Avoiding Work- Again

Maybe it is time for me to give up the ol' blog. I'm starting to get back into life and all and maybe its purpose has played out. I mean, I just spent the last forty-five minutes browsing stupid quizzes as if they would bring me enlightenment. Really, I am just avoiding my life's work.

I know that sounds terribly dramatic, and it is. I'll fully admit it, I am a drama queen, but it is high time I put that drama where it belongs- on stage.

My play is so close to being finished. There are just some inconsistencies that need to be rooted out and replaced with, you know, with something brilliant. Oh yeah, I can pull that right out of my ass.

I've been writing since I could hold a pen. I've been performing since the first time I realized my goo-goos and ga-gas made people smile. In the technnique class I am taking I am realizing just how flexible and responsive my system is to this work. I am built for it. My brain is wired for it. At 12 I knew I would be a writer. At 15 I knew I would be an actor. At 26 I gave birth using all the techniques I had spent the previous 10 years learning. It is a part of my being and every second I am NOT doing it, I am denying my soul its purpose.

Blogging has been integral in getting me back to where I need to be. It has kept me writing when I wasn't writing. It kept me in contact with others when I had no one. Where can I take it from here? The context is so limited, I just don't know if there is anything I, personally, can do with it beyond continuing with this evasive, self-indulgent exercise. If I want to get my thoughts, and more importantly my questions, "out there" then I need to be using the medium to which I claim to have dedicated half of my life.

I'm not sure if I can use this blog as a tool in my upcoming journey. Maybe I can. But I don't want to hold on to it for simply sentimental reasons. Those who want to stay in touch won't need this blog to find me. If I continue, it will be with purpose.

So, yeah. I think I'm taking a blogging break and I think I've decided that just now. Just this moment. I don't know how long I'll be gone, but I will check in every now and again. I am going to read all of my friends, because they both infuriate and inspire me, but I don't really know when I will be back. To the right you will find a link "Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?". If you want, drop me a line and we'll talk.

Otherwise ummm... see ya.

This Is Getting Obnoxious

Your EQ is 160

50 or less: Thanks for answering honestly. Now get yourself a shrink, quick! 51-70: When it comes to understanding human emotions, you'd have better luck understanding Chinese. 71-90: You've got more emotional intelligence than the average frat boy. Barely. 91-110: You're average. It's easy to predict how you'll react to things. But anyone could have guessed that. 111-130: You usually have it going on emotionally, but roadblocks tend to land you on your butt. 131-150: You are remarkable when it comes to relating with others. Only the biggest losers get under your skin. 150+: Two possibilities - you've either out "Dr. Phil-ed" Dr. Phil... or you're a dirty liar.

What's Your EQ (Emotional Intelligence Quotient)?

Is this actually telling me that Dr. Phil has a high EQ? Or were they groping for someone famous with whom I could be compared?

There's no comparison. I'm not a a big bald Texan. But I should totally have my own judgemental, self righteous talk show, don't you think? I mean, if Tyra can do it...

In Case You Needed To Know Just How Evil I Am

You Are 44% Evil

You are evil, but you haven't yet mastered the dark side. Fear not though - you are on your way to world domination.

How Evil Are You?

Awkward

It really is a terrible thing when you find someone you really, really like only to discover that their taste in, well, just about everything sucks.

How is that humanly possible?

Baby Bumps

Knock it off.

You know, a woman can get a little pooch because she's retaining water, she has a bad posture day, or maybe because she ate a burrito. I know I'd be mortified if people were taking pictures of my gut everyday and speculating about the causes of my bumps and ripples. It's just mean spirited and it is a losing proposition for the poor woman. On one end of the spectrum she's lazy and letting herself go on the other end she's some baby crazed sex fiend that is controlled only by her out-of-control biological urges.

Now, I'm not one to ever stand up for JLo or Angelina or any of their ilk. Mostly because I don't care what they do. It's none of my business regardless of how beautiful they are. They are free to do as they please within the limits of the law. (That's a whole other topic and I won't get into it) I'm certainly not going to avoid their films because I don't approve of their behavior in their private lives. I'm going to avoid their films because their films suck.

Mostly, the baby bump watch is a disservice to Mexican food. Don't deprive celebrities of the cheesey tomato and refried bean goodness. I believe everyone is entitled to that much in life. We should all be able to bloat without it being front page news.

And you! You out there at the check out line! Put that thing down! You'll only encourage them and when you get your own 15 minutes of fame you will pay for it! Think about the enchiladas! Won't somebody PLEASE think about the enchiladas?

I've Been Many Places And Seen Many Things

Each Dunkin Donuts in the city has it's own personality. There are three that I run into on any given day and I definitely do have a preference for one over the other two.

First there's my Arab and Hispanic Dunkin Donuts. This is by far my favorite. They always give me a munchkin on a toothpick to bring to my donut loving boy, even when he's not with me. They're always polite and always get my order right. Everyone who works there (on the day shift, anyway) has a habit of remembering their regulars and remembering their preferences. Even if they have seasonal preferences, like yours truly. This morning I was asked if it was cold enough outside for me to have a hot cap. I smiled and said I wouldn't be switching to hot drinks until mid-October. Now THAT'S service!

Then there's the Frat Boy Dunkin Donuts. I hate this place, even though they have a patio which is a big draw when you've got a kid. The short and meaty fellows who staff the counter never get my order right and they are always busy smacking each other around instead of smiling at me and making me feel like I'm the cutest customer they've ever seen. They don't even notice my boy, even when he pays for our order. They just don't give a damn. I hate that.

Then there's the Ghetto Dunkin Donuts. It's just a couple of blocks out of the projects and is primarily staffed with Blacks and Asians. They're consciencious and always get my order right, but it isn't a very warm place. They don't smile, but they always speak politely. They don't "pop", which is how my friend Prov describes people who have "it". They don't seem to enjoy themselves but they give good service and keep the place spotless.

Taking all that into consideration, I prefer to go to the Arab and Hispanic Dunkin Donuts. I don't mind doing Ghetto Dunkin Donuts. But I see no reason to ever go to Frat Boy Dunkin Donuts when I could go two doors down to Georgia's to get a coffee and a stale bagel from biker mama who will call me "hon" or "sugar". Dude, that's just pricelss.

Then there's my favorite bakery on 9th Street that is now running a "Ramadan Special"- discounted pastry after 6pm.

I love this town.

Where I Do NOT Belong

I spent the latter part of my evening hanging out with guys who wear "urban couture" and greet each other with loud slapping handshakes that serve as a prelude to the hug and pat down. These are guys who, at the tender age of 26, use canes, have serious swagger, and names that somehow feature the letters Z, X or Q. Oh yes, there was breakdancing.

The closest I've ever gotten to hip hop is Stephen Colbert's HipHopketball, A Jazzabration.

Logic would say that I should not have been there and that, once there, I should not have stayed. I stuck out like a big, cornfed, Ginger Kid thumb. I'm not a real stranger to being out of place, but THIS, my friends, was a horse of a different color. And yet...my gut keeps telling me that this is good. It is good for me to be out of my comfort zone. It is good for me to be with people who are profoundly different from myself. It is good for me to partake in the revelry and the joyous exchange of glossy business cards and the liberal use of the word, "baby".

Baby, can I call you Bree Z?

I'd be offended if you didn't...baby.

Kiss Me On The Bus

Haven't heard that song in years. All it took was a momentary listening in a bar on Saturday night and it has been stuck in my head ever since. I don't know why, but it always makes me think of Molly Ringwald and cheese doodles.

Oh, and peach schnapps.

Yuck. I swear parents buy that shit and put it in the front of the liquor cabinet so that kids grab that and they leave the good booze alone. Well, not my parents. My parents only kept warm cans of Old Milwaukee and a few bottles of Canadian Windsor. Man, that stuff is like ass. Not just any ass, but hairy, 90 degrees in the shade and wearing polyester underwear ass.

Kiss me, on...the...BUS...

Moving forward.

Oh Boy

I'll admit, I tied one on last night.

In a rare, impromptu drinkscapade I found myself at a local watering hole for displaced midwesterners. With nonstop Replacements and New Order it felt like I was back home drinking with my sister and her friends. Or, to be more accurate, drinking AROUND my sister and her friends. There's a difference, but in either scenario I would catch a hell of a buzz.

Well, apparently I caught the eye of a very inebriated man in a white sweater. A WHITE SWEATER. Cable knit. V-neck. In this experienced shopper's opinion, a quality garment. Therefor it was totally out of place in a sea of untucked, stylishly filthy madness. Aside from apologizing profusely for his friend accidently bumping into us, he couldn't say too much. But he did lean over lustfully and whisper in my ear.

"Your hair is perfect."

Once he turned around Lily said to me,

"You could totally bag that one."

Indeed. Indeed.

Bad Movie Mom. Again.

Stuart Little didn't BREAK my kid. Not like E.T. did. But when Stuart had to leave his loving, adoptive family to live with his "real" parents, I knew exactly what those pursed and down turned lips meant. I knew that my normally cheerful fellow would soon burst into sobs and try to escape the heartbreak by leaving the room.

I am mean. I wasn't going to let him. No avoidance of sadness in THIS house!

Plus, I knew he'd be able to get over it once he saw that Stuart would eventually find his way back to the Little house. He doesn't understand forshadowing yet, but if I'm any kind of writer he'll know before he turns 6.

I must admit that I sobbed, too. I'm a huge sap and just like my son, I hate it when circumstances are so unfair. I hate it when the cat lies and tells Stuart that the family was so glad he was gone that they've had nothing but movies and roller skating since he's been out of the house. Lying, evil cat! And, for me anyway, these cruelties, these injustices are all the more tragic when heaped upon a child (young mouse) or a dog. Both of which lack the experience and the capacity to understand that these things happen because the world is a dysfunctional place- not because you are an awful creature that deserves such treatment. It's like watching some perfect thing get banged up just outside the store. Sad.

Anyway. We survived it. But he will not talk about the movie beyond saying, "I hate it when people have to leave! Even if it is only in a movie!"

Amen, baby. Amen.

An Update And Some Loose Ends

Well, I put up my first bit of work in my technique class today. I was surprisingly nervous, although it makes sense in retrospect. After all, I've been officiating acting exercises for some years now and this has been the first opportunity that I've had in almost 6 years to be a student and not a teacher. It can be pretty scary to do something you've been doing for so many years as an "expert" under circumstances that might prove you to be a fraud.

So far, I'm happy to say, I'm not a fraud. I am as technically proficeint as I think I am. Hey, don't knock it. That is a big deal. I faced a big fear today and I am going to be busy the rest of the day patting myself on the back. Because I'm good enough and smart enough...

Although, I don't know if people really like me. Which brings me to an unpleasant piece of business. I'm thinking about turning my comments off. I was actually going to do it today, but now I think I am going to be giving some warning. If I do turn it off I will still keep my email available should you have a real need to express something or share some idea with me or even just keep in touch because you honestly like me. But mostly, I've been feeling abused and in keeping with my new outlook on life and being aware of what I am inviting into it, I am making it clear that I am inviting you to interact with me in a friendly way. I will also resist the urge to be a bitch right back. That's not behavior that I would like to have in my daily repertoire. This does not mean that you cannot disagree with me. It just means that you'll have to think about WHY and HOW you express yourself to me. Don't disrespect. Frankly, I hate to turn it off, and I am considering the possibility of keeping it but if you just want to insult me or dip my braids in the inkwell then you'll have to find someone else to pick on.

Because I am not an idiot.

In fact, I'm pretty fucking fabulous and I expect to be treated accordingly.

Where Di d THAT Come From?

My Mom used to say a lot of things. These were things that always caused me to roll my eyes and think she was just a raving lunatic with ancient sensabilities.

Now I say these things all the time. And each time I say one of these things I laugh because I can't believe I'm saying it out loud. I can't believe that these things are actually relevant.

Here's a list of some of my favorite Mom sayings, in no particular order;

You'd complain if they hung you with a new rope.

Great minds think alike. But fools seldom differ.

If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.
If horse turds were biscuits we'd eat 'til we died.

(While picking lint off a sweater- sighing) Black. It attracts everything but a good man.

There are more, but they usually come to me when the appropriate situation arises. I always remember Mom smirking a bit as she said these things. I wonder how many of them she got from HER Mom and if that smirk was the result of the same sort of disbelief I feel when they come out of my mouth.

Here's to Sullivan saying stupid things to his kids in the far, distant future!

Gee Thanks

A male friend of mine once tried to cheer me up about my career situation by saying,

"Hey, Look at Toni Collette. She's not very pretty and she's got a good career."

Yeah. I haven't spoken to that guy in a while.

Sticking In My Craw

I've been thinking a lot, lately, about the people I let into my life.

I don't know anybody that does NOT have some kind of boundary issues. People cross mine all the time. Hell, some people come in, see my boundaries and then proceed to drop trou and take a big, stinking dump on it.

I have people in my life who constantly feel the need to compete with me. There are people in my life who always have to prove that they are smarter than I am and will take any opportunity to one up me- often mistaking my humor for ignorance or going so far as to correct my grammar (which, admittedly, stinks). There are people in my life who dump their miseries on me and run away without even thinking of asking, "How are YOU doing?". There are some people that make me feel like I don't have the right to speak unless there is something awful in my life I need to talk about. No happiness or contentment allowed. If you're not miserable, what can you possibly have to add to the conversation? In short, there are people in my life who make me feel like shit.

I have long said that people play an ACTIVE role in their own oppression.

This does not mean that people are not in real, oppressive situations, but rather that people allow themselves to be in circumstances which keep them down. When people listen to messages that tell them they are somehow "less than" and allow themselves to believe it they lend energy and drive to the oppressive force. Those who rise above don't have that mind set. They choose to hold tightly to a belief in their own worth and proceed accordingly, working hard to set up boundaries so the oppressive force cannot penetrate.

There are probably some of you (you know who you are) who are, at this moment, preparing your contradictory remarks. Really, I'm not fucking interested. I'm working on something else right now and I don't particularly give a shit if my philosophy works for you. I'm concerned about making it work for me. You can bring up slavery, genocide, and totalitariam regimes as examples and I will agree with you that those things are unfair. What I am talking about is far more subtle. I cannot change those fuckers who want to take advantage of me. They will take whatever they can get. It's my job to make choices for myself that protect me, that protect my SOUL from such an onslaught. Even if they get my body, they cannot have my soul. That's mine and only mine.

I need to work on being conscious of what I invite into my life. I need to seriously consider if I am going to stay in situations that make me feel "less than". What's so difficult about it is that I have constructed a life which, on the surface, seems as if I have sidestepped all of these problems. I have a husband who respects me. I've avoided certain abusive situations by separating myself. I don't put myself in physical peril. But I do have things in my life, masquerading as love and support, that chip away at me.

Where do I draw the line? How can I stay a caring, giving person and protect myself at the same time? I believe that it is possible.

It is time for some change.

Young People

If the people in my technique class are any indication of the population at large I can assume that young people spend their time running, getting ready to run or coming home from running. They also spend a lot of time not paying attention to what they are doing and looking into empty refrigerators.

You know, I'm glad I'm not "young" anymore.

A Note To Coffee Counter Chicks Everywhere

Here's the deal, Lady. I know that Brits pronounce s c o n e "skauN" (heavy on the "N") but in AMERRRRKA we look at a vowel consonant e combination as a pure vowel sound which, in this particular instance, results in the sound "oh". You can call it a fucking "skauN" all day long, I'm still going to call it a scone. Because I'd be a pretentious fucking ass if I tried to pretend I was British for one fucking word.

In America we spell Normandy with a "y" and we put the stress on the first syllable. In America I can eat a burrito without rolling my "r'. Is it correct? Hell no, but in America we don't need to be puttin' on no high fallutin' airs just because we've risen to the exaulted position of Barista! And while you're at it, drop the faux French name, Margot de Froux Froux. We all know you're really a failed actress named Jessica from Milwaukee, so cut the shit.

Now, I can understand that you would twitter if I ordered a slice of "Kwitch" or "kwikee". But I won't have you getting snitty with me over a beignet from Krispy Kreme. (And that's a fucking donut, bitch, not a beignet) And I most certainly will not let you give me any attitude about my vowel consonant e combo choices when you have yet to figure out that simple sugar is the easiest way to sweeten an iced drink.

Oh, and honey, LATTE means NO FOAM, BITCH!

Maternal Instinct

A few posts ago, Jake did his usual contrary routine and linked to an article that made some not-so-snuggly claims about so called "maternal instinct". I won't go into the whole thing, but the basic gist is that some animals are not such good parents. Some favor the bigger offspring. Some eat their young. Some let the siblings mercilessly pick away at the runt until it meets an ugly end.

Well, duh.

Do you really think that any species can escape some form or other of familial dysfunction? Humans do the same things to different degrees. Even "good" human parents practice some forms of cruelty. You'll see it at just about any kids' sporting event. You can hear it at dinner tables across the country. Bigger, stronger, faster offspring are more desireable. They tend to spread the seed. Some parents actually believe that sibling rivalry builds character. Hey- I'm not saying that it's right. It just is.

I'm all for not getting too uppity about our place in the food chain. I mean, I bet the Tyrannosaurus Rex felt pretty good about himself and maybe thought himself a little above the others. And this guy had a pea brain. Literally. Look how far that egotism got him.

I guess what I am trying to say is that animals are just as varied in their behaviors as humans are and you will find those who are good parents and those who are not. So that begs the question, is there a maternal instinct?

I would say, from my own experience, that yes there is. Contrary to Jake's opinion/ observation, I would say that it exists across the board. What DOES NOT exist across the board are coping skills. Raising a brood is tiring and extraordinarily stressfull. Without support and internal coping mechanisms things go wrong. Sometimes horribly wrong.

Jake gave the example of a cow that got sick of her calf and gave it a good kick. Well, even the most loving of us have considered that at some point with a whining, naggy little kid. Hell, I've joked for years about throwing my kid out a window and I think my kid is the most intelligent and charming creature in the universe. However, if he whines for chocolate one more time I am going to deprive the world of his glorious shining potential and drop kick him to Jupiter. (Not really. I don't hit or kick my kid, but joking about it is one of my coping mechanisms. It's very cathartic.)

Coping mechanisms and developmental expectations are learned. We could have all the love in the world, but if we don't have these skills we can't function as good parents.

Let's look for a moment at a prime example of maternal behavior- breastfeeding. Through some weird, evolutionary glitch some primates will not nurse their young unless they are taught how. Other mammals have it a bit easier. Look at cat nipples, for example. (There's a phrase I never thought I'd udder-- ha ha...sorry) They are oblong and easier to latch on to. Unlike the human breast which requires proper latching technique. If you get this latch wrong your life can be a living hell. Improper latch can cause dry, cracked and bleeding nipples. I can tell you from experience that it can be excruciatingly painful and since an infant must feed several times a day, the wounds do not heal. Every feeding feels like sandpaper on the nipples and the pain begins to radiate through the rest of your body. Now, can you imagine continuing to do this if you were not encouraged, supported and taught how to do it correctly? Fuck no. We humans have the option of bottle feeding. A wild chimp does not. First time chimpanzee mothers are taught by more experienced mothers how to care for their infant. If she does not acquire the skills her infant will die unless another female takes the baby on. We can observe the effects of the mother's lack of skill, but I haven't heard anyone ask the chimp whether she gives a damn or not. She might not even understand why the baby died.

Then comes the compelling tales of infanticide. We like to clutch at our hearts and cry to the heavens about such an injustice. How can a mother kill her own? It's such an abomination!

Indeed, it is a tragedy, but it's motivations are much more complex than most of us care to examine. After all, to examine such a thing would be to confront the darkness within ourselves. There are mothers who convince themselves that they are sending their cherished ones to God- who would be a better steward of their little souls. There are mothers who are seeking a more desirable mate and see their children as a liability. There are mothers who turn their self loathing outward and attack the creatures that are providing them with the most stressful stimuli. Children are not all fun and games. They will test you to the limits of your soul and some people find that they are more limited than they thought they were.

Now don't write me with some angry bullshit saying that I condone parents killing their children. What I am saying is that it would happen less if more people had support and proper coping skills. I think the same would be true in a wilder context, but I have no real way to prove that.

I am a big believer in circumstances. We can observe how one parent creature behaves but rarely have we been privvy to how that parent creature was raised. As we know by looking at our own families, we can often explain why such and such pattern emerged in our lives by identifying the pattern of behavior in our parents and our parents' parents. To assume that our wild brethren are not subject to the same kind of inheritances is, to me, preposterous.

But I will admit that I am biased. I have a maternal instinct. I know a lot of women with maternal instinct. I also know that we ARE hard wired to respond to our (specific) infant's cries. At any new mommies group you can see this amazing phenomenon. If another woman's baby cries you look on sympathetically and say something soothing and encouraging. If it is your own child you spring into action, your heart pounds, and you will stop at nothing to make that awful, painful sound go away. When Sullivan would cry I would feel a rush in my breasts as the milk came in RESPONSE to a VOCAL CUE! That's amazing to me. Someone with less skill may have the same biological responses but the stress of the situation and a lack of coping mechanisms may cause her to shout at her baby, shake her baby or even hit her baby to get the sound to stop.

That doesn't work, by the way. But the fact that this child's care causes stress tells me that the stakes are high enough for the mother to care. It is just a dangerously inexpert way of displaying care. I'm more concerned about mothers who have no response at all.

If you give me some time I am sure I could come up with some hypotheses about that, too.

New Class

I started a technique class today.

I wasn't the oldest one there.

I wasn't the fattest one there.

But I was the most experienced one there.

This is not, necessarily, a bad thing.

I'm just there to do my work and have a good teacher look at my work. I will get that next week when I get to get up and work. But...for today I had to sit and watch the young 'uns completely misunderstand the exercises and the principles behind them. That's not bad, either. Except that, usually, I get to be the one to tell them where they went horribly wrong. I had to keep my yap shut today.

That is not an easy thing for me to do.

Next session I will be taking a more advanced class.

Austin Pendleton- eagerly await my arrival.

In The Words Of George Bernard Shaw

"This is the true joy in life, beng used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; being a force of nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievences, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the hwhole community and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it what I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations."

If you are going to be humbled, it is always better to be humbled by the greats.

Thank you, Mr. Shaw.

Mornings

Having a kid means your life will never again go exactly as YOU plan.

I had every intention of sitting in bed this morning and drinking my coffee while reading a book or just staring out the window. Tom is taking the boy to school today as I figured this would be a good day for him to meet Sullivan's teacher. A good day for Tom, that is. Well, my offspring did not take too kindly to this arrangement.

Now, 10 minutes after the fact, I can see where I screwed up. I didn't force Tom to take him to school on Day 2 so that he would get used to the idea that sometimes Daddy takes him to school. I sprung the plan on him this morning and gave in to his emotional tirade about my sitting down for breakfast with him. I should have just smiled benevolently from under the covers and let Tom take the lead instead of supervising. I had to carry him out the apartment door and then shut and lock the door behind me all the way yelling, "See you this afternoon! I love you, chicken!" and telepathically reminding Tom to be patient. Change is hard for a little guy. Especially OUR little guy.

Of course, I can't take all the blame for this. When I asked on Day 2 and Tom said no, he should have known he was making his own proverbial bed. He can't get upset about the browbeating he is probably taking right about now. He created this situation by not struggling to make things 50/50 around here. Or at least 40/60.

The thing that frustrates me most about motherhood is the assumption that I will just take care of everything. There is an assumption that Tom can say no if the parenting task is in the slightest way inconvenient for him. Fuckin' forget about how inconvenient it is for me. That's not even a consideration. After all, isn't my entire life built around my mommy responsibilities? And it is- which pisses me off all the more.

Things are getting better around here. I'm a much better mom now that I have my own time during the day to work on my professional pursuits. Tom is actually an excellent Dad. But he defers to me in all situations and then he wonders why I'm such a nagging harpy. You want to abdicate? Then you have to accept the consequences! You helped to create this monster!

Anyway. They're gone now. I have my coffee. I have my to do list which includes phone calls, grocery shopping, writing, and cooking. I have all the potatoes that need to be made into something.

Can anyone say Shepherd's Pie?

Lighter

Some days I feel down right skinny.

Then I realize that I am just hitting my most fertile days and I'm supposed to look my best on those days. So, rather than look at it in a cynical and depression way and focus on how I will be fat again in just a few days time, I am going to revel in my good feelings. Hey, a couple days a month of hot is better than none at all.

I think I might have gotten some of my humor back, too. I hope this is long term thing. I miss my sense of humor. I used to be really funny. Hell, there was once a time when I was described as "having the funny". This is a huge compliment in some cirlces. My circles.

Anyway, I had a massage today. I succeeded in my attempts to let a butterfly go free and I made a plum and nectarine crisp. I also whipped up some fresh whipped cream to go with that crisp. I will be eating in in about 10 minutes. Not to mention that my tomato sauce tonight was just the right kind of hot and sweet and I threw in some spinach for good measure. Damn, nothing is better than good food.

Well, almost nothing.

September 11, 2006: An Exercise In Optimism

It is another beautiful September day.

It is almost as if we are doomed to spend this gorgeous Indian Summer day wallowing in ultimate darkness. Each anniversary has been marked by a lovely day in which friends and neighbors say things like, "It was just like this..." and "I was planning to eat my lunch outside...". They always trail off like that. No one needs to finish the sentence because we are all stuck with images of smoke and debris in our minds.

Although I watched these events out my bedroom window, it is the images from television that I remember. What was out my window was all too real. It was much more comfortable to see it filtered through a lens.

Today people will be nodding their heads in solemn acknowledgement of lives lost. Some will glue their eyes to televisions that are dead set on peeling off the scab of September 11 and letting it bleed again. Letting it bleed all over our foreign policy and personal interactions. There is a touch of morbid fascination in me. I will be tempted to sink into overwhelming feelings of terror and despair. It is almost as if I feel that it is necessary for me to feel pain today in order to experience solidarity with those around me.

But that isn't true. By giving in to the sadness, I only create more sadness. Giving in to anger will only create more anger. Looking for hope will create hope.

Within the next couple of hours I expect one of our manarch chrysallises to split and produce a crumpled little butterfly. Our other chrysallis opened up yesterday. A soft orange and black winged creature is in my living room sucking on a slice of watermelon. Sullivan does not want to set them free. He likes the idea of possessing them and feeding them but he doesn't really want to pay attention to them. I've been trying to impress upon him the idea that the butterflies would not be fulfilling their butterfly destinies if they were trapped in a tank. Sometimes loving means letting go.

I believe that we all know what we are getting into when we are born into this world. To use a tired analogy, it's like picking out your college courses in order to fulfill the requirements of your major. Some of us major in forgiveness. Others major in acceptance and so on and so forth. Some have been called to use their lives to teach. Sometimes the lessons they teach are painful.

I always liked the story about how humans got the little dip above their upper lips. The story is that God gave you all the secrets of your being before you were born, then He put his finger right in that spot between your nose and your upper lip to seal the secrets in. Sshhhh.

There is something to be learned from every life. Its beginning. Its joys. Its sorrows. Its passing. Seeing past the grief is difficult. But so often the wallowing and the unwillingness to let go obscures the lesson. It obscures truth. Mythology exists to help us make sense of a harsh world. It exists to help us develop tools to move on and survive. Are they perfect tools? No. But we move on. We survive. We learn.

Or, at least, I hope that is what we do.

I don't want to focus on the horror of that day. I have a tendancy to sit and ruminate about how my body would have felt, how my mind would have functioned in those circumstances, how I would not have had the chance to say good bye. My sorrow that anyone would have had to experience that can overwhelm me and render me incapable of dealing with my own life. I am certain that is not the meaning this event has in the grand scheme of things. It certainly is not the meaning I would want to bestow on those souls who were lost that day. That is no tribute to their memory.

Today I will care for a pair of butterflies. I will help my son send them on their way to Mexico. They will pollenate and procreate or die trying. Their short lives will be beautiful and purposeful, as I wish my own to be.

As I wish yours to be as well.

Peace.

Nipples

It started about 10 year ago, as far as I can tell. I noticed it while walking by a window in the mall. I remember turning to my mother and saying,

"Ummm, when did mannequins get nipples?"

It came in handy, you know. Now you can see what your silk shirt would look like in a cold room. It's nice when a mannequin can showcase a super skinny chick (or dude!) smugglin' raisins.

Then bra straps began having high visibility, not just among sluts but among the general populace. In the past couple of weeks I've noticed a new nipple trend. I've seen a lot of women wearing thin t-shirts or tank tops and demi-cup bras with their nipples falling out over the top of the cup. You can tell because the breasts look really uncomfortable beneath the cotton and there is a definite outline of half a nipple. The poor thing looks gagged.

Ya know, when I was a kid nipples were still off limits. There was plenty of jiggle, but the protuberance was something to hide so that boys didn't point and laugh.

Anyway. That's just something I noticed. Nipples on parade.

And Another Thing

I will be playing Sigourney Weaver in her bio-pic since she can't play me.

Something I Noticed...

I've finally identified the source of my rut.

I've been hanging out with people who wallow in their ruts and it has rubbed off on me in a big way. I've become impatient with them and impatient with myself.

Yesterday a friend called me to complain, yet again, about her significant other's inability to think of her and her feelings 24/7. I finally snapped and told her she was just creating drama for the sake of creating drama and that if she stopped nagging the poor bastard to think about her he might actually come to it on his own. Now, if truth be told, I don't like this guy much. He's a burned out blob with some serious issues, but I've no doubt that half of them came from my friend. And I told her so. I also told her that she might want to stop making every little thing about her and maybe give him a little thought every once in a while so he would know what it feels like.

Why people are friends with me when I talk to them like that, I'll never know.

Of course, the truth is that I need people to smack me from time to time. I'm not always so good at smacking myself. My elbow just doesn't bend that way.

I'm going to register for my first class in six years. I can't wait. My play is almost finished. Though they don't know it yet, the theatrical world can't wait. I've got a line on a job working with at-risk inner city kids. I'll let you know if I take it or not. In reality, I don't have the aversion to working with at-risk kids that I have working with other groups of kids. I've worked with at-risk kids before and I will tell you- they actually have something to say. THAT'S more what I want out of life. Saying things. Doing things.

I've been thinking about starting another blog that is specific to my professional journey. I'd like to invite some friends who work in the industry to contribute their points of view and advice. Not about the part of the business that pisses me off, but about the craft. My friend Ken (Not to be confused with KEN) says that's like selling vegetables to people who like candy. Fuck that. People WANT vegetables. They just don't know it yet. Because if you've ever eaten at my house you'd know that chard is fucking yummy. I just have to invite more people over.

Anyway, I'm bound to feel sorry for myself from time to time. I'm in a tough position and that can't be ignored. But if you catch me sitting in that self-pity space for too long, go ahead and smack the living shit out of me.

Kate Winslet? Surely you jest.

Hey, Britt!

Britt is pondering theoretical casting for a Hookers on Stilts movie. I fully expect that the role of "Bree" will be prominently featured and there are only two choices to play me.

Molly Ringwald or Penelope Ann Miller.

I know they're both older than I am, but I'm lookin' pretty haggard these days so no one would really notice. Dude, they could both use the work.

Just like me.

Madge

To say that Madge was proccupied would be a gross understatement.

Ever since her accident, Madge just wasn't the same. Once a bubbly, busty blonde with Long Island nails, Madge was now becoming more and more like her mother.

Now, Madge's mom was a nice enough lady, but she had a lot of rules. No pets. No eating in the living room. No hair products aside from shampoo and cream rinse because hairspray left a film on the bathroom counter and mousse and gel attracted gunky filth to the grooves of their caps and were gross if they ever spilled. No sitting on the floor. No sitting on grass. All fun must be quiet fun without any dirt whatsoever.

Madge had hated her mother. As a child she used to gain great satisfaction by placing a tiny piece of dirt or a spec of sand in the shoes in her mother's closet. He mother might never know, but Madge would. This gave her great pleasure.

Madge wouldn't even dream of doing that now. In fact, this little trick of hers caused her great anguish and she began scouring her own shoes and encasing them in plastic bags lest anyone do the same to her.

As recently as last week, Madge had had a steady boyfriend. Bob was a patient fellow who lasted a year after the accident thinking that she'd get better. But the quality of the sex was suffering and therefor so was Bob.

Madge's battle with disorder and filth was never ending. Bob found her very attractive and he enjoyed his access to her body. Although it had become quite clear that, even at the moment of climax, Madge could not stop thinking about cleaning. One particular evening she could not help but shout out her inner conflict in the throes of passion.

"OH MY GOD! THAT'S GOING TO BE A HUGE MESS FOR ME TO CLEAN UP!"

This was hard for Madge as she actually liked sex very much. Pretty soon she began to fantasize about covering her entire home in plastic and designing easy clean sex smocks that could be wiped down with disposable Clorox wipes. This is when she bagan to think that her grandmother, who had decorated her home with plastic slipcovers and plastic runners, was not so much a paranoid neat freak as she was a sex fiend. At least, that's the way Madge saw it.

Bob, however, did not enjoy this plastic fetish. After sustaining some pretty serious plastic related injuries and tiring of the post-coital clean up routine, Bob left. It was probably the clean-up song that pushed him over the edge.

That would be hard for any man to take.

Beaming

Today was the first full day of school. That's a lot for an almost 5 year old to handle. Most of us rural kids didn't have a full day of school until the first grade. This is my boy's second year at it. It's old hat to this little Brooklynite.

What was especially sweet about today was having the opportunity to hear really nice things about my kid that I didn't have to say myself!

We've got a new principal at our school and she held an informal meet and greet this afternoon. Since today was the first full day I figured that I would shake hands with her and introduce her to my boy with the promise that she would be getting sick of my ass by the end of October. However, as I approached her she greeted Sullivan by name and introduced herself to me. Then she proceeded to tell me about how she had brought a story in to Sullivan's classroom and detailed her personal interaction with my boy.

"He enjoyed the story and was very attentive. He has a keen understanding of storytelling and was able to tell me all kinds of things about the story and even draw his own conclusions! He's a very bright boy, Ms. O'Connor."

Well, of course he is.

Then I ran in to the music teacher that Sullivan has known since his pre-K days. He leaned over to me and said,

"There is only one word to describe your son. A HOOT! Your son is a hoot! He sure has personality!"

If I didn't know better I'd swear you people were going to hit me up for money! Lord knows the fastest way to my heart is through appreciating my kid. So, for today, I am feeling like Mother of the Year. For the next five to ten minutes I am going to bask in the warm glow of parental accomplishment. I've done everything right!

Until, of course, he starts acting like a little shit then I'll blame that on some bum genes we got in the twigs of our family tree. Fuckin' twigs...

The Fox And The Hound

I don't remember much about this movie. Word is that it was definitely not one of Disney's finest. However, I do remember crying fat, heartbroken tears over the fate of these two friends who loved each other dearly only to discover that, by circumstance of their birth, one must seek to destroy the other.

Okay, okay! I know. There's a fox and a hound. I get it. This is no pointless Hatfield and McCoy situation. Plus I am a little suspicious of foxes since I learned that the chickens we got to know in Vermont ended up in a fox's belly. Even so, the tragedy of the tested friendship weighed heavily upon my young mind.

It makes me uncomfortable today. Especially as I look at this photograph of my boy and one of his closest friends from school. In the picture they are holding onto each other with smiles of pure joy. Through their toothy grins I can hear their favorite chant as I imagine them rocking back and forth with their arms thrown over each other's shoulders. "Double head! Double head!" I've been privvy to some of their deeper conversations and they really understand one another and fully love one another. There should be no problem. I've no real reason to believe that there would be. Except...

My son's friend is Muslim. His mother is a kind and friendly woman with whom I've had some wonderful conversations. I can't help but wonder, however, why there is always an excuse to get out of play dates and why my phone calls and emails are never returned. I will admit that I am woefully ignorant about anything that is beyond a cultural general knowledge and I may be reading into things. I am not worried about his family beyond my offending them. Perhaps my carpet depicting the Dome of the Rock is a bit much? The nudes on my wall? My scantily clad frame?

I'm not suggesting that this family is in any way opposed to anything I am or stand for. I'd have no way of knowing that. After all, we did conspire to get the boys into the same class at school so I must not be so terrible. His mother is a wonderfully attentive and loving person. Her children are equally kind and gracious. It is just that I worry the boys will reach a point in life when their cultural destinies pull them apart. I don't think their families will do anything to discourage their friendship, but the rest of the world might.

Am I blowing things out of proportion to think that way? Or is it possible that the way things are in the world will one day make their friendship improbable? I hope not. It makes my heart swell to see how much they enjoy one another. My son has a lot of friends. A lot of good friends. But this friend is special. They get each other on such a deep level that it makes my heart ache. It would be a tragedy if that were somehow tampered with.

On the other hand, friendships like this have been known to lead to great things. I'll keep my fingers crossed.

Some Helpful Advise

Eating half a wheel of brie by yourself, no matter how delectable, is never a good idea.

The Crew, No Umlaut

Here's a good idea!

Take a highly social and very active boy and shove him in a room with his very active friends that he has not seen all summer. Let them go crazy for a couple of hours. Pick him up and feed him frosted cookies. Then invite one of his friends over to pass the rainy afternoon. Attempt to rearrange the house while the children excrete their joyous mania all over the house in little piles of paper and cracker crumbs.

It was actually a good day, even though it was difficult to wind down at the end there. But during my reorganizing today I ran across some memorabilia that reminded me of my many groups of childhood friends. Letters from Sara including a facetious adventure series we were writing together entitled, "The Search for a Good Looking Man Named Charles", pictures of people whose names cannot escape the darker corners of my memory, poems, scripts, newspaper clippings, and odd things items addressed and sent through the post office. They probably wouldn't put up with that crap anymore, but it was fun while it lasted.

I found pictures of the silliest (and probably most sober) Gala evening ever. Oh, Gala was LIKE prom, but don't call it prom. Arts High School kids shun the prom and would never participate in something so blatantly bourgeois! My friend Raya and I had gotten a hotel room and we invited KEN to party with us- stone cold sober. At least I was. Of course, no one would have known considering my punch drunk behavior. If I remember correctly, KEN was mistaken for a woman in the hotel lobby (it was the hair) and Raya and I were busy trying to produce photographic evidence to prove the crookedness of the lamp. I don't remember much else about the evening. There was something about Little Debbie snack cakes and some chatter in the room. I remember laughing and that there was breakfast at Perkins the next morning. All in all, it was all pretty innocent. Maybe that's because I couldn't really get a date. I think I am the only girl in the western hemisphere who could be so hot, hang out with so many guys and not get laid. I'm not really complaining. I had tons of fun. I really did. It's just interesting to think about now that I'm on the other side of 30.

I've known a lot of interesting people in my lifetime. I'm pleased to see that my son is off to a pretty good start himself. He's from Brooklyn. I just think that's funny. He can hang with the loud, crazy boys and also enjoy the company of silly girls. He is just as much at home playing ponies as he is at playing pirates. His friends are sweet and they love him. They make each other presents, give each other hugs and wait patiently and quietly with each other when it is needed. When I look at the people in my life that I could count as friends and then at the kids that keep my boy company at school I cannot be convinced that there is anything inherently evil about human beings. Most of us are pretty fucking nice when we can be. Sure, we all have our moments (some more than others) but, by and large, I really like people.

It's the Chex Mix that should be thrown out the window. Dude, I've brushed my teeth twice and I can still taste it. That just ain't right.

School Day

School starts today. Just a half day for my kid. No full days until Thursday. I don't get the house to myself until Friday. I won't have momentum this week and I could either fight it or go with the flow.

Of course, it just wouldn't be a day in my life if I didn't find some malaise kicking around inside my messy cupboards or hiding in my overflowing laundry basket. It's gloomy outside and I am busy feeling overwhelmed, underconfident and anxious. Although, I must admit, I've gotten so used to the presence of anxiety that I feel naked without it. Of course, I'm not opposed to nudity...

My To Do list scares the hell out of me. When I produced my first show here in NYC there was a point right in the middle of the whole thing when I realized that 1) I had written the script. 2) I cast it. 3) I designed it. 4) I directed it. 5) I produced it. Since all of these things were my responsibility its ultimate goodness or suckiness would largely rest upon my then tiny shoulders. I kind of freaked. It went well. It got a good review. I was happy with it. Then I went and got knocked up and proceeded to avoid any semblance of success for the next five years.

It's really the either/or shit that bothers me. I can't seem to think my way around it. There is always a reason why I can't do this or that and it usually requires me taking care of someone else's shit first. I'm pretty bogged down with other peoples' shit. Right now, my office is flanked by a little tikes kitchen set and bins overflowing with puppets and action figures. Behind me is a shelf with treasured objects made from materials found at the dollar store and items gathered from the wildernesses of Brooklyn, Minnesota and Vermont. My living room is packed with Tom's collections and Sullivan's art supplies. My bedroom is holding its own against the onslaught of Scooby Doo DVDs, board games, and books on film lighting. So what if I chose the color scheme? It clearly isn't me who lives here.

At this point it is not a luxury for me to be in class again. It is vital. It is necessary for my survival or I will drown in other peoples' shit.

I've got about an hour and a half before the school day is over. I guess I had better go shuffle other peoples' shit for awhile.

Stupid Conveniences

Before I was old enough to do chores around the house I was old enough to watch TV. On TV I learned that scrubbing the toilet was the worst job in the world and that laundry was really, really hard, especially if you liked to roll around in the grass and bleed.

Now that I am older I am convinced that people are just stupid. Scrubbing the toilet is neither difficult nor disgusting. If it is, than perhaps you had better look into some dietary changes instead of flooding the world with more cleaning chemicals. Laundry is a pain in the ass, but it isn't difficult. And there really is no reason to worry about ring around the collar. The one that really gets me, though is the pancake thing. You know, the late night commercial that insists that flipping pancakes is really fucking hard and no one should ever have to do it again. Are you kidding me? You can't flip a pancake? You need a whole new kitchen applaince for this?

Modern life is plagued with all kinds of hardships, some more distressing than others. Now Fido is too old, obese or tiny to join you on your couch or bed. There's a treatment for Restless Leg Syndrome for which, in the olden days, my Mom used to prescribe activity. Our bacon can never cook fast enough and we are apparently too sensitive to wind and cold and must go cross country skiing in climate controlled comfort with a television blasting. That's just so that we can catch glimpses of other things that will make our lives bigger and brighter and more out of touch with any kind of physical functioning.

Granted, I just spent a week in Vermont feeding chickens, milking cows, chasing after children, and building hotter than hell bonfires. (Oh! She was a gorgeous fire!) We had to deal with the tragic passing of a pet fish and a pet chicken and we learned that when you throw a big rock straight up in the air that it will more than likely land on your head and leave you with a huge lump. We had no difficulties boiling water for hard boiled eggs on a wood burning stove. Our bacon crisped up nicely in a regular old frying pan. We built a chicken coop using some young trees from the grove, some loose stones, nails and chicken wire. We lit the bonfire without any fancy flammable liquids and we didn't even have a television to tell us how we were handling all this stuff all wrong.

I'm happier than hell to be back in my dusty Brooklyn home, but it was nice to have access to a little country wisdom for a week. That, and I brought home some killer fucking cheese.