Where did the day go?

Exactly? Where the hell did it go?

And why does my rug smell like pee?

We just can't have nice things.

VALIDATE ME!

I've come to the conclusion that I don't have any real issues. My only issue is that I have issues only so that others are encouraged to talk me out of those issues. Pay attention to me! Love me! Tell me I'm good and ever so smart! Grade me, evaluate me! Praise my potential!

You know, I don't think I'd be friends with me. I'd be so irritated by my fascination with myself that I would be jealous that I am not paying attention to me because I am so focused on myself that I don't hang out with me anymore.

There must be a doughnut in this house somewhere...

Protest Pop

I actually sat through the PBS documentary "Get Up Stand Up" hosted by Chuck D. This was a sucky doc. It was supposed to be about the rich history of protest in pop music. I'm sorry, but just because Madonna sang "Get Into the Groove" at Live Aid does not make it a protest song. You could spend two hours on the impact of "We Shall Overcome", "This Land is Your Land", "The Times They Are A-Changin'", or Bob Marley's entire career, take your pick- but giving me an hour of early 20th Century folk into the Civil Rights movement followed by an hour of the impact of Bob Geldoff and Bono is really...uninspiring. As far as their examples of modern "protest pop" Paul McCartney's slap dash "Freedom" does not hold a candle to Neil Young's "Ohio". "smells like teen spirit" is not a protest song. Protesting what? Stupid young 'uns? And even though it was hosted by Chuck D it completely whitewashed (pun intended) the impact and importance of rap and hip hop as a form of social and political protest. They spent much more time on punk in the 70's than on rap and hip hop.

I feel totally unsatisfied. I was looking to get riled. Now I am going to have to stay up past my bedtime to break out some Bob Dylan and maybe play a little Last American Poets on the turn table, or at least some Sly and the Family Stone. It's so frustrating. Missing a date with a muse is like that orgasm you were about to have but you got distracted and the moment passed and you can't ever get that moment back. But you try. Oh God do you try!

Path of Least Resistance

Right now I am avoiding things. See, I'm even avoiding being specific about what I am avoiding. Oh, this is going to get worse before it gets better.

When I was in acting school we were encouraged to do the things to which we had a natural, gut-level feeling of resistance. The idea is that resistance is fear. That which you fear must be confronted to discover deeper truth. There you will find wisdom, strength and vulnerability- and hopefully an Oscar statuette with your name engraved on it. Actor training in New York is so much spiritual practice with promised monetary bonuses. Hard to reconcile, but it is what it is.

I did it again. I don't know if you noticed it, but I have this cynical habit. I cannot trust anything. My acting training (which, corny as it sounds, is like my church, my spirituality) has been soured by its focus on money and fame. Just because there is a yucky side to something should not make the truth you discover from it a lie. For example, if a liar tells you the sky is blue, is the sky any less blue? I don't know. I can tell you that I have a hard time accepting that information. In some ways, I feel I deny myself the opportunity to make money at what I do because somewhere, deep inside I feel that if I make money I will be a traitor to my art and my soul. Money and comfort will kill my art. Which is a damn funny thing to think, considering that the lack of money and comfort have not done too much FOR my art. But I never said I wasn't a dumb ass.

I had this conversation yesterday with a man that I do have a genuine affection for, but generally think he is a naive, old fool. He told me that I need to stop doing work at this amatuer level and just take the big leap and someone there will help carry me further. He said that I am just too talented and that I have what it takes to bring something new and interesting to the world. I want to believe that. That is so what I want to hear. But, what the hell does he know?

I've been avoiding so much in my life out of fear. It has gotten to the point where all roads are now blocked and I will not be able to move forward until I face these fears. I'm actually afraid of making money. I'm afraid of losing authenticity. I'm afraid of comfort. I'm afraid of losing control. I'm afraid of losing my self. I am afraid that if I am too honest too loud that I will lose friends and family. I am afraid of making art that is not honest. I am afraid no one will care.

Strap on the helmet and buckle the safety belts. Here we go.

Apple Pie and Liberal Patriots

I may not like the direction my country is headed and I may not like our elected leaders, but I love my country.

Let's face it. I'm liberal. Most of my friends are somewhat liberal (some not so much, but it takes all kinds, right?) but I am disturbed and saddened by all this America bashing. I'm not going to throw the baby out with the bath water. I love the ideals upon which this nation was built. Have we achieved all these ideals? Not by a long shot, baby, but does that mean I need to hide my face in shame because I am an American?

I have a few foreigners (pronounced fer-i-nerz) as friends. For a while they had taken to introducing me to their fellow countrymen as "not like other Americans". I don't think that is at all true. It may be true that I am not like other New Yorkers- but I am like many, many Americans. I am an independant thinking, socially liberal, fiscally moderate, stout hearted, beef eating, mid-westerner and there are a hell of a lot of us out there. The only difference between those that still reside in the midwest and me is that I was in New York in 2001 and I am not terrified.

We made a mistake in 2000 and 2004. I didn't vote for W, but I am not going to be a spoiled little brat and start chanting "I told you so! I told you so!". I'm not going to bring in my flag or wear whiney little slogans like "He's not MY President!". What good does that do? Does it lessen the political divide? Does it change the outcome of the election? Does it bring our troops back from Iraq, clear the streets of New Orleans, feed the hungry, comfort the sick, or stop genocide? No. It's just a bunch of whining. Just like I tell Sullivan, "I cannot solve the problem with you whining at me!"

That isn't to say we shouldn't hold those in power responsible for their incompetence, selfishness, and stupidity. But we must also question how we, the people, let an administration shift the balance of power so dramatically and left it in the hands of some of the most incompetant boobs ever to hold public office. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance, and we sold our freedom up the river for the lie of security. Life is never a secure thing, but you can strive for your freedom if you live here. In America.

Liberal New Yorkers don't understand how Bush was elected because here the political landscape was decidedly anti-Bush. Telling New Yorkers that the Patriot Act is bad is like telling 3 year olds that cupcakes are tasty. No arguments here. No discourse. All choir, all the time. Would things have been different if we could actually discuss issues with one another without the sound bite? Without the sales pitch or the talking points? What if we valued what others had to say? Even those who disagree with us? You don't have to agree, but you can hear them out. Maybe things would change in this country. Maybe we might discover that we have more in common and work from there.

This last weekend I went to see the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. I can't help but get a little weepy in the presence of American history. I was raised to love our history, celebrate it and be proud of how far we, as a nation have come. After all, what other nation has been founded on such a radical philosophy? When I see the Liberty Bell, or the Statue of Liberty who winks at me from the harbor every day, I am reminded of the hope and optimism of the people that started this big experiment. A truly American thought is that there is some good in the hearts of all mankind and that we can and should count on it. We have lost faith in one another, in ourselves, and in the principles and values that truly hold us together as a nation. Our leaders have divided us, but we have let them. That is the beauty and the burden of the American system... We the People. We are still the "boss" and we have voices that can move the government to finally work for us. We have become complacent, afraid and deeply divided because it was in the best interest of politicians greedy for power. WE employ them. If you don't like something, stop pointing fingers at blue states or red states and claiming persecution due to your religious, sexual, political, or personal affiliations and start speaking loud and proud about who and what you are. Then listen with respect to the other guy.

It is about time we threw this red state blue state bull shit away and painted our map a nice shade of purple, because in truth, that is what we really are.

Pissed off

Well, I had just spent an hour writing a really good post and it got fucking eaten in the system somehow and I can't find it anywhere. An hour of my life gone and I am pretty pissed about it. I'm too dishearted to try writing it again. Maybe later.

Philadelphia Freedom

Sometimes things just fall into place.

Sara called me this week asking if I would be able to get away for the weekend. In typical Sara fashion she had an itinerary already available, all I needed to do was show up. Tom wasn't working, so Sullivan was covered. There's a little cash in the kitty, so that turned out. We agreed to book our Amtrak tickets seperately and arranged to meet at Penn Station Saturday morning. Now here is a tale about what a good attitude can get you.

On our way to pick up our tickets we see that all the trains are suspended do to a massive power failure. Now, this is the point where I would normally freak out and start cursing the heavens and screaming about how the world is so unkind to me. Instead, Sara and I took our coffees to the long, long line for the counter to see if we could refund our tickets and figure out our next step. How the hell were we going to get to Philly?

After standing in line and just calmly shooting the shit about how much we appreciate the British custom of scathingly honest yet highly structured political discourse, Sara decided to call Amtrak while we were waiting in line to check out our options and come up with a game plan. Well, we refunded our tickets and booked a car for the drive, left the line and headed to the Upper West to pick up the car.

This was all done swiftly and politely. The customer service reps we contacted actually provided customer service (RARE) and were courteous and efficeint. We marveled at how different this same trip would be if we had taken significant others or children along. Surely this would be painful and stressful were we not with each other. Then fortune smiled at us at the Hertz counter.

We encountered another long line, but did not panic as it was barely 11:00- still a full day ahead. Nor did we doubt our ability to make it through Jersey without a detailed route planned for us by Mapquest. (New Jersey has some of the worst signage in the nation and it is pretty easy to doubt where you are and near impossible to figure out where you are going.) We approached the Hertz representative and were given a car at a much lower price than we had been quoted on the phone. As if that wasn't reward enough, the car we were given was a cherry red, Mustang convertable. Oh baby! It was too good to be true and it just seemed like we were being set up for some tragic events that would end in us running from the law. It didn't matter, we put the top down anyway.

We made it to Philly in record time and had a great day just enjoying one another's company and support. We ate, drank, walked, walked, and walked, then we ate and drank some more. We had a lovely hotel room, Trading Spaces and a Sunday New York Times to read over our morning coffee.

Sara is my oldest and dearest friend in the world. No one knows me better and yet still has the courtesy to surprise and be surprised at the appropriate occassions. This was the ambitious girl who played "Barbara Walters Interview" with me over root beer flavored New York Seltzer and Choco Blisses. She's never laughed at my dreams but also never hesitated to tell me when I was being a dumb ass. Sometimes we argue, but for the most part we prop each other up and try to help each other see the bigger picture. I got sentimental at the sight of the Liberty Bell. She understood. She freaked out a little about some turtle soup. Hey, I get that. We were "naughty" and smoked cigarettes like silly school girls, retired to our hotel room by midnight and were sound asleep by 1:00. That's just who we are and it's nice to be around someone who won't laugh at me for being lame. I had a spectacular, relaxing weekend and I might just be a little better person because of it.

Completely Empty

I got nothin'.

I've been staring at the screen trying to think of something to blog about, but I've come up with a big zero. Nothin. I'm done.

The only reason I mention it at all is because it is so rare that I have absolutely nothing to talk about that perhaps you may want to light a candle and mark this day on your calendar. September 23, 2005- the day Bree wasn't flapping her beak all night long. You can tell your children that you lived through that day and enjoyed the silence.

Ahhhh...

Weird Guilt

I went out and bought a book of Bible stories for preschoolers today. After much thought and consideration I have decided that a major part of understanding life on this planet has to do with understanding the Big Three religions. My intention is to give Sullivan a base of understanding of the Christian faith. Why? Because it is the one I was raised with. It would be develpmentally disasterous to try and give him the whole package of world religion at the age of four (almost). One thing at a time. As he grows older and gains more experience in and with the world, we will explore other world religions together. I think it will be particularly useful as questions will arise about why people just can't seem to get along. But, I felt like I was betraying a bit of myself by purchasing it.

I'm not an athiest. I am willing to believe in a higher organizational power to the universe, but I don't pretend to know what that power is. Could be God. Could be Math. It could be a giant African Parrot named Ed. I don't know. I am also willing to entertain the idea that this is all just one random, meaningless accident. But, my childlike need for structure and stability clings to order. It just feels better. Besides, whether I am wrong or whether I am right or whether I have only bits and pieces right- it really doesn't change the outcome one bit. I'm still going to die.

When it comes to organized religion I have only two thoughts: The theater of religious ritual is intriguing and sometimes overwhelmingly beautiful and Jesus was pretty cool. Beyond that I find organized religion to be pretty scary. I am frightened of anything that has all the answers but won't let you ask the questions. My need for individuality automatically fights against being linked with any particular group or philosophy. I need my "out", my escape hatch into the realm of ambiguity.

However, I came to these conclusions by being exposed to religious thought in my formative years. I had already formed my value system. How do I help Sullivan form his without a blueprint? So I bought the Bible. (I already have one of my own, a Gideon's stolen from a hotel room the night of my senior prom, how's that for values?) Now down to the nitty gritty. Here's what bothers me most, and this is an honest admission, the artwork sucks.

All these cheesy little Bibles have horrible illustrations. All the heroic figures, like Jesus or Moses, look like they are squeezing their butt cheeks together so hard that it passes for a look of wonder and awe. All the tragic or misguided characters, like Jonah and Cain, look slow and dim witted like a love child of Eyeore and Droopy Dog, without the sense of humor. These illustrations lack imagination and creativity. Do I really want my child exposed to that when we could watch a Miyazaki film, read a Roald Dahl book, or look at great religious icons from a more classical period? Those Christian conservatives don't want to save me! If they did, they'd have better illustrations and do a better job of paraphrasing for children while still keeping the quotables intact. I'm talking style and presentation here!

How disappointing.

PPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTTT!

I don't want to work. I don't want to solve problems. I don't even want coffee. (GASP!) My main email account is down and I am alone in the house- which is both a good thing and a bad thing. I'm restless but in a fairly decent mood. I want to make the best of my next couple of hours of freedom, but not sure just how to do that.

Oh, this morning I said "pissed" to my son's pre-K teacher and I feel really stupid about it. You'd think a thing like that wouldn't bother me much, but it does. Here's the idiotic background to my neurotic parenting story...

I was busy chatting it up with my new mom-friend while our kids played on the playground before school this morning. Suddenly I heard a scuffle by the swirly slide and knew that Sullivan was in trouble. There was Sully bawling his eyes out next to a boy (a rather formidable looking fellow) who had clearly been socked in the eye. Just like in the Terminator movies, I assessed the situation panning quickly from detail to detail. Large boy holding left eye. Same eye streaming tears. Smaller boy crying and screaming holding broken stick. Dear God, I hope Sullivan didn't poke that kid in the eye with the stick! Well, the other fellow just shrugged it off and went into the classroom while I felt the eyes of the other parents on me. BAD MOTHER! I made a mental note to beat myself up later for allowing Sullivan to carry a stick onto the playground to begin with. Then I tried to get the details from Sullivan.

Well, I could not figure out what had gone wrong and when I approached the other little boy about it to see if he was okay, he looked at me as if I was freaking nuts. What are you talking to me for, lady? I can take care of myself! Sullivan was, well, pissed. He told me that he hated this kid and he wanted him to die. Obviously, I took a time out from the discussion at hand to point out that wishing someone to die is a horrible thing and that we should be careful about the things we say- blah blah blah, yackety schmackety. I was clearly getting nowhere. One of Sullivan's pals showed up and the tears dried instantly and all was forgotten.

I decided to give his teacher a heads up on the situation in case something came up later in the day she would be prepared. Then I did a stupid thing. I said:

"The other boy seems fine and didn't really care enough to talk about it, but Sullivan was pretty pissed."

She looked at me then said "What?"

And I repeated it. She looked like I had punched her in the stomach then she automatically checked the kids near us to see if they had heard what the nasty lady said. She thanked me for bringing it to her attention and then quickly moved away from me.

I know I am blowing this way out of proportion, but I know that language is inappropriate around small children, but there was also a large hermit crab nearby and I am pretty sure none of these children heard me. I'm a pretty casual person, and normally I am pretty careful about things like that, but at the moment "pissed" was the exact word to describe what was happening with Sullivan. I know it is pretty stupid to feel stupid about such an insignificant faux pas, but I can't help imagining what she must think of me right now! I'm afraid CPS will be beating down my door later this evening because I endagered so many children with my potty mouth.

Hey- interesting development in the last 2 minutes... I'm going to go to Philly this weekend. Wahoo- super party. Mama's gonna get some girl time in the City of Brotherly Love. Maybe I can get over my social issues there.

The Play Date

Most people I know without children bristle at the mere mention of the phrase "play date". Even I had trouble with this phrase, in the begining. The term conjures images of over scheduled yuppie children who play with flash cards of 18th century portrait artists for fun. It also paints a picture of a hyper competitive parent that uses his/her child's socialization as an excuse to claim yet another developmental conquest. Ha ha! My child has had four play dates this week and that trumps your paltry two, therefor I am the greater parent with the clearly more superior child!

However, in reality it isn't a "play date" for children. It's what passes for the dating experience for us sorry ass, undersexed parents. Now, this does not mean that the play date is necessarily of a sexual nature. In all of my play dates, there has been no hint, nor promise of sexual contact. This is not the goal of the play date. However, there are many elements of the play date that are similar to a traditional date.

First, there is the risk of asking someone on a play date. Thankfully you can blame this one on your kid. Your child meets another child at the park, they hit it off and you are forced to become social with the other child's parent. If you really like the parent/ child you will find yourself doing some amatuer stalking to discern their daily schedule and be at the park whenever they are most likely to be there as well. OR you will find yourself in a class/ PTA meeting/ what have you and work it out from there. One of you awkwardly broaches the subject:

"Wow, Billy really likes Tina. We should really get them together sometime." When the other parent takes a little too long to respond you hastily add, " At the park/ after class/ after school or something."

Once a play date has been agreed upon, the children do what children do best. They run off and play, leaving you alone with the other parent for phase one of the play date world. This is the "getting to know you" phase. Sometimes this is easy. Sometimes you will find yourself with an uber parent that is so out of your league that you will do silly little things to impress the other parent. Perhaps you will pack only organic snacks when your little darling is accustomed to aspartame and MSG. Maybe you'll wear mascara, dress your kid in something hand made (Oh, I just whipped that up last week when she was taking a nap), or hide all the videos in your home and purchase some classical music cd's as if you are always immersed in such a cultured environment. Conversely, you might have a play date with a parent that is so stinking cool that you throw caution to the wind and start making comical threats of bodily harm to your child for your own amusement. Maybe you'll buy your toddler a Bob Marley t-shirt or El Che t-shirt, after all it is never to early to start indoctrinating your child! All of this is to give the impression that you have this all under control, even though you are breakin' the law- parentally speaking.

After a first successful play date, you will feel elated. After all, passing the time with a youngster is not always easy. If they play happily with their new friend without kicking, biting, or stealing any toys you may be ready for the next step: a regular play date. But you can't jump the gun on this one. At the end of the play date you will linger at the door, at the playground gate, or wherever it may be and shuffle your feet.

"Gee, that was really fun. I'd really like to do that again."

"Yeah... I'll call you."

This will seem oddly familiar to you, but it will have been so long since your last actual date that it may take you a few hours to place that awkward and exciting feeling of expectation. She liked me! She really liked me! Don't allow yourself to become overwhelmed with excitement because a deep good bye kiss at the end of a play date is generally considered a no-no. If your play date becomes a weekly ritual, then I suppose you can renegotiate the terms of the relationship- but I've never had that happen.

Once a friendship has been established (Estimated time for the children to establish deep, loyal and everlasting friendship is approximately 2.4 seconds. For adults the average time is 3.8 months.) and a play date happens like clockwork you will begin to jokingly fantasize about the children's futures together. How will they rebel? Will they get married (to each other, of course)? Which one will break into the liquor cabinet first, and that sort of thing. Then comes the ultimate test of the parent to parent relationship.

"I wouldn't ask, but I am having a hard time finding a sitter..."

WIll you babysit my kid? That's a biggie. You know you've got a good relationship if you take the kids solo and the other parent reciprocates. That relationship is like gold. Other parents with non-play date kids will watch you and your brood with extreme envy. Why can't I find another parent to love?

Just tell them what I do. There are plenty of parental fish in the sea and one day you'll find one that's right for you. The best part is, with play dates you don't have to commit to just one parent/child combo. Fear of commitment? No worries! You can play the field as long as your child can stay awake and you'll never be called a slut or a dog. Oh yeah, it's an orgy of hot wheels on the bus action topped with a juice box and a bag of Veggie Booty.

Happy Dating.

Race in American Cinema

Ever notice how the majority of Hollywood films dealing with race in America are focused on stories of the mythcal white guy who "gets it" or learns how to "get it"? There's always a good white guy who is the mouthpiece for the ills that plague the black community. Oh, and in these films there is nothing BUT ills in the black community. In most of these films the black characters are almost non-existant except for the shufflin' nigger who be appreciatin' the hep of some nice white folk, yes suh.

So condescending it makes me want to vomit.

Skinny People

Here's the thing...

I don't think we actually like skinny, big-busted women. I think we are obsessed with them because of what they are- a FREAKSHOW! I think we often confuse our inability to look away with desire. When I see a teeny tiny woman with giant breasts I wonder two things. 1: Don't those get in her way? 2: Where the hell does she keep her internal organs?

I figured this out while watching Jayne Mansfield. Jayne had a luminous and lovely face, but it looked like she had to give up at least have of her large intestine to get that tiny a tummy. So I kept staring at her midrift just hoping for X-ray vision so I could unlock the mysteries of her gastrointestinal system. When I wasn't looking at her midrift, I was staring at her breasts, wondering what sort of support system she had devised. Of course, Jayne had hips so she didn't look so tragically top heavy. Oh- and Jayne's breasts were real.

But, when I apply this thinking to the phony, hyper sexed skinny women that populate the magazine stands it makes sense. They are hideously, misshapen freaks. Big boobs, no hips, no gut, stringy thighs, with permanant bedroom eyes. Can you imagine walking through life with that look on your face? I consider that a disability! Good for those girls, that they turn their unfortunate lot in life and turn it into a rewarding career! Why, that's a heartwarming tale about triumph over adversity.

Rediscovering Self

I haven't picked up a serious acting text in four or five years. I decided to dip into a little Grotowsky. Even though I find the writing style and use of language pompous and hyper-intellectual, it is a lot like finding home. As much as I try to distance myself from obsessive analysis and practice, it is in this world that I belong.

Now, there are many worlds within the theatre (and film as well) and since moving to New York I have been immersed in a very commercial world. This was not the world that lead me to the theatre in the first place. What attracted me was thought, discussion, craft, theory, theory, theory, theory, and ensemble. After all, what was theatre for me other than active, public philosophy? What do I really want out of the theatre? I want passion, questioning, connection with other humans, and challenges. These are things that the commercial world despises. If people sat down, enjoyed themselves (first and foremost), were challenged to think, found themselves deeply involved with other humans, and began questioning the most basic assumptions of our society- would they still consume to the same degree? If we were so secure and connected, would there still be that impulse buy section by the cash register? Would we have any need at all for King Sized M&M's and the latest issue of Cosmo? Being involved in the commercial realm means that one must uphold a system obsessed with ranking and quantifying. Things I find objectionable.

Of course, I would like to make money. I don't particularly care for fame, but a little notoriety would be something for me. I'd like to leave behind a little something of my work- a footprint on the moon, so to speak. Something that will be a record of my contribution to thought and process. The challenge is to make these things balance. I don't want to become so overwhelmed and obsessed with making money for creature comforts nor do I want to be so immersed in art that I become so out of touch with an audience outside of late night NPR junkies.

Oh well. I can't solve it today so I think I will need to do my daily stretches and then eat a doughnut. Balance, my friends. Balance.

An Overdue Wink and a Nod

I have two sisters. It is rare that I make any public declaration of my admiration and affection for them, because I just assume they know. It is about time I give a little tip of my hat to the Sisters Steckman. Every once in a while people need to know just how much they fuckin' rock.

You see, the Steckman Sisters are a force of nature. The first thing that anyone will note when observing the Steckman Sisters is the incredible gene pool we be swimmin' in. We share noses, foreheads, and unblemished skin in addition to the frightening similarity in our voices, laughs, hand gestures, and joke telling techniques. That latter we all inherited from our mother. You see, when a Steckman woman knows she is going to say something so witty she can't stand it, she will reach out and grab your arm to make sure you are paying attention (especially if you are a man), open her eyes wide, smile through her cheeks, tighten her upper lip as if she were hocking Jell-O pudding pops, and then punctuate the punchline with her own version of the Steckman cackle or guffaw. It is charming when you witness it in the natural Steckman sister habitat- which would be any place that serves alcohol.

Pamela and Kristen are my elder sisters, and that will always be so. They had the benefit of growing up and playing together with our brother, Bryan (who notably escapes Steckman Sister membership by his tragic lack of ovaries, but we'll get to Bryan's idiosyncracies on another day!) while I came late and ruined everything. My siblings (including Bryan) are 13, 9 and 6 years older than me and they really couldn't do anything to make me tow the company line. I was weird, had a weird name, had imaginary friends which my parents indulged (much to Kristen's dismay), was ridiculously outgoing, and, it bears mentioning twice, I was weird. Even though Pam wanted to save me and Kris wanted to kill me and make it look like an accident, they still managed to corrupt me and give me beer and cigarettes. God bless them!

Even at 30 I find myself modeling myself after them. I'll catch myself using a facetious sybillant 's' or using their distinctive phrasology. As a kid I so resented their coolness, how easily they seemed to breeze in and out of a room, how irritatingly attractive they were to all of my male friends, and how they seemed to have their own language and vocabulary of movement. It was hard to be the afterthought of such a team. Bringing up the rear is never a choice position. However, they were kind enough to pave the way with cigarettes and beer! Okay, more so Kristen than Pamela- Pam was a bit of a goody-two-shoes but she did supply me with many parties in Minneapolis during my high school years. Not to mention that she made sure I got a nice on-stage mention at 7th Avenue on my 18th birthday. Dude, that rocked. Oh, and if it weren't for Pam's super creepy boyfriend, I never would have met my husband. Score!

Ours is a sisterhood of mutual admiration, even though we are not superhuman and occassionally want to beat each other about the head with blunt objects. Pamela is intelligent, driven, witty, and about as on-task as you will ever witness a mere mortal be. Kristen is sharp as a tack, as true as the fucking day is long, and a great storyteller. Both Pamela and Kristen are wonderful mothers- with very different styles- with wonderful kids. Both have beautiful singing voices and are verbal gymnasts with great humor. I love how they can make me squirt rum out my nose, even when I am not drinking rum! I love how we can stick together, especially with how tough things have been lately.

It occurs to me, just this very moment, that I have had a habit of patterning my close female friendships after my sisters. My most intense female friendships have been in groups of three- with the notable exception of Sara who defies all catagorization to begin with, but that is another story. Hmmm, I'll have to plumb the depths of that one a little later, but for now let me just close this post with some shameless blubbering.

Pamela, Kristen, I love you and thanks.

Comedy Love

Hands down, Joe Scrimshaw is the funniest man on the planet. He should be famous. Everyone should have the chance to love Joe. He's pocket sized and you can take him just about anywhere. I predict that, in the future, everyone will have a household Scrimmy to cheer them up when they start thinking that smart funny people are extinct. He'll come with his own detachable strap so that you can sling him over your shoulder and take him everywhere so that you can have a non-stop pithy observations about life, love and all things "geek". He'll even have an array of sparkly sequined outfits so that he can be the perfect accesory for an evening out. He can write witty banter for you so that you never have to white knuckle your way through a stuffy cocktail party or comic book convention again.

Dude. I picked up some Christopher Durang today. I haven't even attempted to read Durang in years, but I picked it up to see if it has changed at all and if I wanted to risk auditioning for a production of a Durang play in a few weeks. I put it down because Joe emailed me a script. (I had to miss its performance in Minneapolis so I nagged him to send it to me.) The verdict... Durang: okay. Scrimshaw: Laughed my nuts off. What nuts? I don't know! I laughed 'em off!

Not enough espresso in the world

There once was a time when an espresso drink could solve any problem for me. Is it too early in the morning but Sullivan needs to run around at the park? Cappucino! Feeling sad that those last 20 pounds of baby fat are literally hanging off your hips? Skinny latte! Need to do lesson plans, clean the bathroom, cook dinner, play with the boy and walk the dog all in the next hour? Iced latte, double shot with two sugars!

Now it just isn't cutting it. Perhaps, now that the blood has drained from my body and been replaced by a sweet coffee and dairy product that needs to be repleneshed at least twice a day, perhaps I need to admit that the coffee is adding to my tension and not relieving it. Or it could be that drowning in coffee is just another way for me to avoid my biggest fears.

Sullivan is loving school so far. He has a little gang to hang out with. He likes his teacher and he has been needing people his own age for so long. He loves me, but he is just as sick of trying to relate to me as I am tired of trying to sympathize with his perspective. Let's face it, I can be understanding about how he wants a toy or ice cream or a bazooka to blow up the kid who was trying to run off with the shoelace he found at the park, but we can't have EVERYTHING we want when we want it. But we CAN make a threat or two to get a little peace and quiet, you know what I'm saying?

At any rate, we are both happy that he is in school. He needs his peer group and I need him to need his peer group. Although it seems rather cut and dried, it really isn't. Now that I am finally able to tackle a career of sorts (as I have been begging to do for four years) I want to run back to the comfort of my cappucinos and mind numbing mornings at the park. Grown ups are scary and I miss my baby boy. He's not my baby anymore and he never will be. He's in the system now and this is the next 14-20 years of his life. Is that not completely terrifying?

Last night Sullivan and I took a walk after dinner and we had such a lovely talk about how nice life is. It was a beautiful evening. We ran into some of the neighbor kids and played on the sidewalk. We talked about our plans to see our friends over the next week or so and, indeed, it did seem like we were in an idyllic world. I had successfully made a delicious dinner (Tuscan pork chops- very tasty), my house was cleaner than it has been in ages, I had gone out to see a movie that afternoon, and I felt totally comfortable and relaxed. Like a job well done. Then I woke up this morning to that tight feeling in my chest of terror...how dare I wake up in the morning without making a million dollars first! I have time during the day for professional pursuits, why am I not pulling in a paycheck yet?

Keep in mind that today is Sullivan's first full day. Some ups and downs are to be expected.

Je m'amuse!

Some things are just funny.

If you want to know what agent or manager handles a certain celebrity you can pay a membership for a website called Who Represents and then search their database. The funny thing is that the web address is www.whorepresents.com. How appropriate.

I wish I had been a Rayette

Really. They just sound like the sweetest freight train- all diesel and strawberry lip gloss. Can you imagine swinging that way as your job? Man, you might just even be able to convince me that there is a God in Heaven and all those stars in the sky are just sequins on a little Rayette dress.

HELP! I'VE WASTED MY LIFE!

I should NOT look up my ex-classmates online. Especially not the self-absorbed barracudas that made me nuts with their constant preening and lack of involvement in anything outside the theatre to make them interesting human beings. It always made me crazy that they had raging talent and confidence and I knew they would go somewhere because they'd sell their grandmothers for the ticket. Damn it! I wish I didn't know a thing about them.

What a freaking waste. Here I am, 30, flipping brilliant and out of work. Why? Because I don't have the freaking guts. I don't see my place in there. The difference between me and these others is that they never doubt their place. They do not beg, they take. I can't help but find that behavior presumptuous and repugnant. I refuse to beg and I will not take without asking and I almost never ask. I've always waited for permission to be doled out to me in little approving head pats and unsolicited scholarships. I've always stood at the crosswalk, patiently waiting for the light to turn while others looked both ways and then just went on with it. I'm so pissed at my polite upbringing that I want to scream, but I won't because it is in the evening and I don't want to disturb my neighbors.

Like anyone, I have many different sides to my personality. My frustration is that I feel there is a refusal by many (including myself) to let me have those other sides. Look, I'm nice. I'm polite. I'm compassionate, funny and sometimes I am downright bubbly. I'm good with kids (I love kids), I'm responsible, trustworthy, intelligent and a damn good listener. This is the Bree that most people know. But there is another Bree in there- and this Bree is the actor. This Bree is scary. This is the me that is hot tempered. This is the me that is a sexual opportunist. I am manipulative, greedy, clever and have a forked tongue. This is the me that few people see outside my work as an actor (thankfully, I suppose), but I would just like some acknowledgement for this side of my character and maybe a little pat on the back for keeping that part of me in check! It's obnoxious being a fucking goody-two-shoes wife and mom all the time. Damn it, I used to set fire to things! I used to cast spells, sleep in cemetaries, carve in my own flesh, cover myself head to toe in paint, and make a general ass of myself. I'm not saying I want to do all those things again, or even be and feel those dark things again- but I don't want to lose any part of myself. That dark and creepy person was alive. Was ME. And I liked her. I can't always say the same for my current sweet little ol' self. I was a train wreck of a person, but at least I was interesting and I was engaged in something. Now all of my pursuits are quiet ones. I am NOT a soccer mom, but what the hell AM I?

Funny. I had intended this to be about my career and it really isn't. I'm really and truly missing me. Ain't that a kick in the head?

When I was in Minnesota I had run into a friend of mine that I had worked with on a few shows when I lived there. We were busy catching up. He has two kids now and we were comparing some parental notes when he made some crack about parenting with my particular temperment. It was all good natured ribbing but it seemed so out of place as no one has poked me about my rather fiery disposition in years. Why? Because no one has seen it in years. Most people I know now would definitely NOT use the word "fiery" to descibe anything about me anymore. Well, that was unintentional. I hadn't meant to let that slide. That was one of my favorite things about me. Not always pleasant, but at least it was always passionate. Did I burn out? No! Surely not me!?

It is just like the vet said "If you have an uppity bitch, breed her and she'll calm down."

The fuck I will!

School Update

Sullivan has had his first taste of pre-K. Two short class experiences this week and we will jump full tilt into the school year on Monday. After some initial shyness my little ham came out to play.

It started during Meeting Time with their teacher- a delightful woman named Ms Cassens who handled this situation with supreme grace. I don't think she had suspected a simple getting-to-know-you meeting to get quite so deep. Let's see, to recap the topics broached by my son in this meeting I'll list them in no particular order:

Harpo Marx doesn't talk and he's one of the Marx Brothers
Air travel. This turned into quite a discussion between Sully and his new friend, Finn, both were experts on both long and short flights.
How our dog Bukka died - which caused Finn to look right in Sully's eyes and say, "I like dogs. I'm so sorry about your dog" then he reached out and gave him a sensitive man-pat.
Grandpa has guns. Miriam wanted to know if they were real or pretend guns, Sully did not know.
Hurricane Katrina- "You know something? There was this big storm and lots of people's houses got ruined by a flood"
The "Land Shark" skit from ancient Saturday Night Live- Sullivan loves saying "Candygram!" and "Just a dolphin, mam"
"My home is called Brooklyn"
"I have another pet called Crabby McCrabCrab- I had a crab named Fluffy, but he died, too. Like Bukka."

This caused some of the other children to unload about scary noises that woke them up at night. One girl described a sad scene when someone's car caught on fire and how sad she was that someone lost their car in a fire. Other kids talked about scary dreams and most were pretty open about their experiences, observations and feelings right off the bat. I couldn't help but laugh at the little stinker sitting just out of Ms Cassens immediate eyeline who would roll his eyes and silently flap his jaw during this pre-K support group that spontaeously erupted on the blue carpet. I could just see this kid 20 years from now rolling his eyes and telling people "Suck it up. Life's a bitch, then you marry one and then you die. Just get over it already." Everyone needs someone like that in their lives.

It's kind of funny how social groups really don't evolve much after the age of 4. I'd say the only difference between the discussion I witnessed today and the average day in a scene study class is that in the scene study class there are many more references to sexual acts. Beyond that I'd say the exchanges are pretty similar. Perhaps that is why all the adults were smiling and stifling their laughter. It's a bit surprising to see our children talking like us and a little strange to glimpse the men and women they will become. Most of us thought we would have to wait another 10 years or so to see our children engage this way. It certainly took Ms Cassens by surprise.

I guess the big shocker for me was to see just how much was on Sullivan's mind that he was just bursting with a need for a second opinion. It really is hard to know if Mom is right or if she is completely fucking nuts. I'm glad he's going to have a bigger world soon. He really needs one.

Book Recommendation

A couple of days ago I decided to pick up some "macho" reading. "The Last True Story I'll Ever Tell" by John Crawford seemed to fit the bill. It is a series of stories about his (many times extended) tour of duty as a National Guardsman in Iraq.

Crawford's style was not what I had expected. It is gently descriptive, almost lyrical, making it jarring to the nerves when he details picking an Iraqi's brain fragment off his boot with the handle of a spoon from his MRE. It is brutally honest, not about carnage necessarily, but about his acquired indifference to it. I guess I was expecting something a little more muscular in style, something lacking in sensitivity and jam packed with testosterone pumped anger and resentment. In Crawford's book the muscle is in the sensitivity.

This is not to say that "The Last True Story I'll Ever Tell" is a weepy, bleeding heart journal about the atrocities of war. Hardly. It is so much deeper than that. Moments of bloodshed are few (but horrible) in the book, though the anticipation of stumbling across a nightmare or two lingers on every page. The expectation of death is palpable and, occassionally, its refusal to arrive is frustrating. Crawford, as well as the other men that populate his book, reek with adolescent hijinx, boredom, loneliness, resentment and despair. Through his careful reconstruction of time and place it became clear how a young and intelligent man could become someone so indifferent to others. It became easy to understand how a person could come to shake a legless and hungry man off of his boot and walk away.

I don't want to ruin anything for anyone who picks up this book, but I must mention the last story from which the book gets its title. There is an obvious literary trick in this story. Something I would normally accept and move on if it were not for a simple final paragraph that, in its context made my heart fall to my knees. The entire book is worth providing the context for that last few sentances.

It's worth a read.

Geo-Political Lessons from Parker Brothers

Ever play Risk?

I suck at it.

Want to know why?

I'll tell you.

When I play Risk I like to pretend that I am some megalomaniacal dictator bent on world domination and the destruction of all that I personally find (arbitrarily) disagreeable. I never win. As soon as I conquer I get cocky. I spread my armies all over the map and it doesn't take long before my opponent catches on to how arrogant and stupid I am. I do not HAVE to attack every single chance I get. I could prioritize.

Quietly, my opponent(s) fortify armies against my dwindling resources and when I am left with one or two infantry units occupying my many conquests I will be taken down. The tide turns and I am trounced by my opposition.

After my last few humiliating defeats I have begun developing this radical new theory. Perhaps if I took care of my home territories and sheltered them from actual threats instead of trying to stick my nose into everyone else's business and throw my big fat weight around I might actually survive the game. I could provide help to those who ask for it, intelligently assess actual dangers and keep my own borders safe.

Maybe I'd have time to fix some fucking levees that even third graders some 20 odd years ago studying American geography knew could break and freaking flood an entire city and kill thousands of American citizens.

But then maybe the public school system is a little bit better in Minnesota than in other parts of the country.

Fucking jackass.

Poverty in America

If Hurricane Katrina did not completely spell out for you the current administration's attitude toward poor people in this country, allow me to demonstrate.

First turn on every appliance and electrical gadget in your home. Go to your driveway and turn the key in your SUV. Please leave it running. Return to your home and dump a bag of money on your bed. Get naked and roll around in it. Place your thumbs in your ears. Then fold your remaining fingers over your eyes. Call FEMA director Michael Brown. Fuck him and the purebred Arabian horse he rode in on. Begin singing "La la la! I can't see you! La la la! You don't exist! La la la! So I'm not responsible! La la la!"

Compassionate conservatism my urban, liberal, homosexual-loving, pacifist, secular ass.

GO TO SCHOOL!!!

School starts on Thursday.

Since it is pre-K, school begins with a "phase in" process. This means that I will be with him on Thursday and Friday (school is only for one hour on those days) and then he has his first day without me on Monday. However, Monday will not be his first full day- only a half day. His first full day will be on Tuesday. It cannot get here fast enough.

Man, I love that kid, but I have officially overdosed on preschooler. I only have about an hour's worth of "good mommy" per day to spare. The rest of the day I am a sour, frustrated old witch. It doesn't help that I have re-injured my back. He loves me. So, he likes to whack me occassionally. Or jump on me. Or hang on my neck. All of which put undue stress on my already stressed back. His selective hearing chooses to ignore my pleas for gentleness and I have gotten very snippy as of late. Calgon, take him away!

To make things even more confusing, I am also feeling very weepy about the end of this era. Come Thursday his school career will begin and my baby will have other influences. His world will expand to places and cannot control. Did I prepare him well enough?

I know, he still has another fourteen years under my roof and watchful eye, but the end of daily trips to the park weighs heavy on my impatient soul. No more Tuesday play dates with Keelan- his oldest and dearest friend. They've played together for almost two years. Now they are both attending different schools and will have to make time for one another on Saturdays. In my mind there is an obnoxious 80's teen movie style music montage of the two of them playing and snacking together. Mostly snacking. No one told me that there were so many "endings" like this. Either I'm a sentimental old fool (which is a distinct possibility) or I need to congratulate my own mother for handling these little transitions with such grace. Then again, I don't think she was invested THAT way with us. She had a farm girl's perspective about life's inevitabilities. So how did I grow up to be such a sap? And what is this Jekyll and Hyde thing all about?

Poor Sullivan. He must think I am completely off my rocker. One moment I am cheerful Betty Crocker, cooking up more homemade play dough and reading
"Charlotte's Web". The next I am cranky Trailer Mom (minus the cigarette and improperly coiffed hair) waving him out of the way of the television as I ice my back and stuff myself with Cheetos. Don't talk to me while I'm watchin' me stories. Okay, while I'm watching the news, but you get the idea.

Two days left and I am sad to see them go but can't wait for this whole thing to be over all at the same time. I've never been good at this.

No Sleep 'til Brooklyn

I'm home! I'm home! Oh sweet Brooklyn! How I have missed you! Brooklyn, where my Chinese food is delivered by a Chinese teenager who does not speak any English and bows constantly. Brooklyn, where "Hay Fever" is actually caused by staying up all hours with your head out the window screaming "HEY! HEY! Keep it down out there! Some of us have friggin' jobs you know!". Brooklyn, where there are subtle differences in the taste of any given bakery's seven layer cookie and you can get a morsel for free if you just ask nicely. Brooklyn, where there is no WAL-MART to ruin the joys of buying under-roos from a chatty elderly gentleman named Frank who will give you the history of the neighborhood if you have five minutes to spare.

I'm happy to be back in my little corner of urine soaked heaven. Brooklyn, I could kiss you right on da' mout'.