Between 1997 and 1998, I was managing editor of a national business trade journal in McLean, Va. – moonlighting as a part‑time driver for Takeout Taxi’s Arlington, Va., franchise for fun and profit (but not necessarily in that order). I never got around to publishing my roadside misadventures – reflected in the following vignettes – until now. Hope you enjoy these recollections from years past!
Lest we forget the Friday Massacre
There’s this dowdy, middle‑aged woman named Eva bearing down with all her might on a musty couch in a cluttered, smelly tenement in the center of Arlington with two scrawny Asian boys by her side. She’s about to pay for a grilled chicken Caesar salad with extra dressing and three bacon cheeseburgers with fries. What a juxtaposition. Only thing missing is a glass of cold milk to wash down the chocolate crunch cake she nabbed for dessert. It says on the faxed order that the motley threesome were victims of the infamous Friday Massacre of Nov. 4, 1995, when a string of late or botched deliveries resulted in a $10 credit to her account. That was long before I started working for T.O.T., as it’s known on log sheets at high‑rises and restaurants. Not surprisingly, she checks the Styrofoam containers real carefully to make sure everything’s there. The pressure is killing me. I’m not so sure I can stomach much more second‑guessing. They implore us to check every food item before leaving the restaurant. What does she expect, anyway? I’m a writer, for God’s sake!
A knucklehead and a gentleman
Before T.O.T. actually turned me loose on the rough‑and‑tumble roads of Arlington, they made me run around town with two other drivers for 48 hours. Standard procedure, they say. Which is probably a good idea knowing how some of the drivers can barely speak English (how are they ever gonna read a map? I wonder). Amazingly, they do their jobs quite well – even better than the life‑long resident drivers.
What a contrast in style between the two deliverymen with whom I "trained." My first day out, I shared a ride with the guy who does most of the training for the Arlington Takeout Taxi franchise. He’s an affable, middle-aged gent who looks like a cross between Jim Brown and Johnnie Cochran but with none of the attitude. He’s put several kids through college, has a respectable computer procurement job with the federal government and just let his wife take a cruise with one of their daughters. Is this guy for real? I’m wondering if he’ll adopt me. My parents would understand.
On the next day, they pair me up with a sort of gruff, swaggering fiftysomething union fat cat who slips into the first half hour of conversation how he earns $84,000 a year at his Day Job but has been doing T.O.T. for really one reason: alimony. Turns out that old lover boy (who looks and sounds like John Goodman doing Babe Ruth) is on his third wife. When the conversation turns to who tips well and who doesn’t, he tells me about some guy named Dr. Rosenthal who falls into the latter category. Oh no, I think to myself. I can see it coming a mile away. "Figures," he sneers. "The guy’s Jewish." Little does he know that I’m, ahem, also Jewish. Should I speak up? I do. And it sounds something like this: "Well, you know it can also work the other way. Jews can be pretty good tippers. I should know," I gulp. "I’m ... Jewish." His face turns three shades of red as he tells me how his best friend is Jewish (oh that’s a new one) and he didn’t mean it in a prejudicial sense (what other sense is there, pal?!). He was just raising that harmless little old Stereotype. Didn’t mean anything by it. Just like Shakespeare’s Shylock (that actually wasn’t in the conversation. I just threw it in. I’m not sure he even knows about the Bard of Avon).
The birth of "Pinky"
For financial reasons only, I decide to use my wife’s pink Ford Aspire for deliveries (yes you heard right, the car’s pink). That’s because I don’t want the wear and tear on my 1988 Honda Accord (which, for the record, is a rather handsome Montreal blue). Be careful, my insurance agent warns pitching me extra coverage for my Honda while we’re on the subject. "Wow, your wife’s car really is pink! " says the guy who hired me at T.O.T. "Well, technically it’s Wild Iris," I respond rather sheepishly. "From now on," he muses, pondering that one great radio handle, "you’ll be known as ... Pinky." For the next week, I’ve got the song "Pinky" by Elton John and Bernie Taupin from the "Caribou" album dancing around my brain with its catchy, mid‑tempo melody but insipid lyrics. Here’s a sample: "Pinky’s as perfect as the Fourth of July/Quilted and timeless, seldom denied." What the heck does that mean? And who is this cat named Pinky, anyway? Well, for about six months in ‘96, it was me. And there simply was no getting that song out of my head.
Caught red‑handed
Me and my Big Mouth. I’m unpacking $72.90 worth of grub for a fellow scribe at Inside Washington, a political mag in Crystal City, when I overhear a conversation about how the clean‑cut kid from Jersey who single‑handedly won Game 2 of the Orioles‑Yankees series for the Bronx Bombers was supposed to do the talk‑show circuit the next morning. "They outta shoot that kid," I muttered under my breath, still pissed that the O’s were robbed of the momentum they sorely needed for their first World Series appearance since Cal began The Streak. "ExCUSE me?!" the writer barked. "You shouldn’t have said that before the gratuity." It wasn’t the reaction I expected. Feeling like a scolded child, my knees buckled but sprang to life just in time for me to high‑tail it on out of there. That’s the last time I try and act cynical and aloof in front of My Own Kind!
Life doesn’t always imitate art
In a near remake of the TV commercial from two Super Bowls ago where the Coke and Pepsi guys share a carbonated Kodak moment, I make a friendly overture to The Competition: some dude from Restaurants on the Run who’s parked in front of Red Hot & Blue barbecue by the Clarendon Metro. But he seems startled by my surprise greeting and salutation – almost put off by it. I suppose life doesn’t always imitate art.
"Takeout Taxi (Driver)," the movie
It probably was only a matter of time before I got lost on the I-395/George Washington Parkway/Route 110 quagmire between the Pentagon and Crystal City – not once but twice! Two wrong turns is all it took. What a traffic engineering monstrosity this stretch of road is. It features the absolute worst signage in the Free World. What were county planners thinking? That knuckleheads like me eventually would figure it out? The road rage is building inside. One more bum turn and I’m liable to start spraying bullets in either direction (Bobby DeNiro could reprise the role of Travis Bickle for a soon‑to‑be‑major‑motion‑picture‑titled "Takeout Taxi Driver"). Then again, I’m not having a very good day to begin with. A few hours earlier, an animal control officer for Fairfax County slaps me with a citation for walking my 10‑pound Chihuahua to the condominium trash bin without a leash and not being able to produce the little critter’s county dog license. True story. The best thing that’s happened so far is this woman with a lazy left eye living in a luxury high‑rise tipped me $8. This day is so bizarre. When’s it gonna end?!
Scalded by the pasta primavera
Richard Berendzen used to be president of The American University – until a bizarre and rather embarrassing telephone sex scandal brought his promising career as an academic administrator to a crashing halt. Nowadays, he can be found ordering pasta primavera from California Pizza Kitchen from a posh Crystal City high‑rise. I wanted so badly to make a good first impression but ended up inadvertently burning his hands on the plastic container that I forgot to bag. He was downright grumpy about the scalding (I take full blame for it). So much for confessing how I admired the unusual candor with which he publicly reflected on his sex‑offender recovery at Johns Hopkins.
This was no New York minute
Got bitched out on North Potomac Street by a customer (that’s what they call the people we deliver to) who didn’t want to hear how busy it got at Chevy’s Restaurant, located across from the Pentagon City Mall where parking is a nightmare for T.O.T. drivers because the only place you can really leave the car without getting a ticket is the Crystal City equivalent of a walk across the state of Rhode Island (it’s actually on 12th Street around the comer, where about half a dozen spaces are reserved for deliveries only). Obviously, she doesn’t understand that you can’t just nuke fajita nachos (much less pronounce ‘em). Same goes for the quesadilla appetizer she ordered. The target time, that’s T.O.T. lingo for when the order is expected in the customer’s hands, reads 7:29 p.m. (why can’t they just round these things off?!). I’m not sure exactly when I got there. It seemed like a week after leaving the restaurant. They all seem that way the first few weeks on the job.
The would‑be credit‑card heist
Ran off with a woman’s American Express card – unintentionally, of course. AmEx is such a snooty credit card. If it only had been Visa Gold ... Now that’s a plastic‑coated heist worth pursuing! See, T.O.T. sells each driver an imprinter to run the cards through. Sometimes, it’s tough to hand over the food, operate the imprinter and smile broadly – all at the same time. Something had to give. I guess it was the credit card. Moments after dropping the order of BBQ ribs, loaded baked potato and dinner salad at the FDIC Training Center on North Monroe Street, I noticed the "customer" running out after me – arms flailing in the summer breeze, her rather large frame shimmying across the front lawn. "Oh, I’m so sorry!" I concede. "I’m just not thinking today."
"Stiffed" on Wilson Boulevard
Forty‑five cent tip on $14.55 worth of grub. It’s the closest I’ve come to getting "stiffed." That’s what we in the industry call a tipless delivery. It happens about 1 % of the time – at least that’s what the guys who hired and trained me claim. It’s not a pleasant feeling. This took place about 7 p.m. on the Friday before Labor Day right outside the customer’s workplace on Wilson Boulevard, no less. She probably likes to cross picket lines. Apparently, we were supposed to meet at the building’s back entrance but my dispatcher never mentioned this. So while she waited in her beat‑up car, I hung out in the lobby – until she finally spotted me and motioned me over. When I showed up without a receipt and had trouble making change in five seconds flat, she got snippy and peeled out of the parking lot. I cussed and fumed my way back to the Pinkymobile. Ain’t love a bitch?!
Risking life and limb over a $2.24 tip
It’s just after 10 p.m. and I’m about to leave the Black Eyed Pea in Bailey’s Crossroads with a broccoli‑cheese stuffed potato, salad with bleu cheese dressing on the side, wheat rolls and vegetable plate headed for the tony Lenox Club on 12th Street in Crystal City. Target time reads 10: 19 p.m. I’m told by the radio dispatcher to hustle my butt on this one. Trouble is, the address is cross town. And believe me, it ain’t worth risking life and limb over a $17.18 order with a lousy $2.24 tip ($3 is considered average). But I floor it anyway, hell bent on not screwing up my marching orders so early into this gig. I need the money too badly. So I arrive just in time – only to find that the customer doesn’t answer the door until after five minutes of enthusiastic knocking on my part. Woke the guy up, after all that! I’m not sure if it was the lateness of the hour or what, he was a complete dead ringer for Eddie Murphy. Wow. Never delivered to a celebrity before – or at least some dude who looks like one.
If looks could kill
They said there’d be no scary neighborhoods on the Arlington delivery route, but the stretch of Whitfield Commons on North Thomas Street where I ventured one night certainly qualified as one. A motorist who was backing up from a parking lot I was headed into burned a hole right through me with the dirtiest of looks (can’t say as I blame him, considering my car nearly scraped his on the way in).
How to make a grown man cry
Got ticketed by the cops for the first time. The offense: parking illegally on the comer of 9th and Randolph streets for what I figured would be about five minutes while I ran in a $16.61 order of chips and salsa to the Four Seasons Tanning Salon. Only trouble was I couldn’t find the place (it’s nestled away on the ground floor of a Ballston high‑rise). The damage was $40, which pretty much wiped out my tips for the night. I cried like a baby. Twice. For about 15 minutes in my car while others drove on by. How pathetic. I can’t even handle a parking ticket!
Thank God for talk radio
I sure end up listening to a lot of talk radio between deliveries. It helps drain the boredom that wells up inside. On one drop‑dead gorgeous Saturday afternoon the day after Hurricane Fran pounded the region, causing some of the worst power outages in Virginia history, I stumble upon this 24‑year‑old female caller to Dr. Laura Schlessinger’s pop‑psychology show whose dad doesn’t think she should remarry (her first trek to the altar at age 16 produced three children with a cop who later ran off with a fellow officer’s wife). Apparently, daddy has a boatload of money. But Hubby No. 2 doesn’t mind. He’s willing to sign a pre‑nup. "Just marry the guy, already!" I shout at the radio. "Tell your father to take a hike. Who’s life is it, anyway?"
Nothing but the mole story
Here’s a strange thought: It occurred to me one night when I had way too much time on my hands that there are not one, not two but three women with really conspicuous facial moles working at TGIF on the Arlington-Alexandria line. These are people who deal with the public. One of them is a hostess, for crying out loud. Is it just me or do patrons lose their appetites over stuff like this?
Naked men are pretty good tippers
There’s a naked man standing behind the door in a rundown apartment complex on South 28th Street across from a ballfield. I must have been running about 20 minutes behind because the addresses are literally falling off these buildings. You need a psychic to make a delivery there! When I finally arrive, he takes about two minutes to respond. By the second set of knocks, he’s ranting about needing to slip into some clothes. When the door swings open, it’s as though I’m face‑to‑face with a sort of demented version of Truman Capote (which some might argue is redundant). He fumbles for a pen to sign the credit card slip (would Truman have been that clumsy?), then asks for change of a $10. Why bother mixing cash and credit? You chose one or the other. It’s simply not done! But I oblige anyway, then discover the filthy lucre is meant for my pocket – with an extra $2 tip. He too, the man confesses, once delivered food (pizza, I think it was). He feels my pain and wants to brighten my night. Good thing he wasn’t a trench coat flasher. That could have gotten ugly.
Rosh Hashanah and the munchies
One thing I gleaned from this job is not to spend much time analyzing tipping patterns. Case in point: There’s a twentysomething guy with an amazing view of the monuments living in a luxury high‑rise near the Key Bridge who consumes mass quantities of food every time he and his pals get the munchies. When I delivered $51.35 worth of Indian and Lebanese food one night (a rare dual delivery), the bong hits literally blew past me as I knelt to ink up the credit‑card slip. He tips me $6. Now I’m not complaining, but remember that this is from a guy who clearly has more money than he knows what to do with. That same night, I show up with two bowls of sweet onion bisque soup, a seared fresh tuna, salmon dinner, white chocolate ‑raspberry shortcake, some peanut butter "thing" – in short, The Works. The tip is generous, perhaps because the couple ordering from the ever‑snooty Bistro Bistro remembered how I’d wished them a happy Jewish New Year a few weeks before and figured from the looks of my shnozolla (in this case, a badge of honor) that 1, too, hailed from the Tribe of David. Who ‘sez we’re all tightwads?!
Another one‑armed Republican
Election Day eve at the tony Buchanan House in Crystal City. The man who answers the door at the 10th‑floor apartment lets me in for some light political banter as I write‑up the $34.45 order for a Santa Fe chicken pizza, Portobello‑mixed mushroom pie and chopped salad with spinach and dressing on the side. This is his ninth order with T.O.T. "Looks like Clinton tonight," laments the customer who has use of only one arm, seated below a wall of framed 8x10 of him and Jack Kemp and just about every other blue‑blood Republican out there. Better not mention that I voted for The Enemy earlier in the day. Just might get stiffed.
Two nights of tips down the drain
Got my second ticket: failure to obey a traffic sign posted on North Stafford Street between Wilson Boulevard and Fairfax Drive (again in Ballston). What a bone‑headed move on my part. I saw the cop just sitting there in his cruiser waiting to nab me. I didn’t even bother contesting this one (nor did I shed a tear). The next day, I mailed a check for $85 to the Arlington Treasurer. That’s two nights of tips! Jeeeeeeeeeeze. I’m such a bum.
This cop had heart
Yet another encounter with a man in blue. We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, I’m thinking, as he pulls me over for running a red light at 10th Street and Fairfax Drive (you guessed it, the Ballston area). I’m literally quaking in my boots, figuring that three strikes in as many months on the job and I’ve got to quit this gig. Thinking on my feet, I figure the best defense may as well be a solid offense. So I start disputing the call before he even slams the cruiser door, which pisses him off to no end (who the hell am I? Dennis Rodman?). Now I’m afraid he’s about to draw his revolver and shoot me silly. After a harsh tongue‑lashing, the Cop With A Heart decides to give me a warning. "Everyone deserves a second chance," he says before letting me drive off into the dark of night. I breathe such a heavy sigh of relief that gale warnings could be felt across the Eastern Seaboard that night.
Call security!
I’ll never forget order No. 1473 from Chevy’s Restaurant one sunny afternoon on the 16th anniversary of John Lennon’s murder. What started out as a routine delivery involving roughly $20 worth of Mexican food nearly turned into a brawl between a burly, bushy‑haired man and a female security guard who insisted that the customer pay for his meal in the lobby of the building where he was getting caught up on some work. The man refused, verbally strong‑arming the guard into letting him bring me up the elevator several floors above the commotion where, lo’ and behold, he left his credit card. "How can I get any work done if I have to go down for the food each time it’s delivered," he spewed, nearly foaming at the mouth in the process. When I returned to the lobby, the security guard was already calling for back‑up to eject him from the premises. Talk about heartburn!
I often wonder about that close encounter with off‑road rage. But within weeks of the incident, it no longer seemed to matter. My credit‑card debts were now paid off, and my wife was about to re‑enter the work force. The roadside anecdotes also were about to end. Soon, I was back home on the couch with the clicker, surfing the local 120‑channel cultural cesspool instead of running chips and salsa cross town for $3‑a‑pop of pocket change. Far removed from all the near‑fisticuffs and delivery gripes.
Oh how I miss the road!

In a nation of red and blue, I’m proudly purple.

In fact, I’m part of a political trend that’s taking hold across the United States. Independents now constitute the nation’s largest voting bloc, with an average of 43% of U.S. adults identifying this way in a 2023 Gallup poll, which tied the record high from 2014. Equal 27% shares of U.S. adults identified as Republicans and Democrats, with the latter marking a new low in Gallup’s research.

It’s not surprising considering that most people have mixed feelings about important issues, though many of them pledge allegiance to one of the two main political establishments and won’t cross party lines. We all have a little liberal and conservative in us. We just may not know without taking a thorough inventory of our views.

In my case, I’m concerned about preserving reproductive rights, protecting marginalized communities, criminal justice reform and the environment, but also supportive of personal and fiscal responsibility, scaled-down government, law and order. Some of my thinking is nuanced: I support people who identify as transsexual, for instance, and believe sexual preference is genetically determined. But I’m dead set against minors being given a blank check on transitioning and schools becoming involved in a matter that’s best left to private conversations in homes.

My views also have evolved on some issues. As a Jew who was raised by parents who identified as liberal Democrats during my formative years, I’m deeply concerned about the level of hostility or indifference that the progressive liberal wing of the Democratic party has shown toward people of my faith and Israel, a sovereign nation that has every right to defend itself.

Generally speaking, though, I think it’s safe to assume that many fellow Americans share my frustration with a two-party system whose politicians just as easily can be bought and sold on both sides of the political aisle. So-called K Street lobbyists don’t really care if you’re red or blue; as long as your money is green – and the checks clear. This is where the convergence of politics and business breed corruption.

Also, the federal budget deficit keeps mushrooming on the watch of both Republicans and Democrats, no matter who occupies the oval office or dominates the U.S. Congress. I can’t understand why both parties don’t prioritize deficit reduction, which has widespread bipartisan support as does repairing the nation’s corroding infrastructure.

Another concern is how both parties have splintered into factions that appear to be favoring the most radical wings in a never-ending power struggle for their respective souls and policy platforms. Progressives are gaining ground on moderates in battling for control of the Democratic vision, placing on the ballot the most liberal ticket since the country was founded – surely since 1972. Trumpers, meanwhile, have seized control on the other side and have demonized RINOs (Republicans in Name Only) -- backing a candidate whose cult of personality is outsized enough to dwarf felony convictions.

Comedian George Carlin, one of the most outspoken independent thinkers of our time, was leery of indoctrination on both the left and right – concerned about elitist academics and religious zealots alike trying to control people’s behavior.

Independent voters who feel disenfranchised are tipping election outcomes, especially in battleground states. But the fact remains that it’s dispiriting to contemplate a vote for the lesser of two evils in lieu of passionately backing a candidate I can truly believe in without any reservations.

I felt this way in 2016, 2020 (though not as intensely) and again in 2024. I’ve grown tired of facing another existential crisis with an upcoming U.S. presidential election when friendships and family ties will again sour or break apart. The angst is too much to bear. So brace yourselves, Americans. We’re about to be divided yet again when we really need to unite. The trouble is both candidates are too polarizing for that to happen.

So in the end, I suppose, it comes down to casting a vote that is in lockstep with our general philosophy and vision for where we’d like to see the country over the next four years rather than a love letter to the candidate who will earn our vote. Franklin Graham, whose father was an iconic preacher, said as much recently, but it’s a sentiment that all Americans can – and will – take to heart on Election Day.
​
What needs to happen the day after votes are cast – and every day thereafter, for that matter – is that we somehow find a way to respect our differences, accept the outcome and come together. If we once again fail to do these things and lose our collective sense of humanity, then we’re doomed to repeat mistakes that will continue to drive a wedge between friends, family and neighbors. 

In 2020, I ghostwrote a book to help families get their overachieving high schoolers into the Ivy League or other elite U.S. universities. I’m very proud of this project and even had two strangers mention how they were familiar with it from the library or bookstore. Lately, though, I’ve been questioning whether something that started out as a valuable public service will actually put Jewish students – potentially my two teenage children – in harm’s way.

The irony is that it has become a breeding ground for misinformation, propaganda Let me explain further: I’m disgusted by what’s happening on many of these college campuses. Higher education is supposed to offer young minds an opportunity for learning critical thinking and allowing students to make up their own minds about hot topics.  

and conspiracy theories about Israel, as well as hostile to Jewish youth. Professors and administrators are beholden to indoctrination and dogma under the guise of diversity, equity and inclusion programs – not necessarily truth and fairness. The Thought Police are busy patrolling and imposing their small-minded world view on all of us – an Orwellian prospect that I find terrifying.

They also are perpetuating a double standard by tolerating antisemitic expression while condemning other hateful speech. Exhibit A: recent congressional testimony from three top university presidents who were asked a basic question about whether calling for the genocide of Jews violated their moral code and policy for student harassment. Their responses, all predicated upon how it depended on the “context” of those comments, were beyond outrageous. They were lame and spineless, and it was a national disgrace. Condemning this nonsense was an easy layup for those so-called leaders. Instead, they all shot embarrassing air balls.

Pershing Square CEO Bill Ackman, who has bachelor’s and master’s degrees from Harvard, recently voiced several concerns about his alma mater in a post on X. He was deeply disturbed that 34 student organizations a day after the October 7 surprise attack on Israel – before the Jewish nation even took any military action in Gaza – lent their support to Hamas, who he rightly described as “a globally recognized terrorist organization. Instead, they held Israel “solely responsible” for these barbaric and heinous acts, which constituted the worst mass murder of Jewish life since the Holocaust.

Ackman believes diversity, equity and inclusion programs known as DEI are a driving force behind this collegiate hate machine. His fear is that the DEI movement has taken control of speech, serving as the new McCarthyism. Those who dare challenge any of these well-intentioned, albeit misguided, programs run the risk of being ostracized or finding themselves unemployed – another Cancel Culture casualty.

DEI seeks to protect marginalized communities. The trouble is that Jews are almost always left out of this equation, perceived as part of a linear world view as white “oppressors.” Never mind that there are varying degrees of physical traits, religious observance and socioeconomic status among Jews not only in Israel but also across the diaspora. Young minds are fed this information without meaningful knowledge of Jewish history or culture and prejudice is perpetuated for posterity.

Sadly, the seeds of hate are actually sowed in K-12 grades – germinated in schoolyards and from behind closed doors in homes everywhere. My son, who is a high school freshman, recently told me about several antisemitism incidents that started with fellow students questioning Israel’s right to defend itself after the Hamas attacks and a joke one student made during a PE class about gassing Jews.

Thankfully, the principal of his school reacted with sincere outrage, shock and empathy. He was saddened to learn about these comments, expressing that “there is no place in our school/society for any type of hate speech” and pledging to launch an investigation. The heads of Harvard, MIT and the University of Pennsylvania – two of whom have been forced to resign in disgrace – could have learned a career-saving lesson from this man.

Since the Oct. 7 massacre in Israel, U.S. antisemitic incidents have risen nearly 400% – reaching the highest number during any two-month period since ADL began tracking this metric in 1979.

As ADL CEO Jonathan Greenblatt recently noted, “the lid to the sewers is off, and Jewish communities all across the country are being inundated with hate. Public officials and college leaders must turn down the temperature and take clear action to show this behavior is unacceptable to prevent more violence.”

A dear old friend of mine who was living in Israel at the time of the attack and managed to later escape to Italy about a week later referenced having some PTSD from encountering sirens and rocket booms. She also expressed “fear and anger over the lies, distortions and hate directed toward Jews.”

In perceiving the disturbing emergence of a second Kristallnacht, a night of broken glass from Jewish-owned shops that ignited Hitler’s Final Solution, columnist Bret Stephens recently wrote that “we are now witnessing, on a daily and even hourly basis, and on a scale only a few of us thought possible just a few years ago, the same kind of moral and logical inversions; the same ‘heads-I-win, tails-you-lose’ sleight-of-hand reasoning; the same denying to Jews the feelings and rights granted to everyone else; the same preparing of the public mind for another open season on the Jews.”

What transpired on Oct. 7 was easily Israel’s 9/11 – a date that will now live in infamy. The irony is that scores of peace-loving citizens at a music festival who were sympathetic to the plight of impoverished Palestinians were raped, burned and slaughtered. Any Jewish apologists who have criticized the Israeli government’s policies and military action must recognize that this was a bridge too far. The sheer brutality of that surprise attack and atrocities that followed cut like a knife through my heart and soul. I can only hope that most of my fellow Jews feel the same.  

Israel is a sovereign nation that has a right to defend itself. We cannot ever lose sight of the fact that it serves as a safe haven for Jews around the world and is a beacon of hope at a time of rising antisemitism. The 1948 founding came just three years after the end of World War II, a time when six million Jews perished in concentration camps across Europe. It’s morally reprehensible for people to defend what Hamas did or imply that these terrorists were justified in their savagery.

There’s a reason the Israeli Defense Forces are named as such: defense is the operative word. Israel doesn’t initiate attacks; only responds to them. Some countries may think the firepower has been excessive, but how else do you respond to terrorists who literally and figuratively want to drive you from the Jordan River into the Mediterranean Sea?

Meanwhile, antisemitism is also masquerading as international policy with mounting public opinion equating Zionism with racism. The United Nations General Assembly passed more resolutions critical of Israel than against all other nations combined in 2022, contributing to what observers call an ongoing lopsided focus on the Jewish state at the world body. However, the Zionism movement, which dates back to 1897, is about self-determination and statehood for Jews in their ancestral homeland. There is no moral equivalent here to apartheid.

Many of Israel’s critics do not realize, or conveniently forget, that it has offered the Palestinians a two-state solution on five separate occasions – all of them rejected. The first was in 1937 when the Peel Commission which would have given Jews just 20% of the land and the rest to Arab neighbors. Then in 1947, the U.N. voted to create two states, which sparked a war. In 1967 following the Six Day War when the Gaza strip and West Bank were captured by the Israeli Defense Forces, two different peace proposals were floated. Then in 2000 Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak met with Palestinian Liberation Organization Chairman Yasser Arafat, which sparked scores of suicide bombings. Finally in 2008, Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert expanded the peace offer to sweeten the deal in talks with Palestinian National Authority President Mahmoud Abbas.

It’s also worth noting that in 2005 the Israeli government unilaterally left Gaza, giving the Palestinians complete control of the territory, which Hamas has since governed, and began dismantling Jewish settlements on the West Bank in the absence of a peace agreement in recognition that occupying these territories was proving to be more of a security liability than an asset.

Israel is held to an unrealistically high double standard that is not fair or reasonable when there’s a true axis of evil all over the world, with the worst offenders including Iran, North Korea and China or Russia (take your pick). Hamas leaders make it a point of burrowing their presence into homes and hospitals in Gaza, using innocent civilians as human shields. They have zero regard for the life of Gazans. Jews and Israeli’s are viewed in overly simplistic terms as oppressors and Palestinians as the oppressed when the conflict is obviously nuanced and solutions are nearly unattainable.
​
Too many citizens of the world are on the wrong side of history. As a proud Jew who began wearing a star of David necklace daily for several months, I believe we’ve reached a tipping point in the history of Israel and Israeli-Palestinian relations. We all need to speak out against antisemitism now more than ever. Silence in the face of a worsening of this scourge will only make people complicit in not stopping the hate dead in its tracks. 

I’m a recovering people pleaser in both work and life. For most of my life, I put other peoples’ feelings ahead of my own – always thinking it was the right thing to do. Putting my needs and desires first seemed selfish, so I avoided doing that for decades. But people pleasing is mentally, emotionally and spiritually exhausting and unhealthy, I eventually learned, and breaking that pattern doesn’t make you selfish. In fact, it’s empowering and healthy. That revelation was a game-changer for me.

I discovered a constructive way to please people in my career as a journalist and ghostwriter, using my skills and experience in a way that adds clarity and power to their messages and thought leadership, as well as captures their passion.

Let me explain the former first: Sometimes when I’m interviewing someone for a business-to-business (B2B) trade magazine article, there’s often an understandable fear that arises about not sounding very articulate about the topic being discussed once their views appear in print. To reassure these subject matter experts that they have nothing to worry about, I’ll usually quip, “that’s why they pay me the big bucks. I’ll make you look like the smartest guy (or gal) in the room!” It always elicits a chuckle.

But there’s a larger point worth addressing in more detail. As a recovering people-pleaser from the tender age of about 5, I sincerely like to help make people look good – which brings me to the latter point mentioned in the previous paragraph. It’s why I’ve been deepening my footprint in ghostwriting.

Soon after deciding to bail out of the corporate world and become self-employed, I started with just one client and eventually added more than 130 others to the mix since 2000. A fair share of them have been individuals for whom I ghostwrote commentaries, paid advertisements known as “advertorials” and whitepapers that would be published in B2B trade magazines. Others included those who wanted blogs or website content.
​
One of my first clients was a seasoned health care strategist with whom I have developed a deep friendship. Les Meyer and I shared Thanksgiving dinner in the Rocky Mountains where he was living in 2006, while on several occasions in the early 2000s he stayed in the guestroom at my home in Los Angeles when passing through town on business. And that’s just the beginning. He later met one of my sisters and both of my parents during the time he lived in Florida, becoming an honorary Son No. 2 in the hearts and minds of my beloved mother and father whom he befriended and visited when he could.

I also developed a soulful connection with another early client when we embarked on a series of articles that peeled back the curtain on fiduciary responsibilities involving the administration and management of 401(k) plans. His need for my expertise has trickled through the proverbial revolving door since that time during which we have maintained a deep respect and admiration for one another.

There have been countless others that have turned to my ghostwriting expertise, including a handful of individuals during the pandemic who needed my help on a number of disparate projects. They included everything from crafting a compelling argument for acceptance into a medical residency program and articulating a tech startup’s vision for disruption to a college-admissions consultant dreaming of self-publishing a book that would help high school seniors be admitted to an Ivy league university.

Each of these client engagements have proven to be deeply satisfying. I thoroughly enjoy helping people articulate their vision, sound like a professional writer, land clients and ultimately grow their business. Best of all for me, such experiences have enabled me to channel a strong desire to please people in a constructive and profitable way that’s not exhausting and will not cause me harm.
​
So if you’d like a helping hand getting your message across because you lack the time or writing expertise, please feel free to get in touch. That will please me more than you can know, and you’ll be doing both of us a favor! 

Communication is key to success in work and life. Our words matter more than we’ll ever know. Think of all the emotionally charged conversations you’ve had with friends or family that went off the rails because of miscommunication or misunderstanding.

It’s no different in the workplace, which is why I strongly believe that every business owner, self-employed individual or person involved in sales should have a handy document that they can share with a prospective customer explaining what makes them unique and worthy of earning new business.

Much to my amazement, however, I have learned that most of us haven’t taken this important step forward. We tend to be complacent, fearful of coming across as boastful or arrogant, or simply don’t make this a top priority.

How do I know this? It started in 2020 when the pandemic blew a gaping hole in my career as a journalist and short-form ghostwriter, and I decided to revisit a happy accident from a decade prior: ghostwriting books. So I launched a campaign on LinkedIn with the help of Bjarne Viken, an outstanding lead specialist in Australia who helped me find clients for whom a ghostwriter was needed to organize and articulate whatever narrative they had in mind for a published book.

As part of the dozens of conversations I had with prospects, there was always a “down-selling” option on the table for those who were reluctant to make a commitment of this magnitude or didn’t quite have the budget for it.
​
In a nutshell, I would help them make a compelling case for why they should be hired – a “manifesto” about their unique skillset and knowledge, if you will. Manifesto you say? That has become a loaded word since the “Unabomber Manifesto,” 1995 anti-technology essay by Ted Kaczynski who is serving eight consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole for horrific acts of home-grown terrorism. But you’d be surprised how that word – and my Unabomber reference – really got people’s attention. I also found that it added some levity and humanized the service I was offering.

And in the end, that’s exactly the point I was trying to convey – to pique interest and stand out from the crowd in a competitive climate. We all possess certain traits or strengths that make us unique and highly marketable.

The goal is to distinguish ourselves in a free market wherein the competition may be intense, but also to as I just suggested, humanize ourselves to people with whom may enjoy a fruitful business partnership. Being able to email a one or two-page PDF or Word document much like a brochure featuring a photo along with an expertly written narrative that summarizes our capabilities will offer a meaningful taste of what we could bring to the table. As a ghostwriter, my aim is to always produce a compelling deliverable that someone can be proud of when trying to grow their business. 

A week before Halloween, I walked into an acupuncturist’s office as a last-ditch effort to treat terrible hay fever I’ve had since my early teenage years. One of my two sisters had suggested this remedy about a year ago, and I finally decided to explore that option.

Prior to the visit, I had tried everything – from 36 years of allergy shots to multiple prescriptions or over-the-counter medications. My symptoms were largely kept at bay, though they never totally disappeared. Then I noticed that they worsened in recent years, right around the time I learned that climate change was exacerbating life for allergy sufferers like myself as well as people with asthma. That felt like an existential threat, but I soldiered on – until my tolerance for multiple sneezing fits, a runny nose, watery eyes and the occasional tickle in my throat ran thin.

As with many health care providers, I had to fill out reams of paperwork prior to my first visit, which thankfully was made affordable from a partnership that my insurance carrier, Kaiser Permanente, had with an alternative medicine boutique provider. I was asked to list and prioritize my top five health problems, which were hay fever/allergies, insomnia, gas/bloating, leg cramps and anxiety. I also was asked to rate on a scale of 1-5 as many as 200 different health conditions or problems so that the acupuncturist, who also specialized in naturopathic medicine, could get a better sense of my challenges and objectives.

During that first appointment, I was told that it could take up to two hours and that most of the time would be devoted to discussing my overall health, as well as what I would like to change about it. Only the final 20 minutes or so would involve the ancient Chinese practice of acupuncture. It was a bit surprising to me since my initial expectation was that needles would be stuck into certain parts of my body, and voila, I would be cured of my allergy symptoms.

Nothing could be farther from the truth. I was told that acupuncture merely helps manage those symptoms or makes them more bearable, while the real work involved taking various dietary supplements and changing the types of foods I ate and beverages I drank. That last part threw me for a loop. I had no idea there was a connection between what I put into my body and my terrible allergy symptoms because I had no food allergies, or at least I was unaware of any.

By the end of our first session, which included muscle tests that were done on me laying down on a massage table, I was told that the hunch my acupuncturist-naturopath initially had during our first chat on the phone proved to be correct. The diagnosis was a fatty liver from my lifelong addiction to sugar and carbs, which you’d never know from looking at my skinny body type.

There’s even a name for it: “nonalcoholic fatty liver disease,” which according to the Mayo Clinic describes “a range of liver conditions affecting people who drink little to no alcohol” (guilty as charged), and as the name implies, too much fat is stored in liver cells for that organ to properly work. It undermines the liver’s ability to cleanse the blood of toxins, and in my case, the use of antihistamines can actually increase the progression of this disease.

The phenomenon has become increasingly common everywhere, especially in Western nations like the U.S. where the Mayo Clinic notes that it’s “the most common form of chronic liver disease, affecting about one-quarter of the population.” Why so? Our growing obsession with sugar and carbohydrates, which cause a surge of dopamine that fool our brains into thinking these pleasant tastes are to be repeatedly enjoyed and not feared.

Now here’s the rub: most of us would never think of giving up foods or beverages that bring us so much joy, while many just don’t have the discipline to do this. I counted myself among both groups when this was explained to me during that first visit. The psychological part – a day of reckoning, if you will – was the hardest. But I really wanted to eliminate these health issues that I listed as annoyances, so I made the commitment to change the way I ate for nearly 62 years. It wasn’t easy, but after white-knuckling through the cravings for a week or so, I was stunned to learn that I actually could do this.

I was told that allergy pills are just a Band-Aid, whereas the use of acupuncture in conjunction with naturopathic medicine and a meaningful change in diet can substantially reduce and even eliminate my pesky allergic reactions. And I had homework: go to the local bookstore and buy “It Starts With Food,” which I found not only informative, but also surprisingly enjoyable and even funny in parts.

More than two months later, I have seen incredible changes. My allergy symptoms have dissipated, and while not entirely gone because I’m still moving from the detoxification to repair stage (maintenance is the third and final chapter for all patients of acupuncture and naturopathic medicine), I’m filled with great hope that I may actually have entire days pass without any sneezing.

What’s also pleasantly surprising is that my lifelong insomnia started to crumble just weeks into the new regimen. I’m sleeping deeper and more soundly than ever, and while I still wake up a few times each night, the bathroom trips were cut in half, and I’m dreaming of a time when I’ll sleep through the night without any of those annoying interruptions. As for gas and bloating, they’re pretty much gone, and my leg cramps are disappearing. The anxiety isn’t as bad, but learning new techniques such as the benefits of a cool or cold shower to strengthen the nervous system will eventually have an impact.
​
Given these promising early results, I want to shout all of this from the rooftop, which is one strong motivation for this blog. But not everyone will want to listen or take that advice. For me, though, it feels like a new beginning – one that’s strongly motivated by a desire to live long enough for my kids to make me a grandfather and cherish every second of this gift of life. 

It’s impossible to leave the house these days without staffing shortages affecting our daily lives. There have been countless examples in my own life. Two that happened one after the other immediately comes to mind:

I arrived for a routine teeth cleaning at a dental office that was apparently so short-handed that no one even bothered to record that morning appointment onto their computer system. So they had to turn me away. There also was no hygienist in the building that day, so I couldn’t be treated if a chair became available. Furious, I asked that the office manager call me when she got out of a meeting. It never happened.

On my way home, I decided to indulge in a scrumptious turkey sub from Which Wich (see accompanying photo). The store had two noteworthy signs that (ahem) are actually signs of the time: one advertising for help and the other apologizing for any inconvenience because of a staffing shortage that week.

Similar incidents recently occurred when one night, much to my chagrin, our local Panda Express closed its dining room area, which meant I had to queue up behind about 10 cars in the drive-through, which took forever to order, pay and be served. Same thing happened at a local Starbucks one weekend when a meandering line in the drive-through lane seriously eroded my morning plans.

There are many more examples: I was floored, for instance, to learn that our local school district is shorthanded 50 bus drivers, which meant that certain group activities would be curtailed. And when our family attended a minor league baseball game, concession stand lines were ten to 15 people deep. My favorite takeout window wasn’t even opened that night because, I was told, the college kids returned to school and there weren’t enough replacements available.

One other incident involved an email I received from my daughter’s gymnastics academy, which read: “As you all are aware, the hiring market is rough right now for employers. You are probably feeling this in all areas of your life, and we at (redacted to preserve their privacy) are feeling it too.

“We have been actively recruiting and hiring nonstop since we reopened fully in 2021, and have not yet caught up to where we would like to be. In addition to that, many of our staff members have reached a point in their lives where they have finished school and are now looking to transition into jobs within their fields. While we have worked very hard to anticipate hiring needs and fill them preemptively, we just are not receiving many applicants right now.”

The letter goes on to say the school may need to adjust its business hours without notice, have fewer staff members at the front desk and may need to combine or close classes.

What the heck is going on here?!

I know we’re all frustrated, but for me, it’s a phenomenon I’ve seen unfold for a year and a half because I write about the workplace for a living. A college professor coined it the Great Resignation. It’s the employee equivalent of the scene in the 1976 film “Network” when Peter Finch’s character shouts out his apartment window: “I’m MAD AS HELL, and I’m not going to take it anymore!”

While the trend has also spilled into the C-Suite and can be felt pretty much across the economy, according to research, it has bubbled up on the lowest rungs of the corporate ladder where there’s a serious revolt against low pay and bad hours. We’re seeing this mostly play out in the retail and hospitality sector, as well as trucking and warehouses. Can an American revolution of the proletariat in which the working class overthrows bourgeoisie elites as we saw with the Bolsheviks in Russia in 1917 be far behind? That’s a topic for another day. But what’s clear to me is that pandemic lockdowns and restrictions really made people pause and take stock in their lives as never before, and many of us decided to make some long-overdue changes.

Where all this ends up is anyone’s guess. This is hands down the strangest economy in my lifetime. On one side we have inflation worries and recession fears, but on the other there’s record low unemployment and job openings.

Employers are pulling out all the stops to recruit and retain workers. I saw signs for a $1,000 bonus for a short-order cook at a restaurant chain around the corner from where we live and a $10,000 signing bonus for a manager at a local Panda Express. Many companies also are finally coming around to heavily promoting or offering mental health benefits and financial wellness programs. Yet we still see Help Wanted signs in virtually every store or office window, and we’re all experiencing customer service that’s stretched as thin as it has ever been.
​
Let’s hope that whatever is in store for us post-pandemic will be better than the hand we’ve been dealt now.  

As a proud American and veteran journalist, I deplore censorship and cancel culture, both of which seek to muzzle what some or most would consider provocative speech and, in my belief, undermine a free press that Americans take for granted.

In other parts of the world, our home-grown reactions of outrage would translate into horrific scenarios where punishment never fits the so-called crime of dissent. Enough of my fellow journalists and authors have found through the years that being a First Amendment crusader will land them in jail or a body bag. Case in point: Jamal Khashoggi, a Saudi Arabian dissident and columnist for The Washington Post who was brutally murdered at the Saudi consulate in Istanbul, Turkey. And look at what just happened to Salman Rushdie, who survived a knife attack decades after the Iranian government made him a marked man.

I think it’s downright un-American to demonize people for expressing an opinion that’s different from yours or banish them for transgressions stemming from a slip of the tongue or outdated beliefs from years ago that now seem tone deaf. We all have a right to grow, evolve as individuals, and apologize for words that hurt or offend others but also defend our new positions. Beyond that, our culture celebrates second chances and so does organized religion. No one should be silenced along their own path to salvation.

Having said all that, I recently encountered a very uncomfortable situation where my diehard belief in freedom of expression clashed with the ugliness of hate speech. I was all set to interview someone with whom I disagreed about an issue that has divided some communities in the rural Western U.S. In my humble opinion, the subject that was about to be discussed cast a spotlight on fringe thinkers who are deeply suspicious of the federal government’s authority and believe they’re above the law.

For some journalists, that may have been enough to not consider giving someone a platform or forum to espouse nonsensical beliefs that disregard the rule of law. But for me, I relished the chance to have a spirited debate – that is, until one of my colleagues said he would actually quit if we went ahead with the planned interview, accusing the subject of perpetuating hate speech. This obviously grabbed my attention.

At first, I thought he was simply walking into wokeness, which didn’t sit well with me. Not exactly, as it turned out, which got me thinking about how the difference between freedom of expression and hate speech can be a fine line. He emailed me links to several articles that revealed more than meets the eye about the subject of my interview, who was celebrated as an American patriot in a new book about his life. I was supposed to chat with the author of that book.

The initial links that were provided didn’t reveal what I’d consider any deal-breaking material, and I easily could have gone through with the interview. But I was curious to know more. So I did additional research and much to my horror discovered abhorrent, bigoted comments that to me disqualified this individual from ever being considered a hero, much less viewed in a positive light. I kept reading and noticed other shocking statements made by his son about my own heritage, convincing me that hate no doubt was passed along to the next generation in that family.

This made me terribly uneasy because I had never faced this moral dilemma before in a career spanning nearly 40 years, the lion’s share of it in trade journalism, which is light years removed from muckraking or exposés. On the one hand, it felt like I had betrayed my beloved profession, hardline stance against censorship and commitment to the exchange of free ideas in the open marketplace of a free press. But I also was sickened to read such hateful views.

Freedom of expression and hate speech can be separated by a fine line considering how subjective they can be. One man’s opinion may be another man’s bane of existence. Case in point: Dave Chappelle’s recent Netflix specials, which the trans community has seriously decried and attempted to cancel from our culture. To his supporters, it’s actually a love letter to a transgender individual who the comedian befriended and respected.

I learned right from wrong at an early age and grip that moral compass closely to this day. Did I want to be complicit in convincing viewers who might have been on the fence about the subject of my planned interview that he deserved to be called a patriot? Did I want to be on the wrong side of history? Not a chance. So I cancelled the interview, informed my colleagues and moved on from this uncomfortable episode. The author I was supposed to chat with then lamented the sorry state of journalism upon being informed of our decision. I wished him well.
​
Some choices in life aren’t exactly easy ones to make and require careful ethical considerations, especially when you’re in a business that must balance the need to inform with prudence. Perhaps the biggest lesson of all is a realization that with freedom comes great responsibility, which makes folks like me better stewards of information. 

More than two years into the worst pandemic in more than a century, it will become a blip on the radar of history. But harrowing stories about its punishing path of death and destruction will linger for years.

More than six million people worldwide have reportedly died from COVID-19, which is roughly the number of European Jews killed during the Holocaust and slightly more than the prisoners of war, Romany, Jehovah’s Witnesses, homosexuals and other victims that Nazi Germany targeted. That’s an astonishing statistic and the official death toll, but the World Health Organization is now suggesting that the true number could be closer to nearly 15 million. 

While suicides dipped slightly in the U.S. and are much harder to measure worldwide, global life expectancy actually declined by about two years. Once again, that’s a shocking stat to fathom. A spike in drug overdoses also has been reported.

Then there’s compelling anecdotal evidence to consider. Isolation and loneliness from lockdowns, masking, social distancing and other lifestyle changes that were thrust upon everyone also fueled mental health and substance abuse problems, as well as violence and crime. We all have a story to tell, know someone who does or have read about strangers struggling.

Just this week, the sudden death of country singer and actress Naomi Judd became a cautionary tale about the need for psychological treatment and support. When initially reported, the cause of death her daughters Wynonna and Ashley gave was mental illness, then the following day it was revealed that she committed suicide. What’s particularly painful about her passing is that she was brutally honest about her struggle with mental illness in her autobiography and interviews. Ultimately, she lost a sense of hope that she held onto so tightly since seeking treatment.

The fact is that millions of people have gone untreated when it comes to their mental health largely for two reasons. One is the stigma that’s still associated with seeking help for anxiety, depression, PTSD and other diagnoses, while the other is a lack of financial wherewithal. These trendlines have been around for years, though it took a pandemic to spotlight the need to make mental health treatment a top priority.

We’ve all seen friends, family members, colleagues, acquaintances and strangers suffer, especially during the past two-plus years. Being forced to work or attend school from home took its toll, and now we’re left with mounting mental health and substance abuse crises. Most 12-step meetings have move online from in-person settings where they’re sorely needed. And many people weren’t able to say goodbye to loved ones who were dying in hospitals where concerns about infection ran highest, or visit assisted-living facilities housing vulnerable populations. Those who are immunocompromised felt the isolation worse than anyone.

It has been a bleak two-plus years, but there are silver linings from this pandemic that we can all take with us for years to come. The aforementioned wakeup call about a worsening mental health and substance abuse crises and need for more empathy is one of them. Thankfully, the forced ascension of telemedicine has made treatment of both physical and mental ailments not only more convenient, but also cheaper. This method also strengthens the protection of patient privacy.

Other positive developments include the corporate wakeup call about the need for more flexible work schedules. We’ve seen a number of trends from the nomadic work movement and growing gig economy to remote and hybrid arrangements, as well as compressed workweeks and a stronger push for paid time off.
​
There’s also the curbside-pickup option at grocery stores, restaurants, sporting goods, hardware and other businesses that likely will be around as a permanent fixture. And between video conference calling, smartphones and social media, it has never been easier to stay in touch with friends, family or colleagues from afar. So we can only hope that these bright spots continue to help lighten our respective loads, bring us closer together and help us prepare for whatever is lurking around the corner. 

Early on in the pandemic, I was horrified like everyone else to learn of COVID-19’s unusual symptoms – from shortness of breath and the need for a ventilator to loss of taste and smell, as well as high-grade fevers, crippling body aches and weird dreams.
Even worse, people all over the world were dying from this airborne virus on a daily basis. The numbers quickly added up to more than 930,000 deaths in the U.S. and 5.8 million worldwide, which continues to shock me.

We’ve all also heard about the effects of “long” COVID and COVID “fog.” It’s now easy to understand the malaise and mental health crisis that took hold. Calls for empathy in such frightening, surreal and divisive times aren’t always heeded in a nation and world where this invisible force significantly altered the way we work and live.

Nearly two years later – fully vaccinated and boosted, along with my family members – I was starting to think that the virus might never enter our home. But the Omicron variant was spreading like wildfire when it first struck my 11-year-old daughter, whose mild cough gave way to a low-grade fever that climbed to 102 the next day. One by one we all got PCR tests, then home tests to confirm those results. My 12-year-old son was next, sent home from school with a positive result but no symptoms that ever surfaced, followed by my 22-year-old step-daughter who was visiting us for three weeks and just had the sniffles and some fatigue.

Although I began feeling a sinus headache and intense pressure on the back of my head, along with excruciating low back pain for a week from the time my youngest first displayed symptoms, I continued to test negative. But I just didn’t feel right. Then came flu-like body aches and fatigue, which led to a positive test result a few days later and gave way to a head cold. This all went on inside my body for 17 days – a veritable greatest hits of symptoms – and then just like that, COVID came and went.

I was grateful to know my symptoms, although an annoyance for longer than I would have liked, were manageable – especially for my kiddos. The only logical conclusion is that the vaccine, while not 100% effective, made our illnesses mild.

There continues to be a lot of disagreement about COVID-19, but one thing we can all agree on is an eagerness to leave behind this awful chapter and return to a sense of normalcy. With each mutation of the virus, we’re gradually transitioning from a pandemic to an endemic with herd immunity and will have cause for celebration once this is officially acknowledged.

Thankfully, the pandemic has produced some silver linings – from renewed appreciation for facetime with family and friends to the realization that many of us can work more flexible schedules. The efficiency of virtual gatherings – from business meetings to telemedicine calls – also has been hugely beneficial. We can all only hope that post-pandemic life will be sweeter and more thoughtful than ever before, but ultimately it’s up to all of us to turn that dream into a reality.