Babies Reading at 18 Months?

After a night of cookie making insomnia, I happened upon a freaky infomercial featuring toddlers, I’m talking 18-20 months old, reading full sentences. It was so strangely compelling, I watched the program twice over on two channels and nearly bought the DVD set (thank goodness sleep finally kicked in). The next morning I told Paul about it, soliciting his opinion about maybe getting the program for the twins. His immediate reaction was, “No kid should be able to read before they can wipe their own ass.”

As much as I love our new town, I’ve also heard from some neighbors that because it’s so small, it can be extremely competitive. And, really, the game has changed. I got into Pepperdine University after a decent high school education but I wonder if that could happen now. Degrees are so closely linked to job opportunities that they have become even more coveted than they were 15 years ago. Will this little town turn my kids into Mylanta gulping stress bunnies worried about getting into Yale? Or, will Paul and I have the will and the skill to help them balance a healthy educational life with seeing life as it is, a journey with no clear cut answers, just lots of opportunity.

I stress about these little things everyday because I know that if I hadn’t gone to college, hadn’t had the opportunity to study in Europe, hadn’t had the confidence to move to NYC, hadn’t applied for grad school, I may not be where I am today; able to provide a decent life for my kids. It’s just another one of life’s little tight ropes I suppose. Maybe they’ll come out with a magic DVD program for adults that will instruct in balancing parental expectations as well as reducing one’s need to ever buy magic infomercial products at 3AM.

Our MJ is Gone

When Princess Diana died I didn’t sleep for two days. My husband thought I was a freak saying, you didn’t know Princess Diana. Who is she to you? The last 48 hours I’ve been watching news report after interview about Michael Jackson’s passing. It’s strange to feel such sadness over someone that I didn’t know and that ultimately led such a strange life, one with no connection to mine.
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Yet, here I sit blogging about it and it just hit me why. Michael Jackson was like the Justin Timberlake of our generation. We watched him grow up, leave the bosom of his group, break out on his own and become an omnipresent force on the radio and the TV. His songs could make you cry (I’ll Be There), make a wedding dance floor get way more interesting (Wanna be Startin’ Something), make running on a treadmill way less tedious (Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough) and now, let you groove a little on an easy listening station driving in the car (Rock with You). And really, who hasn’t tried at one point to learn the choreography to the Thriller video? I don’t know a single cheerleading squad or dance team that didn’t somehow copy some of those moves during the 1980’s.

I watched Michael Jacksons’s performance of Billy Jean on the Motown 25th Anniversary Special live. It was one of THE most spectacular performances that I’ve ever seen in my life! It was so original, so exuberant, and so effortless, you knew you were seeing greatness and you just wanted more. And, that’s what he gave, and maybe a little too much. I hope now he has a little peace.

Brownies Saved Me From Buyers Remorse

It is a truth universally acknowledged that moving sucks. Moving especially sucks when it rains for nearly two weeks straight, you have endless piles of stuff belonging to your four kids and your new home does not fit all your old junk. Moving from a rental to a home you now own is even more excruciating. You’re moving at warp speed to get your real house in order and then you realize that you have to scrub down your rental top to bottom and acknowledge that at heart, your kids are a bunch of slobs.

OK, so I may sound bitter but I’m not. Though my skin is raw from using too much cleaning product with bleach and I’ve probably inhaled enough toxic fumes to have wiped out all of the hair in my nasal passages, I’m really not. Truth be told I would have been 300% more bitter if not for the plate of brownies that arrived at my door two days ago.

When I moved from California to NJ, I went through a period of stiff upper lip catatonic cheerfulness as I soon realized that life on the east coast was no picnic when you have four kids under the age of 8. The weather stinks, mosquitoes the size of pigeons bite my children so much I actually worry about West Nile Virus and to make things completely absurd, the price of everything seems twice as much for living in a state with high property taxes, toll booths on their highways and really appalling fruits and vegetables. Suffice it to say that buying a house was not the celebratory experience that one would assume. In fact, it made me so anxious that I was gulping Mylanta like the Starbucks lattes that I used to be able to get when there was actually a Starbucks I could get to without driving 5 miles (another reason to hate NJ…cue the violins!).

So, when the deal finally closed, my anxiety did not end. I started having panic attacks a few times a day thinking that I had made a huge mistake. It was like buyers remorse but on the biggest ticket item you can think of. Of course you can return the 20th pair of cute black heels that you just had to have but a house, not so much. I was coming back from my 10th trip to the rental to pick up more junk when one of our new neighbors from across the street brought over a plate full of brownies.

Seriously, when was the last time you received moist and chewy goodies from a perfect stranger with seemingly no ulterior motive? It is perhaps the most neighborly thing to have happened to me in my life and my children were witness to the delivery which made the gesture even more special. So, yes, I’m still in NJ but a plate of brownies saved me from major buyers remorse and I’ve stopped gulping Mylanta. That’s definitely something to be cheerful about.

My Facebook Miracle

I can be impossibly stubborn when I feel pushed (cue the sounds of shock!). My brother Ben kept calling me a LOSER for not having a MySpace or Facebook page but I kept ignoring him, hoping that social networking would be a passing fad. It’s not that I’m a technophobe, but having four kids has a way of making one realign daily the things you need to do and the stuff you want to do.

Even as I created my Facebook page, I was still skeptical about engaging in the activity. Who cared what books I read? Does anyone really care where I’ve traveled? Is being a fan of Sex in the City passe? Why would anyone want to poke me? And, don’t even get me started on the status updates! I was paralyzed thinking what I could and should share. Are my kids birthdays OK or shameless? Does anyone care if I’m sitting at the George Michael concert?

A couple of months later, though I had spent virtually no time on my page, added no pictures, sent no friend requests, my Facebook page yielded the miracles and an amazing demonstration of human kindness.

I took a Dramamine on a flight from Cincinnati to Newark. Though Dramamine works like a charm for air sickness, it also turns me into a drooling zombie if my flight is less than 5 hours. I didn’t even remember that I had left my IPod Nano in the seat back pocket until I was 40 miles into my trip back home. Though I was sad for losing it, I knew that I had a better chance of winning the lottery than ever getting it back.

The next day, I got a friend request from a name I did not recognize. Normally paranoid about getting emails from strangers, something made me open it. Lo and behold, it was an email from a man who had found the IPod and wanted to return it to me! I accepted his friend request and sent him a gushing email thanking him and asking if I could pay for postage and if he could also send me his address so that I could send him a gratitude gift. More miracles! Not only did he refuse to accept shipping money from me but requested that I did not send him a gratitude gift.

My husband was incredulous. He doubted I would even get it back yet two days later, the bubble padded pack arrived with my IPod! It included a note that said that I should not be so cynical about acts of human kindness and that my music mix sucked anyway! Priceless.

Japan's Catcher in the Rye

Japan has its own real catcher in the rye according to Time Magazine (June 22nd Health Issue). As the global financial crisis pounds Japan's economy, the number of suicides in Japan has risen to 23.8 per 100,000 people, making Japan the home of the highest suicide rate in the world. The well-known place that many go to die is Tojinbo cliffs, a rocky piece of land bordering the Sea of Japan.

Since 2004 Yukio Shige, a former police detective, and trained counselor, has made it his singular cause to patrol the Tojinbo cliffs in the hope of preventing desperate Japanese citizens from jumping. He has successfully saved 188 people, talking them down from the cliffs and then counseling them to see their lives as not desperate but only the beginning of a larger, more meaningful journey. Shige has funded his cause largely through his own retirement savings and donations. Recently, the Japanese government has awarded him 100 million to support his patrol, as well as the counseling he provides.

Reading about Yuko Shige made me wonder what pushes someone to such deep despair that they are willing to leave the earth and the ones they love. The article cites unemployment and financial hardship, things that are truly devastating but can be fixed. Many fortunes have been won and lost around the world by the best and the smartest. I suppose all humans feel desperate about their lives at some point; drug use, broken heart, family arguments, losing their job, losing a loved one. I dearly hope my children never entertain the thought of ending their lives. If they ever do, I hope someone like Shige will be there to catch them before they fall or, if I’m lucky, that they’ll come to me to seek solace.

That One Thing

The urban legend about me is that I was speaking full sentences when I was 11 months old. The joke then is, and my whole family will say it in unison, “and she never stopped.” My dad used to say, “The one thing that you can do, Berna, is talking. You’re good at talking. Maybe someday you could be the Filipino Connie Chung.” This speech, repeated from when I was 10 years old, made me roll my eyes every time he said it.

The one thing? Only one thing? Today, I believe I’m pretty good at a few things. I can make a really moist and tasty Magnolia style cupcake and chicken Marsala. I started knitting after my birthday and am getting pretty good. I’m also pretty good at folding clothes, sending out Thank You cards on time, wrapping presents and playing a couple of songs on the piano.

Looking back, I wonder how much my father’s praising of the one thing I was good at affected my adult life. Did his prodding to become a professional talker make me turn my back on becoming a journalist? Did my role as the talker of the family effect the way my brothers communicate today? Or, did his speeches ultimately give me the confidence to know that I was pretty good at communicating and to try to harness this in my work and home life?

All four of my children demonstrate one thing that they seem to be pretty good at right now. Paul said, “Natalie is good at drawing. Paulina is good at taking care of people. Max is a clown and will probably get into acting or music. Aidan is good at creating mayhem and will end up in a minimum security prison.” OK, so I hope that the last bit about Aidan isn’t true. But, we do go through our days reinforcing how good they are at the things they do without really encouraging them to do other things well.

But, what happens later? Does laser focusing on the one thing make that one thing a self-fulfilling prophecy? Or, will other things pop up organically and we’ll know to take the cue when those things happen? It’s such a slippery slope. I just hope that when those other things present themselves, we’ll have the wherewithal to notice and celebrate them.

Elmo Needs You!

Even Elmo and friends are not immune to the recession. Sesame Workshop, the non-profit producer of Sesame Street, announced that they will be cutting 20% of their workforce. This fact has not escaped mainstream media, with news organizations like Time Magazine, MSNBC and Newsweek all writing about it, perhaps hoping that awareness of the show’s problems will help drive viewership, sales of their licensed toy products and donations to public television.

You never know what your kids will gravitate to. We’ve gone through periods of fascination with Blue’s Clues, Dora the Explorer, Diego, Mickey Mouse, The Backyardigans, The Wiggles and even the Teletubbies. Unfortunately, the twins only recently began recognizing characters from Sesame Street and it’s largely from Max and Natalie’s book collection.

My husband didn’t grow up with Sesame Street. I don’t think he even knows what channel PBS is on now. In our mega cable channel universe, whoever controls the dial largely determines what your children know and become attached to. I have very fond memories of watching Sesame Street with my brothers and still marvel at how they make the show entertaining while also teaching basic developmental concepts. I also remember the show featuring ballerinas, fine art, jazz music, the Eiffel Tower and actors and singers from every genre. It gave me the sense of a world beyond my neighborhood. It made me want to live there.

Now that I know that the recession has hit Sesame Street, I will now make sure to set the dial to PBS, buy some Sesame street DVDs and maybe even buy the twins Tickle Me Elmo for Christmas. It’s the least I can do. My life might have been very different if I had never seen Sesame Street.

Your Son Smashed the Flatscreen!

Nothing good comes after you get a text from your husband that reads, “Call me ASAP.” Heart palpitations begin along with random sweat. Images of stair tumbles, car accidents, broken bones or concussions start to whirr through my mind. My nerves were shot by the time I called him back. “I have some bad news” he said. “Whaa…” I squeaked out. “Your son took his light saber and smashed the flat screen. No more ultimate fight night this weekend.”

Really? Really? Did I almost have a heart attack over a broken flat screen television? Truth be told, it was a very inopportune thing to happen given that it’s in Paul’s man cave (AKA – where the children play and mess things up), that it was less than 8 months old and that the new season of True Blood is premiering this month. But, c’est la vie! A broken TV is better than broken bones any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

When I got home, Aidan hid behind my husband’s thigh thinking I was going to let him have it. The first thing I heard was, “Sorry mommy. So sorry Mommy. I broke the TV.” Clearly, he had rehearsed. It was the first time he had used the word sorry. With his 2-year old limited vocabulary, new words are always met with clapping and whoo whoo’s. This time I try to maintain a stern face, crouched down so we were eye level, and explained to him why it was bad that he smashed the TV with his light saber. As I spoke, he began tapping his foot as if to signal to me that Dad had already gone over this and that his perfunctory “Sorry mommy,” should have been enough.

The whole episode got me thinking about apologies and the world that we live in today. For eight years, even as more and more evidence mounted that no WMDs were in Iraq, no one in the former administration ever said, “My bad, sorry we started a preemptive war.” Even as young men and women died, billions of dollars in debt piled up and we nearly squandered all of the goodwill of the international community after 9/11, no one stepped up to the plate to apologize. Now we have a president who is willing to admit when he is wrong, and has publicly done so in the first 100 days of his job.

Maybe Aidan didn’t know what sorry really meant and didn’t feel that bad for smashing the flatscreen. The point is he’s 2 and managed to get the words out. Maybe we really are entering a new era of personal responsibility. I hope so.

Don't Judge a Book

Before you begin reading, I think it’s only fair to warn you that I’m going to be gushing about our new American Idol, Kris Allen. If you’ve grown tired of reading what seems like endless articles dissecting the season, I’ll let you know now that I won’t attempt to repeat what other “real” media are going on about. If you still think the whole topic is completely banal, I won’t be offended if you end your reading now…

OK, for those who have chosen to go down my path of crazy, I totally heart Kris Allen! I just read another article about him in Entertainment Weekly and while some may think he’s blah, I think he’s amazing. In the article, he comments on the media making the finale a culture war between the “edgy, androgynous Lambert” and Kris, the “wholesome, Christian Allen.” To this brouhaha he said, “It’s frustrating that the world is still like that. Like, get over it. Adam and I are great, great friends. Our relationship is, hopefully, an inspiration to people: No matter who you are, you can get along with anyone.”

Could Kris Allen’s brand of openness and acceptance be the formula for peace in the Middle East? No, probably not. but it certainly makes me think of times in my life when someone who has presented themselves in an outer package that I might not understand has surprised and delighted me. I was in high school in the 80’s and when I first started seeing girls and boys wearing thick eye liner, black nail polish, chains and studs and spiky hair, I have to admit that I met the trend with a mix of suspicion and fear. Were these kids subversive? Would they be kids that would be nice to me in biology class if I was assigned to them as a lab partner? Does that nose piercing hurt? Are they really all depressed and do they really spend hours listening to Morrissey on repeat?

I befriended a few of the “mods” through various classes throughout my time in high school and they turned out to be some of the coolest people at my school. I graduated thinking that these would be the photographers, costume designers, fine artists, wardrobe stylists and style arbiters of tomorrow and was ultimately envious that I might never be as cool. I hope my kids can take a cue from “Our Kris” and hopefully from their mom and live their life never judging a book by its cover. Who knew there would be so many teachable moments from one season of American Idol?

Travel Perks and 30 Rock

Traveling for business can be torture. Not only do I miss my kids, I get chronic sinus infections, some airlines don’t have toilet seat covers (what!?) and I always seem to get stuck next to people that insist on speaking to me throughout the entire flight. The one bright, shiny perk to flying is that Continental Airlines plays NBC re-runs and I get to see 30 Rock episodes! If you haven’t seen this show, you must. Alec Baldwin is amazing. Many have written him off as a mean dad for the personal answering machine messages that were leaked to the press. I’m not here to change your mind, but I have a personal experience that may give you pause to re-think 30 Rock.

I earned my undergraduate degree at Pepperdine University. For anyone that knows anything about the school you can imagine what the experience is like. Imagine going to a Church of Christ School where students are so wealthy, their parents buy their children housing in the Malibu Colony, where your neighbors are Cher, Cindy Crawford, Charlie Sheen and Mel Gibson and where your classes are held minutes away from some of the most beautiful coastal land in the world.

I paid my way through Pepperdine by waitressing in Malibu! Imagine the ultimate financial aid poster child delivering pizza to Sly Stallone's house, pouring coffee for Ed Harris and Sean Penn and picking up plates of food scraps from Mel Gibson and Linda Hamilton (when she originated the buff arms that Madonna later copied). One of my jobs had me waitressing at a restaurant called Anthony's. One night, Alec Baldwin came in with a business associate and ordered chicken parmigiana with no cheese. That wasn't a punchline. He explained that he wanted broiled eggplant, covered in sauce with no cheese, he was removing dairy from his diet.

I had definitely had stranger requests during my stint as a waitress so I brought the order back to the kitchen and a few minutes later I brought the baked eggplant with marinara to his table. A minute later, Alec called me back to the table and politely told me that the chef must have put ricotta in the marinara. When I brought the plate back in the kitchen, the chef wet berserk. He started pounding on the metal counter using every expletive he knew. Halfway through the tirade, I started praying that the music was loud enough to drown out the shouting when Alec came into the kitchen. He calmly told the chef that it wasn't my fault and that he needed to stop yelling at me.

Later that night, all of the staff had gone home and I was left to close the restaurant. It was a quiet night on the residential strip of PCH and I rushed to roll in the café tables from the patio. As I rolled in the last one, I saw car headlights creeping up behind me and I feared the worst; robbers coming to steal cash! I went to grab the broom thinking if I was gonna go down, I'd go down swinging. To my relief and surprise it was Alec Baldwin offering to help me put the rest of the patio furniture away and mildly castigating me for being alone in the restaurant so late. After I locked the front door, he told me to hurry off to my car (parked across the busy highway) and watched as I got in, fastened my seatbelt and made the Uturn to head home. He waved goodbye and that was the last time I saw him in the city of Bu.

When I've told this story to people in the past, I've actually been told it's disappointing that there's no seedy ending. I tell those people to get their minds out of the gutter because people still can and will surprise you with kindness in unexpected ways and want nothing in return. That was more than fifteen years ago and it’s something I will never forget.

So, stop judging and watch 30 Rock! The show is amazing

N. Koreans Sentence Ling and Lee to 12 Years in Labor Camp

I am sitting in Phoenix Airport trying not to start balling. CNN just reported that Laura Ling and Euna Lee have been sentenced to 12 years in a North Korean labor camp for the "hostile act" of crossing over the Chinese border into North Korea. Was I being too optimistic thinking that this would all end well? Did my glass half-full side delude me into thinking that the superhero trio of Al Gore, Hillary Clinton and some kick ass special envoy like Richard Holbrook would swoop in and use super diplomacy to get them freed?

What would you do if your child or someone you loved was sentenced to 12 years in a labor camp thousands of miles away? How could you bear to open your eyes, breath in air or process thoughts knowing that you’ve exercised every conceivable option to then be handed the worst possible news? I am still hopeful something can be done. My prayers go out to both of their families.

Free Laura Ling and Euna Lee!

A couple of nights ago while channel surfing I caught an episode of Larry King Live featuring Lisa Ling and her family pleading with the North Korean government to free her sister, Laura Ling and another reporter, Euna Lee, that have been jailed for illegal entry. Lisa Ling was incredibly poised as she talked about how the two journalists have been jailed for more than three months and how they have had to keep the nightmare under wraps so as not to incite the North Koreans.

What was beyond heartbreaking was seeing Lisa and Laura Ling’s parents pleading for the safe return of their daughter. I was balling thinking how impotent they must feel and how horrific it must be to know that their daughter is behind bars and might now be a pawn in what must feel like a battle of wills between two countries. With the recent nuclear missile tests, our former president naming them as part of the Axis of Evil and our current Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s recent hard line speech about the regime, the fact that the Ling’s were able to keep it together on national television is unfathomable. Imaging me in their position escalated my tears to sobs.

This morning I read a news report that Al Gore may be going to North Korea to try to negotiate for the release of the two reporters. At the time of Laura Ling’s arrest, she was working on a story for Current TV, a network that he co-founded and that he now sits as Chairman of the board of Content. Let the GOP say what they want about Al Gore. In my book, he is a true humanitarian and has done amazing things since he left office.

Let’s hope that between the State Department, Al Gore, President Obama and Hillary Clinton, these journalists are released soon. After all, these two women are not merely journalists, Laura and Euna are also daughters, mothers, wives and sisters just waiting to be released into the arms of their families.

Kindergarten Disobedience

A few months ago my daughter Natalie did the unthinkable. She was having a bad day at school and refused to do her schoolwork (I mean how hard is it to color or glue pieces of paper together?) and after recess, she refused to come into the classroom. After coaxing and pleading, her teacher finally had to ask the principal to come down and talk to her and instead of complying, she stood there as if she didn’t hear him! OH NO SHE DIDN’T! I thought my head was going to explode!

I had nothing in my box of coping skills to deal with this. As a child, especially at the age of 6, it never occurred to me to question, defy or test the boundaries with authority figures. Me and my three brothers were stepford children in that respect. Maybe it was because we are from an immigrant family and are loathe to rock the boat. Maybe having strict parents molded us early on to have a healthy respect for anyone that was older or taller than us.

I was inconsolable. My husband said it was no big deal and that she was just trying to get attention. I had visions of my daughter becoming one of those women behind bars that ends up on an MSNBC documentary style special talking about how her perfectionist, Type A mom damaged her to the point of becoming a career criminal. I couldn’t breath. Visions of future bad behavior swirled through my mind like a carousel running at 100 mph.

When she came home, I asked her why she did what she did. She looked down and said, “I don’t know.” My lip quivered as I explained to her why I was so disappointed in her and I found myself on the verge of tears while simultaneously feeling the urge to spank her little butt. She just stared at me blankly, displaying no sign of understanding that what she did was wrong or that she was sorry. After staring each other down for a few minutes, she finally broke eye contact and asked if she could have some chips for a snack - - OH NO SHE DIDN’T!

That night I told my husband that I just did not understand her. Why was she rebelling at such a young age? Why was she giving her teacher a hard time? Why was she questioning authority? Paul just smirked and said, “She’s just a kid. That’s what kids do.”

No More Moose Poop Candy

I am so desperately guilty for being away in Las Vegas for three days for work that I actually bought the twins Wynn stuffed animals from the hotel gift shop last night. That’s right, I bought them $13 tchotchke that are probably produced with all kinds of allergy inducing stuff inside because nothing says love more than casino logoed stuffed animals.

While I’ve tried very hard the last few months to stop buying guilt gifts, I can’t seem to break my compulsive need to make my kids know undoubtedly that they are always on my mind, no matter where I am. It’s gotten so bad that on one trip when I was pressed for time, I actually saved food from my Southwest Airlines snack box and convinced them that cheese & crackers, a box of raisins, Lorna Doone cookies and a Slim Jim were thoughtful “presents.” I felt no pain when I did it but upon reflection it demonstrates a sickness that I must remedy and soon.

Being a working mom and Catholic is the perfect storm of mommy guilt. As a Catholic, the feeling of guilt is as normal as breathing in air. As a working mom, you can tell yourself every minute of every day that you can and are doing what is best for the family, but the first time you miss a spring concert or a “Bring Someone You Love” dance for your kindergartener, you may as well stab yourself in the heart with the nearest letter opener.

My children have become so used to me bringing them things, they are rummaging through my bags before they have even said hello. This madness must end. I remain determined to break this cycle! No more moose poop candy from Minneapolis, corn-shaped bubble gum from Omaha, pencil sharpeners shaped like the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco or spiral straw and cup contraptions from various airports across the U.S. It will be interesting to see if on my next trip to Phoenix I can resist buying them the cactus shaped gummy candy I brought back last time.

Thanks to the video game Rock Band, my son came home from his cousin’s house and told me that his favorite song was In Bloom by Nirvana. Trying to sound cool I said that Nivana’s Nevermind was one of my favorite albums. He looked at me and said, “What’s an album?” Nothing makes you feel older than realizing that a noun that you grew up with has left the vernacular.

My IPod and IMac are so old now that I cannot download any more music (pathetic, I know). So, I called up my brother (AKA my son’s fairy godfather of call things cool) and told him about the exchange and asked if he had the album at this house. Two days later, an Amazon.com package arrived with the Nevermind CD as well as Lady Gaga’s latest (love my bro!).

After hearing this album (old habits are hard to break) playing for what seems like every minute of everyday, my son approached me while I was washing dishes and said, “Dad told me that the guy that sings In Bloom killed himself by shooting himself in the head.” (I know what you’re thinking, what a charming detail to share with an 8-year old?) Nearly dropping a sudsy plate, I turned to him and said, “Yes, he died and a lot of people that liked his music were really sad.” He asked, “Why did he kill himself?” Searching for something deep to say, I realized that if I told him what I knew, it would lead to more questions I couldn’t answer (drugs, depression, crazy wife, etc). I just looked down and said, “I think he was just really sad.”

Going from Jonas Brothers to Nirvana in the span of a week is mind blowing to me. Not that I was ever a big fan of those puppy eyed, chastity ring wearing goofballs, but I’d much rather deal with questions about how Nick Jonas broke up with Miley Cyrus than deal with the mind field of Curt Cobain’s suicide any day.