off without a hitch. The large majority of the elders were extremely grateful and many sent frilly little hand-written thank you notes saying so. Volunteers all pitched in to clean the place up, and I'd scoot right off to the airport to catch a flight to New Jersey. It was a little sad to miss the festivities with my family on Christmas Eve, but I liked traveling on Christmas Day. Everyone is always so friendly and the flights are never crowded. After a long day of work and travel, I'd always arrive to the festivities at my parents' house, a little tired and overwhelmed, but very grateful.

This year I'll be heading to Jersey on the 22nd. No rushing from coast to coast on Christmas Day. I feel lucky to be able to enjoy a few solid days of festivities with my family, but there's a part of me that will miss being in the thick of LB holiday chaos. I wonder if Roger will wear pants this year.

A Different Old Lang Syne

On Friday night, I volunteered at the Old Town School's 9th annual "Songs of Good Cheer" concert, a fundraiser for the Chicago Tribune Holiday Giving program. It was good old fashion fun. Until they made me bawl like a baby.

Eric Zorn and Mary Schmich, both writers for the Tribune, host the event every year, and lead a happy and talented crew of Old Town teachers and a couple other random musicians. The audience gets songbooks and it's one giant holiday sing-along. I'm a sucker for crap like that so I had a grand 'ol time. Then Eric told the story of Kevin Lambeck, a soldier who died in Iraq at age 26. His father wrote a letter to President Bush and Bush never responded, so last March, Eric posted the letter in his column.

Eric gave a really nice, sincere tribute to Kevin, talking about him as a soldier, son, brother, husband, and friend. I was already getting choked up at this point. Then he brings Kevin's parents and sister on stage. We toast to Kevin. And then we all sing Auld Lang Syne. Wow. Just when I got myself together, I looked at the 70-something man next to me, and saw that he was crying. I devised an immediate backstory about the friends this kind looking gentleman lost when he served in the Korean war. That put me over the edge.

The next day, I googled the letter that Kevin Lambeck's dad wrote to President Bush. Reading the letter broke my heart even more.

My obvious response was to learn how to play "Same Old Lang Syne" by Dan Fogelberg on guitar. Auld Lang Syne made me think, "Same Old Lang Syne"....now THAT is a treasure of the 70s. I learned the song in the way that I learn songs (I gloss over those tricky bar chords and just sing louder during those parts) and thought, "That Dan Fogelberg...what a gem." I mean, really. These lyrics?

She said she'd married her an architect,
Who kept her warm and safe and dry,
She would have liked to say she loved the man,
But she didn't like to lie.

Seriously, Fogelberg. That is GOOD.

That was definitely the most I'd ever thought about Dan Fogelberg in my entire life. All in one sitting. I listened to bits of his other songs on itunes. It was at least an hour of DF and nothing but DF.

Then, this morning, I found out that he died yesterday. He was only 56. It's so sad...just when we were getting to know each other. And now it seems like "Same Old Lang Syne" is my new signature holiday song because Dan just died. But Dan died on Sunday and he and I go way back to Saturday.

Either way, it's a bummer. Here's to you, Mr. Fogelberg. You totally get me.

Worth the Weight

I've become one of those people that can listen to the same song or album over and over. It used to drive me crazy when a former co-worker did that (in her defense she kept her music very quiet but the mere idea of her listening to the same song on repeat for an hour drove me a little nuts). But...I've found solace in The Shins "Wincing the Night Away" and can not stop listening to it. It matches the cold, dark, wet mood of the season but then kicks it up a notch with some happiness.

I can't wait until December 21st, where we reach the peak of shortening days and start down the other side.

I've never been much of a fan of gyms. I prefer just doing stuff outside on my own. This does not include team sports. I just don't have enough competitiveness to make them fun. Other people's competitiveness gets on my nerves. But who wants the chick on the softball team saying, "Come on, guys! It's just a game! Why bother keeping score?!" So...seeing how the season has arrived for Chicago to be covered in no less than a thin sheet of ice, running outside becomes tricky. I have no will power or desire to limit the amounts of delicious holiday foods presented to me. If I want to get/stay in somewhat decent shape, it seems fairly obvious that I should get some exercise. I reluctantly joined a gym.

I am in love with this place. Galter Life Center. It's truly amazing. It's got all the standard ingredients for a good gym experience. Nice equipment, a bright and spacious set-up, clean locker rooms, towel service, great classes, two pools, an indoor track, friendly staff and on and on. But...there are a few things that make it extra special. 1)It doesn't smell like gym. 2)The lockers are such that you set a code and it locks. You type in that code and it unlocks. GENIUS. Leave those 7th grade annoying little locks at home! 3)The people are amazing. An eclectic crew of all ages and abilities. My first time in the locker room, an old Korean woman and I smiled at each other. She said, "Today is special day!" I said, "Oh, really?! Why?" I figured it was her birthday or some such holiday. She said, "I exercise today!" She giggled uncontrollably and I joined her.

Then I was on the tread mill enjoying the cable I don't have at home, and two dorky dudes rolled a ping pong table out into the open area in the center of the room. I love ping pong! What a GREAT workout!

Perhaps the best thing about Galter is that the boy section of the gym is not intimidating. Every gym I've ever been to has this boy section. I suppose it's technically the "free weight section." I wouldn't really know though because I never step foot in it. It's always just full of guys, being serious, and occasionally accompanying their reps with disgusting grunts. I tend to avoid that section like the plague. I'm here to say that I actually WALKED THROUGH the boy section at Galter and didn't feel intimidated AND didn't hear any grunting! Free weights annoy me so I don't see myself actually using the equipment in there, but it's not because I don't feel welcome to do so!

Project Runway is on tonight and I don't get Bravo at home. Guess I better go to the gym.

Insecurity

One of the things I like most about my job is chatting with the afternoon security guard. We'll call him N. He's hilarious and friendly and puts a smile on the face of everyone who comes in and out of the building. A few months ago I asked N where he's from originally, which then led to me settling in on the bench in the lobby while he told me about his horrifying experiences as a Bosnian refugee. After detailing how he lost his home and community and everything he knew, he smiled widely. "But I am very happy now! I love America! I love Chicago! I have friends and a job and a home! I am very fortunate!" Way to turn that frown upside down. As usual, I left the building with a smile on my face, feeling fortunate to know someone who is clearly such a good, honest person.

Today he came up to my office. He never comes to my office.

He said, "Hello Mary. I come to say goodbye." Then he started to cry. Oh my god. My heart melted.

He got laid off. The building switched security companies. They were told this yesterday. N was told that he would be hired by the new company and could stay here. He called them this morning to make sure. They said- yeah- go fill out an application. He did that. He was told he was all set and could just report to work. He got here and someone else from the new company was at the desk. He called his boss and she won't answer. He thinks she's in the office but the door is locked.

The morning guy was hired by the new company. Something is very fishy.

N said, "I am good employee. I treat this company like my home. Why do they do this? She act like I kill her mother." True dat, N.

I gave him tissues, a hug and a typical pep talk that I truly meant, but it just sounded lame and unhelpful. Especially after he said, "Thank you, Mary. But I just don't know what am I going to do." How's about you hand me one of those tissues I gave you.

I might need to organize a building-wide protest. I'm pissed.

Lions and Turkeys and Foofys, Oh My.

As predicted in my last post, a lot of overeating happened this weekend. A great time was had by all. Thanks to help from Jim, dinner was delicious. And colorful. Nicey and Colleen joined the festivities, and my apartment wasn't nearly as cramped as I predicted. Dinner was followed by the usual sing-along and Catch Phrase (not necessarily the usual but it's a fairly common occurence).

Here's something I like to call "Crouching Collerans, Hidden Stuffing."







On Saturday the fam and I went to The Art Institute. Great time until Tom and I got museum head at the same time. I think we figured out that it sets in at an hour and a half, so next time I'm at a museum I need to begin my departure at an hour and fifteen minutes. Museum head is the point at which my brain has appreciated all the art it can possibly appreciate, so much so that a mere glance at a painting results in an instant headache and nausea. Thanks for nuthin, Picasso! I ate my weight in delicious Italian food that night which didn't exactly help the nausea. But that cavatelli and cannoli hurt so good.

On Sunday morning, Jim, Tom and I went for a long walk at the lake. It felt good to get some semblance of exercise. That was of course followed by gorging on leftovers. Wouldn't want to have to say goodbye to the new holiday love handles just yet. After dinner we played some Scattergories. I think we were all a little high on tryptophan because it was a paricularly ridiculous game. My favorite answer was an F word for "Term of Endearment." Tom got double points for: Foofy Foofy. Foofy Foofy, for those living under a rock, was what Brigitte Nielsen called Flava Flav on the hit show "Strange Love."

Other weekend highlights: Dan in Real Life Cute movie worth seeing. What's not to love about Steve Carrell?






Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind. Most definitely worth seeing. If/when you're in Chicago, check it out. Live theater that is hilarious, creative and affordable.


That about wraps up the weekend. I'm too exhausted to put forth anything else that might be coherent and/or interesting. I hope y'all had a fantastic Thanksgiving.

Thanks

If this little niece of mine isn't someone to be thankful for, then I don't know who is. Unfortunately, I have to hold out until Christmas to see her and her branch of the family tree, but I'm looking forward to hosting the rest of my family for Thanksgiving. I love every element of the Thanksgiving meal. My kitchen is packed with tasty ingredients waiting to be whipped, mixed and baked into delicious treats. I can't wait for the overeating to commence.

Happy Thanksgiving to all! Thanks for reading this silliness.

The Family Band, circa 1978

I'm in Jersey for the weekend to see family and cheer Jim on in the NYC marathon tomorrow. My dad scanned a bunch of old slides, so I've had a funny/scary trip down family photo memory lane. Here's one that is amazing on more levels than I can count.


First of all, we. are. LOOKERS.

Second, what on earth is going on with the decorations? Star Wars. A fruit still life painting. Maybe some paint by numbers? Lots of crazy vampire figurines. And, of course, a giant cross. Just to keep the vampires in line, I imagine. And those curtains with matching bedspread...wow. As for the band members- where to begin? Jim's overalls? Tom's hair? Joe's expression? My xylephone?

I'm sure we sounded AWESOME.

The Future is Now

My cousin Marian, in her latest blog post, made a list of some things about her life that would've surprised her to know 15 years ago. She posed the question:
What would have been the most surprising thing a psychic could have told you fifteen years ago, about your life today?

My answer is too long for her comment section, so I'll post it here. Fifteen years ago I was in my sophomore year of college. Some things I would've been surprised to hear:

-That I wouldn't marry my then boyfriend.

-That I wouldn't be married or have kids, and that I'd be okay with it.

-That I would've lived in Oakland, CA for four years.

-That the Twin Towers wouldn't exist.

-That I'd still wear the Tufts tank top that Jim gave me when I was in 7th grade.

-That the US would be in the 5th year of war with Iraq, and that it many ways it wouldn't really affect my everyday life.

-That Arnold Schwarzenegger would be Governor of California.

-That I would try online dating. (It would've been no surprise to hear that if I did try it, it wouldn't be my thing).

-That I'd run three marathons.

-That my mom would still be playing tennis multiple times a week.

-That I would take a trip to Tanzania by myself.

-That that funny girl that lived down the hall from me would be one of my best friends.

-That I would learn to play guitar, write some songs and actually play them for other people.

-That I would love working with elderly people.

-That I could see myself settling in the midwest.

-That some of my closest friends were people I already knew, including my brothers, and that I'd gather up so many more great friends through the years.

-That I'd write on a blog. What's a blog?

All in all, after many moves and heartbreaks and weird jobs and the usual life stuff, I think I'd pleasantly surprised that on the outside my life doesn't look like anything all that amazing, but on the inside I'm pretty happy with where and who I am.

A Scary Ride

About a week ago, some friends and I were walking down Damen Avenue and stopped at a house that had an amazing Halloween set-up in their yard. The actual house was old and slightly creepy looking to begin with. The front yard was riddled with wild plant life, and well-placed decorations. By decorations I mean a small table with a lamp nestled in the brush, with a grim reaper type dude sitting beside it and lots of well-placed realistic looking bats, gravestones and skeletons. For a moment, I truly enjoyed the Halloween season. When I was little, my neighbor Roman would set up the most elaborate Haunted House in his basement. That, along with trick-or-treating at the house at the top of the hill that gave out full packs of Bubbalicious gum, was the highlight of the season. As I stared at the eery house on Damen Ave, I thought that maybe I do like Halloween.

Until last night's train ride home reminded me why I hate it.

Six women, who I later figured out were co-workers, discussed their Halloween plans. "I'm gonna be Captain Morgan and Jeff is gonna be a breathalizer. The costume is totally obscene! There's a sign by his crotch that says "suck it!"

Shrieks of laughter from her posse.

"NO! That is TOO funny!"

"I know!!!"

Seriously? I wouldn't even say it was funny, let alone TOO funny.

They took a break from discussing Halloween to talk about the best place to get a makeover.

"I like the one at Barney's. It's not that much more expensive and they do a much better job. Ya know for like one if you're just getting it before going out." Wha? A makeover before going out? They're not talking about their wedding day?

I took a moment to judgmentally critique each woman's make-up application, and felt slightly condescendingly sad for them that they were convincing themselves that they needed it. They were cute gals. I think redhead's foundation was distracting from her lovely eyes.

Back to Halloween outfits. "My friends and I are all going as different drinks!"

"Oh my god. TOO funny!"

Geez, here we go again. Have you people not heard the one about the child molester and the little boy going into the woods?
(Little boy says: "I'm scared. These woods are so creepy." Child molester says: "You're scared!? I'm the one who's gonna have to walk out of here by myself." Now that is...ok...not too funny...but sorta funny at least).

"I'm gonna be Bloody Mary. I'll have Mary written on my shirt with some blood, and a hat with a carrot and celery on it."

I wanted to interject, "Let me guess- you're gonna be a slutty Bloody Mary. Or a Bloody Mary cat that wears fishnets." But I remained quiet and thought, I could go as Bloody Mary and not have to write Mary on my shirt. That's mildly interesting. Then I remembered that I loathe wearing Halloween costumes.

Many years ago my friend Pam and I went to Ireland, and would up sharing a room at a hostel with a hilariously bizarre German dude and his hilariously bizarre Belgian pal. They were funny guys but the best part of it was that often their jokes didn't translate into English. Pam and I were laughing hysterically because the jokes made absolutely no sense, and our pals thought we were laughing cause they were just that freaking funny. I was laying on the bottom bunk and the Belgian was on the bunk above me. The lights were out and we were all ready to sleep. The Belgian said, "I'll try not to move around too much because I don't want to come crashing down on you." It was silent for a second, and the German dude said, "Dat iz vut veed call a Bloody Mary." Now THAT is funny.

City on Fire!

The year was 1987...I think. My parents, brother Tom and I went to see a production of Sweeney Todd directed by my brother Jim. In typical musical theater form, chaos was ensuing so the stage quickly filled with people singing, "CITY ON FIRE!" Tom and I found this both hilarious and useful and pledged that from that day forth we would react to family drama by singing, "CITY ON FIRE!" We have kept that pledge to this day. It's Easter dinner and Mom forgot to take the carrots out of the oven? CITY ON FIRE!!!! Can't find a parking spot at the grocery store? CITY ON FIRE!!!!

This is all to say that I saw the trailer for Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd and I can't freaking wait. It looks great. Love the music. (Listening to the soundrack now. I'm sure my neighbors are psyched). Love the story. Love Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter. Here's hoping this isn't an Evita situation. Thanks for nothing Madonna. Why the hell didn't they just have Patti Lupone star in the movie too? I think we can all agree that she proved herself in "Life Goes On."

I saw the Sweeney trailer before seeing Things We Lost in the Fire. Loved that too. Benecio did not disappoint. Sigh.

Gore, Americorps and More

Congrats to Al Gore on his Nobel Peace Prize. Al and I go way back. In the summer of 1993, I worked in the Summer of Service program in Philadelphia which was the pilot program to Clinton's national service initiative. The initiative resulted in the creation of The Corporation for National and Community Service and Americorps. Nice little initiative.

At the beginning of the summer, all of the participants from around the country gathered for an orienation at Treasure Island (which was then a Naval Base) in San Francisco. Gore gave a great, inspiring speech at the orientation and I wondered why he hid that personality when he was on TV. The ICARE-Philadephia (Immunizing Children At-Risk Early) program focused on immunizing low-income kids. The nursing students took care of the actual immunizations. The rest of us had to drum up the business by going door to door, organizing health fairs (in which I once dressed in a giant Ernie costume) and my personal favorite, driving through South Philadelphia with a microphone on the car, making announcements. It was just a wee bit "grassroots." At the end of the summer, two people from each location were chosen to go to Maryland to meet with President Clinton, and report back on what we had accomplished that summer. So, essentially, it's the age old "How I Spent My Summer" essay, delivered to the President. I was one of the lucky recipients of a trip to meet the Prez. Each program had a station with a board highlighting the program achievements. Clinton went from station to station and talked with each program's representatives.

(Edited to add this ridiculous picture that I just scanned). When Clinton walked up to our station, I was surprisingly calm. He's just a dude. A REALLY tall dude with a mole near his nose that I had never noticed on TV or in pictures. We introduced ourselves and gave him the scoop on ICARE Philadelphia, he asked some questions, congratulated us on our work, we shook hands, and that was that. If I only knew then what I know now, I would've probably gotten myself arrested. "Please....don't ever go....don't jiz on Monica's dress....please...you have no idea....you're a pretty good President but in comparison of what's to come you're friggin fantastic..." After he got info on each of the programs, there was a question and answer forum. I just found the transcripts from it here. Now that I think back on it, I think Al and Bill and their Summer of Service program played more than a minor role in my career path. So, thanks guys.

Last year, because of my former job at the Sierra Club, I got to see an advanced screening of An Inconvenient Truth. Al Gore was there to introduce the movie and do a Q&A afterwards. Kudos to Al Gore for creating a movie in which a bar graph made me cry. I must say, it was pretty amazing to see that film in a theater full of environmental activists and friggin AL GORE. I normally hate when people applaud at the end of a movie because who are we clapping for?? But this time- it made sense. The standing ovation lasted for at least five minutes and I was one of the last to sit my ass down.

I really enjoyed working at the Illinois Chapter of the Sierra Club. The people I met there were fantastic, but I don't think I'm cut out to work on environmental issues full-time. It's a tough job. Often, a very thankless one. I'm happy that Gore has gotten the recognition that he deserves, because his recognition brings light to the thousands of people pouring their time, energy and passion into creating positive changes in their states, cities and towns. So I say let's celebrate Gore's Nobel Peace Prize by doing something to help the environment. Switch out your old bulbs to compact flourescents. Wash your clothes in cold water. Walk instead of drive. Get a canvas bag for your groceries. Plug all your electronics into one power strip and unplug the strip when you're not using it.

Speaking of people who won the election but didn't actually become President, I wholeheartedly agree with Garrett Epps' column in Salon, Let's Abolish the Electoral College.

Oh, and Ann Coulter? GO AWAY ALREADY.

The Good Old Days

The other day I was informed that Marcia, an old gal I knew when I worked in Boston, just celebrated her 99th birthday. This made my day. Marcia is one of the sweetest people to walk the earth. The organization I work for has vacation sessions for elderly. Many of the vacations take place at a beautiful, giant farmhouse located a couple hours outside of Chicago. Most of the elderly that attend vacations there are from Chicago but when there are spots open, people from other chapters are invited to go. Some spots were open and Marcia and I signed up. She was a mere 92 at the time.

Because Marcia is blind, and was 92, I tried to get seats at the front of the plane. The flight attendant said there was no way she could get us a seat up front. Thankfully, Marcia is the most easygoing gal I've ever met. We walked to our seat in Row 29, and by walk, I mean that I scrambled along backwards down the aisle while holding Marcia's hands and coaching her through it. "Doing great, Marcia! This is some adventure, huh!?"

Marcia said in her always chipper tone, "Oh my, Mary! AND HOW! We sure are going far! This is something else!"

We finally got settled in our seats and I wowed Marcia by showing her the headphones and the controls to switch the station. She was happily listening to a jazz station, when the flight attendant stopped at our row and said to me, "Oh, she's so sweet! Is that your mom?"

I stared at her, not knowing just how to respond. Not only was Marcia 65 years older than me, she's African American. Of course anything is possible but nothing about looking at the two of us should've led people to believe "mother-daughter combo." I just said, "Nope. Marcia is my pal!" I smiled and then screamed in Marcia's ear, "ENJOYING THE MUSIC?"

"Oh, and how, Mary! We are having quite a time, aren't we, Mary!?" The flight attendant looked completely confused.

Our vacation was fantastic. We met all sorts of nice folks, including the amazing duo of Alvin and Edward who were pretty much real-life versions of Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets. Alvin had some digestion issues, so he was frequently demanding more "thickener" for his drinks. Edward, who was all business, liked to give Alvin crap for this. I ate lunch with them one afternoon and they got into one of their usual thickener arguments. Then, out of nowhere, Alvin said, "Did you know that Edward says he can have sex without Viagra!?"

Edward: I CAN!!!

Alvin: I don't believe it!

Me: Do you have enough thickener, Alvin?

Alvin: NO! Would you get me some more?!

Me: Of course!

Then we had Frank. Frank had been married about five times and was the true ladies man. One day I walked passed Frank's room and heard, "Hey...Mary...can you help me with something?"

I popped my head in the doorway. "Sure, Frank. What's up?"

"My shoulder is killing me. Can you put this stuff on it? I can't reach it."

"Sure, Frank."

I put a bit of the stuff my hand and quickly rubbed it into his shoulder.

Frank looked at me like I was insane. "Come on, Mary! Rub me like a woman rubs a man!"

"No Frank, I will not "rub you like a woman rubs a man." Ya know, you are the poster boy for dirty old man."

"Damn! I'd hate to be your boyfriend. Always sayin no!"

Later that day, Frank and I were washing dishes together and he continued to give me crap about how I didn't rub in the muscle relaxer right. I started singing to the tune of "Old Man River."

Old Man Frank
He's a dirty old man
Always saying something disgusting
Never shuts the hell up

Frank walked out of the room and came back a few minutes later with a pen and paper. "Write that down for me. My nurse is gonna love it!"

Along with a shopping outing to Wallmart and a day trip to the Casino Boat, there was a lot of walks around the beautiful property, conversations on the porch, and of course, Bingo. I volunteered to call the numbers one night and had no idea what I got myself into. In order to accomodate French-speaking Jacqueline, I used my high school French to call them in English and French. This created quite a controversy. Francis yelled, "What the hell is she saying?!"

I repeated myself. "Bey...Quatre...that's B4."

Francis: "WHAT?!"

Jacqueline smiled and nodded. While calling numbers, I was helping Marcia fill in her card. "How we doin, Mary!? Do we have anything yet?!" You'd think a blind woman wouldn't really care for Bingo but leave it to Marcia to have a grand 'ol time with it.

One night after dinner we had a talent show. The talent ranged from Alvin's scratchy-voiced rendition of "You Are My Sunshine" to Maria coming downstairs in a long t-shirt with a picture of a nightie on it, and then doing a sexy dance. I asked Marcia if she wanted to participate in the talent show and she said, "Oh, of course I would!" I led her over to the piano and she sat down with the usual smile plastered on her face. Everyone was ready to condescendingly appreciate her "talent." Then she quickly tickled those ivories into submission and crooned her way into everyone's hearts. What started out as one song for the talent show turned into a full-on Marcia-led sing-along. It was one old-timey hit after the other. We took breaks only to refill our wine glasses and get more snacks. It was honest to goodness fun.

So a happy 99th birthday to my good pal Marcia. Here's to at least one more! Marcia can break 100, I just know it!

Om Sweat Om

This morning Becki and I went to a Bikram yoga class at Om on the Range. (On, how punny!) Since it was our first time there we had a short orientation before the class started. The instructor, Beth, told us that we shouldn't worry about keeping up with the poses. Our main goal was to stay in the room for the full 90 minutes. If that meant laying down and taking breaks, then so be it. Really? All we have to do is stay in the room? I'm no Olympian, but I've done some Hatha yoga, I've run a few marathons and think I'm in okay shape- I think I can sit in a hot room for 90 minutes. Armed with our yoga mats, towels and bottles of water, Becki and I headed into the studio.

It was really freaking hot.

105 degrees to be exact. We followed the lead of the regulars and laid down on our mats. I could barely breath- I had no idea how I'd stay in that room for 90 minutes. I took deep breaths. I tried to calm my mind but all it was saying was, "GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS RIDICULOUSLY HOT ROOM! THIS is how you choose to spend your free time and $15?! WOMAN, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?" Sweat dripped off the side of my face on to my mat before Beth even entered the room.

Class began with a LOT of deep breaths which helped my fight or flight tendency immensely. Bikram is a series of 26 poses done twice each. I had done most, if not all, of the poses before in normal temperatures and not had all that much trouble. However, the heat made them all much harder. There were a few times when I chose to skip a pose, lay down and enjoy the feeling of laying in a pool of my own sweat. I seriously have never sweat or seen other people sweat that much. By the end of the class, my towel felt like I'd dropped it in a pool.

Becki and I shared more than a few "We are completely insane" looks, and occasionally threw in a "I'm pretty sure I'm gonna pass out and die" stare. But we did it. We both survived 90 minutes in that room with no breaks. After class was over, we overheard a few regulars complaning about how the room was particularly hot today. The instructor agreed. This made me happy. We survived under the most difficult of Bikram circumstances.

Did I mention that I can't wait to go back?

I have the most satisfying muscle pain right now. My skin feels great- it felt like I sweat out 90 percent of my body's toxins in just one class. And I know I will sleep like a rock tonight. I really liked the mind over matter aspect of it. I had no choice but to focus on breathing and forget everything else that is going on in my life. The calm Zen part of me wound up winning the battle with the whiney bitch in me that just wanted to leave. Plus, I'm hoping it'll be a bit easier to adjust to the temperature from here on out.

It's probably the same reason I (sort of) like running marathons but I'm not that much of a fan of running. There's something really cool about getting to that point where my body is moving forward and getting in a zone where I ignore the very rational part of me that says, "For the love of god, just sit down and take a nap." There's no room to stress about daily life BS because all I'm thinking is "move legs forward, breath, wow...my calf hurts, oh look, the lake looks pretty...ow, I think my eyeballs even hurt....ooh cool, another mile marker..." Speaking of, I'm thrilled that I'm not running the Chicago Marathon tomorrow. It's supposed to be in the high 80s. That is just ridiculous. But I'll be there cheering on friends and strangers. One of my happiest moments ever was during the 2002 New York City marathon, which the first of the three that I've done. I had taken the recommendation of friends and put my name on my shirt. Word was that hearing strangers call my name would be motivating. I was at about mile 21 and my legs were tighter than I'd ever felt. I stopped a couple times to stretch but it seemed like it was beyond repair. I just needed to run another 5 miles in excruciating pain. I turned a corner in the Bronx, and an old man sitting on his stoop yelled at me, "Hey Mary...if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere!" I smiled widely, thanked him and then took off like a gazelle. Ok, not really. But in my mind I was flying. I will never in my life forget that guy. He has no idea what a positive impact his funny little cheer had on me. Just thinking about crossing the finish line makes me get emotional. It's that guy, my family and friends that came, and thousands of other strangers cheering me on that helped get me there. Right now there are thousands of people pinning their numbers on their shirts, counting out their goo packets and getting ready to get minimal sleep because of excitement and fear of what tomorrow will bring. I can't wait to be there to cheer them on.

But for now, I'm gonna go meet a couple friends at a bar down the block.

Who's The Boss?

The following is an email I received from my friend Danny. You'd think with a passion for the Boss like this that he'd be from Jersey but then catch him when a Red Sox game is on, and it's clear he's a Boston boy. Point being- this is the feel good email of the century, and summarized my own Springsteen obsession perfectly. His show at the Meadowlands a few years ago was seriously one of best nights of my life. It's hilarious how truly typically Jersey it is, but thinking about those first notes of "Born to Run" being played-- still gives me chills. Happy Vinyl Anniversary, Danny! You totally get me!

To my family, friends, and loved ones,

It was called to my attention on Tuesday evening, October 2nd, that someone very close to me and I were celebrating a very important milestone. Everyone knows of the silver anniversary, and the always special golden anniversary; businesses celebrate with sales after certain years in business; but Julie called to my attention that this individual and I had reached that very special day that happens when two people share a very close bond.

'Danny, this is your tenth Bruce Springsteen concert?!? This is your Vinyl Anniversary!!!'

That's right, my family, friends, and loved ones, Bruce and I celebrated our 10th Concert Anniversary (Boston Fleetcenter, Asbury Park, New York, Providence, Albany, San Francisco, Fenway, Boston Orpheum, Boston Fleetcenter, and Hartford if you're counting at home) on Tuesday night, which will from now on be dubbed the Vinyl Anniversary, and we even exchanged gifts-Bruce gave me and four of my close friends an amazing night of straight forward, guitar driven rock n' roll, and I gave Bruce my voice...I lost it before Clarence's sax solo in the opening song, Radio Nowhere.

To say I was excited Tuesday was an understatement. I actually had trouble falling asleep. During the day I was quite busy with work stuff, which really helped the day fly by; I left my last high school of the day, jumped in my '59 Chevy with a 396, and went racing in the streets. Breaking the 'no-cell-phone-while-driving' laws in two states (NY and CT), I got updates from Shank, Jules, and Johnny about their location, had Patience direct me to her apartment, and responded to multiple 'have fun tonight!' texts. The traffic was heavy but moved; Patience and I ate Subway while driving to save time; I narrowly avoided a ticket by slamming on the breaks, getting down to just under 75 mph, as I passed through a radar zone. And we made it to Hartford in time to enjoy a beer at Coach's with the group before heading in.

Without further delay, I give you the setlist from the opening night of the 'Magic' world tour:

Setlist:
Radio Nowhere
The Ties That Bind
Lonesome Day
Gypsy Biker
Magic
Reason to Believe
Night
She's the One
Livin' in the Future
The Promised Land
Town Called Heartbreak
Darkness on the Edge of Town
Darlington County
Devil's Arcade
The Rising
Last to Die
Long Walk Home
Badlands
* * *
Girls in Their Summer Clothes
Thundercrack
Born to Run
Waitin' on a Sunny Day
American Land

For the really big Bruce fans, just look at this setlist-I was thrilled! Unless he plays his entire catalogue and some favorite covers, you will always leave wishing he played, say, Thunder Road for example. But this was a ridiculously good setlist, and rather than focus on omissions (like Thunder Road, not that it's my favorite song or anything, Bruce...and on our Vinyl Anniversary, of all nights!) I want to focus on the real highlights. First off, Radio Nowhere just plain rocks. It's a flat out show stopper and the cd doesn't do it justice. Actually, all of the new songs translate really well live, but the crowd isn't as familiar with them yet, as it was officially released that day, so naturally the roof was blown off when the staples came out. My favorite moments? Reason to Believe is a very, very bluesy rendition, and Bruce's harmonica work on it is masterful. Town Called Heartbreak was a great song that didn't reach most as it did me, and but to go from Night straight into She's the One...I was freaking out. Just ask Leslie, who was unfortunate enough to be sitting right next to me the entire time for her very first Springsteen concert. You can mail me the bill from your ear doctor, which I'm sure you'll need to visit after hearing me scream for two hours and 20 minutes. Usually, when people ask me what my favorite Bruce song is, the answer is the same as my favorite birthday present, favorite beer, or favorite Patriots Super Bowl. The next one. But when pushed, Night and She's the One definitely (probably) crack the top five. And the Rising, a celebration of civil servants everywhere, has a special place for me as the son of a Statie. To hear Thundercrack was shocking to me-it's a rare B side that was finally released on the Tracks box set a few years back, and I had never heard it live before. American Land was a very welcomed surprise, too-I absolutely love the Irish sound to it, and from across the arena I developed crushes on three girls who jigged and step-danced their way through the entire song (I'm a sucker for all things Irish-Irish dancing, Irish music, Irish girls, and that moment was a trifecta of 'things that Danny loves'). There is no better concert moment than when Max pounds out the intro, the entire venue light system goes on, and Born to Run turns a sea of fans and music lovers into a frenzy of fanatics and music lunatics.

There is no performer, at least that I've ever seen, who can control an audience like Bruce. All you have to do is witness Badlands. Thousands and thousands and thousands of people, nearly every one of them singing every word at the top of there lungs, pumping their fists in unison, feeding the band with passion and energy and life, is nothing short of an awe-inspiring sight. As my eyes wandered around the area, I couldn't help but wonder what it must feel like to be on stage. To witness all these people screaming back the words that you wrote, hanging on your every word and movement. The song goes, 'to the ones who had a notion, a notion deep inside, that it ain't no sin to be glad you alive,' and it's in that line, smack in the middle of song that is defiance, I'm reminded of how fortunate I am. I hope that no one can say I'm not glad to be alive, because when I have nights like this, with one of the single greatest concerts I've ever been to, but mostly because I'm surrounded by all of you, I'm just busting at the seams a gladness to be alive.

After experiencing this show, I now more than ever want to take each and every one of you to one of our shows. I say our because it's not Bruce's show, and it's not Bruce's and my show. The music is not heard, it's not something you listen to or witness. It's something you experience. It's an experience that occurs only when these ten talented musicians and tens of thousands of faithful come together. And if you've spent more than five American minutes with me, you know the impact it's had. And I'll leave you, as I always do, with words of wisdom from Bruce himself. Sometimes, you just feel the need to 'explode and tear this whole town apart' and 'find somebody itching for something to start.' I want you to know that I'm hoping you're itching to share this part of me. From the rest of the Promised Land:

'The dogs on Main Street howl
'cause they understand
If I could take one moment into my hands
Mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man
And I believe in a promised land'

Love,
Danny

Having the last laugh

Last night, Colleen, Becki and I were discussing political cartoons and how we often don't really understand them. My frustration with political cartoons began in 1980, when my second grade teacher, Mrs. Miller, assigned us a big project about that year's Presidential election. I recall a lot of clipping out articles and pasting them on red, white and blue construction paper. See what I did there? God bless America! I did my best to give Reagan, Carter and Anderson equal representation, even though I was secretly rooting for Anderson. I didn't get why Carter and Reagan were getting so much air time, when that John Anderson seemed just as middle-aged, white and rich.

I really was rockin that assignment except for one required ingredient. The political cartoon.

We had looked at tons of examples of political cartoons in class and each one left me more confused than the last. Every week I opened my parents' copy of Newsweek and flipped right to the Perspective page where they had "funny" quotes and a few cartoons. I rarely found them funny but it was the best part of the magazine as far as I could tell. I had a couple killer joke books that I would've been happy to lend to those Newsweek editors.
Example of joke from one of my books:
Kid: Mommy, mommy...daddy's on fire!
Mom: Quick! Get the marshmallows!

That one always had me in stitches.

I sat down to create my political cartoon. I began by drawing a picture of Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan. Seemed like a safe bet. They were politicians and were in the news. I knew it had to be political and timely. Then, I drew the conversation bubbles next to each of them. I stared at those empty bubbles for a while. I enlisted help from my mom. "So Ma...it's a cartoon but it's not supposed to be funny? I don't get it. So, they're just saying something, like a normal conversation? Do I just write them saying hi to each other?"

My mom, always of the "teach a man to fish" style of parenting, said, "Let's look at some examples!" She pulled out the Newsweek. I know you mean well, Ma, but been there, been totally confused by that.

I wanted to write something along the lines of, "Hey Ron, why do birds fly south in the winter?" "I don't know, Jimmy. Why?" "Cause it's too far to walk!" But apparently America wasn't ready for my comedy. I wound up just writing a completely boring, normal conversation in the bubbles. I included the word deficit cause I had heard Reagan throwing around the term and thought maybe adults found it hilarious.

Here it is about 27 years later, and I still would not be able to complete that assignment. Anytime someone demands that I read a a cartoon from the New Yorker that they found funny (and this happens more than you might think), my eyes glaze over a bit and I'm forced to recall some Get Fuzzy or maybe even an old Dilbert just so I can muster up a little chuckle.

Age of Confusion

I had songwriting class tonight. We each performed our first song. Oy. Talk about tense. One woman walked in and said, "Hi guys. I almost puked on the way here!" We all shared the same deer in headlights look with the plastic nervous smile. I went first cause I'm a "get it over with" type of gal and I wanted to be able to enjoy everyone else's song. Turned out to be so fun. We were all so stinkin proud of each other. I've still got Nate's tune about makin out in a photo booth stuck in my head. Someone, who will remain anonymous, admitted that she wrote her last verse while high.

The assignment was to write a song based on a photograph. After pouring through old photographs of family members, and moments when I was young, I settled on one of an ex-boyfriend from 10 years ago. And there I was writing a love song about someone I hadn't thought that much about in years. I went in thinking- no cheesy love songs. But it was just too hard to resist.

Earlier today I was reminded of Leonka, an old gal I knew when I worked in San Francisco. She was in her mid-80s and full of life. Leonka was married three times and had an endless supply of stories about each of her ex-husbands. One of the first times I was at her apartment, Leonka pulled out the photograph of her first husband, who was dreamy in a Cary Grant way. She stared at the picture for a while and smiled. "He was gorgeous, wasn't he? But he didn't know he was gorgeous. That was the gorgeous part." My favorite anecdote about Leonka is that after she had surgery in which a screw was put in her back, she sent her doctor a card and wrote, "Thanks for giving me the best screw of my life."

Speaking of old folks, last week I had lunch with a dozen elderly at the restauarant at Misericordia. Misericordia provides services to people with developmental disabilities, and many of the residents work at the restaurant. Twelve elderly being served lunch by chipper developmentally disabled waitstaff makes for an amazing afternoon. I sat with two elderly couples, all in their 80s, who met in the last year. Mary and Leonard met at an organization called Senior Link. I said, "Wow! Kudos to them for literally linking some seniors!" They loved that one. I think that's why I like hanging out with old people- my comedy KILLS in those crowds. Elizabeth and Leroy met at the Senior Prom. I asked if it was love at first sight. Leroy nodded emphatically while Elizabeth said, "No way."

An example of one of our many incredible conversations:

Mary: I was married for 48 years. After my husband died, I never thought I'd meet another man. I certainly never thought I'd meet a man as good as Leonard.

Leonard: (head buried in his chicken noodle soup).

Me: Leonard- are you hearing this? Mary is giving you major props over here.

Leonard: Me?! (points across the table to Leroy without raising his head) Leroy is the man!

Leroy: (nodding) I AM the man!!

Elizabeth: What's that supposed to mean?

Leroy: Means I get a lot of women.

Elizabeth: You ain't got but one woman now!

Leroy: Well...I used to get a lot of women.

Elizabeth: Oh, okay. You gonna eat yer bread?

Then they all debated whether I should get married or not. Leonard, upon hearing that I was 34 and not married, said, "Damn! What's wrong witchoo!?!"

Elizabeth said, "I say WAY. TO. GO. Marriage ain't nuthin but a bunch of honeydew. Honey do this and honey do that!!"

I asked Leonard if he had been married and he laughed and said, "No. I've come close a few times!" Mary left the table for a bit so I took the opportunity to ask Leonard if he was gonna marry Mary. He said, "We got engaged. But I'm gettin cold feet again!"

Later I asked Mary if she was gonna marry Leonard. She said, "He asked me. But I think I wanna keep the way it is now. I like the way it is now."

There is something so beautiful and hilarious and amazing about the fact that whether you're 14, 34, or 82...matters of the heart are totally confusing. I think there's a song in there somewhere.

Mom Wisdom

I tracked down the list of 75 Lessons I Learned From My Mom, which I gave her for Mother's Day when she was 75.

I often hear my mom's voice in my head reminding me of these and other important, inspiring or just funny things. As I told my mom when I gave her this, I'm so glad that the voice that helps me find my way through life has a Brooklyn accent.

1. Clean as you go.
2. Everything in moderation.
3. The recipe for sausage bread.
4. When it comes to shoes, bags and friends: Quality versus quantity.
5. Ya got along before ya met him, you'll get along without him now.
6. It's possible for a human being to maintain the same weight for 50 years.
7. Being healthy is easier than dieting.
8. Picking at zits makes them worse.
9. If you don't know the word, look it up.
10. Angle of Repose is a great book.
11. Cut off telemarketers and say, "Before ya go any further, I'm really not interested."
12. Finish your vegetables.
13. Old is a state of mind.
14. Singing and cooking go well together.
15. Don't be embarassed by your age.
16. When it comes to make-up and accessories, less is more.
17. Don't perm your hair (I hated this one when I was in junior high but I think she was probably right).
18. Stand up for what you believe in.
19. Help kids with their homework, but don't do it for them.
20. Keep a journal. They're fun to look back on.
21. The beauty of NJ is one of the world's best kept secrets.
22. The best way to be a good parent is to be a good person.
23. Volunteering is a way of life.
24. Don't tolerate pettiness at The Swinging Set.
25. Cheer for the underdog.
26. Grudges are a waste of energy.
27. Everybody suffers in one way or another.
28. We don't hate anyone, we may just dislike the things they do. (I hated this one too in junior high).
29. If you have the option, walk instead of drive.
30. Crosswords make you smarter.
31. Too much TV makes you dumber.
32. Life is too short to be taken seriously.
33. If you don't feel well, try getting some fresh air and exercise.
34. If you start something, finish it.
35. Tip well.
36. Say please and thank you.
37. Use sunscreen.
38. Save the receipt.
39. Save your photos and letters.
40. Appreciate art. From movies to paintings to Broadway.
41. Ella, Dinah and Sarah know where it's at.
42. If you think 42, just say 42.
43. Be proud of your accomplishments, but don't brag.
44. Think before you speak.
45. Total and a banana is the perfect breakfast.
46. Don't have the TV on during dinner.
47. Sunday dinner: family dinner.
48. Ask for help if you need it.
49. Do a dry run. Don't be late.
50. Siblings are a precious gift.
51. Make sure you turn off the oven and unplug the coffee pot.
52. Make people feel welcome.
53. Don't waste food. Finish the vegetables before they go bad.
54. Do whatever will make you happy.
55. Be a loyal friend.
56. Get to know the mailmen even if you call him by the wrong name for 30 years.
57. Don't let them fool you, New Yorkers are nice people.
58. Before you go food shopping, make a list.
59. Speaking of food shopping, don't go when you're hungry.
60. Write thank you notes.
61. Wear a seat belt.
62. Sometimes it's okay to let others think it was their idea, when really it was yours.
63. If you want something done right, do it yourself.
64. Don't underestimate the power or importance of a sense of humor.
65. Read to your kids a lot.
66. There's no need to talk to kids in a baby voice.
67. Stay up on current events.
68. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.
69. Don't cross your eyes. They'll stay that way.
70. Don't slouch.
71. If you don't have anything nice to say, say nothing at all.
72. Make use of public transportation.
73. Pack your lunch.
74. Vote in every election.
75. Mangia.

Was That My Career?

When I was a wee 24 years old I worked in Sussex County, New Jersey as a Case Manager at the Samaritan Inn. The Samaritan Inn was a program for homeless in Northern Jersey. We had about 16 transitional housing apartments for homeless families, The Sober House, which was transitional housing for homeless men in recovery from alcohol and drug abuse, a food pantry, a 24 hour helpline, and funding for emergency assistance. And three full-time staff. It was Anna (the Director), Pam (another Case Manager), and myself. I got paid a whopping $24k a year. There were many days where I questioned why on earth I was working there, but my co-workers were fantastic and every day was interesting, to say the least.

The other day I came across the following journal entry from March 20, 1998, documenting a typical day at The Samaritan Inn.

Today's 40 minute drive to work was fairly typical. I cruised down Route 80, sipped coffee, and listened to Howard Stern. While I was completely intrigued by Howard's interview with George Clooney, I couldn't shake the following thought: "Today is gonna suck." Anna was going to be at a meeting all day. A group of UPS employees were coming the next day to paint some of the shelter apartments, which meant that Pam and I had to move the zillion dressers that were donated the day before into the individual apartments. We also had to pick up a month's worth of food pantry food and unpack it, because the anal CCD teacher who used the building on Sundays, went bezerk if there was anything left in the kitchen.

I got to my desk, which was in the corner of the room on the top floor of an old house. Kind of quaint if the entire house wasn't packed with random donations of God knows what. For every usable item there were 12 things that needed to be taken to the dump. Thanks for your bag of mostly used make-up, but even homeless people don't want that shit. I checked the voicemail and the first message was from Pam. "Mary Beth...(my co-workers called me Mary Beth, a name usually reserved for family members, because when I first started at Samaritan Inn, there was another Mary working there)you're gonna kill me. I'm really sick. I can't come in today." Day is sucking already! I returned a few phone calls that I didn't get to from the day before, one of which involved a "Who's on first" conversation with Joseph, the owner of the hotel where we put up people on an emergency basis. I was trying to confirm the arrangements I made for the Connor family but I hung up more confused then when I started.

Anna took the van to her meeting, so I had no way of picking up the food for the pantry. I also noticed that the brown pick-up truck was no longer in the parking lot. It was out of commission with leaking brakes, so it's disappearance was particularly odd. I talked to Pam and she said she could just go pick up the food in her truck and then drop it off at the office. I called the Sober House, to tell Bob and Rick, who were planning to come help unload the food, that they could wait another hour. As the phone was ringing, I saw them walking up to the building.

Both Bob and Rick were completely fed up because they'd been pounding the pavement looking for jobs and couldn't find anything. Bob's a burly, friendly, hilarious, recovering alcoholic. DUIs and some jail time left him without a job, money or place to live. Rick is in recovery for drug addictions. You name the drug- Rick has tried it. Rick is kind and helpful and looks positively beaten up by life. He's trying so hard to get his life on track but his shoddy job history and burned bridges are making it difficult.

We decided we could use the extra time to have our weekly case management meetings, in which we reviewed the week's goals and set some new ones for the following week. Bob updated me on Ralph, the weird guy from his AA meetings. For some reason that was completely unclear to me, Bob was convinced that Ralph was stalking him. I asked Bob if he'd gone to his counseling appointment.

"Yeah, but I can't go back there. That counselor is so lame. It's such a waste of my time."

"Well, it was court ordered. Unfortunately, there was no provision for you thinking it was lame. Besides, you're homeless and unemployed and a recovering alcoholic. Don't you think counseling might be helpful?"

"Maybe. But not with this chick. I can't do it."

"I get it but the court has ordered it and that's the only person you can see for free. Why not just bring a magazine and get through it? What are you gonna do if they throw you back in jail?"

"I'll have to tape a frying pan to my ass and hope for the best."

"Perfect. Stellar plan, Bob. Let's just update your goals. We'll replace "Go to counseling appointment" with "Tape frying pan to ass."

Bob said he'd left a few messages with Joan from Workforce Development, but she hadn't called him back. I told him he could use my phone if he wanted to try her again. So he called and left a message. "Joan! It's Bob! AGAIN. You can run but you can't hide, Joan! CALL ME!" Joan called back a couple minutes later.

While Bob was talking to Joan, I tried to calm down Rick, who was in the midst of a "I have no money" freak out. I whipped up a verification of his address and suggested that he walk down the block to the Hamburg Municipal Welfare office and sign up for emergency assistance. He got right on it.

As soon as Rick left, Frank the irritating man with no personality waltzed in. Frank had called weeks before and told me that he, his wife and two kids were being evicted. Frank said that he was receiving unemployment but had been getting blank checks in the mail. Instead of trying to iron that out with unemployment, Frank called The Samaritan Inn. The whole situation sounded completely fishy to me. I gave him a few places to call and told him to get back to me as soon as possible with what he found out. I never heard from him. So here it was weeks later when Frank strolled into my office and said, "I'm gonna be evicted on Sunday." After giving Frank a short speech about how annoying it was that he didn't get back to me, particularly given the fact that it's putting his kids at risk for homelessness, I made arrangements for his family to stay at a motel from Sunday until Wednesday, when he'd be receiving his next unemployment check. Didn't even get a thank you from Frank. His only response was, "What about my storage?"

By this point, Rick had come back from the welfare office, where they gave him a phone number and told him to go home, call, and make an appointment. Chances were good that because he was homeless after being released from jail, Rick would be denied emergency assistance and given the reason: "You've caused your own homelessness." That was just one of the many examples of how our criminal justice system is not set up to rehabilitate people. Rick slumped down in the chair at Pam's desk, totally frustrated and dejected.

I told Frank that we couldn't pay for storage but that he was welcome to use our phone to call storage places. If that didn't work, he'd have to work something out with family or friends. He stared at me and said nothing.

Bob said, "Well...sounds like we need to let our fingers do the walkin!" He looked up storage in the yellow pages. "Hey Rick...dial this number." Rick picked up the phone and dialed. So now Rick and Bob were managing Frank's life for him. I'd had enough of Frank and his uselessness so I told him to go find somewhere else to not deal with his own responsibilities.

Bob left to attend to his many appointments for the day. Rick and I were shooting the shit, and waiting for Pam to drop off the food. The phone rang. "Uh, are you guys coming to pick up the food or what?" It was the truck driver at the food drop-off location. I told him that my co-worker should've been there by that point and I had no idea what happened. He said he'd have to go once the last group was unloaded. Crap. A month without food in our food pantry would create major chaos. And I was worried about Pam. After leaving a message for Pam at her house, Rick and I determined that we couldn't do much else but wait.

Rick and I got to talking about his driving record. "I have a lot of points, but it's mostly for stupid stuff. Not speeding."

"What kind of stuff?" I asked him.

"Well, I got pulled over once because I slowed down to go to a deli, so I had my blinker on. I realized the place was closed, so I turned off my blinker and kept going. A cop pulled me over for failure to turn. Then he wound up finding drugs in my car."

"Had you been driving crazy?"

"No."

"Were you drunk?"

"No. I was high on crack."

"Well there you have it, Rick! Maybe something about your driving indicated that you might have been high on crack!"

It was quiet for a minute and then Rick asked, "Is this your career?"

"Dammit, Rick. That's a mighty fine question."

As Rick and I tried to figure out my career goals, Pam showed up with the food. It turned out that her son was sick too, so she had to pick him up from school. Then, because they were both sick, she had to pull over a few times on the way to get the food. This day was sucking for everyone.

Rick and I put the food away and then I gave him $20 out of petty cash so he'd have something to help him get by until his meeting at the welfare office.

"I feel so guilty taking this. I didn't work for it. It's so weird." Rick said as he was breaking down boxes.

"You called storage places for Frank, you just unloaded and unpacked all that food and you fixed our truck last week."

"That's not work. That's just favors."

"Take the freaking money, Rick. You can repay us by not smoking crack."

"Ok, it's a deal."

After scarfing down my lunch, I left the office and drove over to the Sussex Street shelter apartments to deal with those dressers. Kim, one of the residents, took a dresser and she and I both brought one up to Stephanie's apartment. I enlisted Bill, another resident, to help me move the rest of them into the back room so they were out of the way. When I was just about done and had everything cleaned up, Stephanie came down in one of her typical frenzies. I had a soft spot for Stephanie. She tried really hard but some mental illness made it really difficult for her to hold down a job. She was a great mom to her three year old daughter and deserved a better lot in life than she was getting. One of my favorite things about Stephanie was her honesty. She was turned down for SSI because of her extensive job history. Stephanie said to the SSI worker, "Yeah, I'm 27 and I've had 20 jobs. You figure it out!"

The SSI worker asked Stephanie for her diagnosis, so Stephanie told her, "I'm neurologically impaired."

"Could you spell that please?" asked the worker.

"I'm neurologically impaired! DUH! Just sound it out!"

Whenever I start to lose patience with Stephanie's constant chatter, I remember that little anecdote. Today's mile a minute panic from Stephanie began. "Uh...Mary Beth...when you get a chance could you come upstairs to my apartment?"

"Sure, Stephanie. Is it an emergency?"

"Well...I opened up the cabinet to put Kelly's toys in there and well...it smells funny. So I want you to come upstairs and tell me if you think it smells funny. K? Oh, and something's wrong with my shower curtain."

"Sure, I'll smell your cabinets. And we can get you a new shower curtain."

I went upstairs and sniffed the cabinets. Smelled like typical musty wood to me. Stephanie said she felt much better and thanked me profusely.

I went to the other shelter apartment building at Union Place, just to remind everyone to clean their apartments cause those UPS people would be coming by that weekend. I wound up getting sucked into the drama at Union Place, which led to me actually say out loud, in the middle of the courtyard, "Contrary to popular belief...this is Union Place, not Melrose Place. Can we all just focus on ourselves already?!" With that I bid everyone a lovely weekend, and headed home.

Seriously....is this my career?

High Anxiety

As soon as I crossed to the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge, I moved over to the left lane, and cruised along in my parents giant Ford Taurus, happily singing to the tunes on WDHA, “Jersey’s rock station.” I was on my way from my brother Jim’s apartment in Manhattan and was headed back to my parents’ house in the North Jersey burbs. Making lots of local trips to visit with family and friends is just part of being home for the holidays. This particular 40 minute drive is one that I’ve done more times than I can remember. Being in the car by myself with nothing but my thoughts, some snacks and the radio to keep me company is something I had always enjoyed.

I was lost in my thoughts when suddenly my heart beat sped up and a wave of heat washed over me. Even though it was about 30 degrees outside I figured it couldn’t hurt to open the window a bit. I tried to remain calm and just pass it off as an inexplicable hot flash that would go away quickly. I looked at my hands on the steering wheel and saw them shaking uncontrollably. My heart was racing faster than I’d ever felt it, my limbs were feeling increasingly numb and my entire body was covered in sweat. And I was driving 80 miles per hour in the left lane of 6 lanes of traffic. I did my best to recall my social work training in crisis management. “Ok, take deep breaths,” said the calm rational part of my mind that was fighting to take charge. I attempted the deepest breaths possible. “Put on your hazards and your blinker.” Check and check. “Move over to the right lane.” Slowly I got there. “Ok, you’re still shaky and your heart is racing but you’re ok. Worst case scenario, you can pull over in the shoulder.” Ok, thanks, rational mind. But I’m still freaking out. “We can make it to the next exit and pull over and call someone.” Ok, but did you see that sign? Next exit 8 miles. “Shit, that’s kinda far. But wait, since you saw it, we probably drove at least a mile.” Good point, I can do this.

I took the next exit, my heart racing and arms shaking the entire time. I pulled off on to a residential side street and parked the car. More deep breaths. “You’re ok. You managed to escape one of the busiest highways in the country without crashing into anything. Nice work.” Thanks, rational part of me, said my shaky self. But my heart is still racing. “Maybe a walk would help.” I walked one block and had to turn around because my stomach was doing flips. I called my friend Lisa and explained my bizarre situation. Lisa was the fantastic friend she always is and said she’d come get me immediately. She warned me that it would probably take her about half an hour to get there. I assured her that I’d be okay just waiting. Then the heart racing returned with a vengeance. I called Jim, who did his best to calm me down but now that I was out of the immediate crisis of crashing into cars, I started to think about the fact that something crazy was happening to my body and I had no clue what it was. Jim suggested I call 911 just to be safe. He had a point. I’d rather be embarrassed that it’s nothing then be in flight to the pearly gates and say, “Maybe 911 could’ve dealt with this one.” I dialed 911.

"911."

“Hi, first of all- this is not an immediate emergency," I said in the calmest voice I could muster up.

I explained my situation and told the woman that I didn’t really think I needed an ambulance but I just didn’t want to be stupid and ignore the signs. I told her that it would be at least a half hour before my friend got there. That 911 gal was so great. After asking a series of medical questions and determining there was no immediate emergency, she said, “There’s a cop near that neighborhood now. Want me to ask him to just go and hang out with you until your friend shows up?” Sounds perfect. Lisa got a bit lost on the way to meet me (which is quite understandable since I was pulled off in the most random of locations) so it turned out to be about an hour before she showed up. In the meantime, the cop and I shot the shit and tried to diagnose me.

“Ya sure you’re not pregnant?”

“No sir, I’m not pregnant.”

“Maybe just an anxiety attack then?”

“Maybe. Good chance of it actually. But why now when I’ve never had an anxiety attack in my entire life and as far as I know I’m not anxious?”

“Yeah, that makes no sense. You’ll be all right though. You’re gonna be ok.”

It’s funny how telling someone he or she will be okay is “deal with sick or agitated person” 101 but it really does help, even coming from a mustachioed stranger who looked like he was straight out of Reno 911. I decided maybe I should try to take my mind off of it and talk about other things. “So…get anything good for Christmas, Officer?”

Lisa and I went back to her house and relaxed with delicious take-out sushi and "Sex and the City" DVDs. I began to feel better, although my heart rate never really felt like it was back to normal. The next day I went to see “The Aviator” with my parents, and we had to leave about 15 minutes into the movie, because my shaking and sweating was back. Crap. Even Leo DiCaprio couldn’t calm me down. This was serious. I needed to fly back to Oakland, California the next morning and was terrified of being a convulsing nervous freak during the entire flight. I went to the ER. I signed in and shared a nice little laugh with the intake gal, when we realized that the last time I was at St. Clare’s hospital was the day I was born. After a bunch of tests, I was given the great news that nothing at all was wrong with me. “Probably just an anxiety attack,” the doctor told me with no trace of bedside manner.

“Wow!” I said. “Super psyched to hear that! Don’t know if it’s in my chart there, but I’ve never had an anxiety attack in my life so this isn’t exactly great news.” I tried to explain that it seems that something IS wrong with me if I’m repeatedly getting anxiety attacks for reasons that are completely unclear to me. And given the situation while I was driving, it seems that these little “attacks” could shape up be quite dangerous. The doctor’s answer was to hand me a prescription for Xanax.

“Here- you can take this if you begin to feel anxious. Probably want to see your local doctor when you get back to SF.”

Thanks, dude.

I didn’t sleep at all that night because not only was I terrified of more panic attacks, I was scared to taked a drug I’d never taken before, and then get on a plane by myself. In one day I had become a completely different person. Where was the gal that could travel to Africa by herself? The one who could drive across the country alone? Suddenly I couldn’t bear the thought of driving down the highway or getting on a freaking plane.

It’s a miracle I didn’t get addicted to Xanax.

I reluctantly popped a pill before my dad and I headed to the airport. The doctor said the Xanax would take about half an hour to kick in and sure enough, just as I arrived at the airport, I felt remarkably calm. It’s as if the travel gods wanted to test Xanax’s limits. I stood in the long security check line at Newark Airport with all of post-holiday humanity crammed around me. Not one trace of anxiety! My fellow Newark to Oakland travelers and I sat on the tarmac for at least an hour before the plane took off. I was cool as a cucumber. Another passenger yelled, “I’ve got a phobia of flying and if we don’t take off soon I’m gonna seriously FREAK OUT!” Poor lamb. I’d offer her a Xanax if I had the energy to move my arm. Oh well, probably better nap instead.

The Xanax had pretty much worn off by the time I took the shuttle back from the Oakland airport to my apartment. My heart was racing again and I wanted to crawl out of my skin. It’s nearly impossible to describe the feeling to someone who hasn’t experienced it before. My body would suddenly be drowning in a feeling of terror with absolutely no focus for the fear. No matter how many times I’d hear or read that you can not die from a panic attack, it’s hard to imagine it when you’re in that moment. Every time it happened I was pretty sure my heart might just stop. That, of course, is no way to think if you want to calm yourself down.

I immediately made appointments to see my doctor and get blood tests to make sure there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. Xanax was okay for the time being, but it left me lethargic and completely unproductive, so it definitely wasn’t the magic pill, so to speak. In the two days before seeing my doctor, I did some epic googling on panic attacks. I read something about how panic is sometimes a side effect of certain drugs and I nonchalently thought, "but the only medication I’m on is my birth control.” On a whim I googled: Yasmin Panic Attacks. I hit the mother lode on a website where people posted side effects of various medications. The side effects for Yasmin were pages and pages long, as opposed to the few posts for the other types of birth control. I was up half the night reading the posts. They were both comforting and petrifying. I read about people who experienced multiple panic attacks a day and had to quit their jobs because they couldn’t bring themselves to leave their house. There were women who had invested loads of money and time on all sorts of therapy to try to uncover the underlying causes of their anxiety, only to find out years later that it was a side effect of their birth control. I read about women whose significant others’ patience with their panic wore thin leading to break-ups and divorces. In summary- it was scary shit.

First I thought, “Wow- the internet is pretty cool sometimes.” Then I got overly resentful about the politics of birth control and the powers of the pharmaceutical marketing machine. Then I printed out some pages of side effects so I could show my doctor. Then I popped a Xanax and went to sleep.

My blood tests showed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. In fact, the doctor praised me for my excellent cholesterol levels and my overall good health. I would’ve been pleased if I had not being waist deep in the throes of the worst I’d ever felt in my life. The gynecologist who prescribed the Yasmin got ridiculously defensive when I told her it gave me panic attacks. “It can’t be the Yasmin! No patient has ever told me that before!” She glared at me with the, “Oh these idiotic patients diagnosing themselves over the internet!” look. I got in touch with the aforementioned resentment about the politics of birth control and the pharmaceutical marketing machine, and unleashed it all over her. She nervously stuttered something about how maybe I should go to a therapist to discuss the anxiety. I’d be damned if I was going to let this clueless bitch get to third base with me again.

“I’m switching my PCP,” I said and walked out.

My internet diagnostics coupled with discussions with friends who are doctors told me that even though I got off the birth control, it could be a few months before it was out of my system. They were right. An added bonus was the 'ol “it might get worse before it gets better.” The next few months were hell. I felt like a shell of my former self where every day was a battle to not freak out for no reason. In an effort to not get addicted to Xanax, I only took half the prescribed amount and I did my best to force myself into situations that made me feel like crawling in a hole and weeping. I cut sugar and caffeine out of my diet completely. I talked to friends about it and I tried to exercise regularly and eat healthy. I did all the crap that the panic experts recommend. And it still sucked. Avoiding a panic attack consumed about 90% of my thoughts for months. After many many days that involved the occasional panic attack while on a packed train, or having an enjoyable concert ruined by the sudden feeling that I might pass out, or a simple round of sobbing in my room out of exhaustion, I felt a little better with each day. It was about six months before I felt pretty much back to normal.

About a year ago, I was on the train headed home from work and out of nowhere, felt my heart start to race. My body flooded with the feeling that I needed to get off the train immediately. I was pissed. Prior experience with this crap made me sure that I wouldn’t die and that I would be ok. But good god, enough with this already. I got home and made an appointment to see a therapist. At the end of my first meeting in which I laid out my situation, the therapist said, “My take is that you don’t have any unexplored underlying issues leading to the anxiety. You took a medication that gave you panic attacks and now your body remembers that reaction and occasionally uses it as a response to every day stress.” That was reassuring but also irritating. I longed for the days when my body chose to convert stress into moodiness and a headache.

There was a period during my social work career that I considered going into counseling. A supervisor of mine said I should become a “reality therapist” because of my lack of patience for bullshit. I think she meant it as a compliment but I’m not sure. Anyway, this new therapist of mine was the reality therapist I can only dream of becoming. She assured me that conquering the panic was very managable. She turned out to be right, for the most part. After less than two months of her teaching me about the science behind panic (being able to translate crazy reactions to a series of chemical actions was somehow comforting to me) and figuring out tricks to teach the panic who was boss, we both decided that I didn’t really need to see her anymore.

After my final session, I walked around Horner Park with a spring in my step. I thought back on the times two years earlier when I sat in my apartment in Oakland, terrified to leave. I reflected on the times when the ten minute underground train ride from Oakland to San Francisco seemed like two hours. I thought about the many times I would try my best to distract my panic by counting specks of dust on the ground or trying to think of people's names for every letter in the alphabet. I thought about how, for a time, I was horrified that I was on the brink of literally losing my mind. I had come a long way. I was in a new city with a new job and new friends and new hobbies and a new outlook on life. Now when I feel a wave of anxiety overcome me, I’m still not thrilled, but I see it as a sign of where I’ve been and where I’m going. The whole situation was a hard lesson in appreciating my independence but remembering that I can’t get by without others helping me along. Driving alone on a busy highway still terrifies me a little, but I know that I can handle it, because in the worst case scenario, I can always pull over and find a friendly cop looking to kill some time.

Yesterday I was waiting at the Rockwell train platform and saw a man standing by himself. His arms were a little shaky and his whole body was slowly rocking back and forth. Who knows what his story was but it looked like an impending panic attack to me. He looked so unhappy, nervous and uncomfortable that I literally shed a tear. Part of me wanted to go ask if he was okay, but I couldn’t decide if he’d want the attention. In a move that even shocked me, my sadness quickly turned to gratitude. If that hellish panic period has led me to be more empathetic to other people, and be more able to break down the masses of people around me into individuals struggling to conquer their personal battles, then, and I’d never thought I’d say this, I’m thankful for it.


(Side note: The title of this just caused me to add “High Anxiety” to my Netflix queue, if for no other reason than so I can hear Madeline Kahn say, “Jeepers Richard, that was terrific.”)