Author: tlee

I love my abs app. I get a daily reminder.

“You have not done abdominal exercises in 58 days.”

Glorious, glorious.

This new show “Better Things,” written by and starring Pamela Adlon, features a single mom character who supports three daughters through an acting career. I love it. Sometimes the show feels disjointed (which may be deliberate and I’m just not getting it) and is uneven, but it captures something that resonates about working and parenthood. There are little scenes where one kid has a fever and she gets a the grape flavor Tylenol and ice pack – a pedestrian scene, a regular moment out of taking care of kids, but you know what? I don’t see that part of life portrayed anywhere else, how you become an expert in taking care of your kid’s small ailments and know enough when to call in the big guns (eg, the pediatrician and the Saturday midnight trip to the formerly sleepy ER til you get there). And you know what? It’s worth paying homage to, so thanks for that! And also, it reminds me to my acting days and how I never want to go back to that dreaded audition room packed with aluminum chairs and sides that make you say “You’re not going to get away with this.” It’s like the dumbest ever.

Although I will say this about acting: I saw Husband perform his one-person show recently and thought, yeah, acting does answer some things, doesn’t it.

I was recently trolling on facebook when someone on my community posted a message that basically said, “I normally don’t post anything of a political message but I feel like I can’t be silent any longer. I”m horrified by the atrocities committed against black americans and I don’t want my black friends think my silence means I’m not in their corner. To my white friends, what can we do about this?”

Dude, I was so down with her message until she only called upon her white friends.

Ahem.

I guess this means that Asians (along with Hispanics, Native Americans, etc.) are free to be racist as we want to be?

Awww yeah!

First Son has requested we read Harry Potter together. Pretty sure that my job is done here, people. You’re welcome.

I overheard a young mom say about her first child, “if we can react to everything out of love, to treat him with love, to not punish, but treat him with love, then I will be happy with that kind of parenting.”

Hurl. Insert my specialty of eye-rolling while my entire body goes limp.

I know. I am such a jerk, right? It’s just that this young thing is young, plus only has one child, who is also young. And being a bit farther down the path of parenting, I simply cannot bear to be in the same room as idealists dealing with what I now consider an easier phase. I have graduated from that stage where my main goal was to keep the children alive. (Hooray! A co-worker asked what my goal was with the kids, asking about them raising them bilingual, etc. I said, Um, keep them alive till age one then reassess goals. The co-worker thought that was morbid.)

I find parenting to be such a humbling experience. I don’t mean in a “children are old souls” kind of humbling. I mean, like my children bring me down to my knees humbling. It’s something I seem to get the hang of some days, and others, it’s like being a complete beginner as I struggle to control the kids from wrecking the living room, throwing my somewhat-not-really orderly room into chaos, make dinner while settling fights, hug each one and try to focus on them, while they all talk over each other. It’s an impossible task. My mother’s goal with me was to make me a lawyer (fail) and my goal is to not yell. How low of a goal is that???

My other goal is to provide them with many good memories as possible so that they have a trove to retreat to when they hit bad times — it’s not a bad concept, but definitely leads to guiding behavior more appropriate to a sitter or grandma, eg, many balloons and candy are part of the picture. Oh well, at least they have a strict father who is amazing. Every time I come home, Husband has them practicing spelling to classical music or Bob Marley.

You know what song I heard today randomly? “Loreilei” by the Cocteau Twins, a band I listened to obsessively in high school. It has been decades since I heard them so when the opening notes first came up on an online mix today, I was sent back in time during my high school years when I listened to them obsessively. I was reminded of that time in life when I could hang out for hours with my best friend, listening to records over and over again, poring over the yearbook to think about which boy we would, which girls we thought were pretty. The hardest thing we drank was Lipton tea. We would sneak out of our homes at night after our parents went to sleep to talk, to listen to music some more, and to drink Lipton tea. I’m not kidding. We were a particularly innocent group my college friends used to make fun of.

I think about the people I used to see and no longer see, but the people I still talk to as well. These bands I used to listen to that made me feel so edgy, like I was in on a secret, I now encounter once in a while in my contemporary life. I still remember the shocking first time I heard New Order at the Gap.

Now I’m back from my time travel. I didn’t bring you anything from my trip. Sorry. The early 1990s says hello!

Sometimes, I wonder suburbs or city when it comes to the kids.

There was one day I had picked them all up near First Son’s school. I had Dad with me. We were in the middle of crossing the street toward our building, when I saw three middle-eastern looking gentlemen beating the heck out of this light-skinned African American/latino young man. They chased him into the street until he fell and curled up on the street, curled up like an armadillo with all three men wailing (or whaling?) on him with sticks of wood. This was happening exactly on the corner we were headed to.

I tried to turn back, but my dad was the one pushing the stroller. Since he can’t hear out of one ear, see out of one eye, or think normally with his dementia, he did not respond, I panicked but pushed us through. First son was walking, and each Wonder Twin was in the upstairs/downstairs seats of our double-decker stroller. As we quickly hustled past, I kept my eye on the tumbling men but also the kids. All three heads swiveling to see the action. They were riveted.

When we went upstairs, all three kids got into a punching fight. I rushed over to them, and said “No, no, no, we do hit. Hug, come hug, isn’t that better?” After I split them up, I hugged all three at the same time. Then I gave everyone a cookie. They seemed better after that.

I was still distraught when I went to rehearsal later that night. A caucasian lady in her thirties or so got on the train with her friends, and you could tell the whole group had a lot of personality. The train suddenly lurched to a stop and the lady fell onto a seated passenger. As soon as she could, the lady jumped up and apologized so sincerely: “Oh god, oh my god, I’m so sorry, my ass is so big!”

And the entire car burst into laughter. The lady was plain adorable and her ass truly was quite big. I could not stop laughing. I laughed for three stops. I laughed till I cried with the African American grandma sitting next to me, who couldn’t stop laughing because I was falling apart. I laughed with the Latino construction worker who was seated across for me. It was one of the most amazing laughs I’ve ever experienced. It was too bloody funny.

When I got off the stop, greatly relieved by the laugh but still a bit bruised by the incident we witnessed, I went to 16 Handles before rehearsal and got a colossal frozen yogurt with like eight toppings. I just needed it.

I grew up in the suburbs so i can say it is true that I would never witness the violence I saw that day on a suburban street corner, but it is also true I have never experienced the moments where I feel closeness, connection, and affection for the entire human race in a suburb. I have gotten to experience that feeling where I feel like I love everyone in the city over and over again.

So no b’urbs for me, Husband, Parents, and Little Ones for now.

My favorite passage from this book:

When you come to one of the many moments in life where you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing.

Today during a meeting I remembered this blind date I went on during the 90s. He was Korean and in med school, someone introduced by mom, like one of her friends’ kids, so this was a dream match in every which way you can think of for my mother. In fact, she occasionally bemoans the fact she never married this short doctor her dad set her up with in the good old days. My date was nice enough, definitely richer than I was. I noted a fancy car, clothing, etc. At the time, I was in my bohemian publishing days, wearing a lot of dresses paired with vintage mens suit vests, platform shoes, and big earrings. When I was in publishing, everyone wanted to tell me a story that they thought would be book-worthy. That night, this young man told me a story about how he and his friends played a joke by taking one of the bodies from the lab (morgue? Who knows? Where do med students get bodies?) and snuck it into his friend’s bed, so that when the girlfriend came home, she would flip out while they hid in the closet. My date thought this was hilarious.

Sigh. Unfortunately, I was not destined to live out my mother’s greatest wishes. In response to the story, I think I had a good handle on an icy, righteous tone and death stares. I remember talking a long time, saying things like “that’s not why people donate their bodies to science” and “I don’t think it’s funny when you get in your bed expecting your boyfriend and finding a corpse instead.” I doubt I deflated the guy’s ego but he was very quiet after that.

My mom has been taking a free writing workshop in a local library. In response to “Describe one of your first trips as a kid,” she wrote about fleeing from Seoul to the countryside to escape the Korean War when she was four.

Me: Oh my god, that is so funny and awesome.
Mom: What are you talking about?
Me: Because normally to topics like that, people are expecting something like “oh I remember having ice cream on the boardwalk” or “flying a kite with my grandparents.” No, you straight up to go to “There was the Korean War. I was scared to go on the ox cart because the wheels were shaky. I was four, we were fleeing the city.”

My mom likes to say how Americans are very soft compared to tough Asians, that we think too much and are easily discouraged. This is usually after she hears me kvetch about life. I used to hear this sentiment as an insult, but I’ve recently countered that yes, tough Asians truly are tough! Americans truly are soft! But whom would you rather have a beer with? Who’s going to be a better listener? Thank you. One point for us Team Soft Americans. USA! USA!