What a Freakin' Day

So, today is the day my kid puts 2 and 2 together. For months we have been talking about how living things die. Toys don't die. Tables don't die. Televisions don't die, but dogs and cats and people do. Today he figured it out in the middle of a play date.

"MOM! I DON'T WANNA DIE!!!!"

Rip my fucking heart out. Especially since I just can't lie to him and tell him it won't ever happen. He found absolutely no solace in the laws of physics nor did he want to except that death is just a part of life and isn't necessarily a bad thing. He wasn't buying it.

So I took him to McDonald's.

While chowing down on food that will most likely hasten our demise we had a nice long talk about death and dying- much to the chagrin of the people sitting next to us. A Happy Meal tends to lose its luster if you are in close proximity to a four year old who is demanding to know when he is going to die and wanting to know if there is any way around this whole death thing. After a while, I just felt like slapping him. Okay, Dude, I get it. You don't want to die. Tough shit. You're gonna. You're gonna die and you're gonna like it just like the rest of us! Now sit down and quit your whining!

Well, really, how much of the death stuff can a gal take? My kid can wallow like a pro. For hours he would just sneak it in there.

"Mom, I love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart."

"Why do I have to die?"

Like I did it to him. Well, I guess I kind of did. I mean, I dragged him on to this stupid planet and now he's got to die. His friends were trying to cheer him up with talk of heaven and God and whatnot which is so simple and child friendly. What do I have to offer him? Laws of physics, some mumbo jumbo about souls and signs of order in the universe, and an admission that I really don't know what happens when you die and that I don't believe anyone else knows either. Some fucking comfort I am. I'm choosing to allow my four year old to stare into the abyss and challenging him to make sense of it even though I can't. Isn't that child abuse?

The thing is, I'm very comfortable with my own mortality at the moment. (That is apt to change) I am not stressed about not understanding all the mysteries of the universe. I don't need to figure them out. I enjoy thinking about my place in the universe, but I'm not driven to uncover a truth I don't believe I could fully understand. But he needs answers, comfort, and certainty! Do you have any idea what I told him?

"We are all going to die someday. That day, for you, will most likely be a long time from now because you are healthy, have a relatively safe environment and do not engage in risky behavior, so chances are you won't have to worry about dying for a long time. But, if you want to talk about different ideas about death we can do that, but you have to accept that no one really knows what happens after you die and that's okay. Death is only one part of living, and if you're lucky you'll do it well but it is probably better to focus on living or you might miss the good stuff."

Dude, if I was four, I'd stare blankly at me then run away crying too.

Have a Snippy New Year

It occurs to me that perhaps I am not as bright as I think I am.

A lot of people in my life right now are really snippy with me. Picking apart my phrases, getting really defensive when they ask my opinion and then I give it to them (Really, you should know me better than to expect me to be dishonest with you!), and taking out some frustration from some other part of their lives on me. If I was smarter, I'd get the hell out of the way and stop inviting such nonsense into my life. I'm not your psychic punching bag!

However, I was raised Catholic and the martyr fantasies persist. What did I learn as a child but that a woman's only hope to getting close to God would be to suffer? What's worse is that I would have to suffer through horrible torture because I won't let anyone have access to my goodies. Talk about a lose -lose situation. Of course that's not my issue here, but it's so amazing what people will deny themselves that I think it bears mentioning.

At any rate, people are just being snippy with me. Are they being snippy to anyone else? Or is it just because I have this obnoxious habit of hitting a little too close to home? Or am I a jerk that deserves this kind of treatment? Or am I just a damn fool for continuing to associate with people who keep lashing out at me?

I am also discovering that the people who talk the most and the loudest about tolerance are some of the most intolerant and prejudiced people that I have ever met. They'll love their little freaky part of the world so much that they'll reject anyone else who crosses their paths. I used to do that too. Guess what? I was way fucking wrong. There are some quality people in this world and some of them do things and are into things that you might not necessarily choose for yourself. It does not make them stupid, evil, or lame. Quit being such a judgemental asshole.

It must be some sort of karmic retribution that I am swamped with this kind of behavior at the moment. Okay, Universe. I get it. I understand that I don't have all the answers and I shouldn't get pissed when someone else does. I understand that I should be more accepting. I understand that I need to make an effort to slow down and listen to what others are actually trying to say instead of nitpicking their sentence structure and choice of words. I need to stop making every little interaction into a personal attack. I get it. Now make them back off!

I want to enjoy the end of 2005.

In Praise of Playmobil

First off, I need to silently swear at Britt for making me think the word "totes". I am struggling to keep it from creeping into my vernacular because I do not understand its etymology and feel I am too old to start adding things that totes don't make sense to me. I'll stick to my tried (tired) and true "dude", thanks.

So. Dude. I got this Playmobil pirate ship for Sullivan for Christmas. This thing is so lipsmacking awesome. It has tons of little pieces and the cleanest, happiest pirates that you will ever encounter. For the last two nights I've been playing with it while Sullivan sleeps. Last night was a drunken mise en scene with all the pirates laughing and toasting one another. Tonight the same jolly pirates are still drunk but with an air of paranoia about the ship. The captain is in his quarters, drinking and fondling his pistol while he counts his cash by candlelight. Upstairs a barefoot pirate is keeled over the wheel having just drank himself stupid. Another pirate rushes up the ladder with a sword and a gun. Presumably to murder the drunken pirate at the wheel. Yet another pirate peers out onto the murky waters holding a gun and a lantern, unaware of the pirate sneaking up behind him with an axe. The sweet faced cabin boy sits next to a chest of weaponry quietly whistling to himself and clutching the keys to the weapons chest. Unfortunately, this child is currently unarmed and apparently stupid considering he could be armed if he chose to be. Another pirate is scaling the mast to look out for the unknown and last, but not least, is the skeletal remains of a fellow sailor crumpled over a chest of gold in the hold.

Tomorrow night, the mood on Blackbeard's Pirate Ship will be even darker. The cabin boy won't be takin' any more shit. I distinctly heard him quoting Groucho Marx, "I'm gonna lay you out pretty!". Pretty indeed, cabin boy, pretty indeed.

Man, Playmobil kicks ass!

THEY!!!

I think it is fair to say that we are afraid.

It is amazing how terrified we are of the unidentified "other". It's almost laughable, really. And yet, this "they", these predators that are supposed to be lurking around every corner somehow fail to appear.

I'm not completely niave. I know there are jackasses out there and I know there are remorseless opportunists looking for just the right rube to come along, but my experience with the human race one on one has been pretty positive.

Let's look at it this way; I'm a spunky redhead who has lived in an urban environment for my entire adulthood. I've run across many, many, many men who have been concerned about my safety as I navigate the city after hours. I've rarely encountered these awful beasts that are supposed to prey on women walking to the corner store at 7:00 PM. This is not to say that I am not careful and do not take proper precautions when I am walking alone at night. I'm just saying that perhaps my chances of being mugged, raped and murdered on any given evening are not as high as I have been lead to believe. In fact, I am more likely to run in to some middle aged Italian guy sitting on his stoop with an espresso and a baseball bat looking to defend foolish women like me than I am to run into a murderous thug with a 24 hour hard on. Of course, part of my night time safety plan is the neighborhoods I choose to live in.

I read the police blotter in my neighborhood. Crime happens here, too. I get that. I just don't want to live in fear. I don't want to live in fear as a woman, a mother, a New Yorker, an American... it seems that the greater part of society would like me to believe that I wear a bullseye on my back and it is only a matter of time before something terrible happens to me too.

A friend of mine was mugged in the subway a few weeks ago. I guess some guy just walked up to him, punched him right in the nose and took his wallet. Broke his nose. I've heard tales of Manhattanites, who are 3 degrees of seperation away from yours truly, that have had their apartments broken into and that sort of thing. That is all terrible and I do not deny that it happened. A short while back I was involved in a late night incident where the poor man driving my cab was cut off by another car. The driver of the other car then sauntered up to our cab and began a verbal assault on the cab driver that gave me serious flashbacks to evenings in my adolesence that involved dark alleys and hockey sticks. Luckily, we were able to diffuse the situation before it escalated into physical violence. I know these things happen.

Even so, for every negative experience, for every jackass that has ever frightened me, raised a hand to me, or followed me home I have encountered at least 100 others that have been positive- or at the very least protective. After all, with my cab incident there were three bystanders who went out of their way to help. When I got groped by some little shit on a bicycle in broad daylight I had to get the neighborhood fellas to chill out and call off the angry, middle aged mob. (Kind of impotent, but sweet in its own deranged sort of way) For the most part, I feel like people are looking out for me. I always have my ears and eyes open- just in case. But it seems that I don't really have so much to worry about.

When I first moved to New York I had this irrational fear of urban kids. After all, aren't they supposed to be cooped up, undereducated, over weaponized little demons? One morning while waiting for the train I saw this group of kids on the subway platform and it looked like it was getting heated. There were a bunch of boys (My God! Not BOYS!) all around 8 to 11 years old all standing in an angry huddle around a big kid and a smaller kid. I worked to get closer to this group, immediately preparing myself to defend the little kid who was, obviously, being picked on by this big kid. Nobody picks on the little guy while I'm around! So, I inched my way closer and closer, developing my strategy for breaking up the melee which was no doubt close at hand. When I got close enough to hear what they were saying, I discovered just how way off base I had been.

The smaller kid was actually the leader. The others in the circle were HIS goons. Once I was within earshot I heard the smaller boy say this:

"How is it POSSIBLE that you don't believe in evolution?"

The other kids echoed their agreement with Napoleon. I hid behind a pillar and laughed. That is when I noticed some other adults nearby doing the same.

Fear isolates us and leaves us vulnerable. It is when we look into the face of fear that we discover our allies, our protectors and those who need us. I don't believe in "them". "They" are not out to "get" me. My experience has taught me that most people are trustworthy enough to nod "hello" to after 8:00PM. Not all men are rapists. Not all quiet neighbors are Jeffrey Dahmer. Most people are actually, pretty damn nice.

Even in New York.

Especially in Brooklyn.

Sap

Yes. I'm a huge sap.

I get misty when I see Santa Claus. I have to struggle to look like a sane human being when I see my son see Santa Claus- his first hero. It is all I can do to keep from bursting into huge sobs of conflicted joy.

Sullivan has 13 Santas in his growing collection. He loves Santa with a ferociousness that I envy. I wish I was pure enough to love like that. Then, when I see what he is learning from the legend of Santa Claus I swear that my heart will just about rip in two. All this kindness and generosity and feeling your own worthiness because Santa validates children in their own greedy little language- toys! I can't wait to see Sullivan rip open his presents on Sunday morning. There is this cute stuffed squirrel (believe it or not, that one is a request from his own Christmas list) that I know he is going to hug to pieces and lustily declare "Squirrelly is my BEST FRIEND!".

We are going to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" tomorrow and all of you cynical fuckers can stuff it in your pipe and smoke it. I don't care what you say- that film is beautifully done and is much darker and more real than the parodies suggest. I do enjoy a good parody, but you have to give credit where credit is due. Jimmy Stewart's performance in that movie is one of the most beautifully crafted characterizations in cinematic history. If you aren't seeing that- you aren't looking. After all, who can't relate to feeling as screwed as George Bailey feels? He's a good man with a wry and angry sense of humor. He is seething with sarcasm and aggression. He's good because he knows it is the right thing to do- not because he wants to do it. He struggles for a better life. He messes up. How can your heart not break for him and for his family after he lashes out at them? It is brutal and it is honest. If you know me at all you know that that is the highest praise I can possibly give. That brutality makes his redemption all the more meaningful and all the more possible for the rest of us who seek it.

It seems that every Christmas I cry a lot. It's like a crying sales event, all tears must go to make room for the 2006 models! It's like my friend Theresa once told me- it is our relationship to hope and not sorrow that makes us cry. We cry when we have it and we cry when we don't. I have so much hope that I think I will explode. The tears are like an end of the year release valve for things I have not let go of during the year.

I have to believe in Santa Claus but mostly, I have to believe that Jesus was a man. His birth, although we feel the need to seperate his arrival on this planet from our own, is no more or less miraculous than our own. We should, each of us, be so anticipated. If we weren't anticipated and honored then we must learn how to honor ourselves. With each new arrival on this planet is the possibility of more love. That is why Christmas is, essentially, a children's holiday. To celebrate a child is to celebrate possibility and the divinity that rests within each of us. To me, Christmas is less about the man who walked the Earth then as it is about those that walk the Earth now with choices to make. Is the world better for my choices? If not, can I make it better next year? Can I practice forgiveness so that I may be forgiven? Am I allowing myself to experience love? These are the questions that Jesus the MAN contemplated. It is, I think, a mistake to set him so far away from us as if his goodness is unattainable by us mere mortals. Jesus was a man and each year we have a moment to reflect on how we can see the same kindness of spirit in those around us and in ourselves. Each one of us is responsible for what we add to life on this planet. Now we can assess, show appreciation, rest, and have love for one another. The potential for your own, particular kind of greatness rests within you. It is your birth right. It is your responsibility to nurture that greatness and share it with the world.

Now you must love. Because that is what is required.

An Ode to Pamela

Today is my big sister Pamela's birthday.

She's bright, witty, gorgeous (but I won't hold that against her) and determined. Never will you find a spicier lawyer who can cook like a mofo and isn't afraid to cackle her spine off. She's silly in such a wonderful way and yet, when you need her, she comes running.

My hat is off to a damn fine lady.

Happy Birthday, Pamela! I love you!

Victoria's Secret Hooo-ahs

Okay. Forget that they are all a size zero. Forget that they are all about 18 years old (that's what the modeling agency says, anyway). Just ponder who else you know that stands like that? What woman do you know in your day to day life makes it a habit to stand at such an awkward angle? Listen, honey, if you want someone to notice your ass- first you need to have one! Sit down and have a beignet, will ya? I hope their daily modeling fees are enough to support their coke habits AND regular chiropractic work because their poor spines really have to pay the price.

Also, I have long said that if you want concrete evidence of the patriarchy all you need to do is look at women's clothing compared to men's clothing. I'm not talking about how scanty they are in comparison. No. I'm talking about the number of pockets. Not having pockets forces us to drag along various purses and bags! Come on! What are purses for but to add a little big of drag so we're easier to catch! Especially since a good bag is notoriously hard to find- what would it take for you to drop that cute orange leather bag that houses your maxed out credit cards and your emergency snacks? If the perfect bag wasn't so hard to come by, we might drop them a little quicker. Think about it.

Then there's the shoes. Even I love heels. They are god awful uncomfortable, but nothing feels more powerful than click clacking down an empty hallway. It's the sound of authority from childhood. Remember being out of class when you weren't supposed to be and hearing that sound reverberating in the halls? Dude, you had better run or look really flipping busy! I've had some of my most powerful moments in heels. My best Melrose Place type breakup was in a killer pair of heels, black fishnets, a skimpy, swingy little black chiffon skirt with a black tailored jacket. I got to throw this guy up against some lockers, give him a serious what for and then I ceremoniously removed his ring and threw it at him. Then I sauntered back down the hallway swinging my ass behind me. Oh yeah, I knew this jacket and see through skirt only just covered my back side. See what you'll be missing? LOSER!

Of course, if I had miscalculated this guy he could have chased me down and threatened me with bodily harm and I would not have been able to get away. The power is pure illusion, but is often an illusion that others buy. They must have. Just about every guy in that hallway stared lustfully after me while simultaneously covering their balls. In a sick way, that's a good feeling.

STRIKE! STRIKE! STRIKE!

Let me just start by saying that, at the moment, I am inclined to be soooo pro-union, even though Roger Toussaint is a bit of a whiny little bitch. I do worry that the TWU is fighting this battle poorly and doing so at the ultimate expense of its rank and file, but they have my support. Why? Because the MTA are a bigger bunch of assholes. The management of the transit system has been shady and scummy at best. Shady accounting practices, fare hikes (and more expected in the future!), putting their ridership in danger by leaving unmanned booths- as a woman who enjoys her freedom in the city I thank you for that one- and then just having a bitchy attitude in general.

See, that seems to be the larger issue, from my perspective. Everyone is really acting like a whiny child, "You're not my friend anymore! Stupid head!". Don't we get enough of this behavior from ACTUAL children? Then Bloomberg and Pataki have to join in on the mudslinging, calling the union mean names! Good lord! When can we act like grown ups? Plus, my four year old son knew these talks were going to go badly so why didn't the mayor or the governor step in? They keep saying that they are going to leave the negotiating to the professionals...so far I'm not seeing so much professionalism. Just whiny bitch slapping. They could have acted as the heavies. Their mere presence would have meant "Look, I know you have problems with one another, but this needs to be resolved. Who's your daddy? That'd be me. Now SIT DOWN! You aren't getting any supper until you work this out!" Besides, I have to wonder how a businessman like Bloomberg suddenly has no professional understanding of negotiations?

BUT...

In a way, this strike is a bit of a Christmas present to New York. I know, it sounds totally stupid, but when New Yorkers have hardships like this they always come out swinging and they stick together. Our little neighborhood communities turn into a citywide community with everyone slugging it out together, and most of the time, it's with good humor. I fucking LOVE New York. Come on! This place is weird. I can get squid around the corner. I can find a vegan bakery and a kosher deli right next to each other but I can't find regular black buttons for my jacket. In some ways this place is totally backwoods and survival here is piecemeal. Those of us who live here and can't afford to live here are pretty tough and, when pressed, we get through these things together. We complain and gripe with total strangers in the weirdest places. It's kind of nice to have something to share with my citymates during this holiday season. I may not get to Macy's or to Rockerfeller Center this year, but I've got my New York in all its kvetchy glory!

Thanks MTA and TWU!

Gingerbread Is Meant to Be Eaten

That's right. Make the little men, your little houses with the white snow icing and miscellaneous shapes and then eat them. Eat them with abandon! It goes well with coffee and tea, milk and root beer floats. Eat that gingerbread house before some New York real estate agent comes calling, convincing you to sell that gingerbread house for a sizable profit. People are desperate for real estate in this market and they'd fall all over themselves for a quaint little house with vaulted ceilings and panoramic views of the gumdrop sidewalk. Eat that gingerbread house before someone builds a gingerbread condo next door and blocks out all of your available sunlight which will choke your sugar trees and candy wreaths. Eat that gingerbread house now before little gingerbread vagrants break in and start shooting up simple sugar and pissing molasses all over your sweet little piece of heaven.

Some things aren't meant to last forever. Gingerbread is meant to be eaten.

Christmas is Coming/ the Goose is Getting Fat/ Please Put a Penny in the Old Man's Hat

I've waited and waited and waited, but my Christmas inspiration has not yet arrived. I'm going to back up and try this again, because I can't let the year end without some kind of holiday greeting.

2005 has been a really hard year and I am still laid up with some serious growing pains. Remember that mysterious, painful, stretching, aching feeling that kept you up at night while your parents yelled at you to suck it up and go back to sleep? I've had a year of those. It seems that everyone around me has had them, too. Break ups, divorces, births, illnesses, career changes, new homes, some friendships dissolving while others are growing stronger. I sense that so many I love and care about are so tired this time of year. Myself included. It would be easy to get wrapped up in the frenzy of the season, but what I feel is most needed is a little calm and a little love. So, this is my band-aid, my cup of hot tea and cozy blanket for the season.

I love you. Not because you are perfect or because you do everything so well or even because you do those things for me. I love you because you try and sometimes you fail but you will try again. I love you because you speak your mind even though you know I will argue with you about it. I love you because you chew with your mouth open, laugh too loud, make inappropriate jokes, and sometimes you chuck me on the shoulder a little too hard. I love you because you eat junk food and watch tv, because you still know all your state capitals and can whoop ass at the Trivial Pursuit Genus Edition from 20 years ago but can't tell me what the hell happened this morning. I love you because, regardless of your outward appearance, inside you are soft and vulnerable and need to be loved.

That's what I have for you this year. I have no great, Earth shattering insight or beautiful shiny things to distract you. Nor do I have any real answers or guidence for these difficult times. But I do have love for you. Whether you fit into your favorite jeans or not, whether your house is clean or dirty, whether you are single, married, divorced, or something in between, whether you are conservative or liberal, have kids or hate kids, I don't care. I love you because you are human. You are not loveable only because of the things you do well, but because of your struggle to be better.

Happy Holidays and may you find blessings, peace and plenty in the New Year.

With Much Love,
Bree

Helpful Advice

This one is for all the men out there...

If you want a happy relationship with a woman you should acknowledge her birthday. Don't make her prompt you for good wishes and don't let the day slide without so much as a note. If you got yourself a good, scrappy, low-maintenance woman (such as myself) you don't have to do much, just acknowledge it. If you can't get a gift by the date due to busy schedules or whatnot, just write a note- it doesn't even have to have Hallmark stamped on the back- just a note that says you're thinking of her and there will be something for her on such and such a date. Don't be wishy washy about it, just firmly apologize for your oversight and give a strong twinkling, Clark Gable man-smile and move on.

Something just came up that I found really funny. Sullivan and I were invited to a special school breakfast this morning for parents and kids who have had perfect attendence since September. Yes, we can all talk about how lame perfect attendence is, but that's not the point of this story. The funny thing is that the Perfect Attendence Breakfast has been postponed because of the transit strike. Has anybody heard if they walked off the job or not? I haven't turned on the news yet... but I thought it was funny that we will not be able to attend the Perfect Attendence Breakfast.

Everyone, thanks for your wonderful wishes. They were a bright spot in an otherwise uber-sucky day. But no worries. Today is another day.

Loose Ends

Still no Christmas post inspiration. I'll keep working at it.

You there! Yeah, you know who you are, the people that I read daily who haven't posted anything more than a sentence or two for the last four to six days...fucking post something already! The suspense is killing me! Plus, if I didn't hover over my computer waiting and wondering what is on your feeble little minds I'd have to actually deal with my own life. Don't you dare force me to be functional! 'Tis the season for diversion! I don't care what kind of drivel you post, just post it so I can stop driving by your little cyber houses pretending I was in the neighborhood anyway and thought I'd pop in. I saw your light was on... in your bedroom... and that you were watching the first season of Twin Peaks and I thought to myself "Hey, you haven't watched Twin Peaks in forever, maybe you should knock?" and so here I am.

In just a few short hours I will be officially 31 years old. It's a completely lame age. I mean, when you hear that Stone Phillips Dateline voice over it's always "24 year old entrepeneur, Gene Messerschmidt..." or "32 year old cellist, Diane Walton..." or "75 year old tightrope walker, Gloria Wanker..." never "31 year old mother of one...". That's just not sexed up enough. Well, maybe this could still be my year, anyway.

Oh, so a few days ago something popped into my mind that I haven't thought about in millions and millions of years. A stupid and highly sexed little game we used to play in high school called "Honey I love you would you please, please smile." The game is innocent enough, where one person tries to make another person smile. It goes something like this, I would pick a purposely dour looking male friend and I would drape myself over him and say "Honey, I love you, would you please, please smile?". Then this friend would have to say "I love you honey, but I just can't smile" three times over without smiling. This is done in the presence of as many people as is possible to fit in your basement or rec room. You can play this game in front of your parents. You can be naughty but the parents can still pretend that you didn't know exactly what you were up to because everyone's clothes are still on. Of course, it can get as risque as you want if the parents are gone, I suppose, but I hung out with some really sweet and respectful fellas that never pressed the issue too much (now that I think about it). I really, really loved those guys. Poor fellas, having to put up with this little tease. If I remember correctly (and I frequently do NOT remember correctly) the first time I played this game was at a cast party in the presence of some parents and a teacher. What kind of sick, sadistic mind allows revved up adolescents to play such a game? I suppose they were expecting us to be goofy and act like monkeys or some such nonsense? Delusional. Come to think of it, I was damn lucky that I hung out with such decent human beings because I could have gotten myself into some seriously ugly situations. I owe each and every one of them a Christmas card...

Sullivan and I made a gingerbread house this afternoon. He named it "Housey" and cried when I told him that he could NOT bring the gingerbread house into bed with him. He eventually accepted his fate, set it on the table by his bed, kissed it and gave it a gentle hug before he had an intense game of Syndrome and the Omnidroid kicking the shit out of Mr. Incredible. Yup, my kid rocks.

Send me good Birthday love for tomorrow.

Teaching

It seems that, as much as I resist teaching, I always end up doing it. I don't want to teach and, God help me, I don't want to go back to school so that I can be qualified to teach. I want to do my Play in a Day series, but that is a position where I can just be a director and the teaching part is completely by accident.

People keep telling me that I am missing my calling. Is that true?

But, then again, people have told me that I'd make a great clinical social worker (ain't that specific!), screenwriter, and have told me that I should never stop acting because I have "it" (HA!). I've been told I've got "the funny" and a great voice for working with kids. If anyone could sort out all this noise for me, it would be greatly appreciated. I turn 31 on Thursday and I'd like to have a direction so that I can go there directly.

You've got to be kidding me!

I don't make waves a lot. If I have a sucky dinner, I won't send it back to the kitchens. I would advise others to do so, but I never would myself. It would have to be crawling with vermin or still alive in order for me to send it back. For the most part, I suck it up and take what I get. I'm getting better, though. The cable company and the phone company have suffered from my displeasure and I have done a very good job writing letters about bad service. I don't always lay down and piss on myself.

But today I had the most unpleasant pap smear ever!

Right, I know that there are very few of us who face the speculum and consider "pleasant" an option, but after today's discomfort, let me say that any of the other pap tests I have had in my lifetime seem luxurious by comparison! First off, I was lead into the exam room and was greated by a BLAST of cold air! A BLAST! Was I moved to another room? No. I was told I could keep my sweater on. Gee. Thanks. Then I was left in there with only a little sheet to cover me for nearly half an hour. I'll leave the rest of the details to your sick imaginations, but I will say that I was subjected to a horrible pinching sensation I will not soon forget. I know it is common to spot after a proceedure of this nature, but it does seem uncommonly unfair that I should have to endure anything which causes a medical professional to say, "Expect to bleed for the next day or so."

To add insult to injury, no one in my family is sympathetic. I have just been told that I need to make dinner. Heartless bastards!

Dander's Up

Somebody was reading me (hooray!) and posted anonymously something that just proved my point. Made my hackles stand up. This is why liberals are LOSING! They are not paying attention to what is really being said.

Check out my post for Sunday November 13, 2005. It's my review of "Good Night and Good Luck", a film which is apparently like "Schindler's List" in that it's message excuses it from any examination by an artisticly critical eye. There are certain things we are not allowed to criticize. Does that make me an anti-Semite? Hell NO! Does it make me a conservative? I think not! It makes me an artist and it makes me extraordinarily frustrated that I take all this time and care to map out a clear message and someone reads the thing and did not get any of it. Why? Because personal politics can be blinding you to truth.
Ugly Fish Hat: Good Night and Good Luck

HEY! I'm a Pretty Nice Gal!

Yup. I guess it is time I admit it.

I'm pretty nice.

It's a classic symptom of my Minnesota upbringing.

Oh, I try to deny it. My friends all laugh at me when I tell them I have a dark side. But I guess when it comes down to it, I am accomodating, helpful, friendly and downright sweet sometimes. And I am a great enabler! I volunteer at my son's elementary school. I bring lunch to friends who are sick. I look after anyone's kids if they need some time away. I do crafts with kids who come over for play dates. I'm a good listener and I try my best not to judge. I always carry extra snacks to share in case anyone might be hungry. As a friend, I am all about service and customer satisfaction.

Yup. I'm a pretty nice gal.

But, you must realize that nice gals like me do, inevitably, snap.

Just thought you should know.

Ho Ho Hum

Every year around this time I sit down to compose a holiday greeting to email to all of my friends. It's my yearly challenge to look at things in a positive light and, if I'm really really inspired, I make people cry. Yeah, you know that's my goal. I want you to shed tears of hope and joy, you know, good tears. Or at least feel pretty warm and fuzzy.

This year I thought I'd post it here and then email everyone to have the ol' looksee and I was very excited about that. Especially since this is the first year someone actually asked me (back in November) when I would be sending it out. Frankly, beyond my sisters, I wasn't sure anyone really noticed that I was doing it as a conscious thing. So it was nice to have someone who I didn't really expect to notice ask me about it. I've been waiting for the inspiration ever since.

Still waiting.

I don't know if this will be my hopeful post or not. I'm just going to spew a bit because there are a couple of drags on my Christmas spirit this year that I need to acknowledge. You see, it is really hard to get into the whole Christmas thing when there is all this whining and fighting going on. It's one thing to get it from your family. It's another thing entirely to get it from a large segment (80%!) of the population.

Let's get this straight, there is no war on Christmas. Christians really aren't persecuted. You are allowed to practice your religion, celebrate your holidays, you just aren't allowed to be fucking aggressive about it. (But you will be anyway because you're a bunch of bullies.) Allow me to demonstrate persecution for you...

"Merry Christmas!"

"Are you a Christian?"

"Yes I am, thanks for asking!"

"Hey Bill! I got some lion food for you!"

"Get your hands off me! Where are you.... aaaaggghhhhhhh!"

That's fucking persecution. If you are worried that it could happen again, stop being such a dick about it and maybe no one will mind what religion you practice.

Now, don't get me wrong, I know not all Christians are bullies but a few bad apples, especially loudmouth schnook apples, spoil the whole bunch. I need to go on the record saying I like Jesus. I love what he said. Good stuff. Maybe you ought to look into it.

Okay, here comes the scenic route, I am going to be making a sharp turn up ahead but don't worry it will all make sense when I come back around again.

A couple of years after I graduated from high school I picked up some psychology magazine because it's cover story was about bullies. I have a serious interest in bullies because I felt persecuted as a kid. I felt different than everyone else and I was ridiculed, threatened and beaten up -especially in junior high. I had always (and still do) had a deep interest in figuring out why that had happened to me and I eagerly devoured anything that might have contained clues about what was wrong with them and, perhaps, what was wrong with me. I wish I had held on to that magazine because it really gave me a shock.

The article talked about what we normally think of as bullies; kids who steal your lunch money, corner you in the bathroom and basically intimidate the hell out of you. It also talked about classic victims; kids who want nothing more than to get through their day without being singled out and all that very simple to understand kind of stuff. Well, I didn't exactly fit into either of those categories, but I did fit into the third. Yes, there is a third category that no one had ever told me about. This is a "reverse" bully, for lack of a better term. This is a person who invites conflict, a person who flaunts their differences and dares you to accept or reject them. This is the category of kid that has an especially difficult time because in their minds all they are doing is celebrating their individuality and then they are getting singled out and punished for it. This is the kind of person who really wants to be validated, but also wants to push the envelope to see if they can be worthy of attention and affection no matter what. Frequently, their differences are not appreciated- to put it kindly- and they react by becoming more and more outrageous. This is an aggressive act.

Imagine my shock to discover that I am aggressive. Me? I'm a fucking pussy cat, a pacifist even! I can count on one hand the number of times (after the age of 5) that I had ever raised my hand in anger. But the more I looked into it, the more I realized that I really had been a big fucking bully. Accept me, fuckers, or I am just going to get weirder and weirder. If I can't make you like or respect me then I am going to be in your face all the fucking time! I'm going to needle you and make you nuts! No wonder nobody liked me! What a fucking dick I was! Of course, in that violent spectrum this is the role I still would have chosen even if I had to consciously choose it. It is just more in line with my temperment and values. However, exploring it as a part of an aggressive personality was really eye opening for me. I'm just as guilty. That lead me to a certain understanding about my own personal power and that understanding is this:

Each person plays an active role in his/her own oppression.

Am I saying that persecution is fair and that people are asking for it? No. But if you buy into the idea of your own victimhood you will always be a victim. If you talk to people who have "triumphed over adversity" you will see that they have a very particular mind set. They do not see themselves as victims. They do not see themselves as worthless. They do not believe the things that society said about them. They do not feel too black, too girly, too dumb, too criminal...they choose to believe in the better part of themselves and this is how they succeed.

So, with that in mind, let me point out just how aggressive and overbearing this "war on Christmas" thing is. This is a passive aggressive bullying tactic. If you are going to be all up in my face you can bet you are going to face some retaliation. You will have to accept that this is a path you have chosen because if you just went quietly about your business and enjoyed your family and friends this holiday season as the humble devotee of Christ you claim to be, nobody would say boo about it. I just want to know if this battle of yours affords you any measure of satisfaction and if it truly advances Christian thought and practice. Or are you just trying to win something that is unwinable?

This year, I am trying to enjoy my holiday by surrounding myself with love. I won't get love by seeing a giant banner than says "Merry Christmas!" hung over the entrance of Target. I won't get love by blowing my life savings on expensive gifts for strangers. I won't be giving love if I am too busy yelling and whining about how mistreated I am because people say "Happy Holidays" to me instead of "Merry Christmas". It is really none of my business what anyone else does or does not celebrate. It IS my business to try to bring love, kindness and civility to the world. I'm not always great at it, but I am trying.

I still don't know if this is my Christmas post. Seems too preachy, but I need to get past it so that I can get to the good stuff. I celebrate Christmas. Not because I'm a practicing Catholic or because I want to participate in a yearly consumer event, but because there are brief, shining moments that Christmas can bring that allow me to love as fully as I can. What better reason could there be?

Merry Christmas and let there be light in the darkness.

Probably As Hip As I Get

So, who out there would NOT do Michelle Yeoh, given the opportunity? Come on, people, she's cute as a flipping button but has that whole ass-whooping thing going for her. Yeah. She's a fox.

So, to update everyone on my fantasy to do list, in no particular order (or relationship to reality):

Michelle Yeoh
Brian Greene (Fabric of the Cosmos, Elegant Universe)
Stephen Hawking (yeah- I haven't exactly figured out how that one would go but he could talk dirty physics, that'll work)
Tom Waits (Hey, his wife can totally come along for the ride)
Gene Kelley- Hey, it's my list, I can do whatever I want with it
Clara Bow- she was the "It Girl" and I'm sure she was fun fun fun
Bob Dylan
Cary Grant- Oh my God!
Humphrey Bogart (Throw in Betty Bacall and you've got yourself a party)
Al Pacino (Yesterday, today and tomorrow)
Richard Pryor- yeah, I mean that! Talk to me, baby
Walter Mathau- I'm really fucking serious, watch "House Calls"
Jack Lemmon- Yup
Mae West- because she's Mae West, damn it!
Gene Wilder- He's adorable- watch "Silver Streak"
The Entire cast and crew of The Daily Show
Christianne Ahmanpour
Tom Ewell
Stanley Kowalski- yup, he's fictional but still has pure animal magnetism

That'll do for now. Notice how most of my list is dead. Their loss. They totally should have stuck around. As for the rest of you, ring a ding ding.

...And the Horse You Rode In On!

As you may have read in my previous posts, I've been thinking about thinking. Mostly, I've been pondering whether there is any value in emotional distance, intellectualism, or passionate artistic expression in the whole scheme of things. These things tend to get the "regular folk" up in arms because the people who engage in those purstuits are "out of touch" with "Real Americans".

Maybe its you regular fuckers that are out of touch with us! Yeah! Why should I sit up late at night wondering if there is any way I can get you judgmental assholes to like me. Is there some way to bridge the gap? Is there some way we can get along and I can talk to you in language that does not offend but rather allows me to express my positions to you in a way you will listen? Can I convince you that I am open and willing to hear what you have to say? Can we learn to value a free exchange of ideas? What the hell am I thinking? If you "Real Americans" won't meet me halfway, why should I fucking care what you think? Why should you get to be called "Real Americans" just because you thought of it first? That doesn't make me any less real! I'm sick of your bullshit, knee jerk, cowboy, asshole politics with your hippocritical, self serving, pompous definition of the American character. I can crack open my beer swilling, foot stomping, hard sounding "r" with the best of 'em, but that's not what makes me an American.

What makes me an American is that I live here, I like it here and I am not fucking leaving.

What makes me a Midwesterner is that I want to apologize for everything I've just said.

Sex Time

That got your attention, didn't it?

Let's face it. I'm fucking PG-13. I don't even rate the first Revenge of the Nerds, so if you expect this post to be any more exciting than the rest, your sadly mistaken. I really hate to disappoint, but then, I also revel in it. Whadda ya gonna do?

At any rate, I've been thinking about a friend of mine from elementary school whose parents were trying to have another kid. Really hard. Oh boy were they trying. It got to the point where, for a period of a few months, the Dad would come in from the fields (yup- farmers) for lunch and then an hour of sex time. During this time my friend and her little sister would be kicked out of the house for an hour. Not just asked to play in their rooms or the basement or anything but they were to leave the house. Regardless of the weather. They had a little play house built in the back so they could play out of the house. At the time it seemed really weird to me that not only did her parents have sex but that they knew when they were having it. I remember my friend and her sister getting into a typical sibling argument while we were outside one day. The Dad whipped open the window (in 20 degree weather) and leaned halfway out, clearly naked but with the curious bits cleverly shielded by a spot of curtain, and yelled "Can't this wait 15 god damn minutes!". After which he slammed down the window and yanked the curtain shut.

Boy, sex with him must have been fun.

I remember my friend explaining to me why we had to get out of the house the very first time I had come to visit.

"They're having sex in there and they don't want us to see it." She grimaced, "I don't want to anyway."

Her parents divorced a year later and there was no baby to show for their efforts. It didn't really seem like they were having any fun, anyway. Making a baby should be way fucking fun. That's what orgasms are for. Fun! Because, God knows, when you've got a little alien puking all over you, giving you lip and making you want to lock up shop forever you need to remember "Damn, I had a nice triple O with a twist and a little amuse bouche", suddenly it all seems worth it. Yeah, that and the unconditional love, yadda yadda yadda.

I dream of small c celebreties

This was the best stupid dream ever!

I was running through what appeared to be a New York street set (it was most certainly New York, but NOT New York at the same time) with my friend Joe. We were both wearing dirty, second hand, formal wear (Polyester blue dress for me!) and carrying plastic bags filled with my son's stuffed Santa and snowman collections. Between the two of us we were holding a woven basket filled with Doritos. We were running to make a showing of "Memoirs of a Geisha" while trying not to spill the Doritos. All the movies (and there were about 8 on the block) were all sold out so we went so some fancy ass restaurant to drink coffee and eat apple pie.

We were seated in the middle of the restaurant right next to a very large pillar. While we were having a lovely and laughy chat about something or other, Tom Skerrit came over and nonchalantly peeked and poked into Joe's plastic bag and then he returned to his table on the other side of the pillar where a crazy Will Sasso was seated wearing a filthy white Hane's t-shirt. Joe and I were speechless. I mean, who the hell does Tom Skerrit thinks he is? He's not the kind of celebrity that has the unspoken permission to violate strangers willy nilly without consequences! Joe and I started to talk about this strange occurrance when Will Sasso brazenly approached the table, fell over it (smooshing my pie, I might add) in his attempt to grab the biggest, softest snowman and then he ran off with it. Before he had a chance to get away Joe tripped him, grabbed the snowman and we returned to our pie and conversation while Will Sasso remained on the floor and Tom Skerrit snuck out the back.

I'm sure the lunacy would have continued, but I woke up to Sullivan poking me with a singing Santa saying, "Mommy- get up! I want you to get up!"

But I imagine I will spend the rest of the day feeling slightly tickled about being harrassed by Tom Skerrit and Will Sasso- knowing that even if their real life careers are slow they have good supporting roles in my subconscious.

Jesus Died for Somebody's Sins, But Not Mine

I just wanted to write that because I've been followed around by Patti Smith's voice all morning. It's a far cry from "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree", I'll tell you that much.

Horses horses horses...

I guess it sort of tickled me a bit (or kept me sane) to have those songs floating around my head this morning while I was out doing fine, upstanding Mommy things. I was in the middle of my volunteer meeting at school this morning discussing test prep for the third grade and bathroom monitor schedules with my beaming good mommy face on thinking about my city's seedy underbelly and amusing myself with a friend's evil birthday party plans. (As each child enters you take them aside and say "So and so is the reason why there won't be any cake at this party", then just watch it turn in to "Lord of the Flies"!) It's a priviledge of my class, I suppose. I get to think about it, observe it, express my observations in some way but then I get to go home. Even though I am poor here, I still hold a certain rank in the middle because I am a white, East Coast, liberal. I don't know if I qualify for the "intellectual" moniker. I don't have any official letters behind my name. Maybe I should just put some there. Wouldn't that be nice? Let's try it on for size:

Bree O'Connor, TzC

That's nice. It works. I'm definitely isolated enough to be academic! I'm just not. That's all.

Now that I've mentioned it, I kind of have to talk about it a bit. You see, there's so much hullabaloo and mishigosh about intellectuals and academics being so removed from society that they have their heads up their asses and are not qualified to critique. Well, as annoying as that whole scene can be to us regular folks, I might point out that distance is necessary for that kind of pursuit. Distance can be a very good thing. Come on, Huckleberry Finn was written in Connecticut for Christ's sake. Sometimes Distance= Clarity. Not always, but frequently. Am I saying that academic thought is the only way to go? Hell no. Being wrapped up in something and commenting is just as valuable. My argument is that we need it all.

It's been on my mind a bit. Growing up, I thought being intellectual was good. It's gotten such a bad rap lately that, even though I don't agree, I tend to bristle at the mention of "intellectuals" or "academics". I found myself nearly screaming while reading Cornel West's book because he kept referring to certain people whose work he admired as "great intellectuals". I had the same reaction to that as I did the "Artists for Kerry" sign I saw on TV during the 2004 election. For God's sake! If you want people to listen to what you have to say- don't align yourself with those terms! They offend people! They won't listen! Then I get upset because I like artists. I like creative, inquisitive, intelligent people. I love voracious readers and hungry learners. But I know people shut down immediately to anyone who is described in those terms. That makes me scared and sad.

I'm not sure what to do about that. So I'll just go out the way I came in. Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine...

I'd Sell Out, But Nobody's Buying

Okay. Maybe not. I've had my closest brush yet with selling out and I can't help but sabotage my financial future by having standards and taste. It just isn't in me to be poppy. I can't do it. Okay, I can do it, but it makes me physically ill and I get needlessly weepy about it. The rest of the world is just going to have to come along with me instead of the other way around.

What a stupid dilemma. Honestly, no one else I know has suffered from doing crap the way I have. Doing crap is an actor's job, for the most part. 456 pieces of shit for every 1 morsel of genius, I believe that is the ratio. I can honestly say that I have only knowingly (note the use of the word KNOWINGLY) walked into a crappy project twice and both times I wrecked myself. I got sick, spent hours on end crying and doubting my worth as an artist and a human being, alienated my friends and earned the sour looks from artists I respected. I got paid,though. I don't know anyone else who has had this kind of conflict. Not to this degree, anyway. So I have to wonder what makes me such a dumbass drama queen? Why can't I just do it for the money and get out like everybody else? Why can't I make money? What would be wrong with that?

My indoctrination is complete. I bought the bullshit artist integrity line with my credit card at 27% interest. I'll never pay it back, not at this rate anyway. So, I've come this far with a project and done my best to make it something with which I can tolerate an association. In doing so I've turned it from a pointless, poppy crowd pleaser into an esoteric exercise that will be cheap to make but impossible to fund. HA HA! It won't get made and I am going to walk away without making my downpayment on a Carroll Gardens brownstone.

Now, this is not to say that I don't enjoy pop. I do. There are some poppy things I love. The reintroduction of the word "dude" into my vocabulary is a testament to an enjoyable evening viewing "Dude, Where's My Car?". I can consume it. I just can't make it.

I am also not saying that I have not made crap. I have. It is just that, with those two previously noted exceptions, I haven't done it on purpose.

The question is, do I actively work at numbing myself so that I can make the stuff that will bring me money so that I can fund the things that I want to do? Do I feed that monster? Or do I spend the rest of my life in total obscurity making things that no one will ever see? Are those the only choices? Or is there another option?

Tell me. I need to know.