Sometimes I sit with a newsletter so long it stops making sense. I can tell when there’s depth needed, and similarly I can tell when it’s too deep, and we all just need a product recommendation. This tonal awareness is one of my skills. Thankfully, I have others.

Issue 136 was tipping into the ‘no depth’ category until I pulled back, came to the top, and wrote these words—the ones you’re reading right now. We need connection before we dive in. Foreplay. Wordplay. We must feel each other, even, and especially through the screen

Now, I feel you. Do you feel me?

When I teach writing, I talk about crawling inside the words. It makes sense to me, the teacher, but likely doesn't make sense to the students. I say it with such emphasis, I think they think they're supposed to get it. That's good teaching. Right?

What the writer feels, the reader feels. To crawl inside the words means to feel first, then write.

I also teach that beneath it all—titles, money, clothes, followers—we’re people talking to people. Humanity is the great equalizer. Falling back on this never fails.

I see you. Do you see me?

I write The Letter to go just under the surface, down to the depths, and back up for a gulp of air and a light-hearted mention of my favorite suitcase (or a bit about not wearing pants). This is the rhythm. When it’s out of sorts, I know it. I bet you do, too—even if you don’t know you know it.

The last time I wrote, I was on a lawn chair in Mexico. Today, I’m at my dining room table. A faded tan. Several new wrinkles. And reality.

School starts in a couple of weeks, and 50 is about 48 days away (no gifts, please—okay, gifts).

Cosmic Point of View

I love perspective, so let’s gain some.

We live on Earth. 1.3 million Earths fit inside the Sun. The Sun is one of 300 billion stars in our galaxy (hey, Milky Way!). There are 2 trillion galaxies.

No, I can’t grasp it. Neither can you. But even the tiniest understanding of this crazy-ass fact helps me feel a bit better about my seemingly big problems (and my definitely big butt).

We’re not as big as we think we are. We’re basically nothing (and I hope nobody has ever said anything so rude to you before).

Whatever problems you’re wrestling with—they matter, they don’t, they matter, they don’t.

Take This Suitcase and Shove It

Love Amazon or hate it. THIS is a 5-star suitcase. Checks all the boxes.

• Fits in the overhead

• Wheels in every direction

• Expands

• Affordable

• Lasts

We have three of them. They’ve held up, without issue, since 2019, and they’re not dying anytime soon.

I made a video about it on Instagram. Pop over and see.

Send Later

You can write a text and schedule it to send at a later day/time. Gosh, it’s handy.

It’s 10 pm. You think: I need to respond to so-and-so. It’s too late, but I’ll forget in the morning. No matter—write the text, tap the plus next to the message field, scroll down, select ‘send later,’ and schedule that baby.

10/10 recommend.

Pants Are a Pain

I don’t like wearing pants. I wear them. But I’d rather not. I don’t want to wear shorts or a dress. I don’t want to wear pants at all.

When was the last time you did something without pants? Was it something in bed—sleeping or sexing? Was it in the shower? What about on a warm day, around 4:56 pm, while writing your newsletter?

You got me. I’m not wearing pants.

God, it feels good!

Showpieces

I’ve been devoting time to my art. I wake up, start my coffee, feed the cats, do five minutes of the Japanese Towel Method (I’ll cover this in another letter), then sit down—cut and glue paper.

That’s the morning version. The night version is Netflix—stand-up or a crime doc, and cutting and gluing paper until late in the evening.

What Will You Create?

I let my mom die in a shirt she wouldn't be caught dead in.

In 2021, my mom died of leukemia. She had been convalescing in yummy cashmere sweaters that brought out the blue in her eyes—exactly as she would have wanted.

On the day of her death, God put her in something much worse. By God, I mean me.

Our hospice nurse showed us how to make a gown by running scissors up the back of a top. Pullovers are not for dying people. Gowns are.

Looking for what to cut, my aunt held up a T-shirt like the ones you're punished with at the end of a 5k race—poor quality, even poorer design.

Stiff, stark white, with the words What Will You Create? across the top.

"Can we cut this?" she asked.

Time stopped. I was choosing the clothes my mom would die in.

"It's perfect," I said.

We could have easily demolished a cashmere sweater. This was the end of her road. But I saw an opportunity for her final words to be: What Will You Create?

I seized it.

I started a monologue in the wake of my mom's death—five years ago. I'm still writing it. I always hoped it would be a show.

My mom created me. I'm creating a show.

What Will You Create?

* This Is the Simone Show is a recurring segment—pieces of the monologue. It lands here and on Instagram, and maybe one day IRL. It’s messy. Really messy, because I’m messy. You’re messy too. You’re human. We’re equal.

Thanks for being here. Your support means the Earth to me.

Until next time, Simone

If you guessed I’m in Mexico, you’re correct. If you guessed the coffee in my hand is subpar, you’re right again. I’m sure Mexico has great coffee. I wouldn’t know. At our first location, I brewed my own. Peet’s from home. At our second location, the Hilton, well, enough said.

It’s July 4th at 7:26 AM. When I finish this letter to you, it could be another day altogether—but let’s see what we can get done with a focused mind (and a mouthful of brown water—con leche y azucar).

The view of my thighs tells me it’s most definitely the 4th of July, and I’m most definitely 50 in September. A fireworks show of tiny red veins and large blue ones. Dark freckles and lighter sun spots. Hundreds of overachieving hair follicles and what-are-you-doing-here red bumps. It’s quite the sight for sore eyes (and yes, my eyes are sore).

Alas, each mark holds deep wisdom—yada yada yada.

It’s been moons since I’ve vacationed with my kids. The last time was Hawaii, when they were probably 9 and 4. They’re 17 and 12. Do the math. It’s moons. We’ve vacationed since then, but I’ve not planned or paid for it.

Living in Mill Valley, CA, as a single parent (and the primary one by a looong shot) with two kids, slinging yourself as a creative is no joke. To say there are not many extras is an understatement. As much as I’d like to believe I do it without help, I don’t. And still, I struggle.

Let me know if you want me to save you a seat on the bus.

I grew up with extras. Many. Not the Kardashian kind, but the well-off dad kind. I also grew up with a mom and stepdad who had just enough and struggled. I’ve lived with both, and I never chose which end of the continuum I wanted to be on, since once privileged, always privileged, no?

No.

As COVID came to a close and peri-menopause and 50 came knocking—47 was the magic number—I was more on the struggling-mom side of things than I EVER expected. Or wanted.

The life I assumed (and rather liked) was one of privilege. Only issue: it wasn’t my life. It was gifted to me at my parents’ discretion. Turns out what you don’t earn isn’t yours. You can know it intellectually. Then learning it at almost 50, with two kids, in one of the most expensive towns in the country—it’s something else entirely.

A cocktail of humbling, scary, and humiliating—on the rocks, with salt.

While I never planned this, apparently I chose it. I chose two kids. I chose a divorce. I chose Mill Valley. I chose not to plan my future. No tiny violins will be played. But that doesn’t mean I like it, because I sure as hell don’t.

Okay, but I like my life. I do. I like so much about it. Do I wish resources were more abundant? I do. But I've been told some billionaires don't feel they have enough—not because they don't, but because enough is a state of internal comfort that no amount of money can buy. I believe this, but seriously, I also need money.

I have a way out of my situation, which I believe is an oxymoron because what we try to escape consumes us. That aside, I have a way forward: admitting my truth. The truth sets us free, doesn't it? Doesn't it?

Turning toward my creativity—this newsletter, making space for my paper art, sharing my life as it is, not as I wish it were, including on Instagram—that's the menu for change.

And gratitude. And swimming. Getting back in the pool for endless laps to nowhere, soaked in chlorine, with post-swim goggle scars to prove my grit.

I committed to posting this journey here. It's muddy, and it will be for a while. Part over-share, part journey to a talk show I’ve always wanted to host.

Since my public declaration a week ago, I’ve done nothing but go on vacation.

The talk show is called This Is the Simone Show, and it has the best acronym in the world—TITSS. There’s a monologue, musical guest, cooking segment (salads, obviously), and awesome people and brands I want you to know about. Before it can be a show in a physical location, it may have to be virtual—at least the journey will be—and we all know the journey is the mother-fucking destination. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?

None of this pays, by the way. There’s zero money in any of the things I'm doing to climb out of my situation. I recognize that, and I posit that chasing money isn't what makes money, in my case. Chasing a closer relationship with myself will unfold in ways that pay—in dollars or otherwise.

Your support means the world.

Time check. It’s 10:29 AM. Still July 4th. I took a breakfast break, and I’m back where I was at 7:26 AM (above).

I ask myself often: How am I going to create another reality for myself? Why is this so hard? What am I doing wrong?

David Bedrick says we’re not meant to be pathologized or fixed. Instead, our troubles are intelligences waiting to be understood. I wish I could say I’m successfully applying this to all areas of my life—I’m not—but I believe what he says. I’ve experienced him myself and can attest to his beautiful nature. It’s not a show. He’s truly wonderful in all the non-mainstream self-help ways.

Time check. It’s 3:29 PM. Still July 4th. I took a snooze break. An ocean swim. A spicy edamame ingestion. And now I’m back where I was at 10:29 AM (above).

Now’s probably a good time to tell you where we’re vacationing. We flew into Cabo, rented a Bronco, drove to Cerritos Beach, stayed in an Airbnb for four nights, then drove to the Hilton Los Cabos for three nights. Side note: Parking is free at the Hilton. When is parking free at a hotel?

Location one, Cerritos Beach, is a swimmable and surfable beach along Baja’s coastline, just before Todos Santos. Believe it or not, not all beaches are swimmable, so finding one is part of the fun.

The town has just the necessities—no paved roads, with very little going on, but dusty shrubs, shanty shacks, and pups wandering about. There’s a bunch of development underway, and we definitely stayed in one of those. Still, it’s really charming, and completely off the grid (though it might not be that way for long).

The words beautiful and Cerritos are never in the same sentence for good reason. It’s really not beautiful. It’s dusty and arid. Are you sold?

Location two, Hilton Los Cabos, is, well, a Hilton. After four days of Cerritos life, we were shocked to enter Cabo life. The stop lights alone. What are those things? In Cerritos, a roundabout was a shrub. The roads were lawless, the speed bumps boulders—placed by nature.

We’ve acclimated. Hotel life isn’t so bad. My pocketbook will feel otherwise, but for now, the phrase “we’re on vacation” is on repeat and we’ll deal with the carnage after the fact (and there will be carnage).

Time check. It’s 8:01 PM. Still July 4th. We had dinner in town. There’s a wild Mexican-American 4th of July event below our room on the beach. By wild, I mean nothing we want anything to do with.

I knew Cerritos, Mexico, would be nothing like the Mexico my 12-year-old daughter was expecting. I knew it would be rustic (it was even more so than I imagined). I knew my son could handle it. I could handle it. But Emma’s white gauze maxi skirt could not.

Cerritos is awesome for all the reasons an off-the-grid location is. Dirty in the right way. Shanty in the right way. Truly, a simpler life at a lower—or maybe it's a higher—frequency. I love me some Four Seasons, but I feel alive in third-world grit. No Joneses anywhere. They don’t vacation here.

Our kitties are being cared for by a couple from Austin, Texas, who are visiting Mill Valley through TrustedHousesitters—a great website for people and their pets. This is our first go with it. So far, so good.

By the daily updates, it seems Joel and Felicia are crushing it as pet parents, though we have yet to hear Romeo and Roo’s side of the story.

Time check. It’s 8:49 AM on July 5th.

Vacation comes with epiphanies. Here's a smaller one:

I like so much about graphic designer Jessica Hische. Her type style is beautiful. Her newsletter is human. Her colors are pretty. Her attempt to make solo creative businesses less lonely and more beautiful through Studioworks is appealing.

One person’s trash is another’s treasure. QuickBooks is my trash. For many, it’s their treasure. I’m switching to Studioworks. Join me or don’t. I’ll like you either way.

Time check. It’s 3:53 PM. Still July 5th. Several ocean swims, a few pina-ay-adas for the young lady, and some spicy edamame, and it’s time to wrap this baby up.

Thank you, as always, for being here. I’m nothing without you, and you’re nothing with me. Right? Right!

Until we meet again. I’m grateful for you. Simone

Good day, earthlings. I trust the week since Issue 133 served you well.

I just called 911:

[Me, driving] Hey, Siri, call 911.

911, what is your emergency?

There’s a bucket on the freeway—on 101 South, as the hill crests before the Tiburon/E. Blithedale exit.

Thank you for calling. I’m transferring you to the Highway Patrol. Don’t hang up.

I repeated the information to the Highway Patrol. They asked a few more questions, thanked me for reporting it, and said they'd send someone out to retrieve it.

You can, and (oh my god, I hate this word) should call 911 if you come upon an object on the freeway. I do it with some regularity. The number of people traveling at high speed while avoiding an object is a recipe for a multi-car pile-up. If that’s not an emergency (before it happens), I don’t know what is.

When in doubt, call 911. Don’t worry if you don’t know your precise location or have poetic language like “as the hill crests” on hand. They’ll walk you through it.

Be a hero.

What Titillates You?

Titillate is not exactly an onomatopoeia, but it is a phonaesthesia. A what? When the word itself gives you a little shimmy. Say it out loud—titillate—don’t you feel titillated?

I bet you have a few highly-specific, albeit odd things that titillate you.

A couple of mine: when CHP snakes the lanes to hold back traffic—say, to remove a bucket from the lanes. It’s like parting the seas—a force of nature that's anything but. Like, what feels out of control is controlled. A well-orchestrated show. For a moment, I believe the kids will be alright. I like it. Another one I like: cargo ships. Ginormous, hideous cargo ships in the San Francisco Bay. They’re beautiful in a ginormous, hideous cargo-ship sort of way. I love their size relative to mine. And the geometry of Tetris cubes in sea-worn colors, carrying god-knows-what. Crap we don’t need.

Both titillations are big and ugly. They make me feel alive, which must worry you.

What titillates you? This is a solid ice breaker if you find yourself facilitating a group. Give them an example of yours and let them come up with theirs. You learn random things about your coworkers. Who knew Adam loves the sound of a tennis ball being whacked back and forth as background noise? Or that Tanya is titillated by straightening the seam on her young son’s pants, which he twists every time he pulls them on.

I’m the weirdest.

Hate Is a Strong Word

I got my gift of language from my mom.

When I would say, “I hate Aaron!” and he’d say, “I hate Simone!” she’d tell us to rephrase it: “I strongly dislike Aaron.” “I strongly dislike Simone.”

No, we hate.

“Hate is a strong word,” she’d say.

Right. I hate him.

Aaron’s my brother. I’m his sister. We don’t strongly dislike each other anymore, but we did, which gives me hope for my children.

I hate these two words: should and fail/failure.

Should is shame-filled. It’s ugly. When brands use it, I cringe. The very next words I say, under my breath: “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Yet—things are about to get oxymoronic—I also think people like to be told what to do. When yapping about copywriting, I find myself saying things like, “Tell them what you want them to do.” But I would never say, “You should tell them what you want them to do.” No, ma’am.

Failure. I only use it to describe myself, to myself. How noble. I don’t believe any person or situation, like divorce, is a failure. I do, however, feel fine using it as a blanket statement about myself. If you’re not crying as you read, rest assured, I am as I read what I just wrote.

I’m not a failure at parenting. I was. Early on. I didn’t take it seriously. I was an actor, playing a mom. I had the stage blocked. I knew my lines. My costumes were baller.

I was lip-syncing and waiting for my understudy to relieve me.

My lips stopped syncing and started singing when my oldest was in 7th grade, just as the consequences of an anxiously attached mom on her son were hard to ignore. It was also, not coincidentally, around the time I lost my mom.

If you’ve ever woken up to something as monumental as parenting, you know it doesn’t happen overnight. It takes years—even generations. Years of digging up your shit, so you can be present for theirs. Everything that was ever submerged in your childhood begins a long, slow boil when they’re born. It’s cruel, miraculous, and guaranteed.

When our kids are young, and we're young, we default to the tempo of our childhood. My theater had a different name. Different location. Different cast. But the director was consumed—working, partnering, filling her bucket—she couldn't see he was born with holes in his bucket. The highly sensitive child who needed less change and more stability. Less intensity, more calm. Less frustration and more acceptance. A child who needed to know it's okay to be exactly as they are. I needed that. My son needed that.

Waking up when they’re in 7th grade means the damage is not irreversible, but it’s certainly not reversible. Had I known then what I know now, in my body, I would have been the parent he needed. But I couldn’t because mine couldn’t for me. My nervous system was wildly dysregulated. I was running on fumes, and I had no idea.

My nervous system has been dysregulated since birth. The same is true for my son. We were big. Owen, at 9.5 lbs, was squeezed for 3 hours in the straitjacket of my birth canal—never mind the 25 hours prior, or my tailbone, which he broke on the way out. Poor guy needed space. Absolutely not peaceful. Absolutely over-stimulating. What a way to enter reality. At 9.2 lbs, I baked for 42 weeks and refused to make the pilgrimage. Eventually, I did, as I’m typing to you now.

About 15 years after Owen was born, and 47 years after I was, I made a connection between our dysregulated nervous systems, ADHD, and our births. The only explanation? No. A factor? Yes.

Doctors won’t say this to you as cleanly as I will, but ADHD is a dysregulated nervous system. Don’t believe me. That’s okay. I believe me. Born this way. Enter a peaceful, loving, and connected family—your antidote. Unfortunately, most parents of dysregulated kiddos are dysregulated, which doesn’t lend itself to an abundance of peace, love, and connection. And so the cycle continues. Crying yet?

I have many memories of my mom being exactly what I needed. But in hindsight, that came later too—once the stress of single-parenting, blending families, and just the weight of time had already done its work on her, and therefore on me.

Parenting is hard.

I miss my mom.

Five Years Ago—It Only Gets Harder

Mothers, Happy Belated Mom’s Day. Sunday was our day.

My mom passed away five years ago. To those who are in the lost-a-parent club, I see you. There’s no rush. It’s not a club you want to join. Plus, membership is a birthright.

Speaking of rushing and death, when I glimpse the skin on my appendages, while wearing my glasses, I’m aghast at the arid landscape that covers my person. Nature knows, doesn’t she? Our eyesight diminishes in direct proportion to our age. A soft glow washes over our skin, and somehow we’re just as we’re supposed to be. A little worse for the wear, but only a little. Until we put on our glasses.

I wouldn’t turn back the hands of time for anything—except to hold my no-longer-babies, give my oldest baby more of what he needed, and hug my mom.

Otherwise, I’ll stay here, a ripe 49.637 years old—wiser, calmer, present for my kids, and very, very single.

These pants prove it. They’re amazing. Trust.

You’re loved.

Until next time, Simone ❤️

Share The Letter

My Dears, I got a little shit for admitting I’d never watched Silver Linings Playbook. I’ll watch it eventually. I promise.

In the meantime, I got another recommendation, which I took. The Comeback with Lisa Kudrow on HBO. I was instructed to start at season 1 (obvi), which was filmed in 2005. Season 2 was released in 2014. Season 3 was released this year. Mockumentaries are comedy gold, aren’t they? They’re not LOL, but they tickle the inside funny bone just right.

Not a mockumentary, but another one for my fellow comedy-a-holics, Funny AF on Netflix.

I don’t take all the recommendations I get, especially if they include the words Mel Robbins, but I’m quite good at picking up the crumbs people drop in conversation—the ones they don’t even know they’re recommending, but I do. I listen well. I listen for your benefit and mine. We all win.

Our family has a therapist. I found him by listening to a friend talk about her therapist. I liked what I heard. Her family stopped seeing him. I started. That’s how I roll. Watch out!

Nothing Spreads Like Honesty

A couple of weeks ago, one of my clients went viral on Instagram. Choose your response. I’ll address them in order.

a) Cool.

b) What the F does viral even mean?

c) I truly couldn’t care less.

d) I want to go viral.

##

Cool. Thank you. It’s fun, actually.

What the F does viral even mean? Going viral means a ton of people see your video, and because they like it, comment on it, share it, and save it—it spreads—like COVID.

A typical reel may get 300–2,000 views; this one got over 120k. Who cares? New faces know who you are, and your method of communicating works (or at least it worked). That’s what it means.

I truly couldn’t care less. Fair. It’s hard to care about something as trivial as virality, especially when it’s not you that’s contagious.

We all know validation doesn’t come from external sources, right? Right. But for the people involved, it’s quite thrilling—and validating.

I want to go viral. Sure thing. Give me a ring. I help cool people and brands express themselves. You’re the cool person or brand. I hold up the mirror, capture it, edit it, and share it.

That’s what happened with Kelly.

I saw a moment worth capturing.

Kelly is a personal stylist with an exceptional point of view. The second half of that sentence is the key—POV. She has one. You do too, but yours may be watered down and hard to find. POVs require conviction, and conviction isn’t always polite, so many of us drop our POVs to fit in—but fitting in isn’t interesting. It’s safe. And nothing’s worse than safe marketing, friends. Nothing.

Kelly wanted my help expressing herself on Instagram. Read: more clients. Read: more money.

Challenge accepted.

I’d been forming my point of view about Kelly’s content for a month, since we’d begun working together. I could see what she couldn’t. I call this the curse of knowledge, or of being too close to yourself—which keeps me employed.

I’m all for intuition and self-expression, but we don’t see ourselves objectively. You don’t. I don’t. We don’t. Help is helpful here.

On a fine day in early April, we met at Kelly’s house. Filming wasn’t on the agenda—we were there to talk strategy. Kelly was holding court on her opinions. I was lobbing insights I was pretty sure she wasn't grasping.

Her polish was the problem. Her posts were one-way streets. There was no conversation, no exchange of knowledge, no awareness of her audience. She knew they were there, but she wasn’t engaging them. There was no juxtaposition. She looked too put-together. Too on display. She needed a door to her soul. A way to enter. Luckily, I brought my chainsaw.

An hour into our strategy chat, she grabbed a used Patagonia jacket she’d scored on The RealReal with pins she’d placed in it from impending alterations. That! Her thinking on display. I grabbed my phone. “Keep talking,” I said. “I’m going to film you.”

Nobody gets better when someone puts a camera in their face. They get worse. I wasn’t worried. This was exactly what we needed. Raw Kelly.

We filmed it in one take, no microphone, no make-up, no lights, no plan.

Reader, you’ll watch the video and think: "What’s so great about that?” Or “That video went viral?” Listen, it wasn’t magic, which is why it was magic.

Kelly was convinced she needed to project an image of total togetherness to attract clients—after all, she’s luxury, so she better look the part. Right? Not so.

Total togetherness isn’t relatable, and we humans LOVE relatable. Kelly thought her togetherness was aspirational. It was off-putting. I’ll save the difference between together and aspirational for another day. Get your popcorn.

Even with the footage on my iPhone, I wasn’t sure we’d post it. My goal was for her to see what I saw. I knew I could cut together a video that would serve her. A few days later, I made edits, fed her the video, and said, “Post this reel with this caption.”

She didn’t.

She found 103 problems with how she looked, also the font, the music—the everything. She tried very hard not to post it. At first, I didn’t push. Until I did.

10 days later, after a firm-ish talking to, which sounded like this (me, to Kelly):

This is akin to me hiring you to audit my closet, pull outfits for me, and me questioning every choice you make—negotiating “better” options.

Very quickly, the soul gets stripped away, and the reason I hired you (to help me show up in a way I couldn’t do myself) is no longer detectable. The result is your epic POV, watered down with my insecurities, bad habits, and unclear goals.

She posted it.

Pretty quickly, it was clear there was energy behind it.

First, shock. Eventually, chuckles at the absurdity and wonder of it all.

“I feel seen. I’m so proud. I’ve learned so much. Thank you endlessly for helping me get over myself.” Kelly’s words, paraphrased from 1000 texts back and forth.

If you’ve never experienced it yourself, going viral feels like playing the slots, hitting a jackpot, and watching the likes, shares, followers, and comments roll in for days—wondering, will it ever stop? It will. Though she’s gained over 4k followers from a couple of one-minute videos.

Are you rolling your eyes? I get it. I would have jumped ship by now. You don’t want to listen to my viral BS any more than I want to listen to yours. We’re even.

But, if you’re still here… here’s why those numbers matter to Kelly: more people know who she is. Some may hire her directly. Others may borrow ideas and live more stylish lives. Either way, Kelly has a stage where she can talk about her business—what she loves, what she does so well, and how she can help you.

Even the Grinch could agree—that’s not nothing.

And, if you think posting a video, viral or not, is about just the video and the stats—no, sir. No, ma’am. This here is therapy. There are psychological hurdles you surmount. There’s clarity on your purpose, your business, and heaps of learnings to reap from doing what terrifies you. Those benefits are baked in—it’s BOGO on steroids. That, too, is not nothing.

Every client hems and haws about how they look, sound, and behave on camera. It’s normal in the beginning. I empathize. Until I don’t. I acknowledge how hard it is to put yourself out there—it’s very hard! Then I sing them this song: Post and move on. Post and move on. Post and move on. And finally, I break their hearts with the lonely truth: “Nobody cares.”

That last one is harsh, but true. Also, oxymoronic.

People care, or they wouldn’t like, share, comment, etc. But they don’t care, care. They’re busy with their problems—their misbehaving curls, their lipstickless lips, their misshapen head. They don’t notice yours. And if they do, the moment is fleeting—they’ve already moved on.

And in the case of going viral—you’re grateful to be seen—very quickly you forget about your misshapen head.

PS: We posted another video, and it’s rivaling the first. Many more to come.

Back at It

Enough soul, this one’s for your body.

I have a recommendation for a very sexy back heater-massager belt.

This baby feels good. She heats. She vibrates. She has you feeling like a grocery clerk who takes care of their back. You want that, don’t you?

If you walk into my bedroom between 5:30 and 6:30 am, first of all, hi, what are you doing here? Second, you’ll definitely find me drinking coffee in bed, with this doll making love to my lower back while I do.

You’re welcome.

Have a wonderful Wednesday, since, presumably, you opened this the moment you received it, and it is, of course, Wednesday.

Thank you for being here. Sincerely. Truly. Your presence is a present, though I also like presents of the unwrappable variety.

Until next time, Simone ❤️

Share The Letter

Greetings Earthlings,

It has been waaaay too long. I know it, and you know it. Thankfully, you understand because the same happens to you. You write, you cook, you sing, you [insert hobby]—and you fall in and out of love with it. Your interest and attention waxes and wanes with the moon.

Me too. Me too.

I’ve never seen the movie Silver Linings Playbook, and I don’t know what it’s about. But I know silver linings are good things amidst the bad; sun peeking through the shadows, a $5 bill lying on the stairs you just tripped on.

I interviewed for a job I didn’t get. The company sent me home with a bundle of goodies after my interview, and another bundle arrived at my doorstep after the news broke that they had offered the position to another candidate.

Disappointed? Yes. Grateful? Yes. Kind people, strong brand, good products.

And now I wear hand lotion.

The silver lining I'm referring to is hand lotion. If you can't get the job, you sure as hell better get good hands.

Small wins.

Prior to the interview, I can count on one now-softened hand how many times I had applied hand lotion in my 49 years. It simply wasn't in my repertoire, despite the Lubriderm my mom would slather on. The habit didn’t transfer. But that has changed.

I now wear hand lotion.

Before you regale me with phrases like 'Their loss,' just know, I'm okay, and they are too. They made the right decision, for them, which leaves me more time to work for you—your company, brand, or even your personal life. If it’s about communication, I can help.

Was that a pitch? It sure as hell was!

There's no good day to polish silver. It usually comes down to staring at a blackened fork one too many times, and something snaps. That was Sunday.

I wore rubber gloves this time, which, given my hand lotion awakening, makes complete sense. Fifty is coming for me, and my hands already look ninety.

While you were frolicking in the Northern California ocean or hiking the illustrious trails in our backyard, I stood in my kitchen over a toxic mess, shining forks, knives, and spoons. Yes, we eat off real silver every. single. day. We're that fancy. Actually, it was a hand-me-down from my parents, like most of the fancy items we own, and I'm not mad about it.

Years ago, as I was shining the silverware, Emma was blown away to see that beneath the tarnish, these babies shone like the top of the Chrysler Building. All she saw was that we ate off what looked like dingy flatware. I gave her an errant fork from our drawer to hold in one hand and a beautifully weighted silver fork in the other. She got it immediately.

Funny what we assume kids know. Why would she think anything other than, “Our forks are dirty”? When you see it through their eyes, it makes perfect sense. How often do we see it through their eyes? Cough, like, never.

After the flatware, I buffed my Heath dishes with hot water and baking soda (not a sanctioned suggestion), and I’m officially ready for Spring.

Easter is nearing, and I couldn't care less. You probably think I don’t care about bunnies, colored eggs, and Jesus because my last name tells you I’m Jewish. Nope, my mom would do Easter, and I actually loved it. My dad said things like, “Easter? Who cares!” His attitude was contagious. Also, the mountains of shit that end up in the garbage, ocean, my home. How could I?

Emma desperately wishes I were an influencer and every holiday were Instagrammable. Living with disappointment is hard. But the silver lining is, I’m anything but boring.

Someday she’ll be grateful.

One year, my mom gifted me a pair of K-Swiss sneakers for Easter. There’s no odder Easter gift, but it sure made an impression on me. I’m talking about it 40 years later.

This year, in an attempt to make an impression, I stopped into World Market for Easter supplies and stumbled onto something good—a tradition, and a clever one, where the store hides cardboard eggs worth $25, $50, and $100.

We’ve been three days in a row. Not one egg. Yesterday, we walked out mad—hungry and mad. I taught Emma a new word—dejected.

Today is the last day. While you’re reading this, I’ll be hunting.

Meanwhile, I scored us an invite to an Easter event. By scored, I mean, I invited myself, point-blank, to someone’s Easter tradition. Michelle was bragging about her spread. I wanted to see how the other half live, so I said to Michelle, “How do I get an invite to Michelle’s Easter?”

This lady is no bullshit. She was either going to say, “Ummm…” Or “You’re invited.” On the spot, she granted me access to the Paperless Post she’d sent long ago, the one that most definitely never saw my name coming.

And so, I’m having a real Easter this year. Emma and Owen will be in Tahoe with their dad. So, I secured a proper Easter for children who won’t be there. Miracles do happen.

You've heard of Bitchin’ Sauce.

It started at farmers’ markets in San Diego. Now it’s in Costco. Surely the quality hasn’t suffered. Cough.

Three siblings—sister, brother, brother. Then came a power grab. The sister wanted control, ousted the brothers, claimed the recipe, and ran. Her husband, five kids, and Christianity came along for the ride. Nobody needs that many children or that much conviction.

Admittedly, I don’t have this exactly right, but who needs facts? The broad strokes feel true, and that’s good enough for me.

Instead of a knock-down legal battle, the Bible, to its credit, discourages this sort of thing—the brothers slid left and built Jee Sauce, what Bitchin’ was supposed to be. Tasty. Thick. Made with almonds and integrity.

They’re shameless about it, and I love it. Rabbit holes aplenty. The brothers’ story found me on Instagram just as I noticed Bitchn’ was watery and no longer Bitchn’. They spoon-fed me the details. I didn’t even have to ask. Right there in my feed. They fed me just enough to sway me to the other side, their side.

Jee Sauce is harder to find, but worth finding. Superior in taste and texture.

Support them. Follow ‘em on IG. Find a Jee Sauce grocery store near you. If you’re feeling devout, put it on your Easter table. Jesus would.

One of my all-time favorite videos. Emma at 4, eating pork with a silver fork from a Heath bowl. Both of which I cleaned yesterday.

Thank you, as always, for being here. You’re loved. Never forget it! Simone

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Hello, and Happy Monday!

I can’t tell you how many issues I’ve written between 129 and 130, but I haven’t sent them. It’s not too many to count—maybe 3 or 4—but I’ve lost track, so I can’t tell you for sure, though I can try (and I just did).

I trust your Thanksgiving (yes, it’s been that long), Christmas, Hanukkah, etc., and New Year have been—and still are—a knockout.

Here’s one simple thing to make your life just a tad better:

You can set limits—for your apps.

Spending too much time on Instagram? YouTube? Another app-drug of choice?

Open your iPhone → Settings → Screen Time → App Limits → Add Limit.

My limits:

Instagram: 1 hour/day
Facebook: 15 minutes/day

That’s it. You’ll get an alert as you near your limit. And because you’re an adult, you can comply, ignore, or extend.

10/10 recommend!

I did something big (for me).

First, I archived my Instagram account. Everything I’d posted for the past however many years of posting got folded into a neat folder and tucked away for another day. Why? Because I can (and you can too).

Questions about what I wanted my feed to be were swirling. So I cut the noise and started anew. Things are looking rather bare. I have a few non-flashy, static images (an attempt to keep the OG IG alive) and the same 600-700 followers I’ve had for years. Hi!

Then I posted a video about my work—and I pinned it to the top. This is akin to dancing naked in front of an audience. I did it anyway.

Talking about my work is one of the hardest topics I could think of to talk about openly with you. To know me is to know I’m not afraid to share much—except my work.

The simplest answer I have is: It’s not good enough. What’s beneath that is layered like a croissant, but what’s most prevalent on the surface is: It’s just not good enough. Once it is, I reason, I’ll share. Gulp. It never is.

You’ve probably heard that 2026 is the Year of the Horse. I’m not usually one for “the year of the” anything, but I am moving with more boldness and less self‑protection. It’s also the year I turn 50, and bold looks good on 50‑year‑olds. Self‑protection does not.

I want to share more of my work with you this year. That’s a goal.

Until we meet again—with love and gratitude,
Simone

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Not to worry, The Letter is rarely about business; always about being human. (Psst… there’s no difference.)

Hello, and Happiest Wednesday to you and yours.

Let’s get into it…

In Issue 129, I told you about John, the inmate I befriended a few years ago. Some of you offered to chip in to replace his art supplies, which were lost or stolen when he moved from San Quentin’s Death Row to Sacramento. So darn kind of you!

I reached out to John and suggested we work out an art deal. What if I commissioned him? I send money. He sends art. He wrote this:

My lawyer won’t be helping me buy Art this year, some way will come, I’ll figure it out. You’ve done enough for me.

Commission? You have my first completed work!

Halloween? For the children, just be vigilante.

Medical? Things will be as they should be. Not an answer John!

Log when U can.

Resting well, 6hours last nite.

Good day my friend, log later.

J.

A couple of things about his message:

His lawyer, Mordecai Garelick, gives him $200 a year. If not for that annual income, John would have nothing beyond prison-issued basics—nor would he have been able to paint the piece my mom bought, the one that led me to him. Also, the name: Mordecai Garelick. It’s so good!

Check your 6. While he didn’t say it explicitly here, he has been telling me to check my six since we met. As a privileged, white woman from Mill Valley, the phrase was foreign to me. “Check your 6” means make sure you know what’s behind you. Forward is 12. Backwards is 6. Ironic I’m receiving safety advice from an inmate, but who better, really? I told him I almost never check my 6—and yeah, I know that’s a privilege.

Medical. He requested a wheelchair, much to his chagrin. He prides himself on staying upright, walking with a cane, but describes the debilitating pain he’s in constantly. He won’t accept anything to take the pain away. He tells me he deserves to live with it, given all the pain he’s caused others. If only it worked that way.

Sleep. When we met, John told me he only slept in 90-minute chunks—always had. I told him the sound of that made me want to die. Again, privilege. So, a 6-hour chunk is quite an improvement, wouldn’t you say?

Then he wrote:

Lets make a deal my friend, Business, I’ll do a painting each month, you send me 25$ each month.

Deal.

Many of you won’t need to know the complexities of sending money to an inmate in prison. Good on you! I’m learning.

As always, I’ll keep you posted. And depending on how this commission-thing goes, perhaps I’ll open the requests to more of you (in case you’re jonesing for art from an unusual source).

I had coffee in Sonoma last week with an old friend. After my chai and her cold brew, we walked the four large blocks of the square, stopping to note the historic buildings and plaques still standing from eons ago. Don’t ask me what they said—I retained nothing—but my phone was listening and later that night, I was fed a story on Facebook, from 1989.

In a murderous rampage, a man named Ramon Salcido killed seven people (all but one were family). Two of his victims survived, so yes, he was after nine people. One of the survivors was his three-year-old daughter, Carmina.

The comments were flooded with recollections of the case—how deeply it had shaken people—along with updates on Carmina, now in her 30s (and, not surprisingly, yet sadly, addicted to drugs).

Before the drugs, she wrote a book called Not Lost Forever. I looked it up—because, well, I’m also communicating with a prison inmate—and now I’m reading it. Prize-winning novel? No. Free with Kindle Unlimited? Yes.

While I hadn’t heard of the Salcido case, I was painfully aware of one that happened nearby seven years later: the kidnapping of Polly Klaas. She was 12, taken from her home in Petaluma during a sleepover with two friends—while her mom and sister slept just down the hall.

This rocked my world. Rocked. It. A girl who already had trouble sleeping (me!), and who often feared the worst in the middle of the night (me!), was shaken to her core by the news—and all over the news, it was! Shortly after Polly was taken, I started therapy and continued for 30 years.

As I read Carmina’s story in Not Lost Forever, it occurred to me that John might have known Salcido, also sentenced to death at San Quentin a few years before John arrived.

While John has assured me I can ask him anything, I’m careful not to treat our relationship like a sensational one. He’s a person, not a specimen. I don’t ask much about life in prison or about his crimes.

I did ask if he has any friends. “Not really,” he said. He mostly keeps to himself. Since leaving Death Row, he’s been surrounded by what he calls “children”—younger inmates, noisier, less grounded.

He preferred the temperament of the elders on The Row—in chains, quiet and broken. He misses that, minus the chains.

In a message about wheelchairs, the crisp, fall weather, and a Halloween update, I wrote to John:

I learned of a story in Sonoma from 1989 of a man named Ramon Salcido who ended up in SQ after the murders of 7 family members. It was a random way the story ended up in front of me, but realized you may have been in SQ at the same time. Did you know him? I am reading a book written by his one daughter who survived.

He responded to all and offered this:

Yes on Salcido, very little contact though.

And that’s that. A tidy, full-circle murderous moment.

PS: My college major was Sociology, the study of society, human behavior, and social interactions. Does this help explain my fascination with prisons (which dates back a long way) and stories like these? I hope so.

I can’t tell you what the barrel jean movement means to be, but I can show you—by replacing every pair of pants (which no longer fit my generously sized peri-body, anyway) with the style. I don’t recommend it. Variety is important. You need more than jeans shaped like Ricket’s legs in your life.

But me? I’m just fine with the horseshoe shape, which fits my horseshoe shape like a horseshoe fits a horse.

There is no shortage of options. Since I’m on a tight budget, and I love the Gap, I tried these on, and they’re good!

Another pair I’ve seen recommended on the socials is the Uniqlo Jersey Barrel Pant (they’re unisex). I tried them. They’re great! However, I’m ever-so-slightly between sizes, so I decided not to get them until I’m one size, not two.

Two people who inspire me on social media:

1. Cruise became quadriplegic 17 years ago in a skimboarding accident, and the only mobility he has is in his head. He lives with his girlfriend of three years (also his full-time caregiver), paints, drives, travels, uses the computer, and on and on. It’s unimaginable to most of us, and a really beautiful example of living, no matter your circumstances.

2. Oliver quit his job at a tire shop, sold everything he owned, cashed in his 401k, bought a boat, and sailed from Oregon to Hawaii with his cat. He’s a very regular guy who chased a dream and captured many hearts. Few professional sailors thought he could do it. They now describe the joy of watching him prove them wrong. He was an amateur, not a sailor—and he made it happen. His next mission is to sail around the world. Non-stop. Alone. An 8-10 month journey. He’s awkward and knows it. He’s now internet famous—and still shows up like it’s his first time on camera.

Beyond the quotes, politics, sound advice, pretty people, and beautiful homes, who and what inspires you on social media? Please share. It’s not the monster we claim it to be, unless we succumb to the monster we claim it to be. Let’s not.

Until we meet again. With love and gratitude,

Simone

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Shall we begin today with a bit of housekeeping? If you ever reply to The Letter, and I don’t respond—something’s horribly wrong. Or, your note landed in SPAM.

If you write me, I will write back.

Speaking of SPAM… have you ever wondered where the term comes from? How about jaywalking? Both caused me to stop, wonder, and Google. I have the answers, but The Letter isn’t here to spew information you can find elsewhere.

Take a moment and Google: Why is crappy email called SPAM, and is the term jaywalking a racist or derogatory one (this was my concern).

I’ll wait… Okay, fine:

1. SPAM: a 1970 Monty Python sketch, in which the canned meat product is repeated to the point of being obnoxiously repetitive and unavoidable. This was adopted by early internet users to describe the similarly unwanted, repetitive, and overwhelming flood of junk email.

2. Jaywalking: a derogatory 20th-century slang term for a country simpleton. Automakers and lobbyist groups promoted the word to shift blame from drivers to pedestrians, when pedestrians stepped out of line.

A reader recently asked for an update on my pen pal, artist, prisoner friend.*

Here goes… We’re still communicating.

John is 75. When he was 40-something, he killed three men in an armed robbery of an office furniture store he had worked in. He fled with $800. After a month on the run, he was arrested and sentenced to death.

He spent 30+ years on San Quentin’s Death Row. Every minute, while not in his cell, he was in chains.

In May 2024, San Quentin began transferring its Row inmates to other facilities, as part of a plan to transform San Quentin into a rehabilitation-focused facility—hallelujah! John was transferred to a lower-security prison in Sacramento, where he spent one year.

One year, without chains, for the first time in 30 years. He felt free.

A year into his stay in Sacramento, the facility proved to be unfit to care for his medical needs—mostly, he can’t do stairs, and at his age, they have duties to keep him in as good health as possible.

On the very day I was scheduled to visit him (first time—what a process!), he was transferred to Fresno. Alas, no visit.

Today, he’s in Fresno, where it’s hot and bothered, but it’s flat, and they’re taking care of him.

In his move from SQ to Sac, his art supplies and all of his personal belongings were lost or stolen. Like losing your luggage, but without anyone to care. Gone.

Nearly everything in prison costs money. You can live high on the hog or like a stray dog—just like on the outside. John lives closer to a stray dog, but not entirely. His lawyer, Mordecai Garelick (and yes, I’ve considered reaching out to Mordecai (how could I not with a name like that) seems to have helped John on occassion, financially.

For context: Our messages cost $.05 each, and I believe his entertainment subscription is $10/month. I know he gets cold, and I know he gets hot, but purchasing him a supply or two is not quite as easy as hitting up Amazon and sending that shit to prison. Almost everything is prison-issued or must be purchased from a prison vendor.

John has never asked me for anything. Well, twice. Once, he asked if I’d send him a calendar with wildlife (specifically wolves). I sent him a 12-month wall calendar—the kind you find in mall pop-ups. He gushed over the extravagance. He’d expected a single sheet of paper with all 12 months (and wolves?).

Apparently, calendars are acceptable coming from the outside. I could’ve laced the pages with acid, but I didn’t.

His next request was for a couple of books, which we later learned were considered contraband—so now I’m stuck with some oldies (though jury’s still out on the goodies).

This about killed him. He couldn’t live with himself knowing I’d spent money on two books I couldn’t use. In all honesty, he feared he’d lost my friendship. I assured him: it takes more than that to lose me.

Another time, he all-but-asked me to marry him so I could receive his Veteran benefits—he hated to see them go to waste. He knows being a single mom can be a financial slog and wishes he could do something—anything—to make life easier. At the time of this writing, I’m not married to a prisoner. Remember Issue 128 when I told you I go for the underdog…?

We communicate through an app called Getting Out (I appreciate the name). If you’re wondering what the hell we talk about: It’s riveting. Here are a couple of recent messages from John (unedited):

Hi Simone, received a Flu shot to day, long overdue.

Stronger doing well.

Outside for an hour walking, Sun felt good.

Getting cool at night in Fresno, needed it.

How am I doing?

Been off my game for a couple of weeks, being sick for men is different than for women, men seem to turn into crying baby’s seeking help from mommies.

Not sure how that reflects with me, here doing for your self even when your Ill. Be bk. J.

And another:

Hi beautiful, it’s a good day.

True, the heat can spin-a-brain.

103° today, I’m in for today.

Head injuries, had a few, keep diligent.

Art, it’s gone, never know where you’ll find a thief.

I’ll have to save and built again, finding out my options in $, lawyer possibly. (Don’t even think that, you have a Mom’s responsibility).

Loss is something I know.

My energy now is to stay healthy, wk-out, walk with my cane more, less dependent on the walker, no wheelchair!

My energy my life is to my belief that each life matters, one can’t give to others without finding peace with oneself.

My mind may journey to moments past, but ones true soul keeps one from time stayed.

Be bk, Jc.

Yes, in the second one, he refers to me as beautiful. He’s never seen me. He doesn’t know I’m beautiful. But he knows he has a friend who shows up and sends him well wishes, and that’s enough to earn the name ‘beautiful.’

As for my notes to John, they vary. Today was crazy exciting:

Morning, John. Sorry you’re still battling that cold. Not too much to report over here. Life is much the same it was a few days ago. Sending good energy your way. I hope today is a good one. Simone

His response:

Hi Simone, I’m well my friend after effects but that’s to be expected. Reading your text is good energy. Every day vertical is a good day. Stay well S, J.

So there you have it. You’re officially updated on John. No plans to visit him in Fresno. That said, when he becomes sick or frail, I’ll most certainly make the effort to meet him in person before he passes. But I’ll tell you—this one has no plans of going anywhere anytime soon. The will! I’m not sure I’d have it.

PS: His sign-off as Jc is John Cunningham, not Jesus Christ.

*For the uninitiated: This issue is about John Cunningham, a man I wrote to on San Quentin’s Death Row after inheriting a painting my mom had bought from the San Quentin Hobby Shop—years before she died. On the back was a sheet of paper with the artist’s name and CDCR number. I felt compelled to tell him who had his painting.

That was May 2023. We’ve been communicating ever since.

When I wear this scent, people can’t get enough of me. This recommendation comes with a warning: Wear another’s scent and bad luck follows. Risky proposition, but at least you’ll smell good.

You’re beautiful. Don’t you forget it.

Until soon-ish, Simone

It’s good to be back. Am I back? I’m not sure, but I know this is Issue 128, so let’s get into it…

Last week, a reader asked whether I was still with my boyfriend.

I’m not.

Why?

Stephen had a side hustle—connecting with women online. It didn’t start that way, but it ended that way.

A little over a year into our relationship, things began to wane. I had my doubts; he had his—clearly. Much later, I learned he felt abandoned, so he sought attention elsewhere. By the time I understood this, his feelings and mine were tangled in a web I wasn’t willing to untangle. So sue me!

Leading up to our breakup, I was preoccupied with myself and, yes, quite possibly, abandoning him. I was turning over every stone in my garden, asking whether it would stay or go—plant medicine will do that to you.

I was investigating early emotional traumas and my inner child—the stuff that picks up steam as we embark on the second half of our lives—and pick up steam, it did.

The work is never done, so I don’t mean to imply I’ve conquered the mountain—but I’m definitely on the other side of something. My perspective has shifted, even as the work continues, and life looks largely the same on the outside.

Filling your holes with someone other than yourself (not those holes!), and most certainly, someone outside the relationship, rarely works. It’s a flawed strategy. There are exceptions, but it’s guaranteed that what caused the behavior will seek your attention at some point. You may unknowingly cloak it in other behaviors. At which point, the root becomes harder and harder to reach, often by design.

When our roots are touched, it’s painful! (Hello, receding gums.)

It’s rare to find someone who hasn’t cheated (cough me), especially in the post-divorce/mid-life/dating sphere. Many are single with stories of infidelity.

This is a major over-simplification, as infidelity is a symptom, not a cause. And I don’t mean a symptom of the relationship—I mean a symptom of the person in the relationship, out of connection with themselves, and using other people as their drug.

Usually, whether spoken or unspoken, someone in their family modeled the behavior. The tricky bit—you don’t have to be conscious of a parent or guardian’s infidelity to repeat the pattern. It’s true with almost anything. Conscious or not—and usually not—we may abhor a circumstance (cough divorce) and still unconsciously walk into the same behavior we swore we’d never repeat.

It me!

The do-I-stay-or-go scale was tipping in the direction of no for me. So, the catastrophe hit, and I hit the ground running.

Bye-bye, Beekeeper.

Again, he felt abandoned.

I was really sad. Disappointed. I couldn’t believe it came to this. However, I felt 100% committed to myself and my self-discovery. If that was the reason I wasn’t available, and he went elsewhere, I could live with that. If it had been the opposite, and I’d have abandoned myself, I would have felt something entirely different.

I’ll be damned if I let a rich experience like this go by without doing research. During one of our few conversations afterward, I said, “Help me understand what goes on for someone who is holding one relationship and attempting to build another. I’ve never done it—honestly, what’s the thought process?”

He alluded to some sort of dissociation. An out-of-body experience where consciousness and consequences evaporate. Wanting and blindly seeking.

We’ve all been there. Eaten more, or not nearly enough. Drank. Smoked. Exercised. Numbed ourselves with our drug of choice—hoping to relieve the emptiness many of us have.

This was that.

A guy with holes in his soul, filling his bucket and leaking water as he walked.

As level-headed as I sound today, it was painful at the time. I don’t have to search the annals of my calendar to recall: It was Sunday, April 7, 2024, at 9:30 pm when the shoe dropped. A dear friend and her dear friend made the connection and did what women do: brought it to my attention with grace.

Stephen was striking up conversations with women on Facebook—women who found his man-of-the-earth status as a Point Reyes ranger appealing.

He had doctored his profile, hiding friends and other squirrelly behavior, so connections couldn’t be made. Facebook banter transitioned to texting, and he took the conversation to the next level.

As I write, it’s been 1.5 years. The pain is gone. What’s left is the pattern, not the person.

I tend toward the underdog—the one who appears soft and kind (read: emotionally available), without oodles of money, and who doesn’t fit the conventional description of hot. Only half-consciously, I reason: if they’re anything but, why on earth would they want me?

No surprise, with this logic, my attempts at securing a failsafe partner don’t work. For one, I’m acting from a wound—which means I’m guaranteed to re-open it with the actions I take to protect it. For two, it’s built on the belief that some people are better than others. That’s an RFD—a recipe for disaster.

I don’t know how long he had been fishing before I found the net he had cast, but he was in another relationship in a flash.

This one didn’t last very long. How do I know?

He texted a few times with unsolicited updates. Once, with a backhanded compliment—praising my communication skills and trash-talking hers. Another time, to share that karma had bitten him—his current ex-girlfriend had dumped him when he accused her of cheating.

The karma card—I’m not a fan. Pulling it, even when confirming your shitty behavior, is a sneaky way of distancing yourself from the equation. If karma did it, somehow I don’t see myself as the star of the movie.

Alas, we’re the stars of our movie.

I don’t want to tear him down. He’s a nice person who’s doing life the way he knows how—like the rest of us. However, I do want women considering his company to be aware of his tendencies—at least in our relationship. And I’ve wanted to share the story with you, my newsletter friends.

He’s on the apps. If you are…

He’s a ranger in Point Reyes. I won’t share his last name because I’m classy, but it may be the same word you’d use to describe a small group of quail—i.e., a school of fish, a blank of quail.

Have at it, puzzle lovers.

There you have it—the story of the Beekeeper and me. Now you’re up to date, and we can move on. Phew!

PS: I’m not actively dating. I feel a responsibility to understand my pattern toward unavailable men—especially the ones who seem emotionally open—before I enter another partnership. Could this be done in a relationship? Yes.

But, as a single parent, I run a household, raise my kids, care for my pets, hold a job, and make time for myself—all as a party of one. Add a partner, and something has to give. But what?

PPS: I know. Partners don’t have to take—they can add. But it’s not their job to add. It’s their job to be.

This is your job, too. Mine as well. Our children’s. No other requirement. Just be you!

Get this: I got my Sociology degree from Boston University, also known as B-U. Um, kay!

Thank you for joining me for another issue of The Letter—and thank you for being beautiful, messy, and imperfectly YOU.

Until soon-ish,
Simone

It’s been something like 549 days since we last spoke. In that time, at least 549,000 people have started Substacks, and I can’t think of one reason to continue mine.

Alas, logic isn’t part of this puzzle, so I thought I’d fire this baby up, take a spin around the block, make sure her chassis is lubed, and her steering isn’t veering.

When I put The Letter (which, yes, I threatened to rebrand 100 times and never did) on pause, I did so because:
a) It’s no small task writing a newsletter weekly;
b) What was happening for me internally wasn’t enjoyable to live through, let alone drag you along for.

So I reasoned, if I couldn’t show you all of me, I wouldn’t show you any of me.

How noble.

One of my greatest faults is crippling self-awareness. Or maybe it’s unwavering integrity. Actually… let’s be real, it’s self-annihilation. Remember the early days of The Letter when I publicly shamed myself for every typo?

That’s it! My crippling self-awareness just might be shame.

Speaking of shame… I’m a big self-help lady, but rarely a “mainstream self-help” lady. I take pleasure in hunting for off-the-beaten-path voices—the ones who aren’t on airport shelves. David Bedrick is one of those. His book The Unshaming Way is beautiful. He’s a light in every way.

Sometimes I imagine taking a page from the books of people who project one image—their brand—while a messier one runs unseen in the background.

No shade to those folks. I admire them—they’re attractive, aspirational—they show us what it looks like to live beautifully.

You know where to find that, and it’s not here.

…one moment, please. My self-awareness is waving frantically from the back:

You’re lying. Shit goes through your mind every second of every day that you don’t share. People tell you you appear confident and self-assured, but you’re not! If they only knew. You have more doubt than… (insert metaphor that makes sense and impresses people, but you can’t think of now, except for how “doubt” rhymes with “trout”).

Annnd, we’re back: if my greatest fault is crippling shameful-self-awareness, my greatest gift is my drive to share my whole, imperfect self with you.

Why?

Because the world isn’t getting less polished. Already, there’s a layer of Turtle Wax on everything we see, waiting to be buffed and detailed—so everything appears shinier and smoother than it really is.

I’m building a spot on the internet to celebrate the one-of-a-kind nature in all of us. While we’ve got tools and templates aplenty—and the innovations keep coming (hello, AI, which wasn’t here when The Letter began but is very much here now)—we mustn’t lose the irreplaceable beauty of humanity, and all its faults.

How noble.

As part of my plight, I’m sharing more of myself on Instagram. Turns out, what the world doesn’t want is more Substacks and talking-head videos—and I’m delivering both.

(Listen, if Henry Ford had asked the people what they wanted, we’d have faster horses—not cars. I couldn’t ignore the overused anecdote. So sue me.)

What’s more? I started a secret Instagram account, blocked all of you, and I've been posting daily. I’m still doing it—but the courage is naturally transferring to my main account, so I’m going with it.

Try it. It’s LIBERATING!

As a gift for sticking with my ramble, I offer these documentaries worth watching:

• The Menendez Brothers on Netflix

• Unknown Number on Netflix

• Ruby and Jodi on HBO Max

• Who Killed JonBenet Ramsey? on Netflix

• American Nightmare on Netflix

• aka Charlie Sheen on Netflix

If you have an art, craft, or tweaker project, pick it up while you watch one of these. It’s rather satisfying. My friend and super artist/muralist, Suz Bax, works her magic while listening to podcasts. Right, Suz?

I have long forgotten the details of my previous newsletters—the headers, colors, habits, patterns. Rather than go back in time, let’s start here: slow and steady, and without the embellishments. We can always add.

To whoever coined the term “fuck around and find out,” I owe you one. It’s appropriate here.

Thank you for joining me for another issue of The Letter—and more than anything, thank you for being whole, messy, and imperfectly YOU.

Until soon-ish,
Simone

I’ve sent The Letter, rain or shine, for 126 consecutive weeks. Hot damn! Before I continue, I must sit with my intention. Namely, is it out of desire or obligation? And what is its purpose?

We don’t get near enough unfiltered life these days. I want to be that for us. I want to make you laugh—and cry. I want to share what makes my life easier in hopes of doing the same for you.

Lately, I've struggled to write with the depth I experience IRL; few topics are off limits for a transparent lady like myself, yet many of my journeys as of late are not ready for prime time. They're raw, and I want to explore them further before showing up in your inbox half-hearted. I hope you understand. When I return, because I bet I will, our relationship will be different and better.

Do I sound dramatic? I do. Please know—all is well. I’m well. The kids are well. The cats are well. Drama is not my intention. A breath and pause is.

I appreciate EVERY last one of you for reading my words since I began in October 2021. Your precious eyeballs mean the world to me. I’m grateful beyond measure.

Until we meet again… Simone ❤️

Do not fret; all is well here—just a quiet week with a calm soul. This week, I have a round-up of some of my favorite people filling various needs. Some are Bay Area-focused. Others are available remotely.

If you reach out, please tell them Simone sent you. I don’t get anything for it (except the Brain Spa), but it’s nice to make the connection. In no particular order:

1. Bay Area Brain Spa (also a Bay Area reco). Curious about neurofeedback and ADHD, I stumbled upon the Bay Area Brain Spa. What a gem! My unofficial description of neurofeedback is something about brain rewiring and a nervous system reboot. For sure, I’m butchering this, and you’re welcome to go down your own rabbit hole—there’s plenty to learn (and it’s not just for ADHD). The owner is wonderful. The environment is pleasing. The experience is relaxing. If you book with Brain Spa, I’d be grateful if you’d use my referral code: ss-508498. Thank you, and enjoy!

2. Hugo for tech. Hugo’s been helping people with their computing needs for 35 years. He’ll log onto your Mac from wherever he is and wherever you are and help you with any number of tasks. It could be an issue. It could be a question. It could be transition to a new computer. If it’s related to an Apple product, he’s your guy. He’s well versed in scams, which can be particularly helpful for older folks, though not limited to. Hugo is your easy, friendly computer guy. Everyone needs an easy, friendly computer guy!

3. YNAB stands for You Need a Budget. I’ve become a fan of this program since diving in earlier this year. There are copious options—Quickbooks, Mint, blah, blah, blah, but for whatever reason, YNAB caught me, and it works. I was looking for a new way to think about money because the traditional way wasn’t working for my brain. I started a free YNAB trial, watched this woman’s YouTube, and eventually hired Chelsea, a 1:1 coach, to help me get the most out of the program. All of this was happenstance, and all of it stuck. Maybe it will help you, too.

4. Laura Alford, ADHD coach for teens. Laura works with my son weekly over Zoom. Every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, they check in for 15 minutes—going over what’s on Owen’s plate and how he’ll get it done. It’s been a game-changer for all of us—less nagging from parents and more initiative and confidence for Owen. I don’t believe Laura has a website, but you can email her for the scoop. She’s a rockstar!

5. My ADHD coach, Tereasa Jones. I came to Tereasa for help navigating life and business with ADHD. Now a coach, she’s a and former psychotherapist with years of experience. She’s grounded and practical, kind and direct. With her, there’s less talking and more doing.

6. Liliana Manzone is a diverse learning consultant. She’ll consult with you about your child’s needs and how they can be met within their school. Navigating 504s? IEPs? Have no idea what I’m talking about? Lily advocates for students of all ages with learning differences. A former San Francisco Public School school teacher, she’s patient, kind, and super knowledgeable about the system and the kids within it. Email her, and she’ll give you all the info you need on what she can provide.

7. Batool for brows and makeup (a Bay Area reco). There was a time when I had a pickle guy—a guy who made exceptional pickles and mailed them to me. Now, I have a brow lady, and she’s good for more than brows. Not only can she make you look pretty, but you can purchase what she uses—like going to the makeup counter at Nordstrom, but not. When it comes to the face, she’s your lady (unless you want injectables and other un-naturals—then you’ll need a different lady).

There you have it, folks—a handful of recommendations I stand behind fully and completely, or your money back (though I’m not refunding you :) I hope there’s something helpful for you or someone you love.

This Girl is 10!

Art from John

Thank you for being here! Until next week… Simone

Each night, as I fall asleep, I repeat these words: 'Thank you for showing me the issue is already solved.' Naturally, you’re wondering, 'Which issue?'

There’s no one issue; I’m covering all the issues in one fell swoop, which conveniently ensures nothing goes wrong in my life. As if!

I find the words and the intention comforting, and you may, too. After weeks of practice, the phrase rolls off my tounge. Until then, and still, I have the words taped to the lamp beside my bed, lest I forget.

You can, too.

The moment I wake at 5:00 am, I repeat the words: “Thank you for revealing today’s miracles.” This one’s harder, and not quite so succint. The moment between unconsciousness and consciousness is clumsy. Sometimes the words vary, but there’s always a mention of miracles. Do you know your first thought when you wake? I challenge you.

Despite what you’ve been led to believe about miracles, they can be quite small. I’m training my brain to find them in the everyday. I bet you’re wondering, since I started the practice, do miracles happen and issues resolve? Why not try it for yourself.

Letters with John

John, my pen pal at San Quentin, is moving for the first time in over 30 years, to a new facility. At 74, his health is declining and his threat-level is low, so he’ll go to a medical facility in either Stockton or Sacramento—I think they keep you guessing until it’s over. His note form today:

Hi Simone, Medical Stockton, 2nd., SAC. Medical./////. It's been a long tiring day, but it's good to have a place out of S.Q. Row. I'm classified now as level 5, the row, I'm at level 2 when I get to the Med. Stockton., so the change will be overwhelming I'm sure, but ridding these chains after what seems a lifetime is the best. 3,4 weeks Simone. Security is tight so talking about transfers, when, how, is a no no, just be happy for my departure from the row. Went to legal afterwards, gave the information to legal, all good on that end. Let me send this, rest for 90m. cycle. Log back 5pm. J.

He sleeps in 90-minute cycles—he has since he can remember.

From an exchange last week, when the transfer was put on the table, he wrote:

(""_:). I go to Committee next Wednesday, Stockton? Medical place, it's level 2, so that's a position. The Sun will be a nice touch, sky, grass, no chains, fresh air, find a job helping, Veterans, Art program, American Indian group, whatever my Spine/Back can handle. Stay Vertical- keep positive- keep moving, ( use it or lose it ). I know, always check my 6). ("_"). Need 90m. J.

In response, I asked if there was a windows in his current cell (Emma wanted to know). That message is still pending, which means, the people monitoring our communication think I was casing the joint. If they only knew how unture that was.

Mill Valley Mom of Two Maps San Quentin’s Death Row is not a headline you’ll read anytime soon.

When our messages are blocked, I think, “Are you freaking kidding me—I’m censored for asking about a window!” Then, I recall, I’m talking with a man on Death Row—this isn’t just any communication. And yet, it is. We have a friendship. Our differences are fading and the words flow more freely now. His messages are less cryptic and I hear a person who nourished by our friendship.

Case in point, as I type to you, these words came in from him:

Hi Simone, I was letting the boy's know about today, saw your text. I like sharing, we're friend's staying in touch is important to me, having good people in ones life is nice. I've been boxed in mentally for so long thinking, there's nothing wrong with being alone. I've had my fill of being alone. Too much sharing? Back to a 90m. cycle. Log back 6-7 pm. J.

Too much sharing? Never!

I’ll have to ask who he’s referring to when he says, “I was letting the boys know about today.” He could mean his sons, though I don’t think he talks with them. He could mean his fellow inmates, though I don’t know if he talks to them either. I’ll have to ask.

Even a man on Death Row admits to accumulating crap. From an earlier exchange:

"√°_). Hi Simone, working sorting property, so much crap one accumulates over the years. I'll logon again later to see if you've sent a thought. Remember, always take a time for you. You have a way of doing for other's, forgetting /////, you know my thoughts on this. J.

I responded with, “We fill the space we have.”

I used to think it would be rewarding to communicate with a person inside San Quentin, but shopping a catalog of prison pen pals felt wrong. There’s no such catalog, that I know of, but something of its kind undoubtedly exists. Meeting John, genuinely and through my mom’s passing, is right.

(For the uninitiated: After my mom passed, I inherited a painting she bought at the prison hobby shop, because why not, and wrote a note to the inmate who painted it—that’s John.)

Speaking of my mom, this photo just popped up. We were in Tahoe for her 70th birthday, a year before her passing. April will mark three years. Losing her continues to be surreal—she was just here. ❤️

Someday I’ll tell you how beautifully they blended our families when they married in the 80s—a model for thoughtful family blending.

Thank you for being here. I appreciate each one of you. Until next week… Simone

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Ash Wednesday rolled into one. Does it get bigger?

Even with the power of Google, I don’t know the significance of Ash Wednesday. I believe, though, that the ashes are Jesus’ (and the forehead is yours). Valentine’s Day, well, it has something to do with love.

Ash Wednesday holds a special place in my heart as the protagonist in a story of how religiously unaware I was in college—and apparently still am.

I'm in Italian class at Boston University, and my teacher calls on the woman beside me. I look over, and to my dismay, this poor woman has shit all over her face—blissfully unaware of how stupid she looks.

I like my Italian teacher a lot, but I’m disappointed. She’s choosing pride over saving this woman's soul from utter embarrassment. Imagine the worst "broccoli in your teeth" moment, and nobody says a word.

After class, we all file onto Comm Ave., and I notice several, if not dozens, of people with shit on their faces. Something is up—it turns out that Ash Wednesday is up, and I’m the dummy.

Photos of the Week

Happy day-after Valentine's and AW. May your soul be loved (and saved)—at least until next week... Simone. ✝ ❤️

After reducing my feed by 400, I hung a shingle on my profile: “Not currently on Instagram. Feel free to email me at simone.silverstein@gmail.com or join my newsletter.👇🏼 Cheers!”

I’m happier already. The decibels in my head are fewer. I’m beginning to hear myself again. I’m still on Facebook because I don’t want to disconnect entirely, and I like perusing Facebook Marketplace and staying up on what the over-forty crowd is doing.

The irony of contributing to the noise with this newsletter is not lost on me. Yes, I wrestle with it, and yes, here we are. One small step for woman. One giant step for peace of mind.

Speaking of content and this newsletter, big changes are coming. I’ve said it before and not much has changed. This time, this time, change is coming. By issue 150 The Letter will be Hello Silverstein.

Think of it as a replanting. If The Letter is a small, but healthy house plant, Hello Silverstein is the larger container it’s craving to grow into itself. As this progresses, I’ll leak bits and bobs, likely ask for your opinion, and together we’ll shape this baby into something we’re proud of. 🌱

I have 28 weeks to nail it. A little procrastination never hurt anyone.

Nadia and Dawn, I’m winking at you ;)

Four Things

1. Hand strengthening, anyone? My hands are tight due to modern-day computing. I noticed a grip-strengthening device in Owen’s room (among other unmentionables) so I gave it a go. Ooooh! It feels good to move those hands.
   
   I bought a set of my own, and now next to me on my desk is a smorgasbord of fidgets and strengtheners. Next time you see me, my hands will be less cramped, and my forearms will be jacked—every woman's goal.
   
   I bought this set. No doubt, there’s higher quality out there, thought these mechanisms work quite well.

2. I’m reading Becoming Supernatural (okay, I’m skimming—this is my 3rd read). This book is up next. No Kindle or audio option—you’ll have to resort to good ol’ paper and ink. As if!

3. I keep a bottle of Brianna’s Vinaigrette in the fridge because it’s Emma’s favorite, and sometimes I don’t want to make dressing—so sue me.
   
   A couple of times, I’ve used the bottle to teach the kids about product design and how it aligns with a company’s financials. We’re always learning over here.

   
   When I noticed the pour spot had become rather large, I told the kids: now customers have a hard time controlling the dressing waterfall. Therefore, they empty the bottle faster and buy more. The company makes money.
   
   When the bottle got shorter by a few millimeters, but the price didn’t change, I knew they were up to something. If they shave off a couple of millimeters on millions of products, it saves millions of dollars—and how many consumers are really going to notice? (Answer: at least one.)
   
   In any event, the dressing is a decent one to have on hand. I haven’t tested its Yuka score yet, so take the reco like you do all of my recos—with a grain of salad dressing.

4. If you don’t sleep with an eyemask, are you even sleeping? I bought a faux fur one at West Elm yeeearrrs ago that I still love. Every now and again, an impulse buy works better than you could hope for. This was one of those times.
   
   I searched for one to recommend to you. I didn’t start with Amazon, but I found this one as the closest match—and it may be identical. I think I paid $9.99, but who’s counting.

   
   When the headband stretches out, because it just might, tie a knot—it’ll be good as snooze, er, new.

Photo of the Week

This boy is going to the Super Bowl tomorrow with my dad. Just the two of them, fumbling around Las Vegas on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. My dad was gifted the tickets by a client, so the trip isn’t free, but the 🏈 tickets are.

Yes, Emma’s jealous Owen will be in the same stadium as Taylor Swift. I’m just stoked for him. What an experience.

Good people, Issue 122 has come to a close. I appreciate your readership more than you know. Until next week… Simone

If you persist, it comes at the expense of your relationship.

Seemingly daily, I learn this with my now-teenage son. My motto since deciding our relationship was more important than teaching him a lesson (a lesson he doesn’t want to know): “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

In this version of parenting, I go against everything I was taught, and what society reiterates, and meet Owen where he’s at.

For too long, I argued with him about keeping his room tidy, as I called it. I didn’t expect miracles, but I did expect he kept it respectful—explaining his outside mirrored his inside, and there was no way I was accepting his insides looked like this! I’m giving you the light version. Suffice it to say, I tried every angle. Nothing worked. I grew more and more frustrated, and I’m sure he felt more and more ashamed.

I got real with myself at some point—none of my attempts were working. Out of options, I turned to another Simone-ism: “What happens if I do the opposite?”

The opposite meant cleaning his room for him (and would make my mom roll over in her grave). And so I did, and still do, clean his room every few days. I put the clothes in the laundry, stack the dishes and La Croix cans—plural, pitch the chip bags, hang the towels, and make the bed. It’s done in minutes, and everyone’s happier.

Get this—we never argue over his room, ever! We went from daily frustrations to zero friction (in this area—there’s more :) He knows I have his back, and if he doesn’t want me in his room, he can clean it himself. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t.

Everything about my choice says I’m enabling his behavior and teaching him others will pick up after him. That may be, but I’m also telling him I love him enough to help him feel good and organized and to preserve our relationship. I’m willing to risk this is the message he’s taking away.

The moral: If you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em. We can guide our kids and show them we love and accept them as they are.

Check with me in a few years. I may be ruining him. In the meantime, life is more peaceful for all of us. I’ll take it.

Five Things

1. The Minimalists. Their newest documentary—Less Is Now—is worth a watch. The cliff notes: We have too much shit!

2. Taylor Swift is 34. I found out on January 29, 2024, when I thought to ask Emma about the significance of 1989. “She has an album called 1989. It’s the year she was born.” I’m sorry, what? She’s not 11, 21, 26?! Nope. She’s 34. Girl just got cooler in my book!
   
   I’m reminded of the time I played Winnie the Pooh in a high school play (yes, Winnie the Pooh in high school). Weeks into rehearsals, a light turned on: Kanga, the mom kangaroo, and Roo, the baby kangaroo, together spelled Kangaroo. Did you know that?

3. There’s a Sriracha shortage, and it’s not a supply chain issue. The partners had a falling out, and you’ll never get the actual Sriracha again—unless you buy it on eBay for $86.
   
   If you have a Fortune magazine subscription, you can read the better-than-I-could-write article here. If not, here are the cliff notes:
   
   Business partners for 28 years, David Tran (founder of Huy Fong Foods) and Craig Underwood (farmer) worked together exclusively. All of David Tran's chilies came from Craig’s farm. Craig’s sole customer was David.
   
   In it together—mano y mano—for 28 years without lawyers or contracts, just handshakes and nods. In opposing versions of the story, their relationship ended one night, leaving Craig with thousands of acres of pepper fields and nobody to buy them. And David with a massive pepper factory and not enough peppers to keep it running.
   
   Accusations, lawsuits, and beaucoup bucks later, Sriracha (as we knew it) will never be the same again. Different chilis means different taste, and the connoisseurs know it. The end. 🌶️

4. Calm down with the sounds of forests around the world. There’s even a Chrome extension. Enjoy.

5. Google “Japanese synchronized walking” and see what you see. I could provide the link, but let’s see how badly you want it.

   ---

   

   ---

   Thanks for tuning in. Your presence is a present. Until next week… Simone

A year ago, Emma found an edible in my makeup bag and popped it like candy. A couple of hours later, we were in the ER.

On that night, the realities of writing publicly showed up—among concern for Emma, of course. Once we returned home safely, and we did, I wanted so badly to tell you what happened—to prevent this from happening to another kiddo ASAP. That evening, I sent Issue 65 of The Letter without saying anything, and you’d never know.

Sharing life’s messes connects us. Yet sharing life’s messes takes enormous courage. Ultimately, I listened to friends and family who urged me not to go public: “Simone, do NOT put this in your newsletter.” I understood their point of view well enough to heed their advice. Still, I wrestled with protecting my reputation over helping others. I strive for the latter.

Emma was okay. She slept it off under a doctor’s eye and mostly recovered without incident. However, she tasted anxiety she’d never felt, and that left a mark. Her anxiety has tapered, and she’s all good. She will not, however, be engaging with marijuana anytime soon.

Action: Buy yourself a lockbox and share this advice with someone you love. There’s no reason not to do this simple step to prevent a child from having a scary experience.

Kids are curious!

Five Things

1. Do you need a heart-based bookkeeper? You do. I recently met Jessica, and I highly recommend her. She works in Quickbooks. Her approach empowers you to own your books with her as your teacher. Check her out, and tell her Simone sent you.
   
   Full transparency: I’m not working with Jessica because I use different accounting software. But our 30-minute chat was great, and I know she can help you.

2. When something feels hard, ask yourself this: What would it look like if it were easy? It won’t solve all your problems, but it does give your brain another option and, oftentimes, a simpler way forward. Thank you, Tim Ferriss.

3. I don’t eat fish, but I really like this fish spatula. It’s my go-to spatch. 🐟

4. A window into my pen pal relationship with John on San Quentin’s Death Row. He had his 74th birthday on Sunday.
   
   I wrote: Happy Birthday, John! 74 years young. I hope you enjoy something a bit more special than usual today. I don’t imagine birthdays on The Row are much of a party, but I’m sure you can find joy in the moments. Have a wonderful day. More tomorrow. Your friend, Simone 🎉

   
   He responded with: Family keeps one young at heart, as years pass one may go bald from the pulled hair, but family is worth it./////. The Row has it's daily goings on, I have mine, they seldom meet. Thanks for your thoughts, tomorrow we'll connect. Close your eyes, listen for the laughter, problems will fade. Tomorrow S. J.

5. Three words. Let me remind you of the power of asking someone to tell their story in three words. Many issues back, I suggested you try this technique. Today, the suggestion is back.

   
   When someone’s been on a date, had a job interview, or any life event, and you want a snapshot without asking them to share the full monty—request three words to describe it. You’ll be amazed at how much you can glean.

   ---

Photo of the Week

Much love. Thank you all for being here. Until next week… Simone

In prepping Issue 119, I took a page from my writer-friend Alexandra’s book when I scrubbed my subscriber list. I gently released 81 people from the clutches of The Letter because they hadn’t engaged with it for at least six months (no doubt there are more lurking).

Now, The Letter has fewer, better readers—and you’re one of them. Congrats! 🎉

Question: Are you willing to go backward to go forward?

Sign me up!

Five Things

1. There are paper towels, and there are UNpaper towels. This brand comes recommended by an avid cook with a family of four and excellent taste. I'm taking the plunge as soon as my Costco paper towels run low. I want to think I’ll go all in and never restock the paper, but baby steps. (Here’s an Amazon link if you prefer.)

2. “The only person you should compare yourself to is the person you were yesterday.” Amy Morin said this. I don’t know much about Amy, and I don’t like the word should, but I do like the quote.
   
   I shared it with Emma. She's been talking a lot about what Piper has. Before I spewed a lesson, I told her I've noticed she's more aware of what her friends have. Then I told her nobody is immune to comparison—even adults. Then I told her that you NEVER know what's happening beneath the surface unless someone tells you (and most people won’t show their underbelly). Then I told her I like talking about the hard stuff because it makes the world better. We all have it—it just comes in different flavors. If we’re transparent, we all win.
   
   It’s true; I like talking about the hard stuff, but you’d be surprised by how much I hold back about my world (and I’m relatively transparent). I wish I had the courage to be even more so. Ultimately, I want The Letter to normalize the hard stuff (and offer the light stuff, like recommendations and insights). #goals
   
   Also, fuck comparison—we’re all drowning (aren’t we?).

3. Some people insist a good pair of socks makes life better. Some say these do the trick (and the men’s version). I don’t own a pair of Bombas myself, but one can dream.
   
   New socks or not, when was the last time you edited your sock drawer? It’s time. Set a five-minute timer and see how much lighter you feel when you have fewer, better socks.

4. Do your iPhone photos save with a .heic extension? Do you wish they were .jpg instead? Trust me, you do. Here’s how to make the switch.

   Convert HEIC to JPG on iPhone:

   1. Open the Settings app on your iPhone.

   2. Tap Camera > Formats > Most Compatible.

5. When all else fails, enjoy a video of a two-day-old elephant seal and its mom sent from Stephen. When baby calls, mama responds.

My Apologies

I have nothing to apologize for this week. Winning!

Thanks for being one of The Letter’s fewer, better readers. I’m grateful for you. Until next week… Simone

My inbox is always open, and I love your comments. ❤️

The results from last week’s poll are in… 63% of you have a New Year intention. The rest of you are intentionless. Intentions such mentions. Who needs ‘em, anyway?

Issue 118 is late. I admit it. It’s the first time in over two years—except when I swore I hit publish but didn’t, a few weeks ago.

I finally heeded Stephen's advice: “It’s okay to send it a day later sometimes. Most people won’t notice or care.” The old me said, "No, no, it's not okay. It's a slippery slope, and I'm not going down it." The new me—the 2024 me—says, "Cool, I'll do that." And here we are.

Did you notice my tardiness?

Five Six Things

Let’s get into this week’s five things (which are actually six, and sometimes may be seven, eight, or nine).

1. Hard-boiled eggs: Make them just right. Place them in a pot with cold water about 1” above the eggs. Turn on the flame. Set a timer for 15 minutes. When the timer goes off, the eggs are done. Now you have just-right hard-boiled babies.

2. Cold Turkey and Freedom will block apps and websites while you work. If you can’t stop scrolling but you gotta start working, put your computer in prison. It works for many people, just not my 15-year-old son. He got around Cold Turkey in a heartbeat. In any event, I wrote Cold Turkey asking for a refund on our defunct product experience. Within an hour, I had a kind response and a refund. Excellent customer service. Because you have a tad more self-restraint than a teenager, you may find these programs helpful.

3. Better call Hugo. He's the remote tech friend you didn't know you needed until you really did. Hugo can help with in-person and remote support, training, and consulting for Apple® devices. He's stellar with all folks, though he's especially gifted at helping the older generation feel young again. Patience, he has lots of patience. Book an intro call (what do you have to lose?) and keep him in your back pocket for when non-nature calls.

4. Last week, I shared how to name your Chrome windows, and a reader responded with his favorite internet browser—and it’s not Chrome. Martin recommends arc.net. I did some perusing, and it’s quite attractive and intuitive. I didn’t, however, make the leap because it takes commitment I don’t have any right now. Perhaps one of you is eager and savvy enough to dive in—and if you’re not sure what any of this means—better call Hugo.

5. I don’t have many pieces from Alex Mill, but I like the ones I have—simple, stylish staples—from a company founded by Mickey Drexler’s son (Mickey was the former CEO of J.Crew and founded Old Navy and Madewell). You know, I’m cautious about promoting more stuff, but it’s going to happen sometimes. And it just did!

6. I’m reading/listening to The Opposite of Spoiled: Raising Kids Who Are Grounded, Generous, and Smart About Money, and you can too. Spoiler alert: Talk with your kids about money. You don’t need to talk about money obsessively or share every detail, but you want to share much more than you think. Get this: When we talk about stuff—sex, drugs, and rock and roll—we don’t promote it; we breed healthy habits and minimize shame. This goes for EVERYTHING!

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My Apologies

In the apology section, I apologize for the poor advice I offer, which is inevitable.

In Issue 116, I recommended a movie called May December. In Issue 117, I apologized for recommending May December—it’s weird. Attempting to rectify the poor recommendation, I led you even further astray.

I shared a movie recommendation from Reader Johanna, but I shared the wrong movie. She recommends PAST LIVES, not Private Lives. How will you ever trust me? Once again, the movie recommendation is Past Lives—not Private Lives.

I’m exhausted!

Thank you for being here and for reading The (late) Letter. I see you. I appreciate you, and I like you. Until next week… Simone

Did you set an intention for 2024? I don’t need to know the details (though you’re free to hit reply and share). I’m simply curious whether you set one. Do tell.

I did. Thank you for asking. I set an intention, and I’ll be damned if I don’t achieve it. Suffice it to say, I’m focusing on a “basic” life skill I never put any weight behind (and no, it’s not my weight). As my literacy in this area grows, I’ll consider sharing my journey. At this stage, however, it feels too vulnerable to reveal.

You may have noticed, for several weeks, I was angsty about this newsletter—unsure how to proceed, if to proceed, and why I’d spend my precious time doing such a thing for free. Today, I’m pleased to report—I have a structure that feels right, at least for now—so let’s run with it.

I keep a note on my phone titled Newsletter. In it, I place anything that piques my interest, whether or not I’ve engaged with it. Someone mentions a book. I jot it down. I read a lovely passage. I jot it down. I find a product that tickles me. I jot it down. It’s my repository—the place I consult before each newsletter.

The Five Things section below shares several of those recommendations with you. The My Apologies section is where I apologize for steering you in the wrong direction, as it will happen.

Please don’t hesitate to respond with your favorite things. I love mail. Now, let’s get to this week’s five things:

Five Things

1. Rawk the Year: I’m trying this customizable meal planner for a few reasons. 1) I often ask my kids at 5:30 pm, “What’s for dinner,” because I hope someone is planning more than I am. It turns out they look to me for that information. 2) I’m no stranger to wandering the grocery store with zero plan, which means I leak money like it’s my job and leave with little to show for it. 3) Who needs a third reason when you have the first two?

With Rawk the Year, I plan the week’s recipes, download a grocery list, and maybe, just maybe, get several recipes for the week, along with a grocery list, and maybe, just maybe, make a few dinners nobody but me will eat. So far, so good 👍.

2. The Trance of Scarcity is a book I want to read but haven’t. Compelling reco, I know.

3. If you want to laugh, read this story by the hilarious Colin Nissan. He’s an excellent writer and an equally lovely guy—what a combo. We met while working at Goodby, Silverstein & Partners in the early 2000s.

4. Do you work on a Mac, use Chrome, and regularly have 1000s of tabs open? #metoo I have thousands of tabs open, and each tab relates to a different project. What to do?

You can name your windows. For example, I have a window for my personal tabs (where I’m writing this newsletter) and another for each client I work with.

Here’s how to do it: Click the three dots in the top corner of your browser window, go to “More Tools,” then to “Name Window…” That’s it.

Now. all things related to my personal life: Gmail, emails to John, calendar, articles I want to read, banking, etc., are all in my PERSONAL Chrome window. In another Chrome window, I have all things related to my DuMOL client, another one for my Heath client, and so on.

When the windows are minimized, I can roll my mouse over the rectangles in the bottom right corner of my menu bar (below) and open the window I need.

Voila, here’s to a bit more organization in 2024.

5. I love Yuka. I love you, too, but this is about the Yuka app. Do I use it every day? No. Do I use it when I can’t decide between crackers or cereal or to show my kids how bad a food they want is? Yes. We don’t buy Goldfish or Ritz anymore, and Emma doesn’t complain because she saw their Yuka score. To be fair, we still buy crap, but less.

If you don’t have the app, download it and use it to scan the barcodes in your grocery store. Immediately, you’ll learn what’s worth buying and what’s not. If you only shop at wholesome grocery stores that don’t stock crap—you’re winning. If you’re a loser like the rest of us, this app comes in handy (and it’s fun).

My Apologies

Last week, I recommended the movie May December. This week, I recant my recommendation. I took my advice, started watching it, and won’t be going back.

A reader responded to last week’s letter confirming what I had discovered: May December is weird. Instead, she recommended Private Lives—thanks, Johanna. While I haven’t yet watched it, I wanted to ease the pain I’d caused and offer something in its place. My apologies.

Also, Emma and I started an Instagram account, and we petered out after six videos. We may find our mojo again, but we may not. It’s anyone’s guess. My apologies.

Photo Op

One of our Winter break adventures was a drive to Drake’s Beach in Point Reyes to catch a glimpse of elephant seal season (December through March) and Stephen, who is not an elephant seal but is working the beach.

Blustery, with sideways rain and freezing—it was worth the drive, especially with a stop at the Station House Cafe to fill up and warm up.

Incredible animals! 🦭

Well, folks, we’re three days into 2024, and I can tell it’s going to be a whopper (with cheese). Until next week… Simone