Take Out the Trash Day, the thirteenth episode of the first season of The West Wing, was distilled and grown up like the best gin at the bar. The low-key humor of Toby correcting a congressman for saying Fuzzy Bear instead of Fozzie Bear made me want to reach through the TV and smack Richard for being so brilliant—but add Mrs. Landingham denying the prez a banana and CJ saying we could all be better teachers, please, enough already. The show is just so beautiful and clear, and yes, yes, you tell me this when you see me getting my matcha or walking Ollie, that watching is your solace, your weighted blanket, your stiff and reliable drink, and I understand. Today especially. I am so totally with you.

After finishing the show, I laid on my couch staring at the ceiling, thinking about what to write, what stood out. If I’m honest, as I told my friend Molly at the coffee place yesterday—if I really, really, really wrote what made an impression, what comes up when I watch the show—I would write exclusively about my drop-dead, kick-you-in-the-teeth youth. That’s it. Done. Forget the genius of Aaron and the cast, it’s my ribcage I am dazzled by. But today, stretched out flat as a corpse, eyes tracing a spidery crack in the corner of the ceiling, wondering if it was a cobweb or a leak, I thought only about my mom.

Every Wednesday night, after an episode of The West Wing aired, she would call me to tell me I was great—that my hair looked cute or that she was happy with the amount of screen time I got. Sometimes it would be my dad. He would declare, without saying hello, that I was the BEST one on the show, BLEW everyone out of the water—that kind of thing—but mostly it was her. Moments after the credits rolled, my phone would reliably ring. But I remembered after this episode it didn’t.

You knew, back before streaming, before the tech companies swallowed the world whole, that half the country was in front of the TV at exactly the same moment you were, having a collective experience—yet sometimes no one called. You squinted into the silence, wondering why, eventually working out that maybe, just maybe, not everyone was thinking about you despite your miraculous success. And after a time, you understand that your friends and even your sisters assumed you were at work or some fabulous party, wearing something glamorous and drinking something bubbly—that your life was full of nonstop magic. But not your mom. Your mom knew the truth. That you were alone in your apartment with your chicken Caesar salad and your cat, expecting her call. So where was she?

Day to day, when our mother didn’t answer her phone, my siblings and I would text each other. Unaccustomed to her not picking up immediately, we were sure that she was lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor—not that she was perhaps walking to the mailbox or getting her teeth cleaned like any normal person. We were conditioned to her availability. She was simply ours, and to not be there was impossible.

I sat by the phone drumming my fingers, wondering what the hell happened. I waited for five, then ten minutes and dialed her number—the number that, when the day comes and I remember nothing, I will still know by heart. “Yellowwww?” she answered like everything was perfectly normal.

I was stunned. “Umm, did you watch the show?!”

“Yes I did!” she chirped.

Pause. Pause.

“What kind of game are you playing, old lady?!”

“I liked it,” she said. I could hear the grin.

“Ok. Then why didn’t you call me?”

“Oh! Am I supposed to call every single time?” She was genuinely asking.

This was a ridiculous question. “Yes!!” I shouted into the phone. “Yes you are!” She was my mother, and if no one else in the whole world called, she would be enough. Her opinion, for better or worse, was how I measured my life, how I gauged what was right and wrong, what was a good idea from a bad idea, what I should fight for and what should let fall away. How could she not know that?

Just then the phone clattered to the floor and my dad said something inaudible and funny that made her laugh. “Hold on, Janel!” she said, all echoey, obviously wrestling the curly cord from the crocheted throw blanket, pulling the receiver back to her ear. “Oops, here I am. Hello,” she panted. “I’m back.”

“So. Mother. Promise you will call your daughter every time she is on national television.”

“I will,” she said, enjoying the game. “I mean—I promise.”

And she did. Every single time for the next seven years. The episodes I was not in, she reviewed as generally weak, and the ones I had a lot to do were very, very good.

I treasured those nights, my phone getting hot against my ear while we chatted—me putting away dishes, sliding on my nightgown, brushing my teeth as she listened to my rants and worries. I rarely asked her about herself. I would go on and on, not asking her a single question until moments before she hung up, realizing that I was a selfish shit. But she never made me feel like the clueless, boundaryless baby I was, because she accepted me and loved me and knew that what I needed was to talk. I’m not sure that now I would not point out to my adult child that they were being obnoxious and boring, that this was not a conversation, that I was not a receptacle for them to stretch out in, luxuriating in my unconditional love like a grown-up woman fetus. But maybe that’s what being a mom is. Just that—the unfathomable power and comfort offered to your child just by being alive.

Were she here now, she would tell me this was all nonsense. That we are all doing our best, including me—that I’m a great mom and that there is nothing to it but to be there. But as I lay on the couch, knowing I need to write, to start my day, to be productive, to kill 2026, to reinvent, reignite, to shepherd and nourish, to maintain and maximize, to leave no stone in this goddamned life unturned—I am not sure about anything. If I could call her, she would say something simple and reassuring, and I would take the words like medicine, letting them run through my veins, fortifying me, making me ready and strong. But I can’t call her and she won’t be calling me, because she died one year ago today.

My sister Meegan and I have a game we played all last year. It’s called… Or Is It the Grief?! It goes like this: You wonder aloud about your weight gain or insomnia, your cuntiness or lack of motivation. Then, after exploring the most likely possibilities—menopause or The President (usually it’s one or the other)—you say, in a happy fun voice, like a contestant on a game show… Or Is It the Grief??!!

We had collectively decided that we weren’t going to do it, the grief thing. It felt corny and indulgent, like a chapter we could skip—she was just dead after all, nothing to be done. Early in my career, only half joking, I used to say I would never utter the words Hold Me or simulate giving birth, two profoundly vulnerable acts I wasn’t even interested in pretending for money. I don’t think of myself as emotionally stunted or guarded—I am an actress, after all—but tell me I should grieve and I will tell you I don’t know what that means.

So maybe, at least for this day, I won’t try to figure it out. Instead, I will settle back into the couch, rest my head on the green velvet pillow she helped me choose, and wrap myself in the soft blue blanket she knitted and mailed to me in a cardboard box. Then, like you do—because you tell me it really helps—I’ll wait for tomorrow, cocooned in the past, and watch another excellent episode of The West Wing.

I just finished watching He Shall, from Time to Time…, the twelfth episode of the first season of The West Wing. This was my fourth time seeing it this week—not because I couldn’t find what to write about, or what was relevant or wonderful, but because it was just too good. Aaron’s White House offers us more artistry and grace than one can reasonably organize. And unlike the real thing, with its bulldozers and bitcoin, its cruelty and crazy—here, there is just too much to admire.

Yesterday I had lunch with Allison, who is now my neighbor again, and reminded her about the scene in this episode where C.J. decides to kiss Danny. She took a bite of her skirt steak and tilted her head. She somehow located the moment in what must be a sea of brilliant moments and smiled. “Yes. Oh, I loved that. Gail…” If you want to cheer yourself up, which I bet you do, cue up the episode to 36:02 and sit back and watch her walk away, overwhelmed, with that damn fish. Honestly, I control myself not to just write purely about Allison’s talent, because everyone is so good—our dear John Spencer and Stockard and Richard, always Richard. And Aaron’s writing: otherworldly. Toggling between sexy humor and deep personal relationships, all in service of the weighty storyline, is just confusingly excellent. We are blinded by the light.

Back in ye old days, when Allison and I were first neighbors—just a five-second walk in our sweats and slippers—I would ask her whenever she was down, “Well, do you at least feel better knowing you are one of the greatest actors alive? I think that would help me.” She would laugh and shake her head, delicately smoothing her bangs. “Oh, Janel…” she would say, “Oh, Janel…”

This episode, for being so darn serious—Bartlet’s MS is revealed and Leo is dealing with the ramifications of his past—is surprisingly hot. The flirtation between POTUS and FLOTUS was a delight that I did not remember. The show was obviously not known for its overt spiciness—but my hair blew back just a little when Bartlet suggested to the Mrs. that she take his temperature recreationally. Oh, Mr. President. And the mouth sounds coming from CJ and Danny? Just turn it up, go ahead. It’s positively West Wing porn.

And what else surprised me, like an invitation I hadn’t expected, was Stockard. Stockard, stretched out next to Martin in her stockinged feet, so easy, the intimacy so natural—I suspected as I watched, that she was about the age I am now. I had to ask, “Siri, how old is Stockard Channing?” and then did the math, and yes, bingo, the exact age I turned last birthday. It was heartening to see how sexy, how smart, how funny she was at an age I am quite certain she would gladly travel back to. Aaron wrote a whole woman. Not a sliver, a meager brushstroke, but a whole, lusty, gutsy lady. All of the women in this show, my gorgeous turtlenecked self included—the kissing (so much kissing!!) and the sass, smarts and vulnerability—has riled me up and given my middle-aged-actress magical thinking a tiny dust-off. Oh, Mr. Sorkin. And while I could write a tome, a rant, a library full of cynicism and reasons why I should be depressed—any actress past fifty could—instead I will think about Stockard. How she fastened Martin’s cufflinks without even looking, how she threw the covers over his legs, how she wore her experience lightly but boldly, and how I might consider expecting more. My dad always said that optimism was free.

I told my sister on FaceTime later that night that I planned to resurrect my positive attitude. That if Stockard and Allison could do it, then dammit, why not me. She generously did not point out that their careers were already in full continuous bloom at my age, nor highlighted the fact that they are both stone-cold geniuses, celebrated by all—because, well, she’s a nice person. Instead, she suggested, in a sweet way, that we spitball some ideas, come up with a plan B.

Meegan and I had always kept in our back pockets our late-in-life lady jobs, something we could do for fun, when we were too old to do what we wanted to but too young to stay home. Like most lawyers, she was not happy lawyering and would welcome an exit strategy. My job was Williams Sonoma and hers was Trader Joe’s. I like garlic presses and placemats and she likes Hawaiian shirts and cheap wine, so it seemed like a plan. But as we thought about it, now that we were here, actually later-in-life adjacent, we weren’t ready. We had more to give creatively, more dollars to make, more mountains to climb.

“Stand-up comic?” she suggested.
“Cat breeder?” I replied. “Or merchant marine? Maybe we should open a place together and make Mom’s cookies,” I said.
“That’s called a bakery, Janel.”
“Right, a bakery.”

Our mom was an amazing baker. She was good at everything she tried but chose, in her late-in-life, or “relaxation years,” as she referred to them, to stay at home. My dad was always encouraging her to do something with her gifts—sell that jewelry, bottle that scented oil; she really was so talented—but she demurred, instead preferring to make sure snickerdoodles were always in the tin when the grandkids came to visit or that she was near the phone when one of her middle-aged children needed her, which was often.

“I know. Why don’t you write a one-woman show?” Meegan asked.
“About what woman?”
“YOU, dummy,” she said, laughing.

So we kept on talking, my sister and I. After the kids clomped through the hallway up to bed and Marcelo snoozed downstairs in front of the TV, we continued brainstorming, chattering deep into the night like teenagers, dreaming about our futures and what it might be like to one day grow up and get exactly what we want.

Earlier today, when I walked out onto the stoop, a young man, skinny with complicated jeans and a shirt with a sprinkle of tiny rhinestones, was walking through my gate.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

He looked up and smiled. Amazon drivers, food delivery guys, guests with bottles of wine in their hands always find themselves at my house by mistake.

“Oh hi. I’m canvassing.” He clutched a handful of colorful pamphlets to his chest. “Can I talk to you about Zohran Mamdani?”

He looked young. Teenage young, and I knew it because I had two of these guys right behind me in the house. They were doing homework and coughing, home sick on a beautiful Sunday while I puttered around and watered the plants and chatted with the neighbors.

I had work to do inside, work that I was avoiding. I had just watched the episode Lord John Marbury, for the third time, and needed to get some writing done. But have been having difficulty lately making sense of the chasm, the lay-down-and-sob-yourself-silly difference– between the honest hopefulness of then, the norms we took for granted, and the upside-down world of today. I felt neutralized.

“Oh my God,” he said, snapping his fingers, his face all lit up. “Are you… wait. Are you in… you’re in a show…”

I put my bag of recycling in the green bin while the wheels of his young mind turned. Usually, people recognize me from The West Wing but occasionally, especially young men on subways for some reason, from another excellent series in which I barely spoke and rarely sat upright. When this happens, as it was about to, I resist the urge to say, “Young man, may I instead direct you to a little, multiple award-winning series you may have heard of, called THE WEST WING. I WALK!! I TALK!!!” But I don’t, and I smile, as graciously as I can muster, and confirm that I was indeed in the show he remembers. He was jazzed. He pumped his fist.

“I knew it.”

I asked him how old he was. Normally I wouldn’t ask anyone their age, if my boys were there they would have collapsed in embarrassment. But this kid had an easy energy and I was always curious what the young men were up to. Especially one canvassing for a good guy, an optimistic dreamer in this rabbit hole of a world.

“I’m sixteen,” he said.

“Wow, so you’re in eleventh?”

“No. I’m a senior. But I’m young for my grade.”

He told me he went to LaGuardia High School in Manhattan. I remember growing up in the Valley learning about the celebrated school for the arts from the movie Fame and wanting to go there in a way that hurt so good. I fantasized for three solid years about smoking cigarettes and carrying my oversized tote bag and dancing on the cafeteria table. Irene Cara’s song “Out Here On My Own” was my go-to audition ballad and I sang it often and badly.

“So you like Zohran,” I asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Me too,” I said. I wasn’t sure about the mayor’s race, wasn’t sure the young optimist could manage such a complicated city in such a complicated time. I wasn’t sure at all. But like my teenage sons, and apparently this young man, I understood the appeal. Weren’t we supposed to want optimists as our leaders? Wasn’t idealism a good thing?

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Jasper.”

“So you’re here canvassing for mayor and you can’t even vote. I’m impressed.” He said he thought it made sense. Especially since he wouldn’t be sixteen forever.

He asked me if I still acted and I said sometimes but mostly I was a mom and he said that’s cool and kicked at the ground. He wasn’t in a hurry. In LA I once had a ten-year-old ask me who my agent was so this was a refreshing upgrade. He seemed much more interested in talking to me than my own children were these days, but I was careful not to take advantage, knowing we both had work to do.

“What’s your thing at LaGuardia?” I asked.

“I’m a vocal major. And an actor. I like musical theatre.”

“Wow, good for you.” I didn’t want to tell this sweet kid to run screaming from show business, the building is coming down, because it has been so good to me. Who’s to say where his life will go?

“So what other things have you been in?” he said.

Um… ok, he asked me– like, I mean, he came right out and asked me, right?

I played it cool. “Have you… seen… maybe… seen The West Wing?”

“No!!” he said, excited. “Are you in that?”

Ahem, Child. Am I in it?

At dinner the previous evening I talked to another young man, my friend’s son who had just started his first job in DC as a journalist. He was a massive West Wing fan and sat next to me as we ate his dad’s excellent chicken with 40 cloves talking about how hopeful the show was, how stunning and sad it is to see that now. Together, we wondered if anyone in the real White House watched. We decided it sure didn’t seem like it—but that you never know.

I told him about the time the cast and I were invited to the Bush White House. Shocked at being asked, sure we were being punked but knowing that when invited to the White House for tea you go, we entered the Rose Garden with careful smiles. The President wasn’t there as we expected, but his staff was waiting, all in their suits and ties, their sweater sets and silk with hands outstretched. I noticed right away that many of the people wore name tags, Hello My Name Is with their name and, oh my goodness, below it the character whose position corresponded with their own. Jenny Harmon/ Donna Moss. Andrew Card/Leo McGarry. I think we, the cast, all realized at the same moment, the delight and disbelief rippling between us. And while we disagreed vehemently with their politics, it seemed we were united in the belief that Donna or Leo, Toby or Charlie, were worth identifying with. Certain ideals, certain values were all of ours, uncontroversial–we could wear them on adhesive stickers written in Sharpie, affixed against our hearts.

I asked the boy on my stoop if he had his college stuff sorted yet and he said no. He told me he was nervous, afraid to pursue musical theatre and not something more practical. In the best of times, my ability to advise my own children feels hobbled by my Gen X, latchkey kid parenting and by the fact that I had a single passion that I pursued since I was small. Nobody could tell me shit. Practicality was never a factor.

“I love musical theatre,” he asked like a question, like maybe he wasn’t allowed.

“Then do it!!” I said. I could see his dreams rolling across his face like ticker tape. He wanted this. “Literally NO ONE will tell you that pursuing musical theatre is a good idea. So don’t wait for that! And the world is on its head so maybe musical theatre makes as much sense as anything. At least a robot can’t take your job.”

“Yet!” We said in unison and laughed.

I looked behind to make sure no one could hear me and leaned in. “Listen,” I said. “I was just like you. And I pursued acting my whole life like nothing else mattered and I made more money than I deserved, had dinner with presidents and had a life beyond my wildest dreams. If I can do it, so can you.”

There was a pause. Was this boy with the jeans of many buckles ready to run? Was I creepy AF? My sons would have me arrested, evaporated and erased from their memory had they witnessed this conversation.

He blinked and looked out into the street. I think he needed a minute. I could see him considering it, batting around the possibility of his own success. Maybe he could do it, maybe hope, was actually an excellent idea.

He then turned back to me, laughing a little, shaking his head like isn’t life grand and said, “And...this is why I canvass.”

And because, after acting for all these years a girl knows her cue when she hears it, I replied, “And this is why I sit on my stoop.”

See you at:

8pm EST on her Substack

https://substack.com/@lizziesimon

I’m fairly sure you just go there and jump on. We got this!!

xxJM

I'm perversely happy, giddy in a way, watching my kids gag and shriek as they clean out the inside of our garbage bins. We brought the hose up from the basement, heavy plastic bags and scrub brushes, Lysol and rubber gloves, all organized and ready on the stoop.

Trash and recycling bins on the streets of Brooklyn, abandoned for the entire summer, vulnerable to every Gen Zer with an empty iced coffee cup or bag of dog poop who strolls by, become a certain kind of humid, fetid melange of grossness that only a New Yorker can truly understand.

This is my job these days. Housework and refereeing my moody, long-limbed teenagers as they bitterly complain about the injustice of making their own boiled egg or having to feed the beagle. It seems there are always dishes to be put away or plumbers to be called. The piles of large sneakers and sweatshirts and scattered school supplies sometimes feel sentient, mocking in their persistence. “You think you can write?! You think you can carve a creative space for yourself, what, DAILY?! Ahahahah,” they cackle.

From the top step, I watch the boys argue about who will scrape the flattened shit bags off the bottom of the bin and who will hold the heavy plastic sack open for the other and think about The West Wing.

I just watched the tenth episode of the first season, In Excelsis Deo, before the kids woke up, before we had breakfast and started our dirty operation. Maybe I can write later, I suppose, after I torture them for a while more, when they are finally released into the joyous comfort of their individual glowing screens.

“Oh my god, I'm gonna puke,” Julian says, holding out the bag, turning his face away.
“Mom, this is so gross!!” Fernando moans as his torso disappears inside the giant bin.

“You can do it!” I say, sipping my second cup of coffee. It is heinous, I'll admit—the stench, the putrid liquid that drips onto my children's Crocs as they work. But I know how good it is for them. To be horrified by what they are sometimes called to do and to know they can do it.

I am still processing this episode's excellence, its radical poem of decency. This was a show I remember well, yet can't decide what to focus on; it was all so connected and perfect, filled to the brim with iconic moments.

It was Mrs. Landingham's boys and Toby’s vet. It was Leo saying, “We don't do these things,” and Donna's book from Josh. It was, for Pete's sake, CJ learning her code name was Flamingo, thus garnering Allison seven years of so many gifted flamingo mugs, throw pillows, shot glasses, and neon signs that she practically needed a separate trailer for her birds.

I remember the feeling, after filming one particular scene—when Donna tells Josh he needs to protect Leo (“I wasn't guilting you,” she says. “It was my regular face.”)—that we filmed so late it became early. After we wrapped, Brad and I stumbled out of the stage, our eyes adjusting to the light, while the grips and electricians, the painters and builders, walked in small clusters, heading in to start their day. We call it “Fraturday” in showbiz, and I never minded it. I loved the feeling of being a part of something larger, something so vital you had to stay up all night.

“Oh my god, Mom, no no no!!” Both boys lurch back, practically crawling like in a horror movie, away from the green recycling bin. I tell them to grow up, this is life, and saunter down to investigate. As I approach, I can barely stand the smell myself. There is something awful and rotting down there that needs to be removed and placed in the larger bag so we can hose out and Lysol the bin. There is no other way.

“Why don't we pay someone to do this?!” Julian cries, unironically. Inspired by his comment, I instruct him to get the hell over here to help me drag the heavy something from the bottom. We carefully reach inside, then retch and jump away in a frantic dance, screaming. We take a gulp of toxic air, then go back in and drag out what surely must be a severed head or twelve pounds of dead rats. We lift and swing the thing with a heavy thump into Fernando's open bag.

There is a palpable relief as we begin to hose out the bins and neatly replace the plastic liners. Lordy, we are nearly done. I tell them, “Go. Thank you, boys. You did great.” They don’t answer or turn around as they run into the house, sure I will call them back for another nasty chore.

But I have more to do, I always have more to do, especially at the start of a school year. I have an audition for a series that needs to be wrangled and taped and dinner that needs to be made. I have a world of school forms to be filled out, books to be ordered and giant sneakers to be purchased. I have the pharmacy and laundry and a do-list that only grows longer instead of shorter.

As I untangle the hose, I start to fantasize about the series I am auditioning for. I imagine new characters and new actors, how good it would feel to crack a scene—how nice it would be to go to work and get a break.

I walk to the spigot, adjust the cool water and begin to edge the leaves and gum wrappers toward the curb. I squeeze out a little Mrs. Meyers dish soap and intermittently spray, then scrub the dirty bluestone, forcing passersby to tiptoe through the spreading water. Absorbed in my work, I clean the cracks and crevices until everything gleams— until there are no good gigs or bad, no past to worship or future to worry over. There is only a mom on the wet sidewalk, facing her sparkling garbage bins, enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done.

The first time I watched this episode, I was on the plane from JFK to São Paulo, Brazil. It was deep in the night—that non-time time where you hang between two worlds, inconsequential and anonymous. My boys were on the other side of the plane. They used to be small enough to curl up on the seat, legs over me as they slept. But now they are large, dark shapes, their hoodies and blankets pulled over their heads—mysterious young men, dreaming of what I can't imagine. My husband is next to me, sound asleep with his head back, eye mask on. He loves plane food and overpacking and going home to his country with his often cranky, half-willing family in tow. When he left Brazil over thirty years ago, the day after graduating high school, his father predicted he would never come back—and he was right.

I watched The Short List, tucked against the window, the whole plane asleep around me—that hushed, steady hum like a womb or tomb, enveloping me in the dark. I had only sleepy impressions, like brushstrokes of the show as I hovered, half-conscious, watching my younger self and old colleagues walk around in the golden light of the fake White House. I peered at the computer, like a drunk into the bottom of her glass, and spied a barely-there strip of skin exposed between my sweater and skirt. “How could I have just looked like that without worshipping myself at every minute?” I wondered. Poor women—so tough on ourselves.

Growing up, my family were not chroniclers. My parents—hippie hairdressers with a habit of being in the present—never made home movies and rarely took photos of my siblings and me as children. They were busy wrangling employees and babies and plates of enchiladas for socialist picnics. I had always longed to see grainy old home movies of my baby self, our older brother swinging my sisters and me around as my parents sat blurry in the background, smoking cigarettes and drinking Stingers. But we just weren't those people. My twin, Carey, after our dad died, sat on the kitchen floor digging through photo boxes, looking for just one picture of her and our father—but never found it.

So to have The West Wing, at my creative and physical best—and while there are no family dogs or lit-up birthday cakes in the footage—it is a niche privilege, a record extraordinaire. I know how strange and lucky it is.

After landing in São Paulo, the hush of the plane was replaced by the hush of my mother-in-law’s—or sogra’s—house: the quiet elegance of her home, so vastly, indescribably different not only from where and how I grew up, but from anything in the States. The air, the sunlight, the smells are all unique to this sprawling city and her exact home. Yellow birds and stray cats dance, exchanging places on the back wall, as the hiss of the pressure cooker and the smell of beans being prepared for lunch fill the house. I love Brazilian food, with its stewy warmth and fall-apart meats—the mangoes straight from the tree. Every afternoon I sit down at the table, promising myself: Today, girl, no carbs, no sugar, no booze. But within the hour, Dudu, my sogra’s longtime companion, is refilling my glass with red wine and pushing the cheese plate toward my open hand.

In the afternoon, while my boys played video games and Marcelo wrote music upstairs, I nursed a caipirinha (recipe to follow—just make it) and settled in to write. I tried to summon my impressions of the show from watching on the plane but found only shards in my cloudy mind, like a half-dream at dawn. So I opened my computer to watch again.

The Short List, episode nine of the first season, was a marvel of construction. From the first moment of the show, as Josh and CJ celebrate securing the nominee for the Supreme Court, the baton—ready to pass—was vibrating in their hands. I was stunned by how good it was, how the theme of privacy was woven throughout every plot line, all of it heading fast and furious to the final moments. Every episode is built well, but you could feel the strength of form here—like something you could walk around in, protecting you from the elements.

I loved Donna in this episode. Aaron gave her so much funny—the whole teaser, a vaudeville act my grandparents would have been proud of. My grandmother, Ginger, was a burlesque dancer, and my grandad, Johnny, ran the show (or the bar, or the hustle). They knew a good bit when they saw it. I remember shooting that day, sitting on the arm of the chair as I crossed my legs, thinking how major it was—this detail of Josh showing up drunk, yelling at Donna's cats. I recall that very moment, knowing how significant it was to have been given this backstory. So many of the characters' pasts at that point we knew little about, but this one vivid detail of the duo’s history revealed a spicy, complicated connection. One unexpectedly fun part of an ongoing series is getting to discover who your character might be from week to week. You thought she was Ivy League and found instead she was a dropout; you surely would have gone snowboard, but Aaron went skis.

I heard the bustle of the kitchen pick up, doors being swung open. My husband told the boys that it was time to eat. Almoço está pronto. Brazil isn’t like lunch in Brooklyn. We don’t sit on the sidewalk and eat out of a container or, like me, stand at the kitchen counter, wolfing down cold pasta with my fingers. And in my mother-in-law’s house, the table is always set—a pressed, colorful cloth and full place settings (which I may not know exactly how to replicate without a photo or some kind of tutorial).

This afternoon, we had picadinho, a kind of minced beef cooked with onions and peppers. This is an adaptable dish—cooked down and served with rice and beans and farofa. Farofa is pure Brazil to me—a weird, bread crumb condiment of sorts that you put over any savory food. It's yuca flour fried in a pan with nuts and fruits sometimes—again, dealer’s choice—but the result is so right. Delicious doesn’t always make sense. My sogra made this meal for me a week after my first son Julian was born, and I remember it—the comfort, the flavors, the satisfaction of the mad calories—as the best meal of my life. She laughs when I say this—not one to take a compliment. She pats me and waves me off—but it’s so true. The memory is as vivid as the first time I held my young son’s tiny fist.

After yelling up to them several times, the boys come down into the dining room, stretching, yawning, growing inches in real time as I watch them take their seats. We talk about our next day’s pleasures, who will drive with whom to the farm, whether or not we will see the monkeys hanging in the high trees. We dig in, plates and glasses clattering. I ask, in my ridiculous Portuguese, if my son could pass me the feijões.

“It’s fej-OW,” he corrects me, the nasal sound impossible to translate.

“Fej-OW,” I say back.

As I repeat the word again and again to myself and take the warm bowl in my hands, the show and its images begin to recede. I forget about the genius of Aaron, the strength of this particular show. I forget about Allison's layer-cake of a laugh as she realizes that Danny brought her a goldfish—Gail—instead of the orange crackers.

All of it gently dissipates as I scoop myself a too big portion of picadinho and take the first meaty bite. I begin to think about toucans and teenagers and the several cuts of meat my brother-in-law will barbecue as he does every time we visit. Dudu asks me if I would like a glass of red wine and I look up, him standing with the bottle waiting to fill my cup, and tell him yes, of course. Obrigada, Dudu. Obrigada.

Dudu’s Caipirinha Recipe

Caipirinha is the top-of-mind cocktail in Brazil

By Dudu and Julian

It takes 2 ounces of Cachaca, one Lime and 2+ teaspoons of crystallized sugar in a large rocks glass and lots of ice.

Cachaça is a strong distillation of fermented sugar cane juice.

-Use crystal clear Cachaça;

-In the absence of Cachaça, use Vodka instead;

-Never use rum for Caipirinha

Cut the unpeeled Lime in small side pieces, add Sugar and squeeze:

- First, cut the whole Lime in two halves;

- Then cut the Lime in wedges, excluding the core, to avoid bitter flavor;

- Add the wedges and the sugar in a large rocks glass;

- Squeeze the Lime+Sugar with a muddler to extract the juice and get a fresh taste from the peel.

Fill the glass with ice cubes and

Pour the Cachaça on top;

Muddle the whole thing to get fresh and fruity taste.

Leave the small spoon in the glass, to keep mixing while you drink.

The thing I loved about Enemies, episode eight of season one, is the thing that made it difficult to write about. It was calm and modest in its scope—just a day in the life of these excellent people working hard for their country. There were no planes shot down or bombs dropped, no scandal or behavior to hide or spin—just our gang doing the behind-the-scenes business of government. Its absence of drama made me miss how it felt when I didn't need to know how tariffs worked or attempt to understand the deepest roots of geopolitical tensions. I could just raise my kids and pursue my own selfish happiness, a little clueless but unburdened—ignorance being such wonderful bliss.

The other night, I was out celebrating my friend Samantha's birthday when I was lamenting all of this: how my boys would become men in the thick of this madness. A woman at the bar, beautiful with long grey hair and a bright, sexy vibe (her light would not be shrinking with age, thank you very much), she and I talked about our kids. She said that because they were born in this time, they will handle its complications—they were built for it.

I thought it was a sweet and optimistic take, maybe too simple, but what else do we have? I pushed aside the logic, attempting not to square that with other people's children around the world—their wounds, their griefs, their hungers—as I drank my Negroni and twirled my gold pinky ring. It would have to do for now.

I was going to London. I hadn't traveled alone in so long—since before I met my husband—that I needed my sister Meegan to remind me, “It's called a vacation, dummy.” I didn't want to go. I was seeped in anxiety and worry—the news, the phone, the daily onslaught that we can't live with but can't look away from. I felt crushingly indispensable at home—that if I left, bones would be broken, sunglasses would not be found. “That’s why you have to go, Janel.” So Meegan and I sat on FaceTime, my suitcase open on the bed, as she ordered me what to bring and what to leave.

“Do you WANT to look cute?" she asked, sipping her coffee on her couch. “Put that away then. That’s not cute in New York, so it's not cute in London.” I did as I was told, and I left the next day.

I thought about the episode on the plane, my writing. I wondered if any of it mattered—what I thought, what I remembered. I struggled to feel like these keepsakes were worth itemizing. Do the family photos, the first Halloween costumes, or baseball trophies matter when the house is engulfed in flames?

But I reasoned, as I watched the puffy blanket of sky stretch serenely below, that we had to care about something. That caring was our resistance. Our only way to assert our humanity. And the details—the greatness of everyday life—are the point. Changing the baby’s diapers, reading on the subway, making your dad a sandwich—all mundane but exquisite reminders of freedom and connection. What I wouldn't give today to make my dad a sandwich.

I loved the scene in the episode between Leo and Bartlet. Both of them with not much to do, late at night, neither wanting to go home. That kind of stillness in the air, the scene unhurried—that doesn't happen on TV anymore. If you added cigarettes, to me this scene mirrored their offscreen relationship—these two giants side by side, always there for each other.

“I'll be just in the next room,” Leo said to Bartlet. “If you need anything.”

I sat waiting to land, chatting with the sweet guy next to me. For some reason, on planes, I often end up sitting next to men young enough to be my kids and casually interview them about their lives. I wait until the end of the flight so they don't get scared that I am one of those people—a talker, an oversharer. This young man, with resting grin face and a low-key mullet, was going to London for business. He bragged about his mom being a documentary filmmaker and about his love of the saxophone.

His world was calmer to be sure—growing up even ten years earlier, what a difference a decade makes—but still, I hearted him because he was smart and seemed kind, and because he got through whatever his challenges were to make it onto this plane. I collect these people, these stories of decent young men’s success, no matter how incomplete the story presented to me, and tuck them into the running file of hope I keep for my boys.

After making my way to my sister Sherri’s village outside of London, she waved wildly as I stepped off the train. We met Sherri just before COVID when, through a series of swabbed cheeks, circuitous emails, and nervous phone calls, she discovered that the difficult man who raised her was not her father. She lucked out in that my generous, big-hearted, hilarious dad was.

When he died, she was left not only with three years of memories of him—conversations he loved because no one was rolling their eyes having heard that yarn a thousand times before—she was left with our giant family, filled with friendly loudmouths who liked her a whole lot too. Every time she talks about it, she cries.

My twin sister Carey and her friend Beeta joined us the next day. Beeta kept telling us the origin of her sweatshirt or sneakers since she had lost everything recently in the Altadena fire. Her whole extended family lived in Tehran, and we watched the gathering storm from our phones each night as she carefully made room for fun. I didn't know her well, but I worried about her. I knew how delicate all of our minds were now, how fragile we felt. But she was funny and easygoing, ordering her skinny margaritas, game to do anything. If she was suffering, it was quiet—an inside job.

We went to London and walked, with too many bags, into our smelly Airbnb.

“Oh my God,” we all said, covering our noses as we stepped out of the door.

“Dead body?” I suggested.

“No, it's more like strong paint,” Carey said.

“It’s too biological, like animal-y,” I replied.

“No,” Carey said decisively, shaking her head, unfazed. She is a nurse and knows her smells.

In the city, we walked thousands of steps and drank copious amounts of white wine. We ate and talked and bought things from the museum shops like any other tourists. I felt my anxiety calm. We were not special there, things were not overly eventful, we barely planned anything. And as a person who sometimes irons my t-shirts, having no itinerary is not my favorite thing.

But I managed to relax into the trip, avoiding my phone, pushing aside my worries of being gone from my family—the guilt moms feel when taking time for oneself—I could put in perspective from a distance. And how many times would I see my twin and Sherri again? We don't count; let none of us count, but the future is unknown.

My friend Brian sent me an email telling me he saw I was in London on Facebook. The girls and I had already been to Dublin by that point and now were back in my sister's village, ready to pack and make my way home. But Brian invited me to lunch and I couldn't resist—a last stop before back to my life. I have known him for thirty years, the friendship a total delight, as enduring as any I have had, and when he asks to see me, my answer is always yes.

“Welcome to my man cave,” he said as I walked in. He had books and glasses and empty mugs on every surface. He was nearly eighty and on a break from rehearsal for a play in Scotland. He showed a portrait of himself that someone had sent him. He has been an actor—the hardest working, the most willing to jump on a plane, a brilliant journeyman for decades—the man never stops.

“I have to get my glasses,” he said and puttered around looking for them and then his keys as I stood thinking about how much I loved him, how happy was to have made the effort and come.

“Here we go,” he said, putting on a tinted kind of Ray-Ban sunnies. He smiled and put his hand up pinching the frame of the glasses. “I just took your picture.”

“What the—?”

“These are Meta glasses. I can take videos, hear my phone calls coming in, get notifications.”

“God, how horrible.”

“It satisfies my love of gadgets. Shall we go?”

The biggest wallop of the episode—the episode I had watched twice to try to know what mattered to me—was at the end.

Josh says to Bartlet, “We talk about enemies more than we used to.”

“What?” Bartlet says, turning.

“We talk about enemies more than we used to. I just wanted to mention that.”

Bartlet, with that wonderful Martin empathy shining through, stood, his mind moving, registering this truth. But because he was a careful man, a thoughtful man, he would walk to the residence, turning in for the night and reflect on what Josh said. This would matter to him.

Maybe this ending, maybe so many of these moments I lived on the show and we all now cherish, are in fact only trinkets, souvenirs from a trip taken long ago.

But I think I’ll keep the snapshots and postcards and collect new ones, wildly filling up my phone with thousands of moments of my kids’ piano recitals and basketball games, of my handsome husband leaning against an old stucco wall in Brazil, of my sisters and friends drinking our skinny margaritas, leaning in for a selfie, enjoying life while it's still ours to live.

Two nights ago, I met a young woman named Maddy. My husband and I were at a premiere of a film he worked on, composing its gorgeous score. We were chatting, devouring our free popcorn before the movie started, when a young woman with a face all lit up and hair like a Jane Austen novel turned around. She reached her hand out and told me she was a huge fan. She was excited and moved, almost teary, to report how much the show has meant to her.

“I was homeschooled,” she said, smiling, her intelligence and a kind of sweetness all over the place. “The only show I was allowed to watch was The West Wing,” she said, knowing that it was kind of kooky. How funny, how cute she was. She is a stranger, so very young, and yet somehow we meet—like longtime friends—in the make-believe sphere of Donna Moss.

After the movie, Marcelo and I made our way to the sidewalk. Tourists stood stretching their necks, waiting to see Vince Vaughn, as black SUVs the size of small boats idled in the street. Maddy appeared beside me. I knew—because I know, from hundreds of encounters with wonderful, smart, polite, and respectful fans—that what they want, what they really, really want, is a photo. And like her mother, or bridesmaid maybe, I wanted her to be completely happy. I want people to know that I don’t take their love for granted, a copy-and-paste situation. I owe them that.

“Would you like a picture?” I asked her.

“Oh my God, I didn’t want to impose, but yes!” she said breathlessly. She then reached into her purse and, as if it were a small portal straight back into the ’90s—into Josh Lyman’s pocket—out came her flip phone. It was like she pulled a squirrel or a piece of chocolate cake from her bag—I nearly gasped.

“Oh my God. Look at you!” Now who was the fan, and who was being worshipped? This was a special girl. I thought of my kids, so deeply glued to their phones, and I was filled with that familiar parental regret—that daily reminder that I might have messed it all up.

Oh dear, I thought. I had a million questions I wanted to ask. Was she happier than the rest of us? Could I live without my phone? How did she Uber or scan a plane ticket? How did she impulse shop for leopard-print slingbacks in the dentist's office waiting room? How on earth did her parents do it? But I refrained from asking, because this was her and Donna’s moment, and I wouldn’t spoil it by being myself. Skeptical of the camera on her phone, I offered to take the photo and email it to her. She gratefully accepted.

The next morning, the kids at school and the house full of peace, I watched “The State Dinner,” the seventh episode of the first season. This was a particularly zany show for Donna. I was always in awe of Aaron’s ability to capture the essence of the actors. My husband can write for the oboe, knowing its highs and lows—what makes it sing—and Aaron could write for Richard. Or Dule. Or any of us, sometimes taking the moments he witnessed and weaving them into our characters.

I remember weeks before this particular episode shot, barely with my sea legs, sitting next to Aaron. We were in the Roosevelt Room on a Monday morning, Starbucks in hand, as we watched Allison and Rob on the monitor. I was always hanging around, between filming my scenes, eager not to be forgotten.

“So, Aaron,” I ventured to my new boss, “Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Oh, Janel,” he said wearily, exhausted from his workload, “I just…” and he mimed playing the piano.

“Huh,” I replied—sadly, not a whisper, not a trace of irony—“I didn’t know you played the piano.”

There was a pause, a lowering of his head, and maybe a small smile. He took a breath and looked at me with the same amused pity I see on the regular from my teenagers, and mimed again what I now understand to be the universal gesture for typing.

“Writing, Janel. I was writing.”

Now, some people, when describing Donna, might call her ditzy. Maybe her particular flavor of ditzy was born that day. But I never—not for a second—saw her like that. She was always working the problem, trying to make things happen and be recognized. But Aaron made her fun. He made all of us fun. And the joy of seeing my character pronounce the name Ramahidi Sumahidju Bambang—oh good lord, I could never do it now—or watching Allison reel off a mini tornado of fashion details, was all so satisfying, so ridiculously entertaining. I can’t remember doing the scenes, what will happen from moment to moment as I watch, so my only choice now, like Maddy, is to be a fan.

After finishing the episode, I felt happy and light as I strolled to my mailbox place, hoping to find slingbacks or pink Sambas waiting. The weather was pristine, beyond perfect. Like the way I would imagine heaven might be—how it would feel when walking around looking for my mom or Gene Hackman. As crumbly white petals fell from the sky, I thought about last night—about Maddy, and all of the other young, exquisite women Donna has introduced me to. The Chloes and Jessicas, the Claires and Kelseys. I know they want to be like Donna. And if I’m honest, maybe—what I want, what I really, really want—is to be like them. To be young and uncertain on a glorious day, with my whole stinkin’ life ahead of me.

This week, as I have been thinking about the episode Mr. Willis of Ohio, two ideas have been running alongside—a parallel track in my addled mother brain: determination and optimism. Donna was determined to get her money from the government surplus, and I was determined to do well as an actress—so intent on those three scenes, that triptych of sass, to land just right.

People constantly ask me about the line: “I want my money back.” It was apparently some sort of unifier, a concept all of the viewers—no matter their political bent—could agree upon. I remember, as I prepared for that group of scenes, I felt there was something tricky in them. The pace had to be balanced, the joke running through the episode—as Aaron so brilliantly does—ending in, as Josh says, “a little parable.” It had to be truthful, but also, it had to make you laugh. Brad and I would often ask each other after finishing a scene, our brows knit with concern and insecurity, “Did we get the funny?” The funny was serious.

As I watch today—Easter morning, laptop on my stomach, while my family sleeps—my younger self amuses me and kind of breaks my heart. I can see how badly I wanted to be excellent, to just kill it. I can practically feel myself vibrating with the determination to not let a moment of opportunity pass me by. I can see it in my walk, hear it in the timbre of my voice.

And then there was the closet. I have memories of the show that are only mine—as we all do. Martin and I making turkey sandwiches in the kitchen, Richard kindly counseling me when I felt like an outsider—so many flashes of moments all my own. But the closet—not really a closet—was just so, so good. When you saw us pushing through the swinging double doors from one room to the next, very often, depending on the doorway, we walked into a dead end—a dim faux hallway, a tiny backstage. It might have been mid-sentence—we would walk through the doors, they would cut, and hours or days later we would pick it up, bursting out of the closet on the other stage as if the scene was continuous. Brad and I would laugh and make jokes in that dark, hushed space, stacked like tandem skydivers about to jump.

Equally striking to me in this show was the humanity of Congressman Mr. Willis. His determination to be good and to do the right thing was not naive, but an inherently optimistic act. I've been thinking about optimism and my children so much lately. How even though things feel bleak in the world, I have to see—actually see, not just pretend, like the faux hallway—that there is something on the other side of this strange moment. My dad, John, was always the one I would go to for cheering up. I wonder how his historical perspective and naturally optimistic bent would hold up now. If he were here, he would remind us of the tumult of the ’60s or the frightening years of WWII. He would be philosophical. There would be no dissuading him from walking on the sunny side of the street. “Why,” he would say to me when I was growing up, “would you ever do anything but assume the best?” I know it's a tough one now, but maybe hope and optimism can be a fuel as powerful—and more fun—than despair.

My kids call me Debbie Downer. This is not nice—they are teenagers, and the barbs seem frighteningly effortless for them, coming at me as I duck, trying to laugh, and, if I’m stupid, attempt to counter. But often, they are not wrong. When Fernando says he wants to get a skateboard, I tell him about my cousin's friend's son with a head injury. When Julian shows me a video of a game he likes, I am compelled—despite the look from my husband—to mention screen addiction. I'm the worst, a dream killer. But I’m trying to be better, zipping it, practicing all the time, feeling my dad over my shoulder, reminding me of the organizing strength of a good attitude and the expectation of an excellent day.

So after I finish the episode, I will wake up the house and put on my blue dress with the flowers. I'll ignore the grumbles of my teenagers and hold the hand of my handsome husband as we walk. The babies will be out and judging from the number of swaddled newborns, all tucked between the lapels of their shell-shocked parents, my hood is doing its best to counter the low birth rates. My family will chat about movies and try to be sweet to each other as we make our way through the lilac and weed-scented streets of Brooklyn, walking to church on the first warm day of spring.

I was going to write about the gorgeousness of this episode, a total stunner of depth and poetry. We learn about Josh and his sister Joni. We feel the love between POTUS and Toby—the thorny respect, navigated like a father and son. We feel the heat, yes we do, rising between Josh and Donna. (How could they not know!?) We are walloped again and again by the emotional journey of these fine people figuring out what matters to them and how to be their best selves, their greater angels.

But with all of this excellence going on everywhere as I watched the fifth episode of the first season— The Crackpots and These Women—all I can think about is this: what the actual fudge is goin’ on with my hair? It was weird. Super weird.

Last week, a silly guy DM’d me. He told me that while he loved the show and me in it, I should, he suggested, stop living in the past. And like my hair, it bugged me, hovering all week in my mind like an uninvited guest.

I certainly don't want to live in the past—how, as my 13-year-old son often says, embarrassing. But I’m pretty sure it's not Donna’s ghost that is picking up my dry cleaning or quizzing my son on his French homework. And as we get older—and hopefully if we have done anything interesting with our lives—the past is ever more present, taking up the space once held by our shimmering futures. It's not so fun to consider, but it’s the truth, isn’t it?

So what can we do? Like Josh’s sister Joni, who we learned was killed in a fire, our pasts abide, infiltrate, stubborn in their requests for occasional attention.

My mom died in December. She was my end of every day. Me at the stove, the phone propped up on the shelf with her on FaceTime. We would talk about raising teenagers.

"Don't worry," she would reassure me. "This is all temporary. Things always change."

She would make me laugh and feel strong enough to fight another day.

Last month, my siblings and I packed up her house in California. The boxes filled with what I chose to keep are still downstairs in my Brooklyn family room, stacked and unopened. Etched wine glasses, vintage sterling pins she wore on her shirts when she dressed up, her worn leather purse with her wallet and ID still inside. I stood with my sisters in my mom’s kitchen that day, running my hand against the soft leather bag, thinking.

"Is it weird to take Mom’s purse?" I turned and asked.

My sister Carey was folding a quilt. "Take it. Why not?"

I couldn't bear to leave it behind, alone in some pile with moth-eaten clothes and scratched Teflon pans. She brought it everywhere for years, even when sick—the oils of her fingertips, the scent of her perfume now in every fiber. It felt alive. I wouldn't carry it, for Pete's sake—I’m not that nutty—but I might put it in my closet with Sunshine Bear and Mr. Fuzz, other relics of my childhood, and visit when I need a hug.

I think we are all living with the past—not in it. Because, silly man, that's impossible.

This is an unbearably tender episode. When Josh realizes his “staff” (um, Donna obvs) was not invited into the bunker, if the bomb were to drop—the look on his face, the realization and continued contemplation throughout the show—is so fragile and beautiful. He is wrestling with his past, the apparition of Joni rattling her chains in his subconscious. He doesn't want to leave anybody behind and decides ultimately not to.

I don’t recall much about making this one, although weirdly I do remember the last scene I was in—sitting at the center, talking to Allison, feeling so lucky to be there in the middle of things. I was sure that as we began to film, they would move me from the center, assuming they would want to feature a more significant character—but they didn't. There I sat, amongst my friends and colleagues, tragic hair and all, forever and ever and ever and ever.

Can a person have FOMO for something that took place in the past? I wondered as I watched the opening of episode 4, Five Votes Down, jealous as the cast did the enormous, masterful, more complicated-than-you-know, ten-page walk-and-talk. On the couch in my pajamas, I could feel the hustle and the excitement, the compression of time and space as the scene went on, the peril of being the one to tank it by forgetting a line or tumbling in your evening dress down the stairs. I screamed at my TV, missing out retroactively: where the heck is Donna?! Even now, I can feel the pang of bittersweet longing, of wanting not only to be in that scene, but to be in every scene, in every moment, of every single solitary show.

I watched this gorgeous opening several times and found new moments to admire with each run-through. Richard, so light on his feet, so relaxed, that actual laugh when Bartlet tells the young couple to get a room. The mirth he carries without an ounce of effort is a marvel. And please, CJ, navigating the stairs as she asks Josh if she has a big neck—stop it, Allison. You're too good. And Aaron’s writing! All of these little moments, seemingly off the cuff, track and reappear later, satisfying an itch he himself created in the first place. There's just too much good writing to contain.

And when Donna appears, what a nugget. I recall hearing back then that Tommy Schlamme, our director-in-chief, used to encourage Aaron to not worry about each actor so much. He would promise him that we would survive missing an episode, that he didn’t need to service every character every time. And while I wasn’t privy to these conversations, to what Aaron might say in response, you could feel through his writing the desire to please every member of his company, even me. In my tiniest scenes—episodes where I tore through my script and realized I was barely in it—he would invariably offer a tasty morsel, something sweet and sassy to chew on. This running joke of the smoking jacket in this episode and how Aaron crafted it, gifted me, really was wonderful. The hilarious back-and-forth about Sarah Wissinger was delightful—something I had not remembered even a little bit, but recognize my good fortune now, even if then, I could never be totally satisfied.

When my son was a toddler, he used to stagger around our apartment in the West Village, moaning through his pacifier, “Want something!!” Panicked, we would follow him, offering puffy rice in small plastic bowls and blankies, cuddles and clean jammies, but nothing worked. It was existential, we eventually realized, not practical, his artist soul settling in, taking root. So he may have gotten his pouty lips from me and his deep blue eyes from his Dad, but he got that craving from us both. “Want something” is a family trait.

I hate vacations and days off. I prefer Mondays to Fridays and would rather work than play. I love getting up early and heading out to a set before the city wakes, my coffee in my mug, my hair wet from the shower. My dad was like that. Working as a hairdresser for 60 years, he would sit in his salon with an empty schedule, sure that his day would fill up. And it always did. When he had to quit work a year before he died, his long days holding him down in heavy pointlessness, his will to live dwindled. And I don’t mind that. People need a reason to get up in the morning. My dad and I understand.

I had an audition the other day and what fun. I took the subway to my friend Olli’s apartment, where he put my work that I had painstakingly attended to on tape. We used to go in person to a casting director’s office to audition; running into friends, grabbing a bite after, was the creamy topping of what could be a grueling process. But after COVID, auditions IRL never came back, and actors were left with only their phone and whatever friend or family member they could wrangle into taping them. Olli and I talked about the huge film he had been a part of, a magical, long experience. He told me a friend had asked him if he would trade this one perfect adventure for a lifetime of just fine, steady work, and he thought about it and promised no. But on days when just your cup of coffee and a place to go and do your job would be enough, I wonder.

I remember when I was freshly off the show, I would walk into auditions, a room filled with actors, beauties slumped in folding chairs with their scripts on their laps. They would look at me, crestfallen, sure that a big show, a massive success would one day exonerate them from auditioning, from the constant effort of finding work. I also used to promise myself that I would never audition past the age of forty, then forty-five, then fifty, and now, well, I have erased that finish line. Because life isn't like that, is it?

I have the privilege, no matter my age, to sit and write, to be a mom and wife and an actor still grappling and managing the fierceness that made me an artist in the first place. I'm not ashamed to like work, to have ambition, and to think I still have much to offer. The difference is now, with perspective and time, I can see the light alongside the pain of, “Want something.” I have a gorgeous, weird life like everyone, and here I am still living it.

So, I’ll get on with my day. But before I do, I might watch that walk-and-talk one more time, or maybe skip forward to watch Allison once again maneuver her way around John Spencer, attempting to grab the pearl choker he got for his wife. (Why?! How is she so brilliant?!) But most likely, because I know myself, I’ll make a third piece of toast with extra butter and strawberry jam, then check my emails for the tenth time, to see if, maybe, just maybe, I got myself a pretty nice job.

I was walking down the street yesterday morning, on the way to get my eight-dollar almond matcha, when a young woman passed me. She was pink-cheeked, her coat flapping open in the cold. “I mean, every day,” she said to her friend, smiling, “I wake up, and it feels like the end of the world.”

For days - although maybe it should be obvious - I had been trying to diagnose my crap mood, my inability to concentrate, my sense of dread. Ah, right, I said to myself after hearing her. That's the feeling. So what does a lady do when she has to get her writing done? How do any of us make a little pasta, take the kids to basketball, or walk the dog when the sky is crumbling, when you feel like there is everything and nothing to be done?

I used to call my mom when things felt chaotic, as they do now–when I might be panicking about this or that, and she would tell me not to worry about what I can't control. To just focus on my life, my family, on what makes sense in the moment. But my mom is gone now, and so I did what so many of you do when things get weird: I watched The West Wing.

During the years we worked on the show, Aaron would become overtly exasperated by our inability to remember the names of episodes. It’s like we remembered his baby, but not his baby's name. I would explain again and again, laughing, that he kept our brains extremely busy. We would memorize our beautiful, complicated lines, often deep into the night, film the next day, and start it all again the following morning. And with decades and pandemics and teenagers between then and now, my memory is, well, a memory.

But not Proportional Response. I remember that; the title is seared in my psyche and has been since the day we shot that third episode. Proportional Response is when I knew I wasn’t going to be a hostess forever.

When I got the script, I was thrilled and terrified to realize I had the whole teaser. This is what TV people call the opening of the episode, before the main titles. “CJ’s coming.” You know it. “CJ’s coming.” I was jazzed to be given so much to do. I was a nobody. I was the girl whose trailer one might describe as a hut, sat on an empty parking space a half a mile from the stage. And, although I was also the girl who was quietly plotting my course to make myself indispensable, I knew what was expected. I was to be excellent and to be no trouble. So when Brad and I finished the final take of that opening, and he looked at me and saw that I wasn't satisfied, he leaned close and in a low voice, asked if I wanted another go. Takes were time. Takes were money, and I was in no position to ask for one more. I gratefully nodded.

“I need another!” Brad shouted, and the whole apparatus stopped. The cameras being pushed to the next scene reversed course, hair and makeup hustled in for touches. I closed my eyes and breathed as powder was pressed on my cheeks. This was my chance. The bell sounded and the director, Marc Buckland, yelled, “Action!”

I now know through experience that I do best when I don’t overthink things, when I put my head down and get out of the way. And this is what it feels like: Imagine, you step off a cliff with your scene partner, arms wild, like a child. The net of preparation falls away, and you are smashed into the present with no choice but to fly. But amazingly, you are also watching, a delighted passenger, waiting to see what comes next. I mean, you prepared like crazy, you figured it all out, and then you let the whole thing go. It's an amazing feeling, the most fun part of acting and one, that while we all aspire to, doesn't always happen. But this time it did. We ended the scene, hearts racing, and a voice yelled, “Cut.”

Brad and I started walking, him to the next scene and me back to my hut. “You happy?” He asked me, nudging my shoulder.

“Yes,” I told him, maybe blushing. “I’m happy.”

After Aaron saw a rough cut of the episode, he sent me yellow roses and a wonderful card. He was a gift-giver, a flower sender to be sure. I was probably not even the only one on that single episode to be florally acknowledged. But after a solid pre-West Wing decade of being told that I wasn't good enough or pretty enough or sexy enough, this gesture, these words, were like a miracle. I flopped down on my second-hand couch and cried.

For now, I'll leave you with that. I could write a novel about Allison’s drop-dead genius or the introduction of Baby Charlie. I could go on about Mrs. Landingham or the majestic mountain that is John Spencer. But as I said, I'm a little distracted by the everyday madness, my mind, a street filled with traffic. So, instead, I'm going to turn off my phone and close the computer. I’m going to go for a swim, then come home, and make my family lasagne. Because like my mom said, sometimes the best you can do, sometimes all you can do, is just to keep things simple, and stay in the moment.

.

Although it was the second episode, it was a riot of firsts. Everywhere you looked, they came at you. The first time anyone heard the phrase, “Donna, bring me all the muffins and bagels in the land!” It seems to be the most beloved phrase ever uttered from Donna's mouth. People literally stop me on the street and ask me to say it into their cell phones. It was the first time Bartlet did that tricky thing with his coat and the first time Brad pounded on his chest like a gorilla. I remember him lowering himself to the floor between takes– dragging his knuckles, crouching, and hooting. This was a thing he would do now and again. The crew, the actors–we stood shaking our heads, mortified for him but happy all the same.

It was the first time we saw– and I met–my friend Merrin Dungey, the brilliant actress who played Mandy’s assistant. Both she and Moira Kelly would leave the show in time, but my friendship with Merrin remained. She lived near my apartment, and we spent the day of 9/11 together, hunched over cups of coffee watching the news–our connection cemented forever. It was the first peek we got of Melissa Fitgerald, who played Carol, CJ’s eventual assistant and the godmother of my fifteen-year-old son, Julian. She’s my ride-or-die friend.

The assistants all slayed me: The inimitable NiCole Robinson who played Leo’s assistant; Suzy Nakamura, a major talent. All of these women could have done what I did, but I got lucky. This second show of the series, I got a bump–a little more trust from Aaron. It was the first time you saw Donna following Josh around, on his heels, doing that funny tiptoe shuffle–wanting to overtake him while trying to keep up. I think it was the pencil skirt and heels.

At the table reading in the Roosevelt Room, all of these women and other support players, along with department heads and writing staff, sat along the perimeter in folding chairs. I pulled up to the big oak table with the lead cast and producers and sat my ass down next to Allison Janney. It didn't occur to me to sit anywhere else.

I remember Tommy Schlamme, who also directed this second episode, didn't quite like how I put my coat on the rack. He would walk over hurriedly and look at me with mild pity. I was nervous and kept hanging my coat with unfortunate timing, burying my joke. He was reluctantly patient because he knew making an actor self-conscious only doubled the time they would take to nail it.

After watching the show– all of these beginnings–I’m inspired now to cultivate new experiences. To keep my mind sharp, my soul looking forward, excited like I was back then. Nothing will replace those moments of discovery, the flush of novelty bursting around every bullpen corner, but I'm gonna give it a shot. I recently told my teenage boys that I’m considering taking a hip-hop dance class, and they looked at each other, then back at me, with a mix of deep concern and horror. But I may do it anyway– screw those kids. And if you see me, please be nice. Because most likely, I’ll be out of rhythm and flailing– but only because it’s my very first time.

Oh dear, I thought, as I watched the pilot. Here we go. The show is so good, so totally confident, Athena bursting from Aaron’s head, fully formed and galloping. But to feel these feelings and try to sift through them, the memories, the stories, like returning to your childhood home or that box of letters from your ex, I just don't know, good god, if I want to do that. I’m happy in my life. In general, motherhood and family have taken the reins in the decades since the show. I've worked hard to feel ok not having the career I wanted between then and now. I worry that the sacrifices and stumbles, the things beyond my control that I have made peace with, will wake up and scream at me again. If I shined too much light on that time, would the narrative that I have painstakingly cultivated, that got me to this place, unravel?

But I remember her suede pants. Julianna Margulies, so glittery and famous, stopped in from ER, the massive hit she starred in and filmed on the soundstage next to ours. She sat talking to her friend, Brad Whitford, in the makeup room. It was my first day on the pilot. I was just a weekly player, quiet in the room, but already intent on staying forever. Julianna sat on the counter, stretched out in her creamy supple pants with a tiny bit of white skin exposed above her belt. I had my ten-year-old hatchback in the structure, my shift at the restaurant waiting for me that weekend, and I just wanted to be her. She took my hand and said I had pretty skin.

It was a dream.

And so I worked on my bedroom floor late every night as if I had a thousand lines instead of twenty. Do you notice watching the pilot that I, with my ponytail swinging, was in every background shot, standing behind Brad in every meeting with my folder? I was curious if I had engineered that, casually slipping into every scene, or had they already sensed that this relationship was a thing. I didn't know we had chemistry back then, although I can see it now clearly. As I watched Josh and Donna crackling, the connection already so layered, who wouldn't want more?

The first scene I shot was with John Spencer. I remember asking Tommy Schlamme, our director, if I could have a yogurt at my desk. He gave me one second of consideration, barely stopping his loping stride, and said, “No.” I followed him behind the camera (such a Donna move), sure that this was an excellent idea, sure that this natural activity would be a tiny brush stroke in the tableau of morning ritual and asked him again. He looked at me with a quick sigh and said, “Fine, just don't eat it.” With these small choices, I made the few minutes I had on camera as vivid and undeniable as possible. John said after we finished the scene, that I would be there until the curtain came down.

I remember lying on my mom’s bed when I was a teenager, telling her I wanted to be better than Meryl Streep. She wisely counseled me to just be as good as I could be. She read her book in the warm light as I writhed around thinking about my acting career, talking about my ambitions. I had stayed in that night, as I had most Saturday nights, to wait for my future, not wanting to waste it on teenage frivolity. She told me to, good lord, go out with my sisters, that no one would discover me that night.

I felt prickly and hesitant as the end credits rolled, watching the show, thinking about it. I thought about the character actors I used to see gathered at Starbucks by my house in Studio City. My neighbor, Allison Janney and I would walk our dogs down the hill, gossiping, and I would study them. All from different TV shows, the cop, the lawyer, the gangster from the various giant series we all knew, sitting in a loose circle. I would hear them reminiscing about the good old days as I waited in line for my soy latte and vowed never to do that.

I didn't know when I read the pilot in my bathtub seventy-five years ago how good it was, how excellent it would be. It changed my life in a moment, made it more alive than any choice, small or large, that I could have made then. But we can go back and visit, right? Even though, no matter what, we will always be exactly where we are.

My boys aren't ready at 13 and 15 to watch The West Wing but can watch every episode of Squid Games or Beef or Better Call Saul. (I could go on.) “Why?!!” I would ask them.

“Because we want to watch it when we can really appreciate it,” my older son would say. But I knew the truth. It looked boring to them. There was no blood, no zombies, no machine gun fire, or covert operations. And their mom was in it, which makes it inherently uninteresting and a little bit weird. It was the same weird my sisters and I used to feel when my dad talked about his first wife, Maryanne. Like, Eewww, you had no life before us. Keep it to yourself, please.

And the truth is, I have not watched the show since the days when our producers would screen the episodes, every Wednesday before the evening it aired. We would sit with our chicken and angel hair pasta on our laps, dressed as the characters we were watching ourselves play. I always hated seeing myself. I would walk away, back to filming, appalled by my freakishly large face, by my flat acting, by how absolute shit I was. One evening, I ended up sandwiched between Warren Beatty and Annette Bening at Aaron Sorkin's house for the kick-off party for Season 3. I sat down with my food on an empty bench when the famous couple walked up. I realized, oh my god, I was in their seat. They said hello and lowered themselves, one on each side of me, so charismatic, so stunning, and obviously in love. (He rubbed her foot, her leg across my lap. I shit you not.) As we watched the show together, my enormous strange face across the giant TV, I asked them if they were able to watch themselves. She had no problem, she told me, of course, she was a beautiful genius, and neither did he- in theory. The only thing that troubled him lately, he confessed, was he didn’t like watching “the DNA break down.” He didn't like to see himself getting old.

I would occasionally get a peak on Thanksgiving Day when the show was aired as a marathon, and my dad would watch several in a row, his West Wing cap perched on his head. I would pass the TV with a stack of my mom’s good plates when I would see myself walking through the bullpen, chasing Brad. I would hover for a minute and marvel at how stinking gorgeous I was. I would stand, fascinated by what would happen, by what Donna might say next, as if watching strangers. I thought damn this show is good. What a bunch of lucky ducks.

So I'm going to watch it again. Maybe I'll drag my kids into it and offer them extra screen time if they sit with me. Or maybe I'll go it alone, crying in the dark, awed by my own DNA, when it was pulsing, so showy and full of itself. And then I'll write about it. For you, the West Wing lovers, the Donnas out there; the people who are watching for the first time, and the people who are watching for the 10th. And we’ll see what comes up. I expect I will remember some, the stories, the behind-the-scenes; my memory jolted, shaken loose by Allison’s brilliance or Brad's hilarity. And I expect I’ll feel something about where I am today, and I’ll write about that too.

The show never goes away, and this I have accepted and embraced. It lives in a steady stream, where anyone, at any time, can drop their hands in and feel its cool, renewing waters of excellence and dignity. Sure, it’s not real. Absolutely, we’re seduced into a feeling of hope by Aaron’s brilliance. But that’s ok. Sometimes, we need that. Sometimes, it's nice just to slip in and remember.

Click here to read my next essay about the pilot episode!

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Hello Friends.

After much worry and way too many drafts, I am here on Substack to share my business with you. I will be publishing my personal essays— light and honest writing about what I see, what confuses me and makes me laugh. Also!! Bringing you all the muffins and bagels in the land, I will offer a series of posts for my West Wing peeps. You can’t get enough, I know this, so I will be going through the show and sharing my thoughts, memories,

and whatever comes up from watching my annoyingly young face and the brilliance of my friends.

I’m doing this because so many of you have shared what a salve the show has been, especially now. So let’s dive together into fiction because the real world, well, sometimes a girl needs a break.

With my West Wing posts, you will be able to comment and share some love with me and each other, creating a community of Wingnuts. A guy on my plane the other day told me he met his wife at a West Wing watch party, and while I can’t offer you a spouse, I can offer a place to commune over your shared obsession. Because come on, you’re a little obsessed.

I am going to do my best to post once a week, but because I have teenagers, I may be sucked in to the darkness occasionally, unable to make it to the surface. But hang with me. I promise, this will be fun.

Hugs,

Janel