I believe it was Dorothy Parker who said “I like having written.” So it is that I sit next to my husband when he reads my posts and, when he laughs, I look over at his laptop screen to see what he’s reading. Sometimes I don’t remember having written what he’s reading but I enjoy it and think the author is very clever. It was Mel Brooks who said “It’s good to be King.”
Some of my friends have read my posts and emailed me with suggestions like “Stop fooling around and write a play” or “Why don’t you just write a book”, as if I’m only blogging out of stubbornness; as if I could write “War and Peace” any time I wanted to, I’m just acting spoiled. Thanks, guys. Tell you what. As soon as I get an idea that lasts more than ten minutes, I’ll get right on it.
My mother is one of my biggest fans and has always egged me on with helpful suggestions like “Why don’t you get on a soap opera” or “You should be in that show.” Why didn’t I think of this myself?! Perhaps I should try calling the casting director of “August, Osage County” and tell him “My mother says I have to be in this show.” It could work. At the very least it could be good for a laugh and will give me something else to blog about.
I actually did write a funny postcard to the casting director of “Guiding Light” after she hired me to play a high school principal in one episode. I thanked her and listed several ways my character could return; all the main characters that my character could have affairs with. Within two month she called me for another spot! I was unavailable. (Actors: never, never, never say no!) It would be almost two years before I heard from her again and then the show would be cancelled.
Okay, so I don’t control the weather or the outcome of NY Yankees games, but I truly believe I am responsible for the cancellation of “Guiding Light”. Look at the facts! The show had been on TV since the first TV was sold. It had been on radio before that. I’d been watching it since I could see. When Papa Bauer died, I thought I’d lost my grandfather! After almost 60 years of uninterrupted programming, I find a casting director who hires me twice and the show closes! You can’t make this stuff up!
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Bathroom Matters
My telephone comes equipped with a unique feature: bathroom radar. It can be quiet all day long and the moment I sit down on the toilet, it rings. This feature can be turned off by taking the phone into the bathroom with me. It’s like carrying an umbrella when it’s cloudy; a sort of insurance policy. As an umbrella is to the rain, so is a phone to the bathroom to getting a call; if you have it, you won’t need it. The equation is written like this:
My cousin seems to have done me one better by actually installing a wall phone within easy reach of the john. I laughed when I first saw it but then I realized she was my cousin after all and that explained it. My family seems to have an uncanny (that’s a pun) gift for calling when it is most inconvenient to call. For example, I was at Hooters the other day (see previous post for details) killing time, drinking beer while waiting for my husband to call and tell me when to pick him up. I had the cell phone set to vibrate because it was so noisy there. I had been waiting and drinking for about two and a half hours and my bladder was about to burst. So I went to the bathroom and hung my purse on the door of the stall. It was a big stall, and the door was about five feet from the john. Suddenly, my purse started vibrating!
“Now he calls?!”
I shuffled to the door, my pants around my ankles. Jiggling my purse to find the phone loosened the latch and the door swung open. So I’m trying to close the door, pick up my pants and answer the phone. Luckily no one was there to witness my dilemma but the notion that someone COULD come in only increased my panic. It was my brother.
“Hello. How are you?”
Our brief conversation was punctuated by an undisguised flush but he didn’t notice. In my family, bathroom matters are taken in stride. Many a dinner conversation has devolved into a discussion unfit for dinner conversation in a normal home.
“I have a headache.”
“How are your bowels?”
The people in my family fall in to one of two categories; those who can’t stop going and those who can’t go at all. It’s really more than any one wants to know and yet there it is; number 2 on the all time favorite topics list. Number 1 is food. But that’s another story.
My cousin seems to have done me one better by actually installing a wall phone within easy reach of the john. I laughed when I first saw it but then I realized she was my cousin after all and that explained it. My family seems to have an uncanny (that’s a pun) gift for calling when it is most inconvenient to call. For example, I was at Hooters the other day (see previous post for details) killing time, drinking beer while waiting for my husband to call and tell me when to pick him up. I had the cell phone set to vibrate because it was so noisy there. I had been waiting and drinking for about two and a half hours and my bladder was about to burst. So I went to the bathroom and hung my purse on the door of the stall. It was a big stall, and the door was about five feet from the john. Suddenly, my purse started vibrating!
“Now he calls?!”
I shuffled to the door, my pants around my ankles. Jiggling my purse to find the phone loosened the latch and the door swung open. So I’m trying to close the door, pick up my pants and answer the phone. Luckily no one was there to witness my dilemma but the notion that someone COULD come in only increased my panic. It was my brother.
“Hello. How are you?”
Our brief conversation was punctuated by an undisguised flush but he didn’t notice. In my family, bathroom matters are taken in stride. Many a dinner conversation has devolved into a discussion unfit for dinner conversation in a normal home.
“I have a headache.”
“How are your bowels?”
The people in my family fall in to one of two categories; those who can’t stop going and those who can’t go at all. It’s really more than any one wants to know and yet there it is; number 2 on the all time favorite topics list. Number 1 is food. But that’s another story.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
I was sitting in the holding area of a film shoot that I am not in at the Cradle of Aviation Museum in Garden City, Long Island. When not working, why not drive someone else to work? My husband is in this film and I volunteered to get up at 6, be in the car at 8 and have him to his location in Garden City, LI by his 10 a.m. call time.
My husband is what we laughingly call “geographically challenged”. I often joke that he could get lost mowing the lawn. Early in our relationship we took a weekend in the Berkshires and I had occasion to require a drug store. (No need to go into details.) He valiantly offered to drive to town for me and I watched from the window as he pulled out of the driveway and turned right. Town was to the left. Twenty minutes later I watched his car speed past in the other direction. In 25 years, nothing has changed. To this day he can’t give directions to our house. His parents have lived in the same place since he was a child and he still calls me to check what exit to get off. I am his mid-night GPS, fielding calls from dark country roads when they close the Parkway. I navigate him home. It is difficult sometimes since he can’t really tell me where he is. He’ll call, yelling:
“I don’t know where I am!”
“Calm down. Look for a sign.”
“They closed the frickin’, goddamned... There’s a sign up ahead: a street sign.”
“Can you give me a hint? A town?”
I’ll get on the computer try to figure it out. It’s like playing “Where’s Waldo” on Mapquest. I must be good at it because I haven’t lost him yet. Sometimes I tell him to just keep driving. I stay on the phone until he gets someplace with a name I recognize. I now know every main route in Westchester & Putnam Counties.
But back to the current waste of an afternoon. It’s a short feature film; he has two pages of dialogue; I figured he’d be out by 2, the latest. I did not know at this point that they are shooting in 16mm. For those who don't know about film, this makes a difference. At 12:30 they broke for lunch and he had not even been seen by wardrobe.
I had already called everyone I know on Long Island – relatives, friends I haven’t seen in over 30 years – no one was home. What to do? I got in the car and started to explore the neighborhood. Museum Row. Hmmm, there must be something. The Marriott Hotel loomed in the distance. Hofstra University. Maybe I could sneak on to the campus and hole up in the library with free Wi-fi. I turn on the radio and, lo and behold, the Yankees are playing an afternoon game! I am okay for hours if I can just find someplace to watch it.
And that is how I end up at Hooters; a single, middle-aged woman with a laptop, drinking beer, eating a salad, staring at a 25 inch screen about 12 feet away with no sound (just the bad R&R music blasting through the restaurant) and wondering why the guy at the next table is staring at me. He’s in his 20s. Hasn’t he ever seen his mother at Hooters? His girlfriend meets him at the table and now they are both looking in my direction. What the *!&! are they looking at? I turn. There is a giant TV screen right behind me. I change my seat. Why squint?
It’s some guy named Matt’s birthday and the buxom waitresses in short-shorts have perched him on a chair, a menu in each hand and a roll of paper towels stuffed under his t-shirt to give him the breasts that are mandatory for the wait-staff. He is flapping his menus and we are clapping rhythmically as they rap a happy birthday, Hooters-style. It’s public humiliation in my book but Matt seems to be enjoying the attention. Every time a new customer enters, all the waitresses scream “Welcome to Hooooooterrrrrrs”, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. But I can cope. I am reading Michael Kay’s lips & all the trivia on the screen. I order a salad and a Coors Light, the least offensive of three light options, and am safely ensconced before a 72 inch screen with my laptop and my new best friends: you. The Yanks score 4 in the 2nd inning. I will survive. I just hope they don’t go into overtime: the film crew, that is.
My husband is what we laughingly call “geographically challenged”. I often joke that he could get lost mowing the lawn. Early in our relationship we took a weekend in the Berkshires and I had occasion to require a drug store. (No need to go into details.) He valiantly offered to drive to town for me and I watched from the window as he pulled out of the driveway and turned right. Town was to the left. Twenty minutes later I watched his car speed past in the other direction. In 25 years, nothing has changed. To this day he can’t give directions to our house. His parents have lived in the same place since he was a child and he still calls me to check what exit to get off. I am his mid-night GPS, fielding calls from dark country roads when they close the Parkway. I navigate him home. It is difficult sometimes since he can’t really tell me where he is. He’ll call, yelling:
“I don’t know where I am!”
“Calm down. Look for a sign.”
“They closed the frickin’, goddamned... There’s a sign up ahead: a street sign.”
“Can you give me a hint? A town?”
I’ll get on the computer try to figure it out. It’s like playing “Where’s Waldo” on Mapquest. I must be good at it because I haven’t lost him yet. Sometimes I tell him to just keep driving. I stay on the phone until he gets someplace with a name I recognize. I now know every main route in Westchester & Putnam Counties.
But back to the current waste of an afternoon. It’s a short feature film; he has two pages of dialogue; I figured he’d be out by 2, the latest. I did not know at this point that they are shooting in 16mm. For those who don't know about film, this makes a difference. At 12:30 they broke for lunch and he had not even been seen by wardrobe.
I had already called everyone I know on Long Island – relatives, friends I haven’t seen in over 30 years – no one was home. What to do? I got in the car and started to explore the neighborhood. Museum Row. Hmmm, there must be something. The Marriott Hotel loomed in the distance. Hofstra University. Maybe I could sneak on to the campus and hole up in the library with free Wi-fi. I turn on the radio and, lo and behold, the Yankees are playing an afternoon game! I am okay for hours if I can just find someplace to watch it.
And that is how I end up at Hooters; a single, middle-aged woman with a laptop, drinking beer, eating a salad, staring at a 25 inch screen about 12 feet away with no sound (just the bad R&R music blasting through the restaurant) and wondering why the guy at the next table is staring at me. He’s in his 20s. Hasn’t he ever seen his mother at Hooters? His girlfriend meets him at the table and now they are both looking in my direction. What the *!&! are they looking at? I turn. There is a giant TV screen right behind me. I change my seat. Why squint?
It’s some guy named Matt’s birthday and the buxom waitresses in short-shorts have perched him on a chair, a menu in each hand and a roll of paper towels stuffed under his t-shirt to give him the breasts that are mandatory for the wait-staff. He is flapping his menus and we are clapping rhythmically as they rap a happy birthday, Hooters-style. It’s public humiliation in my book but Matt seems to be enjoying the attention. Every time a new customer enters, all the waitresses scream “Welcome to Hooooooterrrrrrs”, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. But I can cope. I am reading Michael Kay’s lips & all the trivia on the screen. I order a salad and a Coors Light, the least offensive of three light options, and am safely ensconced before a 72 inch screen with my laptop and my new best friends: you. The Yanks score 4 in the 2nd inning. I will survive. I just hope they don’t go into overtime: the film crew, that is.
Friday, August 28, 2009
I’m sorry for the bad weather, everybody. I’m pretty sure it’s my fault. I scheduled headshots for today and tomorrow I have to drive to Long Island and then Brooklyn to see the film my husband is in, “Rivers Wash Over Me” at BAM. That is why Tropical Storm Danny is descending on our area. If we don’t leave early enough, the River will indeed be washing over me: the Saw Mill River, which floods the Saw Mill River Parkway if someone merely spills their coffee out the car window. I stayed home all week and the weather was perfect but sooner or later a person has to go out so I’m sorry.
Seriously, I don’t really think my actions control the weather. That is my mother’s job.
My Mom has been known to precipitate blizzards with the planning of a party, hurricanes and tornadoes if she even thinks about taking a trip. Years ago, when I told her we’d picked December 2nd for our wedding, she looked terrified and asked “Why?” My reasoning was simple. I came rather late in life to the whole wedding thing and I knew that if we were going to make it down the aisle at all, a long engagement and family participation were not in our best interests. I gave her six-weeks. “Besides”, I said, “It isn’t even winter technically. It never snows until the end of the month.” What I didn’t realize at the time was that her own wedding, on November 30th, had precipitated the blizzard of 1960! It snowed on my wedding day. In fact, I think it stopped snowing in April that year.
And so I sit here this August evening, a quilt covering my cold feet because I am unwilling to submit and put on socks in August. I’ll turn on the Yankee game soon but I won’t concentrate on the game. I’ll clean or something. They do much better when I’m not watching. They do best when I can’t even listen! David Cone & David Wells pitched their perfect games when I was in the Catskill Mountains with no reception!
The Universe is a strange and wonderful place. Everything is connected. Change one small thing and everything is different. I’m going downstairs now. Is everybody ready?
Seriously, I don’t really think my actions control the weather. That is my mother’s job.
My Mom has been known to precipitate blizzards with the planning of a party, hurricanes and tornadoes if she even thinks about taking a trip. Years ago, when I told her we’d picked December 2nd for our wedding, she looked terrified and asked “Why?” My reasoning was simple. I came rather late in life to the whole wedding thing and I knew that if we were going to make it down the aisle at all, a long engagement and family participation were not in our best interests. I gave her six-weeks. “Besides”, I said, “It isn’t even winter technically. It never snows until the end of the month.” What I didn’t realize at the time was that her own wedding, on November 30th, had precipitated the blizzard of 1960! It snowed on my wedding day. In fact, I think it stopped snowing in April that year.
And so I sit here this August evening, a quilt covering my cold feet because I am unwilling to submit and put on socks in August. I’ll turn on the Yankee game soon but I won’t concentrate on the game. I’ll clean or something. They do much better when I’m not watching. They do best when I can’t even listen! David Cone & David Wells pitched their perfect games when I was in the Catskill Mountains with no reception!
The Universe is a strange and wonderful place. Everything is connected. Change one small thing and everything is different. I’m going downstairs now. Is everybody ready?
It’s really sad when you open your email server to discover that you didn’t even get any junk mail. Nothing. Send/receive complete. You click it again because that is virtually impossible but, no, nobody wants you. Maybe I should remove the spamblocker! I already did that. Wow! Lonely!
My morning routine has become… routine. Wake up to the daylight because there is absolutely no reason to set an alarm. Reach over and grab the laptop which is on the floor beneath the nightstand so the blinking lights don’t keep me awake. Open it up and check the email in case someone somewhere wanted to contact me between 3 a.m. and 6. Delete the ads. Check Facebook to make sure no one else is doing anything remarkable. Play the daily Trivial Pursuit Game and Crossword (good for 9-10,000 points that I have no idea what to do with). Blog, if I have an idea, or just go back to sleep. Listen to my heart pounding in my chest. The arrhythmia loves that moment when I first lie down. Breathe deeply and will it to stop… pounding, that is. It is gratifying to know that it still beats at all.
I was just looking at an ad for Levi’s Signature Jeans, promising a “thinner you”. What I want to know is, when you squeeze yourself into those jeans, where does the fat go? Does it pool at the ankles? Does it come brimming out of the top and flop over the waistband? Mine does. You wouldn’t know from the models of these slenderizing jeans. If they were any more slender, they’d break in a stiff wind. Where are our ‘truth in advertising’ laws when it comes to this stuff? Like the 16 year old model advertising wrinkle cream, or the obviously B-cupper advertising double Ds? I want to see a fat girl in those jeans! I want to see the blousy top required to conceal the role of excess body that oozes over the top of the waistband like a mushroom cloud. Or better yet, no top! Let us see the effects of squeezing one’s body into an ankle-to-waist girdle. Think of a plastic bag filled with water: if you squeeze the middle of the bag the water has to go somewhere! Why not advertise a waist to neck slenderizer along with the jeans. Can you picture the poor chub, her body locked into the vise-like grip of her slenderizing outfit and her head about to explode like a ripe pimple? I’m suffocating just thinking about it! I bought a tummy-tucker once. It looked great when I was standing up. When I sat down, it cut off my circulation. I looked and felt as if I had an inflatable tube around my mid-section. I had to sit bolt upright, pressing my abdominal muscles to my backbone, taking shallow breaths. Upon removal, the lines of the seams and waistband remained etched into my flesh for a week. Who thinks of these things? Give me an island and muumuus. Give me a sanctuary away from mirrors and let me live in my mind’s eye where I am always 26 and beautiful.
My morning routine has become… routine. Wake up to the daylight because there is absolutely no reason to set an alarm. Reach over and grab the laptop which is on the floor beneath the nightstand so the blinking lights don’t keep me awake. Open it up and check the email in case someone somewhere wanted to contact me between 3 a.m. and 6. Delete the ads. Check Facebook to make sure no one else is doing anything remarkable. Play the daily Trivial Pursuit Game and Crossword (good for 9-10,000 points that I have no idea what to do with). Blog, if I have an idea, or just go back to sleep. Listen to my heart pounding in my chest. The arrhythmia loves that moment when I first lie down. Breathe deeply and will it to stop… pounding, that is. It is gratifying to know that it still beats at all.
I was just looking at an ad for Levi’s Signature Jeans, promising a “thinner you”. What I want to know is, when you squeeze yourself into those jeans, where does the fat go? Does it pool at the ankles? Does it come brimming out of the top and flop over the waistband? Mine does. You wouldn’t know from the models of these slenderizing jeans. If they were any more slender, they’d break in a stiff wind. Where are our ‘truth in advertising’ laws when it comes to this stuff? Like the 16 year old model advertising wrinkle cream, or the obviously B-cupper advertising double Ds? I want to see a fat girl in those jeans! I want to see the blousy top required to conceal the role of excess body that oozes over the top of the waistband like a mushroom cloud. Or better yet, no top! Let us see the effects of squeezing one’s body into an ankle-to-waist girdle. Think of a plastic bag filled with water: if you squeeze the middle of the bag the water has to go somewhere! Why not advertise a waist to neck slenderizer along with the jeans. Can you picture the poor chub, her body locked into the vise-like grip of her slenderizing outfit and her head about to explode like a ripe pimple? I’m suffocating just thinking about it! I bought a tummy-tucker once. It looked great when I was standing up. When I sat down, it cut off my circulation. I looked and felt as if I had an inflatable tube around my mid-section. I had to sit bolt upright, pressing my abdominal muscles to my backbone, taking shallow breaths. Upon removal, the lines of the seams and waistband remained etched into my flesh for a week. Who thinks of these things? Give me an island and muumuus. Give me a sanctuary away from mirrors and let me live in my mind’s eye where I am always 26 and beautiful.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
I feel like my head is filled with lead; like I’m one of those bobble-headed dolls with a lead weight right at the bridge of the nose. Sinus. Allergies. I forgot to take my antihistamine yesterday. Last night I had occasion to hang my head (don’t ask). Fluid dripped out of me like a leaky faucet. I could feel it draining and it didn’t feel good. I’d been watching “Henry Poole Is Here”, an indie feature about what happens when an image of Jesus appears in the stucco on the side of a dying man’s house. It was a ‘feel good’ movie; the sort that might run on one of those indie cable channels that my husband is so fond of. I never watch them but the cable guy is here for the 4th time right now trying to find out why ours have disappeared. But I digress. I liked the movie. No gore, no killing and the simple message that miracles can happen if you just believe. I can use a miracle right now. I got it on Netflix: a never ending source of movies you wouldn’t have paid to see in the first place but now you can get as many of them as you can watch and return for a set price each month, so you do. You can even watch old TV shows; whole seasons of them! Do you remember when you were young and the whole family gathered to watch “Ed Sullivan” or “Bonanza”? (I wasn’t really allowed to stay up for “Bonanza” but I was allowed to watch the opening before being shooed off to bed. I listened from bed and caught them in reruns.) It was an event! If you missed an episode, tough luck. Episodes were independent of each other so, if you missed one, you weren’t totally lost. The family was still there, Paw, Hoss, Little Joe and the boring one, vanquishing a new enemy each week so you didn’t have to keep track. Nowadays, miss one episode of your favorite show and you might as well give it up. Oh, they try to help you with “Previously, on XXXX”, but it’s no good. The reminder only works if you actually saw it; as an educational tool, it is useless. But even that doesn’t really matter anymore because, if you have any semblance of wits about you, you recorded or TIVOed your favorite shows and then, even if the whole family does want to see the same thing, they can do it at different times. I usually watch when it first airs. My husband will watch when he comes home late at night. My son will watch when his friends can join him. We never have to sit down and watch a show together! In fact, if we DO manage to sit together, it leads to an inordinate amount of eating.
I’ve been on a ‘feel good’ bender, trying to shake out of this downward spiral of unemployment and general uselessness by immersing myself in uplifting movies. Jesus-on-the-wall followed Jim Carrey’s “Yes Man” and found myself thinking I would try that: saying “Yes!” to whatever comes my way; to opening myself up to the universe and seeing where it takes me. Clearly what I’ve been doing hasn’t worked so I’ll try it. The first thing that came along was an online survey about a recent experience with my bank and their new policy of charging even more exorbitant fees for me to use my own money. Apparently, they didn’t think they had enough of it. Normally I would delete this immediately. But I said “Yes!” and I filled it out. “You’re representatives are very nice but you policy setters are bad, bad boys!” We’ll see where that leads me.
The kick-off for my bender was “Inglorious Basterds”. I can’t say I’ve been a big fan of Quentin Tarantino. While I like the simple morality that pervades his films, I usually spend at least half of the movie looking away until the screaming stops. But “Inglorious Basterds” was an adrenalin shot to the heart; a great movie at which to be a Jew; a great movie at which to be a person who needs to believe we can overcome tyranny; a movie for anyone who needs to believe there is justice in the world; in short, a fantasy. Sure there were times I had to turn away, but even then I was laughing. Even this morning, as I brushed my teeth and remembered the final scene, a little gag rose in my throat. It’s a truly sick person who can make you laugh at stuff like Nazis and cruelty, blood and gore. I loved every perverse minute of it.
So the cable guy has left and I hear my husband flipping channels to see what crap he has missed. I think it is safe to leave my room and find my pills. Today I will join a gym and see what uplifting matinee I can catch at half-price. I will say “Yes” to the Universe and, when I get home, there will be a dozen applications for my classes in the mailbox. Shut up; it’s MY fantasy!
I’ve been on a ‘feel good’ bender, trying to shake out of this downward spiral of unemployment and general uselessness by immersing myself in uplifting movies. Jesus-on-the-wall followed Jim Carrey’s “Yes Man” and found myself thinking I would try that: saying “Yes!” to whatever comes my way; to opening myself up to the universe and seeing where it takes me. Clearly what I’ve been doing hasn’t worked so I’ll try it. The first thing that came along was an online survey about a recent experience with my bank and their new policy of charging even more exorbitant fees for me to use my own money. Apparently, they didn’t think they had enough of it. Normally I would delete this immediately. But I said “Yes!” and I filled it out. “You’re representatives are very nice but you policy setters are bad, bad boys!” We’ll see where that leads me.
The kick-off for my bender was “Inglorious Basterds”. I can’t say I’ve been a big fan of Quentin Tarantino. While I like the simple morality that pervades his films, I usually spend at least half of the movie looking away until the screaming stops. But “Inglorious Basterds” was an adrenalin shot to the heart; a great movie at which to be a Jew; a great movie at which to be a person who needs to believe we can overcome tyranny; a movie for anyone who needs to believe there is justice in the world; in short, a fantasy. Sure there were times I had to turn away, but even then I was laughing. Even this morning, as I brushed my teeth and remembered the final scene, a little gag rose in my throat. It’s a truly sick person who can make you laugh at stuff like Nazis and cruelty, blood and gore. I loved every perverse minute of it.
So the cable guy has left and I hear my husband flipping channels to see what crap he has missed. I think it is safe to leave my room and find my pills. Today I will join a gym and see what uplifting matinee I can catch at half-price. I will say “Yes” to the Universe and, when I get home, there will be a dozen applications for my classes in the mailbox. Shut up; it’s MY fantasy!
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Ted Kennedy died today at age 77. Camelot is really over. Many people are writing about the kind of man he was and his legacy. I won’t do that. His death, as with all things, is about me.
Don’t shake your head at me! It’s true for every one of us. When someone we know dies, it makes us stop and reflect. I was 9 when Jack Kennedy campaigned on Church Avenue in Brooklyn and shook my little hand as his float rolled by. I was smitten and rooted for him with all my heart even though I knew nothing about him or his opponent. History would prove my schoolgirl instinct correct, but that’s another story. Jack’s assassination when I was in Junior High School became the first in a series of “where-were- you-when” events that we all have in our minds like still photos in a moving world. And then Bobby. And Jackie remarried and the romantic in me couldn’t understand how she could do that. I was a child.
But Ted Kennedy died at age 77 and I’m no spring chicken anymore. That’s less than 20 years away. I heard yesterday of a local man who died suddenly at age 61. That’s three years. I called the doctor the other day and was told the results of my needle-biopsy could take up to two weeks. Three years minus two weeks, that’s… you get the point. For the first time, life does not loom in front of me like an open question. It has an expiration date.
Don’t shake your head at me! It’s true for every one of us. When someone we know dies, it makes us stop and reflect. I was 9 when Jack Kennedy campaigned on Church Avenue in Brooklyn and shook my little hand as his float rolled by. I was smitten and rooted for him with all my heart even though I knew nothing about him or his opponent. History would prove my schoolgirl instinct correct, but that’s another story. Jack’s assassination when I was in Junior High School became the first in a series of “where-were- you-when” events that we all have in our minds like still photos in a moving world. And then Bobby. And Jackie remarried and the romantic in me couldn’t understand how she could do that. I was a child.
But Ted Kennedy died at age 77 and I’m no spring chicken anymore. That’s less than 20 years away. I heard yesterday of a local man who died suddenly at age 61. That’s three years. I called the doctor the other day and was told the results of my needle-biopsy could take up to two weeks. Three years minus two weeks, that’s… you get the point. For the first time, life does not loom in front of me like an open question. It has an expiration date.
When I started writing, everyone told me to “write about what you know.” Several years ago, a mentor told me, “Write as if no one will ever read it.” Somewhere in between these two statements is the tightrope I’m walking. Comedians walk the tightrope with snowshoes, trampling over their loved ones, exploiting relationships for a laugh. It’s hard to imagine that Henny Youngman, after a night of “Take my wife… please”, ever went home and got laid. But some things are just funny. For example, we were just watching TV and my husband responded to a commercial saying, “I’m smarter than a 5th grader!” I quickly responded, “Which one?” Let me quickly add, since I know he’ll be reading this, that my husband IS smarter than a 5th grader, or at least most of them!
And there we are, back at the crux of my fear. What if I hurt someone?! Family, if you are reading this, you are all hysterically funny! One relative calls to tell me his doctor did a sonogram and said he can go dancing. Another calls to tell me nothing and then sums it up by saying, “Well, that’s about it.” Let’s talk more!
And what’s up with refrigerator magnets? I have a small collection from places I’ve never been given to me by people who are close enough to believe they need to bring me a gift but don’t really know what to bring. In all fairness, I am guilty of doing the same thing to the same people but, in my defense, I actually thought they LIKED refrigerator magnets! And it’s not that I don’t cherish them; I LOVE them- I would never, for instance, think of putting them on the door of the freezer in the basement instead of in the kitchen – it’s just that I would like to go somewhere myself someday and they are a painful reminder of how remote a possibility that is.
Seriously, I love you all but don’t feel the need to bring me something every time you go away… unless it’s something really cool… or edible. Just go and enjoy yourself! If I ever do get to go someplace, I don’t really want to spend my time shopping, especially for other people. I want to see things and create memories. If I find something that I think someone would like, and if I can afford it, okay. But the problem with gifts is that when you find something you like for one person, you then have to find things for everyone else, and suddenly you’re trolling for ‘chatchkies’ and wind up with a suitcase full of refrigerator magnets! Have I hurt you? I am so, so sorry!!!!
The internet has given us a tremendous forum for sharing things with people that they don’t really need to see: 187 pictures of your family vacation; 75 pictures of the baby’s first bowl of cereal (not my grandchild; those are priceless); 131 pictures of your friends and new relatives I’ve never met at parties I wasn’t invited to; 15 pix of the beer-pong party in MY living room when I wasn't home;YouTube postings of your three hour layover at some airport (if you think you were bored, why would you think we want to watch that?) YouTube postings of every play you’ve ever done. (By the way, some of those plays are mine and I don’t appreciate having my intellectual property blasted into cyberspace without being paid. But I love you and appreciate you wanting to share!)
In short, I would like to express my apologies in advance to everyone I have ever known who may wind up on these pages somehow. I will try to protect your anonymity but you may know, or think you know who you are. You could be wrong. Maybe I’m just making it all up.
And there we are, back at the crux of my fear. What if I hurt someone?! Family, if you are reading this, you are all hysterically funny! One relative calls to tell me his doctor did a sonogram and said he can go dancing. Another calls to tell me nothing and then sums it up by saying, “Well, that’s about it.” Let’s talk more!
And what’s up with refrigerator magnets? I have a small collection from places I’ve never been given to me by people who are close enough to believe they need to bring me a gift but don’t really know what to bring. In all fairness, I am guilty of doing the same thing to the same people but, in my defense, I actually thought they LIKED refrigerator magnets! And it’s not that I don’t cherish them; I LOVE them- I would never, for instance, think of putting them on the door of the freezer in the basement instead of in the kitchen – it’s just that I would like to go somewhere myself someday and they are a painful reminder of how remote a possibility that is.
Seriously, I love you all but don’t feel the need to bring me something every time you go away… unless it’s something really cool… or edible. Just go and enjoy yourself! If I ever do get to go someplace, I don’t really want to spend my time shopping, especially for other people. I want to see things and create memories. If I find something that I think someone would like, and if I can afford it, okay. But the problem with gifts is that when you find something you like for one person, you then have to find things for everyone else, and suddenly you’re trolling for ‘chatchkies’ and wind up with a suitcase full of refrigerator magnets! Have I hurt you? I am so, so sorry!!!!
The internet has given us a tremendous forum for sharing things with people that they don’t really need to see: 187 pictures of your family vacation; 75 pictures of the baby’s first bowl of cereal (not my grandchild; those are priceless); 131 pictures of your friends and new relatives I’ve never met at parties I wasn’t invited to; 15 pix of the beer-pong party in MY living room when I wasn't home;YouTube postings of your three hour layover at some airport (if you think you were bored, why would you think we want to watch that?) YouTube postings of every play you’ve ever done. (By the way, some of those plays are mine and I don’t appreciate having my intellectual property blasted into cyberspace without being paid. But I love you and appreciate you wanting to share!)
In short, I would like to express my apologies in advance to everyone I have ever known who may wind up on these pages somehow. I will try to protect your anonymity but you may know, or think you know who you are. You could be wrong. Maybe I’m just making it all up.
Monday, August 24, 2009
It is Monday morning and the week looms before me like a blank canvas. Other than wait for the doctor to call with the results from my needle biopsy, I have nothing to do. My husband is going to work soon, my son has gone to Grad school orientation even though he has already taken nine credits, and I am contemplating a Word Whomp marathon to get my Pogo points up to 8 million. For those who haven’t discovered Pogo, it is an addictive website for those with nothing better to do. You can do crosswords, play trivia games, bowl like you’ve never been able to bowl with a real ball because real balls are either too heavy or have such small finger holes that once you get your fingers inside you can’t get them out so the ball hits the lane with a thump taking some of your skin with it until it lamely drifts into the gutter. In Word Whomp, you hit little moles over the head while trying to make words out of six letters. The hitting is especially satisfying.
My husband is currently in the other room screaming at a cable representative because many of the channels we pay for are still missing despite repeated calls and visits from technicians with jobs but no understanding of how to fix the problems they were sent to fix. I am in the bedroom screaming inside my head, “Maybe I could get that job! I could throw my hands up in the air and say ‘I just don’t know’ with the same authority!” And since I don’t know how to fix anything, at the very least I won’t screw it up any further. Already the customer would be ahead of the game. Instead of fixing the problem I could offer therapy! “Talk to me. Tell me why this little box is so important to you.”
I just heard my husband making another appointment for a technician to come out! This would be visit number 4! Thursday morning between 9 and 12. Well, at least now I have something to put in my calendar.
My husband is currently in the other room screaming at a cable representative because many of the channels we pay for are still missing despite repeated calls and visits from technicians with jobs but no understanding of how to fix the problems they were sent to fix. I am in the bedroom screaming inside my head, “Maybe I could get that job! I could throw my hands up in the air and say ‘I just don’t know’ with the same authority!” And since I don’t know how to fix anything, at the very least I won’t screw it up any further. Already the customer would be ahead of the game. Instead of fixing the problem I could offer therapy! “Talk to me. Tell me why this little box is so important to you.”
I just heard my husband making another appointment for a technician to come out! This would be visit number 4! Thursday morning between 9 and 12. Well, at least now I have something to put in my calendar.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Our son’s dog is sleeping on my bed, stretched out against my leg leaving me about four inches to the edge of the mattress. We’re dog-sitting. I don’t really mind. It has been a long time since a dog let me share my bed. We are dog people and yet our home has been without a live dog for several years. Ours are on the mantle, in two green boxes with flowers on them, reduced to ashes that we cannot bring ourselves to scatter. Scooter was a Bichon who lived a full life and died of nothing in particular at age 18. Roma was a Cane Corso, an Italian Mastiff five times the size of Scooter, who invaded our hearts and left a hole that will never be filled when she got bone cancer and had to be put down before her 10th birthday. I’d never had a BIG dog before. There’s something about a BIG dog. They are forces to be reckoned with. You cannot shoo them off a sofa or a chair; they have to want to get off. When they greet you at the door, it isn’t a pesky-jumping-all-over-you kind of greeting but a lumbering-Thank-God--you’re-home-give-me-a-hug-because-I-was-worried-about-you-every-minute-you-were-gone. Roma was a person. She guarded our family like a benevolent nanny: like Nurse in “Romeo & Juliet; Nana in “Peter Pan”. Her appearance in the window was enough to make grown men flee. Once I spotted the UPS truck at the foot of the driveway and went to meet him on the front porch. He came up the steps, saw the dog in the window and threw the package at me with such force I was blasted back through the front door and onto my ass on inside the steps. I could swear Roma, who hadn’t so much as growled, shrugged. She was a gentle giant that small children could ride; small dogs would hang from her jowls in a feeble attempt to dominate.
Now, Bailey is a mid-sized dog; a Puggle; a ‘Designer Dog’; a genetically engineered mutt. Although he has a Beagle’s snout his face is frozen into the perpetual sneer of a Pug making you wonder if you’ve done something wrong. The saving grace of this nasal correction is that Bailey doesn’t snore; an excellent quality since he is determined to sleep as close to my pillow as possible. He requires long walks which is not a bad thing when you are out of work and looking for excuses to exercise. It is, however, disconcerting when it is 11 o’clock at night and the road is covered in fog and the only noises you hear are nocturnal animals prowling through the woods. (Note to self: Walk Bailey before it gets dark!) He watches TV and charges the screen whenever he sees an animal. Seriously! Dogs, horses… We were watching the scene in “Women in Love” where Oliver Reed as Gerald tries to ride his horse through a moving train and Bailey, who had been asleep on the sofa, cramming me into my allotted four inches next to the arm, tried to leap right through the screen and over the boxcars! It was very funny actually, if a little distracting; not quite the mood Ken Russell was trying to create. Or maybe it was. Ursula & Gudrun were terrified that Gerald would kill the poor horse against the side of the train. We were terrified that Bailey would shatter and kill our currently irreplaceable flat screen TV. Fear is fear.
Its morning now and time to take Bailey for a marathon. The sky is thick with clouds and thunderstorms are predicted again. We’d better walk quickly. Good exercise. Bailey goes home tomorrow. I wonder what reason I’ll invent to get up.
Now, Bailey is a mid-sized dog; a Puggle; a ‘Designer Dog’; a genetically engineered mutt. Although he has a Beagle’s snout his face is frozen into the perpetual sneer of a Pug making you wonder if you’ve done something wrong. The saving grace of this nasal correction is that Bailey doesn’t snore; an excellent quality since he is determined to sleep as close to my pillow as possible. He requires long walks which is not a bad thing when you are out of work and looking for excuses to exercise. It is, however, disconcerting when it is 11 o’clock at night and the road is covered in fog and the only noises you hear are nocturnal animals prowling through the woods. (Note to self: Walk Bailey before it gets dark!) He watches TV and charges the screen whenever he sees an animal. Seriously! Dogs, horses… We were watching the scene in “Women in Love” where Oliver Reed as Gerald tries to ride his horse through a moving train and Bailey, who had been asleep on the sofa, cramming me into my allotted four inches next to the arm, tried to leap right through the screen and over the boxcars! It was very funny actually, if a little distracting; not quite the mood Ken Russell was trying to create. Or maybe it was. Ursula & Gudrun were terrified that Gerald would kill the poor horse against the side of the train. We were terrified that Bailey would shatter and kill our currently irreplaceable flat screen TV. Fear is fear.
Its morning now and time to take Bailey for a marathon. The sky is thick with clouds and thunderstorms are predicted again. We’d better walk quickly. Good exercise. Bailey goes home tomorrow. I wonder what reason I’ll invent to get up.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
We’re going to a wedding today. I am proud to say that Connecticut is among the first states to approve gay marriage, affording many of our friends who have been together as long as we have been a privilege that we took for granted: the right to spend far too much money on a wedding.
The invitation that arrived several weeks ago was tasteful and masculine; in other words, brown. I put “what to give them’ on the back burner to simmer and went about my life. But, as the day approached, I knew I had to make a decision.
Wedding gifts are generally a simple matter in our Jewish/Italian extended family. You give money. The amount of money is determined by a simple formula based on calculating the relationship to the couple times the price per person of the reception dinner times the number of people attending. Do not forget that, by the time you have gotten to a Jewish/Italian wedding, you have already given an engagement gift and a shower gift. But these guys were just having a wedding! And they’d been together for years so they already had everything! We went shopping.
In the absence of necessity, taste becomes the ruling factor in choosing a gift. I wanted it to be practical but memorable. And affordable. Face it; I am out of work. With this in mind, we set out for the Mikasa Store in Danbury. It was gone. We went to the mall and took the elevator to the Fine China department at Macy’s. We spent a long time perusing the Waterford, Lenox, Orefors, etc. I fell in love at a table full of Kosta Boda bowls and vases, each one a work of art that I couldn’t lift… or afford. We walked the mall. Nothing. We went back to Macy’s. There was the Opel Innocence line by Lenox that our son and daughter-in-law had registered for that now covered their small home.
“Too feminine,” my husband said.
I found a picture frame edged in baby pearls.
“Too feminine.”
A clear, cut-glass frame by Lenox.
“Maybe.Tom and Dick (let’s just call them that for now) aren’t frilly. They’re guys!”
I found and fell for a handsome metal salad set by Mikasa in the Spiro pattern. We asked the salesperson. She couldn’t find it. She brought us the other Mikasa set: “Orchard Bloom”.
“Too feminine! ”
We said we’d buy the floor sample. She went to find the box. She couldn’t find the box but did find the pasta set. I said I preferred the salad set. She set off again. Finally she returned having found an unopened salad set and “Guess what! It’s going on sale tomorrow! I’ll give it to you today.”
“Wonderful!” We went to the register.
“Are they registered?” I looked at my husband. My husband looked at me.
“I doubt it.”
“Well, let’s check.”
I handed her the invitation that I happened to have in my purse. She looked at the names, looked up at us, smiled, and went to the computer. Moments later, she returned with a long print-out. There they were registered… for “Opel Innocence”!
“Wow”, they’re really gay!”
We left the salad set at the register and went to look for the Opel Innocence picture album they had requested. Not in stock. The intrepid salesperson checked the computer and found two other stores that, according to the computer, had them in stock. Several phone calls later it was confirmed there was no “Opel Innocence” photo album in the State. We bought the salad set. If they hate it, they can return it and order the other stuff but we loved it!
At the gift wrap desk, I picked out a subdued wrapping paper with a sedate bow. My husband opted for the big frilly one with a flower that nearly covered the box.
“What the hell,” he said. “I was wrong about everything else!”
The invitation that arrived several weeks ago was tasteful and masculine; in other words, brown. I put “what to give them’ on the back burner to simmer and went about my life. But, as the day approached, I knew I had to make a decision.
Wedding gifts are generally a simple matter in our Jewish/Italian extended family. You give money. The amount of money is determined by a simple formula based on calculating the relationship to the couple times the price per person of the reception dinner times the number of people attending. Do not forget that, by the time you have gotten to a Jewish/Italian wedding, you have already given an engagement gift and a shower gift. But these guys were just having a wedding! And they’d been together for years so they already had everything! We went shopping.
In the absence of necessity, taste becomes the ruling factor in choosing a gift. I wanted it to be practical but memorable. And affordable. Face it; I am out of work. With this in mind, we set out for the Mikasa Store in Danbury. It was gone. We went to the mall and took the elevator to the Fine China department at Macy’s. We spent a long time perusing the Waterford, Lenox, Orefors, etc. I fell in love at a table full of Kosta Boda bowls and vases, each one a work of art that I couldn’t lift… or afford. We walked the mall. Nothing. We went back to Macy’s. There was the Opel Innocence line by Lenox that our son and daughter-in-law had registered for that now covered their small home.
“Too feminine,” my husband said.
I found a picture frame edged in baby pearls.
“Too feminine.”
A clear, cut-glass frame by Lenox.
“Maybe.Tom and Dick (let’s just call them that for now) aren’t frilly. They’re guys!”
I found and fell for a handsome metal salad set by Mikasa in the Spiro pattern. We asked the salesperson. She couldn’t find it. She brought us the other Mikasa set: “Orchard Bloom”.
“Too feminine! ”
We said we’d buy the floor sample. She went to find the box. She couldn’t find the box but did find the pasta set. I said I preferred the salad set. She set off again. Finally she returned having found an unopened salad set and “Guess what! It’s going on sale tomorrow! I’ll give it to you today.”
“Wonderful!” We went to the register.
“Are they registered?” I looked at my husband. My husband looked at me.
“I doubt it.”
“Well, let’s check.”
I handed her the invitation that I happened to have in my purse. She looked at the names, looked up at us, smiled, and went to the computer. Moments later, she returned with a long print-out. There they were registered… for “Opel Innocence”!
“Wow”, they’re really gay!”
We left the salad set at the register and went to look for the Opel Innocence picture album they had requested. Not in stock. The intrepid salesperson checked the computer and found two other stores that, according to the computer, had them in stock. Several phone calls later it was confirmed there was no “Opel Innocence” photo album in the State. We bought the salad set. If they hate it, they can return it and order the other stuff but we loved it!
At the gift wrap desk, I picked out a subdued wrapping paper with a sedate bow. My husband opted for the big frilly one with a flower that nearly covered the box.
“What the hell,” he said. “I was wrong about everything else!”
There was a spider on my wall as I came into my bedroom. It was about an inch long with black stripes on its brown body… I think. I instantly recoiled and, being nearsighted, its hard to be sure. I was more than half undressed but there was no time to delay. I grabbed a tissue and, topless, advanced on the ugly creature. I paused, thinking about my newly painted walls and, in a flash, he was gone, dropped down some silky escape rope and scurried to safety under the radiator. I found a can of bug spray under the bathroom sink and saturated the area. Immediately my eye spied another spider, this one ambling across the wall above the window that is behind my bed, right where I lay my head. This was serious! Did you see “Nurse Jackie” this week? If you don’t watch this show, you’re missing something special. This week, a patient came into the ER with a spider in each ear! Inside his head! He could feel them moving around! The nurse, who had arachnophobia said “What, do you live in the woods?” I live in the woods! These spiders are not moving in to my ears! I climbed on to the bed, spray can in one hand, tissue in the other, and again, the spider dropped and disappeared, this time behind the bed. I sprayed the space between the wall and my bed frame, wondering how long it would take me and my husband to die from these fumes. I have to tell you, I don’t have any confidence that this is over. Surely these spiders feel my paranoia. Perhaps they met on the floor and, gasping for breath after being gassed by the Ortho Roach, Ant and Spider Killer (no subtlety in that brand name!) they are planning their revenge! They are amassing an army beneath my bed and I will end up covered in spiders like that Charlton Heston movie with the Marabunda only those were man-eating ants! I read for a while, one eye scanning the walls for moving dots. My eyelids grew heavy, and then…
Well, goodnight!
Well, goodnight!
Friday, August 21, 2009
Splat
One of the things a person should do when they’re not doing anything else is look after one’s health. After a routine mammogram a few weeks ago, it was suggested that I have a needle biopsy to explore a cluster of calcium deposits that appeared in my left breast like a small constellation. “It could be something. It could be nothing. There’s only a 20% chance that it’s cancerous but let’s check it out.” Twenty percent!!!!???? That’s one in five! If one in five people were unemployed, we’d be closing the borders and declaring a national emergency! If one in five people were homeless, the streets would be impassable! If one in five married couples got divorced…! Okay, bad example. I agreed to the test.
I didn’t sleep very well the night before. At 3 a.m. I finally realized staring at a crossword puzzle wasn’t going to work its usual magic, so I put the laptop down, turned off the light and tossed until five when I must have dozed off. The alarm sounded at 7. I dragged myself into the shower because the instructions, left downstairs on my kitchen counter, said I shouldn’t wear deodorant, powder, or perfume. I threw on denim shorts and a tank-top & went downstairs to consult the rest of the instructions:
1. Wear loose, comfortable pants with an elastic band.
Back upstairs. Change shorts. Back downstairs. Read next instruction:
2. Wear a comfortable shirt that buttons.
Back upstairs. Change shirt. Back downstairs. Take morning pills.
I took the plethora of pills in my daily pill-sorter including the baby aspirin I was told to take when my heart started rattling around in my chest like a sneaker in the dryer, but that’s another story. (I wouldn’t know what day it was if it weren’t for that pill-sorter. One week, I accidentally started taking the pills from the beginning of the row and was completely stunned when Friday arrived on Tuesday!) Read the rest of the instructions:
3. Don’t take any aspirin.
I left my husband sitting in the waiting room. I was escorted to a room with a contraption that could only have been invented by the Marquis de Sade: an eight foot, concave table with a hole in the middle through which the breast would dangle like an udder or a punching bag. Images of dangling things flashed through my mind .
The technologist explained the procedure to me & I said “I wish I had taken a valium.”
“Oh, you could have,” she said comfortingly.
“I didn’t have any,” I hinted. She didn’t take the hint.
I got on the table, face down, and dropped my left breast into the hole. There was no indentation for anything like a face so I had to turn my head to the right and rest it on my right arm. My left arm had to stay at my side but I was able to wedge it under my left hip in a feeble attempt to alleviate the pressure of the edge of the hole on my rib. The small foam pad she wedged under me gave little comfort; anything thick enough to truly cushion would have lessened the droop factor. Once I was ‘comfortably’ positioned, two metal plates beneath the table grabbed my breast in a vise-like grip, pinning me to the table. Lovely. Okay all you veterans of mammograms; tell me you never imagined that breast going SPLAT as they flattened it like a pancake!
Novocain was administered like several bee stings and soon I couldn’t feel anything but the crick in my neck and the pain of the watch I had neglected to take off cutting into the wrist I had wedged under my hip. “Try not to move. It’ll be about 30 minutes.”
I breathed deeply, trying to imagine myself lying on a beach, a cool breeze blowing on my face. (There was a fan strategically placed right in front of my face.) Relax. Breathe; maybe I’ll fall asleep. DON’T! What if I wake up suddenly, jerk upright and rip my right breast off! Breathe. Relax…
“We’re inserting the probe now.” Wild fantasies of being left on the table like this, my breast in a vise, skewered into place, while everyone left for a fire drill. At one point, the nurse told me I would hear some sharp sounds as samples were grabbed and that I shouldn’t be startled. I imagined myself jumping, my breast exploding like something only Quentin Tarentino could portray. She held me gently as I willed myself to stay still. Someone else arrived. Elsie. They introduced me to her even though my head was fixed the other way.
“I think I’ve met you before,” I said. “Didn’t you do my intra-vaginal sonogram?”
“Yes!”
“Yeah, I know Elsie. We’ve been intimate”. That got a laugh. Everyone was no nice!
At some point I heard people leaving the room & I started to panic. “Is anybody there” I asked, afraid to turn my head. The comforting voice of the nurse assured me I was not alone and that it was almost over.
“Is that thing still in me?”
“Yes.”
I started to get antsy. What was “almost”? A minute? Thirty seconds? I started to panic. I needed to know.
“How much longer, SPECIFICALLY, until I can get out of this thing?!”
“About five minutes”.
More deep breathing, willing myself to stay calm. Finally the surgeon returned and told me they’d gotten a sufficient sample and that she would remove the probe. I felt her hand squeezing me even more, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. All I could think of was “Those poor cows!”
When it was all over, and I was released from captivity, I was escorted to the regular mammogram room for two more rounds of vise-like squeezing on my still numb breast.
Out in the hallway on the way back to the car my husband asked how it was. I said “Stressful”. He started to cry, “I was so upset!”
I didn’t sleep very well the night before. At 3 a.m. I finally realized staring at a crossword puzzle wasn’t going to work its usual magic, so I put the laptop down, turned off the light and tossed until five when I must have dozed off. The alarm sounded at 7. I dragged myself into the shower because the instructions, left downstairs on my kitchen counter, said I shouldn’t wear deodorant, powder, or perfume. I threw on denim shorts and a tank-top & went downstairs to consult the rest of the instructions:
1. Wear loose, comfortable pants with an elastic band.
Back upstairs. Change shorts. Back downstairs. Read next instruction:
2. Wear a comfortable shirt that buttons.
Back upstairs. Change shirt. Back downstairs. Take morning pills.
I took the plethora of pills in my daily pill-sorter including the baby aspirin I was told to take when my heart started rattling around in my chest like a sneaker in the dryer, but that’s another story. (I wouldn’t know what day it was if it weren’t for that pill-sorter. One week, I accidentally started taking the pills from the beginning of the row and was completely stunned when Friday arrived on Tuesday!) Read the rest of the instructions:
3. Don’t take any aspirin.
I left my husband sitting in the waiting room. I was escorted to a room with a contraption that could only have been invented by the Marquis de Sade: an eight foot, concave table with a hole in the middle through which the breast would dangle like an udder or a punching bag. Images of dangling things flashed through my mind .
The technologist explained the procedure to me & I said “I wish I had taken a valium.”
“Oh, you could have,” she said comfortingly.
“I didn’t have any,” I hinted. She didn’t take the hint.
I got on the table, face down, and dropped my left breast into the hole. There was no indentation for anything like a face so I had to turn my head to the right and rest it on my right arm. My left arm had to stay at my side but I was able to wedge it under my left hip in a feeble attempt to alleviate the pressure of the edge of the hole on my rib. The small foam pad she wedged under me gave little comfort; anything thick enough to truly cushion would have lessened the droop factor. Once I was ‘comfortably’ positioned, two metal plates beneath the table grabbed my breast in a vise-like grip, pinning me to the table. Lovely. Okay all you veterans of mammograms; tell me you never imagined that breast going SPLAT as they flattened it like a pancake!
Novocain was administered like several bee stings and soon I couldn’t feel anything but the crick in my neck and the pain of the watch I had neglected to take off cutting into the wrist I had wedged under my hip. “Try not to move. It’ll be about 30 minutes.”
I breathed deeply, trying to imagine myself lying on a beach, a cool breeze blowing on my face. (There was a fan strategically placed right in front of my face.) Relax. Breathe; maybe I’ll fall asleep. DON’T! What if I wake up suddenly, jerk upright and rip my right breast off! Breathe. Relax…
“We’re inserting the probe now.” Wild fantasies of being left on the table like this, my breast in a vise, skewered into place, while everyone left for a fire drill. At one point, the nurse told me I would hear some sharp sounds as samples were grabbed and that I shouldn’t be startled. I imagined myself jumping, my breast exploding like something only Quentin Tarentino could portray. She held me gently as I willed myself to stay still. Someone else arrived. Elsie. They introduced me to her even though my head was fixed the other way.
“I think I’ve met you before,” I said. “Didn’t you do my intra-vaginal sonogram?”
“Yes!”
“Yeah, I know Elsie. We’ve been intimate”. That got a laugh. Everyone was no nice!
At some point I heard people leaving the room & I started to panic. “Is anybody there” I asked, afraid to turn my head. The comforting voice of the nurse assured me I was not alone and that it was almost over.
“Is that thing still in me?”
“Yes.”
I started to get antsy. What was “almost”? A minute? Thirty seconds? I started to panic. I needed to know.
“How much longer, SPECIFICALLY, until I can get out of this thing?!”
“About five minutes”.
More deep breathing, willing myself to stay calm. Finally the surgeon returned and told me they’d gotten a sufficient sample and that she would remove the probe. I felt her hand squeezing me even more, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. All I could think of was “Those poor cows!”
When it was all over, and I was released from captivity, I was escorted to the regular mammogram room for two more rounds of vise-like squeezing on my still numb breast.
Out in the hallway on the way back to the car my husband asked how it was. I said “Stressful”. He started to cry, “I was so upset!”
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
I recently had occasion to fly to Florida to visit my mother; a visit that was long overdue. The plane was overbooked so I knew I was going to be packed in next to SOMEONE. I boarded early and contemplated the tiny seats. Was it my imagination or had they gotten smaller since the last time I flew? I had a window seat and I dreaded the possibility of someone of large girth (is that diplomatic enough?) slipping into the seat next to me. I hate that! If you can’t fit into a single seat you should have to buy two. Sorry Fat lobbyists but that’s my position and I’m sticking to it. I buried myself in my book to mask my anxiety.
Moments later, an Orthodox Jewish man bustled up the aisle wrangling four children! One child slipped in beside me, three hustled into the row in front of me and the father sat on the aisle. I smiled, genuinely. They introduced themselves. I let them know I was Jewish.
I’m not orthodox; I barely practice. And I’m generally not a fan of orthodox anythings because they tend to want to hurt everyone else. Except Jews; I have a soft-spot for Orthodox Jews. In a world that seems intent on eradicating us, I’m glad they’re here and multiplying. In case there really is a God, I’m glad they’re praying. I find myself smiling uncontrollably when I pass a Chassid. I’m also a little afraid of them, as if they can see into my brain and know that I don’t really believe all this stuff. I do pray on occasion, mostly to plead for help, but I’m not quite sure who or what I am talking to and I’m pretty sure no one hears me.
And so I greeted the prospect of a three hour trip in close quarters with a man who brought nothing to read but a prayer book, a bag full of Kosher food and four equally devout children, each with a book (though more secular and diverse in content & some requiring a crayon) with a mixture of delight and dread. The children were charming; adorable, well-behaved, reaching their tiny hands between the seats to get a sandwich from “Abba”. Abba was warm and comfortable with them, speaking in a calm, cajoling voice, teasing them about saying the B’racha before eating. He washed his hands on behalf of all of them rather than parade them to the bathroom up the narrow aisle. He offered me a sandwich but I declined having just had a bowl of chili with sour cream and a Guinness at the airport bar. I prayed he couldn’t smell the unholy mixture on my breath.
He checked out all the channels and all the movies available for purchase and, deeming them inappropriate for the children to watch, he played the in flight trivia game. The children opened their books. I started to watch “The Daily Show” rerun on Comedy Central until I realized there was no way to shield the sweet little boy beside me from reading Jon Stewart’s lips. I opened my laptop. Abba asked me what I did and I told him. He too was in the business, producing educational videos. I doubted we had the same sensibilities. He asked if he’d ever seen me in something and, seizing the chance to prove my worthiness, I told him about my days in “Fiddler on the Roof”. I said I had a short film on You Tube that I wrote, directed and appeared in and he asked if they could see it. I said we’d have to wait until I could access the internet. As the plane climbed to cruising altitude I mentally reviewed the content of the film I had promised to show. I had cleaned it up considerably from the original version where a middle-aged couple cursed out passing drivers on the highway, swapping things like “C—ksucking, mother f—king sonova bitch” for milder epithets like “Goddamned” this and “Goddamned” that. I couldn’t show this kid my video!!!! So I told Abba that, on second thought, he should view the video first because of some questionable language and he told me that if the language was questionable, he couldn’t listen to it either. I felt like a repentant Klansman might feel at Grace Baptist Church. Mortification rose from my feet to my face in a hot wave.
The crew came around offering snacks and Abba carefully scanned the possibilities for Kosher symbols, rejecting everything except the pretzels. I got the pretzels too. (On the return flight, I would shamelessly order the biscotti minus the K or OU.) During the flight Abba would read a few passages to me that he found particularly enlightening. I smiled appreciatively, not understanding a word. When the air-pressure in the cabin became unbearable, Abba distributed Mike & Ike’s Lemon Drops. Surprised they were Kosher, I accepted one. As the plane began to descend and my eardrums felt like they would explode, I searched my bag for that pack of gum I’d thrown in. The kids all held the sides of their tiny heads with varying expressions of distress on their trusting faces. “Suck”, Abba instructed. “Swallow!” I stuffed two pieces of gum in my mouth and swallowed hard as the juices flowed in my mouth and stretched my jaw. My ears cleared. I searched the package for some sign that it would be okay to share my bounty with the suffering children. But there was no K! No OU! The boy looked at me and I shrugged helplessly. They would have to suffer.
When the plane landed, Abba gave me his business card so I could send him samples of my work. I accepted knowing full well I had never written anything clean enough to pass his litmus test. I grabbed my one carry-on bag, slung my backpack over my shoulder and beat it out of the terminal before I would have to meet Ima (Mom), Saba v Savta (Grandpa & Grandma) .
One of the things I have always liked about being Jewish is the idea that you really don’t have to believe anything and yet you are still a Jew. (This didn’t work so well for us in the 30s and 40s.) It is an ethical religion. Be an ethical person; be a good person; if there’s a heaven, you’ll get there. (Bernie Madoff probably skipped this lesson.) So why is it that when I am in the presence of such commitment, even though I really don’t believe in it myself, I feel somehow ‘less ’? Perhaps it is because they "know", while I'm still searching.
Moments later, an Orthodox Jewish man bustled up the aisle wrangling four children! One child slipped in beside me, three hustled into the row in front of me and the father sat on the aisle. I smiled, genuinely. They introduced themselves. I let them know I was Jewish.
I’m not orthodox; I barely practice. And I’m generally not a fan of orthodox anythings because they tend to want to hurt everyone else. Except Jews; I have a soft-spot for Orthodox Jews. In a world that seems intent on eradicating us, I’m glad they’re here and multiplying. In case there really is a God, I’m glad they’re praying. I find myself smiling uncontrollably when I pass a Chassid. I’m also a little afraid of them, as if they can see into my brain and know that I don’t really believe all this stuff. I do pray on occasion, mostly to plead for help, but I’m not quite sure who or what I am talking to and I’m pretty sure no one hears me.
And so I greeted the prospect of a three hour trip in close quarters with a man who brought nothing to read but a prayer book, a bag full of Kosher food and four equally devout children, each with a book (though more secular and diverse in content & some requiring a crayon) with a mixture of delight and dread. The children were charming; adorable, well-behaved, reaching their tiny hands between the seats to get a sandwich from “Abba”. Abba was warm and comfortable with them, speaking in a calm, cajoling voice, teasing them about saying the B’racha before eating. He washed his hands on behalf of all of them rather than parade them to the bathroom up the narrow aisle. He offered me a sandwich but I declined having just had a bowl of chili with sour cream and a Guinness at the airport bar. I prayed he couldn’t smell the unholy mixture on my breath.
He checked out all the channels and all the movies available for purchase and, deeming them inappropriate for the children to watch, he played the in flight trivia game. The children opened their books. I started to watch “The Daily Show” rerun on Comedy Central until I realized there was no way to shield the sweet little boy beside me from reading Jon Stewart’s lips. I opened my laptop. Abba asked me what I did and I told him. He too was in the business, producing educational videos. I doubted we had the same sensibilities. He asked if he’d ever seen me in something and, seizing the chance to prove my worthiness, I told him about my days in “Fiddler on the Roof”. I said I had a short film on You Tube that I wrote, directed and appeared in and he asked if they could see it. I said we’d have to wait until I could access the internet. As the plane climbed to cruising altitude I mentally reviewed the content of the film I had promised to show. I had cleaned it up considerably from the original version where a middle-aged couple cursed out passing drivers on the highway, swapping things like “C—ksucking, mother f—king sonova bitch” for milder epithets like “Goddamned” this and “Goddamned” that. I couldn’t show this kid my video!!!! So I told Abba that, on second thought, he should view the video first because of some questionable language and he told me that if the language was questionable, he couldn’t listen to it either. I felt like a repentant Klansman might feel at Grace Baptist Church. Mortification rose from my feet to my face in a hot wave.
The crew came around offering snacks and Abba carefully scanned the possibilities for Kosher symbols, rejecting everything except the pretzels. I got the pretzels too. (On the return flight, I would shamelessly order the biscotti minus the K or OU.) During the flight Abba would read a few passages to me that he found particularly enlightening. I smiled appreciatively, not understanding a word. When the air-pressure in the cabin became unbearable, Abba distributed Mike & Ike’s Lemon Drops. Surprised they were Kosher, I accepted one. As the plane began to descend and my eardrums felt like they would explode, I searched my bag for that pack of gum I’d thrown in. The kids all held the sides of their tiny heads with varying expressions of distress on their trusting faces. “Suck”, Abba instructed. “Swallow!” I stuffed two pieces of gum in my mouth and swallowed hard as the juices flowed in my mouth and stretched my jaw. My ears cleared. I searched the package for some sign that it would be okay to share my bounty with the suffering children. But there was no K! No OU! The boy looked at me and I shrugged helplessly. They would have to suffer.
When the plane landed, Abba gave me his business card so I could send him samples of my work. I accepted knowing full well I had never written anything clean enough to pass his litmus test. I grabbed my one carry-on bag, slung my backpack over my shoulder and beat it out of the terminal before I would have to meet Ima (Mom), Saba v Savta (Grandpa & Grandma) .
One of the things I have always liked about being Jewish is the idea that you really don’t have to believe anything and yet you are still a Jew. (This didn’t work so well for us in the 30s and 40s.) It is an ethical religion. Be an ethical person; be a good person; if there’s a heaven, you’ll get there. (Bernie Madoff probably skipped this lesson.) So why is it that when I am in the presence of such commitment, even though I really don’t believe in it myself, I feel somehow ‘less ’? Perhaps it is because they "know", while I'm still searching.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
My husband is jealous because people are reading and enjoying my posts! I have to admit, I’m kind of surprised and not a little pleased at the reaction so far. Thank you, friends; I needed that! He’s talking to me again as I write this and, because of that dual focus thing I talked about in my first post, I hear snippets:
· “They like it? What do they mean?”
· “Don’t forget to call the doctor tomorrow; why don’t you put that in your blog?”
· “I’m going to do a naked blog!”
My mother called a little while ago to tell me she read my last post and offered to make me a Lifetime Member of Hadassah. She also asked if I had received any money today because my horoscope in Florida predicted I would get a large sum of money and cautioned me not to go crazy spending. Here in Connecticut I returned home after shopping at Loehmann’s to discover that my unemployment benefits had expired. Those stars sure are funny. Is it the longitude? Is everything opposite north of the Mason Dixon line?
The note neatly typed on my last check said that if I was collecting EUC benefits I should keep filing but if I was collecting EB benefits I was done. Oh my God! I’m done! I think… I don’t know which E I was collecting! But it’s been two years, for God’s sake! You can’t get blood from a stone! They expired once when that SOB GWB was still in the White House and were extended thanks to Obama’s stimulus package but, apparently, I’ve been over-stimulated. Now what?
And speaking of stimulus, an editorial on the radio this morning said the economy was not recovering because consumers were not cooperating; they were not spending the money that was being given to them. So I succumbed to my husband’s plea to go to Loehmann’s for the 40% OFF YELLOW TAGS, 60% OFF PURPLE TAGS clearance sale and do my patriotic duty. What a kick in those cute little pants! I guess I’ll have to be unpatriotic and return them.
· “They like it? What do they mean?”
· “Don’t forget to call the doctor tomorrow; why don’t you put that in your blog?”
· “I’m going to do a naked blog!”
My mother called a little while ago to tell me she read my last post and offered to make me a Lifetime Member of Hadassah. She also asked if I had received any money today because my horoscope in Florida predicted I would get a large sum of money and cautioned me not to go crazy spending. Here in Connecticut I returned home after shopping at Loehmann’s to discover that my unemployment benefits had expired. Those stars sure are funny. Is it the longitude? Is everything opposite north of the Mason Dixon line?
The note neatly typed on my last check said that if I was collecting EUC benefits I should keep filing but if I was collecting EB benefits I was done. Oh my God! I’m done! I think… I don’t know which E I was collecting! But it’s been two years, for God’s sake! You can’t get blood from a stone! They expired once when that SOB GWB was still in the White House and were extended thanks to Obama’s stimulus package but, apparently, I’ve been over-stimulated. Now what?
And speaking of stimulus, an editorial on the radio this morning said the economy was not recovering because consumers were not cooperating; they were not spending the money that was being given to them. So I succumbed to my husband’s plea to go to Loehmann’s for the 40% OFF YELLOW TAGS, 60% OFF PURPLE TAGS clearance sale and do my patriotic duty. What a kick in those cute little pants! I guess I’ll have to be unpatriotic and return them.
Day One Minus One
Ahhhh….. learning, learning…. Started writing this last night but Morpheus descended before I could finish so I thought I’d complete it when I could think. It’s gone. Like a dream so strong you KNOW you’ll remember it in the morning so you don’t rouse yourself, turn the light on and write it down, it had slipped into cyberspace.
On Sunday morning, perhaps precipitating this need to express myself to the world, I rose early to attend my first Zumba class. If you haven’t already discovered Zumba, it’s a cross between Latin dance and aerobics. I’d been hearing about Zumba from a friend who was completely addicted. She keeps trying to lure me to her class with bait like “It’s free! There are so many people there, I’ll just open the back door and sneak you in.” Okay, “free” is attractive. But being an illegal alien in an overcrowded room full of sweating women trying to cha-cha their way to fitness is not. What if I got caught? What if one of them bumped into me? Yicch!
But this was a private class and only 20 women had signed up. It was being given as a fundraiser by the local Hadassah chapter. This should have been a clue.
I left my husband sleeping after a very late night at work (actually, it was more like a mild coma) and searched the bottom drawer of my dresser for just the right pair of exercise pants to wear. I tried on two pair before opting for the soft, black capris. Then I rooted through my shirts for the twisted lilac dance top that I had hidden after those last five pounds. I was going for a funky, sexy look, knowing that I’d be staring into a mirror for a full hour and that I did not want to see that middle-aged woman who lives in my bathroom. I brushed my hair back behind my ears; chic. I put on make-up! Who puts on make-up to go to an exercise class? I was determined not to be defeated by a bad self-image. I needed the person in my head to be the person in the mirror. I looked pretty good. I popped into the car and zipped over to the newly renovated fitness center in town. The woman in the lobby guided me downstairs to the classroom where Hadassah Zumba would be held.
I was greeted by an older woman in shorts and Keds. I hadn’t seen Keds in years! I was in Valley Forge, PA rehearsing “Wonderful Town” when Peter Genero sent me shopping for Keds to replace the character shoes I’d shown up in. He said “real dancers wore sneakers”. Okay. It was 1977 and I’d been hired as a ‘singer who moved well ’as opposed to a ‘dancer who sings’. But, in the absence of the musical director who’d hired me, Peter forgot who was who and so we all had to dance. I was terrified but that’s another story.
So I’m looking at the Keds I hadn’t seen in 32 years. They were pristine, never-been-worn-white; almost as white as her legs. Here it was August and those knees had not seen sunlight until today. I was the first to arrive. I got my name tag and was asked to fill out a liability waiver. Still I’m only mildly suspicious. Then the others started to arrive, each one older than the one before. Sixties… seventies… eighties… a bevy of spry little seniors excitedly filling out liability waivers… My hopes for any meaningful aerobic exercise were ebbing. But I had paid my $5 and there was no way to leave gracefully because they were ALL talking to me! Who was I? What was my connection to Hadassah? I should join! It would be so nice to have more young members! I told them my mother was a member and my grandmother had been a Pioneer Woman before that. A couple of them waxed nostalgic over the Pioneer Women, the group that had become Hadassah in the mid-last century. I had proven my pedigree. (In truth, there were one or two women there near my age and they eagerly encouraged my participation by informing me that a ‘40-60 group’ was trying to gain momentum by meeting at a bar on Thursday nights.)
The yoga class that preceded us finally cleared out of the room and we entered to await the start of Zumba. People kept talking to me and I realized there was a certain air of expectation in their tone, as if they were waiting for me to do something. They thought I was the teacher! Oh, no I assured them. I was a novice.
Moments later, Cherry arrived; a gorgeous, toned, muscled black goddess in her mid fifties who took one look at us, put her things down and announced that she had to pee. I’m guessing she went out to rethink her lesson plan. But she returned and boldly announced that if we thought she was going to take it easy on us, we were mistaken. If we felt it was too much, we were to stop. If she jumped up with enthusiasm, we had permission to stay on the ground. If we needed a water break we were to take it but for-God’s-sake-keep-moving! I surmised that in this way she would be able to distinguish the tired from the dead. And she started the music.
An hour of cha-cha, meringue (Did I spell that right or did I just put down a pie-topping?), salsa and hips. It was like a Bar Mitzvah without the free booze. I had a ball. I sweated and cha-chad until I didn’t think my feet could move anymore. And most of those women stayed with it! Okay, a few left almost immediately. One took pictures. Others sat around admiring our vigor, also just like at a Bar Mitzvah. But the bulk of the women just kept on dancing! It was inspiring. It was competitive. How could I stop when Bubby was still going? My knees turned to Jello with sharp toothpicks inside. Sweat beaded off the tip of my nose and my lilac dance top turned a deep purple. I laughed out loud and secretly thanked my parents for teaching me all those Latin dances when my generation was doing the Twist.
I don’t know if I’ll join Hadassah but it doesn’t seem like a terrible thought. I will go back to Zumba just as soon as I can walk again.
Ahhhh….. learning, learning…. Started writing this last night but Morpheus descended before I could finish so I thought I’d complete it when I could think. It’s gone. Like a dream so strong you KNOW you’ll remember it in the morning so you don’t rouse yourself, turn the light on and write it down, it had slipped into cyberspace.
On Sunday morning, perhaps precipitating this need to express myself to the world, I rose early to attend my first Zumba class. If you haven’t already discovered Zumba, it’s a cross between Latin dance and aerobics. I’d been hearing about Zumba from a friend who was completely addicted. She keeps trying to lure me to her class with bait like “It’s free! There are so many people there, I’ll just open the back door and sneak you in.” Okay, “free” is attractive. But being an illegal alien in an overcrowded room full of sweating women trying to cha-cha their way to fitness is not. What if I got caught? What if one of them bumped into me? Yicch!
But this was a private class and only 20 women had signed up. It was being given as a fundraiser by the local Hadassah chapter. This should have been a clue.
I left my husband sleeping after a very late night at work (actually, it was more like a mild coma) and searched the bottom drawer of my dresser for just the right pair of exercise pants to wear. I tried on two pair before opting for the soft, black capris. Then I rooted through my shirts for the twisted lilac dance top that I had hidden after those last five pounds. I was going for a funky, sexy look, knowing that I’d be staring into a mirror for a full hour and that I did not want to see that middle-aged woman who lives in my bathroom. I brushed my hair back behind my ears; chic. I put on make-up! Who puts on make-up to go to an exercise class? I was determined not to be defeated by a bad self-image. I needed the person in my head to be the person in the mirror. I looked pretty good. I popped into the car and zipped over to the newly renovated fitness center in town. The woman in the lobby guided me downstairs to the classroom where Hadassah Zumba would be held.
I was greeted by an older woman in shorts and Keds. I hadn’t seen Keds in years! I was in Valley Forge, PA rehearsing “Wonderful Town” when Peter Genero sent me shopping for Keds to replace the character shoes I’d shown up in. He said “real dancers wore sneakers”. Okay. It was 1977 and I’d been hired as a ‘singer who moved well ’as opposed to a ‘dancer who sings’. But, in the absence of the musical director who’d hired me, Peter forgot who was who and so we all had to dance. I was terrified but that’s another story.
So I’m looking at the Keds I hadn’t seen in 32 years. They were pristine, never-been-worn-white; almost as white as her legs. Here it was August and those knees had not seen sunlight until today. I was the first to arrive. I got my name tag and was asked to fill out a liability waiver. Still I’m only mildly suspicious. Then the others started to arrive, each one older than the one before. Sixties… seventies… eighties… a bevy of spry little seniors excitedly filling out liability waivers… My hopes for any meaningful aerobic exercise were ebbing. But I had paid my $5 and there was no way to leave gracefully because they were ALL talking to me! Who was I? What was my connection to Hadassah? I should join! It would be so nice to have more young members! I told them my mother was a member and my grandmother had been a Pioneer Woman before that. A couple of them waxed nostalgic over the Pioneer Women, the group that had become Hadassah in the mid-last century. I had proven my pedigree. (In truth, there were one or two women there near my age and they eagerly encouraged my participation by informing me that a ‘40-60 group’ was trying to gain momentum by meeting at a bar on Thursday nights.)
The yoga class that preceded us finally cleared out of the room and we entered to await the start of Zumba. People kept talking to me and I realized there was a certain air of expectation in their tone, as if they were waiting for me to do something. They thought I was the teacher! Oh, no I assured them. I was a novice.
Moments later, Cherry arrived; a gorgeous, toned, muscled black goddess in her mid fifties who took one look at us, put her things down and announced that she had to pee. I’m guessing she went out to rethink her lesson plan. But she returned and boldly announced that if we thought she was going to take it easy on us, we were mistaken. If we felt it was too much, we were to stop. If she jumped up with enthusiasm, we had permission to stay on the ground. If we needed a water break we were to take it but for-God’s-sake-keep-moving! I surmised that in this way she would be able to distinguish the tired from the dead. And she started the music.
An hour of cha-cha, meringue (Did I spell that right or did I just put down a pie-topping?), salsa and hips. It was like a Bar Mitzvah without the free booze. I had a ball. I sweated and cha-chad until I didn’t think my feet could move anymore. And most of those women stayed with it! Okay, a few left almost immediately. One took pictures. Others sat around admiring our vigor, also just like at a Bar Mitzvah. But the bulk of the women just kept on dancing! It was inspiring. It was competitive. How could I stop when Bubby was still going? My knees turned to Jello with sharp toothpicks inside. Sweat beaded off the tip of my nose and my lilac dance top turned a deep purple. I laughed out loud and secretly thanked my parents for teaching me all those Latin dances when my generation was doing the Twist.
I don’t know if I’ll join Hadassah but it doesn’t seem like a terrible thought. I will go back to Zumba just as soon as I can walk again.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Day One of the Rest of My Life
Okay, I've done it. I've negotiated this technical maze that I started so many years ago that I didn't remember my password. My husband is talking to me about something else so I can't quite listen to him and I can't quite concentrate on what I'm doing. What else is new? Now, if someone could just tell me exactly which of the many passwords I have in my head that actually turned this thing on, I'd be extremely grateful.
Day one of the rest of my life. Day 730 (or thereabouts) since I had a full-time job. It's not that I've held many full-time jobs. I've had a sort of freelance life. I wasn't raised to think I'd need anything more than that. I was raised to think that I would marry a doctor and attend luncheons. Oh yes, my mother will tell anyone who'll listen that she "begged me to be a teacher". I didn't want to be a teacher. Still don't, in the traditional sense. It's just that, well, like with anything that I do every single day, I get bored. But, for a time, I had full-time work. And I loved that paycheck!
I'm an actor. Oh, yeah, shake your head. I know. I'm also a director; a damned good one! I have insight and the ability to see beyond what's on the page, to the inner lives and motivations of characters, and then to translate them into actable suggestions for actors. Whoopee! That and (what is the fare now: $200?) will get you on the subway! Having been raised as I was, the thing I lack is not 'how to work when I get it' but 'how to get work'.
"Ask for what you want." This is the main lesson I can impart to my students. (Oh yes, I now teach acting. How's that for a laugh?) It's a good lesson and that hardest thing in the world for me to do myself. I could sell anything but myself. This pillow? (I'm sitting on my bed.) Why, this pillow is the only pillow you will ever need! It has memory! Put your head here and it will remember exactly where it was when you return to bed after your fourth trip to the bathroom. Just lie down softly. Hit this thing too hard and you could end up with a concussion. But sell 'ME"? Impossible. I wind up sounding desperate.
I love those who tell you to "have a :30 speech ready"; sum yourself up in a few words; etc. Are you truly interested in spending any time with someone who can sum himself up in :30? I have more variations than a Rubik's Cube. I'm an actor, writer, director and soon to be Hebrew School teacher. (That should be funny.) I've been an Executive Director, an Education Director, a producer, and so much more that Casting Director James Calleri looked at my resume and said, "You've lived many lives." And he was only looking at my acting credits!
So why am I here? And what will tomorrow bring? That is what I hope to explore. I hope you will be entertained as I reinvent myself one more time.
Day one of the rest of my life. Day 730 (or thereabouts) since I had a full-time job. It's not that I've held many full-time jobs. I've had a sort of freelance life. I wasn't raised to think I'd need anything more than that. I was raised to think that I would marry a doctor and attend luncheons. Oh yes, my mother will tell anyone who'll listen that she "begged me to be a teacher". I didn't want to be a teacher. Still don't, in the traditional sense. It's just that, well, like with anything that I do every single day, I get bored. But, for a time, I had full-time work. And I loved that paycheck!
I'm an actor. Oh, yeah, shake your head. I know. I'm also a director; a damned good one! I have insight and the ability to see beyond what's on the page, to the inner lives and motivations of characters, and then to translate them into actable suggestions for actors. Whoopee! That and (what is the fare now: $200?) will get you on the subway! Having been raised as I was, the thing I lack is not 'how to work when I get it' but 'how to get work'.
"Ask for what you want." This is the main lesson I can impart to my students. (Oh yes, I now teach acting. How's that for a laugh?) It's a good lesson and that hardest thing in the world for me to do myself. I could sell anything but myself. This pillow? (I'm sitting on my bed.) Why, this pillow is the only pillow you will ever need! It has memory! Put your head here and it will remember exactly where it was when you return to bed after your fourth trip to the bathroom. Just lie down softly. Hit this thing too hard and you could end up with a concussion. But sell 'ME"? Impossible. I wind up sounding desperate.
I love those who tell you to "have a :30 speech ready"; sum yourself up in a few words; etc. Are you truly interested in spending any time with someone who can sum himself up in :30? I have more variations than a Rubik's Cube. I'm an actor, writer, director and soon to be Hebrew School teacher. (That should be funny.) I've been an Executive Director, an Education Director, a producer, and so much more that Casting Director James Calleri looked at my resume and said, "You've lived many lives." And he was only looking at my acting credits!
So why am I here? And what will tomorrow bring? That is what I hope to explore. I hope you will be entertained as I reinvent myself one more time.
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