Month: April 2026

Growing up as the only daughter/sister and being significantly younger than my brothers put me on my proverbial back foot. Having a shockingly sexist, primary parent, mother didn’t help (she made it clear my job was to cook and clean for the males, and then to take care of her when she got sick). I remember Mom saying to a friend of hers, “[Son 1] will be a great writer. [Son2] will be a great artist. Leslie will end up dancing on a table someplace.” Yeah. I was born, and definitely raised, for therapy.

The “artist” has been an insufferable know-it-all forever. I really have no idea how his wife has put up with that behavior, especially since he is often flat-out wrong. He will never admit it. He will simply pull a face that is shockingly similar to Hegseth’s sneer. Yikes. Regardless, he isn’t a total idiot and made it on Jeopardy! before I did.

When I made the show, I had one primary goal: to do better than he did. I mean, winning would be nice, but beating him was what I had to do. For me. He had humiliated me and been emotionally abusive to me since birth. If I did worse, he would wield it like a sabre. He was a cruel bully and to this day has never been held to account for his behavior, except by me (I have not been supported by my family in this). Back when I was going to go on Jeopardy!, though, I knew that doing better than he did would hurt his ego and, yeah, I wanted that.

I did do better than him. Substantially so. Actually, I did really well (18 right including one Daily Double, missed one; 94.7%) and would have won but for a poorly worded Final Jeopardy question. I even got invited back because of that bad FJ clue and did money-total-wise better the second time (16 right with 1 DD, 1 wrong; 94.1%) but I still came in 2nd to a machine of a player–she was, at the time, called the female Ken Jennings.

How did he do? He got 10 right and 6 wrong (62.5%) and did not even make it to Final Jeopardy.

The “great writer” never quite finished his BA. The “great artist” got his BFA but was not accepted to grad school (at Ohio State). Me? I was asked to apply to grad school (at Ohio State) and given a scholarship and TA-ship. I did my MA and all my PhD coursework (I got me too’ed and did not take my exams or write a dissertation). I was told I’d had the highest results of my class on the MA exams. Years later (after Jeopardy! actually), I got a full scholarship to law school.

After being convinced my whole life that I was the least smart of “the kids,” it has taken me until shockingly recently to realize I am, rather, not only the most educated, but also the smartest (and, not for nothing, the most physically active). Even writing any of that now is uncomfortable, but I believe it is true.

That said, I also have struggled the most both personally and professionally.

These things are not disconnected. Women are constantly downgraded in their own families and by society. In hetero relationships, when they are “good” relationships, we do more. Just one general example: our most loving partners regularly dump the mental load of life on us then don’t understand why were exhausted (and bitchy for it). In our careers, we don’t get respected or paid enough. We have to do much more than our male (especially white cis-het) counterparts to be seen as even close to being “equal.” It’s exhausting and infuriating.

I remember working for a small, struggling creative firm, and, as a part of my studio manager job (which, of course, also required me to answer the phones–I know, right?!), I figured out how to restructure it to be more profitable and run more smoothly. I reported my findings and plan to the owner who, like a day later, called an all-hands meeting and read the bullet points off, verbatim, except for one where he gave one of the male employees the strategic planning position I should have received. The owner never acknowledged that the plan was my work and then gave the undeserving male employee a big promotion and raise (that guy was already making much more than I did–I knew this because I also did the payroll). I was flabbergasted. When I asked after the meeting why he did that, the owner acted like he had thought up most of the plan and said “[Male employee] would have left if he didn’t get the position.” I replied that, after getting screwed like that, I was leaving, and I walked out right there and then. But I did so crying, shaking with tears–feeling undervalued and asking myself if I was being too…demanding?

In personal relationships, I’ve done back flips to help the men in my life achieve their goals, supported them in their struggles, and far too often paid more than my share just to make sure the men didn’t feel like I was taking advantage of them. I have not asked to have my needs met because when I did, I have been called “demanding,” or “dramatic,” etc. I have been physically and sexually assaulted, by partners and others. I have worked on relationships, alone in trying to make it better, more often that I like to admit (that is, the guys didn’t work to change their behavior to make things better, but I did).

And I am not at all unusual, as a woman, in any of that.

I was raised to devalue myself. To see myself as less than, simply because of my gender. To feel that I must be wrong if I think I am as smart as (forget about smarter!) than my brothers or co-workers; or that I was equally deserving of respect and support; or that I was upset that people in my family would not take sides, my side, when I told them of the abuse(s) I suffered. I accepted it all as the cost of being a part of whatever the tribe was (family, work, partnership).

It took me a lot of therapy to do better in my own head about all of that. I was lucky I could do that–so many women can’t access that kind of help. And all my Buddhist studies also helped. But I still have days where I struggle. De-programming is a lifetime of work. Fighting the patriarchy is an added burden. But I am… better.

I cannot stand being called “Les.” And I choose to pronounce my name with a voiced z-sound (lez-lee). I always have and never could explain why. Very recently I recognized that it may have been a subconscious way of saying something important:
I am not less.
And certainly not less than.

I was taking a pee when the white wainscoting in the bathroom bugged me, as it has before when I’ve been in that position. While mostly clean (I do keep a mostly clean house), the grooves that met the baseboard were holding onto just enough dirt to set my teeth on edge. As usual. However, also usually, by the time I’ve zipped up my jeans, I will have forgotten it. Not so today.

I went out to the studio and got a bucket, came in and dumped the last of my Pine Sol and warm water in it, grabbed one silicone scrubby glove (left hand because I am ambidextrous and scrub better leftie) and a microfiber cloth, and moved into the small bathroom, determined to get those grooves clean.

On my knees, I worked, and it looked better quickly. Still, I was not achieving the results I wanted. Then, I remembered an old toothbrush head I saved for scrubbing around faucets. I attacked again–toothbrush, scrubby glove, microfiber. That did the trick.

However, I had made a Clean Spot. Uh-oh.

A Clean Spot is dangerous–it’s a gateway drug for the perfectionist in me. It makes everything else look, well, maybe not dirty but certainly less clean. And I had the tools at the ready so I would just quickly wipe that one bit over there…after all, I was on my lunch break and had the time.

And, I was off. The wainscoting led to the decorative trim atop it. And the shelves, then the switch plates. That led to the door, and the jamb, which led to the floor, which led to the baseboards in the hallway just outside the bathroom. That led to the baseboards in the bedroom, which led to the window sills, which led to the wall switches, which led to every baseboard in the front of the house I could wipe down. Without being totally obsessive and moving all the furniture.

On my way out to the studio to dump the bucket, I gave the kitchen trashcan a good wipe. And the baseboards by the back door. It was as if I would not be deterred until the house smelled of Pine Sol throughout. But I got out the door, dumped the water in the industrial sink in the studio, and took off the glove as I walked back inside.

And immediately noticed I’d missed a spot.

Sunday, at sangha, we were discussing the word “present” in the Heart Sutra. The discussion evolved into people talking about how for them being present meant having gratitude for their past suffering or how hard it was to be present when there are so many demands on our time. Present was an oddly complex word. It surprised me, the range of personal definitions.

For me, present means not holding on to anything–fully letting go in the moment–with the knowledge that every moment is the present and everything is impermanent and these two concepts exist at the same time. Being present is recognizing the stream of everything and letting it flow over. When I was a kid, we used to make flicker pads–pads of paper with drawings that were a hair different from the one before and after, such that when you flipped the pages, the images became animation. Being present is seeing each still as it is AND the animation.

This learning has helped me so very much. It has made me better at life. I mean, it has reduced suffering in my life. I’ll try to explain…

Life arises. Joy arises. Fear arises. Pain arises (physical or emotional, doesn’t matter). Knowing that I have no real control over what arises* and that whatever arises will move on is liberating. It also reduces anxiety which reduces pain and suffering, including physical pain.

(*I do have control over how I respond to what arises–I control my behavior–but what feeling or emotion arises is out of my, or anyone’s, control)

When I had gnarly butt surgery a couple of years ago, learning that it was necessary should have scared the hell out of me. The fear of possible surgery had kept me from getting the consultation, in fact, until I grew enough to accept that I had to face it. Whatever was happening, either it could be fixed/improved, or not. Better to find out.

In some ways, after getting the word that surgery was (very) necessary, I was indeed scared. But not catatonically so, which is how I would have been in my past. Mostly, I felt the relief of knowing something was going to be done and the years of pain I had been experiencing would likely end, or at least change and, probably, get better. There was something about choosing to trust my doc that permitted me to let go of a lot of the fear. The surgery was, literally, out of my control (I would be unconscious–he and his team would be slicing and dicing) so there was no use in worrying about it. Thus, I was scared and hopeful. At the same time. I could hold both. And I knew that, whatever the experience, it would be temporary.

After the surgery and as a part of the recovery, I had to undergo several in-office procedures that were quite painful. I approached them with meditative breathing and the knowledge that whatever pain there was would be short-lived–acute then fading–and that each was a step to healing. I let myself feel the pain (albeit usually with some pain killers on board) and told myself, “yup, that’s pain!” I didn’t try to hide from it but neither did I call it “my pain.” It was pain arising, and I knew that it would change, moment to moment. I got curious about the nature of the pain (“it’s sharp and radiates…” or “that feels like I’m clenching the muscle or something…”) and, I think, that curiosity enabled me to feel the shift to its lessening sooner.

My doctor said he thought I had incredible pain tolerance and that I dealt with it all super well. I’m not sure if it was tolerance so much as acceptance. I accepted that it was going to hurt, and hurt a lot (in fact, the first office procedure was done without meds so, um, boy howdy), but knew it would stop hurting, eventually if not sooner. I didn’t fight the pain and I didn’t make it mine. It was just pain arising and pain leaving. I attribute how well I handled the whole thing to that practice: observing and being curious.

This has happened with emotional pain as well. I remember when, a week before my first law school finals, I discovered my then-husband was cheating. The one thing I would have bet he would never do he was not only doing, he was doing in a particularly gross and personally (for me) demeaning way. I was floored and furious and hurt and…. and I had a choice to make: how to respond to all that was arising. I chose to let myself have a good cry (feel my feelings) and then chose to put aside responding, that is, dealing with my marriage, until after my exams. So, I told the hubs that I knew about it and we would have a conversation, later. I chose to focus on my studies.

It wasn’t like I didn’t feel hurt and angry, etc., but I didn’t live in that. I didn’t feed the monster. When the feelings would arise, and they did, I would ride the waves with compassion and the understanding that they would abate. Arise > have a cry/whatever > abatement > back to the books….rinse and repeat. It was a mix of Finding Nemo‘s Dory (“Just keep swimming”) and Scarlet O’Hara (“I can’t think about that now…I’ll think about that tomorrow”). And, of course, I got through it. All of it.

Before I started meditating and studying Buddhism, little things would completely flip me out. When you have trauma in your background, this is a pretty typical thing. Car problems? Illness? Getting cut off on the freeway? End of the world kind of emotional reactions. Now, when shit happens, and shit will always happen, it’s just not as big of a deal. In the shitshow that is life in Trumpistan (v 2.0), I’m extra thrilled I did the work to get here.

Of course, I still have (strong) feelings. But now I can observe them and not let them own me. I choose and, very importantly, I recognize that I have the ability (power, some might say) to choose how I respond to what arises. I can see things from a very different perspective now and even laugh in the darkest shit, particularly when I catch myself forgetting my ability and reacting instead of responding. I laugh at my own monkey brain. Then, I get back on the path and choose to do something wiser.

I am by no means enlightened. Or perfect. Or fixed. But I am better. I highly recommend it.

After months of eating keto to drop some fat, I am back to eating carbs. I’m trying not to go crazy and to keep my intake of calories something reasonable, but, yeah, carbs baby.

I don’t eat a lot of sweet stuff, so I’m lucky there. No cokes/sodas or big desserts. Dark chocolate–like a square from the Trader Joe’s Pound Plus bar will usually do the trick. On special occasions, cheesecake made with less sugar and more lemon, on a not cookie crust; or dark chocolate pot de crème.

Ice cream, though… now there is a weakness and one which I inherited from my father. Dad had ice cream every night, usually french vanilla, with a Peppridge Farm chocolate chip cookie. I skip the cookie but, damn, I can eat some ice cream. I got myself some today, on my way home after sangha. Rather than wait for after dinner, I politely but immediately weighed out a serving of the mint chocolate goodness. I ate it slowly, mindfully, and it was lovely.

When I decided to eat carbs again, the first thing I thought of was my sourdough bread. I took care of that with a bake on Friday. The second thing I thought of was, surprisingly, not ice cream but rather pizza. Homemade pizza. The ice cream I bought was an impulse. The pizza, a plan.

I bought mozzarella the last time I went to the grocery. When I was with the ex, I would get provolone too, but I didn’t want to have any of the cheese go to waste so I stuck with the Mozz and skipped the other.

I had everything else in house: 00 flour and yeast, tomato paste in the freezer, mushrooms and prosciutto from the last Costco trip, a can of artichoke hearts from Trader Joe’s from who knows how long ago in my cupboard, and arugula, a staple I always have.

I made the dough this morning. It spent the day doing its second proof in the fridge. In the early evening, as I took the rolling rack out of my insanely expensive and pretentious Wolf oven to pre-heat the stone on the lowest rack, it hit me: this is the first post-Ex pizza.

I keep finding firsts. I’m not sure I like them.

I would never have the Wolf if it weren’t for the Ex. The Viking that was in the house when we bought it was dying and when we replaced it he pushed for the high-end. And the griddle. And the pizza stone that came with a peel. All upgrades he decided we had to have. So, pizza makes me think of him.

Being a Type 1 diabetic, regular pizza was verbotten, but he loved it. I found a good replacement flour (King Arthur keto flour) and made a passable crust for him. So, the pizza stone (etc.) was for him. So was the whole very expensive stove and oven. But I certainly appreciated all of it.

I insisted on paying for half the cost. We got a Bosch fridge at the same time. The total was more than I made as a graduate student.. for a whole year. I was arguably ill spending that much money when we easily could have gotten away with spending 30% of that…or less. It was huge for me. But I couldn’t not share the cost. That is who I am.

To be clear: I love the stove. I’m glad he pushed for it. I never would have done it.

Anyway, today, I made the pizza and used the stone and the peel and, damn, the result was fabulous. Worth every carb.