I never imagined I would do this. I was never the maternal kind, never felt any affinity for children, and indeed, never felt an overwhelming need to have any either.

Until I did.

And, like so many mothers before and after me, I changed my life around them.

People often ask how I got a job that allows me to work from home and dictate my own schedule. I never “got” anything. From the moment I had my first child, I asked.

And asking closed a few doors, but it opened many more. Over the years, my conclusion is: A company that will not allow me the flexibility I need to work around my children is not a company that appreciates what I bring to the table.

I don’t need to punch a time card to be productive; quite the contrary, I am inordinately productive because I can balance my worlds as mother and writer. Yes, I’ve had to give up some things along the way, on both ends.

I’ve found that as a mother that works, I can’t have it all.

But I can have all that matters to me.

Happy Mother’s Day!!!!

In March 31, 1995,  I was a rookie reporter at the Los Angeles Times when I got a call from a friend in Texas: Selena, the Tejano music star, had been murdered.

I knew of her, of course, and had watched her collect her Grammy.

But that afternoon, with the phone in my hand, I didn’t quite grasp the enormity of what had happened.

It hit me when I encountered the entertainment editor’s reaction to my news: He didn’t believe me. By the time he corroborated the facts and the wires got the story and Selena’s life started to play again and again on television, my heart just wasn’t into writing about it anymore, because by then, the sadness of this tale, the futility of this death, had numbed me.

In the days that followed, I, like the rest of the country, witnessed the massive, collective mourning for Selena, and like so many others, I marveled: “I didn’t know how big she was.”

Sixteen years later, I’m no longer surprised by the enormity of Selena’s achievements while she was alive, but the growing scope of her influence since her death. You see it in the movie, the TV specials, the countless compilations—which continue to sell unabated–the shrine to her that is her hometown of Corpus Christi, TX., the way her name is spoken—by every Latina girl, it seems—even those who weren’t even born when she died.

A few weeks ago, I went to the studio to listen to “Selena Forever,” the just released  album of remastered and rearranged Selena tracks, some of the re-recorded as duets. The producers had stripped down Selena’s vocals and laid them over new musical arrangements. They played something rare for me: Selena’s solo vocal tracks. Devoid of any other instrument or accompaniment, you hear every breath, every sigh, every emotion poured into the unforgettable voice, that still sounds as real today as it did almost two decades ago.

And I marveled all over again: “I didn’t know how big she was.”

Certainly, there is no more base human emotion, this one intrinsically linked to wishing ill to those who do well. IN this Thanksgiving Day weekend, I’ve had multiple occasions to witness envy first-hand. I see it in withering glances, hear it in passing, nasty comments, in statements and declarations made by complete strangers in all sorts of settings and stages, big and small. What is it that brings out this very worse of traits in us, that transforms normally nice, decent people into harbingers of poison?

Envy is defined by Webster’s New World Dictionary (the last word in vocabulary, as far as I’m concerned) as “a feeling of  discontent and ill will because of another’s advantages, possessions, etc.. resentful dislike of another who has something that one desires.”

It is not to be confused with the milder Jealousy, whose first definition refers to being “very watchful or careful in guarding or keeping of one’s rights” or resentfully suspicious of a rival.”

We’ve all felt jealous at one point or another. But envy escalates into the arena of wishing ill on another. And why? Ambition makes us better. Drive and hard work makes us better. Envy does not make us better and it certainly won’t make the other person worse. But it does make us unhappy and bitter, and those feelings do mushroom like clouds, extending onto others and contaminating even the most innocuous of moments.

So, next time you feel compelled to lambast that “successful” person you barely know (yes, I am talking to that envious co-worker, to the envious parent whose child lost the tournament, to the envious woman whose “best friend” got engaged, even to the envious passenger who didn’t get the seat he wanted on the plane), hold your tongue and rather, think for a minute: Is this the person you want to be and the person you want others to see? Wouldn’t you rather leave a trail of hope–rather than disparagement–in your wake?

Mom and dad complained bitterly in the article. But, really, are they right?

As a mom who has flown many, many times with my children–beginning with Allegra when she was just 1 month old—i have to say, in this case, the parents are wrong. Yes, it’d be nice if there were some courtesy left on an airplane. But the fact is, there isn’t. And in its absence, it’s the parents’ responsibility to bring everything possibly needed for their kids. To expect the airline to coo-coo your baby in this day and age is not only urnealistic; it’s a tad irresponsible.

I know. I’m being harsh. But, am i? First of all, why in the world would you subject your 18-month-old to a TWELVE HOUR flight? Why? Why? Why???? Unless, of course, you need to visit your ailing grandma or somesuch. Otherwise, do you really think your 18-month-old will remember that trip to Hawaii–ever? No, they won’t. But you will have succeeded in aggravating the kids and every other passenger on board.

I’ve traveled with my kids many places. Most of the time they’ve been good. Some of the time they’ve been terrible. Sometimes, they’ve cried nonstop for three hours straight, much to the dismay of everyone around me. I sympathize with my fellow passengers in these cases, because no matter what I do, it doesn’t work. But believe me, I do what I can, and I come prepared for any eventuality. That includes the most basic of needs: Enough milk for the trip.

When it comes to kids and travel, there will always be emergencies, and unexpected situations, and situations that even the best intentioned of parents cannot handle. But at the very least, come prepared. That alone will generate tons of goodwill. And who knows:  if a stewardess sees you’re really trying, she might even find you some milk.

And then, you get to security and—you’re sent through a priority line!! Not the regular priority line, another one! Turns out, you’ve become one of those pre-screened passengers. You’re blessed. Didn’t even have to take off my shoes! (although I did have to dump the water). Nice, nice, nice! I go to the plan, board, and–I have a lovely window exit seat! Yeah again! Everyone boards, and the seat beside you remains empty!!! Double yeah!!

Then off to the car rental, where they give you this super cute little jeep–triple yeah!–and then, the cherry: The hotel you’re staying at, the hotel your company actually approved, is the very lovely Casa del Mar right on the beach in Santa Monica. You have a nice glass of wine and listen to live music.

Life is good.

“You’re short, you’re fat and you have curly hair!”

Ouch!

The insult was hurled at me by a blond Beverly Hills matron at the tennis courts in Roxbury Park.

Short? Well, at 5.3 I’m certainly not tall.

Fat? I want to loose five pounds, but no, I plead no fat.

But curly? Hell, yes! Curly and proud!

So why was a woman well over 50 hurling such insults at short, curly me?

Well, I confess I provoked her.

“Tomorrow, you’re not going to get any better, younger or prettier!” I screamed at her earlier.

But wait! This came after SHE called my daughter a brat, and, as everyone knows, the minute someone insults your kid, it’s war.

So, this is what happened. We’re in the middle of vacation, but my 15-year-old tennis-player daughter has an ITF tennis tournament in two weeks and needs to hit at least for an hour a day. So, we go to Roxbury Park to practice serves, and when she serves, she grunts. Not a HUGE grunt, but a grunt, nevertheless.

The quartet of Beverley Hill matrons in the court next door are bothered (as we would soon find out). But, instead of asking her to pipe down, they start imitating her.

My daughter continues to serve, impassive.

And then, it begins:

“Can someone tell Maria Sharapova to stop grunting?” a shrill, obnoxious voice shouts. “It’s pretentious!”

Pretentious??

I promise that was the sequence of events. There was no, “hey guys, can you keep it down over there?” No “please,” no “would you mind?” No coming up to the fence and politely asking. Nah. Courtesy is too much to ask of spoilt , entitled, over the hill mean women who think they can steamroll over kids.

We ignored the comments, which got increasingly hostile, and kept practicing, until we got ready to leave.

“Next time, have the decency to say things to my face,” my daughter said as she walked out of the court.

“You’re a brat!” shouted one of the women. “I hope you lose all your matches!”

I mean, seriously, can you believe this???

I lost it.

“Well, tomorrow you won’t be any better, any younger or any prettier,” I snarled, marching up to the fence. “There’s nothing your plastic surgeon can do for you.”

That’s when she screamed: “You’re short, fat and have curly hair!”

“You’re fatter!” I screamed back.

Yes, I know, how lame is that?

We laughed all the way home.

And, you know what? I had the last laugh. Because it’s true. The big, old blondie on that court is NOT getting better (they were all horrible players), she’s not getting younger (memo to Beverly Hills mean women: excessive sunning ruins your skin), and there is no way in the world she can get prettier.

I, on the other hand, went to the hairdresser to cut my hair and by that afternoon, my curls had been blown out.

“Don’t you want a keratin treatment?” my hairdresser asked me. “That way it can always look like this.”

It looked good, I admit, but then I’d NEVER have curls. It felt disloyal.

“Nah,” I said. “I like my curls.”

The next day, we played tennis early in the morning at Rancho Park, where the courts were full of loud men who cursed constantly.

As we packed up to leave one of them shouted out at our daughter:

“Hey, you’re really good !”

We smiled.

Bruno Mars Concert Review