Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Pies Cooling On The Windowsill

Thankful day. Spent it entirely at home with the little one, cozy because it was in the mid-'50s outside and cloudy (brrrr for San Diego!) except for a brief foray to the park (alas, the tricycle really is embarrassingly too small now--what kind of mother am I that I haven't gotten my sporty child a bike?) She played circus with a freckle-faced redhead (referred to as "Red" by parent, gender indeterminate) while I chilled my buns on a bench reading Ibsen and Shaw (don't I sound erudite? Searching for monologues.)

At home, we undertook some edible projects. She found a candy-making caper in her Things to Do on a Rainy Day book, and I humored her by buying peppermint extract and "glace" (known by Jarrah as "glossum") cherries and dipping a whole lot of things in melted chocolate. I also came very close to plunging the whole marzipan project into the sink when I couldn't get the "ball" off my @#$%&* hands and started to panic. But all was well and the resulting treats did look suspiciously like the photos in the big, shiny book.

I also made my Famous Fudge Recipe, culled from the archives of a cherished aunt on the, erm, internet, and some Thai Cucumber Salad because, well, because it travels well? And so does fudge? And neither has to be reheated, which makes my mom freak out when she's dealing with turkey? Strictly speaking, I don't have to bring anything, because my mom makes enough to feed us all for a week, but I decided to wanted to contribute something this year. Everyone likes fudge (don't they?) and while they probably didn't have Thai Cucumber Salad at the first Thanksgiving, they might have wished they did, as a palate cleanser for all that maize. I am already craving my mom's apple stuffing and--especially, as it comes but once a year--the pearl onions baked in crumbs and cream. And did I mention the desserts?

Today I am thankful for a cozy home, and especially thankful that my girl is almost six. Truly, she is a joy these days, happy and funny and whip-quick and--amazingly--compassionate towards the world at large. She is even developing a bit of a flair for conversation. These sorts of observations might sound like standard Mommy Blog boilerplate, but the fact is, if there's anything I've learned in the past year, it's that I was right about not being a baby person. While I find them cute from a distance, I don't do well all day with someone whose face is perpetually wet and can only communicate by pointing and grunting. Or--argh--crying. But recently, I actually find her--wow!--fun. Fun, Readers! It's a revelation to me, and one I'm extremely grateful for.

(A funny aside. As I'm writing this, her dad, who's been gone all day, is attempting to get her to brush her teeth while she sobs and screams "I'm just having a really bad day!"

Yeah. A really bad day when she got to lick about a dozen spatulas.)

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours! I am grateful for YOU, too!

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

"Yet knowing how way leads on to way..."

My mother told me I probably wouldn't make any new friends after college. She said that living on campus is conducive to meeting people, and that situations like that wouldn't come up much when college was over.

My mother has been right about almost everything, but I'm happy to say, she was wrong about that. I have been blissfully making friends ever since--in graduate school (so much like college, without the campus living), jobs I've had (lots of them) groups I've joined, Nia training, Jarrah's preschool, the theater, and the list goes on. Some of the people who are dearest to me, I've met in the last 10 years.

But my mother was right in a way. The friends I made in college will always be close to my heart, even if I don't talk to them every day, or even every year. Knowing they are there makes the world better, and when we get together, it's like no time has passed at all.

This past week, I reconnected with my friend Joe on Facebook. I'd been searching for him for a couple of years, but he was the one who finally found me. Seeing his little message--"Hi Sam! Call me! xoxoxo, Joe"--was enough to bring tears to my eyes. I have missed him so. I don't think we've been in touch since 1993, but he's never been far from my thoughts.

Joe and I met in England, where we were both studying Junior Year Abroad. He was from New York; me from California. We bonded instantly, because Joe is a tall, blond, bubbly glass of champagne in the form of a man, and who wouldn't like that? We gossiped and drank G&Ts at the pub, shopped on Bond St., managed to cook delectable meals on the dormitory hot plate. We were usually with our friend, Beth, so it was no surprise when those two ended up roommates after we all graduated. And--happy days!--we all ended up in Boston.

Their basement flat on Marlborough St. was my second home. A bracing walk through the Back Bay got me there in 20 minutes, where it was always warm and something was bubbling on the stove. I was living with Smith friends, and they all loved Joe, too. What wasn't to love? The guy had a huge heart, was always in a good mood, and was funny as hell. Whenever I had one of those days, Joe was there with a cocktail and a bitchy story to cheer me right up.

He and I were a bit slower than our Boston friends to get gainfully employed. So there was a swatch of time when we'd hang out during business hours to keep each other entertained. We didn't have any money, so our shopping was of the window variety, as well as our dreams of High Tea at the Ritz, new clothes from the boutiques on Newbury St., theater tickets in Charles Square. We settled for long walks in our thrift-store overcoats through the fall beauty of the Public Gardens, and the late afternoon glint off the gold dome of the Statehouse.

One afternoon we splurged on a shared order of chocolate crepes at The Magic Pan (known affectionately as The Tragic Pan) and then laughed ourselves silly at what was placed before us: a bowl of hot chocolate and a plate of toasted crepe "nachos" for dipping. It was awful, and we made jokes about the awfulness until I couldn't breathe.

When we finally connected on the phone last week, Joe reminded me of the nacho crepes right away. "Can you believe we paid for that, and didn't say anything?" Yes, I can. We were too busy laughing to complain. I love that we both have fond memories of that day--I told Joe I wrote a poem about it for my MFA thesis, even. I said I'd send it to him. I'm so happy we're back in touch.

With Thanksgiving upon us, I'm thinking about friends, old and new. How grateful I am to have both. And about the expansive blessing--really, what else can anyone hope for in this life?--of knowing friends are there, year after year, a part of our history, and with any luck, a part of our future, too. And this is truly magic--not tragic--indeed.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Despair. Stop. Send Help. Stop.

Haven't been around much. I've been missing the blog but feeling too overwhelmed to write. That's rare for me. Hope you, my Dear Readers, have been well.

There have been some really nice things. I went to the So You Think You Can Dance live show last weekend, and had amazing seats, and if there has ever been a show worth the price of admission, man, this is it. I was mesmerized from start to finish. It was especially thrilling to see Mia Michaels's "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic" with all the guys and only one girl--Lauren--in her pink tutu, on a chair on top of a chessboard table. (Here's the link with Alison playing the girl.) Much better without the camera dollying around them the whole time. The other one that had me leaping to my feet was Billy and Ade in "Mad World." (Who choreographed this?) It has me near tears every time.

Speaking of near tears, it was a rough week on the parenting front. I could have used a stiff drink, but I never got one. Now that Jarrah is getting older, I'm trying to be a bit more conscientious about her privacy, so I'm not going to tell the whole story here. Suffice to say, a situation has been developing that really came to a crisis point, and I ended up rushing Jarrah to the doctor without an appointment, without even calling first, and sort of getting down on my knees and begging them to see us immediately. We were there most of the day, with tests and x-rays and a really amazing doctor who spent nearly an hour with us asking lots of questions and actually listening to my answers as if I were a smart person who knows my own daughter. A big shout-out to El Camino Pediatrics in Encinitas--it's a long drive, and it's worth it.

I thank my lucky stars that the problem--while definitely significant--can be treated non-invasively, and we are well into that treatment now. We probably won't know for sure if it's working for about a month, but I'm feeling hopeful. And relieved.

In the middle of all this, Jarrah had her final performance for her junior theater group, and while there was a flurry of last-minute scrambling to prepare, it was a smash hit. See for yourself! The little girl who sings the solo about how parents are going to miss their children when they grow up had me snuffling like a baby. And Jarrah's dance moves are totally dope.

Also in the middle of all this, we had our first-ever parent-teacher conference at Dailard, and I'm happy to say that--medical troubles aside--Jarrah seems to be thriving in kindergarten. Her teacher described her as "a delight to have in class" and really, what more could we ask? The other day, she read us Green Eggs and Ham in its entirety, which was so exciting (though damn, that's a repetitive book.)

When I run out of material late at night fretting about my child, I have plenty more worries waiting about my show. Seriously, Readers, I'm surprised I haven't been fired. I have been so frustrated, nay, LIVID, with how things are being run these days that I am physically incapable of suppressing full-blown tantrums that spring up like twisters in my heart and wreak havoc all over the room. I've been yelling at the director, stage manager, other castmates, basically everyone except our genius musician, who is like an island of sense and logic in a roiling sea of crazy. Unfortunately, he's hardly ever there, but when he is, he really helps me work my range and find the notes I so desperately need to ingrain. Everyone else, though, just spends their time yelling at me and less-than-obliquely suggesting someone else could do better. It all started when our director advertised for an "understudy" about three weeks ago, and this girl is clearly poised to swoop in and take our parts whenever we show the slightest signs of sucking. Think I'm being paranoid? It's already happened three times. The ironic result is that I suck all the time, because each time I'm "on" (and this is just for rehearsal!) I start getting all sweaty and shaky and instantly forget all my lines, knowing that the vulture awaits. Not that I dislike this girl, but unfortunately, that's her role. The last two rehearsals I've been unable to keep my mouth shut: "When do I get to practice this WITHOUT BEING YELLED AT? NEVER? IS THAT WHEN?" "You wanna know why I'm forgetting my lines? Because you've changed the @#$%&* choreography every single time, and I can't remember both. And because every time I put a foot wrong you threaten to replace me." "Oh, I see. I'm doing it wrong because I'm on the LEFT. Which is how I was doing it for a MONTH before an hour ago, when you told me to change it to the RIGHT." My new champion is my castmate John, who is a sweet, quiet former Marine who's been comforting me between scenes. "Where did you get all these New Age-y affirmations?" I teased him. "I thought you were in the military for 10 years." "That's exactly where I got them," he told me. "When everyone is trying to make you fail, and you haven't slept, and people are making you puke your guts out, is when you need to find inner strength, because no one's going to find it for you."

Well, I need to take this advice. I lie awake nights not because my director and stage manager are mean to me, but because I can't freakin' take it, apparently. I can't suck it up and get on with my bad self. I lash out like a petulant child and then I hate myself for not being stronger. And worse that that, Readers? I hate myself for not being BETTER. Because if I were better, then they wouldn't be yelling at me in the first place.

Sigh. I'm learning and growing from all of this, right?


Thursday, November 11, 2010

Dirty Politics

Some of my out-of-state friends have been asking what it's like to have Jerry Brown as the governor of California again. And I reply "It makes me feel seven." Which could be perceived as a good thing--the freshness and optimism of youth, the innocent lack of disillusionment with government, etc. But there is a dark side to my response which is not superficially apparent. You see, I have a bit of a history with Governor Jerry Brown, a history that a wiser and more discreet person would not share here. But when have I ever been accused of wisdom or discretion?

It was early in '74, Dear Readers, and I was in second grade. I had recently been tapped for some suspect niche programming at my elementary school called MGM--Mentally Gifted Minors. (I ask you--what genius came up with this name?) Because of this "honor," I was obligated to spend time with these evil people on a weekly basis, vile and abusive boys who would grow up to own companies, gimlet-eyed girls who snickered every time I mumbled into my Peter Pan collar (I was powerful shy) and--the worst of them all--The Dread Mrs. Cohen, our teacher, she of the Mondrian-print mini-dresses and swingy blunt-cut blond hair parted in the middle who openly rolled her eyes (rolled her eyes, Readers! My tender heart!) whenever I spoke.

So maybe I wasn't meant for the MGM crowd. If that had been in doubt before, it was made abundantly clear on this fateful day. The day that we were taken on a "special" field trip to visit the campaign offices of gubernatorial candidate Jerry Brown. I had seen pictures of this Jerry Brown, and he was a good-looking chap, if very, very old--I'm talking Dad old. I was excited to go somewhere on a bus in the middle of a school day, and had dressed up for the occasion in my thick, white polyester shirt dress bedecked in giant strawberries, finished with a fabric-covered buckle belt. On my feet, a rare treat: shiny, white patent leather Mary Janes with lacy socks.

I remember very little of the field trip, and probably wouldn't remember it at all if it weren't for what I'm about to share with you. We disembarked at a nondescript warehouse in downtown SomewhereorOther and toured a blue-carpeted lobby adorned with a massive portrait of the man in question. A cheery lady welcomed us and told us a bunch of things which meant nothing to me. I couldn't get my mind around what a governor was for, let alone what it meant to "run" for one. It was a baffling morning which I spent in solitary, an island of childhood lonely in a sea of whispering and giggling cliques, all enjoying their furlough from the pen. I sat alone listening to the speeches, and I walked alone pretending to read maps and time lines tacked to the walls.

The place was not pretty, and felt temporary in a way I wouldn't have been able to describe then. The second floor had echoing concrete floors and walls, and the stuff on the walls was hung crookedly and seemed about to fall off. It was boring to the nth degree. I didn't want to look stupid, but when the guide asked if we had questions, I wouldn't have known what to ask even if I hadn't been pathologically shy about hearing my voice in public. I could hear my tummy growling and thought longingly of my American cheese sandwich back at school. And now I could feel another urge, becoming more pressing by the moment. I needed to pee.

At first it was just a vague desire, and I thought about asking The Dread Mrs. Cohen if there was a bathroom around. But something told me that it wouldn't be appropriate to ask. I had no idea what a "governor" was, much less a "candidate," but whatever faulty interior adviser I had on retainer that morning told me in no uncertain terms that--whatever they were--they didn't go to the bathroom.

And so I kept quiet. I strolled around, pretending to study blueprints, feeling increasingly miserable. At first I was uncomfortable. Then I was agonized. My back teeth ached. I crossed my legs so tightly I almost fell over. Time passed. It seemed like a lot of time. Hours, possibly. The cheery campaign flunkie gathered us into a little group so she could explain yet another excruciatingly dull aspect of something. And it was there that my agony passed over into desperation, which always leads to some sort of rationalization. But instead of deciding to saw my own arm off, I reasoned that I should just go ahead and pee. After all, who would notice? The floor was cement. And maybe governors have dogs! That's it--everyone will blame it on the dog.

So I peed. Oh, the relief. I felt it run into my lacy socks and pool in my Mary Janes. And then there was the puddle on the floor. Oh well. The dog. The Dread Mrs. Cohen was many things, but dumb was not one of them. Almost instantly, she started moving the other children away from the puddle, whispering "Don't step in the..." She trailed off. Since I was the puddle, I was left alone. She looked at me sadly, then looked away.

On the bus, I did not have a bus buddy. No one mentioned it. While we often have delusional memories of our childhood, I honestly think no one noticed except The Dread Mrs. Cohen, and she kept everyone away from me. Children are so wonderfully narcissistic at that age. But I still blame The Dread Mrs. Cohen for ignoring me completely. Not offering me one smidgen of comfort or reassurance. The closest she came to acknowledging my suffering was the announcement, right before we boarded the bus: "If anyone needs to use the restroom, I can show you where it is." Now you tell me that governors pee like the rest of us.

When I got back to school, I stepped off the bus and started walking, and didn't stop until I was home. Either no one noticed or no one cared. My mother made me a grilled cheese while I was in the bath. When I got back to school, no one asked why my dress was now blue.

Later, I heard that Jerry Brown was elected governor. That wasn't too interesting, but then he started dating Linda Ronstadt, which was. I loved her, and used to sing "You're No Good" out the window with my friends to a boy we liked who lived in the cul-de-sac. So I guess Jerry Brown was alright.

So when people ask me, what's it like? Having him around again? I want to say: it makes me reflect on the human condition. Ah, they might say, nodding. The youngest California governor ever, and the oldest, too. Of course.

Only that's not what I mean at all.

Sunday, November 07, 2010

And Soon I'll Hear Old Winter's Song

I don't really have anything to say. But that's never stopped me.

We turned the clocks back. So did you, I'd wager. I remember how much harder this week was when I lived on the East coast. It got really, really stupid cold the same week that it got dark at like 4 p.m. And that always sent me into a spiral of something-or-other. I guess a spiral of curling up in my mukluks in the Antique Gold arm chair I'd found on someone's lawn with a juicy book until spring. I was a lot more literary before the internet came along.

It was Joy's birthday this weekend. We saw Megamind and went to Sammy's to celebrate. The girls' minds were blown by the Messy Sundae--it's like every year they forget they exist and then suddenly, YOWZA! You mean the fudge is not confined to the insides of the glass??? Megamind was good, I thought. I don't usually like Will Ferrell but he was sort of sweet. And Brad Pitt, Tiny Fey, Jonah Hill and David Cross were dependably hilarious. I have noticed a disturbing trend of all these animated kids films having some serious daddy and mama drama going on. Someone is always needing redemption or vindication from some sort of familial crisis. I guess it's the universal story.

Today I took Jarrah to her preschool friend Jacqueline's house for a surprise birthday party. Jacqueline didn't seem all that stoked to be surprised. And distinctly unstoked to have noisemakers aimed at her brain. I collected them as discreetly as possible. But she was very happy to have brunch and cake and crafts with her friends, and I had a nice time because it was a small crowd and, well, there were mimosas. It's very civilized to start a Sunday morning with champagne, I think. It made me a tiny bit sad that Jarrah hasn't seen Jacqueline since June, and they will probably soon forget each other. I'm a bit negative about childhood friendships because none of mine lasted. Which I guess is not that unusual.

We rushed out of there because we had tickets to Willa Wonka and the Chocolate Factory at the Junior Theater. The theater is awesome, and they were really on in this one. The 14- and 13-year-old Willy and Charlie were total stars. But the actor who really got me in standing o mood played Augustus Gloop. He knocked my socks right off with his voice like an angel and the way he danced in lederhosen while belting "I Eat More." I mean, what a genius song. Who ever thought Augustus Gloop could steal the show?

Jarrah is still enjoying school, except for the five minutes each morning she spends moaning "Why do you always wake me up in the middle of the night?" Please record those questions on the pink and goldenrod forms and file with the appropriate authorities, Jarrah. Because I'd like some answers, too. She has been doing some "environmental spelling" (I love these early childhood pedagogical terms I'm picking up) when we drive around and still loves reading us books. I haven't heard a peep about her behavior from anyone and I'm guessing that's a good thing. She seems very fond of everyone in her class and knows all their names, first and last. She's also told me several times how bats use "echo location." I guess she thinks I might understand it eventually.

My play has been fraught with drama. Last week we had to rehearse in a closet-sized room with the doors and windows sealed and no A/C when it had been in the '90s all day. For several hours. The room also had about 20 people in it and my nose was practically touching the wall when I had to go "downstage." Tensions are high and the director and her "stage manager" have been screaming at us a lot. I mean, we kind of suck right now, sure, but I don't think the screaming is helping. Instead it's making me really nervous and I keep forgetting my lines. I told David I am sad because it's official now--I will appear in exactly half the numbers in the show. Meaning I wish I had more stage time. And David said I should choose to be pleased that I am in half the numbers. I guess it's a classic Cosmopolitan is half-full or half-empty kind of scenario. But I know that I could have been in more numbers if I wasn't such a stress case the last couple of weeks and blowing my lines all the time. I guess the only thing to do now is buck up and try to be the best I can be.

Not that anyone is going to see it. First of all, I don't fully understand the ticketing system. Second, the part that I do understand sounds so complicated that I can't imagine even David is going to brave it. Getting a ticket involves driving to a 7-11 about 50 miles from here and giving the secret password to the guy behind the counter, who will staple the tail of a rare North American Red Fox to a fake ticket, which must then be exchanged for a real ticket at the box office on the night of the show. I really wish I were kidding. So if you have any inclination to come see me, please let me know now, as we will need to secure your Fish and Game license.

Saturday, November 06, 2010

And Tell Snowball I Said Hi

You know what I can't stand? When I'm on the phone and the other person says:

"Well, I'm going to let you go."

I'm not that much of a phone person, so I don't hear it often, and I certainly don't know a lot of people who say it. But when they do say it, they always say it the same way. And it sounds like this:

"Well, I sure am tired of talking to you. I don't actually need to do anything right now, have nowhere to be, nothing is boiling over on the stove, my kids are not trying to kill each other, no cop is giving me the stink eye because I forgot my Blu-Tooth, but...the fact remains that this call is done for me. So...I'm going to go and make it look like I'm doing you a favor. Just out of the goodness of my heart. That way, it's a win-win. I get to stop having this boring conversation, and you think I'm keenly aware of your needs, so much so that I can sense them without you saying a word."

And are people really thinking/implying all that when they use those seven (eight if you don't want a contraction) little words? I don't know. But that's what it always seems like to me. Interestingly, the people who say this are never the ones I've been gabbing with for an hour. No, we've just had a three-minute exchange that involved some sort of time and place negotiation, and a couple pleasantries about the family. Now we are finished, apparently.

So what's my problem? It kinda hurts my feelings. Because it feels so disingenuous. It makes me feel like we don't really know each other very well. Because if we did, I think they would say:

"I gotta go. I really need to go watch Gossip Girl and eat Halloween candy. Talk to you soon. By the way? You're the best."

Now that's more like it.

Readers, how about you? Which little turns of phrase, posing as social niceties (or not!) drive you batty?

Friday, November 05, 2010

Party On, Garth

Last week was amazing. I felt like the luckiest birthday girl in the world. I've already told you about my Thursday at Glen Ivy, and my fancy ladies lunch on Tuesday. But there was more! Oh, my jewel-encrusted goblet runneth over.

And a huge shout-out to all you dear ones who called, texted and or FBed me on or near the big day. You can't know how loved you make me feel. I am truly grateful.

Wednesday night I was invited to tea at Reds in Point Loma (this place has become to our theater group what Sardi's once was to Broadway) and Calvin and Lisa had baked homemade Whoopie Pies--both chocolate and orange-coconut varieties--to surprise me. Do you know what Whoopie Pies are, Readers? They are like little sandwiches, if the bread were cake and the filling were the most delectable marshmallow cream. I ask you, is that not the most original birthday baked good ever? (It is, though suddenly they seem to be the latest sliders and make-your-own fro-yo--I'm seeing them everywhere!) Anyway, they were awesome, as are the bakers. I always call them my theater peeps, but really, after two years they don't need a category anymore. Twoof.

Because I wasn't home to celebrate with David and Jarrah on my actual birthday, the former planned a celebratory dinner--and invited Mary, Paul and Joy!--the day after. He chose the Cosmopolitan, because we had so much fun there back in September. You can read my review here, if you haven't seen it. I was supposed to meet everyone there after Nia, but for the first time in history I canceled my class because no one showed up! WTH? Never mind. I had plenty of time to get ready for my big evening out, and we had a gorgeous time. Even Jarrah and Joy enjoyed themselves, which wasn't a given after we found out that Magician Boy had the night off. The girls put on a show for everyone, enlisting the help of the piano player for accompaniment. Which we didn't see much of, because we were too busy drinking (my margarita on the rocks had me a little slow and slurry in minutes) and dragging piping-hot churros through a lake of Mexican hot chocolate. There might have been some fajitas with "Autumn Succotash" in between, but I wouldn't put money on it. A beautiful evening--I love you guys!

Saturday night I had grand plans that I almost canceled after a four hour morning rehearsal where I did NOT shine my light, and three hours in the afternoon working/memorizing a scary, angry monologue with Jessica for an upcoming audition. I did squeeze a nap in there, but I still felt tres bizarre climbing into a black lace witchy dress, fishnets, fingerless gloves and cat-eye makeup to meet up with Lisa, Will and Jill in downtown Chula Vista for OnStage Playhouse's midnight The Rocky Horror Show. I am not a morning person, but I'm not a club kid, either. (Never was, even when I was a kid who lived near clubs.) But I rallied, and I'm so glad I did. First, we headed to a bar called Dock's, which seems to have been established in 1954 and never renovated, and I think maybe its first patrons are still in there, too. Saturday night is karaoke night, and after nabbing ourselves a big, round, red naugahyde booth, I wasted no time bringing some slips to the KJ. Readers, I have always loved the idea of karaoke, but until my theater experience, I would get up there and literally be paralyzed with terror, every extremity buzzing as the blood raced to my heart to keep me alive. I could never really open my mouth and just sing. This time, I chose "Cabaret" and spent the opening bars doing the Charleston. That seemed to put everyone in a good mood, so I just went for it, belting the song to the stars. I got a lot of clapping and hootin' and hollerin' (and one guy who just wanted to touch me when I was done) and may I say that is the biggest freakin' high in the world? Singing into a microphone for a roomful of strangers? If you've never done it, I encourage you to try it sometime.

And then the show was all kinds of awesome. The Phantoms met us in the lobby, and I got a big lipstick "V" on my head since I'd never seen Rocky Horror before. There were six of us, and we had to stand up and be whipped before the show. One of the gals even offered me her electronic cigarette, which somehow smelled like apple pie, but I demurred. We did a lot of shouting and singing and only once did I wonder if something was wrong with me because I felt like I was on Xanax. Oh right, I realized. It's like two in the morning and I woke up at 7:00. But it was totally worth it. The show is up through the end of November--I highly recommend it.

Though I was out until 3:00, I made it to the gym the next day by 11:00 because I rock. Then I got to hang out a bit and even sneak in a bit of a nap before we went to trick-or-treat with Stephanie and Co. She made us a lovely dinner beforehand, and then we were off through the nabe with what seemed like most of its residents. One guy had thoughtfully brought a little red wagon in case some of the children got tired, or so I thought until I squinted in the darkness and noticed that the little red wagon was chock full of a big ol' bucket of ice. And beer. Who knew that this was the grown-up secret to Halloween? If only I liked the stuff. A little red wagon that dispensed Cosmos--now that I could get behind. (Or in front of? If they made me pull it?)

Jarrah was lovin' her some Halloween like never before, and she and Nathan sprinted from house to house, amassing so many pounds of candy that she resorted to having me carry her bag. Which is all good for us, since we can walk right over to her stash and swipe something with impunity--much more where that came from. Sigh. I think we'll be eating tiny Milky Ways through New Year's.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Tuesday, November 02, 2010

I've Always Depended Upon The Kindness Of Strangers

So, I need some advice. I mean, it's going to sound like I need a "no, really, you're awesome!" pat on the shoulder (and certainly I would never turn that down) but really I want some objective opinions. As objective as you can be about me, which will vary depending on who you are. :)

I mentioned a while back that rather than quit community theater in a blaze of melodramatic glory when I had a major casting disappointment, I had decided to go full-out in the other direction: audition for everything that appeared on my radar, rejection be damned.

And I'm pleased to say that I've made good on that vow. I've had three big auditions in the past two months. The first one, you've heard about--a lot--because I was cast. It's been a balm to my wounded soul to have people appreciate what I can do, and I'm having fun and being challenged, too. to explain this? The show is not part of an established theater, with a long history and a season of plays lined up. It's a one-off from an independent production company, and as such, I don't think I was competing against the classically-trained community theater denizens who usually come out for these things.

But the other two auditions, I was. Two theaters, on opposite sides of the county, with a full season of shows on the bill. One comedy, and one drama. One paid, one not. I went for it because both of the plays interested me, and because both have juicy roles for women. I also figured that I'm not going in totally cold anymore--I have seven shows under my belt from the past two years.

Readers, I do think I am brave for having done these auditions. Both of them required me to memorize a monologue and perform it for a roomful of strangers in a space I'd never seen before. Even though I'm getting used to it, I recognize that for most of the world, that little activity description would be a deal-breaker right there. Memorize? Perform? Strangers? Hell, no. So, yay for me! I was brave.

But I didn't get a callback either time. The first one--the comedy--I chose my own monologue and thought I kind of killed it, Southern accent and all. I knew it cold, and really felt almost relaxed when I performed it. And, in the immortal words of Diana Morales, "I felt nothing." But I'm not talking about me. I felt all kinds of things. But I felt nothing from THEM. It was like performing for a force-field. I had a strong sense that I'd lost the part the second I walked in the room and they saw me. Gulp. That is hard to take. But probably true.

The second time (this was just last night) felt different. For one thing, I'd been asked to memorize the same monologue as every other woman. And I could tell it was tough. Just reading it was hard for me. I had the sense every time I did it that I could be making a hundred different choices. I even read the whole play, so I would have context. I had this weird sense that I just didn't have the formal training I needed for this kind of intensity. Maybe that sounds like an excuse. But I felt out of my element.

But the audition was different. I was a lot more nervous, for one thing, and didn't feel as confident about the material. I have never done drama before (well, Ibsen, but that has no profanity or physical violence--emotional, yes) and worried I would look like a shrill hack for two minutes. But I went for it. I don't think I forgot anything, and I didn't hold back. And when I was done, I didn't feel nothing. I felt like at least a couple of them were reacting. I felt a molecular change in the room, as I'm fond of saying. And then I got a surprise when the director said:

"Thank you. Can I ask you something?" (Um, sure. Of course. Absolutely.) "Would you be willing to try it again, but this time...really frantic?" (I had been the picture of intense calm. But sure. Of course. Yes.)

No one has ever asked me to do it again. A different way. I was kind of encouraged by this--maybe I shouldn't have been, but I was. And I went for it, and I was definitely frantic. Partly because I started pacing around. Partly because I was now forgetting big swatches of the monologue, though I didn't stop at all, I just kept going. But I did it. It was definitely different.

Afterward, I couldn't tell if it was a train wreck or what. It might have been. I felt hot and hoarse. They asked if I was free for callbacks, my schedule, yada yada, and I was on my way. I have gotten skilled enough to remember to thank everyone with a smile, walk with confidence, shake everyone's hand firmly. That much I can manage.

So I just got the e-mail saying they saw a lot of talent and unfortunately and thank you and try again. Really, it's mighty nice of them to even send an e-mail, and so soon. I do appreciate that.

But here's where I need the advice. Is it enough now? I mean, I'm not saying that I should give up my girlish dreams of being a real actor, but is it time to admit that I'm just not very skilled and go take some classes or something? Pay my dues some more? Or, decide to write and direct, both of which I think come more naturally to me?

The fact is, though, that I'm a performer. Of some kind. I may not be good at this, but I WANT to be. Is that enough? Or, if I keep going and keep getting rejected, will it just leak into my system like slow-release arsenic that I'm chasing a foolish dream, and then I'll be disillusioned for life? Is it better to stop now and just imagine that I might have gotten somewhere, someday?

I truly don't know. What do you think?

Monday, November 01, 2010

They Say It's My Birthday

I had such a dreamy birthday. On the actual day, I woke up really excited because I was going on an adventure. I was off to Glen Ivy Hot Springs in Corona with my dear friend, Mary, and my sister, Lindsey.

Bright and early, Mary and I hit the road. It was one of those dazzling days that we get in late October, but without the accompanying scorch of Santa Ana Winds, and a perfect 75 degrees. (Thank you, Birthday Goddess!) First, Starbucks stop for road trip sustenance. I got a frappucino with several pounds of whipped cream cuz it was my birthday. Soon we were sailing up the I-15, an otherworldly landscape of giant boulders in every direction. The hour passed in a flash because of the rare treat of an uninterrupted gab session with Mary--normally we have our kids with us.

Because it was a weekday in the off-season, Glen Ivy was having a killer special with a very cheap day rate. I, of course, got in free because it was my actual birthday. Both of us were signed up for massages but on the spur of the moment she added a pedicure and I got a facial. Those of you who read this post will be wondering why I dared, but it turned out to be a great decision.

Lindsey was still in traffic, so we headed for the locker room and got into our suits and robes--this is how we would remain all day. I was never fully dry, but I didn't get cold because of my robe (courtesy of Mary on my last birthday!) and the glorious weather. Glen Ivy is such a casual place--I never spotted a cell phone, and there was nary a French pedicure or designer swim suit in sight. It's not that kind of spa. I did flout convention and hide my phone--set to silent--in my was my birthday, after all, and I didn't want to miss any calls.

We waded into the saline pool, sheltered by a Romanesque pergola with grand columns lacking only tendrils of ivy to complete the look. Sitting in the steam and admiring the lush greenery all around us, I knew I'd made a good decision for this little field trip. Too soon, Mary was off to her pedicure, but I was able to greet Lindsey when she arrived and show her around before I was whisked off to my facial.

Linda was adorable in her cat-eye specs and Louise Brooks bangs, and put me at ease instantly. Noticing my suit was wet, she suggested I get naked and cuddle under the blankets and she would put it in the oven to be warm when I was done. Nice! Before long, her cool fingers were massaging something that smelled like lemongrass into my cheeks and I'm happy to say that not only didn't she shove anything into my eyeballs, she was meticulously careful to avoid that scenario. She seemed very knowledgeable and said something I haven't heard at a facial in years: "Actually, your skin is pretty clear." Wow, maybe I am getting old. She applied something with a big, fluffy brush at the end and offered me a mirror when we reached the lobby. Not sure how she did it but I looked like I'd just had a week's vacation and lost 10 years. That usually doesn't happen after a facial.

I was just in time to meet Lindsey and Mary at Cafe Sole for a cafeteria-style lunch of salad, soup and paninis, which we enjoyed under an umbrella poolside. The food wasn't that great, but it was filling, and we didn't have time to linger anyway since all three of us had massages right after. Strangely, my massage therapist was also named Linda, and she was great. I did have to ask her for a blanket after the first 10 minutes--I was just under a sheet, and I get very chilly during massages. Other than that, I was drooling the whole time. Afterward, I saw that I had a few birthday texts and felt deliciously naughty texting back "Thank you so much! Just had a massage and am about to get in the pool." What a day!

Met up with Lindsey at Club Mudd, where one quickly puts aside one's squeamishness and is glad one did. We waded into the warm, red-hued pool with a shiny mountain in the center, and slathered each others' backs with the smooth, slippery mud the consistency of potter's clay. Then we waded out to a dry-land mountain that we could squish onto our legs and bellies and feet. When we were completely caked from head to toe, we warmed ourselves in the Wafa, and then stretched out on muddy lounges to dry. The mud itches a bit as it dries, but it leaves a wonderful, rosy glow as it sucks all the toxins from your body, or so they claim. Soon Mary joined us and I waded back in with her and started the process all over again.

After a very long outdoor shower with some delicious hibiscus body wash to scrub off all the dirty bits, we headed to the mineral baths, which were the original Glen Ivy claim to fame. They are small and reek of sulfur, but they feel great. Mary and I soaked while Lindsey just dunked her toes to avoid baking her baby.

Then it was on to the Lounge Pool, a simple concept but one of my favorite spots at Glen Ivy. It's a big pool only a foot or so deep, filled with cushy blue lounges for floating. We glided and bobbed for the better part of an hour, feeling the gentle roll of the warm water and the sun warming our faces. When I opened my eyes, there was a canopy of palms and bougainvillea overhead, and I was so peaceful and relaxed. I wanted it to last forever, but alas, suddenly they were announcing over the P.A. that they'd be closing in a half-hour. Next time I'll get there earlier.

After a hot shower under a rainfall head and a little time for prettying ourselves, it was time to say goodbye to Lindsey (who was heading home in the opposite direction) and head to Temecula--30 miles away--for dinner. Even though it was rush hour, we didn't hit even one minute of traffic (thank you, Birthday Goddess) and sailed into Old Town just as the twinkle lights were starting to illuminate the wooden facades. I had chosen a new-to-me gastropub called Public House for dinner--it looked simple but yummy. Turns out I chose well. We were seated on the back terrace next to a combination fire pit/water feature in cushy lounges and minutes later were being called "luvs" by our decidedly not British waiter/chef. Because I am a low culture kind of gal, I was tickled pink by the "house-made rootbeer and cream soda on draught," and one sip of the latter (resplendent with crushed vanilla beans!) and I was announcing "Now that is liquid crack." Because it was homemade, it was sweet, but not corn-syrup-sweet; real-vanilla-sweet. I sucked back the whole glass in minutes.

Soon, we were spreading some kind of local cheese cured in "vegetable ash" (didn't catch what that involved) onto triangular toasts along with spoonfuls of cherry confit and an arugula salad with some kind of addictive dressing (maybe it had cream soda in it?) Between the cheese and the salt-and-vinegar chips in family-sized portions, we were pretty full by the time our main courses arrived--she had the "Vegetable Menage-a-Trois" with tomato basil bisque, salad and portabello sliders, and I had the Kobe meatloaf with ridiculous potatoes, crisp on the outside and melting in the middle. I had one bite of meatloaf and one of potato and then the whole thing had to go in a box. Never mind--it was my birthday. David enjoyed it for lunch the next day.

Barely able to keep our eyes open after having been massaged, soaked, sunned and sauced with mud all day, we headed home, now sated from a fabulous dinner. Even the drive back was a massive treat, cruising down the freeway reliving all the fine points of our fabulous day.

Lindsey had brought us a beautiful pink, be-ribboned box of cupcakes from Susiecakes, which we carried from place to place all day but were never un-full enough to eat. With apologies to Mary, David and I enjoyed them in front of the Rocky Horror episode of "Glee" when I got home that night. Imagine our delight when we discovered that the frosting (cream cheese for the pumpkin, chocolate for the chocolate) tunneled through to the bottom of the cupcake! Genius!

A quick peek at Facebook (wonder of wonders, I'd been offline all day!) to get a little teary over the sweet b-day greetings, and I fell asleep with a smile on my face. Lucky me--the celebration wasn't done yet. More birthday news in the next post.