Thursday, January 22, 2015


As a typical girl, I've had my share of booty calling boys who did not know my worth but had that smile and those abs that somehow excused such behavior. I'd swear him off at 8 pm when he didn't call. Promise my roommates I would not give in when he didn't invite me to his formal because of our "incredible friendship." And, vow this was the last time I was picking him up because he was too drunk to get home. Eventually, I matured. By senior year in college, I knew my worth and didn't tolerate such disrespectful behavior. In fact, I already knew my husband then and figured my days of being treated like, well, shit, were over. Boy was I wrong.

Yesterday as I lay in my bed with the flu barely able to lift my head off the pillow, I had a realization. My children are that guy. It started in the morning when I somehow got out of bed to make lunches (a panini-pressed sandwich on pretzel bread by the way) and breakfast since my husband had an early meeting. As I stumbled around the kitchen hacking and moaning, neither child took notice. Then, I got in the car to drive my kids down to our carpool meeting spot and my daughter screamed that she wasn't coming because her favorite sweatshirt wasn't clean. Can you believe I didn't do the laundry in the middle of the night? Finally, when she came raging into the car, I handed her a bag of cereal. She threw it back. It apparently was not a cereal kind of morning. As we headed down the street, my son looked up from his important texting and asked if I was driving. Did I mention I was wearing pajama pants, a thermal with no bra and my hair on top of my head? "No, Gabe, I'm actually going back to bed because apparently you didn't notice, I'm sick."

After dropping them off, I went straight to bed and slept for four hours. I woke to a gnawing feeling in my stomach. My son had a school basketball game and I felt horrible that I just knew I couldn't make it. I, of course, try and support him with my presence at all of his sporting endeavors. I worked the phones and found a wonderful mom to help out. Then, I made sure my daughter could go home with another friend and her helpful mom (by the way, other moms are the best boyfriends ever!). Feeling relieved that I had it covered, I laid my head back on the pillow only to be startled by an incoming text. My son was now on the bus to his game and wanted to let me know I didn't pack his lunch. He was starving and it was all my fault. Feeling fairly sure that his lunch was, in fact, in his bag, I asked him to check again. "NO!," he wrote back. It was not there. I felt so guilty. My son was starving and it was my fault. I went downstairs and checked. No lunch. So strange. I texted said wonderful mom and lowered myself to admit my bad mommmying and ask if she had any snacks in her car. She went above and beyond and picked him up Subway. When I texted him to tell him the good news, he responded, "Make sure it's on Italian bread." It was.

A few hours of quiet. A little more sleep. Then the doorbell. My son was home. He dropped his bag and went to the kitchen telling me what homework he needed help with. I unzipped his bag and pulled out his lunch underneath his dirty P.E. clothes. When he saw the lunch, he laughed. I didn't see the same humor in the situation.

And so the night progressed. I did homework, fed my kids and wondered if either child might ever ask how I was feeling. My husband took over when he got home and I was able to get a good night sleep. Feeling a little better, I headed back downstairs this morning to make lunches and breakfast again. My son yelled at me because the printer wasn't working and he needed his work for school. My daughter freaked out because I didn't read her book last night. Somehow, we got in the car and drove to our meeting spot. Yet another incredible mom was driving her second day of carpool to help me because moms are the committed and loyal type.

Then, I got back in bed and cried. That's when it hit me. I knew this feeling--that of being treated without respect. That feeling that despite the ungrateful behavior, you keep going back for more. Yes! My kids are like those college boys--and just as outwardly cute too. The difference is I do unconditionally love them and while I am not going to excuse their behavior, I have to tolerate it because I am committed in this relationship for life. Still, if Zoey thinks she's coming in my bed at 2 am, she's got another think coming. I draw the line at booty calls.

Sunday, January 4, 2015


A few years ago, my writing partner and I pitched a show to the networks called "The G Word." It was basically about the new generation of grandparents who, well, weren't exactly the warm, fuzzy gray-haired definition we had grown up with. They were more of the face-lifted, over socially scheduled, ombre hair colored variety. We were met with blank stares from the young twentysomething newly appointed TV execs who just "didn't get it" and wondered who would want to watch older people on TV. Thus, that idea went where far too many other good ones reside--my old desktop Mac. But the G-Words in my life just keep on giving when it comes to material so I can't let it die. This brings me to the best part of blogging--I no longer need a clueless exec's permission to present you (the much smarter and savier audience than anyone every gives you credit for) with my musings and observations. So here goes...

I always knew there would come a time when the roles begin to shift in the child/parent relationship. My Dad passed away years ago but I was prepared that as my mom got older, I would have to take on more of a parenting role. I figured much further down the road, my sister and I would organically become more of the caretakers. I pictured being an advocate, a nurse, a sort of aid to her at some point. But that's not what's going down. I've already become the parent--the voice of reason and caution advice. My mom? She's the teenager. And this is not an anomaly. It's becoming the norm. Most of my friends have parents who are either divorced, widowed or in second marriages. Some of them have lost money along the way and are having to learn to budget their lives the way a college graduate figures it out in that first year of sorta independence. The stability of Grandma and Grandpa quietly sitting in their paid off home ready to offer words of wisdom or, well, even help with the babysitting is disappearing faster than your latest Snapchat. They are way too busy. Going back to work. Going out. Going online. Put it this way, the Zeke and Millie Bravermans of the world are an endangered species. Even they sold the family home and moved to the city!

Let's start with their relationships because those are way complicated. If you thought Carrie Bradshaw had it tough in Sex and the City, you've never seen over-sixty and single in the suburbs. It's all about online dating and let me tell you, it's ruthless, dirty and absolutely nothing you want to ever hear your mom or dad speak of but unfortunately the only thing they want to talk about. I get that being older allows you to skip the games and go for honesty but the profiles some of these G-worders put up could make even Samantha blush. They talk graphically about all of their wants, needs and desires. I find myself lecturing my mom on why she absolutely may not respond to this guy or that guy. I now give the "self-worth" speech to both my mom and my 8 year-old. I am constantly reminding Mom to meet in public places and never give her phone number or address out. Then there's the finances. Unlike college where breakups and hookups leave you with his sweatshirt or her toaster, there are assets and retirement plans. But the G-Worders are comingling and cohabitating without communicating with each other or their kids on this subject. A few of my friends have had to call meetings with thier parents and intended ones to make sure everyone was being careful. My almost teenage son is about to start dating and I'm already exhausted thanks to my senior citizen mom (who--full disclaimer--is not old and looks young in case anyone, mostly her, was wondering!)

Then there's the problem of putting technology in the hands of Grandparents 2.0 which I've already opined on in previous posts. Grandparents are worse than teens for two reasons. They have more hours in the day (without school getting in the way) and they don't really know how to use it. So, in addition to the numerous discussions, er fights, about social media boundaries and etiquitte, there are the annoying tutorial phone calls. The Facetime attempts where they just can't seem to get a picture. The voicemail asking if she should start "twitting?" The panic that sets in when the screen freezes. Should he go to the AT&T store? Nevermind that he has T Mobile. A few weeks ago, I was up early and didn't want to call and wake my mom but needed to give her directions. I texted her instead so that she would have them when she woke up. A minute later my phone rings. My text woke her up. Why? Because she keeps the phone right next to her bed with the alert sounds on. I think it's time for some technology rules. Maye she needs a technology basket for nighttime. However, I fear, unlike my son, she won't be able to part with her iPhone at night and really she's not afraid of me.

The good news is that this booming generation is living longer and healthier than ever before allowing for much fuller lives in the 60s, 70s and 80s. They are always cruising (both the seas and the scene), taking in shows and trying out whatever cuisine is trending. The bad news is that having such a full life doesn't allow much time for dance recitals, spring concerts or heaven forbid Saturday night babysitting. When my daughter calls my mom for plans, I have to remind my mom to let her down easy. My friend told me a great story about her Mom and Step-dad reccommending a new restaurant that they had been to with great detail about the magnificent wine list and savory small plates. "You must go," demanded her mom. When my friend replied that she would love to but it was expensive to get a Saturday night sitter, her mom insisted, "It's worth it!"

There's a new Nana in town and she looks a lot like that rebellious teenager down the hall. The only difference is that she does want to talk to you and tell you about everything. Yup, it's complicated.

P.S. If any new twentysomething execs do "get it," G-Word is registered with the WGA. You can pass on the idea but can't steal it.

Thursday, January 1, 2015


I've decided 2015 is the year of truth. I'm over 40. No more bullshit. No more #blessed (although, let's be honest I could never stoop to such a hashgag). Social media has begun to feel like an invasion of my mind and soul. A black hole of braggadociosness. A ticket to the False Frontier. I can't help but hear the "do do do do" chiming in my mind as a Rod Sterling-like voice reminds me each time I click on Facebook that I am willingly about to enter a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind (fuck). A journey into a land whose boundaries are that of imagination (in that there are no boundaries). I am about to enter--The Highlight Zone. And then all the highlights come scrolling down photoshopped to perfection with accolades, achievements and superlatives. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends and want good things to happen to and for them. But I've also lived long enough to know that there's unfortunately more of life with bad hair days, blotchy skin, kid meltdowns, disappointments and cranky episodes than one would think based upon any (mine included) facebook status streams. My kids, however, do not know better.

Since granting Gabe, my 11 year-old son, persmission to enter this new dimension, I have watched him continuously capture moments for the sole purpose of creating a filtered Instagram image to garner "likes." Likes apparently equate with number of friends. Because everybody needs 81 friends who "like" your show-off Laker game seats. I'm sure you can call each and every one of them when you need help moving furniture or running to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. I listen to conversations between my kids and their friends about which photos to put up as they carefully craft supposedly casual taglines about what they are doing. My son takes greater care with his postings than he does with his homework. They must be "perfect." I get it. He's creating a brand to compete with all the other brands, er, kids out there.

It's not just the younger generations getting caught up with keeping up. My 71 year-old mom and her peers use Facebook as the Grandma Brag book 2.0. Each grandchild is smarter, cuter and more advanced than the next. Every time my mom whips out her camera phone, my kids plead with her not to post the picture before they have "approved it." They are apparently the self-appointed editors of my mom's lifestyle story. And it's not all about the grandkids either. After endless practice pics, Grandma has perfected the selfie so that she looks "younger and thinner." I know this because Zoey, my 8 year-old daughter, told me so.

Let's face it. Facebook is more like Fakebook. All of us who take part in social media are contributing to the marketing and branding of human beings. I am just as proud of my kids as you are of yours but I'm pretty sure it's not helpful for them to grow up in a world where we only share our triumphs. So for the next 365 days, I'm stripping it down to the raw me-- going Real World (and not in the MTV kind of way). I've decided to post one Facebook status a day that is real. That doesn't mean they will all be complaining, bitter and grumpy. I am grateful that I do have truly wonderful days and feel lucky and priviliged often. But I also feel like crap a lot too. That's the point. Life is complicated and ever-changing unlike a static glossy magazine advertisement.

I may embarrass my husband and kids, but ultimately I hope to show them what a real life looks like. Happy 2015!

First Facebook Post - January 1, 2015

Licked the frosting off 2 cupcakes for dinner after Zoey kicked, screamed and massively melted down with an NYE hangover to rival partying like 1999. Oh and then Ohio State won.*

*I wonder how many likes I'll get?

Tuesday, September 13, 2011


Okay, I'll admit it. About a week ago, I heard about the "Missoni for Target" line making it's debut today, September 13th. A google or two later, I was fully acquainted with the official look book and pretty certain that I wanted those zigzag rainboots for my five year-old daughter. So I typed in a little reminder in my iPhone and forgot about it. Then last night, I heard the ding of my alarm and there it was in bright, bold Helvetica staring back at me -- Target Sale Starts. I looked down at my screen in embarrassment. Who puts a Target sale on their calendar? I felt lame and super suburban but apparently not enough to skip my local Target after dropoff at 8:30 am.

The jam packed parking lot was my first clue that most people didn't need a reminder about this day. As it turns out, it was lame to write it on a calendar. Most of these women had the date memorized. In fact, my dirty, little secret was neither little, nor secret. But dirty? Oh, yes. This was a major event with serious players who had all intentions of getting down and dirty.

I walked in the doors and immediately saw the pretty and polished display rack topped with fancy lettering and chic floral patterns. The signage was screaming, Missoni in the house. Only it wasn't. The rack was completely stripped, albeit for a lone hanger and dangling hook. It was the same thing in women's clothing, the kids department, housewares and bedding. The shelves were disheveled. It looked like the place had been ransacked. So where was the merchandise?

This is where the story takes a turn for the worse.

In contrast to the lonely shelves lining the store was a mass of loud, rude, pushy, greedy, they-give-women-a-bad-name crowd. As for the merchandise? It was with them.

Without uttering a word myself, I began to gather information about what went down. Most of these women (and yes a few men) had proudly waited outside at dawn for the chance to be among the first to grab their mix and match Missoni wear. When the doors opened, they came, didn't need to see, just conquered. They grabbed everything off the shelves, piling their multiple carts with anything, any size Missoni. Only after hoarding what they could, did they go through their booty to choose what they wanted. As for what they didn't wasn't going back. Oh no. It became a means to barter for other items.

There were serious trades going down--a floppy hat for two scarves and an umbrella. A throw blanket for a shower curtain. This was not done quietly. Women were yelling out their goods, wheeling and dealing as if this was the New York Stock Exchange. Luggage was king. Like scalpers at a concert, I was approached by whispering strangers asking if I had a traditional spinner roller bag (whatever that is). Then every so often amidst the frenzy, a fight broke out. "Did you just take that from my cart?" "That bitch stole my toddler poncho." Grown women were dropping the f-bomb at other women and I witnessed an actual tug-of-war between two soccer moms over a canvas tote.

It wasn't just women. There was a mom with her three teenage daughters, bragging about them missing school for Missoni. They took photos with their mounds of stuff and called the morning a bonding experience. There were also men. Specifically, there were two burly looking guys with four carts filled to the brim with kids clothing in multiple patterns and sizes. They had no qualms sharing their excitement about going to put everything up on ebay for triple the price. (By the way, I looked and they did.)

You can imagine what a fun morning it was for the Target team members. They were berated and yelled at for not being able to stop the stealing from one cart to another. They were blamed for having sold out in five minutes and they were physically pushed aside by eye-on-the-prize shoppers who would let nothing and no one get in their way. With a smile and an eye-roll or two, they each took it for the team.

At one point, I saw a huge line form at the rear of the store. Fully engaged in the human experiment before me, I followed the crowd. "What are we waiting for?" I asked the woman in front of me who had just told her friend she grabbed baby girl gear because one day she would have a grandkid and it likely could be a girl. The not-yet-expecting grandma excitedly informed me that there were a few more housewares items available and if I waited in line, I could receive two items. "Which two items?" I asked. She looked at me perplexed. Does it matter? It was Missoni. Who cares if I like it or if she likes it? It's Missoni and the price is right. I watched as the long line of people waiting to get their two items not of their choice elbowed their way to the front and then gripped their loot tightly beaming with pride at having such luck.

When it was simply too much to take, I started filling my basket with that other stuff that Target sells--Lysol wipes, Coke Zero, toothpaste. Back to the real world or so I thought. But then there was Tori Spelling with a friendly entourage walking the aisles. Could this day get any more surreal? Yep. Next came a booming voice from the Missoni masses sounding off for all (Tori included) to hear, "What is Tori Spelling doing here? Like she doesn't have enough!"

I wanted to say either...

a. Takes one to know one.
b. Don't you know...stars,they're just like us.
c. Maybe she's taking invenTori

But I was scared. These women were frightening. This scene was insane. I wanted absolutely no part of this. So I checked out and ran for the exit with my head held high.

Then I immediately called my friend and had her go on the website and buy me the zigzag rainboots before they sold out.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Amanda Has Honestly Updated Her Status

I love scrolling down my Facebook page and seeing all the beautiful, smiling faces of my friends' children. I truly enjoy hearing about their accomplishments, successes and special moments. I browse through the enviable family vacation snapshots, birthday parties and celebrated milestones. Such joy. Such happiness. Such fun.

Such a complete disconnect from what’s really going on in my own family. Maybe it’s just everyone putting their best feet forward or maybe they are truly experiencing parenthood as bliss. I don’t know. But I do know that if I’m telling the truth, most of my days are not chock full o’ bliss with my children. For example, after my daughter chucked her bagel at me in the garage this morning because it did not have the precise amount of toasting she wanted, I wasn’t feeling all warm and fuzzy. No bliss today. Yesterday, when I stepped on the same Lego I had asked my son to put away for a week, it felt completely blissless. And really, I don’t have high hopes for happy happy tomorrow considering it’s my son’s first orthodontist appointment.

So here are my updated statuses, if you will. My truth for the moment.

My daughter is in a major tantrum phase. They are everyday and can last for up to two hours. She has been known to hit, bite and on many occassions tell me she would like to go live at her grandmother’s house.

My son has been in speech therapy, eye therapy and educational therapy. Sometimes it’s overwhelming.

My daughter won’t wear anything but leggings.

My son pukes when he is over-tired.

My daughter still has potty accidents.

My son is not great at sports but is a super star at trash talkin’.

I yell too much.

My son has a fruit roll-up everyday.

My daughter survives on pizza.

My son can’t read Harry Potter. It’s way too advanced for him.

My daughter knows all the words to Katy Perry’s, “ California Gurls.”

My son still struggles with tying his shoes.

My daughter comes in our bed almost every single night and we’re too tired to deal with it.

My son would watch TV all day, everyday if we allowed it.

I dread washing my daughter’s long hair.

My son has never met an item for sale he didn’t want.

My daughter hates dance class. No tu-tus. No tights. No recitals.

My daughter and son fight incessantly.

I hate making lunches.

This is the truth. The truth is also that in between all the tantrums, whining, homework, activities and fighting, there are glimpses of bliss, of love and of all the everyday highs and very lows being worthwhile. Still, we’ve never taken a family photo with everyone looking the same direction, let alone looking good and certainly not while on a fabulous vacation where everyone got along. So, don’t ever expect that picture to pop up on my profile.

Author's note: It's been a bad few weeks but the best thing about parenthood is that it's always dynamic. I know this too shall pass.

Monday, January 10, 2011


I always wondered when it would happen. Would there be warning signs? Would I see it coming? And when it came, would there be an exact moment or would it be gradual? How would I know the invasion had begun? Well, it has. I knew it instantly. The clock read 8:02 pm last night. This was the moment my daughter's notion of beauty revealed itself to have been hijacked seamlessly by them. You know who they are--the perfect alliance of the media, the peer group and the constant chatter by well-meaning grown-ups (this mommy included) who have themselves been taken as prisoners of the beauty war long ago. My daughter is four.

"I'm not beautiful," my unbelievably beautiful (okay, I'm her mother but still) said, seemingly, out of nowhere. "Of course you are beautiful," I responded instinctively and completely without thought or meaning. "No I'm not," she repeated. I paused. I call this the parent pause and I highly recommend it for those moments when a child says something that you know must be coming from somewhere and it's your job to find out where without blowing this instance of guidance your child is clearly seeking. No pressure.

I collected my thoughts and did my best to push my own beauty baggage out of the way (no easy feat). Then I asked her what beautiful meant. She stared back at me blankly. This is my girl who proudly carries a Buzz Lightyear lunchbox to school instead of the more popular princess variety, who dresses as Woody (specifically not Jesse) for all costume events and who never allows me to put a ribbon or barrette (sometimes not even a brush) in her hair. I wanted to be certain what beauty meant to this girl before I entangled her in my own definition. So, I tried again, "Who is beautiful to you?" Suddenly, the lights went on and she began to talk about a few girls in her class, mentioning what they wear and how they do their hair.

Here was my chance. I knew it would have to be a careful balancing act so that she left the conversation feeling okay with wanting to dress up and be girlie but also knowing that beauty comes from within. I started to sweat. Then, I asked her if she would like to maybe change some things about the way she dresses for school. Her face lit up like a marquee. I could tell she was feeling understood. Point, Mom.

We perused Old Navy on the net and I let her pick out four new items. She felt very proud of her choices. We went in her room and I showed her many options already existing in her wardrobe that had been forcefully pushed aside by the girl of yester, well, day. She let me brush her hair (yes Grandma, you read that right!) Next, she looked up at me with those--I have to say--beautiful eyes of hers and asked, "Do you think you can do a French braid?" "Of course," I promised rather naively. I realize now I should have also promised her a trip to the moon because after two hours spent on the internet practicing on Toy Story Barbie, I now realize French braiding is right up there with rocket science but I digress...

After the fun was had, I laid in bed with my sweet girl and tried my darnedest not to overwhelm her with my definitions of beauty. Even I realized she was probably a little young for a bedtime story by Naomi Wolf. All in good time. But I did explain to her that while compliments are nice, they don't make you feel beautiful. Only she can make herself feel beautiful. We talked about taking care of the outside beauty with healthy eating, exercise and clothes that make you feel happy. I assured her that it was okay that she cared about what she looked like and that it was, in fact, fun to be a girl. And THEN, of course, I went into great detail about inner beauty--probably giving too many examples, using way too many over-her-head metaphors and too much jargon. But she asked!

So night one of the beauty battle passed and we, as mother and daughter survived. Today, I dropped my girl off at school in her carefully planned out ensemble and then ran into the market to grab a coffee. On my way out, I scanned the magazines and all the headlines seemed to shout out at me..."Lose Weight," "How She Kept It Off," "Diets of the Stars," etc...

It's going be war!

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Where was I?

June 10, 2010

I grew up privileged. I am an American Jewish woman who had the privilege of never truly experiencing prejudice due to religion. I have spent most of my life on the west coast surrounded by other Jewish people. Where I live, Target carries Hannukah decorations. The public schools are closed on Yom Kippur and the Coffee Bean sells challah on Shabbat. Israel is a destination vacation. This has always been my Jewish existence...except for the one week I spent in Poland as part of The March of the Living, an educational program that brings students up close and personal with the Polish remnants of the Holocaust, culminating in a silent march from the notorious concentration camp, Auschwitz to Birkenau.

It was there at Auschwitz that I stood on the railroad tracks and felt my body tremble. The Holocaust had always been this horrible nightmare I'd read about in history books and Elie Wiesel's profound writing. I'd met survivors and seen the tattooed numbers on their arms. But nothing prepared me for the real thing. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Why them? Why not me? How was I lucky enough to be born years later in America? As we walked from Auschwitz to Birkenau, I made a promise to myself and to them, those not as lucky, the souls I could feel surrounding me without a voice. I promised to be a voice for them. I promised to raise my children Jewish and give them a voice. I promised to Never Forget so that this would Never Happen Again.

I returned from that trip and began devouring all literature and film I could find on WW II. I remember becoming so angry that there was knowledge of the concentration camps in the U.S. long before anybody did anything about it. In typical Monday morning quarterback fashion, I judged my grandparents harshly. Why didn't they do anything? Didn't they notice the growing antisemitism?

Of course, as time passed, these thoughts and my March of the Living memories became less and less in the forefront of my mind. But in the last few weeks, hey have returned, louder than ever. I don't want my children to ever look back and wonder where I was when the world turned on Israel and the Jewish people. I made a promise and I intend to keep it. We need voices to express outrage at what is currently going on in the world. It has become clear to me lately that the liberal media will not be that voice. President Obama will not be that voice. And, sadly, the assimilated Jewish mainstream will not be that voice.

I find it hard to believe that I had to turn to Glenn Beck to hear shouts of anger and rage regarding the "freedom" flotilla incident. It was only on his show that I heard the first communications between the Israeli Navy and the "peace" fighters. When the Navy identities themselves and indicates that the boat is approaching a blockade, a voice responds, "Shut up. Go back to Auschwitz and then continues, "We're helping Arabs going against the U.S. Don't forget 9/11, guys." We all know what happens next...or do we? It recently came out that Reuters had cropped one of the most-seen images of the event. It shows a bloodied Israeli soldier lying on the ground surrounded by "peace activists." However, in the original photograph, one of the "activists" is holding a bloodied knife. Not quite sure what editorial reason they came up with for the blatant omission. Hard to believe this is Reuters--not Al Jazeera.

Then there's legendary White House correspondent Helen Thomas and her comments that the Jews are occupying Palestine and should return to their homes in Germany and Poland. Fortunately, she resigned, but apparently that was unnecessary. Just ask the women of The View. Whoopi Goldberg dismissed Thomas' comments as horrible and hurtful but wondered about a country that takes away a person's right to make a living because of something he/she says. I guess Whoopi and the gals never heard of consequences. Thomas is a reporter covering the White House. I believe the fact that she does not acknowledge the existence of Israel might make her just a little unable to do her job of unbiased reporting. But, hey that's just me. Many others feel differently like the man who wrote a letter to the Washington Post suggesting Thomas' comments simply made her "human" and then compared her "blunder" to the umpire who cost Detroit pitcher Armando Galarraga his perfect game last week. Yes, really!

The point of all of this is that I get it. My life of privilege has come to an end. I am no longer asleep. I am awake and vow to make good on my promise. I will not sit quietly waiting around for things to get better. I've seen what happens when we're too late.