Life and Laughter

March 16, 2021

A lot on my plate

Fear sells, but why does the food industry use anxiety to sell products? I mean, if there’s one thing the seven billion people on this planet agree on, it’s that we need food. (And Baby Yoda is adorable. That’s universally accepted.)

Weeds or food?

When COVID hit last spring, I heard we’d run out of beef by autumn. My husband lost his mind. Someone told me canned vegetables would be as valuable as gold, which is good because I’d rather wear a can of peas on a chain around my neck than have to eat them.

Experts tell us food is plentiful and cheaper than ever before. Just the food leftover from Las Vegas buffets could feed several third-world countries for generations. They’d all develop diabetes and heart disease, but they’d have plenty of food.

And that’s the other fear; the idea that the food we eat, even broccoli and kale, has no nutritional value because the soil’s been depleted of nutrients and we’re consuming the dietary equivalent of Rice Krispies for each meal.

So, we hear companies proclaiming to have discovered new, perfect foods. Not just foods – Super Foods (with a heartbreaking origin story). They ask questions like, Do you poop every day at noon? Are you often irritable? Well, you’re eating the wrong food!

Social media is awash in these types of ads. “Buy our product made of 300 superfoods found only in caves along the Ganges River!” “Learn the secret of Cleopatra’s radiant skin, Helen of Troy’s weight loss supplement and Queen Elizabeth’s longevity.” (Spoiler alert: it’s never having to clean your own toilet.)

Companies tell us fans are “raving” about their green juice. False news. No one raves about green juice. The recipes have unknown ingredients like chlorella (a dried sea vegetable) and rhodiola, a cold-climate plant used by Vikings. Mmmmm. Yummy. (Sidenote: Vikings are dead. Did rhodiola kill them?)

Mushrooms are the new meat. The reishi mushroom is called the Queen of the Mushrooms because . . . um . . . it has a crown? I guess psilocybin mushrooms would be King of the Mushrooms, or at least the laid-back, hippie brother-in-law of the mushrooms.

Pretend meat is also the new meat. Impossible Meat might be better for the planet, but with its soy, wheat, and vegetable ingredients shaped and colored to look like chicken nuggets, it’s definitely not health food.

And don’t think it’s safe to drink water. No, sir! You can’t drink tap water, bottled water, well water, river water, toilet water or any other water unless it’s gone through an expensive, artesian reverse osmosis process. I used to drink water out of the hose in my front yard. I’m sure I’ll die full of mercury, lead, and chlorine.

Spinach and romaine lettuce routinely try to kill us, and don’t get me started on GMO conspiracy theories. I don’t have that kind of time. Are apples still good for us? Can we eat corn without worrying about growing a third arm? Does everything have to be organic, farm-fresh and certified because according to Facebook, we’re all doomed!

 I know Americans don’t have the best diets but throw me a grass-fed bone. We’re assaulted on all sides and just trying not to dive headfirst into a bucket of chicken for a morning snack.

Originally published in the Davis Journal

February 16, 2021

Making the grade

When my kids were little, I did a bit of substitute teaching. After I accidentally threw an encyclopedia and flipped a desk over, I realized teaching elementary school probably wasn’t for me.

Teachers are comprised of strong stuff. The molten lava that flows through their veins gives them courage and an unbreakable gaze. A skeleton made of graphene (200 times stronger than steel) keeps them steady and protects their hearts. And those hearts beat a consistent tempo that opens doors to new worlds and encourages students to find their own rhythm.

But teachers are exhausted.

I attended Viewmont Elementary during the 1900s, where teachers were the top of the food chain. I worshiped the good ones, feared the difficult ones, and loathed the mean ones.

I remember the “trip” our kindergarten class took to Hawaii where we ate coconut and learned the hula. And the teacher who caught us eating snowballs, so she melted snow to show us the dirt and grime. (I haven’t eaten a snowball in more than 45 years.) Or the teacher who shamed me for not knowing the word “chandelier.”

School was where I learned social skills. Okay, I learned them poorly, but I did learn some. I interacted with people my age where we talked about our favorite TV shows, what we had for dinner and whether my crush winked at me or had a tic.

Today, students feel lost.

My 8-year-old grandson started the school year online, changed to in-person learning, then went back online. He might enjoy hanging out with his mom, grandma, and little demon of a sister, but he misses his friends.

Imagine trying to learn long division on a Zoom call. I couldn’t even learn it in person. Or imagine hosting a virtual call for a class of first graders who have the attention span of a meatball. My mom thought education was vital, but if she had to supervise online learning for me and my four siblings, she would have sold us to the circus.

Teachers are struggling. Kids are struggling. Parents are struggling.

If we’ve learned one thing this crappy year, it’s that superheroes walk among us. Healthcare workers and winemakers are tied for the top spot on my list, with teachers, students, and parents finishing a close second by demonstrating unprecedented resilience.

Many kids are failing this year, but are they really? Can you fail when a global pandemic changes the rules? When teachers adapt daily to shifting conditions? Can you fail when parents work full-time jobs at home while staying on top of online assignments and hybrid schedules?

Teachers are a mighty mix of educator/guidance counselor/cheerleader/cruise director, and this year their creativity and patience has been tested. It brings to mind my husband’s favorite quote, “Looks like I picked the wrong [year] to stop sniffing glue.”

This is a thank you to the teachers who work with my grandchildren. The teachers who are innovative and kind. The teachers who show up like a boss and get to work. This is also a thank you to the students who have proven to be flexible and strong. They’re all doing the best they can as they watch adults try to figure everything out.

Maybe we write this school year off; maybe it’s not the year to learn geometry or teach Latin. Perhaps it’s the year we value kindness, connection, and self-care for everyone involved. I promise, there’ll be much less encyclopedia throwing and desk flipping.

Originally published in the Davis Journal

January 15, 2021

A Dropped Call

Like a mother in a Disney movie, my cell phone died inexplicably. Well, not inexplicably. I dropped it in the toilet.

I was wearing jeans for the first time in seven months and had the phone in my back pocket when it promptly fell into the commode. My phone, not my back pocket.

There’s a universal response when you drop your phone in liquid; you reach in and grab the damn thing. It could be submerged in molten lava or boiling oil; you will instinctively reach for the phone at the expense of never using your hand again.

Snatching it up, I screamed several unprintable words and resorted to 15 minutes of “No, no, no, no, no!” I shook my phone, blew in it, prayed over it and dashed home to dump it in a bowl of rice. (A robot on Mars can send information to NASA but I have to submerge my phone in rice because it got wet.)

 I thought, this would make a great Instagram post and frantically looked for my phone so I could take a picture of my phone sitting in a bowl of rice.

But I was phoneless. I reached for my phone nonstop. I absently grabbed the TV remote, trying to scroll through Tik Tok. I picked up my computer mouse to check the time. I kept patting my leggings where my cell phone used to be, frisking myself like some weird felon.

I realized I’m obsessed with how many steps I walk. I’m preoccupied with social media. I’m dependent on my phone to give me instant info. If I wanted to order from Amazon, I had to go into ANOTHER ROOM and use my computer.

After 24 hours, I turned on my phone.

Nothing.

Minutes later, I was kicking in the door at my cell phone company, begging them to fix my phone. They know me well because, having been bitten by a radioactive clutz, I break my phone often. But this time, they just shook their head and called the time of death.

Then someone suggested I contact Simple Fix in West Jordan, saying they work miracles. Miracles sounded pretty good, but they couldn’t look at my phone for several days.

Several days without a phone? Impossible!

What would I listen to while walking my dog? Who was Scam Likely going to call? What if Samantha Bee texts me about a job? How would I waste hours of my time doing something unnecessary?

The typical cell phone weighs four or five ounces but after a day without my phone, I felt weightless. After two days I could talk to my husband without furtive glances at my phone. After three days, I didn’t miss playing Words with Friends.

Is this what life is supposed to feel like? I swore when I got my phone back, it wouldn’t control me anymore.

Then I got my phone back.

I listened to all the podcasts, played all the games, bought everything on Amazon and beat my family at Words with Friends. I ignored my husband, tuned out the world in general and scrolled endlessly through social media platforms.

The lesson here should be turn off your phone and interact with the real world. But what I learned was I need to buy cargo pants with dozens of secure pockets so my phone will never fall into the toilet again.

Originally published in the Davis Journal

November 18, 2020

Falling Apart

Well, 2020 finally broke me. I’m overwhelmed, worried about COVID, stressed about the election, climate change, immigration and poverty, and disillusioned to learn Ellen DeGeneres is an actress. It feels like someone shook Pandora’s Box 2.0 like a maraca, releasing sadness, greed and hubris.

I started this column dozens of times, but it feels like my funny is numb. I’d begin writing but devolve into an angry rant where I’m pounding the keyboard like a furious Elton John. I’ve gone feral.

During yoga, I asked my students for advice on how to find my funny. They suggested sharing recipes for Doomsday Survival beverages like Meltdown Mimosas and Disaster Daquiris. I’m afraid if I start researching drinks, I’d sober up around Groundhog Day. (If there is a Groundhog Day in 2021.)

I’m run through a gamut of feelings, enough emotions to create a second or third generation of Snow White’s Seven Dwarfs. I start each day with Hangry then work my way through Weepy, Lonely, Screamy, Worry, Panic and Gloomy. My husband never knows which Peri he’ll bump into when we pass in the hall. It makes everyday discussions a bit wobbly.

Hubbie: What sounds good for dinner?

Me: We’re on a spinning planet, slowly moving toward the sun where we’ll be consumed like a fly in a bug zapper.

Hubbie: So . . . enchiladas?

Americans are resilient, right? We’ve been through tough times, right? We’ll come together and make the best decisions for our country . . . oh, who am I kidding?

I started screaming at the moon every night like some kind of demon weredog. I’m sure my neighbors are terrified. (Sidenote: I hope someone who’s been living in a bunker since Y2K finally emerged this year to see if it’s safe to come out. Joke’s on them.)

My meditation practice has become a slow descent into madness.

But then.

I zoom in close and watch my grandkids teach a disinterested dog to roll over. I see myriad kindnesses in my life like chocolate, warm blankets and Disaster Daquiris. I zoom out and witness this beautiful world with its billions of people just doing the best they can. Compassion is abundant.

I talk to the trees (literally). I smell pumpkin spice (everywhere). I hike through gorgeous canyons, watching leaves release their grip on branches and freefall to the ground. The stillness settles my thoughts.

I don’t know if you’ll read this before or after the election. I don’t know if we’re facing martial law, a presidential coup or (finally) an alien invasion. But I know optimism feels better than despair.

We can continue to Catastrophe Scroll though vile social media posts, created by friendless trolls with no sense of humor and a serious case of ringworm, or we can turn off our phones and relearn what “community” means.

One day soon, we’ll have to acknowledge the friendships we’ve lost, the unnecessary arguments we waged and the times we refused to back down. It will be a political hangover of epic proportions, especially if you’ve been drinking Calamity Cosmopolitans.

Those who follow my social media platforms know where I stand politically, and it’s easy to look at the rage in the world and point fingers at The Other Side.

I can stop the blame game, but I won’t stop calling for equality, justice and inclusion in places it doesn’t exist. We must remember that Hope remained in Pandora’s Box. It’s our job to nurture it.

This column was originally published in The Davis Clipper

October 10, 2020

Just Here For The Boos

It’s been a decade since COVID-19 reached our shores, ushering in 45 years of hand sanitizer, remote learning and face mask protesters sporting apostrophe-addled signs like “Your an idiot” and “Parent’s against masks”.

But now it’s October. Halloween is at risk. S*** just got real.

Nothing could be scarier than 2020, with its earthquakes and hurricane-force winds and rising COVID infection rates and elections, but Halloween isn’t just about fear. Halloween is the one day conservative moms can buy push-up bras and dress like lusty dog catchers, guilt free. It’s the day Snickers for breakfast and Reese’s for lunch are appropriate meals. It’s the day politically inappropriate celebrities get tagged on social media.

But COVID changed everything. Los Angeles prohibited trick-or-treating along with haunted house venues, Halloween carnivals and other spooky activities. After a swift and furious backlash from parents who need to give their kids ONE thing to look forward to this year, the city backed down and “recommended” common sense. Like that’s a thing.

Even then, it’s gonna take a lot to scare our children anymore in 2020. They spent months locked in the house, learning fractions online and wearing face masks to the grocery store. Their stress levels are sky-high and adrenal fatigue has caused weepy breakdowns and heartbreaking acceptance.

On the bright side, COVID-19 ushered in a whole new series of costumes for the holiday, including coronavirus outfits, teachers in hazmat suits and the very funny Elsa in a plastic bubble.

I think I’ll dress up as a mail-in ballot since that seems to be the most terrifying thing in the country today. (Sidenote: Vote on Nov. 3. Vote by mail, vote in person, drop your vote off in a ballot box. I don’t care how you vote. Crawl through a lake of spiders, a graveyard of zombies – just vote!)

The CDC issued COVID-19 risk categories, pertaining to Halloween activities. The lowest risk is a virtual festival where celebrations are held on Zoom because we just can’t get enough of Zoom, can we? (Sidenote: Has anyone investigated the connection between the coronavirus and Zoom? Hmm??)

Moderate risk includes small gatherings where individuals stay apart from each other and wear those Halloween masks from the ‘70s because there is no way germs (or breath) will get through that thick plastic.

Higher risk activities will be your social distanced haunted houses where vampires and witches stand six feet away and snarl the horrible things they’d do if they could just get a little closer. That horrifying thing breathing down your back is the local Karen, screeching into her cellphone and looking for a manager.

Posing the highest risk are large, in-person, no-mask gatherings made popular in places like Utah and Washington Counties. (Sidenote: Idiots.)

People have tried to ruin Halloween for centuries. The latest attempt was the introduction of Trunk-or-Treat, which should be banned in all 50 states for its mediocre contribution to the holiday, so I don’t think COVID will stop Halloween enthusiasts. Some people find Halloween offensive, with its glittery bats and baby werewolves. But everything is offensive this year. If something didn’t offend someone in 2020, did it really happen?

I guess we’ll see if people party safely this Halloween when COVID results start rolling in two weeks later. I’ll stand outside your hospital room with signs like, “I wish youd listened” and “Your an imbecile”.

Originally published in the Davis Clipper

September 10, 2020

Take it Outside

For the last five months, we’ve been locked up with our families for 17 years. Each day is another long, hot trek to bedtime. Parents break their brains thinking up creative ways to entertain their kids during this “summer vacation” that started in March and threatens to continue through fall. The phrase “Families Can Be Together Forever” is now a terrifying prophecy.

Here’s what we’ve learned: Sometimes video games ARE the answer.

Celebrities share Tik Tok videos about being “stranded” in their $6.5 million log cabins where everyone has their own TV, floor, masseuse, trampoline and personal chef. I’m not belittling their suffering, I’m just . . . well, I guess I am.

For common folk, trampolines are as hard to find as Lysol wipes. Puzzles, board games and sidewalk chalk are valuable commodities on the black market (along with livers, since we’ve been day-drinking for months).

Everyone is heading outside to escape.

Extended families stretch the “No large gathering” rules to the max because COVID wouldn’t ruin the annual family reunion, right? Lakes, canyons, national parks and camp sites are packed with people who thought they were the only ones who needed a break from looking at the same dirty carpeting for one more day.

I’ve been on several hikes this summer, sometimes with the puppy, sometimes with the grandkids. Not necessarily relaxing, but at least we take the fight to a different location.

My latest hike was tackling Bell’s Canyon with my daughter and three of my grandkids, including a 3- and 4-year-old. If that sounds like something out of a Stephen King novel, you are correct.

Before we even started up the trail the complaining began. “I’m so hot.” “The trail is too steep.” “The dirt is too dirty.” “I’m so thirsty.”

My daughter told me to shut up and set a better example, but it was too late. The littles were soon echoing my whines at super-high decibel levels. I ended up confiscating water bottles after a good portion was dumped onto the trail to make mud. I explained to the toddlers what happens when you dehydrate. They didn’t care.

It took roughly five days to make our way to the reservoir where the kids splashed in the cool water, tossed wet sand at each other, threw crackers at the ducks, slipped on the rocks and screamed at the dragonflies.

I considered calling in a rescue helicopter, figuring the expense was worth not having to walk back down the trail. Instead, we bribed the kids with McDonald’s, promising processed chicken parts if they’d walk faster than a drugged porcupine. We made it back to the car exhausted, sunburned and grumpy – just like a normal summer hike!

Backyards are also being used to their fullest. Our luxurious backyard pool (a 6’ wading pool from Walmart) is usually a weird shade of green and full of dead bugs, but that doesn’t stop us from soaking in the probably dangerous water, eating popsicles. If I don’t get sick from COVID, malaria might be another option.

The grandkids set up a tent a couple of weeks ago, hoping to have a backyard campout. They roasted marshmallows over the grill and climbed into their sleeping bags only to be shaken awake two hours later by a microburst that threatened to carry them to Oz. Everyone was safe, but traumatized, which seems to be the status quo in these crazy times.

Returning to school is the big debate right now, followed by what should be a strange Halloween and holiday season. Sure makes eternity feel like a really long time.

This column originally appeared in The Davis Clipper

June 12, 2020

Om is Where the Heart Is

woman-meditating-in-the-outdoors-2908175In a subtle attempt to calm me down, my husband enrolled me in a mediation course. I love meditation, in theory, and had a random practice that included meditating in bed, grocery store lines and during TV commercials, but I didn’t have an actual sit-down meditation practice.

Now I do. Twice a day I sit for 20 minutes and watch the thoughts in my brain battle to the death. According to Instagram, nothing proves how spiritual you are more than sitting quietly with perfectly styled hair and make-up. The longer you sit, the better a person you are. Fact.

So now I’m a super-spiritual Zen person. I make sure I talk about my meditation practice all the time. The more you talk about how you’ve merged with your inner self, the more interested people around you become. They could listen to you talk about your meditation practice for hours.

You also need an expensive meditation cushion. Here’s a conversation I had with my husband, who just couldn’t understand the complexities of meditation.

Husband: Can’t you just sit in a chair?

Me: To be uber-spiritual, I need an $80 meditation cushion so I’m closer to Mother Earth.

Husband: Why don’t you just sit on the floor?

Me: Don’t be crass.

I tried sitting on the ground to meditate. I was in San Luis Obispo at a conference, and I went to the beach early in the morning. I listened to the waves, communed with my inner being and radiated calm as I left the beach to go back to the hotel.

As I ran up the trail from the beach, I tripped on a rock and fell face-first onto a wooden stair, nearly breaking my nose and spending the rest of the weekend with a bruised and swollen face. If I’d been sitting on a beautiful cushion instead of the ground, my inner being wouldn’t have been pissed off and try to kill me. Fact.

Meditation in nature is supposed to be super-relaxing, but right when I close my eyes I feel an ant crawl across my foot and I have to look to make sure it isn’t a spider because then I have to jump up and scream.

The only reason to meditate outside is so people can see you meditate and understand you’re a super-spiritual person.

I’m teaching my puppy to mediate with me, hoping my calm energy will soothe her. After 10 minutes of getting her to settle down, I’ll place my hand on her back, syncing our breath and heart rate. Just as I create an intense connection to her heart chakra, she jumps in my lap to lick my face and ruins everything. She’ll never be as spiritual as me. Fact.

blue-buddha-ceramic-head-figurine-1597017People ask what I do when meditating. First, I sit quietly on my expensive cushion, noticing the thoughts running across my mind. I spend several minutes trying not to notice the thoughts running across my mind. I achieve two seconds of stillness before the thoughts start up again.

Soon I become numb from the waist down. The more numb you feel, the more spiritual you are. I can’t feel my toes and my knees are screaming for help. But that just proves to the Universe that I’m dedicated to my meditation practice. Sometimes I fall asleep and jerk awake before I hit the floor.

I expect I’ll achieve enlightenment any day now since I’m so good at meditating. If there’s one thing I excel at it’s doing absolutely nothing. Fact.

 

Originally published in the Davis Clipper

May 13, 2020

Tomorrow is Another Day in Quarantine

ScarlettAs soon as COVID-19 hovered in the air we breathe, I went into full-on “Gone With the Wind” Scarlett O’Hara mode, ripping up bedsheets to make toilet paper and stockpiling moonshine for antiseptic. Of course, Scarlett was useless in an emergency. For the majority of the Civil War, she whined and married rich men.

I’m also pretty useless in emergencies. When I knew the shelter-in-place edict was coming, I didn’t stockpile food, I scurried to the library to check out all the books.

After hoarding four months of library books, I told everyone in the house (my husband, my daughter and her two children, ages 3 and 8) to check their 72-hour kits.

They responded, “What 72-hour kits?” Not a good start.

In the shed, I located an emergency essentials bag that looked like it had housed a family of weasels. Along with 10 years of dust, it contained an expired can of roasted almonds, a box of matches, a pair of underwear and a spatula.

We were doomed.

Tossing my hair like Scarlett, I tied on my shopping bonnet and sang out “fiddle-dee-dee” as I headed to the grocery store for provisions. By the time I got there, options were limited, unless I was keen on making a casserole with canned asparagus, creamed squid and buckwheat flour. I figured we’d just be creative with dinner. (Lesson learned: 3-year-old granddaughters don’t like creative dinners.)

Our meals usually consist of some type of egg for breakfast, leftover Easter candy for lunch and something with hamburger or chicken for dinner. Could be spaghetti, could be soup. Hard to tell.

This has been the worst staycation ever. I do not recommend.

Both my husband and I can work from home, so we take turns sharing the home office space. One person works in the office with a comfy chair every other day, while the other person sits on a workout ball at a TV table in the bedroom. It’s . . . complicated. And we’re adjusting to each other’s work behaviors.

Husband: Can you not leave dozens of half-empty water glasses by the computer?

Me: You silly scalawag! Are they half-empty? Or half-full?

Anyway, our attorneys are working out the final details.

My puppy, Jedi, is over-the-moon excited to have me around, LITERALLY sitting on my feet all day. She got even clingier when the earthquake rattled our home (not funny Mother Nature) and she made me carry her 60-pound furry body from room-to-room for the next week.

As life was boiled down to its necessities, I realized how often (in the before-times) I would bored-shop, bored-Starbucks and bored-TV-binge. Since March, I’ve narrowed that list down to bored TV binging. (Between “Better Call Saul” and “Ozark” I definitely know I should avoid the Mexican drug cartel.)

As warmer weather approaches, I miss shopping for new spring clothes. Looking back oncurtains how Scarlett made dresses out of her velvet draperies, I tried channeling her creative spirit again. It was tough to made clothes out of our window coverings since we only have wooden blinds. But I did my best. Pictures not available.

We’re still in lock-down mode. I replenish our milk and produce once a week. We walk the dog a dozen times a day. We work and eat and read and play games and get on each other’s nerves and fight and makeup and write hopeful messages on the sidewalk in colorful chalk.

Like Scarlett, there are lots of things I’ll worry about tomorrow. But if we have books to read, food to eat and our family is safe, I’m very content in my little corner of the world.

Originally published in the Davis Clipper

April 3, 2020

A Woman’s Place

susanbAs the mother of four daughters, and grandma to several granddaughters, I’m frequently asked (okay, twice) what advice I’d give to young women. Women are stronger than ever before, yet many men try to drag us back to the Victorian Era.

Men keep gettin’ up in our bizness, drafting regulations about our bodies, creating rules about everything from prom wear to breastfeeding, and making sure we’re slut-shamed if we behave out-of-line.

We’re called hysterical. We’re labeled as trouble-makers. We’re branded as unreasonable. We’re given a warm glass of milk, a pat on the head and sent to the kids’ table.

Men have had thousands of years to run the world – and I’m not impressed. Maybe it’s time they step aside and let women do the heavy lifting. (Which we can totally do.)
Here’s what young women (of every age) should know:

Own your voice. Don’t waste time explaining yourself and don’t apologize for being a smart, confident, breath of fresh air. Shout your brilliance from the rooftops and ignore those grumpy old men who slam their windows to block out the noise.

Live an authentic life. Travel. Get educated. Eat what you want. Drink what you want. Wear what you want. If a man’s morals are compromised because he caught a glimpse of your shoulders (or ankles, or earlobes) – not your problem. Instead of adding layers to our wardrobes, how about men get their minds out of the damn gutter?

Raise your standards. Life’s too short to be with someone who doesn’t appreciate your greatness. If your partner is fighting with you instead of for you, time to show them the door.

Think big. Remember that amazing idea you had? Remember how you set it aside because you thought you had to be something else? Dust that idea off. Shower it with love and attention. Don’t be afraid of big ideas. The world needs your creativity.

Plant yourself at the table. We’re tired of being dismissed. We’re sick to death of being talked down to (mansplaining, anyone?). We’re capable, functioning adults and we have something to say. Ladies, don’t back away when you’re described as “shrill” or “harsh” or “bitchy” or any other words men use to slap us down.

Give yourself permission to be human. We’re not robots who smile 24/7, tidy up after meetings and schedule luncheons. Don’t feel self-conscious if your expression isn’t “happy” enough. Look serious. Who cares? Men certainly aren’t smiling, cheerful androids.

Stand your ground. When you’re being pushed aside, refuse to budge. There are generations of women who fought for your right to stand tall, raise your voice and share your truth. They’re cheering you on. You can feel their energy, right?

Embrace your goddess self. The Greek goddess Athena is my go-to deity. She’s not only the goddess of wisdom, but the goddess of war. There are times you need to sit back and listen, and there are times you need to put on your kick-ass shoes and, well, kick ass.

Lift other women. Like a rising tide lifts all boats, a rising woman can lift an entire generation. Don’t gossip, it doesn’t serve you. Don’t be envious, it sinks your success. Link arms with the women around you and march forward celebrating each other’s triumphs. There is strength in numbers and our numbers are vast.

Listen up, men. We’re tired of playing small. Either join with us so we can move forward together, creating a world where our granddaughters and their granddaughters can thrive, or slink back to your Victorian mindset. There is no more middle ground.

 

Originally published in the Davis Clipper and The City Journals.

 

February 11, 2020

Scent of Mystery

I blame Love’s Baby Soft for destroying my archeological career. Up until I started spritzing the perfume popular with the seventh-grade girls in my class, I’d never given any thought to how I smelled. My mom was lucky to get me to shower, yet, here I was, dousing myself in baby powder-scented toilet water.

luvsThe perfume’s slogan should have been a warning, “Because innocence is sexier than you think.”

Seriously? Who came up with that? Hustler magazine?

My mom saw the signs and tried desperately to distract me. Basketball practice. Dance lessons. Piano lessons. But it was too late. I’d discovered this scent could lure 12-year-old boys to my locker better than a steak sandwich (which I also tried).

But this wasn’t me! I didn’t care about boys! I had planned a life of adventure!

In first grade, I decided to become an author. I read “The Little Princess” until I absorbed the ability to write through osmosis. I spent the day in my room, penning stories and jotting down poems then submitted my siblings to “a reading” where I’d share my work and they’d complain to mom.

Becoming Nancy Drew was my second-grade goal. I was ready to uncover ridiculous clues to break up the den of bank robbers living somewhere in Murray, Utah.

As a third-grader, I checked out library books so I could learn hieroglyphics. When the call came to go dig up tombs in Egypt, I’d be ready. I would trek near the pyramids, wearing khakis and a cute pith helmet, encountering mummies and warding off ancient curses.

Fourth and fifth grades were spent honing my dance skills. Ballet, tap, jazz, hokey-pokey – I did it all. I’d practice every day, secure in the knowledge I’d perform on Broadway. Or at least the Murray Theater.

In sixth grade, I discovered Paul Zindel’s “The Pigman” and my desire to write returned full-force. It was decided. In the future, I would be a writing, dancing, detective archeologist who spent equal time on the stage and the Amazon rainforest.

But seventh grade! Boys! Gah!!

Suddenly, I wanted to smell good. I became obsessed with every pimple, every pore and studied the beautiful girls who made glamour seem effortless.

I read teen magazines. I learned I needed glossy lips and thick eyelashes to attract the opposite sex. (I tried to no avail to create the perfect cat’s eye, which turned out fine because I’m not a cat.) I had bangs so high and hairspray stiff, they were a danger to low-flying birds.

shaun-cassidyI fell in love with Shaun Cassidy, which was crazy because, as a writer, how could I marry someone who sang “Da Doo Ron Ron”? Those aren’t even words!

I earned money for Levi’s 501 button-fly jeans and Converse shoes. I bought Great Lash mascara, with its pink-and-green packaging – and Love’s Baby Soft.

Sure enough, the glossy, smelly trap I’d set began attracting boys who were just as confused as I was. Just last summer we played baseball in the street and now we circled each other like strangers, unsure of what the hell was going on. Hormones raged.

Thanks to the distraction of the opposite sex, I never deciphered hieroglyphics. I never performed under the bright lights of a New York stage. I was never asked to solve the Mystery of the Secret Bracelet.

I blame Love’s Baby Soft. If it hadn’t been for that innocent aroma, I’d be a world-renowned expert on ancient Babylonia, accepting Tony awards for my depiction of Eliza Doolittle.

Seventh grade! Boys! Gah!!