Lipstick & Deadlines – A Memoir

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The Long Way Home

When I left LA and headed north on I 5, I wasn’t running toward enlightenment. I was running toward not having to make a decision for a minute. I had severance money, a Jetta full of books, and the emotional stability of a woman who had just fled a city that tried to kill her via BMW.

So naturally, I went to Portland.

Specifically, to my great Aunt Chris’s house — the only place on earth where you could find:

a woman in her mid 80s who still looked vaguely like Rita Hayworth,
a backyard that belonged in Better Homes & Gardens,
and enough booze in the basement to qualify as a speakeasy.

I have a poster of Rita Hayworth in my media room as a tribute to Aunt Chris. It’s glamorous, dramatic, iconic – everything she was.
She always had bright red fingernail polish, the kind that could signal planes in an emergency, and she wore a diamond so large it could blind a small child.

One summer evening, someone asked her how she stayed in such good shape. She lifted her martini, waved those red nails, and said:

“I keep my booze in the basement. That way I do the stairs all day long.”

This is the kind of woman who, at 85, got mugged in a grocery store parking lot and told me — with pride — that when the guy was arrested, he only had one shoe.

I spent that summer with her. Every day at precisely 4 p.m., we met in her kitchen for Manhattan cocktails — and they were legit. Not the watered down kind. The kind that make you rethink your life choices in a pleasant way.

I spent the summer writing, wandering Portland, and trying to figure out what came next.

The Juvenile Defense Era

In the fall, Aunt Chris headed to the beach, and I landed a job with two criminal defense attorneys downtown. It was gritty, messy, and absolutely my comfort zone — I was raised in my dad’s law office, so juvenile court felt like home, just with more paperwork and fewer snacks.

No nylons. No dress code. Just crime, coffee, and court deadlines.

I loved it.
Until I didn’t.

About six months in, one of our juvenile clients stole my backpack including my wallet, my writing drafts and my antique lipstick case my grandmother gave me.

That lipstick case was the gut punch. You know how I feel about lipstick. It’s basically a religion.

I couldn’t report it — because it was our own client. Not a great look to call the cops on the kid you’re supposed to be helping. Also not a great look for the kid to rob the legal support staff, but here we were.

Then the partners lost their county contract. Practice dissolved. Job gone. Honestly? Fine. I wasn’t planning on staying forever. I was planning on staying until the universe told me to move.

And it did.

Return to Cali (Again)

My mom was building a house in Redding to be near her sister, so China Blu and I packed up — again — and headed south.

Uncertainty was starting to wear on me. I’d been bouncing around like a pinball, and I finally started thinking about where I wanted to be in five years. Preferably somewhere with fewer juvenile thieves and more stability.

I rented a room from one of my aunt’s friends and got a job with a sole practitioner doing probate, estate planning, and real estate law.

Redding was… surprisingly great. Small town. Big personalities. Probate cases that made me question humanity on a weekly basis.

One case involved a man who meticulously reorganized his entire estate, cut out his entire family, wrote them scathing letters explaining why, then walked to a lake, stood at the end of a dock, and ended his life in a way that guaranteed they wouldn’t find him for a long time.

I mean… I know family drama. But this was Shakespearean. I also got my real estate license so I could sell probate properties. My friend Jesse congratulated me by saying:

“I can’t believe you passed!”
Thanks, Jesse. Love the confidence.

I was building a life — friends, work, purpose — and feeling grounded for the first time in a long time.

And then the Post Office happened.

The Post Office Greeting

I walked into the Redding Post Office and the line was biblical. Small town. One post office. Everyone apparently mailing something that day.

I had to stay — the legal document needed a postmark — so I settled in.

A cute young man stood in front of me. He turned around. We smiled.

And I said, because I am me:
“You’re cute. What do you do.”

He blushed all the way to the top of his bald head.

Turns out he worked in my building — outreach coordinator for a statewide nonprofit advocating for foster care reform.

He asked if I wanted to volunteer. I said I’d read his packet because he was cute. He laughed. He knew exactly what was happening.

And that random Post Office moment turned into eight years of me advocating for foster care reform.

Bay Area Bound — Life Gets Serious

After a few years in Redding, the restlessness kicked in again — the kind that starts in your ribs and whispers, “Okay babe, what’s next?” My mom had sold the house she built and moved to the East Bay of San Francisco, and I’d been thinking about finally finishing my undergrad. The Bay had more opportunities, more schools, more energy — and, apparently, more chaos waiting for me.

So once again, I packed up my life.

But this time, I didn’t have China Blu.

He had passed away at 19 — my tiny, loud, dramatic Siamese who had survived LA, Portland, Redding, and every questionable decision I’d ever made. It was my first move without him. I still keep him with me always.

I landed at my mom’s condo in the East Bay and got a job at Shakers, a health product distributor. I also switched chapters with the same nonprofit and started commuting into Oakland every Thursday to continue advocating for foster care reform.

Life was getting serious. I was finally growing up. I had clung to misguided youth as long as humanly possible — like a Real Housewife clings to her Botox.

Shakers: The “Wait, What?” Era

Like the probate cases I handled in Redding, Shakers had its share of what the hell moments.

I worked as a paralegal supporting hospitality contract negotiations for worldwide events. Because of the distributor model, many of our distributors were retirees supplementing their income with vitamins, shakes, and entrepreneurial optimism.

One afternoon, someone called asking me to join a meeting with our insurance carrier.

Insurance had denied coverage for a group of eighty-year-old distributors who wanted to rent quads in Mexico.

She wanted Legal to override the decision.

I laughed.
She didn’t.
So I repeated it back to her.

“You want Legal to waive insurance requirements so a bunch of eighty-year-olds can ride ATVs in a foreign country?”

“Yes.”
“No.”

And that, in a nutshell, was Shakers.

The work was interesting. The people were mostly lovely. But for the first time, my life outside the office was becoming more important than what happened inside it.

Finding My Voice

While I was continuing to building a legal career, something much bigger was happening after work.

By day, I was being mildly amused — and occasionally horrified — by the bizarre incompetence of my in house client base. By night, I was deep into my passion: foster care reform.

Every Thursday night, I risked my life driving in and out of Oakland. At that time, Oakland was exactly as rough as its reputation — gun violence, street violence, violence violence. Those kids had not only witnessed extreme violence; they had lived it.

I found my passion.
I found my people.
I found my purpose.

Looking back, I think those kids were preparing me for motherhood long before I knew it.

I adored those kids.

I felt like they taught me more than I taught them, for instance:

My next level dance skills. I got moves.

We traveled around the state four times a year to conferences — weekend long events with about 100 current and former foster youth.

Oh, the stories.
Drama.
Laughter.
Tears.
Breakups.
Hookups.

We saw it ALL.

And nothing made me feel more alive than working alongside those kids on policies, trainings, and community outreach. I went to graduations, birthday parties, baby showers — any life event they invited me to.

It was that work — those kids — that motivated me to finally finish my undergraduate degree so I could do more, be more, and be a stronger resource.

In January, I was accepted into the University of San Francisco’s Public Administration program. I wanted to focus on nonprofit policy. USF had a satellite campus in the East Bay, close to my house. During the week, my classes were there; on Saturdays, I trekked into San Francisco — up to the main campus atop Lone Mountain.

It is breathtaking.

Now my life was REALLY busy. Full time job. Night classes. Oakland on Thursdays. Youth events on weekends.

I was running on all cylinders — building the life I wanted, the life I needed.

The Day Everything Changed

On Sunday, April 26th, I met a young woman who had grown up in foster care. She was seven months pregnant and scared.

Long story extremely short?

I agreed to adopt her baby when he was born.

And the following Friday?

I was laid off.
Because of course I was.

I wasn’t surprised. I knew the attorney I reported to was throwing me under the bus. She’d leave the office every day around 10:30 a.m. and not come back until 2 p.m. She was doing all the things stay at home moms do — except she HAD A JOB. The department manager started noticing. Started calling her on it. And she blamed me for her screw ups.

I didn’t care.

When I was pulled into the conference room with her and HR to tell me they were eliminating my position, I countered with:

“This works out perfectly. I’m having a baby in two months.”

They were shocked.
I was relieved.

The same attorney who had spent months throwing me under the bus walked me to my car and told me she couldn’t believe how brave I was. Rich, coming from a turn coat.

I just smiled.

My Chosen Child

Emily had planned to keep her baby, but as her due date approached, she became increasingly worried that her unstable circumstances would eventually land him in foster care.

By then, I had spent eight years advocating for foster care reform. My entire goal had been simple:
less kids in care.

So when she asked if I would adopt him, I didn’t agonize over the decision.

He would be one less child in care.

The accident that nearly ended my story before it began had taught me not to waste the chapters that followed. I had spent years chasing opportunities, adventures, and experiences, rarely knowing where they might lead. Looking back, that was the moment when all the roads I’d spent years traveling finally began to point in the same direction.

Over the next two months, Emily and I bonded. It was the most surreal experience of my life. We talked every day; I saw her every few days. We were planning for the baby — my Jack — to come into this world. We spent an entire day in San Francisco being tourists, sightseeing, laughing, sharing our lives. It felt out of body, like watching myself from above. I took her to all her doctor appointments, and together we drafted a parenting plan for after the birth.

California didn’t require an attorney or an agency, so I walked into the court clerk’s office and bought an “adoption packet.” I did all the legal work for my son’s adoption myself.

In the background, my mom’s friends were frantically preparing for Jack’s arrival. Jack was a community baby — everyone was invested. I had three baby showers: two thrown by my mom’s friends and one in Redding with all my dear friends. By the time Jack was born, he had a beautiful nursery and every creature comfort a baby could need.

The Bay Area was having a heatwave during the two week window when Jack was due — because of course it was. Emily had no A/C, so she was admitted to the hospital. They induced her, but Jack refused to be born for over three days. Anxiety was high, tensions were strained, and Emily and I were both in distress. Our relationship hit some bumps, as you can imagine.

After Jack was born, he had blood sugar issues and was in the NICU for three days. Which meant I sat in a chair in the NICU for three days. The staff was amazing. When I held Jack, I sobbed and told him our entire family history — my hopes, my dreams, everything I wanted to teach him and share with him. Out of nowhere, a Kleenex would appear. Every few hours, a snap and fresh water. They were watching me, caring for me. Angels.
When Emily called and wanted Jack brought to her — her right while still in the hospital — I slept in that same chair. I’d wake up covered in blankets, a pillow nearby, fresh water waiting. They cared for me as fiercely as I cared for him.

Jack was born on July 1st and released from the hospital on July 4th — the only legal day your dumb ass neighbors can lawfully let off cannons next to your house. It was a nightmare. I was exhausted, terrified of being a clueless new mom. But my baby was home — for ten days.

The Reclaim

It was a Wednesday morning at 7:30 a.m. when the state social worker — the one I was required to hire — called. With my legal background and familiarity with the foster care system, I knew one thing for certain: your life is not going well if you need an attorney or a social worker. And sure enough, Emily had changed her mind. She wanted ten day old Jack back. The State allowed her thirty days to change her mind.

The social worker told me she would buy us some time — until Friday afternoon. Time for Emily to rethink her request, given her emotional and hormonal state. And time for me to figure out what I could do, if anything.

I was spinning. Panicked. Terrified.

I called my dad. He said he’d look into any legal arguments I might have for keeping Jack, but chances seemed slim. So I did what I always do when I’m scared and determined — I went off the grid.

I dug through every piece of paperwork I had. I pulled up all the emails from Emily, the state case worker, the social worker. I storyboarded — a technique used by screenwriters and homicide detectives — everything. And I found what I needed: the bio dad’s name and address. Coincidentally, the bio dad was also named Jack. I called him Ragnar the Viking — Ragnar for short. Born in Denmark. Dual citizenship.

Nordic Compass

By that afternoon, Jack had a sitter, and my mom and I were standing on the porch of Ragnar’s grandmother’s house, pounding on the door. No one was home, and I wasn’t leaving. Within fifteen minutes, an older woman pulled into the drive, confused as to why we were standing in her yard. Immediately another car pulled up — a young man jumped out and hurried to his grandmother. He started escorting her inside while asking who we were.

I burst into tears.

Through sobs, I managed to explain who I was, what I wanted, and asked if he would help me. I shocked the hell out of him. But he remained calm and gentle. He agreed to help in any way he could, and we arranged to meet for coffee on Saturday morning.

Still grasping for straws, I called CPS. A social worker recommended that the hand off happen at a police station — neutral ground, controlled environment, fewer chances for an outburst. Arrangements were made: 3 p.m. at the Walnut Creek Police Station.

I didn’t sleep a wink the night before. Panic. Numbness. Shock. Out of body. When the time came, I met Emily and her friend with Jack. My mom was with me, the social worker was there, and Emily’s former Court Appointed Special Advocate from her foster care years showed up too. Everyone exploded — arguing, shouting — except Emily and me.

We just cried.

Through sobs, I told her his eating cycle, when he’d had his last bath, explained all of his care. A woman police officer stood between us, trying not to cry herself. Emily took Jack into the parking garage, out of my sight, changed his clothes, and brought them back to me. Then I watched the three of them walk off.

Devastated.
Traumatized.
Terrified.

When I got home, it felt like my baby had died. Bottles still in the fridge. His dirty morning diaper in the trash. The entire house smelled like his baby fresh scent. I laid down on the daybed in his nursery and made moaning sounds my body had never created before — because I had never felt that much grief. I honestly thought my body was going to stop working. Or maybe I was hoping it would, because I couldn’t imagine a future without him.

Bat Out of Hell

The phone started ringing at 7:30 p.m., and I couldn’t answer it. Emily needed to be on her own; she needed to figure it out. I couldn’t mentor her anymore — I was flatlined with grief. She didn’t leave a voicemail.

But she called again at 11:30 p.m. Same thing — I couldn’t face talking to her. Then the phone beeped: voicemail.

Tough as nails Emily — who survived foster care from age two to eighteen — was sobbing and pleading:

“Come get your baby. I’ve made a mistake. Please. Come and get your baby.”

I screamed.
Jumped up.
Bolted.

I don’t even remember if I put shoes on. I think I was in slippers. My mom came out of her room, drowsy, asking what was going on.

“We are going to pick up Jack!”

She ran down the stairs as is, both of us in pajamas. We jumped into the car, and I took off like a bat out of hell — the Devil himself couldn’t have caught me. By then it was midnight, and I was tearing through the beautiful town of Danville trying to hit I 5 north. Emily was about half an hour away. I floored the gas pedal of my crappy little Dodge Neon. The car rattled — it had never gone that fast. My mom? She had taken a sleeping pill to knock herself out because of her grief. So she was a full blown bobblehead — like she’d taken a horse sized muscle relaxer to the neck. She couldn’t hold her head up.

We finally reached Emily’s apartment building. There was only one entrance — and it was blocked by three cop cars with lights blazing. They had a guy bent over the hood of one car in handcuffs.

I jumped out, running at them, screaming:

“MOVE! I need to get in there, NOW. MOVE!”

The cops looked at me like, What the fuck? One started to move his hand toward his belt — taser? Gun? I didn’t care. Behind me, someone yelled:

“LADY! HEY, LADY!”

I spun around to see a scrawny guy with huge gauge earrings pointing across the lot.

“Go park in Jack in the Box!”
“Oh. Thanks.”

I jumped back in the car, whipped us into the parking lot, shimmied under the fence, and sprinted toward the elevators. Just as I reached the elevator bay, the doors opened — and Emily walked out, still sobbing, holding Jack.

The three of us stood there for what felt like forever — Emily and I sobbing, Jack squeezed between us.

As I carried Jack back to the car, all the policemen — and their detainee — watched me in silence. I must have been quite the sight: a sobbing woman in pajamas carrying a baby back to her car, after almost getting a cap in my ass.

Oh Shit, Ragnar…

We didn’t get home until almost 2 a.m., and I was supposed to meet Ragnar at 10 a.m. for coffee. I was completely emotionally exhausted, but Emily not wanting to let go of Jack tipped me off: I needed to close off all loose ends. I needed to face Ragnar, see his temperament, understand his true feelings, and be prepared.

Ragnar is a big Viking — born in Denmark, father still living there. He’d been in the Coast Guard and looked the part. But he was gentle and kind with me. A gentleman. I wasn’t going to speculate about what went down between him and Emily, or why I had Jack. I wasn’t looking for explanations or defenses. I just needed to make sure Jack was safe at my home.

And I am not above playing the girl card. I dressed up really feminine — cute outfit, perfect hair, and my lifelong armor: bright red lipstick. My personal war paint. I usually wear a wine tint, so if you ever see me wearing red, look around — I’m about to stir up some shit.

When I walked up, Ragnar and his friend — the weasel — were sitting outside at a table. Ragnar was nervous; the weasel was intense. I called him the weasel because he was scrawny, gaunt, and smoking cigarettes off the butt — lighting one before the other was finished.

My head was spinning, so I don’t remember the exact words exchanged, but the gist was this: Ragnar’s mom and sister wanted Jack. I already knew he was family oriented — he lived with his grandma and mom — which is why I needed to meet him in person.

He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me.

“Does he look like this?”

It was a picture of him at about two years old. Jack was only thirteen days old at the time, but I’ll be damned — when my Jack turned two, he looked exactly like that picture.

Jack – 2nd Birthday

Ragnar asked if I would be willing to have an open adoption, to let him and his family be part of Jack’s life. Absolutely. And I meant it. The more people who love a child, the better.

The weasel stayed quiet until Ragnar got up to get more coffee. Then he leaned toward me and said, flatly:

“I see what’s happening here. He’s going to have to step over your dead body to take that baby.”

I nodded — just as flatly.

“I’ve known this family my entire life. I’m going to tell them that that baby is exactly where he needs to be. And to leave him alone.”

When we left, it was an awkward be in touch vibe. I immediately called my dad, who told me never to speak to Ragnar directly again — everything needed to be in writing going forward.

The Final Sprint

The agony of that weekend carried straight into Monday. Emily, the social worker, and I met at the same Jack in the Box where I had parked my car a few days earlier — this time for her to sign the paperwork relinquishing Jack into my care so I could become his legal guardian. It was emotional for both of us. I had grown to love Emily; she was still healing from giving birth, and I was deeply concerned about her wellbeing. But I had to put Jack’s wellbeing above all else.

As I drove away, it hit me like a ton of bricks — it was Emily’s 21st birthday. The magnitude of what she had just done, on the day of her birth, was overwhelming.

I turned off the radio. Drove home in silence. Tears streaming down my face.

Thankfully, things went quiet for the next few months. I increased my school loans so I wouldn’t have to worry about working. My focus was school and baby Jack. He was thriving — the prettiest baby I had ever seen.

Then December rolled around, and I received a text from Emily: Ragnar was back from Denmark, and he had a new girlfriend. They wanted to play house and take Jack.

Shit.

Emily told him she had already relinquished, that I was Jack’s legal guardian, and that she would fight with me against him. She told him to leave us alone. I tipped off the state case worker that Ragnar was back in the country and making noise about wanting Jack. Within a few days — maybe a week — I heard from the case worker on a Friday. She had reached Ragnar, and he agreed to come in that following Monday to talk with her. I was on pins and needles all weekend. I had no idea what he was planning. I was bracing for impact.

Late Monday afternoon, the case worker called. I held my breath.

She said Ragnar came into the office with a long list of detailed questions. She said he appeared to have agonized over the decision, but ultimately concluded that Jack was best staying with me. He signed the required paperwork.

My nightmare was almost over.

My Christmas present that year — and every year until I die — was this truth:

My baby was loved.

Nobody walked away easily. Not Emily. Not Ragnar. Not Ragnar’s mom, sister, or grandma. Not me. Not my family. Everyone showed up for my baby. He was wanted. He was loved. And he was fought for — because he mattered. In the end, everyone did right by him. Everyone put him first. I never viewed it as I won. Only that:

I am his mother. Period.

California Wrap‑Up

In 2010, the State of California employees were undergoing furloughs — because of course they were. My life loves to torture me. My case worker was suddenly part time, stretching out every ounce of drama in Jack’s adoption. Nothing like having your baby learn to walk, fall down, bonk his head — and worry about bruises because you only have guardianship. Even when things were “quiet,” I was anxious. Why wouldn’t I be? Whoever said “Nothing worth having comes easy” can fuck off.

From January until September, my life was schoolwork and state home visits. Yep — I was literally being graded and judged. Unemployed. Single. Not exactly the backdrop you’d choose for adopting a child. But my case worker was wonderful. She saw my potential, saw my ferocity, and knew I’d step over her dead body if she tried to take him from me.

Finally, the big deal — Adoption Day: September 26, 2010.

Mom, Jack, and I headed to the courthouse. No attorney. Just me, acting on my own behalf. By that time, I didn’t need backup — I was ready. The judge and bailiff were warm and kind; they told me adoption day was their favorite day on the court calendar. They handed Jack a little stuffed animal, which still lives in my dresser drawer for protection.

I walked out of that courtroom carrying Jack McGregor Farra.

While we were at the hearing, my mom’s friends were setting up a beautiful party on the patio of our condo. It was lovely. The guy I was dating — a San Francisco trust fund kid — brought expensive champagne to celebrate.

But I still couldn’t relax. My body had been tense for so long it didn’t recognize safety. Not until the next morning. I woke up, opened my eyes — and it felt like my body combusted. I sobbed so hard I almost threw up. The relief was overwhelming — physical, emotional. I didn’t know how to feel “normal.”

The next big date was December 19 — graduation day. I had three months to finish all my assignments and my Capstone project, every last undergraduate requirement. It’s still hard to believe I kept up with school during that insane time. Tell me I can’t do something? Hold my beer and watch me.

Graduation night was the wettest in San Francisco history — or if it wasn’t, it should have been. Torrential rain. Thrashing wind. My mom’s good friend Judy drove us into the city to watch me walk and help with Jack. He was in a stroller in monsoon conditions as we approached the Cathedral. My arms were full of my gown and everything else, and Mom and Judy lifted Jack’s stroller up the stairs. Judy lost her cool and started cussing at the surrounding men:

“Are there not any gentlemen left in this fucking world? Can anyone step up and help us?”

That’s how my undergrad graduation started — because of course it would. The ceremony itself was beautiful. Six days before Christmas. Magical. Emotional. I was proud of myself.

Three weeks later, we packed up like the band of gypsies we are and moved back home to Washington State.

Little did I know that the hardest and most important chapter of our story was about to begin.