Monday, July 31, 2006

Another Dream

There were risers on the other side of the lights. I could hear them creaking and could hear mumblings like you often hear when you are waiting backstage. Except I wasn't backstage. I was being strapped to a gurney with leather straps. I could see the tiny table with a syringe on it. One of my arms was stretched straight out and strapped to an extendable part of the table. By the sound of the audience, I could tell there was a full house there to watch me die. All the movement was either behind the lights or behind my head where I couldn't see. I tried asking for someone to hold my hand, but my mouth wouldn't move. I wanted someone who loved me there. I could feel people who loved me behind me, but I couldn't see them. I just wanted to see them. I wasn't scared. I tilted my head up to see where the needle was going to go in my arm. I started thinking about what my last words would be, if I could get the strength up to speak. I wanted to talk about love, forgiveness and truth. And I just wanted to see people I loved.

When it is put that way, my life's mission seems so goddamn simple, doesn't it?

The Ocean Doesn't Want Me Today

I left my men standing on the beach. Two figures, one tall and one small, smiled at me as I braced myself for the pounding of the waves. It's phase one of ocean hazing. The ocean tests you. It wants to know if you are worthy before it will invite you in.
My feet went from soft, smooth sand to a rough mixture of sand and debris. Mostly shells, I assume. I was too busy to look.

I have an intense fear of the ocean. I love it. It fascinates me. Enchants me. Terrifies me. I suppose that could be easily explained by the fact that I had watched "Jaws" when I was about 5 years old and have seen it countess times since. I tried to counter that fear by making Dr. Eugenie Clark (a sceintist who swam with sharks on National Geographic Explorer- man did I think she was cool) my hero. To no avail. Even swimming in a lake frightens me. I keep thinking that something horrible is going to grab me.

I have had other encounters with the sea. I went snorkling when I was 15. My parents and I had gone on a cruise together. I think they decided to take me along because I was so depressed. Of course I was depressed, I was 15. However, they let me go on the snorkling excursion by myself. I think I would have been fine with this if it weren't for two circumstances. #1) I was totally the odd man out in the group and did not have a swimming buddy. #2) The instructor kept talking about barracuda with wild eyes and crazy hand gestures. Subsequently, I did not get too far out and barely saw the edge of the reef. Meanwhile everyone else was riding manta rays and helping Marlin to find Nemo.

This was my mission on Saturday. To face the unknown.

The rest of the beach crowd fell away and it was just me and the ocean. Wading out past the spot where the waves break and pummel you like a housewife with a cut of cheap meat, I felt confident. Once I was waist high in the water I was back to feeling just sand under my feet, the collection of shells having rested a few feet behind me. I could see the waves way out on the horizon, swelling and dropping, swelling and dropping. I learned how to jump so the waves wouldn't pull me under. I enjoyed being tossed about. The ocean was becoming comfortable with my presence and I with his. We played tug of war with eachother, me being the rope. He would pull me out slightly and then I would see nothing but a wall of water just ahead of me. He threatened to eat me. But if I let myself go, I would ride the top of the wave and drop down, exhilerated. I started to swim out farther to meet these waves like a hostess at Perkins, welcoming the wave to the shore.

Then it happened.

I put my feet down and there was nothing to touch. In my mind I saw this endless abyss, teeming with monsters willing to drag me to the deep as their captive. And that bitch Dr. Eugenie Clark was their queen! Her role as ocean spokesowman a clever ruse to lure victims to the precipice so that her evil minions could attack! What a betrayal!

I turned and saw the people frolicking on the beach about 10 feet away. They did not seem concerned, but their feet were all touching ground. I began to do a backstroke toward the beach, not daring to take my eyes off of him when I could feel him tugging me out to sea. Once I had come this far he was reluctant to let me go back. Then I remembered something Jon Fucking Stossel told me way back in the 80's. Swim parrallel to the beach. I broke out my crawl and teased the ocean by pretending to stay. Soon enough I was able to ride a wave back to the place I could touch ground. I wanted to go back to my husband and my child, but the allure of this game was too much to resist. I waded back in.

This same drama played itself out over and over again. Each time there was an endless loop of scenes from Ocean terror movies I had seen playing over and over in my head to the tune of "The Ocean Doesn't Want Me Today". I was breathing heavy. The water was cool. My emotions like the waves pulling me this way and that between fear and excitement. From the top of my waves I could see surfers in the distance having their own ocean drama. I could see the thrill of mastering a wave and the disappointment in not catching the one that was wanted. They were studying him and his ever changing moods. I wanted to know him like they do.

I need to learn how to surf. Or maybe I need to learn how to dive.

Then maybe I can meet that bitch Dr. Eugenie Clark at the bottom of the sea and totally kick her shark lovin' ass.

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Why I Don't Go Out

Don't get me wrong. I had some lovely company with me last night as we trotted desperately from Park Slope bar to Park Slope bar. I had, you know, best in the world, kind of company. However, even after my five pints I could see the pointlessness of this project.

Why should I tromp through my neighborhood, mining for man gold (single girlfriends- I'm happy to oblige) in a notoriously lesbian neighborhood? It seemed like the guys that were out all had the same haircut and the same facial hair. At the second bar we went to it became abundantly clear that I don't own the right tube top for bar hopping.

I don't mean to be bitchy about this, but when I go out I like go somewhere that feels welcoming. I like to go where everybody knows my name. You know? Where people know that people are all the same...

Okay, I won't go any further with that. But, truthfully, I have had good times going out before. It's just that I'm married and my reasons for going out are different than they used to be. Now I just want to listen to some good music, talk with my friends, catch up on their lives and maybe flirt a bit. Perhaps shoot some pool? Or maybe it would be nice to have a "Minnesota Date" again. You know, an evening out that only requires a liter of soda, candy, a lake and the hood of a car.

The back seat used to come in handy in those days.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

Enough!

Okay. For those who have not exactly been keeping up with the comments posted on my blog, let me get you up to date.

Somehow, my attitudes toward men have been misconstrued. If you read me consistently you would find that I have a great love and respect for men- despite my bitter attempts at humor which help me blow off a little steam. I have no intention of deriding the opposite sex. I love men- and not just as tools (although, I'm not complaining) but I have great faith in men. More than most women, to be painfully honest. I know because I AM a woman and I've been privvy to many female conversations. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of respect out there for you guys. Sorry, but it's true.

My only conflicts with leering happen to be internal. See Post-Mortem on a Leer or Boys if you have any doubts about where my conflicts truly lie. I give voice to those conflicts here for one simple reason- because it is my fucking blog! I write these things because they are on my mind. Truthfully, I wonder how to handle these situations not just as a woman but as a married woman. How much is too much? Where is the line? I've never been great at setting boundaries so how do I navigate this kind of attention? If you read them consciously, you'll see that the question is 'how should I deal with this attention' and not 'can I rip off his nads if he looks at me cockeyed?' Not to mention that I have an intense need to remind the world that even though I have been off the market for 13 years, I still get offers.

There is no doubt about it. I'm fucking vain.

I can see how my message may have been misinterpreted, especially since it was so close to 'the ballad of the little lady'. I stand behind that bitter little song because, like it or not, there is truth in it. But I won't have anyone who has skimmed a couple of my posts beaking off about how I'm just another run of the mill twat that hates men. Hardly.

There. I've said it. Now I'm done.

Until some smart ass posts a comment and I won't be able to let it go until I have the last word because that is just the crazy kind of bitch I am.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Spending Money

Oh I want to spend money.

It's like this itch I know I shouldn't scratch.

But we're home and we want to pretend we're on a fancy vacation. We want to got to all the museums and all the restaurants- especially the ones that treat kids like little demon kings and queens and feed their inner consumer. Buy this! Buy that! Here's a toy! For $5.00 extra you can bring home this plastic cup and a bendy straw! Visit our arcade and blow things up! And when you go outside, a Mr. Softee truck will be waiting, quietly singing its siren song of plastic ice cream and soggy sugar cones. Come! Come!

There is so much to spend money on. Carousels, popcorn, movies, games, ice cream, and toys, toys, toys! And that is just on this block! (Okay, not the carousel, but everything else)

We've come to the conclusion that Sullivan has way too many toys. We are insisting that he earn money and buy any new toys himself. He responds with the phrase "Earning is stupid." My kid shuns work. At home that is. At school and at other people's homes he is a hard working angel. Imagine my surprise when I peeked into him classroom and saw him sweeping up, clearing tables, and putting toys away, all without a fuss. I'm telling you, school is like magic. If only the magic could come home.

Well, we're taking it easy today because I've run the poor guy ragged this week with camp and seeing friends after camp and having two play dates on non-camp days. That will show him to complain that he doesn't get to see friends enough! He is now sacked out like a lapsed Catholic on Ash Wednesday.

He was out until the skies opened up last night and drenched a showing of "Dracula" at Prospect Park. That was one of the moments when I was actually GLAD that I had purchased that gross of vampire teeth. Dude, you can't imagine how many times those things come in handy. For the price of 2 sets of teeth at the store, I could get 144 from a catalogue. Considering our many needs for vampire teeth it seemed like a smart thing to do. I was just being practical.

I know. I'm nuts.

I'll have to hold myself back today. We could go see "Monster House", again or "Pirates of the Caribbean". Rarely is there more than one movie playing that we can go to as a family. Hell, rarely is there even one to see. Or we could go to any of five zoos or countless museums. We could go to Coney Island and throw away money and then hang at the beach. (But we're going to Robert Moses State Park tomorrow) We could go dollar store hopping and buy crap for crafts. We could go to the pool and then go out for lunch. We could go to Kids In Action where we can play in a giant play space and eat Kosher semi-fast food, play air hockey and drive a go cart. We could take a boat out on the lake at Prospect Park. We could go catch and release fishing. We could go sample foods from around the world. Dude, New Yorkers are so freaking spoiled. But they PAY for it.

OR we could stay at home, soak up the AC and get on each other's nerves.

Sounds like fun.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Oliver Stone Has Elephantitis Of The Nuts

First off, Nick Cage is a weird, wooden actor who is best suited to bizarre little movies with bizarre little characters. Outside of "Raising Arizona" I find him unwatchable. So the idea of watching him portray a 9/11 hero unpalatable on so many levels.

First, I don't want to see any dramatizations of that day. Is nothing fucking sacred? It is always so sad to see real people's lives fit into a standard Hollywood formula. Second, if I went to this movie (and I bregrudgingly admit that I might have to, I'll tell you why in a minute) I would feel so ashamed and filthy. I feel like I would be a total Benedict Arnold, betraying my home by encouraging such exploitation.

But I might have to see it. I shudder to admit this, but a friend of mine plays Jesus in the film.

Aw fuck.

It took me a long time to put 2 and 2 together because I knew he had gotten a role in an Oliver Stone film about 9/11, but when I saw the trailers I didn't make the connection that this was the piece of shit he would be appearing in.

I'm torn. I want to support my buddy, and seeing him play Jesus is really kind of funny. (You have NO IDEA how funny! Not because of his ability, but because of his personality.) I'm so sick of Oliver Stone's heavy handed style. On top of that I believe that it is way too soon for a movie about 9/11, especially with a heartwarming, sensitive pop sountrack. Are you fucking kidding me? Yuck. If you had to make a 9/11 film, it would be better scored by Neil Young or maybe Iggy Pop.

So. I'm not sure what I am going to do. Does my loyalty to Steve outweigh my hatred of Oliver Stone?

Sigh.

the ballad of the little lady

she darns and she knits
she cooks with bare tits
she responds to every command
like a good lady should
she takes care of the wood
when the man holds a remote in his hand.

her home is quite clean
with walls cerulean
and curtains just this side of manly
she looks quite demure
but isn't quite pure
what she really wants is a family.

so there by his side
is a cute little bride
winningly grinning from ear to ear.
what could she know
of the fears that do grow
when men talk with men over beer?

her aspirations, once charming
are now quite alarming
now that junior has needs to attend.
but you need never fear
because this lady here
knows her dreams mean nothing, in the end.

she drives and she shuffles
and takes care of the snuffles
of her brood and her frightened old man
how could she know,
although he loved her so,
that he needed a livelier fan?

once sexy and funny,
our fair little bunny
was tossed beneath the wheel of a truck.
her dreams set aside
when she became a new bride
to be replaced by a much younger fuck.

now tired and worn
this lady forlorn
raises her arms up to heaven and sighs,
the eyebrows I've plucked!
and the thighs I had sucked!
and he's lost in this little girl's eyes!

she cried and she moped
she had little hope
of ever being able to maintain
the lifestyle to which
this new little bitch
was living, it drove her insane!

it didn't take long
by then end of this song
she had killed them both in their beds.
her homemaker talents
employed in the balance
of the pikes that displayed their two heads.

she ran and she took
her babes to a brook
and sent them to a place dark and briny.
If you ever get pissed
just think of this
whenever your woman gets whiny.

in hills dark and deep
on brambles she sleeps
mourning the loss of her life
and crying because
whatever she does
she can't get back time spent as a wife.

so why tell this story?
is it for the glory
of the woman who did her man in?
or is it to save
some poor man from the grave?
or to ward off unpardonable sin?

to avoid such tragedy
embrace the strategy
of honoring your wife's dreams a bit, maybe?
it isn't just you
she lost freedom too
so don't be such a self absorbed baby.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Two Minutes To Post!

This fucking thing is a compulsion that I should learn to overcome. I don't have anything in my head, per se, but I have the overwhelming urge to share this emptiness with the world.

I really do need to get a less annoying hobby.

I need to go pick up the boy and go to the pool shortly. But since I have a couple of minutes to kill I find that the rapid plastic clicking quite comforting. It gives the illusion of productivity. Mostly because the rapid plastic clicking I SHOULD have been doing today (working on my script) fell completely by the wayside. Honestly, I don't think I am going to have too much inspiration on the second act until I come back from Minnesota. The unfortunate thing about that is, I probably won't have time to sit down with it until September.

Sigh.

Well, fun and frivolity await at the pool. And after that a tired, hungry and slapdash dinner followed by an early bedtime. Then the cycle begins again tomorrow.

By the way, the gnocchi turned out slightly malformed but pretty tasty. Soon, spinach and roasted potato calzones. I'm big on the carbs these days.

When Did I Say That?

I recognize that people often object to my views on human behavior and forgiveness because people think if you're not angry you're not being active. I never said that I don't get angry. And the thing that gets my dander up is that the second I suggest that there are root causes for certain injustices that people jump to the conclusion that I am saying there is no room for punitive action if you can identify the cause. When did I actually SAY that? I never said that.

I don't believe that anyone is inherently evil at birth. I've worked with hundreds of children in early childhood and in elementary school and I can tell you that, in my experience, "evil" behavior is a progressive expression of biological and social circumstances which come together as a child grows. Damian does not exist. Certainly there are volitile elements of brain chemistry that can, if left unchecked, make a child less likely to acquire empathy at the critical point in his/ her development. Sometimes it is the environment that discourages the development of such an important componant of human relations. Sometimes it is trauma left untreated. Sometimes it is a complex concoction of environment, brain chemistry, and trauma. There are a whole host of factors that create Mansons and Bundys and Hitlers. Unpopular as it may be to say so, I bet they were adorable babies.

That's the popular nightmare, isn't it? That despite your best efforts your child will just be a horrible monster and there is nothing you can do about it. Well, we don't know that for sure. We don't know enough about how individual brains work. It is hard to say that you can catch these things in early childhood and work to the child's strengths to teach them social concepts that it would be difficult for that brain to master on its own. Because the kids whose parents/ caregivers who were given that extra attention in early childhood didn't grow up to be a problem (presumably) and we tend to focus on problems in our culture- not prevention.

We are a highly reactionary culture and we tend to crack down after the fact. I'm simply saying that if we learn from the bad things that have already happened, study them, examine them and those who played a part we might be able to take the appropriate steps toward preventing it in the future. Am I saying we can catch every problem before it develops? Hell no. Not possible, but isn't it stupid and short sighted to not explore the possibilities?

For all my hopeful ramblings, I am also realistic. I know we will never erradicate "evil" from our lives. I'm not stupid. I'm just saying that what we've been doing hasn't really worked so well, what would be the harm in adding (not either/ or, but adding) another approach? On a personal level, I have a great belief in mercy and forgiveness. A lot of people profess to the same, however, you can't just practice mercy and forgiveness with puppies and good people with parking tickets. No. Kindness and love should be for everyone, and I mean EVERYONE. That's the hard part. That's when people fall away from religious teachings because it seems counterintuitive. How can I give love to someone who has willfully hurt others? But the act of forgiveness is not a benefit for the "evildoer" but for the victim. Forgiveness is self-preservation. Forgiveness lightens the burdens a person has to carry.

And by forgiveness I DO NOT MEAN THE REMOVAL OF CONSEQUENCES FOR BAD BEHAVIOR! By forgiveness, I mean letting go. It is the hardest thing in the world to do, but it is for the benefit of the soul. Natural consequences should be experienced by those who do wrong. The consequences tend to have more weight when they are meted out by open and forgiving hearts. Intention means everything.

Think about the times you learned something as a child. Let's say you were working on your mother's last nerve. You had been all day. She's been working on your's too. You've clashed about everything that day and the last straw was that she took your new toy away and turned off the tv for the rest of the day. At this point, you are ticked so you climb up on the back of the couch and grab Mom's special decorative Elvis plate off the wall and smash it. Mom could A: Smack the living crap out of you and send you to your room telling you that you are a terrible and ungrateful child, B: Scream at you and lecture you a blue streak, C: Count to 10, send you to your room to cool off then she comes to talk to you. She lets you see that you took it too far, you hurt her feelings. That plate was a gift from Grandma before she died. She explains that she is hurt and angry. She makes you clean up the mess, grounds you for a week, and sends you to your room until you are ready to apologize. How do you react to punitive style A? Me? I would just feel the injustice of being smacked and I'd sit in my room plotting my revenge but feeling distinctly nasty about myself. B. I'd zone out. She's just flapping her jaw again. What do I care? I'm still pissed at her for taking my toys. C. I really screwed up. Mom can't ever get that plate back because of something I did. I feel remorse and I vow to make amends.

Yes, this is simplistic and I am using children as an example. That can't work with adults, we are far too complex.

Don't flatter yourself. The behaviors we exhibit in childhood we exhibit in adulthood. Plain and simple. It is just that we tend to pat ourselves on the back and consider only "good" behavior to be adult. Hardly. That scenario plays itself out again and again and again from childhood to adulthood. Punitive style A just serves to create more anger and, if repeated through the course of a person's life, will manifest itself in rebelious or self destructive behavior. I call it the "fuck you, I'll show you" effect. B doesn't mean anything. At all. It isn't connected to anything but the mother's egotism (I am SOOOO guilty of Style B!) and no one ever listens no matter how skilled the oratory. Style C, while not particularly cathartic for the mother at first, actually teaches the child about someone else's feelings and allows the child to experience the weight of his actions. He clearly is punished for his actions and not for his BEING and begins to see where that line in the sand is. By the end of this episode, mother and child have grown and actually feel better about being together. He knows what he has done wrong and is motivated to make a change because he can. Since he has not been given the message that there is something wrong about his being (which is hopeless to fight against, so why try?) he can feel good about completing his punishment and knows that his mother will accept him and be proud of him for doing so.

If there is no love and acceptance at the end of punishment, why give a fuck about what you do and who you hurt? It isn't going to give you what you need to survive, so fuck it. Take what you need and screw everybody else. These are standard and predictable reactions.

I'm losing my thread at the moment, but there is so much in my mind about how we treat one another. I know it may seem completely soft and namby pamby to some, but I really do believe in the transforamtive power of love and forgiveness. Of course, people have to be ready to receive love and forgiveness in order to be changed by it but that doesn't mean I shouldn't give it. On the contrary. I love hopeless causes.

And, as I said earlier, it isn't for the object of my affections that I give love. It's for me. All for me.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Poser

We are all cynical

about something.

I wish that weren't true

but it is.

It is all too much
something
not enough
anything
to prove anyone really means
what they believe anymore.

Gods so quickly fall from grace,
it is best not to put them up too high
lest they shatter on the way down.

And who do you think
will be the one
to pick that shit up?

You'll get
a little sliver
of hero
stuck
in your foot.

Put some shoes on
and
tread lightly.

I don't have any bandaids
big enough
for that.

You fuckin' poser.

Catching Up

I've got a lot on my to do list so let's get on with it, shall we?

fictionalben has put a new post up after a long blogging absence. I'm happy to see that he is writing in short form again. I do hope that he will let the world know about his other projects soon. Check him out and give him a little nudge from me.

I'm not really in the mood to rehash my irritation with a certain holier than thou schmuck I ran into this week. Let's just say that I am really tired of people pretending that they have all the answers and that they are so fucking smart when they can barely take care of themselves. Really? If you're such a goddamn genius and understand human nature so well, then why haven't you figured out that most people don't like hanging out with a judgemental fuck that is in desperate need of a shower? People who don't know shit are always the ones shooting their mouths off. It is the unassuming person that usually knows something. And this is coming from a self confessed beak flapper. I'm the first one to tell you that I don't know shit from shinola. But here you go, now my back is up again.

I'm a little cranky because, even though it is only the end of July, I am realizing that my summer is just about over and I still have not climbed out of survival mode. I would love it if I could just get my head above water for a while. It is tiresome trying to piece things together all the time. There's no escaping it.

Anyway, all will be well soon enough. The menu for this evening includes gnocchi wrapped in Swiss chard then baked with a delightful tomato sauce. I love to make gnocchi because it is so tactile. I like to pretend I'm Lidia from Lidia's Italian Table. She may be a big, Italian grandmother, but I love to watch the way she handles food. It's so sensual the way she caresses meat or handles wet pasta or dough. She handles it so tenderly, pats it, strokes it...makes me so flipping hungry in an almost unwholesome way. I'm telling you, if I ever made porn (for womyn by womyn) it would be porn with recipes and with plump, jolly participants.

That would be totally unwatchable.

I Am NOT An Old Lady!

I am up way past my bedtime pretending that I'm not an old, married lady but a 17 year old deep girl with an intense need for candy.

Dude, having Britt in town so rocks my world.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Liberal Libel

So. Everything sappy, expansive and dunderheaded is liberal. Everything cold, evil and financially rewarding is conservative. I get it. It's that simple and everything sucks and everyone who has anything to do with running anything is a complete son of a bitch without any redeeming qualities or decent intentions. Everybody is a dumbfuck except you. Yeah.

I'd have something to say about that except for the fact that I just ate the biggest, most delicious enchilada platter ever and I am fixin' to belch in your smarmy direction.

That's what I have to say about THAT.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Actual Play Date Conversation

Henry: You have to watch out for James Woods.

Sullivan: Who's James Woods? Is he a pirate?

Henry: No, he's just a really bad guy.

Sullivan: Hey! Knock it off you, James Woods!

Boobs

I know other women are cool with the cleavage. I wish I was one of them. I'm not. I have a couple of summer dresses that are so comfortable except it is all boob all the time.

And I hate the word "boob".

I used to date this guy who insisted on calling his best friend a "boob". Dude, "douchbag" would have been a much nicer nickname. For some reason, "boob" is just so insulting. I guess it just conjures up the image of something that is jiggly, jolly and totally clueless. Although, I'll have you know that my boobs are anything BUT clueless.

My chest totally knows the score. If there is a slight, visible curvature catching a summer breeze, my breasts know that they are going to be stared at and that they will make me look like a wounded deer to a pack of hungry wolves. Come and get me! My breasts so don't want to send that message. They prefer discretion. It is just that it is so bloody hot and I sweat like red peppers in a frying pan. We've come to an agreement, my breasts and I.

The agreement is that I will wear these lowcut dresses and pretend that I'm not. That way, I can be oblivious to the hungry stares and the less than polite "Hello there" that we encounter on a daily basis. When I slip and accidently notice the leering, I start to think about my slack, stretch mark covered belly. That takes my mind off things.

Arrrgggh, Matey!

Pirates are a huge deal around our house.

They are like a one stop shop for a dramatic little boy. They fight with swords and guns and represent a kind of hedonsim and freedom to a four and a half year old. (To a 31 year old too!) Adding to their appeal is the fact that they are bad guys. Really, really bad guys. The extent of their badness is somehow lost in the romantic figure they cut in the landscape of the imagination. With their fancy clothes that are filthy and smelly (a boy's natural state!) and their mastery of steel and explosives, they are especially attractive for a little man who loves to dress up and swash a little buckle.

The best part is the sword fighting. Sullivan and I like to throw on some music and run around the house challenging plastic with plastic and keeping track of the wounds we've received. We've lost arms and legs and run each other through complete with dramatic death scenes.

We have lots of skeletons, treasure maps, telescopes and a Playmobil pirate ship that just rocks our world.

Being bad is just so much fun.

Of course, I've had to lock up my historical kill joy in order to indulge in this fantasy. I have to choke her back from spoiling the fun with terrible truths about real pirates. He knows their behavior is bad, but he doesn't need to know the gory details. Things that are scary fun, like Blackbeard lighting fuses under his hat to intimidate his enemies, are worth knowing and can enhance the play. Knowing about the atrocities, however, that can wait. But it does nag at me. Growing up in a household where history was relevant and PRESENT every day of my life does tend to skew my perspective when playing with historical figures.

I shudder when he plays with his little western play set and calls the generic feathered ones Indians. This prompted me to try to explain Columbus being an idiot. I've found myself explaining the slave trade and witch trials and the practice of putting someone's head on a pike. Sometimes I should just keep my macabre mouth shut.

Growing up, my Dad took us to battlefields for fun. Being a Civil War buff, assassination was a regular part of dinnertime conversation with our household patriarch. By the time I was 9 I was telling teachers, "The Civil War was not about slavery but about state's rights." I got the highest score in the Milestones of Freedom test (winning me a $50 savings bond and getting my picture in the paper) without even studying. I watched "North South" in its entirety at least 4 or 5 times. (Maybe that was because of Patrick Swayze.) When Tom and I took our first road trip, I insisted we go to Gettysburg as I had such fond memories of visiting this blood soaked land as a child. I also wanted to visit the sites that were depicted in the violent paintings that adorned my family room as a child.

Dude. That's fucked up.

That's also why I think I could get along with Sarah Vowell. Dude, we could be, like, best friends.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

A Bit Odd

Every once in a while there is just a day when my face swells up like a big water balloon. It doesn't happen often, just every other year or so and it only happens for a day. It doesn't seem to follow any particular pattern. Sometimes it is in the summer, sometimes in the winter. I didn't eat anything out of the ordinary, nothing I don't normally eat within the course of a week. I didn't slather my face in foreign chemicals or rub it on a cat's behind. Nope. As far as I can tell. my face just decided to puff up.

Today is not as bad as in years past. Today I just look like a bad lip job. It isn't lumpy or noticeably freakish like other years. Once the right side of my face swelled up while the left side looked just fine. People were afraid to look at me on the street. Ah well. It just feels like my poor lower lip is being devoured by my huge, floppy upper lip in a permanant, bratty pout. This too shall pass.

People tell me I should have things like that "looked at". I know I probably should because I am convinced that it is the bizarre inconvenience that is going to do me in and not the big, brand name disease. I always figured that I would die from something relatively obscure. No heart disease or cancer for me! Of course, I might get heart disease or cancer, but I'd survive them only to be tragically smothered by breathing in goose down during a pillow fight. I always liked the comedic value of getting hit by a bus, but I think I'd be more likely to be mangled by a street sweeper. It's just the kind of gal I am.

How Irish of me to turn a little swelling into a disturbing stroll down the path of my own demise. How Irish of you to get your back up because I said it was Irish of me to do so!

Anybody want to fist fight? Ten rounds, bare knuckle in the blistering sun! Come on! Any takers? I'll insult your mother if it helps!

I know this is totally off the topic, but for some years I have been thinking about what a great movie it would be to see John L. Sullivan's last major bare knuckle fight in real time. I would so want to see that. All accounts are riveting and disgusting. Just to think that men would willingly do that blows me away. It was in the hot sun. They blistered. They bled. They vomitted! And yet they kept fighting. There are only two reasons for men to fight like that, Sex or money. Sometimes those are one and the same.

Well, it is time for my swollen face to make some breakfast and get out the door. If my lip will be able to fit through, that is.

Slightly Random

Has anyone ever noticed how Joe Scarborough looks like Matthew Perry?

After the cruise ship problem yesterday, news anchors would have done well to consult a thesaurus. The ship listed. How far did it list? Is it still listing? How terrifying was the list?

News anchors should not be allowed to ad lib. They sound like fucking idiots. "The listing must have been frightening, especially for the elderly on board." Are you kidding me? That's just a dumbass thing to say. It's even dumber when accompainied by serious head bobbing and pursed lips mumbling "mmm-hmmm". Stupid.

As for the Middle East I will employ the same tactic that has been used by all parents dealing with sibling rivalry. Okay Isaac and Ishmail if you can't figure out how to share nobody can have Israel! Everybody move out now! An international peace keeping force (and Disney!) will be controlling the borders and allowing people in to worhip. BUT THAT IS IT! And you'll have to clean up that mess you made before you go to bed. And no allowance for the next week. That'll larn ya.

George W. Bush is a simplistic yahoo.

That's all everybody. G'Night!

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Diversionary Post #1

So, I'm flummoxed.

How important is Karen's psuedo-affair to the story? Do I put a drag on the script by adding this temptation? I mean, she is clearly enjoying the attentions of another, more attentive man. But if I put this relationship in the script, then I'll have to flush it out in some way- as if there isn't enough going on with Will's illness, Rita's attempts to pull her family together while caring for Will and denying her own needs, Paul's Oedipal complex which is clearly driving Karen into this flirtation with another man, Rhonda's isolation and mommy anxiety, Hallie's mixed up relationship with her father and her much older lover, not to mention the ghosts of the patriarch's (Will's) own infidelities and impotent attempts at redemption through the haze of his degenerative illness. Karen is too much like Rita and she is at a crossroads. She could choose the same put upon caregiver route that her mother-in-law has chosen or she could go somewhere else entirely. Frankly, I think her sense of obligation and her need to be needed by both her husband and her children will bring her back home. I don't think she will ever truly confront her own needs and desires, but she will end up approaching her marriage from a totally different angle. She's not wild at all and that is why she keeps this poor fellow hanging. She needs the attention desperately, but she will never sleep with him. Kissing him would be a stretch for her. The guilt of actually crossing that line would probably kill her. Paul knows, but he has his head so firmly stuck in his own ass that he will never acknowledge it. Funny enough, that is exactly what it would take to bring Karen back to him. But he's too busy condemning his father for sins committed and obsessing about his mother's well being to take care of his own home. Hallie is the only child who has an open need for her father. Until the third act, Hallie is the only one who truly grieves for him and the loss of his faculties, although she does it badly and it comes off as coldness and insensitivity. Clearly, I need to replace the scene between her and Will in the second act. The story just doesn't hold up without it. This also means that the scene between Rich (Hallie's older lover) and Rhonda needs to be seriously reworked so that it is not just an expository scene. Rhonda's inner conflict about her ability to maintain a loving relationship needs to be brought into the forefront. More than anyone in the family, she has been damaged by her parents' turbulent relationship but she has not been aware of this damage until the birth of her son. Now she is forced to confront what it really means to be married- what it really means to love another person. In fact, every character is faced with that question. What is a marriage? How human do we let our partners be? How do we forgive someone who has hurt us or should we forgive at all?

I know you won't believe me when I tell you this, but this play is actually really funny. That is because I am one sick little bitch.

Don't Bother Me, I'm Writing Today

Okay. I have to get back to fixing the second act of this stupid play.

Actually, I like this stupid play. I think I'd like to go see it. Of course, I'm avoiding fixing the second act because it makes me cry. I can't really afford to be so dhydrated in the heat. It's cooling down today so I don't have that as an excuse anymore. I have to sit down and fix it. Then I need to do something I've never done before. I need to go out and convince someone else that my play is worth investing in.

That's the part that is REALLY scary.

A friend of mine keeps asking me why I feel I always have to do these things by myself. Well, how the hell else would I do them and with whom? No. In the story, the hero always needs to face the final demon alone.

Expect several diversionary posts today.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Yup, They Really Do That In Brooklyn!

This afternoon Sullivan and I had a stereotypical hot summer afternoon in Brooklyn. We came home from camp to mop our foreheads a bit and discovered that some of the neighborhood ladies had opened the fire hydrant and filled up a kiddie pool on the sidewalk. From that point on, the evening was awesome. We all got soaked and laughed at the cars driving by. Some slowed down and enjoyed a quick power wash and others sped through as if their cars were made of sugar. A grumpy neighbor across the street shook his fists at the group of older women (I was the youngest adult in the group) because the stream of water had touched his BMW. We quietly lowered the pressure and then joked about leaving dog shit on the hood of his prescious car.

M&M's were purchased and water logged children sat wet and barefoot on a wobbly bench surrounded by bags of recycling to be picked up tomorrow. The heat from the stoop immediately transformed the cool water that had soaked my clothing into a warm puddle that made me feel distinctly uncomfortable, but happy in spite of it. Neighbors stopped by to run through the water on their way to their various neighborhood destinations and no one said boo about it.

After we were dry, we indulged in some Scooby Doo and now Fredo is busy breaking Michael's heart. Dude, I so don'tunderstand why people complain about summer in the city. To me, this is perfection. Or at least, it would be if I only had a seven layer cookie and a cappucino...

CAMP!

The thing you must understand is that the above title must be read aloud with a choir of angels and an organ backing you up.

It has become abundantly clear that I am not enough to fill my son's life anymore. He has been crying daily because there is no school and he can't see all of his friends every day. Today he starts camp, although none of his school friends are attending this camp, but we just couldn't rustle up the cash to get in where we wanted in time. He now hates me for that, too. At least he will be occupied. He went to this camp last summer and all the adults adore him so he'll get to parade his crazy self to the delight of grown ups who think he's funny.

And he is.

His teachers at school tell me he's a little superstar who charms everyone he meets. I'm happy to hear that, but I wish he'd charm me every once in a while. Lately I've been getting the "bad mommy treatment" where he screams and yells and hits me and calls me stupid.

I've never once hit my kid. I've come close. I've thought about it. Last night the behavior was so bad Tom just stood in the corner mumbling "Just say the word. I can get a belt". It was a bad scene. We took toys away. We held him down. Finally, we had a family pillow fight to diffuse the tension. In the end, Sullivan turned into a heaving lump of tears and I was able to tell him that we had been so angry that we wanted to hit him but we made another choice and he could, too. I also warned him that if he hit someone at school they'd most likely hit him back. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. I hope he chews on that one for awhile.

Being the mommy is getting so much harder now because he is becoming a BOY. He's exhibiting those isolating boy behaviors that, try as I might, I will never understand. This causes him to turn to me and say a phrase I have heard my entire life; "You talk too much." Of course I talk too much for a boy! I just keep expecting that polite acknowledgement that you get from girls and from guys who want to get in your pants. I just keep talking until I get that acknowledgment. What he doesn't understand is that it would only take a nod of the head or an "uh huh" to shut me up. Oh man. I'm in trouble once puberty hits. He is so going to hate me.

The funny thing is, every girl he ends up with will be just like me. Poor little bastard.

Monday, July 17, 2006

HOT!

I haven't sunbathed since the 80's. But, back then I remember there being some Not-So-Urban Legends about girls who cooked themselves sunbathing with tinfoil or on the tops of cars. My favorite was the one about the girl who cooked herself so that her limbs popped out of joint just like a roast chicken.

It's hot out there. So hot, that I am starting to believe those stories were true.

Now that is freakin' hot.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Personality Test

Wheat Thins or Triscuits?
Wheat Thins, all the way. BIG Wheat Thins with some muenster...That's a party.

Milk chocolate or Dark chocolate?
Yes, please.

Dog or Cat?
How about a cat that barks and is happy to see me?

Disney or Warner Brothers?
Warner Brothers.

Happy Go Lucky Irish or Martyr of the Century Irish?
Weekday Martyr. Weekend Happy Go Lucky.

Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire?
Gene Kelly! Hubba hubba!

Natural or Brazilian?
I'm Finnish.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

You Can Really Taste The Kale!

It doesn't seem that long ago that I was lounging in some guy's apartment drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. My tattered sandal from the summer before dangled playfully from my big toe while I quipped and flirted with the best of them, waiting for my life to begin. How quickly that lazy wondering turned to solid drugery!

My life is not terrible. Not by a long shot. But I do tend to romanticize the days of endless pontification and intoxication where I was able to sit in grand hormonal judgement of the rest of this crazy world. I wasn't exactly happy then, either but at least I knew everything! Now I feel awash in a choppy sea, swimming from deserted island to deserted island looking for someone who knows anything. Anything at all! As long as they are over the age of 30. I don't trust those young 'uns. They're out to replace me.

If it weren't for my antibiotics and sense of adult propriety I'd be drunk as a skunk and raising hell in the Slope right now. All by myself. I'd be stumbling from parking meter to parking meter mumbling about purpose and destiny. Instead I am nursing a tall glass of seltzer and letting my stomach digest my evening meal: angel hair pasta topped with a tomato- zucchini sauce featuring crushed red pepper and pesto made with Lacinto kale. All organic, of course.

Last night Tom and I went out with another couple and we left our kids with a sitter. I can count on one hand the number of times Tom and I have gone out with another couple. It felt ridiculously civilized. But I KNOW these people very well and I know that individually each one of these people is nuts. Together, however, it felt very much like how I imagine my parents' evenings out must have been. Except I am pretty sure that our food was better or at least a touch more adventurous. We spent most of the night talking about food, restaurants, wine, cooking and cooking shows. It was a nice night out with accidental "foodies". None of us planned to be this way, but living in close proximity to such amazing food tends to make you a bit of a connesieur.

At one point during the evening of polite conversation I looked around and realized that there were people at the table who had, at one time, played with explosives for fun. There were people who had had wild sex lives, who had been adventurous travellers, who had taken drugs, done stupid things and lived to tell the tales. There were people who had had brushes with fame and who had met more people than they could count and yet, here we were. The four of us were sharing niceties over a small plate of salami and olives discussing our kids and sharing war stories of our lives in the trenches of urban parenting. What the hell?

I don't regret being here. I just don't know where to go from here. I don't know whether I should just sink easily into this comfortable place filled with family and day to day living, maybe have another kid and get a dog. Or do I fight it kicking and screaming? Do I refuse the mommy yoke and forge ahead, feeling guilty that I might be shortchanging my son by being unpredicatable and a little selfish? Do I have another kid anyway and then sick the two of them on each other? Do I fight to stay in this city that I love when I don't often get the chance to get out and appreciate it? What the hell am I doing? What am I modeling here? Indecison? Oh, that's great.

Yeah. I hate to be a poor little rich girl, but sometimes having too many choices is really limiting,

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Homage v. Ripping Off

To whom do we credit the screaming child alone in a a melee being swept up by an adult just before something terrible stomps across the screen? Was that the original "King Kong"? When was that done for the very first time? If I had nothing better to do, I'd edit all of those scenes together and set it to every version of "MacArthur Park" ever recorded. See how awesome that is? The screaming child is the "cake" and the impending doom is the "rain". It's brilliant!

And I don't think I can take it
'cause it took so long to bake it
and I'll never have that recipe again
Oh no...

It could be the multimedia dance hit of the century.

I'm Not Quite There Yet

I know many people who do amazing things.

I know that I could be one of them.

I'm not quite there yet.

I don't believe the universe bestows gifts upon people only to have them settle for mediocrity.

And yet I have made mediocre choices.

Fear.

I need to be thrown a bone- a little positive reinforcement, approval before I make a move.

What would happen if I just pretended not to care?

Plenty of other blow hards who know much less go much farther.

Fuck it. It's not like I have anything to lose.

Except what little hope and faith I do have in myself would probably disappear if I failed.

But failure is not an option.

I read this crazy ass book that told me to burn all my bridges behind me so that there is no possible retreat only desire for victory.

Anybody got a match?

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Infestation Blues

My apartment is an oasis of sorts. It is lively, colorful and filled with vibrant, creative family life. The only issue is, other critters are treating my home like a freaking bed and breakfast!

The exterminator was out for the third time to spray for bedbugs. Finally, the whole building has woken up to my warnings that the little bastards are here and have decided to bug the landlord about it- no pun intended. Unfortunately, that means that they waited until it spread and got completely unbearable before they did anything about it. I've got a nice bagful of the creepy creatures and both Tom and I have gotten mad scientist about this problem. Our beds are encased in plastic and the bottoms are covered with double sided carpet tape. Since they don't hop or fly, they have to walk over the tape to get into bed with us. Tom was sure that his carpet tape idea would make him into a giant fool or a folk hero depending on the outcome. We've caught a few this way, but a few have discovered a way around this security system. Damn. Foiled by creatures who do not have the benefit of complex brain function!

Then, today I found a mouse in my kitchen. My PTMD (post traumatic mouse disorder) came back and I was sent into shrieking convulsions while the little fucker just sat there and stared at me. It gave me that New York Stink-Eye perfected by the city's pigeons. This made me mad. However, not mad enough to beat the little bugger bloody or to stab it as my son so calmly suggested. No. I picked it up with a pair of tongs and set it on the fire escape only to watch it slip through the bars to its death one story below. It gave me flashbacks to that Kids in the Hall bit about the carnie who had a mouse in his apartment ("He ate my bread. He POOPED in my bread!"). He was distraught so he bought some traps got drunk and woke to find the mouse dead. He was then hauled away by the cops and there was a little outline of the mouse's body in the trap. Funny. And yet, not so funny. I began to think that maybe I should have adopted him. Maybe he was like Ralph S. Mouse and I was a total asshole for snuffing him.

Of course, if he would have gotten far enough to poop in my bread then I would have bashed the little bastard. Or gotten Tom to do it, either way...

On a non-critter note, some pipes ruptured in my neighbor's apartment causing all the neighbors to hang out on the stoop to complain about all the things wrong with our rent stabalized apartment (Stabalized- not controlled. There's a difference.) while firefighters came to help. The lesson here is, always call the fire department. They'll get there 8 years before the cops ever do AND they'll smile at you and talk to you like you're a person and not a criminal.

Notes to remember at the end of a very crazy day: Firefighters rock. Rodents and bedbugs suck. Remember to always call firefighters to bash cocky mice over the head. Never leave your bread out on the counter.

That's all you need to know.

Choices

I've never gone too far.

Internally, I've never really felt the need.

I guess my hyperthyroidism was as close to taking illegal drugs as I'll ever get. I know that Grave's disease doesn't sound as sexy a high as say cocaine or heroin. I just knew that it was all I could really handle. That and liquor. They kind of balanced me out. The highs I got when my thyroid revved up made me jumpy, giddy, and WIDE AWAKE! When I was running high I was invinceable, gorgeous, and HUGE. I felt bigger than life and fast, fast, super fast. Of course, I would crash the next day and be absolutely impossible to live with. A thyroid can't be expected to have that kind of output 24/7. I probably would not have opted to have the damn thing removed if it weren't for the danger of getting "popeye", going blind and potentially doing damage to my heart. Oh well. Not every high lasts forever.

Of course, hyperthyroidism doesn't give me much street cred. You'd think that sort of thing wouldn't bother me because I've totally avoided fucking up my life in a fantastic way by following my internal high and getting my kicks by hanging upside down off of my couch for hours on end. But I do feel like I have to explain myself because I am a lame 8 year old constantly searching for approval and I get the "I know I'm more experienced in life than you are" attitude more often than I can really handle. I know that by defending myself I am totally buying into the idea that someone who has gone down that road has "lived" more than I. Frankly, I think that's all bullshit. While they were off doing their thing I was living totally different experiences that are just as valid in the realm of life experience. It doesn't mean that I was hiding or somehow not living to the fullest. It means that I already knew my limits and felt no need to test them in that way. It doesn't make me better or smarter than anyone else. Just different.

I know I visit this time and again, but I really don't enjoy the role of "good girl". I don't like being quaint or cute. I don't like being patted on the head and sent off with a condescending tweak on the cheek like you are privvy to some superior knowledge which I can never access because I chose a different road. Maybe, just maybe I needed different stimulus to grow. I don't judge you for your choices. Don't belittle me because of mine. That's ass backward.

And my Mom thinks I'm cool.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

I Broke My Kid

You can imagine that we watch a lot of movies around our house.

At the tender age of four and a half, my boy is a big Harpo Marx fan. He used to dig Chico, but Harpo put a frog in his hat in "Monkey Business" so that trumps anything Chico could ever do. Sullivan has seen "To Kill a Mockingbird", and compared several movie versions of "Alice in Wonderland" with the book (He likes the book best, but thinks the Disney version moves better than the other live action versions that more closely adhere to the book. I can't disagree with him.) and bravely watched "The Witches" and all four Harry Potter movies. He handles them well and he doesn't get overly emotional about them, he just likes to act them out. "Babe" didn't bother him at all. So I thought it would be safe to break out "E.T.".

There are 3 movies that my family claims made me cry so much they considered never taking me to a movie ever again. In no particular order, "The Fox and the Hound", "Savannah Smiles" and "E.T." are the films that sent me into incredible crying frenzies. I remember crying. I remember why, too. I don't remember it being excessive. To me, these movies warranted a certain amount of tears. When I was much older I remember being completely shredded while reading "Where the Red Fern Grows" and have since sworn off the "Boy and his dog" genre. Damn.

So, I figured Sul could totally handle this poorly scored alien flick. (Boy that John William's score is just so heavy handed and intrusive! Yuck!) Things were going really well until E.T. died.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Such heaving sobs! He was consumed by grief. I had to pause the movie and for a few minutes he refused to watch the rest of this nasty alien snuff film that I had made him watch. He couldn't speak. He thrashed around in agony and refused to accept any comfort. Finally I just turned the movie back on to show him that E.T. was okay and was going to go home. Things were better, then Elliot and E.T. had to say good bye. He dissolved. It doesn't help that his mama is a total sap bawling along with him. Man, watching movies with me is embarassing.

It took a good hour to get Sullivan to talk about it. He decided to draw a picture of his feelings and then he hid the picture from me because those feelings are private.

Flash forward to today when I was sucking down popsicles in bed (bad sore throat) and we decided to watch "Goblet of Fire" together and I start bawling when Harry brings the lifeless body of his schoolmate back to his father after an encounter with Voldemort. Well, that's just tragic to me that a 14 year old boy would have to carry that kind of burden. Yeah, I take this shit way too seriously. So, I'm sobbing and blowing my nose when I feel this little hand on my shoulder...

"Mom, remember when I cried at E.T.? It's just a movie, Mom. It's okay to cry. Do you want to draw a picture?"

Then he went back to pretending to be Voldemort by mimicking the way Ralph Feinnes held his wand and caressed his bald head. Maybe that was the problem... there was no clear cut evil guy in E.T. My boy needs a bad guy to emulate or he might get emotionally involved.

Apparently, that's scary.

Monday, July 10, 2006

I've Always Depended On The Kindness Of Strangers

Despite my views on human behavior, I really don't believe that people suck. In fact, my experience is to the contrary. People are gorgeous creatures that inspire me. Even though people do things that are devastating to life and to spirit I think that most of those people started out wanting only to do good. I empathize with the mixed up mind because I recognize those urges in myself. It will always be a mystery to me WHY people act on those impulses, but that doesn't mean I won't keep looking for answers. It is a bit of an obsession. I sit up late nights and think about it and wonder what would drive me to those ends. It scares me when I actually come up with answers. Good people sometimes do very bad things.

When I was 13 or maybe 14, a friend of mine and I spent every weekend together. She was an early bloomer and I, most definitely was not. She was gorgeous and always got attention from boys. Sometimes I benefitted from this attention by being the "pretty girl's best friend". For a girl who wanted to be the star, this was a humiliating role to play so I was always trying to one up her. I was tragically insecure and really naive. She, was not.

One weekend we decided to crash at my sister's apartment and go to the county fair in the neighboring town. Since we were drunk with freedom, being at my sister's place and being at the fair alone, we dolled ourselves up pretty and went trolling for our favorite kind of boys...the older variety. I'll never forget that night. We met a group of boys and flirted, went on rides, and hung out behind the horse stables. She had the attentions of every boy in the group, except for the handsome leader's sidekick. He got me. We were sidekicks. I might have been able to live that down and delude myself about my social standing if she hadn't taken an unusual tactic to curry these boys' favor. She began making me the butt of all her jokes. I was livid, but tried to brush it off with good humor but I knew that no matter what I did, she was making me look like a collassal ass and my smiling and accepting face and feeble comebacks weren't helping either.

When we got back to my sister's apartment we each snatched a beer and fell asleep on the floor. The next morning we were reliving the previous evening's escapade when she started doing it again. She started needling me and it was like reliving this ego nightmare from the night before. I was in a rage. I hated her. I hated her for being so pretty. I hated her for knowing how to play boys so well. I hated her for putting me down. I hated me for not being her. The next thing I know I was standing over her with a steak knife screaming at her to stop it. She rightly guessed that I was totally serious and she ran around the apartment as I chased her, screaming explitives and waving the knife high over my head. I remember when I finally cornered her I saw how scared she was and something snapped into place in my brain. I dropped the knife and started to cry.

There was a tiny mechanism inside of me that stopped me from tearing her to shreds. It was a mechanism installed sometime in my very early years and I'd be hard pressed to tell you the moment it was installed. But I remember how that terror in her face stopped everything. How different would my life have been if I hadn't learned empathy as a small child? I could have been one of those freak kids pasted all over the front page and branded a demon. It was a split second that could have changed my life in a totally different direction. What saved me (and my friend) was that I was able to rapidly process emotional information about myself AND another human being and that is what stopped me. If I didn't have that mechanism, if somehow I wasn't able to process that information and make a decision would that moment have turned me forever into a bad person? I shudder to think.

I think, on the whole, I am a rather kind person. But sometimes I do things I really wish I hadn't. Or sometimes I DON'T do things I really wish I had.

A few weeks ago I accompanied a friend of mine to the hospital so she wouldn't have to have surgery alone. I took her there at 5:00 in the morning and waited until she was completely out of the anesthesia late in the afternoon. I made sure her things were in order and advocated for her to the hospital staff. That was a pretty nice thing to do, right? Well, her roommate was an older woman who was alone and nearly blind. She was waiting to have some kind of surgery on her eyes but the staff was rather unresponsive to her pleas for information. It was pretty clear that this woman did not have "good" insurance and her care was not a high priority for the hospital staff. She was on the phone all day talking to her kids who lived out of state. She was crying and totally distraught. I wanted to help her, but was truly unsure how to go about it. What could I do? I helped her read the card a social worker gave her to her son over the phone. I told the nursing staff that she was distressed and needed some assistance but a nurse merely came in and rolled her eyes at her telling her that the doctor would talk to her later.

I was so upset by how rude this woman was to her and mortified that someone would be treated this way. But did I go and make a complaint? No. I avoided the situation because I felt totally helpless. I wanted to go and comfort her or something...but what would she say? Would she be okay with some strange woman coming in and holdingher hand? She probably would have appreciated it, but I was scared. I was irrationally frightened of the hospital environment and her emotional state. I didn't know what would happen so I did not take the risk. I went for a walk.

My friend, however, DID complain to the social worker later that day and reported the nurses who were rude to this woman and the social worker called me to ask me about what I saw. I felt pretty sheepish because I hadn't done anything except told the staff that she was distraught. Does my lack of action make me a bad person? You may argue that it doesn't and if it doesn't what would you say about people who turn away from other, more dire situations? The emotions are, I imagine, much the same but the consequences far greater. What kind of bravery would you need? How good would you have to be?

Out of any specific context we all would like to think that we are good enough and strong enough to do "the right thing", but you never really know until the moment arises. These kinds of situations can give you a clue as to how you might REALLY respond. You can rightly assume that my mettle would be severely tested and I am no longer ashamed to admit it. Does this make me "bad"?

I've done good things. Some of the things I have done have been very good, but most of them did not involve a personal risk. Leaving a pair of warm pants for a sleeping homeless woman in January whose pants were all tattered and soiled did not require much of me beyond a pair of pants. Taking my friend to the hospital was simply an investment of time. Being friendly to anyone who talks to me with respect on the street does not cost me a thing. I'm nice. But am I "good"? What standard would I have to live up to?

People don't stop learning at 5 or 8 or 18. I am still learning about myself and others. I am learning about our similarities and differences, and not just culturally but in ways that are fundamentally human. I will say that I am humbled by the journey and honestly hope to remain so.

Friday, July 07, 2006

Lord of the Flies

While I was on my manic purging of personal items last week I ran across something that has survived 13 years of manic purgings. It was an assignment from my Contemporary World Issues class my senior year in high school. My girlfriends and I used to giggle about our "Contempt" teacher up in our dorm room, referring to him as the Portugese Man of Mystery and imagining his dark bearded face poking out of a black leather jacket roaring onto campus on a motorcycle with the wind wooshing through his thick, wavy eyebrows. Trust me, it was funny in our dorm room. Perhaps the smuggled bottles of rum helped?

Anyway, as you can guess from the title of this post the assignment was in conjunction with our discussion of
"Lord of the Flies". The assignment was to write a paper about how things would have been the same/ different if it had been a group of girls stranded on the island or a group of boys AND girls. I read through the paper and found that I still agreed with myself. Whodda thunk?

A while back, David and I got into a heated exchange (on my end, anyway, I AM an ornery redhead) about whether or not Zarqawi was "human". Biologically speaking, we really can't argue that point. Science would clearly state that his anatomy was distinctly human - that's pretty safe to say considering the information that I have been given. I was arguing that, despite his murderous and unforgivable actions he was still once a living creature deserving of a modicum of privacy and respect in death. The argument changed, as arguments of this nature often do, into an argument about the truth of human nature. I promised David I would mop the floor with him on this one and I don't really want to go back on my word so here it is. This is the way I perceive human nature through the prism of behavioral science, personal experience and observation.

In the 1960's and 70's a few mavericks in the behavioral sciences (Go ahead and chuckle for a moment at the phrase "mavericks in the behavioral sciences", I promise I'll wait for you.) created experiments that truly pushed the limits of our understanding of human behavior. A few of these experiments were deemed unethical due to the intense stress experienced by the subjects of study, however, these experiments are still taught in psychology classes today because of the insight they provide.

One of these experiments placed a test subject in front of a board with rows of switches on it that supposedly corresponded to electric shocks that increased incrementally up the board. The test subjects were told that they would be helping scientists to discover how well people learn under the influence of negative reinforcement. The subject was told to teach a man in another room word pairs and each time the man got the answer wrong the subject was to administer a shock. As the scenario progressed the "student" would have horrible reactions to the "shock" the test subject administered. He would scream and complain about his heart and the majority of test subjects would bow to the authority figure in the room (the scientist administering the experiment) and go to the top of the board even though it distressed them greatly to do so. In some cases the reactions from the test subjects ran contrary to what we would hope to expect from another human being in such situations. There was inappropriate laughter and actions that could be construed as sadistic but the underlying emotion was intense stress and moral wrestling. A few adhered to their so-called "human" and compassionate ideals and refused to go beyond a certain level of shock and defied the authority figure in the room...a few. Time and time again, history has proven that normal, everyday people bow to authority in destructive ways and even participate in activities that, prior to their involvement, they would have found morally reprehensible. Most of us would like to think our moral character is so strong that we would not succomb to such pressure. Statistics prove that, in actuality, the majority of us would cave.

So, that may give us a clue into the rank and file but what about the extraordinary sadist? What about the power mad megalomaniac who would destroy everything in his path?

Let me preface what I am about to say with this... I AM NOT EXCUSING THE BEHAVIOR. NOR DO I ADVOCATE ANY BLEEDING HEART BULLSHIT THAT PEOPLE WHO PERPETRATE CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY SHOULD NOT PAY FOR THOSE CRIMES. DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT ACCUSING ME OF THAT! Just because I am fascinated by the motivations and feel that it is vital to dissect them to further our knowledge of our fellow man (and YES in the process am able to empathize with monsters) does not mean that I do not care for the victims. It DOES NOT mean that I do not or would not demand consequences for the offending party. I'm not talking punishment at the moment. That is a completely seperate issue. What I am talking about is learning and not being afraid to see what lessons are applicable to the monster within. I believe we all have one. I'll get into that more later.

Feel free to chuckle, but my acting training has taught me this very simple truth; Happy people whose basic needs are being met do not purposefully inflict pain upon others. The amount of pain and suffering one inflicts on another is comparable to the amount of pain and suffering one perceives he/she is being forced to bear. It's a fairly simple equation. There are those of you who will go through your laundry list of grievences only to point out that you have not gone out to mame, kill and destroy. You would have a valid point in saying so, but I believe that only looks at part of the picture.

When writing a good story, the key is in the circumstances. Building circumstances that support the choices that characters make is the most important job in constructing the framework of a story. You cannot separate the choices from the circumstances or the circumstances from the choices. They are linked in storytelling as they are linked in life. A circumstance of great importance in understanding human behavior is temperment- for lack of a better word to describe it.

There are those of us who feel responsible and accept the bad things that are done to us as somehow our responsibility. These people are more likely to do damage to themselves before lashing out at others. This lashing out does happen, but usually in more passive aggressive ways. There are others who feel an acute sense of injustice and who reject that which is foisted upon them. Due to other circumstances in one's uprbringing/ environment this person could react to stimulus in a positive or negative way. A positive manifestation of this temperment would be someone who did not accept the terms of oppression and organized against it. A negative response would be to build a wall to defend one's self against the onslaught. Acquire goods, acquire power, acquire followers to cushion one's self from the blows the world can and will frequently deliver. This kind of consumption of power and influence is often demonstrated by personalities who carry monsterous insecurities and incredible pain. To this person weapons, coersion, and death are all soothing balms for festering wounds.

In 1971 a group of heavily screened, healthy young male volunteers were arbitrarily separated into two groups. One group were marked as criminals and the other group were deemed prison guards. The "criminals" were surprised during their daily routines by real police officers and booked into a mock prison where they were guarded by the "prison guards". This was the infamous Stanford Prison Experiment. At first, this seemed a bit of a joke to the participants, but it wasn't long before the guards began perceiving the inmantes as real threats. Certain personalities took to the power role more readily than others and they exploited that power, humiliating the prisoners at every turn. The prisoners were forced into their roles as defiant, belligerant and difficult threats that must be manhandled and broken. The spirit does not break willingly. The prisoners became increasingly unruly and found loopholes through which to needle the guards which encouraged the guards to crack down on them even harder. It is important to note that whenever you allow yourself to be cast in a "role" you play it out according to the standard script. It is shocking to see the similarities between the environment in the Stanford Prison Experiment and the atmosphere in places like Abu Graihb.

Of course, this subject is highly nuanced and I can only speak in generalities here in a stupid blog post. But you might ask yourself, why is this bullshit important? What does it really matter? What does this mean in my life? What the fuck does this have to do with the pictures of dead Zarqawi displayed on the evening news and on the front page of every paper in the country?

David brought up female circumcision as being evil and an intolerable offense against humanity. I can't disagree. But I am also flexible enough where I could fathom finding myself in a set of circumstances that would allow such behavior. In my estimation it is the judgement that is the obstacle to fixing a situation. In the Stanford Experiment, the prison guards' judgement of the nature of the inmates encouraged the very behavior they professed a desire to weed out. This happens so frequently in life it is frightening.

My son whines. I hate this sound. It drives me up the wall. When I treat him like a "whiner" he whines even more. He easily falls into the role. If I loosen my grip on it so does he. I've said it before and I'll say it again, sometimes the secret to life is to do things that are seemingly counter-intuitive. I think it is human nature to unwittingly encourage bad behavior. I think it is the human race's family dysfunction. But I also believe we are capable of great good and that there is hope if we strive to understand that which we despise and fear. Especially if we look to challenge that which we fear inside ourselves.

It is counter-intuitive for me to give respect to a monster like Zarqawi and yet I look away, mentally placing a sheet over his ashen face. By denying him, and those like him ready to take his place, that which is so cheap to give I fuel the fires of resentment and perpetuate the same old script. It is much more important to me to find peace and joy than it is for me to find vengeance. He's had his comeuppance and I need not add to it. What would be the point? It would only add more ugliness to the world. I do recognize that most people are not comfortable looking at the world in this way. In some ways it is much easier to hold on to anger and pain because the absence of it is so unfamiliar and anger can be such a motivating force. I am working very hard to keep that from my life and live in true compassion which requires empathy for all living things. This is no easy task and I do not always succeed.

In case you remember the beginning of this post (it's a long way up there, isn't it?) and are wondering what exactly was the conclusion I had reached in my Lord of the Flies essay, this is basically it: People behave rashly and are sometimes inhumane regardless of their gender. The only real difference is how that behavior is displayed. A female Piggy would have ended up just as dead as the male Piggy and it is our willingness to follow that is to blame.

Perhaps we should not ignore our capacity for obedience in our educational system and begin to teach people how to choose better leaders since it is in our nature to look for them. But that, my friends, is a different ball of twine.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

YEAH!

Sometimes there is nothing that an impromptu, swashbuckling sword fight accompanied by David Bowie and the Rolling Stones can't solve.

Get yourself a fencing companion today!

Beautiful

I don't compete well.

I can play darts or chess or a friendly game of baseball and have no big problems. My athletic and/or intellectual abilities are not sore points with me. I can lose in a fairly good natured way, although I must warn you I am a Scrabble Shark and I pop Triple Word Scores like Rush Limbaugh with a lifetime supply of OxyContin. I am confident with words. It doesn't bruise my ego at all to lose at pool or darts or chess or a backyard game of HORSE (The basketball variety), but I do avoid other women when I know available men will be present.

It is a sickness.

A friend of mine, who knows me only from the mommy set, invited me out for a beer with a single male friend of hers. I was feeling down and was in desperate need of some fun. We set out to meet him at a restaurant and, until the moment he arrived, I was drowning my sorrows in a beer and going over and over the same worrisome piece of bullshit that I trot out on such occasions when he walked in the door. It was like a switch flipped and I couldn't help myself. I was flirty, charming, witty and just the right amount of bawdy to make his eyes open wide but not enough to make him wish he had worn a cup. I can do that. It's a little talent that I have.

It isn't that he was my type or that I found him attractive beyond the ordinary. I just needed the attention. My friend was shocked because when I've told her that I behave this way she wouldn't believe me. She was laboring under the delusion that I was (am) Mary Poppins. She even calls me that from time to time. Well, Julie Andrews showed her tits in S.O.B. and I completely understand why she did it- beyond the fact that her husband directed the film.

I've always wished that I was beautiful. I'm no Labrador Retriever and I never have been. Even the assholes who tormented me throughout my school career would not be able to say that I was ever ugly. No. It was clear to me that my looks were not an issue other than the fact that there was always another woman who could turn heads better than I. Oh vanity thy name is woman! I longed to be the most beautiful woman in the room so I frequently conspired to be the ONLY woman in the room. At a certain point, this becomes difficult.

I just wanted to know what beauty FELT like. What would it be like to feel the entire truth of who you are- because even at a young age I had deduced that everyone is beautiful and that it is how a person feels about themselves that determines whether or not they can access their own beauty. It is just so much easier to fixate on the physical portion of beauty because that can be faked, to a certain extent. It's a cheap fix, but when you are desperate to feel yourself as worthy, rapt attention from a man or even just an appreciative glance can put a spring in your step. But it is just empty calories.

I wish I knew what it felt like to accept myself and feel lovely...to feel good about my intentions, my gifts, and my chipmunk cheeks all at the same time. What would it be like to look in the mirror and see the "flaws" as a sign of good living and fine craftsmanship instead of a grocery list of personal and professional failures?

I guess I always felt an expectation that I should have grown up to be "beautiful" and, in so many ways, I can't help but feel I've come up short and that I am a disappointment. Of course, I also know that the only real disappointment is that I don't treat myself with the same kindness, affection and forgiveness that I give to others. I can't think of anyone who would really wish this kind of torment on me. No one, that is, except me.

Being human is a difficult thing. I don't recommend it to anyone.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

What's New Scooby Do?

We've got a major Scooby Doo fixation these days, both new and Scooby Doo Classic. Luckily, we have yet to enter the dreaded Scrappy Doo episodes. I had a social studies teacher in high school (very young, squishy and hyper kind of guy) who loved Scooby Doo but would spit if you ever brought up Scrappy. I completely understand his disdain for the little mutt.

The sunburn it starting to peel and the house is slowly coming back together, but not before I've nearly slaughtered my marriage in the process. Poor Tom. He's so sick of me and my mania at the moment, but he's being quietly supportive because he knows I'm wrestling with some pretty yucky stuff at the moment. If he sticks it out through this episode, remind me to buy him something really nice.

Coffee. Coffee coffee coffee.

It's raining so there isn't much to do with the boy except head to our favorite coffee spot that has an out of the way basement with games and books to play with. I'd invite someone over for a playdate, but the house is still in explosion mode and I won't go begging for play dates at someone else's house. Mostly because I would hate to get turned down. I'm wondering when I started to get this socially timid. I keep thinking that I am huge inconvenience to everyone and that people don't really want me around. I have a lot of people that I really enjoy and that I think enjoy me, but I am extra conscious of overstaying my welcome. I'm so much more midwestern now than I ever was. It makes me really miss my sisters. I could go impose on my sisters and keep a very tired and cranky kid at their house and not feel so crappy about it.

I have to admit that I am really liking the chase music in the new Scooby Doos. Is that sick?

Laundry, coffee, shower, coffee, cleaning, coffee, heavy lifting, coffee...

Maybe I should make a pot?

Slightly Dark Thought

I was watching "Willow" with the boy this past weekend and I noticed something.

Every hero's journey has some element of learning to trust yourself and have faith in your abilities. In the begining of the film, Willow ignores his initial impulse and loses his opportunity to become a sorcerer's apprentice. It becomes quite clear that Willow will need to learn to trust himself in order to achieve his goals. That's a fine enough reason to tell a story and there is much to be learned through that kind of journey.

But what about the other morons who also have the desire but, clearly, no apptitude? What if you just happen to be one of THOSE guys instead of the hero? Where's the "why don't you just quit while you're ahead" story?

Yeah, guess where my head is these days.

Monday, July 03, 2006

Mommy Super Powers

A friend of mine and I were discussing our Mothers' unique talents and decided that all moms are super heroes with their own special powers. Her mom could predict the outcome of any relationship over a home cooked dinner. My mom had super smell and could detect the smell of a match lit several hours prior in a house with all of its windows open and multiple fans on. My power stems from my InterUterine Tracking Device- I know where any item belonging to my son or my husband is at just about any given moment. I just can't find my own keys. I have a friend who has Super Toddler Humor, she can make any toddler go from screaming or tears to laughter and smiles in less than 10 seconds.

Mommy Super Powers are awesome, but they can't save me from this raging sunburn with blisters. That's the curse of my extra super power- under normal conditions I am transparent which allows me to watch my son unnoticed. Of course, this makes me highly vulnerable to the horrors of the sun bouncing off massive amounts of crystal clear Brooklyn public pool water.

Ouch. Blisters.

Disaster Central

This whole home improvement project has gotten out of hand.

The place is a mess and there is useless crap just coming out of the woodwork. Why do I have 20 rolls of double stick tape? What was I thinking? I must have purchased 10 or 12 pads of construction paper and just left them laying in odd places all over the house. NO MORE OFFICE SUPPLIES! Just containing everything has become such a struggle. If it was just me in this house, I would throw everything out and start all over again.

Okay, not everything.

It is going to take me at least another week to finish this project and another few weeks on top of that to finish all the structural improvements. Hopefully the bedbugs are on the run. Knock on wood, no one has had any bites the last couple of nights and we keep finding fat, slow bed bugs struggling to return to their hiding places. That's when we pluck them up and put them in a plastic bag. Last night I almost felt sorry for one as we dropped it flailing its limbs into the bag containing several dead bed bugs.

"Hey Frank! Where have you been? I haven't seen you all week...Frank? Frank? Are you okay? AAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

It's like a bed bug Twilight Zone.

All right. I must get us ready to go to the pool, because that is what you do in the summer time.

Saturday, July 01, 2006

Martha Stewart Ate Half My Brain. Bob Villa Has The Other Half.

The older I get the more I discover how much I am like my Dad.

I had a hard week with all these transitions and such. I didn't bottom out or anything but I coped with it by doing home improvement and watching documentaries. You know someone just ain't right in the head when they tell you, "I'm very sad about saying good bye so I'm going to go home, scrape some paint and watch 'Guests of the Ayatollah' to cheer myself up. I'll call you later."

After I finish this, Sullivan and I are going to turn an ordinary shoe box into a circus cage to house a 5 year old's birthday present. I know, it is totally annoying to be around people who do this kind of crap, especially if you run with the scardy cat, competitive parent crowd, but I don't have a lot of money to spend on gifts so I have to give thoughts. That's what is supposed to count, right? As my mom used to say, If you can't wow 'em with wisdom, baffle 'em with bullshit. My Mom is a fairly colorful lady.

Later today I will be picking over the leftovers from my friends' move. Yup. They left for Vermont yesterday and couldn't fit some things in the truck so they gave me the keys to their apartment and I am going to be grabbing what I can. This helps to further my plot to rearrange and reorganize our home lilfe. I am indebted to Margaret for leaving me a bunch of free heavy stuff. After the birthday party today I will be forcing my family into a home restructuring boot camp! Hooray! And all the while I will get to watch a doc about human behavior studies of the 60's and 70's. It's like, the perfect day.
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