You gotta know when to hold 'em.

While sitting down to a gourmet left-over Thanksgiving dinner, we were being entertained by a story about a certain little girl who'd gotten a spanking earlier that day. This adorable certain little girl was alternately sitting with us at the end of the table enjoying the feast and running over to the piano to practice one side of Heart & Soul. Nobody seemed to flinch that her father's story included a minor beating and yet I remember the time I publicly mentioned I thought spanking a child was a good idea and I think I saw people pulling out their cell phones and dialing CPS. I don't even have a kid.

I was spanked when I was small and so was most of my friends. My cousin got smacks on the face and I know some folks who got their hair pulled and THE BELT. I don't in any way condone child abuse but I've witnessed that a smack on a young butt seems to instantly get a kid to focus instead of turning down the volume on Mary Poppins to explain the dangerous consequences of bolting into traffic. I don't think young minds comprehend the notion of consequences, much less 'danger'.

But again. I don't have kids. I have a dog. That I pat on the butt when he pees on the floor. And he still pees on the floor.

I guess I just think kids should be a little afraid of their parents. Just a little. Just enough to learn things to rebel against so they can learn even more things about themselves and the kind of person they want to be.

Britney Spears needed more spankings. Not the MTV kind. Her over-bearing father should have let her find her way after she shaved her head rather than institutionalizing her and telling people she was mentally ill.

Not only is she ridiculously famous and has had to deal with all that comes with that job...this young woman has had two children with a boy who didn't seem interested in her evolution...and then he left her and tried to take her kids away. The world watched her slide into implosion and self destruction so massive America's sweetheart of pop repeatedly showed all of us her car accidents, her crotch and her middle finger. On purpose.

Pick up the current Rolling Stone and really stare at her spread. There is nothing behind those eyes in any of those photos that suggest everything she has been through has changed her. She is right back where she started. Same blonde locks...only they're extensions...same sexy clothes...only she looks a little too old for them.

I'm sad for her. I know I'm not alone. But there was some little part of me that was rooting for her when she starting flipping off cameras. I realize self destruction is not exactly pleasant for anyone to go through let alone witness happen to a child star, but it seems like that is the M. O. for now and if the people in charge of those little fame factories don't stop over-parenting how can a person fully develop? Let her make her own choices and stop calling them mistakes. Let her pick herself up for once. She doesn't seem very smart but no one is letting her learn anything.

Why is it a "good thing" she is exactly where she was before? Her new album is atrociously empty and downright pathetic. Just like before. I saw the music video to her 'Womanizer' song and my jaw dropped. I couldn't believe the sad irony of her own expression. She is confidently singing about calling out a supposedly well-hidden womanizer while she gives him a lap dance. In an office. Don't get me started.

This is the most famous pop artist we celebrate? What in the world are we celebrating? What is she famous for? Good PR?

Come on Britney. I really really want you to make it. And I don't even like your music. Change the definition of what it means to be...well...you. Teach yourself and everyone who watches you that an ignorant little girl with good looks can do something...else.

But, I don't have a famous kid. I don't really even know anyone famous. Which is probably why I will beat my child and let her shave her head. MENSA will be calling.

You Can Take the Girl Out of the Theatre...

I'm an... office-managery-reception-adminy-creativey-wannabe type person at my office. It is advertising. Thanks to Hollywood and the way the creatives around here dress, one could think we are a casual, boutique, SoHo shop, but in fact we are a part of a large international corporation. The man. Big Brotha. Good insurance.

Since graduation from higher learning I had to find a way to make a living not acting so I've learned how to act 'corporate'.

Or so I thought.

I recall the time I was working as an executive admin for an upscale real estate development company. I was taken into the President's office and told I was getting a hefty Holiday bonus. I was absolutely convinced they were punking me.

CEO: Jennifer, we think you're great and you deserve this.

Me: OHHHhhh-kay. Good one guys.

President: This isn't a joke.

After a lot of eye rolling, I shut the door behind me and went to my desk. Then I sat and thought about all of the other folks who'd been called into that office before me and after. They probably wouldn't take too kindly to a joke about their income. Especially the grumbly VP's. I called the Office Manager. She assured me they wouldn't joke about such things. Reality hit, I burst into tears and the first chance I got, I ran back into the President's office to give him a bear hug.

Corporate gal. That's me.

One time the President of our sister production company walked up to my desk asking me a question.

Me: 34

President: What?

Me: I'm 34. Wait. What did you ask me?

He only wanted to know what time it was, but I obviously heard something else and well...in corporate-land you can't go around asking folks their age. In thespian-land they'll ask the circumference of your cervix. Old habit...putting it out there...whether they want it or not.

At least I didn't hug him.

I was recently in a conversation with the President of my present employer and was asked my opinion on a touchy subject. I hope she either accidentally lobotomized this part of her memory or she thinks I'm cute.

President: Would you mind sharing your thoughts? What do you think about my decision? How have others responded?

Me: Well I'm impressed you had the balls to do it!

I don't recall her smiling and I remember looking for one. I decided I had to own what I'd just said so I sat there quietly. I thought about hugging her, then I changed the subject.

I should have learned to wait tables. I think you can cuss and hug more.

The Invitation

As I took this picture, I remember thinking, "I'm going to marry this man."

Greg has asked me to do many things from going to have a drink to going to Amsterdam. He has asked me if I wanted to watch a show he's taped. He's asked me to baseball games, concerts, surprise dinners, movies, his parents' house, his shows, lunch. He has shared with me his thoughts, feelings, articles off the Internet, excerpts from his favorite books, movies, music, plays, art.

"Baby, you wanna hear this?"

Greg has asked me to live with him, help him with lines, sew on a button or two, not add too much salt to his mother's chicken parm, walk the dog, help him get the laundry, enjoy myself, my job, my life and not to be too scared of how much he loves me.

"You are my life."

I can honestly say with each experience big or small he has single-handedly taken a brick out of all of the other paths I could be on, spray painted them yellow and added them to one road. I've started gathering the bricks myself and I'm now adding sequins and gold lame.

Last Friday night, Greg asked me to be his life-partner, his wife. When I came-to I said I would. Actually, I said, "YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES!!!!" Then sobbed for about fifteen minutes straight. Then I said a few more resounding 'yes's', stumbled around the streets he led me on, alternately crying, laughing and pausing under every store-front light to look down at my hand.

I still can't think straight. I've never felt so grounded and at the same time I'm floating at 'such great heights' I just smile at everything below. I wish everyone could feel this way. [Stupid California.]

12:27a 11/05/2008

Standing in Times Square, two grown, black men were standing right next to us and talking to each other between hugs. One mentioned his Grandfather who served in World War II and one mentioned his Great Aunt who'd been a slave.

One of them looked right at me, smiled and said, "People can change. People is decent."

We can still hear people screaming in the streets. Our windows are open and we welcome the sounds of honking horns and voices singing God Bless America.

This is really happening.

Easy Rider

I have this theory. EVERYTHING is new to us. Every moment before the next. Ok. Not so much a theory but a fact. Let me start over.

I have this REMINDER. Of course there is a such thing as experience and as humans we have that one little pesky trait...learning...but when I'm rationalizing about my lack of knowledge or making myself feel better about fear of something in the future, I tell myself, 'we've never experienced this next second, minute, moment, day, week, holiday, party, hair color, smell before...' and I feel a little better.

Like I'm not alone on the roller coaster.

In a tunnel.

A dark one.

I hear other screams too.

You know how you don't really know what is happening when you are in the middle of it? Remember on September 11th, 2001 how we talked to people on the phone that morning, hung up and didn't realize we wouldn't have phone lines for the next few days? How we all lined up to give blood? And volunteers from all over drove in to help out the staff of the hospitals? And then, we waited. And then, no one showed up. Remember how we just assumed we'd see all those people again?

Whoa. I just went down kind of a morbid path to make a point. See, I didn't know I was going to do that. Or this. Or this...

So here is my little reminder for change. It is always happening. You can't really prepare for it except to hold open your arms and be awake... and hopefully be able to duck if you hear someone screaming in the seat next to you.

I'm Pro-Anti

[For full effect, read the following entry out loud a la Jennifer Tilly meets Downtown Julie Brown.] Maybe it was because I was just a wee zygote, but I completely forgot about filling out the 'Country Of Preference' questionnaire before I was born. Were the American Indians American before we came here? They must not have been. And they must have really hated America and Americans. That explains why we made them move to a casino in Oklahoma. Wait, that must be why black people hate America. They found some crazy loop-hole in our Constitution, the Constitution that Jesus wrote, and they shipped themselves over here from Africa so they could hog all the saxophones. What creeps! Not to mention the Irish and Italians, with their beer and their wine. I'll bet those Mexicans are coming over here because they just want to show off! Manual labor and English-as-a-second-language crap. ONE language Americans and ONE desk job thank you very much. That is how we do it here, Anti's! And those ANTI-British that came here on the Mayflower. Stupid. Definitely NOT American.

I think the anti-Americans in the United States Civil War definitely caused the worst problems. INSANE people who were just out there on that 'fringe' and changed things up for everyone! If things CHANGE then they won't stay the way they are!! Hello!!??

What If...

http://www.grizzlybay.org/SarahPalinInfoPage.htm

P. O. V.

My stepmother called me last night and left me a beautiful message.

She wanted me to know:

1. How much she and my father love me and support any decision I make...

AND

2. She thought I quit ballet 'cause my feet were too big.

Occam's razor.

Bin and Grare it.

When I was 14 I quit ballet classes. I had been dancing since I could walk and explained to my mother at the ripe young age of 5 that I was going to live in New York City to be a 'Santa Claus Dancer' [a Rockette] and a waitress [I somehow already knew I'd need the day-job...and apparently I thought handing out food was cool].

By about nine I had a massive collection of tutus as well as photos of me in said tutus; drawers full of pink tights with holes in them; bobby pins followed me where ever I went and many many many blisters on my feet.

I'll never forget the day I decided to stop. I was so flippant. After school, in the middle of a toe class, I remember being tapped on my legs with a yard stick by my Turkish Torture Teacher [Tanju Tuzer] and I recall silently crying while trying to execute perfect tor jetes for him. I adored him. I looked down during a break and saw blood soaking through to the outside of my pink satin shoes. I had recently lost my toe nails on my big toes and the bleeding wouldn't stop. That was a big day! That was equivalent to drinking blood after your first kill. Only I think hunters wouldn't shoot each other in the face as often if they wore tutus.

Quitting. I stood there in the middle of class. In pain. In blood. Feeling very sorry for myself and decided I was done.

Not only do I recall Mr. and Mrs. Tuzer trying desperately to talk me out of the decision, I remember crying a lot afterwards. I couldn't even listen to the sound of a piano, I refused to go to the Nutcracker at Christmas and I was completely and utterly tortured whenever we drove past the ballet school.

I realize now why. I was IN LOVE with ballet. Absolutely IN LOVE. Only, Ballet and I weren't compatible anymore. I think I've always regretted that I didn't try harder. I let a little blood stop me. I think I've always wished I was stronger than that.

But maybe I was just smart. Completely overly-sensitive and guilt riddled but maybe I had good instincts. If I was done...and continued to keep going...without passion...without that 'DO OR DIE' behind my work...what would be the point? And I probably wouldn't have been "successful". There aren't many dilettante ballerinas. Hunters, yes....but you have to complete control of your mind, of every muscle, not to mention every emotion in your body if you want to be a dancer. And even then you probably won't 'make it'. I sound like such a nay-sayer but it is the reality. You better be prepared to love it enough to give up everything else. You better be prepared to love it enough to be a "failure". I just didn't.

Too proud to go back? Perhaps. Lord [and many others] know I've quit things before in the same fashion. But those quick, jump-off-the-cliff-with-out-looking-below-me choices did start to add up and collectively did a number on me a few years back. I found myself completely numb and unable to make any choices at all for fear I'd have terrible consequences to face...

...or worse...

REGRET.

But you HAVE to go forward or you get stale. You have to make a choice. Apathy kills.

I've spent the last five years saying I was quitting acting...then going back for just one more hit. A friend recently described what I was doing was like running into an ex on the street...you haven't talked in a while...you go out again...you make love again...you can't for the life of you recall why you broke up in the first place. Then he does that thing you hate that makes you cry and your eyes open up and you remember why you ran away.

So after you gather your senses, you turn around and look back at all of the things you stomped on and ignored to get back to this SAME place. You try to pick up the pieces you dropped, dust them off and give another go at the new thing. The thing that ain't a quick fix so it seems boring and hard compared to...well...dropping everything and falling in love...again.

They say you can't quit a habit without replacing it with another. I guess it is why drugs are so tough. How do you get the same buzz with out that pill...that needle...THAT STAGE...THAT AUDIENCE....THAT APPLAUSE!!!!!

Effort. Hard work. It is actually more difficult to inspire yourself to stay focused 'cause nobody else will do it for you and nobody will blame you for taking the shortest route to get 'what you want'. But I don't want to hit the fast-forward through the commercials in my life anymore. I want to take a look at them and learn a little bit about choice. Define my life. Be awake and aware and maybe challenge myself. And I also want to be realistic. I want 'it all'. I don't want ONE thing. The one thing that consumes me completely when I'm with it. And frankly I've stopped allowing myself to be consumed...so what good does that do? Do EVERYTHING 100%, but first make sure you want to do it. Right?

I sadly sadly sadly, heartbrokenly, listening to sad songs and not eating enough, hating all the happy people in the world decided I am quitting acting once and for all. I love you Thespis. It's not you, it's me.

And I suppose there is a chance I'll regret it. But I think I won't. I really did try. I really did give it a go in every way I knew how. And I just didn't want to give up certain things and work hard enough. And you know what? Maybe I am smart.


I will miss it so very very much. It will always be a part of me.

Just like the way my toenail grows a little funny at the tip.

I like little frogs.

I really really wanted to post something today.

Where does the time go??

One Man's Trash...

I'm walking down the street. Sunny day. Saturday. Greg at my side, Stewart attached to the leash attached to my arm. Coffee in hand. We are having a pleasant stroll. The air is nice. It smells like when school is about to start. We stop and chat with the 'someone' we ALWAYS run into when we are out walking the dog. I like to tease Greg about this. We live in a spot in Manhattan that everyone seems to visit on a regular basis and Greg knows a lot of these people. Before I lived here I visited the area mostly for Happy Hours.

We continue West toward the water. We are thinking of going to the park or the dog run. Stewart is thinking about what that tree smells like. I'm not sure why, but we are either walking slowly or have just stopped for a moment. Just the three of us, our little family, on a fairly empty street.

We hear a loud cracking sound over our heads as if a large tree branch is beginning to fall. Neither Greg nor I look up. We simply pause and as we see and feel debris falling around us we slowly crouch down into our own separate fetal positions. Looking back, we now laugh that is was not instinct for either of us to protect each other or the dog. We didn't even think far enough to see what was falling. We just went down.

We hear a lot of screaming and yelling from afar. Something slams on my head. I peek up and see a brick crash and crumble on the ground. We hear a woman yell, "RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN!", we wait a minute and then we do. We bolt across the street and look back at what everyone else who has come out of their apartment, stopped his jogging, pulled over, stuck her head out of the window or jumped out of the van for....

The top of the brick facade of the building we were standing directly under just came off the building. Fell off the building. Came unstuck, unglued, uncemented, peeled off and forward and came crashing down all around us. Around us. How did we survive this?? Except for a couple of scrapes and a bruise on Greg, a minor bump on my noggin...and a bloody paw...[poor little guy]... we realized that our slow, INSTINCTual reactions probably saved our lives. Had we actually "RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! etc..." we would have surely been killed.

We were standing directly under the ladder to the fire escape.

The police came and gave us some paperwork. We headed back home to call our parents. Instinct. We stayed in and watched a movie that night. Now there is scaffolding in front of the place and this morning when I started to jog under it I pulled to the right and Stewart and I ran on the other side of the street. Boycott.

Believe it or not [if you do, it could explain a lot about how I think], this is the second time I've been walking in this city and a piece of a building fell off and hit me on the head. The first time was much more frightening as I was by myself and I was knocked out. When I came to, I was standing in the center of a ring of Asian construction workers and for a good 15 seconds I had no idea where I was or how I'd gotten there. I burst into tears and they stood there silently staring at me. I busted through them Red Rover style and went into the building that attacked me. Not a single soul spoke English nor was interested in assisting me.

I'm not sure I would have helped me either. Not in this city. I was crying and yelling at anyone who would listen. I calmed down when I realized the hilarity of my behavior and that I was actually just fine. I walked out the door...and called my mom. Instinct.

So, here I am on my lunch hour feeling overwhelmed with the urge to share this with the world. Especially after I get an email from a dear friend I haven't seen in years. She sent me a picture of her new babies. I got teary over their cuteness.

I'm 35. I get choked up over anything newly born. Instinct.

I WANT YOU

Dear John McCain:

I am the extremely grateful great-granddaughter of a World War I veteran and two World War II veterans and I am an unbelievably honored and blessed daughter of a Vietnam veteran. I am lucky to be an American. I won the birth lottery.

My father served our country as a volunteer, not a draftee, and surpassed 99 out of every 100 men who attempted to climb the elite military ranks to the most revered and respected team in the Army: Special Forces - The Green Berets. He served two terms in a war many disrespected and didn't understand. And he came home to a country filled with many people who hated him for what he did...in their name...for them. He hates Jane Fonda. I grew up thinking she was a cool exercise guru.

I adore my father. I am so very lucky to be his child. I won the birth lottery.

Guess what? I'm still voting for Barack Hussein Obama.

Yes, Mr. McCain, I am also extremely grateful to you and what you did for me and my country and my fellow citizens but I am choosing to look forwards and upwards. I would rather follow a man that would like to expand HOW WE THINK, how we approach opportunity, someone who would like to turn to the world with a graciousness....not teach our children to fear for our future because of what you experienced in the past. I want more than a good job and enough gas and a television. I want it all. I'm an American.

If I ever have a child that, Heaven please forbid, has to, or chooses to, join a branch of military to defend my life and our country, I want him or her to have something they are honored to defend other than a TIRED NOTION OF PRIDE.

I am appalled that you would whore your service to your country and raise your experiences above those of your brothers in order to win an election. I listened to you tell your tale and I choked back tears thinking of the terrible things you must have endured, things I couldn't possibly begin to understand or imagine, but that, Sir, with the utmost respect, does NOT make you a hero.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Selling fear and loathing to build a bigger Las Vegas.

Sincerely,
Jennifer Elizabeth Boutell

They Come in Threes

Last month I worked on a film. I spent a few early mornings trying to wake up with Red Bull and a quick shower. Then the driver would ring my buzzer and I'd run down to the car. I was the first in the carpool and it was 4:45am. By 8:30am I'd often be in full makeup and costume and acting....or at least acting like I was acting. In a complete daze.

I had such a great time on this gig until the ONE scene I had to do in about twenty takes because I had a complete inner melt down. Fascinating. I don't know if it was the Red Bull, the other actor I was supposed to 'hit on', or the charming, skilled, and, um, famous man I was to talk to at the end of the scene but I suddenly had one of those actor moments....or people moments....I suddenly 'woke up' and realized JUST WHAT I WAS DOING.

I've heard of things like this happening to folks on stage, but for some reason, live theatre doesn't seem as frightening to me. The audience is farther away and it is easier to make some grand gesture to cover up your volcanic insides. If you freak out physically they might just think you were supposed to... especially if you do it with confidence. Point at something and raise an eyebrow. On camera, you are supposed to act like real people...subtly....but everyone 'behind the scene' is in such a hurry because every moment is so expensive. And the camera guy can only hold that 30 lb. thing on his head while on one leg for only so long. And you do it! You can breathe! But then you gotta do it again 'cause a plane flew overhead and the boom not only picked it up it made the sound guy rip off his headset and curse. No pressure.

So I start trembling. I'm supposed to bring this drink up to my face and flirt while saying some clever little thang to the 'bar tender'. EVERY TIME I stumble over the lines I've had memorized for months and EVERY TIME my head starts to shake and my hand tries to follow it with my 'drink'. I would just be playing along and it was as if suddenly I blinked and had Super Vision. A voice in my head would say, 'what ever you do, do NOT tense up. DO YOU REALIZE YOU ARE TENSING UP?! DO YOU REALIZE YOU'LL HAVE TO SHOOT THIS AGAIN?! THEY ARE ALL DEPENDING ON YOU AND WILL ALL TALK ABOUT YOU BEHIND YOUR BACK IF DON'T STOP TENSING UP!??......oh....and that is not whisky in your glass, it is iced tea.....' Complete panic.

We finally got through the scene and I think they all just thought I sucked for a second. Not a big deal. Everybody sucks for a second, I can handle that. But what happened on my inside was like I had a superhero trying to climb out of my throat.

Maybe I should have just let her out.

In the same week, I was on a train going to Long Island to visit Greg's parents. It was my first trip there on my lonesome and my first visit without Greg. I was really looking forward to it but of course I was a bit nervous. Will they treat me the same without their son around? Will they like me as much? Do I buy my own dinner? Should I have brought flowers? Wine? Canned goods? Normal questions.

I'm by the window, the train slows down to pick up passengers. An elderly man makes his way over to me and sits down...a little too close. I oootch over closer to the window. Then the smell hits me. I see heads turning in my direction, I see people getting up to leave, I happen to glance down and see a dark brown stain on his white, polyester, pant-suit leg. I almost gag. I close my eyes and try to pretend I'm not there. I breathe out of my mouth. I give him funny looks and pray he will decide he'd like to stand in between cars. It never occurs to me to ask him to move or get up and go past him.

I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

After twenty minutes and the crowded car full of empty seats.....everyone huddling at the opposite end of the car....just staring at me as if I was some sort of miracle.... I look at the man and ask if he could move over to the empty side. He didn't speak English. He only scratched his head and bared his toothless mouth. I then notice his arm has something brown smudged on it.

THAT'S IT! I get up and move. I have no choice. My legs are doing it for me.

I think the crowd let out a choral breath and I took out my lavender lotion and rub everywhere I have exposed skin. Including and especially my upper lip.

The entire time I sat by him I was on the verge of taking action, but something held me back. I think I was afraid if I admitted JUST WHAT WAS HAPPENING I would completely freak out and scratch all of my epidermis off Silkwood style.

Maybe I should have freaked?

A few days later, I had an appointment with my therapist. I've only seen her a few times and every time I arrive at her door I am reminded of when I was a latch-key kid and I was facing my front door after my walk home from school. I ALWAYS had to pee when I got to my porch. I would inevitably fumble with the keys, slam open the door, drop my books and RUN for the toilet. I don't know why I never learned to urinate before I left school, but then again, I've always liked a challenge. I choose the path that has NEVER been traveled 'cause I'm the only one who misses the 'No Trespassing' signs.

So of course, I find myself in the predicament again in front of my therapist's door. Only, for some reason the door won't open. And I've already ridden up the elevator holding my crotch [the operator thought I was seducing him....KIDDING...I was alone....] and I had already envisioned and told my bladder I had about 20 seconds to the bowl. But....the....door. Was. Locked.

[I just came back from the bathroom to finish typing this by the way.]

I was going to go right there and then.

I searched corners of the tiny, cubed hallway. Every wall had three or four doors all facing each other. I spot one that looks like it goes to the stairwell. I open it and somehow miraculously choose another door as if I'd known what was inside. It was the little closet that leads to the trash shoot and right below the shoot were two recycle bins. No lids. I barely have time to rip my underwear aside and I squat bracing myself on the wall. The door slams shut and I'm in complete darkness [trash doesn't need lights]. Thank you Lord. I'm sorry tenants....and porters...and garbage men. I leave the dark little room and head out the second door...into the hallway...to find my therapist with a phone to her ear and a trash can in hand... and she is heading for the door I just came from. Like a flippin' sitcom.

I gesture to her office, quickly slip through the door, run in and sit down. My hands are in my lap. My knees are together. I stare at the floor.

'She is going to wonder why I was coming from that room. She is gonna open the door to the trash shoot and smell pee and know exactly why. If I don't say anything she will think I am a pervert or something. She might call the police.' As I contemplate jumping out her window she comes in and I tell her everything. She thinks I'm hilarious and charming for my honesty. That is cool, but I don't think I would have even let myself remember that moment of my life let alone tell her... the person I am paying to analyze my actions. And here I am telling people through my blog JUST WHAT I DID.

There you go.

When to be aware and present? When to remember? When to distract? When and why? We are interesting creatures. I give myself that.

Who am I again??

I have had a bug in my pants all day. I felt small and insecure, a little bitter, defensive and tired. I got dressed up for work. Heels and all to show off my new found woman. Me. Again. I try to find her every morning even though I'd like to stay in bed most mornings. But today I had a good outfit. A good costume. One I liked, felt confident in and everything about it was my terms. My feet hurt now but I held on to some pride while standing a little taller today. Literally. And totally worth it I think.

"What's a little pain when you are ALIVE!" - Six Feet Under

Greg has been asking me since the phone rang at 2:18am last night if I am OK. I've nodded yes and shaken no, I've rolled my eyes, I've almost cried, I've almost yelled and I almost gave in completely to those old, nasty, pointless feelings. Feelings that invoke actual senses. Smells that are dark red and stained yellow. Skin crawling brushes on the back of your armpit. Like velvet gloves that have one finger made out of the boy-side of Velcro. Tastes like blood and lemons and dirty ice and eggs. Sights like the orangish, yellowish, redishness of the insides of your eyelids with firework flashes of light and then into focus the shadows on a white popcorn ceiling that make you blink shut again to the safety of the orangish, yellowish, redishness. I asked Greg if we could sleep with the light on and I woke this morning deciding I don't have to acknowledge any of the night before. Even though I plotted hate-filled revenge up until I finally fell into a version of sleep.

Greg is studying Buddhism and often shares what he is learning with me. I've attended a couple of lectures and read the beginnings of many of the books he's given me. We've been discussing it often lately and tonight he was sharing certain thoughts with me. I was so very moved by his enthusiasm and absolutely took away from Part I of the conversation: A New Outlook. Another amazing lesson. Awesome.

And then I just...well...challenged him.

While I WHOLEHEARTEDLY believe Buddhism is an absolutely beautiful tool for 'enlightenment', 'happiness', the-utopia-we-all-want-to-have-and-give-full-circle-and-no-word-ever-seems-to-describe-it...[love?]....thing, I felt compelled to challenge him. At first I thought I was getting defensive. Greg is so much more book-smart than I. Me. Who. Whom. Moose. Moosen. Most. He is VERY smart. Runs on all cylinders smart. I'm just happy I can focus enough to complete a senten......

Seriously folks.... Part I, I bit through my silly, insecure tongue and listened. And learned. He was sharing with me wisdom of the ages. Literally. I am living with walking Cliff Notes.

Then Part II. I found myself asking, 'why' a few too many times. Like when I was a kid. Wondering why a dog was considered less important than a human when it seemed unfair that we humans were the ones deciding that. Dissecting layer by layer. He said I was speaking philosophy. Not Buddhism. So I asked what Buddhism was. Then I asked why it wasn't a religion. Then I asked if it is to obtain this place where there are no rules, why are there rules to get there? And can you obtain 'enlightenment' without Buddhism....is anyone just born that way? And so on. Like a little brat you want to smack because maybe he has a point. At least I thought I had a point. Maybe you just want to smack him because he won't shut up and let you talk.

I recall the time when I was going through an 'I am my own person' [...ehem...brat.] phase and my father almost punched me in the face when I answered him for the fourth time that my life's plan for the following year was that I had no plan. The challenge paid off. He made his point without my needing reconstructive surgery and I resigned that the bohemian artist's life was something I missed the boat on before my birth. And I like new shoes.

Politics. I just can't help but think, "Is ANYBODY really fooled by ANY of this anymore?" I don't understand how we can all rally around a group of 'analysts' going on and on for hours and hours telling us 'predictions' of outcomes based on RACE. Why in the world are we still even talking about RACE anymore?! Does NO ONE understand that we all look at what gets pointed to? Great power...great responsibility and all that. Can we stop pointing at Reality Television about home renovations and maybe point at the WAR or CANCER or Billy Joel? The color of some one's skin ideally has nothing to do with how he or she does his or her job unless we say it does. Like when the giant marsh mellow man came to destroy New York City - you simply cannot NOT think of something by thinking of something.

And yet...

...this is all so beautiful. Really. We are only human. And our faults are part of our beauty. And what is a fault anyway? I can choose that. I can spin my thoughts and feelings like we spin information every day.

I'm the first grader who had a Mud Stand on our street and tried to sell little Dixie cups full of top soil and water to people in my neighborhood. I told them it was 'hole filler' for their yards. I found it in my yard for nothing. 100% profit. Brilliant! A man in a pick up pulled over, listened to my pitch and then asked if I had any lemonade. You can't spin desire I suppose. Supply and DEMAND! Ahhh!

I did a science fair project in the eighth grade showing how one can manipulate information. Again, I thought this was ground breaking. I remember looking in our history book at a pie graph and thinking, "my eye is drawn to the big pink slice because somebody wanted me to think the big pink slice was more important". Visual manipulation of factual information. [I think it is a song from Grease 2.] So paranoid! So skeptical! What a Devil's Advocate! Freshly spun: What if the opposite of what we learn is the real truth? Or what if there is no truth? I should have been a Wachowski brother, or Fox Mulder....or just built a darn volcano instead of continually trying to reinvent a wheel. In the eighth grade. And without ANY research. My bibliography had pictures of me.

This rage and hate I've dug into after last night's [prank?] call....the same disgust I felt after listening to a late night phone message he left me last year [I dropped the phone, my heart pounding outside of my chest...like Freddie Kruger...'Is there no end??! He keeps coming back!!']....the same fist-clenching, gut-tightening anger I felt when the first night I agreed to stay under their roof after all these years he just...opens the door...while I am sleeping. I bolt up ready to yell "Fire!"...he literally laughed and patted me on the head. These black, hateful feelings are just that...and like the random woman who called me a 'C$%T' out of her car window last night...maybe I have no business making myself a part of whatever gets thrown at me....agreeing to it by reacting to it. He might just be a really bad comedian. REALLY bad. Or working up to Mud sales.

I thought all this time what I needed to do was spin my past into thoughtful choices. Or train my senses to forget the red and yellows.

But perhaps the Buddhist in my house is showing me this:

The present is here. And it is alive! I will pause as long as I need to stay here....and here....and here....and here....and so on.....

OH. EM. GEE.

I just found out the man who actually SAID many of the things I've thought [even as a child...especially as a child...] is dead.

I think we should make a new version of the Bible. A George Carlin version...an After GC version...

I'm so sad the world will not hear more of his 'brain droppings'.

OMG...Goodness...God....George.....

A moment of silence. Or a guttural yelp.

Today is Friday the 13th. Most people think of Jason and bad luck on this day. I think of Mary Kay.

Once upon a time when I was a Mary Kay Lady I was told...and passed on to my other ladies...that Mary Kay opens a cosmetic plant somewhere in the world every Friday the 13th.

I'm not positive I believe this.

I think there would be children in Somalia wearing pancake foundation and bright pink lipstick.

There is something wrong with me.

I was on the subway. I am sitting, grateful for the cool air, with my cell phone still in my hand. I just found out a good friend's husband left her. I'm in shock. Sad and angry.

I am going to call him.

I try and I get some older woman who sighs and tells me the number is no longer his and she doesn't know where he is and she is tired of hearing about him. [She gets this a lot.]

So I hang up and walk. Get on the train. I slowly sit. I almost fall when the train starts, settle, then look down at my hands. I hear a sweet, calming sound to my right. A bird? A flute? No...a harmonica. Soft....sweet....sad melody. So beautiful...I actually almost start crying. I look up and it is.... A MAN WITH ONE ARM. HE IS USING HIS GOOD ARM FOR THE CHANGE CUP. THE LITTLE, GIMPY THING TO HOLD THE HARMONICA TO HIS LIPS. HIS EYES HAVE COME FROM ANGELS...PUPPIES......HIS MELODY IS PURE MELANCHOLY.....

I literally almost bust out, crack-up, bite my cheeks, hold my hand to my face, bite my palm laughing!!!!! What the be-jesus is wrong with me???!!!!!

NOT BECAUSE IT WAS FUNNY. NOT THAT....ANYTHING BUT THAT.....but maybe the timing? THE TIMING I TELL YOU. I was so sad....so sad for my friend and like out of a movie...this sad tune fills the air...and it is coming from THIS...this sweet, beautiful, sad, little, one-armed man with sweet, sad eyes....begging for money...playing....PLAYING BEAUTIFUL MUSIC ON THE ONE INSTRUMENT HE CAN MANAGE.....NOT FUNNY.....NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He stands in front of me while I DIG in my wallet for change...dollars...twenties!!!...anything!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mint?

I shake my head at him....'nothing...I'm so sorry....' and watch him continue on down the train.

He never stopped playing.

Ode to an Ambitious Girl

I have counted on her in many ways since I left home. Nursed through heart ache, heart break, success, poverty, bad luck and good. Catharsis and love and gossip.

She can actually read minds.

She's given me money, because she wanted to see me get what I wanted. No strings attached. She cooks for many and always used to leave me a plate. Never expecting me but knowing I'd show and always late. I've felt encouragement, love, enlightenment. We've shared secrets, smiles, wishes, lovers. And I've watched her...grow, learn, live, share....energize, enthrall, inflame and inspire. I admire her.

And he - a beautiful moth...we all thought could be trusted...who would KNOW her, he with wings of gold but promises of air - he dared to fly beside her....

...and couldn't keep up.

I'm so saddened for my ambitious friend, this ambitious woman. Her soul is there for all of us who dare shake hands with it.
Be careful with her, world. She is a true gift.

Characters/Caricatures

There is an odd[?] gentleman and his mean[?] dog at our dog run. He is there everytime I've taken Stewart and is there almost everytime Greg takes him. When I first heard about the man, Greg started the conversation with, "My arm is sore right here where this Indian guy's dog bit me."

Sounds like the begining of a bad joke.

But sure enough, upon my first encounter with the 'Indian guy'...he had long dark hair, with feathers in it...lots of turquoise jewelry...and a mean dog named after Bruce Springsteen. I'm from Texas and I haven't seen anyone dressed like this since I saw a musical about Plymouth Rock. At Six Flags.

Apparently, Stewart is Bruce's type as we can't keep him off his back. And when we reach for Mr. Springsteen's collar, he barks and bites. He must not be 'out' yet. Stewart is, but Bruce is not his type.

Of course, Bruce is 'just playing'.

Of course.

Indio [I swear this is his name.] tells us this everytime Brucie goes for a limb.

Indio is too busy chatting up the other dog owners, taking pictures with his cell phone and mopping up his freshly spilled beer so the dogs don't lick it up. [For reals.]

Then there is the sweet little old lady who walked by us the other night...just a little purse on her shoulder. She looked a bit off[?] and it kind of[?] made sense when she asked for change. She thanked us, walked a few feet forward while looking down at the change in her palm. She turned back to Greg, held out the 'foreign penny' and told him it was of 'no use' to her. Beggars can be choosers.

Our neighbor - just out of college - vibrant, young, spunky, full of aerobic life - teaches voice lessons for his living. We're not positive it is him, but someone sings "Sandy" at the top of his lungs morning, noon and night...complete with the last line leading into the song: "You can't just walk out of a drive in!"....over and over and over and over and over again.

The same way every time.

Poorly.

It is so ironic, it is adorable and I hope he never reads this. Or that he does and it wasn't him.

Greg is about to go out of town for five weeks for a gig in Vermont and while I am so excited and proud for him, us and everything getting a gig like this signifies...I am only now coming to the realization that I will be dealing with the New York Cityness of my life on my own.

I welcome it and I am a little afraid. I'm not necessarily a Bruce Springsteen fan and I don't like Coors Lite.

Disneyfied.

I stepped off the train this morning and was hit with a warm, bright yellow light. It felt nice but strange. Like when you get a little neck rub from someone you don't know very well and didn't pay. I looked along the ground and all around me at what seemed a reflection. I actually paused mid-step and did a 360 check with my eyes - scanning which building the bright reflection was coming from - "... this is SoHo...there aren't any giant, glass paneled buil....wait...it can't be...."

Yep. The ACTUAL sun is out.

Sometimes it is so surreal to sense something natural in this city it is one's first instinct to assume it unnatural.

Can you imagine going back in time, sitting down next to a Cowboy on the range, looking up at a harvest moon together and saying, "wow...that looks so.... fake..." He would look at you the way everybody looks at George McFly.

The Joy of a Hobby

Since I quit acting my acting has never been so good.

Viddys That Inspire Me These Days

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zzgVy6Mj2Bw


http://www.ted.com/talks/view/id/229


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FzRH3iTQPrk

Theatre of the Absurd

[Lights slowly up. 6:13am. Small studio apartment in Manhattan. Very small. Dorm-room small. Man, Woman and Little Dog lay sleeping in bed.]

"Ding."

[Four minutes pass.]

"Ding."

[Two minutes pass.]

"Ding."

[One minute.]

"Ding."

{Thirty seconds.]

"Ding."

[Five.]

"Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding......"

[Woman sits up. Turns off alarm and turns on a lamp. She pulls out her cell phone. Sets the alarm on her phone to vibrate 20 minutes later. She lays back down, phone in hand. Man gets up and crawls over woman to get to the bathroom. She doesn't move. The Little Dog at her side doesn't move. He comes back from the bathroom, crawls over her, changes his mind, crawls back, sets the alarm clock. He crawls back over her. Lays still for a moment, sits up, crawls over her again and stands by the bed thinking about what to do. He decides to wake her. He tries to get her to move. He finally tugs on her arms.]

M: Come on! Here you go....get up! No no no no no...

[She doesn't budge except to being pulled. Opens her eyes.]

W: WHY?!

[He gives up and lays down next to her. He decides to get up to turn out the light.]

W: [Mumbles.] You don't have to turn it off. It would be on anyway.

M: What?

W: It would be on anyway. [Pause.] If I were up.

M: But you're not up.

W: I will be. [Pause.] Soon. Very soon.

[He lays back down next to her. Long pause. He reaches up and adjusts the curtains drawn across the room to serve as a divider for the 'bedroom'. Another long pause. Her phone vibrates and she sits up. Man does too. She struggles as he pushes her out of bed. She stumbles to the bathroom. He lays back down. The Little Dog starts to wake up and nudge the Man. The Man tries to get the Little Dog to lay back down.]

M: [Still laying down.] Sit.

[Little Dog stares at him. Nothing.]

M: Sit.

[Nothing.]

M: Sit.

[Nada.]

M: Sit.

[Nope.]

M: [He sits up.] SIT!

[Little Dog sits. The woman peeks her head out of the bathroom, sees the face-off, goes back in the bathroom.]

M: Good dog. Lay down.

[Little Dog sits up and wags his tail.]

M: No! Sit.

[Little Dog sits.]

M: Good boy. Lay down.

[Little Dog sits up.]

M: Sit!

[Little Dog sits.]

W: [From the bathroom.] He probably needs to go outside. I'll take him in a second.

[Little Dog's tail wags. The man flops himself on his back. Pause. The toilet flushes.]

M: Are you running late?

W: Aren't I always?

[Pause.]

M: I'll take him.

W: No, honey. You always take him. I'll take him.

M: No, I will. You get to work.

W: [She pokes her head out again.] Thank you, hon.

M: [Man grabs Little Dog and rolls over.] I'll take him in a second. [Pause.]

"Ding."

[Man gets up, sighs and turns off alarm. He never got back to sleep. Man crosses to bathroom then decides otherwise and pours himself some coffee instead. He sits at computer with coffee. After a moment, music is heard from the computer. Man begins laughing. Little Dog sits at his feet.]

W: [From the bathroom.] What's that?

M: [Laughing.] Hmmm?

W: [Crossing to him.] What is it?

M: Oh. My friend from San Fransisco sent this. He noticed there were some lyrics in this song that we heard in an Easy-E rap when we were kids.

[Pause.]

W: Oh.

M: It's good, isn't it?

W: Sure.

M: You ok?

W: Yeah. [Pause.} Should I walk him?

M: No, no, no....I will.

W: I can, hon. I'm supposed to. I said I would.

M: I'll do it. [Pause.] You ok?

W: Yeah.

M: What's wrong honey?

W: Nothing.

M: What is it? [Pause.] What, hon?

W: [Almost crying.] I'm just so tired.

[Man slowly turns to audience. Deadpan. Lights out.]

Yeah....no...

Something I don't recommend:

Trying on bathing suits.

On a muggy, rainy day.

On your lunchbreak.

In Daffy's.

Wool skirt. Boots. Fishnets.

I looked like an insane, sweaty, homeless stripper.

And apparently cell phones work in the dressing rooms. I think the women on either side of me were on a conference call with each other.

Outside The Pox

Greg and I are signing a lease on our new apartment today. Our new apartment that took everything but a blood sample to secure. Thank goodness for our families. Thank goodness they like us. I am so excited I could spit.

I have a strange rash developing on my side. I've never been one to develop mysterious rashes. I think they are a funny punchline. Perhaps I'm being punished for that.

Logically, moving is a stressful endeavor but it never seems that way to me. I'm not always logical. I once counted how many times I have moved in my life and it equaled more than my age. Sure, there are good things about stability in your location, but I've never had that for more than three or four years and that was when I was a kid. I don't really know how to operate any other way. I like change. It's distracting.

Twice, when I was small and my parents were still married, my Dad planted me a willow tree in the backyard of our new house. When I go back to visit Dallas, I drive by those trees and know they were planted there for me. Those roots are a part of me, even if I don't call them home.

I appreciate the illusion of controlling my chaos. I remember my mother coming into my bedroom the morning after we moved and I had stayed up all night and completely unpacked everything. She was a little frightened of my tenacity but impressed. All of my Culture Club posters on one side, Michael Jackson on another and Duran Duran covered the rest and the ceiling. I admit that was my favorite part everytime we moved. Nesting has always been a part of my personality. Maybe not cooking, but finding twigs and putting them together just so. I dig that.

I've also always had a fascination with 'collections'. I was seven when my mother found a shoebox full of 'tiny scraps of paper' and threw them out. It was my sticker collection. Every beautiful sticker I painstakingly earned I had torn up into little pieces. My collection went from the hundreds to the thousands! Quanity, not quality boys and girls!

I wouldn't be surprised if over the years, in direct relation to all of the times I've moved, I've learned that quality is more important. Stuff is just stuff. You can always get more stuff.

If you can let go of good stuff, you can let go of bad feelings. Let us purge. Let us all find a simple, beautiful life.

Mine will be about collecting cardboard for the next month. Good thing I don't have a car and just had knee surgery. I'm also a little itchy.

BUT, I'm really excited!

Benji for President

Sometimes I get emails from my dog:

HelLo thE Qeuen

i aM SeNDign eMiaL tO ObmaMa. WahT dO Yuo Thikn?

DeEr OmaBma,

i Am Stwtrea,

i Thnik dOg Fud is mOsT ImpOtrNat issUe In Amekrica. DoG is manz BeSt frEnd. If DoG fUd bAd No mORE bsEt FrIeND. MaN No hApPy BecuAse hE nO hAve bESt fRend. AmKriCA nO HappY. IsNo GoOd.

PlEEZe tAkl AbUoT dOg fUd.

Tahnk u,

i aM StRewtA

[Brought to you by: Greg]

MOM, DON'T READ THIS

My mother's mother died last Friday but I just found out this morning at work. I was returning a call to my brother's text stating "call me i'm breaking up with my boyfriend". I called to make sure he hasn't shaved his head or started having cocktails for breakfast and he tells me our Grandmother died.

I think I've only met her three or four times in my life. I remember she smoked a lot and was really small. She had these big bug eyes and a nice smile and I got my blonde hair from her. I think I was in high school the last time I saw her. She stayed in my room. We had to wash the drapes after she left.

I didn't know her at all. All I ever heard was that she was really mean, nuts and had been her whole life. She once sent me five dollars in a birthday card for cab-fare. I was in Junior High and I lived in TX. I'd never even ridden in a cab and the card came about six months before my birthday.

In all of the old photos our family has of her, she is unbelievably beautiful and looks the spitting image of Bette Davis.

My mother once told me a story about coming home from school and she found her mother sitting in the dark, in the parlor with all of the shades drawn. She was chain smoking and talking to the television set that was turned off.

I always picture it in black and white.

I hope my mom is ok. She spent most of her young life trying to protect her brother and sister from her mother and most of her adult life trying to protect my brother and I from having to deal with someone like her.

She says she has dealt with it. She told me that no one wanted to give her mother a service or memorial and so they weren't. That was when I cried.

ElectroCUTEd Puppy

I am sitting across from this 31 year old 'go getter'. His name is Amir Levin and he is the charming, energized inventor of the Kaboost, Portable Chair Booster. We are in his very nice, very modern SoHo living room. He's in a chair with his legs spread, elbows on his knees, fingers together. He is a little intense and a little twitchy, using short, succinct sentences. I am on the couch, my palms pressed together and squeezed between my thighs in front of me. I'm trying to sit up straight. I'm in full drag, nice skirt, heels and I'm even wearing fake glasses. I have perfect vision.

He is firing me.

This is the second time in my life I've ever been fired. The first was when I attempted to be a hostess in a little Thai fusion restaurant that no longer exists. The owners were very sweet and trusting when I demanded $15 an hour. I often sat people according to how I felt they looked aesthetically in the restaurant. I'd never hosted in my life. I assumed it was easy enough work that I could learn on the job but no one trained me...in English. Thank goodness we never had more than five parties at a time. I had no clue. After two months they hired a college student at $10 an hour. She also waited tables. Much more bang for their buck. I was 'not vely good hostess'.

But THIS....THIS KID....THIS RICH, TRUST FUND KID...was firing me. I'd only worked for him for two weeks and after day three he was asking me for things I was simply not qualified to do....but this job wasn't like the hostess thing I lied my way into...our interview, where he literally shook my hand and hired me on the spot...was me explaining I could assist him in setting up an office but I was not capable of being his accountant. He only wanted me to know Quickbooks and I told him I knew some but I could learn more with time. Day three he wanted a report on his inventory. I was still putting software on the brand new computer and setting up his voice mail. I didn't even know he HAD inventory.

Every night I took the laptop and Quickbooks for Dummies home and every morning I was up early, eager to get through my to-do list of setting up his home office while at the same time researching a real office to move us to. I was to be the Office Manager and eventually...his sidekick. I was all aflutter with new ideas for branching off of the Kaboost. I was ready and committed. So committed, I'd quit my prior job giving them only two days' notice. I was asked not to come back at all. That was a nasty taste in my mouth and I don't like to burn bridges like that. That was the old me, not anymore! But I choked it down while I lit the match knowing I was going to have a lot more money and a whole new life! Idiot.

Sure, on day four he told me not to come in too early because he had a date that night and he wanted privacy the next morning. Sure, in the middle of my trying to deal with his off-shore warehouses he spent 15 minutes showing me where to get his favorite paper clips. Sure, on day five I overheard him micro-managing his daily housekeeper on how to prep his daily laundry. This guy was so SURE of himself that he could and would make a split decision and the 'cost' was never an issue for him. He knew everything. He was always right. He had lots of money.

Do NOT get me wrong ...I got burned 'cause I hopped on his hope train and it was a blaze. He was very smart and worked very hard. His ideas were brilliant and he truly became an over-night success. American dream stuff and I admired him. I knew there were a lot of dangers that go with the success he was managing and I was impressed with his knowledge, his energy, his follow-through, his two bedroom SoHo apartment.

I just thought he would let me do the job.

I found out later the girl before me lasted a month...the girl after me (an accountant) a week.

So, I'm trying not to cry in front of him and when he pulls out his wallet and hands me $200 for my 'trouble', the little pride angel on my shoulder snubs her nose so I decline. Then I look at that money and I know this is nothing to him and everything to me. Pride-schmide. It's not like he was my pimp. Sometimes you should take the money. I call my temp company and tell them. They say I deserve the 'tip' and they are disgusted at his lack of tact. I sob while I walk all the way home. I have NO job.

A month goes by.

I started this blog the second day of my next temp assignment. Greg and I had just come back from Amsterdam and my life was changed. Shortly after, I got the gig I have now and I continue to feel changed...in a good way...

There are so many ways to describe my Kaboost experience....Silver Lining...God shuts a window, opens a door...

I like to think about Stewart and what happened to him the other night while we were at home. He was under the couch, chewing on something and we heard a YELP! He came running out.

Mouse? Bug?

Greg grabs a flashlight. I hold the little guy and dart to the other end of the sofa.

He was chewing on a wire. He seems much calmer now.

If I didn't live in America

I burned my ring finger while making meatballs.

Before Thanksgiving I developed a detailed meal chart complete with a grocery list. We shopped down the street on the weekends. I came home from work at night and cooked meals and made our lunches for the next day. We got out of the habit once the holiDAZE began, once I spent my grocery money on presents and once I realized it was a little less than charming to mince garlic on our dresser. We live in a small place.

I'm back in the habit again and discovering I, who once would rather store new shoes in the oven, have developed a solid nesting sense and interest in cooking for someone I love. Counter space has become an exciting prospect and Greg and I have decided to apartment hunt for a bigger place.

About a week ago Friday, we ventured out to the IFC and saw:

4 luni, 3 saptamani si 2 zile

Greg didn't tell me what we were seeing and I didn't want to know. I love surprises. He explained there was a rave review and this film was all the rage so we had to go before we missed out. Greg is good about those things and he is very capable of weeding out the things that are all the rage that are things that would make us gag. His excitement made me excited.

We met up with friends of ours prior to the film. They knew Greg was keeping the title from me so they didn't spill the info. It was a little thrill. We go to stand on line and I don't even recognize the title on the marquee. I still haven't got a clue what I'm in for. Just how I like it. Greg runs to the front of the line to pick up our tickets and I overhear a couple behind us:

Man: Geez it is freezing. Why aren't they letting us in? [Jokingly to Woman.] This better be worth it.

Woman: I know, I know! Since when do you see a line around the block for a Romanian film in the 1980's about totalitarianism and an illegal abortion!

Oh. I guess that is what this is about.

Sounds about as fun as doing my taxes. But I trust Greg. I erase what I've heard.

This movie was so powerful there was pure silence in the darkness after the last scene. There was no music or credits, only a black screen for several seconds and then white words appeared. The audience gave a collective sigh.

As an art, this movie did not judge, it gave the audience creative space to think and form their own experience. My own imagination inserted subliminal visions throughout. I felt undefinable emotions and the performances are beyond believable. Channeling. The direction is such a perfect journey you begin to smell the environment he portrays.

As entertainment, I can't remember a time when I so completely forgot myself and so completely cared for a fictitious character. Maybe Annie when I was nine. I wanted to be an orphan. They had so much fun! Poor little suburban gal.

As commentary, this movie hit so many sides of every 'argument' that you never felt you were watching a specific point of view. I'm not sure how that is possible for a topic that has defined entire countries, cultures and religions. It was just a story and it was at zero.

And all this while reading subtitles. Brilliant.

Go see this film. I am so grateful for my little apartment and my little meatballs. I'm so blessed to look down at the band-aid on my finger.

It really is the little things, isn't it?

Banana Milkshake to Heaven

Two weeks and one day ago I had knee surgery. I'm still not sure of any of the medical details except that I tore some stuff that attaches to stuff and that seems pretty common among folks I've spoken with about it. Kind of like learning a new word, you suddenly hear it everywhere.

My knee basically stopped bending past a 90 degree angle and I couldn't deny anymore that the pain was keeping me up at night. I finally went to a specialist after Greg caught me almost falling down a flight of stairs when the darn thing gave out. I still refused to take off my heels.

Setting up the appointment felt like calling a hair salon. "What are you seeing him for? Which side? Anything else you need done?" When I came in to see the doc I was in and out of his office so quickly I may as well had been picking up dry cleaning. He was incredibly charming, made a few jokes, recited his bio and began fondling my knee. He asked a few questions, explained the 'normalcy' of my situation then slapped me on the back and declared:

"Welcome to old age!"

The man is clearly older than my own father and actually sports a graying handle-bar mustache. [...and a funky turquoise pinky ring... I kept thinking of Doctor Jacoby from Twin Peaks...]

I'm not saying I'm not getting old or that getting old is necessarily a bad thing. It just made me pause.

I'm thirty four. I don't have kids yet.

I suppose one could say I've taken my knees for granted but that seems harsh. People would never leave the house if life required reverence toward everything we think we might lose familiarity with. But those words have stuck to me like that silly-but-brilliant song in the Dunkin' Donuts ad.

I-want-some-kids-be-fore-I'm-42----

I-want-some-kids-be-fore-I'm-42----

Get-ting-old-is-part-of-life-why-did-he-make-me-pause--

Get-ting-old-is-nor-mal-and-kidsdon't-come-from-SantaClaus...

Am I THAT woman now?

Hell yes.

The day of the surgery...well...we've all had surgery in some form or another right? I won't bore myself trying to be witty about the details [more avoidance Boutell?] except the waiting room and recovery room felt as if folks were going in for a manicure and brought their friends and family for support. Apparently most of New York City needs work on their joints as often as they need their shoes polished.

Recovery, as I knew it would be, has been rough on my ego. I realize I am a happy, healthy, lucky and blessed woman...I really really do...but after you've hoofed it for 20 minutes to a street corner that normally takes 3 minutes to get to... try explaining with a smile, in less than 10 seconds, to someone who literally jumped in front of you WITHOUT A CANE, why YOU deserve the cab that just pulled up....it is hard to feel good. Especially when you aren't used to asserting yourself...FOR yourself.

"Excuse me. I was here first. I'm sorry, but I was and you see I have THIS." [I'm not sure I didn't point it out as a weapon.]

The other day we went to see a movie and had to wait on line. I have always taken pride in my NYC manners. I'm not one of those folks who stops short in the middle of the sidewalk, stands at the entrance or exit to turnstiles, doorways or stairs, I don't turn around mid-stream with a cell phone to my ear and blind the stranger behind me with my elbow. I go with the flow and I move with the mean speed of the 'traffic'.

Until now.

I have no choice. The doors open to the theater and the line starts going. I start hobbling forward leaving the 'no-no' gap in front of me. Feeling a little panicked I speed up my three-legged dance which gets me out of breath. [How old am I again?] We sit down or collapse into the only seat I am capable of 'rushing' to and I decide [like a normal person] I should hit the head before we settle down. But that means stairs. This place has lots of stairs. I might miss half the movie before I get back to my seat. [Since when does a New Yorker care about stairs? Vertical City Baby!] Full bladder rules out. I hobble back up to the lobby and ask if there are restrooms on "this floor".

"Down. The. Stairs. And. To. The. Right."

I deflate and head that way. No rest for the wicked. No one really cares if you are wicked. No rest for anyone.

"Wait, M'am! For YOU...YOU go to the elevator and go to the second floor!" [God bless you, sonny.]

I do so. Occupied. The door opens and an older [woman?] with a gray beard comes out. She eyes my cane and asks what happened. She tells me what happened to her. Apparently she'd injured her shoulder after falling down. Yes. She with the beard said she needed her cane because she'd injured her shoulder. I gave a sympathtic smile as a I tried backing into the bathroom while slowly shutting the door to her. She was still talking. I had to go bearded lady.

The movie was sensational. We took a cab home and met up with our little devil dog who is so excited when he greets you at the door he will repeatedly jump up to your head unless you stop him. His little brain is so small. You can only shake your head and grin.

A few days later, we order take out from a new restaurant in the area. It is trendy. It is pricey. It is an hour late. We finally get our food and they've over charged us. So I call them.

Me: Hi...um...we just received our food and we were charged for a soup that we did not receive....and...

[She interrupts me.]

Vinyl Chick: ...I'm sorry what? I called you. I told you we were out of soup.

Me: Yes. I know...and I said I would take the fries instead but you still...

Vinyl Chick: ...hold on...

[I'm on hold. A dude gets on the phone.]

Vinyl Dude: Hello? Hi. Did you want soup? We called to tell you ...

Me: ...yes...I know. I ordered Fries. Fries and a Banana shake. [Comfort food, ok?] And I was charged for the soup and I received a Vanilla shake.

Vinyl Dude: ...hold on...

[I'm on hold. The chick gets back on.]

Vinyl Chick: ...um yeah. You got your fries right?

Me: Yes. But you charged me for the soup. It is $1.75 more.

Vinyl Chick: It's only a $1.75. You got fries right?

[Are you kidding me?! 7 second pause.]

Me: Yes.

[Pause.]

Vinyl Chick: M'am...I mean, it's only a dollar...

[I interrupt her. I decide to cut to the chase. She apparently said something I didn't want to hear. I wanted to hear her say, "I'm so sorry. What can we do to make up for it?..." and have her give me a list of options. I know they are new. I realize they don't necesarily have to care about a little $1.75 mess-up and I know this is NYC, but in that 7 second pause I decided I wanted to be treated as if they cared and I decided I wanted a Banana shake. Another one. BANANA this time.]

Me: Yeah. Um. You know what I want?

Vinyl Chick: ...seventy five...I know...um...yes. But. Hold on...wait...what?

Me: You know what I would like?

[Pause.]

Vinyl Chick: What?

Me: I would like a Banana Shake.

Vinyl Chick: You want us to bring you another shake and take off the dollar...

Me: No.

[Pause.]

Vinyl Chick: You want another shake?

Me: Yes. And I don't want to pay for it.

[Pause.]

Vinyl Chick: ...um...hold on...

[I hold.]

Vinyl Chick: [Over-heard talking to Vinyl Dude.] ...yeah...no...a shake...ok M'am. We'll bring your shake.

[We hang up.]

They called two more times. The second time was a manager. Half an hour later I got a shake and the delivery guy would not accept the tip. I felt a little guilty and worried I might have a loogy in my prize. Perhaps I shouldn't have demanded free food from a neighborhood restaurant as one of my stand-up-for-myself moments...but I did. And at the very least I'm trying it out. [Like I would a new restaurant?]

This cane is a weapon. For now it is helping me destroy the instinct to feel passive about things I want. I should have brought it to auditions last year.

Fits and Starts

December went without a peep.

Maybe I was afraid of unleashing my mind.

Who am I kidding?

I was afraid of unleashing my mind.

I'm saving it for the big talk show in the sky?
Surely God does an exit interview.