I’m interrupting the guest-a-thon for this important message. To the bombers of the Boston Marathon, I have two words: Fuck you.
While your pathetic actions have left thousands of people injured, body and soul, you won’t take away the spirit of our Boston. Or the world.
Because people are good.
For every person or political party like you, there are millions of people like the runners of the marathon. Their hearts and minds are true. Their commitment to conquer 26.2 miles for the love of a sport, a cause, or a personal goal make you look silly. Because you can’t blow up their spirit, or their determination. For every cowardly person like you, there are policemen and firemen and plain old citizens who put their lives on the line to help others who encounter unspeakable disasters. There were thousands in this case, and there will always be thousands and thousands who will lay it all down for the good of another. You can’t bomb that kind of spirit. You can’t kill that kind of humanity with an explosive.
But you can, and did scare us. You can and did temporarily make us feel afraid. And you can and did change lives yesterday. If that was your point, and that feels pretty pointless, you can feel pretty good about yourself. But here’s the thing, we will recover. We will be different, but we will recover. Because we are strong. We are stronger than you are. We are stronger than ball bearings flying through a spring day to kill and maim. We will be ok. Eventually, we will be ok. Not the same, but better.
But you will not. Because every night, just before you go to sleep, you will know. You will know. You will know who you are. And so will whoever put you here on this earth. And that is real terror. You will have to live with your actions. I don’t envy that. Because in the end, at the end, it will be you who suffers most. It will be you who won’t recover. It will not be us.
My best love goes out to all those families whose lives have been changed by watching a marathon. I will keep you in my heart. Always.
Since I am going to Miami this week to see my sister, and have some fun down South, I thought I would do ask a handful of gratitude-a-thoners to guest blog. And guess what, they said yes! I thought it might be interesting (especially while I’m sitting at the beach).
I’ve known Brenda since Jake was two. We met at an agency downtown, where we were paired on a project. She’s a super talented art director, and we were a team and great friends for a lot of years. I don’t see her nearly enough, but I love her madly, and think about her all the time. She’s the mom of two awesome kids, she’s good at everything she does, and she is wickedly funny. And here she is.
Name: Brenda Dziadzio
Occupation: Art Director
Me in a sentence: Big-boned Southern girl struggling through spring in Boston for 22 years.
Hi my name is Brenda Dziadzio and I’m addicted to carbs.
I recently gave up eating carbs for Lent. Which might lead you to believe I am a really devout Catholic or as one friend said “insane”. My friend was right and apparently I’m not as self-aware as I thought. I honestly thought it would be an easy one and maybe I’d lose a few pounds in the process. I rarely have bread for dinner, I said. I don’t even really like potatoes, I said. How hard could it be? I said.
Well, I will tell you how hard. SO VERY.
By 11am on the first day I actually felt panicky.
Background. I never eat breakfast (just black coffee, and lots of it). Yes, I know how important it is to have breakfast. I know it jump starts my metabolism. I know how much better I would perform in school. But I don’t like breakfast food. Hate cereal and milk. Hate muffins. Hate eggs and toast. HATE pancakes and waffles. Can you see why I thought giving up carbs would be a breeze?
Nope.
I went to my kitchen for a snack that first morning and realized I couldn’t eat my usual cheese and crackers (CARB!) or a bagel with hummus (CARB!) which always tides me over until I have my turkey, tomato and avocado sandwich (CARB!) with chips (CARB!). Hmmm, so bread is gonna be harder than I thought. What else would I like to have? In another section of the pantry, I pined for the ramen noodles (CARB!) the Oreos, the Doritos and the rice (CARB! CARB! CARB!) OMG I cant even have sushi(CARB!) for 40 days?
I don’t remember what I ended up with, but on that day I realized just how carb-dependent I had become. Carbs are fast, easy and filling. And SO good! I for one, think it is depressing to have a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs with no spaghetti. Or a burger with no bun. Pizza with no crust?
Nope.
Try taking a 7-day trip to Mexico without eating chips, I dare you. Sit at that table day in and day out with that basket in front of you while 7 other people ooh and ah over their quesadillas, huevos rancheros and lime soup “Si Señora, it has tortillas in it”.
(Side note: I do NOT recommend having several margaritas on a spectacular beach at sunset on your last day in Mexico when you have not had a carb in 10 days.)
Go ahead, meet old friends for dinner at their favorite Italian restaurant and pass on the breadsticks, crusty bread, the fresh gnocchi, ravioli and even the meatballs THAT WERE MADE WITH BREADCRUMBS! Ain’t easy, I tell you.
What could I do? I turned to bacon. Bacon is not a carb so I put it on practically everything I ate.
So yeah. I’m back on the carb wagon. While that first yeast roll at Easter dinner felt criminal, I have savored every sandwich, tortellini and onion ring ever since. And the Catholic guilt has set in.
I worship at the alter of the funny, and I have worked in advertising for a really, REALLY long time, so this Sunday morning, I’m giving it up to a K-Mart commercial. This made me laugh out loud. So loud, it woke one of the kids, and they were pissed. Anyway, take a peek. I never thought I’d be thankful for K-Mart, but this morning I am.
I love art in all its forms. Yes, even in Kit Kat form. Really, what I love is that people choose to make art from nothing. NOTHING. And here’s just another example. If you ask me, art makes the world go round.
Isn’t it just a whole different day when you’re hair looks good? Honestly, I can’t believe how much better I look when those things on my head are working. But getting them to behave properly can often be a near impossibility. There are factors that come into play. Some are in our control and some are not. Take the weather. (ugh, today is totally disgusting, so yeah, take it SOMEWHERE ELSE.) There are days in the winter when my hair is glued to my head, despite a good blow dry, a good curling iron, a good amount of hair spray. It’s flat as a gosh darn pancake, and nothing short of being hit by lightning will perk up my mane. Conversely, in the summer, when it’s so humid, you want to air condition your clothing, my hair is in “boing” mode. I do my thing, blow it dry carefully, and it just frizzes out, looks likeI have fried it up in a pan, and have recently been in a fight with a pack of small children. And again, there is little I can do to tame its hellishness. I rely on barrettes and hair elastics and cuter clothing to distract from my electrocuted look.
Man or woman, there might be nobody whose hair is worse.
Then there are those times when you wake up and your bangs grew over night and suddenly they’re either in your eyes, causing you to bump into walls, because you cannot see, or if you have the side swept version, they just lay there like a lazy teenager on a Saturday morning, giving you the overall look of exhaustion. I have actually considered going to hair school, in order to learn to cut my bangs, because they have needed so much attention during different parts of my life. And they can make or break your face, I tell you. Good fringe can make you look younger, cuter and friendlier. in fact, when I used to have real bangs, I used to say to my stylist, Ron, who I have only been seeing for like 24 years, “I need my bangs cut. Make ’em friendly.”
And a word about Ron. Well, more than a word, he deserves a freaking page. He has put up with me and my hair for more than two decades! This guy should get some kind of statue in the Boston Common erected for patience and kindness. Ron is a veteran in my hair wars. We have gone from permed (I still have a class action suit against all of those so called “friends” who let me live out this 80’s nightmare in public.) to layered, to blunt. We have had light bangs, and choppy bangs and side swept bangs. We started with hair au natural and have gone from semi-permanent dye every eight weeks to cover a few grays, to permanent dye to prevent me from being mistaken for Barbara Bush. We have dabbled in highlights, and a plethora of hair products. We have also, along the way, discussed gardening and weight, and our plans to have plastic surgery together in Brazil, our dogs, our recipes, our love lives, our computers and the state of affairs in the big world. Ron is one of the smartest, funniest and most talented people I know. A pharmacist by training, this guy is good at so many things, it’s hard to like him. He has owned several salons, is a talented gardener, a top chef, a landlord, a kick-ass words with friends player, and could work in the apple store behind the Genius Bar. Above all else, while yes, he keeps me in brown hair, he is my friend. And I thank him a million times over for being that.
Anyway, when my hair looks good, I look younger, happier, less tired, more engaged, more excited, friendlier, cuter, and smarter. Yes, a bunch of dead protein coming out the top of my head can do all that. Some of my hair secrets: I don’t wash it everyday. And while I would rather die in a fiery crash when I was a teenager, rather than to go a day not washing my hair, as an adult, it looks better on the second day (truth be told, sometimes I even go the third day without shampoo). I love Frederick Fekkai hairspray. It is the lifeblood of a nice do. I once gave myself a mayonnaise conditioning treatment in high school, after reading about it in like Glamour, and couldn’t get out the Hellman’s for a week. I am not exaggerating. It conditioned alright. Enamored with Farrah Fawcett’s “Wings over America” look sophomore year, I gave in and had my bangs cut, from their center part to look like Farrah’s winged back locks. I hated it and wore barrettes (color matched to my clothing) until they grew out. I had waist length hair for most of my younger life. My mom liked my hair back, and away from my face. When I was like seven, my sister once cut my very long hair to my chin while my parents were out and was grounded forever for doing it. (What a younger sibling won’t do for the attention of her older sister!) I once cut my hair into a shoulder length bob and was working in an ad agency and one of the creative directors told me I looked like Barbara Streisand (I wanted to kill myself and him). When I was in fourth grade, in love with banana curls, I used to sleep in rags (this was quite a sight). And lastly, I would like to say that my sister used to do two things to her hair that were hysterical and I still cannot believe. She had curly hair and she wanted straight hair (and what is it, by the way, that we always want the hair we weren’t born with anyway). Here you go–she used to iron it on the ironing board. Yes, not kidding, not some drug induced psychosis on my part–that’s what she did. The other thing she did to get her straight sleek look was to wrap it in orange juice cans. Don’t even ask.
Anyway, I had a spectacular hair day recently and I considered having a photo shoot done. Not really (but kind of). I’m grateful to have all sorts of hair care products and a professional hair dryer and curling iron to tame my tresses, and quite honestly, to have hair at all. On days when it all works out, it’s a minor miracle worth a MAJOR celebration (however today, with this weather, there isn’t going to be any party over here).
When it’s still dark, when the cars are still asleep in their spots, when the house is quiet(well, as quiet as this 110 year old creaky Victorian gets), when the birds are just about to sing it out, when the sun’s alarm hasn’t even gone off yet, I love to get out of bed and start it up.
Look at that sky. It’s appearing daily, at a slightly different time each morning. And it’s all yours. No admission fee!
I’ve always been a morning person. Course, this means that I’m not a night person. In fact, after I eat dinner, I’m pretty much calling it (although I can totally get myself up for a night out if that’s what the plan is, but it’s not when I naturally come to life). I like the beginning of the day, the brand newness of it, the slow start, the possibility. I like when there’s time to collect my thoughts and set my intentions before the schedule hits, the dog barks, the kids start yelping about missing jerseys and unlaundered jeans, and empty cereal boxes. I like the time before the paper arrives, and I can give Riley a cuddle and get lost in his furry face, and I can hug my coffee cup in silence. I cherish a sunrise, when the sky lights up in a free public display of beauty, mixing reds and pinks and blues and whites, before the full on light announces the official start of brand new spanking 24 hours. I feel sorry for the sleepy heads who miss this daily art exhibit just outside their windows.
I get stuff done. Sometimes I clean the kitchen really well, or attack a project I’m not excited about doing. It’s a good time for me to get work done, or to write. I only exercise in the morning. It’s not an option later in the day. If I don’t do it in the A.M., there’s little chance I’ll do it at all. Sometimes I have to do something in the morning and I can’t exercise and I start the little game of , “I’ll go right after this,” in which I lose to my opponent called “I’ll go tomorrow.” This is annoying, and as I’ve gotten older, I don’t play as much, because guess what–I never win.
I like to hit the Huffington Post and see what might have happened during the night. I like to scan the headlines and see what’s cooking in the world, see what is new in “style,” “entertainment,” “comedy” and “health.” What’s a day without a good celebrity scandal? Really, WHAT?
I recognize that not everybody is a morning person like I am. In fact, I gave birth to the president of the “Hater of Morning” fan club. Her name is Ally and just be happy you don’t have to live with her.
I am grateful to have 7 mornings every week in which I get to visit with the world by myself. It doesn’t cost a penny. It’s pretty. And it gives a nice start to my day.
Going to see Joni next week. Oh yeah, and the beach, too.
I am going to see my sister next week in her new digs in Miami. I am out of my mind excited because I get to see her, since it’s been like two months. But I am also really excited to be going to somewhere with a beach, because nothing makes me relax like the ocean. Not to mention the sunshine. Which brings me to my gratitude–vacation anticipation. Which in this case, I actually have only had a week of, because I decided so last minute to go, due to the schedules of the other four people I live with, who have soccer, and lacrosse, and are coaching basketball, and having meetings with USC, and meetings with work clients, and all sorts of other stuff that was making it impossible to plan a vacation. Finally, I just said, fuck it, I’m going, if anyone wants to come with me, great, if not, I am going solo. I only got one reticent taker, Ally. She is ambivalent about going because she really had wanted to have this April break with Jake, her brother WHO WILL BE IN COLLEGE NEXT YEAR AT THIS TIME, AND WHO WILL NOT BE ON APRIL BREAK WITH US. Not that she doesn’t want to see her Aunt Joni, but she is just worrying about not seeing her brother enough before he goes TO COLLEGE. Guess what, Ally, you will not be able to see him enough, you will never get your fill. We are going to miss that boy and that’s just that. But in the meantime, let’s have some fun in the sun. “Toni and Ally take Miami.” Eat your heart out Kourtney and Kloe.
The last time I was in Miami was literally 27 years ago. I’m pretty sure it’s changed a little since then.
But back to the vacation anticipation. (Sounds like “conjunction junction–do you remember SCHOOL HOUSE ROCK? I miss it. Legions of kids are missing out on those awesome ditties.) Anyway, the thing is that I love the time leading up to a vacation almost as much as the getaway itself. Except for the packing part, which I can’t stand, although I am getting better with it. I go one of two ways here. I either approach it by jamming everything I might want to wear on said vacation into a suitcase–and I mean EVERYTHING. Or I just bring a small amount of stuff, and decide I will buy whatever I need if I don’t have it with me (which has lead to some great clothes, as well as some very regretful purchases). Ok, so anyway, I love the feeling of knowing you will be embarking on an excursion, while you are just living your regular life. It sort of gives you a shot of adrenaline while you are just doing the mundane. You have a secret stash of happy that gets you through your blah, blah, blah parts of the day.
We have gone to Martha’s Vineyard every summer since we were married, and I still get excited, even though I know every part of that island, because it’s not the surprises of the trip that thrill me, but the tradition. I can’t wait to hit the ferry, and let my vacation flag fly. I exhale, ahhhhhhhhh.
I am grateful for the buzz of an upcoming trip. This one has an extra fizz to it, since I will be seeing my sister, who I miss like mad. I still don’t really understand that she is gone, or have all the visuals of where she is everyday, but that will soon be a sketch book that’s all filled in. I am counting the days. And loving the anticipation.
I know it’s sort of cliche (I don’t care if it is). And I know you might think it’s only for teenagers (it is not, AT ALL, in fact, most of them are onto the next thing already and I know plenty of Grandma’s who are on it). And I know it can be hurtful (but mostly, it’s not). But I’m just going to say it. I’m grateful for Facebook. If you’re on it, you are probably grateful for it, too. If you aren’t, hear me out (and stop laughing at me).
So, I thought it was dumb for a long time, but then I gave in and created a page. And suddenly, I had friend requests from all over the place. I re-connected with all sorts of people. People from high school I hadn’t seen in decades were suddenly my Facebook friends, and we caught up in newsy private messages, and then in our daily posts. There’s even a whole page devoted to people from my hometown. It’s just sort of fun to pop over there and see what’s going on. I also found People from college, people from old jobs, people from other countries. Suddenly, the “whatever happened to….” is a question no longer. There’s also a bunch of my family on Facebook. We’re pretty spread out, so it’s a great way to get to see what’s going on with everybody, view the latest vacation, baby, graduation, snowstorm, dance, or shit day. There are loads of people from school and town that are on Facebook, posting about their lives, reaching out while they’re working, or while they’re in line somewhere, or commuting on the train (or, yikes, while driving), posting photos of cool stuff they’re doing, or seeing, or part of, or things they support, or things they hate, or things that make them laugh, or questions they have, or breaking news.
Since I’m a freelancer and work from my home office (not to mention the kitchen, the den, or my bedroom–have computer, will travel), Facebook is a great diversion. When I’m writing or brainstorming, or doing concepts for a client, I sometimes just need an internet escape to keep me going. A quick check of Facebook can be just the thing. Post about your miserable day, and watch your Facebook friends rally around you. Announce your good fortune, and people from all over will tell you how happy they are for you. Ask where to stay in Belize, Paris, the moon, and gather intelligence from around the world. It’s easier than email, faster than snail mail, and you can reach and be reached by the masses in like 10 seconds. I give it to you Zuckerberg, you’re really a smart dude.
Facebook in the wrong hands, can be a nightmare. There are tales of bullying that have caused permanent damage. There’s the “everybody has a better life than I do” syndrome, and there are the homewrecker stories of Facebook affairs, but I have only experienced Facebook as the good witch. In fact, if you like this blog, you can thank Facebook, since it’s where this little baby was born.
Facebook friends can be your real friends, who you see on a regular basis, or strictly Facebook friends. You might never get together with a Facebook pal, but post something you’re unhappy about and they’re right there with support. Sometimes the two intersect, sometimes they don’t, but I love all my FB cohorts.
There are some people who post every five seconds, which I find annoying, or want you to play some dumb game, which I have no interest in. Some people drone on about topics that have no relevance for me, but mostly, I really like Facebook and accept it for what it is– a powerful platform, which can be used for good, and which allows people to connect any time of the day or night. And let’s face it, connecting with people, whether it’s electronically, or in real time, is good thing. A really good thing. If Facebook had a “love” button, instead of just a “like” button, I’d hit it.
Sometime I over commit, but mostly I think of voluneering as a gift I give to myself.
When I think about the game of gratitude, I also think about volunteering. Because it’s one of those things that when you do it, although you’re helping someone else, it turns out that you’re also helping yourself.
I have been volunteering at my kid’s school since Jake was in Kindergarten. He’s going to college next year, so you can figure out how long that is. Our largest fundraiser was an auction, and I was there the first year one of the other mom’s brought in an idea about each class doing a theme basket that could be auctioned off. I took this little project on for many years because my artistic skills helped the effort, and because it was fun. I once designed a desk and then had a whole class of 2nd graders paint one section, so they would all feel ownership. One teacher created an Egyptian tomb and put artifacts inside. (not real ones–you weren’t thinking real ones, were you?) There were oversized art baskets, and baskets filled with books, and sports baskets overflowing with frisbees, and balls, and outdoor games. These things were popular in the silent auction. They often had parents guarding them, in order to keep upping the bid. I was involved in a few of those wars (they weren’t pretty).
Our school was also known for its commitment to drama. And while I did some props for a year or two, I finally took the leap and produced with another mom I’d never met (who then became one of the greatest people in my life, and one of my closest friends). It was so much fun, I continued doing the plays until Jake graduated (Ally only did the musicals until 6th grade, when she realized she had sadly inherited my charming vocal skills.) I did everything from costumes to posters. I loved it and I loved working with the kids and watching the transformation that took place for them over the course of the rehearsals. Also, it was really cool to see that the play brought the popular kids together with the less popular kids to form a cohesive bond. Labels were dropped and self-esteem was boosted. I liked being part of that. Plus we always had a kick-ass party after the whole thing was done.
I did a bunch of other volunteer stuff during my time at our fantastic elementary school, like the Understanding Disabilities program, run by the town, and parent volunteers, to help kids have a clear understanding that people with disabilities are just that, people, first and foremost. I also helped in classrooms, on field trips, and with recycling programs and homeless shelter projects. And while I know each of these things helped the kids and the school, I probably got something even better from each of them. Every time I helped the school, I also helped myself. I could go to bed feeling like I did something that mattered with my day. I love advertising, and it helps the company that I work with, but for me, it’s not as fulfilling as volunteering.
I am currently volunteering at the high school for the After the Prom Party, which is as the name implies is a party that takes place after the prom. It has a theme (this year, the beach) and entertainment and prizes and is really a blast. It was created to keep kids safe on a night that is traditionally known for drinking and driving. Anyway, tomorrow night, we’ll be painting surfboards and cutting out fish, so if you want to join us, we’d love to have you!
These are my top five tips for volunteering:
1. Do what you love. I am good at writing and designing and marketing, but don’t make me organize the event, it’s not my thing. Love what you’re doing and you’ll help your organization and yourself.
2. Volunteering is not a paid gig, but treat it like one. If you make the commitment, show up. No calling in “tired.”
3. Bring something to the party. Literally. If you can, it’s fun to have some wine and food while you’re volunteering. Bring a little something something and watch people perk up.
4. Be enthusiastic. If you’re going to feel put upon, stay home. Plain and simple.
5. Be open to meeting people. If I hadn’t agreed to produce the play, I wouldn’t have ever met one of my best friends in the world (not to mention her whole family, all of whom I LOVE and so does my family).
I am off to get foam core for the fish. And yes, the After the Prom Party is going just swimmingly, thank you!
*the gratitude-a-thon 