Election Night's Secret Sauce

I’m very excited to vote tomorrow.

I’m excited and stressed.

I’m excited and stressed and terrified.

But mostly excited.

I have my voting plan, and I also have my election night plan. I’ll be spending election night at improv rehearsal; more specifically, at ComedySportz Philly. Partly as a distraction, partly to escape what will undoubtedly be rampant stress eating and drinking, but mostly because it is the secret sauce of it all. And it hinges on two words: Yes, and.

Let me first acknowledge the desire to roll your eyes and bring up the countless gifs of jokes at its expense. I acknowledge the perceived cliche of those two words. And I still put that secret sauce on everything.

At its root it means to accept the reality given to you and take the next step. So let's take it in parts.

Yes-Accepting the reality given to you. In order to accept that reality, you first need to acknowledge it. Not deny it. Not spin it. Not twist it to suit your preferred narrative. You must acknowledge it. And, even in improv, the reality of the moment is not always unicorns and puppies; sometimes it is a hot mess. It is never perfect. It is never perfect because reality is built by the humans who walk through it, and humans are miraculously imperfect. So there is no perfect reality; no perfect person, or candidate, or choice. But there is the promise of a more perfect reality. That is where the and comes in.

The and is what you bring to the next step. The and is the first step through the hot mess.

It is how you take the next step that often determines the length of your stay in said hot mess. The and is the choice you make, which springs from all that you are, know, feel and aspire to. It is the hope and trust you bring to the next step. The and is the best offer you can make for the people who are improvising with you every moment of every day. The and is not just about you getting out of the hot mess, it’s about extending a hand to find a way out of the hot mess together.

And that is why those words are the secret sauce. And that is why I am spending election night at improv rehearsal…after I vote for Kamala.

And no matter what happens, I got your back.

Empathy with a Kidney Bean

It  didn’t seem strange to have empathy with the kidney bean left in the can after the initial dumping. I had to rinse them before putting them in the chili, and all but one made their way into the sieve. I could have just rinsed it into the sink, you know, because I am a responsible recycler and rinse my cans. (I had to weigh the insufferability of that last phrase against my guilt for so many years of not rinsing, as if that helps the planet). I didn’t rinse it down the sink though, I rinsed it into the sieve, because I didn’t want it to feel unworthy. I literally had that thought. I was concerned about the kidney bean’s feelings. 

To clarify, I do not believe beans have feelings. I do not believe vegetables have feelings. And, I eat meat, so it is safe to say I am not concerned with bacon’s feelings. And yet, I wanted this kidney bean to feel wanted, appreciated, and trusted to perform that for which it was canned in the first place.

I can’t decide if this is a strength or a hindrance. 

I blame the golden rule for this confusion. It’s so simple: “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” But does that really extend to kidney beans? What exactly was I hoping for from this kidney bean, which I was about to cook, by the way? Or was I blending or confusing the golden rule and karma. If I value this kidney bean, I too will feel valued. And by valued, I don’t just mean valued, but valued in the way that I think I need. That’s a lot to put on a kidney bean.

Empathy is a tricky virtue, and virtue is a tricky trap. 

Often we wield empathy as a tool. We’re not always conscious of it, but sometimes we are. It is the trident of martyrs. I empathize, therefore I sacrifice, therefore I am worthy, therefore I should be considered worthier, therefore attention must be paid. I, 100%, have been guilty of that more times than I’m comfortable with. If I’m nice, if I offer to help, if I ease, save, solve, I will receive the same in return. In which case I am making empathy a transaction with conditional expectations. Who was I to assume that this kidney bean needed solving or saving? This is not empathy, this is emotional consumerism. This is virtue heraldry. This does not serve the kidney bean.

Or…

Who was I really empathizing with? The kidney bean or myself. It’s possible I was projecting my historic sense of loneliness onto this kidney bean. I was imposing a narrative on their experience that was my own. It is highly likely that this kidney bean did not feel like the least interesting person at the Thanksgiving table as a young sprout. And I’m sure they don’t feel a sense of inadequacy when their fellow kidney beans talk about the latest article from the Sunday Times which they still get delivered. And it is doubtful that this kidney bean takes notice of how much narrower the other kidney beans’ waists are. I know nothing of this kidney bean’s story, nor did I take the time to find out. This is not empathy. This is narrative piracy. This does not serve the kidney bean.

Or...

Perhaps it was one of those rare moments when, free from ego or agenda, I did not want that kidney bean to die alone, but, instead, be eaten with their friends. Empathy requires past experience. It demands the personalization that is the result of living through something. And, after the recognition of that, it also requires the act of getting out of the way. Of releasing expectation of reward. Of shedding solution seeking. It demands the extraordinary act of absolute stillness. Of simply being with another human in the thick of a lived moment and understanding because you’ve lived a similar moment. It’s the act of being present without being prescriptive or proactive. It’s the extraordinary privilege of sharing the peace that we truly are not alone, and the pain or ache or stagnation or anger or fear is more manageable when shared; just as the joy, surprise and awe is more magnificent when shared.

So, in fact, empathy is not a hindrance, but an act of bravery; because sharing one’s heart is scary and risky and vulnerable, and has the power to connect all of the different us-es, no matter who we are. And though it may seem silly to empathize with a kidney bean, especially considering the irony of ultimately eating it, I will not resist the impulse any time it arises, because the more I practice, the better equipped I’ll be when empathy is required on a personal, local, national and even global level.

Emma Thompson Would Be So Disappointed in Me

 Emma Thompson would be so disappointed in me. 

Starting today, that is my new response to my body loathing routine. My usual response is to call myself Fatty McFatterson, so I feel like this is a step in, at the very least, a more interesting direction. Emma (we’re on a first name basis in my universe) has and continues to speak so honestly and eloquently about not wasting time worrying about how you look, reason number 3582 that I love her. 

        “Don’t waste your time, don’t waste your life’s purpose worrying about your body.”

                         -Emma Thompson, Stephen Colbert Show, 2022

So, yes, she would be disappointed in me, in a plucky, loving, encouraging way, but still disappointed, because I have wasted and continue to waste so much time worrying, hating, and being disgusted by my body. 

• I compare myself to friends, which always helps and is obviously an accurate one-to-one since we have identical body chemistry, genetic history and emotional relationships to food. 
• First thing I do when I get out of bed is check my paunch
• When waiting at a red light, my gaze wanders over to the pooling fat at my elbows, and, ewwww.
• While brushing my teeth, I turn my head to confirm the lack of definition in my jawline and then move on to the crinkly crepeing of my once not so bad decolletage. You know, just to set the tone for the day.
• I unjustly turn against Nicole Kidman and Julia Roberts. Why them? Because we’re the same age, so it’s obviously a rational comparison. I cynically say to myself- they have time and money and resources to have a trainer and a nutritionist and go to spas and get facials and walk into empty movie theaters in sparkly pinstripe suits, so, of course they look great. And then I get super judgy and say they look too thin. And then, most likely after the second glass of wine, I move onto sisterly empathy for how much pressure they’re under all the time to look good, and when was the last time they could look at a meal and just enjoy it without wondering what repercussions it would have on the rest of their career?

And these are just scratching the surface of how I waste time hating my body. I’m so sorry Emma. 

I don’t passively loathe my imperfections. I do exercise. I do eat healthy meals. I have Noomed successfully, and de-Noomed successfully. I am reckoning with my post-menopausal chemistry. I also still snack like a teenager, enjoy wine more than I should, and need something sweet every day. I do not take any of these to excess. I don’t eat an entire bag of chips or a full sleeve of cookies, or an entire bottle of wine. I do, however, eat the full sandwich. I know eating only half would improve my chances of borrowing Nicole’s pinstripe suit one day, but if I’m going to commit to ordering a sandwich, I’m going to enjoy the full sandwich. Bottom line, I’m not loathing myself while doing nothing about it; it's just that what I’m doing doesn’t work as well as it used to, with the exception of the loathing.

I know what you’re going to say Emma. “Just stop it. Stop wasting your time worrying about it.” You are right. I know this. It’s the how of it that I must find the effort for. Not the eating healthy, exercising, understanding my relationship to food ‘how,’ but the retraining how I think about my body ‘how’.  And so, I am beginning with my aforementioned new mantra “Emma Thompson would be so disappointed in me,” because, I simply cannot have that. I love her absolutely, and her disappointment would crush me.

I will not use this as an excuse to stop exercising or eating healthily Emma, I promise, but I will use it to stop wasting time aspiring to an impossible ideal that perfect happiness comes with a perfect body. I will use it to remind myself to spend my time doing the things that bring me happiness and feed my passions and purpose, one of which is enjoying a delicious meal. I will use it to remind myself that life is to be lived and experienced, not postponed until “someday.” And I will use it, when I stumble, and catch a truthful reflection of what my upper arms really look like, and remember not to mourn what once was but to see and value all that came before to help me arrive at right now; to remember that the imperfections hold stories of the unique moments lived through, felt through and survived and thrived through which make me different than anyone else out there.

And one day, Emma, when you are enjoying a martini and I am enjoying a of glass wine, made sweeter by the incredible deal I got on it, I will thank you in a witty and charming way that will remind us both that we’ve been best friends for so long without even knowing it.

The Hoax of the Jinx

 Often when people ask me how my kids are doing I do one of two things:

1. I tell them details of how they’re doing well, and then immediately knock wood so as not to jinx the upward trend.
2. Or, I just report the facts without emotion, commentary or reaction, much like newscasters from the 50’s and 60’s, so as not to tempt fate.

I tell offsprings #1 & #2 that I am proud of them all the time, but when it comes to celebrating their accomplishments to the world, I operate under a near constant fear that my pride will bring about their fall. Because I’m just that powerful, right?

The thing is, I’ve never wrapped my kids in bubble wrap. I let them eat a cookie that fell on the floor. I didn’t make them wash their hands every five minutes. I didn’t dote over every cut, scrape and literal fall. But when it came and comes to their emotional well-being or their confidence, well, I suppose I bubble wrap that a bit. I did, and do still protect them from that kind of pain too much. And I clearly did not do that well since they have both had their fair share of falls in that department. 

• Their hearts have been broken, their confidence crushed.
• Their anxieties have constructed false or exaggerated narratives many times. 
• They have been misunderstood, and therefore mistreated. 
• They have misunderstood and mistreated.
• They have made bad choices
• They have miscalculated.
• They have failed.
• They have doubted.
• They have given up.
• And they will do it all again

And

They have survived

And

Thrived.

They say, as a parent, you are only as happy as your unhappiest child. It is true. I feel their pain and uncertainty physically; it takes up residence in the acreage between my throat and my heart. And during the heart of their storm, literally nothing else is as important to me. I surrender to the sound and fury, which always ends up signifying nothing because they weather it. Time and again, they weather it. So, it seems silly to fear the jinx and try to control fate with the knocking of what is probably pressed manufactured IKEA wood, because celebrating a 3.89 GPA or a well-earned apprenticeship is not just holding up the shiny result, it’s giving a standing ovation to the struggle that led to the fortitude to persevere when 3.89’s and apprenticeships seemed impossible.

So, on this Mother’s Day of 2024, I celebrate the struggles, the failings, the impossibles and the falls that have shaped the two humans I am beyond proud to call my sons. I will always try to be there to catch you; and if I’m not, I know you know how to get back up again.

The Shiny & The Sh!*

Offspring #1 & Offspring #2,

Be grateful for all of it. 

I will pause now so that you can roll your eyes.

But seriously, be grateful for all of it. The shiny and the shit, and all the boring stuff in between.

I know this feels like an impossible request, and I am not asking you to be grateful for the shit while you’re in it. And I know sometimes it’s impossible to fully realize the shiny stuff while you're in it too, because, let’s face it, we all fear that if we fully appreciate the good shit, then we will be courting the other shoe to drop. Well, my lovelies, the other shoe is going to drop anyway. There are so many shoes waiting to drop in your future. Sometimes it’s going to rain shoes, and you enjoying shoeless days is not going to make the shoe storm better or worse, but it will make it easier to endure the shoe storm.

So, be grateful for:

Enough milk for your cereal.

A well executed parallel park.

The inevitability of rain on grocery shopping days.

Vacations!

The months when you just scrape by.

Having to walk the dog.

Catching a shiny Pokemon

Shoveling out your car

Not getting the job

Getting the job

Extra full order of fries

A puppy’s head on your shoulder

A perfectly crafted sentence

Sitting next to the loud eater of the family on Thanksgiving

Being annoyed by the one you love the most

Being astonished by the one you love the most

Being astonished by the one you love the least

Bacon

Realizing your dream came true

Not knowing what to say

Making someone laugh

The dentist

Being forced to learn how to change a tire, usually in the rain

Pizza Crust

Being exhausted

Chaos

An unexpected pleasant day that unfolded without a plan

A good couch nap

The ocean

Frustration and maturing to the point where you know it will pass

D’Alessandro’s Cheesesteaks

Payday

Laughing

Feeling anything

Recognizing bravery in yourself and others

The Cornetto Trilogy

Etc., etc., …

to be discovered…

Life is miraculous and hard and often beyond your control. But the privilege of living, the moments of awe afforded by the obvious, the ordinary and the OMG far outweigh the hard. So remember, in the moments of deep shit and blissful shiny, be grateful; do yourself the favor of taking even a second to be grateful for it all.

I love you both more than chocolate chip cookies.

The Scarf

I lost my favorite scarf this past Fall. I’m not sure how, it was a large scarf. As scarfs go, it had a long life, 33 years to be exact. It wasn’t fancy, something I bought from a street vendor when I was a student in London (I know, shut up Mary). My 21 year old self had not predicted needing a scarf, and, so, was woefully unprepared for the bluster of London. It was a simple affair, blue and purple squares making up more of a shawl than a scarf. It was on the thinner side, but was surprisingly warm. I got many compliments on it over the years, and it kept me warm inside and out, from cold offices and classrooms, to snowy days shoveling out my car. I have no idea how I lost it, and am still clutching to the possibility that it may turn up, like all those single earrings awaiting the return of their partner.

It feels significant. I know it’s just a lost scarf, something that happens every day, but this has been with me for the entirety of my adult life. It was a comfort, it always reminded me of a time of infinite potential, and it seemed to go with everything. I haven’t found a new one yet, at least not one that scratches old and new itches, and I’m not in a rush, because it feels significant. Significant in all the obvious Nancy Meyer’s screenplay ways: the ways of letting go, embracing the forthcoming, and opening the door to re-definition. But then there are the not so obvious unexpecteds. The glimpses of confidence born of a lifetime often half-lived through too many apologies and accommodations. The forgiveness of personal disappointments walking hand in hand with a more grounded clarity of purpose. The gratitude for the discovery of talents and comforts that don’t need to lead to recognition because they are propelled by joy, not agenda. 

Strange that I lost this scarf the same year I lost my father; someone who was always a comfort, who always reminded me of my infinite potential, and who understood me better than anyone. This last sentence probably feels like the aha moment here. Grief and rebirth. Two losses, two ends of eras. Thesis delivered. Not so cut and dry from where I sit. I still think I’m going to find my old scarf, in the sleeve of some coat into which I did not delve deeply enough. 

Deep down, I know that’s not going to happen. But I’m not rushing its successor. I am allowing that a new scarf will present itself when least expected. A scarf that will address the need at hand, that makes the world less cold. A scarf that accompanies me on the next 30 years. So, I’m trying to both pay attention and not. I did not know, when I found the old scarf, what it was going to mean. For the time being I am making the scarf below. It’s totally different. I don’t know if it will scratch the itch, or just be itchy. So I will relish the not knowing. I’ll let you know the results in another 33 years.

In Lieu of Potato Salad

My father did not want a funeral or an obituary or potato salad events upon his passing. A true Irish goodbye. But here is what I would have shared.

It’s intimidating giving a tribute for such an accomplished and beloved writer and public speaker. One who often aimed to lead with laughter and then sneak in message. One who sought to make tears well but not spill. One who held attention with relatable originality. Yes, this is a daunting task, so I will call upon the master and his words for help.

Brilliance will be adequate.

This is what he said when he dropped us off at school, or whenever we started a new project or adventure. Brilliance will be adequate. He said it with a twinkle in his eye that communicated whimsy, humor and absolute confidence. We all knew he was joking, but what we felt was his absolute confidence that we could handle whatever was before us. He already believed we were brilliant, he just wanted us to believe it.

Life is short, eat dessert first.

I would like to think he coined this, but I’ve seen it on too many novelty items like post-it notes and oddly shaped plates that you can only find at the Hallmark store. But, he said it often. Of course my Dad’s definition of the four basic food groups was cake, cookies, pie and ice cream, ice cream being the preferred dish at every meal. Nothing fancy, just a little chocolate ice cream or a black and white milkshake. Just a simple reminder that life should be enjoyed not endured. Whether that takes the form of travel, or pursuing your passion or going to the movies or experiencing the culinary miracle that is ice cream, life is short, it can be hard, why not make it fun.

Don’t just give your boss what they ask for, give them what they need.

Dad was in the running for a job once. It came down to him and two other people. Each was asked to write a letter explaining why they were the best person for the job. The others wrote what most of us would, a carefully phrased treatise on our skills and what we could bring to the position. My father wrote “I’m from out of town.” He got the job. He never let fear propel him, instead he was fueled by the art of the possible. He saw beyond the task to understand the need the task was fulfilling. He wasn’t afraid to question or suggest or act based on the bigger picture. He did not work just to keep from getting fired, he worked to make a difference, launch change and dare to dream for more.

You must prepare yourself for the possibility that things could go well.

My father never trafficked in worst case scenarios. He always listened patiently as I spun a tale of woe to its potential and inevitable tragic outcome and then he would simply say “You must prepare yourself for the possibility that things could go well.” Things didn’t always go well, but how I handled and looked at them was forever influenced by these words. The way we tell the story of our lives can easily project their course. He chose, and inspired others to choose optimism. His words remind me that even when things can be hard, they are not impossible. 

See the ball, catch the ball, throw the ball.

You can’t do all three at once. I imagine he said this to every person he ever coached. One thing at a time. My dad never seemed rushed. He did not wear a watch or keep a calendar. When asked how he remembered things, he said, “if it’s important, I’ll remember it.” He also said “I probably missed a lot of meetings.” Except that he didn’t, because he made everyone important. He gave everyone his full attention. Whether he was leading a meeting, or giving a speech, or coaching third base, or giving advice, he made you feel like you were the most important person in the world for that collection of moments. He truly saw people, and even more importantly, he made us feel known, loved, and cared for, which is the true secret sauce to making people believe they can do anything. This invaluable gift is what made him such a life-changing coach, colleague, friend and father.

I’m the only one here I’ve never heard of

My Dad once made a brochure, (remember those), because his booking agent said that a lot of public speakers had one. It was entitled “The World’s Most Mediocre Speaker.” Anyone who has heard him speak, knows that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He never read from a page, he never wrote anything down, he never gave the audience a dress rehearsal-always an opening night. He was the speaker that others did not want to follow. His talents took him many places including the White House and Camp David. He could have let it go to his head, but instead, he chose gratitude and humility. When at the podium in front of celebrities and luminaries he often opened with the line “I’m the only one here I’ve never heard of.” It always got a laugh, but it also underlined the awe he often felt at the opportunities he got to participate in. He never needed praise and recognition, he wanted to be useful, helpful; and he was as can be seen in his words, intentions and actions. He never lost the wonder, curiosity and humility of the Iowa farm boy. 

I have a face that looks like it’s already been waited on

As are many of his wise words, this was meant to be funny; usually uttered when a server passed by the table a third or fourth time. And, as I have done with most of his words to live by, I have often stolen and used this one. Until now, I always translated it to mean, I am easily forgettable. I’m sure that’s how he meant it too, but not in a self-pitying way, just in an “I’m an average Joe” kind of way. Now, however, I believe it means that restaurant servers passed him by because he looked content. Because he was content. He carved out a life of deeds, well-accomplished, creative endeavors that redefined originality, service to so many, and loving dedication to family in all of its iterations. He found great delight in being an active and curious observer of human nature, and sought to practice and applaud everyday humanity every day. He is, in fact, unforgettable because he was brilliant, insightful, original, optimistic, attentive, curious, humble and content.

There are not enough words to capture my father, and he would be appalled at how many I have used already. I would not be who I am today without him, and learning to be without him beyond today will only be a little easier because of the words, example and legacy of kindness he has gifted to us all. 

He’d want me to close with a laugh, or a marching band. I don’t have the latter, so I will include one of his favorite jokes:

A guy on the bank of a river, looks across and sees a guy on the other bank. The first guy says: “How do I get to the other side of the river?” The second guy responds: “You are on the other side of the river.”

See you on the other side one day, milkshakes are on me.

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