Whenever I hear those words echo out of my car radio, I think two things: Is this my real life—the one without Adrienne? And is she talking to me right now? Queen was one of Adrienne’s favorite bands and even though “Bohemian Rhapsody” was not her favorite Queen song, whenever I hear it—especially the opening—I think of her, and lately, Queen seems to be following me everywhere.

Last month, just about the time I decided to buckle down and finish the second draft of my memoir, my husband commented, “Have you noticed we keep hearing a lot of Queen lately?” Indeed, I had. Whether we were in my car listening to Los Angeles radio stations or in his car listening to XM Satellite radio, Queen seemed to sing to us as soon as we pushed the power button. From Jack FM to KLOS, Freddie, Brian, Roger, and John reminded me that I had made a commitment to myself. To my husband. To Adrienne. Are you ready? Hey, are you ready for this? I don’t know, but then the song continued … Are you happy? Are you satisfied? How long can you stand the heat? It is just a coincidence, I told myself as I turned off the radio.

No matter what your religious beliefs are, I think we all hope that there is some kind of afterlife. I mean, who wants to believe this is it? This one life. I couldn’t get up in the morning if I thought Adrienne was gone forever. While I don’t believe that heaven is above us and hell is beneath us, I do think there are other planes of existence. The year after she died, I felt Adrienne’s presence near me several times, but I haven’t “seen” or “felt” her in seven years. I have this theory that maybe where she is at, time moves slower. Maybe in her world, one day there is one year here, and in her mind, she has only been gone a week so there is no need to keep in touch.

However, my theory starts to fall apart when I hear Queen nonstop for three weeks, and I wonder if Adrienne is reaching out to me. Telling me to just do it. You’re ready, Sissy, yes you’re ready for it. You’re standing on your own two feet. Write our story. You have a dream—a vision. Finish your book. Your voice, your hope, it’s your decision. Fight your pain, she says. Be a Killer Queen. That’s what you taught me. I guarantee you’ll blow their minds.

It is me, Sissy. Listen …
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see
You’ll be successful
You need no sympathy
Because you’re tough as nails, tough as stone
Little high, little low
Anyway the wind blows
We’ll always be together you and me.

I want to believe in blue faeries. I want to believe that people actually win the Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes. I want to believe that one day I will live in my dream house in Gold Beach. I want to believe that the sudden barrage of Queen music is not a coincidence. But most of all, I want to believe Adrienne is out there and that some day we will be together again.

AWW — XoXo

Note: All of the italicized words are Queen lyrics or slightly altered Queen lyrics. This one is for you, Adrienne.

One by one
Only the Good die young
They’re only flying too close to the sun
And life goes on—
Without you …

Addendum
Hours after I wrote this post, I got into my car to go and tutor my students. I flipped the ignition switch, turned on the radio, and after less than a second, I heard the beginning notes of one of my favorite Queen songs “Somebody to Love.” The strange thing is that I was running late, yet the timing of the song was perfect. Stunned, I sat and listened. I have spent all my years in believing you … You’re okay, you’re alright. Ain’t gonna face no defeat. Okay, Adrienne, I hear you. I believe …

Don’t misunderstand; I don’t feel sorry for myself. I could try, but I don’t want to because I am bored. Later, my husband will be upset that I didn’t make more of an effort to talk to “our friends.” However, with my new “No longer faking it” creed, I refuse to pretend that I like hanging out in a bar in a strange town with people whom I deem as acquaintances. I should add that I haven’t slept well in weeks, and that all I fantasize about lately is eight hours of uninterrupted, non-medicated sleep. I send my drink back not only because it is too strong and the vodka is terrible, but also because the alcohol will make a good night’s rest more difficult because it induces vivid dreams.

Finally, we leave the bar, and I look forward to whatever Olympic coverage is still airing on NBC. Despite my rant, I have fun skiing in Mammoth, and thanks to my husband, I have been many times now. So in my humble beginner-intermediate skier* opinion, here is the best of what Mammoth has to offer:

Best Ski Lift: Chair 12

Base elev. 9,042′
Top elev. 9,707′
Rise 665′
Length 2,851′

With many simple, groomed, intermediate runs, I am a huge fan of the double Chair 12. According to my research, it is a good place to learn about powder skiing, and in my experience, you can avoid crowds, too, because fewer people ski the back side of the mountain. Chair 12 takes you to chairs 13 and 14, which also have intermediate runs. If I am tired, I stick to Lower Road Runner, which is fairly flat, but narrow in many spots so I can practice my turns. If I feel more ambitious, I will ski White Bark Ridge or Secret Spot. My goal is to eventually ski all of the blue runs at Chair 12 even the steep ones (e.g., New Critters) that scare me.

Best Ski Shop: Footloose Sports
With their famous “Try Before You Buy” policy, Footloose makes it easy to find the perfect pair of skis and boots. We had rented equipment from them in the past, but in December, my husband decided it was time that I had my own skis and boots so I demoed a new set each day. Chris, one of their boot experts, recognized that my wide feet could only fit into two kinds of boots. When I complained that the pair we were about to buy still felt too tight, his alternate suggestion turned out to be the right fit. Julia recommended different skis for me to try based on my height and my expertise. In the end, I came home with electric blue Head skis and smoky grey Tecnica boots.

Best Accommodations: Edelweiss Lodge
With its Swiss chalet exterior and personable caretakers Keith and Marta, Edelweiss feels like home. A gift basket in every room invites guests to partake in Marta’s famous chocolate chip cookies, and pets are always welcome. We have taken our English Mastiff there, and the owners didn’t even blink at Winston’s size. In fact, they gave him his own gift basket complete with homemade dog treats. The only unfortunate experience we have ever had is that during our last visit, I contracted hot tub rash; it was the first time we have ever used their hot tub facility. However, we plan to return to Edelweiss considering that Keith and Marta have offered us a two nights’ free stay for what I now call “The Incident”; we just won’t ever use their hot tub again.

Best Dinner: Mogul Restaurant
We went to this restaurant with ten other people, and everyone was happy with their meal. Whether you desire steak, chicken, pork, lamb, fish, or seafood, I guarantee The Mogul will have a dinner that will fill your stomach and ignite your taste buds as you savor their sauces. They have a “Lite Dinner” selection for those patrons who want to save room for dessert, and their wine list not only contains a decent selection, but the prices are reasonable, too—especially for a restaurant. While the salad bar is average, their entrees are not. I recommend the Mogul Chicken: a double boneless breast marinated in red wine, honey, soy sauce, red wine vinegar, brown sugar, Worcestershire, and spices. The menu states it is “grilled to perfection”—considering how moist, succulent, and delicious my chicken was, I completely agree.

Best Happy Hour: Austria Hof Lodge
According to its website, the Austria Hof restaurant is Mammoth’s only “truly authentic German” cuisine. I don’t know about the main dining room, but the bar downstairs is a divine happy hour experience. With tasteful martinis and many German beers on tap served by a friendly staff (ask for Sean the bartender), the drinking is elevated to new heights with their delicious appetizer menu. My favorite was their baked brie on crostini accompanied by grapes and apple slices; it was like tasting a piece of heaven. And unlike the bar  that I discussed in the opening of this blog, the Austria Hof Happy Hour has a touch of class. I think it’s the food. You have to be at least partially sober to appreciate it.

Best Breakfast: The Stove
“County cookin’ since 1970″ is what the sign outside The Stove says, and I believe it. The Stove is so popular that locals eat there, they don’t have to advertise much, and they don’t even need a website. As long as you can put aside any thoughts of keeping your cholesterol in check and be patient regarding the 20-minute or longer wait, you will be able to enjoy the huge helpings, pleasant service (the same Sean from Austria Hof served us here, too!), and typical eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and hashed browns breakfast. Of course, they have other items such as French toast and omelettes, but I stick to the basics at The Stove. My only complaint is that their biscuits could use more lard, but at least they are not as dry as most non-Southern biscuits. After all, we Southerners are biscuit experts!

Best Bakery: Erick Schat’s Bakkerÿ
With locations in Bishop and Mammoth, you have two opportunities to visit Schat’s Bakkery, home of the original sheepherder bread. This European-style bakery has everything from bread to pastries to cookies to candy. My husband and I often buy olive or raisin bread depending on our mood, and we always indulge in some cookies. The mail-order catalog is only a partial list of the many goodies this establishment has to offer. If you are anywhere within a 50-mile radius, Schat’s is worth the stop. I recommend the Bishop location because it is much larger, and therefore has a more diverse selection.

Best Coffee: Looney Bean
I imagine Looney Bean is what Starbucks was once upon a time: a small coffee chain with great brews and a distinct personality combined with a touch of hometown charm that makes each location unique. While their pastries lack taste altogether (much like Starbucks), Looney Bean is the place to buy and drink coffee in Mammoth. They provide free Wi-Fi and plenty of indoor and outdoor seating for their customers. I especially like their support of local artists as well as their helpful—but not hyper—staff. With two locations in California (Mammoth and Bishop), and one location in Oregon, Colorado, and Mexico, Looney Bean is easier to find than Schat’s, but still inaccessible for most people. However, you can experience their coffee by joining Club Looney Bean, but if you are in Mammoth, stop by for a cup of java. You’ll like the taste of Looney!

No “Best of” review would be complete without at least one “Worst of” segment. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but here is my most humiliating and humbling experience at Mammoth:

Worst of Mammoth: Jim of the Mammoth Ski Patrol
What are you doing here? Why didn’t you ski down? Why can’t you walk up the road? Why are you alone?
Instead of “Are you okay?” I was grilled like a second-class citizen when Ski Patrol Jim discovered an exhausted me at the side of the mountain in December. I had gone down the wrong way (i.e., too steep), and I had tried to hike back up to where I needed to be. However, my thighs were burning, my chest was aching from pneumonia, and my head was spinning between actual sweating and nervous anticipation as I watched the sun descend on the horizon. I knew I had to get down the mountain, and I knew the easiest way was to ski down, not to walk back up to a flatter run. But I was too tired to struggle with the steep slopes.
Seeing the ski patrol was like an answer to the prayer that I forgot to say, but instead of feeling relieved, I felt stupid. After an initial burst of tears, I recovered enough dignity to say to Jim, “Why are you treating me this way? I thought you were supposed to be helpful.” Instead of answering my question, he diverted it by engaging in light chitchat. Although we were on civil terms by the time the other ski patrol arrived on the snowmobile to return me to the main lodge, I’ll never forget how Jim made me feel: like a moron. If there is a next time, I will either ski down or slide down on my ass, but I will not allow myself to be “rescued” again.

AWW — XoXo

* According to a Mammoth Ski Instructor, beginner-intermediate is an actual level. I was unable to take a beginner’s class because I am too intermediate, and I didn’t qualify for the intermediate class because I am too much of a beginner. Geesh!

Later, I tried to understand my fascination with LMP by discussing the show with him. I don’t support “glitz” pageants because they send a message to young girls that hair extensions, false eyelashes, heavy makeup, spray-on tans, and flippers (i.e., a fake tooth mold that hides “unsightly” missing teeth) are necessary in order to be beautiful. However, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the TV that night. I explained to my husband that despite their shortcomings as parents, the mothers genuinely want what is best for their daughters, and they think beauty pageants are the way to a better life. He nodded and replied, “Sure. They’re [the mothers] just getting ready for the Big One.”
“That’s it,” I replied. “The Big One—Miss America, Miss USA, or even Miss Universe. They are thinking about the future.” The conversation with my husband may have ended there, but the one in my head had just started.

Even though I never participated in them, I have always loved beauty pageants. I watched the Miss America and Miss USA pageants every year when I was a child. At that time, the show would display each woman’s score on the television screen up to the thousandth decimal place (e.g., 8.345). My mother and I would sit with a notebook, add up the numbers, and calculate the winner before she was announced to the world. I still remember Bert Parks singing “There She Is, Miss America” until he was dismissed from the show after hosting it for 24 years. Bob Barker, best known for hosting The Price is Right, also emceed the Miss USA pageant from 1967 – 1987. The highlight of these two pageants occurred in 1982—the year my parents separated. I was still living in Fort Smith, Arkansas, with my mother. I’m sure that the entire neighborhood heard our squeals of delight when Miss Arkansas, Terri Utley, won the Miss USA pageant. A few months later, we screamed when Miss Arkansas, Elizabeth Ward, won the Miss America pageant. For years, Arkansas had plaques under its state-line signs at major border crossings; they read, “Welcome to Arkansas. Home of Miss America and Miss USA 1982.” Just like a parent, every state is proud of its beauty queens.

When it comes to their children’s dreams, I believe parents fall into three categories: the Mini Mes, the Better-than Mes, and the Wish-it-were Mes. All three types are on display at the LMP pageants. The Mini Mes are your former beauty queens; they want their daughters to be just like them. The Better-than Mes never experienced the beauty pageant circuit so they want their daughters to have the opportunities they never had. The Wish-it-were Mes fall somewhere in the middle. They either tried beauty pageants and failed or never had the chance to compete. Either way, they live their dreams vicariously through their daughters.

On a recent LMP episode, combination Wish-it-were/Mini Me mom Kelly had a full-blown meltdown when her seven-year-old daughter Trinity failed to place in the top five after forgetting the steps in her dance routine. During the same competition, Better-than Me mother Marie (who had to rent a dress for the Beauty portion of the competition because she couldn’t afford to buy one) beamed as her nine-year-old daughter Taylor became the second runner-up in her first glitz pageant. A tomboy who displayed her incredible karate skills during Wow Wear (i.e., talent) by breaking boards with her bare hands, Taylor is not your typical LMP contestant. She has her own short hair, her own teeth, her natural skin tone, and she wore little makeup until the end. However, Taylor exuded charm, charisma, and confidence. Unlike Trinity, who seemed to be desperately trying to please her mother, Taylor was on that stage because she wanted to be there, and that made all the difference.

I would classify myself as a combination Better-than/Mini Me parent. While I was raising my sister Adrienne, my goal was not only to give her more than I had, but also to lay the foundation for a higher self-esteem at an earlier age. I wanted her to achieve better grades in school than I did, to excel at her art in a way that I never did, and to feel okay in her own skin at a younger age than I did. On some level, I experienced some Mini-me moments because I encouraged her intellect, talent, and creativity—things we had in common, but I never desired a carbon-copy image of myself. I wanted Adrienne to be the best person she could be, and she exceeded even my high expectations.

• She earned a 4.0 GPA after one year of high school.
• She had her art displayed in three Los Angeles galleries by the age of 15.
• She didn’t love every aspect of her body, but she realized that she was attractive even if she was not a size zero.

By comparison, I never achieved a GPA above 3.75 in high school, I never danced a solo, and I still struggle with body issues.

However, I sometimes wonder if I gave the impression—like many LMP moms—that being perfect was the only acceptable outcome. As Adrienne’s drill team coach in elementary school, I pushed her and her peers to perfect every step in their routine. With only seven weeks of practice, I knew we didn’t have a chance of winning since most teams had nine months to work on their dance. However, part of me hoped that the girls could pull it off. As I watched them perform, I kept smiling despite the missed steps, the wrong timing, and the occasional frown. When they finished, I praised them for doing their best even though they had performed much better the day before when they debuted their routine for the school. Adrienne shook her head; she knew the truth—they had failed to be perfect. After a long day, we rode the bus back to school. Even though they had lost, all of the girls talked and laughed—except for Adrienne. She looked at me as tears slid down her face. I still don’t know if she was more upset about losing the competition or disappointing me. I never asked.

Even though it would never occur to me to enter my child in a beauty pageant, I can relate to the LMP mothers. Sure, some of them go too far, push too hard, especially the Wish-it-were Me moms, but  I understand wanting your child to be a winner. Pageants teach children how to be disciplined and how to compete; two valuable skills that are necessary in the real world. In many ways, participating in pageants is not that different from being on an athletic team; except the last time I checked, soccer was much cheaper.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. My husband was right. In last night’s episode of LMP, a grandmother said, “This [Little Miss Perfect and other pageants] is something we’re doing until Asia gets Miss America.” Better-than Me grandma may be correct because five-year-old Asia was crowned Little Miss Perfect Nashville after an outstanding, military-inspired Wow Wear routine.

I don’t know if I saw every episode, but Wonder Woman was my favorite TV show until it went off the air in 1979. I looked through my mother’s fashion magazines and cut out every picture of Lynda Carter (aka Wonder Woman) that I could find. In first grade, I dressed up like Wonder Woman for my school’s annual Halloween contest, which I won. Taking home the first-place prize not only made my mother proud, but it also fueled my obsession. I collected over 100 photographs of Lynda Carter, and I studied them religiously. Whether she was wearing her costume or her “regular” clothes, I thought if I could just grow up to be a tall, gorgeous, intelligent Wonder Woman that I could conquer the world. (They should teach genetics in elementary school.)

As the one of the shortest girls in a junior high of over 1000 students, I soon realized that “tall” was not a word that people would ever use to describe me. (I’m under 5′3″.) Despite having attractive parents, there are no supermodels in our family, and I was an awkward tomboy for many years. However, I knew I was smart, and that my brains would be the key to my success. No one had to make me do my homework or pay me to earn A’s in school. I wanted good grades because learning made me feel powerful, which made me feel strong. In fact, school became my sanctuary when our house resembled a domestic war zone during my parents’ divorce. While my mother and father screamed at each other, I hid in my room. If I wasn’t reading or doing homework, I looked at my Wonder Woman pictures because I needed her strength. When my dad moved out of the house, I was proud of myself for not crying. I may have been ashamed because I knew everyone in our cul-de-sac was watching, but I didn’t cry. At ten years old, I had learned how to fake it.

I remember someone telling me that the one thing that people have in common is that “We’re all faking it.” I feel better knowing I am not the only person who presents an image to the world that is a mere facade. However, I don’t fake everything. I possess some of Wonder Woman’s four distinct qualities: beauty, wisdom, swiftness, and strength. I may not be drop-dead gorgeous, but I can appear and feel beautiful when necessary. I’m not Einstein, but I’m no dummy either. I wouldn’t say that I’m quick, but when I’m in shape, I am quite physically strong for someone my size thanks to years of dancing, gymnastics, and marathons. The most interesting characteristic about Wonder Woman though is how her physical and mental qualities created someone with vitality, courage and a mental backbone stronger than steel. Without knowing it, I modeled myself after Wonder Woman, and when I didn’t feel that inner strength, I faked it.

“Faking it” has its advantages. My healthy state of denial made it possible for me to be an advocate for my sister Adrienne during her 147-day battle with cancer. As long as I kept pretending everything was going to be okay, I could get through each day. Except for a brief meltdown during the burial service, I continued to fake it after Adrienne passed away. I attended a Halloween party only three weeks after her death not because I was fine, but because I thought that I needed to show my friends that I would be fine. A month later, I agreed to plan my best friend’s thirtieth birthday because her husband asked me to do it as a surprise to her. I could have said no. I’m sure that he would have understood, but I wanted the distraction. I needed to keep up the facade because I was afraid of what would happen if I stopped faking it. I have always been “strong” and “tough”; without those adjectives, I don’t know who I am.

Recently, my husband of three years (we’ve been together for six) said, “I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“Like what?” I asked even though I knew exactly what he was talking about.
“So close to giving up.”
I had no idea that he was that observant. Apparently, I cannot fake it with him. He sees right through me. I think he got more than he bargained for when he married me. I know that he doesn’t handle things well when I am physically hurt. He has said, “I’m so used to you being strong that I don’t know what to do when you’re not.” Maybe he thought he was marrying Wonder Woman, but I have to stop perpetuating this myth that I can handle everything. In fact, when people comment on how strong I am, I correct them. I appreciate compliments, but I cannot accept them when they are based on a lie. I must be honest.

After eight years of faking it, I am tired. Exhausted. One of my friends said that I sounded broken after he read the first draft of my memoir. He thinks I need to fix the ending. But that is how I feel: broken. Even though I love my husband, my family, my friends, and my pets, and even though I know people have suffered far more than I have, losing Adrienne was too much. Sad does not begin to cover the array of emotions that I go through during the day. I cannot sleep unless I take a pill. I’ve tried it all: anti-depressants, talk therapy, grief counseling, writing, reading, exercising, etc. Nothing changes a situation that I refuse to accept. However, I can stop pretending that I do.

I don’t need to support the facade anymore. Watch out—the false walls are tumbling down. I will allow myself to feel however I want. Besides, depression makes you appreciate the little things more. The funniest thing that happened last week was when my husband broke a glass saltshaker. No one was hurt, and we quickly cleaned it up. I didn’t show him how much I was laughing on the inside. All I kept thinking was … I wonder how many more times that will happen in our marriage. I’m the clumsy one, not him. I will remember that broken glass the next time I think I cannot make it through another day without my sister.

I still love Wonder Woman, but I am not a super hero, and I will not fake it anymore.

AWW — XoXo

* In the original TV pilot written by Stanley Ralph Ross, Wonder Woman is Princess Diana, a young woman from Paradise Island, home to beautiful, ageless, Amazon women with special powers. She gives up this life for the man she loves. Guess I did want to be a princess!

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS …

5. The return of common courtesy, good manners, and etiquette
As an experiment, I googled “common courtesy”; it garnered 512,000 hits. Then I tried “Britney Spears” for comparison—63.2 million hits. Those numbers accurately depict today’s society. I can remember a time when what Emily Post said mattered; now I’m sure most people under the age of 30 don’t even know who she is. I recall my mother telling me that a woman was allowed to check her makeup in public (i.e., open her compact and tap on some powder), but applying makeup in public was a no-no. When I was a child, I got in trouble for calling the “young” grownups next door by their first names even though they told me to. My mother made me march over to their house and apologize for my bad manners. Most children today, however, don’t know how to behave properly in public let alone the definition of the word etiquette.
Yesterday, I discovered that rudeness is not limited to younger generations. I was at our local liquor store buying a lottery ticket. A man, easily 30 years my senior, appeared to be in line ahead of me. Not wanting to cut, I moved back to allow him his spot. He snarled, “I’m not in that line. I’m in this line,” as he pointed to an area where there was no line. Grumpy bastard. So much for trying to be courteous! I used to dislike it when my students called me “Ma’am” because it made me feel old; now I am just grateful that someone taught them some manners.

4. For politicians to stop being politicians
I believe our forefathers would be disgusted by our two-party, partisan political system; it is an utter disaster. At what point did politicians forget that they worked for the people who elected them? They spent taxpayers’ dollars—our money—as if we had an endless supply. Oh wait … we do … as long as China keeps lending it to us. (Guess greenbacks grow on trees over there.) I love the movie Bulworth starring Warren Beatty because he plays a politician who decides to start telling the raw truth about both political parties. He raps …
“I’m a Senator.
I gotta raise $10,000 a day every day I’m in Washington.
I ain’t getting it in South Central.
I’m gettin’ it in Beverly Hills.
So I’m votin’ from them in the Senate the way they want me too …
and-and-and I’m sending them my bills.”

Of course, Bulworth is assassinated because no one likes a politician who tells the people the way things really are. Once upon a time, I entertained the idea of running for Burbank City Council, but then I realized I am the female Bulworth. I couldn’t lie to the people who placed their trust in me to make their community a better place. Here’s my truth:
“You want better schools and you want higher scores,
Well guess what parents, you need to get involved more.
Our Burbank teachers can only do so much—
Stop spoiling your kids, pay attention, get in touch.
They don’t need cell phones or tons of clothes,
School isn’t childcare as you should know—
Help our teachers, your children, and yourselves, too
Stop blaming the schools for the mistakes that you do!”

3. An empty email inbox.
Make that four empty inboxes since I currently use and check four email accounts daily. (That’s down from six so I have made some progress.) I still have three other “active” accounts: USC, AOL, and Gmail; they are forwarded, ignored, and used for research purposes respectively. In order to reduce the amount of email that I receive, I finally unsubscribed to daily emails such as Word-a-Day, weekly emails such as Early to Rise, and monthly emails from all retailers. Some people don’t understand why I haven’t signed up for Twitter or established a LinkedIn account yet. There’s an easy explanation—I cannot handle another thing to do or to check every day.
I remember when I didn’t even own a computer. I recall having only one email account for years. When did life become so electronically busy? Sometimes, I just want to become an ostrich, stick my head in the sand, and disappear from the planet for a while. I definitely see a day when I will withdraw from society because I can’t imagine spending my twilight years with my eyes glued to the glow of my laptop in an effort to keep up with my online identity. Forget the fact that hours on the computer is the one of the major causes of my migraines (hence the reading glasses—oh joy); I need the touch, smell, sound, and sight of real people. But I digress. For now, less email will do.

2. A president who doesn’t suffer from ADD and a desperate need to please everyone. (Or for Barack Obama to stop trying to be a hero who believes he must simultaneously solve all of the world’s problems.)
Recent studies have shown that people who are heavy multi-taskers, like our president, cannot give items their full attention; therefore, their brains suffer as a result. Communication professor Clifford I. Nass stated, “They’re suckers for irrelevancy. Everything distracts them.” One could argue that if their mental function is impaired then their job performance suffers as well. According to recent polls from a variety of sources, President Obama’s approval rating has slipped to 47 – 49 percent. Considering he entered office less than a year ago with a 68 percent job approval (only one president out of the last eight—Eisenhower—had numbers that high), the drop is significant.

So here is my unsolicited, non-partisan advice, Mr. President. Try focusing on one thing at a time. You cannot fix everything all at once, and anyone who expects you to spent too much time listening to your campaign speeches last year. I have nothing against “Hope” and “Change” but you are one man, and your first name isn’t Super. You must learn to prioritize like the rest of us. Now if you consulted me, my top three concerns are the economy, the war, and the healthcare debacle. Americans need jobs and we need to know that our troops and our country are safe before you convince us to go into another trillion dollars in debt. I may not agree with all of your decisions (okay, most of your decisions), but one thing is certain—the results of your “multi-tasking” politics are showing. The Tea Party movement is increasing in numbers, Sarah Palin already sold a million copies of her book, and Fox News is not only finishing this year as the top-rated cable news network (no surprise since it has enjoyed this rank for the past eight years), but it is also experiencing its best ratings ever in the network’s 13-year history. F-O-C-U-S = Focus, Mr. President.

And the #1 thing I want for Christmas is …
the perfect job!
If you can make this one happen Santa, I promise to tell everyone that you are real—including my younger brother. I told him the “truth” about you when he was five years old, and it made him cry. It turned out okay; our mother made me go back and lie to him. I consider that moment one of my first as well as one of my finest acting performances. Anyway, here’s the criterion for my perfect job:

Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could all list everything we wanted in a perfect job and on Christmas morning there would be an offer in our stocking? I recently found a position that meets most of the above requirements but since it is in academia, I probably won’t hear anything for months. I do have to thank A.B. for allowing me to use him as a reference. As Santa knows, personal relationships are everything.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I apologize for not posting a blog for so long. My normal goal is one post per week. I’ve been ill with pneumonia ever since I participated in Thrill the World on October 24. Being sick for this long has kicked my ass!

In many ways, I prefer anger because it’s just easier to hate someone. You can yell. You can scream. You can throw things. You can bitch to your friends. In anger, you find allies. Your boyfriend cheated on you? Your girlfriends will support your mad-as-hell rage. Getting revenge is more fun for everyone (except for the target) than feeling sorry for yourself. Anger encourages empowerment. Carrie Underwood’s Before He Cheats song was a huge hit because she didn’t cry, she got even. Whoever said living well is the sweetest revenge never “took a Louisville slugger to both headlights.” Honestly, I wish I could tell you a fantastic story about how I avenged a personal grievance, but when my crazy ex-boyfriend accused me of slashing “a hole in all four tires” I didn’t do it. Hell, I didn’t even know where he lived at the time.

When someone you love has hurt you, you may also experience emotional pain or depression. And trust me, no one wants to hear about it. After a certain point (other people determine this time for you), you are supposed to “get over it.” Even your best friends will grow tired of your pain because no one likes a pity party. In Sex and the City (episode #25), Carrie’s friends tell her to see a psychiatrist because they can’t listen to her whine anymore about her breakup with Big. According to the latest CDC statistics, more than one out of 20 Americans (ages 12 and older) are depressed; yet people are expected to pop a pill, see a shrink, suck it up, and move on. When someone asks, “How are you?” the only acceptable answer in our society is “I’m fine.”

Then there is painger. Anger and pain meet, they join forces, and they focus their energy against you as if you did something wrong. Their power is unstoppable, unbelievable at times because you feel crazy. The fury causes your adrenaline to increase, which elevates your heart rate; meanwhile, you cannot stop the tears from falling down your face. The faster your heart beats, the harder you cry, as if a dam has broken inside of you. If you think about the people who have upset you and you don’t know if you want to hit them or hug them, then you may be experiencing painger.

When I’m sad, I cry, nap, write, read, bathe, shop, walk Winston, and/or talk to someone. When I’m angry (and I cannot confront the person due to circumstances beyond my control), I exercise, pace, shower, scream, shop, and/or complain to someone. When I’m paingry, I have found only one thing that tempers my rage and controls my tears. I hit balls at the BatCade in Burbank. If available, I choose the slow-pitch softball batting cage #1 because I can’t hit anything else and it’s located on the far side of the property so no one bothers me. I usually pay for the time instead of by the pitch, but either way, I stay until calluses start forming on my hands and my arms are too sore to lift the bat.

I love hitting the balls; they become the faces of the people whose actions caused my painger. This year, I’ve been seeing old friends and an ex-boyfriend soaring toward me as the pitching machine spits them out. With every swing, my emotional pain moves from my heart into my arms and hands. With every hit, my anger transfers from the bat to the ball as if I have slapped those people who have hurt me. When the softball flies through the air, I feel free from the painger; it’s impossible to cry or to be mad when you imagine hitting a home run. I always leave the batting cages feeling depleted but satisfied that I have won another battle against painger. My batting average—.60—isn’t too shabby either.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I want to thank Bones for inspiring this blog. I promise we’ll have that Long Island at Boardners, and we’ll hit some balls when you visit LA.

I smiled and congratulated her on a job well done. Inside I was thinking … And you think we’re not alike. Ha! A few days later, Adrienne was diagnosed with liver cancer, and she never returned to school. Although we both used humor to deflect our pain, we never discussed the irony of that particular situation. Funny how some things don’t need to be said aloud.

Wait … this blog was supposed to be silly and serve as a warning to others like me who need to lighten up. So in honor of my sister, who understood me better than anyone else, here are five signs that you might be too anal:

5. You own a label maker and will look for any excuse to use it. I don’t only label binders. I’ve labeled our pet-food bins, our recycling can, my husband’s water bottle (he requested it), and various medication containers (the fine print is too small). You know you are in love with your label maker if you have used the device so often that you have run out of tape more than once in three months, and you have memorized the refill tape cartridge’s model number. Right now, the Brother P-Touch M Series is on sale at Costco so I had better stock up!

4. You have a specific method for eating corn on the cob and any deviation from your method causes you great distress. For example, I prefer the horizontal approach. I eat three to four rows at a time from left to right. Then I go back over those same rows from right to left to make sure I didn’t miss anything. The cob, of course, is dripping in real butter. If I’m at home, I use our corn-on-the-cob holders; they make the process less messy and guarantee your teeth attack every kernel. When my husband told me that he varies his method—vertical vs. horizontal—depending on the corncob, I was shocked. I don’t know him at all.

3. You review a check list in your head before you leave your house. Mine revolves around the five senses:

• Do I look good? (How’s the hair, makeup, clothes?)
• Do I smell good? (Am I wearing deodorant, perfume, lotion?)
• Do I taste good? (Did I floss and brush my teeth?)
• Do I sound good? (Do I have a water bottle and cough drops? My throat often becomes hoarse.)
• Do I feel good? (Am I happy about where I’m going and if not, can I fake it?)

Disclaimer: While I may run through this check list every time I go out, it doesn’t mean that I look “camera-ready” at all times. Far from it. But I am always acutely aware of what I did and did not do before going out in public.

2. You color-code all activities in your organizer. Whether you use software (e.g., Microsoft Outlook) or an old-fashioned day planner (e.g., DayMinder), you divide your tasks into color categories (e.g., appointments—green, social activities—yellow). I started doing this toward the end of high school, and my friends have always made fun of me. Even though Adrienne thought it was hilarious that I highlighted my activities for the week in different colors, she told me I was “weird.” If she had only known just how anal I was … I hid the highlighters so she wouldn’t use them. (To be fair, she once “borrowed” my theatrical glow tape and used all of it to decorate her room.) For the longest time I only liked Zebra Zazzle highlighters, but I’m learning to be more flexible. The colors in my Outlook calendar don’t exactly match the highlighters I use in my day planner, and I’m okay with it. Yes, I essentially have two organizers—and no, I do not want a BlackBerry.

And the #1 sign that you might be too anal …
your organization system is so complex that no one else can understand it. For example, when my appendix burst nine years ago, my boyfriend (at the time) was frantically flipping through my address book trying to find my father’s phone number. Apparently, he had already looked under “W” while I was in surgery. Nope, not there. Still groggy from the anesthesia, I heard Adrienne tell him, “Sissy organizes everyone by first name. Don’t you know that?”
My boyfriend sighed. He turned the pages. My eyes were closed, but I could imagine his expression when he looked under “Z” for Zelmer. The page was blank. He shook my arm. “Dammit, Andrea. I can’t find your father’s number anywhere.”

I remember smiling because the answer was so obvious to me. “Look under D—for Daddy.” My boyfriend groaned, Adrienne laughed, and I drifted off to sleep.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I hope I made you smile, kiddo.
For what it’s worth, you were worth all the while. – Green Day

The passengers remained quiet after I had confronted the mother regarding her son’s behavior. I don’t know what I expected. I guess I was hoping at least one person (besides my husband) would applaud my courage, but instead, I had become the older, malicious bully who had verbally attacked the younger, innocent mother. I’m glad I waited until the end of the flight to say something because I swear our captain took the scenic route around the Houston/Bush International airport. Finally, our plane found its gate, and I made sure the boy and his mother exited the cabin ahead of us. I thought it was best to put as much distance between her and me as possible. As my husband and I walked off the plane, I told him to go ahead and wait for me. I wanted to speak to our friendly stewardess Miss Sourpuss.

Before I go any further, I should tell you that even though I’m not afraid of confronting people, I don’t make a habit of it. I’ll admit I am the woman who sends back her dirty martini when it isn’t quite dirty enough. I will also return food at a restaurant if my meal isn’t correct (I rarely order straight off the menu) or if the cuisine doesn’t taste good. When a hairdresser once hacked my hair to pieces a few weeks before I had to be a bridesmaid in two weddings, I got my money back. However, until this incident, I had never said anything to a parent on an airplane besides, “Could you please tell your child to stop kicking the back of my seat?” I had also never complained about a flight attendant’s bad service, but there’s a first time for everything.

After all of the passengers had collected their carry-on luggage and left the plane, I approached Miss Sourpuss who was standing next to the co-pilot. I told her that I would like to have a word with her about our flight. With the same “My-life-sucks-I-wish-I-were-dead” expression on her face, she just shrugged her shoulders and said okay. Although I had intended for our conversation to be private to avoid embarrassing her, I started talking since she made no effort to move anywhere. The co-pilot shifted his weight and leaned forward.

“My husband and I were seated in row 10, in about the middle of the airplane. In front of us, a young mother sat with her little boy who wouldn’t stop singing the entire flight. Why you didn’t say anything to her about his behavior?”

Miss Sourpuss’s expression changed. Her mouth opened, her eyes blinked, and I could see her searching for the correct answer in her brain. “I … I … could never ask a parent … I’m just not able to … confront people.”

I already knew she was passive, but the fact that she admitted it surprised me. I responded, “Well, his behavior was inappropriate, and it was your job to do something about it.” The co-pilot looked at her. She furrowed her brow.

“Uh … it’s not my job. People can use their cell phones …” I raised my eyebrow. Right then the captain walked up and joined our group, and Miss Sourpuss realized her mistake. “I meant people can talk as loud as they want on the plane.”

I laughed because the conversation was getting so ridiculous. “Really? So I can yell at the top of my lungs during a flight and you’re not going to say anything to me?” The captain grimaced and looked at Miss Sourpuss who must have been sweating through her uniform.

She replied with as firm a tone as someone like her can muster, “Well, I wouldn’t do it because I didn’t hear the boy at all. And I went up and down that aisle the entire flight.”

“First of all, that’s not true. My husband and I couldn’t find you anywhere when we wanted a refill on our sodas. Secondly, you changed your story when the captain arrived.” I looked at him, then the co-pilot, and then her. “Just so we’re all clear, you went from not being capable, to not being responsible, to sheer denial.”

Miss Sourpuss pursed her lips. “I didn’t hear him!”

“And apparently, you’re deaf as well.” I looked at the captain. “Thank you so much for getting us to Houston on time, but please tell your bosses, I will remember this incident. By the way, I’m a writer, and I will let people know that it’s okay to sing at the top of their lungs on a Continental flight.”

Okay, so I didn’t say that last part, but now I know how to solve the problem should it happen again. The next time a lazy stewardess refuses to hush a chirping child, I have a plan. I’m going to belt out (and I’m tone deaf) the most obnoxious children’s song I know. My sister Adrienne taught it to me. In fact, she and my (then) boyfriend’s four-year-old son got in trouble for singing it in the car during a road trip. I was driving, and after 15 minutes of Bananas in Pajamas, I told them to pick a different song. When they didn’t, I yelled, “Shut your mouths, or I will shut them for you.” They stopped singing immediately.

After years of teaching, I can raise my already-loud voice over a room full of 100 noisy children so out-singing one kid on an airplane will be easy. My husband is appalled by my idea. He intends to begin divorce proceedings if I should proceed to break into song. I told him that he should pretend that he doesn’t know me or tell people that my “medication” doesn’t work at high altitudes. He didn’t laugh. My theory is that even a passive stewardess like Miss Sourpuss will have to tell me to shut up, and when she does, I’ll point to the child and say, “He started it!”

Who knows? Maybe I’ll incite a sing-along:

Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down the stairs
Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down in pairs
Bananas, in pajamas, are chasing teddy bears
cause on Tuesdays day … they want to catch them unawares!

AWW — XoXo

P. S. I wish I had gotten Miss Sourpuss’s real name so I could file a formal complaint.

Finally, we appeared ready for takeoff. Though we were running 15 minutes late, the pilot assured us we would land in Houston at our scheduled arrival time of 7:37 p.m. My husband watched through the window as the plane soared into the air. Sitting next to him, I had the aisle seat since there are no three-seat rows on the ERJ 145. Directly in front of me was a young mother sitting with her son, who appeared to be about four years old. I usually notice where kids are sitting on airplanes because even though I like children, I worry about their behavior. Given that the passenger section of this particular plane could fit into our house (only a slight exaggeration), I could probably have told you where everyone was sitting. Anyway, I leaned back into my seat, opened my magazine, and that is when the “noise” began.

I wish the noise had been crying because as aggravating as a sobbing child can be, I can control my urge to interfere. My opinion about children crying on airplanes is they may be sick, scared, hungry, tired, or their ears may be popping, which hurts like hell. I actually empathize with those frustrated parents who are embarrassed by their children’s tears, but who are also sad because they cannot make the pain, fear, hunger, or even exhaustion from traveling magically disappear. Whenever I see that look of utter despair in a parent’s eyes, I give my most encouraging “you-can-do-it” and “we-don’t-all-hate-you” smile. Crying may be irritating, but I can handle it. However, there are some noises no one should have to endure—especially in cramped quarters with no way out.

You see, the little boy in front of us began singing. Loudly. Not only did his mother not stop him, she encouraged him to continue. I sighed, but then I remembered I had brought my portable CD player with headphones. Problem solved! I turned up the volume all the way (something I never do because loud music makes it difficult for me to concentrate on reading), but I could still hear the boy’s high-pitched voice over the rock music blasting in my ears. I couldn’t believe it. I gave up on the music and found my ear plugs; they didn’t work either. I looked at my watch. I glanced at my husband who shook his head. I made eye contact with other passengers who appeared equally as annoyed as I was. Meanwhile, the boy’s tune—imagine a modern day version of the Smurfs theme song—echoed in my head.

The boy never stopped singing, and no one said anything to his mother—not even the stewardess whom my husband and I nicknamed Miss Sourpuss for her lovely demeanor. I bit my tongue the entire flight, but as we were approaching our gate, I felt compelled to say something to the mother if only to save fellow travelers from future torture. I tapped her on the shoulder; she turned around.

I smiled and said, “I want to tell you something that I hope you won’t take the wrong way. You have a lovely son who is clearly a very happy boy, but he has been singing loudly this entire flight.”

She nodded so I continued. “I’m a former teacher and it isn’t appropriate for him to be so loud on an airplane. He needs to learn to use his ‘indoor library’ voice.”

I could see the muscles in her face twitch. “Look, I’m only saying this to you because no one else on this plane will, but trust me, we are all irritated.” I could feel the eyes of our fellow passengers watching us.

Then the mother exploded, “Well, I paid for a ticket just like you did!” She jutted her chin forward and glared at me.

Until that point, I had remained calm but then I lashed out, “We all paid for our tickets! (You stupid bitch) It doesn’t give you the right to allow your son to sing at the top of his lungs for two hours. He doesn’t know any better, but you should. You are his mother; it’s your job to teach him manners.”

The whole situation disintegrated from there. I backed off, but I didn’t apologize. I’m glad I said something, but then I realized I should not have had to. If our stewardess, Miss Sourpuss, had done her job, I’m sure the mother would have been less defensive and more cooperative regarding her son’s actions. I’ll continue this story in my next blog titled: Flying the Unfriendly Skies: Part Two—The Lazy Stewardess.

AWW — XoXo

* Operated by Expressjet Airlines Inc doing business as Continental Express

Even though many people complain that the weather here never changes, Los Angeles has four seasons: Fire, Mudslide, Earthquake, and Riot. I’ve lived in LA more than half of my life now so I’ve experienced its unusual spells. Although I was out of town for the 1994 Northridge earthquake, I was driving on the freeway when one of its biggest aftershocks occurred. I watched in awe and in fear as all of the cars simultaneously shifted into neighboring lanes. After mudslides closed the Hollywood canyons, which commuters use to get to and from the San Fernando Valley, I spent almost three hours driving a mere 18 miles. I was living downtown when the 1992 riots turned LA into a war zone. I’ll never forget seeing military vehicles on the 10 freeway and trying to fall asleep to the sound of chopper blades whirring and anarchy rising. Now it is fire season again. People are losing their homes, the land is burning to a black crisp, and the air quality has been deemed “unhealthy.” Though they light up the night sky, the wildfires always cast a shadow over LA, causing a city, full of stars both fake and real, to lose its shine.

I used to love Los Angeles. I remember when my affair with the City of Angels began. I had arrived for a summer freshmen orientation at the University of Southern California (USC). The campus was (and still is) beautiful. The sun was shining, the temperature was a perfect 75 degrees, and I had never seen so many beautiful men in my entire life. I was sold. I wasn’t even 18 years old yet, but LA had stolen my heart with its beauty, weather, diversity, culture, nightlife, and location—near the beach, mountains, and desert and more than 2,500 miles away from my mother. I didn’t know about the traffic, the air quality, the anonymity, or the character of many Los Angelenos—dense, shallow, tardy, and egocentric. I guess all of that beauty comes with a price.

Despite its flaws, I continued my relationship with LA but on different terms. In 1997, I moved to Burbank (a city that is technically separate from LA) so my sister Adrienne could attend a better school. Four years later, we moved across town to a another house in Burbank—the place where she died. In fact, I’m writing this blog in her bedroom right now, which may disturb some people, but it comforts me. I like to think of her as my muse. Anyway, in October I will have lived here longer than I lived in any other home in my entire life. I never thought I would want to move because I was afraid of leaving Adrienne behind. From her spirit in this house to her grave at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, I didn’t want to abandon her. However, Burbank is still LA, and it began losing its luster the day I lost her.

The irony is that Adrienne loved Los Angeles. Whether she was a hippie in Venice, a rocker in Hollywood, or an ordinary kid in Burbank, she appreciated everything LA has to offer. She accepted its faults. While I had wanted her to attend an Ivy League university far from home, she had planned on going to USC. The one time we argued about it she said, “Forget it, Sissy. I’m not leaving Los Angeles.” Now she will always be here, and I’m the one who wants to go. I can’t escape the pain; it will follow me. But in the City of Angels, my grief outweighs any happiness I might derive from my memories, which haunt me. Maybe when I’m not running into something every day that reminds me of what I’m missing (I don’t need proof), I can finally remember all of the wonderful times I had with my sister—how much joy, humor, and depth she brought into my life.

I want a fresh start in a new place where I can make new memories in a new house with my not-so-new husband. In a small town, I can breathe. Today, I inhaled dirt. It’s over, LA. I’m sorry. You didn’t change … but I did.

AWW — XoXo