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.