Little Spirit

Every now and then someone can say the smallest thing to trigger the most sensitive nerve. It’s like a tiny paper cut right on the most delicate part of your ego and it makes your brain explode and your soul implode and your skin feel like an ill-fitting coat. They didn’t mean what they said to have such weight. But that’s what we always take for granted, isn’t it? The weight of words? We must be careful and speak considering the nerves in the cross-hairs of our words. We’re all fighting blind, and as we speak we never know when we’re going to hit one.


But only malice, even the most diluted dose, can throw punches. You can speak anger. You can speak pain. You can speak frustration. And you can do it in such a way that will never strike the nerve of the other person, as long as you consider them. Are you opening your mouth to speak your truth, however painful, with the intent of making yourself clear and your relationship stronger? Or are you speaking to hurt? Perhaps you are annoyed. Perhaps you don’t like this person. Perhaps you find them ___(insert pejorative of choice). If you speak from that place you will strike a nerve. Eventually. It will happen. And nerves damage. The more you strike them, they damage irreparably.

But I’m just a stupid girl who cares far too much about rules and says silly things. I’m ridiculous, and trivial, and annoying in my hang-ups. I’m not cool, or sexy, or appealing in any way shape or form. I’m something to be tolerated, never invited, never welcomed. I’m put up with. I’m often forgotten, and the ways in which I combat invisibility are shallow and predictable. And unoriginal. I am a hack. I have no talent. I have nothing interesting to offer, or interesting to say. Ever. God knows I cannot write. Who do I think I am? I could stay in bed for a month and no one would mind. Some people might notice I wasn’t around, but they wouldn’t much care. I care too much about things that don’t matter. I don’t know how to hold onto someone because eventually I’m found out. How annoying I am. And fat. And weak. And did I mention annoying? I’m always found out. 

One little sentence triggered all of that for me. One phrase, said casually. All of that. Like stepping on a land mine.

It’s in there all the time you know. It’s in most of us. The scared little spirit that’s just waiting for the world to find out we’re a hack. It’s in there and it is so sensitive. And when this spirit is poked it’s usually told that it’s being too sensitive, and it probably is when weighed against the objective bluntness of the weapon, but being too sensitive is its entire purpose. This of course only causes the little spirit to feel more sensitive. And dizzy. And horrible.

Stranger still is that I’m fairly certain this sensitive little spirit is best friends with the most brilliant part of ourselves. Little spirit is a sentinel for our creativity, our ideas, our potential. He keeps the channel open, but must remain vulnerable to do so. He is a brave one. So easily wounded. I wonder at his resilience. It is not endless, I know that. Poke the nerve enough and eventually it will die to mitigate the pain. With the death of our little spirit comes the collapse of the tunnel leading to our best selves. We must be so careful with each other.

Time to go to bed and maybe cry. Crying seems to comfort my little spirit, and like a shot of Novocain, soothes the nerve.

You might be wondering who it was that said such a thing. Perhaps no one. Perhaps this entire story is made up. Perhaps. Either way, don’t worry, it wasn’t you. Or you. (Or you).

A Familiar Beast

I have questions about rejection. I do hope you’ll bite and share your thoughts in the comments. As a student of the arts, I met rejection at a young age. I’ll never forget silently weeping in the back seat of our car when I found out that I wasn’t cast as a Von Trapp child in The Sound of Music when I was 12 years old. I was relegated to the chorus of nuns—or, rather, novices. Not even a full-fledged nun. The dealer of rejection in that instance was the director, aka my mom. I don’t blame her. She was my director and she made the best casting decision for the show. In hindsight that was a very important lesson for me to learn as an artist; nothing has ever been handed to me. But yeah, rejection was personal from early on.

We’re told repeatedly that rejection is an unavoidable element of our artistic lives, like a smelly beast with whom we must learn to live. I get it, but man, some days that beast is smellier than others. On those days I stop and ask myself in earnest, why? Why am I doing this? Will the glimmers of success or artistic satisfaction make the years of rejection bearable? I mean really, this is haaaarrrd. Will it be worth it? I don’t know the answer, but I theorize that even with “success” the beast will not leave me alone. I imagine it will change shape, change color, change smells, but the rejection will continue at every level in different forms, won’t it? In the form of bad reviews, higher stakes losses, chronic self-doubt, disappointing second novels, etc. So why? Why the torment?

Then I started asking more questions. Is this beast unique to the arts? Is there something about artistic fields that lend themselves to more rejection? Or does rejection exist equally elsewhere? Do my friends in STEM fields, or law, academia, business, entrepreneurs—do you experience the same frequency of rejection as my friends in theatre, film, TV, visual art, music, publishing? Are you as well-acquainted with the beast? Maybe you’re just better at keeping him on a leash. I’m genuinely curious because I’ve been so entrenched in the arts for so long that I fear my field of vision has become quite narrow. I also want to feel less alone. I want affirmation that I should not abandon my art for another path because a new beast will in fact be waiting for me on the “easier” roads. Is that true? Or is there a less painful but equally gratifying way to walk through life other than that of a perpetually rejected artist? My non-artist friends, enlighten me.

He shouts and hogs the bed. He never bathes. His claws are sharp. No I’m not talking about Brad! Brad is an angel and takes very good care of his nails. It’s the beast. My invisible housemate. On the other side of my horrible beast is a tiny promise of glory. Is it real? A trick? If it’s not a trick, is it worth it? I don’t know, but beasty and I know each other so well at this point, even without the taste of glory . . . I’d probably miss him. And that, my friends, is the true madness of the arts.



How to Twirl Baton With a Baby

In fifth grade I became a competitive baton twirler. It was fun, until I threw up in the middle of my routine at a regional competition—but that’s a story for another time. My specialty was two baton. That’s twirling two batons at once. I was the only member of my team that did two baton. You throw one baton in the air, twirl the other one under your leg then spin around a few times and catch the first. That type of thing. It was almost impossibly hard to learn, but I stuck with it and finally felt the magic click. You know the one. That click you feel when something awkward turns into something effortless. The moment your muscles remember something for the first time. Magic. Once that happened both batons glided around each other like pieces of a puzzle doing a dance. I won’t lie—it was impressive.

I guess I’ve always done a lot of things at once. I don’t even realize how many things I’m doing at any given time because the choice isn’t usually a conscious one—I just do things. A friend of mine often comments on my time management skills and how amazed she is that I do so much, and I’m always surprised to hear it. Why should I be surprised? Why don’t I see the impressive motion of all the batons I twirl at once? If asked to describe myself I would use terms like lazy, master procrastinator, laid back to a fault. But if I objectively look at my docket I must admit that I too am surprised by all that I do.

Last Monday I felt unproductive for what reason I can’t remember other than it’s become a state of being for me at this point. I always feel unproductive. I can never do enough. There’s never enough time. I paused and took inventory of what I actually had done that day and my jaw sort of fell open a little. I rehearsed for The Designated Mourner, got lunch with Brad, went grocery shopping, did some laundry, squeezed in a photo shoot for Whimsy Do, went for a three mile run, cleaned out our closet, all with time left over to veg on the couch watching Bloodline. That’s kind of a lot. So why the heck did I feel so useless?

I can’t answer that. This particular entry is not for dissecting that neurosis. This post is meant to rattle me, wag a little finger in my face and say, “You better accept that you’re good at two baton, because you’re going to have to keep juggling if you want to do the things you want to do.” I act, run, clean, and make Whimsy Dos at the same time because I like doing all of those things and the stakes are relatively low on each of them. They’re recreational and relaxing for me, so I just puzzle them together somehow and make it work. When I look at my goals that have higher stakes, I freeze.

I wrote a novel that’s desperately waiting for revisions, yet there it sits in my Dropbox, rough and sad. I have career goals that need outlining, nurturing, executing. I ignore them because they’re hard. I want to be a mother.

Here we get to the hardest puzzle piece of all.

After thinking about this rabidly for the past several weeks I feel like I can map out the next few years of my life. Once the play is open I can carve out time to write. I’m putting pen to paper when it comes to planning my career. I’m laying out the steps. Brad and I have a new savings plan in place to build our dream tiny home here in L.A. The problem is that these things happen one after the other in my grand plan.

Then there’s a baby. I can write a novel, make career moves, and build a house in some semblance of succession. Baby however? I can’t stop everything to have a baby. I also can’t wait until the above items are complete to have a baby. I’ve given myself a headache analyzing my timeline to figure out where a baby best fits, and the answer is nowhere. There is never a good time to have a baby. Maybe retirement. You’ve done the big career stuff, hopefully, and now you can just have a baby and focus on that. I guess this is why being a grandparent is so awesome.

But I’m never going to be a happily retired grandparent if I don’t take up the parenting thing first. If I want to be a mother, I’m going to have to have a baby while I’m doing something else at the same time. That’s a fact. I turn 32 in two weeks. Still viable but the clock is ticking. I don’t know how long it will take me to activate my career goals, to finish my book, to build a house. I have no idea, but I’m guessing it’s going to be more than three years and if I wait until after I’m 35 I’ll be starting a vicious game of roulette with mother nature.

There is never a perfect time to have a baby, so if you want to have a baby you have to learn two baton—or three or four baton—and hope that eventually you’ll feel that magic click. And at some point I’m sure I’ll drop all the batons but if there’s one thing I learned from my competition days you always pick that baton back up and keep going—even if you dropped the thing in a puddle of your own vomit. (I did keep going by the way. Took home 3rd place).

I’ve been so terrified of juggling high stakes items for so long that I’ve been blind to the fact that I’m actually really good at juggling. It’s just that I’ve been juggling apples. They fit nicely in a hand, they have a good weight to them, they’re kind of fun, you get to eat them after, and it’s not the end of the world if you drop them. Maybe a bruise or two but they’re just apples. Apples are simple.

I need to conjure the bravery necessary to juggle fire.

Maybe it’s time to take up fire baton.

baton 2


Unfortunately I don’t have any video of me twirling at competition. I guess that puking incident made my mom a little video shy. Check out this clip for a representative two baton routine. This girl reminds me of—well—me.

Running Home

Since the culmination of our adventure in Tahiti Brad and I have spent hours brainstorming where we’d run to next. We know that wherever we go we want to run there. The journey of sweating out every hard-earned dollar to get to Tahiti made the payoff so palpable—so visceral—so fun. We’re searching for the next destination and getting our sneakers and savings account prepped.

For awhile we’ve gazed further west toward New Zealand. You see there is simply no good reason not to go to New Zealand. Whatever your preference of climate, you’ll find it somewhere in NZ. And let’s all cut to the chase with five words—Lord of the Rings tour.


You can actually visit The Shire.

Do you like snow-capped mountains?


Or bucolic countrysides?


Did you know the human population of NZ is 4 million and the sheep population is 40 million?

Maybe you’re a big city kinda gal.


Auckland at night.

New Zealand fulfills the scuba diving requirement.


And, I mean, look at their national symbol of pride?


It’s like the coolest, cutest, weirdest thing ever. Can we all agree that a kiwi bird is basically a real-life Muppet? A bird without wings. Of course. Why would anyone need wings in New Zealand? There’s no reason to ever fly away.

And now you think I’m going to tell you the mileage from Tahiti to New Zealand and our plan to get there.

Wrong. We’re not going to New Zealand.

That’s not entirely true. I have every confidence that one day Brad and I will get there and have an incredible Kiwi adventure. But like every epic hero’s journey, ours too leads back home.

Don’t let the sunshine and palm trees fool you—Los Angeles does not always make living easy. Rent prices continue to rise. Home values continue to rise. The sprawling landscape demands significant travel and mileage. Cars break down faster because of said mileage. Of course, there are so many benefits to living here as well. Rent may be high but I’m still living in an apartment with only one building separating me from the beach. And I can get a helluva deal on fresh avocados year round. The value of delicious and fresh produce all year long can’t be understated actually.

The sunshine is in fact quite amazing. Palm trees are iconic. Most of all, things are happening here. There’s a feeling in the air that Los Angeles is evolving into a creative epicenter of this country. There’s a museum for just about everything, incredible theatre, great food, music. Every industry is represented here in varying degrees. When I changed my focus from acting to writing I didn’t have to relocate to get a hands-on look at the publishing industry. It’s still not New York, but publishing is here too. Publishing, film, television, finance, academia, science, technology. Innovation surrounds us.

For Brad and I, perhaps the biggest draw is the outdoors. Oh the outdoors. I can wake up tomorrow and toss a coin as to whether I’d prefer to hike along an ocean-side ridge, or up in the mountains where at some points in the year you’d hike through snow. It would take years to hit up all the campgrounds near enough to trek to on the weekends, not to mention the outlying wilderness that may require more of a three-day weekend. We can scuba dive, surf, hike, run, camp, bike, and more—all barely leaving our neighborhood. I can drive home to Sacramento for a long weekend. We can steal away to San Diego, Santa Barbara, Palm Springs, Big Sur—if we need to get out of the city for a day or two.

I think you get my meaning. We love Los Angeles. I love Los Angeles more than I truly ever thought possible. But we have a conundrum. We want to plant roots but the price of the soil is so unwelcome. What will happen, then? Are we doomed to the renter’s market for the rest of our days, paying someone else’s mortgage without putting a cent away for ourselves? Should we put a pint-size amount of money down on a small condo in the valley and walk around with the elephant of a mortgage and HOA fees on our backs for the foreseeable future. Neither seem like great options. We don’t want to be house poor. So what then?

My mom visited last weekend to help us with direction on our fringe show, The Designated Mourner. She started looking around our teeny apartment and telling us about the ways they economize space on Tiny House Nation. A revelation followed.

Our apartment is about 500 square feet. Living space is probably closer to 400. Essentially, we live in a tiny. As my mom told us about the clever tiny tricks she’d heard about, a light bulb went off. Brad came home from a run while Mom showed me an episode of Tiny House Hunters and I quickly announced to him, “We’re buying a tiny.” He did not object.

Our little apartment reverberated with excitement in the ensuing conversation. This idea was a real possibility. It felt like opening a door after pulling on locked doorknobs for months. Yes, a very tiny door, but ornately carved with love and care—full of magic. We could break our backs for the next four years saving for a down payment on a house that would subsequently shackle us with a mortgage for the next thirty years, or we could spend four years saving for a tiny and once we’d done it be free from rent, free from a mortgage.


Free to run to New Zealand. Free to save for our future child’s education. Free to pay off my student loans before I die. Free to go to grad school. Free to save for retirement, or a car, or a boat, or a rainy day. Free to not work quite so many hours giving us more time to pursue our artistic dreams. Free! Free! Free!

Can you tell I’m excited?

Brad and I spent a year in the early part of our relationship living together in the teeniest studio. It couldn’t have been more than 300 square feet. I think back to that little room with only the fondest memories. Sometimes I think we bicker more now than we did back then. When you don’t have an actual door to close between you, you’re more or less forced to address whatever it is that’s compelling you to retreat. So you do. You address it. And you’re patient. And you’re flexible. And you compromise. At least we did. These are all requirements of tiny living and Brad and I passed that test years ago. In fact, now that I think about, I think we have that studio to thank for our ability to argue with an even temper, and thus the success of our relationship, really. There’s no reason not to join this movement. There’s every reason to stop paying for someone else’s future and start investing in our own.

We’d all but given up on the dream of home ownership as residents of Los Angeles. Our only hope, we thought, was a windfall of success as writers or actors and you don’t have to remind us that that’s not something to be banked on. We didn’t need to give up. There was a very big American dream waiting for us in a tiny package. We’re putting our sneakers back on, and we’re running toward it.

We looked further west and considered more travel adventures, but for now it’s time to go home. We’re running home—from Tahiti back to Los Angeles. All with the very exciting promise of a future that will foster our travel dreams, maybe even with a bit less running required.

This time we’ve upped the mileage to $10 per mile (maybe $20/mile once we get used to saving so aggressively), and we’re both running back ALL the miles. If you recall, the journey to Tahiti was more of a relay race. We ran a cumulative 4,109 miles. Running home is going to be harder. We have to run a total of 8,218 miles. Time to get going. This is real. This is happening.

There’s a huge future waiting for us in a tiny home.


Some tiny inspiration:


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Have you ever thought about going tiny? What freedoms do you think it would give you? What would be your greatest fears of downsizing?

Run at Disneyland—it’s for the Children!

As most of my lovely readers know by now, this blogging adventure began all thanks to the Disneyland Half Marathon. It was my first half marathon and the endeavor spurred the creation of my first blog. The blog bug bit hard and I haven’t stopped writing since. You might say that this whole blogging thing reignited my love of writing in general, which has led to my pursuit of writing children’s literature, which will lead to the many books I am one day bound to publish. (Bound to publish! That’s pretty good). I guess you could say, therefore, the Disneyland Half Marathon is responsible for all of my dreams coming true. The race—it’s that good.

It’s that time of year, we are registered for the 2016 half marathon and getting ready to plan out our training schedule. This year’s costumes involve a mandatory 20 lb trim down, so the stakes are high! More on that later.

If you are considering registering for the half marathon or Dumbo Double Dare (miraculously they are not yet sold out), you might consider putting your registration money to a worthy cause instead of in the pocket of runDisney. If you would like to run the 5k or 10k, they ARE in fact sold out, but you can still sign up another way!

Several charity groups participate in the Disneyland Half Marathon weekend. I was recently contacted by the Children’s Bureau to help promote their team, and as soon as I read about their mission it took me about two seconds to say yes. Children’s Bureau helps children lead happy, healthy, productive lives through a combination of prevention, treatment, research and advocacy. Children’s Bureau is committed to providing vulnerable children—especially in the early years—the foundation necessary to become caring and productive adults by:

  • Preventing child abuse and neglect both at home and in the community;
  • Protecting, nurturing and treating abused children;
  • Enhancing the potential of families and communities to meet the needs of their children by bringing them together to create safe and secure environments;
  • Advancing the welfare of children and families through superior programs in foster care, adoptions, child development, parent education, mental health, research and advocacy.

There is a small fundraising obligation, but trust me, as someone who has raised money through running events several times, it’s easier than you might imagine. Especially if this is one of your first forays into running—your friends and family will be eager to support you knowing that you are running not only for yourself, but for a worthy cause.


It will make your training easier. A 10 mile training run can be hard. A 10 mile training run in honor of a child in need is exponentially easier. Also, a big full generous heart pumps more blood to your tired muscles. True story.

To join Team all4kids just click on over to the Children’s Bureau website. Like I said, the 5k and 10k are both sold out through runDisney so an opportunity like this may be your only chance to participate in one of these incredible race events. Just look how the Disneyland Half Marathon changed my life. It can change yours, with the added bonus of changing the lives of children in need.

I know the fundraising component can feel daunting. If you sign up with this team be sure to comment and let me know so I can help promote your fundraising efforts. I will even make a donation to the first three readers to join the Children’s Bureau team! Run for change. Run for the kids.

Happy running!





The Award Winning Rebecca Light

Sure, I dream about winning a Newbery or an Oscar—even an Ovation award would be nice. But honestly I think I’ve already won what will most likely endure as my favorite pair of honors. Hi, I’m Rebecca Light: two-time Golden Betty Award winner at Theatre of NOTE, and now the proud recipient of a Mousetalgia platinum pen.


I was awarded this super fancy pen for completing the Mousetalgia Soarin’ Over California Challenge. What’s that you ask? Well I’ll tell you. Per challenge regulations, I visited 10 out of 13 of the locations featured on the ride, Soarin’ Over California—taking a picture in the exact filming location of each. Now I have this beautifully engraved pen to go along with the lifetime of memories this challenge helped to create.

I thought I would share a few highlights of the journey.

PGA west 1.JPG

Oh this was a good one. Soarin’ credits this location as Palm Springs, but don’t be fooled by fancy city names. This is a golf course of lies. First, it’s not in Palm Springs. It’s in the neighboring town of La Quinta. Second, it’s not PGA West. I mean, it’s part of the whole PGA West resort, but you can’t play this course.

La Quinta is full of three things: dust, golf, and gated communities. I convinced Brad that I wanted to go to Palm Springs a few years ago ostensibly to celebrate my birthday, but I had ulterior motives. Did I mention my birthday is in June? You putting this together? Palm Springs. June. Brad’s car doesn’t have air conditioner. He must really love me.

Once we arrived, we had a nice casual lunch al fresco, piddled around Palm Springs a little bit, then I casually mentioned that maybe we could drive twenty minutes down the highway to La Quinta to, oh I don’t know, see what that would be all about. On the drive there the temperature gauge hit 118 and we had to pull over to put Brad’s iPhone in a freezer at the gas station because it almost exploded.

Wondering the need for driving through this furnace, I eventually confessed my scheme. Brad may not share my level of Disney fandom, but luckily he’s up for an adventure. We made it to PGA West. Lies! The resort course at PGA West looked nothing like the Soarin’ video. Brad suggested it was probably because the exact shot was somewhere out on the middle of the course. Hmm, maybe. But I didn’t see any benchmarks. There were hills in that part of Soarin’. Where were the hills?

We found a map of the entire PGA West resort in front of the gift shop. Turned out there were three private courses in addition to the resort courses. How interesting. Looking up I noticed to the east of us… hills! We cross-referenced the map and YES! There was a course over there. A private course. Eee.

If you know me you know that I love rules, and simply do not break them. I respect rules. I find that by breaking rules people disregard respect for their fellow man. If all of us broke the rules there would be chaos! Rules bring order, and a chance for us all to live in harmony.

Harmony flies out the window and chaos reigns when it comes to a good Disney challenge.

Brad at this point was either getting into it, or just eager to get out of the desert dust storm that was La Quinta, because he very enthusiastically drove us straight to the gated community that housed the private golf course. I sort of freaked out. I mean there were signs. “Residents Only.” We made up an elaborate story that we were visiting our grandparents who lived in the neighborhood in case the suspecting private golf police tried to cart us away.

At this point our only breadcrumb was to walk toward the hills.. We walked confidently, like we literally owned the place, and luckily no golf police bothered us. Okay so there were no golf police, but there were signs. I respect signs. Usually.

Palm Springs.jpg

That was a great birthday.

The other location I’m quite proud to have tracked down was in Napa. Have you been to Napa? It’s huge.

On a weekend home in Sacramento,] I convinced my parents to drive with Brad and I to Napa Valley for wine tasting.

Sure. Wine tasting.

I eventually confessed my true purpose. They did end up with a nice wine subscription though.

I trawled the internet to see if I could track down any forums or sites with inside info about this location. I even called the Napa Chamber of Commerce to see if they had a record of the shoot. When they asked me if I was crazy didn’t, I asked them if there was a spot over which the hot air balloons usually flew. “Nah, not really. They kind of go where the wind takes them. We’ve had them land on houses before.”

Remind me to skip the hot air balloon ride over Napa Valley.

This exact location seemed all but impossible to track down. A stickler for the rules, I did not feel comfortable taking a generic picture just anywhere in Napa, but by the end of the day this was what I had to do.


We drove home and life went on, but the fact that it wasn’t the precise location ate away at me. I watched the Soarin’ video on YouTube a few more times and finally something jumped out at me. A strange triangle-shaped body of water. Now that’s fairly unique. I could use that.

I hopped back on Google Earth and scrolled around Napa Valley looking for triangle lakes. There are unfortunately a few. (Weird, right?) Looking back at the source material for more benchmarks I made note of a big white house adjacent to the lake. Bingo. The combination of the two didn’t take long to isolate on Google Earth.

I convinced my Mom and brother to drive back to Napa to go “wine tasting” again. By this point I’ve assumed they think I have a drinking problem, but whatever.

What do you know, the triangle lake was also on private property. By now this challenge had turned me into a complete outlaw and we unabashedly drove down the private driveway to find the body of water in some vintners backyard. I crossed my fingers for some hot air balloons passing overhead, but alas, just blue sky. The balloons were probably stuck in some trees in Calistoga. But I got my perfect picture.

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Hard to tell from the pic but this lake is indeed triangle-shaped.


The white house that sealed the location off in the distance.

The other location I visited twice was Point Lobos in Monterey. The first time while in Santa Cruz for a friend’s wedding…

Point Lobos Monterey

… but I never felt like it was quite right so I dragged Brad and the parents back for round two. Jeez, my family got dragged quite a few places for this.


I worked in Downtown LA for several years so that one was easy.


Brad and I almost got washed away getting this shot in Malibu. Guess we should’ve checked what time the tide was coming in.


I love any excuse to visit San Diego so this was one of the first I tracked down. It doesn’t hurt when your husband is a SoCal sales rep and has to drive all over the Southland for work. I just tagged along. Turns out you can’t just walk onto an active aircraft carrier, so I got as close as possible to Coronado Naval Base.

San Diego

My favorite place in all of California…


Open your Golden Gate…

San Fran

Anza-Borrego wins the award for most surprisingly beautiful location. The Soarin’ ride does not do it justice. Three times my breath has been literally taken away by a vista. Grand Canyon. Yosemite Valley. Anza-Borrego Badlands.


This one was pretty easy.

Disneyland 2a

Dland castle xmas.jpg

And at Christmas, just like on the ride.

I can guess what some of your are thinking. Why? Why go to all of this trouble? I guess my answer is, why not? I’m a competitive person and I love a good challenge, but that wasn’t enough to make me care. More than that, I love California with every fiber of my being. Raised in NorCal, now a transplant to SoCal, sometimes I want to scoop the whole state up like ice cream and swallow it so it will always be with me. This is a breathtaking and magnificent state, and I could not be more proud to be a born and raised California girl.

And I love Disney. I know, shocking! The experience gave me a new appreciation for Soarin’ (Which they’re about to replace with stupid Soarin’ Over the WORLD! Boo! Like honestly, who needs the Great Wall?).

Thirdly, it was fun. I don’t know if I would have taken the challenge on without Brad in my life. He brings out the explorer in me, while tempering the competitor. In other words, he makes me the best Becky possible.

Okay but the most important part of the story is that Mousetalgia is the best Disney podcast you will find on the web. If you’re interested in the history of the company and you’re looking to find a tribe at your advanced level of nerddom, download Mousetalgia right now. Start at episode 1 and get ready to binge. It’s delightful. Just don’t get too excited when they get to the Soarin’ Over California Challenge episode. That case has been closed.


Thank you for this honor friends. An honor it truly is. Carpe Kingdom!

Carpe Kingdom.jpg


The Hardest Thing I’ve Ever Done: Running the LA Marathon

It’s official. Running is a mental illness. I’m counting down the days until marathon running is entered into the DSM. It’s only a matter of time. Four days ago I finished the LA Marathon—however reluctantly. Nothing in my life has challenged me physically and mentally like those 26.2 miles. The experience was leaps and bounds more difficult than my first marathon.

Let me get the bummer stuff out of the way. The LA Marathon just isn’t for me. As much as I love Los Angeles (and I do, deeply), running across it did nothing for me. I thought the experience of bipedally moving from the east side to the west, unencumbered by traffic and a vehicle, would instill a great deal of civic pride in my heart. It did not. The first six miles were great. Brad was still running with me. We trotted through the streets of downtown Los Angeles discovering little gazebos and walkways that you just don’t notice when you’re in a car. I felt fresh and strong, and the city looked great. Once the race got really hard (which I’ll get to in a minute) the city lost its luster and no amount of drag performers in WeHo or palm trees on Rodeo Drive could cheer me up.

I wanted to run the Walt Disney World Marathon because I knew that no matter how hard the running got or how bad I felt physically, I would be in my happy place. I thought the environment would act as a stimulant when my legs wanted to give out, and I was right. My old pal Mickey got me through. I loved running through the world of Disney because the whole place made me happy. I love Los Angeles but my associations with the city are not that pure. There are certain neighborhoods and streets that feel like happy places and others that feel like haunts. I’d pass down a street near where I used to live years ago and think, “Oh that was a tough time in my life.” Who wants to be reminded of such chapters of one’s life when doing the hardest thing you’ve ever attempted to do? Total bummer. No, LA has way too many complex emotional associations to make for a good marathon environment.

Another benefit to Walt Disney World was that I did not know the geography. I had no idea how far it was from Animal Kingdom to Hollywood Studios so I couldn’t think about the many miles from point A to point B. Not knowing the terrain forced me into the moment and the mile at hand. Very beneficial. In Los Angeles, however, I am all too acutely aware of how far it is from Hollywood to Brentwood and so when running down Sunset Blvd I felt completely crushed by the thought of making it allllll the way to Wilshire. Are you kidding me? I have to run to Crescent Heights? I’m only at Sunset Junction! Not possible! When it comes to running those kinds of distances, ignorance is bliss.

I live in Venice and I work in Glassell Park. For those of you who don’t know LA geography, Venice is as far west as you can go, and Glassell Park is about as far east as you can go and still say you’re in Los Angeles. In short, I traverse the entire city from west to east and back again—every—single—day. Why did I think going from the “Stadium to the Sea” would hold any novelty for me? It felt like my commute.

My last beef with the LA Marathon is logistical. WHY IS IT SO HARD TO ORDER ENOUGH BATHROOMS TO ACCOMMODATE 26,000 PEOPLE? I swear. It seems that every race I do skimps on the port-0-potties and I seriously don’t understand it. There’s no way to irritate a runner faster than a) run out of water or b) not provide enough bathrooms thus causing said runner to have to wait in line when she should be running. This is exactly what happened. I may have had one too many garlic knots the night before at C&O Trattoria but I had to make two bathroom stops during the marathon. Guess how long I waited in line? Go ahead. Guess.

20 minutes.

What?! That is unacceptable. I was already having a painfully slow race but to add an extra 20 minutes to my time, and then another 10 minutes for the second bathroom stop, that is heartrendingly significant. We all paid a lot of money to run this thing. Can’t we go to the bathroom in a timely manner? Oh and the first john I used ran out of toilet paper. Not cool. I mean there just aren’t a lot of options in that scenario.

So those are the reasons both personal and logistical that I won’t be running the LA Marathon, specifically, again anytime soon. I’m glad I did it. I was curious. But now I know.

More bummer stuff—I’m ashamed of my time. Listen, I never ever judge anyone else’s running pace. I don’t believe there is a certain speed at which you become a real runner. It’s personal. A 10 minute mile may be slow to one runner and unattainably fast for another. To Meb, an 8 minute mile is a very gentle jog. I can’t even imagine. We run to discover our capabilities and ranges, and learn to perform within them. Me? At my best, I’m a 10 minute mile runner on a 5k, an 11 on 10k, and an 11:00-11:30 on a half marathon. Knowing that range I believe in my heart of hearts that I should be able to do a marathon between a 12:00-13:00 minute mile. I believe I can do that.

This marathon clocked in at a 15:00. Part of that was due to the half hour I wasted using the loo, but even taking that out of consideration I generally clocked about a 14:00 on my Garmin. Here’s the thing. I’m not a 15 minute mile runner. I’m not a 14 minute mile runner. I’m just not. So even though I finished the race and got my medal, I feel beat. I feel like the course and the day got the best of me. Even though my mom keeps telling me I should feel proud, I don’t feel proud. Two in and I’ve yet to perform a marathon at my potential.

There was a litany of reasons specific to where I’m at right now as a runner that made this race so slow and painful. The greatest challenge I faced going in was that I was injured for about 50% of my training. By the time I hit the double digit training runs I was almost crippled by shin splints. Even on 3 mile runs I could barely get my time below a 12:30 minute mile. Brutal. I was this close to skipping the marathon after I barely finished a 16 mile run. It was an “oh what the hell” attitude that got me to sign up, not any kind of belief in my strength.

I was injured, and I was overweight. Look, I like myself. I like my body. Maybe if I were a bit more dissatisfied on an emotional level it would be easier to lay off the calories that have put this extra weight on my frame. But alas, I’m fairly confident in my skin and didn’t feel all that motivated to slim down for this race that I wasn’t even that enthusiastic about running in the first place. To be overweight as a runner is tough stuff. It makes your job ten times harder. It is precisely the same thing as a fit person with no body fat trying to run 26.2 miles wearing a forty pound lead suit. It would slow anyone down. I don’t need to lose forty pounds but I could stand to lose twenty-five. I think if I did that, that might be the only missing link to my elusive 5:30 marathon.

So what was it like to run a marathon with all of those things working against me? As I said on Instagram, I can’t imagine anything in the world—short of torture and maybe childbirth—harder than running that race. (I’ve actually heard several women tell me that giving birth was easier for them than running a marathon, so there you go). I hit a wall at mile thirteen. THIRTEEN. It’s normal and expected to hit a wall at some point but usually it’s around 18. Then you work through it until about mile 21, and you’ve got the last 5 miles on adrenaline. I hit it with HALF OF THE RACE LEFT TO RUN. Besides a few brief and fleeting runner’s high moments, I pushed against that wall for the entire rest of the race.

What does it mean to hit a wall? I think the best way to imagine it is literally. Imagine running in place, now push up against a wall. Now don’t stop. Now keep doing that for five hours. Now imagine there are thousands of people around you running right through the wall but you still have to push against it. Now imagine the feeling like you’re not getting anywhere even though your feet are moving in a manner that would suggest forward motion. Now imagine that this is your fate for all time. Like Sisyphus, you are to push against this wall for eternity. Now imagine you feel more alone than you’ve ever felt in your life. Now imagine the time you felt like the biggest failure in the entire universe. Now feel like that. Now magnify that feeling by ten. Keep pushing against that wall. Now imagine you’re nauseous. Now imagine your mouth is on fire but no matter how much water you drink your mouth is still thirsty, but you can’t drink more because then your stomach will be even more nauseous. Now imagine a car just rolled over your feet.

It’s kind of like that.

It is so difficult to put the struggle into words because I don’t actually remember any of it. I remember it intellectually, but I don’t remember the pain. Nature does this as a defense mechanism so we’ll repeat painful things like childbirth without hesitation, but I’m not sure Mother Nature anticipated the effect on marathon runners. I imagine her looking down on us from some celestial treehouse shouting “You guys! Stop it! I wiped the pain memory for making babies! Not for this! This is ridiculous!” Runners don’t listen though. I don’t remember the pain. Which is what has led me to my next question…

Which marathon should I run next?

At mile 20 I promised myself I would draft a document and have it notarized stating that I was not allowed to run another marathon. Ever. Three hours after I’d finished I started doing the math in my head to figure out how much I’d have to save to do Walt Disney World in 2018. I’m telling you. It’s a certifiable mental disorder. Despite the tears running down my face (there were many), despite the pain, the doubt, the struggle—I want to do it again. I understand masochism now. Something about pain and struggle brings us closer to our potential and a divine truth.

Can you tell I’m Catholic?

In all honesty, this race was a spiritual experience. Perhaps it’s the season of Lent that has me meditating deeply on the concept of struggle. When I ran up against that wall I wasn’t running on strength. I had none. I wasn’t running on willpower. I had none. I wasn’t running on grit. I had none. I had nothing. Nothing left. I had to pull from something higher than myself. And whether or not you believe that’s a real thing or just a mind trick, it doesn’t really matter and I don’t really care. It only mattered that it worked. And that higher power—that pull on a force of energy beyond myself—was absolutely the only thing that got me across that finish line. Oh and this song by The Killers.

“I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.” You see this quote a lot in the running world. You’ll see it written on people’s bibs, printed on people’s shirts. Meb has it listed as the only thing on his Twitter bio. The first time I saw a runner with this passage printed on her running shirt I scoffed. Pfft. I’m a Catholic but I’m not really on board with the whole divinity of Jesus thing. It’s confusing. I’m a bad Catholic. I just don’t believe all the magic miracle stuff, but I do believe that Jesus was an amazing figure with an absolutely incredible story. I love all the rituals, and I love good stories. So what does that passage really mean? It doesn’t have to mean that the magic of Jesus helps win races. It can mean that if you want it to. If you need it to. If it does to you. To me it is the story of the universe—that there is a force which unites all of us. This thing—this energy—is there for us to call on when we need to endure. It is pure goodness and grit. It is mystery and it is power. It is outside us and within us. It never runs out. It never hits a wall. Whether you call it Christ or God or The Force or the Universe, I think the important point is that it is something eternally strong that exists outside of you, but flies like a kite with its string tethered directly to your own heart. And to the heart of every human walking the earth. I accessed that magic on Sunday. I let myself fly that kite, and it is the only reason I finished.

So what were the upsides to running the LA Marathon? Oh of course there were many. That divine revelation thing was pretty cool. Seeing so many friends on course made my heart explode. (Seriously guys, you have no idea how much you helped). I learned a ton. You can’t go halfway on something that hard and expect satisfying results. I didn’t— couldn’t—go all in on my training and I should have adjusted my expectations accordingly for finishing the race. Manage your expectations. Always a good life lesson.

I’m fired up for next time. I may have thrown out the contract prohibiting me from running again, but I left a few provisions. I won’t sign up for another marathon until I’ve dropped 20 pounds. And I won’t sign up for another marathon until I’ve found one that I’m really excited about. I may only have one marathon left in me and if that’s the case I have to see what I’m capable of. Where I run is just as important as how I run. Unfortunately I have top shelf taste. I’d love to run Rome more than anything. Hmm.

It was a true treat to run this race with my husband and Neiman. Even though we didn’t run it together, we were together, you know? Neiman finally broke his 4 hour marathon goal (see what I mean about relativity with pace? that is crazy fast), and Brad made his goal of running the entire race without any walk breaks and he made a great time too. Good job boys.

I learned about struggle. I’m a very laid back and casual person. I’m not Type A. I don’t like things to be hard. This serves me in that I’m a very happy person most of the time. What I learned about myself in this race is that I associate struggle with failure. When things got hard running this race the negative thoughts FLOODED in. I couldn’t keep them out. A true athlete encounters physical struggle, but they win the race by winning the game between their ears. I didn’t lose this marathon with my shin splinty legs. I lost it with my mind.

If running marathons were easy everyone would do it. Everyone doesn’t do it so the struggle makes the difference. If getting a book published were easy everyone would do it. Getting my book published is, as it turns out, very much in the not easy category, so I have to embrace the struggle as a sign pointing me toward success. Insert any dream or goal and the same is true. Struggle is the stuff. It’s the troll guarding the bridge that you either have to fight, escape, or trick into letting you pass. Rejoice when you encounter the struggle troll. Then kick his ass.

Oh and my skirt was really cute.


There’s more to share but I think it’s time to move on. On to the next race. I’ll take a break from marathon running for a couple of years, but marathon—I’m coming for you. We don’t get to break up like that.

Some photos.



Lovers getting married at Mile 11.


Completely unappreciative.

Happy running friends!