7/12/21 - First day of the rest of my life?

Well, it kind of feels like the first day of the rest of my life. I’m turning 45 next month and I am officially unemployed today. It’s still hard for me to figure out exactly what happened or why I finally decided to quit. I think it was an intuitive feeling—a sixth sense that this was the next step. But, I do not really understand it. I do not have much faith that there’s something else out there. The Les Miserable song is constantly swimming in my head: “Who am I? I’m 24601.” Because, I really do not know who I am without a job. No, not a job. A career.

It’s the first time that I have said out loud that maybe, just maybe, practicing law is not for me. This is am amazing feat as I think these thoughts have been with me a long time. It’s hard to discern, though. Are these the thoughts of every lawyer: “Maybe law is not for me?” Or are these the thoughts that have slowly been creeping in my semi-conscious that have just gotten loud enough that I’m willing to say the words—despite what the words mean: I may not practice my chosen profession anymore.

What a crazy experience. I am not sure I could have quit three weeks ago had I not gone to my meeting the day before and heard others talk about fear. The most important information I experienced that day was that faith is not jumping from A to B, it’s jumping from A. We also talked a lot about the scary hallway and I truly appreciated what others said about how they, too, are scared of the hallway—the not knowing. So, I did it. I do not know what is next. I do not know if there is a “next.” I am committed to do some work on trying to figure it out. And, in the meantime, live one day at a time.

Here are my next steps: 1) Work with the Job Coach to explore other opportunities; 2) Continue to research counseling programs; 3) Be a mom to my kids, trying to be fully present and focused, while not turning into someone that gets their self worth from their children because that is dangerous for all; 4) Attempt to fill my days with goodness and joy; and 5) Go to lots of AA meetings.

Thanks for joining me on this journey. Until next time, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

7/13/21 - Second Half

So, I’m turning 45 in a few weeks. It seems like that means two things 1) half my life is gone and 2) half of my life still needs living. I’d like to choose #2. I realize I could die any day. But, I think that was true all along. For now, I believe it’s half time and there are some things that need to be fixed before we go back out on the field. The question, however, is how long do I get to stay in the locker room looking at tapes and preparing for the next half? There’s this other option as well, which has been posed by husband. He thinks I need to take time to just sit on the bench—not do a damn thing but what’s in front of me—and wait. Oh how I wish I could be someone that just: waits.

It’s strange to use this sports metaphor. I’m not a big sports person. I used to watch sports as a kid as a bonding experience with my dad. I dabbled in it a little as an adult, while dating various people. Strangely, I had a dream about being a cheerleader last night. It’s been a while since I have dreamed about cheering. But maybe that’s what I’m trying to understand right now. Sports is like life—as absolutely cliche that sounds. I get to walk into the locker room any time, but especially at half time, and regroup, relax, respond, and decide how I’m next going to react.

I would like to continue this positivity: the thought that 45 means another half to do and the commitment to make it meaningful and fun. I’ve spent 20 years mourning my birthdays. The first time I had the thought, “I am old,” was when I turned 25. I had just moved to Tuscaloosa, Alabama, to start law school. I was on the phone with Neal Ryan, a former and sometimes still of and on love interest, when I realized what was happening to me and internalized it as meaning that I was “old.” Ha! Now it’s been 20 years—a whole life time for some. I wish I could tell that 25-year-old me, whisper in her ear: “You are not old. Your life is just beginning.” I wish she would have believed me. She wasn’t even sober then though. She wasn’t interested in believing anyone but herself.

A lot has changed since that day, outside my little house on the train tracks, on the phone with a guy that I continued to hold onto when there was no one else around or when I felt lonely and needed a good pick-me-up. And yet, I remember it like it was yesterday because in life measurements, it really was just a short while ago. And I have now spent the past 20 years thinking that I was “old.” I’m not sure that those thoughts really accomplished anything. If anything, they kept me doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results because I thought I was “old” and had one trajectory that I needed to slay. But, I’m not old. I certainly was not old then. And I’m not old now. I’m at the half-life. So, what will the next half look like? What will I get to do now that I understand it’s not one trajectory and I don’t need to slay a damn thing to feel whole. I am whole: I’m god’s kid.

This seems like a lot to figure out while sitting in this locker room. At least it’s not a dug out. At least I have air conditioning and children and a pretty cool husband here. There are plenty of things to do while I’m making the plan. Until next time, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

7/14/21 - Young (Who?)

It’s super raining today. We rented a log cabin in the woods so that we could escape the heat in Phoenix. I’m here with my 10-year-old and 8-year-old. We our by ourselves during the week. I rented this cabin last year and had such a blast. It felt like I was back at sleep away camp, one of my most favorite places on earth I have ever been. I got to kayak, swim in the lake, hike, and hang out in the woods. Last year, the plan was a result of Covid. Most camps were closed, meaning I had two choices: 1) take time off of work or 2) hire a nanny. We decided that #1 was the better option and I loved every minute of it. We booked again with the knowledge that we could replicate last summer. But, the minute the booking locked in, I began having second thoughts. Camps are open this summer so my kids would have places to go. Benjamin has to travel twice while we are here, which means that he is gone more than one week of our three weeks. This is an expensive hideout when we are not even fully using it for the three weeks. And, the pool club has raised their prices to almost $1,000 for the month—making this an even more expensive adventure.

Here’s the biggest issue: I can’t replicate last summer. It was a summer of awe where no one in the world knew what was happening and we were all just trying to make it the best way we knew how. And, we did. We made it. We made it in a big way because we had no other choices. This year is different. The kids know there are other options out there. They know that this is the option that was chosen for them. But, I’m not sure they would have chosen it if they had real choices. Yet, at the time that we booked, this really did seem like the only choice again for this summer as we had no idea what the world would look like when we booked 6 months ago.

And now it’s raining, something I did not plan to happen during the bright morning hours of our trip. I expected it to rain, but in the afternoon, and only sometimes. Arizona has not had rain in years like this. I know we need it and I’m grateful for the world and the living organisms. But, does that mean I have to fully entertain my kids all day without a physical activity to hide behind? I want to take them hiking, biking, kayaking, tubing down the ski valley. I don’t know if I have a full day in me of cards, board games, and arts and crafts. I have naps and books in me on a rainy day. This is why Camp Sabra, as we have affectionally called it, falls short. Because I had my kids at 34 and 36 and now it’s 10 years later and I’m exhausted. I’m not the mom in the commercials chasing my kids, dressing up, and playing princess or transformers. I’m a reader/napper kind of girl.

The first summer I had my kids here I was waiting for my bar results and not working. The first week, I took them to legoland. I realized half-way through the day that there was a reason they went to camp even though I was not working—they deserve young people with lots of energy to guide them through their days. They have lots of energy—I mean a lot, a lot of energy—like more energy than I have seen in most kids. I remind myself constantly to be grateful for their energy because I think the alternative would suck. But, I’m also exhausted just thinking about their energy. Hence, why there are many days the words, “You are old,” run through my head, through my blood, and into my nervous system. So, what the hell am I doing thinking that 3 weeks in a cabin, with all activities depending on me, was a good idea??

I’m 45. I have half my life to live. I am hopeful that today, I have enough life left in me to play every board game they want to play; make friendship bracelets until my hands hurt; and draw ridiculous renditions of the categories they pick for three-marker challenge. I hope I can do all of this with the energy and excitement of a young person—because that’s what I am—still very very young. Or, maybe I can teach these other young people around here how to read for hours and nap on a rainy day :) We will see…Until next time, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging.

Sabra

7/15/21 - Weather, Music, and the Unpredictable Universe

Well, it did not rain yesterday—not once. Such an interesting thing, weather. More interesting, weather prediction. Two days ago we journeyed once again to the ski valley to fulfill our $180 passes that only allowed us 1.5 hours the previous day because of the rain. That morning, the weather app showed that we had until 12:30 before it started raining. That would have given us 3 glorious house—plenty of time to do the few activities offered for that ridiculous amount of money. The ski valley is run by the Apache tribe. When we got there, I mentioned that we had about three hours. One of the men working behind the desk told me that another one of the men, they called him the “weather doctor,” was predicting we had about an hour. I had this brief, floating thought that I should believe him. His people have been having to predict weather for a very long time. Then, we moved on to our first activity. While traveling down the mountain on the ski lift, exactly one hour later, bright skies and beautiful temperatures all around, it started lightening—while we were on the ski lift, a ski lift made of metal. I knew we had between 10-20 minutes left on the ride. I asked the universe to allow me to stay calm while it sent lightening through the sky and crackled thunder over our heads. I suggested to the kids that they take their hands off the metal bars and their feet off the metal feet rest. Then, I distracted them while I prayed. When we arrived at the bottom, hopping off that lift, because at that point it was raining as well, the ski lift operator said, “Well, that must have been terrifying with all of that lightening.” And, yes, it was terrifying. But maybe a better statement would have been, “You stupid white girl, dragging those kids up that mountain, knowing that on your way back the clock would strike one hour from the time you spoke to the weather doctor.”

While it can sometimes annoying that after all of these years, white people running the weather apps and news programs cannot predict weather, it always reminds me that the universe is so much bigger than our little plans and designs. She has a mind of her own. She has a plan, which none of us can predict. And most importantly, she is more powerful than all of us. It reminds me that there is a god, and we are just little spokes in the wheel that she is turning, or whiplashing around, depending on the moment. And so, it came to be yesterday that it did not rain despite the weather app saying it would every hour from morning until night yesterday. We salvaged the day. We went for a walk in the woods. We smelled the wet pine. We dug our feet around the mud of a drained lake down the road. We played pickleball and laid in the grass. These are all activities that we cannot do in Phoenix and it was fantastic. But the best thing about the day—the biggest surprise and the most spontaneous I have been in a while—we saw lived music, and we loved it.

I have not been to see live music in a long time, literally and metaphorically. Before I met Jeremy, I saw a lot of live shows. Before I got sober, I saw even more. With kids, we tried to get to as many shows as we could—a farmer’s market here, a street band there. But, Covid put an end to all of it. It was slowly draining away anyway, so I don’t even know if I necessarily missed it while we were social distancing and staying away. A few weeks ago, I heard it in the background while we were in a mall in California and I thought, “Hmm. That sounds fun.” But I did not even get pulled over. It was a lovely sound in the background that I didn’t even feel the need to stop everything I was doing (standing in line to buy my kid dip-in-dots that he was trying to find all day) to see the show. After I thought, “What happened? Have you gotten so old that you aren’t even capable of feeling the music? Dancing even though there are strangers all around?” Then I thought, “I just think the music was pretty bad.” And it was. 12 people singing bop songs for the kids. But good lord, I was probably Imagination Movers biggest fan 6 years ago. I was the only one dancing at their concert (for kids) in Nashville back then.

So it came as somewhat of a surprise that this one-man-band in the middle of the woods in Pinetop, Arizona could have moved me so much. When we approached the commons where he had already been entertaining for more than an hour, I felt like I had slipped into heaven. I cannot even tell you what he played other than “Brickhouse” and “Honky Tonk woman,” neither of which are on my top 100 list. But, whatever he sang, it was fantastic. Even better, my son started dancing during his first song. And even though he does not like people all that much and is usually embarrassed to have any attention on him, he decided he wanted to dance, and asked me to come along. So, there we were, mostly among people of post-retirement age, dancing. Some of the time, we danced together. At other times, he danced alone and I danced next to him. We talked. We laughed. We spun.

I am so grateful that the weather app doesn’t have a clue. That there are people out there that do not follow it so that we can still take pleasure in the days. I am grateful that live music made my heartbeat and my soul full last night. That my body remembered what it could do for me and I let it. That my son, who is more unpredictable than the weather app, felt it too. All of it. And brought me back to life. The second half of it. It’s beautiful out today. The weather app says it’s clear until 1:00 p.m. I’m not paying attention anymore. I’m just dancing. Until next time, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

7/16/21 - Can anybody tell me what’s next

Although my husband asked me to take 3 months off after I quit, I immediately started working with a career coach. Actually, my first appointment was the day before my last day of work :) I think it’s a good thing. I know he wants me to really savor this opportunity and try to get mentally healthy, but I did not foresee that as a real possibility. For weeks, months, I had been scrolling job opportunities, knowing that some of the opportunities would require me to go back to school, leaving me just scrolling, aimlessly, with no purpose, because those jobs probably won’t even exist in two years if/when I finish school. Also, the coach is free. I know her. I happened to be at her house during my last week of work when she reminded me that she is a Career Coach that specializes in career transitions. I felt like we were in a sitcom, there should have been an audience in front of us with a loud, “Huhhhhh,” when she reminded me of her side hustle. If that’s not enough, she’s actually publishing a book on transitioning careers set to be released next month. Oh, and she told me that she does this for free for her friends.

I have never in my life had anything “free” that did not come with strings attached, except for AA. And, that’s huge. AA is huge. We do so much for so many without any strings attached. So, despite the fact that many “free” services turn out not to be free, I still have this faith in humanity that maybe many others do not have because I know it can be done. I know someone out there can provide a free service and it truly be free. We will see about this one. Nevertheless, I thought about it for a day and decided this was the next best step. She explained to Jeremy that even though he wants me to take this time off, it may be good for me to be doing something to move forward, otherwise, I’m just stuck in this cycle of unknowing and I may get really spent out of shape. Jeremy actually does not give a flying fuck what I do so there was really no need to convince him. And so there I was, the night before my last day of work, having my first free session with my new Career Coach.

I appreciate that she is spending the time with me. I am scrolling for jobs way less and have completely stopped haunting masters in counseling websites, constantly reviewing the amount of time it will take to complete, reviewing the remote options, and trying to remember the costs for comparison, but failing to keep that information in memory so repeating this every few days on the same damn websites. During our first call we discussed my values. In all of the self-help work I have done, and I have definitely done my fair share, I don’t think I have ever had the opportunity to go over my values. I really could not have told you what they were. I have circled them a few times during exercises, but I don’t think I have spent enough time that I could have told you them off the top of my head. And, even though these were focused on career values, I think they are the same for me and I can now tell you what they are. Pretty amazing to be able to get these nailed and be very clear about them in one session with a coach. After we went through the values, I was supposed to make a list of all jobs that interested me, which I did, because I absolutely love homework and having something to do.

Here’s where I am concerned this has all fallen apart. After going through the list, I was given instructions to do more research about these jobs and narrow the list to those things that I can see myself loving doing. The direction “loving,” took my breath away. I asked her if other clients had issue with the term “loving” because I felt so burnt out with my current situation, I do not foresee myself loving anything right now, and maybe ever? She did a great job pivoting. She told me that she owned that word issue and that perhaps a better way to think about it is…That’s where my brain cut off. I have no idea what she said after those words because I was so caught up on “loving.” I do not know if I can love again. I realized through this process—after my boss screamed at me and told me that my infraction of failing to tell him that my paralegal was quitting three hours before she quit equated to him knowing that my husband was cheating on me but not telling me—of eight weeks trying to figure out if sacrificing my entire life to a job that did not care about me, all of the things that I do not want. The problem, however, is I do not know what I want. Listening to her the other day made me concerned that I may not ever know what I want again. It feels like my brain got knocked around and that part of me—loving my profession—is just gone. It’s been replaced with total underwhelming disdain. And yet, I know that I want to find something to do, a paycheck to take home, a meaningful place to spend my 6 hours while the kids are in school.

So, my next step is to narrow the list to professions that I could maybe love some day? I guess it’s like dating. I should go on more than one date before I make the decision on whether I want to date again? I also have to then call people that do that profession. I really think this is brilliant, but also super jarring. I’m 45. I do not want to call random people and ask about their job. She said it without any hesitation, like this is something that everyone does. I do not randomly call strangers and ask about whether they like their job and to tell me what their day-to-day life is like. She is right. This is a great way to decide whether I want to pursue the job. She explained to me that this is a way better option than to be one year into school and realize I hate it and don’t want to do it. But, I also just have this gut feeling that school is where I need to be right now. Of course, I also have a gut feeling that I have cancer—most days of my life—so maybe this gut is only partially reliable and the reality is that she is giving me a great opportunity to figure out whether this gut feeling knows what it’s talking about. Thankfully, she told me to take my time, which I will. Because the next step is picking up the phone. And I don’t want to pick up the phone. Even though I know it’s good for me. More “free” services coming my way—strangers telling me about their job and guiding me to my best self. Thankfully, I believe in humanity and know that it will all be okay and that through this process, I may figure something out. I may learn about free love. Until next time, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

7/19/21 - It’s electrifying

It’s Monday morning. I have taken the weekend off from blogging and have had so many adventures, I don’t know where to start. Yet, it’s the dead thing that keeps coming back. I “went” to my homegroup on Saturday. I haven’t been in a while becaue it’s in Birmingham and I am in Arizona and it just does not make sense to continue using it as a crutch when there are live meetings on Saturday mornings that may not be equally as good, but are good enough and come with the added bonus of real life human interaction. I think that’s the strangest part of Covid, is the reduction in human interaction that we have all had. Mine was only for a short period of time. I was back to work that June and we saw people throuhout quarantine. But others went or have gone a long time without experiencing that charge that exists when to people are face-to-face. I don’t know what it is, why it’s so much better than Zoom, but for me, that charge is irreplacable. Zoom just doesn’t do it.

When Covid first hit, I hiked a lot. It was the perfect weather for hiking in Arizona. Despite being outside, in nature’s creation, feeling god with every step that I took, it also had this real since of sadness. Because people were so concerned about Covid, no one said “hi” on the trails. I would walk past people and they would be so concerned without getting out of the way, on this super narrow trail lined with cliffs where one could fall to their death if they got out of the way too much or did not pay attention getting out of the way, that they did not say “hi.” In fact, many, many, many of them refused to make eye contact. I don’t know what that was all about—why people didn’t even make eye contact during that time, but it was so sad to me. It seemed like we were all climbing the mountain with leprosy, which we weren’t, and it was a clear message that I should not talk to anyone because they certainly had no intention of talking to me.

There was still a charge there. I believe with most live human interactions, there is a charge. But it was a sad charge. It was a charge that felt like, if I could possibly break this charge, if I could make sure that this charge does not exist or does not pull us together, I will be safe. All of these people on the mountain were pushing the charge away, trying to deflect the charge from their person, in total and complete fear that if they just relaxed, casually passed me by, looked me in the eye, and acknowledged the charge, while making a facial expression that commented on how weird it was that we were consciously avoiding spatial closeness, I think we would have still all made it. I don’t think any of us had to be physically closer to at least acknowledge one another and give each other encouragement along the trail. Instead, it felt like everyone was fighting for themselves, even though they had chosen a narrow trial in the desert to make themselves better.

Although Zoom just does not do it for me, because I guess I’m a sucker and would rather negative charge than no charge, I just adored being on Zoom on Saturday. What happened was that I heard a great sobriety message. But more important, I was reminded that life is precious. We discussed several people that have passed away. We quoted them and made decisions based on what we thought they would want us to do. So much death—I guess that’s what happens if you stay sober long enough, people around you die sober. What’s interesting, though, is that in conjuring their memories, I felt that charge. I felt that presence. I can’t seem to do it when I’m sitting on a Zoom meeting with 30 people—I can’t feel anything but the need to play on my phone and only partially listen. Yet, when talking about the deceased, I could feel their presence—in a good way, not like they were trying to push it away to keep them safe in a bubble that does not exist. How do we get to do that? How do we lose their physical presences and then live without them? I hope after what I felt yesterday, we still get to feel that vibration in the room, even if they are not on the other side of the vibration. But, death sure makes it very clear why presence is so important. Why passing one by and feeling the charge, does something inside—it works like serotonin—firing up the happy nervous system in my brain.

I’m grateful for this time. To understand what my needs are and what they are not. I’m grateful that as much as I love to be around people to feel that charge, I also figured out that home, away from all of the charges, works a lot of the time as well. I've got the second half to live and I feel privileged that I am starting to understand the reverberation necessary for me to continue to live happy, joyous, and free. Until next time, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

7/20/21 - The second half if the better half

When I first got to AA, I was 27. I felt terribly sorry for myself. I thought I was extremely young to be there and knew that it was very sad that I, so young, would have to get sobert. Today, those thoughts make me laugh because there are so many, much younger, people that walk through those doors today and many stay sober. Thankfully, I had some repetitive thoughts that kept me from pitying myself so much that I didn’t stay. The first thought was that I had lived a very good drinking life. I had danced on top of bars, travelled to foreign countries, rode in limos and on private planes, all while absolutely wasted. The second thought was that I had been drinking, apparently alcoholically, since I was 12 and that maybe I was actually super lucky that I got to drink as long as I did. And the third thought was that walking into the doors at 27 was not the first time I had walked through those doors—I had gone to AA, sentenced by my parents, when I was 14 and again, on my own, at 19. So, it really should not come as such a shock that I found myself with no other place to go at 27.

I got sober in 2003 in Tuscaloosa. By the end of 2004 I had moved to Birmingham where I started going to a meeting on Saturday mornings called Metro Big Book. You entered the meeting by going through the side door of a church. Instead of going downstairs as many AA meetings are in the basement, you went up a short flight of stairs to a huge room, which to this day I have no idea why the church has this room or what they use it for. As you walk into the room there are many chairs spread throughout, some are in rows facing the front of the room and some are around the outer wall of the room, in a semi circle. The reason for the semi-circle and the rows is that they all face a very large wooden table. This is not a large wooden table that one has in the dining room or even a large wooden table where Jesus dined on the Last Supper. It’s a monstrosity. Just like the room, the table’s purpose is unknown becaue it certainly would not make a comfortable place for an intimate dining experience.

Facing the room, sat 7-10 men. These guys ran the meeting. They all had many years of sobriety and they got the meeting started each morning. Eventually, the rest of the room, that if you were just observing from above you would think were spectators, not participants, would have an opportunity to speak as well. Once in a while someone would seemingly be frustrated with the fact that all old white men were sitting at the table and place themselves, with their decades less of sobriety, at the table with these men. Inevitably, they would get drunk. Their egos placed them at the table, telling themselves that they were just as good as these old white men and that there should be a variety at the table, women, people with less time, and ultimately, their egos took them back to drinking. I loved staying in the spectators seats. I didn’t even mind the nosebleed section. After a couple of years of going regularly, they called on me quite a bit. I was able to share my experience, strength, and hope, I felt respected by these old men, I was a woman, I had less time, and I was able to say helpful things to some of the newer people in the room. But, I continued to respect that table, which always seemed to glow brighter than the rest of the room.

I thought those men were old. It was 2004. I was 28/29 years old. I look at that table filled with shiny white hair on those men—all but two had shiny white hair—and I thought of them as the old white men of the meeting. It’s been almost 16 1/2 years since I started going to that meeting. Two of the men that sat at the table died just a few years into my sobriety. Their deaths were not significant to me because I thought that they were old at the time, I thought that is what old people do, the die. What’s more shocking is how I have thought about the recent deaths of two of the men at the table. In the past year, two of them have died. What’s shocking about it, is that I thought that they were old when I plopped myself in the spectator section 16 years ago. It never occurred to me that they had 16 years left to live. I thought that they were older than dirt when I got there.

I just finally brought myself to read on of the men’s obituarys. He was 77 when he died. That means he was 60 or 61 when I first met him. He was not old. Hell, he wasn’t old when he died. It’s funny how our perspective shifts over time. I’m not sure if I had known that he was only 61 that I would have thought that he was old at the time. Perhaps I knew that 61 was not old when I was 28 or 29. However, now that I remember how old I was at the time, I think that maybe I did think 61 was old. Ugh. What was I thinking? Now it seems like such a great age. I know so many people in their 60s that are finally living in their best life. One of my friends just took off for the summer to Europe, with no real agenda. She has already been to several countries. I am sorry to the Universe for thinking her children in their 60s were old. I am grateful today that I have a new perspective. I also am somewhat weary of the fact that many of the young people in AA today probably think I’m old when they walk in the door. If they only knew that I was in my half-life—the better half. I wish I had known sooner. Until next time, don’t tell my husband that I’m blogging :)

Sabra

7/21/21 - Cards/Shmards—I can’t be tricked anymore

I have been in Northern Arizona with my kids since the day after my last day of job/the first day of the rest of my life. It has been lovely. We came last summer because camps were closed and I did not want to be a camp counselor to them in 100 + degree weather every day. We rented a cabin in the woods with access to many lakes, hiking trails, safe biking, and other activities. Camps in Phoenix are all inside with maybe a little hot swimming in the afternoon. Here, we can be outside all day. All of the windows in this house are open right now at 6:30 in the morning: it’s fantastic. I loved it so much last summer. I took the three weeks off, unpaid, and worked in the mornings to ensure that I did not fall too far behind. I told my boss that I intended to do it again this summer. And since I was hired to work a weird schedule, and since she knows that I would have worked every day during my unpaid vacation time, she said okay. Of course, that was before the incident and the 8 weeks of me stressing every single day about why I was still hanging around.

After the man whose name is on the door screamed, blocked my door, beat on my desk, and equated me knowing that my paralegal was going to quit to him knowing that my husband was cheating on me, which I believed by the end of this insanely sad and scary gaslighting session, while the female partner sat quiet as I begged him to stop, I spent the next 8 weeks agonizing over whether I would leave. I think most people would have left, if they could. I think they would have worked on finding another job and left for that job. Most people have to work to pay for their mortgage, health insurance, and put food on the table. Because we can technically live on one salary, I decided that I would not look for another job while I was engrossed in the one that I had, the one that I did not think I wanted anymore. Then I agonized about whether I was going to leave. Finally, on vacation with my husband and two kids, I decided that I could not continue living the way I was living. I was given a great opportunity in my 40s to have the flexibility to take my kids to school in the morning, pick them up in the afternoon, and attend their activities. But, I was constantly looking at my phone during the three hours after I left the office. Many times, I hopped back on the computer and worked. And, I always answered emails and my phone after my hours were up. Not to mention I was working an extra 30-60 minutes a day at the office. Once I felt betrayed and completely disrespected by the man that owns the company, and the fact that I believed the female partner was complicit, I just could not stay any longer, no matter how much I liked the work or the other people at the office.

When I quit, I did not talk to them again about the man’s behavior. I told them I was leaving because I owed it to my family. I’m not sure I owe this to my family. I’m not sure that I owe them a mom that has no idea what she wants to do with the second half of her life. I’m concerned that what my family is going to receive is a mom that does not have her shit together and feels less than whole inside because she is not working. But I just could not stand to be in a place where a man convinced me that my husband was cheating on me to prove a point—a point, I may add, that was really not a point at all because the comparison is completely fabricated even if it makes sense in his own mind.

Here’s what happened: The first time I quit, I must had said something that made them think it was only temporary (3 months) and so they asked me to talk to them in two days about whether I planned to come back in September. In September??? I wasn’t even leaving until July. That was the first reinforced sign that this place was batshit crazy with their talk about me coming back in September. I politely explained to them that September was not three months, but rather October, and that I thought they should replace me, or not replace me, whatever they wanted to do, but that they should not count on me coming back. Then, the day before I left, I had to call the man whose name is on the door about a client. He told me that he could leave my name up as “of counsel” and I could just work whenever I wanted, and he would pay me $100/hour. First of all $100/hour is extremely generous for what he was paying me and so I really appreciate the offer. However, this was the day before I was leaving, why would he not have thought about this arrangement before then. Regardless, I was not biting. I had made the decision that the place was toxic long before he showed me how toxic he can be by individually attacking another human being. And I just could not forgive him, not when what he did was coupled by horrific behavior in management style, etc.

Last year, the kids and I came up for the last four weekends of the summer and we never went back to Phoenix. My husband came up on the weekends, we had some friends visit during the week, and this place was our home for the month. This summer, we have to make several trips back to Phoenix because of my son’s diving travel schedule. The summer is just not the same because Benjamin is good several times this summer, our friends are out of town and so they can’t come, and because of the travel, Jeremy is not able to get here as often. So, we went back to Phoenix on Monday. I saw that I had something from the firm. I was hoping it was a check. It turned out it was a lovely card that said something about a great workplace is because of the people and it was signed by everyone at the firm. It was so nice. It had lovely messages that included encouragement to come back. I was moved. Because I am moved by toxicity. I am a battered woman who thrives on the ounce of kindness that is shown to me. Did I make a mistake leaving? Look at all of these people that signed a card telling me how much they loved having me around and hoping for me to come back. They even through in a $100 gift card.

I would like to spend the second half of my life not second guessing every single decision. I belive that the greeting card is part of the toxicity. I don’t believe anything would be different if I went back and I am not sure I can get over the PTSD of what happened that day with the man whose name is on the door. I’m not sure I should. I had a lot of signs before I quit. I had a huge sign the day before I quit where the topic at my meeting was fear, and I was told that faith is not jumping from A to B but jumping from A and that the hallway (unknown) is scary but it’s way better than sitting in the place just because I have fear of leaving. I guess I just thought I would have more relief. Instead, I have some relief and a lot of anticipation about what is next and how the hell I’m going to find it. I’ve been a lawyer for almost 17 years. I don’t even know how to find what is next. I trust it’s out there though. I trust if it’s what is supposed to happen, I will figure it out. I trust that these kids will have the mom that they need and that I will not forever be spinning in the unknown. I guess I’m in the hallway now. And it’s not awesome. But I’m glad I jumped. I need to remember that as the cards and kind words come in. I don’t know where I’m going, but I don’t want to go where I’ve been. Until then, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

7/22/21 & 7/23/21—Some thoughts on botox (I have many others)

I just talked to an “old” friend. We’ve been friends since Kindergarten. We have not lived in the same city since we were 18, so 27 years. Kind of weird to think about. We were friends for less time than we have been a part. Frankly, it’s a miracle that we still talk, albeit only a couple of times a year. I didn’t ask her whether she had any thoughts on being 45. I know she does. I know we all do. She’s actually closer to turning 46. She had a child at 41. Does that keep us young? I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s possible to defy age, no matter what we try: plastic surgery, botulism, micro needling and lasers, babies, younger men. It’s all done from a place of defying age and that alone is clear sign that we are, in fact, aging. I have made the choice not to inject botulism into my face. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the best decision. Would it really hurt to do a little bit of botox and fillers? But then what’s next?

I read this article once. It was about Francis McDormand discussing aging. My takeaway was that allowing myself to age without botox, fillers, or plastic surgery is a sign of feminism. I love that explanation. I’m not sure I would have been able to put it into words. But, I do know and have known since my 20s, at least, that as much as I was concerned that I was getting old, as much as I did not think I wanted that for myself, as much as I knew that aging would come with less and less hoots and hollers as I walked down the street, more stomach fat, and wrinkles everywhere (I did not know that dark spots all over my face and arms would appear), I preferred it to the alternative. I preferred it to the anti-aging.

I don’t have many friends to subscribe to this same philosophy. Thankfully, I recently heard a Brene Brown episode where she discussed resentment being a feeling, an emotion, that stems from envy, not fear. I think she’s right. When I’m angry, I am usually in a lot of fear. When I’m resentful, where the anger is surfaced, underneath this methodic rhythm of hurtful and judgmental statements that I am constantly making about the other person while they are living in my head and don’t even know it—they are going along their merry way while I just re-think and re-think about all of the reasons why they suck—I am definitely in envy. This envy can be for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes, I am resentful of a person (hence, envious) because they do suck. However, I can see now that the resentment comes from a place where I think about that person in terms of me, I am envious that I can’t suck too. Why do they get away with living like they are living in this world and I have to “work hard,” “make responsible decisions,” “take responsibility for my children,” “be nice,” the list goes on and on of ways that I feel like I have to be and therefore are envious when that person, whom I resent, does not have to be that way.

So, the resentment that I feel for my friends that do not subscribe to the philosophy that allowing myself to age is true feminism when I thought that the person sticking poison in their face was a feminist, is really just envy. I want them to be “better.” I want them to refuse society’s push for botulism and cutting so that they will age with me. I don’t want to be the only one getting wrinkled while the rest of them are looking very tight. And I really don’t want their lips so puffy.

Jeremy and I were discussing this years ago. He asked me if I would agree to just grow old with him. Recently, I sent him a picture from our honeymoon eleven years ago. He told me that I was even more beautiful now. It’s obvious I look older. I am carrying more weight. The dark spots were non-existent then. And, the wrinkles have started, especially on my forehead and around my mouth. I agreed with him that day because I knew it was what I wanted for myself. I knew it was a commitment. But to who?? Who am I proving this to?

I have never worn makeup. I have a huge indentation in the side of my face and there was no way for anyone to figure out how to put any type of color on my cheeks without making the indentation worse. Plus, my mother didn’t wear makeup so there was really no one to teach me even though she kept saying that if I decided to wear makeup she would take me somewhere to learn. I was one of the most popular people in my class and I used to sit around for hours with my friends as they applied makeup before we went out. Although still to this day none of them wear a lot. It’s just not how we were raised. Even then, though, they would laugh at me, knowing that I was just this free-falling hippie at heart and that makeup was never going to be my thing.

Strangely enough, tanning was my thing. I spent many years going to tanning booths until one tragic day in my 30s when my dog got skin cancer and I realized that the tanning had to stop. I tanned because I thought it made me look good (I still prefer looking at myself in the mirror when I’m tan). Of course, we know now that the tanning is the cause of many of the wrinkles and dark spots I now wish away at night. Tanning was easy thought. 15 minutes in a booth once a week. Makeup was always way too daunting for me. It required, in my mind at least, hours of commitment each day. First came the morning makeup. Then, came the checking and reapplying all day. Finally, the evening wash. What do you do with your makeup towel each night? Do you get a new, clean one each day or do you use the same towel? It just was too much for me. I did not even dye my hair for the first time until last year and it was only with semi-permanent dye so that it would just wash out when it was ready to fade and I did not have to do anything again until the grays got to be too much.

The amount of work that botox and fillers appears to take is also too much for me. Not to mention the cost. How do these women pay for their kids to go to college when they are forking over thousands of dollars a year to the beauty industry? And the time? Of course, I have time now that I’m not working. That’s the biggest irony of it all. I finally have time to spend money during the day, but I’m not making any money to spend.

I would like to continue this quest to be real. I would like to be in my 60s and look back and think, I’m so glad I didn’t put that poison in my face. I don’t know if that will work. I don’t know if I will even last. I also don’t know if I really will be happy in my 60s having allowed myself to wrinkle that much. It’s scary and I don’t know the right answer. Yet even in those days where I spent my entire day ensuring my role in the pecking order of popularity, I made different choices than my friends. I liked the democratic candidates. I did not spend a lot of time pruning. I bought Birkenstocks and kept them for the next 10 years until I bought my next pair. I’m not putting that poison in my face today. I’m going to try this aging thing and see. I want to be an example of how we can do this well and not give in to the messages that say aging isn’t beautiful. Because it is. We’ve been doing it for thousands of years just fine. Until then, don’t tell my husband that I’m blogging :)

Sabra

7/26/21—When we are called to help

I spoke with an old friend over the weekend. She was calling because of something I said to her when she first reached out last year after we had lost touch many years ago. When we spoke a year ago, she wanted to tell me about her divorce to another friend of mine with whom I had lost touch many years ago. She told me about how he had pitched her to the court and to all of their mutual friends as “crazy.” He ultimately got control of their three children, leaving her with his scraps. I didn’t even ask about the money, but I can’t imagine that went much better for her.

The marriage was beautiful. I thought that they were in deep love with one another. I still remember the governor of the state greeting guests at the front door. Interestingly, the two weddings where I remember the governor greeting guests ended in divorce. Thankfully, he did not greet guests at my first wedding, which did not end in divorce, thank you very much. It ended in death. So maybe it wasn’t the governor’s role at the weddings but rather the people we all chose to marry during that crazy time when we were all working for him. Because I think he was at my second wedding as well, and that seems to still be going very well eleven years later, after I had left that crazy life where we worked all day and night and then drank and made terrible personal decisions.

When I first heard that these two were dating, I was so excited. Although I was friends with him first, I had met her separately and really liked her. I thought she was smart, poised, knew how to navigate in that world, and was tall, blonde and beautiful. They were a bit older than me at the time, although I do not believe that they are that much older that it would count now. But at the time, I was 22, so anyone older than 25 seemed to have a much more responsible and promising life, leaning closer to adulthood. I just thought I was faking it. The relationship was a whirlwind and they were married just a few months after they started dating. How did it all go so wrong?

That was many years ago. Perhaps 22 or so? When I quit drinking a few years later, I realized how much of my time spent with them and others in that capital town surrounded drinking. As I continued through recover, I began to understand the alcoholic personality and became aware of what drinking looks like in non-alcoholics versus what it looks like in alcoholics. I knew that many of the people I worked with, both actual work ad loosely “worked” with because they were lobbyists paid to be my friend but really they were working and I guess I was too for a lot of it, fell into the category of real alcoholic. What’s super interesting to me is how long they lasted. Many of them are still going. They were working and drinking amounts of alcohol that my body just absolutely could not take anymore. In fact, I remember coming to in the middle of the day in a limo in Los Angeles with the husband as the only other passenger and whispering to myself, “I will survive, I will survive.” That was 2000. I only lasted another 3 years. By the fall of 2003, I had given up all hope of survival and went to AA.

When I was in Israel, I met a guy at an AA meeting. He was an attorney and had graduated from the same Ivy League school the same year as this husband. It was on that information that I agreed to let this guy tag along on an overnight tour to a kibbutz that I had booked and agreed to be his rowing partner down the Jordan River. I decided that if he went to this school and new my friend, there was no way he was going to harm me :) When I asked him about our mutual friend, he was shocked that he was still functioning. He told me that he knew this guy was an alcoholic in college, long before he knew that he was an alcoholic.

So, when I re-connected with his ex-wife last year, I told her these stories. I told her that I thought he had a serious drinking problem—that his whole personality changes when he drinks and that is a clear sign of alcoholism. Also, he hangs out with a bunch of alcoholics, had an open affair with a woman that is not worthy of his pedigree (although, that’s totally fine to marry whomever you want, it just seemed odd to me that he had been openly seeing this woman and then ultimately married her because he was so concerned with ensuring that his girlfriends previously would “fit in” to his New York suburb WASPY lifestyle), and was seriously insecure—another sign of alcoholism. At the time, she told me that she had thought so as well, even going so far as to semi-planning an intervention. But then the affair became public, he did not want the world to judge him by said affair, so he spent the next two years dragging her name through the mud claiming that she was crazy because she liked to meditate, compost, and wanted to send their three kids to Montessori. He lobbied me during that time. I don’t know why. I was sober then and not interested in what was happening amongst my old drinking buddies. Although at the time I held a prominent position in that town (okay size fish, very small town), I was sober, commuting during the weeks, and rarely appeared at night functions and certainly not the afterparties. During that lunch, I knew that my relationship with him was nonexistent and I hadn’t seen her in years, so I politely listened as he explained while his indiscretion should be forgiven because he really had no choice but to cheat due to his wife’s extra-marital relationship with spirituality and peace. I thought his argument was weak, if not completely absurd, and I left lunch probably agreeing to do it again soon, which never happened.

What I did not know at the time, is that during this time at lunch and for the past ten years that I have been away, she has suffered. He took everything. He took their kids. He took their friends. He took their house because his girlfriend lived down the street. He took all of that self-confidence that I admired so much when I first met her. And for what? So that he could continue to move forward and up in his life after being caught with his pants down? Yes. That is what he did. He justified his behavior by blaming it on her. So typical of an alcoholic.

I guess he’s gotten very mean with her again. I really do not understand why. Two of their kids have graduated from high school. There’s only one left to go. But I guess he thinks he has to stretch his muscles again for some reason. Show who’s boss. Because he’s so damn weak he gets pride in kicking those that are already down. She has nothing left. He just does not have any of his own self-esteem to see it. And here is where I come to today. How has he functioned for so long with a drinking problem? How have so many of them functioned for so long? Being sober is such a better way of life. It breeds youthfulness and energy. It gives me spirit and confidence that I never had while drinking. How do they go on day after day with hangovers and insecurities and revenge in their hearts because their ego does not allow them to live any other way.

I wish I could call him. I won’t. It’s none of my business, I don’t want to get her in trouble, and I believe my efforts would be futile. But I will pray for him. I will pray for her. I will pray for their children. He looks old. I know he is older than me. But the lines around his face remind me that drinking ages us. It sucks the life out of us even while we are rising to the top (or what we think is the top). It steals opportunities that we don’t even know exist because we are too scared to look beyond our immediate comforts. I could have been bigger and I haven’t drank in almost 18 years. I know the losses that never came because of my choice to drink and stay in that small town. I know his losses too, even if he never sees them.

He’s more than halfway through his life. I still get half left. I am grateful I get to spend this half helping others, giving people like her the strength to grow and understand how she got there. I love this life. He may love his too. But, I know mine is better. Mine is real. Well, sort of real. My husband still doesn’t know I’m blogging. Until next time, don’t tell him :)

Sabra

7/27/21 - Perfection is an illusion

I heard once that perfectionism is not one’s desire to be perfect. It’s really one’s desire to be the best in every room that she enters. I think that is one of the truest statements I have ever hear. I used to tie my efforts to be better and my deep depression when I was not into little pretty bows and say, “Oh, I’m a perfectionist, that’s why.” But what I failed to see or failed to tell myself is that I was not holding myself to any standard against myself. That would have been nice. But it’s just not true. I was comparing myself to everyone around me. I wanted to be the best attorney in the room, the teacher’s pet, the prettiest, the person that always won at every game I ever played. That’s not perfectionism, that’s fear, not that you are going to think that I’m not better than myself, but fear that you are not going to think I’m better than everyone.

When I turned 40, I moved to a new state and had to take the Bar again before I could practice. The Bar is only offered twice a year and so I had from August until February to study. Even Bar preparation does not take that long, so I had some time on my hands. I read Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic. Her message is that we all need some type of creativity in our lives, and it does not matter if we are amazing at it, we just need it for joy. I thought that she was probably right. I also consider myself less than creative and so wondered how I would insert this creativity in my world. Around that time, I heard a neighbor talk about going to an adult dance class that was choreographed to all Michael Jackson songs. I was able to find the studio, it really was a dance studio for adults. I do not remember if they offered traditional dance classes, but what they did offer was hip-hop classes taught by true hip-hop dancers. I was in.

I absolutely love to dance. When I decided to quit drinking, one of my biggest concerns was that I was not going to be able to dance anymore. I danced from age 2 through high school, my last three years shedding traditional ballet/tap/jazz in exchange for dancing every Friday night as a cheerleader. In college, my friends and I booked rooms at the college to throw dance parties. As I got older, I found Hogs and Heffers, a great bar in the Meat Packing District that catered to women that wanted to get sloppy drunk, dance on top of the bar, and throw their bras onto the ceiling beams. I spent most of my 20s traveling to the FloraBama to hear country music performers sing incredibly inappropriate songs about women, guns, and being racist, dancing all the way through. And I loved Zumba. When I was pregnant with my first child, I had a back injury that did not allow me to take regular Zumba. Instead, I found Aqua Zumba with women forty years older than me. I absolutely loved it.

So, when it came time to find my “Big Magic,” it really was a no brainer. I was going back to dancing. I told myself that it did not matter whether I was good. I was there to have fun. I was there to bring creativity into my life. Of course, I chose dancing because I love it. But there was a part of me going into that class that also knew that I was good, perhaps even better than all those other women in the room. I danced there for months. When the instructor walked into the room, he started dancing. We were supposed to follow along without much instruction from him, just simple enough moves that we could get after trying a few times. He never praised us or really said much of anything. I have no idea if he thought I was good or bad or better or worse. Sometimes it felt like he was in disbelief that his hip-hop career had led him to a dance studio in Scottsdale teaching all older white women how to dance. Sometimes he was so stoned he did not seem to care about much. His only goal for that one hour was for us all to dance, uninterrupted.

What’s interesting is that for the most part, I also was able to dance uninterrupted by my crazy thoughts. In order to follow along without any verbal instruction, I had to concentrate on him, the steps, me, and the mirror that held space for him and me. I could not look at the others in the room to compare myself. Otherwise, I was headed for trouble because the only cue of transition was by watching him. I also could not wonder off into comparisons—again that just led me to tripping while grapevine or going down when I was meant to rise up. It became a meditative place for me. My brain became so quiet that I heard what I can usually only hear in the quiet of a yoga room or when I am practicing being quiet. The profound message during that time was clear: there are a lot of really good dancers—there is no one “best”. On any given day, I may be good, really good. But there are a lot of good dancers in their 40s, 50s, and 60s taking that class and dancing their heart out. I was never the best in that class. Perhaps on one or two steps, maybe even a full song. But that’s it. That’s where my perfection (a.k.a. I want to be better than everyone in the room) came to an end, whether I liked it or not.

The fact that I learned this lesson in my 40s is still mind blowing to me. But, after hearing what I heard and realizing firsthand that there are a lot of good dancers out there, and I was just observing one small, tiny class in one small tiny town in one small tiny state in one small tiny country, imagine how many good/great/amazing/terrible/mediocre adult dancers were out there dancing in amateur dance classes, not to mention all of the professional dancers, I started having many realizations about what this meant. The next area I came to understand that there is no “best” in art. I have never been an artist. While I am not good at it and have little to no imagination when it comes to traditional art (painting, drawing, coloring, etc.), I have an eye for it. I know good art. I may think good art is different than what you think is good art, but I do have an eye for it. I appreciate it. I have always appreciated it. I loved art history in college and when I travelled, I kept a list of all the art that I saw of artists that I had studied in my one intro to art class—it was a lot! I think, though, that because I had taken intro to art history and had studied all of the classics and then sought out to find them during my travels, that I knew the greatest artists. Meanwhile, I was starting to collect folk art by some of the most recognized in that field. With the combination of the classics and my personal study of folk art, I thought I knew all of the best in the world. Only in the last few years have I come to understand that this thinking is absurd. There are so many talented, great, and sometimes not -so-great, artists making all kinds of art.

I have a friend that started a podcast about art. I think through getting to know her and listening to her podcast, this profound shift in the way I have been thinking all these years was confirmed. There are not just a few “bests.” There are so many. First, we all have different tastes so what I think is “best” may not be “best” for you. Also, the world has been around a long time. There are “bests” for each season and sometimes the “best” gets to stay for a while, and sometimes the “best” is replaced after just one piece of art or one song or one movie. And that’s another idea to consider—there are so many ways to excel, just because one may be the “best” at art, may not at all be appreciated by those that prefer books, or music, or sports, or movies because there are so many talented people in all those fields, over a long period of time and for seasons that are short and long. This new pair of glasses for which I am now seeing the world has become very clear as I have watched and read about the Olympics over the past 48 hours. I watched an interview with Simone Biles. When she asked if she could be beat, she answered, “you never know.” And then it happened, in a flash. What we considered the “best” faltered, leaving the competition early and handing the win to another country. Why did we put so much pressure on her? Why did she put so much pressure on herself to not just answer Hoda’s question with, “yeah. I’m definitely beatable,” because we are all beatable. While this is clear every day, it’s clear not just with Biles at the Olympics. Many of the people that were considered the “best” have not won their field. Some weren’t supposed to—the synchronized divers in Canada are the best in Canada, but not the best in the world—they weren’t supposed to beat China and they didn’t. But, does that mean that they are not awesome? If one of the China divers had entered the water at an angle and lost the gold, would that have made Canada the best??

The idea that there are “bests” is completely unsustainable. This world has been around for centuries (or more, depending on who you ask). Ford was the best. Amelia Earhart was the best. Hitler was the best. Albert Einstein was the best. If all of these people were the best, then there is no best. And if there is no best, there is no “perfection.” So what are we/me striving for? I think the fact that these children Olympians, because they are all significantly younger than me, understand that they may not win gold and still go there anyway is so much better than me and maybe most of us in this world. They know that they are good. They know that they are so good that they made it to the Olympics. They also know that there are so many others that are just as good, if not better, than did not make it to the Olympics for one reason or another. And they know that whey they get to the Olympics there are people that are better than them and even if they are not considered better, they can certainly be better on the day that it counts. Does that make the gold winner the best? I don’t think so. Because I don’t think that there is a “best.” And what I think this means is that each day I can strive to be great. But I also need to know that each day there’s a great possibility that I’m going to make a mistake. I’m going to step out of bounds or fumble on the turn. I can’t get meaning or belonging or worth from how great I do on each given day. Frankly I can’t get meaning or belonging or worth on how I do each given month or year. Because I can’t get meaning from doing. I have to get meaning, belonging, and worth from being. Otherwise, it’s just a roller coaster of esteem issues and who wants that at 45?

I’m so grateful for this deep understanding. I wonder if the Olympians know this already? They have to, otherwise how can they get in the arena every day and know that they may fall down? How do chefs make food night after night when they know that there are thousands of them out there and they may never win any awards and even if they do, their creation may suck the next night? I just got the August schedule for the new post-covid dance studio. And guess what? I’m unemployed, which means I can make every 9:15 class if I want. I am so excited to start dancing again. That Big Magic is not about doing, it’s about the being. It’s about the feeling I get when I just am. It’s about just being one of many—not the best of anything. Until then, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

7/28/21 & 7/29/21—My heart

When I quit my job, my first plan of action was to regiment a mediation and writing schedule. I no longer have to work out at 5:00 a.m. or negotiate with my husband a schedule that allows me to work out at 5:30 a.m., so I wanted to put a plan in place that would still have me up and productive early in the morning. Since the kids were born, I have had to ask Jeremy every Sunday to please provide his weekly schedule to me so that I could plan my work outs. It felt like asking permission every week to work out at 5:30 in the morning a few times that week. This was difficult for several reasons: 1) Jeremy and I do not have a relationship where we ask each other for permission to do anything. This weekly conversation felt like we were living in an alternate universe where the man was in charge. He is not. And, he tried to accommodate me when he could, but Jeremy has to go to work early most mornings, so it was a constant battle for me to get “me time” at 5 f’ing 30 in the morning. 2) Jeremy likes to get up and go. I knew it was hard for him to sit around the house, dressed in a long sleeve shirt, wool pants, and a tie, waiting for me to come home. But, it was our only choice if I ever wanted to work out so he made the sacrifice and I, with some guilt, allowed it. 3) I don’t love 5:30 in the morning and I don’t love working out. The combination has always felt like torture for me. Yet, I need to work out for my sanity (and weight, health, etc.).

I have had periods of not working. It is great for both of us. He does not have to accommodate my schedule and I do not have to accommodate his. I also have had periods where I consistently worked out at 5:00 a.m., another sure way of not having to ask for “permission” to work out. But, I have not been that motivated since my last high school reunion to get up that early. After those periods of freedom were over, Jeremy has always been kind enough to start our Sunday calendar sessions again and “work from home” until I got back to the house around 6:45 a.m. Now that I am unemployed, we are back to living independently from one another in the mornings.

This morning, I did not work our or meditate or write. Instead, I put my aging eyes, without glasses or contacts, into my very small phone screen to watch my son’s diving scores live. Jeremy is with him in Indianapolis. Our son is diving at the USA junior national championships. He’s not that great as he just started diving in September and only started taking in seriously in April. But, because there are so few boys in the sport at this age, he’s been able to qualify for all of the big national competitions. And Jeremy has been a sport to be the one to take him.

Our son does not want me to take him. He says I make him nervous and drive him to anger. I think he’s right I am way more intense than Jeremy. Jeremy says that even when I’m not cheering loudly, repeating myself about a thought I’m having even though I am not the coach, or making somewhat disappointing statements while trying to mask my disappointment, I have a terrible poker face and that I look constipated, which apparently also makes our son nervous and conjures feelings of anger inside of him. Interestingly, I listened to a podcast yesterday from someone in recovery. She was discussing her intense love for her people and her desperate attempt to ensure that they live the very best life that she knows is out there for them. She suggested that as she is trying to help them live their “best life” (which she is knows is their best life regardless of whether they agree), she is often very kind in her “help.” But everyone knows her real intentions. This is the same with our son. No matter how sweet I try to make the words come out, I think he knows that I have other plans and designs for him, and that makes him terribly frustrated with me. Even yesterday, my daughter made a comment about me not supporting her plan to be a competitive soccer player. I seriously do not think I have ever said a negative word to her about the plan. I just think I do a terrible job of accepting their decisions when I think I know better (and I think competitive soccer is a terrible idea for her).

I have lots of opinions about my son’s diving. I think I try to keep them at bay. But, I have a hunch I let them slip and slide when I think he’s really not going to notice the deep fear inside of me. Fear of what?? He is doing fine. I spent two hours with my aging eyes shoved in my phone screen yesterday watching 22 divers’ scores pop up one by one for 6 rounds as I anxiously researched all the divers, hoping I would find that they were either older than our son or had a lot more experience than him. Otherwise, why would they be so far ahead of him. For the most part, I was correct—they have been at it a lot longer than him. Yet, he doesn’t care. He’s been travelling the country this summer having the time of his life. Meanwhile, I am spending my precious time assuring, who, myself?, that he will be better next year. Even if all my research pointed to the likelihood that he will be better next year, and I really do not think I needed to so much research on this question, it’s just common sense, it does not guarantee that he will be better. Hell, he may not even be diving in one year. And most importantly, he is fine now, why am I stressing about the future?

He was in 13th place during the first 5 dives. This was a reputable place to be, in my mind, after researching all of the other divers ahead of him. He tanked his last dive. And while I should have been prepared for this blunder, considering we are in the middle of the Olympics and there have been many Olympians that have blundered, my heart sank for him. Also, my “told you so” came out in full force. I think this must be the armor that I wear because it happened so fast and maybe I did not want to have to absorb any sadness from him or hold space for him, so I just got kind of angry. ( I wonder who he gets it from?) Instead of being sad for him because I know that even in his I don’t care, please don’t be despaired attitude, I saw him after getting 9th recently, and I know that he had these huge waves of disappointment for a couple of days, I immediately went to a place of “I told you so.” That last dive has been giving him a lot of trouble lately. It was way more likely he would tank it than nail it. He knew it. His coach told him in the last competition to scratch it. He chose to do it any way. But it was his choice. And the fact that I could not just be reasonably happy for him and appropriately present for any disappointment that he may have endured without wanting to scream, “why didn’t you drop that fucking dive,” is the reason that I am not with him right now.

He seemed fine when I talked to him. He was happy being 33rd in the country in 11 and under and 5th in his age group. I missed my meditation and writing so that I could watch my little heart bounce on the phone screen and wonder what I was doing: why was I trying to squint into the phone, why did I feel like I needed to pray each time his name was on top of the board, why did I spend two hours researching the other divers? I am going to try to be more laid-back next time. Thankfully, next time is in a few months (and he will probably be better by then :)). Until then, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

8/2/21—A mother’s love may be their only hope in court someday :)

Well, it’s already August. This summer went so fast and yet so slow. I did not write on Friday and something has felt missing all weekend. I think that’s a good sign, a sign that this mid-life reckoning plan is working. The meditation and writing is soothing my soul and scratching whatever itch there may be for soul soothing activities. I wrote most days at my job. Because I represented people accused of crimes, a lot of my writing was trying to finesse the facts to make them look as good as I could. I was usually able to take the most miserable people and make them sound good on paper. I still remember the one person that I could not make sound good. His only redeeming quality was that his mother loved him. I think I spent three pages discussing the bond that they had together and then asked for a sentence within the range of possibilities. I had a saying that you can say nice things about anyone, even if it’s only that their mother loves them. But, I also knew that when I came across those cases, which were very rare, the next one was not for another 9 years, it was going to be difficult convincing anyone that they should take pity on my client when all I could say about them is that there mother loved them. Jeremy used to tell me that I wrote fiction for a living. Here’s why: that precious son of mine whose business I’m all up into, broke his wrist on Thursday night.

The irony is stunting. I spent two days writing about him last week. I took time off from writing so that I could watch the small screen as his dive scores appeared. I prayed and sent good vibes as he and 21 other divers dove where just one month before the Olympians had competed to get to Tokyo. And then, two hours after he returned to me, he broke his wrist. This is not the first time that he has broken his wrist. So, when he started screaming at the bottom of the stairs that his wrist was broken, I knew that he knew what he was talking about. We had been on a long drive earlier that day, which allowed the kids and I enough time to listen to a podcast about a doctor who is either incompetent or a murderer, we have not listened to all of the episodes yet. Either way, the second irony—the first being that I had agonized for two days about my son’s diving future, and it had all come down in a crash when he fell doing tricks on the railing of the stairs—was not hard to miss. We were in a community hospital, in a small town, waiting to be seen by a doctor as I watched one extremely intoxicated man from the reservation scream about how his wait time was too long, a woman with piercings everywhere claim that she was having an allergic reaction when even I could tell that it was drug withdrawal, a mom holding her baby with no place else to go because she obviously did not have health insurance, and COVID likely running rampant throughout the hospital. At one point, the kids and I hear a CODE. I looked it up, it was a call for security because there was a behavioral problem in the ER. The kids were scared and so was I, although I think I did a good job of pretending I was not. I explained to them that people come to the ER when they do not have insurance and that we needed to love the people that were there that night because they did not have anywhere else to go. They agreed. I thought it as better.

When the doctor left the room the first time, my son started quoting the Podcast: “I saw a hole in his pants. It had been there for three days.” I quietly called on a higher power to protect us through this insanity. I also sent the x-rays to my husband who said that he did not think they needed to put my son to sleep to set the bone, which I appreciated greatly and told the doctor to please just splint it and let us get out of there. I just wanted my son to be safe and I was concerned that any treatment beyond basic splinting and wrapping was a risk. Of course, not setting the bone was a risk too. We will see his pediatric orthopedist today and find out whether the risk we took was okay.

That’s the thing about parenting. There are no crystal balls. Most people complain that there are no directions, and I agree. However, what I really want is the ability to see the future. I really want to talk to the man/woman behind the curtain pulling all of the levers and strings to see if the decisions I am making are correct. I was told a long time ago that I could not do that. I figured out that god is like a GPS. If I go in an unintended direction, it just recalculates. Sometimes, it takes a little while to recalculate, but it always points me in the way I am supposed to go.

I love that kid. I know why those moms love their kids even though they steal, cheat, lie, and hurt others. Because in the middle of pain and fear, he could start quoting verbatim the podcast from earlier that morning—the very pertinent podcast that made us all shiver when we walked into the hospital a few hours later.

I am hopeful that he (or she, my other one) will not end up in a lawyer’s office someday depending on that person to write something exquisite about them to make them sound unique and deserving of a sentence below the guidelines. I am hopeful that we have raised them to only steal, cheat, lie, and hurt others a little (because we all do) but not enough to rise to the level of criminal behavior. But if they ever do, at least it can be written that I love them. Until then, don’t tell my husband that I’m blogging :)

Sabra

8/4/21—Laundry operating instructions

Now that I am technically a stay-at-home mom I am curious about laundry. As an adult, laundry has always felt like it did when I was in college. In college, I collected quarters and when I had enough, I would do all the laundry at one time—stack of quarters in hand. While I have had my own washer/dryer since I turned 21, it has felt like the same game plan. No need to collect quarters anymore, but I let the laundry pile up until it feels like I have had enough time to collect the quarters, then I’m doing load after load after load. I have continued the practice after children as well. Thankfully, Jeremy does not like how I do his laundry, so it’s only the kids and mine that must get done. And, I don’t like the way he does laundry, so I have always done the kids (he does a lot of other things around here).

Someone once told me that I had to incorporate laundry into my every day life. I think that means I have to do a load or two everyday. But, I only know how to do a whole lot of loads on the weekend, most of which are overstuffed. I do not know how to do a small load here and there. And, does that include folding and putting away as well?

When I called my sponsor to tell her that I was afraid to quit my job, the first question she asked me was whether I was afraid I would not be able to afford bread. This question was meant as a poignant moment where she was trying to make me realize that all my fears were nothing compared to the misery that the everyday mind fuck of staying was causing in my life. And while my answer was “no,” I had an immediate and similar ridiculous fear. I do not want to be the one designated to empty the dish drying rack. Jeremy does a much better job at it. All week long, I clear out enough space to add more dishes. But I find it extremely trying to empty it all the way, putting every single spatula, measuring cup, random knife, and other gadgets that Jeremy uses, away. It overwhelms me. She told me that I probably would not be expected to do that task, but that I could talk to him about it. He told me that night and has told me repeatedly since, that he has no expectations of what this will look like now that I’m not working. I don’t believe him.

Early in our relationship, our conversation had turned to whether I would work forever. He told me that he did not care whether I worked or did not work. Because I have no poker face, he must have read something in my expression. His next words were, “But it does not matter what I say to you because all you hear is that I think you are a gold digger and expect you to work to prove you are not.” Why yes. That is exactly what I am hearing and still hear today, no matter how many times he tells me it’s not true. I think he’s lying.

So now there is this expectation, by who, probably not him, me?, that laundry gets done during the week so that it does not interfere with the weekend. Yesterday, we had 9 8-year-olds at the house and 4 10-year-olds. They engaged in a serious silly string and shaving cream battle. The backyard was trashed. After the party moved to the next house, I started cleaning up. My son asked me to watch a movie with him (since his arm is broken, there has been a lot of screen time). I told him that I could not watch the movie because I needed to clean up. He said, “But aren’t you not working. Can’t you clean up tomorrow?” I told him that I would be very busy. Busy doing what exactly, I do not know. Laundry? Why yes, that was actually on my agenda for Wednesday. And because it is on my agenda, I do not feel like there is anything else that I can be doing. I have to take my book at sit in the basement while all of the laundry gets done so that someone else won’t take my washer. Except, I do not have a basement, and I’m the only one using the laundry. And, since I am now going to follow the sage advice of incorporating laundry into my everyday life, do I only have to do one load? Save another one for tomorrow?

I have worked a lot of years. It feels like a blip, but it’s been a lot. I have raised two kids for the past 10 years while working. My whole home life shifted while I stayed the same, concentrating on working and surviving the only way I knew how. I am excited to learn that there may be a different way. I am excited to see whether I can avoid laundry on the weekends and use that time to play more. Maybe it will not feel like such a chore? Maybe my kids won’t have to reach into their laundry baskets because I have not cleaned their favorite shirt or shorts yet.

I do not have much hope for this new way of life. I kind of think that wherever I go, there I am: dirty laundry and all. But, today I will try to make a few changes to see if there’s a better way. I wish there were operating instructions. Both for life and frankly, for my damn machine because it’s pretty sophisticated and I only know how to hit “wash.” Until then, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

8/5/21—Signs

There has to be someone somewhere out there to tell me what my next move should be. I realize that this is the same thought I have whenever there is a decision that has to be made. And so far, no one has ever come down from the skies, landed in front of me, and told me not only my next move, but more importantly, explained to me that the reason for that move was because the outcome was so grand. Frankly, it does not have to be a person. I would settle for a billboard dropped in front of me. And really, I do not have to know the outcome, if I’m being told for sure that the next move is the right move. Why is it so hard to settle for “I do not know right now?” or “I may never know the right move but I will take this one and trust the universe that something will work out?”

I have been very blessed since getting sober. I have, from time-to-time, heard messages loud and clear that did not come from me. My sponsor used to say that god had a bullhorn when it came to me. But I also have had many times where the next move was not made so obvious. Or was it? Perhaps I just continue to look in the wrong places. More likely, the right answers are inside of me, but I’m still trying to get external signs and praise to guide me along this path.

Quitting this job was so hard. I surveyed many people before I left. As soon as I asked for their opinion, I quit listening. I discounted what almost everyone had to say. I just figured my husband was lying and only saying things he thought I wanted to hear (even though he said he was not doing that). I was hoping for a billboard. Instead, I got little signs along the way, none of which had blinking, large, bubble letters that said, “Quit Your Job.” How rude of the universe, I thought. Doesn’t it know that I need something bigger, shinier, more exact? Thankfully, I am not alone. During the period that I was considering quitting my job, a friend was considering whether to separate from her husband. Obviously, her decision was way larger than mine. But it was interesting to listen to her because her thoughts were relatable. She told me that her sponsor never told her what to do, in the 18 years that she had been sponsored by her. Yet, her sponsor was very clear that separation needed to occur. I also was extremely supportive of the separation. I had the privilege of taking a family law class in law school where the professor, on the first day and many days afterwards, said that divorce is so that two unhappy people can get happy again. I subscribe to this idea about divorce—it can make you happy. So, I was supportive of her decision, as well as everyone else in whom she confided. Yet the day we were talking about indecision, she told me that she was also looking for a sign. She said that everyone in her life had told her that the separation was necessary, but she was still climbing mountains every weekend asking the universe what to do.

This need for a large gesture, when really there are little messages all along is emphasized in the old story about the man on the roof during the flood. Someone comes by in a boat and offers to take him out, but he refuses because he is waiting for god. Then, someone comes along with a helicopter, but once again the man passes, stating that he is waiting for god. When he dies in the flood, he asks god why he was not saved. God tells him that he sent a boat and a helicopter. I have to remember this story when I am in indecision. Of course, I argue even with the story, telling myself that surely if god sent a boat or a helicopter, I would know it was a sign—that’s big enough to recognize—it’s just that most of the messages are not that big in my life and so they are easily missed or misinterpreted.

Most importantly right now, I have to remember even more that when there are no signs, I probably just need to chill for a bit. I think god sent me enough signs, and continues to send signs reminding me, to know that I did the right thing by quitting. However, I thought for sure by now I also would be getting signs pointing me to my next move. This is the first time that I am unemployed without a purpose. I do not believe I am made for this long term. I was hoping by now that the universe would agree and have told me what to do next. But, there are several sayings in the big book that I am starting to think may apply here. The first one is to pause when agitated. The next is that when we face indecision, we ask god for a thought or intuition, then we relax and take it easy. I think the universe is telling me right now to “relax and take it easy.” Ha ha ha ha ha. It knows this is very difficult for me, maybe even impossible. Yet, here is where we are. I have no idea what I am supposed to do next and I have this feeling it is because the universe’s plan is for me to be right where I am, right now. The lesson may be here, in the not knowing.

So, today I am going to yoga after I drop off the kids at school. Then, I will go to the grocery store. I may hit a noon meeting before coming home to wait for the new dryer to arrive. And I will try to be content with this plan. I will try not to look in front of me for the billboard or pray that the whisper will come today. I will just be and know that the universe has got this one. Until then, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging.

Sabra

8/6/21—FOMO

Earlier this week, I was with a few stay-at-home-moms trying to gather our wild children from a playdate we were having the day before school started. The party of 9 8-year-olds started at my house earlier in the day. They had silly string and shaving cream wars, swam, made soap potions, and used water shooters throughout my backyard. When their parents came to get them three and a half hours later, many of them were not ready for it to be over. However, I was ready for it to be over. I had a lot to clean up! So, one of the moms offered to take them to her house.

After they left, my son asked me to do something with him. I told him that I needed to cleanup the backyard. He suggested that since I was a stay-at-home-mom, I could do it the next day. Um, no, thanks kiddo. I had plans. Not big plans, but I’m keeping a to-do list and trying to get things checked off each day. I do not know how to stay at home. But I do have a lot of little things that need to get done and I would like to get them done sans children. So, I cleaned. I like to clean, for the most part. Then, I hung out with him. Ultimately, we had to retrieve my daughter from another stay-at-home mom’s house, which I knew meant hanging out there for at least 15 minutes because no one can just pick up their kid and go. There is a lot of obligatory small talk before the kids are willing to leave and I feel assuaged enough that I have spent the proper amount of time chatting before taking my kid from their home, which thereby forces them to once again deal with their kid—something one can avoid when there are other children at their home.

I like these moms. I think one of them is a republican, which I’m not crazy about. But, she’s not in your face about it and she is super sweet and caring. I have complaints about my friends in AA as well. But, I do not tend to pick them apart as much as I do other acquaintances. I love my AA friends because I don’t have to make small talk with them. They are super real and have a lot to say about life. The conversations I have with moms not in AA never seem to be as real. They never have friend troubles, kid troubles, husband troubles, or any troubles. They appear to get along with their mothers. They do not worry about their marriages. And their kids are served by them, fully. This is strange for me. I have a fantastic marriage, but I sure do like to complain about him once in a while. I worry about my kids constantly. And I am having a huge identity crisis, most of the time. My AA friends tend to have the same crazy thoughts. Perhaps the non-AA friends are better influences, considering they are so postive most of the time. I think it would be a nice change of pace. Yet, I am still drawn to the dark side, which includes my AA friends trying to hang on.

While having our obligatory chat, one of them invited me to brunch on Friday. In my head, I was thinking “hell no, I am not going to be a stay-at-home mom that brunches.” I said, “okay. I am free,” and one of them told me that she would text me with the details. I have known about this brunch for three days. I purposely scheduled a weight class at 9:00 today, the appointed time for the brunch. Yet, I continued to wait for the official invite. It never came. This means that they either forgot about me or that they do not actually want me at their brunch. Either way, it feels a bit like a heart break. I also have a little fear of missing out, which is breathtaking when I consider that it’s happening. Really? Me? Some of these moms are ten years younger than me. I have had my fill of time with friends. I spent the last 17 years working and only seeing friends on weekends and an occasional weekday evening. I specifically thought in my head, hell no, when they told me about the brunch. And yet, here I am, sad and writing about the fact that I have been left out. I hope it’s that they forgot about me. I hope it’s not because they do not like me. Seriously????

If feels ridiculous even writing about this topic. I have others to explore. And yet, it’s Friday morning, I have not been invited to brunch and my feelings are hurt. And, I would have had said “no” even if they had sent the invite. I was planning to have other plans. In fact, I made other plans.

What is it that I still care after all of these years. And also, it’s likely karma from the way I treated others growing up. I was the one with the brunch plans. I was the one deciding who was invited and who was not. And many were not. A good friend, who is beautiful and smart and skinny, is in therapy right now because of the trauma from growing up not being invited to events as a kid. I apologized to her the other day on behalf of popular girls everywhere. What we did was not kind. I do not even think I cared whether it was kind. I only cared whether I was cool. I probably even told someone about a brunch because I had to, but then never followed up with the invite. Since getting sober, I have made amends to some of the people that I remember harming. I have asked others whether I owed them an amends. I have tried really hard not to leave anyone out of our plans. To the detriment of Jeremy, I have over invited to events because I wanted to make sure we were generous with our time. It has been almost 18 years since I quit drinking. I am two days away from turning 45. I appreciate this moment in time where I get to tell you how I am feeling. I also appreciate that I have lots of plans today and very little time to consider that I have been left out.

I have a lot of plans! This stay at home mom thing is not so bad day 3!! Until then, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

 8/9/21—On top of the world

Well, it’s official. I am 45 years old. My friends were kind enough to meet me on the mountain yesterday morning at 4:45. The hike was hard. The elevation changes quickly and to ascend, I had to climb a lot of rocks. On the way up, I kept wondering how the hell I was going to get down. Because as hard as it is to climb rocks, it’s even harder to climb down. We did it though, without a lot of slipping, tripping, and rolling of my ankles. A woman died on that mountain just last week. They found her in someone’s backyard. The story reminded me of an animal that finds somewhere out of the way to curl up and die when it is there time. I’m not sure that the mountain is that much of an ass kick, but it’s not easy.

I have only been on that mountain a handful of times. I prefer a less rocky route, with a little less of a steepness component. Easier. It’s been a few years since I have climbed it, but thought it was the right call for turning 45. If I could stay alive and descend without breaking anything, I would have accomplished an awesome feat for my birthday and be able to tell myself that I’m still in great shape for what’s next. And it definitely feels that way at the top. What is interesting, and has happened every time, is that I also get lapped by women and men in their 60s and 70s. For every young strapping male or beautifully buff female in her 20s that passed me, there was also a much older human for whom I had to stop and get out of the way.

Once again, this is a good reminder that I am just one of many. We were all on that mountain to accomplish a purpose. Some took it for granted. Some use it as a life spring. I used it to remind me that I am capable of still living a lot of life. There is a saying in the Big Book: God wants us to be happy joyous and free. I believe that today. It was so obvious on that mountain yesterday. I do not have a higher power that wants misery or sadness for me. That may happens sometimes, but that is not the goal. Most of the misery and sadness is created by me, not the elements around me. Most of the fears that steal my joy are not necessary. I heard once that fear is false evidence appearing real and 99.9% of the time, I think that’s true. I worry about my kids’ safety. But, they are safe right now. I wonder about my job prospects in the future, but I am fine right now—I actually have a lot to do today. I am afraid that we are not going to have enough, but we have all we need and much more. I am scared for my brother’s future, but he’s just fine right now.

Climbing that mountain makes life so obvious, that all I have is right here, right now. Each step I took required so much focus, I did not have time to look around. Those people that passed me were little blips. I did not start following them, wondering why I could not go as fast or look as good. If I had, I would have missed my step, which would not have turned out well on that mountain. I am 45. I need to remember it’s time to just focus on my step, right here, right now. What is in front of me today. If I can do that, I think I can stay safe. And, I think the only option is to be happy, joyous, and free.

I’m so proud that I made it to the top of that mountain yesterday. I’m even prouder that I made it down. I loved every step I took because it was mine and because each step was a step in safety. It was a step in the now. It was a step to secure my future. I am so grateful for my mind and my body, that had to work equally hard yesterday to keep me safe. I believe that if I let them, they can keep working every day to keep me safe. Here’s to another 45! Until then, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

 Sabra

8/10/21—Please just spare my routine

Well, it turns out that I was not retired for the three weeks that the kids and I were away this summer. I thought that July 8th was the beginning of unemployment. But the remainder of July consisted of me alone with the kids in the woods trying desperately to fill our days with activities while it rained, constantly, or did not rain, but threatened rain all day making it extremely difficult to trust being out in nature when the lightening could strike any moment. I have decided that instead, August 4th was my first day of true unemployment. zi do not consider August 4th the first day of unemployment because the kids started school that day, although I think that would be a valid reason for declaring it the first real day. Instead, I believe that August 4th is the day because we started a routine on August 4th. And I like routines.

If I could script my life, it would have a lot of routines built in. Routine for eating breakfast. Routine for kids’ breakfast. Routine for getting ready in the morning. Routine for where I go every single day. When I woke this morning, my husband was still in bed. It was 5:15. That is extremely unusual. Even on the weekends, he is usually up and working by 5:15. I thought that maybe he missed the alarm. I asked him if he knew the time. He said that he did. He was going in a little later today (he left at 6:40, which I realize most people would still consider very early for going to work standards). I thought, how odd. He just picked a random day to not follow his routine and he seems totally fine with it. I was not. His waking late, showering late, leaving late, completely through me off my routine. I am usually meditating by 6:00 and writing by 6:15. Not today. And I’m feeling a little off about it. He seemed just fine leaving the house this morning. No issues with this late morning. I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask: Is this your new routine? What happened to going in early? What made you decide to sleep in? Why didn’t you tell me that you were planning on still snoring when my eyes opened this morning? Is this going to be every day?

I did not ask any of these follow-up questions because his answer to my first question, do you know the time, made me believe that he had just made a one-off decision today to sleep in. And, it seemed a little cross examinationish to continue with my follow-up questions so early in the morning. However, you can bet your bottom dollar that I will likely ask him this evening what I can expect tomorrow morning because I do not want to be this thrown off again.

Also, this is the same for the morning school bus. My daughter has decided she wants to take it. It was almost impossible for them to take it when I was working. The school bus gives me an extra 40 minutes in the morning without the kids, but it was almost impossible to catch when I was working. It takes a lot of work in the morning to get ready while also getting the kids ready. I found it almost impossible to have all of that done and us out of the door at 7:57 for the bus. This has always been the case for me, even without kids, so I can’t really blame the kids. Even though I wake up pretty early—between 5:00 and 6:00 most mornings and even a little earlier when I meet my girlfriend to walk at 5:00 a.m.—I just can’t seem to get it all done before 8:30. When I was a brand new attorney, I was sharing a cigarette with my boss one day when he said to me that he noticed I did not get to the office at 8:30. I told him that I would be willing to work for him every hour of the day for the foreseeable future but the one thing I was not willing to do was be at the office by 8:30 on the mornings when I did not technically have to be. He nodded his head, said okay, and that was the last I heard of my 9:00 roll in time. I kept my side of the bargain. Sometimes, I would start working for him at 4:00 a.m. from home. Sometimes I would be in the office at 6:30 a.m. if we had something that needed to get done. Many nights I was logged in at 10:00 p.m. But I rarely, if ever, showed up at 8:30. It just doesn’t work for me. Even a woman of routine must put her foot down sometimes and say no to others’ concept of a workable routine.

For the past 6 years, I have been able to leave my house by 8:30 to get the kids to school. But I have not been able to have all of us ready by 7:57 because that is just too damn early for three of us to be fed, bathed, packed, dressed, etc. Now, I do not have to be ready. Most mornings, I work out after the kids leave. All I need to leave the house in the morning is workout clothes, sneakers, and maybe a yoga mat. This means that if the kids want to take the bus, I can get them there on time. The irony is that extra time would have been beneficial when I was working. I have no idea what to do with the extra time now that I am not.

Although I declared August 4th the first day of unemployment because I now take my kids to school and have 6, perhaps 7 if this bus thing works out, hours free during the day, I have no routine during those 6 (maybe 7) hours. Each day is completely fresh. I have a list of to-dos, but it’s not necessary to accomplish them in any given day, because all my days are free. This makes me very nervous. I think I was able to get more done when I went to work then I can check off my list now that I am not working. I scheduled a workout session for noon today. I have decided that is stupid. I do not like working out at noon. I like working out first thing in the morning. So, I’m going to scratch that off my list and attempt to work out earlier today. I think that will help relieve some of this anxiety caused solely by having no routine. I also am going to consider that maybe part of this learning process is to learn to be okay with no routine. Many live like this every day and seem to be very happy. I’m going to try. And if that doesn’t work, I’m going to read a book about it because I think a book may help me figure out how to be okay just being okay? Until then, don’t tell my husband that I’m blogging :)

Sabra

8/11/21—Best idea

My daughter is in third grade accelerated math. She worked very hard to get an invitation to that class. She has ensured that she is one of the top math students in her kindergarten through second grade classes, even though she proclaimed that she did not like math, to increase her chances of getting invited. She wrung her hands in worry about the gifted testing blanketed upon all second graders. And most often, she lobbied for herself every chance that she could get with the gifted teacher.

I believe she had several motivations for this work. My son is in accelerated math and she did not want to be beat. She likes to hold coveted positions wherever she goes. And mostly, I think, because the teacher is amazing and my daughter really wanted to be taught by her. When she did not score as high as her brother on the blanket testing, I became concerned that she would be disappointed at the end of the year. I reached out to her teacher, explaining that I did not want to push for an outcome but that if she was not going to be offered a spot, could the teacher please give me a heads up so that I could manage the message. The teacher sent a long email about resilience and patience—all of which I appreciated—none of which answered my basic question: will you warn me before you break her heart.

During the last few weeks, my daughter told me that she was asked to take a placement test and that only three other classmates took the test. Because I am a researcher at heart, I was able to figure out the testing program, see the test that she took, review her score, and almost guaranty that she would be offered a spot in accelerated math. We did not have to wait long after that day. Jeremy and I went to an end of year party where her teacher, who may have had one too many drinks, told us that our daughter would be in her class. I cried. My daughter had done it: she had convinced this woman to accept her into the program that my son was excelling in, even though they are completely different people, with completely different logical minds, because she likes my daughter and she probably thought she was low risk considering my son’s success.

And that is how we got to yesterday when my daughter had her first few pages of accelerated math homework and I had flashbacks of Covid-19 homeschooling where I spent two months beating my head against the wall trying to help with third grade math.

This weekend, I was telling some friends that my daughter lobbied herself into this class but did not spend the summer learning the multiplication table as specifically required by the teacher. I was bemoaning her lack of motivation and praising my son’s, who spent his summer before third grade ensuring he knew all multiplication facts between 1 and 12. My friend reminded me that I, too, spent my son’s summer before third grade memorizing the multiplication table. She was right, I do not think I could have told you half of the multiplication facts before two summers ago. And as the year progressed, it got worse—for me, not for him. He was doing great. I was texting my friends about how I can do many hard things in life but third grade math was not one of them. I am a lawyer. There is a reason why most lawyers go to law school and not medical school. We fancy ourselves very smart, but when it comes to math, we suck, and so the choice is made: law school, not medical school.

After my daughter finished her homework, she asked me to review it. I was in the middle of cooking, trying to feed the kids before I had to leave for my AA meeting. And that is when I had the best idea since my last best idea about 6 weeks ago. Funny enough, the last best idea also had to do with math. I was driving to work when I decided that we needed to hire a CPA to figure out the restitution payments for my client that had stolen $4.3 million. I had gotten him a killer deal with the prosecutor. I had convinced him to sell off his life’s savings in the hot real estate market, yielding the money to pay restitution now. I had convinced the prosecutors to let him start paying the restitution so that he would save on interest costs and be able to show the court that he was not like most white-collar criminals: he actually gave a shit and worked hard to pay back the money. I had set this man up for the best outcome he could have, for someone that just stole $4.3 million from the federal government. But I had no idea how to help him put the money back in the government coffers, and I certainly did not trust him to do it, he had just stolen it. When I told him that I wanted to hire a CPA, he said to me that if I thought it was a good idea, I could use his money to contract with someone. I told him that it was the best idea I had that week and thanked him, on his behalf, for allowing me to hire an expert—a math expert.

Standing at my kitchen bar last night faced with the prospect of having to grade my daughter’s homework that I may or may not be able to do without a calculator, I had another great idea. I told her to have her brother check it. He is in fifth grade. I do not expect him to come home much, if any, homework over the course of the next year. At that moment, I realized that one of the best ways to utilize his time in the afternoon was to check her work. His procured assistance would not only assist me, but it would also ensure that he is brushing up on his root math skills, and help her learn from her brother, who really got her in this mess anyway. He balked a bit, but ultimately complied and checked her work. 100% or so he said, I’m not sure, I did not look. I have faith he did it correctly though, because he knows that their teacher will hear about it and he does not want to disappoint her—he could care less about me.

I think this may be the best idea I have had since the last one and I did not even make the connection that both had to do with math until this writing. Will there be more? Is there a way to outsource all of my math problems? I am excited about the prospect. I also have the obligatory excitement about my son and daughter working together and having this be their “thing.” But I am not a fool. I am sure they will be fighting in just a few days about their new roles. But if that’s what it takes for me to never have to look at another math page again, I think I’m game. Until then, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

 Sabra

8/12/21 & 8/13/21—How to avoid a soap opera life

Update: The math checker missed two problems. Of course, my daughter missed the problems first. But, I had high hopes for her brother to help me with checking math. No such luck. So, he’s off math duty and I’m back on. Ughhh….

I would like my kids to start doing more chores. I have had them take their plates to the kitchen for years. They also have to ask to be excused so that there is not a lot of up and down and “see ya” at the dinner table. About once a week, they have to clean the playroom their rooms, and all their stuff in between. Recently, I told them that they had to start making their beds. This does not mean that I am requiring them to do a “southern make your bed”, with tight sheets, folded down comforter, pillows fluffed, with accent pillows decoratively placed on top. I just want them to pull up the comforter and make it kind of straight. I do not even care of the sheets are hanging out the side of the comforter. This chore is a hard one to remember. It’s hard for me to remember to remind them. It’s so automatic for me—as soon as I get out of bed, I pull up the comforter. Even a little messy, it makes for such a more pleasant living environment than the comforter at the end of the bed and messy sheets yelling “straighten me, straighten me.”

I think they would like to do the dishes. When I was in high school, “doing the dishes” meant getting stoned. Smoking pot got its nickname from the movie Don’t Tell Mom that the Babysitter is Dead. There is a scene where one of the kids shoots the dishes off the roof, after smoking a lot of pot. When the dishes are gone, he says, “the dishes are done.” After that movie, “the dishes are done” became our code for being stoned and “doing the dishes” was smoking pot. We also used the term “Icees” for cigarettes and “Chicken” for alcohol. I am pretty sure we got the term “Icees” because we used to tell our parents that we are going to get Icees, when really, we were going out to smoke or score cigarettes. “Chicken” was for one night when we got so drunk, we snuck out of the house to buy Popeye’s. I even think one of the girls, who knows, it could have been me, threw it all up. After that night, “chicken” was our pet-name for drinking.

One of the reasons I started drinking, smoking, and doing drugs so early was because I was not required to do any chores, and neither were any of my friends. I have no idea what we were doing through life. Our parents were at our beckon call, and we were given free rein to do anything, hang out with anyone, and be anywhere. I do not think this was entirely our parents’ fault. I believe we were good at lying and manipulating to ensure we could get away with the lifestyle, but I do not remember our parents even trying to instill some responsibility or sense of belonging inside the family structure. Our parents were more than happy to let us loose so that they could have their own lives, separate from ours.

I want my adult life to be different. I want our family to feel like a unit. I want to make sure that my kids understand responsibility, including responsibility as a member of this family. I also do not want them breaking my dishes in my very tall sink. And I do not want them touching my laundry machine. I bought those clothes. I do not want to have to buy new ones because my kids shrunk the ones that they currently own. My son has five pairs of shorts that he wears, these shorts are only in two different styles. He has three of one style (all the same color) and two of the other style (also the same color). He has many more shorts that I have purchased over the last year, but none of which he will wear. My daughter tried to wear a shirt that she wore two days ago. She was, and I believe still is, into fashion. And yet, she will not let me buy clothes for her, has no interest in working with me to get additional clothes, and is now wearing the same two-to-three shirts every single day: not laundered, by the way (see my blog on laundry and waiting a long time to get it done).

I am confused constantly at how one battles wanting their children to be responsible and wanted their children not to mess up the current state of the world. I also am confused how to consistently motivate them to do chores. I have tried several ways to remind them or reward them for their efforts. It turns out, it takes more effort on my part than to just do it myself or let them chore go, with no one doing it. And there’s not much I even want them to be doing right now. I have friends with kids that do their own laundry—same age as mine. One of my friends’ kids loads her dishwasher every night. As if I would ever let my kid load my beautiful dishes into the dishwasher—I break enough already, I certainly do not need them to hurry the reduction of dishes along.

This is a very strange world. So much to think about, remember, and do every day just to make the world spin and hope to facilitate growth in the process. When I was in high school, my friends and I watched As the World Turns every day during lunch. I do not remember anything about the show, but I think of the title often and the theme of the show. In its basic form, the show was about everyday life for one small town, one group of people. And yet every day, the world turned, and their lives were filled with drama, regret, heartaches, joy, and celebration. I think our world turns everyday by being consumed with the mundane, the laughter, the work, the push for the next right thing. I have decided that part of that next right thing is to maintain some semblance of cleanliness in the house and to teach our kids responsibilities. I have no idea what this will translate to when they are older. I have no idea if they will go from a life of family, school, activities, and a little drama to a world where everyone is sleeping with everyone, addiction is prevalent, and you can’t trust your best friend, like the show. I hope not. I feel like that is what my life was like for many years. I hope with a little responsibility and mandatory citizenship in this family that their lives will be nothing like the soap opera. But who knows? No one can tell me how to ensure the least soap opera-like life as possible. And maybe I’m not even supposed to. I would, however, sure like the kids to make their damn beds in the morning. I have a lot less internal drama in my life when it happens. Until then, don’t tell my husband I’m blogging :)

Sabra

8/16/21

When I was a public defender, I once had a client with only one arm. He told me that the second arm was shot during a mugging. I represented him early in my career, but at that point, I had several clients claimed to have been shot during a mugging. At some point, I began to wonder how all these people could have experienced the same type of trauma and wondered if their neighborhoods really consisted of random muggings that affected so many people. That day made me realize that in fact none of my clients had likely been mugged. They were all drug dealers. All of them had been shot because of an issue over drugs. I get it. They were compulsive liars for so many reasons. They felt they had to lie to me because they thought I would work harder for them if I had sympathy for them. After that day, I would ask how they got shot. They would tell me that they were mugged. And I would move on, repeating what they had just told me, only stating the obvious, “okay, when you were mugged during a drug deal.” And that was the only time I mentioned it, after the pleasure of seeing the shock on their face that I had their number.

This guy was no different. He thought he could completely lie to me and that I would believe him. I was representing him for being a prohibited possessor. This means that he had a gun that she should not have had because he was a convicted felon. I do not remember the circumstances of this gun. I think he was stopped by an officer. A search ensued and the gun was found. He had a decent amount of criminal history, which made this gun possession extremely annoying—he was looking at 37 months of incarceration.

We represented a lot of men charged with being a felon in possession. A lot of them came had already racked up a decent criminal history by the them that they were charged in federal court. The first time we usually met them was in lockup, right before they had their initial appearance in federal court. Most of them had only been charged in the city or county and had not been in federal court. The first time they would be seated in federal court, their eyes would be wide. The silence was scary to them—they were used to what we referred to as “cattle calls” in state court. Unless you were in trial, you were never alone in state court. You were usually in a sea of other defendants waiting their turn to see the judge. In federal court, most proceedings are scheduled—one defendant at a time. And the courtrooms are much bigger than state court. These guys would be placed at the table and look around in wonder, most of them scared. I would have to explain to them that this was no longer state court. That whatever they had done, had been escalated to federal, and things were going to be different.

Although these guys had criminal records, most of them were not prepared for federal court. They expected to make bond immediately, a rarity in federal court. They expected their cases to last two years before a resolution, most federal cases resolve in 75 days. Most importantly, they expected probation or a short prison sentence. The federal system demands that judges consider a sentencing guideline scheme that does not reward people with criminal records. Its philosophy is to increase punishment for each crime you have committed. While this is certainly a debatable way of doing things (hello drug treatment), this was all information that I had to explain to my clients. Many of whom did not take the news well. In this case, just a simple walk in his neighborhood, was likely going to result in a sentence of 37 months for a man who only had one arm. Unfortunately, that was not his only problem. The prosecutor let me know that they had another case with him. I do not remember the initial contact, but the result was a car chase where police saw my client jump out of the car, throw something onto the ground, and run. Ultimately, he was identified. And so was the gun that he threw. The prosecutor wanted my client to plead to both cases, even though he had not yet charged him with the second case.

I went to my client to discuss the dilemma. My recommendation was that he plead to the second case and that we argue for a concurrent sentence. I had been in that jail many times before. In fact, I grew up hanging out in jails because my dad visited clients on his custody weekends. I can count on less than one hands the times that I was frightened inside a jail. It is a comfortable place for me: the inmates have no interest in getting in more trouble by hurting me, they are typically behind gates or glass, there is security everywhere, and when there is no physical security, someone is watching the cameras with a panic button nearby. Except, not in private rooms where lawyers meet with their clients. As a criminal defense attorney, I would not want a camera in that room The purpose of these rooms is to allow privacy between a client and his or her attorney. Typically, the client’s hands are handcuffed for the protection of the attorney. And there is a panic button inside the room.

On this particular occasion, my client’s hands were not handcuffed because he only had one hand. I guess the guards thought, as I did, that the handcuffs were not necessary because he only had one arm. Whatever I said that day, really angered my client. This reaction was strange to me as I usually got along really well with my clients, even when I was giving them bad news. When he received the news, he jumped out of his chair. He quickly came around the table, standing behind me. I was stuck. There was no way I could reach the panic button; he was blocking it. And I knew his next move was to put his only arm around my neck. My life flashed in front of me. I believed that this was how I was going to die.

I tried to deescalate the situation. I do not remember how, but I was able to get him to move. I immediately pressed the button and alerted the guards that I wanted out. I do not remember who left first. I believe we walked out together, he heading right, me heading left—behind one last door to freedom. After that visit, I told my boss. I would have never told the jail or the U.S. Marshals. I did not want him in any more trouble than he was already facing. But we called to tell the jail that we no longer wanted to visit him in that room. I told them that since they could not cuff him, I wanted to visit with him in the staff lounge, where people were around, or behind the glass. I preferred the cafeteria because I thought the glass was offensive and only needed to be used if there were no more personal options.

The next time I saw some him, I brought a male attorney with me. He said something that made me so mad I raised my voice. He said, “woh woh Ms. Barnett. Why are you getting so angry? I have been praying for you and I know I scared you the other day. And I just want you to know we’re cool. I’m not mad at you anymore. You don’t need to yell at me.” I think that was the closest to an apology as I was ever going to get. I was thrown back in my chair and speechless. I also was a little perturbed that this man who was obviously contemplating killing me the week before was now hurt that I had raised my voice because he had resolved his issues with me and did not understand why I had not resolved my issues with him. His tactic worked. I took a few breaths. I thanked him and explained that I was on edge because of our last encounter. But I understood that he no longer wanted that kind of relationship with me and promised that I would not raise my voice to him again. He told me that he would not be pleading to the second allegation and told me that they could charge him if they wanted to pursue it. I believed that this was a terrible decision. If he was charged separately, he would get even more time for the second crime and there was a possibility that the sentences would not run concurrently, especially if he was assigned a different judge for the next case: a judge that may be way more harsh than the one he had for the case that was charged. I did not agree with this decision at all. But he was a grown man and sometimes we have to let clients make bad decisions. It completely sucks, but it is part of the practice. My sponsor always says, “everyone has the right to be wrong.” And so, I told the prosecutor, “no deal.”

The day we walked into court for his sentencing, the prosecutor pulled me over. My client’s sentencing range was 37-46 months. The prosecutor was bound by the plea agreement to request 37 months. The prosecutor, being a man of the law with a reputation for not giving good deals, also was known to be pretty lazy at his job. He was walking into the sentencing knowing he was going to have to file another indictment on my client, provide discovery, go through the process of pre-trial motions, and wait for my client to decide about the next case. He decided to throw a hail mary to avoid all that work. He told me that if my client agreed to a sentence of 46 months, he would amend the plea deal to forego charging the second case. My client, to my surprise, took the deal. He was going to do an additional 9 months, but he would avoid being charged again. He seemed thrilled at the prospect.

When I went to see him after his sentencing, he said, “You know Ms. Barnett. I think we make a pretty good team.” I could not believe it. This man that started out as the client I disliked the most in my career, believed that we were on the same team by the end. I was proud of him for making a mature decision but was also concerned that he would get back to Alabama and continue drug dealing, a prospect that was not going to fly during his three years of federal probation followed by the 46 months in prison. I have checked on him for years. I google his name to see if he ever went back. They would have caught him. They would have known if he had. He had a huge target on his back because of that one arm. He never did. Something must have changed behind those fences. Maybe it started that day he prayed for me. Maybe his heart opened, and his mind changed. Mine certainly did. I learned the power of forgiveness that day. All because of that one-arm man.

 Sabra

8/18/21 & 8/19/21—Goodbye adulting, Love, the most serious friend in the world

Adulting is so hard. A friend of mine asked me to be a character reference for a lease that she recently submitted. She is the most mature friend I know. Her mother ran away when she was young. Her father was a dysfunctional alcoholic who fell off the back of a truck and was paralyzed early in her formative years. Her grandmother raised her, along with taking care of her father. Her father’s sisters were jealous. Her mother kidnapped her from time to time, but her grandmother was resourceful, and a survivor, and made sure she had my friend back in her care each time. In her early 20s, she got pregnant with her drug dealer/boyfriend. They had a son. I think she raised herself and her son at the same time. She is a miracle.

When I met her, we were the same age. She was a paralegal at the firm that gave me my first job as an attorney. I was early in sobriety and told everyone about my membership in Alcoholics Anonymous. (I then spent years not telling people, having the words choke out of my mouth. Today, I am relatively open about my membership. I think that’s common in the life cycle of AA, if you are lucky enough to keep your seat for that long.)

After mentioning that I was in recovery to one of the partners, who, when I look back, had no business being in my office other than he was super old but still thought he had a chance with the young associates, because one of the women, a few years my senior, had slept with him, for totem pole purposes, three years prior. He had terrible teeth, but a nice house, a big bank account, a lot of influence in the firm, and a wife who clearly would rather him chase the girls when his breath smelled like stale wine, than her. So, he was in my office one day, likely realizing that I was not a good target since I no longer drank wine while making bad decisions, when he mentioned that our paralegal—for our group, not his—was attending AA meetings.

I went to her office at my first opportunity. She had an inside office, no windows, and she had to face to the side of the door to work on her computer and avoid being completely startled when someone entered unexpectedly. I remember being so scared of what I was going to say. I did not know her background that day, but I did not know that she was a serious person—maybe one of the most serious people I had ever met. In my short time there, I had never seen her laugh and she answered questions briefly with a scowl that intimidated me. As a young lawyer, I knew she knew more than me and I respected her seniority over me, despite most people believing that she worked for me. This made me afraid to speak to her. But I also was desperate for friends in AA (it turns out my boss was in AA, as well as my next boss, and the next, but I did not know at that time just how much god was and has been looking out for me). As I walked in, I asked her “Do you know Bill W.” This is the common line that one asks to protect the anonymity of the program. Instead of saying, are you in AA, we ask if “Are you a friend of Bill” or “Do you know Bill W.” I think we do this in case a situation arises where we miscalculate or misread the situation, we do not completely blow the fact that we are in AA or if someone overhears the conversation, that the person on the receiving end is in AA. We believe this question, rather than “Are you in AA,” protects the integrity of the program. When she said, “No,” I should have taken that as my cue to leave because she was clearly not in the program. Except, she followed with, “Are you trying to set me up with him?” I was astonished by the question. We were not friends. I do not know why she would have thought I was in there trying to set her up with someone. But I also realized that maybe she was so boy crazy, she would think someone that she snarled at daily would actually be in there to set her up. I related. I would have thought the same thing. And in that moment, I made a rash decision. I closed the door and told her that I was not there to set her up with anyone. I apologized for my mistake and explained that I had heard she was going to AA meetings.

I do not remember what she said, but I remember her look. Her look said to me that a miracle had just occurred, and I was being honored by getting to bear witness. She has not taken a drink since that day. Earlier that morning, she had been drinking spiked coffee. By that afternoon, she was at AA. She had been going to AA meetings. She had recently gotten a DUI and was court ordered to attend the meetings. I do not believe she had been in a while. Something happened to her that day. She has been sober ever since.

I have many more stories to tell about my friend. We have spent many happy and sad days together. We have been together just to hang out and we have been together for a purpose. We have spent months angry at one another. And we have spent months truly believing that we are better family to one another than our own blood. She has loved my kids like they are her own. I have spent days questioning her choices and applauding her bravery. After many years in Alabama, she decided to move to California. I thought this one of the best decisions for her. She was too big for Alabama. It smothered her and she had more to give than what it had to offer. I also thought she was so brave to make that decision. She had fought hard for custody of her son, but decided that the state was killing her and she would be no use to him if she stayed. She left. He stayed with is father, who had recently gotten sober and was capable of being a good parent. I was blown away by her decision.

This decision was not easy. She had no backup plan. Her grandmother had recently passed away. There was no one to bail her out if the plan failed. She was leaving her home state. She was leaving a good, steady job. She was leaving a home that she had recently purchased in the hippest part of town, with a good school system to boot. All of this being left behind in pursuit of moving to a place that would allow her to live authentically, which for her just meant a little more eccentrically than Alabama. Since being in California, she’s had several great jobs. She has lived in Santa Monica, a place that I thought was hip and cool. Just lovely. But recently she said she needed a change. Once again, I was so hesitant to agree with her. How could she leave the rent-controlled, half-house, for a small one bedroom? She was not sure. But she knew she needed it. From what I could hear through the phone, it sounds like her life has become stale. Maybe it’s been that way for a while. These past 18 months will do that to you when you are working from home in a neighborhood filled with steady, married, older people. I guess she decided that she had gone to California to live authentically and a town home in a rent-controlled neighborhood no longer felt authentic. My understanding was that she wanted to move somewhere hipper. More places to go by foot. More people to see in the streets. More living around her. And so that is how after all of these years I became her character reference. It’s laughable that I would be anyone’s character reference. I was contemplating becoming a server and Hogs and Heifers just a few short years ago (okay, 18 +, but it feels like yesterday). I believed my boyfriend was breaking up with me in 2001 because I did not have a good enough pedigree, even though I was the Policy Director for the State of Alabama at the time, when really, he was breaking up with me because I was a full-blown drunk. But here I was, 20 years after he gave me a camera instead of an engagement ring, being called by a Los Angeles landlord asking if I though my friend would be a good candidate for his town home. He told me that his other renter had been there 8 years and that is the kind of renter he is looking for—someone stable, nice, not flighty.

I knew he was going to call me. The night before she had texted me with the words, “get this lease for me.” He knew I was a lawyer and I assume expected something intelligent to come out of my mouth. Instead, my first words were that my friend “has been adulting long before adulting was even a thing.” His response? He told me he had no idea what I had just said! At that moment, I told myself that I needed to be an adult and answer his damn questions with sincerity. And so, I went into her history. I told her that I was there when she bought her first home. I explained that she had been on her own a long time and that she had always supported herself and paid her bills (I assumed for purposes of this conversation that we were talking about the last 17 years and not the years that she was dating her drug dealer, snorting cocaine up and down Jefferson County Alabama, and passing out in my Firm’s bathroom during an outside concert). I explained that she had been in the same lease for the past 10 years and never missed a payment on that lease or her previous mortgage. I told her that she held a steady job and that she would always be honest with him. He asked me if she was serious because she struck him as serious. If only he knew that word. Adulting captures exactly what he had observed in my friend. She is serious. She takes life seriously. She takes her responsibilities seriously. She does not piss off whenever she feels like it. She can’t. She has only herself to rely upon. Instead of explaining all of this to him, I acknowledged her seriousness and told him that she would make a great tenant.

When I hung up the phone, I realized something that I had not thought about before. This move. Hip neighborhood. More walking about. More people and opportunities. This is her way of not adulting. This is how she believes she is going to escape seriousness and allow herself some grace. As she frees herself of all her stuff that she has collected through her adult years (because she’s going from a lovely half-house to a one-bedroom studio for all intents and purposes), she is shedding her adult self. There’s irresponsibility and carefreeness that is pounding on her soul, begging to come out. She’s giving in to it. At age 45, she’s saying to hell with this adulting all the time. I cannot wait to see what happens!

Until then, don’t tell my husband that I’m blogging (my own way of saying the hell with adulting) one day at a time :)

Sabra

8/24/21—so we let god discipline us

I missed two days of blogging. I missed it, like I was super busy and did not get around to it. And I missed it, like I was sad about not writing. It also was easy the second day. And I did not write this morning, which was pretty easy too. Habits are hard to keep, even the habits that I really enjoy. There’s a line in the Big Book. It says something like, “we are undisciplined people, so we let god discipline us.” I love that. I think what it means is that I don’t necessarily need to be disciplined with all aspects of my life. I just need to be disciplined in the things that god wants me to be disciplined in. I can’t exactly ask her to keep me disciplined in all things—she has a lot to do. But I think I can definitely rely on her to be disciplined in the things that are most important: taking care of my sobriety and taking care of the kids that I had the privilege of bearing. Seriously. The fact that I do something for sobriety every day and manage to feed my children three times per day, ensure that they are clean, keep their brains learning against the competing pressure of crappy television shows and video games, is pretty good. I think I get an A+ every day for my discipline, none of which comes from me.

I had a huge realization this weekend at my AA meeting where it was evident that god was doing for me what I cannot do for myself because left to my own discipline, I would not be attending a 7:30 AA meeting outside in the summer of Arizona where I have to bring my own chair and avoid the mosquitos and the wet grass. Of course, that was not the realization of the day. That is the realization today, while I write this story. I realize that there is absolutely no way that I would ever choose to do what I do on Saturday and Sunday mornings if I was the one in control—that’s her: the big lady in the sky. The realization I had, while managing to stay in the shade for the entire hour of the 90+ degree meeting, was during a conversation we had about the power of getting out of ourselves. The reading had something to do with what one can do with they are in a pickle. And the answer was that sometimes we just stop thinking about ourselves and start thinking and doing for others. And with that formula, our problems seem to go away most of the time. I completely agree with this method. For almost 18 years I have tested the theory and every time, “they” are right. If I am feeling sorry for myself about my own problems and concerns and I am willing to recognize that place and be willing to and do something for someone else, I am always in a better place—sometimes permanently because most of my problems aren’t even real any way.

During the meeting, we were discussing the power of helping others and how helpful it can be to ourselves. At that moment, I realized that my helpfulness has to be for others that I do not normally do in my everyday life. I do a lot for my husband and kids. This morning, my daughter was sitting at the bar eating the breakfast I had cooked (warmed up, her dad cooks a batch of homemade pancakes every weekend and I am only responsible for heating them to perfection during the week) and drinking the iced water that I made (because she will only drink water with ice in it) when she asked me if I had put her computer in her bag yet this morning. I could not believe what I was hearing. She wanted me to do more than I had already done! At the time, I thought, it’s a miracle that I am able to do this for you every single morning of your life. If I had my choice, they would all fend for themselves. I would be doing my own thing in the morning, which likely would include not even being at my house at 7:30, because well, the park meeting, is at 7:30 :)

Because taking care of my kids is part of my sobriety discipline: I am a good mom, I am a present mom, I handle their needs so that they can take care of their minds and get the resources that they need, this cannot be used to help me in times of trouble. In fact, many days, my extremely disciplined life is the reason for my trouble—I feel sorry for myself that I have the same obligations day after day. I feel sorry for myself that I signed myself up for a lifetime of responsibility and discipline. So, I can’t fix me by helping my family. That is part of my reliance on a higher power to get through. Instead, I have to do gestures for others. I prefer that these gestures or acts of kindness of for those in sobriety. Yesterday, I worked at a homeless shelter and was filled up with good feelings. I think as long as I continue to do acts of goodness, I’m going to be okay. There’s a story in the book that talks about getting self-esteem by doing esteemable acts. I like that plan. I would like to stick to it. I also would like to eat super healthy, write every day, meditate for at least 10 minutes, exercise for hours, and do all things with love and compassion. But today I’m not drinking and the sun is out (my favorite time to drink), I have fed my children and ensured their safe delivery to school, I have danced a little, I have written this blog, and I have asked god to keep me sober today. Oh, and I made my bed. I think god has done enough today. I’ll just play the rest of it by ear and see where we go. Until then, don’t tell my husband that I’m blogging :)

 Sabra

8/25/21-8/27/21—Am I ready to love again?

When I was 24 years old a person I no longer remember or can picture in my head, although I think he was gay, came into my office to see if anyone wanted a puppy that had just recently been born and needed a home. I think I was still drunk at the time, a common occurrence in the morning hours, when I said “yes.” The puppies were part collie and part akita. I told him that I wanted a boy, with solid color. I don’t know why I chose that combination. I then went back to my irresponsible life and did not think much more about it because I would not be getting it for 6 weeks. On the red eye back to Vegas, in a row to myself, I woke up out of a blackout and thought, “today is the day that I am getting that dog.” That day, he showed up with the puppy. I have no idea where this happened. I cannot picture it at all. I remember him telling me that the boy had already been taken and asking whether I was okay taking the girl, who was not solid color but rather looking a lot like a collie except broader with a much cuter face. I took her that evening. By the time night rolled around, she had fallen off my bed and I was at the emergency room with her. I believe that first bill was $400. I thought, “well, you’re mine now.”

I named her Jacqueline and called her “Jack” for short. She was named after Jacqueline Kennedy. I called her “Jack” because I love boys names for girls. We became fast friends. She chewed every single antique my mom had given me. For the longest time, she wouldn’t go to the bathroom outside in the rain. I stood with an umbrella and begged her to go. I used to drive drunk with her in the car. One day I realized that I had just been part of the team that passed legislation increasing DUI penalties when a child was in the car. In a moment, I realized what I was: an alcoholic driving drunk with my kid in the car. It did not stop me. But, I thought about it a lot through the years and as I got sober and questioned whether it was really true. I believed that after that first day of driving with her and realized how dangerous it could be based on the legislation that we had just passed, that there is no way I would have continue to drive with her unless there was something seriously wrong with me. I was not a heavy drinker. I did things beyond choice when I started drinking: I put my precious Jacqueline at risk.

A few months after Jack came into my life, I left Montgomery for Tuscaloosa. I met John during the first week of law school, and we were living together by the next year. After we got married, we got Marshall, the pug. I do not know where John found him. He told me he was going to get a pug. I do not think we were speaking that day so he went on his own. He was named after Marshall Mathers, who eventually got sober years after my husband died of a drug overdose. It was love at first sight for me. Jacqueline trained Marshall, thankfully, because John and I were drunk and insane most of the time during Marshall’s infancy. I do not believe we would have been capable of house training him because we could not be consistent with any commitments that we had made. When I got quit drinking and began contemplating whether I was an alcoholic, Marshall was another clue. As much as I loved him, I could help him most days. Most days, I could barely help myself.

When I left our home to get sober, I took Jack. John told me to “go sit on the corner because that’s where he found me and that’s where I belonged.” I looked like the guy from The Jerk. I left the home on foot with a huge painting, a bag of clothes, and Jack. I waited on the corner for my mom to pick us up. After a week, I moved back home with my belongings intact. The next time I left the home was due to John’s early morning arrival and violent outburst that resulted in him beating my head against a wall and slashing my painting. That time, I could not take the painting, but I was more than one year sober so I took both dogs. He never got Marshall back after that day. Even he knew that his life was too unmanageable to take him.

I moved out in December of 2004. We saw John on weekends, but mostly life was the three of us: me, Jack, and Marshall. John died in June. I do not think that Jack or Marshall noticed. But they became my everything. By August, I was travelling to London for work. I told my boss that I could only leave for two-week periods at a time because of the dogs. I paid this husband and wife a fortune to care for Jack and Marshall when I was one. They did a good job and it turned out that they probably needed the money more than me, she got pregnant during that time. I may have even moved to London had it not been for the dogs—and as great as that sounds, this beautiful life would not exist today and I’m happy with the way things turned out :). Also, one of my American colleagues with dual citizenship ran away from her boyfriend in the rain, wearing her Ferragamos. The description was sad and tragic and made me realize that life would still be hard, even in London. Even in Australia.

I have several persons that held me through that time, but Jack and Marshall were what I had to live for, stay sober for, continue to work for. I remember being on the train explaining to another colleague why I could not stay in London, why I had to do two weeks on/two weeks off for those six or so months. When I told him it was because I had two dogs, he chuckled. He said, “well I guess that’s not as bad or as crazy as having a bunch of cats.” I felt pleased. I clearly ruffled him a bit—meaning I may have been a bit eccentric, but not enough to label me the “C” word like a woman with cats.

In fact, I knew a woman once that could not stay sober. She was married to a friend. He paid for so many rehabs that by the time they finally got divorced, he had spent his entire 401k on rehab centers. Meanwhile, she was sleeping with his best friend and anyone else that she could influence. She told me one day a story about getting naked in the street for crack. She asked me if I could believe she would have done something like that—as if, she did not look like someone who got naked for crack. I pretended I was shocked to appease her, but I knew damn well she looked like someone that would strip for crack because when you are a crackhead, it does not matter what you look like, you will do anything for it. At one half-way house, she started feeding stray cats. She was given an ultimatum to stop enticing these cats to come to the house. Eventually, she was kicked out for the multiple infractions. When I told her sponsor that she used to have 7 cats while married to my friend, her sponsor said to me, “I though dick was her problem. I guess pussy is her problem too.” So it’s true, cat people definitely get the “C” label faster than dog people.

When I met Jeremy, he knew that Marshall and Jack were part of the package. So was my dead husband’s mother, which may have gotten me the “C” label way faster than being a widow with two dogs. Every time Marshall fell asleep, Jeremy busted out laughing. He could not get over the sounds that came out of Marshall’s nose (if only he heard the sounds that came out of his nose now that we are older). By the time we moved into our marital home, the dogs were seniors and could not climb the stairs, which solved the problem of Jeremy being unable to sleep with them because of their snoring. I made sure that they had beds and a comfortable room downstairs and carried a lot of guilt about our lives separating at night. But we still loved them and took care of them as they aged. Jeremy made a handicap ramp for Jack because she had so much trouble getting up and down the stairs. When it became slippery, he hammered fake grass to the ramp so that she could come and go as she pleased.

When our kids were born, it sometimes felt like they were second class citizen in our home. They certainly did not get the attention pre-children, but we continued to love and care for them. Although I spent significant time with the kids upstairs in their rooms, I designed their playroom to be in close proximity to the dogs so that we could be near them whenever we were downstairs. I did not have one moment of fear mingling the dogs with the babies. Everyone lived in harmony. The kids were not that interested in the dogs. The dogs were not that interested in the kids. But we all coexisted in one large living area, while the dogs came and went as they pleased through their door.

Marshall went first. I had taken him to Auburn for surgery on his spine when my son was a baby. The surgery gave him feeling back in his legs, but after my daughter was born he became unable to walk. Most of the time, he was unable to make it out of the house in time to use the bathroom. I had to take the kids gates and make a space for him by the door so that he could not wander too far and then be unable to make his way back. It was so sad to watch him clearly suffer. His feisty spirit was no longer there. He had saved me the day I walked out of that abusive marriage and again the day that my husband died. He had brought such joy in a time when I did not know I could find joy anymore—I thought I had given it away when I felt so alone. My sponsor told me that the day I brought Jack and Marshall into my home, I had taken the responsibility of deciding when it was time to say goodbye. I reminded her that I was in my 20s and completely drunk on both occasions and that I had not, in fact, taken that responsibility when I decided to love them. I did not want the responsibility of this decision and certainly had not planned for it when we were all just kids having fun. After several discussions with the veterinarian, we decided it was time. Jeremy took him and buried him in our yard.

Because Marshall was our second dog, I thought Jacqueline would do fine without him. She often seemed annoyed by him, even though he had been her companion for many years. Just six months after Marshall passed away, we were on vacation with the kids. Our neighbors called. They had found Jack in a puddle of her own urine. At first, I did not think this was a big deal. Jack had been on medication for years to control her bladder. But the way they described the issue, it seemed like she had lost all feeling in her back legs. Jeremy coached them while they carried her to their car and dropped her off at our vet. By the time we got back to town, the vet said that she had no quality of life left. I brought her home for one more day and then turned my head as Jeremy took her away. I just could not deal again. I needed to get my kids to school. I needed to get myself to work after taking the week off. I did not believe I could afford to feel because if I did, Jeremy would be forced to admit me to a hospital. I had so many feelings, so much sadness, that I pushed it all away. She was too big to bury. I went against all of my Jewish values and allowed him to cremate her. I just shook my head and told myself that this was the way it had to be to protect my family from myself. I had so much love for that girl. I had so much pain when she left. All I could do was hope that she knew and pray that she believed that she had a good life.

After Jack left us, I declared that I was not getting a dog anytime in the near future and may not ever get one again. I did not want to open my heart again knowing that the end would come faster than I wanted. I did not want to ever make the decision again to kill the dogs. Everyone I talked to, discussed this decision as taking the dogs out of their misery, with the beautiful and kind wording of “euthanize.” I remember saying and still say today and euthanizing is for people after many discussions in which they can express their desire to go. I believe in it. I believe everyone has the right to decide when they want to die, if they are lucky enough to make that decision. But it is different with a dog. They do not get a say. They cannot tell us how they feel or explain to us that they are ready to go. It’s murder as far as I am concerned, and as a criminal defense attorney, I think I have some expertise on the subject. I read the Art of Racing in the Rain. It was helpful, but it did not fully assuage my guilt or make me believe any less that this process is assisted suicide when our loved ones cannot tell us that it is what they want. What if we did it too early. What if they had one more run in them but we ended it too soon. A person knows when it’s time. But a person does not know when it is someone else’s time.

So, here we are. It’s been 7 years and I have said every day that I do not want a dog. Most of the time I tell people that it’s because dogs are work and that my kids are enough work—I am barely getting by with them. But truly, I have just convinced myself of that after the fact. My dogs were never that much work, especially when compared with the kids. In fact, if we are keeping score, the pure joy of dogs greatly outweighs the work: every single day. I’m not sure we can say the same thing about kids. And yet, my heart closed, and I was not ready to open it back up. This is despite the past 5 years of listening to Brene Brown and believing whole heartedly that in order to feel joy we must be vulnerable and accept that there will be pain. I know she is right. I also know that I have enough joy that I do not need to add to it just to have to commit murder one day.

And then, my daughter started asking. 6 months ago, she started to explain to me why we should get a dog. Without remembering a day with Jack and Marshall, she knew the joy that they brought to our family. She explained what it would be like to open our arms and welcome another being to love. She started pointing them out to me. And since they are usually with humans, I began to truly see the transformative effect that they have on people’s lives. And I began to understand what our family could be if I was willing to open my heart. I finally asked her one day the question I have had on my mind for seven years: “Are you prepared for it to die?” She said that she was. I know from experience that it’s impossible to prepare oneself for that trauma, but I also needed her to understand that this dog will make her love and hurt equally. She appears to be ready to love.

Her dad and brother were harder to convince. I am still not sure that they are convinced. Jeremy asked me last week if I understood the work that it would take and asked whether I had accepted that no matter what our daughter says, I will be doing all the work. I told him that I did and then I started researching. We have a home inspection tomorrow with a foster company. For one thing, I do not believe my liberal ass would ever be okay with getting a dog from a breeder. Also, I think it would be nice to get a dog that is already house trained and out of the puppy chewing stage. Of course, I want it young enough that it may live until the kids go to college—because I am convinced that its dying will be easier then. My friend tells me that I cannot prepare for this. Shit happens. I could be dead next week. The dog may not work out. I may not work out. I cannot control for the future. I cannot look behind that curtain and figure it all out. But even knowing all of this, knowing that there is a lot of unknowing, I think I am ready. I think we are ready. We are outrageously open to this world and trusting the universe to hold our hearts while we hold our pups’.

Sabra

 Week of 8/30/21—In judgment

I cannot stop looking at information on Elizabeth Holmes, whose trial starts today. I recently heard a podcast in which two women discussed that when women consider themselves “one of the guys” or complains that women are just too backstabbing and caddy, that we are doing a disservice to feminism and womankind. I agree. I believe that women have to hold women up. We have to support one another and speak on behalf of each other. I did not always feel this way. I had a lot of women friends when I got sober. But I also talked bad about them all the time. When a friend asked me to describe my definition of fun while drinking, I described it as “hooking up with boys and talking shit about my friends.” I knew it was wrong the minute it came out of my mouth, but it was my truth. That’s what I did while drinking. I was only a few months sober at the time but at that moment, I began making an effort to talk a little less shit about my friends.

This commitment has not always been easy. I grew up in a home where gossip was a way of life. My mother had her own life, but my strongest memories are her talking about others. She still does it. Many times each month, she sits in my house and starts talking about other people. It drives me crazy because I do not want to talk about other people, and yet, I kind of do. It’s fun. It passes the time. It allows me to work out all my judgment out loud with another human being, hoping that they will co-sign whatever judgy words are coming out of my mouth. Also, my friends still do it. I am guilty of calling two of my friends several times a year to get the scoop on our other friends. There’s a part in the AA book that talks about how we discuss others because we care. And while I do care and do not have the time to call of my old friends to find out how their lives are going, these conversations inevitably at some point turn judgy. They cease being a “catch up session” and definitely feel more like a “gossip session.” While contemplating this interesting distinction: the difference between “catching up” and “gossiping,” I must believe that the turn is the judgment. Otherwise, I think that “catching up” would actually be useful. For instance, if I found out that one of my other friends was having a hard time and I used this information to call her, that would be a use for “catching up.” But typically, that’s not what happens. My friend tells me about a friend having a hard time and the next thing you know we are talking about her asshole husband or her shitty parents or the fact that she drinks too much or is definitely taking pills.

I try to limit this delve into gossip as much as I can. I tell myself before I make the semi-annual calls that I will not ask that one question that I really want to ask about a friend but will come out so judgy and spark such a judgy discussion that I just do not ask it. Or I promise myself that no matter what the other person says, I will just “listen” and not make any statements of judgment. Although, isn’t listening to the gossip just as bad as gossiping myself? This attack on women came to a head when I was in my third year of sobriety and working at the big law firm. I was one of two female attorneys in our practice group. I had heard about the other woman while in law school. She had made a name for herself because she was sleeping with one of the married professors. At the time, she had two girls and was married. Later, she had a third child, which most people believed belonged to this professor. By the time that I met her at the firm, she was divorced and openly dating the professor, who I believe was still married. I heard all about the relationship, as she tried to be kind to me, even inviting me for a holiday one time. But I just could not shake her choices. She was not just sleeping with the married professor. She also made it clear that she was in relationships with some of the male partners. She never told me that she was sleeping with them and maybe she was not. But she was definitely using her sexuality to have a closer relationship with them then I was capable of having because I had chosen not to use my sexuality as a way to get ahead. There were at least three of them while I was there. She even told me one time that she knew the information that she was telling me because of “pillow talk.”

I talked about that woman every opportunity that arose. I talked about her with the paralegals. I talked about her with the young associates. I talked about her every time I was with friends, who all knew her because of her infamous escapades at law school and because I could not stop talking about her. When I was in Egypt, I read a book called “Drop the Rock.” It’s about the 6th and 7th steps of AA. These steps address character defects and provide tools to move beyond them. One of the topics is gossip. This was 2008. I told myself during that trip that I had to be done talking about her. I could no longer traipse through the halls with her as the target of my words. Interestingly, I recently heard that resentment is not necessarily in the fear category. Anger is likely in the fear category. But resentment is different. It’s the feeling that continues to sprout and grow inside my head. Brene Brown was told that this character defect is envy. I can see it. The resentment I held for this woman was not about fear, it was about how I could not stand her because she had gotten everything I wanted through a short cut—use of her sexuality. And as much as I would like to have used my sexuality, it was against everything I stood for as a woman and therefore would not engage. But I sure did resent her for getting everything I wanted while calling it woman power.

My sponsor once told me that an interesting by-product of praying for people is that a lot of the time, they are removed from our lives. When giving me this sage advice (just pray for her, even though the point is for you to get some internal peace, god may see fit to just get rid of the person, kind of like how they got rid of Jimmy Hoffa), she was talking about several of her previous co-workers. This does not seem to work on family members—they still seem to hang around, no matter how much we do the resentment prayer for them. But I have found it to be true about people that are somewhat transient in our lives. Recently, I told a sponsee to start praying for her boss. Just one week later, she was fired. Oops! The prayer really does work, and it really does help removing those that are most challenging to our sanity. And getting fired was probably the best thing that ever happened to her—although, that’s not actually what I had in mind when I told her that the by-product of praying is sometimes the removal of the obstacle.

I began praying for this woman in Egypt and after I returned. Within a few months, I left the firm to take a job as a full-time political operative. She may have risen in the world of law firm life, but I had been asked to take over full time duties in Montgomery—without sleeping with one poor old white man. During that time, I stayed in touch with people at the firm. She married, again, and moved to Texas to be closer to him. Problem solved! Of course, life does not quite turn out that way.

For some reason, I would run into her at our neighborhood Starbucks several times a year. She would be visiting and always surprised that I had made my way so far up in the world that I shared a Starbucks with the rich old men from our firm. I would always point out that she did not actually have an address in that neighborhood, but that it was good to see her, then ask about her daughters, for whom I was growing increasingly concerned considering their mothers’ shenanigans. When I first moved to Arizona, I interviewed for a job that I did not really want, but did so as a favor to two men that I really adore. One of the attorneys used to work at my old firm. He chased me out of the building to talk to me in private. He asked me if I had ever worked with the woman that I have been discussing in this essay. I told him that I had. He told me that the general counsel of this company was just like her—did not do any work herself, likely incompetent if she was forced to do the work, but somehow managed to stay employed likely, as everyone in the office suspected, because she was sleeping with someone at the top: maybe even the boss. He really did not have to explain the meaning. He could have just stopped at “the general counsel is like” the woman we all knew back in Alabama. I was not planning to take the job before I heard the news, but there was no way I was taking the job after hearing it.

About a year my time at the Arizona company, my sponsor was telling me a story about a woman that used to work with her husband. They had known for years that she was an alcoholic, but she had somehow managed to work her way up in the world despite several attempts at intervening. She had just been arrested for killing someone while drinking and driving. It turned out to be that general counsel. And who did they replace her with? The woman from my old firm. I could not believe how that managed to follow me to Arizona. I spoke to the woman about schools and places to live. I was kind to her. I told her that we should get together sometime. I’m not sure that I meant that part, but I did mean to be kind to her. I knew that despite her attempt at still putting her best face, that life must have been rough in all of those years, still hustling to make a living without any real skills other than her sexual prowess and she had to be getting kind of old by then. I likened it to a stripper who no longer got the rich men asking for private lap dances in the back. At some point, we just cannot keep shaking it like we used to and if we do not have a 401(k), we’re kind of fucked. So, I decided to be kind and I would have gone to lunch had she called. She did not. He fired her pretty quickly after hiring her. I am sure he knew the jig, and maybe decided not to fall for it this time.

I had the opportunity to see the other attorney, the one that killed the man, at a meeting once. I also was kind to her. I think her jig was up as well. One of them is in a literal prison for the next ten years while the other has to be in a figurative prison—she is aging, she never gained the legal skills to support herself, she no longer has a man supporting her, her kids are older and have likely caught on to her game—it cannot be easy, and I do not judge either of them.

Recently, I was having lunch with my team at work. Two of the women (there were only three of us) were talking shit about another woman. I made a comment about how I’m sure she was just trying her best that day. My friend said to me, “Sabra, you are just so supportive of other women you would never talk shit about them because you spend your life lifting them up rather than tearing them down.” I was shocked by her comment. I certainly do not feel like the advocate for all women everywhere. But I also appreciated that she noticed. She noticed that I try not to judge. I try to lift women up rather than tear them down. True feminism is not judging other women for the choices that they make, even if those choices—be it parenting, sexuality, marriage, relationships, job choices—may be different than mine as a woman. It is believing that we are all doing the best we can with the cards that we were dealt and that as good as we can is good enough. There’s enough tearing down in this world, I think it’s our job to make sure that women know that they are not alone and are not going to be judged differently because they were women.

So, it boggles my mind how much I am obsessed with this Elizabeth Holmes saga. I made myself not read the first day of jury selection article yesterday. I read about the jury today. More men than women. Can she con them as well? Because that’s the thing. As much as I believe that I need to spend my adult life supporting women, I also am a criminal defense attorney that has been in the rooms of AA for almost 18 years. I know a con when I see it. I know compulsive lying. I know webs, how they get weaved, and how they capture the weaver even though they are supposed to be capturing the prey. Elizabeth Holmes was a criminal before she ever started Theranos. Inside Theranos she became like every other person that I have known to fall—she decided that she was invincible and that she could say or do whatever she wanted and stay on top. If her defense had been that she believed the information that she was putting out and knew from the bottom of her heart if she could just keep it going for a few more months, everything she promised would come to fruition, then I would perhaps be swayed that this was business—startups especially—at its finest. Capitalism is set up this way: we make bets on companies—some work and some don’t—and people lose millions of dollars every day making that bet. I do not think we get to blame anyone for those bad bets. But this is not the route that she has decided to go. Instead, she is blaming her lies and deception on an older man that she claims to have emotionally and psychologically abused her. And for that, I call bullshit. She started that company and got him to come work for her. She changed her voice, changed her outfits, dropped out of Stanford because she believed she would be the next Steve Jobs. And good for her, if that is what she wanted. I actually appreciate that she was a woman in all black so that the focus could be on her intelligence and persuasion, not on the latest designer shoes or clothes or makeup. But she was running a con from the beginning. And now, I think she is doing the most anti-feminist thing one can do in this “me too” movement. She is blaming the man. And while the man needs to be blamed for many things, I do not believe he needs to be blamed for our own moral failings.

Although all in black with minimal makeup, she too used sex to get ahead. She got involved with a married man and convinced him that he should invest in her. He fell in love and committed crimes to support her career. Whether he started emotionally abusing her, which I concede is a real possibility, is completely irrelevant here. It is not an excuse for bad behavior that frauded others. It may have been an excuse if she shot him, but other than committing a crime against him, I do not think his treatment of her is an excuse. Also, I do not believe the law supports her defense. It does not negate the fact that she was an adult who knew, although again I would advise her that to deny knowing as a much better defense in this type of criminal trial, exactly what was happening and continued to participate in the lie. And so once again I find myself desperate to talk about this woman behind her back. I want to call out her stupid wardrobe. I want to discuss her bleached hair and that ridiculous voice. I want to discuss with others the decision she made to have a baby right before she went to trial where she will likely be convicted and sentenced to multiple years in prison. Did she have that baby as a prop? Did she marry that much younger man to pay her legal bills? But today, I am not going to discuss any of this with anyone. I am not even going to discuss the legal merits of the case or obsess or the first witness at trial. I am hopeful that by writing my desire to once again act like the Queen Bee and the Wannabees I am saving myself from the heart ache of talking about another woman. Instead, I am sending prayers for her and her baby. I am asking that they are taken care of, whatever the outcome may be (and it will be guilty). And once again, I am shaking my head. Because at the end of the day, she should have pleaded guilty. Really, that’s the lesson that only she can learn. And for the rest of them, I pray for them as well today. May we lift each other up, even when it is really tempting not to.

 Sabra

9/8/21 - Well, we got a dog…

I have not written in a few days. It’s not for lack of wanting. While I sometimes balk in the morning when I knew it’s time to write, I love it once I start. I think it helps—with my thoughts, feelings, sorting out, getting older, accepting changes, staying sober, and keeping purpose. I have not written because I made a commitment to write on the weekdays, while my kids and husband are either gone or sleeping. For the past two weekdays, my kids have been around—a lot. Monday was Labor Day. Tuesday was Rosh Hashana. While I do not believe we would have necessarily gone anywhere this weekend because Rosh Hashana was the day after the long weekend, we specifically did not go anywhere there is because instead of travelling…we got a dog. The dog is adorable. She is three years old. She is part Australia Shepard/part Labrador Retriever. She is a nice size—about 40 pounds. She is extremely docile, but also likes to play fetch whenever I grab the ball and is up for going on a walk whenever I jingle the leash. She is a rescue, because I am 100% confident that I could not live with myself if I had bought a puppy from a breeder. As the star in Dead to Me says, “You got a puppy from a fucking breeder?!?” However, I now understand, more than I probably could have or wanted to anticipate, that a 3-year-old rescue comes with her own set of issues.

When we met her the prior weekend, on two different occasions, I saw her for the same amount of time, and even less time on one of the days, then Jeremy and the kids. When they brought her the following week, I was only with her for one hour before the kids and Jeremy came home. Yet, she is psychologically incapable of being in a room or outside without me. If I am not standing with the kids outside when they throw the ball, she acts as if she has never played a game of fetch in her life. If I leave her in my daughter’s room to “play dolls” she paces at the front door until she can get back next to me. She will not even sit in a room where I am not present. The first two nights in her crate went fantastic. I went into the guest bedroom, she followed, then she voluntarily entered her crate and did not exist until she had to go to the bathroom the next morning. On the third night, I put her in the crate with the plan of not returning. She barked for 30 minutes straight. The minute I walked into the room, she sat and fell asleep, only to jump up every time she heard me get out of bed to pee. I decided that the crate could not be in the guest bedroom because, well, what if we have guests. Jeremy moved it to our bedroom for the fourth night. I hoped that this would allow her to settle down, knowing that we would be returning at some point. No such luck. She barked for 45 minutes, calmed down for a few minutes when Jeremy finally went to her, then jumped up and cried until he let her out. She immediately ran around the house until she found me.

Last night, I let her sleep at the side of my daughter’s bed while I put my daughter to sleep. I woke up in my daughter’s bed and moved to my room with the dog following. She went to her crate and fell asleep, as soon as she saw me get into my bed. During the night I heard her stir. I let her outside, where she used the bathroom. She came right back inside, walked right into her crate, and fell back asleep while I was standing there. In fact, I could not even lock the door yet she did not even try to get out of her crate until standing up this morning after I stood up. Still, I had to let her out for her to move.

A few hours ago, I left her in the crate for the first time while I drove my kids to school. Thankfully, I closed one of the doors in the house, blocking the kitchen/living room/office/kids bedrooms from the playroom/master bedroom/guest bedroom. I closed the door so that my son would not have to hear the dog whimper while we finished packing for school. When I got home, she was standing at the door. The crate was still locked. I have no idea how she escaped unless my son let her out while visiting her this morning, but I think he would have told me. Even more disturbing then the fact that she escaped a locked crate is the fact that she poohed in the playroom, on a rug that I have owned for probably 12 years. I threw out the rug as I do not own nice rugs based on my experience with my last dogs. However, it’s still money that I will have to spend to replace the rug. Also, she is not bonding with my kids. I sent a note to the rescue organization last night explaining my concerns about her failure to bond with the kids. They told me that it may take time. I understand that it may take time and I am willing to give it some time. However, I did not buy this dog for me. I bought it for my kids. I do not intend to keep this dog if she is incapable of bonding with my kids. My husband does not believe me. But I am keeping my heart closed unless progress is made.

And yet, there’s a part in Satisfied from Hamilton that will not stop running through my head. But when I fantasize at night it’s Alexander’s eyes…because really those eyes are the most precious eyes I have seen since Jacqueline lived with me. And she has the same coloring too. Coincidence, I think not. What am I going to do? Until then, don’t tell my husband that I’m blogging :)

Sabra