Wooden Chopsticks

After my parent’s divorce, my sister and I were thrilled when my mother was able to find love again. And unlike her first choice for a partner, she chose a kind and gentle man who not only embraced her with unconditional love, but wished to extend the same to her two teenage daughters. I was fifteen years old when he became a permanent fixture in our lives.

So it was a relief to finally have some peace and stability, but I was caught up in the teen angst of self discovery and realization combined with lots of anger and bitterness from a volatile household that existed when my parents were still together. I didn’t want to fully embrace a healthy male role model because my trust in men had already been shattered. I caused a lot of problems for my mom and stepfather in high school. I fought with my mother constantly, had no interest in contact with my biological father, and challenged rules by constantly breaking them. You could say I was a problem kid.

The interesting thing is that I excelled academically, participated in extra-curricular activities, and had a great rapport with my friends and teachers. Graduated from high school sixth in my class of approximately four hundred. And didn’t touch drugs or alcohol. So I looked like a model teenager to the outside world, and drove my family nuts at home.

I can recognize now what I could not appreciate during those years. My mother’s partner would drive me religiously to and from my part time job so that I could make a little spending money. He would come to school events and tell me how proud he was of me. He always had patience, and interest in my well-being, and generous hugs to offer. In spite of my anger and acting out, his support stayed consistent and his love never wavered. He is an amazing man.

My parents have been together for twenty one years and married for the last four.

In April, my stepfather was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The news came as a complete shock. How could this man, who in his mid-seventies, played tennis with his buddies on a weekly basis, be faced with this health crisis?

Oh my god, I thought. I am not ready to lose him.

And the strangest thing happened. It was as if I was a small child submerged in a pool and someone yanked me out sputtering and choking. Sure, this divorce had been all consuming, but I had let it become that way. I was still walking around like a victim and had essentially shut out my family since March.

And it took a life crisis that would hit me harder than what I had been going through to get me out from under the water.

My Chinese mother used to describe an important life lesson to me and my sister from time to time. She would hold one wooden chopstick in her hand and say, “ One chopstick by itself, so easy to break in half.” Then she would add two or three more wooden chopsticks to the first and try to bend the bunch with both hands. “More chopsticks together, very hard to break. This is us. This is our family. We must stick together.”

No apologies had been exchanged since the blowout I had with my mother a few months ago. But it didn’t matter. I picked up the phone to check on my stepfather and offered my love and support. My sister, with her first baby due in six weeks, dedicated herself to internet research to learn as much as she could about his chances for survival depending on what type of pancreatic cancer he may have. My sister provided us with tons of information and calm strength while we waited several weeks for the biopsy results. The news was not good, and he would be scheduled for surgery quickly. I picked up the phone to reach out to my mother and she responded. And then there we were, three chopsticks in three separate states, combining to form a bond of wood that could not be broken. To be there for each other and this wonderful man who had come into our lives.

My sister could not travel at this point of her pregnancy and even with my insistence on going home to be present for my stepfather’s surgery, my mother counseled that with two small children, full time work, and legal bills, I needed to focus on the tasks at hand. “I will take care of what is happening here.” She said, “and you help us by taking care of yourself.” I know my mother had broken down several times with my sister about my stepfather’s condition, but with me, she showed no fear. I understood that was how she needed to insure that I stay strong. We may not be able to be together, but each of us must do our part to keep each chopstick intact, so that together, we are unbreakable.

I couldn’t believe her words. She is a unique woman, my mother. And I realized that she taught her daughters the skill sets needed to be survivors, to overcome any and every challenge in life. In the beginning of my divorce, I had forgotten I had these skills. It was in this moment, when I hung up the phone, that I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I am strong like my mother, I thought, and I am not afraid.

And then a miracle happened. My stepfather had his surgery in late May. The doctors were in shock that the cancer was contained in the tumor – slow growing, no evidence that it had spread. He is now currently recovering, waiting for the green light to hit the tennis court again.

My mother camped in the hospital for almost a week, never leaving his side. One of the first things my stepfather said to me when I called him after his surgery: “Your mother is one in a million.”

My father used to say “When they made your mother, they broke the mold.”

I agree. I’d like to also add that my mother has the strength of many chopsticks.

Carpe Diem

My last post was in April. Quite the writing hiatus, no? It got to a point where the raw nerve was tired of being hit, and needed to be left alone. And I think I just wanted to live a bit without analyzing and dissecting. And I ended up living a lot.

The last two months, I learned to exit that stage of paralysis that can occur during a divorce and remembered to seize the day. Carpe Diem. Because each one is a gift, not a guarantee.

I remember saying to my girlfriend M. back in early April that I just wanted a young boy toy. Some casual sex and fun. No strings. And I met him. Young and very successful, he told me that I was beautiful and enthusiastically courted me. During our first phone conversation, he asked me what my favorite dessert was. On our first date, he showed up with a box of gourmet cupcakes.

It was six weeks of great sex and when I started getting attached and suggested perhaps some light sewing thread (note: NOT chains or strings), the poor kid went running for the hills. Actually, while we were dating, he spent a lot of time driving me around the hills in the quest for a mack daddy bachelor pad to buy (note: early bad sign). So that stung a bit, but it was a good lesson learned. Be careful of what you ask for, because you just might get it.

But it was the first practice run since my break up, and for that, I am grateful. I'm taking the training wheels off and I got my money's worth out of that Brazilian bikini wax.

During this timeframe, three amazing events also occurred:

My stepfather was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
I stepped onto a plane and left this country to embark on a lifechanging trip.
My younger sister gave birth to her first child.

Each of these experiences have marked me in such a way that somehow, I have found strength and healing in them. So each deserves its own post.

Bear with me while I write them. And then join me. I'm looking forward to sharing with you.

Coy Dancing Lessons

I've been on a few more outings since "Asian Persuasian" boy.

Let's face it, it's been only two years since I stopped nursing my youngest child. I don't feel particularly sexy when I look in the mirror. Hell, this divorce process has pretty much killed my libido. I've got bags under my eyes, and the gray roots are sprouting faster than a speeding bullet.

A friend suggested Match.com. I don't have the energy to even formulate a profile. The website itself gives you a tutorial on what to say and how to say it. You've got to be kidding me. Too involved and too time consuming. And what is up with those guys that post 75 photos where they are pursing their lips and offering come-hither eyes? Ugh.

And so I've let a few people set me up on dates. Hasn't been too bad testing the waters this way. And atleast I can be somewhat confident that I'm not going out with a serial killer.

Sometimes though, while sipping a cosmopolitan at the bar with my gentleman friend of the evening, I just want to say, "Look, I don't have the time for the coy dance bullshit. I really just need a good lay. And can you promise not to call afterwards? I don't have the energy to get to know you." Then throw back that first cocktail and bark, "Make yourself useful and order me another damn drink!"

My girlfriend handed me the book, "Why Men Marry Bitches" last month to provide me with some counsel as I enter the singles scene again. I laughed. I could have written that book myself today.

The last two dates have been really nice. On face value, great guys. Both were very attractive, very attentive. So instead of scary man-eater, I find that my feet start coy dancing.

I portray myself as the woman who has got it together (Xanax), exuding powerful strength (10 cups of coffee a day to combat sleep deprivation) and sexual mystery (forgot how to do it). I breezily jump from my children, to my work, to my current break-up (without giving too many details) in conversation as if I can juggle whatever life has to throw at me. I flip my hair (roots touched up the day before), laugh at their jokes, I am engaging, and offer the invite of only a quick "good night" peck on the lips (freshly glossed with lip plumper in the ladies room) before I say thank you for a lovely time and hop into my car to drive home.

If only they knew. I'm dealing with more baggage than a Louis Vuitton store.

According to the book, being slightly unavailable means the guys come back for more. This divorce has made me very unavailable. Certainly didn't have to try too hard here.

I've already gotten calls for second dates.

So, as a result of coy dancing, for the first time in years, I may have to schedule that long overdue Brazilian. Let the games begin!

Biting the Hand That Loves You

My Chinese mother states she loves her daughters unconditionally. My sister and I might say that her unconditional love is actually conditional. And regardless of the conditions, we've certainly had to pay for it.

"Trapped" by my American father, she moved to the States (as she shares the story), against her will. Unfortunately, he was an angry alcoholic who didn't understand the concept of fidelity. And my mother, who barely spoke English, made the decision to kill herself and her two little girls that first lonely winter in this country in the suburban quiet town where she knew nobody and my father was out doing god knows what. We were both asleep in our beds when my mother put her hands around my little sister's neck - she must have been just under two. My sister woke up and said "I love you Mommy." And it was in that moment that my mother has told us that she decided to fight for a life for us in this country. I feel pain for her. But I also feel pain for the two little girls that survived that night. Because as long as I can remember, my sister and I have heard that story over and over again.

And we vividly remember the vicious tirades of an unhappy woman that came out of no where when my mother couldn't handle the stress. I remember her screaming at the top of her lungs because she couldn't cope with the mess in our playroom. And the wooden bamboo back scratcher that left welts on our little thighs, so bad that I remember my father wincing one day when he came home from work and saw my mother's handiwork on my body.

My mother has played the role of martyr my whole life. I don't remember a day when she hasn't shared how she has suffered at our expense. And in our desire to thank her, please her, and win her love, my sister and I did everything possible to obtain her approval, to make her proud. I learned to be an overachiever, a people pleaser, excel in sales careers, and never say no even at my own expense. I adopted and perfected a "can OVER-do" philosophy on life, and ultimately, translated that philosophy into how to deal with all relationships, especially those with men.

I think our spirits were broken when my sister and I, in our early twenties, within almost two years of each other, moved to other states to give our spirits a chance to soar again. As much as we loved our mother, staying with her was becoming the equivalent of a slow death. My mother insists that we abandoned her. Perhaps that wasn't too far from the truth. But leaving gave us a chance to celebrate our own dreams, and our hopes for a happy future.

My mother has always resented this decision that we made. My financial independence and success commanded respect, and the geographical distance created a buffer, save for a few heated traditional Sunday phone calls. As long as I didn't need her, my mother would mostly stay on her best behavior.

Last October, for the first time in over ten years of my adult life, I needed her. I needed my mother during the beginning of my divorce, when it felt as if I were being hit over and over again by a mack truck. That little girl in me needed to be hugged by a strong woman who has survived a painful marriage and divorce and told that all would be well. And given the opportunity, she came through with flying colors. Ten years has obviously dulled my memory. I forgot how much you have to pay for her love. During this time, my mother started "calling the shots" and didn't prevent herself from reminding me how I've continued to pick losers in life.

With no choice but to attend a sales meeting during which I had custody of my children last week, I asked my parents if they could come for a visit and watch my little ones. I paid for the plane tickets, the groceries, the amenities, and coordinated transportation for the children to and from their preschool with a sitter. All I needed was for my mommy to love my children while I was away so that I could have peace of mind and heart. And considering that the divorce process destroyed my work focus and sales numbers this year, knowing that the loves of my life were in good hands while I had some serious career discussions out of town helped to ease the grief.

Until I came home and watched my mom scold my four year old for pooping in his pants. A talk that included encouragement to try to use the potty next time would have been my preference. Unfortunately, she delivered the vicious admonition that I remembered all too well growing up. I informed her to stop - this was my territory. And in front of my son, she lost her cool, stating that the children were out of control and they needed better discipline. She used phrases that I choose not share in this post.

Later that night, in bed, my son asked me "Why is Grandma mad at me? Why doesn't she love me?" I held his face in my hands and fought back the tears as I kissed his forehead. "My sweet boy," I cooed, "Grandma loves you so very much. And mommy loves you so very much. Mommy and Grandma were mad with each other and we shouldn't have yelled. I am so sorry. You did nothing wrong. You did NOTHING wrong."

I bit my tongue that night. And again the next morning when I drove the children to see their father for the weekend. I had endured for thirty-six years. But not my children. Never. The cycle stops here.

Receiving help from my mother means she was given power. And absolute power corrupts absolutely. I had handed it to her on a silver platter.

As soon as I walked in the door, she started griping about how much trouble my children were while I was away and how exhausted she was catering to them.

It was as if someone lit a match to a stick of dynamite. She didn't even know what hit her. I couldn't believe my voice could reach those octives. " You fucking pathetic woman!" I screamed. " How dare you? These are MY babies, YOUR grandchildren." My mother offered a matyr tirade of her own, but I'm not sure she could even hear herself over me.

"All they wanted was your love! " I yelled, "and that's all I asked from you." Spit was flying out of my mouth now and it felt like I was throwing left hooks into the air. " Instead, you chose to kick all of us when we needed you the most. You still kick me when I'm down! Fuck you and get the fuck out of my house!"

It felt as if a 900 pound gorilla was lifted from my back. And it was strangely euphoric. So my mother and I aren't on speaking terms now. We said nothing to each other the rest of the day and they left early the next morning.

I'm sure she's throwing some nasty Chinese curse in my direction right now.

Doesn't matter. Little by little, step by step...road to happiness. And for the record, I am taking NO prisoners.

Happy Birthday Dad

February 19th is my father's birthday. It is on this day, and the anniversary of his passing in the month of August that I reflect on the dynamics of our father-daughter relationship.

I have spent my life searching for the loving, supportive, and stable man that my father never was. And in my quest for fulfilling love, I've found men that were like my father in so many ways since I've started dating (textbook psychology I'm sure). I found that I was always sacrificing and placing my needs last to secure my partner's approval, to win unconditional love. And then I would quickly move from one failed relationship to another, believing that the "honeymoon" stage with a new boyfriend meant sure success.

My college roommate was working towards her masters in social work. I remember her telling me from time to time that I needed to sort through the pain and anger of a horrible relationship with my father. "This will blow up in your face one day," she warned, "if you don't try counseling to understand your issues."

Interestingly enough, with the father of my children, I did just that. But we were too busy sorting through our mess as a couple, and I never sat down one-on-one with an expert to face the music as a individual that still needed to heal from the disappointment she experienced with the single most important male role model of her life.

I choose to be alone now. It would have been too easy to run into someone else's arms or bed while going through this divorce. I look in the mirror each morning and ask for the strength to learn how to be good to myself and focus on healing the little girl who had an angry alcoholic for a father.

It is terrifying as hell to make this decision. But it is also empowering. I've promised myself to pick up the phone this week and finally schedule some time with a therapist. One day there will be hope for a healthy relationship. In the meantime, I know I have a lot of work ahead of me.

Right before my father passed seven years ago, he wrote a letter to me and my younger sister. We talk about it often. In this letter, he tells us that he is sorry for all that he has done. He promises that when he leaves this world, he will always be watching over us, protecting us, loving us.

I have been searching for someone to fill those shoes. And for the first time in my life, I realize that person needs to be me.

I have a Merit cigarette and a Budweiser every year on February 19th as a tribute to him. Two of his favorite things in the world.

Happy birthday Daddy. I miss you.

Cougar or Puma?

I have been approached by men younger than 30 in the past few months. I have had no desire to date. I have not been advertising my single status. I do not walk around with a "MILF" t-shirt on. I am tired all the time. And I'm definitely looking my age with help from this exhausting divorce (regardless of what my mother keeps saying, "you young and purty...Elizabeth Taylor marry lotta men in her life...last husband was younger guy too - you keep trying). I'm not interested in younger men, and I don't hang around venues that cater to this male demographic - I'm running around the park and the grocery store!


I did accompany a friend to a small artshow downtown on a free Saturday night (while the children were with their father ) where my typical plans would have included Ben & Jerry's and American Idol on Tivo.


I met M. by accident. Literally bumped into him walking out of the restroom and making sure my skirt wasn't tucked into the back of my pantyhose. He immediately asked if I was one of the exhibitors. "No, " I replied, "I'm a guest." He asked if I was here with anyone and I pointed to my friend (he's an actor/personal trainer, and NO, I have not gone there). You could tell M. was intimidated by my friend's looks.

He seemed mature. Until I learned that he was a 31 year old investment banker that owned the loft next door. Five years younger. Not too bad. And he was actually very good looking. I gave him my number.


I almost backed out of this "first date" at the last minute. I fielded a call that afternoon from a client/friend right before my call to M. to cancel and blurted out my dilemma to her. "You need to break the seal." she insisted. "Just go."

He picked a Korean barbeque restaurant. Over dinner, he told me he was into Asian women. Business takes him to the Far East often. "You're totally my type" he shared. " I think it's almost an obsession how much I like Asian girls." I thought it would be good to change the subject and talk about his other interests. "I really like to go to the gym." he offered. Oh god. Check please.

I recounted this experience to another mom friend of mine. "You shouldn't write him off so quickly. It would be fun to have just kept this boy around as a sex buddy, but I think that would make you a puma." she laughed.

What the hell is that?

Apparently, it's the definition of a woman under 40 that goes out with younger men. Over 40 and you're a cougar. And I'm still not sure if that's the accurate consensus on the correct meaning.

Give me a break.

For reasons that have nothing to do with my feline status, I am not interested in getting involved with anyone right now, especially a younger man. I already have two small children and I'm in the process of trying to get rid of a big child that throws expensive temper tantrums at me through his lawyers. But these are my personal choices.

I am actually offended that women are even labeled this way. How about pointing to a woman walking around with a younger man and saying, "Good for her. And good for them." Who cares why they are together? There's a very good chance that they might have found the fulfilling companionship that has eluded many of us.

At the very least, she may be getting a hell of a lot more booty than I am. Meow.

Children - Love Medicine

My son makes me laugh when I serve them tilapia (a mild white fish) for dinner this week. Drowned in lemon and butter, they are happily digging in, and I high five myself that I am getting some Omega 3 into their bodies in between the nightly Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and hot dog dinners. "I love labia" says my four year old, "it tastes good." I wonder if he's taking English lessons from my Chinese mother when she comes to visit.

My daughter is developing into quite the character herself. Her favorite food is a raspberry/strawberry fruit bar treat, recently discovered from a local organic grocery store. She actually consumed two of these before check out during a recent shopping trip. This morning, she pushed her scrambled eggs and toast with cream cheese away (usual breakfast favorites). "I want a fruit bar mommy." I slide her plate back in front of her. "Fruit bars are for snack honey," I explain," let's eat our breakfast." She's contemplating a temper tantrum. And in the next moment, she cocks her head to the side and raises her eyebrows up and down several times, Groucho Marx style. This is a new trick that made me laugh the night before. "Please mommy? See my eyes?" She wins. I hand her a fruit bar.

I am madly in love with these two children. In those precious moments of connection, I am touched beyond emotional explanation. There's no time to feel sorry for yourself when you are in the middle of wiping noses and tushes. You do not have the luxury of worrying about the lawyer's phone call five minutes ago when your little one climbs into your lap with a book.

In some ways, I think my divorce has helped me to become a better mother. I am learning to slow down and savor the time I have with my babies. I was always racing against the clock as a full time working mom, on and off airplanes, in and out of meetings, and realized that in the midst of a failing relationship, my children had a sleep-deprived, stressed out, unfulfilled person who tended to look at parenting responsibilities as tasks instead of opportunities. I'm not saying I didn't enjoy my time with my children, but now I am learning to really live in the present.

In the morning, on our way to preschool, we now take a different approach. Instead of quickly throwing on jackets and shoes to get out the door, we have extra kisses and hugs as each arm slips into a sleeve or a foot into a shoe. I take a moment to sniff the warmth of the back of their necks or the tops of their heads. Instead of muttering to the children that we are running late, this has become an opportunity for extra physical contact. We may be a few minutes late for yard time or snack time, but who cares? They won't remember what it meant to be prompt at this age, but they will remember how much mommy wants to love them with kisses and hugs before we climb into the car for school.


When they are with their father, I miss them. Terribly. The melancholy of those evenings alone in my home without them still puts me in a lonely place. I think about how they each climb into to bed with me when they are here, and I miss the comfort of holding them. Hearing them breathe peacefully and softly. Two little angels that are safe in my mama bear care.


But when we are apart, I know I can focus on healing and changing. I can pick up a book again. I can take a hike or walk on the beach. Sip a coffee and sit for a while. I can write.


A wise woman recently shared something with me that gives me great comfort (thank you). She said that "...the only thing you can control is your own actions. And I think this is important in relation to our children because often times this is the only life-lesson we have left to teach them: life isn't about what happens to you; it is about how you deal with what happens to you. And that lesson will trump all the other worries and anxieties you have about the effects of divorce and custody battles on their young lives."

There are always challenges in life. How we address them makes all the difference. For my broken spirit, my children are the strongest medicine in the world. They change your whole perspective and outlook on life and how to live it. But most importantly, if you can keep this top of mind, you have a chance to look at the world again through their eyes. It can become a special, magical place - one that is full of new experiences, new lessons, new discoveries, and promise. For your children, and for you.

We used to rush through bed time routines (brush teeth, two books, lights out) so that I could clean the kitchen, pick up the toys, and work late crunching out sales proposals and spreadsheets. Last night, at 36 and in the middle of a divorce, I got down on knee level next to my children in the backyard and we looked up at the moon together in the night sky. They are both in footed pajamas, and I have a blanket wrapped around them. I agreed with them, it was indeed, a beautiful sight. And then we came inside and climbed into mommy's bed, and I told them about the Chinese fable of the beautiful Moon Lady.