Bone tired. This is what that must mean. My body feels punished. I took a Hatha Yoga class last night figuring it would stretch me out from the Body Jam class I took the night before that had caused me to wake up hobbled.
Are all these teachers lunatics? Where did they get the idea that anyone needs to jump up on a step and “bend that knee and kick that butt” thirty-two times on one side, until the calf muscle feels like it will explode through your skin like a cherry-bomb? And Yoga, that benign form of exercise that always relaxed me in the past… how did it morph into this painful experience? I’m not a fan of ordinary push-ups but plank position on fully extended arms “and now lower yourself but don’t touch the floor and hold… and hold… and hold… “ put me into a realm of pain I had heretofore imagined coming only courtesy of a rack. “And twist!” Twist? Are you serious? I am reminded of a trip my parents took me on when I was 10 years old to Pennsylvania and the Lititz Pretzel Factory where we watched and practiced the laying out of a strip of dough in a big smile and then twisting the ends and pressing them to the outer line. “Lititz”. Pennsylvania, hands down, has the best names.
But I digress. Was the body truly meant to assume these positions? The instructor looked good. I, however, felt extreme empathy with the wishbone at Thanksgiving. And that turkey was dead! Beaded with sweat and limbs stretched to the limit, I was in agony.
BUT, that little black dress I put away two seasons ago… fits! And so it is I take my latest does of Ibuprophen and limp into another hot shower. Ah, I feel better already.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
Return to Civilization
I heard a beautiful sound tonight and the rush of joy it brought to my heart was more than I could ever have anticipated. I flushed the toilet. After almost a week of no electricity in my home, the simple joy of flushing a toilet, of hearing the water sucked out of the bowl and on to its sewage-bound destination was overwhelming. Flipping a light switch and having the light come on… what a miracle. I filled the dishwasher with the encrusted dishes from the week-long pile-up in the waterless sink, set it to ‘heavy wash’ and ‘tough scrub’, and started my shopping list. We need everything. I threw out a hefty bag filled with the contents of my refrigerator and will turn my attention to the freezer tomorrow. It all has to go before I talk myself into believing any of it is edible. I don’t want food poisoning to add any more victims to the death toll from last Saturday’s Nor’easter. I heard on the news today that one more person has died as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning from a poorly ventilated generator. Add to shopping list: carbon monoxide detector and a generator. Exhausted, I watched TV just because I could. I pulled back the multiple layers of extra quilts and blankets and crawled into bed. Tomorrow I clean up the residue of camp life around the fireplace in the living room and remove the streaks of candlewax from the kitchen counters. But tonight, I sleep, so grateful for the modern amenities and with a new respect for the trees.
11 a.m. the next morning, And... they're off again. Thud. )That's my heart hitting the floor.)
And they're back! Yay!!!! Now let's KEEP IT THIS WAY!
11 a.m. the next morning, And... they're off again. Thud. )That's my heart hitting the floor.)
And they're back! Yay!!!! Now let's KEEP IT THIS WAY!
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Awful Autumn or the Fall F**k Up
What a month. What a season! First Hurricane Irene. The power outage was extremely inconvenient, but at least we could go outside, use the grill and once the wind stopped, we really didn’t worry that a tree would fall on us. We survived Irene to escape to Italy for an idyllic if somewhat whirlwind vacation and returned home to fall pray to the weather change and the upper respiratory infection that was, according to the pharmacist, “going around”. But the Halloween Nor’easter that ripped through the northeast last weekend was another matter altogether. My faithful readers, (the few of you) are you all right?
“Ripped” is really the wrong word for this storm. It rather crawled across the land depositing a blanket of heavy, wet snow that crushed trees and our spirits with equal force. The sound was incredible. Snowfall is generally quiet. But this pre-season interloper set siege to the leaf-laden trees and simply overwhelmed them. All day and night the sounds of limbs and, in many cases, whole trees cracking and crashing to the ground was like something out of a science fiction movie with giants stomping over everything in their path. Or a war movie: the “BOOMS” sounded like bombs dropping in the distance. Except the one that hit the side of the house; that sounded like a direct hit. Being outside to clear the driveway was a nerve-wracking, futile endeavor. I’ve never seen such heavy snowfall for so long. I’m surprised they haven’t named her/him/it. It deserves a name. Something seasonal: the Awful Autumnal; the Halloween Horror; the Fall F**k-Up. It has certainly f**ked up my fall.
There’s no power, no heat, no running water. On line at a local Red Cross relief shelter, waiting for two hours to take a shower after four days of filth and freezing, one woman I spoke to said she got a cell phone call from Ohio and another got one from INDIA! Apparently, our little town burg made international news as the worst hit even in hard hit Connecticut. On every street, trees lean on power wires forming terrifying tunnels for our cars to pass under. The utility company is overwhelmed and absent. I’ve never seen where a tree limb on a powerline didn’t bring an immediate response. Well, on Saturday, at the height of the storm, we first lost power in the mid-afternoon. Within fifteen minutes I saw a utility truck pass by and moments later power was restored… for an hour. It went out again and has stayed out. And I have not seen another truck. We honkered down in front of the fireplace to discover that all our wood was wet except for the very bottom of the pile which we unpiled to retrieve the ten pieces of dry wood. We live in a forest and my son took his SUV out in a blizzard to find wood. You can’t make this stuff up. He returned some time later with a bag of salt we would not need, five packs of wood and Chinese food. Like Christmas, you can always depend upon your local Chinese restaurant to find a way when all others are hiding under their beds. Isn’t it fascinating that restaurants are the only ones to think ahead and buy generators?
We are in New Jersey now, staying with our older son, his wife and our terrific granddaughter, babysitting, hanging out and making a conscious decision NOT to freak out about the stuff we are SUPPOSED to be doing.
“Ripped” is really the wrong word for this storm. It rather crawled across the land depositing a blanket of heavy, wet snow that crushed trees and our spirits with equal force. The sound was incredible. Snowfall is generally quiet. But this pre-season interloper set siege to the leaf-laden trees and simply overwhelmed them. All day and night the sounds of limbs and, in many cases, whole trees cracking and crashing to the ground was like something out of a science fiction movie with giants stomping over everything in their path. Or a war movie: the “BOOMS” sounded like bombs dropping in the distance. Except the one that hit the side of the house; that sounded like a direct hit. Being outside to clear the driveway was a nerve-wracking, futile endeavor. I’ve never seen such heavy snowfall for so long. I’m surprised they haven’t named her/him/it. It deserves a name. Something seasonal: the Awful Autumnal; the Halloween Horror; the Fall F**k-Up. It has certainly f**ked up my fall.
There’s no power, no heat, no running water. On line at a local Red Cross relief shelter, waiting for two hours to take a shower after four days of filth and freezing, one woman I spoke to said she got a cell phone call from Ohio and another got one from INDIA! Apparently, our little town burg made international news as the worst hit even in hard hit Connecticut. On every street, trees lean on power wires forming terrifying tunnels for our cars to pass under. The utility company is overwhelmed and absent. I’ve never seen where a tree limb on a powerline didn’t bring an immediate response. Well, on Saturday, at the height of the storm, we first lost power in the mid-afternoon. Within fifteen minutes I saw a utility truck pass by and moments later power was restored… for an hour. It went out again and has stayed out. And I have not seen another truck. We honkered down in front of the fireplace to discover that all our wood was wet except for the very bottom of the pile which we unpiled to retrieve the ten pieces of dry wood. We live in a forest and my son took his SUV out in a blizzard to find wood. You can’t make this stuff up. He returned some time later with a bag of salt we would not need, five packs of wood and Chinese food. Like Christmas, you can always depend upon your local Chinese restaurant to find a way when all others are hiding under their beds. Isn’t it fascinating that restaurants are the only ones to think ahead and buy generators?
We are in New Jersey now, staying with our older son, his wife and our terrific granddaughter, babysitting, hanging out and making a conscious decision NOT to freak out about the stuff we are SUPPOSED to be doing.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Live from Firenze
Complete day 1 in Florence is in the bag but I must start with yesterday.
I left the train tickets on the kitchen table. I left my shoes in Canneregio beside the bed... I think. I was upset all day because I realized the first of these mistakes as we packed to leave Venice ... no, I must go back further. First, we overslept... No further. Two nights ago...
It started when I broke that man's candle on the Strada Nuovo after a complimentary aperetif and a bottle of Valpolicella when my husband told me to pose next to the display of brightly lit candle holders. Who said you can drink all the wine you want in Italy because it has a lower alcohol content so you wonàt get drunk? (By the way, the drinking age in Venice is strictly adhered to! No one under 16 can drink!) Anyway, they probably never had this valpolicella! So, tipsy, I placed my fingers on the ledge not realizing the candles were resting on a piece of wood that was as tipsy as I was. I didnàt see it fall; I heard the crash and the man yelling in Italian. I said "I'll buy it!" but he kept yelling so I started to walk away which made him yell in English, "Where are you going?" I said I had offered to buy it but he was being mean! So he got nicer. I offered him money and he started giving me change, insisting I only had to pay his cost... I think he gave me more that I had given him but it was dark so who knows. And then he insisted on wrapping it! And then I started crying! I don't know why because it was over but there I was, in a puddle. And I realized, I hate making mistakes!!! Boy, was I right.
So we go back to our beautiful hotel and book a tour for 10:30 a.m. to the island of Murano to see the glass factories and I ask for a wake-up call at 7 which never comes. We wake up at 9:20 thanks to the maid who closed our shutters when she turned down our bed thus leaving us in blissful darkness. We fly out of bed, grab breakfast, arrange our check out, leave the bags with the bellman so we can quickly grab them as we head for our 3:30 train to Florence and then it hits me... the tickets! I had put all our papers in a blue folder weeks ago and when the tickets arrived by Fedex, I put them there as well. But two days before the trip, our travel arranger sent me a whole new set of vouchers so I removed the old ones and put the new ones in the folder. On the day we left, I took the folder and, on a whim, told my husband to put the envelope in his suitcase so we'd have two copies. This would have been perfect since the train tickets were in the envelope, and had my husband listened to me, we would have been fine. But he didn't. It remained on the kitchen table and we left for Italy.
So I spent the entire day beating myself up. Why should I have expected he would bring the envelope. I have never held him responsible for any of the "business" of our lives. WHy would I expect he'd start now. My mistake ached in my body all day, It was a pall over me as we took the boat to Murano and walked the beautiful cobbled streets and bridges of that wonderland of handmade glass objects. I was nauseaus as we walked to the ferrovia to get new tickets for Florence; sick in my stomach thinking about calling my son in CT and asking his to overnight them to us so we could get a refund on the unused tickets and still get to Rome on Thursday; just miserable as i watched the Italian countryside slip past the window, and somwhere between Padova and Bologna I realized I had forgotten my shoes! I was certain of it. In my haste to pack in Venice, I was certain I had neglected to pick them up from beside the bed. And the shock started me laughing. They were the most comfortable shoes I have ever owned and they were in Venice and I was on a train I had paid for twice to a city I had never seen before but I was certain would cripple me if I tried to walk it in my mocassins. My husband was sleeping and I was shaking with laughter. Tears stremed down my face and the woman next to me must have thought I'd gone crazy because she didn't so much as look in my direction which made me laugh harder. But I hadn't lost my mind. Just my shoes. And my tickets. And the pain in my heart. It was gone.
We got to the hotel, called my son who reminded us how we'd be lost without him. We agreed. We went to our room (another story) and I opened my suitcase. There were my shoes,right on top. Perhaps the curse has passed.
I left the train tickets on the kitchen table. I left my shoes in Canneregio beside the bed... I think. I was upset all day because I realized the first of these mistakes as we packed to leave Venice ... no, I must go back further. First, we overslept... No further. Two nights ago...
It started when I broke that man's candle on the Strada Nuovo after a complimentary aperetif and a bottle of Valpolicella when my husband told me to pose next to the display of brightly lit candle holders. Who said you can drink all the wine you want in Italy because it has a lower alcohol content so you wonàt get drunk? (By the way, the drinking age in Venice is strictly adhered to! No one under 16 can drink!) Anyway, they probably never had this valpolicella! So, tipsy, I placed my fingers on the ledge not realizing the candles were resting on a piece of wood that was as tipsy as I was. I didnàt see it fall; I heard the crash and the man yelling in Italian. I said "I'll buy it!" but he kept yelling so I started to walk away which made him yell in English, "Where are you going?" I said I had offered to buy it but he was being mean! So he got nicer. I offered him money and he started giving me change, insisting I only had to pay his cost... I think he gave me more that I had given him but it was dark so who knows. And then he insisted on wrapping it! And then I started crying! I don't know why because it was over but there I was, in a puddle. And I realized, I hate making mistakes!!! Boy, was I right.
So we go back to our beautiful hotel and book a tour for 10:30 a.m. to the island of Murano to see the glass factories and I ask for a wake-up call at 7 which never comes. We wake up at 9:20 thanks to the maid who closed our shutters when she turned down our bed thus leaving us in blissful darkness. We fly out of bed, grab breakfast, arrange our check out, leave the bags with the bellman so we can quickly grab them as we head for our 3:30 train to Florence and then it hits me... the tickets! I had put all our papers in a blue folder weeks ago and when the tickets arrived by Fedex, I put them there as well. But two days before the trip, our travel arranger sent me a whole new set of vouchers so I removed the old ones and put the new ones in the folder. On the day we left, I took the folder and, on a whim, told my husband to put the envelope in his suitcase so we'd have two copies. This would have been perfect since the train tickets were in the envelope, and had my husband listened to me, we would have been fine. But he didn't. It remained on the kitchen table and we left for Italy.
So I spent the entire day beating myself up. Why should I have expected he would bring the envelope. I have never held him responsible for any of the "business" of our lives. WHy would I expect he'd start now. My mistake ached in my body all day, It was a pall over me as we took the boat to Murano and walked the beautiful cobbled streets and bridges of that wonderland of handmade glass objects. I was nauseaus as we walked to the ferrovia to get new tickets for Florence; sick in my stomach thinking about calling my son in CT and asking his to overnight them to us so we could get a refund on the unused tickets and still get to Rome on Thursday; just miserable as i watched the Italian countryside slip past the window, and somwhere between Padova and Bologna I realized I had forgotten my shoes! I was certain of it. In my haste to pack in Venice, I was certain I had neglected to pick them up from beside the bed. And the shock started me laughing. They were the most comfortable shoes I have ever owned and they were in Venice and I was on a train I had paid for twice to a city I had never seen before but I was certain would cripple me if I tried to walk it in my mocassins. My husband was sleeping and I was shaking with laughter. Tears stremed down my face and the woman next to me must have thought I'd gone crazy because she didn't so much as look in my direction which made me laugh harder. But I hadn't lost my mind. Just my shoes. And my tickets. And the pain in my heart. It was gone.
We got to the hotel, called my son who reminded us how we'd be lost without him. We agreed. We went to our room (another story) and I opened my suitcase. There were my shoes,right on top. Perhaps the curse has passed.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Staying Present
I lectured today on the need to stay “present”. Well, it wasn’t much of a lecture actually. I was teaching Acting 1 to a group of high school students, which is quickly becoming a really cool way to start the day. I mean, just when I started to be convinced that I hated teaching, I got the chance to start a year with kids in this public arts magnet school and, you know what? It ain’t so bad. In fact, I’m thinking I could be pretty good at it, if I could be exempt from the formal lesson plans and the bureaucracy and the cafeteria duty, etc.
But back to being “present”. I have gotten in the habit of looking at the calendar and saying, “Two weeks from now, I’ll be in Venice.” Two weeks from this moment, I’ll be having a glass of vino rosa in la Piazza San Marco.” Two weeks from now, I’ll be driving to Sorrento.” And that’s not good. Between now and then, I have a lot of stuff to do! Most of it requires a great deal of concentration! If I’m focused on “then”, I explained to my class, I wouldn’t be a very good teacher “now”. I saw them nodding in agreement as I suggested they put away thoughts of their upcoming history class and stayed focused on the task at hand. Be “here” right now.
This blog entry is a case in point. There’s no wi-fi where I am sitting, babysitting two kids who have been given “lunch detention”. There are several things I could be doing to make better use of this time, but the lack of an internet connection prevents me from catching up on my several other jobs. I could bitch. I could be frustrated. Instead, what a nice moment to relax and let my thoughts go where they want to go. … to Italia.
But back to being “present”. I have gotten in the habit of looking at the calendar and saying, “Two weeks from now, I’ll be in Venice.” Two weeks from this moment, I’ll be having a glass of vino rosa in la Piazza San Marco.” Two weeks from now, I’ll be driving to Sorrento.” And that’s not good. Between now and then, I have a lot of stuff to do! Most of it requires a great deal of concentration! If I’m focused on “then”, I explained to my class, I wouldn’t be a very good teacher “now”. I saw them nodding in agreement as I suggested they put away thoughts of their upcoming history class and stayed focused on the task at hand. Be “here” right now.
This blog entry is a case in point. There’s no wi-fi where I am sitting, babysitting two kids who have been given “lunch detention”. There are several things I could be doing to make better use of this time, but the lack of an internet connection prevents me from catching up on my several other jobs. I could bitch. I could be frustrated. Instead, what a nice moment to relax and let my thoughts go where they want to go. … to Italia.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Italia
My husband is diligently, and FINALLY, planning our dream-trip to Italy. I admit I have been incapable of doing it myself. The Internet sites overwhelm me; the various touring companies confuse me. I get nervous. So I challenged him to “get it done”, and he’s doing it. With his usual meticulous approach to shopping, he has now been on a website called European Destinations since the wee hours of the morning. This is not his first visit to the site. He has consulted with Costco Tours, Perillo Tours, Soriano Tours and everyone we have ever known who has ventured there before us, and has returned to European Destinations armed with knowledge. He’s got us going to Venice, Florence, Rome and Sorrento with side trips to the Amalfi Coast, Pompeii, and I don’t know what else because he keeps saying I should come and look at what he has planned and when I get there he says he’s not ready. He has thrown out several oohs and ahs when encountering such ideas as taking our rented car and doing the Amalfi Coast on our own, a bicycle trip through Tuscany and touring Florence on the back of a Vespa, prompting me to think he is planning the “50 Ways to Die on your Trip to Italy” tour. Not a bad way to go when you think of it.
Omigod, we did it! We’re going! We clicked to send, danced around the kitchen, called my mother, danced around some more. It’s not quite real to me yet. I mean, you don’t just dream about something for as long as I’ve dreamed about this and then just say, “Oh, okay, we’re going.” WE’RE GOING! And now… we’re shopping for an Italian language program.
Omigod, we did it! We’re going! We clicked to send, danced around the kitchen, called my mother, danced around some more. It’s not quite real to me yet. I mean, you don’t just dream about something for as long as I’ve dreamed about this and then just say, “Oh, okay, we’re going.” WE’RE GOING! And now… we’re shopping for an Italian language program.
Friday, July 15, 2011
My baby got a job
My baby got a job! Okay, he’s not a baby and this isn’t his first job. But this is the first one that matters. Four years of college, a three-years grad program that he compressed into 2 ½ and a master’s in a field that is actually in demand… I’m so excited I could scream. I did scream! When he told me the news I screamed. He’s going to be the sole full-time speech and language pathologist at a rehab center and nursing facility nearby. He doesn’t even have to move across the country (one of my closet-fears).
A few weeks ago on one of those Sunday morning talk shows, I heard a prediction that chilled me to the bone. For the first time, debt from school loans has outpaced that of credit cards. They went on the say that this is the first generation that will not be able to repay their loans because they will not be able to find jobs. Just the other day, my friend told me about his niece who got her master’s in education last year. Unable to find a job, she has been thinking about becoming a cop.
I hugged my husband when we heard the news. For all our faults and shortcomings, we got this right. Perhaps because of our shortcomings… I’ve heard this theory that economic security runs in three-generation cycles: 1) the family that struggles to make ends meet and give their children a chance at a better life; 2) the children of those working families who go on to become professionals and live the “American Dream”; 3) their children who wind up squandering their legacy and falling back into poverty. Perhaps our economic struggles have served as a cautionary tale. All I know is that I am delighted our children are now both safe and secure in careers that seem to be fairly recession-proof.
Now I can just concentrate on worrying about me.
A few weeks ago on one of those Sunday morning talk shows, I heard a prediction that chilled me to the bone. For the first time, debt from school loans has outpaced that of credit cards. They went on the say that this is the first generation that will not be able to repay their loans because they will not be able to find jobs. Just the other day, my friend told me about his niece who got her master’s in education last year. Unable to find a job, she has been thinking about becoming a cop.
I hugged my husband when we heard the news. For all our faults and shortcomings, we got this right. Perhaps because of our shortcomings… I’ve heard this theory that economic security runs in three-generation cycles: 1) the family that struggles to make ends meet and give their children a chance at a better life; 2) the children of those working families who go on to become professionals and live the “American Dream”; 3) their children who wind up squandering their legacy and falling back into poverty. Perhaps our economic struggles have served as a cautionary tale. All I know is that I am delighted our children are now both safe and secure in careers that seem to be fairly recession-proof.
Now I can just concentrate on worrying about me.
Where have you gone, Paddy C?
I’m getting a little sick… no, not a little…. VERY sick of all the discussion about cuts to benefits and no tax increases for the wealthy and yada yada yada. Why is it that not ONE congressman or senator has the balls to stand up and say “WE need to give something back”?
My call in starting to fix the economy is an immediate 10% to 15% rollback of salaries to all elected officials. It won’t kill them. Most of them won’t even feel it. They’ll make it up on speaking fees and book deals.
Next, no more getting paid once you leave office. Once you’re done doing you’re job, you’re done collecting a salary. That’s how it works in the real world. Unless they promise to fork over to the general coffers everything they ever make because of who they are and what they have done... (All those speaking fees and book deals)… in which case they will probably not burden us with their tiresome rhetoric and 20/20 hindsight anymore.
You want to have a bodyguard? Pay for it. No more Secret Servicemen for retired politicians. And their families!
Immediately, every public official starts paying into the social security system and getting the same benefits as the rest of us. It’s what the Constitution calls for! No elected officials shall make any law that doesn’t apply to them as it does to everyone else (or some such wording). Why do we allow them to lord this over us when they have no personal stake in the outcome? Conflict of interest you say? The only conflict of interest I see is that they have forgotten they are “Public SERVANTS”! e
Now, as I enter the tenth month of trying to renegotiate my mortgage, stand with me and yell, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more!” Paddy Chayevsky, where are you?
My call in starting to fix the economy is an immediate 10% to 15% rollback of salaries to all elected officials. It won’t kill them. Most of them won’t even feel it. They’ll make it up on speaking fees and book deals.
Next, no more getting paid once you leave office. Once you’re done doing you’re job, you’re done collecting a salary. That’s how it works in the real world. Unless they promise to fork over to the general coffers everything they ever make because of who they are and what they have done... (All those speaking fees and book deals)… in which case they will probably not burden us with their tiresome rhetoric and 20/20 hindsight anymore.
You want to have a bodyguard? Pay for it. No more Secret Servicemen for retired politicians. And their families!
Immediately, every public official starts paying into the social security system and getting the same benefits as the rest of us. It’s what the Constitution calls for! No elected officials shall make any law that doesn’t apply to them as it does to everyone else (or some such wording). Why do we allow them to lord this over us when they have no personal stake in the outcome? Conflict of interest you say? The only conflict of interest I see is that they have forgotten they are “Public SERVANTS”! e
Now, as I enter the tenth month of trying to renegotiate my mortgage, stand with me and yell, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more!” Paddy Chayevsky, where are you?
Sunday, June 26, 2011
The Trip- Part 1
I am lying on a king-sized bed in a Holiday Inn in Gainesville GA after a marathon trip from Winchester VA, down the Shenandoah Valley, past the Monongahela National Forest, the George Washington National Forest, the Cherokee National Forest, across the Tennessee panhandle, the Pisgah National Forest, through the Smoky Mountains and Asheville, NC where I had once spent a rainy afternoon with a bad boyfriend, where my Smartphone failed me and couldn’t get me a reservation on Priceline so we had to call our son in CT to go online and get us a hotel reservation, into South Carolina passing Campobello (is that the place where “The Sunrise”… is at?), down into Georgia about six hours after I had wanted to stop in the first place. My body is still tingling from the vibration of the road.
Day 1 was cool. We stopped in NY and had a nice dinner at a Mexican restaurant, then saw a Broadway show: “House of Blue Leaves”. (Good but John, Swoozie and Christine were better. And whoever told Jennifer Jason Leigh she could act?) We continued to NJ that night and stayed with our kids and granddaughter.
Day 2 of the adventure was fairly sane. The GPS took us clear across Pennsylvania before making a sharp left toward the south. Winchester VA was so nice. We stopped driving at about four p.m. having gotten a reservation on Priceline at a Borders with free Wi-Fi. $50 for a 3-star hotel. Adorable! Such a cute room. Ikea chic. King-size bed, 42 inch flat screen, one of those tall, round, ultra-modern sinks, glass shower with a smoky glass wall that overlooked the bedroom area. Very sexy. Mini-fridge with complimentary bottled water and free Wi-Fi that worked immediately. We found a few restaurants online that looked wonderful and headed down to the historic district for a truly memorable dinner at Violini’s.
But that was yesterday. Today my husband took me on the modern-day equivalent of a forced march. He SAID we could stop whenever I wanted to but somehow, whenever I suggested a stop, it was either too far off-course or too late because we just passed that exit. Suddenly, stopping for another night before reaching our Georgia destination became a “waste of time”.
So Day 2 we ate at a 4-star restaurant and Day 3 we dined at Five Guys.
And that’s another thing! There are no more local anythings! Wherever you go, you’re in the same place. Every exit has the same hotels: La Quinta, Holiday Inn Express, Hampton House, Comfort Inn, Days Inn and, of course, a Super 8. Every town has McDonalds, Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts. (Where did all the Krispy Kremes go?) I saw at least a dozen Outbacks, Red Lobsters, Friendlies. Then there are the regional redundancies: Shoneys, Golden Corral, etc. Every mall is the same: Marshalls, Borders, outlet stores. You drive for hours and if the mountains didn’t change, if the mile-markers didn’t keep their relentless .10 mile pace, you’d swear you hadn’t moved. I do want to send out a special thank you to Borders for the free Wi-Fi. Meanwhile, we’ll rest up for a day and then continue south. More to come.
Day 1 was cool. We stopped in NY and had a nice dinner at a Mexican restaurant, then saw a Broadway show: “House of Blue Leaves”. (Good but John, Swoozie and Christine were better. And whoever told Jennifer Jason Leigh she could act?) We continued to NJ that night and stayed with our kids and granddaughter.
Day 2 of the adventure was fairly sane. The GPS took us clear across Pennsylvania before making a sharp left toward the south. Winchester VA was so nice. We stopped driving at about four p.m. having gotten a reservation on Priceline at a Borders with free Wi-Fi. $50 for a 3-star hotel. Adorable! Such a cute room. Ikea chic. King-size bed, 42 inch flat screen, one of those tall, round, ultra-modern sinks, glass shower with a smoky glass wall that overlooked the bedroom area. Very sexy. Mini-fridge with complimentary bottled water and free Wi-Fi that worked immediately. We found a few restaurants online that looked wonderful and headed down to the historic district for a truly memorable dinner at Violini’s.
But that was yesterday. Today my husband took me on the modern-day equivalent of a forced march. He SAID we could stop whenever I wanted to but somehow, whenever I suggested a stop, it was either too far off-course or too late because we just passed that exit. Suddenly, stopping for another night before reaching our Georgia destination became a “waste of time”.
So Day 2 we ate at a 4-star restaurant and Day 3 we dined at Five Guys.
And that’s another thing! There are no more local anythings! Wherever you go, you’re in the same place. Every exit has the same hotels: La Quinta, Holiday Inn Express, Hampton House, Comfort Inn, Days Inn and, of course, a Super 8. Every town has McDonalds, Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts. (Where did all the Krispy Kremes go?) I saw at least a dozen Outbacks, Red Lobsters, Friendlies. Then there are the regional redundancies: Shoneys, Golden Corral, etc. Every mall is the same: Marshalls, Borders, outlet stores. You drive for hours and if the mountains didn’t change, if the mile-markers didn’t keep their relentless .10 mile pace, you’d swear you hadn’t moved. I do want to send out a special thank you to Borders for the free Wi-Fi. Meanwhile, we’ll rest up for a day and then continue south. More to come.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
My incredible Spring
I am sitting in the teachers’ room at a public arts magnet school where all my thoughts of wanting to teach are being dashed like ten-foot waves on a rocky shore. I got a job replacing a theatre arts teacher who has to take the rest of the semester off because of health problems. What’s most amazing to me is that ALL the teachers aren’t in rest homes! It is May. That’s nine months of backtalk, bureaucracy and early rising. I’ve been at it for two weeks and I need a vacation.
When the job was suggested to me I thought “Sure! Eight weeks? Piece of cake!” And, in theory, it IS a piece of cake. (I've been told that the normal pre-requisite for a Sub is a newspaper and a cup of coffee.) But teenagers are not cake. They’re not even cookies. As the regular teachers are not shy about descrying, they are... smaller than that. (Enough said. I know you get it.) At first I was shocked to hear them describe their charges in such colorful terms. Now I applaud them on their restraint.
I don’t want to paint all of the students with the same brush. There are some students that make it a pleasure to come to class each day. They sit, listening attentively, participating to the best of their ability above the din of the other ones; the ones who sit with their backs to you, who can’t stop talking, who answer back with the disdain one generally reserves for worms and rodents; the ones who look at an assignment as a challenge to their autonomy; who couldn’t care less about being here and will say so, unabashedly, to your face.
It may sound clichéd but “when I went to school” you wouldn’t dream of answering back to a teacher. You were afraid of teachers (!) even though the law said they couldn’t hit you anymore. (My husband went to a parochial school where they hadn’t gotten that memo yet and was routinely thrown up against the locker by a belligerent brother.) But these kids… Fresh? Omigod! They talk incessantly and when you ask them to stop they look you square in the face and say they weren’t talking. You start to feel a little crazy, seeing their lips move, hearing the murmurs and being told you imagined it. They lie on the floor, sometimes in pairs. They dress like they’re going to a rock concert. They lie right to your face. In groups!
“Your teacher sent me this lesson plan.”
“Oh, we did that already!”
“You did?”
“Twice.”
They hate us! Maybe hate is too strong a word. They tolerate. They disrespect. They know better. They think teachers were put on this earth to make their lives miserable. It is a cesspool of discontent. And if you demand attention, if you demand respect, if you demand anything, they will tell you outright that their “Mama will come to school and lay a whoop-ass on you” if you write them up. (That is a direct quote.) Oh, yes, ‘The Write-Up”- that is the punishment! I saw the following in one of the classrooms I visited. For a first offense a disobedient punk gets a verbal warning. (Oooooh!) For the second offense they get their name written on the dry erase board. (Oooooohhh! Now I can see this sort of public humiliation working on a businessman who has been caught trying to buy a hooker, but not on a kid who has just defied the authority of a women who comes up to his elbow.) For the third offense, you get “written up”. A formal complaint is lodged with the principal’s office. (Ooooohhhhhhhhhhh! See above comparison of student to teacher and multiply by 0.) For the fourth infraction (Fourth? Really?) your parents have to come to school for a meeting. (Refer to above section where student tells you Mama will lay a whoop-ass on you.) There's "In-house Suspension" where you get to run into the person you disciplined on a daily basis. And, of course, for the most persistent, major offenders, there is 'the boot'. I don't know how bad you have to be to get 'the boot' and I don't really want to find out. I'm just a little scared.
Still, if I had the opportunity, I would do it again. There have been moments - a class where everybody wanted to be there; a thank you from a student who had been praised; a thank you from a student who just had a good time in class. Those good ones... they make it all worthwhile.
When the job was suggested to me I thought “Sure! Eight weeks? Piece of cake!” And, in theory, it IS a piece of cake. (I've been told that the normal pre-requisite for a Sub is a newspaper and a cup of coffee.) But teenagers are not cake. They’re not even cookies. As the regular teachers are not shy about descrying, they are... smaller than that. (Enough said. I know you get it.) At first I was shocked to hear them describe their charges in such colorful terms. Now I applaud them on their restraint.
I don’t want to paint all of the students with the same brush. There are some students that make it a pleasure to come to class each day. They sit, listening attentively, participating to the best of their ability above the din of the other ones; the ones who sit with their backs to you, who can’t stop talking, who answer back with the disdain one generally reserves for worms and rodents; the ones who look at an assignment as a challenge to their autonomy; who couldn’t care less about being here and will say so, unabashedly, to your face.
It may sound clichéd but “when I went to school” you wouldn’t dream of answering back to a teacher. You were afraid of teachers (!) even though the law said they couldn’t hit you anymore. (My husband went to a parochial school where they hadn’t gotten that memo yet and was routinely thrown up against the locker by a belligerent brother.) But these kids… Fresh? Omigod! They talk incessantly and when you ask them to stop they look you square in the face and say they weren’t talking. You start to feel a little crazy, seeing their lips move, hearing the murmurs and being told you imagined it. They lie on the floor, sometimes in pairs. They dress like they’re going to a rock concert. They lie right to your face. In groups!
“Your teacher sent me this lesson plan.”
“Oh, we did that already!”
“You did?”
“Twice.”
They hate us! Maybe hate is too strong a word. They tolerate. They disrespect. They know better. They think teachers were put on this earth to make their lives miserable. It is a cesspool of discontent. And if you demand attention, if you demand respect, if you demand anything, they will tell you outright that their “Mama will come to school and lay a whoop-ass on you” if you write them up. (That is a direct quote.) Oh, yes, ‘The Write-Up”- that is the punishment! I saw the following in one of the classrooms I visited. For a first offense a disobedient punk gets a verbal warning. (Oooooh!) For the second offense they get their name written on the dry erase board. (Oooooohhh! Now I can see this sort of public humiliation working on a businessman who has been caught trying to buy a hooker, but not on a kid who has just defied the authority of a women who comes up to his elbow.) For the third offense, you get “written up”. A formal complaint is lodged with the principal’s office. (Ooooohhhhhhhhhhh! See above comparison of student to teacher and multiply by 0.) For the fourth infraction (Fourth? Really?) your parents have to come to school for a meeting. (Refer to above section where student tells you Mama will lay a whoop-ass on you.) There's "In-house Suspension" where you get to run into the person you disciplined on a daily basis. And, of course, for the most persistent, major offenders, there is 'the boot'. I don't know how bad you have to be to get 'the boot' and I don't really want to find out. I'm just a little scared.
Still, if I had the opportunity, I would do it again. There have been moments - a class where everybody wanted to be there; a thank you from a student who had been praised; a thank you from a student who just had a good time in class. Those good ones... they make it all worthwhile.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
And the music plays on and on...
What part of the brain is it that controls music? Is there a particular spot? Because it feels like the whole thing.
It is 7:51 a.m. I didn’t get to bed until after 2 so my body feels exhausted. But my brain… it keeps playing a familiar refrain… “The Brady Bunch. The Brady Bunch. That’s the way we all became the Brady Bunch.” Over and over it plays until I want to beat my own brain out with a stick. The other night it was “Limbo Rock.” Once upon a time it was “We are Flintstone kids, 10 million strong and growing.” What triggers this firing of synapses dedicated to driving a person crazy?
While the song plays, my brain produces another train of thought that runs through the song on a single rail as if through a mountain pass. “Get the white board; tape a camp flyer to it; find the old photos of the camp; tape them to the board; stop at Edmond Town Hall; borrow an easel; should I bring an easel; maybe something to prop it up on the table; will there be room on the table….” Feverish activity!!! But my body doesn’t move.
Wouldn’t it be far more productive if, instead of discovering things like Viagra, which I consider a BIG waste of time (Who really wants to spend more time in the sack with an old man who has erectile dysfunction?) scientists could figure out a pill to make us be able to manifest the actions our brain wants us to accomplish even when the body says “Don’t bother me now; I’m sleeping”? (Wait a minute… that is Viagra!)
It is 7:51 a.m. I didn’t get to bed until after 2 so my body feels exhausted. But my brain… it keeps playing a familiar refrain… “The Brady Bunch. The Brady Bunch. That’s the way we all became the Brady Bunch.” Over and over it plays until I want to beat my own brain out with a stick. The other night it was “Limbo Rock.” Once upon a time it was “We are Flintstone kids, 10 million strong and growing.” What triggers this firing of synapses dedicated to driving a person crazy?
While the song plays, my brain produces another train of thought that runs through the song on a single rail as if through a mountain pass. “Get the white board; tape a camp flyer to it; find the old photos of the camp; tape them to the board; stop at Edmond Town Hall; borrow an easel; should I bring an easel; maybe something to prop it up on the table; will there be room on the table….” Feverish activity!!! But my body doesn’t move.
Wouldn’t it be far more productive if, instead of discovering things like Viagra, which I consider a BIG waste of time (Who really wants to spend more time in the sack with an old man who has erectile dysfunction?) scientists could figure out a pill to make us be able to manifest the actions our brain wants us to accomplish even when the body says “Don’t bother me now; I’m sleeping”? (Wait a minute… that is Viagra!)
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Frances
My husband just walked out of the room and slammed the door. I don’t know why. I awakened from what felt like a very deep sleep. I had been lying in bed for over an hour, wrestling with the exhaustion of my body and the ramblings of my mind. My whole body had felt like it was sinking but my brain was doing things like singing “Limbo Rock”. Really! And then, I was talking to my grandmother; my "bubby".
She had come to visit and looked like she did perhaps at 60- tiny, robust, and very sweet. Her hair was a dark grey, not the white it would become in later years, and it was styled to perfection, teased a little, flipping at the ends. She looked so beautiful. And I said, “We can go to see Frances tomorrow if you like.” She had just gotten here but this was a priority. She was aching to go to her handicapped sister who I recently located in a nursing home. Frances has been living in one facility or another since my great-grandfather, my “Little Zaida” died maybe 40 years ago. Frances was “retarded” at a time when no one would dream of calling it anything else. She didn’t speak and made noises that sounded to me like those of a chimp. All “ooh, ooh, ee, ee, ah, ah”. But her brothers and sister could always understand her!
One by one over the years the brothers died, and then my grandmother, until the only people who went to visit her anymore were my great Uncle and his wife. They never told her about the cancer that had claimed one of her siblings, or the old age that had claimed the other two. “They went to Florida; that’s why they couldn’t visit.” I always wondered what she thought “Florida” was. Did she, who had never been farther than the Lower East Side until she moved into her “home” in upstate New York, have any concept of “Florida”? Of distance?
The last few years have been very hard on my great Uncle. He lost his stepson and then his wife in rapid succession. The grief was overwhelming and his stepdaughter one day spirited him to an assisted living facility… in Florida. Suddenly, without explanation, Frances was without visitors. She stopped eating. They have been feeding her through a tube.
I have either been sick or busy since I found out where Frances is and I have promised to take my mother there when she comes to visit next month. I feel a strong calling to go to her now but I’m so afraid. I still feel sick; weak and shaky. The glands in my neck hurt again and the pressure in my chest is palpable. I have to gather old pictures to bring her because she will not have a clue as to who I am. To do that, I have to find an old carton in the moldy basement that is probably the cause of at least some of my ailment. And if I do find it, and do drive the hour to her bedside, and do show her the pictures, how will I explain to this woman in her late 90s that I am the little girl in the picture taken in her father’s living room? And that I will come again next month with my mother, her niece “Fagey”, when she visits… from Florida?
She had come to visit and looked like she did perhaps at 60- tiny, robust, and very sweet. Her hair was a dark grey, not the white it would become in later years, and it was styled to perfection, teased a little, flipping at the ends. She looked so beautiful. And I said, “We can go to see Frances tomorrow if you like.” She had just gotten here but this was a priority. She was aching to go to her handicapped sister who I recently located in a nursing home. Frances has been living in one facility or another since my great-grandfather, my “Little Zaida” died maybe 40 years ago. Frances was “retarded” at a time when no one would dream of calling it anything else. She didn’t speak and made noises that sounded to me like those of a chimp. All “ooh, ooh, ee, ee, ah, ah”. But her brothers and sister could always understand her!
One by one over the years the brothers died, and then my grandmother, until the only people who went to visit her anymore were my great Uncle and his wife. They never told her about the cancer that had claimed one of her siblings, or the old age that had claimed the other two. “They went to Florida; that’s why they couldn’t visit.” I always wondered what she thought “Florida” was. Did she, who had never been farther than the Lower East Side until she moved into her “home” in upstate New York, have any concept of “Florida”? Of distance?
The last few years have been very hard on my great Uncle. He lost his stepson and then his wife in rapid succession. The grief was overwhelming and his stepdaughter one day spirited him to an assisted living facility… in Florida. Suddenly, without explanation, Frances was without visitors. She stopped eating. They have been feeding her through a tube.
I have either been sick or busy since I found out where Frances is and I have promised to take my mother there when she comes to visit next month. I feel a strong calling to go to her now but I’m so afraid. I still feel sick; weak and shaky. The glands in my neck hurt again and the pressure in my chest is palpable. I have to gather old pictures to bring her because she will not have a clue as to who I am. To do that, I have to find an old carton in the moldy basement that is probably the cause of at least some of my ailment. And if I do find it, and do drive the hour to her bedside, and do show her the pictures, how will I explain to this woman in her late 90s that I am the little girl in the picture taken in her father’s living room? And that I will come again next month with my mother, her niece “Fagey”, when she visits… from Florida?
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Slings and Arrows
I get a weekly update on the visitors to my various Facebook pages. It reports the number of people who’ve looked at your pages, the number of people who “Like” you or it. The number goes up or down from week to week, signified by either a green arrow pointing up or a red arrow pointing down. If nothing changes, you get the green arrow. Thank you for the small vote of confidence.
I have always had an issue with being “liked”. Perhaps it was the vanishing of my father at the age of 9. I must have been something awful if my own father didn’t like me enough to stick around. To a child, these decisions are always about the child. There could be no other reason for the abandonment. It took some work but I finally accepted that I wasn’t to blame. Still, the question always lingers. Do you like me?
“Well, who the F*** cares if you like me?” I get to that epiphany on occasion. Interestingly, to me anyway, I give up the-need-to-know both when I am extremely confident and when I am feeling totally defeated. One comes out of a momentary sense of being okay; the other comes out of a sense that life has passed me by and I forgot to get on the bus. The enduring part of my psyche knows that one day will follow another and that somehow, someway, I will be all right. I won’t lose my home. I won’t have to eat cat food. My children will always love me and be there for me. I will see something of this world other than what I’ve seen so far. The other part ponders sleep. I’ve had enough. It’s just too hard. The mortgage is due; the credit card bill is too high; gas is over $4 again; everything goes up except the income. Then the phone rings and a friend offers me a job and I think, okay, I’ll make it through another year. She likes me.
Once upon a time I had a wicked stepsister. She probably wasn’t really wicked but she didn’t like me. She was six years younger than my mother and wasn’t thrilled that her Dad had adopted a new family. I can see that now. She was ready for him to be grandpa to her kids, not Daddy to a 9-year-old girl. Anyway, we never had a relationship and I’ve come to regret that now that Dad is gone. I used to get obligatory presents from her on my birthday. Once she gave me a silver scuttle and, when I open it, the card saying Merry Christmas to all her husband’s employees fell out. That was a fast elevator ride down from elated to crushed. But the reason I bring this up is that once she gave me something I really liked- a gold arrow that hung from a chain. I still have it. There’s only one thing wrong with it. The arrow is pointing down.
I hate those arrows.
I have always had an issue with being “liked”. Perhaps it was the vanishing of my father at the age of 9. I must have been something awful if my own father didn’t like me enough to stick around. To a child, these decisions are always about the child. There could be no other reason for the abandonment. It took some work but I finally accepted that I wasn’t to blame. Still, the question always lingers. Do you like me?
“Well, who the F*** cares if you like me?” I get to that epiphany on occasion. Interestingly, to me anyway, I give up the-need-to-know both when I am extremely confident and when I am feeling totally defeated. One comes out of a momentary sense of being okay; the other comes out of a sense that life has passed me by and I forgot to get on the bus. The enduring part of my psyche knows that one day will follow another and that somehow, someway, I will be all right. I won’t lose my home. I won’t have to eat cat food. My children will always love me and be there for me. I will see something of this world other than what I’ve seen so far. The other part ponders sleep. I’ve had enough. It’s just too hard. The mortgage is due; the credit card bill is too high; gas is over $4 again; everything goes up except the income. Then the phone rings and a friend offers me a job and I think, okay, I’ll make it through another year. She likes me.
Once upon a time I had a wicked stepsister. She probably wasn’t really wicked but she didn’t like me. She was six years younger than my mother and wasn’t thrilled that her Dad had adopted a new family. I can see that now. She was ready for him to be grandpa to her kids, not Daddy to a 9-year-old girl. Anyway, we never had a relationship and I’ve come to regret that now that Dad is gone. I used to get obligatory presents from her on my birthday. Once she gave me a silver scuttle and, when I open it, the card saying Merry Christmas to all her husband’s employees fell out. That was a fast elevator ride down from elated to crushed. But the reason I bring this up is that once she gave me something I really liked- a gold arrow that hung from a chain. I still have it. There’s only one thing wrong with it. The arrow is pointing down.
I hate those arrows.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Round and Round and Round
Round and round and round it goes. Will it stop? Nobody knows!
I don’t remember who came down with it first. I think it was my son who spent this semester doing a rotation in an elementary school towards his Masters Degree. Elementary Schools: a breeding ground for germs and bacteria second only to hospitals but with even less of the hygiene. He’d come home and head straight for the shower, quivering at the thought of runny-nosed kids running up for a hug. I’m glad he’s popular. I wish they wouldn’t touch him.
He went down hard: sinus infection, throat, the works. Missed a week of school. By the time he was better, I was on my way to the doctor.
Or was my husband the next to succumb? He works at Madison Square Garden which is undergoing renovations even as the seasons of basketball, hockey and concerts grind on. It started in the sinuses. Asbestos, we thought. But then came the other symptoms and his first round of antibiotics. When was that? My first round was in February.
Two up, one down, one up, two down. One or another of us has been sick since the ball dropped in Times Square. My son went down for round two a couple of weeks ago. I’m on antibiotics again, along with steroids, antihistamines and a new inhaler. Right now, my husband is standing in front of me struggling to get the cap back on the childproof bottle of Tylenol. He can’t ask for help; he can’t speak. Day four of his antibiotics.
Interesting sidebar: we’re all sick, we all keep re-infecting each other, and yet we’re all given different pills. Why is that?
It is Easter Sunday and the temperature has reached a balmy 71°. I dragged myself out of bed this morning, opened every window in the house and the door and did four loads of laundry including all the bedding. Someone once gave me an Indian Smudge Stick for purification. I wonder where that went. It doesn’t seem like a bad idea right now to circle the house a few times and cast out all the evil spirits. It finally feels like spring and I’d like to enjoy it… if only I could stop coughing.
I don’t remember who came down with it first. I think it was my son who spent this semester doing a rotation in an elementary school towards his Masters Degree. Elementary Schools: a breeding ground for germs and bacteria second only to hospitals but with even less of the hygiene. He’d come home and head straight for the shower, quivering at the thought of runny-nosed kids running up for a hug. I’m glad he’s popular. I wish they wouldn’t touch him.
He went down hard: sinus infection, throat, the works. Missed a week of school. By the time he was better, I was on my way to the doctor.
Or was my husband the next to succumb? He works at Madison Square Garden which is undergoing renovations even as the seasons of basketball, hockey and concerts grind on. It started in the sinuses. Asbestos, we thought. But then came the other symptoms and his first round of antibiotics. When was that? My first round was in February.
Two up, one down, one up, two down. One or another of us has been sick since the ball dropped in Times Square. My son went down for round two a couple of weeks ago. I’m on antibiotics again, along with steroids, antihistamines and a new inhaler. Right now, my husband is standing in front of me struggling to get the cap back on the childproof bottle of Tylenol. He can’t ask for help; he can’t speak. Day four of his antibiotics.
Interesting sidebar: we’re all sick, we all keep re-infecting each other, and yet we’re all given different pills. Why is that?
It is Easter Sunday and the temperature has reached a balmy 71°. I dragged myself out of bed this morning, opened every window in the house and the door and did four loads of laundry including all the bedding. Someone once gave me an Indian Smudge Stick for purification. I wonder where that went. It doesn’t seem like a bad idea right now to circle the house a few times and cast out all the evil spirits. It finally feels like spring and I’d like to enjoy it… if only I could stop coughing.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
What Next
My “Nurse Jackie” episode aired last night and with it went my ability to say, “I’ve got a “Nurse Jackie” episode coming up.” In a business where success can be so fleeting, the question, “What have you been doing lately” is a loaded one. Ask a banker what he’s been up to and he’s likely to say, “Oh, I’m still with ‘Such-and Such” or I took a new job with “X, Y and Z”. But an actor, especially a New York actor, is lucky if the week is filled with just auditions. I’m happy if I get one a month! And a job…! Wow! If you are one of the few very lucky enough to be in a long running show or series, well, you have the key to the city! I had a key to the city once. I remember those days… strolling to the theatre at dusk. I owned the streets of New York on those walks. When all the ‘ordinary’ people were finishing their day, I was starting mine. Drinks at the theatre row bars afterwards. “I just saw you!” A working actor “belongs”. I belonged. I hate going to see shows, leaving the theatre with the rest of the audience and feeling like one more tourist. I want to wear a sign that says “I belong here”. I did a lunchtime theatre gig today, reading a short play opposite my husband, wringing out every last bit of my voice that has been largely absent for a few days now. Sick as a dog, I would not have given up the chance to perform. If I can crawl or squawk and you still want me, I’m there. Having an acting job is a misnomer. If a job is something you do everyday, that puts food on your table but has you looking forward to weekends and days off more than going to work, then acting is not a job; it is a pleasure. I had an acting pleasure today. I was on TV last night in a small but poignant acting pleasure on “Nurse Jackie”. But “Nurse Jackie” is over for me, and this lunchtime theatre thing is also over for now. So what am I doing…? “Well, I’ll be on “Jon Benjamin Has a Van” this summer. Do you get Comedy Central? “
Monday, April 4, 2011
I'm a Spy
I’m a spy. Still without a full time job and in keeping with the freelance lifestyle I seem to be developing once again (a crumb from here; a crust from there; a slice but never a loaf) I answered one of those ads about working from home. “Do you own a computer?” Yes. “How’d you like to make good money in your spare time from the comfort of your own home?” Who wouldn’t? “Just click here and you’ll be on your way to a lucrative career in market research.” DON’T CLICK!!!!!
I started taking online surveys. I don’t know about you but I don’t consider spending 30 minutes answering boring, redundant questions for “200 points” IF YOU QUALIFY and you don’t always find out you didn’t qualify until after the first five minutes when you have already answered 35 boring and redundant questions. And yes, I said “POINTS”, because you don’t actually get any money from most of these places until you reach a certain number of points… say, 5000! And that’s $25!!!!!
Who has this kind of time? Given the fact that there are only 24 hours in a day and you do need to eat and sleep, how much time can one person actually dedicate to reading those inane and convoluted questions (some of them require two or three readings just to understand what they are asking for), checking off those tiny boxes and still getting to the eye doctor because you are going blind from checking off those tiny boxes?
But one company seemed promising: Mystery shopping! I really thought of it for my husband, who actually likes to shop. But how could I ask him to do something I wouldn’t do myself? Besides, he HAS a job! So I filled out the form. Lo and behold, I got a call and off I went, toting my instructions, memorizing the details and reminding myself that, as an actress, this could be fun. And you know, if it weren’t for the boring forms, it would be fun. You go into a business establishment and pretend to shop. Sometimes you really do shop and they pay you back for it! Dinner tonight is at a local fast food place. Normally I don’t eat fast food, but they’re paying me! They’re not paying a lot, mind you, but a person has to eat, right? Why not eat for free and get paid to tell them if you liked it?
So, Thing-to-Do-When-You’re Dead # 93: Mystery Shop. Hey, it’s a living… almost.
I started taking online surveys. I don’t know about you but I don’t consider spending 30 minutes answering boring, redundant questions for “200 points” IF YOU QUALIFY and you don’t always find out you didn’t qualify until after the first five minutes when you have already answered 35 boring and redundant questions. And yes, I said “POINTS”, because you don’t actually get any money from most of these places until you reach a certain number of points… say, 5000! And that’s $25!!!!!
Who has this kind of time? Given the fact that there are only 24 hours in a day and you do need to eat and sleep, how much time can one person actually dedicate to reading those inane and convoluted questions (some of them require two or three readings just to understand what they are asking for), checking off those tiny boxes and still getting to the eye doctor because you are going blind from checking off those tiny boxes?
But one company seemed promising: Mystery shopping! I really thought of it for my husband, who actually likes to shop. But how could I ask him to do something I wouldn’t do myself? Besides, he HAS a job! So I filled out the form. Lo and behold, I got a call and off I went, toting my instructions, memorizing the details and reminding myself that, as an actress, this could be fun. And you know, if it weren’t for the boring forms, it would be fun. You go into a business establishment and pretend to shop. Sometimes you really do shop and they pay you back for it! Dinner tonight is at a local fast food place. Normally I don’t eat fast food, but they’re paying me! They’re not paying a lot, mind you, but a person has to eat, right? Why not eat for free and get paid to tell them if you liked it?
So, Thing-to-Do-When-You’re Dead # 93: Mystery Shop. Hey, it’s a living… almost.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Who Needs Tech
We go to bed, our laptops propped up on our separate laps, and we play backgammon via the Internet. This is the most expensive backgammon set man has even conceived. We have an actual backgammon board somewhere but somehow it just doesn’t seem like as much fun. After all, we spent a lot of money on these laptops! Shouldn’t we use them whenever we can?
Just because a technology exists, does it really mean everybody has to use it? Does a soccer Mom really need to drive a tank? Does every idiot need a smartphone?
I go to Starbucks and these oversized vehicles, these off-road vehicles that have never gone off-road, clutter the parking lot, spilling over into adjacent spaces like the scribbling of a child incapable of coloring between the lines. They can’t drive them, they can’t park them, but they have to have them! They’re safe! Sure they’re safe… for the people inside them. But in the hands of inept drivers, these tanks are lethal weapons for everybody else on the road. I drive a Prius. It looks like a pimple between mountains, wedged in between Hummers and Navigators. On the highway in a snowstorm, there is nothing more frightening than looking in the rearview mirror and seeing one of these morons bearing down on you like there is no need for a speed limit and “Visibility?” What’s that?
Computers! My husband has a MacBook. I have a MacBook Pro, a recent acquisition after yet another PC started dying on me. People swear this will last longer. I am skeptical but willing to try. I use my laptop to write, do all the family and business checking, pay the bills, prepare the taxes, administer two websites, sell tickets to my theatre company, keep in contact with all the patrons, design fliers and programs and play the occasional game. Okay, maybe more that the occasional game. If you’ve read my previous blog entries, you might know that I am addicted to Pogo. Word Whomp and Trivial Pursuit.; I hit them daily to exercise my brain and take my mind off details. I am on multiple social networks but rarely check them. Who has the time? Who?
Who? My husband does, that’s who. He uses his MacBook to access Facebook, play backgammon and exchange emails with people he rarely sees… and some, he sees all the time, which I really don’t get but there you have it. Oh, and music! He listens to music. He downloads music. He is an iTunes Genius. Does anybody need this? Give me a radio permanently tuned to the traffic report and I’m okay.
The Internet started as a means for members of the medical profession to share information more efficiently. But Word Whomp? Really? Could I live without this? Of course! I’d miss it. I’d have to go back to buying the Times and doing the daily crossword, but I’d get over it.
In essence, I guess I’m saying we all have more than we need, use less than we have, and have convinced ourselves we can’t function without our technological toys. I’ll never own an SUV. How stupid do you have to be to willfully purchase a vehicle that costs a house payment to gas up and is useless if you live anywhere but the Grand Canyon or the frozen tundra? I allowed myself to be talked into getting a smartphone and I do like it. I can play cards on it while waiting for my husband at the train station. I get all my emails downloaded to me several times a day, which means I never miss an unwanted ad. And my laptop allows me to work and play anywhere… the kitchen, the bedroom, the airport, the toilet…
Could I live without any of this? Sure! I used to balance my checkbook in that little ledger that came with the checks. Of course I rarely write checks anymore but so what; it can be done. I could survive without technology!
Except Tivo. Don’t take my Tivo!
Just because a technology exists, does it really mean everybody has to use it? Does a soccer Mom really need to drive a tank? Does every idiot need a smartphone?
I go to Starbucks and these oversized vehicles, these off-road vehicles that have never gone off-road, clutter the parking lot, spilling over into adjacent spaces like the scribbling of a child incapable of coloring between the lines. They can’t drive them, they can’t park them, but they have to have them! They’re safe! Sure they’re safe… for the people inside them. But in the hands of inept drivers, these tanks are lethal weapons for everybody else on the road. I drive a Prius. It looks like a pimple between mountains, wedged in between Hummers and Navigators. On the highway in a snowstorm, there is nothing more frightening than looking in the rearview mirror and seeing one of these morons bearing down on you like there is no need for a speed limit and “Visibility?” What’s that?
Computers! My husband has a MacBook. I have a MacBook Pro, a recent acquisition after yet another PC started dying on me. People swear this will last longer. I am skeptical but willing to try. I use my laptop to write, do all the family and business checking, pay the bills, prepare the taxes, administer two websites, sell tickets to my theatre company, keep in contact with all the patrons, design fliers and programs and play the occasional game. Okay, maybe more that the occasional game. If you’ve read my previous blog entries, you might know that I am addicted to Pogo. Word Whomp and Trivial Pursuit.; I hit them daily to exercise my brain and take my mind off details. I am on multiple social networks but rarely check them. Who has the time? Who?
Who? My husband does, that’s who. He uses his MacBook to access Facebook, play backgammon and exchange emails with people he rarely sees… and some, he sees all the time, which I really don’t get but there you have it. Oh, and music! He listens to music. He downloads music. He is an iTunes Genius. Does anybody need this? Give me a radio permanently tuned to the traffic report and I’m okay.
The Internet started as a means for members of the medical profession to share information more efficiently. But Word Whomp? Really? Could I live without this? Of course! I’d miss it. I’d have to go back to buying the Times and doing the daily crossword, but I’d get over it.
In essence, I guess I’m saying we all have more than we need, use less than we have, and have convinced ourselves we can’t function without our technological toys. I’ll never own an SUV. How stupid do you have to be to willfully purchase a vehicle that costs a house payment to gas up and is useless if you live anywhere but the Grand Canyon or the frozen tundra? I allowed myself to be talked into getting a smartphone and I do like it. I can play cards on it while waiting for my husband at the train station. I get all my emails downloaded to me several times a day, which means I never miss an unwanted ad. And my laptop allows me to work and play anywhere… the kitchen, the bedroom, the airport, the toilet…
Could I live without any of this? Sure! I used to balance my checkbook in that little ledger that came with the checks. Of course I rarely write checks anymore but so what; it can be done. I could survive without technology!
Except Tivo. Don’t take my Tivo!
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