As it turned out, Urgent Care was feeling a little left out.

Yesterday (Sunday) afternoon, we ventured out to run a few errands after a very lowkey weekend. While we were out, my daughter was clearly losing steam… and then, suddenly, was communicating that her ear was in serious pain.

There was about a half-second where I asked myself if we were really about to go to the ER and Urgent Care in the space of one weekend. But that was immediately replaced with — I listen to my kid. She knows her body.

It feels like a golden rule, to always listen to your kid about this kind of thing. Even if it means you might be spending an additional co-pay for nothing.

But I was almost certain it wasn’t for nothing. So far, my kid has been extremely accurate at calling her shot, when it comes to ear infections. If it hurts, she’s got an ear infection. (And the ear that’s infected is generally opposite the ear with the pain.)

The ER Doctor had looked at her throat, but not her ears. (Which may not even have been infection-level, at that point.) So who knew what might be going on in there?

We were already halfway to Urgent Care… Children’s was closed, but our other go-to pediatric UC had appointments available. We scheduled one for as-soon-as-we-could-get-there, and were the only people in the waiting room when we arrived. When we got into the exam room my daughter was offered a plastic shot glass (my terminology) of Ibuprofen because the pain was “so much bad.” It helped a lot!

The Urgent Care doctor seemed a little skeptical when we said, our kid always knows. But lo and behold — ear infection! The doctor us to hold our kids’ hands back while she looked in her ears due to pain-related interference — but we treated it as something sweet to do, not a punitive thing. Later the takeaway was, “Mama, Dada, I didn’t know I could hold your hand while they look! That was so nice!” 🥺

This visit really made me appreciate how efficient Urgent Care can be. Don’t get me wrong, it can be crowded and frustrating. But karmically, we lucked out and — on the heels of such a long, overnight ER visit — this felt downright luxurious.

The more you go to these spaces — and as a parent, it’s inevitable that kids will get sick outside of bankers’ hours — the more you know. Like… the last time we went to Urgent Care for an ear infection, I didn’t initially grab an appointment (why??), and we almost didn’t get in that night. (Unlike the ER, Urgent Care closes.)

When it comes to parenthood, there’s a lot of information you learn on the fly. There’s information you jettison, once your kid is no longer a newborn or a baby. (Like… wake windows? Who can remember?) It’s nice when anything can feel like — we got this.

So kudos to Urgent Care, for letting us say we-got-this now and then.

And did we use the “it hurts, but you’re safe” prompts from the ER wall, as we drove there? We sure did.

And is my kid home from school today, watching yet another show she discovered at the ER (BeddyByes)? She sure is.

Is she also making us take turns “throwing each other in the trash”? (Aka her bed?) Yep, that too. (Big Forky-from-Toy Story energy… honestly, snuggling in “the trash” is pretty great.)

Parenthood: Figuring it all out as we go. Turning trash into treasure. Cobblin’ for our goblins. (?)

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Whatever. There was a moment when we were all obsessed with it. It was on the radio constantly.

The part that always runs through my head, even all these years later, is this (emphasis mine):

Don't worry about the future
Or worry, but know that worrying
Is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum
The real troubles in your life
Are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind
The kind that blindsides you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday

Yesterday I found out that a friend I saw earlier this week has Covid, so at dinner we were saying, “Let’s keep an eye on Elysse.” (That’s me, if you’re new here. Hi!)

So of course: a few hours later, after my 3.5-ish year old daughter had gone to bed, while my husband and I were still watching TV on the couch with the monitor nearby — she sat up screaming.

She’d gone to sleep completely fine. Thrilled, even — she’d had her first bubble bath. But now she couldn’t really communicate to us what was wrong (troubling, because she’s generally super chatty), her breathing seemed very labored and she was trembling, so — off to the ER we went.

Generally, we are Urgent Care people. We know that ERs can have enormous waits, and don’t want to be those people waiting all night with a kid who’s not actually critical. There is a sort of smugness to being like — we avoided the ER, thank goodness! Who wants to wait around all night?

But when it’s nearing 11pm on a Friday night and it’s unclear whether your kid can breathe… you do what you have to do.

I had the presence of mind to grab our external phone charger thing (my phone was about to die), which was clutch because I wanted to text our families, etc. (And eff around on the internet.) I also ran back into my daughter’s room and grabbed her special blanket — not a charger, but also provides essential good energy.

I’m the most squeamish person I know, and terribly wishy-washy. But somehow I tend to get my shit together in moments like these.

On the other hand — I wore shorts. And mismatched socks (time was of the essence). They were both fruit socks though — one kiwi, one orange.

When we got to the ER, the triage nurse immediately ID’d the issue as croup, which is not THAT urgent — until it is? So they thought it was a good idea to wait for the doctor and get the steroid… ultimately, we waited 5+ hours.

It got crowded enough that a little while later (maybe around midnight?) they announced a new policy of one parent per child… we both were allowed to stay, but if anyone had to go to the car (for example, to get my cardigan) they’d just have to stay out there.

Shortly after checking in, my daughter realized that she was getting to watch hours and hours of her favorite Disney Jr. shows in the middle of the night, and was honestly pretty amped. She was healed by Bluey. She was dancing and twirling (in her princess nightgown, and no shoes) to the Dance Mode episode, while we questioned exactly why we’d rushed her to the ER. When we’re Urgent Care (or wait-til-Monday) people!

But Murphy’s Law dictated that if we left — she’d get worse, and we’d wish we’d stayed put. And we know that croup can get scary fast, especially at night.

Later, when we sheepishly showed the ER doctor the videos we’d taken of the alarming symptoms (as our kid bopped around the room), the doctor said — “Hey, that looks scary. I get why you’re here. If it had been a little worse upon arrival, we might have started her on a nebulizer right away.” We got the steroid, and went on our way.

Everyone was very nice about telling us we’d done the right thing. Better to wait a long time because your kid’s a low-priority case, than the alternative. You lost a night’s sleep, but — it’s parenting, what else is new?

Don’t worry about the future
Or worry, but know that worrying
Is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum

I think the “did we do the right thing here?” all gets a little clouded by the punchy nature of being up all night.

We headed home at around 4am and actually did get some sleep, and now we’re having a chill Saturday. And my daughter is watching her new ER-waiting-room discovery, PJ Masks. And she declared, very sweetly, that Mama and Dada are taking good care of her.

A sign in her room at the ER said not to tell kids that they are “okay” in situations like this, but that they are “safe.” “This is hard, and you’re safe.”

A little while ago, while I was chugging down my Metamucil — a time when I end up feeling reflective, don’t ask me why — I was thinking about how last night was a little microcosm of, like… that inner tension that I always carry around, about whether I’m doing the right thing. I’m probably not alone in this.

It’s often focused on my career, or on meeting life milestones. Sometimes people tell us, “You need to decide.” (Someone said this to me last week, word-for-word, on a life-stuff front.) But so often in life, the “right” answer is never going to be 100% clear to us. It’s just — pick a hand, pick a lane. Hopefully you can live with the choice!

A good non-urgent example right now is that my daughter “wants to be a ballerina” when she grows up, but we’re reluctant to enroll her in, like, strict ballet classes. She loves to dance to her own beat. Hopefully someday she’ll thank us for protecting that for a little longer in her young self? Rather than say, why didn’t you just shell out and get me in there?? (Maybe we’ll enroll her next semester… we’ll see how the ER bill shakes out.)

Even in retrospect, what was “right” is not always clear. Often it’s just — we did our best with what we had/knew at the time.

Sometimes we have the luxury of being wishy-washy, and sometimes we don’t. Sometimes a decision needs to be made — now. Sometimes a decision is made for us.

Sometimes we decide, by not deciding.

We don’t know what might have happened if we hadn’t taken her to the ER last night. Maybe something better (avoided exposure to more germs, maybe got more sleep), maybe something worse. It reminds me of the story of the zen farmer. Back luck, good luck. Who knows?

It’s like… Schrödinger’s ER visit. Many things in life have that Schrödinger tinge, don’t they?

So yeah, (luckily) last night we were not a case you’d see on The Pitt (or The Pitt, Jr? The Pitt: The Animated Series? Call me, Hollywood!). But it’s nice to go through the process sometimes, if only to feel a little extra gratitude for the triage system, that gets the sickest kids in ASAP — and for a kid who wasn’t in that category last night.

A kid who, in an ER room at 3am, was pretending I was a horse-cow that needed to be walked around the stables. (“Hey, horse-cows don’t talk! Say neigh-moo!”)

I also learned that because we’ve been to the Children’s Urgent Care, we were in the system and check-in was a breeze. And because I had downloaded the patient portal back then, we didn’t have to do a formal discharge process.

So in the end — Urgent Care and ER… both have their moments! And we’ve earned a new parenting achievement… the overnight-at-the-ER merit badge. 🙃

I still don’t know what’s coming to blindside me on at 4pm on an idle Tuesday. But… there’s no use worrying about it now.

I am indeed a Leo (big birthday incoming), and I hope that’s all true. But I struggle constantly with the tension between like — wanting to be perceived, and being extremely self-conscious? Wanting anyone to be able to read intimate, personal stuff I wrote, but also wanting nobody to know what I’m really up to unless we’re actual friends getting coffee together?

I spent the summer mostly in my head — in my novel. And occasionally people-watching at the public pool, eavesdropping on lifeguards who didn’t even register my existence at my daughter’s swim lessons. It was kind of great.

But I also wondered… am I doing enough to get myself out there — whatever that means?

I saw this post on Threads, that felt kind of profound:

“A man who wants to lead the orchestra must turn his back to the crowd.”

Quotes like this help me to remember — there is a season for everything (turn, turn, turn…). Right now is the season to be private and internal, and create. That’s what I have control over. Much of the rest of the process is out of my hands, and often takes longer than I want. But… I can write my stories. I can do that part.

And someday, I am anxious to share them. And be a big, social Leo about it. But… I have to be patient. I have to understand that social media is showing me other people’s loud parts — but that the quiet part existed for them too. I’m sure of it.

I recently had a final session with yet another therapist, due to insurance stuff. Her parting words included the advice to maybe start a public Instagram for my writing (or archive my private one and turn it public, which turned out to be entirely too daunting.) So I made a new account, and then I quickly realized — I can’t actually share much, at least about novel stuff, when it’s this early on. That would be putting the cart in front of the horse. (But I can say… I did finish a draft, and edit it! … And now I’m gonna writer another novel, why not!)

So I’m not really sure what to share on that Instagram right now, but my public profile exists. Ready for… some future day, when I will hopefully need a space to promote my stories in a big public way. (And for now, if you have any ideas… tell me how to introduce Elysse The Writer to the world.)

With all the fellowships etc I’ve applied for on my long path of Trying to Maintain a Writing Career, I’ve found that life really does continue to feel like high school… like, it’s always a popularity contest, and I still often feel like I’m not cool enough for the gatekeepers to be permitted to leap the fence. But… I think most of us are on the uncool side of the fence? And want more stories we can relate to? So I hope my audience will find me, when the time comes.

We can feel ambivalent about being perceived together. And that would be VERY cool? Would make us all feel seen, maybe??

I’m continuing to make it a goal to post here a little more often. So here I am, accountable to myself.

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Now that I’m an almost-20-years-older professional writer, I generally work with foundational story documents (aka plotting). In TV and film, you often get paid separately for those steps — story area (this can go by many names), outline, script — so you don’t want to skip them… especially because typically, if someone buys an idea (vs. an already-written “spec”), you typically have to get their thumbs-up at each stop in the development process.

I think those types of documents may also come into play in publishing, but since this is my first book, I basically have to write the whole thing and then see if anyone wants to read it. As usual in writing… we’re doing free work, baby!

But I outlined it anyway, because that’s my process now. I find that outlining across most types of writing isn’t so different, but reckoning with the page count/size of the final product is definitely different. I started out writing one-hour TV (60-ish pages), then decided to scale down to half-hour TV (30-ish pages), then ended up writing features (100-ish pages, +/- 10 pages). Features felt relatively long, all things considered!

But screenplay pages are like, mostly blank space. I sometimes tell new writers that the important thing with a screenplay is to keep the reader’s eyes moving down the page. Here’s a completely arbitrary example, pulled from something that’s not active so I don’t think anyone will come after me:

In screenwriting, we count by pages, not by words. And generally 1 page of writing equals 1 minute of story. So if you’re writing a screenplay, maybe you’re aiming for 90-ish pages, total. Cool. Straightforward.

But writing a novel is… dense. You might be aiming for 90… thousand… words. I have no idea how many pages my current draft is, but it’s not really relevant at the moment. I have been helped so much by using Scrivener this time, which allows you to write each scene as a little segment of the bigger work. You can make notes on the side, or even take a “photo” of a scene before you start to edit it, so you can go back and look at a previous version of it.

Writing a screenplay, you give the reader enough information to picture what’s going on, but you don’t fill in every last detail. That’s someone else’s job later down the road, and they’re very good at it! In that example above, there would be a production meeting down the road where a Prop Master would be like, and what TIME PERIOD is that ship’s wheel from? What part of the WORLD? Etc etc. And they’d have all sorts of cool examples ready to show me.

Writing a novel is like, oh I’m ALL the jobs of production, as the writer. I often have to remember to go back and like — be the set designer, be the costume designer. I’m not really a fashion person, so I’ve had to google so many words for like… types of sleeves on dresses.

Luckily this novel is set in the real world, so a lot of the descriptions of places are just… me describing the real-life places I’m basing my fictional places on, with some tweaks.

I have also been helped by reading a lot of novels in this genre (contemporary romance!), and by writer-friends — by a friend who lent me a book with outline ideas for this type of novel, and another who gave me the advice to keep pushing forward to keep up momentum, even if I think of things I want to go back and adjust, and keep a spreadsheet of edits for the next draft.

That’s especially good advice because the way I want to edit what I already wrote, changes as I move forward. So waiting to go back creates a kind of a measure twice (or many times), cut once situation. I’ve been brainstorming, outlining, etc for a while, but it’s so interesting the turns it all takes when you actually bring the characters to life. They have opinions!

“Bringing them to life” feels like an apt choice of words because writing a novel feels a lot like actual childbirth, to me… like labor. I had a very long one, which perhaps prepared me for this process. There’s a point in labor where your brain is like, “I don’t think I can do this, never mind!” And your body is like… uh, NOT AN OPTION.

Writing a novel takes so long that you reach many points where your brain is like… “Hmm, maybe this was a bad idea, should I scrap it?” And then — in this case — ALSO your brain, has to be like, “Shut up and write! Don’t you want to meet this beautiful child that’s only halfway out, stuck somewhere in your pelvis??”

I know a lot of people joke that if you want to get all your other life shit done, you should try to write something. But I’m perhaps the weird, rare person who shuts out life and WRITES. I pretty much go into a full flow state and essentially black out for hours. (I did this while pushing out a baby, too.) Like I blink and it’s lunchtime, blink and it’s time to pick up my kid from camp.

Maybe because I’m leaving my normal plane of existence to channel in the words I’m looking for, I tend to just write at my dining room table, in complete silence. I know that if I went to a coffee shop, I would get distracted by eavesdropping on strangers, or stressing out about my parking meter, or outstaying my welcome, or whatever. No offense to people who need a coffee shop, I just need my cave and cannot relate! (A lot of animals go hide to give birth, haha.)

But I have learned this week that I can also work on a steamy scene while my daughter watches Doc McStuffins like 6 feet away. That’s called range!

And now to the part of the Substack I actually set out to write:

Because of my black-hole style, I’m not generally a big curated music girly, but in the past I have occasionally chosen one artist to create a vibe for me while I wrote certain scenes or took brainstorming walks. For one script it was Billie Eilish. For another it was Taylor Swift’s Reputation album, and another was like, the Cardigan/Folklore era.

Lately I’ve watched a few shows/movies that I thought had pretty good playlists if I wanted to just like, pop on a little music while I made lunch. Those are the soundtracks from: Voicemails for Isabelle, Off Campus… and this is less recent, but the Barbie soundtrack has some fun moments.

I’m trying to think of what artist might be a good match for this current project, if I read a “let’s infuse a writing vibe” moment. Maybe Chappell Roan…

If you also write, are you:

Team Coffee Shop vs. Team Home

Team Music vs. Team Silence

Team I-End-Up-Cleaning vs. Team I-Enter-A-Vortex

Team Scrivener vs. Team Something-Else (I’m Team Final Draft for screenplays… our problematic fave)

And if you don’t write but had a baby, did you black out while pushing??

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I. Facing My Fears

I have a lot of fears, rational and irrational. In becoming A Parent, I knew that I would have to suck it up and face many of them. Because my kid is A Kid, and I have to be The Grown-Up.

People who know me well, know that I am Weird about public toilets. I will hold it in like a camel if a bathroom looks at me the wrong way. I have long dreaded having to be The Parent in a public bathroom.

I especially hate Porta Potties. When I was in… middle school? I tried to hover over a seat in a gross Porta Potty at my sister’s soccer game and peed all over myself. When I was… an adult? I got stuck in a Porta Potty with a wasp and emerged screaming, with a streamer of toilet paper stuck to my shoe. (Another HUGE fear of mine? Wasps. Cool cool cool cool cool…)

Since then, I will not use a Porta Potty unless it’s the fancy multi-stall kind you find on, like, a film set. Absolute non-starter, I will hold it for hours.

You can probably see where this is going… 💩

We did the classic 3-day in-home potty-training with my daughter last week, and the day it ended was her half birthday. Three and a half! It was also July 3rd, so we decided to do it up and take her to see her first fireworks show.

Shortly before the show was slated to begin, she dutifully announced that she had to pee. Great, we’d brought our little toddler-sized potty seat. My husband was in line for food, so it made sense for me to go with her to (what I hoped was) “the bathroom.” We were at a high school. They typically have indoor plumbing!

Someone told us it was alllll the way across a huge high school sports field. Cool cool cool. It was getting dark, and I didn’t see any kind of building over there. So we trekked and trekked, and I asked someone else, are we in the right place? And they pointed to… a row of Porta Potties.

The fear that was struck into my heart. It was pitch dark. The lines were long. We were far away from my husband. It was too public to do a Bluey-style “bush wee.”

So… we waited for a Porta Potty. Because I wasn’t about to let my daughter pee her pants. Not on my account.

As we waited in line, I was calculating what I’d do when it was our turn like the lady in that meme who I always thought was Rachel Griffiths, but isn’t.

When we got to the front, I left the door open. I turned on my phone flashlight, and stuck it in my shirt/bra. I put down the toddler seat, and told her, with urgency, “Don’t look into the potty!” She sat and peed, nothing/nobody fell into the abyss, and we walked back across the dark field just in time to find my husband before the light went out.

(And yes I had to pee too, but I held it.)

Was it scarier than childbirth, which I had been through exactly 3.5 years prior? Maybe? But it was over MUCH more quickly, so it had that in its favor. (And it could have gone a lot worse!)

But later that weekend, when faced with another Porta Potty (at the beach)… I let my husband have a turn.

II. Bug Juice

My gastroenterologist (yes I have one, don’t be jealous!) recently recommended that I start taking Metamucil for fiber, via… drinking it. This weekend I finally made it to Target to get the cheaper generic, which is known as Silly Husks (jk, it’s psyllium husk). It was listed as orange flavor, which sounds… not the worst?

So anyway, this is how you drink your Metamucil:

Pour one “rounded” teaspoon into a cup. (You can do two, but… well, we’ll get there.)

Add water, quickly stir it all up, and then do your best to CHUG the whole thing down.

If you don’t chug it quickly enough (or, in my experience, if you use the recommended two teaspoons), you will find that the drink is turning into a terrible blob sludge IN YOUR MOUTH. It’s like… evil boba.

The flavor is like… Tang? But more like: “Hey, do you miss how your summer camp used to serve Tang on camping trips? What if we served Tang (the astronaut drink!), but also added mysterious alien slime, that might be the eggs of alien children or something? And you have to drink it up really fast or the baby aliens hatch and something bad could happen to everyone you love? Would that be fun??”

I don’t know. I could probably polish that (turd) a little more. Workshop it. But I hope you get the idea.

On the plus side, I have been sort of bad about hydrating… like, I’ll pour myself a cup of water and it sits neglected. Drinking Metamucil means that I have to chug 2 pint glasses of water a day to get my 2 teaspoons. So… that’s cool for me.

III. Life Skills Like Whoa 💩

So even after kids potty train, poop tends to take a minute longer.

Have I held an impressive ball of poop in my hand this week? Yes.

Have I figured out how to list these types of parenting moments as a skill on my resume? No.

“Keeps cool under (bowel) pressure”? 💩

Cool cool cool cool cool…

I must admit that when it comes to sports, I am not always in the know. Baseball, mostly yes. WWE (a scripted sport), sometimes. But the rest… I am kind of oblivious.

Like, it only dawned on me that Something was happening with the Knicks because the basketball of it all perforated Social Media in general.

Anyway, I am aware that The World Cup is happening in Los Angeles (and the US in general?), mostly because I have been keeping tabs on people discovering regional American treat foods. But I would not say I am savvy to soccer and/or football. Like, I didn’t know that “match” was the preferred word for “game.” (Maybe?)

I have lately been reading the Part of Your World romance novel series by Abby Jimenez, which takes place largely in a hospital setting. (It was recommended by my friend Allison in Italy, so we are basically having a World Cup of book recommendations?) Where “match” could be a residency thing, but also could be an organ donor thing. (Or, as usual, the item you strike to light a candle.)

I have also been musing, for my own creative purposes, over “matches” as in… matchmakers.

Maybe this post is about English, a language that requires so much context.

So anyway, I kept seeing all these posts on my Instagram about “Match Day Snacks,” and in my mind I was like: “Wow, I had no idea Match Day — the day when medical students find out where they’re going to be residents — was like, a hashtagged day for parties and snacking. But the algorithm reveals all sorts of niches!”

And is it even Match Day season? But… sure, let’s celebrate doctors!

Then, I moved on with my life.

Until just now. I was looking at a Wirecutter article promising to reveal The Best Pickles (of course I would) and I came upon an ad about Match Day. This made me take pause. Like, seriously, since when is Match Day, which I thought was pretty exclusive to 4th year medical students, a holiday with this much buzz??

I stared at this ad for, like, 20 seconds or more. And then it hit me. There were soccer balls.

Match Day must be a World Cup thing. I guess!

So congratulations to me, for letting the World’s favorite sport just go flying over my head. For being unable to be advertised to, apparently. People should study my oblivious (but still very overwhelmed) mind.

What team are you rooting for? I am probably rooting for the McDonalds Squishmallow named Debra. She is, allegedly, a capybara — with a “very direct” personality.

And also because the internet is weird, if you look for Match Day stock photos, you will find a combo of both.

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When I started subbing (in August), I quickly learned that students are generally unimpressed by whoever I am outside of the context of their school. My first day, subbing an English class that was working on essays, I said, hoping it wouldn’t cause too much of a stir, “If you need any help, I’m a writer! … I write movies and TV!”

I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but what I got? Crickets.

Last week (April, now), I subbed a film studies class. “If anybody’s interested in film school, I’m happy to tell you more.” They all looked at me like, film school? Are you crazy? (Maybe.) (To be fair, I went before “in this economy??” was the constant refrain.)

But after almost an entire school year of subbing, I’ve learned the K-12 definition of a celebrity. Once I’ve been to a school a few times, what does get the kids excited is recognizing me… from their school.

“Oooh, why do you look so familiar?”

“Wait — did you sub our anatomy class?”

“Are you really a musician, or did you just sub for the music teacher that one time?”

I may not be internationally famous, or even Los Angeles famous, but I am [insert school name here] famous.

So there’s that.

But still: Today a 4th grader told me I looked pretty (the hair dye is working!), and her seat-mate nudged her and said… don’t be sarcastic.

I may be a minor celebrity, but they won’t let it get to my head. I remain… humble(d).

—

*I subbed a class where students had to analyze their choice of 4 music videos, and literally no one chose “Anti-Hero” by Taylor Swift. She’s for Millennials, I guess.

Lately she loves being a “good helper,” by helping (“helping”?) me complete tasks, such as packing her lunch. (Would it take less time to do it myself? Yes. Is it super cute to watch her take ownership? Also yes.)

In case you are curious, her definition of a “bad helper” is Haman, from the Purim story. I would say that’s a very euphemistic label for him, but… hey, she’s in preschool.

ANYWAY, today I was thinking about fun little facts that I wish more people knew, and thought — hey, that’s something I could share here, and that would make ME a Good Helper! Mitzvah Friday!

I. Sweet Streeping

I cannot pronounce “street sweeping,” I almost always say “Sweet Streeping.” I was thinking about this today on my way to the Podiatrist, where I am almost always placed in what I call the “Meryl Streep Suite,” because there’s some local-LA magazine cover framed on the wall with Meryl’s photo on it. (Within that issue, my Podiatrist was awarded like, Best LA Podiatrist of 2021, or something.)

ANYWAY, I recently discovered that there’s a WEBSITE you can go to, and enter an address, and you can find out what the deal is with the no-parking street sweeping signs in that neighborhood. This is especially helpful when I’m subbing, and trying to figure out where I’ll park. (Not all schools have parking lots.)

Spot Angels probably isn’t the only site, but it’s really useful for figuring out, like, maybe I shouldn’t plan to meet a friend on a Wednesday morning in an area that’s going to be REALLY difficult to park in. (Maybe this is an LA thing, but… ouch, it’s rough.)

II. For the Romance Readers

If you, like me, are in a weird withdrawal from not having any more Heated Rivalry books to read (until Unrivaled comes out! … but the release was pushed back), a few thing that might help pass the time:

1) Cat Sebastian books - Not all books scratch the particular itch, and somehow her books (so far I’ve read You Should Be So Lucky, We Could Be So Good, and I’m currently reading Star Shipped) have that similar recipe of angst, yearning, and happily ever after.

They don’t have hockey, but that’s fine by me. (One of them does have baseball!)

2) Fan fic - For the first time I’ve dipped my toe into AO3, honestly the slipperiest of slopes (some things are not for me!) but there is literally so much to read that you could probably read a fic a day and not be done by the time Unrivaled comes out next June. I have hardly scratched the surface. There’s sad fics, there’s funny fics, there’s fics with Ilya as a pediatric surgeon OR as a baker-girldad OR a wedding crasher OR trapped in a Groundhog Day timeloop on Tuna Melt Day.

I could keep going, but… you get the idea.

I know people say, like, “Oh reading xyz changed my brain chemistry” and it sounds like a line, but I think reading fan fic actually has done that for me, a little bit? Like, damn, are you telling me some of the best writing I’ve ever read was self-published by someone who probably does something entirely different than writing as their day job? And I think reading Wolfbird (which is not going to be complete for a while, proceed with caution) has actually caused me to have breakthroughs about some shit in my past that has been, like, more effective than therapy? (Therapy is still good, too.)

3) Hoopla - My friend Bea, a very good helper, turned me onto Hoopla. I am an avid Libby user, and I love that it sends books to my Kindle, but the waiting can be ROUGH. I don’t know how Hoopla does it exactly, but it’s also connected to the library and the books are just THERE. In their app-reader-thing. On-demand. It’s great!

BONUS: If you’re reading this post on the DAY it’s published, you can get my friend Rachel Pologe’s debut romance novel on Net Galley as a READ NOW. It won’t be out until October so this is a sneak peak! It’s a Hanukkah romance novel!!! Yessss.

III. “The Bone Machine”

If you ever break a bone, did you know you can help it heal with ultrasound technology? I have spent the last 300-ish days using my “bone machine” (my daughter named it that), and I kind of can’t believe I get those 20 minutes/day back now.

Much like Meryl Streep winning an Oscar, I’d like to thank my podiatrist and my bone machine rep lady for helping make this happen!

I’ve dealt with so much foot and ankle drama/trauma that I can’t help but feel like… when is the other shoe gonna drop? Only a little pun intended. BUT… I’m trying to celebrate the win and tune out the usual frequency of impending dread, y’know?

🎵 You can be a good healer, with the bone machine 🎵

All right, your turn… any Good Helper advice? Drop it in the comments!

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I’ve wanted to write a few times but I don’t have anything that feels like a FULL post, so instead three small posts in one:

I. Sephardic for Passover

My personal brand of Judaism is pretty lenient about Food Rules, for various reasons. I’ve given myself a pass from fasting, after the Yom Kippur where I threw up explosively, just before sundown. When it comes to Passover, I’ve decided that there are just Too Many Food Rules. A lot of the things we can’t eat are based on Ashkenazic paranoia about what foods MIGHT have touched some wheat, once.

I can’t deal with that much Rabbinical anxiety, I’ve got my own problems.

This year, though, I taught a lesson on Ashkenazi vs. Sephardi customs, and it changed my life. Sephardic Jews, coming from Spain and Morocco, are cool with eating rice, beans and nuts on Passover.

I’m still not being perfect by anyone’s metric, but I’ve decided I’m Sephardic for Passover. I’m eating less bread and feeling more personally Kosher-for-Passover.

I could probably write a THESIS on everything I’m coming to appreciate about Sephardic culture, which I didn’t get a lot of exposure to growing up, but… that’s not for this post!

But one Ashkenazi thing I can’t give up: lox and cream cheese. Sorry!

(Also, hot tip: at my daughter’s school they handed out matzo with this spread on it at their Seder, and it was amazing… but if you’re not having a nut-free Passover, the faux-Nutella from Trader Joe’s works too.)

II. Color Me Confused

My Instagram algorithm is full of people doing that thing where they get draped with a bunch of colors and everyone’s shocked at how amazing they look in their season of choice (fall, winter, spring summer).

In case this sounds completely unfamiliar, here’s a stock photo of what I’m talking about:

I’m guess I’ve got some sort of particular color blindness because I can never tell which color is the absolute most flattering of the four. I go to the comments and I’m like, hm, the second drape? Really?

Am I the only one? Or is this some kind of Emperor’s New Clothes bullshit moment?

III. The Olympics are Coming! The Olympics are Coming!

The Olympics are coming to Los Angeles in 2028 (2 years and change), and the local ticket sales are happening this week, by lottery. Up until now most of what I’ve been hearing about the Olympics in LA is protests against them, but suddenly everyone has Olympic Fever. And the tickets are Not Cheap!

I signed up for the lottery last minute, as a lark, and got a slot. It turned out my family really wanted tickets, and now they have tickets. So it all worked out!

There are Olympic baseball games being held at Dodger Stadium, and my husband is hilariously adamant that between the World Series (which we have attended!) and the World Baseball Classic, this is not actually a valid competition for the world’s best players… at any given Dodgers game, we’re seeing them. I think he has a point.

Squash is being held in a soundstage at Universal Studios (also hilarious), and has sold out.

I maintain that there will probably be non-ticketed ways to enjoy the Local Olympic Vibe. And that our elementary-school-aged (by then) kid will likely have some sort of in to do something adorable in the opening or closing ceremonies… which I will not be attending, unless I am also performing in them, because the tickets are 5-figures.

How do you feel about our Big American Olympics? Did you get any tix? (There are events happening all over the country! … But I think the presale was limited to residents of limited areas.)

The world is full of hazards that only the parents of young children can really appreciate. Many of them are foods. At first it’s no big deal, because a tiny baby doesn’t care to eat popcorn, or gummy candies, or whole grapes.

Then one day, your kid is begging for “popcorns.”

As of pretty recently, my kid has had all of the above. Popcorn, first tried at a friend’s birthday party. A (sour) gummy candy, given to her as a Purim prize, eaten in tiny, careful bites. And whole grapes, because quartered or halved is no longer interesting to her.

Over a decade ago, my now-husband and I were buying sandwiches in a deli in Monterey, decorated with military regalia, when there was a commotion at a table nearby: a young kid was choking on a grape. The parents had no idea what to do. A sandwich-maker stepped out from behind the counter and delivered a quick and no-nonsense Heimlich.

Certain dangers that most parents shrug off, I have seen happen firsthand. Not because I’m a first responder or anything. Just because I’ve been in places at times.

I have always half-joked that I will quarter my child’s grapes until she’s in college.

But lately, she shyly asks if we can share “grapes-carefully” together. That is her word for whole grapes, the way Mama eats them — the green grapes from Costco that are so good that I have gone back to eating grapes, despite knowing (on top of the choking hazard) that spiders can just crawl out of grape-bunches, super-casually (!!!).

When we share grapes-carefully, she takes exaggerated, noisy bites, proving to me that she’s chew-chew-chewing. And I’m glad we’re doing this together.

I can only hope that having learned under my careful watch, she will be set up for success in the wider world, when I am not around to remind her.

II. The Evil Eye

I have been talking lately, maybe even more so than usual, about how superstitious Jews of Eastern European ancestry can be. My class has been learning about Ashkenazi vs. Sephardi Jews, and one of our differences is how we name our children.

Ashkenazi Jews only name after dead relatives. Sephardi, name to honor living relatives. The difference has to do with Ashkenazi worries about The Evil Eye, about pulling deaths attention to the baby and/or the elder if they have the same name.

I’m named after a dead grandmother. My daughter is, too.

It sounds silly, but… you know, a long history of Bad Things happening can push people in the direction of superstition.

My mom recently gave me (or maybe my daughter?) a beaded bracelet with an Evil Eye in it. It fit me better, so I wore it… and my daughter immediately pulled on it and stretched it out. Now it fits no one. (Mental note: re-string!)

Yesterday I was watching a video in preparation for this Sunday’s class, and they were talking about all the little totems Jews use, to try to make luck bend our way.

Because a lot’s going on lately (that’s not the half of it), I went online and bought a new Evil Eye bracelet, something modest and befitting my Ashkenazi heritage. And then I added in a second one, in Toddler size.

When my daughter’s not with me, she’s at a school that I know is very secure. But on top of the logic and the safety protocols, it’s nice to have a tangible, magical little something I can hand her, to show I’m thinking about her. The (in)visible string.

III. Feeling Seen

I am kind of a mess, fashion-wise. It’s hard for me to buy clothes, not just because it’s an extraneous expense. I’m much better at sourcing hand-me-downs or deals for my kid. For me… I kind of wait until it’s an emergency. I’m an afterthought.

I think I have, like, all sorts of weird, tangled issues with being perceived, and how I want to be perceived. And — much like dating — sometimes what you think you want, is not what actually works.

Anyway, my temple-boss texted me that she was bringing me a bag (two, actually) of hand-me-down clothes and shoes. I really didn’t know if any of it would fit, or be my style. But in the end, I got some very cute items. I squealed a few times, pulling out the tops. Perfect bolsters to my currently-very-limited subbing wardrobe.

I never really looked at her wardrobe and went, that is so me, if I dressed better. But somehow she knew, and she made the gesture. It was like a warm, caring hug. (One of the bags she gave me was even covered in illustrations of cozy soups! It was like a meal train for my wardrobe.)

And it make me think — maybe clothing swaps for adults, are where it’s at?

Why do toddlers have all the fun?

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It can be hard to sit on good stories. Although… most of them involve kids just absolutely reading me for filth, like we’re on RuPaul’s Drag Race. So maybe it’s best I don’t give my haters any ideas.

Parenting has also been a lot lately. Potty training, bedtime madness, etc. But that also feels a little weird to blab about too openly on G-d’s green internet. My kid is, like, her own person.

But I want to write! I want to participate in whatever this is, this Substack economy (or lack thereof?). So today, I’m going to gather some little tidbits to share with you, so you know I still love you. I want to feed you, baby birds!

WRITER-Y / BOOK STUFF

A few weeks ago (or less? what is time??) I went to Skylight Books to celebrate Amy Spalding’s newest book, In Her Spotlight. It was a really cool event which included delicious lemon-y cookies that looked like pugs, stickers, and lively conversation.

Amy had some really interesting insights about doing research, as a writer — how it can change how you think your characters would behave, that people are so generous in wanting to share their knowledge, etc. Rather than try to paraphrase, I will direct you to this interview she did about this very topic!

It inspired me to be more open — to research, to reaching out to others, and to being like, whoops, my first instinct was maybe not correct! I will not force things to work! (If something feels forced or off, it usually requires a rethink.)

Sometimes figuring out the more authentic approach, is worth the hassle.

MOVIE STUFF

There are two movies that I keep seeing on my streaming when I cue up child-shows for my child, that I am excited to watch the next time I have the opportunity: Eternity and Rental Family.

I picked both of these movies for my Vulture Movies Fantasy League, which is doing very poorly.

Also, I keep talking about Train Dreams. I haven’t seen it, but I keep making weird little Train Dreams jokes. I think it is actually quite a sad movie, and I generally don’t want to watch super-sad movies, but… I am intrigued by Train Dreams anyway.

TV STUFF

My algorithm is full of ER doctors watching The Pitt. I love everything my algorithm throws at me about The Pitt. I really want to watch The Pitt. But I’m super squeamish, and when I tried to watch the pilot I had to turn it off when I heard the word “degloved.” (DON’T GOOGLE THIS WORD.)

Instead, I enjoy watching St. Denis Medical, which is I guess the comedy version of The Pitt. (I’m sure The Pitt has funny parts, too, but… it also has so much blood, I think??)

I’m very excited for Jury Duty Season 2, which now takes place at an office. I’ll wear my pants-peeing pants.

What are you reading / watching / looking forward to?

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Luckily for me, my daughter’s favorite of the movies is Toy Story 4, in part because we were hand-me-down’d a Toy Story 4 puzzle… which started this whole thing.

I find Toy Story 4 to be the least sad of the movies. It’s has a road trip, and wacky antics. Key and Peele are in it. There’s a toy named Duke Kaboom! These movies are built on stressful situations, but this one keeps it fun.

In Toy Story 2, I cannot handle “When She Loved Me.” It’s a Sarah McLachlan song, so you know it was designed for maximum upset.

And Toy Story 3, I think I only ever saw when it came out in theaters. My best friend and I saw it at the El Capitan (Disney’s theater on Hollywood Blvd), with 3D glasses. I think we sat in the upper balcony. It was a packed house.

Spoiler alert if you haven’t seen it yet (you’ve had almost 20 years), but there is a point in the movie where — my husband doesn’t like me to use this term — but it basically feels like the toys are all about to get Holocausted (in a literal sense because the dictionary definition of Holocaust involves death by fire).

I sat in the theater, sobbing so hard my 3D glasses were filled with water (and I think I was wearing glasses under those glasses, too?), until I could hardly see. The toys are saved at the 11th hour, but my nervous system was already GONE.

Then, when the movie was over, they led us out behind the theater to a full-on Toy Story-themed carnival, and the vibe shift was DISCONCERTING. Like, my friend and I sat on a Ferris Wheel looking over Hollywood, contemplating our mortality. (It’s odd because Toy Story 4 is the one with the carnival, so that would have made way more sense?)

Toy Story 3 also hit hard because I was probably Andy’s age when the original Toy Story came out, so on some level watching him grow up was like… all too real. I’ve gone from being an Andy, to having a Bonnie. It’s wild.

Luckily for me, my toddler agrees that Toy Story 3 is “too scary,” (she watched it with Dada, while I was out), so I haven’t had to relive that trauma. Yet.

And strangely, most of the shorts are delightful. (There’s one where Rex hosts a rave in a bathtub!) They leave the big trauma for the movies.

My middle school-aged students told me Toy Story 4 is the saddest because Woody chooses to leave his friends, but I would argue that he does it for love and adventure, and because Bonnie will be fine without him… and also by the time I saw Toy Story 4 (last week), the trailers for Toy Story 5 already proved they all reunite to fight an iPad or something. So… whatever.

My daughter’s favorite part of Toy Story 4 is none of the above. It’s the spork, Forky. His whole deal is that he’s having an existential crisis about being a toy, because he’s trash. (Literally, Woody pulls him out of the trash.)

Although it would track for her to identify as a Bonnie, my daughter has gleefully started announcing, in a Forky-style voice, “I’m trash!!” (She also likes to say his catch-phrase from the shorts: “I don’t know!!”)

Obviously she is just saying it to be funny, and to get a rise out of me, but there is something inherently stressful about one’s child declaring trash-hood. It makes me feel like a bad parent. I respond with reassurances like, “You’re not trash, you’re great!”

But then I worry that’s the wrong approach, so I add things like: “There’s nothing wrong with being trash! We all feel like trash sometimes. Trash is still worthy of love!” (But also: Don’t become a hoarder?)

Also: Forky loves being trash? … I’m sure I’m overthinking it.

I just want you to know, if you hear my child declare she’s trash, that she’s parroting Forky. She didn’t hear it from us. Her parents love her very much! 😅

When my middle schoolers walked into Sunday school this week, I’d written on the board: “The whole world is a very narrow bridge. The most important part is not to be afraid.”

Later that day I had the good fortune of sitting in a room with progressive, activist clergy members. People of that ilk are always ready to draw on ancestral knowledge. One of them said (I’m going to butcher the paraphrase), “Raising children is a radical act. It means we believe we can make the world a better place for them.”

I’ve been watching the show Beef over and over for a teaching/analysis thing, and there’s a powerful monologue in the pilot where Ali Wong’s comforts her young daughter after a nightmare. Here’s the scene in a nutshell, I can’t find a YouTube clip:

The night Junie was born, it was just them together in the hospital room — no meetings, no emails… no pretending. And there was nothing wrong anywhere, in the entire universe. Emotional, Amy tells June, I wish we could have stayed there.

I think a lot about how when my daughter was first born, in those newborn weeks, she was only aware of her immediate surroundings. If a door opened, she didn’t react. If a siren went by outside, it was just… outside of her cocoon.

Part of that is that newborn eyesight is crap. Pretty much like my current, adult eyesight, without my glasses. It was an even playing field.

Now if I tuck her into bed and say, “You’re in your cocoon,” she replies, “I’m turning into a butterfly!”

Sometimes she says, “I’m growing up! I’m growing into a kid!” And sometimes she says, “I’m growing… into a baby again.”

It would be nice to be able to choose, on a daily basis, whether you feel like being a baby, a kid, or a grown-up.

This morning she said, “What’s that noise? What’s happening outside?” Outside our unit, on both sides, dead trees are being removed. It’s loud work.

I told her, “Some of the trees are sick. They need a doctor, just like you do sometimes.” When we opened our front door to leave for preschool, three men were digging a dead tree out of the planter right outside. A tree she plays under often. She looked at me, alarmed. “Scoopy up!”

So I scooped her, and carried her to the elevator. I told her the tree outside our door was being replaced with an olive tree, the kind that’s responsible for olive oil, and she said, “Oooh.” She likes olive oil, especially since Hanukkah.

On the ride to school, she asked to listen to “Un Poco Loco.” Then “You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” in English and in Spanish. As we listened, she said, “The trees will go to the doctor, and they’ll get better. They’ll come back.”

I didn’t want to correct her, that the trees are dead. Instead, I sang, “Hay un amigo en mi.”

She was still talking about the trees when we got to school. It’s almost Tu B’Shevat, which the kids are looking forward to as the birthday of the trees. I pushed her on the swing for a few minutes, and she noticed the leaves falling. (Winter operates like fall in SoCal.) I tried to explain that the trees have a cycle.

Sometimes they are dying, but sometimes it’s just winter.

By the time I got home from drop-off, the planter was empty.

This is a tired time of year, when I think if our bodies had their druthers, we’d be hibernating. Taking it slow. But instead, the modern world asks us to push through.

One of the scariest things about parenting is knowing there will be a day when my kid knows everything that’s bad about the world, and I can’t really explain why. When my kid understands the permanence of death, and I can’t make it better. I just have to hope that they understand, parenthood is an act of hope — we could make this place beautiful.

We recently weaned from the binky, and that felt like the closest she’s come to mourning. It was her best friend, from day one. But she’s growing up, into a kid.

We miss our dogs, and still talk about them a lot. Even Sam Adams, the one who died years before she was born, she talks about as if they’re old friends.

Lately she’s been saying that our dogs are due to visit, “maybe tomorrow.” “When Charlie and Sam Adams come, can I hold them in this hand?” She holds up her right hand. “All by myself?”

I think about it. I usually don’t mess with ghosts, but if they wanted to visit I’d make an exception. “If they visit, you can.”

Death is real, but it’s also mysterious. Young kids have been — wherever is out there, that isn’t here — more recently than we have. I won’t pretend to understand it better than she does.

Underneath everything I’m saying lately, there’s an unspoken undercurrent of everything I’m not telling a 3-year-old. Mourning people I never knew, who were present and now are not. A eulogy I can’t quite piece together.

But I think we all feel the loss.

Chances are, you’ve had one or more of these dreams, too. They’re strangely common, like some sort of group hallucination. Apparently they speak to the themes we’re working through, in our subconscious.

I guess when it comes down to it, we’re all working out the same shit.

Tooth-falling-out dreams can have to do with low self-image and feeling a lack of control. Earthquake dreams have a deeper meaning but in my case it’s also like — well, I’m from SoCal, The Big One looms. Bathroom dreams can speak to embarrassment and shame.

It all checks out.

But lately those dreams have been dialed back, and my recurring-dream-energy has gone mostly toward travel-related dreams… which is odd because I haven’t traveled much at all, the past few years. Despite (or perhaps because of?) that, I dream I’m on trains and planes, in (or on my way to) the airport, in other countries… I’m in transit.

And a very common theme in all these dreams, is that I’m ill-prepared. Sometimes I didn’t even think to pack. Sometimes I left my suitcase at home, and there’s no time to go back. Other times I have my suitcase, but forgot to pack something I really need.

These dreams aren’t entirely shocking. In real life I’ve been known to wait until the last minute to pack. And yes, I forgot to pack underwear when I went to Comic-Con one year. My husband still teases me about it. (We were only there for, like, one night? Two nights? I made do.) But generally, I’m on top of my shit. So these dreams are a little like — hey, what gives?

Apparently these travel-stress dreams relate to feeling unprepared or anxious about a life transition, or feeling some sort of lack. That tracks. 2025 was a mofo.

Here’s where it gets interesting: The other day I had the dream where I realized my suitcase was packed with the wrong items — but I had time to go back home and make it right. I had a pre-packed suitcase full of clothing that didn’t seem suited to me, that I’d bought for some past version of myself, and I went — no, this isn’t what I need for this trip, made space and sorted it all out. I brought what I needed.

I rarely have a dream where I work out my issues like that, and it made me hopeful that maybe this really is going to be a year of getting my (non-sleep) dreams back on track for this ol’ Leo Sun, Aquarius Rising. (Can’t remember my Moon, whoops!)

I’d like to think my brain is telling me I’m ready now, and that the road will rise to meet me. It knows what I need to pack, and what can be left behind.

According to a bunch of Instagram astrologers, it’s a big year for my signs. (The ones I can remember.) We’ll see!

Does this resonate? Leave me a comment!

On Christmas I put my laptop away to make room for pancakes and revelry, and I’m only now (the 28th) taking it back out to get to writing. I was feeling a little guilty about taking a small break from writing (during naptimes, at least), even though I’m not a writers-must-write-every-day evangelist. (I do think that sometimes you need to just go to the computer and force yourself to open the document, but it kind of depends on where you are in the process.)

But the truth is, I needed to take a little space because I’ve been brainstorming (outlining) a new project, and I realized I was going about it as too much of a… formula, because it’s a relatively new medium for me (novel-writing). I needed the time to recognize that before I got ahead of myself. To course correct.

Everyone’s process is different, and every project is different. But in this case, in this phase, some things that helped:

-Watching Heated Rivalry. So much of the dialogue comes straight from the books, and it reminded me — books can be cinematic. I’m still in my medium. I don’t have to reinvent the wheel.

-Reading/talking to a friend who outlines her novels and her features using the same process. Again, reminding myself that this is still in my wheelhouse. I can trust my gut.

-Singing karaoke duets with my almost-3-year-old on the karaoke machine she got for Christmas, to the point that I kind of dissociated (it was the same songs over and over) and starting thinking of the kind of detail-y stuff about my characters that I was kind of missing.

-Remembering some important moments from my life that are kind of North Stars of my writing right now —

One from early in my writing journey: I had a meeting with my fiction-writing professor, who I think was named Sandra, and was a fellow Jewish lady? This was like, 2006. I’m gonna write it as I remember it, but this is deeply paraphrased.

SANDRA: You write these short stories where the girl gets the boy. Would you say that describes your life?

ELYSSE OF YORE: Uh… no. I am not getting the boy. My track record is actually terrible.

SANDRA: … Then why don’t you write about that? Isn’t that more interesting, to hear from the girl who isn’t the classic leading lady?

At the time I was like, semi-insulted to be clocked as NOT Meg Ryan, but I took the note behind the note: Anybody can write (more or less). But the only person who can write from my POV, is me. Flaws and all. That’s my superpower.

And pretty much anything I’ve written that has been of note, has been very much on-brand Elysse’s voice.

Chances are, the same goes for insert-your-name-here.

Because really the best part of reading/watching, and I think one of the Main Points of writing, is to make people say to themselves, “Wow, I feel seen. I’m connecting with a stranger through time and space, and we get each other.” And that involves… coming from an authentic place, inside of ourselves.

(The other point of writing, if you’re lucky, is like… getting health insurance.) (Which I currently am not. Boo!)

Later on, post-WGA membership, these reminders have mostly come from my literary manager, who is also very “Your voice is your everything,” “Why would you be anyone but yourself?” (These are in quotes, but also paraphrased.)

But recently (like in the past six months) he said something that I wrote down to remind myself. When I’m not the “good student” I do my best work.

The rules are there, I’ve internalized them. But there comes a point where you have to dial down that volume and dial up your gut. And listen. And make it… the flavor of you. And that’s where I am now, I think.

Anyway, I will try to share some ruminating-about-writing posts as I go, since… well, ruminating on writing seems to be a Substack Thing. And it’s something I do. A lot.

Of course (groan) the art project involved scissors. My child (almost 3 years old) is drawn to scissors like a moth to a flame. Like, out of nowhere she will just be holding scissors and looking so pleased. Very unsettling at her age!

She set to work using a pair of kiddie scissors, under my supervision — but they didn’t seem to be operational. She was doing everything right, but the blade was just kind of chewing at the paper, not cutting into it. (She did manage to behead a paper rabbit, mostly via tearing.)

It must be noted that she was not particularly perturbed by her lack of progress. But I thought, maybe she’s just got toddler dexterity? So I took a turn… and had the same problem! The blades had no bite. It was weird.

I wondered, are the scissors broken? I opened and closed them a few times, took a closer look… and saw in small letters along the blade: “Left-handed scissors.”

I’m a righty (and I’m not sure what my daughter is yet, but she was using her right hand), and decided to switch hands just to see how big a difference it would really make. And — sure enough! In my left hand, the scissors worked perfectly (or as well as they can for a non-lefty, it wasn’t my most precise work).

Driving home, I kept thinking about the left-handed scissors. First of all, is this what it’s like when a lefty tries to use standard scissors? How frustrating! And how nice of the library to stock all types of scissors for the kids!

But mostly, I thought about the more metaphorical implications. These past few years have held… challenges. I’ve taken paths that didn’t work, maybe at the expense of more sensible paths. I’m still not sure which way’s up!

I thought: Wouldn’t it be useful, if we could know with certainly that we were holding a left-handed scissor in our right hand? If some simple adjustment could make a world of difference? Could it save us from years of… futility?

Maybe.

On the other hand — look at my toddler, perfectly content to sit at the art table holding any scissors at all. Handedness be damned! Progress be damned!

I don’t know what to conclude, exactly. Because — our life stuff doesn’t come with clear labels or instructions. It’s not that simple. But… yeah. I’m chewing on it.

Have you ever had “left-handed scissor” moment? Not exactly an epiphany, but… something to chew on? (But please: Don’t chew on scissors! Don’t give the toddlers any ideas!!)

Often, when I think of something to post, by the time I’m ready it feels like — nah, the moment has passed. Especially when so much is happening out there. But sometimes I have to remember that the point of a Substack (maybe?) is to document these little moments, before the water keeps flowing and the stream you step in is never the same twice.

And to take time to highlight life’s simple pleasures.

Or whatever.

I am not always an improviser when it comes to cooking. For example, I always have to look up my baked potato recipe of choice. (The oven temp is elusive?)

But over the years, I have experimented with what I mix into canned tuna. We’re talking ketchup. We’re talking balsamic vinegar. We’re talking yellow raisins and red onions. (That last combo was my mom’s idea.)

The mix that I have come up with as of late, I find to be absolutely delicious. Like, I have to stop myself from eating it too often. (Mercury, darling.) I daydream about it.

And it’s protein. Doctors are always telling me to each more protein.

So because it’s Hanukkah, and because tuna is inherently a pretty Jewish food (it’s kosher-neutral!), and because who knows when I’ll switch up my recipe again and lose my foot-in-the-stream of this gem… here you go. A recipe you probably don’t need, but… it’s very simple! You might not even need to go to the store.

In case you need a little joy in the form of a fish salad.

Here’s the scoop (hehe) —

WHAT YOU NEED

-Chunk-light (aka skipjack) tuna in water

There are many types of tuna, but I started pretty exclusively buying chunk-light because it was allegedly the most pregnancy-friendly and it’s not too fishy. At my Trader Joe’s, this one’s listed as “good in an emergency,” which is a terrible endorsement.

-Mayo of your choice

For a while I was using Kewpie, but some people swear by Best Foods or more generic American mayos. I can’t find Duke’s around here. I think I’m using Best Foods?

-Lemon olive oil

We are pretty faithful to Stonehouse Oil, but it’s up to you. I just think you need the brightness of citrus and we don’t always have lemons, but we always have lemon oil.

-Relish

I use sweet relish because it’s on hand, but dill relish would probably be good too.

-Spicy brown (deli) mustard AND Dijon mustard

It tastes better if you use both. I’m not super brand loyal, store brand is fine.

DIRECTIONS

Obviously, put the tuna in a bowl. Mash it a little with a fork. Then, add a glob of everything, one ingredient at a time, tasting as you go if you need to. I like the whole thing to get pretty… moist? I’m sorry I can’t think of a better word.

A note about relish: I think an abundance is best. Like, a huge glob. Tablespoons.

If you have diced celery around you could use that too, but I usually don’t.

Then, eat it. You can just enjoy the bowl of tuna by itself, or put it on some triangle-cut slices of the Costco pita your kid takes to school everyday. You could put it on a piece of wheat toast and maybe add a bit of ketchup if you don’t have tomatoes.

I think carrots, cucumbers and hard-boiled eggs (also pareve!) go great with tuna.

If you’re really into Heated Rivalry right now, go ahead and make a tuna melt. No one can stop you!

If you try my “recipe,” let me know what you think! Do you have all this stuff sitting in your pantry/fridge, too?

When I am unhappy while driving I will yell things like, “This is the worst!” and “I’m losing my will to live!”

It was the kind of office where you go into a second waiting room to do vitals, while they find a room to put you in. Highly choreographed and efficient. (And then the blood-draw lab was the OPPOSITE. Anyway.)

I saw someone hunched over in a wheelchair and at first didn’t realize it was a fairly young guy, maybe mid-20s. He stood when he was called to the vitals station and the nurse sitting at the computer asked, are you in pain? What’s the number?

His response was, “It’s a nine.”

I was blown away because — well, if asked for a number, I typically reply, “I hate having to give it a number.” Because I have the feminine tendency to underestimate my pain. Like, I don’t know if I’ve ever gone above calling my pain a 6 or 7, and that includes like — broken bones and having a baby.

So to hear him say “a nine,” I was like — omg, how is he talking? How is he conscious? How is he not in the ICU?

The nurse just kind of noted it, then asked him, “Are you ready for the holidays?”

The holidays?! Who can think of the holidays when your pain is at a NINE?! Who can make small talk??

I keep thinking about that exchange. Like — what?

It kinda lines up with how I feel lately when people just kind of conversationally ask me, How’s it going? How’s work? If you ask this question of anyone who works in the industry right now and isn’t, like, Ryan Murphy level employed, they are probably stifling some version of, “NOT GREAT. I’m PANICKING.”

I might kind of half-laugh and say, “It’s going.” Or, “Well… I’m alive?”

A lot of us are at a nine, on the wtf is my life going to be, how will I make money? scale. Maybe even an eleven. We survived ‘til ‘25, and… now it’s the end of the year and the prognosis is still bleak for most of us.

Speaking of things that are a nine (iykyk), I was not really aware of Heated Rivalry until it started airing on HBO last week, and now reading the book series it’s based on has been a fun escape from… gestures at everything (including a super-long wait at the blood-draw lab).

Heated Rivalry is where I thoughts Boots would be on the spiciness scale, but then was not. (I still liked Boots a lot!)

Lately romance novels are kind of my biggest escape, and I would say I tend to read books that are probably on the 3-4 spicy pepper scale (or I guess it’s called the steam scale). (I also aspire to write them at about that level.)

Heated Rivalries is a hard 5 (no pun intended). In fact, it’s off the scale. It might be a 9. So be forewarned, do not watch this with your parents over the holidays. It is not Hallmark movie hockey. It makes Bridgerton blush.

It’s also interesting to dive into the lives of (fictional) people who are rich and hot and successful but still have problems. Sexy hockey stars, just like us! (… Maybe.)

I’m not sure how to end this, except to ask… Are YOU ready for the holidays?

Okay, here’s another one: What’s your favorite steam number? Are you into glimpses and kisses? (That phrase makes me laugh.) Or a little more?

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The real point was the experiences, which we would be doing after school because we weren’t usually on winter break yet. Lighting the candles, singing songs, eating latkes and gelt, playing dreidel. (And getting it to spin upside-down… expert level.)

My gentile classmates would say that it wasn’t fair that I got “eight whole days” of gifts, and then would come back after winter break talking about getting a mountain of E-ticket gifts (like one of those kid-sized Barbie dream cards you could drive around the neighborhood) and I would think…. what were you complaining about?

My parents’ generation literally got gelt for Hanukkah. Which is to say… a few coins. If they were lucky. From what I can tell, the gifting part was Christmas gift FOMO. And even Christmas gifting arose out of, like… capitalism.

Like, look what the actual Baby Jeez got for his birthday. Just three practical gifts. I think? I honestly don’t know what frankincense and myrrh are for… frankincense just makes me picture, like, having the good sense not to make a Frankenstein’s monster?

Anyway, this is all to say that I am not a big-ticket gifter. I like to give gifts (especially if it’s a year where I made any money… sighs in Hollywood writer), but I want them to be just right for the recipient. And you don’t always find the perfect gift, at the exact time you need to have a gift ready to go.

My husband, who grew up celebrating Christmas, is really the gift-maestro of our family. He has been happily scouting gifts for our almost-three-year-old for months now. We have a real gauntlet run of Hanukkah, then Christmas, then her birthday in early January.

But I realized that kind of the perfect gift for underemployed Jewish mom to contribute, especially because Hanukkah falls between Dec 1 and Dec 25 this year, is… an advent calendar.

Hear me out.

First of all, it means you’ve got all 8 nights of Hanukkah covered, and then some. But they’re all like, appropriately trinket-level gifts. Perfect. (And for a toddler, it means you start gifting EARLY, because she already thinks it’s Christmas. We’ll see if she can withstand having to open one gift at a time… eek.)

Second, there are so many advent calendars out there, you can pretty much find the perfect thing for anybody who’s part of a fandom. For my daughter, that spells Bluey. (I can spoil this here because she can’t read).

For my husband, that means Topps baseball cards. (I can spoil this because he was with me when I purchased it.)

Third, I got a Target gift card last Hanukkah, which help covered both of these.

Now I can sit back, knowing that I contributed 25 excellent little trinkets to my husband and child (and the kid likes baseball cards, so she will enjoy BOTH calendars), and enjoy their enjoyment. Because I really am one of those “the best gift is giving” people. And I don’t need an advent calendar, I’m Jewish!

And I can focus on finding fun experiences for us all to enjoy. Like, this past weekend we found an event that featured sledding on real snow. In Los Angeles. For free!

In writing this, I thought to myself — I’m not sure there’s an advent calendar that would fit me as perfectly as these ones fit my recipients. But there are SO many options out there, at this point there’s something for everyone. So if I had to put myself in a box… I’m probably a Universal Yums type? Or something with yummy food samples, of the not-necessarily-candy variety.

What’s your dream advent calendar? What’s your gifting style? Is it different than what you grew up doing?

In lieu of gifts, leave me a comment. I love comments!

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After digesting that, they asked — what will come after CE?

Sometimes, they are deep. Even if they don’t set out to be.

I thought about it for a moment, then told them that a new era will probably only be evident in retrospect… like how WWI was called The Great War until there was a second one.

But like, truly… what would have to happen for the powers that be to decide it’s a new era, and restart the calendar?

Hilariously, I am currently teaching the one thing I never expected to teach at Reform Jewish religious school — Jesus! (He was Jewish, after all.) Sam has helpfully been telling me things I could show the kids to make it fun, like Herod’s song from Jesus Christ Superstar (I showed them Josh Gad, but they demanded this version??), and David Bowie’s scene from The Last Temptation of Christ.

In the latter scene, Bowie as Pontius Pilate says (to Jesus), “It simply doesn’t matter how you want to change things — we don’t want them changed.”

With the perspective of history, watching a guy in a toga act certain that Rome will rule forever is… it’s something, isn’t it?

I didn’t set out to write any of the above, but I guess it was percolating in my brain. (And stay tuned to watch it ALL TIE BACK TOGETHER.)

I was going to say that we have made the brave decision to have a birthday party for our almost-3-year-old this year. Her preschool classmates are all doing it. But previously, I have declared any attempts to have a birthday party for an early January baby as a cursed endeavor, based on —

Jan 6 (ha), 2024 - We had a first birthday party, but her grandparents who flew out for it got Covid and could not attend.

Jan 3, 2025 - We had a very low-key birthday with my parents, but walking back to our car I took a wrong step and broke my ankle, and it’s STILL not fully healed. (It hurts. Right now.) Within a week, a great deal of LA burned down.

If you google Capricorn traits, you will find that they are determined and ambitious. Our daughter has the same birthday as Florence Pugh, who famously (allegedly!) got annoyed with a no-show director and took the reins herself.

So I think for my little Capricorn’s sake, I have to overcome my wild Leo belief in this curse, and pull a party together. Because if I don’t, she might. And she doesn’t understand how budgets work… yet.

And don’t feel sorry for me that I have to plan a birthday party on the heels of the various Holidays, because Sam is really our Holiday Parent. I grew up celebrating Hanukkah, the classic “socks for gifts” way, so I leave the grand ideas to him.

I couldn’t figure out how to end this post, so I googled “David Bowie birthday” and… guess what?? HE’S A CAPRICORN. January 8th, 1947. CE.

Capricorns FTW! The GOATS. Sorry that your birthdays are always overshadowed by (fellow Capricorn) The Big Jeez, but clearly you don’t let it hold you back.