Day 64 of The 365 Day Experiment. Camping With Bad Santa.

I grew up with a dad who went through a Native American phase in the 70’s. Like hardcore, build-a-ginormous-teepee-in-our-backyard-and-take-us-canoeing-17-miles-down-the-Saco-river-every-summer phase. I give my mother a lot of credit for putting up with this period of time.  Looking at her from adult eyes in retrospect, this is a testament to how much she loves my father.  There is nothing about this phase that speaks to my mother’s personality in any way.

Those canoeing trips where paired with hardcore camping.  There were no camp grounds for the Luconi family.  We would paddle halfway down the river - rather, my parents would, because my dad was convinced my brother and I weren’t responsible enough as young kids to do it yet. (So not only was it seriously boring to sit in a canoe for two days straight, but I still have major baggage from being told I wasn’t capable of yet being “paddle worthy."   They are wonderful people so I am treading carefully - but the fact that I have raised the fact that I have lingering issues from not being able to paddle a f’ing canoe should be an indication I have parental challenges stemming from childhood.  But seriously, don’t the majority of us?!)

Anyway, we’d pull up at a sandbar, and set up camp.  No amenities.  No nothing.  My mom would attempt to make a gourmet meal over a campfire; why I have no idea.  No hamburgers and hotdogs for us like a normal family.  She made something called “Student Ragu."  I can’t remember what was in it, but by the name, it had to be a bunch of cheap ingredients put together in a pot, and I’ve got to imagine my brother and I were not happy.

Zoom ahead 30 years.  We decided we wanted our kids to experience the joys of camping too.  Aside from the my “lack of paddle syndrome," I love being outside, and had many great experiences post those 70’s family weekends going white water rafting and camping with friends.  So I imagined my kids would probably think it was a blast, too.

We decided to start off easy with them.  We found a campground in NH, where they had toilets.  We figured it would be easy to ease them in to outdoor life if they didn’t have to pee in the woods their first time out.  The place we found wasn’t far, had great reviews, and looked great.  We made a reservation, packed up our gear, and took off for the night.

We arrived to find out that the “event" at the campground that night was a visit from Santa.  Santa in July.  You could purchase gifts from the gift store at the camp check in area and Santa would deliver them to your children.  This isn’t exactly the camping I pictured, but I quickly bought my kids some crap from the store - which equated to bug spray and marshmallows because there wasn’t much to choose from - and went to set up camp.

Clearly we didn’t do our research thoroughly.  We were the only tent in the entire campground.  The place was littered with RVs.  And name plates nailed to trees.  And satellite dishes.  And tiny flower gardens and strings of lights for decorations.  These people lived here.  This was their summer residence.  

As we emptied the car and lit our fire to make lunch, we watched golf carts whizz by.  People greeting each other, dropping in on their neighbors like people do.  Except their neighbors lived in movable homes in this so-called campground.

We took off, took a hike, and tried to give the kids some semblance of a “camping experience."  When we returned at dusk, it was time for the Santa experience.  The entire campground gathered for this event.  For a woman who prides herself on being open-minded, that night I was not.  Parents were drunk, and their kids were running loose all over the place.  I hate the label “white trash," but if it was ever to be used, this was the time.  And then in rolled Santa.  Have you seen the movie Bad Santa with Billy Bob Thornton?  I think he was modeled after this guy.  He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer while hauling kids onto his lap.  My kids avoided him, grabbed their lousy gifts I had purchased with an outstretched hand and ran back to us.  Mama didn’t raise no dummies.

We headed back to camp with my kids asking why Santa was out in July, and why he was camping, to which we had no good explanations. We drifted off to sleep to the sounds of the Harley guys arriving late, and teenagers wandering from camp site flirting and looking to hook up.

We’ve been camping since then, and it got infinitely better.  But the dramatic difference between my dad’s version of camping and that first experience with my kids and “bad Santa" never ceases to crack me up.  No matter what the experience though, laying out under the night sky, snuggled in a puffy sleeping bag, and spending time with people you enjoy is always a good time and delivers some memorable experiences. 

Day 63 of The 365 Day Experiment. One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

They say there is a fine line between brilliance and insanity, and I have seen that first hand.  I helped one of my best friends commit himself to a mental institution several years ago.

Out of complete respect for this person, I want to be careful with how many details I share.  But I will share the highlights with this story.

He is legitimately one of the most gifted thinkers I’ve ever met.  Not just book smart, but musically gifted as well.  And a huge heart to complete the package.  He and I were great friends.  We lived near each other in the city. He was the kind of guy that when I was stuck at home with a newborn and a dog in a snowstorm and my husband was traveling, he’d come over to walk my dog and rock the baby so I could have a few minutes to crash.  He was that guy.

And then, out of nowhere, he disappeared.  Both physically and metaphorically.  He stopped responding to messages, and stopped showing up to work.  I was nervous.  And then his dad called me.  He too was nervous.  More than nervous.  He asked me to find a way to break into his apartment and find out if he was alive.  I will never forget that phone call.  And I will never forget how sick to my stomach I felt that entire few block walk I felt.

I got into the apartment.  I won’t share what I found, but it wasn’t good.  My friend was not in good shape, but at least he was willing to talk a bit.  He agreed to get help.

The next day he checked in to a facility frequented by some of the world’s most famous mentally ill people.  He thought that was great.  We waited a few days, and then another friend and I went to visit him together.  I felt like I was visiting a prisoner, given the amount of security checkpoints we had to go through before we could see him.

It was depressing.  More than depressing.  They had taken away his shoelaces, computer cords, razor; anything that would allow him to potentially hurt himself.  It was hard to stay upbeat when the whole thing terrified me.

And then he was out.  He was treated for his disorder, and given appropriate medication to help him.  And miraculously, he was ok.  He’s married now, and has a great job.  He’s survived.

He’s taught me to never, ever give up on people.  We all have “stuff."  Maybe our stuff isn’t this dramatic or heavy, but we still all have something.  And certainly mental illness is a toughie.  It can reek havoc on the individual, and everyone around him who cares.  But with the right treatment, meds, and dedication, sometimes, things really do have a happy ending.

Day 62 of The 365 Day Experiment. Like A Prayer.

I am not religious. My parents were both raised Catholic, but stopped going to church after they were married. As a result, they did not raise my brother or I with any formal religious training or beliefs.  I did not grow up believing in any formal notion of a higher power.

I spent my youth questioning why my friends were attending services that they didn’t quite understand or believe in. I found that to be the norm, rather than the rule, most of the time. It made me sad that my friends would be “forced" to go to services on the weekend, rather than look forward to it. If it wasn’t something you got something out of, than why do it, I thought? Of course, as they got older, many chose for themselves. I respect my friends who attend their places of worship now because they truly find meaning in it - not because it is “the right thing to do."

Growing up without that foundation, I became a seeker. I took advantage of attending a variety of services with friends as I got older, to see what I could learn, and what I was missing out on.  I still love going to christenings, bar mitzvahs, etc. if for no other reason than to peer into worlds I have such limited knowledge about. I think to be a good world citizen, it’s important to be educated about the world around me, and people’s different views. And it is important for me that my children build that understanding too, even if they don’t share the beliefs.  It’s vital to me that all of us are open minded, tolerant and have good a good moral compass - even if we don’t pray to a defined being as other do.

Over the years from all that listening and learning, I’ve formed my own ideals about right and wrong, doing good, giving back, forgiveness and having an open heart. In essence, I formed my own notion of what religion means to me. It just does not involved me sitting in a building every week. Crazy as it might sound, many of its ideals were based on everything I learned about Nelson Mandela. While our lives could not be more different, he is a man I aspire to be like every day.

I remember learning of Mr. Mandela’s imprisonment while I was in college, and his release was imminent.  As I was a student at the time, in a city filled with political news, it was impossible not to pay attention.  But as I paid attention, I was drawn into his incredible story.  How this man could be imprisoned for 27 years during the years of apartheid, and then subsequently forgive his captors post-release, I was in awe. And then to gain the respect and lead that country as its president is just exceptional.  He’s gone on to be one of the most recognized advocates for peace and equality in the world.  And he’s an incredible example that one person can in fact make a difference.

And now that his life is coming to an end, he has weighed heavy on my mind this week. I have revisited my favorite books about him, and made a donation in his honor. The way he chose to live his life - with courage, wisdom, hope, love and with some flaws too, that speaks to me. That’s someone to admire. And while no mere mortal is a deity, he is a tangible example of what a better place the world would be if differences would be put aside and understanding took center stage.

I’m sure to those devout among you, my above statements may sound naive or even offensive. But to someone who grew up with nothing formal, I’ve gravitated to the real and tangible.  I’ll never be sure if I missed out by not having grown up with formal religion. However,  what I’ve gained from learning from my diverse group of friends, and taking lessons from people like Mr. Mandela…I think I’m doing ok.

Day 61 of The 365 Day Experiment. Taking Risks With My Heart.

Even when I was a kid, I was never afraid to follow my heart.  My first serious "boyfriend" had my heart in seventh grade, and we dated on and off for three years.  After he moved to another school and we split up, I moved on from relationship to relationship. I never dated, ever.  I ended up with people because they were typically good friends first, and those friendships morphed into more.

I've never had a guy ask me for my number and call me to ask me out, because I've never given anyone my number. And yet, now that's the world I'm facing. 

I don't want to date.  I miss the notion of being married.  I miss the comfort of a stable relationship.  I miss coming home at night, knowing that you have "your person," who's able to connect with you on your day.  To share a laugh with.  To snuggle up with.  To just be with.  And that's gone.

And interestingly, I have no desire to get remarried.  Even though it's ending in divorce, I think I had a pretty successful marriage.  I had 17 years with a man I loved, and we are raising two amazing kids.  And we are managing to do it fairly well together, even though we are apart.  Because I had that, I have no desire for a marital "do-over."  I do, however, wish for a relationship upgrade.  I would love to find someone to share my life who is compatible with the 2013 version of me - not the 1995 version.  That person has changed and grown up significantly.

It's hard to watch the person you were with for so long move on so quickly.  But I guess we all have our process, and mine is different.  So I'm trying to move on too.  And I will be honest, it's really hard.  Way harder than I anticipated.  When I was married, I didn't sit around fantasizing about being with other men.  But I did think, "Wouldn't it be awesome if you could recapture the magic of a first kiss?"  That incredible feeling when everything is so new, and you can't help but get excited?  Well, now I get the chance to actually do that, it's not so great.  Don't get me wrong - I'm having some fun for certain.  But the thought of putting my heart out there again, that scares me beyond belief.

  

I work with a younger group of people.  Many of them are late 20's/early 30's, and just contemplating marriage.  A number of them have asked me questions about my own, and asked for words of wisdom.  Interestingly, most of them have been men.  It's so intriguing to me, that while the women seem so focused on meeting "the one" and the planning a fairy tale wedding, the guys are fixated on what comes after.  The real stuff, like keeping it alive a few years into it.  Frankly, I think the guys are smart to be thinking about it.  A beautiful wedding and a great party are the easy part - it's keeping things fresh, growing together and keeping yourselves connected as a couple once the kids arrive that makes marriage real work.

And now here I sit, on the "scene."  I'm not doing it the 2013 version of the traditional way - meeting people in bars, or online.  In fact, I'm not doing much of anything, because it's not a priority.  I've been spending time with someone really interesting, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't scare the hell out of me.  There's so many factors now to consider, it's not nearly as carefree as a married person would like to imagine if they got the proverbial hall pass.

One thing is for sure though.  I've taken risks - measured, calculated risks, my whole life.  Many of those risks were the result of walking through an unexpected open door, and finding something pretty interesting on the other side.  And sometimes, I just found an empty closet.  But you never know unless you take that risk and open it.  

So, with hand on the doorknob, I'm ready for this next stage of my life.  And while I don't aspire to ever remarry, I sure hope to find someone special to share my life with.  As much as I love my kids, it's just not the same.  

Day 60 of The 365 Day Experiment. Summer, Summer, Summertime.

Summer is FINALLY here. We new Englanders pay an awfully stiff price for two, maybe two and a half good months of pristine weather. But, boy, do we max them out when they get here.

This last three nights of rain notwithstanding, I cannot wait for my kids to get out of school this Friday, marking this official beginning of summer in my household.  For the past several years, we’ve marked that day with a “double sleepover" with two sisters, friends from their earliest years.  Which got me thinking…what does this summer have in store?

I’ll be candid - this summer is going to be different than the summers I’ve known for the last two decades or so.  For the last 20+ years, I have gone to the Cape and spent nearly every weekend at my parents’ house, enjoying the beauty of the ocean and the relaxation of just getting away and spending time with friends and family.  My parents now have their beautiful home on the market - and my place of refuge is gone.  We will only spend a few days there during the Fourth of July there this year.  Gone are the days of taking my dad’s boat to Martha’s Vineyard every Sunday morning for breakfast at the Black Dog.  Gone are watching my kids fish off the dock with E.  Gone are all those weekend summer memories my kids have grown up with.

And so we will make new ones.  The three of us.  We’ve got concerts to look forward to and a big trip to Italy planned.  They’ve got special time planned with their dad which I know they are looking forward to, as well as some cool camps.  And for the first time in their lives, I’ll be without my kids for an entire week.  I’m both looking forward to the break and terribly sad at the same time.

I love summer, and I love change.  And as this summer approaches, I will remind myself I thrive on change.  This summer will feel completely different than all those I can remember in recent past, but I am going to do everything in my power to make it the best one yet.  Bring on the sun.  

Day 59 of The 365 Day Experiment. Hi, My Name is Christina...

and I am NOT an alcoholic.  But by the time I entered college, I had already watched a number of my high school friends struggle with drug and alcohol problems.  I had been fortunate enough to pull away from that downward spiral a few years earlier, triggered by an event that I’m saving for Day 100. That circumstance served as one of the most significant events in my life, so it deserves a milestone post.  But I digress…

By the time I entered college in DC, I was done with the party scene. While my new friends were testing their boundaries, I chose the polar opposite direction.  I chose not to drink, at all, for my entire first two years at school.

Looking back on this choice, I’m floored I made it. And stuck to it. It was prompted by two things. Initially, as a psychology major, I was pretty convinced I wanted to be a drug and alcohol counselor. In essence, I wanted to find a way to help my old friends and people like them.  The other reason was made at a far more gut level. I met a guy my first week of school who would become my boyfriend. He had entered college as a pre-med student - and a recovering alcoholic.  He was brilliant, kind and funny.  For whatever reason,  I chose to support him. If he wasn’t going to drink, neither was I.

I spent 2-3 nights a week hiking the two mile walk from my campus to Georgetown to AA meetings. In a city filled with violence, this was a safe route to walk, and provided a meeting I felt comfortable in.   This meeting of choice was filled with a combination of doctors, politicians, and a whole host of “regular people."I was struck by how their different backgrounds dissolved - at least for an hour a day - by the commonality they all shared.  

I sat and listened, and absorbed.  I tried to understand their stories, their addiction, their tales of rock bottom. I’ve never been in a position of having to listen and not comment or offer an opinion for such a long period of time, ever. For those two years, I learned and built theories; creating points of view for my future career.

I drank bad coffee and ate stale donuts and sat in smoke filled rooms with people who had given up one addiction while actively feeding another. I cried with them as they summoned their courage to share their stories of losing their families and jobs, or worse, because of what drinking and drugs had done to their lives.  I cheered them on as they collected their milestone chips marking their hard-earned sobriety.  I did everything except speak.  I couldn’t.  I wasn’t one of them.

And then, two years in, I had an epiphany.  During the middle of a meeting, I was listening to someone talk about one of the struggles he was facing - and bam!  I tuned out.  I realized I did not have the capacity to listen, and more importantly, empathize, with these people day in and day out anymore. This could never be my career.  I was done. 

I walked out of that meeting, and never looked back.  My boyfriend and I had broken up a few months before, so I had no ties left.  I felt like I was leaving a group of friends whose deepest, most intimate secrets I was familiar with, and yet whose last names I never knew.  And I never said goodbye, and I never saw them again.  Because I was not one of them.  My presence would not be missed.

I went back to school my junior year and made up for lost time.  I led a more traditional college experience.  I hung out with people without tragedy in their lives.  I actually went to fraternity parties and enjoyed drinking like a normal college student.  I had fun. 

I may have passed over a career in counseling, but I never got past the desire to want to help people with addiction issues.  Some of my childhood friends have moved on to live happy, full sober lives.  Some haven’t.  Last year, I lost a childhood friend after a long fought struggle.  Last year, a young person I know was battling a drinking problem.  He is a great person, with a great future ahead of him.  I saw all of that potential in front of him - the promising career, the relationship, the life he wanted for himself - about to crumble.  And I couldn’t help myself.  I became a one-woman intervention, and became the counselor I decided I would never become.  Because I did in fact have the empathy.  I was grateful to know that about myself.

To my shock, he chose to listen to me.  I found him a temporary sponsor - another friend of mine who had been through what he was about to go through. We found him a meeting.  And he found hope.  And he has been sober since that day.   

I was not meant to be a counselor.  I don’t have the stamina to just listen and not attempt to solve the problem - or to just listen and guide people to determine appropriate counsel.  But to know that I was able to help that one guy, on that one day, made those two years of trudging to Georgetown worth it.  I am so incredibly happy for him. 

Day 58 of The 365 Day Experiment. Hamsters Can't Fly.

Growing up, my family always had a dog. And because my brother and I wanted our own pets to care for, we each had hamsters too.

I’m still unclear on the appeal of these little creatures, but it could have had something to do with the fact that they were small, furry, and they allowed me to be a 10 year old badass. I can probably trace this back to one of my first acts of rebellion - choosing a pet in large part because I knew it would irritate my mother.

My first hamster, Potsie, (named for the character on Happy Days, of course) lived a long, happy life, dying ultimately from an inner ear infection. I attempted to nurse him back to health with an eye dropper of medicine each day, but found him stiff as a board in his cage less than a week after his diagnosis.  My dad buried him in a tennis ball can underneath a tree outside my window.

My second hamster didn’t live nearly as glorious a life. Olivia lasted only a few months before she scaled the top of her squeaky wheel and broke out of her cage like she was Eastwood in Escape from Alcatraz. Unfortunately, unlike Clint and that successful escape, she made a wrong turn and ended up crawling into the baseboards and dying in the wall. Decaying hamsters smell absolutely horrible.

Zoom ahead a few decades, and my mini-me daughter decided about she wanted a hamster. I caved easily, remembering the joy Potsie once brought me.  I also thought it would teach her responsibility.  I was wrong.  She lost interest in helping me clean that cage every Saturday morning after week two, declaring simply, “Dudley’s cage smells weird.”  No shit, Gianna.  At the end of the day, Mommy had a new hamster named Dudley that lived in Gia’s room.  I’m sure my mom was chuckling, thinking, “payback is a bitch, Chris.”

Dudley had a pretty good life.  Unlike 70’s era hamsters who lived in rectangular tanks with metal wheels, cedar shavings and maybe a toilet paper roll for fun if they were lucky, millennial hamsters reside in phat habitats.  Dudley lived in a multi-story, multi-colored unit.  The “bedding” comes in multiple color choices, and various levels of puffiness. There are different varieties of food, and other an insane number of toy options for them.  Thankfully, Dudley was low maintenance and was quite content with his standard issue wheel and basic needs.

When Gia did take interest in Dudley, it was typically when we fed him.  We loved to watch him pick out his favorite items out of his sunflower seed medley mix, and jam as much as possible into his cheek pouches before he’d make the trek upstairs in his hamster condo, dump his stash into a hole, and then go back and repeat the process.  I’m not sure who he thought was going to steal these seeds, but he was maniacal about it.  So Gia got a fun idea about feeding him.

She thought if he liked “special items,” like the dried corn pieces in his mix, than he might like something fresh, like a piece of apple, for example. So one night after dinner, she cut off a little piece of her Granny Smith and put it into his cage.  We both marveled at how fast he pounced on it and gobbled it up.   We then said goodnight to Dudley, I tucked Gia in, and all was ok.  Or so I thought. 

I woke the next morning and went downstairs in the dark with my dog to let him out.  He stopped in the front hall, sniffing at something on the floor. I couldn’t figure out what he was going nuts over - so I switched on the light, and there I found Dudley.  Dead on the first floor.

Apparently Dudley decided to do a Peter Pan leap off my second floor.  The best I can retrace his last moments, this adventurous little guy was on a sugar high from the apple.  He escaped from his cage, and survived the drop from his condo on top of Gia’s dresser to her carpeted floor.  Things got ugly when he then scampered out of her room, and headed towards the hallway.  He made a stop in the hallway overlooking first floor entrance way, got curious, and thought he could fly.  He could not. 

Not wanting to traumatize my daughter with the “Dudley is dead” news, we had a brief parental conversation about next steps.  We decided to sneak the dead little guy back into his house and leave him there to make him appear as if he was sleeping.  I would tell Gia when she got home from school that he died in his sleep.

I had removed him by the time she got home (for the life of me, I can’t remember what we did with him, which is really disturbing) and I sat down to tell her what happened.  Like with most bits of bad news, she was unfazed, she met the announcement of her pet’s death with “poor Dudley.” And that was that.  No tears, no drama.

When I told her a few months ago the “real story,” she laughed. She was grateful she wasn’t the one who found him dead, but thought it was funny he tried to “fly.”  Most adults laugh at the “hamster who thought he was Peter Pan” story, but I wasn’t sure if my kid would.  I can’t decide if she is truly the most well adjusted kid ever, as she takes almost every piece of news in stride, or if she is just a little twisted.  Maybe both.  EIther way, this is definitively my kid.

This weekend she asked if she could get another hamster. Fantastic.

Day 57 of The 365 Day Experiment. Zen and The Art of The Wooden Spoon

Someone once called me “the bad Italian” because I love to cook, but I have little interest in eating much of the food I prepare.  In my culture, eating goes far beyond sustenance. It is food that brings together family and friends after a long day.  Italians will spend long hours together at meal time, taking their time to enjoy not just the food, but each other’s company as well.

Unlike the drive-through, order-in world we Americans have grown accustomed to and treat as the norm, in Italy it’s recognized as a time to kick back and relax.   Here, it’s viewed as a time saver to order in Chinese food and check the food box off our check list, and then pat ourselves on the back for having saved a few precious minutes from the prep time, cooking and cleaning up. Conversely,  these people literally forget the world around them and are in no hurry to choke down their food. Rather, they use the time to bond, connect and share. Discussion can start in the kitchen during the cooking process, and then linger over their delicious meals.   In our chaotic lives, or at least in mine, I believe there is something to be learned from that.

I was thinking of this recently.  I grew up with this as the norm, with my mom cooking every night, and my dad coming home to have dinner with the family.  We sat at the table and talked about our days.  At the time I often found it annoying, but in retrospect, I am grateful from having grown up that way.  I learned so much from this model.  I come home almost every night to sit down with my daughters, and this is the time we connect, and share information about our days.  It’s amazing what I find out about their lives with this simple sharing of stories, rather than just the cursory, “how was your day,” that frankly would often be so much easier to do.  Even if I am exhausted, I cherish this time with them.  

I learned how to cook from my mom.  She taught me how to make the basics, and that food was an expression of love.  As I got older, my fearless nature entwined with her classic techniques.  It can be witnessed in my attempts to cook without measuring anything.  I tend to like to challenge myself by figuring out what tastes go together and then wing it without tasting it throughout the cooking process to see how it’s coming together.  Most of the time, it pays off.  Most of the time.

I miss this routine in my life.  I used to cook for my husband often, though once we had kids and I was working full time it became harder to do the kind of real cooking I enjoyed except for on weekends.  I loved hosting dinner parties because it gave me a chance to go all out.  To challenge myself to create innovative menus and meals that I thought would say to my guests, “I’m so glad you are here in my home sharing this time with me.”  I would always leave some final work to be done once my guests arrived, because I love how my kitchen is a central gathering place.  I cook, and others stand and nibble, drink, and chat.

My dining room is an extension of the kitchen, painted the color of a Tuscan roof.  There is a giant mural sized photograph on one wall;  a scene from the feast after the Palio held in Siena.  On the surface, it features row after row of people dining together, sharing a meal after this grand event.  Below the surface, it really shows community, and the heart of the Italian food culture.  It’s one of my favorite things in my home.

So, yes, I don’t have a complex palate.  I would be really happy eating a yogurt or a good bowl of strawberries and be pretty happy for the rest of my life.  But the actual art of cooking, and the creative outlet it provides me, that I fully embrace.  And the ability to share that “art” with people I care about, and share time with them catching up on life and laughs - I cherish that.

So if the fact that I don’t love all the food that I make makes me a “bad Italian,” then maybe I should be sleeping with the fishes like Luca Brasi.  But while I’m down there, I’ll probably be searching for some shrimp to scampi.

Day 56 of The 365 Day Experiment. Back in the Summer of 69.

Okay, maybe not 69, but how about 1979?  I was 10 years old without a care in the world.  My summer consisted of swimming lessons in an ice cold pool at the Thoreau Club on Saturday mornings, and riding my bike with my dad to the Village Donut Shop to buy a dozen on Sundays.  I always ate two lemon filled ones.  I think my brother took down 3 Boston Cremes.  I miss those days when calories meant nothing and those two activities equaled the sum total of my filled calendar.

I took a walk this morning, and someone ran by me wearing Coppertone.  I’ll be 90 years old and I’d recognize that intoxicating scent anymore.  It immediately brings me back to my childhood, and time spend on the beach, doing handstands and cartwheels on the beach with my brother. 

After the runner went by, I was immediately flooded with memories of summers past.  Of days were uncomplicated, and my life was as innocent as my daughters as is now.  I would never want to go back in time, but I am so grateful to have such an incredible childhood to reflect on.  Some of my favorite recollections:

- Leaving the house early in the morning, free as a bird to roam the neighborhood, with my mom literally ringing a triangle at the end of the day to call us home for dinner.  No worries about where we were…we were just hanging out in the neighborhood, with our friends, in someone’s yard, having a great time.  Parents never worried about abductions or setting up complicated play dates.  You just played. 

- My brother, his best friend and I holding paid concerts under our band name “The Levi Kids” for our parents and any one who dared show.  Our signature hit was “Hotline” by the The Sylvers.  We were too young to be embarrassed by our brazenness and lack of talent. 

- The summer of 1978, when Grease came out.  I cut the feet off my black tights in an attempt to make them look like Olivia Newton-John’s skin tight black pants, and my girlfriend and I spent countless hours memorizing the entire soundtrack and making up dance moves.  Never went through the Xanadu  or Let’s Get Physical phase…so over her by then.

- The summer I went to horse camp.  I was in love with horses.  I went to horse camp, and promptly got stuck with Aztec, the horse who was blind in one eye.  He stepped on my foot and hurt me badly.  I refused to give him up, because it wasn’t his fault.

- The summer before high school.  For a number of reasons I won’t go into.  I’ll sum it up with saying I got into some stuff.  And I’m glad I did. 

I had an awesome childhood.  And they were filled with fantastic summers.  And I’m going to make this summer just as fantastic.  

Bring on the sun.

Day 55 of The 365 Day Experiment. Bright Spots.

My premonition of a potentially bad day yesterday was sorely underestimated. I walked into what arguably might be my worst day at the office in my 2 1/2 years at the company. At yet, I was able to step back and recognize the few brights spots throughout my cloudiest of days.  Because there are always bright spots if you look for them.

Yesterday’s Bright Spots:

Reading my daughter’s Mother’s Day letter multiple times. (See Day 54).

Eating dinner outside with my kids and hearing them talk about their great days.

Having a really thoughtful friend meet me outside during my only break from work, and just hang out to remove myself from the chaos for a brief moment - in the sunshine.

Taking an extra long, hot shower at the end of the day.  Just because.

Having my younger daughter want to sleep next to me just to snuggle.

Turning out my light before bed, and smiling, knowing today would be a new day.  And with each new day, I find a new door to open, a new opportunity to explore.

And I awoke discovering a door; an idea surfacing from the chaos of yesterday.  And I’m running with it.
Bright spot.

Day 54 of The 365 Day Experiment. The Kind One.

I woke early this morning, with just 5 hours of sleep. This has become my new normal, which I desperately wish wasn’t the case. I thrive on 7 hours, as that seems to be the minimum to keep my headaches at a manageable level. I know I’m in for a tough day physically.

Knowing that, I mentally go where I always go when I know I have a difficult day to face, or significant pain I know I’m going to feel. I pick something really positive in my life, and focus on the joy that brings me. This morning I chose to focus on my oldest daughter.

For people who know me well, they often hear me refer to her as “the kindest person on the planet.” That is not the over dramatization coming from her mother. I’ve heard countless teachers, parents, and friends point that out. More on that in a minute.

She was born almost 7 weeks early, by way of emergency c-section. She was just four pounds and change, had hip dyplasia and a feeding tube. She lived in the intensive care unit for two weeks before she came home. And then she thrived.

My tiny preemie is now 12 and is almost 5 inches taller than me. She is in full blown puberty, but showing none of the signs of becoming the obnoxious teenager I was. (I know, it’s still early). She’s a great student, a thoughtful friend, and a talented artist and writer. She’s becoming the type of young woman I hoped she would become. And best of all, she’s happy. It’s so important to me that I raise children that grow up to not just be great citizens of the world, but are happy with who they are as people, in their own skins.

I scanned through some of my days of writing, and noted how hard I am on myself. I actively attempt to not be that hard on my children. While I hold the bar high, I still have much residual damage from a childhood filled with that. Like never being able to relax and being Type A+. While i want them to achieve and succeed, I don’t want that life for them unless they choose for themselves.

So when I am home with my daughters, I try incredibly hard to shut down and be present. To let them have the best of me they can get. And she only gets me for another six years before she leaves for college.

So I share the following that she gave me on Mother’s Day. I go back to it on days like today when I need a lift. It reminds me of what an incredible gift I have in her, and what’s truly important in life. And even though I though I may have some unique traits (good, bad and ugly), I’m know doing something right in the way I’m raising these girls.

Mom, 

Happy Mother’s Day!  Thank you for being so amazing.  You are the best Mommy ever.  I hope you realize how much I love you.  Even if I act like a “hen” or get a bad grade, you stand by me and help me.  You have a heart of golf and the bravery of a lion.  You are the sweetest person I know, you are really  funny and super intelligent (I could keep going and going!)  But best of all, you are beautiful on the inside and out.  Thank you for being such an incredible person.  I love you.

Love, Chiara

Day 53 in The 365 Experiment. Type A+

My day started innocently enough.  I had shared breakfast with my older daughter this morning, hit minimal traffic on my way in, and had no outstanding crises walking into a full day meeting.  I was feeling pretty mellow.

My People Strategy team was together for the day, the whole collective lot of us. We were in a planning session to aid us in determining what we must do as we continue on our hyper-growth path, as well what we want to do to ensure we are the best possible company to work for.  Of course, working with a group of super creative people, many of us were more excited to focus on the aspirational things that we believe set our company apart - the things that make us “people strategy” rather than the “must have,” more mundane human resources items.  Both are necessary, and it’s my mission to make the latter as appealing as possible.  Try making the words “governance” and “policy” sound sexy.  They actually make me bristle.  And yet, to be grown-up company, it comes with the territory.  And I’ll be damned if this team won’t be known for crushing it all.

We broke from our meetings in the afternoon to go to an team-building event at the Urban Art Bar.  On the drive over, I was reflecting on the morning, and how much this team had accomplished in its existence.  There actually wasn’t a team just 2 1/2 years ago when I joined.  There was one young woman, playing a role as an admin, with a side role helping with benefits.  She’s now playing a significant role as a People Strategist (HR Manager), responsible for the soup to nuts of people’s lives in our company.  And another woman…she joined us last year as a Talent Scout (Recruiter) and has hired literally 100 people herself - 100! - in the past year.  That’s insane.  I’m incredibly proud of this team.  And yet, I’m slightly concerned because it would appear I have a team full of Type As.  And I think I’m an A+.  I can’t decide if this is a scary thing, or a great thing.

We role into the art space, and I put my thoughts of the morning aside, and just try to enjoy the afternoon.  We have a lovely young woman who acts as our instructor, and she spends the next two hours guiding us through painting a lighthouse and ocean scene.  About halfway through, I go rogue.  I spend so much time trying to get my sand right, I say screw the house she’s trying to teach us to do.  I’m just supposed to be there having a good time with my friends, and enjoy the process of painting, and I just can’t relax and enjoy it - I’m focused on getting my f’ing seagulls the right shade of grey.  

The good news is, I am sane enough not to be in competition with my co-workers.  None of us were professional painters, and it was a great event and really fun to just enjoy the time spent with each other.  The bad news -  damn, I have a hard time relaxing.  I set my bar so high on everything for myself, and for my team, it’s sometimes hard to know when it counts and when it doesn’t.  The paintings don’t count.  That was just for fun.  The work at the company does count.  We are all in this to win.  So working with like-minded people matters.  And it’s going to take a bunch of amazingly hard, focused work to pull this off.  But I know this team will do it.  Because each time they reach a goal, I’ll raise the bar a little higher and lead them to achieve the impossible.  Because if I can, they can.  We can.  

And when we have, I’ll relax, take a nap, and enjoy painting.  And then I’ll rinse and repeat.  Because I’m Type A+.  I own it.

Day 52 of The 365 Day Experiment. My Genes Are Too Tight.

There is incredible longevity on both sides of my family. On my mother’s side, her father passed at 82 - the youngest one of my grandparents to go. Her mother, “Grammy,” passed away just two years ago in her mid 90s. My father’s mother, after refusing to see a doctor since the birth of her daughter some 60+ years ago, was admitted and never released at age 93. And then there is Nonno.  He recently turned 95.  

My father’s father is the quintessential Italian man. As a young man, he was strong and handsome, and he swept my grandmother off her feet. Having lived through the depression, college wasn’t an option for this whip-smart man; but hard work was. He began his career by shoveling steel at US Steel in the plants in Hammond, Indiana. Hard labor, requiring physical strength and emotional fortitude to do the same repetitive work day in and day out. And yet this was in the days of the “start-in-the mailroom” era. My grandfather went from steel worker to running European Operations for the same company. He moved from Hammond to Rome, which is where he lived the majority of my childhood.

This incredible work ethic embedded in my grandfather that allowed him to progress so far in this company translated from he to my father.  He taught  that nothing was ever handed to you - you worked hard for everything you achieved.  My father, while never a physical laborer, adopted the same work ethic while putting himself through MIT with three degrees at lightening speed.  And then throughout the course of his incredibly successful business career.  And then he passed that same work ethic to my brother and I.  I had my first job at 14, as soon as I could start scooping ice cream at Brigham’s.

Now my grandfather is retired, living his final days alone, in an apartment in Florida.  His beloved wife of 70+ years passed over a year ago.  Until her death he had never cooked or cleaned.  He now has to do all of the domestic tasks that were previously done by her, because he refuses to give up his independence and move to a retirement home.  I forgot to mention he’s blind, and his two two children don’t live close.  So those are the other “genes” passed on from my grandfather through the generations as well.  Being completely stubborn and and being too independent for our own good run deep through the Luconi blood.  We all recognize it in each other, and we all find it completely irritating in the other people.  And yet, it’s an undeniable part of us.

I’ve gotten way better at the stubborn part in my adult life.  It’s hard to be stubborn when you have kids, and work with teams (at least if you want to do it well, I’ve learned.)  But the “giving up independence” - I have a long way to go there.   I challenge myself often.  For example, my work/life balance is pretty unbalanced right now.  I often forget to eat meals, and exercise is a treat, rather than part of my routine.  So tonight I reached out to a super knowledgable friend and said “help me.”  Which was a hard thing for me to do.   I love helping other people, but I just feel really uncomfortable burdening people with a request.  And yet, I know down deep, people like helping just as much as I do.  Everyone loves to be needed in some way.  And I’m pretty sure any request I ever make of someone is never going to be a super inconvenience for them - but regardless, it’s still hard for me.  But I’m trying.

So yeah, I don’t just have the Luconi genes in terms of looks, I have it in terms of character traits.  And for better or worse, these tight genes fit me pretty well.

Day 51 of The 365 Day Experiment. Fusilli, You Screwy Bastard!

I’m taking a break from emoting in my normal writing style today.  I’m tipping my hat to my Italian heritage while thinking about the angst some of my younger guy friends are facing right now…warning:  helpful if you know your pasta shapes to appreciate this :)

***

His cell rang at 1:02 in the morning. He couldn’t take it anymore. His college buddy was checking in again. At 29, Spaghetti was trying hard to be a responsible “adult,” but his old friend Fusilli just couldn’t move past the old days. Spaghetti understood his friend was a going through a rough break up, but he was a stand up guy now. He had a job, and a steady girlfriend. He was even thinking of proposing. Sure, his girl Meatball was a little on chunky side, but she was great. They teamed up well. But then Fusilli reentered his life.

He met up once with the guy after work a few weeks ago and the contact hadn’t stopped. What started as a basic reconnection was turning into a full fledged bad bromance. He was what Meatball called a “bad influence.” At yet, Spaghetti was drawn to Fusilli and his single guy ways, perhaps as a statement of what he felt like he was missing in his own life. His life with Meatball, while nourishing and full, was getting as stale as a piece of two day old foccacia.

In college, everyone liked to think they could party like Fusilli. The whole gang tried to keep up. Ditalini, Cavatappi, Pastina, even that fat ass Lasagne. Except for that pretentious Farfalle, with his obnoxious bow ties. Fusilli had been the life of the party, the one everyone could look to to bring energy and fun when everyone else was tame. And for the last few weeks, Spaghetti felt a renewed sense of freedom and fun. But then he realized, maybe he could have both. Maybe he could have his friends AND Meatball, and she could be part of that life too. And maybe the nights rolling in at 3 am drunk wasn’t as cool as he thought it was anymore. She brought some stability to the chaos.  He knew he was going to sound like a major buzz kill to Fusilli, but realized he had to grow up.

He answered at the phone. “Fusilli, you screwy bastard, stop calling my house at 1 am!” he screamed. He looked over to see if he’d woken Meatball. He’d noticed she hadn’t even stirred. UGH…she was snoring. So not hot. “Where are you?” he asked. He looked at his clock. Bars were open for another 58 minutes. He could be there in 7. He slipped like butter from under the comforter, and slithered into the saucy clothes he had tossed in a pile just an hour earlier. He decided maybe he wasn’t ready to be boxed in just yet.

Day 50 of The 365 Day Experiment. I'm Not Afraid.

So on this milestone day, 50 days into my experiment, I was told by someone I was embarrassing myself with my writing.  I had to pause for a moment, and reflect on what I had written that would embarrass me, or ultimately my children.  I have been cognizant since Day 1 that if I, as I historically very private person, was going to put my stories out there, anyone who chose to read them could sit in judgment.  I can live with that.  

I can also live with the fact that I’ve shared some very intimate things, as well as some very trivial items.  However, in my quest to share the “whole me,” I’ve been pretty careful not to cross the line into authoring the next 50 Shades of Grey.  Not only is my life not that exciting, but if it was, I sure as hell wouldn’t be comfortable sharing it to a public audience.  

That said, the thing that is most important to me is my daughters.  I am trying to my very best to raise smart, confident, independent young women.  I am not a perfect mother.  But I am a damn good one.  My daughters are still relatively young, but someday they will read this.  And I will own every last word of it.  It’s important that they know me not just as the woman who lovingly packed their lunches, tucked them in at night and spent countless hours navigating their various life challenges with them.  I was also a woman who once loved their father very much, and that came to an end.  And I did everything I could to make it work and couldn’t, so we moved on.  And this was one of the ways that aided me in doing that.  

I suppose that my daughters, or E, or my family can choose to be embarrassed by my words, my life choices, or pretty much anything I do or write about.  It won’t be the first time.  But you know what? I can’t worry about that.  I have to worry about makes sense to me, and what feels right.  

But I’ll ask a favor of those of you who follow me regularly. Please commit along with me.  I’ve signed up to this for a year.  I get side messages, texts, and encouraging notes everyday.  You have no idea how incredibly impactful, supportive, and energizing that has been.   However, I also get a whole lot of data that shows me how many of you are reading on a daily basis.  While I don’t need to know who you are, if you are going to peer into my life, at least do me the courtesy of officially following me so I can actually keep more accurate track of who’s reading.  And if you don’t want me to know who you are, pick a clever handle.   But that seems fair right?  I’ll keep sharing, but share a little support in return.  Hearing that some of you are reading and then talking about me behind my back…man, that’s SO high school.  So at least sign up and then do that.   Because I already know who some of you are anyway.

Just to put it all out there, this is an incredibly difficult thing to do everyday.  I set the personal goal of sharing a piece of myself each day, and I delivered. I have no one to answer to but myself.  None of you care, or have a vested interest in whether I complete this goal or not.  Many of you may drop off and I may be writing this for just me by the end.  And that’s ok.  Because in the end, I ultimately have to answer to myself.  

If I am leading a life that I am proud of, and can feel like I lived it by growing, learning, and loving along the whole journey, I don’t think I’ve got one damn thing to be embarrassed about it.  

I’m Not Afraid, Eminem, 2010

I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid

To take a stand, to take a stand

Everyone, everybody

Come take my hand, come take my hand

We’ll walk this route together through the storm

Whatever weather, cold or warm

Just lettin’ you know you’re not alone

Holla if you feel like you’ve been down the same road

Day 49 of The 365 Day Experiment. Laughing In The Face Of Death.

Picture this. I had just landed in London, with one of my best friends - who also happens to be my boss.  We had a long overnight flight on Sunday, and we there for to scope out candidates and office space in both London and Amsterdam over the course of the following five days.  However, the first order of business on Monday morning was to attend a funeral.

Our chairman of the board, who was one of the original founders of the company, is British.  It just so happened that his mother had recently passed, and her funeral was to be held an hour outside of London.  Out of respect and friendship, we were more than happy to attend to support him.

We hopped in a taxi and headed out into the beautiful pastoral scenery that became Leatherhead.  We made good time, or so we thought.  Our car let us off at the site of the memorial service, and in we went.

We thought we had arrived a few minutes early, but the doors were shut, and singing had already begun.  We quietly snuck in and grabbed a seat on pews in the rear.  We looked to find our friend.  We didn’t see him, but assumed perhaps he was in a front row and we had an obstructed view. 

We listened to the music for several minutes, looked around, trying to take it in.  Nothing seemed off.  Until the minister approached the congregation and said, “As we gather here today to remember…Neville.”  NEVILLE?!

We looked at each other in horror.  We were attending the wrong f’ing funeral.  At then the laughter started.  That horrible, awful, you can’t control yourself laughter.  We tried hitting each other.  Pinching each other.  Attempting that fake coughing noise.  It was mortifying, and yet the more we tried to stop, the worse it got. 

Finally, mercifully, the singing began again, and like school children we ran out the back door.  We immediately ran into our friend and his family, awaiting their service.   Of course they thought our story was hysterical, and it brought added levity to what we assumed would be a somber event.  We found out later it wasn’t necessary.  I learned the Brits can throw quite a party to send off their loved ones.  I think that’s awesome.  Who wouldn’t want to be remembered joyously, rather than with a bunch of people mourning you in complete sadness?

That single event, while completely embarrassing in the moment, was one of the best laughs I’ve ever had.  There are lots of cherished emotions we experience as humans, but a good, deep, heartfelt laugh shared with someone you care about - I live for those.  

Day 48 of The 365 Day Experiment. The Other C Word.

I, like many other women, hate that ”C” word.  But almost just as much, I have another C word that generates just as much of a visceral reaction in me.  It’s COMPLACENCY.

I pride myself on being open minded, and try hard to understand what drives and motivates people of all kinds.  But I will totally own that I can’t for the life of me get my head around why some people sit back and allow themselves to play the supporting role, rather than the lead, in the movie of their lives. 

I know sometimes life can get overwhelming.  Sometimes we don’t know what direction to turn, or what we want to be when we grow up.  We often get scared to make big changes in our lives because we have no idea what would be in store for us on the other side…so we allow ourselves to settle for complete mediocrity because it’s familiar, and that at least offers some comfort rather than the fear of the unknown.  Or we don’t push ourselves to reach the next level - of whatever it is that we seek to achieve (weight loss, job goals, etc.)

My mom has wanted to go on a hot air balloon ride for as long as I have been alive.  My dad has no interest.  She has spent her life supporting his endeavors, and it’s always irked me she didn’t pursue this simple dream, just because my dad wouldn’t go with her.  So for her recent birthday, I bought her two tickets to go on one.  And I told her you are never too old to live out your dreams.  If my dad was too stubborn to go, she should bring a friend, but she should never let someone else get in her way our accomplishing HER goals.  They both  got it.  They have booked their trip.  She is thrilled, and he is supportive.  I am excited for both of them.

Life is not a dress rehearsal.  We only get one chance, so the way I look at it, we’ve got to max it out to the best of our abilities.  In whatever way that means to each of us.  

Day 47 of The 365 Day Experiment. One Night In Stockholm.

A few years ago, I became very involved with an amazing charitable organization that, long story short, had me working with the the Queen of Sweden and one of her two daughters, Princess Madeleine. I’ll save the details for another story, but today I’m going to focus on one memorable evening in Stockholm.

I’m a pretty simple girl. I hang with a low-key crowd, and while I have always enjoyed hitting a fun club, I have never been one to make a sport of frequenting the coolest clubs to see and be seen. And yet, when in Rome - or Stockholm, as the case was, you do as they do.

So after an incredibly surreal dinner at the Palace, we broke off with our new friends…people we were doing this charity work with. The core of the group were children of the organization’s board members, brought together to get “the younger generation” involved. (Context: E’s dad was on the board and he was invited to join. He wasn’t interested. I was. I hauled him with me for that trip, as it was the first time away from our kids since they had been born.)

A few of us peeled off from the larger group. We were being led by two über wealthy brothers who ushered us to a club with a mile long line outside the door. And, just like in the movies, our entourage walked right up the front, the velvet ropes parted, and we were led to our VIP table. This is how this crowd rolled. E and I looked at each other and started laughing when multiple bottles of champagne were opened, put in the center of our group of 7 and drained almost immediately. Beautiful young girls continually appeared to try to catch the eye of the handsome guys we were with. And I quickly learned a big difference between Americans and Europeans…Europeans are so much more sophisticated. At least in this situation they were.

You already know I’m not a big drinker, so I got to enjoy the evening from the sober perspective. Our Americans were sloppy and drunk. Our European friends were the exact opposite. When E started mock poll dancing, the stunning guy in our party wrote off his behavior to an inquisitive young girl as “oh…he’s American.” I was mortified. And of that guy - he left an impression too. I met a bunch of really interesting people during that trip, but am glad to have stayed connected to him. I think we are nearly 20 years apart in age. His life experiences are just starting. And yet, for some reason, I just clicked with him. I found the way he was approaching his university studies in finance so interesting given his passion for photography. I am convinced he will be known for his work one day. He’s exceptionally talented. And that night, he was like my little brother. At an incredible club, with a great group of people, we ended up throwing ice cubes down the back of each other’s shirts like kids. When our night came to an end, E and I hugged our new friends goodbye, walked back to our hotel, grabbed our bags in the wee hours of the morning, and flew back home. Back to reality.

Day 46 of The 365 Day Experiment. The Fairy Godmother.

’ve been known to make some impulsive purchases in my day. One of the silver linings of no longer being married is that my money is my own, and I can chose to spend it however I wish. So while I can’t be completely fiscally irresponsible, every once in awhile, I’m going to take a page out of the Risky Business handbook and sometimes just say, “what the f*ck.”

My most recent WTF purchase was floor seats to see the Stones tonight at the Garden. I’ve seen them before, in crappy seats. It’s their 50th anniversary tour, and they are my favorite band of all time. And lets face it, while Keith is going to outlive an apocalypse, Mick is going to collapse at some point. So I’m going one last time.

When I bought the tickets I had a special friend in mind to bring, but he ultimately couldn’t make it tonight. So rather than try to figure out which of my friends was worthy of an insanely ridiculously priced ticket, I decided to go a completely different route. I gave it away.

I ran a contest at work, asking people to submit in 50 words or less why they were passionate about working at our company. We got some amazing entries. And to make it fair, I blanked out the names and asked the executive team to pick their favorite. And from there, I ended up with an awesome kid from our sales operations team.

The deal is that he gets a little time with an exec, dinner, and a free concert with a legendary band with killer seats. The downside is that he is stuck going with me. Hopefully that’s not a bad thing for him.

And what do I get in return? A lot. I got the satisfaction of finding out how many people in our Boston office are truly passionate about working at our company. That’s pretty validating, given the work I do. I also get to play fairy godmother for the night. It’s pretty cool to be able to create a special moment for someone. And I aim to make this a memorable event for both of us.

So off we go. Heading to dinner, and to “pre-game.” I have no doubt me, Mick, and my magic wand are going to have a blast. And hopefully so will my concert buddy.