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.

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.

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? “

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.

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!

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.