Tara's Rants and Raves
Tara's Rants and Raves
Five in a Row!
Boot camp classes, that is.
I'm not inventing excuses to miss class. I'm not sitting around eating fries. I'm really doing this.
I get to class early to walk laps around the track. This earns me extra credit towards neato prizes. But we'll get to that in a bit. Let's recap the Week That Was:
Wednesday's class marked the return of Jim and Darlene, the married couple who had been on a wicked cool motorcycle vacation. Darlene took a spill off her bike early in the trip (the thing fell over on her!), breaking two toes. She arrived wearing a boot over the bad foot, which led to many a "Boot Camp" joke. It also impressed the hell out of every single one of us. Most people would milk that injury for all it was worth. They'd beg off exercise and play the pity card. Not Darlene. She gamely walked the track and modified all the exercises throughout the class. Oh, and did I mention that Darlene is the eldest of the ladies in our group? She's a dead ringer for Vanessa Redgrave. So if she's hoofin it with a BOOT on her leg, the rest of us have got nothing. We officially have lost the right to bitch. Thanks a lot, Darlene. ; )
Meanwhile, our class was being led once again by Michele, aka She Who Loves Lunges. Not only did we walk a length of track lunge after lunge, she made us DO IT TWICE. The second time, we had to add twists (I've since demonstrated the move to a couple of friends; the look of abject horror on their faces actually made me feel like a total badass, because I had done them. Well, most of them).
We also worked out with those stretchy bands, and let me tell you something, folks: those things WORK. Michele taught us an awesome exercise for your triceps. Since I like you, I'll share it with you:
Stand with your feet comfortably apart, about shoulder-width. Wrap your stretchy band around your right hand and place it on your left shoulder. Take your left hand and grab the slack of the band. Pull down slowly. Do it 10 times. Now do it on the other side.
Ouch, right? But we all agreed it was way better than holding hand weights. You're using your body's own resistance, and there was proof that it totally works. We also tied the ends of the bands together to make a tight enough circle to wrap around our lower legs. Then we marched in place. We looked ridiculous, yes, but after about five seconds, it was Burn City in my legs. Michele knows what she's doing, that's for sure.
I have to tell you: I'm already starting to see some definition in my upper back, and in my arms as well. "Check out those guns!" my boyfriend said the other night. I tried not to punch him, but he was only half-joking. There's actually a bicep there, within what we call the "Bingo Wings".
This morning (Saturday), we returned to yoga practice with Gail , who is a wonderful teacher. This week was much hotter than last week, and we sought shade in a part of our Super Secret Location that wasn't exactly the flattest terrain. Gail patiently corrected our poses, modifying for Darlene, who wasn't even asking for any special help. Our admiration for Darlene just increases. There is not one peep of complaing from this woman, STILL in her boot, IN THE HEAT, doing yoga outside. What a rock star.
At the end of class, the first round of extra credit prizes were awarded. Three of us (Heidi, Lindsay, and Laura) had perfect attendance with extra credit as well (I missed one class because of my trip to Seattle, but I'm catching up!), and Heather and Other Heidi (yep, there are two in the class) also had enough extra credit to enter the drawing. If I recall correctly, Blonde Heidi won an adorable tea set, and Brunette Heidi won these ultra thick running socks that make your feet extra happy when you make them run places.
This coming Monday, we have a nutrition lecture on Mindful Eating. Being the Snarky Snarkerson that I am, it's going to be tough for me to not be sarcastic throughout. I mean, I'm an an adult American woman; I've been more than mindful about every morsel I've put in my mouth since about the age of 13. Still, I'll try to keep an open mind, because learning stuff is good for you.
One other bit of wisdom to impart: 20 minutes of "Just Dance" on the Wii Fit is the most fun way to exhaust yourself (at least, when your kids are in the room).
I'm not inventing excuses to miss class. I'm not sitting around eating fries. I'm really doing this.
I get to class early to walk laps around the track. This earns me extra credit towards neato prizes. But we'll get to that in a bit. Let's recap the Week That Was:
Wednesday's class marked the return of Jim and Darlene, the married couple who had been on a wicked cool motorcycle vacation. Darlene took a spill off her bike early in the trip (the thing fell over on her!), breaking two toes. She arrived wearing a boot over the bad foot, which led to many a "Boot Camp" joke. It also impressed the hell out of every single one of us. Most people would milk that injury for all it was worth. They'd beg off exercise and play the pity card. Not Darlene. She gamely walked the track and modified all the exercises throughout the class. Oh, and did I mention that Darlene is the eldest of the ladies in our group? She's a dead ringer for Vanessa Redgrave. So if she's hoofin it with a BOOT on her leg, the rest of us have got nothing. We officially have lost the right to bitch. Thanks a lot, Darlene. ; )
Meanwhile, our class was being led once again by Michele, aka She Who Loves Lunges. Not only did we walk a length of track lunge after lunge, she made us DO IT TWICE. The second time, we had to add twists (I've since demonstrated the move to a couple of friends; the look of abject horror on their faces actually made me feel like a total badass, because I had done them. Well, most of them).
We also worked out with those stretchy bands, and let me tell you something, folks: those things WORK. Michele taught us an awesome exercise for your triceps. Since I like you, I'll share it with you:
Stand with your feet comfortably apart, about shoulder-width. Wrap your stretchy band around your right hand and place it on your left shoulder. Take your left hand and grab the slack of the band. Pull down slowly. Do it 10 times. Now do it on the other side.
Ouch, right? But we all agreed it was way better than holding hand weights. You're using your body's own resistance, and there was proof that it totally works. We also tied the ends of the bands together to make a tight enough circle to wrap around our lower legs. Then we marched in place. We looked ridiculous, yes, but after about five seconds, it was Burn City in my legs. Michele knows what she's doing, that's for sure.
I have to tell you: I'm already starting to see some definition in my upper back, and in my arms as well. "Check out those guns!" my boyfriend said the other night. I tried not to punch him, but he was only half-joking. There's actually a bicep there, within what we call the "Bingo Wings".
This morning (Saturday), we returned to yoga practice with Gail , who is a wonderful teacher. This week was much hotter than last week, and we sought shade in a part of our Super Secret Location that wasn't exactly the flattest terrain. Gail patiently corrected our poses, modifying for Darlene, who wasn't even asking for any special help. Our admiration for Darlene just increases. There is not one peep of complaing from this woman, STILL in her boot, IN THE HEAT, doing yoga outside. What a rock star.
At the end of class, the first round of extra credit prizes were awarded. Three of us (Heidi, Lindsay, and Laura) had perfect attendance with extra credit as well (I missed one class because of my trip to Seattle, but I'm catching up!), and Heather and Other Heidi (yep, there are two in the class) also had enough extra credit to enter the drawing. If I recall correctly, Blonde Heidi won an adorable tea set, and Brunette Heidi won these ultra thick running socks that make your feet extra happy when you make them run places.
This coming Monday, we have a nutrition lecture on Mindful Eating. Being the Snarky Snarkerson that I am, it's going to be tough for me to not be sarcastic throughout. I mean, I'm an an adult American woman; I've been more than mindful about every morsel I've put in my mouth since about the age of 13. Still, I'll try to keep an open mind, because learning stuff is good for you.
One other bit of wisdom to impart: 20 minutes of "Just Dance" on the Wii Fit is the most fun way to exhaust yourself (at least, when your kids are in the room).
Hey, I Haven't Quit Yet!
Three Boot Camp classes, and I’m happy to report that I am not dead.
In fact, I feel pretty good. I’m sore where I should be, which is basically everywhere on my entire body. I’ve been resisting food temptations and sticking to something that resembles an eating plan. This is how it’s gone down the past two classes:
On Saturday morning, we assembled under cloudy skies with a guest yoga instructor, Gail. She was a fellow petite, and we immediately began discussing the drawbacks of being short of stature when one likes running (the one in this scenario being Gail, not me). Gail led us through a series of poses, correcting our postures as needed. I’ve done a lot of yoga in my time, and I’ve always loved it. But having Gail put me in the right pose the right way made a huge difference. During one such adjustment, she said, “Well, you’re just doing a whole other thing entirely, aren’t you?” To which I replied, “Story of my life.”
This was the first time I’d ever done yoga outside. It was early enough that there weren’t many others around the Super Secret Exercise Meeting Place, or perhaps the chilly temps were keeping the less-dedicated indoors. I was dressed for the weather and thoroughly enjoyed the class, despite being totally sleep deprived thanks to the accidental adoption of a kitten that had taken place the day before. I certainly felt the work I’d done with Gail when I got up Sunday morning to feed the kitties. The simple act of rising from the bed stirred aches in the glutes. The familiar twinge reminded me that I’d done something good for myself, so I pretended not to mind it so much.
I arrived early for Monday’s class, to earn extra credit. I walked five laps, which went by quickly since I was rocking out to a special playlist I'd made for my iPod. The class itself was mostly a discussion of our individual diet and exercise suggestions, which had been calculated and modified for each person in the class. Like a moron, I had forgotten to bring my printout. Mainly because the pages are hanging on my refrigerator, as a reminder not to eat the hidden stash of M&Ms in the cheese drawer.
My guidelines are totally doable, by the way. There’s nothing so awful that I’ll feel like quitting in a week. 1560 calories a day. Minimum of 30 minutes of brisk walking every day, combined with the classes. Food suggestions and serving sizes. Like they say, it’s not rocket science. Eat less of the wrong things, more of the right things, and move your ass. Often.
However, just because I know this, it doesn’t mean I’d ever do it on my own. Hence my immediate love for the Recess class. On my own in a gym, I’d quit as soon as I felt like it. But we’re a group, and we’re all suffering together, which makes it so much more—well, not fun, maybe, but a lot more enjoyable than on my own with a trainer.
Anyway, I’m eating healthier, meaning lots more veggies and fruits. A little more dairy, a lot less animal protein. Whole grains. You know the drill.
Once we were done talking healthy, we got up and did the oh so dreaded squats and lunges. Tanya MADE US stand in a circle, squat with our hands in front of our faces, and then briskly side step around and around. Guess how long that lasted? Try it. I’ll wait.
See? OUCH. We did that to the right, to the left, over and over. While punching, even. I couldn’t do it. I was too busy trying to continue breathing to see who made it through the whole thing without stopping. Seriously, I sounded like Mel Gibson panting on those tapes. At least I wasn’t swearing like him.
[Which brings me to the Crazy Man on the Bench, who may or may not have been associated with Shirtless Guy With Many Bags. Crazy Man had a big ol can of beer with him, and was a tad too interested in our little gathering, thereby necessitating a move further away from him. He also poured his beer into what looked like a water bottle. I expected him to start running laps, then puke, but happily he finally lurched off somewhere, probably to leer at other people]
So ANYWAY, we finished the class doing MORE lunges, but this time while HOLDING A MEDICINE BALL. And it weighed FOUR whole POUNDS. We held them and lunged. We threw them to each other. We laid down (yay!) on the ground (ick) and did sort of a procession where we passed the ball overhead and also doing situps, something absolutely NONE of us could manage the coordination for while standing. Rube Goldberg would have hated us.
Today I feel even more sore in the lower quadrants. Tomorrow, we have another class with Michele. She likes the lunges, too. Oy.
I might have to fake an injury.
Help, I've Exercised and I Can't Get Up!
Tonight I had my first real Recess Wellness Boot Camp. Tomorrow, I will not be able to lift so much as a pen.
As I indicated in a previous entry, I am a lazy sack of crap. I move only when necessary, and slowly, at that. I believe running is only for situations when a man with a large knife is chasing me. So when I was approached by the lovely women of Recess to blog about my fitness experience, I figured I better grab this chance. The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be, you know. I therefore accepted this generous offer, knowing it would make for funny retellin's after each class. Of course, the actual doing is a lot less hilarious.
I have committed myself to three classes a week: Mondays and Wednesdays at 6:15, and Saturday mornings at 10. Most of our classes will take place outside, at a secret location I can't tell you about, in full view of the public. Aces. Thanks to not having a regular paying job, I haven't been able to afford yoga or Pilates classes, and aside from walking around New York for a week last month, I really haven't done much in the way of fitness. I knew I'd be in for supreme bodily soreness, but I need my ass to be kicked.
So last Saturday, my class assembled for orientation. I was relieved: no actual forced exercise took place, and this class was held inside, at the other super secret location I can't tell you about. Everyone got a bitchin Recess Wellness bag filled with all kinds of goodies, including yummy Dave's Killer Bread, gift certificates for free yoga classes all over town, and a free pass to the Salt Grotto. Yes, the Salt Grotto. Also, we can win fabulous prizes for good attendance and other reasons. I hope at some point I might score a free massage.
We were weighed and measured (YES, I'll tell you. Later*.), our blood pressure was taken, and we broke into groups to take a short written quiz. We had to identify three photos of 'fitness stars' (Jane Fonda circa 1982, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Jack and Elaine LaLanne). Then we had to name five whole grains and five food groups. The final question was a multiple choice. See if you know the answer:
"How much exercise does the Surgeon General recommend?
a. 10,000 steps a day
b. 30 minutes of moderate intensity aerobic activity every day
c. 30 minutes of moderate intensity aerobic activity three times per week"**
My group missed this last question and had to stand with our arms spread out wide for three minutes (try it; around minute two, the fatigue starts setting in). This was better than the fate Group 1 suffered for missing one of the fitness stars: they had to do the eternally-dreaded lunges across the room; Group 2, having missed something in the whole grains/food group area, had to run around the block. My group felt smug by comparison.
I missed Monday's class, the only class I plan to miss (at this point), so I had to make up my Fitness Test tonight, as well as take the regular class. For my Fitness Test, I had to walk a mile at a fast pace. This meant four laps around what to me looked like the world's largest track. While I'm used to walking a brisk pace when sauntering about the Pearl, hoofing it around a track in 85 degree weather is a whole other animal. I sure was sweating like one by the time I finished, a pathetic 16 minutes after I'd started.
Then, I had to do as many sit-ups as I could, "to exhaustion". I managed to do 40. I don't know if this is a lot to most people, but it is to me. Conversely, I could only do 10 push-ups. Finally, I had to balance in a squat ON ONE LEG for as long as I could. I didn't even bother to count, but I can assure you that it was a tiny increment of time.
I joined the class, already in progress. Luckily, I'd missed the full lap of lunges. While I'm well aware that lunges and squats are the best possible things you can do for your lower body, they were also invented by a descendant of Torquemada, if not the man himself. Our guest instructor, Michele, led us through various exercises that included a short jog up a hill ("I was told there would be no running!" I called from the back of the small group), copious usage of those stretchy bands that leave your arms feeling like they're made of jelly, some ab work, and tricep dips off the side of a bench.
The only drawback was having people look at us and sort of laugh. I mean, we were a group of women (our lone male is currently on vacation with his wife, another group member) exercising out-of-doors. Would they have laughed if we were in a regular class at a gym? Well, maybe, but at least we wouldn't have seen them. Also, Shirtless Dude With Many Bags (upon spotting this charming man, I remarked, "Gotta go, my boyfriend's here." I love that my classmates all found it funny. We're gonna get along just fine, we are)? Thanks for smoking so close to an EXERCISE CLASS. Dick.
Other than that, I managed to maintain a great attitude throughout the class (well, MY version of a great attitude: sarcasm-tinged but light-hearted commentary about whatever we were doing). I realized that this kind of fitness class is perfect for someone like me. I hate gyms, mainly because of all those damn mirrors. You get so distracted by every roll of fat you can glimpse on your body as you jiggle in your attempts to get rid of it. Also, I'd always realize I had a major VPL (visible panty line) once I got to yoga class. Outside, you have no idea what you look like, so you really concentrate on the task at hand. I'm also in a group, and we're all in this together. It's a shared experience, one where we're all in the same kind of physical pain. Talk about bonding!
I'm proud of myself for not making excuses and for showing up. I mean, I could totally have blown it off to go to the Cupcake Jones 3rd Anniversary Party (I know I'll feel a tinge of sadness when I see every single one of my friends in the photos), but I made a commitment, and I'm sticking to it. Go, me.
Next up: Saturday's yoga class. I love yoga, mainly because it involves nothing even close to running. But I think by the end of the Boot Camp, I'll be a much less lazy sack of crap.
*My stats. Not that I want to share, but I'm going to need something to compare it to at the end of the class. So shut up with your judgy comments, mmmmkay?
Height: 60 inches
Weight: 123 lbs
Waist: 29.5 inches
Hips: 40 inches (yes, 40. I've had babies. Go to hell.)
**The answer is B
As I indicated in a previous entry, I am a lazy sack of crap. I move only when necessary, and slowly, at that. I believe running is only for situations when a man with a large knife is chasing me. So when I was approached by the lovely women of Recess to blog about my fitness experience, I figured I better grab this chance. The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be, you know. I therefore accepted this generous offer, knowing it would make for funny retellin's after each class. Of course, the actual doing is a lot less hilarious.
I have committed myself to three classes a week: Mondays and Wednesdays at 6:15, and Saturday mornings at 10. Most of our classes will take place outside, at a secret location I can't tell you about, in full view of the public. Aces. Thanks to not having a regular paying job, I haven't been able to afford yoga or Pilates classes, and aside from walking around New York for a week last month, I really haven't done much in the way of fitness. I knew I'd be in for supreme bodily soreness, but I need my ass to be kicked.
So last Saturday, my class assembled for orientation. I was relieved: no actual forced exercise took place, and this class was held inside, at the other super secret location I can't tell you about. Everyone got a bitchin Recess Wellness bag filled with all kinds of goodies, including yummy Dave's Killer Bread, gift certificates for free yoga classes all over town, and a free pass to the Salt Grotto. Yes, the Salt Grotto. Also, we can win fabulous prizes for good attendance and other reasons. I hope at some point I might score a free massage.
We were weighed and measured (YES, I'll tell you. Later*.), our blood pressure was taken, and we broke into groups to take a short written quiz. We had to identify three photos of 'fitness stars' (Jane Fonda circa 1982, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Jack and Elaine LaLanne). Then we had to name five whole grains and five food groups. The final question was a multiple choice. See if you know the answer:
"How much exercise does the Surgeon General recommend?
a. 10,000 steps a day
b. 30 minutes of moderate intensity aerobic activity every day
c. 30 minutes of moderate intensity aerobic activity three times per week"**
My group missed this last question and had to stand with our arms spread out wide for three minutes (try it; around minute two, the fatigue starts setting in). This was better than the fate Group 1 suffered for missing one of the fitness stars: they had to do the eternally-dreaded lunges across the room; Group 2, having missed something in the whole grains/food group area, had to run around the block. My group felt smug by comparison.
I missed Monday's class, the only class I plan to miss (at this point), so I had to make up my Fitness Test tonight, as well as take the regular class. For my Fitness Test, I had to walk a mile at a fast pace. This meant four laps around what to me looked like the world's largest track. While I'm used to walking a brisk pace when sauntering about the Pearl, hoofing it around a track in 85 degree weather is a whole other animal. I sure was sweating like one by the time I finished, a pathetic 16 minutes after I'd started.
Then, I had to do as many sit-ups as I could, "to exhaustion". I managed to do 40. I don't know if this is a lot to most people, but it is to me. Conversely, I could only do 10 push-ups. Finally, I had to balance in a squat ON ONE LEG for as long as I could. I didn't even bother to count, but I can assure you that it was a tiny increment of time.
I joined the class, already in progress. Luckily, I'd missed the full lap of lunges. While I'm well aware that lunges and squats are the best possible things you can do for your lower body, they were also invented by a descendant of Torquemada, if not the man himself. Our guest instructor, Michele, led us through various exercises that included a short jog up a hill ("I was told there would be no running!" I called from the back of the small group), copious usage of those stretchy bands that leave your arms feeling like they're made of jelly, some ab work, and tricep dips off the side of a bench.
The only drawback was having people look at us and sort of laugh. I mean, we were a group of women (our lone male is currently on vacation with his wife, another group member) exercising out-of-doors. Would they have laughed if we were in a regular class at a gym? Well, maybe, but at least we wouldn't have seen them. Also, Shirtless Dude With Many Bags (upon spotting this charming man, I remarked, "Gotta go, my boyfriend's here." I love that my classmates all found it funny. We're gonna get along just fine, we are)? Thanks for smoking so close to an EXERCISE CLASS. Dick.
Other than that, I managed to maintain a great attitude throughout the class (well, MY version of a great attitude: sarcasm-tinged but light-hearted commentary about whatever we were doing). I realized that this kind of fitness class is perfect for someone like me. I hate gyms, mainly because of all those damn mirrors. You get so distracted by every roll of fat you can glimpse on your body as you jiggle in your attempts to get rid of it. Also, I'd always realize I had a major VPL (visible panty line) once I got to yoga class. Outside, you have no idea what you look like, so you really concentrate on the task at hand. I'm also in a group, and we're all in this together. It's a shared experience, one where we're all in the same kind of physical pain. Talk about bonding!
I'm proud of myself for not making excuses and for showing up. I mean, I could totally have blown it off to go to the Cupcake Jones 3rd Anniversary Party (I know I'll feel a tinge of sadness when I see every single one of my friends in the photos), but I made a commitment, and I'm sticking to it. Go, me.
Next up: Saturday's yoga class. I love yoga, mainly because it involves nothing even close to running. But I think by the end of the Boot Camp, I'll be a much less lazy sack of crap.
*My stats. Not that I want to share, but I'm going to need something to compare it to at the end of the class. So shut up with your judgy comments, mmmmkay?
Height: 60 inches
Weight: 123 lbs
Waist: 29.5 inches
Hips: 40 inches (yes, 40. I've had babies. Go to hell.)
**The answer is B
My Poor Brain
There isn't enough room on Twitter to get all these thoughts out. I recently saw a shamanic healer (hey, desperate times call for desperate measures), and she said I do my best writing when I am doing a stream-of-conscious thing. She's right, like she was right about many other things. Like...my whole life, people have told me to keep my mouth shut, to lower my voice. She says I shouldn't do that anymore. She also says I need my own show where I can be seen as well as heard. Let's make that happen.
See? The stream is already beginning. Let's see where it takes us.
I had a different kind of shark dream the other night. If you read the other shark blog, the dreams are always a sign of major stress. Someone dies a terrible death and I can't do a thing about it. The most recent dream, however, was almost exhilarating. I was in the ocean with a guide, a man dressed in a black wetsuit. I don't know who it was, but he was swimming ahead of me. I noticed the sharks all around us. I could see them through the waves. I called to my guide that we needed to get away, that I was scared. "Keep swimming!" he called. "They can't hurt you if you keep swimming!" So I swam as fast as the sharks. It felt as though I was swimming with them, rather than from them. I wasn't afraid. I just swam and I was fine, and no one got et.
No need to make that call to Dr. Freud, people. That one means I'm tough, I'm a survivor, I'm not gon' give up, blah blah blah. Yeah, well: I'm also still having dreams every night about being lost in cities I'm supposed to know well or not being able to find my way out of buildings. Once again, I get it: I'm not where I should be, I need to get to where I belong, but I'm not quite there yet.
It's been a YEAR AND FIVE WEEKS since I lost my job, folks. How much longer do I have to go before I get 'there', wherever 'there' is? Sheesh.
So there's all that job stuff. My shamanic healer says we are throwing out the 'looking for a job' label I've assigned myself and we're focusing on creating something from the start. Something I build. Something I know well and would bring people to me. Sounds pretty neato.
Before I start indoctrinating people into the Cult of Tara, however, I need a paying gig just to make sure I can keep this roof over our heads. I did score a VO gig without having to audition; in sweet, sweet irony, it's for a commercial spot that will run on my former radio station. My dulcet tones will be heard on all 6 of my former employer's stations in town. Ah, the small victories, we have to enjoy those when we can.
It's soul-crushing, however. I know what I have to offer, and I'm sure others are aware as well. If compliments were dollar bills, I'd have a sweet little stack of dough sitting next to me. I am sincerely thankful for the good friends I have who are always trying to help out and do me a solid when they can. Irons are in the fire, they just aren't heating up fast enough for me.
As I've said before, I was not born with the patience gene.
Therefore: it bugs me when someone says they'll call "next week" and next week is this week and the call doesn't come. I don't like it when promises turn up empty, when people who are supposed to have cared about you blow you off with what's basically a form letter, or when the frustration rises up in me to a boiling point that sometimes scares me.
But wait, the people say: there is so much in your life to be grateful for. Yes. And yes. And yes. I know.
But still.
I can catch glimpses of what could be: a book, a radio show, a TV gig, a chance to do something new and different. All are just now small pools of hope, still water not in motion towards anything. I'm waiting for the deluge to fill them up so they can all spill over, run together, and become a river filled with so much bounty, I can live off of it for the rest of my life.
Wow, this stream of consciousness stuff really works. I kind of feel better for writing all of this. Out of my head, into the world. Maybe.
My poor brain, indeed.
See? The stream is already beginning. Let's see where it takes us.
I had a different kind of shark dream the other night. If you read the other shark blog, the dreams are always a sign of major stress. Someone dies a terrible death and I can't do a thing about it. The most recent dream, however, was almost exhilarating. I was in the ocean with a guide, a man dressed in a black wetsuit. I don't know who it was, but he was swimming ahead of me. I noticed the sharks all around us. I could see them through the waves. I called to my guide that we needed to get away, that I was scared. "Keep swimming!" he called. "They can't hurt you if you keep swimming!" So I swam as fast as the sharks. It felt as though I was swimming with them, rather than from them. I wasn't afraid. I just swam and I was fine, and no one got et.
No need to make that call to Dr. Freud, people. That one means I'm tough, I'm a survivor, I'm not gon' give up, blah blah blah. Yeah, well: I'm also still having dreams every night about being lost in cities I'm supposed to know well or not being able to find my way out of buildings. Once again, I get it: I'm not where I should be, I need to get to where I belong, but I'm not quite there yet.
It's been a YEAR AND FIVE WEEKS since I lost my job, folks. How much longer do I have to go before I get 'there', wherever 'there' is? Sheesh.
So there's all that job stuff. My shamanic healer says we are throwing out the 'looking for a job' label I've assigned myself and we're focusing on creating something from the start. Something I build. Something I know well and would bring people to me. Sounds pretty neato.
Before I start indoctrinating people into the Cult of Tara, however, I need a paying gig just to make sure I can keep this roof over our heads. I did score a VO gig without having to audition; in sweet, sweet irony, it's for a commercial spot that will run on my former radio station. My dulcet tones will be heard on all 6 of my former employer's stations in town. Ah, the small victories, we have to enjoy those when we can.
It's soul-crushing, however. I know what I have to offer, and I'm sure others are aware as well. If compliments were dollar bills, I'd have a sweet little stack of dough sitting next to me. I am sincerely thankful for the good friends I have who are always trying to help out and do me a solid when they can. Irons are in the fire, they just aren't heating up fast enough for me.
As I've said before, I was not born with the patience gene.
Therefore: it bugs me when someone says they'll call "next week" and next week is this week and the call doesn't come. I don't like it when promises turn up empty, when people who are supposed to have cared about you blow you off with what's basically a form letter, or when the frustration rises up in me to a boiling point that sometimes scares me.
But wait, the people say: there is so much in your life to be grateful for. Yes. And yes. And yes. I know.
But still.
I can catch glimpses of what could be: a book, a radio show, a TV gig, a chance to do something new and different. All are just now small pools of hope, still water not in motion towards anything. I'm waiting for the deluge to fill them up so they can all spill over, run together, and become a river filled with so much bounty, I can live off of it for the rest of my life.
Wow, this stream of consciousness stuff really works. I kind of feel better for writing all of this. Out of my head, into the world. Maybe.
My poor brain, indeed.
It's Now Or Never
My name is Tara, and I'm a Lazy Sack of Crap.
I would rather be on my couch than anywhere else. I believe in pizza as a Food Group. The only time you'd ever see me running outside, where other people could see me, is if I were being chased by an ax murderer.
Now, I'm not entirely sedentary. I play Wii Sports with the kids (sometimes) and I do enjoy yoga and Pilates (occasionally). However, during this last year of self-pity and self-promotion, I haven't had the motivation to exercise on a regular basis. I've lost about 12 pounds since I was laid off last May, thanks to what my mother's dubbed The Aggravation Diet. I am, at five feet tall, a petite flower. Any extra weight on me looks bad.
So while I'm technically thinner than I've been in a long, long time, I am most certainly not in shape. It's not as though I don't know how to whip myself into condition. I'm 41 years old, I know that if I move my ass more and stuff my face less, things will improve. Then why don't you? you snarkily ask.
See: first line of this entry.
However, an opportunity has landed in my lap (or, technically, my inbox). I've gotten a very generous offer from Kaitlin and Tanya of Recess Wellness to participate in their summer bootcamp-that-doesn't-feel-like-bootcamp program. They asked me if I'd join the group and blog about it. Which is really funny, because that very morning, my friend K. and I were discussing me doing just that, although I thought I'd have to figure out my own program because joining a gym or hiring a trainer is financially out of the question. Also, getting into shape is harder as we get older, and this chick is never going to do this unless I have people holding me responsible.
It starts next month. Which means I need to start implementing healthier choices NOW, so I won't pass out on my first day--although that would make for great blog copy, huh? I've already filled out my questionnaire, I'm ready to get started. My favorite question asked about my goal for this program. My answer?
"To get through it without dying."
It should be an interesting summer, folks. I hope you'll enjoy reading about my Adventures in Exercising. Something tells me I'm going to enjoy writing about it more than actually doing it, but you never know. Maybe this Lazy Sack of Crap will transform into a BootCamp Queen by September.
I'm taking bets.
I would rather be on my couch than anywhere else. I believe in pizza as a Food Group. The only time you'd ever see me running outside, where other people could see me, is if I were being chased by an ax murderer.
Now, I'm not entirely sedentary. I play Wii Sports with the kids (sometimes) and I do enjoy yoga and Pilates (occasionally). However, during this last year of self-pity and self-promotion, I haven't had the motivation to exercise on a regular basis. I've lost about 12 pounds since I was laid off last May, thanks to what my mother's dubbed The Aggravation Diet. I am, at five feet tall, a petite flower. Any extra weight on me looks bad.
So while I'm technically thinner than I've been in a long, long time, I am most certainly not in shape. It's not as though I don't know how to whip myself into condition. I'm 41 years old, I know that if I move my ass more and stuff my face less, things will improve. Then why don't you? you snarkily ask.
See: first line of this entry.
However, an opportunity has landed in my lap (or, technically, my inbox). I've gotten a very generous offer from Kaitlin and Tanya of Recess Wellness to participate in their summer bootcamp-that-doesn't-feel-like-bootcamp program. They asked me if I'd join the group and blog about it. Which is really funny, because that very morning, my friend K. and I were discussing me doing just that, although I thought I'd have to figure out my own program because joining a gym or hiring a trainer is financially out of the question. Also, getting into shape is harder as we get older, and this chick is never going to do this unless I have people holding me responsible.
It starts next month. Which means I need to start implementing healthier choices NOW, so I won't pass out on my first day--although that would make for great blog copy, huh? I've already filled out my questionnaire, I'm ready to get started. My favorite question asked about my goal for this program. My answer?
"To get through it without dying."
It should be an interesting summer, folks. I hope you'll enjoy reading about my Adventures in Exercising. Something tells me I'm going to enjoy writing about it more than actually doing it, but you never know. Maybe this Lazy Sack of Crap will transform into a BootCamp Queen by September.
I'm taking bets.
You CAN Go Home Again
I was not very happy in Hazlet, New Jersey.
I was brought up during the 70s and 80s, when no one used the term "dysfunctional family" or considered a father yelling at his child 'verbal abuse'. Growing up under a constant barrage of loud name calling (combined with being bullied by the Mean Girls throughout sixth, seventh, and eighth grades) did not do much for my self-esteem. While my mother tried to un-do the damage my father did to my psyche, it was years before I could look in the mirror and see something right, rather than see everything as wrong.
While I'd made countless trips to New York once my family moved away from Hazlet in 1989, I'd only returned to the old hometown to attend my 10-year high school reunion in 1997 (quick aside: it is a total and utter waste of time to go to your 10-year high school reunion). During that visit, I had a friend drive me past my old house. "This is the house we used to live in," we sang as we slowly rolled by. I didn't ask him to stop. It was still too painful to think about the time I'd spent in that house on Bethany Road.
But on this last trip back East, I felt I was ready to go back to where I'd come from. I had various reasons: first and foremost, I've set my book in that town and in that house, albeit fictiously (and in 1985), and I was seeing it with a new fondness I'd never had before. Writing my book was a completely positive experience, despite the rejections and a lack of an agent as I write this. I'd discovered a renewed affection for that time and that place, both which informed who I was and who I ultimately became. I wanted to see if I could ride through town without feeling the pain of my youth. And I wanted to see what had remained and what hadn't. I'd always thought of Hazlet as The Town That Time Forgot: its people perma-locked in the 80s, with their non-ironic mullets and grammatical incorrectness. With "Jersey Shore" becoming mega- (and, to me, meta-) popular, my timing couldn't have been better (another quick aside: perhaps I should market my book not only as the "Anti-Twilight" but perhaps also "The Antidote to Jersey Shore).
And so it was, thanks to the power of Facebook, I was reconnected with two old friends. Dan had dated my friend Julia in high school; John was another friend who became more, then less, then more again for a very brief time. They went to Holmdel High School, which--as the name indicates--was NOT in Hazlet, and therefore far superior to my own school. Dan and John don't look back upon HHS with the same fondness as I do, although they could see where I'd have been happier as a student there. We had a fantastic group of friends who gathered every weekend to play Ultimate in Holmdel Park. In the evenings we'd sit around and watch movies, or the musicians amongst us would jam, or they'd put on coffeehouses. They were all creative, smart, funny, college-bound kids who accepted me into their group without judgement at a time where I was surrounded by burnouts who made fun of me for knowing the answers in math class and liking The Smiths. Dan, John and I made our plans to meet, fittingly, on Memorial Day. After all, I was about to take the ultimate stroll down Memory Lane.
Dan picked me up at the PATH train in Harrison. It was as though no time had passed. We picked up his lovely spitfire of a wife, Jana (she's from Brazil, full of passion for life and one of the warmest people I've ever met) and continued South until I noticed the sign for Exit 117. Here we go, I thought. I expected tears, or a feeling of being punched in the stomach, but it didn't come. Instead, I took in the view from my window with a sense of bemusement. Times may have changed, I might have grown up and moved away, the economy may be in the shitter, but it's still only thirty-five cents at the Hazlet toll booth.
Dan drove us directly to the Red Oak Diner on Route 35. It would take days for me to tell all the stories from our times of Oaking. Suffice to say, all the weight I put on in high school was a direct result of late night Turkey Clubs and onion rings. We'd only sit at the booths with the jukeboxes. We were plenty obnoxious, I'm sure, though not nearly as offensive as the drunk teenagers who'd been partying behind the Pep Boys and then stopped off at the Oak to absorb the alcohol swirling around their stomachs.
Today the Red Oak is nothing like its 1980s incarnation. It's been updated and refurbished; the jukeboxes are gone, and they now have a party room with karaoke. And yes, the clientele who partake of the karaoke at the Red Oak Diner are most likely the scariest people on the Eastern Seaboard. But I wasn't deterred by the changes, nor the promise of free Wi-Fi in a place where I'd consumed a good metric ton of french fries with gravy. The turkey club was as good as I'd remembered, my hippocampus instantly stimulated by taste-memory. It could have been a late summer afternoon in 1986, four teenagers sweaty from a day of frisbee in the park refueling at a gool ol' Jersey diner.
Finally, I was ready to swing by my old house. I'd lived there from birth until I was twenty, when my father inexplicably moved us away from everyone we'd ever known to branch out his business in Atlanta. Aside from the drive-by in '97 and a curious peek at Google Earth, I hadn't seen the place in thirteen years. I knew it had changed ownership more than once. Our beautiful cherry blossom tree had been removed and the driveway had been widened, but it basically looks the same as it did when I was growing up.
Dan parked the car. I got out and gingerly approached the front door. There's not a lot of foot traffic on Bethany Road, and I hesitated to ring the bell. You never really know how people who aren't expecting company will react when they open their front door to a stranger, but I took a deep breath and pressed the white button. I'd come all this way; I was only hoping for a brief peek inside.
A man opened the door just enough to reveal his face. I introduced myself and explained that I'd grown up there. "Really?" he said, surprised. "You're the original occupant?" I said my family had been. He opened the door a bit to reveal a glimpse of hardwood floor, something I had not grown up with. An adorable little girl with blond curls stood close to him. "Would it be okay if I just had a tiny peek?" I asked. In the next moment, his wife joined him and welcomed the four of us inside the house.
Their names were Frank and Jennifer, and they'd been living there for three years, having moved from Brooklyn. Jennifer told me she'd often wondered about the original owners, and what the house had looked like when it was first built. Their daughter, Olivia (the same name as my older niece. Kismet!) has my old room at the top of the stairs (double Kismet!); their 2-year-old son, Nico, is across the hall in my brother's room. I told them how the steps were once covered in red shag carpet, showed them where the den had been extended from. I recounted how we'd taken down the paneling in the den and written our names all over the blank walls in marker before they were painted over. Jennifer asked about the fireplace, built-in wine rack and bookshelves; all were my mother's doing. They loved the backyard and the in-ground pool; Frank, quite a handy guy, is redoing the deck and has already built the kids a fantastic playhouse out of the extra wood.
Olivia was more than happy to show off her room to me, and giggled happily as she led me up the stairs. Where I'd had two kinds of complementary wallpaper on opposite walls, she had the same thing with shades of purple paint. The room seemed so much smaller than I'd remembered it being. I told Jennifer how, the day we'd moved out, I'd written a message inside one of the closets. Sadly, a previous owner had painted over it.
Nico showed off his room, complete with a mini-drumkit exactly where my brother had had one with Animal from the Muppet Show on the kickdrum. I didn't look into the master bedroom (no need) or the basement (ditto). The kitchen had been redone, tthe side door closed up to make room for the refrigerator. The bay window in the den had been removed and replaced by a boring flat one that didn't open. I suggested to Frank that they take it out...the breeze we used to get from that bay window was heaven in the spring.
"Are you happy here?" I asked Jennifer.
"SO happy," she immediately replied, and I could tell how much she meant it. "We LOVE this house."
And that's when I nearly lost it. I hadn't been happy in that house, not even close. I barely had any good memories from inside those walls. The only times I'd ever enjoyed myself was when my father wasn't home. I'd logged more hours hiding in my room, listening to music and reading books, than an astronaut does on a typical space mission.
In that moment, I was overcome by an emotion that I'd long been waiting for: closure. I hadn't loved that house, but now someone did. A truly happy family lived there. Nico and Olivia would grow up on Bethany Road and build the kind of childhood memories I never had.
I thanked these lovely people profusely, and let them know that should my book ever see the light of day, I'd send them an autographed copy. I left feeling emotionally lighter than I had in years. I said goodbye to the ghosts that had haunted me, specters that had been chased away by a family filling the house with love and warmth.
I left my old house after spending only about ten minutes exploring the differences that now existed; not just within its walls, but within myself as well. I walked in as someone who hadn't been able to make peace with her unhappy childhood, and left feeling as though I'd solved a deep-seeded mystery. I didn't know I needed to see what had become of the house on Bethany Road, but I did.
Now when I look back on my time in that house, I can say, "That's where I came from, but it's no longer who I am." I couldn't be more delighted for Frank, Jennifer, Olivia and Nico. I wish them all the happiness in the world. They're a wonderful family. As I left, Frank called, "Have a nice life!"
I think I will now, Frank. Thank you all so much.
I was brought up during the 70s and 80s, when no one used the term "dysfunctional family" or considered a father yelling at his child 'verbal abuse'. Growing up under a constant barrage of loud name calling (combined with being bullied by the Mean Girls throughout sixth, seventh, and eighth grades) did not do much for my self-esteem. While my mother tried to un-do the damage my father did to my psyche, it was years before I could look in the mirror and see something right, rather than see everything as wrong.
While I'd made countless trips to New York once my family moved away from Hazlet in 1989, I'd only returned to the old hometown to attend my 10-year high school reunion in 1997 (quick aside: it is a total and utter waste of time to go to your 10-year high school reunion). During that visit, I had a friend drive me past my old house. "This is the house we used to live in," we sang as we slowly rolled by. I didn't ask him to stop. It was still too painful to think about the time I'd spent in that house on Bethany Road.
But on this last trip back East, I felt I was ready to go back to where I'd come from. I had various reasons: first and foremost, I've set my book in that town and in that house, albeit fictiously (and in 1985), and I was seeing it with a new fondness I'd never had before. Writing my book was a completely positive experience, despite the rejections and a lack of an agent as I write this. I'd discovered a renewed affection for that time and that place, both which informed who I was and who I ultimately became. I wanted to see if I could ride through town without feeling the pain of my youth. And I wanted to see what had remained and what hadn't. I'd always thought of Hazlet as The Town That Time Forgot: its people perma-locked in the 80s, with their non-ironic mullets and grammatical incorrectness. With "Jersey Shore" becoming mega- (and, to me, meta-) popular, my timing couldn't have been better (another quick aside: perhaps I should market my book not only as the "Anti-Twilight" but perhaps also "The Antidote to Jersey Shore).
And so it was, thanks to the power of Facebook, I was reconnected with two old friends. Dan had dated my friend Julia in high school; John was another friend who became more, then less, then more again for a very brief time. They went to Holmdel High School, which--as the name indicates--was NOT in Hazlet, and therefore far superior to my own school. Dan and John don't look back upon HHS with the same fondness as I do, although they could see where I'd have been happier as a student there. We had a fantastic group of friends who gathered every weekend to play Ultimate in Holmdel Park. In the evenings we'd sit around and watch movies, or the musicians amongst us would jam, or they'd put on coffeehouses. They were all creative, smart, funny, college-bound kids who accepted me into their group without judgement at a time where I was surrounded by burnouts who made fun of me for knowing the answers in math class and liking The Smiths. Dan, John and I made our plans to meet, fittingly, on Memorial Day. After all, I was about to take the ultimate stroll down Memory Lane.
Dan picked me up at the PATH train in Harrison. It was as though no time had passed. We picked up his lovely spitfire of a wife, Jana (she's from Brazil, full of passion for life and one of the warmest people I've ever met) and continued South until I noticed the sign for Exit 117. Here we go, I thought. I expected tears, or a feeling of being punched in the stomach, but it didn't come. Instead, I took in the view from my window with a sense of bemusement. Times may have changed, I might have grown up and moved away, the economy may be in the shitter, but it's still only thirty-five cents at the Hazlet toll booth.
Dan drove us directly to the Red Oak Diner on Route 35. It would take days for me to tell all the stories from our times of Oaking. Suffice to say, all the weight I put on in high school was a direct result of late night Turkey Clubs and onion rings. We'd only sit at the booths with the jukeboxes. We were plenty obnoxious, I'm sure, though not nearly as offensive as the drunk teenagers who'd been partying behind the Pep Boys and then stopped off at the Oak to absorb the alcohol swirling around their stomachs.
Today the Red Oak is nothing like its 1980s incarnation. It's been updated and refurbished; the jukeboxes are gone, and they now have a party room with karaoke. And yes, the clientele who partake of the karaoke at the Red Oak Diner are most likely the scariest people on the Eastern Seaboard. But I wasn't deterred by the changes, nor the promise of free Wi-Fi in a place where I'd consumed a good metric ton of french fries with gravy. The turkey club was as good as I'd remembered, my hippocampus instantly stimulated by taste-memory. It could have been a late summer afternoon in 1986, four teenagers sweaty from a day of frisbee in the park refueling at a gool ol' Jersey diner.
Finally, I was ready to swing by my old house. I'd lived there from birth until I was twenty, when my father inexplicably moved us away from everyone we'd ever known to branch out his business in Atlanta. Aside from the drive-by in '97 and a curious peek at Google Earth, I hadn't seen the place in thirteen years. I knew it had changed ownership more than once. Our beautiful cherry blossom tree had been removed and the driveway had been widened, but it basically looks the same as it did when I was growing up.
Dan parked the car. I got out and gingerly approached the front door. There's not a lot of foot traffic on Bethany Road, and I hesitated to ring the bell. You never really know how people who aren't expecting company will react when they open their front door to a stranger, but I took a deep breath and pressed the white button. I'd come all this way; I was only hoping for a brief peek inside.
A man opened the door just enough to reveal his face. I introduced myself and explained that I'd grown up there. "Really?" he said, surprised. "You're the original occupant?" I said my family had been. He opened the door a bit to reveal a glimpse of hardwood floor, something I had not grown up with. An adorable little girl with blond curls stood close to him. "Would it be okay if I just had a tiny peek?" I asked. In the next moment, his wife joined him and welcomed the four of us inside the house.
Their names were Frank and Jennifer, and they'd been living there for three years, having moved from Brooklyn. Jennifer told me she'd often wondered about the original owners, and what the house had looked like when it was first built. Their daughter, Olivia (the same name as my older niece. Kismet!) has my old room at the top of the stairs (double Kismet!); their 2-year-old son, Nico, is across the hall in my brother's room. I told them how the steps were once covered in red shag carpet, showed them where the den had been extended from. I recounted how we'd taken down the paneling in the den and written our names all over the blank walls in marker before they were painted over. Jennifer asked about the fireplace, built-in wine rack and bookshelves; all were my mother's doing. They loved the backyard and the in-ground pool; Frank, quite a handy guy, is redoing the deck and has already built the kids a fantastic playhouse out of the extra wood.
Olivia was more than happy to show off her room to me, and giggled happily as she led me up the stairs. Where I'd had two kinds of complementary wallpaper on opposite walls, she had the same thing with shades of purple paint. The room seemed so much smaller than I'd remembered it being. I told Jennifer how, the day we'd moved out, I'd written a message inside one of the closets. Sadly, a previous owner had painted over it.
Nico showed off his room, complete with a mini-drumkit exactly where my brother had had one with Animal from the Muppet Show on the kickdrum. I didn't look into the master bedroom (no need) or the basement (ditto). The kitchen had been redone, tthe side door closed up to make room for the refrigerator. The bay window in the den had been removed and replaced by a boring flat one that didn't open. I suggested to Frank that they take it out...the breeze we used to get from that bay window was heaven in the spring.
"Are you happy here?" I asked Jennifer.
"SO happy," she immediately replied, and I could tell how much she meant it. "We LOVE this house."
And that's when I nearly lost it. I hadn't been happy in that house, not even close. I barely had any good memories from inside those walls. The only times I'd ever enjoyed myself was when my father wasn't home. I'd logged more hours hiding in my room, listening to music and reading books, than an astronaut does on a typical space mission.
In that moment, I was overcome by an emotion that I'd long been waiting for: closure. I hadn't loved that house, but now someone did. A truly happy family lived there. Nico and Olivia would grow up on Bethany Road and build the kind of childhood memories I never had.
I thanked these lovely people profusely, and let them know that should my book ever see the light of day, I'd send them an autographed copy. I left feeling emotionally lighter than I had in years. I said goodbye to the ghosts that had haunted me, specters that had been chased away by a family filling the house with love and warmth.
I left my old house after spending only about ten minutes exploring the differences that now existed; not just within its walls, but within myself as well. I walked in as someone who hadn't been able to make peace with her unhappy childhood, and left feeling as though I'd solved a deep-seeded mystery. I didn't know I needed to see what had become of the house on Bethany Road, but I did.
Now when I look back on my time in that house, I can say, "That's where I came from, but it's no longer who I am." I couldn't be more delighted for Frank, Jennifer, Olivia and Nico. I wish them all the happiness in the world. They're a wonderful family. As I left, Frank called, "Have a nice life!"
I think I will now, Frank. Thank you all so much.
New York, I Love You
If you read my previous blog entry (and thanks if you did!), you know I was all kinds of looking forward to my trip to New York City. Sometimes, when you're uber-stoked for something, it never turns out the way you'd hoped. Things go awry. The best laid plans, yadda yadda.
Not this time, pal. This time, I got the trip I not only wanted, but NEEDED. Not many things have gone my way in the past 12 months, but this time, the Fates decided to throw this little girl a bone and let me have a wonderful trip.
I shopped with my mom. I spent a day at the beach with my brother and his family (oh Olivia and Bianca, my delicious and exhausting nieces, I love you so). I spent a day in New Jersey that was so fabulous, it merits its own blog entry (which will have to wait until I get back home; I need to process exactly how to convey what that day meant to me). My mother's retirement party--the main reason for my visit--was a beautiful whirlwind of tears, laughter, dancing, and a whole lot of love.
And the people I got to spend time with! Oy, talk about an embarrassment of riches. Not only did I see relatives from afar that I hadn't seen since before the onset of puberty, I met the most amazing women that I'd only conversed with via Twitter. Imagine my shock to suggest a Tweet-Up, only to have Rosanne Cash be the first to say yes (my initial reaction: "Why?"). But thanks to Rosanne being, well...Rosanne (meaning: beyond fantastic), we cobbled together a group of fabulous, brilliant, funny, talented women that included Nancy Franklin, Susan Orlean, Lisa Bonchek Adams, Lizz Winstead, and Sandra Bernhard. It was a fantastic way to spend an afternoon, and I wish I could have a Ladies Who Lunch Day every month. Rosanne will be the first of the group to grace Portland with her presence (in August), and I hope each of them follows her example, sooner rather than later. Check the photo, which in my mind is forever captioned "One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other":
There was also a wonderful lunch and stroll with my dear college buddy, Scott Rosann. I can now call Rob Tannenbaum, a total mensch if there ever was one, a real friend after two hours of talking, walking, and a lot of Stumptown iced coffee. And to cap it off, I got to spend time with my oldest friend, Julia Reich. We met when we were assigned to be Bat Mitzvah together (in 1982), and today she is radiantly beautiful, thriving in her marriage and life.
I am so profoundly grateful to my mom's now-ex-boss, Steve, who generously paid to fly me out to be with Mom on her big day. I am thankful to the internets for connecting me with all of these wonderful people I am lucky enough to now know in real life. I will leave New York not exhausted, but revitalized. I received more incredibly helpful professional advice in the past six days than I have in this whole last year. I plan to hold on to all of these good feelings, this great karma, and do what I can to return it in kind. I hope to parlay all of this bounty into actual success, and I will never forget all of the kindness I was shown.
Thank you, universe, for this week. It's made me believe in the possibility that I will actually publish my book, that I will get a paying gig of some kind, that all of this goodness will become SOMETHING. It's all been too great to just end.
Yep...it sure is a helluva town. I Heart New York Again.
Not this time, pal. This time, I got the trip I not only wanted, but NEEDED. Not many things have gone my way in the past 12 months, but this time, the Fates decided to throw this little girl a bone and let me have a wonderful trip.
I shopped with my mom. I spent a day at the beach with my brother and his family (oh Olivia and Bianca, my delicious and exhausting nieces, I love you so). I spent a day in New Jersey that was so fabulous, it merits its own blog entry (which will have to wait until I get back home; I need to process exactly how to convey what that day meant to me). My mother's retirement party--the main reason for my visit--was a beautiful whirlwind of tears, laughter, dancing, and a whole lot of love.
And the people I got to spend time with! Oy, talk about an embarrassment of riches. Not only did I see relatives from afar that I hadn't seen since before the onset of puberty, I met the most amazing women that I'd only conversed with via Twitter. Imagine my shock to suggest a Tweet-Up, only to have Rosanne Cash be the first to say yes (my initial reaction: "Why?"). But thanks to Rosanne being, well...Rosanne (meaning: beyond fantastic), we cobbled together a group of fabulous, brilliant, funny, talented women that included Nancy Franklin, Susan Orlean, Lisa Bonchek Adams, Lizz Winstead, and Sandra Bernhard. It was a fantastic way to spend an afternoon, and I wish I could have a Ladies Who Lunch Day every month. Rosanne will be the first of the group to grace Portland with her presence (in August), and I hope each of them follows her example, sooner rather than later. Check the photo, which in my mind is forever captioned "One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other":
There was also a wonderful lunch and stroll with my dear college buddy, Scott Rosann. I can now call Rob Tannenbaum, a total mensch if there ever was one, a real friend after two hours of talking, walking, and a lot of Stumptown iced coffee. And to cap it off, I got to spend time with my oldest friend, Julia Reich. We met when we were assigned to be Bat Mitzvah together (in 1982), and today she is radiantly beautiful, thriving in her marriage and life.
I am so profoundly grateful to my mom's now-ex-boss, Steve, who generously paid to fly me out to be with Mom on her big day. I am thankful to the internets for connecting me with all of these wonderful people I am lucky enough to now know in real life. I will leave New York not exhausted, but revitalized. I received more incredibly helpful professional advice in the past six days than I have in this whole last year. I plan to hold on to all of these good feelings, this great karma, and do what I can to return it in kind. I hope to parlay all of this bounty into actual success, and I will never forget all of the kindness I was shown.
Thank you, universe, for this week. It's made me believe in the possibility that I will actually publish my book, that I will get a paying gig of some kind, that all of this goodness will become SOMETHING. It's all been too great to just end.
Yep...it sure is a helluva town. I Heart New York Again.
Start Spreading the News...
New York City, here I come! In less than 2 weeks, even!
I haven't been to NYC without kids or boyfriend in I can't even tell you how long. All my previous trips to The Motherland have felt less like vacations and more like forced marches. Entertaining kids in the City is easy, but exhausting. On previous journeys Eastward, there was never time to languish with friends over cocktails, aimlessly roam the streets of Soho and Greenwich Village, see a show of any kind, or much else that wasn't kid-related. I adore my sons and don't mind putting their needs ahead of mine, but it would be nice to have a vacation occasionally feel like a vacation. And this vacation is long overdue, coming exactly one year to the day since I got laid off from my dream job. It's truly a much-needed gift.
I am going to NYC thanks to the generosity of my mother's boss. She's finally (FINALLY!) retiring, and he's throwing her a lavish shindig on the roof of the St. Regis. Since I can camp out on the pullout couch at my mother's apartment, there's really no cap on how long I can be there (although my stepdad might disagree). I'm allowing myself a week away from my kids and my boyfriend, so I can have a full week of Grownup Time. The boys will be with their father, so we're good there. I have a pretty dress for the swanky party, and I have my speech all set. I can't wait. I haven't been this excited for a trip in a long, long time. And I haven't felt this good about going to New York in forever.
New York was always my favorite place until I moved to Portland. Growing up in crappy little Hazlet, New Jersey, I escaped to Manhattan every chance I could once I was old enough to take the train with my friends. I ached to live there, and when I got in to NYU's Tisch School of the Arts, I couldn't have been happier. My father (aka The Supreme Joykiller) refused to pay for it, preferring me to attend college in Boston. I never understood his reasons, and I didn't want to start out my adult life with $100,000 in school loans, so I ended up at Emerson College. I would have been in school with Philip Seymour Hoffman and too many others I could name, and it kills me to this day that I didn't have the chances in life that I might have had if I'd somehow managed to go to NYU. However, I probably wouldn't have transferred to the University of Georgia when my parents inexplicably moved us to Atlanta after a lifetime in Jersey. And then I wouldn't have met my ex, and I wouldn't have my sons, and everything happens for a reason, so whatever.
My ex and I lived in Manhattan from 1994 - 1998, while he did his residency at Bellevue. I worked a series of jobs I hated to make the rent on our Upper East Side fourth floor walkup. The time in New York took its toll on our relationship: where he'd been kind and attentive during medical school, residency turned him into a completely different person. He'd had to learn to harden his heart to provide excellent medical care, to be able to remain strong and professional during the worst possible moments of a person's life. Unfortunately, he didn't know how to turn it off when it came to me. Often I would associate my sadness with my marriage with the City itself; if we'd gone to another place for residency, would our marriage be different? I could blame New York for turning him into Doctor Robot, and for not providing me with a job that made me happy.
By the time his residency ended, I was more than ready to leave Manhattan. Newly pregnant with my first child, I was looking forward to living what I thought would be the cushy life of leisure back in Georgia. Imagine "The Firm", only without framing anyone for murder or wire-tapping your house, and that was pretty much it. Throw money and status at a married couple barely into their 30s, and their eyes will get big with greed. We got our first home, had our first child, and I was bored to death. I didn't have anyone I could relate to, and my husband was always working or sleeping. It certainly wasn't New York, but it also wasn't even Atlanta.
I returned to New York for the first time after the move when Jack was four months old. We flew up to attend my brother's engagement party, and experiencing the City with an infant is quite different than walking around on your own. You see every bit of filth that you might normally ignore. You worry about your baby inhaling bus fumes. You quickly learn that pushing a stroller around a busy city is a whole other animal from pushing one around the mall. It brings to your shoulders a new kind of ache with all you have to schlep around, because you can't just throw it into the trunk of your car. I couldn't understand why anyone would want to raise a child in a city that never sleeps, because all you want is for your kid to crash out so you can too. It seemed so much more difficult than ever before, and I only went back when I had to.
Once we moved out here, I started bringing my kids back with me for family visits. Jack and I were supposed to be in New York for Rosh Hashanah five days after 9/11. I wanted to go back and be with my family, but no one knew what would happen. Jack and I stayed home. The flight we would have taken was the first to land at Newark Airport when they reopened. When I finally did make the trip, it broke my heart to see that gaping hole in the skyline. The World Trade Center had been there my entire life; on clear days I'd been able to glimpse it from my bedroom window when I was growing up. That first post-9/11 trip, it felt like the City was just coming back to itself, like an accident victim waking up after a long coma. It was shaking off the sleep and testing its legs, to see if it could get back to a new kind of normal. It made me fall in love with New York all over again.
Unfortunately, nearly every trip since that one has ended up the same way: with me hating New York City all over again, vowing never to return. Midway through a visit, I'd feel this sudden loss of energy, as though the life had been completely sucked out of my body. Taking two kids on a cross-country flight is twice as exhausting as taking one, and it's twice the crap you have to bring with you. Two kids means they want different things at the same time. The younger one can't keep up like the older one can. Sometimes I'd want to just sit in the middle of the sidewalk, put my head on my raised knees, and cry from the physical exhaustion of maintaining "company behavior" out of the kids' comfort zone.
So this time, I will not have to include the Toys 'R Us in Times Square on my itinerary. I will not have to bring our entire DVD collection for my kids' entertainment on the plane. I will not have to ask my mother to buy special kid groceries. I will not have to stop walking every three feet and wait for Ben to catch up. I will not have to sit at that playground in Central Park with all the sprinklers and worry about some streetwise New York kid knocking down my sweet Pacific Northwest kid while using the F word.
Instead, I'll take the train out to New Jersey to see old friends and see how the town where I grew up has changed since my 10 year reunion in 1997. I'll take long walks and go shopping with my mother. I'll see an old college buddy for deli and laughs. I'll be doing lunch with a group of fabulous women I've come to know and love thanks to Twitter. I'll see my brother and his family, as well as my aunt and my cousin, whom I haven't seen in more years than I can recall. I'll make a speech in front of the people my mother's worked with at her amazing retirement party. I'm giddy and electric with the excitement.
It's the perfect antidote to what I thought I'd be doing on the 1-year anniversary of losing my job. Instead of wallowing on the couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra, I'll be with family and friends, having a fabulous time, and only feeling slightly guilty about leaving my kids for a week.
Yep, it's a hell of a town, alright.
I haven't been to NYC without kids or boyfriend in I can't even tell you how long. All my previous trips to The Motherland have felt less like vacations and more like forced marches. Entertaining kids in the City is easy, but exhausting. On previous journeys Eastward, there was never time to languish with friends over cocktails, aimlessly roam the streets of Soho and Greenwich Village, see a show of any kind, or much else that wasn't kid-related. I adore my sons and don't mind putting their needs ahead of mine, but it would be nice to have a vacation occasionally feel like a vacation. And this vacation is long overdue, coming exactly one year to the day since I got laid off from my dream job. It's truly a much-needed gift.
I am going to NYC thanks to the generosity of my mother's boss. She's finally (FINALLY!) retiring, and he's throwing her a lavish shindig on the roof of the St. Regis. Since I can camp out on the pullout couch at my mother's apartment, there's really no cap on how long I can be there (although my stepdad might disagree). I'm allowing myself a week away from my kids and my boyfriend, so I can have a full week of Grownup Time. The boys will be with their father, so we're good there. I have a pretty dress for the swanky party, and I have my speech all set. I can't wait. I haven't been this excited for a trip in a long, long time. And I haven't felt this good about going to New York in forever.
New York was always my favorite place until I moved to Portland. Growing up in crappy little Hazlet, New Jersey, I escaped to Manhattan every chance I could once I was old enough to take the train with my friends. I ached to live there, and when I got in to NYU's Tisch School of the Arts, I couldn't have been happier. My father (aka The Supreme Joykiller) refused to pay for it, preferring me to attend college in Boston. I never understood his reasons, and I didn't want to start out my adult life with $100,000 in school loans, so I ended up at Emerson College. I would have been in school with Philip Seymour Hoffman and too many others I could name, and it kills me to this day that I didn't have the chances in life that I might have had if I'd somehow managed to go to NYU. However, I probably wouldn't have transferred to the University of Georgia when my parents inexplicably moved us to Atlanta after a lifetime in Jersey. And then I wouldn't have met my ex, and I wouldn't have my sons, and everything happens for a reason, so whatever.
My ex and I lived in Manhattan from 1994 - 1998, while he did his residency at Bellevue. I worked a series of jobs I hated to make the rent on our Upper East Side fourth floor walkup. The time in New York took its toll on our relationship: where he'd been kind and attentive during medical school, residency turned him into a completely different person. He'd had to learn to harden his heart to provide excellent medical care, to be able to remain strong and professional during the worst possible moments of a person's life. Unfortunately, he didn't know how to turn it off when it came to me. Often I would associate my sadness with my marriage with the City itself; if we'd gone to another place for residency, would our marriage be different? I could blame New York for turning him into Doctor Robot, and for not providing me with a job that made me happy.
By the time his residency ended, I was more than ready to leave Manhattan. Newly pregnant with my first child, I was looking forward to living what I thought would be the cushy life of leisure back in Georgia. Imagine "The Firm", only without framing anyone for murder or wire-tapping your house, and that was pretty much it. Throw money and status at a married couple barely into their 30s, and their eyes will get big with greed. We got our first home, had our first child, and I was bored to death. I didn't have anyone I could relate to, and my husband was always working or sleeping. It certainly wasn't New York, but it also wasn't even Atlanta.
I returned to New York for the first time after the move when Jack was four months old. We flew up to attend my brother's engagement party, and experiencing the City with an infant is quite different than walking around on your own. You see every bit of filth that you might normally ignore. You worry about your baby inhaling bus fumes. You quickly learn that pushing a stroller around a busy city is a whole other animal from pushing one around the mall. It brings to your shoulders a new kind of ache with all you have to schlep around, because you can't just throw it into the trunk of your car. I couldn't understand why anyone would want to raise a child in a city that never sleeps, because all you want is for your kid to crash out so you can too. It seemed so much more difficult than ever before, and I only went back when I had to.
Once we moved out here, I started bringing my kids back with me for family visits. Jack and I were supposed to be in New York for Rosh Hashanah five days after 9/11. I wanted to go back and be with my family, but no one knew what would happen. Jack and I stayed home. The flight we would have taken was the first to land at Newark Airport when they reopened. When I finally did make the trip, it broke my heart to see that gaping hole in the skyline. The World Trade Center had been there my entire life; on clear days I'd been able to glimpse it from my bedroom window when I was growing up. That first post-9/11 trip, it felt like the City was just coming back to itself, like an accident victim waking up after a long coma. It was shaking off the sleep and testing its legs, to see if it could get back to a new kind of normal. It made me fall in love with New York all over again.
Unfortunately, nearly every trip since that one has ended up the same way: with me hating New York City all over again, vowing never to return. Midway through a visit, I'd feel this sudden loss of energy, as though the life had been completely sucked out of my body. Taking two kids on a cross-country flight is twice as exhausting as taking one, and it's twice the crap you have to bring with you. Two kids means they want different things at the same time. The younger one can't keep up like the older one can. Sometimes I'd want to just sit in the middle of the sidewalk, put my head on my raised knees, and cry from the physical exhaustion of maintaining "company behavior" out of the kids' comfort zone.
So this time, I will not have to include the Toys 'R Us in Times Square on my itinerary. I will not have to bring our entire DVD collection for my kids' entertainment on the plane. I will not have to ask my mother to buy special kid groceries. I will not have to stop walking every three feet and wait for Ben to catch up. I will not have to sit at that playground in Central Park with all the sprinklers and worry about some streetwise New York kid knocking down my sweet Pacific Northwest kid while using the F word.
Instead, I'll take the train out to New Jersey to see old friends and see how the town where I grew up has changed since my 10 year reunion in 1997. I'll take long walks and go shopping with my mother. I'll see an old college buddy for deli and laughs. I'll be doing lunch with a group of fabulous women I've come to know and love thanks to Twitter. I'll see my brother and his family, as well as my aunt and my cousin, whom I haven't seen in more years than I can recall. I'll make a speech in front of the people my mother's worked with at her amazing retirement party. I'm giddy and electric with the excitement.
It's the perfect antidote to what I thought I'd be doing on the 1-year anniversary of losing my job. Instead of wallowing on the couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra, I'll be with family and friends, having a fabulous time, and only feeling slightly guilty about leaving my kids for a week.
Yep, it's a hell of a town, alright.
We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat
I had another shark dream last night.
I dream of Great White Sharks when I'm supremely stressed out. They started in college, and when I have one, I know it's time to do a little self-evaluation. The dreams are usually very similar: I am standing above a calm body of water, on a pier or a deck of some kind. I look down into the water and see someone. Sometimes it's a lone swimmer, sometimes it's someone on a bright yellow raft. There is a light breeze. I can smell the salt air, feel the warm sun on my face. All is very calm. I look back down to the water and see the fin rushing towards the unwitting victim, and I am powerless to stop what's about to happen. The shark opens its huge mouth and violently takes the swimmer. Sometimes the body is bitten in half. Sometimes it's thrown into the air, screaming for help that no one can give. And I stand and watch, mute and powerless.
Now, it doesn't take a shrink to break that down. I can't control what happens in life, yadda yadda. But last night's dream was different, and it came at the end of a week that was pretty damn great. Let's dive deep (pun intended) into my psyche then, shall we? I actually hadn't had one in a while, so it really threw me.
Last night's dream was the most horrific and violent of all the shark dreams I've had, and I've had some doozies. All I can remember is a man (whom I didn't recognize) being stuck in a huge hole in the ground. I was standing near enough to help him, but I didn't. I watched, passively, as he struggled to free himself. And as soon as he seemed to get some footing, I realized the hole wasn't actually a hole at all: it was the mouth of a Great White. And this man was halfway inside of it, screaming in agony, his face contorted in unimaginable pain, blood everywhere. He reached his arms towards mine and I took them apathetically, not even really trying to help. I watched him suffer as the mouth chewed him. I watched his face go slack as he released my hands, surrendering to his fate. The shark took one last agonizing bite, cutting the man clear in half. The shark retreated and I backed away, leaving the man's upper half on the ground in a pool of blood and water.
Nice, huh?
Here's the thing: I don't know where this one came from. Like I said, this was a great week. I turned 41 on Monday and spent two nights in the company of Pamela Des Barres, Patti D'Arbanville, and several other amazing women writers. Miss P and I went thrift store shopping and out to lunch on Wednesday. On Thursday, I got to meet my friend Ryan's baby son, River, which was totally delicious. Friday night had me at the premiere of the wonderful "Gracie and the Atom", written by another friend, McKinley. I even made it through my son Ben's birthday party without having to speak to either of my ex-in-laws.
So why this vicious dream, from which I awoke gasping for breath at 4:12 am? What's stuck in my subconscious and needs to be resolved?
(you know, aside from not having a job and wanting to sell my book and being an unemployed single mother and I really don't want to have to go back to waiting tables at my age and please let that agent I'm going to talk to later this week like me)
If anyone feels like psychoanalyzing that dream, go for it. Clearly, I have no reason to be stressed out.
I dream of Great White Sharks when I'm supremely stressed out. They started in college, and when I have one, I know it's time to do a little self-evaluation. The dreams are usually very similar: I am standing above a calm body of water, on a pier or a deck of some kind. I look down into the water and see someone. Sometimes it's a lone swimmer, sometimes it's someone on a bright yellow raft. There is a light breeze. I can smell the salt air, feel the warm sun on my face. All is very calm. I look back down to the water and see the fin rushing towards the unwitting victim, and I am powerless to stop what's about to happen. The shark opens its huge mouth and violently takes the swimmer. Sometimes the body is bitten in half. Sometimes it's thrown into the air, screaming for help that no one can give. And I stand and watch, mute and powerless.
Now, it doesn't take a shrink to break that down. I can't control what happens in life, yadda yadda. But last night's dream was different, and it came at the end of a week that was pretty damn great. Let's dive deep (pun intended) into my psyche then, shall we? I actually hadn't had one in a while, so it really threw me.
Last night's dream was the most horrific and violent of all the shark dreams I've had, and I've had some doozies. All I can remember is a man (whom I didn't recognize) being stuck in a huge hole in the ground. I was standing near enough to help him, but I didn't. I watched, passively, as he struggled to free himself. And as soon as he seemed to get some footing, I realized the hole wasn't actually a hole at all: it was the mouth of a Great White. And this man was halfway inside of it, screaming in agony, his face contorted in unimaginable pain, blood everywhere. He reached his arms towards mine and I took them apathetically, not even really trying to help. I watched him suffer as the mouth chewed him. I watched his face go slack as he released my hands, surrendering to his fate. The shark took one last agonizing bite, cutting the man clear in half. The shark retreated and I backed away, leaving the man's upper half on the ground in a pool of blood and water.
Nice, huh?
Here's the thing: I don't know where this one came from. Like I said, this was a great week. I turned 41 on Monday and spent two nights in the company of Pamela Des Barres, Patti D'Arbanville, and several other amazing women writers. Miss P and I went thrift store shopping and out to lunch on Wednesday. On Thursday, I got to meet my friend Ryan's baby son, River, which was totally delicious. Friday night had me at the premiere of the wonderful "Gracie and the Atom", written by another friend, McKinley. I even made it through my son Ben's birthday party without having to speak to either of my ex-in-laws.
So why this vicious dream, from which I awoke gasping for breath at 4:12 am? What's stuck in my subconscious and needs to be resolved?
(you know, aside from not having a job and wanting to sell my book and being an unemployed single mother and I really don't want to have to go back to waiting tables at my age and please let that agent I'm going to talk to later this week like me)
If anyone feels like psychoanalyzing that dream, go for it. Clearly, I have no reason to be stressed out.
Something to (NOT) Talk About
My boyfriend and I took in a bit of culture last night, a move unusual to us in that we're total couch potatoes and usually prefer being home to anywhere else. However, I'd won tickets to "The Chosen" at Portland Center Stage, a play I'd really wanted to see. I had the good fortune of dining next to "Chosen" co-star John Rothman at a local coffee shop, so I even felt a small personal connection to the production. And to top it all off, I am myself one of the Chosen People (holla at my Jews!), so I knew I'd find a lot to enjoy about the show.
We were seated next to a smartly dressed couple who appeared to be in their mid to late 70's. They gave us a nice smile as we took our seats. The play began. And so did their conversation.
A bit of an aside here: I always forget about my crappy seating karma when I go out in public. There is nothing on this planet that peeves me more than people talking during a movie. I think we're all well aware that proper movie etiquette has pretty much gone the way of the dinosaur, or Lindsay Lohan's career. People feel free to talk to each other as though they were sitting happily in their own home. And when I dare remind these cretins of this fact, they look at me like I'm the one who's doing something wrong. Apparently "Shhh!" is akin to "I want to murder your grandma" in 2010.
And when I say crappy seating karma, I speak of the girls with the very crunchy nachos and long fingernails who ruined the end of "Seven" for me in a crowded movie theater in New York City ("Oh, don't even TELL me her head is in that box!"); the parents who brought the boisterous toddler to a 10pm showing of "Dogma" in Albany, Georgia; the group of chuckleheads who thought it was a great idea to allow a 4 year old girl to see "Watchmen" just last year. These are but a few of the more extreme examples. I've encountered your garden variety obnoxious people who don't care if they're talking too loud. I've had to mediate a heated exchange between my boyfriend and a pack of big dudes in the back row at Cinetopia ("Guys," I said weakly, "We're just trying to watch a movie here, okay?" Amazingly, they shut up). The noisemakers with their loud packaged foods, and other egregious breaks in proper public behavior. I firmly believe that the only sentences that should be spoken aloud once the Feature Presentation begins are "I'm having chest pains" or "I think my water just broke." Anything short of an emergency should be saved until AFTER THE MOVIE IS OVER. By the end, all of your dumb-ass questions about the plot will be answered, and you can then ask your buddy who the actor playing the lead was, and what else he's been in. Savvy?
So of course I believe this not only applies to live theater, it applies like ten times more. Because the actors in a play can actually hear you when you make all your stupid noises.The coughing and sneezing are bad enough (last night's audience sounded like the Tuberculosis Ward), but when you speak during a play, it is unbearably rude. Not just to the actors, of course, but to your fellow theatergoers. Theater tickets cost a whole lot more than movie tickets; you'd think that people would be of at least a high enough class to know how to behave during a live stage production. At least when some yahoo mouths off during a movie, none of the actors are going to get offended. But if the people all around you (save for those of us who are poor and have to enter contests to win tickets) slapped down a fat wad of cash to see a play, guess what? They also want to HEAR it! Nutty, I know.
Let's return to our seat partners from last night, the lovely couple who fronted like inveterate theater patrons. Once the lights dimmed and the action started, they did not shut up. First of all, she couldn't hear a lot of the dialogue. What she could hear, she couldn't understand, because there was a lot of Yiddish being thrown around. Now, lest you think I'm not sensitive to the plight of the elderly and/or the hard of hearing (or, really, the plight of anyone), I assure you that's not the case here. I'm plenty sensitive. In this particular case, I was more interested in my own plight, which was being distracted from the play. She could have done with a hearing aid, or (if she's too vain) better seats. We were in Row M, near the back of the theater. Maybe her husband could have coughed up a few extra bucks to guarantee them seating closer to the front? In any case, they murmured at a loud enough volume for others to notice. The boyfriend and I did the throat-clearing and then the "Shhh!" to no avail. The breaking point came quite early in Act 1, when the main characters meet on the baseball diamond. "Did you play baseball when you were a kid?" Old Lady asked Old Man.
Now, a moment here, if I may. This couple was clearly not on their first date. They looked like they'd essentially become cojoined, they'd been together so long. If she didn't know about his boyhood activities (and really, shouldn't she, by this stage in their lives?), it's both a statement about their marriage AND her lack of common decency. They weren't in the lobby during Intermission discussing what they'd just seen, leading to a walk down Memory Lane while sipping their wine. Oh, no no. They were still watching it and they were talking no matter how many times we shushed them and oh my God will someone just please kill me right now.
It's basic human decency. If you're out in public, act appropriately. Keep in mind that you've actually left your home. Remember manners? Yeah, those. You wouldn't go out the door straight from the shower clad only in a towel, would you (Portland readers, keep that snarky answer to yourself)? So please, for all that is right and holy in this world: once the show starts--and I mean this with love, I really and truly do--please please please just shut the fuck up.
: )
We were seated next to a smartly dressed couple who appeared to be in their mid to late 70's. They gave us a nice smile as we took our seats. The play began. And so did their conversation.
A bit of an aside here: I always forget about my crappy seating karma when I go out in public. There is nothing on this planet that peeves me more than people talking during a movie. I think we're all well aware that proper movie etiquette has pretty much gone the way of the dinosaur, or Lindsay Lohan's career. People feel free to talk to each other as though they were sitting happily in their own home. And when I dare remind these cretins of this fact, they look at me like I'm the one who's doing something wrong. Apparently "Shhh!" is akin to "I want to murder your grandma" in 2010.
And when I say crappy seating karma, I speak of the girls with the very crunchy nachos and long fingernails who ruined the end of "Seven" for me in a crowded movie theater in New York City ("Oh, don't even TELL me her head is in that box!"); the parents who brought the boisterous toddler to a 10pm showing of "Dogma" in Albany, Georgia; the group of chuckleheads who thought it was a great idea to allow a 4 year old girl to see "Watchmen" just last year. These are but a few of the more extreme examples. I've encountered your garden variety obnoxious people who don't care if they're talking too loud. I've had to mediate a heated exchange between my boyfriend and a pack of big dudes in the back row at Cinetopia ("Guys," I said weakly, "We're just trying to watch a movie here, okay?" Amazingly, they shut up). The noisemakers with their loud packaged foods, and other egregious breaks in proper public behavior. I firmly believe that the only sentences that should be spoken aloud once the Feature Presentation begins are "I'm having chest pains" or "I think my water just broke." Anything short of an emergency should be saved until AFTER THE MOVIE IS OVER. By the end, all of your dumb-ass questions about the plot will be answered, and you can then ask your buddy who the actor playing the lead was, and what else he's been in. Savvy?
So of course I believe this not only applies to live theater, it applies like ten times more. Because the actors in a play can actually hear you when you make all your stupid noises.The coughing and sneezing are bad enough (last night's audience sounded like the Tuberculosis Ward), but when you speak during a play, it is unbearably rude. Not just to the actors, of course, but to your fellow theatergoers. Theater tickets cost a whole lot more than movie tickets; you'd think that people would be of at least a high enough class to know how to behave during a live stage production. At least when some yahoo mouths off during a movie, none of the actors are going to get offended. But if the people all around you (save for those of us who are poor and have to enter contests to win tickets) slapped down a fat wad of cash to see a play, guess what? They also want to HEAR it! Nutty, I know.
Let's return to our seat partners from last night, the lovely couple who fronted like inveterate theater patrons. Once the lights dimmed and the action started, they did not shut up. First of all, she couldn't hear a lot of the dialogue. What she could hear, she couldn't understand, because there was a lot of Yiddish being thrown around. Now, lest you think I'm not sensitive to the plight of the elderly and/or the hard of hearing (or, really, the plight of anyone), I assure you that's not the case here. I'm plenty sensitive. In this particular case, I was more interested in my own plight, which was being distracted from the play. She could have done with a hearing aid, or (if she's too vain) better seats. We were in Row M, near the back of the theater. Maybe her husband could have coughed up a few extra bucks to guarantee them seating closer to the front? In any case, they murmured at a loud enough volume for others to notice. The boyfriend and I did the throat-clearing and then the "Shhh!" to no avail. The breaking point came quite early in Act 1, when the main characters meet on the baseball diamond. "Did you play baseball when you were a kid?" Old Lady asked Old Man.
Now, a moment here, if I may. This couple was clearly not on their first date. They looked like they'd essentially become cojoined, they'd been together so long. If she didn't know about his boyhood activities (and really, shouldn't she, by this stage in their lives?), it's both a statement about their marriage AND her lack of common decency. They weren't in the lobby during Intermission discussing what they'd just seen, leading to a walk down Memory Lane while sipping their wine. Oh, no no. They were still watching it and they were talking no matter how many times we shushed them and oh my God will someone just please kill me right now.
It's basic human decency. If you're out in public, act appropriately. Keep in mind that you've actually left your home. Remember manners? Yeah, those. You wouldn't go out the door straight from the shower clad only in a towel, would you (Portland readers, keep that snarky answer to yourself)? So please, for all that is right and holy in this world: once the show starts--and I mean this with love, I really and truly do--please please please just shut the fuck up.
: )
