In 5^th grade I was OBSESSED with Greek Myth and it hadn’t occurred to me that so were a lot of other people. Which now seems odd. Since it is a cornerstone of Western culture. And the Odyssey itself is the prototype of the hero’s journey story structure we still use. Clearly lots of people are into it. But it wasn’t a topic that came up much in Grand Prairie. It was my weird little secret.

I was INTO it. I read it before bed. Had nightmares. Didn’t care. Woke up and read it again. I made myself sick reading it. I loved how gross and scary it was.

I still can’t get over the Prometheus story. You’re strapped to a mountain and a bird eats your liver every day? Man. I would not like that. Or Medusa? She had that crazy way to turn people to stone when they look at her. So, SHE seems super scary. But really, SHE was cursed, because that’s such a bummer life. She couldn’t just hang out with friends and play Mahjong and stuff. So of course she was angry AND THEREFORE turning people to stone! I loved the idea of Pandora’s box. OF COURSE SHE OPENED IT! You’re not going to just be given some box and be told “Whatever you do, don’t open it,” and be fine. What kind of psychopath would NOT open it? I never blamed her for releasing every bad thing on the world. Every December, I snuck peeks at all my Christmas presents the second mom left for the grocery store.

Around me, girls were talking about lip gloss and boys were playing flag football. And I was thinkin’ ‘bout Zeus and his weird-ass dad. Don’t think I was alone-alone. I mean, we all listened to Queen and Air Supply and played Atari non-stop, obviously. I just didn’t see anybody else super into Big Myth.

I’m surprised by how much I like it. I’m not into fantasy. Not a LOTR person. I don’t like horror movies. I’m not even into Halloween all that much or any kind of “fear for fun.” But people making up gods and monsters to explain the world? Apparently, I’m in. I guess because I’m also trying to understand the world.

In 1980, I got to let my Myth flag fly. I was in the GEM project in Mrs. Jones’ 5^th grade class. That’s the Gifted Education Module. I knew it was a big deal because we were a tiny class of a dozen kids. And everyone else got jammed into Ms. Robinson’s room for Social Studies across the hall. Also, it was called a “module.” Which sounded important.

You’re on Substack, so you were probably called gifted, too. In my 20’s I wondered exactly how smart I was and asked my mom if they put me in there because I had a high IQ. WITHOUT PAUSE she said, “Oh, no! They said you were just one of the better ones of what they had to choose from.” It’s the without pause that stings.

In GEM, we got to do autonomous projects and I chose Greek Mythology. Girl. I FILLED that folder with Mt. Olympus drama. I love that in Sunday church concept, there’s Heaven and Hell and it’s another world. In Greek myth, Hell is also another world, but sure, you can take a boat over there if you want. You cross the River Styx. And one of my favorite bands was Styx! There was some real zeitgeisty stuff happening in the 80’s.

Then came Perseus in 1981’s Clash of the Titans. It was less of a mystery why I liked this.

I mean, come on! Those Grecian tanned legs alone. Hello, puberty!

But the real star of the show was Pegasus.

Nolan brought this all back to me. (Yes, I saw 2010 Clash, but it did nothing for me.) With Damon-dysseus, I was on the edge of my seat. Seeing him with the weird Cyclops, going to Hades, hanging with Calypso, and seeing the Sirens. I kept thinking, “I LOVE THIS SO MUCH!!”

Nolan also gave us Leguizamo as Eumaeus, the blind and faithful swineherd. Best performance ever seen from him and I hope he gets awards for it. But also, he’s giving Old Brando here, right?

You see it, too? Not just me?

Professor Emily Wilson hated the movie and wrote a 4k word takedown. SO much energy for a takedown! But I get it. Homer is her wheelhouse and life’s work. She knows it way better than me. I may be too dumb to know better, and loved it. So be it.

After decades of going it alone, a modest $250 million movie helped me FINALLY come home to find my people. Omg, you guys, The Odyssey was my odyssey! Thanks, Chris Nolan, for spending zillions and reigniting my love of gods and monsters. And letting me know I’m not alone in this, ya big weirdo!

What did YOU think of this epic???!!

Before I went, I had lots of ideas about The Month. I made PlanZ! I thought I might get sporty and hike every day. And try the zip line up there. And bungee jump, why not? AND/OR I could detox. Get off chemicals and/or social media. Good-bye Coke Zero! So long, Instagram (for a month)! Maybe I’d kick up my meditation. Or read five books. Or write two. Or learn a language. Or finally finish the online painting class I signed up for the last time I was there. I’ve also been teaching. I figured I could finally organize all that curricula. Not sure if I used curricula correctly, which is another thing I could look up during My Big Long Month Away.

But I also wondered a little if I’d make it that long. A Whole Month? That’s nuts. Surely I’d need to come home at some point. I’m important and/or loved. Right? Someone might need me. Riiightt? I also wondered if I’d get bored after 3 or 15 or 23 days. I mean, what do you DO? For a month?

Several friends have wondered the same thing. They’ve asked with wide, expectant eyes, “How was it? Were you silent and alone? Did you detox? Chant? Hike every day?” They want to know if did a Big Something. Or was I changed?

To be honest? I watched Widow’s Bay.

I didn’t detox. I toxxed. And it was great.

I rewatched a lot of Vera reruns. And started A Woman of Substance because I like Vera so much. And threw in some Shetland because now I need accents and BritBox is my posh blankie. I watched the new Harlan Coben movie. And Spider Noir.

I didn’t just watch tv. I also did puzzles. And some of the spiritual, in-the-woods things. I was quiet sometimes. And looked at really old trees and watched squirrels leap across them and woodpeckers adjust them. I thought about life and my place in it. And how to spend the time I have left.

But what was different for me? I didn’t prescribe myself a System of Fix. Didn’t adhere. Didn’t schedule. Maybe I detoxed from Schedule.

After I stopped everything for a week or two, it occurred to me that I’M TIRED. And I’ve been tired for a really long time. Job hustle is exhausting. Hustle is, honestly, horrible. Trying to get a job writing TV is harder than writing TV. My career can feel like chasing a moving train.

But I don’t think about it much because who has time?

I meditate and teach meditation. Big fan. It helps a ton. But I still wear myself out sometimes. Or more accurately, I don’t realize how worn down I get because we are programmed to KEEP GOING. And every win is chopped short with—okay what’s next?! Cue Judge Smails.

The Fix

I’ve always been trying to fix this model that is me. I started reading self-help books in high school because I figured I’d read them before I had any real problems…therefore I’ll never have any real problems, right? NBD just Teen Me tryna circumvent the human experience. It didn’t exactly go as planned.

Most of my life I’ve poked, prodded and hammered at myself like I’m an old dryer making a weird noise. I’ve tried all kinds of self-improvey things. I’ve fantasized about going away for a chunk of time and coming back AMAZING a lot. And did it a few times. Once I did a 10-day raw food retreat in Bali, expecting to come back the picture of health: super thin with a squeaky clean colon. Another time, I studied the Vedas for 3 months in Flagstaff, assuming I’d never feel sad again. I love an intensive. A retreat. Let’s go deep and get weird. Let’s CHANGE.

But not now. My radical woodsy move was, I just didn’t do anything hard.

I wandered. I dawdled. I mused. I’d coin this Self-improvement through intentional non-productivity. If I had the energy.

I went on hikes, but not to try to get fit. They’re just pretty walks and made my Chihuahua, Mouse, so happy.

I finished a writing sprint I’d signed up for but didn’t do a big writing project. I did actually finish that online art class I signed up for a year ago because I love to paint and am not great at it and don’t care. I want to paint like a five-year-old. Just for the love of smearing colors around.

I also shopped and hung out with Brian sometimes. And friends sometimes.

And organized my friend’s utility closet because I can’t believe she lent me her place and I wanted to be useful.

I’m glad I’ve done some betterment regimens. But thrilled to not do any now.

So, I’m afraid I have a disappointing answer to WHAT DID YOU DO?? Truly, nothing in particular. Then my friend Wendi said, “You gave yourself permission to let go.”

Letting Go of Letting Go

And that is what I did. Which was new. And for someone like me, who can try to hyper-improve themselves to death, that was more radical than any kind of meditation, silent retreat, raw food cleanse, or detox I’ve ever done.

And that feels like the win. To leave myself alone for once.

I simply luxuriated in some free time. And it was delicious.

UPCOMING CLASSES!

I’m teaching Storytelling starting Sat July 18. Come discover your story, punch it up and tell it onstage. It’s fun & cathartic. & a really supportive environment.

https://www.comedyreflectsourworld.org/adulteducation

July 18 · 10am - August 22 · 1pm PDT

I’m also teaching Stand Up Weds evenings starting July 22.

https://www.comedyreflectsourworld.org/adulteducation

July 22 · 7pm - August 26 · 10pm PDT

And will be teaching zoom storytelling classes with the great Wendi Aarons soon!

That, along with seeing all the Father’s Day posts have me wondering how I got to be anything like my dad.

My dad and I never had much in common. Growing up, we just sort of lived at the same address and had breakfast together a lot. My brother was a lot like dad. And we all liked mom. And got along fairly well. And that was our family.

I love seeing my friends who are dads. They’re so involved. They’re coaching their kids’ sport things, letting their daughters paint their nails, and DJing their son’s hockey games. They’re INTO what their kids are doing. I don’t even know if their kids want them around that much. But they are and it looks fun.

To Stanley House, there were only 2 things in the world: stuff he liked, and nonsense. I hope the italics + underline adequately conveys his deep nonsense disdain. To dad, every iota of nonsense, could take a hike. I learned early that the stuff I liked: writing, performing, dancing around the kitchen, quoting Steve Martin, and dancing around the kitchen while quoting Steve Martin—all registered as nonsense.

I was pretty sensitive about that. It felt like rejection.

Dad liked hunting and fishing. Ooh! The fun of sitting in a deer blind for 10 hours drinking beer and waiting for Bambi to stroll by. When deer season came every Fall, he was away most every weekend, hunting on someone’s deer lease. I didn’t mind when he fried up the venison and we all ate it. That part was awesome. But the sitting, hunting, shooting part was lost on me. Although, I was never invited to go. Maybe I would have loved it.

No, I would not.

I did go fishing some.

I’m deeply indoorsy. I was drawn to the darkest rooms inside massive concrete structures, like movie theaters and arcades. And I was never the biggest fan of fresh air. I’d rather have air conditioning. And blast it, please.

We didn’t align on politics. Well, we did when I was ten. I was very pro-Reagan and knew that “Mondale eats quiche” was a funny slogan so I had that bumpersticker pinned to my wall. Like every normal fifth-grade girl. But later I started getting my own ideas about things and my general idea was, “Hey, everyone should have all the rights.” I lived in Norway a while and saw that Socialism works and is actually pretty awesome. It was cool the way people weren’t afraid to go to the doctor.

I loved Obama. When I said his name, it was like “Maria” in West Side Story. Say it loud it’s like a song! Say it soft, it’s like a prayer! When Dad said Obama, oof. It had the spew-energy of a 10 minute rant. It was a low-key hate crime.

Dad and I got closer to each other the last 10 years of his life. Partly because I got sober and that calmed me down a lot about needing him and everything else to be different. I accepted that he’s who he is and it won’t change. And maybe he did the same about me. Or maybe he’d figured that out decades before.

Also, after mom died we didn’t have much family. It was just me, my brother and my dad. I think we all wanted and needed each other. I did. So we all tried.

But we just didn’t have much in common. Or did we?

For a couple of decades I thought I was the rebel in my family because I moved to LA to do comedy. Dad never wanted me to perform or write for a living. It was nonsense, obviously.

But that dude could watch a sit-com. He sat in his recliner and watched one Home Improvement after Living Single, after Cosby Show (before we knew). Or whatever local KTVT channel 11 had on.

One day I was venting to an LA friend about how, “I pursued my dream that my family never supported and I now write on sit-coms and all my dad ever did was sit and watch sit-com--oh my god, has my whole career been to get my dad’s attention??!!”

And maybe it was. Is. It’s weird to think my life is completely rooted in him like some old tree I keep taking pictures of. Or maybe being shaped by family is just what family is.

I have come to agree with Dad that there really are just 2 things in the world. Stuff I like and nonsense. He was onto something. I’m still open to new things but they tend to be related to things I already like. Or things that people I like, like. And most other things are a giant pile of nonsense and they can go kick bricks.

People are annoying. Dad never said this explicitly but I picked up what he was putting down. I used to think I was a people person. But on Day 21 in the woods, when the farmer’s market was too crowded for my liking (there were 27 people at least!) And one woman was inexplicably standing at the check out spot while I was checking out and why, just why?! Just MOVE!!

So it turns out…people person I am not.

The woods are great. Dad and I now agree on that. I don’t sit in deer blinds, but I do do sit for hours …at the deer blind of my desk. So that’s something.

A few days ago I saw a woodpecker actually pecking on a tree. Did you know they do that? Just like the cartoon. Wild.

I’ve also discovered that dad was kind of like me.

We’d still differ on politics. But before he passed, he dismissed Trump and said he’s crazy. So that felt like a move in my direction.

Once mom told me that Dad used to write stories. He’d sent a few off to magazines, but they didn’t get published. Then he stopped writing. So maybe him poo-pooing my dream of writing was less “Hey, that’s nonsense.” And more, “Hey, it really hurts when you’re rejected but it’s part of the process and I don’t want you to get hurt.” And he’d be correct about all that.

So maybe Dad was a bit of a sensitive artist full of nonsense, too.

Upcoming classes in LA

I’ll be teaching more and am now the Education Director at Crow Comedy Club in Santa Monica 😊. I offer 1:1 story and comedy coaching. And will have zoom classes soon, too. But if you’re in LA, come hang:

Intermediate/Advanced Stand-Up — Wednesdays, July 22–August 26, 7–10pm Iron out your jokes, hone your stage persona, and punch up what you’ve already got in a writers room setting. Sign up here.

Storytelling — Saturdays, July 18–August 22, 10am–1pm Got a story you’ve been dying to tell? No experience necessary. We’ll help you make it hilarious and heartwarming. Sign up here.

Star Vehicle Workshop — Sunday, August 9, 2–5pm @ The Crow, Santa Monica Build a TV show. Three hours, and you leave with your world, your story, and your characters, all ready to write your pilot. Sign up here.

I’ve been writing privately about food and eating. But not in a fun, Wow! I just discovered a cool restaurant kind-of-way. More of a less fun, Wow! I’ve lived with a serious eating disorder for a llloooonnnnng time kind-of-way.

And I’m scared to publish it. So, I will. Painful little pieces of my story at a time. I got help because other people shared, so here goes.

I eat like a bear. Like a hungry bear on Spring Break, its first time away from home. No, like a hungry bear on Rumspringa during Spring Break. No! Like a hungry bear on Rumspringa during Spring Break who’s let loose in the Wonka Factory. Can you imagine? Getting locked in the Wonka factory “on accident?” I’d skinny dip in the chocolate river. I know it’s gross if you think about it, but I choose to believe they have a magical purifying filter because I can’t possibly be the only one who has thought to do this. I’m certain no matter how many signs they put up warning people DO NOT SWIM IN THE CHOCOLATE RIVER, people are going to do it. An army of Oompa-Loompas couldn’t stop me. Bet.

Was Cathy Right?! Ack!

For years I called myself a Foodie because I love food. But the term can mean all kinds of things. And lots of Foodies I know live in the arena of loving Epicurian food delights. It’s a passion not a problem.

I grew up with the concept of a chocoholic. There was SO much Cathy merch floating around Grand Prairie. Probably still is. That concept was laughable. It’s not like anyone is shooting up Hershey’s syrup or snorting cocoa powder.

I didn’t realize how much of a thing that actually is. Not the shooting/snorting. Though, would have, if I could have. But Food addiction. Sugar addiction. It’s a thing. It was my thing. And it kind of is chocoholism.

You Might be a Food Addict

When I was working at Blue Collar TV, I had recently started going to Overeaters Anonymous. I guess I’m not supposed to say that. But I’m not speaking as a representative, so there you are. It was a BIG deal for me to finally come to terms with having a real food problem. Of trying to lose weight a million times only to have a diet work for a bit, then be consumed by the rage-wave of hunger and cravings. I’d gotten to OA at 200 pounds on my 5’1” frame. Seventy or so pounds overweight for me.

I’d gone into OA after things had gotten BAD. It wasn’t just weight. I’d had therapy, been on Prozac and still had a a suicide attempt. And then finally got help I needed and started to feel better. It gave me some relief from bulimia and my overeating disorder.

And then I got this dream job.

Blue Collar TV wasn’t a dream job because I was writing for Jeff Foxworthy, although he is a really sweet, funny guy. But because it was a network TV writing job. It was an office, a paycheck, a THRILL. I moved to LA after starring on an Mtv show and had high hopes and big dreams. None of them had quite been working out. I’d moved to San Francisco for a year and worked on aweb series. Then got married and moved back to LA where I found I needed to get a part-time job. And got one teaching part-time at an Orthodox Yeshiva. As one does.

Then about 17 miracles aligned and I landed a network TV writing job. And I was finally getting well in OA. It was all happening for me!

The Dream in Real Life

My second week at work, I was still getting to know everyone and finding my place. I felt awkward about my food stuff. I always felt awkward about my weight. Embarrassed, apologetic on the low end. Self-hate and abhorrence on the high end. I couldn’t snack all day like others or just eat randomly. I needed to plan my food. Sometimes I brought my own even though they fed us. I was new to food recovery and hated feeling different. I just wanted to be normal.

Some of the writers were randomly gathered in someone’s office riffing on a bit when a renowned comedy writer started going off on Overeaters Anonymous. He’d just heard of it and couldn’t believe it. Like AA, but for food? So people are like holding a potato chip and calling their friend? Talk me down! I don’t want to but I might eat it. Come pick me up, I’m at the 7-11!! And the other guy’s, “No! Don’t do it! Don’t get drunk on that chip!” What’s their amends? Sorry I ate all your pie?

And everyone laughed. And I laughed, too. But I was mortified. Nothing was directed toward me. I don’t think he knew. But I knew. I knew the pain of compulsive overeating. The beast-like desire for more food even when you’re full. Actually, especially when you’re full. I had only recently admitted to myself that I had this problem. And this guy who I really wanted to impress was making fun of it. Ouch.

Pregger-Wear

It also signaled a callousness about weight. Fat people were made fun of a lot on Blue Collar. It' was one of the last bastions culture let us mock. I did it, too. I wrote a sketch called Pregger-wear. Clothes that make you look pregnant so you can finally eat how you want! And no one says anything!! It came from an honest place. I would have loved to eat for two and have it be socially acceptable.

When you’re heavy, and someone is making fun of someone heavy or people who overeat in general, it’s not directed at you but it feels like it is. I feel it. I identify with heavies. They are my people. If you are making fun of them, you are definitely making fun of me.

And the worst part? He was kind of right. That is kind of what we do. We do call someone so we won’t eat a potato chip or a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. I mean, ideally the convo will quickly pivot to “What’s going on that you’re wanting to eat that?” and we get to the feelings under the food. But still. There was truth in the caricature. Point is, that first bite is dangerous because that IS getting drunk to us.

Because just like a sip of wine for an alcoholic, it’s not the half ounce of wine that’s the problem. That sip will put the Beast of Active Addiction in play. It will not end with that one drink. It will begin.

Getting Food Drunk

Same with the chip or the PB cup or a molecule of Dr. Pepper. Really for me it’s any sugar. There is no end for me. Sugar makes my brain light up like the Bellagio fountain show. Sugar tells my system that it is ON! What exactly is ON? Who knows? But it’s IT and very urgent. Yes, I was able to stop eating sugar at times. If I was at a restaurant and got dessert, I ate it like a normal person and we paid and left. But when I got home, I might eat another little something sweet. Or have pancakes the next day for breakfast. Or load up on the snack aisle at CVS because I had a stressful day of running three errands. I’d find a way to drip sugar into my system and never get too low. And I got to the point, later in my addiction, deeper into it, that if I drove to that restaurant alone, I might stop on the way home and buy a giant slice of grocery store cake and eat it in the car. Like, I needed a fix, just to get me home.

I faltered in OA after this. I wish I didn’t. I wish I could report that I didn’t care what that guy or anybody else thought. That I was determined to take care of myself no matter what!! Cue Helen Reddy because I am strong!! But I wasn’t. I didn’t want to be in a thing that this guy made fun of. I didn’t want to have that problem at all. And it’s impossible to stick to the solution when you can’t accept that you have the problem.

A few weeks later my mom died. I was bereft. She was known among other things for her chocolate chip cookies. And now we were down to the last batch she’d ever made. Ever would. I wanted some. But I was still trying to not eat sugar. My then-husband looked at me and said, “If my mom had died, I’d eat the cookies.”

I had never heard anything more reasonable or logical in my entire life. I ate the cookies. And it was ON.

Turns out, it’s very easy to talk me into something I want to do.

UPCOMING CLASSES

Got some fun ones coming up. They’re in LA but one is online, too. And I’ll be offering more online classes and workshop. Let me know if you’re interested!

Storytelling 101 — Saturdays, July 18–August 22, 10am–1pm. No experience necessary. Got a story you’ve been dying to tell? Come develop it into something hilarious and heartwarming. Tickets here

Stand-Up Intermediate/Advanced at the Crow — Wednesdays, July 22–August 26, 7–10pm. This one’s for you if you’ve got material and want to get in a room and actually make it better. We punch up your jokes, hone your stage persona, and do it writers-room style. Tickets here

ONLINE + IN-PERSON: Create Your Star Vehicle — Sunday, August 9, 2–5pm. Build your TV show idea in three hours. World, characters, story. Everything you need before you start your pilot script. Tickets here

Mine wasn’t like that. There was no suggestion of music swelling and not much technique involved, at least on his part. But he was eight, so he probably knew a few things I didn’t. He was definitely pressing his face on my face, with a focus on the mouth area. And I was definitely pushing back, and moving my lips around. It would be another six years before tongue came into play. I’m a lady.

And I loved him. Loved! What we had was soul-matey, at least to me. Whenever the four of us were together, that’s me, him, my brother, and his sister, we would create some play scenario to create alone time.

Let’s play house…

“Okay, we’re the kids and you’re the parents, go off to work, bye.”

Let’s play doctor….

“Great, we’ll be in the waiting room, go fix up the exam room, bye.”

My brother and his sister would leave the room to go pretend something. Once the door closed, we made out. He’d kiss me, and I’d kiss back, this little blue-eyed blonde-haired boy of my dreams.

Our make-out sessions subsided when I turned ten. Had I gotten too old? Too fat? Had our relationship simply run its course? I guess he hit puberty and had bigger fish to fry. And those fish probably already had boobs. It’s fine, I was moving on to better things, too.

When I was eleven, I went to Episcopalian summer camp, Camp Crucis. Up until this time, I was kind of a teapot kid. You know, short and stout. And kind of a tomboy. I didn’t think guys liked me like that. But that summer proved me wrong.

My Granny was extremely weight-obsessed and critical. The technical term, I now know, is ‘Anorexic chain smoker.’ But back then, we just said ‘bitch’ and we weren’t wrong. Well, I didn’t say it. I was a good little girl. But if I were to go back in time and give that little girl a word for Granny, it’d be ‘bitch.’

She was obsessed with my mother’s and my physical imperfections. When I was eight, she suggested I make a girdle out of a tire’s inner tube. That’s what she did, she said. One summer day, she sat in our kitchen, staring at me and chain-smoking. Then she said, “You know, when I was your age, I wanted to get myself in shape for boys. I made a girdle out of an inner tube. Then all the boys liked me. You should do that.”

Right. But, again, I was eight.

The kitchen walls were yellow paint and plywood. It was the 70’s in Grand Prairie, Texas. And it was hot. We were sitting at the table with the red-checkered tablecloth. A giant wooden spoon hung helpless on the wall. What am I supposed to say to that? I stared at her age spots as her bony hands delivered her cigarette to her mouth over and over. Her spiky shoulders and saggy boobs poked at her striped sweater. The papery skin on her face reached down toward the linoleum fake-tile floor.

This is the woman who’s counseling me about my looks and suggesting that no man would have me.

God forbid I’d be an old maid by nine. She didn’t know about my affair with my best friend’s brother, which was the talk of all my stuffed animals. Or that I had recently experienced a playground wedding to JJ. To her, I was just some fat loser. And she wanted me to contort my form into rubber so I could get me some.

“Um, okay,” I mumbled. But I didn’t make a tire girdle, or duct-tape corset or any other Days of Yore hillbilly apparatus. But I did do what any people-pleasing 10-year-old would: I went on a diet. To appease Granny, and to make myself acceptable to mankind, when I was ten, I went on a crash diet. Hot on the heels of ‘9 to 5’ success it was called the Dolly Parton diet. Also known as the Cabbage Soup diet, because you get to eat cabbage soup. All you want, all day long. Yay? Otherwise, Day 1, you eat fruit, Day 2, vegetables, Day 3: fruit and vegetables. Ohmygod, it was horrible. Day 4 – bananas and milk. Day 5 – beef and tomatoes. I forget Days 6 and 7. I think I’ve blacked them out from self-hatred.

Anyway, the diet worked and I lost about fifteen pounds. One and a half pounds lost for each tender year I’d been alive. Granny was thrilled. Finally, a thin granddaughter. Dreams do come true!

And that summer, at age eleven, I went back to Camp Crucis. This year, there would be boys and girls there together, and I was nervous. Sure, I could score with my best friend’s brother and a kid at school, but these were camp guys. The Big Time. I didn’t know if I would have any pull here. And honestly, it was tough week. There was a movie, but I got sick from too many Otter pops. There was a dance, I danced, but didn’t end up with a boyfriend or anything. No guys said they loved me or tried to feel me up, so I assumed I wasn’t pretty.

Until the last day.

There was a camp counselor there, David. He was so, so cute. Brown hair, tan, lean. Handsome. There weren’t many handsome people in Grand Prairie, so I was a little star struck, and excited to be exposed to such a thing. I’d say he looked like Armand Assante in ‘Little Darlings,’ because he did. But I won’t, because I don’t want you to think I’m making it up, or transferring that movie, where he played a sexy camp counselor opposite Tatum O’Neal, to my life, which I’m not. But he really looked like that. He was beautiful. We had talked a little, crossed paths here and there during my week of swimming, singing, and crafts. But there was no real connection. He was a counselor, seventeen at least, and way out of my league. We were worlds apart.

On the last day, I was emotional, bidding new friends good-bye until next year, packing my things and getting my bags to the bus. It was about 104 degrees outside, so mid-waiting, I headed into the cafeteria for some water. And that’s when it happened.

I opened the door to the Mess Hall, stepped inside and stopped. There he was. That Armand-Assante-looking mother fucker. So cute and dreamy in his Green Camp Crucis Counselor shirt and cut-offs. Not just any cut-offs, but the cool kind you make yourself, with fringey rectangles at the bottom. They stopped at the perfect place on his sun-kissed legs, which were cute and tanned all the way down to his masculine sandals.

He waved and walked over to me. Can you believe it??!! I froze, to make sure he wasn’t communicating with someone behind me. He stood in front of me and told me it was nice to meet me. I agreed. I’m not sure if that made any sense.

We small-talked a bit, as I blushed and looked down, equally intrigued and terrified to look into his green eyes. Eventually, another counselor stuck her head in the door and announced it was last call to catch the bus. A few campers rushed out into the sunlight and David the Camp Counselor and I were alone.

I managed to look directly at him, just as he wrapped his arms around me, dipped me and kissed me in the most tender, strong, sexy, romantic, inappropriate fairy tale kiss that’s ever been kissed. I closed my eyes. My heart pounded and my head spun, just like they say. It was happening, my big deal first kiss! Just like in movies! I was the awkward girl who’d blossomed over the summer, only I was still a pre-teen. He was the cute senior guy who was only recently so-far-out of my league, only he was a way older teen and still out of my league by looks and by law.

But I didn’t care! I bent my knee and let my little sandal hover over the ground. (Movies!) I wanted to peek, but knew to keep my eyes closed. The most beautiful man in North Texas, maybe the world, was kissing me. He could have had his pick of any pre-teen campers, but he chose ME. I wanted it to last forever. I wished everyone I knew could see me. Sadly, it would be years before we’d have cells, Insta, or Facebook, or I would have snapped a quick shot and made it my profile pic, and hoped it wouldn’t lead to any legal action being taken against David.

The kiss was fantastic. He was a man and really knew what he was doing. Not like those eight and ten year olds I’d been making out with. This guy had stubble.

The kiss concluded and he set me up right. We composed ourselves and hadn’t noticed that during the kiss another counselor had walked in. And seen everything. “Hey, so, what’s going on?” he asked awkwardly.

Busted.

Still heady from our ‘The Moment’ I blurted, “We’re rehearsing… for a play,” and David chimed in, “Yeah, for a play. We’re rehearsing.”

Teamwork! I’d seen it in a movie or something and knew it was a clever thing to say. I was also letting David know that I was cool, cosmopolitan. I lived in Grand Prairie, sure. But I camped, nay, summered in Grandbury, a solid forty minutes away by bus. I wanted David to know that he’d kissed, not a child, but a self-possessed eleven-year-old woman.

And, now I knew that I could attract a hot guy, that I could be loved by a man. Boo-ya! Take that Granny! Oh, shit. It was only after the diet. Maybe that old bitch was right.

David and I smiled and parted ways. We’d had our moment unscathed. I hoped he’d bounce back into my life, like happens in Sandra Bullock movies, but I never saw him again. Hopefully, he’s not still kissing eleven-year-olds, but if he is, I hope he’s thinking of me.

UPCOMING CLASSES

I’m teaching some fun comedy/story classes & more are on the way

Create Your Star Vehicle is both live & online (take it from anywhere)

Develop a TV show idea! In this fast 3-hour workshop, build your world, story, and characters. Everything you need to start your pilot script.

Sunday, May 17, 2pm–5pm Tickets here

Sunday, Aug 9 2pm–5pm Tickets here

We don’t talk enough about Old Love.

Young Love gets all the songs, movies & swoon. I get it. Young love has heightened hormones sans scars of rejection. And all the firsts. The first real dates and horny kisses. The first feelings and declarations. I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve never said I love you to anyone. I’ve never done… this.

In Old Love, we’ve been there, said it, did it. And probably did it way too much. Hey, so I’ve felt all this, said it to a bunch of people, and did it. And frankly I kinda did it a lot. I did it with people I wouldn’t recognize now if we shared an Uber.

Old Love seems less romancy. But it’s so much deeper. I finally know myself and what I like and don’t, and won’t ever, so quit asking.

I thought My Big Love was supposed to happen in my 20’s. Or the latest by 30. So when I was 30, I panic-married. Mom got cancer, work was unstable, and oh! I was an untreated alcoholic. I thought for sure marriage would fix at least one of those. But, alas. I went on to get sober and have relationships, but every year I felt further away from that marriage-kids-family-stability-soulmate package I thought I was supposed to have. And every year it seemed less and less likely to happen. Especially after a particularly big relationship fell apart. And I felt particularly gutted.

And unloveable. That’s the worst part. When the killer is calling from inside the house. When the message transmits non-stop inside my brain like the radio tower in Lost... If it didn’t happen by now, it’s not gonna… If it didn’t happen by now, it’s not gonna… If it didn’t happen by now --

Eventually I tried again and met Brian. We’ve been together for years. We’re not married but we do have matching tattoos. We are happy and comfortable and it is nothing like what I was told love was supposed to be. In the best way.

And it’s been that way from the start.

Neither of us played games. We had a great first date and couldn’t stop talking to each other. The next day I was performing in my favorite storytelling and invited him. That’s WAY too soon. That’s the worst thing you can do according to “Getting to I Do”! Which, yes, I actually read and tried in the 90’s.

The show’s called “Happy Mother’s Day, Our Moms are Dead”. Like me, it’s funny, dark & sweet. Like European chocolate with a joke inside. And I knew if he saw me in the show, he’d really see me. And if he liked it, that might be amazing.

After the show, we hung out down the street at Astro Burger and he told me he wanted to keep seeing me. Again, you’re supposed to seem aloof or unavailable, not all, Hello, table. Here are my cards. Then, I went way too far and created a list of things for him to do to be my boyfriend. Totally normal. I wrote about it here. We’ve been together ever since.

Everything I heard about love was about Young Love.

I’ve experienced both and find that Old Love is better. Like. on Date 3, he fixed my windshield wipers. What?!! Adele never sang about that! Old Love hits different. (Did I use ‘hits’ right? It’s a young person’s word, but I thought I’d give it a try, just to flex. Did I say flex right? Lmk in comments.)

I love Old Love! Strong recommend. Here’s 5 reasons why.

1. Old Love is safe and calm.

Young love is terrifying…. Ooooh, will it last?! I’d die without you!

Old love is like... Oh, no, it will not. None of them lasted. Which is fine because now I’m with you! It’s called acceptance.

Young love is stupidly urgent…. Where are you RIGHT NOW I can’t stand not seeing you!!!

Old Love finds that a little co-dependent, buddy. Prefers to meet up after a nap. Would rather be home in time to watch DTF, then be out DTF-ing.

2. There’s no letting yourself go in Old Love.

Guess what? You’re already gone. It’s not getting much worse. Nobody’s worried about it.

Young love is obsessed with looks. If I get old and ugly, will they leave me?! Answer: Yes, of course. Pro tip: Start out old and ugly and relax the rest of your life away in bliss!

3. Nobody cheats in Old Love.

You’re. Too. Tired.

Cheating is exhausting. And for what? The thrill of having to do sex on someone? No thanks, says Old Love.

Old Love cheating is when on your own, you watch an episode of that show that you’re binging together. When he walks in and sees that little line at the bottom of the episode. Hey! Did you watch the finale of The Pitt without me??

What?! I didn’t know you’d be home so soon. It just dropped. I took a peek, and one thing led to another. It didn’t mean anything!

4. Old Love means more.

When I was in Young Love, I’d say things like, “I’ve been looking for you my whole life.”

Well, how long was that? I was 23. I’d been looking ten years, max. It’s nothing. Please.

But when you’re older and say, “I’ve been looking for you my whole life,” with your smiling eyes beaming through your crinkly crow’s feet, poised with one hand on your hip because your back always hurts a little on your left? That has WEIGHT. When you’ve been looking for your The One longer than Moses was wandering around?!! That’s EPIC. Even finding someone you like in your 40’s is a big deal. Because we don’t like anybody.

5. You can trust Old Love.

I used to walk in on boyfriends watching porn. Now, I walk in on Brian watching M*A*S*H*. This is an upgrade. At night, in bed together when we’re both on our screens, I look over and see him scrolling… trumpets.

Old Love is less “I do” and more... you’ll do.

In the best way.

And honestly? Worth the wait.

I’m teaching some fun comedy/story classes & more are on the way

Create Your Star Vehicle — live & online (take it from anywhere)

Sunday, May 17, 2pm–5pm Tickets here

Sunday, Aug 9 2pm–5pm Tickets here

Develop a TV show idea! In this fast 3-hour workshop, build your world, story, and characters. Everything you need to start your pilot script.

I’m working on a project with my friend Dave, and when we hopped on Zoom last Friday he stared down at his phone with a super-serious face, “Hey, I’m sorry, something’s going on. I’m trying to get hold of my wife.”

That’s alarming. Dave has two kids, so I immediately went to the bad place. Oh no. Their teeth fell out. Their arms came off. What happened?

Then he added, “Paul McCartney is playing tomorrow night at the Fonda. It’s like a 1,000-seat theater. We’re really trying to save money right now. But I have to go. I mean, I have to go, right?”

Ah. Now he’s consulting me. Suddenly I’m the ethics board for concert attendance. And I am happy to serve on that board. Who doesn’t want to Judge Judy their friends? We all do it behind their backs. Why not face-forward for once?

He was desperately texting her… Call me immediately, tried to call you. While telling me, “She’s going to kill me. We literally just had a big talk about this. But, I mean, he’s 83! I have to go…right?”

I was enjoying my front row seat at THIS concert.

Also, he’s clearly already made his decision.

He couldn’t get hold of her. So, he looked up at me and said, “She saw me try. She knows I tried.”

Then he logged on to get tickets. While I did my super fun bit of holding up my phone and declaring, “Oh my god! I just got the last 2 tickets to see Paul McCartney at the Fonda! I guess it’s all sold out now!!”

He looked both aghast and crestfallen. Two words I never use and will never use again. But for this moment, they’re the right words.

I enjoyed a good, gentle laugh in his face and at his expense, then told him to proceed. I did not steal his tickets. He bought 2 and we went on with work. Until 20 minutes later when he looked up and said, “Oh. This is my wife. Be right back.”

Screen goes blank.

I can’t stop laughing.

90 seconds later, he’s back.

“Yeah. She’s real mad.”

And I may never stop laughing.

I saw them both yesterday when Dave & I pitched to Netflix. Side note: it went well- yay! But may not be what they’re looking for- boo! So that’s a mixed bag.

But I got the in-person story from him and his wife, Lesley-Anne, who’s also a good friend of mine. AND THEIR STORY HAS SUCH A GOOD FOLLOW-UP!

Dave went to see Paul and landed in this pic. That’s him. In the blue circle. Third or fourth row.

Lesley-Anne decided not to go. She’s seen him several times and didn’t want to stand for six hours. Totally valid. And personally, I love seeing people NOT-do exactly what they want. Especially in couples. Do your own thing. Keep love alive!

But here’s the part and what made it the best story of my week:

There was such high demand for tickets that he sold the second one. And it paid for his! His Paul McCartney dream came true and was fully-funded by a stranger.

He bought two tickets to see a living Beatle in a thousand-seat venue, and one of the tix finances the whole night. Ticket. Parking. Maybe a drink. Maybe even a new car. I didn’t get into numbers with him.

I know it’s hokey but I think it’s that “follow your dreams and the universe conspires to make them come true” thing in action.

I also know that people scalp and even make a living doing similar stuff. But this was purely accidental. No scheming. Just simple econ supply and demand that worked out. Math that went his way. It’s win-win-win.

Plus, because I was witness to this, Lesley-Anne got to run something by me. She asked what I thought at first because when she was getting these texts: Call me immediately, tried to call you…she went to the bad place: Oh no. Their teeth fell out. Their arms came off. What happened?! I got to say, “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.” And I got a big THANK YOU!!! So she got some outsider, Judge Judy, validation. Which is something we really need in happy couplehood.

That’s Win-win-win---WIN.

I’m teaching some fun comedy/story classes! If you’re in LA, come on by.

Storytelling 101 — Los Angeles (In person) Saturday, April 11, 10am–1pm Tickets here

Storytelling 201 — Los Angeles (In person) Saturday, April 11, 2am–5pm Tickets here

& THIS ONE IS ONLINE + in person. If you think your life would make a great show, this is for you:

Create Your Star Vehicle — live & online (take it from anywhere) Sunday, May 17, 2pm–5pm Tickets here

It’s made me realize that comedy is my one true love. The thing I was drawn to before anything else. Except candy. Candy might have been my first boyfriend. But comedy’s been my longtime companion.

They’re making so few comedies now. I don’t mean to be the old guy holding court, but when I started writing TV. Back in (cough, cough) year, the Days of Yore, compared to now, anyway. I wrote on The George Lopez Show, his first sit-com. And there were something like 40 comedies on the air. This time of year was called pilot season. Networks would cast and produce 50 or so new comedy pilots. And all of us writers would be sent the scripts so we’d be ready to pounce if any of them went to series and might hire us. It was so great. Sometimes there was so much it was frustrating… “Ugh! How can I read ALL of these scripts?!” Oh, Young Laura. You didn’t know how good you had it.

This year I was sent 5 scripts. Which is about the same as the past 3 years in total. So, we’re on an upswing? Three years ago, I sold a show to NBC. They had made 2 pilots that year and moved forward with one (Lopez v Lopez). NBC! The network of Cheers, Seinfeld, 30 Rock, Must SEE TV!!! Only making 1 show??!! Also, I just realized George is a major figure in both of these moments. That’s seriously astounding staying power.

Now TV is mostly murder shows. I like them, but I don’t think ut speaks well about us as a nation that it’s all we watch. I’m not sure the takeaway, except that I think we’re real mad.

Anyway, I miss working on comedy shows and want to share a stand-up special with you now. It’s JACKIE KASHIAN!!!

Jackie Kashian’s new special came out this week and you can see it on YouTube here for totally free! And it’s worth WAY more than that!!!

Jackie is not quite a household name (though she is known in A LOT of households). But she is beloved by names you know. She’s a comic’s comic. Patton loves her. Maria Bamford tours with her. Marc Maron has championed her for years. And the New York Times wrote about her this week.

Jackie has a great mix of jokes and storytelling. It’s fun, like she’s taking you on an adventure. And it’s personal, like there’s nothing she won’t tell you. She shows all sides of herself onstage. The angry, the silly, the sexy! She’s the best. AND her dad Eliott Kashian paints pics of animals in sunglasses. Brian and I have one. Prized posession.

Jackie has the delightful quality of “comfy.” You feel like you’re hanging out with a friend. I mean, she is my friend. We went to Universal Studios a month ago, and 10 years ago. I think of it as our honeymoon. But I think she’ll feel like your friend, too. And maybe you’ll hang out with her at a theme park one day. I hope that for both of you.

Want to learn storytelling yourself? I’m teaching:

Storytelling 101 — Los Angeles (In person) Saturday, April 11, 10am–1pm Tickets here

Create Your Star Vehicle — Online (take it from anywhere) Sunday, May 17, 2pm–5pm Tickets here

Subscribe now

Now I can’t stop thinking about what a miracle it is to get sober. And a beyond-miracle to stay sober. Most people don’t make it. And not because there’s something wrong with them. But because that’s how powerful Addiction is. It’s a monster.

Her little sister was born when we were ten. I babysat her. I probably changed her diapers. Now we’re all old, and that baby is a grown woman with a son, and she had a blood alcohol content of .48.

.48. That’s coma territory. That’s the edge of death.

I hope she gets out of this.

I know so many people who didn’t. I’m only out of it a day at a time. We all are.

It Takes Everything

My brother was married and deeply in love. But she couldn’t get sober and they had to split up. It was so sad. She loved her kids more than anything. And I kept thinking of her when I went to her youngest son’s wedding. It was so unfair that I could be there and not her. I know she wanted to be there, but Addiction wouldn’t let her. She couldn’t stop drinking.

A few years later, at my brother’s wedding, I found out that she had drunk herself to death.

It’s a gut-wrenching loss. And so common.

Every Addiction Sucks

Addictions are horrible. And so confusing. From the outside it looks like, “Hey, Bub. I couldn’t help but notice your life is falling apart and so are your teeth, so…maybe hit pause on the booze?”

But you can’t just stop. Even if you want to stop. You can’t. That’s what makes it, duh, addiction.

From inside addiction, getting sober is giving up the ONE AND ONLY thing that makes you feel okay. The only thing that’s fun, or that quiets the brain-noise, or lets you sleep or feel like yourself, or gets you through the day. It’s the thing your body’s developed an insatiable craving for and your mind keeps thinking is the greatest thing in the world, even though it’s ruining your life.

You crave the thing that’s killing you.

In active addiction, the problem looks like the solution. And the solution looks like the problem.

Newly Sober Me

I was a mess. Divorced. Not working. I felt gross, ashamed, and defeated. But my hair was awesome. Kidding. Nothing was falling into place.

I had a guy-friend in program who along with many others, helped me get sober. He was sweet to me at a time when I felt completely unlovable. We went to movies and talked about them for hours, got froyo, and watched Lost. All these dorky, wholesome things. These 2 sober alcoholics! I used to do ex and go skinny dipping. And he’d been a crackhead. Now look at us, on It’s A Small World at Disneyland.

He shared a sober tradition with me. He’d stay up until midnight with me on my sober birthday so he could be the first to say happy anniversary. He gave out little billiard ball keychains to his friends, with the number of how many years we’d been sober. He helped instill in me the value of sobriety. Of celebrating sober milestones. Of how to have fun in this new sober life.

And sadly, he relapsed. He was smart and kind, and well-loved.

And found dead, alone in his apartment.

Addiction won anyway.

Recovery is the Exception

I think about the people I know who got sober and built extraordinary lives. My friend Morgan with her incredible family, creative career, thriving non-profit and 78 other endeavors. My friend Jane is celebrating 32 years this week. She was the first person I called when I admitted I was an alcoholic. She’s helped a sea of people in that time through her network of volunteer work she’s created. She created a holiday party every year for women in rehabs and their kids and she actively works in recovery. There’s not a good-to-do that she’s not a do-gooder for. My friend Jeff celebrated 40 years last month. He’s taught meditation for about half of that time, bringing peace to tons of people, all while acting in some of your favorite TV shows.

God Bless us, Everyone

Any addict, any day they don’t use, is experiencing a miracle. Literally, not poetically. I drank for twenty years. I keep thinking of what I’d be like now if I hadn’t stopped. If I’d even exist, which I don’t think I would.

Recovery is real. It’s just not the most common outcome. The odds are not in the addict’s favor. No matter how much they want sobriety. Maybe 30% of people get sober, and fewer stay sober. Who knows? It’s impossible to track who wanders into meetings or reaches out for help.

But I hope my friend’s little sister get it.

And for everyone who wanders in and asks for help, I hope they get it.

I always hope they get it.

I was talking to a friend today who is struggling with sugar. And there was an office party with cake and it spun her. Why is she the only person in the world who can’t eat sugar like a normal person?! Why does she feel the need to pump it directly into her veins like a rabid addict? Why does she fantasize that one piece of cake could be everlasting like a gobstopper? Why does she want to fly into the air and swoop down like a vampire on the cake and fang it, suck all the frosting out and make it immortal so they can live together forever? By her I mean me, obviously. But she did struggle with the ‘why aren’t I normal like everybody else’ piece.

Yo! Because no one’s normal. I mean, not that I’ve seen, for the most part. Even if people at the office party are “normal” with cake, I’m sure they have some other weird thing you’re choosing to overlook so you can be mad at yourself. My brother is normal in the sense that he’s quite reasonable and emotionally regulated. But to him, it’s fun to sit in a deer blind for 9 hours. So, what’s our standard of normalcy?

I’m teaching a storytelling class. Most everyone is new to storytelling. They’re not performers or writers. Just regular, lovely people who signed up for a class to learn how to tell their story. It’s week 2. And they were so upset that they were still editing. Why didn’t their story just come out like it does for David Sedaris?

They wondered, why are they so BAD AT THIS???!!!

Dude. Sedaris spends half his time editing. At least he said something like that in his master class. No one’s thing….just flows out of them perfectly. Except that day when Dolly Parton wrote I Will Always Love You and Jolene in the same day. That was truly something special. But generally, we’re all treading water and adjusting and changing, and retrying things, and just not there yet. For quite a while.

I had all kinds of wisdom to share via a famous Ira Glass quote. He talks about how when we’re starting to art, our taste is so good. So much better than we are. And it’s painful. We know enough to know we’re not good. And we just have to go through it. I shared this with big-hearted compassion and possibly a little inspo.

Then I had my writing class last night. That I’m taking. An hourlong drama writing class. I’ve written comedy over half my life but I’m trying something new. I’m on Week 2. The feedback on my beat sheet was something like “There’s some really good parts, but I’m not sure who I’m rooting for, or what the story is about exactly.”

And because I’ve been working with my students on being in the process and being easy on themselves, I was able to hear this productively. There are things I need to clarify. That’s okay. It’s part of the process. It’s normal.

Kidding! I wanted to die. My thought process was something like, F you, F this, this sucks. I shouldn’t be here. Why did I sign up for this? I’m not good at anything. Why was I born? I’m outta here!

It’s hard to be in the process. It’s hard to not be where I want to be. In AA we say “sometimes you’re in the hallway.” Just not there yet. Not in the room, but on your way.

And I think, I’m always in the hallway for something. And sometimes that hallway is like the one in the Shining—creepy, getting longer, and way too cold.

But…so are you! Right? I mean. I think that’s my point. Not to drag you down with me but I’ve always felt it was a long, lonely horrible hallway. Everyone one else is in the room where it happens. But if what I’m positing above is true. And I think it is. Then we’re hallway people. (The good people, not the jerkheads). My cake friend is there, my story class, and me constantly. Not my brother, he’s in a deer blind somewhere.

The hallway is probably the most crowded place. The most normal place. The place to be.

I was headed to OWN. Harpo. I was going to meet Oprah. And I was going to get noticed, be in with her. Finally belong.

Look, it’s not that unreasonable. I have ins with Opes. For one, we have the same meditation practice. It’s 10,000 years old, so there’s plenty to say about it. Plus, my friend Arna is friends with Oprah. Okay, Arna’s my therapist. And back when she was a producer, they worked at the same station and ate lunch together for years, way before Oprah was OPRAH.

So, I wasn’t going to freak out when I saw her, or just say, “Oh my god, I LOVE you!!” Or worse, “MY MOM loves you!” I was going to say, “Arna says hello.” And I knew exactly how that would go. Charm City and I’d be the mayor. At first Oprah would continue walking, assuming I’m just another dumb sycophant. Then she’d hear the name of her beloved friend from the past... “Arna!” She’d ask the camera crew following-her-at-all-times to take a break. Then she’d put her arm around me and say, “Did you say Arna? I think about her every day. Thank you, child, for messaging her to me.” And I’d go on to share what our mutual friend is up to. We’d laugh together. She’d look at her watch and say, “Shoot. I have a meeting. Hold on.” Then she’d get on her phone and cancel it. Then we’d walk down the street and split a slice of sweet potato pie, one of her Favorite Things. Then I’d get my own show on OWN and/or eventually become her most trusted development executive.

That’s not exactly what happened.

I got the call to go write for Rosie O’Donnell’s new talk show at Harpo. Rosie’s all comedy, and Harpo is all spirituality. Comedy plus spirituality? That’s my jam. This must be one of those cosmic coincidences people talk about but no one ever really experiences. Yes!!!

I flew to Chicago on a Thursday. On Friday, I got a tummy ache. And by Sunday I was screaming with pain into a pillow, then a few hours later I was having my appendix removed at Northwestern Hospital. Oddly, this was not the most painful experience I had at this job.

But I was still excited. I worked at Harpo! The Holy O. The uterus of cable TV.

It was amazing! I had an office. Everyone was fun. We even did a tribute to Phyllis Diller.

Meeting Oprah

I wanted to meet Oprah. The first time I saw Oprah was during a test taping. I had assumed I’d see Oprah daily. That it wouldn’t even be a big deal. Maybe even annoying, having to hear It’s Llllllaaaauuuurrrrraaaaaa Hhhhhooooouuuusssseeeee every day. Okay, Oprah, I get it. Settle down. But she wasn’t actually around that much.

One day, I was sitting in the hallway outside the studio, producering, when something caught my eye. Through a little window on a big door, I caught the shadow of the back of a person and I knew it was her. Would you know your own mother? Would you know god, herself? The answer is yes.

She was wearing black sweats and a white t-shirt. But nice, form-fitting. I assume they were two of her Favorite Things.

The Rosie sign was flashing purple and pink. The red taping light was on. Three people were comparing their Uggs by craft service. One was eating half a bagel.

Oprah was in that little room talking to people. Then she turned and started coming my way. I mentally prepared. HellofromArna HellofromArna HellofromArna. I had a connection. I had something to say other than, “Wow! You’re Oprah!” I had something to offer other than common fanfare.

And when she opened that door, only a few feet away from me. I took a deep breath, prepared myself, and as she walked toward me, I…. burst into tears.

Crying! Tears poured out and I couldn’t stop them. The same way my appendix had ruptured. They just burst out of me. I was completely overwhelmed. Years, nay decades, of this woman were in my brain, nay my soul.

She was saying hello to people and walking with purpose pretty much like any normal person at work. And I was staring and sobbing, as if my mom forgot to pick me up from pre-school. No! It was nothing like that. It was more like how you cry at great art. Or a beautiful sunset. I was moved. I was Oprahed.

My head writer put her hand on my knee and sweetly warned, “Don’t do that.”

I had blown it. There was Oprah. I could see her. I could smell her. I could touch her. But I couldn’t talk to her, because I was too moved to tears. Like an idiot.

She continued down the hall and I felt like a doof. Then my head writer whispered, “I did the same thing when I saw her.”

Oprah Tried to Get Me Drunk

I saw Oprah again a week later. The Friday guest on our first week was Valerie Harper. Rhoda!! We were told after the show to report to the Cookie Room. This was our common area where we had team meetings and it was full of snacks, including but not limited to cookies. On this day, it was full of Mexican food and cookies. Oprah and her camera crew greeted Rosie and her camera crew. And Valerie Harper, just stood there, camera crew-less.

Oprah gave a big speech. And where did she stand to give this speech? Right behind me! It was so incredibly awkward! Or was it an amazing opportunity? Oprah is big on the Universe telling you stuff. And this really seemed like the Universe was telling me, “Bitch, turn around and talk to Opes! I put her right THERE!” But I couldn’t even figure out how to sit. She was directly behind me. When I sat facing forward, my back was to her. But what was I supposed to do, twist around and stare into her belly button?

I didn’t realize how weird it was where I was sitting until she started talking, so I couldn’t just get up and walk away while she was waxing poetic about how great it was that Rosie was there and what a great journey OWN is having. I thought about moving to sit on the floor, but that would be so distracting. Plus, it’s being filmed, not just by Oprah’s camera crew, and not just by Rosie’s camera crew, but we’re in a room full of tiny web cams. Harpo’s like Nixon – they record everything.

So, I just twisted awkwardly and tried to look up and over to her. Trying to look normal and also trying not to tear out any appendix stitches. And, honestly, trying to smell her. She must truly smell amazing.

At the end of her talk, Oprah invited us all to dig into the food. And said she’d be in the back of the room pouring tequila shots to anybody who wanted one. She literally said, Who wants ttttteeeqqqqiiiillllaaaaaaa?!!!!!!

ME!!! I want Oprah-poured tequila!! But I was four years sober!! I wanted another shot (so to speak) with Oprah, but I was afraid to go over there. Because if I’m going to chuck years of sobriety for anything, it’d definitely be for Oprah. I kind of wondered if it would even count. I mean, if Oprah pours you a drink, does it really end your sobriety? It’s Oprah! Bill W. would understand!!

When she finished talking, a flurry of people rushed her and I realized that’s her life. Cameras and people following her and asking her for stuff and saying something important to them that she doesn’t have any memory of. People pawing at her.

She was right there. Right there for me to say something. This time I wasn’t crying, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

The camera crew started moving her out of the room. Some people followed, but the understood message was, “Don’t follow.”

So, I didn’t. I blew it. Again.

Then I got fired. Then the rest of my team got fired. Then Rosie got fired. And that was the last time I saw Oprah in person.

The Oprah Sundae

I have mixed feelings now but I really did love Oprah.

I’ve done so many things she’s asked us, as women of America, to do. Even her boot camp years ago, which was intense. Don’t eat anything white, work up to working out two hours a day. Online, there was a list of snacks she liked to “indulge” in: herbal tea, 12 almonds. Ugh. But one was called The Oprah Sundae. Hm. Intriguing. Here’s how to make it: take a handful of Shredded Wheat. Top it off with some fresh blueberries. Then (wait for it) on top of all that – put a little bit of milk! Look, I know it’s cereal. And you know it’s cereal. But Oprah’s been rich a long time and, I guess, she’s started calling food by other words. It’s a gastronomic version of positive thinking.

I regret that when I met her I didn’t say Hi from Arna. Or, Hey I teach the meditation that we both do.

But my biggest regret is that I didn’t get to thank her, hug her, and while holding her close, whisper in her ear: Hey, it’s not a sundae. THAT’S CEREAL!

UPCOMING CLASSES

I’m teaching Storytelling at the Crow in LA starting Jan 31. I’ll offer it online soon. Let me know if you’re interested.

Go on a narrative journey where the humor is derived from a personal story of yours, versus stand-up, which is often a high-density “joke delivery system.”

I’m also teaching CREATE YOUR STAR VEHICLE. If you’re a performer interested in creating a show around yourself, come build the blueprint for it. This will also be offered online soon. Let me know if you’re interested.

This 3-hour workshop helps you create YOUR idea that showcases YOUR funny. It’s a fun, fast-paced class with lots of exercises to generate your lead and supporting characters, the world, stories, episodes, and series. Everything you need before you start your pilot script.

UPCOMING BRIAN GIGS

Like Jazz? Brian’s Quintet plays the wonderful Sam First club in LA Mar 11 & you can get tix to watch it online from anywhere!

Mar 11 - The Brian Swartz Quintet - Sam First, Los Angeles, CA

Like Boingo? Brian’s in the band reboot featuring 5 orig members & they’ve got gigs coming up:
Mar 13 - Oingo Boingo Former Members - House of Blues, Anaheim, CA

Mar 14 - Oingo Boingo Former Members - Stage Red, Fontana, CA

Nothing great is going on and there’s certainly nothing in the news that’s cheery. We just took over Venezuela, is that right? And people are still being kidnapped off the streets? What was I even talking about. Ah, happiness.

Even though I got bad work news. Still feeling happy. That’s new. More on that later.

I’ve looked for it a lot. As a semi-normal young person, I wanted excitement and adventure. As a kid, I traveled when I could. Growing up in Grand Prairie, I had the distinct feeling that happiness was elsewhere. I joined a church where groups of kids went on choir and mission trips. I got to go to Boston and Seattle, and Kansas City for some reason. In high school I became a foreign exchange student, lived in Norway for a year, and traveled to London, France, Scotland, and Germany for some reason. A little later, in college, I looked for excitement in experiences. In parties, drinking, boys, and drinking. And pills and boys and drinking.

After I got sober, I looked for happiness in spiritual stuff, where they say it really is. I meditated my head off. Went to India where they seemed to know more about it. Went up in the Himalayan mountains and dove into the Ganges River.

It was all great.

But I can’t help but notice that lately, happiness is sitting on the sofa petting our newly adopted dog, Mouse. Especially if Brian’s here, too, and the TV is on Culinary Class Wars. But not the part where they say the next episode drops in a few weeks. The parts before that are way better.

My friend Mo came up for a visit this weekend from San Diego. For a long time, I lived in apartments with no extra room. Then in one place, we finally got an uncomfortable sofa bed someone could stay on. No one you liked, but still. That was exciting to have some space to offer. Then we got a house, but it was in Texas and during Covid and no one really came to visit. My dream would be to have a house where a guest can have their own private space. We’re not quite there yet, but we do have a place where I can convert my office into a guest room. It doesn’t have a private, en suite bathroom. But we do have two, and the guest bathroom is nearby. And we basically just promise not to use it while we have guests.

And it was just so nice to have my friend here. We just watched BritBox and played Bananagrams and talked sometimes and did our own thing sometimes.

It was bliss.

I was taught in meditation learning that bliss isn’t ecstatic thrill energy. It’s “supreme inner contentedness.” I never wanted contentedness. That’s so lame. And BORING. I wanted thrill and fun and not Grand Prairie. I wanted more.

Now I don’t. (Much).

On Saturday we went to Mo’s son, Jack’s improv class show. It was awesome. I can’t believe that some part of me enjoyed an improv class graduation show. Good luck explaining that to 20-year-old me. But I did. Thoroughly. Because it makes him so happy. And Mo is so happy when he’s happy. And –yeah, I’m starting to make myself a little sick, too—but it was just a swirl of happiness.

On Sunday we went out to sushi. I got the cod which I never do. And yes, it was a joy-inducing entree. But not enough to write about. I mean, I’ll definitely get it again. And might seek out more cod spots to go to. But I’m trying to say it’s not about the fish. Though, if you haven’t had cod lately, I strongly recommend. And it was Black Cod. Is there another kind? I don’t know. My point is, what was so happiness-y about it was just that this 20+ year-old dude came to be with us. I loved hearing about his life and how he thinks about the world.

This week I also got some bad work news. A pilot script I wrote with my friend Dave was in contention at a studio. And we got an official pass this week. It hurts. It’s a real disappointment. But here’s the weird thing: even that can’t quite kill this little buzz of happiness I’ve got going. That’s not not a miracle.

I’m also deeply happy for my brother. My super smart, super successful big brother. For a long, long time—longer than I even want to admit to myself—decades… I wasn’t especially happy for other people. I mean, kind of I was. Intellectually, I guess. But without the contentedness feeling, I don’t think I could really be happy for someone else. I think I was too jealous of everybody to be genuinely happy for anybody.

This week, my brother broke ground on building a house. And that’s a big deal for anyone, really. But for him it’s epic. I’m from a family of hunters. At least my dad was and so was his dad, and I assume it goes back way further. Dad always leased land to hunt on. About 25 years ago, my brother bought a weekend property for hunting. My dad was thrilled. He never had to lease land again. It even has a lake on it, so they could fish when they wanted, too.

My brother thought maybe one day he’d build his dream house near that lake on his property.

He got married. Like most marriages, it was great at first. But then she couldn’t get sober. It got bad. About as bad as it can get with drama and violence and tragedy. They divorced and my brother was single. But he had my dad nearby. Then in 2019, my dad passed away. For a while my brother was single and untethered. He works remotely and went and lived on his ranch alone for a year.

Then he met Susan. Matt’s best friend is married to Susan’s best friend. They were set up. And after that first date they never stopped talking. Then they got married. Then they planned their dream house.

And this week they broke ground on that house. Actually, this week the foundation got poured. But they already had a foundation of happiness. Now they have concrete, too.

My brother is getting his dream house with his dream girl after waiting for so long. I couldn’t be happier for him. And not that long ago I don’t know if I could have been happy for him at all.

I’m thrilled for both of them to have what they want.

I know when I visit, for sure they’ll lots of extra space and I’ll have my own room. Ironically, I’m a little jealous of that.

UPCOMING CLASSES

I’m teaching Storytelling at the Crow in LA starting Jan 31. I’ll offer it online soon. Let me know if you’re interested.

Go on a narrative journey where the humor is derived from a personal story of yours, versus stand-up, which is often a high-density "joke delivery system.”

I’m also teaching CREATE YOUR STAR VEHICLE. If you’re a performer interested in creating a show around yourself, come build the blueprint for it. This will also be offered online soon. Let me know if you’re interested.

This 3-hour workshop helps you create YOUR idea that showcases YOUR funny. It’s a fun, fast-paced class with lots of exercises to generate your lead and supporting characters, the world, stories, episodes, and series. Everything you need before you start your pilot script.

UPCOMING BRIAN GIGS

Like Jazz? Brian’s Quintet plays the wonderful Sam First club in LA Mar 11 & you can get tix to watch it online from anywhere!

Mar 11 - The Brian Swartz Quintet - Sam First, Los Angeles, CA

Like Boingo? Brian’s in the band reboot featuring 5 orig members & they’ve got gigs coming up:
Mar 13 - Oingo Boingo Former Members - House of Blues, Anaheim, CA

Mar 14 - Oingo Boingo Former Members - Stage Red, Fontana, CA

This weekend I hit 441,871 meters in row classes. What a big, weird win. I didn’t try to do that. It was never my plan. To paraphrase Forrest Gump, I just kept rowing.

I can’t believe it.

It’s 274.6 miles. That’s the distance from LA to Las Vegas. Like, I rowed from my front door to the Luxor lobby.

That’s a big change. For years, I had some health issues, like neuropathy tingling in my hands and feet. But I didn’t realize how bad things had gotten. Which seems impossible. I was over 100 pounds overweight and… couldn’t see it? It’s baffling. Truly. I kept thinking, “it’ll turn around soon.” But it didn’t. It kept not turning around. I kept starting-trying and then abandoning the effort. But somewhere in all my kept-trying-ness, I actually kept trying. And finally asked for help and got it. First with food, then movement.

I got gym-curious. I used to just make ridiculous plans that I never followed through with. Or alternated boot camps with food binges. It’s called balance! But then I shifted to: I’ll try it and if I hate it, I never have to go again. I just wanted to find some kind of physical something I didn’t hate. Like my month of trampolining.

Then I found row classes. No one’s more shocked than me that I like it. Mainly, I like the music, and that it’s dark, and that class only 45 minutes not an hour. But my very fave part is that we get to sit the whole time. More exercise should be sit-based. I went some on Class Pass. Then tried a monthly membership, just for a few months. And a few turned to seven. And somehow, I’m approaching 500,000 meters on that thing. I’m genuinely stunned. I asked the internet how far that is, for perspective. Turns out—

• That’s rowing LA to San Diego and back PLUS a trip to Tijuana for tacos

• It’s rowing the English Channel 13 times

• Rowing up and down Mt. Everest 50 times

• Rowing up 997 Empire State Buildings stacked on top of each other

• And past 41,420 Dunkin’ Donuts stores lined up. And there’s only 9,000 in the US. So, I rowed by EVERY Dunkin’ in America 4.1 times

• & right by 4,970,427 donuts I didn’t eat. A double-metaphor, double-win!!!

This is something I never expected. Never planned. Just kept doing a habit and ended up with this number. My mom always preached moderation and action. That ‘slow and steady wins the race.’ Which I always rejected. Yawn city. It’s so annoying that she was right.

For me, the “someday it’ll turn around” never came. What did come were a zillion tiny tries that added up one meter at a time.

I’m not going to row much anymore, so I probably won’t hit that 500k. Going to shift to a regular gym to save money. But maybe I’ll get into weight lifting. Maybe this time next year I’ll have bench pressed 1000 teen giraffes or something. Who knows?

What’s your big, weird win?

UPCOMING

I’m teaching writing and coaching comedy quite a bit now and on Jan 31 I’m teaching a Write Your Star Vehicle Workshop ($55+) ONLINE and in-person at The Crow Comedy Club. It’s for performers who want to create a show for themselves, but also works for any comedy script writer.

I’m also teaching Advanced Stand-Up & Storytelling classes. Right now they’re in-person, but soon they’ll be on zoom, too. Let me know if you’re interested.

Some faves:

Life of Chuck

Marty Supreme

Is This Thing On

Jay Kelly

Wake Up Dead Man

Rental Family

Bugonia

All of You

One Battle After Another

Weapons

Blue Moon

Ballad of a Small Player

Life of Chuck. Life-affirming, hopeful, beautiful, interesting, magical. Based on a Stephen King novella, inspired by this African proverb: “When an old man dies, a library burns to the ground.” The only movie this year I whole-heartedly recommend.

Marty Supreme. Second favorite movie this year. A great ride full of surprises. Fran Drescher is unrecognizable, in a good way. Penn Jillette, too. Oddly, the guy from Shark Tank is great in it. It helped that we had zero-to-low expectations.

One Battle After Another. After the first half-hour, it’s great. Loved Leo in the second half, Sean Penn in the first, and Benicio Del Toro the whole time. My friend Laurie Kilmartin said, “Sean Penn is so funny.” Which is the last word I’d use for his performance, but was a great lens through which to watch.

Jay Kelly I enjoyed it, but should I have? It delves into the big questions, like What did I do with my life? and Did it matter? I’m an iconically giant movie star, Was it even worth anything, really?

Frankenstein. I’m not a horror movie person. But I do like Gothic English literature. And have always appreciated that Mary Shelley wrote it on a dare. Finally, we get a hot Frankenstein! No offense to Peter Boyle. My main reference for Frankenstein is Young Frankenstein, so when it got to the part about the blind man, I thought of Gene Hackman the whole time.

Song Sung Blue. My mom loved Neil Diamond, so so do I. It’s fun to have Neil songs get stuck in your head for a week, but it’s a sad story. Great performances by Kate, Hugh, and the little sister from Henry Danger who looks stunningly like Taylor Tomlinson. Good luck getting Hugh in tighty-whities out of your head.

Ela McKay It’s James L Brooks- yayy!!! But it’s not that good –booo!! We saw it at a screening where Albert Brooks spoke and that was a treat. The lead is Maeve from Sex Education who’s great. But the story just doesn’t track. Why is she governor suddenly?

All of You A Brett Goldstein film. Yum. And stars Imogen Poots – great name! Premise: a service tells you who your soulmate is. We sift through the pros and cons of that. It’s not great, but it’s a kinda lovely friendship romance.

Blue Moon. 1940’s Broadway, a bitter-happy-drunk Lorenz Hart is at Sardi’s the night Oklahoma opens. There are other actors, but it’s essentially a film-length monologue for Ethan Hawke. He does all the heavy lifting. And it’s Linklater. I was at UT when Slacker came out and I’ll love him forever. It’s interesting.

Hedda Jazzy, fun, Ibsen retelling. Tessa Thompson can do anything. More Poots!

Is This Thing On Will Arnett is charming. Makes stand-up look oddly easy. Like, if you’re kinda good, comics are nice to you, even though you’re twice their age. And in a few weeks, you’re booked on Friday night showcases at the Comedy Cellar. Kind of a weird message. But it’s a sweet romance story.

Begonia Yorgos Lanthimos loves weird, painful stuff. Wasn’t sure I could watch it all but Stone and Plemons compelled me. Takes an interesting turn then an even more interesting turn. It’s stuck with me. It’ll make you think, and also feel a little sick.

Wake up Dead Man The Knives Out movies have grown on me and this is my favorite. I’m loving Daniel Craig in this more and more. Would like the next one to focus on him and Hugh Grant.

Sinners Interesting spot for a vampire movie. And 2 Michael B. Jordans are a great idea.

Springsteen Deliver me from Nowhere Wanted to like it. But it feels like a very cleaned-up version of the man. I’m a huge fan of Jeremy Allan White, but this is a heavy-handed impression. Why the head cock at all times? How heavy is Bruce’s head?! Every Bruce line was rock starry and unreal. Odd for a guy who presents himself as “just a regular working-class man.” Jeremy Strong, though. What a weird, subtle, dead-eyed performance. Give him and his mustard turtleneck an award.

Weapons I’m not into horror, especially if it has to do with kids or clowns. And this is both, kinda. But it’s great. Julia Garner is incredible in Ozark and Inventing Anna, and this, and everything. Amy Madigan was hard to watch in the beginning, but it all turned out to be necessary.

Rental Family I’m worried about Brendan Frasier. He’s looked on the verge of tears for a few years. Sending hugs. He’s heart-breakingly sweet in this. Fan. Beautiful film inside and out.

Waltzing with Brando WowieZowie! Have you heard of this? Well, it’s an epic Billy Zane vanity project that’s almost so bad it’s good. Napoleon Dynamite has visit Brando on his private Polynesian island, and has to deal with Brando WHO IS Billy Zane, produced by Billy Zane. I think Zane’s thought about himself as Brando for a long time and finally made it happen. In a way it’s inspiring. We should all have such healthy Billy Zane egos.

Wicked for Good - I liked the first one better. Could be because I didn’t like the end of the Wizard of Oz itself. My mom made me watch it and I hid under the table when there were flying monkeys. But I do love Wicked the stage show. and love Winnie Holtzman. I cannot believe Jonathan Bailey is Fiyero and the dorky unappealing nerd in Jurassic World. Good for him.

Jurassic World I know you can’t complain about a dinosaur movie, because you just watch for the dinosaurs. But the first one was great, asking what if science could bring dinosaurs back. And, of course, we’d start a theme park. Here, it’s a world where you see dinosaurs around, like you might see an escaped zoo animal. And then gets dumb from there. And Lincoln Lawyer takes his kids on a boat ride and they end up on Dinosaur Skull Island.

Superman Makes no sense but I liked the dog

Ballad of a Small Player should be called hungry ghost. Colin Farrell is a gambler having a hard time. He is great. It is fine. Gorgeous cinematography.

After the Hunt Was so hard to watch that we stopped and I had to go back in later. Slow, boring. Hard to care about any of the relationships. It’s an important topic but everyone was kind of a bad guy stuck in their own bs. I’m not saying I’m not a bad guy stuck in my own bs, but it’s not my fave thing in a film.

Anniversary Diane Lane and Kyle Chandler. It’s about a Charlie Kirk kind of movement, but female-led. And from a liberal academia point of view, it’s sort of a Dystopian nightmare. But it’s heightened and feels cartoonish in a way.

Eddington Not a huge fan, though Joaquin Phoenix and Pedro Pascal are great. It’s trying to capture Maga lines being drawn and I think that’s hard to do without seeming preachy, condemny, or cartoonish. This kind of hits all three.

Friendship with Tim Robinson and Paul Rudd. It’s very Tim Robinson. And he’s great at I’m the weird guy cringe comedy and this is very that.

Hamnet I couldn’t into it, but honestly I wasn’t paying that much attention. It’s a high drama about a high drama within a high drama. I think. It’s possible I don’t reach the maturity level to get it.

House of Dynamite Love Kathryn Bigelow but this feels like watching three episodes of a good Netflix show that somehow suddenly got unfunded and didn’t finish.

Highest to Lowest made me want to watch High and Low.

If I had Legs, I’d kick You Really cool filming choice to not see the daughter and to get us discombobulated like Rose is with scattered shots up top. Compelling.

The Last Bus Good movie but it was on Apple, so it feels like a TV movie. But what a great, important story. A bus driver who wasn’t treated well risked so much to save kids with their teacher, America Ferrara.

Materialists - Fun poster.

Merrily We Roll Along I couldn’t get into it. It’s a musical about a play about a musical maybe? About a play? But also it’s the movie version. I don’t know.

Mickey 17 It’s fun. And, of course, if we could carbon-copy people we’d use them for experiments.

Nuremberg I can’t watch this. Is there more to say about this horrible era? I feel like it’s been covered.

Upcoming:

I’m teaching writing and coaching comedy quite a bit now and on Jan 31 I’m teaching a Write Your Star Vehicle Workshop ($55+) ONLINE and in-person at The Crow Comedy Club. It’s for performers who want to create a show for themselves, but also works for any comedy script writer.

I’m also teaching Advanced Stand-Up & Storytelling classes. Right now they’re in-person, but soon they’ll be on zoom, too. Let me know if you’re interested.

Happy New Year!

I even love that “GOALs!” became an expression. My GOALS are goals. So, this is my time of year.

But what I can’t stand anymore is the subtext of a lot of new year’s goals. Like, “New year, new you.” I get it, but it takes me back to my How to Hate Yourself days. I was kidding but also not at all kidding.

I used to dive into goal-setting this time of year with agitated desperation. Something like, “I hate who I am today & it’d be cool to be a whole other person next year. So here’s a list of stuff I should do, but kinda hate to do, but will FINALLY MAKE myself do!!! Or die trying!!! Yayyyy!” New year new me!!!

So many lists! Exclamation marks! CAPS!!!

DRINK MORE WATER! GET UP AT 5:30 AM! DRINK GREEN TEA! START RUNNING! START WITH JOGGING OR WALKING, GET UP TO 2-3 MILES BY MARCH! 15 BY SEPTEMBER! LOSE THAT WEIGHT FINALLY! ALL OF IT! DO JENNY CRAIG IF YOU HAVE TO! BE MORE THOUGHTFUL! STAY ON TOP OF CARDS AND PRESENTS! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?! WHY AREN’T YOU A BETTER HYDRATED, FITTER, THINNER, MORE THOUGHTFUL FRIEND???!!!

For a long time, December was a time of remembrance, giving, and screaming at myself for not being better.

Why didn’t I do more this year?! Nothing Past Me did was ever enough for Now Me. But Now Me had a great solution – just pile on a bunch of assignments for Next Year Me! Duh. Good luck, January Laura!

I don’t do that anymore. Mostly because it didn’t work.

I really, really tried. But if yelling at myself fixed me, I’d have been perfect by age 13.

Seriously. I read my first self-help book in high school. My reasoning was, “I’m gonna read this book and figure myself out now, before I even have any problems.” NBD, I just literally tried to circumvent the human experience.

So. Now it’s Old Me, New Approach.

I still go down the rabbit hole of goal setting. I genuinely still love it.

It’s just more habit related. I’ve experienced some massive changes. I’m 18 years sober and down 110 pounds. Both of these things are sort of, for me, actually impossible. I did both through 12 step rooms, so really that’s what I’ve found that works for me to change. But if I were to describe my method of change, I’d say the secret sauce is this:

mind-numbingly boring, incremental changes

I almost never see that advertised. “Mind-Numbingly Boring” is just not clickbait anymore, I guess. Weird.

This year, I jumped into a focus group that my friend Gemma started. Twice a week I gather with some ladies to co-work. We read from “War of Art,” then say what we want to get done. We set a timer for 15 minutes and get one small thing done “fast and furious.” Like, send that email, pay that bill. Then we set a timer for 30 minutes to do work that takes longer. Then we take a break. Then have 2 more 30-minute sessions. I’m making it sound like we work diligently that whole time and we absolutely don’t. There’s a lot of coffee and side talk and playing with her dog, Murphy. And saying we’ll start on time, but not quite doing it. BUT for all of us, we get more done than we did without it. And Murph enjoys the attention, so everybody’s happy.

Turns out, Gemma is into goals like me and after she went down her own “what’s the best way ever to do goals” rabbit hole, she sent us her findings. Actually, she said, “It’s really long but it was way longer, but my ADHD coach helped me get it down to 3 parts!”

I like how it frames the year and that it includes listing highlights. I’m a big fan of counting the wins. The brain is Velcro for defeat and Teflon for wins. We really have to note them.

It’s a lot. I’ve spent 2 weeks on this, off and on, and am still not quite done. But again, I love this stuff. And if you were ever freaky for a slick, new Trapper Keeper, this might be up your alley, too. So I’m sharing.

And please let me know what you do, because I’m always tweaking this stuff.

Part 1: The Yearly Audit - Mel Robbins

From Podcast: How to Make Next Year the Best Year: Ask Yourself These 7 Questions

1. What are the highlights of 2025?

2. What are the harder aspects of the past year for you?

3. What did you learn about yourself over the past 12 months?

4. What are the things you want to STOP doing and not bring into the next year?

5. What do you want to CONTINUE doing in the next year?

6. What do you want to START doing for real in the coming year? What really matters to you?

7. What can you do today to take that first step now that you have a set of directions?

PART 2: Three Things to Change Your Life - Jesse Itzler

Watch the vid - Three Things to Change Your Life

1. MISOGI CHALLENGE

What’s one extremely difficult thing you want to do this year? (Something so hard you’re uncertain of the outcome - this becomes your defining experience) Set a Target Date:

2. KEVIN’S RULE: Six Mini-Adventures

Plan six memorable experiences throughout the year (one every two months- they don’t have to be expensive)

1.

2

3.

4.

5.

6.

3. FOUR WINNING HABITS - one per quarter

Q1:

Q2:

Q3:

Q4:

Part 3: My 2026 Vision (Write as if it already happened)

Imagine yourself waking up one year from today. Now grab a pen and paper and answer the following questions as if what you want has already happened:

· What does your ideal life look like? As you look back on the past year, what have you achieved -- personally, professionally, financially, in your relationships and health?

· Who have you become? What personal qualities, habits, beliefs and behaviors have you developed?

· How do you feel? What emotions come up as you picture bringing this vision to life?

Visualize your ideal day in detail -- from the moment you wake up to the second your head hits the pillow. This is about big picture, blue sky thinking. Allow yourself to really dream and journal or free write your ideal scenario.

When you begin with the end in mind, you will uncover the goals and actions needed to bring this vision to life!

Let me know how it goes. And here’s to a great new year, same you!!

Apparently, you sign up thinking you’ll foster. But then you bond, because they’re dogs and perfect and magical. And then when someone comes to take them away, you can’t stand it and instead hoard keep them for yourself because you don’t have a heart of bricks.

But I wanted to try. When we lost Minnie a few months ago, Brian and I were bereft. I didn’t want to lose her but she was hurting and miserable. When it was clear she was going to exit, we were so sad. But also…a tiny part of my brain started making little mental plans for the time that we wouldn’t have a dog. Can you imagine traveling without paying for pet sitters? Or all the money we’d save on vet bills? We’d put that toward the travel, obviously! Or what about being away from home for longer than 6 hours. Imagine!

And then about 4 microseconds after she passed, I was like, I DON’T WANT TO TRAVEL! I WANT TO SIT ON THE SOFA WITH MY DOG!!!

I started getting weird.

Some may question the word ‘started’ above.

But I started looking for bulldogs online. When I got Minnie from my friend, Andrea. She’d told me that’s what she’d done after her beloved bulldog passed. Now I was internet dog hunting. I was always dog scrolling. Like a teen discovering porn for the first time only nothing gross and probably actually nothing like that. I’m just saying I spent a lot of time on it and became pre-occupied. I went dog-crazy.

A friend of mine fosters dogs, which I’d never heard of. I just thought you went to the pound. Turns out, there’s all these rescue agencies and they need fosters just to let the dog chill for a while. Give them a safe place to land and decompress, so they can get used to a home, or recover from surgery, then get adopted.

I brought it up to Brian, who tears up at the mere mention or memory of Minnie and he said no. It’s too soon. Also, he explained that he doesn’t just miss A dog, he misses OUR dog.

Me too!!! I’m not a monster. Of course I miss OUR dog!!! But our dog is not an option any more. And I feel weird admitting this and only learned this about myself recently but I nneeeedd a cuddly little creature to love and care for and feed and pet. Brian said I could just love him. Ugh. Whatever. He was a pretty firm no. And to foster, I’d need him to walk or feed the dog if I didn’t feel like it wasn’t able to for some good reason.

A week after the convo, I did a comedy show called One Liner Madness where 64 comics compete March-Madness-bracket-style with one-liners. I was out in the first round but the proceeds went to – guess what—A DOG RESCUE. As they explained to the audience that fostering saves dogs’ lives because it frees up space to rescue another dog. I looked up at Brian with my big puppy dog eyes. You know what this is? A SIGN!

He lost. I won. We’re fosters.

Meet Felix.

He’s the exact opposite of what I’m used to. I’m a bully breed, squish-face, smoosh-nose dog person. I fan girl when I see a Frenchie. Minnie was a too cool for school, chill, lady bulldog. And they gave us this 10-pound, hyper, terrier boy.

It took me all of a few minutes into the 20 minute drive home with him, to fall in love. I see why fosters fail.

He’d just gotten out of surgery from getting fixed. And here was this sweet little helpless creature that I wanted to nurture and make him feel safe in the world. We bonded. After a couple days the convo turned to, “We’re gonna keep him, right?”

Then he healed up from surgery. It was like he was shot out of a meth cannon.

He was hyper on walks and playing in the backyard. He was suddenly like suddenly 10 dogs. We could keep up. I mean, kind of. Mostly. We’re old but in shape. Ish. He’s super fun and inarguably adorable. Just so much.

And we realized, oh. He was recovering from surgery. Our perfect version of this guy is like, half-speed. We didn’t feel like we could adopt. And not just for us. He’d be so bored. I felt like he needed a home with 3 kids under 10. Where there’s a lot going on. Brian and I are super fun nappers. I write and teach meditation. Brian plays trumpet. Felix won’t get his needs met with two lazy, middle aged work-from-home jerks. Felix deserves more.

And adopter came along and called. He’s a dapper Welshman. About our age. He explained that he has a dog maybe Felix would be able to temper his dog and keep him company.

I was stunned. THAT’S NOT THE LIFE I HAD IN MIND FOR FELIX.

I was suddenly really opinionated and knew EXACTLY what Felix needed. He wanted Felix to socialize his dog. And I’m over here like, no, no, THERE SHOULD BE THREE KIDS. Maybe the older kid can be in high school, fine, but definitely some little kids under 12 at the most. I had to catch myself. Okay, I don’t get to control this. I don’t know what Felix needs, and it’s ridiculous to think that I do. We’re fostering. There’s not a genie lamp I get to make a Felix wish on.

David came to pick up Felix, and as soon as he left, Brian teared up. We really loved the little guy.

I didn’t cry. Not because I’m a monster. I had really come to terms with it. We’re fostering, we want him to get adopted. This is the goal. We’re good foster parents. Plus, I might be a monster. Honestly, I thought maybe it won’t work out and then maybe he keeps getting bounced back to us and maybe that’s how we’ll know he’s truly ours and it’s been decided by The Fates.

Later that day, David sent a video of Felix and his dogs getting along. Then I cried.

I had not only not realized that I’d made up A LOT of stories about what should happen and exactly how it should go. I realized I’d gotten beautifully attached.

In a surprise twist, David brought Felix back the next day. It was too much with the 2 dogs. I WAS SO HAPPY!!! We had Felix back!! Reunited! Cue Peaches & Herb!

Then David missed him and felt maybe he didn’t give it enough time. And I agreed. Of course it takes time. He tried again and Felix is now happily, officially adopted. And I’m ready to foster 10,000 new dogs. Ideally 10 at a time. Is dog addiction a thing? If not, I’m inventing it.

The best thing to come out of this is to know we can foster. We gave that little guy a launch pad to adoption. Huh. Kinda like I got at the adoption agency when I was born. That’s a weird thing I’ll now have to look into. Anyway, good to know that I can love and lose and keep going. And that I have some good evidence that I don’t actually have a heart of bricks.

When Brian and I first started dating, I was old. Or felt old. Or both. Our first date was extremely awkward, then great.

When we hung out again, he was openly into me. This didn’t happen all that often, but I still managed to tease him, “Wow, you seem pretty interested in the position of being my boyfriend.” I was curious how he’d respond. Most guys I knew would back off, feeling like they showed their hand or should play it cool, or not want me to get attached or whatever.

Brian maintained his demeanor, “Yes, I am. Very much so.”

Which is so freaking cute and charming and adult. I smiled and said, “That makes me feel like I should have a form you could fill out and give to HR to be considered.” He smiled and said if I had one, he’d gladly fill it out.

Later, I thought about it. What would I ask someone to do or be to be my partner? What’s the job requirement? What did I want? The CV I’m looking for?

I’m steeped in 12-step recovery and self-help and Artist’s Way and Oprah, etc, etc. So, I’ll list and visualize until my manifestation rattles my chakras and jumps off my vision board. I ain’t scared. I’d written dating inventories where I looked at what went wrong, and what was my part. I’d worked on letting go of my past and envisioning my future. One sponsor did this trick. She said, “Write down 10 things you want in a partner.” I did. And read it to her. Then she said, “Okay, now go be that person. And watch your perfect partner show up.”

Ugh. Eyeroll. Gross. It’s sickeningly dumb.

But can also be really helpful. I equally love that stuff and love to mock it.

So, I made a list.

The List started out funny. I was never going to give it to him. Are you insane? That’s absurd. Like, I’d just write up a To Do list for someone to vie for me. I’m not a needy psychopath, much.

But as I wrote, I got into it. I realized I wanted someone to do these things for me. And underneath that, I realized how much I wanted to be someone who asked people to do things for me that I really wanted them to do.

It became a private exercise in asking for what I need. As gregarious as I can be, I didn’t always do that in relationships. My way-too-common default was people pleasing. Trying to figure out what he wanted and be that. Which isn’t easy to admit.

THE LIST

Date Me Exclusively for 30 Days

This was first on the list when I gave it to him. Might as well start there, or why do the rest of the list? Looks like I added the exact dates so it was a pretty binding contract. Or possibly I wanted him to know he had 24 hours until it started so he could sow some wild oats before lockdown.

This was the scariest thing for me to ask. But I really craved some commitment. The guy before Brian ultimately cheated, but always had one foot out the door. He’d say he loved me but the vibe was as if commitment and monogamy were a burden that were stealing his youth. He was 50.

Brian’s response? “Great. Didn’t want to, anyway.”

Quit Smoking

Brian wasn’t an avid smoker, but he did it sometimes. That was a no-go for me. My dad smoked and I hated it. I smoked a bit in my drinking days but never liked it even when I did it. I’d never been with a smoker. Couldn’t do it. Plus, dude, you’re a pro trumpet player. Really? He said, “Needed to stop anyway. Done.”

I was surprised at how fast he was knocking things off this list. I should’ve done this a long time ago.

Show Me your Favorite Movie

If I was asked this, I’m not sure if I’d share The Muppet Movie or Lost in Translation or Grease 2 or Purple Rain. He showed me “The Rope.” A Hitchcock thriller that takes place basically in real time in an apartment. I could have read into this, “Wow, maybe he’s planning a murder.” Instead, my takeaway was that he’s old-fashioned. And has zero game.

A lot of other guys would have taken this opening as sexy movie time. “My fave? 9 ½ Weeks. Let’s do this!” But Brian got the assignment. And he just likes what he likes.

One of my favorite things about Brian is that he never tried to impress me. Which, of course, continues to impress me.

And we still made out during The Rope.

Go to an AA Meeting with Me

My priority is to stay sober. And someone in my life has to be on board with that. I wanted him to experience this part of my world. Just to understand what my alcoholic condition is, how I treat it, and how bad that coffee truly is. He went and liked it. He even teared up at some of the stories, which is easy to do. They can be gut-wrenching. This was a great ask, because from the start he understood a big part of my life. Plus, there’s free cookies.

Play Me your Favorite Jazz Album

He had a hard time choosing. I think he played me one of his. Bold. I think he started with a song he wrote for his mother. Honestly, I don’t care about Jazz, so I could have said play your favorite album. But he’s a Jazz musician, and I knew it would be Jazz, so I tailored it to him. Hoping to score some points by seeming interested in his thing.

Get my Dog to Shake Your Hand

Minnie was my soulmate and I needed her to sign off on any other soulmatery. I’m surprised he did this one because she shook paw with no one. I didn’t even know she knew how. But he charmed her and won her over, too.

Take me to a Museum and Show me your Favorite Work of Art

When he saw this he asked, “What if you’re my favorite work of art?” So that box was ticked immediately. But we did go to the Huntington. I don’t remember exactly what his favorite painting was but we both laughed at a painting that looked like a baby in the 1600’s had a mustache. We also went to LACMA and the first time he told me he loved me was under the giant rock. I know. Gross. I think I actually asked him to kiss me in front of his favorite work of art. Even grosser, amirite?

Write 108 Things You’re Grateful for

I’m shocked he did this. I am deep into meditation. And for years my New Year’s Eve ritual was to go to my friend Jeff’s house to bring in the new year with meditation. Part of that event is to write 108 things you’re grateful for that year. It’s daunting at first, then by the end you realize there’s way more to name.

THE LIST EFFECT

I’m so glad I did this list because it helped me get clear on what I want. Nothing glitzy. No big-ticket items, rings or red carpets. It wasn’t what I’d been told to want in a guy. It was about what I–me-Laura wanted. Which I wasn’t always in touch with.

I wanted him to see me, and be seen by me.

It was also helpful to see how he reacted to it. Honestly, The List was too much too soon. I would not have blamed him if he had hung up, ghosted or run. But I discovered that he was interested in the list because he was interested in me.

Apparently, he wanted to see me and be seen by me.

I’m sure I mostly have good feels about The List because it worked. We’ve been together 8+ years and are happy and comfy. But, really, it was a win for me from the time I let myself make the list and discover what I wanted. And it was kind of an epic win to actually give it to him. I still can’t believe I did that.

I asked Brian what he thought of the list. And here’s the report:

And apparently it’s just called “Rope.”

It starts out all giggles and snacks, but before long, a young girl dark force forms and a Slumber party Darth Vader emerges.

It starts as group of girls who know each other from school or Girl Scouts. They have the same math class or PE or have sold a bunch of cookies together and they collectively decide to take their friendships off-campus and to the next level. A sleep over at one girl’s house.

I loved slumber parties. I always wanted to be inside somebody else’s house. What’s in your room? What’s up on your wall? I needed to compare my stuff to yours, to know how I stacked up. I had a pink and green plaid fake Holly Hobby quilt on my bed from Sears Outlet. And it laid across my weird old antique bed that was from my dead grandparents. So pretty much everybody’s bed was cooler than mine. But I also had a tv. With the cable box. I could get WTBS which was a channel out of Chicago—in my room. And I had a wall phone. And a stereo. It was from Christmas third grade and not fancy or anything but still. I could get radio and play records and 8-tracks. Plus, my feature wall was curated and plastered with the very best: 2/3 of Duran Duran and most of the Outsiders. We didn’t have Nintendo or Donkey Kong. But we did have Atari with Defender, Pitfall and Pac-Man. So, I could compete on that level.

That’s mostly what I wanted to do at a slumber party: snoop. I’ll say I’m going to the bathroom and manage a peek at your brother’s room, your parents’ room, some weird room in the back that I guess is just storage? It’s dark and cluttered and smells like feet. Oh, also I definitely want to get into your exotic snacks. Our snacks were so mid-level. We never had Coke or Pepsi in the house. We had Shasta or Cragmont. It was mortifying. But worse, we never had anything top-tier like Ding Dongs. We had Little Debbie. Which, sure, it’s great if we’re talking Swiss Rolls or Nutty Buddies. Which happened on occasion. But the standard go-to that was always in the drawer was something called Star Crunch. It’s cookies with caramel and crisp rice covered in chocolate but that makes it sounds delicious and it was not. It was always kind of stale and cheap tasting. The chocolate outside was that waxy chocolate flavored coating stuff. And the caramel or whatever inside was grainy. The crisped rice part was great, I’ll give it that. But nobody had Star Crunch but us. I ate a ton of them, sure, but it was torture.

But Michelle Powell, she was queen of snacks. I knew she would be because she always had a Ding Dong -- the foil wrapped kind, not the cupcake kind with the swirl pattern on top -- in her lunch. It was bonkers because she didn’t even care about them that much. I saw her trade it for chips one time. Plain chips, like Lay’s. I would never trade a Ding Dong for anything less than a real Twinkie. Anything else is a step down. Everybody knows! But whatever. I couldn’t convince Michelle she was getting ripped off. I didn’t even know how to broach the subject. All I knew was, nobody ever offered anything in exchange for my Star Crunch. Once somebody offered me an apple, but no way. I wasn’t that desperate.

So, when I got the invite to her slumber party, I was psyched! I knew the food would be good. And she had a Mo-ped and maybe we’d get to ride it!

There were 5 of us. All 7^th graders.

The weirdness started when we talked about ordering pizza. We all kind of blurted out what we wanted on the pizza. I said mushrooms. Then Shannon said “no mushrooms, mushrooms are weird. It’s fungus.”

Oh my god. So essentially, I just screamed out that I wanted fungus on my pizza and that I love fungus. I had never wondered if mushrooms were weird, but now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe mushrooms were weird. One thing’s for sure, I wasn’t going to step up and argue in favor of eating fungus. Others seemed to step in line, too and we went olive.

It was a small change, subtle. But it gave young Darth Shannon a foothold. A place of authority. We followed her on pizza, where else would we follow her?

I kinda wondered where her leadership came from. Did she have a cool feminist mom? Was she one in a family of eight kids and had to speak up, or never got a chance to speak up so now she’s doing it all over us? Was she an only child and used to getting her way?

I always ‘yes anded.’ Be easy and get along, I thought. It honestly never occurred to me that ANY kind of pizza was weird. I mean, it’s pizza. But I didn’t have a secure position in this friend group. I couldn’t fully be myself. Not yet.

As a teen girl, THE MAIN THING you don’t want to be is weird*. You learn how to survive, when to shut down. You quickly go olives. From now on, mushroom-eating is private and shameful.

*there is an exception. If your group identifies positively with ‘weird.’ Like they say “Weirdos Unite!” and wear ‘Why be Normal’ buttons. Then you definitely want to be weird. BUT within that group there are still parameters to follow. Like if ‘we wear black’ all the time is how that group is weird. Then wearing a plaid blazer is weird and you’d never dare do it. Or if ‘we’re so weird, we love Weird Al’ then blasting R& B would be weird and should be avoided. So, the tenet stands. You don’t want to be considered weird by your group. It’s teen girl law.

Everything went back to normal, but subtly Shannon had emerged as the Leader. And kind of a bossy one. Lines were being drawn.

The pizza came, we ate, letting go of any tension, any sense of Mushroom-gate. We drink Coke and laugh more. We all like the same boys at school. Marty Stevens. Greg Barnett. Loy McAllister. Kyle Hutcherson. We have a lot in common. We’re a tribe.

Then it’s movie time. A lot of great suggestions fly around – Caddyshack, Stripes – yes! I would love to watch Stripes. There’s a flurry of excitement. It’s so fun to watch a movie together in somebody’s house! It’s like your own private movie theater. You can lay back on the sofa with your feet on the coffee table. Big bowl of microwaved Orville Redenbacher. There’s no Raisinettes, but you can wear pajamas and talk through the whole thing. As long as there’s M & M’s or something, it’s a fair trade.

We were all giddily discussing our cinematic experience when Shannon stepped in. I swear I could faintly hear the Imperial March as she started talking.

“Let’s watch Clockwork Orange,” she said. And she said it kind of lightly. As if it were in any way funny like Strange Brew or our other contenders.

I couldn’t believe it. Clockwork Orange happens to be the scariest movie that’s ever been made and everybody knows it. It’s clear now that Shannon’s older brother Mike gives her weird stuff to watch. Maybe she’s grown up fast, but we’re still regular-aged. Suddenly it feels like there’s a generation gap among us, even though we’re all 12.

There are stunted gasps. Really? We couldn’t.

The hostess, Michelle, politely rebuffed, “Well, obviously that’d be super fun but we don’t have it.” It was a smooth move, diplomatic. The purpose was to validate Shannon’s choices while never having to watch ‘Clockwork Orange.’ Masterful. Truly.

“I have it,” Shannon says as she pulls it out of the pillowcase in her sleeping bag. She smuggled it in! This was planned! Now what? We’re reeling! We’ve never had a confrontation like this and are completely unprepared. All we know is that we cannot watch that movie. We have a vague sense our lives will be forever changed. That it might somehow haunt our days. That we won’t ever have sweet dreams again. It might make us start smoking. Who knows? We’re kids who like Rick Springfield and Chipmunk Punk. We’re not Clockwork Orange people and we’re not ready to change.

Shannon is Darth Vader, trying to control the Empire of the Slumber Party. We’re the rebel forces. Strike One against rebel forces.

But we’re in a tough spot. It’s not like you can step up and say, “No, we’re not going to watch that,” because that’s what a parent would say. You’d risk all your kid cred. No one wants to be the naysayer. That’s what grown-ups do. We’re kids, the natural enemy of adults. We can’t be seen as sharing traits with them. No one wants to be the adult-like kid, the cop, the narc. Little kids call that person a tattle tale. But older kids just don’t talk to that person ever again. You’d be marked for life.

Lisa, the thinnest among us, found a way to shakily challenge Shannon, “Isn’t that…scary?” This was huge. Lisa risked it all. She was basically saying, “That IS scary” as in, “That’s way too scary and I don’t want to see it” but without saying that. She slid in a “no” cloaked in innocence. She’s not condemning the film or Shannon, she’s simply asking. Crafting her fear of fear into a brilliantly formed question lets her off the hook while providing some push back. Bravo Lisa, bravo.

But what Lisa didn’t know then, what none of us knew is that VULNERABILITY WILL NOT BE TOLERATED AT A SLUMBER PARTY.

Shannon moved to strike, “Of course it’s scary, that’s what makes it so FUN!”

Well, this just escalated. Now our capacity for fun is on the line. This is getting serious. We’re disarmed, questioning ourselves. I like roller coasters and music so I know for a fact that I like fun. How can I not like fun? I’m 12. Fun is my middle name. I even say that to people sometimes, “Fun is my middle name.” I’m FUN! I sing along with the radio. I’m the funniest girl in Sunday School (I don’t mean to brag, but BY FAR). I like comic books and Star Wars. I’m totally fun. Now my very identity is being questioned? By Shannon?!

And it wasn’t just me. We were all suddenly wondering about ourselves.

Where did this night go so off the rails? We came to this slumber party to laugh and goof off. To bond as friends. But we’re learning who we are under pressure. When challenged, do we stand up for what we want, or do we bow to The Dark Lord Shannon?

And how afraid are we of a scary movie? And if we opt not to watch a scary movie, does that make us unfun or adultlike in any way? Like The Fixx asks in that song I don’t fully understand, “Are we Ourselves?” And do we really know?

We’ve never considered this because we’ve never risked being exposed like this. A slumber party is a private event, sure. But you can bet your bottom dollar that everything that happens here will get back to everyone at school. Probably even before Monday.

We’ve never been thrown against a wall and compared with others on a fun scale. No one wants to be on the low end of the fun spectrum. You can’t be labeled no fun at 12. That’s social death.

Strike 2 against the Rebellion.

Then comes the death blow. With the cunning of a Bond villain, Shannon starts to put the movie back into her pillowcase and says, “We don’t have to watch it, if you’re going to be babies.”

NOW WE’RE BABIES?!

Strike 3 against Rebel Forces. Holes in the ship! We may never recover! Millennium Falcon is hit and is going down!

The only thing worse than being weird or adult-like is being anything like a BABY. No one left the house tonight imagining they’d be called a baby. This is beyond.

We are 12! Almost teens. Some of us are starting to wear eye shadow a little. Babies? Oh no. Uh uh.

I’m not leaving this slumber party exposed as a baby. I will watch any movie any time. I’ll watch all the Fridays of all the 13ths. All the Halloweens. I’ll watch Nightmare on Elm Street ON Elm Street to prove I’m not a baby.

I cannot abide someone calling me a baby.

Can they see that I still sleep with my stuffed animals sometimes? Not all of them, just Bandit, the Racoon. Of course I left Bandit home tonight. I don’t need to sleep with him. But I can’t have anyone knowing. I wet my bed once last year. I miss my Grandma.

I’m afraid I am a baby.

What if I’m not good at being 12? Then I’ll be even worse at being 13 and that’s when it really counts. That’s when you’re sized up if you’re pretty or popular or a nerd or a slut. Once you get those labels it’s hard to rebrand.

I’m already flailing at this slumber party. I’m in way over my head. It’s safe to assume I’ll keep flailing at social events. Not like Shannon who has no qualms about making everything the way she wants it. She’ll do great in life.

As Shannon slowly slides the video back into her pillowcase, she says, “Okay, so what do we want to do now, play Candyland?” Low blow! Those aren’t the only options. Horrible, terrifying movie or Candyland! We could dance and sing to records or watch Mtv or play video games. Or watch any other movie, any movie at all. Nobody here plays Candyland!

As I was thinking about all the other good movies we could watch, Shannon started saying all the bad movies we could watch, “…Pete’s Dragon? Bedknobs and Broomsticks?” I felt like she’d run out of movies soon but Tasha couldn’t take it and panicked, “Wait! We’ll watch it!” TASHA, NOOOO!!! Because Tasha broke open our defense, others folded quickly. There were noises of “yeah” and “let’s do it.” Skinny Lisa nodded. Then Michelle said, “Yeah, sure.” Much against my own will, I even let out an “Mm hm.*” Now there was no going back.

Shannon is thrilled. Of course she is, she’s back in control. I’m annoyed with Tasha because now we have to watch it!

*Mm hm usually creates plausible deniability. It’s not a full yes and not a full no. Sometimes when you drop an ‘mm hm’ it sounds like a yes, but later you can claim, “I didn’t say yes,” and it’d be true. I knew it was wimpy in this case, but I couldn’t not say anything. And I sure couldn’t say yes!

Shannon puts in Clockwork Orange as we all brace ourselves. Except Shannon, who’s happily chomping on popcorn as we are thrust into the uncomfortable unknown. I’m looking at a screen showing cute English guys with weird make up. Even though nothing happens at first, they seem like the scariest people ever.

We are actually watching Clockwork Orange. It’s horrifying. Nauseating. The idea that you can be home enjoying your life like a normal person, then someone can come in, for no reason other than they want to impose themselves on you. They torture you. Corrupt you. Do what they want with you.

I knew the feeling.

As the movie started, Shannon leaned into the tv, practically kissing the screen. I think when she’s alone she does kiss the screen. But I didn’t say that. I wasn’t trying to take down Shannon. I was only trying to save myself. Lisa gathered her sleeping bag around her, going into a deep freeze waiting for it to be over.

I knew I had to do something. I knew the only thing that would stop this movie from happening. And no one else seemed to have it in them to do anything. I had to try.

I moved toward Michelle. Shannon, suspicious of all things not-Shannon whipped her head around fiercely. But I knew my rights. I could move and whisper if I wanted. Shannon couldn’t shush me or she’d look like the weird adult, so she let it go.

Part One of my plan worked.

I told Michelle I was hungry. As a chubby girl, fake hunger can disguise a lot of things. People assume you’re always hungry and always will be hungry and they don’t question it. They seem to like it. It validates everything they think about chubs. They can think, “Of course she’s hungry” and feel better about themselves. It’s disarming. Disarming people is powerful. It’s annoying to be underestimated, but it’s also freeing.

Michelle was wide-eyed watching the movie. These older English guys were walking down the street owning the place. Already it felt like they were walking down our street. Like they could come up to our door. I didn’t want to experience any more of this film than I had to.

Once by Michelle, I saw the pleading in her eyes. She wanted it to stop but didn’t want to be a bad host, or weird or an adult or a baby. She was stuck. She had no moves left. But I did.

I repeated, “I’m hungry.”

Michelle, now annoyed with me, said, “Help yourself to anything.” Ugh. She was not getting where I was going. I knew that for this to work, I’d need a little more production and some space away from Shannon’s earshot.

I got up and went to the kitchen. I made a ruckus rifling around, pretending to look for something, assuming Michelle would come ask what I was doing.

But she didn’t. It wasn’t working.

Time was running out. I couldn’t stay in the kitchen all night. It’d be so obvious I was afraid of watching the movie. Everyone at school would hear that the fat girl ate donuts in the kitchen all night, scared of a little movie. Marty Stevens would never make out with me if he heard that. I’d rather be dead.

I was getting desperate. I needed to get Michelle in the kitchen, away from Shannon and I couldn’t just ask or it’d be suspicious but she was not getting all my hints. What to do?!

I could shake up a Dr. Pepper and let it spew all over and pretend it was an accident. That’d get Michelle in here. But then there’d be a big mess. Shannon would say something extra mean. And I’d be the doofy, clumsy guest no one wanted at their house. No way. I could fake a period and ask her to come to the bathroom, but that’s way too intimate. And gross. And everyone at school would hear I got my period and think I got my period and I hadn’t yet and I wanted to save that.

I had to get Michelle alone. And it had to look natural.

I made a bold move, but it’s all I could think of. I reached into the freezer and grabbed the first frozen meal I found. A Five Cheese Rigatoni Lean Cuisine. Clearly from Michelle’s mom’s stash. I didn’t have time to think, it’d have to do.

I walked back into the living room, held out the Lean Cuisine and to this day, can’t explain how I thought to say, “Hey, can you show me how to use the microwave?”

Shannon’s eyes rolled. She’d clearly decided I was a clueless baby. That’s okay. I’ll take the hit. This isn’t about me. I’m taking one for the team. Lisa looked at me quizzically, she knew I knew how to use a microwave. She’d seen me use a microwave. And we had the same kind of microwave as Michelle. One hundred percent I knew how to use the microwave.

Then, Lisa smiled then bit her lip. I think she understood. Finally!

Michelle got up and came to the kitchen, annoyed. This night was not going the way she’d planned.

She started beeping away at the microwave when I whispered, “What if your dad knew we were watching this?”

Her mom and dad were asleep down the hall. We both had parents who did that. They set up a lot of snacks and supervise for a little bit then just can’t take it any more around eleven o’clock and they go to bed. Her parents were like mine, too, in that her mom was super nice. The one who lets you get away with stuff. But her dad was like my dad, no nonsense. Whether I left the door open with the AC on or had the tv up too loud, my dad was going to say something in that mean, deep, mad dad tone. My dad had talked like that so long it was just how he talked now. He loves me, but sometimes even when he says “Good morning” I feel like I just got grounded. Oof. Her dad was the same. My dad looked tougher because he hunted deer and went fishing all the time. Her dad had a slighter build because he jogged and was a lawyer. But they were the same, the cranky parent.

Michelle’s eyes and eyebrows got big, “Are you kidding? My dad would lose it so fast. He’d shut it all down. He’d kill us. He’d kill me anyway. He might even send everybody…” She trailed off. As my rigatoni heated up, and started to smell pretty good, by the way. Way better than it looked frozen. I could see Michelle was getting my plan. Just to be sure, I thought the plan in my head really hard so she would really get it without me having to say it. I also started to wonder if they had that powdery parmesan cheese in the green can. It’d make that pasta extra delicious. And it would make it six cheeses.

Michelle took the Lean Cuisine out of the microwave. Did she still actually think I don’t know how to use it? I can take it out myself. Then she gave me a thumbs up. I think she understood the plan, but I couldn’t be sure because neither of us said it and neither of us could. With a head nod and a sort of half-wink, Michelle set the Lean Cuisine down on the counter then headed out of the kitchen and toward the back of the house. God speed, I thought. But I do not know why people say that.

I looked at the frozen, now unfrozen, meal. It’s so crazy that a few minutes ago it was a gross frozen pasta popcicle, and now that it’s all hot, it’s a probably delicious little cheesy thing. I got a spoon and took it with me back to the living room where the horrible movie was playing. I can’t even tell you what was happening on that screen because I was too grossed out. I forgot about the green can of parmesan. I started eating the rigatoni. It would be too suspicious if I didn’t.

Three bites in, there was a loud CLANG from down the hall. It sounded like it was coming from Michelle’s room. “Hit pause!” Lisa chirped. I could tell she tried to make it sound like, “Hit pause, I don’t want to miss any part of the movie.” But I can’t help but think she really meant, “Hit pause, I can’t stand this terrible film.”

Shannon shot straight up in her sleeping bag. She was fully on alert. Bad kids always know when they’re about to get in trouble. I said, “What’s happening?” So, everyone would know for sure that I did not know what was happening. But I did.

Michelle bolted through the door from the hallway and shut it behind her. “You guys! I’m so sorry, I was getting my yearbook to show you. I just thought of a thing in there that was so funny,” she looked to me, knowing this lie was going off-course and looking for help. But I couldn’t help her with her lie, I hadn’t even been in her room. I had to stick to my role “Girl Who Simply Innocently Needed Help with the Microwave.”

But I did say, “Oh neat.” I could at least act like I’d be interested in seeing whatever funny thing was in her yearbook. I kind of would like to see it. Unless there wasn’t actually a funny thing in there and that was part of the lie, too. If so, then it was a good lie because it totally worked even on me.

She went on, “But it was under some stuff in my closet and when I yanked it out, my guitar fell.” I didn’t know Michelle played guitar. That’s so cool. “And that hit my jewelry box.” Oh man, I hope that part wasn’t true. She loved that jewelry box. I have a similar one. It’s white outside with a simple red and green flower pattern on it. And inside, the box part is covered in soft, pink fabric to hold the jewelry. Then there’s a little upper shelf that has a ballerina on it. When you wind up the ballerina, it spins slowly and plays a song. I don’t usually like really girly stuff, but I’ve always really liked mine. I hope Michelle’s is okay. Unless that’s part of her lie, too! Even though she looks so exasperated, I couldn’t tell. She was way better at this than I thought.

“Anyway,” she continued, “It was so loud. I hope it didn’t wake up my dad!”

“Well, it did.” Came a groggy voice from behind her.

Yes! I had never been so relieved to hear a mad dad.

He stood in the doorway. He was intimidating even though he was wearing a light blue t-shirt and boxer shorts. We’d definitely woken him up. Six or seven little whisps of his hair fluttered from the AC air above his bald spot.

Michelle moved out of his way as he looked around at us. The mess, the snacks. Me eating rigatoni. Then his eyes went to the tv screen and his eyebrows raised. “What in tarnation?” he started.

Without words he pressed at the VCR buttons, punching each one with authority. No way was that tape going escape him. He was too mad to even talk! Finally, he got the tape out and held it tight. “You’re in here watching dirty movies?! That’s what this nice group of girls decided to do on a Saturday night? When we’re right down the hall?!”

Silence. Nobody knew what to say.

“It’s… really more scary than dirty,” Shannon finally offered, trying to save face and pretend she wasn’t afraid of adults. But she was.

His eyes went to her like a hawk. “This,” he gripped the tape for emphasis, “is an R rated movie that is not for little girls. Your parents trusted me with your well-being. And I can see I can’t trust you all to be alone for any amount of time.”

Ouch. That one hurt. We’re always trying to show adults that we’re grown up enough to be left alone. When they start saying we can’t be trusted, we all take a few steps back.

I could see Shannon was debating if she should talk or not. I knew she wanted to be the tough Jo Polniaczek of the group. Bad example. Jo was tough but only used her powers for good, like when Blair got too stuck-up and out of line. Shannon was on a power trip.

“It’s just a movie,” she said. Wow!!! I did not expect that. I don’t like Shannon and never will but I had to respect the degree to which she was not backing down. Even though she wasn’t talking in her large-and-in-charge voice. This wasn’t even half as loud as she usually talked. We could barely hear her.

Michelle’s dad glared at her. Like he was funneling all his energy out of his face and into her face. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“Do you want me to call your mother?”

Whoa. Death blow.

Shannon was silent. We were stunned. That’s the ultimate slumber party get-in-trouble punishment. Shame-driven home at 11:35 pm. So much inconvenience. So many questions to answer. It could be months before you’d get to go to another slumber party. Or years!

He kept staring at Shannon. He wanted a real answer. “No,” she said and I swear it sounded like she was about to cry.

“What was that?” He asked. But he’d heard her.

“No…sir,” Shannon said. No. Sir. That was it. She was done! Total victory for rebel forces. Shannon, who’d basically tormented us since the mushroom pizza incident, was finally defeated.

This was better than any movie we could have watched.

I had to hide my smile. Adults hate it when you smile when they’re yelling at you. They yell louder and it just gets worse.

We got a talking to about being responsible young ladies and had to swear we’d be good. We even cleaned up the living room a little right in front of him so he’d see we meant it.

Nobody had to go home. Eventually he went back to bed and we all had to debrief. Michelle had to apologize profusely for making a noise and “ruining the night” and getting us busted. We all had to make “yeah, that’s too bad” noises but none of us thought it was too bad. Michelle had saved the day! It was my idea, but still. We complained about how it sucked that we got in trouble, and how outrageous that was. We piled on with how great the movie was and how bummed we were to not see the rest of it. We’d definitely watch it as soon as possible, we lied. We enjoyed some righteous indignation and hot fudge sundaes.

Michelle and I were bonded forever. Together, secretly, we’d R2D2 hologram messaged in the kitchen, got secret plans to Luke and blown up the Death Star.

Six weeks later, my mom let me have Michelle, Diana, Tasha and Thin Lisa over for a slumber party. We microwaved Orville Redenbacher, had pizza with mushrooms, and ugh Star Crunch*. And we watched Stripes. It was perfect.

*Star Crunch, for the record, is not awesome as a standalone snack. It doesn’t compare to your Ding Dongs or even Twinkies. But it turns out, it’s not bad crumbled up on top of hot popcorn.

This was unexpected and not my usual Sunday afternoon. But I was at a CAbi party –my first. And no, I had no idea what it was, either. The most shocking thing about it was not that all the clothes cost $200, but that I was comfortable there. IN my body. AMONG strangers, being SEEN. And with my top off. AND fully sober!

I know there’s a lot going on in the world, but I just discovered clothes. Or really, that I can like clothes. It’s news to me that I have any opinion about clothes. I stopped thinking about them a long while back.

A few months ago, my friend Cathy texted me an image for an invite to a “CAbi party” with a date and address. I ignored it, assuming it went to the wrong person. There’s always another Laura in the contacts. When she followed up later to confirm who was coming, I was surprised. It went to me on purpose? Why?

Turns out, CAbi is a kind of clothing, and they have parties at people’s houses. My only reference for this was my mom’s Avon or Tupperware parties because I’m 1000 years old. I had no idea these things still happened, you know, because of the Internet you’re staring at. But it sounded kinda neat and super wholesome.

I was flattered to be included. A little intrigued. And scared. I haven’t always wanted to do body-related things. And almost never anything to do with clothes.

As a kid, I hated trying on clothes. Mom took me on an epic shopping trip before every school year. She loved clothes and dreamed of dressing me up like the little girl I supposedly was. I liked cut-off jeans and hand-me-downs from my brother. She wanted me in dresses and ruffled socks. I liked baggy tomboy clothes. In my defense, she did this to me:

Sometimes I hated Clothes Day because I felt fat. Even when I wasn’t. I was mortified when she peeked over the top of the door to see how I looked. Or wanted to come in, “GET OUT!” I’d yell. At least once I started doing sit-ups in the dressing room in a Hail Mary effort to change my size. I sometimes hated that I wasn’t effortlessly thin like my best friend, Drea, or that I didn’t look good in the clothes everybody else was wearing at school. Or that we couldn’t afford the really cool clothes you were supposed to have at school. JC Penney options were less than inspiring. And Sears sucked outright.

Even when I had cool phases and liked how I looked, mom and I knocked heads on what I should be wearing. I tried to explain to her that stripes on stripes was fun, it was the 80’s, go watch a Cyndi Lauper video. But she wasn’t having it. Except this one time:

At times in my life, I’ve liked my looks and/or fits, but those times got fewer and farther between in the past 10 years or so. I got heavy and it wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, too. Which is the bigger problem. People can feel and look good in lots of sizes. But for a while I treated my body like, “Look, let’s just cover it up and proceed.”

So I approached this CAbi party with a mix of curiosity and trepidation.

I was utterly fascinated to find myself there feeling great. Completely un-body-conscious. Feeling FREE. Simply being. And I don’t say that lightly (so to speak). This is a really big deal for me. Honestly, a miracle.

Vicki, our CAbi guide told us about all the new clothes. CAbi, I later learned, comes from the founder and means “Carol Anderson, by invitation.” We were given a BINGO card of all the looks as Vicki explained what’s new, what’s cool, and what goes with what. She had a bunch of clothes on racks racks, and piqued our interest about them. Plus, there were snacks. I had no interest in any of the clothes…until that cool jacket. And then that sweater… and those ponte pants. “I love ponte pants!” someone squealed. Everyone seemed to know what that meant. I still don’t.

Suddenly, we were all undressing together, just like college, only it was 11 am. We were a throng of hands and arms and all switching and swapping, “Hey, I wanna try on that cami, pass it over!” and “Oooh, that’s cute! And hand me that shirt when you’re done!” I wasn’t wallflowering or leaving early by pretending I had an emergency crossword puzzle to finish. There’s a version of me a few years ago that would have felt like, “Oh my god, I wish I was dead.” I would not have wanted to be involved at all. I would have been terrified that anything I grabbed wasn’t going to fit me. Or that I would look horrible in it. EVEN IF NONE OF THAT WAS TRUE.

Often none of that was true. It’s not just weight and size that can be an issue with weight and size. It’s thinking and feeling. Specifically, what I think and feel about myself. That’s what buried me for so long.

So when Cathy said, “What a nice bra!” And I agreed. In my own tiny way, it was a revelation.

Cathy and I are professional friends, but we’re always moving deeper into being friend-friends. Checking each other out in states of undress is definitely new territory for us. But it was nice. It was also nice when something I tried on felt cool to me. And then Vicki pointed out how good it looked and a lady-squad gathered around to assess and chimed in with variations of, “Oh, yes, that looks SO good!”

And I know it’s the point of these Avon-esque fests, to make you feel good and be comfy and encouraged by friends so you’ll by a bunch of stuff. I’m not an idiot.

But also, you know how stories go. So it won’t surprise you that I spent over $600. So maybe I am an idiot?

But it was worth it. The whole experience opened me up.

At the end, I thanked Cathy for having me over. She looked at me thoughtfully, hugged me and said, “You have worked so hard and you deserve nice clothes.” So that’s why she thought of me. I’m grateful because I’m coming to agree with that, too. I felt shut-down in my body for a really long time. 3 years ago, I got help and have made changes. “Enjoyment of clothes” is a fun bonus side effect.

At the end, someone mentioned that a lot of the older CAbi styles are on Poshmark. WTF is Poshmark? Did not know that either. Then learned it’s an online thrift store for clothes. I checked it out and…well, I might be headed into a real Poshmark problem.

I’m 18 years sober. In the sober group, we refer to New Year’s Eve as “Amateur Night.” Because it’s when non-problem drinkers overdo it up, get hungover, then nurse themselves back to normality and get on with their lives. For us, that was just a Tuesday. We discuss this with kidding-not-kidding humble brag vibes.

Now I do that with food. As a …I’m not sure what to call it here… Compulsive Food Inhaler? (who’s in recovery for it). That’s how I’ve come to think of Halloween. Oh, you dipped into your kids Halloween stash and felt a little sick and guilty? That’s cute. I’m a ‘eat the bags of candy that we bought for the neighborhood then replace them before anyone notices’ kind of eater. I had plenty of the guilt and/or shame, but food almost never made me sick. When it comes to food, I’m like the TARDIS, bigger inside. There’s no full here.

Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas/Hanukkah are The Bermuda Triangle of food events. Licenses to eat are in full effect. It’s a season of landmines for overeaters.

And dude, it’s rough. There’s no escaping the food deluge.

The world becomes the Wonka factory at Halloween. My gym was handing out candy. At Thanksgiving you’re actually kinda weird if you don’t overdo. Like, “What’s wrong with you, keeping your pants zipped? Nerd!” And Christmas is like Halloween and Thanksgiving had a hungry baby. All the fudge, divinity, cookies, brittles, candy canes, candy in stockings, and candy in calendars, gets heaped onto the giant meal of turkey, ham, tamales and etc, etc. I’m not complaining. I’m just hyper-aware of it because I don’t eat it like I used to. And it’s a’comin’.

I would if I could. Meaning, if I could overdo it, then pick myself up and dust myself off, I’d indulge. But for me, that dreamscape pie table turns into a nightmare. Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Not without a lot of help. My license to eat has been revoked. Well, really, I had to surrender it.

For me, the eating brings cravings. Insane “I don’t care about any of my goals or plans for myself, I’m eating it,” vampiric cravings. Cravings that lead to more eating. Eating that leads to horrible feelings and consequences like 100+ extra pounds on my bones, a slew of physical problems, and painful mental spinning. I’m just not myself. And I hate how I feel and behave. I think all monster stories are based on addiction. So, I don’t drink Jekyll & Hyde juice anymore. And now I don’t eat any food that that werewolfs me, either.

Not everybody thinks of this condition as food addiction, but I do.

And it’s a weird feeling. Like with alcohol. I don’t want a sip of it, because I don’t want to get drunk. And that’s what happens. Once I’m in drive, there’s no brakes. With booze, I don’t want it and I don’t miss it. But it took me a while to get there.

Now I’m experiencing that with food. I don’t want to eat the danger-for-me foods because I don’t want to transform in Food Beast. But addiction comes with a frustrating memory glitch. My brain happily remembers the good parts, but it takes effort to remember the bad parts.

So, when faced with the Temptation Pieland dessert table, my Go-For-It Brain agrees with everybody, “Yeah, that does look amazing! Especially that chocolate cream. Oh, it’s from the world-renowned pie place that’s run by 14 Top Chef winners? There’s a few Michelin Stars baked right into the graham cracker crust? Yup, would totally be a shame to miss out on that…”

Then I need Pump-The-Brakes Brain to think it through. That part’s less like an excited kid and more like a patient therapist, “Mm hm, yes, I see. But if you’ll recall the doctor said you were pre-Diabetic and he’d put you on meds if it didn’t turn around. And don’t forget the neuropathy you had in your fingers and toes, the constant mental spin of food chatter and self-flagellation….Good times!”

It’s taken a while for me to adjust to a new normal. But I’ve found that before there’s a New Normal, there’s a New Uncomfortable, and a New Weird.

So, if you’re dealing with this, too, you’re not alone. It’s gotten a lot easier. I thought skipping candy, or considering Thanksgiving ‘just a Thursday,’ or eating a moderate meal on Christmas would make the holidays horrible. But it’s actually made them better. I know, gross. But it’s true. Because I stay out of my spinning head. I just eat, it’s delicious, and then I’m done. I’m not wondering how to get more food or if anyone will notice if I get seconds or fifths, or if there’s more pie I can be alone with. I can actually relax and enjoy the people around me.

It also takes a lot of pressure off New Year’s Resolutions.

So, knock on wood that we make it through the Bur-food-a Triangle (yeah, I said it!) and into Jan 2026, then we’re home free! Until Valentine’s anyway. 😬