Tiles and Knees

“Hope! Hope,” for that is what she calls me. “Do you know where you are?”

“I’m in my bed!”

Only I wasn’t in my bed. I was on her kitchen floor in Florida. An unforgiving, white tile floor I might add. A trickle of blood from my chin had added color to my hands, my thighs.

“No, you’re not,” she screamed. “You’re on the floor!” All I could think of was how good the cool tile floor felt against my sweaty body. I had tried to sit up but just wanted to lie back down on the icy tiles. Mom wouldn’t have it. She roused me.
“What happened? What happened?”

I don’t know if I answered. I was struggling to figure out what happened. Slowly, it dawned. Dehydration. Ah, the power of water.

I had flown to Florida to spend a few days with my Mom after a grueling series of weeks rehearsing and performing in the Flagpole Radio Café, rehearsing and launching our own theatre company, Stray Kats, and doing it all with the constant pain of a torn meniscus and arthritis under my left kneecap. My blood pressure had begun creeping up so my Doctor had changed my medication. Then the TSA agents made me throw my water away. I got some on the plane but it wasn’t enough. The next day was filled with an attempt to repair my flagging computer, family visits, and a happy hour visit where they served two drinks even if you didn’t order the second. Naturally, I drank both. At five a.m., thirsty enough to be roused from my sleep, I went to the kitchen for water. Dizziness consumed me so I quickly filled my glass and started back to bed. I didn’t feel the fall. I didn’t feel as my knees, left shoulder and the left side of my face hit the tiles. I truly thought I was in bed. Only the next day did I truly feel the effects of what I can only liken to whiplash after a car crash.

I refused medical attention (the temperature had finally climbed out of winter numbers to an invitational mid-seventies) and proceeded to down copious amounts of water. I flew home two days later and was greeted by a horrified husband and son who MADE me promise to see my Doctor. I did, on Monday. An EKG and an MRI later, I have been pronounced “Okay”. It’s a good thing too! The knee surgery is this afternoon.

Strange Kats and Cats

So I Googled my new company, Stray Kats Theatre Company of Newtown CT, and got a bunch of hits: a few articles, the website, of course, and, are you ready... the Stray Cats Theatre Company of... I couldn't believe it... Newtown, Sydney, Australia! Talk about the land down under! It's like a strange reflection from the lower half of the globe.

Tappan Zee

Early this morning, I crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge on my way to New Jersey while the news station I was listening to talked about the two proposed designs for the new bridge that was to replace the one I traversed. And I realized, I was older than the bridge! I remembered being on that bridge shortly after it was opened to traffic. It was a clear, warm day in autumn when the man who would become my Dad picked up my small family for a ride in his new Cadillac. I sat in the front between him and my mother and, as we crested the bridge and saw the level stretch ahead of us, he teased that we were going to drive right into the water. “No we’re not”, I said, knowing he was teasing me but somehow fearful and excited at the same time. We hit the section where the pavement flattens and seems no more than ten feet from the water when suddenly, water sprayed up on the windshield. I gasped! He laughed a laugh I would come to know and love; a genuinely joyful laugh from a hearty man who loved life and always lived it to the fullest. Of course I had no way of knowing that the new Cadillac came with automatic windshield washers; I certainly had never seen it on either the Chevy or the Oldsmobile we owned. It was a magical moment and a special day as we drove into the country and went to a turkey farm and saw live turkeys and had a marvelous dinner, turkey, of course, at a big round table with a white linen tablecloth. I have such good memories of that day. I don’t recall anything about the other people in the back seat or seated around the table, namely my newborn brother and my birth father. Were they there? They must have been. It was 1955 and my parents wouldn’t divorce until a few years later. And my brother was born in August of 1955 so we wouldn’t have left him home. Or did we? Maybe with my grandparents? Or were they in the car too? Was that even my mother in the front seat with me? Maybe Dad had a date. They did double date occasionally, as I learned years later.

If you are reading this and gasping with wonder or disgust, please don’t. These relationships were meant to be. The marriage of my mother and father was dead long before the appearance of my Dad-to-be. The love between him and my mother was so profound that their eventual marriage was a truly joyous occasion for this impressionable child. I had an infinite capacity to give and receive love. It was just the adults who couldn’t make room for each other.

Early to Rose

It’s 5:45 a.m. and I’ve been awake for awhile. This hasn’t happened in a long time. I am more likely not to have fallen asleep at all than to have nodded off blissfully at a decent hour and awakened before dawn. But somewhere in m y sleep state, the list of things I had to do started scrolling like the end of a high-tech movie… on and on and on. There was no choice but to get up and write them down. Once I did that, I figured, I would be able to get some sleep. But once I was up, once I was writing the list of things on the TO DO list on my laptop, I started doing them. That’s perhaps the most marvelous thing about email and the internet. You can contact people and places at any hour of the day or night and its okay! Gone is the 10 o’clock rule for people and the 9 to 5ness of business. Gone is the sleepy voice at the other end of the phone when you call too early, or the panic that somebody died when you call too late. Gone is the feeling of intrusion into someone else’s life when you simply call at the wrong time. There is no wrong time! No one is going to check their email in the middle of having sex. The ‘e’ in email does not stand for ‘emergency’. It’s so liberating! I can be insane as the sun comes up and not disturb a soul!

No big deal

It shouldn't be a big deal. I'm an actress. I should be used to this. It should come as my due. Jobs, rolling in until it is routine. I'm an actress (or actor in contemporary parlance). It is what I do.... in addition to a thousand other things that bring me varying degrees of satisfaction or aggravation. But when you get right down to it, there is nothing that I'd rather be doing than acting. There's a joy in acting, a release, that just doesn't exist anywhere else, at least for me. So, when I get a chance to do it, it's a good day. When I get a chance to do it on a television show that I love and respect, it's a great day. So Tuesday will therefore be a great day. I'm shooting an episode of "Nurse Jackie" with the amazing Edie Falco. How cool is that? It's a small role but it's meaningful; a real moment; a full character in a small scene. It's not "memorize, show up, deliver your exposition and leave because no one really cares 'who' you are". There's a backstory. They care. I'm totally psyched - all set to shoot next Friday. It's perfect! I have my job on Monday and the class I teach on Tuesday and the gilr I coach on Wednesday and the job with JIB on Thursday and I'll shoot on Friday! What a week. But wait. First thing this morning the wardrobe person calls me for my sizes and colors, even asks about my eyes. And as she signs off she says "See you Tuesday". Tuesday? Can't be Tuesday. I get home from work at about 3 a.m. Tuesday morning. If I sleep all day I can make my class Tuesday evening. What time Tuesday? Why Tuesday? Tuesday screws up Monday AND Tuesday! Maybe she made a mistake. The Lexapro keeps me from driving off the road. I get to JIB and my agent calls. It's Tuesday. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. My husband says it's a sign: that THIS is what I'm supposed to be doing and the other stuff is disposable. I agree. But the money isn't disposable. We have bills to pay! Why can't I have it all? Still, Tuesday will be a great day.

Dead Tired

At 2:30 p.m. I clock in. At 1:30 a.m. I clock out. My ankles throb. My left knee needs replacing. My right knee is only sore. On the bus back to the employee parking lot I catch a glimpse on my reflection in the window. I am surprised at the youth in my face. It seems thin although I am a bit heavier than I want to be. Maybe those workouts are working. Maybe the pounds don’t matter. Maybe my body is just changing. Maybe it is now almost 2 a.m. and I am lying to myself. I turn away from the window as a lump of sadness lodges in my chest. How did I get here? What am I doing on this bus? This is not what my father planned for me. And I answer my own questions. I am being responsible. I am doing what I need to do for my family. It is better than nothing. It is only a few more months and then … what? The bus lets us off no where near where we are marked and I walk to my car and rifle though my bag for two Tylenol and my bottle of Poland Spring that I refilled with Aqaufina in order to distinguish it from all the other bottles in the Pantry. The Prius switches on like a modern appliance and the music my husband prepared for me for this late night drives springs to life too. Johnny Cash sings “I’ve Been Everywhere” and an immediate smile creeps on to my tired face. I wasn’t sure those muscles worked anymore! It is followed by Jeff Bridges singing a song from “Crazy Heart”, which segues into an entire album of Dave Edmunds and another of Vampire Weekend. It is hard to be unhappy with the music. It all feels so good. Soon I am bopping along, seeing myself on stage telling the audience “I knew the Bride when she used to rock and roll”, and how I went “Crawlin’ from the wreckage” after I hit a suicidal Bambi on the Saw Mill. Actually, I only saw one deer tonight and he was already dead at the side of the road. I did see one slow moving raccoon but had plenty of time to let him pass without incident. I am home by 3:20 a.m.. The lights are on but no one is awake. I tiptoe into the bedroom for a half of a sleeping pill and downstairs for a shot of Tequila that burns my throat but maybe that’s the medicinal benefit part.I sit on the couch writing to you and waiting for the meds to kick in and I can close my eyes without counting beer cans and liquor bottles. I am wired but tired. Tire-wired. Things to do when you’re Dead…on your feet.

In a Word

Is it a sign of the economical times that most of the plays you see nowadays have economical one-word titles? Remember plays like “Oh Dad Poor Dad, Momma’s Hung Him in the Closet and We’re Feeling So Sad”? “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying?” Now we have “Art”, and “Proof”, and “Doubt”, and “Race” and driving up Eight Avenue in NY today I saw two new billboards for “Trust” and “Wings”. Is it me or are we running out of words? Or has the MTV generation rendered us as a society incapable of absorbing anything that long? Why try to explain to a potential date what “Angels in America: Millenium Approaches” is about when you can say “Let’s see ‘Shoes”!” “What’s it about?” “It’s about ‘shoes’!”

Are these plays, as good as they might be, the results of a challenge? Pick a word, any word, out of the dictionary and write a play about it. It’s as good an approach as any. I belonged to a workshop where someone got the idea to stimulate playwrights by choosing a “Word of the Week”. You had to write 3-5 pages using or about that word. Consequently, I stopped writing plays and starting writing 3-5 page skits. I wrote a few and then I stopped writing altogether. I couldn’t think beyond five pages. No idea I got seemed worth any more time than that. So I am in awe when Mamet and Kopet and Stoppard and the rest of the current greats of the dramatic world can slam out 90 minutes by riffing on a word.

And speaking of 90 minutes, what happened to the two act play, let alone the three act play with two intermissions? I think I know. Writers are afraid that, if they let people out of their seats at intermission, they will not return for act two, leaving the TV and film stars who have been hired because of the name recognition for NY tourists with no one to play to.

I'm Being Followed

Imagine my surprise and delight when I opened my email today to discover that “Joan from Colbert Nation” was now following me on Facebook… or Twitter. I thought you “friended” on Facebook and “followed” Tweets on Twitter. But I quibble. I was excited.

In the old days, the idea that someone was following you was cause for alarm. Now it’s exciting. I don’t know who “Joan” is but she likes me! And that fits neatly in with my pathological need to be liked. So I clicked on her hyperlinked name to find out who she was. It took me to the home page for Colbert Nation. I love Colbert Nation. Stephen Colbert has created a character so satirical that I am sure there are people in the country that don’t know he is joking; people who believe his arch-conservatism is real; people who are really dumb. But I was still looking for “Joan”. Does she work there? How did she find my little blog? Will she pass it along to Stephen? Will they call me for a job? (I am still looking, after all.)

There was no picture of her, just that generic silhouette of a female. They wanted me to “follow” Colbert Nation. Well, I already get daily emails from his website, videos of show highlights and, of course, I watch the show whenever I can stay up late enough. So do I really want more daily contact? I come from a family that kept a running dialogue with each other via the phone several times each day. “I’m going out.” “I just got back.” I’m making dinner.” “I’m in the bathroom!” “What’s new?” What could possibly be new since the last call fifteen minutes ago? This childhood experience has given me an aversion to talking to ANYONE everyday. How soon would even Stephen Colbert become boring if I were to hear from him several times a day? I daren’t risk it. Still, if you are indeed following me, Joan, and are not someone hired by Colbert Nation to recruit more followers for his own blog, then you are reading this now…. And I find that very cool.

Too Busy to Breathe

I'm afraid I am in so far above my head... I spent the day playing with Google. Well, part of the day. The rest was spent cleaning, something I am incapable of doing flat out so I pepper the effort with eating, working on the computer and watching TV. So while I watched "House" and "NCIS" reruns, did the laundry, cleaned the living room, kitchen, two bathrooms, our bedroom and exchanged my summer clothes for my fall/winter clothes, I got myself a Google Voice phone number for my Stray Kats Theatre Company, set up a second Google account attached to my other email address which is attached to my website, and got another Google Voice number for my acting career which makes it look like I live in New York and not in "Bumfuck" as my kids so lovingly call it. Are you as confused as I am? When I tried to post this blog entry Icouldn't remember how to sign in. Too many passwords and usernames. I've either got it straight now or have just complicated my life to the point of insanity.

It has been a strange week. My husband, freaking out when the temperature dropped to the 60s, dashed off to spend a week in Florida with my Mom and brother. I was concerned that his delirium at being in the tropics would wear off after 24 hours and they would kill each other, but he's coming home tomorrow and they all still seem to be happy. (Actually, they're having a ball! Why is it never so peaceful and cheery when I am there too?)

I am still recovering from the back to back marathons of Giants and Jets opening days at the New Meadowlands Stadium last Sunday and Monday. Just getting there was a trip (and I mean that literally and figuratively), waking at 4 a.m., deer-dodging down the Saw Mill River Parkway (I have NEVER seen so many deer) and then almost being blind-sided by one poor, lost, terrified buck on the 8-lane approach to the Tappan Zee Bridge. (What WAS he doing there?!) Two 14 hour days of non-stop catering. We made more coffee than Starbucks! And forget about the beer! I returned home to prepare for the start of my acting classes the next night only to discover I had two students. Then three. I called them to cancel. Then another call and bingo, I had four. I uncancelled. Then only three showed up. I did the class anyway. Then one dropped out because they wouldn't let her pay in installments. I'm sorry, but is there anyone out there who can just plunk down a chunk of change these days? It's fine with me!!! I just want the students! Pay when you can! But no, she's gone. So now I'm down to two. Guess I'll be cancelling that by next week. I'm trying to look past the fear and see the message: What am I supposed to be doing? Meanwhile, I juggle: NMS, Stray Kats, Seven Angels, Play With Your Food, "Cheesecake Proposal" (I'm directing), Flagpole Radio Cafe (I'm going to be acting), and cleaning the house. Is it any wonder I'm confused?

All Around the Mulberry Bush...

How badly did we want the rights to do a reading of Albee's "A Delicate Balance"? First I call the WIlliam Morris Agency as per the instructions in the script. Jonathan Lomma at WMA tells me "This request goes to DPS. Craig Pospisil can help you." Craig Pospisil at DPS tells me Samuel French publishes and licenses A DELICATE BALANCE. Jonathan Donahue at Samuel French tells me to send to Jonathan Lomma at William Morris: 1.      Headshot and resume of each actor (including age) 2.      Director CV 3.      Rehearsal schedule (Minimum 4-week rehearsal period and 4-day tech period, separate and IN ADDITION TO the 4-week rehearsal period) 4.      Performance schedule (Including not shorter than 1 week of previews) 5.      Costume Design Sketches 6.      Set Design Sketches I tell Jonathan Donahue "I JUST WANT TO DO A READING! Besides, I have already contacted Jonathan Lomma and he said to contact you."   Jonathan Donahue replies: "Thank you for this additional information.  You may still be required to provide some materials to Jonathan Lomma at William Morris." And to… "Please also include his assistant on any correspondence…" So I write again to Jonathan Lomma and asks me, "Have you submitted any materials?" I explain. "Catch 22?" Jonathan Lomma writes: Ok. Everybody hold and let’s appreciate how hilarious this is getting. Kate, let me make a phone call… I short order, I hear from Alicia Grey at Samuel French and the arrangements are made. I am given a price for the rights to do two readings plus a "convenience fee" if I pay online. "Convenience?" I send a check.

Afraid to Read

My husband has very good taste in books. I don’t know how he does it but he manages to find books that are really good among the stacks of bestsellers designed to get a person on the subway from point A to point B without missing their stop. He finds books that make you want to ride on until the book is done. His last suggestion was “The True Story of Hansel and Gretel” and I loved every beautifully, painfully crafted page. I picked out the next book by myself and it is so boring and redundant, I stopped midway, unable to believe it made it into print. There is not a single character I care enough about to turn another page. I find myself resisting his latest suggestions though. I am reluctant to begin anything good knowing that it will end. By the same token, I can’t bring myself to get another dog. Dogs and good books are two things that require a commitment knowing full well that they will end, that you will have to go on without them, paying the emotional tax of losing them. Anyone who has ever loved and lost a dog knows what I am talking about. The hole they leave in your life can never be filled. Even now, years after my Roma passed, I cannot drive through Fairfield Hills without seeing her walking up the hill with me, so happy in her outing, only to discover moments later that she was in incredible pain and would have to be put down because of bone cancer in a few short weeks. So it is with characters in books that I come to love and then have to leave, wondering about what they will do next. I am worried about Gretel and the scars she bears. Will Hansel ever be able to trust anyone or will he always sleep with one eye open? My husband is already a few books ahead of me and I sigh looking at them on my nightstand, afraid to take the plunge.

Who Do I Call

It’s been such a busy summer. Here it is, Labor Day weekend, and we haven’t had a single dinner on our lovely deck. We normally reserve the bulk of our meager “entertaining” for summer weekends, placing a couple of tables along the side of the long deck and having what I perceive as Italian style dinners “al fresco”, surrounded by the trees and sometimes dodging the acorns that fall from the trees like bullets. It is Saturday morning and I am contemplating who to call. Who will be available at the last minute? Of the groups of people I think make great dinner combos, which ones do I call first? Which one of each group is pivotal? And which group? Which of my friends won’t look at the hodgepodge my house has become and not shake their heads in disbelief at the chaos? Our son moved back in for the final year of his master’s degree so he could take a hospital post nearby and also so he could afford to eat. With him came all the furniture he accumulated: not much; a desk, a chair, a futon. Consequently, we moved the couch in my office to the living room, put the futon in the office, moved the nightstand in his room to the other side of the bed to make room for the desk and squeezed the chair in between the desk and the bed. He is now able to sit at his desk and stretch his legs out on the bed while studying. The bed also makes a great shelf. As for the living room… well, my husband sat down on one of the two sofas, three armchairs, three dressers, three footstools and a coffee table to have a cup of coffee and I said, “The Doctor will be with you in a moment.” It looks that much like a waiting room. It reminds me of an old story: A woman goes to the Rabbi and says, “Oy, Rabbi, I don’t know what to do! My house is so small and crowded, it’s making me crazy!” He tells her to go to the barn and get all the chickens and put them in the kitchen. They get the goat and the cow and the horse put them in the living room. Then put the rabbit cages in the bedroom. So she does. A week later she returns screaming. “Rabbi, what did you do to me? I have no room even to move!” So he tells her to take the chickens back to the bar, the goat the cow and the horse back to the pasture and the rabbits back outside. She returns a week late and says, “Rabbi, you’re a genius! I have so much room!” So my son says we should have a party because there are so many places for people to sit and talk. I say yes, but is there any place for them to walk? Is the glass half empty or half full? I have never been able to answer that. Meanwhile, who do I call?

Another Opinion of "The Mosque"

I don’t believe that anyone is actually objecting to the construction of an Islamic Center in New York City. What I believe what people are objecting to is the construction of a monument to one of the major causes of the events on 9/11.

Imagine if a Neo-Nazi group wanted to build a Hitler Youth Center across the street from Dachau. They’re not “Nazis” in the 1930s-1940s sense; they just want a place to play basketball. Would anyone object? You betcha! The idea of building a monument in any sense to the terror the Nazis rained down upon the world is unthinkable. The idea that one would be built near any spot where so many died in the name of their ideology is unimaginable. So why is it that there are people who are not affronted by the idea of building a gorgeous, gleaming 13 story tower dedicated to an ideology that brands all non-Muslims as infidels; that to this day, kills people for “spreading Christianity” in Islamic countries, and, to top it off, placing that monument near the site where over 3000 people died in the name of that ideology?

A while back, my family drove to Wallingford CT to protest at a neo-Nazi rally. Some right-wing lunatic was speaking at the library there and hundreds of people showed up to let him and his supporters know they were unwanted. No one stopped him from speaking though; in the U.S. this was his right. No one is objecting to the construction of an Islamic Cultural Center either. We may not agree with the extremist fringe of Islamic ideology but no one is saying “you have no right to be Muslim”; just not here where the sight of such a monument is painful and inappropriate.

No Longer Dead

There was a running skit on Saturday Night Live several years ago that poked fun at industrious immigrants to the USA and the number of jobs they managed to piece together to earn what might amount to a living. The characters in question were Korean and they would boast, “I have seven job.” “I have twelve job”. Well, just a few more “job” and I will officially be Korean. I work the Meadowlands, supervising a pantry so that people who could afford to see Jets and Giants games in the most expensive way imaginable get their food on time, at the right temperature and attractively presented. I don’t mind the job, demanding as it is; the time flies and I find myself back in the car after a mere 13 hours with feet throbbing a mantra as insistent as the buzz of a neon sign about to blow. I work for two theatre companies in addition to the one I am trying to start. This is at one time challenging and educational. The problem is that, being a fairly ethical person, I feel guilty if I keep any of what I learn for my own company while I am researching on their time. I try to stay present, concentrating only on what is before me and turning it off as soon as I finish a task. It is an interesting process that leaves me exhausted but unable to sleep. Right now I am waiting for my half of an Ambien to kick in and give me at least six uninterrupted hours. My dreams have been wild, filled with odd travel arrangements and strange bedfellows. I have moved into several variations of my childhood home, been on ships, planes, flown without a plane, and mingled with people who are long gone. My mother, who believes that dreams have meaning, would ask me if they gave me anything. I’m not sure. But I do know if has felt very good to see them all- my Bubby, my Dad… In a few weeks I will get even busier and will need to focus more than ever. I can do this. I may have to tune out a thing or two… a person or two… but that’s another story. The Lexapro is helping. I am not overwhelmed. I think I am no longer dead.

Ah Levai

I’m not quite sure what the literal translation of “Ah levai” is but my grandmother used to say it a lot. I understand the context. I think it means something like “Thanks to God”. “Ah levai, we should all be healthy.” “Ah levai, I hope this works out.” It is used interchangeably in my vocabulary with “From your mouth to God’s ears.” That is to say, “I sure hope this happens.”

It’s been a good summer, and I don’t mean to speak of it as if it already over, being that it is barely the middle of August, but it seems like it has been summer for a long while now and, yes, it has been good. I wanted to run two three-week sessions of my summer workshop for kids but I am pleased with the success of the single program I was able to fill with 25 students. As a result of the shortened work schedule, I was able to spend a few days visiting my Mom in Florida and basking in the warm salt waters of the southern Atlantic, an absolutely delicious experience. I returned to audition for Long Wharf Theatre which went well and was followed by a call from dear friends to spend a long weekend in the Hamptons. We tossed some things in a bag and ferried over Long Island Sound, a much better idea than bucking the traffic on the Long Island Expressway on a Friday. With waters about 20 degrees cooler than I had been used to, I still basked in the waters of the Atlantic, although it did take a full minute before I could catch my breath in the chill. Upon returning home, I got word that my unemployment insurance has finally, completely expired. I am now fully dependent on the string of part-time jobs I have pieced together. Ah levai it will be enough. We always seem to be one step ahead of the wolf at the door. Ah levai that will continue. I auditioned at Hartford Stage today and ah levai that will be productive. My son has had interviews at Danbury and Hartford Hospitals for his final year of grad school and ah levai will graduate in May with a Master’s Degree in something he enjoys doing that will bring him a security we have never known. In the meantime, he is moving back home to save money. Ah levai we can all live together after all these years without wanting to kill each other and/or ourselves. He’s on his way with a carload of clothes and books and I am sort of excited about the year ahead. Ah levai it will be a good one. Ah levai.

The Bracelet

My husband recently presented me with a bracelet he received when he bought a shirt at Modell’s. They tossed it in the bag with his purchase as a cross-promotion for the Make-A-Wish Foundation and the Jorge Posada Foundation for children affected by Craniosynostosis. It is a simple orange string with a silver wishbone on it and the card said that, if you made a wish, when the bracelet fell off, your wish would come true. I liked it. I put it around my ankle where I thought it looked unconventional and sexy. I always wanted an ankle bracelet and never got one. So I made my wish for financial abundance and the success of the new venture I was undertaking and went about my life. I continually examined the bracelet for signs of wear and saw none. “How long is this supposed to last”, I wondered. I showered with it, wore it to gym class and on my walks, took it to Florida to visit my Mom, went on the ocean with it; it looked like it was going to be around for a long time. Yesterday, I began to notice the elaborate knots that kept the bracelet together yet allowed you to adjust the size with ease beginning to unravel. I tried to retie the knot but the ends were too short. The unraveling continued until the neat little bracelet looked less neat and more like a tangled mess of thread where its ends once hung dainty and elegantly. At about three-thirty yesterday afternoon, as I lounged in the slightly-less-than-refreshing water that distinguishes pools in southern Florida in July, I felt the bracelet widen around my ankle. I reached for it and found, not a bracelet, but a long orange string with a wishbone on it. It had completely unraveled. Had I been walking, it might have slipped from my leg unnoticed and disappeared into the earth where the magical work of making my wish come true would have begun. Instead, here it was in my hand. I swam to the side of the pool with the rescued bracelet. Back on my lounge chair, I tried to retie the string so the bracelet would have another chance to slip away surreptitiously because, I now knew, I would not be able to part with it otherwise. I liked it! I liked the delicate wishbone hanging at the side of my ankle and the orange string, so simple and sexy against my tanned skin. Did I also like the delay of fulfillment? Was there something keeping me from wanting my wishes to come true? I have had a lifelong problem with “asking for what I want” which has been accompanied by the issue of “not getting what I want”. Is this bracelet merely symbolic of the real problem: I like it this way?

Taking Stock

Tomorrow night is the showcase for the summer theatre program I have been running in my hometown. It's 11:14 p.m. and I'm ready. The programs were printed last night. The props are done; the costumes; the snacks have been purchased. I'm not fussing with videos and pictures. Let the parents have their fun. This is not how I normally do things and I'm happy! Normally at this juncture, I am an exhausted, stressed out mess with a list of things left to do: cameras to rent, pictures to print and post. But tonight, I went out! I went to see a ten-minute play that I wrote being performed by a small company nearby. It was good! I liked my play! I liked the actors! I had a good time. I even laughed at a few jokes I forgot I had written. I'm going to get some sleep now and awaken energized for the long day. I'm not even going to color my roots! Hah! Tonight, life is good.When you finally start to do things for yourself, life is f**kin' good!

It Follows

When I was younger I entertained the notion that I wasn’t successful because I had nothing to overcome. It seemed that every time you heard of a successful person, the commentary dwelled on all the obstacles they had to overcome: blindness, cancer, loss of limbs, poverty, etc. I was far too normal for success. Of course there were those at the other end of the spectrum, the entitled, who had no obstacles at all. They had a parent who made a fortune and handed it to them. I hate them. I get physically ill when I hear that Ivanka Trump is going to tell people how to make it in business. “Rule 1: Have a father who is filthy rich.” It helps even more if he was handed the basis for his empire by his father before him. So, as I neared my third year of unemployment with no one to hand me a fortune, I came to the conclusion that I needed to do something. Perhaps chronic unemployment was enough of an obstacle to overcome. Hence, the Stray Kats Theatre Company was born. Now here’s the weird part: no sooner did I take this step than the phone rang with a part-time job. Keeping to my new philosophy of always saying “Yes”, I said “Yes” and joined the ranks at the New Meadowlands Stadium as a Suites Supervisor. No sooner did I complete the training when a director I auditioned for last September offered me a role in a short film. No sooner did I accept the role when a friend asked me to do a staged reading of his play in New York. I’ve had the busiest few weeks of the last several years and I love it. And when you love what you’re doing, I’m told the money will follow.

The New Stadium

It is 11:30 on a Sunday morning and I am contemplating the new meaning of “Things to Do When You’re Dead”; dead tired, that is. I started a job at the New Meadowlands Stadium where I am a Suites Supervisor in the luxury suites. My husband has been doing this sort of work for about 20 years now so, with unemployment insurance about to expire and all my part time jobs coming to an end for the season at the same time, when his former boss called me late one night to offer me the job, I seized it. I had no idea what it entailed; only that it was a job. My husband thought I was nuts. I realize now that he was just trying to shield me. But it’s okay. I completed my training, such as it was, and was literally thrown into the chaos of managing the needs of guests who had spent a shitload of money, chefs and assistant chefs who had been preparing for weeks, cooking for days, and on their feet for 14 hours per shift, managers who had no clear idea of how this massive ship of commerce was actually going to sail, suite attendants who were running around looking for missing this and that, cashiers who’d had enough training to open but needed someone else to close their registers…there’s more, but my brain is only able to track the number of dinner napkins, beverage napkins, plates, forks, knives, spoons, cups, condiments, etc. that I need in my pantry for the next event… assuming I’m sent to the same pantry, which is a serious question! Some pantries have kitchens and liquor; some have kitchens but no liquor; some have liquor but no kitchens, some have nothing but share space with those other people who crank out hot dogs, pretzels and sodas for the masses, waiting sometimes very impatiently for all their food to be delivered by runners who sometimes get lost negotiating the twists and turns of the massive stadium to bring them their carts of cold food, hot food, rolls, chips, pretzels, etc. etc.

All this is probably far more than you expected or need to know, but in the dawn of my waking this morning, I still found myself cataloguing and organizing in my mind as another portion of my brain kept silently screaming, “Stop it!”
Oh, and all this is capped off by a massive exodus of employees from a single parking lot with just two lanes out, adding at least an hour of unpaid work to the 12 hour day. I got home at three a.m.

Still, I don’t mind it! In fact, if I am to be honest, it was kind of fun. In my life, I have had occasion to work at a wide variety of “bread and butter” jobs, and I am always okay while I am learning how to do them. My mind always seeks to find new and streamlined ways to accomplish tasks and make things run more smoothly. It’s only when something becomes routine that I get bored and irritable and then it’s usually time to go. So right now, with my legs throbbing and my head stuffed full of unnecessary information, I’m okay. Jets and Giants start in August. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Letting go

Antidepressants are good. If you have to take a pill, taking an antidepressant seems to be the pill to take at a time when getting out of bed is the highlight of your day. And those warnings that antidepressants might lead to thoughts of suicide…? Hogwash. That feeling isn’t a suicidal tendency; it is the clear formulation of the idea that in sleep there is respite. Quite often these days, my husband and I look at each other around dinner time with the understanding that it really is too early to go to sleep. This morning we said it at around 11, after the plumber left, having installed our new water tank. The old tank died, leaving in its wake several inches of water in the basement. The new one is quite spectacular, in a shade of blue that makes it seem like a giant Easter egg nestled in the corner and cozying up to the metallic grey hot water heater which was our old ‘new’ thing. The old water tank was also blue but, covered as it was with dust and rust, you didn’t notice it very much. The new water tank is big and shiny and very, very blue, like the sky on a clear day seen through your sun glasses and the tint at the top of the windshield; an impossible, vibrant blue. Your eye goes to it as you walk down the basement steps like “Boinnngggg, look at the new water tank”! And it should! For what this cost, it should have artistic value!

We are off now to look at a new car, the old one having died a few weeks ago but we were in too much shock to do anything about it so my husband and I have been doing EVERYTHING together. Although my stomach is tied in a knot, there is hope in the act we are about to perform: the act of letting go. I have been holding on to whatever we have so tightly I haven’t been able to breathe in weeks. It felt good to buy the water tank; to let our sinks and toilets, washers of dishes and clothes once again function as God and Maytag intended. Perhaps I’ll feel even better when we say “yes” to a new or used car and get on with the business of getting on.

Fi-yuh!!!

With the weather being so nice this spring, my husband and I have gotten a good jump on cleaning up the grounds around the house in preparation for a summer of cooking on the grill, having friends over and just hanging out on the deck on cool summer eves. This is a very good thing because, with things as they are, hiring the local illegal immigrants to blow the leaves away and lift the many branches and acorns that have covered what is left of our grass is out of the question. And it’s not like we have a lot of property – just over half an acre – but we are surrounded by trees. Not little trees. Big, mother trees! Old trees. With limbs that break and crash down on things like our deck, our car, our friends… Consequently, we have amassed an inordinate amount of dry leaves and firewood. The leaves get blown into the woods and the firewood is designated for either the fireplace in the living room or the copper cook stove near the deck that keeps us warm and entertained after a hard day’s work. We built such a fire yesterday afternoon, enjoyed a well-earned cocktail, and left the embers safely smoldering in the cook stove until the last of the twigs and logs had disintegrated into ash. Then we had dinner, watched TV, went to bed, woke up, went to the gym, and came home. I worked on the computer while my husband called the insurance company, found a new eye doctor, made an appointment and THEN headed outside to do more yard work. It didn’t strike me as unusual when I smelled the smoke. And, engrossed as I was in watching a video of a very odd production of a high school play, it just seemed like the usual minor annoyance when I heard my husband calling my name. Well, he wasn’t actually “calling” my name. He was screaming it… several times. “Kate!” “What?” “Kate!!” What?!” “Kate!!!!!!” I finally got the computer to pause, set it aside, and turned to scream “What?” out the bedroom window, when I noticed the 10 foot flames shooting from the ravine behind the house where he had assiduously blown a lot of the leaves and then dumped the ashes from yesterday’s fire. “Call the fire department!!!!” I didn’t see my husband but his voice seemed to be coming in from every window and door as he ran around the outside of the house trying to figure out how to turn on the garden hose. 911 answered immediately and the volunteer fire department was instantly dispatched. We could hear the trucks driving past our house because Mapquest and the GPS maps of this neighborhood are all wrong. I ran out on the road while my husband continued to struggle with the water supply, flagged down the town truck that had noticed the smoke even though it was where the map said it wouldn’t be, and then he directed the others to our house via his walkie-talkie. The flames were now consuming an area about 30 feet wide and were licking at interesting trees along the ravine. Long story short, about a dozen fire-fighters and several trucks with much better equipment than our gnarly garden hose put the fire out and graciously acknowledged that it could have happened to anyone. Who could suppose that an ember in a cold cook-stove could survive 18 hours, overnight, in 40 degree weather, to spark a conflagration that could have consumed the entire neighborhood had we dumped it anywhere but into that ditch? The fire-fighters left. I returned to my computer and my husband blew more leaves from the front of the house back into the woods. Still, when the work day was done, we had our cocktail without a fire in the cook stove tonight. The weather forecast is for three days of rain. Good.

Post script: Before dinner, we ran out to the supermarket for a few items, returning to discover that I had left a pot of water boiling on the stove. Luckily, there was enough water in the pot that it didn't burn the house down. Still, how embarrassing would THAT have been?! Duh...

Open Letter to Clay Smith

Dear Clay Smith,
Have you ever been presented with a moment in which the one thing you did NOT want to do is make a fool of yourself, and then you do precisely that? In a room full of crazy people, at the very least you want to be perceived of as sane. But the demon grabs you and you babble like a fool anyway. I am done. I know, I’ve said that before. But this time I mean it! I will never attend another seminar to meet a casting director or agent. Unless you are so unique as to be a freak of nature, it is a complete waste of time. Unless you do “something special”, like… you are fluent in Swahili, or you are a sword swallower, or you can speak Swahili WHILE swallowing a sword… you have a better chance of winning the Powerball than getting representation or an audition from a casting director in New York. So I am sorry, Clay Smith. I wanted to impress you. I wanted you to see me at the seminar tonight and say to yourself, “I remember her! Her audition monologue was wonderful. Why didn’t I call her in? Why haven’t I signed her? I saw her video, the one I ASKED her to send me, and I loved it!” But I balked… and I babbled like a fool.

Epiphany

Well, it’s official. I’ve turned into one of those geeks who can’t stop playing computer games. Hours come and go and here I sit, playing backgammon with “Intermediate Arabic”, that faceless person across the globe who, I have a sneaking suspicion, has all this time on his hands because he’s sitting in a cave in Tora Bora, playing on a laptop. It could be. They have modern things; guns, bombs, Timex watches. I however do not have such time. I have things to do. My fate is not quite so cut and dry. I almost envy that son of a bitch. At least he knows what he’ll be doing for the next few years… if he’s not dead. And even if he is dead, he’s pretty certain he’ll be in heaven surrounded by 70 virgins. He’s wrong, but he’s certain. I however have no such delusions. No time and no delusions. I know, as I click and roll and chat in pre-selected language bytes: Nice role; It was luck; It’s your turn; Are you still there? … I know, as player after player quits the game the moment he or she starts to lose… I know that I am wasting my life!

My eyelids flutter and grow heavy and yet here I sit, mindlessly clicking on “new game”, “new game”, “new game”. When I get bored with backgammon, I switch. “Word Whomp” is a personal favorite. I own all the best times on Minesweeper. I mollify my saner self with the thought that this type of brain exercise will help me live longer and stave off Alzheimer’s. My saner self says, “Yes, you’re brain will go on… long after your body fails from disuse. They will keep it in a jar, on view as a cautionary tale. Would you like to ask it a question?” “It was luck; Good role; Are you still there?” Which conjures up ancient fears of being buried alive… Which compounds the problem because, even if I should tear myself away and climb the stairs to my bed, I am now too afraid to close my eyes… There’s a game where little bugs pop up in a bowl of soup and you get to hit them over the head with a spoon. This, while not being of the brain enhancement variety, gives me tremendous satisfaction.

It occurs to me that my house is getting dirty, and so I rebel against my fixation, click my way back to the desktop, and clean something; the floor, the bathroom, the kitchen counter. (I know it’s under these stacks of old mail somewhere). Then, with a great feeling of accomplishment, I tell myself I am entitled to a break. So I rush back to the computer and find someone to play with. Perhaps that’s it! I don’t remember it ever being easy to find people to play with. Imagine how wonderful it would have been as a child to be able to click and find a playmate, with none of the attendant risk involved of having to approach a stranger-child on the street and ask, “Can I play?” It’s more like coming upon a playground full of children starving for someone to play with and all you have to do is show up and they get in line to wait for a turn. Janie has to go home for dinner? That’s okay, Susie’s here.

Reunion

I’m a little nervous this morning. I’m about to travel into the city to meet three high school friends who I haven’t seen in over 40 years. What’s so scary about that you ask? Well, in thinking about it, I realized I hadn’t really been “friends” with them in the first place. I can’t recall a single social instance, beyond attending classes, perhaps sharing a lunchroom table. I can’t recall a single thing we had in common. Oddly enough, I recently connected with another classmate who I also had nothing in common with, only to discover that, now, we have a lot in common! But then? We barely knew each other. I was in the drama club. And I had a boyfriend. Those two things consumed every my every thought. I hadn’t even realized that this person actually did a show with me. I never saw beyond my own small circle. Of course I remember these people and the memories aren’t unpleasant. But I have no idea how I felt about them and, even more to the point, how they felt about me. How high the defenses I built around myself must have been; still are! I moved through my life as if each chapter was a separate room and I firmly closed the door on each one. I took no high school friends with me to college. I took no college friends with me to work. It wasn’t until years later that I reconnected with one college friend who hadn’t really been my friend while I was IN college, so I’m not even quite sure how we got together. And now, 25 years have gone by since I’ve seen her! So I ask, what’s wrong with me? Last weekend, my cousins went to a massive reunion of people who grew up in East New York. Where is my past? Perhaps I’ll get a glimpse today.

Cat: Menace or Medicine

There’s this smoky grey cat with lime green eyes that has laid claim to my home. I’ve seen it around the property for the last few months. It has walked up my driveway, up the lower steps to the front door and has cut around to the woods behind the house presumably to hunt. Yesterday it followed me up the front steps almost to my door. Today it hung out on the steps even as I came down to get the mail. He (she?) is becoming comfortable with my presence. I am not as comfortable. In the first place, I am a dog-person. I don’t speak “cat”. I don’t know what it means when a cat wags its tail as this one did this afternoon as I started down the steps and froze in my tracks, or what it means when it mews at me, and I mean this one looked me right in the eye and mewed. It’s a feral cat; no collar; a wild thing. But it seems so tame! There’s a part of me that wants to feed it but I’m afraid. There’s a part of me that wants to pet it but I don’t know if that’s advisable, or even possible. He seems to think that a five-foot buffer is as close as it wants to let me get. When I was a little girl, there was a neighborhood cat in Brooklyn that I dubbed “Muffin” because I had found it eating one from the garbage pail in the alley that divided our two-family, semi-attached house in East New York from the next one. Muffin played regularly with me and Shelley Harnett and Barbara Nigerian (how did I remember those names!), the other little girls on the block, and was very friendly until one day when she wasn’t. On that day, Muffin attacked me, biting at ankles which she held in outstretched claws that cut into my skin. I was terrified. The police came and took her away and I have mistrusted cats ever since. So what do I do? I know what I wrote the other day, about cats containing powerful spiritual “medicine” according to Indian lore. But I’m far more afraid of rabies than I am interested in the spiritual consequences of NOT embracing this cat. And yet, he/she is very beautiful and I am sort of excited that this animal has chosen me. Why is he here? Any cat experts out there, please feel free to advise. I bought the Friskies. Should I put out a bowl?

If I build it...

If I build it, will they come?

I am seriously flirting with the idea of creating a not-for-profit theatre company in my hometown. I see the need. There’s nothing here but one seasonal community theatre, high school shows, and an overly aggressive local money-mill rehashing Broadway musicals with a mini-star-system that leaves out all the talented students who have not impressed the local guru or who are not deemed “good enough”, “popular enough”, “pretty enough”, etc.

So I threw caution to the wind, tossed my hat into the ring and put forth the summer program I ran in Bridgeport for many years. I even got two local agencies to collaborate on sponsoring it. So now I wait. It’s a great program but, with only one student already committed, I wonder, do people really want to learn anything? Are they just content to pretend they are stars? Does it matter to them that poor directing and teaching can ruin their instruments? Do they care that they are lost without someone telling them where to go and how to say this or that? Do they care if they don’t understand a word coming out of their own mouths as long as Mom, Dad and Grandma are tickled pink? Do Mom, Dad and Grandma understand that Junior actually is NOT good but could be if someone would only take the time to teach him something?

Meanwhile, I joined with friends who already have a terrific professional program going and got three shows up here. And I am astonished at how difficult it is to get people to buy tickets! These shows that sell out on Westport, Greenwich and Fairfield, are struggling to find an audience in my backwater town. Why, I ask? Why don’t people care?

So I pause. If I invest my time, my money, my heart in creating something more challenging than another rehashing of a commercial musical, will anyone care? Will they come? Will I survive? All questions are moot if the lawyer doesn’t call me back.

Transformation and Cats

Monday is New Years Day. Well, technically, it is Tuesday, and only if you consider that Passover, also known as Pesach, is also known as Hag ha-aviv, the Festival of the Spring. As it falls on the 15th of the month of Nissan, and Nissan is the first month of the Hebrew calendar, it is considered the beginning of a new year. This makes so much sense to me. Look around! Everything is budding! The birds are back; I can hear them rustling through the trees, building nests and getting ready for all those bird-babies! There were squirrels and chipmunks out back this morning running riot in anticipation of the warm seasons. It is a time for rebirth and renewal and I am climbing on board.

I made an appointment with an attorney to start a not-for-profit performing arts organization. Why not?! I’ve been working for others for years; have witnessed greed, egotism, lack of foresight and sometimes utter lack of taste. I have been lauded and fired. If I emerged with anything other than a bloody nose and wounded spirit, it is a reputation for quality and integrity. It is time to put those on the front burners and banish my cowardice to the rear… or the trash can!

First decision: should I call it PAN (Performing Arts of Newtown) or Stray Kats Productions? (Feel free to way in on this, oh loyal followers.) Okay, the first is obvious, and probably the better choice since it represents instant recognition. But the second is taken from my husband’s and my last names: Striano and Katcher. In addition, something of a phenomenon has been happening around my house in the appearance of several feral cats that stroll up my driveway and around to the back woods, lounge on my wood pile, hunt for mice, and generally tolerate my presence in what has become for them an everyday path. Being a dog-lover, I have never been comfortable around cats. They scare me. I don’t speak “cat”. But there is one, a soft, grey cat who approaches closer than the others and is the most frequent visitor to my rear deck, who looks at me with the same curiosity and fear that I have for it (Him? Her?) that I can’t help thinking is some sort of totem.

(Found at Sayahda.com) “According to author Ted Andrews of Animal Speaks, cats... are associated with myth and lore, magic and mystery. Nine lives (I seem to reinvent myself every few years), curiosity, independence, cleverness, unpredictability and healing... Cats have more rods in the retinas of their eyes which enable them to see effectively in the dark. The dark is often associated with mankind's fears.(Loaded with those fears!) Since the cat is at home in the dark, it serves as a valuable ally into the world of the supernatural and the unknown and can help those with this totem move through their fears efficiently. (Very helpful when you don't quite know where you are going.)

The energy field of a cat rotates is a counterclockwise direction, the opposite of a human energy field. Because of this, cats have the ability to absorb and neutralize energy that affects humans in a negative way. This is part of the healing medicine that the cat holds. (Hmmmm...)

If something affects you in a negative way place a cat on your lap or find a cat to pet. Your energy field will immediately realign itself and inner balance will be restored. (Gotta catch the cat first.)

Because of their x-ray vision, acute hearing and high intelligence they were used throughout history as guardians and protectors. In ancient Egypt cats guarded the temple gates and were used to ward off evil. (Ah, a common thread! Cats: Egypt: Passover!)

If cat appears in your life the blending of magic and mystery is at hand. A trustworthy teacher, the cat will guide you into the world of self discovery and transformation.”

Wow! I can use some healing and transformation!!!!

Okay, so I’ve gone from Pesach to totems in three paragraphs. Clearly I’m a person in search of meaning in my life. Perhaps this is it.

I'm done!

I give up. I just lost out on a role because I “looked too young”. Then they cast someone who is about 10 years younger than I am. I should be flattered but I am so pissed off that vanity can’t get a toe-hold in my dark mood. What’s the point of anything? What’s the point of dieting to be thinner? Of using face cream to keep those wrinkles away? I should just blow up and look like shit and maybe then I could catch a break! By the time I get to play roles my age I'll be too old and feeble to learn the lines!

I don’t know what to do anymore. It’s been too long and my arms are tired from treading all this water. I need to let go but letting go means surrendering to a power I no longer believe in. When I hung up the phone having received this left-handed compliment I drained the remaining ice-cream in the freezer and polished off the rest of last night’s bottle of wine. Stick a fork in me; I’m done.

Lucky Me

My husband won the lottery. Don’t get too excited; he won $56 on a combination of three scratch-offs. Okay, it’s a lot better than nothing which is what you usually get on these things. It’s even better than a $2.00 winner which essentially allows you to purchase another ticket and lose your money later rather than sooner. But forgive me if I don’t get all rah rah, ya ya, ga ga (he’s also obsessed with Lady Gaga) over it. You see, I need a few more zeroes to get really excited. But not him. He was thrilled. “We won the lottery!”

He said we didn’t win more because, when I scratched off the second of two consecutive cards he purchased, I casually said this one wouldn’t be a winner and he said I was being negative but really, do they ever put two winners in a row? That’s not cynicism; that’s pragmatism. So is there something wrong with me or is there something wrong with him?

My friend Chris recently sent me a link to this Facebook page, “ShitMyDadSays”. My favorite quote was, "No, I'm not a pessimist. At some point the world shits on everybody. Pretending it ain't shit makes you an idiot, not an optimist." I learned tonight that I have been appointed to our local Arts Commission, an appointment that comes packed with the caveat that a member cannot benefit from their position. Right off the bat, this means giving up two potential sources of income, small as they are, and they are small. Isn’t that funny?

Still, it would be so nice to be able to expect good fortune; to somehow catch a break. I admire my husband’s spirit, even if I think he’s slightly insane. I think it’s all that hard work he’s doing, trying to keep us afloat during these difficult times. He’s exhausted and it is well known fact that exhaustion can produce delusions. Which is why, when he called me from work tonight to tell me he’d won the lottery again, I was delighted to learn he’d scratched off another $2.00. As long as he’s happy.

Slushed

It’s snowing. It seems like it may never stop snowing. The calendar says it will be spring in three weeks but I am skeptical. I could go outside and blow the snow off the driveway one more time but my husband brought me some Kahlua and Vodka before he left to stay in the City and having a cocktail seems like such a better idea than manual labor that I will let the snow accrue until the morning and will deal with it then. They say it may snow all day tomorrow too. My in-laws are upstate NY and they had four feet of snow as of 8:30 a.m. with no sign of it stopping over the next 24 hours and they were laughing. I suppose that is what people do when there is nothing else to be done; they laugh.

We were laughing last night as we drove through the end of the world. In a moment of what can only be described as insane, some friends and I drove into NYC last night for dinner and a show. My guardian angel, JK, treated me to this wonderful, death defying evening. Dinner on Restaurant Row with gourmet prices and Weight Watchers sized meals prevented it from being a total assault on my diet but, oh boy, was it good! I am grateful! I am grateful! The play, Mamet’s “Race” was great. I love James Spader. David Allen Grier:really good. Richard Thomas: excellent. Kerry Washington: could have been anyone. Overall evening: a ten. Driving home? White knuckle time. This blizzard, this amazing blizzard, had eyes. Looking at the weather channel, it was as though someone had arbitrarily decided to paint New York State white and Connecticut green. The road was horrible; didn’t see a plow or salt-truck, and cars, or their drivers, were freaking out. I’d left my Prius in JK’s driveway and was grateful for her SUV as we worked our way out of Manhattan as I’d never seen it, up the West Side Highway, on to the Henry Hudson and up to the Hutch with drivers literally freaking out on the unplowed road. Snow was driving at the headlights at such a rate I would have sworn we’d entered hyper-space like in Star Wars. Then, in Norwalk, it just stopped! No snow, no ice, no slush; just rain. The thermostat jumped to 39 degrees and last week’s accumulation was gone. We were safe. Snow didn’t hit us until the wee hours of the morning but it’s as if it has been making up for lost time. I have no idea what time it is. I have been watching reruns all day and changed out of my pajamas only long enough to clear the driveway.

So I’m home; I’m safe; I have cabin fever that is only dulled by this incredible White Russian I have concocted from my husband’s parting gifts and a dollop of International Coffee’s White Chocolate Macadamia Nut non-dairy creamer. I am as sloshed as my driveway is slushed. Spring? Right.

Demographic

Oh my God, I’m a demographic!

I signed up for the New York Times online that delivers carefully selected articles in areas of personal interest directly to your computer. I don’t buy the paper anymore (one of our many cutbacks) and this seemed like a good way to keep in touch with the newspaper and the City I loved so much. I was understandably intrigued when the email arrived with the following banner: “Millions of Unemployed Face Years Without Jobs” by Peter S. Goodman. (Not plagiarizing!) So I clicked on the link and was greeted by the subtitle, “The New Poor”. The lump in my throat threatened to cut off my air supply.

I read that “roughly 2.7 million people will lose their unemployment check before the end of April” unless Congress approves President Obama’s plan to extend benefits one more time. That’s me! I read that 6.3 million Americans have been unemployed for six months or more. That’s me!! I read that the percentage of women from 45-64 years of age who have been unemployed for six months or more has doubled compared to the “deep recession” of 1983, when it was 7%, to 14%. THAT’S ME! I read, “Every downturn pushes some people out of the middle class before the economy resumes expanding. Most recover. Many prosper. But some economists worry that this time could be different”. I fought the temptation to head for the liquor cabinet. It was, after all, 10 a.m.

I brushed my teeth, threw on my gym clothes and prepared to greet the acting student who has been a lifeline during these difficult times. It was a private today; part acting class, part therapy session…for both of us. All I can do is keep putting myself out there and doing what I love. Perhaps I will be one of those who recovers. Perhaps the loss of a steady paycheck has forced me to become more self-motivated. Perhaps everyone else will get jobs and they will once again donate money to theatres and I will get jobs, and the parents of my students will once again be able to afford classes and camps, and I will not just be one of those who recovers. Perhaps I will be one of those who prosper.

Advice; or how to keep busy when you're not.

I get most of my ideas in the car and then I have to figure out a way to remember them until I get home. I’ve tried a tape recorder but everything sounds so lame when I play it back. The voice in my head is so much more intelligent than the one that hits the air. I’ve tried calling myself and leaving a message; same problem. I’ve tried writing while I drive but the result is illegible. So I simply make a mental note to remember. Sometimes it works.

The ideas come to me because I listen to the news on CBS radio and sometimes what I hear is so provocative I need to respond. For example, this morning, the commentator introduced a doctor who was going to tell us how to avoid salt to lower blood pressure. His brilliant interview consisted of telling us not to eat it. How many people do you know who have gotten high blood pressure from bathing in it?

Another expert told us how to avoid conflict with your “ex” by cutting him or her out of your life. In the case of shared children, she advised “not to beg”. Huh? Okay, she acknowledged that, when you have children, it is impossible to completely cut your former spouse out of your life. Arguing is pointless and counter-productive. But begging? She admitted she was calling on personal experience when it came to the begging. Apparently, her ex-husband became her ex because he’d found someone else and she compounded the problem by begging him to stay. I think much better advice would be to get rid of the bastard. Don’t fight; don’t argue, don’t beg. Just consider yourself lucky that the bastard is now somebody else’s problem and pity the poor woman who poached your man; he belongs to her now. As a veteran of parental divorce and spousal divorce, I believe the best way to deal with an ex-spouse is to try to remember, as quickly as you can, something… anything… you once liked about this person to entertain the notion that you might want to spend the rest of your life with him or her. I’m not saying ‘forget the negative’; just put it on the back burner. You’re divorced so you don’t have to live with the shtick anymore. Close your heart from hurt. Don’t let it fester. Get out. Get busy. Value yourself. The sooner you can do that, the sooner you can normalize relations for the sake of your children and the sooner the stress leaves your life. This is not to say that there aren’t a bunch of ignorant assholes out there that make reconciliation next to impossible. But the sooner you can find a way to cut your dependency on this person, the sooner you will be on the track toward a happy life.

So, it seems I have discovered something else to “do when you’re dead”: give advice. Hope it helps.

Black and White

I’m so bored! It’s snowing again… still… The view outside my window might as well be in black and white because that is all there is: white sky, white snow and trees in varying shades of grey. An occasional squirrel, also grey, frolics through the trees making it seem like it is snowing harder but it is just the branch he has used for a springboard that has sent its load down to the ground where I will have to shovel it away. Thanks Rocky. I wanted to look up the name of the person who dreamed up Rocky, the Flying Squirrel, but my internet connection seems to be having difficulty. It is just that kind of day: no instant gratification. Even eating doesn't help. Once upon a time I would have looked up the answer in my Compton’s Encyclopedia. Why we got Compton’s I don’t know. The gold-standard of encyclopedias was Britannica. My Aunt and Uncle had Britannica. Maybe it was the cover. Britannica was brown and Compton’s was white and grey… like today!

And speaking of the days when TV was black and white, whatever happened to all those door-to-door salesmen? Could you imagine hauling an encyclopedia around in a suitcase all day? And The Fuller Brush Man? The Hoover Vacuum Cleaner Man? The Avon Lady? Okay, Avon is still around but it’s not the same. We had cake delivered by the Duggan’s Bakery and our sodas by the Seltzer Man; Good Health Seltzer. He was the strongest person I knew. Have you ever lifted a seltzer bottle? It’s heavy! Put six of them in a wooden crate that’s heavy even when it is empty, add a bottle of Fox’s Ubet and pile on another crate of Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda, Black Cherry, Celery Tonic and Root Beer and you have a cargo worthy of Hercules. I think of him when I have to carry a single 2 liter plastic bottle. Of course there was the milk man, and the metal box outside our door from Cloverdale Farm. The milk would have a paper cap and under the cap would be a half-inch layer of cream. To open my plastic half-gallon of 1% I had to go through TWO security measures!

Just the fact that all these people came to your door… that they would be let inside… UPS delivered a package the other day; when I heard the knock at the door I jumped three feet. Nobody comes to my door! And if they do, they’re certainly not getting in! But still it’s nice to remember a time when everything didn’t have to be hermetically sealed and a stranger in your living room only wanted a commission.

This snow is relentless. But I’m going out before I eat myself into a stupor and before it’s too heavy to push. I’ll wear my black jacket, black snow pants, black boots and will use the grey shovel. Ah, the good old days.

Avoiding the crash

So maybe I’m not dead. Of course I’m not dead. If I were dead, wouldn’t this struggle be over? But here’s the thing that makes me believe I will survive: I’m beginning to enjoy the struggle. I’m starting to take the curves life throws at me and, well, slow down to avoid the crash. For example, tonight I will take the stage at the Flagpole Radio Café. I’ll appear in two skits written by a very funny man who lives here in town. It’s a fun, low-pressure gig with a handful of terrific radio-style actors, great musicians, before a completely supportive audience of 300-400 people. I’m looking forward to it. So it was with equanimity that I greeted the infection that crept into my body starting on Wednesday at 5 a.m. After months of managing to dodge the various viral and bacterial infections brought into my presence by family members and students, I succumbed to the contagion brought home by my son last weekend. It amazes me how sharing a house with my husband as he labored through five weeks of an infection that would not quit did not affect me but the moment I plan to perform, bingo, I get sick. But I didn’t panic. After a brief flirtation with the idea that I would sleep, drink plenty of liquids and head to the gym to sweat it out, I speed dialed the doctor. Just 24 hours earlier I had escorted my ailing son to her and within 30 minutes of my call I was on her table being prescribed a Z-pac. If you have never experienced a Z-pac, it is a super antibiotic not for the faint of constitution. But I had learned my lesson a long time ago and stocked up on yogurt and acidophilus. By sinuses immediately started draining like someone pulled a plug in my head; I can’t imagine where all this stuff had been stored! Sore throat and more followed but I had avoided getting anywhere near as sick as my son had been. And I’m ready to perform! See? I didn’t panic! I didn’t deny! I met the obstacle with calm and good sense and averted disaster. I short-circuited the drama. I am learning. Perhaps life is like a video game. You start down the course and obstacles appear at random intervals. If you try to speed past them, you crash. But if you can slow down enough to see them coming, take the necessary precautions, and avoid the collision, you can continue on the journey fairly unscathed. I just wish I had figured this out sooner… and can figure out how to apply it in the broader sense. Perhaps then I will arrive at the finish line with something more than empty pockets and a lot of accumulated “shoulda, coulda, woulda” knowledge.

Virus

I found myself leaning over the Geek Bar at Best Buy yesterday and saying nice things to my computer and the universe. Banging my head against the table and tying my stomach up in knots hadn’t worked so, as the Geek tried to find my missing system32/connect file, I did my best to send out positive vibes to whatever entity might be listening, not that I truly believe anyone or anything is actually listening but it had been one of those days… or weeks.

As the weekend started, I noticed I wasn’t getting all my emails. Some got through but the daily influx of store coupons, sale notices and other junk wasn’t showing up. I didn’t really miss them but, when two different people tried to send me scripts, I got concerned. By Monday I wasn’t getting anything and my own emails were going anywhere. I called my anti-virus-software customer service number. From 9 a.m. until after 2 p.m. I either sat on hold or worked with an agent. Then we made an appointment for a malware specialist for tomorrow; two whole days without email. I felt so violated! My little laptop that bothers no one and is an endless source of comfort, company and information has been attacked by no less than seven viruses!!! I left the house and decided this was a good day to return the Hefty bag filled with plastic since CT decided to levy water bottles. I got to the store looking like the Bad Santa and watched helplessly as the woman before me broke the machine. Okay, it wasn’t her fault. The machine’s internal sensors sensed the machine was full when it was empty. Another virus? I did some more errands, returned a bunch of other stuff on my way home: more bottles, the sneakers my husband thought looked good but really looked like aluminum foil. Exhausted, I collapsed on the couch and slept through ‘24’ and ‘Men of a Certain Age’. It’s good I slept. The day ended with a call from my son whose fever had spiked to 103. I was worried but it felt good to be needed. I drove to New Haven.

I’m not complaining, honestly. There are people in this world who are having a lot worse time of it than I am; people I know and people I don’t know. People with big problems like Haiti, homelessness, cancer. Smaller problems like acid reflux, kidney stones, post-surgical complications. One thing really concerns me: Newborn babies with acid reflux. I’d never heard of this. Now it seems to be commonplace. My acid reflux, developed only in the last few years, is brought on by stress and dietary issues like citrus, tomatoes, coffee and the like. Assuming those foods were not consumed by these newborns while still in the uterus I ask you, why are so many babies being born with acid reflux? Is it ‘Early Onset Aggravation”? Do they listen to the news while nestled in their mother’s womb and realize what they’re getting into? Did they hear the report last week that the debt per household is $100,000? (Or was that per person?) Even I had an acid attack when I heard that!

So I can’t get or send email; that shouldn’t be such a big deal. And yet I feel cut off from the universe and very helpless. Even now, as I type this in safe mode, I don’t know if I’ll be able to publish it. I may be talking to myself! Perhaps I’m always talking to myself…and my Mom. She’s my most loyal fan, even if she is disappointed in my grim outlook on life. But still, when your main source of communication to the outside world is cut off, you start to realize how you dependent you are on it, and how alone.

35 Days to a Better Me

First let me say that I still look okay. I saw a picture of myself taken just the other day. I was nicely dressed, make-up was on, and it was not a frightening picture. Still, I now weigh what I weighed on the day I gave birth to my son and that freaks me out. “You’re older” you might say. Well I know that!!!! The trouble is, I don’t get it. My grandmother was old when she was my age. Not me. I listen to the music my son listens to. Okay, I have his iPod, but I don’t hate it. Okay, I hate the rap stuff, but I really like a lot of it! I am not going gently into that good night. I am fighting it with every ounce of strength I can muster and every Tylenol I can get my hands on to ease the aches I wake up with every day. But I am trying.

My Nutrisystem package arrived today bringing me 35 days of breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert especially designed to reduce the pounds that have adhered to my frame, ten pounds per decade, as if by appointment, regardless of diet, exercise, resolutions or wishing them away. Before I even opened the package I think I lost a pound… lifting it, that is. The delivery man dropped it on the porch as if he had gone far enough and the rest was up to me. I was starving so I ripped it open and treated myself to a tiny serving of Bean and Ham soup. Not great but I didn’t gag. God was good to give us salt and pepper. By dinner time I was also being grateful for garlic and the tablespoon of olive oil that would comprise my fat intake for the day. The tomato sauce vaguely reminded me of Chef Boyardee, something I had lost my taste for by the time I was five. By this time I had taken a closer look at the variety I was to look forward to for the next month. There’s a lot of tomato sauce. I ran to the supermarket and filled up one of those reusable bags with some fruits and vegetables, fat free cottage cheese, fat free yogurt and fat free salad dressing. You have to do a lot of eating on this diet; more than I’m used to. Consequently, after the salad and the veggies and the not-quite-awful entrée, I became slightly nauseas. Perhaps this is how the diet works. You simply get too nauseas to eat.

I intend to stick to it. My I paid for it so I will eat it. That is my belief; order anything you want but eat what you order. Well, that’s my mantra at restaurants anyway. Now I have to put my mouth where my money is. I have ordered 35 days of vacuum packed sealed foods that don’t even have to be refrigerated, which I don’t even understand how that is possible, and I will eat what I have ordered. And at the end of 35 days I will be thinner; otherwise there is no point to this exercise. I will use these 35 days to change my eating habits: portion control; more fruits and vegetables; fewer sweets; more water. I just wonder, if I can change a habit in 35 days, can I also train my taste buds to look forward to these meals? And if that happens, will I ever be the same? 34 and 1/3 days to go.

Family Vacations: Dynamics 101

There are three parts to a family vacation.

Part one is about excitement: the excitement of going, the excitement of being there, the excitement of seeing everyone, of planning how to spend the days and evenings ahead. There is lots of hugging, lots of laughter. Then the reality starts to set in.

Part two begins with the dawning realization that it is impossible to get everybody on the same page. There are three factions within this category: Person A, who wants to go “there” or do “that”; Person B who doesn’t want to go “there” or do “that”; and Those Who Don’t Care. Note: Persons A and B may change from day to day, event to event. Those Who Don’t Care fall into two categories: Category one people are genuinely thrilled to do anything as long as everyone is happy. Category two people are those who SAY they don’t care but then complain about every choice. Those Who Don’t Care Category Two can be particularly annoying because they have abdicated any responsibility in the decision making process, leaving Persons A & B slug it out while Those Who Don’t Care Category One cower in a guest bedroom. Occasionally Those Who Don’t Care (Category one) come out to tell Persons A & B to shut up, prompting Persons A & B to turn on Those Who Don’t Care with the full force of their frustration, causing Those Who Don’t Care to escalate the drama even further with cries of “What are you yelling at me for?” The situation further deteriorates when you realize it is impossible to get everybody dressed and out to dinner house in less than two hours with only two bathrooms and a 25 gallon hot water heater. Add unseasonably inclement weather to the mix and it is a recipe for disaster. Warning: the addition of inordinate amounts of alcohol, while contributing to purgative bouts of laughter, can have adverse effects on some people.

Part three begins when everyone realizes that vacation is almost over. They start thinking about returning to work, missing each other, of all the time they wasted arguing, and the stress of repacking, getting to the airport and dealing with Security. It ends with guarded apologies, heartfelt thanks, and tearful goodbyes. Painful memories recede and are replaced with warm recollections of the good times. Hundreds of pictures of smiling faces showing no sign of any sort of discord are sorted and shared. Plans are begun for the next getaway.

Then They Came for the Peanuts

When did the world get so vulnerable? We’re all so worried about global warming; well those of us who don’t believe it’s a hoax are worried about global warming; the rest are worried that they may have to give something up because of the possibility that it might be true. But, global warming aside, perhaps the world won’t be undone by melting polar caps or any catastrophic event. Perhaps neither terrorists nor weapons of any sort of destruction will be the cause of our ultimate demise. Perhaps it will be… (drumroll) THE PEANUT!

Who poisoned the nuts? If you have a nut allergy, or know or love someone who has a peanut allergy, I am probably about to offend you. Deal with it.

We got to Newark Airport this morning, brooked the extra security, removed our shoes, our belts, our electronics, surrendered our Fruit 2-O, were scanned and chatted with and eventually passed through to the waiting area where we purchased replacements for the confiscated water. We got on the plane and I started looking forward to those tiny packets of smokehouse almonds they would eventually give out when a cheery voice announced: “Welcome aboard flight 503. We have a severe nut allergy on board and ask that all passengers refrain from consuming any nuts or any products that contain nuts.” There was a collective gasp. (Okay, just my family gasped.) (Okay, just my husband and I gasped.) “When we begin our cabin service, we will not be serving any nut products.” No almonds?! The announcement continued, “This means we will not be serving our almonds, our cashews or our chocolate chunk cookies.” WHAT????!!!! NO CHOCOLATE CHUNK COOKIES?! WHAT ARE THEY GOING TO SERVE, LETTUCE? “Please refer to our in-flight guide for a list of what’s left.” I was appalled. They had plantain chips.

Where was this person who was allergic to nuts? What row was he or she in? Surely there must be a limit on how far an airborne nut fragment could go! Otherwise the world would be a very dangerous place! And when was the last time you saw a packaged food that did NOT come with the warning, “This product may have been prepared on machinery that is sometimes used for nut products.” (Or something to that effect; I’m too lazy to get up and look at a package.) I was starving! I had been up since 5:00 a.m. and had neglected to bring a snack but, of course, if I had brought a snack I wouldn’t have been able to eat it since it would most likely have contained nuts!

This was injustice. If it were a show and the star was out, we would have been able to get our money back! Of course we wouldn’t have seen the play; in this case, we wouldn’t have gotten to Florida but, still, we would have had the option! So here’s my question: how did this happen? What if a person with a severe allergy to dogs was on that plane? Would Minnie Feinberg have been expected to surrender her seizure dog to the baggage compartment? Would Pierre La Peupeu have been expected to relinquish his prize Pomeranian to the clutches of the baggage handlers? Or would Mr. and Mrs. “It’ll Make Me Sneeze” be expected to take a Zyrtec, keep their epi-pens handy and DEAL WITH IT! Would anyone have even asked?

I am… well never mind how old I am. I have personally never witnessed an allergic reaction to nuts. In my day, if peanut butter and jelly weren’t on the menu, more than half the school kids would have gone without lunch. How much tuna-fish can one child be expected to eat? PB&J was the perfect food! You could have grape jelly one day, strawberry jam the next, and for those who didn’t confuse those solid things with anything from the natural world, orange marmalade next! Endless variety, gone because one child in somebody else’s class who doesn’t even eat lunch at the same time has a peanut allergy! SO I ask again, HOW DID IT GET SO BAD? And what is next….
First they came for my grapes but I could do without grapes so I stayed silent. Then they came for the peanuts but I didn’t like peanut butter so I said nothing. Then they came for the meat but I was planning to become a vegetarian. Then they came for…. And on and on and on…

“Once there was a mighty people… but they poisoned their own food and starved to death.”

The Lost Art of Packing

I’ve been making the trip to Florida ever since I was a child and packing has been an evolutionary experience. When I was a 12, a cousin of mine arrived at our hotel with three large suitcases filled with everything she owned. She was there for the weekend, but the airline allowed three bags per person and that’s what she brought. “You never know what you’ll feel like wearing”, she cooed to her mother’s delight, her breast swelling with pride at her Jewish American Princess logic. My mother thought she was nuts. I thought she was so cool. It took me years to realize she was an idiot. Such extravagance never occurred to me. Plus, at the time, I’d have had to throw in all my schoolbooks and stuffed animals to fill 3 suitcases and even then I’d have room to shop. But her suitcases were loaded with items packed in haste, wrinkled, twisted, like I’d seen in the movies when some frantic person would scoop up all their possessions, dump them in the suitcase, slam the lid and lift it like it weighed nothing.

I was taught the “proper” way to pack. My mother packed on the assumption that no other city or country had heard of an iron. There was easily twice as much tissue paper than clothing in my mother’s suitcase. Each item was carefully laid out and folded with tissue paper so it wouldn’t crease; each layer was perfectly even and separated by even more tissue paper so it wouldn’t move. There would be no mingling of layers in my mother’s suitcase. Do you remember when the Miss America contestant packed a suitcase in the “Talent” portion? My mother took notes.

My own packing practices fall somewhere in between these two extremes. First of all, current airline luggage rules make it impossible to be as whimsical as my extravagant cousin. Half of what she carried would land her in a pat-down with all her worldly possessions on display as bemused TA workers tried to figure out “What’s this for?” and “What do you do with this?” Secondly, they charge by the bag now with extra levies for weight and public humiliation in the labeling of your bag as “Heavy” if you actually pack anything inside. Remember Samsonite? Those bags tipped the scales when they were empty! And that was in the days before wheels and straps, when traveling was not for the faint of heart! Don’t you love it in the movies when the heroine fills her bag with whatever pleases her and then lifts it off the bed as if it were stuffed with feathers? Do you know that moment when you try to lift your suitcase and find you are rooted to the spot?

I start packing days in advance. I lay out all the clothes that fit, which immediately eliminates half my wardrobe. Then I put back everything that is weather-wrong. Then I put back everything I have two of. Then I put back everything of an outstanding color than might require special accessories. Then I pick out neutral accessories. Then I realize I have nothing to wear… during the day, that is; I am fine for dinner. So I go back to the drawers and pick out the clothing I will end up living in except for dinner. Then I put back half of the dinner clothes.

If I am not flying, this is the point where I add the toiletries. If I am flying, there is no longer any point in bringing toiletries as they will be confiscated. I am amazed to learn how many commonplace toiletries in western society can be used to make a bomb. No wonder bombers always look so dirty!.. besides the insanity factor.

I start putting my items in the carry-on-sized bag, carefully filling up the spaces between the bars of the extendable handle with socks, underwear and items that can be rolled up until I get the first flat layer that would make my mother proud. Next come the flat items; the things I don’t want to wrinkle. (Yeah, right.) They are followed by the shoes. Since I won’t be checking it in, my almost empty bag gets filled up with things to read, writing implements in case I get an idea ((Yeah, right), cards, and my laptop because Wi-Fi is free at the airport and God-forbid I should get stuck without something to do! And “voila”, the bag with almost nothing in it suddenly weighs a ton. But it’s on wheels and I’m not checking it in so who cares. Once I arrive at my destination I unpack and realize I brought nothing to wear. So I go shopping. Ah, vacation!