Dear Margaret

I try to picture myself in your shoes, opening this letter and wondering who would send such a thing, so many years later. But it's really not for me to guess or wonder. It's mine to simply do.

I worked for you a very long time ago. I don't know whether you remember me or not, but I was ####'s Marketing Assistant for the **** launch. I know I don't have a very clear memory of those days, and not just because they're so long ago, but because I was an active alcoholic and drug addict. I know that now.

I probably wasn't the easiest person to be around in those days, either professionally or socially, and for that I truly apologize. My memory may not always be that accurate, but what I do remember (in technicolor) is the incident that caused the end of our professional relationship: namely the night at The Saint, where I got drunk and spilled proprietary trade information (namely the formulation of ****) to the competition - to the person who, it turned out, was actually your sister. I then proceeded to break into your office later that night to place my resignation letter on your desk and drink all your scotch. After which I actually showed up for work, having been out all night, still drunk, to witness the after-effects of what I thought was utter genius: resigning before you could fire me.

I thoroughly regret this insane drama I created, its extremely unfortunate aftermath and the ill-will I caused. Although today I can say that it was the gyrations of an very active addict who regularly found herself committing major self-destructive acts - ones that often wobbled out and perpetrated havoc and destruction on the lives of others as well - I want you to know that I am not trying to use this as an excuse. Only an explanation.


I am not that person today, as I have been clean and sober since 1985, and have rigorously worked to change who I am and where my actions come from. That work includes admitting the wrongs I have done to others and taking direct responsibility for them. I totally screwed up our relationship and the launch of ****.

Again, I know it was a long time ago, but you are the one person I have not been able to find anywhere - rumors had it you moved to London, but I couldn't find you there either - and after attending a gathering last night where we were talking about finishing up our amends in alternative ways, I thought I would simply sit down and write you this letter.

I often wonder how you are and what you're up to, Margaret. We partied very hard, even ferociously, as I remember it. I do hope all has gone well for you. Honestly, if it has, I would have to suspect that you probably were fortunate enough to have found yourself on the same path as I.

Which would totally warm my heart.

She's Been Here Longer

So here I sit, today, mother of a 15 year old. Who'd a thunk?

Sasha is an extraordinary person, and I say that not just as her mother but as an observant, spiritual being. When she was four years old and standing in the kitchen together, she looked up at me and said, "You know, I've been here a lot longer than you have."

I believed her then and I believe her now.

I don't think I really thought much about whether or not I wanted to have a child or needed the experience of being a mother. I was busy trying to cope with a life I never wanted, although to look at me you'd probably not guess that that was what I was doing. Comedy has always been a great and powerful cover. It's usually borne of great pain.

I also never thought I was a particularly "marriable" person, both from the experiences of a "few" failed "relationships" and just my own familial cynicism. Besides I was busy being a playwright in NYC, and god knows you certainly don't meet a wealth of straight nor available men in the theatre.

But marry I finally did, at the ripe age of 38.

About a year after we were married, my husband said, casually, "What do you say we try and have a kid?" And I said, "Sure, I guess, why not?" And I thought, "My mother did it, how hard could it be?"

And with exactly that much thought and that much discussion, I stopped taking The Pill.

Now this was a time when my friends and I were getting older, at least by viable egg standards, and many of them had been trying absolutely everything to get pregnant; pills, shots, hanging upside down in California - anything and everything. I assumed it would either probably never happen or we'd just forget about it or...something...

Well, counting back it took two whole weeks. Two weeks after I stopped using birth control I got pregnant.

And I knew it, the very second I got pregnant. I even said so (kind of a killjoy in the moment) and he didn't believe me, of course. Withing two weeks I had heartburn and was starting to turn what my ob/gyn called an "unbelievable shade of green". I even peed on the stick and it was negative, but I still knew that Sasha was happening.

No one believed me, particularly my poor friends at work who were going through the paces of trying and trying with no luck. But one morning, about five weeks into this thing, I woke up at 3:00 am, walked to Duane Reade and bought another pregnancy test. And this time it was a plus.

Wow. I woke him up and showed him the stick and he mumbled something like, "So I guess this means we're not going to Europe then," and fell back to sleep. Well, not me, baby, I was psyched and ready to go shopping for maternity clothes at 4:00 am.

Pregnancy was a trip. For the first three months I was sicker than sick. I worked in Midtown at the time, at a search firm. You could find me trudging up the Avenue in my little designer suit, barfing into one of the plastic bags I had stashed in my purse specifically for that purpose, and plopping down on curbs to try and catch my breath. Everyone from doormen to bikers would stop to ask if I was all right.

But the second trimester was absolutely glorious - my hair and nails grew like wildfire, my skin glowed with flowing hormones and I felt so beautiful - loved that big tummy thang, waddle and all.

Then I hit 26 weeks and went into pre-term labor on the beach in Southampton. Sasha was over-anxious to get her show on the road, but viable life and full development doesn't really happen until at least 37-40 weeks, so after bedrest, pills and several tries at the med-pump, I wound up in Lenox Hill Hospital for 10 weeks on anti-labor medication. They held Sasha in until 37 weeks, at which point she practically crippled me on her way out, but out she popped indeed, sunny side up with her eyes wide open, looking right at me.

And eyes wide open, looking right at me is how she still is, 15 years later. She is one of the bravest people I know, having faced not only her own life with unabashed clarity, but mine too. She has had a lot to live through in her short time on this planet - a mother who emotionally abandoned her for a time to horrific post-partum depression; being primarily raised by a bi-polar father who, after years of being there abandoned her, overnight, to a catastrophic illness that left him disabled and bitter; a set of parents who mixed like oil and water, screaming at each other, only to tell her that no, they were not really fighting, they were just a "passionate" family; the uproarious end of her parents' marriage; losing her upper middle class existence to barely making ends meet on welfare; fighting her own battle with depression, fibromyalgia and teenage alienation - to name more than a few.

But there she sits, right now, in front of me, doing her homework, maintaining her straight A's, petting her cat, listening to her headphones, laughing at my paltry jokes, being embarrassed by me in front of her friends, living as a beautiful, bountiful expression of her creator.


She is my number one power of example in resilience. For a long time, she was my only reason to get up in the morning - more than one woman has been saved by being a mother, so I've been told - but because of her fresh outlook and her undeniable life energy, I have been given the gift of being able to recognize my own zest for life, as well. And begin to live for me too.

I truly believe she chose me, I do. And for that, I'm incredibly grateful.

Better A Used Sofa Than A Used Me

I used to live with an Arab. He worked as a pilot for the government, or so he told me. Although he never said WHICH government, I don't think it was ours, as we used to vacation in places like Syria and Libya. And other places where I was told not to leave the hotel.

Didn't I find this suspect? Hey. They were nice hotels.

Oh yeah, and then there was that strange time I was cleaning out the closet and found a loose grenade. That was suspect, even to a less-than-conscious me.

I lived with this man for six years in my twenties. The reason we lasted so long was that he was out of town nine out of twelve months of the year. Even I could maintain a "relationship" for three months a year.

But those three months were hard, because he couldn't drink. And that's pretty much all I did from sun up to...sun up again. I mean, he would have a beer and a half and start to giggle like a little girl. And then we'd have to go home, which was, at that time, nothing short of excruciatingly painful for me.

And yet I would suck it up and try to stay home and wear an apron and learn to cook Lebanese. Oy. Today about all I can cook is a mean piece of toast.

And so this went on for years, three months of bizarre domesticity and nine of what I then thought was cool cosmopolitanism but was really pretty much just drug-induced oblivion. Lots of stories to tell, some of them fun and funny but many of them simply stupid and dangerous.

It didn't end pretty. I became a victim of domestic violence once my life's cat got out 'o the bag and began to live a life filled with dread and horribly low self-esteem, putting up with things I would personally physically drag someone else out of today - or call someone who could.

And then, one day, I got sober. Certainly not that simply, but I've got other posts about that, and this one's about taking back what was and still is mine. Me.

About a week later I got a sponsor, and together we decided that I would tell my guy that he had until my 90th day to pack up his stuff and find another place to live.

Oh yeah, at this point he lived in the living room and I in the bedroom. Except when we fought, when he lived anywhere he freaking wanted to.

And so. He did not believe me. And on my 90th day, my sponsor Judy came over with two other women and a locksmith and we changed the locks. And we waited. And he came home and tried to stick his key in the lock and...

Wow. Luckily I knew his pride was waaaaaaaay too powerful to ever allow him to show up again, particularly when others had witnessed his demise. One of them being the locksmith. Poor guy didn't make it out of there before what's-his-name came home. He looked more frightened than the four of us huddling on the sofa.

Was this then end of the Arab? Nay. About a month later he called me, sweet as could be, wanted to make sure I was okay, getting along well in sobriety - and asked if he could come over and pick up his stuff. All I could think was that I really didn't want to be there while he did this, so I said, sure, I'll leave the door open between 3:00 and 5:00...

Say what?! you shout on my behalf!

And so, that's how I ended up living in an empty apartment. He wiped me out, of course, and I went back to sleeping on a mattress on the floor, collecting discarded furniture off the street at night from the Upper East Side to refurnish my abode.


Yet another chapter in Nancy's Book of Gratitude.

Schmalentine's Day

Such Hallmark-incited pressure, yes? What are they calling it this year, "Single Awareness Day"?

Please. Do you know how many times I've been broken up with either on or right before Valentine's Day? Oy, the drama! How could The One do this?!

Well he couldn't. He wouldn't.

This year I'm not in a relationship and after spending the day listening to several of my friends (including myself for a good half hour) lament their singlehood, I have decided to spend my evening in gratitude. And you know why I'm grateful?

Because I'd rather be alone than in a relationship that's not working. Been there, done that.

There's plenty of time to find someone I want to shave my legs again for. For the time being, I think I'll just practice loving Me.

A Rad Life

The last five years have been about surviving. Surviving the shock, ravaging effects and aftermath of toxic illness, both physical and emotional. Surviving the drain of every penny of life savings, surviving unemployment, surviving foreclosure. Surviving a profound shift in what I see as "doing the right thing" in surviving long lines at the Department of Social and Health Services to collect my welfare and food stamps ("never in the history of our family has anyone stooped to living on the dole!"). Surviving the onset of deep humility in the asking and taking of help from friends and the disappointment of being outright refused by family. Surviving the separation and end of marriage and all the attendant complications that arise in becoming a single mother with a mean and bitter ex. And so on, and so on.

I've always been a pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps kind of woman, having been raised by a backyard-bra-burning feminist, and have taken great pride in this. And while I certainly still respect her, and thank the gods that I could tap into her and all her strength and stamina when I've needed to, I think it's time for Wonderwoman to punch out for a nice long lunch.

It's time to stop surviving and start living.

What do I mean by this? Hell if I know, but you can be sure I'm committed to finding out. My guess is that it means lowering my shoulders and letting down my ever-vigilant guard. Stepping out of the well-protected bunker that is my comfort zone and taking new and different chances, learning new and different things. Seeing my life as it already is through a slightly different bend in the prism, maybe a pretty one this time. I mean, I'm always the one praying to see what's already right in front of my face, right?

I remember when Sasha started Kindergarten and they announced her little group as belonging to the Class of 2015. I thought that was hilarious, like 2015 was some unreachable, George Jetson kind of place in the outer reaches of time and space.

Well, hello 2012, you three-years-before-Sasha-graduates little year. You sure have caught me by surprise, creeping up so fast, but I swear, I'm ready for ya - and anything GOOD you have to dish out!