Monday morning found me standing in the Social Hall of my daughters’ school listening as the incoming principal spoke of his hopes and ideas for next September.  Afterwards, having forgotten to turn my cell phone off, it barked and vibrated in my purse.  (My “ring” is a dog’s bark.  The vibration is always a pleasant surprise.)  I was in the middle of a conversation and so, out of courtesy, ignored the call from “Blocked”.  Moments later, “Blocked” called again, so I answered.  It was Mare, the Encino sister.

“Claudia just called me.  Mom hasn’t shown up for work.”  Claudia is my mom’s boss at the college where she’s been employed for the past twenty-seven years.

I could hear the concern in my sister’s voice.  Claudia has never called any of us to report my mother being late over the decades she’s worked there.  If she had a doctor’s appointment or some other obligation, Mom would’ve let Claudia know.

Our mother is eighty, so her age alone puts her in that category where you consider that she tripped on the stairs and broke her hip.  She wasn’t answering her phone, and the cellular situation is a bit of a charade, so we were doing the only thing we knew to do.  We headed out to her condo. I told Sis I’d meet her out there.  She told me she’d call when she arrived if she discovered Mom’s car was gone.  We’d assume she got stuck in traffic or delayed by some other benign excuse.  My sister was ten minutes ahead of me.

If you offer me the potential of bad news, chances are I won’t take it.  I won’t immediately go to worst-case scenario because, simply, it bums me out.  Which is not to say I don’t go there a little bit.  I briefly imagined my life as an orphan, and then just as quickly put those thoughts aside because, after my dad died in ’97, I decided my mother would and should live forever.  She may well yet.

My phone barked while I was on the freeway.  It was Mare.  Indeed, my mother’s car was not in the garage and minutes later she was in touch with all of us.  There was a doctor’s appointment and some miscommunication.  All was well.  Mom apologized for worrying anyone.

During the five or ten minutes when I imagined the earth might rotate on its axis without my mother upon it, I questioned whether our relationship had been good lately.  Her retirement dinner at the college last Wednesday was great fun.  My siblings and I cheered when she received her metaphorical gold watch for years of distinguished service.  Mother’s Day before that was full of laughs.  Though in the weeks and months previous, we hadn’t spoken at great length.  Talking on the phone has never been my favorite pastime, and my mother’s social life keeps her impressively busy.

But what if Mom died?  What if anyone close to me died without a moment’s notice?  Were we in a good place with one another?  We’ve all heard stories of loved ones whose last communication had been angry words.  I don’t want a tale to tell like that.  But I also don’t know how to treat a relationship, or life for that matter, as if it could be gone in an instant.

Live each day as if it were your last.

I hate that quote.  Who said it?  It’s so impractical.  Who can live like that?

May you live all the days of your life.  – Jonathan Swift

That’s more like it.  Open to interpretation.  Just vague enough to mean different things to different people.  Am I copping out because the words Carpe Diem make me feel like a failure?  I can’t remember the last time I seized a day.  Hmmm…

And yet, shit happens.  There are no guarantees in life.  My mom’s car could have been in the garage.  What then?  We’ve never been a verbally demonstrative family.  I don’t remember the last time I told her I loved her.  (Mom, are you reading this?  I love you.)

Vanessa Redgrave’s character had a line in “Letters to Juliet”.  I’m paraphrasing, but it was something like, “One of the great pleasures in life is to have someone brush your hair.”  She said it as she ran a brush through Amanda Seyfried’s long locks.  There was love in the gesture.  That evening, Miss T ran her little fingers through my hair and I felt connected to her.  I felt her love.  And in spontaneous hugs with Goldie and Bun-Bun’s high pitched “Love you” as I’m nearly out of her bedroom at night, I think things are all right between us.  So why did what happened (or didn’t happen) Monday morning make me so contemplative?

I suppose thankfully, I’m seldom reminded firsthand of how fragile life can be.  When tragic news does arrive, I mourn.  I vow to shower the people I love with love.  I promise to live each day to the fullest.  And I do, and then I don’t because I’m much too busy.  I can’t possibly communicate to my friends and family how much they mean to me because don’t they just know? We should all gather ye rosebuds while ye may, but I have to think about dinner tonight.  If I serve it on the china we received for our wedding twelve years ago and never use because it’s only for special occasions, does that count?  Because every day is a special occasion?

Seriously, life is short.  I’ve even been known to say that to people from time to time.  Encouraging others to seize a moment, “tell them how you feel”, is counsel I’ve given freely.  Would it be the craziest thing for me to heed my own advice, even if it requires little Carpe Diem post-it-notes scattered throughout the house and car?  I could carry a hairbrush with me at all times and spontaneously coif the heads of those I hold dear. 

I don’t know how to end this post other to say I love many of you (look, there’s a lot of you I don’t know) and allow Annie Dillard to end it for me.

Spend the afternoon.  You can’t take it with you.

Just some of the many TJ items in my kitchen.

Trader Joe’s is a movement, a way of life, a local hangout.  To some, it’s a religion, a beacon of joy on an otherwise dark day, more than just a place to buy Two Buck Chuck and packaged nuts.  Trader Joe is my friend.

Growing up in Encino, California, I thought Trader Joe’s was just a little funky store where my mother bought wine for parties.  No one really talked much about the place in those days and certainly no one referred to it as TJ’s.  By the time my sister moved back to Encino as an adult in the early 1990s, I was nearby in Sherman Oaks and living as a single woman.  I became a Trader Joe’s groupie.

Back then, there were moments of sadness and frustration that my life was not heading in the direction I’d hoped.  I wasn’t meeting the right man, work felt stagnant.  If I stopped by my Trader Joe’s before heading back to my apartment after work and found a parking spot with little trouble, I sensed the evening, nee the future, just might be okay.  When I stepped into the store, chances were good I’d see a familiar face and we’d exchange pleasantries over the free sample.  I’d have a shot of coffee and then roam the aisles, maybe come upon a new item.  More often than not, I’d opt for an old standby like Chicken Gyoza which, when prepared and consumed that night with tangy dipping sauce, would comfort me like an old blanket.  Imagine my sadness then that my sister in Encino experienced none of this.

Most everyone I know, including me, assumes that part of the Trader Joe’s business model is to have parking lots so small that customers come in shifts so as not to overcrowd the store at any given time.  My shift is currently Tuesdays at 10:30am and never on weekends.  The Encino store, undoubtedly one of the first, has approximately six and a half parking spaces, so even the staggered shift system doesn’t work.  Unless you walk or take the bus, chances are you won’t be able to park unless you’re one of those hateful persons who always finds a space and has perpetual good fortune.  My sister won’t push her otherwise good luck.

The past twelve years or so have been relatively kind to me.  I met a man and we eventually settled in Studio City where, shortly after arriving, a large Vendome Liquor store converted into a Trader Joe’s.  I had three babies who I occasionally forgot to feed, so I’d pop into TJ’s and we’d head straight for the free tasting.  They tried pot roast before they had teeth and penne arrabiata before they could say, “Mom, that’s spicy!”  To this day, I credit their adventuresome palettes to Joe, the Trader.

Through the years, my friends and I have shared Trader Joe’s “finds”.  We’ve alerted each other when a favorite item is in danger of being discontinued, or a seasonal item has just come in.  During the winter holidays, my cousin and I stock up on Sea Salt Caramels.  She hoards them in her freezer and gives them as hostess gifts.  I invite her over a lot during December and January.  I’ve now lived in this area for so long and my children have attended local schools, so I try not to look my worst on Tuesdays at 10:30am because now I always see someone I know there.  Always.

My Encino sister and I have been close as adults and connect on so many levels.  Still, I’ve always sensed resentment.  She and my brother-in-law would come over for dinner and ask what the delicious dip was next to the crackers.  I’d answer “Bleu Cheese Roasted Pecan Dip from Trader Joe’s” and she’d smile a half smile and look away.  A few winters ago, they both inquired about the smooth, rich coffee I served and I told them it was the Half-Caff blend from Trader Joe’s which I’d grind myself at the store on the “espresso” setting.  I believe my brother-in-law (nominated today for a Daytime Emmy, congrats) even ventured out once or twice to get a can of his own.  But Peanut Butter Filled Pretzels, Kettle Corn, Mandarin Orange Chicken, Sun Dried Tomato Pesto, washed lettuce blends for less than $2 a bag, Chicken Sicilian Sausage, Joe-Joe’s, the ringing bell, the chalkboard signs, the Hawaiian shirts – it brought my cousin and I closer and pushed my sister and I just a little further apart.

Hallelujah Lord, that’s all changed and my sister has seen the light!  Amen and thank you!  She spends half

The TJ's parking lot in Newport Beach. Note the empty spaces on a Sunday afternoon and the ocean view in the distance.

her time now at the house they own near Newport Beach.  On Pacific Coast Highway, between Corona del Mar and Laguna, a Trader Joe’s opened last year with a large parking lot overlooking the ocean.  My sister hasn’t stopped talking about it.  When friends come to visit for the first time, she takes them to TJ’s and then to the beach.  Her Orange County kitchen is now loaded with TJ snacks and staples.  I sense her level of culinary confidence has risen and our relationship is stronger than ever.

Trader Joe’s website includes some great recipes using their products.  I like to sear roast some chicken breasts and then pour their Curry Simmer Sauce over (dry goods) and serve with the Chimchurri Rice (frozen section) and Naan (also in frozen section) for a spicy Indian/Peruvian meal.  I’ll steam some Chicken Shu Mai (frozen) to go with the Mandarin Orange Chicken (frozen), and serve with touch-of-salt Edamame in a shell (frozen) and broccoli spears (refrigerated produce).  I always make my white chicken chili with TJ’s canned White Kidney Beans because they’re only 89¢ each.  My PB and J sandwiches are made strictly with the Raspberry Preserves made with Fresh Raspberries (in a jar, usually near the bread section) and for my “Orzo with almost everything” recipe, I use their White Balsamic Vinegar which I originally couldn’t find anywhere else.

Other than good paper products, my friend Christie swears she finds everything she needs at Trader Joe’s.  She also lives a block away from the one in Toluca Lake (location, location, location).  Don’t grow your own basil?  TJ’s sells a package of the stuff large enough to make a cup of pesto for less than $2.  The large majority of what they sell at TJ’s has no preservatives; you can feel good about your purchases.  Their list of gluten-free items just keeps growing, so my celiac-diseased friends are very, very grateful.  And get this.  They’re not paying me to say anything.  Clearly, I need to work on my own business model

If you haven’t seen Carl’s Fine Films “If I Made a Commercial for Trader Joe’s”, by all means, click here and take a look.  Very funny.

Trader Joe’s opened its first store (under that name) in South Pasadena in 1967 and now has locations in 26 states (and counting).  If you don’t live near one, it’s time to move.  If you’re a groupie like me, please leave your TJ comments and suggestions below so that all of us may enjoy your discoveries.

Tomorrow: strata using Trader Joe’s ingredients

Smiling helps.

…finding a pencil

…pizza with sausage

…telling the time

Charlie Brown really was a blockhead if he thought happiness was as simple as all that.  It’s so complicated, if you were to diagram how to achieve bliss, it would look worse than the Afghanistan Stability chart pictured here.

“Are you happy?”

It’s a loaded question.  Once in awhile, I question my level of contentment. Mostly I just live my life and try to get through a day without yelling at my children too much.  What inspired me to visit the subject on Daily Cup of Jo was little Miss T.  A few weeks ago, I was riding in the car with the girls and my mother-in-law.  My daughters call her Oma (please do not ask why).  She was sitting beside me in the passenger seat, having a pleasant conversation with Miss T in the back, talking about my nieces who moved from Pennsylvania to New York, started new schools last year and moved into a different house.  In regard to her 11-year-old cousin, Miss T asked simply, “Is she happy?”  Miss T is an old soul.  Her seven-year-old mind often contemplates and embraces ideas that are far more profound than the average first grader.  Or perhaps it’s a simple case of “out of the mouths of babes”.  Regardless, I heard the question and have been thinking about it ever since.

More than anything, I wonder how important it is to be happy.  It’s pleasant, sure.  The alternative is less so.  But is it essential?  Wendy and I barely spoke heading up our never-ending hill this morning but when we reached the top and I caught my breath, I asked her to help me dissect the happiness conundrum by giving me her take.

Wendy felt strongly that happiness in her life comes from an absence of angst.  The more stress-free her days are, the more she smiles.  She’s been through a lot the past eighteen months, what with TBI Marco and everything his recovery has entailed.  She’s a caregiver now, more than she is a lawyer or a wife or a sister/daughter/friend.  Similar to how I feel as a mother, her happiness stems in large part from the growth she sees in the person for whom she’s caring.  My three girls are turning out okay (so far).  That makes me happy.  This morning, Marco had sustained moments when he seemed to be back fully to his former self.  That makes Wendy happy.

“Happiness comes of the capacity to feel deeply, to enjoy simply, to think freely, to risk life, to be needed.” – Storm Jameson

And then there’s Storm, getting all philosophical about the subject and hitting a few nails on the head.  I am genuinely full of good cheer when experiencing all she has suggested.  I’m also content on a rainy Sunday, reading the New York Times in front of a fire while a football game plays on the flat screen.  It’s fleeting, though, if the bills aren’t paid, the girls are being ignored, I’m three days behind on DailyCupofJo, the kitchen floor is filthy and the carpet needs to be vacuumed.  In other words, I find great joy in having ducks all in a row.  Also, Wendy and I both agree that if a person’s happiness comes at the expense of another’s, that’s not good.

Rielle Hunter.  It’s not her given name.  That would be Lisa Jo Druck.  And for the record, I’m generally uncomfortable slamming someone personally who I don’t know at all, but I can’t help myself.  I watched her interview with Oprah from last week and she invites loathing.  Her ridiculous, narcissistic banter was hypocritical, inconsistent and just downright icky.  If she used the words “authentic self” one more time, I was going to throw something at the television that wasn’t mine and mess up my sister’s pristine bedroom (you wanna talk about ducks in a row?)  Rielle will take no responsibility for hurting Elizabeth Edwards.  According to Hunter, Edwards is on the hook for her own reaction to what transpired even if she was kept in the dark about most of it.  I agree that, in the end, we’re all accountable for how we feel about something, but much of the time, that responsibility needs to be shared.  Blame, in fact, is often necessary.  John Edwards renewed his vows with his wife knowing that Hunter was pregnant with his child.  Then he lied and said it wasn’t his.  He and Hunter deserve each other but I can’t fathom how happiness can come at the expense of so many, including two young children and a baby.  They didn’t kill anyone.  There are far worse individuals out there, but they don’t go on Oprah at precisely the time I’m thinking about writing a piece on joy.

Happiness is…

…having a sister

…sharing a sandwich

…getting along

Back at Wendy’s house this morning, I asked Marco how he would define happiness.  He barely gave it a thought before saying it’s living the life you want to live. Well that’s a little easier said than done, sir, but there’s truth in that idea.  Some decide for certain what their life is supposed to be and pursue it at all costs (bad), while others let it unfold gently and elasticize themselves, moving this way when the circumstances allow, and that way when they don’t (good).  They’re confident in the journey and I admire them the most.  What’s their secret?  I’d be happy in their shoes.

Marco’s therapist showed up and said matter-of-factly that happiness is selfless kindness.  Or maybe she said selfish kindness.  She doesn’t like Rielle Hunter either.  There was unspoken agreement that happiness most definitely involves love, as much given as received.  That’s an Olympic sized no-brainer, right?

The Constitution only guarantees the American people the right to pursue happiness.  You have to catch it yourself. – Ben Franklin

How awesome is our Constitution?

What a wonderful life I’ve had!  I only wished I’d realized it sooner.  – Colette

There’s something to keep in mind.

Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn’t know you left open.  –John Barrymore

Brilliant.

I’m over one thousand words now on this post, and I’d hardly call it definitive.  Rather, consider it food for thought and I’ll leave you with my favorite quote of all on this very complex subject.

If you want others to be happy, practice compassion.  If you want to be happy, practice compassion. –Dalai Lama

Wendy and I, sadly, are still slightly stiff from our relay marathon last weekend, so we ran flat through the neighborhood this morning.  One of the first talking points to come up was a mutual, overriding feeling that the Carmel weekend, year after year, is over much too soon.  If you were to look up the term heaven on earth, next to it you’d find the words “Big Sur – Carmel”.  The rugged coastline, the ocean, the trees, the air.  I’m lightheaded just thinking about it, which led me to this proposal:

If I can get enough individuals reading Daily Cup of Jo, I might be able to turn it into a lucrative endeavor.  Of course, my primary goal is to entertain, enlighten and inspire but let’s set those aside for a sec.  After paying some essential bills, perhaps I could put a down payment on a small cottage nestled among the cypress off Highway 1.  It would be big enough for guests, as you’d all be welcome any time except when I don’t want you there.  I’d create a mini Chautauqua Institution and offer seminars and round table discussions where we would attempt to solve problems big and small, internationally and local.  There would also be wine and cheese and crusty bread, and a roaring fire during the colder months.  Whaddya say?  Are you willing to copy and paste my site wherever you can for the good of us all?

I’m shameless, and kinda pathetic.  I apologize.  Let’s get back to the task at hand.

Last week, speaking to my brother-in-law, I took my own stab at a Goldman Sachs-football betting analogy, thinking it couldn’t possibly be as simple and obvious as I described.  Yesterday, Missouri Senator Claire McCaskill, in Washington for the Senate hearings, attempted the same.  I like her but I don’t think it went so well and I’m bitter at her for trumping me.  Here’s my take, more simplified than hers:

Imagine I’m the bookie.  It’s Saturday.  Mary gives me money, placing a bet, because she believes the New York Jets are going to win their game on Sunday.  Ricky also gives me money, betting that the Jets are going to lose.  Lots of people are giving me money on this game and for each bet, I take a fee.  The Jets lose.  Ricky and everyone else who bet against the Jets make a profit.  I pay them with the money I got from Mary (and others) who bet the Jets were going to win.  Back up now and imagine that I have inside knowledge that Mark Sanchez, the Jets quarterback, just drank a beer laced with Drano.  There’s a great chance that without Sanchez, the Jets won’t win.  I still take Mary’s money (and the bets from all her friends) and never tell a soul what I know about Sanchez.  I go to another bookie and place wads of cash on the Jets to lose.  They do lose, remember?  I reap profits from the bets I’ve taken AND from betting against the Jets myself.  That doesn’t sound nice, does it?  I shouldn’t have taken Mary’s bet.  Or if I did, I should’ve told her about the beer and the Drano, right?  That’s the ethical thing to do, yes?  Goldman Sachs is accused of being unethical.  Instead of bookies and bets, they’re dealing in CDOs (collateralized debt obligations) and lots of other acronyms.  It’s still Vegas, any way you look at it.

If you watched any of the hearings yesterday (C-SPAN carries them live), you’d conclude that the Goldman Sachs guys are guilty, guilty, guilty.  When Senator Carl Levin (D – Michigan) repeatedly asked Goldman CEO Daniel Sparks a very simple question and Sparks continued to act as if Levin was speaking Croatian, all I could figure is that Levin is taking an anti-depressant which increases the serotonin level in his brain allowing him to stay calm in the face of indescribable folly while preventing his head from exploding.  At no time did I get the sense that the Goldman fellas were about to admit any wrongdoing.  I have no idea what will happen to them but I know why we should care.

On Monday, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid took a vote for cloture, meaning he wanted to try and get sixty votes on the Senate floor to allow for limited debate on the financial reform bill before a vote is taken on the bill itself.  He failed. Republicans are concerned about an issue involving a $50 billion dollar rainy day fund in the event of another bank catastrophe, paid for by the banks themselves, and Democrats have offered to revisit the provision.  I’ve read pages about it and still don’t understand how Republicans view it as another potential tax-payer bailout, which I know we all can’t stomach again.  What concerns me most is the Republican claim that the proposed regulations on derivatives (the CDOs, the credit default swaps, etc.) are too far-reaching and will be devastating to the economy.  Huh?  These same derivatives are among the very products that led to the financial meltdown in the first place.

Republican concerns that outside investors (i.e. China) will take their business elsewhere (countries with less regulation) is sort of goofy.  How can they defend a marketplace that sells a product that is at the very least, faulty, at worst, deadly?  In the GOP’s defense, Senators Chris Dodd and Congressman Barney Frank, behind the language and spirit of the financial reform bill, hardly have a history of looking out solely for the best interests of Dick and Jane.  But it appears that, even after three failed attempts at cloture, Harry Reid is going to eventually find the votes to begin debate, and soon.  Unlike healthcare, there WILL be some bipartisanship involved, if for no other reason than the November midterm elections.

The American public will not, should not, cannot accept the financial services status quo in this country.  And if anyone believes it simply won’t happen again, let’s recall the dot com bubble of the oh-so-very-recent 90s, when venture capitalists and Dick and Jane participated in the Ponzi scheme of Silicon Valley and millionaires, on paper, became a dime a dozen.  California is still reeling from the shenanigans of state politicians who believed there was no limit to how high a stock price could go on a website that offered no product and had no revenue.

I’m up to one thousand eighty-nine words now on this post and that’s too many.  Let me just close with this: if all the American public does is speak up and steer the debate, it will be more than we did while this whole mess was going on and it may just end well, or at least better than it’s been the past five years.  We, the average citizen, the plebe, thought things were too good to be true.  Turns out we were right.

Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll get back to entertaining y’all.  I’ll be in the kitchen.

This morning with Wendy, during Mile One, I brought up someone I knew who was having difficulty getting a home loan.  It led to this discussion through Mile Four:

Several years ago, Wendy and I used to look around our neighborhoods and marvel at the for sale signs and the prices being asked for a 1700 square foot 3/2 house (three bedrooms, 2 baths).  What sold in 1998 for $400K was going for $1.2 million in 2005-06.  No one we knew personally had gotten a raise at work relative to the increase in housing prices, so we assumed people had been given terrible advice and subsequently lost their minds.  Someone told these individuals that they could afford the risk of interest-only loans.  In a few years, if they couldn’t pay the astronomical mortgage that would come due, they could just sell their houses because the value of their home was going to continue to climb.  In other words, the 1550 sq. ft. cottage that they just paid $1.1 million for was going to sell for $2 million in five years.

Wendy and I knew this was absurd.  We weren’t guessing.  We knew.  You barely have to go beyond middle school math to understand the equation.  If someone can afford no more than a thousand dollar a month mortgage payment today, and you saddle them with a mortgage payment that will be ten times that much in a few years, chances are GREAT that the person will not be able to pay back the loan.  Most incomes do not increase tenfold in three years, wouldn’t you agree?

Alan Greenspan, former head of the Fed, has recently said he and his people could not have seen the resulting financial meltdown coming, nor done anything in hindsight to stop it.

I don’t know how many inspectors went into Iraq earlier this decade looking for weapons of mass destruction.  There was a gaggle, okay?  Before 9/11, many more after 9/11, they all came out and said, “Can’t find any.  I looked in between the couch cushions.  I even checked suspicious nuclear-looking sites and couldn’t find a thing.”  They were told to keep looking.  Still, as much as they thought Saddam and his cronies were shifty, they couldn’t actually put their hands on anything.  W and his neo-cons decided to listen to a guy they named Curveball, who was actually an Iraqi living in Germany.  Curveball, though he couldn’t actually prove a thing, told Bushie’s peeps what they wanted to hear.

During this time, Wendy and I read the news, listened to the experts and noted the facts.  We concluded that not only were there no WMD in Iraq, we shouldn’t let beady-eyed Saddam, the leader of a country only slighter bigger than the state of California, with an army who rolled over and played dead within twelve minutes of our invasion in 1991, get our collective panties in such a bunch.  Unfortunately, we did not have a direct line to the White House.

iCasualties.org now counts 4390 killed in Iraq and that’s just from the United States.

For all intents and purposes, I’m a suburban housewife and mother.  Wendy is a partner in a law firm but does not specialize in real estate nor know any more about how the CIA operates than I do.  We’re just a couple of chicks who form opinions based on common sense and instinct.  I’m not even going to begin to tell you how well-schooled Alan Greenspan is.  And he may have been a C student but George W. Bush graduated from Yale.  They’re supposed to be smarter than we are.  Time and time again, we think everyone in these positions of authority and power must surely know what they’re doing, or at least know more than we.  Well, guess what?  That’s not always true.

Wendy and I have decided to start our own firm.  It’s name?  Gut Check Consulting.  Our slogan?  “We have a feeling we know what’s going on.”   Here are just a few things we’re knocking around that we discussed during Miles Five and Six:

Timothy Geithner is in over his head.  Justin Beiber is actually 9 years old.  Sandra Bullock and Elin Nordregen will not grow old with their current husbands.  Twitter won’t be around in five years.  Starbucks VIA instant coffee won’t be around in five months.

I could spend all afternoon on this, but we can’t keep giving it away for free.