And then I moved two streets over; became single, and my amazing friend had a third baby, all in the same year.

I’m glad I moved, and I’m widly in love with the baby. But things are different.

It’s been a couple months now of my dear friend not being available. She’s moved-on from me to younger moms and has found new friends on the street where I once lived. Her life is full. I’ve watched her duck and dodge me — even tonight — and I know it’s not in malice, but because she feels bad that she’s moved unknowingly into her life of having younger children, and I, into my life of having older ones.

I recognize this pattern, because I am the younger one in my friendshp with Tess — 16 years my senior — who “took my childhood in her stride,” as the lyrics go. I’m trying to mimic how Tess treated me: full of love, and happy to have me whenever I could muster it between babies and other new mommies that were in the thrust of the same life moments as I was at the time.

But… my heart hurts. And even as I fight jealously, I’m grateful for her new friends because it means her needs are filled. That I learned from Tess.

She, and most of the people who know me in real life, and not as Garza Girl, do not read my blog. She’ll never stumble on this entry, and that gives me peace, too. She doesn’t need to know that I miss our friendship, that I wish our children were closer in age, that I wish so much that I hadn’t moved, only for being that much closer together.

I can’t time-shift, and I wouldn’t even if I could.

My beautiful, kind, loving, smart, funny friend will come around when the smoke clears, and I’ll be there, just as Tess did for me.

It doesn’t mean it’s hurt free. It stings to ebb — and I cannot wait for the flow again.

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Why do we lift one-another up, only to put one-another down? Or worse, ourselves; our children, our friends’ children? I hear myself saying, “She’s a brilliant creative director, but I’m not big on her taste in men.” Or “I absolutely love Chris’ parties, but that guy can drink!” I do it to people I date, “Super smart guy, brainy as all get-out, but clearly has no fashion sense.” I even do it to my kids, “I love the way you cleaned your room; I wish you did that the other 364 days of the year.”

Every lift up seems to have a put-down. Why?

In thinking it through, I still can’t come up with a real answer. Social acceptance? Fear?

This week, I decided to try to give a lift-up without a put-down. I challenged my kids to do the same. It’s hard!. Want to join me? Follow my #liftupsnotputdowns on Twitter. Let me know how you do.

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A year ago, my sweet ex and I reluctantly broke up for good, and although the change was good, it rocked every single part of my life. I found myself unable to go for an early morning run (who would watch the kids?), unable to get to the gym after work since I took a job an hour from home after our break-up. Every morning I woke up and instantly felt awful that I knew, before even getting out of bed, that I wouldn’t exercise that day. And hence, every day started with a failure.

Thank God for therapists.

One day this awesome therapist said to me, “You are not going to work out. This we know. What you haven’t done is give yourself the permission to take time off from exercise.”

Somehow that word, “permission” sucker-punched me. It was true: I needed to give myself permission to remove exercise from my life for awhile. I needed to take it off of my to-do list or the should list or whatever list. I needed to not worry about it. At all.

I was suddenly sure of myself in a way I hadn’t been in months. I went home, I collected all of my workout and running clothes and I put them up in the closet. And the most amazing thing happened: the next morning, and every morning since then, I have woken up without the dread of missing a workout. Friends would tell me about a race or a run or a hike or a bike and I was truly happy for their fitness; just as happy as I was about my mental fitness.

Today marks one year of giving myself permission to be exercise-free. I pulled down my running clothes and tried them on. They were tight, but they fit. A year without running and my clothes still fit! I didn’t turn into a massive hog or a slobby sloth. My 42-year-old ass looks like a 42-year-old jiggly ass that hasn’t worked out in a year, but I can live with that. Because my 42-year-old mind is fit as can be. I did it.

My kids are older now, and leaving for a bit in the morning is not scary anymore. My job in Pleasanton didn’t last past the winter and I get to work from my home office most days, so a workout is fully possible today in a way it couldn’t have been a year ago.

This morning I walked four miles with a friend, loving every minute of being back on the trail. Tomorrow I’ll go for a short run. I can’t wait to wake up tomorrow.

The post Permission: A Year Run-Free appeared first on Garza Girls.

But last night, I found myself in one of the finest restaurants in California, in the US.

I had no business dining at Manresa. I’m a single working mom with a mortgage and a house remodel and there is no line item for a big fat dinner that was certain to cost $300. Aftearll, it’s not like it was a special occasion. Except it was.

My buddy Rita had it in her mind to dine with reckless abandon, fill an evening of grown-up talk and beautiful people. She wanted to taste food that inspired her and be surrounded by luxury and opulence — all of this a very far cry from our daily lives feeding our families nightly meals or grabbing a bite at our favorite taqueria. She wanted to taste something more than food. And so we did.

Our five-hour, 15-course meal started and ended with laughter and chatter and thinking ourselves pretty darn smug for being daring enough to be out celebrating just being alive. No birthday or anniversary, no wedding or retirement. This was a special occasion alright: the occasion was nothing. Nothing but a full moon and a beautifully warm night, a dear friend and an extraordinary food journey.

Dinner at Manresa, April 26, 2013

Mini red pepper gelle with a black olive madeline
Strawberry gazpacho with Marcona almond
Micro herbs and chilled crab with peas and foam
Panacotta of yogurt, black olive, grapefruit, candied caper
Razor clams with the most amazing morel mushrooms I have ever eaten
Garden salad with flowers, herbs and spiced dirt
Warm grouper with fresh peas, beans
Black mole with calamari
Modesto olive oil and California butter with four breads
Roasted goat
Sweet duck in something I can’t recall
Mandarin goat’s milk ice
River rock lemon sorbet
Coco nib truffle rum balls
Strawberry gelle and chocolate madeline
Chocolate brioche to-go for breakfast

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I ran into a fellow marketing exec the other day who said she much preferred to work in the office than at home, because, “I always end up finding things to do at home that is not work.” I hear stories like this all the time, so I figured I’d share with you the five rules I have in my daily work routine to ensure that I am maximizing my work and minimizing interruption.

1. Get Dressed for Work
That’s right. Get up, get dressed, put on your work clothes. Daily, I put on high heels, jewelry and makeup. The heels are important because I learned during my prep school days that uncomfortable shoes keep us from getting too comfy — and stiff shoes keep us on our toes (literally).

2. Keep the Desk a Work Space
I have always had my desk as a command center for work. However, it’s not the family command center. Homework to be signed and kids projects don’t belong on my desk. They can leave that stuff on the kitchen counter. Every day I come to my desk, turn the light, sit down and work. My kids know that if I’m at that desk, I am not to be interrupted. My kids have even texted me from the backyard to ask me a question about this or that — mommy is working and I require that respect and space to work.

3. Schedule breaks
It’s impossible in my experience to work from home without wanting to water the plants or grab the mail when you hear it drop in the slot. I schedule three breaks in the day, just like I do at work. The first one is mid-morning. I do household work for a bit (water the plants, throw a marinade on the skirt steak for dinner). The second break is the good one: I go out for lunch. Yes, go out for lunch. I grab lunch where other working people are out, too. I sit down, enjoy my break, check my personal email, make a call or two. Later in the afternoon, I take a break when my kids get home. Most days, they’re running off with our beloved nanny to this-or-that sport or activity, but a quick cuddle is all any of us need.

4. Respect your work day
If you are as blessed as I am, you’ve got family and friends that would love to stop by, hang out, grab a late afternoon glass of wine. Communicating your work-day boundaries only take one brief sentence: “I’d love to but I don’t get out of work until 6.” Or, “I have about 45 minutes for lunch on Tuesday.” Respecting your work day enough to set boundaries for others has always helped me be most efficient in my work-from-home environment. They’ll get it. And, when you do meet, you’ll not have the guilt that you should be working.

5. Closed-Ended Days
If you’ve done it right, you’ve put in eight-to-10 efficient hours of work, and you’re exhausted. You should be. Leave your work day with the same amount of ceremony you began it. I shut off my computer completely. I don’t answer unscheduled work calls after my day is done. I turn off the lamp at my desk. I organize papers and to-do lists for the next day. I clear off coffee cups and scratch paper. I am done.

It doesn’t take a certain “type” of person to work from home — it just takes parameters to work within that drive the most efficiency, produce the best work possible, and reap the benefits from calling the homefront your work HQ.

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It’s not often that I cry, but this old man was a good soul — he’s worth a tear or two or ten. My son heard me and got out of bed. There’s a line where motherhood meets humanity and tonight, humanity won.

Tonight’s story isn’t really one for the public, except, I never want to forget it. And I’ve long since given up journals.

My boy came out to the livingroom in his green footy pajamas, and stated, “As your Right Hand Man, I want to know if there is anything I can do for you.”

I said, “Yeah, you can go to bed, it’s 10 p.m.”

And he said, “Blue puppy (his stuffed animal since birth) and my pillow and I have been camped out right here (pointing to the hallway) and we can hear you cry.”

I replied, “Crying isn’t always bad. I’m happy and safe and it’s time for you to go to bed.”

And my dear little man stood, hands animated like I couldn’t believe:

“There are three things you need to understand:

One: We men always play to our strengths. People who know how to play Bridge understand this, but you don’t know how to play Bridge.

Two: You have to put your hobbies first when you speak. What are your hobbies, Mom? Cooking? That’s not a hobby. Kids? I’m not a hobby, mom! You have to think of a good hobbies. You like football. And soccer. Those are good hobbies.

Three: You say things like ‘happiness’ and ‘health’ and ‘karma’ but those are all spiritual things. Don’t say spiritual things. You can say hobbies. Like if you say ‘technology’ I will say that’s a good one.”

I literally was struck silent. In fact, even as I type, I’m still shocked, just trying to type before I forget what he said.

I teased him, “Technology my bum, little one!”

He wouldn’t budge.

I asked him if he wanted to call my ex. He said, “Some things need time. I will call her another day.”

Again, he struck me silent.

“Everything is fine, son,” I told him.

He looked at me, standing in the hall in his green footy pajamas and Blue Puppy hanging from his fist, “I know. But I’m your right hand man.”

The post My Right Hand Man appeared first on Garza Girls.

2012 was a shitty year, but today, on its last day, I saw two sunsets crossing the Atlantic, and my house was filled with all the beauty you could imagine. On the last day of this horrible and rough year, came fresh food, and love and friends and family and hugs and not one, but two beautiful sunsets, and I really couldn’t pass up the opportunity to think, What a bastard! That year I loathed, finished so beautifully, filled with fresh love all around us. Damn you, 2012, for being a beauty in the end, and reminding me what matters most.

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When Dallas plays Monday Night Football now, I bring out an old photo of my grandmother, place it in front of the TV, and put a beer and a handful of Lay’s potato chips beside her. Oh yeah, we’re a little nuts, but we wouldn’t have it any other way.

During the NFL season each year, I have a Monday Night Football open house. I make a big, giant pot of somethingruther because I am not about to be sitting in the kitchen while everyone else watches the game. Chili, enchiladas, make-your-own tacos or a big, kitchen-sink salad are always waiting in the kitchen. You can find me and my kids plunked in front of the TV, just like my parents did when I was a kid. We cheer and scream and let out all the inappropriate loud noises we can’t burst out with at work and at school: “OFFSIDES, SUCKERS!,”  howls my daughter, while my son, intense as ever, wearing his Brady or Crabtree jersey, fist pumps with a defiant “WHAT A HIT!” It’s our unspoken permission to let it all go.

Every Monday night during NFL season, I feel the sense of family all around — tradition runs deep with us, and football is no exception.

So if you’re in the neighborhood this season, stop on by for a Monday Night Football fete — the food the people and the TV are all warm, the beer is cold and we’ll be waiting for you.

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Immediately, they are in need of:

97 color backpacks (no red or blue due to gang issues in San Jose)

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My parents and I worked the 1984 Olympic Games — this photo is us on the podium the night of the boxing medal ceremony after it finished. Gave me a deep love of sports that has never left me.

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Time is always stolen time with my babies — morning cuddles, afternoon texts, dinner together at night. Maybe we squeeze-in a car ride conversation or bathtime chat.

Mornings with my man are my daily treasures.

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But the problem with Infographics is simple: They don’t say jack. They don’t do jack. They don’t sell your brand or your story. What they do is entertain. Unless I missed the marketing class on entertaining consumers with nothingness, Infographics don’t belong in a marketing plan, they belong in marketing materials. Infographics are take-aways — think of them as eye candy for your message. Does eye candy sell?

Show me an Infographic that sells a brand and you’ll find a convert in me. Data Visualization has been around since long before I cranked-up my early Power Point templates, but the difference is the spend. An Infographic requires marketing spend that startups just can’t afford. Show me a startup that extra funds to support data compilation, graphic design, print costs, social media distribution and I’ll show you a startup that’s got questionable spend.

My Pinterest of Infographics here: http://pinterest.com/samanthafein/ — I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in them, just that I wouldn’t waste my startup marketing budget on creating visual displays of randomness.

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Letting it all hang out online?

I’ve been reading for a couple of weeks about employers asking for candidate’s Facebook profile information, and watching the “WHA?!” response from the online community as a whole. I’ve got some thoughts on the matter, and more than that, some tips:

1. Your online persona is completely transparent, even if you think it is not. Period. If you look me up on Facebook, I’ve got pretty good privacy settings, but that won’t keep you (or anyone else) from somehow finding out that I went off on a tirade at my kid’s third grade teacher after he went missing for 40 minutes last month. When the teachers’ union came to me asking me to take down the post, I refused. But I was also reminded that, privacy settings or not, your posts are not private. Not a one. Even the private ones.

2. You have a right to your online persona and no employer can make you give up your private information. Unless, they do. If you’re a public person or a face of a brand or the name behind a brand (even more so for us entrepreneurs) your employer, in my opinion has some right to be concerned about your public persona online and offline. I can hardly be a coke-head stripper by night and be the face of BabyCenter in the day. I get it.

3. Check yourself. No, really. Run a Google Search on yourself frequently, or better yet, set up a Google Alert for your own name (sorry if your name is John Smith, that might give you some inaccurate results). Look at photos of yourself online, make a policy about photo sharing, tagging and blogging and stick to it. I have a strict policy about my kids online. You might want to, also.

4. The world of online communities dates back to CompuServe days and days when we used AOL accounts to troll around chat rooms. Its very core was the ability to communicate from our pajamas with people anywhere in the world, empowered by our ability to speak freely and anonymously. I recall in 1996 when someone in a chat room I used on AOL turned out to be questioned in the disappearance of another woman from our chat room. His name was revealed, unraveling, for me, the mystery of online communities. There is a name — yours — behind every word you say online.

5. Believe in transparency. I believe deeply in transparency online. From a brand perspective, transparency is known to deepen trust between people and products. From a personal perspective, I want to drop-kick the blogs that discuss how perfect life is — as though life is a perfectly set Instagram photo. The ups and downs of our lives are what make us as people, and as brands, humanized.

Should employers be asking for Facebook logins? Not a chance. Should candidates be aware that what we say online is fair game for judging your character? Absolutely.

To save you the five minutes, here is what the Internet says about me… there is comfort in transparency.

Samantha Fein: Google Search

On Twitter: Garza Girl

On Facebook: Samantha Fein

On LinkedIn: Samantha Fein

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It’s the story of the kid and the Santa jig, and the jig is up, and you are left as the grownup fool telling your kids for the past eight years that a giant fat man breaks into their house each year. If you’re already a parent of a kid older than mine, you know the sock-in-the-gut feeling of your baby’s childhood blinking away.

Today was that day.

I picked up my sweet Thing 2 from school, a rarity since returning to work. I took her out for a special treat (curry meat pie — my girl is special) and we spied friends outside. While we were chatting with them, our favorite toddler boy, Teddy said, looking at his hand-me-down pink tricycle, “Dis bike too small fo-me!” And his parents replied, “Well maybe you.should.ask.for.a.new.BIKE.from.SAN.TA!

And that was it.

She got it.

In one sentence. It was over.

She looked at me, took my hand, squeezed hard, and said, “Yeah, ‘Santa, or Mommy and Daddy.”

Stunned, I took her by the hand and walked away. I stared at my buddies with that Oh-Holy-Crap-That-Just-Didn’t-Happen eye stare. But it had happened. And there was no going back.

I tried to undo-the-undoable. I told her that our friends were trying to talk their son into asking for a bicycle from Santa instead of from their parents because bikes are expensive. And parents can’t afford bikes. And Santa helps because he can. And, you know, wink, wink, wink.

She didn’t buy it.

She rolled her eyes at me.

So I took her for a fancy haircut at a grownup hair salon to distract her.

Or maybe, to distract me.

She got a bob cut.

It made her look young.

The post The Santa Moment appeared first on Garza Girls.

Friends, family, school parents have had to save my butt for volunteer work, school events and personal schedules. I’ve had my tail between my legs for weeks while hours go flying by at work and at home with not.one.moment of respite. I feel terrible. I’m the one that gets it done. I don’t like this phase — the one where I have to be the one who’s ass gets saved.

Boo.

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Like it or not, I’d be less efficient if I didn’t have kids.

Like it or not, I’d be skinner if I didn’t have kids.

Like it or not, I’m healthier because I have kids.

Like it or not, I’m more emotional because I have kids.

Like it or not, I’m less emotional because I have kids.

Like it or not, I’d have more time for friends, if I didn’t have kids.

Like it or not, the friends I have are vital and precious, because I have kids.

Like it or not, I’d be less tired if I didn’t have kids.

Like it or not, I’m more awake and alive because I have kids.

Like it or not, I am a less creative marketer, because I have kids.

Like it or not, I’m a better marketing leader, because I have kids.

Like it or not, I’ve got less time for my parents, because I have kids.

Like it or not, I’ve got endless respect for my parents, because I have kids.

Like it or not, I’m less passionate about my career, because I have kids.

Like it or not, I’m more passionate at the work I do choose, because I have kids.

Like it or not, I’d be so much more wealthy, if I didn’t have kids.

Like it or not, I’m more driven to be wealthy, because I have kids.

Like it or not, my life would be more free, if I didn’t have kids.

Like it or not, I’ve never known life, before I had kids.

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A full, happy, kid-filled weekend.

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