The Aftermath of Being Born a Traveling (Wo)Man

It's been almost two months since my trip to Ireland.  While I have tried diligently to make sense of my thoughts and hasty notebook scribblings about my visit, I am finding them hard to articulate.  Part of the challenge probably stems from what I had hoped to accomplish with my trip.  For me, this vacation was much more than just crossing another country off my bucket list.  This trip was to be my first with someone other than a spouse or family member (at least for more than a couple days).  I had hoped it would bring me some clarity and focus about what I wanted to do with my life.  Maybe I would meet the man of my dreams.  Maybe I would find a job.  Maybe I would simply eat my way through the country.

Well, at least the last one happened (Mmmmmm, parsley sauce.  I could seriously bathe in that stuff.).

After returning to U.S. soil, I've had many people ask me how I liked my trip.  For the first few days, I could only vaguely respond, "The country was beautiful."  I didn't really know what to say other than that.  Of course I enjoyed the trip, but I couldn't help but feel a sense of malaise upon my return.  I wasn't invigorated or focused.  If anything, I returned feeling exhausted and maybe even disappointed.   After so much planning, I didn't have anything to look forward to any more...And to be honest, as a person who often needs "alone time" to recharge, traveling with someone for almost two weeks straight was difficult.  Not only were we two different types of travelers (I am a see-everything-while-I-can kind of gal), I am just not used to spending 24/7 with anyone, not even my daughter.  As much as I hate to be alone, sometimes I hate NOT being alone even more--something my travel partner realized in the final leg of our journey when I finally snapped in a glorious explosion of crankiness on par with some of my best PMS moments.  

In spite of wanting some alone time, however, I just wasn't ready to go back to "real life".  There was no exciting love or work life waiting for me.  I've felt creatively and emotionally stagnant for a while.  I needed this trip to help feed my soul.  Instead, in coming back, I just felt hungry for more.   

As in both Scotland and England, I felt at home in Ireland.  The people really are very warm and welcoming, especially on the west coast, where curvy American girls are treated like a breath of fresh air.

In Galway, we stayed at a bed and breakfast (which was actually a home) where the owner invited us to chat with her in the kitchen while we ate, something which made us feel instantly like one of the family.  Her husband drove us into the downtown area--after picking up his 30-year-old, super-cool daughter so he could drop her off to hang out with her friends.  While downtown, we were given a personal tour of the local theater, just because we walked in and expressed interest in their programming.  My travel companion (educated as a mortician) was also given a tour of the embalming facility at the local funeral home (I waited outside).  A local bookseller spent half an hour sharing all of her favorite Irish kids' books when I asked what I should purchase for my daughter that she'd like.

The Irish people were not all sweetness and light, however.  In both Galway and Kilkenny, we caroused, drank and danced in the local pubs where we discovered that sometimes the Irish (and visiting Manchester) boys are quite forward, something I certainly wasn't expecting and my travel companion thoroughly relished.  The boys (and some of the girls) seemed to appreciate our sass and, ahem, other assets.  

And yes, everything really is that green in Ireland--mostly because nothing ever freakin' dries there.  We happened to travel during a pretty rainy week.  Even though the rains weren't by any means a deluge, we were wet enough that our clothes were damp for days.  I had some pants that I don't think dried until we got to Dublin five days later (when I was able to lay them over a heater).  The weather, while responsible for the fabulous rolling green hills, also did nothing to help alleviate the cough I developed.  We nicknamed it "the Irish Croup".

Then there was the driving.  Sure, the countryside was stunning, but I couldn't really observe it at my leisure.  We had chosen to rent a car to travel around Ireland.  My travel companion (who self-admittedly is a nervous driver) opted to be the navigator and passenger, leaving me to drive not only on the "wrong" side of the road, but amidst the crazy, bat-out-of-hell drivers that are the Irish.  Lovely, calm and personable people in life, yes.  On the roads, no!  With no shoulders on the narrow roads, somewhat high speeds and limited signage, I have never been so frazzled by driving in my life--and I grew up in Southern California.

The food in Ireland was pretty crazy as well.  Crazy good that is!  Filled with notions that it would be all potatoes and cabbage, we were quite pleasantly surprised by the variety and quality of food.  Apparently there has been quite the movement toward "foodie" gourmet or new twists on old favorites.  Everything we ate was really good or even exceptional (even the night we gorged on junk food in Blarney)!

Speaking of Blarney...kissing the Blarney Stone is SCARY.  Anyone who kisses the stone is lowered down headfirst and backwards through an opening in the castle tower.  Although there was someone holding me (and a grate to keep me from plummeting through the opening), I was very nearly in a panic.  Vertigo and heights are not good companions, but I faced my fear and did it.  Whew.   Oh, and Blarney is not (contrary to what we had originally thought) a tourist trap.  It was just a lovely little town which happens to have a famous castle in the middle of it--something which is pretty indicative of the country's wonderful ability to maintain culture and heritage while embracing the tourist trade.  A spontaneous decision to visit Blarney "if possible" turned into an awesome two-night stay.  It was certainly one of the highlights of the trip.

So when asked how my trip was, I guess I should respond, "I already want to go back."  After all, I never did meet my lovely Irish lad.   I am sure a fabulous life awaits me in Ireland.

Damn you, Nora Roberts.

Born a Traveling (Wo)Man: Dreams of Ireland

I have long dreamt of traveling to Ireland.  I had visited both Scotland and England previously, and had therefore been close, but had never stepped foot on the Emerald Isle.

Fueled by too many films and Nora Roberts novels, I have been drawn to Ireland by romantic notions of the sweeping green of its landscape, the wild craggy cliffs and crashing ocean waves, the lovely twinkle in the eye of a boisterous chap in a tweed cap, the raucous craic (music) in an Irish pub….and let’s face it, having always been attracted to dark haired men with green eyes and yes, even gingers, I have oft dreamt of finding my own Irish lad.  Seriously, don’t get me started on the accent….

You get the idea. 

And so I decided that this year, in order to celebrate turning 40, would be the year that I would follow my heart and travel to Ireland.  I won’t lie…I received some criticism that I, a single mother often struggling for money, would dare travel without my daughter.  It allegedly wasn’t right to leave her at home while I go gallivanting in another country spending money I don’t have, blah blah blah. 

To hell with what is “right”.  Here’s the reality:  I worked my ass off for this trip:  Longer/more work hours, less spending and copious planning…I searched for many weeks for the cheapest deals on airfare and housing.  I conceded to travel with one of my best friends (rather than traveling alone) in order to help pay for the trip.  I researched credit cards with low APR’s to assist with paying up front for the trip....

Besides, my daughter was spending the week with her grandparents and father in Texas.  Was I supposed to sit at home alone and continue to dream of traveling to Ireland “someday”?

Excuse the language, but f*ck that.  There comes a time in every person’s life where “someday” has to be TODAY.  Too often have I seen “someday” become NEVER.  Sure, I could stay home rather than racking up credit card bills in a foreign country, but damn it, I am 40.  I am divorced, a single mom, employed in multiple jobs seasonally and part-time.  I already put every ounce of my being into just existing.  Sure, there may be some who think I am a wild, free spirit with a carefree nature, but in truth, I only wish I could be that way.  Rather, I too often fall victim to Life, Responsibility and Propriety. When am I supposed to Live? 

So damn it, I was going to Ireland.

Oh shit.  What was I going to wear?

To be continued....

The Lifespan of a Friendship

I still haven’t fully processed this information, but I lost another friend last night...and there was nothing I could do about it.  No, she hasn’t died—which would (and yes, I know this is morbid and perhaps politically incorrect) at least imply that it was none of my doing.  No, this loss comes from so many things I’ve done.

Or rather, didn’t do. 

I’ve long been a believer that people come in and out of our lives for a reason.  If we are lucky, they are positive influences and their presence lasts a lifetime.  This particular woman and I have been friends, in fact, for nearly twenty years.  We were bridesmaids in each other’s weddings, I spoke at her sister’s funeral, my daughter calls her "Aunt"...you get the idea.  We’d endured through many years of heartbreak and joy even after I’d moved to a different state almost nine years ago.

In the past few years, she has been integral to my healing after the divorce.  She was one of the first people I turned to for advice, because she could always be counted on to have a laser-sharp, perceptive opinion.  She had an understanding and objectiveness that were refreshing (even if sometimes cold).   She has helped guide me through some rough emotional times.  She was there for me. 

Apparently, I hadn’t reciprocated.  At least, not in the manner she expected, wanted or needed.  I had taken more than I had given.  I wasn’t a good friend. 

And in some ways, she was right. 

As I listened to her list the ways she felt I had allegedly slighted her and abused our friendship, I realized that much of this had come from my inability to make our friendship a priority. I also realized, however, that whether by choice or due to circumstance, sometimes I just couldn’t.  This, of course, was the problem. She felt our friendship only existed when it was convenient for me, which, while perhaps a gross over-simplification, was not wholly untrue

There is no excusing it, but I know that there are times in my life when I withdraw from the world, becoming so involved with (and overwhelmed by) working through my own shit, that I neglect to focus on others’ needs.  Sometimes, I don’t even recognize their needs because I am operating in what I call “survivor mode”.  Unless the other person clearly communicates and defines what is specifically wanted and/or needed from me (we’re talking with picture books and flashcards, people), I do have a tendency to just continue on with my life thinking that everything is hunky dory…until one day it apparently is not.  I admit, friendships do fall by the wayside as I attempt to restore order to my personal chaos.  I cannot give what I do not readily have and therefore won’t.

Maybe this seems selfish (ironic considering that I have been challenged to even establish a sense of self lately) or that I don’t even give a damn about anyone else.  Either way, I would hope that the people in my life would understand this isn’t the case.  Unfortunately, they sometimes don't, leaving my hope unfulfilled and the crux of the situation more clear.  While there are many reasons a relationship can fail, I tend to believe that almost every failure boils down to Expectations, with a capital “E”. 

What we Expect of other people (communicated or otherwise) will directly affect our relationships and interpersonal connections.  We Expect good service at a restaurant; we may be harder on the waitress having a bad day.  We Expect our lovers to be eternally faithful; we may end the relationship when they aren’t.  We Expect a friend to give as much as we feel we ourselves do; we may be disappointed when they don’t reciprocate. 

(Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand, here’s the part where I am once again faced with my flaws.)

Sadly, I have learned that I am not always capable of living up to others’ expectations.  Or my own, for that matter.  I want to have healthy, reciprocal connections with people, but don’t always put in the time to maintain them.  Sometimes I disappear into my problems (or myself) and do not give freely to those around me.  Sometimes I don’t want to.  Sometimes I just can’t.  I do attempt to communicate and be clear about my challenges with time and priorities, but sometimes it isn't enough.  I don't always know how to give to others in the manner that they desire or deserve.  Sometimes I cannot fix a problem or situation (or apologize enough), no matter how much I want to or how hard I try.  

Interestingly, as I was workng to gather myself after the breakup (which is what I call the end of any lengthy relationship, friend or otherwise), I read a quote from A Game of Thrones:  “A bruise is a lesson…and each lesson makes us better.”

Man, am I tired of being bruised and battered.  Maybe I should explore the benefit of hermitude.  Oh wait…  Sigh. 

Yup, another lesson learned.

Of A Certain Age

And so it appears that I have gotten to the stage in my life again where it seems as if everyone I know is getting married.  It happened in my early 20s and again now that I am 40.  In the six months since entering a new decade (age wise), I have been invited to no fewer than 4 weddings.  My Facebook news feed has recently been permeated with announcements or pictures from many more weddings (at least 8 as of my last count) and just as many, if not more, engagement announcements.

Were I to think about it for any length of time I imagine that it would bother a single gal like me.  I admit I cried like a baby while attending the second wedding of one of my gal pals (especially when the pastor spoke words like “loyalty” and “forever”).  It was, however, nothing a few beverages from the hosted bar couldn’t momentarily alleviate.

To ask what it is about weddings that cause one to bemoan her singlehood would be a difficult question to answer succinctly.  Here’s what I wonder, though:  Is it really the fact that I haven’t dated anyone in well over a year (maybe even two years?!) that inspires me to become morose?  Is it that weddings are a declaration of everlasting love yet my marriage certainly didn’t last that long?  Am I merely brooding because everyone is coupling like animals heading toward the ark while I continue to live like a hermit?

Not quite. 

Upon examination of the three years since the divorce, I have confronted so many soul-searching questions…about love…life…my sense of self.  It has been a time fraught with periods of self-loathing and loneliness, combined with momentary glee and relief to not be dating/married to someone who doesn’t love me.  I also realize that while marriage is not far from my mind (how can it be with the inundation of reminders?), the longer I am single, hermitude often replaces social gatherings on the scale of priorities.  I often feel the need to re-charge during the course of my rocky journey of self-discovery.  I am also less apt to allow someone to invade my space.  Sure, I’d love someone to share life’s moments with, but need they live in my house? 

Hmmmmm, perhaps all of this effort to be self-reliant is damaging my ability to be swept up in romantic notions.

Oh, who am I kidding?  Not since I was courted by the recovering meth addict—an unfortunate pairing which, at least, taught me a few lessons about what I will and won’t tolerate in a relationship—have I even attempted to date anyone for any length of time. 

In my 20s I was rarely single…now I find at the crux of my “situation” a deep-seated dissatisfaction and fear that my life will not move forward.  I am so happy for others’ successes, emotional or otherwise, but it is not without wistful yearning for my own (additional) chance at love.  Hell, even the recovering meth addict got married shortly after we dated. 

I know, I read it on Facebook.

Oh Mammy, Part 3

It’s been a couple of weeks since I received the results of my biopsy, the lag in time mostly due to my daughter commandeering my computer in between rehearsals, my work and her school.  I had elected to have surgery to remove the lump (otherwise known as an “excision of breast mass”) and was referred to a specialist.  This decision was prompted by a scary story I heard about a younger patient with a lump smaller than mine who had hers removed and discovered two cancer cells that a needle biopsy would have otherwise missed. Also, I know myself pretty well.  Although the mass could be felt in a simple breast exam, I may not have been able to tell if it were growing and would probably have annoyed the doctors by crying wolf.  Nope, better to take the thing out and to be sure.

Most people would probably have been terrified to get surgery, but I was strangely “zen” about it—almost to the point of blasé.  Of course, I was nervous about the results of the biopsy and, oh OK, how bad the scar would be.  I do, however, have a history of healing quickly.  I was also looking forward to finally getting some decent sleep while under anesthesia.

THE SURGERY

The day of the surgery my very kind and accommodating friend took me to check in.  Because I couldn’t eat or drink anything prior to the surgery, I was a bit cranky.  Thankfully, the check-in process was relatively simple and efficient and the staff friendly.  My friend promised to come get me after the surgery. 

A young, quirky but adorable nurse led me to my room where I was given the prerequisite paper dress, told to strip down and don the dress.  I was excited by the dress, though, because it wrapped around the back and had various openings (flaps) that Velcroed in the front for maximum coverage during surgery.  There was also a place for a tube attachment through which they could blow hot air if I got cold (!). 

Of course, I also asked the nurse if they’d be covering my lower half when they wheeled me down the hall post surgery, not wanting to “flash my trash” everywhere.  She laughed and handed me a pair of complimentary magenta non-skid fuzzy socks.  Another bonus.  I love non-skid fuzzy socks.

The rest of my time before surgery was a flurry of activity:  Various nurses coming in to check vitals and prep the surgery site, visits from the doctor and anesthesiologist, episodes of Property Brothers (I would have watched Hoarders, but didn’t want to be freaked out by all the germs)….  I asked the surgeon if she was going to be doing the surgery laparoscopically.  She looked at me like I had clearly been watching too many medical dramas and said that no, she could feel the lump which meant she could see it, so she’d just go in there and “pop it out”.  The anesthesiologist promised to give me good sleep. 

And boy did he.  Once in the surgery room, I only vaguely remember the lights spinning, a fleeting thought of how I hadn’t been that drunk in a while and I was out. 

The next thing I recall is waking up in the recovery room, marveling at the other surgery zombies being wheeled in.  I made some jokes to the nurse about Johnny Depp visiting me, which encouraged her to call the recovery room and tell them I was ready to move.  Apparently, I had come out of the anesthesia grog in less than 15 minutes (another special skill of mine which has freaked out doctors in the past as they weren’t ever sure I was completely under.). 

I stayed in Recovery for maybe half and hour, where I was treated to Ginger Ale and the sounds of other people’s pain.  I really hate hospitals sometimes.  The head nurse in Recovery was a sassy, Asian woman.  When I told her I had to go to the bathroom, she jokingly told me, OK, but I’d better not fall down in there because then she’d have to come get me and it’d be a whole thing (which made me laugh).  When I returned from the restroom, she called my friend and alerted her that I was ready to go.  She also requested a wheelchair transport (a gruff, older volunteer) to wheel me down the entrance of the hospital to meet her. 

It had been a successful surgery.

THE BIOPSY

I had my follow-up appointment with the surgeon the Monday after my surgery, about 5 days later.  I felt a bit battered, like someone had sucker punched me in the boob.  I also sported a pretty intense IV bruise (not dissimilar to the ones I used to get when I skated roller derby) and the slight symptoms of a cold.  She told me I was healing fine, but to contact her if I had any further problems. 

The good news, my biopsy was clear.  She did, however, have to remove two growths.  The second one had appeared out of nowhere.  It been hiding behind the other mass and hadn’t been detected on the ultrasound.  I said, “Oh, like Gremlins.”

“Yes,” she joked.  “Your diagnosis is ‘Nipple Gremlins’”. 

POST SURGERY

In the last couple of weeks, I have been healing well.  The weather has changed, so my surgery site has been itching in the heat. Scratching doesn’t help, so it’s making me a bit crazy—and makes me understand why animals get “coned” post-surgery.  My daughter also has a tendency to run into my injured boob (or hug me too hard), despite efforts to deflect her nine-year-old brute strength and clumsiness.  All in all, though, it could be worse.  After all, the nipple gremlins weren’t cancerous.  Hell, they didn’t even leave too bad of a scar.

Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Confessions of a Bard Lover

Ask anyone who knows me whether I like Shakespeare and most would say, “Uh, yeah, she loves him.” In fact, some may even be reminded of the creepy girl from the film 10 Things I Hate About You (a re-imagining of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew) who says, “Shakespeare and I are involved.”  Because, oh yeah, we are involved…and have been for many years.

Our relationship, however, was not always a pleasant one. 

I first became aware of the works of William Shakespeare in High School.  Forced to read both Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar as a freshman, I sincerely hated the dude and his plays.  Why on earth was I being subjected to such torture?  All those thees and thous?  All that old-timey language?  The jokes or references that I couldn’t understand?  CURSE YOU, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE!

It wasn’t until I started performing bits of Shakespeare’s plays that I understood what all the fuss was about.  After all, Shakespeare’s plays were never meant to be just read or studied in a classroom.  Rather, they were meant to be performed, watched or even heard--something which some modern educators seems to have forgotten.  

The first monologue I ever performed was of the Nurse from Romeo and Juliet.  I still remember it, actually (and often perform it for students).  Performed as part of a local Shakespeare Acting Competition, I received an Honorable Mention and a special invitation to perform in a Los Angeles showcase.  From then on, I was hooked!  Ol’ Bill and I were in love. 

My love affair with Shakespeare continued throughout my adult life, when I began performing at various Renaissance Faires.  A wild journey, that one, which involved travelling around Southern and Central California with a ragtag band of actors (including my father!).  My favorite experience with the troupe was in Ojai, CA when we performed Taming of the Shrew (my favorite Shakespeare play, incidentally) and then were fed in payment.  The meal was eaten at a table in the middle of the festival in plain view of the Faire-goers.  I remember flinging food, laughing raucously and wiping my mouth on my sleeve and apron.  To this day, there are still stains on my Faire clothes (because, of course, I still wear them) from that meal.  

I have since been involved with at least 20 Shakespeare shows, including two compilation shows (which I also wrote and directed), five different versions of A Midsummer Night's Dream and two productions of Much Ado About Nothing (one of which I directed).  Currently, I am also an instructor and actor (and sometimes director or costumer) for the local Shakespeare festival.  During the school year, I go into various schools in the area and teach students Shakespeare from an actor's point of view. Everything I do is in the hopes that someday, somehow, others will have an appreciation for Shakespeare as I do.  

Here's to you, William Shakespeare!  It may be 450 years after your birth, but you're still a part of my life.  What can I say, I like older men.  

Ha ha.  

Till next I blog once more, my fairest readers, I bid thee farewell....

**Written in celebration of Shakespeare's birth (and death) day.  Happy Birthday, Bill!**


Fun Facts About William Shakespeare:

Society assumes that William Shakespeare was April 23, 1564.  Because records are not clear, we don’t actually know what day he was born.  He was, however, baptized April 26, 1564.  It was common practice to wait three days after the birth to perform the baptism. 

He died on his birthday at the age of 52 (April 23, 1616).  This was considered “old age” during the Renaissance Era, the period of time during which he lived.  Most people died when they were in their 30s or 40s, which wouldn't have bode well for me.  

   

Shakespeare often wrote his plays based on what actors were in his troupe.  This explains the many different archetypes that exist.  Additionally, his actors often played multiple roles in the same play.  This allegedly is why characters may inexplicably disappear from a storyline.  We still see this practice with many modern filmmakers who reuse the same actors over and over.  

    

It was illegal for women to appear onstage as actors until the 1660s (almost 50 years after Shakespeare’s death). With female roles therefore played by young boys or men, this could explain why there are so few female characters (or why many of the female characters disguise themselves as boys).  This also explains why I have mostly male characters on my Shakespeare resume and a rather large collection of false mustaches.  

Some scholars consider the works of William Shakespeare to have been written by someone else (or by a variety of people).  I don't happen to subscribe to this, but then I still believe that Pluto is a planet.  You can make up your own mind.  

Oh Mammy, Part 2

As with the previous post about my mammogram, if you don't want to know, don't read on.  

****

A few weeks after my initial mammogram, I received a letter from the doctor’s office that there were some findings of potential concern.  The letter claimed that I had signs of “increased breast density” and needed to schedule both another mammogram and an ultrasound to verify their findings.  The original mammo tech had warned me that this could happen as there was no previous mammogram to treat as a baseline for “normal”.  What she didn’t warn me about was that the letter (only five paragraphs in length) would also go on to state that women with dense breast tissue had a higher chance of getting breast cancer.  The remaining four paragraphs of the letter were then all about breast cancer.  I also received a phone call from my OB-GYN telling me that any results from the second mammogram would be sent to a breast cancer specialist. Way to freak out the semi-hypochondriac!

Let’s be honest here, cancer is one of those things that has always scared the hell out of me.  I wasn’t raised with the knowledge that cancer ran in my family, but in talking to my mother about the second appointment, I discovered that several female relatives have in fact had (or are in the throes of) cancer.  No one seems to have had breast cancer, but there have been other types.  Well, shit. 

When I went to the doctor for my second appointment, they decided that only an ultrasound was necessary.  The radiology tech (a sort of brusque, no-nonsense blond named Wendy) slathered the heated gel on my breast and began the exam.  A few minutes into it, she muttered, “Ah, there it is!”  She proceeded to rapidly press various keys on the keyboard, all the while moving the ultrasound wand into different positions for better views of whatever she had just seen.  What the f*ck?  I tried not to panic.

It turned out that I apparently have a 1.5 cm growth under my nipple. The doctor did not seem to think it was of immediate concern, so he offered me the choice between a “wait and see” approach or a needle biopsy.  I told him there was no way I was going to wait and see (semi-hypochondriac, remember?).  I’d rather know.  He did caution me that because of the position of the growth, it could be a) painful and b) difficult to get to with a biopsy needle.  I may still have to get a follow up surgery to remove the growth if the biopsy is inconclusive or impossible.  I made a joke equating the biopsy to being like a nipple piercing without the jewelry.  Laugh or you cry, right? 

Sometimes the hardest part is just the waiting…Waiting to make the biopsy appointment…waiting for the results….waiting to know.  I am not necessarily, as you may already be aware, a patient person. I try to be positive, and to hope for the best, but I am a worrier.  I am often plagued by all manner of thoughts from the practical to the inane:  “What will happen to my daughter if I get sick?” or “I guess we’ll see how good my insurance is!” and  “But I really like my breasts!”

But then, it could just be nothing.  The doctor seemed to think it was nothing.  Perhaps it really is nothing.  Oh man, I hope it’s nothing. 

Sigh.  Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Teacher Teacher

There are many lessons to be learned in life.  Some we learn in school, some are learned through our experiences.  Some lessons are readily apparent…and some are silent ninjas that whap one upside the head in a sudden moment of clarity.

And then there are the lessons that as they are being learned leave one with a sense of (and there is no real nice way to say this) what the F*CK?!

It is this last type of lesson that plagues me most often.  In the midst of attempting to draw enlightenment and personal awareness from my individual experiences, I find that I am often more confused by them.  Even as I am asking myself, “What am I to learn from this?” I admit I don’t always know the answer.  Sometimes I never do.  Not unlike Neo in The Matrix, I guess, I must realize there is no spoon.

If you don’t understand my rather dated reference to the 1999 film, let me further explain that all this stems from a relatively recent understanding:  I have a habit of attracting (and usually falling for) unavailable men. This, of course, is not something for which I ever plan.

As I further attempt to feed my romantic soul, I find myself taking more High Fidelity-style trips through my past relationships than should be allowed (Yes, another dated pop culture reference.  Damn, I am old.  Ha.).  It is on these trips that I better comprehend the validity of my previous statement.  Whether emotionally or physically, I do indeed attract unavailable men.

It all began with my first love.  Although I’d had other boyfriends in high school, there was one for whom I fell hard.  A bit of an odd pie with somewhat of a Peter Pan complex, I adored him.  He was sarcastic and funny with a penchant for Oingo Boingo.  I told him I loved him.  He said “Oh”…and then disappeared.  The next thing I knew he was dating one of my best friends.  Well, what did I expect?  We were sixteen. 

Interestingly, he is one of the rare few with whom I still remain friends—although, to be fair, this is partially because of his persistence in the years after high school and because he is now married to an amazing woman (who actually is the one with whom I communicate more often).  We have no need to be anything more than just friends again.  

Then there was the one to whom I refer to as “Cherry Popper”.  Oh my, but he was a beautiful boy.  Recently out of a long relationship, he wasn’t looking for another.  Of course, I was absolutely smitten with him—as were most people who knew him.

I think I always sensed that he would only be in my life for a short time…I didn’t even delude myself into thinking that we were dating (although in a conversation I had with him years later, he surprisingly referred to it as such).  He introduced me to a different side of myself and then was gone so quickly that even now, I still occasionally wonder if we don’t have “unfinished business”.  This is most certainly wishful thinking.  He too is married now. 

I have opened myself up to many unavailable men in the subsequent years after Cherry Popper:  the one nicknamed “Guillermo” who eventually thought me “exhausting”; the former fiancé who just couldn’t choose to be with me until I finally decided to leave him; the sexy blue-eyed devil I had liked for years, rebound dated and then got dumped by when he met—and married—a girl with my first name one month into our relationship; my ex-husband who stopped communicating with, respecting and allegedly loving me well before I realized it; the long-ago friend who found me on Facebook, chatted me up and then, when it was about to get “real”, became angered by something of which I am still not aware and completely withdrew; the friend (and former crush) whom I counseled through a supposed rough patch in his marriage then discovered he was really buying a house and having a baby with her; the recovering meth addict who still had to work on getting his own sh*t together; the one who interrupted my two-year re-virgination project with ideas of possibility even though he wasn’t really mine to have….

I have cried a lot of tears in my 25ish years of relationships.  While it is likely I too have left a trail of broken hearts in my wake (due to my own inability to share my heart with those poor souls), I still wonder why I keep getting introduced to and involved with men who are perhaps not ready for a relationship with me?  What am I putting out into the Universe that attracts these men to me?  Am I still not ready for lasting love myself, choosing subconsciously to avoid any intimacy that is not solely physical?  Am I just plagued with really shitty timing?  Or an unflapping “take what you can and make it work” attitude?  Am I, as in The Matrix, not realizing that it is not the spoon that bends, only myself (whatever the hell that means)? 

The other day, my friend sent me a picture of a printed T-shirt.  The shirt slogan read, “My life is a romantic comedy minus the romance and just me laughing at my own jokes.”  This is funny to me because it rings true, but it also makes be a bit wistful. Underneath all of my bravado, bluster and so-called “slut sparkle” (so named because people often assume I am wilder than I feel I really am), I want what I imagine a lot of people want:  a companion.  I want a partner in crime, in life, and yes, in the sheets—someone with whom to share my life for more than just a “certain period of time”.  There comes a time, after all, when singlehood becomes hermitude and, while I like my solace, I realize I am not built for such things. I do want the meet cute, the love affair, the lasting romance, “the One”…Damn you, Hollywood.

Therefore, the search continues.  To be honest, though, after 11ish (collective) years of dating, 11 years of marriage, 3 years of divorce, I don’t even know where to look anymore.  I don’t even know if I should look—or to just let it “happen”?  But then how does it happen? 

I am not jaded about love (or even marriage), yet I sure am disheartened by my past choices in men.  Not necessarily because of who they were as people, but because I would like to stop feeling like Good Luck Chuck (another movie reference for you) and dating people who are meant for someone else.

And so, Universe, I have to ask you to please stop sending me the unavailable men.  I am fully aware of the value of casual encounters, yet if the men are already married or attached and/or not capable of or open to a more lasting relationship with me, I know they are not for me.  Please help me then to make the best choices when it comes to relationships and to recognize the men of action and purpose, not just words. Grant me the opportunity to appreciate the man who is capable of prioritizing my role in his life and allow me to (and want to) prioritize his role in mine as well.  Assist me in knowing who will provide a positive, supportive and loving influence and recognize my worth, therefore preventing me from losing myself in a relationship that is detrimental to my wellbeing.  Please quell the drama that occasionally accompanies relationships, while still allowing me to be thrilled, excited, enticed and enthralled.

Oh, and if you want to make him British, Irish or Scottish, I cannot say I would mind.  ;)

AAAAAAAHHHH-MEN!

See, I am learning. 

Until my next blog entry, Lovelies….

Oh Mammy!

One of the hallmarks of a woman turning 40 is getting her first mammogram.  I warn you now, if this is NOT an experience about which you’d like to read, just stop right now.  I mean it.  Get up.  Walk away from the computer.  Put down your phone (or whatever device you’re using).  Just.  Stop.  Reading.  Now. 

You still there?

Then I can surmise that you are either A) not squeamish about such things, B) curious about my experience or C) a pervy interloper who just wants to hear me talk about my breasts.  Whichever of these you may be, welcome.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

I had heard tell of the horrors of the mammogram for years.  Not being aware of any history of breast cancer in my family, however, I didn’t anticipate requiring one until this year (as opposed to at 35 which is recommended for a patient with a cancer history). This was confirmed after a visit to my gynecologist yesterday (yeah, yeah, TMI.  I know.  Deal with it; we’re already talking about personal health stuff.).  She told me I needed to schedule an appointment with radiology.  The receptionist would give me the number to call.

Now I do not generally get nervous about males in the medical field, but there are some things I would rather discuss with a female (mostly because, hello, they have the same parts).  When I called to schedule the appointment, of course a male answered.  Gulp.  I told him that I needed to make a first mammogram appointment and when could they possibly squeeze me in?  No pun intended.  He laughed and said there was one the next day (today) and to make sure I don’t wear deodorant or lotions as they could mess up the imaging. 

Great…I was going to get my boobs smashed AND I had to stink too?  Aces. 

Flash forward to this morning. 

I started the day with an interview on a local radio talk show to promote the play I am directing.  My pits have a tendency to sweat, so I worried the entire time that the host could smell me.  This is weird, I know, but I am very sensitive to such things.  Plus there were other guests I knew there who kept hugging me….

After the interview I drove to the Radiology office.  The lobby was very calm and serene, yet I grew more nervous (as I am wont to be with doctor-ish kind of stuff)…so of course I kept sweating.  The receptionist asked me to fill out paperwork, verifying that everything was correct, including the emergency contact.  I told her categorically, “NO, my ex-husband is NOT my emergency contact”.  She also asked me if I had a living will.  I wondered why they needed this info anyway.  Was I going to DIE during the mammogram???

The receptionist led me through a maze of hallways to the radiology lab.  Inside the sterile room was a HUGE white and pink machine.  Even with its “cute” color scheme it looked a bit like a vacu-sealer or a “chomper” on an assembly line.  There was a plastic box (like a tray) attached to the front.  The radiologist, a really lovely older woman, glanced at my chest and proceeded to pick a larger tray off the wall where they were stored and to change out the trays. 

Something about me that you may or may not know:  I am really suspicious when it comes to new medical procedures.  I am also really fascinated by the gadgets and gizmos of the medical profession.  I therefore have a tendency to ask five million questions about how different equipment is used.  So of course I asked why she was changing the trays.  Because the trays are used according to breast size and shape, I apparently required a larger one.  Oh baby, oh baby. 

As this was my first mammogram, I really didn’t know what to expect.  I had heard about horrible smashing pain and cold metal plates, but apparently this has changed in the last few years.  Sure, there was the awkward repositioning of my breast (awkward because a stranger was shoving and prodding my chesticles haphazardly into the proper placement in the machine) and being forced to straighten up when the machine moved up higher (no, that is not the direction my boobs point), but honestly, it was over pretty quickly.  There was some discomfort and pressure (smash ANYTHING between two hard surfaces and of course there will be), but mostly pretty harmless. As the pink squash marks on my breasts lightened, I texted one of my best friends, “Blurg.  Just had the mammo.  Ah, time to deodorize.  Lol.” which about summed it up. 

And I did get to see the pictures.  Not for nothing, but daaaaaaamn, my X-Rays is fiiiiine, yo!

Bhahahahahahaha. 

Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Singin' the Imperfection Blues

I am having a day of feeling my imperfections.  I have these occasionally, generally whilst in a fit of boredom, loneliness or extended solitude.  I find myself filled with self doubt about my actions, words, emotions…and sometimes even my sense of self.  It is not a fun place to be. Because I am a woman, however, I can usually blame it on hormones or PMS.  This may or may not be the case, but it feels good to have something tangible that most people understand.

The truth is, however, I just get inside my own head.  Sometimes it is all sunshine and light and fluffy bunnies…then the bunnies grow and multiply and start looking like Gremlins.  There are so many of them, that they choke out the light, forcing me to seek shelter in an abandoned house.  This house is dark and spooky.  The floors are weak and the walls crumbling.  There are noises in this house that cause me unrest, the sounds of incessant scratching and howling.  This house is not safe.  I do not like spending time there.   

I have been told in the past that I have the capability of appearing aloof or distant, even cold.  I have always found this interesting as I have also been described as warm, friendly and approachable.  The truth is, though, I am neither one nor the other.  I am both.  I am both out of necessity and in the best interest of self-preservation.  This is for the very simple reason that, no matter my exterior, I feel things intensely.  When those feelings get overwhelming, I have to work that much harder to lock them down.  I grin and bear it as best I can during the day—and end up spending an angst-filled night (week/month/year) in the ol’ mental House of Horrors. 

I used to think that feeling this intensely was the hallmark of a creative person.  You know, suffering for one’s art and all that.  Perhaps that is part of it, but isn’t that giving creativity a bad rap?  Just because creative people can visualize 50 million different scenarios and re-live them over and over (occasionally through positive outlets such as theater, writing, painting, music, etc.) doesn’t mean they are all plagued by overwhelming emotion—does it?  This seems to be more of a societal assumption in regard to creativity.  Like, to create art one needs passion.  Whatever the hell that means. 

I am working to live my life to the fullest, emotionally, physically and mentally, but have to do so with the knowledge that not everyone is along for the same ride.  Passion can be a scary thing for those who do not have enough of their own—and for those who have too much and cannot handle more.  I, myself, have fallen victim to tremendous passion on numerous occasions.  I gave so much of myself.  I felt so powerfully.  What I got in return was less than satisfying:  Misguided affection and trust, rejection (imagined or otherwise), strained relationships, exhaustion, expectations, harsh realizations, moments of weakness, regret….

At the end of it all, however, I also get something very important.  Understanding. 

My journey is my own, and sometimes, life experiences are just that, experiences.  They may be a catalyst for something more…or they may be something that just happened.  Something to make me say, “Well, that was cool.  Next.”  They don’t have to be Events (with a capital “E”).  The problem is, of course, that I occasionally want so much more than just “an experience”.  I want to get caught up in the emotion…just not consumed by it.   

But then, I am a woman.  I feel things deeply.  And, you know, PMS.  Lol.

Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Pay It Forward...Or At Least Appreciate It!

In the (almost) week since my birthday I’ve been noticing a trend on Facebook toward posts about kindness and appreciation.  One friend posted that a total stranger had paid her toll while she was driving in the Bay Area.  Another friend mentioned that someone had surprisingly paid her fees for a license she required.  These (and more) prompted me to share one of my own experiences. 

Last week I was in Whole Foods buying myself a special treat for my birthday.  There was a man behind me with a single container of yogurt.  He was older, a bit surly and slightly unkempt.  Perhaps it was from the giddy anticipation of enjoying my carrot cake cupcake or because I was feeling particularly generous in light of so much birthday love and kindness, but I decided to purchase his yogurt. 

Here’s the funny thing:  Most people would be pleasantly surprised and graciously accept the gift, but this guy was extremely crabby about it!  He actually tried to snatch the yogurt back from the cashier.  The cashier gently told him, “She’s insisting.”  He begrudgingly consented, mumbling his thanks.  I smiled at him, but he wouldn’t even meet my eye.  He just took his yogurt and walked away, with his head down.  

This of course makes me wonder…was this an unusual act of kindness in his life?  Or was it simply difficult for him to accept the gift?  Was it because the gift was from a stranger?

I wrote earlier about the kindness of strangers, but here, it seems, is another lesson for me to take to heart:  It is not just enough to be kind to others, but to readily accept their kindness with graciousness and appreciation as well.  This is something I don’t do particularly well, depending on the situation. 

For example, my inspirational guru friend has a practice of telling people three things that she appreciates about them.  I love this practice, but I find that on the occasion that she directs her comments toward me I don’t know how to react.  I usually try to downplay her statements, an action which usually irritates her until she says, “Just say thank you.”

I realize that I have no issue with accepting kindness when it comes to “things”, but genuine and sincere compliments about my character or actions are a bit harder to take. I don’t believe this is because of feigned modesty, a lack of confidence, or even some underlying fear that maybe I don’t really deserve them.  Sometimes it is simply that I feel that I am being thanked for something I would have done anyway.  I forget sometimes that not everyone would do some of the things I do.  Some don’t care to, but some just are not able.  This doesn’t make me special or better than anyone else.  It’s just a different skill set or a different outlook.  I like helping or giving to other others and so it feels good when I can. 

That’s not to say, of course, that I don’t want to be appreciated.  Of course I do.  Who doesn’t?  I think I just sometimes also forget that what may seem natural and/or “no big deal” to me can mean the world to someone else. 

On a sadder note, I feel sometimes that my marriage might have ended because I didn’t show enough appreciation to my husband (Quite frankly, I doubt he appreciated me very much either.). It’s not that I wasn’t grateful either for him or the marriage.  I just didn’t tell him very often.  This is something that, admittedly, still sits heavy in my heart…a very glaring “Lesson Learned”.  While I can no longer do anything about that relationship, just imagine how appreciated the next Significant Other will be.  Oh yeah, I am going to appreciate all over that guy. 

So there it is, another Grand Lesson:  be kind, accept kindness and appreciate kindness when you get it. 

Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Oh No, the Big 4-0!

TO 40 AND BEYOND

Well, it’s here.  My 40th birthday. I am officially embarking on the next decade of my life.  Whew, what a lot of pressure!

So as a special birthday treat I am finishing the evening, not with a wild party, but in my pajamas watching Sixteen Candles and reminiscing about my favorite birthday moments of the past 40 years. 

February 13, 1974:  OK I don’t actually remember being born, but you get it. 

February 13, 1982 (Age 8):  I remember having a birthday party at McDonald’s.  I don’t remember who was there or what I got, but I remember the soft serve ice cream.  Even back then I was motivated by food.  I also got my ears pierced that year—and started my love affair with E.T.  Lol. 

February 13, Year Unknown (Age Unknown):  I vaguely remember an Ice Capades party.  I used to really love ice skating and thought I could be a skating star.  Clearly, that didn’t happen as I still don’t ice skate well. 

February 13, 2004 (Age 30):  My now ex-husband planned a surprise party for me at Buca Di Beppo, a cheesy, gaudily decorated Italian restaurant.  It was not only my first (and only?) surprise party, but also the first time I’d ever tried Lemoncello, a tart, yummy bit of alcoholic goodness.  I don’t remember if I’ve had it since.

February 13, 2012 (Age 38):  I was working at Blockbuster Video when I happened to look outside.  There, standing a few stores down was Elvis Presley!  OK, it was actually an Elvis impersonator (who also happened to be a friend of mine).  He and three other members of a vocal quartet were in the shopping center to sing Valentine-Grams in the various shops and offices. He convinced his quartet to come and sing the song, “Teddy Bear” to me, in celebration of my birthday.  Swoon.  

February 13, 2014 (Age 40):  This year’s birthday was pretty low key, yet it has been filled with such outpouring of love and support.  I am overwhelmed by the amount of messages people have sent to wish me well.  Sometimes when we feel our most alone, we are shown how many lives intersect with our own. 

Thank you for that, my friends.    

Until my next blog entry, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 40)

THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

Today, February 12, 2014 marks the last day of my 30’s.  I woke up in the wee hours (around 3am—close to what I call “the Devil’s time”) with what I think might have been food poisoning as my stomach was upset.  Could have just been because I was annoyed to be waking up at 3am.  Ha. 

I decided to read for a bit—a book called Don’t Worry It Gets Worse about a 20-something who meanders through her life and various failed attempts at being an adult.  So, yes, appropriate reading.  I finally fell back asleep around 5am. 

I awakened 3 hours later, deciding that I’d better at least watch SOMETHING from the Winter Olympics.  I turned on the television, mistakenly thinking that they would be airing actual events.  Instead the Olympic “coverage” consisted of interviews with various athletes and the random shenanigans of the Today staff.  How obnoxious.  I got my figure skating fix online.  How weird that my computer had more actual events than the station airing the Olympics.  And what a very, “Back in my day…” statement THAT was.  

Other highlights of the day included a meeting with my fabulous friend and mentor to discuss future creative ventures (SQUEE!), an unfulfilled search for a certain food truck, lunch at the mall, purchasing a fancy new case for my phone, communication with some male friends (because, believe it or not, I do have some), a trip to Target, a rather lengthy but still fun dress rehearsal, petting a puppy, an absolutely beautiful full moon, three…OK, FOUR, spoonfuls of Nutella and writing my final blog of this series. 

Farewell 30’s.  Hello to a new decade. 

Thank you for following me on this journey.  Join me tomorrow for my entry, “Oh No, the big 4-0”.  ;)

Until tomorrow, Lovelies. 

40 Days Till 40 (Day 39)

HAVE A GRATEFUL DAY!

Holy balls, it is only 2 days until my birthday!  For some reason I am all weepy, but then I suppose that is not uncommon.  Birthdays, like the New Year, are a time for taking stock in one’s life and figuring out what to improve, what to eliminate and for what to be grateful. 

As I sit here in my darkened bedroom, typing on my laptop, Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” is playing on my iTunes.  Coincidentally, the lyrics I hear are  “So you take a look around…at least you got friends.” 

So apparently Prince knows what’s up.  I am definitely grateful for my friends, both because they are my friends, but also because they are so kickass that they inspire me every day.  There are thankfully many of you, but I'd like to give a special (vague yet sincere) shout out to four of you:  my Tom-Hiddleston-obsessed mama bear, my fiery, sassy, redheaded pragmatist, my uber-talented, auburn-haired sassafras (who also introduced me to "Asian Buns") and my favorite extroverted hermit…you’ve helped pull me out of some dark times lately.  Thank you. 

I am grateful for my pink hair.  That probably seems shallow, but my rosy locks make me feel better.  As my hair stylist and I agreed today, there may be sh*t going on in my life, but at least my hair looks happy.

I am grateful to know that I, like Gloria Gaynor, will survive.  I am strong, resourceful and capable…and I keep proving that to be true.  Thank you to everyone who keeps reminding me of that too.   

I am grateful for my ability to have food, shelter, employment and amenities.  I may have to live frugally, but I am not yet destitute—even if it feels that way sometimes.  

I am grateful for my daughter, who gives me a reason to keep fighting, even when I am over it all.  Plus she’s pretty damned funny. 

And finally, I am grateful to everyone who reads my blog.  I started writing this blog to make sense of my random thoughts, but I like knowing you’re there (especially when some of you quote my entries back to me!).  Whether or not you agree and/or commiserate with or are amused by my entries, I thank you for reading…and pity you for now knowing WAY too much about me.

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 38)

WHAAAT'S IN THE BAAAAAAAHHHHHHXX?!

I received a package from my mom in the mail today.  Upon opening it I discovered that it contained some of my first birthday presents for the year.   Although I don’t really want for anything (well, except money, but who in lower and middle class America doesn’t want/need more of that?), I, of course, still like getting presents.  Excitedly, I ripped off the wrapping paper.  Inside was a strange assortment of items that, when given individually, might seem relatively unrelated.  When given together, though, they seemed to spell out a very particular message.

Inside the box were the following items:

·      A workbook about the decade in which I was born, the 1970’s 

(My favorite part of the book was the section on “The Seventies Wardrobe”.  Apparently women were wearing either hot pants or Annie Hall style clothes, while men wore either punk rock clothes or bellbottom suits.  Ha.)

·      A picture of me as a little kid about to blow out the candles on my birthday cake (in a frame that said “Birthday”)

·      A craft magazine from the year I graduated High School (with a painted sweatshirt design that was indeed painted on a T-Shirt for me)

·      A tube of “Buxom” waterproof mascara, because, well, uh…it was probably a free sample

·      Various eye and wrinkle creams in a zip-up vinyl pouch from Botox

·      The February 2014 issue of Prevention (the magazine to help you be “Fabulous at 40+”)

·      A CD entitled “Prosperity:  Music and Meditations for Unlimited Abundance” (with a Post-It Note that read, “It can’t hurt to try!”)

·      Magnets with a French theme, including the cover of Le Petit Prince and pictures from Paris (Probably because I speak semi-fluent French?)

·      Four Leaf Clover Earrings and a button that said “Shake Your Shamrocks” (I assume in honor of the trip to Ireland for which I am saving)

·      A flowery heart-shaped pin

·      A book called Sugar Detox about overcoming sugar addiction and eating healthily (the cover of which shows a close up on a pair of hands with the worst manicure I’ve ever seen)

You’ve probably guessed it…this was my “Welcome to your 40’s” Box. 

Not unlike the time she gave me the book 10 Stupid Things Women Do to Mess Up Their Lives (right after I became—briefly—engaged to someone I dated before my now ex-husband), I was reminded that my mother has a funny, if not quirky, sense of humor.

Until tomorrow, Lovelies…. 

*For 2/10/14.  Only 3 days to go!

40 Days Till 40 (Day 37)

BADGE OF THE VAG  

(WARNING:   THIS ENTRY IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART)

I was having a conversation with a theater owner about my upcoming performance in The Vagina Monologues.  He asked me, “How come they never do The Vagina Monologues with men? After all, there are all-female casts doing Shakespeare.”

Although I did explain that the purpose of The Vagina Monologues is to bring awareness to FEMALE issues (and that I thought men might have participated in the show before), the conversation didn’t go much further than that.  He was apparently excited about the idea of producing an all-male version of The Vagina Monologues and decided to immediately float the idea to some of the other guys in the theater company. 

In thinking further, however, I realized that I was not overly enthusiastic about this idea.  In fact, I am pretty sure that I downright hated it.  While I think it would be an interesting experiment, there is a pretty major reason for NOT doing the production with male actors:  VAGINAS (or lack thereof). 

I am not saying that men cannot be feminists.  Of course, they can—and should.  Many are.  Hell, I’ve even wanted to produce/act in/direct an all-female version of a Shakespeare play too.  The difference is, in a Shakespeare play (or any other play), a woman would be playing a male character—not a man.  I have done this myself, several times. 

My problem with men doing The Vagina Monologues is that I feel it would lose its impact—especially if it were an all-male cast.  The monologues are supposed to be the stories of REAL women.  The show is not about man-hating (as some assume), but about women learning to love themselves or to survive after the trauma of rape or abuse.  It’s about the coming together of women to celebrate the feminine and to find solidarity in each other (and with society) through their stories.  It is about women having a voice. 

I am sorry, and this is going to sound like extreme gender bias, but how could someone who has never had a vagina ever be able to rant believably about tampons, gyno visits and thong underwear?  Or to commiserate about vaginal discharge?  Or to understand the shame of being raped by one’s husband because the patriarchal society deems it is OK?  Or to feel the embarrassment and exposure of shaving one’s hoo-ha (and therefore feeling like a little girl)?  No, that is not what or all the show is about, but some of the monologues poke fun at or discuss those things (and more) in a way that is specifically female.  While I have seen some male actors who play incredibly plausible females, I worry that an all-male cast would make the show seem more sardonic in nature, like it would poke fun at it…or only create novelty.  In other words, even though men may identify with some of the issues, having an all-male cast could very well go against the entire purpose of the show. 

Seriously, men, if you want to do a show called Conversations with My Penis or Talking Dick to raise awareness for male issues, by all means, go forth.  I will happily support you—but I won’t try to be in your production. 

Women have so few things that are inherently female.  Please just let us have just one damned play.  Hmph.

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 36)

ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE…?

My daughter and I were watching a DVD of the movie, Cirque Du Soleil:  Worlds Away.  Basically a compilation of various existing Cirque du Soleil shows, the film, although somewhat slow, was a visual treat.  Unfortunately, though, the full artistry and athleticism of the routines didn’t necessarily translate to my smaller TV screen—as evidenced by the fact that my daughter would become increasingly chatty during the music-only parts (translation:  most of the movie).  She did, however perk up when the film featured scenes and songs from “Beatles Love”.  At one point she started singing along (so proud!).

“All you need is love…and food and shelter and clothes!”

Wait, what?

I asked her about what she’d just sung. 

“Mom, love is not all you need.  You also need food and shelter and clothes.”

I responded with a gasp of dismay. Who had taught her such a thing?  Was it I?  Was it her father?  Was it society?  How on earth could an 8-year-old who obsessively watches Disney princess movies not believe in the romantic notion of Love (with a capital “L”)?  She still believes in mermaids and Santa Claus and unicorns, for goodness sake!  It actually made me quite sad.

I told her that yes, those are indeed things that are needed to survive, but that Love (and that song) is about more than just survival.  It’s about shared affection.  It’s about seeking happiness.  It’s about feeling supported emotionally.  We do need Love, whether from our friends, our family, our significant others or even ourselves.  Heck, I’d even take the Love of a pet.  Love can help us face our darkest days and pull us out of life’s quagmire. 

It’s funny, isn’t it, that I could still believe in Love?  Even through my most emotionally traumatic times, I’ve held on to the notion that there was power in Love.  I've had no doubt that Love existed and could cure so many ills.  While I yearn to find Romantic Love again, I know that I’ve got some pretty d*mned awesome friends.  They show me time and time again that I am not alone.  I am thankful to have them. 

And yet, I am not naïve about Love.  While I want to believe in Hollywood’s cinematic ideas of happily ever after, I am still realistic.  No, Johnny Depp will not be noticing me in a coffee shop and stalking me until I go out with him, but hey, who wants a stalker?  Ha. 

I hope that my daughter never gives up on the idea of Love.  How else will she understand the value of compassion and sympathy?

Until tomorrow, LOVElies….

*For 2/8/14.  Why are there not more hours in the day?