tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7406960129728537682024-02-18T19:34:06.030-08:00Mama ActStories of a sometimes working actress trying to make it as a Mama in the big city.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-69589814942523256072014-01-11T18:46:00.001-08:002014-01-11T20:32:13.995-08:00The Lip Balm Is Already LostI am not the type of person who loses things. As an adult anyway. <br />
<br />
As a child? Well...when I was in elementary school in Texas I lost my glasses. Twice. I used to wear them only when I needed to see the blackboard. The rest of the time I carried them in a bright green zippered glasses case that had the word "Glasses" printed on it in huge letters. I attached it to a belt loop with a little chain. I remember it banging into my leg as I ran on the playground. I lost the case and the glasses. And then I lost another pair. Same case. In middle school I threw away my retainer. Twice. I used to dutifully take it out to eat my peanut butter sandwich at lunch. And because it was gross to look at, naturally I wrapped it up in a napkin. And naturally, I forgot about it. And dumped the napkin into the trash along with my milk carton and sandwich baggies.<br />
<br />
And we all wonder why no one asked me to the prom...<br />
<br />
But let's face it. Somewhere deep down I didn't want those glasses. And I hated that retainer. Didn't I want them to be lost?<br />
<br />
In the last few months I have lost several more precious though less valuable things. Sometime around Thanksgiving I lost a very special necklace that's handstamped with Doc Hubby and Bean's names. I remember taking it off at night. I remember setting it down on a dresser. I suppose I never picked it back up. Since I have been in Louisville I have lost a pair of fingerless mittens my Mom got me and I loved. They may be on the floor of the movie theater at the mall where Doc Hubby and I saw "The Hobbit" in 3D (remind me to take a Dramamine before I see another adventure flick in 3D). But I actually rather doubt it. I may have inadvertently thrown them away, too. I subsequently wrote a postcard to Bean. The postcard pictured Route 80 in Central Pennsylvania. I bought it several years ago just because I thought it was hilarious. Who buys a postcard of an interstate? I wrote it out to Bean, stamped it, slid it into my script, went to the theater, and simply could not find it. I have no memory of mailing said postcard. I have searched.<br />
<br />
Just today I discovered my favorite lip balm appears to be AWOL.<br />
<br />
Each of these things is an item that I rather distinctly remember putting somewhere for safe keeping. A dresser. The pocket of my jacket. Inside of my script. They were all dear. Even the lip balm, kinda. And now...? What is wrong with me? Where is my brain?<br />
<br />
We worked through and ran the last act of OUR TOWN today. It is so shatteringly beautiful. From amongst the ranks of the dead and against their firmly-stated advice, Emily chooses to go back to life and relive her 12th birthday. She receives an unexpected present from her then 12-year-old neighbor--the boy who will grow up to be her husband. She gets a special and much-desired gift from her mother. And an heirloom present from her grandmother who has since passed. Some of these things she seems to remember, 14 years later. Some of them she admits she had forgotten. All were special, one way or the other. And because of that, or maybe in spite of it, she can't bear to look at any of them. From beyond the grave everything is precious. Every moment is vanishing. Every cup and saucer and piece of bacon and heirloom hair comb. <i>I can't look at everything hard enough</i>, she says.<br />
<br />
And then she says:<br />
<i>Do any human beings realize life while they live it--every every minute?</i><br />
<br />
And the Stage Manager responds:<br />
<i>No. The saints and poets, maybe they do some.</i><br />
<br />
What would happen if we realized life every every minute? If every precious necklace and every fingerless glove and every tube of lip balm were recognized as perhaps the last token of a beautiful life that could end at any moment? The remnant of an era before... something changed? Because of course we never know when that minute will be. That drive down the interstate. That elevator ride to the top of a sky scraper. That camping trip to Crawford Notch.<br />
<br />
I don't think I'd like to realize life every every minute. I think it might be devastatingly sad. And crazy-making. As it is I can barely look at videos of Bean ice skating while I'm in Kentucky without seeing how much her permanent front tooth has grown in. How long her legs are. And feeling somewhat mangled inside because of it.<i> </i><br />
<br />
I think I'd like to realize life every every...<i>day</i> maybe? Once a day? To mark something. To observe something. To take in something with a rather more profound depth than usual. To live a conscious moment. <br />
<br />
And then immediately to lose my lip balm. Or my fingerless mittens. Or even my precious necklace. Because what is it those Zen fellows say (to borrow the "folksy" tone of the OUR TOWN Stage Manager)? Isn't the glass already broken? Isn't the lip balm already lost? Isn't the child already grown?<br />
<br />
I'm glad they were mine for a little while anyway. <br />
<br />
<br />Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-5249087134404738972014-01-03T08:30:00.002-08:002014-01-11T18:47:35.272-08:00May 5th and February 11th"Father died a year ago today. On your birthday Irina, May 5th." <i>Three Sisters</i><br />
<br />
"Well now dear, a very happy birthday to my girl and many happy returns." <i>Our Town</i><br />
<br />
This is the second play I have done in a row that involves a character's birthday.<br />
<br />
We performed "Three Sisters" on May 5th. The actress who played Irina's actual birthday was the day after. May 6th. The prop birthday cake we used in that production was laughable. Like some kind of joke. There is no way that a single person in the audience could possibly have believed it was an actual edible cake. On the actress who played Irina's actual birthday, we brought in a real cake. We put real candles on it, and surprised her onstage. I will never forget her face. She was so surprised and tickled and amused. She just kept giggling. And there's something especially glorious about that sort of thing happening in front of a live audience amongst professional actors who know how to keep the play going. It was grand.<br />
<br />
We will be performing "Our Town" on Emily's birthday--February 11th. My "daughter's" birthday.<br />
<br />
It is a funny thing when something someone speaks on stage is actually true. When it really is May 5th or February 11th. Or Christmas Eve or an actor's birthday. When the stage truth and the true truth converge. For a moment there is a wonderful clarity--a crystalline moment of shared reality. And we all actually see each other for a second--even if we've been doing a play for weeks or months and it has become a bit stale. Theater artists strive a whole lot to create reality on stage. Most of our efforts are put into finding a way to create circumstances that will allow the lines the playwright has given us to say, to become true. And by the time we are performing a play...well maybe we feel true about 50% of the time. Maybe 60% on a good night.<br />
<br />
It's a funny job. Typically a group of total strangers get together in an empty room. Grown adults mostly. And then we pretend to be married and related and someone else's mother or wife or best friend. And we hug and kiss and cry. And in about a month we do all that in front of people. Weird, right? Pretty sure most jobs don't involve pretending to parent coworkers.<br />
<br />
And it's my actual birthday today. 750 miles from home. I've never had my actual birthday celebrated onstage. But I've had the great privilege to be working on a number of my birthdays. I think for a lot of people having to work on your birthday is a tremendous bummer. Those of you who are fortunate enough to have a job most days of your life. For me, actually, it's grand. It means that on the day that marks the passage of another year, I'm actually doing what it is I want to be doing. I turned 40 during the run of my first Broadway show. That was one of the best days of my life. How many people can say that about their 40th birthday?<br />
<br />
Today in rehearsal my job is to be a mother. And then to be a friend. And to mime making breakfast in a 19th century kitchen.<br />
<br />
I think in 2014 I'm going to strive to do at least two of those things with as much truth and awareness and thoughtfulness offstage, as I do on.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-26494911059250425592013-12-20T18:17:00.003-08:002014-01-11T18:47:54.599-08:00Ghosts of Christmas PastSo I was last here in Louisville ten years ago. I played a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/atlpropguy/2049958529/" target="_blank">1930's magician's assistant</a> in a beautiful play called "Orange Lemon Egg Canary." That's me in the shorts. The title refers to a magic trick in which the magician peels an orange and inside it he finds a lemon. He peels the lemon to reveal an egg. He cracks the egg and a canary flies out. Cool trick.<br />
<br />
I have been trying, since I arrived, to overlay my memory of being in this town...at this theater...with my experiences of the last week. Merging the map of the city in my head with the streets I'm walking--like superimposing Google maps and street view. We were here 11 weeks in 2003. I should be able to remember something.<br />
<br />
And I have been failing miserably. I can't remember which rehearsal room we used ten years ago. I walk to where I remember the door being, and hit a wall. Admittedly, the city itself has changed significantly. We're not staying in the same building we stayed in before. An effort has been made to revitalize the downtown and there's a HUGE stadium, the <a href="http://www.kfcyumcenter.com/" target="_blank">KFC YUM! Center</a> (I wish I were making that up) across the street from the theater. Beyonce sang there not too long ago. But it is downright disconcerting to know that I was here, know it for a fact, and not remember much of anything. The Starbucks is where I recall it being--but it looks totally different inside than my memory of it.<br />
<br />
And then there's the fact that I did "Our Town," the same play I'm doing now, fifteen years ago. And much like this city, I remember some of it crystally. I remember loving being on top of the ladder and listening to the choir practice in the first act. I remember sitting at the soda fountain. I can hear the voice of the woman who played my mother loud and clear. I have to resist falling into some of her line readings. And yet. I have been racking my brain and I have absolutely no memory of who played Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs. I can't picture the kid who played my brother. The stage manager's words just lurk somewhere right at the back of my head. Vaguely familiar. I can taste them in the back of my throat.<br />
<br />
I have lived long enough that there are parts of my adult life which are absolute complete blanks.<br />
<br />
We have zillions of people in this play. All 19 young actors who form the theater's apprentice company are in the show. When they tumble into the rehearsal room, it's like I'm suddenly surrounded by puppies. Puppies with lots of facial hair and plaid shirts and big glasses and stocking caps. I have to stop myself from grabbing them and saying, look, I know I seem to you like some forty year old <i>lady</i> who is playing the <i>mom</i>...but about thirty seconds ago I was an unpaid intern and moving the furniture. Last week I did the scene up on top of the ladder. Just blink and you'll be Mrs. So-and-so, too. <br />
<br />
You'll be finding yourself saying the exact, and I mean the exact, words your mother said to you. Your fictional mother or your real one. Or both. You'll catch yourself saying those same words exactly as she did and trying to at least change the inflection. After all, you're doing things your own way. You'll be alone in actor housing five days before Christmas, watching "It's a Wonderful Life" and seeing scenes you swear have <i>never </i>been included in the televised broadcast...and checking twitter to see if this year they're doing some uncut longer version that they've never done before. Because since when do we see George Bailey as a kid? And finding out that no. You just simply don't remember it.<br />
<br />
Ghosts of Christmas Past. <br />
<br />
In the play "Orange Lemon Egg Canary" the actor playing Great, the magician, does the magic trick on stage. He peels the orange and lo and behold there's a lemon. He peels the lemon and reveals an egg. He cracks the egg...<br />
<br />
and it plops to the floor in a sticky mess.<br />
<br />
Funny. I could have sworn a canary flew out.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-84785511268813771312013-12-18T17:09:00.002-08:002014-01-11T18:48:40.235-08:00The Best Laid Plans...So an hour after I published that last post I got a text from Doc Hubby. Bean had a temp of 102.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Are you friggin KIDDING me? This week was jam packed full of holiday activities! Open ballet class on Tuesday for Granny and Pops to attend! A family gathering at school. Pajama Day. Macy's windows! Christmas shopping and a poker game for Daddy. So much everyone wanted to do this first week I am away. This last week before Christmas.</div>
<br />
Yesterday the fever rose to 103. And then Bean got an itchy rash on her butt. At that point I urged Doc Hubby to text a pediatrician friend.<br />
<br />
"Is there something going around...103 fever, mild sore throat, rash...?"<br />
"As a matter of fact, yes. Lasts 48 hours or so."<br />
<br />
Can this please be some weird rashy virus that only children are susceptible to and adults simply cannot get?<br />
<br />
We started blocking the play today. Always feels like jumping off a cliff. But miming making an entire breakfast in a 19th century kitchen. Um. So what does an ice box look like again? And how exactly do you string green beans?<br />
<br />
Lucky for me, Kameron with a "K" made a video to help out with that one. I think it bears sharing.
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/9EM5C-5lYBc" width="459"></iframe><br />
<br />
Here's what I learned today. All Mrs. Webb (the character in OUR TOWN that I'm playing) wants to do is to raise healthy children. This appears to be her primary goal in life. Yet (spoiler alert)... both kids and her best friend will be dead before her 45th birthday.<br />
<br />
Sucks to be Myrtle.<br />
<br />
The best laid plans...<br />
<br />Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-71013991112273263832013-12-16T19:34:00.001-08:002014-01-11T18:49:09.114-08:00Mama's GiftMama is back in the act. Acting. Playing a Mama.<br />
<br />
I am doing "Our Town" in Louisville, Kentucky. A theater where I first worked a little over ten years ago. Before I was a Mama.<br />
<br />
Bean has known for months that I was going to do this play. We talked about it and did our best to set up a framework in which she could feel comfortable and included in my leaving. I will be back for Christmas. She will come down and see the play. And then I will come home.<br />
<br />
Still, Doc Hubby had to peel her, screaming, off of me yesterday when I left for the airport.<br />
<br />
"But do you really absolutely <i>have</i> to go do the play?"<br />
"I do. They are counting on me."<br />
"Do you absolutely <i>have</i> to go today?"<br />
"I do. I'll be back in just a week for Christmas, okay?"<br />
"It is NOT OKAY!!!"<br />
<br />
Fifteen years ago I played the daughter in this play. I loved doing this play. I loved the soda fountain scene most of all. I also loved playing the third act but I struggled to find the emotional depths. The playwright says that Emily sobs when she goes back home and sees her Mama "so young." I never sobbed.<br />
<br />
Today I couldn't get through reading the last act without tearing up embarrassingly. And of course, Mrs. Webb can't cry. She's just making biscuits or oatmeal or bacon or whatever Emily's favorite breakfast is. Because that's Mama's job.<br />
<br />
I just spent about 45 minutes trying to figure out what Mrs. Webb's birthday present to Emily in the third act would have been. Emily turned 12 in 1899. I have no memory of what I imagined it was when I was playing Emily. Something Mrs. Webb had to send all the way to Boston for. Something they didn't even have in Concord...the capitol of New Hampshire. What in the <i>world</i> can this be? I have some ideas. They all sound vaguely silly.<br />
<br />
I left to come here yesterday...the 15th of December. All of Bean's Christmas presents are ordered and 90% of them are wrapped. That's what Mamas do, isn't it? Find the special presents. Wrap them. Send to Boston if you need to.<br />
<br />
Do I really absolutely <i>have</i> to come and do this play? As I was leaving yesterday I just wanted to say "Nope. Mistake. Wrong. Just kidding. Take the suitcases back inside I don't have to go." I mean, how can I leave her? She's six! Our little family is so precious and it's a big world out there. And after all, it's Christmas.<br />
<br />
But I remember that when the offer came to do this play, my heart leapt and I thought "yes!" I think I will be a better Mama if I come to Kentucky for two months to do this play. I told her that. I told her that Mama is a storyteller and I need to come and tell this story. But I can in no way explain my decision to Bean in a way that will satisfy her.<br />
<br />
So as much as it is a gift to me, to come here and do this play, I really believe it is a gift to her too. I had to send all the way to Kentucky for it. I had to go away and pretend to be someone else's Mama for a while. And pretend to be part of a different family. And it's because of my actual daughter, I think, that I could now go back and do the Third Act as Emily. And begin to glimpse what Emily can see from beyond the grave. After all I'm fifteen years closer to it.<br />
<br />
But it's too late. I can't go back and be Emily now. I'm the Mama.<br />
<br />
I think that's kind of what this play's about.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-8600352886813264172013-09-17T09:12:00.001-07:002013-09-17T09:23:39.539-07:00Afraid of Famous PeopleAnd then sometimes there are these days in this business. When in real life, you bump up against actors or directors or writers who touched you when you were younger. These encounters are somewhat inevitable and yet they feel completely bizarre and wonderful all at the same time.<br />
<br />
And the kind of crazy thing is that when they happen to me, I pretend they aren't happening. I don't speak to the people. I stare at my phone.<br />
<br />
Once, though, I did say something. I decided that if I had influenced someone when she was younger, and she came up to me and said, "thank you, what you did made a difference in my life" I would really appreciate it. It might, in fact, make my day. So a few years ago, I was in rehearsal for a play and lo and behold, in the common area of the theater, an actress sat eating her lunch. I'll call her The Alto. I had seen The Alto in my high school days, in a musical that I had absolutely loved, playing the role that I had absolutely loved. A show that made me think, "hey if I can do <i>this</i> for the rest of my life, then I'm good." And I went up to The Alto and I told her that her play and her performance had profoundly affected me. And I thanked her.<br />
<br />
The thing is, The Alto wasn't particularly gracious. She smiled indulgently and then quickly went back to her salad. My very sincere comments appeared not to have made her day. Not remotely. And I was kinda sad. <br />
<br />
So I tried to get inside her head a bit. <br />
<br />
I know, as so often happens, that The Alto's response was probably far more about her experience that day than it was about me. There I was, no longer a very young woman, speaking to her about a performance that took place more than twenty years ago. As I stood there, eagerly praising her, I was a living reminder of her own aging, already sporting some wrinkles myself. Or maybe she had heard the same praise a thousand times already and was tired of it. Though if I told you her name, odds are you wouldn't recognize it. Or maybe she was just having a bad day. Either way, it soured me on spilling.<br />
<br />
So then today, as the world so often goes, I found myself in the presence of the Writer and Director of that very musical. In the basement of that same theater. He was auditioning actors for his new play, and I was there to be the reader.<br />
<br />
At any given audition, behind the desk sits the director, sometimes a casting director, sometimes the playwright, maybe the Artistic Director of the theater, and a smattering of assistants perhaps. In front of the table, are the "readers"--the actors who typically sit in chairs facing the auditioners and read their scenes with them. Young actors are encouraged to be readers. It's a great insight into the audition process. A lesson in how to have a good audition. And how, perhaps, not to have such a good audition. I have been a reader a lot over the past ten years. I have met some pretty cool people. I have stories.<br />
<br />
So I was in the room being a reader for The Writer/Director. And he was funny and genuine and generous. He did this wonderful thing that I have only seen one or two other directors do with any kind of consistency. He talked to the actors before asking them to read. Not such an earth-shattering concept, perhaps, for those of you in businesses where civility reigns. But nine times out of ten actors walk into a studio, say hello, note the type of sandwich the director is voraciously eating, and dive right in to their prepared material. Having someone stop, and look at you, and ask you where you are from and compliment your shoes and engage you for a few minutes, is so humanizing. And productive. Everyone shares a laugh at some point. Everyone exhales. And I watched as the keyed up and nervous actors relaxed into their skins a bit. I saw them release their nerves enough that they could actually see The Writer/Director. See the room. Even very experienced and brilliant actors seemed to benefit from this little moment of interaction.<br />
<br />
So basically The Writer/Director, whose show I had adored so very much, then proved to be a pretty wonderful human being in the audition room.<br />
<br />
And I said nothing. I mean, I talked and laughed and did my job as best as I could. But I did not at any point mention the show twenty years ago and the effect it had on me. <br />
<br />
What is even more bizarre is that before the audition session started, I arrived at the theater about ten minutes early. A very big production is in rehearsal at that same theater right now. I wondered if any of the actors would be milling about, until I remembered it was Monday. The traditional dark day at the theater. So I was doubly surprised to walk into the little seating area, the same seating area in which I had seen The Alto several years ago, to find one person sitting alone a table. The actor playing the lead in the big production. This actor, I'll call him Holden, also happened to be a teen star when I was a teen. The first film in which he made a splash, was an absolutely brilliant movie that appealed to every bookish kid of my generation, and made stars of many of the actors. My friends and I all continue to reference it over and over and over again.<br />
<br />
I croaked out a "hello" and Holden said "hi" and looked at me like "do I know you?" Which wasn't completely crazy since we are nearly exactly the same age and 13 years ago I did a play with one of his best friends. But no, we don't hang out. And then he asked me if it was still raining and I said no. And I was ready to make a joke about working on a Monday when another person entered the room. Someone about to audition for The Writer/Director. And suddenly I couldn't just make small talk with the famous guy sitting at the table next to me, because for some reason, with another dude around, it felt weird.<br />
<br />
I never said anything about admiring Holden's substantial body of work. Film and theater. Of being really excited about the production he was working on. Of the movie he did in the late 80's that profoundly affected me...and about a zillion other people.<br />
<br />
I didn't say anything.<br />
<br />
Because, I don't want to be the person who bugs famous people. Who isn't, like, "oh yeah I'm a New York actor we see famous people all the time, it's no big deal, they shoot Law and Order on my street, like every other day." Because apathy is hip. Because we all have to be so cool. So over it. <br />
<br />
But in not taking a chance, and sharing a genuine reaction with someone, I missed the opportunity for a wonderful interaction. Far more wonderful than "is it raining?" "no." Which unless you're wrapped in someone's arms when you say it, doesn't really mean much. Sure, you don't get dissed like I did by The Alto. But you don't get a chance to connect. The value of which The Writer/Director was about to make apparent in spades in the audition room.<br />
<br />
It's a tricky balance isn't it.<br />
<br />
No one wants to be a pest.<br />
<br />
Everyone, it would seem, appreciates a compliment.<br />
<br />
And I, it turns out, am rather afraid of famous people. Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-61798641386280073382013-07-19T07:30:00.002-07:002013-07-19T07:38:12.869-07:00Death and Dry SpellsI got my first big acting break when someone died.<br />
<br />
I was 21 and just out of college, doing an internship at a wonderful theater company near my hometown called The Bloomsburg Theatre Ensemble. <i>The Taming of the Shrew</i> was the first show of the season. I was nervous. I was excited. I was playing...I don't even remember who. I think just an ensemble member. I don't even think my character had a name. Not uncommon in Shakespeare to be cast simply as "ensemble." Sort of like a musical. The concept behind this production was that a woman would play Petruchio and a man would be Kate. Lots of other characters were also cast cross gender. How did it work?<br />
<br />
It was a pretty brilliant production--I've never seen another one like it. For you Shakespeare nerds, Christopher Sly passed out in the prologue after drunkenly throwing pewter beer mugs at the Hostess. While he was sprawled on the tavern floor, the Lord and players arrived and decided to put on a show for him. However, in this version, Sly was cast as the star. When Sly came to, he was in a dress, a script in his hands, and playing the first scene as Kate, the Shrew. The Hostess was his Petruchio. As it happened, some of the most brilliant actors I have had the pleasure of working with were playing Kate and Petruchio. And the adaptation worked beautifully.<br />
<br />
An African American actress whose name I am embarrassed to say I have forgotten, was cast as the Lady of the Manner who would then go on to play Baptista, Kate and Bianca's father. And then the tragedy. That actress died. Of sickle cell anemia. And I was given the role of Baptista.<br />
<br />
I was twenty one. I was adequate, I suppose? I remember feeling like every other character on the stage was absolutely hilarious and I was just...not funny at all. And then my also very brilliant and quite hysterical friend David who was playing Hortensio gave me some advice. He said something like, "Baptista is Newhart. He's not necessarily all that funny. He's the sane guy surrounded by all the craziness, and all he can do is watch it all go on around him." I was comforted. I have a feeling a better actress...or anyway some chubby old guy...could make actually Baptista funny. I didn't. But I went on. <br />
<br />
My second big break happened when someone got deathly ill.<br />
<br />
Almost ten years after that production of <i>Shrew</i> I again found myself doing Shakespeare. Again playing an ensemble member without a name. I call her Birdcage Girl. It was a production of <i>Hamlet</i> and I was cast quite literally as a walking metaphor. I followed Ophelia around, occasionally held her cloak when she doffed it, and carried an empty birdcage. When she went cuckoo...I stumbled backward in a big sand pit and opened the birdcage door. I also held ice cream cones and lusted after Horatio. Did anyone notice I wonder...<br />
<br />
The production was high profile and fraught with all kinds of personality conflicts and artistic indecision. I watched it all go down from the sidelines, safe in my basically nonspeaking role. I carried scenery and dressed the set...with myself. The first preview was delayed a week, and we were panned in the press despite the fact that I think the dude who played Hamlet is brilliant. A master with the language and the real deal. An actor not just a star.<br />
<br />
And then Gertude got sick. First her voice started to go, and she did one whole performance with a body mike. And then one night I got a call...from the Executive Director of the theater...telling me that yes indeed Gertrude is very sick and was I aware that I was her understudy? I was not, in fact, aware of this. She had heard I was a quick study and could I possibly go on tomorrow? Less than 24 hours from then. As Gertrude. In <i>Hamlet</i>. I remember just sitting down at my computer armoire in our studio apartment on 96th street and telling Doc Hubby that I had to learn the role of Gertrude that night so I could play it the next day in front of a paying audience.<br />
<br />
As it happens, I am a quick study. I had been hearing the play for weeks. I had seen much of it. But there were scenes I hadn't witnessed since the rehearsal room--including the notorious closet scene. I remember that during the put-in rehearsal the next day, anytime we took a break I just went into the bathroom and cried. I did the show that night. Hamlet gave me flowers and champagne. Claudius pulled me over before the show and said "Look if you're out there, and you need some help, just come on over to me...we'll have a little chat." People were supportive and lovely. I felt, while the show was going on, that I was running a marathon. I would sit offstage and rub my quads and just keep my head in the game. And I did it. I made it. I said all the lines and stood in the right places and died dramatically.<br />
<br />
I went on to play Gertrude eight more times. Never knowing any given day when I showed up at the theater if I was going to play Birdcage Girl or Gertrude.<br />
<br />
I haven't been hired at that theater again. Though the artistic director at the time did cast me in my second Broadway show. We never talked about it. I suppose he remembered...? I feel like that was a bit of karma.<br />
<br />
I have not had a theater job in <a href="http://mamaact.blogspot.com/2011/09/opening-night.html" target="_blank">21 months</a>. I have auditioned quite a bit. I have been called back consistently. I have tried really really hard. Really hard. Really.<br />
<br />
I am trying to make some sense of this...this..let's recall some of the names I have called my period of underemployment lately: dry spell, hiatus, sabbatical, batting slump. I have been Kindergarten Room Mother (they call it Parents Association Rep now, but I prefer Room Mother) and tried to be very present for the beautiful small person who is in my charge. I have written most of a screenplay and I have become something of an avid spinner and biker.<br />
<br />
But still. Mama wants a job. I have thrown my hat in on a show that rehearses over Christmas. This is just how much Mama wants a job. I love Christmas. This decision to be discussed later.<br />
<br />
So my question today is: I wonder who will have to die in a car accident for me to get cast in a play again...?<br />
<br />
<br />Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-74383172283674720302012-02-01T19:43:00.000-08:002012-02-01T19:43:11.216-08:00Please Paramount, Give Us The Volleyball SceneWhy is it so damn hard to find The Volleyball Scene from "Top Gun" on Youtube? There are parodies and foreign language versions, videotaped copies and oh-so-funny dubbed versions. But just the scene in all its sweaty glory? You all know what scene I'm talking about. Jeans no shirts, aviator glasses, volleyball gloves, flexing and dives. So far as I can tell, it ain't there.<br />
<br />
Copyright issues? Whatevs, Paramount. We have to help our friends through needle biopsies here.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing, how can I be as young as I am (and I am crazy young mind you), and have three of the, say, six women I consider to be my closest friends, have been through needle biopsies? One of the three had a lumpectomy. And thankfully, they have all been benign. I definitely am on board with the whole it's-better-to-be-safe-than-sorry thing. Catch it early. Wipe it out. But it seems to me, and I'm not the doctor in this house, that new imaging devices are able to see miniscule things in our bodies, but clumsy old human eyes, even very well-trained doctory ones, aren't able to tell what those things are without poking holes in our boobs with knitting needles. Either the devices have to get even better. Or the doctors need to figure out how to interpret these pictures a little better.<br />
<br />
But that's not even really what I'm on about. What I'm on about is that in the meantime, the patient care, the real business of counseling women who make the move from the routine mammo to diagnostic mammo and beyond-- well the docs haven't quite figured out how to do that part either. I spent four hours in a very well-respected doctor's office last Fall, apparently completely forgotten about, going through mammogram, wait, ultrasound, wait, repeat mammogram, wait... It was an absolutely excruciating four hours. And during the time I waited in my little robe in the magazine room, not one person came to explain what was going on. No one told me what the docs were looking at. Or concerned about. Or not to worry. Or even how much was reasonable to worry. I swear, at one point a nurse or tech or someone actually came in, saw me alone in the waiting room, and said "you're still here!?" I kid you not. I was alone, essentially crying on the ultrasound table, with <i>no one</i> to talk to. Texting my husband like a crazy person. My little crisis ended four hours later with a paper that read "normal mammogram. probably benign ultrasound come back in six months possible cystic changes." What the wha? I am fairly certain that means I'm okay. Doc Hubby agreed. Still even the interpretation of that mysterious piece of paper was lacking. But at that point I was so desperate to leave...and late for a Kindergarten visit that when I showed up at the doctor's office <i>four hours earlier</i> I hadn't even dreamed I could possibly miss...that I didn't have it in me to ask more questions. I have the comfort of going home to a physician. I'm lucky that way.<br />
<br />
The friend for whom I was desperately seeking Tom Cruise, has just completed that particular journey of anxiety that is becoming all to familiar as I watch friend after friend slog through it. Hers started on MLK day, over two weeks ago. Routine mammo. Follow up call for a diagnostic mammo scheduled in...a week. Week one of worry. Degree of worry on a scale of 1 - 10? Say 4. Diagnostic mammo results in needle biopsy scheduled in...a week. Week two of worry. Degree of worry on a scale of 1 - 10? After spending four hours googling all possible outcomes? Say 8. Needle biopsy on a Monday. Results back on Wednesday. Two more days of worry. Degree of worry on a scale of 1 - 10? When you throw in steri-strips and throbbing? Oh, around 11. <br />
<br />
Results today, negative. Collective sigh of relief. <br />
<br />
In what universe is it okay for all of that to take 2 and 1/2 weeks? In the brilliant article by physician turned patient Colleen B. Fogarty <a href="http://content.healthaffairs.org/content/30/11/2204.full" target="_blank">"Call it 'Jiffy Boob', What's Lacking When Care Has Assembly-Line Efficiency</a>," at least the author was able to have her needle biopsy immediately. Why is this not par for the course? But Fogarty's concerns are valid. Where is the mental health counseling? If breast cancer detection is turning into an anxiety-creating machine, where is the counter-balancing human kindness? I know there's no way of eliminating the anxiety completely. Results can't be instant. But when routine turns scary, it's scary. Every hushed conversation overheard by nurses is interpreted as a sign. Every mumbled discussion of what a radiologist has for lunch is a possible discussion of your condition. Can they tell? Do they already know? And when that ultrasound tech was smashing my poor cysty breasts over and over again, couldn't she say, "Just because I'm doing this so much, doesn't mean it's cancer. I need to give the radiologist a good picture because if I don't she will yell at me and I've had quite enough of that this week."<br />
<br />
So, to Tom Cruise. It is up to us, then to be those people for each other. When my boobs were aching, I went to my friends who had already been through this, for support. And this past week, I decided to offer my friend a smile a day while she was going through her nightmare of waiting. I sent her ecards and funny videos. And when I wanted to send her the link to the Volleyball Scene on YouTube, or anywhere online really, I COULDN'T FIND IT!!!! I mean, when you want to see Slider flex, you want to see Slider flex, am I right?<br />
<br />
So listen, ye who hold the keys to the "Top Gun" kingdom. For all us 40-somethings out there, who came of age to the Volley Ball Scene and then rented it at a video store you had to drive to, and wore out our parents' VCRs watching it over and over and over again while snacking on Cool Ranch Doritos and drinking Diet Coke...we who are now getting our tatas squished and poked and punctured, 80 percent of the time for absolutely no reason but to make us crazy with worry, is it too much to ask that you throw us a bone? For the love of God, put that heart-pounding, sand-spewing, orgy of sweat and shades on YouTube in a clear as crystal version. For us. Cuz we're sittin' squarely in the danger zone. And we need to have our breath, and our worries, taken away.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-338603919970281172011-11-30T07:25:00.000-08:002011-11-30T07:29:23.686-08:00Get Well Soon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39Iwp9vT1O47FRg4P3aDjNDPyBt8cG2Ch4uiyd6SF9jb_c_Hqgzwf53xhKrqhztiXp-kkNWeZQA98bJ1p9elmL_J-ipRkxrKWkXUYkxVtN4UboL7oWVNRQ8ukXXBK0ThMTZhNdpqygn0/s1600/IMAG0091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39Iwp9vT1O47FRg4P3aDjNDPyBt8cG2Ch4uiyd6SF9jb_c_Hqgzwf53xhKrqhztiXp-kkNWeZQA98bJ1p9elmL_J-ipRkxrKWkXUYkxVtN4UboL7oWVNRQ8ukXXBK0ThMTZhNdpqygn0/s400/IMAG0091.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
So...I have two get well cards to send. One was sitting out on my desk. A lovely glittery flowery but yet totally tasteful beautiful thing. I am sending it to my dear friend's aunt who is having surgery. Fine.<br />
<br />
So Doc Hubby comes home after work yesterday and I hear Bean whisper to her Daddy and he says "That's such a good idea." And she says "But let's keep it a secret." And he says "Ok." Christmas is coming, I think. How cute.<br />
<br />
Cut to bath time, Bean is being a slowpoke about getting into the tub. She is naked. Running around. I look on my desk and the card is gone. "Where's my card?" I say. Bean mutters something. The kid likes sparkly things. She is such a girl. "I need that card, where is it?" I demand. And somehow thorough the kerfuffle I get the sense that Bean has hidden it under the chair in her room. I am late in sending out this card. I need the card. I look under the chair, and it isn't there. She isn't getting in the tub. I'm getting impatient. "Who are you sending it to?" Bean asks. "Bean, I need that card, it's a get well card, please get it for me." "But who are you sending it to?!" And I snap. "BEAN! GET ME THAT CARD NOW!"<br />
<br />
And she bursts into tears. Takes her little naked self into the bedroom and reaches under her big girl bed and pulls out the card. "But I wanted to give it to you for Mother's Daaaaaaaaaaay!" She wails.<br />
<br />
I look at Doc Hubby. Really? Really you couldn't have helped me out of this one?<br />
<br />
"I need it to send to Ben's Aunt Sandy," I say. <br />
<br />
"But I wanted to save it for you for Mother's Daaaaaaaaaaay."<br />
<br />
It is a really pretty card. Day 1365 of my reign as Worst Mother In the World.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-56631820970332692142011-09-22T22:49:00.000-07:002011-09-22T22:49:08.579-07:00Opening Night<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/uvspl8cU0DY" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
If you're around New Haven come and see our show. It's pretty beautiful.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-82029930477241830982011-09-17T11:40:00.000-07:002011-09-20T11:24:26.594-07:00Keeping Up With the Kids These DaysSo lately my friend Rebecca is all on about how when people in their teens and twenties see us now, they think "that lady." Like, "look at that lady trying to get her umbrella turned right side out" or "look at that lady trying to push a stroller and hold an umbrella at the same time" or "look at that lady bleeding from the eye after she poked herself with an umbrella." That lady. "Is that lady really trying to make money rapping on the F train?"<br />
<br />
I don't feel like "that lady." <br />
<br />
But since the young guy in our play who graduated from my college in 2006, asked if there are any teachers there now who were also teaching when I was there, as if my college career was about a million years ago...and then I did the math and drew some parallels and realized that to him, I'm like some <i>lady</i> who graduated in 1976 and god knows those people are ancient. Since then I've made a more concerted effort to keep up with the kids these days.<br />
<br />
So while we spend hours in the Green Room waiting to practice our play, we have been catching up on the youtube videos that the kids are watching. All of them are, like, so 2010, but to us ladies and gents they are new. And if you want to be hip, and not reveal your "lady" stripes, watch these. Plus they are funny.<br />
<br />
Can't Hug Every Cat<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/sP4NMoJcFd4" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
Okay so I totally knew this girl was an actress the first time I saw it...in the guys dressing room where all the guys were watching it. The guys all insist that this is real. The song is based on an eharmony video and it's so totally fake. But still funny. <br />
<br />
Antoine Dodson Bed Intruder Song<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/hMtZfW2z9dw" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
So all the students working our show are all, yeah that was so funny two years ago. Well, it's new to most of us in the cast. My friend T.R. has purchased it on iTunes. Apparently all the money that people spend on the iTunes version of the song goes to the Dodson family. Hopefully they don't live somewhere that you need to hide your kids, wife, and husbands now.<br />
<br />
and finally, The Gay Weatherman<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/h5L9Gl91csU" width="420"></iframe><br />
Speaks for itself, don't you think.<br />
<br />
So all you ladies out there, you're welcome.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-50444693346538561192011-09-07T11:41:00.000-07:002011-09-07T11:41:50.864-07:00An Old Pair of SlippersSo I went away to work again. Beautiful New Haven, CT.<br />
<br />
Actually, it is pretty beautiful. The university is gorgeous. During the beautiful days last week I walked through the campus and felt homesick for my little college on the hill. For the familiarity it used to offer. Every year in the fall I feel like I should be going back. I wonder how long that will last?<br />
<br />
Now it's raining. The remnants of some other hurricane. This one with a non-gender-specific name I think. I'm in my very spacious and light filled apartment watching "Ghost Hunters" (total coincidence, I swear. I actually don't think I've watched Ghost Hunters in weeks). It's raining and I'm homesick for my actual home. Bean is doing a puddle walk with our wonderful babysitter. I'm about to go and get some new slippers for the third act.<br />
<br />
Doing the play again after three months feels a bit like putting on a pair of well-worn slippers. Or better, like putting on a favorite pair of jeans after the summer. Just having something covering your legs feels kind of weird. And kind of comforting. And the shirt you wore with it last Spring isn't quite right. And you need to rethink that belt. But it's familiar. Welcome. Some rehearsals it feels like we did our last performance in Berkeley 45 minutes ago, and other days it feels like we never did it at all. The play remains so inscrutable in so many ways. Moments that I finally just took a deep breath and swam through, trusting they'd make some kind of sense...those moments can be reexamined. Should be reexamined. Are excruciating to reexamine.<br />
<br />
And so I gotta go try on those slippers.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-22123492999544105852011-07-06T21:21:00.000-07:002011-07-07T05:45:51.323-07:00Because I Even Brought Up GhostsI'm obsessed with "Ghost Hunters" but that's <a href="http://mamaact.blogspot.com/search/label/Ghost%20Hunters">another post</a>. Except I think I need to call Jason and Grant. The day after <a href="http://mamaact.blogspot.com/2011/06/its-never-about-hairband.html">The Pink Hairband Incident</a> I entered the Bean's bathroom.<br />
<br />
And there.<br />
<br />
In the bottom of the toilet.<br />
<br />
I saw the ghost of her pink hairband.<br />
<br />
Or the pink hairband itself.<br />
<br />
It just won't die-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!<br />
<br />
Either way I reflushed that possessed hairband again faster than you can say ectoplasmic manifestation. No way I'm fishing that nasty thing out and running it through the delicate cycle. <br />
<br />
And the Pink Hairband hasn't been seen since.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-61952735426630073172011-06-30T17:51:00.000-07:002011-06-30T17:51:27.474-07:00It's Never About the HairbandSo, Bean and I are spending a lot of time together these days. A lot. I planned this summer of much time together mostly to assuage my guilt for having been out of town for three months. Pretty sure Bean has completely forgotten I was gone. I'm left trying to be a one-woman-summer-camp for three months.<br />
<br />
Today we had ballet in the morning and a playdate in the afternoon (still hate that term with the white hot heat of a thousand playground slides--can't we come up with something better? Play appointment? Play coffee?). My apologies again, NYC parks service. The kids were just planting those blueberries. I realize you will no doubt need to close that section of lawn and reseed. I will provide the chicken wire.<br />
<br />
So by the time we got home, Bean was good and muddy. Sent her directly in to the bathroom for a shower. She had to go potty first. Can't remember if she flushed or I did (come on, it was me, of course) but just as I flushed, I also reached down to remove her pink squishy ponytail holder. And like something out of a movie, it flew out of my hand like a rubber band shot by a ten year old boy, and landed square in the toilet just as the final swirl was circling around the bowl. And gurgle slurp glug glug glug. It was gone.<br />
<br />
I started to laugh. Insane timing. No possible chance to fish that thing out.<br />
<br />
Bean promptly lost it. Inconsolable, snotty, naked sobbing for about forty minutes.<br />
<br />
Did I mention the hair band came from a pack of identical hair bands? She has five more EXACTLY like the one that went down the crapper, in the plastic befeathered carrying bag. Along with about 40 others in various other pleasing colors.<br />
<br />
"But this was my most SPECIAL hairband!!!" naked sob sob snot wipe sob "Can't you call someone to get it back?"<br />
<br />
"Well, who could I call, honey. It went down into the sewer with all the poopy. You wouldn't want it back now anyway. And we have lots more."<br />
<br />
"But what will it do down there? It will be LONELY!"<br />
<br />
sob sob snot. still naked.<br />
<br />
lame comforting from me while I lay on her boppy and try not to fall asleep.<br />
<br />
Bean looks up at me with big bluey hazely teary eyes.<br />
<br />
"Can't we call the firemen?"<br />
<br />
Of course, this isn't about hairbands right? It's never about the hairband. Just like Doc Hubby and I are never really fighting about the dishes. It's about loss and things going away and never coming back and her dawning realization that life itself implies death and the horrible moment a few days ago when she looked at me and said "Mama I don't want to die." My grandfather and possibly ghosts and you know.<br />
<br />
So I said to her, "Are you feeling sad about things getting lost? Other things that are gone forever?"<br />
<br />
And she wiped her snot on her towel and sobbed angrily, "Nooooo! I am just very sad about my very special hairband!"<br />
<br />
Make note to discuss with non-slacker mothers who actually read about parenting during the Bean's next playsummit.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-48604532626240680292011-06-22T05:52:00.000-07:002011-06-22T06:31:47.077-07:00The Thrid and Final Installment of my Viral Campaign to Get Doc Hubby to Be the Onset Doctor at the Daily Show<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" height="340" style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #333333; font: 11px arial; width: 512px;"><tbody>
<tr style="background-color: #e5e5e5;" valign="middle"><td style="padding: 2px 1px 0px 5px;"><a href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/" style="color: #333333; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">The Daily Show With Jon Stewart</a></td><td style="font-weight: bold; padding: 2px 5px 0px; text-align: right;">Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c</td></tr>
<tr style="height: 14px;" valign="middle"><td colspan="2" style="padding: 2px 1px 0px 5px;"><a href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-june-21-2011/cameron-diaz" style="color: #333333; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Cameron Diaz</a></td></tr>
<tr style="background-color: #353535; height: 14px;" valign="middle"><td colspan="2" style="overflow: hidden; padding: 2px 5px 0px; text-align: right; width: 512px;"><a href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/" style="color: #96deff; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">www.thedailyshow.com</a></td></tr>
<tr valign="middle"><td colspan="2" style="padding: 0px;"><embed allowfullscreen="true" allownetworking="all" allowscriptaccess="always" bgcolor="#000000" flashvars="autoPlay=false" height="288" src="http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:cms:item:comedycentral.com:390184" style="display: block;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" wmode="window"></embed></td></tr>
<tr style="height: 18px;" valign="middle"><td colspan="2" style="padding: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" height="100%" style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr valign="middle"><td style="padding: 3px; width: 33%;"><a href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/full-episodes/" style="color: #333333; font: 10px arial; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Daily Show Full Episodes</a></td><td style="padding: 3px; width: 33%;"><a href="http://www.indecisionforever.com/" style="color: #333333; font: 10px arial; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Political Humor & Satire Blog</a></td><td style="padding: 3px; width: 33%;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/thedailyshow" style="color: #333333; font: 10px arial; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">The Daily Show on Facebook</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Really, Daily Show? Really really?<br />
<br />
Cameron Diaz. Nice girl and all, but really?<br />
<br />
Rubbing alcohol. Tweezers and <i>Craft Scissors</i>?????<br />
Really really?<br />
<br />
In case you missed it, Cameron Diaz, beloved star of <i>There's Something About Mary</i> just kind of removed stitches from the inner aspect of Jon Stewarts WRIST! Jon Stewart, host of "The Daily Show". I'd venture to guess Comedy Central's most valuable asset. But I don't know that assertion would stand up to PolitiFact.<br />
<br />
Please tell me you had a doctor on set when Cameron Diaz started cutting tiny threads on the underside of Jon Stewart's wrist with a pair of blunt scissors. Maybe just watching on the monitor in the Green Room?<br />
<br />
Doc Hubby is a former physician for the New York Yankees. You wanna tell me, Comedy Central, that Jon Stewart is any less valuable to you than Derek Jeter is to the Yankees?? You wanna tell me that the Yankees would let Cameron Diaz near Derek Jeter with craft scissors and a tweezerman?<br />
<br />
OK maybe don't mention that whole Yankees thing to Jon Stewart himself. Doc Hubby only did that for one season anyway. On second thought, don't hold that against him. He got the hell out of that den of snakes before they started handing out World Series Rings. <br />
<br />
Please, Comedy Central. Not for me. Not for Doc Hubby. But for the Alumni Association of William and Mary. For fans of "Death to Smoochy." For <a href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-april-21-2009/ellen-johnson-sirleaf">Liberia</a>. Call Doc Hubby and get his ass on your set.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-63235410507766585512011-06-09T05:10:00.000-07:002011-06-22T05:56:01.669-07:00Part 2 of My Viral Attempt to Get Doc Hubby to Be the On Set Doctor at the Daily ShowSo...apparently <a href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-june-8-2011/intro---perfect-comedy-cut?xrs=share_copy">Jon Stewart went to Mt. Sinai</a> to have his wrist stitched up. All well and good. It's a fine hospital, Mr. Stewart.<br />
<br />
But perhaps you haven't heard that <a href="http://nyp.org/">"AMAZING" things are happening at New York Presbyterian</a> hospital, where Doc Hubby is employed and has been for nearly 20 years? So yeah, Mt. Sinai is all well and good for stitching up that wrist wound (and sorry to hear about the kid who needed a new face but yeah, kids are resilient), but you're gonna want the guy from the "AMAZING" place right there for the next elderly member of a former presidential administration who has a heart attack or hemorrhoid on set...or god forbid the moment you go into anaplyactic shock after inhaling whatever it is that makes Donald Trump's hair defy all the laws of physics. First Aid, Mr. Stewart. First response.<br />
<br />
Doc Hubby remains available.<br />
<br />
Call me.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-42654174067376498682011-06-08T07:32:00.000-07:002011-06-08T07:34:03.404-07:00My Viral Campaign to Get Doc Hubby Appointed On-Set Doc at The Daily Show<embed base="http://admin.brightcove.com" bgcolor="#FFFFFF" flashvars="videoId=982472987001&playerId=271557391&viewerSecureGatewayURL=https://console.brightcove.com/services/amfgateway&servicesURL=http://services.brightcove.com/services&cdnURL=http://admin.brightcove.com&domain=embed&autoStart=false&" height="412" name="flashObj" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/shockwave/download/index.cgi?P1_Prod_Version=ShockwaveFlash" seamlesstabbing="false" src="http://c.brightcove.com/services/viewer/federated_f8/271557391" swliveconnect="true" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="486"></embed><br />
<br />
Here's what you people at Comedy Central should know.<br />
<br />
Doc Hubby is a rock star. In medical school he was a Gross Anatomy savant. He is regularly made privy to butt lesions by distant cousins and he does not faint. And he wins conferences all the time. Didn't know you could win an academic medical conference? You totally can.<br />
<br />
During the taping of the show yesterday, Jon Stewart received a near mortal wound to the wrist during a Weiner sketch involving a blender, a margarita glass and a podium. Based on the fact that a producer handed Stewart a towel, like, ten minutes after he cut himself (and only after Stewart showed America the blood that was streaming down his arm and pooling in his cuff), I'd venture a guess you have no on-set doctor. Let's be frank. Comedy is dangerous. Jon Stewart is comedy. I'm guessing that Walker Texas Ranger had an on-site physician. You need one too.<br />
<br />
Not to mention insurance.<br />
<br />
And the fact that Doc Hubby will laugh at Jon Stewart's jokes but still maintain a steady hand as he bandages his wounds.<br />
<br />
Call me, Comedy Central. I think we can work something out.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-60305431976199715692011-05-20T12:18:00.000-07:002011-05-20T12:28:41.006-07:00Parenting Heroics<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEtLoZgwipy8VVs6sSEadZ-p0LNpR-rBcuOTememwXTNkRDXcGn-d4Bad3VsupQ4N2qEbsvUb1uqlK7V8lTitXkW2AgwFw2C8sxteKPfiRrFDP9B6vjqWBguBgY_JdV-wDSfPnVP-D-Lw/s1600/IMG_3033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEtLoZgwipy8VVs6sSEadZ-p0LNpR-rBcuOTememwXTNkRDXcGn-d4Bad3VsupQ4N2qEbsvUb1uqlK7V8lTitXkW2AgwFw2C8sxteKPfiRrFDP9B6vjqWBguBgY_JdV-wDSfPnVP-D-Lw/s320/IMG_3033.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
Doc Hubby is a hero (<a href="http://mamaact.blogspot.com/2011/03/meet-my-fake-husband.html">a hero minus a giant fish</a> but still a hero). Doc Hubby agreed to take on 11 weeks of solo full-time childcare so I could come to one of the most beautiful spots on earth and act in one of the most beautiful plays ever written with one of the loveliest bunches of people ever. So there. Thank you Doc Hubby. My friends and family, rightfully so, are pretty amazed by him. Impressed by his generosity and patience. He deserves a medal.<br />
<br />
Well, 9 weeks. They were here in the Bay Area for two weeks. Right at first preview and opening.<br />
<br />
Well, 6 weeks. My mother did three weeks of childcare. <br />
<br />
Well, we had a full-time babysitter for those 6 weeks. So Doc Hubby did weekends and early morning and bedtime. And of course, bore the primary responsibility for meals, discipline, and decision-making. He limited his workday to 9 - 5...for 35 days.<br />
<br />
You know, come to think of it, remember last fall when I was doing the play in town? Yeah that was a 16 week commitment. We had babysitting while I was in rehearsal, but once the play was up and running (the final 3 months or so) I was home all day taking care of the Bean. And then I'd make dinner, and then Doc Hubby would get home and I would go and do the show. The show was nearly 3 hours long...a five hour commitment when all is said and done (warm up and wigs and getting laced into corsets take some time--not to mention getting out of them). Times 8 shows a week...that's 40 hours. I was working full time. And taking care of the Bean all day. Oh and remember the fall before when I did that other play? Pretty much the same thing. Only Bean wasn't in school so we really had every minute of every day together.<br />
<br />
Doc Hubby definitely deserves a medal. He's been heroic.<br />
<br />
I haven't had too much time to write lately. I'm working 40 hours a week. But here's my question.<br />
<br />
Why is it that when Daddy does it, it's heroic and when Mama does it, it's just parenting?Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-77475796899217168892011-05-16T14:25:00.000-07:002011-05-16T14:25:19.972-07:00My Rock Star GodsonToday, May 16th, 2011, I predict that my godson will eventually be class president.<br />
<br />
Let it be so.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8YoTGPvu8xHH0h8zWHP3tEyOcHBI8bHBhPi6OkzBDIFGyfmAjVxOq3VyFb3IKeLPO4gp1s73Ll40RR7bSkTVYqTFljNRhkKoJiFSt2aV-tltgjePyykZ1ynP_pFB9fq2DEuq4T-CX_I/s1600/IMG_2104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8YoTGPvu8xHH0h8zWHP3tEyOcHBI8bHBhPi6OkzBDIFGyfmAjVxOq3VyFb3IKeLPO4gp1s73Ll40RR7bSkTVYqTFljNRhkKoJiFSt2aV-tltgjePyykZ1ynP_pFB9fq2DEuq4T-CX_I/s320/IMG_2104.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-62338913707656193172011-04-04T23:13:00.001-07:002011-04-04T23:41:56.305-07:00Time Will Pass<div style="text-align: left;">"The Three Sisters" is a play about time. Time passing. Time lagging. Time spent waiting for real life to begin. It's about memory and longing. About trying to recapture something beautiful from the past. About hoping hard for the future.<br /></div><br />I have thought a lot about how I'll prepare before the play. This doesn't seem like one to just eat a burger, show up, and do. Although given that it's Berkeley the odds are much greater that I'll end up eating a gluten-free veggie patty and drinking kale juice and then getting laced into my corset. This play is full of secrets and private dreams and somehow I need to get inside those before we start each night. I think. Otherwise the first act (in which I speak the very first words) will be more about warming up than actually flying.<br /><br />So I have created an Olga playlist and loaded it onto my ipod. I went to the new "Jane Eyre" movie and lost myself in the moors. I remember reading that book in the back of my Dad's 1979 camper van while we drove across the country in the early 80s. I have been thinking a lot about my own childhood, and searching for memories--particularly of my grandparents and time I spent in their house as a girl. And then I was moved to go on YouTube and watch videos. Of my husband's college acapella group. Yup. The Zumbyes appear to be part of my prep to play Olga in "The Three Sisters."<br /><br />There's a particular feeling I'm searching for. A raw, yearning, sense of possibility. A melancholy ache. The longing I remember feeling when I was on the verge of the rest of my life. The sweet melancholy is right there when I look at these videos from my senior year of college. I almost think I can hear my roommate laughing in the audience. Six weeks after Doc Hubby and I had started dating. In May. When the forsythia was blooming and he brought me boughs in a watering can early in the morning. Our play begins in May. The restlessness of Spring. It's already Spring here in San Francisco. The flowers are unfamiliar. No forsythia. No lilac. Large almost too bright blossoms under palm trees. It's strange. For part of the day today I was pretty convinced San Francisco is the best city ever. I certainly can't imagine a city with more spectacular views.<br /><br />And so I listen to Billy Joel and Mary Chapin Carpenter and Joni Mitchell and John Denver and James Taylor and Nanci Griffiths. And I watch my 20 year old husband wearing a silly tie bouncing around a stage and singing songs he arranged. And my grandmother is in assisted living and my daughter dances ballet around her room.<br /><br />Time will pass.<br /><br />And Doc Hubby is third from the left at the beginning of the song and in the back row on the left for most of the rest.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-nIKllRnXK8?fs=1" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" width="425"></iframe>Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-44006706510833934662011-03-22T21:54:00.001-07:002011-03-25T00:24:25.135-07:00Meet My Fake HusbandFriends, meet my fake husband, Doc B. Hubby:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnuo9UKvYLkpnvP6ZX6-2VIPCLIfgjfLR_UsdpbyS2Z9LCheHrgL_8IC2yPySEP7Kxo-gcwefGXb6K39Lj8saanYr7SpG8gspxhSJ1eAq5cX5u6OggL0v5vfVDdQJWIAEjLgDy8KTi694/s1600/fakehusband.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnuo9UKvYLkpnvP6ZX6-2VIPCLIfgjfLR_UsdpbyS2Z9LCheHrgL_8IC2yPySEP7Kxo-gcwefGXb6K39Lj8saanYr7SpG8gspxhSJ1eAq5cX5u6OggL0v5vfVDdQJWIAEjLgDy8KTi694/s400/fakehusband.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587134481712074338" border="0" /></a><br />Ok because I'm a crazy person and alone here in San Francisco and bored, I googled <a href="http://mamaact.blogspot.com/2011/03/three-of-kind.html">my fake husband the marine biologist</a>. And I have to say, this picture from his professional web page (which I have absolutely no permission to reprint but since I am not revealing his identity or linking to him in any way shape or form will hopefully not offend him on the off chance one of his marine biologist friends is googling cool pics of sea lion families and comes across my page and emails him to say "dude, that righteous picture of you holding the shark is on some girl's blog") is awesome.<br /><br />Now as it turns out, my fake husband and real husband have quite a few things in common. My real husband also has khaki shorts. And he is also a Red Sox fan. He too, likes to fish. Though more often than not we eat the fish he catches, and my guess is that Doc B. Hubby studied, but did not eat this fish. Then again who knows. I also have asserted it was a shark and really, I have no idea what kind of fish it is, other than a darned big one.<br /><br />Here is the pic from my actual husband's professional web page.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdwMAQtsMm-NbkdhdboSPGjS2yAR6polz6aaMGYFpHv0t0r2QxPEgo0BObG-PmHbzhiO2c54QbOcek_aADBHJrCmt_M5YuWgFXQ6HPlkP70hEB508Fva3crqcY4qmyVmaqTS3wra5LMsQ/s1600/realhubby.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdwMAQtsMm-NbkdhdboSPGjS2yAR6polz6aaMGYFpHv0t0r2QxPEgo0BObG-PmHbzhiO2c54QbOcek_aADBHJrCmt_M5YuWgFXQ6HPlkP70hEB508Fva3crqcY4qmyVmaqTS3wra5LMsQ/s400/realhubby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587135784142880946" border="0" /></a>I'm gonna be honest here. Not as awesome.<br /><br />However in Doc D. Hubby's defense I can offer this photo:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUbrVGLaAUYjLsrhY3DsRvdWh82Q3O8SBknJTKYmshE0h1Ve6b1ZOc4L_hgXxja-euNUhtRm17ENiayGUkAC-SQI_6iEWu5wXxNBVWp7qTO6AbJakd8hxp6yd8-pi2BemvCK_ng2BIdw/s1600/IMG_2761.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUbrVGLaAUYjLsrhY3DsRvdWh82Q3O8SBknJTKYmshE0h1Ve6b1ZOc4L_hgXxja-euNUhtRm17ENiayGUkAC-SQI_6iEWu5wXxNBVWp7qTO6AbJakd8hxp6yd8-pi2BemvCK_ng2BIdw/s400/IMG_2761.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587141558518119826" border="0" /></a><br />Or this one (I have no idea who that woman is with him):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnK0yXsYMVw5860LfSjoSrpfNxW8YLt6_5fRgdUurGSngK5khGs-T_IPNMq0jCuR2Y0z-jSGextppa9rpq6u9fTFQIKhc0eY6_uTAgafFSJgqTL8sakjemE6bmvpJ5AwqQEqlS2e70Ys/s1600/bobsled+dudes.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnK0yXsYMVw5860LfSjoSrpfNxW8YLt6_5fRgdUurGSngK5khGs-T_IPNMq0jCuR2Y0z-jSGextppa9rpq6u9fTFQIKhc0eY6_uTAgafFSJgqTL8sakjemE6bmvpJ5AwqQEqlS2e70Ys/s400/bobsled+dudes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587144828922130002" border="0" /></a><br />Or even this one:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFDlm3slu78xrN9Kh3gR9RCSMw-Le01MCaaniCqfCdmR9DH0BRLiDcPnHya1uli1o3vYJK7aSkJwoLmls7o9vCm4vadrKYVaVpfu-R19UBbBC4WrTjtakXmdE59ptbIvKMHw8TmLD8TeI/s1600/IMG00217-20110305-1741.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFDlm3slu78xrN9Kh3gR9RCSMw-Le01MCaaniCqfCdmR9DH0BRLiDcPnHya1uli1o3vYJK7aSkJwoLmls7o9vCm4vadrKYVaVpfu-R19UBbBC4WrTjtakXmdE59ptbIvKMHw8TmLD8TeI/s400/IMG00217-20110305-1741.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587145349090260626" border="0" /></a><br /><br />But really, I think the only thing I can do is to offer a picture of my own to my fake husband. Doc B. Hubby, you can post this picture on your website at any time, without asking. It's yours.<br />Love,<br />Your Fake Wife<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1XENAeo2pHMVadTDlJW_hbZ6Im5_sQQhVFQnypkxkZURG87861jfqp56qT7jdIDqXd23nRou6707X8jzF8fx2kl33WtfG_LtMXhtHsQAzF0B2YMtZPvf6uZr6ZNIiB8NeGOdtK3G51pY/s1600/big+fish.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1XENAeo2pHMVadTDlJW_hbZ6Im5_sQQhVFQnypkxkZURG87861jfqp56qT7jdIDqXd23nRou6707X8jzF8fx2kl33WtfG_LtMXhtHsQAzF0B2YMtZPvf6uZr6ZNIiB8NeGOdtK3G51pY/s400/big+fish.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587141545694001954" border="0" /></a>Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-69602596246281229262011-03-22T00:05:00.000-07:002011-03-22T00:08:09.220-07:00My Postcard to the BeanHello Sweet Bean,<br />I wanted to tell you a little more about the play I'm in. It's called "The Three Sisters." I play the oldest sister, Olga. She is a school teacher and is good and kind. But she gets sad because she has headaches and she isn't a Mama. The middle sister is called Masha. She wears black clothes all the time and is moody and likes to read. The youngest sister is Irina. She is very beautiful and very clever and has lots of dreams in her heart. And there is a brother in the family called Andrei. He is an artist and plays the violin and carves wood but he is scared of lots of things. That's my pretend family. I love you oodles, MamaWendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-75685034232942850972011-03-17T23:12:00.000-07:002011-03-22T22:39:33.421-07:00Three of a Kind<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgql3kXntAadWMmHek0EppR9rrHrxJo7KGY_VaBtotnJ1rm9rGBEeLuh6oFMFu6TXYXvKxFrA_k18jcZmaAG5k3rpFuUWxWWNlpi57MltO1_AAeatYN0fryucAO4kpMOwayxBzgmzIf-go/s1600/sealionsa.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgql3kXntAadWMmHek0EppR9rrHrxJo7KGY_VaBtotnJ1rm9rGBEeLuh6oFMFu6TXYXvKxFrA_k18jcZmaAG5k3rpFuUWxWWNlpi57MltO1_AAeatYN0fryucAO4kpMOwayxBzgmzIf-go/s400/sealionsa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585298982638634482" border="0" /></a><br />I miss my little family.<br /><br />That was all I was going to write but want to hear a funny story? So I was skyping with the Bean and Doc Hubby. And the Bean was a little sad so I wanted to send her the photos I took today of the sea lions at Pier 39. So I emailed this pic really quickly to Doc Hubby's work address and I thought I'd also send it to his gmail address just in case that one was working faster. So I sent the photos to "Doc.Hubby@gmail.com," but as it turned out, they came instantaneously to the work address and we all enjoyed them. Technology, as aforementioned, is a brilliant thing.<br /><br />A few hours later I get this email that says:<br /><blockquote></blockquote>"Hi Wendy, Wrong Doc Hubby. Cool pictures, though.<br />-Doc"<br /><br />So what's hilarious about this is several things. First of all, my Doc Hubby signs his name "-Doc" just like that with no "from" or "love" or "best" or "fondly." Just a kind of a pretentious dash in front of his name. So at first I was totally confused because I thought this email was actually from my husband and I didn't know what he meant by wrong "Doc Hubby." <br /><br />Second thing that's funny, this Doc Hubby is "Doc B. Hubby" and my husband is "Doc D. Hubby." Doc B. Hubby's email is "Doc.Hubby@gmail" and my Doc D. Hubby is "Hubby.Doc@gmail". Clearly Doc B. Hubby got the name first and my guy had to improvise And that's just amusing to me. Also B and D rhyme and that's weird.<br /><br />And finally, and perhaps my very favorite part of this whole mix up, is that Doc B. Hubby took the time to write back to me and tell me I had the wrong guy, and also add "Cool pictures, though." Because, as it turns out, Doc B. Hubby is employed by the University of Maine School of Marine Sciences. How awesome is it that his fake wife actually sent him pictures of Sea Lions! It's like I'm psychic.Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-13000550163151053112011-03-15T20:50:00.000-07:002011-03-16T09:07:03.772-07:00The Flame FoldOne of my favorite things about rehearsing a new play is discovering what skills your character has that you don't have. When I played a magician's assistant, we had a magic consultant who came in and taught us all various sleight of hand moves. I know a great trick from that show involving a glass, a napkin and a quarter. Take me out to dinner sometime. I'll amaze you. I've learned how to carry a shotgun, how to throw a punch, how to smoke a cigar (well I kind of faked that--it was friggin' nasty), how to jump rope in 19th century clothing, how to remove 19th century clothing from someone and put it back on them very very quickly, and every single move of a seven minute sequence from a classic silent film starring Lillian Gish called "The Wind."<br /><br />For this show? Napkin folding. I decided my character is good at folding cloth napkins into pretty shapes. So over the course of the last two days I have learned how to make a bird (2 different ways), a fleur de lis, a lily and a flame. The birds were rejected but I am hoping our director green lights the flame, which I think looks like a flower.<br /><br />Here's the video that taught me how to do it.<br /><a href="http://www.ehow.com/video_2201948_make-flame-fold-napkin.html?sms_ss=blogger&at_xt=4d803c108691713d%2C0">How to Make a Flame Fold in a Napkin | eHow.com</a><br /><br />And here's my work of napkin art.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ApFHAmVBv4RzO6qlxSySfG5av5azw-i3x9nBvdjn8G_igLR86KJ3KXdDchsVoeRazh1hkG6-AcIPdk0iSVHfC1XFpx5OG-p_tLsgt9Q9dYQyOgpgsZbSALwhg0y3RKaE6GVDXKiiZ28/s1600/IMG00241-20110315-2140.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ApFHAmVBv4RzO6qlxSySfG5av5azw-i3x9nBvdjn8G_igLR86KJ3KXdDchsVoeRazh1hkG6-AcIPdk0iSVHfC1XFpx5OG-p_tLsgt9Q9dYQyOgpgsZbSALwhg0y3RKaE6GVDXKiiZ28/s400/IMG00241-20110315-2140.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584709323212944402" /></a>Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-740696012972853768.post-47582866664607065722011-03-12T21:17:00.000-08:002011-03-12T22:06:22.486-08:00Straight to the Ten<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj86no6UHzXzUET6Bda35Idlo3-iyshsGqsKonC-T083nzxZP11gYRAGJV672qnhLEARA74eadXjNhTvVyRB-ssedKsMOUQoqEummjiwmxuqoE40xR3QwFvjLfirM2eZIOaQki6l4wvw5c/s1600/IMG00219-20110311-1735.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj86no6UHzXzUET6Bda35Idlo3-iyshsGqsKonC-T083nzxZP11gYRAGJV672qnhLEARA74eadXjNhTvVyRB-ssedKsMOUQoqEummjiwmxuqoE40xR3QwFvjLfirM2eZIOaQki6l4wvw5c/s400/IMG00219-20110311-1735.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583440194333063650" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>This is the first time I have worked out of town since 2007. The first time I have worked far away from home since...2006 I think. The farthest away from home I have ever worked, as a matter of fact. And the first time I have worked near a Trader Joe's. Dark Chocolate Salted Almonds...mmmmmm.....<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUKXeW8eekKS6rl0qtsb6LfPu3-CPKjDR0LU-kSk9Elp_4xD96tR1ykWJJY09ru3dSE-cEnS4HiJEdpX3-qVaizl7lAgroU6Xgn3fXpxgZpL_a3NB84zdYQsaAPeUWLSJyYwX3Udvn1U/s1600/IMG00225-20110312-0918.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUKXeW8eekKS6rl0qtsb6LfPu3-CPKjDR0LU-kSk9Elp_4xD96tR1ykWJJY09ru3dSE-cEnS4HiJEdpX3-qVaizl7lAgroU6Xgn3fXpxgZpL_a3NB84zdYQsaAPeUWLSJyYwX3Udvn1U/s400/IMG00225-20110312-0918.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583440452903002706" /></a><br />The world has changed significantly since 2006. Doc Hubby has a fancy-schmancy new iPhone and with it he can send me pictures every two seconds so I can watch the Bean do cute things almost non-stop. And we can skype...using this same fancy-schmancy <span style="font-style: italic;">phone</span>. I suppose if I had a fancy-schmancy phone we could skype anywhere any time without being tied to a computer at all.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJGPR9ieE6aUhD5NOD7JMHQpYjnRPDYsGMN9AsoprAdWdeS3XOTPr4ARujLGOSYwpOrxPKd6uckv0eCSnXieal3-GjKJXvNQKESa8tPkwp7HUz-VUwEwlDgjMoKxGi9wNcCsUhrLCoVg/s1600/IMG00224-20110312-0915.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJGPR9ieE6aUhD5NOD7JMHQpYjnRPDYsGMN9AsoprAdWdeS3XOTPr4ARujLGOSYwpOrxPKd6uckv0eCSnXieal3-GjKJXvNQKESa8tPkwp7HUz-VUwEwlDgjMoKxGi9wNcCsUhrLCoVg/s400/IMG00224-20110312-0915.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583441040129868290" /></a>Maybe it's just a whole lot of bells and whistles. Maybe. But I played Texas Hold 'Em with my whole family back in the Burg tonight. They set me up on the table like I was Max Headroom, and dealt me in...and I won money! Sure I couldn't eat the snacks, but I really did feel like I was there. In fact, I believe I won more hands than I ordinarily do. My brother started blatting about how it was actually an advantage to me because I wasn't there to face the ridicule in person when I lost a hand. The percentage of hands I won head-to-head against him was much higher than usual. Heh. He didn't like that. Of course I have been practicing playing poker a lot on my un-fancy-schmancy phone.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXb1VqtNCnz7K2_icPjEtao2VSD3pv3NMMp_3WxgZX124T0-vD06bMhOpkvXFqWAcbz50LIRERQrBmfzOlL7YujUVrjeKhFc6L43-j9kIVA1HoycoskbkFbY-MxI1jG55P0bC2Y5C9mvc/s1600/IMG00226-20110312-0936.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXb1VqtNCnz7K2_icPjEtao2VSD3pv3NMMp_3WxgZX124T0-vD06bMhOpkvXFqWAcbz50LIRERQrBmfzOlL7YujUVrjeKhFc6L43-j9kIVA1HoycoskbkFbY-MxI1jG55P0bC2Y5C9mvc/s400/IMG00226-20110312-0936.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583441398545575138" /></a>It's easy to take for granted, but we have entered the age of the Jetsons. Without the big skirts. And our monitors fit in our backpacks. I know this is nothing new, but it's kind of incredible the difference that it makes in my life. I played poker. With my family. Three thousand miles away. Via my husband's phone. They had a family poker night. And I wasn't left out.<br /><br />I am grateful for this technology. I can see my Bean's face and hear her voice. At the same time. It definitely makes this whole long distance thing easier. So, Steve Jobs, thank you. I may be your bitch. But I am grateful.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />p.s. All the pictures on this post were taken with my very un-schmancy phone. It's pretty here.</span>Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12582637313360325703noreply@blogger.com1