Why Anna Kendrick Is My Hero (And Should Be Yours Too)

I take inspiration from so many women.  Maya Angelou and Sofia Coppola to Christiane Amanpour and Beyonce.  Predictable?  Maybe.  Until you add Anna Kendrick to the list.

The first time I remember seeing her was in Up in the Air in 2009.  (Sorry, I don’t do Twilight.)  She was awkwardly average and painful to watch, in the best way possible.  She was Courtney Stodden in Ann Taylor because I loved to hate her and wondered how the hell she landed the gig.  Still, she was perfect for the role, which scored her an Oscar nomination for supporting George Clooney.  Scha-wing.

Next time we caught up was in What to Expect When You’re Expecting (on On Demand, of course, because that’s what you expect AFTER you’ve expected).  She played Rosie, a less-than-normal teenage girl who never quite got over Marco after he stood her up for the prom blah, blah, blah…  Whatever.  She had movie-sex with Chace Crawford.  Schaaa-wing.

Fast forward to another blockbuster, my bio pic.  This scene stars a 3 year old screaming bloody murder from her car seat because a 5 year old ate the last Cheeto.  Thankfully, having cranky toddlers in the car is a great excuse for boogying down in the driver’s seat, which I do on the reg.  And if there’s one thing I can count on in that scenario other than a headache, it's that any Sirius XM pop station will have one of the same seven songs in rotation.  “Cups” it is, and my prayers are answered.  Then I see the artist's name scroll.  (It was Anna Kendrick.  Keep up, people.)

While safely at a stoplight, to Google I go.  Could this really be the same girl?  Let me save you the search… It’s her.  The one in End of Watch.  The one in 50/50.  And the one who earned the sacred title of 2^nd youngest Tony nominee ever.

I’m clearly not a movie buff, nor a Broadway aficionado.  But I do consider myself to be somewhat of an authority on things that inspire women- and she fits the bill ridiculously well.

Anna Kendrick doesn’t share Kate Beckinsale’s looks, Heidi Klum’s legs, Kate Upton’s body, or Kim Kardashian’s je ne sais pas. (Although, strangely, she does share the initial K.)  What Anna Kendrick has is much, much more…  And frankly, the fact that she is getting big props for it gives me hope that every once in a while, life can be fair in the most beautiful way.

Good luck on Pitch Perfect 2, Anna.  I’ll be watching.

I Was Offered A Black Market Baby (And I'm Thankful For It)

I hate to admit that I knew almost nothing about El Salvador during the first two decades of my life.  I knew nothing of the civil war that ravaged the country for most of my youth, or the gangs that have terrorized it since.  I had never seen a restaurant called a pupuseria and likely would have poked fun at the name if I had.  That is, until I met my husband, and became enamored by that element of his heritage.

Shortly after we started dating, he took a family vacation to El Salvador, his mother’s homeland.  I remember my future father-in-law, an Italian immigrant, joking that he would never take me along.  With a look as American as they come, locals would view me as prey.  Ironically, that challenge made me want to visit the country only more- just without my engagement ring.

Then a year after we were married, my husband went on a life-changing journey as a volunteer in an orphanage there.  Upon his return, I could see his frustration over my inability to fully grasp the power, beauty and sadness of his experiences.  Months later, he returned to the orphanage, with me by his side.

My heart was open but vulnerable was we entered the property.  I knew immediately that he was right.  I could never have imagined the conditions or energy of the facility without having been there myself.  Still, what caught me most by surprise was that the first (of many) tears I cried were not of distress, but joy.

Walking the long concrete corridor to the sun-baked blacktop playground, my husband must have appeared nothing but a well-over 6 foot tall shadow.  A toddler armed with no family or education but the vision of a hawk noticed him immediately and ran into his arms, like a wife being reunited with her husband after a long tour of duty.

In that moment, and several more in the days that followed, I saw first hand how those that live in the most underserved circumstance can sometimes have the greatest abundance of love and life to give.

After leaving the orphanage, we spent several days exploring other parts of the country.  During one excursion our host guided us to a beautiful coastal inlet, driving right up to the sea despite an approaching rainstorm.  As I sat soaked but completely content in the back of a pick-up truck, I couldn’t help being distracted by the roar of a crying infant in a car parked nearby.  The windows were closed tightly and fogged, but the door was unlocked.

Call what happened next what you will… I believe it was not ignorance but maternal instinct that led me to open the door and lift the baby, now hysterical, from her seat beside her frightened toddler sister.  No more than 6 months old, she was hot to the touch, soaked with perspiration.  With my hand on her back, I could feel congestion in her lungs.  She was clearly ill and alone in a car, left to be monitored by her big sister, who was still in diapers.

A few minutes later, their parents returned from a small paddleboat on the water, joyful, bottle of alcohol in-hand.  They were far from disgruntled that I had opened the car and removed their kids.  They were, however, shocked by how noticeably disturbed I was by the situation.

Trying to make light, purely for our benefit, our guide joked with my husband that I looked good with the baby.  He then took it one step further, offering to “get” me the baby, if I wanted it.

Since my youth I have wanted to consider adoption.  Having had an experience like this only makes me think about it more.  As the mother of two young girls, it is my dream (and responsibility) to provide all that I can for them.  Who knows if our future will allow for our family to grow once (or twice) more...  In the meantime, I’m determined to remember and spread the word of the intangible gifts I received from the children I encountered on that trip.  Sometimes those with the least to offer have the most to give.  In return, all you have to do is pay it forward.

Pardon Me, Do You Have Any Grey Poupon (Or A Way To Save My Kid From Behaving Like Reese Witherspoon)?

Obviously I made prank calls as a tween.  My diverse repertoire ranged from the gold standard “is your refrigerator running?” to the slightly more racy call to a bowling center about 10-pound balls.  Overall they were really very innocent, barely entertaining and undeniably forgettable, except for one.

I have never forgotten the first time my junior high BFF and I dialed and random number and heard the disappointing click of an answering machine on the other end.  Normally, we would have hung up, and targeted any other number without the famous 555 prefix then reserved for the silver screen.  But as I went to disconnect and heard the recorded “I am not in my car right now”, my jaw dropped.

When I envisioned this dude rolling with a pre-voicemail, tape-loaded answering machine in his car, it seemed so excessive… so deserving of a prank… or just a nasty message from bored and obnoxious teenagers.  So we began to rant about all the starving children in Africa, and likely ended with “Pardon me, would you have any Grey Poupon?”

Now, I was a very fortunate child growing up.  My father drove a beautiful car at the time, equipped with a mobile phone the size of Kobe Bryant’s kicks.  It was built into the center console, had a thick cord, and made my dad super-cool.  Like this.

Hold up.  I do have a point here other than that I was not born to be the next Weird Al Yankovic.

I used to think that the newest technologies were only for the rich, but that isn’t always the case anymore.  Gone are the days when I frown upon a parent giving their young child a cell phone, or a car that they couldn't afford with babysitting money.  Sure, some lines in there are fuzzier than a television with bunny ears, but the picture is still clear.  I want to arm my children with every chance they have to stay safe in this incredibly dangerous world.

I’ve already shared how the film Spring Breakers turned me into an insomniac.  Next up was Disconnect which despite being an impeccable film rid me of any doubt that parenting is more f’ing terrifying than ever.

Anyone can be one Facebook post away from feeling suicidal…  One dangerous date away from the unimaginable…  One trip to the mall away from ending up on a milk carton…  One Reese Witherspoon buzz away from an airbag…  Or one 911 call away from the last digits they’ll ever dial.

For now, I'm just trying to get my 5 year old to memorize my number.

I Broke Up With Zach Braff

I am suffering a terrible breakup.

Zach Braff and I went way back.  I can list episodes of Scrubs by name like a Seinfeld addict.  My favorite, 2004’s “My Screw Up”, was not only the finest 30-minute dramedy I’ve seen, but also led me to troll message boards searching the name of a musical artist featured in the episode.  Cue my discovery of the incredible (Braff BFF) Joshua Radin.

Then, there are the more obvious reasons for his awesomeness…  guest appearances in Arrested Development, the film and soundtrack for The Last Kiss, and of course, the same for Garden State- which he penned.

Despite the fact that on Tuesday night I stalked Twitter's trending topics hoping “Ready For Love” would make an another appearance, I am not bitter that the undoubtedly incredible but nearly decade old Garden State held a steady spot all night.  Credit isn’t always given where due, but when it is, #respect.  I'm not bitter.  Nooooot bitter, damn it.

Some trends on Twitter, like “replace a movie title with bong”, are more of an anomaly than others.  But when I looked into the cause of the film’s trend, I was disappointed.

Zach Braff began a Kickstarter campaign to fund his newest film, “Wish I Was Here”.  To date (and just a few days in) he has nearly 26,000 backers and 2 million dollars pledged.  Keep in mind a simple Google search lists Braff’s individual net worth at 22 million dollars.

Now I am assuming my readers are familiar with Kickstarter, a website dedicated to finding backers of and financial support for creative projects via the internet and social media.  It is the perfect place to turn a dream into a reality, much like my brother’s sister-in-law Christina Conrad did when she Kickstarted the awesome Booby Pack there.

And while there are no limitations on who starts a campaign, I am turned off by a millionaire using the site for a project he could find funding for a dozen other ways.

There are pros.  Kickstarter itself is getting a ton of attention because of Braff.  And my hope is that countless others who were completely unaware of the opportunity, or were aware but too afraid to try, will be inspired by his success.

The cons are way more difficult for me to identify, other than a strong gut feeling in my heart that some things should remain untouched by celebrity.  Unfortunately, in today's society, I don’t think anything ever will.

Pray For... Us All

I consider myself Bostonian.  In high school I told my mother that if I wasn't accepted to Boston College, I planned to re-apply until I was.  It was the only place I wanted to be.  After (an on-time) graduation, I lived in and loved the city.  I made fun of Duck Boats.  I ate North End cannolis.  I brunched at Stephanie's on Newbury and saw concerts at The Gaa'den.  I celebrated St. Patrick's Day like I was Irish, and I completed the Boston Marathon.

That's me in the yellow tank, running to raise money for Brigham & Women's Hospital, in 2001

A few years later, I was married on the North Shore of Boston, in my husband's hometown.  Our reception was at the Fairmont Copley, feet away from the explosions.  So though there are palm and citrus trees in my Los Angeles yard, I have been infused with Patriot blood.

Copley Square, just feet from the finish line

I've kept from comment on the events of this week solely because I was left speechless by the photo of an 8 year old victim sharing a message of peace so soon before the exact opposite took his life.  But now is my time.

I don't believe it is out of selfishness that we take tragedy and personalize it.  I speak of my ties to Boston not to imply that I grieve more than you, but because in order to process any event, positive or negative, we need to make it our own.  Here is what helped me to do so.

Several months ago, I wrote about the Earthquake Survival Kit that I had to pack for my daughter to keep at preschool.  The canned tuna, flashlight, non-peanut peanut butter and family contact info was simple.  It was the "encouraging letter from home" that stumped me, and did until today.

The packed bag remains in my kitchen.  All the items are checked off, with the exception of the letter.  As much as I love to write, every time I sit down to compose what could potentially be the last words my daughter will hear from her mother and father, I cry.

Back then, I asked myself how I communicate the words to my child that I knew could be my last, but also how I could not... Now I know.

I will think of the parents of that 8 year old boy and pray that they never left important words unspoken.  Then, I will pick up my pen, and make sure I don't end up in the same boat.

Seriously, Do You Know This Child?

I couldn’t resist clicking on a recent Facebook photo of a young girl and a police officer with the caption “Is This Your Daughter” (even though I knew she wasn’t).  Along with it came the story of how a group of several adults noticed a girl playing on the playground, seemingly unattended, for quite some time.  They finally approached the child, who looked about 7 years old, and asked her who was there with her.  After she was unable to identify a guardian, they called the police.

Shortly after the officer arrived, so did the girl’s nanny.  A brief chat later, the nanny (child in hand) and officer went their separate ways.  But before they did, one mom snapped this photo and shared it on social media in an effort to find the girl’s parents.

Now, the officer may have asked for the family’s contact information and planned to notify them.  It is also completely possible that he didn’t, or that if he did, she gave misinformation.  

Fast forward to last night, when I took my daughters to a playground that has a bootcamp class taking part outside the gated play area.  At one point a plump, flushed and Lululemon-ed out mom came running to the gate shouting “Katie!  When I call for you, you answer”.  It took me a moment to realize that the girl (who also appeared to be about 7) was flying solo on the playground while her mom attempted to burn off a frappacino with whip.

Now, I don’t yet consider myself an overprotective parent, but I plan do to become one.  I am already terrified about all that my daughters will encounter in the world as they grow.  In fact, I think about it constantly.  And they are only 3 and 5.

I have shared stories here before about my taking road trips with non-English speaking strangers in a foreign country, mortifying drunken nights, and even drug-induced fear of honeydew melons in my hometown grocery store, but those were all years ago.  Things are even worse now.  I know this because I saw Spring Breakers.

My gut instinct is that I am not overreacting to either playground incident.  7 is definitely not the age to start letting go, but what is?

(to be continued…)

My Kids Made Me Rude (And If You Are A Good Parent, Yours Will Too)

My family teases me about my obsession with etiquette.  My grandmother bought me the largest Emily Post reference book available long before most kids my age could say thank you.  And my sister has actually gone so far as to suggest that I give gifts only to see if I will receive a thank you note (which is complete BS, BTW).

Behold, Emily Post...

While I can agree that I used to be a bit of a stickler when it came to manners, I no longer am.  In fact, I’ve become straight up rude… and I blame my children for it.

At work, I tackle a to-do list like it is my job- because it is.  But at home, no matter how long my list of to-dos, my kids are always at the top.  The result, as everything else falls to the wayside, I fear leaves me appearing aloof.

Invite me to your wedding and you are likely to receive my gift as your first anniversary approaches.  In fact, I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve gone way overboard on a few baby gifts because I couldn’t remember if I had ever even given a wedding gift.

Send one of my daughters a gift and you may have to wait a while for a non-electronic thank you.  And birthday goodies that aren’t for a kid?  Don’t hold your breath.  

But my intentions are sincere.  This I guarantee.

Wedding gifts take time because I rarely purchase registry items and try to find something with a more personal touch.  Thank you notes often include a photo of my kids wearing or using the item you gave them, which takes time, especially with clothing purchased a size ahead.  And birthday gifts almost always include even a little something handmade.

Still, there are a few things I give myself credit for.  I rarely make a cut from our Christmas card list.  Actually, I wouldn’t doubt if there are a few people that receive my card and wonder “who the hell are these people”.

I’ve also begun to take RSVP’s pretty seriously.  If I could propose an 8^th wonder of the world, I would overlook whether Elvis Presley is dead or alive and go right to a preschool parent’s inability to RSVP to a classmate’s party.  After two years of being forced to debate whether to buy 1 pizza or 10, I’ve vowed not to put others into the same predicament.

In hindsight, I think my problem (if you can call it such) is that I love too much.  I want to do so many things and am unwilling to sacrifice anything.  I don’t want anyone to feel left out, not only because I don’t want to offend, but because they truly hold a place in my heart.

The challenge then becomes finding a way to spread myself thinly enough to reach everything I need to, but not so thinly that I fade away…