November 17, 2024

Dear Diary, 

I thought Kamala Harris was going to win. Given the choice between a convicted felon—an angry man with terrible makeup and divisive rhetoric—and a woman who exuded competence and leadership, the decision seemed obvious. I mean, literally everyone who had ever worked for him publicly declared they were voting for Kamala. Surely, I thought, she would win in a landslide.

But instead, I watched in disbelief as Donald Trump claimed a decisive victory. The results left me reeling. How could women vote against their own autonomy? How could people of color overlook his history of inflammatory rhetoric? How could working-class folks back policies like tariffs that seem so contrary to their own interests?

My disillusionment isn’t just about the results—it’s about what they reveal about our country. Immediately after the election, I couldn’t shake the idea that racism and misogyny must have played a larger role than I’d ever realized. That conclusion felt both painful and unsatisfying. Could those factors alone explain the outcome? I believe in democracy, and I couldn’t accept that hate alone was enough to secure both the popular vote and the Electoral College.

In my search for clarity, I felt compelled to dig deeper. I may not like the results, but since I truly believe in democracy, I owe it to myself to try to understand them. What motivated people to make this choice? What fears, frustrations, or values led them to see things so differently? There’s a part of me that resists this introspection—it’s easier to write it all off as prejudice, ignorance or greed. But I know that doing so won’t bring me closer to understanding, healing, or progress.

As I wrestled with these thoughts, I recently interviewed a local restaurant owner whose family roots in California run deep. His great-great-grandfather settled in Los Angeles in the 19th century, and his great-grandfather was among the first to purchase land in Manhattan Beach in the 1930s. Over the years, he’s witnessed the city’s transformation from a quirky, working-class, surf haven into a polished destination with upscale storefronts and luxury homes—a shift that reflects broader changes in society and economics.

His story felt like a microcosm of the tension I’ve been grappling with. When he vented about the skyrocketing cost of eggs and its impact on his business, it wasn’t about conspiracy theories. It was about the lived frustration of seeing policy fail him. Californians, he reminded me, had passed two propositions over the past 15 years to improve the welfare of egg-laying chickens. We thought we were doing the right thing—giving chickens more room to roam and thrive.

But instead of adapting, egg producers left the state. Now, eggs are trucked in from hundreds of miles away, with soaring transportation costs driving up prices. I probably voted for those propositions, believing I was protecting animals. But was I? The unintended consequence has made eggs less accessible for people living paycheck to paycheck. For “coastal elites”, an extra dollar or two per dozen isn’t life-changing. But for struggling families and restauranteurs on slim margins, it’s a burden.

I could suddenly understand the frustration some people feel toward progressive policies. When “wokeness” comes with unintended costs, it’s easy to see why some voters might opt for leaders who promise to disrupt the status quo.

Amidst this mental reckoning, I found myself in Hawaii for a well-timed conference, seeking clarity in the calm of the islands.There’s something about the gentle strum of ukuleles and swaying palm trees that makes it hard to be anything but relaxed. I decided to book a guided snorkel tour—a first for me, since I usually prefer to free-range snorkel (which, unlike free-range chickens, involves no regulations and minimal oversight).

The tour guides paddled us miles into open water by canoe, where I discovered a world that felt like it belonged in a dream. As I floated over the vibrant underwater landscape, the Beatles lyric, “in an Octopus’s garden in the shade,” kept playing in my mind. It seemed fitting, as I gazed at schools of fish darting between coral, turtles gliding lazily by, and the intricate beauty of the ocean floor. It was a moment of serenity—a underwater garden where, even if only briefly, I could set aside the heaviness of my thoughts.

And then, there it was: an octopus. The guide dove down and brought it up for us to see. When I reached out to touch it, its tentacle suctioned onto my finger, strong and curious. I recoiled in fear, but the guide explained that this was how octopuses explore their world—they latch on to the unknown to better understand it. It struck me as remarkable. Here I was, recoiling from the unfamiliar, struggling to make sense of a world that felt increasingly foreign. And yet, this small creature showed me the power of leaning in—of grabbing onto what feels strange to uncover its meaning.

Maybe, like snorkeling, life sometimes requires both freedom and guidance. And maybe, like the octopus, the best way forward is to grab onto the unfamiliar—even when it feels strange or unsettling—and explore what it has to teach us.

Very truly yours,

Maya

March 18, 2024

Dear Diary,

It's been exactly half a year since I bid farewell to my X3 and embraced the e-bike life. I mean, who needs a car when you live in a cozy two-square-mile bubble with everything imaginable within arm's reach? 

When I proudly announced my newfound mode of transport to my friends, they raised their eyebrows in disbelief. "But what about grocery shopping?" they'd ask, or “how do you get the kids around?” I assured them I had it all figured out—between my bike’s trusty basket, the kids’ bikes, Instacart, and the occasional long distance trek courtesy of Hubby's car, I was a two-wheeled, and app-wielding, logistical genius.

Everything was going swimmingly. I found myself growing increasingly adventurous with my rides, starting with a couple day trips to Venice Beach and culminating in a daring decision to pedal all the way to Beverly Hills to catch up with some dear friends. It was during this escapade that I discovered Google Maps' cycling option, a feature designed to guide bikers along the most pedal-friendly routes imaginable. Intrigued by the promise of a scenic journey, I entrusted my navigation to this digital cartographer and plotted a course from our cozy abode in Manhattan Beach to the heart of the Golden Triangle, as they call it.

Surveying the 17-mile route laid out by Google Maps, I deemed it safe enough to proceed and set off bright and early the next morning, cruising down to the shoreline. The initial leg of my journey was along a picturesque esplanade, with the ocean waves as my constant companion to my left. But as I reached Marina del Rey, my route veered onto the Ballona Creek Bike Path—a narrow, winding trail through a protected wetland and creek. It was a surreal experience, traversing this secluded pathway that felt like a forgotten relic of a bygone era. The absence of fellow travelers only added to its mystique, leaving me to ponder whether I had stumbled upon a hidden treasure, or a post-apocalyptic dystopia.

After seven miles of solitary pedaling, I emerged from seclusion and continued my odyssey through various neighborhoods, each offering its own slice of urban charm. The ride was surprisingly streamlined - I made it there in about 15 minutes longer than it would have taken me to drive, and the entire experience left me feeling energized and, dare I say it, accomplished. 

I became a consummate advocate for e-bikes, extolling their virtues to anyone who would listen. “They’re so efficient!” I’d brag, “mine can go 45 miles on a single charge!” “They’re so fun to ride!” I’d exclaim, marveling at the ease with which they navigate Los Angeles' terrain. It's worth noting that while I struggle to conquer even the gentlest incline on a regular bike, I can effortlessly cover 35+ miles roundtrip on an e-bike. With each boosted pedal assist, I’d feel a surge of gratitude for this eco-friendly mode of transportation, a sentiment echoed by the growing number of cyclists taking to the streets of LA and by a recently approved ballot measure (Measure HLA) to build over 400 miles of protected bike lanes and paths across the city. 

Life sailed smoothly over the next several months as we effortlessly balanced our bikes and our lone car. However, as the old saying goes, a smooth sea never made a skilled sailor. Let's fast forward to a pivotal day at the mall, where a routine gift-buying mission morphed into an unexpected demolition derby. As I cautiously reversed Hubby’s car out of a parking spot, while simultaneously ignoring a terrible screeching sound, disaster struck. Olivia, with the keen eye (and ear!) of a detective, promptly hopped out of the car to investigate, and confirmed my worst fears that the front bumper had indeed decided to part ways with the car. In a panic, I dialed Hubby via Facetime, who remained surprisingly composed despite the chaotic scene before him.

"Can you pick up the bumper?" he calmly inquired.  Unfortunately, it was lodged at a perfect 90-degree angle to the car, stubbornly entrenched in the ground.  Suddenly, a flicker of resourcefulness ignited within me as I recalled the Tesla's ingenious feature—the ability to raise its suspension with a mere push of a button. With a sense of determination, I activated the mechanism, elevating the car just enough to dislodge the wayward bumper. Even more impressive, Olivia and I were able to seamlessly restore the bumper to its rightful place with a few firm pounds of our fists. It was a moment of triumph, marred only by the absence of any photographic evidence to corroborate our feat.

We cautiously drove home, but to our amazement, the bumper held up and Hubby and I continued to drive the car for several months thereafter. But fate had other plans, as we discovered during a recent return trip from San Diego. As we cruised along the express lane, a menacing pothole sent shockwaves through the car, signaling yet another compromise to our beleaguered bumper.

Hubby, ever the picture of calm under pressure, guided us to the shoulder amidst the cacophony of passing cars. Realizing our limited options from the narrow shoulder, we made the swift decision to exit the frenzied express lanes of the 405, our hazard lights blazing like beacons of hope in a sea of frustrated commuters. Trundling along at a steady 25 mph, every moment seemed to stretch indefinitely as we passed each pylon, further burdened by the disapproving glares of fellow travelers whenever they could navigate around us.

Finally free from the confines of the express lane, we took stock of the damage—a broken bumper, dragging along the ground like a reluctant dance partner. Yet, in our hour of need, salvation arrived in an unexpected form: a humble roll of bright blue painter's tape we just happened to have brought along with us. With deft hands and a touch of humor, we patched up the fractured pieces, fashioning a makeshift solution fit for any intrepid traveler. Our car resembled a battle-scarred warrior, but with the indomitable spirit of Braveheart.

Relief washed over us as we realized that Willow Street in Long Beach would lead us homeward, our patched-up car rolling steadily toward familiar streets. And so, with our trusty tape holding firm and the promise of Sepulveda's embrace on the horizon, we journeyed onward, undeterred by the trials of the road and the embarrassment caused by driving a taped-up car.

“You’re getting a new car,” Hubby informed me the following day. It turns out that his car will take a month to fix and we can’t actually survive on e-bikes alone. 

And so, dear diary, here’s what I have learned after six months of car-free living. I've come to appreciate the simplicity of two wheels. E-Bikes are eco-friendly, budget-friendly, health-friendly and all-around friendly - there is no road rage on the Marvin Braude Bike Trail. That being true, there's something to be said for the convenience of a brand new car with all the bells, whistles, and room for seven. Here's to new adventures on four wheels—and maybe a few less dramatic detours along the way. Cheers to the road ahead, whether it's paved or pothole-riddled!

Very truly yours,

Maya

April 16, 2023

Dear Diary,

I've come to a startling realization recently: I might be a neophiliac. Yes, it sounds like a weird disease or a sci-fi character, but it turns out it's just a fancy term for someone who's addicted to trying new things. I'm always on the hunt for my next fix of novelty - whether it's traveling to far-flung places to sample exotic foods, or pushing myself to the limit with spine-tingling activities like zip-lining or mountain biking. My parents call me crazy, but I call it living life on the edge. Who needs a boring old routine when you can live like a neophiliac instead?

So, as someone who thrives on stepping outside of my comfort zone and trying new things, I recently found myself in a nerve-wracking yet exhilarating situation when I applied for a position on the local School Board. It seemed like a great opportunity to make a difference in my community and get involved in something meaningful. Little did I know that this experience would push me to my limits and put me in the spotlight in ways I never imagined.

It all started when a board member resigned, and instead of holding a special election, they decided to appoint the next trustee. I had about a week to fill out an application, and I felt pretty good about mine until I realized that I needed to include a current resume. The only problem was that the last time I did a resume was in 2002. Yikes. I scrambled to update it and ended up including an entire section composed of emojis. But hey, it's all about standing out, right?

The real nightmare began when it was time for the interviews. They were held in a public boardroom and live-streamed on the internet. Each candidate was given the opportunity to make a two-minute opening statement about themselves and then respond to four questions, which we didn't know ahead of time. There were six of us candidates, and they kept us sequestered in a separate conference room until they called us individually into the boardroom. I was lucky (or unlucky) enough to be called last.

One by one, I watched as each candidate returned to our confined conference room after their interview ashen-faced. I tried to stay calm, but it wasn't easy. I kept picturing myself making a complete fool of myself, which would go viral on the web and haunt me forever. When it was finally my turn, I approached the dais and started giving my opening statement. About halfway through, I started to shake with nervous energy and don't really remember much of what I said after that. It was like I dissociated from my body.

The questions were really tough, multi-layered questions, and even though two minutes seemed impossibly short in which to respond, I always felt like I left time on the table. I learned that when someone says, "that's a great question," what they really mean is, "holy crap, I don't know what to say, and I hope that I am buying enough time to have the answer magically pop into my head." Or maybe that’s just me.

After I was done, they called all six candidates back into the room and reviewed us publicly yet again on the live-stream recording. Each of the four sitting trustees was given two votes for all of us candidates. Ultimately, I didn't get a single vote, but the individual who got appointed is a terrific person and is already doing great work on the board. While it didn't work out for me, I am super proud of myself for doing it. And it looks like my failed attempt didn’t hurt too much because the Superintendent recently invited me to join a special advisory board to pass a local parcel tax, which I readily agreed to join, and which is sure to add to my popularity! Who doesn’t love more taxes?

So, that's the story of my attempt to get appointed to the local School Board. Lesson learned: always keep your resume up to date and be prepared for the unexpected. And maybe, just maybe, try to calm your nerves before a big interview so you don't dissociate from your body.

Very truly yours,

Maya

November 13, 2022

Dear Diary,

We recently returned from a family vacation to Hawaii, and while the trip was mostly amazing, we did have one harrowing experience, which I feel compelled to memorialize here as part of our family’s lore.

Our day started off innocently enough. We awoke to another beautiful, sunny-with-temps-in-the-low-’80’s, day in paradise. We overindulged in the breakfast buffet as per usual and then attempted to plan out our day. It was Day 3 of our family vacation, and just like the old adage about fish and houseguests goes, family togetherness was nearing its limit. Amy Beth and Olivia elected to splinter off and go shopping together, while Tyler, Hubby and I settled on kayaking as our activity du jour.

Hubby and Tyler grabbed a double kayak, and I a single, as we set off into the legendary Kauna’oa Bay, about a half-mile in length, and contained on both sides by large rock formations. We leisurely kayaked around the crystal-clear turquoise bay, occasionally racing each other, without ever establishing any formal starts or ends to our impromptu races, but giddily living in the moment like we were children. It was pure bliss for all of twenty minutes, and then it got boring real fast.

“Why don’t we see what’s around those rocks?” Hubby suggested as we approached the southern end of the bay. “Okay!” I obligingly replied. We rounded the corner and, instantly, we were in a turbulent zone of what felt like rapids. I don’t really know the science of it all, but if you ask me, it was the result of fresh water from the mountains combining with the rising tide of the ocean, amidst a bunch of massive volcanic rocks, which caused all these rapids. That’s my layman’s theory, and I’m sticking to it. Next thing I know, Hubby and Tyler have capsized and were submerged in the water under their kayak.

Tyler, being the nimble sprite of 13 that he is, managed to bounce back into the kayak rather easily. Hubby, on the other hand, did not fare so well. His first (several) attempts back into the kayak resulted in the kayak tipping over, while dumping Tyler out in the process. I most fervently resolved to stay upright in my kayak as I paddled over to them to provide assistance.

Our first strategy was for me to attempt to stabilize their kayak from my own to enable them to get back in. This failed a few times before we moved onto our next strategy, which involved utilizing a large rock as a platform from which to enter the kayak. We also decided that it made more sense for Hubby to get in first, while Tyler hung back on the large rock, stabilizing the kayak for Hubby. I suddenly heard a frantic shriek as Tyler jumped off the rock. “There’s crabs! And scorpions!” Tyler screamed, visibly panicked. Before we could respond, Tyler started swimming away from us at full speed.

“Come back!” We futilely screamed as more and more distance gained between us. In what felt like a matter of seconds, Tyler’s head was suddenly a small bob in the middle of the ocean.

“Go save him!” Hubby implored. I paddled towards Tyler as fast as I could. By the time I reached him, he was visibly tired and grabbed onto the side of my kayak with a sigh of relief. I pulled him into my single kayak and I started to paddle back to shore but it was no easy feat with only one paddle and a overweighted kayak. We spotted one of the resort’s floating rafts, anchored about a quarter mile away from shore, in the near distance and started paddling towards it. Just like how a tall landmark can feel deceptively closer in a foreign city, this raft seemed to only move further away, the more I paddled towards it. Once we got relatively close, I told Tyler to swim to it, and then to swim back to shore once he felt strong enough, and to get us help from the lifeguards. Tyler agreed to the plan and started swimming towards the floating raft while I doubled back to Hubby.

As I paddled back to Hubby, I prepared myself for the worst. I pictured him repeatedly banged up by the large, sharp rocks and figured he’d be in a pool of bloody, shark-infested waters by the time I returned. As I rounded the rocky bend, I was astonished to see that Hubby had made it back into the kayak in my absence, but was lying on his back with his paddle draped across his chest.

“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively.

“I’m fine,” Hubby replied, “I just can’t sit up without tipping over” With the wisdom that 15 years of marriage affords you, I decided that now would not be a good time to make fun of Hubby and simply paddled over to him. I held onto the side of the his kayak as he shifted his bodyweight upright.

Thank Heavens! We were finally in the clear! We started to paddle back when a huge wave crashed into me and pinned my kayak in between two boulders. Oh, the expletives that flew out of my mouth!

Hubby paddled over to me and gave me a good push which freed me from the boulders. Unfortunately, a huge swell arrived at that exact moment and I started to tip over. Without even realizing what I was doing, I reached out for Hubby’s kayak and took him out with me. Now, we were both in the water and the waves were crashing down hard on us. The series of sharp rocks around us were a constant threat, and I couldn’t push the crabs that had scared Tyler out of my head either.

It occurred to me that quite some time had passed since I dropped Tyler off at the floating raft. “Where the hell is help?” I screamed at my husband. “If we ever get back to shore, I am going to murder that boy!” I threatened. Just then we heard the loud roar of a jet ski coming towards us. “Oh, thank god!” I shouted at Hubby, “Help is here!”

“Are you in distress?” one of them asked.

“No, but we were just discussing how much we prefer jet skiing to kayaking,” Hubby joked.

The lifeguards brought the jet ski as close to the boulder zone as they could, and then one jumped off and swam over to Hubby. He took hold of Hubby’s kayak while Hubby swam over to the jet ski which was equipped with a stretcher-like contraption off the back. Hubby grabbed onto it and was whisked away. While he was gone, I jumped into my kayak and asked the remaining lifeguard if we should head back.

“Let’s wait for my partner to return. You know you aren’t supposed to be here? That’s why we tell people not to leave the Bay,” he admonished me.

“No, no one ever told us that,” I replied sheepishly.

“Must have been the new guy working the shack,” he muttered disdainfully under his breath. “Thank goodness for your son. He’s quite the hero for swimming back,” the lifeguard said admiringly of Tyler whom I still had misgivings toward for taking so long to get us help.

The other lifeguard returned with his jet ski and told me to hop on.

“But, I’m perfectly capable of paddling back,” I protested.

“It’s standard procedure, Ma’am. We will get into trouble if you don’t get on the jet ski.”

What could I say to that? I jumped out of my kayak and swam over to the jet ski and dutifully grabbed onto the stretcher, which whisked me back to shore.

Back on shore, I was greeted by Tyler who was sipping a large virgin Pina colada.

“Did you order that before or after you asked for help?” I couldn’t help myself from asking.

Before he could respond, a group of fellow attendees of the legal conference Hubby was attending ran over to me to ask what had happened.

“Oh nothing,” I said, trying to play off the incident.

There was no way to stop this story from spreading, however. For the next couple of days, everywhere we went, all we could hear was chatter about the couple who had to be rescued at sea after their teenage son courageously swam back to shore to get help. Everywhere we went, Tyler was greeted to a hero’s welcome and advised to immediately take up an aquatic sport like water polo.

Meanwhile, Hubby and I felt somewhat embarassed, perhaps Hubby more so than I. Indeed, the next day at breakfast, Hubby was chatting with a judge and his wife, when another conference attendee came over to ask if they had heard about the ocean rescue the day before. The attendee very dramatically recounted the latest version of the story, which included a bit about the lifeguard dumping Hubby into the bay before returning to rescue me.

“He didn’t dump me!” Hubby exclaimed, “I jumped off!"

But the damage was already done. Every time we went near the ocean from that point forward, people would tell us to be careful, or to be sure to bring our heroic son with us.

Diary, I memorialized this story here because I thought it would make a good story for the ages. Hubby, however, is not so enthusiastic and hopes the story fades quietly. As tomorrow is Hubby’s birthday, I hope you will join me in raising a glass and toasting the guy who’s pretty fantastic at everything, kayaking notwithstanding.

Very Sincerely Yours,

Maya

The New Governess

“Hey Mom, want to go mountain biking?”

I did not, in fact, want to go mountain biking. But as any parent of kids will tell you, we can’t take another sleepless night of worrying about this pandemic’s robbing us of positive memories as we race against the clock of their childhoods. Framed in this light, I had no other choice, really, but to agree to Tyler’s request.

We were in Tucson, accompanying Hubby on a legal conference, when Tyler saw the advertisement for mountain bike rentals. A woman sporting a large ranger hat and dressed in head-to-toe khaki greeted us warmly at the rentals desk. “You sure are lucky!” she exclaimed as she grabbed the last two bikes available: a kid-sized 8-speed bike and an adult-sized 21-speed bike. “I had to send the last two people away because I’ve only got the big one left!” 

The friendly ranger handed the kid-sized bike to Tyler who immediately declared it much too small. Seeing as I am taller than Tyler (at least for a couple more months), and that there weren’t any other bikes available, I began to think that the universe was recognizing my reluctance to embark on this mother-son journey and was providing me with an easy way out. And I could have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for that one look at my son’s super disappointed face, and the omnipresent mom-guilt resurfaced. Before I knew it, I was hunched over the handle-bars of the 8-speeder as we embarked on a 16-mile expedition through the Arizona desert. Armed with a couple water bottles and a series of vague directions, we set off at about 3 p.m. on what the kind ranger assured us would be an easy two hour long tour.

Indeed, the first three miles were a jaunty ride downhill on paved ground, so everything started off swimmingly. We arrived at the trailhead at about 3:15 p.m. and took in our surroundings. The Tortolita Preserve Loop is a narrow, sandy trail which has been carved out of what appears to be a dense forest of cacti. And these aren’t your run-of-the-mill cacti; they are saguaro cacti which are 20+ feet tall, with large protruding arms, and which are quite simply majestic. Nature’s obelisks, if you will. 

Seeing as neither of us had ever been mountain biking before, the first downhill section, with its curve backs and rocky-terrain, was slightly intimidating to say the least. Tyler set his bike down and raced ahead so he could film me attempting it. Needless to say, that video will never see the light of day. After mercilessly laughing at my ineptitude for what felt like an eternity, it was finally Tyler’s turn, but his laughter quickly turned to tears as he too scrubbed, but worse than me, because his bike fell on top of him and injured his leg. After recovering from a near fainting spell, which was cured by downing one of our two bottles of water, Tyler was ready to resume the ride, but I glanced at our odometer and realized that we were only 0.5 miles into the 10 mile-long trail. “Are you sure you want to keep doing this?” I asked Tyler, “we can still turn back and call it a day.” 

“I am not a quitter,” Tyler replied curtly, and it was then that I knew all hope was lost. We were doing this thing, no matter what.

We pushed on and the next 5 miles or so were a gradual incline of approximately 500 feet with me huffing and puffing like I was the Big Bad Wolf on steroids. It turns out that my 8 speeder had only two real functioning gears, and it also turns out that I am really out of shape. I stopped at one point to catch my breath and started involuntarily retching into a bush before I knew what was what. 

“Did you just throw up Mom?” Tyler asked me disgustedly. 

But, there was no way out at this point. So we kept going. With our one bottle of water.

We rounded a corner and approached a small herd of cows who were freely grazing, with one cow brazenly blocking our trail. I had no idea what to do, because I don’t regularly interact with cows, but I recalled reading about a woman who was trampled by a moose in a similar situation and so I commanded Tyler to stop riding. We hopped off our bikes and cautiously approached the road-blocking cow, who immediately fled from us in terror. Back onto our bikes we went.

Thankfully, we had reached the top of our ride and it was all downhill from there. The next several miles were an exhilarating rush of roller-coaster-like terrain. Until Tyler’s bike hit a rock and his chain slipped. So there we were. In the middle of a cactus forest, with the sun setting in the distance, and a broken bike which neither one of us knew how to repair. I glanced at my watch and started to panic at the time. Hubby and I had a gala to attend that evening, thrown by the conference organizers, and its start time was an hour away, and here I was a sweaty mess, with no way out. I couldn’t even call Hubby because he was stuck in conference meetings. 

Thankfully, Tyler thought to FaceTime my father who is an avid biker. My father immediately coaxed us through the process of pushing the derailleur down and guiding the chain back into position. As Tyler was readjusting the chain, he suddenly shot up from the ground, and started jumping up and down in pain. I looked at his backside and saw a round, extremely spiny cactus attached to his butt. We later learned that it was a jumping cholla, whose name is not derived from its effect on its victim, but because it literally breaks off and jumps onto anyone passing by, and sticks on with a vengeance. We hastily hung up on my father who must have been bewildered by all the screaming and jumping. The next ten minutes were a harrowing mix of tears and expletives as we attempted to remove ourselves from this sticky situation. Tyler finally managed to get the cholla off his butt, we fixed his bike chain, and we pressed on. 

The rapidly setting sun in the distance began to really stress me out. I pictured all kinds of wildlife, like coyotes and/or giant tarantulas, attacking us. As I was silently freaking out, Tyler says, “hey mom, are those goats?” Nope, not goats but what appeared to be a half-dozen wild boars foraging 50 feet away from us. “Holy shit, Tyler, let’s get out of here!” I commanded in a loud stage whisper. I started peddling like the wind. Later found out that they were harmless javelinas, but I had a gala to get to nonetheless.

We finally returned to the trailhead and I heaved a major sigh of relief. My relief, however, was incredibly short-lived, because, as jaunty as the first three miles were on the way down, they weren’t so jaunty on the way back. My joints, every which one of them, hurt, my back was killing me from being hunched over my too-small bike, and my butt was pretty sore from the too-small seat. I could only imagine how bad Tyler’s butt felt. I eased off my bike and walked it the remaining distance to the resort until I flagged down a security guard and begged him to call us a shuttle to transport us the final two miles. We returned our bikes to the ranger station and I got back to our hotel room with 15 minutes to spare before the gala. So, we were pretty late to the gala. But, Hubby and I had a great time, and I didn’t even have to drink any wine because I felt incredibly high off all the endorphins running through me. 

The next day, Tyler told me, “that was super fun, Mom. I’d like to do it again.” And for one teeny-tiny glorious second, I didn’t feel the mom-guilt, and so even though I am not sure that I like mountain biking, I am pretty sure that I’ll be doing it again.

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]]>Chapter Twenty-Nine: Breaking the Cycle of Mom Guilt4 min readPost-QuarantineMayaThu, 11 Nov 2021 21:59:57 +0000https://www.thenewgoverness.com/blog/chapter-28-vaxxed-and-relaxed5ec04ff324d67d1b12c1a589:5ec055fb1eba8512a9145048:618d64fc50073468a5f0ffeb

November 11, 2021

Dear Diary,

I just scheduled my nine-year-old for her first shot of the Pfizer vaccine and I could not be more grateful that within the next few weeks, every single member of my family will be immunized against this deadly virus, which has claimed the lives of 902 children in the United States, according to the CDC (as opposed to 0 who have died from the vaccine).

Tyler turned twelve three weeks ago and, as he had been telling people for months, all he wanted for his birthday was to get vaccinated. To be fair, as the date approached, his wishlist expanded to include gifts like a new phone and visa gift cards, but his desire to get vaccinated at the earliest opportunity never waned. So, we took him to our local CVS where he received both his first Pfizer dose and his annual flu shot at the same time. He complained of arm soreness for a couple days and was slightly fatigued, but these inconveniences pale in comparison to the relief that we feel now that he has some measure of protection. Indoor activities, like concerts and movies, which we have foregone for so long, we can soon resume again.

I honestly don’t understand the anti-vaxxers. I legitimately can’t fathom the mindset of a parent who would prefer to let themself or their kid go unprotected when there is a vaccine with FDA approval, which was obtained after thousands of people around the world participated in clinical trials, and which 6+ billion people globally have received without injury. I especially don’t understand the anti-vaxxer’s mindset when one considers that the rare side-effects of the vaccine are the exact same side-effects that one could sustain if they catch the virus in real life. Not to mention that myocarditis is statistically more likely to occur from contracting COVID-19 than from the vaccine. Like, what exactly are you protecting yourself from? 

I keep hearing people say that they want to wait in order to give the vaccine more time to establish its safety. But what if your kid contracts the virus in the meantime? What if your kid is one of the children who gets severely ill and requires hospitalization? What if your kid becomes one of the long-haulers, or develops multi system inflammatory syndrome (MIS-C)? There are severe long-term ramifications to contracting COVID-19 that anti-vaxxers seem to ignore. 

And as with adults, there’s no predicting who will become so ill that they require ICU hospitalization. While it’s never a bad idea to maintain a healthy lifestyle, there simply is no amount of green juice, fresh air, exercise and sunshine that can 100% ensure your child’s safety. A third of the children hospitalized with COVID-19 were healthy.

I recently learned that Ben Franklin lost his 4 year old son in 1736 to small pox after choosing not to inoculate him. In his autobiography he wrote, “I long regretted bitterly, and still regret that I had not given it to him by inoculation. This I mention for the sake of parents who omit that operation, on the supposition that they should never forgive themselves if a child died under it; my example showing that the regret may be the same either way, and that, therefore, the safer should be chosen.”

Speaking of small pox, thanks to a global campaign led by the World Health Organization, it is the only human disease to have been eradicated by vaccination.  Which is why many Americans over the age of 50 still bear its signature round scar on their arm, but those of us born after 1972 don’t. One can only hope that with a concerted global effort, we can achieve the same result against the scourge of COVID-19, and the sooner the better.

Sincerely,

Maya

The New Governess

August 26, 2021

Dear Diary,

Whoever said there was no such thing as a free lunch did not live in California. Seriously. When I first heard that Governor Gavin Newsom had approved free lunches for 6.1 million students in California due to our budget surplus, it didn’t immediately dawn on me that this was something that could benefit my family. Having only ever sent the children to private schools, in fact, several tony private schools, I became accustomed to paying for every.single.freaking.thing.  Snacks, lunches, supplies, books, and, to top it off, $5 tickets to attend your own flesh-and-blood’s holiday performances. These are just a few of the things which private schools have trained me to pay for without questioning.

But public school, Diary, public school is a whole new world! I mean, who knew that things like Chromebooks, hardcover textbooks, and workbooks alike, would just be handed out — gratis — in the most convenient way possible: delivered directly to my kids at school. I didn’t have to log into some website and type in 50 different SKU’s. I didn’t have to have the foresight to do this in June so the books would arrive before school started. I didn’t have to arrange for multiple boxes of books to be transported from our office (where they are most conveniently shipped), to our house. And then the kids’ school, only to have to contend with receiving them all back again at year end, when even used bookstores don’t want them. 

Granted, we did struggle with clothes shopping for the first time in years, which is decidedly more complicated than uniform shopping, especially when your children have “opinions” on how they should dress. But, thankfully, we got a lot of it out of the way earlier in the summer when the children needed two weeks of camp clothing for their rehab stint.  Given that we hadn’t purchased them any clothing for the nearly 18 months of semi-isolation, including shoes, this was no easy feat (pun intended). We actually reached rockbottom when I realized neither child had a pair of shoes which fit them well enough to even leave the house to go shoe shopping. That was a logistical challenge I would have never anticipated a few years back. 

But clothing woes aside, so far, public school is this amazing daily reminder of our tax dollars at work! The ability to walk the children to school every day is such a blessing. It feels good for our health, good for our planet, and good for our time management. We can get so much more done when we aren’t bumper to bumper on the 405! 

We are less than a week in, but, so far, the “new kids at school” are very happy. Olivia burst through the school gates after her first day, eager to tell me about how she had made a friend.

“Mom, there was this girl who had the cutest outfit on, but I was too shy to talk to her. Then, we were at snack time and she walked up to me and said, ‘Hi, I’m Clara! Wanna be friends?’ and I said, ‘Sure!’ and I told her that I really liked her outfit and we spent the whole day together and now we are best friends!”

How freaking adorable is that? I wish adults could make best friends like kids do. We should work on that. 

But, back to the free lunch thing. Many thanks to Governor Newsom for putting our kids first and for keeping us safe throughout the pandemic. I know he had to make difficult choices and suffered immense criticism. I’m sure he wishes he hadn’t gone to French Laundry that night, but does he really deserve to be recalled over it? Especially when he’s up for reelection next freaking year. Anyone who supports this $276 million recall effort has to stop yammering about fiscal responsibility. Forever. This isn’t how things are supposed to work, is it?! If you hate the man that much, the simple, democratic solution is to just vote him out in 2022! Just don’t start messing with my kids’ free lunches.

In conclusion, dear reader, the public schools and their daily free lunches are wondrous things to be celebrated and endorsed. The Governess feels strongly that the $276 million chucked into the waste bin of this ridiculous recall election would have been better spent on more kids’ Chromebooks and quesadillas. And, since it is my actual birthday on September 14, I think I’ll wish for this stupid recall election to flame out, just like the candles on my birthday cake! 

Sincerely, 

Maya

The New Governess

August 10, 2021

Dear Diary,

Oh what joy it is to awaken and learn that I became an aunt whilst I slept! Just like that, I have two perfect babies to love and care for, to hold and snuggle as much as I want, and the whole process could not have been easier for me!

Even before this godawful pandemic, I can’t remember the last time I was able to experience the sublime joy of holding a newborn baby. I can’t remember when I was last able to rock a teeny-tiny swaddled baby, or feed her a bottle, while gushing over her perfect little dimpled hand wrapped around my index finger. Nine long years have passed since Olivia was born, and a big part of me worries that I won’t be able to give my sister any good advice because everything feels like such a distant, sleep-deprived blur. Not to mention, whatever helpful advice I may have still within me pertained to caring for one tiny human at a time, so I have no clue what it’s like to have two simultaneously.

When I close my eyes, however, and try to picture my sister at this very moment, I feel all the butterflies, all the tingles, all over again. When I close my eyes, I picture what a supercharged time this is for her: the intense rush of love at first sight; the exhaustion; the relief in their first embrace; the sense of belonging; the profound gravity of this precious new love; the fears; the realization that she will feel all the things, all the time, from here on out. 

My little sister is now a mother! My niece and nephew have instantly and forever transformed her. My heart feels like it could explode.

Astrologically speaking, my gorgeous niece and nephew have arrived during the Lion’s Gate portal, a supernatural force that fills up the sky from July 28 to August 12, when the sky’s brightest blue star, Sirius, is most visible. I’d never heard of the Lion’s Gate portal before this past weekend, when a girlfriend of mine schooled me and she suggested we celebrate the new moon and write down our goals, so they manifest themselves during this extra powerful, life-changing time. 

What serendipity that the twins have arrived during this time! I believe in my perfect niece and nephew, and in their transformative powers, and pray that they are the healing force our world needs. 

I hope that their arrival manifests the immediate shift we all need to take to combat the existential crises we currently face. I hope their arrival helps us heed the majority of scientists, instead of listening to the fringe conspiracy theorists. I hope they help us learn to think critically, and to reject the concept of alternative facts. If we can’t find it within us to have humanity for humanity’s sake, let us care about the health of every person on this planet AND our planet, because this pandemic has revealed just how intricately we are all connected AND because there is no Planet B. Don’t we want there to be a generation that follows Generation Z, goddammit?! Although, as I type that, I wonder how fatalistic we are to call them Z, sheesh.

More than anything, though, please let us check our privilege and stop fixating on some supposed individual right to live our lives without regard for others. I honestly don’t understand how we have gotten to the point where we have mainstreamed sociopathic personalities like Ron DeathSantis and Marjorie Taylor Greene, or how Americans have politicized a virus which has infected nearly every country on the planet regardless of their respective political institutions, but that shall have to be a question for another, less joyous day. 

Indeed, Diary, back to my perfect, brand-new baby lioness niece and lion nephew! Sweet babes, I hope that I can snuggle you in my arms and smother you with kisses, without any Delta variant concerns for our safety, as quickly as freaking possible. And, if someone could invent some highly efficient, solar-powered vessel to transport me to you as quickly as freaking possible, that would be great, too. In the meantime, please know that your Auntie will always love you to Sirius and back. 

Very truly yours,

Maya

July 16, 2021

Dear Diary,

Today is Hubby’s and my last day of freedom before we retrieve the children from rehab. 

You see, Diary, the children’s device addiction had reached untenable levels and Hubby and I realized that we had to resort to extreme measures to get them back on track. So we sent them into the remote wilderness to spend two weeks device-free, but surrounded by lots of therapeutic distractions like horseback riding, wake boarding, and go-karting. Lest you be unfamiliar with such a place, Diary, other people more commonly refer to it as sleep-away camp. 

As neither child had ever been to sleep-away camp, we prepared ourselves for their inevitable homesickness, and rehearsed our response should we receive any tearful calls in the middle of the night. 

Neither child, however, seems to be suffering at all in our absence. To the contrary, my incessant stalking of the camp’s photo portal suggests that they are having the time of their lives. Most galling of all, however, is that despite my providing the children with self-addressed and stamped envelopes so they could send us news of their rehabilitation progress, neither one has sent  a word home. 

After over 450 days of total and complete quarantined togetherness, I thought that I would be the one to most appreciate the separation. However, I don’t seem to be managing things well at all. 

Mercury must be in retrograde because after smashing my middle finger in our freezer door, I broke my first-ever bone by stubbing my toe on our bed-frame.  If 2020 taught me to never again take hugs for granted, the lesson of 2021 seems to be about respecting one’s unsung appendages. I had no idea how critical my toe and middle finger were to my every day life. I’m also fairly bummed about the prospect of having to spend the next 6 weeks clunking around in a moon boot on one foot, and a sneaker with a velcroed 1” inch foam lifter velcroed on the other. This is decidedly not how I expected to spend my post-vaccine, beach-loving summer.

Tomorrow, we will pick up the children and begin the process of rebuilding a (mostly) device-free lifestyle back at home. We know that we have to stay strong and create firm boundaries and time-limits; and that we can never cave into their plaintive pleas, regardless of how persuasive they may be. It’s going to be tough, Diary, so please give me the strength to succeed and respect my appendages. 

Very truly yours, 

Maya

April 27, 2021

Dear Diary,

Today is April 27 and both children are finally back in school five days a week. The significance of this particular day is not lost on me, as it was over a year ago - March 12, 2020, to be exact - that I received an email from the school informing me that they were transitioning to distance learning, but hoped to return to in-person learning on April 27, 2020. Well, they were right about the day, just off by a year. 

Who could have predicted that this would have gone on for so long?

It certainly hasn’t been an easy ride, Diary. There was a period of time, earlier in the school year, in which I foolishly convinced myself that my role as Governess could be accomplished by simply randomly barging into the children’s rooms to see if they were doing what they were supposed to be doing. I guess I wasn’t as stealth as I thought I was, because several weeks elapsed where I thought things were going really well, and then suddenly one day back in January, I started to receive various emails from the children’s teachers alerting me to the fact that they were not participating in school. The teachers all encouraged us to have a conversation with the children, as though this problem stemmed from some sort of verbal miscommunication of expectations. If only our children were so easy. Alas, they are not.

So, since January, I’ve been back to full-time governessing. We moved mistress Olivia into our family room where we cast her Zoom feed onto our television screen, and I have been able to serve as Olivia’s classroom attendant. What is a classroom attendant, Diary? A classroom attendant is someone who: (1)  actually listens to what the teacher is saying; (2) grabs whatever materials are required as per what the teacher is saying; (3) repeatedly reminds the student to pay attention and stay seated (unless it’s PE and then the classroom attendant works up a sweat alongside her pupil); (4) provides various snacks and refreshments throughout the day; and (5) attempts to mask her resentment that the majority of her day is now taken up by this. 

Now that it’s over, I wish I could say that I enjoyed this time, but then I would be a liar. No, it has not been easy to give up my entire life for nearly a year to sit next to my kid doing Zoom school for seven hours a day and then cram all of my regular responsibilities into the remaining hours of the day. Tack on all the extra cooking and cleaning, and moving homes in the midst of it all, and it’s fair to say that it’s been really exhausting and the Governess has been pretty cranky as of late.

Since Instagram can apparently read my mood better than anybody, I started to see all these posts about self-care and taking time for myself and so I did what anybody would do. I bought myself the Infrared Sauna Blanket which Instagram repeatedly advertised to me. It’s basically a sleeping bag, which kinda resembles the lead blanket they give you at the dentist, and which heats up to incredible temperatures. Hubby calls it my heat burrito, and as someone who really loves burritos, I am not mad at the nickname. Every night before bed, I pull it out and do an hour infrared sauna session in the comfort of my own family room. It gives me a good sweat, causes me to drink a lot of water, and has provided me with some of the best sleep I have had in decades. I feel like I am sleeping so deeply and I don’t wake up nearly so often as I did during the tumultuous Trump-tweeting years.

So, there you have it! With the kids back in school full-time, the Governess is turning into a Govfurnace instead.

Very truly yours,

Maya

January 11, 2021

Dear Diary,

After twelve years in our family home, we are moving and it feels like an insurmountable task. We’ve been packing for weeks, we’ve donated 31 large bags to Goodwill, and we’ve purged more trash than I care to admit. Despite steadfastly moving boxes over to our new residence on a daily basis, our old house looks like we still live here full-time. At the rate we are going, it is unclear whether or not we will be fully moved before I get the vaccine, and I took an online quiz which says that 78% of Californians and 8 million Angelenos are in line ahead of me. Sometimes I get upset about how slowly both the move and the vaccine rollout are going, but then I remind myself that it is very hard to stay on task during attempted coups d’états and other such onslaughts.

Besides being seriously distracted by current events and wary of hiring professional movers with COVID raging so badly, we are also stymied by the fact that we are, how you say in English, hoarders. (Sorry, Hilaria!) We’ve been at it for weeks, and I continue to be amazed by the sheer volume of things which we have managed to pack into all our closets. They’re like Mary Poppins’s handbag, defying all laws of physics and space, except unlike Mary’s bag, they’re full of decidedly useless things like our CD’s and VHS tapes and baby pop-up books. Meanwhile, Hubby watches in despair as everyday’s news from Washington further devalues his beloved Presidential memorabilia collection, which also occupies a lot of space on our walls and in our closets.

I was lamenting my newfound awareness that we are hoarders to a wise friend who tried to reassure me that “moving is the most humbling experience in our own perceptions of tidiness.” Everyone should have such a kind friend who proffers such empathetic pearls of wisdom when you most need them. But no matter what she says, the reality is that Hubby and I are next level collectors of clutter. If others are humbled, we deserve a public flogging. 

At the outset of the moving process, Hubby found a receipt in our closet dated 2006 and he challenged me to find one dated earlier. I’m pretty competitive, so, game on. After weeks of combing through each and every one of my belongings, I hit the jackpot by opening a purse which I hadn’t worn for several years. Indeed, it was a carryover from another lifetime. From before I met Hubby, but just barely. 

What was inside the purse, you may be questioning? It was a receipt from Ann Taylor dated November 14, 2002, for the purchase of my second-ever pantsuit. You see, I’d interviewed for the position of a paralegal at Hubby’s law-firm just the day before, and it had gone so well that Hubby’s partner called me back for a second interview. Only problem was that I owned only one business suit and I’d already worn it to the first interview. I looked at the receipt’s total and smiled at the memory of the leap of faith that it was to buy that second suit. Where might I be today if I hadn’t purchased it? Hubby and I often refer to this time as my “Sliding Doors” moment, but not in reference to this lucky suit, but to an even more consequential act, which had taken place the day before. 

Just 24 hours earlier, armed with a set of wire cutters, I sat parked in the driver’s seat of my car, attempting to compose myself before my most promising post-college job interview. I’d done my research and I felt confident about my qualifications and abilities. There was just one thing holding me back from walking into the building, and that one little thing was staring back at me as I looked into my rearview mirror.

What was this little thing, you may be asking? It was a tiny 1.2 mm 16 gauge gold barbell, which I had pierced around my left eyebrow, right before my high school graduation, much to my mother’s chagrin. It was rather discreet, but I couldn’t help but worry that it might blow my chances at the job. No part of the barbell was removable, hence the reason for the wire cutters in my hand. And I knew that once I cut it out, there would be no going back. It would have to signify the end of one era, and the beginning of a new one. 

As I sat there, I weighed it all, and without further hesitation, I carefully cut it out. Years later, I asked Hubby’s partner whether he would have hired me if I had walked into the interview with the piercing, but offered to remove it, if I got the job. Hubby’s partner chuckled and said that there is no way in hell he would have hired me, and I know he’s telling the truth. And, if he hadn’t hired me, I would have never met Hubby, nor Amy Beth, and there certainly would be no Tyler, no Olivia. 

Wednesday is Hubby’s and my fourteen year anniversary of marriage and I am unbelievably grateful that a single choice made on P3 of our parking garage led me here. I am also so happy that I found this lucky receipt and beat Hubby at his own game. :-)

Very truly yours,

Maya

December 13, 2020

Dear Diary,

I really screwed up. I had a rare opportunity to drastically improve our lives and I blew it. In a year where literally everything else was cancelled, I had the perfect excuse, and I let it pass me by. What was I thinking?

How easy would it have been to simply inform the kids that Elfie was staying put in the North Pole, socially distancing until he can get the vaccine? I mean, obviously Tyler is past the point of believing in such things, so I would have needed only to convince Olivia. No disrespect to her, but she’s eight and she’s pretty well accustomed to 2020 being the worst. A little more bad news would not have tipped the balance, if you know what I am saying.

Now that I am thinking about it, there really ought to be a disclaimer when you buy the Elf on the Shelf that this is an intense multi-year commitment, and a highly stressful one to boot. There really ought to be like a 48 hour waiting period where you are required to talk to other Elf-owning parents before deciding to go forward. Everyone goes into it thinking that it will be a delightful month of exciting treasure hunt mornings, which each culminate in an Instagram-worthy snap for posterity. In reality, though, if you’re like me, I always forget to move the sucker until I wake up in the morning, when it suddenly hits me like a jolt. My heart pounding, I race down the stairs to move him before one of the kids notices he hasn’t, lest the magic of Christmas be forever ruined for them. I mean, no big deal or anything. 

Beyond these daily anxiety-ridden struggles, there is also the added challenge of traveling during the holidays with Elfie in tow. Surreptitiously packing him and pulling him out every night while on the road requires serious sleight of hand. I once had to strategize how to bring him along on a three-week trip to India, which was no easy feat, but did result in some pretty epic Instagram photos for once. 

Thankfully, Hubby is an insomniac so he often covers me when I have forgotten. Hubby’s Elfie always finds the funniest hiding spots. He’s apt to be found enjoying himself in the wine refrigerator, or having a blast at Barbie’s Dream House. I must admit that there is nothing better than the sound of the children’s uproarious laughter as they start the day, which must be why we keep bringing the little guy back, year after year…

Very truly yours,

Maya

November 21, 2020

Dear Diary,

I am taking advantage of a quiet moment in the house to write to you. As soon as the children wake up, I will be subjected to an incessant barrage of text messages and group FaceTime calls, all from contacts who are unrecognizable to me, but who manage to temporarily freeze all my devices nonetheless. You see, Tyler, Olivia and I all share the same Apple ID, which means we all receive each other’s text messages and telephone calls. Not only do the children have far more friends than I, but they also text in the most wasteful of ways that reveal their generational privilege. Today’s kids have never known the struggle of a limited data plan, smh. 

After suffering through months of interrupting pings and pongs, I successfully figured out how to mute alerts to their group chats. My relief was short-lived, however, because the children seem to delight in creating spinoff groups comprised of all of the same people - but titled slightly differently - such that I spend most of my day muting whatever the newest iteration is. As for the Group FaceTime calls, I have no clue how to mute those and they are irritating as hell.  If I decline the call, a group of 18 children simply repeatedly “spam” call me until someone finally answers. I am starting to suspect that this is all a ploy to break us down so we give Tyler and Olivia their own cellphones before their thirteenth birthdays and, dagnabbit, it is working.

Years ago, when we decided the children should be thirteen before receiving their first cell phone, our rationale was that we didn’t want them to overindulge in screen time before such an age as they could more responsibly limit themselves. The idea of them spending most of their day glued to their phones like zombies was a fate we wished to avoid. Having already parented Amy Beth through her teenage years, we felt strongly that we knew best.

When this all began back in March, I decided not to stress about how much time they were spending on their devices as there was no way around their schooling without them, and there was no alternative mode of communicating with their friends safely. The longer this goes on, however, the more Hubby and I fear that they are becoming horribly addicted. We see them losing interest in going outside and playing actual real-live games, in favor of video games in online portal communities. Worst of all are the endless YouTube videos hosted by the most inane people whose voices literally hurt my ears. It’s super hard to figure out how to maintain balance right now, and to maintain the faith that this prolonged episode is not permanently damaging their psyches. 

Likewise, watching the documentary The Social Dilemma has only served to further exacerbate our anxiety. Diary, this documentary does an excellent job of highlighting the insidious nature of artificial intelligence and its role in our collective screen addition. Yet, it doesn’t offer any good solutions for how to combat this. Short of selling all our belongings, moving off the grid, and embracing nature in a way that is incompatible with our family’s temperament (neither Hubby, nor I, hunt or fish), what are we supposed to do? 

With infections rising exponentially, we keep them inside to keep them safe, but are we simply trading one disease for another?

Very truly yours,

Maya

October 3, 2020

Dear Diary,

The Governess is back!!!

I know it’s been a while and I apologize for the lapse in my correspondence. If I may, the reason for my prolonged absence was that I didn’t have a lot of good news to report.

To begin with, Mom Camp was an abject failure. Despite my best intentions and advance preparations, Mom Camp lasted about two weeks before we abandoned ship. I’ll chalk it up to my lack of Navy Seal endurance training, which is apparently a prerequisite to keep up with the daily needs of my charges. Whereas I was completely worn out by dinner each night, the children would grow increasingly more alive after the sun went down, almost as if they were feeding on my fatigue. Unable to outlast my wild things, I simply gave up trying to limit their screen-time and resolved to enroll them in military school at the earliest opportunity. 

One evening, Hubby and I were up well past midnight binge-watching Designated Survivor, when we suddenly heard the most high-pitched, frantic screaming emanating from down below. Fearing the children were being kidnapped, Hubby and I bounded down the stairs and raced towards the shrieking, which was coming from our garage. We flung open the garage door to find the children cowering together in a dark corner. 

“A rat! There’s a rat!” they cried out, too paralyzed to move. I wish I had reacted differently, but upon hearing the word “rat”, I, too, froze and was greatly relieved when Hubby heroically rushed in to rescue the children. We ushered them back into the house where they tearfully recounted their tale. 

It all started with a midnight snack. 

“Olivia wanted a midnight snack from the garage, but she was too afraid to go by herself, so she asked me to accompany her,” Tyler began. “As we entered the garage, we heard a rustling noise, but we assumed that Olivia had stepped on a broom.”

“I didn’t assume that,” Olivia interjected, “you did, but I didn’t correct you.” 

“Anyways,” Tyler proceeded, “we opened the fridge, but then we heard the rustling noise again and this time we knew it was coming from a bag on the bookshelf. So we started to slowly back up towards the back of the garage, when suddenly we saw a rat leap out of the bag! The rat hit his head on the shelf above him and fell into the trash can where we keep cardboard recycling.”

“That’s when Tyler started screaming,” Olivia again interjected. 

“Wait, that was just Tyler screaming?” Hubby and I asked incredulously.

“I was screaming inside my head,” Olivia insisted. 

“That’s not true!” Tyler exclaimed, visibly irritated by all the interruptions. “Anyways, next thing we know, the rat jumps out of the trash can and stood in front of the garage door, staring at us menacingly, until you flung open the door and then he ran away.”

Unable to contain my horror, my first inclination was to declare that we must sell the house, to which the children enthusiastically agreed. Hubby thought that was a tad dramatic and promptly went back to the garage to prove to us that the rat had left. Neither the children nor I, however, felt very reassured by this inspection, so the following day I contacted an exterminator named James who arrived shortly thereafter in a very brightly colored truck, which he parked directly in front of our house, thereby announcing our shame to the entire neighborhood. 

About five minutes into his inspection, James says, “uh oh, that’s a major concern,” before asking for permission to don a hazmat suit so he can inspect our sub-basement. My anxiety is sky-rocketing when James re-emerges from the basement several minutes later and takes off his gas mask to tell me that the good news is that we don’t have raccoons or possums, but the bad news is that there is evidence of rodent activity in our sub-basement. Perhaps to make me feel better about the situation, James mentions that the neighborhood has seen an uptick of aggressive rats due to the Pandemic (and a scarcity of food in restaurant dumpsters), but this doesn’t actually make me feel any better.

Long story short, however, after sealing up the house, and laying a few traps, the problem turned out to be fairly minor and quickly resolved. And it just goes to show you that 2020 really is the Year of the Rat.

Very truly yours,

Maya

P.s. - Lest you think I was exaggerating about the high-pitched shrieking, I attach actual audio captured by Amy Beth who was recording a video at precisely the same time! 

August 11, 2020

Dear Diary,

Today marks 150 days since Amy Beth abruptly flew home from college and we began mostly avoiding other humans who are not in our immediate family. The longer this goes on, the more wearying it is on us all. I’m not going to lie. In a misery-loves-company kind of way, I was slightly comforted by the fact that Michelle Obama, one of my heroes, recently disclosed that she too has been suffering from low-grade depression due to the pandemic and racial injustice within our country. I love that she came forward to remind us that “[t]he idea that what this country is going through shouldn’t have any effect on us—that we all should just feel OK all the time—that just doesn’t feel real to me. So I hope you all are allowing yourselves to feel whatever it is you’re feeling.”

Diary, I had completely forgotten what it is like to have an intelligent, compassionate, and empathetic voice addressing the nation during a time of crisis, and so it felt really nice to be reminded of a time when we used to be greater. Hubby wishes Biden could pick her for VP, but, frankly, now that I know that biggest knock on Susan Rice is that she drops a lot of F-bombs, I fucking hope he picks her.

But back to Michelle O. Not only did she break barriers by discussing mental health in the first place, but I also love that she identified the various coping mechanisms she is using to get her through this time, namely, regular exercise, good diet, quality time spent with family and friends, time spent outdoors, and frequent social media breaks.

Thus, in an effort to embrace my inner-Michelle and to remind myself that if you look, there is good in everything, I decided to jot down my top ten favorite ways to beat the pandemic blues.

Hubby and I binged this series like no other. Kiefer plays Tom Kirkman, the lone cabinet-member survivor of a terrible bombing of the Capitol Building during the SOTU, which wipes out almost the entire federal government and requires Tom to undertake the monumental task of rebuilding everything, while badass agent Hannah Wells (played by Maggie Q) puts herself in nonstop anxiety-producing situations in her quest to uncover who carried out this evil plot. It is heart-pounding entertainment, and a fascinating exploration of bipartisan politics, and often feels wildly prescient to our current situation. We literally stayed up until 5 am on multiple weeknights because we could not turn it off. Tom Kirkman for President!

I love this album so much that I cannot stop listening to it, nor can I stop myself from annoying everyone around me by continuously humming or singing random lyrics from it apropos of nothing. At any given moment, I can go from quietly going about my business to suddenly belting out, “there’s nothing like a maaaaaad, woman! Cause you made her like that!” It keeps everyone on their toes.

I’ve taken up lap-swimming twice a week and it’s my absolute favorite way to get fit. I’ve lost ten pounds and several seconds off all my lap times. It makes me so happy; I’m convinced that I must have been a dolphin in a past life.

I feel like every woman, young and old alike, should read this book. There is a lot of great wisdom contained within it. 

This may seem very random, but they are an amazing gluten-free alternative to tortillas and I just love them, as I do everything about Trader Joe’s.

If you’re like me and you never heard of Medium before the Great Shutdown, you will be pleased to learn that it’s this awesome place where writers can self-publish and it’s quickly become my new favorite rabbit hole. Shout out to my amazingly talented and super smart friend Laila for introducing me to it! (She made me say that.)

This requires a lot of furniture, television and ROKU shuffling - as well as a hot tub - but man, it’s so worth it. Speaking of movies, the movie Hamilton on Disney+ is transcendent. Even if you saw the musical live, you should still stream the movie. And, if you’re anything like me, make sure you have plenty of tissues on hand for the second act. Unless you’re in the hot tub.

Comedian Sarah Cooper has a series of TikTok videos in which she impersonates Trump by lip-synching his actual audio from pressers and interviews. They are unbelievably well done and absolutely hilarious. If you haven’t seen one already, you should immediately rectify this travesty. (Just Google her.)

I probably should move this up on this list because they are life-changing and once you have tried one, you can never go back. Especially handy during toilet paper shortages. I will go on record saying that I would forgo jewelry for several anniversaries for one of these puppies. 

and

I’ll admit it. I am a Cuomosexual. I never watched these national treasures before this all happened, but man, they sure know how to rile me up. Politically, of course.

Very truly yours,

Maya

7/27/2020

Dear Diary,

Am I sad? Maybe I am. Is everyone else feeling like me? 

I was really happy before COVID and the shut down infected our lives, lifestyles and livelihoods. I literally used to drive around with a silly stupid smile on my face. True. Even in a mini-van.

But I am so sad. 

I am so afraid for the world and the world we’ll pass on. I feel the impending doom in my bones.

I have felt it for four years.

I keep waiting for a select few fortunate others to feel it, too. But, they don’t. They dig down. Was I wrong to make them my barometer? 

I am so scared that this will be our legacy. I don’t know how to stop it. How do I stop it? The outcome I wish to avoid is total doom, so the stakes feel really big. 

I am scared. I am lonely and must keep my support circle at bay. I am angry. 

We have 99 days left before we can vote ourselves a brighter future. 

Let’s make a change. This isn’t right. 

Very truly yours,

Maya

July 12, 2020

Dear Diary,

My friend Chiara recently called me as she was driving to the Canadian border. “I don’t blame you for trying to get out, but I thought the border was closed,” I joked as I pictured her for a split second trying to make a break for it. Turns out she was headed to a border patrol office somewhere near Vancouver in order to exchange her 11 year-old daughter with her ex-husband, a Canadian national, for summer vacation per their standard custodial schedule. Normally, this is a much simpler matter of arranging a few flights and other travel arrangements. This year, after consulting with an attorney and exhausting every other possible option, this was literally the only way that they could legally effectuate the handoff.

Co-parenting after divorce is rarely simple, but tack on the coronavirus crisis, and an already combative landscape has the potential to become a veritable minefield. When everyone is telling you to stay home and socially distance, how do you do this safely across two households? What if one parent is an essential worker who has increased exposure to the virus? What if one parent is taking appropriate precautions, while the other parent views coronavirus less seriously? What if one parent has more job flexibility and can more easily handle the demands of distance learning/child rearing? 

Adding to all these complications for many parents is that fact that early shelter-in-place/curfew orders upended their court-ordered custodial schedules, especially if exchanges were scheduled to take place at schools or daycares that had closed. Ideally, parents should have worked together to devise a schedule modification which was in everyone’s best interests, but for many, the coronavirus health crisis, combined with family court closures, provided the perfect pretext for one parent to unilaterally assume sole custody, while limiting the recourse of the other.

This is certainly true for my friend Reina who is an ICU nurse in New Jersey and married to a trauma surgeon. I called Reina on March 16th to gauge her level of concern. I was still in phase one of pandemic processing, which meant that I, along with every brand since the beginning of the internet with whom I had ever shared my email address was clearly concerned with COVID-19, and yet several of my friends were still trying to convince me that this was a simply a bad flu and to stop following the news. Seeing as Reina and her husband were on the frontlines, I figured she could provide me with solid first-hand information. 

As you might imagine, my conversation with Reina quickly confirmed my worst fears. Not only was she gravely concerned about this novel coronavirus for which her hospital was ill-equipped with effective PPE, but her hospital was also approaching scary max-capacity levels. For context, Reina does IronMan competitions and hikes Mount Everest in her spare time when she isn’t working as an ICU Nurse, teaching nursing while pursuing a doctorate, raising four children and generally being a bad ass. So to hear the palpable fear in her voice, when she is basically the most indomitable person I know, really put things in perspective for me. In addition to being very worried for my friend on a personal level, I was instantly outraged that my country, the United States of America, a supposed world leader, could be so ill-prepared and put so many of our healthcare workers at such risk.

While still fuming at our national incompetence, Reina made me even more upset by sharing that she and her husband hadn’t seen his sons for weeks due to his ex-wife’s concerns of their potential exposure. Neither Reina nor her husband were offered an opportunity to see the boys - even from a safe distance - to say goodbye before “it was decided” that they no longer have access to them. I was devastated for Reina and her husband that they were being treated so cruelly by his ex-wife while they were so heroically battling this invisible killer on the frontlines. Especially after she detailed all of the extraordinary protective measures they took each time they returned home, I felt certain that no court of law would allow this to continue, and advised her to file a motion, to which she replied they had already done so, but it would be a long time before it could be heard. 

Shortly after Reina and I got off the phone, my stepdaughter Amy Beth’s mother Sharon called me to see how we were all doing. In stark contrast to my friend’s situation, Sharon and I have always co-parented respectfully and cooperatively. In addition to Amy Beth’s milestones, we also celebrate holidays regularly together and even call each other “step-wife.”

I told Sharon about my conversation with Reina and that I was starting to panic and prepare for the end of days.

“I started a vegetable garden today,” I told her. “We should be good to go in about 70 days. Do you think I ought to get some chickens?”

“Totally,” Sharon replied, “maybe a goat or two while you are at it.”

“Would you like to come stay with us for a bit?” I asked her. 

“You’re a doll. You know I love you.” Sharon delicately responded, before gracefully declining my offer as a long-term proposition. 

As it turns out, over the course of the last seventeen weeks, Sharon has visited and spent the occasional weekend with us. We spend our days lounging by the pool and accepting cocktail service provided by Hubby, and our evenings playing board games or charades as a family to a lot of laughs. Amy Beth likes to roll her eyes when her mother and I join forces, but we both know she secretly loves it.

Sharon and I have forged a great friendship and she has been one of the biggest supporters of my blog since it started. Not only did she personally call me to tell me how much she enjoys it, but she also shared it with so many of her friends, which is the ultimate compliment! I can’t tell you how much her support has meant to me and touched me. 

Meanwhile, after three months of not seeing her stepsons, Reina and her husband finally had their day in court via Zoom conference and, after reviewing the affidavits submitted certifying their hospital’s precautionary measures as well as their own at home, their family court judge thankfully restored their custodial rights. It still stings that they lost so much time.

As I am continuously reminded time and time again throughout this pandemic, I am so grateful that my family, by and large, is so harmonious. Now if only we could come together as a nation…

Very truly yours,

Maya

July 1, 2020

Dear Diary,

Years ago, before realizing that they were evil data mining scams designed to collect personal information and manipulate political elections [1], I LOVED to take Facebook quizzes. Why settle for a boring Myers Briggs personality test, when I could take a quiz like “Build a Salad and We'll Guess Your Secret Talent and Dream Job” and have so much more fun while learning about myself!

One day, I must have been pretty bored because I took a quiz despite its very mundane title, “Introvert or Extrovert?” I fully expected to be diagnosed as an introvert because: (1) I am generally shy in large groups; (2) I enjoy being by myself and crave alone time if I don’t get enough of it; (3) I hate small talk; and (4) I prefer having a few great friends, as opposed to a lot of good friends. After clicking on several images to respond to various crucial questions like, which tree was my spirit tree and which marine animal I most admired, the quiz results were tallied, and, to my great surprise, I was identified as …

An extroverted introvert. 

What a joke, I thought. How could I be both? After reading up on it, though, I had to admit that I fit the description to a T. [2]

Perhaps because of my personality type, Diary, the first 100+ days of our new normal have been somewhat of a welcome relief. Prior to the Great Shutdown, I had been running around and socializing non-stop, so the ability to stay home for once - reading, writing and nurturing my introverted side - felt good. 

However, as I started to detail over a month ago in Bursting Our Bubbles, the desire to see our friends in person began to overtake our fears of the virus, and only grew stronger and stronger as more and more parts of our economy re-opened. Images of friends dining in restaurants or socializing outdoors, quickly accelerated our FOMO. Friends called and told me about all the ways that they were interacting in pods, while detailing the protective measures they were undertaking to make such get-togethers safe.

After mulling it over for a few weeks, Hubby and I decided to bite the bullet and invite a few friends over for a socially distanced hangout in our backyard. The first order of business was to ensure we could provide proper seating, which would guide everyone to maintain appropriate distance. We arranged our garden furniture so that everything was spaced six feet apart; and for dining purposes, we decided that 72” round tables with no more than 4 people seated at each, would be our best bet.

We also decided that there would be no communal appetizers in order to minimize the spread of germs. As someone who loves to craft a colorful snack board, I decided to create individualized cheese, snack and charcuterie plates for each of our guests. (I promise to learn better portion-control in the future, Diary.)

I prepared the appetizer plates ahead of time while wearing a mask and gloves and am very happy to report that my oxygen levels never varied despite my prolonged mask wearing, nor was I recruited at any point by the local Communist Party.

We opened up our backgate so guests could go directly into our backyard without having to walk through our house. Thankfully, everyone wore a mask and was super considerate about wiping down any surfaces touched whenever entering our house to use the restroom. 

We handed out mini hand-sanitizers to each guest when it was time for dinner, which was assorted BBQ from our favorite restaurant Bludso’s. I again donned a mask and gloves while only I served the food. As I was the only person allowed to touch the serving tongs and spoons, this hopefully minimized any transmission risks. Hubby adorably packaged up ziplock bags containing disposable utensils, napkins and wet wipes for each guest’s use at their table. Hubby also assumed the role of sole sommelier in order to similarly minimize transmission risks.

Despite the never-ending ambient noise of fireworks in the distance, so regular that my friend Bert remarked he felt transported to Hanoi, I think that everyone enjoyed the ability to get together in person and appreciated our COVID-19 set up. Mistress Olivia was so taken by the concept that she has started hosting socially distanced tea parties with her American Girl dolls regularly in the backyard.

Sadly, infections are on the rise again, so I think it’s best that I stay home and embrace my introverted side again for a week or so to test out our socially distanced set up’s effectiveness before attempting it again. The thought of unknowingly spreading this virus to another person is scary enough for me to proceed with utmost caution.

Very truly yours,

Maya

References:

[1] https://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/20/opinion/cambridge-analytica-facebook-quiz.html

[2] https://introvertdear.com/news/extroverted-introvert-signs/

June 22, 2020

Dear Diary,

“How long will this last?” seems to be the topic du jour when talking to friends. We have all gone from wrapping our heads around a two week shutdown, to a 45-day shutdown, to whatever we are currently experiencing, which kinda feels like the Wild West, except that when the saloon doors swing open, it’s not a trigger-happy cowboy that anyone’s concerned about entering the establishment, but rather, it’s the bandit who isn’t wearing a mask. 

As a Virgo, this inability to plan for the future is particularly excruciating. Planning things, especially with the help of excel spreadsheets and color-coded binders, is what we do! I’m not saying that I’m the master of all plans - I am a terrible interior decorator (unless your taste is mail-strewn minimalism) and I often struggle with long-term plans, like say, what I want to be when I grow up. But, if we are talking about planning a luncheon, or a party, or a vacation, this is the stuff that fuels me and gives me something to look forward to when everyday life feels hard! And let’s be honest, everyday life feels really frickin hard these days. 

Further compounding my distress over such matters is the fact that I am turning the big 4-0 in less than 90 days. Lest you misinterpret my distress, Diary, I am not stressed in the slightest about turning forty, as I equate getting older with getting wiser (unless you watch Fox News), but my discomfort stems from feeling stymied in my ability to make any plans whatsoever. 

I certainly can’t plan a big party.  I certainly can’t plan a grand family vacation to commemorate the milestone. I can’t even plan a technically legal gathering of ten of my besties because they mostly live far away and I wouldn’t dream of asking them to travel in a flying petri-dish to come celebrate me. 

So where does this leave me? 

More importantly, where does this leave all of us? Business as usual can not thrive, let alone be sustained in this environment of uncertainty. We have all been treading water, while waiting and watching for some semblance of national leadership - a well-orchestrated, scientifically-backed plan to stop this virus. If you think such leadership is a pipe dream, please see New Zealand as an example (especially if you watch Fox News.) 

Other than food and basic necessities, who is spending money on anything? It’s one thing to say, let’s open up a few restaurants and barber shops, but we all know that is a small measure of our economy. Meanwhile, all of our major industries (entertainment, professional sports, travel, manufacturing) are on hold or cancelled. 

I believe in American ingenuity and I know we can and will pivot to adjust to whatever landscape we are presented with, I just wish we had our own Jacinda Ardern guiding us. 

Very truly yours,

Maya

June 17, 2020

Dear Diary,

I had a terrible nightmare last night. I dreamt I overslept and was ten minutes late logging Mistress Olivia into her first class of the day, but had misplaced all of her Zoom Meeting ID’s. Even worse, I wasn’t sure which class she needed to log into because I couldn’t access her Microsoft Teams account where her daily class schedule, along with several handouts to be printed, were normally posted. 

My terror mounted as I was successively blocked by ParentSquare, Powerschool, Unified Classroom, Class Dojo and each of the other modes of communication intermittently utilized by the school throughout the year. As a last resort, I went to consult the class What’sApp group, but despite sending several messages, no one would respond to my desperate pleas for help. 

I remember feeling panicked and unsure where to turn next, just as I awoke with a jolt. It was truly terrifying and my heart was still pounding, until I remembered that it is summer vacation and I no longer need to concern myself with such logistical matters umpteen times per day.

The blessed day finally arrived, Diary!!! Three months after the children’s school shut down, my governess duties concluded on Friday. However, now that we have gone a few days without observing our previous routine, I have to admit it feels rather bittersweet.

It turns out I will actually miss quite a few things about distance learning. I will most definitely miss the sweet sound that a chorus of second graders make when greeting their teacher, as well as the adorable, “thank you for the lesson, Mrs. Powell!” that they’d chant before signing off. 

I will miss being a fly on the wall as they discussed their 7 and 8-year-old perspectives on life under quarantine and the recent protests. I will miss overhearing the enthusiastic discussions emanating from Tyler’s bedroom as well, along with how cheerfully Amy Beth would assist Tyler with his studies once she discovered his dashing French teacher. 

I will most certainly miss the structure and stability provided by their daily schedule, regardless of how complicated it was to keep track of. Indeed, I am in awe of how their teachers overcame Herculean challenges to shift to online learning in a matter of days, while stoically managing their own fears and concerns over the virus. While I was holed up in bed, overwhelmed with grave fears about how the entire world could possibly stop for two months, teachers were learning new technologies and revamping their curricula on the fly. They opened up their homes and provided much needed continuity and strength. When I recall those days, and I think about all that teachers and school administrators had to do to continue to show up for our children, I get choked up with gratitude. 

My never-ending gratitude aside, Diary, the thing I will probably miss most is being dragged into all of the art assignments, science experiments and dramatic recreations for which my two young charges needed my assistance. Again, their teachers utilized immense creativity to conceive of assignments which could be performed using common household items and provided so much collaborative fun. They reminded me of how fun school can be! (If only Olivia shared my enthusiasm…)

Very truly yours,

Maya