Vacation Log: Day 2

Well, my cell phone died a horrible, sputtering, phone number eating death (you'd think I'd have learned to back up my phone book after the last two times this has happened to me!), one of my coolest friends is, as we speak, packing up her two boys, husband and crusading law career to move to Vermont and make cheese, I am dying to bring Sullivan back to Minnesota to hang out with my Mom before she can't remember us anymore but am seriously low on funds, I still have bed bugs, my classes have been cancelled for the summer, and Sullivan is missing his friends from school and will be saying "good bye" to his oldest and dearest friend as he heads out to Vermont. Yeah, I should be more depressed than I am.

I attribute my decent mental state to my new grocery service. I started doing Urban Organic which is a produce delivery service that just brings you a box of seasonal produce every week. The box is assembled by them and you just tell them what you don't want, they do the rest. We've been eating out of the box this week so my diet has been vegetarian by accident rather than by design. I've had homemade parmesan gnocchi, baked zucchini, many salads, swiss chard and goat cheese quiche, alu-mottir kabi (which is cauliflower, potatoes and peas in a spicy sauce), and tonight I will be taking it easy on the boys and making turkey burgers and roasted cauliflower for movie night tonight. Hey, if things are going to fall apart, you might as well eat good food.

Home improvement has also brightened my day. Yesterday, Sullivan and I painted our hallway bright blue so we have a good few walls to make his "museum". This afternoon (after we say good bye to our friends and their moving van) we are going to the dollar store to pick up frames for his artwork and hang his art in the musuem. The next battle is convincing Tommer to let me radically change the layout of the house. Then I am going to repaint the kitchen, patch the window sills that were comsetically destroyed when new windows were put in last fall, re-point the masonry in the bedroom, and do a mass purging of crap we just don't need anymore. Can anyone say "stoop sale"?

This is the magic balm that is going to heal the bad attitude toward my bummer summer where all my happy expectations have come to rot. By the time September rolls around I will have a house that works well, a boy that can get things for himself (including his lunch!), perhaps a slightly trimmer physique- just in time for crock pot season, and maybe some perspective. That has been seriously lacking in my life.

So here we go. Positive Attitude Construction Phase 2.

Duh, Any Jackass Knows That!

Quite clearly, I talk too much.

People have been telling me that since the day I first opened my mouth. In addition to being extraordinarily talkative I'm also obstinate so I just keep talking and talking and talking long after I should have shut my yapper.

I remember my mother staring down at me incomplete amazement and sighing, "Don't you ever stop talking?"

I imagine that I paused for a moment to consider this question. I must have because it so clearly sticks out in my mind. I also recall thinking that I just had so much to say. It wasn't my fault that my brain was made that way.

And I keep having to tell my mouth that it isn't my foot's fault that it is so big. Luckily, it seems to fit just snug right in the ol' beak.

Short Posts

I've been doing my best to keep my spirits up these past few days. The random cheekiness of my recent blog posts should show you just how desperately I am trying to hold on to any shred of humor or positive thinking. Hey, some people don't even try so you have to give me A+ for my efforts here.

Today is Sullivan's last day of school and I realize that he is a totally different boy now than he was when I first took him to school in September. My fear is that he is now out of my hands and I will be so far behind in relating to him that this is where he starts to seriously pull away from me. I can see the signs. I cramp his style. He hates needing me. He ignores me when his friends are around. He's not even 5 yet and already his growth has outstripped my ability to cope. He wants more freedom and responsibility and I know he won't be trustworthy unless I trust him. Boys are crazy that way. The less you trust them, the more they prove to you that you are right. The more trust you give them the more they rise to the occassion. It seems that raising a boy well takes tactics that are completely contrary to any sense of logic you might have. It requires constant vigilance and incredible faith. I don't know if I have that.

Sullivan likes to play "bad guy" and I am afraid he is casting himself in the role rather than experimenting with the pleasures of being powerful and selfish. He told me that he and his friends are really bad guys. I hope they don't really see themselves that way because they are truly the most loving, sweet, caring bunch of boys I've met. They love each other deeply the way children often do, and I don't want them to shut down the way men often do. I don't want him to be a girl. I don't want him to express himself like a girl or be compliant like a girl. I want him to be a boy- a boy who isn't afraid of himself and who thinks well of himself and his world. For the first time I am begining to see him turn toward that dark and challenging forest of boyhood and it is a place I cannot follow. I can only send in carrier pigeons with (hopefully) helpful messages and hope to meet him on the other side. I'm feeling the loss.

It isn't the only loss I am feeling these days. The Universe does tend to clean house from time to time and sometimes things get thrown out piece by piece. It seems less painful to hold on to some things rather than let go, but as it is in raising boys, the truth is often contrary to logic.

I have to let go in order to hold on. Somewhere in my twisted psyche lies the belief that if I don't hold on tightly it is like announcing that this person, concept or situation is not important enough to me. I feel an incredible need to make those declarations and to force myself to feel pain in transition and in loss. Really, I'm not doing anyone any favors. I'm just torturing myself for not being, doing or feeling "enough".

After our little half day of school we are going to get the kids together and play while the parents sit down and cry.

Moving on is hard.

We're Filth! We're Filth! We Come From Filth, We're Going To Filth! We're Filth! We're Filth!

I'm busy watching cartoons, drinking beer and eating baked Lays.

This is exactly how I figured adulthood would be.

Sweet.

Who's That?

See that kid in the front row? Well, he's the ONLY kid in the front row. Obviously he decided he needed to create a front row for himself. Yeah, that kid. The kid who is dancing and while the other kids are singing "Boom Boom Ain't it great to be crazy?" that kid is singing "Butt butt ain't it great to be stooo-pid!" The one who is hamming it up with a penguin dance and ends the song with spirit fingers? Yeah, that's the one. See him?

That's MY kid.

He rocks.

Just don't tell him I laughed at the "Butt Butt" part. Officially, I can't encourage that.

Yeah Toast!

Sometimes there is just nothing better than a piece of hot, buttered toast.

Oh, baby.

Four Days

They say it only takes four days for a body to go to hell from neglect.

At least, this is what my trainer used to tell me. If you don't exercise everyday, or at least every other day, you will find it hard to stay in shape. Okay, Larry.

I was in my 20's then and my body felt great. Now I'm not in my 20's anymore and four days make a huge difference. Imagine how I feel now after almost a week! I had my first workout to get back in the groove today after a long and busy week. I would have postponed this workout, but the new mid-back tension prodded me to be pro-active. Ouch. I've got the body of a 90 year old. My back hurts, I'm stiff and sore, my posture is atrocious and my breathing! What a shock it is that I am back in a holding pattern with my breath. I thought I had eliminated that bizarre little anxious habit of mine years ago. It is so frustrating that I have to do all of this crap again. Stupid body!

Yesterday I was at a party and since it was just a room full of married people with kids, I decided to go comfortable. I wore my linen pants and my big, roomy, pink linen (men's) homespun shirt form India.

"Are you expecting?!"

She asked me this excitedly. Parents with more than one child are always eager for you to have another.

"No. I'm just fat. Thanks."

If there is one piece of advice I would like to give the world it is this:

IF YOU ARE NOT SURE, DON'T ASK A WOMAN IF SHE IS PREGNANT!

There are other, sneakier ways of finding out. My personal favorite is asking "Are you thinking about having any more kids?"

That one is freaking brilliant because then she can say " not right now..." or " As a matter of fact I'm due in November" and then you know! The great part about that is, if she is pregnant, you can be nice and act surprised, "You are not! I had no idea you were pregnant!" Hey, it may be a lie, but it will totally make the fat lady happy, and isn't that more important? And if she's not pregnant, you can keep your big mouth shut.

Also, please, please, please... if you DO run across an obviously pregnant lady remember that it is NEVER polite UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES to say to a woman, "WOW! YOU'RE HUGE!" It doesn't matter if the hugeness is dues to an impending happy event. Just don't say it! It is ALWAYS rude and MEAN! And you don't want a rampaging elephant on your hands. With those hormones you never know what will happen. For your own safety, please be polite!

Well, this fat lady needs to make breakfast for her son.

Ouch.

Tragically Miscast: A Quasi- Review

Last night Tom and I watched "The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou".

Meh.

I enjoy the dry wit that is often present in a Wes Anderson film and I can clearly see Noah Baumbach's fingerprint all over the dialogue. What usually turns me off is what Tom calls the "Wouldn't it be neat..." script treatment.

"Wouldn't it be neat..." is a post-David Lynch practice of throwing weird shit in a story because, man, life is fucking weird, right? Yeah, life is, but you're trying to tell a story, express ideas and keep me interested enough to curtail my soda intake so that I won't need to get up and use the bathroom. Don't waste my time with cutesy gimmicks.

Granted, in "Aquatic" the weird stuff was supposed to be a part of the world these characters live in. There were fictitious aquatic creatures and underwater sets that looked like another planet all together, but this just served to make me look at the protagonist as a total sham. I kept waiting for the reveal- see! He's a liar and everything you've seen has been a desperate attempt for him to ressurect his career! But, no! It never happens. The pirate attack is real. The shark attack was real. All of these things that seem to reinforce how full of shit this guy is were real and I couldn't really understand why I was being told this story in the first place.

The tale begins with the tragic death of Steve Zissou's longtime friend and co-adventurer as they were filming a documentary. Zissou's friend, Estevan, is eaten by a new species of shark never before seen and Zissou is the only witness to the attack. There are doubts of the shark's existence and Zissou looks like a horrible sham to the scientific community. He vows to hunt down this shark and blow it up with dynamite. Then it turns out he has marital problems (with Angelica Houston- come on people, why do we keep seeing films where she has marital problems? She's like the world's perfect woman!) and financial problems and then there is this father plot that makes little to no sense.

This is where the casting trouble rears its ugly head. Owen Wilson plays Ned, the son that Zissou never acknowledged from a former girlfriend. There is some serious doubt over whether or not Ned is really Zissou's biological son and the relationship is decidedly odd. Wilson gives a highly restrained performance as the co-pilot from Kentucky turned ocean explorer and he never quite fits the mold. I get the distinct impression that he was reined in from making his usual, expansive choices and therefor made no choices at all. His accent was unconvincing and inconsistant. He looked uncomfortable in his pilot's uniform. The only time he seemed at home was in Cate Blanchette's bed. Can you blame him?

For the first 20 minutes or so, the interactions are awkward and hit or miss. I frequently had the sensation that the actor's were not listening to one another or were, each of them, acting in completely different films. They played into the dryness so hard that it felt as if the ocean had evaporated, leaving the fictitious sea life parched and baking on the ocean floor.

The story ends (this would be a spoiler alert, but knowing this really won't ruin the film for you) with an accident in which Ned dies. So, the story has two deaths as bookends. You'd think that this would provide an arc for Zissou, but it doesn't. His behavior and his sad attitude do not change. He does not learn anything and neither do we. Okay, he decides not to kill the shark but he says "I don't have any dynamite left anyway."

This is a tragic flaw in the film. It feels neverending. It is disjointed and doesn't have a point. My friend, playwright Daniel Sklar teaches that a story is over only when someone changes. No one changes. All of this activity lead to nothing. I walked away feeling empty, although I enjoyed hearing David Bowie's songs stripped down and in Portugese.

It seems that some helpful wag on Netfilx said it best- I didn't much like this film but I wouldbn't discourage you from watching it.

Meh.

Awkward

I've always enjoyed words. I like using them, I like looking at them and I like it when the spelling of a word matches the gut reaction to the thing that word represents. My favorite example of this is the word "phlegm". Are you kidding? That is the best spelling of a word EVER! Look at it. If could be spelled so many other ways but that silent "g" really makes the word a piece of representative art. The "g" just makes it phlegmy. Without the "g" it would just be "phlem" and not as intrusive, slimy or disgusting. Definitely, "phlegm" is spelled just like the goopy inconvenience that it is.

And Awkward. Dude, 2 w's. That's genius. Awkward LOOKS awkward. It just doesn't seem quite right. And the sound of it just makes me think of a fat, clumsy web-footed bird that shouldn't walk on land. Awkward. That's an awesome word.

Then there are just some consonant combinations that make me happy. Like in "ladle". The "dl" combination is is quite playful and foreign. (FOREIGN! That's another one! Look how that silent "g" asserts itself in there- trying to fit in, but just can't! That's so foreign!) The "dl" sound is much more fun than "bl" because the "dl" traps this little pop of air behind your tongue and then gently flings it out at the world like so much vichysoise. Oh baby! Ladle ladle ladle!

Well, I've got a little Wasabi face mask burning the hell out of my visage so I'll check you cats later.

Balls

Too tired to make sense, but I can't sleep because I keep thinking about bedbugs. Even though we had the exterminator out this afternoon and the whole house smells like athlete's foot powder I can't help but imagine the critters crawling all over me. It's so flipping creepy. I haven't slept in days.

It's clear I haven't slept because I've been up nights trying to figure out who is buying "Guys Gone Wild"- besides the obvious audience. So not sexy and I find men sexy. Of course, I likes 'em freaky and geeky or doing man things like Clark Gable roping horses in "The Misfits". He had a heart attack and died shortly afterward, but he still looked damn fine. Sigh.

Too tired to think to clearly. Must crash. Must crash thinking about Clark Gable, his mustache and his manly squint.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

Boys

I love boys.

When Sullivan was born (we did not do ultrasound and therefor did not try to determine the sex of our baby before the big day) I will never forget my very first clear thought. This tiny little quivering mass was scooped out from the water (Yeah, water birth because I'm THAT cool) and placed on my chest with the midwife asking me

Don't you want to know what it is?

Duh- It's a baby, stupid.

Two seconds after that I was told that it was a boy and I couldn't have been more pleased. I was so happy to have a boy because I wouldn't really know what to DO with a girl. Girls are so...girly. I knew that, on some level, the competition with my pretty daughter (because, of course she would have to be gorgeous) would be out of control. I wasn't mature enough. Besides, boys have always been a huge part of my existence. I've always been more of a mother than a lover anyway and this would take some of the pressure off my male friends to let me run their lives!

But, seriously, folks... I love boys, even though I struggle to understand them. But even through my struggles I have seen what other women do not see. So many women labor under the bizarre delusion that boys (men) don't care and don't feel. I'd argue that they care and feel more, they just aren't allowed to siphon it off into bite sized morsels like girls do.

I've been reading "Raising Cain", mostly because I am obsessed with the psychology of boys and I want to know how to best nurture my son. I've had to put this book down every few pages because I've had too much to think about to continue. It occurs to me that I am overwhelmed and frightened by my small son's emotions. It is like a tsunami that overpowers me and leaves me clinging to street signs and trees sputtering for air. I've always said that there is nothing more terrifying than the sound of a man screaming because when a man screams you know something is really fucking wrong. The bottom drops out from the world. When a little boy screams and cries with such ferocity I can't help but grasp for a solution, an answer, anything to get rid of that horrible, heart wrenching sound. Sometimes a solution is not what is required, but letting the feeling happen and be acknowledged. But the intensity is too much to bear. Girls don't make that sound. Girls don't shatter in quite that way. Boys do. And then they pack up and move on and you're never 100% sure if they are whole or not.

I worry about boys. I deal with a lot of them in my work. There is a boy I work with who is so tough and defiant and yet whenever he sees me he runs to hug me and he holds onto me so tight. He never opens up to me and he gives me an incredible amount of grief. Sometimes I worry that these hugs are a touch of humor on his part, but I really don't think so. I think he honestly needs them. Truth be told, I'm crazy about this tough little boy who is at least a head taller than anyone in his class and absolutely dashing. Through his macho and boisterous exterior, I see a little boy who needs to be told that he is good, smart and kind so that he may will those parts of himself into the forefront of his life. I fear for his future because he has clearly been pegged as "bad", a "troublemaker", a "problem" and that just isn't the boy I see. He is, indeed, a handful and I have yet to figure out how to reach him and it seems he hasn't yet figured out just how to reach me. I hope we figure it out.

There is something so beautiful and so bittersweet about boys. They are poetry is super motion. They speak another, coarser language and they live in a dark and very private mystery. How I would love to be let in. How I would love to just hold and gently kiss the foreheads of all these lovely boys, tuck them in and tell them beautiful stories about dragons on spaceships fighting vampires and ghosts. Then I would give them hot lemonade with a bit of honey and tell them the mysteries of girls so they don't have to fear being swallowed by a woman.

But, alas, that is not what these boys seem to need the most. Not that they don't need that, but what they need even more are role models and heroes and a sign that being a boy is not a disease but a joy. No snips and snails and puppy dog tails for my boys, because that simply isn't true. Boys are beautiful creatures whether they are 5 or 55 and I wish I could let them know.

Cracking Skulls

For some reason, my friends have always found my anger funny. I know that I am one of the least threatening people you are likely to encounter in any given day and so my anger must seem pretty quaint. Most people have not felt the full force of my anger and those that have are most likely to be found with frozen looks of shock on their faces for hours afterward.

I didn't know she could get that mad!

Today I had to exercise major restraint with a couple of fat fucks at the bank. You just know there is going to be trouble when someone uses the phrase, "Look lady..." with me. Rude, just plain rude.

I haven't shot off my mouth like this in years. Especially not with strangers but this SOB really got on my nerves and it all started with a broken ATM.

When I walked into the bank there was a woman waiting for a free ATM. She could have just as easily been waiting for a friend to finish their transaction as there was one ATM open and she was not using it. So I asked her if she was waiting and she told me that the open ATM was, indeed, not working. So I waited behind her and it wasn't long before two ATMs opened up and we were able to use them. As I was walking to my ATM a few men filed in. One who had come in just behind me asked if that ATM was working, I told him that it wasn't and he waited in the appropriate spot. So this loudmouth asswipe starts arguing with the guy in line.

"Why aren't you using that one?"

"It's not working."

"Well, did you check it?"

Then this guy just walks right past the other guy and the other guy protests.

"Hey, I'm next"

"You gonna just trust what somebody says? How do you know it doesn't work if you don't check it? What are you, ignorant?"

I'm going to pause in this drama for a second and say that the schnook has a point, but rarely have I ever encountered a situation where someone has told me a machine was down and it wasn't. What would they have to gain from this practice beyond a little sociological experimentation? Most people don't get their kicks that way and they certainly wouldn't get their banking done any quicker by lying to me so I tend to trust them. Clearly this guy has some trust issues, but that doesn't give him free rein to be a total dick.

The other guy tries to blow him off and finish his business as a new ATM opened up but this dipshit wouldn't stop harping on it. To make matters worse, he was with The Giggler. You know The Giggler, the doofus who always seems to follow the Fat Fuck like a puppy dog and nervously laugh at everything the Fat Fuck does. Now, he's probably uncomfortable with confrontation and so he laughs to deflect some of the discomfort he feels. Even so, this is still highly obnoxious behavior.

"What is everybody around here just fuckin' stupid, or what?"

(Giggle giggle giggle)

"Nobody knows how to check the fuckin' ATM?"

Forget the fact that three people looked at it while he was beakin' off and confirmed that it was not working. I finally got so sick of his loudmouth show that I turned around and confronted him.

"Do we have to do this today?"

"Look lady..." (Here it comes!) "Why don't you just mind your own business, eh?"

(giggle giggle)

"Where the hell do you get off walking into a public place, shooting off your mouth and insulting people like that?"

(Giggle giggle giggle)

"You wouldn't have any problems if you didn't stick your nose in where it doesn't belong. Everyone around here is a fuckin' idiot."

(Giggle giggle giggle)

"You are really pissing me off. You are being disrespectful, loud and obnoxious and for no good reason. You're a fucking bully."

"Why don't you just take your money and do a little shopping, huh?"

I hate being "little ladied". I was boiling mad and the only thing I wanted to do was to grab this guy by the nads and ram his head into the broken ATM. Then I wanted to stop his dumb friend from laughing by biting a huge hunk out of his cheek and spitting it on the floor. I can honestly say that I haven't felt this kind of random anger in years. Since I knew this urge would eventually pass and that to follow through on it would be, well, not so good, I called them both rude assholes and left.

I then called a friend, Prov and left a voicemail about how pissed I was and took myself out for breakfast.

I got a call back from Prov who laughed and said,

"Yeah, I played your message for Margaret and told her that I found your dark side. Margaret said that even your dark side sounded pretty nice. Ha ha."

Now, I know Prov is only teasing me and that she honestly likes me the way I am. But what do I have to do to convince you people that even if I don't go around assaulting jackasses in banks that my anger still has weight? Don't make me chase you around with knives and shit.

I will not be ignored.

Neither will I muss up your hair because that's just plain rude.

Better Than TV

I am fixin' myself a drink and sitting down in front of my crabitat (that's hermit crab owner humor) to watch me some molting. All of our other crabs have dug in to molt. Fluffy II has decided to molt on top of the substrate in full view. Which either means he feels safe, he's stupid or he's planning on dying anyway so he might as well make himself vulnerable to preditors. (Oh, for convenience sake, Fluffy is a "he". I don't know how to sex hermit crabs and no one else I know of knows how either.) He's been flat on his back with his legs in the air since early this morning. I know he's not dead because his eye stalks are still clear and he has small, almost imperceptible movements. His big claw is starting to bulge a bit and, if I'm lucky, his exoskeleton will start to split soon. Hopefully while I'm watching this freak show.

Yeah, I am totally putting off all pursuits for the night. Don't call me because I won't answer. I'm watching this crab drama unfold all night long- or until The Daily Show, at least.

WAHOO! MOLTING!

Shift

It occurs to me that what I really need is to make my life whole. By that I mean that I have, out of perceived necessity, compartmentalized my life. There's me the mommy, the wife, the actor, the producer, the writer, the director, the teacher, the sister, the daughter, the friend, the lover... we all have these roles that we play but for me it feels so separate. I feel scattered and disassociated with all the parts of myself so that there is only one or two parts of me engaged at any given time. I keep waiting for this magic moment to happen when I will be in a cushy set of circumstances that will allow me the freedom to create and be whole.

Well, that's a bunch of bullshit, isn't it? Clearly, I allowed myself to be misled. It seems that I should be able to bring all of these parts of me together under the umbrella that is part of my true nature. I'm an artist. My mistake has been that I have been struggling to make art my life when I should be making my life art.

It is no secret that I am full of shit. But I'm earnest. I need art in my life like I need food and air and water. Not because I'm advanced, but because that is the way my brain works. For some reason, my brain is wired for comprehension through expression. Well, there is no reason why I can't do that daily and the surprise is that I do. I just don't give myself credit.

I've decided to walk away from this situation that has come up. After discussing it with Tom I realized that it isn't fear that is holding me back. Rather it is the fact that I get into these situations because I feel pressure to declare something pulicly, to create something for the sole purpose of showing others that I can do it. I should be doing my own work because something has moved me and I shouldn't be creating just to please others and get a pat on the back. No. I need to do this my way and if it is not going fast enough for others or if anyone is going to judge me by the quantity of work I put out for public consumption in a year then I'll just have to accept that. Just because I am not doing something right this second does not mean I have to give up my artistry all together. The fear is that someone will take it away from me and I will not be anything. That's obviously not true. I can live an artistic life but it will have to be done my way. I'm me and my art is me and there is no one else who can do my art for me. I cannot do anyone else's either.

And I need to accept that getting people to love me through my work is not as important as the work itself. I desperately desire validation, but that should not be my motivation. Work created for validations sake is not as honest as the work I truly desire to do. I'm looking to be brutal and honest with and about myself and the way I see the world. I need to challenge myself and maybe others will be challenged as well. If I can do that, my life will be whole and different and truly mine.

Miscellaneous

Before I begin- Mick- couldn't open the attachment because everything I work on is so ancient. My computer predates the wheel. It's like Commodor 64 in color. I'm all pong, all the time. If you think that's sad, you should see my mobile. It's a freakin' tin can, but it IS wireless. That's probably why my reception sucks. Long story short, I'm going to keep trying, but if you have any smoke signals to send I might be able to decipher it.

Um... filed away under the loose ends catagory is more of me avoiding things that need to get done. I complain endlessly about my go nowhere life, but I refuse to actually get off my butt and go somewhere. I've been having these discussion with a friend of mine who wants me to jump on this opportunity that I am less than thrilled about taking. I can't tell if it is my insecurity that is making me hesitate or if the sinking feeling in my gut is warning me that I could be stepping into one of those dead end, booby trap situations where I get to be someone's glorified pack mule. I've been a Girl Friday and I so don't want to be anyone's right hand man. However, my friend seems to think that I am just avoiding networking opportunities because I am stubborn and don't like my piecemeal real world knowledge to be judged by anyone. Touche. Perhaps a little from Column A and a little from Column B. Either way, that doesn't help me to figure out how to handle this situation.

Plus, I would really like to enjoy this very short summer before the boy starts Kindergarten. I don't know. Maybe I am just cut out to be a little house wife. Perhaps I should be one of those ladies who lunch? Really, at 31 do I really need to be having this discussion with myself when my chosen profession has not changed since I was 15 years old? Apparently, I do.

I just totally suck at reality and I suck at being told what to do.

Tommer's birthday is coming up very soon. I hope I have the energy to plan this one right because he could use a stellar birthday where he is feelin' the love. He's due. I just don't want my neuroses to interfere with his day. Man, it must totally be a bitch living with me. I'm impossible. All you fellas out there, thank your lucky stars- you could have ended up with ME but you didn't. Whew! Dodged a bullet on that one.

Here's something kind of funny that hit me today. I was walking by a little kid's dress shop where they sell baptismal gowns and first communion dresses and the like and I realized that I had my first communion AND my wedding in a pink dress. (Not the same pink dress!) I can't even do the standard rituals correctly. No one told me it had to be white- my communion dress that is- and the pink pleats were just so grown up and it was the 80's...

Hmm, what else?

I guess the bedroom needs to be picked up before the boy gets home. Then dinner, then a bath, then bed, then paperwork, then research...blah blah yackety schmackety.

C'est L'amour, And You Just Stepped In It, Would You Wipe Your Feet?

When I was single and lonely, I hated people in love. When I was in the dippy goofy part of love, I didn't notice anyone else. Now that I am married with a kid and in love but don't really have time to pay attention to it- I really hate those happy slappy love-birds who do the love thing so gracefully. Wait until you're married, drowning in debt, swimming in a sea of professional angst, and trying to manage some mini-life that suddenly has more dates on his/her social calendar than you do. Yeah, love is beautiful and fun and I do need to remember that, but not at 9:00PM in the check out lane at the supermarket when I am buying emergency cantaloupes for my son's class the next day. Quit rubbing it in! Or at least, quit rubbing it in public! I've got THINGS I need to get done! Time waits for no woman, especially not for a woman looking for decent cantaloupe on a Sunday evening.

Okay. Being a bit facetious. Usually I take the sweet old lady stance on PDA- aw, love...isn't that sweet that they can't stop touching each other? But, at the moment the lack of private AWAKE time with my man tends to make me a bit twitchy. And bitter. Especially since I bought those hot, cheap dresses that make men be really nice to me.

I was at a bait shop in Sheepshead Bay yesterday wearing this slinky little sundress and guys who didn't even work there were trying to help me pick out a rod and reel. (Here's my rod, now REEL!) I walked by a construction area and got an escort across the street. (You have a nice day, ma'am...) A father-son clown team on their way back to Harlem from Coney Island made balloon sculptures for Sullivan. (How old is your son? Do you have any big plans for Father's Day? Wink wink) I wore a similar dress to work today and my breasts got a big thank you for fetching a client some water.

It's nice to have a little attention every now and again. It's just not as fun as getting it from the man I married whose work keeps him away for far too long.

Oh well. I guess there's always retirement.

The Finer Points Of Masonry

It's in my genes.

If there is something that needs doing around the house I'm so down with the DIY. My fireplace (which is only for show) is such a disaster. The mortar is crumbling and the bricks look like hell. Not to mention the fact that it has become prime nesting ground for the little bastards that have been sucking my blood every night. Yes, the bed bugs are in my fireplace and the spray is just not getting them. So I am learning about tuck pointing and I am going to clean that puppy out and seal the pests in. They'll be sorry they ever got a taste for the likes of me!

Of course, I don't need this project. I've got so many other things I need to do, but every spring I go on a mad nesting/ home improvement craze. A couple of summers ago, I did a mosaic back splash in my kitchen. Too bad the landlord decided to tear the building down. It was pretty cool, if I do say so myself. I had a blast breaking the tiles and arranging them like a giant puzzle. I was considering tiling over the brick fireplace, but repointing would be much cheaper and a tad bit less labor intensive. Either way I need to chisel out the joints so I might as well just keep the brick. I like brick. And its a rental.

I really should have a giant canvas of my own to play with. Imagine the half assed craziness I could get into! Tiling, masonry, carpentry, painting, murals and textured surfaces, cabinets with lazy susans, gardens, paving stones, fences, kooky loft beds and fun nooks and crannies! Oh boy! My home is such a living, breathing extension of my self. I don't live well in a home that doesn't look "me". A couple of apartments ago I had decided to leave the walls white. You may think I am joking, but that was clearly the begining of my depression. I can't live that way. I need color and beautiful life exploding around me.

I also can't live with stinking bed bugs and crumbling mortar. I love my bedroom. It is the most beautiful room I've ever "created". My walls are color washed in a way that looks like faded orange leather. The moldings and ceiling are "apple crisp" and I have this brick fireplace that could be gorgeous except for the fact that it is falling apart. So I guess I will be spending a few choice days chiseling and replacing bricks and billing my landlord while daytime television drones on in the back ground.

Hey, maybe there'll be something fun on the History channel!

I Am What I Am And That's All That I Am

Today all I want is a simple mind to taunt me and rake me through the leaves on a simple mind day...

Thanks to Mark Hasbrouk (aka Hazzy) for providing the soundtrack to my malaise.

If the truth be told, I'm actually quite happy. But you could hardly tell from all my blustering. I guess it is times like these when I miss my brooding Nordic brethren back in Minnesota. This ain't New York neurotic. This is clearly midwestern home brewed damp basement aged beer battered thinking I've got going on here. What can an uptight East Coaster do to help me on a night like tonight? What the hell do they know about unseemly urges to lie down in the middle of a country road at 1:00 in the morning? What the hell do they know about drinking Grain Belt with your lover on a darkened baseball diamond and running barefoot in the rain? How can I express the importance of that bend in 394 by the Basillica to someone who doesn't believe there is anything west of New Jersey? I'm a midwestern girl. I'm corn fed and cow tipped. I use vinegar and water to wash everything. I throw a towel over my shoulder when I cook.

It is funny how a person can spend so much time and energy trying to get out only to take everything with them. I'm marked my friend, marked by my upbringing. I will forever be like a banjo among french horns, and that is okay. It is not something I lament, it is just something that I notice. It is something that helps feed my conceit that I understand Arthur Miller in a way that, perhaps no one else has. Maybe, maybe not. One thing is for sure... I can polka like it ain't nobody's bidness and if I could, I'd take you with me right now to show you how a good, clean Minnesotan gal knocks 'em back and dances all night long like livin' is going out of style. And I'd still get up early to make coffee and clean the kitchen.

I am so much where I've been and always where I am.

Inept- Useless In The Face Of Tragedy

There is nothing like parenting to turn you into a heaving, helpless ball of goo.

Before I had my son, I was pretty damn confident. I knew who I was, I knew where I was going and I had stitched together a basic order of the Universe that satisfied me. Well, Sullivan has found the loose thread and yanked it. Now my slapdash patch job has unravelled, which would be enough to wreck anyone, but now I have to hold things together and comfort a young boy who will someday grow to be a man.

This morning's incident will forever go down in family lore as "The Snow Globe Incident". I had a similar incident when I was his age, but I only remember the grief and not how my Mom handled it. Shit. Wish I knew because I'm sure she handled it much better than I did.

My son has a tendancy to wallow in misery when I am around. I am pretty sure that I do the same with him. We bring it out in each other. I imagine that is a pattern that was developed during my depression a couple of years ago. At any rate, Sullivan dropped his snow globe containing the Liberty Bell that I had purchased for him on my trip to Philadelphia last year. It cracked (funny, I just realized the humor in the snow globe of the Liberty Bell cracking just now) and Sullivan's heart broke right along with it. It's one thing when something breaks that you think is beautiful. It is another when you are the one responsible for breaking it. Howling ensued.

These things always seem to happen just before we are supposed to leave for school. I tried empathizing. I reminded him of the story when I was about his age and I broke a snow globe that my sister Pamela had given me. As I should have been able to predict (But was too dumb to figure it out) when I got to the part of the story when I was told the snow globe was broken and it couldn't be fixed Sullivan went into hysterics. Duh. He screamed at me that he wanted me to go to Philadelphia right now and get him a new one. When I told him that I couldn't do that he dissolved into an angry little puddle wanting to blame me for everything that is wrong with the world. I guess I carry that. As the mother, it is my duty to take all the blame. I tried reason. These things happen, it was an accident. This brought him no comfort. We had a good 20 minutes of screaming before I sat him down and told him that it was okay to be sad, but we had to move on with our day.

He wasn't buying it.

We were late and if there is one thing that makes me insane it is being late. So my anxiety level is mounting as he is bawling over this incredible loss and I finally figured something out. I told him that he can be sad about it and that is okay but it isn't fair to punish other people for your feelings. He stopped cold. Sad things happen and you can and should take your time to feel those feelings but you shouldn't treat others poorly just because you feel sad- especially when they are doing their best to help you through those feelings. The screaming stopped. He brushed his teeth and we walked to school. Once he was at school he ran with all of his friends and everything was fine. But I know my son. The tears will return when he comes home this afternoon.

Me? As soon as I got around the corner from school, I cried. Sullivan has a hard time accepting things as they are. I suppose if that tendancy is handled correctly it can be an asset instead of a liability. Perhaps he will grow to be resourceful and learn to change things for the better. Or he could choose to fret and whine like his Mom.

Before Sullivan, the world was a wonderful place. Sure there are people who do evil things (I will be getting to THAT post, soon enough) but I could handle it. It was just me I had to protect. Now even the smallest losses have so much meaning. Maybe that is a curse of my acting training which taught me to find significance in tiny things. Now my life is filled to overflowing with tiny things. Each time I see him go through something like this, my heart breaks a little. I'm doing my best to be an adult and not feed into it, but I give weight to these little losses. They must mean something or I wouldn't remember that heart sinking feeling that I had felt all those years ago when I had cracked my own snow globe. The experience and the feelings are etched into my brain and I am certain that if you looked at my heart you would see a tiny snow globe shaped scar right on the bottom.

I know many of you (especially those of you without children) will roll your eyes and tell me to fucking get over it already. That's valid. I get it. Many will say that I should have just forcibly brushed his teeth and taken him to school like it was no big deal, because in the big picture it really isn't a big deal. Maybe it isn't. But I know a broken heart when I see one and regardless of the cause I must pause to acknowledge the loss. Having Sullivan is a lot like raising myself all over again. It's like raising Tom all over again. I see his parents foibles, their strengths, weaknesses and unsung talents. Through nurturing him, I nurture myself but I sometimes overdo it. Sometimes I don't do enough. I get irritated with him when he acts like me. Damn, if I wanted a kid who acted like me I never would have had a child in the first place! But I did and now it is like I'm trapped in an emotional house of mirrors where everything is distorted and skewed to a tiny perspective.

I'm not so sure how to handle the Snow Globe Incident this evening. All I know is the parrot downstairs is whistling the theme to "The Andy Griffith Show" and I've got a bathroom to scrub before I go see my first graders who also have significant tiny things that occupy their minds.

How I would much rather run of to see "Nacho Libre"!

Too Much To Do

I've been sleeping like a rock. I don't want to wake up with the alarm. My brain is fried and I am having a hard time keeping track of responsibilities. On Tuesday I had a big freak out because I totally blanked on what day it was and where I was going. I thought it was Monday and that I was missing my homeschool class (even though it had been cancelled for Monday) and I literally ran around in circles wondering if there was a reliable way to find out what day it was- not thinking for a second that I could just flip open my phone and check. Even after I had figured out that I wasn't missing anything I found myself sitting in the bank shaking as if I had just narrowly missed getting hit by a bus. My life had flashed before my eyes and it was filled with scenes of people pointing at me and screaming about how much I had let them down.

Dude, I am so ridiculously neurotic and I can't keep this up for much longer. I'm going to have to screw up soon and screw up big so I can get over this totally irrational fear.

Well, I had better get moving. I have to clean the house, do the laundry, prep for dinner, find out about fishing licenses, clean the crab tank, propose a schedule for a possible new job, and pack up for after school so we can go to Target and shop for a Father's Day present. I have two hours to do this because I am working in Sullivan's classroom today.

Can anyone say "dumbass"?

Um, Where Did My Blog Go?

All is darkness...are the Powers That Be shutting me down because I got ticked at David Rothman? Or was it too much for me to talk about my rack? Where did I go wrong? Is it the Anthrax lyrics that keep circling in my brain? Or was it because I was caught singing along with Steve Perry in a McDonalds?

Mama's Got A New Dress

It is amazing how men will react to the slightest peek of cleavage. Even the tiniest mound of flesh is alluring as long as it is topped off with a nipple. The boys go crazy just being in the same building with a pair of boobs.

I decided that it was high time I had some summer dresses that didn't make me look like a refugee from Mrs. Roper's laundry hamper, so I ran out for the only shopping I can afford right now. I went to Rainbow for knit dresses under $20 designed for the sassy lassie. I dropped $15.00 on this rust orange spaghetti strap, empire waisted number that I found to be rather flattering. It is also low cut. Much lower than I normally go in for. I'm a pretty modest lady, you know. So it's a bit of a risk for me to be braless in this thing that shows you exactly what the middle of my chest looks like. I bought it because it looks flattering and I justified the plunge because I see other women wear these things and they seem to go through their days without shame so...

Holy shit. I've never felt more like a slab of meat and I've been drunk in front of an audience wearing fig leaves, a propellor beanie and coke bottle glasses (Yeah, white hot, I know). I don't know why, but I am so much more comfortable with men leering at my butt than at my bust. Dude, let's face it. I got me some hang ups on my rack.

I tried on this dress once I got it home (because that is what women do) while I was waiting for the groceries to be delivered. I was just about to take it off with the delivery guy rang the bell. Normally the delivery guys find MOM answering the door in her cotton pirate pajama bottoms and a t-shirt from a sporting goods store on Staten Island. Normally, the Delivery Guys don't want a thing to do with comfortable MOM. Just drop off the boxes, get a tip, grumble some thanks and move on. Today, Delivery Guy found the braless wonder trouncing around her apartment trying the "windy day in New York" skirt test.

HELLO! Pretty hot outside, isn't it? Want these in the kitchen? On the table? The name's Jonathan.

Yeah, I know it was the cleavage that made him friendly. But what made me really uncomfortable was this:

You are a gorgeous woman.

Okay. Thank you. Take the tip and get out.

It's not that the guy himself creeped me out. I've met him before (although I am sure this is the first encounter HE remembers) and he's a pretty harmless delivery guy. No. The attention was just too much. I don't know what to do with it. I'd like to be a gorgeous woman. It seems like a pretty decent gig except what do you do when somebody says that kind of thing? What's the etiquette on that? And, really, where can the conversation possibly go from there? Am I required to have conversation at that point? Or does my exquisite beauty excuse me from discussion? It's just too much pressure.

Of course, there is the possibility that he was just blinded by the glare of my lily white skin and he could be one of those crow-like personalities. Look! Shiny! Ooooohhhh!

Let's face it. I'm so stinking vain. I probably think this song is about me. I just don't have any finesse in these situations. So, long story short, if you want me to run about the city in revealing outfits show me you appreciate it with your eyes - but don't stare too long, because that's creepy. A warm smile is all that is required. If you NEED to say something, compliment the dress.

Wow, that dress looks really nice on you.

Or I'll just go back to my frumpy, comfortable, playground camoflauge.

If There Is A Heaven, Oh Baby, I Got Me Reserved Seating

I'm going to try really hard not to break my arm patting myself on the back, but man, I've been so nice this past weekend! I've been so good I could hunt down and kill a hobo and still have my own set of keys to the Pearly Gates.

Ouch! Compound fracture. That'll learn me.

Anyway, I've had an extended weekend full of major activity and reaching some conclusions about things and stuff. I've been rockin' the social life in a way I haven't in years and feeling flexible with my time. You have no idea what a stretch that is for me as I have an overwhelming feeling of dread about time. So, it has been a good weekend and soon I shall be returning to my life of house cleaning and dinner preparation, but I will be totally smiling because I feel attached to my friends again and it feels pretty good.

I would like to point out my response to David Rothman in my post about Zarqawi. I think I've said what I needed to say on the subject and am in too good of a mood to rehash it right now, but I must point out the discussion to you as it is important to me.

Of course, it may not be important to you, but you're reading MY blog so I can suggest anything I like.

Of Course We Went To See "Cars"

Why wouldn't we? Even though Pixar did sell its soul to Disney, it is still a rare chance to see craftsmanship in a family film. Say what you will about John Lasseter, he's got some taste. Plus, it has Owen Wilson...even if he is playing a car I can totally wrap myself around those nasal vowel sounds and that squinty, lispy "s" of his. Not literally, of course, I am a married woman. (Mmmmm, Owen Wilson...)

Anyway, it was a tad long, but still a lot of fun. It did not hold a candle to "The Incredibles" or "Finding Nemo" but still a hell of a lot better than "Over the Hedge". Are you kidding me? What a load of tripe they dish out to us these days.

I don't particularly feel like writing a review. If you've got a munchkin and aren't Amish you'll probably being seeing this movie anyway- regardless of the fact that one of the most endearing characters is voiced by Larry the Cable Guy. What I want to talk about is how horribly, stinking weepy I am. It is embarassing. After the movie I had to excuse myself to the restroom to go bawl because there was a tiny little dedication during the credits to an actor who had died last year. Oh no! The guy who was Heimlich the fat caterpiller in "A Bug's Life" died? How sad!

Do you see how tweaked that is? Last night we watched "Toy Story 2" and I had to leave the room to cry because Jessie the Cowgirl had been left in a box on the side of the road because her beloved Emily had grown too old to play with her. There was a freaking song about it. Played me like a freakin' harp. And to think, for a brief moment yesterday, I had considered bringing home "Old Yeller" for movie night. Sullivan probably would have handled it fine but I would have been wrecked.

After a bug squishing incident on the street after school yesterday, Sullivan and his friend got into a big theological argument that threatened to end the friendship. His friend told him that when you die you go up to the sky to be with our "Heavenly Father". Sullivan looked at her like she had sprouted another head and then went on some weird tirade about how the only thing up in the clouds was a giant gorilla (Your guess is as good as mine on that one) and that no one really knows what happens when you die. She then became adamant that there IS a Heavenly Father and that no one knows what he looks like but she knows He is there. Sullivan then threw up his arms and yelled, "I've SEEN Henry's father and I KNOW EXACTLY what he looks like and he doesn't live in the clouds he only lives on the third floor!" I don't know whether to laugh or cry about that one, but we did have to step in to help clear up the misunderstanding in order to repair the friendship.

Loss, loss, loss, loss...these are the things that are bringing me to heaving, ugly sobs these days. Intellectually, I would like Sullivan to have a scientific curiosity of the world around him and faith in people and goodness and all that crap, but not having a God to give him or even an everlasting paradise is really painful for me. I wish my answers were easier to understand, God is in His Heaven, go to the saints for guidance, blah blah yackety schmackety. These were the answers I got when I was little and I don't resent those answers, not one bit. They gave me a starting point. I don't know where he is starting from and I can't give him what I was given because it is no longer a part of the package that is me. I don't believe what I was taught.

Above all, I wish I still had it for myself. I wish I had it to understand why bad things happen. I wish I had it to give me comfort in times of loss. I wish I had it to order my Universe when I don't have the strength to put it in order for myself.

Perhaps I should put my faith in Pixar or perhaps Hiyao Miyazaki.

Bloodthirsty

I'm not going to miss Zarqawi. I don't miss Uday and Quasay. But I still find it horribly distasteful and dangerous to celebrate the death of our enemies by parading their dead bodies in front of the masses.

I know people will do it. I know people will cheer. I've never found cause to celebrate the violent and bloody demise of another human (no matter how necessary) with such nastiness. It's ugly. These are ugly times, but must we succomb to such mindless blood lust?

Mostly because I can imagine how I could become a Zarqawi. Any one of us could turn into a vile and hateful creature. I'd argue that many of us who celebrate the macabre death mask peering out from the front pages are displaying a touch of the very same behavior for which he was murdered. We are not all that different. The only thing that seperates him from me or you is circumstance. That's it, whether you will admit to it or not.

Although I do not in any way condone his actions I cannot be pleased about his death, even though in some sad way I have to support it. He was a human being and I refuse to celebrate his death. That would be adding fuel to an out of control fire.

Kill them if you have to, but don't fuck around with the dead. Whenever you disrespect any life, any life at all, it comes back to haunt you.

The Backbone's Connected To The...Fear Of Failure

I need a massage.

I've been acutely aware of how my body stores tension for many years now and when I am being massaged I am immediately in touch with all the little things my brain has tried to hide from me inside my muscles and joints. Ow! There's the laundry! Oh! There's that damn second act! YIKES! Just avoid that husband and child spot!

I started to develop this bizarre skill during a combat class. As a treat before winter break our teacher decided that we were going to do full body work on each other. Hooray! There was an odd number of students and so I got the teacher to work on me who was, no doubt, expecting me to return the favor the second hour of class. It didn't turn out that way.

I have always been one to push myself pretty hard and I"ve become accustomed to stress as a way of being. I'm not odd in that respect. However, on this particular day I was in denial about how much stress I was under. I lay on the floor and the second he touched my shoulders my brain was flooded with images of my failures and regrets. With each place he touched a new image and batch of feelings would arise. It was a very physical sensation of a damn breaking and emotional fluid rushed through my body. I didn't want to succomb to it so I tensed up to try and stem the flow. He told me to let it go and not be afraid to get sloppy. That did it. For the next two hours I wailed. It was as if my body had become a giant bagpipe and he played the loud, discordant tune of my hidden demons. When he instructed everyone else to switch he kindly ordered me to stay down and continued working it out. Kind man. By the end of class my face was red and blotchy and there was, literally, a pool of snot and tears on the floor where I had been. But I felt remarkably lighter and completely recharged.

I could use that right now.

At the moment my body is such an obvious physical manifestation of my bad habits, fears, and grief. I am afraid I am not strong enough to handle my dreams and responsibilities and so I've hidden all of that in a soft and slack belly over which I now stoop to "hide" my insecurity. My lower back has taken many beatings over the last four years and it is from there that I have been borrowing strength and energy to get through my days. I've always depended on my strong back, but now the weight of that emotional baggage is literally breaking my back. The daily irritations that I can't seem to let go are in my shoulders and if you touch my neck I will be reminded of a tremendous sense of loss. At the moment, I am the walking wounded. Boo hoo. I did it to myself.

So today I will make an appointment for a massage. It needs to be with a master who is not afraid of my mess. Then afterwards, I will need to move on.

Don't...Want To...Blog...About...That...But Can't...Stop

Have you ever met anyone who wants to teach you something that you already know?

It's so weird and uncomfortable. We could easily be peers that work well together but he keeps trying to put me in this place where I simply don't belong. No matter how many times I've shown him how capable, talented, smart and resourceful I am he keeps trying to drop these pearls of wisdom on me as if I hadn't already said the same exact thing 10 minutes prior. What fucking planet is he on?

Am I being "Little Ladied"? He isn't really the "little lady" type. And still...

On to bigger and better news.

I gave the boy a haircut the other night. He insisted on cutting it really short because he wants hair like his friend at school. Oh boy does he look dashing, and older. He's in love with the haircut and he keeps checking himself out in mirrors to see if his hair has grown. When he sees that is still short he gives a little, "All right!" into the mirror. Yesterday he stopped and said,

"Mom, I love my haircut."

"Good, Sweets. I'm glad you like it."

"Do I look like a man now?"

Oh baby! Looking at that handsome face and those gangly limbs and hearing that sweet question is playing a symphony on my heartstrings. Meanwhile, the seams are unravelling on the ol' apron strings. Must...not...repair...or it will...ruin him...for other women...

"You sure do, Sullivan. You sure do."

Proud Mama

This morning Sullivan's school had a dance recital. They blocked off the street in front of school so that all the students could show off the mad dance skills they've been working on all year. I have to admit that I got sappy and tried really hard to hide my tears behind my sunglasses. I was sappy not just for my son's own performance (Which was really wild! He did this crazy crab walk move and he was so into it!) but for all the kids. When I was in school last week all the buzz was about this big show and you could see them all working so hard to get their moves down. The show was really impressive with a wide range of dance styles and, I have to say, I didn't see much smirking. Even the coolest of the cool boys made a sincere effort to be a part of the event. Some of the cool booys have already figured out that dance is step number 1 to becoming a serious heartbreaker. Granted, the teachers that they worked with did not force lame stuff down their throats. Everything they worked on was pretty hip- even the Chinese ribbon dancing and the Mexican Hat Dance were done in a cool way.

What turned on the waterworks for me was seeing my son get up in front of a large crowd and own himself and his choices and declare himself to the crowd present. He's growing, slowly but surely, into a man.

Despite all the best efforts of the world to suck, my son is doing pretty damn well.

'Cute' Is a Four Letter Word

During my last stint in acting school I got myself into a snit over being called 'cute'. Over and over again I would hear these comments (especially from the males in my class) that really got my back up.

"Oh!" they'd exclaim, "You're just so cute!"

I'd get pissed because what I heard behind the word 'cute' was "You're like a little fuzzy bunny! Yes you are! Who's a fuzzy bunny? Who's a fuzzy bunny? You! A woodgie woodgie woo!"

Yeah, fuck off.

That's when I started seeking out the roles for the psycho. Malformed, bitter characters prepared to maim or kill to reach their own ends became something I truly aspired to play. I started to do things in class to throw people off guard. I shot my teacher during a pre-scene exercise and told him he was a lying son of a bitch- among other things. He was the school guru and this shocked people, not just that I said it, but because it seemed that I really meant it. (I did, but that's not important. We're square.) I talked about the time I ran after a childhood friend with a steak knife with the sincere intent to do bodily harm. I growled and swore and participated in the nastiest, filthiest piece of scenework done that year. Really filthy. The poor guest teacher wasn't really sure what to do with it. He was probably trying to erase the memory of my panties. Of course, I did the scene with the gayest man in history, but I had a good substitution. The point is that I really hate being defined in diminutive terms.

Don't shove me in a box. I'm bigger than you think I am.

So this has been my issue; everyone keeps telling me that I should really gear my work toward kids."You have such a talent for it!" they say. "You know who that writing and performance project would really be good for? KIDS!". These words are always accompanied by this sweet, hopeful twinkle in their eyes. Don't get me wrong. I love working with kids. But I also know that if you work with kids, you work with kids. It is a rut you don't climb out of. If you work as a "serious" artist with adults and THEN lower yourself to work with kids, wow! You're a talented saint. But if you work with kids in your 20's and still work with kids in your 30's you work with kids for the rest of your career.

I do love working with kids because I love kids. Here's the thing, though, with kids you can only grow in your understanding of craft so much. You become stuck at that beginner level regardless of the brilliance that can spew forth in overwhelming torrents from the minor set. You don't have the brain challenge that working with other working artists gives you because you have to spend so much time getting their attention and starting from the very begining. I'm fucking starving and I can't fritter away my time creating work for little ones just because New York Mommy and Daddy will spend money on their kids and not on themselves. I have to resolve myself to take this risk and potential financial dive in order to get what my soul desires. I just wish people would stop trying to convince me that I belong in the world of children, that I belong in the world of cute, just because I choose to conduct myself as a polite human being. I am good with children. It is just that devoting myself to that market feels so horribly wrong to me. What would happen to my Queen Margaret or my Richard III if I continue to spend my days with Frog and Toad?

Of course, I am not so sure of myself that I do not question. Maybe I am fated to work with kids. Perhaps my time has already passed and I missed it and I should just accept the consequences. I missed my chance to be a (recognized) child prodigy so maybe I should just hang it up and play it safe. Very safe.

Is there something I'm missing? I know I'm good with kids, but I don't think I am a stellar teacher by any stretch of the imagination. I've only recently started to get a handle on my classroom management techniques, but I still don't carry any real authority. I don't ever want to be a dick with kids. Besides that, I am not the most disciplined person in the world. Just hit the right button and you'll be able to listen to me drone on and on for hours and never get a lick of work done. Kids know that and they seek those buttons out.

Not to mention that public schools are so riddled with problems that if I get involved any deeper than I already am, I'll probably lose my mind. The people who say these things to me hang far too many hopes on the power of art to transform. I'm not saying that it can't, because I truly do believe in it but it isn't the only tool for tranformation. That can be achieved simply by an adult being HUMAN to a child. That's all it requires. I just don't think I am the type of person who could succeed at this and I certainly wouldn't be happy doing it.

In my estimation, it all comes back to that four letter word, 'cute'. I know people see my soft, freckled face and see my bouncy personality and assume that I don't have a dark side. I do and I need to work through it with my art. Take that away from me and I've lost my reason to live a life in art at all.

I don't want to hear any more bullshit about me working with kids full time. I don't want to hear any more crap about how I'm sweet or cute or nice. That's just the me I use to make and keep friends. It is too much pressure to be the nice person all the time. It isn't everything I am.

Just like it isn't everything you are, either.

I Hate To Be Hippy Dippy, But...

Some people feel there is no real purpose to a woman's period.

Why does this bother me?

Birth control doesn't bother me. Women having the right to choose how they are going to deal with their own pregnancy does not make me lose any sleep. So, why does it freak me out that young women are coming to the conclusion that a period is nothing but a monthly nuisance and a hinderance to their freedom?

I guess I find that kind of offensive. I think we are brought up to look at our bodies as inherently flawed and disgusting. Instead of being encouraged to examine those difficult thoughts and feelings that often accompany the onset of our cycle we are told we're hysterical and taught to ignore the wisdom of our own bodies. It is my opinion (and you must take it as such because I could be horribly wrong) that so much PMS is a symptom of the hating we do on our bodies. It is a way for that which is ultimately feminine in ourselves to rise up and give us warning. This is not to say that the pain and discomfort of PMS is "in our heads". No, this pain is very real. But I subscribe to the belief that the reason things bother us so intensely during our periods is not because we're nuts but because something in our lives needs immediate attention. Our bodies are telling us that we need to slow down, take time, reflect and heal. And we want to erradicate that from our lives because it is inconvenient.

And yet you will find in any group of grown women conversations peppered with phrases like "You need to take some time to yourself" and "What are you doing to be kind to yourself right now?". Why do we want to turn that message off internally? How many women do you know who won't take a vacation until they have a heart attack and wind up in the hospital? The pain of PMS is not punishment. It is the only message a woman will actually listen to. What do we do when we have cramps? We fucking lie down and take a break. We'd do ourselves one better if we used that time our bodies gave us to nurture ourselves in some way. Ask yourself this, if your body sent you flowers and a box of chocolates would you make as much time for resting as you would when you have cramps?

A period IS necessary. It is a built in tool to help assess our lives. I'm terrified that women will run themselves into the ground without one. At least, I know that is what I would do.

I can't deny that there are women in excrutiating physical pain due to their periods. I'm not saying we shouldn't try to alleviate that pain. I'm just saying we should approach these methods cautiously, very cautiously.

A Struggle With Biology

Here's a uniquely human problem. Our intellect is constantly at war with our biology. Isn't that interesting? We're hardwired to seek out and accept leadership for our own survival, and yet we seriously question and discourage the practice of "following". We are rigged for sex and sexual enjoyment and yet we spend our formative years being told to shun sex. When we get older we spend time battling our biological clock, frantically searching for a mate that may or may not exist and staring at our ledgers wondering if next month we'll have "enough" to have a baby.

No other species, that I know of, exhibits this behavior. Can you imagine dolphins (who are also rigged for casual and pleasurable sex) saying to each other, "No, I can't have a baby now, that will interfere with my migration plans!"

Perhaps we have built a society that is too complex for our biology. What if, instead of fighting our biology and trying to encourage everyone to be a rugged individualist (which I love, don't get me wrong!) maybe we should consider also teaching how to recognize good, healthy leadership so that those of us with bigger drives to follow make better choices.

It's just a thought.

Friends With Benefits

I have the TV on in the background. There's some commercials playing. I heard the sentance, "We could be friends with benefits" followed almost immediately by "Presented by Disney..."

Record scratch

Really?

It kind of reminded me of this afternoon when Sullivan and one of his friends (who has older brothers) ran around the playground screaming "Let's have a sexy party! With sexy dancing!" When we inquired just what sexy meant we got the response "You know, girls! Yeah, girls...and the monsters in The Dark Crystal!"

"Sweetheart, those are Skeksies"

"Yeah! Let's have a Skeksie party! Yeah!"

So, does Disney's 'friends with benefits' mean a dental plan?

Miramax's does. Of course, Miramax's dental plan consists of a dental dam and a pack of tic tacs.

Thursday Roast Beef

There's an Eric Carle book that the kids in Sullivan's class chant to. Each day of the week features a different food item,
Monday string beans, Tuesday spaghetti, Wednesday soup, Thursday roast beef, Friday fresh fish, Saturday chicken, Sunday ice cream, all you hungry children come and eat it up today. Can't get the damn chant out of my head.

So, today is Thursday, but roast beef is not on our menu. Annie's Pasta Bunnies with broccolli and a peanut butter apple. Welcome to dinner at my house when Tom is not around.

I'm avoiding returning a couple of emails and hoping that some people call to join in this impromptu reading I'm hosting this weekend. Just a friendly wine and cheese on a blanket in the park kind of thing to read my new play. I reread it for the first time today since I declared it ready to read. It is a really, really sad play. It's funny, but sad. I do a lot of things that way, I guess. It still surprised me, though. Especially since I read it today and realized, for the first time, just how personal it is. I hope I've been honest and fair. I hope I have some grasp of reality. But I can't make any garauntees in that department.

Well, I must attend to the boiling bunnies.