Of course, we all know it’s all about candy. Just ask Seinfeld (so much gratitude for this old bit of his, when he was the absolute king of comedy).
There has to be nuts, if you ask me, but Vox recently ranked Halloween candy from best to worse just to help you out tonight, when you steal from your kids, or worse yet, pretend to be a teenager at the door of your neighbor with a lame costume on and an open plastic pumpkin head. We’re in trouble this year with no kids home, we may have to hold up some of our trick or treaters (I apologize in advance, we will not use guns).
Stay safe, and what I really mean is, don’t chew anything that will pull out a filling, or worse, a crown.
The longer the election mayhem continues, the more I have to soothe my jangled nerves with gratitude.
Finding the stuff of the hallelujah chorus is easier than stomaching the daily insanity and cray cray news bites from people who don’t seem to be dealing with a full, or even partially full deck. I have been trying to sit quietly for as long as I can each day, just focusing on the things around me that are purely good (there are a lot of them in our midst).
A few days ago I had one of those preposterously bad and overwhelming days, but my saving grace came in the form of a Skype session with Colleen Quinn, my personal trainer (who has been my personal trainer for nine years, and has helped me with my faulty spine, and who is smarter than anybody you know–so smart, in fact, she moved to California where the winter doesn’t majorly suck) who instead of making me do sit-ups, lead me through a guided meditation, in which the bottom line was that my breath was going in and out, my feet were on the ground, and I was absolutely ok. I was so grateful for her intuition, which helped her to understand this would be the best way to work me out. Sometimes you just have to force your mind to do some planks.
This is the sort of thing that I am endlessly thankful for–when someone gets you, exactly when you need to be gotten. Colleen could have easily missed the fact that I needed to ground myself, more than I needed to strengthen my core. We could have mindlessly done sit up after sit up, but we both would have missed what changed my perspective and my day.
The act of being grateful for this exchange was almost as buoying as the meditation itself. That’s the super sonic power of gratitude. There are many dozens of good things to focus on, and the best part of the whole deal is that all you have to do is look around. It’s almost as easy as breathing (which it turns out, isn’t always that easy).
It was raining last night. Hard. Friends invited us to a fundraiser for the Life is Good Kids Foundation. I wanted to get under the blankets and watch Project Runway, while eating a Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich (best low cal-ish treat EVER, seriously–get up from your computer and go get a box right NOW). I didn’t though, and despite not knowing who Heidi and the gang sent home in real time, I’m glad I didn’t.
Steve Gross, Founder and Chief. Guy is a visionary giver, who is all charismatic goodness.
It’s hard not to be swept up in the positivity, generosity and all-around good nature of this company. These brothers and their staff live and breathe optimism. It’s downright inspiring. What rain?
In addition to selling clothing that promotes a sunny disposition, they are also giving back with the aforementioned Life is Good Kids Foundation (slackers). This wing of the company partners with leading childcare organizations to positively impact the quality of care delivered to the most vulnerable kids out there. They help children from all over the place, from schools and hospitals to homeless shelters.They believe that the single greatest health crisis facing children in America is exposure to adverse childhood experiences, and are doing everything they can to improve the odds for these kids.
John Jacobs, with his brother Bert, began Life is Good. These guys are humble, down-to-earth and like, really good people.
The party was awesome. There was great music, including the band Dispatch, and it was at the cool Artists for Humanity space in South Boston.
Front row seats for a band that’s sold out Madison Square Garden.
Gratitude to a company model that is all about the good stuff–not just talking about it, or printing it on a t-shirt, but getting out there and making it happen. It’s the kind of event that helped me wash off the grime and dirt of the election for a night (and that is a very good thing). Go to the Life is Good website if you need some optimism. Just the experience of clicking through will get you in a better mood. And if you have some time or money for this super worthy cause, the door is open. Attitude and action. Yup.
Last night after a fabulous dinner at Little Donkey in Cambridge, which was terribly delicious, despite 3/4’s of the way through the feast, the diner who sat down next to us, WAS YELLING LIKE, CHEERLEADER loud, my friend Karen and I went to see the iconic Fran Leiebowitz.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with Fran, she is someone who gives zero fucks about anything except what she believes. And the only thing she believes is what comes out of her mouth–an opinionated New York perspective that’s both intelligent and hilarious. She is also an author and editor and by her own admission, a lazy person.
In short, I love her and have always loved her. I asked her what she would like to do that she hasn’t done, and she said she’d like to win the lottery so she didn’t have to work. I’m with her.
She also asked me about Bob Dylan winning the Nobel Prize when she was signing my book. She doesn’t think he should have won, but I do.
Extra added bonus: a couple friends were there who I LOVE.
It was a great night. And by the way, she gives Trump zero percent of winning.
Last night on the phone, Aunt Joni and I texted about the night you were born. It was she, not daddy, who got me into the operating room to have the c-section I couldn’t wrap my head around. You were upside down (maybe you had a tequila?) and although my doctor assured me for the whole pregnancy that you’d come out of there naturally, naturally you weren’t having it. Nope, you needed to make a grander entrance (or maybe you were just lounging in there and didn’t want to make your way down the birth canal, instead taking the easier path of having the doctors go in there and get you–so much less work on your part–how you is that).
I told them I’d just stay in labor, that I was doing fine with my breathing and I could just stick it out for days, but what they were trying to tell me, was that your position made it so that you couldn’t come out, unless they did surgery. I didn’t really get it, and Daddy was busy walking up and down the hallway, nervous you were not going to be ok, even though you weren’t in distress. And so it was Aunt Joni who looked me square in the eyes and said, “YOU HAVE TO HAVE C-SECTION. YOU HAVE TO DO IT NOW,” and I was all like, “Oh, ok. Alright, let’s go.”
They brought you right up to my face to meet me. I was falling asleep, but I thought, “Look, we made a person.” I had never, and will never do anything as amazing (except for when I had your sister). The whole idea of creating a person in your body is just Twilight Zone whacko. I did it and I still can’t believe it.
And what a person. You have a special magic about you. You have a s soulful sweetness, an inner thoughtfulness, a forgiving nature that makes you undeniably lovable. You are goodness and charm. You are true.
I have said it all before, and I will say it until the end of time: you are special, a really special person, and to tell you how proud I am of you and how much I love you, I’d need many more than just 26 letters.
Walking with my dog through the neighborhood, I see girls in the distance who I think are girls my daughter used to know, so I squint to see if I should wave, but they aren’t of course, because those girls are at college now. We walk through the park where I raised my children throwing sand and playing soccer, and tumbling from the jungle gym, which ended in three stitches for my daughter in that place where Donald Trump grabs women, and I see toddlers, running and jumping, and swinging and sliding, and I think for a moment that I see Jake. That I see Ally. But then I remember that Jake and that Ally don’t exist anymore.
My dog and I crunch the colored leaves with our feet. He looks up at me every so often, as if to say something, but he never does (even though I’m certain he will any day now). The special light that only October can deliver is all around me. It’s different than anywhere I’ve ever been, and more pleasing than any filter Instagram offers. It’s an angle of the sun that happens in the month of Halloween that makes everything not just pretty, but prettier. The leaves don’t hurt, of course, but it’s not the leaves, it’s the light. It’s the light I imagine heaven would have. A better, photoshopped version of the rest of the year.
My first child was born in October, after three years of infertility. I remember the day after he was born, waking early, and Peter and I looked out the window and the sunrise looked drawn by a gifted artist, like a special morning, composed just for us and our new addition to the world. It seemed to me nothing could ever go wrong for a boy born into that kind of light. I wouldn’t know then, how worthy he was of such luminosity.
The fall is such a painterly time of year. While the colors have become a cliche, there is no denying that nature does kick-ass work. I have come to realize that I love the fall, but I never really enjoy it, because it always signals to me that winter is getting on its snowsuit and heading my way. And there is no love lost between me and that season.
My dog and I are doing our work. I am typing, and he is sleeping. He is a great partner, but he always gets the easy assignments. We make a good team. I am grateful for our time. I am in sort of a vulnerable mood today, and it makes me grateful for everything. I sit in the light, and hold on.
I haven’t made any intentional foliage trips this year, but nonetheless, on the road to soccer games, have seen the spectacular yearly fashion show. Brilliant mustard yellow and fire pit orange, hot pepper red, pale peach and Crayola’s famous Burnt Sienna, shout from the sides of the road, “Get a load of me!” And I do, I stare in utter awe that nature has such a spectacular sense of showmanship.
It’s this stuff, that reminds me that life has a beauty that’s always there for the taking. I tell myself to look harder, be present for its inspiring wink.
Republican Presidential candidate Donald Trump reacts as he speaks at the 2015 FreedomFest in Las Vegas, Nevada July 11, 2015. REUTERS/L.E. Baskow/Las Vegas Sun – RTX1K10O
I know that I keep writing about the election, but it’s hard to think about anything else.
The thing is that while I’m a Democrat, I’ve never felt that if a Republican won an election, I wouldn’t feel ok about it. But if Donald Trump wins this election, I think I will feel unpatriotic, like this is not longer my country, and quite frankly, scared.
It’s not because he’s a different political party, it’s because it’s become abundantly clear that he is not a balanced human being. Predatory behavior and “locker room banter” aside (which is hard to put aside, because it’s pretty fucking awful for a presidential candidate of the U.S.A., a role model, to be someone a woman cannot trust to be in a room with, who a teacher can only discuss by using careful and cagey language), Donald Trump has shown that he can come unhinged by a tweet, someone who disagrees with him, anybody who doesn’t believe what he believes. This is just not a temperament that should occupy the Oval (it’s more like a temper).
It’s so disturbing, this election. It’s taking a toll on people. I’m counting the days until this thing is over. And sweet Jesus, for all of our sakes, I hope my candidate wins.
This is one of the ways it happens. This is the first time it happened to me (it was unfortunately, not the last).
I was 20, a senior graduating from Boston University with a B.S. in journalism and a vague thought about wanting to work in children’s tv production (don’t ask, I didn’t even know what it was).
Like every parent with a child about to leave the confines of college, mine wanted to help me find employment. Having thought, for most of my life, I was going to be a teacher, with a clear career path, and switching mid-stream to journalism, after catching the writing bug sophomore year, I needed all the help I could get.
A family friend was called. Her daughter was married to a prominent guy at CBS in New York. My mother invited the couple to dinner for the husband to meet me. My mother slaved over homemade sauce, sausage, meatballs and braciole–meat flattened, and filled with stuffing, then tied up with string and cooked in sauce all day. I spoke with the man after dinner, told him about myself, and he told me he’d look around and be in touch. I was elated at the thought.
A few weeks later he called me and told me he was coming to Boston to do some work with WBZ, a local tv station he used to work for. He asked me if he could stay with me. I explained I lived with a roommate in a two bedroom on-campus apartment with just a kitchen and a bathroom, and had no extra space. He told me he doubted he’d find a hotel with such short notice (which should have been a sign for me–there are a zillion hotel rooms in Boston), but I guess I was too focused, too hopeful, that this powerful man might be able to help me find a job, and I didn’t want to think he was anything but on the level. I was nervous that saying no might ruin my chances of having him help me. I turned it over a few times in my head, but there was no room, and it felt odd and uncomfortable, so I just had to take my chances, and say no.
He got a room in the Copley. He invited me to meet him for dinner. Close to the time we were to meet, he called and asked me to meet him in his room because he had to watch a show and critique it for WBZ. I agreed.
How long will we allow this to happen?
The room was as small as my dorm room, and the only seating was the bed. I was immediately fidgety, and nervous. He began pretty quickly telling me a story. He had, the day before, been casting a soap opera at work and the actresses had to assume the sexiest position they knew. He asked me what I would do if someone asked me to do that. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, I was as uncomfortable as if I’d been caught in the rain and forced to sit in air conditioning. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think of myself as sexy.” My immediate thought was to play naive, to pretend I had no idea what he was talking about. He persisted, “C’mon. You’re so sexy. What would you do?” Still not positive he wasn’t just making conversation, I continued to play dumb and NOT assume my sexiest pose.
And then he laid it out, “I hadn’t expected you to be so beautiful when I was asked to meet you,” he said. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” I can’t tell you what I did with that, because as I’m sitting here, I can’t remember. What I did not do, if you are wondering, is sleep with this pig who was at least 25 years older than I was, and trying to take advantage of me and my earnest ambition. I kept thinking that I must be mistaken, that he couldn’t really be putting the moves on me, especially since my mother and father had been friends with his in-laws for more than three decades. Wasn’t he scared I’d tell my parents? Was he just such a narcissist that he thought I was attracted to him too, and wouldn’t want to tell my parents. I think I brought up my boyfriend. I think he told me he’d been attracted to other women during the course of his marriage, but not like he was attracted to me. There was more, but I think I blocked part of it out. He outweighed me by at least 200 pounds, so I am lucky he didn’t just go for it.
I kept pushing for us to go to dinner, and finally, he gave up, and we went to a bad Chinese restaurant, where he ordered a whole fish that came with its head still attached (I am nauseated by the smell of fish and have been my whole life, so it seemed just perfect.) The job thing was over, there was no talk of it during dinner. My interview had ended in that hotel room when I rebuffed his advances. He made me pay for my half of the check (HALF of his big smelly fish).
I still didn’t know if what I thought might be true, was true–that he was trying to sleep with me. This is important to say, because I think this is how it happens. I was young, not as naive as I pretended to be, but insecure enough not to think a powerful married man would risk his marriage to sleep with me.
Now I know if you suspect something happened, it did. This predator was never going to get me interviews with anybody. As an adult I look back and see this was the first time I would be dealing with the issue of sex for a job. I wonder if he really would have helped me if I’d acqiesced, or would I have just been a another one night stand, another story he could tell in “the locker room.”
My boyfriend was furious and wanted to call the guy. He understood what had happened in a way my shell shocked brain couldn’t quite accept. When my mom and dad called the next morning and excitedly asked me how it went, I gave them the blow by blow, and told them that they could never tell our family friends, and never speak of it to me again. My mother, furious, screamed, “AND I MADE THAT MAN MEATBALLS AND SAUSAGE AND BRACIOLE!”
I was young. Not even out of college yet and there it was — power and sexuality and hope, all there for me to have to decipher. It was terrifying. I had the good sense and good luck to get out of the situation with my clothes on, but it scared me, and it made me wonder if I’d done anything to make it happen (I had most certainly not–I was wearing a hairband–what could be less sexy). It was an abuse of power, clear and simple.
But that’s how it happens. That’s how it happened to me.
*the gratitude-a-thon 
