Neil LaBute is one of my favorite playwrights. His work is uncomfortable. It delves into the darker side of human nature, evoking discussion and analysis for days. When Bash first opened Off-Broadway, it was promoted as Bash: Latter-Day Plays (three one acts), and was the catalyst for LaBute's disfellowshipment from the Mormon church.
I had never seen the production and so I was quite pleased to see that Class 6 was closing its inaugural season with the show. I feel guilty for attending the pay-what-you-can Preview simply because the show I got was worth much more than what I paid.
Director Eric Schoen has assembled a cast of four, each as engaging and enraging as the next. The staging is simple, a black box and four chairs. The actors do not stand or pace to and fro. They sit... and reel you in.
There was no intermission. I didn't miss it one bit.
From the moment Eric Zaklukiewicz began a monologue that had to be quite a bitch to memorize, I was hooked. What started as a rambling, disjointed tale by a misogynist salesman, morphed into the deliberate retelling of a chilling crime. A crime for which there is no reason nor answer. Uncomfortable and heartbreaking, I couldn't help but to both hate and pity him.
(I'll try not to spoil any plot points. The beauty of LaBute is that if you don't know the show, you WILL be taken on an emotional roller-coaster ride.)
The second offering by duo Carlo La Tempa (John) and Portia Beacham (Sue) dialed up the humor and intensity a notch when describing the events of a formal church event. Their pacing was impeccable as they simultaneously related their perspectives to the audience without ever interacting with one another. Ms. Beacham was ever the poised and perfect WASP girlfriend and graciously allowed the abrasive, but somehow still charming La Tempa to land his laugh lines with the comedic timing of a true pro. I found myself along for the road trip and could only sit in rapt horror as John betrayed us with his nonchalant beating of a middle-aged homosexual in a bathroom.
Before I could catch my breath, I was transported to an interrogation room where a meek, but articulate woman (Brittany Bradford) illustrated the events surrounding the relationship she had with her English teacher at the age of 13. Ms. Bradford is a treat to watch. I'd dare call her an 'actor's actor' as I found myself absolutely mesmerized by her ability to reach so easily and organically into a place that is dark and sacred and bring us right along with her.
Perhaps I've become a bit jaded about the theatre scene lately, but I was very pleasantly surprised tonight. This is not fluff or 'feel-good' theatre. It is the kind of performance that begs for a few cocktails afterward and a hearty discussion amongst friends. Three stories of violence and loss by four amazing local performers. I cannot recommend it enough; if only for the performances of La Tempa and Bradford, which are well worth the full price ticket.
Now performing at The Little Theatre at Phoenix Theatre through May 30th.
http://class6theatre.org/
Seriously.
You won't regret it.
I promise.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Suicide is Painless
Before I even begin, let me start by saying that this post will probably not be a popular one. It deals with a sensitive subject and my not-so-sensitive opinion about it, so be forewarned.
Secondly, I had an epiphany this morning that is totally unrelated, but I believe that the BS skills I learned in my HS English classes will come in handy and allow me to somehow weave it into this post. Have faith.
On Thursday, I was informed that our little theatre community had lost yet another talented individual to death. The unofficial news spread just as quickly that his death was a suicide. The sad thing... no one I spoke to about it seemed at all surprised. "He was troubled," they say. "He was dealing with demons," people explain. And the ultimate caveat... "Tortured artist."
In May of 2008, a writer friend of mine committed suicide after losing his job at a flailing local newspaper and running into problems stemming from a repeated DUI offense. I heard the same explanations at the time. "He was a self-imposed perfectionist suffering from his inner demons." "He was troubled." ..."Tortured writer."
I never met my maternal grandfather. He was a 'troubled man' who was 'dealing with inner demons' and so he 'chose to end his life' when my mother and her sister were still just kids. He was a decorated war hero, a pilot in the Air Force, that had flown several high-profile missions against nazi targets in southern Europe. A painted portrait of him hung in our house and it used to creep me out as a kid. He left a suicide note in a Sun Pontiac envelope and his legacy (in my life) is no more than a collection of amazing photos from his days flying a B-24 Liberator. His name wasn't often mentioned in our house.
I have countless friends whose lives have been altered and devastated by suicide... and the events of the past week have had me humming the theme song to MASH in that tragically ironic way as I contemplate the ways in which suicide is in no way painless.
In the case of the friend who passed two years ago this month, he left an entire theatre and journalism community stunned and confused. This was no emo fellah sporting a 'woe is me' attitude and guyliner. He was just an average American Joe with problems.
In the case of the fellow artist who passed this week, he leaves behind a devastated mother (who has just lost her 28-year-old son) and a myriad associates and co-artists who have at some point been either infuriated or inspired by him. He was young. So young. And he had problems.
My grandfather... may have committed suicide to save himself the trouble of facing consequences for poor decisions during and after his military career. It's possible someone else may have done the job for him had he not made the swift decision himself. He was an emotionally unstable veteran with problems.
I'm angry with them. And it's not fair. I want to be able to mourn them properly and grieve and celebrate their presence and influence in my life, but I'm prevented by the anger and confusion that I feel.
Suicide is cowardly. It is selfish.
I will admit that on more than one occasion, I've fantasized about falling asleep to never wake up. I've had those 'to be or not to be' moments with myself when I felt like my responsibilities and obstacles were insurmountable. But I was just incapable of being that selfish. And don't get me wrong... I'm selfish. I'm one of the most selfish people I know. But I can't turn off that part of me that considers the pain and anguish of those I'd leave behind.
Maybe I'm just a narcissist and place too much importance on my role in other people's lives, but I can't reconcile being the cause of someone's pain. Especially someone I care about.
Furthermore, the whole concept of suicide (to me) means that you've figured it all out for yourself. There's nothing left to learn, nothing remarkable worth experiencing. I know people that have lived very full lives at 100 that indicate they are still learning new things every day.
We all have problems and we all have issues. And though we compare and quantify who 'has it better' or who 'has it worse' than we do, the truth of the matter is that the human condition is more similar than we acknowledge. Your worst day and my worst day might not have anything more in common except for the fact that they were our 'worst days' and we felt the same depth of extreme emotion... sadness, fear, anxiety, despair. Your best day and my best day can still be factored down to the lowest common denominator of euphoria, joy, victory.
The complex emotions we feel and our ability to express them creatively is what makes us human - much more so than our ability to use tools and develop intricate civilizations. (In my opinion.) Our art... our expression... is so vital to our existence. Though not always pleasant.
And speaking of art... My epiphany this morning was not an anticipated one.
I accidentally clicked on a photo of one of those 3-D art things. You know... the picture that looks nothing more like a bunch of colored dots all over the page. You're supposed to stare at it until you 'see' the picture take shape right in front of your disbelieving eyes.
Well, until this morning, I was starting to believe that they were all a bunch of hogwash. I'd never ever ever been successful and I've made a downright fool of myself in local malls trying.
Until this morning.
I started thinking about art and what it says and whether or not a bunch of dots on a page could be considered art... when I found myself staring into space (aka my monitor) and an honest-to-goodness horse appeared. With a broken picket fence behind it. Holy crap!
And to think that I had almost completely given up on ever understanding or appreciating that kind of art. You see, new things to learn and experience every day. Even on accident.
And so it is with mixed feelings that I write this... knowing that another voice has been silenced. One that was tortured by the dark side of this emotional existence, but will no longer express it through any medium save for the art he leaves behind.
It makes me angry.
It makes me sad.
It makes me grateful that I am made of 'sterner stuff'.
So far... nothing has been unbearable.
And so I count my blessings and hope that they have each found peace on the other side.
Noah Todd as Osric
SWShakespeare's Hamlet (Photo: Laura Durant)
Chris Page
Writer, Critic, Musician, General Funny-Man
Col. Earl Osborne
Husband, father, commander
Secondly, I had an epiphany this morning that is totally unrelated, but I believe that the BS skills I learned in my HS English classes will come in handy and allow me to somehow weave it into this post. Have faith.
On Thursday, I was informed that our little theatre community had lost yet another talented individual to death. The unofficial news spread just as quickly that his death was a suicide. The sad thing... no one I spoke to about it seemed at all surprised. "He was troubled," they say. "He was dealing with demons," people explain. And the ultimate caveat... "Tortured artist."
In May of 2008, a writer friend of mine committed suicide after losing his job at a flailing local newspaper and running into problems stemming from a repeated DUI offense. I heard the same explanations at the time. "He was a self-imposed perfectionist suffering from his inner demons." "He was troubled." ..."Tortured writer."
I never met my maternal grandfather. He was a 'troubled man' who was 'dealing with inner demons' and so he 'chose to end his life' when my mother and her sister were still just kids. He was a decorated war hero, a pilot in the Air Force, that had flown several high-profile missions against nazi targets in southern Europe. A painted portrait of him hung in our house and it used to creep me out as a kid. He left a suicide note in a Sun Pontiac envelope and his legacy (in my life) is no more than a collection of amazing photos from his days flying a B-24 Liberator. His name wasn't often mentioned in our house.
I have countless friends whose lives have been altered and devastated by suicide... and the events of the past week have had me humming the theme song to MASH in that tragically ironic way as I contemplate the ways in which suicide is in no way painless.
In the case of the friend who passed two years ago this month, he left an entire theatre and journalism community stunned and confused. This was no emo fellah sporting a 'woe is me' attitude and guyliner. He was just an average American Joe with problems.
In the case of the fellow artist who passed this week, he leaves behind a devastated mother (who has just lost her 28-year-old son) and a myriad associates and co-artists who have at some point been either infuriated or inspired by him. He was young. So young. And he had problems.
My grandfather... may have committed suicide to save himself the trouble of facing consequences for poor decisions during and after his military career. It's possible someone else may have done the job for him had he not made the swift decision himself. He was an emotionally unstable veteran with problems.
I'm angry with them. And it's not fair. I want to be able to mourn them properly and grieve and celebrate their presence and influence in my life, but I'm prevented by the anger and confusion that I feel.
Suicide is cowardly. It is selfish.
I will admit that on more than one occasion, I've fantasized about falling asleep to never wake up. I've had those 'to be or not to be' moments with myself when I felt like my responsibilities and obstacles were insurmountable. But I was just incapable of being that selfish. And don't get me wrong... I'm selfish. I'm one of the most selfish people I know. But I can't turn off that part of me that considers the pain and anguish of those I'd leave behind.
Maybe I'm just a narcissist and place too much importance on my role in other people's lives, but I can't reconcile being the cause of someone's pain. Especially someone I care about.
Furthermore, the whole concept of suicide (to me) means that you've figured it all out for yourself. There's nothing left to learn, nothing remarkable worth experiencing. I know people that have lived very full lives at 100 that indicate they are still learning new things every day.
We all have problems and we all have issues. And though we compare and quantify who 'has it better' or who 'has it worse' than we do, the truth of the matter is that the human condition is more similar than we acknowledge. Your worst day and my worst day might not have anything more in common except for the fact that they were our 'worst days' and we felt the same depth of extreme emotion... sadness, fear, anxiety, despair. Your best day and my best day can still be factored down to the lowest common denominator of euphoria, joy, victory.
The complex emotions we feel and our ability to express them creatively is what makes us human - much more so than our ability to use tools and develop intricate civilizations. (In my opinion.) Our art... our expression... is so vital to our existence. Though not always pleasant.
And speaking of art... My epiphany this morning was not an anticipated one.
I accidentally clicked on a photo of one of those 3-D art things. You know... the picture that looks nothing more like a bunch of colored dots all over the page. You're supposed to stare at it until you 'see' the picture take shape right in front of your disbelieving eyes.
Well, until this morning, I was starting to believe that they were all a bunch of hogwash. I'd never ever ever been successful and I've made a downright fool of myself in local malls trying.
Until this morning.
I started thinking about art and what it says and whether or not a bunch of dots on a page could be considered art... when I found myself staring into space (aka my monitor) and an honest-to-goodness horse appeared. With a broken picket fence behind it. Holy crap!
And to think that I had almost completely given up on ever understanding or appreciating that kind of art. You see, new things to learn and experience every day. Even on accident.
And so it is with mixed feelings that I write this... knowing that another voice has been silenced. One that was tortured by the dark side of this emotional existence, but will no longer express it through any medium save for the art he leaves behind.
It makes me angry.
It makes me sad.
It makes me grateful that I am made of 'sterner stuff'.
So far... nothing has been unbearable.
And so I count my blessings and hope that they have each found peace on the other side.
Noah Todd as Osric
SWShakespeare's Hamlet (Photo: Laura Durant)
Chris Page
Writer, Critic, Musician, General Funny-Man
Col. Earl OsborneHusband, father, commander
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Happy Mother's Day
It's official. I'm getting old.
I try to explain to my mother (who is actually older than me, believe it or not) that there is a great benefit to aging. Well, there are several when you begin to include discount meals and movie tickets... but one of the greatest benefits of aging is that you can finally stop being PC and start speaking your mind.
My mother, however, is a martyr. And I don't mean that in the sarcastic 'let me help you with your cross' kind of way... I mean the woman is a veritable Saint.
I won't even get into her story of triumph under the most dire of circumstances, but suffice it to say that she has been through trauma that would have broken me no less than three times over... and she managed to emerge with some of the most unshakable grace, poise, faith and dignity that I have witnessed in any woman... ever.
And this was all before one of the most challenging phases of her life began; when she became pregnant at the age of 17.
My father was witty and charismatic and I suspect that both of them were wounded and vulnerable. Pressured to marry (as society/family/church would expect them to) my mother was a mother by her Senior year of High School and already struggling to fulfill the demands of a wife as well. It makes my head spin.
She and my father had three more children (all boys. *sigh*) after me and finally divorced when I was 16. (I say 'finally' because my mother truly has the highest threshold for patience that I've ever seen... so if she was at her breaking point, then she must have been putting up with crap for some time.)
My mother was always my silent champion, even when I betrayed her and chose to live with my dad after their divorce. Not only did I choose to live with my father, but I stopped speaking to my mother unless I had to. One fateful day in April... I had to.
I was pregnant.
She was the first person I ran to for help.
What a selfish little punk I was to put her through that kind of grief and expect that she'd drop everything and come to my rescue. But she did. Without question.
She nursed her dying mother, aunt and uncle before moving to Oregon to spend the remaining years with her husband's parents before they passed away. She has always existed in some kind of superhuman realm in which she could internalize her own grief and anger and stoically comfort others.
This isn't to say that she was always soft and cuddly. She showed some tough love to us on more than one occasion and I will admit that there were times when I hated her for it.
She tried to play peacemaker during a period of several years when one of my brothers and I weren't speaking to each other. We finally reconciled, and since then, I suspect my mother has been content that there is peace among the family (even if we don't all get together as often as we really should.)
There are many times when I could have learned from my mother's ability to maintain grace under fire. More than once I have popped off when I shouldn't have or voiced an opinion or rash judgment when it wasn't warranted. That particular virtue hasn't gained me a ton of friends; and I often wonder if God didn't think it would be a funny joke to give me the abundance of 'voice' that my mother sometimes lacked.
This is why I think aging is wonderful. If I tell a kid to 'eff off', his mom gets pissy with me... but if an 80-year-old tells a kid to 'eff off', his mom may actually APOLOGIZE before shuffling Junior out of the way. You see? Absolute freedom to speak your mind!
I've never known my mom to be cynical. She's definitely a glass is 'half-full' kind of person. -As she was today when half of her four kids attended the Mother's Day BBQ - that the poor woman had to put together herself! (With the help of her husband, our step-dad... 'cuz he's just about as awesome as she is.)
I'm a Pisces and an actress, so from time to time I love to wallow in the bitterness and jaded cynicism. I also think it makes for good comedy. Sometimes I write a comedy sketch in my head about slipping my mom a pill that strips her of her poise and inhibitions for an entire day.
I'd just take hours to sit and talk about everything that pisses her off.
She is simultaneously an amazing example and impossible standard to live up to.
She was there every step of the way when I gave birth to my son.
She has been a consistent presence in my life and in the lives of my children.
She has fed me, housed me, clothed me, encouraged me, supported me, and devoted countless hours and unfathomable tears to me.
From crafting sweatshirts for every orphan in 'Annie' to innumerable visits to the ER, manual labor on our landscapes and interiors to babysitting and a fully-stocked (raidable) freezer; I hope that I can someday find the way to express that the little things don't go unnoticed.
And she has never EVER asked for anything in return.
After an afternoon spent with family I'm reminded that these bonds may stretch and contract, but they can never really be broken. If anything, the more I age, the more emphasis I put on those family bonds.
I'm not always great at being able to juggle my attention between being a mother and being a decent daughter to my own mother. I can't even imagine that at my age, my mother had already suffered the loss of her own mother (who she cared for in the last several months of my Nanny's life).
There are many people that say my mother's faith in God is responsible for her amazing character. And I do believe that her faith has had a profound impact on her life. However, I know plenty of people who have been 'reformed and redeemed by the spirit' who are still assholes. So I do believe that there is something unique to my mother that transcends merely being a good or godly woman.
Her strength humbles me.
And she has only given me a very mild ration of shit for not including her in my program bios.
So here it is that I sit... sated and humbled... and once again in awe of the grace and beauty of my mother. And thrilled to grow older with her as one of my dearest friends and greatest mentors.
Happy Mother's Day.
I try to explain to my mother (who is actually older than me, believe it or not) that there is a great benefit to aging. Well, there are several when you begin to include discount meals and movie tickets... but one of the greatest benefits of aging is that you can finally stop being PC and start speaking your mind.
My mother, however, is a martyr. And I don't mean that in the sarcastic 'let me help you with your cross' kind of way... I mean the woman is a veritable Saint.
I won't even get into her story of triumph under the most dire of circumstances, but suffice it to say that she has been through trauma that would have broken me no less than three times over... and she managed to emerge with some of the most unshakable grace, poise, faith and dignity that I have witnessed in any woman... ever.
And this was all before one of the most challenging phases of her life began; when she became pregnant at the age of 17.
My father was witty and charismatic and I suspect that both of them were wounded and vulnerable. Pressured to marry (as society/family/church would expect them to) my mother was a mother by her Senior year of High School and already struggling to fulfill the demands of a wife as well. It makes my head spin.
She and my father had three more children (all boys. *sigh*) after me and finally divorced when I was 16. (I say 'finally' because my mother truly has the highest threshold for patience that I've ever seen... so if she was at her breaking point, then she must have been putting up with crap for some time.)
My mother was always my silent champion, even when I betrayed her and chose to live with my dad after their divorce. Not only did I choose to live with my father, but I stopped speaking to my mother unless I had to. One fateful day in April... I had to.
I was pregnant.
She was the first person I ran to for help.
What a selfish little punk I was to put her through that kind of grief and expect that she'd drop everything and come to my rescue. But she did. Without question.
She nursed her dying mother, aunt and uncle before moving to Oregon to spend the remaining years with her husband's parents before they passed away. She has always existed in some kind of superhuman realm in which she could internalize her own grief and anger and stoically comfort others.
This isn't to say that she was always soft and cuddly. She showed some tough love to us on more than one occasion and I will admit that there were times when I hated her for it.
She tried to play peacemaker during a period of several years when one of my brothers and I weren't speaking to each other. We finally reconciled, and since then, I suspect my mother has been content that there is peace among the family (even if we don't all get together as often as we really should.)
There are many times when I could have learned from my mother's ability to maintain grace under fire. More than once I have popped off when I shouldn't have or voiced an opinion or rash judgment when it wasn't warranted. That particular virtue hasn't gained me a ton of friends; and I often wonder if God didn't think it would be a funny joke to give me the abundance of 'voice' that my mother sometimes lacked.
This is why I think aging is wonderful. If I tell a kid to 'eff off', his mom gets pissy with me... but if an 80-year-old tells a kid to 'eff off', his mom may actually APOLOGIZE before shuffling Junior out of the way. You see? Absolute freedom to speak your mind!
I've never known my mom to be cynical. She's definitely a glass is 'half-full' kind of person. -As she was today when half of her four kids attended the Mother's Day BBQ - that the poor woman had to put together herself! (With the help of her husband, our step-dad... 'cuz he's just about as awesome as she is.)
I'm a Pisces and an actress, so from time to time I love to wallow in the bitterness and jaded cynicism. I also think it makes for good comedy. Sometimes I write a comedy sketch in my head about slipping my mom a pill that strips her of her poise and inhibitions for an entire day.
I'd just take hours to sit and talk about everything that pisses her off.
She is simultaneously an amazing example and impossible standard to live up to.
She was there every step of the way when I gave birth to my son.
She has been a consistent presence in my life and in the lives of my children.
She has fed me, housed me, clothed me, encouraged me, supported me, and devoted countless hours and unfathomable tears to me.
From crafting sweatshirts for every orphan in 'Annie' to innumerable visits to the ER, manual labor on our landscapes and interiors to babysitting and a fully-stocked (raidable) freezer; I hope that I can someday find the way to express that the little things don't go unnoticed.
And she has never EVER asked for anything in return.
After an afternoon spent with family I'm reminded that these bonds may stretch and contract, but they can never really be broken. If anything, the more I age, the more emphasis I put on those family bonds.
I'm not always great at being able to juggle my attention between being a mother and being a decent daughter to my own mother. I can't even imagine that at my age, my mother had already suffered the loss of her own mother (who she cared for in the last several months of my Nanny's life).
There are many people that say my mother's faith in God is responsible for her amazing character. And I do believe that her faith has had a profound impact on her life. However, I know plenty of people who have been 'reformed and redeemed by the spirit' who are still assholes. So I do believe that there is something unique to my mother that transcends merely being a good or godly woman.
Her strength humbles me.
And she has only given me a very mild ration of shit for not including her in my program bios.
So here it is that I sit... sated and humbled... and once again in awe of the grace and beauty of my mother. And thrilled to grow older with her as one of my dearest friends and greatest mentors.
Happy Mother's Day.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
This Little Parent Stayed Home...
This one is for all the moms out there.
Mother's Day is soon approaching... which has me analyzing some of the more and less attractive aspects of motherhood and gave me the idea for this particular entry.
When my children were first born, it was my only wish to stay home with them as long as possible. I was a teen mom with a minimal support system. By the time my son was six months old, my husband and I had purchased a home. So by the time our daughter was on the way, two incomes were necessary to keep us ahead of our debts. Our biggest conflicts were the fights over my desire to stay home with the children.
At the time, the only 'real' support I had for staying home came from my grandmother. I often view her as one of a lost generation, still holding on to outdated ideas and philosophies... but on this, we were in agreement.
My husband was coming from a family culture in which success was measured by the acquisition of stuff and things and he couldn't justify the loss of my income. I was having an emotional and instinctual response to motherhood by wanting to spend as much time as possible being the one to nurture and raise my children. I had even put together a financial chart of expenses for infant daycare in the hopes that my logical explanation would sway him.
I stayed home for almost a year with my son, but had to return to work and did... just in time to find out I was pregnant with my daughter. I (mostly) stayed home with her, taking on part-time work - but essentially being a stay-at-home mom (much to my husband's chagrin) for the first 9 months of her life.
Among many challenges (not the least of which was being a divorced mom with primary custody of my two children) was the challenge of being able to spend more time with my kids.
Even though they are now teenagers, I'm still dedicated to the pursuit of spending as much time with them as possible while simultaneously avoiding the corporate machine.
I lost several jobs when my children were young. My son was an undiagnosed autistic and had been kicked out of several preschools and daycares. I can't count the number of times I had to leave work early or take my sick/vacation days to wait out a suspension or drive around town checking out new child care.
But with all of its challenges, it somehow worked out. I certainly didn't get to spend as much time with my kids as I would have liked, but I spent a fair amount of time at home with them until they were of school age.
I fervently believe, however, that it IS possible. I also believe that this generation - my generation - who grew up primarily as latch-key kids with two working parents, are the catalyst for change.
I see more and more parents rejecting the public school system in favor of private, charter and home-schooling. Many of them are choosing to stay home or supplementing income with work-from-home opportunities. In any case, I see parents taking a more active role in the decisions being made for their children rather than merely entrusting them to state & county employees or members of the previous generation.
I left my last 'corporate' job in 2006. Since then, 'corporate job' has come to mean performing at a business event.
I don't consider myself an uber-success story. We live on a shoestring budget and don't have the funds for a whole lot of extras. (We haven't had a family vacation since 2003.) But we have extended cable! :)
I think the benefits of working from home cannot be valued monetarily. We don't have the additional stress of a corporate office environment. Not only that, but we get to choose our work and involve ourselves in the kind of projects and work that we love. Therefore, when we wind up 'bringing our work home with us' (and we ALL bring our work home with us, whether we intend to or not,) we're bringing home work that we LOVE. That, I think, is an invaluable benefit and a great example to our kids that they don't have to compromise and work a standard 9-5 if their circumstances call for a more creative livelihood.
If I had to estimate, I'd say that we put in more than a 40-hour work week. But we rarely calculate our hours because it's so pleasant to be engrossed in what we do.
In any case, I hope that I can encourage anyone out there who is thinking about making a change - to have confidence that it is possible. It takes patience, determination and compromise, but it is absolutely possible.
I have a friend in L.A. who is an amazing woman and is spearheading a movement to bring parents back into the home. Well, I should say she and her husband are spearheading the movement.
I met Ally and Chris several years ago. Ally and Jason dated in high school and he would often comment that she and I would get along famously. He was right. A gifted artist and performer, she is one of those personalities that lights up the room when she enters. Ally is bubbly and genuine and Chris (also a talented artist/performer) is just as engaging. They both have extensive theatre resumes, and are using their skills and talents to work for them in the most amazing ways.
Firstly, Ally runs the website http://www.ourmilkmoney.com/
It is a comprehensive directory of self-employed parents and a great resource for parents who want to get started with their own business. If you are self-employed, I encourage you to join the directory. If not, I encourage you to support home-based businesses in your area.
Secondly, Ally is doing a podcast radio show every Friday night. If you can't tune in, her episodes are available here http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/this-little-parent-stayed/id357476643 or on itunes for free download.
I don't normally do 'plugs' in my blog, but Ally and Chris are soldiers on a mission that is close to my heart. I know that their philosophy is similar to many of my friends here in Arizona who are trying to find creative resolutions to the parenting vs. career dilemma.
It is possible. Have confidence.
And give my friend Ally a listen... she's kinda awesome. :)
Mother's Day is soon approaching... which has me analyzing some of the more and less attractive aspects of motherhood and gave me the idea for this particular entry.
When my children were first born, it was my only wish to stay home with them as long as possible. I was a teen mom with a minimal support system. By the time my son was six months old, my husband and I had purchased a home. So by the time our daughter was on the way, two incomes were necessary to keep us ahead of our debts. Our biggest conflicts were the fights over my desire to stay home with the children.
At the time, the only 'real' support I had for staying home came from my grandmother. I often view her as one of a lost generation, still holding on to outdated ideas and philosophies... but on this, we were in agreement.
My husband was coming from a family culture in which success was measured by the acquisition of stuff and things and he couldn't justify the loss of my income. I was having an emotional and instinctual response to motherhood by wanting to spend as much time as possible being the one to nurture and raise my children. I had even put together a financial chart of expenses for infant daycare in the hopes that my logical explanation would sway him.
I stayed home for almost a year with my son, but had to return to work and did... just in time to find out I was pregnant with my daughter. I (mostly) stayed home with her, taking on part-time work - but essentially being a stay-at-home mom (much to my husband's chagrin) for the first 9 months of her life.
Among many challenges (not the least of which was being a divorced mom with primary custody of my two children) was the challenge of being able to spend more time with my kids.
Even though they are now teenagers, I'm still dedicated to the pursuit of spending as much time with them as possible while simultaneously avoiding the corporate machine.
I lost several jobs when my children were young. My son was an undiagnosed autistic and had been kicked out of several preschools and daycares. I can't count the number of times I had to leave work early or take my sick/vacation days to wait out a suspension or drive around town checking out new child care.
But with all of its challenges, it somehow worked out. I certainly didn't get to spend as much time with my kids as I would have liked, but I spent a fair amount of time at home with them until they were of school age.
I fervently believe, however, that it IS possible. I also believe that this generation - my generation - who grew up primarily as latch-key kids with two working parents, are the catalyst for change.
I see more and more parents rejecting the public school system in favor of private, charter and home-schooling. Many of them are choosing to stay home or supplementing income with work-from-home opportunities. In any case, I see parents taking a more active role in the decisions being made for their children rather than merely entrusting them to state & county employees or members of the previous generation.
I left my last 'corporate' job in 2006. Since then, 'corporate job' has come to mean performing at a business event.
I don't consider myself an uber-success story. We live on a shoestring budget and don't have the funds for a whole lot of extras. (We haven't had a family vacation since 2003.) But we have extended cable! :)
I think the benefits of working from home cannot be valued monetarily. We don't have the additional stress of a corporate office environment. Not only that, but we get to choose our work and involve ourselves in the kind of projects and work that we love. Therefore, when we wind up 'bringing our work home with us' (and we ALL bring our work home with us, whether we intend to or not,) we're bringing home work that we LOVE. That, I think, is an invaluable benefit and a great example to our kids that they don't have to compromise and work a standard 9-5 if their circumstances call for a more creative livelihood.
If I had to estimate, I'd say that we put in more than a 40-hour work week. But we rarely calculate our hours because it's so pleasant to be engrossed in what we do.
In any case, I hope that I can encourage anyone out there who is thinking about making a change - to have confidence that it is possible. It takes patience, determination and compromise, but it is absolutely possible.
I have a friend in L.A. who is an amazing woman and is spearheading a movement to bring parents back into the home. Well, I should say she and her husband are spearheading the movement.
I met Ally and Chris several years ago. Ally and Jason dated in high school and he would often comment that she and I would get along famously. He was right. A gifted artist and performer, she is one of those personalities that lights up the room when she enters. Ally is bubbly and genuine and Chris (also a talented artist/performer) is just as engaging. They both have extensive theatre resumes, and are using their skills and talents to work for them in the most amazing ways.
Firstly, Ally runs the website http://www.ourmilkmoney.com/
It is a comprehensive directory of self-employed parents and a great resource for parents who want to get started with their own business. If you are self-employed, I encourage you to join the directory. If not, I encourage you to support home-based businesses in your area.
Secondly, Ally is doing a podcast radio show every Friday night. If you can't tune in, her episodes are available here http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/this-little-parent-stayed/id357476643 or on itunes for free download.
I don't normally do 'plugs' in my blog, but Ally and Chris are soldiers on a mission that is close to my heart. I know that their philosophy is similar to many of my friends here in Arizona who are trying to find creative resolutions to the parenting vs. career dilemma.
It is possible. Have confidence.
And give my friend Ally a listen... she's kinda awesome. :)
Saturday, May 1, 2010
ArrrrggggghhhhhH!
WE HAVE A CHUBBY GIRL DOWN!
-REPEAT-
THE CHUBBY GIRL HAS FALLEN DOWN!!!
I have gained 15 pounds since January.
FIFTEEN.
Last night I was watching one of those infomercials where they pull out the 5-pound clot of putrid yellow vaseline fat...
yeah...
THREE of those.
I've always struggled with my weight. I inherited my mom's petite frame and my father's generous window dressing. I was a lanky, skinny tomboy until I hit puberty. Through adolescence, my weight fluctuated... I was thin when I was active and thick when I wasn't.
After a few years of doing stage shows back-to-back, I began to gradually drop the extra weight I had been carrying since the birth of my kids... and last year made it to my goal of 135lbs. (The weight I was when I got pregnant with my first born.)
Short-lived as it was.
Unless I'm in a show, I don't get a whole lot of exercise. I loathe the gym, and when I get busy with work and the kids, I convince myself that I don't have the time and energy for my morning or evening walk/jog. But this isn't the only contributing factor.
I, like so many I know, eat my feelings. I eat when I'm bored, stressed or depressed. More than once, I've 'come to' after consuming a half-gallon of ice cream and three hours of continuous programing on the Lifetime Movie Network (which I lovingly refer to as Lifetime: TV for Victims).
I guess it's fair to say that I've experienced a bit of boredom (my corporate shows and VO work are typically a one-shot deal as opposed to a four-week rehearsal process and a 2-4 week run) as well as stress (because I still don't have a conventional 'day job' and family finances are always on perilous ground - in addition to the stress of raising two teenagers) as well as depression (I've 'lost' several friends in the past few years to death, relocation, or unnecessary drama - and though many of them are merely friends removed, they aren't as readily accessible to my 'inner circle' and I miss them dearly.)
I know... whine, whine, whine...
After some self-analysis, I also think that some of my weight gain was subconscious.
I'm a people-pleaser. I want people to like me... but I often cross the line of 'trying too hard' and having it backfire completely.
And while most of my friends were supportive of my weight loss... some of them (and even some acquaintances and strangers) expressed concern for my health and well-being. Since I was happy with my weight, I didn't understand the big 'to do'; but I think subconsciously I may have opted to pack some pounds back on.
And now I look in the mirror and groan.
My clothes don't fit and I'm a huge fan of elastic and drawstring waist bands right now.
And I'm miserable.
So... while I hate the idea of disappointing or offending my critics and supporters alike, I think I'm going to have to get my ass back in gear and go back to being a skinny bitch.
I'll never be a size 0 or even a size 2... and I wouldn't want to be. I'm a woman. I have boobs and hips. I would look even more ridiculous than I do as a size 10. But I'm happiest when I'm a 7/8. My clothes hang right and I don't have to unbutton my pants after every meal.
I'm going back to a stricter diet, which is great... because it has forced Jason and I to plan our menus and cook more at home - thus saving us a bit of money on our food budget and relieving a bit of the financial stress... and so the circle of life that spiraled me into chubbyhood can now build upon itself to lift me out of the dark and wondrous world of Ben & Jerry and back into the land of sleeveless tops and belted dresses.
And on a totally different side-note, Lisa... if you are reading this, we really need to have you over. Seriously. We can talk books. (sarcasm) But for real... come over. Soon. I promise we won't exercise.
-REPEAT-
THE CHUBBY GIRL HAS FALLEN DOWN!!!
I have gained 15 pounds since January.
FIFTEEN.
Last night I was watching one of those infomercials where they pull out the 5-pound clot of putrid yellow vaseline fat...
yeah...
THREE of those.
I've always struggled with my weight. I inherited my mom's petite frame and my father's generous window dressing. I was a lanky, skinny tomboy until I hit puberty. Through adolescence, my weight fluctuated... I was thin when I was active and thick when I wasn't.
After a few years of doing stage shows back-to-back, I began to gradually drop the extra weight I had been carrying since the birth of my kids... and last year made it to my goal of 135lbs. (The weight I was when I got pregnant with my first born.)
Short-lived as it was.
Unless I'm in a show, I don't get a whole lot of exercise. I loathe the gym, and when I get busy with work and the kids, I convince myself that I don't have the time and energy for my morning or evening walk/jog. But this isn't the only contributing factor.
I, like so many I know, eat my feelings. I eat when I'm bored, stressed or depressed. More than once, I've 'come to' after consuming a half-gallon of ice cream and three hours of continuous programing on the Lifetime Movie Network (which I lovingly refer to as Lifetime: TV for Victims).
I guess it's fair to say that I've experienced a bit of boredom (my corporate shows and VO work are typically a one-shot deal as opposed to a four-week rehearsal process and a 2-4 week run) as well as stress (because I still don't have a conventional 'day job' and family finances are always on perilous ground - in addition to the stress of raising two teenagers) as well as depression (I've 'lost' several friends in the past few years to death, relocation, or unnecessary drama - and though many of them are merely friends removed, they aren't as readily accessible to my 'inner circle' and I miss them dearly.)
I know... whine, whine, whine...
After some self-analysis, I also think that some of my weight gain was subconscious.
I'm a people-pleaser. I want people to like me... but I often cross the line of 'trying too hard' and having it backfire completely.
And while most of my friends were supportive of my weight loss... some of them (and even some acquaintances and strangers) expressed concern for my health and well-being. Since I was happy with my weight, I didn't understand the big 'to do'; but I think subconsciously I may have opted to pack some pounds back on.
And now I look in the mirror and groan.
My clothes don't fit and I'm a huge fan of elastic and drawstring waist bands right now.
And I'm miserable.
So... while I hate the idea of disappointing or offending my critics and supporters alike, I think I'm going to have to get my ass back in gear and go back to being a skinny bitch.
I'll never be a size 0 or even a size 2... and I wouldn't want to be. I'm a woman. I have boobs and hips. I would look even more ridiculous than I do as a size 10. But I'm happiest when I'm a 7/8. My clothes hang right and I don't have to unbutton my pants after every meal.
I'm going back to a stricter diet, which is great... because it has forced Jason and I to plan our menus and cook more at home - thus saving us a bit of money on our food budget and relieving a bit of the financial stress... and so the circle of life that spiraled me into chubbyhood can now build upon itself to lift me out of the dark and wondrous world of Ben & Jerry and back into the land of sleeveless tops and belted dresses.
And on a totally different side-note, Lisa... if you are reading this, we really need to have you over. Seriously. We can talk books. (sarcasm) But for real... come over. Soon. I promise we won't exercise.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Universal signs...
I'm a dreamer. Sometimes this is a major inconvenience, because the world likes to exist within the realm of logic and reason. Often it allows even a mundane task to end in an anecdote or a parable, which makes life beautiful and interesting for me every day.
For example:
I was driving on the I-17, heading north into Phoenix/Glendale today when I heard a strange noise outside my window. I looked to see a motorcycle in the lane to my left, gaining speed to pass me in the HOV lane. The noise that sounded out-of-place was the U.S. flag attached to the back of his bike.
It was flapping and snapping on a 5-foot dowel secured to the 'bitch bar' and the flag itself measured approximately 2ft by 4ft (maybe a bit larger). Its size and the height at which it waved, made the rider look like he was more suited for a slow-moving parade than a busy rush-hour freeway. It dwarfed the bike that he was riding; not a tricked out hog, but a small Honda somethingorother.
Just as I was wondering if it was legal, I heard a snap and caught a glimpse of the airborne flag just before it disappeared back to the concrete and under the wheels of a semi-truck.
Having had 'flag duty' in Elementary school, I knew it was exceedingly important that the American flag never touch the ground. I was a particularly clumsy and flighty kid (not much has changed) and I used to silently repeat the mantra, "Every time a flag hits the ground, a Veteran dies" in the hopes that I would treat the situation with more focus and gravity than I was typically wont to. It worked. The flag never hit the ground when I was on 'flag duty'.
So I felt my own 'pang' when the flag hit the ground and I imagined the silent screams of those in the vehicles around me that may have seen the unfortunate incident.
And then I thought, "Well, it was a pretty ridiculous flag. He didn't have to have such a ginormous one and it didn't have to be waving 5-feet in the air on a dowel with no more than a 1-inch diameter. That's a pretty easy physics hypothesis... even for me."
His overt expression of pride led to the desecration of the very thing he sought to represent.
His overt expression of pride led to the desecration of the very thing he sought to represent.
To some, it would be no more than a curious incident. Perhaps even something soon forgotten and unremarkable. To me, however, it was just one of those reminders from God/my greater conscience. Random musings of a dreamer.
Thanks for the lesson, universe. :)
For example:
I was driving on the I-17, heading north into Phoenix/Glendale today when I heard a strange noise outside my window. I looked to see a motorcycle in the lane to my left, gaining speed to pass me in the HOV lane. The noise that sounded out-of-place was the U.S. flag attached to the back of his bike.
It was flapping and snapping on a 5-foot dowel secured to the 'bitch bar' and the flag itself measured approximately 2ft by 4ft (maybe a bit larger). Its size and the height at which it waved, made the rider look like he was more suited for a slow-moving parade than a busy rush-hour freeway. It dwarfed the bike that he was riding; not a tricked out hog, but a small Honda somethingorother.
Just as I was wondering if it was legal, I heard a snap and caught a glimpse of the airborne flag just before it disappeared back to the concrete and under the wheels of a semi-truck.
Having had 'flag duty' in Elementary school, I knew it was exceedingly important that the American flag never touch the ground. I was a particularly clumsy and flighty kid (not much has changed) and I used to silently repeat the mantra, "Every time a flag hits the ground, a Veteran dies" in the hopes that I would treat the situation with more focus and gravity than I was typically wont to. It worked. The flag never hit the ground when I was on 'flag duty'.
So I felt my own 'pang' when the flag hit the ground and I imagined the silent screams of those in the vehicles around me that may have seen the unfortunate incident.
And then I thought, "Well, it was a pretty ridiculous flag. He didn't have to have such a ginormous one and it didn't have to be waving 5-feet in the air on a dowel with no more than a 1-inch diameter. That's a pretty easy physics hypothesis... even for me."
His overt expression of pride led to the desecration of the very thing he sought to represent.
His overt expression of pride led to the desecration of the very thing he sought to represent.
To some, it would be no more than a curious incident. Perhaps even something soon forgotten and unremarkable. To me, however, it was just one of those reminders from God/my greater conscience. Random musings of a dreamer.
Thanks for the lesson, universe. :)
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Stuff my kids say...
There is a website and a book titled "Shit my dad says". It is one of my guilty pleasures, as I adore the blunt, acerbic, no-nonsense approach of the older generations as they impart their tidbits of wisdom.
I've also been highly entertained on more than one occasion by the stuff my kids say.
It started when I was completing my son's baby book. There were entries for his first word, his first step, etc... and I was ironically entering his first complete sentence:
"Mom, Imaddatyou!"
My daughter, forever antagonized by her older brother and the more vocal of the two, is often the more quoted of the two. I've compiled some of my favorite quotes and conversations that span a wide age range, but beginning when my daughter was about 2 or 3.
X: (crying) D hurt me!
Me: He did? Where?
X: (crying harder) Here. (pointing to her head)
Me: He hurt your head?
X: No. He hurt my feewlings.
Me: Oh. He hurt your feewlings?
X: (now sobbing) Yes. For NO reason!
X: (crying) D kicked me!
Me: Where?
X: On my head!
Me: D, did you kick her?
D: No! I was just walking along and her head hit my foot.
While driving across
town, X (then five) eyed my 99-cent pack of peanuts which I had opened to munch during the trip. (I had torn the corner and just tipped it into my mouth, not hygienic, I know. Whatev.)
X: Can I have some peanuts?
Me: Sure.
X: Did you put your mouth on this?
Me: Yes.
X: (inspecting the peanuts) I guess it's okay. I'm not afraid of your germs. It's all about our DNA.
(My internal monologue: "DNA? WTF? You're five!")
While dining at a new family-style buffet, X (a 7 yr. old chicken-lover) turns to me and says, "Hey mom... all the cooks here are black. So you know the fried chicken is good!"
X: Mom, did you ever think of putting D up for adoption?
Me: No, not really.
X: Maybe you should.
X: All the people that work at this Panda Express are Mexican. I'm not being racist. I'm just sayin'.
While staying with her dad's mom:
X: Hey mom, I found an upside to living with nana... my whites have never been whiter!
One of my favorite stories takes place when we were leaving a family day at Peter Piper Pizza to head home. The kids were 5 and 6 and Jay and I had just started dating. They had turned in their tickets for 'prizes'... D had chosen a small battery-operated fan on a neon string that he wore around his neck. X had chosen scented body glitter.
We had no sooner turned onto the freeway when X began to cry. D had spilled her drink. Great.
Always prepared, I handed a stack of napkins over to Jay who twisted into the backseat to assist D in cleaning up the Sprite that had pooled into X's seat. They cleaned it up as best they could and resumed, while X continued to cry.
Me: What's wrong?
X: (sobbing) Why do I (gasp) always have to (wail, inhale) sit in the wet spot?!
(As much as we tried, Jay and I couldn't stifle our giggles.)
D tried to help and began to direct his newly-acquired fan towards the offending residual when X began to cry anew.
Me: Now what's wrong?
X: I wanted a fan!
Me: But you didn't choose the fan. You chose the body glitter.
X: (sobbing) But... But I didn't know it could DRY things!!
Ah, my wondrous children.
Always a source of entertainment and amusement.
And blog content. :)
They are awesome.
I've also been highly entertained on more than one occasion by the stuff my kids say.
It started when I was completing my son's baby book. There were entries for his first word, his first step, etc... and I was ironically entering his first complete sentence:
"Mom, Imaddatyou!"
My daughter, forever antagonized by her older brother and the more vocal of the two, is often the more quoted of the two. I've compiled some of my favorite quotes and conversations that span a wide age range, but beginning when my daughter was about 2 or 3.
X: (crying) D hurt me!
Me: He did? Where?
X: (crying harder) Here. (pointing to her head)
Me: He hurt your head?
X: No. He hurt my feewlings.
Me: Oh. He hurt your feewlings?
X: (now sobbing) Yes. For NO reason!
X: (crying) D kicked me!
Me: Where?
X: On my head!
Me: D, did you kick her?
D: No! I was just walking along and her head hit my foot.
While driving across
town, X (then five) eyed my 99-cent pack of peanuts which I had opened to munch during the trip. (I had torn the corner and just tipped it into my mouth, not hygienic, I know. Whatev.)
X: Can I have some peanuts?
Me: Sure.
X: Did you put your mouth on this?
Me: Yes.
X: (inspecting the peanuts) I guess it's okay. I'm not afraid of your germs. It's all about our DNA.
(My internal monologue: "DNA? WTF? You're five!")
While dining at a new family-style buffet, X (a 7 yr. old chicken-lover) turns to me and says, "Hey mom... all the cooks here are black. So you know the fried chicken is good!"
X: Mom, did you ever think of putting D up for adoption?
Me: No, not really.
X: Maybe you should.
X: All the people that work at this Panda Express are Mexican. I'm not being racist. I'm just sayin'.
While staying with her dad's mom:
X: Hey mom, I found an upside to living with nana... my whites have never been whiter!
One of my favorite stories takes place when we were leaving a family day at Peter Piper Pizza to head home. The kids were 5 and 6 and Jay and I had just started dating. They had turned in their tickets for 'prizes'... D had chosen a small battery-operated fan on a neon string that he wore around his neck. X had chosen scented body glitter.
We had no sooner turned onto the freeway when X began to cry. D had spilled her drink. Great.
Always prepared, I handed a stack of napkins over to Jay who twisted into the backseat to assist D in cleaning up the Sprite that had pooled into X's seat. They cleaned it up as best they could and resumed, while X continued to cry.
Me: What's wrong?
X: (sobbing) Why do I (gasp) always have to (wail, inhale) sit in the wet spot?!
(As much as we tried, Jay and I couldn't stifle our giggles.)
D tried to help and began to direct his newly-acquired fan towards the offending residual when X began to cry anew.
Me: Now what's wrong?
X: I wanted a fan!
Me: But you didn't choose the fan. You chose the body glitter.
X: (sobbing) But... But I didn't know it could DRY things!!
Ah, my wondrous children.
Always a source of entertainment and amusement.
And blog content. :)
They are awesome.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Pride Week
For those that live in a box, it was PRIDE in Phoenix which means about 2/3 of the theatre community was out hoofing it in the parade downtown this weekend.
Yay for the gays!
But this post is actually about a totally different pride.
My pride.
My cats.
I have four cats.
Yes, I am the crazy cat-lady... except that I do have a family (and a decent sex life) so that's where the stereotype ends.
My cats are my babies. They are spoiled, talkative, coddled, over-indulged, hyper-inquisitive... and true to their nature, skilled stalkers.
Which has become a HUGE problem.
Epic.
Our firstborn, Benedick (he prefers 'Lord Benedick' as he insists the Bard intended) was adopted as a 3-month-old kitten in November 2001 from a shelter. He had Bordatella(sp?) and was undernourished and incredibly sick. For those who don't know the story, he had been on steroids and antibiotics ($250. worth) for two weeks and still wasn't eating. We hosted a cast party in which some questionable activities were taking place in the back room where our sickly kitten had claimed sanctuary. He emerged an hour later... with the munchies.
Since that day, 'Benny' has not had a problem eating. He is now a 16-pound Maine Coon who thinks he's still a 4lb. kitten. In his old age, he has grown a mostly lazy, sometimes downright surly disposition; but he still does tricks... when he feels like it.
In 2004, we had arranged to adopt a kitten from a friend of a friend who had just had a litter. When I went to pick up our little calico treasure, however, my bleeding heart couldn't leave her brother behind. He was a beautiful black furball with a severe umbilical hernia that would require costly surgery... and most likely would have been put down. I showed up at the door with not one kitten, but two. Thankfully, Jason is a softie and lovingly accepted our last-minute addition to the family. Having just been introduced to 'Lost' (which is a family-wide obsession) the kids opted to be involved in their naming. Our little female was named 'Claire' and our black bundle of issues was dubbed 'Sawyer'.
We couldn't know that Claire would do her best to live up to her namesake, but she vanished from the island one day and showed back up pregnant in our alternate universe. It was the summer of 2006 when she finally had a litter of four kittens.
Ozymandias was a carbon-copy of his father (who became a svelte, lean, fighting machine after a costly tummy-tuck to correct Sawyer's abnormality) and was the 'joker' of the group... and the bottom of the totem pole. And yes, he was named after the Shelley poem (his namesake quote later appeared in the movie 'The Watchmen'.) Shortly after we moved, Ozy ventured out and didn't return. We put up signs and actually got calls from people who had spotted him. Our best guess is that he ventured into the retirement community adjacent to ours and adopted some little old lady. Probably tired of being the bullied scapegoat.
Spartacus had the most eventful of the kitten births. Our little Claire had been a trouper through the first three and had been acting like she was done. I wasn't quite convinced, but changed my mind when she jumped out of the hamper-turned-whelping-box to lay the smackdown on the two boys (who had started to tussle in the corner).
She was walking back across the room to the hamper when she squatted in the middle of the tile and expelled something unlike anything I've ever seen before. Unlike the first three kittens who emerged wriggling, small and dark, this was a long, off-white blob that landed with a wet 'plop' on the ceramic and didn't move.
You know those white sausages you get in the grocery store? Imagine that... covered in mayonnaise... on your kitchen floor. Ew.
Jason was immediately concerned and jumped up from his chair, asking if she had just passed a lung. (Name Possibility #1: Jethro)
I rushed to inspect what had just happened and the quick movement spooked Claire, who took off running (blob still attached via umbilical cord) towards the hamper where she leapt and cleared the side of the hamper to land among her three babies. Blob, however, wasn't as lucky. As she bounded across the tile, he bounced... and bounced... I was following behind in some kind of half-crouch thinking that I'd be able to hold my hands out and either catch it or cushion its fall. As she made her grand leap into the basket, the blob hurled against the side of the hamper and rebounded in a huge arc before the umbilical-turned-bungee cord whipped him into the hamper alongside Claire in a loud 'thud'.
I was sure it was dead... whatever it was... or at very least severely brain damaged after the beating between ceramic tile, plastic hamper, and mom.
He emerged from his mayo balloon with a mighty open mouth as if to yell, "I am Spartacus!" And thus, he was named. As he grew, however, we knew that something wasn't the same about him. He was completely white, with blonde rings around the tip of his tail and blonde lowlights on his ears and face. His eyes... are the most sparkling blue you've ever seen. He confessed to me (at a very young age) that he's so pretty because he's gay. (And I hope he doesn't mind me sharing that in this blog, but it IS pride week, so I say he should unite and be proud.) So while his given name is 'Spartacus', he prefers 'Sparky'. Or when he's particularly adorable, 'Sparkleberry Brown'.
He was actually supposed to be adopted, but his potential family fell through and he ended up being my shadow.
They all have their favorite spots in the house to chill. Ben prefers doorways and heavy traffic areas. Claire prefers nooks, corners, hampers or any place at waist level. Sawyer and Sparky most often have to be within touching distance or at least in eyesight of Jason or myself. If we shut the door to go to the bathroom, they will meow outside the door and stick their paws underneath. Sometimes we play 'get the toilet paper roll'. It's an awesome game. I'm undefeated.
Anyhow... we moved into a new house in June of last year. It is in a beautiful neighborhood. It's quiet here, our neighbors (with one exception) are incredibly nice and the house itself is very low-maintenance. I really do love it here. And so does the pride.
Which brings me to my current conundrum.
One of the struggles I've had with being the cat-lady is litter boxes. I hate the smell. I hate the maintenance. And with four cats... it's just kinda ridiculous. So, we had decided to get a pet door and train the cats to go to the bathroom outside. I wasn't crazy about this decision because I grew up with indoor-outdoor cats and watched them get hurt often from other animals, cars, kids, etc. Though they are fixed and we've been diligent about their shots, that can't help them in the path of a vehicle or a nasty person. But... we decided to give it a try and I couldn't be happier about that aspect. No more litter boxes. The cats don't roam far (Benny doesn't leave the back yard) and I love watching them outside. They love the patio and have plenty of comfy places to perch (including an old loveseat) and to watch them roll and jump and eat grass and chase lizards makes me feel like I'm giving them a chance to experience life outside of complete captivity and more in their natural habitat.
It was entertaining to Jason and I to watch our babies experience nature for the first time. They used to sit at the window and chatter at the birds outside. Now we were watching them as they ogled the winged creatures that actually seemed to tease them as they landed and took off from the fence mere feet away. They were slow and awkward, having never chased anything more than a jingle-ball, a catnip mouse, or a lazer pointer.
Were. Slow and awkward.
10 months of ninja training.
That's my only explanation.
For the last month, my house has been home to horrors unspeakable. The carnage that greets me every morning is not for the faint of heart. It is... epic.
Lizards are a daily occurrence. We often find them alive, but missing their tails. Jason and I established a rapid-response catch-and-release program that includes distraction techniques, scene clearance, and stealth relocation.
It is when we are asleep, however, that the most heinous murders are carried out.
If God has his eye on the sparrow, why isn't he watching out for the finches and morning doves? I wake up to feathers... everywhere.
My home becomes a veritable crime scene. Blood on the floors, on the walls... spatters, puddles. I don't know what to do!!
It is now routine that I get out of bed, pee, and head straight for the vacuum, the swiffer, and the disinfectant.
We know that the culprit is Sawyer. Claire, Sparky, and Benny stay inside at night and have more fun playing with their prey; hence they are partial to lizards and resilient bugs.
Sawyer is our master hunter. Our uber-ninja cat. The alpha male, bread-winner, bringer of offerings, killer of precious little birdies.
It's really messing with my attempts to start the day in a 'zen' and centered place. I feel like a co-conspirator... as if I'm hiding his dirty little secret as I scrub away the blood stains with my ready-mixed Clorox.
I hang my head in shame as the birds outside sing gaily. I don't want to be the one to tell them that Uncle Jerome and li'l Annie Mae aren't coming back.
I try to explain to Sawyer that karma will catch up and see to it that his eyes are pecked out by an unusually large crow or that we all get the Avian flu, but it has had no effect so far. He feigns surprise as if to say, "What bird?" And of course, since we are asleep, we have no actual proof.
It has happened every night for the last straight week.
I can't win with these creatures. They have taken over my life!
I'm hoping it's just a 'pride week' thing and that he'll settle down and maybe give up his violent tendencies for 'Earth Day' or something.
I don't want to start locking them all in at night.
Last time I did that, one of them pissed in my sink.
And I don't want to bring back the litter boxes.
But I do want to save the birdies. Do I declaw? Stage an intervention and suggest counseling first?
I just can't win.
Yay for the gays!
But this post is actually about a totally different pride.
My pride.
My cats.
I have four cats.
Yes, I am the crazy cat-lady... except that I do have a family (and a decent sex life) so that's where the stereotype ends.
My cats are my babies. They are spoiled, talkative, coddled, over-indulged, hyper-inquisitive... and true to their nature, skilled stalkers.
Which has become a HUGE problem.
Epic.
Our firstborn, Benedick (he prefers 'Lord Benedick' as he insists the Bard intended) was adopted as a 3-month-old kitten in November 2001 from a shelter. He had Bordatella(sp?) and was undernourished and incredibly sick. For those who don't know the story, he had been on steroids and antibiotics ($250. worth) for two weeks and still wasn't eating. We hosted a cast party in which some questionable activities were taking place in the back room where our sickly kitten had claimed sanctuary. He emerged an hour later... with the munchies.
Since that day, 'Benny' has not had a problem eating. He is now a 16-pound Maine Coon who thinks he's still a 4lb. kitten. In his old age, he has grown a mostly lazy, sometimes downright surly disposition; but he still does tricks... when he feels like it.
In 2004, we had arranged to adopt a kitten from a friend of a friend who had just had a litter. When I went to pick up our little calico treasure, however, my bleeding heart couldn't leave her brother behind. He was a beautiful black furball with a severe umbilical hernia that would require costly surgery... and most likely would have been put down. I showed up at the door with not one kitten, but two. Thankfully, Jason is a softie and lovingly accepted our last-minute addition to the family. Having just been introduced to 'Lost' (which is a family-wide obsession) the kids opted to be involved in their naming. Our little female was named 'Claire' and our black bundle of issues was dubbed 'Sawyer'.
We couldn't know that Claire would do her best to live up to her namesake, but she vanished from the island one day and showed back up pregnant in our alternate universe. It was the summer of 2006 when she finally had a litter of four kittens.
Ozymandias was a carbon-copy of his father (who became a svelte, lean, fighting machine after a costly tummy-tuck to correct Sawyer's abnormality) and was the 'joker' of the group... and the bottom of the totem pole. And yes, he was named after the Shelley poem (his namesake quote later appeared in the movie 'The Watchmen'.) Shortly after we moved, Ozy ventured out and didn't return. We put up signs and actually got calls from people who had spotted him. Our best guess is that he ventured into the retirement community adjacent to ours and adopted some little old lady. Probably tired of being the bullied scapegoat.
Spartacus had the most eventful of the kitten births. Our little Claire had been a trouper through the first three and had been acting like she was done. I wasn't quite convinced, but changed my mind when she jumped out of the hamper-turned-whelping-box to lay the smackdown on the two boys (who had started to tussle in the corner).
She was walking back across the room to the hamper when she squatted in the middle of the tile and expelled something unlike anything I've ever seen before. Unlike the first three kittens who emerged wriggling, small and dark, this was a long, off-white blob that landed with a wet 'plop' on the ceramic and didn't move.
You know those white sausages you get in the grocery store? Imagine that... covered in mayonnaise... on your kitchen floor. Ew.
Jason was immediately concerned and jumped up from his chair, asking if she had just passed a lung. (Name Possibility #1: Jethro)
I rushed to inspect what had just happened and the quick movement spooked Claire, who took off running (blob still attached via umbilical cord) towards the hamper where she leapt and cleared the side of the hamper to land among her three babies. Blob, however, wasn't as lucky. As she bounded across the tile, he bounced... and bounced... I was following behind in some kind of half-crouch thinking that I'd be able to hold my hands out and either catch it or cushion its fall. As she made her grand leap into the basket, the blob hurled against the side of the hamper and rebounded in a huge arc before the umbilical-turned-bungee cord whipped him into the hamper alongside Claire in a loud 'thud'.
I was sure it was dead... whatever it was... or at very least severely brain damaged after the beating between ceramic tile, plastic hamper, and mom.
He emerged from his mayo balloon with a mighty open mouth as if to yell, "I am Spartacus!" And thus, he was named. As he grew, however, we knew that something wasn't the same about him. He was completely white, with blonde rings around the tip of his tail and blonde lowlights on his ears and face. His eyes... are the most sparkling blue you've ever seen. He confessed to me (at a very young age) that he's so pretty because he's gay. (And I hope he doesn't mind me sharing that in this blog, but it IS pride week, so I say he should unite and be proud.) So while his given name is 'Spartacus', he prefers 'Sparky'. Or when he's particularly adorable, 'Sparkleberry Brown'.
He was actually supposed to be adopted, but his potential family fell through and he ended up being my shadow.
They all have their favorite spots in the house to chill. Ben prefers doorways and heavy traffic areas. Claire prefers nooks, corners, hampers or any place at waist level. Sawyer and Sparky most often have to be within touching distance or at least in eyesight of Jason or myself. If we shut the door to go to the bathroom, they will meow outside the door and stick their paws underneath. Sometimes we play 'get the toilet paper roll'. It's an awesome game. I'm undefeated.
Anyhow... we moved into a new house in June of last year. It is in a beautiful neighborhood. It's quiet here, our neighbors (with one exception) are incredibly nice and the house itself is very low-maintenance. I really do love it here. And so does the pride.
Which brings me to my current conundrum.
One of the struggles I've had with being the cat-lady is litter boxes. I hate the smell. I hate the maintenance. And with four cats... it's just kinda ridiculous. So, we had decided to get a pet door and train the cats to go to the bathroom outside. I wasn't crazy about this decision because I grew up with indoor-outdoor cats and watched them get hurt often from other animals, cars, kids, etc. Though they are fixed and we've been diligent about their shots, that can't help them in the path of a vehicle or a nasty person. But... we decided to give it a try and I couldn't be happier about that aspect. No more litter boxes. The cats don't roam far (Benny doesn't leave the back yard) and I love watching them outside. They love the patio and have plenty of comfy places to perch (including an old loveseat) and to watch them roll and jump and eat grass and chase lizards makes me feel like I'm giving them a chance to experience life outside of complete captivity and more in their natural habitat.
It was entertaining to Jason and I to watch our babies experience nature for the first time. They used to sit at the window and chatter at the birds outside. Now we were watching them as they ogled the winged creatures that actually seemed to tease them as they landed and took off from the fence mere feet away. They were slow and awkward, having never chased anything more than a jingle-ball, a catnip mouse, or a lazer pointer.
Were. Slow and awkward.
10 months of ninja training.
That's my only explanation.
For the last month, my house has been home to horrors unspeakable. The carnage that greets me every morning is not for the faint of heart. It is... epic.
Lizards are a daily occurrence. We often find them alive, but missing their tails. Jason and I established a rapid-response catch-and-release program that includes distraction techniques, scene clearance, and stealth relocation.
It is when we are asleep, however, that the most heinous murders are carried out.
If God has his eye on the sparrow, why isn't he watching out for the finches and morning doves? I wake up to feathers... everywhere.
My home becomes a veritable crime scene. Blood on the floors, on the walls... spatters, puddles. I don't know what to do!!
It is now routine that I get out of bed, pee, and head straight for the vacuum, the swiffer, and the disinfectant.
We know that the culprit is Sawyer. Claire, Sparky, and Benny stay inside at night and have more fun playing with their prey; hence they are partial to lizards and resilient bugs.
Sawyer is our master hunter. Our uber-ninja cat. The alpha male, bread-winner, bringer of offerings, killer of precious little birdies.
It's really messing with my attempts to start the day in a 'zen' and centered place. I feel like a co-conspirator... as if I'm hiding his dirty little secret as I scrub away the blood stains with my ready-mixed Clorox.
I hang my head in shame as the birds outside sing gaily. I don't want to be the one to tell them that Uncle Jerome and li'l Annie Mae aren't coming back.
I try to explain to Sawyer that karma will catch up and see to it that his eyes are pecked out by an unusually large crow or that we all get the Avian flu, but it has had no effect so far. He feigns surprise as if to say, "What bird?" And of course, since we are asleep, we have no actual proof.
It has happened every night for the last straight week.
I can't win with these creatures. They have taken over my life!
I'm hoping it's just a 'pride week' thing and that he'll settle down and maybe give up his violent tendencies for 'Earth Day' or something.
I don't want to start locking them all in at night.
Last time I did that, one of them pissed in my sink.
And I don't want to bring back the litter boxes.
But I do want to save the birdies. Do I declaw? Stage an intervention and suggest counseling first?
I just can't win.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
An Ode to My Mentors
(*Warning: This post ended up epically long. Go to the bathroom and grab a drink first.)
Those of you who know me well also know that I really have no internal censor when it comes to the stuff that comes out of my mouth. I speak what I think, I write how I speak, and so on...
I am proud to report, however, that I do manage to behave in a civilized manner when good PR is required and a paycheck is involved. It's the darndest thing... :)
So I guess the real story is that I know how to censor myself... I just don't like to. Especially when I'm among family or parties that I feel comfortable around.
And so it happened... on Sunday as I was rehearsing for a performance at an awards ceremony, that my lack of that censor landed me on the feisty side of Michael Barnard.
Now to give you some history... okay a LOT of history...
Michael is the Artistic Director of Phoenix Theatre. His bio and resume are much too impressive for my modest little blog, but the man is a legend.
I first auditioned for Michael when I was a Freshman. I had just done 'Annie' with MTA and the adults in the show were all a-buzz about some hot director who was coming in for 'Damn Yankees'. Now, I wanted to do anything and everything that the adults in that cast wanted to do. We're talking the likes of John Schuck, Kathy Fitzgerald, Bob Sorenson, John Sankovich, Noel Irick, Karen Morrow... my head is swimming right now.
I was way too young for the show and never thought my parents would allow me to audition for a play with 'Damn' in the title, but they did. It was a brief audition. I was too young for any of the roles.
Damn.
I was pretty gung-ho my Senior year of High School and had applied to every college in the state and auditioned for every performing opportunity possible. I was either going to college with a full scholarship or I was going to tour or travel or just land a solid gig somewhere. I had an offer to tour with Young Americans and I was all nerves and false bravado when I auditioned for the holy grail of my young career... Disney. (*cue angelic descant*)
Once again, I found myself in front of the legendary Michael Barnard. I was called back. Win!
I was invited to attend another callback.
One week before that callback, I found out I was pregnant. Oops.
Certainly NOT the 'Disney way'.
And so, I took a break from theatre while I explored the life of a new mom. I watched my friends whenever possible, becoming an avid audience member (which I believe helped me as an actress more than I could have imagined.) With every show, I felt a stronger pull to return to my first love... the stage. Once my kids were of school age, I had time to devote to relearning my craft.
I was nowhere near the level I had been at the 'height' of my childhood (and childish) acting career. Other than singing at church and for weddings here and there, I had stopped performing. I hadn't danced since my beginning jazz class and my center of gravity after two kids had shifted to somewhere around my right knee.
Layouts and backbends caused me to pee a little.
I certainly wasn't ready for anything beyond community theatre and that's where I lived for many happy years.
TJ Weltzein gave me a break. I had auditioned for him once before. Poorly. Like, epic fail on the audition. It was so bad, I didn't want to show my face again for fear he'd remember me as one of the worst auditions he'd sat through. He put me in the chorus. I was the awkward, chubby girl.
We had an asshat of a choreographer who choreographed the show (purposely set in the 1950's) as modern interp and dance captain Laurie Case had to step in during tech week and rework almost all of the numbers. I started observing everything I could about performers and technicians that I admired. Every director had strengths that I could capitalize on and learn from. Greg Jaye, D. Scott imparted advice I still use to this day. Alan Plado did more with my voice in the course of 6 weeks than 3 years of daily singing had done.
I soaked in everything I could from actors like Kristen Drathman, D.Scott Withers, Ross Collins, Kathi Osborne, Johanna Carlisle, Beth Anne Johnson, Beth Reynolds, Kim Hart, Chris Erikson, Scott Schmelder, Susan Hogle... a list too lengthy to be complete.
It culminated (I thought) when I got the chance to do Victor/Victoria with Jerry Wayne Harkey (who had previously been my Musical Director for 'Annie') as Toddy. I had reached my schoolgirl talent-crush nirvana.
Or so I thought.
I still saw as much theatre as possible. I had seen two productions of 'The Man of La Mancha' and didn't care for the show. The theatre I was working for was mounting the premiere of Dale Wasserman's 'A Walk in the Clouds' the following season and PT happened to be mounting the former aforementioned show, so I decided to give it a look-see. I fell in love with that show that night. I also fell in love with Rusty Ferracane, Jon Gentry and Michelle Gardner. Uber talent crushes everywhere.
When Stagebrush began to fold and Theaterworks saw their changing of the guard in the early 2000's, my theatre family splintered as their journeys brought them to other theatres and other towns. I still felt insecure and green. I knew that I had been coddled and protected and outright spoiled by people who believed in me... but it was now time for me to sink or swim and I didn't know if I was ready.
I got thrown in with both feet when I was called for a production of 'Herberger Headliners'. I would finally get to work with Michael Barnard. Oh joy, Oh Rapture!
Well, it wasn't all it should have been. It was a two-week rehearsal process and a two-show performance. Not only was the rehearsal process quick and harried, but my head wasn't in it. I had just closed a show, was starting rehearsals for another, had a corporate gig on one of the rehearsal nights... oh... and I was also separating from my husband. I was a mess and the entire process was a blur. I left feeling like I had failed destiny and this freak opportunity to become BFFs with Michael Barnard.
I had decided to take a break from the world of musical theatre and try my hand at 'straight' theatre. My resume was very musical heavy and I knew that I was going to have to branch out and show some diversity if I was going to be taken seriously. I landed a role in Noel Coward's 'Blithe Spirit' opposite Jason Barth and directed by Sally Jo Bannow. It was a show that changed my personal and professional life forever.
Jason is a classical actor and somehow managed to talk me into auditioning for Southwest Shakespeare. I had stayed far away from Shakespeare since my rather dry exposure to it in High School and thought he had to be absolutely nuts. But I gave it a try... hoping to impress him. I did find that Shakespeare (to me) was just like singing without an actual tune. There is a natural rhythm... a natural rise and fall, lift and land... to Shakespeare. And I found myself falling in love with the Bard, too.
To my surprise and amazement, I landed roles in the first two shows of the season; the second role would have me side-by-side with Maren Maclean... someone I had only heard of until my reading with the statuesque, sharp-tongued beauty at callbacks. Talk about intimidating!!
My work with Southwest started sporadically, but I was still doing Pinter and LaBute and auditioning for companies like Nearly Naked, Is What It Is, and Stray Cat.
I had also landed some corporate work with Quantum Leap (formerly 'Funny Business') and found myself traveling more than I ever had before... and I was being pushed. My directors, musical directors, choreographers... all saw some kind of potential in me and took the extra time and/or consideration that I needed and got me to where I needed to be.
I was now working with some of the most amazing actors I had ever known. My life was even more full-circle when I had the chance to work alongside Bob Sorenson again and to spend a summer at Shakespeare Sedona with Kathy Fitzgerald and her new family. Again, Nirvana reached.
And last season... after several mediocre auditions and a few chickenshit no-shows, Michael Barnard and I were reunited at long last. He cast me in 'Curtains' and the third Nirvana of my career ascended upon me.
After 'Curtains', Michael called me for a few in-house events... a sure sign that our relationship had not only solidified, but blossomed. He had to have realized (as I had long before) the symbiosis and natural balance of the universe when we are working creatively together. Finally!
And so this novella culminates with our last creative venture in which I completed the most convoluted piece of choreography I have ever attempted to execute.
At rehearsal, I had put in a turn where Michael hadn't choreographed one. Of course everyone in the room is looking at me - Johanna is giving me the eyebrow - and I blurt (in my outside voice)
"I'm just used to Michael putting turns in where they don't belong."
Open mouth, insert right foot.
So, Michael quips back (with feigned hurt) "Most people like my choreography."
And I respond, "Oh, I LOVE your choreography. I just don't like to do it."
Open mouth insert left foot.
*I will insert the disclaimer that I am not a dancer. I am an actor/singer who 'moves well'. Yes I took dance classes. Yes they are on my resume. But that doesn't mean I'm any good. Choreographers scare the shit out of me. They are mutants that have these superpowers that allow them to bend in ways the human body (with bones in it) shouldn't bend and they move their feet faster than I can point out the cheapest shoes in the room (which are mine). They make or break me at auditions and I revere them with the same awe and pants-piddling fear as God. ('Cuz I'm sure he's amazed by them, too.) I'm still nervous whenever I audition for directors I don't know or haven't worked with before. But among them, Robbie Harper, Molly LaJoie, Beth Reynolds, Laurie Trygg, Shawna Quain... basically any choreographer... and the Madonna Mary Mother of them all... is Michael Barnard.
So how do I dig myself out of the hole I just created? I don't.
With both feet inserted in my mouth, I proceed to explain how much of a non-dancer I am.
(Keeping in mind that next season has me panting like a bitch in heat with shows like 'Hairspray' and 'Nine'. Um... DANCE, anyone?)
As my offense continued, (and as Johanna graciously tried to gag my running ratchet-jaw) with my right and left foot firmly planted in my oral orifice; I executed the most flawless pas de
bourrée and pirouette. Ever.
And while my artistic influences and talent crushes ebb and flow, I still have to take time every once in a while to acknowledge where I've come from, where I am... and the artists who have been my mentors - whether they knew it or not.
I will probably always be intimidated by Michael, but I also think that a certain amount of respect for your director is healthy. (Even if it doesn't always stop me from saying something stupid and all too Andi-esque.)
And for those who haven't already been mentioned; Tom Leveen, Kaitlin O'Neal, Richard Baird, Doc, Porter, Nathalie, Schoen, Jared, Patrick, April Smith, Christian Miller, Kyle Lawson, Turvin, Page(rip), Dennis, Craig, Gene, Jim, Darcy, Ariel, Wanda, Toby, Desi, DebbieJo, Jeff, et al.
Thanks for teaching me, pushing me, and putting up with all my shenanigans.
Thankfully, I am still learning.
And thanks to so many of you, still loving what I do.
My job is such a privilege. I have been through phases of taking that for granted, but age and experience have taught me that it is a rare blessing to be able to do what I love. I am thankful every day for those who have taken me under their wing and for those that continue to share their knowledge and wisdom (and patiently teach me to time-step).
I can only do what I do because you've taught me.
Thank you.
And finally, in case my acerbic, tongue-in-cheek humor doesn't translate via written cyberpage, I would like to have it known that:
I LOVE Michael Barnard's choreography! It challenges me. Furthermore, as a director, he allows me to push who I am as an artist and how I express myself. And if that weren't motivation enough, I'm guaranteed to lose anywhere from 10-15 pounds over the course of a Michael Barnard show. I know my skinny bitches hear me on that one.
Right?
Done!
Those of you who know me well also know that I really have no internal censor when it comes to the stuff that comes out of my mouth. I speak what I think, I write how I speak, and so on...
I am proud to report, however, that I do manage to behave in a civilized manner when good PR is required and a paycheck is involved. It's the darndest thing... :)
So I guess the real story is that I know how to censor myself... I just don't like to. Especially when I'm among family or parties that I feel comfortable around.
And so it happened... on Sunday as I was rehearsing for a performance at an awards ceremony, that my lack of that censor landed me on the feisty side of Michael Barnard.
Now to give you some history... okay a LOT of history...
Michael is the Artistic Director of Phoenix Theatre. His bio and resume are much too impressive for my modest little blog, but the man is a legend.
I first auditioned for Michael when I was a Freshman. I had just done 'Annie' with MTA and the adults in the show were all a-buzz about some hot director who was coming in for 'Damn Yankees'. Now, I wanted to do anything and everything that the adults in that cast wanted to do. We're talking the likes of John Schuck, Kathy Fitzgerald, Bob Sorenson, John Sankovich, Noel Irick, Karen Morrow... my head is swimming right now.
I was way too young for the show and never thought my parents would allow me to audition for a play with 'Damn' in the title, but they did. It was a brief audition. I was too young for any of the roles.
Damn.
I was pretty gung-ho my Senior year of High School and had applied to every college in the state and auditioned for every performing opportunity possible. I was either going to college with a full scholarship or I was going to tour or travel or just land a solid gig somewhere. I had an offer to tour with Young Americans and I was all nerves and false bravado when I auditioned for the holy grail of my young career... Disney. (*cue angelic descant*)
Once again, I found myself in front of the legendary Michael Barnard. I was called back. Win!
I was invited to attend another callback.
One week before that callback, I found out I was pregnant. Oops.
Certainly NOT the 'Disney way'.
And so, I took a break from theatre while I explored the life of a new mom. I watched my friends whenever possible, becoming an avid audience member (which I believe helped me as an actress more than I could have imagined.) With every show, I felt a stronger pull to return to my first love... the stage. Once my kids were of school age, I had time to devote to relearning my craft.
I was nowhere near the level I had been at the 'height' of my childhood (and childish) acting career. Other than singing at church and for weddings here and there, I had stopped performing. I hadn't danced since my beginning jazz class and my center of gravity after two kids had shifted to somewhere around my right knee.
Layouts and backbends caused me to pee a little.
I certainly wasn't ready for anything beyond community theatre and that's where I lived for many happy years.
TJ Weltzein gave me a break. I had auditioned for him once before. Poorly. Like, epic fail on the audition. It was so bad, I didn't want to show my face again for fear he'd remember me as one of the worst auditions he'd sat through. He put me in the chorus. I was the awkward, chubby girl.
We had an asshat of a choreographer who choreographed the show (purposely set in the 1950's) as modern interp and dance captain Laurie Case had to step in during tech week and rework almost all of the numbers. I started observing everything I could about performers and technicians that I admired. Every director had strengths that I could capitalize on and learn from. Greg Jaye, D. Scott imparted advice I still use to this day. Alan Plado did more with my voice in the course of 6 weeks than 3 years of daily singing had done.
I soaked in everything I could from actors like Kristen Drathman, D.Scott Withers, Ross Collins, Kathi Osborne, Johanna Carlisle, Beth Anne Johnson, Beth Reynolds, Kim Hart, Chris Erikson, Scott Schmelder, Susan Hogle... a list too lengthy to be complete.
It culminated (I thought) when I got the chance to do Victor/Victoria with Jerry Wayne Harkey (who had previously been my Musical Director for 'Annie') as Toddy. I had reached my schoolgirl talent-crush nirvana.
Or so I thought.
I still saw as much theatre as possible. I had seen two productions of 'The Man of La Mancha' and didn't care for the show. The theatre I was working for was mounting the premiere of Dale Wasserman's 'A Walk in the Clouds' the following season and PT happened to be mounting the former aforementioned show, so I decided to give it a look-see. I fell in love with that show that night. I also fell in love with Rusty Ferracane, Jon Gentry and Michelle Gardner. Uber talent crushes everywhere.
When Stagebrush began to fold and Theaterworks saw their changing of the guard in the early 2000's, my theatre family splintered as their journeys brought them to other theatres and other towns. I still felt insecure and green. I knew that I had been coddled and protected and outright spoiled by people who believed in me... but it was now time for me to sink or swim and I didn't know if I was ready.
I got thrown in with both feet when I was called for a production of 'Herberger Headliners'. I would finally get to work with Michael Barnard. Oh joy, Oh Rapture!
Well, it wasn't all it should have been. It was a two-week rehearsal process and a two-show performance. Not only was the rehearsal process quick and harried, but my head wasn't in it. I had just closed a show, was starting rehearsals for another, had a corporate gig on one of the rehearsal nights... oh... and I was also separating from my husband. I was a mess and the entire process was a blur. I left feeling like I had failed destiny and this freak opportunity to become BFFs with Michael Barnard.
I had decided to take a break from the world of musical theatre and try my hand at 'straight' theatre. My resume was very musical heavy and I knew that I was going to have to branch out and show some diversity if I was going to be taken seriously. I landed a role in Noel Coward's 'Blithe Spirit' opposite Jason Barth and directed by Sally Jo Bannow. It was a show that changed my personal and professional life forever.
Jason is a classical actor and somehow managed to talk me into auditioning for Southwest Shakespeare. I had stayed far away from Shakespeare since my rather dry exposure to it in High School and thought he had to be absolutely nuts. But I gave it a try... hoping to impress him. I did find that Shakespeare (to me) was just like singing without an actual tune. There is a natural rhythm... a natural rise and fall, lift and land... to Shakespeare. And I found myself falling in love with the Bard, too.
To my surprise and amazement, I landed roles in the first two shows of the season; the second role would have me side-by-side with Maren Maclean... someone I had only heard of until my reading with the statuesque, sharp-tongued beauty at callbacks. Talk about intimidating!!
My work with Southwest started sporadically, but I was still doing Pinter and LaBute and auditioning for companies like Nearly Naked, Is What It Is, and Stray Cat.
I had also landed some corporate work with Quantum Leap (formerly 'Funny Business') and found myself traveling more than I ever had before... and I was being pushed. My directors, musical directors, choreographers... all saw some kind of potential in me and took the extra time and/or consideration that I needed and got me to where I needed to be.
I was now working with some of the most amazing actors I had ever known. My life was even more full-circle when I had the chance to work alongside Bob Sorenson again and to spend a summer at Shakespeare Sedona with Kathy Fitzgerald and her new family. Again, Nirvana reached.
And last season... after several mediocre auditions and a few chickenshit no-shows, Michael Barnard and I were reunited at long last. He cast me in 'Curtains' and the third Nirvana of my career ascended upon me.
After 'Curtains', Michael called me for a few in-house events... a sure sign that our relationship had not only solidified, but blossomed. He had to have realized (as I had long before) the symbiosis and natural balance of the universe when we are working creatively together. Finally!
And so this novella culminates with our last creative venture in which I completed the most convoluted piece of choreography I have ever attempted to execute.
At rehearsal, I had put in a turn where Michael hadn't choreographed one. Of course everyone in the room is looking at me - Johanna is giving me the eyebrow - and I blurt (in my outside voice)
"I'm just used to Michael putting turns in where they don't belong."
Open mouth, insert right foot.
So, Michael quips back (with feigned hurt) "Most people like my choreography."
And I respond, "Oh, I LOVE your choreography. I just don't like to do it."
Open mouth insert left foot.
*I will insert the disclaimer that I am not a dancer. I am an actor/singer who 'moves well'. Yes I took dance classes. Yes they are on my resume. But that doesn't mean I'm any good. Choreographers scare the shit out of me. They are mutants that have these superpowers that allow them to bend in ways the human body (with bones in it) shouldn't bend and they move their feet faster than I can point out the cheapest shoes in the room (which are mine). They make or break me at auditions and I revere them with the same awe and pants-piddling fear as God. ('Cuz I'm sure he's amazed by them, too.) I'm still nervous whenever I audition for directors I don't know or haven't worked with before. But among them, Robbie Harper, Molly LaJoie, Beth Reynolds, Laurie Trygg, Shawna Quain... basically any choreographer... and the Madonna Mary Mother of them all... is Michael Barnard.
So how do I dig myself out of the hole I just created? I don't.
With both feet inserted in my mouth, I proceed to explain how much of a non-dancer I am.
(Keeping in mind that next season has me panting like a bitch in heat with shows like 'Hairspray' and 'Nine'. Um... DANCE, anyone?)
As my offense continued, (and as Johanna graciously tried to gag my running ratchet-jaw) with my right and left foot firmly planted in my oral orifice; I executed the most flawless pas de
bourrée and pirouette. Ever.And while my artistic influences and talent crushes ebb and flow, I still have to take time every once in a while to acknowledge where I've come from, where I am... and the artists who have been my mentors - whether they knew it or not.
I will probably always be intimidated by Michael, but I also think that a certain amount of respect for your director is healthy. (Even if it doesn't always stop me from saying something stupid and all too Andi-esque.)
And for those who haven't already been mentioned; Tom Leveen, Kaitlin O'Neal, Richard Baird, Doc, Porter, Nathalie, Schoen, Jared, Patrick, April Smith, Christian Miller, Kyle Lawson, Turvin, Page(rip), Dennis, Craig, Gene, Jim, Darcy, Ariel, Wanda, Toby, Desi, DebbieJo, Jeff, et al.
Thanks for teaching me, pushing me, and putting up with all my shenanigans.
Thankfully, I am still learning.
And thanks to so many of you, still loving what I do.
My job is such a privilege. I have been through phases of taking that for granted, but age and experience have taught me that it is a rare blessing to be able to do what I love. I am thankful every day for those who have taken me under their wing and for those that continue to share their knowledge and wisdom (and patiently teach me to time-step).
I can only do what I do because you've taught me.
Thank you.
And finally, in case my acerbic, tongue-in-cheek humor doesn't translate via written cyberpage, I would like to have it known that:
I LOVE Michael Barnard's choreography! It challenges me. Furthermore, as a director, he allows me to push who I am as an artist and how I express myself. And if that weren't motivation enough, I'm guaranteed to lose anywhere from 10-15 pounds over the course of a Michael Barnard show. I know my skinny bitches hear me on that one.
Right?
Done!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Subpoenas and Sandra Lee
I have extended cable for two reasons. #1 I love my HBO and Sundance channels. #2 I'm absolutely addicted to Food Network and The Travel Channel. Yeah, yeah, yeah... I'm just a barrel of wild and crazy, right?
So for those that don't know Sandra Lee, she hosts her own show on Food Network called "Semi-Homemade" which has her pairing mostly packaged, processed, prepared ingredients with 1/4-1/3 fresh ingredients.
Now, I'm a mom who has made plenty of packaged meals for my kids. They (and I) grew up with Macaroni & Cheese, Ramen, Hamburger Helper, etc. I'm not a foodie snob, but as I've grown older, I've grown to appreciate good meals made with fresh ingredients prepared at home. I've always loved baking and am a whiz with pastries, but cooking was a latent talent and it took my relationship with Jason (who is an amazing chef, if a little bit anal-retentive about following recipes to the letter) to enable more culinary exploration.
Together, we laughed at quirky Rachel Ray and fell in love with her 30-minute meals which were perfect for our 4-person family and hectic lifestyle. We became enamored with Anthony Bourdain for both his culinary expertise and his evocative writing. Paula Dean reassured me that my love affair with butter was perfectly acceptable and the Barefoot Contessa (Ina Garten) brought me on lovely journeys to the local shops and available resources in East Hampton while also offering decorating tips and long forgotten etiquette. All individuals with a vast knowledge and understanding of my most long-lived friend and confidant. Food.
And then there's Sandra Lee.
Sandra Lee is a blonde, Malibu-Barbie, everymom. She is the All-American woman-next-door and her show is so saccharine-sweet that I fear watching it could give me cancer and diabetes at the same time.
She coined the word 'tablescapes' which is how she defines her gauche table decorations (often themed) which I hate only slightly less than the word 'tablescapes' which makes me want to vagina-punch her. And while she does have one or two cute little craft ideas, they are the kinds of things I would do with my kids for fun, but not for a formal engagement party or cocktail event. Seriously. I was making origami napkins in the 4th grade; so no one's impressed, lady.
Her Bio claims that she attended Le Cordon Bleu, but on further investigation, she was enrolled in a two-week course that she didn't even complete. She probably got lady-cramps and had to quit.
And most importantly, the blasphemy... the perversion of FOOD... is inexcusable.
Assuming that we have the time, resources, and motivation to prepare a meal with fresh ingredients... why would you sully it by adding the equivalent of Friskies® Tuna and Egg in Sauce? You wouldn't.
In addition, the woman tries to make things that she knows NOTHING about. Today, I had FN on in the background and she was attempting to make tamales. Now, I'm a gringa... but having previously married into a Hispanic family, I did pick up a few tips on how to make things like tamales, empanadas, tortillas, etc.
First, she admitted that she couldn't find corn husks at any of her local supermarkets. Well, then she doesn't live ANYWHERE near the southwest. I'm sure her suburb probably doesn't even have a grocery with an 'ethnic foods' aisle. It was probably omitted in favor of the new microbiotic aisle and the extension of the 'foods that are easier to puke back up' section.
So, Sandra Lee is using parchment paper in lieu of corn husks for her tamales (pronounced Tah-mawl-eez) and slops on her homemade masa in a huge clump in the center without spreading it out to a reasonable thickness or evenness. Then she slops in what looks like Rosarita™ beans, a can of preserved ready-diced tomatoes and the fresh onion and garlic she heated up on her nifty skillet. Really? You couldn't grab a fresh tomato and dice it up? Maybe teach us how simple it really is to whip up our own refried beans? No?
That's just... weird.
So, the finished tamales were a joke. I don't know how many takes they went through, but they obviously couldn't get a good shot of the first fork-cut. You couldn't see anything but the masa. It may as well have been a close-up of a steaming yellow cake.
Which is pretty much what I think of Sandra Lee. A pile of steaming yellow cake.
To top it off, while she was on, we had the luck of being visited by the process server bearing subpoenas. Sandra Lee is just bad luck.
To explain the process server, Jay and I witnessed an accident (one that we narrowly avoided) and were the ones who called it in to 9-1-1. We filled out reports on the scene, figuring we had done our civic duty. (The driver at fault was obviously impaired somehow. I credit my dad's school of defensive driving for identifying that one early.) Well, it turns out that this fellah is being taken to court and we've been subpoenaed to appear as witnesses for the state. Joy. They have our written statements. Why can't they just enter that as our legal testimony? It's signed and everything! Plus... this was as an accident that happened almost two years ago. I'm sure that my written statement offers a much fresher and more accurate account of what happened anyway.
We knew we were being called as witnesses because the prosecutor had been in contact with us on the phone, but it's still kinda strange to have a legal obligation to appear in court. There's no 'good' feeling to accompany it. Plus, we have to be there at 7:30 in the morning. 7:30!!?? I no longer wonder why judges wear robes. I would too, if I had to be at work at that ungodly hour. And as if that weren't enough, in bold letters reads:
IF YOU FAIL TO APPEAR AS ORDERED, A WARRANT WILL BE ISSUED FOR YOUR ARREST.
Well, geez! No need to shout.
And certainly no need to threaten me with arrest. I said I'd be there. I understand I'm important to the state's case as the only witness not directly involved in the collision. Don't get your panties in such a twist.
Gosh!
So, I chalked it all up as one more reason to hate Sandra Lee and watched 'Moon' instead. It was significantly better than Malibu Barbie hour, but still left me unsatisfied.
Sigh.
And tomorrow... I get to perform for our illustrious Governor.
*big smile*
*jazz hands*
and.... scene.
So for those that don't know Sandra Lee, she hosts her own show on Food Network called "Semi-Homemade" which has her pairing mostly packaged, processed, prepared ingredients with 1/4-1/3 fresh ingredients.
Now, I'm a mom who has made plenty of packaged meals for my kids. They (and I) grew up with Macaroni & Cheese, Ramen, Hamburger Helper, etc. I'm not a foodie snob, but as I've grown older, I've grown to appreciate good meals made with fresh ingredients prepared at home. I've always loved baking and am a whiz with pastries, but cooking was a latent talent and it took my relationship with Jason (who is an amazing chef, if a little bit anal-retentive about following recipes to the letter) to enable more culinary exploration.
Together, we laughed at quirky Rachel Ray and fell in love with her 30-minute meals which were perfect for our 4-person family and hectic lifestyle. We became enamored with Anthony Bourdain for both his culinary expertise and his evocative writing. Paula Dean reassured me that my love affair with butter was perfectly acceptable and the Barefoot Contessa (Ina Garten) brought me on lovely journeys to the local shops and available resources in East Hampton while also offering decorating tips and long forgotten etiquette. All individuals with a vast knowledge and understanding of my most long-lived friend and confidant. Food.
And then there's Sandra Lee.
Sandra Lee is a blonde, Malibu-Barbie, everymom. She is the All-American woman-next-door and her show is so saccharine-sweet that I fear watching it could give me cancer and diabetes at the same time.
She coined the word 'tablescapes' which is how she defines her gauche table decorations (often themed) which I hate only slightly less than the word 'tablescapes' which makes me want to vagina-punch her. And while she does have one or two cute little craft ideas, they are the kinds of things I would do with my kids for fun, but not for a formal engagement party or cocktail event. Seriously. I was making origami napkins in the 4th grade; so no one's impressed, lady.
Her Bio claims that she attended Le Cordon Bleu, but on further investigation, she was enrolled in a two-week course that she didn't even complete. She probably got lady-cramps and had to quit.
And most importantly, the blasphemy... the perversion of FOOD... is inexcusable.
Assuming that we have the time, resources, and motivation to prepare a meal with fresh ingredients... why would you sully it by adding the equivalent of Friskies® Tuna and Egg in Sauce? You wouldn't.
In addition, the woman tries to make things that she knows NOTHING about. Today, I had FN on in the background and she was attempting to make tamales. Now, I'm a gringa... but having previously married into a Hispanic family, I did pick up a few tips on how to make things like tamales, empanadas, tortillas, etc.
First, she admitted that she couldn't find corn husks at any of her local supermarkets. Well, then she doesn't live ANYWHERE near the southwest. I'm sure her suburb probably doesn't even have a grocery with an 'ethnic foods' aisle. It was probably omitted in favor of the new microbiotic aisle and the extension of the 'foods that are easier to puke back up' section.
So, Sandra Lee is using parchment paper in lieu of corn husks for her tamales (pronounced Tah-mawl-eez) and slops on her homemade masa in a huge clump in the center without spreading it out to a reasonable thickness or evenness. Then she slops in what looks like Rosarita™ beans, a can of preserved ready-diced tomatoes and the fresh onion and garlic she heated up on her nifty skillet. Really? You couldn't grab a fresh tomato and dice it up? Maybe teach us how simple it really is to whip up our own refried beans? No?
That's just... weird.
So, the finished tamales were a joke. I don't know how many takes they went through, but they obviously couldn't get a good shot of the first fork-cut. You couldn't see anything but the masa. It may as well have been a close-up of a steaming yellow cake.
Which is pretty much what I think of Sandra Lee. A pile of steaming yellow cake.
To top it off, while she was on, we had the luck of being visited by the process server bearing subpoenas. Sandra Lee is just bad luck.
To explain the process server, Jay and I witnessed an accident (one that we narrowly avoided) and were the ones who called it in to 9-1-1. We filled out reports on the scene, figuring we had done our civic duty. (The driver at fault was obviously impaired somehow. I credit my dad's school of defensive driving for identifying that one early.) Well, it turns out that this fellah is being taken to court and we've been subpoenaed to appear as witnesses for the state. Joy. They have our written statements. Why can't they just enter that as our legal testimony? It's signed and everything! Plus... this was as an accident that happened almost two years ago. I'm sure that my written statement offers a much fresher and more accurate account of what happened anyway.
We knew we were being called as witnesses because the prosecutor had been in contact with us on the phone, but it's still kinda strange to have a legal obligation to appear in court. There's no 'good' feeling to accompany it. Plus, we have to be there at 7:30 in the morning. 7:30!!?? I no longer wonder why judges wear robes. I would too, if I had to be at work at that ungodly hour. And as if that weren't enough, in bold letters reads:
IF YOU FAIL TO APPEAR AS ORDERED, A WARRANT WILL BE ISSUED FOR YOUR ARREST.
Well, geez! No need to shout.
And certainly no need to threaten me with arrest. I said I'd be there. I understand I'm important to the state's case as the only witness not directly involved in the collision. Don't get your panties in such a twist.
Gosh!
So, I chalked it all up as one more reason to hate Sandra Lee and watched 'Moon' instead. It was significantly better than Malibu Barbie hour, but still left me unsatisfied.
Sigh.
And tomorrow... I get to perform for our illustrious Governor.
*big smile*
*jazz hands*
and.... scene.
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