Moving On

It’s the pills! Ding ding ding ding! Come on down! You have won the $64,000 Question! The same medication that has tamed my runaway heartbeat has apparently also slowed my brain function to a crawl. It has taken me three months to connect the warning with the side effect; “These might make you tired” to “Why am I so sleepy!?” But as I struggled into consciousness this morning, those three words (is a conjunction considered one word or two?) formed in my brain like a slow drip, getting bigger and bigger until it plopped into the sink where thoughts gather briefly before sliding down the drain. I reached for the laptop to catch them before they slipped away forever. I think about the paper I’m not wasting and if everybody stops using paper will all the trees come back? Will we run out of water instead? Outside, the rain is falling not like a slow drip at all but a constant, heavy downpour and it doesn’t seem likely we will ever run out of water.

The remote control is nearby and the TV lights up. A crowd is gathered in the same rain. An unrelenting list of names is being read and I remember: it is September 11th. No humor in that. More water, this time from an internal source that never seems to go dry. I look at the people remembering lost loved ones and I wonder how they can get out of bed at all. It is a testament to human resilience that a person can suffer a crushing, devastating loss and yet manage to put one foot in front of the other and keep going. It humbles me. I remember Joe who mowed my lawn once; our older son’s best friend who is now memorialized in a tattoo on his arm. Rest easy, Joe. You left many behind who still think of you.

So I’m struggling a little; so what?! My children are healthy. (Pooh pooh) My husband comes home every night. (Pooh pooh pooh) I am piecing together a year of small jobs: a two hour class here, another there; a few hours a week on a project that won’t need my full attention until next May; a short performance on Saturday followed by an audition; new headshots; a new short film that is almost finished; four more days on my latest free gym trial … All possibilities open. On TV they have covered the football scores and are turning to the rainy US Open Tennis Tournament, worrying about Nadal’s knees and Federer’s advantage. It hurts me to see how easily the world moves on. And yet, perhaps, that is the greatest honor we can bestow upon these lost souls. Just keep moving.

September Morn

I wake up this morning and turn on the Weather Channel to find out why it feels so good to hunker down under the quilt and why my right hand, the only part of my body other than forehead that is exposed to the air, is ice-cold. It is 59 degrees! Well, that explains it. I haven’t gotten into the winter habit of closing the windows at night. When you live in the country you open all the windows on cool nights and by the time morning rolls around, the house is as cool as a cucumber. If you quickly shut all the windows and pull the shades, you can keep the house cool for the better part of the day. It saves money on air-conditioning and forms a nice pattern of anal-retentive behavior that you can use to aggravate the rest of your family. “Open the window!” “Close the window!” And so on until they hate you. The trick occurs when the seasons change. Suddenly the temperature drops too low and the heat kicks on! “Close the windows! Close the windows! What do you think I have; stock in the oil company?”

My husband has taken his book and his cup of coffee and has gone out on the front porch to warm up. Correction: he’s back. “It’s freezing out there!” The wind is blowing the leaves that will soon turn brilliantly orange, yellow and red and then fall to the ground forcing us into manual labor worthy of a chain gang. For weeks now the acorns have been landing on the back deck and roof like tiny bombs. You can’t go outside without a hard-hat. Left unattended, this place could be swallowed by the forest in a few short seasons.

The Weather Channel lady is giddy as she reminds us that tomorrow is Friday. I used to love that word: “Friday”. It meant two whole days without school. When I got older and had to take jobs I didn’t like, it meant two whole days to myself. When you work in the theatre, “Friday” means four to five more performances until you can eat dinner at a normal hour. Now, weekends are a holding pattern, not a vacation. Now it is “Monday” that looms like a bright spot of possibility on your calendar; the day when people might open the resumes you mailed and maybe return the calls you placed. To the unemployed, “Friday” is just one more marker on the road to the grave.

Have a nice weekend.

Facebook Land Mines

Okay, I’ll admit it. I just don’t get some of the stuff on Facebook! I’ve got people chugging drinks at me, throwing food, sending me martinis, poking me, challenging me to games, winning jewels, and giving up city living to take up farming. None of this is real but I still don’t understand the why of it. Why would anyone be chugging virtual vodka when there’s a liquor store down the road? Why would anyone want the waste that delicious looking piece of virtual cake? What does it mean to be virtually poked? Will I virtually bruise?

And it all comes with this cryptic, totally unexplained warning: “Allowing XXXXXX access will let it pull your profile information, photos, your friends' info, and other content that it requires to work. By proceeding, you are allowing XXXXXX to access your information and you are agreeing to the XXXXXX Terms of Use.” What does this mean? What am I agreeing to? Pull it to where? For what purpose?

I voted in the “Let Obama Do His Job” Survey and was immediately carried to “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz”. I wouldn’t mind taking “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz” because I am essentially addicted to computer games, but if I take “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz” and want to find out how I did on “The 10 Minute Mind Quiz”, it seems I will be enrolled an auto renewing subscription service that will continue until canceled anytime by texting STOP to short code 40684 for a mere $9.99 per month or $4.99 per month for 2 alerts per week on Cricket. Will someone tell me WHAT IS A SHORT CODE? WHAT IS CRICKET?!

If I wish someone a happy birthday and don’t attach a virtual gift, am I cheap? Why would I pay for a virtual gift when I can buy a real one, assuming I could afford a real one?

I’m having fun with Facebook, finding old friends from high school and college, learning much too much about the private longings of my students and friends, confusing the lyrics they quote with their own angst. The best part about Facebook is that my son gets to teach me how to use it the way I used to teach him things like how to read or walk. I hope he didn’t feel like as much of an idiot as I do.

The Blooming Bush

My bush is blooming again!

Okay, get your head out of the gutter. Outside my bedroom window is a bush that blooms in the spring. As soon as the weather begins to warm up, the green bush bursts with neat, tiny white flowers that spring upward from all along each branch, not just at the end like the rhododendrons do. I’m not a botanist; I don’t know what the tree is called; I don’t know if it is a tree or a bush or a plant. I call it ‘The Wedding Cake Tree’ because when the flowers bloom it looks like it is frosted. When the flowers disappear (I don’t want to say ‘die’ because this process seems more like transition than death), tiny red berries will take their place before the tree returns to all green. Well, it is SEPTEMBER! I suppose the drop in temperatures to the 50s and 60s at night have gotten the tree as confused as I am because the flowers are back! And seeing them made me happy for a minute. Is this an omen? Am I due for a rebirth? Perhaps my time has not past irrevocably.

One funny sidebar about prayers and petitions: I have been calling out for whatever power there might be in the universe to send me some help. So on Sunday, my husband and I went down to the gym I told you about: our latest free trial pass, due to expire on Monday. It was open but since we only have a guest pass, we could not get in unless there was a manager present to open the door and none of the people working out inside seemed inclined to open the door for us. So we left, deciding to take a walk through Fairfield Hills. There, amid the ruins of a state mental hospital and other buildings that no one knows what to do with rose a brand new, pristine mega-building: the Newtown Youth Academy. Was it a school? A private school? A penitentiary? There were a few cars parked in its newly paved parking lot. But it was Sunday, and Labor Day weekend to boot. I suggested we check it out. We approached and the large front doors swung open invitingly. My husband said “We’re trespassing” but I kept going. The Yankee game played from a flat-screen TV across the small lobby; how bad could it be? A snack bar promised a few sweets and other not-necessarily-health-food-only treats. A sign told about spin classes. “Honey, I think it’s a gym!”

A very nice man sat in his office as I walked past the open door. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. What is this?” He graciously took us on a tour. A huge, truly amazing place, it sported an indoor turf track, soccer, field hockey, basketball courts, tennis courts, lockers, showers and a brand new, gleaming full gym for adults! He gave us two free passes to try it out for a week.

Okay, Powers, so you’re listening to the small stuff. What road do I need to wander down by mistake to get my dream job?

A Little Rant

Okay, enough is enough. I’m not a true liberal but this treatment of Barak Obama has gone far enough! The man is our President! He is the duly elected President of the United States! He did not win by a technicality! He won by a landslide! Where are his supporters?!

For the last eight years, we have had to endure the idiotic ramblings of a man who never met a sentence he couldn’t get lost in. And yet I know of not one instance where American people banded together to refuse to let their children listen to the drivel that came out of his mouth.

But Barak Obama is not being accorded the same respect as that “What-Me-Worry” maniac who plunged this country into war, lied to the public and made us the laughingstock of the world as well as almost universally hated.

How dare people refuse to let their children hear the President of the United States of America deliver a “welcome back to school” message! They’re afraid he’ll turn them into Socialists? Did the children who listened to George Bush turn into morons? Their parents did! Let's stop lying to ourselves: if Barak Obama were white, this would not be happening!!!!

Give the man a chance to do at least some of what he was elected to do! Stop with the scare tactics! He wants a “Public OPTION” for healthcare! It is not mandatory! If you can keep your expensive insurance plan, good for you! My private insurance routinely tells me what I can and cannot do! Insurance companies are not interested in protecting their clients; they are interested in making money!!!!

And, Mr. Obama, stop being a “nice guy” and go after those people in the former administration who deserve to go to jail for their actions!

Down to Nothing

It is Sunday morning, Labor Day weekend. Hmmm, Labor day. Are the unemployed invited? Or is like Christmas when I gather my Jewish family and huddle in a Chinese restaurant or vacant movie theatre waiting for the day to pass so we don’t feel like such outcasts?

Outside my window a family of deer is nibbling on what is left of our hostas. Let them. God intended that the deer shall eat plants. Is it their fault we’ve planted such delicious ones? Will God provide for me as well, or did He really intend for us to pick our sustenance out of garbage pails in crowded cities? Is this man’s punishment for Adam and the apple? Did God create houses & mortgages, apartments and rent; condos and maintenance fees to remind us that we have been evicted from the Garden and are on our own?

My cousin ends every email with a signature: “When you’re down to nothing, God’s up to something.” Yes, but what? Is He preparing me for something new or just toying with me like a cat with a mouse before swatting me down for good with one sweep of a paw?

I’ve been here before and that is the only thing that keeps me going; the knowledge that life can change in a flash. Once upon a time in a magical land called New York City I lived the life of a young actress with dreams. I was down to my last three weeks on unemployment insurance at $46 a week.

I had gone to an open call at Manhattan Theatre Club that morning, waiting on a line that snaked through many small rooms, finding my best friend Jeff, who would have the good sense to leave New York in a few years, return to his native California and turn his fantastic sense of humor into a successful career as a TV writer and producer. But that morning we sat together, unemployed, trying to prove ourselves to someone who could give us a job. I had walked to this audition across Central park from the West Side to the East Side and almost all the way to the East River. Jeff had taken the bus and so was in possession of a bus transfer, a small piece of MTA currency that would allow a rider to transfer from that cross-town bus to one going downtown. Jeff gave me his transfer. There was a cattle call for a new tour of Fiddler on the Roof starring Zero Mostel. The call for women who sing was from 2-5 p.m. It was now about 8 a.m.

I finished my audition, walked back across the park and climbed the three stories to my apartment to the unconditional love of my dog, Sherlock. I debated leaving my sanctuary for the unfriendly and mostly unfruitful territory of a National Tour chorus call and decided, well, I have this transfer… I’ll go.

The auditions were being held on the stage of the empty Royale Theatre on Broadway, which would soon become home to Grease , the unsanitized version. The line stretched from somewhere inside the theatre, out the backstage entrance, down the alley, around the corner and out to the street. I don’t remember what number I got but it had three digits and the first digit was not a 1. I waited.

The line crept forward and stopped; crept forward and stopped; crept forward and stopped. They were “typing”. Between ten and twenty people were lined up across the stage; anyone who didn’t look they could come from Anatevka was “typed out”. I was “typed in”. Thank you Bubby and Zaida! Next I waited on the backstage steps that led to the dressing rooms. Once again, ten people at a time were called to the stage. We lined up the wings, walked center, gave our sheet music to the accompanist and offered our personalities and souls to the Lords of the Job in eight bars of an uptempo song; or at least I offered my soul. Some people just sang. Most people received a “Thank You” and an escort to the door. I was asked to wait stage right. We were down to double-digits. Some of us were given sides to read (a side is a small portion of the script). I was given Tzeitel’s barn scene with Motel the Tailor: “Talk to him!” One at a time, potential Tzeitels marched to the center of the stage to read the scene. I listened and learned. When it was my turn, I walked centerstage and looked out at the vast empty theatre. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen! The auditors were seated at a rudely constructed table flung over several rows of seats in the middle of the orchestra. I felt the merging of Tzeitel’s desperation with my own desire never to leave this spot and pleaded both our cases through the lines. I was asked to stay.

Two of us were asked if we knew Fruma Sarah’s song from the Tevye’s Dream. Now I had been listening to Fiddler on the Roof since I was 12! It was the second show I’d ever seen on Broadway, the first being Milk and Honey. (For some reason when I was a kid my parents only thought about taking me to shows about Jews. Did they thing I would be swayed to Christianity if I saw Oliver, or Camelot, or 110 In the Shade? I don’t know.) Anyway, I said yes, I could. The other girl went first. She made mistakes. I went second. From the recessed place of my mind, the words came forth. They asked us to wait. They huddled. I squatted at the edge of the stage, my arms folded across my chest, my mouth pressed against the inside of my arm and my eyes fixed on that table in the center of the theatre. I beamed my longing at them through my eyes and finally Tommy Abbott, who would faithfully recreate Jerome Robbins’ choreography, walked to the stage. One by one he approached the remaining petitioners. “Thank you.” “Thank you.” “You’ve got the job.” Thank you,” and so on. He approached me. I stood. “You’ve got the job.” Joy flooded every cell of my body. “Really? Thank you! What job? What did I get?” "You'll be understudying Tzeitel & Fruma Sarah." I jumped into his arms not even trying to hide my tears. And he returned my hug. Only another performer could completely understand the gift he'd just given me. I left the Royale with a contract for a National Tour that would return to Broadway in time for Christmas. I ran outside, back through the now empty alleyway. It was about 5:30. I sprung for the Eighth Avenue bus; I could afford the fare! I told everyone who would listen. Strangers! I rushed up to my apartment and told Sherlock. He was ecstatic! (Okay, he was always happy when I came home, but this time he knew that I was happy to be there too and he ran around in circles while I jumped up and down in the center of my living room.) I called my parents; they started screaming! I called Jeff. He started screaming! He gave me a party that night where my friends made me tell my story over and over again. It gave us all hope!

Even now I feel better just remembering that day. I need another one. I’m not quite down to nothing, God, but I'm getting there. Well?

Nothing

I’m finding that I could sleep for a minimum of 18 out of the 24 hours in the day. It is noon and I am exhausted. At 6 p.m. I can barely keep my eyes open. I doze through an evening with the TV on, waking up to find the Yankee game has progressed one inning, two, sometimes more. I fight the sleep knowing that as soon as my head hits the pillow at bedtime, I will wake up. And I do. At 11 p.m. it seems a good idea to watch a movie. At 1:30 we force ourselves to go to bed. My digital clock skips forward with the same skipped beats as the Yankee game and my heart: two o’clock, three-fifteen, four-thirty, etc. I awake with the light to discover the sheets clammy with sweat, the covers in disarray, the knot in my stomach still there from the night before. My house is a mess and though I have the time to do something about it I have neither the energy nor the faintest idea of where to start. Just now I carried the Pledge and a chamois cloth upstairs with the intention of dusting. But before dusting, I need to clear off the coffee table. I sort through the papers I have postponed dealing with, find myself needing to go on line to find out which of these bills I have paid and if there are any automatic deposits I haven’t accounted for so that I can pay the bills. I find that I have already scheduled these bills for payment but neglected to put them away. I put them in another pile. There is one deposit, thank God, but since I haven’t received the statements, entering the amount in my ledger will have to wait until the mail comes but its Labor Day weekend so that will take some waiting. So I close the account on line and start talking to you instead.

I have nothing to say.