Author: tlee

I just finished Anthony Bourdain’s first book, Kitchen Confidential. He was a celebrity chef turned food adventurer who hosted a cable show called “No Reservations”; wrote several books, both fiction and nonfiction, as well as some TV series scripts. I haven’t ever watched his cable show but heard he was known for trying any kind of food made by anybody in any part of the world. He had an episode where he has beer and Vietnamese food with Obama in Hanoi. (Sounds pretty cool to me.) I, of course, knew of him, he was that famous. I knew he had a beautiful, much younger celebrity girlfriend (Asia Argento, one of the leaders of the #metoo movement, though has been more recently mired in scandal that may or may not have been based in reality or manufactured to deter her. Who the hell knows.) So of course, when he committed suicide, I heard about that too. Kitchen Confidential drops the skinny on behind the scene truths in the kitchen of major east coast restaurants. Whew, the writing is amazing – the book pops with energy. I feel like I can see the kitchen – the overwhelming noise, the insane pace, the jazz piano knife skills, the arduous physical labor, the smell of sweat and delicious food. I mean, this guy – what a wonderful, confident writer. What a prodigiously talented man! And his accounts bounce with a vibe of merriness, a relish, a pleasure in wondering what’s around the corner. And this is the man who killed himself. Really? Really? I guess if I dig deeper, he talks a lot about drugs, alcohol, staying up all night, the addiction of the insane pace of work. I guess there are things he hid from his public self, not that I blame him. We all have public selves, our work drag.

Alan Cumming is a Scottish actor who exudes joy and mischief like nobody’s business. I remember his portrayal of the Emcee in “Cabaret” – he was so funny and charming in this noirish dark, new fangled interpretation. I still remember his face in the song featuring pineapples – he was so good. I recently listened to him on a podcast focusing on mediation, heard he had a book out, and read it for random kicks — and I was shocked. His book Not My Father’s Son is a memoir of getting the crap beaten out of him by his dad for years. He has endured painful, humiliating treatment – in one story, his father took him to the barn and shaved his head on the same table they shave sheep. He shaved his hair as an attack, so poor Alan had a bloody scalp and an irregular hair pattern. His mother could not fix it. So not only did he have to endure the terror of an irrational monster of a father, he had to go through acute humiliating in front of his peers because of his hair. I do not know how he could bear it all and emerge this incredibly joyful performer. (Short answer: therapy.) His Cabaret performance was a career high, but his personal life was falling apart (marriage dying, bad memories pressing him to a reckoning). Luckily, he is close to his mother and brother, with whom he validates all his experiences, eg, “Do you remember…?” “Yes, absolutely, I do!” (As an aside, this is totally why I had more than one child. In case foul them up, I want them to talk smack behind my back and be there for each other.) But watching the ease and lightness with which he performs, I would have never guessed he suffered so terribly as a small child.

A friend from grad school, Jimin, recently published a nonfiction piece that is quite excellent and must have been excruciating to write. I don’t know how she managed to put it down into sentences. I don’t know her that well, but she’s always been so warm and kind. In grad school, she seemed impossibly adult, at age 29, married with one child. I was 23? Twenty-four? And utterly clueless. When I ran into her years later, she busted my chops by saying how I kept saying how she was sooooo old at age 29. She’s a terrific writer, super nice person, and a very generous reader and teacher. Her piece is an account of growing up with a father traumatized by the Korean War who took it out physically on her mom and verbally on the kids. I was really shocked reading it. The piece recounts how her mother suffered dementia and how her father continually threatened to move back to Korea, despite the fact that their children and grandchildren were all in the U.S. They thought her father had given up on the idea of moving back to Korea, but one day, he up and went with Jimin’s mom without telling anyone, sneaking past his kids. So all she had of the remainder of her mother’s life were photos her cousin took during visits, and god, I’m so sad for her. She really loved her mom. It’s painful enough to have a parent go through dementia, but then not get to be there as she is dying — it just makes me grieve for Jimin, for that missed time together. I don’t think I will ever say this stuff to her (though I think she’s open enough that I could), so I will just share it with you — private, exclusive audience of seven.

But anyway, my point is just I never would have guessed any of the above secrets shared. It makes me wonder if we ever really know each other. Or is it just that there certain kinds of suffering that is so intense, causing pain so overwhelming that the person in question can’t bear to share it until they have absolutely no choice. Maybe that’s why it feels like it comes out of nowhere. I have no idea.

My sweet neighbor apparently is like kind of national wine expert or wine concierge of the stars. and he said something like this tonight to me and Husband:

“Oh, do you like wine? I get free wine all the time. You’d be doing me a favor by taking it off my hands. Thank you so much!”

I told him in my movie, that would be part of the dream sequence. I’m going to write a movie just so I can put that in a scene.

Recently, upon return of “Veep,” Julia Louis-Dreyfus discussed her recent breast cancer battle and talked about how grateful she is about her access to health care, and that it occurred to her that everyone should have health insurance. So she kind of says it to morning talk shows to great applause: “shouldn’t everyone have health insurance?”

Big sigh.

Then we have Bernie coming with his slogan of “Medicare for All,” which makes me mental. We don’t talk about Bernie in my household, because Husband is in deep, passionate favor of him, whereas my reaction is decidedly less favorable. First of all, when people say “Medicare for All,” does that mean they mean equal health insurance coverage for all citizens? A socialist system like Canada where everyone is the same? Is that what Americans really want? For us all to be equal? I truly don’t think so. Canada works because EVERYONE waits ten months for an MRI, and wealthy/middle-class Canadians drive down to NY for an MRI like that week. Canada benefits from the extremely expensive but convenience of the US system.

I did not think much of the Affordable Care Act when it first came out. The website crashed, it seemed kind of wack, but it has grown on me. In the states that adopted it, health insurance coverage boomed. In New York, 95% of us are now insured. I find that absolutely incredible! 95%? 95%! Are you kidding me? The remaining 5% includes illegal immigrants, so I’d say the ACA is pretty damn successful, and with all these peeps taking pot shots at it and it continuing to survive, I am extraordinarily impressed with Obama. We are still benefitting form his leadership.

I think it will continue to get targeted because it’s so associated with Obama. I’m so discouraged. Legislation that is years in the making get dinged all the time. In my alumni mag, I read someone from SLC had finalized a nuclear disarmament agreement from ten years of effort with Iran and Trump dismantled it. I see that a lot. Where existing work gets destroyed in favor of someone else getting to do something with their name on it.

Is this the state of American politics and government? Tribalism? Jockeying for credit? gross. That’s why I’m not pro-Bernie. He says he’s for the people (and I think that is true) but doesn’t mention the massive ego he has to want to be president. (If he recognized that ego drive, I wonder if i’d like him better. Probably.)

*sigh*

[This is an old post from the season premier of Veep. As of today, July 14, 2019, I’m feeling Elizabeth Warren and Kamala Harris. I love that we have a plethora of articulate Demo presidential candidates and I do not give a rat’s arse that they are pitching Medicare for All. So what. Sounds great. Tough to execute but so is everything. And as much as I have grown to respect the ACA, so what. It’s legislation and you can’t be over attached to anything. Why not experiment. Democracy itself is an experiment..one that has gone horribly in this last Presidential election, but hopefully, things will work out for the better in the next election. At a minimum, it is a relief to hear intelligent voices in the Democrats debate.]

Friends of friends have published a book called “My Caesaearan,” a collection of essays on birth experiences and my first reaction was no thanks. I don’t ever want to be associated with just mom stuff. There’s a whiff of “it’s-not-quality” about stories just revolving around the motherhood experience. My boss asked me to never talk about my kids at work. I also don’t like being boxed into any category because then I feel like people stop doing the work of getting to know you (blame my experience of constantly having to explain being Korean to non-Koreans, like there’s more to us than kim chi, etc., etc. Please, I have a colleague now who can only talk about kim chi when he sees me, and I’m like really? 2019? Now I just turn back if I see him. It’s actually a helpful experience. One of the jobs I was thinking about in the future would be diversity training, because I am genuinely passionate about diversity, but this was a good reality check. I can’t deal with boneheads, so poof, there goes that dream.) But then I took a hot second and realized, dude, that’s internalized misogyny. Birth is good content! It’s something men can’t do – is that why it’s so dismissed? Birth is actually amazing and the medical community actually still doesn’t know that much about it. (This March of Dimes board member told me it’s because we can’t experiment on moms.)

So blast it, I’m writing down my birth experience! It’s very interesting giving birth, more so than being pregnant, I think because it’s faster. It’s like a commercial compared to like an eight-hour documentary on the history of Chile. I have three kids – First Son and the Wonder Twins. Being pregnant with twins caused me to look like the marshmallow monster from Ghostbusters. Husband said people flinched when they saw me, I was that big. As for how it feels, I’ve detailed it in previous posts. Being pregnant with First Son was the best shape I’ve ever been in. I had not an extra once of fat. Every pound was being put to work and I only ate like salads. (Who was that.)

The birth of First Son was easy. Kind of. No, I take it back, it was dumb. I did everything you’re supposed to do but I had no understanding of what was coming. I took all these classes with Husband on how to breathe through contractions, I hired a doula. I didn’t know if I’d get to do the birth thing again, so I ordered all the bells and whistles so I could experience as many different things as possible. From what I remember, labor started but my water broke before the going got good. No contractions, so I just happily called everyone I knew since I was not going to work. The few people I reached told me that I said something like “hey, I’m in labor. Whatcha doing? What’s new with you?” On day two, I was majorly engrossed in birth and that’s when everybody called me back. Back to Day One: I called the doula, I called my parents, my cousin, all my friends. I walked around. I went to CVS. It was a long uneventful day. The weather was nice that particular day. You can’t go to the hospital until contractions are closer together like four minutes apart or something? Maybe longer? Don’t rely on me for this info, because my memory is in a trash compactor. My contractions weren’t quite reaching any momentum so my doula arranged for me to go to an acupuncturist in Park Slope. She was a hippie lady who talked about her decision-making process for getting sushi for dinner was checking her sushi money drawer. If there was money, yes. If no, no sushi. That (her needles not money approach) seemed to speed up contractions, but the momentum slowed again. I headed to a nearby pizzeria to get an eggplant parm hero. The actor Steve Buscemi passed me with a baguette under his arm. He had a weird look on his face like “don’t look at me, don’t say hi to me, I’m famous” and I was like screw you, Steve Buscemi, don’t look at me! Don’t say hi to me! I’m in labor! Like contractions trump celebrity (and he was fine, I was just having a weird day.)

At the pizza place, I ate my sandwich not because I was hungry but because hippie class repeatedly warned that the hospital will not let you eat once you get there. Husband had thick binders open in front of me, studying listings, trying to launch his real estate career. It’s funny how the nesting instinct affected him. He had always bartended or acted but with a baby, was trying for a more predictable source of income, not knowing yet that real estate is a viper pit and he would hate it with every fiber of his being.

I forget what time we actually went to the hospital. I believe he was born around 6 in the evening, (I definitely know what the date was). I’m not sure because I had lost all sense of time. It was raining nonstop once I was admitted. My parents were in Korea because my grandmother had just passed away. Funny how timing works out. I was struggling with how do I tell my mom that I’d like her to not come to the hospital? Now I didn’t have to worry about it and the whole thing was so circle-of-life reminder — death of grandma and birth of First Son. Later, my mom said was depressed for about a month after her mom died. She couldn’t fully absorb First Son’s gooey, mushy body, but when she emerged from her depression, she fell very hard for First Son and referred to him as Prosac behind his back (behind his soft, marshmallow baby back). I have never seen her so happy as those early days with First Son.

My cousin Aimee came to the hospital. At that point, I was high-as-a-kite-tonight. The hippie birth people train you to refuse drugs. I so committed! I caved early. Not only that, I LOVE EPIDURALS! I was terrified of the thought of a needle in my spine. I held both of someone’s hands (a nurse? Husband?), closed my eyes and just hoped they wouldn’t paralyze me — the relief was so immediate and complete, that it was like falling in love. I was gabbing at my cousin like a speed addict until the doula instructed me to rest, which had the effect of pushing an off button. I abruptly closed my eyes and half-slept. I think my cousin brought us snacks. She was the best. At that point, everyone kept calling me back (because I’m a jidiot — jerk/idiot combo from the middle grade series “Spy School”) and I was too wretchedly exhausted and drugged up to say anything normal. She helped call people back and let them know I was unavailable.

Oh and then my boss came. That was awkward. At the time, I felt angry, like an extra demanding a lead part, but Husband counseled that my birth story can be whatever I want. The most generous interpretation is this person didn’t know that active labor is not time for visitors. First Son’s heart rate had dropped and we were discussing how he was facing the wrong way (“sunnyside up”), so to go through the birth canal would mean bending his neck in a cutting-off-air kind of way. C-section was on the horizon. Over the intercom, a nurse announced “Tina Lee’s boss is here to see her.” My attending nurse, who looked about 8 months pregnant, went boneless in reaction and yelled “Come on!” A very civil reaction. Husband and I turned to Doula and said, “Now what?” She was terrific. She instructed Husband to greet Boss and say that Tina Lee was not available at the moment. He came back with a cute gift basket of magazines, PJs, and lip gloss. Later, this boss helped approve a leave that gave me a transition I could pull off without having a breakdown (three months leave, fourth month part-time) and an amazing, permanent schedule that gave me work-life balance.

I think the contractions got a little bit faster, but not quite consistent. I don’t know how long the whole thing went for. I think the sun went down. There was a moment where it seemed like it was going to happen. The lights of the room were on. I had a doula and Husband on one side, the nurse on the other, and it was oddly very quiet. Like the atmosphere was very concentrated. I don’t know how else to explain it. I was on my back, and everyone held a hand or a leg. I felt like a barnyard animal on a farm in the middle of the night. That’s how basic it seems. Still, First Son was not budging. The OB on call, not my regular person, but still very cool, had a fireside chat with me. She said was doing her best, but that she was not going to recommend a vaginal birth for very much longer. The fact that First Son’s heart rate kept plummeting, that my water broke before contractions really kicked in, that she had brought in someone way more experienced to try to turn First Son in the birth canal – it was just looking like c-section. So I said okay, sure, why not, and then all pushing stopped and the bed was quickly hustled to an operating room. I just wept. The nurse comforted me to say that everything was going to be fine, but I said I was crying because I worked so hard and felt disappointed. (Something like that. I can’t remember exactly what I said or felt.)

In the operating room, they lay you down on a table where they strap down your arms in wing formation and put a small curtain at your mid-section. The curtains are like the size you’d get for a small puppet show (but no one let’s you see anything). You see a bunch of people in scrubs bent over your middle stuff. Just as a mom had warned me, you feel like you’re lying down on a crucifix. You feel very vulnerable. I am so drugged out of my mind, I can’t speak, but my glasses have traveled down to the near tip of my nose, which drives me nuts. Husband pushes my glasses back on the bridge of my nose, which lets me know I married the right guy.

He is summoned to meet the baby, whom I hear crying. I think I hear/sense he is being weighed and cleaned up. Husband says he’s sorry to leave my side, and I said, no, no, no, go see the baby, but don’t look at my intestines. He said okay. Later, he says (I think) that he couldn’t help it, but he did see my intestines. It’s like that myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, where in order to lead his wife out of the Underworld, he is supposed to leave and NEVER LOOK BACK or his wife would turn into salt (no, wait) or never be able to leave Hades. With couples, hot tip: don’t look at each other’s organs. If you do, then we have to face the fact that we are all just bags of meat with faces on top, and all sense of order and what’s right in the world is gone. (This is why I could never be pre-med/med school material/doctor. They are required to dissect a human body! That would just blow my mind too much. Like what truly animates our goo?) Husband also got a closer look at something I was curious about. On the wall, it looked like there was one of those plastic shoe organizers you hang over a door attached to the wall. Apparently, each pocket had like guts or an organ. (Yay!)

Husband brought First Son wrapped, baby burrito style and hospital-grade ski hat and held him in my face. I was too tired and trippy to really feel or express, but I guess it’s weird that a baby came out my body. Someone took Husband’s pic with First Son. All you can see his eyes, because he’s got a medical bag hair net and face mask on. His eyes are terrified.

After surgery, I’m taken to some kind of purgatory. I doze off but people are so chatty in this post-birth area. I remember my cousin’s husband visiting to see the baby. He made fun of me for saying “what’s up dude” like it was any other day. The next day, I was still like a speed addict. I had two phone devices and texted with both hands, responding to everyone who called me back to ask how their day was, and some friends were like, “so hey? Didn’t you have a baby? What’s the name? etc.”

The moment drugs wore off, I was in excruciating pain. Luckily, a friend and Husband were visiting and called over a nurse to help me out. I could not get the hang of breast feeding so First Son got Billy Rubins (is that how you spell it? It’s like when the kid is bright yellow jaundiced). To treat B.R., he was dressed in a baby speedos and had tiny speed sunglasses and placed on a hot lamp for like hours a day, the sun supposedly a cure. (I’m sure there’s a more scientific explanation for the random words I just pieced tougher there.) The first night in the hospital, the nurse asked if I wanted to spend the night with the child or have him in the nursery. I think I really wanted the latter because I was exhausted, but chose option A, because I just felt conflicted about leaving him so soon. I didn’t sleep at all.

Because of this, the hospital released us a few days later than normal, so that I could stay in the hospital with the guy.

Visitors. Family. I don’t think my mom was back yet. We got a car service to go home. I don’t think Husband knew how to do a seat belt on a car seat, so he just rode next to First Son and pinned it down with his arms in a complete panic until we got to Brooklyn.

And then we were home. People let us bring a real baby home for some reason.

That began an intensely hard but also insanely happy period of life.

Both boys are in Little League right now, which wreaks havoc on our schedule — two practices and two to three games per week, and Husband is volunteer coaching for both boy teams. Crazy. But it’s just a short season, and it’s wonderful to go out to the park and spend time in the sun.

First Son’s team is terrible. They face team after team of exceptionally large children (First Son’s league has third, fourth and fifth graders) who dwarf them in size and skill. Who are these Vikings on the other team? How are children in fifth grade that much larger? It’s like predictable slaughter. First Son is fine, still finding his footing on this much larger stage. Wonder Twin Boy is having a good run, on a less competitive league, and is enjoying having his own space to shine. There’s no older brother on team and no twin sister to grab all the attention. He’s pretty good, having put in a lot time to practice these various skills I have no hope of ever emulating. I’m psyched he gets to feel good about himself. There is one jokester boy who plays First Base, and instead of trying to get you out, he says “Welcome to First Base” as if he were the concierge in some fancy hotel.

The least fun part of baseball, other than the hustle and hauling of heavy equipment (Husband schleps a lot of equipment), is the mental behavior of parents on the sidelines. Friends have warned me and say it gets worse as the kids age. There’s one boy in particular (referred to henceforth as “Kid M.”) on Wonder Twins Boy’s team who is pretty good out there, but his father regularly berates him. Today, Kid M. was diving for the balls — all of them do. They slide into first base, they somersault to catch balls. There’s no need to — it’s Little League, but they’re all imitating the MLB players they see on TV. I find it hysterical…but this dad, today, just went off on Kid M: “Stop diving for the ball! I’m sick of it. I’m sick of telling you to stay off the floor!” then after the kid’s response I couldn’t hear, “Don’t ‘sorry’ me.”

Parents yell at their kids. We’re not supposed to, but sooner or later, you snap — you’re tired, you repeat yourself ad nauseum — these conditions just lead to a breaking point.

However, when you yell at your kid in public, it’s an entirely different thing. It is much more humiliating for your child. Plus, everyone gets to witness what a douche bag you can be.

I notice this dad at every game because we all hear him yelling. Ugh, it’s brutal. As far as I can tell, Kid M is doing nothing wrong — he plays well, he listens to direction, he behaves, which is not true of the majority of kids out there. As his dad yells, Kid M’s face is neutral. You can’t possibly know that as a kid (or adult I suppose), that other people might be observing your situation. I am just writing this stupid post so that somehow, Kid M knows that we are all witnessing this behavior. Despite our own netural expressions, I can tell. The Coach always makes sure to go up to Kid M and tell him he did a great job with the classic male version of affection, pat on the back. We all think it’s wrong, and we all want him to survive and do well. All of us on the field and watching on the sidelines are in his corner. Some Buddhists direct meditations of loving kindness to specific people and their suffering, so if its possible, this is my blog post of loving kindness for Kid M. We are rooting for you. I hope you feel this energy somehow, grow up, be healthy and happy. Your father is in the wrong. I hope you see now or some day it has nothing to do with you, and if he can’t figure that out, get the hell out of there.

Basically, my kids are fully in The Poltergeist Stage. What does that entail exactly? Well, it just means that they are just the worst in terms of behavior. There is Medea-level screaming, no listening, there is punching each other. There is a lot of “I hate you” etc.; there are mysterious noises behind closed doors that sound like a bowling ball is being dropped on the floor. It all just makes me go boneless with defeat. Husband just spent a week at home over spring break with them, and I worried about his mental health, but every night when I got back from work, all three were still at home. He did not put anyone on Ebay. I spend one weekend with them, and I’m like, HOW DO I POST THEIR PICTURE WITH A STARTING BID. I believe this stage is challenging because you successfully got them to stay alive (major concern in Baby/Toddler Stage), but now that they are alive and seem to be staying with you on a permanent basis, you have to start shaping them as humans, and that is a lot of work. (A co-worker was like “Are you teaching your kids Korean?” And I’m like, “Um, yeah, miscommunicating in one language is enough for me.”)

The Poltergeist Stage is so all-encompassing that I can’t really remember the Baby/Toddler/Keep-Them-Alive stage. Really? This child who punched his sister in the gut used to delight in Peek-a-Boo? Now when I see these Brooklyn parents with their babies in their backpacks, the toddlers they try to block from running into traffic, when I see these parents and how careful they are with their children, how they carry way too many bags full of organic treats — I cannot relate at all.

It’s a time I see in the rearview mirror. It was so intense, I am well beyond it and now feel nothing. (Except for your baby, Cousin Ed. Because I think she’s actually not just a baby, but a dumpling incarnate. Please disregard this entire entry when it comes to your delightful child.) I heard a man on the subway talk to his baby in a sing-song voice, describing every sight outside the window to this baby who was just sitting there, content to just chill, and I was OH DEAR PLEASE GOD MAKE IT STOP. I texted my cousin Aimee to vent my frustration so that I wouldn’t stand up and punch this performative dad. I was having a severe allergic reaction to his precious parenting style. (There’s no need to talk that much.) Parents (who can afford it) spend so much money and time worrying and fussing, schlepping them to like music classes and art, when they are just as happy with scotch tape around their hands. (Though to be fair, sometimes those kids activities are for the adults — to get out of the damn house, connect to peers, and add structure to a bottomless day).

This is a 180 change for me, who used to always demand first hold of every new baby and whose eyes would get a creepy gleam (Baby stalker eyes) whenever a soft pudgy one entered the room. I used to turn into human goo around cute babies, but now? Nothing. Blank. Zombie reaction. It feels like such a long-ago stage, such a different phase of evolution, that it seems to have nothing to do with me.

The kids I have now have B.O., as well as the aforementioned bananas characteristics, however, they are not completely devoid of positive qualities. As much as I observe them, they observe me and every other adult in their orbit as well. They pull complicated pranks on Husband that make me laugh alone in my office. We all slept in the same hotel room at a recent wedding and as I woke up and gingerly made my way to the bathroom (it takes time for my body to warm up), First Son announced “There goes Mom, with her slow-motion walk.” I couldn’t believe he had noticed me enough to be able to make fun of me so well. I just laughed and fell back down onto the bed. Wonder Twin Girl quotes me as saying “let’s hustle a baby muscle” and is pretty good at imitating my faces. During spring break, they locked Husband in our room with a walkie-talkie through which they instructed him to follow instructions (like a really cheap, goofball Escape Room), including to look in his wallet where they snuck in a note that said “You suck. You are the worst.”

Husband and I still laugh about it so hard. In case Husband had any ego left, it’s gone now. * Sigh * Good times. It’s funny, I’m obviously not that mushy of a mother, though I of course I really love them. It’s just that parenting is hard. I’m not ever going to be one of those parents who say “my child is my greatest teacher” or who says “children are so wise. they have old souls.” I don’t know what kind of children those people are having, but they don’t live here.

Nadir. This is the word that comes to mind every day around 5:30 p.m.

Nadir (noun)

Astronomy the point on the celestial sphere directly beneath a given position or observer and diametrically opposite the zenith.

Astrology the point of a horoscope opposite the midheaven: the cusp of the fourth house.

the lowest point; point of greatest adversity or despair.

The nadir of my day is at pick-up. It’s when I’m at the lowest point of my physical and psychic energy, and so are my kids – so sometimes they weep and scream about the exceptionally low quality of the snacks I bring (though they are the exact snacks they liked the day before, the exact snacks they will wolf hungrily in like two minutes) and our walk home is not like an arduous journey through the mountains. It’s a ten-minute walk on flat sidewalk.

The part that I find hardest though is the other parents. For some reason, other parents seem to have energy at that point, and want extensive gabbing time while I’m barely able to grunt. I always leave with a sense that I have hurt someone, or offended or disappointed. There’s definitely a sense where the other person is needing more, and I’m like why so needy? Am I supposed to text them and apologize? Email a message like “sorry, can’t with humans right now”?

Maybe I can just wear a mask at pick up with a face with the eyes open.

It seems like a small thing, but one of the things I love about NYC are the plentiful coffee carts. When I’m low on energy and just GAAAHHH, I can always get a egg and cheese on a roll any corner. That’s pretty cool

There are a lot of memoirs from the dying lately. I’ve read at least three of young, promising professionals leaving happy marriages and young children behind. But just because you’re dying doesn’t mean you can write. Nina Rigg can. Whew! Her book, I’m sad to say, did make me cry, did make me appreciate my life. She’s particularly good at showing how her children understand that she will not be around for much longer, ad when they realize it, they go very quiet, which somehow feels more heartbreaking than being weeping-like-a-banshee about it. She’s also quite funny, and one piece of advice sticks with me. She and her husband have a different reaction to their difficulties. He wonders when things will get back to normal, but for the author, these are days she has so she needs to embrace the difficult days — and this makes so much sense to me. When you have trouble, go into them more deeply.

Man, this is a great book. The author is a therapist and former TV story executive, so she knows how to tell a story, and her reveal of each patient case study feels like a mini-series. (Eva Longoria optioned the film rights for the book, to which my LA Alex friend said “of course she did, of course she did.” Still, it is rich material with theatrical scenes and meaty motives, so I get it.) The book is kind of a portrait of therapy, a memoir, and kind of a book about work. Like it’s fascinating to me the author went to Stanford, worked at NBC on “Friends” and “ER,” and through shadowing an ER doctor who consulted for the show, realized she wanted to go to med school. After feeling a tug between writing and a desire to have a family caused her pivot again to be a therapist. (I love all the career stuff. It absolutely made me go “WAIT A HOT SECOND,” is this kind of understanding, this kind of alignment between self and work possible??)

Anyway, I was excited to read this book because I love any kind of insight into how to live better, but also, even if none of the topics above interest you, it’s an incredible read. I don’t know why it’s so great. Having a great story or being able to write still does not mean a book will succeed. I have read a few memoirs of 38-year-old moms telling their life story in their last year of life–great story, right? Life and death? Meaning of it? Totes boring in the wrong hands. (The Unwinding of the Miracle by Julie Yip-Williams. Sorry. She was a lawyer and the text is intensely analytical. Gah. I’m not so left-brained so it left me cold.) Even if the writing itself and the story is killer does not mean the book can engage the reader. (I am bored reading “Small Fry” by Lisa Brennan-Jobs. Why? How is that? She’s got writing chops and she’s a child of Steve Jobs whom he refused to recognize.)

In any case, I love this book and here are some goodies about what she’s says about the human condition:
* You can’t change without loss. (Ouch. That’s cold son.)
* When you change, you start to grieve about the present, but the future too. There is a loss of future. (As my kids say, sick burn)
* The truth comes with a cost: the need to face reality (lord have mercy)
* The whole thing where you want the therapist to make a decision: everyone wages this internal battle to some degree: child or adult? safety or freedom? But no matter where people fall on those continuums, every decision they make is based on two things: fear and love. Therapy strives to teach you how to tell the things apart (I don’t fully get this point, but I definitely have questions I obsess over.)
* Life is uncertainty: some people use self-sabotage as a form of control (whoa)

I took the lessons she discusses in the book and applied to my life. For one week, I was pretty present and unfettered from my normal anxieties, and really enjoyed my life. For that, I’m grateful. It was a wonderful week before my normal brain kicked in.