I spend a lot of time not knowing what to do with myself. And please understand- when I say I don’t know what to do with myself, I mean this quite literally. I can be found spinning- yes spinning- around my living room, trying to decide whether I should clean or write or eat or sleep or change a diaper.
I work between four and ten hours a week. (work, as in outside the home, getting paid. I “work,” well… how many hours are there in a week?) This is an odd schedule for a Type-A such as myself. I enjoy structure. And schedules. And deadlines. And my most important job- being a Mom- demands flexibility. But there’s a difference between flexibility and lack of plan. And for a person who struggles with anxiety and depression, living in Lack of Plan Land is dangerous. So I sit around going crazy. And please understand, when I say going crazy, I mean THIS quite literally.
This is where I find myself today. A ridiculously messy home. Very little food in the cupboards. Mounds of laundry. Piles of paperwork. And no one to hold me accountable.
So I return, once again, to Flylady. I’ve spoken of her before. And as a reminder, these are HER ideas. NOT MINE. I would hate for their to be any confusion on this point, as this is a woman who has dedicated her life to helping people get out of chaos. Please visit her website and see what she has to say, in HER words.
But Flylady, in MY words, can be a lifesaver. She taught me how to organize my home, and my time, and my life. And she taught me how to do it in a way that worked for me. Usually. And she taught me that when I stray from the plan (as we’ll so often do, living with depression), I can jump back on board wherever I am.
And it’s not so easy. I’m a brat. I don’t wanna. No one is coming over anyway, we’re making it just fine. But I know that I am healthier when the apartment is clean and the cupboards are stocked and the laundry is clean and folded and put away and I know what we’re having for dinner. And it doesn’t make me less of an independent woman. And it doesn’t make me more of an independent woman. It just makes me happier and healthier.
I finished my Morning Routine around 1:15 today. Most of it, anyway, I’ll vacuum when Lily wakes up. And true, 1:15 is technically no longer the morning, but I am giving myself permission to be flexible. I am dressed to the shoes, and Lily and I have had breakfast, and we spent time together (she loves reading books, and I love that she loves reading books) and I spent some time on my own, and I wiped down the bathroom, and the living room is 15 minutes cleaner than it was when I woke up. And you know what? I feel better.
Remind me of that as I fight my afternoon routine with all my strongest inner brat?
And please check out the Flylady website. We’ll do this together.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Out of the Mouths of Babes
My daughter is learning to talk. As a voice teacher and writer, this is about the coolest thing I have ever witnessed in my life. I have outlined her current vocabulary below. To me, this is fascinating. If it’s not fascinating to you, go read something else. Damnyouautocorrect.com is pretty funny. Try that.
Words that you would recognize, that mean what you think they mean:
Mommy
Mamma
Daddy
Dadda
Yeah
No (or, N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-no)
Hello
Hi
Bye-bye (used as the thing that is said when a person is departing, and the act of the departure itself)
Juice (not just something to drink, but juice, specifically. Always phrased as a question)
Shoe (used for shoes, but also socks and feet, always phrased as a question)
Baby
Button
Hot (almost always accompanied by blowing on something imaginary, even if the thing she’s describing as hot is not food)
Yucky (pronounced yuh-KEEEEEEEEE with a giant glottal stop between the syllables)
Ball
Key
Jump
Nose
Eye
Exclamations. This could go in the category above, but is fun enough that it gets it’s own category:
Oh no!
Uh-Oh! (these two are interchangeable)
Wow!
Whoa! (these two are NOT interchangeable. “Wow” is reserved for the impressive or exciting, or when she just feels like saying “wow.” Whoa, on the other hand is only for things like almost falling down but then catching ones’ self. As in, “Whoa, that was a close one.”)
Boo! (It is important to note an expectation here. “Boo” is always terrifying, and the listener must exclaim how terrifying Lily is for having said it.)
Questions:
Whassat? (What’s that?)
Whaaaaaaat? (always accompanied by hands held out, palms up.)
Note concerning these questions: they are generally completely out of context and do not refer to anything in particular. She just think it’s funny.
Words that are pretty close, and you’d get it if you really thought about it. Or if we were there to translate:
Nah-nah (night-night, or bedtime)
Bah (bath)
Daw (dog)
Da (dance)
Elwo (Elmo)
Dah (down. Yes, dog, dance, and down sound an awful lot alike. Context clues, people)
Peace (please)
Hep (help)
Buh (book)
Kee-kee or Kih-ee (kitty)
Bee-butt (belly button)
Num-num (food, or the way she feels about the food)
Words that sound sort of like one thing, and mean something else entirely:
Mooooooohhhhh? (more. This is her most common word for food, regardless of whether she has had any yet. Origin, I think: “Lily, do you want some more?” This word is starting to mean she just wants something. And it’s up to the listener to discover what that thing is. Always phrased as a question. Always.)
Bah (back. This is her word for containers. Origin, I think: “Lily, put that back.” Often she is explaining she wants not the thing, but the container that holds the thing. Or both.)
You’d never have any idea what she was saying, but it’s cute and she’s using it consistently and correctly so give her a break:
Kee-kew (Thank You)
Uh, *random syllable*, *LOUDER RANDOM SYLLABLE!!!!!* (One, two, three. That’s right, my kid can count. Uh, sort of.)
Onomatopoeia
Woof
Meow
Baaaaaaaaaah (complete with vibrato)
Moo
Beep- beep
Vvvvvvvvv (the sound an engine makes)
Shhhhhhhh (which means be quiet but is also the sound of running water)
Zzzzzzzzz (the sound of zippers and bees)
And our favorite Lily-ism:
Deedle-eedle-eedle-eedle-eedle! (Which doesn’t mean anything except that she’s really happy.)
I would suggest printing this guide and keeping it handy, but a translator will be provided when you visit if you are not yet fluent in Lily.
Words that you would recognize, that mean what you think they mean:
Mommy
Mamma
Daddy
Dadda
Yeah
No (or, N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-no)
Hello
Hi
Bye-bye (used as the thing that is said when a person is departing, and the act of the departure itself)
Juice (not just something to drink, but juice, specifically. Always phrased as a question)
Shoe (used for shoes, but also socks and feet, always phrased as a question)
Baby
Button
Hot (almost always accompanied by blowing on something imaginary, even if the thing she’s describing as hot is not food)
Yucky (pronounced yuh-KEEEEEEEEE with a giant glottal stop between the syllables)
Ball
Key
Jump
Nose
Eye
Exclamations. This could go in the category above, but is fun enough that it gets it’s own category:
Oh no!
Uh-Oh! (these two are interchangeable)
Wow!
Whoa! (these two are NOT interchangeable. “Wow” is reserved for the impressive or exciting, or when she just feels like saying “wow.” Whoa, on the other hand is only for things like almost falling down but then catching ones’ self. As in, “Whoa, that was a close one.”)
Boo! (It is important to note an expectation here. “Boo” is always terrifying, and the listener must exclaim how terrifying Lily is for having said it.)
Questions:
Whassat? (What’s that?)
Whaaaaaaat? (always accompanied by hands held out, palms up.)
Note concerning these questions: they are generally completely out of context and do not refer to anything in particular. She just think it’s funny.
Words that are pretty close, and you’d get it if you really thought about it. Or if we were there to translate:
Nah-nah (night-night, or bedtime)
Bah (bath)
Daw (dog)
Da (dance)
Elwo (Elmo)
Dah (down. Yes, dog, dance, and down sound an awful lot alike. Context clues, people)
Peace (please)
Hep (help)
Buh (book)
Kee-kee or Kih-ee (kitty)
Bee-butt (belly button)
Num-num (food, or the way she feels about the food)
Words that sound sort of like one thing, and mean something else entirely:
Mooooooohhhhh? (more. This is her most common word for food, regardless of whether she has had any yet. Origin, I think: “Lily, do you want some more?” This word is starting to mean she just wants something. And it’s up to the listener to discover what that thing is. Always phrased as a question. Always.)
Bah (back. This is her word for containers. Origin, I think: “Lily, put that back.” Often she is explaining she wants not the thing, but the container that holds the thing. Or both.)
You’d never have any idea what she was saying, but it’s cute and she’s using it consistently and correctly so give her a break:
Kee-kew (Thank You)
Uh, *random syllable*, *LOUDER RANDOM SYLLABLE!!!!!* (One, two, three. That’s right, my kid can count. Uh, sort of.)
Onomatopoeia
Woof
Meow
Baaaaaaaaaah (complete with vibrato)
Moo
Beep- beep
Vvvvvvvvv (the sound an engine makes)
Shhhhhhhh (which means be quiet but is also the sound of running water)
Zzzzzzzzz (the sound of zippers and bees)
And our favorite Lily-ism:
Deedle-eedle-eedle-eedle-eedle! (Which doesn’t mean anything except that she’s really happy.)
I would suggest printing this guide and keeping it handy, but a translator will be provided when you visit if you are not yet fluent in Lily.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
"I'm so busy making art that there's no time to live the life the art is imitating." -JB
I am an artist. That much is clear. And, I have always been an artist. Since birth. That much is also clear.
Less clear is -why? And since scientists have been trying to figure this out for ages, I have no plans to attempt it here. But what I do wonder is this: what does it mean to me- exactly- to be an artist?
This is guaranteed to be rambly. But what can I say? I'm an artist. Sometimes, in a quest to find life's answers, we ramble.
I was curling my hair about an hour ago. I might- *might*- go to the children's room at the library today. And later, I hope to make it to Target. And the grocery store. Even in a place with the social pressures of Greenwich, those are not hair curling places. But it's important to me. Weird things are important to me. I dunno. Guess that's one of the many things that makes me an artist.
Over the past few years, I have had several opportunities to spend time with friends and just be fully immersed in our artsy-ness. We've created shows. And written books. And spent whole weekends talking about theatre and film and life and the state of things. And a very VERY big part of me wants to stay there- right there- forever. Just stay with my friends and talk and create and forget the rest of the world. It's where things make the most sense. And throughout history, many artists have tried to do exactly that. (I mean, have you seen "Moulin Rouge"?) And many of them end up dead from drug overdose. Because it's too much. Our brains just can't live there. We need a break sometimes. We need sitcoms and beer and big Hollywood movies (like "Moulin Rouge." Artsy friends, you know I was kidding about that. Right? Well, I was sort of kidding.) and regular life. We need a break, even when we don't particularly want to take one.
And these breaks from the artistic world provide other life necessities. Like food. And sleep. And clean clothes. We artists would like to pretend we don't need those things. And we often choose to indulge in our mental and emotional needs before seeing that our physical needs are met. Take now, for example. My stomach is growling. And we totally have food. And there is a lot of cleaning I could be doing. Not to mention part two of that blog that is now officially over a month late. But I "needed" to get this out of my head. No, not "needed." Needed. Our needs are different, us artists. But we still share that food water and shelter thing with the rest of the world. And sometimes we forget. And that's why so many artists die of exhaustion. (I mean, have you seen "Moulin Rouge"?)
So I guess that's the answer. Our brains are different. But our bodies are not. If you're an artist and you're looking for a way to find that balance, I recommend getting one of those little people who have bigger needs than yours. That's what I did, and she keeps me in line pretty well.
I should probably do some cleaning in preparation for the holidays. But I suddenly have the urge to watch "Moulin Rouge."
Less clear is -why? And since scientists have been trying to figure this out for ages, I have no plans to attempt it here. But what I do wonder is this: what does it mean to me- exactly- to be an artist?
This is guaranteed to be rambly. But what can I say? I'm an artist. Sometimes, in a quest to find life's answers, we ramble.
I was curling my hair about an hour ago. I might- *might*- go to the children's room at the library today. And later, I hope to make it to Target. And the grocery store. Even in a place with the social pressures of Greenwich, those are not hair curling places. But it's important to me. Weird things are important to me. I dunno. Guess that's one of the many things that makes me an artist.
Over the past few years, I have had several opportunities to spend time with friends and just be fully immersed in our artsy-ness. We've created shows. And written books. And spent whole weekends talking about theatre and film and life and the state of things. And a very VERY big part of me wants to stay there- right there- forever. Just stay with my friends and talk and create and forget the rest of the world. It's where things make the most sense. And throughout history, many artists have tried to do exactly that. (I mean, have you seen "Moulin Rouge"?) And many of them end up dead from drug overdose. Because it's too much. Our brains just can't live there. We need a break sometimes. We need sitcoms and beer and big Hollywood movies (like "Moulin Rouge." Artsy friends, you know I was kidding about that. Right? Well, I was sort of kidding.) and regular life. We need a break, even when we don't particularly want to take one.
And these breaks from the artistic world provide other life necessities. Like food. And sleep. And clean clothes. We artists would like to pretend we don't need those things. And we often choose to indulge in our mental and emotional needs before seeing that our physical needs are met. Take now, for example. My stomach is growling. And we totally have food. And there is a lot of cleaning I could be doing. Not to mention part two of that blog that is now officially over a month late. But I "needed" to get this out of my head. No, not "needed." Needed. Our needs are different, us artists. But we still share that food water and shelter thing with the rest of the world. And sometimes we forget. And that's why so many artists die of exhaustion. (I mean, have you seen "Moulin Rouge"?)
So I guess that's the answer. Our brains are different. But our bodies are not. If you're an artist and you're looking for a way to find that balance, I recommend getting one of those little people who have bigger needs than yours. That's what I did, and she keeps me in line pretty well.
I should probably do some cleaning in preparation for the holidays. But I suddenly have the urge to watch "Moulin Rouge."
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Unsolicited Advice
Ten years ago today, I got all dressed up in a fancy dress and went with my friends and family- who were also dressed up all fancy- to a church. Where I married my husband. (who was, incidentally, also dressed up all fancy.) And then we had a big party. And to celebrate that fact, I have been posting memories of that day on facebook. And to my surprise, other people are commenting and posting memories of their own. Granted, many of the people posting are family members. But not everyone. People remember our wedding. It is widely accepted as the most fun wedding ever.
And. Because so much of my career has centered around young adults, I know lots of people who are getting married in the coming months.
So. Here it is. You didn't ask for it. But here it is. How to have the second-most fun wedding ever. It involves some ugly truth. Are you ready for it? Here it comes....
Weddings don't matter.
I'll let you take a moment to recover while you pick up your ten-pound wedding planning binder you just threw at the computer. But I'm not taking it back. Weddings just don't matter.
It's a day. One day. With a party. Hopefully a really fun party. But there are only two elements that make any difference at all: two people, and some vows. That's it.
Don't get me wrong. Weddings are fun. Ten years later I'm still remembering mine. I took care in planning the details. And I was ridiculously organized. I handed the minister a full itinerary- complete with full script- like he had never seen. I mean come on, I know how to plan a performance.
But once the planning was over and we got within a week of the big day, I let it go. People who were there will back me up on this. I let it go. "Mindy, do you want red napkins or gold at the rehearsal dinner?"
"I don't care."
"You have to care. You have to choose."
"But I don't care. I choose for you to choose."
"But you have to!"
"Alright then. If one napkin color makes me more married than the other one, I pick that one. Otherwise, flip a coin and leave me alone."
I have no idea what possessed me to treat my wedding this way. Let's be honest. It's not like me at all. But something told me all that mattered was getting married, and I went with it. And I didn't do anything just because it was tradition. Again, I did many traditional things, but only if I fully understood them.
"But you have to have a sit-down dinner!"
"Will my marriage not count?"
"Well, of course your marriage will still count..."
"Cool. I don't like sit-down dinners and I'm not having one."
And it's been ten years. And ours is still widely remembered as The. Most. Fun. Wedding.... Ever.
Eyes on the prize, people. And the prize is gettin' hitched. Period.
Alright, while I'm at it, let's talk about those vows real quick.
They're serious. And they DO matter. A lot.
If you're going to stand in front of God and everybody and promise to be with someone "for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live..." you can bet that He is going to give you ample opportunity to prove it. I think we've had all those things this week. (well, maybe not richer. Not with money, anyway.) But it's a promise. And I say this because so many of us (Ryan and I included) get married so young. It's hard to believe that worse and poorer and sicker would ever really happen. But it will. And the promise is that you'll stay together anyway. Even when you don't really like each other that much. Because if you hold up your end of the bargain, God will hold up His.
And I say this only to be encouraging- I have lots of friends and family who have, for one reason or another, gotten divorced. I'm not judging you guys in this, I'm pretty familiar with your situations and I get that sometimes it's what's best. (And for many, the match wasn't right in the first place...) But for those of you who are about to get married- and there are a lot of you!- just remember. Those vows are for real. They're a promise. And you're practically begging for them to be tested. But stick with it, and you end up sharing your life with the one person who gets you through it all.
Happy Anniversary, Ryan!
12/16/2000 <3
And. Because so much of my career has centered around young adults, I know lots of people who are getting married in the coming months.
So. Here it is. You didn't ask for it. But here it is. How to have the second-most fun wedding ever. It involves some ugly truth. Are you ready for it? Here it comes....
Weddings don't matter.
I'll let you take a moment to recover while you pick up your ten-pound wedding planning binder you just threw at the computer. But I'm not taking it back. Weddings just don't matter.
It's a day. One day. With a party. Hopefully a really fun party. But there are only two elements that make any difference at all: two people, and some vows. That's it.
Don't get me wrong. Weddings are fun. Ten years later I'm still remembering mine. I took care in planning the details. And I was ridiculously organized. I handed the minister a full itinerary- complete with full script- like he had never seen. I mean come on, I know how to plan a performance.
But once the planning was over and we got within a week of the big day, I let it go. People who were there will back me up on this. I let it go. "Mindy, do you want red napkins or gold at the rehearsal dinner?"
"I don't care."
"You have to care. You have to choose."
"But I don't care. I choose for you to choose."
"But you have to!"
"Alright then. If one napkin color makes me more married than the other one, I pick that one. Otherwise, flip a coin and leave me alone."
I have no idea what possessed me to treat my wedding this way. Let's be honest. It's not like me at all. But something told me all that mattered was getting married, and I went with it. And I didn't do anything just because it was tradition. Again, I did many traditional things, but only if I fully understood them.
"But you have to have a sit-down dinner!"
"Will my marriage not count?"
"Well, of course your marriage will still count..."
"Cool. I don't like sit-down dinners and I'm not having one."
And it's been ten years. And ours is still widely remembered as The. Most. Fun. Wedding.... Ever.
Eyes on the prize, people. And the prize is gettin' hitched. Period.
Alright, while I'm at it, let's talk about those vows real quick.
They're serious. And they DO matter. A lot.
If you're going to stand in front of God and everybody and promise to be with someone "for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live..." you can bet that He is going to give you ample opportunity to prove it. I think we've had all those things this week. (well, maybe not richer. Not with money, anyway.) But it's a promise. And I say this because so many of us (Ryan and I included) get married so young. It's hard to believe that worse and poorer and sicker would ever really happen. But it will. And the promise is that you'll stay together anyway. Even when you don't really like each other that much. Because if you hold up your end of the bargain, God will hold up His.
And I say this only to be encouraging- I have lots of friends and family who have, for one reason or another, gotten divorced. I'm not judging you guys in this, I'm pretty familiar with your situations and I get that sometimes it's what's best. (And for many, the match wasn't right in the first place...) But for those of you who are about to get married- and there are a lot of you!- just remember. Those vows are for real. They're a promise. And you're practically begging for them to be tested. But stick with it, and you end up sharing your life with the one person who gets you through it all.
Happy Anniversary, Ryan!
12/16/2000 <3
Sunday, November 14, 2010
What Happens in Vegas, Stays in... Pt 1
What happens in Vegas stays in, well, Astoria, appartently.
Here are the events of the week as I experienced them.
Several days ago I was chatting with a friend about Saturday evening, and the fact that Ryan and I had plans. We were going out to dinner. With another married couple. Without the baby. This was, I explained (though I probably didn't have to) a very big deal. We never get to go out just the two of us. We were even spending the night at our friends' apartment in Astoria, so there would be no worrying about who would drive, no rushing back to the babysitter.
Friday morning I got a text. Our babysitter was canceling. This was not OK. I needed this night out. And I knew that Ryan needed this night out. And he had mentioned several times over the past two months (yes, we had made these plans two months ago) how important the evening was. That it was the ONE NIGHT when we must be certain to have a sitter. I was angry and frustrated, and I knew he would be angry and frustrated, and I set to work finding a replacement.
That's all I did on Friday, really. I sat around and waited for people to get back to me. I was either actively contacting people, or sitting around being a nervous wreck, unable to focus on anything productive. I knew a few of my close friends already had plans- like... playing Ophelia in Halmet, or celebrating their own anniversary. Then some of my go-to girls from my theatre company started to get back to be. None of them were available. I posted it on facebook. Nothing. Then I started to get messages from a friend of a friend, because there were a few people devoting a lot of energy to finding us a babysitter. It was that important. And I was grateful that everyone seemed to understand that it was that important.
A little confused.
But grateful.
Ryan found someone on Friday afternoon around 4:30. Whew.
I set out on Saturday to teach a lesson in Manhattan in my usual fashion- a bag slung over my shoulder carrying different clothes, make-up, and shoes, so I could get dressed up to go out after I taught. I am starting to feel like I will spend all of my Saturdays this way. I taught, and then I wandered around Manhattan for two hours, just waiting for time to pass before my date. Finally, I had wandered as much as I could wander. I called Ryan and asked him what the plan was. "I'll be at Eddie and Melissa's around 8:00. I'm leaving the car in a garage that is one subway stop closer to Manhattan. I'll meet you at that subway stop and we can walk together."
8:00, eh? It was 6:00.
"I was thinking I might just go on to Eddie and Melissa's and get ready there. I'm really tired of carrying all my stuff around."
"No! I really want to walk with you."
"But my shoes are huge. I don't want to walk in my giant heels. And I don't have any place to get ready."
"We never get to spend time together! I want to walk with you."
"Fine!" I conceded. But this was really annoying. The Starbucks where I had been reading did not have a public restroom, and I didn't feel like wandering around Manhattan trying to find someplace, so I got on the train to Astoria. I arrived there about 6:45, and started, once more, to wander. Again I called Ryan.
"How long do you think you'll be?"
"It will be at least an hour."
"OK. There's seriously no place for me to go."
*silence*
"Fine. I'll figure it out." But he was lucky this was not a first date.
As I started wandering- again- I got a text from Melissa. "Just leaving the city with my nails painted! So excited!" Getting my nails done is a pretty rare treat for me, but it gave me an idea. A nail salon would have a bathroom and a place for me to sit down for a while. And- could it be? A salons with manicures for $6. I couldn't sit at Starbucks for $6. So I picked out a plum colored polish, and let someone else take care of me for 30 minutes or so.
Then I called Ryan. Again. "OK, what's your ETA?" I could tell he was about to lose it when he told me that he was stuck at the toll and was at least 20 minutes away. I didn't want to make him feel even worse about being late, but come on. "Fine. Call me when you're here."
I found a bar and ordered a 7-and-7. And I sat and drank. By myself. Finally, the woman next to me asked-
"Are you waiting for someone, too?"
"I am. My husband."
"Yeah. Awkward, isn't it? Because until they show up, you're just drinking at a bar alone." We laughed and chatted for a few minutes before my phone rang. Finally.
I met Ryan under the subway. Not the most romantic start to a date I've ever experienced, but I was just happy he was there. With a suitcase. But I let it go.
We walked the few blocks to Melissa and Eddie's and chatted about my lesson and the woman at the bar and my purple nails. And as we climbed the steps to our friends' apartment, I expressed concern over wearing my hair down. I never wear my hair down.
"It looks fine." Well. That makes me feel better. "I think you might look a little too classy, though."
"Excuse me? Too classy, for what? For Astoria?" This was a little hurtful, since I was specifically going for an artsy look. I was confused. So I added "I have purple nails? Does that help?" I never got an answer, because that's when Melissa opened the door. In bunny ears. And Playboy pajama pants...
To Be Continued...
Here are the events of the week as I experienced them.
Several days ago I was chatting with a friend about Saturday evening, and the fact that Ryan and I had plans. We were going out to dinner. With another married couple. Without the baby. This was, I explained (though I probably didn't have to) a very big deal. We never get to go out just the two of us. We were even spending the night at our friends' apartment in Astoria, so there would be no worrying about who would drive, no rushing back to the babysitter.
Friday morning I got a text. Our babysitter was canceling. This was not OK. I needed this night out. And I knew that Ryan needed this night out. And he had mentioned several times over the past two months (yes, we had made these plans two months ago) how important the evening was. That it was the ONE NIGHT when we must be certain to have a sitter. I was angry and frustrated, and I knew he would be angry and frustrated, and I set to work finding a replacement.
That's all I did on Friday, really. I sat around and waited for people to get back to me. I was either actively contacting people, or sitting around being a nervous wreck, unable to focus on anything productive. I knew a few of my close friends already had plans- like... playing Ophelia in Halmet, or celebrating their own anniversary. Then some of my go-to girls from my theatre company started to get back to be. None of them were available. I posted it on facebook. Nothing. Then I started to get messages from a friend of a friend, because there were a few people devoting a lot of energy to finding us a babysitter. It was that important. And I was grateful that everyone seemed to understand that it was that important.
A little confused.
But grateful.
Ryan found someone on Friday afternoon around 4:30. Whew.
I set out on Saturday to teach a lesson in Manhattan in my usual fashion- a bag slung over my shoulder carrying different clothes, make-up, and shoes, so I could get dressed up to go out after I taught. I am starting to feel like I will spend all of my Saturdays this way. I taught, and then I wandered around Manhattan for two hours, just waiting for time to pass before my date. Finally, I had wandered as much as I could wander. I called Ryan and asked him what the plan was. "I'll be at Eddie and Melissa's around 8:00. I'm leaving the car in a garage that is one subway stop closer to Manhattan. I'll meet you at that subway stop and we can walk together."
8:00, eh? It was 6:00.
"I was thinking I might just go on to Eddie and Melissa's and get ready there. I'm really tired of carrying all my stuff around."
"No! I really want to walk with you."
"But my shoes are huge. I don't want to walk in my giant heels. And I don't have any place to get ready."
"We never get to spend time together! I want to walk with you."
"Fine!" I conceded. But this was really annoying. The Starbucks where I had been reading did not have a public restroom, and I didn't feel like wandering around Manhattan trying to find someplace, so I got on the train to Astoria. I arrived there about 6:45, and started, once more, to wander. Again I called Ryan.
"How long do you think you'll be?"
"It will be at least an hour."
"OK. There's seriously no place for me to go."
*silence*
"Fine. I'll figure it out." But he was lucky this was not a first date.
As I started wandering- again- I got a text from Melissa. "Just leaving the city with my nails painted! So excited!" Getting my nails done is a pretty rare treat for me, but it gave me an idea. A nail salon would have a bathroom and a place for me to sit down for a while. And- could it be? A salons with manicures for $6. I couldn't sit at Starbucks for $6. So I picked out a plum colored polish, and let someone else take care of me for 30 minutes or so.
Then I called Ryan. Again. "OK, what's your ETA?" I could tell he was about to lose it when he told me that he was stuck at the toll and was at least 20 minutes away. I didn't want to make him feel even worse about being late, but come on. "Fine. Call me when you're here."
I found a bar and ordered a 7-and-7. And I sat and drank. By myself. Finally, the woman next to me asked-
"Are you waiting for someone, too?"
"I am. My husband."
"Yeah. Awkward, isn't it? Because until they show up, you're just drinking at a bar alone." We laughed and chatted for a few minutes before my phone rang. Finally.
I met Ryan under the subway. Not the most romantic start to a date I've ever experienced, but I was just happy he was there. With a suitcase. But I let it go.
We walked the few blocks to Melissa and Eddie's and chatted about my lesson and the woman at the bar and my purple nails. And as we climbed the steps to our friends' apartment, I expressed concern over wearing my hair down. I never wear my hair down.
"It looks fine." Well. That makes me feel better. "I think you might look a little too classy, though."
"Excuse me? Too classy, for what? For Astoria?" This was a little hurtful, since I was specifically going for an artsy look. I was confused. So I added "I have purple nails? Does that help?" I never got an answer, because that's when Melissa opened the door. In bunny ears. And Playboy pajama pants...
To Be Continued...
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Wreck This Journal
I attended a bachelorette party on Friday night. I didn't want to go. It's not because I don't care about the bride, or the hostess, or the other guests. I was just... tired. I know the other toddler Mommies out there can understand. If you have a night off, you sort of want to stay home with your family in your jammies. But, I fixed my make-up, and got on the Metro North, which took me to the 6 train, which took me to the N train, and I arrived at the party, ready to make the most of it. I was handed a drink nearly immediately. OK, that helps... And then, I was handed a book.
"Wreck This Journal."
I didn't understand. It was just a book with a different instruction on each page. And the primary purpose is to wreck the book.
A BOOK. You want me to destroy a BOOK? I care about books. I have always cared about books. I'm writing one, for goodness sake. But I am a good sport, I can do this. Our hostess turned our attention to a page in the middle that said "rip this page out. Throw it away. Accept the loss." And it was kind of... liberating... actually. We spent the whole evening wrecking our books and talking. It's interesting that women have to have busy hands in order to connect. Men can just drink. We need to DO. And so we talked, and we drank, and we threw our books off of the balcony, and we set them on fire, and we tied strings around them and dragged them around the neighborhood. People stared (fortunately I am not shy) and asked what we were doing. We answered that it was a bachelorette party. Somehow, this was accepted as an answer that made sense. Oh, New Yorkers.
The longer the night went on, the more I got it. My inner-perfectionist let go. I got less and less worried about doing something the "right" way. I didn't save pages for when I was in the mood. And the results were all rather artistic. And honest. They were simple tasks, and they gave me an instant feeling of accomplishment.
There is a lot of freedom to be gained from wrecking this journal. I'm about halfway. So here it is. My new category of blogs. Wreck this blog. This could get messy.
"Wreck This Journal."
I didn't understand. It was just a book with a different instruction on each page. And the primary purpose is to wreck the book.
A BOOK. You want me to destroy a BOOK? I care about books. I have always cared about books. I'm writing one, for goodness sake. But I am a good sport, I can do this. Our hostess turned our attention to a page in the middle that said "rip this page out. Throw it away. Accept the loss." And it was kind of... liberating... actually. We spent the whole evening wrecking our books and talking. It's interesting that women have to have busy hands in order to connect. Men can just drink. We need to DO. And so we talked, and we drank, and we threw our books off of the balcony, and we set them on fire, and we tied strings around them and dragged them around the neighborhood. People stared (fortunately I am not shy) and asked what we were doing. We answered that it was a bachelorette party. Somehow, this was accepted as an answer that made sense. Oh, New Yorkers.
The longer the night went on, the more I got it. My inner-perfectionist let go. I got less and less worried about doing something the "right" way. I didn't save pages for when I was in the mood. And the results were all rather artistic. And honest. They were simple tasks, and they gave me an instant feeling of accomplishment.
There is a lot of freedom to be gained from wrecking this journal. I'm about halfway. So here it is. My new category of blogs. Wreck this blog. This could get messy.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Can You Feel the Love Tonight?
I had heard that the first few minutes of Disney's "The Lion King" on Broadway are some of the most breathtaking moments people have seen on stage. Last Saturday, I sat in our secluded little area, (it's not where our seats were, but since we were with a Lion King employee and the area was empty, we got to sit in the middle of the six empty rows in the back. The best place to enjoy a show with a 17-month-old) and I felt the house lights go down, and I wondered. I am not easily impressed. Would I feel what others have felt?
Less than a minute later I was holding my breath and crying as I watched the beautiful events unfold. But I could not tell you what was happening onstage. Or what the elephants looked like. I could barely tell you what song they were singing. (OK, it was "Circle of Life," but come on. We've all seen the movie.) Because the sight that had me so swept up was not the show itself, but rather, my daughter watching the show.
She sat on a booster seat between Mommy and Daddy for the first minute. She laughed when the baboon came out. But when she saw the elephant pass by in the aisle, just inches away, she crawled onto Ryan's lap and wrapped her arms around his neck, facing the back of the house. She held on, but she never stopped watching. Once they had passed, she turned around to see the parade of animals make their way up to the stage. "Wassat?" she asked. (This version of the word highly preferable and much more developed than the former "What is it?" scrunched into one syllable. "Shi-iht?") And before we could answer her- "Oooooooh! Wow!" And she sat. And she watched. And she clapped. And she laughed. (including when Mufasa died. But we'll forgive her for not understanding the context.) And she saw nearly the entire full-length show at seventeen months old.
Our friend Lindsay, who got us the tickets, did take Lily out into the lobby for a few minutes during Act 1, and again for a few minutes in Act 2. But not for long, and only for the slower parts. She sat mesmerized through the rest, and by the time Scar was brought down, she was standing on my lap and clapping her hands and yelling "Yaaaayyyy!!!" (But again, she laughed when Mufasa died, so...)
Who knows how much she understood of the story. Very little, I'm sure. But she could feel it. She could feel the orchestra. And she could feel the energy in the room. She could see and hear the instruments ("Doot doot dooooooo!" and then looking for my reaction. Is that right, Mommy? Yes, baby girl. Those horns say "doot doot doo.") and the voices, and she could see the costumes and the sets. And she could go backstage after the show. And she got to meet the actors and even go trick-or-treating in their dressing rooms and have hot dogs with their families.
Being a Mommy is exhausting. And sometimes thankless. And being in theatre is exhausting. And often thankless. But last Saturday, Lily reminded me that things aren't so bad.
Less than a minute later I was holding my breath and crying as I watched the beautiful events unfold. But I could not tell you what was happening onstage. Or what the elephants looked like. I could barely tell you what song they were singing. (OK, it was "Circle of Life," but come on. We've all seen the movie.) Because the sight that had me so swept up was not the show itself, but rather, my daughter watching the show.
She sat on a booster seat between Mommy and Daddy for the first minute. She laughed when the baboon came out. But when she saw the elephant pass by in the aisle, just inches away, she crawled onto Ryan's lap and wrapped her arms around his neck, facing the back of the house. She held on, but she never stopped watching. Once they had passed, she turned around to see the parade of animals make their way up to the stage. "Wassat?" she asked. (This version of the word highly preferable and much more developed than the former "What is it?" scrunched into one syllable. "Shi-iht?") And before we could answer her- "Oooooooh! Wow!" And she sat. And she watched. And she clapped. And she laughed. (including when Mufasa died. But we'll forgive her for not understanding the context.) And she saw nearly the entire full-length show at seventeen months old.
Our friend Lindsay, who got us the tickets, did take Lily out into the lobby for a few minutes during Act 1, and again for a few minutes in Act 2. But not for long, and only for the slower parts. She sat mesmerized through the rest, and by the time Scar was brought down, she was standing on my lap and clapping her hands and yelling "Yaaaayyyy!!!" (But again, she laughed when Mufasa died, so...)
Who knows how much she understood of the story. Very little, I'm sure. But she could feel it. She could feel the orchestra. And she could feel the energy in the room. She could see and hear the instruments ("Doot doot dooooooo!" and then looking for my reaction. Is that right, Mommy? Yes, baby girl. Those horns say "doot doot doo.") and the voices, and she could see the costumes and the sets. And she could go backstage after the show. And she got to meet the actors and even go trick-or-treating in their dressing rooms and have hot dogs with their families.
Being a Mommy is exhausting. And sometimes thankless. And being in theatre is exhausting. And often thankless. But last Saturday, Lily reminded me that things aren't so bad.
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