In Case You Didn't Know...

Ben Perry rocks you like a hurricane.

Nice lunch, my man. You're a fucking genius.

Ignorant Note on the Frey Controversy

Yeah, I read "A Million Little Pieces". I actually found it to be a compelling read. I zoomed through it in a couple of days (I had to take a break while reading about the root canals) and then just let it sit with me. It was highly unbelievable, but not in a bad way. But, a little critical thought should allow the savvy reader to figure it out without Oprah bitch slapping him on national television.

First off, I was very conscious of this "memoir" being written years after the fact. Even the dumbest reader has to wonder how a guy under so much physical and emotional stress could remember so many details years afterward? I couldn't remember the face of the guy who attacked my cab driver and got right up in my face to scream at me five minutes after it had happened. So how is this guy going to remember the exact number of handwritten pages on each topic of his confessional years after he had destroyed them? How is he going to remember the time at which he vomitted? What he ate for breakfast? And he nearly broke his arm patting himself on the back. I can't imagine that professionals would say the sort of things that they were reported to have said to him in the book. Frankly, he comes off as a self-important jackass. Then there is the dramatic crack den rescue scene which read to me as just that: a scene. Even while reading it I thought he had the movie rights in mind. The book has faults that betray its true nature as fiction if you read with a critical mind.

Even so, I enjoyed the read. It was visceral and engaging. It is hard for me to be interested in a story where I don't particularly like the main character, but I will admit, I was interested. Was it the freak show? The vomit? The stomach turning feats of human endurance? Maybe. Does the fact that it is semi-autobiographical fiction detract from it's value as a read? Did I waste my time having read it? Not really. Do I think James Frey is a dick, maybe, but not because of the way he agreed to market his book.

The gist here is that people are up in arms because a guy couldn't sell his book unless he fooled everyone into thinking it was 100% true. If we were slightly more critical I think we could have come to the truth on our own. Really, I think the wagging finger should be at the publisher for feeling the public would not be interested in such a book if it were fiction and to the American readership for proving them right. James Frey wanted to make a living. Did he lie? Yes. Is lying good? No. Are his lies going to result in catastrophic death and annihilation of a culture? Are his lies going to cheat the elderly out of their pensions? Are his lies going to destroy my family? Probably not.

Ah, but then we must bring up the 12 Steps. I've seen the steps be very effective in helping people. I can't judge it. I understand the point he makes in the book and can see his argument against using those steps. Gotcha. Perhaps if I had a closer relationship with the 12 I might feel a bit more defensive, but either way I do not see anything wrong with questioning it. Just like I see nothing wrong with questioning authority, religion, or the fruit stand guy. That's the thing about questions, they have a great way of making things better. They can either help you strengthen your resolve or help you to discover what is not working and change your course. Either way, you win. So, personally, I have no problem with that.

I haven't really been paying attention to the arguments in this case. I've heard them third hand and frankly I don't care. All I know is that I read a book and I walked away with something.

End of story.

For All the Ladies Out There

Motherhood is hard.

I know I harp and whine about it a bit, but I really wish someone had made me understand what the hell that means. I figured the sleep deprivation, the vigilance that is required to keep an infant alive, time management and all of that would be hard. I understood that pregnancy was a strain on the body, but I was in good shape (Which is probably why I got pregnant in the first place). I had no fear of childbirth and was actually excited for that experience. I love being busy and I love taking care of people and I love hard work. I figured that I would be tired and maybe a little lonely, but I'd been through that before and thought the rewards would far outweigh the price I would have to pay. But no one warned me. No one told me that it's a soul sucking job that would leave me feeling more isolated and alone than I had ever felt in my life- and THAT'S saying something. No one told me the extent to which a child can drive a wedge in between two loving adults who had, up until that point, worked together as a perfect team.

I was also under the assumption that I was made for the job. Once I reached adulthood I found myself gravitating toward children and was told on countless occasions that I was great with kids. People told me again and again that I would be a great mom, that it would be a crime against nature if I didn't have kids. People loved me with their kids and I loved watching kids and being a part of their lives. Particularly toddlers, all toddlers think I'm funny. I couldn't wait to get one of those. Man, an appreciative audience that goes wherever I go? Sounds good to me!

I have some friends who watched me struggle and who are still considering having kids without daddies in the city and far from family. PLEASE DON'T DO IT! I want to save you from a world of hurt. Even though you think you've seen it all by watching me, I guarantee that you haven't.

First is the loss of self. Just about every mother I've gotten close to has had a period of losing themselves in this new creature. I thought I knew myself pretty damn well and was certain that it wouldn't happen to me. I had a plan and a path. Well, the plan went up in flames and the path is now covered with weeds and brush that I now have to clear away. Some women have been lucky and found themselves through becoming a mommy. Good. I'm glad. But just as many lose themselves completely and some never come back. For me it was like my soul split in two and I could watch it outside of me, growing and getting stronger. Meanwhile the half that was left with me didn't have a chance to heal because it immediately got up and started caring for the newer half. In the first two weeks I had either my son or a breast pump hanging off of me 20 out of every 24 hours. I had cracked nipples, a ripped up vagina (in the words of my midwife "he really blew the barn doors off!"), a huge gut, swollen feet, and bags the size of potato sacks under my eyes. On top of all that, I was beginning to see that this was much bigger than I had anticipated and I had planned on it being gigantic and difficult. I could feel the roller coaster slowly clicking to the top of the hill, but it was way too late to get off.

Second is the loss of friends. You may think your single gal pals are going to help you, but they're not. They'll visit, maybe play house a bit and bring you a casserole and ooh and ahh at your new baby. Then they'll get bored and go away. They will not understand why this child is so all consuming and why you can't think about anything else. They will pressure you to get out and leave that child with someone, and you probably should get yourself a break but you will not be able to see the forest for the trees. Your urge to stay next to that tiny creature even when you are dying from lack of nourishment, attention, and sleep never really goes away. They won't understand it. They'll criticize you. They'll talk about you at their little girls' nights out over rounds of drinks. It's too bad what happened to so and so. She used to be so much fun and now she's all Betty Crocker and shit. They'll talk about the kind of parent you are and tell you what you should do. They'll tell you to ignore all of your better instincts and make you feel inferior if you do not agree. Eventually, most of them will disappear from your life until your child is in school. Then it will be too late to really repair the damage to your friendship.

If you don't have family or other friends with kids it becomes a full time job to try to build a support network. Other moms are crazy. Sometimes they (I include myself in this group) are so insecure that the mommy social scene mirrors your worst elementary school experiences. It takes time to find mommys who accept your methods and don't expect you to conform to theirs. The judgment among mommys (and women in general, I find) is thick and almost impenitrable. Everything from your child's clothes to what you eat to how late you stay at the playground is fair game. And even if you DO have other mommy friends and family you'll find that their judgments can be pretty harsh, too. From now until the day you die, you will be scrutinized and judged. If your toddler won't wear mittens or a hat (happens more often than not) strangers will stop to chastise you for being a bad mom. They don't think twice about it.

If you don't have support from a spouse (for whatever reason) you may want to shoot yourself at the end of the day. Oh, and the end of the day is 4:00, whether you like it or not. No one will understand that calling your house between the hours of 5:00 and 9:00 in verboeten because they don't understand that making a decent dinner and getting your child off to bed is an important routine that is harder to pull off than a cartwheel in a closet.

And there is never enough money. Want to take that $14.00 drop in yoga class to unwind? WRONG! Because you'll have to pay a sitter a minimum of $10 an hour which, if you take only the yoga class and hurry home will turn that $14.00 class into a $50.00 plus outing.

And any child care situation sucks. You can find the best nanny, the best day care, the best preschool, but you'll always wonder what the hell it is they are doing with your kid. This could be tolerable and, at some point even desirable if you can pay for it. But, as I stated above, there is never enough money and it is not easy to find a job that will allow you to keep your child as priority number one.

Men treat you differently. It freaks them out. Men who meet you after the kid have no reference point to the you before, but the fellas who knew you when get a little freaked out. Some take it much better than others, but some of them will always look at you funny. I imagine that look comes from serious sexual confusion. One minute they're imagining you in bed, then the image of you giving birth creeps in then they just don't know what to do with that. And if you are thinking about having a baby without the benefit of a partner, just know that finding a life mate after the fact is going to be that much harder.

I know you think you know all this stuff, but you don't. I keep going back to a conversation I had with a fellow park mommy a few years ago. She had been having a tiff with her husband over something or other that did not get done that particular day while he was at work. He said,

"I wish I could sit at the park all day and have coffee with my friends."

She replied,

"Yeah, it's great. It's only sucking the soul right out of my body."

I love my kid. I would not trade the experience I have had for the world. I would never want a life without my son. I'm finally getting myself back on track, but it has been the hardest, most painful experience of my life. I'd rather live through adolesence again. It makes my teenage years look like happy, happy, joy, joy. I'm all for motherhood. It is painful and difficult, but it is also wonderful and can bring such love to your life. I'm just saying, do it with your eyes open. Know what you are getting into. Prepare yourself, not just for childbirth, but for parenting. Be ready. Don't buy the mommy myth that having this loving little baby will fill you because it won't. It can't. Only YOU can fill you. I suggest you learn how to do that first and then you'll be ready.

Someone Should Poison Ann Coulter

I could live with Ann Coulter's politics. It's her whiny little Daddy's girl, cheerleader, snot routine I can do without. I might even listen to what she has to say if she didn't feel the need to put on that defensive tone with her "sh-ya, right, what-ever" attitude.

If you want to know why she's under my skin at the moment, click the title to this post.

She is currently being added to my short list of people I actually have to hold myself back from punching in the neck.

Sigh

In this dream I am 15 years old again. I'm bouncy, thin and my red hair is in its long, shiny glory. I'm waiting in line to get into the gymnasium for some movie or other kind of presentation. It's dark in the gym and the bleachers are pulled out.

Behind me stands a boy in a parka. He might be a little older than me. He's tall, dark and slightly dorky, just like I likes 'em. He's a little plump, but only in terms of baby fat. Underneath the layers lies an unrecognized power and that thrills me. I am conscious of the fact that he is not anyone I've known before this dream and yet, clearly, he is everyone that I have ever been close to. He looks lost and a little sad. I playfully bump up against him and he lights up. I feel like I want to cry he's so lovely, but it is a loveliness no one else can see. Just me. I tease him and he swats me away like I'm some bothersome fly but I can tell he doesn't really want me to leave.

The line begins to move and we find our seats, down front on the floor. Like true geeks we are actually interested in what they are going to show us. I sit close to him, but not too close. He is still wearing his parka and it makes a swishing sound whenever he moves. I watch him watch the movie they show us and I get caught up in my own thoughts.

This one loves me soft and deeply and he's too shy to say it. If I do this right, he'll chase me for years. I'm not sure if I'll ever want to kiss him, but I want to take care of him and I want him to look at me with those hungry, shy eyes. I want him to love me deep down in his gut so that he will protect me without giving it a second thought. I'll give him just enough to want to keep me but not enough to give him any confindence to do so. If he holds me he may crush me, or worse, let me go. The perpetual chase is a better choice.

I casually put my head in his lap and feel his body tighten in confusion. I can tell that he would like to hold me, kiss me, something but he is not sure what my response will be. Neither am I. I know that horrible moment when a a kiss is coming but there is still time to turn back. It's not hopeful or romantic. It's exposed and vulnerable, I'd rather not look in his eyes. I don't know what I'll find there. Because, as sure as I am of his affections any other moment of the day it is THIS moment, when we are face to face when I am not sure what I will encounter. Will those affectionate eyes still be there? Or will he turn into a predator seeking only a conquest? Worse yet, will I see what he really thinks of me? Will it be a vision as windswept and beautiful as I hope to project? Or will it be of someone common and simply present to fulfill his needs? Or will it be full of contempt because he knows the game I'm playing?

I wake up feeling lovesick and disoriented and wondering if I ever meant anything to anyone.

I Like Your Earlier, Funnier Posts

Okay, maybe I'm not that funny.

At least, not intentionally.

I'm not nearly as funny as my siblings who regularly make me split my gut laughing. I'm not as funny as a Scrimshaw, but then again, nobody is really THAT funny. That's a very special kind of gift. Don't get me wrong, I have humor but it is mostly accidental. People laugh at things I say and write, but most of the time people laugh when I am just being honest. I'm not really trying.

When I try, it is pretty pathetic. Embarrassing really.

What is funniest about me is one of my 8 1/2s stuck firmly in my yapper.

If I'm retaining water it's more like a size 9.

You Say Vosotros, I Say Ustedes

I hate having to be such a damn smarty pants, but I had to speak up about the lack of verb conjugation in my free Spanish class. So, we finally got to conjugate some -ar verbs and that was helpful. However, I picked it up very quickly (thanks to my knowledge of French) and was ready to move on but very irritated with the teacher's need to tell us all the exceptions to the rules before we've even learned the rules. Dude, one thing at a time. Yes, even though it is not common speech, I want to learn vosotros because I may need it someday. Don't know when that day will come, but hey- just teach me the flippin' form, would ya? And don't confuse me by using the form that agrees with ustedes with vosotros because that is not what the filppin' book is telling me. And my grammar sucks to begin with. I don't need any help screwing it up.

The thing that frustates me is that I get the sense that because she is a native speaker she feels she can just follow the book and that will be her lesson plan. There is just more to it than that. I love her to bits as a person. She's cool and funny and sweet, but that's not everything it takes to be a teacher.

Then I fall into yet another big question in my life. Do I have a sucky, arrogant attitude that needs to be taken down a notch or am I just smarter? My ego wants to tell me that I am smarter than the average bear, but I don't really like thinking that way. If I do, then my ego and my attitude go totally out of whack and I start being a jerk. It is just that sometimes the people around me do things that are ass backwards and to me it is so obvious that there is a better way. Am I being a dick if I say so? Especially if I'm not the one in charge?

Not to mention the dangers of shooting your mouth off in that way. Either people think you're a know it all jackass or they agree with you and put you in charge. Like I don't have enough to do. I have to bite my tongue when I see others struggling with pronunciation and what I really want to do is teach them the International Phonetic Alphabet, which makes it so much easier. In that instance it isn't because I am smarter, it is because I have this extra tool that helps me make connections more quickly. But, I spent a year learning that alphabet and a quick lesson in it won't help anyone. It does make me think that I should teach it to my son at some point, though.

Whether I am just smart or smarter is really not the point of anything right now. What IS the point is that I am most definitely NOT stupid and my brain should be occupied with more than housework and how to construct a lifelike Voldemort out of scrap paper.

I'm trying, but when I get out there I see how absolutely piecemeal my knowledge is. I have what I like to call "cocktail knowledge". That means I have enough knowledge of a vast array of subjects that allows me to have engaging discussions over cocktails, but nothing in depth. Or at least, not in depth enough for me to feel confident in it and call myself an expert. Then I see people who know WAY less than I do about any given subject going out there and selling their knowledge to the highest bidder. What the? How do they DO that?

Yesterday I was out hunting for theatre spaces and I was talking about my project to the theatre manager. He was interested in my theories and methodology and had questions which I answered well enough to encourage a nice discussion. I think I got through the discussion in a competent manner but I couldn't help but wonder- if I was going to hire someone for this job I am doing, would I hire me? I don't think so. So what makes me think I am qualified for this? So what if I have been doing this kind of thing for 15 years? Do I really know what I am doing? When I told him that I am handling every aspect of this undertaking he looked like he thought I was crazy, but he was also impressed. What the hell makes me think I can pull this crazy thing off?

I'm smart. I have talent. I'm good at what I do. But what if that still isn't enough?

A Kertunkulous Spunk

Yeah, I've been watching the Chuck Jones "Cat in the Hat" lately. Is it wrong that I honestly think "Calculatus Eliminatus" is a ripping good song? Does anyone out there know what I'm talking about?

I'm heading out to look at some theatre spaces today so that I may kick off my series sometime before the sun explodes. I haven't set foot in Manhattan in over a month. It will be good to go for a few hours. Plus I'll get to walk around spaces and inspect them, but really I'll just be standing on stages trying to remember a cherished part of my distant past. I really love to just stand there. If I'm lucky I'll get a run of the lighting system and I'll have the opportunity to feel that blinding light shining on me.

God help me. I'm an actor.

I can't help it. I am hard wired to seek attention. It is something that I battle with daily. I wish I was a more humble and dignified soul, but I'm not. Look at me! I'm ever so special! Yuck. I hate that about myself. I guess the reason I have gone so deeply into the craft is so that I don't have to admit that I like the eyes on me.

Don't get me wrong, whatever the reason for going down that road, craft is very important to me. So much so that I am creating this series to fight for craft in a dying artform. It's my defibrilator to an ailing chest cavity ravaged by plasticity, fake boobs and publicity smiles. Stories are important. I believe that. Stories need good storytellers who give a damn about content.

Actors have always been the scum of the earth. I'm coming to the conclusion that they should still be seen as such. Appreciated for their cunning portrayals of life on this planet and then put away, out of sight, to deal with their own personal demons. Their personal lives should not be trotted out in front of us for comparison becuase that is irrelevant to the story. We don't need to know. It should be put into their work and not into headlines. The creation should be more relevant than the creator.

I have many thoughts on this issue. But I need to go find a space.

Gone Fishin'

I am having so much trouble focusing today!

I imagine that is because I was up until 2:00 this morning and then have to get up at 7:00. I know, that is still 5 hours sleep and if I wasn't such a wimp I'd be able to hack it! But, I am a wimp and I need 7 hours. I've been so disoriented all day. Tom set his alarm for 4:30 this morning and it woke me up. I was so confused and I kept asking him why he was getting up and if it was time for me to get up. Why is it so dark? Why are y ou getting up, again? Do I have to go to work?

Honestly, Tom must have thought I was completely nuts.

My Spanish class this morning was an absolute drag. We're STILL not conjugating verbs and I am about to pull my hair out. I'd stop going, but it's free. The bargain hunting animal in me cannot resist a deal like that. I did ask when we were going to get down to it and she said next week. We'll see. I'm pretty patient with new teachers, but come on!

I am avoiding things. I have promo stuff to write and I know if I sat down to it I could finish this play by the end of the week. I just can't get stop flirting long enough to get to work.

Yeah, it's this very guilty, horrible thing that I do. I'm so desperate for attention, I guess, so I've been out there fishing with some of my male friends. They aren't stupid. They know I'm doing it and they oblige me with a double entendre here or a compliment there. I hate that I need it. I hate that I so shamelessly seek it. I wish I was stronger than that. It's almost an out of body experience when I do it. I can watch myself playing the game but I am helpless to stop it. A little would not be so bad, but I catch myself doing it with such regularity and purpose that I know my ego must be in pretty bad shape. It makes me wonder why these guys play along. I love them for it. It's very kind of them to play so nicely with the lumpy house frau especially since there are no real rewards for doing so.

Tom and I once had a discussion about this. I asked him if he ever flirts and he said that he did at work sometimes, if he needed something done or something like that. I was expecting him to ask me the same question. He didn't. He just said that he knew that I flirted. I asked him how he knew-preparing to be offended. He said, "You go out to a bar with $20 in your pocket, come home drunk and still have $20 in your pocket." Touche. How and why he puts up with all of my male friends, I am not sure I understand. After all, the only male friends I've had that he objected to were guys that were absolutely no threat to him at all. None. He wasn't even bothered by the married junky who tried to smooch my tonsils. He did, however, want to punch out the guy that I used to shoot pool and smoke cigars with who never once made any kind of pass at me. He was part of my little circle of friends. He wasn't particularly attractive and I had absolutely no interest in him beyond discussing politics and beating him at pool. (The only guy in the world I CAN beat at pool!) But the guys who talked to me as close friends, who expressed real and personal concern for me, who spent lots of time with me in cramped dressing rooms (yup. Co-ed dressing rooms, ain't that every Mom and Pop's worst nightmare? It's just nowhere near as sexy as it sounds.), talked to me for extended periods of time on the phone and were my drinking buddies- these guys didn't seem to bother him a bit.

I kind of wish they did.

A Little Favor

Listen to The Scrimshaw's new theme song by clicking the Scrimshaw link to your right and then hit the red Pablo button. Joe's gone a-courtin' his fiance in London leaving Josh to hold down the comedy fort with little Timmy. This song asks the immortal question, "What good is half a Scrimshaw?".

A shout out to Tim Uren (yeah- you read that last name right) who will easily pick up where Joe left off up to, but not including, the bar tab. Oh baby!

Throw one back for the Brooklyn Mama, boys. I miss you su'm' bitches.

A Little Ketchup for my Size 8 1/2

I can't sleep.

I can't stop thinking about every stupid thing I've ever said.

My embarrassment is keeping me awake.

That and my sciatica.

Aren't I too young to be kept awake by sciatic pain and bitter regret?

Maybe.

Don't get me wrong, this mood will pass and I will be happy go lucky tomorrow- once I come out of the haze of my walking coma caused by lack of sleep. But I do wonder if anyone else stays up late punishing themselves for stupid gaffes the way I do. I would venture a guess that 98% of these stupid things have been forgiven or forgotten long ago. So why do I have these difficult nights?

Once I said that "...in 10 years they'll be crawling over broken glass to work with me." I remember saying it and I remember the shocked stares and uncomfortable silence that followed. I've got about four more years to justify that comment. In high school I told a bulimic who wailed about the injustice of having to watch what she ate that I had to watch what I ate too, only the other way around. See, I have to make sure I'm eating or my thyroid problem would have me waste away. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Yeah, I really know how to put my foot in my mouth. Chances are, if you've known me for any length of time, I've said something really stupid to you. I have probably said it with conviction, too.

Sorry about that.

Santa, This Year I'd Like a Spine, Please

I've got some serious irons in the fire so far this year. I'm going to make 2006 my year if it freaking kills me.

Or, I might just hide in my responsibilities as a school volunteer and make sure my apartment is the cleanest and most organized in NYC.

I am hoping that I can muster up the brass cajones it is going to take to get these concepts off the ground. I keep running the numbers and my plans seem pretty good. I could make money off this shit. Not a lot, but something to keep us afloat while I get my coaching and directing career(s) off the ground- not to mention a couple of scripts I have that are awaiting production. I've been waiting and waiting and waiting for an equal partner to come along and share my vision. As much as it seems people are willing to follow me, no one is willing to put their neck on the line and share the responsibility with me. I've got to do it for myself. If I fail, I won't have anyone to blame but myself. Aw shit, what I really wanted was a fall guy! Now I have to succeed or fail based completely on my own merits.

Now, I'm not an idiot. I know that if I had succeeded in gaining an equal partner who was willing to put up with my opinions and let me bulldoze my way through every project that I would STILL be the one responsible. I would just have someone to commiserate with at the end of the day. What poor bastard would really want to put up with all that? But, that's just not in the cards. I've got to suck it up and forge my path myself. I won't be completely alone. There are plenty of people on the sidelines to cheer me on and a few who will follow in my wake providing much needed support, but this path is going to be mine. The work will be mine. The joys and the sorrows will be mine. Just saying that makes me feel strong, but I've never really had (or claimed) anything that was completely mine. I'm not really sure if I deserve it.

BUT, I need to stop thinking of it that way. Deserving it is neither here nor there. I'm busy reordering my life and the way I look at the world and my place in it. A few things are going to get broken along the way. A few things are going to fit perfectly into place. All that is really required of me is that I be who I am. I may be pretty small, but what I have to share is too big to keep to myself.

I just have to grow a spine. That's all.

Why I Hate Weekends

As much as I hate to admit it, and as I much as I am the absolute last one to know I need to confess that I am not lazy. I hate not doing things. I hate not being busy. I hate not having a direction for my day. I hate lounging.

This does not mean that I can't enjoy sitting in front of the television, reading for pure pleasure, or watching the sunset. But when I watch tv I need to have something to do, filing bills, refinishing furniture, repainting the kitchen, crocheting. When I read I like to read things that inspire me to work harder, write more, think differently. When I watch the sunset I had better be drinking, eating or moving somewhere. The only time I can sit still and focus on one thing at a time is when I am talking to someone. A conversation demands all of my energy and focus and I love it.

I hate weekends because everyone in my house likes to freaking lollygag all day long. I get itchy and irritable. I want to get out and see the world, get something done, have some kind of purpose in my life besides getting access to bigger and better food items. Hey, I don't mind sleeping until 8 or 9, but once I'm up, I'd like to go DO something. I hate fighting to get them out the door so that I can live life.

Nope. Weekdays are awesome because I get to scheme and plan, write, check things off my to do list and feel some sense of accomplishment. Weekends are just a drag on my momentum and I've had four years of fighting to get halfway up to speed again.

Its a good thing weekends are just 2 days long.

An Even 150

This is my 150th post.

In honor of this momentous and arbitrary occassion I am going to do something completely out of character.

I'm going to keep my big ol' yap shut.

Enjoy #150, cuz #151 is gonna be a bitch!

The Titles to My Posts Just Keep Getting Longer and Longer and Longer and Longer and Longer and Longer...

I can't head bang any more.

I guess I haven't really done it since I was 15, but my closet Hessian came out yesterday while watching an ad for Monster Ballads (no, not the Sesame Street variety, but that would be funny) and my 31 year old neck now protests my 30 seconds of rockin' out. And very well it should.

You see, rockin' out is like masturbating. It is something best done where the general public does not have to be forced to watch. If you're not a rock star yet, there is probably a good reason for it and we don't have to be the ones to tell you that you look like an asshole. When was the last time someone came up to you to honestly tell you that your air guitar was white hot and you should take that act on the road? See those people biting their lower lips and laughing in the corner? They're laughing at you, dude. If you want to continue this behavior you had better bathe in a little Wild Turkey to save yourself the trouble of explaining the next day.

"No, man, that's just the way I dance!"

This doesn't mean you can't enjoy music with abandon. Please do. You see, rockin' out is a self conscious thing when you are trying to be cool like the guys you grew up idolizing. You ain't him. Be you. You're less of a dick.

I've got a little date with a hot water bottle and some sensible music for 31 year old ears. Yeah, it's the Monkees, you gonna make somethin' of it?

Nasty, Brutish and Short

In the dream I am short with broad shoulders and a three day beard. As a man I have the air of an opportunistic weasel. A bit of a medievil Peter Lorre, I guess. I find myself clad in a suit of armor guarding a lonesome gate to a castle. Stretching out behind me is a vast expanse of green grass at the end of which is a sharp hill that looks like the end of the world. There are no trees or any kind of cover to speak of. I am alone at my post, armed only with a sword and a shield. I can hear a skirmish inside the castle walls and I suddenly realize just how alone I am. I stare expectantly toward the end of the world feeling the weight of my armor and lamenting the loss of my helmet.

The sounds behind the gate grow more frenzied and I see horses coming over the rise. I grab my sword and the gate breaks down from the inside. I look to my left, then to my right and make a decision to run. I can feel the pounding of feet on the earth behind me and see a glint of steel out of the corner of my eye. At first I feel it on the back of my neck, sharp and cold. Although, I do recognize that it is not cold from the sword. No, the sword was already warm and wet with other men's blood. The cold was the unfamiliar sensation of the wind blowing across my exposed muscle tissue. Within a split second my head is severed violently from my body and I have the sensation of rolling through the air inside my own head. I actually see my body drop behind me. Before my head hits the ground I hear a voice telling me to let go. I think to myself that death really isn't so bad. Surprising and possibly unfortunate, but not bad. I wonder why I had felt the intense urge to flee and feel ashamed of my cowardice.

Then I wake up.

It's akin to that moment in the movie "Defending Your Life" where Albert Brooks visits the Past Lives Pavillion and realizes that he has always been a whiney little loser. What strikes me most about this dream is the physical sensation of losing my head. It's so real, so visceral and kind of cool. So is the sense that I died and the event is no more important than losing at a game of Donkey Kong. I zigged when I should have zagged. I'll have to remember that next time.

I don't know if there is a "next time" but I have other dreams like this one. In one I have a sharp metal object poked into my breast and wiggled around before I feel the hot and bubbling sensation of fire under my feet. In another dream I have the sensation of being stabbed repeatedly in the back by someone who is clearly taller than I. If I have died before it is abundantly clear that I was not well liked. If I have not died before, then I have a really sick fixation on violent death and some gender identity issues!

In truth, it really doesn't matter what these dreams mean. What I take away from the experience, however, is that death really isn't so bad. Does it matter if that is true or not? No. What matters is it puts my mind enough at ease so I can let the fear go a bit. Unfortunately, I haven't had any dreams to let me know that life itself isn't so scary! I've got to get the ol' gray matter working on that one.

Nighty- night.

I Can Goof Off 'Cuz I'm My Own Boss

Of course, this doesn't get me any closer to having money in the bank.

I SHOULD be getting info on my liability insurance so I can factor that into my overhead costs for an upcoming project. I'm just so terrified of money. That's probably why I don't have any. If money is the root of all evil, than I am saintly and clean! Wahoo! Heaven awaits! Can I trade in my 72 virgins for an eternal supply of cappucinos and 7 layer cookies?

Yeah. I really don't want to blog about my money issues- or any issues that I have, really. It's a rainy, gloomy day and I want to be happy in spite of all that. I've been thinking a lot about challenging my assumptions of struggle and success. For today, I am going to enjoy struggle and think I am a success. For the whole day. It's going to be fun!

Then I am going to put away the groceries and put the laundry in the dryer. Yup. It is a glamorous life I lead. I sit and think about my place in the universe, I write, make phone calls, network, do laundry and vacuum. That is pretty much what I do every day. Like I said, there isn't much money or prestige in it, but how many other people get to do what I do? I'm pretty lucky. I'm also pretty darn obstinate.

All right, in the interest of brightening up this rainy day I will be listing off some more of my favorite things. If you look under your chairs you will find a whole lot of nothing because I ain't Oprah.

Spanikopita. Oh- and Saganaki! I'm not sure how you spell it, but I sure know how to eat it. Come on, spinach and feta? Flaming cheese? How often does a person get to combine two passions like pyrotechnics and dairy products? These are some of life's great pleasures.

Plastic storage. I love how it stacks and organizes. Makes me feel all space age.

Orange and yellow. My living room has orange and yellow walls. It's like living in candy except it isn't so sticky.

Philip Seymour Hoffman. When he gets a little older he'll be one hot, aging genius. Just like I likes 'em. I have a sick fetish for guys who can't clean themselves up. No matter what he does, if he's being himself, he's always slightly dishevelled. I love that in a man. It means his brain is doing something other than preening and that is something I deeply respect. Not a big fan of the metrosexuals.

Cary Grant. Okay, he is not a mess, but he is not a peacock either. I just love Cary (Archie Leach). How often do you find a handsome, athletic man who is so knock down, drag out funny and does not mind making a complete ass of himself? Which is also something I deeply respect.

The West Wing. I know, I know. But I watch it religiously. I love Allison Janney and the show is actually funny in an NPR kind of way. It was pretty embarassing how hard I laughed this week when CJ said to Will "Did you take an awkward pill this morning?" Yeah- you so had to have been there.

All right, one more thing...

Staying up past any reasonable bedtime because the discussion of art/ politics/ religion/ science/ education/ history/ etc is just too damn good to stop.

All right. Phone calls must be made. Laundry must be finished. Numbers must be crunched.

I'll be back.

One More Hometown Story Then I Swear I'll Shut Up About It

On Saturday morning my Mom and I did "Old Lady Laps" at the mall. Basically we just walked the perimeter of the mall with all the other retired, early risers who don't much care for the great (and cold) outdoors. It was, admittedly, really early and none of the stores were open except for Shopko. Yes, Shopko- it ain't Target, it ain't Wal-Mart, it be Shopko and no, I'm not making that up. It's a real and true thing and it is the anchor of this particular mall. Make any assumptions you want about the quality and quantity of stores in this mall with that information.

Anyway, as we were walking I couldn't help but notice that some of the stores had tables stocked with merchandise set up outside of their gates. The gates were closed, lights off, no sign of any employees whatsoever but these tables stocked with sale merchandise were sitting out in the open. Now, I don't want to say that there was absolutely no security in place because that simply is not true. Those tables were covered with sheets. Yes, sheets. After staring about in disbelief I nearly fell over laughing. These country rubes leaving saleable goods out in the open with only a sheet to protect them! I laughed and told my mother that if this was Brooklyn these tables would be stripped in three seconds flat and you wouldn't even see it happen. My mother then challenged me.

See anything you want?

I knew she was only teasing me, but I thought about it for a second. Yeah. I could sure use a fake crystal Jesus candle holder/ potpourri pot couldn't I? I took a step toward the table. I reached my hand out but couldn't come near it. After all, there WAS a SHEET over it and that clearly means "Do Not Touch". The stupid honor system crap WORKED on me. I could not help but respect the sheet.

Okay. I'll admit it. I'm SUPER MINNESOTA! I won't touch the sheet. I won't take the last piece of anything just in case someone else wants it more. I always put trash in a proper recepticle. I keep myself to one side of the grocery aisle so people can pass by me. I say please and thank you and I'll flirt with old men if they flirt first.

Yeah, my sister, Pamela, and I were at the local grocery when an older gentleman addressed Pam telling her that he almost poked her because he thought she was HIS daughter. Pam flipped her hair and responded jauntily, "Well I would have just poked you right back!". Then she gave one of her pattented, girly, nose laughs and flashed him that pom-pom girl smile. Yeah. Minnesota girls are nothing if not friendly.

Yup. I'm polite. I'm friendly and I've got a heck of a work ethic. Occassionally words like "hootenanny" will sneak into my speach and my voice goes up one irritating octive when I have to ask a stranger to accomodate me in some way. For example, my voice went up into the "sweet range" when I was at the grocery store today waiting patiently for this fellow to move his cart away from the string beans that I was craving.

"Excuse me, sir? Hey. Excuse me. Sir. Since you are busy fondling cabbage would you mind taking your cart with you so I can get at those beans? Or I could jam this rotisserie chicken right up your freakin' ass." (Polite smile and head tilt added for emphasis)

I guess I'm a little bit country AND a little bit rock n' roll.

I'm Not Mad Anymore!

As I close out 10 of the hardest (and oddly most joyful) days of my life so far I have to reflect on something I discovered at a bar last night.

I'm not mad anymore. Specifically, I am no longer mad at my hometown. I don't hate it and I guess I haven't for a long time. I guess that hating it here was such a huge part of who I thought I was that I hadn't really examined it for a long time. No. I don't want to live here, but I have found that there are some things I like about being here. Oddly enough, I am learning to really like the people here.

I had a nice drink at a popular watering hole last night and talked it up with some locals who were neither impressed nor resentful of my Big City Life. We laughed about the Starbucks in town, talked about the basic goodness of human beings, tousled (politely, of course) about Iraq and economic possibilities for this care worn town, and then we wished each other well. As I left them I couldn't help but wonder what the fuck it was I have been trying to prove and to whom was I trying to prove it? Small town girl makes good? What a lot of bull. Truth is, I left and went where I wanted to go. To the folks around here that is as good as it gets. I've already succeeded. So what the hell is all this whining about?

Okay. So there were some things about this environment that made my adolesence here a living hell- but I also got to have a tremendous amount of freedom and ran into some seriously interesting people. Being from this struggling and barren place has taught me so much and I am actually feeling grateful for the experience. I'm glad I could hang out with my friends in the woods, huddling around fire pits and sucking down sodas while we navigated the trecherous waters of teenage desires. I'm glad I had all night dives with crappy, watered down coffee to call home. Especially when there are in close proximity to bars loaded with colorful characters that would spill over into our caffeine drenched hang outs. I'm glad I was so close to labor struggles, farmers, and a thriving interstate drug trade. (Never took part in that, but learned a lot from watching those who did) I'm glad I grew up knowing people who said things like "so I says to her I says" and "Oh gosh, no!". People who wear fancy sweatshirts and eat donuts and think a size 12 is fetching! No. I'm not mad anymore.

I actually feel quite good.

Break from the Backwoods

I have some time to myself today. I'm enjoying it, so far. It has been about an hour since my Mom's friend has come to hang out with her so I can have some time to be alone. It's nice, but in classic caretaker fashion, I really can't think of anything more important to do than to hang out with my Mom. Even though I have not had more than 15 minutes to myself since Sunday. She could be knock down, drag out exhausted but will not go to bed unless I do- and I will NOT be missing Jon Stewart this week. That's all I ask for is Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. If I can have that, I can deal with just about anything.

Of course, this moment of solitude only gives me time to think about what is actually happening and I am fighting some despair. Last night at dinner my Mother was convinced that I was her younger sister and that her parents were still alive. I gently changed the subject and we went on with our day, but now I have time to sit and think about whether or not she knows who I am from moment to moment. Well, that's all just silly ego stuff, isn't it? Does it really matter who I am, at this point? All that really matters in the moment is whether or not she is safe and if she is able to deal with what she is experiencing in the moment.

Right now I am getting ready to hop in the sauna (one of the benefits of being at my parents' house) and then I am going to take the car...somewhere. They just opened a Starbucks here, so I may go there and pretend that I am in an urban environment. I went through the Starbucks drive through yesterday (Mom tried a cappucino! Imagine my surprise!) and had to laugh when the barista asked me if I had ever had a cappucino there before. She explained that she had to ask because frequently people drive up expecting to get one of those cappucinos like you get at the Kwik Trip and they are often disappointed that there is so much foam in a Starbucks cap. Funny. To each his own, I suppose. But I must say, the donuts here are superior to anything in NYC. Screw you Krispy Creme. You're not even close!

There is also an awful lot of Jesus here. More than I remember growing up. I'm up to my eyeballs in Jesus, here. I don't know. I'm always a little skeptical of people who wear their convictions on their sleeves like that. Makes me think they don't really mean it. If it were really in their hearts and part of the way they live moment to moment, they wouldn't need to advertise.

Just for the record, I think me and God/the Universe are pretty square. Now, my sauna awaits.

Dude, I Got Me a Dell with a Dial Up

Anyway, as with most things it is the waiting that is the best/worst part. I was so nervous about coming home and leaving Sullivan that I nearly had a flipping nervous breakdown. But things here are pretty good, considering. I have to give my sibs some major props for being the awesome people they are. They have really done their best to help me understand what it is I am walking into and have not dropped one ounce of judgment toward me for living 1500 miles away. And they totally could have, but that just isn't who they are. As funky a unit as we have been, I have to say that we all ended up pretty flippin' decent.

It's definitely weird being here and it is a little freaky to go to sleep and wake up to Mom just hovering in the hallway and having to lead her back to bed. But, all in all it has been good. My Mom's aid is so wonderful and sweet that it really sets my mind at ease. Of course, I haven't been alone with Mom yet and I am not sure how I am going to handle it, but we'll take things one step at a time, shall we.

Well there are all kinds of photos to go through and some science experiments with corn starch to play with (my neice and nephews are here) so I think I should shove off. But it does feel extra good to be typing again. I do love the dull click clack of the keys. It sounds good and it feels good. I'll have to sneak down here later and do some more typing just for the joy of my fingers.

The quick, brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

Whoop de doo de doody

I'm not sure when I will get a chance to post again as I leave for my trip to Minnesota tomorrow and will be gone for 10 days. I might have a chance (or a need) to spew a little bit while I am there, but my parents just have dial up so I may as well be visiting Amish country. Perhaps you can read my blog via smoke signals?

I've skipped my Spanish class today as I figured my time would be better spent getting my prescriptions filled and packing than sitting around listening to really nice ladies talk about how much they love Oprah. Dude, I guess everyone has to have their earth bound dieties but I'd much rather hear the gospel according to Tom Waits than Oprah and her cadre of celebrity fans and their marvelous, holier-than-thou lifestyles. Shit. I'd rather listen to Dr. Phil at this point. Yeah, I'd rather listen to Dr. Phil and have a spa day at Abu Grhaib than have to listen to any Oprah worship at the moment. Her head's gonna get so big soon and it is gonna pop like a week old tick on a hound dog. Heh heh heh. That'll be fun.

I should be doing something a little more productive at the moment, or even writing about something "serious". Frankly, I don't really want to do anything. But whenever I try NOT doing something I feel antsy and guilty and then I am forced to go and do something. I could use a really good documentary and some puttering little project like sanding and filing something or crocheting a blanket. Just something to keep my hands busy while I stare at something on tv and then I feel like I am adding something to the world, but the yarn around here sucks unless you go to the yarn boutiques where they sell you $20 a skein special blends of Peruvian Yak, fucking Panda and unicorn. (You-knee-corn)

I suppose. The day awaits me but not for long, any minute now it will be gone!

Julio O Julio, Have You Met Julio?

I love my Dunkin Donuts guy.

His name is Julio. He can't be any taller than 5'2", he has a bright, round face and new spunky blonde streaks in his short, dark hair. He once tried to buy my affections with free donuts and I was way too slow to figure out what he was up to. Finally, one of his coworkers pointed to my left hand and said, "Hey, she's married." Then he smiled, said "damn", and put another free donut into my bag.This little incident did not embarass him and it did not make him ignore me as it would a lesser man. He always smiles big and warm when I walk in the door. He always puts an extra cover on my cappucino to keep it from spilling and puts it in a bag because he knows that I will not be dining in. He never mistakes my order and when I come in with Sullivan he always has an extra Munchkin on a toothpick for him. He does not pry into my personal life. Our conversations are limited to "How are you?" and "Did you want that toasted today?". Even when he is not the one to wait on me, he always finds a way to shoot me a smile and a way.

Julio services me way beyond my expectations. He anticipates my needs and asks for nothing in return. Oh damn. He's the perfect man!

Rainy Days and Tuesdays...

It's not that I am ashamed of it. I just tend to keep it to myself. Or, truth be told, I'd rather not think about it at all. But the clock is ticking and in a matter of days I am expecting a rude awakening.

They all give me the same look and say the same thing when I tell them.
I see no reason to make it a big secret why I will be going back home in a few days without my husband or my son. I'll be missing out on some things, my Spanish class, my volunteer work, and some of my creative projects will have to be put on hold. People need to know why I won't be around for ten days. So I tell them and their eyes widen, their eyebrows furrow.

Oh! I'm so sorry...

I appreciate their sympathy but feel that it is so misplaced. Although, I don't know where else they could put it. I have no answers for any of this. All I know is that I want to talk about it, but what is there to say? My mother is losing herself. Slowly. She is sinking into an abyss that I know frightens her more than anything else ever could.

Mom could fight dragons, eat nails, be rubbed raw and still go swimming in salt water! She could do these things and still provide you with hot lemonade and honey when you have a sore throat. My Mom is the toughest and most unassuming lady you could ever meet. The one thing that shook her to her core was her own mother's stroke. After which, Grandma was robbed of her speech and could not care for herself at all. I distinctly remember Mom telling me as a teenager how it had been the most horrible thing she had ever seen.

"I know she was IN there but she couldn't get out!"

Now my mother is battling Alzheimers. I know she is in there and she can't get out.

I'll be spending ten days with her while my Dad is going to be out of town. I agreed to do this months ago, brushing it off like it was no big deal. But it IS a big deal. The one person who has given me more than any 100 people combined is slipping away and I haven't really faced it. Anxiety is setting in.

You do know what anxiety is? Don't you? Anxiety is that impending sense of doom that has very little to do with events in and of themselves. No. The doom comes from the fear that you will not have a plan. You will not know what to do. You will not know how to handle it. You will fuck up. You will cease to be and do and know.

I can handle this. Right?

I'm All Hopped Up on Herbal Tea and Ready to Roll!

Not that kind of "herbal tea", jackass. No euphamisms for me. Unless it is to use the phrase, "Excuse me, but I need to visit the euphamism" which I think is fucking brilliant. A tip of the hat to Edward Albee for that one, I wish I could remember to make that a part of my daily speech.

At any rate, I am reading an extraordinarily painful book (not painful bad, but painful honest) and I am as giddy as a schoolgirl. You'd think it would send me into the depths of despair like reading "Catcher in the Rye" again. But happily I must report the effect has been the exact opposite.

A couple of friends and I were shivering at the park today discussing the correlation between financial success and happiness. We pretty much came to the conclusion that everyone is unhappy with the exception of the handful of Holocaust survivors that each of us have met. According to our sloppy and rather unscientific findings, it is a matter of the type of perspective that provides contentment. Perhaps I will decide to opt for misery? It sounds much less painful.

So, I am sitting here with the largest and girliest pot of tea (raspberry spice- heavy on the cinnamon) and my ever-present back pain wondering if there are any coherent narrative threads in the story of my life. Everyone has to have them, right? Otherwise, how would we piece together our memoirs? I believe in order...and chaos and order and chaos then more chaos then chaos again and then order and so on and so forth. There is a mathematical ratio for beauty for Christ's sake! And if that is true (and it is) then there must be some reason why this chair smells like ass. What the hell? Sorry, but it really is something awful.

Apparently it was something in the trash can next to my desk. Sorry about that.

Anyway, since there is a certain amount of mathematical order in the Universe there must be some sort of mathematical order in my life. Unfortunately, I am not in possession of a mathematical mind so solving this mystery can go no further than some giddy evenings sipping tea and subjecting the world to my ramblings. Ah well. Could be worse.

I could have the proper perspective.

Bonne Anniversaire, Ma Belle Soeur!

Today I have the pleasure of making another birthday tip of the hat to yet another sister!

Today is Kristen's day and just thinking about her makes me smile. She is charming and light and is in possession of a suprising wit that will bowl you over if you're not ready for it. Kristen is full of surprises. You'd never know by looking at her just how tough she is! She is radiant, kind and supportive not to mention that she is a really great friend.

Happy Birthday Kristen! I love you!

Sysiphus Meet Florence Nightengale, Flo meet Sysie

If there is one thing that I know it is that happy, whole people do not encroach upon others. The contented do not lash out nor do they do any purposeful damage. All the troubles and injustices in the world are an outward manifestation of someone's pain.

Well that just makes the world a playground for a little ol' caretaker martyr such as myself. It really is arrogant and pathetic of me to even fantasize about making things better when I can barely take care of myself. But if you've ever watched people you love fall apart (repeatedly) you'd know that it takes a hell of a lot of restraint to keep from dropping everything in your own life to rescue someone. What is incredibly hard for me to come to terms with is the fact that if I rush in, I'm really not helping at all. I'm just prolonging the agony.

But I've never really learned how else to be a "good" person. How do you love without sacrifice? For all the knocks in the teeth the rewards of "sainthood" are too enticing. What's worse is the addictive self loathing of knowing my motives are not so pure. I'm looking for validation and admiration and knowing that just makes me feel disgusting. Then comes the obligatory dismissive hand waving. What? Me? Oh it was nothing. You'd have done the same for me. Oh stop. You're embarassing me! Do you think it possible that Mother Theresa had this kind of self-loathing? Seeking the attention and then feeling so ashamed of your motives that you are driven to deny yourself that which you have so desperately sought?

Really. We are, none of us, saints.