Half a Lifetime Ago...

Eighteen years ago, I was eighteen years old and my life was about to change forever.

Today, my son turned eighteen.

After a series of emotional texts with my ex-husband (his dad), I took to digging out his baby book just for old time's sake.
I found a letter tucked into the back - the envelope was sealed - and on the front was written "To Bubba: On his 18th Birthday".
To give a little history here, I have very few things that I've held on to for 18 years. My social security card, a couple pieces of jewelry that belonged to my Nanny and my Mamo, my childhood bible... and photos. That's about it.
I broke the seal and opened the letter and so many emotions came flooding back - I was instantly transported to the hallway floor of my first apartment where I penned that letter over 18 years ago. We were still throwing around names for our baby boy, but because he was such a brute in-utero, we took to calling him 'Bubba'.

Eighteen years ago, a very nervous 18-year-old girl wrote the following:

12/14/1993

"Dear 'Bubba',

I don't know you yet. I don't even know what we're going to name you. But I already love you. You're due in a week, but there's a possibility that we might be bringing you home before then. I still can't believe how much my life has changed in the past six months. And how much it's going to change in the next week.

My mom was there when I heard your heartbeat for the first time. It sounded like static to me at first, but then I heard it like the rhythm of a washing machine, strong and steady.

I was reading a book and drinking iced tea this summer the first time I felt you move. At first I thought it was gas... it was just the tiniest, softest flutter, like I had swallowed a moth. It didn't take very long for that soft tickle to turn into blips and bumps and elbows in my ribs. We know you're a boy and we know you're strong. So your dad and I have been calling you 'Bubba'.

I sing to you every day and I talk to you on my walk home from work. I can't imagine what the neighbors must think about the crazy pregnant girl who talks to herself!

You'll know this growing up, 'cuz you'll learn math in public school, but your dad and I only got married a little over a month ago. We waited because we wanted to make sure we were getting married for the right reasons. I'm still not sure I even know what the right reasons are. But I know that we love each other. And we love you. We fought our family and each other for you. You're not even here and you're already the most important person in our lives.

I just got a crappy little roach-infested apartment close to work because I have no car, but I have a good job and health insurance. So, I've got a head start on this 'adulthood' thing, I think. We're facing a lot of challenges right now and I'm sad to say that you're going to have a rough start in this world. But hey, so did Jesus, right? Not that I'm the Virgin Mary... VERY far from it!... but more on that when you're older.

I'm scared. I don't know if I'll be a good mom. But I promise to try. I promise to love you more than anyone else possibly could. I promise to stick by you when the rest of the world has turned its back on you. I promise that as long as I'm alive, you will be welcome in my home and in my arms. I promise to teach you what I can. I promise to learn. I promise to grow.

I can't wait to meet you.

I love you.

Love,

Mom

PS. That's the first time I've signed the word 'mom'. I think I like it."

Going Viral

So I've been sick all week, which means I've been spending entirely too much time in front of the TV and the computer. Several of my friends had posted or referenced the following video on Facebook, Twitter, Google+, etc. I've watched it several times now and each time has sparked another debate point so I figured I'd just collect my current thoughts on the topic in one place.
Suppressing my natural desire to be sarcastic and dismissive, I'm going to attempt some intelligent discourse and debate here.



I'll break this down for Mr. Perry little by little.

"I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a Christian."

What an odd statement to lead with, Mr. Perry. Should you be ashamed? I know a lot of Christians. I was raised by what is considered (by today's standards) a devout Christian family. We went to church three times a week. Three. Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night. I come from a long line of ministers and worship leaders, pastors and spiritual mentors. And having always lived in the United States, we've always been able to worship and fellowship freely, openly, publicly and without shame. So for starters, I find your opening subtle but intentionally incendiary. Let's stay tuned, shall we?

"...there's something wrong in this country when gays can serve openly in the military but our kids can't openly celebrate Christmas or pray in school."

WOAH!! Hold your horses, Mr. Perry. There's something WRONG with this sentence.
As my southern kinfolk would say, "Them's fightin' words."

First of all, gays have ALWAYS served in our military. Gays always WILL serve in our military. (Whether you and your good ol' boys like it or not.) How "openly" they serve remains to be seen as long as there are people who think and feel the way you do. Even now, I know servicemen and women that are not comfortable discussing their personal lives or sexual orientation because they suffer hazing and teasing (in the mild cases) and shame, persecution and violent oppression (in severe cases). Without questioning your grasp on reality, I'll simply state that "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" is STILL making headlines in our current news stories for a reason. Our gay YOUTHS are still being bullied daily at school and beaten to death in dark alleys. We have not quite become the gay-loving country you think we are. There's still a long way to go before we exhibit an open-arm policy of tolerance, here.

Second, where do you live that your children can't openly celebrate Christmas?? Have you looked around lately? I can't walk a block in my city without seeing nativities and holiday displays of all shapes and sizes. Carols are playing nonstop on department store sound systems and local radio stations. While running errands this weekend, I encountered three "Happy Holidays" and one "Merry Christmas" from complete strangers. It hardly sounds like our children aren't free to celebrate Christmas. On my residential block, there are FIVE 'Christian' nativities in front yards and three Jewish displays. And even the meth-heads next door and the juvenile delinquents throughout the neighborhood have managed to show respect for the decorations with only one incident of rearranging wise men into a questionable tableau.

And I hate to break it to you, but children DO pray in school. So do their teachers. Some do it openly, some are more private - but such is the institution of prayer. Sometimes it's personal. Sometimes it's not. I was openly Christian in Jr. High and High School, but I would have felt very uncomfortable imposing my spiritual beliefs or practices on anyone else. When I was in High School, I was active with Fellowship of Christian Athletes - one of two Christian-based clubs available at my school. Eighteen years later, that same school now has SIX Christian-based clubs/organizations for students to join. Openly.

"As President, I'll end Obama's war on religion."

Mr. Perry, I've never heard of Obama's war on religion. President Obama ascribes to a particular religion himself, so I can't imagine that he would wage a war in which he would ultimately become a target and/or a casualty. What I believe you meant to say was "Obama's war on Christianity" which would have been much too specific to reach the large demographic one must when running for the highest office.
What you are experiencing (but can't accurately identify) is America's war on Christianity. I propose that it's not a war on 'religion' per se, but a war on the exclusivity, division, and imposition that religion seems to present in our communities. We are no longer 'America: The Greatest and Most Important Country Ever'. We are 'America: One Voice in a Global Community'. We fear what we don't know, but as we become educated as a nation on the beliefs and cultures around the world, we've become MORE tolerant of other religions, not less.

I will go so far as to say that MOST of the Christians I know personally have voiced offense and distaste for your video, Mr. Perry. You are representative of a (very vocal) sect of Christianity that does not like the idea of incorporating other religious and spiritual beliefs into the moral fabric of our nation. Why? What is it about religious freedom (ironically an ideal upon which this nation was founded) that threatens you so?

"And I'll fight against liberal attacks on our religious heritage."

I don't know many liberals who attack our religious heritage. Heritage is history, tradition and legacy, which cannot be 'attacked'. It just... is.
By this statement, I wonder if you even know what our religious heritage is.
I also wonder if you've learned nothing from our own religious history between the Quakers, Puritans, Anglicans, Baptists, Roman Catholics and Protestants, Lutherans and Presbyterians. It wasn't idyllic nor was it pretty.

Rather than turn this into a history lesson, I will simply state that liberals are not attacking our religious heritage. If anyone is attacking anything, it's our spiritual future - and I wouldn't call it an attack as much as I'd call it a preemptive strike against the bigotry, hatred and vitriol that has been spewed forth in the name of God and morality.

I would prefer my leader to be preoccupied with fighting against foreign attacks on our American soil, but maybe that's just me.

"Faith made America strong. It can make her strong again."

I don't know what this assumption is based on, but I would venture a guess to say that capitalism, industry, and commerce as well as liberty, justice and the pursuit of happiness is what made - and continues to make - America strong. Then again, that depends on how you define the collective strength of a country.

What makes America weak, however, is division. I assume you've heard the term "divide and conquer"? It's an effective technique, I assure you; and used in military logistics and housewife errand lists on a global scale. And you, Mr. Perry, have effectively divided America once again into groups and factions that either do not deserve the rights they've fought for or deserve more freedoms than they've been given.

America NEEDS strength. America needs unity. America needs fellowship. A fellowship that is not exclusive or derogatory, but inclusive and tolerant.
America does not need a 'Christian' President. It does not need a 'Muslim' President. It does not need a black, white, gay, straight, Democrat, Republican, Liberal, Conservative, religious, or atheist President.

America needs an American President.

That you approve this message only confirms to me that you are not the one for this office.

Places!!

We're heading into the closing weekend for 'Next Fall' and I'm so very sad to see this production come to a close.
It has been an amazing run, an incredible experience, and a shitload of fun and laughs. Seriously, this entire cast and crew is HILARIOUS!!
We had some whacky times (both on and off stage) and shared a few laughs, a few tears, and some great stories.
At the end of the day, however, I'm most proud of the sincerity with which we tell our story. I'll admit it. I'm proud of this cast, this crew, and what we've all accomplished together.

As we head into our last three performances, I figured I'd share a little 'tradition' that I/We started.
Because we all have cameras on our phones nowadays, I started snapping pictures of myself and/or whichever cast member was closest when 'Places' was being called. (We'll call it my way of "rehearsing the joy".)

What resulted was a fun little pictorial... and so I present our 'Places' photos for the first two weeks of the run.



None of us got along... but we muddled through somehow... between musicals, melodrama, and fits of laughter.



And I am once again reminded... as we journey through the story of Luke and Adam... that the people I work with are amazing and beautiful.




Clearly, I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

Quotes of the Day

There is a tradition among many different theatre companies that I've been involved with called "Quote of the Day". Theatre folk seem to have their own language sometimes when trying to convey abstract and intangible ideas. We also have a tendency to speak 'off the cuff' at times, creating quotes and one-liners that (when taken out of context) sound hilarious, odd or offensive to the uninitiated.

Thus, the following quotes may not be for those that are easily offended or don't care about/understand the creative process of putting on a show. But I figured this was as good a place as any to share them with those theatre friends that would get a kick out of 'em. And hell, maybe after reading a few of 'em, it'll pique your interest enough to come see the show!!

Without further ado, some QOD's from the production of 'Next Fall' at Actors Theatre:

“That movie is why I started pole-vaulting in High School!” CD

“If it's an ass that big, it has to be professionally mounted.” AW

“And a clamshell for Debra K.” AM

“There's no 'but' for that gay.” AM

“But every other time he's on his knees, it's tolerable.” RH

“Take it from Jeffrey Dahmer.” MW

“God is gay.” MW

“Take it from behind... then I don't have to feel you up onstage.” MW

"I was trying to be tight and stuff." RH

"She's gnawing on a bull penis... my housekeeper, not my dog..." DS

"It's Luke. It's Ben's brother... Cool!" MW

"I saw people playing with themselves again." MW

"Nice vegetable kid." MW

"The Hardy Boys were gay?" DD

"He's a non-denominational American." MW

Things I learned on the light rail tonight....

Chivalry is alive and well! I got on the light rail and a former California EMT snatched my bike from my hands before I could even protest and hefted it (with a bit of difficulty, to my delight) right on up to the hook. I could have kissed him! But I didn't. But I'm pretty sure I awarded him 'Hero of the Day'. I didn't have a trophy on me, but he seemed happy with the verbal accolade. (And I say I delight in his difficulty because I thought my issues were due to being a weakling. Turns out, the bike is just one bulky, heavy bitch.)

Five strangers on a train (from vastly different backgrounds and upbringing) can come up with a half-dozen viable ideas for a hit reality TV or web series.

If a man can buy you tampons without being squeamish – and chooses the right brand, absorbency, fragrance and applicator; he is a KEEPER.

I make character assumptions based on the food/cooking shows people watch. It's awful. I sit in rapt conversation with those who claim 'No Reservations' or mention Paula Deen, Chopped or Iron Chef. 'Bitchin' Kitchen' or 'Almost Homemade'? Ummm... Dismissed. I know, it's terrible of me. But I guess that's an inner litmus test that I never knew I had. ...And knowing is half the battle.

After writing a blog (that I still haven't finished or posted yet) that compared the differences between the Phoenix light rail and the New York subway, I thought I preferred the silence and the lack of conversation of NY. But I have to admit that human interaction and a few laughs sure do make the ride seem a lot shorter and much more pleasant.

I've more to share on my many light rail adventures, but it has been a long day. I'm anxious to have an audience for the show... and genuinely nervous for the first time in a long time. I still feel a bit green when it comes to this contemporary drama stuff... but at the end of the day, I feel like I've worked... and have been a part of creating something really special.

As my friend, Ms. Rosenberg, would say, “Ain't nuthin' wrong with that.”

Adventures Condensed

So I haven't blogged in ages (clearly) but have had one hell of a month!

At the end of last month, I spent a couple days in Arkansas on my way to New York. What a crazy, wonderful getaway it was!!
I got the chance to visit with some of my new friends from Arkansas Repertory Theatre (where we did Hairspray) which was AH-MAZING! The entire theatre was renovated over the summer and looks Gorjey McGorgeous!
I realized on this trip to Little Rock that I don't hate Phoenix as much as I thought I did. In fact, some of the things I love about that city are the similarities to Phoenix. I like the lushness of the south, though... and everyone seems nicer just because of their accents. They've perfected the art of the 'kind insult' - softening any blow by following it with, "Bless their heart..."
And truthfully, I'm a sucker for any town that has BBQ, Fried Fish and sweet tea on every corner. So...
SOLD!
From there, I was off to New York for a week of auditions. It was supposed to also include lots of visiting with friends, sightseeing and a show every night, but that was certainly not the case. I ended up being so swamped with auditions and visiting old friends that I really didn't do the touristy sight-seeing at all. For one thing, I didn't bring any of my three cameras (so much for traveling light) and even though I had my phone-cam, it's crappy, blurry, never focuses right, etc.
In a nutshell, auditions went well. Very well. Well enough that I'm trying to make it back to NY in January for another set of callbacks. (Which would be for projects mostly over the summer and the beginning of next season.)
But, rather than blog... which I suspect would be boring... I figured I'd offer up a video montage instead.

A letter to my teenage daughter

First Published: October, 2011

Hey Daughter,

I wanted to share some things with you that I didn't get to last night. It was late when we got off the phone. You were still upset. But I've been thinking about you nonstop since we hung up, and decided there were things too important not to say. And because I want us both to remember them, I'm writing them down.

*It is more important to be smart than pretty. Pretty ages. It fades. It gets corrupted by flattery and skewed by vanity. Beauty, however, goes hand in hand with wisdom. And that comes from within. And don't ever confuse beauty with perfection. Beauty is symmetry and balance, but we know what balance is. It is light and dark, strength and weakness, humility and daring. You have all of these qualities, C. You are beautiful. Great power requires great responsibility. And beauty requires wisdom. The best decisions are not always made quickly and require a balance of head and heart, theorems and art, science and miracles.

*You are complete and whole as a person. Don't ever be fooled into thinking that you need someone in your life to 'complete you'. There will be people in your life who complement and encourage you, but your value will never be dependent on your ability to maintain a romantic relationship. Stay close to the people who inspire you. You are magical and amazing and don't need to waste your time with the negative people in this world. You will love people in your lifetime who are toxic. It will hurt. But you will learn how special some people are, and it will increase your capacity to love those people all the more.

*Gone are the days of making decisions for you. You will never again have to suffer the humiliation of ruffled panties or facial indentations from frilly headbands I've chosen for you to wear. You will no longer be forced to sit through a church service or theatrical event that bores you to tears. As an adult, you will have the choice to participate or walk away. That decision is yours. Don't make it to impress me, or please your dad, or in the hopes of pleasing or impressing someone else in your life. Make it for you. This is your life. In the end, you have to be the one to live with your choices. Choose happiness. Choose joy. Choose freedom. Choose your bliss.

*There is ugliness in this world. You've been exposed to a portion of it in your life. I am guilty of failing to protect you when you were younger. That you've seen and heard violence and anger and disrespect between people who are supposed to love and protect you (and each other) is one of my biggest regrets as a parent. I hope that your life is such that you never encounter extreme ugliness or violence personally; but statistically speaking, it will directly affect you. Please know that I will always be here for you. I may not always know the right answer immediately, but I can always hold you until we figure out what to do together. Violence is a choice. Peace is a choice. Choose Peace. Choose Love.

*Choose your relationships wisely. They will set (or lower) the standards for future relationships and affect you in ways you are currently unaware of. Hormones are a sonofabitch and believe me, I understand the 'warm and tinglies'... or you wouldn't be here. But sex never makes a relationship easier. It only adds a layer of potential complications and issues. It requires impeccable communication and compatibility over the long-term. When it's right, though, it's amazing. Protect your body and your heart, but own your sexual identity. (Just don't be a slut about it.)

I'll end this for now. I'm sure there will be more at a later time. But these are just some of the things that have come up in the last few days with our talks. I figured now was as good a time as any to let you know. I love you.

~Mom

Next Fall

I'm totally cheating by posting a blog that I wrote for Actor's Theatre, but I haven't had much time to commit bloggery in the past week.
I will, however, set aside some time in the next few days to regale all you (four) readers with my adventures back in Little Rock and NYC. For now, here's a peek at what I'm up to.

“What are you doing right now?”

“I'm in rehearsals for Next Fall.”

“For what show and why are you rehearsing a year in advance?”

“No, the name of the show is Next Fall.”

“Oh. Hmph. Never heard of it.”

What I thought would be yet another amazing show that no one has heard of has already proven to be much more than I could possibly blog about in one sitting.

A lesson in serendipity.

I just returned from New York. This was my first trip to the city and was somewhat spontaneous in nature, so I didn't have much of an agenda. I had picked up my script two days before leaving so that I would have something to occupy myself on the plane and perhaps in the audition 'holding rooms'.

And here's where the serendipity begins...

Holly (the character I'm playing) is a citified hippie. She's part New York business woman, part crystal-clutching, shakra-healing, master of the downward dog. Her faith is in energies and higher powers rather than specific deities and she finds comfort and fellowship among her self-help groups and charity fundraisers. I'm not afraid to admit that Holly and I share more than a few common characteristics, not all of them healthy or 'normal' by the majority standards, but we serve a necessary, if eclectic, function in the world.

When in NYC, I stayed with a friend at 73^rd and Columbus and read (with some amusement) Holly's story about walking down 74^th and Columbus. Some coincidence.

I read further to Butch's reference of his driver from JFK; “Saheed was a yakker with a lead foot,” and guffawed out loud. My driver from Newark Airport was a chatty Pakistani (in the city 22 years) named Sayyed.

I could go on to include the many Jewish references in the show (most of which I had only just learned about from my friend Sandy – who bears the same last name as another character I reference)... or the shared favorite candle scents... or the pot-smoking friend named Rachel... but needless to say, I was emotionally bonded to the script (and Holly) after the first read.

But that isn't where the serendipity ends.

There is a kind of 'theatre magic' that happens on some projects that is unexplainable.

I had the opportunity to work with Matthew on Noises Off for Phoenix Theatre most recently, and further back had worked with David Vining as a dialect coach and Debra K. on a one-night reading of Lysistrata. I'd also worked at length with April Miller and David Dickinson at Southwest Shakes and Shakespeare Sedona. But the culmination of all this is Robert Harper, playing Adam, Holly's life-saver and BFF. 'Robbie' and I have worked numerous projects together. From community theatre, to corporate events, to private gigs to professional and regional theatres, he has alternately been my director, my choreographer, my teacher and my castmate. More than this, the man is my mentor and my friend.

And so it was, on the night of our first read-thru, that we sat across the table from each other as we read the final pages of our script.

“He looked at me.”

My eyes met Robbie's... and with one look, he cracked open my heart and gutted my soul.

I understood at once what this play is about. It's about faith. It's about relationships. It's about protecting the ones we love. It's about loyalty and acceptance.

It's about serendipity and believing in something bigger than yourself. ...and I do.

Where were you...

My parents can recollect with great detail where they were when JFK was assassinated. What they were doing when they heard the news that John Lennon had been shot.

In my own childhood, I can remember watching history unfold as the Challenger space shuttle exploded and the Berlin wall came down.
But I don't remember anything that compared to the global impact of the falling of the Twin Towers on 9/11/01.

Jason and I had been in tech for 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' with The Shakespeare Theatre at the time. Jason was playing Puck, I was playing Titania. When I didn't have the kids in my care, it had become quite common to stay the night at Jay's apartment after late rehearsals because my apartment was so much further from the theatre.

Ten years ago today... at exactly this moment in the late night/early morning, we were having one of our first 'big fights' as a couple. We had made plans to move into a two-bedroom apartment together and the logistics (in addition to being in the middle of tech week) were stressing us out. I don't remember the details of the argument (as is usually the case) but I remember that we had kept each other up until 3 or 4 in the morning.
After reaching an acceptable resolution (whatever it was) we decided to call out of work the next day and play hooky together.

We had only been asleep for a few hours when Jason's cell phone started ringing. I remember assuming it was work-related until he bolted straight out of bed and towards the computer with a, "Dude, WHAT? Slow down...." It was his best friend Bill, calling with the news that we were under attack.

Jason didn't have cable in his apartment (and it was silly to hook it up for the final month before moving out) and so our only news source was radio or internet. (In retrospect, our unintentional boycott of network news was NOT a bad thing at all.)
I remember rubbing the sleepies out of my eyes while Jason pulled up a his internet browser. No search was necessary - photos of the plane hitting the WTC were already plastered everywhere we looked. We were watching the streaming video and trying to make sense of what happened when we saw the second plane hit.

I remember going outside onto the patio. Jay's apartment was in downtown Phx, not too far from Sky Harbor airport - but what was usually busy airspace above the apartment was just an empty sky of blue. There wasn't a plane in sight.
I remember thinking that the eery silence must be an echo of what was happening in New York. I refrained from calling friends, knowing they would have family trying to reach them - and sure that the phone lines and emergency services were already overloaded. Over the course of the day, reports trickled in from friends that were there. Desiree was safe. Albert was safe. And I breathed a little easier.

I remember very vividly our preview performance on 9/12.

Our director and artistic director had briefly discussed pulling the previews in light of the national 'mood'. As a cast, however, we wanted - needed - something to distract from the tragedy and the trauma. We were surprised to have an audience that night (albeit a small one), but what surprised us even more was how freely and appreciatively they laughed.

I think it was then that we realized what laughter can do. I mean, we've all heard that "laughter is the best medicine" but it wasn't until the events of 9/11 that I realized the necessity for true human fellowship. As actors and artists, we were only too happy to delve into a Shakespearean world where "war" was between two quarreling fairies and 'terrorist acts' involved nothing more than a daughter's rebellion and a mischievous sprite with a magic flower. Our audience was ready and willing to be taken along for the ride - and at the end of our preview, we took our curtain call to a standing ovation. For those few sweet hours, it was bliss to be able to just forget. We needed that. The grief was new and raw. We needed to forget - however briefly - about the tragedy and the sorrow and the anger. We needed to be reminded of the beauty in humanity.

After our preview, I remember sitting with a group of friends at an Applebees or a Chili's while 9/11 footage rolled on silent TVs in every corner. We were animated and boisterous when we entered... but the mood inside sobered us instantly. That happened a lot in the days immediately following. We would forget... for an instant... that an entire culture of people hated us. But we would be swiftly reminded with smoke-plumed, fiery news footage.

More than saying I have a predominant 'memory' about 9/11, I'd rather say that the day brought about a realization - a self-awareness, if you will.
Prior to September 2001, I thought that the U.S. was a bad-ass (but compassionate) global superpower that other countries respected and wished to emulate. We have global ambassadors and causes and organizations... we HELP people less fortunate than us. Right?

There was a huge sense of patriotism and loyalty that permeated the U.S., but something else started to happen that day. People began to ask questions.
We started asking, "Why?"

Prior to 9/11, I had never heard of Al-Qaeda and had little idea where Iraq or Afghanistan were located. I've heard a lot of words and catch-phrases thrown around in the ten years since then. Media scrambled for clever soundbytes from the administration - who were calling for righteous indignation, retribution, justice and vindication.

9/11 changed the way I look at war. It also changed the way I look at peace.

The employees of the World Trade Center did not enlist in our nations military or otherwise take oaths to serve and protect. I suspect that most of them (like me) would never have imagined they would have to consider enemies (foreign or domestic) that actually wanted to take their lives. We were not at war. They were on their home soil. Going about their mundane daily routines. What was there to worry about?

As a collective, we managed to piss off a nation - whether through religious, cultural, or financial practices, we incurred the wrath of another collective and no one felt it more than the innocent civilians.

I say 'we'... but in reality, I speak of our government agencies - the foreign representatives and policy-makers that come in direct contact with dignitaries of other countries. Our 'representatives'.
But in warfare, it is always the innocents that suffer. The officers and dignitaries stay home (or in secure locations) while our sons are sent to face the front lines; armed with a government-issued firearm and a sense of 'duty'.

When I see the words "Never Forget", it means something different to me than I think is intended.

I will never forget that day.
I will never forget that I live in a country that is bold and beautiful, but also arrogant and intolerant.
I will never forget that there isn't always one right and one wrong and that sometimes conflict can be resolved with love and acceptance.
I will never forget the day that almost 3,000 of our brothers and sisters were sacrificed in the name of hate.
I will never forget the day that ordinary people became heroes.


2,977 people died from the attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. Since then, approximately 4,404 armed forces have died in Iraq and 1,140 in Afghanistan. Total U.S. casualties of this war: 8,521 and counting.

In return, the U.S. has been responsible for the deaths of 107,152 civilians in Iraq (still unverified - some counts go as high 150,000) and 8,813 in Afghanistan. Total non-U.S. casualties of this war: 115,965 and counting.

I won't ever forget.
And I won't stop asking how many more innocent people have to die before we remember.

I've fallen and I can't keep up!

Gone are the carefree days of summer.
The kids are back in school and the house is eerily quiet during the day. (Until the cats knock something over or the dog starts whining.)

I love the Fall.

It's my favorite season of the year - not just for the weather. I remember learning about Autumn/Fall back in grade school. The teacher would explain that all of nature is preparing for the winter... gearing up for that dormant period. But my life is quite the opposite. My 'dormant period' is definitely during the summer. In Arizona, everything shuts down for the summer (except the water parks) and doesn't start up again until the Fall. So, after a vampiric summer far indoors and away from the desert sun, I emerge (usually stir-crazy) and practically panting and salivating over the first project of the season.

And so it is... this Fall... that I will begin rehearsals for 'Next Fall' (yeah, it gets even more confusing when I try to say it) with Actor's Theatre. Next Fall is a play by Geoffrey Nauffts that tackles conventional issues that plague an 'unconventional' relationship - one a devout Christian and the other an atheist. It is a wonderfully written play about little people and big problems and I can't wait to get started on it!
But before I do... there are a couple of other projects in my lap at the moment. The first of which is Arizona Curriculum Theatre's annual "PoeFest". We are staging several pieces by Edgar Allan Poe and I'm really excited about the cast this year. I am co-directing with my friend and cohort, James Porter and the show will run through the month of October. Yay for Halloween!
I've also been finishing the preliminary script for 'Ain't I a Woman', an original (historically based) play that covers the lives and relationships of the original suffragettes. (Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Lucretia Mott, Sojourner Truth, etc, etc. I'm uber-excited about this show as it's the first (complete) script that I've written - and it's a subject that is near and dear to my heart. Needless to say, my plate has been growing ever more full as the summer nears its close... and I couldn't be happier!
I will be in New York for a week at the end of September and return just in time to start rehearsals for 'Next Fall' and to see 'Poe' go into tech. It's going to be a very exciting month, for sure. I can't quite believe that August is almost over.

In any case, I will leave you with links and a video for your perusing pleasure. Happy pending Fall!!

http://www.poefest.org/
http://curriculumtheatre.org

What's in a Name?...

I've been working on tracing my family lineage (off and on between projects) and it has been such an interesting challenge.

I've traced my father's line back to Barbados, where they settled for generations after coming from England. I've traced my mother's line back to their roots in Germany and Holland... and have been fascinated by the evolution of last names as 'my people' jumped continents.

This resulted in my analyzing my own last name... still shared with an extended paternal line in Barbados.
I also share the same middle name as my mother and my daughter... a tradition for the first girl born in our generations. (And incidentally, my daughter is the spitting image of her namesake, four generations removed.) My son shares the same middle name as my father, which is also a bastardization (ironically) of my first name.
In every line of my family, there are examples of common family names being passed down from generation to generation. When looking at my family tree, it can get very confusing with all of the Roberts and Josephs and Franks and Johns, Marys, Katherines, and Anns. We've gotten more creative with first names in later generations, but the family names are all still there - if not prominent - then tucked neatly between first and last.
How fun it was to discover that my son shares the same first name with several of my relations from Tyrone, Ireland in the 1700's! I'm also a (skeptical) believer in 'genetic memory' (which is its own blog post entirely) and have been curious as to what else has been passed down via DNA from those long-lost relations.

As I reveal more and more holy men and artisans along the family line, I'm convinced that 'names' are not all that we share; but that the genetic legacy is far more complex than I have even begun to discover.

The thing is... I like my last name. My maiden name.
No offense to my former husbands, but I hated both of my married names. They just didn't... fit. It was like wearing someone else's panties. And not just wearing someone's panties, but having other people acknowledge that you're wearing someone else's panties. That's how it felt any time someone called me Mrs. So-and-So.
Taking into account, of course, that they would eye me suspiciously... my married name being the equivalent of Xhang - while I'm decidedly not Asian... but I digress...

I don't know if I'll ever get married again, but I loathe the discussion about whether or not I'll take my husband's last name. I am only partially saved by the argument that I have to keep my 'stage name' as it has already been established. Plenty of actors and actresses change their names legally, but keep their stage names.

I love my family, dysfunctional as they may be, and have always been proud to descend from the line of extraordinary people that make up my lineage.

I find a certain amount of comfort and identity in my family name and have been loathe to give it up or trade it in. I don't know if that makes me a raging feminist or a selfish partner or what... but I know it's not always popular opinion. But damn... I figure if I'm going to cook and clean for, support, encourage and remove the skid marks from some man's drawers; the least he can do is let me hang on to some semblance of my own dignity and identity, right?

Oh, who am I kidding? I don't cook, clean, support, encourage or remove skid marks for anyone. But I digress... again...

I don't know... maybe I'm making too much of it.
It's not really an issue that needs resolution any time soon. But I do know that I can't be the only woman who feels this way. Convicted... but conflicted about feeling convicted. If that makes any sense.
I guess that's the story of my opinionated life. :)

Who knows... maybe later in life, I'll be less attached to my name. But for now, it's a very comfortable and reassuring pair of panties that I don't aim to change any time soon.

My love/hate affair with WalMart

I went to WalMart yesterday.

For those who know me... I made every effort NOT to shop at WalMart and was successful for almost 8 years of boycotting the evil giant.

To give some history, I shopped there regularly - no, MORE than regularly - when my kids were little. It meant one place for everything from gardening supplies to home furnishings to diapers to produce... and when I had two toddlers to wrangle, accomplishing all of my errands in one location was invaluable.

In my mid to late twenties, however, I started to become a little more politically and economically aware... and found that I had some big issues with WalMart's business practices. Everything from how they treat their employees to the quality of their merchandise came under my scrutiny and I decided that I would simply take my money elsewhere.
By this time, my kids were older and no longer a pain-in-the-ass to shop with - and a boycott of WalMart really only meant that I'd be shopping at Target, so no big deal, right?

Fast forward to the latter part of last year... I was doing a show and broke my 'show bra'.
For civilians (or men) that might not understand what that is: Unless one is costumed in a corset (or naked) it is necessary for a woman to invest in a heavy-duty bra that will keep 'the girls' in line whilst bending and twisting onstage in front of hundreds of strangers. This becomes even more necessary if one is doing a musical. (Anyone that has more than a C-cup will most assuredly lack breath control after dancing around 'unbound' for two minutes. A flimsy bra will turn 'the pony' into your worst enemy!) Some bras will have to be cut, modified, re-sewn... and sometimes even sewn or tacked into costumes to restrict movement even further. Losing one's 'show bra' is akin to Brett Farrvrvre losing his cup right before the Superbowl game. Totes no bueno.
I had work the next day, the kids had school... there was going to be no time to shop for a new show bra before the next show. And as I pondered my dilemma, my daughter texted me that she needed a plain T-shirt to decorate for her dance class - by the next morning!!

And so I found myself breaking my 7+-year boycott to enter a 24-hour WalMart in the hopes of finding a suitable 'show bra' and a plain white T-shirt in the middle of a Wednesday night.

I remember feeling slightly embarrassed as I usually do when I'm out in public but still in my 'show makeup'; which (due to the recent characters I've played) means a vat of foundation, fake lashes, and some obnoxious color of eyeshadow or dubious amounts of glitter. But when I walked into the almost-deserted WalMart at ten after midnight on a weekday, no one even gave me a second-glance.

I bought a show bra, a T-shirt and a tube of lipstick for under $20.00 total.

And therein lies the second problem, ladies and gentlemen. You'll notice I only needed two items, but I left with three. That is the sinister evil of WalMart, people. And it starts small... you'll never even notice.

I went back to the WalMart a few more times... still tentative... but unable to resist the rolled back prices and the yellow happy faces encouraging me to purchase even MORE crap I don't need. That was it. Boycott broken, the money-sucking conglomerate had seduced me back into its retail-therapy-lovin' arms.

I did a majority of my Christmas shopping there last year. I was a responsible consumer, doing research and price comparisons online. It was no matter. WalMart was always there... proclaiming itself victorious in search after search as if to say, "Who's mah bargain bitch now?!"

I am, WalMart. I am.

I went there with my daughter yesterday for some non-grocery household items as well as our weekly supply of foodstuffs.

I spent an OBSCENE amount of money and got no fewer than 7 items that weren't on my list. That's how indoctrinated I've become to the ways of the 'Mart. It's uncanny. And it all happened so fast. A year ago, I was fine! I was happy paying a little more elsewhere or driving to three different locations to save a few bucks on consumables and other randoms that I needed. I didn't need the WalMart! I hated it!

The 'me' from last year would totally be kicking the current 'me's ass right now.

To top it all off, I... err... we... err... I'm not sure exactly what happened... One of the employees, a young black man that was probably all of 28 (if that), regarded my daughter and I as sisters (which sometimes happens) and I dismissed it as bad eyesight (he was at the far end of the aisle we were in). As he got closer, he tried to continue conversation about my age, guessing me at 26 - to which I rolled my eyes, gave him my most patronizing 'mom' look, and continued on with some kind of sarcastic retort about appreciating the effort - he parted with a "Well, you look good!"
(Keeping in mind that I was wearing faded, dirty capri pants and a tank top without the slightest bit of makeup on my face and my hair was in its requisite "don't-give-a-crap" ponytail... not to mention that I'm so much closer to 40 than 20 that I can taste it with the bitter tip of my tongue.)

I turned to my daughter (who is now giggling) and she blurts, "OMG, mom you just got hit on."
I decide that this can be one of those 'teachable moments' that I'm always talking about and try to think of some wisdom to impart.
Before my brain can decide on the appropriate response, however, my mouth blurts out,
"It's the Watson ass."

Oh, WalMart... how you encourage and instill class and grace and elegance.

It ended up being a teachable moment anyway, as my daughter and I agreed that you really can find ANYTHING at the WalMart. Including young, good-lookin' black boys, apparently.

And so it is that I awoke today with a slight shame-hangover akin to 'buyer's remorse' or the embarrassment of recalling what you did the night before in a drunken stupor... and entered the amount I spent into my checking register.

My contrition, however genuine, is only temporary. I know that I will again be sucked into the sinister walls of the unabashed spenders. It only hurts because WalMart knows me so well.
Just when I think I can break the spell... they send an agent of psychological infiltration to flatter and cajole me. They are sneaky, underhanded bastards.

I think I need a shower.

My Two Dads

Having no biological sisters, I started 'adopting' my best friends as sisters from about the 3rd grade forward. (Nowadays, I seem to adopt only 'little sisters' as I'm actually closer in age to their parents, but that's another story for another day.) As a result of these declared familial bonds, I also inherited a few extra parents here and there.

The Harkenriders, The Chamberlains, The Mellos, The Westerbergs, The Davis', The Marshaks, The Halls, and The Powells. All sets of parents that advised, educated, disciplined, fed, entertained and/or moved me in some way.

As I grew more rebellious against authority figures, most parents seemed like sticks-in-the-mud (of course) and were a second-thought to my selfish teenage desires. It wasn't until I was in a situation way over my head that I realized I needed them all more than I could ever know.

I had broken some big rules and burned bridges with my own parents when I ended up renting one room in a two-bedroom apartment with the young mother of an 11-month-old (who's 'baby daddy' was in prison) who was living on unemployment and food stamps.
I had just started working at AT&T and was in training every day from 6am-2:30pm. They had a strict attendance policy that wasn't going to be dictated by my morning sickness, so I had to be up in time to puke and shower before hitching the bus that took me to work two miles down the road.
I would often return to the apartment in disarray and my roommate gone, so I would clean up out of boredom. It wasn't always easy as I didn't have the strongest constitution to deal with dirty diapers, bathroom sink/drain Yeti-clogs, and dishes that were left sitting with milk to spoil or beans to dry, crack and adhere to their ceramic bowl. It was after cleaning such putrid elements that my roommate returned and snapped at me for "dumping her baby's lunch". Spoiled milk and day-old beans. The lunch of an 11-month-old. I was only 18, but even I knew that wasn't right. She 'made-do' with beans from a can and beer. Yes. Beer.

I had been in that apartment for two weeks when I received my first paycheck and managed to do some grocery shopping... only to arrive home days later to find that most of my groceries had been consumed by my roommate - who explained that she was still waiting for her food stamps and would replenish the supply in a few days.

I ate an entire watermelon for dinner that night.
It was all that was left.

After doing so I had a minor emotional breakdown and called my best friend, Amanda, to vent.
Incidentally, the roommate did not have good enough credit to qualify for a phone line in the apartment - and I, being fresh out of High School, would have been required to put down a deposit of a coupla hundred bucks to have one installed in my name - which I wasn't in a position to do. So, I had to walk across the parking lot to the CircleK and use the pay phone to call someone. If someone wanted to reach me... well... tough, I guess... but with very few exceptions, I couldn't think of anyone who would want to reach me.
I remember there was always something spilled or discarded that attracted a gazillion ants to those pay phones, but the next closest one was a block away and it was hot outside.

Amanda came over to be my shoulder to vent and cry on (and spent most of the time disapproving of my current living situation) and left after eliciting my promise to call her the next day.
I don't remember if it was the same night I called her or the night following, but she had gone home and appealed to her parents and then informed me that her dad would be bringing a truck to pack up my shit and move it out of the apartment and into their house.

I don't remember much... only that it happened with lightening speed. Her father carried load after load of clothes, my mattress, and the few possessions I had with me without a word. Amanda and I squeezed into the cab beside him. We drove silently for a few miles and I was almost sure that Papa Powell was crying. He later explained that he was angry and heartbroken about what had led to the conditions I was living in and didn't know how I could have destroyed my relationship with parents so irrevocably to have ended up away from my family. It was something that I didn't quite understand myself and so we speculated and commiserated together as a father and daughter would about choices and consequence.

We drove to my mom's house where she had agreed to store some of my large items temporarily. I think I ended up bringing three boxes to Amanda's house... most of them clothes that would only fit me for the next month or so.

I spent that summer living with the Powell's. Amanda, her dad, and a fellah from my training class took turns giving me rides to work (which was now considerably further away) at god-awful hours of the morning. They fed me, they encouraged me, and they loved me.

Papa Powell was a musician and had converted his garage into a recording studio. My father, also being a musician, had recorded some of my favorite musical theatre tracks with his own arrangements while I was in Junior High. Together, my two dads were responsible for the first time I ever recorded in a studio and had a chance to play creatively. I remember Amanda picking up harmonies and the two of us riffing and making up parody lyrics, playing with character voices and mimicry.
I think I was 13 or 14 when we recorded 'Music of the Night'. I remember how much time Papa Powell spent playing with levels and reverb and a ton of other elements I didn't understand - until what was left was something altogether magical and amazing.

I remember singing with his band and being denied entrance to a bar (at the age of 16) only to hear, "It's okay, she's with us." I sang my heart out that night... as a special guest of the band... to a raucous crowd of adults who were so supportive and encouraging that it only solidified how much I wanted to entertain people. At the time, I was pretty sure my folks would have a coronary if they knew I was out singing for the drunks on that Friday night... and Papa Powell didn't offer another barroom gig after that... but that one experience was enough to build the confidence that I had some marketable talent.

Those weren't the only milestones shared with my second dad.

He was there the first time I ever felt my son flutter in my belly - on a hot summer day in AZ, while laying on his couch, reading a book and drinking iced tea.

At the end of the summer of '93, I had saved up enough money for the deposit on an apartment within walking distance of my workplace. We loaded up my stuff from mom's garage and Amanda's bedroom and Papa Powell helped me move in to my first ever 'very own' apartment.

Before moving out, however, Papa Powell and I shared a moment in the living room of the house where he offered some advice and made me promise him something. He said, and I'm paraphrasing, 'No matter what happens, don't stop performing. Don't let marriage or children or your work or living situation prevent you from being the artist that you are. Let them improve it.' He told me that I had a gift and that he believed in me.

It was a time in my life when I felt that very few people believed in me and he forever impacted who I would become as a person and as an artist.

His life took a few unexpected turns that included a divorce, another failed marriage, alcoholism and ultimately homelessness.
I'm relieved and thankful that I didn't know him for those years. My big sister spared me many of the details, but kept me involved in his progress and/or deterioration...
He was attempting to rehabilitate himself, going to AA, and was living in a motel... still an unstable and unhealthy lifestyle for the fragile man I imagined him to be at this point... but a potential step in the right direction. So much potential. I had faith that I would see him again in better times.

Papa Powell passed away July 2nd.

He made some decisions that I believe drastically shortened his life. Especially in the last several years. He was a beautiful man and a brilliant musician. A fragile and vulnerable human being who was going through a lot of pain in the last several years of his life.

He broke many hearts. His wife, his daughter, the grandkids that he will never know - and who will never fully understand what an amazing man their grandpa was.

He will always be the dad who rescued me.

The one who held me while I cried about being alone and scared and confused.
The one who walked around the house humming whichever random tune or riff was in his head.
He was quick with a joke or to light up your smoke...
He was the one who graciously allowed Amanda and I to test out our rudimentary cooking skills... and smiled through it even when dinner was lousy.
The one who walked in the door scowling, but whose eyes would light up when he saw his 'daughters' dancing and singing along with RHPS or going through sheet music.
He was the one who believed in me when I had given everyone around me every reason not to.

I hate that I was not equipped to rescue him the way that he rescued me. I also acknowledge that alcoholism and pregnancy are two vastly different diseases - though perhaps the motivating choices stemmed from the same desire to escape... but I digress.

I love Papa Powell.
I will grieve for him in my own way; rediscovering memories long forgotten and determining how best to continue the legacy of music, creativity and acceptance that he left in the heart and soul of the artist and person that I long to be.

Rest in peace, Papa.
...and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

No Souliciting!

I don't get along well with missionaries. While I believe they may be good people at heart and while I also believe that they are doing very important work, they typically make me feel uncomfortable. And I HATE feeling uncomfortable in my home, my sanctuary.

Well gee, Andi... have you stopped to analyze this?
Yeah, I have, smarty-pants. And I'm still going to be opinionated about it.

Some of you may know this, but for those that don't, a little background:
I was very involved in my church throughout all of my youth. Not only did my family go to church religiously (pun intended), but we were involved in the church choir, the youth groups, my parents were counselors, my uncle was the youth pastor for a short time, etc, etc. We didn't just go to church on Sunday morning. We went Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, and often other days between. I was a 'sidewalk evangelist' which is another name for a door-to-door missionary... I was a tool for God... a fisher of men... I just got a little sidetracked on the kind of man-fishing I was supposed to be doing, I suppose, but I digress...

I have nothing to discuss with missionaries. I used to entertain long religious debates, having memorized a good deal of scripture in my youth, but those debates lost their luster as I became a bit more set in my ways and intolerant of 19-year-old kids trying to give me advice.

See, that's the thing... I never like hurting people's feelings and I don't ever want these people to feel rejected themselves because I'm rejecting their religion. It's silly, I know... but I'm a people-pleaser and I think about stupid stuff like that. As I get older, however, I've grown more impatient with those that 'invade my space' uninvited or unannounced.

My old house was in a neighborhood that was regularly canvassed by Mormons at dinnertime. It was probably the third or fourth time I had answered the door with an oven-mitt on one hand, random utensil in the other, TV blaring in the background, phone ringing... that I directed them to the 'no soliciting' sign and told them that it included soliciting sprinkler, sound, alarm, and belief systems. They didn't come back.

And so it was that I moved into my new house and was returning after running some errands to find two men at my front door talking to my 17-year-old son.
Now, there were a couple things wrong with the picture right off the bat...
First, I do have a 'no soliciting' sign right by the front door.
I have decided that 'soliciting' is the LEAST known word in the English language. 95% of the time I point to that sign, I am met with a confused look as if to say, "Well I don't know what that means, but I assure you it does not apply to me!"

The second thing wrong with this picture was that my son was standing there with the door open... security screen still locked firmly between him and his guests. It was 112 degrees outside... and at the point that I walked in, it was about 90 degrees in the house. Grrrrr.

There was an uncomfortable energy in the air. I couldn't identify it... but it was that feeling when you walk into your home and automatically know something is "off". Those are the times I immediately start looking for signs of something broken or spilled or otherwise 'out of whack'. In this case, it was just an odd, oppressive energy.

I figured that hollering "Dinner's Ready!" would be a good 'hint' to our guests that it was time to wrap it up without butting into their conversation and being rude. I have yet to hear a peep from my son - he's merely listening. I catch his eye, and realize he may need assistance in being assertive with the fellah who is just still talking - and apparently not about to be interrupted.
So, I quietly stepped out the side door to get face-to-face with the interlopers.

As I approached, I realized that they were not Mormon missionaries as I first assumed.
Although they wore similar garb, one of the fellahs had his jacket slung over his shoulder and his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal full sleeves of intricate tattoo work. His companion looked like an Amish guy (3/4 scale, cuz he was really short) who had borrowed his dad's suit jacket.
Then I realize that they're not reading from the Book of Mormon... nor a Watchtower pamphlet... they are reading from a King James bible! I stood back and waited to be acknowledged. They both looked in my direction and went right back to what they were discussing... sin... the many sins of man... and which commandments man is to live by to be free from sin...
So I wait...
Patiently...
and then I did the 'mom tap' with my foot followed by an "ahem"...

Both men turned to look at me and I pulled out my most dramatic 'bi-polar mom' voice and said, "What about the sin of not honoring your father and mother when they've called you to dinner THREE TIMES?"
Blank stares.
I explained that while I appreciated the important work they were doing, I was not going to tolerate being undermined by men any more and that they must leave my property at once, respect my 'no soliciting' sign and "respect my authoritay"! (Because no dramatic enactment is complete without a South Park quote.)
The little Amish one tried to hand me a small brochure to which I replied, "No thank you. I'm VERY firm in my faith and VERY positive that we have no business together" as I walked back around the corner and into my house muttering aloud in an effort to convince them that I was truly mentally unstable.

They littered my front door with their propaganda anyhow, and as soon as I saw the name of the pastor, everything clicked.

Pastor Steven Anderson of the Faithful Word Baptist Church.

No, I've never attended services there. I don't associate myself as a Baptist (having been raised non-denominational) and there's no good reason that his name would ring a bell.
Except that I have a strange hobby that started way back in the day when I was cast in a production of 'The Laramie Project'. I ended up not being able to do the show, but in some of my 'table work' (an actor's version of homework/research) I ended up reading a string of articles about the Westboro Baptist Church and Pastor Fred Phelps (of 'God Hates Fags' and funeral protestation fame). Since then, I've made it a habit to keep myself educated and informed about the agendas and missions of these factions. I don't know why... it's not like I wish to give them much of my time or energy, and reading about them usually pisses me off and makes me feel bitter towards Christians in general.

Long story short, I read articles about this Pastor and some trouble that he had both locally (going head-to-head with community groups and other churches) as well as a rather public incident coming back from Mexico that resulted in him getting his belligerent, holier-than-thou ass beat down by border patrol officers. (I admittedly watched all of the youtube videos, hoping that I could side with him and use his experience to quote one of my anti-government/power-hungry-cops rants, but instead formed the honest opinion that he was being a douche and deserved to get his face pummeled.) His most recent controversy was calling for his congregation to pray for the death of Obama.
His church engages in 'soul-saving' on a daily basis in their community... which is apparently also my community. Awesome.
I won't go into my own personal spiritual beliefs, but I do not and cannot and will not ascribe to any belief system that calls for someone's death or destruction. That's a big deal-breaker for me.

And so it was... that on this day... when I usually feel a momentary pang of remorse for turning people away from my door in an assertive manner... I felt a pang of remorse that I wasn't on top of my game enough to recognize him while he was in front of me so I could REALLY unload my inner angst.

I think this might be the first time that I'm hoping missionaries come back.

It's the first time in ages that I want to engage in spiritual debate again. I want to pick the brains of these homegrown, uneducated, backwards idiots who end up in positions of leadership... advising the masses... and find out how and why they are capable of perpetuating the convictions and philosophies they do.

In the meantime, I think I may have to change the wording of my 'no soliciting' sign to be a bit more specific.

Life is like...

So, I'm writing a lot these days, but I'm afraid none of it is going to come to any fruition. Mostly I'm my own worst critic, but rarely does material make it from my fingers to the keyboard without me thinking at least twice, "This is total crap."

I found myself stuck in an extended metaphor where I illustrated my theory on life being like a successful game of Solitaire and realized that A) I need a bit more literary inspiration -and- B) I play too much Solitaire.

I also decided that "life is like" is one of the easiest (and therefore lamest) literary devices to use because it's already so overused. We all know what life is like. It's like a box of chocolates, riding a bicycle, a coin, a blanket too short, the sea, a boat, a song, a symphony, a tapestry, a puzzle, a book, a boxing ring, a racetrack, a chess game, an hourglass glued to the table, etc. etc. And so my chapter on 'Solitaire' will most likely not make the final cut. At this rate, I'm tossing 6-8 chapters for every one that I keep. Needless to say, my progress is... um... slow.

Frustrating, to say the least.

I have a few more callbacks coming up this week, so that's something to look forward to... I'm anxious to have my season mapped out. I find that it's more than a feeling of security with having work (though that's a big part of it). I like having shows to immerse myself in. I will listen to soundtracks for weeks/months at a time, and get really pumped about the production... and feel less inclined to have to 'cram' last minute when I've got an idea what I'm doing (or can get the script ahead of time). I'm anxious to get back to the busy season. I do love my summers because I have more time with the kids as well as having time to write and indulge in some of my neglected pet projects... And as much as I love teaching and working from home, I miss having rehearsals or performances to go to. When I have no set schedule or agenda, I have a tendency to procrastinate.

Which is why half of these boxes are still lingering in what should be my functional office while I blog on my laptop in the living room...

And on that note, I must return to my domestic duties for the day. After all, life is like the laundry buzzer always snapping one back to reality...

Entitlement and the Pursuit of Happiness

I am almost ashamed to say it, but I have favorites among my pets.
Granted, they take turns most often, since one or two of them are usually bugging the crap out of me... but I have my baby... who ironically was never supposed to be part of our 'pride'.
Those that know the story know that I ended up with a pregnant mama cat and a daughter begging to keep one of the litter. Thinking I knew a bit about genetics, I promised her we'd keep the white one. He was the last one born in a litter of four... his brothers and sisters were black or mottled. He was pure white, with crystal blue eyes. A genetic freak. And a Mama's Boy.

He is Spartacus.

OR... as I refer to him (in my kitten voice) 'Sparkle-Berry Brown'. (His gay stage name.)
He is a titled cat. He is the Prince of Precious, the Earl of Snuggles, and the Marquis of Muffins.
Often, I like to just watch him... as he investigates the best spot in the room to take a nap or takes great pains to wash his face. He is the kind of cat who starts to purr before you even touch him, but will run if I have ear drops anywhere in arms' reach. He seems to know intent, if that's possible. (Which, for animals, I think it is.)

As I watched him drool while kneading a pillow, it struck me that cats... or any animal, really... need no permission to pursue their own happiness. They just do. Whether it's chasing flies or napping in the sunny spot, animals need no excuse... no justification for what they do. It is understood. They simply choose to 'be'.

As humans, we are not guaranteed the unalienable right to happiness itself. We are guaranteed the right to 'pursue' happiness. (Within certain legal and socially acceptable parameters, of course.)
And yet, I'm struck by how incorrect that may be. By simply being given the free will to 'pursue' happiness, aren't we already guaranteed that it's available to us?
Here's where I'm going with this...
It's a choice.
To 'pursue'... is a choice. To be happy is a choice. To be angry is a choice. In the end, any decision stems from the same vessel.

I hear both sides of the coin from those who don't believe they deserve to be happy... and those who believe that they are entitled to happiness. I believe it's neither. And both. It's a choice. Neither is something that comes from any external force. It is solely and completely 100% internal.

I've lived most of my life as a reactionary person. Happy because something caused me to be happy or angry because someone or something made me so... But where I find peace nowadays is in simply choosing to be happy. Not for any reason other than just to 'be'. Not only does it put the responsibility back on me, but it removes the ability of anyone/anything else to alter my 'state of being'.

I don't think my pampered gay cat ever questions whether he deserves to be happy or whether he needs to be angry... I think he just 'is'... and that seems like a very unapologetic, peaceful existence to me. It just feels right.

There is hope in this world. There is peace. There is happiness. There is love.
I do believe in Gandhi's observation that we have to be the change we want to see in the world.
Not because we are entitled or deserving, but because it is part of the fundamental purpose of being. We are responsible for our own actions and reactions. We are responsible for our own pursuits. Responsible for our own anger. And our own happiness.

And on that note, I leave some words from Osho:

"Take hold of your own life.
See that the whole existence is celebrating.
These trees are not serious, these birds are not serious.
The rivers and the oceans are wild,
and everywhere there is fun,
everywhere there is joy and delight.
Watch existence,
listen to the existence and become part of it."
— Osho

Welcome to the Neighborhood!

Well, we're moved!

I vaguely remember an epic 24-hour packing session followed by two days of moving, a day of cleaning (all while teaching full-time during the day) and another 24-hours full of "Where's my... ?" and "Have you seen the box with the...?"

I was teaching the teen Shakespeare workshop with PT's Summer Camp program that week, and admittedly, I did not expect the kids to be so dang good! I let them design their own program for the final performance on Friday and they chose 'Death by Shakespeare' which was a montage of 6 scenes depicting epic Shakespearean deaths. Romeo and Juliet, Caesar, the MacDuff family, Desdemona, etc. My introduction did not appropriately prepare the parents and other students for what they were about to see... and so a performance that had begun with adorable little 7-year-olds singing and dancing to Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious ended with Titus and Lavinia slitting the throats of her tormentors followed by the double suicide of Romeo and Juliet.
In retrospect, I should have pushed for the vignettes from Midsummer...

This week has proven to be more family-friendly as we've dumped the heavy content of Shakespeare and taken on 'Mastering the Monologue' and audition prep. I've got an extremely talented and enthusiastic group of 20 kids workin' their tails off when they could be on their couches sleeping, watching TV or playing video games; so I respect them all for being there every day.

In other news, the Jeep waited until the last load of goods had been delivered to the new place and promptly decided that it didn't want to start again. It has done the same thing before... and has responded at times to jumpstarting... and last Memorial Day, after my step-dad assisted in taking out the starter to have it checked, the thing started back up just fine. I just don't know what to make of it. Could be that the neutral safety switch is gummed up. Could be electrical. Could be my solenoid. I just don't know.
So... I'm hoping to have it towed to the house today.
Thankfully, my mom loaned me her Prius, so that has been getting me to and from work every day until I can get The Beast back up and running.

Luckily, I'm in the glamorous part of Mesa that is just a stone's throw from a bunch of mechanic shops... and I suspect that at least one of the three drunks who live across the street is handy with a socket set on a vehicle.

I went to the nearest Wal-Mart with Jason and as soon as we walked in, he broke out the Che... "Oh what a circus, oh what a show!..."
Oh yes... downtown Mesa has all the adventure and excitement of downtown Phoenix... but without the culture, food and arts. (And I don't mean ALL of Mesa... it does have it's venues and restaurants... but my little corner is pretty desolate except for the Bookman's and the Atomic Comics.)

The commute into Phoenix is shorter by a good chunk and the commute to Chandler is a short jaunt at best, so I'm happy with the location. Now I just have to start making the new place look and feel like 'home'... which isn't helped by the stacks of boxes waiting their rightful places in storage or unpacked in one of the rooms.
Meh... I'll get to the rest of it this weekend... in addition to tinkering with the Jeep.

In the meantime, I've got a class to teach and a show to put on!

OMG. Srsly? WTF? FML...FTW.

Camp starts tomorrow.

What is camp, you ask? Phoenix Theatre's youth summer camp.
This week, I'll be teaching about 20 teens how to read, interpret and perform Shakespeare. (We hope.)

That's where I'll be from 8-5 each day... with my evenings spent frantically packing up for the big move. Yup. Moving day is Thursday. Final walk-thru of the old place is Friday.

Can we say overwhelmed?

I'm both excited and nervous for camp this week. Excited because I get to immerse myself in The Bard once again. Nervous because the whole thing culminates in a performance on Friday... and four days is not a lot of time for some of his loftier offerings.

In the meantime, I've had 'Movin' Right Along' (as sung by Kermit and Fozzie) running on a continuous loop in my head each time another box gets packed. Which also tells me that I need to have my Pandora more readily available while I'm working.

I have no idea how we're going to make it all happen. Movers are being hired (it's not like I have the luxury of time to make multiple trips or load it all up with the help of my dearest friends)... and we're talking a 4-bedroom house with multiple large furniture sets. Now, I'm a buff li'l scrapper, but I honestly don't want to put my poor old body through that. And there's no way I could do it all in the span of an evening after work. So... movers it is. Hallelujah.

But that doesn't change the fact that I still have to clean out the old place (and shampoo the carpets) as well as try to get the new place in at least functional order before I leave the kids to fend for themselves all day without me (which really just means making sure the TV/cable/Playstation is hooked up).

OMG. I just realized how boring and... *gasp* responsible this blog sounds. As if I'm a grown-up who is bound by agendas and schedules and obligations.

Ew!!

Okay, well on that note, I'm gonna go chug a forty and pass out in the living room with my band and the two homies we met at the Circle K.
Not really. I'm gonna brush my teeth and scoot the dog off of my side of the bed and crash like the old fart I am.

Hoping that by the end of the week, we'll all be happy campers!

Oh, those summer nights...

It finally happened. I woke up with that sticky feeling. The underside of my hair and back of my neck were slightly damp with sweat. The dreaded summer.

I've been able to exist for the past two weeks with just the comfort of my ceiling and box fans; and the nights are cool enough that I can leave the patio door open. Well, not any more.

Goodbye low electric bills.
Goodbye fresh air flowing through my house, thus reducing my claustrophobia.
Goodbye aromas of blossoming orange trees and neighbors grilling.

The children have finals this week and end their school year on Wednesday. Which also means that I will officially be the parent of a Junior and Senior in High School.

(Cue montage from every coming-of-age movie ever made and cut to shot of me sobbing on the couch - with a glass of wine in one hand, anti-aging brochure in the other hand and baby books on my lap.)

(Fade to black for transition and standby cue for 'Midlife Crisis'.)

I have promised to spend a good portion of the summer concentrating on defensive driving with the children so that they can get their licenses by the time my girl turns 16 in August.
(Cut to same shot on the couch, but wine has been replaced with hard liquor.)

So... this week, I pack my little heart out and hopefully organize everything into what will stay, what will go, and what we'll attempt to sell in a yard sale next weekend. Next Monday is the first week of summer camp, which means I'll be up at 7am every morning to teach Shakespeare to teens. Somehow on Tuesday and Wednesday, I'm also going to move all my crap from one house to the other - cue frantic phone call to bonded/insured moving companies - and establish my new home (for at least the next year).
I'll be teaching during the day and moving/unpacking in the evening... and probably passed out like a lousy drunk at night.
I feel for the kids, if only because I know they'll be saddled with chores and tasks and menial labor for the first couple weeks of their summer break. Picking up mom's slack. That's gonna suck for them.
Then I'll take them out in the Jeep and let them drive. Oh Lord, that's gonna suck for me.
Just thinking about it gives me heart palpitations and sets me on track to hyperventilate.

I'm feeling restless. Packing feels like purgatory. Knowing there's a D-Day just makes me wish it were here already so I can face it head-on with the energy I have now. I fear that the week will sap me and leave me unprepared for the physical and emotional tasks at hand. I'd love to just snap my fingers and have everything packed, cleaned, laundered, and ready to go. At least then I could go to the movies or do something frivolous without constantly thinking, "I should be at home, packing and cleaning or doing something productive."

I take solace in the prediction that today's weather will be cooler. I might leave my doors and windows open for one more night in the hopes that the onset of our oppressive summer will be be delayed for an evening or two.

...and here's to hoping that everything goes as smoothly as I've dreamed it out in my head.

... like a 1950's 'Grease' montage with talented, but misdirected children finding an outlet in Shakespeare; laughter at driving attempts that result in stalled or overheated engines; and moving company fellahs that spontaneously break into dance around the truck while singing 'We Go Together' as the entire neighborhood joins in and dances in the street (and I skip around handing out gift baskets of homemade goods while dressed as June Cleaver.)

Okay, so it may not go THAT smoothly... but I'll be content with anything that isn't a total disaster.

Oh, those summer nights.

One, two, three... jump.

I can haz crisis?

I think now might be the best time to start scheduling my midlife crisis.

I always hear about men and women with stable and established lives who seem to decide one random morning that everything must change. Careers, relationships, locations, even the clothes they wear and the cars they drive.

The thing is... I don't really have what most would call a 'stable and established' life. I mean, I've always lived in the same state and I have two children who keep me fairly grounded, but I'm a gypsy at heart. And an actor's life is far from what most people would call stable. After a fair amount of drama in my early adulthood, I've managed to relegate it (mostly) to the stage and reform myself from a demanding, cocky diva into an ever-evolving artist with a great appreciation for 'the little things'. Life hands me melons because I've become emotionally dyslexic.

But here's the mastery behind my plan: You see, if I expedite my midlife crisis, I'm not putting it off to those menopausal days where my actions are dictated by hormone-induced psychosis or flights of fancy. I can plan it out methodically and allow my midlife crisis to be fun for everyone! I could sell all of my earthly possessions (and put the sentimental ones in storage - or mom's garage) and take the kids backpacking across Europe to celebrate their High School graduation.

I could take the kids on a cruise and then return to randomly pick a city on a map to relocate to.

I could return to my roots and visit family in Barbados and maybe fall in love with working the plantations. I'm still young enough for manual labor!

I could buy an RV and get a grant to tour the U.S. doing socio-economic and cultural studies of the effects of arts programs (and lack thereof) on inner-city communities.

I could retreat into the jungle and play my own game of 'Lost' meets 'Survivor' meets 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!'

Or... I could just pack another box, move into the next rental house and hope that I can drum up enough work to pay my bills and fund a few audition excursions within the next year...

I'll probably opt for the latter... since it seems that a crisis would indeed take much more planning than I'm willing to put into it right now. But it sounds like so much fun to just go completely 'whack-a-loon' for a while and live absolutely spontaneously.

This is where a little voice in the back of my head says that it's time to start living vicariously through my children. (Oh God, could you imagine me as a full-blown psycho stagemom? Terrifying!) But I really can't bear the thought for long, since my kids are just starting to get a taste of the freedom and independence that adulthood brings (yet without the responsibility) and to impose myself on their lives in this stage of the game would just be cruel.

(Though if they DO want mom tagging along on a backpacking trip across Europe, I'm SO in!!)
Better that I keep them sheltered from the whack-a-loon for just a while longer... though one could argue that they've already been far too exposed to take it back now.

I suppose the mid-life crisis will have to wait until I grow up a little bit more. And there's no telling how long that's actually going to take.

I must close for now so I can don my pencil skirt, twist up my hair, and dust off my German dialect for a callback. Playing 'pretend' for a living. Yeah... growing up is a long way off.

Fingers and toes crossed, kiddos!

Welcome Home!!

Yeah, I know, I know... I've been home for almost two weeks now.

I haven't even completely unpacked my suitcases or boxes, let alone begun the process of packing up the house to move... I just haven't found the motivation... or the house I'm moving into yet.

Upon my return, I hit two general auditions in town and started the house hunting in earnest, since my lease is up in three weeks and the owners need to try to sell it to get out from under the extra mortgage. Oh housing crisis, thank you for mucking up my perfect rental arrangement!

Concentrating on moving and auditions has been a godsend, really. It has allowed me to temporarily ignore the nagging writer's block and has also given me something to focus on instead of my post-show blues.

The show's over, Boo.

This weekend holds callbacks for 'Boeing Boeing' and '9 to 5' as well as appointments to see a few rental homes, catch-up with friends and family. I'm also working on my curriculum for the workshops I'm teaching in June.

That's right... I will be influencing the minds of 14-18 year olds. My plan for world domination is finally being realized! I'll be teaching one week of a Shakespeare intensive and one week of 'Mastering the Monologue' as audition prep. I'm very excited!! (But at this point, wholly unprepared.)

I still very much miss my family away from home... and it has felt slightly foreign to be back among my creature comforts. But it has been so wonderful to be back amongst my family and my dear, dear friends... without whom, I probably would have wallowed in depression for at least another week!

There has been plenty of blogworthy news this week, which made me realize that for as much as I 'blog' and 'live out loud' on the net, I'm actually a private person when it comes to the people and events that are truly dear to me.

Both my father and my step-dad faced health issues that came to their surgical conclusions... and both are recovering remarkably well. Several of my immediate family members have battled Cancer in the past few years which, of course, weighs heavily as I think of my own mortality and the relatively short amount of time we exist on this planet. I'm thankful that both of my dads have a ton of feisty years ahead of them.

I missed my babies a ton and still haven't spent enough time with them to make up for being away the past two months... but they only have two more weeks of school before they're off for the summer. I have a feeling we'll be spending a decent amount of time at my mom's... and her pool.

The uncertainty of what I'll actually be doing this season has me a bit restless. But I'm also excited to be getting to auditions outside of AZ... which, I guess, brings me to other blogworthy news...
I'm trying to get work in other states... and am earnestly prospecting out east. Not necessarily New York, though I'd love to work out there and get to see all my friends in the city... maybe I'll hit auditions there eventually, but I'm on the first set of baby-steps. I've lived in AZ all of my life, so there's bound to be some serious separation anxiety. I have a few contacts in Florida and throughout the southeast, so (God and CDs willing) that's probably where I will land within the next year or so.

I don't want to jinx anything, so I'll leave it at that and hope that callbacks go well this weekend and that I can get a few videos edited and submitted in the next few days. Fingers and toes crossed!!

Adventures In Little Rock: The Final Chapter

I hate goodbyes.
I also hate closing good shows.

Every show, every theatre, every organization has it's own quirks and processes.
Complications like dual directors, no wing space, troublesome sound and tech booth ergonomics only add to the character of a show (in my opinion) and this production of Hairspray was no exception.

I was honored to reprise this role with talented artists that I had worked with in Phoenix, but had no idea the additional number of people that I would come to know and love in my two months here.

The Stage Management team took me under their wing and allowed me to walk the line between actor and crew - finding solace in girlie time with Ann and joy in the disgust on Mary's face when I licked her. Not to mention their nefarious leader, Patrick, who allowed me to vent when I needed and gave me the pimp hand when I was gettin' too big for my britches - even allowing me to adopt his dog as a temporary surrogate for my beloved Roxanne.
Corinne... good, God... what a fun musical director! Equal parts no-nonsense and heart, I loved and respected her instantly... and her wit is only matched by her sarcasm. I didn't get to spend nearly enough time with her.
The cast... was and is simply amazing. From all of my nicest kids: Mary Katelin, Molly, Stacy, Kayte, Kelsie and Christy were always smiling and full of amazing energy. God, these girls made me laugh... I mean REALLY laugh... and made me feel like I was big sister to some amazing young women. And my boys.... my sweet, sweet Kevin, Matt, David and Brendan who NEVER dropped me and in fact lifted me up in more ways than one. And of course, Cory, Michael, Gregory and Antyon... all of whom I will miss so much.

Our girls' dressing room was such a sanctuary. Kim and Iris who are everything I wish I could be as a performer and more - Miss Sandy, who is a hoot and a holler "Happy Biiiirthday" kind of gal, and the beautiful Laura and Katie: Miss Congeniality and Punky Who. What a blast we had with our Pandora pre-show and our random discussions!
Jay and Rick, who never ceased to keep a twinkle in my eye onstage, and LaVon, who arrived grieving the loss of her aunt and grandmother, but who left celebrating a new pregnancy.
And Lillian... my dear, sweet Tracy. No one could ever compare with the remarkable amount of heart in this woman.

I learned a lot in Arkansas.

I learned that tornadoes are scary and will suck the windows right off of a building.
I learned that good people will make up for a world of loneliness and discomfort in a foreign setting.
I learned that you should NEVER stand up your MD when she invites you out for dinner or drinks... and if you do, she will give you a ton of shit.
I learned that hazing young sorority sisters is fun for everyone involved!
I learned that hallway/block party/potlucks are super-awesome and totally exhausting!
I learned that residents of Arkansas are some of the nicest, most supportive people I've ever met.
I learned that there is no substitute for a really good snuggle session.
I learned that it's exactly 12 steps from the stage left wing to the vanity spike at center.
I learned that a good sense of humor goes a long way.
I learned that two months is a hell of a long time to go without seeing or hugging my babies.
I learned that home is truly where you make it... and for the last two months, my home has been pretty damn nice.

A part of me wanted to stay in Arkansas, knowing that there were people staying... it didn't feel right to leave only parts of our family behind as we fractured and separated towards our respective home bases.
My flight into Dallas was delayed by over an hour due to mechanical test difficulties, which resulted in missing my connecting flight. They popped me onto a later flight which also ended up being delayed by over an hour... and I knew that my patience was being tested. I could have stayed in Arkansas another day or I could have been in Arizona... but I did NOT want to be stranded in the purgatory that was Dallas/Ft. Worth for another moment!
I finally landed in Arizona around 6pm and was home sweet home to face my bewildered animals by 6:30. They've been at my heels ever since.

It's good to be home, but I will miss this chapter in the theatre journey. Both for the show and its message as well as the people and their love, talent and energy.

Thank you, Little Rock.