A Few of the Things I've Given Up

...Not for lent, forever.

High heeled shoes.  I used to wear awesome shoes.  There was a warehouse sort of place in Vancouver where it was possible to get beautiful shoes very cheaply.  However, they never had a full range of sizes, so I would buy whatever my foot would squeeze into.  Of course, I worked in an office at the time, and had to wear such things every day.  I had gorgeous shoes for every outfit.  Most of my clothes were mix-&-match separates in navy blue, mauve and burgundy.  Nowadays, I have one pair of dress shoes, with maybe a 1" heel, and that's about as high as I'll go.  For stage, I'll wear something higher if I have to, especially if I don't have to wear them for long.  For everyday, I wear ugly flat shoes with squishy insoles and wide toes.  I have decided that one cannot look fabulous if one's feet hurt.  Well, I can't, anyway.

Shiny clothes.  They only worked when I was young and skinny.  No more shiny jersey, satin, taffeta, lamé, and did I mention jersey? 

Skirts, unless I can wear shorts under them.  At least until I lose more weight.  My thighs have more than a nodding acquaintance these days, and the climate doesn't help.  Skirts are no longer comfortable.  I actually miss them more than I miss the heels, because I've always liked nice full skirts.  I have a couple of things I can wear underneath and should probably get more, because skirts are very difficult to give up.  I don't care if they make me look dumpy.  I look dumpy no matter what I wear, so I might as well dress the way I like and just avoid the mirrors.

Sometimes I long for the days when I just threw on a dress and a pair of drawers and I was good to go.  Or a halter top and a pair of wraparound pants.  Nowadays, such things require a lot of underpinning so that I don't resemble a Person of Walmart.  Especially if I'm going to Walmart.  I mean, you never know who is snapping your picture with a phone and posting it god knows where.  Think about it.

Getting back to shoes for a minute, I have to add flip-flops to the list.  How in the world did I ever wear those?  I can't stand to have that thing (thong) (that's what they were called, back in the day) between my toes!  Two steps and I realize, "OK, that's enough of that."  I used to live in the bloody things!  And those Indian sandals with the toe ring?  Those are not happening, either.

I don't wear much jewelry any more.  Every so often, I'll run across a pair of earrings I like and wear them for a while, but then I take them off and lose them again.  If the purpose of jewelry is to enhance one's beauty, then I'm done.

I swear I'm turning into Addy.  By the end of her life, she wore house dresses and slippers all the time, and her drawers had to be several sizes too big because she couldn't stand anything tight.  The last time I remember her dressing up was for our wedding, and she bought a beautiful outfit from a catalogue for that.  It was crepe-y and flowy and very Bea Arthur.  She wore dress shoes, too, albeit sort of Dr Scholl's sandals.  She also drank with us and walked the Riverwalk until 2:00 AM.  It was her last major party, as far as I can remember. 

If you ever see me out and about in a house dress and slippers, please shoot me.  Please.

This is the only picture of my mother I have on my computer.  I have others that need to be scanned in, if I ever find that box.

Her wedding day.  She was 31 when she married my dad; certainly "over the hill" for that time (1936).

She had a difficult life.  Born in 1905, the second of four children and the oldest girl, she learned early on that girls were less valuable than boys.  Her mother died when she was 9, and she and her siblings were shunted from her grandmother to a "maiden aunt" (I kid you not--that how she referred to Aunt Ethel), who raised the little family.  In traditional style, the girls waited on the boys and did all the chores:  cooking, laundry, cleaning, as well as polishing the boys' shoes, etc.  This would have been during and after WW I.

She never graduated from high school, being math-challenged.  According to Aunt Ethel, there were two careers open to women--teaching and missionary work.  Teaching was out, without that high school diploma, so Mom spent a year or so at missionary school before deciding that was not a good fit.  She eventually became a nurse, which, at that time, didn't require a high school diploma.  She worked in OB, psychiatry, OR and eventually found her niche in home nursing.

I never did find out why she quit driving, except for vague references to a bad accident.  I don't know if she was injured, if she caused it or if anyone was killed, but she never drove again.

She was born in the U S, but grew up in Canada, where she met and married my very English father.  They went to England in 1938, just in time for WW II.  Dad was in the RAF, and mom held down the fort in Coventry.  Of course, she was bombed out (twice), and eventually decided to wait out the rest of the war on her home turf.  She travelled back to the U S on the Queen Mary, which had been fitted out as a troop ship, and worked in a Rosie the Riveter job till the war was over.  Dad joined her in New York for a while after, and then they returned to England.

Mom was the stuff of which pioneers were made.  I can totally see her living a Laura Ingalls kind of life.  She worked very hard, all the time.  Cleaning, cooking, sewing, splitting wood, gardening, knitting, crocheting, making rag rugs...there was nothing to which she wouldn't turn her hand if her hand was needed.  I remember a night on our epic trip across the continent when she ran off a bear with a broom and a rubber boot.  See HERE for a full account.

We were at odds most of the time, because I am, compared to her, a lazy person and always have been.  When people ask me how I manage to do as much as I do, I am always tempted to say, "Huh!  You should have seen my mother!"

So, nothing I ever did was good enough.  I never worked hard enough or fast enough, or did a job that was good enough for her.  Whether it was cleaning a chicken coop or a stove pipe, making a potato salad, sewing a dress, ironing a shirt, planting a garden or canning green beans, everything I did was inferior.  Because, of course, she had done a better job at ten than I did at sixteen.

So my feelings about her are still ambivalent.  I caught myself being snarky about her on Facebook the other day.  Somebody posted one of those memes, "If you could have dinner with anyone in history, who would you pick?"  Many picked their mothers, and I responded, "I'd choose mine, but then I'd have to listen to a four hour monologue on what hell was like."

Because she wasn't "nice."  She rolled her own cigarettes (and taught me how, which made me quite popular in college) and coughed up a lung every day.  In the morning, no one could do anything right.  Even the cat would avoid her.  The coffee was too strong, the toast too soft, the cereal too soggy, the newspaper had too many ads and my hair was too stringy.  I couldn't wait to get out of the house.  When I got home from school, she acted as if I'd been on vacation all day, rather than dodging bullies, and chore time commenced.  Nowadays, we praise our kids for reading books, but reading was slacking as far as Mom was concerned.  Never mind that I had to ask permission to leave the room, let alone the house.  She was verbally and physically abusive to me and to my dad.

In short, she had superb survival skills and lousy people skills.  Like most of us, I suppose she did the best she could with what she had to work with, and I thank her for that. 

The worst thing she did to me was make me afraid to sing.  She got so annoyed at my tuneless attempts that she put me in the church choir, hoping they would teach me how.  They just threw me out, because her incessant, "Oh, for heaven's sake, Veronica, either get on the tune or shut up," took its toll on my confidence.

The best thing she did for me was to tell me, over and over, "how would you feel if somebody did that to you?"  I heard that every time I did something that hurt anyone else, by word or deed.

So, as Mothers' Day is upon us again, my memories of her bubble to the surface, along with the guilt that comes with unresolved conflict. 

She has been dead for nearly 35 years.  You'd think I'd be over it by now.

Michael Blevins--Shithead.

Since Vanessa and Michael split up (they are still not divorced, and it has been a year and a half), he has let us all know, one way or another, how despicable he really is.

I've documented a lot of his offenses here and there, so I won't dredge up the whole lot again, but there is one thing that bugs me more than I can say. 

He has never...not once...ever taken Ethan to buy Vanessa a card or present for Christmas, her birthday, Valentine's or Mothers' Day.  He takes him for his weekends, but he has done nothing to show Ethan how he should treat Mommy.  In my opinion, this is neglecting his duty to his son.  It doesn't matter how he feels about Vanessa (and I think he has made that pretty clear), he should still help Ethan with cards and prezzies as the occasion demands.  How else will the child know how these things work?

I do my best, but I worry.  Mammaguh taking him shopping for cards and prezzies just isn't the same as having Daddy do it.

There are times when I would sincerely like to slap that man upside the head.  Of course, I won't.  Not worth going to jail for.

Ode to the Drama Teacher--Samantha Bennett

SAMANTHA BENNETT, ON HER POEM: I am not exaggerating when I say that I owe my very life to the teachers, coaches and camp counselors (yes, I went to theatre camp – Camp Harand, anyone?) who taught me how to act and, in the process, taught me how to live.

This past October I was delighted to be asked to present two days worth of workshops for the California Educational Theatre Association at their annual retreat at Asilomar, CA. We had a blast.

To honor them and the extraordinary work of teachers everywhere, I wrote this poem.


Ode To The Drama Teacher


And as you stand there: Aghast
Because we’re three days from Opening Night and
Ado Annie still doesn’t know her lines and
The Dream Ballet is a Nightmare and
The Light Board Op just got Detention…

Let us now praise You.


You, the Permanently Fatigued.
You, the Loyal-to-the-Point-of-Self-Neglect.
You, the Keeper of a Thousand-and-Eleventeen Secret Dreams.

You are the one who makes it all Look So Easy.
Who would have expected that the most important Skill you learned getting your BA
Was Juggling?

Juggling Paperwork and Personalities and oh, right – weren’t you supposed to have a
Private Life around here somewhere?

But even though you are Sick to Death of
Spoon River Anthology
You still puddle up every time you hear
There’s A Place For Us
No matter how Off-Key.

And while you still remember when you Brought the House Down in
Midsummer
You now love This House.

You have created a House where any child – no matter how Flamboyant, no matter how Shy –
Can embrace their Inner Ethel Merman (and thanks to those English 101 classes you now must teach, you are keenly aware that using “their” in the previous sentence is increasingly considered correct and honestly, it’s really the only sensible answer as writing “his or her” is as damaging to poetry as the participle that dangles.)

And you have created a House where any child – no matter how Flamboyant, no matter how Shy – can dive straight to the Deepest, Darkest, Quietest corner of human suffering and bring a room of teenagers – and yes, you, too – to silent tears.


You have made a Home for the Misunderstood
A Family for the Misfit and a
Safe Spot to land no matter how bad The Mid-Terms are.

Because despite all the Budget Cuts and
The Paperwork and
The Meetings about the Meeting to Schedule the Meetings and
The Truancies and
The Parents
Dear God The Parents and
Did we mention The Paperwork?

Nothing on this Green Earth compares to watching a group of kids
Learn the true meaning of Ensemble.

And nothing compares to the pure joy of watching The Ones whom you knew would Eventually Get It
Finally. Really. Get It.

And nothing nothing nothing compares to The Confidences shared in low tones as they seek you out in Your Office,
The Choir Room
The Front Seat of the Van on the way home from Fullerton.

You aren’t teaching Drama.
You are teaching Life
Which we all know is a Comedy – a Chekhovian Comedy – but a Comedy nonetheless.

And you aren’t teaching Choreography
You are teaching them to Dance.


And you aren’t teaching them how to be a Character.
You are teaching them how to be Themselves.

So here’s to you –
Making room for Art in a world that seems to have no room for Art.

(Because, by the way, that room has been repurposed as the new Standardized Test Prep Center – you don’t mind rehearsing outside, do you?)

And here’s to you –
Scrounging around for new shows that somehow match the sets you already have
Because some Genius on the School Board has
Recently Announced that not only can you not perform Huckleberry Finn
Or Anouilh’s Antigone (probably because he couldn’t pronounce it) and
Given the flap over the
Scene from M. Butterfly last year, I guess
March of the Falsettos and The Vagina Monologues are
Out of the Question for the Spring
So Oh Dear God it looks like it’s going to be
Arsenic And Old Lace one more blessed time.

But that’s OK
I love Arsenic And Old Lace.

So here’s to you –
Making room for another Coffee Mug with those damn masks on them

Making room in the Chorus for Just One More

And
Making room for each and every child
To Be
A
Star.

Things on the Interwebs that Amuse Me

Somebody posted this link on Facebook:  http://www.thedailybuzz.com.au/2011/11/25-clever-ideas_household-tips_storage-ideas/.  I read it and thought, "Really?"  I just had to comment on these "tips" from my slacker-mom perspective.

1)  Oh, yes.  Just what I always wanted to do.  Make strawberry beads.

2)  Why waste a perfectly good walnut?  Scratches and dings give your furniture character.

3)  Crayon masterpieces only enhance the TV picture.

4)  You're supposed to cut apples for your kids?  Who knew?  Besides, isn't that what Twinkins are for?

5)  Bed linen comes in sets?  With matching pillowcases?  Where have I been?

6)  I spent my life trying to get them to turn that shit down, not make it louder.  You want louder, get earbuds.

7)  Or use plastic bags to store wet-wipes containers.  Either way.

8)  (Gawps in astonishment)  You take your baby to the beach?  Isn't that child abuse?

9)  The velcro always pulls the sheetrock off when you hang the kid on it.

10)  Maybe, if you have tall people in your life to get them down for you.

11)  But sifting through the dust bag for your sapphires is so much fun.

12)  The only place I carry cupcakes is from the plate to my mouth.

13)  I just take sheets out of the dryer and put them back on the bed.  Fold them?  Pah!

14)  Bobby pins?  They still make those?

15)  That's why the lord invented grocery bags.

16)  Craft supplies?  What's that?

17)  Cord labels?  But isn't half the fun just unplugging things to see what goes off?

18)  OK, there are two things wrong with this.  First, it's not fair to let your kids think they're getting ice cream when it's really cake, and second, it's hard to squish those HEB cupcakes into the cones.

19)  If you're going to do that, you might as well do it on the stove.  In a saucepan.  Skip the middleman.

20)  You only really need two spray bottles.  Glass cleaner and 409.  No need for a pressure rod.

21)  Eggs are round.  Heartshaped eggs are just gross.  Going through that much effort to make them so is nuts.

22)  What?  Are you running for Mother of the Year, here?  That's why there are ice cream cones.  That's twice now that you have confused ice cream with baked goods.  I'm beginning to wonder about your judgment.

23)  Not so soothing when your hubby pours vodka over them and takes a swig.

24)  Great.  Now I can have dead things all over my walls instead of just in flower beds.

25)  Aren't christmas ornaments supposed to be disposable?  My cats think so.  Just throw those suckers in the box, and use the ones that survive next year.

Seriously, folks.  Quit sweating the small shit.

Things on the Interwebs that Piss Me Off

Maybe I'll start a whole new label for this topic.  It seems that, every time I turn around, there's something else.  This, for example.  This is a pastor exhorting his parishioners to beat the gay out of their kids.  Charming, huh?  Dare I say that this is a North Carolina pastor?

Harris, the Senior Pastor of Berean Baptist Church in Fayetteville, N.C., is heard in this audio clip telling his congregation that should their children show any signs of “homosexual” behavior, then it is their responsibility to use violence as a corrective measure to prevent that child from being gay or lesbian.  

 For a start, just what are the "signs of homosexual behaviour?"  He mentions that it is OK (thanks, douche bag) to let your daughters play sports, but that they have to dress (and smell) like girls at other times.  Does he advocate parents sniffing around their daughters?  That sounds a little...well...perverse, to me.  Just what does a girl smell like, in his view, I wonder?  Perfume?  Hormones?  What?  He doesn't have a whole lot to say about girls, but he has plenty to say about boys.

“So your little son starts to act a little girlish when he is four years old and instead of squashing that like a cockroach and saying, ‘Man up, son, get that dress off you and get outside and dig a ditch, because that is what boys do,’ you get out the camera and you start taking pictures of Johnny acting like a female and then you upload it to YouTube and everybody laughs about it and the next thing you know, this dude, this kid, is acting out childhood fantasies that should have been squashed. …

Your children are your children, you self-righteous son of a bitch.  You are lucky to have them.  If you believe in god, then you have to believe god made them.  Just who the hell are you to think you can improve on the work of your creator?  You think he sends them to you all flawed and stuff, and you are supposed to "fix" them?  How arrogant and egotistical is that?  And what business do you have preaching this obscene crap from a pulpit, no less?!

Before I totally gave up on religion, I went to several different churches, for several different reasons.  One that I attended for a few months had a preacher who offered to come into our homes and discipline our children for us...just to show us how it should be done (in the eyes of god, of course).  That was when I quit going there, despite the fact that Brendan (at maybe six) wanted to keep on, as he was kicking ass in Sunday school, playing some bible video game.  My son is straight, but I didn't know that, at the time.  He, like all my kids as toddlers, liked to walk around in my shoes.  I'm thinking that, according to the pastor at the church I attended, and this jerk from North Carolina, I should have been "squashing that like a cockroach."  Well, guess what, Pastor Harris..it didn't make a shit-stinking bit of difference!

In the interest of raising kids with a minimum of gender bias, I made sure that the girls had trucks and Legos and all the "boy" toys I wanted as a child, but was not allowed.  I made sure my son had dolls and other traditionally "feminine" toys. 

Preachers such as this Sean Harris are trying to put us all back a few generations, to when men were men and, as they say, sheep were scared.

Fuck him...wait...let me think about it...no.

http://pastorseansblog.blogspot.com/2012/05/important-clarification-to-sundays.html

Ooh!  More fodder!  Here is his APOLOGY!  On his very own blog, no less!.

For the record, I want to ensure everyone that I do NOT believe physical force is capable of fixing effeminate behavior or homosexual behavior. Parents should not punch babies or children. (Ultimately only the gospel of Jesus Christ has the power to deliver one from sexual immorality and behavior including effeminacy; )

I would never advocate for such discipline or actions on behalf of a father or mother. I misspoke. Hopefully, you understood that I was speaking in a forceful manner to emphasize the degree to which gender distinctions matter to God; and therefore, must matter to each of us and especially parents.

"Ensure?"  Shouldn't that be "assure?"  If you don't believe it, why preach it?  If "gender distinctions" matter so much to "god," shouldn't you be content with what "he" "gives" you in the way of children, and not try to change them to suit your own ideas?  Just sayin...

The bible passage he quotes to support his views:

Or do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who practice homosexuality, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.

So, has he other sermons exhorting parents to punish their tender-aged offspring for behaviour that might reflect the other no-nos listed?  a) sexually immoral, b) idolaters, c) adulterers, d) thieves, e) the greedy, f) drunkards, g) revilers, h) swindlers...

And isn't he being a bit of a "reviler" himself?

The bible is bad enough as a moral compass; this guy takes it to a new low.

Harold & Maude

I haven't talked much about this.  I've been too afraid to jinx it, I guess, as well as being terrified of the sheer number of lines involved.

I've had leads before, but not like this.  Most shows I'm in, I have whole scenes to take pictures, schmooze backstage, go potty or whatever.  This one, not so much.  There are a lot of scenes in which I am not, but they are so short, I barely have time to change to the next costume.

So, of course, I've been petrified.

Never mind that the character is just so awesome, I'm stretched to the max to convey that.  I wish Maude really existed, and I wish I had her to phone (though she doesn't use the phone much).  She can ungrumble me in the blink of an eye!  Of course, now she does exist, inside my head, and shutting her up may prove more of a problem than calling her up.

It has been awkward, at times, thinking about her suicide, and then considering Jim's.  Of course, there really is no connection, as hers came from an entirely different place than his.  Still, the fact that I can do this is a testament to how far I have come down this road of survival.

The show is rocking along, thanks to a wonderful cast and crew.  Every actor and techie is spot on and tight.

At the first night of auditions, I was really upset that no one showed up to audition for Harold.  I began to think that it was me.  Bad breath...body odour...snarky personality...troubles with lines...did nobody want to work with me?  On day two, Joshua Landry Dews walked in and is just perfect.  I am also working with some old friends I've never been on stage with, in spite of knowing them for years...Russ Jernigan and Steve Menke.  A treat.  And then there are friends with whom I have worked many times...B J Machalicek and Richard Dodwell.  There are a couple of people who have done a couple of shows at Sam Bass, Meredith Nelson as the gardener and Michelle Foxworthy as the maid.  The three dates, Vanessa Harkins, Asia Killars and Lindsay Snyder have never been with us before, and I sure hope they come back.

This is turning out to be one of the best theater experiences ever, so muchisimas gracias to Frank Benge for casting me.

There are still seven shows, with some seats available for each one.  Please come and see it, because you will never hear the end of it if you don't!