Hiatus

Since I will be unable to attend the wedding in Oslo I will be escorting Sullivan on a whirlwind tour of my motherland, Minnesota, over the next week or so. If I find myself in Brooklyn on the 26th I just might machine gun my entire family- including the recently molted hermit crab who is aptly named Crabby McCrabcrab. I think all would agree that it is best I am not in the house at that time. Hell hath no fury like a woman cheated out of her vacation.

At least school starts once we get back.

The Love Fest Continues

It just felt so damn good to talk about the things I love that I would like to add to the list.

PBS. I love everything about PBS- even its obnoxious pledge drives. It is funny how they always run those programs during pledge drive where experts talk at an audience for two hours. Some of them suck, but then there's Dr. Christiane Northrup who I wish could be MY doctor. She's sassy. But then there's Nova, Charlie Rose, and even that voice over guy from Frontline. Sometimes I watch Frontline just to listen to him talk. Hell- I even like Alan Alda's Scientific American. I'm such a geek. I love watching hours and hours of New York: A Documentray and The History of Rock and Roll. I love Cyberchase- dude, we're beating Hacker at his game! C'mon, Christopher Lloyd is Hacker- you gotta love that! Postcards from Buster, Arthur, Clifford, even Maya & Miguel, PBS whoops ass.

The guys at Sullivan's day camp. They rock. It is so cool to see young men who work with kids and love it. These guys are funny, joyful, and incredibly good to my kid. They run a tight ship and the kids love them. Sullivan wants to be just like them when he grows up. Good. What's even nicer is that one of them told me that he hopes that when he has kids that his kids are just like Sullivan. What a really nice thing to say.

The Scrimshaw Brothers (Joshua and Joseph) of Minneapolis, MN. I had the pleasure of working with them for a few years before I moved to New York- and, to be honest, I don't think I would have come here without their encouragement. In particular, Joe has been a great influence and support- even though he doesn't really know it. I've said it once, and I will say it again- see anything he does. Brilliantly funny, simultaneously intelligent and disgustingly low brow with a disturbing amount of class and truth. Go to Minneapolis now and see them do something. Go see them drink, its fun.

Dunkin Donuts gigantic iced latte. Dude, this thing is as big as my head and I don't have to give up Sullivan's college fund to get it.

Okay, now I'm just avoiding house cleaning. Time to go pick up toys so they can be thrown all over my house again later this afternoon.

Gender

So, I've been doing this whole inventory of personal beliefs. You know, every decade or so I feel it is important to go into the ol' attic and throw out things that don't work anymore, fix some things that are out of date but still in good working condition and laugh at things that are so outlandish that you wonder what the hell you could have been thinking. I guess this little exercise here is a by-product of my philosophical house cleaning. As you might imagine the reassessment of my belief system now is a much more difficult and labor intensive process than when I turned 10. There is definitely a lot more crap to sift through. Oh, you can put that Santa in the "to keep" pile right next to the straight man who wants to get married, if you don't mind.

This corner over here is where I keep my various thoughts and feelings about gender. The piles are all mixed up and in no particular order as I have no real filing system back here. I haven't really cleaned this spot since I was in the fifth grade and I had begun to feel the sharp playground jabs of inequity. Here it comes- that wavy memory dissolve that will bring us back to an earlier time and place.

Our elementary school playground was a typical Minnesotan wide expanse of lawn dotted with various, outdated death traps known as playground equipment. What was special about our playground was its proximity to the back parking lot which, of course, needed to be plowed from time to time in the winter months. This would create a nice sized snow hill which was widely accepted as the private domain of fifth grade boys. Well, being rather worldly for a small town fifth grader (and an avid reader of books with spunky red headed heroines) I began to think this was a rather stupid practice. I didn't particularly WANT to play on the snow hill. Quite frankly, I found the jungle gym made from old tractor tires to be more inviting but since it was implied that I was not welcome on the snow hill because I was a girl it became my goal to conquer it.

Unfortunately, books on military strategy were not a part of my personal library. In retrospect, I realize that all of those books with the spunky heroines ended the same way. Spunky and too smart for her own good, our heroine would always find herself in a dangerous situation alone with the villain of the story and it would be up to the level headed (yet not nearly as bright) bothers/ fathers/ boyfriends to come and save said heroine from what would surely be an untimely demise. Spunky I was. Well-connected, I was not.

I had convinced a few (maybe 4) of my fifth grade sisters that the hill should be equally ours. We began to pick fights with the boys and every recess we would charge up the hill only to be thrown to the bottom, pummeled with snow balls or occassionally got our faces pushed into the hill itself. This went on all winter long. The few girls I had convinced to join me in the begining left for more entertaining (and less torturous) pursuits. I stuck with it and there were many days in which I was the lone soldier battling up that hill whilst my sisters went to hide from prettier girls who had taken to making fun of their haircuts or clothing choices. Some of these girls- the prettier ones- were allowed free access to the hill and they enjoyed pushing me down the slope with the boys. I never reached the top of the hill. You'll see on the bottom of that pile over there the understanding that acceptance by males is a key to reaching the top of the hill. Right next to that you will see the belief that, in order to be accepted by males you have to be pretty (sexy- in adult terms) and IF you are accepted you must defend your territory against other females. There is only so much available real estate on the hill.

The reason those two beliefs are on the bottom of the pile is that, since then, I have reached a number of conclusions about men. I love men. I love talking to men, I love looking at men, I love working with men. I feel very comfortable with them, and in my artistic domain I feel respected by men. Of course, the cynic in me suspects that that respect is built on a foundation of profanity and technical know-how that is laced with a flirty and suggestive air. I didn't get to climb the hill by being prettier (sexier) than anyone else. I got on the hill by being able to discuss the componants of narrative structure with a wink and a smile and clitoral stimulation as if I was down to serious business. (Which, arguably, I was!) You see, something that I began to foster in the fifth grade was an incredibly low opinion of men.

I didn't think I had a low opinion of men at the time or even since, but recent revelations have shown me just how little I actually think of them. I love them, but I see them as pets. I make excuses for their behavior because of how their brains are wired- and I back it up with scientific evidence- to prove how the male mind is inferior when it comes to certain things- especially when it comes to interpersonal relationships. They don't listen very well, cannot multi-task as well as women, and they sure as hell aren't advanced enough to figure out the many handy uses of the laundry hamper. I'm usually pretty sympathetic to men and feel that they have an incredibly difficult role in our society- but I also don't have much faith in their ability to find their own way. So many times I catch myself leading a man, guiding him toward certain decisions and I catch myself turning into this character, this tiny, pushy character in Jules Feiffer's lovely play "Little Murders". I'll spare the entire context, but at one point this woman begins screaming at her fiance "LET ME MOLD YOU!". So I find myself doing what women have done for centuries...I'm back seat driving. But in my defense let me say this: They LET ME!

Of course, I've also done my best to push most women out of my life. After all, I can't be the prettiest (sexiest) woman in the room if there is another woman in the room. Especially after tipping the scales at 210 when I was pregnant. I have to be the ONLY woman in the room and that is my only guarantee. Throughout my life there have been notable exceptions to this rule, but for the most part I've done my best to distance myself. As much as I patronize men I fear other women. I fear their ability to knock me off the hill by sheer virtue of bigger boobs, fuller hair and a tighter ass.

While I am wondering about my current sense of alienation I have to point my finger firmly at myself. It is what I believe and what I fear that have separated me from the rest of the world. I had thought that I was walking through life with pure intentions and even a bit of wisdom, but in reality there is an angry and hurt woman in me. Lately, I've been feeling more pissed off than I have ever felt in my entire life. Not just righteous indignation- no, that is something it is acceptable to possess- but real fury.

Maybe it is about fucking time.

Why Life Is Worth Living

I do a lot of complaining and, from reading my posts I must seem like the most negative and depressed person. I might be. After all, I think this period of my life is now neck and neck with the level of confusion and frustration I experienced in my adolescent years. But, even so, there are some things on this planet that keep me going by just the sheer fact of their existence. Simple things that are so amazing that the fact that they were created by mere mortals redeems this whole stinking mess. I'd like to share some of these things, in no particular order because I think ranking blows.

First and foremost in my mind is Billy Stewart's rendition of "Summertime". If you've never heard it, do yourself a favor and find it RIGHT NOW. It is four and a half minutes of perfection. It is beautifully orchestrated and precise yet so raw and passionate that it nearly rips your heart right out of your chest. Stewart's vocal style is so expressive, versatile and honest that it leaves me breathless everytime. Seriously sexy.

Arthur Miller. Hands down, he's the man. In particular "The Crucible" and Proctor's speech: "Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!" Damn, Arthur, you wrote something so powerful that no hack actor could ever fuck it up. In the worst productions of "The Crucible", that moment always rings true- only because it IS true- no matter what anyone does to it. Go on- pass it on to your friends, keep it in context and dare them to make it not powerful.

The existence of the artist and the man, Gene Wilder. I love you, Johnny Depp- but I don't care what you do, you'll never be Willy Wonka to me. Just the last scene with Charlie in the elevator- look at Gene's eyes when he tells Charlie that he wants to give him the factory. He is a whirling dervish of emotion sitting so still. You have to give the man props for "Young Frankenstien" and for being able to work with Richard Pryor! (Love you, too Richard- Damn!)

Mae West- that's my girl! If you've ever get the chance to see her casually shoot injuns in "My Little Chickadee" while W.C. Fields (who is also lovable!) tries to take cover behind small children on the big screen with a full audience- do. It is one of the great joys of this life- not that I advocate shooting injuns but let's keep this fun, shall we?

Marilyn Monroe. I don't care who you are, it is just impossible to ignore her. Looking at her is reason enough to breathe. Add to that her natural comedic talent and it is easy to understand why her legend endures.

Tom Ewell- could there be a funnier performance than Tom's in "The Seven Year Itch"? Maybe his performance in "The Girl Can't Help It"!

Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond. A brilliant team if there ever was one. Masters of pacing and double entendre and risk. I admire their social and technical daring. Do see everything they've ever done.

Lee Remick. My God- what an actress. See everything she's ever done- particularly "Anatomy of a Murder" in which Jimmy Stewart is equally delicious.

Tim Curry's performance in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show"- unbelievable.

Tom Waits' entire career. If I could create in 2 hours what he can create in 3 minutes, I'd consider myself a genius. Plus, I believe "Wrong Side of the Road" is the sexiest song ever. How can you resist lyrics like this?
"...let me hold you in the dirt. We're gonna tremble, tear the throat out of the night. Sink your teeth into my shoulders, dig your nails into my back. Tell that little girl to let go of my sleeve, you'll be a woman when I catch you, come baby, fall in love with me." DUDE!

Harpo Marx's leg gag. If you aren't familiar (and I think it is a crying shame if you aren't) Harpo has this thing he does where he tricks people into holding his leg for him. It's stupid and it is divine. Oh, and the gag when an entire tea service falls out of his pants. Dude, that's funny.

"The Giving Tree" by Shel Silverstien. Although, Sully won't let me read it because it makes me cry every time.

Mark Twain. Need I say more?

Goat cheese cheesecake with a crunchy crust make of crushed palmiers! Yum!

A really good aged sharp cheddar.

Cheese in general- what a great idea!

Cheap shoes from Chinatown.

Cappucinos and seven layer cookies. I loves me a good seven layer cookie!

The free public pool in New York. It's free, it's clean, and some days they give out free sack lunches. Damn I love this town.

Oh- New York itself. I can't even begin to express the multitude of ways I love this town.

I find I can go on all day about the things I love. It has seriously put me in a very good mood. I should do this more often.

What I Get and What I Don't Get

I have a very morbid sense of history. It's my upbringing, I suppose. When you are a child of a Civil War buff you tend to skew your historical thinking toward conflict, bloodshed and conspiracy. My father was not the re-enactment type. He was the high brow collector type. It wasn't until I was in my early twenties that I looked at the living room in which I had watched countelss episodes of You Can't Do That on Television and later The Kids in the Hall and Monty Python and realized just what a gory environment it was. We had lovely log bookends with impressively rendered carvings of Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis on them. There was a bust of Lincoln, a replica sword, a rifle, a definitive collection of Civil War books, and paintings. These were not tame mid-nineteenth century portraits but passionate and gory depictions of Civil War battles. There were horses toppling over helpless wounded soldiers, bodies both living and dead, cannon fire, smoke and swords poised for attack. My friends would recoil slightly when first entering our living room, but I thought nothing of it. Why should I when I had spent my formative years watching documentaries, trouncing through battlefields, and listening to terrifying tales of the bloody means necessary to win a conflict and gruesome surgical techniques? This is life. People do horrible things to one another and it is our duty to be preoccupied with that.

It then stands to reason that I have this compulsion to mark certain dates on the calendar. It is my annual cylce of grief and deep sadness. From Easter to a slough of dates in April (MLK Jr's death on April 4, Oklahoma City on April 19, Columbine on April 20, and that's not even mentioning the battle at Gettysburg) to a certain ex-boyfriend's birthday (he did a particulalry interesting tap dance on my soul) all the way to September. You know where I am headed. I don't want to go there either but the dates keep flying off the calendar whether I want them to or not.

I can't, and won't recount for you what happened that day, to me or anyone else. What I want is to grasp at these threads of thought that float through my head each year around this time. We are all trying to account for ourselves in some way, to justify our survival or our anger. I don't know if it is normal or not, but I am not particularly angry. I would describe myself as psychically wounded, although that just sounds stupid. I don't know how else to describe it, but I am certain I am not the only one. I can't be the only one who bursts into tears when confronted with an image- any image- of the WTC Towers. I can't be the only one who feels this ripping and gnawing in my chest accompanied by a scream that never leaves me. No. In that I am not alone.

It is not particularly difficult for me to imagine the circumstances that would have to exist for me to want to destroy life. I could blame that on my acting training- it is second nature for me to search for circumstances and motivations. I feel that anyone who doesn't understand that choice is not being honest with themselves. They aren't trying to understand because to understand would be to confront the horror that we are all- each and every one of us- capable of inflicting upon our fellow man. To understand is to find yourself in some small way responsible for the state of the world- responsible for certain circumstances we would rather ignore. To understand is to open up a wide range of choices but it does not satisfy any thirst for vengeance. Everyone wants to be "right". The only problem is that when everyone is right it is only a matter of time before everyone is dead.

People who kill are not happy people. People who want to inflict pain on others are in a lot of pain themselves. This I completely understand. It is a very simple truth to grasp. What I don't get are t-shirts, bumper stickers, and the otherwise booming trade in pain. After all, it is our duty as American citizens to consume and while we grieve we must resolve to consume more. What prompts us to buy? Reminders of horror. Is a t-shirt or a decal for your car reading "These Colors Don't Run" the best way to express our grief? Or is it just a product of the blind consumerism that allows us to cut ourselves off from other human beings?

Lately, I've bee screaming at our house. Sullivan gets into his whiny, demanding mode and I have given myself permission to be irritated by it. I don't like the way I react to his whining, but ignoring how much it felt like an indictment of my skills as a mother was eating me up inside. I feel better having acknowledged the fact that his demands on me are now excessive but, clearly, I need to find a better way to respond to him. My yelling only leads him to yell back and we both just end up pissed and hurt. (I AM going somewhere with this, bear with me.) So, I have been talking to Sullivan about choices. Even though I may be feeling pissed off, hurt or frustrated I have a choice about how I behave. I can take the easy route. I can scream, throw a fit and just pick up the pieces after the fact which usually has me feeling hurt and angry for a long time afterward. Or, I can take a deep breath, tell you that I am hurt, angry or whatever and deal with the real situation and actually solve the problem. Which would we rather do?

I know many of you out there think that the only way to meet force is with force. This philosophy assumes that the heart and mind of our "enemy" is unknowable and that the only way to triumph is to beat them down. Unfortunately, those who are beaten down usually rise up against their perceived oppressor. A dog who gets trained with a rolled up newspaper will submit- but for how long? If he's got any spunk at all, he'll kill you in your sleep. I hope he takes that stupid fucking t-shirt with him.

I'm sure that last comment will put me on some list some where. I love this country. I love New York. But I don't think we, as a nation, are actively searching for choices that would solve problems- we're just looking to maintain our status as the biggest kid on the playground. We've staked out our spot on the monkey bars and think our size will save us every time. That's a fucking lie and don't you believe it. Not for one second.

Sooo uncool

Mostly I feel disappointed that I have not outgrown my need for attention. I wish I was cool. I wish I could be that person that everyone wants to know. Why? Because then people would seek ME out and I wouldn't have to put my head on the chopping block everytime I called someone to chat. I wouldn't have to brave the tempestuous waters of new and fragile friendships only to suffer the inevitable rejections that come with it.

I thought I would be over that by now.

Maybe it's fucking New York. People don't return your phone calls here. Especially people who, no less than a week ago, were singing your praises to the world about what an amazing person you are. This is the same person who gushed about you and your work and looked at you with such adoring eyes. This is the person who declared his undying devotion and gave a tearful testimonial about everything you taught him. He has learned so much from you and found you to be not only a great artist, but a gifted teacher and exemplary human being. You would expect someone like that to make an effort to return your calls. After the second call to both the cell phone and the land line I tend to give up. I don't want to look desperate, even though I am.

No. I've never been cool, but I used to have a group of friends that would show up wherever I went. Maybe I was a little cool- to my little group I suppose I had some value as a social commodity, but now I just feel shut out.

Then comes the awkwardness of never having the "cool" knowledge. I've been reading some blogs and I am sad to say I just can't follow them. I recognize each individual word as a word in the English language but when strung together I can't even use context clues to figure it out. This then makes me question my skill as a writer. Perhaps I can write for the pacemaker set? They'll get me. To them, I'm a sex symbol! We can stay up all night, drink metamucil and listen to Ric Ocasek. Oh, wait, maybe Ric Ocasek is just obscure and underappreciated enough to be cool again. See I can't even fit in with the fogeys either! How about Menudo? Herb Alpert and the Tiajuana Brass?

I've always read the wrong thing, listened to the wrong music, eaten the wrong food and I've absolutely NEVER had the right signature mixed drink. I was drinking Cosmos when Mojitos were all the rage. Then there was the disasterous Stinger phase which never caught on with anyone and when I finally returned to my trusty vodka sours I was all gauche by not caring what vodka was used. I'm a fucking sore thumb. I'm a transister radio in a forest of iPods. I'm the Elaine Dance in a sea of Running Men. I'm a lesbian haircut in a casino.

Cynic

In my humble estimation, cynicism occurs when an idealist gets pissed on one too many times by reality. After that you start walking around in a rain poncho.

Casino Vacation

There is a reason why I have never even considered a casino resort as a vacation destination. It is kind of depressing.

Back in my crazy, fun, super poor days a trip to Mystic Lake Casino was both entertaining and cheap. Can anyone say breakfast buffet? It was fun to dress in sweats and plop in front of video poker or a slot machine at 3:00 in the morning. It had serious kitsch appeal. Now that I'm 30 it looks less like kitschy fun than it does an option. Eek, scary.

So how the hell did I end up at Foxwoods in the first place? Well, Tom's job has stepped in to irritate the hell out of me one more time- as if I haven't already wanted to throw the phone out the window and lock him in the house without any contact with the outside world. He was supposed to have today off- his last day off for the next three weeks as a matter of fact. However, one of his current jobs decided that he needed to scout for a commercial shoot at Foxwoods Casino Resort today. (This is one of the jobs that was responsible for my Norway trip being cancelled.) I was about to blow my stack for his job taking away my ONLY opportunity for a break over the next three weeks -not to mention poor Sullivan who suffers more without access to his Dad for three weeks- when Tom invited us to tag along. So here we are, watching bad cartoons in a hotel room in the wilds of Connecticut with only enough cash to eat snack foods.

First off, if you have young children and are thinking about coming to Foxwoods to lose your child's college fund- don't. This is not a kid friendly place. Unless your kid happens to be 800 years old and in an iron lung this is not the place for you. It is colder than the freaking Antarctic and even penguins find it inhospitable. The only place designated for children is an overpriced arcade to train your little one for future membership in Gambler's Anonymous. They actually include a brochure in their room information titled "Guidelines for Child Safety" that pretty much details all the things your kids CAN'T do. The nice pool is "adult swim only" after 6:30PM and last night I caught a lot of middle aged male huffiness brought on by a short skirt and my "lesbian hair cut". Television options are dismal unless you want to watch Keno or the pod people that host WINTV- the in house gambling info-tainment channel.

Now, if you smoke, like bands that cover Lynard Skynard and think that you will look a hundred and thirty pounds lighter if you only wear vertical stripes- then Foxwoods is for you.

Okay, so that wasn't very nice, but there is definitely something about this place that skeeves me. The fact that they have a promotion here linked to something called a "Wampum Card". There's a phony street that is reminicent of Disney World streets housing the "world class shopping". This basically means there are tons of sweatshirts with the Foxwoods logo, an assload of sneakers, and lots of non-perishable items from Harry and David. Of course, all of this is over priced as is their room service. Their room service menu boasts chips for $9.95. That had better be a friggin' Costco sized bag delivered by a hot cabana boy or, at the very least, a small "c" celebrity willing to humiliate themselves for quarters. Shouldn't the Mashantucket Pequot Tribal Nation be more protective of their culture? I guess, like it or not, they're in America and when in America you can put all your pain onto a t-shirt (or in a Wampum Card) and make a tidy profit. That's what Americans do.

Oh well, there's a bed to jump on, a pool to swim in and recirculated air. I'm just glad I didn't have to pay for the priviledge.

Insecure Revolutions

I've had to push back the start date for my Play in a Day Series until October. I had wanted to start this past spring, but chose to wait until September so that I could give it my complete focus while Sully is in school. However, I have decided to wait until October so that a few more things can fall into place without rushing. I have to do this one right because I want this one to last. After two "failed" (or more appropriately "fizzled") theatre companies in the last five years, I am really hungry for something I can look back at as a success.

Not that GSTW or Closer Theatre Company were dismal failures by any means, but I didn't reach my goals. So what pieces of the puzzle were missing? First, I think I had made uncharacteristic concessions to "marketablity" as opposed to simply making what is truly mine and then finding an audience for that. I hadn't any true voice yet- and perhaps I still don't, but I think I'm on the right path. Second, because I was making some compromises I held back. I didn't throw everything I had or was into what I was doing. I was waiting for the hand of God to come down and validate my choices and then I would committ. Third, everyone I was involved with left New York and I decided to take it personally and sulk instead of pressing on.

People that I have discussed my Play in a Day Series with have all been very excited and yet skeptical. Can you really create and rehearse one act of material in eight hours and perform it the same night? To me, the answer is obvious- of course you can. There are plenty of challenges out there for film and theatre and they seem to produce results so why not mine? Of course, I am guarding my structure like an alligator guards her eggs because I've had structures stolen from me before. I look around and don't see anyone else do what I am proposing to do. This both excites and terrifies me. Great! No one is offering what I can offer. Then I must ask myself this: If no one else has seen what seems obvious to me, am I a genius? Or am I so far off in la la land that I am doomed to failure? Will anyone come out to play? After all, I truly cannot do this alone.

I have a truly unique idea that showcases what I have to offer the theatrical community. I can't teach you how to act. I can't teach you how to create an ensemble. I can't teach you how to write. What I CAN do is give you tools, structure, and an environment in which creation is not only possible but an absolute necessity. I'm a damn good director with a very good eye and a deep understanding of where art comes from. I also have a million and five things to say and within that there are a billion opportunities for others to agree or dissent with their own work. I'm interested in a theatre that has something very thoughtful to say. I'm interested in a theatre that strips away the pretense of hipness and dispenses with the stylish tricks so popular these days and stands just as naked, conflicted and confused in the face of American culture and politics as the average American does. I want to learn something in each process that I didn't know before I started and I want my audience to experience the same.

Can I get a "Hell Yeah!"?

Pigeons

BLOGGER'S NOTE: As I am rather ignorant in the sexual identification of pigeon kind and since that is entirely irrelevant to the facts of my encounter today let us simply agree to refer to this individual pigeon as "he". Thank you for your understanding.

And now we return to our blog already in progress...

He was of average pigeon size, typically grey and slimey looking but with one distinguishing characteristic. His left foot was gone. I've seen this before, mutilated pigeons missing feet, eyeballs, injured wings and the like, but never close up. He had been less than a foot away from me. He was staring at me from his perch on top of a brick dividing wall, eyeing my hard earned M & M cookie with his round orange-red eye nervously strutting at my eye level.

His little nub sickened me. I could see the bone sticking out that should have been attached to a foot. Instead there was a gleaming white, rounded bone peaking out from underneath the bumpy red flesh that clung to it like dried latex. He hobbled around on top of the wall and though I did not hear an actual sound, my brain imagined a nauseating clicking sound with each alternating step like some unfortunate pigeon pirate on a peg leg. Poor little bastard, I thought, but you're not getting a crumb of my cookie with that hard luck routine so just be on your way.

It is so easy to forget that pigeons are actual living creatures. Their incredible success, vast numbers, and the can't-be-bothered-to-fly-away-so-I'll-just-walk-and-give-you-the-stink-eye attitude can fool a person into disregarding their individual experiences. I looked at this pigeon and wondered if he knew hunger. My automatic assumption is that he didn't. That his sad sack look was a Darwinian survival technique. After all- he's a New York pigeon and there should be more than enough trash to go around. New York pigeons don't starve, do they? Obviously, there must be some dangers in his life. He lost a foot.

And I thought pigeons had it made.

No Norway for YOU!

I can't go.

Why can't I go?

Because my husband has a way freaky job, we need the money, and childcare on the fly is not something this Mama has figured out. I can't afford to bring Sullivan with me. I can't figure out how he would be cared for in the absense of BOTH his parents and since Tom needs to take the work that means I stay home.

I had to quit a job that I loved because I couldn't work out the child care thing. If I had a sitter- she would make more than me.

Why the fuck is it that I would make an assload of money doing the same exact job that I do day in and day out if I was doing it for SOMEONE ELSE'S KID? My own kid? I get squat.

I have often joked that I am completely unemployable and that I have no useful skills, but the truth is I am so freaking smart and capable that it is a crime against a market driven society that I am not working. Of course, that is the part of me that is oh-so-punk-rock. I'm old school- there's no respect if you be cashin' a check.

Okay, so not since I was 15 has anyone ever connected me with punk and even then not so much. (But I was wicked hot and ultra cool even if it was only me and my Spam loving crowd that knew it) But I am really good at keeping my work from being tarnished by accepting cash for my talents. This is why, instead of spending my time working on a script that could actually make Broadway or Hollywood a more interesting landscape or creating a vehicle for myself that could show the world that an aging ingenue does not have to fade into the background I have been cleaning my house, going to the park, and set my inquiring mind to the question "How many creative crafts can one make with only popsicle sticks, cotton balls, sand and glue?" If I had had my shit together from day one, I might have had some kind of back up plan in case I wanted to, oh, I don't know, go to a wedding of a dear friend in Oslo! Instead, I've spent nearly four years getting screwed out of opportunities to do anything that I might actually enjoy.

I love my kid. He's an awesome kid. I would love to take him to Norway, but I can't afford it. Why? Because I don't have a job. Why? Because I can't afford the child care with the jobs I am actually qualified to do. Why? Because I am a trained actor and although I am exceedingly intelligent, organized, have great problem solving skills, and am a brilliant artist- I have yet to figure out how to make a living doing what I do best. Erego I have no money. Which means I have no childcare. Which means I don't work. Which means my brain and talent begins to atrophy. Which makes me depressed. Which means I need to take a break and go to a wedding in Norway. Which I won't get to go to because I don't have affordable or dependable childcare. Because I don't work. See how endless this stupid cycle is?

Notice how the husband's responsibilty in this cycle is non-existant.

Welcome to America.

A story pt 2

Mary had been well trained for this moment. Although movies and television would have us believe that since her water broke she should have been in a car speeding toward the hospital huffing and puffing all the way, nothing could be further from reality.

Mary sat in the watery goo for a brief moment. Anyone passing by at that moment would have mistaken Mary's expression for someone who was listening for a distant noise. What she was really doing was waiting for a contraction. When none came, Mary carefully pulled herself up out of the chair with an unpleasant "sshhhhlop", calmly grabbed her gym bag and started to hobble toward the bathroom. Then she stopped.

As she reached the door to her office she felt an odd sensation of shame. She heard the regular bustle in the hallway of the office and worried about what her coworkers would think. She was positively certain the men would be disgusted that something wet had just spilled out of her body. The women would, indeed, be sympathetic and would race around in an excited baby frenzy offering her rolled up jackets for pillows and fetching tea. But what the hell was she thinking? This isn't like the day she got her period in algerbra and had to tie a sweater around her waist and go begging for tampons. Yet, it felt oddly similar. Like she should have known and she should have been able to hold it.

Quickly, Mary closed her door and rummaged through her gym bag, feeling sopping wet and very uncomfortable. In her gym bag she found a giant pair of sweatpants that smelled remotely like feet. She then pulled off her wet skirt and attempted to wipe herself off with it, feeling thankful for the first time in five years that her office had no windows. Instinctively she looked at the clock. 3:19. No contractions yet. The sheer volume of the stuff was staggering and it kept trickling out like a leaky faucet. Now that just wouldn't do. No one had ever mentioned THAT in any of her birthing classes.

She tugged on the sweatpants with the dreaded feeling that they would be wet in a matter of seconds. Her body did not disappoint. It was time to change tactics. It occurred to her that it might be nice to clean up the amniotic fluid before she left the office then decided against it. The way things were going it looked more like it would make a bigger mess if she stayed. Stuffing things in her bag and grabbing her cell phone, Mary headed out the door waving nonchalantly at Gina the receptionist.

"Going to go have a baby. I'll let you all know how it turns out." She sang as she headed for the elevator in her now wet, smelly sweatpants.

Gina yelled after her, "MARY! Let someone go with you!"

Oh, hell no! Mary thought as she jumped into the elevator pretending not to hear.

Down the elevator and into the street, Mary was acutely aware that she looked like a crazy fat woman who wet herself and wondered if any cab would stop for her. Luckily someone did. She calmly gave the driver her home address and he looked at her questioningly.

"Wouldn't you like me to take you to a hospital?"

"No, thank you." Without explanation Mary dialed Max and instructed him to meet her at home and to buy a box of Depends. He didn't even ask. Then Mary dialed her midwife and explained the situation.

"No contractions yet?" Diane's warm and clinical voice sounded through the earpiece.

"Not that I've noticed."

Diane chuckled, "Oh, I think you'd notice. Have Max bring you some castor oil. Take half of it and mix it in some frozen orange juice concentrate like a slushie. I won't lie to you, Mary. It tastes like shit, but it will bring those contractions on and get things moving. Call me in about four hours or so and we'll see if you need to take the rest of the bottle. Okay?"

"Oh, okay..." Mary's voice trailed off. What the hell was she going to do with herself over the next four hours?

Once she entered her apartment she was at a loss for what to do. What do you do while you are sopping wet and waiting for contractions? Changing seemed pointless if she was just going to keep leaking like this. Finally she decided to grab a towel and email some friends while she waited for Max. Everyone in her addressbook received this message.

Well, the day is finally here. My water broke at a little after 3:00 today and now I am home waiting for my contractions to start. I'm settling in for the long haul and not sure how long I'll be home. If you are near a phone and want to talk, give me a call. You'll understand if I don't answer, but right now I could use the company!

I'm very excited and Max and I will let you all know how this turns out!

XOXO
Mary

For the next couple of hours Mary fielded telephone calls from friends who repeatedly asked the same question.

"Shouldn't you be in the hospital by now?"

Mary simply laughed this off, enjoying her status as the "informed lady" telling them that it was perfectly safe for her to labor at home. She told funny stories that she had heard in her birthing class of women who went to the movies, finished some last minute baby shopping, and even had romantic dinners with their husbands during the early stages of labor. Inside, however, she was a little less certain.

Max had made the orange slushie concoction for Mary as soon as he had arrived home. Diane had not been lying. It did taste like shit. Mary sincerely hoped she would not have to take the rest of the bottle because it was beyond awful. The smell alone made her stomach (already forced up toward her heart by the little alien) jump toward her throat. After two hours, Mary was beginning to worry about ingesting more castor oil as the contractions had not yet started. Then, as she was wiping down the countertop in the kitchen, it hit her.

WHOMP.

It hit her fast and hard. So hard that it knocked her into the oven. The sensation was full torso. Mary could swear that she even felt her nipples cramp up, if that were possible. Max, who had been faithfully standing nearby, saw the look on Mary's face. Without a word he went to grab his stop watch which, sweetly, he had purchased for just this occasion and had hung by his car keys at the front door. For another hour they laughed, hoped and cracked jokes between contractions which Max timed on his new fatherly stop watch.

After an hour, Mary wanted to lay down but her body just wouldn't let her. Her body compelled her to walk. Move, move, move! Soon, Mary's light and excited mood had switched. She was focused and even though the contractions were excrutiating, she found herself enjoying the process. They came in predictable waves that washed through her and she found that if she did not deny the pain that it was less punishing. If she went inside the pain she could ride it out. Her brain kept telling her "You're tired, lay down and take a rest." But each time she tried to lie down her body protested with discomfort a hundred times worse than the contractions. Her body was in control, her brain was just along for the ride.

Max had called Diane during a lull to check in. After he described the length and frequency of the contractions, Mary could overhear Diane telling Max that there was still more time to be spent at home. Instinctively, Mary knew better.

"Give me the phone!"

In no uncertain terms, Mary made it clear that, at this point, they would be on their way to the hospital.

Selling your body (Legally and Illegally)

Many years ago some friends and I entertained ourselves by listing the ways a woman could sell her body (both legally and illegally). Here is an impatial list in no particular order:

1. Sexual favors
2. Hair for wigs
3. Eggs
4. Renting womb space
5. Selling your baby
6. Placenta
7. Breast milk
8. Kidney
9. Posing nude (or in various states of undress)

See how rich we are?

Another game some friends and I came up with backstage during a show is a little something called "The Snatch Game". Now, be forewarned, the Snatch Game is extraordinarily infantile and a little addictive. The idea is to create porn film titles by taking Hollywood film titles and swapping snatch for one of the words in the title. Comme ca:

Chitty Chitty Bang Snatch
Dr. Strangesnatch
Treasure of the Snatcha Madre
The Snatch over the River Kwai
Inherit the Snatch

You get the idea. Its pretty entertaining over a few beers and is more fun if you play with film buffs. The unfortunate thing is that as soon as you have decided the game is stupid and you are not going to play it anymore titles come into your head and they are so silly that you just have to share them while your friends groan and beg you to stop. Play at your own risk.

Do both of these little pursuits get me kicked out of the woman club? Or can we all have a guilty little snigger over it and move on?

What's with all the fighting?

I don't know if it is like this in other cultures, but Americans will fight over anything. What angry, defensive little buggers we are!

I went to see my ex-acting teacher Alan yesterday. As we were talking he mentioned to me, with some surprise, how he recently had run into what he called "Meisner interference". I laughed having studied Meisner myself a few years before coming to New York. As a little background for the non-acting public at large let me say that there are many different methodologies promoted in American actor training. Devotees of any particular teacher (Sanford Meisner, Stella Adler, Lee Strasberg- to name a few) tend to cling desperately to their particular guru as if he/she were the only life preserver in shark infested waters. I've seen actors scream, throw heavy objects, and have wailing tantrums defending perceived threats to their acting messiahs. It didn't surprise me that Alan had gotten into a scuffle with a Meisner student. I was merely surpised that it hadn't happened before this since the man has been teaching for so long.

At any rate, this student had declared that what Alan (who is his own special brand of actor- a bit of an old school Stanislavski purest) was teaching was completely incompatible with Meisner's work. This is particularly amusing because Meisner's work is derived from Stanislavski's work. Meisner took the idea of "Communion" (which is focus on your acting partner to get to the emotional meat of the scene) and expanded on this concept. He studied it, developed it, and found it fascinating. I fail to see how this would, necessarily be incompatible.

This reminded me of my joyous and frustrating time in school when I thought everyone was freaking crazy because they were so attached to one way of thinking that they shut out and completely discounted anything else. Since my particular program was quite eclectic, the students created these elaborate scenarios where their favorite teacher could not POSSIBLY see eye to eye with another teacher! Why, their methods are so radically different that they could never work together in any productive manner! It is the common mistake of the student to believe that there is only one "way" of doing anything. The funny thing is, the more you study something- anything from acting to carpentry to theology- you'll find that there are an infinite number of ways to address any issue. The point is to learn the form and within that there is freedom.

The way actors fight defending their teachers is much the way different Christian sects battle one another or (as I have previously discussed) women will hold tight to parenting strategies or self-help gurus. We do a lot of this here in America. Communities have become so insular, so tiny, even in the biggest of places. For example, most New Yorkers I know don't have a fucking clue how Bush got reelected. Why? Because our social networks are so small that after high school we stop running into people who don't think like us. We avoid them like the plague. However, when we DO encounter "them" we tend to walk away thinking the other person is a damn fool not to have seen "the truth" the way we have. Whether it is politics, religion, economics, race, music, art or Star Trek we tend to get really worked up so that any and all situations are black and white. Either you are with us, or against us. Even my beloved social liberals have demanded that we always tow the party line. We have become so compartmentalized as a society that we push anyone who doesn't fit into our preconceived notions of "liberal", "conservative", "teacher", "politician", "parent", etc out to the edge. We shun them and completely dismiss anything they might have to say. (With the possible exception of John McCain)

But that's not the way people work. We are much more complex than that. Our thoughts, passions and beliefs do not come in prefabricated, modular boxes from IKEA. That may make things a bit more difficult and time consuming to sort through- but in the end isn't it worth it? What would it be like if we, as a society, once again valued discourse? What if we could stop taking a difference of opinion as a personal attack? What if we demanded that listening be a national obsession? What if we stepped back for a moment and agreed that being "right" (whatever the hell that means) is not as important as being fair? What if we actually took our professed love for rugged individualism seriously and took in each person as a person instead of an affiliation?

Of course, one of my own contradictions in this area is just how opinionated I am. However, I like to think of myself as a passionate student of ambiguity. What truly fascinates and motivates me are things I do not understand. I want to understand and I want others to want to understand. I know that right now things seem so important. Too important, in fact, to question your beliefs. I'd like to submit the argument that it is times like these when it is MOST important to challenge and question your own beliefs. That's what times like these are for. Ignore that and you just may have missed the opportunity to change the world.

Aw C'mon Ladies!

So I recently made my admission that I was wrong about feminism and that I wanted back in. I wanted to be a part of a sisterhood and I wanted it to be productive. I was all ready for the warm, warm fuzzies of being a part of womankind.

Then what happens?

I got ditched by a girlfriend who wants to see me, but has a hard time having a relationship with me while my kid is around. Well- YOU AND ME BOTH SISTER! But at least I TRY! Look, child care is not easy to find and sometimes I have to spend six days in a row without a break from my kid. Yeah, boo hoo, but it wouldn't be so bad if my fucking friends would reach out and just spend time with me. And, if you're so worried about my brain turning to mush, then why don't you drag your ass over to my house every once in a while to give me a little break instead of complaining about how I've legally changed my name to "Mom"?

Look, I understand it is difficult and distracting but it is my life and I have to make the best of it. If you haven't noticed, I'm pretty fucking lonely and could use the company even if the conversation is peppered with "Put that down!" "No, this is Mommy's grown up time...". Damn, you see why I find women so irritating? Most of my girlfriends take their own sweet time to return my phone calls, if they return them at all (except for my Mom friends who grab the phone immediately- just as desperate for adult interaction as I am) and have no problem ditching me. This was not an isolated incident.

What also bothers me is that I can be counted on and ladies will take advantage. I'll help you out but when it comes to just being friendly with me and lending me a little support by showing up I get nothing. I'm always the girl you can break a date with if something better comes along. Well, that sucks.

See, this is where I fall on Hetero Man again. I always expect they'll let me down, but it is rare that they ever do. All my men friends keep their promises. They show up. They even show up ON TIME and don't make me wait. They'll humor my kid. They'll treat him like a human being instead of a cute talking toy with no off-switch. Sometimes I get the feeling that they actually ENJOY my child! Perhaps it is because they are accustomed to and most comfortable with conversations that aren't deeply personal and can afford interruptions. Frankly, I don't care what it is I'm just frustrated and angry that I have a hard time counting on other women, in general.

Now, we all know this is not a hard and fast rule, I am just hurt and pissed right now. Since I've experienced this most recent slight I am going to open the floodgates of things that have seriously irked me since I became a mother. Hold onto your hats...

Where the fuck does any woman get off preaching to another woman about how they raise their kids? Talk about your experience, that's fine and necessary- but when did your word become freaking law? I have a friend who has a six week old. She tried her best for natural childbirth but, in the end she had a cesarean. We were discussing this at a picnic and she was sharing her experience when a woman WITH NO KIDS started preaching about the evils of cesarean births and railing about the medical establishment. Now, my poor friend had clearly been disappointed by the fact that she did not have the birth experience she had planned on having. Why did this other woman have to come over and rub her nose in it? If you ask me, any birth experience that ends in a breathing baby is a good one so back the fuck off!

What is with all the competition and judgement? In the past few years I have overheard playground conversations between mothers that have made my toes curl. I was a breastfeeder. I did it for 2 1/2 years and I will probably do it again. Not sure how long, but when the time is right the time is right. But I certainly don't expect everyone else to do it. I remember a couple of women having a very loud conversation in the park in front of a woman bottle feeding her infant. The two women were very loud in proclaiming the superiority of breastfeeding and how much smarter and healthier their children were going to be than bottlefed babies. It wasn't their information or their childrearing choices that bothered me. It was their rudeness and their holier-than-thou attitude. I've had it with that shit.

I've had it with the schoolgirl bullshit and the little cliques. I've had it with the little judgements I feel when I let a little too much about my non-child life slip to a new mom-friend in the park. You know, that tight lipped "Oh" follwed by an eye roll that says "You're not the high quality kind of mother I want to associate with." I'm tired of staying at home and devoting all of my body and soul to my son so that I have nothing left for myself. I'm tired and, sometimes, I want a break. I feed my kid red yogurt in a tube. Sometimes we have cold pizza for dinner. Sometimes I don't have any vegetables in the house. Sometimes we watch two movies in one day. Sometimes my son plays with toy guns and swords. Sometimes I say things like, "I don't care how much you want X, we have to do Y... BECAUSE I SAID SO!" Sometimes I raise my voice. Sometimes we watch absolutely worthless, non-educational crap and we like it. Sometimes I just sit on my ass and that is okay. My kid is a great kid and even when I screw up or I don't do it exactly like the books say- I'm a damn good mother. Go look down your nose at someone else.

I still want in- but some things have got to change around here. There can't be any kind of sisterhood while we keep up this kind of crap. If you don't compete with me for "Woman of the Year" I promise I won't compete with you. I'll just be something simple like, a friend.

PTMD

Several months ago our family suffered from a little mouse problem in our apartment building. I haven't seen, heard or otherwise seen any signs of mouse activities in months. Even so, I've found myself in the kitchen at night imagining mice running over my feet.

I think I have Post Traumatic Mouse Disorder.

Bored, Restless, Dissatisfied

I've been reading a lot of non-fiction these days. Essays, memoirs, and the social, economic and/or political analysts that have had a recent boom on the Barnes and Noble front table have been keeping me up late at night. I'm surprised to find myself taking on the reading habits of my father who shunned fiction for its inability to capture his imagination. I used to think he was an idiot for saying so. Now I completely understand where he is coming from.

With the notable exception of Harry Potter (I love that little brat!) I've been finding myself rather jaded about fiction. I keep reading it like a writer hopelessly criticizing style, structure, punctuation, and story line. It is much like my complete inability to watch a film or a theatre piece without analyzing. The only time I can lay back and relax is when facts have been compartmenalized and analyzed for me. Then my mind can wander about in a field of information cheerfully picking little buds of knowledge and rearranging them in an attractive bouquet to sit on my mental mantle. I hate to say it, but non-fiction has become (GASP!) more entertaining than entertainment.

Why is fiction driving me crazy? Well, I keep running into stories that are, well, really boring. Or worse, have no real insight. Some are just plain style over substance. I'll admit, I haven't even been able to LOOK at a Tom Robbins novel in over a decade. I have found that most fiction is a not so clever mask for some kind of social agenda.

Maybe it is what I am attracted to reading. It seems counterintuitive that I should be annoyed by agendas (especially rather liberal agendas like my own) but maybe it's not the agenda itself but rather the lack of real exploration. Allow me to unravel my shaky sort of logic here, but I enjoy watching someone struggle with their own beliefs. I like to seem them challenged and either change their mind or discover that they are correct and they redouble their efforts at something or other. I believe that all great art begins with a question- not an answer.

Not so long ago I read the novel "I Don't Know How She Does It" and it (clearly) pissed me off. The story of a woman dealing with juggling a high powered career, a marriage and two young children was really a shallow, right wing morality tale about heartless careerism and its toll on the family masquerading as a feminist treastice on choices. Not only did the message turn me off but its onion skin bait and switch tactic made me feel cheap for having finished reading it. I felt no "discovery" in the story. There was no journey. It was just a straight shot from "Mommy works" to "Working Mommy is a BAD Mommy".

Now, I'm not a complete idiot. I know that nonfiction has it's agendas, too. But at least it doesn't pretend to be my friend while trying to sell me on a point of view. It is just simply arguing a point. That's it. No bullshit. Honestly, I have found more real journeys in the nonfiction that I have read lately than in the fiction. (The most notable and rather disgusting journey has been a book called "Rats"- gross but fascinating.) I've found more questioning and searching on the backs of cereal boxes.

It's the same with film, tv, and theatre. Boring, boring, boring. There is a reluctance to search these days. A reluctance to challenge one's self. Why do you believe what you believe? Are you right? Are you wrong? Does it truly matter if you are right or wrong? Are you contributing to a greater good? Is there even such a thing as "greater good"? When we stop searching, stop questioning we wither on the vine. Perhaps challenging yourself is painful? Hard on the ego to admit that you may have been mistaken? Is it giving "comfort to the enemy" to explore their position and find out what it is that attracts them to certain beliefs? Or would understanding make your position stronger?

I'm a pretty opinionated person. I am the first to admit that I can hold pretty tightly to my own assumptions, but I want to be better. I want artists and scientists, economists and politicians to be a part of the challenge. I want to see people struggle, like I do, with their visions of the world and themselves. If, at the end of the struggle, they come up with conclusions that might not necessarily be mine- so be it. As long as they make the attempt to look around themselves and really see what is there.

The Orange Parable

Once upon a time there was an orange.

This was no ordinary orange. This was a thoughtful and self-reflecting orange who desperately wanted the keys to knowledge of this mysterious thing called "self". So the orange set on his way to understand his self and decided the best way to do so, would be to ask questions.

The orange went to the tree, for the tree had given him life and had known him the longest.

"Tree, what am I?" asked the orange.

"You are round and you are heavy." Replied the tree, "There are so many heavy things on my branches, I can scarcely hold myself up. It is best that you have gone to the ground."

The orange felt terrible. All ready he had burdened that which had given him life and when he looked up, he saw that he was just one of many burdens this tree had to bear. What a noble tree this must be, to have shouldered so many heavy burdens and sent them on their way toward life. The orange felt unworthy.

The orange rolled away and soon came to a young boy.

"Boy, what am I?" asked the orange.

"You are a toy!" shrieked the little boy with delight as he picked up the orange and flung him at the side of a building.

The orange slid down the side of the building with a dull thud. He could feel his insides loosen though his flesh was well intact. Besides feeling sore and confused, the orange felt sorrow that such a senseless act should be committed against him. The orange wondered what it was he had done to bring this upon himself.

The orange was then visited by a bird.

"Bird, what am I?" asked the orange.

"You are a tease!" squawked the bird," You taunt me with your beautiful orange color, but your skin is so tough, I cannot get inside you!"

The bird pecked and pecked at the orange until he finally pierced the thick flesh and let the sweet, sticky juice run out the newly opened seam. After prying him open, drinking his fill and absconding with some of his seeds, the bird flew away.

The orange felt frightened and lonely. In his quest for self he had discovered that he had been an immense burden, that he was a toy to be played with, and a tease to be brutalized and punished for his elegant orange hide. What a worthless thing he must be in order to be treated thus! The orange burst at his wounded seam and cried.

The sun had noticed these goings on and spoke to the orange.

"Little orange, I see you have been asking what you are to anyone who passes by- why have you not asked the most important one that question?" The sun inquired.

"All right, sun," sniffed the orange, "what am I?"

"To the tree you were heavy, because the tree is the tree. The tree knows nothing of being anything else. To the boy, you are a toy, because you are round and inviting and let yourself lay upon the ground for easy hands to grab at you. To the bird you were a hard won treat, vulnerable to his pecking because of your previous encounters. To me, you are soft, sticky and of little consequence except it is my duty to warm you and send you back to the ground from where you came."

"So I am completely worthless and this life has no meaning except to be pummeled and poked at, stolen from and left to rot?" The orange did not feel any better. He simply frowned and resorted to sarcasm, "Well, thank you, Sun for clearing that up."

The Sun smiled warmly and patiently, "But I am not yet finished little orange. I have asked you why you have not asked the most important one that question...

Impatiently and angrily the orange shouted, "BUT I ALREADY ASKED YOU!"

There was a moment of silence and the sun smiled again.

"No, little orange. Everyone has a different perception. You will never discover self if you define yourself only by what others tell you or by how they behave. They have no knowledge of what lies truly within your soul. Only you can answer that question with any truth. You must never assume that anyone else has the answers to the deepest questions of your heart. You are an orange, little one, beyond that I cannot say. Nor can anyone else."

The orange quietly considered the sun's words- as there was nothing left he COULD do- and as he pondered he felt the warmth of the sun caressing his back. The orange wept once again, but this time not from grief, sorrow or self pity, but from relief. The orange wept all of his sweetness and pulp into the ground. The ground gratefully accepted this gift and brought it to the tree who, in turn, lived another year and sprouted another blossom, who, in turn, became another orange...

Life is too short to wonder how everyone else sees you. Chances are they do not see you at all, for they are only concerned with how others see them. Be what you are, little orange, and you will always be yourself.

Cute kid alert

Okay, this one is actually kind of stupid and is a bit out of character for me to find funny, but I have to admit that I found it hysterical.

Sullivan was running around the house naked, as is his habit in the late afternoons, when he farted. (Those of you that know me well know just how hard it is for me to bring this up or even spell the word fart) I looked at him to see what his reaction was going to be. He paused then said, "I didn't poop, Mom," another thoughtful pause then with all the sizzle of a Vegas stage show said, "I did... MAGIC!" This was followed by jazz hands.

A Public Apology

I'm not above admitting that I am wrong. Here goes. I was wrong. Distancing myself from feminism was horribly wrong. Even though I believe the same things (Women are entitled to equal rights, equal pay, and equal respect whether they work in or out of the home) and I have not waivered in those beliefs I have found it distasteful to include myself in their ranks. I think, however, there is a lesson in just WHY I was wrong. You see, when I fuck up, I fuck up big and for really bad reasons.

What turned me off feminism was other women. Individual women I love. Women as a group, as market consumers, and as fork tongued mistresses of cruelty I despise. In particular, 16-24 year old feminists turned me off the movement completely. I admit, my views were formed when I was that age and even though I knew the facts about how the movement started and what it was all about it seemed to me that it had been hijacked by bitchy little girls who wanted nothing more than to add my sob stories to their rallying cry for mandatory male castration. I know now that they were young and stupid and did not represent the feminist ideal. Turns out I was young and stupid, too.

Like most girls I grew up with my share of battle scars from dating. I'm certain that I had caused a few doozies in my day as well. I was thankful that none of these boys had used me as an excuse to become some poor trod upon statistic in some man-club. (Maybe they did, I never heard about it) But my experience was that these girls were rooting for me to become a statistic. One in four. One in four. One in four. Another voice to cry out RAPE!

Now, I must interject at this moment that rape concerns me to the greatest degree. I do worry that the objectification of women makes the world a more dangerous place for everyone. Rape is one of the most brutal, terrifying, and deplorable tresspasses that can be made on another human being. However, when I was growing up it seemed that rape had a very broad definition and that a young girl could change her mind after the fact and retroactively say "no!". I admit that for a brief time I was one of those girls. Not because I had truly been traumatized by what had been a very poor decision on my part but because everyone else was sad for me. Maybe I should be sad for me, too? Maybe I was taken advantage of! Maybe I was totally helpless and unable to fend for myself and that boy should be demonized and burned in effigy for having seen an opportunity to be intimate with his girlfriend who- though impaired- was clearly saying "yes".

Where was my responsibility in all this? Wouldn't the true idea of feminism be that I had a responsibility to myself and my own safety? Wouldn't true feminism say that I was capable of making my own decisions? After all, I did dearly love this boy. But the pull of the peer group can be so hard to ignore and the role of victim so dramatic and enticing. After my flirtation with drama I began to feel that this was wrong. The injustice of my claim made it all the more difficult for other real victims to have the credibility they so deserved. But the girls needed a story. They needed another story to prove their point. Men suck.

I heard that boy put his hand through a window and after his initial emergency room visit was placed in the care of doctors in the psych ward. He was there for a few days. Years later I would apologize but really, how good is an apology when someone is so roundly rejected and libeled to boot?

No. I can't blame feminism for that. It has taken me a long time to recognize that. I made the decision to ignore my true feelings and be welcomed and accepted by other young women instead. Even though I told them initially that I was confused but not upset I kept seeing the skeptical looks and hearing the constant refrain, "Are you sure? You can tell me, I'm your friend." It seemed that everyone wanted me to play the role of victim, everyone wanted me to cry, everyone wanted me to have deep wounds and- always the actress- I obliged.

I have only myself to be angry with, but for many years it was easier to be angry with the girls who poked and prodded me for feelings that didn't exist.

Then there is my irritation with women in general. I want to have some sort of meaningful connection with my own gender but I don't want to talk about how fat you are. I don't care about jewelery. I hate most chick flicks and I love men. Not in any lecherous sort of way (but I never say no to a cute pool boy!) but in a motherly sense. For as much wrong as any man has ever inflicted upon be I have felt the deeper stings and lashes from my so-called sisters.

So why the turnabout? Why now? If you can't tell, I've been reevaluating lately. Thinking about myself, my patterns, who I've become and the choices I've made. Particularly in relationship to my role as mother. Two incidents in my childhood best illustrate where I was coming from and the direction I think I am headed.

When I was in my early teens my parents had a black lab named Cricket. Cricket was very high strung and had this jumpy manner. It got much worse when, one night, Cricket was attacked by some wild dogs. (This had been the first and last time I had ever seen or even heard of wild dogs in the area of my home.) During the attack, poor Cricket lost one of her ears and part of her tail. She was, understandably, quite shaken by the experience and her nervousness increased. My parents questioned the vet about this and they were advised, "If you have an uppity bitch, breed her and she'll calm down."

That could just as easily have been said about me.

Second, I remember very clearly a moment with my mother. I must have been about 10 or so and I was waiting for her to hand me a check to bring to school for some field trip or something. I remember that she would always sign Mrs. (My father's full name) as her legal signature. This particular day she stopped writing the check then tore it up. Then she looked at me and said, "My name is Eileen." She then wrote out a new check with her own name in the signature- and she had dropped the Mrs.

That was the only time I can remember my mom really declaring herself as a separate entity from anyone else. She was always my dad's wife and our mother. It really stands out in my mind because I remember being so proud of her at that moment. I wish she would have taken more for herself because now she cannot. Though that moment is raw in my brain what I have swallowed has been her sacrifice. What I have taken has been her model of consummate caregiver, enabler extraordinaire, and fierce defender of her children. I wish she would have valued herself as highly even if it had meant that I would have never been born. As she has loved and sacrificed for me, I would have gladly done the same for her.

So now I sit and wonder what my child would want for me. He wants me to be happy. He has recently taken to telling me as I wake up and as he goes to sleep, "Let me see that smile, Mommy. Keep smiling." I want another child. But I don't want to be tamed and I don't want to watch my spunkier self disappear. Mothering is a lonely profession. I look at the women I love, those with children and without, and I realize that I don't want them tamed, quieted, lied to or disrespected. So, it is with great humility that I request to be let back into the fold.

Of course, you know, I will be loud, boisterous, opinionated and sometimes very, very wrong. I know you wouldn't have me any other way.

On Fruit Flies

If you keep fruit flies in a jar with a lid they will try to find a way out at first. Then, after awhile, they stop trying and will accept their boundaries even if you remove the lid. They will stay inside the jar and live their little lives.

Children who are accustomed to playing in a fenced in playground will also respect those same boundaries once the fence is removed. It takes that special kind of adventurer to explore those trees that had once been beyond the fence.

Me? I've lived with invisible fencing for a long, long time.

Obvious Statements

It's true. Having a child has completely changed the way I look at the world. As a youngster myself, I had grand ideas of my intellectual capacity and felt that my less fortunate peers would perish of their own stupidity. Darwin rules all and my brilliant dog would have her day. Now that I am older I wish I hadn't learned things in such a haphazard manner.

Just about anyone who has the sensitivity of a gnat has had an experience with a child while watching television, a film, or reading a book that was just a little too advanced for their particular developmental stage. You may not recognize it until you see that look of absolute shock- eyelids peeled back, ears retreating toward the back of the skull like scared puppies, and pupils the size of frisbees. It is almost as if, at that moment, the brain has taken in so much information that it begins leaking out of the eyeballs. It is at this moment you instinctively begin censoring yourself, over-explaining the issue, or rushing to turn things off or close them down nervously looking up in the air humming a forced "tra la la la la" until the awkward moment passes. Now, if you've had that moment once, imagine having it every day.

Perhaps I take the constant firing of synapses in my child's brain too seriously. Granted, I'm not Rick Moranis in "Parenthood" but Sullivan's emotional, intellectual and social development rank high on my list of priorities. It is on this front that I have waged my war on popular culture for the past three and a half years. It's not a new war. I have fought it in my own way for at least a couple of decades. Sometimes I am spot on and sometimes I take it a bit too far.

For example, when Sullivan was about a year old I bought this HBO video of "Goodnight Moon". It's a sweet collection with songs and different stories read by various Hollywood notables (the title selection being read my Susan Sarandon) with cute interviews with little kids about dreams, bedtime rituals, and, in a strange dark turn, death. One of the story selections is Mercer Mayer's "There's a Nightmare in My Closet" read by Billy Crystal. Now, this series of stories is one of my favorites in the Mercer Mayer canon, but I ashamed to admit that I have followed Billy Crystal's lead when I read the story to Sullivan. You see, at one point the boy in the story who has decided to rid himself of the dreaded nightmare in his closet threatens the Nightmare with a pop gun by saying "Go away Nightmare, or I'll shoot you!". Turn the page and it reads "I shot him anyway." In Billy Crystal's version he says "...I'll get you" and "I got him anyway." The illustration is exactly the same. So why do I follow along? Especially since I am the only parent in all of fucking Brooklyn that has allowed her 3 year old to have both a toy rifle and a toy pistol?

Ah, the human is a complex animal, is it not? I don't want to make guns and gunplay forbidden because I do not want to make it more attractive than it already is. Plus, when he gets older I am sure he will be offered the opportunity to shoot with his Grandfather and his Uncle and I won't deny him a sport that I once took part in as a young person. He knows I don't much like them. I've told him that guns are designed to kill. He has a vague understanding of the facts, although he still insists on calling it a "fistol" while holding the barrel and shooting through the grips making a noise that sounds like "Hoyle! Hoyle! Hoyle!". Despite my little lesson in holding the gun, use of the trigger and lining up the sites, he prefers his method. However, he is quick to point out to strangers the orange tip on his gun because he does not want to get in trouble with the police. "It's not real!" Well, at least he has accepted that much. Since the idea of the existence of guns and their dangers is begrudgingly accepted by me, why is their use something that I have covered up? Because awful, horrible, bloody death is not really something I want him to know about yet. But he probably should.

Then there are the cold hard facts of life. Animals eat other animals. We (some of us, that is) eat other animals. Sullivan and I have discussed this. Yet, I cannot bring myself to read to him certain sections of "The REAL Story of the 3 Little Pigs as Told by A. Wolf". Told from the wolf's perspective it is pretty funny for a five year old. But I could see that look of absolute shock when it became obvious that in this version of the story the pigs become lunch. In my homespun version the pigs all run to the brick house and dial 911 to have the police to take the stalker wolf away. Forget Hansel and Gretel. I don't think I'll be able to tell that one. Especially since I have a little special place in my heart for witches and I simply cannot malign them by having them eat children. Witches are really cool, I love the pointy hats and noses.

Tom and I took Sullivan to see "March of the Penguins" this weekend. It was a lovely little film, but Sully's death fixation came out at various points throughout the film. "Did they die? Have they died yet? Will it be over when they die? Did it died? Is that one died?" It's a pretty soft film that deals with the harshness of life and death in a fairly gentle way. However, at one point a penguin chick gets eaten by a bird. Sullivan handled it well. "Did it die? It got eaten?" However, this little girl behind me broke my heart. As soon as the bird began pecking at the chick while other chicks were running in terror and some adult penguins looked on dispassionately this girl began wailing with grief. It was the kind of grief you only hear of at funerals for children and pop stars. It just seemed so righteously unfair to her that this should happen. Why is the world like this? She howled for a few moments as her father attemted to comfort her with her brother sitting on his lap. Finally she began sucking in air with great gusto saying "I...just...need to keep...breathing so I ...don't...CRY ANYMORE!" I applaud her determination to cope and face these hard realities, but I wish she never had to be disappointed or hurt like that. Now, I know that isn't realistic and exposing our kids to reality is a duty we owe them. But every once in awhile I howl over the loss of penguin chicks too.

Children's Programming

Is it wrong that I have this incredible urge to kick Caillou's ass?

Why don't they have a show for kids whose parents suck? Since we have this trend of representing absolutely EVERYONE on tv, why not have the dysfunctional family represented? If we could get our lazy asses out of bed I'm sure we'd lobby the entertainment industry for that.

And now, a story...

When Mary quit smoking she was, in a word, bitchy.

It wasn't that Mary had been a heavy smoker, far from it. She smoked socially and whenever she wanted to be social but found no one available. It passed the time. Mary had assumed that quitting would be easy for her since she had never felt the pull of nicotine in any real sense. What she hadn't counted on was how much she would be addicted to the ritual.

Mary missed the delicate size and weight of the actual cigarette. How she had to hold one in her hand on her way outside to light up, rigid fingers but with a light touch so as not to squeeze it. She missed the first sizzle of tobacco, that light "tssssss" that would usher in acrid smoke mixed with tranquility. More than anything, she missed having seven minutes several times a day filled with a specific activity. It was an activity she enjoyed and her enslavement to it gave her excuses to put off less desirable activities even if only for a few minutes.

Now Mary had all this time to think, to be with herself and with the alien that had taken away her little hobby. Mary had an intruder in her body, one she had sworn to protect even though her anxiety told her that would be an impossible task.

When Mary had discovered that she was pregnant she was, by all accounts, quite happy about the arrangement. How lovely! Babies are wonderful and soft little baby things are so comforting to have around. But beyond Mary's sudden obsession with learning lullabys was an intense fear of failure. She had had no real role models of modern motherhood. She was the first of her friends to get pregnant and imagined she would be alone in that catagory for a long time to come. Her friends seemed to think it quaint that Mary was the first in their crew to succomb to her biological clock. After all, wasn't it Mary that would knock back shot after shot of tequila on a Monday night and declare that she would never, never ruin her beloved career by stopping to do something as base as procreate? Sex, yes. Baby, no.

Her friends knew her better. They would sit at the bar and smile, knowing with absolute certainty that Mary would be the first to go. Her tequila time was limited and they knew it. It was obvious. Mary took care of everyone and it was only a matter of time before she challenged her caretaking compulsion with a 24/7 job. If anyone needed anything, Mary was the go to gal. Even people who disliked her would come to her for help.

In 8th grade science Mary had the misfortune of being partnered with Jessica Milton. Jessica did nothing but taunt her about her clothes, her music, her friends, and her father's job. Working with Jessica had been a living hell. Then one day while bent over a pig fetus Jessica whispered to her.

"Do you ever feel like life just isn't worth living?"

Mary's highly tuned jerk sensor was blazing in her head. You're being set up! Run away! Run away! But Mary just couldn't ignore Jessica's question. Even though images were swimming in her head of Jessica's friends accosting her in the hall making crybaby noises and pretending to slice their wrists with their pencils, she couldn't stop herself from taking Jessica seriously. Mary decided that being a kind person was more important than guarding herself from further ridicule. With a deep sigh, Mary responded.

"Sure. Sometimes."

It was then that Jessica showed her the deep wounds on her shoulder. It was an odd moment, both girls entering uncharted waters both personally and socially. Mary smiled and gently lifted her black peasant skirt to reveal evidence of her own battle with herself. Then she added,

"But this isn't forever. I'll stop doing this someday and you will too."

That was true. At least for Mary. She did stop mutilating herself and she did find the love of her life and she did find herself a career and was enjoying life. Then the alien came.

With the alien came the realization that this kid would be predisposed to being angry with her. Not because of what she does, necessarily, but because of who she is. It's the old parent's curse. I HOPE YOU HAVE ONE JUST LIKE YOU! And hadn't she been awfully hard on her own parents? Didn't she still despise the inequitable union that had created her? No marriage is perfect and no one can bring a child into this world without screwing them up in some way. Now that she was knee deep in this pregnancy, could she accept the fact that she was doomed to fail?

Not only that, but she was already sensing a rapid shift in her friendships. Her girlfriends were assuming that she didn't want to be invited out anymore. They always wore condescending smiles on their faces as if they wanted to treat her nicely before she faded into the oblivion of layettes and mommy and me classes. Something which her friends, admittedly, found useless and boring. Her male friends were quick to make rather unsavory comments about her having more 'junk in the trunk' now that she was mommy-bound. Her co-workers were already salivating on her office furniture asking not-so-subtle questions about her maternity leave. They had seen it before and had predicted that she wouldn't be coming back.

Mary struggled to get out of her rather uncomfortable office chair. She waddled across the room to fetch another chair to put her feet on. In the last week or so, the edema in her legs had become unbearable. As she settled back into her chair and raised her feet she couldn't help but curse herself for being so huge. Her eyes glanced over some headshots on her desk and she began to shuffle through them once more, looking for that perfect face to sell soap. Being fat, even being justifiably fat, in the entertainment industry is a woefully depressing thing. It doesn't help that people seem to think it is cute to walk up to a pregnant woman they know and exclaim, "WOW! YOU'RE HUGE!".

The phone rings and when Mary answers she is comforted to hear Max's voice on the line.

"Hiya Mare. How's my little mama?"

"Hi, Max. I'm okay, my legs are fucking killing me though."

"Sorry. How 'bout I give you a good rub down tonight when I get home?"

"Delicious. What time will you be home?"

"I dunno, maybe 8 or 9:00. Want me to bring home something?"

"Nah, I should probably cook something tonight. I need to watch my salt."

"Okay. I'll see you tonight. Call me if you need anything."

"Thanks, Max."

Mary hung up the phone and smiled. Max is one of the most delightful creatures on the planet. He's a man protecting his seed. He's not always sure how to do it, but he tries so hard. It's hard not to feel a tiny bit lucky with a man like that around.

There was a strange little gurgle inside Mary and she couldn't help but silently wish for this whole business to be over and done with. No sooner had Mary thought this when she either felt or heard (she can't say with any certainty which it was or if it was both) a pop and suddenly she was sitting in a very wet chair.

The clock read 3:14. Mary's water had broken.

All about the B-Girl

I'd like to leave a little note of thanks and a favorite memory of my dear friend Britt. You'll note a link to Britt's Blog, Hookers on Stilts directly to your right. Which I added because she left a rather quixotic (in my mind) link on her blog to mine. That is neither here nor there. But then, I can only assume, she visited my blog and was flattered by my honest opinion of her (she is wicked smart and painfully beautiful!) and then left a little "hey check this out", mentioning my blog in one of her posts. Are you getting all this down? If you want the specific quotes- follow the link and check her out, but I am going to call her on a teeny bit of bullshit in a minute. But first, my favorite Britt memory.

Back in the day when Britt and I were sharing a sweet little hovel in Minneapolis we used to partake in all manner of snack time treats. One particular morning, Britt and I had headed off to purchase doughnuts at a nearby bakery. The doughnut snob behind the counter was obviously not enjoying our half-asleep, unemployable, cute girl type banter and when Britt inquired about the price of a particular chocolate covered morsel Doughnut Geek pounced.

"You mean the beignet?" She rolled her eyes and over emphasized the Frenchness of the word then smirked, confident in her superiority.

Britt looked thoughtful for a moment "Beignet? Hmmm" then she spat out in a typical display of Britt sarcasm, "Beignet- that must be French for 'doughnut that costs a dollar'."

Man, I love Britt.

Here's the bullshit now. Britt tends to overstate my goodness by saying that I have morals and values implying that she does not. Well that's a load of horse shit. I'm no plastic Christmas tree angel and, despite her wildly entertaining talk, Britt's got a fucking heart of gold and a very specific code of ethics. Sorry, Britt, but aside from being a character, you actually HAVE character and I know because you've shown it to me. Of course you showed it to me in the bathroom while grabbing my hair and screaming "Here's my fucking character, bitch!", but I did say 'specific code of ethics' didn't I?