Fatherless Father's Day Blog Post #1,265,321...But My First

This morning I realized, I've been living out of travel bags and make-up cases for the past three months. Not because I've been traveling for work or going between houses in what should be a fantastically wild romance. Nope. For three months I've been throwing stuff in an overnight bag (perpetually forgetting my mascara) to be at my Mom's house. In March, my Dad got sick and spent 11 days in the creepiest ICU known to hospitals. The bags then, were just to be close to the hospital. A change of clothes after staying the night. For a week or two--anyone can live like a bag lady.

But then somewhere in between those 11 days and today--the bags became permanent. Including the ones under my eyes. On a Friday the 13th--my dad died. Peacefully--but somewhat unexpected. Somewhat--because he was sick--had Rheumatoid Arthritis for 40 years--and his lungs were giving out because of it--but he was fine. 80, but fine. Not breathing or walking well, but fine. Until that day when he wasn't. And the bags stayed packed. For the funeral. For my sisters and I--taking turns to stay with my mom so she wouldn't have to face the loneliness after 55 years of marriage. For work. For the sole purpose of not wanting to be alone in my house. The bags stayed packed and by the foot of my bed. (Just easier to load them back up that way.)

Tomorrow is Father's Day. The first without him. And I'm thinking it would be a really good day to finally unpack--but I'm going to my mom's again. To cook on his BBQ. Like almost every other Father's Day I can remember. But my dad never really liked Father's Day. Never wanted the fuss and muss. And I admit--it was always a challenge to figure out what to get him. There was only so much Red Sox crap you could cram into a den. So I guess I never really liked it either. Because of the gift game--but also because my dad and I were somewhat challenged in the communication department--even when Snoopy cards were involved. (I know, with the length of this post, you're rolling your eyes at that one.) But like you--tomorrow we will talk about him--remember him. But for us--it's a little too soon to be joyful in our remembrance. It's still too raw. I'm still having nightmares about his hospital stay--no nice dreams about being young again, taking trips to Tahoe with him-- yet. Still lots to resolve in my head--unpacking of bigger bags--if you will. The baggage that comes with grief. The heavy bag of no longer having that chance to prove what a good daughter you are--only to find out two days before he died--he already knew. See? THIS overhead bin is already pretty full!? 53 years takes more than 3 months to unpack and put away.

I looked through some pictures to join in the obligatory Facebook observance--changing your profile pic to one of your Dad. But I abandoned that search. And instead found something else on my desktop I wanted to share: what I wrote and read at my dad's funeral mass. All my sisters spoke that day. Each presentation as different as the four of us are in life. One sang. One talked of growing up. One talked of his love for his grandchildren. I decided to forgo memories, and share some of what I talked to my dad about in the hospital just a few days before.  I cherish this gift I got--a real Father's Day--or night--when he started to rebound and feel better off the heavy sedation. We talked. Something Bob and Lynnie never really did much. I wouldn't trade that sweet and scary night--for all the Dad's days in the world. (Well okay--maybe tomorrow. It would have been nice to keep the conversation going.) So this is my Dad's Day gift to him. To share with anyone remembering their own dads tomorrow--maybe struggling with memories and missing buying the Snoopy cards.

I'm sure by next June--I'll be out of the travel bags. Or--maybe not. As you'll read--my dad wished for me--the aforementioned "reason" to keep things packed. Among other things. I miss you Dad. I kinda appreciate that you weren't one of those goofy dads that LOVED this Hallmark holiday. Makes it easier on all of us to just go on living tomorrow. Even if it means wearing no mascara for a few days.

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March 20, 2015

Hi I’m Lynn, or Lynnie—or as dad often called me, #2.

As most of you know, my dad was a brick and stone mason. He built beautiful things –from cement and rock. Fireplaces, buildings, the long wall on 680 in Milpitas, that once blew over and almost caused him to blow over. His last job was on the beautiful house my parents live in now. His disease was cruel, and took away the use of his hands—that held his tools—his career and his creativity.

But what it didn’t take from him—was his strength. His strength as a man, a husband, and a father—lived on and pushed past pain. And that’s why I’ve chosen to talk about his last days with us, as my tribute to Bob the builder—who despite a lifetime of building a home, a family, a legacy—spent his last bits of energy—

de-constructing fear.

Last week--I had the opportunity to spend a few nights with dad alone while he was in the hospital—where we talked--as he struggled to breathe. This meant a great deal to me—as My dad and I were never big on words. Well, soft words anyway—being Italian—there were quite a few “choice” words over the years-- starting with the night I came home late from my first date and he conveniently fell asleep watching baseball on the front lawn. Dad had a brilliant mind, with a sharp wit and a biting sense of humor that comes out in all 4 of us differently—some, just in their snarky Facebook posts about Bart.

 

As we talked—we watched a little television-- HGTV – he cringed when he saw the brick fireplaces all getting painted over white on home renovation shows. I asked him if he remembered MY show—and he said “yeah that guy didn’t know what the hell he was doing.” He tried to watch baseball—but it was the Giants. He told me he hopes I find a nice guy some day. I said I thought I did once—and he shrugged his shoulders and went “meahh.” Soft words. I taught him a little yoga mantra to help him relax in the most un-relaxing of places. (I’m saying that now.)

Small talk, small words. But As he lay there wrestling with what I think he knew was coming--we talked-- about our family, and about our relationship as father and daughter. And how much we loved each other. I told him we haven’t said that enough throughout our lives. And he said “I’m not that kinda guy.” But now I know—he WAS the kind of guy who transcended words. Big or small. Sure, Oprah tells us we all need to say them—and I’m grateful I had that chance to do that -- But what I will always remember and take to my own grave, aren’t so much dad’s words —but his actions—his strength-- as he faced leaving this world and moving on to the next. That example of courage confronting his illness—and the fight he gave at the end-- is all I need to hang on to. 

Later that same night we talked about things we’ve done in life—good and bad. And we talked about judgment. And dad –once again -- sharp as a tack—said: “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.” I laughed, because following the HGTV shows--here we were talking about rocks again. That and I wasn’t sure who said that and asked if that was Dr. Phil? But he knew. He was quoting Jesus. And in the end my dad’s faith is what brought him peace. Even though he was using his prayer book in bed to reach and change the TV channels.

In more ways than one—including those icky last hospital days-proved —my dad was  *this. Rock solid. Heavy. This kind of strength stands up for a lifetime. And  weighs heavier than any words. What he built in me, and in that wall along 680—will last forever. Don’t waste time casting stones—make something really beautiful with them. Whether you say it, or show it or paint it over white.

Before I leave—a short word about the “cement” to my dad’s brick. And that is my mom Nancy. Mom—you kept him happy, alive and living with purpose. Without you, he—and we-- are lost.

Finally--I Leave you with these words of wisdom my father bestowed upon me at a very young age that still mean so much to me today: “You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with wet cement.”

I love you dad. Always did. Always will. 

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*I brought one of my dad's bricks from his garden to use in my eulogy. I pulled it from my purse--and called it my touchstone. After, we all signed it, and it was lowered down into the grave with him. That way--we'll all be close--forever. And a Bob the Builder never has to be without a brick. 

The Great Fallout of Ott-twelve (Ott sounds better and more serious than Twenty)

I'd like to say a few words about hair. Because I've been obsessed with it lately and I think there's some deep-rooted reason why. See, I think I recently lost a gig because of my hair. No--not follicle discrimination like blond vs brunette--and not really a job-- more of an assignment. But before I  get to that--let me begin at the beginning, which also feels like the end.

For about a year I've been noticing the more-than-usual clumps of hair in the shower, on the floor, in my hairbrush. There's no question--my hair is falling out. And not because I have some rare, talk-show-attention-getting disease--no. I guess it's because I'm getting old. Google's top search results pretty much says women my age lose hair because of hormones. But what Google doesn't say--and Lynn wants to know is--when does this shit stop? I mean really. Enough already. There isn't enough, already.

Before the Fallout

Men like long, flowing, full hair. Not twelve strands pulled together to form a noodle-like ponytail. I'm losing so much--if you lift up what's left around my forehead--you'll see the holes. Aren't MEN supposed to deal with holes as they age? (don't answer that) Male pattern baldness? What kind of pattern is this? Except some wicked, F'ed up joke being played by someone upstairs on women my age everywhere. Especially SINGLE women my age. I mean, come on God--leave something up there? Someone's still gotta find me attractive? (And even though I'm into Yoga, I'd prefer they not be part of the Hare Krishna movement.)

It's stressing me out. And my hairdresser says stress makes you lose your hair too. Another vicious circle. Hormones. Stress. Fallout. Repeat. Make it stop please. I should cut it. Shorter hair looks fuller right? But then men don't like short hair--so not until I can snag another one with the thin mop. I'll just continue to look like an aging hippie aka: Gloria Steinem, thank you very much. I've been using hot rollers to curl the 12 noodle strands. Curls make them look fuller, right? But not only is it falling out--but my hair texture has changed too. The curls just fall into stringy-looking mink pelts. (Which WAS attractive back in Ott-twelve.) It's wiry. Frizzy. The beginnings of old lady Clampett's hair, soon to be in a bun.

And where, oh where, has the shine gone? One day I was looking like those Pantene commercials--but now? It's dull. Coarse. And don't even get me started on the color. Dying is rough on your hair and will make it fall out more. So you can HAVE more hair, but you have to have gray ones? More cruelty. How the hell do you deal with the gray? If it's falling out--I don't want to dye every 4 weeks. But if I don't--suddenly I'm Bea Arthur. (And I"m not even going to say anything about what other hair on my body is turning gray because that WILL and IS sending me over the edge when I think about being with a man again.)

The frequency women my age have to dye--is mean menopause trick #3. Because it costs a fortune. $100 every time. I've tried to buy a box of dye--and DIY it for $6.99. But I have long, dark hair. And a white bathroom. Inevitably I end up with what looks like a crime scene--dark smears on the white rugs, walls, towels--and last time I tried this--not sure how--it was on my toothbrush. So I'm back to the pros.

Now, about that gig I lost because of hair. A while back, I was at a meeting to discuss coverage of a movie festival that starts with Sun and ends with Dance. And was pretty excited about it--figuring I'd be the "correspondent" doing all the interviews--maybe get to meet Robert Redford? (definitely worth dying for.) But the meeting began by telling me, the "correspondent" would be a little late. Wait? I'm already here--right? Nope. It wasn't going to be me. And then it walked in. The correspondent, and her long, shiny, silky--THICK--hair. The kind that looks good even when you don't wash it, and wear it all piled up in a clip? The youthful hair got the gig. I immediately thought--Ah. I see. I'm old. I have thin hair that doesn't shine on camera in front of celebrities. She has no experience, but hot damn! What hair! You're done Lynn. Find a new job as an elementary school lunch lady and hide that crap under a shower cap for all eternity. (Or at least until the undertaker can work his wonders.)

My new glasses. (and hair?)

So what's a middle-aged single gal with lack-lustre hair to do? Buy exciting and interesting eye glasses so the attention moves downward. Right? Wrong. I normally buy the same eye glasses every time. Small frames. Black. Thin. So they don't look obvious. (That I'm blind.) But not this time. Note to self. Don't ever go pick out new frames when you're feeling bad about your age and your massive five-head. (forehead isn't big enough) Also another note to self? Don't pick out new frames when your eyes are still dilated. Result? I walked away with something large and BLUE. And wait for it...there's some kind of jewelry on the sides. So not only do I now look like Gloria Steinem with the hippie hair--but I'm starting to resemble Dame Edna as well. (Line right up boys!)

I never cared much about hair growing up. I was a bit of a tomboy--my mother forced me to get a "Twiggy" pixie cut from age 3-15. It was all the rage. (Okay maybe not for over a decade, but...) My hair never kept me from succeeding--I still made cheerleader--dated the homecoming king--got into UCLA--with normal looking--non-special hair. So now--what gives? Why make it all about the hair now? I looked around on the train home from work the other night. Young girls--long, full, hair. Washed or not washed. Styled or not styled. Didn't matter. Gorge. Women my age? All tried that day to style it, curl it, hat it. But thin. Wire. Holes. The opposite of Brooke Shields. (Who HAS to be getting near 50--is she wearing a wig?)

See? No hair. Okay!

I thought maybe writing about it would lessen the stress. But as I do, I run my hand through the few pieces I'm babying up front--and like the sounds of precious pine needles falling off Charlie Brown's little Xmas tree...I hear another few dates, I mean strands, falling to the floor. Anyone with good wig store suggestions for pale white girls, please leave a comment with address. *Sigh*

My Thai Pad

Alright. It only took two and a half months, but I finally got the courage--no I'm gonna say it--the ladyballs, to sign a lease and move into a new apartment. After what HAS to be the most difficult housing search this side of Tokyo and maybe the North Pole, I decided I needed to just take a place. Stop looking for perfect. Stop looking for what I had. Because in the Bay Area--it just doesn't exist. Well not for less than $6K a month anyway. (A big thanks to Facebook and your pimple-faced programmers living six to a flat--for that one.)

With SF out of my reach and/or wallet, I opted to move to Oakland. (I can hear you laughing from here.) Look, I know. It's one of the most dangerous cities on the planet. Could be. Could also be why the rent was so cheap for a big two-bedroom flat. When it came down to it--I found what looked like a clean, somewhat updated apartment--upstairs, with parking--just what I wanted--or maybe not wanted--needed. But looks are deceiving. So are low rents. And this one had nothing to do with the homicide rate. (Although I'm thinking of contributing to it right now.)  This low rent rental, had more to do with what the AT&T guy said when he came to fix the phone lines: "Looks like they really got you by slapping some lipstick on a pig!"

Now--let me try and describe the pig, I mean the apartment, for you. This isn't TV--what I normally write for--so you can't actually see the lipstick. But let me try to visualize it for you. The place looked pretty shiny and clean when I walked in. New door knobs. (pink lipstick) Updated light switches and ceiling fans. (mauve lipstick) New paint. New carpet. Tile in the kitchen and bathroom. (Lip gloss!) When I first saw it, I thought--I can do this. Sure there's no dishwasher and the kitchen is the size of a postage stamp with no room to roll out my pie dough--but again--This is about making a change (see last disaster blog post) and finding a new path. So I finally said "okay" to the pushy Lululemon-wearing real estate lady who couldn't seem to answer my questions about who lives downstairs or whether or not the building has been retrofitted. So I caved--I mean, signed the lease. Time to get out of boxes and stop drinking wine out of paper cups. We've all moved into places that didn't feel exactly like home right? (Please nod)

Now, I'm usually pretty good about catching things when looking at prospective places to live--like I noticed there was no shower curtain rod OR broiler pan in this one. (Ha! Can't fool me!) I asked if I could try to park my car in the garage to see if it fits. (Did not do that when I rented my house in Sacramento and so the garage became a high-priced storage unit for 7 years.) And while I noticed the apartment was next door to a pizza joint and a Thai food restaurant--I didn't seem to think it mattered much. This apartment didn't share any walls with either. Pizza and Pad Thai within steps would be a benefit--especially with no dishwasher--right? Wrong. When I first saw the place and then again when I moved in, all I could smell was the toxic new carpet fumes (most likely eating away at my lungs as I write) and the new paint smells. But as the days went on and those wore off--I began to smell something else. Something with an odor akin to the carcass of a fried yak, seasoned with a dash of fish balls and some rotten onions mixed in for good measure. You know that smell if you've ever walked the ally behind a Chinese food restaurant in Chinatown. Not good.

Horrified--I began to realize--or wait--I began to "dramalize" (Lynn's term for jumping to her own conclusions)--it was the Thai food restaurant! It had to be! Either the exhaust fans from their roof or some really stinky shit they're cooking every night-- is seeping through the windows and walls and filling my new pad. Ahem. My new "Thai pad." F the new doorknobs--Would these thin walls make everything, including my velvet couch, wreak of this fried, fatty, garlicky stench? I immediately called the landlord and ripped him a new one for not telling me about the smelly seepage. "You need to disclose that for people like myself with ultra-sensitive senses!" (Dramalizing again, although I am hyper-sensitive to smells and noise including snoring boyfriends.) He SWORE that it wasn't the Thai food restaurant and that it had to be something else causing the odor because he's been there before!? Sure. That's it. I began to think he's the pig or maybe that's what they're boiling next door.

There wasn't much I could do about it--after all, I just signed a lease. And I unpacked 78% of my boxes. So after spending a hundred bucks on candles from the Bath and Body store--I decided I didn't care if burned the crapartment down--I was just going to light the damn thing up with fragrant candles and plug-in this and thats--do whatever I had to-- just so I could breathe. I mean it was so bad--that even while living in the scariest place on earth (Oaktown)--I was forced to leave my windows open during the day while I was at work, just so I didn't sympathy vomit from smelling too much Thai food, when I got home.

But one day I came home and learned the single mom and her teenage daughter who plays her music way too loud for Lynn--were moving. And God be my witness and/or chef--when they moved out--so did the smells! It appears the odorama wasn't coming from Thai Palace--but from the Texas BBQ that was my neighbor's kitchen downstairs! Apparently--they weren't at home without a deep fat fryer boiling some sort of meet 24/7. When they moved out --I could breathe again.
And thankfully--the Texan teen's rock music stopped too! I could sleep and all was right with the apartment world for my nearly two thousand dollars a month. I wasn't dramalizing the fact that finally--I got a break. After all the stress of moving and searching for a home and starting a new job--I found myself starting to smile again.

For a minute, I thought I just might settle in-- here in my little flat in Oakland. Maybe even go try out the Thai joint next door. Make some new friends. Tell the chef how great his food smells. I expressed my apologies to the landlord--and told him it was the woman downstairs. I kindly suggested-- to "please rent to a quiet, professional woman like myself, who eats mostly cold salads and colder wine for dinner." But when one window closes--and you finally can breathe a little easier--yep--god makes sure you gotta open another. And another.

A couple weeks later--I came home to find a young man moving into the vacant flat downstairs. After introducing myself as the "upstairs neighbor"--I didn't hear anything else he said--because I became fixated on two things only: He was unloading a double-stroller. And he was wearing a Yarmulke.

Welcome to my new home--aka: the Gefilte fish flat. Complete with screaming babies.
To be continued. (If I'm still here.)

Change is the Only Constant

The old Greek dude who came up with that--clearly didn't have to pay $2400 a month for pink carpet and yellow Formica counters.

Throughout my life I've struggled with change. But really, who hasn't? And regardless of how many times you repeat it's "the only constant"-- It's still so damn hard!! We all want to hold on to something good, something we love or believe in. We'll even fight to hold on to something we only THINK is good. Or at least I do. Until recently, when I decided to change my fight against change--and totally implode my comfortable life in an attempt to unweave the past, and retread my future.

But now that I'm firmly floundering in the middle of my change mess--two months in--I'm seriously beginning to think Gandhi and that ancient philosopher with a name I can't pronounce-- were just assholes for making us believe. Maybe change isn't good? I mean, if it's the only thing you can depend on--like they said--why does it hurt so much? Shouldn't we shield ourselves from that? Stay the course! It's easy! It's familiar! Why change? Well I did. But now I'm thinking I bit off more than I can chew. Now I'm literally choking on change.

Before I tell you why I did this-- and stop speaking in code--I'm just curious. What was the last big change you consciously chose to make in your life? I’m not talking about the ones that are forced on you by fate or maybe this craptastic recession? I mean one you actually made a decision about, in an effort to push yourself forward? Was it a new hairstyle? As much as you loved that little last patch on your five-head, it was time to shave it off and boldly enter the world of male pattern baldness? (Positive Change.) Perhaps you got rid of all the clothes you haven’t worn in two years, and finally went out and bought fat pants that fit over the menopausal muffin top? (Necessary Change.) Switched from PC to Mac? (Cave to trend Change.) Whatever it was—I’m sure, the change wasn’t easy.  No I KNOW the change wasn't easy.

Recently, while sitting on my couch drinking yet another glass of watered-down Chardonnay,

(4 points) I decided it was time for a change. And nothing easy like the aforementioned hair cut--although now I kinda wish I had just gotten bangs. For the past several years, I've tried to hold on to something I probably shouldn't have. And it was constantly making me sad. So, this particular evening I decided that making one little change, at this stage of my life wasn’t enough. I decided to go for the total trifecta of life disruption. Quit my job. Pack up my house. And move out of the city that for the past six years, represented every hope and dream I ever had for what I believed to be happiness. (Hold for applause.)

Now don’t feel bad about only throwing out those size 6 jeans and telling people you’re making “change” and moving on--that's solid stuff. But what you're about to read is a cautionary tale of "Careful what you wish for" because it can all happen too quickly-- when maybe you're not ready for all that change Lynn you stupid, stupid girl who left her nice life because some guy didn't want her anymore? (oops did I write that out loud and without punctuation?) I digress. Sort of. If you’ve read any of my –oh—last 100 blog posts (I don’t have 100 blog posts but maybe you'll believe it) you’ve most likely read about my relationship and my temporary “McDonald’s” job—something I took until I could get another TV gig. IE: something I took to stay close to the guy who broke my heart because I still had hope that “maybe.”

Well that job and "maybe" wasn't cutting it for me anymore. I didn't fit in at McDonald's from the start. And while I had made lovely friends over the past six years, and adored my beautiful little house complete with ducky-filled park next door--I finally decided that staying stuck—as comfortable as it was—wasn’t the way to live my life. I heard myself secretly becoming one of those "why didn't that work out?" people. Sitting alone at home, waiting for the ex to get horny, nostalgic or both--and drop by for a "visit". So I quit “McDonalds”and pulled the plug on the Sacramento chapter—boxed it all up for greener—anythings. I didn't have a job lined up--I was ready to move home and just tough it out. Do a few producer gigs here and there--travel--bum off my sister and live in her Tahoe house. I had a plan. Well sort of. Not really. Just knew that I had to put myself in "harm's way" or risk becoming that lady with 25 cats and my own whiskers.

And just as I made this decision to pull up stakes and give my notice—magically, a job dropped into my lap. In the City I’ve been crying about returning to for the past six years. And this job isn’t at "McDonald's."  It’s with a major creative company. Doing video. No “burger flipping.” So sticking to my gut (wrenching) decision, that I need to rip myself away from the city I moved to for HIM--I took the job. And left. To live with my parents until I found somewhere to call home. Did I mention to live with my parents? Who are both in their seventies?

My first week at the (hesitant to say old) folk's home was rough. This wasn't my childhood home--thankfully. It's hard enough to move in with your parents at 49, I can't imagine having to go to sleep every night staring at my cheerleading trophies from 30 years ago. But this WAS where my much younger sister grew up. So instead of trophies--I am falling asleep looking at her Peter Pan and Annie collection combined with a pile of Cabbage Patch Dolls. On the wall to my right? A giant pink Swatch watch/clock. Don't ask. (or offer $ for it)

My parents are older--and my dad's health is not good. So when I get up at 5:30am--I try not to make any noise so they can sleep. None. Nada peep. But I need coffee. Because I'm not sleeping well in the bed that is not mine, surrounded by Phantom of the Opera posters. To make that coffee--I have to fill the pot and get out my cereal bowl the night before--and then quietly sneak down the stairs in the morning, in the dark without waking up my parents whose room is on the ground floor next to the kitchen. Now, this is not good news, for someone who just recovered from the worst sprained ankle known to bones. (read previous posts) I am pretty sure the other ankle is in jeopardy each time I carry my breakfast up stairs in the dark, quietly trying not to trip on my bathrobe or make the hardwood floors creak. 

I moved my mom's coffee pot into the pantry to cut down on pot gurgling noise and cereal pouring noise. So that one seems to be under control. But what wasn't under control was my laundry. My mother, bless her heart--kept asking me if she could do my laundry that was piling up. I said "No, no, I'll do that. I want to."  Coming home from my fourth day at work I had an episode--the exhaustion of the new job, the early mornings, the no sleep and the stress of leaving my life behind--were all getting the best of me. So was the All-Tempa-Cheer. As I walked into my sister's shrine--I mean room--It leaped out at me. Sitting on the bed was my laundry, neatly folded. I screamed "Mom did you do my laundry?" And then lost it. I cried for an hour. And not just weepy stuff. I was a heaving, slobbering, uncontrollable mess. I couldn't catch my breath. I thought I would throw up. And yes, I used the clean, folded towels on the bed to wipe it all away.

Now I know most of you would love to have your mother do your laundry. Especially those of you who no longer have their mothers around. Victoria and Lynn's Secret: I wasn't crying because she shrunk my bras or saw that I occasionally wear a thong--I was crying because I missed my life, so much. I missed my independence. I missed my house with my own washer--I missed my routine--and my friends and caring for myself. And yes--I even missed the guy who didn't miss me anymore. Had I made a mistake? Maybe I was okay with my life the way it was? Careful what you wish for!!! Be happy with what you have! (insert thunderbolt sound effects here)

The next morning, I tried to explain to my mom that I wasn't upset with her. But I hurt her feelings. She knows nothing different, than to care for her children. No matter how old they are. FF four weeks. I've been doing the job--coming home (?) and looking at Craigslist postings for overpriced boxes with pink carpet and yellow Formica. You'd be amazed what $2400 a month gets you--or in most cases doesn't get you in the Bay Area now. And it's competitive. Landlords only have to show an apartment for 30 minutes. And in those 30 minutes--there will be dozens of people all holding their folders of pre-filled applications and credit checks. I didn't know this either. I've seen about 10 places. And each of them has something wrong with them. Or maybe there's just something wrong with me.  Nothing compares to my cute little home in East Sac. A home I got a month-to-month lease on, because I was SO convinced I'd be moving in with Mr. Sacramento sooner, than later.  Look how well that change worked out?

I have twelve days before the movers have to take my stuff and put it SOMEWHERE. And I'm scared. Scared I won't find a place and I'll become "that" daughter who moved in with mom and dad and never dated again. I'm genetically predisposed for that type of shit. My dad's younger brother moved in with my grandpa--and never married. Which is why--today I decided to take a break from the online apartment search--and instead--switch to online dating. Seriously. Mr. Sacramento is happily dating a carbon copy of me and that's all it took to get me to change that one. Three years and one carbon copy later. 

Honestly--I think I'll have an easier time right now finding a husband than an apartment. I'm not stupid. Dudes have garages. I'm willing to put up with a little Monday Night Football--to have a place to park my car and unload groceries. Even if it means I gotta cook for them too. Kidding aside. I'm doing this because I'm lonely. Living with my parents, missing my friends, working in an uber-tech world where co-workers walk everywhere with their head in a laptop and have meetings via web cam--even if they're just down the hall from each other--I want to meet someone. And maybe that's finally the lesson of this change mess-- kicking in? One of the reasons I came to this changepiphany while sitting on my couch that night--I was lonely. Isn't it funny that while many things change--some things stay the same? Until you  make that choice.

A good friend called me this week to check on my apartment hunting antics. After listening to me cry about how hard it is--and saying I miss my old life and want to go back home--she said "You forget I heard the reverse whine for quite a while." And she's right. I said the same EXACT thing for the past 3 years about how I wanted to move home and find a better job. I'm glad she "reminded me" of that.  No matter how hard it is on me -- or my poor 71 year old mother. I made this happen. I chose this. And while it is really, really hard right now, I'm the one who quit her job in a downturn and got offered a groovy gig at a big tech firm. I wished for all of this to happen. So now--I gotta make it work. The silver linings have yet to show themselves--but I think they're coming. I hope they're coming. I'm getting tired of the clouds.

So yeah--be careful what you wish for. Some of us are lucky enough to maybe, have it all come true. Be ready when they "move the cheese." Or--just move it yourself because you DO deserve better. (I think that's Camembert right?) Change IS the only constant. Philosophic assholes. A warning label would have been nice. It may be the only constant--but it's gonna f*ck you up for a while. And take half your head of hair with it.

I Was Attacked by Tot Moms

Let me just say up front--I haven't really been into this whole Casey/Caylee Anthony story. No more than I think I should be, that is. I saw it on the news, read about it in the papers-- and of course shook my head like the rest of you every time I saw that picture of the adorable doe-eyed child. So I really wasn't aware there was a large audience of mostly women, clinging to Nancy Grace's every word on what became the American pastime called the "Tot Mom" trial.

As the Casey Anthony trial progressed, I did notice signs of a groundswell realityTVesq fascination begin to pop up--but still didn't pay much attention. I questioned why the cable channels were covering the courtroom drama wall-to-wall. I read stories of what appeared to be obsessed Floridians fighting in line to get one of only a dozen or so gallery seats in the courtroom. And then as I flipped around the dial while puttering along on my treadmill--I landed on the show open for HLN's Nancy Grace program. In one long-twangy breath she uttered the now-famous "Tot Mom" no less than ten times.

Why was this story getting so much media attention? Did I miss something? Sure it's a tragic murder mystery, but we hear about these everyday? Are we not concerned about the 1,000 gallon oil spill in Montana? Or the raising of the federal debt ceiling? These were questions I needed answers to. So, I decided to turn to Twitter. But perhaps I should have just turned to a bar tender. Because what followed, is a frightening tale demonstrating the power and personal haranguing of the #hashtag. A social media assassination, I'd like to present to you--my impartial jury--am I guilty of something? I feel I was innocently voicing concern and questions about the "show"--what I got in response, was a cyberlashing by Tot Moms. I present the evidence:

Exhibit A: My first tweet

Really? On @HLNTV there's a countdown clock to closing arguments in the #caseyanthony trial. Are we really that lame America? Go take a walk!
This 141 characters brought on several new followers who were closely watching the case. Including one woman who responded to me in this way:

@lemnosalt I yoga bike and walk as I tweet about #caseyanthony  also laundry dishes bill paying buying preparing meals et al
I was surprised to get the response from this busy person, along with the new followers. I didn't think much of it--even responded to the woman--"Well good for you, you get a free pass!" and decided to follow her back.

Exhibit B: Nancy Grace's lack there of OR My next tweets:
From the treadmill: Please stop saying "Tot Mom"! #click 

And after a few more minutes on my treadmill:
                                           
This Anthony family is a disaster. And yes, wait for it...#totmom
These brought on a few more followers. But no responses. Just me and my anonymous Twitter thoughts plugging along--which was what I wanted. The next day, things took a twitturn for the worse. Sitting at my computer writing, with CNN on in the background--I just got tired of all the pundits and legal eagles speculating and guessing what the outcome of this case would be. I feel for the family, the little girl, but seriously--there is so much else going on in the world! Why had we become so obsessed with this story? A few months ago a dad drove his son into a canal and while the LOCAL news showed the distraught mom and some candlelight vigils--Nancy Grace could give a rat's ass?!!

So--I dropped the T-bomb, and posted this I will now submit as Exhibit C:
Dear #caseyanthony Jury: Please hurry up. So we can get back to real news about the economy, jobs and what Princess Kate is wearing. #overit

And that literally, was all she (I) wrote. It was not however, all the rest of the Twitter world reading #caseyanthony tweets wrote. I immediately got "pinged" by Tot Moms from coast to coast. And these were mean tweets. Tweets about "not getting it." Tweets about being uncaring, insensitive, "obviously not a Tot-mom." One Tweeter even "outed" me to all her followers as someone who should be held in the same regard as Casey Anthony herself. The Twitter Trial began:
  
@angeldevil wrote: I wish you were married 2 Lorena Bobbit. You are heartless. :-( 
(Whuck? And yes I got a sad-twitter face)

@allison10 wrote: #nojusticeforCaylee @lemnosalt you must be a man

@ppi9 wrote: @lemnosalt Shut up #heartlessbastard

And those were just a few. My @lemnosalt suddenly lit up the Internet lumped into groups of baby-girl-haters. I immediately felt as though I had something to do with her disappearance? So I did what any misunderstood social media maven would do...hit DELETE. Oh and BLOCK. Immediately. In a nano-second I removed myself from the conversation. These Tot Moms were too powerful for me and my witty banter. I knew they would be able to find me, somehow, and leave flaming bags of poop on my doorstep. So I untweeted.

After the Tot Mom bashing ceased and I had a couple of glasses of wine, I decided to turn to my friends--ahem--my Facebook friends, and explain what had just happened. How I had been a victim of Twitter bashing. I simply wrote just that. Nothing about the case, the verdict, the baby. Just wanted to share my online attack for simply suggesting that MAYBE we're a tad bit obsessed with this story?
AND IT HAPPENED AGAIN! Only this time--my "friends" weren't attacking me--they started attacking each other?!! Sure--some just agreed with me--by writing "we're obsessed," "people are so ready to pounce," "the whole thing is nuts" -- but buried in those 22 Facebook comments were Tot Mom comments that got mean! So, I did it again. I hit delete. And was harassed once more--"Why did you delete my comment? What happened to freedom of speech?"

And so I rest my case. I guess this is ultimately about freedom. To write what you want. To say what you want. To be obsessed with what you want. But does it have to get ugly? With people you don't even know? To say I'm heartless--and that I don't care about this child, is just cruel. I only brought to the (my) world's attention--the idea that maybe we're putting a little too much focus on this one story--so much so--it's become a reality series, a soap opera. We all know there are many, many children in this world who are hurt by loved ones. Tragically killed by people they know. Where's the passion for all those kids Nance?

My only hope--and if I get my Twitter-chops back I'll post this--is that these passionate Tot Moms who care so much about what happened to this little girl, teach their own children about judgement and our justice system--and reasonable doubt. I know I have mine.

*and PS because I care about injuring people I don't know, I altered their Twitter handles. Mine however is correct, just in case you want to start the whole argument over again.

Same time last year

So it's May 17th. Two days until my birthday. And I've written two emails, one E-vite, a Facebook "event" invitation and texted three friends requesting input. The dilemma? What to do for my birthday in exactly 48 hours? The aforementioned writing exercises have included witty invitations to get together in a number of scenarios: a bar, my house, a yoga/wine celebration in my backyard. None have been delivered. None probably will be.

I re-read my blog from May 19th last year. I woke up that morning facing for the first time--having nothing to do on my big day. Hmmm. Are you beginning to see a trend? So WTF is wrong with me now? Why am I having such trouble planning something? Do you want a repeat of the torture that was May 19th last year? (A lot of unanswered questions.)

Let's admit it-- no one really likes to throw themselves a birthday party. We all (read: Lynn) have romantic ideas that we'll have some fabulous man who will set into motion some amazing plans for an exciting evening that includes roasting weenies on a beach, right!!? So if that' ain't happening--and it ain't--why spend it alone when spending it NOT-alone is within your power?

I think part of my conflict can be blamed on that old catholic guilt build up, that's clogging my free spirit and apparently my inner-Martha. See, I feel if you invite people to come together, you better damn well be feeding them. Oh wait--that's not Catholic guilt, that's Italian guilt--which, in my world is basically the same only one allows sex before marriage. Whatever the cause-- feeding party guests at a restaurant or even at home could cost a lot.

And that's because of conflict #2--who do I invite? If I'm feeding them--I can afford maybe a handful of pals? But If I invite this person, I have to invite that person to keep them company. And I need to invite these two, but then they won't know anyone, so I'll let them bring their spouses. (Suddenly we're up to 53) And what about the Ex? Should I invite him? If we're trying to be "friends" shouldn't I show him I'm more mature than he is-- by extending an olive branch? (54)

Really--It's all too much. And so -- here I sit. As pretty much everyone on my list is most likely in the midst of making some kind of plans for Thursday night that don't include the bananas bday girl.
Now, the the third factor truly holding me back from sending one of the 20 draft invitations --is a biggie--and that is--I'm not really feeling it this year. You should know by now--I LOVE BIRTHDAYS. I really do. I like for my birthdays to last for days--I really get into displaying my presents and cards and tell everyone I meet including the Safeway checker, "this week is my birthday"--it's a big deal. To me anyway. But this year...not so much. Happy funkday to me.

Let me try to explain. (Sigh) I'm turning what I consider the last year, of the last decade, I can probably get away with being considered youthful. Youngish? Okay, on the northern side of old. I will still have a  year before turning a really, really scary number--so you're probably saying--why worry now?!! Well I am. That and the fact that nothing--nada--not one little thing--has changed in a year since we last had this birthday conversation. I'm still single. I'm still looking for a groovier gig. And I'm a year older-- to make that ALL feel even better. It's my own private Groundhog B-Day nightmare.

To appease Oprah--I know I should be thankful that I have friends suggesting--no--prodding-- me to plan something. Really--I'm lucky I have friends at all. I've been in such a foul mood lately--post ankle bust--post $3K car fix--post "we're sorry but we've decided to go another direction x 5". Somehow, I need to pull myself out of it--if only for May 19th. I know we're not guaranteed another birthday. And I know I should celebrate my grooviness with people--not my TiVo.

If you're buying all these excuses--then I've done my job as a creative writer. Or I've done my job convincing myself it's really about logistics or not being into it this year. But I think we both know--I'm just not comfortable with attention. Strange too, because I picked a very attention-getting career and have always been involved in some sort of lime-like-light. But the thought of inviting people to come celebrate--just me--without any reward (read: food) is really hard for me. And I don't know when that started. I always loved my birthdays when I was younger. The more cackling girls I could pack into my room the better. More presents! More attention! Queen for the day. Somewhere along the path of being told "you're not good enough," I started to lose my love for being adored--even if only once a year on the day you're supposed to be.

But there's an upside--that Dr. Phil crap turned me into more of a more of a giver than a taker--someone who'd rather throw you a birthday party with all the trimmings! BUT after the third year in a row of having to get creative when May rolls around (it's been that long since I had my own party planner)--is it too much to want to have someone else pull the trigger (wrong analogy for this post) and throw you a little get-together? Someone else do the planning? I've been planning all my life--I'm a producer--I'm exhausted! Can someone just please get me a damn birthday cake?  Or do I have to "produce" that too? If only I could write that script. I know it would be fabulous. I would lap up any and all attention thrown my way. And yes, weenies would be involved.

So...here I sit. Still faced with the multiple invites with five different guest lists. I'm tired and going to bed--so none of them will be sent tonight. Maybe I'll just push it one more day--don't give people a chance to think about it. Just a random drive-by-birthday party--they'll get the text as they're leaving work.What did you do for your birthday this year? Someone did all the planning, right? Right.

My Song for Japan

So this one won't be too long or too funny. But still remarkable when it comes to shit you or I-- just can't make up. If you check my Facebook profile, on March 10th at 6:37pm, I posted this: "SUPERMOON! Bring it. And anything that comes with it. (I ain't scared!)" and a link to an article about an astrologer who predicted the upcoming large full moon would cause major earthquakes or disasters. A few fellow moonies "liked" the post or commented. But the next day--a lot more added their two cents.

March 11th. Regular morning routine, which means coffee and Matt Lauer in my bathrobe. But the minute the TV came on, I realized it wasn't a regular morning for the rest of the world. Images of the massive earthquake and tsunami from Japan had me frozen in front of the tube for an hour. Such horrible devastation, destruction and loss--to a country and people I love and admire so much.

Six years ago, I took the trip of a lifetime--covering a story for National Geographic Channel in Japan. I loved everything about it. (except the really, scary long flight there and back!) I loved the food, the history, the neon signs (Good Coffee Smile!) but mostly I cherished--the people. And one in particular--our guide and translator--Kunio.

Kunio was an older gentleman who made the crazy-busy work trip, memorable. He always took the time to point things out and describe their historical or spiritual significance. Even if we were just walking from one location to the next. "Lynn, this is a cedar ball--hang outside when fresh sake being brewed!" Then he would laugh his special Kunio laugh. He loved to joke about his wife. When we went to shoot at Osaka castle, he told me how his last name meant "gatekeeper" - and that's what his family did centuries ago at castles like this one. I felt bad when I went to tell him we were ready to leave and walked into his hotel room with my shoes on. (a no-no in Japan) He made sure we stopped to pay respects and pray at a streetside shrine downtown.

He was my voice during every interview and helped me understand what they would say in response to my questions. Kunio and our raucous Scottish Japanese-speaking grip Jeff, who dressed like the last samurai--will always be happy memories of an amazing trip. I have always hoped to go back and see Kyoto with Kunio!

After an hour of watching the news from Northern Japan, I had to leave for work. Saddened by the pictures of people searching for loved ones, I thought about our trip and the kindness and strength of the Japanese people. I grabbed for my keys as I opened the door and noticed something fell to my feet. I looked down and saw the little red key chain our guides gave me when I boarded the plane to leave Japan. It had been on my car keys since I fastened it on the plane ride home, six years ago. And it broke and fell off--TODAY.

The key chain has a picture of a frog--which Jeff said in Japan is very popular because "the frog never leaps backwards, only forwards." It became my new favorite animal, because of that. When I asked about the Japanese writing on the back--Kunio said "It says home. As you travel from my home to yours. Remember us."  That morning I did. And I couldn't help but feel some strange cosmic connection--the coincidence was too strong. I'm sure they were both okay--but I believe I did tap into that global wave of grief, so powerful--we could feel it even here--and maybe that broke my precious keepsake? I put that little frog in my pocket and touched it with my fingers all day--as I watched more images from Japan.

Oh. And that supermoon comment the night before? I don't want to say I had anything to do with what transpired the next morning...but next time--I'll be a little more cautious in choosing my words on Facebook. "Bring it" may have been just a little too strong. I know all these things were just strange timing--odd coincidences--but Jung always believed there are no coincidences. Things happen for a reason.

Today I believe that. And the reason here, is to share my thoughts and prayers for sweet Kunio, Jeff, their friends and family--and all the lovely people in that beautiful country. We have much to learn from how they face this tragedy with courage, faith and kindness.