It's not the thing you fling, it's the fling itself

Good Lord: Shoot the Freak

2012-01-08T22:13:00.000-08:00

I may have watched this video a few times today, or seven, or maybe more. You can't really hear the vocals well, but the music makes me want to do things. Awesome things. Dance-y things. Happy things.

It's the band Shoot the Freak, and let me tell you I'm not cool anymore, so it's a friggin' miracle that I even know they exist. And I'm not going to pretend my performance artist friend told me to check them out over vegan cupcakes at Babycakes. Nope. I'm going to be completely honest and tell you that I know about this band because of Glee.

Ya'll know I'm a huge fan of the show and how they're changing the world for my kid, making it easier for him to have (soon-to-be) four gay parents. Well, tonight I was reading about Season 4 on Tumblr and a picture of Mia Swier came up and I don't know who she is, so I put Google to use and ended up here. On this video (and others).

And holy wow, I need to see this band. I might even get a babysitter to see this band -- and I don't even get a babysitter to go to the damn movies. I wait until Jack goes to see his dads and then I hit the matinee of whatever is playing, and maybe get sushi at that revolving counter place at the mall. I know: Jump back--you so crazy, Annie.

I'm not even sure why I need to see this band, except that the music reminds me of something, another time maybe. Another time when I used to love music without even trying, before I had to rely on the radio to tell me about new artists because I was too busy writing books for other people and carting my kid to baseball practice.

And Mia Swier reminds me of Wendy Melvoin (in her Prince and the Revolution days), Joan Jett (just for the sheer bad-assery) and Angelina Jolie (circa Gia, because of the hair and the hotness, not because of the smack).

Watching Mia makes me want to listen to old school punk rock and then watch Purple Rain again, the first movie I ever owned (on VHS, of course, and why did my Dad by that for me, anyway?) so I can be reminded of Wendy's amazing.

Which reminds me, I really like Patti Smith's cover of When Doves Cry. Here, give it a listen:

So. Shoot the Freak. Maybe I'll ask my girl out to one of their shows. We haven't been on a date in a while, unless you count the elementary school holiday concert at 9:30 a.m. on a Tuesday. Hot. Stuff. It was the perfect date, actually, watching our near-toothless son sing "Silver Bells" with his hands shoved into his pockets, staring at the floor. Couldn't ask for more.

Twenty-Eight

2011-12-10T10:33:00.000-08:00

I'm twenty eight, fit, happy and for the first time in my young life, somewhat calm. Santa Fe is almost everything I want it to be -- when I'm sixty -- so we're packing up and moving on. Another life we cannot name is calling us, and so we listen.

Just five miles past Pecos, driving north, ever north on I-25, my my heart aches for the desert and I want to turn back, say "never mind," and start over. I want to live in the mountains and forget about the gold, wrap the gifts up in brown paper and bury them deep in the ground, steel myself against harsh winters and learn to make something from something instead.

But I keep driving, the radio my soundtrack as I drive: Colorado, Kansas, Iowa, home.

Polly can't understand how a Minneapolis girl can't get around St. Paul, or why I don't want to learn. From his perch in Williamsburg Patrick tells me to give in and move there. "It will be like moving to a new city, like you're not really moving back." I cave and we settle in to sleepy streets and farmer's markets and miles and miles of off leash dog parks, but all I can think about is Patrick's offhanded comment when we were kids, "Sometimes I think about giving up and moving to a studio apartment in St. Paul." I can't shake the feeling that I have given up, that this is it, and if this is it, I think I'll just kick this quest to the curb and watch TV.

Reinvention is my thing, on the page, over drinks, in my bones. So I dive in, re-shelve the books and hang the pictures, decide who I'm going to be here, again. There are new promises and a clean slate and a sense of something bigger on the horizon, something so big I couldn't possibly measure it.

Like a prodigal daughter I return to playwriting, shocked to find the green and white building where I forged my hopes and dreams is full of strangers. Polly goes to college and we surprise her parents with beer and sliders and make them laugh more than they normally would on a Friday night. I find a job and vow it will be my last and I try not to get lost in this new, mediocre life. It's familiar, but we're bored, so bored, and after two glasses of wine, we admit we're a bit lost, too.

Still, each night I curl into her, or she into me, and we sleep, no space between us. I feel her arms wrap around my waist and a contented sigh slips from my mouth. If I could just live in this moment, in this room, with her, forever, I wouldn't worry about the gold. I would just carry it in my pocket and use it when I needed it, like a superhero called to duty. If I could just keep her warm breath on my neck as I walk through my day, I could do this thing. I'm sure of it.

Between You and Me and Everyone Else

2011-10-03T07:17:00.000-07:00

Jack in apple tree at Fishkill Farms.

I've been trying to figure out how to be awesome at everything for as long as I can remember -- first-grade readers, embroidery, baking, softball, kissing, playwriting, giving advice, dating, partying, therapy, playing house, being pregnant, "staying home," counting calories, understanding great books, getting married, being an activist, DIY home renovation, picking out Christmas trees, having orgasms, giving orgasms, talking smack, making soup, finding bargains, road trips... and of course, adapting to circumstances, coming from behind, making the most of things, looking at the bright side, understanding the message, learning from my mistakes, blazing a trail and starting from scratch.

Whew. I'm exhausted just writing that (abbreviated) list of awesome.

I see this tendency in my kid, who doesn't really want to try something if he can't totally own it on the first try. He wants to be awesome at everything, and if he thinks he's anything less than awesome at something, he practices avoidance like it's his job. ("Mama, I am reading. I'm reading in my mind.")

What I'm slowly learning is, when I get blocked, it isn't just because I may be overwhelmed by the sheer mountain of work I heap upon myself like I'm subjugating myself to hell; it's because I really, really want to be awesome at it, and I'm not sure I will be. If you and I were friends, like old friends, and we were talking right now, this is where you'd say, "But you are awesome, Annie." Then, you'd list some of my accomplishments in effort to help me see reason.

There is no reasoning with this... whatever it is. I could win a freakin' Golden Globe and wake up the next morning with a sudden case of jitters, or writer's block, or whatever the hell you want to call it, and spend the next two months reading inane comments on ONTD and listening to every cover of every song by The Cure. (I don't really believe in writer's block. It's just performance anxiety, and I'm ready for the pill. Is there a pill? If there is, hook a girl up, okay?)

There's no cure for this. I'll be struggling with it when I'm eighty-two and still have so much to say. The only solution is to cut the crap (i.e., introspective meandering) and do it anyway.

I'm almost forty, kids. Forty. And okay, my 40th is 18 months away, but the grownups weren't lying... time really does speed up when you get older. Or so it seems. And I've been awesome at a lot of things, but not everything. And I'm never going to be perfect and so I need to be comfortable with sucking from time to time, or I'll never get anything done. I'll be forty, and so so sad because I didn't do that one thing I knew I've always known I must do, simply because I was afraid I would be less than awesome at it from time to time.

Twenty-Five

2011-09-06T10:53:00.000-07:00

I'm twenty-five, a big girl again, but still rocking a tight ass. I'm too young, too wild, too stuck in old fears, but I'm doing it anyway... the marriage thing.

We're girls, and it's not legal, so we make it up, deciding our friends will marry us instead. The "bridal party" is full of old friends, all of us freaks in our own way, all of us on the verge of something. We've been partying for days, in fields under northern lights, in four-star restaurants, in shadows.

We caravan to Madeline Island, Polly's soul place, her mecca, and I'm in awe of the collection of loved ones that have assembled on our behalf. Still, I miss Joey and look for him in bars, by the side of the road, on the horizon. He is my phantom limb. I want him to just show up, take me by the hand and tell me I'm brave enough to do this. I want him to be part of every minute. I want his voice and his smirk and his heart. But I ended things in the worst way: I made him bad so I could leave him for good. I'm not allowed to have all of this and him.

The day I lay it all down and agree to forever I drive to the ferry dock and think about it. I could leave. I could just drive and drive until I find a new place to rise, to be someone different. There's still time.

I never pictured myself taking this course. Like the books I read on buses with Stacie in grade school, I imagine myself turning to a different page, reading a different ending. I always expected I would chose to let people down and walk away and from the stage, turn found objects into gold in front of empty seats. I knew for sure I would wake up in a life where nothing was permanent, least of all love. It was always my plan. Yet here I am, about to say yes to this other life.

Polly is out cliff jumping with Em. I imagine her sucking down a cigarette before she leaps into the frigid healing water that is her lake. We are opposites, in thought and deed and desire, yet we fit. We can't get close enough; the night is too short for all we have to say before morning. I remember us, pressed together, sitting up and touching cheeks and hair and shoulders, and then I know for sure: I will always want this.

I drive back and give over to the mayhem, the joy, the happy faces. I wear the dress, link arms with my father and take a chance. Polly holds me tightly and whispers her vows into my ear. Throughout the day and into the night people tap me on my shoulder, eager to share their evidence of why this is the "most perfect day ever." A double rainbow. A birch bark sleeve washed up on shore. Sun showers. A song. A look. A moment.

Beck tries on my rings and walks out on the sand to wish for something. Patrick beams and in his toast, reminds everyone that we were once two children in love with each others' dreams. Zoe lays out three handmade boxes on the sand and tells a story. Erick escorts my mother, too tipsy to drive, up to the cabin. From two tables away, Randi smiles at me like she knows everything.

There is the laughing and familiarity that comes with merging of two lives; I never want this night to end. Friends raise their glasses and we dance barefoot in the sand, and I'm good. I'm good.

But I'm not strong. I'm still afraid of my own fingertips, resting in my lap, the world at the ready.

If Polly Saw Darren Criss 15 Years Ago

2011-07-05T21:32:00.000-07:00

Polly's music taste is eclectic, but she has her faves. She likes Rage Against the Machine, Dinosaur Jr., Janes Addiction, Nirvana, Van Halen, PJ Harvey and some hard core metal bands I can't even stomach.

Really, she's kind of a bad ass. In a recent speech I heard her quote one of the Rage songs: "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me." I'm pretty sure she also did that rocker sign that, to me, just looks like "I love you" in ASL.

Here's a few of the 1,000+ ways we're different:

I danced to the Sundays at First Avenue. Polly made out to various big-hair bands with her guitar-playin' rocker boyfriend in his basement.

I sat in the grass and listened to Sinead O'Connor. Polly was body-passed through the mosh pit at Lollapalooza.

I spent weeks trying to get Prince tickets. Polly drove all night to peek through the window at one of Pearl Jam's gigs at a bar in Madison.

I blast NPR. Polly blasts Radiohead.

Still, she's an incurable romantic, my girl. (And kind of cheesy.) When we were first dating, she would turn up Mariah Carey's top-40 gem, "Always Be My Baby" and smile shyly at me, slipping her hand in mine. Our love has always been five parts superhot awesomeness and two parts pure old-fashioned lovestruck awesomeness.

Today I saw this video of Darren Criss performing in London and it reminded me of Polly, like, 15 years ago. Well before that fateful night when the world stopped making sense without her, I knew she had a massive crush on me. I knew she was pining for me. I knew she knew I was the kind of girl who "only wants to mess around." And I knew she'd wait. So when I saw the uber-talented Darren Criss sing this it reminded me of Polly. It's kind of like her theme song, circa 1996.

And like us, Darren's rendition of "One Fine Day" is five parts superhot awesomeness and two parts pure old-fashioned lovestruck awesomeness. It's Polly's determined longing. It's cheese and goodness and promise and perfection. So despite her love of hard-core music, I know she would have loved this. She would never have sung the song to me, no. That's not her style. But it definitely would have gone on a mix tape with my name on it.

(And for the record, if she had managed to sing this to me a la Darren Criss, I would have said yes a hell of a lot earlier than I did.)

Thanks for the memories, Darren.

What the Phoenix Knows

2011-07-03T03:12:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is a phoenix.
Abstract, with peacock qualities, but a phoenix nonetheless.

I was raised in a matriarchy, all of them masters of the rise. It was normal for my aunt to list the three miracles she had to pull off that day (or five or seven, or more). It was expected that my mother would triumph over adversity (or her own procrastination) at least once a month.

And it was common knowledge that my grandmother could come back from anything, anything. Perhaps it began when she left home at 15, hitchhiking from her tiny farm house in South Dakota all the way to Minneapolis to find work, to find a life. Or maybe it started when she was barely six, on the floor of the convent, where she scrubbed and scrubbed, willfully holding on to her first language even as they tried to beat the German out of her.

Maybe it goes back to her mother who despite her devout Catholic heart and nine hungry children, divorced her abusive husband during a time and in a place when "divorce" was a word said in hushed tones, like whore or fag or Jew.

Maybe it's always been there, this phoenix in all of us. I admired it, I did. But it also brought me pain, as extremes of anything often do. We liked it too much. It was a drug. We craved it, so we caused unnecessary drama and chaos and let ourselves sink down to the bottom just so we could rise again. Why couldn't we all just live ordinary lives? Why did we have to let ourselves get to a point where we had to wield this power? Why couldn't we just calmly, purposefully, plod along, getting through life on a slow-moving current?

About ten years ago I admonished all of us for indulging in what I called, "the Phoenix complex." I thought myself brilliant for coming up with it. I thought it would make us pause, take stock, and stop starting fires just to get off as we rise from the ashes. I buried the phoenix deep inside me, and hung my head in shame every time I indulged in flight.

Now, with my back up against the wall and the clock ticking, I need the phoenix. I need to embrace and harness that power and rise, rise, rise before the ashes turn to quicksand and swallow me whole. Like anything, she is a curse and a blessing. Right now I need the blessing.

The phoenix knows she will be reborn again, and again, and again. The women in my family know that this means we will pull off the best, most unimaginable outcome out of the worst, most challenging situation. Maybe I can have this, without starting fires. Maybe not. But this month, I need what the phoenix knows.

Thank You, New York!

2011-06-25T03:24:00.000-07:00

A conversation with my Dad (a CPA) last night after New York passed the marriage equality bill:

Me:
Hi, Dad. I called to tell you I'm getting married.

Dad:
You're already married.

Me:
I know, but not legally. New York passed the bill.

Dad:
Really? When?

Me:
Five minutes ago.

Dad:
Well, congratulations.

Me:
Thanks. I'm kind of in shock.

Dad:
How did it go?

Me:
Four Republicans and a few Dems flipped. It was 33-29. Awesome, right?

Dad:
Yes.

(longish pause)

Dad:
I'm not sure what to do...

Me:
What do you mean?

Dad:
About your tax return.

Me:
(laughing)
Right, right. Legal in NY; not recognized by the federal government...

Dad:
I'll have to do some research. I'll sort it out.

Me:
Okay.

Dad:
Maybe I have to do a dummy federal return...

Me:
Whatever, Dad. You'll figure it out.

Dad:
This is all new stuff.

Me:
(smiling)
Yup. All new stuff.

Dad:
(pause)
Does this mean you can get on the same health insurance policy now?

Me:
It means everything now, Dad. It means everything.

I Love Commencement Speech Season

2011-06-14T05:23:00.000-07:00

"So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life."

-J.K. Rowling, from her commencement speech at Harvard

“It is our failure to become our perceived ideal that ultimately defines us and makes us unique. It’s not easy, but if you accept your misfortune and handle it right, your perceived ideal can become a catalyst for profound reinvention.”

-Conan O’ Brien, from his Dartmouth commencement speech

"Opportunity can be manufactured. Yes, you can wait around for the right set of circumstances to fall into place and then leap into action, but you can also create those sets of circumstances on your own. In so doing, you manufacture your opportunities."

-Biz Stone, from his Babson College commencement speech

Thoughts on Excavations

2011-06-12T07:34:00.000-07:00

They tell you that you'll reap what you sow, but they don't tell you how much it will hurt. Sore knees, tired eyes, empty bank account, frustrated clients, lonely pen... this reckoning is harder than I thought it would be.

I'm trying to start a fire with damp wood. I want so much; my biological clock was nothing compared to this incessant ticking.

Midas Boy

2011-06-08T14:08:00.000-07:00

Okay, so some of you have been reading my Midas Girl series of little autobiographical drabbles. It's an excavation of sorts, to what end, I'm not sure. I do know it's about hiding my light under a bushel because, well, I was afraid the light would shine so bright, I wouldn't be able to handle it. It's about how, every time I put myself out there, it works out for me, and why that's scary.

Anyhoo... some of you also know I've had a little Glee problem of late, which is why I know the latest info about Chris Colfer, the actor who plays Kurt Hummel. I am completely convinced he has the same golden touch I have. The only difference is, he's not holding back.

Consider this:

He just signed a 2-book deal with Little, Brown. (novelist)
Two weeks ago he started the Glee Live tour (rock star)
Last month he signed a deal with Disney to write a pilot. (TV writer/producer)
Earlier this year he won a Golden Globe for his role on Glee.
Last year he sold a screenplay -- he'll star in the film (screenwriter/movie star)
Two years ago Ryan Murphy liked him so much, he wrote him into Glee (actor/singer)

Oh, and he just turned 21.

See what happens when you just embrace who you are?

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to do that.

Twenty-Two

2011-06-05T07:31:00.002-07:00

I'm twenty-two, taller (but still short), comfortable in my own, expanding skin. Joey and I play house and I write until 4:00 a.m. and wake up at 10:00 a.m. to join rehearsals and possibility and the familiarity of a small town. I'm happier than I've ever been. We take turns orbiting each other, making each other better. I stand down his fears, arms folded, and he pushes back against mine, knocking my fears to the ground as if they are his high school bullies.

I settle into the pages, the boating, the mindless revelry. I imagine myself loving Joey forever and it looks like my favorite movie. We crush on boys and make too much noise; we dally and sink our teeth in and then pull ourselves back, always coming back to center. With no roadmap, it seems wrong, but it feels right, and so despite the questions -- theirs, and our own -- we dig our heels in deeper, deeper, deeper, and press on.

Joey knows about the gold, but here, in his home town, I worry that it makes him nervous. I think he wants me all to himself, and there's no telling where my powers will take me. So I take another hit and sink back into the lazy awesome that is our young, made-up life.

I fall into a rhythm of writing, rehearsals, shows, parties, writing, rehearsals, shows, parties, touching base at the Blind Munchies every day, notebook in hand. I meet another Joe, this time in flannel, who likes girls and chain smokes and sucks down cup after cup of black coffee. We trade barbs and my blood feels electric. We bicker like Han and Leia and I fall for the sadness behind his eyes and all of the words unsaid as we dance around each other, never quite finding a place to land. We play rummy for hours and from the way he looks at me, eyes sharp with longing, I know that he can see it, too. My secret, Midas Girl. But it's worse: he sees that I keep giving her up.

I'm so frustrated I want to run, but instead I pile into a car with Joey, Zoe and Vicky and drive until we spot the first blush of green on the trees. We bypass Devil's Den, Arkansas, last year's haunt, and make our way to a campground, near a lake. In various altered states, the days stretch before us, blending, turning, taking us over. With our powdered donuts and sleeping bags, we are content to stay like this forever, never reaching our potential, never seeing the world.

When our heads clear for five minutes, Zoe and I realize we're just three hours from Memphis, so we pack up and drive to Tennessee. In no time we're on Beale Street, tossing Mississippi love beads around, carrying our giant cups from bar to bar, looking for more, more, more. The night is magic, the kind you only hear about from people you admire. We sing our hearts out, we flirt, we fall off chairs. We dance a soul train line, smoke a joint behind BB King's with Ruby, the headliner, and after Vicky disappears with a doughy stranger, we follow two lesbians in their car to an all-night bowling alley/bar.

And then it happens. Wanda, the proprietor, is tall in her faux leopard ensemble, wild red curly wig rivaling Dolly Parton. She sits with us and we feel like VIPs. It's 4:22 a.m. when Wanda looks into my eyes and I feel her speaking to my soul. Without a word, she lays it all out for me, like a dare. I think she may be a witch. I feel a click, the forever kind, and suddenly -- just like that -- I remember who I am.

I wake up the next morning, the taste of truth serum still in my mouth. "I will never be the same," I say out loud, to no one.

And that is how I got to know her, the one. As me. All me. At the Munchies I still play rummy with Joe and the others, I still write and pretend like life goes on forever. But this time, I turn my head to the left and see her, the girl who likes girls and my mix tapes and drinks Velvet Hammer, black. I see her as if we've only just met. She smiles shyly, her eyes ducking down under the weight of it, and for the first time, ever, I don't hold anything back.

Nineteen

2011-06-01T12:22:00.000-07:00

I'm nineteen, plump, with a tight ass. I've stopped stumbling over bodies the morning after, emptying out the ashtrays and recycling the cans. I've stopped blending into the couch, my heart waiting for something to happen. I've stopped pissing away my powers.

Patrick calls me from his new life and for two hours I sit in the hall closet, the phone cord stretched across the hallway and under the door. I listen to him come down, my voice his balm, and I know I am moving on. It was the fire escape that did it, finally made me brush off my magic fingers and start building this life. From my perch I see Franklin and Hennepin intersect and I think I could be okay. I could be that girl. Midas Girl.

I drop the weight, enough that people see me. Boys. Men. I like the idea of being wanted, but I really just want to make art. Every time I take a chance, it works out, and soon my world is bigger, brighter, full of opportunity just waiting there, ready, like low-hanging fruit. My circle doesn't like the new me, doesn't know this girl with the golden touch. I should move uptown, but I want to prove them wrong, so I move next door.

It's this golden girl that crashes into Joey, dressed up like Bettina Barnes, smiling like he already knows our story. We're magnets. Together we are wild, a chemical reaction. If anything, he wants more Midas Girl, more risk, more promise. When he loses his love, a boy, I hold him tightly as he cries it out on my kitchen floor, Bonnie Raitt his soundtrack. I am watching from above and see that this was always planned.

We steal away to L.A. listening to Beck's mix tapes and I worry that my now smaller, yet still too-curvy, pale body will never measure up in this toned, tanned and tucked world of too many beautiful people. Joey says it will be the opposite. He finds a boyfriend his first night in boystown. I find one, too, my first, the very same night. He's gorgeous, tall, a bit grabby. I give in quickly, ready to just get on with everything.

Joey was right, and I bloom under the attention of too many men. Still, it's not about the boys. It never was. It never is. It's about the gold. It's about busing it to 6th and La Brea every day after work, spinning pages and pages and pages of gold at Rita Flora. I see all of it. Far away from memory and the echoes of neglect I can go all in. I can be her.

Joey gets tired of WeHo, of his boyfriend, of the earthquakes, so he goes back to Wisconsin. I find a new circle. I make plans. I show them everything. The future comes into focus as I run to catch the bus in too-high heels.

And then suddenly, without warning, it's too much. I'm too much. And I can't. What if I lose myself in it? What if people start to hate the light in me? What if I can't control it and turn myself into stone?

Somehow Joey knows. He sends vampire love songs from Wisconsin and calls me home. I pack up my furniture, my promise, my plans and let the movers worry about it. My friends throw going away parties at Dodger Stadium, in backyards, in their homes and each goodbye feels like the wrong thing to do. I turn off the touch, hide the truth in my back pocket, and with a resigned heart, get on the plane.

I am twenty.

Sixteen

2011-05-29T22:22:00.000-07:00

I'm 16, round, with hair that looks like I'm trying. I'm a city girl lost in the country, pretending my father's house is familiar, pretending it's home. I defy authority and take accelerated German so I can reinvent myself in Melk, Austria. I will come back trim and worldly and probably not a virgin.

I also keep up with my French, which is how I end up exchanging long notes en Francais with Chad, a boy who puts henna in his long hair and smells of patchouli. He wears black and soon I'm wearing black and we're two outcasts, crossing the quad to take class with the Johnnies and Bennies. He tells me he's gay and lends me his copy of "Maurice."

I'm careful with my powers, now. I watch the rowers and I run lights for the Moliere play and I pretend to be nothing special. I don't want to stand out. I don't want anyone to know that with just my touch, I can take nothing and make it something.

It's New Year's Eve and I'm up in Anna's guest room, dancing with Patrick. I think he's gay, too, like all of the long-haired boys I hang out with these days who don't talk about being gay with anyone... maybe not even each other. It's Cowboy Junkies and we're caught up and ignoring our friends and he says, "I want to marry you." I'm lit up inside because he doesn't know about me. He doesn't know about the gold, and he still asked.

It's that platonic love that blooms between two people destined to be friends, two people caught up in the possibility of it all. It's romantic and all-consuming and cannot be defined with conventional labels. We can make mix tapes and and plan our future in the big white house because it's safe -- It's girls who set my pulse racing, and it's boys who make him swoon. Our love makes me want to travel the world, alone, to dive into my art and learn about his life through letters and postcards.

I think about trying again, embracing my powers. Just a simple touch and I'll be golden again. Make something happen. I think about riding the wave and letting it take me where it will, even if I end up far away from everyone I love, and reason. Even if, by the time I land, I've forgotten who I am.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe I'll just keep eating. Maybe I'll stop going to school. (Who needs to study, anyway? I ace everything every time my pencil touches paper.) Maybe I'll get caught up in nonsense and try to be like everyone else... forever.

It's a lot. The weight of it, the responsibility.

Thirteen

2011-05-06T12:01:00.000-07:00

I'm 13, chubby, with stringy hair. The first hints of pitch black humor dip into nearly every exchange. In long, even strokes I brush my hair at my locker, but only around the boys. I am not the girl who gets asked to dance, but I'm cool with it, because I know it's not forever. And because of that whole King Midas thing. Yeah. I got that, too. So boys don't matter.

Things are not "okay at home" so I stay over at Stacie's a lot, letting her mom wash my hair under the faucet, waking up early to take in the quiet, clean sounds of normal life. Sometimes I pretend too brightly, I acquiesce too readily; sometimes I pine. But they don't catch on. Not really. They think I'm hiding the pain of dysfunction, and that's okay. Because what I'm really hiding is something much worse: I'm not one of them.

This isn't about girls. Really, it isn't.

This is about the gold.

Something's Coming

2011-04-30T11:32:00.000-07:00

I got a feeling there's a miracle due,
Gonna come true,
Coming to me!

Could it be? Yes, it could.
Something's coming, something good...

-"Something's Coming" from West Side Story

Lately, I've been uncharacteristically happy. Giddy, even.

It could be the long-awaited, albeit still-too-chilly arrival of spring. It could be the start of Little League, which with the squeezable kids, the fantastic coaches and the presence of so many lovely and witty friends has so far proven to be more fun than dinner and drinks on a Friday night. It could be that the tide's in again for me and my girl. (Ebbs and flows, people. Ebbs and flows.)

It could be any or all of the above.

But I don't think that's it, really.

I think something's coming.

Something amazing is on the way, moving toward me at a steady pace, patient and unwavering in it's approach. I sense it in my bones. I feel lucky and full of anticipation, though I have absolutely no idea when it will arrive or even what IT is.

And I'm okay with that. More than okay. I may be a spoiler fiend when it comes to TV shows, but I don't need any clues about what joyful miracle is coming my way. The suspense is delicious.

Happy weekend, all.

PS: When I found the West Side Story video clip I surprised myself because I knew all the words to this song -- and it's not even my favorite song from this musical (my faves are "America" and "I Feel Pretty"). Sure I practically had this movie (and other musicals) on a loop when I was 13 and super geeky, but to still remember the words after all this time?

PPS: Go Rivercats!

An Open Letter to "Glee"

2011-04-23T16:48:00.001-07:00

Dear Glee,

First, let me warn you that this is a bit long. But know that although I will post this on Twitter, I really don't expect any of the talented people who create this show to actually read this. But just in case one of you does read it, I'd like to just get it all out. (It's not bad. It's a huge friggin' thank you for changing the future for my kid, so you know, I need more than a few words.)

Secondly, let me say that I am not your target demographic. I'm a thirty-eight-year-old woman with a wife and a six-year-old boy, and I am more likely to have actual conversations than virtual conversations (I'm crazy like that).

I was, however, forcing my BFF Stacie Sanders (and her many followers) to learn complicated dance routines to Whitney Houston's "How Will I Know?" in grade school, complete with costumes. I may also have donned neon pink gloves (think Madonna circa "Like a Virgin") for our co-ed performance to Prince's "Let's Go Crazy," but it's all a bit hazy.

And, at the age of 12 I decided our little private school needed a talent show, so I just put it together (with Stacie and her many followers), inking giant promo posters by hand and trying to convince the boys to lip sync to something other than Bon Jovi... again.

AND I went to "playwright's camp" instead of getting high with my friends, spent more time backstage than I did at football games and, at the time, was the only high school student doing community theater in St. Cloud, Minnesota.

So maybe I'm not your demographic, but like so many of your fans who no doubt write beautiful notes of thanks, I was once one of the loser "let's put on a show!" geeks at my school.

Which is why I enjoyed watching the first season of Glee. It was fun, and campy and sometimes unbelievably awesome and brave. But to be frank, it wasn't must-see TV... for me. (Again, not your demographic.) (And again... I'm a mom, so my free time is limited.)

But then, in this, the second season, I noticed you weren't relegating the Karofsky bullying storyline to one "very special episode" and I thought, hey. Hey. This is different.

And oh look, the Brittany and Santana love story is so much more than the gratuitous lesbian scenes we usually see (only) during sweeps. Their love is kind of sad, and beautiful, and true.

Then I sort of fell in love with the relationship between Kurt and Blaine. So sweet. I thought back to my private high school (also a boarding school, but co-ed, and uniform-free... like an East Coast prep school, but in the most inbred county in Minnesota).

I remembered the darling gay boys who didn't mind my black lipstick, who introduced me to Erasure and drag and Interview magazine. The boys who were closeted but found ways to moon over each other, slipping love notes in lockers, counting the days until we could hit the clubs in Minneapolis (all ages, Sunday night!), where no one cared who they loved or how they danced or what they believed.

These were the boys I walked across the quad so they wouldn't get hazed (buckets of Gatorade dumped on them from balconies, taunted and threatened and yes, shoved into lockers) by the assholes who went to mass every Wednesday and Sunday, thinking they had done nothing to forgive.

Today those gay boys of mine are out, they have husbands and boyfriends and children -- and a voice.

So I started watching dutifully. And then, I watched the big kiss, riveted, thinking, "Wait... that was not a closed-mouth, two-second peck. That was a full-on kiss, kiss."

I had to know.

What do the kids think?

So I went on Twitter, and noticed that ALL of the tweets were positive. Super positive. From everyone -- gay, straight, questioning, fluid, whatever. Thousands of straight 15-year-old girls were freaking their shit, professing their willingness to get a sex change so they would stand a chance with Chris Colfer. I knew they would be more tolerant, but I had no idea they would be ALL over it.

This lead to my crash course in Tumblr and Klaine and fanfiction (seriously... I was blushing... why are all the little straight girls writing smut about two gay boys?). I started trolling, and found nothing but love.

Nothing. But. Love.

Oh I know the haters are out there. I see it every day. My kid has three gay parents (my girl and I made a baby with one of the gay boys I mentioned earlier), and even though we live in New York, we're acutely aware of all of the hate.

But still.

I read a Tumblr post by a young woman (also from MN) who used to have hate in heart (or was taught to) and after Chris Colfer and Darren Criss and Klaine, her heart -- and her mind -- opened wide and she pulled a 180. She changed her mind about gay people after watching Glee. That is huge. HUGE.

The Klaine kiss lead me to youth culture, and suddenly I started to realize the impact of Glee. Which is why I want to say thank you, ten thousand times.

My son Jack is too young to watch Glee. It won't be the show that defines his generation -- but it has changed his world. As he comes of age, all of these kids who are creating gifs instead of doing their homework will be assuming authoritative roles. They'll be entering positions of power and making decisions. They'll take their place in this world, a world of their own design.

Today they are Gleeks. Ten, twenty years from now, they will be running things -- making art and laws and peace and war. And my kid will live by their rules, in their world (until he grows up to do the same). And that world will have more love than hate, more understanding than ignorance, more acceptance than judgment... thanks, in part, to you.

So thank you, Glee. You've changed the world for my son, the child of three queers who love him very much, and want him to get all of the love he can.

PS: Here's a pic of us, the Easter before last. It's my favorite.

Thank You, Katherine Stone

2011-04-12T05:27:00.000-07:00

Hey, all.

I came out last week... about PPD.

I wrote a blog post about my battle with Postpartum Depression (PPD) a few days ago, something I haven't really talked about much. I sent the post to Katherine Stone, the amazing woman behind PostpartumProgress.com, a website/blog that has helped me so much, so many times. To my surprise, she asked if she could post the blog on her site.

I was apprehensive at first. I really didn't want anyone to know the depths of my suffering, or the thousands of awful, scary thoughts I had about Jack during the two years I lived with PPD. But then I thought about all of the posts on her site that helped me over the years, and I agreed.

You can read the post here.

You know, I never really came out as a lesbian. I didn't know I liked girls until I met and fell in love with Polly, and having been raised by the gentle fist of social justice that is my mother, I never worried about revealing my love for my girl. I was just out. And sure, we have to come out pretty much every day in conversation with people who assume we're straight (which is fine, because most people are), but there was never any angst or worry or shame attached to it.

Coming out as a survivor of Postpartum Depression OCD I've got all of that, and more. But it's okay. Just as its true that the GLBT community gains more acceptance with every person who comes out, women living with PPD will feel less isolated with every person who comes out as a survivor.

So thanks Katherine Stone, for all you do.

Not Friends

2011-04-05T05:31:00.000-07:00

Jack's first day of kindergarten (he's the blond).

I just realized I forgot to finish this post from September. After some monster editing--it was six months ago... I'm older and (not really) wiser now--here it be:

Brooklyn and I are not friends.

First, let me say that Brooklyn's charm is not lost on me--it's a friggin' awesome city. I should have loved it, should have adopted America's first suburb as my new homeland right off the bat, should have spent the next ten years adoring every rooftop garden, every corner bodega, every fresh-faced hipster carrying a baby wearing gender-neutral outerwear. But I didn't.

The day we arrived at our fourth-floor walk-up in Greenwood Heights (south Park Slope) I cried--and didn't stop for two days. It was a one-bedroom apartment, except the previous tenants had removed the wall separating the bedroom from the living room. It was tiny, and freezing and it had one door (the bathroom). And though Polly slept next to me at night and Patrick lived downstairs, I felt completely alone.

Childbirth sucked (I went in on the 6th and he was born on the 12th... enough said). Being a new mom and milk machine was perhaps the most exhausting thing I'd ever experienced. And I was completely removed from my support system, the freaks, geeks and fellow queers who got me through nine months of saltines and diet 7-up.

And so it set in, ever so slowly, until one day I woke up and I wasn't me anymore. I was living with that wretched creep called postpartum depression--the kind where you worry all day long that you'll do horrible things to your precious baby, the kind where sleep is your only relief from the intrusive thoughts (and I wasn't getting more than three hours at a time), the kind where you fantasize about checking into a hotel and never coming back.

It was nine months of hell before I finally summoned up enough courage to tell my doctor what was going down (namely me). He told me I couldn't take drugs if I wanted to keep nursing (okay, no drugs), suggested I join a gym (um, really?) and told me to be prepared, because "you could have this for two years" (holy shit).

I tried to go to the gym, but 12 minutes into my elliptical adventure I'd inevitably hear a frantic voice over the loudspeaker, "Will Jack's mom please come to the nursery?" He never quit screaming, so the gym was out.

Sure, I could hustle back over to the gym by the time Polly or Patrick rolled in, but by then I was half-dead, and just wanted to hang with my buddies Ben and Jerry for the half hour Patrick fed him dinner and the 20 minutes Polly gave him a bath. I still had to nurse, try not to think bad thoughts, put him to bed, try not to think bad thoughts, hold his hand 'til he fell asleep, try not to think bad thoughts, wait two hours until I had enough milk and then sit on the toilet at 10:30 p.m. pumping milk (so Patrick could feed him dinner the next day), try not to think bad thoughts, go to bed before he got up at 1:00 to nurse again. And 3:00. And 6:00. And...

So I walked. Every day I walked and every day I said the same mantra, over and over again, sometimes 100 times in an hour: "God, keep him safe."

I put Jack in the stroller and walked all over Brooklyn. All. Over. Brooklyn. I nursed him under a tree near the koi pond at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens every Tuesday. I pushed him on the swing at the Third Street playground every afternoon. I picked my favorite streets, with the beautiful brownstones set back a bit, and told him we'd live someplace nice someday. But wherever I went, I couldn't escape the fatigue, the worry, or the thoughts.

Sometimes I had to grip the stroller because I was afraid I'd push it into the street. God, keep him safe. Sometimes I walked three, four, five miles just because I was afraid if I stopped to sit I'd get up and walk away from him... forever. God, keep him safe. Sometimes I held his hand and cried really quietly, so none of the nannies could hear me. God, keep him safe.

Right around Jack's first birthday I walked enough to get real with myself, and started seeing a therapist. Therapy didn't help me much with the PPD because as I came to understand, PPD is not about hurt feelings or fucked up memories or behavior modification. PPD is a freakin' chemical ride from hell, and there's no talking your way out of it. Still, it was 45 minutes I had all to myself, once a week, which felt like a vacation.

With Dr. J's help (and www.postpartumprogress.org) I realized the bad thoughts were a form of OCD, that they came from this place of deep concern for my son, that I was never in danger of hurting him (though some people are, if they don't get help) and that I would be okay. Not right away. But soon. (Maybe soon.)

Over time I started to feel a wee bit better, then better still, until one day I heard myself laugh and it sounded like the old me. The thoughts virtually disappeared (but I still said my silent prayers). I started to write again, slowly built up my career again, found my voice again, and came back to life.

It was right about the two year mark that we decided to leave Brooklyn for Nyack, our beloved little village on the Hudson. I went for one last walk in the Slope, toddler Jack bundled up in his stroller, to say goodbye to Brooklyn. I thought I'd feel a kinship with the city, like old war buddies feel for each other. But I didn't. As I walked I saw blocks and blocks and miles and miles of pain, and I knew I would never feel nostalgia for this place.

So Brooklyn and I are not friends.

These days, when I mention the two years I spent in a chemically-imbalanced haze, I say something like, "I had a tough bout with postpartum depression," and make sure to add, "But I'm totally fine now." And even though I know it's perfectly okay to talk about PPD, and that I should talk openly about PPD, sometimes I whisper the words, "Postpartum depression," like those silver-haired ladies who served coffee in the church basement at St. Boniface Catholic School, lowering their voices every time they said "black" or "cancer" or "divorce."

Life is so unbelievably awesome now, it's hard to imagine myself like that, lost in Brooklyn. So last September, when I watched my guy get on the bus for his first day of school, it wasn't so much his milestone that caused the lump in my throat, but my own. All of the loving, nurturing, cleaning, carrying, rocking, feeding, chasing, nursing, worrying, sacrificing, teaching, cuddling and laughing had brought us to this day. It was worth it. So worth it. Even the darkest days.

And as he waved to me from the window, even though it had been years since Brooklyn, I still said to myself, God keep him safe.

I Know It's Not About Looks, But...

2011-02-06T01:54:00.000-08:00

It's nearly 5:00 a.m. in sunny Florida, where I've been hanging with my family for the last few days, thanks to Patrick. It was an impromptu trip. I've never really liked Florida, but I have enjoyed the getaway from my frozen little village.

Jeanette gave me a workout regimen before I left. I've followed it to a T. We're staying at a mongo resort where everything looks the same--it's like the resort version of the intro to Weeds (first season). And, since all of the little bungalows look the same, someone decided it would be a great idea to give all of the "streets" similar names. Orange Lake Road. Orange Lake Boulevard. Orange Lake Circle. I take a map with me every time I walk out the front door for fear I would end up in walking into the wrong house.

It amuses me that no one walks here, except on the treadmills in the fitness center. What is that about?

While in the fitness center, I jumped on the scale. Yikes. It's worse than I thought. I won't tell you the number because, well, that would suck. Just trust me--the mountain is high and the road is long. So. Very. Long.

The Bradbury's like to take a lot of pictures. I've been able to stay out of most of them, but yesterday Patrick took my picture eight million times. (He was playing with his new Hipstamatic camera app on his iPhone.) I know it's not about looks, but damn, I really want to lose weight so I can stand to look at my own picture.

Please Send Tips

2011-02-01T08:35:00.000-08:00

So the spin class is giving me serious crotch-ache. I haven't had this much pain since I gave birth. The other spin ladies recommended I wear a super-gigantic-monstrous maxi pad, so this Saturday, I bought 20-pack of the heavy flow stuff, hiding it under other items so the total strangers next to me in line wouldn't notice.

I wore one to class this morning and I call BS. I'm sitting here with a throbbing you-know-what and it isn't because I've been bumpin' uglies. (If you're grossed out now, shouting "TMI, TMI" at the computer screen, blame it on Madison Joe, who specifically requested more stories about my sore ass body parts...maybe not my sore ass, specifically, but whatever.)

Please, please, PLEASE send any and all tips about how to avoid this pain. I will pay. Or give you a prize.

On a positive note, I showed up to weights and spin today, two full hours of hellacious exercise. The word "exercise" seems too gentle for what I've signed up for. It's not a beating, for sure; my trainer is too gentle for me to call it that. But it's really (kind of) of awful.

Oh, and today I was able to do a smidge better than last week. Just a smidge. I'll take it.

Happy Tuesday, all.

PS: Here's a link to my trainer's website.

PPS: When does this get better?

In January, I Stopped Thinking About It

2011-01-30T05:22:00.000-08:00

Despite the fact that I've accomplished a lot and acted on some highly unusual decisions, I'm really not a doer. I'm a planner. I ruminate. I discuss. I consider. When I'm good and ready, I "do." This usually takes months, or years.

In January, I stopped thinking about getting healthy and started doing it. I'm really not sure why. I didn't have an epiphany. I just started.

Actually, it began in December, when I forced myself to go to spin class with Mary -- occasionally. My crotch was so sore, I wanted to cry. And, being out of the habit of exercising, I avoided spin class more often than not.

Then a couple of weeks ago I made more of an effort to go to class. The only reason I showed up to class was because Polly practically begged me to keep it up.

Last week I hired Mary's trainer (the one who helped her prepare for the big Speight's Coast to Coast race in New Zealand I told you about last year) to help me reach my goal: lose half of my body weight by my fortieth birthday (in 2013).

So I'm halfway through my first week with Jeanette and I can honestly say, I feel like crap. I'm in so much pain, it hurts when I brush my teeth. My ass feels like it's on fire and I'm so exhausted, my brain is tired.

But it's okay. I can take it. And even though I feel like walking death, I know I'll still show up for two hours of hell on Tuesday morning.

I may never like it, but I'll show up.

Who knows why I finally committed to this process. The gentle, insistent encouragement from Mary? The worried look on Polly's face? The impending big birthday? The big-ass-in-tiny-theater-seat problem? The stares from strangers? It doesn't really matter. All that matters is, sometime in January, I stopped thinking about getting healthy and started getting healthy.

Happy week, all.

A Random, Disjointed Post About the New Year (Not Really)

2011-01-01T08:35:00.000-08:00

I slept through New Year's Eve. Having stayed up with my sick boy the night before, I was too exhausted for mayhem and revelry, and was stone cold out by 9:00 p.m. I do vaguely recall honking horns and screeching in the streets a few hours later, but it's pretty much a blur.

Today, I can feel the flu creeping in to my own body, and I know by tomorrow, I'll be flat on my back, watching "House Hunters" until I want to throw stuff at the television and shout, "Why do you NEED a 5,000-square-foot home?"

Since I was a teenager, I've viewed the new year as a holy time, a time for reflection and recommitting to dormant dreams and abandoned yearnings. But I haven't really had the time to reflect or recommit in years. My promise to myself to take a week-long vacation after Christmas to spend time with Polly and Jack and remember who I am and what I still want to do on this earth was an EPIC FAIL. I've been working, working, working.

I need a week off. It's looking like I may get one in April. Maybe.

I know 2011 will be my best year yet. I feel it in my bones. But I also know that, if I'm not careful, I will lose precious moments with myself, and with my family.

Lots to think about. I plan to do a real New Year's post, but first I have to finish writing a book for a client.

Take Your 14-Day Cleanse and Shove It Up Your...

2010-12-01T05:33:00.000-08:00

It happened. I am now officially acting like a child.

Polly's alternative medicine guy put her on a 14-day cleanse diet, and after she filled him in on my health/weight/sheer lack of motivation he instructed her to put me on it, too. It's not one of those water, lemon juice and olive oil cleanses designed to flush out fat and tiny organs; it's one of those eat a lot of protein and dark green leafy veggies type of cleanses. Bor-ing!

I've been here before. My old doc, Dr. McRostie (my hero) had me on an identical diet many years ago, and I lost a shit ton of weight. I get it. It works. I should do it. I have to do it. Why wait? The time is now. Do it for the kid, the wife, the whole big beautiful life. Do it for my future. Do it so I can stand to have my picture taken, so I'll go for all the big stuff I avoid because I'm super fat. Just friggin' do it.

Here's what I really want to say to all that:

You. Can't. Make. Me.

This is how I know I've regressed.

I used to be the poster child of personal growth. Now I just want to eat what I want, stay up late and watch TV. I don't want to change. I don't wanna!

But I will. And at some point, maybe in the near future, maybe months from now, I will realize it's all good and stop acting like a child. For now, I'm just a pouting, petulant, contrary preschooler. (Good thing I don't live at Nyack Mary's house. She has the Elf on the Shelf!)

Happy Wednesday, all. I'm off to eat yet another hard boiled egg. Gross.

I Had No Idea

2010-11-29T00:09:00.000-08:00

Patrick's mom just posted Thanksgiving photos on Snapfish. I had no idea I was so flippin' huge. Sure, I know the size on the label on my jeans and I'm fully aware that my knees hurt 'cause I'm fat. But for the most part, I ignore the truth.

I started this blog a few years ago with the intent to focus on wellness, and I have focused on wellness, but I really haven't lost any weight. I'm a happier, more successful, wiser person, but I'm still big. The problem feels--pardon the pun--too huge to overcome.

It is possible though, right? More water, less carbs, lots of sleep, no sugar, more vegetables, exercise, repeat. Gosh--why is this so hard? I wish I had a buddy, or a big goal (besides just losing the weight), like Nyack Mary's crazy ass race in New Zealand.

Okay, maybe I do need this blog after all. I've been ignoring it because I've been too busy with other things, but you can all be my buddies.

I'll start by going to bed. It's after midnight.

If You Read PostSecret...

2010-11-28T04:11:00.001-08:00

If, like me, you read PostSecret every Sunday, stop what you're doing and watch this PostSecret video. It was created about a year ago, but I saw it for the first time this morning. I wish the video was longer than 6 minutes. I could watch this stuff all day long.

Sixty Days, Plus Two

2010-11-14T07:05:00.000-08:00

Sixty-two days ago I promised you a 60-day update, and then promptly forgot about it. (Thanks, Fond du Lac Joe for the gentle reminder.) So here I am, at 6:30 on a Sunday morning, meeting my agreement.

Earlier this week one of my clients called me out about breaking agreements. He was really very sweet about it, and super helpful, but I was still embarrassed, like he accidentally saw me naked. It's my dirty little not-so-secret, secret: I don't finish things on time. Or, I haven't in the past. I'm working on fixing that.

It's not that I'm a lazy ass, or can't be bothered. And it's not like I intentionally make promises I know I can't keep. The cause of my recurring inability to meet deadlines is a crazy cocktail of 1) wanting to please people, and so setting deadlines that will be virtually impossible to meet, 2) wanting it to be perfect, and so taking way too long to finish, 3) refusing to ask for help, and 4) paralysis due to overwhelm as a result of 1, 2 and 3.

And, considering I still haven't figured out how to kick this problem to the curb, I would say there's probably a secret ingredient in there, too.

Which brings me to my 62-day update. You probably already figured out I've spent most of time trying to finish work for my clients. But, despite the fact that I haven't worked on my own stuff every day, I have made some progress. I've read several books related to my projects, I've lined up an editor for one of my projects and I managed to bang out a few pages for both projects. Not bad.

Deadlines are important, but I'm coming to understand that delivery dates are not as important as staying engaged in the process and letting go of expectations that cause inertia. Another client of mine told me recently, "You're the best. Just tell them they'll get it when they get it." I'm not sure my Midwestern work ethic will ever let me say that, but I can at least give myself some breathing room when I make promises, which will help me stay the course.

It's no surprise that the agreements I break most often are to myself. This list is long, too long. I've been promising myself I would fix up my office for four years. Yes, four years. So today, I'm writing and working on my office with my assistant. We're taking it apart and putting it back together again so that I can write in a harmonious, inspiring environment, instead of surrounded by stacks of papers, taller than me. If I'm brave enough, I'll post pictures.

Happy week, all.

Ask Me Anything

2010-10-05T05:44:00.001-07:00

I don't have enough distractions, so I joined Formspring. Since I have about 14 devout followers, I'm assuming I will get about three questions a year, but that's cool. I really joined because some very interesting people are answering questions from total strangers, and it's fun to read the Q&A. Some of the questions are annoying, base or just plain stupid, but the responses are pretty great.

So here's my new Formspring page. Ask me anything.

A Little Action

2010-09-12T16:18:00.000-07:00

When it comes to going after my own happiness, I'm pretty much all talk and no action. Sure I've occasionally executed daring maneuvers designed to bring me total joy. I've set out to conquer the unconquerable, which usually worked out pretty well. And for the most part, I've chosen to forge a trail, rather than follow the crowd down a well-trodden path.

But, and that's a big but (not unlike me own butt), I am rarely consistent in my pursuit of happiness. Or wellness. Or success. Or peace of mind. Or a tight ass. Who is, really? Right? If we were all perfect little soldiers, training for our own missions, why would we need Suze Orman, or Oprah, or priests?

So I'm in good company, hangin' out with pretty much everyone who can't get off their asses to pursue something they really, really, really want. For me, the holy grail is to realize my artistic potential. I'm not sure what that looks like yet, but I do know that it will require transitioning out of ghostwriting and back into what I really, really, really love to write.

If you are one of the 16 people who follow this blog, you might think this is just more talk; a blog post heavy on wishing and extra-light on fulfillment.

Wrong, suckas!

I've revived an old project AND started a new one. I work on BOTH projects a little bit, every day. And BOTH projects will have MY name on them.

I really had you going, didn't I? You thought I was going to close with a poignant smirk of a paragraph, something that summarized the theme of the post but still sort of left me hanging around in limbo land.

Wrong again.

So while I may not be ALL action, I'm definitely a little action. And in my case, a little is a lot.

Happy week, all.

Sail On

2010-09-09T09:55:00.000-07:00

Jack started kindergarten this week, a milestone I've been fantasizing about since he was two years old and I realized two-year-old's don't go to school. I was excited for him, but really didn't feel any of the pangs other moms mentioned in the 2,397 conversations I had about "the kids" this summer.

I have had this whole kindergarten thing down for a while now. I was up on the bus schedule last September. And yet, when Jack let go of my hand and said, "Bye mama," with a shake in his voice that only his parents can hear, I kind of lost it.

Not right away. I watched the bus go down the street, said goodbye to Patrick (who pulled of the great feat of seeing his kid off to school during NY Fashion Week) and Polly (who was also off to her first day back at college), and then promptly lost my mind.

It would be hard for you to tell I've lost it; all the drama is going on inside while I sit, virtually motionless, staring at a screen. Computer screen, TV screen, doesn't matter. You would have no idea that as I calmly watch back-to-back episodes of Reba and eat a giant bowl of popcorn, I'm actually a total wreck. You'd be surprised to learn that me playing endless games of Scramble is really a cry for help. You'd be surprised because I look fine. But inside I'm freaking my shit.

So this week, after the family went off to their three separate corners of the world and I was left to ponder my existence at the kitchen table, I just sat there. Staring at my computer screen. For two hours.

I've been waiting for kindergarten for so long now, I forgot to deal with the reality of it. I already miss the warm, loving bubble that was Montessori preschool and our spontaneous mid-afternoon adventures. But it's more than that. It's the end of a magical, deeply satisfying and at times, profoundly frustrating period of our lives. I was so busy looking at the beginning, I didn't stop to acknowledge the ending.

For so long it was just me and Jack all day, passing the time. I built my days around him and his needs, and later, his wants. I built my life around him, gave up habits, interests and even dreams just to be present. And even though it was challenging on many levels much of the time, I don't regret one minute of it.

I just feel like I need to mark the occasion somehow, this ending. We'll have long, spontaneous days again in summer, for sure, but I'm a busy gal these days. It will never again be like it was. This realization has me completely unglued, and I'm quite certain no amount of screen time is going to cut it. Not even the fall season premieres can stave off this sadness.

My mother sang this to me when I was Jack's age. It seems fitting to share it now, for my little guy and all of his little buds, off to take on the world, jumbo glue sticks in tow.

Bridge Over Troubled Water
P. Simon, 1969
When you're weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes,
I will dry them all
I'm on your side
When times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
When you're down and out
When you're on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you
I'll take your part
When darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Sail on silver girl
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way
See how they shine
When you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind

When Jack hopped on the bus without a single tear, and bravely went off on his own adventure, I realized how connected we are, and that, just as it was time for him to put on his backpack and face the unknown, it was time for me to do the same.

That Other Me

2010-08-06T21:53:00.000-07:00

I'm already thinking about January, 2011. That's when I'm free to work on new projects.

I like a full dance card. Yet, here I am, pushing 40, and I still haven't come into my own. Colin, the writer I hired to kick my ass (like a personal trainer, but not), keeps asking, "Any word from the screenwriter?" He's right to ask refer to that other me, the one that rarely comes out to play, as a different person--a person who lives, far, far away...and doesn't talk much.

That other me can't seem to finish any new pages, let alone an entire project. That other me used to write stuff for the sheer joy of it. That other me has been out of commission for a long time.

Tonight Page asked me if I ever plan to write my own stuff, and it actually hurt to answer her. "Sure, when I have the time."

I was hoping me and that other me would reconnect on this vacation, but I think it's going to take more than a few days off the grid to pull that off. Maybe this it. Maybe I write books for other people and that's okay. Maybe that's enough.

Maybe not.

Probably not.

Definitely not.

As my good friend and colleague Erik says, "Well."

Head Down, Fingers Flying

2010-07-04T16:51:00.000-07:00

Jack, Crane Lake

I've been keeping my head down and my fingers flying. In the morning, before anyone wakes, I cuddle my boy until his breathing slows again, let the dogs out and start in. Connect the dots, build the bridges, find the story. Break for breakfast: toast, granola, protein bar, or maybe nothing at all. Feed Jack first, do dishes after and then settle in again, head down, fingers flying.

All day long I write the words and soothe the worries of brave souls who have just admitted they have a book in them. I miss my girl. I miss my little guy, the two of us meandering through Nyack, finding shortcuts to parks and chocolate stores, looking for our friends.

If my girl is running late at the pool with Jack, I walk the dogs, running the to-do list through my mind, always telling myself I'll feel human again soon. Soon. Break for dinner. I ask, "What was your favorite part of the day?" Try not to look tired. Do the dishes. Give Jack a bath. Pajamas. Teeth. One last show (please, mama!). Four books. Cuddle. Rub back. Kiss goodnight.

Then, a break. Something mindless. More work. Late meetings, late night. Fall asleep watching Darlene make out with David on "Roseanne." Stumble up to bed and try not to let anxious thoughts of deadlines looming and long since gone keep me up past 2:00 a.m. Sleep six hours, five, four, less. In the morning, start all over again: connect the dots, build the bridges, find the story. Head down, fingers flying.

Worth Eight Minutes

2010-06-21T15:13:00.000-07:00

Hilarious. Seriously.

Kid Farm from FrontPage Films on Vimeo.

I know, I know, I'm not really posting these days. I'm super busy. Busier than ever before. But I'm coming back soon. Really, I am

The Funniest Website Ever

2010-05-16T19:49:00.000-07:00

Maybe you have to be a parent to truly appreciate the hilarious photos on the new site, Shit My Kids Ruined. Nyack Mary turned me on to this at the T-ball game on Friday night. I actually laughed out loud while paging through this site. It is SO worth five minutes of your time.

Jack once broke one of my mother's day gifts, the car windows are covered in stickers and he's certainly made his share of messes over the years. But I don't have any pictures. Probably the most heinous of his crimes is the keying of my friend Meredith's brand new Honda Pilot--a lease. He was four years old at the time.

Oh wait, I forgot about the black permanent marker stains on the carpet in his bedroom. I better stop thinking about this, or I'll get pissed off all over again.

The White Girl Shuffle

2010-05-10T09:40:00.000-07:00

One of my fave bloggers, Prince Gomolvilas, just posted a hilarious Funny or Die video. He always finds the best stuff.

An exercise program for racists? So funny. My favorite moment is the "white girl shuffle," and my favorite line is: "and then I turn on the blackness."

White Women's Workout - watch more funny videos

And if you haven't visited Bamboo Nation lately, check it out. There's a great video of Prince performing his piece, "What My Sister's Breast Implants Have to Do with Golf." It's on the home page, but you can also see it here on YouTube.

A Little Birdie Whacked Me on the Head

2010-05-09T07:09:00.000-07:00

I'm one of those people who believes we get messages from God, or the universe, or from our future selves who watch us make mistakes and avoid our destiny, and so scream at us from another dimension, like a psycho baseball dad imploring his kid to steal home.

We get tips from someone or somewhere, little nudges, a reminder of who we are and who we are meant to be. We get these messages from friends, strangers, books, movies, children and of course, Oprah. Sometimes the message is the little bird, chirping in your ear. But if you're like me, you don't pay attention to the message until the bird whacks you in the head.

The kids are calling me fat. My friend Andrea is trying to hook me up with her hot trainer. Patrick started a new diet. I went up a size, which I discovered when my friend Thia helped me pick out an outfit for a benefit dinner, and I almost passed out from sheer humiliation. My friend Mary is running marathons. My clients are constantly reminding me that it's possible to overcome any obstacle. The biggest guy on The Biggest Loser (yes, I'm still watching that show--can't help it) lost almost 200 pounds--so far. And every day someone shares a fat story with me (and by someone I mean people I actually know, or total strangers in forums I shouldn't be trolling or on the TV I shouldn't be watching).

At this point, those annoying little messenger birds are hitting me every single friggin' day. Pretty soon it's going to be a Tippi Hedren moment: death by birds.

I get the message. I need to lose the weight. But the thing is, I'm really, really scared to try again. I've lost weight before, but now it just seems like an impossible goal. What if my body rejects my efforts and I can't lose more than the first ten pounds? What if I lose some weight, and then gain back even more? What if I can't hack it and I let everyone down?

Ugh. I guess I better pay attention and get my ass back in the gym. And get on a bike (for the first time). And reacquaint myself with salad. Heck, Nyack Mary raced across New Zealand, and she wasn't really convinced she could do it until she actually did it. Every week I hear new stories of accomplishment against all odds. Maybe it's not so far fetched after all.

Okay birds, chill. I'm listening. Go bother someone else.

Some More Stuff Worth a Listen/Look

2010-04-30T13:39:00.000-07:00

Here's something from Afghanistan that made me smile.

Here's something I can hardly wait to see.

Here's something that might just make my summer.

Here's something that made me feel a kind of sparkly.

Here's something crazy awesome my friends did.

Here's something about my super-cool Aunt Randi.

Happy weekend, all.

PS: Fond du Lac Joe is now the proud father of three. I'm not sure why he named his daughter after the character on Clifford (Emily Elizabeth, not the titular big red dog), but whatever floats your boat!

PPS: Writing is hard.

Ouch

2010-04-24T15:50:00.000-07:00

Fatso Mona Lisa by Fernando Botero

Today one of Jack's friends came up to me and said, "You're fat!" Then he started laughing hysterically, telling me I had a baby in my tummy, and wouldn't stop even though I was scolding him for being rude. Then Jack laughed.

Even though they're only five years old, just learning how to be in the world, and even though they're technically right, it really, really sucked. And even though I'm 37 and technically a grown up, it ruined my whole damn day.

Frankly, I'm ready to stick my head under the covers and stay there for the summer. I was looking forward to some fun social events with friends and family in the coming weeks, but I'm ready to cancel all of them. Yes, I feel that bad.

It's not that I haven't been called fat before; my childhood was full of soul-crushing taunts, stares and disses. I just don't want Jack's friends to tease him because his mom is fat. And frankly, I'm not sure I'll ever lose the weight. It's not likely, anyway. So now I get to re-live my childhood and teenage years all over again, through the eyes of my embarrassed child. Fun.

What a sucky, sucky day.

An Open Letter to Television

2010-04-18T07:04:00.000-07:00

Dear TV,

We've been friends for a long, long time. You've been my go-to buddy ever since the first time I saw an episode of All My Children. (I was eleven.) I would even go so far as to say you probably saved my life, distracting me from the chaos all around me, keeping me company when no one else would. Over the years I've depended on you and most of the time, you came through. Which is why I'm conflicted about writing this letter.

The thing is, you're kind of wrecking my life. Or rather, watching you is wrecking my life. I stay up late to watch everything you've stored up for me on the DVR, returning to that blissful, mind-numbing state I craved for most of my life. I make time for you when I'd rather read a book, have sex, write my own stuff, go to sleep, work on Jack's movies, call a friend. I feel compelled to chill out with you every day and it's getting in the way of everything else that means so much more to me.

We've been here before, I know. The last time we broke up I took it really hard, and ended up in an equally dysfunctional rebound relationship with my iBook. Now, I'm juggling both of you! When I called Cabelvision and welcomed you back, mostly so that everyone else could spend time with you, I thought I could handle it. I thought I could live with you without loving you, but it wasn't long before we were back at it, full force.

Look, you've got some great stuff for me to watch these days, I'll give you that. Rachel Maddow, Glee, Modern Family, United States of Tara, The Ricky Gervais Show, The Biggest Loser, Parenthood--good times. Frankly, the thought of giving all of that up makes me feel a bit nauseous. But what can I do? You're a major time suckage. Seriously. More than that, you're infecting my brain, killing my muse and squashing my dreams.

I know what you're thinking: how am I going to calm myself down without you? It's a fair question, considering all of the times I ran to you. But I'm older now, more aware. I've got tools. I've got ideas. I've got discipline. It will be hard, but I can do it. Yes, I realize three of my favorite shows are approaching season finales, but so what? I have to have courage. Rip the bandaid off. Be radical.

What it comes down to is I really don't need you anymore. Harsh, I know, but so true. It's not just that life is pretty damn awesome these days; this isn't an impulsive decision that will change when shit gets hard. I don't need you because I'm okay with chaos. I'm even okay with loneliness. If I ever feel crazy or lonely again, I'll just ride it out, because that's how I roll these days.

I hope one day I can hang with you from time to time without falling back into our old ways. I've been able to kick sugar and still enjoy a few bites of this or that every month or so, so it's possible we'll find a way to be together again. But not today. Today I need space, and lots of it.

So goodbye. (Again.) For now. (Or forever.) Thanks for everything.

Tastemaker, Indeed

2010-04-13T14:58:00.000-07:00

Source: New York Magazine

I've always known my friend (and baby Daddy) Patrick had taste. Really, he defines it. Ever since that first afternoon we spent in his room back home in Minnesota listening to Yaz, surrounded by stacks of Interview magazine issues and Doc Martens, I've looked to Patrick as a style guru. Do I follow what he says? Not often, but I would if I had a few extra dollars and a tight little butt. That's about all it would take for me to ditch my Pottery Barn catalogs and over-sized T-shirts.

Patrick's guidance transcends fashion. Shouldn't we all have a well-developed, interesting, fresh point of view? For me the writer, this is key, but it's also key for me the human being--for any human being. How do you live in the world? What's your story? What's your vision for yourself, for all of us?

Are you a leader or a lemming?

Check out Patrick in New York Magazine.

Sometimes I Watch Jimmy Fallon

2010-04-07T13:01:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I watch Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. I like to look at Jimmy, because, despite his New York origins, he has a kind, Midwestern face. I like to listen to him, because he's a gentleman. And very often, he's pee-your-pants funny.

What I don't watch is Dancing with the Stars. Sweet Jesus, that's a freak show and a half. Actually, I have seen one entire episode, one with Marie Osmond, and I'm pretty sure it was the cause of the bad stomach flu I woke up with the next morning. Yes, television can make you sick. Trust me.

While I don't watch that particular reality show, I did see a clip of Kate Gosselin dancing the pasodoble online somewhere, and I was truly mesmerized by her ~~stomping~~ dancing. Wait? Is she dancing, or is she just sort of walking around with attitude? See for yourself:

Now, watch Jimmy's version:

Oh, Jimmy. I think I prefer you to Dave, and Jay and pretty much every other late night host. It's because I feel like you're that awesome guy at the party who does weird, funny stuff and gets everyone else to do weird, funny stuff, and watching you is like watching that guy.

Some Stuff Worth Reading/Watching

2010-04-06T07:50:00.000-07:00

Here's something shameful and disgusting.

Here's something totally badass.

Here's something basic, yet powerful.

Here's something awesome.

Here's something hilarious.

Me and the Wife

2010-04-04T05:36:00.000-07:00

It's been a tough year, work-wise. Tough in that I can't seem to get shit done, thanks to eight billion no-school days (snow days, winter break, parent-teacher conferences and others), Patrick's busy schedule (fashion week, NY and Paris), Polly's fractured ankle and a nasty stomach virus that took down our house for nine days.

But that's all over now. Something amazing has happened. Something scary and wonderful and kind of bizarre, if you know us. And by "us" I mean, me and the wife.

For five months, starting tomorrow, Polly will be home with Jack. That's right, my "come-in-to-work-even-if-you're-bleeding-from-the-head" girl quit her job. For us. For the family. For me.

This is bizarre because Polly likes to work, and because for almost six years I have been the "default" parent -- the person who, of the three of us, is ultimately responsible for Jack's care. If there's a snow day, or a sick babysitter, or someone needs to work late (someone besides me), I cover it. It's just assumed that I will, and they won't. Or it was assumed. Before.

Not that I didn't have help, because I did. And in the last few months Polly did her best to give me extra time, but there's only so many days she can call in sick to work, you know?

When we started this family I set things up so that I had to adjust my schedule according to Jack's needs, and Polly and Patrick's schedules, which meant a lot of long days and late nights as I tried to write other people's books. I was making myself and everyone close to me a bit crazy, trying to figure out how to live this double life. But that was before.

Today, I need more. Today, I need a wife.

The thing is, this is my year. Everything is taking off for me. My business is exploding. Sure I've had a lot of success it the past, but now it's not just me. It's me and my team and all of our projects. It's big opportunities and even bigger plans, and if I'm going to rise to the occasion, I need help.

I wrote three books while Jack was sleeping. I wrote more books while Jack was in preschool, on Saturdays and in the middle of the night. I've pulled more all-nighters in my 30s than I ever did in my teens or 20s. I turned out some amazing books, but I didn't pull it off, really, because I wasn't happy. Or healthy. Or sane.

I kept thinking, everything will be fine when Jack goes to kindergarten. That's how I've lived the last five years, waiting for things to get better when I could have been asking for what I needed. Why are the most simple concepts so hard to grasp?

So I'm free now. The path is clear. I have time to do nearly everything I want to do, and when I am hangin' with my guy, I'll be more fully present, able to just enjoy him, rather than think about what I'm not getting done. We'll all be happier, more relaxed. We'll all have more fun.

Polly's freaking, of course. She's worried she'll hate it. And she might. But it's only until September, when she starts her new nursing program and Jack is gone for eight hours every day.

Besides, as much she might hate her new "wifey" role, she'll love the new me.

Happy Easter, all.

Escaping with Har Mar Superstar

2010-03-16T17:02:00.000-07:00

So Har Mar Superstar (a.k.a. Sean Tillmann) has been writing on Salt Spring Island. How do I know this? Twitter. And why do I give a shit? Well, he is a friggin' superstar. But that's not why I've been living vicariously through his tumblr. Really, it's because nothing sounds better to me than escaping to a island to write for three whole weeks. But I can't. So instead, I follow Har Mar.

He took one of those Maggie O'Connell planes.

He has a totally enviable view.

And a sweet office.

He saw baby lambs.

And freaky shit.

And started a new band.

All in all, it's been a great trip for me--and Har Mar seems to be having fun, too. I bet he's made a lot of stuff, so far. New songs, new scripts, new plans. That's what I miss most about my pre-ghostwriter days. Making stuff. Well, making my stuff, as opposed to making other people's stuff and wishing I had time to make my own stuff.

I used to take writing vacations. There was that time I took Amtrak instead of Northwest back out to L.A., because I knew I was ready to leave Minneapolis for good and I wanted to write about it for a few days. I rode the Empire Builder with $17 in my pocket and two packs of menthols. Zoe made me a killer mix tape for the ride, which I still have, the one with her absentmindedly singing along to "Free Falling" by Tom Petty. I wrote and smoked in the observation car, and I met a girl who showed me dozens of pictures of icicles and one of her boyfriend, who wasn't with her on the train.

There was the time I checked into a hotel (with a few bottles of wine) to write because I'd read somewhere that was Maya Angelou's thing. I finished a play and watched at least a dozen episodes of Law and Order. That was fun. And the time I tried to write while camping with friends in the Ozarks. Yeah. There was a little too much partaking for me to get much done but play cutthroat rummy and eat from the bottomless pit that was Vicky's plastic bin of powdered mini donuts. That was more fun.

Sometimes I think just being alone for a few days would be enough, even if I didn't write one word of my own, because it would free me from the shining beacons of hope and promise that are my clients, and from my family and household obligations. And from that place of neutrality, I could write again. Make my own stuff.

Like Har Mar, superstar of Salt Spring Island. Dude gets it done. Seriously.

Happy week, oh loyal band of followers.

PS: If you want to listen to my current favorite Har Mar song, click here and listen to "Dope, Man." Better yet, download it. It's awesome.

PPS: Monster Fresh is trying to get Har Mar cast in Ghostbusters 3. Check it out. Better yet, if you're a fan, join the campaign.

How Do You Help a Five-Year-Old Come Out?

2010-03-11T13:07:00.000-08:00

From the mouth of babes.

I cannot tell you how happy watching this video made me today, on a day when Jack told us he was embarrassed to have two moms. Yup. He said it. I knew it was coming, but I thought maybe it would come later, after he left the warm and welcoming bubble that is his Montessori preschool, after public school shed light on his "alternative" family and he had to deal with the reality that, even in ultra-liberal New York, his family is different than most families.

But no. It happened today and he's only five years old.

It came up because Polly is off of work with a sprained ankle, and so could come with me to talk to his class today. I decided to make a yearbook for the kids this year, his last year of preschool. He asked if Mommy (Polly) could stay home. I thought he was just in "mamma-mode," favoring me because I've been working more than usual lately. So I said no, Mommy would come.

"Can one of you stay in the car?"

One of us? Oh boy. We knew something was up. It's not like this was our first time showing up at his school. We've been to every parent-teacher conference, every let-your-child-be-your-teacher day, every concert, every field trip and we've shown up to his class on every one of his last three birthdays, cupcakes and video camera in hand.

Then, staring down at his latest Lego creation, Jack admitted he felt embarrassed because we're different. One of his friends apparently asked him why he had two moms yesterday, and though he's been asked this before, he's old enough now to be aware that this was not just a fact-gathering question, but a question about why his family is different than other families.

"I love you both, but I'm embarrassed." Ouch.

When it was time to go talk to his class, we hesitated. Should we protect his feelings and give in to his request? Or should we go in together as planned? I realized Jack was feeling some of the same feelings GLBT people feel before they come out, when they're trying to belong and think that "passing" will help them fit in. Big stuff for a munchkin.

How do you help your five-year-old come out?

Who knows where Jack falls on the Kinsey scale? It's too soon to tell. But he has three gay parents, and so just like our parents and family members did and do, he has to experience some level of coming out. When you're a girl married to a girl, you're always going to have to clarify your situation to someone. The doctor, the babysitter, the friend who wants to invite "you and your husband" over for dinner. When you're a boy in a two-mom-one-dad family, you're going to have to explain it from time to time, simply because most people are straight.

My mom's so out she tells everyone she has two daughters. Polly's folks, not so much. They're a work in progress. Patrick's parents have been out and proud for years: they march in pride parades, write their editorials and stay very involved and on top of all of our issues. I'm always encouraging my Dad to be more out about his gay daughter and daughter-in-law...but how do you ask that of a little boy?

Still, this was one of those pivotal parenting moments, when you have an opportunity to teach your child how to be in the world. What do we stand for? How do we tell our story? Do we hide or do we show up and be who we are?

We decided to go together, because he'll remember this moment, and we want him to know that it's important to show up, even when you're nervous people won't accept you. He'll remember that we're proud of our family. He'll remember that his moms aren't ashamed of who they are. And most of all he'll remember that we love each other, and it's all okay.

And it was okay. It ended up being a non-issue, anyway. He was very excited to see both of us and he seemed proud we were helping out in his class.

It's not over, far from it. There will be more questions, and probably teasing and maybe even some ugly stuff. But not today.

Two-Fisted

2010-03-08T06:15:00.000-08:00

Kathryn Bigelow and her two new boyfriends.

Hell. Yes.

Hey, Oscar

2010-03-06T11:35:00.000-08:00

I'm not ashamed to say I love watching the Academy Awards. I love watching because I love movies, and although it's beyond hokey, I love watching dreams come true. A big collective dream is about to come true tomorrow night, when Kathryn Bigelow breaks through Hollywood's super-thick glass ceiling and takes home the first Oscar for Best Director ever awarded to a woman. You bet I'll be tuning in for that.

I'm a connoisseur of Oscar acceptance speeches. Penelope Cruz was my fave last year. So genuine, unrehearsed and charming. I like what Whoopi had to say when she won for Ghost, that bit about being from the projects. Good stuff. I mean, we want the fantasy, you know? The one we can easily insert ourselves into--projects, trailer park, lost in the suburbs--not an homage to nepotism, or yet another Yale graduate. And I like funny and smart acceptance speeches, like those given by the Coen brothers and Jack Nicholson. The best Oscar speech of all time is Cuba's, for sure. It's everybody's favorite for a reason--he wasn't afraid to show his genuine excitement. He wasn't too cool for Oscar.

I'm not too cool for Oscar, either. I'll be curled up in my favorite PJ's, watching dozens of lifelong dreams come true, watching speeches rehearsed in bathtubs, inserting myself right into the fantasy. Plus, my girl gives me an Oscar party (for one) every year, complete with treats and champagne. (We used to have guests, but I don't like talking during the Awards, so I stopped inviting people.)

Here are my predictions for the main honors:

Best picture: The Hurt Locker
Best director: Kathryn Bigelow, The Hurt Locker
Best screenplay: Quentin Tarantino, Inglourious Basterds
Best adapted screenplay: Jason Reitman and Sheldon Turner, Up In The Air
Best actor: Jeff Bridges, Crazy Heart
Best actress: Sandra Bullock, The Blind Side
Best supporting actor: Christoph Waltz, Inglourious Basterds
Best supporting actress: Mo'Nique, Precious: Based on the Novel "Push" by Sapphire

Okay, now my predictions are pretty much the same as all of the critics, bloggers and insiders who write about this stuff, so I'm really not going out on a limb. If I could vote, would I vote in alignment with my predictions? Nope. I'd give the Best Picture award to Inglourious Basterds and I'd give the Best Actress award to Gabourey Sidibe for her lead role in Precious: Based on the Novel "Push" by Sapphire.

Haven't seen a blogger predict who will give the best Oscar speech yet, so I'll throw my hat in and say Sandra Bullock will give us a great speech. She's got her priorities straight and she knows who she is, so she'll be witty, genuine and to the point. Thanks in advance, Sandy.

Who's watching tomorrow night?

"I'm Reading from Your Book, Dude."

2010-02-26T08:50:00.000-08:00

I've been neglecting Rachel Maddow. I'm usually working or spending time with the fam, so I haven't been able to spend any quality time with my favorite Rhodes Scholar and political commentator. I miss her, because after watching The Rachel Maddow Show I feel like a fully-informed citizen...with facts and shit.

So today I stopped by After Ellen, clicked on RachelWatch, and stumbled upon their "best of" Rachel segments. One of the videos is Rachel's interview with Richard Cohen, author of Coming Out Straight, a book lauded as "authoritative" by the Ugandan "kill the gays" peeps. During the interview she quotes Cohen, directly from his book, and he looks surprised to hear what he "wrote." Twice.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Look, I'm a ghostwriter, so I really can't fault the guy for having one, but I can get on his ass for not knowing what's in his own damn book. And just to be clear, I'm not saying that he did have a ghost. I'm not really keyed in to the whole ex-gay genre (duh), so I'm not sure who writes for those ~~freaks~~ folks. I wouldn't know who to call to find out who ghosted his treasure trove of truth and happiness, but not remembering what's in your book is a dead giveaway that you either didn't write it, or at least hired someone to edit (i.e., rewrite) it.

Sometimes ghostwriters make stuff up. A shocker, I know. All the more reason to know what's being published in your name. It's one thing to make shit up to help people feel better, but to make shit up to scare the crap out of them--well, we know the consequences of that now, don't we? And if you're going to make stuff up, at least try to remember it.

Everyone is so freakin' scared of the "gay agenda" in part because of people like Cohen, who use words like "indoctrination" and cite "facts" about child molesters. If I didn't know any better--and I do know better--I would be freaked out, too. Ugandans are so freaked out about the big bad scary gay people, they decided to just go ahead and execute the "predators."

Gotta love Rachel--her lie-busting, myth-debunking is quality television, and a service to us all. All of that "risk factor" talk from Cohen makes homos sound like cancer patients, except less noble. But Rachel, who is clearly outraged (and pretty annoyed), manages to focus on the facts, rather than rail against Cohen's core message. A little tip, Cohen: when you're being interviewed by "just-the-facts" Rachel, it's best to bone up on what you've claimed in the past.

Read your own book, dude.

I love this guy...

2010-02-24T02:46:00.001-08:00

A Look Back at 2010

2010-02-20T11:31:00.000-08:00

Yeah, you read that right. Like the characters in Lost, I'm living in a parallel universe. Well, maybe it's not exactly like the characters in Lost. Maybe it's more like Back to the Future. Since I don't watch Lost, I really don't know. My friend Nelly tried to catch me up on the show and all of its mysteries and meanderings the other day while we watched our kids sledding in her snowy backyard, so I know that there's several versions of the story playing out at the same time--I think. Still don't get it, probably will never get it, but hey--A for effort, Nelly!

So why the fast forward to 2011? Somehow I already know that 2010 was/is/will be my best year ever. It's my breakthrough year, the year I finally let it all be what it's supposed to be and become what I'm supposed to become. Even Rob Brezsny agrees with me. He calls it a "breakout year," rather than a "breakthrough year," but whatevs.

"I’m going to go out on a limb here and predict that 2010 will be your breakout year...It will be the year you do what you’ve been saying you’re going to do for many moons...the year you finally get your dreams in gear. Not the tentative, mediocre dreams of the wounded beast in you...The dreams you’re going to be getting in to gear are the exalted and exciting dreams of your higher self. 2010 will be the year you increase your output, and raise the stakes, and amplify your desires, expand your self-image."

(From Rob's long-range forecast, which you can still get, but not for long. I highly recommend you fork over $18 to get your three-part forecast for 2010. So fun. And no, he doesn't pay me to say that. He doesn't even know me. I'm just a fan.)

I've felt this for a few months, this impending liberation from all that I have allowed to slow me down, hold me back and generally delay my happiness. It's been a confounding couple of decades, I have to say. Who knew this shit would take so long?

I Come Back to the Place You Are

2010-02-14T13:26:00.000-08:00

Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart.

Ready

2010-02-13T13:08:00.000-08:00

Maybe if I write this very fast I won't feel the urge to hit the delete button and take it all back. I'm stepping out of the shadows and into this life that I've been holding at bay for so long. This is the year it all comes together, and out, and off. Enough.

"It is never too late to be what you might have been."
--George Eliot

A Little Bit Crazy

2010-02-11T17:58:00.000-08:00

Last fall I told you about Nyack Mary's plan to race the Speight's Coast-to-Coast in New Zealand. When she and her husband Brad decided to take on this challenge, she had a lot on her plate. Two little boys to feed, comfort, watch over, wash, read to, clean up after, love, referee, entertain and shuttle about. Oh, and a house to clean, organize, fix and paint. Mary had very little help which is why she had very little time to focus on her own pursuits.

She had a lot on her plate. But she did it anyway.

Today, after months of training, Mary is running 36 km in the mountains of New Zealand. Right this minute she's running with a few hundred elite athletes and adventure racers. Here's the description of the race from the Speight's Coast-to-Coast website:
The Speight's Coast-to-Coast traverses the South Island of New Zealand from Kumara Beach on the Tasman Sea to Sumner Beach on the Pacific Ocean. Over either two days (individuals or two person teams) or the one-day event (individuals only), competitors cycle 140 kms (three stages of 55km, 15 km and 70 km), run 36 km (including a 33 km mountain stage that crosses the Southern Alps) and kayak 67kms of the grade two Waimakariri River through the Grand Canyon of New Zealand, the Waimakariri Gorge.
Mary used to be a runner, not a competitor. Up until last September she hadn't even completed ten miles. Today she is racing in the "world's premier multi-sport event." This video will give you an idea of what will be in store for Mary on her leg of the two-day race.

Over the Christmas break I brought Jack over to Mary's house to play with her two boys--friends of his from playgroup, and now preschool. Standing in the kitchen messing around with her bread dough, she said something about how, had the race been any less risky and demanding, she and Brad probably wouldn't have followed through with their plans. It had to be a little bit crazy. It had to be a real, high-stakes adventure, for them to break free from their routine and train, train, train.

That's what it takes to make you get out of bed at 5:00 a.m. every day, to push yourself beyond your perceived limitations, to steel yourself against pain and frustration and keep on keeping on. If you read Mary's blog you'll see that she made slow, steady progress, working her way up to the crazy. But what if she hadn't committed to race the Coast-to-Coast? Would she still be running just a few miles when she could find the time? Maybe. Probably.

To say I'm inspired by Mary and Brad is an understatement. I'm still thinking about what I might do that's a little bit crazy. Something really out there; something huge and scary and totally worth it.

For now, I'll just say go Mary, go!

PS: Brad already finished the first part of his leg, but he has an equally nutso task ahead: kayaking a route for the first time in a kayak he's never used before, after months of not being able to train because the Hudson River was frozen or too cold. Oh, and he also puts out a magazine every month, so he too had a very full plate.

PPS: You can track Mary and Brad, team Palisades Panthers, at Sportzhub.

My Little Problem With Doppelganger Week

2010-02-08T12:39:00.000-08:00

I'm back. I'd say, "by popular demand," but really it's just a handful of you that have been been nudging (i.e., harassing) me to post. And over the past month, I've discovered two things about my calendar year:

1. I hibernate in January. With sloth-like movements I navigate the streets of Nyack and NYC, never veering from my well-trodden, sodden path. I don't look up and and I wear the same three outfits over and over again. Which means I do a lot of laundry.

I take armchair vacations to the Sundance Film Festival and to movie sets (via Twitter) and start dreaming of our annual summer trip to Madeline Island. And after reading five chapters of the "Captain Underpants" saga, I fall asleep next to Jack, who at five years old, still cuddles like he's trying to get back in the womb.

Which means, dear friends and random strangers, while I will work and clean and complete projects (of both the writing and Lego variety), I really have very little momentum in January. I'm hibernating, you see.

2. I don't work in August. Much. Sure I'll get things done and put stuff out there and sign a few contracts. But August is the vast wasteland when there is no preschool or camp and the babysitter goes on vacation. So I've given up on August.

Which brings me to February. Other than the fact that I'm so effin' sick of winter I could scream, I'm fine with February. February works.

So I'm back from my hibernation and I have to say, I have a little problem with this whole doppelganger week on Facebook. The thing is, I don't have a clue who would qualify as my doppelganger because at age 36, I still don't know what I really look like.

Some would argue that the woman in the mirror is me, that I need to accept how I look, embrace it even, but I know my reflection is really just a disguise. And I know that I've been wearing this disguise for three decades, hiding from this or that terrifying or amazing person or experience.

When so many of you posted your celebrity doppelgangers (best=Madison Joe/James Spader) last week I realized I really, really want to know what I look like. Really. I want to see the real me in the mirror before I hit that magic age--40. I've got three years. Piece of cake.

Happy week, all.

PS: Speaking of cake, I've been off sugar for five weeks now.

PPS: I'm ready to give up or take up something else now. So I'm taking a poll. Should I add workouts (four x/week) or cut out flour?

Still Hangin' in "The Aughts"

2010-01-14T18:06:00.001-08:00

Hey friends (and random strangers). Over Christmas I started planning my New Year's post (working title: "Epic New Year's Post"), and over the past couple of weeks I've sat down to write it several times. And each time I end up staring at a blank screen for twenty minutes or so, until I resume work or try to break one million on Typing Maniac (current high score: 808,932).

The thing is, I feel like I haven't really entered the new decade yet, so I can't really write about it. I feel stuck in 2009, so until I countdown, drink a glass of champagne and kiss the girl (my girl, not just any girl), I'll be busy doing other non-blog related things.

Cheers.

The Christmas Plunger

2009-12-25T13:20:00.000-08:00

Last night Jack gave us a plunger for Christmas. We thought it was charming in a way that only a gift from a five-year-old can be. But then we watched a video to go with it, and we realized the plunger was the best Christmas present ever.

Merry, Merry to you and yours!

Pirate and Mermaid Stand Up for Marriage Equality

2009-12-16T04:49:00.000-08:00

Mary and Shane in India in 2007

So my friend Minnesota Mary got married in Vegas this past Saturday. Shane, her guy--strike that, her husband--is kinda perfect for her. He's a cute, tall feminist who is of his own mind, and he's a good Dad, which is important, 'cause they just had a baby in October (my godson Franklin Delano). But what really makes him perfect for her is they are each other's best time--they have so much fun together, mostly because they both look at the world through wacky, Elton John-like glasses.

Their skewed view of life is partly why they were married by an Elvis impersonator on the Vegas strip, dressed up as a pirate (Shane), a mermaid (Mary) and a frog (Frankie). But there's more to that decision. Mary being Mary (fight the power!), even her wedding was an act of social defiance.

You see, besides having me as her best bud, Mary is knee-deep in gays. Her Dad is gay, her boss is gay, a bunch of her coworkers are gay, and over the years she's collected a whole posse of rainbow-flavored friends. And we were all on her mind before she got hitched, her nearest and dearest and the millions of other queers who can't legally marry the one they've chosen to love, honor, and cherish until death do they part.

My senator voted against the marriage quality bill the week before last. (I'm quoted in one article about the protest, though the reporter didn't get my quote right.) Last Sunday, the day after Mary and Shane were married, we stood out in the rain in front of Senator Morahan's office in Nanuet. Jack lasted ten minutes, so Polly watched the vigil with him in the car. When the peaceful protest was over, I got back in the car and Jack said, "Will they treat us better now?" In his five-year-old mind, issues should be resolved as soon as you take action. We protest, they change the law--just like that. I wish, baby. I wish.

When she shared the news of her elopement last night Mary told me getting married by Elvis in costume with cars rushing by in both directions was anything but sanctimonious, which is partly why they did it. (She also told me it took ten minutes to fill out the paperwork--I've been waiting more than ten YEARS to marry my girl.) She also said she'd been waiting to announce their marriage until she could come up with a statement about marriage equality. (Is she the greatest, or what?)

So here's her statement:

At the time of this joyous event, I feel compelled to say a few words about marriage equality:

Unfortunately, my feelings about making this announcement are tainted by the fact that I realize the rights and privileges that are afforded to us as a result of our legal marriage are not available to many of my friends, family, colleagues and clients, and to the millions of GLBT people in our nation. I understand if, for many of you, the announcement of another hetero-marriage is received with a sting.

There was a time when I didn’t really realize why it mattered so much. Why not civil unions, domestic partnerships? In the last several months since my engagement to Shane, I have spent a good deal of time pondering that question. Here are some things I’ve realized about legal marriage. At least for me, the marriage is not the embodiment of the promise to stay together, love, honor and protect.

That commitment was made at the time that we decided to have Franklin together. For me, the marriage represents a means by which to honor that commitment – especially to protect.I recently received a letter from the Social Security Administration, letting me know what my benefits would be if I were to die or become disabled today. For the first time, I read with interest what the benefit would be for my surviving minor child should I die an untimely death… and I noted what would be the benefit to my surviving spouse. It didn’t say anything about a benefit to my surviving Boyfriend, Baby Daddy, Domestic Partner, Fiancé, or BFF. So, if I die first, the government will pay Shane a survivor’s benefit for the rest of his life, to make up for the income I would’ve contributed to the marriage. That sounds like a wonderful form of protection. I’m no lawyer, but denying same sex couples the right to protect their partners in the same way sounds like a denial of equal protection under the law to me.

Besides the Social Security, there’s the hundreds of dollars per month that we will save by signing Shane up for my employer based family health insurance – family as defined by legal marriage and dependent children…and then there’s the right to collect my pension if I go first – again, not available for non-marital relationships. The more I think about it, the more I realize that this marriage business, now as it has always been throughout history, is a very fast and easy way to transfer and protect our various forms of financial security.

And there’s next-of-kin status in case of medical emergency. By getting married, I instantly name Shane as the family member allowed to make decisions on my behalf should I become unable.

And on a day-to-day basis, there’s the simplicity of explanation that comes with being able to say “my husband.” There is no other term that succinctly describes the depth of our relationship. Ever since I began to talk with people about our son, Franklin, I’ve noticed the awkwardness of language that came with trying to reference Shane to people who don’t know us well. “His Dad” became my proffered way, but I always felt it left out so much. “His Dad” does not let people know that we are together, loving each other forever, sharing our home, our bills, our vacations, our plans and dreams for the future.

As I have pondered the problem of marriage inequality, I have realized that central to the issue is the fact that the term “marriage” is currently used to simultaneously describe both a legal and a religious concept. Under a government founded on the idea of separation of church and state, such an arrangement is bound to be problematic. It has occurred to me that, if (some of ) the religious folks continue to insist that “marriage” is their concept to define…and they absolutely cant stand to share…then maybe we should stop fighting that battle and go about achieving fairness by another route. What if we left the term “marriage” to the religious institutions to define amongst themselves, and just removed the 1,400+ references to marital status that currently exist under the law? We could replace all the references to marriage and spouses with the language of domestic partnerships. “Marriage” would then mean something to people according to their religious beliefs, but would mean nothing under the law. Religiously married people would need to register their unions as domestic partnerships under the law in order to gain any type of legal recognition for the relationships. Domestic partnerships, being entirely civil/secular constructs, would be available to all adult couples willing to make that commitment.

I don’t know what people will think of that idea. Shane said he has heard of some other proposing something similar, so it sounds like I am not the first to think of this. In any case, what I really mean to convey today, upon the announcement of my marriage, is that I understand how profoundly unfair the current system is, and I am committed as never before to working for marriage equality. I have set up a small monthly contribution to marriage equality. Those who would like to celebrate our marriage by offering a gift, please do so by donating to http://www.marriageequality.org/index.php?page=donate

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy the video of our ceremony. I feel like the luckiest person in the world to be married to the fabulous Shane Dennis.

I love the dance at the end...and check out that little stroller next to the happy couple. You can't make this stuff up.

Thanks for speaking up, Mary and Shane. And congrats. You two freaks deserve each other--and you deserve a lifetime of happiness.

PS: Where are the friggin' pictures of Frankie? I realize you haven't had a full night's sleep in months, but come on! I need some pics.

PPS: It's our straight allies that will make ALL the difference in this fight for marriage equality. Please find out what you can do in your own community for the cause, for your friends, for us, for Jack. Lend a hand, make a donation, or just speak up when someone makes an ignorant or hateful comment about "the gays" or gay marriage. If you want to get involved check out Marriage Equality USA or the Human Rights Campaign.

Sometimes I'm Not Smart

2009-11-27T05:26:00.000-08:00

Having just read the title of this post, Fond du Lac Joe is probably enjoying a little chuckle, which actually sounds more like an evil snicker. (Happy to make your day, Joe.)

In my sleep-deprived, deadline-induced state, I had two "duh" moments, two moments where I realized I'm really not that smart--well, not all of the time. In fact, no matter how many times I blog about mindfulness, wellness and Ben & Jerry's, when it's really important for me to pay close attention to the trajectory of my life, I pretty much have my head up my ass.

If you follow this blog you know that I ghostwrite books and have, for the past couple of years, written almost exclusively for the personal and professional development industry--the wannabes, gurus and demi gods of self-help. But it only just occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I didn't "end up" in this industry by accident.

Last week I realized that I'm so pig-headed, so rigid, so clueless about my own stuff, I was sent dozens and dozens of enlightened warriors to pelt me with their messages of hope and how-to. Who sent them? Maybe God, maybe that unseen force in the universe, maybe me. (More likely it was a grand plan hatched by my mother.)

My second "duh" moment came courtesy of my girl, who always seems to understand more than she initially lets on. She was (almost) patiently listening to my regular lament, the one where I talk about how what I really want is to get back to being a playwright and screenwriter, and how I just need wish the success I have as a ghostwriter would translate to that other, more satisfying world, when she reminded me of the parable of the drowning man, which goes something like this:

So there's a man, the sole survivor of a shipwreck, drowning in the ocean. He asks God to save him. Moments later a yacht pulls up to him and someone on board throws him a life vest and a ladder so he can climb on board. Instead the man says, "No thank you, God will save me." All of the people on the boat shake their heads because he is a total idiot and deserves to drown, but they radio for help anyway before they leave.

A few minutes later Rosie O'Donnell shows up on a jet ski and says, "Dude, hop on." (Actually, she probably wouldn't say, "dude" but whatevs.) The man says, "No thanks, Rosie, God will save me--but thanks for standing up against the war." Rosie says, "Listen, you do realize you're going to drown out here if you don't let me help you?" The man just waves her off, so she goes back to her Miami pad and calls in reinforcements.

Suddenly a helicopter appears in the sky, and a buff paramedic-type slides down a rope to rescue him. But the drowning man refuses, shouting, "God will save me" as he swims away. Before the rescue team can catch him, the man gets a cramp, slips under the water, and drowns. (Rosie is devastated and can't blog for two weeks.)

When the man gets to heaven he asks God, "Why didn't you save me?" God replies, "Well, I sent you a yacht, I sent you Rosie on a jet ski and I sent you a helicopter--idiot."

Okay, so I modified the original parable, but you get the gist. The point Polly was trying to make when she reminded me of the parable is, all of this ghostwriting success is part of the plan. It feels like the wrong road, but really it's not. Truth is, I had this outdated idea of how it would all play out, and all the while there was a better, faster, more interesting plan at work.

So my New Year's resolution is already set: To embrace the opportunities and success that comes my way, knowing it is all part of a plan to get me where I asked to go. (I know, I know, it's cornball, but it's also effin' true.) At a minimum, I'll be in a better mood, and I know a couple of people who would be pretty excited about that.

Happy Birthday, Mom

2009-11-22T13:39:00.000-08:00

This one time, my mom went to a costume party dressed as a peacock, with this crazy fantastic dress in metallic blues and purples, and peacock feathers in her hair. From the living room window I watched her get in the car and I thought, she's a goddess.

This one Christmas, when we really, really didn't have much money, my mom wrapped every piece of every present individually--pencils, little soaps, wrapped candy--so I would have a lot to open. I was busy until mid-afternoon.

This one night, when we lived in Cairo, my mom paid a young man to secretly take us down into an open tomb at night. I was terrified, but I thought she was a modern-day Indiana Jones, and life was a grand adventure.

This one day, my mom got up super early and waited in line at Musicland with a bunch of teenagers so she could surprise me with tickets to the Prince (Purple Rain) concert.

This one year, my mom was gone and I missed her so much, I forgot who I was.

This one summer, my mom gave me the most beautiful wedding flowers you've ever seen in your life: cascading white orchids, gardenias, roses, lily of the valley. She cried when Dad escorted me down the path to the beach accompanied by Aretha Franklin's cover of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" (one of two lullabies she sang to me).

This one afternoon, my mom buried her mother with no priest, and so spontaneously recited the rosary at her grave site. I could feel her mother, my grandmother who was born on almost on the same day, reaching down and taking hold of shoulders, giving her strength not to cry.

This one morning, I called my mom for reassurance, advice, to share good news, to cry, to brag, to ask for help, to gossip, to plan, to remember, to laugh, for the ten thousandth time.

Happy Birthday Mom. Here's the other lullaby you sang for me ("Que Sera, Sera") and your favorite song ("Let My Love Open the Door").

Dear Friends, I Am (Temporarily) Insane

2009-11-19T18:14:00.000-08:00

Um, did you look at the poster for Synechode? I didn't give it a close look when I uploaded it for my previous post, but now I see it is a photo of my current predicament. We have a book going to print Tuesday, and I, like Philip Seymour Hoffman, am facing a vast sea of pages that seems to run on forever and ever and ever.

If you've ever felt so busy, so overworked that you can't remember who you are anymore, than you know how I feel at this moment--kind of insane.

I'm at the Copa, writing like mad, trying to not think too hard about what I've consumed (microwave popcorn and leftover Halloween candy) and what I should have consumed (um, vegetables). I'm also trying not to think about the fact that Jack has been feeling a bit crazy these past few weeks, too. More mood matching, I presume. Sometimes I think there's an invisible umbilical cord joining us together.

If you love me, please send booze and pie.

Mood Matching with Monologues

2009-11-16T10:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes well-written monologues, like sermons or healing stories, get you right where it counts. Sometimes they match your mood so perfectly, you feel as though the writer is speaking directly to you, or for you.

So I've only seen about an hour of Synecdoche, but the minister's monologue stopped me in my tracks and totally matches my mood today. (Thanks, Charlie Kaufman.)

Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I've felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.

Amen, indeed.

Mom vs. Legend

2009-11-15T09:28:00.000-08:00

One of the places mom went in pursuit of her dreams.

My mom wasn't like all of the other moms--the moms on TV who always looked well-groomed and well-rested; the moms at school who cooked dinner and remembered things like permission slips and hot lunch money; the mom of my childhood best friend, who made everything seem beautiful, and clean and normal.

It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that my mother was not like the others. Untethered to the earth, she fought valiant battles at home, searched for long-dead kings abroad and never pretended to be anything other than who she was. She didn't try to fit in or appeal to the masses. She didn't dumb herself down or keep quiet when her opinion was unpopular or downright subversive. My mom was not formed by marketing or society's expectations; she is 100% herself, through and through.

Growing up what impressed me most about my mom was her self-assured approach to working in her chosen field. She never doubted that, despite what the department heads believed, women could be of equal stature as men. Her tribe was a group of brainiacs--historians and linguists, mostly, who talked until dawn while the children slept on the floor, on couches, in the room next door. Her friends and colleagues adored her; she was their star. She never doubted herself, not once, at least not in front of me.

Because my folks divorced when I was three, it took her a lot longer to get her Ph.D. than she had planned. I remember the long hours at Jones Hall, sleeping on a cot while she toiled away at their mainframe computer. I remember countless days hanging out in the stacks at the University of Minnesota's giant library, Mom cloistered in the smoking room, studying. And I remember many mornings when I would find her asleep in her clothes, surrounded by books, her glasses hanging off the bridge of her nose.

The day she finally received her Ph.D. is one of my favorite days ever. Hundreds of students graduate from the U every year, so we had to sit through a long procession of B.S. and M.S. before the doctoral candidates walked up on stage. Early in the evening the emcee had asked everyone to hold off on clapping until the very last graduate received her diploma, so the auditorium had been quiet for hours and I was bored out of my friggin' mind.

But then I saw her, mom in her long black robe with the colored panels on the shoulder. When they announced her name someone in the back of the auditorium shouted, "Way to go, Nicki!" and even though there were two dozen students left to make the walk, the entire audience erupted in applause. This was her tribe and she was their star.

Years later, when she and some of her crew attended a college party full of hopeful undergrads there were murmurs in the crowd when they walked in, and someone said, "The legends are here." She never forgot who she was, and so she was unforgettable.

I, on the other hand, found my tribe and left it behind, over and over and over again. I'm pretty sure mom doesn't live with regret for the chances she did not take or the opportunities she ignored, but I do. Even though I have succeeded in other areas, I left my tribe and my true place in this world and I've been missing it ever since. I forgot who I was, trying to be the kind of mother I wished I had. I suppose it's not over yet, but most days it feels VERY over, and the best I can do is not enough for anyone.

Maybe she felt that way, too. Maybe mom felt less than and lost; maybe she has profound regrets that keep her up at night or yearnings that ache so much they make her cry. She wouldn't tell me. She's very private, and also would never burden me with the truth of how she got by and what she didn't get done while she was raising her career and raising me.

In today's Post Secret there's a postcard secret that reads, "I'm sorry if raising me kept you from being the artist you wanted to be." Yikes. I never want Jack to feel that. Because I don't feel that. I don't feel that my mom gave up on anything because of me, and this is one of her greatest gifts to me.

I didn't have a "normal" mom, partly because unlike so many women, she never pretended to be something that she wasn't (e.g., happy with waiting, sacrificing, forgetting) and she never settled. What I cannot reconcile is how to be the kind of mother I want to be, and the kind of woman I know I am. How do you honor your role as parent and honor your role in your other tribe? I have no fucking clue.

PS: If you want to see the postcard secret I mentioned you have to read Post Secret this week because he replaces them every Sunday. Also, you can turn that particular card over by hovering over it with your cursur/little white hand.)

PPS: I feel worse after this post. Usually writing these posts makes me feel better, or at least satisfied. Not today.

I Fell for Lloyd Dobler - Twice

2009-11-04T13:06:00.000-08:00

So my friend Beth sent me a link to this news story about a bunch of guys in trench coats who celebrated the 20th anniversary of the release of the film Say Anything today by walking through New York City carrying boom boxes over their heads. (Thanks, Beth.)

This is just #2,397 why I love New York: random acts of awesomeness. But that's not why the gist of this post. What I really came here to say today is I fell in love with my girl because of Lloyd Dobler.

In case you're not familiar with my favorite 80s film of all time, Lloyd is the character played by John Cusack, who after graduating from high school, spends the entire summer wooing the unattainable gorgeous braniac Diane Court, played by Ione Skye.

The Say Anything fans wandering the streets of New York City are paying homage to the famous scene from the movie, where Lloyd stands outside Diane's window with a boom box over his head, blasting "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel.

I was sixteen when the movie came out, so that scene made a huge impression on me. What girl wouldn't want a guy like that? What girl wouldn't want to be brooded over like she's Juliet herself? Plus, Diane was a total geek, which made it all seem a bit more possible, you know? And Lloyd was his own brand of cool. He was anti-establishment but still totally affable. He was cute, but he didn't try too hard. He was earnest and dogged in his pursuit, but he still never lost his true north for the girl, you know?

His best friends were girls (oh Lilly Taylor, I miss you), everyone loved him and he had no idea what he wanted to be when he grew up. Lloyd had the best lines in the movie, too. Most people remember his monologue about his career plans ("I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career.") But my favorite is the message he leaves on Diane's machine after she breaks up with him:

"Maybe I didn't really know you. Maybe you were just a mirage. Maybe the world is full of food and sex and spectacle and we're all just hurling towards an apocalypse, in which case it's not your fault. I'm been thinking about all these things and...you're probably standing there monitoring. And one more thing - about the letter. Nuke it. Flame it. Destroy it. It hurts me to know it's out there. Later."

When I met Polly we were both 23 and spending too much time at the Blind Munchies coffee house, drinking copious amounts of coffee and inhaling way too much nicotine. Early on in our friendship she told me something that I now know was the beginning of everything. During a cutthroat game of rummy (Menomonie rules) she said offhandedly, "I aspire to be Lloyd Dobler."

Here was the guy I hoped existed--except she was a girl. I was kinda sorta in trouble, because my wild ways were about to be leveled by a quiet, short story-loving small town girl with perfect bone structure. I mean, I could probably say no to a guy who professed his admiration for the greatest character in a teen movie ever, but a girl who wanted to be just like Lloyd? I was toast.

Looking back, our budding relationship mirrored Lloyd and Diane's. Sure, my Dad wasn't put in prison for embezzlement, and Polly could give a shit about kickboxing (sport of the future!), but there are many similarities. A sampling:

- Polly was crushing on me from afar long before we became friends, just like Lloyd mooned over Diane before actually asking her out.

- Like Diane, I had plans to move away at the end of the summer, and didn't want a relationship.

- Polly and I had a lot of fun in the backseat of my car.

- Our first "our song" was "In Your Eyes."

- Above all else, Polly just wanted to spend as much time with me as possible. Like Lloyd, her aspiration was to be with me, and be great at it. (She is.)

Oh, and there's this photo from the movie, which reminds me of us because I'm always throwing my head back when I laugh (and she loves that about me).

The thing that I loved so much about Lloyd Dobler was his unabashed adoration of Diane Court. He didn't hold anything back. He had no ego about it, and he was willing to do anything to be with her. In the end he got the girl, packed up and moved with her to England to be with her while she pursued her big bright life, much like Polly did when she hopped in that moving van with me bound for Santa Fe almost 14 years ago.

Polly is as close to Lloyd as you can get. Lucky me. Is it any wonder I fell so hard?

PS: Here's the totally awesome trailer.

PPS: When I was searching for pics I came across a video a band called Say Anything performing their single "I Hate Everyone" on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon last night. This one's for you, Fond du Lac Joe.

Let it Ring

2009-10-20T20:51:00.000-07:00

So Amy Ray, besides being one half of the Indigo Girls, is a total bad ass. We saw her solo tour earlier this year in Santa Fe. First of all, up close she's totally hot. The venue was small, just enough space for 100 or so lesbians and other fans who came out expecting her to play at least one Indigo Girls tune (she didn't), so we were just a few feet away from her. I was overcome by how self-possessed she was, how she completely gave herself away to the music, her music, and how she was nothing less or more than herself in that moment.

This is when I first heard her song, "Let it Ring." It blew me away. More than that, it ran right through me like a cold river. It filled me up and lifted me about two inches off the ground. It pointed me back to my true north. Yeah. A song can do all that. And it did.

My girl took me out to see the Girls two weeks ago in Tarrytown. Amy played "Let it Ring" for one of the encore songs and killed it. It made me realize that we need a battle cry against the fundies. As Maine and Iowa fight to keep gay marriage legal, as New Yorkers lace their fingers and pray for a miracle in this new special legislative session, as Jack Price lays in a coma, "Let it Ring" holds a special power for me.

We need a song that carries us through and forward, a song that helps us get back up after the 10th beat down, only to triumph in the 11th round. We need a song that inspires people to march, and speak up and care. We need a song that wakes us up like like a cold river rushing through us, a song that lifts us off the ground and points us back to our true north. We need Amy's song:

PS: Listen all the way through to the end.

PPS: Here's the lyrics:

When you march stand up straight.
When you fill the world with hate
Step in time with your kind and
Let it ring

When you speak against me
Would you bring your family
Say it loud pass it down and
Let it ring

Let it ring to Jesus 'cause he sure'd be proud of you
You made fear an institution and it got the best of you
Let it ring in the name of the one that set you free
Let it ring

As I wander through this valley
In the shadow of my doubting
I will not be discounted
So let it ring

You can cite the need for wars
Call us infidels or whores
Either way we'll be your neighbor
So let it ring

Let it ring
in the name of the man that set you free
Let it ring

And the strife will make me stronger
As my maker leads me onward
I'll be marching in that number
So let it ring

I'm gonna let it ring to Jesus
Cause I know he loves me too
And I get down on my knees and I pray the same as you
Let it ring, let it ring
'Cause one day we'll all be free

-Amy Ray

Har Mar IS a Superstar

2009-10-19T12:54:00.001-07:00

I'm so happy Har Mar Superstar (aka Sean Tillmann) exists. Can I just stay that? I just love that this white guy from Owatonna is creating music like this, and this, and especially this. I heard about him a few years back, but up until earlier this year I had no idea what he was all about. And let me tell you, he is all about the awesome. Seriously, for a devout Prince fan like me, Har Mar Superstar is a revelation. His music feels like the stuff I grew up on, like the best stuff on Controversy and 1999, only more fun.

(I am not giving lip service to my devotion: One year on my birthday I made my friends squeeze into the backseat of my mom's Honda Civic and drive around Chanhassen and Shakopee until we found his purple ranch house. The Purple Rain Christmas Eve show was my first concert, and when my Mom and I had to live in a hotel for a few months, she made the reality of our situation more bearable by booking us a room at the hotel where Apollonia and other actors stayed while filming the movie, Purple Rain. I suffered through years of jibbing by more puritanical friends because the music moved me like no other. And still does.)

The first time I saw the video for his song, "DUI" I actually shouted, "Yes, damnit!" at my computer screen. His new album, Dark Touches came out last week and I'm so friggin' happy about it, I can hardly contain myself. (You can listen to samples of all of the songs here.)

Here's the video for "Tall Boy," a song he wrote for Britney Spears. I love that he recorded it "as-is" -- and totally killed it. It's very Britney but it's still fantastic.

So far my faves are "Creative Juices," "Gangster's Want to Cuddle Me" and "Dope, Man." The song "Girls Only" is a turn-it-up song I would have put on every mix tape back in junior high. I also love the song, "Sunshine." Ok, I'm digging the whole album. It feels nostalgic but modern at the same time. (Maybe only fellow Prince fans will get me on this one.) Har Mar's music is my best discovery of the year.

According to his tour schedule, he's coming my way next week. I tried to figure out how I could make it down to the East Village (or Brooklyn) next week, but it's just not happening. I may shake my ass like I'm fourteen, I may blast my music like I'm single, but I also have a four-year-old to tuck in at night. I wish my girl and I could get a babysitter and make a night of it, but it ain't happening. I know a few of you, my loyal readers, live in NYC. Go see Har Mar for me, would ya?

Lesbians Say All the Right Things, Too

2009-10-17T05:01:00.000-07:00

Callie (Sara Ramirez) and Arizona (Jessica Capshaw)

I'll admit it: I only watch Grey's Anatomy for the girls in love. With each other, that is. Save for Sandra Oh (who is awesome), I'm not really a fan of the show, I have to say. It's not a bad show; I just prefer mockumentary sitcoms and hard core reality competitions.

Still, I watch. I watch because Callie and Arizona are the only lesbian couple on television right now. I suffered through the last few seasons of The L Word just so I could enjoy a little representation, so I can stand the mildly annoying melodrama that is Grey's in order to catch a glimpse of lady love. And a glimpse is pretty much all I get, most episodes. Callie and Arizona haven't had a ton of airtime, but last Thursday's episode made up for it.

Now, I'm going to share a clip, but I have to preface it by saying that one of my issues with the show is that everyone seems to know exactly what to say--even the characters who are supposed to have problems expressing their feelings or who are intimidated by other characters--eventually they all say exactly the right thing.

The monologues are too perfect, the comebacks are too smart and the zingers have way too much zing. But maybe that's why this show has such a huge following. It's a world where even fucked up doctors and nurses throw out quotable jibes and life-altering speeches. I guess that's just television, but I find it annoying.

That being said, I was a total sucker for ALL of that when it came to last Thursday's episode. I sat up and paid attention when, in the first five minutes of the show, Sara Ramirez (Callie) screamed, "You can't pray away the gay!" at her father in the hospital waiting room. I especially enjoyed the bible verse standoff scene, and the monologue Jessica Capshaw (Arizona) delivered to Callie's father was amazing, especially the part about being, "a good man in the storm."

Fortunately, someone took the time to post a video of the Callie/Arizona scenes, so you don't have to watch the whole show to see the awesome. It's a little too perfect, as is the Grey's Anatomy way, but awesome nonetheless. Enjoy.

Less Hope, More Work

2009-10-14T08:50:00.000-07:00

I have an new mantra: "Less hope, more work." It's inspired by this quote:

"Creativity comes from trust. Trust your instincts. And never hope more than you work."
-Rita Mae Brown

I've never actually read any of Rita's work. (I know, I know--bad lesbian.) Polly has a copy of Rubyfruit Jungle somewhere in the house, but I'm just not that interested. I never really had a lesbian coming-of-age period in which I wanted to see, read, listen to and generally consume everything even remotely queer. Maybe it's because I spent so much time with my gay friends in high school and that was enough. It could be that I never really had much angst about liking girls, because frankly, I didn't think about it. I liked boys for a long time, and then I fell for my girl and that was that. I told my parents and friends in a matter of fact way, but it was really more about being in love than being a lesbian.

But I digress. This isn't a post about coming out or lesbian literature (whatever that is). It's about work. (Well, let's be real, it's really a post about me, like everything else on this blog. Pretty much. I mean, you find a bit of yourself in my musings, but let's not kid ourselves. This is a self-involved journal that is sometimes funny and occasionally on point. But hey, you seem to like it. So whatevs.)

So Rita's quote about creativity speaks to me because I'm all about futuristic thinking, and what else is hope but an expectation for some future happening? Try as I might, I'm just not grounded. I'm better, more mindful, but I'm still mostly wandering around in the various outcomes my future may hold.

For the past ten years or so I've had this little voice nagging me, saying, "Just write your ass off." As in, the rest will take care of itself. My clients, the self-help gurus and motivational speakers, would say this about letting go of the how. The astrologer I spoke with last month would say this is about embracing my own power. At this point, I say it's about staying sane.

Work roots me in the now. It calms me down. Work also creates income, satisfaction and opportunity. Hope, on the other hand, stresses me out. It makes me feel anxious and dissatisfied with my life as-is. And it's a good one, this life of mine.

I want to dig deep and see what I'm really made of, not wallow in possibility. I want to KNOW what I can pull off. I want to work this gift until I OWN it.

It's just like when I came out. I didn't run right out and get a copy of Rubyfruit Jungle. I didn't even think about being a lesbian; I was just a girl in love with a girl. It was--and is--a love so pure, so right and so exciting I couldn't stop it if I tried. And that's what I want from my writing. It's not about attaining a specific identity or ascribing to a label; it's about the love, the work; not the outcome of the work or what the work means. It's just about the work. Because without it, all hope is lost anyway.

I let the love define me, not the orientation. It's time to let the work define me, not the vocation.

Sell the Vatican, Feed the World

2009-10-12T07:06:00.001-07:00

Sarah Silverman, you're a friggin' genius. But you know that. You know that so well you're not afraid to call yourself one. And even though I know calling yourself a genius is part of your totally original comedic style, I'm positive that you absolutely know that you are a genius, and I'm pretty sure you're okay with that--unlike most geniuses who either pretend they're not or expect the whole world to line up to give them money or sexual favors, or both.

Your latest video is probably my fave, possibly because I went to high school at a monastery (don't ask) that received huge endowments from dead Catholics, and where all of the monks wore Italian shoes.

A Perfect Day

2009-10-10T22:39:00.000-07:00

Jack on Madeline Island, Summer '09

Sometimes, when there's not enough money to pay a bill or I'm too tired to think straight, I forget why I decided to live this dual life: the SAHM and the ghostwriter with an ever-growing list of clients and responsibilities. If I had more time to work we'd be better off financially, with a decent savings balance and a second car. I'd also meet my deadlines, make the most of opportunities and return to the work I love. It seems like the practical thing to do, doesn't it?

Even before Jack was born I knew I wouldn't be able to hand his care over to anyone, no matter what. It was a choice based on my personal experience, and I pass no judgment on those who make different decisions. I was raised by a single mother who tried to set a good example by following through with her dreams, and I'm grateful for all she taught me just by staying the course. But I missed her. A lot. And I craved a sense of home I never really found until I made one with Polly.

It's hard for any mom to juggle everything and not feel guilty about falling short with something. God knows I let my body go to hell and stopped taking care of pretty much everything--except Jack. It's the all-to-common tale of the modern woman, a story told over and over again in playgrounds and doctor's offices, at coffee shops and on trains, at kitchen tables and on treadmills. Throw in work, even part-time work, and it's a mega challenge that is often too hard to meet. I know I'm certainly not rising to it--I'm a nervous, complaining, exhausted wreck. Not all of the time, granted, but enough so that I start to feel like I'm hanging on by my fingernails.

One day last week I picked Jack up from Montessori, hitched a ride with Thia to karate class, lunch and the park, and then ended up staying when Polly arrived (tag-team parenting) a few hours later. Normally I would rush home to write a few hundred words, or Skype with a client, or just tackle the massive headache that is my inbox. Instead I stayed and watched Jack play kick ball with his buddies on the baseball field next to the Hudson. I even joined in for a bit. And as twilight, my favorite time of day started creeping in, I had one of my aerial moments and I felt so lucky.

After we got home we dispersed to our stations--Polly making dinner, me putting away the day and Jack searching for an essential action figure in his toy basket. A few minutes later he walked in to the kitchen and said, "Today was a perfect day" and walked out again.

Sometimes, maybe even a lot of the time, I feel frustrated and sad about my decision to fit work in to my main job--being Jack's mama--rather than fit Jack time in to my work schedule, because it means I'm stressed and we're living invoice to invoice. But then I see how happy, confident, safe and loved my guy feels, and I remember why I made the choice in the first place. He's not lonely. He's not scared, or sad, or insecure. He's happy. Truly happy.

So it's worth it. I can handle a few more years of making do and getting by. It's only money. And you can't put a price on your child's "perfect day."

Meet My Little Sister

2009-10-08T05:48:00.000-07:00

I always wanted a sister. As an only child, I had it easy in many ways: all the stuff, all the attention, all the second chances. But I missed that connection, that sibling thing. Someone who gets you in a way that only someone with the same parents can get you. Someone who knows that what you really mean when you say, "Mom called" is, "Mom is insane!" (Just a random example. Sort of.)

I visited my cousin Alissa a lot when she was growing up, but it wasn't until she called three years ago and asked to visit me in New York that we realized we could be there for each other, like sisters. She's not an only child, but she didn't have a blood-related confidante, someone who gets the family dynamic, someone who can laugh about it without judging, and rant about it without forgetting the fierce love that runs through our matriarchal motley crew.

When she visits we rarely sleep. We walk all over NYC and then come back to Nyack and stay up for hours talking. Just like "real" sisters, or how I always imagined real sisters interacted. The truth is, having a "real" sister is not a guarantee that you'll have a deep connection, or any connection at all, for that matter. But Alissa and I do have that sisterly thing, because we chose it. And because despite the years and miles between us, we have so much in common it's just plain weird--beginning with the forces of nature that are our mothers, the first sisters.

I am so grateful for her; there are not enough words. She's luminous, a bad ass with more confidence and determination than anyone I've ever met. Whatever she does, she owns it. Whatever she wants, she gets it. She's super smart, poised, honest and generous. And she's friggin' gorgeous. In other words, as I like to say on this little blog of mine, she is many kinds of awesome. Oh, and it's her birthday, hence the shout out. Happy birthday, lil' sis.

Hands Down the Most Articulate Video on Polanski

2009-10-08T05:15:00.000-07:00

I love New Yorkers. They tell it like it is. Melissa Silverstein over at Women & Hollywood posted this Jay Smooth rant about Roman Polanski and the petition to free him. Like Jay, Melissa and my fave blogger Dorothy Snarker, I'm shocked and so very disappointed in the artists who signed this petition (and even more shocked to see the signature of someone I know personally).

Check this out. It's worth seven minutes of your time.

Go. See. Whip It.

2009-10-02T06:59:00.000-07:00

You have one task to accomplish this weekend: see Whip It.

Here's some awesome:

Giddy for Glee

2009-10-01T06:34:00.000-07:00

Are you watching Glee? If you're not watching Glee, you have to start watching Glee, because watching Glee is a joyful and campy ride that should NOT be missed.

Watch this very fabulous trailer to get caught up on the awesomeness:

Here are some of my favorite moments:

That Girl is Prolific!

2009-09-30T09:37:00.000-07:00

Wisteria, prolific.

If you know me at all, even a little bit, you know I struggle with productivity. It's a common problem and there's really no excuse for it, even though my reasons are excellent and appropriate (overwhelmed, small child, yadda yadda yadda). Whatever. That's just the bullshit I tell myself to make myself feel like less of a lazy ass.

Truth is, the problem is very real. But it's also very solvable. I've been reading a lot about productivity lately. (Specifically, I've learned a lot from this, and this and this.) I've also been thinking a lot about who I want to be every day, not who I hope to be in the future. Mix all of that reading and learning and thinking together and you get a decision. More than that--you get a plan.

When I lived in L.A. I worked my shit job at The Maple Center in Beverly Hills, took the bus to Rita Flora on Sixth Street and La Brea and wrote ten pages before I went home. I was committed. I was prolific. And best of all, I was truly, truly happy.

Years later, when Polly and I lived in Santa Fe, I pulled that memory out of my back pocket and adopted a similar routine in order to get out of a creative depression--or repression--of sorts. I would leave my shit job in Eldorado and drive to Border's near Galisteo and write five pages before I went home. Again I found authentic happiness.

It's different now. I have a kid and I write for a living, but I still want to feel that same amazing sense of real happiness again. I want to bust out pages and pages of stuff every week. I want reams of it, even if most of it is crap. I'm not attached to the product; I know I can turn out something good, maybe even great, eventually. I just want the happiness back.

So I'm starting again, the habit. That's the new plan. It will be all about the numbers for a while--ten pages or 2,000 words, every day, no matter what. (I came up with the number based on an averaging out what I accomplish on loser days and rock star days.)

In all my reading, and learning and thinking, I realized I'm better with numbers than specific project goals. I get freaked out just looking at my to-do list. I know if I focus on the output rather than the outcome, I'll be able to pull this off. I don't even have to wonder if I can pull it off, because I've done it before. Twice.

I'm in good company, too. Stephen King writes ten pages of prose every day; Hemingway wrote 500 words. Again, I'm not referring to publishing, getting workshops or productions, or submitting, or even completing projects. It's not about the rest of it, the success and money and recognition. It's about the habit.

It will be tough at first, but I'll get it. And then one day, when I don't even need it, I'll get a gift. A line. A voice. A character. A moment. You can't get that if you're not committed to the habit, the numbers, the work.

So f*ck productivity. I want to be prolific. I want to swim in it. I want to build the sexiest, baddest writer muscles anyone has ever seen. The rest is all just frosting.

All the Lezzies in Hell Put Your Hands Up

2009-09-23T16:56:00.001-07:00

Oh, dear. Someone's trying to be clever. Setting aside all other comments (I mean, why bother?), I'd like to point out that this statement is inherently false. The message on the sign implies that girls who kiss other girls and like it will go to hell immediately rather than after they keel, that enjoying a little girl-on-girl action is like jumping on the express train to the underworld.

If that were true, there'd be no lesbians left on earth to make art, make babies, make trouble, make movies, make food, make miracles, make music, make a difference or make American Idol contestants laugh while being judged by millions. And if it were true, and if hell exists, it would be a damn fine place to spend eternity, which isn't exactly what these self-righteous folks had in mind.

Just imagine all of the bad asses hanging out down there--rebels, geeks and closeted debutantes, hermits, athletes and organizers, philosophers, outlaws and as my Dad would say, "creative types." Now that's a scenario worthy of being called, "the rapture!"

Note to fundies: If you're trying to help me "see the light," you're going to have to come up with something better than damning me to, as Ms. Page said in her hilarious-yet-confounding skit on Saturday Night Live, "a big lezzie jam" in hell. (I added the "in hell" part.)

And, while we're at it, is it too much to ask for proper grammar when spewing hate?

Dance! Battle!

2009-09-17T07:07:00.000-07:00

Still not in the mood to blog about growth, girth or girls. And since my ghostwriting gigs keep me beyond busy, I really don't have time to create an insightful post about anything. But I'm not going to disappear into my to-do list; I don't want to give you that deflated, no-new-post today feeling I know you get when you check in with my blog. Instead, I'm going to reveal something I've been keeping to myself for most of my adult life: I love bad 80s dance movies.

Let's not psychoanalyze this love of mine. I mean, they definitely have a fixer-upper quality (my fave), and then there's the competition (which I thoroughly enjoy). But really, it's about the dancing. Namely, the dance battles.

I was twelve when Fast Forward came out, which is probably why I felt the need to rent it over and over and over again. In case you haven't seen it, or rather, since you probably would never watch five minutes of it, the movie is about a group of kids from Ohio who secretly travel to New York to compete in a big talent competition, only to find that they have to wait a month for the finals---so they move there. (Cue fun decorating-the-apartment-with-found-objects montage.)

All kinds of shit goes down in NYC, man. All kinds of shit. What do eight kids from Ohio do while they wait to compete and hide from their parents? They battle. They battle with the dance.

Now is probably the best time to tell you Fast Forward is Sydney Poitier's directorial debut. Yup. You read that right. This movie is all kinds of awful and all kinds of awesome wrapped up into one, but it's hard to imagine the revered, Academy Award-winning icon of the cinema directing this film.

I'm not sure how many times I actually watched Fast Forward, but it cannot compare to the number of times I watched Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. I'm pretty sure I could still recite the whole movie, which is kinda sad. (I can recite every line from Philadelphia Story, Raising Arizona and Say Anything, too. I hope that redeems me.)

I actually still have the original VHS copy I never returned to the video store. That's a 20-year late fee, people. The story was slightly better than Fast Forward, and it did have Helen Hunt and a very young Shannen Doherty, but it's pretty tame compared to other 80s dance movies--it's a "dance-off" movie, not a dance battle movie. And sadly, the pseudo dance battle does not feature breakdancing.

I know my friend, the Divine Miss Em will agree, I would be remiss if I did not mention two of the very best 80s dance movies, Breakin' and Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo. Words cannot describe how these movies bring the awful, and the awesome. For sure, they have the best dance battles in cinematic history. Here's one from Breakin'--yes, that is Ice T "layin' down the beats."

Come on, a dance battle is the best way to solve a problem. Personally, I think we should ditch the Presidential debates and force candidates to have a dance off, backed up by their VP and campaign staff. I'd like to see Bill O'Reilly and the Fox crew battle Rachel Maddow and Keith Olbermann over at MSNBC. I know, I know! Fundies vs. queers. Now THAT is a dance battle I would like to see. No matter how hard you try, you can't beat the gays in a dance off. It's just not possible.

Just Watch a Video

2009-09-16T12:36:00.000-07:00

You're awesome, and I know you really miss it when I don't blog. I really haven't done much soul searching this week, and I'm completely out of wit, snark and pithy commentary. If you were my kid and I was in this mood I'd say, "Why don't you just watch a video?"

So, since I'm swamped with work and just generally not feeling the blog thing this week, I got you a little gift. Here's a brand new Sarah Haskins Target Women video for your viewing pleasure...

What I Really, Really Want

2009-09-13T11:10:00.000-07:00

Drew Barrymore on the set of Whip It

For the next couple of weeks, this blog may seem to be a Drew Barrymore tribute blog, or an Ellen Page superfan blog, or a Whip It-obsessed blog. It won't last forever, but for now I can't help it. Even though this may make me look like a class-A dork, I really don't care. I like dorks. In fact, I like them so much, I married one.

We all know we're drawn to people, images and experiences for a multitude of reasons, and right now the film, these women and all they represent echo the themes, ideas, and struggles in my own life right now. (Hence the excessive Whip It blogging.)

Case in point: Drew Barrymore, in a Q&A after a screening of her directorial debut, mused:

"In my 20s I believed in happy endings. In my 30s, I believe in a good day."

Yes! A good day! This is what I have been wrangling with, this notion of happiness derived from extremes and absolutes (happy endings) vs. happiness derived from honesty and authenticity (good days).

Drew is referring to the resolution of the mother-daughter story in her film, but I'm also thinking about her quote in terms of process vs. product, race vs. finish line. Sure, the dream that won't die is worth pursuing, but what I want, what I really, really want, is to be happy in the pursuit.

I'd rather go for a good day, a truly good day. For me that means so many things, chief among them to create without fear. A day spent honoring my own truth, rather than avoiding my own power. Yeah. That would be a good day. I could use one of those right about now.

I like watching Drew's interviews, partly because she's so positive and honest, and partly because we're only two years apart and her trajectory is similar to that of most women in their 30s, including mine. And, you've got to love a woman who takes her job so seriously and still makes room for a food fight.

Slidin' Down the Slippery Slope

2009-09-11T05:21:00.000-07:00

I sense big change coming, people. Big change. How do I know? Because lately I've been in a progressive funk, one that gets worse by the hour. This is not a new thing. In fact, all I have to do is mention to Polly that, "I'm sliding down the slippery slope" and she knows exactly what's happening and exactly what to do: let me be.

One gift of growing up (or at least growing older) that I particularly appreciate is my ability to see patterns. For instance, I now know that when I start to slide down, down, down, it means I'm preparing for a change I'm really going to like. I don't really understand why, but I know that it will happen. And I know this because I've been here before. Lots.

Change is good, but also quite sucky. If it was easy I wouldn't need Ben, Jerry or Juan Valdez. But I do. I really, really do.

Enjoy the weekend, oh loyal band of "fling itself" readers.

Bewitched & Bewildered

2009-09-10T11:31:00.001-07:00

As if I needed any more incentive to see Whip It.

5:00 a.m.

2009-09-09T11:26:00.000-07:00

I get up at 5:00 a.m. now. Did I mention that?

If you read my blog you know I've been struggling to get up early ever since my little guy was born--well, ever since he started sleeping through the night. Growing up, I never used an alarm clock and got up very early, which was necessary since it took me a good hour to wake my mom up to drive me to school. (No bus for Wooddale Montessori Academy kids.) So my recent inability to get my ass up in the a.m. has been more than a little frustrating.

Even in my early 20s, when I was making up for lost time (in high school I was the girl who cleaned up the beer cans aftereveryone else passed out) and partying pretty much every night, I still got up early. I was strung out, but I was up.

And then--Jack. Suddenly I'm staying up late just to watch TV and sneak around with Ben & Jerry. I tried and tried to get back to my old early bird ways and yet every morning was the same: I hit the snooze button until Jack woke up on his own and demanded my attention.

Then Tim Ferris posted a link to Steve Pavlina's article, "How to Become an Early Riser" and I bit. I followed Steve's advice the first night and it worked, and I've been up at 5:00 a.m. every morning for the past week. It's not complicated, which is why I thought it wouldn't work. But even when Jack was in Brooklyn and I didn't want it to work, it worked.

So what am I doing up at 5:00 a.m.? It's a secret.

PS: Congrats to frequent reader Fond du Lac Joe on the new little smart ass his wife is graciously growing in her belly.

PPS: Apologies to Fond du Lac Joe if that news was a secret.

The Wall of "No"

2009-09-06T11:48:00.000-07:00

Not one of my rejection letters. I toss mine out as soon as they arrive.

So Patrick has this sick new office in Tribeca. Seriously. I'm stunned every time I walk in, remembering his first tiny office in SoHo. His new place has enough square footage to hold great parties and a bunch of new staff. It's also big enough for his sublet, a friendly guy who makes custom baseballs.

In the gallery-like hallway, right outside baseball guy's office, there's a wall covered in a display of letters mounted symmetrically in between giant sheets of plexiglass. You don't have to get close to it to see that the letters are from baseball teams; the colorful logos jump out at you as you walk by. I just assumed they were testimonials, thank you's for creating some custom thing or whatnot.

Last week as I walked past the display on my way out to get potstickers at the deli on Canal I stopped to read the letters, and realized they're not thoughtful letters of gratitude. They're rejection letters.

Dear Mr. Baseball Guy,

Carl Pohlad forwarded your resume to me. Unfortunately we do not have a position in our organization at this time. We will keep your letter on file.

Good luck,

The Gatekeeper (or whatever his title was)
Minnesota Twins

I just assumed such a carefully mounted display would feature words of praise and gratitude, but instead it showcases one "thanks-but-no-thanks" letter after another.

Right away I thought of Polly's freelance writer friend back in Menomonie. He had 15-20 years on us, and despite his literary aspirations, felt the need to settle down in Dunn County, Wisconsin. (Not a great place from which to launch a career in the arts. Trust me. I tried. Well, I did see the poet Robert Bly at The Creamery a lot when I lived there, but I'm pretty sure he was just visiting.)

Polly's freelance writer friend had a secret in his basement. An entire wall covered in rejection letters. He called it, The Wall of "No." I never met him, but from the way Polly told it, he papered his wall with his own "thanks-but-no-thanks" letters because he was proud of every last one of them. He was proud of them because they represented every time he tried to make that big fat burning dream come true.

Sometimes your decisions have their own echoes, little confirmations that you made the right choice, you're on the right path, you finally get it, etc. Last month, when I was thinking a lot about being willing, I committed to send in one script each week. One script to one theater, workshop opportunity, competition--whatever and wherever I might have even the slightest chance of making it to the top of the pile. Baseball guy's very own Wall of "No" was my little echo, confirmation that I'm on to something.

You see, despite the fact that I've been whining for going on five years about not having enough time to write my own stuff, I sent my already-finished, possibly-awesome scripts out for consideration exactly three times. Three times in five years. Uh-huh. Don't even say it. You're right, you're right, I know you're right.

So far I've followed through with this plan. It's actually really easy and really fun. Once I decided I was willing to do that small thing, I've felt a lot better about that dream of mine that just won't die.

Art being subjective, I'm sure I will soon have enough of my own "thanks-but-no-thanks" letters to wallpaper my entire house. I was a reader; I know how hard is to get it up to read a stack of 20 scripts, when all you want to do is stuff them in a garbage bag and drop them off marked, "No, no, double, triple, no, no, no!"

Still, every rejection letter will remind me that my dream did not die with that little pink plus sign. More than that, the letters will serve as evidence that I'm possibly, maybe, just a little bit more than I appear to be. And maybe, just maybe, I could still pull this off.

PS: Incidentally, it was my friend Nyack Mary's new endeavor that inspired me to send one script in each week. She and her husband are training for Speight's Coast to Coast crazy-hard race this coming February in New Zealand. You can read all about it on her blog. She's actually going to run 33 miles uphill--and that's just one part of the race. Mary has her hands full with two kids under five, so if she can figure out how to find time to train, I can be willing to give up an hour of my week to make sure I throw one of my scripts in the ring. (Now if I could just haul my ass back to the gym, that would be something.)

A map of the Speight Coast to Coast race

PPS: This week I'll ask baseball guy why he put up his own Wall of "No" and what his baseball dream was (is). Check back Thursday (or Friday) for the update.

Be Your Own Hero

2009-08-27T06:56:00.001-07:00

Ellen Page. Drew Barrymore. Bad ass girls on skates. Of course I was going to fall in love with this movie. But the tagline, "Be your own hero," guarantees I will fork over $11.50 for this flick opening weekend.

I've been patiently anticipating the release of Whip It for months, knowing it's going to do what all of those Ellen Page interviews did for me during Oscar season in 2008: remind me who I am.

I thoroughly enjoyed the fresh, unconventional movie Juno, but it wasn't until I saw Ellen discreetly roll her eyes at Barbara Walters that I became interested in her enough to Google her. Yeah. That was a long afternoon. I just kept reading, listening and watching her interviews, entranced by her wit and strength of character. It seemed as though--and I hope it's really true--she knew who she was and was not afraid to be herself. That's hard to do even when you're living in obscurity, let alone on the cover of a magazine.

Having never spent more than a few minutes thinking about any one actor or celeb (not counting my teen years, of course), I was totally shocked at my desire to learn all I could about this bright young thing. (I felt a little better when I learned Zoe also indulged in an Ellen Page fest on YouTube one afternoon. Something about her, I guess.) But then I realized that it wasn't that I had suddenly become a superfan, it was that in her steadfast willingness to stand in her own truth, Ellen reminded me about the truth of who I am.

It was good timing. Having a baby had shaken me up, and I was more than a little lost, so I was ready to remember. I'm standing firmly in my chucks now, but it never hurts to be reminded again. Come October 2nd, the strong, rebellious, awesome women of Whip It will do just that.

When we lived in Santa Fe we frequented this great video store downtown, which has since closed. The inventory was beyond extensive, beyond eclectic, and the staff was crazy smart about movies. In addition to the collection on the walls, they also had a huge counter, the size of a kitchen table, covered in recently returned DVDs. People would flip through them, pick one up, and one of the employees would simply say, "No," or "Get it," or "Don't even think about it." They'd harass you if you chose a movie they felt was a waste of talent, or money, or your time.

They were an awesome crew. But not just because they were cantankerous cinema buffs; the reason we always rented from this store was the staff knew what I knew: that movies are medicine. You'd walk in and say, "I'm feeling extra gay today," or "I miss my dog," or "I just broke up with my best friend," and they would hand you a movie that would get you to that feeling you wanted to feel.

When I asked for a movie that would help me gather the courage to start a business with my friend, they didn't recommend the obvious choices like Secret of My Success or Working Girl. They gave me Bagdad Cafe, the German film (Out of Rosenheim) set in the Mojave Desert. It was a surreal salve for my anxious heart, and it did the trick.

I like to think that had I walked in to that video store last year and said, "I need to remember who I am," they would have given me the Ellen Page collection (minus X-Men) and sent me on my merry way. And they would have shouted, as I walked out the door, "Hey, once you remember who you are, go see Whip It. Maybe then you'll do something about it."

Bastards. I miss those guys.

Montage!

2009-08-25T15:20:00.000-07:00

Lori Singer and Kevin Bacon in Footloose

So this past weekend, after working my friggin' ass off, I sat down and watched Footloose and High School Musical, back to back. I'm not really sure what came over me, but I found it all oddly comforting, like call waiting and that rectangle pizza they used to serve us at hot lunch.

Maybe it's because this is the summer the 80s died (RIP Farrah, MJ and John Hughes) and all of us Gen Xers finally have to admit we're grown ups. Maybe not grown up, but you know, old. Not fourteen.

I realize my nostalgia does not really explain watching the Disney movie, but it was comforting to me, just the same. Could be the high school thing. Or the dancing. But this slightly dark, kind of pessimistic thirtysomething was glued to the screen. Go figure. Still, it's not Footloose. None of the HSM girls would be caught dead hiding out in the bushes with their boyfriends, pulling on their red, bad-ass cowboy boots before they buttoned their pants.

I was only eleven when Footloose came out, but it was HUGE among my crew (shout out, Stacie). We would blast the soundtrack in the cafeteria, which because we went to a small private school, we had all to ourselves after class. My favorite was "Let's Hear It for the Boy," the song accompanying my very first movie montage experience. I've been in love with them ever since.

I perk up whenever a montage starts, even though they're usually silly and unnecessary. I can't help myself. I'm an MTV kid. And as you know, I love fixer-uppers, which is what often happens in a montage. Someone learns a new skill, loses weight, trains for the big show/fight/sporting event. Love it.

Watching Footloose and High School Musical, I wondered if anyone has ever created a top ten list for movie montages. So I'm putting it out there--what's your fave?

It's Not You, It's Me

2009-08-21T06:17:00.000-07:00

Freud's couch. (Just because I needed a photo of a psychotherapist's couch, not because I admire the misogynistic shrink.)

So last week I broke up with my therapist. I feel slightly silly telling you this, because, well, blogging about therapy is pretty much the pinnacle of self absorption. But I feel okay about it because, up until now, my references to Dr. J. have been purely anecdotal...I think.

It's been a long time coming, the split. I came back from vacation feeling like I needed a break. You know, when you just don't want to see someone anymore, but you're not sure if you want to cut ties forever? You need space. Breathing room. Freedom to explore other options.

I've been in therapy twice: once when I was a teenager and really needed it, and then with Dr. J., when I was a new mom and REALLY needed it. Both women pulled me out of the dark, scary places and I'm grateful. But I'm also sick to death of talking about myself every Wednesday at 3:00.

I know I still have plenty of "stuff." But I'm good for right now. I stopped picking on Polly, I got the monkey off my back, I started practicing mindfulness--pretty awesome changes that have greatly impacted my quality of life. I'm a kinder, gentler, more self-aware person thanks to two years with Dr. J.--and my willingness to stop intellectualizing everything (i.e., shut the fuck up).

We discussed my desire for a break a few weeks ago. Why do I want a break? What am I avoiding? Let's explore these feelings. Yeah. Let's not.

Rather than talk about why I want a break, I'd rather take a break, and then figure out why I wanted it after the fact. So I called it quits. And I feel free, as one would expect to feel. But this past Wednesday I also felt a few pangs, mostly because my 45 minutes on Dr. J's couch was about the only thing I did for myself every week.

Maybe I'll take up my old habit--movies in the afternoon. It is how I got through high school, after all. (Or didn't get through high school, depending on who you're talking to.)

Oh Happy Day

2009-08-16T16:07:00.000-07:00

I have two words for you, friends: Pudding. Pops.

Yes, it's true. I have found Jell-O Pudding Pops and life is good. It has been a long, rough road but the search is over. No more mourning for my all-time favorite nighttime (anytime, really) snack. To think, I had all but given up hope, but then yesterday I found them. They were not in a secret cave under the sea, or beyond the mists of Avalon, or even in a mythical freezer behind the gates of Graceland. I found them at the grocery store, right next to the boring ice cream sandwiches.

They're not the same, of course. Not exactly. But the yummy frozen pudding on a stick is close enough for me to cease my noble quest.

(Hey, do you think this is what Rob Brezsny meant when he predicted I would find my equivalent of the Holy Grail? I'm going to say yes and be done with it. I've got a kid and seven deadlines to miss--I can barely find my ass, let alone the Holy Grail.)

Pudding Pops helped me weather many little earthquakes and numerous disappointments. In fact, it's safe to say I have a Jello-O Pudding Pop butt. And arm fat. And thighs. Still, I can't blame the pops (duh); I can't even hold any animosity toward these tasty treats (though I'll always have it out for custard-filled long johns and pecan pie).

How could I hold a grudge? Pudding Pops are so much more than a creamy frozen goodness--they're the quintessential treat of my childhood. They're like Prince, The Facts of Life and Empire Strikes Back...on a stick. Oh happy day, indeed.

Willing

2009-08-14T04:37:00.000-07:00

Jack's first day of preschool (September, 2007)

As you know, I surf the net a lot, and read a lot, and talk to motivational types a lot for work, so I'm not really sure where I read or heard that I should simply focus on being willing (and the doing will follow), but it totally works. Isn't it always the simple things?

I glommed on to the concept immediately, pondered it, and then made it my own. It goes beyond asking, "What am I willing to do to (get/change/accomplish) _______," which is a great question worth asking more often. It's a declaration, as in, "I am willing to (be/do/try) ___________."

Pretty basic. But I made it my own by tying it in with mindfulness. When you are mindful, you can ask yourself if you are willing, or decide to be willing. Like mindfulness, even if you don't think you can be willing for an entire day, or even an entire hour, you could be willing for the next twenty minutes--just long enough to let the ice cream truck pass, or make an important phone call, or type, "End of Play."

I like that it's not supposed to be permanent. Maybe I'm not willing today. But when I decide I'm not willing, I'm mindful that I'm not willing, and somehow it's perfectly okay. And I like that being willing is not a fucking affirmation scribbled on a brightly-colored post-it, taped to my bathroom mirror. I hate that shit. It's not a big declaration, just a thought I whisper in my own ear. (If I feel like it.)

When you are willing it cuts through all of your bullshit. And since it's not forever, it kills the fear, insecurity, old tapes, whatever the hell you call the stuff that's holding you back from going for that thing you want most in the whole wide world. Because if you had to pretend to be healthy, smart, adventurous, prolific, kind, or anything that you think you're not and wish you were, forever, you'd be toast.

There's no pressure when you're just trying something out out. That's what we tell our kids to get them to do what we know they need to do. "Just try it, you don't have to eat it all." Or, "Give school/soccer/summer camp a try for just one day. You might love it." And, "If you absolutely can't stand it, you can quit."

Kids are brave. We're always asking them to try new things, meet new people, tackle new challenges. We ask them to be willing, and very often, they are--in part because we tell them it they won't have to do it every day until they die. We give them an out. Just try it. Have courage. Be willing.

While children are full of creative excuses, they don't really believe them. They're just hoping to get out of something, grasping at straws. We, on the other hand, believe our own bullshit reasons for living a half-ass life, and then pay people a lot of money to give us hope that those reasons may not be true.

Who cares if they're true or not? You just have to be willing to do it anyway, just this once. Try it. You might like it. So what if you've got a truckload of evidence that proves you are not worthy? It's just for today.

As my very good friend Beck says, you can do anything if you know there's a time limit. You could be one of "those people" for a couple of hours; you could even be the person you always wanted to be, if you knew that all you had to do was be willing for a specific time period. You get to be your own fairy godmother, granting the wish and taking it back at midnight (or in five minutes). How cool is that?

Frankly, re-reading this post makes me want to gag--a little. It really does sound hokey, but whatever. Deciding if I'm willing to do what I need to do in order to be who I want to be is working for me, and so I get to be "That Girl" more often. Which is awesome.

Fond du Lac Joe Guest Post: Americana

2009-08-13T07:10:00.000-07:00

Straight from the heartland, a guest post from one of my loyal readers, Fond du Lac Joe.

I found Americana today, and I regained the appreciation that dissipated over my short tenure as an adult.

At 5:30 I packed the neighbors, my children, and my wife in to my minivan and headed out to the Alto fair. Alto is a 30-minute jaunt from home, situated where County Highway E ends and meets County Highway EE. Having missed the county fair, its was decidedly a necessary event, as children can't possibly grow up to be normal without the annual pilgrimage to pet cows, goats, sheep, horses, rabbits and pigs.

My pulse raced when I pulled into Alto, as small towns are not known for ample parking. The highway was lined with parked cars. The churches had no room and the feed mill was full as well. But, across from the location of the fair, a farmer had cut his hay and offered his field as parking. Free of course.

Hungry, with wallets in hand, we crossed the road (traffic waited and drivers waved) and entered the grounds. As we approached the food tent, stroller in hand, I was waved over to a picnic table. "You and your family sit here," a 50ish woman commanded. "I'd hate to see seats like these go to waste when we spent all this time warming them up for you." Considering the beatings a farm wife can dish out, I obliged her.

The polka band was just finishing up and the one-man, prerecorded-rhythm section-classic-country-cover band took the stage. Shuddering at the possibility of what could be, I prepared my ears for the worst...it never came. He played quietly--not so much so that you had to strain to hear the lyrics of Thank God I'm a Country Boy, but soft enough that mealtime conversations were not an effort.

My wife returned from the "concessions" with locally made hotdogs, cheeseburgers with local meat and cheese, pie from the church groups and creamery fresh (local of course) ice cream. Sadly, they were out of Mountain Dew. But I digress.

The menu was as reasonable as the prices. Catherine left with $20 out of my wallet, returned with her long arms full of food, and advised me that there was enough change that it was worth her keeping.

People watching was the best part of the meal. Neighbors greeting each other, people saying please and thank you and even, "pardon me" when needing to pass. Clothes were clean and appropriate, teenager's pants were on the waist and the boys that bothered with hats had them on straight, emblazoned with NK versus DC (NK for Northrup King...the seed company). Eye contact lead to greetings from strangers, always accompanied with a firm handshake and country smile.

Vacating our seats for the next group, we went to see the animals: 7 horses, 5 goats, 4 sheep, 14 pigs and about 2 dozen cows and steer, 3 calves, 2 guinea pigs, 20 rabbits, 4 black ducks, 3 chickens and a rooster--but who's counting? After taking the time to pet and feed everything but the fowl, we stepped over to the auction. Yes, selling the animals we just doted on to become tasty morsels of goodness.

The local 10-year-olds who had painstakingly raised the hogs for a season were getting $2.00 to $3.50 per pound. Mind you, the market commands under $.50 per pound. There was no sadness in their faces, just the joy of knowing they can afford to do it again next year.

After the auction a family took the "main stage" (a little bigger than their tour bus). The music was fine, the message definitely not for me, so I took my 4-year-old's life in my hands and allowed her to ride the roller coaster...yikes. After I began to breathe again, I purchased a funnelc ake, and we left for home.

I strangely felt young again, akin to feelings of the past when attending church festivals with my parents and siblings. Everyone was courteous and welcoming, the food comforting, and the company grand. All competition, stress and anxiety were exempt from this arena. As cynical as I have become, bittered by people due to my career, it is good to know that I found Lake Wobegon...and so close to home.

Thanks, Joe. My favorite Wisconsin county fair memory is me and Madison Joe at the Burnett County Fair, looking at prize-winning pies, riding rickety old rides, and then drinking beer from plastic cups while watching my stepfather compete in the demolition derby. Serious fun for a city girl like me.

A Little Bit Crazy

2009-08-10T12:32:00.000-07:00

Cast of Whip It!

So this morning Jack looks at me and says, "You are completely out of your mind."

(Cue: Fond du Lac Joe's hysterical laughter.)

He's not far off, seeing as I did feel slightly insane due to extreme sleep deprivation. Jack woke up at 12:30 a.m. and by the time I got him back to sleep, I was wide awake with nothing to do but watch Darlene propose to David on Roseanne. (Yes, I did check in with Sara Gilbert for a snack/insomnia update. Double your Sara, double your fun.)

At 3:00 a.m., just one hour before I was supposed to wake up and write something I care about, I heard Jack coming down the stairs. Wide. Awake. He didn't go back to bed until after 9:00 a.m., so is it any wonder I'm feeling a bit nutty?

But I think Jack was just trying the phrase out on me, not responding to my mental state. (Shut up, Joe.)

It's hot, I'm tired, and I'm so out of shape even my tongue feels fat. Which is why although I would not say I have completely lost it, I am feeling a little out of my mind right now.

What better time to just share the Whip It! trailer with you? I mean, I could write a post about how excited I am to see this movie, and how unbelievably gorgeous and bad ass Drew, Ellen et al look in this trailer, and how thrilled I am to see a movie about ass-kicking women, written by a woman, directed by a woman, and produced by women. But none of this would surprise any of you, my loyal band of (about a dozen) readers.

Or, I could relate my getting up early in pursuit of a dream to Ellen Page's character's own story arc, or to Karate Kid (but Jezebel did that already...sort of). Or compare the trailer to the movie Julie & Julia, which I saw with friends this weekend. But I'm too fucking tired. Let's just say this movie is going to make me happy in ways I can only imagine. And my friends, it will do the same for you. Trust.

So here it is, sans commentary. October can't come soon enough.

PS: Two Karate Kid references in one week? What's up with that?

PPS: Two book deadlines this month and no babysitter the last two weeks of August. Pray for me.

Harsh

2009-08-08T10:26:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I fought with Polly. It was not one of my better moments. It was, in fact, one of my worst moments, as Jack was aware of my meltdown.

(I apologized to him later, explaining that I felt better after I gave myself a "time out." He seemed surprised that I would give myself a time out, but more interested in parlaying my apology into permission to "watch a show." Oh, and I apologized profusely to my girl, who rarely receives so much as a "humpf" from me when she's proven right. I would commemorate the occasion, but I'd rather not have cause to remember what an asshole I was.)

Normally I fight for my point like a rabid dog, as I did yesterday. And normally I feel perfectly justified in doing so, as I did yesterday. That is until I had my revelation. (See previous post.)

Shortly after my dear ones left for the day it hit me: It's all you. That is, it's all me.

It's not the work, or the time crunch, or the kid, or the past. It's not the weight, or chauvinism, or circumstance, or regret. It's not my obsessions, compulsions, habits, or fears. None of this causes me to wallow, fight, disconnect, falter, hold back, fuck up, or lose it.

It's huge, realizing you're completely full of shit. As long as I have someone or something to cite as the reason why I have yet to step fully into my own, I get to watch from the sidelines...and then blog about it. I know this is harsh and maybe a little too raw for this public space. But I really don't care right now.

You know what I need? I need Mr. Myagi. Someone to call me on my bullshit while helping me meet my destiny. Wax on, wax off. Wax on, wax off. Or maybe Yoda. Yoda would be good.

Alas, no fictional mentors for me. Maybe a cardboard cutout would work. When you find one, send it on over. Come to think of it, when was the last time you sent me anything? Get on it, already.

Revelation Sucks Ass

2009-08-07T14:45:00.000-07:00

People pay a lot of money to see the light. I know. For better or worse, I'm ankle-deep in this industry, and although my bank account is not a shining testament to personal empowerment, I do have a souvenir for my troubles--a razor sharp bullshit detector.

"Have your own startling revelation for only $97--ten free 'aha!' moments with purchase!"

All of the promises are empty. Some people know they're selling you a lie, but most are earnest, energentic ambassadors of a "transformational" subculture. Whatever their motives, like the emperor in the fairytale, the gurus have no clothes.

No matter how the shine of that lightning bolt calls to you from the store window, no matter how real that apocalyptic promise looks in the free catalog, you can't buy epiphanies like butter, or jewelry or tile flooring. No one can give them to you, either. Your true blue lover, your angelic friend, neither of them can infuse you with the the truth as they know it.

Because self awareness is of the self, and so can only come from you.

Revelations don't come cheap, and you have to pay for them in moments, not hard currency. Ten thousand moments. Two million moments. Or as Jack would say, googol moments.

Moments you wish you could take back or get back, the 14 fights with your spouse, the 987 hours spent watching Wheel of Fortune. Moments you regret, like all the times you told a lie because it was easier; and moments you treasure, like the first few minutes after your new baby falls asleep in your arms. Moments wish you could remember, and moments you worked hard to forget.

And sometimes, when you have just enough moments saved to buy one halfway decent revelation, you get more than you paid for. Sometimes it hurts, because truth is like that. You crave it, beg for it even, and then when it truth shows up it kicks you in the gut. Tricky bugger.

If it feels good, it's not the whole truth. The light blinds; it gives you a migraine the size of Mt. Rushmore. That's how you know it's real. Everything else is just another moment: a cloud floating by, an ice cream sundae, a dream.

Mine came today. Bought and paid for with a pole shed full of moments. It's no bullshit and it sucks ass. Wanna know what it is?

"The food's free so we should just...sell it at the Farmer's Market."

2009-08-04T04:22:00.000-07:00

Prince at Bamboo Nation posted this video, and I feel compelled to share it with you. This puts that Miss Teen USA video to shame.

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

No, she's not an actor. She's a real person, which is both hilarious and terrifying. What do you think? Prop 8 Yes or No for this shining example of the "success" of No Child Left Behind?

Late Nights with Sara Gilbert

2009-08-03T06:07:00.000-07:00

So most of you know that I have this teeny-tiny problem with late night snacking. By "late," I mean very late. And by "teeny-tiny," I mean HUGE.

The thing is, when I need to relax (i.e., feel better) nothing works quite as well as the total privacy, paired with my DVR and a snack--preferably a snack I really shouldn't have. As I am married with child, privacy is absolutely impossible unless I wait until both of them are safely tucked in to bed.

So I stay up late. Very late.

While normally I would steer this post toward some sort of revelation about "me time," or a potential solution for kicking this problem (and yes, it is most definitely a problem), what I really want to share with you is Sara Gilbert snacks late, too.

How do I know this? Twitter, my friends. That addictive social media trend I know most of you are avoiding like the plague actually offers a fascinating window into the lives of total strangers. But unlike illicit voyeurism and perusing People for "candid" shots of celebs, this is totally legit, because here's the thing: they know it's public; they are in control.

How did I find Sara Gilbert's twitter account? AfterEllen, I think. Or maybe someone's blog. You see, that's the other thing I do at night. I surf. Sometimes aimlessly, often habitually, and always excessively.

Lately, I've been visiting Sara's twitter feed a few times a week, which is how I know she stays up late, too. But unlike my willful disobedience, I gather from her posts that this is due to insomnia. She also tweets about her snacks of choice and what she would prefer to snack on if she wasn't so focused on providing healthy food options for her kids. (She obviously needs a secret stash.)

Somehow, when I'm up late, fighting exhaustion, I check out what Sara's tweeting...and eating. We have more in common than late nights, of course, which is partly why I check in so often. There's the kid thing, and the two-mom household thing, and the generation thing. And she posts links to cool sites moms can use, such as a place to find green party favors and supplies.

It does get sort of trippy sometimes, because late at night one of the cable channels runs Roseanne marathons, well into the wee hours. I often fall asleep on the couch, listening to Darlene's caustic wit. Late nights with Sara Gilbert, indeed.

Happy Monday, all.

PS: I'm not Twitter-obsessed, nor am I well-versed in the terminology, or up on all of the best feeds, but I do enjoy Diablo Cody's pop culture musings, and I like John Green too, so I occasionally read his tweets. Oh, and Rachel Maddow, of course. But that's it, so if you have any recommendations, send 'em over.

PPS: A HUGE thank you to Patrick T., who sent me the Har Mar Superstar song I wanted, but could not find. Har Mar's new album, Dark Touches, comes out October 13th, but you can check out one of the new singles for free here.

All I Ever Wanted

2009-08-02T13:32:00.000-07:00

My girl and my guy on the ferry to Madeline Island

Second year in a row I failed to vacate on my vacation. Wait. Make that three summers I took the ball and chain (aka, my laptop) on vacation and never really stopped working. Even when I was playing with my kid, or drinking bootleggers lakeside with my dear old pals, I still felt like I was just playing hookie from work. Playing hookie and going on an actual vacation are NOT the same; one causes anxiety and one...doesn't.

The only solution? Leave the laptop at home.

So after three long weeks I returned home feeling like a grump ass when I should have felt totally chill, or at the very least, not tired.

No such luck. Ah well, I'm still working on it. "It" being everything, of course. Balance. Authenticity. Wellness and self-care. I'll try again next year.

The other downside of a three-week vacation is that after water parks, boats, swimming pools, lakes, beaches and playgrounds, and after the cupcakes, pizza, ice cream, candy, cookies, french fries, sugar cereal, pie and pancakes supplied by all six grandparents, our almost-five-year-old boy thinks life is a fucking parade, and we are all here to entertain his every whim.

Still, we did have fun. The sound of Jack's throaty laugh reminds me that life, with all of its speed bumps and stop signs, really is pure perfection.

Har Mar Superstar

2009-07-01T17:46:00.000-07:00

Har Mar Superstar

I'm a Minneapolis girl--I know where Funkytown is.

While Mom tried to raise me on The Beatles, The Who, and The Rolling Stones, I chose to raise myself on Prince (and the Revolution), The Time, and their cohorts. It's hard to tell what effect repeated play of Darling Nikki had on my childhood--I was only about ten years old when Purple Rain came out--but my love of the Minneapolis sound stayed with me through all the phases: boy-bar pop and dance, feminist folk, classic rock, that brief old-school country phase, and now the dead zone: adult alternative.

Through it all, I loved me some funk, some R&B. Its what gets me up on the dance floor.

My new favorite is also a Minnesota boy, and coincidentally, graduated from Patrick's high school, Perpich Center for the Arts. He also named himself after the oddest, smallest, most fantastic mall on the planet: Har Mar Mall.

Har Mar Superstar is many kinds of awesome, I just have to say. I could give a shit about the whole sex machine thing he has going on, I just love, love, love his music. DUI, his song about "dialing under the influence" is my crank-it-up song for the summer.

I've been working my way through his YouTube videos, watching one or two a day, but it wasn't until today that I realized what a freakin' genius he is. Re-interpreting Brothers and Sisters from Free to Be You and Me? Shit. I need that song. But I can't get that song. Can someone get me that song?

Crank it up.

Summer Playlist

2009-06-23T12:29:00.000-07:00

Could I just get two days to blast my music and sort my shit out? Two solid days of no work, no obligations, and though I love my munchkin--no kid. Is that too much to ask? Apparently.

I miss my summers on hiatus from school, the long stretches of hot, muggy days I spent converting my Dad's basement into my private apartment. Windows and doors open wide; Sinead O'Conner's voice so loud I could feel it in my bones; bare feet covered in pink and green paint; friends smoking next to a tired old willow.

When I lived in L.A.--still a teenager--I rarely blasted my music in my apartment on St. Andrew's Place because my neighbors enjoyed calling the cops. I had two windows, facing another apartment building about eight feet away. Everyone knew my business and I knew theirs.

I remember a few. The 20-something computer programmer who moved her mattress into the living room every time she fought with her boyfriend liked Top 40 and sang along. The potheads downstairs, fraternal twins, played heavy metal for their iguanas and snakes. The 40-something, newly-single, classically beautiful woman who lived down the hall, drove a two-seater and loved Brahams and white wicker furniture.

Anthony, the guy on the top floor whom I never met, played "world music" when he was happy, and loudly threatened suicide when he was not. Several times a month he would find his way to the roof and shout, "I'm gonna jump. It's over, man. It's the best thing. I'm just gonna end it." We all knew he wouldn't jump. The security guys would get him down; they always did. Which is why, when Anthony turned off his Brazilian jazz funk fusion whosiwhatsits, climbed to the roof and started in, people in both buildings would turn off their boom boxes and shout, "Just fucking do it, Anthony! Jump!"--which is how I learned his name.

I loved summers in Wisconsin with Madison Joe because we felt free and lazy, and he cranked the volume on everything--in the tub, in his little red Audi, in the apartment. He would play an entire CD and sing the whole thing. REM, George Michael, Annie Lennox, Pink Floyd. It was so loud I couldn't think, and that was good. That was very good.

After Jack was born I stopped blasting music, for obvious reasons. He was asleep, or Polly was asleep, or I was wishing I was asleep. And then I just forgot about my music. I hate to admit that, but it's true. And then Jack discovered superhero songs. Polly made a "soundtrack" for him, and nearly every night he performs interpretive dance to various theme songs: X-Men, Michael Buble's version of Spiderman, Wonder Woman and others. His dancing is a combination of ballet (hello, Daddy), martial arts, and tumbling. It's friggin' awesome to watch.

The other night I was watching him dance it out, performing some wacky, testosterone-fueled version of a ribbon dance with the belt from my robe, and I realized something--I need to blast my own music and dance around. Or just sort my shit out. Or both. It's been way too long.

Here's my summer playlist (so far):

DUI - Har Mar Superstar
Anotherloverholenyohead - Prince
Sleep on Fire - Holly Miranda
When Doves Cry - Patti Smith
That's How Strong My Love Is - Otis Redding
Dizz Knee Land (live version) - Dada
So What - Pink
Livin' My Life Like It's Golden - Jill Scott
Overkill (live acoustic version) - Colin Hay
Bad Reputation - Joan Jett
Tell Me - God-Des and She
Giving It Up For Your Love - Delbert McClinton
Anything off of Melody Gardot's new album

PS: The playlist is random, I know. It needs some massaging, some thought, some adjusting in order to be mix-tape worthy. I may never get to it.

PPS: The thing about Polly is she loves to blast her music, but privately, like me. I find her knowledge and appreciation of music very sexy, especially compared to my music tastes. She seeks out new music; I wait for someone to recommend it to me. That is, until very recently. Lately I've been paying attention to what I like. Strike that. Lately I've been paying attention.

This is Water

2009-06-19T08:22:00.000-07:00

I'm a David Foster Wallace virgin. Aside from an article I read in Rolling Stone about his life and tragic suicide last year, he really hasn't been on my radar. He is one of those authors I keep meaning to read, like James Joyce (yeah, I'll confess it), and Toni Morrison (I know, I know, I'll get to it).

The first book I read on my Kindle was Paper Towns by John Green. I loved it, and I enjoy Green's blog and poking around Nerdfighters, although I am not a member. Catching up on his recent posts I clicked on Green's link to a transcription of Wallace's 2005 commencement address at Kenyon College. The speech is now a book, titled This is Water.

At its core, the speech is about mindfulness, but from a larger perspective. I've been using mindfulness to pull out of self-defeating, habitual patterns, which has helped me bust through some age-old crap and calm my crazy ass down. But it's really just a tool to get through whatever's bugging me, whereas Wallace's speech is about staying mindful of the fact that you are living--that you are living.

Addressing graduates, Wallace charges them a higher purpose, to strive to remember "This is water," which, if you haven't read the speech, is basically code for "This is it. Now. Right now. This is life."

Like most people, I'm guilty of getting caught up in stressful situations, and indulging in futuristic thinking. "It will be better tomorrow." "One day we'll have enough of everything." "When I finally start, commit, try, ask, dive in---it will all come together."

Wallace is asking all of us to wake up. This is it. This is life. This is water.

I needed that, truly. I've been holding out for the future most of my life, and it's time to let go of it. And, it's time to add some David Foster Wallace to my Kindle library. Recommendations, anyone? Should I start with the 1,000-page epic Infinite Jest? Or begin with his essays?

What's Yours?

2009-06-16T17:10:00.000-07:00

family

By definition, you can only have one top priority.