Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Starting Things Up. Again.

The last time I regularly updated this blog, I had just committed to a year without yelling. It lasted about 3 weeks. Like all of the best laid plans, mine are impossibly ambitious and ultimately doomed. I want to work out more, so I decide to work out EVERY MORNING! RIGHT AFTER I DROP OFF THE KIDS! But of course I’m exhausted, or need to take care of other stuff, or have a itty bitty sniffles, or any other excuse that means staying in a warm cozy bed and not working out.

I want to write more. The part of my brain responsible for motivation is now screaming that I should write a blog post every day!  This part of me is broken. And even if I come to my senses and commit to a more reasonable once-a-week post, then another part of me kicks in. The critic who reminds me that a blog really needs to have a strong focus, and I don’t have one, and therefore maybe I should not blog. Not to mention that my stay-at-home musings and Ted Talk philosophizings are hardly original or interesting. Who do I think I am?

Which is the real issue: Who Am I? Maybe this blog can be chronicle the sweet, sweet midlife crisis of a woman who feels old and young at the same time. One who leans into the numbing comfort of too many beers with friends and flowing wine and endless socializing to avoid facing the grief splintering me from the inside. Look closely, and loss and grief are everywhere. A father losing a son. A freeway fatality that claims a teenager. A man who can’t take any more and takes his own life. A friend who is suddenly, impossibly gone.  A fire that devastates all it touches. A mom with cancer. And another. And another.

So I’d rather not look.

It’s why I never mediate. For all the energy I expend avoiding exercise and writing, I am a master ninja at avoiding mediation. It terrifies me. I tell myself I’m afraid that I’ll fall asleep, which is a ridiculous lie because I LOVE sleep. I’m an anxiety-ridden insomniac who takes pills specifically to HELP ME SLEEP.  Sleep would be a terrific outcome. The real fear is facing all this emotion inside me that I keep locked in so tight. I cried a lot when my close friend died, but I only could because that is a totally expected thing to do after someone dies. That was the one emotional release I allowed myself, and even then it was rare to break down.  A few anguished sobs in the bathroom, a moment of grief rocking me in terrifying waves, then recomposure: a sharp breath, a drying of the eyes, and moving back into the safe, disconnected world.

Not that my fast-talking, quick-drinking, joke-making self is false persona. It is very much me. As a new-styled hippie might phrase it, it is my truth.  Lately, though, I retreat into Party Angela to avoid feeling my feelings. Why can’t I strike a balance between Party Angela and Emotionally Connected Angela?

Early in our relationship, my husband coined the nickname Angel A, which quickly spawned Angel B and Angel C. Angel C was the crabby, short-tempered one. Angel B was the fun, upbeat one. Angel A? That was just me, I guess. It occurs to me now that perhaps the key to this midlife quest to find myself means getting to know Angel A, that part of me that isn’t anything to anyone – not a mother, a wife, a daughter, a confidante. Not a drinking buddy, a program manager, a serial volunteer, a karaoke enthusiast.  Just me, feeling my feelings and being myself.

So yeah, maybe that’s what this blog is going to be about.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Cristina: A Legacy of Awesomeness

This page is a little tribute to Cristina Sayre, the most awesome lady ever to grace my world. She rocked so hard it was difficult to fully appreciate her awesomeness, and even more impossible to accept that she is no longer here.

She wasn't for everyone. If she was for you, you were a lucky bastard.

There are no words that can come close to describing what made her so badass. There is no memorial that can do her justice. No monument immense enough to capture all that she was.

But I have to try.

Here is what I wrote for her once on birthday over at Half-Baked Birthday. I'm glad she got to read it. 

I don’t know anyone as fiercely independent as Cristina. She’s 100% her own woman. By trade she writes and keeps her finger on the pulse of trends in all realms. Her own style is only slightly informed by what she observes. Most of it comes from her, reflecting her unique sense of self and what she choose to express.

For someone so fashion-forward, she isn’t concerned with cool. Call her a hipster and you just might get decked, if not by a fist than with a look. She likes what she likes, regardless of where it sits in current popular favor. High heels, Elvis, mead, Miss Piggy, pub food, Crowded House, Kirchner, fart jokes, Liberace, hockey, fancy dresses just for the hell of it. Actually, most of what makes Cristina so awesome is just for the hell of it.

She’s unapologetic. She’s tough. She’s quick to speak her mind and unafraid of the consequences. But there is a sensitivity she keeps well protected. An insistence on basic human decency and treating people with respect when they’ve made an effort to do the same. She’s harsh with the world, but kind to those in her world. She doesn’t aim to please. She lives life on her terms, changing and growing but never departing from who she is.

We’re different, her and me. My approach to life involves a fair bit more cowering and worrying if I’ve offended anyone. Yet in so many ways we see life the same way. I look at Cristina and wish I had the guts to be more like her. Like everyone, she may have regrets or insecurities or fears, but they don’t define her. Bravery like that isn’t easy to find.

Our lifestyles take us in different directions, but she’s a person I wish I could spent more time with. I miss working with her, where I could be sure of seeing her all the time. I’m so bad at keeping up with people, but I hope to a better friend to her. For purely selfish reasons!

And her obituary, which I eeked out a year after she passed. 

The world became a less awesome place with the death of Cristina Sayre on December 2, 2015. A fierce feminist, stylish provocateur, and loyal Sharks fan, she was equally at home taking in a Broadway play or chowing down at Henry's Hi-Life. San Jose by birth and by soul, Cristina was known to flirt madly with New York City and carried a torch for Dublin, Ireland. For work she wrote sharp, compelling copy and curated stylish lists of must-have objects both useful and whimsical. But work was only what she did. To understand who she was, you'd need to share stories with her over a pint. If you were lucky enough to know her, you never missed a chance to do just that.

She leaves behind her mother and best friend Ann, younger brother James, grandparents Lois & Walter, and a group of friends that spans the globe, all muddling by in a world that's a little less bright in her absence.

Here is the stuff she chose to share on social medias:

Her blog is down, but you can poke through the 

internet archive.

Instagram   Twitter   Good Reads   Yelp   Kaboodle   Foursquare   Letterboxd   Spotify   Pinterest   Pandora   Flickr   Untappd

Cristina was passionate believer in women’s health rights, particularly  Planned Parenthood's commitment to health services serving for low-income women. Please consider remembering her with a donation in her honor. 

She’d be proud of you. 

 Donate at
List Cristina Sayre in the “Honor Gifts” section.


Cristina’s ashes are entombed in the
Nature Garden at Oak Hill Memorial Park
300 Curtner Ave, San Jose, CA 95125

The Nature Garden is behind the curved-roofed Chapel of Roses

at the main entrance on Curtner. Park behind the
garden, enter the arched entrance and turn right.  

Her niche is in the wall, six spots on the bottom row.


Farewell, dear friend.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

A Month Without Yelling. Then: Yelling.

I lasted all of January, which surprised the hell out of me frankly. Some kind of weird determined energy possessed me this first month of Two-Aught-Fourteen. I created - and have actually kept up with - a weekly list of chores that has the house in pretty decent shape. The yoga studio is seeing my shadow twice a week, and I’ve added a little cardio here and there. Whatever the cause, it was a month of improvement and positive energy. And no yelling, until that last day.

It snuck up on me. There were toys EVERYWHERE, as usual. Toys and pajamas and books and shoes and jackets and construction paper and little plastic IKEA snack bowls everywhere. I had a full list of chores plus dinner to prepare, so I asked the kids to pick up one room, any room, while I cooked. Fifteen minutes later there is laughter and then screaming but not a thing picked up. I remind them more firmly that they need to clean up before dinner. Ten minutes go by and again nothing is done. This time they whine. “It’s too haaaaaaard,” they say. “You need to help us. It’s not faaaaaaaaair.”

And I lost it. A full-on screaming tirade. An angry list of all the things I do for them, have been doing on my own all day, still have to do, and they need me to pick up their toys? Pick them up into a garbage bag is all I’m going to do! I screamed at them to put their hands on something, and put it away. Simple as that. Put your hand on something, and put it away. I shouldn’t have to stand here and tell you what to do. I don’t have the energy to direct your every move. I was loud, angry and relentless.

And the worst part: It worked. They hopped right to the task of picking up. It’s the terrible truth of parenting. Yelling works.

But at what price? Adele was cleaning through tears. Lucas had fear in his eyes, which later settled into a hard, strange look of bitterness. They were doing as I demanded, but it pushed us apart. Just a bit, but year after year of yelling will move things in only one direction - away.

Another thing about yelling is that you need to keep doing it. It’s a short-term solution. I don’t want to have to scream uncontrollably every time I want something done around here. The better way is to guide the kids to make smart choices and let them deal with the consequences - good or bad - of their actions. This is a much, much harder way. It is a long, slow lesson. The dividends are paid over a lifetime. They are of little help right now as I’m stepping on raisins, tripping on the Candyland box.

The mysterious energy that carried me through January is gone. Every day is a struggle now, and the yelling is creeping back. The change in Lucas has been sobering, though. He calms himself down instead of exploding. He parrots my parent-speak: “I was upset, but I’m turning it around and trying another way.” After the explosion that ended my month-long streak, I told the kids to finish up on their own while I calmed down in the other room. After a few minutes, Lucas came up and put his hand on my shoulder. “You’re doing a very nice job of staying calm. I’m very proud of you. Good for you.”

Besides showing me how patronizing I sound, and also finding a way to sneak out of cleaning (I noticed that right away), Lucas showed me that all this is sinking in for him. Today the floor is still a tangle of socks and stuffed animals and legos, but we have a future than doesn’t require constant anger. February hasn’t been easy, but Lucas is working with me. Even as we’re both frustrated and tempers flare, we have a place to bring it back to. I can say “I shouldn’t have yelled. Let’s try this another way.” He can say, “I’m very mad and I can’t stop screaming, but I want a hug.” Things are still rough, but we’re moving closer, not apart. Even with my increasing slip-ups, we’re making this work.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Lessons from a Week Without Yelling

Day 8

Defying my own meager expectations I have managed to go an entire week without yelling, though I've come close nearly every day. In the noble spirit of science - or to distract myself from the truth of how I’m barley pulling this off - I have documented the circumstances for future analysis.

Scenario #1
I am reading an article on my phone. Perhaps it is about how systematic racism in mortgage lending created the urban ghetto. Perhaps it is a slideshow featuring cats. Lucas whines “MaaaaaaaMAAAAA! You’re not listening to me! I want a cookie noooooooow!”

Reaction: I start to snap at him in anger, but catch myself. I remind him that interrupters don’t get a response. He might try getting my attention with a polite “excuse me” before making an outrageous and doomed request.

Lesson: Don’t get distracted by devices in the middle of the kitchen. Take time away to catch up on emails or sociopolitical topics or cat memes.

Scenario #2
The kids are fighting about the need for universal healthcare or a toy or something. Adele is wailing and Lucas is screaming. My calm words of wisdom go unheard.

Reaction: I raise my voice in an attempt to overcome the din. My blood boils as my voice gets louder and louder with no effect. I avoid true yelling, but get that scary-calm booming tone and say “BOTH OF YOU. STOP. TALKING. NOW!”

Lesson: I need to find a way to diffuse out-of-control kid tantrums. They will keep happening, and without a noise-cancelling plan I will slip back right into my old yelling ways.

Scenario #3
It is 9:30pm on a school night. They kids have been in bed over a hour but are still up. And loud. We’ve gone in several times to quiet them with no success.

Reaction: I speak to them in a very harsh tone. It’s not yelling, but it’s pretty close. The words are threatening and mean, and I feel like crap afterward.

Lesson: When I can’t think of a way to calmly address the kids’ behavior, I get frustrated very quickly. I can’t back down and a battle of wills begins. That has to change if I’m going to ever put yelling behind me.
~ ~ ~

So it really comes down to figuring out in advance how to to handle recurring situations. I also need a way to back down from tense situations without feeling I am giving up. It helps to view these fights as just practice. The real work happens in the downtime.

We also had one wonderful example of that utilitarian shouting I defined in my earlier post. I glanced outside to see Lucas thrust a flaming marshmallow in his friend’s face, then chase her around with it as she fled in terror. A perfect occasion when shouting was called for. He stopped at once, though upon realizing the marshmallow was being taken away pitched a gigantic fit. It took a fair amount of patience not to go OFF on him for being less concerned about maiming his friend than losing his third jumbo marshmallow of the evening. Instead I sent him to his room until we both calmed down, and we talked about why what he did was a really bad idea. Yeah, it was a good week.

Friday, January 3, 2014

A Year Without Yelling: Let's get this party started

Days 1 & 2

The early days of 2014 have been conflict-free in the best possible way. I awoke at 10am on New Year’s Day to a house filled with friends, hot coffee already brewed and fresh crepes on the breakfast table. Real life and its troubles were on holiday. I nearly yelled once, snapping a sharp “Lucas!” as he tormented his sister, but caught myself and we talked instead. House guests left, different house guests arrived. There is nothing like an audience to keep me on my best behavior.

Day 2 was a blur of good food, endless laughter and spirit tasting at an awesome distillery. Not a bad way to keep frustration at bay. Dropping the kids off with my mother for an overnight stay also helped quite a bit. These few days are lived in suspended reality. Though my dear friends have left and I pick up my children in few hours, we’re sliding into a relaxing plan-free weekend. My real work begins on Monday, the return to the comforting and crushing demands of routine. On school days the clock must be obeyed. The kids, sensing this urgency, will become slow-moving boneless blobs incapable of brushing teeth or dressing themselves while insisting I CAN DO IT MYSELF! and then starting up a game of Candyland and spilling something sticky.

Deep breath. Deep breath. Happy place.

A friend shared a HuffPost article today - "The Important Thing About Yelling"  - and it pretty much addresses exactly why I have decided to give up my screaming fits. I tend to make light of my parenting struggles, but this no-yelling resolution is born from a very deep fear that the author of this piece captures perfectly. If I keep yelling I am going to damage my relationship with my family. I will certainly mess up a lot this year, but I love the people in my life too much to give up. I may need the support of friends and perhaps this heavenly bottle of Terroir Gin I purchased, but I can do this.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

A Year Without Yelling

2014. Resolutions and new beginnings and all that. I don't typically bother with resolutions. Major life changes undertaken after weeks of holiday exhaustion and starting with a hangover aren’t likely to stick. But here I am, committing publicly to a doomed resolution: I will go a year without yelling.

If you know me you will laugh. I yell all the time. I come from a family of yellers. But as my kids get older I hear the anger reflected back in their small, sweet voices. I hear how it sounds. And I want it to stop.

I was struck recently by this simple thought: Nothing is improved by yelling at someone. Yelling makes everything worse. Tempers flare, and they subside leaving guilt and hurt.

I’m not talking about shouting. “Look out! A car is coming!” has solid utility. I’m also not referring to the sublime cathartic scream, which combined with a well-crafted string of profanities can relieve tension after slicing your finger instead of a carrot or sloshing red wine on your white carpet. No, these are merely the raising of voice. I’m talking about using loud angry words to address someone else. It never helps. Never. And I’m going to learn to stop.

“Learn to” is a key part of this little experiment. I’m not undertaking some vow and expecting my strong will (ha!) to enforce it. I’m going to look at the situations that lead me to lose my cool and figure out what needs to change. Food, sleep, boredom. Unrealistic expectations. Defensiveness. Overcommitment.

A lot to take on. Doomed to failure, but as the title of this blog reminds me, failure is a lot more fun.

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Liberace Party: Food, Booze & Shenanigans

My last post went into exhaustive detail about the elaborate decor for Liberace Party. But a good retro party needs more than just looks. On-theme food, drinks, and entertainment are what makes a night memorable.

part two : booze

Cristina was in charge of drinks for the evening, which was great because despite having a dive bar's worth of alcohol I am lousy at mixing drinks. Champagne cocktails with a crazy assortment of mixers made for a wild time. She stocked the bar with Aperol, Hpnotiq, St. Germain, Peach Schnapps, Creme de Cassis, and a some sort of Cotton Candy flavored abomination, as well as juices and blackberries for floating. The magic touch was the hot pink rimming sugar adorning our glasses, striking the perfect balance of aesthetics and fodder for cheap innuendo.

Cristina's classy selections
Compare to my bar, where quantity /= quality.
Bravely sampling some nasty candy-filled concoction I apparently whipped up. 

part three: food

I found out too late that there is a kitschy Liberace cookbook. How I wish there had been time to acquire this gem and prepare some of the recipes from the man himself. But even without this touch of authenticity, the party eats were a retro-tastic delight.

Meatballs and deviled eggs were easy choices, but Cristina and I concluded that late 70s party foods seemed to consist mainly of store-bought snacks served elegantly, or as we put it, "Fritos in pimp cups."  After clearing out my mother's china hutch of all its gilded serveware, I offered up not only Fritos but Circus Animal cookies, chips and onion dip, ladyfingers, gold-wrapped chocolates and rice krispie treats topped with rainbow and silver sprinkles. (Oh, how I wish I could have added Twinkies to that list!) The crown jewel was Cristina's fantastic jello mold, resplendent on a bed of mini-marshmallows.

part four: entertainment

This being a movie party, the entertainment was pretty much built-in. Since my crummy television is as deep as it is wide, I borrowed a projector for a more dramatic cinema experience. This was a smaller party than my usual affairs, mainly because most people I know aren't that into Liberace, so we were all able to fit in my teeny fake home theater.

Before the frequently-interrupted viewing began, I kept the cocktail party lively with a Spotify playlist of Liberace's ivory-tickling melodies. And of course a photo booth is a must for any hipster theme party. In this case it wasn't so much a booth as a camera on a tripod, but the results were spectacular. My guests really went all-out with costumes. (My female guests, that is. Not a single dude was moved to masquerade.) Sequined and poofed-up, neon and shimmery, fur-clad and jewel-laden, elegant and outlandish, all were excellent.

In true showmanship fashion, I opted for a wardrobe change midway through the night, from pink sequins to gold glamour.

Special shout-out to Jayme who created an excellent red, white and blue fringed ensemble inspired by Liberace's iconic Drum major costume.

Alas, by the time we all settled down to watch the movie, my night was approaching an end. A few too many champagne creations made it difficult to stay awake, so I left my sober husband to watch over the guests and  snuck off to bed. Not quite an exit worthy of Liberace, perhaps, but a wild, wild time.

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