"This is worse than even Jesus's time"

I went to NYC last month. Thanks Cancer. I loved the trip. But I hate your guts. (just sayin)

Walking from the the Chamber's street stop on the J train through the World Trade Center one evening after a very long, but super fun, dinner at Peter Luger's in Brooklyn, I heard "this is worse than even Jesus's time". Two homeless people pushing piles of luggage and bags and blankets in their shopping cart and double stroller were having a discussion about how evil the world is today.

I handed the woman a five dollar bill and told her to have a good night and she turned to the man that made the loud vocal comparison and said "you're full of shit, bet nobody ever gave no Jesus no five dollar bill." I'm pretty sure she's right... I'm also pretty sure that she didn't have any pants on either.

I forget how great NYC is when I'm not back often. I didn't have much time to fit everything I wanted to in. But I did get a few special moments. I got to see a hooker get out of a town car in the West Village. She wouldn't have given her vocation away if she'd been able to get out of the car and walk away. But, she was outed by the man who had paid her for her services. His pants were falling down as chased her down the sidewalk and called her horrible names. She was ignoring him and counting the wad of cash he'd handed her. It was a priceless New York moment near even more priceless and beautiful town homes in the Village.

I spent a couple of hours in my favorite museum on 70th and 5th one afternoon. The Frick has a beautiful collection, but it's the building that is really amazing. A block from some of the best window shopping in Manhattan, it sits on a beautiful residential street filled with some of the New York elite. I stepped out of the museum late in the afternoon to an odd assortment of people. There was a little girl walking past the entrance toward the park with what I'm sure was her nanny. She was snacking on a pig's foot. My phone's battery had died a few minutes earlier or I would be able to share that little nugget with you. And, I would have had time because she and her Nanny and the rest of the crowd coming from Madison toward the park got stopped at the corner by a wall of big fat rapping bodyguards. It was kind of awesome and absurd at the same time. These guys were huge. One of them eyed that pigs foot for a while. I was almost sure he'd take it from the kid if he didn't have to scan the sidewalk for snipers and anyone posing a danger to his big bad rapper boss. After all of the hoopla, some guy with overly baggy pants, and a ton of ugly jewelry came out of the building and got in to one of the three Bentley's parked on the street waiting for him. He kindly gave the doorman the finger as he got in to his overpriced uber-pimped out vehicle. Way to promote your brand, you giant Candyass.

I really don't like rap music. So I won't be supporting that tool or his entourage of overly paid, overly fed gorillas. However, I remain hopelessly devoted to Mos Def and the Beastie Boys. AND, I now know exactly what I won't do when I decide to become a hooker in NYC. AND, I hope that poor woman with my $5 got some pants.

This is so not worse than even Jesus's time. But, we could use some reminders now and then about how good we have it.

"You are my childhood."

Recently my mother told us about the one and only episode of Oprah that she has ever seen. It aired some time in the last few weeks I think. Oprah had J.K. Rowling on her show. I know little about the interview. But, my mom was struck when Ms. Rowling said that she had an encounter with a young woman who stopped her and said "you are my childhood". 

What a tremendous thing to have someone tell you. What a gift to remember about your youth. That so many can identify a span of time in their lives with something that lasted and gave joy and inspiration and imagination and mystery to that time is remarkable. I loved the Harry Potter series. It helped me through terrible pregnancies, dreaded business trips, chemotherapy,  a ton of stress. My children love the stories. Ms. Rowling has been an enormous influence on the lives of my two oldest and someday I hope my Sam will share their fascination with the magical characters and stories.

I thought a lot about what my "childhood" was and I can't identify with just one thing that spanned my entire childhood. I bounce from the people that meant the most to me as I grew up, to the places that hold parts of me there, still, in that time, to music that I loved, and to some literature. The constants through the most defining years of my youth, not just my childhood, but the years that formed so much of who I still am today, are:

• My parents. My siblings. My favorite, Jon. And the many extensions of my family. My Mitch. And, Bruce and Diane.
• My Jeannie and Alison. My first best friends. 
• The  boy who lingered. He was the beginning. He was my summers. 
• Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Cure, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Madonna...
• Nantasket Beach, Cohasset's Sandy Beach, Bear Hill Pond in beautiful Harvard, MA.
• Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins games. We were living in New England... football was kind of a joke.
• Boothbay Harbor, Maine, Menemsha Harbor on Martha's Vineyard, My grandma's house in Salt Lake.
• Poetry, handwritten letters and postcards, any flavor of Escada perfume, Anne of Green Gables
• My green bike with the white and gold striped banana seat. 
• Family Roadtrips with Willie, Johnny, Neil, John, Chicago, and any all other music to fully embarrass all children.

My childhood, my youth, is tied closely to where I was. I was raised in a special place. In a town with the most beautiful little harbor filled with all types of boats and that gives way to the perfect view of Boston from the Yacht Club and Worlds End. It has on of those main streets you see in photographs, only it's better. There is still something remarkable about that place and how I feel when I am there. It is one of my anchors. It is a haven. It was my childhood. And, all it offered made my youth amazing. I want that for my children. The sense of community. The importance of family and friends. The places that make them feel safe and free and grateful. 


Ms. Rowling created childhoods for millions. It is something to marvel at. She is certainly no Candyass. She is remarkable. 

CREAM & SUGAR

My 2 year old consumed a tiny bowl of sugar and drank straight from a miniature pitcher of cream at a very brief lunch we shared with my highly entertaining friend Melissa. Sam kinda stole the show. I am sure that the Mother of The Year award is not far off.

OK, so that will never ever happen. But, I have a mother and she was Teacher of the Year last year. Let me tell you, she earned that stupid little plaque on her wall and the big bonus that went with it. She teaches special education and she loves it. Best of all, they love her. It is absolutely what she was meant to do. I have always been proud of her. She works harder than anyone I know and continues to take on extra projects, provide extra service, and make time for her kids, all six of us, and her sixteen grandchildren. She's remarkable.

She's also funny as hell and she has more stories than any single person I know. Earlier today we were sitting around her big dining room table listening to the funny stories of the week from the oldest grand kids. One of them said something that none of us can remember because my mom started to laugh until tears were rolling out of her eyes and down her cheeks. This alarmed the babies and the dog. They were all crying too. We just waited for the story. And, it was so worth it.

She has a study hall period for kids to come in and get a little bit of extra help with math or science, or anything they may be struggling with. She has a group of girls that come in and use a corner to study together. They mostly talk about boys and other girls. The last time came in they were passing a bottle of lotion around and talked about how great it smelled and how soft it made their skin and how much certain boys liked it. These are 16 year old girls that may not be as witty as the slutty cheerleaders on Glee but the voices are a dead match. Somewhere during the conversation one of the girls explained that she got the bottle of lotion from her mom and that the coolest part about it was that it was also edible. She then reads from the bottle "Good for an intimate midnight snack." And some girls sampled!

My mom was sitting at her desk texting the teacher in the room next door a play by play of this conversation. They decide she needs to confiscate this bottle of lotion and encourage the girls to study. She takes the bottle and puts it on her desk and takes a few photos of it so that she doesn't forget. The funniest part, for me, was that the name of this product was Cream & Sugar edible body lotion.

I suppose that even funnier than that is the fact that it first belonged to her mother. My mom will never look at that parent the same again. She's no Candyass though, she'll still look her dead in the eye and be fair, but she might giggle a little at the same time.

Can't really fault anyone for keeping a little sizzle in their life, but for giving a little bit of the sizzle to a kid is totally stupid and terribly comical.

The No Talk List: Got The Boogers Out

Sam is three. He is a mess. His face is always dirty and probably permanently stained. His fingernails have unknown matter under them. I will clean them and it will reappear immediately. He has strawberry blond hair that sticks straight up all over his head making it look much bigger than it really is. And, it's already big. See... 

I frequently quote So I Married an Axe Murderer right at him. "Look at your head, it's like an orange on a toothpick. Got its own weather system, it does." I hope he grows in to his head someday. For now, I love how fuzzy his hair is and how he still lets me kiss him all over it. I know those days are not going to last much longer.

The other day he snuck up behind me while I was working and said (with all the pride a 3 year old can muster) "Mom, I brushed my teef, and my hairs on my head, and got all my boogers out."

We're not allowed to talk about it in front of him anymore. It makes him scream like a girl and threaten to bite and pinch. For now it can go on the no talk list with the Fluffernutter sex sandwich.  You know what though? I'd totally buy tissues from a company that showed a kid getting the boogers out and putting them in to the tissue. My niece wipes them on the wall. I've witnessed it and it makes me gag. Gagging is never good for a girl on chemo. It is always followed by dry heaving or vomit. Ohhh that would scare the little shizzle right out of her. Could it get her to use a tissue though?

(The word gagging kind of makes me gag too.)

Speaking of gagging...

We have dinner at my parents house with all of my local siblings and their kids every Sunday. I love it. It's one of the best parts of the week. Except for one part. My grandma. My dad's mom is the most unhappy, unkind, unfriendly, old crab EVER.

Little kids have crappy grandma radar. There is an invisible forcefield that won't let them within five feet of her. We've tried to tell her that kids generally don't like to be told they are fat, mean, or ugly. But, she contests that, as the matriarch of the family, it's her right to tell them those things. All I can say to her is that karma is a bitch. And, she's been storing that bad karma away for a long time.

A couple of weeks ago at our weekly family dinner she got the payback of a lifetime when she stood up from the dinner table and let out a series of noises (gag now) with their own special brand (fragrance) that now have the kids calling her "Machine Gun Granny". They have to call eachother every few days to talk about the fart that put all other farts to shame. The fart that had the power to make the house shake as those kids erupted. This is a giggly bunch of monsters. But, these were belly laughs. And, the biggest laugh of all was my dad. He has selective hearing when it comes to her. There was no escaping the rat-a-tat-tat though.

Farts and boogers are gross, but anything that makes kids light up and laugh together like that is ok with me.

If you're a Candyass about saying FART (I know plenty of people who are, but are ok with the other 4 letter F word... go figure) you can say it with a British accent and it doesn't sound so bad.

And, I'm off. Peace out.

What do you bench?

Several years ago my sister wrote an essay for a university writing competition. It ended up being published multiple times. It is one of the only things that survived the destruction of all of the journals I kept while I was growing up. I had it carefully folded it in to the back of my favorite leather bound edition from high school. The one with the shape of a thistle pressed in to it's soft calfskin. It was my favorite journal. Filled with memories of my closest friends, boyfriends, and family vacations. It was the one I put my best experiences in. Someday when it's not so hard to openly admit why all of my journals were ruined (as if something could be worse than the admission from my last post) I'll share the story. I'm just grateful that the pages of the essay were still there when I found the surprise with my journals.

The essay was on charity. It talked about three different people my sister had met while working in Boston during her summers home from school. All three needed a hand in one way or another. The father begging for change to help feed his children. The man on the train who dropped his groceries and could not pick them up and carry the broken bags on his own. The woman from the local shelter that just needed someone to listen to her. My sister wrote about how those three people changed her position on giving to others. And, her words forever changed me.

She closed the essay with a simple challenge to lift others both proud and in need. I remember how simple the shift was. It was easy to reach in to my pocket and pull out any change I had and wish someone well. I don't always do it. I don't often have change or cash of any kind any more. (Thanks kids!) But, thanks to my sister, I am more aware.

I was at a stoplight the other day waiting to get on to the highway. There was a man with a sign. "Hungry. Homeless. But, Happy." It made my eyes well up. I had nothing to give him. But, my windows were down and The Grateful Dead's "Ripple" was playing with Sam, my 3yo, singing along in his seat. The guy started to laugh a little and sing along and Sam got quiet and then said "Hi, I'm Sam". Then Sam offered him a blue crayon. If you know my Sam, you know that he is never without a crayon and a notebook. He likely gave the blue away because he prefers green and was not diggin the blue so much. This man twitched just a little like he may have been fighting of a wave of emotion and said "thank you little Sam for making today the best day ever" with the kindest and most genuine tone in his voice. Then Sam handed him a red crayon and our light turned green.

I watched in my rear view mirror as car after car stopped and handed this man things from their windows. And felt this wave of pride for my son and his two perfect crayons, and the generous people that followed us through that intersection. I was lifted that day. I think a few others were too.

A couple of days later I got one of those dreaded thick envelopes from the hospital I spend so much time in these days. It's the kind of thing you want to hide somewhere deep in your closet, between your mattresses, at your mothers house... anywhere but where you have to deal with it. I waited a few hours to open it and then immediately regretted that act. The bill was not the worst one I've had, but it was plenty big. It was enough to make me crumble for a couple of days. I felt it all stacking up. Despair. Hopelessness. Helplessness. Anger. I was such a Candyass! I got sick last Fall. It just happened. It happens to people every day. I have to take pills that make me so sick that I curl up on my bathroom floor for hours. I have to go to radiation and have decided that it is absolutely the worst form of torture for me. I didn't choose this. But, I have to pay for it.

It occurred to me that my financial obligation is likely a fraction of the most severe cases. I've heard sad stories of the loss that others endure during these terrifying days. There are organizations that help. But, are they enough? I can handle my burden. I can carry this. I can bench this. I'm pretty frickin strong. But there are others who simply cannot. And, for the first time in my struggle I stopped thinking about me.

There are at least eleventy bazillion things I can do to make things just a little bit easier, better, happier, for other mothers (fathers and families) who feel the same way I did last weekend. Maybe I'll start with crayons. Sam might have been on to something.

Holy smokes... I'm a mom.

I didn't always know I wanted to be a mom. I never saw it in my future. I didn't even have vague ideas about getting married, what a wedding might be like, or anything after that. I knew I'd have a career. I knew I'd travel. I knew I'd love deeply and have amazing friendships. I didn't think about getting married until I was faced with the question. And, the thought of children seemed so foreign. I had never made any plans. Which may be why some plans just happened for me... (yes, with my participation)

I got pregnant in college. Yes, unmarried. GASP! Yes, at that LDS owned school in Provo, UT. DOUBLE GASP! Yes... I was totally naughty. I own it. I embrace it. I never thought about the possibility of keeping the baby. And, his birth father didn't stick around to really find out what I chose. He chose to leave. I chose adoption. It was easy... until the moment I had to do it. But, everything about that year was actually very easy. I was 20. I never regretted getting pregnant. I wasn't embarrassed. It just seemed to be part of my path. (Oh, and BTW, didn't get booted from said school but that's a story for another day. Put simply, I wasn't a Candyass in college.)

Benjamin was born in December 1995. In 18 months the records open. I realized that fact not too long ago and was overwhelmed with this still foreign, maternal kind of pride and excitement and relief. I get to meet him again. That whole revelation sparked something new in me. It made me question what kind of a mother I am, what kind of a mother I want to be, and what kind of a mother my kids want me to be. And, I made some changes.

I made a list of things I would begin to do immediately and continue to do every day. And, I made a list of things I want to do with them and for them.

NOW
- Hug them tight always.
- Play with them.
- Tell them how beautiful they are every day, as often as I can.
- Ignore the the unimportant, like crazy wardrobe choices.
- Read with them every night before bed.
- Save the artwork... all of it.
- Nurture their talents and help them grow.
- Show them how to be a good friend... a best friend.
- Tell them stories about my childhood, growing up, my family, friends, proms, everything! (this one actually caused some problems... see below)
- Be a cheerleader. (tempted to get a uniform)
- Talk to them. Tell them what they ask to know. Be honest.
- LISTEN.

AS THEY GROW UP
- Take them everywhere! Give them the travel bug and hope it stays for life.
- Give them a place in the world that feels like their own. (Mine is Boothbay Harbor, Maine. I spent every summer there as a child and am forever in love with it's charm and generosity and simplicity.)
- Let them choose their path, their school, their career.
- Never miss the big things, and show up often for the small.
- Make sure that they build strong connections with each other.
- Celebrate everything!

We built a fort yesterday. It's hilarious and now full of treasured toys, a stack of library books (i love the library), coloring books, crayons, pillows, and snugly blankets. The giant easel Sam got for his birthday is perched at one corner and has "beware of the dog" written on the side facing out. You have to know the secret handshake to get in. I've been refused half a dozen times now.

When I did get in the fort, they all wanted to gab. So we did nothing for an hour but talk to each other. Abby, my oldest, was curious about when I was her age and then when I was in middle school and then asked about high school and specifically my first dance and what I wore and who my date was and I couldn't remember. I can't remember huge spans of time in my life. People say that becoming a mom does that to you, but I can't believe it can be to this degree. I have massive gaps that I feel like I just put away somewhere.
I want all of the memories back. The fun ones, the hard ones, the ones that were so bad that they made me suppress huge parts of my life. I don't necessarily need them all for me. But, I need them for THEM. And, so that when I meet Benjamin again I'll be able to tell him about me... the good, the bad, the ugly. But, not the Candyass. Not today anyway. I mean, I just put the biggest secret (that I remember) out there... and I'm glad I did.

I'm grateful for these new times with my children. I realize that I'm not always fun and I'm not always generous with my time, my words, or my hugs. But, trying to be has changed a lot between the four of us.

Versus, versus, versus...

Red Sox v. Yankees
This morning my 3yo, Sam, marched up and down the stairs singing "Red Sox are cool. Yankees are poo." I think my brothers used to say Yankees drool, but it got adapted by some of the kids over the last few years as a healthy rivalry sprouted in my family. I was born and raised in Massachusetts. We had season tickets right behind home plate. There are few memories I have of time with my dad when I was young. Almost all of them are at Fenway Park.

My oldest sister started her family in New York. She is quite a bit older than I am and did not live with us in Boston for long because she was able to do some interesting things with her education and started college while I was still in elementary school. She was never really a Sox fan. But, it doesn't excuse the choice to follow and cheer for the Yankees. It is fun, however, for our children to share an interest in baseball and love these two opposing teams.

There is simply something special about Boston's Fenway Park and the magic that happens in that place. It's not pretentious. It's kind of a mess. But, it is a beloved mess. I've been to the new Yankee stadium and I hate it. I love New York City. But, I think Yankee Stadium is a showy, overdone, spectacle. The first time I went to a game there I was stunned at how silly the whole thing seemed and how much ego was stuffed in to those walls and how inflated that brand had become. And then... I watched the Red Sox take the game and I remembered that it is the simplicity of the game that is what I love. And, I'm proud of my city and my Red Sox for allowing that amazing park to stand and remind everyone that a park is just a park to house the greatest game in the world.

Oh, and Yankees are poo!


Sam v. Fenway
Fenway is our ShiChi. I know, that's the lamest breed nickname ever but he's a pretty cool dog. He's tiny but ferocious. He is earning big points this week in the potty training battle. He's finally figured out that if he goes and stands by the back door and barks, we'll let him out to handle his biznass and to play in the grass for the whole five minutes he can stand the brutal sun. Plus, he has to be running around or sleeping or chewing on my feet at all times. Sam, on the other hand, is clueless in this whole exercise in potty training. I moved him to the Pull-ups that get cold if he pees in them. He likes it. He gets a big fat smile on his face when the pull-up gets cold. What the hell??

So, my three month old dog that barely cracks 4 pounds and has the tiniest brain on the planet is a genius and my baby likes chilly man parts. I'm so not the mom that puts their kid on the toilet every few minutes or that makes them stay till they go. I figure that they will do it when they are ready. But, I'm a little concerned that the big chill in the nether region will keep Sam in pull-ups till he hits puberty.


Being Generous v. REALLY Being Generous
I had a huge argument with someone earlier this week about what it meant to be really generous. This person was super critical of the amount of time and effort and expense I put in to taking care of someone nearby that needed a little something extra. The argument was that I didn't need to do any more, give any more, share any more time than I already had because a little was enough.

On a day when I yelled at my kids one too many times, and thought about dropping the dog off at the humane society, and wanted to tell my sister to shut her meddling pie-hole... I did one good thing. It was a banner day. I'm not often all that thoughtful or warm. I wish I were better, but mostly I'm kind of a mess. I admit it.

Last week my neighbor lost his best friend. When I asked him how he was, he fell apart. I'm not all that adept at being all comforting. And, in this situation I did the unthinkable and began to sob. After he helped me regain my composure, I left feeling like the biggest ass on the planet. His best friend died from complications with his first session of chemotherapy on the day that I had finished my very last chemo drip. It was just a weird coincidence, but for a moment all the terror of having cancer bubbled to the surface. I didn't know how to help him or be a support. I mindlessly picked up a few goodies at the store and then saw a beautiful glass blown hummingbird feeder and picked it up for my mom at first and then thought that perhaps he'd like it. When I took it over he got super excited. His best friend had an aviary in his back yard and did local rehab for injured birds. Who knew? And, how cool is that?

I don't know what I'd do if I lost my best friend. I'd probably fall apart and no glass blown bird feeder would ever be able to make it better. I'm already a candyass on my own, but she makes me less of one all the time because she's brave and super smart and more generous than anyone I know. She also knows that the Red Sox rule, and that Sam may never get potty trained, and that sometimes you just have to give someone a little extra time, care, and a piece of glass that you fill with red sugar water.

What's your brand? Do you even know?

Last week I watched the movie Stranger than Fiction and got lost in the writing and story and for an hour or so wanted to be Maggie Gyllenhall because her character was all waifish and darling and brave and not a candyass at all. There is a scene in that movie that I love. (even more than the part where he brings her flours or the part where he sings "I'd go the whole wide world"... OK, I dropped that in so that you'd get the context and be reminded of how wonderful it is to be brave)



I remember the first time I saw that part. I think it made me cry a little. It was a reminder of what it felt like to truly connect to another person.

BUT, the scene that really got me thinking about connections and how they are made was when Maggie's character offers the Taxman fresh out of the oven cookies after he's spent the day going through her messy files. She was hard on him that day. She stood her ground and told him how she felt. There was no facade, no bullshit, no sugar coating the truth. Not a candyass. Her character was real and organic and horrible and delightful at the same time. As he went to leave her bakery she made an offering. 



I know, it's a movie and somebody wrote these beautiful pieces together to entertain us and make us feel something. But, what I loved most about the movie is that I got a sense of her brand. Who she was. The perception she put out to people. And, it made me think about countless conversations I've had with friends recently about women and men we know, are associated with, or have run in to recently who put offending brands out there and make some of us scratch our heads and wonder.

I have worked in the branding world for a long time. I have built brands for companies and products big and small. When building a corporate brand I always take in to consideration the people who will have to carry that brand and share a consistent message over time. They influence the brand and as it is developed often has to adapt to what they are capable of delivering. You have to give them both, the brand and the company, the best chance for success.

This is the first time in all of my years doing this kind of work that I actually thought about the brand of an individual. A good friend of mine summed it up as being more than the clothes you wear, the job you do, or the house you live in. It is more than a logo, a vision/story. It is the overall perception of a person by others. Do you know what yours is?

Great brands make great connections. You remember the great brands. You remember the people who know who they are and are confident and clever and bright. It's their brand. I feel totally connected to certain people because of their brands. My best friend has the best brand ever. She was a miracle find. My Mel who is so strong and so genuinely fantastic. My mom... Wonderwoman. Oh, and Marc Jacobs.

Seriously, do you know your brand? Don't be a candyass. Figure it out and put it out there. And make sure what you put out there is good and brings good and offers something to someone else. What good are we if we don't share ourselves and find connections?

Bitchin Marketing Makes me Giddy

I have about a dozen posts written and ready to go. I've been sitting on them for a few weeks because I've been a tiny bit wrecked and had to have a meltdown about not working for awhile. I've worked full-time for nearly two decades. This "break" made part of my brain melt and a lot of weird clear liquid to poor out of my eyes. I don't cry. This broke me. The silver lining in all of this was catching up on every past episode of ... well everything. And, commercials. Some of the advertising out this year is the best I've seen in a decade. And, I worked in advertising forever.

Really, when I say Bravo Kotex I totally mean it. I'm a brand girl. It's what I do. And, I'm a brand snob. And, for years Kotex was a yawn. Nothing appealing. The products didn't compare to Tampax. And, while Tampax wasn't necessarily THE SHIT it still was and has remained the market leader. So, I stuck with it. Until now. If you can put together an ad like the one below and make me laugh and make me want to buy your product, you rule. I applaud the marketing team that decided to get real and make it funny and address the ridiculous dancing, frolicking, and blue liquid nonsense. Not only did their brand get a full update, but they hit the target market right between the eyes. I purchased, I saved money, and I am totally satisfied.



I hate hate hated the new commercial for the Schick Quattro TrimStyle. I still hate it. I get that it's kind of funny to have shrubbery change shape throughout a commercial about a women's bikini trimmer, but the music was stupid and they could have actually made it funny, not tacky. If you want to see it, you can find it on youtube. But, if you want to see the good stuff that WilkinsonSword released in the UK, you need to CLICK THIS. This stuff is genius. It's got a little SNL quality to it and I'd be surprised if we didn't see them rip it off because these vignettes are ridiculously funny. I get that a lot of women don't like to talk about the shaving or waxing of the vag area. Get over it. I know Oprah leaves it au natural and that might be a trend for like five of you. It's totally cool. But there are masses that wholly disagree with the natural bit. While the commercials are fantastic, I thought the product was sub-par and prefer my Bliss version. Just sayin.

This is my favorite one.



Car commercials are generally lame. I don't care that there is an extra deep compartment for groceries or some hidden bat cave in your new super hot minivan. I've never seen a commercial and thought that I want to see that car, but I have recently wanted to find out who Toyota used for this series of funny for the Sienna. The Swagger Wagon ads by Toyota are fricking fantastic. The wife is so much better than the husband, but it's the nerd factor that makes him so endearing. I love how fierce they are about their minivan.

The fact is that I have a bunch of friends who feel similarly about their cars. They feel totally badass driving their dream cars and often think other people are looking at how badass they look in these vehicles. We're not talking Audis or M series anything, but big Tahoes and Odysseys and Grand Cherokees. It's funny and I have to say that when they think they're badass... they mostly are. Check it. I dare you not to laugh just a little. OK, and truth be told, I may want to go see this Sienna. The rest of the ads in the series are pretty boss.



The world of advertising is full of big posers and a lot of agencies with people who are generally the opposite of creative or interesting. I know, I worked with a ton of those people and wondered why the hell they thought they should be in this business. But these three examples proved that there's still a lot of good stuff out there. And none of these companies or the agencies they hired are Candyasses! And, that I love.

Embrace great brands. Get your trim (or wax) on. And, take a little pride in your ride.

Peace out.

Awards & Cage Matches

Yesterday was a banner day. Not because it was a Monday. They suck balls mostly. But, because I finally got the details on the bigass award my brand just got. Yes, I refer to it as my brand. No, it was not really the brand. It was the packaging that we (this frickin amazing team I got to work with) whipped up together in record time.

The last ten months have been a massive labor of not so much love. We were more like brand bodyguards. People like to break brands. It's a big trend around these parts. It's like the thing to do. All these idiotic men running even more idiotic companies that deliver idiotic products to a generally unsuspecting public... they like to break their brands. I've watched them make big brand messes and then had to go in and fix it later for twice as much as it cost them to break it. I like that part, until I remember that I live and work here and more than half of these cheapass bitches (the men are the bitches) will drag out the payment for six or eight months because they are too busy spending the money that they do have trying to sell their products in Iceland where the economy just flushed itself right down the toilet or in places like Vietnam where the median annual income is less than the pair of shoes I bought on sale at Nordstrom last week.

Today, though, I'm not sweating all the bad business drama. Instead I'm celebrating an amazing accomplishment for my creative team. We were awarded best packaging by ID Magazine. A little perspective - last year Coke and Johnson & Johnson were two of the winners in this category. It's rare that a little player with a little budget gets a nod. This was a full blown miracle given the circumstances we've endured the last ten months or so.

Want to know the kicker in all of this? The company, that will remain unnamed for now, is discontinuing this very set of packaging because they are spending too much on it. The reason that they are spending too much on it is that they are ordering very small quantities. A little planning ahead is a foreign concept to them. So, not only have they not done any forecasting EVER, but they order days before they need something, pay huge rush charges, and are constantly out of stock. So, this beautiful, award winning packaging has seen it's final days and when this award is run in the magazine later and featured on their website later this year, the customers of said company will scratch their heads and wonder why  they're getting this shitty shrink wrap. It's a sad thing. But, the award is still kickass!

Here's a question for you? First I'll set it up. A couple of weeks ago one of the guys from said company announced my medical condition to a several hundred people at an event where they were celebrating the official launch of the company. I was not present and questions about my attendance were plentiful. So, he chose to share that I have been very ill with all of these people to explain why I wasn't there. Is it crazy that I wanted to have a little cage match with him when I heard what he'd done? I'm scrappy. He's way taller and stronger, but I'd just kick him where it counts and be done with it. Where and when is this kind of shit OK?

I explained how I felt, but without violence. So, perhaps I was a smidge of a candyass there, but the award trumps the lack of a smackdown. So, I'm all good today.

Cancer is the biggest bitch I ever met.

I've neglected posting for a while. I have a good excuse, but I am a little over talking about it. I'm pretty sure this is the only time I'll ever post about it. So savor it.

________________________

I swear my cancer is a girl and she's a mean one. The kind that talks about you behind your back and then is sticky sweet to your face. The kind that hurts you simply because she can. She takes pleasure in all of these things. She's a bully. I hate her. We're not friends.  (Plus she wears skanky clothes and her hair is super greasy.)

What is so frustrating about being sick is all the people that come out of the woodwork feeling sorry for you or feeling bad that they were a shitty friend and then trying to overcompensate for that by trying to be your best friend. Instead of being what you need, they end up working very hard at trying to be the kind of person they want you, and everyone else, to think they are when really they're just being posers for a moment while they try to gain a little favor from your misfortune.

You know what is so messed up about most of these "old" friends. They get upset if I don't acknowledge their cards or phone calls or whatever it is that they try to do. And, all I can say to them is that IT'S NOT ABOUT THEM. Half the time I don't even think it's about me. What I don't get is why they need validation for trying to be the friend they should have been all along. The friends I keep closest to me are the ones who do things for no reason and never out of a feeling of pity or obligation. My closest friends also know that I don't really let anyone do anything for me. They know that the way they show up for me is through a simple text or a call or a fun hour at lunch every week.

Tay, my bff (yes I'm 35 and I totally have a bff),  knows all of this quite well. I don't let her do anything. But, I think she knows that I love her more for letting me just get through this and for not trying to do the things that make me crazy. Like bring me dinner. People who bring dinner to my house drive me nuts. Unless it's my mother or my sister, or that one neighbor who makes the best penne vodka ever. They get a pass. Everyone else has to keep their meals to themselves.

This one time (I love saying that) a girl from our neighborhood brought dinner over after I'd had Sam. And, it became the biggest joke in our house. She brought canned peas. I know, gasp! The gagging and dry heaving that came from my girls was funny enough to capture on video. It looked like Sam's diaper. It smelled worse. And, since then my girls have always giggled when they see this poor girl.

I'm grateful for the kindness of neighbors and strangers. I don't want to sound ungrateful. But, sometimes it ends in a pretty good laugh in my house. And, honestly, I'm thankful for that.

I have good friends. I have the best kinds of friends. I'm not talking about the ones who show up when they think they should. They are posers and it actually makes me want to say "thanks but my dance ticket is full".  I'm talking about the ones that show up all the time, whenever they want, and when they must. They never think they should. They just do.

Last week I got a call from someone I've been working with. If you've read earlier posts... he's referred to as an asshat. He started the conversation by asking if I was mad at him because I had been acting upset all week. My initial reaction was that he was totally and completely pathetic. He is a grown-ass man. GROW A PAIR. I wasn't angry. I was sick. I've been sick. I hated to deflate his gigantic ego (actually I loved it) but I had to remind him that this cancer thing, and the chemo thing, and all this shit that is making me sick is and has never been about him. And, at that moment I remember thinking... No, HE is the biggest bitch I ever met... cancer is A OK when I compare it to him. 

Last week I was pretty much NOT a candyass. He cornered the market on that one.

The No Talk List

This will be a recurring entry. The No Talk List is a big deal in my family. The stories are wildly entertaining and simply cannot be forgotten. And, they must be shared.

The list started two years ago during a trip we took with my brother and his family to Huntington Beach and Disneyland. Truthfully, one of the best vacations ever. Our kids love each other and travel perfectly together. We spent the first few days on the beach and lounging at the pool at the fabulous Hyatt right on the beach. A much needed wind down for the parents.

We saw dolphins and took surfing lessons and rented bikes and boogie boards. The kids all learned how to body surf and collected buckets and buckets of seashells and sea glass. It was almost too good to be true. Something had to happen. This could not be the perfect vacation!! Our kids were all notoriously naughty. Little villains.

It was too good to be true. Our fourth day on the coast was the first day we ventured to Disneyland. We packed up and left that gorgeous hotel that spoiled our kids rotten for a few days and checked in to the skankiest sleeziest dirtiest mess any of us had every seen. It had this beautiful facade, and all kinds of great (fabricated) reviews. Under the very thin veneer was what a total shitshow. And, I mean that literally.

We checked in and got kids all lathered up with sunscreen and then waited on the front walk for the shuttle to the Happiest Place on Earth (sometimes). My nephew walked a few feet away from us to look at the flowers (probably plastic) in beds in front of the hotel. As his little eyes wandered around the colorful flowers, his little feet wandered in to the biggest pile of supercharged stinky dog poop. Right there in the middle of the sidewalk. It was bad enough to simply take his shoes and socks off and throw them away.

For a few minutes nothing was funny about this. Kids were all overly excited about the rides and the characters and the treats and the parades. They were all totally buzzed. We were trying to keep them contained. At some point I got the giggles. That was the biggest pile of poop I'd ever seen. It was like a cow patty, but not full of all that fibrous junk. He'd not just stepped in it. He'd walked through it a couple of times. Literally... a shitshow.

My laughing got my SIL laughing and my brother laughing and when my nephew had had enough he yelled "that's it, this is on the NO TALK LIST and you can't say anything about it ever again". And, the list was born. That first story is not as entertaining as some that will follow, but you had to know how it came to be. The list includes many entries from the little boy who lost his shoes at the shitshow. You'll get to know him quite well.

The second entry on the list happened within weeks of the vacation mentioned above. My brother decided it was time to introduce his kids to the most delectable sandwich ever made. The FLUFFERNUTTER. I know, it's bitchin right? Peanut butter and marshmallow fluff between a couple of slices of white bread. Delicious! My nephew agrees with me on the fabulousness of this sandwich. In fact, he agrees with me to such a degree that he was caught saying this under his breath: "I love this sandwich. This is the best sandwich in the whole world. I'm going to have sex with this sandwich."

My niece overhead this declaration and fell on the floor in fits of laughter. When she composed herself a little bit she ratted him out to my brother who then explained to my nephew that no sex would be happening with a sandwich. Crushed, he finished the sandwich... and made another.

More to come on the no talk list. Including the time my dad blew up a gas station in Vegas.

Some people should be muzzled!

On Sunday's we have family dinner at my parent's house. It's a great way to end the weekend. All the grandkids get together and wear each other out. They run and scream and make a mess of my mom's overly clean house. We love it. Most of our kids are more connected to my parents than their other grandparents. In fact, most of the other grandparents are completely crazy.

I don't mean a little nutty and odd, I mean that we could check any of them in to a mental institution at any minute and they'd fit right in. Like my kids other grandmother who never leaves the house except to go to the grocery store and the liquor store and who wears those fuzzy socks with the non-skid bits on the bottom (like the ones you buy for babies) and old lady flesh colored sandals. Nastay! There is also my oldest sister's mother in law who lives in Bev Hills, chases very well known married politicians, and wears tape on her face to make sure she doesn't purse her lips or scowl to avoid wrinkles. (it's not and has never worked. her wrinkles are terrifying.) CRAZIES.

My grandmother shows up at this dinner every Sunday. No fail. It's a free meal. And, she lives in a place where she has now offended every other resident and no one will speak to her, or invite her to do anything. And, really, she does nothing anyway. She stayed with my parents for a few months a few years ago after having heart surgery and left a stain on my mother's sofa. She sat in the same place all day every day watching game shows and The View. From this comfy perch she was able to also view and comment on my mother's cleaning habits, and yell at any and all children who came in to the house for no reason whatsoever. She is, perhaps, the most unhappy and unkind woman on the planet. And, she has spent the last twenty years of her life making sure that everyone around her knew that. She has been beyond offensive to all of the children in my family and my parents my entire life. She has also given us many many reasons to laugh. I know, I'm horrible, but on days when she is especially nasty to us or to our children, it is incredibly gratifying to have her walk out of the house and out to her car with her dress caught way up in her pantyhose. It's mean. I know. But, payback's a bitch. (you can judge me, i'll get over it... i've been tortured by her my whole life)

The purpose of this rant/vent is really to say that I don't understand people who do not know that being cruel to children for any reason is unforgivable. This past Sunday after dinner and in a place out of the earshot of most parents my grandmother cornered my 1o year old niece and asked her why she was so pudgy when all of her cousins were so thin.

My niece is adorably round. She's like a character from Lilo and Stitch. All soft rounded lines. She is a competitive swimmer and an outstanding student and friend. She has noticed her differences and commented on them privately. But, she has a mother that knows exactly how she feels. My little sister, her mother, was just like her. Always a little rounder and rosier than her friends. But as an adult she has always been quite thin and fit. She grew out of her soft edges and so will her daughter.

I have never had patience for my grandmother's lack of tact or feeling. Generally when she pulls this kind of crap with the kids or any of my siblings, I'm the one that tells her that it is not only unkind but inappropriate. I wanted to call her and tell her that she's not allowed to talk to any of these kids of ours unless it is to tell them that they look fabulous, and that they are wonderful and talented and perfect in every way. The kids avoid her. She has never developed a relationship with any of them. It is a very sad thing. They are all remarkable and funny and wonderful in their own way and they totally love each other. Our children deserve so much better.

She's 85 this weekend. Maybe I'll give her one or many of the lovely gifts she's given me throughout the years. Like a bottle of Seabreeze, that hideous smelling astringent that burns the top layer of skin off your face every time you use it. I think she stopped giving those to me when my mom told her that Seabreeze melted our contacts. Or, a crocheted belt made with rainbow colored yarn with glitter in it. Or, a Whitman sampler. You know, the box of toothpaste and rock filled chocolates. Yummy. We often fed them to the cats. Or, on a good year we'd remember to wrap them back up and give them back to her for Mother's Day, Easter, Christmas, and her Birthday. We were horrible children... but wickedly funny.

I didn't call her and tell her what a big huge jerk she was for calling my niece pudgy and making her cry. I was a candyass about it. But, it's highly possible that I'll give her a little shit this weekend. I just need to get in the mood. And, so far, this week has been kind of awesome. Except for work, but who cares about that. And, except for friends having work woes and crappy asshat partners and the like. There's bound to be some big hiccup though. Only gave my asshat half of his ass today. Need to do the rest before the week is out.

Do they make muzzles for people? (and i'm not talking about the s&m ones... in this post anyway)

better villians II

So, tomorrow turned in to the day after the day after the day after tomorrow. It's cool though, no one is really reading this yet so who give s a poop?

It's actually a good thing that I didn't post for a few days because I had a new awesome addition that is totally fitting for the second half of my villains post.

I've been consulting for a company for the last ten months. I stepped in to help them build their brand, tell their story, and help their customers connect with them. It was no easy task. The owners all played creative director here and there. They spent three times what they should have because they would not focus. I should have stepped away as soon as I was finished delivering the brand and marketing strategy. I stayed. Easy money, what can I say. But the last three months have been torture.

One of the owners has turned in to a the micro-manager from the deepest darkest depths of shitty boss hell. He doesn't just follow up on things here and there, he follows up on everything and peppers me and everyone else with texts and calls and emails at all hours of the day and night. Yesterday I was out with my kids and he shot multiple texts at me about something completely trivial. He was annoyed that my answers came several minutes after his questions and he let me know it. I finally just asked him why he didn't have anything better to do with his time because I was out enjoying the beautiful day with my kids and I really had no intention of doing a moment of work on my Saturday. I didn't stop there.

I explained to him in a very strongly worded response that it has been a challenge to work with him because he does not trust others and because he never seems to be busy doing anything productive. He spends a lot of time bouncing from office to office talking to the few of us at the company about what we're doing every day. He sucks up hours of my time discussing things that have nothing to do with him. I believe that he simply does not know how to do what he has to do to make his company a success. This is a brand new company. He believes that running it requires him to be on top of every little teeny tiny detail. Unfortunately, this is the thing that will likely assist in his failure faster than anything else. You must trust the people you hire to do the work you pay them to do. Great managers participate but not in the minutia.

He's kind of an asshat, this guy. He's erratic and unpredictable on his good days. And, on his bad days he just doesn't show. He may be there, but he doesn't do anything. This is the guy who asked if we could change our logo two months in to shipping product. Ummm, dude, the answer is hell no. He demanded that we explore options anyway. Guess what? 25k later we stuck with the original logo. Did I say asshat? It's a way better word than douche. It's funnier. I've called him captain doucheypants for the last several months. But, asshat is my new favorite. I so deserve a better villain. Someone a little more interesting anyway. He bores me.

The last bit of this tale of shitty villains is rather funny. But, beware. It's about sex, the oral kind, and vibrators, and radiation. Read on if you dare...

I am one of many lucky lucky girls that get to spend a good part of her week doing something hideous (besides working with the asshat) to to her body so that maybe she'll get a little more time to work with more asshats. I'm recovering from a little tiny touch of cancer. Not the worst form, but this one's been a bitch from day one. I gained 78 pounds in about three months. It was water. I was pissed. Then I was terrified. Now I'm just sick.

I go to radiation twice a week and take an oral chemotherapy drug once a week. We've already killed most of the little nasties, but there are a few stragglers that need some attention. The radiation is insane. It makes me feel a little insane. I vomit before I go in and then at least a dozen times during the hours after I finish. Having been a former lush in high school and even college the art of the dry heave was perfected long ago. So, it hardly phases me anymore. I'm super thankful for all those boozy parties and how they prepared me for this horrid experience. (kidding).

The very best part of my time at the clinic is the conversation I get to overhear between the two nurses that have been involved in my treatment since day one. These two twenty something girls are hilarious. Not because they're funny. They're not all that funny, but they talk about the craziest shit. The conversation I overheard not too long ago went something like this:

nurse 1: "i have the funniest story to tell you. do you remember how i told you that my husband bought me a vibrator for christmas?"

nurse 2: "yes, and thanks for sharing that again because... gross"

nurse 1: "so we've been trying to figure out how to make things work a little bit better with it because it's been not so fun since the babies and stuff"

nurse 2: "and, again, thanks for sharing" (but she's laughing and clearly they've talked about this stuff before)

nurse 1: "so we were using it last night and were in a very awkward position so that he could get a better view and it got too close to his teeth and hit his two front teeth a few times and chipped them both. like big huge chips."

nurse 2 laughs so hard that she falls off of her stool on to the floor.

Poor nurse 1 deserves a better villain than a tooth chipping vibrator. But, since I've learned that the teeth are fixed and beautiful and the vibrator is a godsend and her husband is a freaky freak in the bedroom. Good for her!

I was so not a candyass yesterday. And, today, I've only been a partial one. I'm not brave all the time. Not as brave as I should be anyway. But tomorrow I'll be extra brave because I have to be done with the asshat. It's exciting. It's my first step toward Honey. That'll be a new chapter. I'll tell you all about it.

Peace out!

i deserve better villians

Today was was an exceptional day on so many levels. I spent a good hour and a half with a couple of terribly smart and funny girls. They made my day. Time like this is rare for me. I crave it - more than chocolate and diet coke.

I met the hilarious and clever Carina a week ago and caught a glimpse of her genius in our brief introduction. She had lunch with my good friend (who should have been my good friend ages ago because I adore her) Melissa and I. And, she's way awesomer and more fabulous than I thought. Any girl who shares my distaste for that Tai Pan Trading place (which I often refer to as that big huge shitshow on 90th) gets a lifetime membership to the cool girl club.

I don't make girlfriends easily, in fact it is nearly impossible. There are just too many twits out there. No, not you, I'm not talking to you... I love you, you're fabulous. I'm talking about her... the one over there. The one that complained to several of my neighbors about my black heels and how I should not wear shoes like that to church because it is in poor taste to flaunt my good fortune when others are losing their homes. Yes, she was referring to my most prized and heavily guarded pair of Christian Louboutin black patent leather peep toe super high heels that scream sex and hotness. They were an ebay find. They were a steal. They are insanely beautiful and it is highly possible that if they were not that cheap I would have traded a kid for them. Don't think I'm kidding. And stop judging me. They're CLs and when you see them on you'll want to cut them right off my feet and run. Promise.

This girl down the street knows enough about shoes to know what that red on the bottom of the shoe means. She made an assumption that I was the kind of girl that would pay the massive amount they charge for these things retail. I am no such girl. I got so lucky. They were never worn. They were a sample pair given to the seller. And, the proceeds went to charity. I paid $85 for them.

Tonight as I pulled in to the house and unloaded the exhausted kids and the target bags and all the crap we gather in a day from my car, this girl walked up my driveway to drop off a note for an activity involving scrapbooking. (a big thumbs down there, i don't do the crafty crap). For some reason I got totally ballsy, the seed was likely planted by the girly conversation at lunch when balls were mentioned a few times, and I called the girl out on the shoe gossip. I wasn't nice about it. I'm tired of being the source of the good neighborhood gossip because of my job, my straightforwardness, my shoes, the way I raise my kids, my dysfunctional and wacky marriage, and my filthy mouth (i make truckers blush). And, she fired back some crap about the fact that I am not aware of the struggle that most face because I am simply not around and don't participate in local church activities often, if ever.

Turns out, it doesn't really have much to do with the fact that I have a couple of pairs of fancy shoes to go along with my Nordy Rack super cheapo finds and my favorites from Target, or that I work full time, or anything else I thought it was. It is simply about my lack of activity in church. The parting comment was about my poor children and how sad it is to see them at church without their mother every week. I let her get the dig in. And I let her walk away feeling triumphant. Then yelling from behind me went something like "that was not very nice, and you don't get to talk about my mom or act like you're better than her when you have never done anything to try to be nice to her like when she had ... CANCER." My 9 year old scolded the hell out of that prissy priss. My beautiful non-confrontational oldest daughter has big ass balls!

The line from Whip It came to mind as Abby replayed the whole incident over the phone to her best friend. "We deserve better villains." I don't like arguments. I could have just let it go, but it was getting weird for my kids and my sisters who both live in the neighborhood. It had to end.

Other things I tackled with my big balls today:

That piece of shit toilet in the guest bathroom that plugs up with a single ply sheet of toilet paper. It's been like that for about six months. I hate that toilet. It was clogged again. So, instead of using the plunger that has not really ever worked well, I went to home depot and got the biggest badass of the plungers. And, I extracted 4 matchbox cars and one giant duplo block from the toilet. All better.

Big balls are boss. And, I'm not really a candyass today. But, some days I am. And, tomorrow I'll tell you a little more about how much of a candyass I'm not.