Break Out the Mothballs, It's Time to Get Dressed

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Break Out the Mothballs, It's Time to Get Dressed

Well, it’s official…I can no longer get dressed. When the world opened back up in March, it meant that I would also be opening my closet back up. There would be no more rolling out of bed twenty minutes before I needed to teach my students. No more wearing sweats, or shorts, or not having to worry about the clashing of color combinations. Shoes would now be a thing. Pre-pandemic, I prided myself on coordinating my shoes with the color of my shirts. Now, I can barely find the energy to dig through my basket of flip flops. I spend what feels like days in front of my closet just staring in. I have no idea how to get dressed anymore, for people, that is. My cats don’t care if I’m wearing a seafoam green t-shirt with olive-colored shorts. They also don’t care if I wear deodorant, or that my shower schedule has dwindled down to three days a week.

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The Knitting Debacle: When an Armhole Full of Judgment Destroys Your Happy Place

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The Knitting Debacle: When an Armhole Full of Judgment Destroys Your Happy Place

“Okay, look at me. Stop what you’re doing and look at me. In order to knit this armhole, we have to figure out how many stitches we need. So, what’s half of 32?” the calm and gentle knitting instructor with the perfectly toned arms asked. 

“Half of 32? Half of 32. Wait, I know this…hold on…umm…”

Why are you not getting this? What’s wrong with you, you idiot? Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry, Hali. Just…don’t!

Grabbing my haystack of a hairdo (too much sun-not enough conditioner) tightly between newly tanned fingers, I wished I could just rip my whole head off and end it all.

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Always Discreet: Coming Clean at the Botanical Gardens

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Always Discreet: Coming Clean at the Botanical Gardens

So, there’s this commercial for something called Always Discreet Boutique…Maximum Protection…Made Beautiful. You may have seen it. They’re special panties for women who “leak”.

As my husband and I were muting it, I asked him, “Is this a thing? I mean, these women look my age! Am I now supposed to worry about leaking on top of every other weird aging thing that’s happening?”

“I don’t know, sweetie.” He responded.

It was a mere week later when I realized that, yes, this could be a thing.

Having driven down to Carlsbad for a visit with my husband’s Aunt and cousins, I had just sucked back my iced venti soy chai. It was a lovely day, clear, warm, perfect for a walk through the San Diego Botanic Gardens. A time to catch up with family and stroll through thirty-seven acres of 4,000 different plant species. But I really had to pee. I hadn’t felt that type of pressure on my bladder since I stood in line waiting for the single bathroom at a frat house in college. I wasn’t too worried, though. I mean, we’ll walk, we’ll hit a restroom, it’s fine.

Five minutes into the Bamboo Garden, I felt a drip. Wait, what? No. Oh no! I desperately looked for a place to sit down, you know, to possibly stop the pee in its tracks, but the only thing available was a bamboo bench that was for display purposes only. And then there was another drip. I did that whole crossing your legs thing but then, it was happening. Oh my god. This is not happening. Is this happening? Fuck!

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Who Are We And What Is The Missing Peace?

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We are honored to appear in VoyageLA, a publication that features the hidden gems of Los Angeles. In our interview, we talk about following our dream and starting The Missing Peace, where we continue to affect change, connect people, and create peace through true storytelling. Click here to read more about Hali, Robin, and The Missing Peace. 

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The Frank Twist: When the Actress Doesn't Act

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The Frank Twist: When the Actress Doesn't Act

There’s a brilliant scene in The Sopranos where Tony is talking to Carmela on the phone.

“I had one of my Coach Molinaro dreams.” He says.

“Were you unprepared again?” She responds.

In these two lines, the audience knows that this is a recurring dream for Tony and he knows exactly what it means.

So, I had one of my Frank Dreams…and I know exactly what it means.

A Frank Dream is basically your classic “Actor’s Nightmare” but with a twist. So, not only is the actor faced with the reality that they’re about to perform in front of an audience and have no idea what the fuck their lines are, an event that soaks the dreamer with anxiety, terror, and frustration, but then throw in The Frank twist, which adds elements of severe disappointment that highlights excuses, exposes cover ups, and throws in a severe bullshit meter that leaves the dreamer to face the deep truths of their very being. It’s the moment when the mentor looks through the mentee with their magnifying glass and reads them like no one else can. 

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Ghost-O-Grams: A Woman’s Journey Through Candy, Teenagers, and Personal Discovery

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Ghost-O-Grams: A Woman’s Journey Through Candy, Teenagers, and Personal Discovery

“Alright...everybody grab your buckets and huddle up. Listen up.”

Surrounding me are four students, two boys and two girls. Their youthful faces convey a sense of seriousness and an eagerness to start the process.

“Here are the two most important things I’m sending you out there with. #1. Classroom Etiquette. Do not simply barge into classrooms. Slowly and gently open the door, get the teacher’s permission and then proceed. #2. Return with empty buckets only. Let me say that once again. Return to my office with empty buckets only! Nothing...I mean nothing...should be left in those buckets. Is everyone clear? Now go! Godspeed!”

This is the moment I dread. When I no longer have control. They’re out there. They’re all out there and I’m in here...just waiting. Just waiting for something to go wrong. Fucking Ghost-O-Grams.

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An Angel With Furry Wings: The Story of Louie

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An Angel With Furry Wings: The Story of Louie

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

It was the last three minutes of my psychic reading and I was saving it for last...out of both fear and denial.

My hands are clenched and I’ve stopped inhaling the fresh summer air blowing through the coffee shop. A home for the writing regulars who plant themselves and their laptops at the mosaic-tiled tables filling the eclectic space.

“So...I have a cat. He’s 19 ½ and....”

The psychic closes her eyes, tosses her head back, pulls her hands to her chest and smiles.

Okay, what’s happening? My brain is trying to go into “worst-case scenario mode” which is its default but I’m thrown by her reaction.

“Oh! I love him! You’ve been through so much together!” She says, opening her eyes.

“Yes, yes, we’ve been through the majority of my adult life together! So...what’s...I mean...how long.---“

“Will he live?”

My eyes are locked into hers, my jaw is hanging open, and the saliva has drained from my tongue. My head begins to slightly shake back and forth into a “no” stance. As if to send a message to both of us that I may actually not want to know the answer.

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Having a "Senior Moment": What Happens When You're a 12th Grade Teacher

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Having a "Senior Moment": What Happens When You're a 12th Grade Teacher

“Can you say the prompt again?” One of my 12th graders asks.

I wasn’t sure if I could. It was a Council prompt I pulled out of my ass...a skill I’ve honed over the years as a teacher. If I accomplish nothing else in life, I’ll feel good about the fact that I can sling a question out of my butt.

“Yes. So the prompt is, looking back on your senior year, what was the path you thought you’d take and how did you veer off? What worked out differently than you thought it would?”

As my students are on the verge of graduation, a momentous occasion that I’ve witnessed for the last 14 years, I am once again thinking back to my own high school graduation...my senior year...the paths I took, or didn’t take...the choices I made. These thoughts enter my head every year, and every year, I avoid them. Because I made my choices. I experienced what I experienced and there’s no going back. That part of my life is done. It doesn’t make sense to me to focus on regrets. So why do I find myself questioning and avoiding each May? What do I need to examine here that feels unfinished? 

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My Month Alone: When the Cat Won't Help and the Inner Critic Won't Shut Up

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My Month Alone: When the Cat Won't Help and the Inner Critic Won't Shut Up

“Carbon Monoxide. Carbon Monoxide.”

This is what I hear accompanied by a horrendous beeping sound that cuts through my entire body like a razor at 8:04 on a Saturday morning. First of all, who the hell is saying this? Second of all, what does it mean? The cat and I both look at each other, groggy and confused.  I fly out of my bed crashing into a standing fan and getting my worn Bad Religion t-shirt caught on the bedroom doorknob. Neither of these objects are out of place, but my brain is.

“Carbon Monoxide. Carbon Monoxide.”

Shut the fuck up! For the love of god!

It’s the smoke detector in the hallway.

I run into the kitchen to grab the step stool and crash it into everything along the way.  My left thigh goes careening into the corner of the glass coffee table, I smack the right side of my face into the wooden coffee/tea station, my left foot goes into some cold, wet cat saliva mixed with four blades of green grass and I finally reach the metal stepstool leaning against the kitchen wall next to the fridge. Dust bunnies flying off the stool, I carry it back to the hallway attempting a calmer disposition and repeating to myself over and over, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I climb up to the detector and push any button I can find.

“Fire. Fire.”

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The Rules of Being a Person: When a Trip to the Movie Theater Showcases an Utter Lack of Humanity

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The Rules of Being a Person: When a Trip to the Movie Theater Showcases an Utter Lack of Humanity

“Remember last time we were at the movies and we got kicked out for talking?”

This is not something you want to hear 12 seconds before a movie starts. But I do hear it from the girl sitting a few rows above us at Landmark Theaters. All I can think is, this does not bode well. I turn around and see four teens, two girls with long, straight brown hair and two boys who I can’t really make out, sharing videos on their phones, talking as if the lights hadn’t dimmed. I can feel my body clenching, my heart rate increasing. My husband and I have wanted to see The Revenant for weeks and we’re finally here. Being off from school for President’s Day has given us a break in our schedules. And now, these four little fuckers are going to destroy it. I think, they’ll have to stop once the movie starts, right?

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When You Become “Those People”: Spending Christmas on an Airport Floor

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When You Become “Those People”: Spending Christmas on an Airport Floor

“What’s wrong with the plane?” This is my husband’s response as I put my hand on his arm. He says it in a way that you would ask, “What’s wrong with the chair?” Or, “What’s wrong with the bread?” With a dull and exhausted inflection.

“The left engine isn’t getting power so we’re landing in El Paso in 15 minutes.” I yell in his left ear as the screaming child next to us who hasn’t stopped crying for the last three hours gasps for air.

I oddly can’t identify an emotion. The absolute absurdity of this entire trip has left me feeling both numb and frustrated to the point of hysterics. Having spent the last 3 ½ days in a crouching position underneath the kitchen table of my in-laws house in New Hampshire rifling through stacks of junk mail that would make you want to just cancel the USPS altogether, our vacation was not a typical vacation. It was more of a digging out, tripping over, and trying not to inhale layers of dust type of vacation. Yes, we had somehow entered a world that I had only seen on TV in a little reality show called Hoarders. Barely able to walk and learning what glutes are, I dragged my navy blue rolling bag to the airport dreaming of our little home. A home that we can walk around in.

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The Boy, The Other Boy, The Actress, & The Mute: A Tale of Adolescence & The Ultimate Revenge

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The Boy, The Other Boy, The Actress, & The Mute: A Tale of Adolescence & The Ultimate Revenge

“You’re Jay Franklin’s sister??? I was just telling a story about him to my students!”

It was true. Well, not the name. His first name wasn’t Jay nor was his last Franklin but I had just been relaying a rather scarring story about him-albeit a 6th grade pre-adolescent scarring nonetheless but still scarring-especially for the Town Mute which is what I felt like growing up, in one of my classes. The prompts were, "First Relationship & First Betrayal."

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My Computer is an Asshole: When a Laptop Hurls me into Utter Darkness

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My Computer is an Asshole: When a Laptop Hurls me into Utter Darkness

My computer is an asshole. And yes, I’m aware that this is a first world problem and that I’m lucky to even have a computer but the thing just pisses me off! I want to love it…I really do. But the level of frustration it causes me sends me into a state that is extremely unhealthy and unattractive. I turn into something else when my computer doesn’t work. It’s an ugly, rage-filled, horrifying monster that consumes every part of me.  My face gets burning hot, I begin to shake, and I’m pretty sure I make some growling and hissing sounds. I’m actually afraid to look at myself in the mirror for fear that I might give myself nightmares.

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Three-Way Mirrors: The Ultimate Reality Check

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Three-Way Mirrors: The Ultimate Reality Check

It started in the Nordstrom dressing room. After shaving off a few pounds, I decided it might be time to try on some jeans. Actually, it was a promise I made to myself. “Hali, you cannot buy new jeans until you lose weight.” So, I thought I was in good shape…literally and figuratively. And as I pulled down my lose fitting skirt (adding to the reality that I was in fact skinnier) and grabbed the faded blues, that’s when I saw it…or them. The backs of my thighs. You see, Nordstrom has these three way mirrors. I used to like three way mirrors. Actually, I used to not even think twice about three way mirrors. They’ve now turned into my biggest nightmare.

“Oh my god.” I said out loud to myself. A mother and daughter were in the dressing room next to me but I didn’t care. I couldn’t breathe, honing in on the ripples that had taken over my thighs and larger than I had expected white ass. I stared at them for another two minutes in disbelief. “How? When? Why? How?” All that was left was “Who?” but I knew who. “Who” was me! How the hell was this “who” me? And more importantly, was there a way I could instantly disappear through the lightly carpeted gray floor of the dressing room?

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Stuck in a Swivel Chair: A Day in the Life of Hali Hair

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Stuck in a Swivel Chair: A Day in the Life of Hali Hair

It’s 6:02. I’ve now been here for close to five hours. I’m hungry…actually fantasizing about eating the chicken at home in the fridge in the blue Tupperware on the top shelf near my cucumbers and hummus that my husband barbequed yesterday. I’m picturing it…on one of our dark green plates from Crate & Barrel from our wedding registry, sticking a fork in the entire thing and shoving it in my mouth. Not shoving in an erotic sort of way but shoving in a desperate I’m starving please lord help me before I pass out sort of way. Not that I couldn’t afford to lose a few pounds. (Twelve to be exact…but who’s counting?)

I’ve had to pee for two and half hours. Not badly at first but now, the painful kind.  Like I just finished off a keg and my bladder is hard and uncomfortable. I can see the bathroom door in the mirror. It’s behind me, it’s brown, and it’s taunting me.

And I’m tired…so tired. My lazy eyelid has reached its lowest drooping point and I look like I’m totally wasted. This wasn’t supposed to take this long. But now I can’t get out of here. I’m trapped. Stuck in a black swivel chair in Fantastic Sam’s.

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The Big Push of 2015: Hali's Summer Vacation

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The Big Push of 2015: Hali's Summer Vacation

As grateful and lucky as I feel to have two and a half months off from school, I’m also scared shitless.

For someone like me, unstructured time=laziness=depression=weight gain=self-hatred=massive hibernation.

How’s that for uplifting?

While many of my colleagues are soaring to exciting locations and experiences, I am almost dreading the idea of being on my own, without structure. You see, I don’t trust myself. I’ve let myself down time and time again. I can stare at my Tracy Anderson Dance Cardio DVD and it’s gray coating of dust and tell myself that “once summer comes, I’m cracking that thing open.” I can gaze longingly outside the bedroom window at the blossoming jasmine and promise myself that I’ll spend time in the garden come June. I can shove questionable clothing into drawers that are already overflowing and say to myself, “self, get ready to do some summer cleaning!”  But deep inside, I have that familiar nagging feeling that I just won’t get myself to do anything. And I still can’t seem to answer the same question I’ve been asking myself since I was 8 years old. What came first? The laziness or the fear?

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And I'm Amish

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And I'm Amish

So, I figured out my dream. The one where I morphed into an Amish person and had really horrible teeth. It’s funny because it sounds really normal when I say it but the reaction I’ve gotten from other people has been the following:  crickets, a gaping mouth, or a furrowed brow. 

I woke up from this dream and went directly into my 9th grade class. For some reason, I felt the need to share my experience with them.

“Hi guys. Before we start, can I just tell you that I just woke up from a dream where I morphed into an Amish person?”

Nothing. No response. Beyond awkward. I don’t know what I was expecting.  Someone else to jump up and say,

“Oh, I had that dream too!”

I was looking for validation but felt even more freakish than I did in the dream.

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Escaping Escapes: How to Cope With Anxiety When You'd Rather Watch Bad TV

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Escaping Escapes: How to Cope With Anxiety When You'd Rather Watch Bad TV

Today one of my students asked me what my biggest fear is. My first thought was, can I only choose one? I mean, there's always been so many fears. From snakes (I just don't like the idea of something moving around without limbs), to outdoor games like Tag and Dodge ball and Red Rover (I mean, don’t people know these games hurt?) to dying a slow and painful death, I have always had a shitload of fears. Here was my response to her.

“In this moment, right now, my biggest fear is failure. In public. Public failure. “

I then went on to say something that I never expected would come out of my mouth.

“I’m a perfectionist. I want to do everything perfectly…without making any mistakes. I know that’s not logical. I know that no one is perfect and that’s just part of being a growing human being but I don’t want to put anything out there to the world that isn’t as close to perfect as possible.”

Wow, where did that come from? It’s amazing how, at 43, you can have these epiphanies about yourself.  And I just had one out loud…in front of a dozen 18 year olds. Yikes!

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Ellie...The Orange Element: A Story of a Car...And Her Catalytic Converter

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Ellie...The Orange Element: A Story of a Car...And Her Catalytic Converter

So, something weird happened. 

The other day I jump into my orange Honda Element…Ellie Girl we call her. My husband even has a song that goes, “The orange Element”. I guess the tune doesn’t really translate here, but it’s cute. So I start her up and, well, she sounds like 5 motorcycles are inside her engine and she’s shaking and then this waft of burnt rubber comes over me, so I shut her off.

What-The-Fuck. Like, what the hell is happening right now? So, as if I don’t believe that it’s actually happening, I start her again. And again, it’s like a pack of motorcycles are underneath me. A pack? No. That’s wolves. A herd? A tribe? It doesn’t matter.

And all I can think is, is this seriously happening? You know those times when you think, it’s never going to happen to you? Like, you see those people on the side of the road and their car’s like smoking and you think, whew! Thank the lord that’s not me? But now, it’s kind of me!

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Hello 43: When Denial No Longer Works

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Hello 43: When Denial No Longer Works

“What? No fucking way!” This was me talking to my car radio.
“That’s right. Today marks the 30th anniversary of the release date of the album Purple Rain.”

I almost crashed into the person in front of me.

“No it’s not!” I yelled at the DJ.
“I know, it’s hard to believe, right?” He continued.
“Uh, yeah! What are you talking about, dude? 30 years??? There’s no way!”

I began chuckling under my breath. 30 years. Right.  But then I began flashing back on my life…in quick little snippets like when Bruce Willis puts it all together at the end of “Sixth Sense.” And I’m back at Arts Unlimited, the summer program at Chadwick School in Palos Verdes. I’m learning a jazz routine to “When Doves Cry.” And I’m…13! Holy shit.  He’s right. It was 30 years ago.

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