Mind your peas and queues...

I'm a closet news junkie. Kinda.

I can't stand to watch the network news on TV. In fact, I hate it. I don't like the spin, the political correctness, the sensationalism or the puff pieces.
Just the facts, ma'am.
Tell me what is going on in the world around me. I don't care that your best friend's mother's brother-in-law was also in Uganda and says the environment is 'unbearable'. That's subjective. What is unbearable to some is normalcy for others. Just give it to me straight. Tell me they are a self-contained nation with little import and export. I'm smart enough to figure out that it means they live on limited resources with an increasing population and are growing more dependent on outside support. Understood. Next.

Because I have little patience for network news (though I do indulge in the BBC more often than I admit) I get most of my fix from the internet.

I love that I can read the same report from three different perspectives in impersonal default font and come to my own conclusions based on more information than if I had just tuned into my local news station. However, I've grown increasingly disillusioned as editors of reputable newspapers are replaced with mass-opinion blogs and low standards for the English language.

Too often, I see articles coming from the AP or Reuters that would have my Sophomore English teacher turning red (complete with the throbbing purple vein on the left side of her temple and extending to her forehead.) She discouraged me from a career in journalism because I had a tendency to write like I speak, and as such, I had no respect for technical and grammatical correctness. Plus, I really like run-ons and incomplete or incoherent sentences followed by ellipses...

It doesn't stop me, however, from being particularly picky about my news stories and how they're written. I don't typically go back and read my own writings with an editing eye (though I should) but I'm very good at nitpicking the heck out of something someone else has written. So, no journalism for me... but proofreading and copy-editing is an enjoyable consolation.

My pet peeves range from name switching to confusing pronoun usage to improper word choice and elementary spelling errors. My favorite snafu to catch is the one where the author started her sentence but then deciding to change their voice, tense, or structure halfway through them.

The byline that caught my eye today read: Elderly woman killed in red-light running crash in Phoenix
Now already, I don't like the phrase 'red-light running'. Since when is a red light hyphenated? But I digress... What stood out to me after reading was how many times the victim was referred to as 'elderly'. You see, she was 71... and perhaps I have a skewed sense of age, but that doesn't always strike me as 'elderly'.
I know that the definition refers to anyone old or beyond middle age, so the word choice is appropriate, I suppose. But I always think of elderly as more of a 'state of being' than a number. I've known 80-year-olds that can run circles around me and who are just as self-sufficient as they were 50 years ago. I know 50-year-olds that I wouldn't trust behind the wheel of a car to save my life. My grandparents are sharp as tacks and nowhere near what I'd consider 'elderly'. My elders, yes. Elderly, no.

And yes, I know it's subjective. But that's what I always find interesting about words and interpretation. And also why I think that even in this age of digital media, the written word is still so important to our human evolution. Well, language in general...

And even though I hate quotes, I'm going to end this blog with an excerpt from the script of Waking Life. (One of my absolute favorites.)

       "I mean, [language] came from our desire to transcend our isolation...
            and have some sort of connection with one another.
            And it had to be easy when it was just simple survival.
            Like, you know, "water." We came up with a sound for that.
            Or, "Saber-toothed tiger right behind you!" We came up with a sound for that.
            But when it gets really interesting, I think,
            is when we use that same system of symbols to communicate...
            all the abstract and intangible things that we're experiencing.
            Like, what is, frustration? Or what is anger or love?
            When I say "love,"
            the sound comes out of my mouth...
            and it hits the other person's ear,
            travels through this Byzantine conduit in their brain,
            you know, through their memories of love... or lack of love,
            and they register what I'm saying and say yes, they understand.
            But how do I know they understand? Because words are inert.
            They're just symbols. They're dead, you know?
            And so much of our experience is intangible.
            So much of what we perceive cannot be expressed. It's unspeakable.
            And yet, you know, when we communicate with one another,
            and we-- we feel that we have connected,
            and we think that we're understood,
            I think we have a feeling of almost spiritual communion.
            And that feeling might be transient, but I think it's what we live for."

And this is when I cry...

So, the kids go back to school on Monday and I'm so unbearably depressed.
(Don't go calling Charter, I'm a bit dramatic, but still...)

We went to their registration and orientation two weeks ago, got their schedules and IDs, and it hit me. I'm the parent of an upperclassman. How the heck did this happen? When did this happen??

As of this weekend, my firstborn (who is now 16) is 5'11" and a Junior in High School. My daughter is a Sophomore.

I always found it so cliche when people would tell me that "time flies" and "they grow like weeds", but now that I'm experiencing those sentiments firsthand, it makes me weep with how simplistically true it is.

I can remember like it was yesterday... living in my first apartment, pregnant with David, singing to my belly constantly. (We called him 'Bubba' in utero 'cuz I was sure I was giving birth to a huge biker dude by the way he kicked.) I remember buying our first house when he was six months old... and in that house I would later take cold baths when I was pregnant with Christina in the dead of a scorching Arizona summer.

Born 18 months apart, they have been best friends and worst enemies. I can remember David's temper tantrums and how he'd scream in octaves that would make any coloratura quit the opera in shame. Christina's displeasure could be measured in her silence and furrowed brow (usually accompanied at some point by crossed arms and an audible "harrumph".)

I can't put into words how proud I am of the young adults they are today.

I was cleaning out the office several months ago and found David's baby book. In it was a sealed envelope with David's name written on it in a curiously familiar hand. It took me a while before I remembered sobbing on my bed as I penned a letter to my two-day-old son titled, "To David on his 18th birthday." I left it sealed, secretly giddy that it has made it through so many moves. I remember writing it, but I don't remember what I wrote. I have less than two years before we'll find out.
He has come a long way from torturing the family cat and traumatizing his sister. Well, to be truthful, he still traumatizes his sister at every opportunity... but in rare moments of uncensored response, his sensitivity and protectiveness peeks through.

And this is when I cry again.

I don't know how I'm going to make it through Monday. You'd think it was the first day of Kindergarten. It may as well be. I was a basket case back then, too.

And to top it all off, in two weeks my daughter will turn fifteen. She has always been my precocious child. Wise beyond her years and studious to a fault. She tested into Kindergarten early and as such, will graduate at 17. (She could graduate at 16, but she's already freaked out about being the only 17 year old in college if they raise the driving age to 18.) Even being the 'young kid', she's in Honors and IB/AP courses and will attempt to tackle French this year. (Thank goodness I have a sister-in-law and two close friends who are fluent in case we need some emergency tutoring!)

Since our schedules are a bit whackaloon - I start rehearsals hard core on the 3rd and won't have Christina's actual birthday off, plus it's actually their dad's weekend to have them then - we decided we'd have to get creative about how and when we celebrate her special day this year.
Since her gift was one of practicality, we decided she should have it when school starts. We went in on a 'group gift' with my folks and got her the laptop she's been campaigning for ever since she started having school assignments over summer that include extensive notes and spreadsheets.

Well, the kid is too smart for me and I didn't think twice about it as I signed all four of our names to the card on her gift after wrapping it. She knew that if it took four of us, it had to be a big deal. Stupid smart kids. I chucked it at her and mumbled 'happy bratday'. I'm kidding.

All kidding aside, she was thrilled with it and has already set up her desktop with photos of her celebrity crushes... Superman, Batman and Spiderman. Not to be outdone, David gifted her a really cool leather wallet with the embossed Superman symbol on it. He picked it up at Hot Topic last time they all hung out at the mall. Sweet sneaky boy. :)
We'll have her 'party' with friends and such on the 31st, which will start with a heavy duty scavenger hunt and end in a sleepover with her two besties.

I want so badly to rewind time back to when there were no school schedules and required responsibilities, but rather just play dates and nap times. I still can't curb my urge to sneak into their beds at night and snuggle them close, burying my head in their hair. Only now the smell of baby powder and Cheerios has been replaced by deodorant and astringent.

I knew the nostalgia was hitting me hard when I returned from the grocery store last week with Ritz Crackers, Nilla Wafers and Goldfish. I also understand what a beast this biological clock thing can really be and why there is such a plethora of women returning to motherhood in their 40's as their firstborn begin to leave the nest.

I'm very thankful that my brothers have a gaggle of babies and toddlers to subtly remind me that while I love my babies (and their babies), I also love that my babies can make their own mac-n-cheese.

So, I guess there are some benefits to having kids that actually grow up.
But sometimes I wish they'd be 1 and 2 forever. Or 4 and 5. Or 9 and 10. I have so many great memories at each and every stage of their lives, it's impossible to pick one. And I suppose that's the long-term benefit of parenting... that through every milestone, every achievement, and every heartbreak... there have been new adventures, new discoveries, and new memories. And I wouldn't trade a single one of them, good or bad.

*sigh*

Dear God,
Please let me make it to Monday without bawling in the middle of some public place and forever compromising the tenuous social status of my beleaguered children. Amen.

Not-so-Zen with Julie Andrews

A few years ago, I started going through what I can only call my 'Zen' phase. I wasn't converting to Buddhism, but I started to adopt some of the eastern theology and principles to my daily life, which included stretching, breathing, meditating and other techniques for dealing with anger and stress issues.
Yes, world, I have anger issues.

Not like 'huge' ones... and I've certainly gotten better over the years... but I blush when I think of times that I've lost my cool in professional settings or wholly inappropriate situations. My outbursts are rarely physical, most often verbal, and I've often toed the line of being emotionally abusive with my jabs and barbs. No, I'm not proud of it... and it's a characteristic I seek to eliminate from my life completely, which is where I turned to a more 'Zen' existence.

Or so I thought.

As I was reflecting over the past few years, I was feeling very proud of my 'progress' when it comes to how I relate with others and how much less of a bitch I am nowadays. I was all kinds of puffed-up with my accomplishments and self-importance when I realized something...

I'm no less a bitch than I was three years ago. Or five. Or ten.

I've just gotten better at keeping my mouth shut and have learned to be indifferent towards certain people or demographics.

Seriously!

As I understand it, my 'Zen' life has afforded me no more peace or understanding or consideration in my inter-personal relationships. It has just made me shuffle people into different categories in order to eliminate passionate (read: angry) reactions to them.

So, I'm left to question whether the last several years has brought me more 'peace' or just 'indifference'.

I mean, it can't be the same thing... loving your neighbor is loving your neighbor... it doesn't mean 'not giving a crap'. And yet, I seem to have lost this important factor along the way.

I am admittedly less affected by gossip or the fear of judgment than I once was. I've always been prone to speak my mind and often don't realize until long after the fact that something I said or the words I chose caused offense or drama. This is because I'm not very self-aware. I don't know how I'm being perceived unless someone actually tells me. And sometimes, I'm perceived as a self-centered, unapproachable know-it-all, in which case, I understand why telling me might cause waves.
But when I do hear... and I do... about the latest rumor, or even the latest 'truth' that is making its rounds in the gossip circles, I can't say it doesn't affect me. I cringe. I get defensive. I argue. I get angry. Then I remember all the Zen crap I've read and I concentrate on my breathing and ask WWJD.

Now, this will sound a little gay to some people, so please bear in mind that I'm sentimental at heart and try not to hate on me too much for what I've already written or what I'm about to confess.

I love Julie Andrews.

Since I was a child, raised on The Sound of Music and Mary Poppins, I've loved her. She was always my vision of the perfect fairy-tale princess and later, my proverbial 'Queen Mother'. My WWJD applied to many a situation. "What Would Julie Do?" (I also have to add the disclaimer that sometimes my WWJD applies to Dame Judy Dench in many scenarios as well. Please don't tell either one that they are sharing the same catch-anagram, though. Thanks.)

Whenever I felt myself losing my composure, I would picture Mary Poppins or Victoria Grant and ask myself how any one of them would handle the situation... with the utmost grace and poise, of course. At auditions, this can backfire... but for the most part, I get over my nerves by channeling the confidence of Julie Andrews... or at least as much as I can muster in front of award-winning directors.

But then I realize that it doesn't always apply. I mean... for one, Julie Andrews wouldn't ever get herself into the kind of scenario where she was screaming at the costumer for a community theatre because the dress he spent the last 19 hours making was "hideous". (Don't worry, it was years and years ago and that costumer still loves me in spite of my hideous attitude that day.) Nor would Julie ruminate on how to defend 'tastefully' done nude photos of herself and her friends all over the internet. So, in many cases of my own life, I probably should have asked the WWJD question waaaaaaay before I actually do.

And I ask myself... is all of that poise and grace and natural charm a result of being at peace with oneself or merely being able to discern between what 'matters' and what doesn't?

I mean really? Does Julie Andrews go home at the end of a long shoot day, hot and sweaty after the AC in her car busted on a 114-degree day, and upon entering the door just let out a long stream of expletives? Does she call up her BFF with the latest 'Star' magazine and open the conversation with, "Bitch, you would NOT believe what they printed about me!" Does she chuckle and laugh before going back to her game of backgammon? Or does she sniff the air with disdain and then secretly go binge on Ben & Jerry's and/or a case of her finest cabernet?

And so it is... after much analysis... that I realize I'm probably no more Zen than I was five years ago. I'm just the tiniest bit more indifferent to certain things, that's all. I haven't found the secret of the lotus flower or become one with the Buddha. I haven't figured out how to channel out my negative energy without splattering one or two people in the process. I haven't triumphed over my own ego or been able to stop hating certain people.

I guess in the long run, I'm still pretty much a bitch.


Oh well... there's always Judy Dench.

Could it possibly get any hotter??

Welcome to summer in Arizona where it is 108 degrees in the shade at 5am.

If ever I miss having a pool nearby, it's now. I found myself washing the car last weekend just for an excuse to play in the hose like I'm 8 years old.

This week was swamped with photo shoots and belly casts, which is awesome... but also means my butt has been in front of this computer for hours at a time, rotating, cropping, editing, burning, etc. I think my brain is officially fried.

In between editing, I'm trying to get off-book for Noises Off before rehearsals start in August. It's SO tough for me to get off book alone with a fast-paced farce. I thank my lucky stars that I have a willing victim in Jason, who will run lines with me... but I'm an audio-learner. I get used to the sound of the actors saying the lines that precede mine... every cast develops its own rhythm and tempo. Ever since I learned to actually 'listen', I found myself drawn into the timbre and inflections of my castmates. It becomes its own song, which changes every night with the most subtle of differences... and this is the beauty and magic of live theatre. It's also an invaluable tool (for me) in the process of memorization. So, I find myself using my old stand-by method of writing out my every line and cue from start to finish. It's not quite as organic, but it's just as effective.
Now if only I had better penmanship.

Had a great 4th of July weekend with the kids at my mom's house. We BBQ'd with (most of) the fam at my mom's house (and pool) and like a bunch of old fogeys, we (kids included) were asleep by midnight. Happy Independence Day!
Our days have consisted of photo shoots and casting calls, editing and writing - between taking the girl to and from her volleyball camps, movies, mall excursions and sleepovers. The boy has been a little easier on me... living the summer schedule of a typical 16-year-old as he eats, sleeps, and plays video games. On a positive note, his reading and speech have taken a decent leap this summer as I listened to him read aloud a passage when 'resilience' rolled off his tongue like it was nothing. It's the small victories. ;)

Next month, my baby girl will be 15. I don't know where the time has gone. I remember my mom at 35. She was so young. So why do I feel so old?

Her birthday party will be fun. We're going the route of 'cheap but creative', since she understands the value of 'party budget' and its proportion to 'gift budget'. They also start school again soon and though I've sometimes been very jubilant at the thought; I'm actually starting to realize how much I'm going to miss them when they're back in school and much too busy and preoccupied to hang out and goof off with mom.

sigh

I love them immensely. They're pretty damn awesome.


So, in summary... it's hot outside, my brain is fried, I'm almost blind, terribly poor... and couldn't be happier.

Well, at least for now... until I find something to complain about. :) Kidding.

To Live an Inspired Life...

My kids (and I use that term very loosely these days) are getting to the age where they are seeking their purpose as young adults in this world. Some of my happiest times (ever) are sitting down and having deep discussions about life, love, sex, psychology, relationships, careers, etc. with my progeny.

In doing so, my daughter and I found ourselves at the subject of our 'calling'.

My friend Mandy once (or often) used the phrase 'to live an inspired life' when we'd discuss dreams and aspirations. It was this concept that I chose to impart to my daughter on this particular occasion.

Her father is my polar opposite. He is structured, organized, meticulous and ultimately most comfortable with routine. I am impulsive, disorganized, blithe, and happiest following where the wind takes me. I'm hoping that our genetic cocktail has passed on in the form of her father's work ethic and her mother's passion. One can hope...

But it was after all of this that I found myself pondering the very concept I had just imparted to my daughter. Living an 'inspired' life... even as I write this, I have three additional tabs open on my browser (not including Facebook)... one is m-w.com, and the other two are google search results for 'inspired lives' and 'divine inspiration'.

The latter is the concept I'm most familiar with, having grown up in an environment that believed that everything in life was a matter of divine inspiration. The other search result yields a mix of yoga and life coaching sites among some small gems and inspirational stories. The former tells me that 'inspired' is simply defined as "outstanding or brilliant in a way or to a degree suggestive of divine inspiration".
So... wait... the concept of 'divine inspiration' is actually used in the Merriam-Webster definition? Apparently so.
And then I have an hourlong argument in my head that if a life is brilliant to a degree 'suggestive' of divine inspiration, then is it truly 'inspired' or just suggestive of it? But I digress...

My point being that I've always aspired to live an inspired life. As my daughter would put it, "I need a reason to jump out of bed in the mornings."

I need to love what I do or my attitude and my outlook goes to shit. That's just the long and short of it. And so, I pursue ventures in my life that take me in that direction. To many (and even to myself) I live an inspired life.

And yet... as I've started to document my day-to-day activities, I realize that my life is also very mundane and dare I say 'normal' in so many ways.

I wake, I drive the kids, I write, I edit, I write more, I take pictures, I edit pictures, I sing scales, I work/read scripts. I pick the kids up, I cast/sand/paint a belly, I shower, I tinker with show promos/posters/website/marketing stuff (or take a nap), I make dinner (or continue said nap), I play/talk/do homework/goof-off with the kids, I fart around on Facebook throughout. I sleep.

Oooh. Glamorous.
Not exactly what I think of when I imagine an 'inspired' life.

And yet... It could be argued that we all lead inspired lives. Every one of us. Divinely inspired.
I mean, it's difficult for me to experience a beautiful sunset or natural landscape without feeling the presence of God. Moreso, I cannot look at my children without knowing that they are divinely inspired beings. Even the secular definition of 'divine' suggests an otherworldly deity by using the word "supreme"... as in 'highest rank'.

I think the ultimate truth is experienced when we follow our calling, our passion, our 'inspiration', if you will. That sense of purpose, that reason to jump out of bed in the mornings. Whether it is our partners, our children, our pets, or our jobs that motivate us, the objective is the outstanding brilliance that suggests divine inspiration.

I would argue that this is the basis to any Christian lessons I learned about leading by example or channeling the Holy Spirit into good works.

To follow your calling... whether it be to teach, to heal, to protect, to entertain, to provide or to promote... by doing so (and doing so well) I would argue, is to live an inspired life.

I want to life my life to the fullest, and so I pursue my passions; knowing that the trade-off is that I will probably always be poor. I feel like it has forced me to know myself better and to understand my capacity for courage in the face of naysayers and critics.
No, I don't live in a grand house or have a gorgeous car. I don't have a 401k or even a legitimate savings plan. (And yes, I do think it's possible to have both financial stability and a passion-filled inspired life. I just haven't mastered that balance yet.)

But I jump out of bed every morning. I love the life I live and the work I do.

So today... and every day... I strive to spend a good chunk of time doing something that I can lose myself in for the sheer joy of doing what I love. I call it 'me time' or a 'solo date'. Sometimes I write, sometimes I sing, sometimes I draw or color (even though I'm horrible at both). Sometimes I knit, sometimes I read... but I rarely end up watching TV or movies. More often, I end up creating something. Sometimes I create something that's kinda awesome. Just by accident.

Then again, it can be argued that every 'accident' is still divinely inspired...

And that, my friends, is where I do believe that we all lead inspired lives. Lives where we create beautiful things... sometimes just by accident.