“I want to be famous,” my eleven year-old tells me. We are standing on Hollywood Boulevard watching the premiere of the new Ben Stiller movie, “The Watch.” I had a meeting in Los Angeles and brought my daughter along for a fun overnighter.

“Why do you want to be famous?” I ask. After working red carpet premieres for years, I’ve seen enough celebrities hassled to know being famous is not synonymous with fun.

“Because you get to do what you want and wear anything you want.”

“You get to do that anyway.” I say, “As long as it’s appropriate.” Her itsy-bitsy-polka-dot bikini top that came home from Nordstrom’s the other day made a quick return to the racks.

“But designers give them clothes. They get to travel everywhere,” she defended.

“That’s true. But if you were famous now, you wouldn’t be able to be in your sweats and a ponytail. Everyone would be taking your picture.”

She looked at me flatly. I knew my arguments were getting me nowhere. Just then the paparazzi swarmed Nicholas Braun, an actor in “Prom.”

I asked Lynette Wilhardt, Clinical Director of Kids Konnected, why kids are obsessed with being famous. “In today's society with all the stressors for kids like school, friends, and sports, the celebrities make life look so easy.” She added,  “They don't work, have status and all the money to buy whatever they want. There are a lot of accolades for people who have celebrity status, although no talent, like “The Kardashians.”

Thank you, Kim Kardashian and family. In a trend that started with Paris Hilton, Kim is famous for doing nothing but being famous. Now, that’s not really fair. Kim did do an X-rated movie that she pretended she didn’t make and got a $5 million settlement. I guess when she posed for Playboy a few years later that was an accident too.

During our Hollywood visit, my daughter and I went to Dash, the Kardashian clothing store on Melrose Avenue. You wait in line until the man in the suit lets you in to buy a $60 t-shirt and $4 pencil.

My daughter looked at the clothing, which was expensive and not cute, and decided on two pencils. While she paying (with her own money), a mother and her teenage daughter bought six t-shirts, four key chains, and a handful of pencils. Sigh.

I was feeling pretty bummed about the whole fame thing until the Olympics started and delivered Missy Franklin, an adorable 16 year old swimmer from Colorado. She won four gold medals, showing young girls everywhere that you can become famous for your ability to swim and compete, all with a smile.

Katie Ledecky, the 15-year-old gold medal swimmer from Maryland, and the Fabulous Five gymnasts have also been excellent examples of fame from hard work and a commitment to excellence. Fortunately, my daughters are fascinated with these young women.

Hopefully now, the conversation can change. If only Missy Franklin could have a reality show on Bravo, then the fascination with stupidity and 72-day marriages might end. I doubt it though. I think even we adults need our train wrecks to truly enjoy our heroes.

We just need to make sure our kids don’t idolize the wrecks more than the workers.

I throw out one of my cheesy smiles, trying to mask the embarrassment of what my friend Peggy calls ‘over-sharing.’

What does one say, though, to a new neighbor who just constructed a 15-foot tall tipi in his backyard in Bluebird Canyon?

After a big ‘wow,’ you can only wonder, ‘Did Design Review actually approve this structure?’

Ever since our neighbors moved in last year, their activities have entertained me. I’m like the nosy Mrs. Kravitz in Bewitched, always home, always looking out my window. Every thing was fairly normal until some large branches appeared in the backyard.

The construction of a Native American sweat lodge was underway. Green tree limbs covered in canvas created a dome used for ceremonies. I had only ever seen one in the news when James A. Ray’s Spiritual Warrior session went awry and three people died.

I have friends who have done sweat lodges for cleansing.  I’ve never had any interest since I participate in my own sweating ritual, thanks to menopause and that fun little activity called hot flashes.

Anyway, everything appeared fairly cool until one of the sweat lodge ceremony participants urinated in front of my nine-year old and her friend while they were playing in the yard next door. There was a fence between them, so fortunately no private parts were seen.  Another neighbor who saw the whole event from her kitchen window called the police.

That’s when a letter went out from our neighbor, Andrew, letting us know that it is his tradition, as a Native American, to use the sweat lodge for prayer and purification. His rights on the land use were covered in the Congressional American Indian Religious Freedom Act.

Tensions in the neighborhood started to grow. I knew he thought we were a bunch of OC Housewives, intolerant of his beliefs.

At home, we discussed the inappropriateness of public urination, which my girls clearly understood.

“Gross,” they squealed.

We also talked about the sweat lodge and the Native American culture. Maybe I missed a teaching moment here but all I could think about was whether the heat used was a potential fire danger to our canyon. 

I decided to talk directly to Andrew. 

“I have kids too,” he said, in regards to the public urination. “It won’t happen again.”

As for the sweat lodge, he told me that as an Acoma Pueblo Indian he has the right to an open fire, per the Congressional Act. However, he had chosen to use propane tanks to heat the rocks placed inside the lodge.

He’s a nice, family man who obviously cares about his culture.  I still wasn’t convinced all was well.

Several months after the sweat lodge was built, a retaining wall and tipi appeared.

After I shared my incredible pretzel rod design, my girls and I were invited inside the actual structure. Beautifully whittled pine poles held up the large canvas. It was a magical moment.

“What are the four flags on the outside?” my daughter asked.

‘Those represent the colors of humans-white, red, yellow and black. They also stand for the four elements and four directions,” Andrew explained.

After we left, my girls asked, “How can he put that in his backyard, Mommy?”

“He said his land use rights as a Native American allowed him to build it,” I explained. “The question is do those rights supersede those of Laguna Beach?”

My girls were both studying government. We pondered the dilemma for a moment.

 “Sometimes it’s hard to know how the rules work,” I said. “We need more information.” 

My teaching moment, that life can be complicated, had finally arrived. 

On New Year's day, I left home (all by myself) and headed to Tucson, Arizona on a walkabout, a spiritual journey.

Day One
I visited some fabulous sites where I prayed for health for myself and loved ones.

I want to thank everyone for their participation, support, and donations for the Komen Walk. What an amazing experience! I told a friend, ‘It was possibly my best day since I had been diagnosed.’ (Not sure how much that is saying, but a dose of happiness is always good.)

Trotting around in my bright pink Survivor shirt, I felt like royalty. Complete strangers gave me hugs, high fives and even jewelry. The most incredible part was the energy in a crowd. As my daughters, friends, and I walked the course, I felt hope that we will find a cure to this disease. For my own health, I felt a renewed energy to finish my treatment and keep fighting. Read more...

“That our baby girl is going to the soccer finals?” I answered. We had just come back from the game that put our 8-year-old’s team into the Laguna Beach tournament.

“No, that’s not it.”

“You unloaded the dishwasher?”

“Nope, nice try though. What’s the big news, the headline of your life right now?”

The headline, I pondered. And then the caffeine kicked in from this morning’s mug. “That I’m a soccer mom?”

“Exactly,” my husband smiled. “Not only are you a soccer mom, but the Team Mom. And who knew you were so competitive?”

I laughed. My husband was right. I used to look down at moms who spouted off their kids’ statistics and drove mini-vans with soccer balls splattered on the back. ‘Get a life,’ I would think, ‘there’s a big bad world out there beyond your kids’ athletic abilities.’

Yes, that’s true, but who wants to go there when you can stand on the sideline with other parents and cheer on your kids? And, I have to confess, even yell at them to chase the ball.

Yelling at my kid from the sidelines? Oh no, what have I become? Once again, motherhood has morphed me into some alien creature obsessed with scores and snacks as if I were a team manager in the World Cup.

I’ve always said that volunteering was for other moms. I didn’t have the patience or the time. But when signing my daughter up for soccer, I had to commit to volunteer either as a coach, referee or team mom. As a kid, I was the geeky girl always chosen last for games. I did work as a soccer ball girl (an intensely athletic position requiring one to chase out of bound balls) but quit as soon as I met a cute boy on the team.

Since my ball girl resume wouldn’t qualify me to coach or referee, I volunteered to be a team mom. What’s surprising is how much I enjoyed it. Heaven knows motherhood has morphed me into less enjoyable personas. For example, I can no longer spell. Words like recommend (one ‘c’ or two?) and receive (‘i’ before ‘e’ except after ‘c’) are now a challenge. If it weren’t for spell check, my entire vocabulary would be three letter Scrabble words.

I am also a lot less patient. Now, I yell at other drivers, sigh loudly in long lines, and often find the manager when there aren’t enough grocery store clerks.

And lastly, I worry like nobody’s business. Worry about the school bus (why no seatbelts?), play dates (like the one where the big brother ran around naked) and whether I’m being a good mom (did I really need to yell over the Sharpie on the wall?).

But, it’s because of worry that I enjoyed this past soccer season so much. My 8-year-old was diagnosed with asthma seven years ago and has spent many afternoons inhaling steroid breathing treatments. Watching her run up and down the field laughing and having fun was an incredible mommy high.

At the team party two weeks ago, the coaches gave me my very own team medal. It was my first and most likely only sports medal. Needless to say, I cried.

As the year comes to a close, I have to admit being a soccer mom was one of my happiest accomplishments. I know it sounds sappy and perhaps insane, but sometimes headlines can shock even those of us who write them.

And now for my final headline of 2010: “Basketball, anyone?”



Finally, I made a pot of coffee and pulled out Robert, my Roomba robot that vacuums my house, garage and mini-van. I can’t say enough nice things about my favorite man in the house. He cleans without complaining, eats dirt for dinner and never hogs the remote. While he is a solid member of our family for three years, we’ve definitely had our scary moments. Most recently, he beeped three times and then died. No coaxing or cleaning of his private chambers helped. After further examination, the diagnosis was clear: He needed surgery. My husband donned the plastic gloves, sterilized the area and gave Robert a new sensor and drive wheels. My boy was as good as new.

I turned Robert on and set him free to attack our post-vacation mess. The last time I heard his motor churning, he was in the living room. I didn’t think much about it until my bedroom was ready to be cleaned and Robert was nowhere to be found. My kids came home and looked. As did my babysitter and husband. We searched under every bed and piece of furniture. A flashlight scanned every closet, but we found nothing.

Thetruth was obvious: Robert had run away. He had rolled out the front door and kept on moving. Frankly, I can’t blame him. Our house was such a mess I felt like running away. I asked my neighbors, but no one had a seen a red vacuum rolling down the street. My babysitter and I became so obsessed that we contemplated posting reward flyers.

After a week, I gave up and said my good-byes. I wrapped up his charge cord and put it to rest in a special place. Our relationship was over and, sadly, I needed to buy another vacuum since our house was still dirty. I opted for the push vacuum and added it to my daughters’ chore list.

Last weekend, I was moving my daughter’s dresser and screamed! There was Robert, hiding deep against the wall. How his 3” little frame fit under the ledge is beyond me. Obviously traumatized, I dusted him off and promised not to abuse him anymore.

It feels good to have him home. The only problem is I’ve forgotten where I laid his power cord to rest. I’m sure he won’t mind a longer vacation. If only I could join him.



It’s not even a fear of flying, although there’s nothing like bouncing through a thunderstorm to make me wish I were at home folding laundry. No, I am deeply afraid of luggage. ­ ere’s always some movie moment drama and frankly I’m just not up to it.

Eleven years ago, before I was married, my parents took me on a trip to Costa Rica via Miami. When I arrived in the Miami Airport, I met up with my family, grabbed my purple du. e bag and headed to our hotel in South Beach. Later that night, I discovered that my luggage lock wouldn’t open because, lo and behold, it wasn’t my bag! A" er spending an hour on the phone with the airlines, I discovered that a man had mistakenly taken my bag, too. I wasn’t the only dufus at the luggage carousel.

Another hour on hold and it was revealed that Mr. Purple Du. e Bag was staying in our hotel, one - oor directly above me. My head swirled. - is was obviously fate, a “Sleepless in Seattle” in Miami. I rushed down to the front desk with his bag. My bag was there but no cute guy was next to it. A" er interrogating the desk clerk, I found out that Mr. Purple was headed to Chile with his girlfriend. - at was a whole lot of anxiety over nothing.

Since then, I’ve had a few lost bags but nothing too dramatic until last summer when we traveled to Brooklyn to visit my husband’s family. My daughter and I packed up my computer, her stu. ed bear and sassy out. ts and spent the night at my girlfriend’s apartment in Greenwich Village. - e next day, we met up with my husband who took our bags and put them in the navy mini-van in the public garage.

What a beautiful day in Manhattan, until we got home and there was no luggage in the van. Obviously stolen, I had a meltdown of the . rst degree.

To make a long and painful story short, my husband put our luggage in the wrong blue mini-van. - e person discovered it when they got home to Ramsey, N.J., and found their van . lled with a stu. ed bear and silver suitcase. My husband and I drove to this honest man’s house to get my stu. . - is movie moment was more like “Shutter Island” where my husband escaped a near-death experience.

Everyone knows that things happen in threes which is why I’m slightly nervous packing my bags. What will I lose this time? More importantly, what is the lesson? Don’t check luggage? Like that’s going to happen with two kids and a husband who wears three shirts a day.

I’m going to stick with my grandmother’s adage. “Pack a clean pair of underwear and tooth brush in your purse, and you’ll always be fresh.” I need this vacation to be drama free. Less “National Lampoon’s Vacation,” more “Princess Diaries.” A little “Eat Pray Love,” wouldn’t hurt either.

Thanks for the therapy session. I feel ready to face the carousel with glasses in hand and a fully stocked purse, just in case this devil needs to wear Prada.