A Crisis of Conscience

I'm reeling a bit from an encounter I had yesterday with a guy my age who is much further in his career than I. This is where my self esteem goes to hell.

I'm a sham. A charletan. A cheat. A swindler. I should not be allowed to teach anyone anything because I have no experience. Not even life experience. I'm a moron who knows nothing and no one should seek me out for anything even resembling guidance. I suck at this. There is nothing that I do extraordinarily well. I'm passable. Jack of all trades, master of none. A person would be out of their minds to finance anything that I do.

I couldn't tell you if any of this crap is actually true. I know, deep down, that I have talent. It is just that I cannot figure out where the hell I belong. I am just uncomfortable everywhere. I'm uncomfortable teaching. I'm uncomfortable being a student. I'm uncomfortable at the playground. I'm uncomfortable in a bar. I'm uncomfortable in an office. I'm uncomfortable on the phone- I can't even order pizza without getting the heebee geebees. I'm uncomfortable selling things. I'm uncomfortable buying. I'm uncomfortable handling money. I'm uncomfortable letting someone else do it.

The only place I feel truly at home, heaven help me, is in someone else's clothes under burning bright lights. Examine me. Peel me apart and see how I succeed and how I fail. Look at my mistakes and my triumphs and talk about me over drinks.

I'm uncomfortable admitting that this is true. I'm even more uncomfortable admitting that I don't have the strength to pursue it with any consistancy. But when I'm there, everything is okay. Maybe not for my character, but for me, I know I'm functioning to the best of my ability and at the height of my compassion.

What a sick, sick way to live a life.

Dude, White Men Are Snobs

I've read over the years that minority women in America tend to have a better body image than the average white American woman. Today, I figured out why.

Now, I've discussed in previous posts some of my thoughts on leering. Intellectually, I know I should shun the practice but in reality I like an appreciative glance now and again. Just don't over do it. Right? Right.

So, anyway, I was in Midtown today to have lunch with a friend and since the last few days have been rather warm I decided to dress in a fairly casual manner. I opted for a black mini skirt with a brown wrap around top that nicely accents my cleavage. I'm not a scrawny thing, but I'm no heifer either. I got a nice, long pair of gams and every once in a while I let them out to play. What I noticed was a huge difference in how men of different ethnicities looked at me.

White men all looked right past me, like I didn't exist. A couple of white boys in cool linen pants and gelled up dos gave me grimaces that were unmistakable messages reading "What are you doing on my planet, fat bitch?" Although, there was one notable exception. He was a tourist, that much was clear, and he was a real skinny fella with a blonde mullet wearing a wife beater. I shit you not, my friends. He gave me a big, greedy grin and gave me the ol' up and down look. (A side note, that is kind of oogy- I don't reccommend that approach.)

As much as I felt like a disgusting sasquatch in the eyes of nearly every white man I crossed paths with today I found myself getting a little ego boost from hispanic men and black men. Black men in three piece suits, in active wear and in jeans gave me the ol' eye contact and smile. That's always a nice one. When done with a certain confidence the eye contact/ smile combo always makes me blush and give the coy head tilt down with the look up smile and slight shoulder shrug. It's a very complicated move, but I am often rewarded with a bigger smile in return. The hispanic men gave me the head turns. Oh, nothing makes me feel better than to think that I stopped time with my mere presence. Then I just walk by, knowing that his eyes are trained on that tantilizing spot where the bottom hem of my skirt just skims the back of my thigh. I know you're looking.

None of these men made any advances or approached me in any way. I certainly felt their appreciation and their disapproval. I've come to the conclusion that white men (to make a gross, gross generalization) just have a limited palate for feminie beauty. I think you fellas ought to work on that because you are missing out on one curvy piece of gorgeous over here!

If The Eggs Turn Purple, What Does THAT Mean?

My son only wants to do kitchen experiments at inopportune moments. This morning, he made a concoction of seltzer, food coloring, cinnamon and whisked egg and asked me to cook it on the stove- just to see what would happen. I told him it would probably be inedible but he demanded that I cook it anyway. I am stupid and indulgent (not to mention a little curious myself) and so I obliged. The result was a foamy, purply-green mess which he then offered to Tommer as a gift.

Eat it Daddy! It's for you!

Oh Lord! Poor Tommer. He side stepped it as gracefully as he could and I offered to teach Sullivan how to poach an egg tomorrow morning which only distracted him for a brief moment. I always wanted a creative kid who was curious about the world. Oh baby, be careful what you wish for or you might find yourself with a kid who wants to build a life sized evil robot out of box cutters and rusty tin cans. To him, that seems reasonable. Hey, I don't care if you do with when your fifteen, just not now! He always counters any dismissal from me with "I'll be careful!"

Fuckin' pigeon.

And by Pigeon I mean the demanding pigeon in Mo Willems stellar kids books. There's "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus", "The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog" and "Don't Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late". These books are hysterical (in that 5 year old kind of way) but Sullivan has learned one too many tactics from this pigeon. In "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus" the book starts out with the bus driver asking the reader not to let the pigeon drive the bus. Then the rest of the book is about the pigeon nagging, begging, pleading and trying to sneak his way into the driver's seat. It's the kid's job to say no. Well, my kid likes to say yes to the pigeon. He enjoys the mayhem that ensues as the "bus" (represented by the book) gets out of control and crashes. Then I have to prompt him to make the correct choice, but no! Screwing up is much funnier. One of these days I'm going to crash the bus and then throw a dead pigeon at him and see if he begins to comprehend the consequences of his irresponsibility!

Can you imagine the screaming? Well, the screaming from me anyway. Sullivan would probably want to dissect the damn thing and label its innerds. Mommy, how do you spell pancreas? Curious little S.O.B. (You do know who the "B" is in this scenario, don't you?)

I'm begining to realize that my time at home might be easier if he had a little brother or sister to push around instead of me. I was too terrified to have another kid after I saw how much work it is in the begining. Now I'm seeing the work start to pay off in my friends' families and now the joke's on me. Perhaps it is too late for me to reap the benefits of a sibling?

Maybe I can rent a sibling for the summer...

6/6/06

Next Tuesday there is a half day of school. Tom and I were joking that maybe the half day is so we'll have time to get home for the Rapture. Hey, where'd Dad go?

Nah, I don't buy the whole Rapture bit. But what if Tuesday is the end of the world? Really. What would you do? The world starts falling apart around you and you can only stand there with egg on your face. Aw dude, I totally fucked up on that whole end of the world is nigh shit. My bad.

To think, I'll never get to see "Nacho Libre". Damn.

Holiday Introspection Wrap Up

It feels like a small mouse crawled under the skin in my forearm, buried his claws and teeth into my muscle and then died in there. This bug bite thing is making me lose my mind. Seriously, my right forearm is swollen like a python after a good meal and I'm all crazy on Benedryl. So not my drug of choice. Of course, at the moment my drug of choice happens to be a hearty loaf of bread dipped in olive oil and salt so, you figure out what that means for yourself.

Basically, I've come to the conclusion that I don't know my ass from a hole in the ground but since I'm not riding around in North Jersey blindfolded in the back of a cargo van being driven by guys named Paulie and 'Nardo, I'm probably okay. I live in Brooklyn where the chances of my coming across an honest to goodness hole in the ground are pretty slim so I'm sure I'd be able to figure it out sooner or later. Anyway, it is probably my job to be confused at this point. If I had it all figured out I'd probably be doing it wrong.

But that's just my problem. I'm terrified that I am doing something terribly wrong. I always have this sinking feeling that I've done or said something horrible or unforgivable without even knowing it. I do have a habit of choking on my size nines. I'm in a constant state of self doubt because I've noticed that all the things that have worked for me are not the things that normal people do. I mean, in my business, there is a certain way to conduct yourself and a certain prescribed method of getting and keeping business. I've tried it. I suck at it. I feel terrible that I suck at it. I punish myself for being a stupid, stupid failure. But when I ignore the advice that I've received from "pros" I seem to do much better. Even if I am doing well I can't help but wonder if I am doing it horribly wrong and if people aren't laughing at me behind my back because I'm so ridiculously clueless. If I'm not doing what they say I should be doing, than I must be doing something wrong. My teachers kept telling me "Work smart, not hard" but I don't know if I know how to work smart. I just work hard.

My Lord, I'm an idiot who thinks way too much.

I'm not as brave as I used to be. I used to be able to thumb my nose at a lot of things and be brassy and not give two shits about what anyone outside my little circle thought of me. Of course, that lead to a lot of jackass behavior that I've decided I dislike so now the pendulum has swung the other direction. I'm a Sagittarius. Subtlety and middle ground are not my strong suits.

So this has lead me to the rather exasperating conclusion that, maybe, I should be trying to re-invent the wheel. I know people make it a point to NOT do that, but I don't think anyone else's wheel really works for me. I'm going to have to chisel the damn thing myself. I think I'm going to put playing cards in the spokes. I can totally do that 'cause it's my wheel, fucker!

That is, if you don't mind.

You Mean I Missed What?

Have you ever found yourself in the middle of giving really stellar, amazing, insightful advise only to come to the realization that you should practice a little of what you preach?

Today I was spot on. I know I'm spot on when my friends turn to me and say, "Aw, fuck you." I've struck a nerve and I know it and they know it and we both know I'm right. Today I got the "fuck you" from a friend and realized that, as I was talking about her and her specific woes, that I could have just as easily been addressing myself. Physician, heal thyself, eh?

That's what I love about other people's lives- they're not mine.

One of the things that I have realized this past weekend is that I no longer believe that success is possible for me. I'm searching for these qualities in others (who will hopefully save me!) because I am afraid that I do not possess those qualities myself. That is a completely uncomfortable truth and now that I am faced with it in myself I really want to tell myself to fuck off.

It was much easier not knowing.

We're Not Gonna Take It

I haven't listened to any metal in a long, long time. Let's be honest, the joy went out of metal for me once it became clear that, if I was to be a metal chick, I was expected to either kick ass or mindlessly give up my own. Neither of these scenarios really fit with my personality so the highest metal aspiration I could have was to become a total poser. Yeah, I chose something different.

I found myself watching VH1's doc series "Heavy: The Story of Metal" and I went down memory lane for a bit. I remember how I was completely blown away by Metallica's "Master of Puppets" and that I nearly fuckin' broke my neck loving GNR's "Appetite for Destruction". Yeah, those were fun days. I think that phase lasted almost an entire summer. But, it soon ended as I left for the more sensitive pastures grazed by the likes of Robert Smith and Morrisey. But I would occassionally revisit my brief headbanging days by flirting with guys who were known to greet one another by shouting "SLAYER!" in psuedo demonic tones. This is when I learned that percussionists can be a whole lot of trouble. But that's another story entirely.

It would be kind of funny if some of my mom friends came over to my house only to hear me blaring Anthrax. Would they be shocked? I'm certain they wouldn't really expect it of me. They tend to see me as mild mannered and even keeled (I KNOW! Funny, isn't it?) and I wonder if they would even say anything about it. Even funnier is the thought that some of these sweet mommies might also be rockin' their morning jog with a little Black Sabbath. That'd be awesome.

Oh, musically speaking, things are quite different for me these days. I'm no longer fueled by adolescent angst or misdirected anger. Yesterday I busted out Little Willie John's "My Nerves" and nearly fainted from the desperation in his voice. Man, that woman was seriously doing a number on him! Then I listened to Louis Jordan's "Caledonia" and jumped for pure freakin' joy. This was followed by some classic O'Jays, Sly and the Family Stone, Frank Sinatra, and rounded off with a little Hank Williams (Senior, of course). Yeah. Things are different for me these days. There isn't too much call for the gut ripping, adreneline pumping metal in my life anymore. I'm a bit more subtle now, or so I'd like to think.

But sometimes...sometimes nothing really scratches that itch like a little metal up yer ass.

More Educational Woes

While I don't consider myself a teacher by trade, I've sort of fallen into it. I teach acting and life skills to all ages and I am just now coming to a point where I'm not just teaching in "survival mode". With any new job there is always a weird learning curve where you try to navigate the processes of the organization you are working with and try to find your own voice. I'm not a master teacher. I don't know if I ever will be. But I had a moment of clarity this morning and I feel like sounding the alarm.

I'm interested in funding schools, I'm invested in providing socialization and information and encouraging curiosity about the world around us. However, it has been clear to me for many years that money is not really what schools need. Yes, computers and technology are important. Libraries and bathrooms are important. Helping each student reach a certain level of proficiency is also important, but cataloguing kids and herding them into this group or that group just isn't good enough.

PING!

Here's why: Learning is a much longer and more mysterious process than public education, as it stands now, has the ability to accomodate. It is not the rote spitting back of dates, equations and principles of grammar that indicate expansion of the mind. It hardly even qualifies as knowledge. If you can't apply it to anything, what does it really mean?

I'm learning, through my own classes, that you really can't say that at the end of ten weeks these kids will know such and such. It doesn't work that way. You have to teach them where they are at and guide them on their own journey for it to be meaningful and have resonance in their lives. You can't take them on YOUR journey. You can't take them on the TEST'S journey. That path is not available to them because they are different people with different experiences and different perceptions of the world. They need to see, touch, smell, hear, and taste the concept and its application before it can be used. It is the SKILL that is important.

Does the Holocaust mean anything if it is a bunch of numbers, train schedules and dates? No. It has meaning when it is contextualized and given weight by personal reference. Imagine reading a train schedule, getting personal profiles of the passengers on that train and then trying to wrap your head around what happened to them once it reached its destination. Imagine getting to like one of those passengers, like Anne Frank. Now those train schedules mean something. The numbers on board those trains begin to have faces, names, histories, families and they become closer to you. Numbers are important, but only in relation to what they represent. Is E=mc2 relevant to anyone's life in and of itself? No. Not until it is contextualized within the spectrum of perception of the physical world from the Newtonian Universe to String Theory. How does one ingest that kind of knowledge? Through observation, guidance and patience. It can be achieved through integration of the whole being into the pursuit of knowledge and understanding. This cannot be tested. It cannot be weighed or measured, but if you talk to a person who has this kind of knowledge and understanding you recognize it right away.

That is the kind of knowledge we should want for our children and for ourselves. Although many children can be successful at taking tests and some may even be successful at absorbing knowledge through this kind of teaching, I don't know if that is any true measure of how well a school is performing. I knew tons of bright kids who were not served by the public school system. I also know a few kids in private school and in home school situations that are not being served by their educations. Why? Because the process of acquiring skills demands the stimulation of the whole person and I am just not seeing that happening right now.

I had a discussion with Sullivan's teacher yesterday. I think she's brilliant and she gave me a little nugget that I hope to implement in my own classes. She told me that she doesn't get too hands on becuase she just needs to set up the structure and let them discover for themselves. Her job is to just redirect them when they go astray. Every kid in that classroom is thriving under her skillful direction because they are learning that learning is fun and they are learning to trust themselves to learn. I tend to get stressed out when my kids are wandering away from me and I tend to do what I do with an audience and try to win them back with my humor or my sweetness. What I need to learn is that their journey has nothing to do with me and if I set up the circumstances, they'll naturally explore within without too much prodding from me. This is scary because I want to be in control and reach my objectives.

Maybe instead of reaching for my, rather arbitrary, objectives I should be helping them to shape their own.

Don't DO That!

Lord knows, I love sailors just as much as the next girl and I look forward to Fleet Week as much as anyone. Who can resist those cute boys in their crackerjacks? But, as much as I love Fleet Week I have a teeny tiny complaint.

When an entire city suffers from post traumatic stress syndrome it is probably ill advised to spend the day BUZZING THE CITY WITH LOW FLYING MILITARY PLANES IN FORMATION! Just don't fucking do that! Scared the fucking crap out of us.

What the hell were they thinking? Just the sound of planes is enough to give plenty of us flashbacks, but then to see planes flying so low is enough to make any of us think "Oh God, not again!". Because we are waiting for it. We know something is going to happen here and it makes no sense to stir us into a false alarm.

Although, I must say, a few years ago when the Tall Ships came into the harbor Tommer and I went to the Promenade to watch the ships. It was pre-9/11 and there was a demonstration of military planes going on. I'll never forget the sight of a Stealth Bomber zooming out from behind the skyscrapers of Manhattan. It was one of the eeriest damn things I'd ever seen. The thing came from out of nowhere! It was, and is, hard to shake the sight of it. It was like a brush with all things dark, unknown and frightening. I wasn't impressed. I was experiencing a primal fear of this triangular black object. And that was when the Towers were still standing.

The summer of 2002 I found myself walking down the street in my neighborhood pushing my son's stroller. As I passed a neighbor a jet flew overhead but was somehow louder than usual. We both stopped in our tracks to see if anything was going to happen. Once the "danger" had passed my neighbor looked at me and said, "We all look up now, don't we?"

Yeah, we do. So don't needlessly frighten us with fancy flying. We can't fucking take it.

Holy Figuring It Out, Batman!

I've had these discussions with single women lately about body image and fashion. I've also had discussions with these same single women about so called "raunch culture", media and entertainment. I've had a lot of these conversations over a lifetime. I have to scratch my head about it a bit.

The general consensus from these single women is that they feel attacked and irritated by how clothing is sized (Large is now a size 8- come on people!) and how women are made to feel inferior if they don't match up with these unrealistic ideals. I have a friend who was a size 4 and went up to a size 6 (she's 6 feet tall, people!) and she's been beating herself up about her weight gain. Then she gets angry about media images that beat her over the head every time she walks out the door. It's unfair, she says, I wish I could just walk out the door and live my life without having to think about the little number 6 on the tag inside my pants.

I have other friends with similar complaints accompanied by different numbers. I hear it. One friend said to me that certain companies should take it upon themselves to help women feel better about themselves but instead they play on our fears and our insecurities and we subconsciously make it a goal to lose weight or whatever so that we can fit into certain clothes made by such and such or so and so. Yup. I agree, that is totally self defeating. We should stop doing that.

But what I find interesting is that through these discussions I discover an attitude that there should be some social responsibility on the part of manufacturers and outlets to be more welcoming and help women alleviate this kind of stress. There is an idea that women are clamoring for a different kind of community that supports their self esteem and is more nurturing the their own self interests. Stop selling us bad stuff. Even though we want it and we buy it, please sell us what is good for us. Help us be healthy even though we want the junk. We desire the candy, but don't make it available- we can't control ourselves. We live to compare ourselves and beat ourselves up! Don't let us! Please help us to stop!

Yet, in the next breath, if I mention how the school system is failing and we aren't getting even the tax dollars that were promised to us the single women snort about how they don't have kids and don't want their property taxes raised to pay for schools. Gotcha. Then they tell me that they get upset when people criticize prime time television programming for it's crassness and parents should just be more responsible for their own households. Or I hear people complaining about kids in restaurants but if they see someone disciplining their child they look down their noses at you, the evil child abuser.

The basic message I get is this: Support me! Love me! Take care of me and hold my hand when I don't have the strength to do something for myself. What? You need help? You need to create a nurturing and supportive environment in which to raise your kids? Fuck you, they aren't my kids. That just cramps my oh-so-hip style.

I just think it is funny that people don't see that if you want a community that supports you, you have to support others. If you want people to be responsible for the images that hurt or offend you, you need to be equally respectful of others. If it's a free for all, then it's a free for all. If we're in it as a team, then you have to play on the fucking team.

You can't have it both ways.

No More Crunchy Cookies!

With the notable exception of Ginger Snaps- but beyond that, cookies need to be chewy and delightful. Unless you are down to your last $.75 and need to pick up a bag of Famous Amos as your last meal before Guido comes to take out your knees but that is the only acceptable crunchy cookie scenario in my book. Especially if the cookie is more than 2 inches in diameter. Dude, size alone should tell you that that particular cookie should not crack your teeth. How can you eat that shit? Big cookie that detroys your choppers and then turns to nothing but crumbs on the front of your shirt? No way.

Hands down, man. Cookies should be fucking chewy.

I want my money back.

Okay, Ow...ow...ow

So, we have bed bugs.

Apparently, I am allergic to the bites of these little bastards. My arm has swollen like a freaking watermelon, the flesh is drawn tight, it is itchy and painful. I'm embarassed about the infestation to boot.

If you are not aware, bed bugs do not live in filth, so you can't really clean them away. They are attracted to warmth and exhaled carbon dioxide. They are not known to be disease carriers, but if you are allergic to the protein in their saliva you can be made quite miserable- apparently. No one else in the family is having this kind of reaction so I am getting very little sympathy. They are not impressed by my swelling or the tremendous amount of heat generated from the afflicted area (It's like a freakin' heating pad!) nor are they saddened by the sight of my sad pawing and scratching at my arm. I've about had it up to here!

Pity me! Stroke my hair and say, "Oh baby, that's terrible. Let me fix you some tea. Let's call that exterminator and don't worry about laundering the blankets, I'll do it. Hell, I'll just buy you a brand new bed! And perhaps some jewels for your pain and suffering."

Now, is that just too much to ask?

Noticing the Turn

In reviewing my most recent blog posts, I've noticed how my focus has been shifting lately. How exciting to have some concrete evidence of my change of course. I'm delighted to see that I am not just moaning an absense of opportunity in my life but actually discussing my art in an active way. That is such a nice change of pace for me. I hope I don't make any U turns and end up back where I started.

It's much nicer here.

Except for the bed bugs that have crawled down my chimney, but that's a whole other post.

Let's just enjoy the moment, shall we?

Brooklyn Family Dining

Last night some Sullivan and I went out with some friends for dinner. All told there were four kids under the age of 5 and four kids over the age of 30 present for dinner. It was delightful. There was pizza. Real, delicious saucy pizza made by an old man named Mario who hands out little chunks of "pizza cheese" to kids who come to visit his window into the kitchen. And there was wine and salad and ice cream and ricotta cheesecake and the most tolerant, old school, Italian waiter named Alfonse.

You see, Al is a waiter extraordinaire who loves kids. He gets antsy kids to help him set the table and get straws and when the kids get lippy waiting for their food he trots out the old school wisdom.

What? You think I got ten arms? Siddown!

You want ice cream, eh? Eh? Whadder you? A wiseguy? You a wiseguy? I'm a wiseguy. 'Ere, suck on this. (He says the last part handing the kids a bowl of ice with a set of tongs and winks at the parents who are busy laughing into their glasses of cheap Bordolino)

Man, sometimes eating out is the best thing in the world.

The Id , The Ego, and The Super Ergo I Had That Dream Again

The last few nights I've had my house dream again.

In the dream I find myself at a relative's house, usually my paternal grandmother's house but not always, and the house is always full of secret rooms. I always get lost in the house and will occasionally run into the odd cousin, sister, grandparent or childhood friend. The house always seems to go on forever and there is a point which I will go no further. I sit in a certain room, paralyzed, terrified to move any deeper into the house and it is there that I usually find myself haunted. I am tormented by ghosts and ghoulies and this confirms my suspicion that I should go no further as the ghosts are only bound to become more violent and frightening the deeper I move into the house. Last night I was met by a naked man who repeatedly plunged his own hand inside his chest and ripped his flesh back to reveal his inner workings which then fell out with a sploosh onto the tile floor. The corpse would collapse moaning to the floor and then, as if the tape rewound itself, he would stand up with his innerds all back in their proper place. He would then repeat the gruesome task. I went to take a shower in this grand bathroom with the fancy shower heads and hand painted tiles. I turned the shower on and began to search for shampoo in the large cabinet. In each drawer I found something hideous. Severed hands, scalps, toes, and eyeballs were stashed in the drawers but no shampoo. I decided to just rinse off and hope for the dream to end soon.

Apparently, there are some family secrets that terrify me. I have a theory that if I ever do go past that room in my dream I'll probably find a room full of well mannered kittens, a big comfy chair, and an endless supply of chocolate. The horrors are there to protect the chocolate because they know I'll eat it. Yeah, I'd even be able to eat it after I saw the guy rip his own guts out. Nice try, subconscious, nice try.

Another One Down

I have a new script ready for workshopping- to turn a noun into a verb.

Pretty proud of myself.

I was even smart enough to write a role for myself.

It is about freaking time I figured that one out.

Now if I could just find some wealthy benefactor to bankroll my project, baby that'd be sweet.

So if you know anyone with some extra cash to invest in the theat-uh, have 'em give me a call, eh?

Film Father Explains Life to Boy

This morning I overheard Tommer explaining a life issue that means so much to him to his small son.

Sullivan: Daddy! Get rid of those two lines on the tv screen!

Tommer: Oh! I can't do that, Sullivan because this is what is called letterbox.

Sullivan: Just get rid of them!

Tommer: (getting excited- presumably because this is a moment he has waited for to pass on his particular fatherly wisdom) No! No! You see, whenyou go to a movie theater the screen is big and rectangular.

Sullivan: (drifting away) yeah, bigger...

Tommer: And the TV screen is a square.

Sullivan: and it's smaller

Tommer: yes, but it is the shape that is important, if you try to fit a rectangle into a square you cut off part of the picture. So letterbox is good, because it means you are getting to see the whole picture...

Sullivan: Have you seen my Goldilocks toy?

Tommer: What Goldilocks toy?

Someday, I am sure Sullivan will spout the same piece of information to his friends who will be cinema dolts and Tommer will reap his reward for having explained the facts of cinematic life to his young and impressionable son.

But for now, the search for Goldilocks continues.

What I Miss About Acting School

I spent two years in a New York City basement (albeit a huge New York City basement) spending anywhere from 8-15 hours a day being concerned with the tension in my right shoulder, why Paulina puts up with Shamreyev, and why Agnes would murder her newborn child. I kissed people without it threatening my relationship- of course, I always ended up kissing more women than men, but that just added to my appeal. I played with swords and pushed my physical limits with dance and acrobatics. I had the opportunity to play Helena on a Broadway stage. The same stage that was trod by the likes of Al Pacino, George C. Scott, and Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Acting school whoops ass.

How many opportunities do you have in life to spend two straight years figuring yourself out and everything in your life conspires to help you to that end? How many hours a day do you get to check in with yourself emotionally and physically and then endeavor to fix the glitches that you find?

After being out of acting school for 6 years and struggling to keep projects and my family humming I have discovered that I just want to go back to school. I want to make that kind of room in my life again. Only this time, I'm ready to take the lead. I'm no longer the student. I'm ready to set the course and lead. I actually think I am ready.

Of course, tomorrow I will be convinced that I am a fraud and no one should ever listen to a word I say, and maybe that's true. But you should be smart enough to figure out whether you want to follow my pied piper or not.

Just Don't Look!

I'm sorry, but this immigration debate is hateful and stupid.

It is just another election year piece of bullshit concocted to distract you from what is really happening in this country. I'm not the only one saying it and yet we keep engaging in the debate. Turn the freaking dial already. Turn the dial to the "misleading the American public" channel or the "You didn't think the problems could get any worse in the Middle East, did ya?" channel or how about the "abuse of power" channel? Whatever you do- stop allowing them to control the debate. Quit letting them pick the agenda. Didn't we learn anything from the election on The West Wing? Never accept the premise of the question!

Be a little bit more savvy, people, please!

And It's Not Just THAT Guy!

I don't think I will ever get used to the way some men talk to me.

I'm used to double entendres, I'm accustomed to facetious come ons and I have no difficulty having frank, psuedo academic discussions about my likes and dislikes. These things do not cause me much trouble. They are safe. The men who engage in this kind of talk with me are close friends who would never do more than tease and I do not entertain the possibility. That is clear. For the last 12 1/2 years, everyone has known that I am virtuous and devoted to one man and one man only. But, if there's a free drink in it (and there usually is) I will play the role of lusty vamp. It's camp. No one ever complains.

But occasionally I run across a certain breed of New Yorker that has no inner monologue. They'll cross the line from the so-filthy-its-absurd into actual wooing. And I do mean wooing.

A guy I met a couple of weeks ago got into a run of the mill discussion with me. You know, where are you from? What's it like there? Blah blah blah. When, in the middle of this getting to know you banter, he just says, "Wow, you know, you're really lovely."

Now, what the fuck is a girl supposed to do with that? People don't just SAY that. That's something you say over a candle lit dinner with warmth and honesty in your voice and a Trojan in your back pocket. That's not something that comes up during the obligatory "So how did you end up in New York" talk! So, I'm reeling from that odd statement when he pulls out another uncomfortable statement.

"I know I don't know you at all, but you just light up a room, don't you? And your voice is so nice, you really are a pleasure to be around."

What the hell kind of crap is that? Seriously, I would have felt less awkward if he would have looked me up and down and asked me where I got all that junk in my trunk. At least I would have been able to say- Oh, okay, I get it. This guy is an asshole. But this sugary nice shit? How the hell do you read that? Because, I'll tell ya, it sounds like a total crock of shit to me and I can't quite figure out what he would hope to gain by talking like that. Certainly, there aren't any ladies out there falling for that kind of crap, are there? I mean, over the age of 20?

So, what the hell is wrong with me that something like that makes me so freaking uncomfortable? He looked me straight in the eye and did not once give me the up and down. And the thing is, it's not just that guy! I've run into the same kind of thing a lot over the years here in NYC. It's like they all sat in on the same seminar or some shit. Some misguided jerk off told these guys that women like to hear these kinds of things, and maybe we do- but that should be the closer! The place for that is just before (if you're not really sure whether the Minolo Blahniks are coming off or not tonight) or just after. If you think you might want to do that with her again at some point in the future but are too tired to stay up all night and chat, you trot one of those babies out and give her a little reassurance before you drift off into la la land. You don't just go spouting that kind of crap to any woman you meet! That just smacks of desperation.

This is why men hate women, isn't it? I'm sorry, but, would you fellas just fucking figure it out already!? Be nice, but don't lay it on so freaking thick. That's just creepy.

Huh?

Have you ever had one of those conversations with someone where you felt you were having one conversation and the other person was having another conversation in another freaking dimension?

This morning I was talking to this woman about how I feel bad that I have to choose between my son's field trip and the work I do with the first grade class. Then she started talking about how some parents are unruly and worse than the kids about such and such. What? What were we talking about? How did we get here? Obviously, this was a conversation she was just waiting to have and any spare moment would do.

The worst was the conversation that resulted in my leaving my therapist. After an hour of misunderstandings and misrepresentations I finally discovered that what I was saying did not match up with what she was hearing. So I called her on it and she said, "Oh. Well, that's different then. Okay, our time is just about up..." You're telling me it is!

Yeah. Some days I just don't exist on the same plane with other people.

I Spent the Afternoon Killing My Parents, What Did You Do?

Okay, not literally and barely figuratively. Would you like me to explain? Because I will, whether you like it or not.

A friend of mine in high school used to go into major funks for days at a time if a character in a story she was writing had to die. I thought it was sweet and kind of overly dramatic that she used to get so attached to these fictional characters that their deaths seemed to affect her so deeply. Me, on the other hand, I used to kill off everybody. Blood, death, misery, it was all part and parcel of my adolescent fascinations at the time. It was kind of funny, now that I think about it. After all, she was much darker than I ever was and definitely took to a much more sour disposition than I, but in the end she was much more sensitive about things. Me? Well, I think I've pretty much covered that self-absorbed territory already. Sweet on the outside, ridiculously bitter and twisted on the inside.

Why do I bring this up now? As I age I am finding it harder and harder to let characters die, even though I know that sometimes they must. It took several years before I was able to kill off the young man in my first play. The day I knew I could no longer avoid killing him, I had to call the actress whose job it would be to walk away from this boy and let him die to tell her what I was about to do. I could tell she was trying to be brave for me, but she took the news almost as hard as I did. In the first version, no one died. It sort of fell flat and had little resonance due to the lack of conclusion. For a while I had thought the boy was going to succeed in killing her and then kill himself. Then it became clear to me that the whole story was about her character's dilemma- do I stay and pretend that I can help this boy knowing that chances are he is going to kill me, or do I escape with my life knowing that he is going to kill himself no matter what I do? I chose to have her walk away. He died. He shot himself in the mouth. Right after the play technically ended- it was the "Blackout- Gunshot" that we used to laugh about in Arts High School and that was probably another good reason why I avoided killing him for so long. People shooting themselves on stage is so lame. But I ended up killing him anyway. He died and I mourned him for days and each time I think about him now, I feel sick to my stomach. I guess I feel a little guilt for creating the circumstances that lead to his fictional death. The truth is, I love that kid. He was so smart, beautiful, charming, witty and shy. It hurt to kill him. It hurt to have him in enough pain to kill himself. It hurt to have her live knowing that she will spend the rest of her fictional life knowing that she had a hand in his death. And she loved him desperately- almost as much as I did.

I am finally getting around to the re-writes I've been trying to avoid in my new play. I've spent all this time building up the circumstances in the first and second acts, creating a disconnected family ravaged by dashed marital and parental expectations. Then I had to kill the matriarch. It wasn't so much that she was in the way as much as it was about the lesson of her passing. So today I killed her and left her grown children to pick up the pieces. I feel terrible because I loved her strong back bone, her rather cool affections toward her own children and her incredible devotion to an abusive husband. At least I didn't have to shoot her or beat her to death. It was just a gentle heart attack in the middle of a family crisis. Off stage, thank you very much. People collapsing on stage is so fucking passe. What is going to be really hard is that tomorrow I have to tell her husband that she's dead. I'm not sure how he's going to take it, but he depends on her for everything. He needs her. As big an asshole as he is (was- that's one of the points of the play) it is going to be heartbreaking to take her away from him. I'll let him keep her for tonight. I've shed enough tears for them today.

It is amazing how fiction can invade your life so completely. In school I was playing Lady MacBeth and I made a choice to break my imaginary 2 year old's neck. It was during the sleep walking scene. I beckoned the little boy to come to me and gathered his little pudgy body into my arms. I wrapped him in a warm embrace then curled my right arm around his imaginary back and cupped his little chin in my right hand. Then I snapped his little neck. The scream left my lips before I even knew what hit me. One thing I am good at is my sensory work. I could feel every fat roll on his plump body. I felt his chubby fingers grasp my biceps. I felt the force in my arms that I needed to crack his neck. I felt the body strain and go limp. I had convinced myself that there was a lifeless little boy in my arms and guilt, grief and nausea swept my body in such a complete way that there was nothing left in me but this long, heavy sob. Once the sob had left me, the complete emptiness that envelops the rest of Lady M's night wanderings was all mine. I have no idea if my interpretation was any good as the only feedback I received from my nemesis teacher was that I should have killed the kid earlier and, by the way, where did you get that lovely robe? But to me the choice was so real that I could not eat for the rest of the day. Just thinking about it now makes me feel sick.

And yet, I feel compelled to have these experiences, to create them and live them as safely as I can. I shudder to think what would happen to me if I had never discovered these outlets for my murderous side! Not that murder, death and misery are the only things I create. Hardly.

Sometimes I'm funny.

A Fiddler's Fart

I've been reading Frank McCourt's new book "Teacher Man" and the phrase "...don't give a fiddler's fart..." features prominently throughout the book. That's an extraordinarily Irish turn of phrase.

As a general rule, I don't find farting funny. I really don't. It makes me horribly embarrassed. I just remember games as a child where the "one who farted" was to be regarded as filthy, an abomination. To fart or shit was a shameful thing. Masturbating? That's totally fine. It's the degredation of having waste products expelled from the body in such a foul smelling manner that bothered me. It's like having your dietary sins displayed for all to see. Perhaps if you ate naught but roses your shit wouldn't stink so bad?

At any rate, that said, the phrase "fiddler's fart" does make me laugh. I suppose it is the socio-economic status of the fiddler that I find amusing. The phrase implies that a fiddler is fairly low on the totem pole which is extra insulting to the person or object that one would not even give a fiddler's fart for.

That's just funny.

For Why You Bury Me In The Cold, Cold Ground?

If it weren't for the ACLU updates I get via email I wouldn't have any contact with the outside world at all.

Where the hell IS everybody? Hello? (Helloooo- Helloooo- Helloooo...) Is anybody here? (here-here- here...)

At least Anthony D. Romero cares enough to cc me on important issues of the day. Yeah, me and Tony, we go way back. We be tight, me and TOE-NAY! My MAN! Yeah! We don't need the likes of you!

Unless, of course, you'd care to sign a petition...

A Monkey Got Eaten At A Zoo

All of my obligations for the day just got cancelled. Which is really odd. So I'm sitting here at my computer wondering what I should do with myself on such a rainy day. And how should I perceive this little twist of fate? Should I follow my initial reaction that was something like relief laced with nagging feelings of rejection? Or should I consider that the Universe just made room for me to write and focus my life a bit today?

Probably the latter, but the former lets me wallow and excuses me from all productive activities for the day. Plus, I get to feel sorry for myself because no one needs me anymore! Hooray! Just what I always wanted!

It is such hard work being a dumbass.

How is it that I can be so spot on with other people and that I can witness these things in myself but I have such a difficult time making the necessary changes? Even though I know what I need to do I refuse to do it. I prefer to stare at the mountain of mess that is my life and cry about how big it is instead of climbing the damn thing. The climbing would probably take much less energy than the worry.

Okay. I've sufficeintly annoyed myself so I am going to end this transmission and get my ass in gear. After all, a monkey got eaten by some sloth bears at a zoo the other day. I only briefly saw the article, but apparently these bears and monkeys are supposed to live well together and this was a freak thing that happened. I'm guessing that monkey was a whiney little bitch so the bears ate him.

I'm not ready to be eaten by a bear so I'll catch you later.

Shmuley Shmuley

Okay, I'll fess up. Since last week I've developed a crush on a new man.

Yes, I am loving Rabbi Shmuley.

How fucking cute is he?

If you haven't seen it, there's a show on TLC called "Shalom in the Home" where Rabbi Shmuley takes his tricked out Airstream trailer around the country to bring peace and harmony (Shalom!) into families lives (In the Home!). So what if he's ridiculously authoritative, he's just adorable while he's doing it. He's like this sweet, middle aged, Semetic, Dough Boy! Plus, I'm discovering (much to my dismay) that I am finding the word "Rabbi" to be strangely erotic. Perhaps I've been in New York too long?

Nah, not really. As much as I love the slovenly, aging poet/ musician who reeks of whiskey and sour defeat, I've also had a weakness for older, slightly pudgy men who repeatedly use words like "blessing" and "joy". It really depends on my mood and which man best matches the sweater I want to wear that day.

I'm not so much embarrassed that I have a weird little crush on a frumpy Rabbi as much as I'm embarrassed that I tune into his show on purpose. I'm sure I'll grow out of it as fast as I grew out of my Stephen Hawking phase. It was "A Brief History of Time" that totally did it for me!

Oh wait, Stephen Colbert just said, "When I think about the truth, I touch myself...". Hmmmm, so many men and so little time...

Being Red

I realize that I get away with quite a bit due to my appearance. I can say some pretty nasty, arrogant, pointed and horrible things but people still seem to regard me as a sweet person. I can be downright filthy and inappropriate, but I can get away with it. No one ever bats an eyelash, nor does anyone make any assumptions about my character. None that have gotten back to me anyway. For years now I have been aware that I am in possession of a virtual blank check of acceptable social transgressions.

It's the red hair.

I'm telling you, that whole "blondes have more fun" thing is complete bullshit. So many people (both men and women) are positively kinky for red headed women and they will go to great lengths to please a red head. For the receptive red head, chivalry is most definitely not dead. Doors open automatically, drinks magically appear, and complete strangers offer to carry heavy burdens all to curry the favor of a red head. New Yorkers have been known to comment on the higher level of civility and kindness in the city since 9/11. Frankly, I didn't notice a difference. Everybody treats me that way. Always have.

Of course, for as many people who have gone out of their way to be kind to me on account of my hair, there have been just as many who have, well, gone a bit over the deep end.

It's not that I am particularly good looking. I've always considered myself to be a bit jowly (my friends always called it 'chipmunk cheeks' but we all know that's just a nice way to say 'you aren't going to age well!') but at least I am vaguely symmetrical. I'm not difficult to look at by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm not the head turning type. Except for my hair.

Men say fucking crazy things about my hair. About 10 or 11 years ago, Tom and I stayed at a B&B in South Dakota where the owner went out of his way to poke Tom in the ribs and say things like, "Keep your red head happy and she'll keep you happy, heh heh heh!" Here, have a room with a jacuzzi, that's the one I got cameras in!

There's some assumption that red hair is a sign of...sexual aptitude. I've seen men actually salivate and lick their chops, fantasizing about something so wild their imaginations couldn't even do it justice. I've asked some of my guy friends just what it is that they're expecting. Is it reckless abandon? Is it somehow tied with this mythological red headed temper? Is there a specific act red heads are associated with that no one has told me about? Is there something that I do naturally other women don't do? Or is it something so ridiculously simplistic and almost submental like a crow's affection for shiny objects? I didn't get any straight answers, just desperate jokes followed by silent leering.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, these are my friends.

But I should know better than to bring up a serious sexual query after a couple of drinks in a bar decorated with unfinished plywood. That's hardly the proper, academic atmosphere for such a question.

I'm not going to encourage or disspell any of those myths tonight. As laughable as they are, they still work in my favor, for the most part. So I'll never tell.

Mostly because I don't even know what the hell it is I'm talking about.

Happy Mother's Day

Yes, it is officially Mother's Day.

I wish I had something profound to say, but I've stayed up late to eat some baked Lays and drink alone. Which much different from my younger, chlidless days when there was no such thing as late, I, myself, was baked, laid and rarely alone.

WELCOME TO MOTHERHOOD!

I say that completely tongue in cheek. I rarely, if ever, got baked. Wasn't my bag. I'm Finnish Irish for Christ's sake! We're drinkers. It's true, look it up. Look it up in your gut.

Motherhood does have it's advantages. I look at it this way, I've got this fella who makes me jewlery with his own two hands (glow in the dark Sculpey jewelry!), shares sweets with me, sings songs to me, writes me illegible love poems and will always find a spare moment in the day to say, "Mommy, guess what!" To which I am required to reply, "What?" and he says, "I love you." Then I'm supposed to say, "HEY! I was gonna say that!" and we laugh. Today he sat on a park bench and kept repeating to himself, "If Momma ain't happy, ain't NOBODY happy." Hmmmm, wonder where he's heard that one?

My kid is a good kid. My man is a good man. They make me insane and I am completely outnumbered, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Occasionally, Sullivan will test the waters and call me "Bree". So I sat him down and told him that anyone can call me Bree. It's my name and I've been called that for 31 years. But he's the only one on the planet that can call me "Mom" and I wish that he'd see just how special that is for both of us. He flashed his sweet little dimples at me and said, "Mom, I want to whisper something in your ear." To which I immediately presented him with my ear. He hesitated then leaned in and...

SCREAMED "ARRRRGHHH!" REALLY FUCKING LOUD IN MY EAR AND RAN AWAY!

Little boys really don't appreciate sentimentality. I'm learning. I'm learning.

Like I said, Happy Mother's Day and much love to you and your little demons.

The Opposite of Medium

Sullivan was quizzing me on opposites today. Medium had me stumped.

Funny the things you often forget to question.

When In Doubt, Blog

So, Blue Raspberry Bubble Gum...I've just discovered that it isn't a very good idea. It's like having your tongue pissed on by a sugar plum fairy. Sorry, babe, that's just not my bag.

I could be reading. I could be cleaning the house. I could be getting ready to work with my 1st graders this afternoon. I could be making some phone calls for appointments. I could be re-writing my script. I could be prepping for my home schoolers on Monday. I could be planning for this workshop I have upcoming. I have no shortage of things to do, but I can't quite seem to organize my brain at the moment. I'm not even in the mood for that good cry I promised myself.

Of course, the last thing on that list is something I am afraid to unleash. If I let myself go, I might not be able to stop. That would just ruin Friday Movie Night. We all look forward to movie night. We eat dinner in front of the TV, stay up late, and gorge ourselves on popcorn. It's a family ritual that is such a ridiculous treat that we tend to over do it. There's usually some kind of disagreement around 9:00pm. Most frequently it is about a little boy who is too hyped up on sugar or just plain sleep deprivation to sit still and let us watch the movie. Believe it or not, there is a point when you want to know if Scooby will make it away from the monster this time.

Okay, so I'm a little restless today and in my usual pattern of avoidance. Wow- screaming cat in the backyard. Anyway, I suppose I could do a little yoga and I might straighten myself out and avoid some anxiety. Damn. Why can't this shit just work itself out on its own without me having to do anything about it?

Gay Icon

I've decided, that's what I want to be when I grow up.

I fit the profile, sort of. I'm gorgeously flawed, I can be raunchy, I'm funny, despite my whining I am actually pretty tough...

Aw, who the fuck am I kidding? As long as I'm friends with Britt, I'll never be able to make that status. After all, she's like a genetically engineered gay icon. She's like a gay icon spliced with the Marlboro Man and Marie Curie.

Congrats, Britt. I'm like, uber proud of you.

What Do I Have To Do To Get Some Service Around Here?

Apparently, the answer to that question is as simple as it is embarrassing. I have to break down and cry in order to get someone to help me.

Today I burst into tears in my doctor's office. Here's the Cliff's Notes; I no longer have a thyroid so I take medication to mimic my thyroid function. This means every 6-8 months or so I need to go in for blood tests to have my prescription renewed. Well, with the new jobs, getting Sullivan into after school programs and hiring the appropriate sitter, and with my mind all the way in Minnesota with my mother who has recently relocated to a "home" (for lack of a better term as "memory care facility" sounds clinical) I sort of lost track of myself. I didn't get to the doctor in time to get my prescription renewed. I made phone calls and have been having trouble with my insurance strong arming me into using their online service as opposed to my local pharmacy. If I choose a pharmacy, they will not cover my medicine which is a whole other rant I'll save for another day.

Anyway, I go to a cheapo walk-in clinic where my doctor does not actually take appointments unless it is for a full physical. I don't know why I go there other than it is a remnant from the days before I had good insurance and I have just never made caring for myself a big priority. Yeah, boo hoo, wah wah. As I was saying, I just had to walk in and hope I could get my blood work done. The receptionist tells me that my doctor isn't seeing anyone until after 1:00. I found myself frustrated but I ask if there are times tomorrow morning because I need to make sure I am back in my neighborhood to pick up my son from school. I could not afford to wait 2 hours for an appointment I may not get. The receptionist just shrugs and tells me that there may be time to see him in the morning but she doesn't know for sure and that is just the way it is.The message was loud and clear, to me; Yeah, it's really nothing personal but...fuck you! I stormed out in my passive aggressive Minnesotan fashion and made phone calls to arrange for someone to pick up my son from school this afternoon so I could take the afternoon to get this done. I figured it out and puttered around the neighborhood (my doctor is NOT near my home) until 12:50. When I walk in, there is a different receptionist who tells me that my doctor left for the day. Excuse me? No one could have alerted me to this 2 1/2 hours ago when I was so clearly irritated with being turned away the first time? Then I see there are all these signs all over the waiting room about making appointments and I again asked if I could make an appointment to see my doctor and they told me I couldn't make an appointment just for blood work that I would have to walk in. At this point, I had just had it and I sat down in the waiting room and bawled like a little girl.

"Right this way, Ms O'Connor. Dr. So and So has left, but Dr. Such and Such will be happy to do your blood work for you."

Are you kidding me? All I have to do is appear (or simply BE) remotely unstable and I'll get what I want? That both placates me and pisses me off all at the same time. It is truly, very confusing.

It wasn't really the whole doctor thing that set me off. That was one of those straw and the camel's back sorts of equations. Really, today was a gloomy day and there are some serious uncertainties about my life at the moment and I was also having strong feelings of guilt for living far from my mother during this huge change in her life and I just snapped like a twig. A little, weepy, red headed twig-with stretch marks.

Tomorrow is supposed to be rainy all day. I think I am going to lock myself in the apartment with some ice cream and weepy movies. Maybe I can purge these sniffly, pouty feelings with a good gut wrenching sob and then move on.

But it is pretty clear that I am going to have to find a new doctor.

Tooting My Own Horn

Let me tell you one thing...

I am really fucking good at what I do.

I had a demo class this evening for prospective acting students and I am fucking brilliant. Pearls of wisdom projectile vomitted from my mouth. It was dangerous in there. People had to duck because if my brilliance hit them head on- they'd so turn to stone.

Unfortunately, not enough people showed up to fill my quota for my May classes so we'll have to go to plan B. But the people that DID show- they are so hard core with me and they are now out recruiting for me. Why? Because I am really, insanely good at this.

A few of my friends want me to become a therapist (mostly because I do a heck of a lot of talking people off ledges, both literal and figurative) but they have never seen me do THIS. I remember my first day being eyed by an acting teacher who actually worked in the Group Theater (where most of the last century's great theatrical thinkers got their start) and being amazed that she could see straight into my soul and deduce things about my past based on a tiny finger twitch here or a "dumped" exhale there. I was blown away by her ability to literally read me like a freaking book. Tonight, I carried her torch. I was spot on. I called it and there was progress made in just one short hour. Get this...I actually know something. I actually know what I am talking about and it works and I am not just spouting theoretical bullshit. I whoop ass at this.

OWWWW!

Sorry, just broke my arm patting myself on the back.

Screw it, I'm going to savor this one.

Bree's 115th Dream

So, last night I had a dream that Bob Dylan was my cousin and that he died. I went to his funeral and couldn't cry. Mostly because I was pissed that I had such a whoop ass cousin who was too cool to keep in touch, ya know? The pall bearers took the casket by and they hadn't closed the lid so it kept smakcing the hell out of the guy to Bob's left. He wouldn't put the lid down though. Bob was skinny and he looked like shit. He was wearing a Colonel Sanders suit, only it was black and he was clutching a ukelele. I said, "see ya" and I went home. I lived in this gorgeous home, all white with vaulted ceilings and, if I hadn't known better I would have thought I was in heaven. Only in heaven could I have white apholstery. I also had a skylight that, apparently was open. A small plane kept flying low overhead and dropping little packages through the skylight. All of the packages were singing toys. There was a singing Mr. Potato Head and a singing Sponge Bob and a singing Patrick and they were all driving plastic Flintstones cars around my lining room, each of them singing a different song. I was freaked out by things falling from the sky and wanted to run, but Tom made me stay saying "They're just toys! Toys! Toys!" I ran out and went to this little hacienda which, to my surprise, belonged to my Dad. I was going to get a little rest, but the whole family was there making dinner and arguing about ice cream. I went into the bedroom closet and found a gun barrel. Just the barrel. It was in a heat sealed plastic baggie like the crap you get from carnies at the fair. I grabbed the barrel and searched for a bag with a trigger in it. I couldn't find one so I stuffed the barrel in my bag and then promptly began to worry about ariport security. I need to remember to take it our before I go to the airport. I walk into the kitchen and there are massive amounts of ice cream cake (the kind with the little chocolate crunchies!) and booze. Everything was made out of that 70's dark brown, pressed wood paneling. Ew. I went outside and that plane was back. It seemed like it was following me and getting lower and lower and lower. I froze and watched it come right for me. It was absolutley huge in the sky but by the time it crashed in front of me, it too was a little toy. I picked it up and heard it ticking.

Good morning! It's 7:00, time to rise and shine.

Dude, I just want to know if the toys were bombs. That's all I want to know!

Stupid

I had a meeting with a counselor from my son's school. Another parent and I had gone in to discuss the creation of a formal disciplinary philosophy at the school, preferably one that discourages screaming at the children. I could not believe my fucking ears.

"You need to realize" she said, "that there are some children here that are facing enormous difficulties at home. They are about 5% of the total population, but they have some serious behavioral issues."

So, riddle me this one, Batman, how the hell does the screaming help them? This is your argument to allow screaming and demeaning language with our children? They disrespect you so you one up them and go tit for tat? How the fuck will they ever learn what respect and self control looks like if the adults in their world allow their emotions to run away with them?

You need to realize, that some of the adults who are in charge of our children are facing enormous difficulties with their emotional and intellectual capacities...

Fucking stupid.

Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me, Think I'll Go Eat Worms

Whenever I'm sick for more than 24 hours, I start to feel like the world has forgotten me. I sink into my own, snotty little pity party and watch crap TV to try to shake me out of my misery. You know, Dr. Phil, Oprah, Maury, anything that pretends to enlighten me but really only exploits its guests- yeah, oh hell yeah. When crap TV drags me further into the abyss, I turn to the Discovery Times channel, or the History channel and get depressed about Al Queda or freaked out by maritime disasters or sea monsters. It's a huge bonus for me when they run one of those crapy, low budget docs about Jesus or the Roman Empire or some such. Man those reenactments suck ass.

But I refuse to watch anything "good". No, that would just motivate me to suck it up, get off my ass and do something. That's not what I need right now. I need to wallow in my sickness and my sense of moral superiority.

Since I've cleared my calendar for the day, the next question is whether to medicate myself or not. I've got my non-medicated, saline nasal spray, Kleenex and a firm belief that these green seedless grapes are disturbingly juicy. (Damn! I've squirted grape all over this t-shirt!) Do I add a decongestant into the mix? Although I do suspect that it is polyps that are my major problem. So would a decongestant DO anything for me? Maybe the Discovery Health channel will have some disgustingly graphic show about polyps gone wild. You know, the kind that deform your face and make people turn away from you and count holes in ceiling tiles to appear busy.

OH! I just remembered, I taped that special on The Judas Book! Hot damn! It's gloomy outside and I have bagels inside and a Biblical doc rarin' to go.

It's shaping up to be a pretty sweet sick day.

Mild Hypochondria

I am pretty sure I have nasal polyps.

Thats not a huge deal, really (unless you have allergies and you want to breathe while you sleep) but I just want to see them. I want to confirm they are there before I go into the doctor's office so that the doctor can tell me what I already know.

It's just that it is so bloody hard to get the right lighting to look up your own nose.

Doug and Wendy Whiner

There is a certain sound that will make any human being jump out of their fucking skin and want to rip out the source of said noise and stomp on it repeatedly.

For me, that sound is whining.

It is driving me up the wall.

There is a whine for all occassions- dropped granola bars, not being allowed to watch Scooby Doo at bedtime, being made to eat pork chops, not being able to go to the corner store...do you see the pattern here? It has never gotten him anything but a seriously irritated mother, so I don't know why he continues with this obnoxious sound. It makes every muscle in my body tense up and my voice box seizes as I fight the urge to scream "Get the fuck over it, would ya? It's just one bite of a freaking granola bar and there's a whole box full at home!" But I don't. I try to diffuse the situation and point out how he'll continue to breathe and he won't fall off the face of the planet due to minor disappointments. That just pisses him off. I can't really blame him. When I am hell bent on being pissed, I'll be pissed. He is, after all, my kid.

Okay, back to my allergies.

Why?

Something I am not particularly sure about is why I blog.

What's the point?

Who really needs to hear my pointless blather about my insecurities or things that make me seriously pissed off? How many times must I rant about Titanic? Who needs to know what silly things amuse me? It's not like I'm writing the great American novel here, or even promoting myself and my skills in some way. Occasionally, I write something that takes time, thought and effort but that is the exception rather than the rule. It is more akin to journaling than anything, the only difference is that it is censored. Not by the powers that be or anything, but by me. It's public, to which I take no exception. Anyone who has ever asked "hey, how're you doin'?" knows that I have no trouble being honest about where I am at in any given moment, but I do tend to stifle myself a little bit. After all, my Dad and my brother have my blog address and I do wonder how their delicate constitutions would handle it if I added too many personal details about, well, things. I know the chances of them actually reading me are pretty slim, but...what if? I already have a post about my uncomfortable pap smear- what if I let other things slide? Would they die of embarassment and never be able to look at me again? My sisters? Nah. They can handle it. Perfect strangers? Hell, I don't really care what they know about me as long as I tickle their curiosity.

I did choose not to publish a paragraph or two in which I sarcastically (and rather humorously, I thought) advocated a violent overthrow of the United States government. However, I am just not ready to put my money where my mouth is on that one. So, I axed it. I'd hate to go to Gitmo for sarcasm. If there is one thing this Administration has made painfully clear it is the fact that they just don't have a sense of humor.

Physicists have a frustrating little problem (as, I suppose, do all humans) which is that one can never really know the true nature of anything because the simple act of observation changes the object under scrutiny. As much as I might try to peel back the layers of my self the more I change. Therefor, I could never really get to know myself unless I ignore myself. Well shit. Where's the fun in that? My ego simply wouldn't allow it.

Now I'm back to the original question. Why the hell am I blogging? I suppose it is a nice way to pretend I am in touch with people I have not seen in years. It half revives old friendships to a zomie-like state of poke and run. Don't get me wrong, this is preferable to going through the next few decades wondering what the hell ever happened to so and so and wondering if they're still pissed at me. But reunions and such generally take care of those things before you die. Isn't that what reunions are for? I'm not sure that is a valid reason.

Maybe it is because I am bored and have no one to talk to. In which case, I just need to get out more. I don't need to use this electronic gateway to the world when I have the actual world outside my door. I'm not a recluse, not by any stretch of the imagination. I have friends and I am social. So...

Some people told me I should, so I did. It took me a while to get into it, but I did. I guess they were tired of my ceaseless rants about the world clogging up their inboxes. A blog keeps me busy and out of their hair. It's a shiny toy to distract me.

Don't I have enough distractions, though? Husband, kid, two hermit crabs, a Spanish class that goes nowhere, volunteering at school, teaching my own classes, my real writing...Maybe my life needs to be more focused.

I keep talking to my home school kids about focus. Get rid of the distractions and be. I've got a lot of noise in my life. Is the blog part of the noise or part of the process? I'm not entirely sure. It could be part of the process, if used properly. I'm just not sure if I have a handle on it yet. Of course, my focus is not 100%.

I don't know what I want out of life. Not anymore. Now ain't that a kick in the head? I'm doing some semblance of what I wanted to do since I was 14 years old (if not since I was 5, but can we really count that?) but the key word here is "semblance". Am I here because I want to be or because I am afraid to be somewhere else?

And what does this blog have to do with any of it?

Shameless Self Promotion

If you're a New York actor or writer that isn't afraid of the Staten Island Ferry (come on, its FREE!), allow me to invite you to a little event I'm hosting at The Arts Cypher, a unique arts collective and networking organization in Stapleton.

At 6:00 PM on Wednesday I will be holding a meet and greet/ class demonstration for my new classes at the Cypher. My spring schedule offers Screenwriting, Technique and Scene Study, and Ensemble Acting for Teens. I will be adding more classes as time rolls on, but first thing is first. Classes start the following week and you won't want to miss the opportunity to hear me say "So. How's your work going?" every single week for 8 weeks!

All kidding (and references to some of my own teachers) aside, my classes are hard core craft. I have an eclectic approach that focuses on instinctual choices and removing the road blocks to creative discovery. Creation is a way to process your world. I have tools and a philosophy that allows the artist to use the raw material of experience to create and move on as opposed to shredding themselves and wallowing. Creation should be a cathartic experience- a release that allows you to grow and learn about yourself and those around you with each project.

Come and see what I mean on Wednesday.

Another Parent to Non-Parent Discussion

A friend of mine recently complained about his friends with kids saying "It is really annoying how parents always think that THEIR kid is the greatest gift to humanity..."

"Sure, but aren't you terrified of the parents who DON'T see their kids that way?"

Juevos Grandes

Stephen Colbert, have I told you lately that I love you?

He's so naughty. Imagine using a moment with the President to make it crystal clear how you feel about his performance in the job. Imagine not letting yourself be intimidated by any sense of propriety. It's easy to think you'd be able to do it but Mr. Colbert took em' out and shook em' at the President.

That's white hot.

Love to Brooklyn

Today was another gorgeous day in Brooklyn and I know I am home. I've mentioned this to so many people and have yet to find anyone who will agree with me. I think Brooklyn is the most beautiful place I've ever been. A lot of people love Brooklyn, but most people look at me cross eyed when I say that it is beautiful. To me, it is. It isn't just the stately brownstones or the tree lined streets soaked in honeysuckle. I don't really mind the occasional urine tinged spring breeze. It's not my favorite, but it is a small price to pay for the vastness, the industrial gloom living next to the oppulance of a bygone era. It's an inconvenience that is quickly dismissed when you look around at the sea of human experience floating (and occasionally screaming!) by your front stoop.

I come from the land of blonde faces and college sweatshirts worn out for a night on the town. Here the faces are old, young, brown, white, black, yellow and everything in between. You'll see the latest from American Apparel, saris, dashikis, couture, hand made and hand me down. Whether they know your name or not, they'll tell you what they think of you, or the transit strike, or what they ate for dinner last night. In the summer we all flock to ice cream parlors, coffee shops and movie theatres to cool ourselves. In the winter we dress like fucking Eskimos to walk to the end of the block and back. We talk to each other. It's a lot like those vacations you took with your parents as a kid. There was always another kid to meet at the hotel pool. Here, the whole town is the hotel pool.

There's art everywhere. There are potted plants hanging in front of blight and trash in front of mansions. Everything rubs elbows with everything else in Brooklyn and there is no place I would rather live. I love Brooklyn because I love humanity in all its beauty and stupidity. The best and the worst of your self can be found in the two block span between Dizzy's and the CTown. Here is where I wrestle with it and then feed it a white slice with a little fresh mozzerella and basil. Then some stranger will tell me something nice about myself, as if she knew me- as if she liked me.

Brooklyn has put a stamp on me and has sullied my flip flop clad feet worse than any trip through any cow pasture I've ever known. It doesn't matter, though, because when you are home you're home.

Instead of...

I was chatting on the playground with Sullivan's babysitter today. She is really sweet (an actor, of course) and the boy really likes her. This brings me great comfort as I head into this new phase of working life in which I will need to trust the two of them together and let a lot of things go.

She looked out to the children on the playground rather wistfully and she said, "You know, I look at these kids playing and their so beautiful and it is such a beautiful day and I can help but think how I'd love to be doing this every day. Then I remember that if I did do this every day it would be 'instead of' as opposed to 'along with' what I really want to do."

I just wanted to hug her. When I got pregnant I was still laboring under the ridiculous assumption that I could "have it all" if I wanted it bad enough. Of course, what no one told me is that in order to have it all you have to redefine what exactly "it" is. "It" looks a lot different once you are this far down the road.

To quote Homer Simpson, "...it looks like ketchup, it tastes like ketchup, but brother it ain't ketchup!"

You're darn tootin' it ain't.

Pardon Me

I have this constant, nagging feeling that I have completely overstepped my bounds and imposed on everyone on the planet. I guess breaking the habit of doing everything myself is bound to have some uncomfortable side effects, but this is ridiculous. Now that I am asking people for help and demanding my fair share when I work on something I feel like I am pissing all over everyone's parade. I feel like apologizing to everyone I meet for whatever I have done or will do to violate them.

This is obnoxious and intellectually I completely understand that I am not doing anything wrong. However, if you look at me cock-eyed, I will begin the process of self -flagellation as penance for my having wronged you.

Right now, I'm not eating lunch because we are low on cash and the boys in the house need their special yogurt (that I hate and won't eat) and their favorite cereal (which I also depise) so I am going to save my pennies so they can have their creature comforts. Clearly, I am choosing to be bitter.

The Impact of Senseless Conversations

Here's a rather odd admission, but when my brain can't think of anything else to think about one simple phrase will enter my head. This phrase is completely involuntary and I have a sneaking suspicion that a certain ex-roomate of mine programmed it into my head while I slept. I can just imagine her tiptoeing out of her room in the middle of the night, giggling to herself as she prepares to whisper into my sleeping ear, "Sex with Chickens".

I guess it all stems from one of those senseless, late night, roommate discussions that roomies tend to have where we had been talking about how you can buy fertilized eggs at Chinese groceries. I had once had another roommate who used to refer to her morning scrambled eggs as "chicken abortions, yum" and, well, these are the things that stick in your mind. Well, the fertilized eggs conversation lead to practical questions about chicken sex and egg fertilization. Some frogs fertilize eggs outside the mother's body. So...

Of course, I had chickens as a kid, but I didn't pay that much attention to the sexual habits of our little barnyard weirdos because it just wasn't on my radar. I remember being embarassed that I didn't really know anything about chicken husbandry and this lead to a misguided telephone call to The Raptor Center at the University of Minnesota. Yes, I know chickens are not raptors, but we didn't have any farmers to call at the time (having alienated them all) and I'm fairly certain there was a case of Pig's Eye Beer involved in this little incident, so we called someplace that knew something about birds in general. Needless to say, they did not take our call very seriously. I can't say that I blame them.

At any rate, due to these discussions and perhaps some other, darker chicken incidents buried in my subconscious, I can't help but occasionally twist the phrase "sex with chickens" around in my empty brain. If I am relaxed and in the appropriate, accepting company I will blurt this out during moments of silence. My close friends never bat an eyelid because they know the chicken moment will soon pass and eventually I will be able to move on to another topic. Rarely does anyone engage me in conversation of chicken sex because this brings up too many frightening images of Gonzo from the Muppets and few people are really willing to confront those kinds of thoughts. Some things are better left unsaid, I suppose.

Chicken Lady loves life! Bwak!

Dave Foley Once Said...

Once I shot a man just to watch him die, but I got distracted and I missed it.

Ahhh, Dave Foley. He was my favorite little baby faced member of Kids in the Hall. I know some of you are die hard Bruce McCulloch fans and I won't begrudge you that. I love ALL the Kids, frankly, but if we were all on a sinking ocean liner and I could only save one of them- I'd save the one closest to me but I would hope he would be Dave. Dave just had that skinny, doofy, boyish thing that I like so much. Not too mention that I always thought Bruce wore his pants a little too high and he has this weird hip tension that I think holds him back from true physical freedom while Dave has a light, springy frame that seems to willingly follow his every geeky command. I thought Bruce was a fabulous hair flipping Carl Bernstein in "Dick"- a little over the top but still really funny. And he's that guy who had a really small part in "Anne of Green Gables" and he should come sign my baby's head- or some such nonsense.

Oh course, the last time I saw Dave he was hosting Celebrity Poker Showdown and had porked on the guy in his forties pounds and grew grown up facial hair on his still boyish face. Still love him, though.

Hmmm, I was going to write something topical, but instead I end up fixating on my favorite Canadian comedy troupe of the 90's.

Oh well.