Is Joy a Side Hustle?

I don’t want my kids to have to throw away a lot when I die, and yet I keep buying fabric and yarn. I realize that sentence implies that I am 120 years old. I’m 57. I just have a lot of fabric and yarn, and some ideas that aren’t going to reshape the universe, but they’re fun. And yet I put conditions on when I can do these fun things. I make myself do “productive” things first. 

Like:

• Laundry
• Writing a to-do list
• Contacting that someone on email, to remind them that I’m still around lest they want to hire me to do something valuable that generates no revenue.
• Moving obstacles from the roomba’s path
• Maybe deciding where a picture should be hung
• Moving above picture to lean against the wall where it will be hung
• Not actually hanging the picture due to lack of proper hanging tools
• Putting “buy proper hanging tools” on the to-do list.

These are some of the productive things that have to come first because, apparently, according to me, I have to earn joy. 

Earn joy.

According to me, I have to prove myself worthy of joy? 

Is joy a side hustle, not the main gig?

There are bumper stickers that declare “Don’t postpone joy.” I see them while I do productive things like going to the car wash after buying picture hanging accessories. I agree with them, and get mad at them all at once. I don’t want to postpone joy. I want to find it in the most unexpected and mundane places, per the bumper stickers’ instructions. I want to marvel at the dance of the car wash bristles and the impressionistic squiggles of soap. I want to delight in the Jackson Pollock-esque splat of bird poop centered perfectly on my sun roof moments after leaving the car wash. I want to dare to eat a peach even as it falls from the pit into my lap causing me to worry more about the peach’s impact on my outfit rather than my impact on the car in front of me. I want to prioritize joy, but sometimes things piss me off.

Sometimes it’s too hot to feel joy.

Sometimes home repairs are too expensive to dally in joy.

Sometimes a job is a job and not a joy.

Sometimes a bird shits on your car after you spent $25 on a carwash and there’s no silver lining

Sometimes it feels selfish to languish in joy when there are things that need to get done.

So, I postpone joy. It goes to the bottom of the to-do list. It’s still on the to-do list, but more important stuff needs to come first like:

• Calling my Senator
• Caulking something in the house
• Returning that jumpsuit to Amazon
• Bundling my streaming services
• Drinking more water
• Reading something important
• Cleaning the air conditioner filters
• Complimenting my husband
• Meal planning
• Reaffirming my relevance
• Brushing the dogs’ teeth

And way at the bottom of the list is

• Work on that Star Wars quilting square

It’s at the bottom because it doesn’t advance civilization. It doesn’t move the needle. It does not provide a safety net for my children. It is not in any way shape or form important in the grand scheme of things. It simply brings me joy. Something I wish we all felt we deserve more of. It’s not something to be earned, but something that deserves a place on the to-do list. Or, better yet, it needs to be on the must-do list, which also includes breathe, eat, love, live (take that Elizabeth Gilbert).

I know that a quilted Star Wars Wall Hanging will not move the needle. It will likely wind up in a thrift shop like old nightgowns, second string trays, or all those piles of old pictures that, while posing in front of that pretty rock, no one thought would one day be sold for a prop piece in a regional theater production of Brighton Beach Memoirs. But the act of choosing which fabrics go with which Star Wars characters filled me with joy, and might be fun for someone to look at. And hopefully the memory of that will bring my sons joy when they clean out my fabric cabinet, and remind them of their must-do list.

Han Shot First

Han shot first.

He did.

To say he didn’t, to re-edit in order to soften completely undermines his redemption at the end when he comes back to help Luke. 

This got me thinking about how we edit our lives all the time. I can’t speak for the universal We, though, that is a presumption I am trying to shed. But I know I edit my story  to make it palatable for public consumption, or, more specifically, to make myself more palatable for public consumption. Here is some tangible proof:

• I do not post the selfies that highlight my aging neck. For example…Not too long ago, in the wee hours of the morning, my one year old pup, who is an awkward cuddler, managed to curl himself around my head as we tried falling back to sleep on the couch after an early morning pee, for both of us. It was adorable beyond the nth degree. So, I tried to snap a selfie without disturbing him. But it proved quite challenging to memorialize his cuteness while striving for mine. I quickly discovered that, at this age, when I lie down there is no distinction between my neck and my chin; my neck kind of billows out gelatinously like a Mad Max character. The first few pictures were not just a crime of photographic composition, but also a crime to my waning ego. So I moved the camera, I angled my head impossibly, I jutted my chin out, I tried to highlight the cheek with fewer blemishes, I tried with glasses on, with glasses off. I knew I’d never equal the cuteness of the pup, but I was trying to find a happy medium between that and Mad Max. I ultimately abandoned it altogether, because I could not find the balance.  I should have gone with the original picture, because Han shot first.

• I say “that book’s on my list.” And it is, but I don’t say that I probably won’t read it because the next book in the Her Royal Spyness series just came out. Just like I keep telling people that I will watch Succession and The Last of Us, but instead I binge Brooklyn Nine-Nine, The New Girl and How I Met Your Mother because they make me feel good. I want to strive for enlightenment, but I also want to relax and laugh and watch Jess & Nick finally get together. But I’m not gonna tell you that, because I want you to think that I’m striving for enlightenment. I should just tell you that my taste runs shallow, because Han shot first.

• I like👍more Facebook and Instagram posts than I actually like. Like, way more. Because I don’t want to be an ass hole. More accurately, I don’t want to be perceived as an ass hole. But, sometimes, I’m as interested in your cat pictures as you are in my dog pictures. But I keep hitting like or love, because, of course, I want you to like or love me, and that little blue thumb will definitely tip the scales in my favor. I should just like or love the things on social media that I actually like and love, because, you’re not keeping track, and Han shot first.

• I say “It’s fine,” or “I’m fine,” or “It’s ok,” or “I’m ok.” The reality is ‘it’ and ‘I’ am not fine or ok. When I say that, I’m probably either mad, or annoyed or crushed. But I say I’m fine in an effort to read the room or the moment, or weigh who, you or me, is closer to  the breaking point. And then I go into another room to either do the thing I’m ‘ok’ with, or escape the agreement I’m ‘fine’ with, and busy myself while muttering all of the things I’m not ‘fine’ or ‘ok’ with. Or I go somewhere to cry so you don’t see why I’m not ‘fine’ or ‘ok.’ I should just tell you I’m not ‘fine’ or ‘ok,’ because Han shot first.

• I rid my car of the empty Diet Coke bottles before I pick you up because I don’t want you to know I drink Diet Coke…or how much of it I drink. Because you drink water or kombucha, or tea, or Pellegrino, or just something infinitely healthier, and I don’t want you to know how gross I am. Or weak. Or unenlightened. Or gross. So I gather the bottles in my cup holders. And the ones in the door cup holders. And the ones rolling around on the floor of the back seat. And the front seat. I do responsibly toss them in the recycling, before I give you a ride anywhere. I should still clean out my car, but I should just drink my Diet Coke in front of you, because Han shot first.

He did. Because he is imperfect. To claim otherwise, shows a shocking lack of trust in audiences and in all human beings. As do all of my edits. The ones above only scratch the surface. And worse than not trusting all of you, is not trusting myself. Not owning and loving my imperfections. Not trusting that I will know when to limit my Diet Coke intake, and be brave enough to tell you I’m not ‘fine’ or ‘ok,’ and know that you don’t ultimately care if I acknowledge your social media post, or admit I like sitcoms, or just suck it up and post my billowing neck because you’re really only looking at the puppy. Han knew when to come back and help Luke blow up the Death Star. He just didn’t trust he could until he found the people who revealed to him that he was worth trusting himself for, and trusting himself with. Because it takes a village who loves you enough to let you be who you are, and loves you enough to call you on your shit when you’re ready to hear it and even when you’re not but you say you’re ‘ok.’ 

Edits can be good. We are all first and second and 33rd drafts, but the best edits are the ones that reveal an authentic, unfiltered, true to the moment story full of imperfections and trust.

I am an imperfect scoundrel, who will try to reduce my unnecessary edits, and I will show up to help you defeat whatever your Death Star is, and my Millennium Falcon will have Diet Coke in the cup holder, because Han shot first.

What I'm Thankful for: Women

This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for the women.

This is not a let’s trash men treatise. Let’s be clear, just because I’m thankful for women does not mean I’m not thankful for men, (and the fact that I feel a need to say this is bananas by the way). I love the men in my life. But this year I’m shouting out to the women.

To all of them.

We are kind and competitive, fierce and compassionate, confident and apologetic, brave and timid, incomparable and forever comparing, funny and funnier, brilliant and brilliant-er. We are magnificent in our complexities with so many facets that we cannot help but shine.

And yet…

And yet.

We must forever prove ourselves worthy of the space we take up. While, for the most part, for our counterparts, competence and excellence are assumed (I’m not saying you don't have it hard sometimes gentlemen, again bananas that I feel the need to include this qualifier), we truly do have to dance backwards in high heels.

I’m an improviser, have been for 35 years. I’m pretty good at it too. I’m not going to add false modesty here, because I’ve worked really hard at it over the years, and I am, for probably the first time in my life, going to own my excellence. For all of those 35 years, I have known and will continue to know that everytime I step in front of an audience, they see me as a woman first, and their first thought, conscious or unconscious, is that I need to prove that I’m funny. It might just be for a second, they might not even register it, but they clock it on some level. And, these days they see that I am a woman in her 50’s, which is a whole other track full of hurdles to clear before I can be accepted as funny. Yes, it’s better than it used to be, but it's still there. In the court of comedy, I am unfunny until proven hilarious.

The next thing they will clock is how I look. Am I pretty enough? Am I overweight? How’s my makeup? Does my haircut fit my face? How do I look in my pants? Yes it’s better than it used to be, but it’s still there.

And this is obviously not unique to comedy. This scenario can be universally translated to any vocation, profession or day to day existence. We’re used to it. We plan for it. We curate our daily dressing habits for it. We equivocate our contributions to almost everything with apologies and disclaimers (to whit, reference above parenthetical disclaimers). Most of the time I don’t even think about it because it’s so ingrained into my every day. It’s just standard operating procedure. This is not a “poor me” plug, I honestly don’t think about it because it is so normal. 

It does however dull those facets I mentioned earlier. The performative measures we take to be the women the world is ready for right now, only allows glimpses at those facets. Perhaps because unleashing all of them at once is a light too bright to take in. So we only show the ones we’re told to. Which often leads us to believe that those are the only ones we possess. So we shrink our dreams, diminish our accomplishments, and never feel like we are enough. And there are voices out there, loud ones, foolish ones, that want to keep us feeling that way.

But, oh my god, when I look at the women who fill my life, the world is lit in a miraculous way. 

• When I see what they carry and how they carry it, I see a bravery that is as unparalleled as it is unheralded.
• When I see what they create, I understand the intricacies of what it is to be human better than I did the day before.
• When I hear what they think, neurons fire and new worlds appear.
• When I witness what they manage, awe takes on a new meaning.
• When I see what they have endured and overcome, I see a strength that cannot be denied.
• When I see them fight, I see solidity.
• When I see their hearts I see the world’s salvation.

To do what we have done with, as Captain Marvel says, “one hand tied behind our back,” oh imagine what we can do when all the facets see the light of day.

So this Thanksgiving, I give thanks for the women. All of them. Because we are enough, we are vital, and we are not going back.

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.

To make a donation in his honor please visit either of these sites:

Be Proud Foundation

Mighty Writers

Thank You Target Customer Service

 I'm very grateful for the Customer Service Clerk yesterday at Target in in White Marsh MD. 

I was returning some sweatpants that I bought because they were on the "L" for large hanger. Because I'm a large now because of all the sourdough and Sauvignon Blanc I employ as diversionary tactics from the the panic of the Pandemic as well as the all of everything of 2020. These pants were on a "L" hanger, and I just grabbed them because I don't want to try things on, because dressing rooms now seem like a lethal luxury. So, I grabbed them and checked out. 

I'd been looking for soft sweatpants that were NOT joggers, because even having something tight-ish around my ankles would then pull on my waist band and let slip the latest love handle exposing all eyes to my back fat. My sourdough sauvignon blanc back fat. All eyes! or at least the eyes of my self-loathing inner bitch who just won't shut up. 

So I bought these open leg sweatpants at Target because they will make me feel a degree or two better about myself, which my current pile of too many pants does not. I buy the pants. I take them home and eagerly try them on. They are huge. This makes me happy. The large, is huge on me, like, falling down huge. For a moment I think I am losing weight. I am not, but the inflation of sizes works its magic on my ego and for a moment I feel great. I've never been so happy at a return. As I take them off, I think to take a peek at the size, because, apparently happiness needs to be based on fact. 

These pants are not large. 

They are not extra large. 

They are 2XL. 

I am no longer happy. I am no longer looking forward to this return. I now feel burdened by it. 

And by the fact that I have to make dinner soon. 

And by the fact that it never occurs to anyone else to make me dinner.

And by my husband's and son's bickering.

And by son # 2's struggle with whether to take next semester off.

And his too confident for his age declaration that college is a social construct and not really necessary. (mind you he loves college in non-pandemic times. LOVES it).

When am I going to find time to return these pants?

I try on my drive down to Maryland where I live part time because my husband got a job in DC, but I'm still clinging onto my life in Philadelphia in a current "last" ditch effort to reclaim some of my identity. Except that now I have this job in MD. Very nice people. I'm very lucky to be employed. Also true is that I am very sad to not be doing what I love, and each day of working with these very nice people, I am reminded that I never really believed I was good enough at what I loved. So I definitely see more sourdough and sauvignon blanc in my future.

So I'm on my way down to MD to work on site one day, and I think, oh, I'll just stop by the Target on City Ave. It's on the way. So, I drive there to discover that they have closed early due to an "abundance of caution." And then I remembered the riots because of the police shooting of a young black man two nights ago. And I remember the balance of sweatpants to centuries of injustice is insignificant. And I shut the f!?* up.

So next day, I do my work and begin to head home to Philly because Offspring #1 starts a new class the next day and is nervous. This can range from mild to hideous, so I felt it necessary to be home to cook large meals and generally absorb his anxiety because I need something to work for him. At this point I've been gone less than 24 hours. I'm in no rush to get home.

I'm in no rush to absorb my husband's anxiety.

I'm in no rush to absorb Offspring #1's anxiety.

I'm in no rush to think about Offspring #2's anxiety.

I'm in no rush to rush home to take care of those who are happy to leave me dangling in the wind uncared for and untended like the leggy web of dust gathering in the corner of every ceiling in my house.

And I remember there is a Target in White Marsh. There is also a TJ Maxx. Maybe they will have an office chair to replace the folding chair I've been torturing my back with. I decide to stop.

The line at customer service is not too long. Perhaps this is the turning point my life hinges on. I stand on my socially distant circle. Then my phone rings. I breathe, in an attempt to garner strength, as I see it is Offspring #1 calling. I answer the phone, like a chump.

There is much outrage with his dad. Apparently Husband is driving him crazy. 

I advance in the line. 

I am trying to calm my enraged Offspring whose complaints about Husband are all valid. They are all frustrations I have had over the years, and the Pandemic induced proximity has brought into sharp relief for Offspring #1. The problem is that once he goes down the rabbit hole, it tends to be a long journey.

I am in a public place. I am wearing a mask. I do not want to be that asshole on the phone when at the register. I do not want to be that asshole. But this geyser has sprung. 

And now it is my turn. 

And I am that asshole.

I plunk the bag on the counter, while still trying to calm the kid and get off the phone. I don't even take the time to shoot the clerk an apologetic yet empathy seeking look. I maybe see her face for a moment and a half, but it is miraculous. It is calm and wise. She knows I am dealing with a child's temper tantrum, even though it is not accompanied by the typical visual. She knows why I'm there. She sees the sweatpants. She gets the whole sourdough/sauvignon blanc dilemma. She understands that all of the pressures the everyday citizen is bearing from this pandemic are intersecting at this moment for me. And she processes my return in less than 30 seconds. No words were exchanged. I nodded my thanks and continued my conversation in the restroom alcove.

I left quickly. 

I was grateful for this Target Customer Service genius immediately, but I couldn't register it because of the ongoing tantrum. Not just my offspring's, but my own. My own swirl of shit both real and hyperbolized. And for a moment, not even enough time for a moment, another human being understood and helped in the subtlest and most astonishing way. They simply made my life easier for 30 seconds.

And this is why we will survive all of this, because sometimes we just get each other. We stop battling and competing and comparing, and simply recognize that of ourselves in someone else. We see beyond the noise and the 24 hour news cycle and the extremities that strain to define and limit our humanity. We look beyond our demographic, we forget our talking points, and we simply recognize the human being in front of us. We recognize the subtext of the moment, and we are filled with empathy, compassion and connection. And then the next moment feels easier.

This reminds me of another tantrum. This time Offspring #1 was maybe 2 years old and some change. Offspring #2 was pretty brand new. We were walking on the sidewalk of lovely Chestnut Hill, which is as it sounds-charming and beyond my tax bracket. Offspring #1 was cranky, I do not remember why, and he threw himself on the ground and tantrum-ed away. I attempted to calm the storm to no avail. An older, well dressed and coiffed woman was approaching. I feared the advice or disdainful look that I was certain would come. She reached us, stopped, looked at the Tasmanian devil on the side walk, and then looked at me and said:

"Sometimes you just have to lay down on the ground and cry."

She knew. She understood. She recognized.

So when, in the next weeks, the impulse is to lead and react based on assumption, I propose we all follow the lead of  Target Customer Service Rep and Well-Coiffed Chestnut Hill Woman. Recognize, see and ease.

And Vote.

The Pointillism of Puzzles

It is immensely satisfying to find all four corners of a puzzle. It rarely happens for me. I usually find three and then, after exhaustive searching, decide that the puzzle is faulty and the fourth corner was never put in. The same goes for the rest of the edge pieces, I seek them out, but their entirety eludes me. Until, of course, they pop up, usually on the cusp of puzzle despair, in the jumble of pieces, willing me to carry on. The last puzzle I tackled (I only do one or two a year), was a different story. I found all four corners quickly, and, with a little help, all of the edge pieces. It was absurdly satisfying. Looking at the completed parameters of this puzzle was resolutely affirming and empowering; there was still so much discovery, disappointment and victory to unravel, but the certainty of the structure was at once palpably soothing and invigorating.

This pandemic is a puzzle with perpetually absent edge pieces. 

For the most part, the overall edges are recognizable. There are a few minor gaps on the bottom, entire sections missing from the left side, the right side is a line of single pieces waiting for at least one connection, and I can't tell if this one piece goes in the center of the top or about a third of the way in from the left corner. It's also entirely possible that the piece from the top actually is the missing piece from the bottom. So, I get to work on sections in the middle until other edge pieces pop up.

The sourdough edge took a little time. I could piece together sections of it, but it took a few tries to see exactly how they needed to arrange.

The housecleaning section is still a bit of a jumble. Some parts came together really easily, while others still only have one or two anchor pieces present, and others have a few pieces that might belong there, but might also go in the stress eating or "maybe it's time to try Noom" section.

The Zoom section is disproportionally large, mostly shades of beige, with a lot of lines that seem to be going in one way, but actually align in every possibly angle. That one is best attacked in small doses.

I made some headway in the "What a great time to reinvent your life" section at the beginning, but have not found a piece that belongs there in awhile.

The "Pivotal Election and Social Justice" section is interlaced throughout the puzzle, and seems to have connecting pieces to every other section including a complex bridge composed of alternating arms folded and hands joined between the Hope and Despair sections.

The "Watch the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe" section took some time, but is finally complete, though it is still missing the edge piece of the Black Widow movie.

And then there are some sections that are just unrecognizable. School, Hug Horror, Time,"Is this Allergies or Covid?" These and more ambiguously designed sections butt up against the unfinished edges leaving jagged bite marks in my puzzle.

I know I need to be patient and diligent, but this puzzle is really monopolizing my dining room table. To be clear, this inconvenience is not infringing on our ability to eat on said table, it's just taking up space usually allotted for the rest of life's clutter; you know, the clutter that was already stressful before the Pandemic Puzzle arrived. And my regular puzzle strategies don't seem to be working. 

I really do think they shipped the puzzle incomplete, because the amount of pieces left are surely not enough to fill what is lacking. And yes, I've looked under the table, and the radiator and my dog's tongue for any missing pieces. And I'm not at the stage of completion yet where I can just look at the shape of the piece to see where it goes, I'm at the everything is foliage and/or the same color and could go anywhere stage. I've never put a puzzle back in the box without completing it, but this one is taking forever, and I don't know how much more bread I can bake or walks I can take or books I can "plan" to read. It just all feels so undoable.

I need another edge piece to pop up. I know if I search for it I will not find it. So, I should try to decipher the particular shade of red in this piece to see if it belongs in the "All the pants that don't fit anymore section" or the "maybe it's time to start making jam" section. I can just keep focusing on the specific variations of each section; double down on the details, on the pointillism of it all to eventually reveal the entirety of it all. Until another edge further defines the whole of what to see. 

And when my eyes begin to hurt and I'm tempted to hurl the puzzle to the corners I will eventually have to clean, I will walk away for moment, or two or 100 and lie on the couch with my dog and watch the Office again without judgment or remorse. Because when I go back and shuffle the pieces left in the box another edge piece might present itself, and sustain me for the next stretch.

An Unexpected Journey

I just completed an unexpected journey. It lead to a new sense of humility, and an affirmation of self truth. I did this without meditation or candles or essential oils. The tools needed were the most unexpected of all. In fact, truth be told, I had been actively resisting one of them for many years; an act of arrogance and elitism. All I needed for this journey was my son, and, as I'm sure you've already guessed, the Fast & Furious canon.

In addition to all of the everything we've been mitigating, the daily recognition of and mitigation of stress has been a constant. I have two basic responses to stress. They are not novel or unusual; I either shut down or am very productive.

For the last three plus months I have had days of proud productivity. There are parts of my house that are so much more organized. My craft game is high, including many masks, a sweater, a Marvel themed backpack, an iPhone wallet case, an in process cross-stitch project, and I am dabbling with my first t-shirt quilt. I have been seduced by the cultish sourdough craze and have baked many boules as well as discard delicacies. And, I am currently writing two plays and a mystery novel.

Don't hate me yet.

I have balanced that productivity with an equal, if not slightly heavier ration of inertia, ranging from wandering aimlessly from room to room, sitting on the couch watching Friends or The Office again and again...and again, eating too much bread and discard delicacies, playing Wordscape and Candy Crush for just a lot a bit too long, re-charging my Kindle because this will be the night when I actually read something, and sitting on my front steps with nothing in my head other than wanting to be apart from everyone in my house.

I have been forgiving of myself, and relentless with myself, and self care has taken on many forms. Most days, regardless of whether it was productive or inert, I just try to get to 'after dinner,' when the tasks of the day are done and I can settle onto the couch with knitting and a glass of wine, or cross stitch and a glass of wine, or just my dog and a glass of wine, and watch something on TV and cede all responsibility. My favorite 'after dinner' distraction is when my younger son, now 20, asks if I want to watch a movie. I'm not sure how much longer he'll be asking, so my answer is always "Yes." There are many movies we both like(Star Wars, MCU, Bourne, Dark Knight Trilogy). There are some that I have introduced him to that he has adopted as favorites (Some Like It Hot, What We Do In The Shadows, The Birdcage, The Cornetto Trilogy, Sense & Sensibility, etc.), and some he has introduced to me (Your Name, Snowpiercer, Parasite, etc.). He is forever trying to get me to watch Train to Busan, a quest that will go unfulfilled as I fear Zombies, unless couched in comedy, more than just about anything ever forever and always. Then there are the movies that he watches with his dad and brother. The Fast and Furious canon has lived comfortably in this category, until last week.

He and I were browsing the Roku. He attempted and failed with Train to Busan again. He asked what I was in the mood for. I replied "something fun that doesn't require much of me." As he scrolled the offerings on HBO NOW, he also suggested revisiting the Star Wars movies, and then Fast Five scrolled by, and I said "I'd watch that. Have you seen that one?" He had, but not for awhile, and he inherited my ability to watch movies multiple times. My genetics game has a high bar.

We watched. I did cross-stitch. I was able to follow along and absorb missing pieces from previous installments. The cast was pretty diverse, with some women who kicked ass, as well as the requisite awful scenes of women showing off their asses at inexplicable street races. There was a satisfyingly absurd car chase at the end, and it turned out to be a pretty enjoyable heist movie, complete with The Rock delivering preposterous lines, Gal Gadot pre-Wonder Woman, and a car chase with a safe. It was a perfect distraction.

The next night we watched Fast & Furious 6. The one with the plane.

The next night was Fast 7, the one where they drive through buildings in mid air.

At this point it felt important to go back to the beginning, so we back tracked to the first movie The Fast and The Furious, not to be confused with the fourth movie Fast and Furious. I agree that title innovation is not a strong selling point of the series. The first movie is basically Point Break with cars. This is a massive assumption as I have never seen the original Point Break, but I did just read the plot summary.

Next was 2 Fast and 2 Furious. No Vin Diesel in this one, and basically seemed like an extended Miami Vice episode, but diverting nonetheless.

Tokyo Drift was made next, but its place in the chronological narrative is actually after Fast & Furious 6. Drift is a stand alone, with only a few moments that affect the entire canon's arc. It does include an MCU style sting at the end with the reappearance of Vin Diesel's Dom Toretto.

Next is Fast and Furious, which I'm going to call a reboot to the franchise. Our core relationship of Dom & Brian is re-kindled, and the theme of "you never walk out on family" is firmly re-established.

And that now brings us to Fate (or F8) of the Furious, with key roles by Charlize Theron and Helen Mirren, both post Oscar win. Yes friends, Helen & Charlize know how to have some fun. For those of you in the know, this is the one with the submarine.

As soon as F8 rolled credits, my son brought up the trailer for Fast and Furious 9. Charlize is back, so is Helen Mirren. And I will be too. No Rock or Jason Statham, however, as they were busy making the offshoot Hobbs and Shaw, which I watched before the Pandemic began.

I could also go into limited detail about behind the scenes feuds; the narrative significance of men's tank tops, skate shoes and Charlize's hairstyle; the family dinners that end most of the movies, the gentle way they handle Paul Walker's death, and the characters' ability to walk away from unfathomable car crashes pretty much unscathed.

As I write this I am plagued with the need to explain the reasoning for watching these movies, almost as if I need to apologize for it. But there is no grand cultural or personal denouement to this journey (see, I even used a fancy french word to legitimize my lack of legitimacy). What I take away most, what has created a lasting memory, is the shared coping. There seemed to be an understanding that we had burned through our go-to strategies for lowering stress and disrupting monotony. This new routine became something to look forward to, and, consequently, brought a little extra perk and purpose to the rest of the day. It was, I can only imagine, an unexpected experience for my son to share with with me, not as unexpected as say a stroll through the zombie canon of movies, but unexpected nonetheless. And it was a pleasant reminder to me to maybe be a little less of a snob, and that on days when I cannot handle bleak, when I need to take a few hours break from significance, survival of the moment is not always self and societal examination, it is a brief escape into turbo engines, nitros and the Rock sporting tank top undershirts in the work place. It is a time for the head, heart and soul to rest and reboot, and to welcome comfort and ease from surprising places.

We haven't decided which canon to tackle next, so I'm open for suggestions.