HE PUT A RING ON IT!!! One year ago...

CLICK ON THE ABOVE PHOTO/MONTAGE

November 6, 2010.  Almost a year ago.  A day I had been waiting for for nearly 3 years.  As a girlfriend who micro-manages and controls everything, it was maddening not to know when and where and how he was going to do it ... and moreover, IF he was going to do it at all.  The Proposal.  In wanting to produce it and plan everything, I nearly ruined everything.  In fact, as the years went by, my girlfriends developed The Escape Plan AKA The Exit Strategy should he choose NOT to pop the question and I would therefore, have my answer.  I became THAT girl - she full of ultimatums, reeking with the offensive fragrance of insecure bullshit that would have dulled any diamond let alone any man's desire to propose.  I was the girlfriend that pushed and shoved her man literally and figuratively between The Rock and the proverbial Hard Place.    

Ironically, we had started the week on a road trip up the Coast to volunteer with friends at a Brides Against Breast Cancer event in San Francisco.  Our birthdays are days apart - November 1st and November 4th - so we decided our birthday trip would start with a San Fran visit and be followed by a tour through Napa wine country with his parents.  At the SF event, we were surrounded by a ballroom full of wedding gowns, brides-to-be and their excited friends and family members.  Helping carry and display armfuls of wedding dresses, Andrew made it clear to my own friends that he "wasn't there yet but would propose ... some day."  He so convinced my friends he wasn't anywhere near ready that I was warned to not put any more pressure on him, especially around our birthdays.  Basically, time to ease up on The Crazy.  I had no idea that "some day" would be less than a week later.

On my birthday, he took me to a beautiful waterfront restaurant in Sausalito where we ate oysters and drank Chardonnay at sunset.  He gave me two jewelry boxes which contained a beautiful pearl and onyx earrings-necklace set.  With a gift such as this, receiving a ring anytime soon didn't seem likely.  On his birthday, we went on a whirlwind Napa wine tour at secluded, private estates/wineries and had an incredible dinner at a romantic, exclusive restaurant.  It was the perfect ending to another amazing road trip with the man I loved and knew I would marry ... "some day."  

It seemed fitting that Andrew wanted to end the road trip with a stop in Big Sur on the way home down to L.A.  After all, Big Sur was one of the first trips we had taken together - the first time we went camping together and spent days driving, taking photographs, chasing sunsets, eating good food, drinking better wine and gazing at the stars.  One of our favorite places was McWay Falls at Julia Pfeiffer State Park.  We had been together only a few months when he first took me there and we had an intense conversation about what a great wedding spot it would be and how wonderful it would be to take our kids there one day to see the view.  

Still, I suspected nothing as we drove down PCH - he in his jeans and fleece, me in my sweatshirt and yoga pants.  Everything was routine - I had to stop at Starbucks, then I had to stop 2x to pee.  I didn't understand why he was anxious about getting to this waterfall on time.  Ever the DP/gaffer, he kept telling me "we're losing light" - a term we hear too often at work.  I wondered why he was driving like a bat out of hell and so fixated at photographing this waterfall at magic hour, when he had shot shitloads of sunset photos there on our last Big Sur trip.  I had been his camera assistant/companion on photo expeditions many times prior so this urgency was nothing new to me.  

Must take picture.  Must take it now.  Point.  Shoot.  Repeat.

Except this time -- he was nervous ... and scattered ... and fidgety ... and shaking.  And if there's one thing about Andrew when he's taking photographs - he is steady and in his element and focused - in every sense of the word.  And that's why when we finally made it out to the vista with the Falls in the background and he told me to "just stand there" while he lined up the camera on a tripod, that's when I sensed something was up.

His hands trembled as he set up the equipment -- which I knew he could do backwards with his eyes closed upside down in the dark if he had to -- and then I heard the timer being tested, the shutter snapping every few seconds.  I stood there, puzzled, you can see the expression on my face in the early photos in the sequence, before he comes over to join me.  It was somewhere right after "Are you shooting a time lapse??"  and "What the F is wrong with you?!"  that he kissed me, hugged me, and said "I'm about to ask you to marry me."

My eyes bugged out of my head (it's hard to tell by the small size of the image at the top of this posting, but you can see that if you click on the photo montage too) and he dropped to one knee.  That's when I remember everything going silent and everything else disappearing -- except him.  It's what I had always been waiting for and he pulled off the unthinkable -- he was able to surprise ME.  

The sunset did not fail to disappoint.  As if on cue, the sky burst into color as soon as I said "YES."  He smiled at me in the fading sunlight, both of us glowing warmly well into the hours when darkness fell, and he whispered "I told you I'd do it."  We said "I do" six months later.

SKIN DEEP

I submitted the essay below to Glamour magazine's "My Real-Life Story" contest.  Still awaiting word as to whether I "won" or not.  And even if "not," than the cathartic effect of finally expressing all this was worth it.  The essay is about 2006 - the year I suffered through and survived disability, disease and dysfunction.  Upon further reflection, some may say conquering that experience was all a testament to my endurance, my faith, my inner strength.  More so, however, I think it was a wake-up call - a reality check to assess my life as a reality TV producer.  I needed to stop worrying about other people's reality -- and focus on the quality of my own.

Unlike my other posts on this blog, there are NO PHOTOS to accompany the essay.  It was a rare time in my life when I did not take one photograph.  Perhaps I should have, to really chronicle what I went through.  Call it some sort of denial but I did not want any pictures capturing that nightmare of a year.  Little did I know that the images burned on my mind and memory would be worse than any snapshot.  I hope my words below convey the emotions, the experience and the painful journey I unexpectedly went on -- inside and out.

SKIN DEEP

The year a woman turns 30 is supposed to be one of the milestones of her life.  It’s the turning point inwhich she seeks stability and substance in both career and romance.  When professionally and personally, you transition from a twenty-something who-you-think-you-should-be to a thirty-something who-you-know-you-are.

2006 -- the year of Eat Pray Love -- was the year I turned 30.  That year, was indeed, a life-altering, eye-opening experience for me.  Not because of some spiritual, sexual sabbatical frolicking amongst foreign countries -- but because, quite the opposite, I was bedridden, housebound, and devastated by a disfiguring disability for the entire year.

1980s - Since childhood, I suffered from severe eczema.  A skin disease that ravaged my legs, my arms, elbows, knees, torso, hands.  I remember hiding in baggy clothes as a schoolkid lying with excuses that “the mosquitos got me” when everyone asked why I was constantly itching, red, swollen and covered up.  I remember crying to my parents to “fix me” as they tried to soothe my infected wounds I would scratch raw.  It was like chronic poison ivy -- and the poison in fact started all those years ago.

I went to a slew of dermatologists that would put me – as a child -- on a cocktail of topical and oral steroids that included creams, ointments, and Prednisone pills.  Before I hit puberty, I received monthly steroid injections of Kenalog.

1990s - By high school, the disease spread to my neck, eyes, cheeks, forehead.  The worst thing to happen to a self-conscious teenager is something wrong with their appearance – especially their face.  The problem continued to spread not only across my body but also throughout my college years as well.  I became unable to tell what was more uncomfortable - the heat of the rashes or the flush of embarrassment when people would stare at me.

While my peers dealt with acne, I slathered on layer upon layer of lotion, ointment, and caked makeup in attempts to conceal my skin disease.  I sported long sleeves even in the summer and often hid beneath a collection of baseball caps.  I avoided mirrors and reflective surfaces, even car windows and storefronts. 

I became a night owl – relishing the relief of sleeping all day and going out at night under cloak of darkness.  This suited me well as I moved to New York City after college –cherished the nightlife, avoided brightly lit subway cars and sought solace in dark taxis, bars and clubs.

2000 - All the while, the dosage of my medications increased over the past decade.  I continued to pop steroid pills like they were daily vitamins.  Dermatologists continued to prescribe steroids to combat my skin flare-ups, which occurred every few weeks to months – caused by everything from stress to a change in the climate.  At 23, I moved from NYC to LA to pursue different work opportunities, but even the beautiful California weather didn’t soothe my skin.

They always say “at least you’ve got your health.”  But what happens when even that is no longer true?  The worst year of my life literally knocked me off my feet and crippled me from the inside out.

2006 - It all came to a screeching halt towards the end of a television shoot I was producing.  I had been living in Los Angeles for six years as a reality television producer.  I was used to long days and late nights, traveling the country -- even the world -- on-set, on-location, behind the camera, filming and documenting the drama of everyday people.  Never did I think that my own reality would become so dramatic.

My skin was flaring worse than ever and, despite all the steroids I was on, I could not get it under control.  Head to toe, I was covered in scaly, crusty, tender, swollen oozing patches and rashes.  My face was puffy and barely recognizable.  It hurt to touch and be touched anywhere, by anybody.  My scalp was flaking in large itchy sheets and areas of my body were so infected that a fever added to the stress of my work fatigue.  It hurt to move, to sit, to bend, anything.  The pain became unbearable and when we wrapped filming, I sought a new dermatologist, Dr. Marvin Rapaport, a specialist in Beverly Hills.

He took one look at me and said “How many years have you been on steroids?”  I can’t tell you how impactful that sentence was to hear.  There was something so liberating and devastating about it all at once.  As if I knew all along what was causing this – and yet willingly kept ingesting it into my system.

“You’ve had eczema since childhood, right?  Every doctor has always given you steroids?  A lot of steroids?  How many years?”  he asked again.

And it was like I heard someone else’s tiny voice far away say, “…since I was 10.”  I was already mortified by the math I was calculating inside my head these past two decades.

“Since you were 10,” the doctor repeated. “You’re 30 now, Tess.  You’ve been on steroids for TWENTY YEARS.  You don’t have a skin disease.  This isn’t eczema.  You don’t battle childhood eczema into your thirties…the steroids did this to you.”

I remember blinking at him, staring at him, shocked into silence.

He told me I was suffering from Steroid Addiction Syndrome and that I had all the typical symptoms of what he called “a red patient.” I was more than hot and bothered – my skin was on fire, burning, red and raw all over.

The abundance of steroids in my system throughout the years created a vicious cycle.  The worse my skin became, the more I used the steroids.  Once I was off the steroids, my skin flared more and more, therefore requiring what I thought was the need for more steroids … and so on and so forth.

And then he told me, the hardest thing I’ve had to hear and the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure.

There was nothing he could do to help me.  In fact, he was going to take me off steroids immediately and completely.  Dr. Rapaport explained that quitting “cold turkey” was the best cure for steroid abuse.  Like any other drug, I would have to “detox” and get it out of my system.  My body was shutting down from the inside out.

He was very matter-of-fact and upfront with me, he told me there would be tremendous pain and suffering.  That I would have to quit work, possibly be immobile, and need home care.  He said I would want to give up every day.  He told me it would take months, even years, before my skin healed.  And after he told me all this, he asked me one question:  will you trust me? 

Such a huge question with such monumental consequences and yet I knew the answer immediately.  Yes.  I knew my blind faith would be the only freedom from my life long struggle.  I had to trust that the very thing I thought was curing me was the actual problem.  I would have to try the one thing I had not: nothing.

I remember seeing a state-appointed doctor shortly afterwards to verify my disability claim.  He took one look at me and asked me why I would do such a thing to myself?  Why I would willingly suffer in pain?  He lambasted Dr. Rapaport and promised me he could inject me immediately with steroids and I’d be back to work in a matter of days.  I refused and told him I felt that was the problem all along.  He approved my disability but shook his head as he signed the paperwork… “you’re doing this to yourself, you know.  The steroids will fix everything.”  And that doctor?  I most definitely did NOT trust.

I believed Dr. Rapaport’s explanation that doing nothing would give me my health back.  Simply time and patience and endurance would clear my skin. And he made me think of a Winston Churchill quote, “if you’re going through hell … keep going.”

The next year of my life was indeed, hell.  I was trapped inside a shell of my body, of my former self – physically, emotionally, mentally.  The withdrawal from the steroids caused a roller coaster year of skin flares from month to month - swelling, edema, bleeding, oozing, scaling, burning, itching worse than ever before.  My immune system began to shut down.

I remember two vivid moments that literally brought me to my knees.  The first was realizing I had to give up my precious mutt JackHammer, who I had rescued a mere year before; in fact, I felt more like he had rescued me.  He was a boy worth coming home to at night – my true unconditional love.  With a history of murdering houseplants, I took pride that I could “parent” a living thing for once.

But due to my illness, I couldn't take care of Jack or walk him.  Every time I would try to walk him, his leash would pull in my hands and rip the wounded flesh right off.  Jack would jump on me too and want to cuddle and be pet and it would be too painful for my skin and my heart.  He wanted to be loved and it hurt too much to love him.  And so I made the difficult choice of giving him to a friend until I was well enough to walk again and love him the way he deserved.  I kissed him goodbye and gave him this promise in his scruffy ear.

The second crippling experience was in the shower.  It became clear to me that it wasn’t just my inability to walk any more, I could barely stand.  Even the gentle stream of water from the showerhead, a seemingly harmless drizzle was excruciating on my skin.  Pieces of my face were literally falling off.  I sobbed in a ball on the floor of my shower, holding crumbling pieces of myself in my hands and stared at everything going down the drain.  It was time to call my mother.

Over the next several months, my family took turns flying in from across the country to move in with me.  I was as incapacitated as a severe burn victim.  My sister would change my dressings and bandages, tell me jokes and stories from our youth and sing familiar childhood songs.  On occasion, my father would visit, watch DVDs with me and kneel at the foot of my bed in prayer, while he thought I was sleeping.  It is a powerful thing, especially for a daughter, to see their father cry.  It’s like watching your superhero reveal that he’s mortal.  And when he leaned over me to soothe my wounds with loving words, I could not tell the difference between which tears were his … or mine.  

It is humbling for a 30 year old woman to be reduced to childhood again.  Stages of infancy where your mother helps you to the bathroom and cleans you and cares for you and spoon-feeds you.  Sometimes I didn't get out of bed for over a week, I didn't have the strength to walk to my mailbox in the lobby or even around the block, I'd lean on my mom to take a few steps.  And ultimately, I leaned on her for more than that.  My mom changed my towels, sheets all day long.  They were full of skin and blood and pus and ooze.  She did laundry for hours on end in my basement full of coin-operated machines.  She'd vacuum every hour piles of skin from all my furniture, bed, chairs, sofa, floor.  Scales fell from my scalp, crusts collected from my nearly skinless body, too.    My mom had to lower me in the tub twice a day, I spent hours in soothing oatmeal baths but even that was unbelievably painful.  My mother washed my hair because I could not.  The weaker I became, the more my hair fell out in clumps.  I lost my eyebrows, too.  And still, my mom brushed my hair and ponytailed it like I was a little girl again. 

Her little girl.  Always.  I begged her to shut off the lights and cover the mirrors.  Just like I was as a child, begging her to “fix” me.  My apartment was a den of sickness, frailty and fear.  I kept the shades drawn.  The lamps off.  I hid in the darkness.  I hid from everyone.  I forbid anyone from visiting. 

Friends’ e-mails, text messages, notes/cards/flowers/gifts, voicemails went unanswered.  “Tess … are you there?”  I, most certainly, was not.  I cut myself off from all human contact.  It hurt to be in any sort of literal or figurative contact.  I simply was not ready.  Months went by this way – in the darkness with the mirrors covered, as if my mother and I were sitting an endless shiva, mourning and grieving the loss of who I used to be.

I couldn't wear clothes, couldn't wear shoes, couldn’t stand in the kitchen to prepare a meal.  I couldn’t pour myself a glass of water, couldn’t grip a fork, couldn’t type an email or a text message.  I couldn’t wrap my hand around a phone or press numbers to dial, couldn’t pick up the remote control, couldn’t hold a book or magazine.  I would just sit 24 hours a day and cry until I passed out in constant pain, discomfort, throbbing, agony, itching, burning.  My legs, arms, face were swollen with fluid, red and bloated.  I couldn't bend anything, I couldn't move.  For months, my skin had to ooze then bleed then shed.  I went through extreme sensations of sweaty heat and ice-chilling numbing cold.  It was as if my body did not know up from down and was subject to this painful pendulum of back and forth, unable to find any sense of calm, peace, equilibrium.

Throughout all this, I saw Dr. Rapaport almost every day, I thought I would never get better.  His nurses and staff rushed me through the crowded waiting room in his office, draped me in blankets to avoid stares of curious onlookers.  “The skin is the biggest organ of your body,” he’d explain.  “It’s so damaged right now, it doesn’t know how to regulate your temperature.  It needs time to rid itself of the toxins and to heal.  But…you look beautiful,” he’d tell me every visit.  “Better and better every time I see you.”  I’d cry, scream and curse at him.  “Look what you did to me!  I’m a monster!  I’m not getting better, I’m getting worse!”  He just kept repeating it would take time.  More time.  That’s all I had.

In terms of medication, I was only on sleeping pills, painkillers and antibiotics to fight infections.  No medicine for my skin itself.  I used tubs of Aquaphor, ice packs, wet towels, frozen packages of veggies to soothe my face and skin.  Wet, cold compresses were an attempt to stop all the bleeding and oozing.  Just when I would think I was better for a week, then I'd flare terribly for two weeks.  One area of my body would improve, then another would be horribly itchy, red and oozing again.  It was debilitating, frustrating, maddening, depressing.

After six months, I even tried to return to work as a producer on a daily talk show.  But I was in too much pain, wrapped in bloody gauze bandages like a mummy from your nightmares, shedding skin all over the place, my Freddy Krueger face too defeated, my body too exhausted to handle even sitting upright, much less returning to the working world and my industry’s relentless production hours.  And so, I accepted my severance and was told to go home and heal. 

I had been sick for what seemed like so long.  I knew to regain my physical health, I needed to tend to my mental, emotional, spiritual wellbeing, too.

The past year had rocked me to the core and I was in this strange transformative state of rehabilitation and regeneration.  You hear about the symbolism of caterpillars and cocoons, the beauty of butterflies, the recurrent process of metamorphosis in life.

But I was scared.  For every reason and no reason in particular.  I wanted to stay in the darkness, hide in my cocoon, hide in the shell of my old, ugly self.  To marinate = fester= wallow.  I was afraid to emerge.

Amy Bloom once wrote that “the things that happen to us – even major, terrible, life-altering things: birth, death, prison, abandonment, illness – do not determine who we are; they reveal who we are.”

Halloween 2006 –  I didn't begin to recover until the holidays.  On Halloween, people hide themselves in masks, cloaks, capes and costumes on purpose.  Ironically, at this point, my bandages slowly came off, my scabs and scars began to form a newer, tougher, stronger me – in more ways than one. I was still swollen, itchy with many rashes and in much pain, but that night in October, on the darkest of holidays, things started to turn around and brighten up for me.  My best friend was throwing a costume party and decided to dress as Hugh Hefner.  Other female friends followed suit, finding the sexiest, most revealing Playboy Bunny outfits – complete with racy corset, fluffy tail and buoyant bustier.  I decided to make a statement, since obviously I still wanted to cover up.  I bought a child’s Bugs Bunny costume and was covered head to toe – ears and all, chewing on a long, leafy carrot.  I was a hit at the Halloween Party, dubbed the cutest “Bunny” after all and ended the night with my first human contact in months and grinning from ear to floppy ear. 

Thanksgiving turned to Christmas to New Year’s.  And I was indeed in full swing of a New Year full of Recovery, Recuperation, Rebirth, Realization, Renewal.  I got JackHammer back and our favorite times returned: long walks and runs on the beach.  The skin on my face and neck cleared first, then slowly the rest of my body.  My hands, arms, legs and feet were the most stubborn.  In fact, even now, 4 years later, my hands are still often dry and sensitive and cracked and itchy  -- a reminder of all I’ve been through along with a map of scars and discoloration.

I can't believe the year I thought would be the biggest of my adult life, the year I turned 30 – was the worst year of my life.  A long struggle, a painful struggle, it is something I would not have survived without my family, my friends, my faith.  I had to believe in Dr. Rapaport and that the one thing I had never tried -- which was NOT using steroids -- would ultimately cure my condition.

The wounds on my skin healed but the internal ones remain – and they are deep.  It is a daily battle but I still have the faith that time will heal these wounds, too.

Dr. Rapaport helped me in this respect as well.  He connected me with other Steroid Addiction Syndrome patients.  I began to counsel others with my tale of survival.  Talking to others - especially parents and children – was like a miracle salve on every painful spot on my skin and in my heart.  My words seemed to ease their doubt with dogged determination, their helplessness with hopefulness.  I showed my scars to a suicidal bandaged red-faced 4 year old in LA and told him, one day he’d have no “boo-boos” at all.  I befriended a family in New Jersey that would call me and email me at all hours of the day and night.  A mother begging for answers.  A father sobbing to me like I had witnessed my own father weep.  A little girl overcome with relief to meet someone who had already come out the other end of this brutal journey.  To this day, I am continually blessed to help with stories like these and share my own experiences – of patience, trust, faith, love and survival.

The Jersey girl took two years to recover.  Last month, she e-mailed me school dance pictures of her in a rather revealing dress.  Her father said “I used to worry about her staying alive, about her skin recovering at all … now I’m a typical dad of a tweenager, hoping she’d cover that skin up again!”  To share laughs with a family after so many tears was more than uplifting and comforting; it provided the healing that my soul and spirit needed after the steroids wreaked havoc on my skin -- and my life.

The year I turned 30, I lost a lot of things from my life.  I shed my skin – literally and figuratively.  And I believe, because of that experience, I regenerated anew and am truly comfortable in my own skin now.

One Man's Trash is Another Man's ... Underwear?!

Once Upon A Yard Sale.  Friends, neighbors, hoarders - lend me your clutter as I share some tips about how to have a successful yard sale.

My boyfriend and I have lived in this house for nearly three  years.  Our two-car garage was instead a storage space for a tale of two households.  Two singletons merged into a crowded coupledom.  Our quaint bungalow was already bursting at the seams, and the garage was filled with junk, stuff, baggage, a by-product of who "he" and "I" were before we became "us."

I am a pathetic packrat.  Sentimental in my nonsensical nostalgia. Andrew is pragmatic, logical and streamlined.  His efficiency is a direct contrast to my emotional excess.  As such, he pointed out that I had not assessed, itemized, sorted through, or even looked at the stack of boxes that filled our garage since we had moved in together.  "If you haven't touched it - or needed it - in two and a half years, we CAN get rid of it," he pointed out matter-of-factly.

And so began the purge-a-thon that pricked at the inner core of my identity - LET IT GO.  MOVE ON.  YOUR STUFF DOES NOT DEFINE YOU.  YOU DO NOT NEED THIS SHIT.  And, more importantly, what the F was I to do in 2010 with VHS tapes, cassettes, a walkman, a Discman, zip drives, floppy disks, and my Rolodex collection??

Have a yard sale, of course, where I learned you truly CAN get rid of anything and everything!

Tip #1 -  Get organized, stay organized and WAKE.  UP.  EARLY.  In fact, so early, don't even bother going to bed.  My boyfriend got up before daybreak to start setting up.  Quite honestly, to be awake before Starbucks opens is truly an ungodly hour of the morning.  It felt more like night, as I stumbled around like a groggy zombie in my pre-garage sale prep.

We had sorted, organized, bagged, tagged and boxed for days prior.  On the actual day of -- or wee hours before -- we hauled everything to the front yard, popped tables, and laid everything out on display with colorful signs and clearly noted prices.

My inclination was to take armfuls of piles from the back and just stack them in a heap in the front yard.  But we quickly learned an effective technique:  what was a disorganized mess in your garage should be a folded, labeled, organized presentation on the yard sale tables.

Peddle your wares in such a way that they're appealing to the eye and to the customer.  Sure enough, throughout the day, every time I tidied up the tables, reorganized the hanging items or refolded clothing, we made more sales.

Tip #2 - Don't stop at the garage.  Pick through your whole house to find items that are cluttering closets and gathering dust in corners you forgot about.  Get rid of it all.  Make room for what matters.  

At our yard sale, we had a table for spare, leftover or outdated electronics, a table for tchotchkes and knick-knacks, a table for kitchen excess.  I mean, let's face it - do you really need twenty tupperware containers??  We had multiple sets of pots and pans, mis-matched dishes, coffee mugs stacked 5 deep and 3 high -- even tho' we got our daily coffee at my beloved aforementioned Starbucks.

It's unbelievable what you'll find.  We had three - that's right, THREE - other TV sets between us.  These televisions had been retired to the garage graveyard when we splurged on our big flat-screen for the house.  Every household had an LED, plasma, 1080p these days.  Surely no one would want to buy such archaic heavy "fat-bottomed" TVs, right?  Wrong.

We sold all 3 of them that day.  And one even had a broken picture tube.

Tip #3 - Think out of the box and then put it in the "to sell" box.








We thought about tailoring tables at the sale to specific groups of interest.

For example,  Andrew is a big outdoorsman, a hiker and camper.  He sorted through his closet of gear he had collected over the years and was able to eliminate a lot of excess stuff he no longer used.  He displayed his camping items on a tarp which attracted many browsing husbands and other men that came to our sale.
  

I also travel a lot, but quite honestly, frequent hotels more than tents.  As such, I had accumulated an extraordinary and excessive amount of travel toiletries from various hotels in cities and countries all over the world.  These were high-end products that I simply had no use for since, try as I might, I remained a creature of habit to my drugstore staples.

I arranged a table of these goodies - soaps, lotions, combs, candles, sewing kits, shower caps, shampoos, conditioners.  Things that I had collected FOR FREE and yet in turn SOLD at a yard sale!  That table cleared the fastest.  People scooped those products up within the first hour or two of the yard sale.  Sure, I only sold them for a few cents here and there, but the point was:  the stuff was gone!  These items were free and had now FREED ME of more clutter.  I had gained more space in my bathroom cabinet.  And that, my friends, was the true value.

Another way to think out of the box to add to "the box" of "TO SELL" items - THE RE-GIFT.  This photo has been blurred to protect the innocent when I, so obviously, am guilty of re-gifting.  As long as friends don't frequent your yard sale, you should be good to go with this tactic.  Otherwise, things could get awkward to say the least.

You know you all have these items laying around the house.  Gifts from good friends with bad taste.  Be it gawdy or gimmicky, some of the best intentions can result in the worst gifts during holidays, birthdays and special occasions.  A yard sale is THE perfect occasion to offload such items.

At first, I was worried about how bad I would feel and then instead began to focus on what excuse I would tell my friends when they wondered why we never used the pastel crystal-stemmed wine glasses they gave us as a housewarming gift years prior??  Let's just say, they never warmed this house.  They sat in the cold garage -- and hopefully now someone far more fun and funky than I was toasting the world through rose-colored glasses!

Tip #4 - The Price is Wrong.  My boyfriend schooled me on many things about this yard sale.  Not the least of which was me arguing about the price I should put on my designer clothes and shoes.

50 Cent ain't just a rapper, it's the magic number at a yard sale.  I was mortified when my man explained that even $1 or $2 seemed too exorbitant a price for my clothing.

I honestly thought I could sell things for $10 or $20 -- and Andrew informed me, be prepared to just put all this back in my closet at the end of the day, or else straight to the trunk of my car to take to the Goodwill for donation.  I was flabbergasted.  As Queen of All Clutter, I clearly was too attached to these items already, and to part with them for mere pennies when I had paid way more was unthinkable to me.

Andrew helped me understand that it was about quantity here, not quality.  The more I sold, the more we would get rid of, which would help us achieve our goal of more space, more room to breathe in every sense of the word.

And so I marked down my precious clothes and heels and purses to increments of .50, $1, $2.  From fashion sense to fifty cents.  And Andrew was right.  They came in droves.  Families, teenagers, boho chic hipster girls.  It may have felt so wrong for me, but "the price was right" for them.

CHIC BOHEMIAN HIPSTER CHICKS 
CRUISING SOME CLASSICS FROM MY CLOSET 

I even pulled ratty towels and old sheets out of the linen closet, labeled them for cheap and was shocked to see men scoop them up for their car wash businesses and local automotive mechanic shops!  People were buying anything - even bleached, stained, pilled and torn towels and sheets!  Even your rags can bring you riches.

And speaking of stains, the biggest shocker of the yard sale was when my boyfriend actually put his UNDERWEAR out for sale!!  I could not stop giggling in disbelief!  Who in their right mind would buy used and stained underwear?!  And yet, HOLY HOARDERS, BATMAN!!  He sold EVERY pair he put out there!  He, of course, attributes this feat to the fact that his underwear was the expensive and high quality Under Armour brand.

I am of the mindset, however, that it just goes to show you:

One man's trash IS another man's treasure ... or at least another man's underwear.

ME AND MY TREASURE AKA YARD SALE LOOT!!!

Disconnect to Connect: The Magic of Big Sur

When my girlfriends asked me to go on an all-female road trip/camping/hiking adventure with them, I was hesitant to say the least.  After all, I had barely survived a desert camping extravaganza with my Granola Grizzly Adams boyfriend and two extremely fit outdoorsy gay men.  The trio of alpha males seemed to be running The Amazing Race while I belonged on an episode of The Biggest Loser.  I was the weak, out of shape, limping gazelle at the back of the herd, the one that gets taken down by the predators and quite literally, left in the dust.  Survival of the fittest, not fattest, I suppose.

Still, there was something about going with a group of women that seemed appealing.  And sure enough, we women were like a pride, with a pride of our own.  Whenever one of us stopped to take a photo, take a drink of water, or even tie a shoe, we stayed together on our hikes.  There was no pressure, no competition, no one-upmanship (emphasis on MAN).  It was a communal, comforting, collaborative camping experience - I suppose that's what happens when you mix four females, Mother Nature and the Magic of Big Sur.

CAMPSITE
The birthday girl Emily picked the most perfect campsite on the Big Sur River in Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park.  I watched with awe as my three friends made camp.  Here were girls who had been camping since childhood, who owned all sorts of gear and equipment, who were nature lovers and seemed in their element out in the elements.  All three were athletes - either having trained or were in the process of training for multiple 10Ks and marathons.  Mind you, the only 10K I've ever run was the amount on my credit cards.  And as for my experience with pitching tents ... well, that's a whole 'nother blog.

Mere steps away from our tent was the babbling brook, the most idyllic of sylvan settings -- groves of trees that seemed to have seats built-in by nature at the crook of their roots, soft deep green moss, crunchy leaves and even a woodland creature frolicking to and fro.  I half-expected Bambi to crawl out from beneath the thicket!

 As a girl who grew up in NY, where wildlife was pigeons and subway rats, these picturesque new surroundings truly transported me.  It was a place where I could see myself forgetting my cares and troubles - for example, where was I going to plug my cell phone in to recharge in that tent?!  (Fear not - we had an inverter in Emily's SUV to charge my Crackberry!  Sad but true, even literally out in the middle of nowhere, I am chained to my phone calls, texts and work emails like a leash, a prison sentence...)

And so began my struggle on this trip, to learn to let go and be inaccessible.  To not jump at the cattle prod that was my buzzing phone, to not answer immediately because what mattered was being present, in the moment, enjoying the beauty of Big Sur.  What mattered most was not on that screen, but what I immersed myself in - a perfect weekend getaway in the woods and trees and cliffs with sweeping vistas, breathtaking beaches and fresh air.  I had to connect with all that.  And disconnect from technology.

Appropos enough, Big Sur is one of those "dead zones" ironically.  A rare zone in which - GASP! - there is very little to no cell phone reception.  It was here in this "dead zone" where my girlfriends - the very ones I text and Facebook and BBM with incessantly - insisted I learn to appreciate life again.  Thruout the weekend, this happened in two very eye-opening ways.

RIVER CROSSING
At Andrew Molera State Park, the recent rains had caused the river to flow more than usual out to the ocean.  What is usually a crossable trickle of a creek became a slippery rock-filled obstacle course that would come up to the average person's knee.  Since I am anything but as tall as the average person, this to-the-waist frigid adventure seemed like an unappealing WASTE of time.  While my nimble, athletic friends bounded across like skipping stones, I adamantly pouted with attitude on the other side, FULL of excuses and FULL of bullshit:  "Can't we go around?? There's got to be another way??  Let's go the long way to the beach.  I'll just meet you there.  I can't do it.  What if I get too cold halfway across?  How cold is it?  It's too cold for me, what if my feet freeze?  Are the rocks sharp?  Do they hurt?  Will they cut me?  What if I fall and twist my ankle?  I don't want to limp thru the rest of our hikes.  I don't want to be wet the rest of the day.  I can't carry my hiking boots, what if I drop them?  What if I drop my socks?  What if I drop my backpack?  What if I drop my camera? Even worse - and unthinkable! - what if I drop my Blackberry?!"

I'll never forget what happened then.  It was so sad, it was funny.  And then it was so out of character for me, it was triumphant.  After my tirade of "I can'ts," I saw the look on Emily's face - she had already crossed over to the other side and back again half way to guide me across.  And she just kind of stood there in the freezing water, feet bare and frozen, with her pants rolled up to her knees, she sighed and looked at me.  Her look was encouraging, empathetic but also quite frankly expressed that she just felt sorry for me.  "Come on, Tess," she coaxed soothingly as if to a small child.  "Just do it."

And there it was.  The Nike slogan.  Fuck me.  Something snapped.  And I snapped out of it.  I realized how ridiculous I was behaving, gathered all my "valuables" up in my arms and trudged into the water, determined to make it across.  Yes, it was cold, and unsteady and uncomfortable.  And the little rivulet felt like the goddamned Mississippi, but I was not going to stop halfway and wallow in the water.  I might have twisted an ankle, but my feet were indeed so frozen, I wouldn't have felt it anyway.  Each step towards the other side brought another cheer from my girlfriends, each sure footing I found after every shaky step caused my grin to grow wider and wider.

When I reached the other side, everyone congratulated me on my exhilirating experience.  It was literally and figuratively refreshing.  In the amount of time I had spent worrying about not being able to do it,   I. JUST. DID.

HORSEBACK TRAIL RIDE - "A THREE HOUR TOUR"

Obstacle #2 weighed 2000 lbs.  An enormous equine, to be more specific - "a three hour tour" of a trail ride.  Surely, the girls were joking.  Despite my triumphant river crossing, I still had trouble disconnecting.  Yes, I had endured hours of hiking -- but my motivation to reach each summit was primarily fueled by my determination to get cell phone service in order to call my agent.  Nothing appealed to me about riding a beast of burden for several hours.  I would much rather have preferred to nurse my sore muscles -- and several beers-- in the shade.

I explained this to my friends and the horse whisperers to no avail.  Once again, my What-Ifs fell on deaf ears.  What if I need to go the bathroom?  Three hours is a long time!  What if I have a panic attack and can't get off?  Who will help me down if you are all up ahead on your own horses?  Will my horse get lost?  Will he throw me off?  How do I steer it?  What if I'm allergic to the damn thing??


And of course, cell phones were NOT allowed on the ride.  Only cameras were allowed tied around each rider's neck.

Otherwise, both hands were to be free to hold the reins and clearly NOT text message or talk to agents.  My anxiety level only rose leaving my phone in the car, the disconnection was disconcerting.  But then I heard the ride would include meandering through meadows, traipsing through redwood groves, crossing more rivers and riding on a beautiful beach.  Begrudgingly, I decided to mount up.  My friends told the guides, "she hates horses, she's never ridden, she's nervous and afraid..."  The guides looked at each other and in unison said, "Give her Buster."



It required a staircase for me to clumsily climb atop what looked like a Clydesdale.  I'm sure he was actually just an average horse, but he seemed even more gigantic up close.  I soon learned, however, that Buster was the horse they gave to the old, the young, the frail, and the fucking neurotic.  His slow, steady, calm serenity soothed any riders with issues.  Buster seemed elderly and very well may have been deaf.  But the old man knew that trail in his sleep and could have walked it backwards with his eyes closed -- with or without me on top of him.  In fact, I began to realize only a few minutes into the ride that he seemed oblivious I was even on him.  He kept his distance at the way back of the pack - allowing at times two to three horse-lengths before the next swishing tail.  He moseyed, meandered, sauntered and sashayed as if he himself were enjoying the view.  He dropped so far back at times I felt like we had the whole trail to ourselves.  I didn't have to steer him or prompt him.  I didn't even have to hold on.  He was like a giant couch that kickstarted my comfort and my confidence.  In a sense, I was more than hands-free, I felt truly free.

This horse, that I was determined to hate only hours before, became my kindred spirit on a trek through nature.  I began to speak to Buster - after all, three hours IS a long time to spend with someone - even a giant, deaf horse.  I began to marvel at all the unbelievably beautiful things that to him, were merely part of his daily walk.

 

Since we were so far behind, no one turned around to take a photo of us.




So I took photo after photo, not only of our surroundings, but even of the silhouette of Buster and me.  You couldn't tell where he ended and I began.


I was like a silly little creature, clinging to the back of this beast, hugging him, thanking him, letting his slow, deliberate steps lull me to sleep.  Before long, the hours felt like minutes and we had passed through some of the most awe-inspiring scenery I had ever seen in my life.

I was sad when the trail ride came to an end and proud of another accomplishment that day.  I was able to achieve detachment from my Blackberry and create an attachment ... to a horse.



For three hours, I didn't worry about an incoming email, or feel the pressure to immediately return a text.






I was able to smell the scents of the forest, to let my eyes feast upon all the vibrant visuals and to appreciate every  minute of every hour of that "three-hour tour."

MAGICAL MIDNIGHT HOT SPRINGS -- DISCONNECT TO CONNECT

Our last night in Big Sur was one of the most magical and memorable of my life.  We ended our trip with an after-midnight visit to the Esalen Hot Springs.  Esalen is more than a sanctuary nestled amidst pine trees high on an oceanside Big Sur bluff, it is in all senses of the word - a retreat.  Esalen focuses on various studies, conferences and seminars - ranging from philiosophy to meditation, yoga to ecology, all rooted in spirituality and empowering the human potential.  It is a haven for artists, musicians, writers, yogis, gurus, educators, students.  But I also quickly realized how beneficial a place it could be for someone like me -- weary of "the real world" as opposed to the natural world, tethered to technology, bound to my obligations, restrictions and limitations, unable to be still, be at peace, to just be.  It was fitting we four gals ended our camping trip this way -- at a place where people truly learn to disconnect, in order to connect.

Emily learned that Esalen allowed only a small number of general public/off-site visitors between the wee hours of 1 AM-3 AM.  So after a day full of activities, we went to sleep early and set alarms in our tent for midnight to awaken for our Esalen adventure.  Stumbling sleepily out of our sleeping bags from the tent to the truck and making our way down a dark and windy PCH felt surreal.  It really felt like we as a group were in an other-worldly dream of our own.  We checked in to the Institute by flashlight and headlamp and in hushed tones were told to respect the quiet of the place and its sleeping inhabitants.

We left all cell phones, cameras and even our voices behind as we were led down to the most secluded, serene spa full of baths, pools and hot springs.  The four of us looked at each other and just understood that this would be a special moment.  Without a word, we willingly entered a vow of silence even if for a little while, and set off on our own to explore every curative corner of the natural spa - inhaling the steam and sulphur, relaxing in the rugged rocky tubs that were perched on edges of cliffs overlooking the ocean.

We disconnected from each other to reconnect within ourselves.  In that stillness, in that silence, in that darkness -- by the light of the glowing full moon, reflecting in the infinity pool of the Pacific, in that beauty, I felt enlightened.  I sat soaking...and soaked it all in...it was reparative, restorative, regenerative.   And that is the magic of Big Sur.

It is fitting that my camera was left behind, because no photograph could have captured those moments.  In fact, words fail to describe them as well.  In researching Esalen while writing this blog, I came across one fellow spa-goer's description of her time at the hot springs:  "This is my true nature," she said.  "I release all my negative thoughts.  Bliss."

I also found it fitting that the same letters that spell "ESALEN" can be found in the word "SELF-AWARENESS."  That's the connection I so desperately sought and didn't even know I needed.

Here's the one photo we took, a self-portrait of the four of us, when we were back at our car parked just outside the entrance to Esalen.  We had definitely shared a magical week together - roughing it in nature, whether hiking or on horseback, in a tent or around a campfire, or even in the silent solitude of a moonlit magical spa.  We all agreed when Emily summed it up -- "sometimes, you have to disconnect to connect."

Here's to the Connect Four!  Much love to Caroline, Emily and Meghan - to whom I will be forever grateful for teaching me how to camp and to whom I shall always be blissfully connected thanks to the Magic of Big Sur.

Once Bitten, Twice Shy

It's official.  If the way I "mother" my dog is any indication, I'm going to be one of THOSE parents.  You know the kind - the one that's all about don't, can't, won't, what-ifs; the one that will shelter and protect her offspring at any cost from the cruel, evil world.  We all know you can't spell "SMOTHER" without "MOTHER."  My mom never let us ride our bicycles outside our driveway without a parental escort - for fear that a random tractor trailer may barrel down our little boulevard in suburbia and flatten us.  I thought of this a few weeks ago, when me and my "kid" JackHammer, had an incident at the dog park.  The "tractor trailer," however, came in the form of an angry German Shepherd.

My 5 year old mutt, JackHammer, is part manic Muppet, part shy skunk.  He dislkes the dog park, and would much rather be frolicking freely on the beach or strutting his stuff around the neighborhood, barking and marking his territory at every corner.  In the dog park, he is a shivering, squinting, anxiety-ridden coward.  Like mother, like mutt.

Usually, Jack gets into a scuffle or two at the park.  He patrols the border, quick to snap at anyone that sniffs his ass or comes too close to our "pack" - me, my big, goofy boyfriend and his big, goofier Labrador.  Now, for the Labrador the park is heaven - a blessed bonding ritual he shares with my boyfriend of Ball. Run. Fetch. Ball. Run. Fetch.  Which is why neither of them were quick to come to our rescue when the Jack Attack occurred.

There was my mutt, innocently watering a tree.  His back to the packs of various breeds of dog -- all of which he could be a smattering of: terriers, collies, shepherds, spaniels, retrievers.  As always, I was not more than a couple feet away from him, when I saw the German Shepherd charge.  One second, Jack was lifting his leg.  The next, he was being lifted in the air, tossed to and fro like a rag doll in the German Shepherd's jaws.  

There is no amount of screaming and flailing about that could have corrected the shock of this unfortunate situation.  Myself and other dog owners tried to kick the two apart, lunging at the Shepherd as he, in turn, continued to lunge at Jack's neck - over and over again.  I witnessed poor Jack being picked up by the throat, dragged by the ear.  It was like a horrific hybrid of Cujo meets K9 attack video.

Even the Shepherd's owner couldn't pull him off Jack, which, in my opinion, if you can't control your dog when it's trying to kill another living being, then who's got the fucked up parenting issues NOW?!

And it was in this moment when I thought, I was truly going to watch my dog die.  That after rescuing him literally off the streets, after coddling him and cuddling him and always walking two steps behind him, after saving him from a shelter and yet sheltering him myself, that there was nothing I could have done, planned for or worried about in advance, to prevent this from happening.  In that moment, it was up to my dog to get back up on his two (or four) feet.

But Jack did more than that.  HE.  FOUGHT.  BACK.  Here was a 20 pound mutt, pinned on his back to the ground by a beast over 5 times his weight.  Despite bite wounds to the ear and puncture marks in his neck, Jack kicked up a dust storm like the Tasmanian Devil.  He bared his little teeth, nipping and gnashing and thrashing about until he was free of the Jaws of Death.  At one point, I even saw Jack clinging by the mouth from the great furry gullet of the German Shepherd, hoping to exact some vigilante vengeance of his own, no doubt!

When the dust -- and the tempers (both canine and human) -- settled, the Shepherd's irresponsible owner admitted she had not been back to the park in over a year, since her dog "always attacks others."  Great.  She slinked out of the park, tail between her legs, dragging her Satan dog behind her.

And now, though Jack is literally scarred, I am the one suffering PTSD whenever we return to the dog park.  I want to pick him up and carry him around.  I want to scoop him up and take him out of there whenever any dog - especially a large one, especially a German Shepherd - approaches.  

My boyfriend sighs, "he's fine.  Look at him.  The only reason he knows nothing's fine is by your behavior.  Act calm, act normal.  He'll figure it out."  I think about the future.  Beyond dog parks, to playgrounds and sporting events and when my own children are riding their bikes, one day.  They learn how to ride and you let them go, in more ways than one.  If they fall, they get back up.  And if they get hurt, so be it.  All children get cuts, bumps, bruises, broken bones, injuries.  We all have scars to prove it.

Even my resilient little mutt, Jack Hammer.  After all, for him, the visit to the Vet was more traumatic than the German Shepherd attack itself.