Ugly Fish Hat

Um. Hi.

2008-08-30T20:52:00.003-04:00

It has been a long time since I've posted here.

Quite frankly, I don't know why I haven't deleted this blog other than I am too lazy to comb through and save the bits I've written here that I'd actually like to keep and reference again. A lot has happened since I left Ugly Fish Hat. I've had another kid. I've gained some good friends, drifted away from others and lost some important people in my life. I think I've made some minor career changes a few times, too. I don't know what has possessed me to write here again, other than my writing is skewing toward the personal instead of the professional. I guess I've missed ranting and raving a bit.

Well, Favored Son Number 1 is reading over my shoulder right now when he should be in bed. So I suppose I will shuffle off to Buffalo, if ya know what I mean. All the best.

Good Bye, Old Paint. I'm Leavin' Cheyenne

2006-10-03T12:56:00.000-04:00

Thanks to everyone for reading me this past year and some months. It is time for me to shove off to, well, different pastures. I'll let you know if they're green or not.

I have started another blog that will deal exclusively with artistic process. I posted my first today. If you're interested in following me on my adventures you will find me at Quiet! Work in Progress.

I hope to see you there.

Avoiding Work- Again

2006-09-29T11:56:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-29T11:32:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-28T22:42:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-27T20:55:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-27T09:11:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-26T10:04:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-26T00:29:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-25T09:31:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-24T08:16:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-09-23T08:12:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-21T13:51:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-09-20T09:50:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-19T22:26:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-18T09:42:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-17T20:51:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-15T22:29:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-14T22:52:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-14T13:38:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-13T21:04:00.000-04:00

"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

2006-09-13T08:30:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-12T22:49:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-11T10:22:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-10T22:28:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-09T10:09:00.000-04:00

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

Something I Noticed...

2006-09-09T09:39:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-09-08T21:24:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-08T11:21:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-07T20:47:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-06T23:48:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-06T20:41:00.000-04:00

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

The Crew, No Umlaut

2006-09-06T00:30:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-05T10:13:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-03T13:37:00.000-04:00

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.

Holy Chrysallis, Batman!

2006-08-31T23:09:00.000-04:00

All my twitchiness has paid off.

Tonight I saw one of the caterpillars shed it's caterpillar skin to reveal it's lime green chrysallis underneath. I've been waiting days for this event. It's almost as if the sweet thing waited for me.

It had been a very long day which ended in a very long bedtime ritual. Sullivan was upset because he was both homesick for Brooklyn and wishing that he would never have to leave Vermont. He cried himself to sleep. I was exhausted when I reached the kitchen and sat down at the table to share a beer with our hosts. We were all sipping beverages while reading instructions on how to test their well water and discussing the various hazards of iron, copper and nitrates in water. I wasn't going to check on the jar. I thought I should just leave it alone for the night lest my friends think I was completely looney tunes for staring at this comotose caterpillar. I couldn't resist. I couldn't wait one more minute to see how their iron levels were. I had to go across the room. The caterpillars had to be watched.

As I walked over to the table I could see the one caterpillar that had positioned itself upside down on the glass was kind of jittery. The moment of truth had arrived. It was like my own private Natural Geographic special. Prov came over to watch it with me. The whole process took less than five minutes, I'd say. The skin split at the top of its head and the wet, green chrysallis wriggled like Houdini in a straight jacket dangling by his feet from some insane height. The caterpillar shrugged the skin off like a dirty sweater and let it drop to the leaves beneath. It wriggled a while more before is settled and the appearance of wetness gave way to an oblong, waxy green form with a single whitish ridge near the top. I couldn't believe that I saw it. It was so fast and I could just as easily have missed it. I could have just as easily woke up tomorrow morning disappointed. But I witnessed it live and in person. I actually feel quite blessed for the experience.

Everyone slapped me on the back and smiled. Those are definitely Bree's caterpillars! they said as if they had all been granted Solomon's wisdome for an evening. That's so Bree to be excited about caterpillars.

Is it?

Now there are three more caterpillars left. One other has attatched itself to the cheesecloth lid cutting the same "J" shaped figure in the mason jar's horizon. I have been awarded custody of the butterflies to be. They will accompany me back to Brooklyn where, if they are able to complete the process, Sullivan and I will send them on their journey to Mexico.

I guess my excitement and my interest in these creatures has been fairly transparent. Everyone in the house has caught me staring into the jar at one point or other and yet I stupidly wonder how they could be so certain that my behavior is somehow characteristic of me. What is "me" anyway? And how can they figure it out with such ease when I don't know which end is up anymore? How can they be so sure of what they are seeing?

There is a bat up here in the attic. It is kind of thrilling to see it swoop noiselessly through the rafters eating the mosquitos that would otherwise eat me. There's a dog barking incessantly and I can't help but think about the chickens out back. How is that new chicken coop we built this week holding up? I feel so much outside myself wondering how the hell I became this person? How did I end up with friends in Vermont who are so certain that they know me and, even more miraculous, that they like me enough to invite me into their home? How did I end up married with a kid? I've been wrapped in my own opaque shell for so long, I don't know if I'll recognize me when I come out. I'm not even sure if I'll come out at all. I hope I do.

And I hope I'm not a moth.

Pupa

2006-08-31T00:16:00.000-04:00

I'll admit it. I can't stop watching the freaking caterpillars.

The kids plucked some monarch caterpillars from some milkweed a couple of days ago and I can't stop obsessing about them. I know that something ridiculously amazing is going to happen and I don't want to miss it. I had to tear myself away from the jar on the hall table so that I could get upstairs and go to bed. One of them has spun that little sticky web from its butt and is hanging upside down. So I know it is going to do something really, really cool and I want to say that I SAW it happen.

But I should really go to bed.

Monarch butterflies do not "spin" cocoons. They suspend themselves from something relatively sturdy and then their caterpillar skins SPLIT and the chrysallis is INSIDE. That is just funky. I can't even imagine what their little innerds are doing. I'm spellbound by the whole process. So I've been staring at this motionless thing hanging upside down in a mason jar covered with cheesecloth hoping to catch some kind of glimpse of the activity going on inside.

Of course there is also a horrible, negative part of me that watches this process and thinks "I just know I did this wrong and I am going to kill this thing if I haven't already." Maybe that's why I am not anywhere I want to be in life. I keep thinking that I've already fucked up just by virtue of it being me so all I can do is wait around to see the bad result. Intellectually, I know this just isn't so but I can't help but look to this metamorphic process as a sign of how my life will evolve. If these caterpillars become butterflies I might just be able to believe that I am not a total fuck up.

If they die, I'll just have to blame the kids.

You Know I Could Never Leave You

2006-08-28T22:58:00.000-04:00

So. Vermont.

It's gorgeous up here.

My friends have bought the coolest house. It is just perfect for them. I am happy to be here and I am happy to be with such good friends. I am happy that our kids are all snuggled together in their sleeping bags. I am happy to eat and hang out, but I can't figure out why, with all this happiness, I don't feel happy.

I am not really relaxed. I'm not really sure what it is I should be letting go. I was hoping for a little bit of clarity up here, but all I am really feeling is a haze. There's good food, beautiful scenery, and great company and I am enjoying all of that. But somewhere hanging around the periphery of my consciousness is this feeling that I am doing all the wrong things.

Why can't I just chuck everything and move to a fixer upper with great character like my friends? Why can't I commit to my life in New York? Why can't I be a better mom that isn't always so stressed out everytime her kid dissolves into nervous screaming? Why can't I go to sleep at 11:00 like everyone else? Why am I stuck?

So I am back to my favorite compulsion. I'm blogging on my vacation. How pathetic is that? I couldn't even hold out for longer than a day. I must be a total lunatic.

I should start writing a more private journal like I used to.

Except nobody ever read those and, clearly, nothing I do is valid unless there is an audience. I really wish that I didn't need so much attention. Frankly, I am embarrassed by this weakness of mine. I'm trying to stay low key on this vacation, but I haven't been able to look anyone in the eye since this trip started last night.

Maybe I'll get into the groove tomorrow. The men are going out to pick up a wood burning stove and do some bonding. You know, taking things apart, putting them back together and lifting heavy objects. The Chicks are going to be hanging out with the kids picking Swiss chard and making pie and quiche. Maybe I'll be able to step out of myself tomorrow.

I'm Off

2006-08-26T16:23:00.000-04:00

I'll be gone for a good week or so. I'm off to Vermont to see what the Vermont lifestyle is like with some very good friends and their kids. It'll be like visiting family but without all the baggage.

See ya when school starts. Yippee!

Drinking the Kool Aid

2006-08-26T02:02:00.000-04:00

I just think it is so funny how we can easily see in others what we refuse to see in ourselves. So heavily indoctrinated are we that, after a certain age, our beliefs are most definitely fixed and we spend a lifetime looking only for proof of what we already believe and ignoring all else. Those of us who attempt to lead a life of questioning are quick to point out to others when they have been "drinking the Kool Aid" but rarely able to recognize that which goes unquestioned in our own lives.

We are, all of us, hypocrites and liars.

Most of us just don't know it, that's all.

Bad Dreams

2006-08-24T13:45:00.000-04:00

So, last night I dismembered some blonde chick and stuffed her in a garbage bag. Beyond the fact that I didn't even recognize this woman that I had so horribly and irreparably mutilated, what was most distressing was that she could still talk to me. Her head was resting on the remains of her body (she was double bagged in black lawn and garden bags) and we had a rather blase discussion. Her basic attitude was- well, I didn't WANT to be dismembered but since this is the way things are I'll just deal with it. I kept wondering why I had done it but all I could say was, "Oh, I'm so glad you like it!"

Something about that just ain't right.

Buyin' The Lingo

2006-08-23T22:22:00.000-04:00

We all fall prey to it. Every last one of us has had our guard down for a minute or two and let certain shades of meaning slip into our brains that weren't there before someone decided to change it.

That was convuluted. Let me start over.

When I was 10, Feminism was a positive thing. Liberal was just a way of looking at the world, it wasn't a threat to morality or our childrens' health and well being. Cappucino was a little known coffee drink. Christianity was a fairly quiet religion of choice. Soccer was just a sport you were forced to play in P.E. and Mom was simply someone who was supposed to love you no matter what.

Somewhere along the line, Feminism became unpalatable and Liberal became synonymous with evil, stupid and whiny. Cappucino became a symbol of effete, liberal elitism and Christianity became something too overbearing and scary to even admit an interest in beyond "I think Jesus was an excellent philosopher but (insert complaint about organized religion here)". Then when Soccer was paired with Mom, a monolithic mini-van driving she-monster was born.

In and of themselves, there is nothing wrong with any of these things. They have simply become (in some circles more than others, but for the sake of argument let's agree that we are talking about MY circle here) rudely unfashionable. And what gets me is how a lot of thinking people will easily buy in to the simplistic notion of "If one is like so then ALL must be similar to the one!" It just isn't true. And, I'd like to argue, that just because a bunch of people have sullied the word with bad behavior it doesn't mean that the concept is, in and of itself, faulty or bad.

I'm getting convuluted again.

Let's be a bit more specific. Feminism started out as a bunch of ladies who did not want to be bound by convention and wanted opportunity. As a stay at home mom I can relate. I have a brain, too and I should be supported and encouraged to use it. But somewhere along the line Feminist thought was coopted by women who believed that all men are rapists. I'm not going to argue this one here, that's a whole other post, but I have experiences to the contrary and I refuse to promote any thought that would doom my beautiful boy to such a dark destiny. But do you see what just happened? I felt the need to justify my defense of feminism by distancing myself from what has become a popular view of what feminism actually is. But does it matter? I mean, that view is what killed feminism.

I could go on, and at some point I probably will, but I think it is funny how quick we all are to spit out words with no inherent negative value as insults.

I remember during the first Gulf War that some kid at school spat at me as I walked down the hallway.

"PEACE LOVER!" he screamed.

Is this bad?

I'm not stupid. I know what he meant. He meant to strip me down and hurt me with the foul accusation that I am soft on despots. What he didn't have then was the proper vocabulary to really rip into my soul. He should have just called me a liberal.

I could just as easily have yelled back.

"CHRISTIAN!"

Funny. There once was a time when the two meant the same thing.

By The Way...

2006-08-22T23:37:00.000-04:00

The plum nectarine crisp...fan-freaking-tastic.

Vermin

2006-08-22T22:07:00.000-04:00

Okay. I've had it. The bedbugs have been gone for several weeks and now my neighbor tells me she woke up with tons of them in her bed (they usually run before you will ever see them) so I know they'll be back. I'm bracing myself for the onslaught. Yesterday I swear something tiny with claws scurried over my foot in the bathroom. Tom thinks I'm nuts, but I know those little bastards are out there. And just now, while I was baking my plum and nectarine crisp I saw a roach.

How much more can a girl take?

I have everything encased in plastic. I vacuum at least every other day if not every day. I wash. I dust. I can't keep this house any cleaner than it already is without forsaking the love and affection of those I am struggling to protect! I am afraid to walk around barefoot. I would not be one bit surprised if I had mother fucking snakes in my mother fucking bedroom!

Maybe I should stock up on pets that hunt vermin. I'll get a rat terrier a mongoose and...what eats bedbugs? Maybe a monkey?

I think I am going to lose my mind.

Arrogant Not Snobby

2006-08-21T21:59:00.000-04:00

I must admit that it bothers me when my sister calls me a snob. I guess my family has been trying to drill that into my head for a couple of decades, at least. But I don't think it is quite accurate.

I'll freely admit that I am an arrogant ass. It comes with the insecurity and raging sense of perfectionism that is part of my personality cocktail. I hold myself to a very high standard and I punish myself severely when I fail. I get upset when I see people around me not caring enough to set higher standards for themselves and I can and do get judgemental. I honestly try not to. I try very hard to see how people struggle and are working with circumstances of which I know nothing about. I do slip from time to time and believe me, I flog myself once I get home. But this behavior does not stop me from socializing or being kind to people. I'll talk to anyone who will talk to me and, with the rare exception of the five people I'd like to punch in the neck, my arrogance does not stop me from being friendly. Hell, even those five people would probably describe me as polite.

I know I shoot my mouth off a lot about movies and so on. My standards for good entertainment are decidedly higher that most. I'm passionate about it. People often mistake my passion for absolutism but what they don't grasp is that these are standards that apply to what I like, not to what you like. There's a difference. Just know that if you ask my opinon, you're going to get it.

But that is totally a midwestern thing. This is where Pamela will roll her eyes and point saying, "I told you! You are totally a snob!" Just because something bothers me does not mean that it is entirely in my head. This might have a kernel of truth to it, so hear me out.

Back home I felt uncomfortable talking about film, television, theater or literature in unfamiliar group surroundings (i.e. business events, gatherings of extended family, parties and the like) the way most people feel about religion or politics. You see, in Minnesota, if you didn't like something everyone else liked (say, "Titanic") then it is received as a personal assault. If it weren't then maybe people would just be able to wave their hands and say 'Oh, that's just Bree. She likes different stuff than we do. Whatever. I liked it.' But instead they would argue with me and call me names (like snob, elitist, latte liberal, yadda yadda yadda) and completely shut down. I know I tend to present these things badly because if you get me going I go on and on and on. Not because I think you're stupid, but because story and character are really the two most important things in my life. I shit you not. I cannot overstate this. It is important to me the way the birth of my son is important to me. But the equation in MN, in my experience, is this:

(You like Movie A - I hate Movie A) + I love Movie B x You've never heard of Movie B = I think you are a total moron

I must assure you, that is not true. The equation does not work out that way. It really is no skin off my ass if you like Movie A, but I think if you sat down to watch Movie B that you'd really be blown away. I don't think you're an idiot for never having seen Movie B because there was once a time when I'd never heard of it either. Someone had to turn me on to it.

It's the same way with food. I didn't try asparagus until I was almost 23 years old. I barely knew the stuff existed. Someone had to put it in front of me. I've had some pretty mind blowing culinary experiences and I feel I would be remiss if I didn't share them with others. Same thing with entertainment.

This is just one example, but it explains a little about why I just don't feel comfortable in MN. Culturally speaking, people are quite deferential and are constantly feeling out where others are before speaking because we would never want to step out of line or offend anyone unless they were fully prepared for it. That means that a Minnesotan can really enjoy mean spirited comedy or satire because they went with the expectation that someone was going to do or say something outrageous. I find that open minded Minnesotans can really find a release in this activity, including myself. There is something so satisfying about watching someone say or do something so raunchy or politically biting that it is almost as if we were temporarily relieved of the responsibility of biting our tongues. If it comes up in everyday conversation, however, Minnesotans are very uncomfortable with it. I'm uncomfortable with it.

You see, I get called out for making observations about my home and upbringing. But, it must be noted that all of these things that I point out about Minnesotans are so much a part of my own psyche. These are things I question inside myself. Is it totally necessary for me to leave the last piece of anything on a buffet platter for someone else even though I am very, very hungry? So often I find myself holding a fucking bank door open for several minutes because I believe it is rude not to hold it open. I wouldn't want to be rude. As a customer service person, I am friendly and talkative not because I am actually nice but because I really, really want people to see me that way. There's a big difference between showing and doing. Showing is going through the motions and using my polite voice (which is an annoyingly insecure octave above my regular register) and doing is just doing it without all the smoke and mirrors.

I love people. I find them fascinating. Clearly, I find myself fascinating. Of course, I am considering deleting that last sentence because it is a rude sin to admit such a thing. But it is true. I still don't fully understand why I do or say the things I do but I try to figure it out by watching others. I watch my fellow Brooklynites with just as hard a gaze. But I don't see my own behavior reflected in them the way I see it in Minnesotans.

I don't hate anybody. Most people I really and truly like. Snobby would mean that I pick and choose who I hang out with by certain arbitrary criteria. I'll admit that I used to pick and choose depending upon some crazy set of "rules" that not even I understood. Things are different now. The truth is that the only criteria I really have is that you should like me and be kind to me. I don't care if you like "Duece Bigelow". Fine by me. You just have to accept my arrogance and maybe poke me a little bit about it. I need it. I need to be reminded that I'm not perfect and that that is okay.

Just don't call me a snob.

Random And Incoherent

2006-08-20T23:15:00.000-04:00

Can't really string a decent thought. Too tired. Up all night riding buses in my all too brief sleep. Riding buses and waving good bye to friends crouched in alleyways crying, but I've got to get somewhere. Can't stop. Gotta ride the bus. Have to get to that weird building that has no walls or roof, but there are trees growing in it. Beautiful cherry blossoms falling on white iron garden furniture. Hanging out with some large, loud man in a pinstriped suit. I am supposed to impress him. My friend set this up. Remember, don't be an arrogant ass like you usually are. He asks for my card and I can't find one. He has one of those headsets for his mobile phone. I can't tell if he is talking to me or to someone on his phone. He says, "Don't be surprised if we call you! We like you! We like your work!" He nods. The bus pulls up again and I get on without giving him my card. We pull away and drive into a dingy living room. There's a big, ugly chair there. There are hipsters everywhere. They are smoking and throwing their butts into the chair. They invite me to sit in it. They are offended when I don't want to sit in ashes. Plus the chair smells like cat piss. They kick me out of the party. They laugh. I'm mad that they kicked me out even though I hated it in there. Outside is the subway station. Tracks switching back and forth. I have to stand on the rail and get hit by the train in order to catch it. Wait for it. Wait for it. Maybe if I walk this way it will come faster? Don't fall off the track. I hear it. It is definitely the F train. I can see it's orange circle, but it isn't getting any closer. We're just staring at each other. I wish I had given that man my card. Even though I think he was asking someone on the phone. Come to think of it, I couldn't be sure that he had seen me at all.

Dream loops back to the begining. Riding buses. Riding buses all night long, away from friends crying in alleyways...

Sleep should be better tonight.

Can't Sleep

2006-08-20T02:44:00.000-04:00

I was completely exhausted and had felt like I had had a good day. So why am I up right now feeling like I've done something horribly wrong for which I will be soundly punished?

What the hell is up with that?

Baby Book

2006-08-18T23:12:00.000-04:00

If I am to believe my Baby Book the first movie I ever saw in the theater was "The Empire Strikes Back". Whether it was my first or not it is the one I remember.

It was 1980 and I would have been five years old- a few months older than my boy is now. I remember the rather foreign feel of the flip down seats, the weird curvy staircase down to the ladies' bathroom and the enormous size of Darth Vader's head. I also remember being awestruck by the ritual of seeing a movie. All these people, in the dark munching on popcorn and getting their shoes stuck in spilled fountain drinks. It was awesome. It was also scary. For a child with little movie viewing experience perhaps the explosions and ton-ton innerds were a bit much. But I handled it. I handled it and fell in love with a whiny little brat named Luke Skywalker. Yeah, we were going to get married. Once he met me, that is.

At the time, I had no idea he was such a whiny little shit. Plus, I hadn't had the benefit of seeing "Star Wars" until we got it on laser disk some time later. (Yeah, baby, I said Laser Disk!) Regardless, I was hooked on entertainment.

This should really come as no surprise. After all, I was named after a character in a movie. Not just any movie and not just any character. I was named after Jane Fonda's character, Bree Daniels, in the 1971 thriller "Klute" co-starring the lovely Donald Sutherland. She played a high priced call girl who also had acting ambitions. (Hmmm...) Jane won the best actress Oscar that year. It's a good movie. The score is really creepy. During very sad and lonely times in my life I've watched that movie just to hear Donald Sutherland say my name over and over and over again. I have to admit, it still gives me chills to look at the cover of our VHS copy and see my name in print. It reads "Bree really knows how to swing...". What ego maniac can resist that? Certainly not me!

There were signs throughout my childhood that I would grow up to be who I am. I used to imitate Tim Conway and I have memories of imitating this charcter from some sketch show on tv with an exaggerated pompadour who's catch phrase was, "My name is...RAMON!" (said with a heavily rolled 'r' and a head snap). Apparently I came out speaking because the entry in my Baby Book filled out by my mother insists that I never babbled and that she "can't remember" my first word "but she hasn't stopped since". I suppose she thought that was funny. Clearly, as evidenced by the length of an average UFH post, this is as true as it is funny.

I bring this up because my kid is doomed. I took him to see the first Harry Potter movie when he was about 4 weeks old. He's been going to movies ever since. He has sat through "Captain Blood" and "To Kill A Mockingbird" both before the age of 3 and even asked to see them again. He plays dress up and loves to imitate people- but he is often too shy to imitate people in the actual presence of others. He does it when he thinks he's alone or if he's with some good friends. My kid has gathered a collection of moustaches, beards, scarves, hats, eye patches, witch hats, brooms, swords, walking sticks, watches, vampire teeth, capes, gold and jewels to make any small theater company green with envy. Of course I encourage it because it is a game I know how to play. Although he usually discourages me from joining in unless there is a sword fight.

I'm stepping back on this one, because I need to see where he takes this on his own. It isn't my place to put him in this business. In fact, I'd much rather he didn't. Hey, he could just as easily discover that his passion for killing ants is a satisfying and profitable one. Who am I to stand in the way of that just because it is not something that I would have chosen for myself? But really, he can't help leaning in this direction because our home is built that way. It is who his parents are.

The poor kid. I had hoped his name would give him athletic (named for a bare-knuckled boxer) or literary aspirations. He could become the next Hemingway, you know. Or he could also be a mad drunk. If I have another boy, I want to name him after Dashiell Hammett. Sullivan and Dashiell- thems is two hard drinkin' names. Hell, I'm drunk just typing them.

I suppose I should take some time to update Sullivan's own baby book so that one night he can blog about how he was doomed by his parents' choice of name.

In Praise Of John C. Reilly

2006-08-17T23:45:00.000-04:00

I just think that guy deserves more attention. He can sing, dance, be funny, and be disarmingly vulnerable while being a real man. He's a gem.

More John C. Reilly please.

Beer Food Food Beer

2006-08-17T21:46:00.000-04:00

I need some beer in the house. I will go out and get some momentarily, along with something chocolate, or maybe something salty. I know I probably shouldn't. I should let this compulsion go because I am neither hungry nor stressed- for once. But what would my evening be without a beer and something I would not let my own child eat?

Although, I did make a killer pesto with kale this evening. Dinner was kale-tastic featuring broiled crostini with the aforementioned pesto, fresh parmesan and tomato paired with whole wheat spaghetti tossed with pesto and some leftover lemon pepper turkey breast. It was light and delightful. Tomorrow I am thinking about making steamed chard rolls with ginger and brown rice. I'm not sure what I would pair that with, though. Or perhaps I will saute the chard and top it with some poached eggs? Actually, the pesto crostini would be a better complement for poached eggs. Would it not? It's just that I've got fucking chard coming out my ass and I have to figure out something to do with it and we already ate all the pesto. Maybe I'll do the gnocchi wrapped in chard again. But do I really want to spend my afternoon making gnocchi? I know. I know I can buy the gnocchi but then I'd have to do something with these potatoes. Maybe roasted potato and chard quiche? Or maybe I could make some savory muffins with the chard and just got to fucking McDonalds because the boy doesn't appreciate my cooking anyway!

I wish we had some asparagus. I'm dying to make this asparagus flan but I'd have to have some uninterupted kitchen time in order to do so. Asparagus flan. Doesn't that just make you curious?

I love food. I love eating. I love eating good food. I love making food. I love it when people love eating the food I make. My theme song is fast becoming Cab Calloway's "Everybody Eats When They Come To My House".

I love it when people come to my house and feel comfortable. I want them to be able to look around them and feel lightened a bit and ready to eat. I love to make them food and have them leave feeling like they've been cared for. I want visitors to my home feel like they have entered a creative, whimsical sanctuary full of warmth and humor and yet somehow still very clean. It doesn't always feel like that, but I try. Most of the time, I try way too hard.

So the question for this evening remains...which beer do I purchase? Do I go dark and heavy (probably not) or super light and crisp (pussy) or somewhere in between?

Or do I just say fuck it and bust out the tequila?

Touched Out

2006-08-17T09:06:00.000-04:00

When I first heard the term "touched out" I thought it was total bullshit. I figured that even if it wasn't bullshit, it would never ever happen to me.

"Touched out" is something that happens to moms after a long day of being pawed by little ones and they just can't stand to be touched anymore. I love to be touched. I revel in human contact. I love hugs, smooches, pats, rubs...bring it on! Since I have made it 5 years without stretching me passed my tactile limit I thought I would be safe from this phenomenon.

HA!

The touching has intensified and gotten so desperate that I don't want to be anywhere near it. By the end of the day I feel so irritable I can't let anyone within 3 feet of me. Don't even THINK about touching me or I'll rip your fucking arm off!

It probably isn't the touch in and of itself, but the lack of regard that makes me so cranky. I get pulled, yanked, poked, tickled, snuggled, and twiddled. The touch lacks finesse and any rubbin' is most definitely NOT good rubbin'. It's so bad that I can't even accept good touch after a while. Which is a bit of a tragedy. I remember begging my mom for hugs as a little kid and she just couldn't give them. AW c'mon, Mom, a hug would feel so good right now, wouldn't it?

No. It really wouldn't.

I'm Not Listening! La La La!

2006-08-16T22:34:00.000-04:00

I've been reading quite a few things on other peoples' blogs that I would normally comment on. I've decided not to.

I'm going to try to not open that can of worms because I will not convince anyone of anything. There will be no epiphanies, no changed minds or hearts so I'm going to try letting it go. This is new to me so you'll bear with me while I resist the urge to shoot my damn fool mouth off. I know that many of you enjoy watching me get all riled up, and others enjoy poking fun at me behind my back. Oh yes, I know you're out there. What's that saying? I may be stupid but I'm not dumb. Damn. Haven't heard that one in a while.

What I WILL discuss is school shopping.

I took the little man out to get new school clothes. It's a yearly ritual that I've been waiting for since the day I found out I was pregnant. I remember how I used to love school shopping with my Mom. We'd always go to some special, far away mall which made the whole endeavor feel more cosmopolitan than getting the latest sweater set from the sale rack at Maurice's or Vanity. Never heard of those stores? Well, you're not alone. Perhaps you've heard of DEB? If you're from extreme southern Minnesota, odds are your crimped up-do was sporting a sateen ho-tastic 80's prom dress from DEB. Hey, that's no judgement. If I hadn't found out that the Salvation Army had a bag sale every Wednesday (Fill up a shopping bag with anything you like, just $5.00 a bag!) I would have tooled around town in a flashy red thing that looked like it escaped from a classic RATT video.

Anyway, like I said, school shopping was always the best. We'd go to Burnsville or to LaCross or Rochester and stock up on the latest mall fads- until I had discovered the bag sale, that is. One year my Mom and I ran into Tammy Faye Baker at Apache Mall in Rochester. Yeah. Those were good times, as was the post shopping trip to Pannekoekken. (Can't quite remember how to spell it) Oh baby!

Now, I wasn't expecting to bond with Sullivan in that way today. He's a boy and he cares little for fashion. Only comfort and function are important. But I was hoping he would appreciate the fact that I wasn't about to do his shopping for him and dress him like my own little Ken Doll. That's about as much as I could hope for. But then, oh the mommy waterworks started to rage.

Why?

Because the very first thing he picked out was this three button brown corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows and a sweet red lining. Then he picked out a short sleeve, skater cut, red plaid shirt, a pair of loose fitting jeans and a navy blue baseball cap (on sale!). He ran to the fitting room to try them on. Well. I just about fell over. It was like looking into the future. He looked so mature, so easy going -almost elastic- and so handsome. Mostly, he just looked like his Dad. I couldn't quite contain myself and I gasped in surprise.

You look so dashing and grown up. You look like your Daddy.

From that moment on, he couldn't stop looking at himself. He insisted on changing into that outfit (with a new brown leather belt) as soon as we got home and just stared at himself in the mirror.

I'm a grown up now. See? I've got a belt.

I couldn't stop looking at him either. Tall, muscular and lean, he stood there like a picture of his future self. It's tantalizing, just staring through this pinhole at the man he may eventually become. I've seen little glimpses of it before, but never so strongly. What was most notable about this episode is that he clearly saw it, too. He talked all through dinner about what things will be like when he's a Dad.

Slow down, buckaroo. It's only Kindergarten.

Television Dreams

2006-08-15T23:53:00.000-04:00

My sister, Kristen, harbors half facetious fantasies of getting her lovely, young daughter on a reality tv show and making upstaging guest appearances that would ultimately lead to her getting her own show. I would watch that. My sister is funny. (All of my sibs are funny, actually.)

I, of course, pretend not to stoop so low.

But, in reality, don't you think Jon Stewart needs me? I mean, the only chick he's got is Samantha Bee and she's totally got the sarcastic Canadian girl thing down. But he's got no redheaded, doe eyed, news siren aside from Rob Corrdry who WOULD be a redhead if it weren't for, well, you know. I could totally fit that bill.

And Stephen Colbert totally wants to smooch me. I can tell. I can tell by the way he makes himself laugh like he's Tim Conway and Harvey Korman all in one. I can tell by the way he slips me a sly giggle during 'Formidable Opponent'. But you can't have me, Stephen. I'm a married woman. We'll have to keep on pretending that we've never met and you're stalking a girl named Charlene. You and I both know that I'm the real Charlene.

Charlie Rose keeps calling to chat. Morgan Spurlock wants to send single women with baby lust to live with me for 30 Days. And they're just dying to Roast me on Comedy Central. I would love it if people knew enough about me to poke at my foibles. Dude, I'll show my foibles to anyone. All you have to do is ask. Hell, I've flashed my foibles all over town.

Guilty, I just wanted to play with my foibles. I can't stop, it just sounds so dirty and wrong! Foibles! Foibles! Foibles!

I think I'm done now.

Not A Thought In This Pretty Little Head Of Mine

2006-08-15T16:37:00.000-04:00

It's true. I've been walking around in a haze just waiting for school to start. It is absolute toture to have something good pecking at your brain and no time in the forseeable future to follow through on your own genius.

But not thinking is making me so cranky.

I am the most irritable person alive when I'm not working on something. Sure I have my play, but last night (from 11:30PM until about 1:30 AM) was the only time I had to work on it. Now there is just an endless summer battling crying jags and pleas for new pets. My sitters are already booked. There's no way we can do anymore camp. Our friends are all out of town. So. I'm not thinking of anything.

Since I can't really get anything done, I'd much rather curl up with my heating pad and nap.

Maybe I ought to call Doogie my chiropractor? He sent me a postcard. He totally misses me. I think that would whip me into shape in a hurry- a chiropractic adjustment, my heating pad, some cupcakes, iced lattes and the first full day of school. Oh baby, that would do it.

Poison

2006-08-15T09:20:00.000-04:00

The boy's latest obsession is killing ants.

He hates those little fuckers. He tells me that this is because they bite and he hates things that bite. He just won't listen to my protests that most ants are pretty harmless. No. He has been concocting ant poisons made of glue, crayons, food coloring and frozen honey.

I have to get this kid an ant farm.

There Is No Title For This Post

2006-08-14T23:15:00.000-04:00

As usual, I am blogging to avoid work that needs to be done. It's not that I don't want to work, I am just a habitual procrastinator.

My plan is to sit down and slog through my troubled 2nd act for a fifth time. Fifth draft, fifth concept. One of these days it will work out. Right?

Well. I guess.

Sigh.

Maybe you'll be seeing this damn play someday.

If I can write the fucking thing first.

Girls, Girls, Girls

2006-08-14T01:59:00.000-04:00

I'm pretty excited.

See, I was up late a couple of nights ago and it occured to me that, for the first time in many years, I had my choice of girlfriends to call at 10PM. It used to be that I had one, maybe two ladies that I could call after 10:00 and even fewer if it gets after 11:00. Now, I have some 24 hour gal pals. I don't HAVE to call them, but it is so good to know they are there if I ever freaked out.

Speaking of Gal Pals, I had an impromptu movie outing with Britt tonight and I don't get to do much without days of planning. Just being able to say 'hey, I want to see a movie and maybe Britt could come too' and know that I could make that happen without too much effort was awesome.

By the way, "Telledega Nights" was whoop ass fun. I laughed so hard I screamed, although it would not have been half as funny if I would have gone to see it by myself. Movies are just like that sometimes. And movies are always better when they are followed by earnest conversations outside the subway station regarding the mechanics involved in getting gerbils up your ass. The only thing we really figured out is that you shouldn't ever try to do that alone. You gotta have a friend with you. A really close, amoral friend who knows some good relaxation techniques.

It is late and I am so full of popcorn and my back is killing me from that stupid stool at work. I need some solid sack time with my heating pad and some flannel jams. Damn, sleep is going to rock tonight.

August 12, 2000

2006-08-12T23:13:00.000-04:00

6 years ago today Tom and I tied the knot. After 7 years together without the "I Do's" no one really expected that we would ever get around to the whole marriage thing. Well, we did. A total of 13 years together and we still like each other- even after marriage and kids!

So, if you're in a drunken stupor this evening celebrating the passage of Saturday night into Sunday morning- tip a glass to Tommer and me.

Happy Anniversary, Tom.

Itching

2006-08-11T22:59:00.000-04:00

There is someone I know who is just a raging jackass.

I'm sure anyone who has ever met this person knows that this person is a stinky flaming asshole. Really, if you've spent more than 5 minutes in a conversation with this sick, sick person you'd know that this person is a mean, self absorbed mother fucker. It is painfully obvious. I'd love to be able to tell all the people who come in contact with this person that I know they know this person is an asshole. I also want them to know that I know this person is an asshole too. I'm not happy to be associated in any way with this person. However, for various reasons which I cannot go into lest those of you who don't yet know who this person is figure it out, I can't come out and say so publicly. But I am so mad that I really, really want to.

I have a short list of people who piss me off so much that if I was left alone in a room with them I would not be able to restrain myself from punching them in the neck. Yeah, totally not an easy place to punch but that would seriously hurt if you could pull it off. Currently this list has five names on it. This person tops the list. And you know the list is dangerous because it isn't a fantasy threat like if I had a list of people who I would like to impale on my front lawn. Because I live in Brooklyn and won't be getting a front lawn anytime soon. But I could, conceivably be in a room somewhere punching people in the neck. That's a totally attainable goal.

I'm not going to do it. I'm just a big enough wuss that I could be easily talked out of the deal. But sitting around thinking about how satisfying it would be to just pound 'em one gives me a little relief from my anger. Obviously, I can't make any disclosures about the names on my list, but if you even think you might be on my bad side, you might want to consider not being alone with me. Or at least wear a neck brace. I'm just saying.

Although, I don't think any of those 5 read this blog. So if you're reading this, chances are you're safe. But if you run into me and I'm with a person that totally turns you off and makes you feel like you need to shower the evil away I just want you to know that I know this person is a massive fuckhead and I am working on the termination of the relationship. It's just complicated, that's all.

If you meet this asshole, you'll know why.

And that's all I can say.

Mean

2006-08-11T15:20:00.000-04:00

I wish I didn't have to say no all the time.

No, you can't have a monkey. No, I'm not going to get you parrot this afternoon. No, you don't get a toy just because you've been good. All you get is my love and affection. No, you can't just grab at my breasts whenever you want to- especially not while I'm in line at the grocery store! You're almost five and I've got things I need to do. Just quit your fucking whining.

A couple of single girlfriends have told me that my tales from the trenches have been great cures for their nagging baby lust. Good. These little bastards will drain your wallet, steal your time, and suck your soul.

So, how come it is that I keep thinking about having another one?

Yeah, They Were Gay

2006-08-11T00:12:00.000-04:00

I just amused myself by searching "Ishmail and Queequeg + Gay" and read the Moby Dick message board. Dude, there's a Moby Dick message board. People are busy arguing about whether or not the scenes with Ishmail and Queequeg sharing a bed meant that they were gay. It reads a tad like a romance novel to me, so I'm inclined to think of them as gay. (Not that there's anything wrong with that!) But what I find sort of ticklish is that this particular message board had someone saying (I am too lazy to link it or even back track and find the page it was on- totally not important) something to the effect of- duh, you're all so stupid because it wasn't about them being gay at all. The blanket symbolizes the sky that we share both Pagan and Christian together. Okay. I can handle that for about 20 seconds, but it was the end that sent me into hysterics-"Why don't people think a little?" Sheesh! Like yeah! So not gay! It's all the sky-n-shit. What-evuh!

The fact that I have been up chuckling about this makes me feel guilty. I got into this discussion with my sister while I was at home and she pegged me as a snob. Then I go to talk to some friends about it and they say- Oh yeah, Bree. You're totally a snob. And they say it affectionately and pat me on the head like it's some nervous twitch I've acquired that they tolerate and maybe occassionally find endearing. I don't want to be a snob. It is just that some people seem, well...stupid to me. Am I wrong? In order to not be a snob am I to ignore the existance of stupidity in the world?

Okay, it wasn't exactly the blanket image that I felt was stupid (although, it kinda is) it's the fact that this person felt it was so obvious. Which I think is funny because the whole blanket thing seems like a real stretch. It feels like an attempt to ignore the fact that two men are snuggling in bed together and talking til' all hours napping and waking just like couples do in the early stages of an intimate relationship. Let's face it, I have some very close, close girlfriends that I love dearly and for whom I would easily lay down my life as Queequeg vows to Ishmail. But I've never spent that lazy, loving sack time with anyone I wasn't at least sexually interested in. There's a difference.

So that is just one demonstration of how I am a big snob. Apparently, people hate seeing movies with me. Sara commented to me that Ben is a brave soul for offering to see "World Trade Center" with me. Specifically, she said "I was just thinking that I wouldn't want to be anywhere near you for at least the first two hours after you see the damn thing." She's probably right. I am a total pain in the ass about these things. But...I know my shit. When I tell you why I thought that movie sucked, you can bet that I've thought it through and that I've put my full 31 years of experience into my review. Of course, I do tend to think about these things out loud. Sometimes out VERY loud- like after I saw "The Contender" and nearly made Tom and Sara's ears bleed. God, I hated that movie.

I think of absolutely everything in terms of story and objective. It has become a habit with me. Even my most private and personal thoughts and feelings are organized this way. Unfortunately that makes everything in life fodder for my obsession and if you deal with me you have to deal with the way I pull things apart and put them back together again. Occassionally this involves judgements. I do, honestly, try to avoid them and when I make them I TRY to be somewhat understanding. I fail sometimes. I'll bet that that comment on the Moby Dick message board was made by a high school student who considers him/herself to be very well-read (and probably is) and could just as easily have been me in high school. I'll freely admit that. I never said that I was never stupid. Hey- I'm probably stupid right now. But I just can't resist finding these things amusing.

I feel terrible about it. Clearly, my slip is showing and I am ridiculously insecure. You'll find that most things of this nature that I poke fun at I fear discovering in myself. Which is a clear indication that those things are present within me. Self loathing is a bitch.

At least I get a good laugh at it from time to time.

Playing the Obstacle

2006-08-10T00:08:00.000-04:00

How many times have I sat back in my chair and smugly told another actor,

"You're playing the obstacle. You will never move on that way. Play your objective, not the obstacle."

Ah, physician, heal thyself.

Since early 2001 I have done nothing but play the obstacle in my own life. I've been strung along by circumstance, unable or unwilling to believe that I could commit fully to anything without losing everything else. So I have floated along on this river of self-pity making only negative choices.

Now, for those of you not versed in my particular brand of theatrical lingo, "negative" does not necessarily mean "bad" like killing someone or embezzling millions. A negative choice is one that keeps you (and the story) from moving forward. For example, at the end of "The Children's Hour" Martha kills herself and this should not be approached by the actor that plays her as a negative. If she does, then she is doomed to wallow and wail and make the audience hope she fucking offs herself fast. If she approaches the choice to end her life as a way to alleviate her suffering and save Karen from the burden of their friendship it is a "positive" choice. At least from the actor's perspective. The actor who makes this choice will experience relief and calm in the scene before she dies. She will use that scene to say a proper good bye to Karen, whom she loves desperately, and she will focus all of her energy on Karen, not on the impending self destructive act. How many times have you been in a room with someone who is completely incapable of giving energy to anyone but themselves? That type of personality kills a scene and destroys a play. It also makes for a very lonely person.

So...duh.

It is a bigger challenge than one could expect to keep energy flowing outward. Especially when "me" is really the only frame of reference anyone has. Everything in life must be channeled throught the "Me" Filter and sometimes the filter fails miserably. So, who do you call to be your plumber?

I think I need a good weekend of bitch slapping. And I mean bitch slapping with love and acting lingo. Some people are more comfortable taking advice from someone with a notepad and a desk, some with Tarot cards and a crystal ball... I need someone who is an honest asshole just like me. Someone who can say things like, "You're holding on to that in your lower back- knock it off" or "And how does that get you what you need?" or "Quit whining and just do the fucking scene."

Just do the fucking scene.

Which Stage Am I On?

2006-08-09T00:20:00.000-04:00

I knew it would happen sooner or later.

It's grief.

Fuckin' grief.

The pisser about all this is that I'll be floating through the stages of grief for years to come. I've been dealing with it since Mom started to lose her memory and I see no end in sight. God- I hope there 's no end in sight. I'm not ready for that.

I was in complete denial when Mom started leaving things places. Jackets, hats, keys, gloves, and the like seemed to disappear like smoke around her. I got really scared when I learned that she forgot about my brother being in the Navy. For a long time it was easy to blame it all on my Dad. Let's face it, he's not the easiest or most forgiving guy to live with. I think even he would admit to that. After all, things started really going wrong just a few short years after her cancer was gone. How could she possibly have something else? Wasn't cancer enough disease for any one person to have? Didn't she fill the quota already? It had to be her bizarre living situation and Dad was clearly to be blamed for that. Right?

I truly believe that things even out somewhere down the line. This will make some sense to me in the grand scheme of things someday. But for now, I just want to drink and cry. I guess this is the begining of acceptance? Well, I've never accepted any fate without resistance, so now begins the screaming, crying and clawing. Stupid fucking Alzheimers.

Clearly, I knew it in January and I cherish the fact that I had that opportunity to be with her then while she could still communicate with me and I could still feel like the things I said landed with her. I got to tell her that she was the number 1 influence in my life and the most important person to me. I got to tell her about all the things that she taught me and that I hope to teach my son. How many people have that opportunity? I did. I got it and I took advantage of it, to the best of my ability. I really have no regrets about it.

But I'm still fucking pissed that it had to happen to her.

She was just getting to a point where I felt she might assert herself. I'm telling you, I was rooting for her to strike out on her own and, in some small way I got the sense that she was thinking about it. I can honestly say that if it was a choice between having me, keeping her tied to the service of her husband and children and NOT having me, setting her free to find herself- I would have chosen not to be born. Of course, I know that she would have chosen to have me because that is just the kind of woman she is, but if the choice were up to me I would lay down in a heartbeat. Without a single doubt.

But that's all just a fantasy. I'm here. She's here and we have to go on the best we can. There is definitely something to be learned in this experience, but so far I am not finding that inner strength that I once believed I had. No. Inside me is a sad, scared, morose little girl who wants her mommy. I hear that feeling never goes away.

Now, don't that just break your heart?

The Promised Tale

2006-08-08T09:49:00.000-04:00

At 9:00 AM, Pam and I had gone back to the home to check on Mom.

We had been concerned because it was clear she was suffering from neglect and was heavily drugged. She could no longer eat by herself, go to the toilet or dress herself. She had trouble walking and always leaned to the left which caused her neck and shoulders to be very stiff. She had edema in her right leg, a classic sign of chronic inactivity.

We found her passed out over her omelette in the same sweater she had worn for at least four days- if not longer. Pam and I shook our heads at this and Pam proceeded to try to wake Mom up.

Pam would have made a really good nurse. Almost as good as she is a lawyer. She doesn't take any bullshit and she does not back down from confrontation. And she will do all this while smiling and flirting. She tapped Mom on the shoulder and got down on the floor so that Mom's drooped eyes would meet Pam's if she chose to open them.

"Would you like to go outside, Ma?"

I never called Mom 'Ma' until I became an adult. I'm not sure exactly what that means, but it is interesting to note. There is a certain sound to 'Ma' that clearly cannot be made by a child.

After some wrangling, we got Mom out onto the porch and were joined by a couple of other residents needing company. Pam got them coffee and worked to charm conversation out of them for Mom's sleepy benefit. Getting three neglected Alzheimers patients to have a conversation is something of a Herculean feat. I tried to read them a newspaper but found the news too irritating. It would have been better if I would have brought in some fun, bouncy novel. I'll try to remember that next time.

Mom squinches her nose up a lot because her glasses are in need of readjustment. She looks through you and fiddles with anything in her path. If she has a napkin she will shred it to bits and then look helplessly at the remains. Those need to be cleared away. She doesn't talk much, but when she does it is usually 'yes'. 'no', 'what?' or 'don't push me!'.

After the visit was over, Pam and I took her to the living room to sit on the couch and prop up her sore foot. There were a few other residents there staring at the menu on the tv screen for some Roy Rogers DVD. We informed the staff that her foot needed a cold compress and that she hadn't been to the toilet since we arrived and that she should probably be attneded to at some point in the near future.

There's a lot of bullshit that goes with removing a patient from one "health care community" to another. I won't go into all of that now because it involved finances, doctors and 30 day notices. It gives me a headache just thinking about it. In particular thinking about all the things that were promised to our family when we placed my mother that were never delivered. It's hard not to feel angry and bitter when your mother declines so rapidly and unnecessarily. So, when the green light came in on Sunday for the move, the siblings sprang into action.

Pam and Kristen mobilized the troops on the home front, making sure that the big kids would feed the little kid (my kid) and keep him busy. I nervously twiddled my thumbs and tried to look in possession of myself. Even though I was completely convinced that the move was necessary and the absolute right thing to do, I couldn't help but feel like I was unqualified for the job. I stood up straight, donned my white halter dress and took up my place in Pam's giant Honda.

We met Bryan just outside the facility and planned our attack. You- get the clothes. You- pack the toiletries. You- get the photographs. You- empty the drawers. When it is all over, we'll get Mom and deliver the letter of intent to remove. Pam will rub the director's face in it, get her meds and then we'll be home free. Go! Go! Go! GO!

We giggled nervously about our stupidly clandestine attempt to remove furniture and clothes and such down the back stairway and out the front door in full view of the receptionist. Look normal! They won't catch on! We had to ask them for a garbage bag and we took it back to her room to throw clothes in it. The trip down the stairs with the full bag slung over my shoulder prompted Bryan to sing, "You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch...".

It would have gone without a hitch, except for the hallway littered with neglected residents that we were forced to leave behind. One woman's wheelchair was caught on a rocking chair in the hallway and she had been trying to extricate herself from it for about 20 minutes, nearly falling out of her wheelchair and drooling all over herself. Bryan couldn't take it anymore. Go on! Save yourselves! I'll catch up later! I watched him kindly ask her if she needed help and then gently repositioned her in her chair and then turned her chair to a clear stretch where she could get around more easily. I lagged behind and found myself in conversation with a charming lady who stutters so violently that she often takes a minute or two to get out a sentance. On top of that, she has Alzheimers, so you can imagine how that went. But, I just couldn't leave without hearing the entire story.

When we finally were able to get Mom, we found her in exactly the same spot we had left her over 3 hours prior. This clearly meant that she had not eaten lunch or been toileted since before 9:00 that morning. Pam was happy to deliver the letter at this point while Kristen fumed, "We should just take her and not sign her out. Then we'll see if they even notice anything!"

Pam, apparently, took great joy in delivering the letter and telling the director that we would, indeed, be taking our mother away. I was unable to witness this event but Pam says that she gave her the letter and once it dawned on the director that this was not a day trip she responded with, "Okay...do you have any questions?" Yeah, how do you sleep at night?

We were good to go. Bryan and I were snail racing Mom out the door (She can't move much faster than a shuffle these days) and we almost had her in the car when she grabbed herself and said, "Toilet!". This lead to the anticlimactic return to the building for a very slow bathroom break. By the time we made it to the bathroom, the deed had been done. Kristen and I were flummoxed as to the proper method for toileting Mom. Mom seemed disturbed by the whole exercise and, quite frankly so was I. Kristen turned to me and shrugged. I suggested that Mom might be more comfortable with one of the staff toileting her because I sure as hell didn't know how to get her to do it. Pam swooped in and made it happen despite Mom's vociferous objections.

Much later, (much MUCH later) we had finally made it into the car and were on our way to the new place with smiling, chatty residents. We listened to Jim Croce on the radio which caused me to remark how good it was that sober rhymes with October or Jim Croce's rhyme scheme would have totally fallen apart. Mom laughed. Not at my observation, but at the sound of the words sober and October. Hey. I'll take whatever laughs I can get.

At the new home we found a giant Koosh ball and it was placed it in Mom's hands. Her surprise was electric and after a while she tried to shove it into her paper water cup. We smiled. It was nice to see her involved in something.

Reports are that Mom has been adjusting well and actually eating by herself again. The staff at her new home has been warm, welcoming and understanding. I'm looking forward to family barbeques at Mom's new home. It's really odd how it does not bother me at all that she doesn't seem to recognize me anymore. It really doesn't. I had had myself worked up about how that was going to devastate me. It didn't. Because who I am in this scenario really doesn't matter. The only thing that does matter is my Mom. She's my Mom and she always will be.

So. That's how I spent my summer vacation.

Ahhh! Useless Travel Day!

2006-08-07T15:18:00.000-04:00

I have returned to a hazy, sweaty Brooklyn. The humidity is totally out of control and I ooze with every move. After a good nap, I am heading out for an iced latte and maybe a turkey gruyere croissant. Not that I couldn't get one of those in MN (although I haven't experienced as much gruyere love in MN as I have here in Brooklyn) but it's my favorite cheesey, greasy treat on 9th Street. Some things are just site specific.

On a later date, I might find the time to detail adventures with my siblings as we rescued our beloved Mother from one of those nursing homes you should hear about on 60 Minutes. If I rest on it a minute, I might be able to find the humor in a pretty dark and painful situation. Until I find where I dropped my sense of humor, let me just tell you that if someone you love has Alzheimers and needs to be placed in a memory care facility- do your fucking homework early. You do not want to rush picking out a home. Know the day is coming and that it could come at any time. Be prepared for it.

I am sad to say that, odds are, that day will come for many of you. I hope you'll have a great group of people around you like I had my sibs. I swear I don't feel grown up enough to handle this shit and I have no idea if I would have been able to pull off a necessary heist like this on my own. My sibs rock. We were totally like the elder care A-Team. I promise you, it is a pretty good story.

But I am in need of a nap and someone to feed me a good dinner that I did not have to cook. I am going to just shut down for the rest of the day because I am totally drained. Perhaps I will be lucky enough to have a dreamless sleep. Lately I've been having these dreams with painfully obvious imagery. I'm almost insulted that my subconscious did not go through the trouble of coming up with more creative connections. Oh well. If I have to, I will traipse through the wreckage of my childhood home salvaging knick knacks one more time.

And for Pamela's benefit, I will try not to use the word "like" every five seconds. Damn!

Greetings From The Heartland

2006-08-03T23:33:00.000-04:00

Okay, first off I need to say how much I love my sister, Kristen, but her keyboard is in the most cramped and uncomfortable space imaginable. I just don't know how she can live this way.

I'm doing surprisingly well being in MN and I've been keeping my guilt to a minimum. Here's a total newsflash- none of this shit is my fault! There's nothing I could have been or done that would have changed any of this. My living far away did not make my mother ill and moving back would not make her better. It's a relief to not feel responsible but it is also a bit disconcerting. After all, if I am not blaming myself for all the crazy/ bad shit in the world then what AM I doing? Hmm? Riddle me that one, Batman. I guess guilt is just something with which I occupy my time. A hobby of sorts. It serves no real purpose in my life.

However, Old Dutch potato chips DO serve a very specific purpose in my life. For regional comparison, I'd say that the "Dutchers" are a very salty cousin of the liberal east coasters' Utz chips. Sometimes, you just need an assload of salt.

Let's see, what else?

My father asked me (As he does on every face to face meeting) when I was planning on moving back home. This time I answered him with alarming speed. Usually I roll my eyes, shake my head and give him the reluctant "Dad, I just can't see myself ever living here again." This time I shot out a ballistic "Never." Yup. Never. Never, ever. And I never say never.

I miss a lot about being in MN. I miss the sounds, the space, the insecure friendliness masquerading as customer service and even my mother-in-law complaining about how dangerous things are on the east side of St. Paul. To hear her talk it is as if she were living in an urban war zone instead of a matchbox Shangri-La. Don't get me wrong, I know there are drugs and theft in her neighborhood and I don't want to give anyone the idea that even the crime out here is lame, but I just can't work up the necessary fear. I can't be afraid of anything in the TC. My home town? yeah, that place inspires a twinge of terror. After all, it is the only place I've ever been beaten up or received death threats. I guess that tends to color a person's perceptions on a place.

As much as I feel this place in my bones and know that I will forever belong to it, and it to me, I also know that it isn't right for me to be here for more than a few days. I know it like I know all the words to every Replacements or Gear Daddies tune as if they were etched into my brain, whether I've ever owned the album or not. It's the jukebox at Steve's and a certain elder sister's tape collection that burned that sound into my soul. It's the half shoeless farewell concert, hair coated in red and blue mascara, country roads that served as spots for late night coffee klatches, and the strangely seductive smell of Deep Woods off that have made me the woman I am. It's weird to be so much a part of a place and so removed from it at the same time. It is crystal clear that I can't go back. What there is of that belongs to another generation. My time for that has passed. I drove down 94 today, my son in the back seat, passing landmarks from another woman's life.

Stephen Wright has a one liner: I'd like to get a full body tattoo of me, only taller. In a way, that's what it feels like. I wear the mask of a woman who once lived here, but it couldn't possibly have been me. I'm not me anymore.

Neither is anyone else. The landscape here is almost unrecognizable, both physically and emotionally. Nothing is even remotely what it had once been. Even things that on the surface seem to have stayed the same are completely different at the core. Or maybe I just see them differently. In a way, that's a shame, but it is to my advantage to see things as what they really are- whether it is comfortable for me or not.

What is most troublesome to me, at the moment, is the disconnection that I feel. I can't help but wonder if my emotions are just going to bite me on the ass one day and drag me down or if I really and truly have come to terms with these things. How can you honestly tell if you're living in denial?

All I know is, these Nordic types crank the AC up way too fuckin' high. It doesn't need to be 68 fucking degrees inside a Chili's. I'm wearing a thin summer dress and have come in from 88 degrees. A 20 degree difference is way too much. I shouldn't have to carry around a sweater in August. Turn it down, fuckers, turn it down.

Hiatus?

2006-08-01T01:04:00.000-04:00

I'm going to be out of town from the 1st to the 7th. I'm not sure if I will be willing or able to post during that time.

I will, however, be working on my sense of humor.

I'll let you know how that works out.

Another Dream

2006-07-31T08:32:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-31T07:35:00.000-04:00

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.

Why I Don't Go Out

2006-07-30T08:17:00.000-04:00

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.

Enough!

2006-07-29T03:41:00.000-04:00

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.

Spending Money

2006-07-28T09:20:00.000-04:00

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.

Oliver Stone Has Elephantitis Of The Nuts

2006-07-27T08:26:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-27T00:05:00.000-04:00

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.

Two Minutes To Post!

2006-07-26T15:33:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-07-26T09:53:00.000-04:00

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.

Poser

2006-07-25T22:42:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-25T14:21:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-07-25T03:27:00.000-04:00

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.

Liberal Libel

2006-07-24T01:10:00.000-04:00

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.

Actual Play Date Conversation

2006-07-21T13:39:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-21T13:21:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-07-21T08:23:00.000-04:00

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.

A Bit Odd

2006-07-20T07:49:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-20T00:00:00.000-04:00

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!

Diversionary Post #1

2006-07-19T11:13:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-19T07:58:00.000-04:00

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.

Yup, They Really Do That In Brooklyn!

2006-07-18T22:38:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-07-18T07:50:00.000-04:00

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.

HOT!

2006-07-17T13:55:00.000-04:00

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.

Personality Test

2006-07-16T23:28:00.000-04:00

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.

You Can Really Taste The Kale!

2006-07-15T18:58:00.000-04:00

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,

Homage v. Ripping Off

2006-07-13T22:46:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-13T09:10:00.000-04:00

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?

Infestation Blues

2006-07-12T21:13:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-12T08:13:00.000-04:00

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.

I Broke My Kid

2006-07-11T00:17:00.000-04:00

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.

I've Always Depended On The Kindness Of Strangers

2006-07-10T07:41:00.000-04:00

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.

Lord of the Flies

2006-07-07T08:28:00.000-04:00

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.

YEAH!

2006-07-06T22:34:00.000-04:00

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!