You all remember Cousin Pam, who is fighting breast cancer. Well, today is her last chemo treatment. Crafty Christine (that would be me) was going to make Pam a book to give her inspiration when she started chemo, but like most ADD types, my intentions often run afoul of my sense of timing, and that boat sailed out of the harbor six months ago. No worries, I thought, and I e-mailed everyone on her “friends and family” list to tell them that I was going to do a book for her for her last three-hour treatment. The book was going to be a place for us to compile our remembrances about the last six months — good and sad — and our hopes for her future, now that chemo is coming to an end. I would put them all together and become the heroine I was meant to be.

“Great idea,” they all wrote, and dutifully sent in their thoughts and hopes. “You are amazing to do this, Chris.” “So excited, and she will be too! Thank you so MUCH!” I was feeling mighty fine. So, a few nights ago, I sat down with all the printed-out items, and I got ready for the craft part. If you wanted to attack me, you could say I might have thought it through and not waited until the night before I needed to send it to Cousin Alison, who is delivering it to the treatment room, but we already know that I struggle in that area. Anyway, I had no glue. Actually, that’s not true; I did have glue — Gorilla Glue to be exact, which funnily enough, Cousin Pam had made me buy when she was here and saw that I didn’t have any of the things I might need to fix anything. “You will love Gorilla Glue,” she said. “It glues everything.” No worries. I glued away, and the finished product looked great. I’m a rock star, I thought. A few hours later I put the book down and went to bed.

This morning, as I was preparing to gift-wrap the book and put it in the FedEx envelope, I opened it to see my handiwork and thought, How odd. Why are the glued-in pieces of paper moving when I turn the pages? I couldn’t believe it hadn’t dried. I started to panic. I looked at the bottle: “For the toughest jobs on Planet Earth.” Well, helllooo? “Bonds: Wood, Stone, Metal, Ceramics, Foam, Glass and More.” Foam for God’s sake? And paper is wood, right? It should glue more easily than wood, actually. I started to feel defensive. The FedEx guy was due any minute, so I decided to send it to Alison “as is” and let her figure it out.

Alison is like Cousin Pam and Aunt Molly. Sturdy. Capable. She would have had hundreds of glues in the house. Her two-year-old son wears sunglasses every time he leaves the house, for God’s sake. She uses cloth diapers and washes them herself. She hiked the Colorado Trail alone, carrying a 100-pound backpack! You may be wondering at the fact that we are blood cousins, but my blood comes from their father’s side of the family, not Aunt Molly’s side. I tell you this so you don’t think I’ve ignored a genetic gift or anything.

This is not my first foray into deadline distress. Okay, alright already, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been in messes like this. Wrapping paper Christmas morning with no tape. Inspection sticker expired one year prior to when I got pulled over. (I was able to explain to the cop how anyone could have been confused. Who would have thunk that I was that far behind?) Cell phone out of juice at the airport. The list goes on.

Alison called a little later to say she’d Googled Gorilla Glue and the first thing that came up was that it doesn’t work on paper. Fine. I told her she had to fix it. Staple them for God’s sake. She laughed. She will take care of it. She is like that. And she will do it without outing me to everyone, even though I feel the need to do it myself here. The thing is — and this is the quality of a good leader, I say humbly — if you are not a Crafty Bitch, you must surround yourself with women who are so they can cover you. I do that really, really well. I do that much better than gluing things.

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Man of Steel is an awful film featuring a cast of A-list actors. Strange combination. Now that it’s grossed close to $200 million in the four days since it opened, I am saddened to think how many people wasted their money on it. Worse than the loss of money, however, is the loss of quality choices for movie goers these days. The movie is so bad, in fact, that toward the end (which could not have come fast enough, and sadly didn’t), when our antagonist says to Clark that one of them will not live to see another day, all I could think was, “I really don’t care if either of you live to see another day — just end this day!”

The plot wasn’t so bad — a new twist on why Superman (who knew that the S did not stand for Superman, but rather Hope?) came to the planet Earth. And our Lois Lane is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist who goes back and forth between being an investigative reporter and being the woman Superman carries to safety in his arms. She also comes up with the idea that will save Earth. She even flies with our U.S. Air Force to save the day, although I’m not sure what the purpose of having her on flight was. Amy Adams is a good enough actress to carry her part; she is believable, but my guess is she will not sign on for the sequel.

The Man of Steel’s mother is a strong female character who ends up standing around waiting for death, which raises the question of why she didn’t insist on coming to Earth with Clark. And I already forget her name. Diane Lane, as Superman’s Earth mother, Martha, looks pained throughout. The look on her face says she’s fighting arthritic knees or something, and when she stands there telling her son she is fine after being thrown to the ground, it’s one of those roll-your-eyes moments that makes you wonder what else could have been done with the $200 million wasted on this film, which I’m still having trouble wrapping my mind around.

Henry Cavill’s Clark Kent, or Superman, or whoever is… well… he comes off a bit feminine. Soft. He just stands there half the time looking handsome and buff (steroids during filming, I’m thinking?), and he has no soul. Shouldn’t Superman have a soul? He spends half the film trying to figure out his purpose in life, not really believing his father (Kevin Costner), who tells him he will change the world. Kevin’s Jonathan Kent is right out of Field of Dreams, right down to the outfits. Same set. Same lines. Same face. Easy. They should have gotten a discount on his salary. Anyway, leaving stuck-in-time Kevin behind, Cavill is no Christopher Reeve (may he rest in peace). I think he was chosen because he has that chiseled jawline that says he’s a strong guy, but his lower teeth tell a different story.

The special effects are awful. I am pretty sure they only had to do five or six effects, which they played over and over again to different background music — which can’t really be called music because it had no musicality. It just kept getting louder and louder.

I’m deeply saddened writing this. I really am. Is this what we now aspire to see in the movies? Is this what we want our children to see? What is the value in it? What is the point? Why spend the time and the money? I can’t get beyond the money it cost, the money it will generate, and most important, the money it will waste. In case you didn’t get it, I did not like Man of Steel. And when I look at Zack Snyder’s list of directorial credits, I can’t help but smile at the title of the last one, Sucker Punch. Oh yeah, baby.

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The Ten Virtues of Outstanding Leaders

1. Deep Honesty
2. Moral Courage
3. Moral Vision
4. Compassion and Care
5. Fairness
6. Intellectual Excellence
7. Creative Thinking
8. Aesthetic Sensitivity
9. Good Timing
10. Deep Selflessness

Let’s fly through them. Deep honesty? As opposed to shallow honesty? You mean like the great leader Franklin Roosevelt, who lied to his wife and lived a double life? Steve Jobs was a great leader, and he was many things, but honest, fair, and selfless were not among them. What about Kennedy? Or Clinton? Churchill was a liar without compassion for those around him. He was horrendous… and a great leader. Aesthetic Sensitivity? What does that mean? A great leader is sensitive to the way things look? Oh my goodness.

Then there is compassion and care? You cannot be serious. You really can’t. Creative thinking? Sorry, wrong again. You do not need to be creative or compassionate to be a great leader. Deep selflessness? I do so worry about people who read these things, who print them out and put them on their vision boards or their refrigerators and try to work them into their own lives to grow as leaders. It will never work, people. It’s the same thing as telling your young child that everything they do is the best ever! How about we deal in realities?

Why are there always ten steps to everything? Some are fillers right? Is 10 such a magic number? Do I need to rethink my favorite number, which is 2? Actually, I just made that up. I’ve never had a favorite number, but I felt it would be good to show one here, so I made it up. So much for my “deeply honest” approach to leading you in this post.

Why does everything have to be good? What is there about us that thinks if it’s not all good, it is reprehensible? When are we going to realize that humans ― every single one of us ― have good and bad qualities. Some of those qualities on either side of the spectrum serve us well in different areas. I’d love to see the Ten Mean Traits of Outstanding Leaders. Tell the truth ― you would too.

Here is my list of what I have noticed in the great leaders with whom I have had the pleasure to work over the years.

1. They support you in public always, even when you are wrong.
2. When you leave their office, you can’t wait to get back and do what you BOTH have decided is a plan.
3. They are not afraid of other people’s strengths.
4. They tell you when you nailed it, and they tell you when you didn’t.
5. They follow up when they say they will.
6. They never sell you down the river.
7. They have a sense of humor. Sometimes.
8. They are not afraid to fire people, and they rarely wait too long to do it.
9. They like to win. A lot.
10. They don’t have office hours. They are available when you need them.
11. They are not risk-averse.
12. They sometimes buy you lunch.
13. They do not tell you personal stories unless there is a business point to them.

Here is my list of not-so-good qualities for a leader.

1. They forget you might have something else to do sometimes.
2. They can have tunnel vision.
3. They like to win. A lot.
4. They are not risk-averse.

In other words, I have always believed that whatever is your biggest strength in business can also be your biggest weakness. There is no list of ten things to ensure success in anything. Each and every business success that I have seen has come from many things, none of which can be listed and copied as a recipe for success, especially in today’s world of changing technology, fickle consumers, and transitory needs.

So stop reading those lists. Stop printing them out. Make your own lists of your own strengths and weakness, your own passions, and review them together to see what you can do that will move you and serve others. That’s the way to win.

And for my marketing peers out there, can we please stop with the lists? Seriously!

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I didn’t expect to take Ooh La La seriously. The name alone sent me running. I’m more of a “Really?” person. Not Ooh La La. Lightweight, I assumed snottily. Frivolous. Fun, but without depth. Just goes to show you should pay attention to the old adage that says not to judge a book by its cover. This book is an important look at American women and how we may be selling ourselves short, and how the women in that strange land called France may have much to teach us. It may change you.

It is filled — filled, I tell you — with self-help tidbits told in charming, easy-to-stomach prose and stories that illuminate a subject that has been the Holy Grail for so many of us here across the pond in America — aging gracefully. “Aging gracefully” is an oxymoron where I live. You must be young to be graceful and relevant. Not so in France, and the book takes us behind the scenes to show us why. Combine it with Lean In, and you could change American women forever.

“Oh, and she’s old, so she’s got all that experience,” says someone Cat Callan interviews in the book. Right. Experience. That’s worth something? Oh my! I realize now that I need to wear my experience on my sleeve, and that I needn’t hide my age in nondescript clothing the way I do. Step to the front no matter what your age! Stand out! It reminded me of shopping in France and noticing that Valentino goes up to a higher size in Paris than it does in the U.S. I once asked Valentino why, and he told me that thin American women do not like to see larger women in the same clothes they are wearing. I am sure you are wondering why I was in a position to ask Valentino anything, and I’m not going to answer that. As we age, we women step to the back of the bus to give up the front seats to those who are younger. We dress down. We speak less. Ooh La La shows another side of us, a side that celebrates age and shows that you grow in worth with your age. Amazing.

In the same section, Cat Callan goes on to describe another woman’s home, and all the objects she has on the walls representing things that move her. She has clearly accumulated these things over the course of a lifetime. She talks about greens and browns and golds, and she says her living room is “awash” in those colors and objects of personal meaning. When I read that, I immediately got up to hang a few things that have been leaning against my wall since I moved in more than a year ago. I’m not kidding. Surround myself with things that make me feel good? That make me feel? Oh la la! And they somehow come together to tell the story of me? Forget the Story of O. I am going to start telling the story of me.

She talks about finding clothing pieces that are your icons. For Jamie, it’s a sailor shirt. For me, I guess it would be pearls. No, maybe a black cashmere sweater and pants. I love black on black, but I am happy to know it’s my iconic clothing image, rather than the darkest color I can find. It defines me. I was never defined by fashion before. Ooh La La taught me the context for my own personal style. Love it.

Jamie, you lost me in the lingerie department. Lingerie, Cat Callan’s interviewee states, is for the person wearing it, and no one else. Someone in France once told her that Americans, when they came to Plymouth Rock, needed to lose that part of themselves to survive. Well, that explains it. I’m a Mayflower girl — sixteen generations ago my people came to this land, so it’s no wonder I’m a black Victoria’s Secret cotton hipster person. Nonetheless, this is the one area I do not feel enlightened after reading about. I’m into comfort. But there was something I liked about the idea of wearing what you want underneath for you, not for anyone else. It’s like making your bed when you live alone, when you know no one is coming over. You feel better when you go to get into it. Note to self: Find undergarments (I don’t have the will to even call them lingerie) that are functional but a little different. I want to find something unexpected that no one else will see, but I will know is there. I will try some and see if I feel differently. Maybe it will nudge me to leave that ice cream to some other aging woman who doesn’t wear underwear for her own pleasure.

Perfume. I used to wear Hermes’ Amazon (Amazone), and I have no idea when I stopped. Most perfumes smelled too fru-fru for me. But when I smelled Amazon on one of those trips to France, I knew it was “me.” I finished the book and ordered it from, of all places, Amazon.com. I crack myself up. Buying $200 perfume at Amazon.com. I’m sure it would have been better if I’d gone to Hermes as part of the “experience,” but I live on Cape Cod and didn’t want to wait a month until I’m in New York to do it. I’m wondering if that might ruin its nuance. More importantly, I’d forgotten that I loved the way it smells, and the way I smelled wearing it. The book reminded me of the importance of saying, “It’s me, Christine, and this is the aroma I want to leave behind.” Wow. I can’t wait for it to arrive.

Bring it all together, everything the book talks about — fragrance, clothing, aging, environment, and yes, sex (that is a chapter I will leave to your private review; it was mind-blowing) — and you have a new you. The you you were meant to be. Ooh La La is a reminder that you get to choose so many, many things about who you are and how you want to be seen. Your own personal elegance. Jamie starts each chapter with a well-chosen quote from some French fashion person. I will leave you with my favorite.

Elegance is not the prerogative of those who have just escaped from adolescence, but of those who have already taken possession of their future.

- Coco Chanel

This book will help you do just that. Take possession of your future. Buy it. Read it. Gift it. Hurry.

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Halfway through watching this fine film (on Netflix), I felt I could not go another minute without a piece of chocolate. We are not talking about a Hershey bar; I had to drive sixteen miles each way to Chatham Manor Chocolates for a few of their chocolate-covered caramels (without the salt) and then hightail it back to my house to watch the second half of the movie while savoring the sensuous chocolate in the way the movie demands. Clearly Director and Writer, Ameris, like most French people, knows his chocolate, and the movie is better for it. “The flavors will penetrate the chocolate. Impregnate it.” Sexual. Sensual. Sensational. To ensure you need not leave in the middle, be sure and have some really fine chocolate on hand.

Did I mention Romantics Anonymous is funny? Laugh-out-loud funny even as it makes you feel empathy for the painful way these two people, Jean-Rene, the chocolate factory owner, and Angelique, the secret chocolate maker, who he hires to do sales. Both of them try — and keep trying — to live in a world that is very difficult for them to navigate. He has them repeat statements just made to them in a way that is laugh out loud funny, confirming their issues. Two painfully shy people whose faces could make a hardened criminal apologize for frightening them. Two people who have a passion for chocolate and a long unfulfilled need to be loved. I loved them both. I’m so glad they loved each other.

Benoit Poelvoorde, who plays Jean-Rene, is an Inspector Clouseau clone but better. While Clouseau was unaware of his own ridiculousness, our Jean-Rene Van Den Hugde is painfully aware of his. That awareness is what makes him so compelling —  and a stronger character than Clouseau. His innocent presentation of his Achilles heel shyness, and his running away to regroup at every difficult moment, is moving and so very well done. And yet, he never gives up, which makes us pause to consider our own ability to walk away when the going gets tough. Isabelle Carre, Jean-Rene’s Angelique, is as pure as chocolate itself. She’s humble, wears a dimple next to her mouth that I have never seen the likes of on anyone before. A hopeful smile that you could practice in front of a mirror for years and never get right. The two together are magic.

Ameris uses the camera in a way that follows his thought process that I haven’t seen done before. For example, when Jean-Rene is interviewing Angelique for a job, the camera goes back and forth between the two over and over again, even when they aren’t speaking. It helps emphasize the discomfort between them, the anxiety that silence causes for two people who are not ready for its intimacy. Back and forth, back and forth. But instead of making our heads spin, it simulates the characters’ anxiety for us. Great technique. Others should try it. Works better than words.

Lest you think my love is blind, there are a few flaws. There is a scene that is reminiscent of Notting Hill. In Notting Hill, Hugh Grant looks at his friends when he realizes he’s made a mistake in rejecting Julia Roberts, and they all pile into a small car and speed off to correct the error before it’s too late. They are all a bit ridiculous, but in a sweet way, not a silly way. I thought it was a nice scene. Romantics Anonymous has the same moment. Jean-Rene is explaining to his Keystone Cop chocolate factory workers that he has walked from the chocolate maker extraordinaire and love of his life, and they make the same plea as Hugh Grant’s posse for him to get it right, and hurry. They pile into a car too small for the group and head out to find her. It’s the same scene, although the Romantics Anonymous scene is ever so much better. Subtle. Stronger acting. Ok, French.

So two shy people meet and fall in love. They find it hard to make it work, and in the end, they know they are meant to be together. The other flaw is the ending. Running down the street leaving everyone in the church waiting for them? Not so much. Silly, and not in a good way, like Runaway Bride. (Could it be that Ameris has a Roberts/Grant thing?) It’s beneath these fabulous characters. Ameris should have ended at the moment when Jean-Rene opens the wardrobe to find her waiting and directed the two to head down the hallway to their wedding. Trust me on this and edit it for the DVD version.

So, load up on a few pieces of chocolate and download this fabulous film.

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So, I got up this morning and welcomed Cousin Gary to my house to start my BMW SUV. You know the one; it hasn’t been started since the fabulous Sarah returned it in November. Yes, I know you are supposed to run machines like BMW’s once a week. Have I mentioned I am not fond of people who hone in on the one little thing you let slide, rather than the bigger picture upon which you try to focus on day to day?

Well, Gary couldn’t get it started. Steve, from AAA arrives and gets it going. He tries to chat with me about the importance of running these magnificent machines, but I’m having no part of it. ”Pretend I’m your stupid half sister,” I said. “There is no point in telling me what I already know. Right?”  He gives up on that tack and moves to back handed insults. ”Take it out and drive it around for an hour and a half,” Steve says. “Just drive around. You can do that. You could always go to the car wash.” Nice. You can’t bait me that easily. I’m wearing my Sunday Zen. Big smile. Send him on his way.

I put my almost empty iPhone in the cigarette lighter thingie in newly-started car, rev up the engine, and make a left onto Route 6A. One-half mile later, the car dies. Dead. Rolls to a stop around a curve on the side of the road. Not a good place at all to pull over, but it’s not budging a foot further. Of course I keep thinking of those innocent people killed on the road each day around curves after their cars break down. I start to panic, call AAA on the almost dead cell phone. They assure me help is on the way, but it might take awhile.

Then I realize I am sitting in front of the most fabulous of houses with a sign that says “Sturgis Homestead 1670.” And roses. Roses. More roses. Everywhere. Stunning roses. And, as I’m standing on the side of the car not on the road, I realize that one step in either direction gives me a totally different whiff of roses. Oh my God.

Cindy (now I know her name) peeks out from where she was pruning and says, “You shouldn’t park there.”
Really?
“I’m sorry,” I say in my most girl-not-on-fire-but-rather-in-damsel-in-distress voice. Come on. Tell me you know the voice of which I speak. “I recognize I shouldn’t park here, but the car died.”
“You might want to roll it down to the driveway,” and she points.
“My car doesn’t roll. It’s in lock down.” Pause. “Like Jail.” Why do I buy these cars anyway?

Long and short of it is that after our testy beginning, and her letting me plug my phone into her truck to juice it, she so very kindly showed me around. She showed me some of her favorite roses, and I was speechless. They must have a few hundred roses in their garden; with wonderful sticks with the names of each one, so I didn’t have to ask her over and over again about their names. It turns out that she and her husband/partner (no idea which really; we didn’t get that far in our newfound friendship), Irwin, design rose gardens, and they tend them. Just the roses. Nothing else. You might remember my post about gardening. I think we can all agree that getting stuck there was kismet. Not kismet as in that Christine will start gardening, but kismet in terms of pointing out why I do not garden. Their commitment. Their focus. The fragrance. They are better people than me. End of story.

So, I had a rough day, but I would never have ended up in their garden, and it was one of the gifts of the week. Just goes to show, when you get lemons, make roses. Thank you Cindy and Irwin for being so kind. Car is in the shop. I’m looking at my rose in the vase while I write – grateful indeed.

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M & M’s were first on the list, and they could easily be the subject of this entire post. I couldn’t believe the sheer number of ways we all eat our M & M’s. I need to state unequivocally, however, that I don’t have an opinion on the regular M & M’s, only the peanut ones. Regular M & M’s have nothing much to offer, although I’m not sure everyone at the table would agree. Anyway, I set forth here the M & M protocol.

“Look, you have to eat four at a time, and they can’t be the same color. But no blue ones. Throw out the blue ones. There is something off about them.”

“Nay, nay! You must separate them by color and then eat each batch of colors one at a time.”

“It’s not how you pick Peanut M&M’s to eat; it’s about sucking them until the outer shell wears off, then taking one bite through the center. This is the way you must eat them. That burst of flavor is fabulous.” (I can proudly claim that line as mine. I feel that the term burst of flavor elevated the conversation considerably.)

At this point, we have to stop and hear a story that was told at the table. Someone at the table had heard this story from a friend who worked for a famous acting family that shall remain nameless. That family had a large bowl of M & M’s on the kitchen counter — very large; the size of a round fish tank — where they had mixed peanut and plain M & M’s. This person came to his office one morning and the large container of thousands of M & M’s was on his desk with the following post-it note. “Please separate out the peanut ones from the plain ones. Then put in containers by color.”  There is no accounting for too much money and not enough to do. He resigned soon after, but the M & M’s weren’t the final straw. Another time, another blog.

Anyway, back to the protocols. Or rules. Or whatever you want to call it.

“Give the brown ones away. They are dark and fattening.”

You get the picture. People talk more about M & M’s than and other candy, and there seems to be a universal feeling that they can’t just be eaten willy-nilly out of the bag.

Then my second cousin once removed (What does that mean anyway? Removed? From what?) said she likes to take a popsicle stick and put a Snickers Bar on it. Freeze it, then eat it like a popsicle. I was confused and said I would be worried about breaking my teeth. She said you just lick it and it melts while you eat it. It’s fun to eat this way, and it takes a long time — which, when eating sugar, is always an added benefit in my book. The longer it takes, the more you can justify eating it by claiming that it wasn’t a throw-away use of calories. Yes, thank you, I do understand that there is no validity in that last statement, but it makes me feel better when I’m eating things that are off limits, so let’s just move on okay?

Mounds bars should be eaten by biting off the dark chocolate until you are left with a bar of coconut, which you then eat in the three bites. I get that one for sure.

Reeses Cups. You should only buy the little ones now. The large pack of two cups is off limits.Bite off the top and suck the chocolate until it’s gone. The remaining cup is a two-bite effort. Big bang for that buck.

I saved the best for last: Butterfingers. One of my personal favorites. Again, only buy the minis. They work best. Bite just the chocolate off the end part. Then the sides. Then the top. Then bite the remainder of the bar in half and chew. The toffee sticks to your teeth and then melts, and it takes a really long time.

We ended this discussion by remarking that perhaps our OCD gets worse when we eat processed candy. That it is a stress reliever, not so much because of the sugar, but because of the rules we set up for eating it. I think this would make a wonderful study for some Psych grad student. It brings not mixing foods on your plate to a totally new level, don’t you think?

Okay, I’m done. There actually were a few more candies discussed, but I don’t want to appear ridiculous. No, I sure don’t. I can see you rolling your eyes and pretending you do not relate to this post at all. I believe that. Not.

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Many commencement speeches are given by successful business people. Jeff Bezos’ 2010 Princeton address comes to mind (it only has 214,459 hits, which is surprising because, while he needs a coach in public speaking, it is a true gem of an address). He told a story about being in the car with his grandmother and grandfather and telling them he’d figured out that his grandmother had taken nine years of her life by smoking. He was eight or nine at the time, and this math calculation filled him with pride. She burst into tears. His grandfather pulled the car over, took him outside, and kindly said, “Jeff, one day you’ll understand that it is harder to be kind than clever.” His address was an explanation of the difference between gifts and choices. He was given the gift of intelligence. His choice is how he uses it. I think of it often when I use my fast tongue — my greatest asset — to humiliate someone who isn’t as quick as I am.

Steve Jobs’ 2005 address to Stanford’s graduating class advises you to find what you love to do rather than doing what you will be most valued for by society. He talks about how death comes to us all; and how important it is not to waste a moment living someone’s else’s life. Seventeen million people have watched this address. It’s a barn burner, but it also shows the arrogance that cost him his life by making him ignore his cancer. He lied up there about how he had taken care of the cancer; in fact he refused the treatment that would have saved him, and instead tried alternative treatment options. He dismissed the expertise of those around him, and instead depended on his own certainty, which was based on nothing.

Then there is my hero Aaron Sorkin’s Syracuse address from 2012, which has been seen by only 145,000 people. Sorkin is good at conveying his message in a way that is entertaining and so very permanent. He talked about his drug addiction, and about his success and the hard work and luck that were necessary to achieve it. I like that. He was humble, entertaining, and smooth. At the end, I’m not sure what the message was exactly, but he seemed to be sharing his personal experience to talk about laziness and reaping what you sow. “I wasted a decade of my life addicted to cocaine,” he said. Writing without cocaine was frightening for him; would he be any good without it? (He is.) Here are some nuggets from his moment in front of a graduating class:

Develop your own compass and trust it.
Remember the first person through the wall always gets hurt.
We do not expect enough of each other.
Decisions are made by those who show up.
You are a citizen of this world. Don’t forget it.
How you live matters.

It doesn’t get better than that, does it?

I also have to mention Oprah’s speech this year at Harvard. I know, I know, you are sick of me quoting Oprah, but this address deserves it. Her sheer joy at being asked to do it is clear right from the start. I like that about her, and I like her fearlessness in letting you know how very happy she is to be her fabulous self, and how she benefits from it. She is proud, but humble. Certain but questioning. You can see why she is as influential as she is (notice I did not say successful; I think of Oprah as more than successful). Here are some highlights, but don’t let me filter for you, watch it yourself: She talks about her failure one short year ago at OWN, and her choice after particularly scathing headlines to either take a shower or eat Oreo cookies (note to self: try a shower instead of Butterfingers and see if it does the trick). Don’t focus on what you want to be; focus on who you want to be. Be yourself (after impersonating Barbara Walters and failing miserably, she knew she could be a better Oprah). There is no such thing as a failure, so (I’m paraphrasing here) treat each failure as the beginning of the next success. She has a strong spirit, and she quoted a hymn that came to her in the shower. “By and by, when the morning comes… trouble don’t last always… this too shall pass.” A great message for those of us who experience the highs and lows of trying new things and stretching ourselves past the point of sure success.

Then there is Stephen Colbert’s address at the University of Virginia just a few weeks ago. I saw Colbert speak at the fabulous daughter Sarah’s Class Day at Princeton in 2008. He was great in that short message. He told them not to be burdened by the other speakers’ advice to take this best-of-the-best education and go out and change the world. He told them that by going to Princeton, by graduating from Princeton, they had reached the pinnacle of success and never needed to do another thing in life. It was a welcome relief, and a reminder that it’s not where you go to college, but rather what you do with what you learn there. Anyway, his UVA speech took a different turn. First, he is one funny guy. The first thirteen minutes of his speech was filled with jokes and kudos to the institution. Then he talked about the Time magazine piece that called them the most narcissistic generation ever to call America home. He then reminded us that our generation — my generation — has deep fried everything in the ocean and put the earth at risk. He went on to tell the graduates they must make their own path. Society has no more idea of what you are than you do. Every generation must define itself. What will you do? You owe us nothing. Lay the foundation of what you want and set your own course toward whatever is important to you. Seize that moment and make it happen as a group.

Lastly, I will leave you with the best commencement speech I’ve ever heard. It’s the “You are Not Special” Commencement speech given by a non-famous teacher at Wellesley High School. This address has now been seen by 1.9 million people. It’s about how we Americans handicap our fabulous kids by telling them they are the best in every single thing that they do. He points out that only one person can be the best at anything. Definition matters, after all. After coldly telling it like it is, he somehow leaves you with the certainty that if you want, if you work hard, if you think it through, you may succeed at what you wish to do. I like him. I like his message, and I have watched it a number of times. He tells us to read, read, read. Think for yourself. Dream big. Love everyone you love with all your might.

I attended my cousin’s stepson’s commencement ceremony yesterday at the number-one public charter school in Massachusetts. The pumped-up graduates were told they had learned to be curious, and that they were the best of the best, from the top school in Massachusetts — whatever that means. What they weren’t told is that that’s not enough. What they do with this gift will determine how good the school is in reality. One school cannot be judged against others by test scores. What was missing from this address was direction, a forecast of what is yet to come or what is possible. One young woman gave me pause, however. She said that while attending the school, growing and learning to think, she learned that she had limitations to her own conclusions. Wow. Limitations to my conclusions. It was an Aha moment. I will take it with me. I will ponder it. I will marinate in it. I will remind myself of its truth and of its worth. Her message was worth the afternoon.

Commencement speeches are gifts to yourself. Try them. They work like aspirin for a headache when you are feeling rudderless or like a failure.

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After this, a number of people challenged me, asking me why I was there. They actually came into my office and said that for such a smart girl, I was an idiot. It hit me hard. The long and short of it was that I ended up spending most of a Thursday night sitting in my hotel room looking out the window, watching the falling snow and having one of those Aha! moments that change behavior forever.

A memory came to me, one I hadn’t thought of in forever. I was on the playground in the second grade, and we were all playing Dodgeball. In case you’ve never played, one person stands in the middle of the circle, and everyone in the circle throws the ball at them. If the ball hits the person in the middle, they go to the outer circle and the person who threw the ball gets to be in the center. I was really good at Dodgeball. The boys would really try hard to hit me. I think it was a gender thing. In fact, I’m sure it was a gender thing, and if I’m not mistaken, most of the other girls on the playground were on the swings, not playing in the circle, which I thought made me special, to be honest.

Bully Billy got the ball. He looked at me, and the boys started to razz him about hitting me. “Hit her, Billy!” “Come on; she’s a girl!” I looked at him, and in that moment, that split second, I knew that if I let him hit me, he would never bully me. I think I also suspected that if I did not let him hit me, I would play now, but pay later. I let him hit me. I think I even made it look good.

Sitting on that window seat in the dead of night I realized that that Dodgeball game was the first time I gave up my power — my smarts, my self — to make someone else look good. So as not to appear a common martyr, I must point out that whenever I did this, it always resulted in me getting something too. Give and take. In the case of Bully Billy, I got a free pass to never have to worry again about being bullied. In the ensuing years, I think I got lots of things. I got men wanting to spend time with me. I got to make them feel really smart or attractive. I never felt threatened.

Actually, I didn’t just do it with men. I remember a tennis tournament at my club in Virginia. I was in the finals. I called a number of balls out for myself when they were clearly in. I did it because my opponent kept calling balls out that were in. It may sound crazy, but I liked everyone coming up to me and saying that she was a cheater and I was nuts to call close balls in her favor. I cared more about that than I did about winning. I liked being thought of that way. I liked it better than winning.

You might say that there is a price for everything. You might say that everyone makes these decisions and plays the game I learned on that playground so long ago. It’s no matter. That night a few months ago, watching the falling snow, I knew I would never do it again. I will own my own ideas. I will not give them away anymore. I hope I won’t be a braggart, but I do intend to stop false modesty, and most importantly, to stop letting others think my ideas are theirs. I intend to play the game as it’s meant to be played, rather than adding another element to the game, an element shrouded in secrecy and ulterior motives.

I have a very wealthy friend who sleeps with much younger women. I asked him once if he thought they were really attracted to him. His answer stunned me, but at the same time filled me with admiration for his honesty. He said, “You confuse me with someone who would care if they were attracted. Our mutual give and take is clear to us both.” It may sound awful, but in some way he was saying that they got what they wanted, and he got what he wanted, so the deal was authentic. At least that was the way I saw it. Dare I leave this paragraph in this post? Yes, I think I will.

Much is being written these days about “Leaning In” — women in the workplace helping each other. We are nurturers, we women. Nurturing those we care about is often more important to us than winning. We start our sentences with phrases like, “This may be a bad idea, but…” I always wonder why women do that. If they really thought it was a bad idea, they wouldn’t mention it. And if it is a good idea, ownership of it is deflected when someone at the table (usually a man, in my experience) adds something to it and the woman replies, “Yes, that’s even better.” Just sayin’.

Forget about leaning in and helping each other. I don’t need you to elevate me. I don’t need you to champion me. I need to champion myself. I need to believe in my own ideas. I need own my own power. If I can do that; if I can be authentically me in a meeting or when I do something fabulous, then look out Obi Wans moving forward — this girl will be on fire.

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After all, it’s not as if I had a hysterectomy and my period left to save the rest of my body from Cancer. It’s not as if I’m 55, and I took the last decade preparing. Instead, it’s just gone, and I didn’t notice its departure. I thought that the increased time between periods over the last two years was related to stress. More time passed, and I forgot that I didn’t get it. And, because sex was infrequent with my single mother status, I didn’t even worry about the P word. So, my period left, and I didn’t get to say good-bye.

When he gave me the news, I didn’t give it much thought. In fact, it made interesting, colorful conversation with my friends. “Did you hear, I’m through menopause!? Came and went like a hit and run. No symptoms to speak of, and now it’s finished.” A tee shirt arrives in the morning mail that reads, ‘This is not a hot flash, this is a power surge.’ I joke about having a party and giving out the tampons that still sit in my bathroom cabinet as party favors. “You’re so lucky, “they say one by one. “You don’t have to worry about birth control. No more sticking something up there and having to take it out.”

If I’m so lucky, why am I, just a few weeks later, feeling so alone, so filled with a sense of loss? Why do I feel as if all the things that women of my generation haven’t quite gotten right yet, scream to me as things no longer yet to come? Why does this loss make all my past losses seem so permanent, rather than practice runs for the time I get it right?

Get a grip, I tell myself. And so, I do what always has worked in the past. I have a conversation with the departed period as if it is my ex-husband. “Listen, Period, just what did you do for me anyway? You gave me cramps that entitled me to one day of throwing up and missing fun with my friends from the age of twelve to twenty. You made me miss the high school gathering at the beach, because I didn’t know how to wear Tampax and was afraid that everyone would see the belt and pad that so invaded my private space. You made me pregnant before I was mature enough to be a mother and gave me the haunting memory of that clinic – the conveyor belt of young, terrified women early one Saturday morning in 1973.”

“You showed up at the worst times imaginable. Remember that time in seventh grade when you arrived unexpectedly when I was riding Tommy Hendrix’s bike? You left your mark on his brown leather seat. Remember the look on his face and mine when we saw it, and realized that it was you? Have you ever wondered if he remembers it still?”

All these conversations with myself make me sadder. So, I turn to reason.

Having a child or a period is not the only thing that I can no longer do. I can’t join the army. The Peace Corps is out of the question. And, yes, it’s true that my backhand will never go up against the latest Chrissie Evert. I will never learn math the way my nine-year-old does, nor enjoy the increased freedom of college in the new Millennium. But, this is different. It was already part of what I am, and I didn’t want it to leave me until I was ready to see it go.

My significant other told me tonight that perhaps I’m taking it so hard because it’s my first failure. At first, his comment confused me. But, he’s right. This marks of the end of something about me that I can’t hope to fix. No shrink can find the reason from my childhood and alleviate the symptom. No medical doctor can bring it back with a pill or a change in diet. My reproduction system has failed, and no amount of reassurance from the man in my life can make me think that it doesn’t matter. Though neither of us wants more children, the option is gone, and worst of all, it’s from my end.

So, I sit here in the October of my life, playing old Simon and Garfunkel tunes, and trying to find some peace. I think of the wonder of having a period. The child that sleeps in the next room because of it. I give thanks that my period was a reminder that I am a woman, when my actions often made me feel I was more like a man. It’s true, that even in menopause, my life has not followed the book. Like my mis-planned wedding, which just didn’t appear like the Martha Stewart photos from which it was designed – like my motherhood of broken promises and last minute Halloween costumes, I didn’t pass through menopause in the traditional manner. I didn’t plan it properly or note the landscape along the way.

But, unlike the other mishaps in the personal mayhem I call my life, maybe I can replace this monthly reminder of my womanhood with something else. Something a little more me. A new outer peace, a softer shape, or a healthier attitude publicly. Something that will tell others around me that I am proud of being a woman, regardless of whether there’s a monthly reminder telling me that’s what I am. Maybe now I will wear my womanhood like an overcoat, for the entire world to see, instead of like the womanly underclothing that a period becomes. For, in my experience, when something leaves, it’s often replaced with something a little better.

About the Author
Christine Merser is the author of Freesia Lane, voted one of the ten best blogs of 2009 and boasting hundreds of thousands of subscribers. Ms Merser has published articles in The New York Times, Ladies Home Journal, Daily Worth, Huffington Post, and numerous websites. She is currently working on a play with hopes of finishing before hell freezes over. She hopes you will subscribe to her blog at www.christinemerser.com, or if you are a film lover, her latest blog, www.MoviesandPopcornnobutter.com.

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