I am a compulsive resolution maker. I have stuck to a couple throughout the years -- one involving regular exercise and one involving regular journalling. So, yeah...go, me!
I am loath to make resolutions this year because I realize that the very nature of my existence is so cattywumpus that my plans would inevitably wind up looking dumb. "The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men gang aft agley." That's by Robert Burns. Who also wrote "Auld Lang Syne." Guess he was bad at resolutions, too.
On January 1, 2012, if you had told me I would sing on top of the Cincinnati Reds' dugout, I wouldn't have believed you. If you told me I'd get to meet a penguin, I wouldn't have believed you. If you said I'd get a free trip to Alaska, I wouldn't have believed you. If you said I was going to work fairly consistently throughout the year, I might have believed you a little bit, but that's still something an actor isn't prepared to take on faith. So, if I make some plan NOW for what I should do THEN, I'll just feel bad when the carnival that is my life opens up a new side show for me and I don't get around to learning Portuguese.
I will, however, make one resolution that will be apocalyptically awesome if I can manage to pull it off, but will in no way hinder my happiness if I can't. I resolve to stand in front of Michael Caine and get him to say "The Prestige" to me. I will also record it and use it as my ringtone.
Happy New Year, you beautiful jerks. Happy New Year.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Friday, December 28, 2012
2012
In 2012 I...
-Touched a penguin
-Did six or seven (or eight?) Equity shows
-Travelled the country for work
-Flew on the trapeze
-Hosted friends in Chicago
-Saw a college friend read dirty limericks in Cincinnati
-Rode a rollercoaster with two of my favorite newlyweds
-Got a job teaching
-Directed a show that I am INSANELY proud of
-Spent my eighth summer at Improv Acadia in Maine
-Got to visit some of my oldest and dearest friends in MA
-Helped produce a campaign video for one of my oldest friends
All of the best things that have happened to me this year are related to the people I am blessed to call friends. Honestly, there is nothing that I can ask for in 2013 that is greater than the incredible gift of the talented, kind, driven, hilarious, inspiring people that I can call my friends.
-Touched a penguin
-Did six or seven (or eight?) Equity shows
-Travelled the country for work
-Flew on the trapeze
-Hosted friends in Chicago
-Saw a college friend read dirty limericks in Cincinnati
-Rode a rollercoaster with two of my favorite newlyweds
-Got a job teaching
-Directed a show that I am INSANELY proud of
-Spent my eighth summer at Improv Acadia in Maine
-Got to visit some of my oldest and dearest friends in MA
-Helped produce a campaign video for one of my oldest friends
All of the best things that have happened to me this year are related to the people I am blessed to call friends. Honestly, there is nothing that I can ask for in 2013 that is greater than the incredible gift of the talented, kind, driven, hilarious, inspiring people that I can call my friends.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Incredible
Improv, as an art form, is ever-changing. There are people who set out to do the impossible, the never-attempted, the ambitious in their improvisational performances. I just saw one of the most wonderful improv performances of my life tonight: The Improvised Sondheim Project (http://www.improvisedsondheim.com/).
A FULLY IMPROVISED MUSICAL IN THE STYLE OF SONDHEIM! It should be impossible. But these guys? They f*cking NAILED it.
Monday, December 17, 2012
My favorite
This has come back to me a lot in the last few days. I love it. From "Hallelujah":
"...even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah."
"...even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah."
Love
I wrote the last post the evening before the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Clearly, there has been even more time for meditation on the nature and repercussions of loss. Fuck. More loss is the absolute last thing the world needed right now.
Completely overwhelmed by the magnitude of the crime, stunned by some insensitive responses by some of my "friends," horrified by the facts of the crime, I could think of no response. After a few hours, it hit me... The only possible response for me was to say "I love you."
In 2009, I was living in a town that saw another horrible tragedy. A gunman went to a picnic celebrating a local theatre company and opened fire. He killed three people and, eventually, himself. The day of the shooting, friends who knew the victims gathered at our house. My husband pulled me aside and said "I don't know what to do... We didn't know the people who were killed, so I don't know what to say..." I said "Well, we know them," I pointed to the friends sitting in our living room, "and they are hurting, so just tell them you love them. Tell them you're sorry." The lingering effect of this long, horrible day is that none of us who experienced it together ever part from friends or loved ones without saying "I love you." Never.
So, that's the response I have today. I love you. That is the only response possible for me in the light of this tragedy...in the light of any tragedy. I love you. It's only when we recognize and live as if everyone on this planet is as important as we are that these kinds of tragedies will cease to be. I am you, you are me, we are in this together.
I'd say more, but my wonderful friend Brian already said it so well:
"More than forty-eight hours have passed since nigh on incomprehensible evil descended upon Newtown, Connecticut. Two days have come and gone since the lives of twenty loving, joyful, inquisitive children were cut far too short. Two days have come and gone since seven dedicated, compassionate, nurturing souls who pledged themselves to shaping the lives of young people were snatched from this world.
Two days have come and gone since a troubled young man, not long removed from his own childhood, succumbed to demons within himself and became an instrument of horror that threatens to overwhelm us with its magnitude.
More than forty-eight hours later and I - undoubtedly, like the rest of you - still struggle with a mind that reels, a heart that aches, and a soul that desperately wishes to know peace in the face of such profound and meaningless loss. When will we heal? How do we cope? What do we do?
We love.
We love family. We love friends. We love strangers.
We love the young and the old. We love the rich and the poor. We love the strong and the infirm.
We love those who seem ready, willing, and able to return our love. We love those who, perhaps, never will.
We love when we feel capable of taking the entire world within our embrace. We love when we feel so fatigued - mentally, physically, emotionally - that we're unsure whether we're capable of summoning the strength to love ourselves.
We love as much as we can in any given moment, on any given day, for the rest of our lives.
We love knowing that the simple act of doing so kindles a spark inside ourselves that illuminates us from within, and that our combined light is capable of dispelling the deepest shadows in a world that can be disconcertingly dark.
We love."
Completely overwhelmed by the magnitude of the crime, stunned by some insensitive responses by some of my "friends," horrified by the facts of the crime, I could think of no response. After a few hours, it hit me... The only possible response for me was to say "I love you."
In 2009, I was living in a town that saw another horrible tragedy. A gunman went to a picnic celebrating a local theatre company and opened fire. He killed three people and, eventually, himself. The day of the shooting, friends who knew the victims gathered at our house. My husband pulled me aside and said "I don't know what to do... We didn't know the people who were killed, so I don't know what to say..." I said "Well, we know them," I pointed to the friends sitting in our living room, "and they are hurting, so just tell them you love them. Tell them you're sorry." The lingering effect of this long, horrible day is that none of us who experienced it together ever part from friends or loved ones without saying "I love you." Never.
So, that's the response I have today. I love you. That is the only response possible for me in the light of this tragedy...in the light of any tragedy. I love you. It's only when we recognize and live as if everyone on this planet is as important as we are that these kinds of tragedies will cease to be. I am you, you are me, we are in this together.
I'd say more, but my wonderful friend Brian already said it so well:
"More than forty-eight hours have passed since nigh on incomprehensible evil descended upon Newtown, Connecticut. Two days have come and gone since the lives of twenty loving, joyful, inquisitive children were cut far too short. Two days have come and gone since seven dedicated, compassionate, nurturing souls who pledged themselves to shaping the lives of young people were snatched from this world.
Two days have come and gone since a troubled young man, not long removed from his own childhood, succumbed to demons within himself and became an instrument of horror that threatens to overwhelm us with its magnitude.
More than forty-eight hours later and I - undoubtedly, like the rest of you - still struggle with a mind that reels, a heart that aches, and a soul that desperately wishes to know peace in the face of such profound and meaningless loss. When will we heal? How do we cope? What do we do?
We love.
We love family. We love friends. We love strangers.
We love the young and the old. We love the rich and the poor. We love the strong and the infirm.
We love those who seem ready, willing, and able to return our love. We love those who, perhaps, never will.
We love when we feel capable of taking the entire world within our embrace. We love when we feel so fatigued - mentally, physically, emotionally - that we're unsure whether we're capable of summoning the strength to love ourselves.
We love as much as we can in any given moment, on any given day, for the rest of our lives.
We love knowing that the simple act of doing so kindles a spark inside ourselves that illuminates us from within, and that our combined light is capable of dispelling the deepest shadows in a world that can be disconcertingly dark.
We love."
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Theatre
Theatre is a dangerous profession. The work is sporadic, unevenly compensated and the rejection inherent in it takes a dreadful toll on one's self-esteem. Beyond that, though, there are other risks.
The best actors are able to use their human vulnerability to connect with the material, their fellow actors and the audience. Day after day, that vulnerability is tested and worked until, perhaps after a particularly harrowing role, the actor walks around feeling like a human wound. There is a different kind of vulnerability in improvisors, but it is still present. They must make themselves walk out onstage without the benefit of a script and just blindly trust that their scene partner will take the leap into the unknown with them and that the audience won't revolt or, worse yet, yawn. It's scary, to spend your work life looking into the abyss and hoping that it won't swallow you. For that is the very purpose of theatre. As David Mamet said in Writing in Restaurants, theatre's purpose is "to represent culture's need to address the question, How can I live in a world in which I am doomed to die?"
Moreover, there's the fact that the very nature of our work is temporary. For a period of days, months or (in the rarest and best cases) years, we work with a company on a performance. The people that we work with become like family during that time. We celebrate, we laugh, we cry, we fight like ill-tempered weasels, we live together. And then the show closes. Sometimes we stay in touch, sometimes we don't. But every closing night is the dissolution of a family. We clear out our dressing rooms, have our glass of champagne and walk out of the theatre never knowing if we'll see those people or work on that stage again. I suppose it's part of what makes being in a show so special, but I somehow only tend to see the hurt.
And then there's the larger community of actors. We see each other at auditions and make small talk, maybe. Or we take a class and roll around on the floor in elastic waist pants pretending to be zoo animals together. Or we see a show starring a friend of a former castmate and feel personally invested because we know someone who knows that guy up there, acting his heart out. We are somehow all connected, even those folks that whose paths haven't yet crossed ours.
So, when a member of this community dies, it hurts. That person was connected to so many other people whose own connections inevitably wind their way back to us. A death in the theatre world is like an earthquake with innumerable, infinitely vast aftershocks. I saw this first in Georgia, where a tragedy took three beloved members of the local theatre community. I saw it again this week where two young performers died within the span of seven days. I didn't know them, but I am still shaken and sad. Those who did know these young people are devastated and I grieve for them. I grieve because, at the very heart of it all, they've lost a family member.
No one tells you how dangerous this career can be.
The best actors are able to use their human vulnerability to connect with the material, their fellow actors and the audience. Day after day, that vulnerability is tested and worked until, perhaps after a particularly harrowing role, the actor walks around feeling like a human wound. There is a different kind of vulnerability in improvisors, but it is still present. They must make themselves walk out onstage without the benefit of a script and just blindly trust that their scene partner will take the leap into the unknown with them and that the audience won't revolt or, worse yet, yawn. It's scary, to spend your work life looking into the abyss and hoping that it won't swallow you. For that is the very purpose of theatre. As David Mamet said in Writing in Restaurants, theatre's purpose is "to represent culture's need to address the question, How can I live in a world in which I am doomed to die?"
Moreover, there's the fact that the very nature of our work is temporary. For a period of days, months or (in the rarest and best cases) years, we work with a company on a performance. The people that we work with become like family during that time. We celebrate, we laugh, we cry, we fight like ill-tempered weasels, we live together. And then the show closes. Sometimes we stay in touch, sometimes we don't. But every closing night is the dissolution of a family. We clear out our dressing rooms, have our glass of champagne and walk out of the theatre never knowing if we'll see those people or work on that stage again. I suppose it's part of what makes being in a show so special, but I somehow only tend to see the hurt.
And then there's the larger community of actors. We see each other at auditions and make small talk, maybe. Or we take a class and roll around on the floor in elastic waist pants pretending to be zoo animals together. Or we see a show starring a friend of a former castmate and feel personally invested because we know someone who knows that guy up there, acting his heart out. We are somehow all connected, even those folks that whose paths haven't yet crossed ours.
So, when a member of this community dies, it hurts. That person was connected to so many other people whose own connections inevitably wind their way back to us. A death in the theatre world is like an earthquake with innumerable, infinitely vast aftershocks. I saw this first in Georgia, where a tragedy took three beloved members of the local theatre community. I saw it again this week where two young performers died within the span of seven days. I didn't know them, but I am still shaken and sad. Those who did know these young people are devastated and I grieve for them. I grieve because, at the very heart of it all, they've lost a family member.
No one tells you how dangerous this career can be.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Culture Clash
I am currently in a production of "A Christmas Carol," which was exciting to me if only for the fact that I was finally in a show that my niece and nephews could come see. They came to the show today and I took them on a backstage tour, telling them about the set, special effects, costumes, etc. They were particularly interested in the ghosts. They wanted to know how the Ghost of Christmas Past lit up (hidden lights in her cape and dress), were delighted to know that the actor who played the Ghost of Christmas Present keeps cookies at his dressing room station and that the Ghost of Christmas Future who was a seven foot tall spectre cloaked in black was actually played by a delightful, petite woman. Everything was a wonder to them. Awe was writ large on their faces.
As we were leaving the theatre, we passed a group of women in the lobby. Two of them were wearing hajib in jewel tones and the third was in a full, black burqa. My niece paused, tugged on my hand and pointed toward the woman in the burqa. "Auntie Amy, was she the Ghost of Christmas Future?" After I finished stifling my laughter, we had a nice discussion about different religions and cultural practices. I love my job. I love being an auntie.
As we were leaving the theatre, we passed a group of women in the lobby. Two of them were wearing hajib in jewel tones and the third was in a full, black burqa. My niece paused, tugged on my hand and pointed toward the woman in the burqa. "Auntie Amy, was she the Ghost of Christmas Future?" After I finished stifling my laughter, we had a nice discussion about different religions and cultural practices. I love my job. I love being an auntie.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
You probably need a good laugh...or twelve
This blog is rapidly becoming a repository for the amazing work of the incredibly talented people that I know. You know what? I don't give a shit. I love my friends, I love their creativity, I love their work and I love sharing it with you. Behold, the first episode of "Teachers," a web series.
For more "Teachers," head to their website: http://www.teacherswebseries.com/
For more "Teachers," head to their website: http://www.teacherswebseries.com/
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Abigail, Episode 2
Here's the next installment of Abigail: the web series
The last line is my favorite...
The last line is my favorite...
Scary Short Film
Watch this with the lights off and your headphones on. Creepy as all get-out!
The Visit from DarkLine Productions on Vimeo.
The Visit from DarkLine Productions on Vimeo.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Watch my friends kick ass!
If you like comedy, you will like "Bethany," created, performed and filmed by some of my favorite people on earth:
If you like Sci-Fi (come on, you KNOW you're a nerd), you will like "Abigail," created, performed and filmed by some of my OTHER favorite people on earth:
Watch them. Enjoy them. So you can say you knew them before they sold out and crashed their Bentley into Lindsey Lohan's koi pond.
If you like Sci-Fi (come on, you KNOW you're a nerd), you will like "Abigail," created, performed and filmed by some of my OTHER favorite people on earth:
Watch them. Enjoy them. So you can say you knew them before they sold out and crashed their Bentley into Lindsey Lohan's koi pond.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
America
As a preface, I will say that I am a Democrat. Scratch that... I identify with the Democratic Party that I grew up with in Minnesota: the DFL. DFL stands for Democratic Farmer Labor, which means that the party is specifically interested in the well being of the farmers and laborers that built and feed this nation. I am DFL. I am a liberal. I may be more liberal than anyone you've ever known...
Regardless of what anyone thinks of my party's platform, candidate or morals, please take a moment to listen to me...
I believe in you. I believe in your right to vote, work, live and love. I believe that you care about America, your family, your freedom and your rights. I believe that you are doing everything possible to live your life as a good person. You are doing your best with what you have. You hope for a better tomorrow. You believe in this nation and its people. You give a damn.
Here's why I'm voting for Obama...
I believe that you have a right to affordable health care that will not block or bankrupt you. I believe that you have a right to marry the person you love, regardless of gender. I believe that you and your children have a right to make important and difficult decisions about your bodies without the interference of government. I believe that education is a right, not a privilege. I believe in the American Dream.
Why do I believe in health care that will not block or bankrupt you? Because my best friend on earth was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was 35 and could have been turned away from insurance coverage because of that pre-existing condition. Because my parents are worried that they might be unable to afford their prescriptions. Because I, myself, have more than one pre-existing condition. Because no one should be afraid to go to the doctor because it's too expensive.
Why do I believe that you have a right to marry the person that you love, regardless of gender? Because I have two friends whose partnership of 18 years has produced two of the most delightful, cherished, adorable and wanted children that I've ever known. Because of my gay friends who have found a life partner that they adore, respect and honor. Because love is love, no matter what.
Why do I believe that you and your children have a right to make important and difficult decisions about your bodies without the interference of government? Because it's your body, not mine. While I am in the midst of what may become a life-altering quest for motherhood, you might be trying to stay afloat in uncertain times. My journey and my struggle is not yours. You have every right to determine what happens to your body. Even though I might not make the same choice in your situation, I will fight for your right to make that choice for yourself.
Now, education: Here's my soapbox... I hate every movie ever made about a heroic teacher who has overcome obstacles to teach their students. Every "Stand And Deliver," every "Freedom Writers," every "Won't Back Down" is an affront to America. Why? Because teachers shouldn't have to be heroic. IT SHOULDN'T BE A MIRACLE THAT TEACHERS TEACH AND STUDENTS LEARN! Let me be clear: I am not denigrating the important gifts that the teachers whose real-life experiences informed these movies gave. Rather, I am calling out the system that required super-human efforts and sacrifices on the part of educators to get a basic job done. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't invested hundreds of his or her own dollars to set up their classroom. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't stayed late or come early to sit with a student in need. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't extended themselves beyond their means for the well-being or advancement of their class. We need to respect the teachers of this country and empower them. We have exploited their idealism for too long.
And I believe in the American Dream. Rather, I want to believe it can happen. I want to believe that, if you have a good idea, work hard and back up that idea with scholarship and responsibility, you can achieve your dreams. I want to believe that American entrepreneurship is on the rise. I want to believe that every corporation that does business in America is working its ass off to be responsible, forward-thinking, respectful and gregarious. I want to believe, like my grandfather did, that if you work hard enough and give enough of a damn, you can succeed.
Please, America, don't prove me wrong.
Regardless of what anyone thinks of my party's platform, candidate or morals, please take a moment to listen to me...
I believe in you. I believe in your right to vote, work, live and love. I believe that you care about America, your family, your freedom and your rights. I believe that you are doing everything possible to live your life as a good person. You are doing your best with what you have. You hope for a better tomorrow. You believe in this nation and its people. You give a damn.
Here's why I'm voting for Obama...
I believe that you have a right to affordable health care that will not block or bankrupt you. I believe that you have a right to marry the person you love, regardless of gender. I believe that you and your children have a right to make important and difficult decisions about your bodies without the interference of government. I believe that education is a right, not a privilege. I believe in the American Dream.
Why do I believe in health care that will not block or bankrupt you? Because my best friend on earth was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was 35 and could have been turned away from insurance coverage because of that pre-existing condition. Because my parents are worried that they might be unable to afford their prescriptions. Because I, myself, have more than one pre-existing condition. Because no one should be afraid to go to the doctor because it's too expensive.
Why do I believe that you have a right to marry the person that you love, regardless of gender? Because I have two friends whose partnership of 18 years has produced two of the most delightful, cherished, adorable and wanted children that I've ever known. Because of my gay friends who have found a life partner that they adore, respect and honor. Because love is love, no matter what.
Why do I believe that you and your children have a right to make important and difficult decisions about your bodies without the interference of government? Because it's your body, not mine. While I am in the midst of what may become a life-altering quest for motherhood, you might be trying to stay afloat in uncertain times. My journey and my struggle is not yours. You have every right to determine what happens to your body. Even though I might not make the same choice in your situation, I will fight for your right to make that choice for yourself.
Now, education: Here's my soapbox... I hate every movie ever made about a heroic teacher who has overcome obstacles to teach their students. Every "Stand And Deliver," every "Freedom Writers," every "Won't Back Down" is an affront to America. Why? Because teachers shouldn't have to be heroic. IT SHOULDN'T BE A MIRACLE THAT TEACHERS TEACH AND STUDENTS LEARN! Let me be clear: I am not denigrating the important gifts that the teachers whose real-life experiences informed these movies gave. Rather, I am calling out the system that required super-human efforts and sacrifices on the part of educators to get a basic job done. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't invested hundreds of his or her own dollars to set up their classroom. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't stayed late or come early to sit with a student in need. I don't know a single teacher who hasn't extended themselves beyond their means for the well-being or advancement of their class. We need to respect the teachers of this country and empower them. We have exploited their idealism for too long.
And I believe in the American Dream. Rather, I want to believe it can happen. I want to believe that, if you have a good idea, work hard and back up that idea with scholarship and responsibility, you can achieve your dreams. I want to believe that American entrepreneurship is on the rise. I want to believe that every corporation that does business in America is working its ass off to be responsible, forward-thinking, respectful and gregarious. I want to believe, like my grandfather did, that if you work hard enough and give enough of a damn, you can succeed.
Please, America, don't prove me wrong.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Stupid, stupid, stupid...
In the middle of an existential crisis of epic proportions three years ago, I solo hiked the West Face of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park. Dumbest. Idea. Ever.
First of all, I was emotionally fragile. Don't hike alone when you'd rather be writing Loreena McKennit lyrics in your journal and artfully weeping. You will be sorry. Second of all, it was raining. Very few hikes are good in the rain as most mountains tend to get wicked slippery and anthropomorphically hateful when wet. Third of all, I told people I was hiking a different mountain. If you solo hike, you MUST tell SOMEONE where the fuck you'll be if only so they can identify your broken, moose-gnawed body when you meet with tragedy. Fourth of all, I thought I was a better hiker than I actually AM.
Suffice it to say, in '09, I found myself crawling up the side of the tallest mountain in Acadia National Park, weeping and humming to myself. At the top of the mountain, I noticed my hands were bleeding. I couldn't stop shaking. I have nightmares about that trail to this day.
A normal person would have stopped hiking, or at least have curtailed their solo hikes. I am not normal. For the past three years, I have been stepping out in the early hours of summer days to drive into the park and hike something. I hiked Penobscot and Sargent: Lovely. I hiked Pemetic: Gorgeous. I hiked the North face of Cadillac and Dorr Mountain: Majestic. I hiked South Bubble, North Bubble and Connor's Nubble: Ubble-y. In short, I was determined that my initial mistake was not the measure of me.
Today, I set out on another solo hike. I went up Huguenot Head to Champlain Mountain via the Beachcroft Trail and down via the Bear Brook Trail. IT WAS FUCKING TERRIBLE! I am so used to hiking paths that are lined with trees so that you're not actually aware of your altitude until you reach the summit. Huguenot Head was like a series of staircases without a railing where you could plummet to your death at any moment. I told myself "You can just turn back if you want to. Don't be proud." Myself answered back "No way in hell. It'll just be scarier on the way back down." I scaled Huguenot Head and scrambled up some rudimentary stairs on the way to Champlain. And then I faced my worst fear ever.... What the guide book listed as a "very steep climb over smooth rock." What that means is that you're a bajillion feet in the air, walking on a surface as smooth as glass and that surface is at a 65% angle. And there's nothing but smooth rock around you. No trees. No rocks. If you slip, you will plummet a BAJILLION FEET to your death.
As I do in all tense situations, I started singing. It was 16 bar tune with a rudimentary melody. The lyrics varied with my fear. Most of it was "Oh god, please keep me from dying of hubris." I sang and I sang as I crouch-ran across smooth rock from cairn to cairn. Finally, the ground evened out and I saw the signpost that marked the summit. I threw my arms in the air in victory. I was safe! Nothing would be scary from here on out! YES!
I took a picture of the signpost at the summit, smug in the notion that I had conquered my fears. I was happy. I was validated.
I was wrong.
As soon as I turned away from the sign marking the summit, I noticed that all around me, the land sank away at alarming angles towards the ocean. I meekly consulted my guide book and headed toward the path for my descent only to see a rock cairn (a trail marker), poised on the edge of a horrific ledge that seemed to drop off into nothingness, marking the trail I was supposed to take. The wind blew. I staggered and almost fell. I inched toward the cairn to see if I could make it past the cairn and advance down. The drop behind the cairn was precipitous, so I did the only thing that I could on that bald face of rock a thousand feet in the air: I sat down and scooted along the rock on my butt.
I scooted along for maybe three tenths of a mile. That may not sound like much, but just TRY it. It is an eternity. I spent the better part of my time on Champlain Mountain looking like a poodle with parasites. Finally, the ground leveled out some and I could resume my previous simian crouch to navigate the trail.
I kept singing my idiot song as I scooted and crab-walked down the mountain. Verses included lyrics such as "When I have children, I hope they have better impulse control that I do." or "Don't let me die here, God, because I'm pretty sure that my husband would screw up my funeral." I was singing, full-voice, when a couple of hikers came out of the trees in front of me to head up the treacherous trail I had been scooting down. If I were a more modest person, I suppose I would say that I was embarrassed by the fact that strangers caught me in the middle of singing my "brave song" while sliding on my butt. Since I was so focused on survival, though, I'm pretty sure those nice folks think they ran into a mentally disturbed person hiking down Bear Brook Trail today.
Suffice it to say, I made it back in one piece. I hated almost every minute of that hike, though. And I hate that I hated it. By this point (eight years into exploring Acadia National Park), I should know what I love and what I hate. I should know to avoid steep climbs over sheer stone. I should know that I fucking hate anything with a dramatic view because that usually means you're hanging on by your fingernails off the side of a cliff to enjoy that view. I SHOULD know that my time is valuable and is not to be spent on something that is destructive, terrifying and horrible.
Ultimately, that's the lesson I SHOULD have learned in '09, before I let myself be emotionally beaten down enough to think I deserved to hike the West Face of Cadillac in the rain.
Don't hike what you think you deserve, hike what you love.
First of all, I was emotionally fragile. Don't hike alone when you'd rather be writing Loreena McKennit lyrics in your journal and artfully weeping. You will be sorry. Second of all, it was raining. Very few hikes are good in the rain as most mountains tend to get wicked slippery and anthropomorphically hateful when wet. Third of all, I told people I was hiking a different mountain. If you solo hike, you MUST tell SOMEONE where the fuck you'll be if only so they can identify your broken, moose-gnawed body when you meet with tragedy. Fourth of all, I thought I was a better hiker than I actually AM.
Suffice it to say, in '09, I found myself crawling up the side of the tallest mountain in Acadia National Park, weeping and humming to myself. At the top of the mountain, I noticed my hands were bleeding. I couldn't stop shaking. I have nightmares about that trail to this day.
A normal person would have stopped hiking, or at least have curtailed their solo hikes. I am not normal. For the past three years, I have been stepping out in the early hours of summer days to drive into the park and hike something. I hiked Penobscot and Sargent: Lovely. I hiked Pemetic: Gorgeous. I hiked the North face of Cadillac and Dorr Mountain: Majestic. I hiked South Bubble, North Bubble and Connor's Nubble: Ubble-y. In short, I was determined that my initial mistake was not the measure of me.
Today, I set out on another solo hike. I went up Huguenot Head to Champlain Mountain via the Beachcroft Trail and down via the Bear Brook Trail. IT WAS FUCKING TERRIBLE! I am so used to hiking paths that are lined with trees so that you're not actually aware of your altitude until you reach the summit. Huguenot Head was like a series of staircases without a railing where you could plummet to your death at any moment. I told myself "You can just turn back if you want to. Don't be proud." Myself answered back "No way in hell. It'll just be scarier on the way back down." I scaled Huguenot Head and scrambled up some rudimentary stairs on the way to Champlain. And then I faced my worst fear ever.... What the guide book listed as a "very steep climb over smooth rock." What that means is that you're a bajillion feet in the air, walking on a surface as smooth as glass and that surface is at a 65% angle. And there's nothing but smooth rock around you. No trees. No rocks. If you slip, you will plummet a BAJILLION FEET to your death.
As I do in all tense situations, I started singing. It was 16 bar tune with a rudimentary melody. The lyrics varied with my fear. Most of it was "Oh god, please keep me from dying of hubris." I sang and I sang as I crouch-ran across smooth rock from cairn to cairn. Finally, the ground evened out and I saw the signpost that marked the summit. I threw my arms in the air in victory. I was safe! Nothing would be scary from here on out! YES!
I took a picture of the signpost at the summit, smug in the notion that I had conquered my fears. I was happy. I was validated.
I was wrong.
As soon as I turned away from the sign marking the summit, I noticed that all around me, the land sank away at alarming angles towards the ocean. I meekly consulted my guide book and headed toward the path for my descent only to see a rock cairn (a trail marker), poised on the edge of a horrific ledge that seemed to drop off into nothingness, marking the trail I was supposed to take. The wind blew. I staggered and almost fell. I inched toward the cairn to see if I could make it past the cairn and advance down. The drop behind the cairn was precipitous, so I did the only thing that I could on that bald face of rock a thousand feet in the air: I sat down and scooted along the rock on my butt.
I scooted along for maybe three tenths of a mile. That may not sound like much, but just TRY it. It is an eternity. I spent the better part of my time on Champlain Mountain looking like a poodle with parasites. Finally, the ground leveled out some and I could resume my previous simian crouch to navigate the trail.
I kept singing my idiot song as I scooted and crab-walked down the mountain. Verses included lyrics such as "When I have children, I hope they have better impulse control that I do." or "Don't let me die here, God, because I'm pretty sure that my husband would screw up my funeral." I was singing, full-voice, when a couple of hikers came out of the trees in front of me to head up the treacherous trail I had been scooting down. If I were a more modest person, I suppose I would say that I was embarrassed by the fact that strangers caught me in the middle of singing my "brave song" while sliding on my butt. Since I was so focused on survival, though, I'm pretty sure those nice folks think they ran into a mentally disturbed person hiking down Bear Brook Trail today.
Suffice it to say, I made it back in one piece. I hated almost every minute of that hike, though. And I hate that I hated it. By this point (eight years into exploring Acadia National Park), I should know what I love and what I hate. I should know to avoid steep climbs over sheer stone. I should know that I fucking hate anything with a dramatic view because that usually means you're hanging on by your fingernails off the side of a cliff to enjoy that view. I SHOULD know that my time is valuable and is not to be spent on something that is destructive, terrifying and horrible.
Ultimately, that's the lesson I SHOULD have learned in '09, before I let myself be emotionally beaten down enough to think I deserved to hike the West Face of Cadillac in the rain.
Don't hike what you think you deserve, hike what you love.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Cash 4 Rights
I have been unbelievably fortunate to know a progressive, funny and inspirational young woman named Kate Lambert. She is a creative whirlwind and a genuinely kind and gracious person. She made this video, which made me laugh and made me think. Please enjoy and please share.
Cash 4 Rights
Cash 4 Rights
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Love and loss
To be human is to master the art of losing... Though we live in an incomparably connected society, there are still those amongst our friends who slip through the cracks. We may be connected to the boy that we had an immense crush on when we were six years old and playing in the corn bin in nursery school, but we may lose touch with the person who laughed with us until we cried just last week over dinner. We may feel lucky to walk inside our homes and lay hands on the people that we love the best in the world, but still feel a pang for comrades whose lives have drifted away from us over the years.
This is what I will say about the friends that I still am connected to: They are amazing. They are changing the world. They are strong. They are facing challenges that are unfair. They are incomparably filled with grace. They are warriors. They are an inspiration.
For those of my friends that I have lost over the years, I hope that your lives are filled with grace and peace. Would that I would be so fortunate to reconnect with you again, sometime. For those of my friends that I am still connected to, I promise, to the depth of my being, not to lose you. You are remarkable and my life is infinitely richer for knowing you.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Up at the Lake...
If there's a phrase more evocative of perfection than "Up at the lake," I don't know what that is.
Monday, July 9, 2012
I DO, I DO! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I DO!
I tried out today for "Who Wants to be a Millionaire."
Idiot question, that... Only a few people in the world would answer "no" when asked if they'd like to be a millionaire. Those few people are called 'billionaires' and don't want to have to downgrade from their solid-gold toilet paper. But I digress...
I drove out to the 'burbs, to a casino to presumably wait in line for hours to possibly get a ticket that would possibly let me take a test that I would possibly pass, leading to a possible interview and a possible post-interview interview. Apparently, Chicagoland trivia enthusiasts are a little more chill than I am regarding game shows, because I got one of the first few numbers without waiting in line at all. In fact, there was a bigger line of people queuing up to enter the casino when it opened at 9am. Daygambling...it's the new daydrinking.
Waiting for my number to be called, I struck up a conversation with the most delightful Victorian-era re-enactor who was sporting a straw boater and bow tie. I guess when your job requires you to be in Victorian dress, updating your casual attire to the 1910's is like a vacation. We wished each other luck, not knowing if we'd see each other again. But he was in my testing group. And after they graded our tests, he was in my interview group. And then, after the initial interview, both he and I got a chance to do a video interview. It was truly pleasant to see a friendly face and have someone to wish 'good luck' if only to calm my own nerves. I hope I calmed his, too. While waiting for one of the interviews, I also met a travel professional who just happens to be visiting my home county next week and a former college basketball ref that shared lively conversation with me. They say there are no atheists in foxholes, but I think you can also say that there are no enemies in open calls for game shows, too.
A little history: In 19mumblemumble, there was a call out in New England for people to try out for Jeopardy as they were planning on doing a week of shows in Boston celebrating the 13 colonies. I figured I had a shot, so I sent in a request and waited. I got picked for the test and a couple of weeks later, found out that I would be representing the great state of New Hampshire on the show. Long story short, I kicked ass for most of the game, screwed up a little in Double Jeopardy, then wound up coming in third and no, Alex Trebek is not a dick. He's a very nice man. About two years later, I tried out for The Weakest Link and was asked to tape the show but wound up having my shot at THAT show nixed when the show got cancelled. Going to the tryouts today (I REFUSE to call them an 'audition.') was a no-brainer.
There are a lot of things I'm good to really good at... Improv, Acting, Writing, Teaching... But the thing I am excellent at, the thing I will never, EVER be humble about is my absolute trivia dominance. I will kick your ass. Every day of the week. Twice on Sunday. I once won a game of Trivial Pursuit in under 15 minutes. My husband and I have never placed lower than 3rd in any pub trivia we've attended. In fact, one summer we supplemented our food budget solely through winning restaurant gift cards on trivia nights. Our last two trivia night wins fed us for four months. Disclaimer: you don't have to be smart to be good at trivia. You just have to have a lot of disparate enthusiasms and read absolutely everything.
So, even if I don't make it on the show, I got to do something I loved today: remember weird shit that very few other people care about. And, on the way out, I won $40 on roulette. I may not be a millionaire (YET! YET, DAMN IT!), but I already won big.
Idiot question, that... Only a few people in the world would answer "no" when asked if they'd like to be a millionaire. Those few people are called 'billionaires' and don't want to have to downgrade from their solid-gold toilet paper. But I digress...
I drove out to the 'burbs, to a casino to presumably wait in line for hours to possibly get a ticket that would possibly let me take a test that I would possibly pass, leading to a possible interview and a possible post-interview interview. Apparently, Chicagoland trivia enthusiasts are a little more chill than I am regarding game shows, because I got one of the first few numbers without waiting in line at all. In fact, there was a bigger line of people queuing up to enter the casino when it opened at 9am. Daygambling...it's the new daydrinking.
Waiting for my number to be called, I struck up a conversation with the most delightful Victorian-era re-enactor who was sporting a straw boater and bow tie. I guess when your job requires you to be in Victorian dress, updating your casual attire to the 1910's is like a vacation. We wished each other luck, not knowing if we'd see each other again. But he was in my testing group. And after they graded our tests, he was in my interview group. And then, after the initial interview, both he and I got a chance to do a video interview. It was truly pleasant to see a friendly face and have someone to wish 'good luck' if only to calm my own nerves. I hope I calmed his, too. While waiting for one of the interviews, I also met a travel professional who just happens to be visiting my home county next week and a former college basketball ref that shared lively conversation with me. They say there are no atheists in foxholes, but I think you can also say that there are no enemies in open calls for game shows, too.
A little history: In 19mumblemumble, there was a call out in New England for people to try out for Jeopardy as they were planning on doing a week of shows in Boston celebrating the 13 colonies. I figured I had a shot, so I sent in a request and waited. I got picked for the test and a couple of weeks later, found out that I would be representing the great state of New Hampshire on the show. Long story short, I kicked ass for most of the game, screwed up a little in Double Jeopardy, then wound up coming in third and no, Alex Trebek is not a dick. He's a very nice man. About two years later, I tried out for The Weakest Link and was asked to tape the show but wound up having my shot at THAT show nixed when the show got cancelled. Going to the tryouts today (I REFUSE to call them an 'audition.') was a no-brainer.
There are a lot of things I'm good to really good at... Improv, Acting, Writing, Teaching... But the thing I am excellent at, the thing I will never, EVER be humble about is my absolute trivia dominance. I will kick your ass. Every day of the week. Twice on Sunday. I once won a game of Trivial Pursuit in under 15 minutes. My husband and I have never placed lower than 3rd in any pub trivia we've attended. In fact, one summer we supplemented our food budget solely through winning restaurant gift cards on trivia nights. Our last two trivia night wins fed us for four months. Disclaimer: you don't have to be smart to be good at trivia. You just have to have a lot of disparate enthusiasms and read absolutely everything.
So, even if I don't make it on the show, I got to do something I loved today: remember weird shit that very few other people care about. And, on the way out, I won $40 on roulette. I may not be a millionaire (YET! YET, DAMN IT!), but I already won big.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Dreams
I just got back from a two month stay in Cincinnati... Prior to this visit, I had only been to Cincinnati once, and that was for the world's worst wedding, which left an understandably bad taste in my mouth. Literally. The food at the reception was a build your own sandwich stand with only the finest of Oscar Meyer products. Moreover, the wedding service was two hours long, the bride had found out about the groom's infidelities the day before the wedding and was still pissed, six of us were jammed into a dusty room at the Red Roof Inn for two days and the bride actually set herself on fire during the ceremony. I later found out that an anonymous "someone" sent one of the bridesmaids unflattering photos of herself, each bearing the caption "Ugliest bridesmaid ever." Moreover, the drive to the foreboding church took us through an epic cemetery, and both church and cemetery have figured in my most hellish nightmares since that time. So, yeah... Up until two months ago, that was what I knew of Cincinnati. Horrors, self-immolation and salty lunch meat.
Then, I took this job, doing 8 shows a week at Cincinnati's Playhouse in the Park. I could document every lovely moment, every thing that made me supremely grateful to be able to wake up and go to work each day, every single delightful reason I adored the rest of the cast and crew, but that would lean dangerously to the saccharine, though I'd mean every syrupy word. Suffice it to say, it was a dream job. And Cincinnati was astonishingly lovely, fun and full of surprises.
When I got home, I found a couple of souvenirs that I didn't want to just paste into an album. The memories that they invoke were just too wonderful not to be reminded of every day. So, I put them into a bottle that I call my "Bottle of dreams I never knew I had that came true." And here it is:
Then, I took this job, doing 8 shows a week at Cincinnati's Playhouse in the Park. I could document every lovely moment, every thing that made me supremely grateful to be able to wake up and go to work each day, every single delightful reason I adored the rest of the cast and crew, but that would lean dangerously to the saccharine, though I'd mean every syrupy word. Suffice it to say, it was a dream job. And Cincinnati was astonishingly lovely, fun and full of surprises.
When I got home, I found a couple of souvenirs that I didn't want to just paste into an album. The memories that they invoke were just too wonderful not to be reminded of every day. So, I put them into a bottle that I call my "Bottle of dreams I never knew I had that came true." And here it is:
Inside is a ticket from a baseball game where I got to sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" with the rest of the cast, standing on top of the Reds' dugout. At the bottom is a layer of penguin feathers from when we had a behind the scenes tour of the zoo and met Charlie the penguin. I have been obsessed with penguins since I had a dream a few years ago that I a penguin jumped into my arms and someone said "This is your new daughter!" Much better than nightmares of churches and graveyards... At any rate, when Charlie walked in the room, I burst into noisy, joyful tears. The zookeeper left the room for a minute and when she came back in, she handed me a paper cup full of penguin feathers. "Take this, please," she said, "I've never in my life seen anyone react like that. You just made my day." I tickled Charlie's stomach and cried some more.
Dreams come true, people. And sometimes the best dream come true moments are the ones that take you by surprise.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
To Russia, with love
So, Blogger says that a fair amount of my blog traffic comes from Russia. If that is the case, greetings, Russian readers! I have no earthly idea why you'd read this blog, but feel free to leave a comment and tell me...
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Friday, June 15, 2012
So, this is something I did...
This is one of the cartoon voice overs I've done.
http://libtech.marin.org/test/overdue.swf
http://libtech.marin.org/test/overdue.swf
Friday, June 8, 2012
Thursday, June 7, 2012
The key to my heart...
I love a lot of food, both haute and not-so-haute cuisine. But the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the most scrumptious thing I have ever had is bone marrow. The first time I ever had it, I turned to a friend of mine and asked him to kill me because my life would never, ever be as delicious as that very first moment when I tasted bone marrow.
I have mad respect for my vegetarian friends, but I promise you that I will never join their ranks because I cannot and will not ever give up the prospect of hunching over a shank of something and slurping out delicious marrow.
I am paleolithic and unapologetic.
I have mad respect for my vegetarian friends, but I promise you that I will never join their ranks because I cannot and will not ever give up the prospect of hunching over a shank of something and slurping out delicious marrow.
I am paleolithic and unapologetic.
Monday, June 4, 2012
On Poetry
Hey guys, if you're in love with a girl or were in love with a girl and had your heart broken, do me one little favor, will you? Do NOT, for the love of all that's good in the world, write a fucking poem. You are not good at it. It will embarrass you in the long run. It will be stupid, at best, and an affront to the English language, at worst.
There is maybe, MAYBE one real poet born every generation or so. Odds are you are not that poet.
Don't write that poem. Or people like me will make merciless fun of it.
There is maybe, MAYBE one real poet born every generation or so. Odds are you are not that poet.
Don't write that poem. Or people like me will make merciless fun of it.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Nothing now can ever come to any good
My best friend passed away yesterday. Here's a blog post I wrote about her in '04:
Friendship is love without its wings?
I stumbled across the above quote while looking for an adequate title for this entry and I am inclined to disagree with it for I happen to be blessed with a friendship whose wings are most certainly present and most certainly capable of lifting me above the melee of my so-called life.
Back in New York, when I first moved there, I was lonely, cold and nearly always broke. At one point, while looking through old letters in a melancholy exercise that I had hoped would lift me out of my perpetual feeling of friendlessness, I found the address of an ex boyfriend and his wife who, last I heard, were living in New York. Now, since this ex was the first person ever to have the gall to have broken up with ME (there has since been one more dreadful heathen of this ilk), he had long dropped off my "most favored nation" list, but I was desperate for human companionship. This desperation drove me out into the streets with my dog in an effort to find them.
I walked up First Avenue, telling myself it wasn't creepy to do a walk-by of their building because it was very near to the dog run at Carl Schurz park. The fact that my dog didn't seem to ever ENJOY the dog run didn't sway me from the belief that she needed to go there, if only to provide me with an excuse for a slight detour to peep at the names on the buzzers at this particular address. Suffice it to say, their names weren't on the building anymore and my dog spent the afternoon huddled against my legs as dogs with healthy senses of self-esteem bounded around us in doglike fervor. I went home, like my dog, defeated by the exuberence of the rest of the world.
Later, I emailed a friend whom I hadn't spoken to in a while, casually inquiring if he had heard where the Least Favored Ex and his wife had taken up residence. I got a reply back with an email address for LFE, promptly emailed and received a phone call in reply. The day before I flew home for Christmas, I got wasted over brunch with LFE and his lovely wife, whom I had always had a sort of bitter hatred for. After all, he didn't break up with HER, now, did he? As the afternoon wore on to evening and it became apparent that LFE would require scaffolding to remain upright, my love for these folks deepened. Pettiness seeped out of me (the first time THAT ever happened!) and I vowed to stay in touch.
Months went by, and I saw them sporadically. As the time went by, LFE's wife and I became the best of friends. She is the kind of person who makes every moment spent with her shine. She listens without judgement, a trick she must have had to perfect in order to live with the constant barrage of LFE's incessant repeating of himself. Honestly, who do YOU know who tells you the same story three times in rapid succession? She has a warped, brilliant mind and is, to me, the epitome of the word "lovely." She's magic. And I'm lucky enough to know her.
I mention all of this because I got a present from her yesterday. She had painted a beautiful face in oranges and reds, embedded flower petals in the paint and added a verse from a particularly apt poem. It was the best gift I have ever received and it made me cry. I am far away from a friend whose support was all I had at some times in my dark New York life. I regret that I am not there to support her as she struggles with her own issues of career and family and love. I regret that I cannot shine for her the way she shone for me; shedding light onto a path I did not know existed.
My wonderful, wicked, silly and lovely friend! I'll forever remember one experience as indicative of the surreal and sublime nature of our friendship: We walked through a cemetary near her house in the thick sunshine of a fall morning, laughing and talking about our lives. The cemetary is so large that one can hardly ever expect to see another live human as you walk through it, but see one, we did. We passed by, hushing our laughter momentarily in case he was there to mourn. As we walked on, my friend kept looking back over her shoulder in the direction we came. Finally, I asked her what was going on. "Dude," she replied, "That guy is looking at us and whacking off onto a gravestone. Oh well. You gotta do something, right?"
Back in New York, when I first moved there, I was lonely, cold and nearly always broke. At one point, while looking through old letters in a melancholy exercise that I had hoped would lift me out of my perpetual feeling of friendlessness, I found the address of an ex boyfriend and his wife who, last I heard, were living in New York. Now, since this ex was the first person ever to have the gall to have broken up with ME (there has since been one more dreadful heathen of this ilk), he had long dropped off my "most favored nation" list, but I was desperate for human companionship. This desperation drove me out into the streets with my dog in an effort to find them.
I walked up First Avenue, telling myself it wasn't creepy to do a walk-by of their building because it was very near to the dog run at Carl Schurz park. The fact that my dog didn't seem to ever ENJOY the dog run didn't sway me from the belief that she needed to go there, if only to provide me with an excuse for a slight detour to peep at the names on the buzzers at this particular address. Suffice it to say, their names weren't on the building anymore and my dog spent the afternoon huddled against my legs as dogs with healthy senses of self-esteem bounded around us in doglike fervor. I went home, like my dog, defeated by the exuberence of the rest of the world.
Later, I emailed a friend whom I hadn't spoken to in a while, casually inquiring if he had heard where the Least Favored Ex and his wife had taken up residence. I got a reply back with an email address for LFE, promptly emailed and received a phone call in reply. The day before I flew home for Christmas, I got wasted over brunch with LFE and his lovely wife, whom I had always had a sort of bitter hatred for. After all, he didn't break up with HER, now, did he? As the afternoon wore on to evening and it became apparent that LFE would require scaffolding to remain upright, my love for these folks deepened. Pettiness seeped out of me (the first time THAT ever happened!) and I vowed to stay in touch.
Months went by, and I saw them sporadically. As the time went by, LFE's wife and I became the best of friends. She is the kind of person who makes every moment spent with her shine. She listens without judgement, a trick she must have had to perfect in order to live with the constant barrage of LFE's incessant repeating of himself. Honestly, who do YOU know who tells you the same story three times in rapid succession? She has a warped, brilliant mind and is, to me, the epitome of the word "lovely." She's magic. And I'm lucky enough to know her.
I mention all of this because I got a present from her yesterday. She had painted a beautiful face in oranges and reds, embedded flower petals in the paint and added a verse from a particularly apt poem. It was the best gift I have ever received and it made me cry. I am far away from a friend whose support was all I had at some times in my dark New York life. I regret that I am not there to support her as she struggles with her own issues of career and family and love. I regret that I cannot shine for her the way she shone for me; shedding light onto a path I did not know existed.
My wonderful, wicked, silly and lovely friend! I'll forever remember one experience as indicative of the surreal and sublime nature of our friendship: We walked through a cemetary near her house in the thick sunshine of a fall morning, laughing and talking about our lives. The cemetary is so large that one can hardly ever expect to see another live human as you walk through it, but see one, we did. We passed by, hushing our laughter momentarily in case he was there to mourn. As we walked on, my friend kept looking back over her shoulder in the direction we came. Finally, I asked her what was going on. "Dude," she replied, "That guy is looking at us and whacking off onto a gravestone. Oh well. You gotta do something, right?"
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The realities of whimsy...
Today, I was determined to one and for all divest myself of my Georgia driver's license and get a long-overdue Illinois license. Inspired by a former student of mine who once wore a fake beard and blacked out one of his front teeth when he went to the DMV, I decided to go in costume. I teased the hell out of my hair, pasted on the longest fake eyelashes I could find and put on full early 60's make-up. I came as close as I could to looking like an extra from "Mad Men." I was determined to walk into the DMV all fabulous and throw some whimsy up in their faces. Whimsy and reality are sometimes worlds apart from each other, though...
I tottered into the DMV on extremely high heels after a brief panic at home when I couldn't find my pearls. That was my biggest concern before getting to the DMV - accessories. When I got there, I was told that I would need my Social Security card to get a license. Suffice it to say that I was told this after walking through the world's longest velvet rope maze to get to the counter in the world's clackiest shoes. I thought it was extra whimsical that I clicked and clacked my way all the way through the rope maze to get to the counter when I could so easily have bypassed it. It was not. Thwarted, I drove home to retrieve my Social Security card which I didn't bring initially because I keep it in a wallet that was too big for my tiny, cute purse. Accessories. Again.
When I got back to the DMV, I clicked back through the maze to find out that the two pieces of mail that I was required to show as proof of address could not be hand-written envelopes, which nixed the envelope from my mom's Valentine's Day card, or any kind of solicitation mail, which excluded the credit card offer from citibank. I rifled through the garbage dump that is my car to find pieces of mail that were acceptable, running inside at intervals to check with the supervisor. "How about my insurance card? No? How about my copy of 'Martha Stewart Living' magazine? No? Are you crazy? If Martha says I live there, you better believe that I LIVE THERE!" Finally, I had the required pieces of mail. Then, I learned that the DMV didn't take Visa cards...
Clickety clack, I went down the street to an ATM. Honkity honk went the cars driving by. Plinkity plink went the bobby pins leaking out of my bouffant as I hobble-jogged back to the DMV.
When I sat down with one of the clerks at the DMV, she looked at the insurance policy that I presented as proof of residency and declared that it wasn't good enough because the policy had since expired. I started to cry, putting my luxurious false lashes in imminent peril. "I don't get official mail at my house! The bills are all in my husband's name!" So yeah, some parts of my life are as early 60's as my outfit was today. The woman took pity on me and told me her supervisor could sign off on it and she'd pass me through. "After all," I said, "Jesse White once gave me a hug!" I thought that might help as I was in the Jesse White building of the Department of Motor Services. The woman didn't look amused. "He called me Miss America..." Silence.
Three counters and one supervisor check later, I was all set to get my fabulous, whimsical, Mad Men-esque driver's license photo taken. Something happened between "get ready" and the camera's click and my new license looks like that one elementary school librarian that looks like she never quite changed the calendar after Dec. 31, 1963. Or maybe like a very pleasant maiden aunt in her late fifties.
Next time, I'm wearing a fake beard. Whimsy fail.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Other people's memories
I buy old photos of other people's families for no appreciable reason. There are plenty of astonishingly awesome pictures of my family, but I just can't keep my compulsion in check. When people visit my home and see the pictures, they always ask the same question: "Is this your family?" When I say no, they try to regroup: "Your husband's family?" No. "Do you know anyone at all who might be related to these people?" No. "Then why?" Dunno.
This is my favorite of my collection. Mostly because the entire family looks drunk, like a potential serial killer, or like they maybe got too much of a forceps squeeze on their way outta their mama.
And here's a closeup of my favorite of this family:
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