Be a Hero

Issue 134 is not an emergency

Hello, and welcome. I’m Simone. I help cool people and brands express themselves—copy, websites, and social. I’m also a person, so I do things people do.

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Good day, earthlings. I trust the week since Issue 133 served you well.

I just called 911:

[Me, driving] Hey, Siri, call 911.

911, what is your emergency?

There’s a bucket on the freeway—on 101 South, as the hill crests before the Tiburon/E. Blithedale exit.

Thank you for calling. I’m transferring you to the Highway Patrol. Don’t hang up.

I repeated the information to the Highway Patrol. They asked a few more questions, thanked me for reporting it, and said they'd send someone out to retrieve it.

You can, and (oh my god, I hate this word) should call 911 if you come upon an object on the freeway. I do it with some regularity. The number of people traveling at high speed while avoiding an object is a recipe for a multi-car pile-up. If that’s not an emergency (before it happens), I don’t know what is.

When in doubt, call 911. Don’t worry if you don’t know your precise location or have poetic language like “as the hill crests” on hand. They’ll walk you through it.

Be a hero.

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What Titillates You?

Titillate is not exactly an onomatopoeia, but it is a phonaesthesia. A what? When the word itself gives you a little shimmy. Say it out loud—titillate—don’t you feel titillated?

I bet you have a few highly-specific, albeit odd things that titillate you.

A couple of mine: when CHP snakes the lanes to hold back traffic—say, to remove a bucket from the lanes. It’s like parting the seas—a force of nature that's anything but. Like, what feels out of control is controlled. A well-orchestrated show. For a moment, I believe the kids will be alright. I like it. Another one I like: cargo ships. Ginormous, hideous cargo ships in the San Francisco Bay. They’re beautiful in a ginormous, hideous cargo-ship sort of way. I love their size relative to mine. And the geometry of Tetris cubes in sea-worn colors, carrying god-knows-what. Crap we don’t need.

Both titillations are big and ugly. They make me feel alive, which must worry you.

What titillates you? This is a solid ice breaker if you find yourself facilitating a group. Give them an example of yours and let them come up with theirs. You learn random things about your coworkers. Who knew Adam loves the sound of a tennis ball being whacked back and forth as background noise? Or that Tanya is titillated by straightening the seam on her young son’s pants, which he twists every time he pulls them on.

I’m the weirdest.

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Hate Is a Strong Word

I got my gift of language from my mom.

When I would say, “I hate Aaron!” and he’d say, “I hate Simone!” she’d tell us to rephrase it: “I strongly dislike Aaron.” “I strongly dislike Simone.”

No, we hate.

“Hate is a strong word,” she’d say.

Right. I hate him.

Aaron’s my brother. I’m his sister. We don’t strongly dislike each other anymore, but we did, which gives me hope for my children.

I hate these two words: should and fail/failure.

Should is shame-filled. It’s ugly. When brands use it, I cringe. The very next words I say, under my breath: “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Yet—things are about to get oxymoronic—I also think people like to be told what to do. When yapping about copywriting, I find myself saying things like, “Tell them what you want them to do.” But I would never say, “You should tell them what you want them to do.” No, ma’am.

Failure. I only use it to describe myself, to myself. How noble. I don’t believe any person or situation, like divorce, is a failure. I do, however, feel fine using it as a blanket statement about myself. If you’re not crying as you read, rest assured, I am as I read what I just wrote.

I’m not a failure at parenting. I was. Early on. I didn’t take it seriously. I was an actor, playing a mom. I had the stage blocked. I knew my lines. My costumes were baller.

I was lip-syncing and waiting for my understudy to relieve me.

My lips stopped syncing and started singing when my oldest was in 7th grade, just as the consequences of an anxiously attached mom on her son were hard to ignore. It was also, not coincidentally, around the time I lost my mom.

If you’ve ever woken up to something as monumental as parenting, you know it doesn’t happen overnight. It takes years—even generations. Years of digging up your shit, so you can be present for theirs. Everything that was ever submerged in your childhood begins a long, slow boil when they’re born. It’s cruel, miraculous, and guaranteed.

When our kids are young, and we're young, we default to the tempo of our childhood. My theater had a different name. Different location. Different cast. But the director was consumed—working, partnering, filling her bucket—she couldn't see he was born with holes in his bucket. The highly sensitive child who needed less change and more stability. Less intensity, more calm. Less frustration and more acceptance. A child who needed to know it's okay to be exactly as they are. I needed that. My son needed that.

Waking up when they’re in 7th grade means the damage is not irreversible, but it’s certainly not reversible. Had I known then what I know now, in my body, I would have been the parent he needed. But I couldn’t because mine couldn’t for me. My nervous system was wildly dysregulated. I was running on fumes, and I had no idea.

My nervous system has been dysregulated since birth. The same is true for my son. We were big. Owen, at 9.5 lbs, was squeezed for 3 hours in the straitjacket of my birth canal—never mind the 25 hours prior, or my tailbone, which he broke on the way out. Poor guy needed space. Absolutely not peaceful. Absolutely over-stimulating. What a way to enter reality. At 9.2 lbs, I baked for 42 weeks and refused to make the pilgrimage. Eventually, I did, as I’m typing to you now.

About 15 years after Owen was born, and 47 years after I was, I made a connection between our dysregulated nervous systems, ADHD, and our births. The only explanation? No. A factor? Yes.

Doctors won’t say this to you as cleanly as I will, but ADHD is a dysregulated nervous system. Don’t believe me. That’s okay. I believe me. Born this way. Enter a peaceful, loving, and connected family—your antidote. Unfortunately, most parents of dysregulated kiddos are dysregulated, which doesn’t lend itself to an abundance of peace, love, and connection. And so the cycle continues. Crying yet?

I have many memories of my mom being exactly what I needed. But in hindsight, that came later too—once the stress of single-parenting, blending families, and just the weight of time had already done its work on her, and therefore on me.

Parenting is hard.

I miss my mom.

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Five Years Ago—It Only Gets Harder

Mothers, Happy Belated Mom’s Day. Sunday was our day.

My mom passed away five years ago. To those who are in the lost-a-parent club, I see you. There’s no rush. It’s not a club you want to join. Plus, membership is a birthright.

Speaking of rushing and death, when I glimpse the skin on my appendages, while wearing my glasses, I’m aghast at the arid landscape that covers my person. Nature knows, doesn’t she? Our eyesight diminishes in direct proportion to our age. A soft glow washes over our skin, and somehow we’re just as we’re supposed to be. A little worse for the wear, but only a little. Until we put on our glasses.

I wouldn’t turn back the hands of time for anything—except to hold my no-longer-babies, give my oldest baby more of what he needed, and hug my mom.

Otherwise, I’ll stay here, a ripe 49.637 years old—wiser, calmer, present for my kids, and very, very single.

These pants prove it. They’re amazing. Trust.

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A visit to Mimo's grave on Mother's Day (and a photo of the three of us that none of us like).

You’re loved.

Until next time, Simone ❤️