authors, family, Life in General, parenting

Why I Need to Get My Head Examined

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the cliffs of insanity, or just a bad headache

You might think it’s because I hang off the edge of cliffs, and that’s probably a good enough reason. But then there’s this. Three days ago, I get a call from my sister that my mom has fallen, smashed her head and has no memory of how it happened or what’s going on. Because she’s a Shattuck woman, she insists to her friend who found her wandering around outside that she doesn’t need to go to the hospital. Her friend texts a picture of the open gash in mom’s head to my brother, an ex-paramedic, and he texts back, “CALL 911”

I feel horrible that I’m not there. Normally, I’m the go-to choice for trips to the ER. Next thing I know, I’m getting calls left and right, she’s in the trauma unit, she doesn’t recognize my brother or sister, who are there with her by now. She’s disoriented, can’t remember her birthday and has no recall of the last few days. They’ve done a brain scan (meaning she had her head examined!) and it looks okay, no internal bleeding. It’s late in the afternoon and I’m up in Santa Cruz, so since she has family with her, I tell them all I’ll head down to LA the next morning early. I feel so guilty that I’m not there I go ahead and pack a bag so I can leave super early. I’m not feeling great myself, so I go to bed early.

Within a few hours I wake up with a fully loaded Ram pickup truck parked on my head. I mean I have a headache like I didn’t know you could survive, like I’m not sure I can stay conscious if it’s going to hurt this badly. Like second only to childbirth but with no breaks between contractions painful. I can’t take light or sound, any movement makes me want to scream but at the same time I wouldn’t dream of making a sound, it hurts even to breathe. All I can do through the night is cradle my head in the dark. I take as many ibuprofen as is legal, maybe more, and try to meditate the crushing pain away. That requires focusing on my breathing, which hurts, so…that’s not helping.

By morning the headache has lessened a half a degree, but I cannot get out of bed. I’m the worst daughter in the world. I should be in LA taking over my mother’s care. My cell phone is buzzing and ringing with news about my mom, questions about when I’m coming, etc, and every time I look at it the light pierces my brain. Still, I force myself to find out what’s happening from my siblings and let them know I’ll leave in a few hours if I feel better. Doctors call, and squinting and grimacing, I answer their barked questions about my mom’s medical history. Why are they all so loud?

Then the phone keeps ringing and the screen says it’s my mom, but when I pick up and whisper hello (all I can endure) there is no answer. After four or five times, we have this exchange.

“Mom? Mom? Are you there?”

“Oh, hello.” She speaks as though she’s surprised I called.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

“Well,” she say indignantly, “I’m in the hospital and I have no idea how I got here. No one has even called me except my friend Sharon.”

“Mom, Shawna and Dwayne were with you all day yesterday.” (my siblings)

“Oh.”

“Shawna is on her way there now.”

“Oh.”

“And I’m going to try to drive down later today.”

“Oh. Well all I know is I woke up and nobody is here.”

“Shawna will be there soon.”

And I knocked out a tooth,” she says accusingly, as though I snuck up behind her and yanked it out with a rusty nutcracker.

This simple exchange feels like grenades going off in my head. My whole body feels like it’s been hit by a truck, but I still kind of want to slap her. How many years have I spent taking her to hospitals and doctors appointments, making sure she’s okay, but the one time I missed a turn…

“I love you mom, I’ll talk to you later.”

Her response was a tortured sigh and her saying she had to go now. A nurse or doctor came in I’m assuming.

But my own little parcel of hell doesn’t lessen, it gets worse. I spend the whole day in bed, and then spend yet another night begging for sleep and relief. My body is exhausted, I’m nauseous and sweating. My brother, the ex-paramedic, is texting me that I might have a blood clot and I need to go to the hospital, which isn’t alarming in any way. Just what a gal wants to hear when her forehead is being used as a dance floor for a thousand super-sized river dancers wearing golf cleats. I don’t want to go anywhere, do anything, speak, think, or move thank you very much.

But hubby sets up an appointment at Urgent care and off we go, me carting my pillow to block out the horrific lights and sounds of sleepy Scotts Valley. The doctor decrees that I probably don’t have a blood clot, which is somewhat comforting, though a more definitive choice of words would have been welcome, ‘probably‘ leaves the door open that maybe, I just might, possibly have one. That’s how I hear it in the five alarm fire that is my head anyway. He thinks I have a migraine type headache, but not a migraine because I’ve never had one, and he prescribes super mojo painkillers to ‘break’ the pain and sends me home.

I’m never leaving home without those pills again. You can have all the credit cards and fancy cars you want to show off with, I’ll take the pills, thank you. Within a few hours I was mostly headache free. Still limp and barely animated, but sweet relief is in sight.

So, I’m recuperating today. Keep thinking I can do my usual stuff only to wilt like arugula on a bbq within a minute or two. I’ll try to get to LA and mom tomorrow. I still feel badly I didn’t rush to her bedside, but driving requires the use of light and sight, two things I couldn’t pretend to face.

And my mom? She’s home at my sisters house, complaining that she’s bored. She’s back to normal,(translate as level-three hurricane force activity) and insists that we’re being ridiculous for wanting her to take it easy.

Yep, that’s me, the jokester with a first time migraine-slash-maybe, possible bloodclot who needs to get to LA to make sure that her 80 year old mother doesn’t slide down my sister’s stairway railing or drive to Santa Anita to wander around the cherry blossom festival.

She would do it too.

I might still have to get my head examined for clots or even just for hanging off of cliffs, but so far, I’m happy to be able to sit up and eat.

But I still feel guilty.

Lesson learned? Try not to pile shame on top of physical pain and keep your prescriptions within arm’s length.

But first, get a prescription.

Stay healthy.

Shari, March 15th, 2017

 

 

 

 

Acting & Experiences, America, Life in General, RV life, trailers

Surviving a Virtual Sh*t Storm

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Fill those glasses, trouble’s a’ brewing!

 

We’re into our second month of traveling trailer life, and for us newbies, it’s been a challenge, to say the least. Joseph and I are veterans at handling household emergencies ranging from forest fires and mud slides to living without heat or water for months at a time post those natural disasters. Standing outside in the back yard slinging buckets of warm water from the hot tub over ourselves to wet, lather, and rinse is doable, but I can’t say I felt particularly glamorous. At least we didn’t have neighbors to shock, but I think the forest service helicopter pilots got an eyeful once or twice. (I noticed they came back around a couple of times.) None-the-less, this living in a 36 ft trailer that rocks every time Joseph rolls over in bed and I wake up sure that it’s ‘the big one’ is all new to us. Sitting up fast in limited space can be hazardous to your skull shape as well.

Of course, like the champ he is, hubby has been learning and handling things as we go while I adjust to cooking in ten square feet, only getting a hot shower at some campgrounds that offer them, and condensation that drips down the walls so moistly (is that a word?) that I can’t leave so much as a throw pillow up against the bedhead lest our trailer becomes a mushroom farm. Fungus and furnaces aside, I’m pretty damn proud of us. Most people we told about our adventure had one of two reactions. Awe and jealousy, “I’ve always wanted to do that! “ or “How exciting!”Or the opposing counsel of, “Your marriage will never survive it.”

We call that second group amateurs. Living in a tiny trailer surrounded by giant redwoods or with the ocean lulling you to sleep at night is not what we consider hardship. Sure, every few days one or the other of us gets uptight and cranky from lack of privacy, but we know that routine from traveling together for months at a time. A half day on our own and we’re excited to share with the other what we discovered while we were apart. We both know the warning signs well enough to burrow in silently with a book or head for the hills when a question like “Where is that property we’re going to see?” is answered with a snappy, “I don’t know. I didn’t memorise the address.”

Red flags like oh, say, me condemning the peanut butter to an eternity in hell because it had the unmitigated gall to fall out of the cabinet when I opened it, or my Shakespearian actor husband muttering his replies inaudibly as he walks away, means it’s time for a solo walk or maybe just a trip to the grocery store and a leisurely perusal of the gourmet aisle.

Drinking helps. So does marijuana. Fortunately, (or you can add a ‘un’ before that word, your choice) we don’t do those things until the evenings when work is done and we have nowhere to drive and no heavy machinery to operate. So if anxiety strikes around noon, other options must be explored if we expect to have our usual evening of sex and laughter.

Okay, we play a lot of scrabble too.

So far we have replaced the tow hitch twice, extended our sewage pipe, which is no easy feat when you don’t want leaks, and washed dishes with cold water until we could figure out how to work the water heater. (turns out it’s a simple switch in the bathroom) I continually hit the button that extends and retracts the bedroom slide-out thinking it’s a light switch causing the walls to start contracting like a scene from a bad horror movie. I did this so often that Joseph finally hung a picture over it.

Then we go to look at a property where a house burnt down. There is a viewing deck which I immediately see is rotted through. Joseph is about 20 yards away checking out the well.

I call out, “Don’t step on this deck, it’s rotted through!”

He responds with an “Okay!”

I start off up the hill to look at another pad and I hear him say, “Oh, there’s the electrical box.”

Thirty second later I hear a strangled, but manly, scream. My husband is a big, barrel chested Polish man so he does not scream like a girl. My brain immediately has an image of him standing in a puddle with 20K volts rushing through his system and I take off at a run through the trees screaming, (like a girl) “What? What happened.”

All I get in reply is groaning and other various expressions of pain. I come out of the trees to see him on the edge of the deck clutching his knee rocking in pain, behind him, there is a big hole.

Now I’m screwed, there’s no cell phone reception up here, my husband is almost close to twice my size, and there is nothing I can do to help a broken leg.

Do you have any idea how hard it was not to say. “I just told you not to step on that!” I really think I deserve kudos.

Not to worry, my bull of a hubby gasps out, “ACL” meaning that his knee bent backwards again, tearing the tendons. He is such a badass that within seconds he is sitting up, telling me he wants to finish walking the property when the pain subsides enough.

What are you going to do with that kind of courage? I found him a stick, and between that and a little bit of help from me, we hobbled around the acreage. Then went to lunch where we got ice for his knee and two large beers to wash down 4 ibuprofen for his pain. He stayed up all night unable to sleep and took himself to Kaiser the next day alone while I had to drive to LA to spend an absolutely enchanting day at the LA courthouse dealing with some legal crap that should have been settled 14 years ago. On the plus side, I get to visit our daughter, which I try to do for at least a couple days every week.

And the fun keeps on coming. While I’m still down south, Joseph calls to tell me that the RV park in the redwoods where we are staying is backing up with sewage. It’s raining and flooding there so we weren’t really surprised. He said it smelled so badly people started leaving.

Then we found out that the real problem was not the flooding, nor indeed the septic system at the park, oh no.

It was us.

Apparently, we confused a roll of regular toilet paper with the biodegradable stuff and it backed up at our connection. So Joseph goes out, in the raging rain, and clears our sewer hose by hand which, when I asked, he would only describe as ‘disgusting’ because he’s a gentleman and he doesn’t want me to know that it was really like that scene in Shawshank Redemption where the Tim Robbins is crawling through a half mile of unimaginable filth and stench puking as he goes. You’ve got to love a man who can act and direct the crap out of Hamlet and then direct the crap out of our trailer in a downpour.

So now we can officially add surviving a shit storm to our list. Literally.

It’s still pouring, I’m still in LA, and the trailer still smells pretty bad from what Joseph tells me. I just keep apologising that I’m not there to help.

On second thought, dealing with my husband, angry, rain and excrement soaked, in intense pain, unable to bend his knee, swearing and cursing and sweating and bleeding might be one more catastrophe than we bargained for.

Probably better that I wasn’t there now that I think of it.

I mean, how much time can you spend at the grocery store?

And after not a half day, but four or five, I really can’t wait to see him. He’s got a lingerie reward coming, after he showers of course.

Get out there and have an adventure!!

It’s worth it.

 

Shari, February 17, 2017

family, kids, Life in General, writers

The Baby in Black

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Or how your memory fucks with you.

One of my earliest memories is of standing next to my sister’s bassinette when she first came home from the hospital. It was Halloween, and in my memory, I can feel the weight of my candy bag in one hand. I was barely tall enough to see over the edge of the low crib so I had rocked forward, up on my toes. In this crystal clear flash of memory, I see the baby so clearly, my new sister, a scrunchy-faced little interruption that didn’t belong there, dressed as a witch.

My mom had dressed her in a witch’s costume and even a pointed little black hat and shoes that curled up at the toes. I recalled this image with perfect clarity in a session with my psychiatrist, who commented, “How darling that your mom took so much trouble to dress a baby in a costume.”

Later that day I called my mom to boast of my razor-sharp visual recall of my spanking new baby sister. She was duly impressed, noting “That’s amazing, you were only three.” I went on to explain how I even remembered the baby costume, hat, pointy shoes, everything, causing her to pause a minute before saying, “Uh, Shari? Steffi was born on Oct 25th, she would have been six days old. I would not have put a newborn in a costume. Especially not a witch’s hat.”

Well that’s not how I remember it. Something wicked had my way come and I’m guessing in retrospect that I didn’t care much for the experience.

Up until that moment I was the baby, I got all the attention and hugging, and then this little hag shows up out of the seventh circle of hell and blatantly steals my mommy.

I was robbed.

My feelings for my sister improved vastly over the years, but apparently I’m not the only one with memory confusion. The demonizing of my sibling, it seems, is not unique to my mental processes, as I found out a few years later when my sister was recalling a different story at the dinner table.

Here’s how I recall the event under discussion. Growing up in Atlanta with lots of trees, we always had amazing rope swings. My dad would tie a thick rope to a high branch, put several knots in the bottom for standing or sitting on, and we would find a thousand ways to create new adventures.

I always loved a show (if only there had been some clue to my future!) and when my sister was about five, making me eight, we decided to put on a circus.

Steffi was smart, strong and flexible. So I set about creating tricks for her to do while using the rope swing. We worked up to her being able to hang upside down from it, holding on with both her hands and ankles, putting her in a position not unlike a human dart, her little body streamlined into an aerodynamic bolt, arms by her sides, legs straight up, and her face, the point, straight toward the ground.

Once she had that down I decided it was time for her to swing in that position, so far we had only done it with the rope dangling. So, with her holding on, back arched, toes pointed, I took hold of the knot and started to pull the rope back so that I could release it and see her fly.

But when I pulled the rope, she didn’t come with it. Instead, it came out of her hands and away from her feet and she dropped like a rocket, like the dart she was, face first, into the ground.

It still hurts when I remember the visual. She landed, nose first, rolled to one side and lay there. My recall is a little fuzzy after that. I remember parents fussing, a trip to the doctor-neighbor, to determine if Steffi’s nose was broken. It wasn’t, but the absence of skin and proliferation of bruising made for a pretty scrappy school photo that year.

I don’t’ remember my sister blaming me at the time. Just her little body sitting patiently on our neighbors’ sofa while the doctor gently prodded at her face and announced that her nose was not broken. I suppose I was relieved, but you know, as a kid there’s always that terrible fear that you’ve hurt your sibling, that you’ve been bad and that will suck because, you know, you get punished. I lurked around waiting to get into trouble, and I do not remember now if I was blamed then or not. Most likely I’ve selectively blocked that part out.

So it was a bit of shock, when, years later, I listened to Steffi tell the story at the dinner table. Except it wasn’t the story of two girls playing circus, rather it was a swift and condemning accusation of how I had deliberately pushed her and broken her nose.

And that definitely wasn’t how I remembered it. At all. Being accused of an action that was untrue hurt my feelings, and I moped about it, feeling the ‘poor me’ of being misunderstood. Or mis-remembered, as the case may be.

The visual of her falling three feet, face first onto the dirt, with nothing to break her fall but her nose, is seared into my memory, so I think I’m right. But let’s look at it from her point of view.

And her point of view was the ground, the earth in all it’s solid mass rushing up to meet her face.

Yep. I think it’s vaguely possible that the same moment might have registered slightly differently in her memory. So why do I keep feeling betrayed that she remembers it differently from the way I do? Why does that hurt my feelings like the child of eight I was when it happened, many moons ago?

Oh woe is me, the loneliness, the alienation, the lack of sympathy and love. No one understands me.

Because I know I’m right, damn it, and I will not concede! No matter how unhappy it makes me, how unreasonable it is, or how valid it is for someone else to feel differently.

The truth is…Memory and subsequent judgment are slippery little fuckers.

Don’t trust ’em.

Alas! The only way to clear my name and soul is to acknowledge that, though I’m not wrong, (universe forbid!) she might not be either. (grumble grumble) Though that’s as far as my indignation will allow me to chill. Which is stupid; human, but really truly stupid.

These days when I listen to someone who views a current situation in a way that I cannot even process, I try to remember that dichotomy of interpretations given by two sisters, who were both actually there, and multiply by infinity. We all remember things differently, each and every human being processes events and memories based on our very unique point of view.

 

So, even though not one single person’s perspective, in its entirety, will ever be accurately felt and understood by any other single person…

I still catch myself clutching my resentment and pain of feeling misunderstood tight to my chest like a beloved toy, a relic of childhood I should have outgrown. I’ll go on insisting my point of view is the only valid one, that I’ve been wronged, refusing to grow out of the hurt.

Cause memories are useful that way.

 

Or…no…wait.

 

 

Shari, August 16th, 2016

art, authors, divorce, Life in General

The Infinity of Opinion.

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The narrow path.

You are absolutely alone. No one will ever understand you completely. Muhahahahaha. (that’s my evil laugh.)

And that’s just fine.

Because…you are also a part of everything, every molecule in the universe, every other living and non-living thing is made of the same stuff. The next time you feel superior for being human, bear in mind that you and dog poop are, in their basic makeup, the same thing. You have the same ingredients as a magnificent sunset, a nova, a star, a virus, and a slug. All of it is energy, moving spinning atoms, that constantly flow and change. Every time you take a breath, you inhale air that has been produced by trees and circulated through the lungs of the rest of humanity. I once read that the average glass of water has already passed through a human body seven times. Unappetising as that may be, it should remind you that we are all giving and taking every second of our lives, and even in our deaths. Nothing comes from nothing, and no energy ever dies, it’s just redistributed. Sorry royalty, elitists and republicans, life and energy are socialists, it’s our natural state.

Usually I write about how we are all connected, but today I want to talk about being different, unique, and separate, because well, I’m funny that way.

Just as no one person in the world is an entity unto themselves, no two people on earth agree on everything. In fact, we don’t even perceive concepts and ideas in the same way.

Perception of a concept as you absorb it into your brain is like light through a kaleidoscope, color and thought bouncing off of thousands of angles, each of those prisms created by every experience we’ve ever had. Every single person interprets a movie, book, issue, even people,  differently. Every time two people read the same book, they write their own, unique version of it. Reading a book is as creative an endeavour as writing it. And no! I am not sharing my royalties! Love you.

Basically, we’re drawing our own cartoon and some are wackier than others. Mine has lots of little blue birds and singing flowers, faeries too, but it hasn’t always been that way. I used to also hear scary music and see danger in the wooly woods. Then I decided I didn’t want to watch that cartoon any more. I wanted to live my life to the happy flute music.

The science behind making that change is miraculous.

Think of it like this. Look at a tree, now close your eyes. Can you see the tree? The answer is yes, but the fact is no. What’s happening is a series of electro-chemical reactions in your brain that aren’t visual at all, but they are recalling that image. The best example I can think of for this is when you and a partner both vehemently remember the same conversation, would swear on your life that you said one thing and he or she said another, and they are equally prepared to die for the cause. It’s a duel to the death, ten paces, turn and fire! Oops, now you’re both dead. That was fun! Maybe we should have decided to go for a coffee and a laugh instead. Just a thought.

Because the irony is that both perceptions are right. Because each person understood the situation, heard the words, and experienced the emotions about it from different point of views.

Now, when an author describes a tree in a book you are reading. Guess what? You see that tree as best you can, based on your personal, individual, and completely unique idea of what any given tree might look like. A kid who lives in a concrete bound urban area might think trees look like something from Dr. Seuss, a logger might immediately think of a pine or a redwood, an islander would immediately picture a palm tree. Is it becoming clear? That’s okay, it never really is.

So why do we get so upset when someone else doesn’t understand us, or sees any issue differently than we do?

A rancorous political campaign truly brings this uniquely human trait to the forefront. Your ‘opinion’ on any candidate or topic is based your filters created by through your specific mindset. Here are a few of those filters.

1, Every piece of information and explanation that’s been rammed into your head since birth. Parents, teachers, books, movies, etc. Some influences will be subtle, say, Mom making a face when someone uses food stamps. And some will be as harsh as a jackhammer breaking concrete, i.e. everyone you know believing in a church and the men who run it telling you there is only one God and one truth and if you don’t embrace that truth you will burn in hell, and funny—these men always know exactly what the truth is! What an amazing coincidence that their ‘truth’ is what someone hammered into their head when they were young. No wonder Jesus called people his ‘flock.’ When it comes to opinions and judging right and wrong, we are sheep, following that lead ram with the bell straight home to the barn, or to the slaughter house.

2, Every criticism or disapproval you have received for voicing any given opinion in any impressionable point of your life, (i.e. all of it) Peer pressure and the people you find yourself surrounded by in school, work, and relationships, basically, anyone whose approval you need or rely on for your self-image. Try telling your fifth grade teacher that it’s rude to do the limp wrist gesture when showing your class a picture of a famous male dancer. The kids threw crabapples at me all day. And, by the way, I met that dancer later, he was anything but gay, with a bevy of legendary, beautiful women lined up in his romantic past. Take that you beehive-headed bitch!

3, Whatever news outlet or information you take in, every conversation you hear. What sources of information do you pursue? Comic books or Time magazine? Fake news shows or the internet? These things shape you, they imprint in your brain and affect you physically as well as emotionally. You probably notice now that if you listen to someone giving an opinion different from yours, your heart speeds up, and you get hot, you don’t want to listen to them! Idiots! Fools! Stupid! It is very difficult to say, ‘Oh, that’s a different way of looking at it,” and not take it in emotionally.

4, How strongly you attach yourself to the emotional need to be ‘right.’ This is ego, and ego is not who you are, it’s what your brain tells you is important and is always external. It is entirely based on how you think others will view you, and as we’re discussing here, you will never know exactly how or what others think. So why do we waste our precious love and time trying to make others see it through our very narrow binoculars?

Ego is the one problem I’ve found we pretty much all need to work on these days. I grew up in the south with republican parents, went to all white schools, and lived in a rarefied world of steadily increasing wealth and privilege, so it was not to surprising that, even though it felt fundamentally wrong to me,  I was trained to be anti-immigrent, conditioned to feel deeply wronged that the government took taxes out of my hard earned money and handed it over to those lazy bastards.

Then I moved to LA. There’s a lot in between there, but let’s jump forward. I came to LA with no preconceived prejudices against hispanics for the simple reason that when I was growing up, there wasn’t any hispanic community of note in my suburban Atlanta world. Very quickly, the establishment and general news sources in Southern California had me believing that Mexicans were all violent gang members or welfare users who had dozens of children and fed off ‘the system.’ As a result, I watched youths in white t-shirts with suspicion, resented children going to ‘our’ schools, (how insane is that?) and judged people I knew nothing about.

I didn’t know any Mexican-Americans.

And then I met some and began to see that I was missing as much as a blind person wearing mittens and ear plugs. I remember one day specifically that I found myself standing in the deep end of my own ignorance and sad limitations and realising that I would drown in the bullshit that had been heaped on me. I knew in an instant that I had been paralysed, robbed of my ability to think for myself, to listen to my heart. I was shooting a commercial in a rented house. Verizon, I think it was. And the owners were a lovely young hispanic couple with two beautiful children 5 and 7. I was talking with them, not even thinking about my prejudices, (because when we are prejudice, we don’t know it and certainly won’t admit it) and I asked if they had other kids. The dad said, “Well, you know us Mexicans!” then he laughed, and said, “No, two is all we are having, we’re done.”

My face went hot and red. I was so ashamed to realise that I had this preconceived notion of an entire race of people based on propaganda from my political party and, let’s be honest, rich white people who had made up most of my world.

So I made a concerted effort to make friends with people who were ‘different’ than me. People who were different colors, nationalities, religions, and especially those with different incomes. I believe that money divides us more than anything. I invited hispanics and asians, and minimum wage workers, and every kind of American to my house, my kids played with their kids. This caused my ex a good deal of stress, as he prefered to invest his time in people who had fame or money, or could do something for him, which was one of many red flags. Eventually I left him, because as I eagerly moved to embrace people of quality, he pursued people who had things. Hanging with only the ‘haves’ is just too small a world for me. And so, I left his influence behind as well.

Becoming friends with people who were ‘different’ changed my life. The next leap was working with a charity that helped people who had lost limbs and vision, or might be  emaciated by devastating treatments and illnesses. That brought me to another light speed jump in basic comprehension. I stopped feeling sorry for people, because nobody wants your pity!! Every single person is getting through life the best they can, we all have pain, we all have suffering, it just comes in different forms. I used to feel pangs of pain for someone with a limp or a speech impediment, now I admire the hell out of them. I love that their walk is unique, that their voice is the sound of a new instrument. It makes me proud that we humans are so varied.

And last, (last so far, there’s always more,) I gave up organised religion. I believe in an awesome, unifying creative energy, I believe that we are all connected, I believe that if I do bad to someone or something, I do it to myself, because we are all one. How hard is that? What, in God’s name, (snort, get it?) makes me think that I know the truth and everyone else is wrong. Why do I even need to feel that way? The answer, of course, is that we’ve lost our way and we need  our group of bullies around us to confirm our anger and our fear and make us feel artificially safe in numbers. It’s great to get with other people for the sake of community and helping improve our world, but it sucks when it’s all about separating us into us and them. That is a lie.

Stop being one of the numbers. You are unique, alone, and part of everything.

I mean, I’m probably wrong about most of this, I look forward to changing my mind…again. Cause baby, I’ve done it many times, and I get happier with every step forward.

 

Get out there and love. Happiness is who you really are.

Shari, June 25th, 2016

 

 

family, Life in General, men

Rules of Engagement.

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My husband was a bit grumpy when I got home from a recent trip to Northern California. Perhaps it’s because he’d been working 12 to 14 hour days, perhaps it’s because some of the jobs he’s doing on our house right now are, well, disgusting. Okay, when you rip the siding off of a tool room that hasn’t been attended to in fifty some odd years, and find several generations of woodland creatures, adults, juveniles and babies, living behind it,that’s kind of cute, granted. But the fact that their nests are built on the carcasses of their ancestors and decades of excrement bulging through the insulation, it is definitely un-cute. Pulling out the nests of hair and urine-stained, shredded trash doesn’t leave you with a particularly ecstatic feeling. Maybe the fact that I was off hiking in woodland bliss and searching for new homes instead of helping him could have contributed to his vague emotional distance from me, as unreasonable as that sounds. It’s unlikely that I’m ever at fault of course, but hey, anything is possible.

For my part, after a few fun days with our daughter up north, taking in the air and the redwoods and the wonderful food, I spent my five hour drive back thinking about how much I missed him, and how incredibly lucky I am to have him and our life together. I arrived excited to see him, surging with all the passion that I started with for him, plus the years of love and fun squared on top of that, so I’m in a great mood, eager and loving.

Then I drive up to find him standing in the garage, sweaty, bleeding, and filthy, breathing with difficulty, having done as much work as an assembly team in a factory. I didn’t quite get the greeting I had anticipated. Our normal ‘mesh’ is a bit off.

Okay, we’re miles apart, and by the time I get through touring all the work he’s done and telling him all the things he worked so hard on that I’m not crazy about, (hey, I told him about all the things I loved too!) he’s a sliver snappy. I’ve learned over the years not to engage when one of us is in a mood, but that’s not always easy when one of us is feeling vulnerable or pissy.

Because when we try to talk from that frazzled, electrified place, the chances of going off on bizarre tangents ranges from excellent to certain. I will, for example, accuse him of playing the martyr role, he will insist that I have never, ever, ever, ever, ever been happy with anything he has ever done. We both are dead sure that everyone in the world will agree with our personal, and diametrically opposed, points of view. We fall into accusing each other of evil plots against our marriage, of seeing the worst in each other, of never being loved or appreciated.

Too dramatic? You should try running a theatre for 25 years, I’ll show you diva. So, when one of us gets ramped up, the other one takes a turn at playing police psychiatrist on an active shooter site. He will stand at a safe distance from behind the open door of his truck and shout into a bullhorn, “I understand you are upset, but put the rifle down and we can talk.”

When I’m pissed, he withdraws into his den or his work and lets me rage freely, swearing and sighing for all the world at this miserable lot I’ve pulled, but he never misses giving me a goodnight kiss, or offering to share a funny movie once the high octane burns itself out like a nasty oil spill on seawater. When it’s him who is wound up beyond the ticking point, I make sure he has snacks, water, first aid when the time comes, and I stay busy, lurking until his defences are down. This is quite a bit like a siege, but instead of firing flaming rocks into his castle, I’m lobbing sandwiches and beer.

So we went through our evening working our wounded egos out on our own, avoiding flare ups that might lead into something we both know isn’t even about whatever projectile we’re launching, and we commit to talking tomorrow. (That part is important, and the appointment must be kept!) We’re both exhausted and strained, and there’s that touch of unfamiliarity that comes when you’ve been away from each other a few days and haven’t had a chance to smooth it over with a cocktail or three and an episode of VEEP.

In the morning we sat down to talk, and instead of starting with communication, which would be bright, we’re both wasting time and energy justifying our ‘reasons’ for not being particularly generous of spirit or spilling over with kindness, it’s all round about, egos, and excuses, but one theme inevitably emerges, we both feel misunderstood. I thought he thought this and he thought I thought that, and we were both dead wrong.

So we smile sheepishly and I kiss him. “I’ve got an idea, let’s just go back to being madly in love.”

His face crumples into a handsome smile and he says teasingly, “Then you have to be nice to me.”

And I stabbed him with my pruning sheers.

No, not really. We just both laughed at ourselves and each other, and kissed, and got back to the business of loving and being grateful.

Sometimes you just have to get over yourself, and remind yourself how fucking happy you are.

I know I do.

Shari, April 30th, 2016

Acting & Experiences, creative inspiration, family, Life in General

Thirteen going on Thirty-eightish.

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Not me of course. This is a blog about one of the very special people I’ve met in my travels, and accidentally, through being an actress. I guess she started out a fan, I call her friend. It won’t be long now until I’m back in my favorite city, this time for five weeks. My daughter has gone to Florence, Italy for a study abroad quarter, and next week my husband and I will settle into a friend’s apartment in Venice a few hours north. We have several projects to work on while we are there. My youngest will come over with a friend during a school break, we’ll all visit, so everybody gets to eat great pasta and feast our eyes on art, dwell in living history, and wallow in the brilliant colors of Italy.

Okay so, can I tell you how great it is to have friends with an apartment in a 16th century Palazzo on the grand canal who are spending winter in Southern France and are like, ‘Take the apartment, we won’t be there!” Sweet. Cause there’s no way we could have afforded this trip right now on top of college and private school fees. My husband and I are excellent producers, so we know how to get the most from the smallest budget, (Can you say air-miles?) but this is special, because of the people who made it possible and how we met.

Back in the old days, when I was still on TV and my ex was on the number one rated show in Italy, (a soap opera, weird, I know)  I received a fan letter from a young lady who was 13. It wasn’t your typical letter. I could tell immediately that this was a very intelligent, aware person. The letter was smart, sensitive and engaging. So, instead of responding with the standard signed photo, I wrote back.

And we kept writing, this was pre-social media days. A few years later, when my ex was shooting Bold and Beautiful on location in the Lake district of Italy, both the young lady and her sister came to meet me. They were about 19 and twenty at the time. And they showed as much class as I had expected from them, which, let me tell you, is a relief when you’ve been dealing with tens of thousands of fans screaming, “But you must!!” about their every request for photos and autographs. (Really weird, and not fun at all, by the way.)

My friend and her sister are both lawyers now, the one who wrote me the letter at 13 is an international human rights attorney who is currently working in Brussels.  We’ve stayed in touch all these years. Then, when I was able to travel to Italy sanely with my husband Joseph, we met again, and again, and again. We stayed with them in Vincenza at their family farmhouse on one of those visits. My friends have grown into beautiful women who work tirelessly to help make the world a better place for everyone, not just clients who can afford it. 

I knew from that first letter that that young lady would amount to something, something special. And believe me, becoming a successful female lawyer in a country that is still very much a man’s club is extra exceptional. She once told me that when applying for a job, the first question from the Italian men was always, “What about if you want to have a baby? How are you going to work then?” That question would basically be illegal here. So I salute both sisters doubly for striving forward through it. (Not surprisingly, they’ve both stayed single.)

All over the world, countless people work hard for the good of us all. You may not see them, they may not have a reality show or a webpage, but they are out there, quietly and determinedly changing the world for the better. Fighting those stereotypes and antiquated doctrines. As an american woman, it’s good to be reminded that other women suffered and paved the way toward the relative ‘equality’ we have today. And every day I try to remember that the vast majority of humans really are good, even if they don’t get the same attention as the shitty ones.

So next time you talk to a teenager, really listen, maybe offer up a bit of information about the possibilities that lie ahead of them. If it’s a girl, and they say they want to be an astronaut, or a physicist, or president, applaud them. (Cheer for the boys too actually.) It’s important to realize that they can choose a tiny life where they learn no more than and never move forward from the life their parents knew, (which admittedly might be amazing) or they can do…

…well, anything.

Why are we going on this trip when funds are low? My cousin Laurence and his lover Michael had to make a decision. They were both HIV positive, but my cousin has beat it since the eighties, one of the few. So, when it came to choice between re-roofing the house or taking a trip to Paris, they decided to take a trip to Paris.

When they returned from that trip and it would rain, they would put out the pots to catch the dripping water, make some tea, get cozy, and look at their photo album of their French trip.

Two short years later, Michael passed away. Laurence sold the house and moved on with his life, but they will always have Paris. That is why we are going now, living our life, meeting up with lifelong friends and celebrating every day with our girls. When rain comes, we will have Venice.

Even as I wrote this blog, I was sent news that another lifelong friend of mine in Amsterdam just passed away in the arms of her son. Through my tears I tell you I will not wait for life to take me, I will go there.

Bouno viaggio, I’ll write you from the city where I can walk on water.

 

Shari, January 6th, 2016

Life in General

Shout, Laugh, Love.

Mein Heir, "Cabaret.
Belting out ‘Mein Heir’,from the hit show “Cabaret.”

My life may not be stress free, but it’s never boring! A couple weeks ago I went to the gynecologist for what I thought was a minor check up, next thing I know I’m being biopsied for uterine cancer. That part wasn’t bad, but between the time the nurse informed me they would do the test and hearing back about two weeks later, (everything is fine) I spent a lot of time thinking about how quickly things can change.

The minute the nurse said, “I need you to sign this release for a cancer screening,” until I got the good news back from the Dr., I could only think of one thing—my girls. What would I do if I were to go through this journey, how will I prepare them for both this stress and the possibility that I wouldn’t be around? I made mental lists, prepared what I would say to encourage them, and how to reassure them that even if I leave them, I’ll be there for them.

Because I believe that. That’s what the novel I’m writing now is about. Of course, these are things we should consider often, it puts a fabulous perspective on those little annoyances in life. People who stalk you on social media, (Hi Rene! Having fun?) too much traffic, money troubles, family squabbles, unstoppable dust, stains in the laundry, the occasional wild fire or mud slide, and my cats yakking up fur balls on the new carpet, none of these seem to bother you as much when you are faced with a potentially life threatening reminder that you are, in fact, mortal.

I like that fact actually, it comforts me often. As it should, because sooner or later, it will be true. On the other hand, as an artist, it puts pressure on. Is what I’m doing worth it? Does it help and change people for the good? Is it…at least entertaining. I consider it a day well spent if I make a lot of people laugh. So, if I can ease a smile out of you, or the waitress, or another patient at the doctor’s office, or even a future reader, I’ve had a good day, as a writer, a mom, and most important, a person.

I was speaking to an author friend who writes wonderful stuff. (Braveheart) He told me that he thought of God watching him over his shoulder as he wrote and it should be worth Him reading. Now, I’m an atheist, but I believe in the creative, collective force of the universe, I believe that death only rejoins us to the whole, but I got what he was saying. I compare it to being able to see your Christmas lights from space or lighting a candle. Sometimes it’s great to create a spectacle for many, and sometimes illuminating a soft smile across the table is enough.

They both count, not one more than the other.

So, laying there on that cozy half table with the stirrups, waiting for the doctor, I had a chance for silliness and took it. When the nurse asked me later if I wanted to take my picture for my electronic files today, I asked, “How about this one? I just took it.” IMG_5113

And she laughed, really hard.

I loved it.

And I live to laugh another day.

Shari, October 20th, 2015

Acting & Experiences, creative inspiration, Entertainment, family, writers, writing

The Funny Scary Thing.

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My beast husband and I fooling around on a shoot for a movie poster idea.

Usually I try to include some helpful information in my blog, be it for acting, mothering, partnering or writing. Today I’m just going to tell a story, take from it what you will. It is, in a convoluted way, an explanation of how we function as storytellers.

I’m terrible with years, but it must have been around 1978. I was 17, my sisters were 14 and 8 when we took a family trip to Hawaii. My brother doesn’t figure into this because he always had his own room, sort of. With three younger sisters, very little is sacred, which explains the padlock on his bedroom door at home, but that’s another story.

So we’re in Maui, we’ve rented a condo facing the beach and coconut groves and my sisters and I are in one of the bedrooms, it’s one of those two queen bed affairs with the floor unit air conditioner under the window next to sliding glass doors. There’s a small patio outside the doors, and a table and chair next to the air conditioner.

Being teenagers, my sister and I quickly grow bored with the family hang out, so we find out that about a mile down the beach there is a twin-plex movie theatre. We check the movies and discover that “Junglebook 2” is playing. We decide that, as well as a little independence, this will be an evening well spent.

After the hour long application of makeup and hair fluffing, (because that’s important when you are going to a movie theatre to sit in the dark when there’s no one there you know) we head out, following the instructions from a local. It’s a lovely, late tropical afternoon and we are in silly, giggly high spirits, everywhere around us is beauty and we are grown up enough to go out un-chaperoned. Fourteen and seventeen, who needs pesky parents?

Just outside our condo, we walk through the coconut groves. The wind is playfully tossing the big wide leaves of the palm trees making a lovely, friendly whispering noise, like happy secrets being shared. Big silly crows caw at us from the fronds, comic and brazen, making us laugh. We reach the beach and turn left. The gentle roll of perfect waves with sunlight streaming through them comforts and serenades us as we walk down the beach. Confident, fearless and giddy with freedom, we reach the theatre and go to the ticket desk. Sadly, Jungle Book 2 is sold out and there is only one other choice.

Damian, Omen 2. Da da da dum.

Oh, what the heck, we came all this way and the option is to go back home and sit around reading or playing cards. So we buy the tickets and go into what will always remain to me, the scariest movie I have ever seen. If you know the Omen movies, then you know that there is always an animal portent of death. In the first movie it’s Dobermans, in the second it’s big black ravens. I spend most of the movie with my hands over my eyes as people die violent, creative deaths and there is no way to save them from the spawn of Satan. My sister doesn’t cover her eyes because her hands are too busy digging her fingernails into my arm. The movie thoroughly and officially freaks us out. When the lights come up, we’re shaky, but like, hey, it’s just a movie, right?

So we leave the theatre. Moving from the brightness and colors and crowds of the lobby into a dark, deserted and overcast night on the beach. No sunlight sparkles on aqua blue water, it is silver black and menacing. The clouds hang low and ominous as though supported by the thick, humid air. Clutching each other and alert for otherworldly evil, we start along the sand, each roll of waves grasping toward us like dark fingers that break and crash with malevolent intent. Breathing shallowly, hunched together, on full alert, we make it to the coconut grove.

We move through the terrifying swooshing sounds of the threatening fronds shaking and hissing threateningly above us. Suddenly, a crow cries out and we scream, breaking into a run, covering our heads before our eyes are plucked out by the heinous messengers of darkness.

Finally, the glow of light from the condo windows, our parents, safety. We rush in and tell them how afraid we were. Being the concerned, loving parents they are, they laugh at us.

Once we settle down, everyone goes to bed. We all change into nightgowns. I remember my sister had a long nightgown, white cotton and full, I had a short one. My two little sisters are in the bed closest to the sliding doors and I am in the one near the bathroom. We have left the sliding glass door open, our parents are nearby, so we don’t need to board up the windows and put out crosses, a gentle breeze filters through into the room. The screen door is locked and the white sheer curtains are drawn.

Much later I am wakened by the need to use the restroom. I check the semi-darkness carefully for demons, I’m far from sure it’s safe, but I decide to risk it.

I get up and scuttle the few feet to the bathroom, turning on the light as I close the door.

Now, what I don’t know is that when I turn on the bathroom light, it wakes my sister and the wind has stilled so the room is stuffy and over-warm. While I’m in the bathroom, she gets up out of the bed, half-sleepwalks to the chair next to the air conditioner and turns it on. She’s enjoying the cold air on her face, so she leans her head against the wall and falls asleep in the chair.

Very cautiously, I open the bathroom door and peer out. The room looks clear of hell’s minions, I do not notice my sister in the dimness, where she sleeps motionless in her white nightgown by the sheer curtains of the same color. I start back for my bed, tiptoeing to keep from waking the three headed dogs, and I’m halfway there when my movement wakes my sister.

Three things happened at once: a sudden, strong wind blows, sending the white sheer curtains streaming inward toward me which wakes my sister, who stands up and walks toward me.

From being sure the room is still and unoccupied by anything other than my sisters in the next bed, what I now see is a ghostly figure in white gliding toward me out of the billowing curtains, hands at its sides, zombie-like, bearing down, directly toward me. An electric shock of horror freezes my bones, and I leap for the bed, exclaiming “Oh my God,” except that my petrifying fear renders me incapable of pronunciation, so it comes out more like a throaty, quavering, “Oh ma ga!” I dive under the covers, heart beating and blood pounding, unable to speak, scream, or hear. I yank the thin cotton sheet over my head, because, as we all know, thin cotton will protect you from the devil.

Within seconds, the room is flooded with light and my mother is standing in the doorway, my father’s 6’4” frame behind her. “What is going on?” she cries, concerned. In the light, I sit up to see my sister standing looking groggy in the middle of the room and I know I’ve been snatched from the gates of Biblical mythology come to suck the life blood from my soul.

It takes a minute to explain and figure it out, then being the loving, protective family they are, they have a good long laugh at my expense.

They still laugh at me today, and this story of my cowardice is now one of my daughter’s favorites. Especially the “Oh mah Ga,” part, which makes them howl with laughter at my ridiculousness. I guess it’s genetic.

But let me tell you something. I learned a little something about what the power of suggestion will do to you that day.

And I still don’t like scary movies. I can make them, but I don’t like to watch them.

Whatever you feel and experience, it goes through your imagination and experience filters. Be careful what you let in, lest it fester until you make a complete fool of yourself.

And that applies to so many things.

Did I mention that I’ve learned to love crows?

Shari, August 20th, 2015

family, Life in General, parenting

Her, Them, Me, Us.

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The gang is back in town. Two of my three siblings live here in LA, so we get to see a good bit of each other and help out with kids, holidays, etc. My mom also lives here, so I’m used the the dynamics between us all, interesting to watch, experience, and sometimes learn from.

But one of my sisters stayed back east. She lives in Charleston, SC, a city with history and charm which I love to visit, so that’s good, but when we all get together, with kids, old patterns jump up and if you’re not careful they bite, leaving a welt that frankly itches.

Now that we are all past mid-forty, there’s a lot more consciousness than there was when we were kids or young adults. It is fascinating to me how four kids raised by the same parents in basically the same environment can all be so different. It’s the same in pretty much every family, and now I get a chance to see that same dynamic unfolding in our children.

We each have two kids, totaling four boys and four girls, ranging in age from 21 to 5. it’s almost impossible to get them all together at the same time, especially with one at college, but we almost managed it. The cousins all adore each other, every one is unique and very special in their own way. The IQ’s, the height, and the humor runs into the ninetieth percentile, so it’s entertaining to say the least.

Like when my golden haired nephew, who is 11 walked into my kitchen and said with his cherubic little mouth, “Kennedy jacked our Maserati and threw it in the pool,” it took me a minute to figure out he meant the scooter, which she confiscated and did in fact submerge, because he had refused to pay the toll she was demanding, (cracking his knuckles).

I have girls, so having young boys around is very cool for me. I don’t think I’ve heard the word ‘butt,’ (from the five year old Cayden) or the words ‘penis’ and ‘boner’ (from the 11 year old,) as many times in my life put together as I have in the last few days. We’ve had tears, and tickling, and the scrape or two, but overall, it’s a big pile of fun.

And yet, old habits die hard. Almost anyone woman will tell you that no one pushes her buttons like her mother. I’ve had a good look at that in two generations this week. My mom, who is one terrific lady, is the source of our ADA trickle down tendencies. From her to me, from me to my oldest daughter. Attention deficit can lead to narcissistic behavior, not out of selfishness, but stemming from the inability to stay focused on a group. My mom can change subjects so many times in a conversation that we often end up saying, “What is she talking about?” My mom is super smart, and she knows for sure, it’s just us that get left in the verbal dust.

Here’s an example. “So remember the Wilsons who lived down the street on Knob Hill? You were friends with the daughter, Terri, and Dwayne was in school with John, and they had that cute dog, Spunk. Well, she started drinking, and he got a job out of state, and then when she graduated from college, she married this guy from France, and they lived in Paris for two years, and her brother couldn’t have kids and the daughter had some mental issues, then the brother sold his house and moved to the old house, and…”

At which point I stop her and ask her to clarify what she is talking about.

My mom’s response is dismissive. “Well, anyway…” she says, waving an impatient hand at my thick head, “he died.” 

Leaving us looking at each other saying, “Who died? The dad? The husband? The dog?” It’s a bit tough to follow, but we can generally keep abreast.

What amuses me now is how old things, like my mom needing to do things her way sometimes, in spite of the obvious fact that nobody else wants to do it that way, still frustrates and annoys us. You think we would know better. She’s 79, and exhausts us all with her energy and interests, and you’d think we’d focus on that now. She doesn’t do it much at all with just me, but something about the whole family dynamic being reactivated brings it back in her. You’d think we’d get that and let it go, but no, every once in a while our inner five year old jumps on our head and kidney punches us, and we’re taken off guard. We are all leaving the zoo and two people need to ride in her car, but she ‘has to stop by home and pick up some tomatoes.’ “It’s right up the street,” she insists. It isn’t right up the street and the kids are exhausted and just want to go home, and nobody needs tomatoes, but she will not relent. I’m driving, so I can’t volunteer.  My sister does, with rolling eyes and head shaking, but the kids are all refusing. Finally my sister nominates her daughter, who mutters and bitches, but goes. It’s like a comedy rerun. How many times in our lives have we let our mom upset us over such a small thing. How many times has she done small things to upset us? Why don’t we learn to take a breath and just go with it? Later, I watch my sister dealing with her own spirited seventeen year old daughter, and I can only think of all the trouble she got herself into and the word, “Payback” leaps to mind.

My siblings think I’m too easy on my kids, they are all three more conservative than I, but when I think to back to my teen years, out of the house at sixteen, married at eighteen, off to New York and drug abuse by nineteen, well, let’s say I’d be a hypocrite if I expected my daughters to dress in pressed khakis and refuse a beer after prom.

I’m blessed to have so many loving, healthy family members. We’ve been through some changes, that’s for sure, we’ve grown, regressed, noticed that the world is bigger than we once knew, that there are other opinions besides our own. Between the four siblings, we’ve had eight marriages. (Only the sister back east stuck with one, and I hold the record with three). We judge each other, have strong opinions, rush to support during tough times, drift away, and return to hug and laugh. The flotsam and jetsam off our lives is ever moving, ebbing and flowing, and I have sailed but half that sea. I’m hoping for many more adventures, discoveries, and growth. But who knows? Maybe we’ll get pissed off over politics and fire the cannons.

In the meantime, I’ll whip up some dip, grab a bottle of bubbly and head out for another family dinner.

I’d ask you to join us, but we all talk at the same time, and we’re the only ones who can understand us.

Ain’t it always the way.

Hug your family.

Shari, June 18th, 2015.

family, Life in General

From Flames to Fabulous.

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These are pictures of  a young women I consider to be one of my ‘other daughters’ She’s a junior in high school. The photos were taken an hour apart. She is a fire cadet, and the first photo is her in gear on a ‘call.’ The second is her ready for prom an hour later. Needless to say, I admire her and her choices immensely, and am so grateful that my daughter chose her friend so well. Most parents might discourage a pretty daughter away from a ‘dangerous’ career, but this mother is one smart, amazing lady, whom I greatly admire, and it shows in both her daughter’s characters.

How do you raise a child to respect themselves and the world around them versus one who is so focused on themselves that they miss out on the best that life has to offer?

Well, nobody knows for sure, and there is already an overabundance of advice out there, some really good, some pathetic and selfish. So…though I know a little bit about a lot of things, and nothing about everything—here I go.

First, and most important. Set a good example. Be happy, not desperate to be liked. Be interested in people, in nature, in time with your family, in quiet time, take them to museums and travel if you can. Spend one on one time that’s about what they like! Introduce them to what you like, but don’t expect the same enthusiasm. Every time you can expand their world view, do it! My girls rebelled at being taken to museums in Rome and Amsterdam at first, now they regularly request outings to the Getty or the Norton Simon museum here in L.A and eagerly look forward to future trips. My oldest has even contemplated a career in curatorship, and they are both amazing artists.

It’s a tough balance, of course. It’s completely natural for kids in their teens to be enamored of their peers (future support system), to preen, to prepare themselves to find a mate (make-up, hair clothes and now tattoos, piercings, etc.) And there is increasing pressure through the high school years to pick a career, to stress over success, getting a job, become famous, stay skinny, have boobs or muscles, etc. All of these things are natural, but it’s important to make sure that they focus on being kind and brave, and figuring out what they do best instead of what will impress others. Striving to be envied is a life philosophy that leads to nothing but emptiness, which no amount of ‘acquired stuff’ will fill.

The best thing to do, I think, is keep the lines of communication open, stay aware, but don’t take it personally when they prefer to spend the weekend with friends instead of you. It’s good for them, and maybe for you too!

Recently I read someone’s blog, (accidentally, it was forwarded to me with only a web address, and I was appalled that this particular person was giving parenting advice. The crux of her message was, “Ditch the kids and make it all about you!” It only took a paragraph to realize that this was a step-mother who was jealous of the attention her husband’s daughters received from him. And she only had the kids three days a week! She complained about having to socialize with other people with children just to spend time with her husband, and how she demanded a date night that was ‘all about me!’ Not, ‘us,’ mind you, “ME!!” Shouldn’t date night be a about both of you?

Wow, if that’s your attitude, you should probably skip having kids, and definitely don’t marry someone who has them. The example you are setting is narcissistic and uncaring and the kids know it. What does that teach them? Of course your happiness is important, but not to the exclusion of your children. And facts are facts, babies and children require almost constant attention, it’s not a job for the self-absorbed. As they grow into teens, hormones and emerging independence change that somewhat. In my opinion, that’s a good thing. Not just for them, but for you, helping to transition into that time when they will have their own mates and interests, and you will need to stop running their lives and fill your own. The way I see it, it’s not my job to do everything for my kids, it’s my job to prepare them for life in the wild.

My husband and I are lucky enough to have plenty of time to ourselves because of a custody arrangement that gives us a couple nights a week off. Of course, we would both prefer to have the girls full time, but he is such a thoughtful and creative man that we would be romantic either way. I remember after the huge fire in our neighborhood that left us without power for 3 weeks. He returned to do what he could to make the house and grounds livable, and when I arrived two days later, in the evening, he had lit the walkway to the door and the house with candles and bought steaks for the grill and had champagne on ice to welcome me home. I often make a special evening for him. Maybe dinner by the fire out by the pool. I greet him with a cocktail in an evening dress, a table set with linens, lanterns in the trees, whatever, and we spend hours talking and reaffirming our bond with each other. Other times it may be pizza and hot wings and a game on TV. It isn’t what you do, or even the amount of time spent, it’s about the fact that you made the other person feel considered, loved, and treasured. This is true for your mate and your children.

I’m not saying don’t take care of yourself, of course you must, find time for a walk, a lunch with a friend, some creative project. Spend time with your mate and remember why you picked them. Laugh, have sex, talk, and most important, Listen!

Now let me be clear. I’m no expert. I honestly believe that for all the reading, studying, advice, etc., nobody actually always knows how to be a perfect parent. We’re all winging it, even the best intentioned. But if you wing it with love, if you realize that your child is a separate, unique individual who is on their own journey, and you support their choices, then I believe they will feel safe enough to be brave, kind, and fulfilled. The best things in life take both courage and compassion.

Time flies my friends, and that time with your children, that time when you can help them make choices that enrich their lives and fashion their passions, is limited, over far too soon.

Don’t waste it. Love them, hug them, be patient, stop and think what’s best for them, not what you fear.

But mostly, let them fly.

Shari, May 18th, 2015.