Two people called me yesterday to ask if I was all right. It had been five days since my last blog post and they were concerned. Thank you! I am not dead or wounded. I am just boring. I couldn’t think of anything.
The truth is I’m a snob. There. I said it. Tomorrow is Yom Kippur so you can consider this my apology to the world. I’m a snob. I have no tolerance for mediocrity and since mediocrity is what most people are content with, I simply can’t cope.
I heard an ad on the radio… (I do that a lot and report it to you as if it were a revelation; the voice of God giving me ideas. It is not. It is WCBS radio which I put on in the car primarily to make sure I’m not heading into any traffic jams but which gives me the opportunity to hear the same news over and over again several hundred times depending on the length of the trip. I would listen to music but once again, I can’t stand mediocrity and have you listened to a music station on the radio? You’d think nothing new had been written since 1965. Anyway, yesterday’s news was the Town of Bedford is suing Donald Trump and Bellweather Estates because they erected a tent without permission; twice!; it had NOTHING to do with Kaddafi! Cough, cough… and the Yankees face the Red Sox, pre-game at 6:30, the Yanks magic number down to five but it would be tough because Joba was on the mound and hadn’t won since August 6th while John Lester would pitch for the Sox and he was 11 and 2; Post mortem: Joba was great; Lester sucked, nyah nyah nyah, raspberry… and Iran has more nukes than they admitted …Really?... etc. etc. etc. There was more but I forget. They rarely ever report anything very important. There’s an entire world out there and they bring it all to you within 22 minutes including ads so they have to be leaving something out, right?)
Anyway, the ad I heard was an intensely serious, romantic, passionate deep voice introducing the latest book by Nicholas Sparks which was already “soon to be a movie” so why anyone would buy the book is beyond me except if you take the bus or the train and so desperately need to escape from those dismal surroundings that you’d stoop to disappearing into mindless drivel.
I don’t mean to single out Mr. Sparks. I’m a little envious that he can turn out a bestseller a little faster than I can bake a cake. I started one of his books once. I had seen “The Notebook” and liked Ryan Gosseling so much I figured I’d try a book. Hello? Is there a connection here? The thing that makes decent movies out of books like that is that you can cut out all the words! (I screamed that.)
There are some books that, when you turn them into movies you have to lose some of the beauty, many of the ideas, sometimes whole characters and storylines. Corelli’s Mandolin, Exodus, The French Lieutenant’s Woman, etc. I just read Michener’s Tales of the South Pacific; you almost have to use a magnifying glass to figure how they got “South Pacific” out of these pages. Not with these cotton-candy books. The story is a one-page outline and the rest is blah blah blah. They are accessible! Their vocabulary would not challenge a fourth grader. I read a magnificent book by deBernieres (the name escapes me right now; sorry) that did and did not require me to have a dictionary on hand at all times. It did in the sense that I didn’t know at least 25% of the words he used. It didn’t in the sense that each word was so well chosen for its sound and placement as well as its meaning that you really didn’t need to stop reading and look it up to know exactly what he was talking about. It was brilliant! I can’t do that!
So, at the crux of my snobbery is a conundrum: If I can’t write as well as the greatest writers in all mediums, then I can’t write at all. And that is why I disappeared for five days. I was reading.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Attack of Angry Forest
The land around our house was carved out of the forest almost 25 years ago and ever since then the forest has been trying to take it back. For the last month it has pelted the house with acorns and branches. The barrage goes on all day and all night, peppering the roof, the deck, banging against the grill and the wheelbarrow, and God forbid there’s a wind, you’d think the trees were simply coming after you! I have not set foot in the backyard in over a month. It is too dangerous. Remember that scene in ‘The Wizard of Oz” when they get the trees to throw the apples? It feels like that but there are about a hundred acorns for every apple and they really hurt! When we first moved in 13 years ago, we got sunlight on the lawn until the late hours of a summer afternoon. Now, we’re lucky if we get a single shaft of light after 1 p.m. According to the satellite photos of the area, we are not here. There were two massive trees with bases that are at least 6 feet in diameter, with trunks that split into huge trunks sharing a common base: Siamese Trees! Now there is one, cabled at the top to keep it from falling on the house that it dwarfs. We had to put the other one to sleep after an 85 foot limb broke off, crashed across our lawn, killed the basketball hoop and attacked the Prius. As if the trees aren’t enough, the previous owner of the house was a landscape architect and planted perennials everywhere. This was a recurring treat at first; all through the spring plants and flowers would sprout and surprise us with colors we never had in Brooklyn! And they would grow, and grow, and flop over, and the weeds would come, and we would pull them, and pull them, and they would keep coming. And then the leaves would fall, and fall, and fall, and we would rake and blow them back and I would pack boxes and boxes of autumn leaves and ship them off to a nursery school in Florida so children who didn’t know what a season was could experience the joys of playing in autumn leaves and pulling ticks off their skin and flirting with Lyme Disease. The leaves we didn’t ship away were blown into the forest until the perimeter was so high we couldn’t blow them anymore so our plot of land would get a little smaller every year. But now it seems the forest is no longer content with the slow reclamation of the property via weeds and leaves. The trees are attacking us with everything they have. An acorn, falling from a hundred-foot tree is a deadly missile. When a branch falls, the earth moves. We have been lucky so far. The branches that have done the most damage have fallen the days following social gatherings, as if to say they will tolerate us on their property but no one else. They just don’t like parties! And so we hunker down in the house and wait for the trees to exhaust their supply of projectiles. It will be winter soon and the leaves and acorns will be gone and it will be safe to venture outside again… to shovel the snow. Remind me why I moved to New England.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Burn Baby Burn
My husband is looking at his stomach and wondering where all that hair came from. I’m looking at my stomach and wondering where all this stomach came from. We joined a gym. Lesson one about gym memberships: weight loss and beauty do not occur because you have paid the initiation fee. I’ve been working out like a demon although how an actual demon works out is anyone’s guess. But I can tell you, it does hurt like hell.
It is hard to reconcile how good I feel after working out – lithe, strong, relaxed- with the person who hobbles to the bathroom the next morning, my muscles shrunk to the size and elasticity of those blue rubber bands that keep lobsters from being able to open their claws. Who knew the spaces between the bones in my hands and feet could be filled with so much pain! Now if I could just stop eating!
I come home after 30 minutes on the elliptical trainer, 30 more on the treadmill, an animated ride on the stationary or recumbent bike through any one of ten virtual locations, and a circuit of machines designed to work every muscle in your body until it cries, and I am ravenous! I immediately start to prepare the healthy, low fat dinner I dreamed up while dripping so much sweat over the machines that I feared sparks would fly and the machine would explode. And while I wait, I nibble on cake and nuts and whatever is handy or at least not nailed down. But this is okay because by the time the healthy meal is ready I’m sort of full so it all evens out, right? No?
Seriously, it amazes me how easy it is to ingest 200 calories and how frigging hard it is to burn them off! There is no justice is this phenomenon. We are taught that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Where is the equality in having to kill yourself for three hours over one moment of culinary bliss?
It is hard to reconcile how good I feel after working out – lithe, strong, relaxed- with the person who hobbles to the bathroom the next morning, my muscles shrunk to the size and elasticity of those blue rubber bands that keep lobsters from being able to open their claws. Who knew the spaces between the bones in my hands and feet could be filled with so much pain! Now if I could just stop eating!
I come home after 30 minutes on the elliptical trainer, 30 more on the treadmill, an animated ride on the stationary or recumbent bike through any one of ten virtual locations, and a circuit of machines designed to work every muscle in your body until it cries, and I am ravenous! I immediately start to prepare the healthy, low fat dinner I dreamed up while dripping so much sweat over the machines that I feared sparks would fly and the machine would explode. And while I wait, I nibble on cake and nuts and whatever is handy or at least not nailed down. But this is okay because by the time the healthy meal is ready I’m sort of full so it all evens out, right? No?
Seriously, it amazes me how easy it is to ingest 200 calories and how frigging hard it is to burn them off! There is no justice is this phenomenon. We are taught that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Where is the equality in having to kill yourself for three hours over one moment of culinary bliss?
Rosh Hashonah
It’s Rosh Hashonah and I know I should go over to the synagogue but I’m having a little trouble with my relationship to God this year and I can’t seem to get moving. I know some of my more spiritual friends will read this and give me a lecture on faith but let me tell you something: I perform an act of faith every day. I get up.
Rosh Hashonah is traditionally fraught with superstition for me. “The Gates are open!” “The Gates are closing!” God is listening! Repent! Apologize! I’ve gone to temple with the idea that if I just showed up and prayed hard enough, if I was a good person and made sincere attempts to treat people well and apologize to those I had wronged, if I just tried to let go and lighten up, God would hear my prayers and send me financial security. If there is a God, that is. Well, isn’t God supposed to be listening every day? My hairdresser only works two days a week. My doctor is out of the office on Thursdays and weekends. But God? Where does God go when it isn’t Rosh Hashonah?
Why is there this mass panic to get to synagogue during this Holiday? Have you ever tried to get online during peak hours? Perhaps God is overwhelmed during the Holidays with all these prayers and people who He/She hasn’t heard from since last year crowding into the synagogues. Perhaps it would be better to stay in this nice cozy bed until Monday and pray then.
No. I throw myself into the bathroom, dress quickly; grab a cup of coffee and a piece of toast because I know that even though I am already late, this service is going to go on for a lonnnnng time. My husband looks handsome in his suit and I put on the dress I planned to wear when I thought it would be 70 degrees. It is 50. My son couldn’t be pried into the synagogue but that’s okay. Like crutches, perhaps he doesn’t need it. Perhaps he’ll return when he has a child. I did. And now that he’s grown, it seems less pressing.
I spend 20 minutes looking for the tickets that I know we received in the mail but which have vanished into thin air. We go without them. We argue for a good part of the drive; it is stress that is becoming hard to ignore. Both parking lots are full so we drive down the road to park. I notice that, even though we are late, we don’t have to park as far away as last year and I wonder where everybody else is. As we start walking, half a dozen cars dash into spots beyond ours. Maybe they couldn’t find their tickets either. This is only the second year that our country synagogue has bothered with tickets and people don’t quite know what to do with them. Since we don’t have to buy them in the first place, I guess their value is in question. We take out our tallits that have been in the drawer since last year and notice their mildew scent. Do these get washed or dry cleaned? I have two: one was my father’s and one belonged to my grandfather. I don’t know which is which but I always debate which one to bring with me as if I’m bringing the person. I say the quick prayer for donning the tallit which, fortuitously, is written on the edge because, simple as it is, I never remember it, and I step in to the synagogue. I hear the song “b’rosh hashonah tikatevun, u’vyom tzom kippur, u’vyom tzom kippur, yehatevun…” and I am in tears. Why? I have no idea! I want to run away but I want to find a seat. I want to feel enveloped but I feel disenfranchised. If God is everywhere then why am I in this building? If God hasn’t heard my prayers or, if He has and has simply decided to ignore them, or if He isn’t ignoring them but has placed them low on the list of priorities that need to be attended to, things like Global warming, genocide, terrorism, etc. then why am I bothering? The walls and ceiling feel like hindrances to true communication with a divine force. And I suddenly think of cyberspace and frequencies and wonder if this is what they mean when they say God is everywhere and in everything. Is God the Internet? Is the internet God? I think of that ad for a home security system, wrapping the house in endless streams of zeroes and ones. Is cyberspace the what we mean by an infinite Universe? I cannot fathom limitlessness.
Back on earth, the Torah portion is about Sarah and how she gets Abraham to evict Hagar and Ishmael once Isaac is born and this infuriates me! I have a stepson. I love him! I love his mother! Sure she’s my husband’s ex-wife but that doesn’t make her evil! She’s a great gal! How different would this world be today if Sarah had embraced those two people and made them part of their family? Would there be an Arab-Israeli conflict? Would we have found something else to argue about?
I spend the day upset. I am tired of struggling. Too many foolish, selfish people get to make the rules and I cannot admire them. I cannot pray about them. I cannot place my future in their hands. I cannot see that I have any choice.
I go to the gym and sweat until my limbs feel like jello. I follow the pacer on the computer screen of my exercise bike, tuning out all thoughts except “keep up!” I hurt all over but I keep going. I just keep going.
L'shanah tovah tikatevu. May you have a good year.
Rosh Hashonah is traditionally fraught with superstition for me. “The Gates are open!” “The Gates are closing!” God is listening! Repent! Apologize! I’ve gone to temple with the idea that if I just showed up and prayed hard enough, if I was a good person and made sincere attempts to treat people well and apologize to those I had wronged, if I just tried to let go and lighten up, God would hear my prayers and send me financial security. If there is a God, that is. Well, isn’t God supposed to be listening every day? My hairdresser only works two days a week. My doctor is out of the office on Thursdays and weekends. But God? Where does God go when it isn’t Rosh Hashonah?
Why is there this mass panic to get to synagogue during this Holiday? Have you ever tried to get online during peak hours? Perhaps God is overwhelmed during the Holidays with all these prayers and people who He/She hasn’t heard from since last year crowding into the synagogues. Perhaps it would be better to stay in this nice cozy bed until Monday and pray then.
No. I throw myself into the bathroom, dress quickly; grab a cup of coffee and a piece of toast because I know that even though I am already late, this service is going to go on for a lonnnnng time. My husband looks handsome in his suit and I put on the dress I planned to wear when I thought it would be 70 degrees. It is 50. My son couldn’t be pried into the synagogue but that’s okay. Like crutches, perhaps he doesn’t need it. Perhaps he’ll return when he has a child. I did. And now that he’s grown, it seems less pressing.
I spend 20 minutes looking for the tickets that I know we received in the mail but which have vanished into thin air. We go without them. We argue for a good part of the drive; it is stress that is becoming hard to ignore. Both parking lots are full so we drive down the road to park. I notice that, even though we are late, we don’t have to park as far away as last year and I wonder where everybody else is. As we start walking, half a dozen cars dash into spots beyond ours. Maybe they couldn’t find their tickets either. This is only the second year that our country synagogue has bothered with tickets and people don’t quite know what to do with them. Since we don’t have to buy them in the first place, I guess their value is in question. We take out our tallits that have been in the drawer since last year and notice their mildew scent. Do these get washed or dry cleaned? I have two: one was my father’s and one belonged to my grandfather. I don’t know which is which but I always debate which one to bring with me as if I’m bringing the person. I say the quick prayer for donning the tallit which, fortuitously, is written on the edge because, simple as it is, I never remember it, and I step in to the synagogue. I hear the song “b’rosh hashonah tikatevun, u’vyom tzom kippur, u’vyom tzom kippur, yehatevun…” and I am in tears. Why? I have no idea! I want to run away but I want to find a seat. I want to feel enveloped but I feel disenfranchised. If God is everywhere then why am I in this building? If God hasn’t heard my prayers or, if He has and has simply decided to ignore them, or if He isn’t ignoring them but has placed them low on the list of priorities that need to be attended to, things like Global warming, genocide, terrorism, etc. then why am I bothering? The walls and ceiling feel like hindrances to true communication with a divine force. And I suddenly think of cyberspace and frequencies and wonder if this is what they mean when they say God is everywhere and in everything. Is God the Internet? Is the internet God? I think of that ad for a home security system, wrapping the house in endless streams of zeroes and ones. Is cyberspace the what we mean by an infinite Universe? I cannot fathom limitlessness.
Back on earth, the Torah portion is about Sarah and how she gets Abraham to evict Hagar and Ishmael once Isaac is born and this infuriates me! I have a stepson. I love him! I love his mother! Sure she’s my husband’s ex-wife but that doesn’t make her evil! She’s a great gal! How different would this world be today if Sarah had embraced those two people and made them part of their family? Would there be an Arab-Israeli conflict? Would we have found something else to argue about?
I spend the day upset. I am tired of struggling. Too many foolish, selfish people get to make the rules and I cannot admire them. I cannot pray about them. I cannot place my future in their hands. I cannot see that I have any choice.
I go to the gym and sweat until my limbs feel like jello. I follow the pacer on the computer screen of my exercise bike, tuning out all thoughts except “keep up!” I hurt all over but I keep going. I just keep going.
L'shanah tovah tikatevu. May you have a good year.
Friday, September 18, 2009
The 'Free' World
Thought for the day: What do they mean, “The free world”? You can’t go anywhere for free!
When you’re income is down to zip it is important to find things to do that don’t cost money. So, when I got the invitation to my friend’s book signing party at a gallery on NYC’s Upper West Side, I put it in my datebook; it was the only entry for the week. My husband had a training session for the job he’s been doing for almost 20 years so we drove in together. This enabled me to put the car in his employee parking lot. I dropped off my new headshots at my agent’s office and she liked them. She stated that the ones I’d been using for the last two years didn’t have much personality. (Thanks for the timely notice!) I called the only two people I can ever think of to call at the very last minute to see if either of them wanted to join me at the gallery or for a drink. The one who lives around the corner from the gallery was in Pennsylvania. The other decided to leave her sick boyfriend at home and meet me for coffee. In the meantime, I stopped up at the hairdresser to get my bangs trimmed; Rossi on West 57th. Marie Rossi is my regular stylist although I think of her more like a therapist for how much better I feel about myself after a session in her chair. But Marie is not there today so Tony will squeeze me in. Tony is Marie’s husband, the star of their salon and, in his ‘spare time’, a working actor. Tony is the quintessential Goombah; a guy as likely to be a hairdresser as Hulk Hogan is to be a ballerina. You may have seen him in such gentle vehicles as “The Sopranos” and “Donnie Brasco”. As gentle and patient as Marie is, that’s how powerful and wild Tony is. If Marie were George Serat Tony would be Jackson Pollack. If Marie were Tinkerbell, Tony wound be Sasquatch. He treats my head like one of those bouncing toys that when you push them down they bounce back up. Grab, cut, push, comb, push… If it weren’t firmly attached I believe it would fly off my shoulders and roll around the floor to be swept up with the fallen hair. Now, given the recent decline in my fortunes and current stress level, my head sits atop my neck like a skull on a stick so I have to concentrate on keeping my neck loose so it doesn’t break. I try to pretend I am a bobble-head doll; boyng, boyng…. It doesn’t break or even hurt really; in fact, the whole process makes me laugh. Wouldn’t you laugh if Attila the Hun was trimming your hair and making you look beautiful? I walked back across town talking to the friend in Pennsylvania, feeling very much a part of the NY scene with my chic bangs and my cell phone glued to my ear, talking out loud to someone 100 miles away. I manage to get to the coffee shop first so I call my friend to make sure I’m in the right place and she asks is I would prefer the coffee or a Margarita. I answer so fast she laughs. Who would pay $4 for a cup of coffee when you can have a Margarita for $5? We meet at the bar next to the coffee shop. In less than an hour my husband calls. His training session is over and he’s on his way. He gets the car and we meet on the corner to head uptown. Only two circles around the neighborhood and we get a spot on the street. The gallery is packed and the friend I haven’t seen in 20 years looks radiant. (Since I seem to be plugging in this post, the book is “The Shiksa Syndrome” by Laurie Graff and I’m having one of those “why didn’t I think of that” moments.) We buy the book and she autographs it for us with a great personal note. We have some wine and delicious lox on pumpernickel. They give out free raffle tickets and the prize is a lipstick and a copy of the book and I wonder what I will do if I win. My husband says, “Yeah, but it comes with a lipstick!” I look at him and wonder.
On the way home he is proud that we spent an evening in NYC and didn’t spend any money. I remind him that the free evening cost gas to and from Connecticut, $10 to park in the employee lot, $7 including tip at the Happy Hour bar and we BOUGHT THE BOOK! Passing through the toll at the Henry Hudson Bridge I think, “How can they call this ‘the free world’? You can’t go anywhere for free!” Still, a cool September evening in NYC… priceless.
When you’re income is down to zip it is important to find things to do that don’t cost money. So, when I got the invitation to my friend’s book signing party at a gallery on NYC’s Upper West Side, I put it in my datebook; it was the only entry for the week. My husband had a training session for the job he’s been doing for almost 20 years so we drove in together. This enabled me to put the car in his employee parking lot. I dropped off my new headshots at my agent’s office and she liked them. She stated that the ones I’d been using for the last two years didn’t have much personality. (Thanks for the timely notice!) I called the only two people I can ever think of to call at the very last minute to see if either of them wanted to join me at the gallery or for a drink. The one who lives around the corner from the gallery was in Pennsylvania. The other decided to leave her sick boyfriend at home and meet me for coffee. In the meantime, I stopped up at the hairdresser to get my bangs trimmed; Rossi on West 57th. Marie Rossi is my regular stylist although I think of her more like a therapist for how much better I feel about myself after a session in her chair. But Marie is not there today so Tony will squeeze me in. Tony is Marie’s husband, the star of their salon and, in his ‘spare time’, a working actor. Tony is the quintessential Goombah; a guy as likely to be a hairdresser as Hulk Hogan is to be a ballerina. You may have seen him in such gentle vehicles as “The Sopranos” and “Donnie Brasco”. As gentle and patient as Marie is, that’s how powerful and wild Tony is. If Marie were George Serat Tony would be Jackson Pollack. If Marie were Tinkerbell, Tony wound be Sasquatch. He treats my head like one of those bouncing toys that when you push them down they bounce back up. Grab, cut, push, comb, push… If it weren’t firmly attached I believe it would fly off my shoulders and roll around the floor to be swept up with the fallen hair. Now, given the recent decline in my fortunes and current stress level, my head sits atop my neck like a skull on a stick so I have to concentrate on keeping my neck loose so it doesn’t break. I try to pretend I am a bobble-head doll; boyng, boyng…. It doesn’t break or even hurt really; in fact, the whole process makes me laugh. Wouldn’t you laugh if Attila the Hun was trimming your hair and making you look beautiful? I walked back across town talking to the friend in Pennsylvania, feeling very much a part of the NY scene with my chic bangs and my cell phone glued to my ear, talking out loud to someone 100 miles away. I manage to get to the coffee shop first so I call my friend to make sure I’m in the right place and she asks is I would prefer the coffee or a Margarita. I answer so fast she laughs. Who would pay $4 for a cup of coffee when you can have a Margarita for $5? We meet at the bar next to the coffee shop. In less than an hour my husband calls. His training session is over and he’s on his way. He gets the car and we meet on the corner to head uptown. Only two circles around the neighborhood and we get a spot on the street. The gallery is packed and the friend I haven’t seen in 20 years looks radiant. (Since I seem to be plugging in this post, the book is “The Shiksa Syndrome” by Laurie Graff and I’m having one of those “why didn’t I think of that” moments.) We buy the book and she autographs it for us with a great personal note. We have some wine and delicious lox on pumpernickel. They give out free raffle tickets and the prize is a lipstick and a copy of the book and I wonder what I will do if I win. My husband says, “Yeah, but it comes with a lipstick!” I look at him and wonder.
On the way home he is proud that we spent an evening in NYC and didn’t spend any money. I remind him that the free evening cost gas to and from Connecticut, $10 to park in the employee lot, $7 including tip at the Happy Hour bar and we BOUGHT THE BOOK! Passing through the toll at the Henry Hudson Bridge I think, “How can they call this ‘the free world’? You can’t go anywhere for free!” Still, a cool September evening in NYC… priceless.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Computer Hell
I’m sorry but every new software application should come with someone who was born after 1980 to help you understand it. My eyes are bleary, I have a crick in my neck, my stomach is in a knot and my fingers hurt. But I did manage to put a fan page on Facebook. If you’re laughing in recognition then you too were probably born before anyone thought of these things: computers.
If you are reading this, perhaps you’ve seen the fan page. If you’ve seen it then please, do me a favor and go directly to http://straykats.blogspot.com because I don’t think I will remember to update the fan page very often. Sure, it’s okay now that I have nothing better to do with my life than to write the blog, post the link on Twitter, post the link on Facebook , go to the fan page, post the link there, go to the oldest post, delete that because on my very first day (today!) I exhausted the allotted space, crashed the site, had to exit, reboot, reload and delete over half of what I put on there in the first place because it was so slow that turtles have a better chance of getting back to the sea than you had of opening the page! But someday, I would like to have something better to do and all this will seem... burdensome.
I know my mother is looking at this and saying “What the hell is she talking about” and I really get that! It’s a new world. My dad and mom were 25 years apart in age; a true May-December romance. Years ago, my dad insisted my mom learn how to use a computer. He refused to touch it himself. The man who read vociferously, even using a magnifying glass when he was almost totally blind; who did the NY Times crossword puzzle every day of his life without ever having to cheat; this man just didn’t want to be bothered. And I get that too! This is exhausting! Just when you start to feel comfortable at your keyboard they “update”. Update! Upgrade! Up yours! It’s the revenge of the nerds! “Oh yeah? Well figure THIS out!”
I want to thank my cousin Blake who suggested I beef up the fan page and then told me how. It would have saved me some time if he’d mentioned that there were limits but perhaps, at his age, limits aren’t worth mentioning. Juuuuust wait! Somewhere there’s a three year old who’s cooking up something that will leave him dazed and confused. By then, I won’t even want to be bothered.
If you are reading this, perhaps you’ve seen the fan page. If you’ve seen it then please, do me a favor and go directly to http://straykats.blogspot.com because I don’t think I will remember to update the fan page very often. Sure, it’s okay now that I have nothing better to do with my life than to write the blog, post the link on Twitter, post the link on Facebook , go to the fan page, post the link there, go to the oldest post, delete that because on my very first day (today!) I exhausted the allotted space, crashed the site, had to exit, reboot, reload and delete over half of what I put on there in the first place because it was so slow that turtles have a better chance of getting back to the sea than you had of opening the page! But someday, I would like to have something better to do and all this will seem... burdensome.
I know my mother is looking at this and saying “What the hell is she talking about” and I really get that! It’s a new world. My dad and mom were 25 years apart in age; a true May-December romance. Years ago, my dad insisted my mom learn how to use a computer. He refused to touch it himself. The man who read vociferously, even using a magnifying glass when he was almost totally blind; who did the NY Times crossword puzzle every day of his life without ever having to cheat; this man just didn’t want to be bothered. And I get that too! This is exhausting! Just when you start to feel comfortable at your keyboard they “update”. Update! Upgrade! Up yours! It’s the revenge of the nerds! “Oh yeah? Well figure THIS out!”
I want to thank my cousin Blake who suggested I beef up the fan page and then told me how. It would have saved me some time if he’d mentioned that there were limits but perhaps, at his age, limits aren’t worth mentioning. Juuuuust wait! Somewhere there’s a three year old who’s cooking up something that will leave him dazed and confused. By then, I won’t even want to be bothered.
Monday, September 14, 2009
September 14- Addendum
I’m a spectator-sports junkie. And with the exception of the New York Yankees and any home teams that may be in the playoffs of any given sport at any given time (hasn't happened in a while but one could always hope), I root for the underdog. So it is that I find myself watching the US Open and rooting with all my might for a guy I never heard of before this week. Juan Martin Del Potro is going to a fifth set against the widely acknowledged best player of the generation, Roger Federer. This is a symbolic moment. Del Potro is playing for me and for every person who can’t seem to catch a break against the “big guys”. Playing Federer, to me, is like playing the computer in a video game. It doesn’t matter how good you are, he’s going to find a way. I’ve heard he has lost matches before. I have never personally seen it. But he’s dropped two sets in tie-breakers and is down two-love in the final set. Underdog-rooter that I am, I’m almost starting to feel sorry for him. But that would be like feeling sorry for Bernie Madoff because he’s in jail or the Republicans for losing the last election: a complete misplacement of pity. It’s now three-love, Del Potro. If Del Potro wins it means we all stand a chance! If Del Potro wins it means good things can happen to any underdog. If Del Potro wins then my phone can ring tomorrow with a job offer. It means hard work can be rewarded even when everything seems weighted the other way. My heart is pounding but it is not fibrillation; it is need: the need to be vindicated, to win against the odds, to see David bring down Goliath with my own eyes.
Three-one. Hold! Hold! Four-one. Four-two. Five-two! Break! Can he break? He did! He did it! He won! I can’t wait for tomorrow!
Three-one. Hold! Hold! Four-one. Four-two. Five-two! Break! Can he break? He did! He did it! He won! I can’t wait for tomorrow!
The Fox in the Henhouse
My Mom just sent me a link to a YouTube site: the CUFI (Christians United for Israel) Singers singing Hava Nagila Texas style. The other day as I was walking up Fifth Avenue in New York, I encountered a group of Hasidic Jews who were protesting the State of Israel. Their signs were vile, saying things like “True Jews will never recognize Israel” and other far-less-nice sentiments. Is anyone else confused? As a Jewess, I love the State of Israel. As the granddaughter of a man whose brother, sister-in-law and four babies boarded a ship bound for Havana only to be turned back to Europe where they were killed, I love the State of Israel. Not only is it a beautiful country, reclaimed from the desert by people who were committed to their personal survival as well as that of the land, a country that produced some of the greatest minds and inventions of the last century, a country that says “Don’t fuck with us; we have had it with being fucked!”, but a country where I felt for the first time in my life that it was not only okay to be a Jew, it was wonderful. So why does it scare me that other Jews so vehemently oppose this beautiful State while Evangelical Christian support it? Why do I feel like I’ve heard this story before and it is called “The Fox and the Henhouse”.
Mystery
I got an email last night from a couple thanking me for the great time they had with me “yesterday” working with me on training someone I’ll call “B”. I’m assuming “B” is their son. I don’t know who they are but apparently they’ve “been working on some of the stuff we started yesterday”. I don’t know what I did! I don’t remember training anyone for anything and they say they’re looking forward to seeing me on Saturday! Is there someplace I’m supposed to go? It’s not in my book and if it isn’t in my book, there’s a good chance I won’t be there!
Yesterday? I did this “Yesterday”? I’m wracking my brain! I went to New Rochelle to perform for a room full of financial divorce planners, then to an audition in NY. Did I inadvertently help someone? I’m stumped.
I have been lax of late, too lazy to go downstairs and find my book when a new appointment needs to be written down. That’s because a) I’m tired and b) most of the things I have to write down aren’t terribly important to me. If something is important, I can generally get off my ass and find a pencil. But this other stuff – someone else’s stuff – if I remember, okay. If I forget, a simple “oops, I forgot” usually assuages any guilt I might feel for missing it.
This business of writing things down is further complicated by the fact that next year’s datebook is already in my possession. I have a doctor’s appointment in March. I will bet you dollars to donuts that a day before that appointment I will get an audition and have to change it but, at the time, with the eager receptionist wanting to codify that the office would indeed still be open and his job necessary in six months, it seemed a good idea to choose a date for a check-up. I love check-ups. For six months you store up a list of things you think you should ask or tell the doctor but when the appointment rolls around and he says “You’re fine” with such conviction that it seems petty to complain you suddenly can’t remember that you had a question or a symptom at all because you didn’t write them down! (See above paragraph for reference to what I think is important enough to get me off the couch in search of a pencil. Scary, isn’t it?)
I’m thinking I may remember who this person is who wrote me the very friendly “Thank you” email and it isn’t a prospective student or loving family that I might have helped and then blacked out for some reason. I think it’s that crazy financial planner I told you about a few weeks ago (the one who talked so fast the window blinds actually fluttered) and the would-be son is his acolyte who found my name on my poster at the supermarket and duped me into attending that training session after which I told them they were scary, slick and about as trustworthy as snakes. Maybe I helped them after all!
Yesterday? I did this “Yesterday”? I’m wracking my brain! I went to New Rochelle to perform for a room full of financial divorce planners, then to an audition in NY. Did I inadvertently help someone? I’m stumped.
I have been lax of late, too lazy to go downstairs and find my book when a new appointment needs to be written down. That’s because a) I’m tired and b) most of the things I have to write down aren’t terribly important to me. If something is important, I can generally get off my ass and find a pencil. But this other stuff – someone else’s stuff – if I remember, okay. If I forget, a simple “oops, I forgot” usually assuages any guilt I might feel for missing it.
This business of writing things down is further complicated by the fact that next year’s datebook is already in my possession. I have a doctor’s appointment in March. I will bet you dollars to donuts that a day before that appointment I will get an audition and have to change it but, at the time, with the eager receptionist wanting to codify that the office would indeed still be open and his job necessary in six months, it seemed a good idea to choose a date for a check-up. I love check-ups. For six months you store up a list of things you think you should ask or tell the doctor but when the appointment rolls around and he says “You’re fine” with such conviction that it seems petty to complain you suddenly can’t remember that you had a question or a symptom at all because you didn’t write them down! (See above paragraph for reference to what I think is important enough to get me off the couch in search of a pencil. Scary, isn’t it?)
I’m thinking I may remember who this person is who wrote me the very friendly “Thank you” email and it isn’t a prospective student or loving family that I might have helped and then blacked out for some reason. I think it’s that crazy financial planner I told you about a few weeks ago (the one who talked so fast the window blinds actually fluttered) and the would-be son is his acolyte who found my name on my poster at the supermarket and duped me into attending that training session after which I told them they were scary, slick and about as trustworthy as snakes. Maybe I helped them after all!
Friday, September 11, 2009
Moving On
It’s the pills! Ding ding ding ding! Come on down! You have won the $64,000 Question! The same medication that has tamed my runaway heartbeat has apparently also slowed my brain function to a crawl. It has taken me three months to connect the warning with the side effect; “These might make you tired” to “Why am I so sleepy!?” But as I struggled into consciousness this morning, those three words (is a conjunction considered one word or two?) formed in my brain like a slow drip, getting bigger and bigger until it plopped into the sink where thoughts gather briefly before sliding down the drain. I reached for the laptop to catch them before they slipped away forever. I think about the paper I’m not wasting and if everybody stops using paper will all the trees come back? Will we run out of water instead? Outside, the rain is falling not like a slow drip at all but a constant, heavy downpour and it doesn’t seem likely we will ever run out of water.
The remote control is nearby and the TV lights up. A crowd is gathered in the same rain. An unrelenting list of names is being read and I remember: it is September 11th. No humor in that. More water, this time from an internal source that never seems to go dry. I look at the people remembering lost loved ones and I wonder how they can get out of bed at all. It is a testament to human resilience that a person can suffer a crushing, devastating loss and yet manage to put one foot in front of the other and keep going. It humbles me. I remember Joe who mowed my lawn once; our older son’s best friend who is now memorialized in a tattoo on his arm. Rest easy, Joe. You left many behind who still think of you.
So I’m struggling a little; so what?! My children are healthy. (Pooh pooh) My husband comes home every night. (Pooh pooh pooh) I am piecing together a year of small jobs: a two hour class here, another there; a few hours a week on a project that won’t need my full attention until next May; a short performance on Saturday followed by an audition; new headshots; a new short film that is almost finished; four more days on my latest free gym trial … All possibilities open. On TV they have covered the football scores and are turning to the rainy US Open Tennis Tournament, worrying about Nadal’s knees and Federer’s advantage. It hurts me to see how easily the world moves on. And yet, perhaps, that is the greatest honor we can bestow upon these lost souls. Just keep moving.
The remote control is nearby and the TV lights up. A crowd is gathered in the same rain. An unrelenting list of names is being read and I remember: it is September 11th. No humor in that. More water, this time from an internal source that never seems to go dry. I look at the people remembering lost loved ones and I wonder how they can get out of bed at all. It is a testament to human resilience that a person can suffer a crushing, devastating loss and yet manage to put one foot in front of the other and keep going. It humbles me. I remember Joe who mowed my lawn once; our older son’s best friend who is now memorialized in a tattoo on his arm. Rest easy, Joe. You left many behind who still think of you.
So I’m struggling a little; so what?! My children are healthy. (Pooh pooh) My husband comes home every night. (Pooh pooh pooh) I am piecing together a year of small jobs: a two hour class here, another there; a few hours a week on a project that won’t need my full attention until next May; a short performance on Saturday followed by an audition; new headshots; a new short film that is almost finished; four more days on my latest free gym trial … All possibilities open. On TV they have covered the football scores and are turning to the rainy US Open Tennis Tournament, worrying about Nadal’s knees and Federer’s advantage. It hurts me to see how easily the world moves on. And yet, perhaps, that is the greatest honor we can bestow upon these lost souls. Just keep moving.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
September Morn
I wake up this morning and turn on the Weather Channel to find out why it feels so good to hunker down under the quilt and why my right hand, the only part of my body other than forehead that is exposed to the air, is ice-cold. It is 59 degrees! Well, that explains it. I haven’t gotten into the winter habit of closing the windows at night. When you live in the country you open all the windows on cool nights and by the time morning rolls around, the house is as cool as a cucumber. If you quickly shut all the windows and pull the shades, you can keep the house cool for the better part of the day. It saves money on air-conditioning and forms a nice pattern of anal-retentive behavior that you can use to aggravate the rest of your family. “Open the window!” “Close the window!” And so on until they hate you. The trick occurs when the seasons change. Suddenly the temperature drops too low and the heat kicks on! “Close the windows! Close the windows! What do you think I have; stock in the oil company?”
My husband has taken his book and his cup of coffee and has gone out on the front porch to warm up. Correction: he’s back. “It’s freezing out there!” The wind is blowing the leaves that will soon turn brilliantly orange, yellow and red and then fall to the ground forcing us into manual labor worthy of a chain gang. For weeks now the acorns have been landing on the back deck and roof like tiny bombs. You can’t go outside without a hard-hat. Left unattended, this place could be swallowed by the forest in a few short seasons.
The Weather Channel lady is giddy as she reminds us that tomorrow is Friday. I used to love that word: “Friday”. It meant two whole days without school. When I got older and had to take jobs I didn’t like, it meant two whole days to myself. When you work in the theatre, “Friday” means four to five more performances until you can eat dinner at a normal hour. Now, weekends are a holding pattern, not a vacation. Now it is “Monday” that looms like a bright spot of possibility on your calendar; the day when people might open the resumes you mailed and maybe return the calls you placed. To the unemployed, “Friday” is just one more marker on the road to the grave.
Have a nice weekend.
My husband has taken his book and his cup of coffee and has gone out on the front porch to warm up. Correction: he’s back. “It’s freezing out there!” The wind is blowing the leaves that will soon turn brilliantly orange, yellow and red and then fall to the ground forcing us into manual labor worthy of a chain gang. For weeks now the acorns have been landing on the back deck and roof like tiny bombs. You can’t go outside without a hard-hat. Left unattended, this place could be swallowed by the forest in a few short seasons.
The Weather Channel lady is giddy as she reminds us that tomorrow is Friday. I used to love that word: “Friday”. It meant two whole days without school. When I got older and had to take jobs I didn’t like, it meant two whole days to myself. When you work in the theatre, “Friday” means four to five more performances until you can eat dinner at a normal hour. Now, weekends are a holding pattern, not a vacation. Now it is “Monday” that looms like a bright spot of possibility on your calendar; the day when people might open the resumes you mailed and maybe return the calls you placed. To the unemployed, “Friday” is just one more marker on the road to the grave.
Have a nice weekend.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Facebook Land Mines
Okay, I’ll admit it. I just don’t get some of the stuff on Facebook! I’ve got people chugging drinks at me, throwing food, sending me martinis, poking me, challenging me to games, winning jewels, and giving up city living to take up farming. None of this is real but I still don’t understand the why of it. Why would anyone be chugging virtual vodka when there’s a liquor store down the road? Why would anyone want the waste that delicious looking piece of virtual cake? What does it mean to be virtually poked? Will I virtually bruise?
And it all comes with this cryptic, totally unexplained warning: “Allowing XXXXXX access will let it pull your profile information, photos, your friends' info, and other content that it requires to work. By proceeding, you are allowing XXXXXX to access your information and you are agreeing to the XXXXXX Terms of Use.” What does this mean? What am I agreeing to? Pull it to where? For what purpose?
I voted in the “Let Obama Do His Job” Survey and was immediately carried to “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz”. I wouldn’t mind taking “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz” because I am essentially addicted to computer games, but if I take “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz” and want to find out how I did on “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz”, it seems I will be enrolled an auto renewing subscription service that will continue until canceled anytime by texting STOP to short code 40684 for a mere $9.99 per month or $4.99 per month for 2 alerts per week on Cricket. Will someone tell me WHAT IS A SHORT CODE? WHAT IS CRICKET?!
If I wish someone a happy birthday and don’t attach a virtual gift, am I cheap? Why would I pay for a virtual gift when I can buy a real one, assuming I could afford a real one?
I’m having fun with Facebook, finding old friends from high school and college, learning much too much about the private longings of my students and friends, confusing the lyrics they quote with their own angst. The best part about Facebook is that my son gets to teach me how to use it the way I used to teach him things like how to read or walk. I hope he didn’t feel like as much of an idiot as I do.
And it all comes with this cryptic, totally unexplained warning: “Allowing XXXXXX access will let it pull your profile information, photos, your friends' info, and other content that it requires to work. By proceeding, you are allowing XXXXXX to access your information and you are agreeing to the XXXXXX Terms of Use.” What does this mean? What am I agreeing to? Pull it to where? For what purpose?
I voted in the “Let Obama Do His Job” Survey and was immediately carried to “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz”. I wouldn’t mind taking “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz” because I am essentially addicted to computer games, but if I take “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz” and want to find out how I did on “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz”, it seems I will be enrolled an auto renewing subscription service that will continue until canceled anytime by texting STOP to short code 40684 for a mere $9.99 per month or $4.99 per month for 2 alerts per week on Cricket. Will someone tell me WHAT IS A SHORT CODE? WHAT IS CRICKET?!
If I wish someone a happy birthday and don’t attach a virtual gift, am I cheap? Why would I pay for a virtual gift when I can buy a real one, assuming I could afford a real one?
I’m having fun with Facebook, finding old friends from high school and college, learning much too much about the private longings of my students and friends, confusing the lyrics they quote with their own angst. The best part about Facebook is that my son gets to teach me how to use it the way I used to teach him things like how to read or walk. I hope he didn’t feel like as much of an idiot as I do.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
The Blooming Bush
My bush is blooming again!
Okay, get your head out of the gutter. Outside my bedroom window is a bush that blooms in the spring. As soon as the weather begins to warm up, the green bush bursts with neat, tiny white flowers that spring upward from all along each branch, not just at the end like the rhododendrons do. I’m not a botanist; I don’t know what the tree is called; I don’t know if it is a tree or a bush or a plant. I call it ‘The Wedding Cake Tree’ because when the flowers bloom it looks like it is frosted. When the flowers disappear (I don’t want to say ‘die’ because this process seems more like transition than death), tiny red berries will take their place before the tree returns to all green. Well, it is SEPTEMBER! I suppose the drop in temperatures to the 50s and 60s at night have gotten the tree as confused as I am because the flowers are back! And seeing them made me happy for a minute. Is this an omen? Am I due for a rebirth? Perhaps my time has not past irrevocably.
One funny sidebar about prayers and petitions: I have been calling out for whatever power there might be in the universe to send me some help. So on Sunday, my husband and I went down to the gym I told you about: our latest free trial pass, due to expire on Monday. It was open but since we only have a guest pass, we could not get in unless there was a manager present to open the door and none of the people working out inside seemed inclined to open the door for us. So we left, deciding to take a walk through Fairfield Hills. There, amid the ruins of a state mental hospital and other buildings that no one knows what to do with rose a brand new, pristine mega-building: the Newtown Youth Academy. Was it a school? A private school? A penitentiary? There were a few cars parked in its newly paved parking lot. But it was Sunday, and Labor Day weekend to boot. I suggested we check it out. We approached and the large front doors swung open invitingly. My husband said “We’re trespassing” but I kept going. The Yankee game played from a flat-screen TV across the small lobby; how bad could it be? A snack bar promised a few sweets and other not-necessarily-health-food-only treats. A sign told about spin classes. “Honey, I think it’s a gym!”
A very nice man sat in his office as I walked past the open door. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. What is this?” He graciously took us on a tour. A huge, truly amazing place, it sported an indoor turf track, soccer, field hockey, basketball courts, tennis courts, lockers, showers and a brand new, gleaming full gym for adults! He gave us two free passes to try it out for a week.
Okay, Powers, so you’re listening to the small stuff. What road do I need to wander down by mistake to get my dream job?
Okay, get your head out of the gutter. Outside my bedroom window is a bush that blooms in the spring. As soon as the weather begins to warm up, the green bush bursts with neat, tiny white flowers that spring upward from all along each branch, not just at the end like the rhododendrons do. I’m not a botanist; I don’t know what the tree is called; I don’t know if it is a tree or a bush or a plant. I call it ‘The Wedding Cake Tree’ because when the flowers bloom it looks like it is frosted. When the flowers disappear (I don’t want to say ‘die’ because this process seems more like transition than death), tiny red berries will take their place before the tree returns to all green. Well, it is SEPTEMBER! I suppose the drop in temperatures to the 50s and 60s at night have gotten the tree as confused as I am because the flowers are back! And seeing them made me happy for a minute. Is this an omen? Am I due for a rebirth? Perhaps my time has not past irrevocably.
One funny sidebar about prayers and petitions: I have been calling out for whatever power there might be in the universe to send me some help. So on Sunday, my husband and I went down to the gym I told you about: our latest free trial pass, due to expire on Monday. It was open but since we only have a guest pass, we could not get in unless there was a manager present to open the door and none of the people working out inside seemed inclined to open the door for us. So we left, deciding to take a walk through Fairfield Hills. There, amid the ruins of a state mental hospital and other buildings that no one knows what to do with rose a brand new, pristine mega-building: the Newtown Youth Academy. Was it a school? A private school? A penitentiary? There were a few cars parked in its newly paved parking lot. But it was Sunday, and Labor Day weekend to boot. I suggested we check it out. We approached and the large front doors swung open invitingly. My husband said “We’re trespassing” but I kept going. The Yankee game played from a flat-screen TV across the small lobby; how bad could it be? A snack bar promised a few sweets and other not-necessarily-health-food-only treats. A sign told about spin classes. “Honey, I think it’s a gym!”
A very nice man sat in his office as I walked past the open door. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. What is this?” He graciously took us on a tour. A huge, truly amazing place, it sported an indoor turf track, soccer, field hockey, basketball courts, tennis courts, lockers, showers and a brand new, gleaming full gym for adults! He gave us two free passes to try it out for a week.
Okay, Powers, so you’re listening to the small stuff. What road do I need to wander down by mistake to get my dream job?
Monday, September 7, 2009
A Little Rant
Okay, enough is enough. I’m not a true liberal but this treatment of Barak Obama has gone far enough! The man is our President! He is the duly elected President of the United States! He did not win by a technicality! He won by a landslide! Where are his supporters?!
For the last eight years, we have had to endure the idiotic ramblings of a man who never met a sentence he couldn’t get lost in. And yet I know of not one instance where American people banded together to refuse to let their children listen to the drivel that came out of his mouth.
But Barak Obama is not being accorded the same respect as that “What-Me-Worry” maniac who plunged this country into war, lied to the public and made us the laughingstock of the world as well as almost universally hated.
How dare people refuse to let their children hear the President of the United States of America deliver a “welcome back to school” message! They’re afraid he’ll turn them into Socialists? Did the children who listened to George Bush turn into morons? Their parents did! Let's stop lying to ourselves: if Barak Obama were white, this would not be happening!!!!
Give the man a chance to do at least some of what he was elected to do! Stop with the scare tactics! He wants a “Public OPTION” for healthcare! It is not mandatory! If you can keep your expensive insurance plan, good for you! My private insurance routinely tells me what I can and cannot do! Insurance companies are not interested in protecting their clients; they are interested in making money!!!!
And, Mr. Obama, stop being a “nice guy” and go after those people in the former administration who deserve to go to jail for their actions!
For the last eight years, we have had to endure the idiotic ramblings of a man who never met a sentence he couldn’t get lost in. And yet I know of not one instance where American people banded together to refuse to let their children listen to the drivel that came out of his mouth.
But Barak Obama is not being accorded the same respect as that “What-Me-Worry” maniac who plunged this country into war, lied to the public and made us the laughingstock of the world as well as almost universally hated.
How dare people refuse to let their children hear the President of the United States of America deliver a “welcome back to school” message! They’re afraid he’ll turn them into Socialists? Did the children who listened to George Bush turn into morons? Their parents did! Let's stop lying to ourselves: if Barak Obama were white, this would not be happening!!!!
Give the man a chance to do at least some of what he was elected to do! Stop with the scare tactics! He wants a “Public OPTION” for healthcare! It is not mandatory! If you can keep your expensive insurance plan, good for you! My private insurance routinely tells me what I can and cannot do! Insurance companies are not interested in protecting their clients; they are interested in making money!!!!
And, Mr. Obama, stop being a “nice guy” and go after those people in the former administration who deserve to go to jail for their actions!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Down to Nothing
It is Sunday morning, Labor Day weekend. Hmmm, Labor day. Are the unemployed invited? Or is like Christmas when I gather my Jewish family and huddle in a Chinese restaurant or vacant movie theatre waiting for the day to pass so we don’t feel like such outcasts?
Outside my window a family of deer is nibbling on what is left of our hostas. Let them. God intended that the deer shall eat plants. Is it their fault we’ve planted such delicious ones? Will God provide for me as well, or did He really intend for us to pick our sustenance out of garbage pails in crowded cities? Is this man’s punishment for Adam and the apple? Did God create houses & mortgages, apartments and rent; condos and maintenance fees to remind us that we have been evicted from the Garden and are on our own?
My cousin ends every email with a signature: “When you’re down to nothing, God’s up to something.” Yes, but what? Is He preparing me for something new or just toying with me like a cat with a mouse before swatting me down for good with one sweep of a paw?
I’ve been here before and that is the only thing that keeps me going; the knowledge that life can change in a flash. Once upon a time in a magical land called New York City I lived the life of a young actress with dreams. I was down to my last three weeks on unemployment insurance at $46 a week.
I had gone to an open call at Manhattan Theatre Club that morning, waiting on a line that snaked through many small rooms, finding my best friend Jeff, who would have the good sense to leave New York in a few years, return to his native California and turn his fantastic sense of humor into a successful career as a TV writer and producer. But that morning we sat together, unemployed, trying to prove ourselves to someone who could give us a job. I had walked to this audition across Central park from the West Side to the East Side and almost all the way to the East River. Jeff had taken the bus and so was in possession of a bus transfer, a small piece of MTA currency that would allow a rider to transfer from that cross-town bus to one going downtown. Jeff gave me his transfer. There was a cattle call for a new tour of Fiddler on the Roof starring Zero Mostel. The call for women who sing was from 2-5 p.m. It was now about 8 a.m.
I finished my audition, walked back across the park and climbed the three stories to my apartment to the unconditional love of my dog, Sherlock. I debated leaving my sanctuary for the unfriendly and mostly unfruitful territory of a National Tour chorus call and decided, well, I have this transfer… I’ll go.
The auditions were being held on the stage of the empty Royale Theatre on Broadway, which would soon become home to Grease , the unsanitized version. The line stretched from somewhere inside the theatre, out the backstage entrance, down the alley, around the corner and out to the street. I don’t remember what number I got but it had three digits and the first digit was not a 1. I waited.
The line crept forward and stopped; crept forward and stopped; crept forward and stopped. They were “typing”. Between ten and twenty people were lined up across the stage; anyone who didn’t look they could come from Anatevka was “typed out”. I was “typed in”. Thank you Bubby and Zaida! Next I waited on the backstage steps that led to the dressing rooms. Once again, ten people at a time were called to the stage. We lined up the wings, walked center, gave our sheet music to the accompanist and offered our personalities and souls to the Lords of the Job in eight bars of an uptempo song; or at least I offered my soul. Some people just sang. Most people received a “Thank You” and an escort to the door. I was asked to wait stage right. We were down to double-digits. Some of us were given sides to read (a side is a small portion of the script). I was given Tzeitel’s barn scene with Motel the Tailor: “Talk to him!” One at a time, potential Tzeitels marched to the center of the stage to read the scene. I listened and learned. When it was my turn, I walked centerstage and looked out at the vast empty theatre. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen! The auditors were seated at a rudely constructed table flung over several rows of seats in the middle of the orchestra. I felt the merging of Tzeitel’s desperation with my own desire never to leave this spot and pleaded both our cases through the lines. I was asked to stay.
Two of us were asked if we knew Fruma Sarah’s song from the Tevye’s Dream. Now I had been listening to Fiddler on the Roof since I was 12! It was the second show I’d ever seen on Broadway, the first being Milk and Honey. (For some reason when I was a kid my parents only thought about taking me to shows about Jews. Did they thing I would be swayed to Christianity if I saw Oliver, or Camelot, or 110 In the Shade? I don’t know.) Anyway, I said yes, I could. The other girl went first. She made mistakes. I went second. From the recessed place of my mind, the words came forth. They asked us to wait. They huddled. I squatted at the edge of the stage, my arms folded across my chest, my mouth pressed against the inside of my arm and my eyes fixed on that table in the center of the theatre. I beamed my longing at them through my eyes and finally Tommy Abbott, who would faithfully recreate Jerome Robbins’ choreography, walked to the stage. One by one he approached the remaining petitioners. “Thank you.” “Thank you.” “You’ve got the job.” Thank you,” and so on. He approached me. I stood. “You’ve got the job.” Joy flooded every cell of my body. “Really? Thank you! What job? What did I get?” "You'll be understudying Tzeitel & Fruma Sarah." I jumped into his arms not even trying to hide my tears. And he returned my hug. Only another performer could completely understand the gift he'd just given me. I left the Royale with a contract for a National Tour that would return to Broadway in time for Christmas. I ran outside, back through the now empty alleyway. It was about 5:30. I sprung for the Eighth Avenue bus; I could afford the fare! I told everyone who would listen. Strangers! I rushed up to my apartment and told Sherlock. He was ecstatic! (Okay, he was always happy when I came home, but this time he knew that I was happy to be there too and he ran around in circles while I jumped up and down in the center of my living room.) I called my parents; they started screaming! I called Jeff. He started screaming! He gave me a party that night where my friends made me tell my story over and over again. It gave us all hope!
Even now I feel better just remembering that day. I need another one. I’m not quite down to nothing, God, but I'm getting there. Well?
Outside my window a family of deer is nibbling on what is left of our hostas. Let them. God intended that the deer shall eat plants. Is it their fault we’ve planted such delicious ones? Will God provide for me as well, or did He really intend for us to pick our sustenance out of garbage pails in crowded cities? Is this man’s punishment for Adam and the apple? Did God create houses & mortgages, apartments and rent; condos and maintenance fees to remind us that we have been evicted from the Garden and are on our own?
My cousin ends every email with a signature: “When you’re down to nothing, God’s up to something.” Yes, but what? Is He preparing me for something new or just toying with me like a cat with a mouse before swatting me down for good with one sweep of a paw?
I’ve been here before and that is the only thing that keeps me going; the knowledge that life can change in a flash. Once upon a time in a magical land called New York City I lived the life of a young actress with dreams. I was down to my last three weeks on unemployment insurance at $46 a week.
I had gone to an open call at Manhattan Theatre Club that morning, waiting on a line that snaked through many small rooms, finding my best friend Jeff, who would have the good sense to leave New York in a few years, return to his native California and turn his fantastic sense of humor into a successful career as a TV writer and producer. But that morning we sat together, unemployed, trying to prove ourselves to someone who could give us a job. I had walked to this audition across Central park from the West Side to the East Side and almost all the way to the East River. Jeff had taken the bus and so was in possession of a bus transfer, a small piece of MTA currency that would allow a rider to transfer from that cross-town bus to one going downtown. Jeff gave me his transfer. There was a cattle call for a new tour of Fiddler on the Roof starring Zero Mostel. The call for women who sing was from 2-5 p.m. It was now about 8 a.m.
I finished my audition, walked back across the park and climbed the three stories to my apartment to the unconditional love of my dog, Sherlock. I debated leaving my sanctuary for the unfriendly and mostly unfruitful territory of a National Tour chorus call and decided, well, I have this transfer… I’ll go.
The auditions were being held on the stage of the empty Royale Theatre on Broadway, which would soon become home to Grease , the unsanitized version. The line stretched from somewhere inside the theatre, out the backstage entrance, down the alley, around the corner and out to the street. I don’t remember what number I got but it had three digits and the first digit was not a 1. I waited.
The line crept forward and stopped; crept forward and stopped; crept forward and stopped. They were “typing”. Between ten and twenty people were lined up across the stage; anyone who didn’t look they could come from Anatevka was “typed out”. I was “typed in”. Thank you Bubby and Zaida! Next I waited on the backstage steps that led to the dressing rooms. Once again, ten people at a time were called to the stage. We lined up the wings, walked center, gave our sheet music to the accompanist and offered our personalities and souls to the Lords of the Job in eight bars of an uptempo song; or at least I offered my soul. Some people just sang. Most people received a “Thank You” and an escort to the door. I was asked to wait stage right. We were down to double-digits. Some of us were given sides to read (a side is a small portion of the script). I was given Tzeitel’s barn scene with Motel the Tailor: “Talk to him!” One at a time, potential Tzeitels marched to the center of the stage to read the scene. I listened and learned. When it was my turn, I walked centerstage and looked out at the vast empty theatre. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen! The auditors were seated at a rudely constructed table flung over several rows of seats in the middle of the orchestra. I felt the merging of Tzeitel’s desperation with my own desire never to leave this spot and pleaded both our cases through the lines. I was asked to stay.
Two of us were asked if we knew Fruma Sarah’s song from the Tevye’s Dream. Now I had been listening to Fiddler on the Roof since I was 12! It was the second show I’d ever seen on Broadway, the first being Milk and Honey. (For some reason when I was a kid my parents only thought about taking me to shows about Jews. Did they thing I would be swayed to Christianity if I saw Oliver, or Camelot, or 110 In the Shade? I don’t know.) Anyway, I said yes, I could. The other girl went first. She made mistakes. I went second. From the recessed place of my mind, the words came forth. They asked us to wait. They huddled. I squatted at the edge of the stage, my arms folded across my chest, my mouth pressed against the inside of my arm and my eyes fixed on that table in the center of the theatre. I beamed my longing at them through my eyes and finally Tommy Abbott, who would faithfully recreate Jerome Robbins’ choreography, walked to the stage. One by one he approached the remaining petitioners. “Thank you.” “Thank you.” “You’ve got the job.” Thank you,” and so on. He approached me. I stood. “You’ve got the job.” Joy flooded every cell of my body. “Really? Thank you! What job? What did I get?” "You'll be understudying Tzeitel & Fruma Sarah." I jumped into his arms not even trying to hide my tears. And he returned my hug. Only another performer could completely understand the gift he'd just given me. I left the Royale with a contract for a National Tour that would return to Broadway in time for Christmas. I ran outside, back through the now empty alleyway. It was about 5:30. I sprung for the Eighth Avenue bus; I could afford the fare! I told everyone who would listen. Strangers! I rushed up to my apartment and told Sherlock. He was ecstatic! (Okay, he was always happy when I came home, but this time he knew that I was happy to be there too and he ran around in circles while I jumped up and down in the center of my living room.) I called my parents; they started screaming! I called Jeff. He started screaming! He gave me a party that night where my friends made me tell my story over and over again. It gave us all hope!
Even now I feel better just remembering that day. I need another one. I’m not quite down to nothing, God, but I'm getting there. Well?
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Nothing
I’m finding that I could sleep for a minimum of 18 out of the 24 hours in the day. It is noon and I am exhausted. At 6 p.m. I can barely keep my eyes open. I doze through an evening with the TV on, waking up to find the Yankee game has progressed one inning, two, sometimes more. I fight the sleep knowing that as soon as my head hits the pillow at bedtime, I will wake up. And I do. At 11 p.m. it seems a good idea to watch a movie. At 1:30 we force ourselves to go to bed. My digital clock skips forward with the same skipped beats as the Yankee game and my heart: two o’clock, three-fifteen, four-thirty, etc. I awake with the light to discover the sheets clammy with sweat, the covers in disarray, the knot in my stomach still there from the night before. My house is a mess and though I have the time to do something about it I have neither the energy nor the faintest idea of where to start. Just now I carried the Pledge and a chamois cloth upstairs with the intention of dusting. But before dusting, I need to clear off the coffee table. I sort through the papers I have postponed dealing with, find myself needing to go on line to find out which of these bills I have paid and if there are any automatic deposits I haven’t accounted for so that I can pay the bills. I find that I have already scheduled these bills for payment but neglected to put them away. I put them in another pile. There is one deposit, thank God, but since I haven’t received the statements, entering the amount in my ledger will have to wait until the mail comes but its Labor Day weekend so that will take some waiting. So I close the account on line and start talking to you instead.
I have nothing to say.
I have nothing to say.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Suckers and Other Desperate People
Have you ever been on a ride at an amusement park that just keeps going around and around with no purpose other than to make you sick? Have you wanted to scream “Stop this ride; I want to get off”? I’m on one of those right now. Not an amusement park ride, but definitely a nauseating experience that I would truly like to stop. On the radio this morning I heard that people who are unemployed are traumatized. Really? Was there a survey I missed? Nobody asked me. I’m way beyond traumatized! I’ve made it through “pummeled” to “paralyzed”. I’m so battered, I want to curl up in a ball and sleep through the rest of this story. I want to wake up and find that this has all been a joke. That I’m really well prepared for the future and that everything is just fine.
First thing this morning, I got a call from a guy who said he had seen my poster for acting classes at the supermarket. I sat up immediately, pushing the grogginess from my voice and putting on my best, nurturing acting-teacher tone. But he wasn’t interested in my classes. Instead, he saw in the face on the poster a person who needed work! He invited me to a seminar on a “career opportunity” at noon. It seems they are opening offices all along the I. 84 corridor and are looking for ‘staff’”. Now, in my dictionary, when you say ‘staff’, you mean employees. But they don’t want to hire anyone. They are recruiting. Despite my husband’s immediate negativity, I decided to check it out.
“Step right up folks! Do you have a dream? Are you stuck in a J-O-B? Are you just making your age? People are in trouble! They have bad mortgages, too much debt, and not enough money! And that’s good news for us! Your job sucks! You’ll never make a million! Look at me! I was in a corporation and co-workers said I was doing great!! At 22 I made $22K. At 23, $23K. By the time I was 28 I said ‘This is not for me!’ Now I’m making $21,000 a month! I don’t need new carpeting! I don’t need a new car! I’m going to retire with millions! What about you? Wouldn’t you like that?
No sir, I’m an idiot. I like being broke and going nowhere. But stop it! I feel bad enough without you standing up there in your cheap suit and dull shoes telling me what a shmuck I am! Slow down! Make sense! Stop spitting slogans at me at the speed of light! Stop with the rah-rah cheerleading and the pyramids and the pink Cadillacs and vacations and tell me how this works!
I’m not even beginning to do justice to this guy. Beady Eyes, high cheekbones with sunken cheeks, hawk-like nose; I was in the presence of a natural born predator! He was smarmy and condescending and I hated him instantly!
“First we’ll take their credit cards and we’ll put them over here. Then we’ll take their mortgage and we’ll put it over there.” I couldn’t help thinking of the scene in “The Wizard of Oz” when the Scarecrow has been ripped to shreds by the witch’s flying monkeys and the Lion and the Tin Man rebuild him. And I started mentally applying the principles that were being hurled at me.
“We’ll put ‘em back together and you know what we’ll do with the left over straw?”
“Feed it to the horses?”
“No! The horses don’t need hay! They don’t need a new saddle! My neighbors drive around in their fancy leased buggies and ask me why I don’t get a new one. And I say, ‘Well, mine’s paid for!’ No, I’ll tell you what we’ll do with the leftover straw. We’ll build another scarecrow!”
“Oh!”
“And then we’ll have two scarecrows. And by the time we retire, using the rule of 72, we’ll have us an army of scarecrows!”
And, as if getting rich wasn’t enough, there are incentives: Jamaica! Hawaii! “Wouldn’t you like to take a vacation at someone else’s expense?” Okay, I’m starting to get it. So how many friends and relatives do I have to sacrifice on the altar of your ambition to pay my bills and retire comfortably? One a week? Two? Four! At that rate, I’ll be out of friends rather quickly. “Oh, but each person you talk to has to give you 10 more names. And look, they’ll write personal recommendations! Well, we’ll write them and they’ll sign them!” And all I’m thinking about is that I can’t get ten people to take a class and I’m tired of dragging people to the trough and selling people what they don’t want. I’m thinking that I don’t have 40 years left to build a nest egg! I’m thinking that three members of my own family are already selling financial plans and I want to head over to the bar next door and drown out the noise of all this promise.
Yes, the plan is based on good, sound principles. But taking it to the level of Evangelism is sick! I have lost friends because we couldn’t have a conversation that didn’t involve Amway or Mary Kay or Shaklee or Scientology. These aren’t bad ideas (well, except perhaps for Scientology); they’re the ONLY ideas. Once you get involved, you are a card-carrying member of a cult.
One thing I did learn: what to teach my son so that he is not in this position when he is my age. Me? I’m going to the gym.
First thing this morning, I got a call from a guy who said he had seen my poster for acting classes at the supermarket. I sat up immediately, pushing the grogginess from my voice and putting on my best, nurturing acting-teacher tone. But he wasn’t interested in my classes. Instead, he saw in the face on the poster a person who needed work! He invited me to a seminar on a “career opportunity” at noon. It seems they are opening offices all along the I. 84 corridor and are looking for ‘staff’”. Now, in my dictionary, when you say ‘staff’, you mean employees. But they don’t want to hire anyone. They are recruiting. Despite my husband’s immediate negativity, I decided to check it out.
“Step right up folks! Do you have a dream? Are you stuck in a J-O-B? Are you just making your age? People are in trouble! They have bad mortgages, too much debt, and not enough money! And that’s good news for us! Your job sucks! You’ll never make a million! Look at me! I was in a corporation and co-workers said I was doing great!! At 22 I made $22K. At 23, $23K. By the time I was 28 I said ‘This is not for me!’ Now I’m making $21,000 a month! I don’t need new carpeting! I don’t need a new car! I’m going to retire with millions! What about you? Wouldn’t you like that?
No sir, I’m an idiot. I like being broke and going nowhere. But stop it! I feel bad enough without you standing up there in your cheap suit and dull shoes telling me what a shmuck I am! Slow down! Make sense! Stop spitting slogans at me at the speed of light! Stop with the rah-rah cheerleading and the pyramids and the pink Cadillacs and vacations and tell me how this works!
I’m not even beginning to do justice to this guy. Beady Eyes, high cheekbones with sunken cheeks, hawk-like nose; I was in the presence of a natural born predator! He was smarmy and condescending and I hated him instantly!
“First we’ll take their credit cards and we’ll put them over here. Then we’ll take their mortgage and we’ll put it over there.” I couldn’t help thinking of the scene in “The Wizard of Oz” when the Scarecrow has been ripped to shreds by the witch’s flying monkeys and the Lion and the Tin Man rebuild him. And I started mentally applying the principles that were being hurled at me.
“We’ll put ‘em back together and you know what we’ll do with the left over straw?”
“Feed it to the horses?”
“No! The horses don’t need hay! They don’t need a new saddle! My neighbors drive around in their fancy leased buggies and ask me why I don’t get a new one. And I say, ‘Well, mine’s paid for!’ No, I’ll tell you what we’ll do with the leftover straw. We’ll build another scarecrow!”
“Oh!”
“And then we’ll have two scarecrows. And by the time we retire, using the rule of 72, we’ll have us an army of scarecrows!”
And, as if getting rich wasn’t enough, there are incentives: Jamaica! Hawaii! “Wouldn’t you like to take a vacation at someone else’s expense?” Okay, I’m starting to get it. So how many friends and relatives do I have to sacrifice on the altar of your ambition to pay my bills and retire comfortably? One a week? Two? Four! At that rate, I’ll be out of friends rather quickly. “Oh, but each person you talk to has to give you 10 more names. And look, they’ll write personal recommendations! Well, we’ll write them and they’ll sign them!” And all I’m thinking about is that I can’t get ten people to take a class and I’m tired of dragging people to the trough and selling people what they don’t want. I’m thinking that I don’t have 40 years left to build a nest egg! I’m thinking that three members of my own family are already selling financial plans and I want to head over to the bar next door and drown out the noise of all this promise.
Yes, the plan is based on good, sound principles. But taking it to the level of Evangelism is sick! I have lost friends because we couldn’t have a conversation that didn’t involve Amway or Mary Kay or Shaklee or Scientology. These aren’t bad ideas (well, except perhaps for Scientology); they’re the ONLY ideas. Once you get involved, you are a card-carrying member of a cult.
One thing I did learn: what to teach my son so that he is not in this position when he is my age. Me? I’m going to the gym.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Bureaucracy Sucks
For any of you who have ever been kept waiting on tenterhooks for an answer, here’s a cute story. My needle biopsy was negative. I had to pull some teeth to find out, but the test was negative. Sheesh! You’d think I was asking for top-secret information! Seriously! I’m about fed up with all the security and privacy everyone is so concerned about. It seems the only person who can’t get information about an individual is the individual him/herself!
In a nutshell, the questionable calcium cluster was discovered by the radiologist during a routine mammogram. But, since he is not a “treating” physician, a prescription was requested from my regular doctor who IS a “treating physician”. The pathology report was sent to my “treating physician” but, since she wasn’t “really” the one who had requested the test, her nurse “couldn’t” give me any details! Her nurse said, “Confidentially, it looks okay to us” but if I wanted any more information I had to talk to the guy who actually ordered the test. The nurse of the guy who actually ordered the test says he NEVER talks to patients and sent me back to the “treating physician”. I have yet to speak to an actual doctor but the nurses, all very “unofficially”, keep telling me I’m okay. “It’s negative”, one said, “but you didn’t hear that from me.” Who’s in charge here? It anyone as outraged as I am?
I called my internet service provider the other day to cancel a program that I never ordered, never requested and never used. In fact, I didn’t even know I had it but apparently I’ve been paying for it for almost three years! Before they could refund my money they needed my name, my mother’s maiden name, the last four digits of my social security number, and the last four digits of the credit card I use to automatically pay the monthly bill. I asked “Why would someone go to the trouble of impersonating me to get me a refund on my personal credit card?” Does this make any sense? How is it that any schmuck can get my credit card number and run up a bill online but I can’t save myself some money?
I needed to transfer a balance to a new credit card. Since the promotion came with my husband’s name on it, I needed to put him on the phone. Luckily he was home. They asked him for permission to talk to me! He could have been the janitor but they needed to hear a male voice. The last time I needed something similar I put my son on the phone. He said “Yes, I’m him.” Presto change, I was granted access to the secret city! Have everyone gone mad? What if I said I was him? Could I sue for discrimination claiming I just had a high voice?
Anyway, I’m fine… I think. The nurse at the radiologist called the nurse at the doctor’s office and begged her to please call the patient (me) and let her (me) know that she’s (I’m) okay. I still haven’t gotten that call. Neither have I gotten my refund from the internet service provider. I think the credit card transfer went through but that is because the new company stands to make some money.
Bureaucracy sucks!
In a nutshell, the questionable calcium cluster was discovered by the radiologist during a routine mammogram. But, since he is not a “treating” physician, a prescription was requested from my regular doctor who IS a “treating physician”. The pathology report was sent to my “treating physician” but, since she wasn’t “really” the one who had requested the test, her nurse “couldn’t” give me any details! Her nurse said, “Confidentially, it looks okay to us” but if I wanted any more information I had to talk to the guy who actually ordered the test. The nurse of the guy who actually ordered the test says he NEVER talks to patients and sent me back to the “treating physician”. I have yet to speak to an actual doctor but the nurses, all very “unofficially”, keep telling me I’m okay. “It’s negative”, one said, “but you didn’t hear that from me.” Who’s in charge here? It anyone as outraged as I am?
I called my internet service provider the other day to cancel a program that I never ordered, never requested and never used. In fact, I didn’t even know I had it but apparently I’ve been paying for it for almost three years! Before they could refund my money they needed my name, my mother’s maiden name, the last four digits of my social security number, and the last four digits of the credit card I use to automatically pay the monthly bill. I asked “Why would someone go to the trouble of impersonating me to get me a refund on my personal credit card?” Does this make any sense? How is it that any schmuck can get my credit card number and run up a bill online but I can’t save myself some money?
I needed to transfer a balance to a new credit card. Since the promotion came with my husband’s name on it, I needed to put him on the phone. Luckily he was home. They asked him for permission to talk to me! He could have been the janitor but they needed to hear a male voice. The last time I needed something similar I put my son on the phone. He said “Yes, I’m him.” Presto change, I was granted access to the secret city! Have everyone gone mad? What if I said I was him? Could I sue for discrimination claiming I just had a high voice?
Anyway, I’m fine… I think. The nurse at the radiologist called the nurse at the doctor’s office and begged her to please call the patient (me) and let her (me) know that she’s (I’m) okay. I still haven’t gotten that call. Neither have I gotten my refund from the internet service provider. I think the credit card transfer went through but that is because the new company stands to make some money.
Bureaucracy sucks!
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Working the Workout
I joined a gym. I didn’t actually join a gym yet; I’m sampling them. Most gyms offer trial memberships for at least a week so you can see if you like them. I’m on my second trial. It’s not that I don’t WANT to join a gym. I’d love to! There’s nothing like that feeling of ownership; like you really belong someplace. But free is free and, when you’re unemployed, shopping for the best deal can be a pleasure as well as a necessity. There are three things I’m looking for: location, price and amenities. According to my husband, if it isn’t close, we won’t go. According to me, if it isn’t cheap, I won’t go. If it isn’t fun, neither of us will go.
We found one that was really cheap but too far away. We were halfway there when we decided to stop for a hotdog and go to the movies instead.
We found one closer to home but it’s more expensive and is missing one of the machines I like: the one for the abs where you sit in the chair and twist your body against the weights. The owner of the gym says they don’t have it because it is bad for your back. I ask you, is any sort of weightlifting actually good for your back? And I don’t understand how a person can lift too much weight. Isn’t that an oxymoron?
Anyway, this gym has racquetball and child care, classes, showers and a sauna. I don’t play racquetball and have no small children. The classes are held during peak hours, either too early in the morning or “after work”. But I do love the sauna. There’s no clock in the sauna so I stay in it until my skin starts to hurt. Then I try to get out without moving so as not to hurt myself any more. I love the red glow and the waxen look of my face when I come out of the sauna. But, at four times the price of the one that’s too far away, is it worth it?
I found another place with 2 branches nearby. These are “convenience” type gyms, designed for the quick in and out. There are no showers, no dressing rooms, no classes… You sweat and run. This place does have one feature I love; an exercise bike with a built in video game where you can race virtual riders. The onscreen bike paths are very narrow but you can’t fall off! I tried! I made a sharp right, ready to fly off this cliff, die and have to start over again, but my bike just kept going. You can’t do that in real life. I’ve been working up a great sweat and having fun there all week, but it is August. What’s going to happen to all this sweat in January?
There are a few more gyms to try and then I suppose we’ll have to make a decision: the sauna or the video game; the price or the convenience? It’s a dilemma.
We found one that was really cheap but too far away. We were halfway there when we decided to stop for a hotdog and go to the movies instead.
We found one closer to home but it’s more expensive and is missing one of the machines I like: the one for the abs where you sit in the chair and twist your body against the weights. The owner of the gym says they don’t have it because it is bad for your back. I ask you, is any sort of weightlifting actually good for your back? And I don’t understand how a person can lift too much weight. Isn’t that an oxymoron?
Anyway, this gym has racquetball and child care, classes, showers and a sauna. I don’t play racquetball and have no small children. The classes are held during peak hours, either too early in the morning or “after work”. But I do love the sauna. There’s no clock in the sauna so I stay in it until my skin starts to hurt. Then I try to get out without moving so as not to hurt myself any more. I love the red glow and the waxen look of my face when I come out of the sauna. But, at four times the price of the one that’s too far away, is it worth it?
I found another place with 2 branches nearby. These are “convenience” type gyms, designed for the quick in and out. There are no showers, no dressing rooms, no classes… You sweat and run. This place does have one feature I love; an exercise bike with a built in video game where you can race virtual riders. The onscreen bike paths are very narrow but you can’t fall off! I tried! I made a sharp right, ready to fly off this cliff, die and have to start over again, but my bike just kept going. You can’t do that in real life. I’ve been working up a great sweat and having fun there all week, but it is August. What’s going to happen to all this sweat in January?
There are a few more gyms to try and then I suppose we’ll have to make a decision: the sauna or the video game; the price or the convenience? It’s a dilemma.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
