Saturday, August 7, 2010


On June 1, 2009 I made a goal to lose 45 pounds. I was in no rush, because I knew that crash diets and quick weight loss often fail. To help myself meet my goal I made a poster with the number 45 in the middle of it and wrote all the reasons I wanted to accomplish my goal. I hung it on my wall in front of my bed. I really had no idea how long it would take and how I would get there.

With the help of weight watchers, exercise, a wonderful friend, a lot of self reflection, and perseverance I met my goal last Tuesday.

March 2009

August 2010

I have never been happier and I have never believed in myself more. Goals are powerful things. The funny thing is that I never really used to believe in setting goals. I never believed that by just by putting your mind to something you could accomplish it. But as each month went by and each pound fell off (and stayed off) I started to believe.

I like to think of what I did as dieting in the real world. I didn't deprive myself of treats, or eat nothing but salads for 14 months. I changed the way I ate, I changed the amount I ate, but mostly I changed the way I thought about food. I found other ways to manage and cope with my stress and fear. I tried Yoga, I rewarded myself with new clothes, I cuddled with my dogs, I talked a lot about my feelings and I still ate plenty of ice cream and cookies.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

My lucky stars

Dear Universe,

Thank you for everything you give me. Even if it seems like sometimes you are just trying to screw around with me and make me read a whole textbook for no good reason. I still appreciate what you do for me, and I promise I am trying, I swear universe I really am, even though sometimes it seems like I am just whining about it.

I really want to do better and you have given me everything I need to do it. I will use what you give me like the rain and the people and the wisdom and emotions and I will use it all to be the best person that I am meant to. Seriously universe I will. But first I am going to watch The Rachael Zoe project.


Friday, September 11, 2009


It could not have been a more beautiful day. The sky was as crisp and blue as it had been in weeks and you could already sense autumn’s approach. The slant of light in the mornings and evenings was a little more pronounced and some of the trees already had a few spots of color. Fall on the east coast is spectacular, and it was the kind of day that reminded you how peaceful it could be in New Jersey, despite the congestion.

It was a day that started off just like any other, I was thundering down the New Jersey Turnpike in my 1987 Volvo station wagon, singing as I flipped through the radio stations. My commute was about an hour long, but often dragged on in the mornings as I ran into traffic. It was already 8:45 as I merged onto the Garden State Parkway and came to a grinding halt; 15 minutes late and in stand still traffic I called the office to let them know I wouldn’t be in until after 9. I had just recently gotten a cell phone—on my mom’s insistence, since my commute was so long. I remember clearly, as I sat there in my car, thinking about how beautiful it was outside and that I would love nothing more than to have the day off and take the opportunity to enjoy this gorgeous weather.

That summer my air conditioning in the Volvo had gone out, never to be repaired, it just wasn’t worth it in that old beast, so I used to cruise down the highway with the windows down and radio up. I was young, just a few months out of college, and working in a high level position, making a lot of money, at a prominent bank. My boss and I had a very comfortable relationship and I had learned to take advantage of his leniency, often arriving late, but working long hours into the evening. He was traveling back from our corporate office in Boston that morning, leaving on an early morning flight into Newark, and would be back in the office that afternoon for meetings and conference calls which I would inevitably be drug into. My office was just 15 miles from Manhattan as the crow flies, just a stone’s throw across the Hudson really, and about halfway through my commute I could tune in radio stations from the City, rather than Jersey. I loved hearing about the traffic and news from Manhattan, just being that close to NYC was invigorating. The New York/New Jersey metropolitan area is honestly one of my favorite places in the world. Italian deli’s and grocers line the narrow streets. The people are gruff, but have heart’s of gold. The sense of community is strong and real and while there isn’t a lot of natural beauty there is a ton of pride in the area. I used to honestly get choked up watching the intro to the Sopranos after I moved away, remembering those times and those places.

As I sat in my car that morning, with a light whisp of wind blowing through the open windows, there was a quick news blurb on 95.5 about how a plane had flown into one of the World Trade Center buildings. I instinctively looked up into the bright blue sky, as if I thought I could catch a glimpse of this strange event personally. The DJ didn’t have, or give, much information, but speculated it must have been a small private plane gone wildly off course. The biggest news story that morning was surrounding the first day of voting for the mayoral primary race.

As I finally settled into my office for the morning I began scanning my Bloomberg Terminal for more information. I had a 2nd monitor on my desk with a live Bloomberg feed to watch the mortgage bond market, but mostly I used it to read news stories and movie reviews. Something I am sure my employers would not have appreciated as they paid the thousand dollar-a-month rent on the terminal. More and more news stories were scrolling from the bottom of the old DOS screen about an airplane striking the World Trade Center. The general consensus had become that it was, in fact, a commercial airplane, but perhaps just a small commuter jet. As people around the office began to talk and speculate about what was going on no one could imagine the terror we were all about the feel. News spread fast and furious that morning, suddenly there were reports of another plane, something at the Pentagon, explosions in the towers. Planes were being grounded, people evacuating the city. A television appeared and brought fuzzy news about what exactly was going on. Live images of smoke and flames billowing out of the gaping chasms in the side of the towers filled the TV and internet. It quickly became clear that this was neither an accident nor a small event.

Crazy rumors flew as fast as the factual news came in—speculation about bombings in California and more in DC. Roads, tunnels, bridges, schools and offices were already being shut down all over the area. There was discussion of going up the roof of our building, where people imagined we could see the smoke from the towers filling the sky.

I made a few frantic calls to my boss, he had been on a flight out of Boston that morning and Newark airport had already been shut down. Rumors of other planes being shot down and hijacked swirled through the air. I got Dan on his cell, he had landed in Newark just before they shut the airport, and had managed to get a rental car since there were no cabs available. He was on his way to the office and would be in soon.

Then the towers fell.

Colleagues wept and made frantic phone calls to friends and former co-workers who worked there, it seemed that half the people in my office knew at least one person in the area. I distinctly remember thinking about hiding under my desk, for no reason in particular other than to feel safe. Cell phone service went out and no calls could get into the city. People began to head out of the office around 11am. I quietly sat at my desk waiting to be told to go home. I was too new in the work force to understand that on a day like this, they weren’t going to ring the school bell to let us all leave early. There would be no official early dismissal. I finally got Dan on the phone again and he told me to go, he was heading home to pick up his own kids from school. So just as I had wished for that morning, I was getting out of work, but at a terrible price.

I drove home on an empty freeway, the blue sky now mocking the day's tragic events. My entrance to the Parkway was just a few ahead of where they had closed the highways leading into Manhattan. It was eerie, to see New Jersey so quiet in the middle of a work day. I must have passed 50 fire trucks, ambulances and police cruisers, all screaming past me in the opposite direction.

I remember getting home and standing in that small kitchen, making a turkey sandwich on a plain bagel and watching the footage of the tower’s collapsing on a tiny 12 inch TV. I thought to myself that I would never get over seeing that—I felt I could literally watch it forever, my unblinking, disbelieving eyes glued to the TV. I was living with my best friend’s parents at that time, staying in their tiny guest house, but really a part of the family. I slept in the main house that night, in their extra bedroom. The sense of needing to be near someone, part of something, was profound. I was scared to sleep alone in that little house that night. Those day’s events filled our thoughts and eyes for weeks and months to come. The rumors quieted and the sobering truth of that day revealed itself. Coworkers and friends had lost loved ones and colleagues, for some, life would never be the same.

I remember going through the rest of that fall and winter with a very pronounced sense of community. As if I had gone through something, with a group of people, that couldn’t be understood by the rest of the world. I remember the first time I heard Bruce Springsteen’s The Rising play on the radio that fall, I actually cried in my car. The DJ, the same one that I had heard announce the news story about the first plane hitting the tower on that day, sat in silence as the song came to an end and simply said they were going to play it again. Right then. The Mets played the Yankees in the world series that October, as if the universe itself understood that Manhattan needed something to heal itself with, something for it’s people to laugh and cheer about. For those next few months it was like no where else in the world existed. You could feel the power and raw emotion of that day all around you. I would talk with my friends and family across the country and you knew the veil of that tragic day had already lifted for them, but where I worked and lived, we continued to carry it with us, every day. Every night.

I traveled to Ground Zero in late October. You could still smell the smoke and soot in the air. It was freezing and clear; the streets were crowded with visitors. American flags flew on every corner, hung from every window. You could easily see the twisted metal of those destroyed buildings, hear trucks and bulldozers cleaning up the site. There was a small church across from Ground Zero, surrounded by a wrought iron fence. It had served as a makeshift shelter during those first days of search and rescue, and its gates now paid tribute to the heroes who had lost their lives on that day. The fence was covered from top to bottom with photos, letter, tributes, and flowers from all around the country. People gathered quietly, reading and reflecting, some people wept while others lit candles. It is one of my most powerful and cherished memories.

Eight long years have passed since that fateful day. News reports indicate that crowds at the tribute sites have thinned, people have moved on. My life is profoundly different and my ties to New York and New Jersey have faded away. Yet as I sit in my cubicle in Texas today I will remember that day, as I do every year, those feelings, the bond and strength and love that we all gave to each other that fall. I will always remember the people that I spent that day with, images of life seared into my brain. The whole area became a place, once filled with strangers, that came together over tragedy, bonding over loss and grief and relief. Remembering those that died and honoring those that gave their lives. It wasn’t about politics, or terrorism, or agendas. It was about people, people just going to work that day—a beautiful day to be alive. A terrible day to die.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

My Best Friend's Wedding

You can imagine the scene--5 or 6 girls in their late twenties perched on couches and arm chairs, opening bottles of wine, snacking on chips, salsa and chocolate. Discussions of toe nail polish colors and seating arrangements float around the room. It's the week before your best friend's wedding. Your best friend of 16 years, the one with whom you shared all your high school secrets, college fears, and woes of adulthood. The woman you knew, knew, would ask you to be her Maid of Honor. It should be just like some Jennifer Aniston movie, but it's not.

That scene you can imagine? It's not going to happen. That Maid of Honor toast at the reception that you had planned for years? It will never be given. In its place is something different; something melancholy, poignant and empty.

Friendship between two woman can be extremely powerful and important. I hold my friends in high regard and no one was held higher or for longer than K. Our friendship transcended words and traditional definitions. We had grown to be as close as sisters, her family had truly become my own. I lived with her parents for 14 months straight out of college and they adopted me as a second daughter. Yet this weekend, at my best friend's wedding, I was not even asked to be in a family photo.

I cried at my best friend's wedding this weekend. Not the tears of joy that I had always imagined, not the tears you shed when someone you love finds happiness. I cried tears of regret, of sadness and of understanding that this event would mark the closing of a long, powerful chapter of my life. She made a choice that I am no longer important. I cried because I was not part of this event, I was no longer a friend, a confidante, or needed.

Like life, marriage and friendship must be balanced. You cannot isolate yourself in this world and hope to find joy. As I watched my best friend and her new partner sit alone at their wedding reception, without a wedding party, without their families nearby I wondered about the extent of their isolation. They are doing this because they think their love is enough, but you cannot thrive alone. Love cannot exist in a bubble, but they continue to insist that it must. I have been asked to step aside, and I believe that this weekend, at my best friend's wedding, that change was made permanent.

Yet the universe demands balance, and out of this great loss, has come a great gain. Our dreams rarely come true, but that does not mean we do not find peace and happiness in their place. I won't ever give that speech, I won't ever stand alongside the alter, crying tears of joy for my best friend, but I will define my own happiness and joy. The one person that I believed I could always count on is gone, pursuing her own idea of happiness in a way I cannot support. So I have stepped out to pursue my own and the future has never looked brighter. I cried this weekend because I said goodbye to K, but also because I said goodbye to the person I was when we became friends 16 years ago. That girl got me to where I am today, but the woman I am now can't wait to see what future holds.

It's too bad though, I would have made one hot Maid of Honor.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Man of my Dreams

Dear Future Husband,

I was thinking about you again last night, wondering how you were doing. It is strange to think that you are out there somewhere, living your life, going about your business just like I am. I could already know you, or you could be a complete stranger, but I like to think about you and hope that you are happy and doing well. I wonder if you ever think about me? Not about me specifically, but the idea of who you want me to be, how you see our lives together. I have come to believe that the more I think about you and dream about what I want you to be, the faster I will find you—draw us to each other.

I know you are a smart, kind and caring man. I know that you are funny and witty—you have a sharp and quick sense of humor just like I do. I know that you can appreciate the finer things in life, like good wine and powerful music and classic literature, but that you can still tilt back your head and sing along to the latest top 40 crap and enjoy the simple, uncomplicated side of life too. I know that you will always be there to listen to me, to be willing to hear every rambling story, every complicated emotion. I hope that when we meet you will free some of the thoughts that are tumbling around in my head. I think they are waiting for you, waiting for the right person to share them with. I know you will be able to take care of me, but also be someone who will let me take care of him. I know our love and our lives will be completely balanced and I will never again have to feel like a burden to the ones I love—needing too much, feeling too deeply, caring too intensely, because our feelings for each other will be equal. Our understanding of each other’s needs, desires, fears, and dreams will be in sync so completely that neither of us will have to wonder again. I will never doubt your love and you will never have to doubt mine. You will be my best friend, my solid ground, but you won’t take yourself too seriously—it is, as they say, only life after all.

You love dogs of course, and traveling too, and you definitely aren’t someone that minds getting your hands dirty trying new things. You aren’t too sentimental, but you understand when it counts. Like me, I know you are looking for a partner in crime, someone to complete your life. We will love and laugh like never before and I will never want for that again. Our lives will be full, but simple, uncomplicated and complete. I cannot wait to meet you, I cannot wait to share you with my family and friends. I know they will be so proud of you, I already am. I cannot wait to know how you will make me feel.

I didn’t use to believe you existed. I didn’t think I deserved you, but I am changing and growing and learning like never before and now I cannot believe that I ever doubted you. I know it might be a while before we actually meet, but I am here, I am ready, I am waiting for that moment every single day. I am so excited and I already love you, I just can’t wait to show you how much.

Monday, August 24, 2009

A wordy start

During a job interview, for what would become one of the worst jobs I ever had, my boss-t0-be asked me if I was a morning person. I started spewing off some typical interview appropriate answer about how I would prefer to sleep in, but can certainly be bright eyed enough to get the job done in the mornings. She quickly cut me off--something I would soon come to recognize as her general M.O. for dealing with us, her lowly employees--and asked quite pointedly, "but would you say you are loquacious?" I was caught off guard, mostly because the question itself seemed so deliberate, and I didn't quite know why. My learning kicked in and I responded with something along the lines of, "no, I wouldn't say I am a particularly chatty person in the mornings" which seemed to satisfy her. After I got the job, my coworker informed me that it was a test: anyone who didn't know what loquacious meant was automatically disqualified for the job--at a mortgage company, mind you, certainly not a place that requires a particularly evolved vocabulary.

So no, loquacious I am not, but if there was a single word to describe long-windedness in the written form, well yeah, that's me. Email-quacious?

Words seem to be constantly tumbling around in my brain, forming sentences that I roll across my tongue obsessively until I can write them out. Or more specifically type then. I swear the invention of the email was the first form of therapy I ever really experienced. I have been accused a time or two, by more than one friend, of having disturbingly long, marathon email writing skills. So it's time to harness those words and turn them into something more. Something important and real and meaningful. This will hopefully become a practice arena for some of my stories and thoughts. Sometimes nothing more than a word or a sentence that will not leave me alone, that needs to be written and shared. And if they are lucky, a burden removed from some inboxes heavy with my words.

I have no fiction in me. My stories are based on my own real life experiences. Emotional flashpoints in my life that cannot be expressed in any other way. Personal, funny, touching, and real. Maybe to no one else but me.

Oh and that job? Ancient history. The boss? Pretentious and rude, but that's story for another day.