Paralysis of the Heart

Paralysis of the Heart

May 10, 2012

I WAS driving my 11-year-old son, Joe, to school. It had been one of those mornings. He was singing opera and doing hip-hop moves when I needed him to put on his shoes. 

As we pulled up in front of school just in time, I snapped: “I can’t start our day this way. This kind of stress is going to make me sick.” 

He burst into tears. “Don’t say that!” he yelled. “Promise to never say that again!” He raced out of the car, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. 

On more than a few occasions, he has expressed his fear that something might happen to me. As the child of a single mother, he clearly has been pondering the same questions I do: Who will take care of him if I die? Who will love him as much as I do?

Joe’s fear of my mortality jarred me into reality, and I called my doctor. There actually had been a reason for my harsh statement. My face and arm had been numb for months. I had shrugged it off as stress but then started to get chronic headaches, too.

My doctor agreed to see me right away. After examining me, she said, “If I can’t get you in for an M.R.I. at the imaging center, I’ll need to send you to the hospital in an ambulance.” She explained that stress doesn’t create the symptoms I was having. It could be an aneurysm, a tumor or early signs of multiple sclerosis. 

Someone else might have panicked, but this kind of situation makes me practical. She got me an appointment for an hour later. In that time, I did what any sensible person who has been ordered to get an emergency M.R.I. does: I got the car washed. I wasn’t in denial; there’s just so much time to get stuff done, and worrying wasn’t on my checklist.

Some people are terrified of sickness and death. Not me. I decided to face death head on when I was about 10 and saw a photo spread about AIDS in Life magazine. I declared that one day I was going to help those men. 

And I did. At 20, social-work degree in hand, I applied for a job on the AIDS unit of St. Vincent’s Hospital in New York. When asked if I could handle seeing gaunt men with tubes in their mouths, I said “yes.” When asked if I was afraid of watching people die, I shook my head no. 

I was like the naïve teenager who enlists in the Army without any idea of what war is like. For the next two years, patients of mine died every day. After a while the pain caught up to me. If I were going to befriend death, I needed a different approach. 

So I became a sky diver. Then a motorcyclist. I climbed rocks. Canoed in Class-5 rapids. Bungee jumped. And most harrowing of all, I moved to Los Angeles to become a writer. I hoped all these experiences would give me something I desperately wanted: fearlessness.

I walked into the imaging center. In the waiting room, I got down to business on my cellphone. I made arrangements for my son to be picked up from school and got a friend to take care of our dog. I like things that can be checked off a list. Kid, check. Dog, check. Custodian for my son should I die, check. 

The technician called me in. He was kind and covered me with a blanket. I almost told him I loved him. Some people might dread an M.R.I., but lying down in the middle of the day without anyone asking me to do anything is a single mother’s dream.

The technician asked, “Have you ever had an M.R.I. before?” 

“Yes.” 

I got pregnant in 1999. I was 26. At the beginning of my ninth month something unimaginable happened: I had a mild stroke. A small bleed in the front left lobe of my brain took away my ability to speak and control the right side of my body. They rushed me to the hospital. I didn’t remember reading about sudden paralysis in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” and I wanted my money back. 

In an instant I got a glimpse into how vulnerable motherhood was going to make me. My usual hubris turned into humility. I did not like it one bit. 

Just before putting me into the machine, the technician handed me a red rubber ball, explaining that if I needed to communicate with him, all I had to do was squeeze it. He reassured me that while I might feel alone in the tube, I wouldn’t be.

I could have used a red rubber ball back when Joe was 10 weeks old. That’s when his father left. Feeling lost, I fled New York and went to Miami to live with a friend. On my back I carried a pack with five weeks of clothing for the two of us. On my chest I strapped my baby in a Bjorn. In my left hand I held his car seat. In my right, his stroller. 

I looked like a soldier. Walking through the airport, I felt more alone than I ever had. No one offered to help, and why would they? From the outside it seemed as if I had it all handled.

My brain and neck scans were done. It took three hours longer than I expected and it was too late to take Joe to the movies, the promised reward for his stellar report card. 

When Joe is testing my patience, it’s difficult to be alone as a parent. But when he does something amazing it’s even worse, because there is no witness but me to mark the milestones. No one else who will know and remember all the funny, lovely things he says and does.

I HAD the M.R.I. because I was numb, but my numbness actually started long before, when Joe was a baby. I needed my eyes and ears to be vigilant if I was to single-handedly care for him. But I didn’t need a heart to feel. It was safer to focus on the details and forget that my baby was more intimidating than caring for dying men and much scarier than hurling my body from a perfectly good aircraft.

With Joe, I wasn’t fearless. Quite the opposite, I was petrified of how much I loved him. Death was something I had grown comfortable with; it was life I wasn’t so sure about. The problem with numbness, though, is that you don’t choose which parts not to feel. You don’t get to block out pain and suffering but keep all the good stuff. You get everything or nothing. That’s the deal.

The night of my M.R.I., I walked into Joe’s room one last time before going to sleep. It had been a long day. Safe and sleeping in his bed, he had one hand on his left cheek and one on his right. It reminded me of when he was a baby and we shared a bed in Miami. He’d wake in the night and find my face with his tiny hands. With one he’d hold my left cheek and with the other he’d hold my right. Only when he’d found both would he fall back to sleep. I was his red rubber ball. 

My eyes welled up. The enormousness of my love swelled bigger than any fear. The terror of potential loss flooded in. But so did the joy of connection. Joe hates to see me cry, but he was sleeping so I figured, why not. 

I thought about the fact that eventually one of us will stand at the other’s funeral. That day will come, and no amount of list making or numbness can keep it away. I didn’t know if the moments between my sitting on his bed and a funeral were few or many. All we can do is make the moments we have matter. 

I put that on my list: savor our time together. Check. 

Like how he still holds my hand. Or hangs out in our front yard in his plaid bathrobe, holding a fake cigar in his mouth. Or how he nicknamed me “cita” for mamacita, and how I always wanted a nickname from someone who’d love me enough to give me one.

Suddenly I saw that his eyes were open. He had caught me loving him. And his eyes had tears in them, too.

“Why are you crying?” I asked.

“Because I’m happy,” he said.

“Me, too.”

And just like that, he fell back to sleep. 

I knew I was happy, because even though my face and arm were numb, my heart wasn’t. In two days I’d get the message that the M.R.I. was normal. But in that moment all that mattered was that Joe was alive, and so was I. And we were happy.

My U-Turn From Isolation to Intimacy

My U-Turn From Isolation to Intimacy

Nov. 4, 2016

There is a moment when your child gets too adolescent to cuddle. For me, that moment arrived when my 14-year-old son, Joe, headed to theater camp for a month. He was so eager to get there, he asked me to drop him off at the entrance. But there are papers that need signing when you entrust your child to strangers. Nonetheless, I was hoping for a goodbye hug.

After depositing his bags onto his bunk like a Nepalese sherpa, I reached to hug him. He ushered me to my car instead, where he bent down and gave me a peck on the head accompanied by a loving, but definite, shooing motion.

As a toddler, Joe was affectionately called a “space invader” for wanting to hug and touch everyone, especially me. As a single mother, I nursed him until he was 2. Then he became a 33-pound growth affixed to my hip, and finally a sleepwalking child who found his way into my room almost every night for years. In between the moments of treasured closeness, I often got pawed when I needed a little space.

Then we traded places, and it was Joe who needed space.

I accepted this as a normal part of his growing up. But it wasn’t just that I no longer got affection from my child; I also hadn’t been touched by a lover in years. Having this month to myself with Joe at camp was the perfect opportunity to remedy that, but there were no contenders. I was tired of futile attempts with online dating, and my free time wasn’t worth risking.

I remembered the advice a friend’s therapist gave her when she found herself in my position: Call an ex. At the time, I thought this was terrible counsel. But in my desperate need to feel connected, I sent a provocative email to one who lived nearby, and he obliged.

Later, however, as I drifted off to sleep by myself, I still felt unseen, untouched. He may have touched my body, but he hadn’t touched me. I recalled an Indian doctor I once had who said: “People in this country get sick because they live alone. They don’t get touched enough.”

I was living in New York then, where at least my legs and arms grazed those of other commuters on the subway. I doubted that doctor would approve of my life in Los Angeles, where we spend so much time alone in our cars, sealed off from everyone. But I didn’t have a choice about that until the day I crashed right into someone.

A few weeks after Joe got home from camp, I was making a U-turn on my way to pick him up when suddenly the driver’s side door of an oncoming vehicle appeared in front of me and I was staring into the eyes of the young blond woman at the wheel.

My adrenaline surged. Luckily, I missed smashing into the door, where I might have crushed her, and hit her car’s front wheel instead.

I got out of my car, leaving it in the middle of the street.

“Are you O.K.?” I asked.

“You just crashed into me,” she said, as if she didn’t quite believe it.

“I didn’t see you,” I answered. And the truth is, I didn’t. Was it the afternoon glare, or was I so disconnected from everyone and everything that I failed to take a second look at oncoming traffic? I didn’t see her; that was all I knew for sure.

Both of us were shaken up, with sore necks. And we seemed uncertain of what to do next. But because it was my fault, I took the reins. We moved our cars to safety. I called my insurance company and told her to call hers. I took photos of both vehicles and made sure we had each other’s information.

My phone chimed. It was a text from Joe, asking why I was late. It hit me how much I missed him. I had been looking forward to our 10-minute drive home all day. I texted back, explaining about the accident and asking him to walk over and meet me. He replied, “I’d rather go home,” followed by a second text, “Please.”

Feeling disappointed, I arranged for a neighbor to get him.

I looked up from my phone to see the woman standing on the curb, crying.

“What do I do now?” she asked, her voice quivering. “I’m not sure I can drive my car.”

There were no words to express how sorry I was, so I hugged her. This moment of intimacy was unexpected and involuntary, just a human reflex, like reaching for your child when he falls. But somehow that simple gesture allowed us to face what was ahead.

I called the local body shop. The owner, a sweet older man I had met before, answered. After asking if everyone was O.K., he agreed to wait for us despite it being closing time.

I locked my car and got into hers, and together we drove to the shop. When we arrived, the owner explained what repairs needed to be done, and a few minutes later, her boyfriend came to pick her up.

He got out of his convertible and wrapped his burly arms around her. I watched her melt in his embrace. When she was tucked safely into the passenger seat, they drove off, leaving me alone in the body shop with the owner.

I put my head down and hurried into the bathroom, where I fell apart. Big, heaving sobs. My job of being strong and efficient had ended, and I was left with myself — my shame, my sadness. How could I be so disconnected? How could I have not seen her?

I walked out, and the owner saw my tears. He had a tentative look on his face. He reached out and hugged me, waiting until he knew it was O.K. When I didn’t pull away, he relaxed and said: “I know, it’s always after everything is over. That’s how it happens.” He held me for a long time.

The collision broke my fender and the wheel of her car, but it also broke down the boundaries we walk around with every day. It pulled us out of our metal boxes and into each other’s lives and arms, where we experienced kindness and community, touching each other in a deep, personal way. And while I wished it hadn’t happened, I was changed because it did.

When I got home, the house was empty. A little while later, I heard the door open, and Joe came in. He glanced at me cautiously, and I saw relief wash over him.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, looking guilty. “I know I should have come, but I was afraid of what it might look like.”

“It’s O.K.,” I said. “I understand.” He reached out for a brief hug before telling me about his day and his opera audition. Then he went into his room and closed the door. Listening to the click, I realized that even though our relationship had changed, our connection remained.

I went into my own room and rubbed ointment on my sore neck and side. I thought about the young woman I had hit and hoped her boyfriend had massaged her back before climbing into bed next to her. I remembered all the nights of longing I had endured, nights when I pathetically calculated that even my friends with partners who complained about having sex only once a month still got it 12 times a year.

Though I want that kind of physical intimacy as much as the next person, it was touch, not sex, I needed most. Touch solidifies something — an introduction, a salutation, a feeling, empathy. The next day, I kept asking myself if there was any way to experience that kind of closeness without crashing into someone.

And there is. Ever since the accident, I’ve noticed myself having many more moments of touch. Sometimes the touch is physical, sometimes it isn’t. It can be a simple smile exchanged with a stranger on my morning run or taking the time to meet the checkout person’s eyes when he bags my groceries. It’s petting our dog. And some days it’s even my own teenage son resting his head on my shoulder after a hard day.

I am not unseen or untouched. In fact, people seem to be noticing me more than ever, or maybe it is I who is looking up more, well aware of the risk of not seeing someone who’s right in front of me.

And while I could never have predicted it, a byproduct of all this has been that my persistent need for a lover has lessened. The kind of connection I have learned to cultivate since the accident is not something to tide me over until the real thing arrives. It is the real thing.

‘Good Luck to You, Leo Grande’: Pleasure as a Path to Wholeness

‘Good Luck to You, Leo Grande’: Pleasure as a Path to Wholeness

Michelle Fiordaliso, July 2, 2022

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“Do you masturbate?” Sarah, an older woman I trusted, asked me when I was 18.

“No!” I said, giving a definitive answer.

“If you can’t give yourself an orgasm, no one else will.”

I thought about this exchange while watching Good Luck to you, Leo Grande, starring Emma Thompson as Nancy Stokes and Daryl McCormack as Leo Grande. The film tells the story of a widowed woman who hires a young male sex worker to experiment with in ways she never did with her husband—the only person with whom she’s had physical intimacy for three decades. But the film is, among other things, an exploration of whether women due to internal and external messaging, are allowed to pursue and attain sexual fulfillment. The fact that Nancy has never had an orgasm answers that question.

In a world where we’ve started discussing the critical importance of sexual consent, and in the wake of #MeToo, we must address women’s pleasure—making this film not only entertaining, but necessary.

So, why can’t women enjoy these amazing bodies we’ve been given? For one, our concern with how our bodies look from the outside affects how, and how much, we feel on the inside. One study shows that at age 13, half of American girls say they are “unhappy with their bodies.” This number grows to 80 percent by the time girls turn 17.

Just as sexuality is blossoming, it’s nipped in the bud by intrusive, and often obsessive, thoughts about how we look to others. And issues with body image don’t go away. Nearly 70 percent of adult women report withdrawing from activities due to negative body image. These thoughts keep us women in our heads and if we’re in our heads, we can’t be in our bodies which is where we must be to feel pleasure. The media makes all this worse because only 5 percent of us women will meet the physical ideal presented there.

With all this focus on our size, age and appearance, we forget that the most remarkable thing about our physical form happens on our insides—that our bodies are, as Nancy says, “a thing of wonder, a playground of delight.” The clitoris has 8,000 nerve endings, twice the amount as the penis and is made up of 18 distinct parts. My 22-year-old son’s sexually savvy friends speak openly about their sex toys, yet the ones with vaginas don’t know that their clitorises have legs—called the crura—the knowledge of which would make their erotic reach even more mind-blowing than the USB rechargeable-oral-sex-simulating feats of technology found today.   

Body positivity and sex toy advertisements on the New York City subway are progress but can’t quite counteract the effects of sexual assault and rape. Eighty-one percent of women report experiencing some form of sexual harassment and/or assault in their lifetime and 20 percent have been the victims of an attempted or completed rape.

Sexual trauma in my youth presented two conditions that for years prevented me from feeling good. One was vaginismus, an involuntary tightening of the vaginal walls brought on by fear of penetration making sex painful and even physically impossible. And the other was anorgasmia—the inability to have an orgasm. I could relate to Nancy’s plight. Statistics show that 95 percent of straight men reported having orgasms to straight women’s 65 percent. We, bisexual women, had a 66 percent rate, and for lesbian couples it was better with women reporting a rate of 86 percent. Five to 10 percent of women have never had an orgasm at all. So, what’s keeping any of us who wants a climax from having one? It’s clear.

Seeing our bodies as flawed and experiencing sexual violations prevent us from feeling pleasure. At 49, I am no longer an occasional visitor to this body, but a full-time resident. It took a whole lot to get here. For years, I punished my body by vacating it, but the more I lived in my body and loved it, the more pleasure became possible. It’s as if pleasure carved out new neural pathways—the more pleasure I allowed in, the more healed and whole I felt.

The look of contentment Nancy has as she gazes upon her naked body in the final scene is less about how that body looks and more about what that body is now permitted to feel. In an interview on NPR, Thompson said, “She’s seeing [her body] for the first time as her home.” And like a house itself, her body is illuminated from the inside out. Beauty doesn’t come from the outside like we’ve been lead to believe—it radiates out from self-acceptance and love. In fact, real beauty comes from our ability to feel—it comes from pleasure.

For Nancy, it takes more than half a lifetime and 93 minutes of a 97-minute movie to come. While it took me a little less than that to go from zero orgasms to being multi-orgasmic, it’s worth mentioning because on the other side of my painful struggle I can say with certainty that pleasure is each of our birthrights no matter how we look or what’s been done to us.

What my friend Sarah said all those years ago was correct. “If you can’t give yourself an orgasm, no one else will.” An orgasm, after all, is not something you give someone; it’s a gift you give yourself. Only we can decide to let go, to receive, to empty ourselves of all the crippling beliefs and thoughts and past violations—and be filled and full with pleasure.

For this reason, midway into the movie and for as much as I loved the adorable Leo Grande, I started hoping that our protagonist would give herself her first orgasm—and I was so grateful when she did, because pleasure starts with ourselves. It’s a decision. A choice. And as Nancy says, “Pleasure is a wonderful thing, it’s something we should all have.”

BWW Exclusive: My Experience at THE INHERITANCE

BWW Exclusive: My Experience at THE INHERITANCE

The play examines AIDS a generation after the crisis.

by Michelle Fiordaliso Mar. 12, 2021

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A year ago Broadway went dark. It's been a huge loss to Times Square, the artists, the city and theater-lovers, but it's more than that. The theater can be the place where the seeds of societal change get planted. You see, a collective gets formed there. A never-to-be-recreated group comes together to experience something. It's a short-lived community of fidgeting, laughing, crying humans. And it's nothing less than alchemy as mere mortals transform from separate individuals into one golden audience.

On Wednesday, March 4th 2020, eight days before New York City theaters closed, Broadway was booming. I had tickets to see Matthew Lopez's, The Inheritance. It'd be a decadent seven hours - part one at the matinee, followed by a dinner break and then part two. Every seat in the house was taken. I settled into my lucky single-ticket-buyer's spot, stage left, third row orchestra with my maroon puffer coat cocooned around me. I sat between a man on my left and a woman with curls on my right.

The play examines AIDS a generation after the crisis. As a social worker on the AIDS unit of St. Vincent's Hospital at the peak of the epidemic, I was still putting the pieces of that time period together myself, constructing a narrative with all the fragments of what I saw and what I felt.

At the intermission, I chatted with the woman next to me who was too young to have seen the AIDS crisis firsthand. We talked about the play and I shared how eager I'd been to see it given my past experiences. She listened with interest.

When I was growing up in Queens my immigrant parents had the good instinct to get a TDF membership. I realized early on that the theater is more than entertainment. And while I didn't have words to explain it back then, researchers at The University College London Division of Psychological and Language Sciences have since found that audience members' hearts synchronize while watching live theater. With hearts beating as one, an audience can access an unprecedented feeling of communal empathy and empathy can lead to powerful social action and change. Reading about The Inheritance, I knew other people in the audience had also lived through the AIDS crisis and could relate to my feelings, but I hoped for something even more transcendent because I know the magic of theater.

Sharing my struggles in therapy often left me feeling exposed and ashamed, but at the theater it was different. When childhood sexual abuse got revealed in How I Learned to Drive the audience gasped and that's the moment I knew I wasn't alone. And in Jagged Little Pill the limitations of how Americans see consent and see race are explored and the reaction I heard, from us, the audience, gave me hope that outdated and unacceptable thinking was dying.

That winter day in March I watched The Inheritance on the edge of my seat. It took me to unexpected places-sublime and sorrow-filled. In his review Ben Brantley said, "I challenge any theatergoer with a heart not to cry during the sun-saturated scene that concludes the first half." I guess I have a heart, because I did cry. As the first part came to a close with a poignant display of all the beautiful and irreplaceable lives we lost to AIDS, my sobs came, loud and heaving.

The woman sitting in front of me must've heard my intermission conversation because she turned, looked into my eyes and whispered, "Thank you. You must've cared for some of my friends-so many of them died at St. Vincent's." She was crying, too. We all were.

The play ends without a curtain call. We're left with the impact of the moment. And even though it was over, my weeping continued. I'd rappelled into a ravine of un-grieved grief. Of remembrance and loss. Of love. I'd been there before, but this time I wasn't alone.

The woman on my right, curls framing her warm face, asked, "Is it okay if I touch you?"

"Yes," I said and she put her arm around me.

The man on my left had gone, leaving an empty seat beside me and the woman from the row in front of me replaced him, putting her arm around me on my other side.

These two women held me until the house emptied and I was out of tears.

Being held by strangers might seem odd and peculiar, but in just over a week from that day, Covid would make it seem dangerous, too. I think about the Ethel Barrymore theater and all the theaters. Silent and still and lifeless for the last three hundred and sixty-five days.

I didn't need theater to close to cherish it. The day I saw The Inheritance captured exactly why it's so important which is why I know what's at stake in its absence. Not just a fun evening or a bit of folly, but one of the ways we evolve as a culture. The catharsis we can have together. The power of words heard as one audience. And how those words and the feelings they evoke can heal us and change us.

Not everyone will have the extraordinary experience I did of being held at the theater, but the theater itself holds us all, providing a space where our hearts can sync for a few hours. And that collective sigh or gasp or laugh or sob of hundreds is transformative. When theater returns, I hope we value the community that gets created in those darkened rooms and realize how much we need it for our humanity - now, in fact, more than ever.

Moroccan Fish & a Healing Night of Sex led me Home.

Moroccan Fish & a Healing Night of Sex led me Home.

Michelle Fiordaliso, January 12, 2021

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There was a man in the kitchen cooking for me.

I had heard about Moroccan fish, but never tasted it. The sauce was red: paprika, dried chilies, white pepper, cilantro, and turmeric.

Since I consider myself to have an educated palate, I delight in finding foods I haven’t tried. The fish was being prepared by big, meaty hands. A former soldier. A builder. A father. A man who ate with his fingers.

I’d met him at a women’s workshop, of all places. At home, I was a single parent who played both mother and father from the beginning. The stereotypical roles of protecting and providing won out over nurturing, but my son had just turned 18 and was going off to college, so the heavy-lifting felt finished. At work, I coached Ivy League-educated C-suite executives. I was accustomed to being strong and smart there, too. The course was an opportunity to explore parts of myself I pushed aside.

At the end of the weekend, men were brought in to pair with us for an activity. My eyes moved from one to the next. Different ages. Different races. Different body types and faces. There were three who I felt drawn to. But after an icebreaker, I was clear that I didn’t want to partner with any of them, which probably explained why 157 online dates hadn’t worked—my first instincts aren’t always accurate.

I chose someone else—the man who was now in the kitchen chopping herbs. At the end of our exercise, we said we’d find each other on Facebook and we did.

I liked being cooked for. We found a rhythm in the kitchen. While he finished the meal, I filled glasses and set the table. It was summer on the West Side of Los Angeles. A heat wave with no air conditioning. The 100-degree temperature along with the spice of the food made me melt. Tension of any kind had no chance of holding on. It evaporated instantly.

The eating led to kissing. Sweat from his brow made his glasses slip until he took them off.

“Alexa, kitchen off,” he yelled.

The room grew darker. I laughed. He found my face, my hair, my arms.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I knew he had studied tantric sex. He knew how to hold space for a woman. To be present. To help release the years of trauma contained in the pelvic floor. All the messages we women get in words and sideways glances about who we should be and how much pleasure we’re allowed to have.

There was trauma in my pelvic floor. A huge iron anchor. A grip.

“Would you like to come into my bedroom?” he asked.

I offered my hand and let him lead. The air was dense and hot.

“Alexa, hallway 50 percent,” he yelled.

“You could be nicer to her,” I offered. “Okay,” he said, kissing me.

“Alexa, hallway 20 percent. Thank you, baby.”

“That’s better.”

The room was dim. It made the sound of our breath louder. Almost visible.

“Tell me what’s happened to you,” he said.

I recounted the trauma. The assaults. The violations. He listened. And then it occurred to me that these obvious abuses were not the things that left me feeling empty and aching.

“What hurt the most were the men who carried out their agenda while I remained invisible. They never saw me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We don’t know. Nobody teaches us.”

He didn’t get defensive. He didn’t resist blame. Instead he owned what had happened to me for all men. I kissed his lips, remnants of the spices remained. He found the rest of me. The incarnate—and the infinite.

Forgive them, for they know not what they do. I had heard those words countless times but I finally understood them. It’s ignorance more than evil that makes us commit unthinkable acts.

That night, I started to open. To find safety. For those next months before my son and I returned to the East Coast, I let this man in, but not just him. I softened and strengthened in the world. I grew less suspicious. I found more compassion for the hearts of men who have also suffered and felt unsafe.

Even though I was leaving the home where I raised my child from a boy to a man, leaving the golden light of Santa Monica for good, I was found. This man gave me experiences I had never had—the meal of Moroccan fish and the gift of finding a home inside my own skin.

~

Commentary: Wonder Woman and Alice Waters are perfectly fine role models for boys

Commentary: Wonder Woman and Alice Waters are perfectly fine role models for boys

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Wonder Woman made a comeback in the past few years — not only the movie, but the icon, the archetype. The world needs Diana Prince more than ever.

Most recently she was featured in the viral Halloween PSA “My Heroes.” We see two siblings — one male, one female. They carve pumpkins. Their parents hand them superhero costumes. They’re seen from behind trick-or-treating. The end reveals that the boy was dressed as Wonder Woman and the girl as Batman.

The PSA, co-written by Alexander Day and Brian Carufe and directed by Almog Avidan Antonir, is about acceptance, but it may also speak to role models and gender norms as much as gender identity issues. Ten years ago my son Joe was in fourth grade. At the public school he attended in Santa Monica, California, the students were given an assignment to become famous Californians. Their task was to research that person’s life, come to school dressed as them and do a presentation. Joe chose Alice Waters. 

The following year his teacher called me. Unrelated to the issue that prompted the communication, she said that his record indicated that he’s transgender. This news wouldn’t have fazed me, but since my son had never expressed gender identity issues, I was flummoxed.

When I inquired she said, “He loves musical theater, most of his friends are girls and there was the ‘Alice Waters incident.’ ” I hadn’t realized it was an incident. Given options like Richard Nixon and the fact that Joe loves cooking, his choice seemed obvious. Why can’t our role models and heroes be anyone worthy of admiration whether we share their identity or not?

Why wouldn’t the boy in the PSA pick Wonder Woman? If he wants to grow up and be Diana, great, but if he wants to grow up to be a cis male who embodies some of her superpowers like extraordinary humanity and compassion, that’d be respectable too.

Wonder Woman was born in the mind of American psychologist and writer William Moulton Marston who also invented the polygraph. It was World War II and Marston wanted to create a figure who could triumph, not with fists or firepower, but with love. His wife, Elizabeth, and their life partner Olive Byrne — the three were in a committed polyamorous relationship — suggested the figure be female. Not only would she possess extraordinary physical strength but her strength would come from empathy for humans and animals alike. It would come from honesty even if it took the lasso of truth to eek it out. And unlike the damsels in distress we’d seen before in comics who required male superheroes to free them she’d have the ability to free herself from bondage. 

It’s no wonder then that Wonder Woman’s image graced the cover of the second issue of Ms. magazine in 1972. It was time for women to free themselves. No one else could do it for us. But as someone who’s both fierce and nurturing, Diana is a role model for any person. Period. 

My son Joe grew up to be a cis straight male. It’s not something to be celebrated or frowned upon — just his particular truth. He met Alice Waters at her restaurant, Chez Panisse. She later hand-wrote him a letter saying she’d give him a job someday. He was delighted, but he’s pursuing a BFA in musical theater. And many of his closest friends are still female.

Op-Ed: Has Marie Kondo led us astray on decluttering?

Op-Ed: Has Marie Kondo led us astray on decluttering?

“I burned the letters,” my mother said.

“The letters” needed no explanation. She was referring to the two hundred pieces of mail my parents exchanged in the early years of their marriage, during the time my father was stationed at Army bases in the South and my mother was living in Astoria, N.Y.

I was staying in her house at the time, and in the 10 minutes it had taken me to do my morning meditation in another room, they were gone. Tiny bits of paper lingered under the smoldering logs, but no discernible words remained.

“All of them?” I asked.

“I saved two.”

I was devastated. I remembered the little bundles tied together with bakery string in a shoebox in the cedar closet of my childhood home.

By the time I came around my parents’ relationship was far from loving, but the shoebox and its contents were proof that it had once been different.

Inspired by the Netflix show “Tidying Up With Marie Kondo,” everyone, including my mother, is in a purging frenzy. Newspapers report that thrift shops are being floodedwith extra donations, and on social media there are posts of packed cars and piles of things that were once crucial to own.

But are we going too far?

I understand the impulse. In 2014, when Marie Kondo’s book was first published, I took on the task of going through the modest Santa Monica home and garage that I shared with my 14-year-old son. Despite being a minimalist, I still managed to fill 28 black garbage bags with unnecessary stuff. The most daunting task was tackling the papers from four decades. Bills and taxes. Letters and cards. College papers. Early drafts of essays and novels. When taken from closets and drawers, they filled my entire office. I reduced them to one filing cabinet drawer for important family documents and one small box for sentimental keepsakes. It took three weeks.

I felt lighter. Free. And this past year when I packed up that place to return to the East Coast, it made things easier. So why did I want to throw up over a lost box of letters?

The obvious answer was that I’m a writer and I treasure anything having to do with words. In my own purge, I kept my refurbished Smith Corona typewriter, my composition notebooks filled with tiny scrawl and many books.

My mother doesn’t have an attachment to words like I do. She loves stuff. In recent years, she’s become a bit of a hoarder — a very clean and organized hoarder but a hoarder nonetheless. If you lose a pair of sunglasses, don’t worry. She’s got 40 spares to choose from. And if you need a creamer, rest assured there are 17. Blank birthday cards. Zucchini spiralizers. Countless tchotchkes from yard sales and TJ Maxx. I dread the thought that someday I’ll have to deal with it all.

So, when I set up her birthday iPad and the first show she binged on was Kondo’s “Tidying Up,” I was optimistic. The next day my mother took to her closet with purpose, but eight hours later she had just three small bags to give away.

Burning those letters, though, brought my mother the same feeling of freedom I got from eliminating stuff. “I feel much better. I’m so glad to be rid of all that,” my mother said while setting the table for dinner that night. I instantly teared up, and she took me in her arms. “I’m sorry. I should have asked you first.” And then she said, “But you weren’t even born then.”

She’s right, I wasn’t born. And it hit me — that’s why they meant so much. They were love letters, heightened by separation and the Vietnam War, but without question, love letters. Two hundred pieces of tangible evidence that love did once exist between the people who gave me life. By the time I came around their relationship was far from loving, but the shoebox and its contents were proof that it had once been different.

Then I understood that my reason for wanting the letters was hers for needing to let them go. My parents’ love didn’t last. They fought for decades, then finally divorced. For my mother, it was time to let all that go.

I still endorse having less, but the tricky part about decluttering is that the very same item can mean different things to different people. Is there an obligation to ask or initiate a conversation with others who might care about something being discarded? Or is it the right of the purger to decide for themselves?

Over dinner, my mother and I shared our different perspectives: her liberation, my loss. But I started to understand that they were hers to burn. We empathized with each other. And at the end of the day, that meant more than the letters.

Michelle Fiordaliso is a writer and filmmaker based in upstate New York.

How to Ask for Anything

How to Ask for Anything

Wishing for something won't take you very far. The key to getting what you're after is learning to speak up—the smart way.

By Michelle Fiordaliso

1

We know. Asking for what you want is potentially mortifying. What if you come off as needy or pushy? "But learning to do it is a crucial part of taking care of yourself," says Laura Fredricks, author of The Ask. Instead of pussyfooting around, try using this formula: "May I have X because of Y?" with the emphasis on the word because. It's simple, but it works. In a study at The City University of New York, people were instructed to ask someone using a copy machine if they could go first. When they offered a reason (e.g., "Can I go first because I'm in a rush?"), they were given permission 94 percent of the time, versus 60 percent when they gave no explanation. The tactic worked even when the "because" was as lame as "I have to make copies." Want to learn how to get much more than xeroxing privileges? Follow this primer to ask for…

2

Forgiveness

Saying "I'm sorry" is only a start, says couples mediator Laurie Puhn, author of Fight Less, Love More.First, admit you're at fault: "I'm so sorry I missed your birthday party." Then accept responsibility: "I was disorganized, and I double-booked." Expressing regret is also important: "I feel terrible that I was so inconsiderate. It won't happen again." Finally, make amends: "Let me buy you a drink. I won't flake this time."

3

A Date

Two rules here—be brief, and lay out the facts, says life coach Eli Davidson, author of Funky to Fabulous. Research shows that when we're stressed, it's tougher to remember what we want to say, so the simpler your script, the more poised you'll be. Plus, people tend to be more receptive to short, clear requests, Davidson says. So skip the windup ("Um, so I hear you really like indie rock…"). Instead, briefly express your interest in getting together ("I'd love to hang out"), then focus on what Davidson calls men's magic three directives—what, when and where, as in, "Want to go to the Arcade Fire concert next Tuesday night downtown?" Still nervous? "Remind yourself that most men will feel relieved about not having to make the first move," Davidson says.

4

A Discount or Freebie

If you're squeamish about bargaining ("I'll seem cheap!"), start small. If you're considering joining a gym, ask if you can score a free personal training session if you sign up. To get a bargain with a professional such as a masseur or nutritionist, find out whether paying for several sessions up front will garner you a cheaper rate, or if she'll let you pay on a sliding scale (in other words, a fee that depends on your income level). Many merchants are open to bartering, too, particularly if they run their own show and have the power to make a deal. Approach them with a proposition such as, "I'll redesign your website for five free mani-pedis at your spa. How about it?"

5

A Raise or Promotion

Preparation is everything here, so have your numbers down before you negotiate. First, check out Salary.com or PayScale.com to see what others are earning for similar positions in your area; use that figure as a benchmark during your discussion. Before you go in, jot down reasons you're a valuable employee and deserve the bump up. "Mention specific new responsibilities you've taken on," says Libby Gill, author of You Unstuck. You should also think of a few reasons why your advancement could help the company. Say something such as, "I've come up with a few new ideas to tackle our marketing problem, because I know marketing plans are one of the main responsibilities of a sales manager." It's also smart to anticipate challenges to your request; if your boss says, "Well, we're on a very tight budget right now," and your company considers promotions annually, negotiate for another review in six months. Lastly, rehearse your points beforehand in front of a mirror or with a friend so you'll walk in smiling—and walk out the same way, promotion in hand.

Banished From 'The Breakfast Club': Actress Recalls the Burn of Getting Cut From John Hughes’ Film

Banished From 'The Breakfast Club': Actress Recalls the Burn of Getting Cut From John Hughes’ Film

2:49 PM PDT 3/25/2015 by Karen Leigh Hopkins as told to Michelle Fiordaliso

Screenwriter Karen Leigh Hopkins ('Stepmom,' 'Miss Meadows') says the explanation of why her character was dropped from the film — offered decades-later in a new book — doesn’t ring true.

For an aspiring actress from Sandusky, Ohio (population 25,000), auditioning for and getting cast in the role of a fresh-out-of-college gym teacher in John Hughes' The Breakfast Club was the big break I’d been hoping for. My character — who was at school for a Saturday practice — originally began as a swim instructor but evolved into a gym teacher because I actually taught aerobics professionally at the time. John told me that my part was meant to bridge the gap between the students and the establishment. For my big scene I’d deliver a speech in the library to the five kids saying, "This is just a small part of your total life history." What that meant was that even though everything feels intense in high school, that time ends and then real life begins. And the life I had dreamt of felt like it was just beginning.

We had been filming in Chicago. One morning I was at the hotel getting ready to leave for set when the phone rang. It was Jackie Burch, our casting director. I was being sent home. That day. What?! The information didn’t compute. I asked her why but she didn’t know. What happened? It felt sort of like, well, exactly like high school. One day you’re in with the cool kids and the next day you’re an outcast — as in out of the cast.

I still don’t love flying, but let’s just say that plane ride home was the worst one I’ve ever taken. I thought about the scene we’d filmed in the library a few days prior. John kept whispering random jokes into my ear so that my lines would crack Anthony Michael Hall up — I remember one was about Lionel Richie. Each take took on a slightly different tone. In hindsight, if I’d been told this scene was going to be cut, I would’ve been shocked because it seemed to be going so well. On the plane, despite my soft seat in first class, I couldn’t find any comfort. In the absence of any real explanation I filled the void with lots of possible ones — each one more negative than the next.

Call it magical thinking or insanity but I still held out hope I’d be in the final cut. Jackie [Burch] had seen footage after I was sent home and told my agent it was good. So when the film opened I was still pathetically hoping there’d be a glimpse of me. I know. Don’t say it. I went to an afternoon showing alone and guess what? I wasn’t in the movie. My mother called and said, "Honey, just come home. I’ll bake you a white cake."

Leonard Cohen has said, "Writing is a desperate activity." I was living in an alley apartment at the time, had 21 bucks left and was trying to figure out how I’d pay my rent in two weeks time. I wrote my first script, The Kindness of Strangers, in those 14 days and gave it to my acting agents to sell. The script was never produced, but was bought — by Paramount's Ned Tanen, who had produced The Breakfast Club and recognized my name when the script landed on his desk. I called my mother, who worked at a car factory making rubber parts, and asked for her to be pulled off the line to talk. "What happened?" she asked, panicked. "You can quit your job, mom. I’m going to buy you that house on Cedar Brook Lane.”

It was a surprise when friends recently sent me articles from Vanity Fair (an excerpt from the new book John Hughes: A Life in Film) and The New York Post saying that my Breakfast Club character was merely there to provide a gratuitous nude scene where the kids sneak out and watch me showering through a peephole. What shower scene? I don’t remember one in the script, and I never filmed one. John kept conveying that my part was meant to be the slightly older person who makes it safely to the other side of high school and shows it can be done. There was a provocative scene in the script where the principal was meant to watch me working out but that scene didn’t get shot. While I’d been waiting for an answer for years — and as a writer I understand re-writes — this version of events doesn’t click. If the filmmakers had been scouting for a "buxom" bombshell, they could’ve done better than me. And if the other female cast members felt the part was misogynistic, as a recent Vanity Fair article suggested, I never heard anything to that effect. It certainly doesn’t seem true to the character John created or conveyed to me. But if that was the reason I could’ve handled it; instead I was left to speculate. The truth may hurt but it’s always better than not knowing

As the 30th anniversary re-release of The Breakfast Club approaches, the mention of my role in the press has felt oddly validating. It’s given me permission to reflect on that time and affirms that being a part of the film wasn’t a figment of my fertile imagination. It was a beloved movie — a cult classic — and I will always wish I could’ve been a permanent part of it, but that doesn’t erase the joy of simply being cast and getting to shoot it. I never did get to see myself on screen delivering the wise speech John wrote — the speech that was meant to remind audiences that a confusing and sometimes painful period like high school ends, and then you can either leave it behind or get stuck in it forever, but I did have the opportunity to live the lesson of those words.

Wendy Remembered

Wendy Remembered

Wendy Wasserstein died a year ago today leaving a six-year old daughter and a space in the world for a female playwright.

By Michelle Fiordaliso, Contributor Executive Coach. Author. Filmmaker. 

01/30/2007 03:37pm EST | Updated November 17, 2011

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Wendy Wasserstein died a year ago today leaving a six-year old daughter and a space in the world for a female playwright. It wasn't by her dying though, that she left a space open for a female playwright, she left spaces open by the life she lived and by the work she created. She paved the way for female playwrights everywhere. We, as young women, take for granted things that were once not so easy to acquire: the right to vote, rights to our bodies, rights to the American stage and the world of theatre. Wendy Wasserstein's work gives me the choice to fight my own doubts and demons and trust that my plays have a place in this world. And so, every morning for the past year, I find myself invoking her, praying to her to help me say something that will inspire people in the way that she did. 

In Wendy Wasserstein's obituary in the New York Times last year it said, "Although it was always laced with comedy, her work was also imbued with an abiding sadness, a clear-eyed understanding that independence can beget loneliness, that rigorous ideals and raised consciousnesses are not always good company at the dinner table. But she shared her compassion among a wide array of characters, those who settled and those who continued to search." 

Rigorous ideals and raised consciousness is what had me move away from a life as a psychotherapist and move towards a life as a playwright. When something painful is revealed about yourself in a therapy session, you leave the room with the weight of it, but when something painful about yourself, or your life is revealed in the theatre, if through the genius of the writer you can see yourself reflected through the words and actors on stage, the pain is like a shell embedded in the sand in the ocean. The wave recedes and reveals it, for a moment it's there, and then the wave washes the weight of it away. You leave the theatre with a renewed sense of yourself that's exhilarating, no matter how painful. Wendy Wasserstein's plays did this for women, over and over again. Her plays revealed our loneliness, our betrayal, our fears and most of all our hope. 

It always goes back to the quote from the Heidi Chronicles, because it's so perfect. Heidi says, "I don't blame any of us. We're all concerned, intelligent, good women. It's just that I feel stranded. And I thought the whole point was that we wouldn't feel stranded. I thought the point was we were all in this together."

I live in Los Angeles and I never get star struck when I see celebrities but meeting female writers makes my knees knock. I've met a lot of my favorite female playwrights but I never met Wendy Wasserstein. I wish I had. I think of her everyday and the fact that I don't feel stranded because of her. She opened the door to the theatre for women everywhere, and now it's up to each one of us that has something to say to walk through that door. 

Last year today, I mourned for Wendy and for her daughter Lucy Jane. And I mourned for American Theatre. I mourned for the terrified writer in me. And I mourned for women everywhere who feel stranded. But this year, despite my sadness, I am celebrating Wendy Wasserstein's life and work. And by remembering her, maybe women everywhere will remember that we are in this together, we don't have to feel stranded. Our independence as women and writers shouldn't beget loneliness. Thanks to Wendy's words, we have each other.

The Choice to Search for Integrity

The Choice to Search for Integrity

The more you look, the more hypocrisy you see. It begs the question: does indoctrination ever really work?

By Michelle Fiordaliso, Contributor Executive Coach. Author. Filmmaker. 

12/13/2006 04:36pm EST | Updated November 17, 2011

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We've long accepted that human beings are searching for something. We're searching for truth, meaning, and love, amongst other things. Google Trends, however, allows us to see precisely what people all over the world are searching for. In Egypt they're searching for sex. In fact, the most searches globally for sex are conducted in Arabic. In Salt Lake City, there are the highest searches in the world for pornography. And in the Philippines, a country whose population is eighty-five percent Roman Catholic, there's the highest search rate by region for information about abortions. The more you look, the more hypocrisy you see. It begs the question: does indoctrination ever really work? 

I was raised Catholic. My parents, although born in Italy, didn't force me to attend mass. They sent me to catechism and expected me to make the sacraments, but more for the cultural reason of wanting me to wear the silly white dress and take communion than out of real belief. The spiritual practices I adopted came from an internal desire to be close to God. My family didn't understand me, or my religious fervor, when I was growing up. My brother called me Sister Mary Snowflake as I left the house at eight-years-old to walk three blocks alone to St. Luke's Church in Queens, New York. 

In high school, I pushed off boyfriends who tried to cajole me into having sex by saying that no form of birth control was absolute and I was not going to have an abortion. No one ever taught me that abortion was wrong in the eyes of the Church; it just provided me with a good excuse because I just wasn't ready to have sex. In college, when I finally did have sex, my boyfriend and I used two condoms, spermicidal foam, and the pill. Phone sex would have been riskier. 

I never expected that I would be someone who would get pregnant without being married. When I was twenty-six, I discovered that I was pregnant. I had been dating the man for three months. Everyone in my life counseled me to have an abortion, my Catholic parents included. I'll admit I considered the option. I had no real home, no real job, and no certainty that the man I was with would stick around. After some thought, I knew that having an abortion just wasn't an option for me. No one could understand that while I had never been able to commit to a pro-life or pro-choice political standpoint, the idea of having my unborn child extracted from my body was the same as asking me to consent to the removal of, say, my heart or liver or stomach or any other vital organ. It wasn't a political choice and it wasn't a religious choice. In all honesty, it was a selfish choice. I was terrified to have a child alone but I was more terrified of having an abortion. In fact, upon closer analysis, I don't believe it had anything to do with choice at all.

If a woman's right to have an abortion is a choice, it's a choice she never wanted to have to make. It's more a surrender, a ceasefire. She is tired of the fighting in her head between herself and God and her unborn child. And pro-life -- I wonder if people think I'm pro-life because, when faced with an unplanned pregnancy, I kept it. Pro-life, but in favor of whose life? I chose to keep my pregnancy because I was in favor of my life -- of my psychological well-being. I couldn't weather an abortion. I love my son. The world, my world, would be imperfect without him. But being a single parent has been a six-year struggle, financially and emotionally. There are nights I go to sleep feeling defeated. But in the morning, I recommit to being my son's mother. If raising a child has been so difficult for me, a person who has the support of friends and family along with a great deal of inner resources, I'm not sure how some other people do it. I never regret having my son, but having a child alone has made me pro-choice. If it takes a village to raise a child, then one person is without a doubt, inadequate. 

Neither the government nor the church was there to help me with my son. If people are going to rally for choice then they should spend equal amounts of time understanding the psychological ramifications of abortion and counseling women who have had abortions. And if people are going to rally for life then they should spend equal amounts of time helping the women that bring children into the world under less than ideal circumstances. We need a new word: neither "pro-choice," nor "pro-life" really apply to anything. 

The fact that I was taught to avoid sex until marriage didn't work. The fact that people tried to convince me to have an abortion didn't work, either. I made my own choices, based on my truth and what I could live with, and the rest I will deal with God about directly. 

We're indoctrinating people, but what we're teaching isn't working. Teaching Muslims to be chaste doesn't stop them from looking for sex. Teaching Mormons to be completely faithful in marriage and to avoid masturbation doesn't stop them from looking at pornography. And teaching Catholics from the Philippines that abortion is wrong doesn't stop them from seeking information about abortions and, let's face it, having them. 

Having a child has taught me one of the simple facts about human nature: deny someone of something, impose a rule or regulation, and you're bound to witness rebellion. Perhaps it's a defect in our design as human beings. We're oppositional. We're defiant. We may talk the talk but we're almost physically incapable of walking the walk indefinitely. Put something just out of our reach and our natural curiosity is transformed into obsession. In all of my years of religious education, in many different religions, I've found a loving God, a God that's a good parent, patient and kind, who tells me, "be not afraid." Couldn't we find a way to teach people to love, to accept, and to help so that perhaps they would seek out goodness and integrity on their own? 

As Oscar Hammerstein wrote, "You've got to be carefully taught, you've got to be taught to be afraid." When I went back to Google Trends, searches for fear, afraid, phobia and terrorism, while understandably less concrete than searching for sex, pornography or abortion, are conducted most in the English Language. Here's one sad instance where indoctrination has worked. Despite our country's motto being, "In God We Trust," we, the American people, are being successfully taught to fear. Perhaps we could remember, especially during the holiday season, that there is still so much to have faith in. 

Violence on Modern Family ?

Violence on Modern Family ?

03/06/2012 06:05 pm ET Updated May 06, 2012

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I love you, Modern Family. I’ve always been a serial monogamist when it comes to TV shows. In chronologically descending order, my partners have been Six Feet Under, Beverly Hills 90210, Laverne & Shirley and 321 Contact. Modern Family is my current main squeeze — the only show I watch regularly. I might even venture to say that I’ve finally found my soulmate — the perfect balance of smart and funny.

I had my first date with Modern Family in October 2009 on a flight from JFK to LAX. I had such an instant love affair with the show that when I landed I had already decided to introduce it to my then-nine-year-old son. As a single mother, that was a big deal. Prior to seeing the pilot episode I had been reading up on attachment theory and had decided that I needed to find something that my son and I both liked — something that we could do together. The books said doing that would remedy some of our struggles. Watching Modern Family became that thing. And it worked. We fought less. We laughed more. We had inside jokes. He’d put his hands, claw-like, on an invisible piano and I’d say, “Casablanca.”

Alas, as with all relationships, we occasionally get disappointed. That’s okay. Relationships, like we see episode after episode on the show, are a series of ruptures and repairs. But then, after we’ve been with someone for a while (almost three seasons in this case), sometimes we see unacceptable patterns emerging and we have to speak up before we’re left with only one option: a breakup.

Modern Family, I must tell you that the violence from women towards men that’s become customary in Season 3 isn’t funny. I get that we grew up on this. I get that it’s been the sitcom way. Women nag. Criticize. Belittle. And, yes, sometimes beat our men on TV. But you’ve evolved beyond that, haven’t you? What makes you brilliant and innovative is the fact that you resuscitated and reinvented one of America’s favorite forms of entertainment: the primetime network sitcom. As a writer I appreciate this (after Modern Family many more scripted shows got picked up). And as a mother, I really appreciate this. You got families off their individual viewing devices and brought them back into the living room where they laughed. And cried. Together. And when you get people laughing, they learn. From you, we’ve learned about family and humanity, acceptance, imperfection, growing up and growing closer. You’ve sent so many important messages. Please don’t send this archaic one, one that says it’s acceptable, funny even, for women to be violent towards men.

In this past week’s episode, Gloria slugged the captain of the boat Mitch hired out. His crime? Calling Jay “Grandpa.” Earlier in the season, when Cam and Mitchell were given the wrong Prius at a valet, they decided that they’d deliver it to the home of its rightful owner. When they arrived they were greeted not by the owner but by his scorned wife, who began to beat the car with a baseball bat. When Mitch and Cam drove away they encountered the husband who said, “I see you’ve met my wife.” Cue canned laughter. And Claire and Gloria have both hit their husbands in response to what they considered unacceptable behavior. Consider if these acts of aggression were perpetrated against the women or children on the show or even against Stella, the Pritchett’s dog. Would we accept it, laugh at it? Probably not. But men are supposed to be able to take it. Hitting, shoving, or punching men isn’t acceptable. Just like it isn’t acceptable for them to treat us that way. Period.

Are women angry at men? At times, yes. And for some good reasons. We earn less than them. We’re often left with the responsibility of children with too little or no child support at all. We’re objectified by men, causing us to enter into patterns of self-destruction. Just look at Angelina Jolie at the Oscars. A headline in The Onion might’ve read “Angelina’s Lip Officially Weighs More Than Her Leg.” Everyone on Facebook was guessing what her leg was trying to say. How about, “Gosh, I’ve fed all these hungry kids, doesn’t anyone see that I’m starving?” So, are we angry? Without a doubt. But violence isn’t the answer.

And can women’s behavior be confusing at times? Absolutely. But we’re amazingly complex creatures. We’re the only gender that grows an organ after we’re born: the placenta. A miraculous, complex system that allows us to have a different blood type than the children we carry. It takes the food we eat, transforms it into something a fetus can digest, and delivers it through a feeding tube called the umbilical cord. We make milk. We multitask. And if you liked The Davinci Code, you might even believe that women, when respected and cherished, can be a portal to the divine.

So yes, women’s behavior can be confusing and it deserves to be poked fun at. Modern Family, you did this perfectly in this past week’s episode in the way you depicted a house full of menstruating females. But as you see in the scene by the dock, we just want to be understood. And we’re so grateful when we are understood by men. If you truly understand women then you know that confusing is one thing but that when intensity becomes violence it’s not characteristic of being female; it’s no longer passionate, it’s actually pathological.

I beg you, Modern Family, please stop the hitting. I bet any man who’s getting hit at home doesn’t find it funny. And yet, if they speak up about it, they’re told to shut up and man up. I also think it sends the wrong message to women about appropriate ways to express our anger and frustration, even when that anger is justified. I want my son to grow up in a world where he ‘gets’ women’s complexities but doesn’t come to believe that crazy, abusive behavior is a normal part of being female. So normal that he must tolerate and even accept it. Millions are tuning in. And with power comes responsibility. I love you Modern Family but I need you to stop with the violence. My son is watching. The violence isn’t funny. And quite frankly, other sitcoms needed that kind of humor to get by but you’re better than that.

Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Ex*

The sex education you never got: what to do when the sex is over—and you're left with an ExIn 1969, David Reuben, MD, published his groundbreaking book Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex*. Forty years later, we know plenty about sex. The thing we're so confused about, however, is what to do when the sex is over, and you're left with an Ex.In the age of Google, Facebook, and Twitter, it's almost impossible to leave the past behind. 

Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Ex* is the answer for any woman whose former relationship is keeping her from finding true love. Written by two family therapists, this book helps readers learn:Who holds the power in your Ex relationshipsThe best way to deal with an unavoidable ExSolutions to everyday Ex issues (including kids)How to handle your boyfriend's or husband's ExesHow to get resolution with any ExHow to learn from your Exes so as to make a better choice the next timeThis sassy, take-charge manual is a must-read for any woman who has an Ex.

Praise for Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Ex*

"No matter how codependent or crazy your relationship with your Ex has been, this book will show you how to live and love again." -Melody Beattie | bestselling author, The New Codependency and Codependent No More

"An insightful, entertaining and essential guide to surviving the turmoil and trauma of breakups and divorce. Read this book and you'll learn to survive and thrive in the aftermath of an unhappy relationship." -Ben Sherwood | bestselling author, The Survivor's Club"If you have an Ex and kids, this book is a must read (unless you want your kids to spend their college savings on therapy)!"-Romi Lassally | author, True Mom Confessions: Real Moms Get Real | founder of truuconfessions.com

"I thought I knew everything there was to know about my Ex. But I never would have guessed she'd be able to turn some of our most shameful follies into such valuable advice. Now our Ex life couldn't be better!" -Michelle's Ex

"When I first became an Ex it was like a brick to the head or, perhaps in better moments, a knee to the groin. But this book adds the one metaphor I was missing—a breath of fresh air. Heather worked hard to become a 'good' Ex, where drama takes a backseat to what's important—our kids and our futures. This book can show everyone that the path from Ex to next can be filled with hope and happiness." -Heather's Ex

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Vse, co jute kdy chteli vedet o svych ex*

Minden, amit tudni akartal az EX*-rol