Self-Reflection

Do other people notice how strange the mirror image of my face is?…

You know what’s embarrassing? When your therapist asks you to hide your self-view because she can tell you are watching yourself and getting distracted. But really – does anyone actually look at the people they are video calling with? I know for a fact that my kids exclusively stare at themselves. How I know this is because they spend 90% of the time FaceTiming with their grandparents making funny faces at themselves and opening their mouths really big – to what? See their tonsils? Count their tiny teeth? My therapist should be grateful I politely keep my tonsils and teeth to myself…

Awkward silences are always stressful, but I find them especially unbearable in therapy. The other day my therapist told me that during our sessions she an always expect what she referred to as “Jessie’s Worry Time” when I worm vomit all my random anxieties for about 20 min. I laughed and pretended she hadn’t just crushed my soul (recall my obsessive need for approval) but dwelled on this comment constantly for the next week and then made up an excuse to cancel our next session. When I summoned enough courage to face her again I tried to explain that I have to talk to fill the silence and that often I just come up with problems to that we have something to talk about. Her response: awkward silence. Which I filled by asking, “am I not doing therapy right?”…

I don’t quite understand why celebrities (or people in general) are so upset when their naked selfies are leaked to the public. Honestly, if I were confident enough to take a sexy selfie, I would most definitely want the whole world to see it.

Literature and Art

You know what’s super depressing? Revisiting your favorite children’s books and realizing you can’t read them to your own kids, or that if you do you must also have conversations about imperialism, racism, body image, or sexism. Poor Curious George – a colonizer with a big yellow hat literally steals him from Africa, puts him on a boat to take away his freedom in a zoo…sound familiar? George isn’t naughty when he tries to escape from prison and wreaks havoc on his new city – he’s a freedom fighter fomenting rebellion!…

Or how about our favorite Bear family, who I learned have recently converted to Evangelical Christianity, despite their misleading Semitic surname. But even before this shocking change of faith, these bears were touting fatphobia and employing shame as a teaching device. In my favorite book, Brother and Sister Bear have been eating too much junk food – they have been growing too thick around their mid-sections. So as not to appear lazy and fat, these kids are put on a diet. I blame the Bears for my disordered relationship with food – those gluttonous bastards!…

The only time I remember getting in trouble in school was on a field trip to the Art Institute. I was in 3rd or 4th grade. I could not stop giggling at all the naked people (women) all around us. And obviously I had to spread the joy to my classmates. My teacher, who I am still in touch with today, pulled me aside and threatened punishment if I was unable to act with the maturity a museum required of me. I could not. I missed most of the field trip, but I still maintain it is silly to see naked women, sitting relaxed among clothed men, enjoying a picnic.

Fantasies

The hottest man I have ever known in real life was my comparative religion professor in college. I have absolutely no idea what I learned from him, though I’m sure he is brilliant, because I was much too busy waiting for him to lick his lips and watching his floppy hair fall effortlessly over his eyes. I must have somehow learned (or imagined) that he lived in NYC and commuted each week up to campus, because my most well-visited fantasy at this time was bumping into this demigod (who I decided was most likely an Upper-West-Side Jew and would therefore fit in perfectly with my family) on the Subway. Sometimes he would be reading a paper on the platform when he would look up and fall in love with me, and sometimes we would both be minding our own business inside the subway when a sudden jolt would catapult me into the Professor’s arms. This was a very strange fantasy for a number of reasons, chiefly because of my hypochondriacal phobia of the subway. In reality I would be so busy sanitizing my hands and attempting to balance without touching a single surface, on high alert listening for any coughs or sneezes, that I would definitely not notice when the world’s most handsome Jew fell into my arms…

In grade school I remember understanding that I was supposed to be attracted to Leo. I accompanied my friends to see Titanic multiple times, I collaged my notebooks with his picture, hung his posters over my bed, but I never felt that fire I was supposed to feel. Obviously the steamy car scene in Titanic elicited some novel feelings in my nether-regions, but that had very little to do with Leo. Secretly, I knew I was drawn to a different kind of man: Robert Downy Jr. in Ally McBeal, Prof. Snape in the movies AND books Colin Firth’s version of Mr. Darcy. Dark, brooding, and just the tiniest bit mean. I’m certain that under those long robes, Snape has some impressive equipment…

To this day, the love interest in any romantic dream I have continues to be my 4th grade crush. For some reason, despite the fact that I am in love with a 4-foot 4th grader, it is not creepy, and I promise it’s not inappropriate. It’s just that I’ve never again found the same level of witty repartee I had with this foxy 9-year-old. I love my husband deeply, but sadly he cannot compete with my 4th grade love.

Star Student

My mom and I are very close. Some may say too close, but I think the adult daughters who DON’T contact their mommies at least 12 times a day are the ones with a problem. Basically, my mom is my 24/7 live-stream therapist, a service I now see being advertised on CNN. She knows every twinge, every ache, every surge of emotion I fell. All day. Because she’s right there at my fingertips. And I know my bowel movements, hypochondriacal worries and questions about navigating the post office and supermarket must be thrilling to her. I imagine her day as follows: wakes up to phone ping from beloved daughter. Runs to bathroom to pee, shower, and brush teeth before resuming position on edge of bed, fingers alert, ready to respond to any and all crises that lie ahead for said beloved daughter. Anxiously awaits news about daughter’s experiment with roast chicken. Packages items daughter has requested. Responds to 1,582 more texts from daughter. Goes to bed excited for the morning’s first ping. It’s remarkable I can even find anything more to talk to my actual therapist about. Although who else can I complain about my devoted mother to?…

Last night I dreamt that my therapist was my teacher. I can’t remember the assignment she gave me, but when she handed it back to me there was a giant A+ and a “Great work!” This dream was almost as good as the real-life moment in therapy when I told my therapist how it makes me sad we had to meet under these circumstances because I was sure we’d be best friends otherwise. To which she responded “I like you a lot too, Jessie.” You see? I really am her start student…

After breaking up with my 1st college boyfriend to whom I had very unenjoyably lost my virginity, I rebounded the last week of freshman year with a slightly more enjoyable 1-night-stand. That summer I found myself in therapy again, racked with guilt and convinced I had contracted AIDS. When I explained to the therapist that I felt guilty because I didn’t want to tell my mother about this cheap sex, she said “And why would you have to? You don’t HAVE to tell your mom everything.” I had literally never thought of that before.

Potty Talk

My cross to bear in life is a superb sense of smell. Seriously, I don’t know why I’m doing these little doodles when I could have been the most successful sommelier. I always know exactly where my husband has been and what he has eaten – even when he tries to sneak. The other day he came upstairs and I said, “We have skittles? Where are they?” He cannot sneak anything past me, which he is well aware of. So yes, my nose will keep my husband loyal and discover hidden snacks, but I would trade that in a minute for a less superhuman sense of smell that would allow me to continue to function in the face of bad breath, B.O. and perfume. My sniffer is a serious disability, and as such, I’m not sure why it isn’t protected under the law. Perfume should be illegal to wear in public. Period. Or, at the very least, people insisting on dousing themselves in noisome cologne should not be allowed on planes or elevators or other small, confined spaces…

And why must there always be a pine-scented air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror of Ubers? If one must resort to faux-pine scent, what ungodly smells must they be covering up? And I never want to hurt the driver’s feelings by opening the windows, especially when it’s cold out and my need for fresh air would be obvious. So Ubers end up tortuous experiences for me…

Don’t even get my started on the air fresheners used in public bathrooms. The only thing I want to smell in a public restroom is a shit ton of bleach…

Speaking of – the greatest public toilets of all time can be found in the AA terminal of O’Hare airport in Chicago. Unless the plastic seat covering is a lie and the sensor continue to recycle the same loop, there is no cleaner seat out there. In general, I’m a public-toilet-squatter. I know they say you can’t catch the clap from a toilet – but common sense and proximity of parts to germs makes me know this isn’t true. The problem with squatting, though, is the likelihood of dripping on the seat. Which you then have to clean (especially if you know the next person in line will see you exit), which cannot be germ-free. So it is sort of a gamble: to squat, or to clean…

It’s amazing to me that my 2-year-old goes into the closet so she can poop in private, but follows me into the bathroom when I have to poop. In what world should a toddler get more privacy doing their business than an adult?

Barbies, Babies, and Puffy Coats

One of the greatest offenses my mother committed was her desire to keep us bundled up and warm – even on the most important of holidays: Halloween. To this day, Halloween is still my favorite holiday – I’ve never missed a year of dressing up. And the point of dressing up, let’s be honest, is to show off your costume. Halloween in Chicago was usually very cold. There was often wind and rain. And so, my brother and I were always forced to wear our big, bulky jackets ON TOP of our costumes. Other kids were allowed to shiver in skimpy ballerina costumes, or freeze in store-bought superman capes. But we – who NEVER had generic store-bought costumes (my mother spent God-knows how many hours sewing various-colored princess costumes) – could not even promenade them around the block to trick-or-treat. I still cannot forgive her for loving us so much that year after year, her glorious costume creations went unappreciated by our neighbors. What was even the point?…

How devastating was it when your Barbie’s hair wouldn’t grow back? Your mother warned you not to cut it. Your babysitter said Barbie couldn’t pull off a bob. But you knew better. Yet somehow that chic page boy haircut you were going for just never quite looked right. And you were shocked when days later the hair still looked the same. You hated your once-favorite Barbie but had to keep playing with her as if her partial baldness did not horrify you – you could not let the adults win…

I was obsessed with pregnancy and childbirth as a child. Unlike normal children who enjoy playing mother and taking care of baby dolls, I preferred sticking a doll under my shirt, lying down on my back, spreading my legs, and birthday said doll. After the pushing and the screaming I tossed the baby aside and stuffed another one under my dress. Perhaps if I had known that real childbirth would involve pooping on the table, I would have preferred pretending the postpartum period…

My favorite Barbie was Pregnany Barbie. Her belly popped off to reveal an extremely life-like fetus. After the fetus was removed, her tummy would pop back flat. Just like mine did in real life.

Pacifiers

I used a pacifier – or as my family calls it, a woobie, until I was very old. Too old. So old, I have completely fleshed-out memories of my beloved woobies being taken from me forever. To try to ease the transition, my mom made me a woobie pillow. Basically she sewed my woobies between two pieces of cloth so that I still had them in some capacity to help me sleep. This idea was so original that it was written up in a prominent medical journal – you can still look up my woobie pillow and see a picture of it next to cross-sections of molars and various tooth diseases. Little did my mother (or the greater dentist community) know that my dedication to my woobies was so great, at night I would such through the pillowcase. I ended up needing jaw surgery in high school. So one really shouldn’t believe everything one reads in medical journals. Also, penis-envy or not, the fact that I watch my children sucking on their woobies with envy, 30-some years later, proves that oral fixations are real, and Freud is a genius…

In 3rd grade we had to do an oral history. I interviewed my grandfather who had escaped Nazi Germany when he was the same age. I became totally and completely obsessed with the Holocaust, a phase I have discovered is common with most Jewish kids of the 80s and 90s. I read every Holocaust youth publication there was. I was convinced it would happen again, which is why Roth’s Plot Against America was not a shocking piece of literature to me – I had written and rewritten that story in my mind since I was 9. I only recently stopped sleeping with a pair of sturdy boots under my bed, one of the most saught-after items in concentration camps. I think it has something to do with the security I have found married to a goy, and somehow having produced three little Aryan-looking children…

My brother and I snacked on jars of Gerber chicken sticks through grade school. Hard to believe my mother thought these ultra-processed spears of fake meat constituted as healthy food, but it was the 90s, and we were all confused. It still brings peace to me to imagine those slipper, flesh-toned wieners, sitting in that salty, slightly viscous water. The delight when your teeth punctured that outer layer of skin…

After my dad died my mom wrote to my hero, Mr. Rogers, to tell him of my loss. I received a hand-written note from the man, which I have treasured. Along with the handful of other notes I only learned in college had been forged by my mother. Only the first letter was real. My 20-year friendship with Mr. Rogers shattered forever.

Tongue Hockey

My first kiss was from a knight. I was 10. We were on a date – with 500 others – at that famously romantic establishment: Medieval Times. The yellow knight and I locked eyes. I can still feel them penetrating my soul. Then, as if in slow motion, my knight reached down into his pouch, pulled out a yellow rose, kissed it, and threw it directly to me. I’m still surprised this knight is not my husband…

My second real kiss happened during spin-the-bottle. The boy I kissed had just eaten a popsicle. When our tongues connected, it sent goosebumps down my body – just like jumping into freezing water. Until my next kiss, I believed that all kisses were similarly chilling…

My first real kiss was with my boyfriend freshman year of high school. I think we both knew what was coming when we went downstairs to “hang” in the dark, 1960s knotty-pine-covered basement. We stood beneath a Big Mouth Billy Bass singing fish. The kiss lasted all of two seconds. There was no tongue. His lips were surprisingly squishy. The next day at school I found out he told his friends that the kiss was “good” but hadn’t lasted long enough. A few days later he dumped me…

During an especially anxious period of my life, I could not make out with anyone without contemplating the extraordinary number of germs being passed between us: 80 million to be exact.

Exercise

In my opinion, the only reason to exercise is to rationalize the purchase of over-priced athleisure. Gym class in grade school was awful, but might have been more tolerable if the uniforms we had to wear weren’t so awful. It’s bad enough in middle school to be forced to change in a locker room full of Regina George’s, but to then have to wear the same tomato-red shirt as your stick-thin best friend in front of the boy you liked was pure torture. These days, I only exercise in style, which may explain why I haven’t worked out in 10 months – who’s to appreciate my little costumes in quarantine?…

It’s very hard for me to remember that sport teams don’t wear costumes – they wear uniforms. It really irks my husband when I call out the door to our son “you forgot your soccer costume!” But let’s be honest – isn’t that exactly what those funny-colored matching tight football pants are?…

Once my husband bet me that he could name more musicals than I could name sport’s teams. I accepted this challenge, assuming I could name all the animals and American Indian groups I knew and come up with a pretty lengthy list. However, as we took turns naming Broadway shows and teams, and as my husband insisted I needed to know what city each team played for, it became apparent to both of us that I only knew a handful. Apparently there is no football team called the “Mermen” or the “Unicorns,” though I maintain these would be perfect team names…

Around 20 years ago, my grandfather who is now in his 90s, was told by his doctor that he needed to start exercising to combat some health problems. My grandpa is a brilliant and logical man who spent his career inventing computers for IBM. He went home from his appointment, went straight to his office and did some calculations. 20 minutes later he came out and announced to my grandma that the amount of time he would spend exercising (wasting time) would be greater than the potential number of extra years he could live. And he has never worked out a day in his life…

My grandparents still have this unused piece of exercise equipment in their basement that my brother and I were not supposed to play on, but which we did anyway. Looking back, I think this could have been some weird S & M machine, regardless of the “Norditrack” logo…

Working out at the gym is an unpleasant experience for many reasons, not the least of which are the shocking noises men think are acceptable to make while lifting weights and using machinery. It is NOT okay for grown men to sound like seals or lions in public. The grunts and groans that fill a gym are truly obscene. I do not wish to be violated by said noise while I promenade my little outfits…

The Post Office

I am extremely afraid of the post office. It’s definitely a real phobia, though I’ve looked it up and there is no official name for it. The fear comes from a history of horrifying experiences. The first of which happened in high school when my mom ran into the post office while I stayed in the car. As soon as she got inside the skies opened up and a terrible storm separated mother from daughter. Coincidence? I think not…

And the postal workers, as a general rule, are very scary and mean. Never have I been made to feel so small and incompetent. How was I to know that they don’t also do the packaging for you at the post office? My mom had always done everything for me, after all, as good mothers should. Independence is overrated. In fact, I still wait to do my postal returns until my mom comes to town. She created my uselessness and this, I suppose, is her punishment…

It is not impossible that I have single-handedly kept the economy up and running during this pandemic. The Amazon boxes never stop coming. And now if something will take over 2 weeks to get to me, it is a non-starter…

Although terrified of USPS, I am grateful for the institution. And thankful I could vote with my children in a safe and secure way in this crazy 2020 election. And happy we still got our “I voted” stickers with the ballot…

At camp mail was very important, as it was the only way to communicate with the outside world. We gambled fancy stationery in ultra-competitive games of jacks. Jacks could be the one-and-only sport in which I excel. I am still trying to use up my collection of yin-yang and peace-sign stationery…

The directors of camp often urged us not to write home with any bad news – but I knew my mom wanted and needed to hear of my great suffering.