The Last Supper, the Pink Door, and Metabolizing Grief

Pedro and his girlfriend are in town for a quick visit. Last night as we were walking to dinner, we passed the Pink Door, an Italian restaurant in the Market.

"That was the last place we had dinner as a family," Pedro said. "It was the five of us: you, me, dad, Claire-Adele, and my girlfriend."

Whoa.

I didn't remember. I remember lots of last things, but not the last dinner we had a family. I found it mildly of tragic that Pedro had marked it in his mind and I didn't. When I think back, I can't remember which meal that was. 

• I remember Jack had once ordered some crazy kind of fish (branzino?) that was full of bones at the Pink Door. Was that at the last dinner, or was it another time we ate there?
• I remember that the Pink Door was the last restaurant Jack and I went to before the pandemic shut down. We made a point of going to a movie and dinner, knowing the lock-down was coming. 
• I remember ordering risotto and lasagna to-go from the Pink Door during lock-down because I was too lazy too cook.

I don't remember the last time we ate dinner as a family. 

I can't close my eyes and try to make it up, but I can't tell one dinner at the Pink Door from the next.

I was all out of sorts today and I didn't know why. Then when I told my therapist the last supper story, I cried.

"You are metabolizing your grief," Brandon said. "This is normal."

He is right, and yet it still sucks. I'd rather not have the grief, but as I know from losing a child, grief waits. You can bury it and smother it and hide it in the corner, but it will wait. 

But when I look grief in the eye and accept it, it hurts, and then it subsides. 

I was glad Pedro told me about the last time we had dinner as a family, that he shared his memories about the before times with me. He feels safe enough with me to talk about it, to bring it up, that I wouldn't freak out or cry or scream. I am not as crazy about that kind of stuff as I used to be.

This was a shared memory, even if I didn't remember it. Perhaps some grief isn't meant to be metabolized alone. Perhaps some grief is meant to be metabolized together.

Ickiness v. Love

This story is not a pleasant one.

Today, as I was waiting for an appointment, I was reading about Famous Writer (male) who recently has been accused of sexual assault and misconduct. If I hadn't been in a holding pattern, I might have just read the headline and skipped the meat. Instead, I dove in. The article--like most #metoo articles--was gross, but I read it in a different light.

I had a friend who years and years ago had an affair with Famous Writer. By time I knew her, the affair was over, but the emotional aftermath was still there. She was hurt, wounded, broken-hearted. Scarred.

Famous Writer had a cult following, and it wasn't uncommon for women fans to toss him their metaphorical and literal panties. My friend was an artist, and she connected with Famous Writer on a creative level.

Or so she thought.

He sent her poetry, and she devoured it. She loved it. She loved him, and she thought he loved her.

When I was reading this article about Famous Writer, I was looking for my friend. Where was her story, wrapped in the sheets? Where does she belong in the narrative and the mess that is and was this guy's life? What about the women who love Famous Writers and Actors and Sports Stars and whatnot, these guys who end up being at best creeps and at worst rapists and assaulters?

I don't blame friend for not seeing him as a creep or rapist. I can't. He probably didn't assault her. He didn't need to. She was willing and gave him consent. She was a fan with an open heart. She only saw one slice, one angle of his life. She didn't see the other women and how he treated them. And what Famous Writer did to my friend  wasn’t a crime, but it was certainly part of a pattern.

My heart breaks for my friend again. My heart broke for her years ago, when she wished Famous Writer was in her life. And it breaks again today, as I see her as one of the many, many women he used and abused, even if she was willing.

Paragons of Virtue

Many people who go through divorce suffer a change in their financial circumstances and need to amend previous spending patterns. Even if people go from "affluent" to "less affluent," it still can kind of suck to have to make budgeting choices where before it wasn't needed.

My divorced friends and I are going through this shift, and they wanted someone to write an article celebrating our new sense of thrift. Here are our accomplishments of the week.

• Kathryn went "book-bathing" at Barnes & Noble. She walked through the store and didn't buy any books.
• Jessica went to Nordstrom Rack and only spent $40 on things she intended to buy in the first place.
• I ate dinner in on Friday and Saturday night instead of going to Le Pichet.

In the category of "Not Cheating the System," we

• Paid for $2 all day parking at North Seattle College this weekend when we played pickle ball, and
• Paid our car tabs instead of letting it slide.

As my kids would say, “Yay us!”

NPC & Acceptance

I am a heartless, cranky old bat.

One of my twenty-something former co-workers got married this Sunday and I didn't want to go to the wedding.

I left Andy's team about five months ago for a new role in the same company. I moved from the second floor to the sixth. A week after I started my new role, Andy appeared at my new desk, wedding invitation in hand. Beaming. The invitation had fancy envelope, a wax seal and everything. I was surprised he figured out where I saw and brought me an invitation. Silently I thought "I don't want to go." We rarely worked together on the same projects, but we had the same manager and our desks were near each other. I figured I was getting the elementary school birthday party invitation logic: if Andy was inviting anyone from team, he had to invite everyone from his team. I really couldn't say "Sorry I can't make it to your wedding six months from now. I have a haircut appointment."

I don't know why I didn't want to go other than I am a cranky old bat. I didn't want to spend six hours of a Sunday on someone a barely knew. My good friend and co-worker Tracy was also going, so I figured I'd go along.

Sunday morning before the wedding, I played pickleball, went to brunch with teammates (which was a riot), and then left at the last possible moment for me to go home, shower and change my clothes. Turnaround time from post-pickleball mess to wedding ready was thirty-four minutes.

When I got to the wedding, my co-workers Tracy, Amy and I were all plopped at a table in the back, as expected. I saw all of Andy's friends, his family, his bride's family and friends. Andy and Sasha had met at church, so half of her side and half of his side knew each other. I felt like an NPC--a non-playable character--in a video game. My role wasn't to participate or tell cute stories or even help, but simply to watch. Observe. Witness. Why did they need me there?

I knew Andy was religious, but I didn't understand the depth of his faith until I was at his wedding. Reading of his vows, Andy said he thought he would never get married, never be a father. He willingly accepted god's plan that he might always be single.

Wow.

I have to admit after sitting next to Andy for two years--not gonna lie--I thought the same thing. How is this guy ever going to get married? I couldn't imagine him on a date, but there was no way I would ever ask him about his love life. Andy is a sweet guy and couldn't be mean if he tried, but I didn't see him having any savvy with women.

The interesting thing that Andy said, given his religion and faith, was not that he prayed and prayed to get married. Instead, he said he willing accepted god's plan for him to be single. 

A week later, he met Sasha.

What I find so remarkable and heartening about Andy's story is his acceptance. A guy like him could have ended up some crazy incel, blaming women up and down for not wanting to date him. Instead, he did the opposite. He accepted his lot. He wasn't resigned or bitter or resentful. He openheartedly accepted his singleness with grace.

In the end, it was the most inspiring wedding I have ever been to. I've never been happier for someone getting married than I was for Andy.

Who knew that a heartless, cranky old NPC bat could be so moved? That faith and acceptance could be contagious?

Four Mondays

Welcome back

to work

during the holidays.

Today

is the fourth "Monday"

I've had in 

two weeks.

Oy.

Carry On

The other night I watched the new movie Carry On on Netflix about a TSA agent who foils an evil villain's plot to kill 250 people on a plane with a new Russian nerve gas. Taron Egerton is adorable as the TSA agent. I loved him in The Kingsman series where he help his own with Colin "Mr. Darcy" Firth. I loved Taron as Eddie the Eagle and in Rocketman where he played Elton John. This actor isn't afraid to eccentric goofballs, which is so endearing in the age of actors protecting their brand. How about having the brand of being talented? That works, too.

All of that about Taron is great, but I gotta say I was rooting for Jason Bateman, who was playing the villain. I was hoping Jason's character would knock off the U.S. Representative and her baby along with the other 248 people on the plane. Not that I actually wanted to see all of those people die, but rather the hero has to win, right?

Spoiler alert: Jason Bateman's character dies in the end from his poisonous nerve gas. He gets locked in an airtight storage locker made of glass so we can see his demise. I have to admit I was hoping for a Fatal Attraction ending, where he came back from presumed death. Oh well. Didn't happen.

My blog recently has not lived up to its name. Rough Draft was supposed to be a place where I could write stuff and just say "Fuck it. It might not be perfect or popular, but it is what I am thinking and feeling in a moment." Sort of a written Improv. Recently, I have been writing things, and then hemming and hawing about whether to publish them. That is not the point of this blog. In this post, I was afraid you would think I was a monster for rooting for the villain. Instead, it made me wonder about movies (and life) and who is cast as a good guy and who is cast as a bad guy. Jason Bateman is about my age (he's older than me, for the record) and he's played a tired, old white guy who seems like he is just doing his job, but somewhere along the way his job morphed into something terrible and his brain forgot to tell his conscience. He became really good at this horrible, shitty, evil job that ruins his life and the lives of others, but he keeps doing it. My god, this applies to half of the people I know, but who would admit it? Welcome to middle age.

What do we do? Carry on.

Monica & Me

Last night, I had an end-of-class improv show.

[Note: If you are one of my friends and wondering "Why didn't she invite me to her show? My feelings are hurt," I will say don't worry -- I didn't invite anyone. My class learned the format of our presentation the week before Thanksgiving, and I was worried that the show might be a cluster-fuck. I didn't need to drag me dear friends to see a disaster. When improv is bad, it is painful to watch. 

I asked one of the women in my class if she invited anyone. 

"No," she said. "I disinvited people."]

Last night was a learning experience. There were six classes performing, mine was the fifth. The classes before my performance were all great. There was some amazing work--you wouldn't know these people were just students--which made me more nervous. Performing the safe space of the dozen people in the class is one thing. Getting on stage in front of strangers is another.

My class voted that I would be one of the main performers, taking on the story arc of one of the two main characters. The other players have a tough job. Their role is to bring a bold and impressive offer to the main characters.

In my first scene, my scene partner boldly gave my character the name Monica. 

My third scene partner boldly gave me a last name Lewinsky.

It was intense.

I remember reading the Starr Report, all of which was published in the NYT in the summer of 1998. I remember working in Washington, D.C. in the winter of 1999, where Monica was hiding out at the Mayflower Hotel, down the street from the much less expensive hotel where I was staying. I wanted to stay at the Mayflower, hang out at the gym, and hope to run into Monica, not for any creepy purposes, but rather I thought "That woman could use a friend." And not some crazy Linda Tripp type. Another young woman who could sit next to her, say nothing, and nod. Everyone has done some crazy shit in their early adult life. Her shit just happened to make American history.

So there I was, playing Monica Lewinsky, on the spot. 

And now she has gotten into my head, about how this young woman in her early twenties had a fling with the President. She was besotted with him, and besotted twenty year old take crazy risks. Now her blow jobs are in history books.

When I think about Monica, I think about Hillary. Of course, I have empathy for the wife, but now that I am older and I wiser, I see Bill and Hill as a power couple. I have learned that power couples are more often about power, and less about the couple.

One of the challenges I had as an improviser last night was not trusting my instincts to serve the needs of the story, which is deadly on the stage. The audience was large, and I kept wondering what they would think, what would they want to know. When that happened, I lost my north star. To be fair, my performance was fine. It wasn't terrible, but I could have knocked it out of the park with such rich material and I didn't.

But therein lies the learning. I wouldn't have learned that lesson had I not gone on stage in front of strangers. 

Love Me Back

I played in a pickle ball tournament this weekend and I "got my ass handed to me," which is pickle ball parlance for I lost. 

Badly.

In five games, my randomly assigned partner and I scored maybe seven points out of a possible total of 55. We lost two of the five games 0 to 11. It was painful. When we lost, I didn't come of out thinking, "I held my own." Instead, it was like "That was a fresh slice of hell."

As I've mentioned 435 times before, I didn't play competitive team sports as a kid. I danced and danced and danced. I played one season of Cardinal Boosters soccer in 8th grade because I thought it would be fun. Nope. It was horrific. I was playing with girls who played since they were tots. 

This was supposed to be an advanced beginner pickle ball tournament, but people in Seattle do not get the idea of what a beginner is. 

This loss stuck with me longer than it should have. Sunday when I had my regular pickle ball league, I had the shakes. I was freaking out, terrified. Maybe I should quit if it is making me feel like such shit. I talked to another friend at the tournament, whose team was in second to last place. She was an artsy kid, and like me, new to competitive sport as an adult. My god, we should form a pickle ball support group. "I love pickle ball, but it doesn't love me back" could be the theme.

That was how I felt: pickle ball doesn't love me as much as I love it. I am still a beginner and feel left behind. Why do I want something like this to love me back? It is ridiculous. My ex would say he'd wake up and realize his job wouldn't love him back. He sounded like he wanted the job to love him back, but it didn't. It couldn't. I never understood what he meant until now, and the crazy disappointment that rides along with that.

The funny thing is I have a hundred things I'd tell my friends or my kids if they came to me with this problem, starting with "You win some, you lose some." I can't believe I never had to put this into practice until middle-age. I've learned thousands of things in my life except how not to be butt-hurt when I get shellacked. Damn, it is humbling. 

I practice, but I have other stuff in my life, like a new job and my improv class. But the other things in my life are independent of my relationship with pickle ball. Why can't I be competent at more than one thing? Why is losing so fucking hard? My friend Katie says playing pickle ball is a Buddhist exercise in acceptance every time she plays. That is so true.

Then I see the other people playing. I don't know their stories. Maybe pickle ball is all they have. Maybe they lost their job or don't have one or have other stuff going on in their lives that are causing them heart ache and strain. Maybe playing pickle ball is helping them survive.

Maybe pickle ball is helping me to survive: survive my post-divorce rebirth, survive my career new job. Maybe pickle ball is my life raft, and when it sprung a big leak, I freaked out.

Breathing & Partners & Haystacks

I recently improved my improv game by a factor of ten by using a breathing exercise from improv teacher. I told Charles I wanted to work on discovering a scene, not inventing one, as the father of modern improv Keith Johnstone writes. In an improv scene, we are supposed to listen and respond to what the other person is saying and doing instead of making up random shit. If you are in a scene in a grocery store looking at eggplants and a dinosaur walks down the aisle without prompting, someone is making shit up.

This breathing exercise is a game changer in discovering a scene:

1. Breathe in what your scene partner says
2. Breathe out your interpretation
3. Breathe in your feelings
4. Breathe out as you engage

This slows a scene down to a screeching halt--in a good way. I am forced to listen, absorb and respond.

The scene started where I was a Hollywood prima donna on set with a famous director. As I was preening, he was wasn't happy with where things were heading. I interpreted that he was calling me a bitch. My feeling was anger. I was pissed off, but I responded politely through gritted teeth. It was a battle of status, and the prima donna lost. In the end, she ended up wearing a gorilla suit at the director's request.

She was a damn good gorilla, dammit.

This breathing method allows us to move in tandem with our scene partner. 

At pickle ball last weekend, one of guys I played against repeatedly poached the ball from his partner. I hit the ball across court to the woman, and the dude ran across the court, jumped in front of her, and slammed the ball back. This annoyed me, and probably also his partner.

"The goal is to make your partner look good," Ace said.

"Isn't that true in all of life?" I replied. "When is it not true?"

Partnerships are hard, especially for me coming off a divorce. I had thought I was good a partnerships for basically my entire adult life, to now realize I might not be as great I thought I was. Now that I am divorced, I am learning about partnerships through improv and pickle ball.

In pickle ball, I don't want to let my partner down. Most games are mixed doubles, and I don't want to be the weak link, the reason my otherwise good partner lost. The funny thing is that I beat myself up when I lose a point, but I don't pick on my partner for missing one.

Improv is collaborative, not competitive like pickle ball. I still struggle with winning and losing. I feel bad when I get crushed, but at the same time I don't feel amazing when I win. I don't know why. 

This concept of winning and losing is becoming my haystacks. I feel about winning and losing the way Monet looked at haystacks. He painted a series of them in different light and from different angles. There will never be the perfect, definitive haystack. There are a thousand ways to look at a haystack, and each of them gives us an idea of possibilities. Half of my hangup about pickle ball winning and losing isn't as much about me as it is about my views of partnership. Why do I internally carry the blame for a loss?

Maybe I just want someone to want to play with me again.

Today

I wish 

I was 

my dog

so I could 

eat my breakfast

and then

go back

to bed.

Overlook Walk and the Full Glass

Finally!

The new park at the Market is complete! After a decade or so of planning, downtown is done.

First, Seattle built a tunnel for traffic to flow under the city. 

Next, they tore down the Viaduct, an elevated highway with spectacular views of Elliot Bay and downtown.

Once the Viaduct was down, they build a park where the highway used to be, so people could walk around and enjoy the views instead of seeing the view from driving in their cars at 50 miles per hour and trying not to crash.

Sunday morning, I was walking Fox by the new park, and I met a couple from London. They were blown away: "This is incredible, so beautiful!" They were glowing. I have walked my dog through that area many times before, and I never got such a reaction. 

(They were also enamored with Fox. "That is a fine hound you have there," the gentleman said of my lapdog.)

I am hoping Seattleites will be more excited about visiting the Market and downtown. Traffic will be a mess, but now there is a train that can bring people within blocks of the park. Seattleites and members of the PNW are an outdoorsy group, and many don't appreciate a solid urban core. To be fair, the urban core in Seattle could use a little TLC, just like many cities around the U.S.. But this park is more than lipstick on a pig. This is an urban hike for those who want a dose of the mountains and water without leaving town.

Seattleites can also be a grumpy bunch, finding fault instead of looking at what is good. This town--in spite of its beauty and wealth--tends to be a "glass is half empty" kind of place. This new park is a full glass, but I am sure people will find room to complain.

The wonderful thing about cities is they are what we make them. We can make the places we live and love beautiful and magnificent.

Ladder

In order

to climb

a ladder

you must 

first 

let go

of the 

lowest

rung.

I started a new job and I've been thinking about growth. Part of growing is letting go of the old, the safe, the familiar, so we can climb to the next level. We can't do both--climb while staying in place. Think of kids in school. Every year, they change rooms and teachers, sometimes even schools. They can't go to first grade if they stay in kindergarten.

Letting go of the old can be scary, especially if we can't see the rung above, or where it will lead. Are we strong enough to pull ourselves up? We hope we are, and we try.

Some people are happy and content where they are, and this is fine. Other times, we don't have a choice but to move. Maybe the rungs below can no longer hold our weight, or they disappear. We can free fall, or we can reach and hold on.