Move Over, Rachael Ray

Mom, in her twenties.

This is a love story.

I'm not writing it just because it's Valentine's Day. I'm writing it for my mother, because she died on Valentine's Day, just four years ago.

My mother wasn't the kind of parent I could go to with a problem, or have deep talks with. But she was the loving mom who stayed up all night with me when I was in junior high as I suffered through writing a paper (a thought that has amazed me throughout my communications career, when the words cannot leave my mind and my fingertips quickly enough). She was the mom who read voraciously and passed that on to me - another career builder. And she was the faithful, affectionate and uncomplaining healer who was tireless with five kids through earaches and messy stomach flus and general ailments.

She was the mother who lost her only son - my funny, smart, handsome brother Pat - in a drowning accident when he was only 21, and somehow she and my father did not stop living. They kept raising me and my sisters through the grief and loved us all the way up to adulthood, and into caring and productive women.

She was also the mom who, in my fuzzy memory, had at least one nervous breakdown during my childhood, and who'd been given electroshock therapy after my youngest sister was born, when it was still too new to know enough about it. And who, as a result, would lose patches of time, so that sometimes we'd arrive home from school in the afternoon to find her still in her robe at the dining room table with a cup of now-cold coffee; almost as if she had not moved since we left for the bus earlier that day.

She was fun and funny - from her, we learned the "sheet dance" when we were folding clothes. She had us put on "whoopee socks" to polish our wood floors with bright orange Johnson's wax while we perfected our skating technique. She was one of the first people I knew of to go into the Hair Cuttery when it debuted in the early '70s and ask for a "haircut and a blow job," innocently not knowing what she was saying. Then there was the day she sadly told her friends her eye doctor diagnosed her with gonorrhea (when she really meant glaucoma).  And once when I came home from high school to run lines with Tommy Wheatley, with whom I was "starring" in Bye Bye Birdie, she ran into the kitchen to make him a banana cream pie because she wanted him to stick around and be my boyfriend. (He never was, but we were pretty good friends. Banana cream pie or not.)

She was easy to love some days, tougher on others. She gave me a run for my money when she was old and ill, but in those last few months, when Alzheimer's was added to her dementia, she stopped being angry about her stay in the nursing home and just smiled and adored me when I was with her. One day, when we were watching TV (she loved the Food Network), she turned to me and said with a sigh, "I wish Rachael Ray was my daughter." I, who was spending all my spare time with her, was pretty jealous of Rachael Ray, who as far as I knew had never visited my mother once.

My sisters and I stayed up with Mom the night before she died on a Saturday - Valentine's Day 2009. It was a day that is forever changed for us, that will always be, first, the day she passed, before we think of flowers and candy and cards.

After she died, I found a letter she wrote to her sister but never mailed. She was about the same age as I am now, and she wrote about feeling hurt and out of sorts because all of us kids had moved on, and she didn't know what to do with herself. It breaks my heart - my Valentine's Day heart - that I wasn't wiser at a younger age about what's really important, that I didn't take more time back then to make her happy, to give her what every parent wants: not gifts, but more time with their children.

Still, I know that I did right by my mother, and loved her imperfectly but well. I know that she knows that. And even though I'm not Rachael Ray, I think my mom was pretty glad to have me as one of her girls. Happy Valentine's Day, Mom.

©2013 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie  

Shopping for Free

So it's January 26, and I finally gathered all the things together from Christmas that I needed to bring back to the stores...and then some. You see, I consider the Christmas grace period for gift returns kind of an amnesty for all the other items I bought during the year that I can't find the receipt for, or found in a closet in a bag with the receipt - but that somehow never made it to my car.

Today was Return Day. I had all my bags organized, and knew which ones had receipts and which ones I had to feign surprise about: "Are you sure  that's not in the bag? I could have sworn I had it in there." Among the things from the holiday I was returning (woolen accessories, age-inappropriate presents and indeterminate household items) were two pairs of summer pants, three pairs of sandals, a decorative pillow I got for a sofa I no longer have and two children's aprons.

I promised myself I was on a returns-only mission; no shopping. I kept thinking that all the way into the first store, when I discovered that I was too late to have the charges reversed and the money put back on my card, and would have to have STORE CREDIT. Ah, store credit! That guilt-free shopping spree—electronically transferred to a gift card—that feels so clean and good and right, because nothing's coming out of my wallet. Except, of course, for the money I spent the first time. Duh.

There's a kind of dance that goes on in my head when I have that unexpected windfall-that's-not-really-a-windfall. The practical, fiscally responsible me says "Keep your eyes down. Don't look around, Anita. Save this to shop for someone's birthday." And the fun-loving, financially carefree me says, "Look, you work hard. You deserve this! And how smart are you to return summer stuff and be able to buy winter stuff with it?"

I'm not saying the responsible me never wins. She does, most of the time. But today, that other me just made so much sense. And I have a new jacket and shoes to prove it.


©2013 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie  

Playing the Kindness Card

#26actsofkindness has got to be the best hashtag ever created.

After the unspeakable sorrow of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting, there was the inevitable feeling of powerlessness for all of us who watched and heard and knew not how to help. But news anchor Ann Curry communicated an idea after the tragedy that has taken root: she tweeted the concept #26actsofkindness, to prompt people like us to do a kindness for each of the 20 children and six adults who lost their lives. Thousands of people have tweeted back to her about the things they’ve done for others as a result. Last week, I caught a program where Curry was being interviewed about the effort… and it struck a resonant chord in me.

I like to think I live my life like this anyway – seeing where a kindness would help someone and just doing it. But there was so much more to this movement that I made a vow to do this, too. I loved the idea of being more mindful, of knowing that these 26 acts I will send out into the world early in 2013 are in honor and memory of those beautiful Newtown souls that left this earth too soon. I floated the idea to my staff, and asked if they wanted to join me in this effort – and, wonderful people that they are, they committed without hesitation. When we each have our 26, we’re going to share our favorite one with each other. Between us, over the next few weeks, we will be sending 130 more acts of kindness out into the world that might not have happened were it not for this prompt from the universe. That’s amazing! And it’s just a small piece of what could happen if most of the people in the world played the kindness card even one more time than they might have done otherwise, to pay tribute to someone they know (or know of) who deserves a legacy of love.

So here’s my challenge, friends – can we share this out even further? Can we compound the interest on this incredible notion to make it richer and more meaningful, and help it touch more people? I think we can. And then we’ll have to create a new hashtag: #100trillionactsofkindness

©2013 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie  

Well-traveled Words

Last April, a news story on NPR caught my ear: debris from the tsunami that devastated Japan in March 2011 had navigated to North American coasts. Soon, more wreckage from the storm: a Harley-Davidson motorcycle found off the shoreline of British Columbia, Canada; and a 66-foot, 160-ton concrete and metal dock that lumbered onto the beach in Newport, Oregon.

But this one piqued my interest the most: the soccer ball that traveled more than 3,100 miles to the shores of Alaska.  It was retrieved by a radar technician, who recognized the language of the handwriting on the ball and brought it home... to his Japanese wife, Yumi.  She discerned that the ball belonged to a student named Misaki Murakami - the writing reflected his classmates’ signatures and the name of his school. Through Yumi’s efforts, the now 16-year-old Misaki, who had lost all of his possessions in the devastating storm, was found. The ball was the only personal item he could reclaim.

Even in our connected world, even with the loss and sadness that the tsunami recalls, stories like this one about a boy's returned keepsake inspire awe and a sense of balance. The words on that soccer ball made it special, solved the mystery of its origin and owner, and brought joy - again - to a young man who needed to know that sometimes what we lose comes back again. And it showed all of us how very small the world is after all, no matter what language we speak.

©2013 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie   
Reprinted from my editor's letter in Mobility Magazine,  August 2012.

All Juiced Up

Breakfast: Two carrots, two apples, one stalk of celery. Lunch: rinse and repeat, but with an orange in the mix, carried handily to work in my new stainless steel Thermos. Yes, folks, I'm juicing! And to make sure I keep it up, I'm going to write about it here from time to time. 

After just one day (yesterday), I woke up this morning with memories of one of the most vivid dreams I've had in years. I won't bore you with the details, but it involved an extra Christmas tree someone brought into my house and left in my dining room, a high wind that kept blowing my front door open, and a guy from high school I kept calling an unsavory name. I don't know if at this point he deserves it - I hope not - but he sure did then, and in my dream he was still 18 and a jerk. (Hey, I just realized HE was 18 and I was... more than 18. Not fair!) I can only attribute it to the juice, which, according to my extensive research (I'm not kidding - I really checked this out) helps you absorb most of the nutrients from fruits and vegetables, makes you think more clearly, adds energy, boosts positivity, revs up your immune system, blah blah blah more good stuff. What none of my research said is "makes your dreams so real you have to fight off a monsoon to close your front door, and then run down to your garage to get tools to fix the door, and then you fix the door, and it blows open again, and you say to yourself, 'I really need to call Boo to get that door fixed.' " (Boo is my house doctor. He's brilliant.) 

So now I'm wondering: if I change the fruits and vegetables, can I control my dreams? Will beets make me feel more grounded (you know, because they're a root vegetable) and will grapes make me a more "raisinable" person in my sleep? (This is getting really bad. I'm going to stop soon, I promise.)  One thing's for sure. I'm going to keep changing up the ingredients until I start having dreams where I'M the one who's 18. 

Embrace Your Inner 13!

We're going to have an entire year that holds this number, so if you've got triskaidekaphobia (extreme superstition regarding the number thirteen), read this! For years, multi-floor builders and airlines and countless other customer-facing businesses have worked around the number 13. But now we can't ignore the fact that every single day this year will have a 13 in it. (There are two additional challenges for triskaidekaphobics, too: on Friday, September 13, 2013 and      
Friday, December 13, 2013!)    

There's no stopping it - we have got to find a way to love 13! If you're Italian, or want to adopt one of the aspects of this amazing culture - which I just happen to be a bit partial to - you'd know that 13 is considered very lucky. I knowingly bought a condo on the 13th floor of a building (can't fool me - even though my address says it's on the 14th floor, the elevator doesn't stop between 12 and 14). It's been a place of beauty, peace and joy for me - not a speck of bad luck in the place. Give me a good old 13 any time, and I'll find the luck in it.

Don't forget that the American flag has 13 stripes in honor of the first 13 colonies. Colgate University has positive roots in the number 13, too - according to Wikipedia, the school was "founded in 1819 by 13 men with 13 dollars, 13 prayers and 13 articles."  And remember how exhilarating it was to move from twelve to earn the magical "teen" on your age? 

I'm more interested in what this year brings me than what it might take away. I know that I may feel a little differently in a few weeks, a little less exhilarated when I'm back to a routine that isn't broken up by holidays and celebrations. But for now, I'm reveling in the start of a shiny new year that makes me feel totally loving and hopeful. I'm going to take full advantage of this feeling to tell my friends and family something I don't say enough: you make a profound difference in my life - you really do. I'm embracing my inner 13, and wishing you a year that is spectacularly surprising, productive, delightful, connected, compassionate, warm, purposeful, enriching, educational and healthy.

(Still having trouble with the number? Feel free to pretend you're Italian for the next 12 months.)

The Best Wrap Session Ever

I've been doing some volunteer work in December that is not "work" at all. I wrap presents for one night for D.C. Candlelighters Childhood Cancer Foundation, an amazing Washington, D.C. metropolitan area support group for families who currently have or recently had children with cancer, or have been touched by cancer in some way.

I say this is not work because I love, love, love to wrap presents. I beg my friends to let me wrap their gifts. I have a ribbon habit that is hard to keep under control, I buy wrapping paper when I have too much already, and I am a firm believer that a beautifully wrapped package makes a birthday or anniversary exponentially better. If there were a 12-step program for obsessive wrapping, I would be standing up in front of the group telling how I backslid - again - because I couldn't pass up a Costco deal on an industrial-sized spool of holiday trimming.

So when a pal asked me a few years ago if I wanted to wrap for the Candlelighters, I said "yes" before she finished her question. And it's my favorite thing to do before the holidays, because in the rush of getting my home ready, making holiday plans with friends I don't see often, and shipping my own gifts off to family in California and Arizona, it makes me stop and appreciate the lives of people who are facing fears and medical issues most of us can only imagine.

D.C. Candlelighters creates many warm and wonderful moments for the families they help - throughout the year, they do such good deeds as creating new patient care bags, providing age-appropriate books about cancer, and sponsoring family "meet and greets." For the Gift Wrapping Party, the organization makes it a very special night - parents bring their gifts to be wrapped and then they gather for dinner, fresh-baked cookies and a relaxing massage or reiki treatment, while I and a few other elves cut and tape and attach bows and gift cards to their presents. It's one night out that relieves a little stress and removes a task from a long to-do list for parents who are burdened with worry about their kids, both the sick and healthy ones. It's one night that I, too, am just as grateful for D.C. Candlelighters, because they honor me by sharing the exceptional stories of these brave moms and dads, and allowing me to make their holiday season just a little bit easier. And that's a gift that doesn't need a bow to be beautiful.