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 robe...it 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.

Newborn

It's my birthday tomorrow, and as I've mentioned in this space before, I'm always a little shocked when other people don't know it's a national holiday. You'd think I'd grow out of this inconvenient world view by my advanced age, but it hasn't happened. For instance, Jarrah's school is having a fundraiser tomorrow where you're supposed to shop at a particular grocery store and the school will make a percentage of the sales. And I'm all like, "Great idea, guys, but the date? I mean, isn't that a little unglamorous for the occasion? Will they be handing out slices of cake?"

And yet there has been some amusing evidence that the public is starting to catch on. The other night I was giving instructions to our babysitter and she interjected "It's your birthday on Thursday, right? Happy Birthday." I stared at her. "How do you know that?" "It's the password for the Tivo. I've known it forever." (That was not my doing, by the way. Point the finger at my dear husband.) Yesterday when I dropped Jarrah at school, a friend's husband (whom I've barely exchanged ten words with previously) said "Hey, have a great birthday on Thursday." "Um, thanks!" I said, totally taken aback. Then I remembered that it's his son's sixth birthday the same day. (When I told this story to a friend, she said "Um, I still find it totally bizarre that he knew.")

Today I'm prepared for everyone to start wishing me many happy returns. Supermarket checkers, cleverly noting my personal stats as they scan my frequent-shopper card. The guy collecting signatures in front of Target. It's going to pop up in the gas pump window instead of "Want a car wash?" I'll be ready, and unsurprised. But I'll still be thrilled.

The birthday has already begun very promisingly. Yesterday my friend Synthia (whom I met in 1984!) took me out for a fancy-shmancey "ladies who lunch." Well, first we had a long walk at Spanish Landing down by the harbor, so the ladies were lunching in workout clothes, but never mind. She chose a place I've never been called Avenue 5, and I'm not sure which was more delectable: the food or getting to spend nearly two hours catching up with my dear friend. By the time we were dipping our spoons into the salted butterscotch pot de creme (oooohh mmmmm) and sipping extra-foamy cappuccino with flower-shaped butter cookies on the side, I was feeling hugged from the inside out. (Don't think too hard about that.)

When I perk up and pay attention, I'm ridiculously blessed with some of the sweetest loved ones in the world. And you know how I know? Not one of them scowls or sighs or rolls their eyes when evidence of my unhealthy birthday fixation emerges. On the contrary: they treat me like the fragile newborn lamb I am, bleating that the world is cold and I need to be fluffed and wrapped in a blanket until I toughen up and stop wobbling.

If the newborn lamb had a tiara, that is. Queen Lamb. That's me.

Not Our Usual Haunts

Weekend of major events. First, the annual Friday night visit to Haunted Birch Aquarium, which has become a tradition with Mary, Paul and Joy. Always a lot of fun, starting with "Dark Picnic" in the courtyard and culminating in glow-in-the-dark squid. This year, we were joined by my friend Re from Seattle, plus her husband, Brian, and their daughter, Cadence. It was great to have them along.








Saturday night was the Black Tie Gala for the San Diego Asian Film Festival. It's not typical for us to be hobnobbing at an event that's $200 a head, but David's company, CineForm, is a sponsor of SDAFF this year (not to mention that David is working his ass off trying to prevent the overheated films from blowing up at the screenings.)

Readers, here's my assessment of the gala, and probably all galas: they are crapcake. I don't see what there is to recommend them, unless maybe I was getting a Golden Globe, or my date was, or I'd had a lot of Xanax. Here is a partial list of the ways it made me cranky:

1. I spent two hours getting ready. TWO HOURS. This was not the Oscars. I needed a stretcher to get to the car afterward. Plus, my dress, which was a bit of a commitment to start with (floor-length, several pounds of voluminous taffeta) was freakishly, horribly TIGHT in one spot around my ribs and had me wanting to claw it off in shreds an hour later.

2. Our tickets were free, but we had to pay eight dollars to park the car. Without a valet. Or stretcher.

3. The "passed hors-d'ouevres" meant one very wet chicken quesadilla bite for each person, impossible to eat with one's fingers and not gloop all over one's aforementioned taffeta dress. Luckily, the complimentary Side Cars were useful for swilling it down.

4. We were at Table 57. Doesn't mean anything to you? Hint: there were 57 tables. So guess where ours was? Sandwiched between two emergency exits in the nether regions of the ballroom. Someone was trying to send us a message, and I think that message was "You didn't donate anything, did you?" David and I were seated with Grace and Julianna, and also joined by two KPBS personalities (they were nice, but spent most of their time texting) and the rest of the table was alternately empty or occupied by random passerby. One woman stood in the corner murmuring into her phone until everyone was eating--I'm fairly certain she just happened to pass the room and was feeling peckish. None of these people acknowledged us, so it was like being at a wedding where the bride has really blown it on the seating chart.

5. The video screens displayed the events at the same ratio they appeared on the distant stage, several miles away. Ergo, there were now three opportunities for us to not be able to see what was happening. I think there were some nonlinear video clips, some muffled patter, and some symphonic Lady Gaga medleys. Couldn't tell you much more.

6. We watched about 500 people get their dinner before us, and when we were served, around 9 p.m. the choice was chicken with Balsamic Jello molded on top, or a huge, tough steak accompanied by a butter knife. Grace sawed and sawed for several minutes without results, finally giving up. I was less decorous and eventually just gripped the fork in my fist like a caveman. "Did they surgically extract the flavor from these carrots?" I wondered aloud.

7. Since we couldn't see anyway, I suggested we retreat early to the "after-party" in the courtyard, which featured two roaring fire pits and the cutest set-up for "make your own s'mores." We got a nice table to ourselves and speared some marshmallows, not realizing the pokers had antenna-like action until we'd already singed our bangs. We held those marshmallows in the fire for a half-hour, and while they were happy to grow black and shriveled, their core temperature never dropped below cool and chewy. We decided they were left-over rations from the war, in storage until this event. And the graham crackers had a peculiar smell, like "Eau de Olde Cosco Box." It began to rain as we were gnawing on our treats. "I think the theme of the evening is 'Gelatinous Foods,' announced Julianna. A band called "Crunchy Sandwich" started up right around the time we were ready to bail.

8. Oh, we did catch glimpses of Daniel Dae Kim from Lost (who seemed to be getting an award for his abs), Danny Pudi (from Community) and John Cho (from Star Trek) though Julianna's heart was ready to break that we missed Harry Shum, Jr. from Glee because of my clever s'mores idea.

Sunday we spent the day at Sea World with Re and her family. The weather was perfect and there was trick-or-treating for the kids at various "stations" around the park. The last time David and I were at Sea World we had a stroller and a diaper bag, so it's been a while. We did have a really nice day, though a bit too short since Re and Co. had to catch a plane.

Because Jarrah was too small the last time, David and I had never been on any of the rides that Sea World has added in recent years, and this time we did them all. Now we've learned the theme of all Sea World rides: YOU WILL GET WET. Not splish-splashed like you do at Knotts and D-land, but SOAKED TO THE SKIN. See video below, which really is rather funny (and amazing video quality, I think!) On Shipwreck Rapids, a wave sloshed over my lap and I had a sopping wet bum for the rest of the day. Later, Journey to Atlantis took care of any remaining dry parts, adding a brisk chlorine facial that drenched my hair and removed all my makeup. Jarrah and I got hit so hard we were both spluttering for air. Lesson for future: wear a bathing suit and flip-flops on those rides, and maybe a cover-up of insta-dry camping fabric. But were they fun? Shipwrecked: yes. Loved it. Atlantis: no. Too steep for me. I like wind-y rollercoasters--ones that go straight down make me feel very, very weird. Not sick-weird. Just unpleasant weird.

Got to see the latest incarnations of the Shamu show (which I was skeevy about due to the recent fatal accident in Florida) and the Dolphin show, which had changed for the first time in like 25 years. And I ask you: whither the shlocky Catskills tummeling of my youth? I miss the bad puns, the fake "tourists" who fall in the water, the repetitive jokes about what Shamu really thinks of you. Now it's all soaring, inspirational strings, and perplexing videos where little boys grow up to be Seaworld trainers. The Dolphin show no longer seems to have dolphins, though I did really enjoy the aerobatic Cirque de Soleil performers dressed as parrots. "So, why is the parrot eating the dolphin?" David asked, when a colorful winged creature hauled a gray-clad swimmer out of the pool. "It's symbolic of the connection between heaven and sea," I rhapsodized. Maybe I can help write their brochures.

Untitled from David Newman on Vimeo.

"...the center of all beauty..."

Yesterday afternoon it rained. Jarrah was watching Dora and I was spacing out in front of the computer. Just like everyday. And I suddenly realized that Jarrah and I don't talk much after school. She watches TV, reads, draws or plays with toys. I space out in front of the computer, as I already mentioned. We don't ignore each other. Occasionally, she'll ask for a snack, and I'll make it. Occasionally, I'll ask her how she's doing. She's always fine.

And it occurred to me that we haven't talked much after school in years.

Oh, don't get me wrong. If we have a playdate, then we talk on the way there, and on the way back. If she has a class or an appointment, we do the same. But on the days we are home in the afternoon, it's like we are in our own little bubbles, and clearly that's the way I like it. Her, I don't know. Until yesterday, I'd never much thought about it.

I had a hard year starting when Jarrah was one. Which is when I met her. I found her mind-bogglingly hard to keep up with. She was never still. She dragged her own diaper bag to the front door and pointed. She ate around the clock. She went through the garbage. Her idea of "playing" was demanding I provide voices for a never-ending cast of plastic characters while she giggled and said "Again!" Sometimes, as I dragged my sleep-deprived, unshowered bones around on the cold hardwood floor, I had the distinct sensation that I was trying to talk through a hearty dose of Valium. So. Hard. To. Form. Words. So. Hard. To. Have. Thoughts. When she started getting interested in TV (took a while) and imaginary friends, I encouraged it, and anything that gave me five minutes alone in my own head. I was a graduate student for 11 years. I am used to having a LOT of time alone in my own head.

Now, though, so much time has passed that she doesn't question it. She is perfectly content to amuse herself until dinner because that's what we do, and she is used to it. Kids get used to anything, I'm told.

So I had this thought: What am I doing? Right now she likes me, she really likes me. She has no complicated feelings about me, no ambivalence whatsoever. If I could peek into her brain, one whole track would be dedicated to "I Like Mommy, And Mommy Likes Me." And this will not last. I've been warned. And I've lived it. One day--it will feel like tomorrow--she won't want to be caught dead with boring, old, uncool, unreasonable, bossy me. She is almost six, and I have no idea how that happened. So this will definitely be tomorrow. Before tomorrow comes, I should spend some time with my daughter while she thinks I'm the bee's knees, the cat's pajamas. Because that time may be almost over.

I walked into the TV room and said "Wanna do a puzzle?" That got her attention.

"What kind of puzzle?" she said warily. But she was already turning off the TV, without being asked.

"Any kind you like. Pick one out." The second sentence was delivered to her retreating back as she galloped towards her puzzle cupboard. Well, then. She still likes me.

We got out her wild animal safari puzzle, and spread out the hundred pieces. Somehow I knew, even though we hadn't done this in ages, that she would be very good at puzzles. Sure enough, she was fast. She had strategies. "Everything orange is part of the water, and goes near the bottom." I recalled the endless hours of watching her drool and mouth-breathe while I repeated, testily, "Edge. EDGE. That's an EDGE." Not now. Now she had a tendency to delicately swipe a piece right out of my hand if I hesitated too long. I had to speak to her about that.

"Jarrah, it's not polite to take the piece I was working on. That's taking away my fun."

"Sorry. We haven't learned about that yet in school." Smart ass.

"Well, you're learning about it right now, from ME." I retorted.

When the puzzle was done, she suggested another, and then a third. David came home in the middle of that one. I asked her to put the puzzles pieces away and left the room. She called to me a few moments later.

"Can you help me?"

"Sure." I saw that two of the puzzles were back in their boxes, and I got down to help with the third. As we were sweeping the pieces into a pile, she smiled and said:

"When you asked if I wanted to do a puzzle, I thought: 'What's going on? THAT doesn't happen!'" She laughed happily.

My heart felt stabbed a little. I'm a terrible mother. I shock my child when I offer to play with her. It's such a freakish occurrence.

"You mean because we usually don't do puzzles?" I asked, smiling too, but in a different way.

"Yeah."

"Well..." I groped. "It was a rainy day, and just seemed like good puzzle weather."

"I think we should do puzzles every time it rains."

"It's a deal."

"And maybe on other days. How about Fridays?"

"Fridays will be puzzle days."

This afternoon it rained.

"Can we do a puzzle, Mommy?"

This time I didn't hesitate. "Sure we can."

We did two.

Crybaby Cheers Up

Ahhhh. I'm in my pajamas, filled up with Thai food (it's soft! it's tasty!) looking forward to The Vampire Diaries. Tomorrow's monologue is learned, and I think the last vestiges of Xanax are warding off early-onset stage terror.

Today was not a laugh riot (well, amend that: there was one moment that threatened to send me into one of my hour-long giggle fits--a new cast member erroneously sang that a certain tabloid-staple starlet has had a sex change) but I got through it all with much less trembling and sweating than expected. Also I sternly reminded myself that I am not a Chilean miner who just spent 69 days underground, that I'm just being a big ol' baby, and to suck it up.

First there was a 3.5 hour rehearsal, most of which was simply hard work, and I enjoyed both the work and the distraction. Then there was the last 45 minutes, in which I cringed with embarrassment while repeatedly blowing my lines on a solo I was supposed to have memorized. That was...avoidably humiliating. The avoidable kind is the worst, wouldn't you agree? There was also the disconcerting "meeting" at the beginning where we all got told off for various things and also learned that two cast members, the director's assistant and the stage manager have all resigned or been "released" in the past week, and no one really wants to hear stuff like that. It does not inspire confidence, or warm fuzzies.

Then there was time for a quick lunch before popping my little pink pill, and an hour later I didn't so much mind being driven to the dentist. In fact, I was looking forward to a little rest while watching Couples Retreat (I ask you, why was this movie even made? To give all those people jobs? There wasn't even a story--just a series of sketches in which they humiliated themselves doing yoga with a guy in a speedo.) I made the dentist and her assistant giggle when I went on and on (oooh, this is just coming back to me, not so good) shouting "DAMN! I see myself in the TV and this is NOT a good look for me! DAMN! Not at all!" I vaguely remember wondering what they were laughing about.

Anyway, the thing was long (90 minutes, just like she said) but she did three fillings instead of two. I watched most of the bad movie and the only thing I minded was the occasional glimpse of myself with my mouth prized open in some metal contraption and swathed in pink shiny plastic. That is just not right. And my jaw is incredibly sore because of it. Not even my teeth--just my jaw. "I have a really teeny mouth," I told her after. "It's true, you do," she said. "I can't really open it too much." Clearly, she didn't agree.

D and J picked me up and got me a slushie, and I read magazines in my new Private Reading Nook at home (no one is allowed in without the magic password) while holding an ice pack to my face. Not sure if it was the cold or what, but all the numbness was gone in less than three hours, while last time it took six and a half (!) for one teeny filling. I will have to investigate. In the mean time, I'm grateful I didn't starve.

Tomorrow I'll be able to say "What fresh hell is this?" But tonight, I must confess I'm relieved.

Fear Itself

Good heavens, I haven't blogged since Saturday? What is this world coming to?

Had our first Daisies meeting. I seem to have elected myself "Craft Helper." We'll see about that. I do have a weirdly compulsive love of Michaels and JoAnns, so maybe this is the perfect job for me. One of the moms from Jarrah's class was in there, and we recognized each other, vaguely. When I pointed out Jarrah, she swiveled her head toward her and right back around to say "She's adopted?" It was so abrupt I actually laughed. I don't get that much when David's not around--people just assume my husband is Asian. But since this gal was Chinese herself, I guess there was no foolin' her.

Haven't been to rehearsal all week. Feeling a bit out of the loop since I was there every night last week. I'm back on Saturday. In the mean time, I've decided there's not enough fraught, naked emotion in my life, and I've scheduled an audition for another show, at a different theater. I promised myself I'd get out there, and I'm keeping that promise. (This one doesn't rehearse until February.) There's no way I'll get it--I'm too old for the part, for one thing, and the gig actually pays--but I'm chalking it up to "good experience." Because, you know, everyone needs experiences where you feel like vomiting as you spew some words you've only just barely mastered and try to shake some feeling into your numb hands in front of a room full of strangers whose only task is to judge you, then be tossed out into the cold with an echoing "thank you" and a pounding heart, self-loathing and alone. Yup, everyone should do it.

Lots of news on the tooth front. Jarrah has lost two (count 'em!) teeth since my last post, leaving a gaping void in the bottom half of her mouth and creating a slight difficulty with "esssses." The first night, we forgot all about the tooth fairy, and after that, we said she was coming from Australia, a very long trip, and also has an exceedingly busy schedule. Fair enough, except that four nights later I was ignoring her in favor of Facebook while she nattered on regardless in the nearest ear, ending with "And the tooth fairy is coming, someday, although she's very busy right now" which was like a stake through my terrible heart. Later that night, I suggested we pony up a cool five spot as appeasement, but David thought better of it: "Wait. Isn't that other tooth about to fall out? This could get expensive." He suggested one, and I pushed for two. Now we're out four dollars--and this is just the beginning.

She also had to go to the dentist a couple days ago, no biggie, just a chipped filling, but after 16 cavities she is understandably wary and one look at the swab covered with gooey, orange "sleepy gel" that precedes the massive shot and she clamped her hands over her mouth (no dummy!) for the next twenty minutes of wheedling, cajoling, bargaining and (almost) threats. She finally gave in, and screamed lustily (though did not move!) through the endless minutes of shot-giving while I clutched her hands and hoped I didn't have heart failure. I sat there clutching those hands for an entire hour, though the actual minutes of the procedure numbered about five, or would have without an instant replay of the hand-clamping every time a new instrument was plucked from the tray.

Readers, this was super-relaxing for me, since I myself am so afraid of the dentist that I can barely be lowered in the chair before a massive panic attack sets in. So to sit there gazing directly into my tiny child's mouth while it was shot and drilled was my idea of a spa-like afternoon. Don't get me wrong--I feel for her. But knowing I have to do the same and much, more worse this coming weekend almost had me swooning. On our way out, I summoned (without much effort) the courage to ask: "Can you give me a Rx for Xanax?" I was relieved that she simply said "Sure!" and handed it over. How many of those can I safely take, I wonder? I would prefer not to remember the afternoon at all, since she said I may have to be in the chair (horrors) for 90 minutes.

So, it's sure to be a special weekend. Stage fright and drilling. Wish me luck.

Disconnect

What a weird world it is.

I was with my friend Jessica, looking through books of monologues. She has some really good ones, recent ones, with stuff that people haven't heard a million times already. She said "Oh, this one's perfect!" and started reading it to me. I really liked it. It started out wry and sarcastic, which was good, because we were looking for funny. But then it got very serious. Too serious.

"Let me see it," I said. "Maybe we can cut it down to the funny bits." I started reading it over. I was pondering the situation when I saw something:

The author was a friend I've known for 26 years.

I mean, it could have been a coincidence. But my friend has a really distinctive name. And happens to be a playwright. It's just that she's never mentioned she was a published playwright.

I started laughing. I couldn't stop laughing for a while, so Jessica probably thought I was crazy. I made a mental note to call my friend later.

But the day went on and I forgot about it. Until I started telling David the story over dinner. He asked if I'd called her. I said "No, but I'm going to!" "Just not now," he said. "It's already late on the East Coast."

But I can text her, right? I scrolled through my phone for her number. It was there. I wrote:

Hey you. Are you up? I want to tell you something. :)

She texted right back.

Who's this?

Oh, right. I'm always forgetting that the whole world doesn't have me in their phone. I texted back instantly:

Sorry! It's _______. (I used my full name, including middle. Our full names have been sort of a joke between the two of us since the day we met. You just have to trust me on this.)

Now there was a really, really long lag time. It started to freak me out. I asked David about it. He said it was late, and she was probably tired.

"I don't buy it," I told him. "Because she was up for the first one. And it's ME. If she got a message from me saying 'I want to tell you something' she'd respond in a second, no matter how late. I mean, what if something was really wrong? It's ME."

David said he would never have considered this logic, but now that I presented it to him, he was convinced. At that moment, my phone beeped again.

Hmmm....I don't seem to know you.

Readers, could anything more gorgeously encapsulate the state of communication at this particular moment in history? I sent a message to a friend I've known most of my life. I typed that message on my own little smudgy device with my hot little fingers and sent it out into the air. It arrived. But where did it arrive? A real person received it. I don't know where, or who. And that person was probably Googling me wondering who the heck is this?

I just know they had good grammar ("who's!") and seemed reasonably polite. Two things they share with my friend.

I texted back:

I am soooooo sorry. Old number. Have a good evening. That seemed sort of too formal and too intimate, but somehow right.

The response was immediate:

That's okay. U 2.

Then I deleted the number. I realized that my face was burning hot, and my fingers were sort of trembling. What was bothering me so much? That I corresponded with a stranger? Who could have been mean and troll-y and horrible but luckily wasn't? Was I just embarrassed? I wasn't sure.

But the next day I was still thinking about it. And I'd changed my mind about what was so disconcerting.

Because the correspondence could have been with my friend. Don't misunderstand me. I love her. I know I will always know her and love her. When we see each other, even though it's not often, it couldn't be more natural. But she lives 3,000 miles away and has now for 17 years. We are both married with kid. We don't talk on the phone very often (that much is surely obvious.) We don't see each other much.

And I didn't know she was a published author. That's pretty huge. I have always known she was a writer. And been proud of her. Turns out I had even more reason to be proud, but somehow it never came up. When I wanted to tell her, it turned out I don't even have her most recent number.

See, when I got that message, Who's this? it never entered my mind that it wasn't her, just that I wasn't in her phone. And when I got Hmmm....I don't seem to know you it was like a slap in the face. I don't seem to know you. I don't seem to know you. Why don't I know you, better than I do? Why don't you know me? Why are you having to tell me this "funny" story in the middle of the night when you should already KNOW ME? It was like a gentle reproach. You don't seem to know me. Or you'd know this already. And we are kind to each other, glossing over this gaffe because we do care even though we have drifted. Have a nice evening. U 2.

I still need to call her.

The Pleasure of Pumpkins

We took an after-school field trip with Robyn, Josh and Jared last Wednesday to the booming metropolis of Valley Center, more specifically to that temple of all things autumnal: Bates Nut Farm.

Yes, yes, I've heard the "clever" transposition of this name. I find this one to be a bit like all the people who went around calling it "Tar-JAY" and waiting for my reaction. Meaning, if you've heard it, everyone else has, too. Moving on, then.

Robyn offered to drive us all in her red Lone Star caravan, and we were not a bit put off by the torrential rains that had greeted us in the dark, dark day to which we'd awakened. In fact, I was even more encouraged, as our objective in choosing a Wednesday had been to avoid crowds. Water falling from the sky (all the San Diegans say EEK! WHAT'S THAT WETNESS?) would be double insurance against the pushy pumpkin-seekers.

And look what those gray skies did for our photos! Aren't they lovely? And Readers, not a drop troubled our breezy brows that afternoon. It was a luscious day.

Now, it turns out that part of the crowding at Bates on weekends is due to a whole carnival of concessions that is not, strictly speaking, Bates itself. So all the blow-up slides and pony rides and tri-tip sandwiches I remembered from when Jarrah was two were absent. Never mind. The rest was delish, and all ours.

We began with a peek into the General Store, for which we were rewarded with fudge samples and the kids got to choose candy from the barrels. Oh, I got some yummy-looking Cherry Butter. And maybe a very large package of those Halloween-style candy corn with the chocolate part. (Sshhhh. I'm not sharing.)

Then there was a brief visit to the goats, geese and their friends at the petting zoo before we climbed aboard the tractor for our own private (just us!) tour of the grounds, which I found relaxing despite my prickly straw bale perch.

The real highlight was the maze, which David correctly deduced I would want to do "all myself" with no help from the kids. The kids (including me) had orange cards that we had to get stamped in eight places from corn-husk-covered mailboxes hidden in the corners. Something about starting and completing something always fills me with satisfaction (I'm the same about vacuuming and ironing) so I enjoyed every bit of searching and back-tracking.

And then there was the pumpkin-choosing. It was never quite clear if the kids preferred the pumpkins or the wheelbarrows, but both had their charms. And two residents of the patch came home with us.

Lady-Like

Finally met one of the men in the cast. I'll call him C. I rehearsed with him last night at the library, in a soundproof room. I know it's soundproof because I got there a little early and he was wildly emoting in there with D, and she gestured that I should wait outside. I couldn't hear them at all. From outside, he looked very young. Like, college-young. Plus, he was all kitted out b-boy style, with the baggy shorts and the chains and the tattoos. Finally, D opened the door and told me to go in and meet C while she took a little break. So I did. Here is our first conversation:

Me: Hi.
C: Hi. Are you a southern lady?
Me: No.
C: You're not? I thought you were.
Me: No. Why?
C: So, why are you here?
Me: To rehearse this scene with you.
C: So you are a southern lady.
Me: No. Do you mean, do I play southern in this scene? Then yes.
C: (exploding) Of course that's what I meant! What else would I mean? Like, if I just said "Are you a southern lady?" for no reason? That would be pretty ODD, wouldn't it?
Me: Sure.
C: So why would I do that???
Me: How should I know? Maybe you're odd. I just met you. Lots of people are odd. Actors are odd. I wasn't making any assumptions.
C: So you are southern.
Me: I can do a southern accent.
C: What did you just say about Cinemax?
D: I'm back!
Me: Oh, good!
D: You two getting acquainted?
Me: Sort of. He's been provoking me.

C was making horrible snorfling sounds, and said I shouldn't get too near him because he was sick. "I have no intention of getting near you," I assured him. "But thanks for warning me." He also said that when he got better, he planned to play the part of the judge "Kennedy-like." I wasn't sure what that meant so I just nodded agreeably.

It was pretty fun, rehearsing the scene. D gives really specific direction, which I like. And it was the first time we've rehearsed a spoken scene. I really get to play to the audience in this bit, so I'm loving that.

I had been screwing up the courage to correct D's grammar on a particular line, and finally brought it up. She considered what I said for a moment, then said it sounded wrong. I assured her I'd looked it up. She said we'd discuss it another time and we should keep saying it the old way. I found that...interesting.

There was also a moment when she leaped up and started trying to close the blinds, which wouldn't close. The room was entirely glass. Then she came up next to my ear and murmured, "I need you to pull your pants up." I guess my jeans had been sliding down my behind in all the excitement, and she didn't want me giving the library patrons a show. I found it more adorable than embarrassing, because I kept imagining my last couple of directors ever doing such a thing as commenting on my ass crack, and knew they wouldn't in a million years.

C was excused before I was, and as he was leaving he said he had also taught English, for ten years. I was pretty surprised by this, since I thought he was 22. Guess not. Guess everyone is looking young to me these days, compared to me. Anyway, he better start minding his p's and q's around me, or I'm gonna get cranky.

D asked me to sing one of my songs for her, and to "work the audience" while I did it. I said that was going to be hard, since I don't know the words, and in fact barely remember the song, having only rehearsed it once. She said I should do it anyway. And she made me try it without my script. About 34 times. I was sweating by the time the lights suddenly went out, which made me yelp. D didn't even blink. That's just what they do when the library closes, evidently.

In Which I Am Humbled

What is it they say? Pride goeth before a fall? Yeah, that one. Readers, I've been knocked down a peg. As they say.

Last night's rehearsal was, of course, also an audition. For the first hour and a half, we revisited a number I'm already in, practicing the dance along with the song. I am definitely getting the dance on that one, no problem. But I was quite surprised to find that when it came to my solo, I was totally out of breath. It's a long solo (several sentences) and I need to find a way to breathe before I get there, since I'm both singing and dancing just seconds before. I mean, so is everyone else, but this was the first time I sang and danced it straight through. Did NOT sound fabulous.

Then new actresses showed up, and we auditioned for three more sketches before the end of the night. Can I just say, it was the most exhausting rehearsal I've ever had? Three hours, no breaks, in a tiny, windowless room, either singing or dancing or both the entire time. I have to remember to wear less clothing, too.

Two of the songs we auditioned were singing-only, and I thought I sang them both very well. Shored up by my recent good feedback, I'm feeling pretty confident about my voice. However, D did stop me after the first one and say "Can you try it again? Without that long trilling thing you're doing on the end?" By which I guess she means vibrato. I could feel my cheeks burning when I sang it again, feeling ridiculous that I had been so "singer-ly" in such an obvious way. Not sure how I sounded the second time.

The third song made me giggle with delight, because the themes and language were so unlike anything from my life. The lyrics are all about schooling some woman to get her hands off my man, with lots of snapping, finger-pointing and strutting to accompany the t00-fabulous lyrics that I wish I could reproduce for you here. Let's just say if you've ever heard Vanity Six's "If A Girl Answers (Don't Hang Up)" you get the gist:

Hello, this is Vanity
Is Jimmy home?
Yes, but he's taking a shower
Oh, I see
Did he just take out the trash?
No, that's somethin' he used 2 do
Now he's taking out me

We didn't practice the song much, and D said "We're going to settle this on the dance floor" and I laughed and said "What is this, a Michael Jackson video?" Bit by bit, I'm getting less timid and more like myself--I had Alicia (who I think of as the grande dame of our group) in stitches with my between-scenes booty-shaking.

Readers, here is where the mighty are fallen. Every cast member of this sketch will do the same dance, and I can't do it. Oh, I mean, I can follow the steps. But there's this confounded strut-shuffle-walk thing that has to be performed in double-time and while theoretically I can DO IT, I apparently look pathetic and lame when I do, because D scrunches up her nose, shakes her head and tries not to laugh afterward and I try desperately not to scream in frustration. She was pulling for me, I could tell. She wanted me to get there. But I never did. She even had us do it one by one at the end of the night, and she mouthed "SORRY" to me after I finished. I had to avert my eyes and immediately cross the room on the pretense of gathering my stuff to avoid bursting into tears. She also made a portentous speech about how we don't have that much rehearsal time and she needs people to pick things up instantly, and if we don't we might not be in that many sketches and please don't be mad at me.

Ugh. I was so wrecked when I left there. It didn't escape my notice that Bri and G were the best at the stupid shuffle-walk thing, and both of them are like six feet tall and 90 pounds. Maybe it just looks better on those kind of girls. Yeah, I know, that's sour grapes. But I certainly felt like an ass after Bri tried to help me about 10 times and sympathetically reassured me how hard it was and then said "And what do you do, Sam?" and I had to say "I teach dance." I'm sure she would have swallowed her gum, if she had any.

Driving home, I felt exhausted and deflated. Now I won't get to be in my favorite number so far (that much I feel certain about) but maybe D won't put me in any more numbers since she hates my dancing. And it's so ironic. Because I really can dance. Just...not in five minutes. And without music. I just hope I can keep my cool when she breaks the news. I have to remember that everyone else has been gracious in the face of criticism and now it's just my turn.

What is it they say? The higher you climb, the harder you fall? Something like that.