Mama Act

Get Well Soon

2011-11-30T07:25:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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!"

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.

I look at Doc Hubby. Really? Really you couldn't have helped me out of this one?

"I need it to send to Ben's Aunt Sandy," I say.

"But I wanted to save it for you for Mother's Daaaaaaaaaaay."

It is a really pretty card. Day 1365 of my reign as Worst Mother In the World.

Opening Night

2011-09-22T22:49:00.000-07:00

If you're around New Haven come and see our show. It's pretty beautiful.

Keeping Up With the Kids These Days

2011-09-17T11:40:00.000-07:00

So 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?"

I don't feel like "that lady."

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 lady 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.

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.

Can't Hug Every Cat

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.

Antoine Dodson Bed Intruder Song

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.

and finally, The Gay Weatherman

Speaks for itself, don't you think.

So all you ladies out there, you're welcome.

An Old Pair of Slippers

2011-09-07T11:41:00.000-07:00

So I went away to work again. Beautiful New Haven, CT.

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?

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.

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.

And so I gotta go try on those slippers.

Because I Even Brought Up Ghosts

2011-07-06T21:21:00.000-07:00

I'm obsessed with "Ghost Hunters" but that's another post. Except I think I need to call Jason and Grant. The day after The Pink Hairband Incident I entered the Bean's bathroom.

And there.

In the bottom of the toilet.

I saw the ghost of her pink hairband.

Or the pink hairband itself.

It just won't die-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!

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.

And the Pink Hairband hasn't been seen since.

It's Never About the Hairband

2011-06-30T17:51:00.000-07:00

So, 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.

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.

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.

I started to laugh. Insane timing. No possible chance to fish that thing out.

Bean promptly lost it. Inconsolable, snotty, naked sobbing for about forty minutes.

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.

"But this was my most SPECIAL hairband!!!" naked sob sob snot wipe sob "Can't you call someone to get it back?"

"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."

"But what will it do down there? It will be LONELY!"

sob sob snot. still naked.

lame comforting from me while I lay on her boppy and try not to fall asleep.

Bean looks up at me with big bluey hazely teary eyes.

"Can't we call the firemen?"

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.

So I said to her, "Are you feeling sad about things getting lost? Other things that are gone forever?"

And she wiped her snot on her towel and sobbed angrily, "Nooooo! I am just very sad about my very special hairband!"

Make note to discuss with non-slacker mothers who actually read about parenting during the Bean's next playsummit.

The Thrid and Final Installment of my Viral Campaign to Get Doc Hubby to Be the Onset Doctor at the Daily Show

2011-06-22T05:52:00.000-07:00

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Cameron Diaz

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor & Satire Blog

The Daily Show on Facebook

Really, Daily Show? Really really?

Cameron Diaz. Nice girl and all, but really?

Rubbing alcohol. Tweezers and Craft Scissors?????
Really really?

In case you missed it, Cameron Diaz, beloved star of There's Something About Mary 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.

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?

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?

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.

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 Liberia. Call Doc Hubby and get his ass on your set.

Part 2 of My Viral Attempt to Get Doc Hubby to Be the On Set Doctor at the Daily Show

2011-06-09T05:10:00.000-07:00

So...apparently Jon Stewart went to Mt. Sinai to have his wrist stitched up. All well and good. It's a fine hospital, Mr. Stewart.

But perhaps you haven't heard that "AMAZING" things are happening at New York Presbyterian 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.

Doc Hubby remains available.

Call me.

My Viral Campaign to Get Doc Hubby Appointed On-Set Doc at The Daily Show

2011-06-08T07:32:00.000-07:00

Here's what you people at Comedy Central should know.

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.

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.

Not to mention insurance.

And the fact that Doc Hubby will laugh at Jon Stewart's jokes but still maintain a steady hand as he bandages his wounds.

Call me, Comedy Central. I think we can work something out.

Parenting Heroics

2011-05-20T12:18:00.000-07:00

Doc Hubby is a hero (a hero minus a giant fish 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.

Well, 9 weeks. They were here in the Bay Area for two weeks. Right at first preview and opening.

Well, 6 weeks. My mother did three weeks of childcare.

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.

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.

Doc Hubby definitely deserves a medal. He's been heroic.

I haven't had too much time to write lately. I'm working 40 hours a week. But here's my question.

Why is it that when Daddy does it, it's heroic and when Mama does it, it's just parenting?

My Rock Star Godson

2011-05-16T14:25:00.000-07:00

Today, May 16th, 2011, I predict that my godson will eventually be class president.

Let it be so.

Time Will Pass

2011-04-04T23:13:00.001-07:00

"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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

Time will pass.

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.

Meet My Fake Husband

2011-03-22T21:54:00.001-07:00

Friends, meet my fake husband, Doc B. Hubby:

Ok because I'm a crazy person and alone here in San Francisco and bored, I googled my fake husband the marine biologist. 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.

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.

Here is the pic from my actual husband's professional web page.

I'm gonna be honest here. Not as awesome.

However in Doc D. Hubby's defense I can offer this photo:

Or this one (I have no idea who that woman is with him):

Or even this one:

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.
Love,
Your Fake Wife

My Postcard to the Bean

2011-03-22T00:05:00.000-07:00

Hello Sweet Bean,
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, Mama

Three of a Kind

2011-03-17T23:12:00.000-07:00

I miss my little family.

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.

A few hours later I get this email that says:

"Hi Wendy, Wrong Doc Hubby. Cool pictures, though.
-Doc"

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."

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.

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.

The Flame Fold

2011-03-15T20:50:00.000-07:00

One 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."

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.

Here's the video that taught me how to do it.
How to Make a Flame Fold in a Napkin | eHow.com

And here's my work of napkin art.

Straight to the Ten

2011-03-12T21:17:00.000-08:00

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.....

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 phone. I suppose if I had a fancy-schmancy phone we could skype anywhere any time without being tied to a computer at all.

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.

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.

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.

p.s. All the pictures on this post were taken with my very un-schmancy phone. It's pretty here.

What is Fun About All of This

2011-03-09T22:17:00.000-08:00

So here is what is fun about all of this so far:

Most of the cast went out for dinner last night. And I had almost forgotten the kind of wonderful instant family you become when you work out of town. People you have known for two or three days are suddenly your pretend family, and sort of by default, your real family. You look out for each other. You share food. The men can be such gentlemen. That's nice.
Skype! Holy cow how technology has changed since I did this last. You can just turn on Skype, make dinner, hang out, watch TV, and kind of feel like you're in the same room. Without the pressure the phone gives you of keeping having to talk. Doc Hubby actually walked me around the apartment. It was a balm to my soul.
Your only responsibilities when you work out of town are: eating, working out, studying the play, and rehearsing. When you are staying in a postage stamp of an apartment there's not much else to do.
You get to watch whatever you want on TV.
You get to eat whatever you want. I had two salads yesterday. I had two cups of coffee today. I am convinced I will get healthy while I'm here.
My mange is practically gone. I think it must be the air. Divine.
Exploring.

What isn't fun? Calling your wee one and hearing her say "I miss you Mama" and then get weepy. Mine did this just this morning. And then apparently went and looked forlornly out of the window.

I'm not sure what's worse, having her miss me horridly and start to cry, or knowing that in a week or two, she will be used to me being gone.

We Are Gypsies

2011-03-07T21:47:00.000-08:00

Most actors work away from home. We get the odd job where we live, but far more often we are called upon to leave our homes, and our loved ones, and our furry friends, and travel somewhere else to do a show. More often than not we are unemployed at home and employed on the road.

When you are single...this is awesome. So I have been told. When you are married it stings like a ground wasp, but it's kind of fun exploring a new area when your spouse comes to visit. Trying new restaurants. Driving around on the day off. I actually quite liked the feeling of showing my new surroundings to Doc Hubby. My little apartment and my newfound coffee shops and grocery stores. When I work out of town, everything here is mine. My accomplishments. My friends. My bravery to start fresh on my own and dare to do this thing. And everyone knows what a little absence can do to the heart....

But when you are a parent...work out of town is...I don't know yet. For the first time since the Bean was born I have taken a job out of town. And not just a quick hop on a plane or train or even the car. Totally across the country. To a different time zone. The farthest I have ever traveled from home to work. For the longest I have ever been gone (well, it's tied with another job). 11 weeks away from home. And away from my Bean. AM I INSANE???!!!!???!!! I already miss her so much I could eat my arm.

She and Doc Hubby will come to visit for two weeks in the middle. FIVE weeks from now.

I AM TOTALLY INSANE! Commence gnawing.

I already miss the squiggly weight of her on my lap. My mother said that after dinner tonight Bean had a cupcake. As per usual, Bean licked all the icing off her cupcake. Then she set the cake down. But then, Mom said, she stared at the cupcake, completely bereft, as if to say "where did all my icing go?" And then her eyes welled up and she said "I want my Mama."

A little girl, not much bigger than Bean, projectile puked on the plane today. (Note to Doc Hubby, pack wipes and an extra change of clothes in the carry on). I was far enough away to only see the flurry of cleaning from a distance and catch a delayed whiff. We took Bean on her first plane ride about two weeks ago. I am delighted to say she did not puke. Hoping desperately she has inherited Doc Hubby's hearty New England constitution in that regard. I watched that clean up with a teeny bit of schadenfreude I will confess.

So far, not having to clean up puke on a plane is the only good part of leaving a child behind to go and do a play. So far, when you are a parent, work away from home is horrible. I will check back in when I have found a few good coffee shops.

I miss you Bean.

Backstage View

2011-01-19T11:09:00.000-08:00

There is something melancholy about closing a show. Knowing that this particular group of people will never stand together, wearing those exact clothes, and telling that one story. Ever again. Even though for many weeks after, we all still could. The play still resides inside of us, even though it's been dismantled physically. If we met in a park we could still do the play. Ish.

There are dressing rooms and wings of theaters that I don't remember any more. Time is passing and with it my memory, my memory that I am oh so very proud of and oh so confident of its exactitude, fades. So I took my little camera and grabbed a few shots of what I saw, every day and every night for over 80 performances of "A Free Man of Color." And what I won't see any more.

This was my life for four months. We are gypsies. We are storytellers. Who sometimes get to wear really nice shoes.

Enough is Enough

2010-10-03T20:07:00.000-07:00

For support:

The Trevor Project - http://www.thetrevorproject.org/
The National Center For Bullying Prevention - http://pacer.org/bullying/index.asp
Matthew's Place - http://www.matthewsplace.com/

It's time to end this.

Joy

2010-08-17T20:12:00.001-07:00

Ok I totally can't leave it like that. You all are the best. And her birthday party was a total success. She managed to pull her tiny little three year old self together and have a wonderful time. Four of her friends came. The theme was whales--selected by none other than herself of course. And thanks to Etsy, man did I have super cute whale-themed cupcake toppers and stickers.

I'm so fascinated watching the raw emotion of being three. Nothing is filtered. Nothing is held back. When she's happy she laughs. When she's sad she sobs. When people are singing "Happy Birthday" to her she feels uncomfortable because everyone is looking at her. I know this feeling. What do you do during that agonizing minute and a half when everyone is singing "Happy Birthday" and looking at you and you are to simply sit and listen? If you are the Bean you do this:

And honestly, that's kinda what I want to do every time a group of people sings "Happy Birthday" to me. It is hard to just sit there, smile, and listen.

I'm still thinking a lot about how I don't feel things as strongly any more. Or maybe I just don't allow myself to feel things as strongly any more. I have another job. Another good one as it turns out. But it's a little scary to let myself just be thrilled about it. I always feel like I have to couch my excitement in something so I don't end up disappointed. I kind of think that, ironically, actors learn to feel things less. We can't want jobs or opportunities or accolades because in this business we just really really rarely get them. I, for instance, am continuing my remarkable run of ending up on the cutting room floor. Remember the movie from exactly a year ago as it turns out? Well, recently I did this really hilarious web advertisement for the video game Civilization V. Doc Hubby and I happen to be totally addicted to Civilization which made the whole thing all the more sweet. I had a really funny short scene to do. A good actor playing my husband. I never dreamed that we'd be cut. Here's the final video. Look carefully and you'll see me smacking the hell out of a sock puppet, but snip snip snip goes my scene. My record is, like, 8 and 0 for having lines cut from anything on film. Anything. What's up with that, yo? Hm. So I have to stop hoping my lines will end up in whatever I shoot and just be glad I can pay for preschool.

Maybe that's my problem. Maybe the people who really succeed don't let that wanting dim. Maybe that's what drives their ambition. Frankly, I'd rather be basically happy all of the time.

But in this case I am happy. I have a new job. And that's thrilling. I will turn 41 during my second Broadway show. Hopefully when the cast and crew sing Happy Birthday to me I will be able to sit there and just listen.

The Horror of Her Birthday

2010-08-11T10:38:00.000-07:00

It would appear that turning three is a nightmare.

I don't remember so I can't really say.

But the hot mess of misery my Bean has been since Monday...the actual DAY...and today...the day that Doc Hubby and I are hauling 44 tons of shit to the park for a party for hopefully four kids but we'll see if one gets lost on the way since his Nanny has no idea how to find a street and a cross street...so maybe only three.

I mean cupcakes suck. Presents suck. Making your own pizzas sucks. Pizza sucks. Spray parks suck. Parties suck.

We apparently suck the most.

No wonder she's so miserable.

Terrific threes, huh? Someone text me when they arrive.

I just heard a kid wailing from the street below. Five stories down. Pretty sure that was her.

I'm about to go sweat off the ten pounds of weight I have gained this summer. Except that I'll simultaneously put twice as much on eating cupcakes and tiny whale fluffernutters.

Oh and finally. Sarcasm doesn't work with three years olds. So my biggest weapon is basically rendered useless.

Huckey Berries

2010-07-27T18:48:00.000-07:00

So I did go to the Tony's. Like two months ago. But it's summer. Who's counting?

I wore the shoes.

I didn't start getting ready early enough. Which is weird. I'm chronically, freakishly, eerily, supernaturally, time-warpingly early most of the time. But I guess that's once I leave the apartment and assuming I don't have to return from the subway to do an obsessive compulsive check to make sure I turned the stove off. So we didn't really have time to take good pictures before we left. And like an idiot we took a bunch in the lobby which are horrendous. Really really ugly. Took a few in the natural light and they were tolerable. Took lots afterward in the dark which was actually pretty fun. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It started to rain a bit while we were in the car. The streets next to Radio City were closed and the traffic was gridlocked so we got out of the car at 7th Avenue and 50th to walk over. When we first got out of the car it felt funny to be holding my train, jumping puddles in my $220 shoes and dodging tourists in I heart NY tees. But as we got closer, more and more people in formal dress joined us, having also abandoned their cars in the traffic. Umbrellas. Long and short dresses. Tuxes and suits. It was a truly New York experience.

Radio City was a mob scene. I didn't walk the red carpet, though my parents definitely wanted me to. Which is sweet. Some day I hope to walk the red carpet when the people taking pictures know my name. So we lined up and gave our tickets and went in.

In the future, if you happen to be attending the Tony's, I encourage you to avoid a dress with a train. Everyone stepped on the train. Doc Hubby stepped on it three times. Honestly I stepped on it a time or two as well. Trains are good for presenters. And winners. A pain in the ass in the line for the bathroom. The dress however? Thank you again Carmen Marc Valvo. Like a column of silk. Which it was.

The ceremony itself was tons more fun in real life than on TV. Full disclosure--I hadn't seen all of the shows nominated. But the performances from the musicals were thrilling. Totally. Sean Hayes was adorable. We sat in the very very very back row of the orchestra, but we were right on the center aisle where all the entrances that were made from the house happened. Sean Hayes running like Spiderman. That girl from "Glee" singing Barbara Streisand. And Will Smith and Jada Pinkett entering about an hour into the whole event and then turning around and walking partway back up the aisle and then going back down. Most exciting celebrity sighting by far.

Our play didn't win anything. Which was more of a bummer than I imagined it might be. I think I really wanted it to. My sweet friend Maria looked beautiful, but she didn't win either. She came over to bum a snack from our assistant costume designer (and the fact that our costumes didn't win was just criminal), and I got her attention. She hugged me and said "Oh Wendy, I wanted to win so much--just so I could thank you." And I was so very touched by that.

Maybe I've been feeling nostalgic ever since.

A month later I was at the Farmer's Market in my hometown trying to pick out the best and freshest corn. This is not an easy task. The Farmer's Market in July is buried in corn. And local peaches. And blueberries. And toy John Deere farm equipment. But I spotted an old man in a bright blue trucker's hat. He only had two things for sale. Corn and "Hucky Berries." I bought his corn. The hucky berries were what my grandfather would have called huckleberries--small and I imagine a bit tart. It seemed to me that if all he brought was corn and hucky berries, both of them must be pretty good. It's been so dry in Central PA that lots of the corn is chewy. His was lovely. Small kernels. Lots of pop. Sweet.

From the Tony's to the Farmer's Market in the span of a month. It's having experiences like that bump up against each other that I think makes life awesome. Sometimes I try to make the juxtaposition mean something. Or tell a story. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it's just kitty litter embedded in the soles of $220 shoes and huckey berries.

Here are a few pictures from the Tony's. Warning, these are a lot of photos of me. I wasn't clever enough to have a bag to take with me (frankly I'm amazed I had an appropriate dress and shoes that semi-fit. A bag was just too much) so I had no camera at the event. I know. Idiotic. Anyway, I don't usually post a million photos of me but here I am. Not at the Farmer's Market.

I wish I had taken a picture of the sign that said "huckey berries." It would have been a better picture than any of those.

Why Normal People Shouldn't Buy $222 Shoes Online

2010-06-09T15:22:00.000-07:00

So here's why normal people shouldn't buy $222 shoes online. Otherwise known as, why I can't have nice things.

The four of you who read this blog know that I am not famous. I am an unfamous NYC actress. And somehow last year I bumbled into a Broadway show, having stopped acting to have a child, not worked for several years, and pretty much determined that no one would ever cast me in a play again. So I did the play. It was a great experience and low and behold it was nominated for a Tony Award. So I'm going. This Sunday.

What am I wearing? What, you think LL Bean might not be able to outfit me for the Tonys? Ms TJ Maxx may be out of her league? Ok, yeah. My manager knows an incredible PR guy at Carmen Marc Valvo and after two trips to a room full of dresses right out of "The Devil Wears Prada" I have a gorgeous silk chiffon dress to wear. On loansies. Amazing.

So shoes. Ok don't mock me. Because I feared I actually would make it to Sunday and not have a pair of shoes to wear other than Keens, I went to Aerosoles (I said don't mock me) and got a pair of gold shoes on sale. Just in case. Don't mock me. I then went online to the amazing Zappos and ordered two pairs of the most gorgeous Elie Tahari strappy sandals. A ten and a ten and a half. Because come ON, my feet may have flattened during pregnancy but I didn't go from a nine and a half to an ELEVEN! Right? They arrived at my door in what seemed like 45 minutes. They were on sale. They were two hundred and twenty dollars. I have NEVER bought shoes anywhere near this expensive. But come on. The Tonys! Once in a lifetime. And a kick ass free dress. So they came. Two hundred and twenty dollar shoes come in beautiful boxes. And they are gorgeous. I slipped on the tens. Too small. I slipped on the ten and a halfs. Um. Could they be too small? I wore them a few minutes. My hideous toes slid over the edge a bit. Really? So I kept wearing them around my apartment for about five to seven minutes. Doc Hubby agreed. Too small.

No worries! Zappos pays for returns. Genius. I determined to pack them up. Order (gulp) elevens tonight. They'll be here Saturday. Return the others. I pulled them off my feet and HOLY CRAP WHAT IS THAT ALL OVER THE BOTTOMS OF THESE SHOES!!!!

So there are two problems. Well myriads really. The bottoms of these shoes are like butter. Soft gorgeous leather. And the first thing I noticed when I went to carefully slip the shoes back into the box--spots. Water I believe. I am making pasta for the Bean. Probably a few drips on the floor. Maybe that will dry? And then I noticed the brown crungies. Food or crumbs or something. Now may I remind you, I did not wear these on the streets of New York City. Just in my teeny tiny apartment. Possible to carefully scrape off the crumbs? Possible. But then I took off my glasses and looked carefully. They soles are pitted. Pocked. With what?

Kitty Litter.

Yup. Kitty Litter. Embedded

This is why normal people should not buy $222 shoes on Zappos. Because we have hardwood floors and small apartments, and when we have never worn a pair of $222 shoes before, we have no idea how incredibly soft and fragile the soles are.

My advice to you if you decide to buy expensive shoes online and need to try them on before you decide to send them back? Sweep your danged apartment. You'll be glad you did. And Zappos, I love you, but if you can figure out that I'm an LL Bean girl ordering $222 shoes using all that wacky computer stuff, can you put a little note in my box that tells me "wear these shoes on carpet or sweetheart, you're buying them." Thanks.

Actual Series of Emails Exchanged Between Me and Doc Hubby Today

2010-06-03T19:35:00.000-07:00

The following is a verbatim exchange of emails between myself and Doc Hubby today between 10:11 and 11:16 am.

Me to Doc Hubby: All ok. My texting not working. At a nice blog event. Xo.

Doc Hubby to Me: You OK if I stay here late tonight to work on the grant?

Me to Doc Hubby: If you are ok with me locking our child in a closet.

Doc Hubby to Me: Funny, but dark. You need that girls' weekend.

Me to Doc Hubby: You think I am joking. Also funny.

I am finding two and 3/4 to be so so so so much more challenging than anything to date.

Screaming match two nights ago. Over chicken and a yellow pepper. Sobbing, snotty nosed (on her part), red faced, cruel and fuming (on my part...or was it the other way around). I feel that the battles, particularly over food, are going somewhere quite dark and not at all funny. It was so much easier when I picked out cute little organic green beans and prunes all tidy and pureed. Now she gags on chicken nuggets and mac and cheese and I just want to scream "MOST KIDS WOULD BE SO HAPPY TO HAVE THIS TO EAT!!! THIS IS KID CRACK!!! JUST SLATHER IT IN KETCHUP AND CHEW AND I'LL GIVE YOU A FRIGGIN' CUPCAKE ALREADY!"

Mac and cheese. Nope. Chicken nuggets. Nope. Needless to say anything green. Nope.

I think I am going to have to get some kind of book.

Two Child Stars and Acapella Groupies

2010-05-14T22:52:00.000-07:00

Do you know that I know two child stars? Like, right now. I am actively friends with two child stars. Neither of them are from this country which may explain why they are so relatively well-adjusted. Compared to our child stars. None of whom I know, personally.

Both are ageless. Both are incredibly warm. Both love children. Both are still actresses. Both have beautiful accents.

I have not worked with either of them, but I would very much like to.

The universe has asked me to think a lot about getting older in the last few weeks. First, I wasn't cast in a play because (among other things as well I'm sure) I am too old to make the production work. Then, I went to see an absolutely brilliant high school production of "Hamlet" directed by my absolutely brilliant friend, Sarah, starring an absolutely brilliant high school senior whom I once had to nearly fail in a 9th grade acting class, but that was just because he was lazy and this famous actor's kid was dragging their whole scene down by being a jerk. Not because he wasn't talented. So I went backstage to congratulate this kid, who will be famous in about five years, mark my words. I was standing outside the dressing room waiting for him to emerge, when another cast member breezed out with all the casual confidence of a 15 year old New York City prep kid. I asked him if Hamlet was still in the dressing room. He hovered briefly in flight, looked me up and down and said, "Are you his Mom?" May I remind you that Hamlet is a high school senior. Oh hello pride...so nice to eat you.

So then I got an audition. I have been getting a lot of little TV auditions for character roles. One line in a TV show...two lines in a movie. I show up, and as a young "character actress" I find myself in a waiting room full of old ladies, fat African American women, and weasel-faced, frizzy-haired forty-somethings in sweatshirts. I guess I fall into the latter category? And may I say, thus far I have thought to myself "If I were casting this, I'd choose the old lady, the fat African American lady, or that frizzy-haired chick in the glasses over me in a heartbeat." And may I further say, I have not been cast in any of these roles. But then I got this audition for a one-act play festival. I got the script. I read it. And the whole premise of the play is that the character I was auditioning for was devastated because she's too old to be hired as a topless dancer. Really? Really really? I mean, not that I'm looking for employment in that line of work, but really?

Thank you universe.

When I was 20, I was in a beautiful play in college called "Abingdon Square." Funny, I now live in the city that is home to Abingdon Square. I was cast as Aunt Minnie, a white haired, old lady--wig and all. I have been a "young character actress" since I was 11 and cast as Mrs. Fuddy in the 5th grade winter play, "The Christmas Elf." During rehearsal for "Abingdon Square" I remember getting a piece of advice from one of my teachers, a brilliant actor who happened to be performing in the show as well. He told me, "Stop trying so hard to play her age. Don't act your idea of what it is to be old. No one feels old inside. I am surprised every day when I look in the mirror and I don't see a 25 year old looking back at me." This to me, at 20, was a revelation. And some of the best direction I've ever gotten.

So then tonight we went to this crazy event. The United Glee Club of NYC, this 114 year old group of rich white guys from fancy-schmancy colleges who, like, rent Lincoln Center so they can still wear tails and sing with other rich white guys like they did in college (and to their credit also do a lot of wonderful charitable work) had a concert. The acappella group Doc Hubby sang with in college was their special guest group. I fell in love with Doc Hubby when he was the leader of this particular group. I was their biggest groupie in the early 90s. I have a soft spot. So this group was there and singing and bouncing around and being 20 and doing a lot of the same exact stuff they were doing 20 some years ago and I thought...wait a second. If we went up afterward and talked to them, and told them who we were, and who Doc Hubby was, and how awesome they were...even if I'm the only one hip enough (or lame enough) to be wearing jeans to this event, and even if I have a good haircut and don't really look my age, these sweet faced boys would smile benignly and nod and think, as we did in the late 80s, "Man that dude and his wife are ancient." And if they bothered to do the math, or if we simply said what year Doc Hubby directed the group, they might scratch their shaggy heads and go on to say, "Dude, I wasn't even born then."

What they don't know, is that I still wake up every morning and look in the mirror and wonder why I don't still look like I did when I was singing the first tenor part of "Somebody Loves Me" to myself in the shower in my senior dorm.

The April Fools Day 1989 Popcorn Incident

2010-05-10T12:02:00.000-07:00

So Aunt Becky of the very funny blog Mommy Wants Vodka, wrote a post recently about a photo album she found in the bottom of a box of old crap her mother gave her. It was full of pictures that, until the lost album was found, she believed were gone. Hard copies of pictures, young people. The kind that once lost, or torn, or used as coasters, are truly lost to the world forever. Unless you take something called a negative to a photo shop and pay actual money to have it developed again. Pictures, she confided, that were full of her and her friends doing weird and crazy stuff when they were young.

I read the post. It struck a chord. I left her the following comment:

So this one time during sophomore year, my roommates and I popped 13 pounds of popcorn. This was before microwave popcorn. BMP. And then during the middle of the night we taped newspaper across the door of the sticks-up-their-asses prep school boys from Rhode Island who lived across the hall, leaving a small space between the newspaper and their door. A space that we filled with 13 pounds of popped popcorn. We took a lot of pictures of that.

To which she replied:

Please tell me you can scan these pictures for me to see. Because I NEED THIS. HILARIOUS!

And I so love getting replies from truly funny bloggers who I want to be friends with, that I did it. I scanned the photos from "The April Fools Day 1989 Popcorn Incident" and I will, without the consent of my roommate Jennifer or the sticks-up-their-asses prep school boys from Rhode Island (who really were good friends despite the fact that one of them called my roommate a Pinko Civil Libertarian. At the time I had no idea what that meant. Now I realize what a huge compliment it was).

So here they are. If I were The Bloggess I could do funny arrows and comments but my photo editing capabilities are way way less advanced than most elementary school children so I will just have to editorialize below.
This is me and Jennifer in our room after popping 13 pounds of popcorn that we got at Stop and Shop. We used two air poppers. One of them literally went up in smoke somewhere in the midst of the popping marathon. We switched to a second one that went on to serve us well for many years. In this photo we still have our contact lenses in. The sign behind me does indeed say "Wombat Crossing." A clue as to just how cool I was in college and maybe why I never had a date for Casino Night.

Okay so here we are taping "The Boston Globe" to Rod, Tod and Jonathan's door. No joke. Those are their names. Nice guys. Very rich. At least one is a foreign diplomat. One is a fancy pants corporate lawyer. Not sure about the other.

Dumping in the popcorn. Dang. Look how skinny I was.

More popcorn. Middle of the night. Nice glasses.

Took my glasses off for the final picture. They are in my hand behind my back.

So what happened? The next morning, when Rod, Tod and Jonathan opened the door, a wall of popcorn collapsed upon them. It worked like a charm. They thought it was hilarious! We were awakened by them laughing and bringing bagels to our room. We are all friends now and spend weekends in the Hamptons....

I lie. My mechanical engineer father would be appalled. Our newspaper structure did not prove strong enough to hold the weight of 13 pounds of popped popcorn. The bottom ripped out. Rod, Tod and Jonathan opened their door to discover their door obscured by The Boston Globe, and right behind it, a mountain of popcorn. They were not amused. I seem to recall Rod chasing us back into our bedroom and dumping a way smaller bag of dirty popcorn in one of our beds. Rather violently.

While she perused her old photo album, Aunt Becky marveled at how fun her life used to be. Although I think she had a lot crazier youth than I did (honestly, the popcorn was about as illicit as my exploits got), we do have that in common. When I flip through page after page of grainy photos, unable now to remember what exactly was so hilarious about pretty much everything we did that I felt it required to be documented, I am struck by how funny every day was. How intensely I felt...EVERYTHING. How hard I laughed. How much junk food I ate. How skinny I remained.

I'll tell you the saddest thing. I now know that the newspaper needs to be really strong. That duct tape would work much better than masking tape. That you need to reinforce it a lot. But I will never have the opportunity to try that joke out again. I don't think so, anyway. I'm pretty sure the Elusive Icelander next door would not be amused. Plus he signed up for extermination this month so he'd probably take a pile of popcorn lying at his feet even worse than the prep school boys.

So someone out there. In college. Maybe with only a week or so left. Would you please oh please try this. Take lots of pictures. Reinforce the newspaper really well. And tell me how it works? Thanks.

Only Girls

2010-04-09T12:06:00.000-07:00

My maternal grandmother was an only child. My mother was an only child. I am the eldest. I have a younger brother. I have one daughter.

My mother found this poem in my great-grandmother's things:

For a Very Young Daughter

By Anne Mary Lawler

Soon you will leave your pinafores and toys,
Your dolls and dishes, and your little bib:
Soon you will scorn to sleep within a crib;
And you will smirk at grubby little boys
And write them silly notes; you even may
Walk giggling home from school with them each day.

Then, shortly, you'll be dancing, satin-shod,
Trailing your singing skirts about the room,
Lovlier than a daffodil in bloom;
And you will flirt with smile and frown and nod,
And play at love, and break a heart or two--
And I shall know that I am losing you--

And then--too suddenly the world will change--
And you will walk in tenderness and tears
Bravely and strong to meet the waiting years;
And I shall find it sad and sweet and strange
That you will grow, as women grow, quite wise
In mending socks and singing lullabies.

Yes, I shall lose you--for the days are swift,
We do not have the skill to check their flight--
Perhaps we would not, even if we might;
So I shall watch the spinning hours lift
Our lives apart--and still find strength to smile,
Knowing that you were mine this little while.

Sometimes a poem written a hundred years ago, while a tad sentimental, is just right for a cool and dafodilly April day. Though I must confess my hope that Anne Mary knew that her daughter would grow quite wise, period. Not merely in mending socks and lullabies. Anne Mary needed to complete her rhyme.

I'm struggling with potty training. Blink and your baby's gone isn't she? Urine is sterile, right? I'm like a parody of a Mommy Blog.

Read this.

2010-04-08T21:07:00.001-07:00

Yup. This is right.

http://thebloggess.com/?p=6455

What those grown ups did was not okay. And they were grown ups. I am watching my baby girl learn how to behave. I am watching her learn the very very hard lesson of sharing. Of putting others in front of herself. Of being considerate and loving.

Isn't it time grown ups started acting that way too?

The Blush Off The Rose

2010-03-30T21:36:00.000-07:00

New York is a lot of things. Gentle, it is not.

I was walking to my yearly GYN appointment (if you must know) which takes me all the way across Central Park South to the East Side. Central Park South is a lovely expanse of ritzy NYC real estate, stretching from the huge new mall at Columbus Circle to the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue. But it also happens to be where all the horse-drawn carriages park while they wait for visitors to drive around Central Park. On a windy March day, Central Park South is eardrum-freezing bitter and yet still stifling with the smell of horse manure. With just a dash of horse urine for luck. A waft of cow manure makes me homesick for Central PA. Horse manure, on the other hand, does not. When I was pregnant and yarfy, this walk along Central Park South was like running the gauntlet. I am proud to say I never once puked on Central Park South.

So I was walking across the bottom of the Park last week. I take it as something of a compliment that the carriage drivers don't proposition me for a ride. Despite the LL Bean jacket, I guess after seventeen years maybe I do look angry enough to be a local. I'm walking by and they're all hanging out, some in grungy top hats. Some in baseball caps. Chatting and waiting. When all of a sudden one of the horses kicks over his feed pail, spilling a decent amount, but certainly not the whole bucket, on the street. And the driver grabs the bucket and yells, "F--- you, you f---ing idiot!" He yells this at the HORSE. And something in the way he yelled it was kind of dark. More like a wife-beater than a business partner. Reflexive and violent. And it just kinda made me wonder...

Oh it's soooo romantic...a carriage ride through Central Park....snuggling under the blanket with your sweetie....snapping pics of the forsythia and daffodils.

Welcome to New York City 2010.

Kinda takes the blush off the rose a bit, doesn't it?

A Barf Conundrum

2010-03-27T21:09:00.000-07:00

Ok all you experienced moms. And all you people who, on occasion, walk on sidewalks. Here is my question:

What is your obligation to the universe when your kid throws up on a sidewalk?

I guess you could extrapolate this to any public puking, really. But for the purposes of this question, let's take the circumstances as they happened, and go from there.

It was very cold on Wednesday. The Bean has been, as I have stated, coughing so hard that she spits up diluted juice. Well, on Wednesday I was determined to take her to the park (read: leave the apartment before I was compelled to shoot myself), after stopping at Starbucks for the most absurd drink ever invented ever ever (a decaf, tall, soy, skinny, cinnamon dolce latte - Fat Flush compliant for my money). But when we arrived at Starbucks, the line was out the door, so we reluctantly turned around and headed directly toward the park. At which point the Bean started hacking. And hacking. And hacking. And ultimately, regurgitating small amounts of juice. Okay, with a little particulate matter to be totally honest. Several small puddles. And here's the really insidious thing: the puddles were small enough that really, that you could walk down the street and totally not see them--until it was too late. But they were definitely big enough to do damage. No doubt at all about it. As I urged the Bean to breathe deeply and try to stop coughing, I knew that here was just no doubt those puddles were going to be targets. I could see it coming.

But there I was. On the street. No caution tape. No orange cones. No flares. No hose. No mop. No wipes even. Not cold enough that the puddles would freeze. Not hot enough that they would evaporate. And nary a rain cloud in sight.

And for the record, let me say that I clean up my messes. I am courteous to others on the subway. I always wait my turn in line. And I have even been known to pile up all my dishes on the table at a restaurant and pick the crumbs off the floor when our family has made what I consider to be a mess larger than any stranger should have to clean up. So this is not an easy moment for me...this moment coming up.

Did I have a choice?

I wiped the Bean's mouth and sleeve with a tissue and jammed it in my back pocket. And I walked away from those puddles on the street. Knowing for certain that some poor person was inevitably going to step in them and be grossed out beyond belief when she got home. And it would be entirely my fault.

This, my friends, is why everyone in New York City doffs their shoes the moment they walk in the door.

Falling off the Wagon and Hitting a Waffle Truck

2010-03-23T20:53:00.001-07:00

If you're in New York City, particularly in the area of the Upper West Side, and you're on some crazy diet...well my friend, you've come to the right place. I fell off the Fat Flush Wagon...I am trying very desperately to climb back on but it's not easy to avoid dairy, wheat and sugar when your kid has her first ear infection and coughs so hard she throws up diluted juice all over the hard wood floors...nonetheless, I confess that I fell off the Fat Flush Wagon. And I hit a Waffle Truck on the way down.

So in the interest of full disclosure here are the ways in which I have fallen off the wagon in the last two weeks.

The Waffle Truck - Good God has anything better ever been invented? A Truck? That sells waffles? It is quite simply divine. I managed not to eat the Bean's waffle too while she was sleeping in a feverish daze. Just barely. That would have been low.

The Mermaid Inn - I wanted the lobster roll. I should have had the broiled salmon. I compromised with the Grilled Shrimp Sandwich which was totally and completely beyond divine.

The Whole Wheat Chocolate Chip Scone from Silver Moon Bakery - Very nearly not falling off, right? I mean, it's so whole wheat that the wheat berries (are they like crunch berries) crunch in your teeth. But dang I could go for that right now.

So...considering falling off the diet wagon, yourself? Feeling like I did nothing to help you fight to go to bed hungry?

I remind you...baby girl coughs so hard that she throws up diluted juice all over the hardwood floors. That oughta do it.

I am a Knee Jerk

2010-03-16T20:34:00.001-07:00

So this last week or so I've been worried that I go through life saying "no" to the universe. I'm I'm totally honest with myself, my knee jerk reaction to most every suggestion, is really usually "no." No I don't want to go see that play, I just want to stay in and watch TV. No to this job. No to that event. No to this meeting. No to that social invitation.

I have really started to wonder what I'm hiding from...

Is it just that I'm a scaredy cat?

Is it that I'm truly lazy at heart?

Why do I look for the bad, and indeed expect the worst, from new situations or experiences?

Aren't I a little old to be afraid of everything? (And while I'm at it, aren't I a little old to worry so much about who I would eat lunch with?)

I am so adamant to Doc Hubby that we raise the Little Bean to expect the best from the world. To trust people. To be Anne Frank in post 9-11 NYC. I don't want her to get in the habit of making decisions based on fear. I want her to be adventurous.

My friend Sam's dad is an old British actor who has been around the block more than once in this business. One of his mottoes is "Just do the audition." Nike got wind of it and made a lot of money with that idea.

However, I have recently learned that his other motto is "Your career is not defined by the jobs you do. It is defined by the jobs you choose not to do."

So how do I listen to my gut about what not to do when my first impulse always seems to be to do nothing.

My friend Rebecca says that she thinks it's the jobs that make you want to cry that you should take. True. But I think that refers to the challenge of the role or the play itself, not the challenge of trying to arrange babysitting. The thing is, lately, I'm not sure if I can tell the difference.

Lately, I just feel like a Knee Jerk,.

Smarty Pants Preschool Update

2010-02-22T22:20:00.000-08:00

Wait listed.

No joke.

My 2 1/2 year old daughter was just wait listed.

I wrote a comment about it on someone else's blog and actually typed "weight listed."

Think that means something? Not sure what, if anything. Maybe I'm putting too much weight on all this even though I keep saying it's crazy and doesn't matter and what the heck is wrong with New York.

Or maybe I just need to start the Fat Flush. Which I appear to be doing tomorrow.

I'm pretty sure that no one should be wait listed before the age of four.

Calling All Artists- Win This House Essay Contest

2010-02-14T16:38:00.000-08:00

A Facebook Friend who is also an actress (and a brilliant one at that) posted this link today on her Facebook page and I had to blog about it.

Are you an artist? Are you longing for an artistic home? A couple from Maine, a musician and an illustrator, realized that (in their words) they had one house too many. Their sweet little cottage in Sanford, Maine was sitting empty. So they want to give it away to a self-employed artist. Give. It away.

Here are the basic rules as they outline them:

The contest is open to anyone in the Arts, any field; musical, dramatic, visual, writing etc. if in doubt, ask. Entries will be limited to 4,000. when we reach that number the contest will close. If we do not reach 4,000 entries by June 1st 2010, we will close the contest and determine if the house can still be given away if not, everyone who submitted will receive a refund. We will post when the entry level is reaching maximum. We will post when the limit is reached and the contest is closed.

You must be at least 18 years of age at the time you enter the contest.

You must write 500 words or less expressing how the world will be a better place if you win this house. You cannot use names of people or names of specific towns. Essay entries will be anonymous. Pertinent information must be submitted on the separate form provided to insure anonymity. Spelling does not count, (we are artists after all) but content does. The essay can take the form of poetry, dialog or song verse if you choose.

I love everything about this. Follow them on Twitter to see how the contest is progressing. I know that I will.

One Sentence Saturday

2010-02-13T17:31:00.001-08:00

Our cat has a thyroid condition.

The Difference Between Here and Ocean City Maryland

2010-02-07T13:49:00.001-08:00

When we were on vacation last August we saw this show on Discovery Health called "Just Cook This." This dude, Sam Zein, who hosts it is a pretty unlikely host of a cooking show. He kept burning himself and dropping food. It was funny enough to get me and Doc Hubby both on board. On one episode we watched, he made a Mixed Mushroom and Goat Cheese Pizza that looked amazing. So we decided to try it.

We spent the next day playing arcade games in Ocean City, MD and stopped at a Stop and Shop or Fresh Pride or some equally massive food store to get the ingredients--a tabernacle to grocery shopping. A palace. A temple. A ziggurat. I needed an uncooked pizza crust, parmesan cheese, garlic, goat cheese, mushrooms, and one of those packages of prewashed, organic if possible, spinach. I hit the produce section first. Not a bag. Not a shred. Not a leaf of baby spinach. Not to mention organic baby spinach. Some limp nasty looking watery salads in a bag (with those inane zigzag cut carrots and radishes) were the only small greens. I had to buy a bag of the big nasty bitter spinach leaves and spend fifteen minutes removing every stem. All other ingredients hastily found. Goat cheese. Check. Surprise really. Pizza crusts? Took a while to find them in the refrigerator section, but once located, several different options. Pizza created. Delicious.

Cut to today. Superbowl Sunday. One year anniversary of Bean walking. I want to make the pizza again. I send Doc Hubby out for the ingredients. I figure, this is New York, so we will have many options of goat cheese and they will call it chevre and you can even get it low fat. Spinach for days. Prewashed. Organic. Indeed all is found. All...but the pizza crusts.Really? I eye Doc Hubby really skeptically. This is New YORK! I say to Doc Hubby. We have everything. Did you really look? He assures me he did. On occasion he can't find his own feet, so I am skeptical. Even a bit disdainful. Did you ask the guy? No need to revisit this tired and really not that funny joke. He hands me a Boboli. I scoff.

So I get all bundled up. I storm out the door and say I'm going to the ultra fancy neighborhood store "to get a pizza crust." After all we won't be watching "Extreme Makeover Home Edition" tonight. I want a yummy damn pizza. I go directly to the fancy gourmet joint about half a mile away. I pass three other grocery stores along the way. I stand in shock and look at the mini tart shells, whole wheat pie crusts, and filo dough. No pizza crust. I go to the next closest grocery store. The "big" one that's cheaper and not so fancy. Confident. I ask the guy. Strike two. I pass by the medium fancy grocery store that's only five blocks from home. Doc Hubby said he scoured it before getting the Boboli. I am starting to believe him. He has also checked the grocery store in the first floor of our building. There he got a mound of frozen pizza dough. "What will we do with that?" I exclaim in disgust? Do I look like I have a pizza stone??? Have you seen our cabinets?

I am ready to slink in and apologize. I buy jello chocolate mousse and Applegate Farms Hot Dogs as a peace offering. And then I remember. This is New YORK. The Italian Market. The fancy specialty shop two blocks closer to home. Doc Hubby was just constrained by his non-NYCness. Of course you check the specialty shop when looking for what turns out to be a specialty items. When you ask the man for the uncooked pizza crusts he will surely...frown and shake his head and not even speak. Yup. Friendliest city in the world.

I slink home. Five grocery stores. In half a mile. Not a single uncooked pizza crust. Are they too big? Do they take up too much valuable grocery store real estate? Or does everyone figure it's New York. Why the heck would you make a pizza when you can get a slice at five joints in the same ten block radius as the grocery stores?

I am using the Boboli tonight. Go Saints.

So that's the difference between here and Ocean City Maryland. That and there is no skeeball in my apartment.

Old MacDonald Had A Toucan

2010-02-03T09:05:00.001-08:00

So we had the callback at the Smarty Pants Preschool today. Did I mention I paid them a one hundred dollar application fee for the pleasure of hauling my kid there for the third time today? In the snow?

It was fine. Really just fine.

But at one point they were all having rug time and singing "Old MacDonald" (yeah, pretty sure that's the same song they sing at all the non-smarty-pants preschools, too) and each time it was the moment to name an animal, the next kid in the circle got to come up with the animal and say what sound it made. The first kid said cow (totally easy to be the first kid--cow is such a gimme). The second kid said pig (and the Bean was the one who chimed in that the pig says oink--totally out of turn but still cute and game and okay annoying to that kid's Mama but still cute). The third kid apparently said horse but honestly only her mother could translate that one. Then it was the Bean's turn. "And on that farm he had a..." And the kid who just leapt up and oinked out of turn, paused, stared at the rug, and said very quietly "cow." Yup, and cow had so clearly already been done.

But they are nothing if not accepting at the Smarty Pants preschool so everyone mooed again.

Then we got to the last kid. "And on that farm he had a..."

"Toucan!" exclaims the kid.

Show off.

In case you were wondering, a toucan says "squawk."

Where's my friend God?

2010-02-01T17:57:00.001-08:00

Conversation as I'm loading the Bean into her carseat on Sunday and leaving our mouse-infested, plumbing-free, mildew-ridden upstate fixer-upper.

Bean: Mama, can we go to the cabin?

Me: In a couple of months....I hope Poppop can hear you saying that.

Bean: Where's Poppop?

Me: He's in heaven with God.

Bean: Who's God?

Me: God is...God.

Bean: Where's my friend God?

Me: He's in heaven with Poppop.

Bean: Where is heaven?

Me: Up in the sky.

Bean:...in the sky...

Poppop died a little over a year ago. Hewould be so happy to know how excited the Bean is about going to the cabin. I hope he can hear her. Yet another reason we can't sell the cabin.

The Look What My Kid Did With Her Tub Crayons Post

2010-01-27T18:33:00.000-08:00

I swear this was not my idea. I am a mere observer.
With toes like these? Smarty Pants Preschool here we come.

Things I Could Blog About

2010-01-26T11:33:00.000-08:00

Food blog: I made Coq Au Vin for the first time last night. The Barefoot Contessa's recipe. My friend Rebecca made this for us once last year and she pulled the chicken off the bone before serving it and served it over egg noodles so I did too. I felt so Julie and Julia. Except I didn't use Julia Child's recipe. And my name is Wendy.
Mommy Blog: The Bean is sick. Third week of preschool. Only four other kids in her class. She cannot live in a vat of child-safe Purell....right? This will happen. This must needs happen. As must her first stomach bug. At which point I seriously fear instead of standing there and holding her forehead while she barfs into her princess potty, I will run the other way, trying desperately to stifle my own gag reflex. I often fear I am not cut out for this.
Actress Blog: What is it with the callback? I feel like I'm some kind of callback jinx. To be honest, I can't give you any details about the callback I went on today because I totally honestly had to sign a confidentiality agreement before I did the first audition. I am not joking. This has happened a few times in the past when I was auditioning to hock new products. One of them was that bagel stick thing that came with the cream cheese stuffed inside it. Bagelfuls or something. A complete breakfast in a cellophane wrap. I guess that was a pretty good idea. Has anyone tried one? So I went to the callback for the aforementioned secret thingy. The format was improv. No scripted lines. The first audition was just me and a camera and I felt all free and hilarious and said funny stuff about jello salad. So today I had new funny ideas about jello salad that I was all ready to say when they asked me (no the product is so totally not jello salad or jello in any form). And there were four of us called in at once into a room full of auditore--like twelve--most of whom were staring at computers. They were all sitting around a table, and we had to improvise together. And I got nervous and said the same old stuff about orange jello salad I said the first time instead of the new funnier stuff about green jello salad I thought up last night. And then I couldn't think of anything to say and I just kind of laughed nervously and the man in the suit running things had to prompt all of us and that so isn't a good sign I don't think. But honestly, the guy playing my husband was so funny and believable that when the audition started and the woman asked him a question to prompt him I totally thought it was real and that things just got super awkward in the room. I was fakey and kitchy and stupid. Still I hope they really liked the guy playing my husband because he was so tall that no one else could be his wife except me the Amazonian actress. Did I mention that I used to be in a Broadway play.
When Allison Janney was first trying to get work, some casting director or agent notoriously said to her, "I don't know what to do with you...lesbians or aliens maybe?" Or wives of very very tall men.
Mommy Blog meets Actress Blog: So this is too good. Just as I was finishing that last sentence, I got a call from the Smarty Pants Preschool where we are applying for next year. (I love saying "where we are applying"--it's so totally snooty and obnoxious that I kind of get off on it). We're in the midst of preschool applications for next year and this is New York so it is, of course, insane. Where I grew up you "register" for preschool. Here, you "apply." So stupid. The Bean had a playgroup session for the Smarty Pants school today, and her Daddy had to take her because Mama was at the above discussed total waste of time callback. So the Smarty Pants Preschool just called. The Bean has a callback. Another playdate next week. If I mention our trip to Starbucks for Vanilla Bean scones on the way home, then this post becomes a triple Food/Mommy/Actress post.

Conan O'Brien Just Said...

2010-01-22T21:31:00.000-08:00

To the young people: Please don't be cynical.

"If you work really hard, and you're kind, amazing things will happen."

I so want that to be true.

Course 33 million dollars makes it easy to be generous.

Oh wait...cynicism.

I still really want that to be true.

The Broad Way

2009-11-16T13:21:00.000-08:00

I started this post fully two months ago. As you can see. Before the play I was in even opened. It has now closed. I am sad about it. Here is what I wrote a while ago. Soon I will return to posts about the baby taking off her pjs and pouring talcum powder all over herself and her crib, and then mixing in wipes to make paste and then getting her hand stuck in the wipes container and then shrieking bloody murder. I will also post about how everything was so much better two weeks ago when I was on Broadway and wasn't dealing with preschool separation (which sucks beyond belief, by the way). And what I'm going to make for dinner (turkey and white bean chili tomorrow night). And babysitters who flake on me one hour before auditions and how the cat scratched the baby's head because we haven't clipped her claws in months and how I messed up and let a big audition get by without managing to go in on it and how there's no snow at all any more. But for now here's what I wrote on 11/16/09. Today is January 20th, 2010. Happy New Year.

So I haven't posted in about sixteen years. Sorry about that.

As it turns out, acting in a play on the Broad Way kinda takes it out of you. Who knew? We do 8 shows a week with one day off.

So we open this week which will be a whole other huge story. And there are many stories within. But I do just want to tell you this one story that is kind of unique for me. And says something about the people I'm working with.

The last phase of any rehearsal period is called tech. Basically, this is when you all move out of the crungy basement rehearsal room where you ate white cheddar cheezits and joked around a lot to the theater where you realize that people who paid money will actually be watching you in about a week. You get in your costumes for the first time and you very very slowly work through the play while all the designers finish doing their work of lighting you, and assembling the set, and altering the costumes and inserting sound cues. This takes forever. You get a few lines out and then you stop and do things again. And again. And again. From college theater to the Broad Way these rehearsals run much the same. They are endless. You spend lots of time in corsets if you happen to be doing a period play. The difference is really the quality of the material your dress is made out of, the number of lights that hang above you, and how many people are helping you figure out where your props are.

Under union rules, I believe, tech can involve two "8 out of 10s" and two "10 out of 12s" which basically means for four days you live in the theater. In those days, you work 8 hours in a span of 10 hours, twice, and ten hours in a span of twelve hours twice. Essentially 42 hours spent in the theater over four days. Typically, the goal is to get out of there as soon as possible at the end of every night. And at the end of tech, people are usually celebrating when their character dies ten minutes from curtain because it means they get to go home.

But what was unique for this tech. What I have never really experienced was the following. There are seven people in our cast. Five of us are done significantly before the play ends. But instead of racing home, a kind of amazing thing happened. When the five of us made our final exits, instead of leaving, we all went up into the front row of the mezzanine of our gorgeous theater, sat down together, ate cold pizza, drank warm beer and watched the final hour of tech.

That was all I got written on 11/16. I didn't ever publish it because I think I wanted to read over it and make sure it was okay. I never had time. On that tech night we all stayed to watch this beautiful special effect that happened at the end of our play. Music and lights and movement and snow. It was pretty amazing, actually.
I miss all those people.
I miss the play.

The Play's the Thing

2009-09-25T18:59:00.000-07:00

Well I made it. Made it through the first week of rehearsal. We started a week ago today.

Bean seemed to handle things pretty well. Aside from the whole pooping in her bed incident. That was kind of ugly.

And she's cutting some nasty nasty molars. So she's a little sniffly and whiny today. But she'll have a grumpy weekend with Daddy. And I'll have a weekend of rehearsal.

And I have to say...this whole working again thing...? It's super crazy fun! I'm tired, yes. The stress of arranging childcare and preparing the house for a babysitter every morning, then going to work, then coming home, is taxing. How have you all been doing this for so many years without collapsing? I'm kinda wiped after only a week.

I'm still pretty fracking (my new favorite word from "Battlestar Galactica") nervous too, yes. But they're called "plays" for a reason, I believe. And when writers are as wonderful as the amazing Sarah Ruhl, plays are play-ful, and challenging, and terrifying, and incredible to work on.

In the meantime, we eat Magnolia cupcakes tonight and tour preschool numero uno tomorrow. Life goes on, doesn't it.

Time passes. Listen. Time passes.

This is what happened the first day I went back to work

2009-09-18T20:44:00.000-07:00

So I went back to work yesterday. For the first time since the Little Bean was born, really. I have worked a few days here and there. This is the biggie.

So my dear friend Becca was staying with Bean. Bean loves her. She loves Bean.

However...

Thinking a onesie would be a pain for diaper changes, I put Bean in some jeans that are a wee bit big. Becca put Bean down for her nap. Chattering ensued. Bean does this a lot. Sometimes she just chatters through her whole nap. I call it two hours of quiet time and we go from there. Becca checked for poop. She checked to see if Bean dumped her water all over herself. Neither.

Later...Becca checked again. Bean had removed said big jeans. Removed her diaper. Was sitting pants-less in her crib. May I say, this has NEVER happened before. Okay.

Becca put a diaper back on. Did not put on any new pants. Left Bean to try to sleep.

Later...chatter chatter chatter. Long pause... Then, very clearly, "Becca?"

Becca enters Bean's room to discover Bean has again removed her diaper. And very purposefully pooped on her mattress. Upon Becca's arrival, Bean grins ear to ear, points to her masterpiece on the sheets and exclaims "I did it!" Again let me say, she has never done anything like this before. Ever ever. Ever.

So my question. Acting out? Or merely getting ready to potty train.

And may I add, Becca is a very very very good friend indeed.

Thrilling Convo Now We're Back from Vacation

2009-09-07T18:09:00.000-07:00

We have been gone for over two weeks. The city appears to still be here. This is what we're talking about on our last night of vacay.

Doc Hubby: How do you spell "a propos?"

Me: "A" space "P-R-O-P-O-S". Like a cappella without the cappella and with propos.

Scintillating as ever.

Like Something in a Movie

2009-08-18T12:20:00.000-07:00

So last night Doc Hubby and I went to the movies. This is the first movie we have seen since "Star Trek" back in June. Which was totally awesome.

Last night we went to see "Cold Souls" starring Paul Giamatti and David Strathairn. Two amazing actors. Oh and me. Yup, just a few months after giving birth to the Bean, I went to Roosevelt Island at the crack of dawn on a cold winter's day to say:

Because I'm convinced he has a twisted soul. He does things...

Try to contain your enthusiasm. And imagine the brilliance.
I have hung around movie sets a little bit. For about sixteen months in 1998 or so I went to Yankee Stadium in the freezing cold at the crack of dawn to be an extra in the Kevin Costner baseball movie (don't get too excited here...) "For Love of the Game." Never heard of it? Yeah. Not his best. I did it because I was just out of school and it was something to do and it paid $75 bucks a day. But it was insane. First of all it was friggin' freezing. We bundled up in ski coats and stuffed those hand warmers down our bras, and then when it was time to shoot doffed all the winter gear, and stood up and cheered for Kevin Costner as a washed up...catcher was it? Pitcher? As if it were a balmy early autumn day. We ate masses of macaroni salad with ex-cons and folks running from the law (no joke, someone was found and arrested there) and wackos in the bottom level of the parking garage. We watched people steal entire aluminum tubs of pudding and take them to their cars. We (my friends I met there...Jenny, Angie and I) did all this because we wanted to be actors. And cuz as I have admitted in the past, Kevin Costner kinda does it for me. (I KNOW! I KNOW! What can I say...)
When the movie came out...I went to see it. And I think I caught a glimpse of my left arm at one point.
Cut to ten years later. I show up on set on Roosevelt Island. I hang with Paul Giamatti, David Strathairn and Lauren Ambrose in the green room. I say my line. I try to be cool.
I go and see the movie last night.
And you guessed it.
My line was cut.
It's like something out of a movie.
Take home message to all you would-be actors out there: this is why you don't have a big party and invite all your friends and your mom to see your big old big screen premiere until you have gone yourself to make sure your big line wasn't cut.

Why My Two Year Old Will Most Likely Be Rejected from Kindergarten

2009-08-13T13:18:00.000-07:00

So I fancy myself a pretty responsible gal. I always handed my homework in on time. I took hot meals to shutins with my church youth group. I was a girl scout. I pay my bills on time and help old people get things from high shelves (no joke, I can't tell you how many times some old person in my apartment building has asked me to get something off a high shelf for them because I am ginormous).

But when it comes to my baby's medical care, I am so totally paralyzed by fear that I border on negligent. I guess it's fear. Maybe it's laziness. But I think the odds are a lot greater that it's fear.

I forgot her 18 month appointment. I guess...? I mean, honestly, I'm not sure I knew that she needed to have one. Did the doctor actually mention that at her 12 month appointment? Was I so preoccupied with our personal vaccine schedule that I didn't listen? Because usually, I'm pretty genius at listening when people give me instructions. I'm fairly certain the leading contender for my epitaph is currently "Follows Instructions Well." So how is it that I can't kinda get my shit together with getting medical things done for the baby at the right time?

I do, I must admit, lean on the fact that Doc Hubby is in fact, a doctor. Part of me thinks that all of this stuff should just be his responsibility because he has seen the inside of a human body and understands things about it, and it just grosses me out. So despite the fact that "I'm the Mom" I want all that medical stuff to be his department. I don't think he even knows we have departments in this relationship. Except that he always makes the pancakes. And since he never reads my blog, the odds are not good that he is going to become aware of it any time soon.

The day of my daughter's one year doctors appointment (which, if I can read my own handwriting correctly, was well over a month after her first birthday...see what I mean? What is wrong with me?) we took her across the street to a house of vampires where some guy who claims to be a phlebotomist (yeah, that's the kinda vocab I can just toss around because Doc Hubby is in fact, a doctor, and I'd have to be an idiot not to pick up a thing or two over the course of 19 years)stabbed her repeatedly in the arm while she shrieked until finally I grabbed her and fled. Fast forward to a month ago when we happened to see Dr. McJerky in our Peds practice because our wonderful French doctor wasn't in. He managed to make me feel like a total ass because I had staggered my baby's vaccines (it was like he could see the baby slings and BPA free bottles and organic yogurt spewing from my mouth) and never got that blood draw. Which, he insisted, she'd absolutely need for kindergarten. What is with the City of New York? That I can't just enjoy my one year old without worrying about kindergarten. And, by the way, the place they sent us to have it done sucked. And, no one told me I needed it for kindergarten, though I can't say I would have been listening anyway.

So we had the one year blood draw today. Several days after the Bean's second birthday. She screamed bloody murder the entire time. Doc Hubby took one for the team and held her down while the excellent phlebotomist took baby girl's blood (Doc Hubby just had to point out that she did go too deep at first and then had to pull back to hit the vein and I could have lived my whole life and not known that). Then the Bean proceeded to sulk the entire time that Doc Hubby tried to show her off to all the nice people he works with.

Note to self, do not begin this whole path of allowing the Bean's behavior to reflect upon me. I am not responsible for her being two. Or having just been jabbed with a needle.

So Lonely...

2009-08-12T21:35:00.000-07:00

My baby girl is so lonely. She is so starved for friendship. She is so aching for any kind of human contact besides Mama...that every day she stands in the living room and points to the window and says "Up in the 'indow? See peoples?"

Desperate.

Simply to catch a glimpse of another human being besides myself.

That she looks out our fifth floor window, waaaaaay down to the street below, and yells "baby!" every time a stroller rolls by.

When the babysitter arrives...any babysitter arrives...she immediately stands next to her, looks up at me, waves, and says "bye Mama!"

So either I have done something really right. Or I have done something dreadfully wrong.

Blaine isn't a name...it's a major appliance.

2009-08-07T13:03:00.001-07:00

This is so much better than anything I could have written today.

Read it.

Sincerely, John Hughes

What Happens in Maine

2009-08-03T19:24:00.000-07:00

People who are from Maine are exactly like people from Texas. They just don't hug or say "ya'll" or make quick decisions. They are deliberate and quiet and stoic. And they think that their state is the greatest state in the good old U. S. of A. (because let's face it, ya'll, it's a competition and the winning state gets a plaque). I'm pretty sure that behind closed doors there are people in Maine, particularly way way way Northern Maine, planning secession very quietly.

I like Maine well enough. I shop at LL Bean. I like blueberries. If I had been able to have Bob's Clam Hut cater my wedding I would have done it in a snap. Portland is a hip little town where I don't feel chronically underdressed. They wear fleece to brunch too.

Still, I hate to break it to you...folks from "The County"... but Maine ain't all that.

This is what your state did to my child.

To be specific, this is what the venomous, swarming, apocalyptic mosquitoes in Weld, Maine did to my child.

Start Fed Exing lobster rolls to my apartment, Maine. You got some serious damage to control.

Banana Cream Cheese Bread - Not the Recipe

2009-07-29T20:55:00.000-07:00

So by rights, if the baby sticks her finger in the Banana Cream Cheese Bread while I'm waiting five hours for the people at the "we make your salad just like you want it" counter at the grocery store to make my salad, I have to buy it, right?

Honestly, I came this close to putting it back.

She poked her finger clear through the cellophane and into the bread. She made a hole. If I were a better blogger I would have taken a picture and posted it here.

But here's the thing. If it had been zucchini bread. Or nut bread of some kind. Carrot bread or lentil bread, I totally wouldn't have bought it.

So part of me thought, "yeah, whoever buys this and then gets it home and realizes someone stuck their finger in it is going to be super pissed and grossed out because they were having a bad day and the store was mobbed and they were also ordering their salad at the same time and never thought to check and see if someone put a finger in the bread, and they'll probably think it was a homeless person not my cute but honestly pretty crungy baby, and they will be really mad but not mad enough to take it back to the store so they'll just throw it away and what a waste of good Banana Cream Cheese Bread it will be because some homeless person truly could have eaten it."

And the other part of me thought" Wait a second is that Banana Cream Cheese Bread? Whaaaaaat? Why yes it is! And how have I lived this long without knowing that such a delicacy existed and what a shame the Bean put her finger through the cellophane so we'll just have to buy it, and yes I'd like no salad dressing cuz I'm on a diet because I'm going to be a big Broadway star now even though I have the smallest part in the play, but I do have a lot of stage time."

And by the way, I only looked for five minutes but it seems that the only place you can get this delectable bread is at my grocery store. All the recipes for Banana Cream Cheese Bread that I found online mix the cream cheese in with the butter but this one has the cream cheese in like a layer on the top in the middle like a cream cheese brownie. So I'm not offering the recipe.

The Rotation of the Earth

2009-07-28T10:42:00.000-07:00

So the thing about New York is, that on certain days of the year, when the sun bounces off the building across the street at just the right angle, and you walk into the kitchen at just the right minute to get a glass of ice water, sun actually streams in the window. Like it does at normal people's houses. And you can see, with staggering clarity, just how filthy the place is. I mean. Filthy. Caked-on goop on the side of the refrigerator...and the basket holding the takeout menus on the side of the refrigerator. Years of grime ground into the fridge handle. Nastiness caked on the front of the stove and the dishwasher. I couldn't actually bring myself to look down at the floor.

So what the heck is in those Mr. Clean Magic Erasers? They dissolve, themselves, and take the filth with them. When I'm done cleaning with them, my hands feel a bit like they've been dipped in bleach. I'm sure there's something on the box that says it's a good idea to wear gloves when you use them. Especially if you have hand mange like I do. They are effective, but man. They give me the creeps.

So instead of doing other things, I just spent about twenty minutes scrubbing, until my magic eraser had erased itself and some of the ick with it. And then the earth rotated and it's now dark as dusk in here. At 1:47 in the afternoon on a late July day.

My apologies to all of you who have stayed in this apartment over the summer.

And also, this post is totally not sponsored by Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. Which is a good thing since Mr. Clean might not like the part about how his magic erasers give me the creeps.

BTW they also take bird poop off the patio furniture. Even if the birds have been eating berries.

Something Happened

2009-07-27T20:15:00.000-07:00

Well kids. I'm going back to work.

http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/tag/michael-cerveris/

"Fiddler on the Roof" it ain't. A beautiful, funny and very poignant play it is.

Reality TV, Time Travel & The Road Not Taken

2009-06-16T09:34:00.000-07:00

So I've been thinking a couple of things...mostly just trying to get some perspective. Also trying to use fewer words but that just so doesn't seem to totally happen when I sit down to write something.

Did I ever tell you about how Doc Hubby had an audition for a reality show? Yeah, while I'm out there scrambling to make anything happen, TV networks are recruiting HIM. Have you seen that talk show called "The Doctors"? It's on in the morning here in NYC and seems to be kinda a rip off of Oprah's episodes with Dr. Oz. Who, by the way, Doc Hubby knows. Have I mentioned Doc Hubby is a total rock star ? Good thing he never reads this blog because then he'd get a swelled head and it's big enough already. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that "The Doctors" on CBS is the one. The producers apparently scoured the internet, found his honestly crazy unflattering picture on the hospital website (he takes a really good picture, not sure why this horrendous one is posted online), and called him to come audition/interview. He had to go down to a hotel in midtown and talk to them I guess. My favorite part of this whole story is how he said to me the day before he had the meeting, "Uh...do you think I need to get a manicure?" Which is so sweet and hilarious because he's really not the manicure type. I told him I didn't think so. Not until he got the job. When it comes right down to it, Doc Hubby is more a researcher than a practicing physician so I don't think he had quite the right vibe for it. Patient care is only one small part of what he does. I'm pretty sure they cast this guy instead.

Actually my goal is to get Doc Hubby into the Obama administration because Doc Hubby's area of expertise is Electronic Medical Records and Obama talks about them, like, every thirty seconds. Maybe the Little Bean could go to school with Sasha and Malia? I could take yoga with Michelle. A move to D.C. might be just what the doctor ordered. So to speak.

We could wait until the second term. That would be okay.

One great side bonus of moving to D.C. would be that I could escape this crazy New York City school morass. Holy cowroni it's unbelievable. The Little Bean is one. She turns two in August. Last night we started in earnest our nursery school research. For the Fall of 2010! No joke. I saw this documentary, Nursery University, which is all about the utterly insane application process for NYC nursery schools. I'm thinking even if the smart folks in Washington realize how smart Doc Hubby is and have the good sense to offer him a job, it won't happen until after nursery school. Probably no dodging that bullet. But the whole system gets even more terrifying once elementary school starts. Maybe we could manage to be in some nice suburb with an excellent public school system by then.

It all just brings to mind roads not taken. My friend Rebecca wrote this lovely screenplay about the same woman living two different lives. The movie shows one and then the other--the whole "two roads diverged in a narrow wood" thing. I kinda think about that every day. What if I had... What if instead of staying in NYC we had... What if my parents had... Rebecca herself has spent the last ten years or so very successfully pursing an acting career in L.A. and now finds herself back in NYC studying Shakespeare for the summer. She feels as if the storyline of her life has just reconverged with the alternate storyline of her life which might have happened if she had stayed in Brooklyn in 199whatever instead of heading West. I kind of love the idea that even if you had chosen the "other path" it might have still met up with the path that you're on today. Very Star Trek. By the way, saw the new Star Trek movie last week and totally didn't get the whole Spock time travel story. And neither did Doc Hubby and he's kinda a genius. But I think it did kind of have to do with this whole parallel life choices thing.

Remember how there were rumors that the Obama administration was going to tap Dr. Sanjay Gupta from CNN to be their Surgeon General? He's a TV doc. So perhaps Doc Hubby is just on a different route to the White House.

And me? Maybe blogging will be the path to take me to my own TV show...hey, you never know.

Ethanol, Ticks and Swine Flu

2009-05-29T18:45:00.000-07:00

We can't sell the cabin. We totally totally really truly can't sell the cabin.

It is the exact same age I am. It is falling apart in many ways. Which is totally hilarious and sad and somewhat insulting though I'm sure the cabin doesn't mean to point out how old I am by ceasing to function and getting moldy and heaving under the carpets.

My grandfather built the cabin as a fishing cabin. It is the only house I know that has remained with me my whole life. It has grown and changed, but while my family moved and my grandparents moved, the cabin has always been there on Folly Creek. It was never meant to be a beach house, though that is what we want it to be now. It has vinyl siding. Most rooms are wood paneled. The bathroom walls are covered with some kind of plastic substance that I'm sure does keep them from getting moldy but could no doubt simply be hosed down to clean. But they are hideous to say the least. Nearly every room was decorated in some variation of orange and brown.

All this notwithstanding, when I was a kid I thought the cabin was the most beautiful, most luxurious, best-smelling house in the entire world.

We totally can't sell the cabin.

So why am I perusing realtor.com?

How to accurately sum up last weekend. Let me see... in short, the boat crapped out, we were infested with ticks and Doc Hubby got swine flu. Any one of these things would have put a bit of a damper on the holiday. All three bordered on tragic. And each is interesting in its own way. I'm trying not to be too apocalyptic but here's the deal.

The cabin sits on a tidal creek on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. It is gloriously remote to this day. Part of what makes it so special is that while every field in my hometown is getting filled with McMansions and mini-McMansions, the Eastern Shore of Virginia remains virtually the same as it was in 1980. I mean, there are many more chain stores on the big route down the DelMarva, but once you turn off 13, it's country. And marsh grass. And towering pines. And barrier islands accessible only by boat with pristine and kinda wild beaches, littered with sea treasures (and I'm not kidding, my Dad saw a guy flip a gold piece out of the sand just while they sat and chatted). And big fields. But the fields have been farmed increasingly heavily in recent years. And agricultural run off and mud are filling up the creek. The dock has been extended twice to create boat slips. But the slips keep filling up with mud. This isn't why the boat isn't working, mind you. It's just context.

The boat isn't working because of ethanol. No joke. Up and down the East Coast of these United States, people are sitting sullenly in their stalled out boats because the carburetors are full of corn syrup. Because the gas that sat in their engines all winter...or in gas cans in their garages, or that just didn't get totally cleaned when winterized...has separated, leaving essentially a layer of corn syrup in the bottom to gunk up carburetors and stall boats. Ours among them. So we had no boat to use to get out to the island to the beach or to go fishing.

So okay, we'll just hang around the house.... Except that with the increase in all that mud, and the growth of tons more marsh grass, and (dare I say it) the increasingly less hard winter frosts, we are infested with ticks. Infested. How best can I express how infested we are? My Dad, who spent one afternoon carefully pruning the azaleas, had seven ticks. I had two embedded and one crawling across my foot. Ticks gross me the heck out. So much worse than mosquitoes. So insidious and flat and creepy and plague-bearing and ick.

So okay, we'll just spend time indoors together playing games and singing songs and telling stories.... Cough cough. Snarfle snarfle. And Doc Hubby, who works at a hospital where there have been no less than 288 cases of swine flu to date, has quarantined himself on the glass and screened-in porch. For days. He takes this seriously. Plagues and the like. I'm a germaphobe and all, but he peed in the bushes and we handed in plates of food to him and he totally didn't come out. So when the time came for us to make the six hour drive back to New York City, we went through this ridiculous comedy of errors that involved many clorox bleach wipes, a trip to Baltimore, and a rented Sebring Convertible (which, Doc Hubby has confirmed, is a piece of crap car but it's still a convertible and I think he had fun driving it home anyway even with the top down because it also rained most of the weekend). We get home to the city. He returns the rental car, and promptly drives upstate for three days to continue the CDC mandated quarantine. FOR A HEAD COLD most likely. But who am I to quarrel with epidemiologists.

So the night we get home and he leaves to go upstate, we eat waffles for dinner. I give the baby a bath hoping for a calm, quiet, lovely evening together. I rinse her pretty little curls, go to wash behind her sweet elfin ears...and there's a TICK! Embedded behind her ear! At this point I am fairly rabid. I can't, in good conscience, call any of the women I know in the building to help me with the tick removal, because we both could be carrying SWINE FLU! So I swaddle the baby in a towel, lay her on the living room floor, all the while she's howling "All done! All done, Mama!" at the top of her sweet lungs, SIT on her, and grope around her ear with sharp tweezers until I remove the tick. Which I place in a ziploc bag to keep to hand over to said CDC in the event she develops LYME'S DISEASE.

And here's where I risk the whole apocalypic thing...I'm no conspiracy theorist but what is up with these whack ass plagues? Lyme's disease? If rats were causing this public health crisis no one would think twice about taking major action against the carriers. So because the bugs live on Bambi we're not doing a thing? I'm not saying I want to go out there and shoot them, but really? The choice is to do nothing? You can't play in your yard anywhere in the East Coast without worrying about this nasty and weird and totally creepy disease that started on an island off the coast of Connecticut. And now swine flu???? Where did this come from again? Some kid in Mexico and a pig? Sounds really fishy to me but what do I know? I'm just high on all the carbs I've been eating to make it through the last week with some shred of sanity remaining. Pass the brownies.

So Doc Hubby is back now. He's cursing in the kitchen chasing a "wiley" roach around. I am trying not to throw up over the concept of bugs hanging out on my fridge where this guy was spotted, and at this point I'd like to live in a tupperware container for a few days. Maybe if I did my skin would look as lustrous as Bernadette Peters' does.

I digress. All this said...we really totally can't sell the cabin, right? I mean, right?

My First Run with the Jogging Stroller

2009-05-13T11:16:00.000-07:00

Running with a jogging stroller is a unique form of torture. I happen to think running is torture, period. I have, at various points of my life, done more or less running. I have never gotten to the place where I thought "ooo goody, I get to go for a jog today." Or conversely, "oh man I feel like crap because I haven't gone for a jog today."

Nope.

I never get past the place where it hurts.

But we were so generously handed down a jogging stroller and let's be frank, I need the exercise. Last year at this time I was walking every day. At least two miles. Sometimes more. Often vigorously. Both with the plan to lose weight and also because there wasn't anything else to do with the baby and I had no friends. Now I have a few friends and we meet at playgrounds and the kids run around and get exercise and we drink iced mochas and eat the bits of muffin that fall on their shirts.

Doc Hubby and I actually spent a half an hour two Saturday nights ago watching an infomercial for P90X. Some exercise program that you're supposed to be able to do in your home with just weights and a chin up bar (who has a chin up bar in their house???). And in 90 days you get ripped. Neither Doc Hubby nor I has ever been ripped. And we sat and watched this thing like crazy people for thirty minutes, I think kinda seriously considering doing it. I actually wondered if you can get it on Ebay. You can...OF COURSE. You can get a spare lung on Ebay.

I mean, who doesn't want to be ripped? And 90 days? That sounds like a decent amount of time in which to get ripped. Then we watched the first two hours of "Dances With Wolves" which is honestly a totally brilliant movie. I know how some people feel about Kevin Costner, and I agree in some, though not all ways. And I totally don't think this movie should be a punchline. But I have to stop watching it when it starts to get bloody because since the baby was born I just kinda can't stomach any violence in movies. So how do I think I'm gonna make my way through P90X if I'm such a wuss? Excellent question. I'll get back to you on that one.

So in lieu of P90X I jogged about a mile pushing the jogging stroller. Then turned around and walked home as vigorously as I could manage.

I discovered that I missed the crab apple blossoms this year. Because it rained a lot in the last few weeks and also because we keep going to the playground and not for walks.

I just feel...kinda antsy and rambly and itchy. Can you tell? And I totally have the hiccups.

Nothing a little P90X wouldn't cure.

Time to Cook or Get Out of the Fire

2009-05-05T19:00:00.000-07:00

I said this to my friend Rebecca on the phone yesterday. "It's time to cook or get out of the fire."

I meant kitchen. We both decided we like fire. I am not totally sure what it means.

We are all about to turn a big number. Birthday-wise. And we've all got something stuck in our craws, it seems. All my "about to turn a big number" actor friends.

It comes down to several things, Chris said. Do you really just want to do good work? Or is it the whole being famous thing. Because we really are in a place now where we could just decide to do good work and then do it.

My video did not win $10.000 on YouTube. A big company was sponsoring this contest. I was so sure I would at least be a finalist. I really was. I was ridiculously disheartened when I wasn't chosen as a finalist. I was all ready to launch my Facebook campaign and my Twitter campaign and win. That money was already in the baby's college fund. But I may have said "poop" too many times and talked about my underwear too much for this squeaky clean company's liking. Or it may have been just too much about me and not enough about the cute baby. Honestly, I thought that the whole idea was for them to choose a new spokesperson for their YouTube channel. So maybe it should be an itsy bitsy bit more about me than her. But then again. Maybe they just didn't like me.

There's this theater company that I love and I have worked for for many years. I have become friends with the people who work there. I feel, in a way, that they are my family. Or I am a tiny part of the family. Maybe just that weird sister-in-law who reads books out on the deck and sips sweet tea while everyone else is in the kitchen laughing and drinking red wine. But as time goes on, it appears that I'm kind of not being chosen to be a part of this company. I have been passed over.

Wah wah wah. Poor me. Not everyone can like you. Not everyone will like you. I feel like a pretty likeable person most of the time. But I have got to come to terms with the fact that I just don't float everyone's boat.

Not everybody will like me.

So therefore, it is time to get together with my friends. And cook or get out of the fire. There are people I adore and respect and would love to work with. So maybe I should stop sitting around waiting to be called in from the deck, and actually get out my own damn crock pot and start cooking. They all seem ready to cook too.

So we're doing a reading. My friends and I. Here in New York. To benefit a new theater company. I had rehearsal for it last night. The first rehearsal I've attended in over two years. It felt really nice.

If you're here, do you wanna come?

Bird Poop and The Evening News

2009-04-27T19:35:00.001-07:00

Conversation in my living room ten minutes ago.

Doc Hubby and I are listening to a promo for the 11 o'clock news.

News Man: ...the latest skin treatment. Pei Sze Chang tries it out...

Doc Hubby: Did they just suggest using bird poop on your face?

Me: They certainly did.

(pause)

Doc Hubby: Bird poop takes the paint off your car.

Me: So maybe it exfoliates.

The Germaphobe's Worst Nightmare. Or One of Them.

2009-04-14T19:29:00.000-07:00

I have a nasty headcold.

I should have known better than to share penne with someone who said they had a "tickle" in their chest. Now I have that and much more.

My nose dripped into my baby's clean laundry this afternoon when I was folding it. Or rather, when I was folding it and putting it on the glider and she was cackling and throwing it back in the hamper which did not amuse me at all even though she is very cute.

I have no idea which item of clothing it dripped on.

I put all the laundry away in her drawers.

She can't get sick from one drop of snot, right?

The Schwartzman Quartet's Biggest Fans

2009-04-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

Conversation upon the ending of DVR-ed Season Finale of "Friday Night Lights." Time: 11:02 p.m.

Show ends. Wipe away tears. Erase episode. Noggin blares loudly through living room. It's the opening theme song of "Jack's Big Music Show."

Me: Let's see how long it takes for me to identify what episode this is.

Doc Hubby: The music sounds better when it's going through the Bose.

Pause. Episode Starts. Two seconds later.

Me: Yeah, it's the one where Mel gets hit in the head and thinks he's a cat. (Verifies this on the DVR episode info guide). Yup. It's a good one. Have you seen it?

Doc Hubby: (Shakes head no)

And the thing is, we both briefly pondered watching the entire episode. When the Schwartzman Quartet sings "Meow Meow Meow goes the dog Mel, his meows are super swell. Some dogs bark or bow wow wow. Mel the dog just says meow," it's kind of brilliant.

Addendum: When I do a Google search of "Schwartzman Quartet" that youtube video of them singing "Mel the Dog" is the first thing that comes up. See, I'm not alone in this way of thinking.

P.S. Holy-Crapola Here I Come

2009-04-05T09:59:00.000-07:00

So there are two articles in the Times today about public schooling your kids in NYC. My baby isn't two yet, but I'm kinda already having palpitations about it.

The first one is The Sudden Charm of Public School. This article makes the point that given the economic downturn, lots of parents who were sending their kids to swanky NYC private schools, or who were planning to send their kids to swanky NYC private schools, are now trying to get them into public schools. And the high-demand, best-performing public schools now have a glut of applications and not enough slots necessarily, even for kids who live in the zones. And here's where it gets icky...people are even faking that they live in these zones to get preference. Either renting apartments there that they don't necessarily live in or "moving in" with family. Borrowing addresses. I knew all this was coming but....really??? YUCK!

The second article, Don't Move Until the School Secretary Says It's O.K. discusses many of the same topics, with the focus on making the choice to move into a zone that contains a highly ranked school. Resources offered for researching schools include other parents and the independent website InsideSchools.org. Also talks about people without kids choosing to buy in zones with good schools to up the resale values of their homes.

Now may I say, when we moved into this apartment we were planning to have children. But it never even crossed our minds to look into the school district. Let me repeat: never even crossed our minds. Can I have a rousing: Duh? DUH!

Not that it would have made that much difference. This apartment is great. We would have taken it no matter what. The neighborhood is great. The parks are great. There's a Starbucks within spitting distance. Really good bagels. But the neighborhood school is less than great.

What I realize basically, is that I am at the beginning of a big long journey. And if we choose to stay here in NYC (which for the time being seems likely) I am going to be taking on the full time job of my baby's school agent. Oh I can hire someone to do it for me. This is New York after all. But I'm pretty sure that's not gonna happen. Ok P.S. 1-2-Holy-Crap-What-Are-We-Getting-Into...here I come.

My Top Ten List So Far

2009-03-30T11:58:00.000-07:00

So I've been doing this blogging thing over a year now. I started at Babies Gotta Have It, but then I just got the yen to come here and write some of this stuff that 's going on in my life. I would actually like to write a book, but that's not something I seem to have the discipline to do during naps.

I've been reading a lot of blogs lately. Some of them are good. Really surprisingly good. Some are interesting and some are educational and some are funny. Really surprisingly funny. Like laugh out loud funny when you've been out to dinner with friends and you had that really strong mojito and you're really a teetotaler and you come home and your baby and husband are sleeping in nearby rooms and your apartment is really small but you're laughing in bursts through your nose like you've got the giggles up in the balcony in church kind of funny.

So this gal over at Piece o' Coconut Cake had the idea to create a top ten list of her favorite posts for her readers to check out while she's visiting her family in Guatemala. Let me just say, why doesn't my family live somewhere tropical and lush instead of somewhere that Puritans and farmers decided to remove rocks from and endure. Anyway, when you're up late reading blogs and eating thin mints and you want to meet some new bloggers, check out her list and the links at the end of her post.

I haven't actually written all that much in the last ten months. But I do have more than ten entries. So I went back through and scanned them and reread them. Here are the ten I like the best today.

My Apology to the Girl at the Cruise Lines Audition My first post. Why and how I got into all this.
What Does It Mean to Eat Your Children The post I wrote the day I stopped breastfeeding.
Left Wing Butterflies Baby's First Birthday Post.
Taking the A Train With My Baby New York, motherhood, and avoiding the culture of fear.
Pole Dancing and Drag Shows That's just how I roll.
The Apocalypse The Mayans and the end of the world.
Lock Up Your Craft Scissors What happened when I cut my baby's hair. This became a weekly series.
Pa Ingalls and My Responsibility Project When littering meets Halloween.
Yes We Did. The video I took of people celebrating election night in the streets of New York.
The Bouncing Remote, Baby TV and Why Doesn't My 17 Month Old Walk

And as an extra bonus. A Conversation Late Last Night. This is short. It speaks for itself.

Thanks for reading. Want to get a coffee?

Ghost Hunters and Confessions of a Teetotaler

2009-03-24T18:10:00.000-07:00

I am a teetotaler. I do not even know if I spelled that right. But I am.

Not really by design. My parents don't drink. I am not entirely sure why. I think perhaps my mom doesn't drink because she thinks it's evil and my dad doesn't drink because he knows it's evil.

I'm pretty sure I believed both when I was in high school and college and was very holier and way smarter than thou. Also way more boyfriend-less than thou so take that whole smarter thing as you will.

I still don't drink a lot. I like girly foofy beverages that taste like juice or coffee ice cream. Red wine gives me a headache...sorry Dr. Oz.

And I have never played a drinking game...

Until now.

Now, my husband and I have invented the "Ghost Hunters" drinking game. Here is how it goes.

Buy some drink that is tolerable to the wife who hates beer. I.E. Smirnoff Ice or Wine Coolers or Ginger Ale with Peach Schnapps (look, I make no claims to be that girl from Indiana Jones who could drink fat guys under the table, except in that I can kick your ass and I'm a good kisser).
Tune in to "Ghost Hunters" on the Sci Fi Channel. It is in no way as good as it was when Brian was around. He was such a screw-up that the entertainment value of that alone was worth it. Also ever since Grant pulled a fast one in the whole Halloween Episode Jacket Tug thing I have had something of a falling-out with the show. Not enough to stop watching. Just enough to say to myself, "Ok, maybe they are good actors."
Drink at the following moments, and any others that you find to be appropriate:

Any time the following terms are spoken by any of the TAPS Team: EMF, K2 Meter, EVP, Thermal Sweep, Full-Bodied Apparition
Any time that Steve says "Go for Steve" into a walkie talkie
Any time J. says "Personal Experiences"
Any time J. exclaims something along the lines of "Holy Crap!" or "What the Frig was that!!!???"
Any time any member of the TAPS team uses any form of the verb "To Investigate"

Remember on "Frasier" when Frasier and his Dad created an "Antiques Roadshow" drinking game. The only rule I remember is that they drank when anyone said "finial." I thought that episode was hilarious.

I think our Ghost Hunters drinking game is hilarious too.

And just as a side note, the baby came up to me today while I was sitting in a chair. She opened her mouth and spat a little wet brown something into her hand. Then she put it on my tummy. It was a kibble of cat food.

At least she didn't eat it.

How to Turn Your Kitchen into a Food Network Kitchen

2009-03-23T12:20:00.000-07:00

Ok so I can't get arrested in the Entertainment Industry these days. Nothing doing. Not at all. "No thank you Wendy, we'll just pass." And pass. And pass. And pass.

I am, however, getting invited to blogging events right and left. This amuses me to no end. I'm not getting paid a dime for them, of course. Except in hypo-allergenic pillow covers, Yanni CDs and bath mitts. Oh and pasta sauce. And it was at the pasta sauce event I attended where I learned:

How to Turn Your Kitchen into a Food Network Kitchen

(not literally. the kitchen i crashed was actually just a studio kitchen and the event was not a Food Network event per se. just sounds sexier with that title, don't you think?)

Add water to browning ground beef if you want it to steam. And who doesn't want a little more sizzle in life? No idea what this does to the beef itself. Might it make it moister? God knows. On list of things to try someday when I have time to kill.
Arrange all your ingredients attractively in clear prep bowls.
Wear full make-up and a great (very slimming) dress while you cook. Also pretty rings so your hands look good while you're adding salt and pepper to taste.
Pour your sauces slowly...dare I say...sensually when you add them to things. Even if you are pouring them out of giant glass jars.
Always pour sauces away from you and toward the camera. This minimizes messy splashing on your aforementioned great dress and allows the viewer to see what you're doing.
Have fresh flowers on your counter. I mean, if you don't already. (I know, who doesn't grow narcissus on the kitchen counter...)
Polish your tomatoes until they shine.
Have another person actually do the food preparation and clean-up for you.
Put pans and plates into the oven absolutely silently.
And finally, don't forget "The Hero Shot." Let me explain, lest you think I have strayed from the realm of cooking shows into porn. From what I could observe, "The Hero Shot" appears the be the final shot taken, when you have cut the beautiful slice of whatever it is you are making, served it up on a pretty plate, garnished it with whatever it demands, and then you photograph or film it in all it's foody glory, being heroic. Frankly after slaving in the kitchen I think you deserve to be featured in the Hero Shot. But unless you have someone doing your makeup and providing you with the great dress, it's probably better to just shoot the damn pie.

12 Things I Learned on My Trip To Los Angeles

2009-02-27T17:30:00.000-08:00

1. Flying Virgin America is like flying in a Mac store.
2. Los Angeles does have four seasons. It is not endlessly summer. Right now, it is Spring in Los Angeles.
3. There are Farmers Markets there all the time, and some of these Farmers Markets start at five pm and go until nine. You don't have to be there at the crack of dawn to get the good stuff.
4. The strawberries in Los Angeles are as big as the ones we get in the supermarket in New York....but they taste like someone injected them with powdered sugar.
5. The main difference between fresh citrus and citrus that has traveled across the country is texture. Fresh oranges are not stringy and you can eat the white stuff that doesn't come off with the peel.
6. Los Angeles is a sprawling, gargantuan mega-city. I have a very good sense of direction. I was driven past a cool store called "Uncle Jer's". 45 minutes later, we came upon a store called "Uncle Jer's" and I said, "Oh, look! There are two Uncle Jer's." I was informed it was indeed the same Uncle Jer's from the opposite direction.
7. Across the board, the food in Los Angeles is very very good.
8. Jason Alexander has a pug. He can be seen walking it in his neighborhood on Sunday mornings. (note to Jason Alexander...we were not stalking you. i was on a tour of the city and my friends were showing me your gorgeous neighborhood to try to convince me and my husband to move there. it was an absolute coincidence that we passed you twice.)
9. In and Out Burgers are as good as Hilary Swank says they are.
10. Pretty much all of the men in Los Angeles are handsome and pretty much all the women are skinny.
11. The Holllywood sign used to read "Hollywoodland", and the letters are so big that lots of people jumped off them to kill themselves and so now you can't walk all the way up to the Hollywood sign.
12. You can get there from here.

Walking on Superbowl Sunday

2009-02-15T07:43:00.001-08:00

So the baby is walking. On Superbowl Sunday, while neither her father nor I were paying here the least bit of attention, she just got out of her chair and started walking around the apartment. Not just taking a few steps and falling. But walking all over the apartment with her arms way up over her head and her hands flapping. "Look Mama, no hands!!!!" We shrieked and screamed and she giggled and then the Steelers won.

Since then she does it just a bit more every day. Wednesday was one of those wonderful sneak peek of Spring days. Very warm. We went to the park and for the first time she toddled around the playground by herself. This part, however, was terrifying. She is so small. She seems so much smaller than all of those boys who zoom around the playground, whacking each other and yelling things about pirate ships and Batman. She wants to stand at the bottom of the slide and watch them come flying down. Which I have tried to reason with her is not a very good idea. That reasoning didn't go over so well. There were many small fits pitched when I removed her from one hazard or another. I remembered how everyone said to me, "You're lucky she's not walking." I pretty much knew that was true at the time. Now I really do. But I'm still glad she's doing it.

There was this one sweet faced boy at one of the playgrounds who she kept smiling at. And then he would smile at her. She didn't talk to him, but they did look at each other for quite a while. I started imagining that they would meet up again in college. They'd fall in love and some late night over pizza they'd realize they lived two blocks from each other when he was three and she was one. Until his mother left her job at Columbia and they moved to Boston. They'd wonder if they ever passed each other in their strollers or if they saw each other on the playground. There's that line in one of those John Mayer love songs (I'm kinda a sucker for John Mayer) "I could have met you in a sandbox. I could have passed you on the sidewalk."

My husband and I have had this conversation. I lived in Lexington, MA for several years and he has cousins there whom they visited all the time. "I could have met you by the Minute Man. I could have passed you at the Burlington Mall..."

So I'm looking at this sweet faced kid and thinking about all of this. And then he did finally open his mouth. And I'm not even sure what he said, but it was totally weird. He sounded like a frog and suddenly seemed a little creepy.

And I thought, that's okay. She doesn't have to marry this one.

Rev. Harry J Colver, Jr. August 30, 1910 - January 26, 2009

2009-02-04T18:20:00.000-08:00

A Tribute to My Grandfather:

On the morning of Sunday January 18, 2009, my grandfather suffered a severe stroke. When it happened, he was shoveling the driveway so he could get the Sunday paper. On that snowy Sunday morning, he was 98 years, four months and twenty days old. And may I say, his wasn’t just a short, level little slab of asphalt. His was a steep—precipitously steep—long (even for those of us many years his junior)—backbreakingly long—driveway. I wouldn’t have wanted to shovel it. Especially not if I could see that my neighbor was out shoveling his driveway, and I knew that in twenty minutes or so that neighbor would be over to shovel mine, as was the case that day. But I am not Poppop. And I daresay no one else is either.

I had the great privilege of knowing my grandfather for 39 years. I am aware of how rare and how lucky that is. But that almost 40 years was just a fraction of his long and extremely productive life. He said to me quite recently, “When you get to be as old as I am, so much of life just seems like a dream.” I suppose this is no wonder.

Harry James Colver, Jr. was born on August 30, 1910 in Philadelphia, PA, the second of three sons born to Harry J. Colver Sr. and Laura Stetler Colver. The April before he was born, Halley’s Comet was visible from Earth, and though the Model T had been introduced two years earlier, most Americans still traveled via horse and buggy.

My Grandfather was two when the Titanic sunk and seven when the U.S. entered the First World War. He was ten years old and already working hard at his father’s feed mill business in Boyertown, PA with his brothers Erve and Don, when the first radio stations were set up in the U.S. He often recalled standing atop the big mill water wheel, riding it down, and leaping off just before it plunged into the stream.

When the stock market crashed…the big stock market crash in 1929 (he would weather several others after), he was working his way through Catawba College in Salisbury, North Carolina. He told us stories about how he’d attend school one year, then take the next year off to drive the feed delivery truck all over the Pennsylvania Area, from Boyertown to Philadelphia and back again, to earn enough money for next year’s tuition. He regaled us with his ventures on the basketball court and the soccer field at Catawba. He earned a varsity letter there. He traded it for a raincoat.

My grandfather attended Lancaster Theological Seminary in Lancaster, PA and was ordained in 1937, the year Roosevelt was sworn in for a second term and Amelia Earhart disappeared over New Guinea.

He and my grandmother were married on October 28, 1939 and began 69 years of marriage by riding down the main street of Stroudsburg in a horse-drawn carriage with a hand-lettered sign perched on top, reading, “Just leaving on life’s tour…A Little Slow but Happy! “ They made quite a scene, the carriage adorned with streamers, the driver bespectacled and top-hatted, townspeople hanging out of windows and hooting. Much to my surprise, I have learned that my grandfather thought this was something unbecoming for a young, upstanding minister. They had their first and only child, my mother, several years later.

Poppop did his earliest pastoring at St. Peter’s Evangelical and Reform Church in Allentown PA where he served from 1937 to 1941. And as the United States entered the Second World War in 1941, my grandfather began what would be a thirty-four year tenure at First Evangelical and Reformed Church, later called First UCC Church in Bethlehem. Poppop always just called it “First Church.” He served this church on the South Side of Bethlehem during the height of the steel era. While there, he would oversee a membership of nearly 700, three choirs, an active youth program and a yearly Easter Sunday service renowned in the area for its giant cross of lilies, accessible and entertaining sermons, and remarkable music.

During the nineteen fifties, my grandfather was elected President of the Bethlehem School Board and hosted his own radio show, “Religion of the Air.” In 1955 he traveled to Europe with 65 cows as a part of the Heifer Project, to aid farmers in post-war Germany. Though at the time he was leading a large, urban church, his heart always remained with farmers. He was accompanied in Europe by his friend and fellow minister, Clarence Moatz. Ever a great fisherman, Poppop frequently told us of Canadian fishing trips with Clarence. He and Clarence would pick a stream in Ontario, drive up in a day, pitch a tent, fish for a few days and then return home to Pennsylvania with a cooler full of fish the size of watermelons.

In 1965 he was appointed chaplain of the State Senate of Pennsylvania. Two years after he married my parents and one year before he baptized me, Poppop saw men walk on the moon.

He “retired”, and I put that in quotes, in 1975. I was five years old.

This began another thirty years of interim ministry, first in the Lehigh Valley and then in Central Pennsylvania after my grandfather and grandmother moved to Lewisburg in the early 1980s. He and my grandmother served churches in Spring Mills, Pillow, Freeburg, Herndon, Rebuck, Sunbury, Mifflinburg, and Milton, to name a few. Though he achieved his greatest success in a large church, his love, particularly in his later years, was in serving the small country churches where he said he could throw in his trout line during the prelude, check it during the offertory, and pull it up right after the benediction.

During his many decades of ministry, he preached fifty consecutive Easter Sunday services.

He presided over countless weddings including mine when he was 85 and my brother’s when he was 89, and he baptized scores of babies including my mother, myself, my brother Wes, and in 2007 at the age of 97, my daughter Cate.

In 2003, squarely in the center of the digital age, my grandfather was honored by St. John’s United Church of Christ in Milton, PA for sixty-five years in the ministry. When asked by a reporter for the secret to his years of service and dedication he responded, “I never felt that I worked. It’s been fun all the way through.” My grandfather did what he loved, and he loved what he did. He loved talking to people. My grandfather could make conversation with a fence post. He loved becoming a part of people’s lives and learning about their kids and grandkids. He loved inviting them down to the cabin in Virginia to fish for flounder, crab and rake clams. He loved being part of a community. And he loved being a minister.

Poppop preached in illustrations, aphorisms, and stories. My mother and grandmother can recite most of them by heart. But I remember in particular, one little saying he included in his again, quote, “retirement” address. It went like this “I was looking back to see if you was looking back to see if I was looking back to look at you.” I have no idea what the context was, and honestly I remember nothing else from the speech, but this phrase stuck with me. I liked the way it sounded, of course. But more than that, I was puzzled by it. As I tried to work it through in my mind, I created a mental image of two people on a roller coaster, one in front of the other. If “I was looking back,” (i.e. looking over my shoulder), “to see if you was looking back,” then you, logically, must have been sitting behind me. But if “I was looking back to see if you was looking back to see if I was looking back”….how could that be? How could you be looking over your shoulder to see me if I was sitting in front of you? What it took me, I am embarrassed to say, literally years to realize is that the two people in this little saying are walking away from one another. “I was looking back to see if you was looking back to see if I was looking back to look at you.” Which, given that this was a quote in a retirement speech, makes sense.

The irony of this is, of course, that my grandfather NEVER looked back. I think it was one of the primary keys to his remarkable health and longevity. That and the willingness to make frequent trips to the doctor. Though he could walk into the kitchen with a fish hook squarely through his finger and just show it to you like it was an oddity and maybe even a little bit funny, he had no reluctance whatsoever about frequent visits to the doctor. He was a lesson in preventative medicine.

But my Poppop was also the most forward-thinking person I have ever known. An avid and genius gardener, the tomatoes he had planted on his sun porch were up two inches and the beds around his driveway had just been rebuilt for spring planting, when he passed. He walked forward through life with no regrets about the past, never second-guessing his choices, steadily welcoming tomorrow. I am trying to learn this from him. When Poppop did look back, it was primarily to revel. To tell and retell stories from his remarkable past, and to ensure that those he had valued still remained fresh in his, and our, minds. Perhaps the notion of that phrase that stuck with me, “I was looking back to see if you was looking back…” was that though we may walk away from one another, we will always look back to keep an eye on those that mattered. And they, God-willing, will be looking back at us.

When I walk away from Lewisburg, and head back to New York City I will look back. I always look back. But I will also go home to my small apartment, get out the pots and the potting soil, place them under the window, and plant my tomatoes for the spring.

Inauguration Day 2009

2009-01-20T18:58:00.000-08:00

I love it that even on the day the world changes, I still have to scrape chicken mush off the splat mat.

A Proud Moment

2009-01-16T18:54:00.000-08:00

So little bean is obsessed with electronics, but she's almost equally as obsessed with the cat. And the cat's water bowl. Any chance she gets she's splashing in it.

So yesterday she's playing with the magnetic letters and numbers on the fridge while I'm making a quiche (spinach, tomato and shallots and very very yummy). Before I know it, the baby has grabbed the number 8 magnet, is crawling like a maniac toward the water bowl, and dunking it in. I grab her, emphasize very firmly that we do not dunk the number 8 in the cat bowl, and place her back down on the floor next to the fridge.

Seconds later...I look down...

And she's licking the water off the number 8.

I'm so proud.

The Bouncing Remote, Baby TV, and Why Doesn't My 17 Month Old Walk...

2009-01-13T19:24:00.000-08:00

So I just had this memory. Five minutes ago I was sitting on the couch, remote balanced on my tummy, watching some Primetime hidden camera special (there is seriously nothing on TV tonight). Suddenly, I got a little abdominal muscle twitch and the remote started to bounce up and down. And I had this memory...

When I was pregnant the same thing happened. I had the remote on my ever-growing stomach, and suddenly the baby kicked and the remote bobbed over my belly like a boat on a stormy sea (appropriate image given my nonstop "morning" sickness - did I mention I puked on every major holiday from Christmas to St. Patty's Day that year? More than once on most of them?). But when it happened the first time, it was so surprising and delightful that I was absolutely transfixed. Doc hubby and I sat on the sofa, watched the remote bob up and down, and giggled and gawked.

I remember people talking about this concept of "Baby TV"...that when your baby is born you are so totally mesmerized by her that you just sit for hours and watch her little face like TV. This seemed not only inconceivable to me...but honestly, totally boring. I figured, you know, you love your kid and all, but to stare at her for hours? Really?

So then I got pregnant, and then the remote started flopping around on my belly, and then I found myself staring at that for maybe not hours, but certainly long minutes on end. And I thought to myself, "if I spend this much time watching a small, battery-powered device bobbing on my belly....maybe that whole idea of baby TV isn't so far off base.

The baby took two steps today. On her own. I haven't written much about this...my 17 month old doesn't walk on her own, and while it kinda freaks me out, she has her crazy strengths and I just think we're all geniuses in our own way and walking early isn't her way. But I have been embarrassed to take her to music class or on playdates lately because I'm afraid people will look at me funny and tell me I need to have her checked out. My mom is an early childhood specialist. So I have kind of had her checked out. And she cruises like a champ and walks with a walker all the time and walks holding on to only one of my fingers. I feel in my heart that she's fine. She's just cautious and she lives in a really small apartment and she doesn't like to fall down. I'm all those things too. I get it. We have many of the same other strengths and so I appreciate her. I said to my friend Katie the other day, "well she still isn't walking..." and Katie said, "yeah but she's writing her memoirs, isn't she?" Which is sorta true. She also hits herself in the head when she gets mad. See I'm afraid even to write this because I fear I'll get all kinds of comments from people saying "Yeah my kid didn't walk and hit herself in the head when she got mad and she went crazy and lives in a yurt and I never see her..." Or much worse. Yurts are pretty green and all. I could get behind a yurt...

Anyway, when she took the two steps I totally started to cry. I was ridiculously proud of her. And she sort of didn't seem to notice that she did it. She immediately fell and she didn't like that at all. And she was transfixed by her bottle and "Pinky Dinky Doo" (yes I also let my 17 month old watch some TV...more comments here we come...). I think that's why it happened, honestly. She's just her own schedule and her own person and all that makes me a little weepy.

Because she used to just be a remote bouncing around on my belly.

Peppermint Peeps

2008-12-29T10:20:00.000-08:00

Ok for the record, Peppermint Christmas Peeps are kinda yarfy. And I loves me some Peeps. Anyone who knows me knows I loves me some Peeps. I get them for all seasons from loving friends who see new designs and pass them on to me. I eat them. Sometimes I microwave them for ten seconds or so. I enjoy them.

Friends of mine even worked Peeps into a production of a Shakespeare play (I think it was "Alls Well that Ends Well") just as a private joke for me.

I even like the websites about Peeps. Have you seen this Peep Research page? A bunch of scientists do all kinds of experiments on Peeps. Mostly to see what, if anything, will destroy them. As it turns out, pretty much nothing will destroy the eyes.

I am most fond of the original Easter Peeps. The chicks. In yellow. But I like the bunnies a lot too. I have had the Christmas trees Peeps, the Jack o Lanterns Peeps, a giant Valentine's heart Peeps, and now...the Peppermint Stars Peeps. And I think this is the first variety that has ever had some kind of additional flavoring. And as aforementioned, it's kinda yucky.

But I still ate two.

Even though I'm trying to detox a bit from holiday binging.

I get very sad when the holidays end. I like the idea that a day can be special just because it's in late December and a few days before an even more special day. I like the idea that a time of the year or a date on the calendar is special just because it is. And it always is every single year. And when that special time ends I get a little sad. Like my mother and my grandfather, I start thinking about Spring just after my birthday passes in early January. I start looking through seed catalogs. I note that the days are indeed getting minutely longer. I think about vacations.

And I ponder Peeps. Because eventually, the Easter ones will come.

List of Things I Have Burned Since Giving Birth

2008-12-07T14:18:00.000-08:00

A partial list.

12/7/08 Roasted Sweet and Regular Potatoes
Wednesday before Thanksgiving '08 Sweet Potato Biscuits
Lentils
My Arm (after burning the lentils)
The Black & White Sandwich Cookies I was Making for the Nieces and Nephews

I will continue adding to this. It's getting ridiculous.

Yes We Did.

2008-11-04T20:52:00.000-08:00

Pa Ingalls and My Responsibility Project

2008-10-30T20:53:00.001-07:00

So there's this thing going on at right now called The Responsibility Project. Spurred by a Liberty Mutual commercial of all things, the site features a bunch of short films about personal responsibility. And I'm so on about that.

I hate it when I see kids litter in the subway. I saw a teenage boy hand a half-full can of grape soda to another kid right before getting off the train. The other kid, a girl, didn't want it, yelled loudly in response, and held the soda can very briefly like it was a dead animal. I'm pretty sure the boy had a crush on her and thought handing her his garbage was a good way to show it. Have I mentioned I didn't have a high school boyfriend? In retrospect, maybe not so bad. Anyway, the girl then put the can on the floor under a seat and got off at the next stop.

Not surprisingly, within minutes the can overturned, and a narrow, shallow, sticky river of grape soda began to run the length of the subway car. I watched it all happen, and I was so mad about it. Mad when I watched people having to step around the mess. Mad when I saw people step right in it. Mad when a diverging stream ran into the open-toed shoes of someone innocently reading a newspaper, not noticing.

Finally a woman picked the can up and exited the subway with it. And I wanted to get her email address and send her a thank you note. That woman exercised the kind of personal responsibility that germaphobic me was not willing to do (Pick up some kid's yucky, germy, discarded soda can after it rolled around on the subway floor? No thank you. I will just sit, watch it obsessively, and steam).

So will my baby girl leave half empty cans of soda on the subway when she's a teenager? Gulp.

As a parent, my inherent, goody-two-shoes, nerdy to a fault, Presbyterian, "follows-directions-well-ness" has kind of exploded. The sense of responsibility I feel towards this small person is kind of staggering. I think this feeling is probably why I have obsessively posted videos and photos about cutting her bangs too short--for an entire MONTH. She was fine. Then I took scissors to her and mangled her hair. Fairly harmless in the grand scheme of things. A spilled can of grape soda on a subway train. But when it comes to...you name it. Making medical decisions. Protecting her financial future. Keeping her from hurting herself. Even teaching her not to litter. Am I indiscriminately wielding craft scissors?

So, Liberty Mutual (and I am so not selling anything for them or getting paid by them...I just watched this movie after the link was sent to me) is sponsoring this film project to get people talking about individual responsibility. And I find it so refreshing. In this age--heck in this election month--where many are passing the buck, many are blaming our problems on everyone else, here's a company using film to raise the issue of individuals choosing to stop the buck.

Here's the movie I watched. It's called "Tony." I watched the whole 13 minutes of it, which is rare for me, and actually found it kind of touching. I'm a new mom so I guess that's not too surprising. I'm not sure about the end...but I've only been a parent for 14 months. Talk to me in a couple of years. And did the boy need to be sick to make the story work? I'm actually not sure about that either. Maybe yes. Again, talk to me in a few years.

But all this is really about me of course, and my penance for hacking the baby's bangs. My crazy sense of responsibility which is hitting me so hard that I feel the need to post photos for a month featuring very blatantly "the bad thing I did." So here's the latest, and let me say also the final, one.

And here's a sneak peek of the little bean in her Halloween costume. She's going to be Laura Ingalls (before the "Wilder" when she was still "Half Pint"). So how did Ma and Pa teach those kids to be so darned responsible? I guess they had no other choice. Everyone pitched in or they wouldn't have anything to eat after Plum Creek froze in November. Minnesota winters in a poorly insulated homestead slap some responsibility into you pretty quickly, I guess.

None the worse for the wear. Still the biggest responsibility project I've ever undertaken. And I love her.

Bangs Week 3

2008-10-23T17:06:00.000-07:00

How's the diet going?

(While eating a brownie) Not well. This afternoon I binged on organic vanilla alphabet cookies.

At least the baby's hair is looking better.

Those vanilla cookies friggin rock.

Bangs Week 2

2008-10-17T14:57:00.000-07:00

sigh.

Makes Me Not Want to Chant "USA"

2008-10-14T22:20:00.001-07:00

So remember how I was all charged up about there being a woman and a black man running for the highest offices in our nation. I wanted to chant USA.

Yeah not so much any more.

I'm frankly appalled by what's happening. I feel that this woman is being used, and actively allowing herself to be used, in some of the most shameful hatemongering that I've had the misfortune to see. Hatemongering so appalling that even John McCain had to silence his own supporters who have taken to shouting out that Obama is a "terrorist" and remind them that he's a good and decent man. It's shocking and appalling and upsetting and frankly, I am no longer all that excited that my daughter will learn about it one day in school. At least, not what the minds behind the Republican campaign have done during the last few weeks.

But it's been a kinda lousy day. I had an audition for an agent tonight. Not getting rid of my sweet manager--in fact he set up the audition. Just considering adding another person (read, deducting another %15) to my "team." Let me tell you, it was friggin' sobering. First of all, I didn't really do my audition pieces too well. As the Red Sox proved tonight, you can't always hit them out of the park. And I so didn't. But that aside, what followed was a respectful, but painful interview in which I answered frankly questions about whom I do not know in this industry. Pretty much, I discovered, I know no one. I mean, I know some people. I've met a lot of people. But "know know"...like if you say my name to them will their eyes light up with happy recognition? Yeah, not so much.

And this is, as I have stated before, not an industry that takes kindly to aging. Particularly to women aging. So as the years have passed, and I have lived in this unforgiving city, and my career has moved at it's own leisurely pace (note my passive voice in discussing it...as if "it" not "I" were moving so slowly) I find myself in a bit of a pickle, pushing...well pushing the age I am pushing. "Opportunities for women 40 to 60 in this country" as I heard a wonderful, creative, imaginative and smart casting director say the other day, "are limited." I nearly fell over. Did he actually lump 40 - 60? This very smart man whom I respect a lot and knows this industry inside and out? Me with my mother? Yup. He so did.

So this all brings me around to what the people who are running this campaign are doing to this former beauty queen and sportscaster. Let's face it, she was lifted out of the entertainment industry to feed the entertainment industry. She's as much a player in a drama as I am. Here was an opportunity for a woman 40 - 60. A huge one. And it has become a punchline. No worse. It's become dangerous.

And that so does not make me want to chant U.S.A.

Bangs Week 1

2008-10-09T19:55:00.000-07:00

Well since I hacked the baby's bangs off...not much has changed. They still look horrible. I've just become somewhat numb to it. I almost can't remember how they looked when they were long, wispy and adorable. Before I got out the craft scissors.

And I've been using product to keep them swept over to the side. She looks like a little 1950s baby when I do that. And I ignore what the gel is probably doing to her sweet skin. For the record, I barely use any at all. But to continue to do my own penance, I must, weekly, return to the scene of the crime, brush the bangs straight down, photograph her, and atone. So that I never ever ever try to cut her hair again.

The Elusive Icelander

2008-10-08T11:36:00.000-07:00

They have begun construction on the next door apartment upstairs. I just left the sleeping baby (MIRACLE!) to go and check it out.

Last year at this time they began work on the apartment next door. It is a three bedroom...count em 1 - 2 - 3 friggin' bedroom apartment. Something so rare in New York that I am considering charging admission for people to simply peek in the door when the occupants leave for jogs. And as loud as the constant banging is upstairs right now, it was three times as loud last year. I guess...hard to say. It's pretty damn loud right now.

So yeah, last year our neighbors left (a very nice family who were sweet and friendly but seemed to have no interest in actually becoming our friends) and men began systematically dismantling their apartment. They stripped the place. Floor to ceiling. Removed molding (lead paint fears I guess), appliances, floors...caused teeny tiny nasty piles of toxic dust to seep under cracks in the molding and form inside our apartment.

But I was actually kind of excited. A small family had left, I could only imagine a small family would be moving in. After all the apartment has (have I mentioned) three bedrooms! Maybe they'd have two kids. Maybe we'd end up watching "Project Runway" together and sharing babysitting. Maybe we'd actually have friends next door.

So after months of wall-shaking banging and floor vibrating sanding and nauseating noxious odors, the apartment was done. And the guys who work in the building confided to me that it's all top of the line! Stainless steel appliances, fancy light fixtures, custom everything. I was flipping ecstatic when I got to choose the paint colors in this place. And then didn't have to paint them myself. But no one was offering me granite countertops, believe you me.

And the people who moved in? A young couple. I have seen the husband maybe three times in the last year. The wife I have never laid eyes upon. So far as I know. The university which offers us this housing (not for free mind you) apparently thought that his coming here from Iceland merited a complete overhaul and three months of constant noise. And possible lead paint exposure. So he and his wife (? I assume) could spread out their Icelandic stuff over three bedrooms.

So is it just sour grapes? I mean, no shared babysitting. No pizza and reality TV. No friends. No sightings even for months on end. Which is the truly amazing thing about New York. For as much as we live in each others' laps...we never ever ever lay eyes on our neighbors. Ever. We smell noxious things from their apartments wafting through the walls (don't get me started on the lovely Asian couple who cooked some kind of cabbage stuff daily while I was so "morning" sick that I couldn't leave my couch for weeks), we see their strollers in the hallway, but we never actually see them. Let alone exchange holiday gifts.

And it's kind of sad and lonely.

So (and now the baby is awake and chattering in her crib) I now have to put up with months more of deafening noise while they renovate another presumably gigantic apartment (it's directly over the one next door) for another person? couple? family? who I will most likely not lay eyes upon.

I miss seeing people in the driveway or working out in their gardens. I fantasize that if I lived on a regular street I would exchange plant clippings and invite them over for bbq. Rather than simply say (if I do happen to lay eyes upon my neighbors) "oh we should really get together sometime."

Because we never ever do.

The baby is totally awake. And it sounds like the guys upstairs are jumping around on pogo sticks. It's gonna be a long couple of months.

Lock Up Your Craft Scissors

2008-10-02T21:18:00.000-07:00

Note to all you Moms out there, if you don't have any hairdressing training or experience, take a moment before you take scissors to your child's bangs. Even if they are full of toast and yogurt and spit and gunk and getting in her eyes...start very very very very small. Or better yet, take her to someone with some training and expertise.

Do not...I repeat do not...do what I did.

I am tormented by this brief horrible moment with a pair of craft scissors and a Winnie the Pooh comb. I snipped her bangs once before in her short life. Just a tiny bit. A wee itty bit. And it was fine. How did i manage to turn her into Moe from the Three Stooges?

How do I solve this? Do I take her to a real haircutting place and have them try to fix it? Honestly, I can't bear to tell anyone that I did...this.

Dollhouse Frock GIVEAWAY !!!!!!!

2008-09-28T20:49:00.000-07:00

Dollhouse Frock GIVEAWAY !!!!!!!

The Apocalypse

2008-09-25T20:26:00.000-07:00

So I'm looking at USA Today...come on, like you're gonna say you never read USA Today even at hotels when it shows up hanging from your door knob for free? And I was looking based on a tip from a twitter friend that the world is possibly going to end on 12/21/2012 according to the Mayans. So I was like, dang, better get that book published before then, cuz I'm gonna feel like a total failure if the world ends and I don't have anything to show for it except for a couple of commercials for chewing gum.

So anyway, according to the respected authorities quoted by USA Today, it's a wee bit more complicated than that. Basically, on that day, which also happens to be the winter solstice, the Mayan Long Count calendar will flip back to zero. Like the odometer in my Dad's 1979 Volkswagen camper van did after 100,000 miles.

According to the article

Part of the 2012 mystique stems from the stars. On the winter solstice in 2012, the sun will be aligned with the center of the Milky Way for the first time in about 26,000 years. This means that "whatever energy typically streams to Earth from the center of the Milky Way will indeed be disrupted on 12/21/12 at 11:11 p.m. Universal Time," Joseph writes.

They then go on to say that scholars are pretty sure the Mayans didn't know that.

The thing is, I'm guessing that they did. In fact, I'm pretty sure they did... Those dudes kinda specialized in knowing unknowable things about the universe.

And what I want to know is...

how?

Pole Dancing and Drag Shows

2008-09-17T09:53:00.000-07:00

So in the last two weeks, I, Wendy, formerly of Lewisburg, PA, have attended both a drag cabaret show and a pole dancing class. Interestingly, I gained three or four new followers on Twitter when I tweeted about the pole dancing. The followers were guys. Not mommy bloggers. Go figure.

In both cases, I found myself at the event, alone, several minutes before it started. And in both cases, in an attempt not to look like a lonely loser, I texted everyone I knew to demonstrate to those around me that yes I do have friends...they just don't happen to be here with me tonight like your friends are. Plus, I wanted all my friends to know where I was because, honestly, usually I'm in front of my TV watching "Ghost Hunters" and eating brownies. 99 nights out of 100. And that's even before the baby came.

I have always been a stay at home kinda gal. I got married, when I was, like, twenty (ok, twenty-five) and just never got into the going out scene. Which frankly, is a bit of a problem when you're trying to make a career in an industry that is all about going out and meeting people and being part of the scene. I don't even know what subway stop the scene is closest to. But I like to be at home with my cat and my husband and the television. Oh yeah and the baby.

However, I'm working on this. This going out thing. Before the cabaret show, I was at an on-camera audition class, which, honestly, I'd rather have a root canal than attend. Not because the teacher isn't good. He's great actually, as are the other participants in the class. Just it's so...kinda painful. I used to think that if I just worked hard and did my best and was a good person I would find success in this business. Did I mention I'm from Amish country? I now know that I need to plunk down cold hard cash to meet the people I should have met ten years ago when I still believed all this was a meritocracy. So I did that. Incidentally, the casting director gave me a scene for a 50 year old psychologist that first week and a 55 year old truck driver for today. But that's really a subject for another post.

So then I high tailed it down to the Duplex to see the Sunday Morning Mimosa live show. As I texted my friend Rebecca (different Rebecca from the Titanic Agent post--pretty much half the women in my life are named Rebecca) before the show started, while sipping my ginger ale and peach schnapps (did I mention I was raised Presbyterian), she wrote back that she felt I was there for a reason that would become evident in its own time. I texted her back, "clear eyes full hearts can't lose" because "Friday Night Lights" makes me cry and I think that's true despite all the meritocracy hopes being dashed.

Let me say, Gina Marie Rittale and Anita M. Buffem--two lovely ladies from Astoria--were totally delightful. I have been in touch with their nephews James and Steven about maybe doing a teeny tiny part in a movie they are creating. I love them. Their show was charming and surprising and everything a root canal is not. Much more sketch comedy than "drag" in any kind of a traditional sense. Just a super fun hoot. Even by oneself!

So then the following Friday...I went pole dancing. And can I just say, pole dancing is a surprisingly good workout. My right leg is bruised from foot to knee from the vomit-inducing spins that peppered the routine we were taught. I went with friends to celebrate my friend Katie's (not the same Katie as the punctuation post--several other women in my life are named Katie) impending nuptials. And though I wasn't the pole dancing savant Katie was, and I didn't look as professional as Joey did (though she is a dancer and she has a great body), my friends told me I was "surprisingly good with the pole." Yup. Wendy from Lewisburg...surprisingly good with the pole.

Though I left my shins a goose-egged throbbing mess and nearly upchucked the delicious tomato cheddar soup I had before the party, I did spin around the pole like...well like I once spent hours climbing poles on the playground, which I did. Yes pole dancing, to me, was a throwback to playing on the jungle gym. Another delightful surprise. Though it would have been even more delightful if Anita and Gina Marie were pole dancing with me. I think they could have showed all those skinny pole young dancing actresses a thing or two.

I did ache for about four days after pole dancing. But I'm actually thinking about going back and taking some more classes...for the exercise. And the spinning. Maybe next time I'll wear knee pads and shin guards.

Punctuation Junction

2008-09-15T22:37:00.000-07:00

"bloody furious Isabella lost Jack wretched morning now napping."

So depending on how you punctuate the above text message, or don't punctuate it, your husband could spend an agonizing 35 minutes believing that your friend Isabella lost your baby. Who has since somehow been returned, presumably unharmed, and is napping.

My friend Katie had flown to D.C. to visit a friend. When it was time to leave, Isabella offered to drive Katie and her son back to the airport, which seemed like an okay idea at the time. Isabella's house was only about fifteen minutes from the airport. It would save Katie cab fare. They'd have a few more precious moments to talk. What could possibly go wrong? Assuming Isabella did indeed know how to find the airport.

But when Isabella got hopelessly lost, and then when she subsequently plowed into a vending machine at the gas station where they hoped to procure reliable directions, Katie texted her husband the above message. Unpunctuated.

Her husband called immediately to find out if "Jack was okay." Katie replied that he was. Her husband asked "Can you talk?" Katie said "Not really." Husband asked "Are you okay." She replied "Not really." For the next 35 minutes, until Katie called her husband while breathlessly carrying the baby down the ramp to the plane (which miraculously they actually made), and then clarified the details of the morning, her husband believed that Isabella had, in fact, lost Jack.

Note to self. Punctuate text messages.

9-17-08 Addition--Realized I never indicated how this message should indeed have been punctuated. "bloody furious. Isabella lost. Jack wretched morning. now napping." Ahhhhhh yes....

Makes Me Want to Chant "USA"

2008-09-03T10:06:00.000-07:00

The Democrats have left Denver. The Republicans are in St. Paul. And I just had this thought.

So listen, I'm not gonna tell you who to vote for. I mean, I'll put a magnet on my car and wear a tee shirt around, but I'm not campaigning on my blog. I just pretty much don't want to see another doofus in the White House.

But look, at the risk of totally overstating the obvious, something kinda cool is happening right now. Because whatever you think of Obama, and whatever you think of Palin, if you plan to vote this November, and if you plan to vote for one of the two major parties, you won't be able to leave that funny little voting booth without pulling the lever or flipping the switch or putting your stone in the coke bottle for either a black man or a woman.

And that's friggin' awesome!!! I mean, come ON! That rocks. If I were the type to chant "USA" in any other circumstance besides during an Olympic Games, I might do so right now.

This is the first presidential election of my wee baby gal's life, and there's a woman and an African American man on the ballot...for different parties. That totally rocks.

Of course it rocks. Hollywood did it, like, ten years ago. Right? And Hollywood is always at the forefront of cool. The first woman in a position of power who comes to my mind is Glen Close in "Air Force One". She played Harrison Ford's Vice President Kathryn Bennett in 1997. Eleven years ago! Ok so maybe they had to give her a Jane Austen name so we wouldn't be so afraid of her while she was running the country like a total bad ass. But still. Eleven years ago.

Geena Davis was Mackenzie Allen in the frankly lousy TV show "Commander in Chief" in 2005. Like anyone would have named their daughter Mackenzie in the fifties. I don't think the show failed because Hollywood pushed the envelope. I think it failed because the writing kinda sucked. And they didn't cast my friend Rebecca as young press secretary Kelly Ludlow. Still, Hollywood gave the American people a chance to try out having a woman in the Oval Office (sitting behind the desk thank you very much) without actually having to vote for her, long before that opportunity has actually made it to the November ballot box. And though America said yes to "The West Wing" (a genius show in every respect), for whatever reason, they said no to "Commander in Chief." And ultimately, they said no to Hillary. Maybe Hillary should have had Aaron Sorkin writing for her.

I don't watch "24", but Dennis Haysbert was an inspired choice to play President David Palmer (about as unthreatening a name as you could possible give him, huh?). According to Digital Spy, Haysbert himself thinks his role on "24" contributed to America's acceptance of Barak Obama as a candidate. I say, of course it did. Look what "Will and Grace" did for the gay community. Little old ladies think gay guys are cute because of Jack. Again, Hollywood gave us the chance to audition something new and formerly inconceivable. Brought it right into the safe haven of our living rooms. Let us peek inside, feel it out while no one was watching, and decide that actually, as those guys and gals running things out there on the west coast already knew (because really, that's why they get paid the big bucks), it's kinda cool.

So how do we weigh the outcome here? "24" is about to begin its seventh season. It is tremendously popular. My mother and brother both love it. "Air Force One" made over 315 million dollars. I still sometimes say "Get off my plane". I'm not sure how to weigh the relative success of those two enterprises.

I know who I want to win. And I think he will. I really do. But either way, it will be pretty fun to hear my daughter talk about this election some day like it's no big deal.

Project Subway Platform

2008-08-28T09:35:00.000-07:00

So I was at 34th Street on the subway platform waiting for the 1 train a few weeks ago. And I saw this dark-haired guy standing there waiting for the train. And I thought to myself, hey I know that guy! Where do I know him from? Did we do a show together? He was small and bearded and kinda theater-y looking. So I smiled a big, dumb, goofy smile. And he looked right past me.

Which made me feel kind of lousy for a second. And then I realized. He's that guy from Project Runway. Kevin, from Season 4. Not the one who cried all the time. That was Ricky. The other guy. Kevin. I liked him. That's probably why when I saw him, I assumed he was my friend.

What a strange thing it is to be a reality TV star. Because when it ends, unless you "win", you're back to riding the subway. The money's not that good, I don't think. If you don't win. I mean, it's better than waiting tables. But you know, you're not gonna retire on it. So unless you "hit" somehow... either win the whole thing or become the breakout story, you're back on the 1 train, pounding the pavement, scrambling for work.

Kinda like what it is to be just a person living in New York.

And note, I still ride the subway every day.

Agents and Shipwreck

2008-08-25T19:01:00.000-07:00

A quote by a renowned and accomplished theater actress as relayed to me by Rebecca Harris:

"Changing agents is like switching seats on the Titanic."

A Conversation Late Last Night

2008-08-20T09:35:00.000-07:00

Doc Hubby: Look at this. (Points to self and frowns.)

Me: Yeah, I'll see your Christmas boxers, and I'll raise you a pair of maternity underwear.

Somebody needs to do some laundry.

Taking the A Train With My Baby

2008-08-19T11:06:00.000-07:00

My baby loves people. I mean LOVES them. We are actually able to go out to eat all the time because she is so happy to flirt with everyone around her. Busboys to hostesses, patrons to chefs. My baby loves them all. More than once I have seen people grimace when they catch sight of the high chair on the opposite side of the restaurant. Then Baby Girl smiles at them. Then they smile back, delightedly. And then they are unable to finish their lunches because my baby demands their attention for the next 45 minutes while I eat my omelet in peace.

I live in post 9-11 New York City. I have been here for fifteen years. I am well aware of the need to be cautious. But I am staunchly opposed to the culture of fear.

Lots of people have responded with outrage to Lenore Sekazy, the woman who allowed her nine-year-old to ride home on the subway alone. She wrote a column about it, appeared on the Today Show, and people came out of the woodwork. Many of the people who oozed through the cracks have never set foot in Manhattan, let alone on the D Train. I live here. I ride it every day. Since my baby was born, I bring her on the subway too. Which is a challenge for me, as a bona fide germaphobe. I took her on a 1 Train this morning that was far too crowded for 10:15 (what the heck is the problem with the trains these days...they are getting insane) and whipped out my hand sanitizer five times between here and 14th Street. I suppose there are some who would criticize my decision to take my baby on a crowded subway in the first place. Think of all the risk factors--terrorists to muggers, germs to track fires.

However, you want to know what my experience riding the train with my baby has been like? Kinda amazing. People offer me seats a lot. More than when I was pregnant. Though frankly I think people are too afraid to risk offending someone who might not be actually pregnant by offering her a seat. (And honestly, I'd rather stand on a crowded subway than sit--more distance between baby's face and coughing passengers. I told you I was a germaphobe.) Several months ago a rowdy car full of teenage boys noisily and colorfully told each other to shut up because a baby was sleeping. And then, I kid you not, sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to her. She goes looking for friends, there's no doubt about it. But not a ride goes by that she doesn't succeed. And that makes the time pass more easily. And it makes her giggle.

She is a trusting soul.

I want her to be like that. I want her to believe in people. I want her to have a little dose of Anne Frank's optimism about the essential goodness of others. I love it that busboys will line up to spin dishrags on their fingers so she will laugh.

Maybe the guys at the Toyota Place are jacking the service fees up and doing unnecessary repairs on your car...but maybe they're not. Maybe your breaks actually need to be replaced. Perhaps that crazily bearded guy in the plaid shirt who is always lurking in the parking lot of the grocery store is a dangerous wacko. And maybe he's just a little lost and a little bit sad and lonely. Maybe the Middle Eastern guy sitting next to you on the plane is a terrorist. And maybe he used to be an engineer in Pakistan and now has to drive a cab to support his wife and kids in Queens. I choose to believe the latter until proved wrong.

I asked my friend Sarah who grew up in the city how old she was when she started riding the subway alone. She said she was in fifth grade. And this was in the early 80's -- pre-Giuliani, pre-Disneyfication of Times Square, pre-metrocard. We used to sell Girl Scout cookies to apartment complexes full of college kids when I was that age. Our parents dropped us off, and we went door to door. No one thought we would get molested. No one did get molested. And we sold a hell of a lot of thin mints.

So at what age will I let baby girl ride the subway alone? Hard to say. I'm inclined to say that nine is a bit early for us. But who knows? At some point I know I will need to talk to her about stranger danger. About trusting her instincts. About listening to the voice in her head that's telling her a situation might not be right and it's time to leave.

But until then, my baby is growing up in a world where people go underground and sit next to other people of every size, shape and color. She can smile at them, even if her Mama doesn't speak the same language they do. And they will smile back. And that's nothing to be afraid of.

Deception of Olympic Proportion

2008-08-12T09:16:00.000-07:00

So the footprints were fake. The huge firework footprints that TV viewers saw traipse across the sky to the Birdsnest at the Opening Ceremonies of the 2008 Olympics in Bejing. I was absolutely astonished by them. They were so cool. And apparently, they were computer generated. Right down to the smoggy sky and the suggestion that the camera was shaking from the force of the booms.

And Lin Miaoke, the little girl who sang "Ode to the Motherland" as the Chinese flag progressed around the stadium? Cute as a button. Definitely camera-ready. Yeah she didn't sing a word. The song was actually sung by Yang Peiyi who was deemed "not cute enough" to appear on camera.

It's old news, really. But what do I tell my daughter? About what's real and what's not. About the need to be perfect, even if it can only be accomplished digitally or through deception.

I'm all for magic. I think there are not enough fairy houses and elves running around these days. But I'm not sure I like watching magic on TV when those sending out the signals didn't let me in on the secret.

Which is funny, really. For the Olympics. Right now, we are watching an event in which real people, actual live human beings, do the impossible right and left. A Chinese gymnast did something on the rings last night that Tim Daggett said was flat out impossible. If, even only a few years ago, you had told someone you were going to do that particular move, Bart said, people would have laughed at you and said it was impossible. Yet this young gymnast did it. Seemingly effortlessly. Indeed it is the gymnasts that most appear to defy the laws of reality. People can't fly, right? Oh wait. They can. And apparently they can swim like mermaids and twirl off diving boards, in perfect synchronization with another human being...all in real life. And lift cars over their heads. And shoot through the eye of a needle.

The Olympics is an opportunity for us to witness the incredible abilities we human beings have. With a little bit of talent and lots of training, we can do things that it would seem could only be created on a computer screen. But have we become so used to deception in the movies and on TV that we now take it for granted? Hollywood can bring dinosaurs back to life, raze New York City, and air brush pounds from celebrity Mommy's waists. Hollywood can do anything. Of course they can.

But to be truly amazed, we don't need them! Just look at these unbelievable people from all around the world doing unbelievable things right before our eyes. Complete with sweat, blood, vomit and tears. We need to remind ourselves and our kids while we are watching these athletes that what they are doing is actually REAL! No green screens. No acting. Well, maybe some acting. But still, what their Adonis-like bodies are undergoing is true. Michael Phelps can swim so fast that he leaves a wake.

So yeah they faked the fireworks and the little girl. So far as I know that undulating box thing they did was real, but who's to say? I guess in this world where absolutely anything is possible one can never be quite sure. Any image can be created on screen and brought to life, whether it's through the magic of computers or just a plain old bait and switch.

But here's the thing--I don't want my little girl to lose sight of the truly incredible. I want her to know real magic when she sees it. And I never want her, or me for that matter, to lose the capacity to be amazed.

Left-Wing Butterflies

2008-08-07T18:38:00.000-07:00

I made butterfly cookies today for my baby girl's first birthday party using an antique cookie press. My mom has had one for years, and then she gave me one. Search "Vintage Mirro Cooky Pastry Press" on Ebay, and you'll find about thirty. For seven bucks plus shipping you can own one of your own. The contraption is basically an aluminum canister with a screw top twisty thing that pushes dough out through a stencil and onto the cookie sheet. We always made them for Christmas when I was little. Some of the templates are Christmas trees and some are stars. There is even a camel.

Making these cookies takes patience and some practice. In case you decide to give it a whirl let me pass on a little advice: be sure you chill the dough before you begin pressing the cookies, chill the dough again in between each tray, and do not by any means attempt to press cookies in a boiling hot kitchen with no ventilation like the tiny kitchen in the tiny studio apartment we rented at a crazy low price for the first five years we were married. The cookies will staunchly refuse to break from the press and you'll end up with columns of Christmas trees snaking out across your one square foot of counter space like play dough.

This past Christmas I took at look at some of the other templates just for fun. Very 1950s. Very Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. Which the device proudly sports. Many of these cookie designs would be just right for a "bridge night" or "ladies guild luncheon." But I was particularly taken by the butterfly. And I decided that evening in December that my wee gal's first birthday party would be a butterfly theme. Call me Martha. But I like themes.

So how do I feel about my baby, my teeny tiny baby, turning one? Frankly, it seems completely impossible. There is no way she can be one. I was just pregnant, like, five minutes ago. As my friend Katie said when we were strolling our strollers in the park today, "I still think I'm pregnant. When I pass pregnant women, I smile at them knowingly and I'm completely astonished when they don't smile back. Especially when I'm with him." She nodded to her sweet-faced 8-month-old. I have done the exact same thing. With the exact same puzzling results. Ok, sure I don't have the heartburn, but I'm still part of the club, right?

I try to remember what I thought when I passed women pushing strollers while I was pregnant. In early August. In the stinky stinky city. I suppose I was so totally wrapped up in my own experience (ie. trying to make it to the subway without peeing in my pants, throwing up, doubling over from Braxton Hicks contractions, or allowing stomach acid to completely erode what remained of my esophagus) that I didn't even notice them. This was my pregnancy. Sure other women had been pregnant before...but not like me. I do remember smiling at other pregnant women like we were members of a not-so-secret sorority. But actual Moms...they had crossed some kind of Rubicon that I, up until the minute that pitocin was racing through me, and honestly, even for a few hours after that...kinda didn't think I'd ever cross. Sure I was pregnant, but I wasn't ever going to be one of those women pushing a Maclaren in the park.

And now I have a one-year-old. And a Maclaren. How did this happen?

Much as I'd like to take the butterfly analogy and run with it...sorry, it ain't happening. I don't think I'm spreading my beautiful wings and flying off over the Gulf of Mexico. If anything, I'm going back inside. Wrapping myself and my wee gal up in some kind of cocoon of homeness and safety and warmth and organic food and expensive car seats and BPA-free sippy cups. Weaving a giant silky net around her while I still can. Making cookies with the same antique cookie press and the same recipe that my Mom uses.

Despite my hard-earned expertise, many of the cookies came out lopsided. I pondered eating all of the mess-ups. Raw. (There's a benefit of being kicked out of the preggo club--bring on the cookie dough and soft cheese.) Or smooshing them back in the press to try again.

And then I realized: they are "Left Wing" butterflies. Which made me giggle, alone in my kitchen.

And then I looked forward to the day that I could tell my baby girl that joke, and hear her giggle too. And then fly away.

Why I Hate The New York Post

2008-07-01T15:17:00.001-07:00

Yesterday a dear friend of mine died when he fell from the balcony of his NYC office at Beth Israel Hospital.

The "New York Post" splashed "Doc in Death Plunge" atop their web page. I haven't seen if there's a story to match it in the regular paper. I have never actually picked up a copy of the Post. Rest assured I never will.

I always sort of avoided "The Post" because it seemed sensational and sleazy. But I never really thought about the people behind those lurid headlines. The friends. The coworkers. The families. The victims.

This man who died was one of the the kindest, gentlest, most thoughtful men I know. He went to Macy's and picked out two pink dresses for my baby daughter when she was born. He was very simply a good doctor. His loss is not only a loss to those of us who were lucky enough to be his friends. It was a loss to all the patients who will never receive care in his hands.

The paper made insinuations as to what happened. With no proof. This story is what people will remember. Yet we will probably never know the truth. And those of us who knew him will never believe what the reporters suggested.

So here is the headline Doug deserves:
Caring Friend, Wonderful Doctor, Sports-Fan, Uncle, Son, New Yorker--Lost to the World in Tragic Accident.

May he rest in peace.

I Have the Greatest Manager in the World

2008-06-24T10:02:00.000-07:00

I have the greatest manager in the world. I am so lucky.

I have not done a play in nearly two years. This realization is giving me palpitations. If a lawyer did not practice law for two years, you would still call her a lawyer. If a doctor didn’t see a patient in two years she would still be a doctor. Why is it that after two years of doing no plays, I feel like I am no longer an actor?

My manager knew I was pregnant before my mother did. I had to tell him when I got an audition for “Taming of the Shrew” and not only could I not work on the script without feeling like I was going to hurl, I knew I could never take the job. There are some roles I can imagine doing while pregnant. Kate is not one of them. I told him with trepidation that I was pregnant. That these were deep waters we were navigating. Still very early. But I couldn’t in good conscience take the audition.

So I told him, and then I took a deep breath. I feared he would pull a Donald: “You’re Fired.” With a capital “Y” and “F”. Instead he said “Mazel Tov!” and sounded as if he were jumping around his office for joy. Did I mention he is the greatest manager in the world?

He has been patient with me as I have continued from deep water to rough water and then to dead-calm-no-wind-stuck-in-one-place water. Year one of baby’s life. I really don’t know many moms who are working actors who aren’t famous. I have one friend who works constantly. She is a wonder. A few others who are struggling to figure out how to go back, as I am. But where are the rest of us?

Hellooooooooooooooo? Are there any other unfamous working actress moms out there? Maybe ones who used to be regional theater actresses and now don’t want to or can't leave home?

Working as an actor in New York City is impossible. If you aren’t famous.

I got new headshots done. I’m trying to lose the baby weight. It is stubborn. I fear I am too old. That it’s too late. That I missed this particular bus. That I wasted a lot of money on grad school. Acting is a young person’s game. These are the things that would keep me up at night if I weren’t so exhausted from caring for the baby nonstop.

But my manager is patient with me. I took him the new headshots, and he raved about them and said when the baby is two she’s going on the road with me. He did not yell at me when I said we were leaving town for a month so she can get thirty dollar swimming lessons in my hometown. Saving me approximately two hundred dollars.

He was patient and understanding. Said we’ll sit down and talk in August. Was excited about my vlog.

If he can be patient and understanding with me…perhaps I can be patient and understanding with myself?

What Does It Mean to Eat Your Children?

2008-06-18T10:11:00.000-07:00

"What Does It Mean to Eat Your Children?"

I had a teacher in grad school who asked us that question. She was crazy but to her credit it had a context. One of those horribly horribly Greek tragedies in which someone ends up being fed his own children in a pie. I was an acting student. I suppose if you are going to act eating your children you need to take a moment to consider what that means.

I have had the opposite experience for the last two plus years. I have been eating for my children. Unborn or otherwise. It was about two and a half years ago when we started trying to get pregnant. And from that moment on every single bite I took, every single drink I sipped, every breath of air I breathed, contaminated or otherwise, did not enter my body without being assessed for its potential harm to my unborn and then newborn child. I suppose that makes me sound fairly obsessive compulsive. I have a streak. I’ve actually returned from the subway platform, having PAID MY FARE, to make sure the gas stove was off. And I’m a bit of a hypochondriac and worrier. So yeah, I didn’t eat hotdogs or drink or enjoy soft cheeses when I was pregnant. And I thought about how well I could metabolize the Splenda and caffeine and ginger ale and peach schnapps when I was breastfeeding. Did I mention I’m also a lightweight? Yeah I totally am.

So I have done this obsessive monitoring…oh by the way don’t let that lead you to the oh so erroneous conclusion that I gained the perfect 25 pounds during pregnancy. So far as I know, no brownie ever led to fetal brain damage. Yeah I gained forty five pounds during my pregnancy. So I have monitored potential pathogens obsessively…until today. Coincidentally my 13^th wedding anniversary. Here’s how it went down. We had raviolis for dinner at home since my husband couldn’t get home early from work today so we could go out. I left two on my plate. I am still trying to lose those 45 pounds. But they are really good raviolis, and my husband was in the process of taking the plate to finish them off when I said “oh wait” and took a few forkfuls of the very nice, tomatoey sauce because it has really good things in it for the baby. And then I remembered. This morning was probably my last breastfeeding. Ever.

I know that weaning can be really difficult. Friends have told me of sleepless nights and engorgement. But my baby was one of those who pretty much decided she was done. She just really likes sweet potatoes and cheerios. And though nursing was pretty successful for both of us for ten months, it never reached those transcendent otherworldly planes I have read about. It hurt and I had blebs and then her teeth came in and I never felt like I had a huge supply (as witnessed by the fact that I leaked once and could really only pump about five ounces from both sides combined at best). We are close. We are snuggly. But nursing was fairly utilitarian for both of us. Which maybe made it a self-fulfilling prophecy. I always said I wanted to make it to Memorial Day. I just never kind of thought that she’d hear me and then say “ok Mama I agree.”

I stopped pumping at night last night. And this morning she latched on for about three minutes and then happily guzzled her organic formula. And had a great day.

So when I reached for the tomato sauce and thought “these great lycopene thingies will be really good for the baby” and then stopped suddenly, I was genuinely surprised to feel myself tear up. For the first time in years, what I eat will not go directly to someone else. For the first time in years, I do not have to weigh every mouthful. For the first time in years I don’t have a little being dependent on my good judgment for her very sustenance. And while it is liberating, it is much sadder than I expected.

I still don’t know what it means to eat your children. But I know what it means to have my children eat me. And then move on.

Addicted to Blog Giveaways

2008-06-17T10:25:00.000-07:00

My name is Wendy. And I am addicted to blog giveaways.

I spent all of naptime today entering them. Seriously. I did.

Ok it started because I was listing my own blog giveaway on some blog giveaway sites. And let me say here for the record—there are blogs for EVERYTHING. I mean EVERYTHING. Macrobiotic LOST Fans. Stay at Home Moms who Dream of Hosting their own Crafting Shows. Roller Derby Circus Clowns. You name it, someone is blogging it in full color complete with helpful diagrams.

So. People list blog giveaways. As the complete content of their blogs. Bless their good-hearted souls. Because you can just enter one after the next after the next. And there are SO MANY.

And may I say, I have already won three of them. Three. I hate to make this public because then so many others will start dedicating all of naptime and lunch hours to entering them and my odds of winning will plummet. Admittedly, one of them I won, well, there were five entrants for three prizes. Those are the ones you gotta find. But still, the odds are usually 500 to 1 at the worst and much much better at the best. I have a box of eco-friendly cleaning supplies to prove it. And two other gifts.

And winning is just friggin fun. It convinces me that exploring the blogosphere is so much more than a time suck. It’s practically a job. I’m gonna feed and clothe my family on stuff I win on blog giveaways. Plus the last time I won something I was in the fourth grade and it was a cakewalk at a school Halloween Party (this was the late 70s when the fear of razor blades in apples was in its fullest swing and trick-or-treating was shunned in favor of school Halloween parties which basically sucked except I won this cake). I got to choose from what seemed like about 50 cakes all spread out in the science room. I picked Winnie the Pooh.

So because I’m a good person. I will tell you where to go to find lists of giveaways. Perhaps in so doing I will cleanse myself and break my addiction. After all, it worked for Facebook Scramble. Which has now been replaced by entering blog giveaways.

www.prizeatron.com (ok I just entered another one between the time I typed that url and found the next one…I’m totally serious…I may have a real problem) www.bloggiveaways.blogspot.com and www.acontestblog.com.

Enter at your own risk. You also may soon forsake bathing in favor of giveaways.

My Apology to the Girl at the Cruise Lines Audition

2008-06-12T09:52:00.000-07:00

I don’t know a lot. But I do know that I don’t want to be that Mom.

Let me explain. I’m a freelance actress. Mother of ten month old. Wife of hotshot doc. Something of a failure but not completely hopeless yet.

Yesterday I was at the dragon lady's commercial casting office. The office where there’s never anywhere to sit and if you stand in the hallway the other tenants of the floor yell and throw things at you. The one where I am always a bridesmaid but never a bride. I have never met "herself". Or shall I say I've never been introduced to "herself". Perhaps I have met her several times. Listen, I’m sure she’s actually a lovely woman. I just hear things…

So I’m waiting to go in for what ended up being actually a very fun commercial audition for whipped cream (yeah not that fun…hold your horses there John Wayne) in which I actually got to use one or two of the skills developed over years and years of classical training (yeah did I mention I do Shakespeare…or rather I did Shakespeare…? Now, if I’m damned lucky, I sell chewing gum). So actually thanks for that fun audition, dragon lady. See you're not so much of a dragon after all. That audition made me feel like a bit more of a person and a bit less of a walking, talking, lactating boob for the ten minutes or so I was in there.

Anyway, I’m looking over the fairly humorous copy when a mom carrying a ten-month-old or so in a Bjorn (look into the Ergo lady…I’m just sayin') and her sweet 7 year old daughter arrive for the Cruise Ship call. Mom sighs dramatically. Flops down. Very nice girl Karen who will audition with me smiles at her, and Mom sighs again and says “yeah, it’s hard.” Wah wah. But anyway, it is hard, so I find a moment of generosity for her.

Mom starts to fill out size card for seven year old (How do I get my friggin adorable kids into commercials? you ask. I’ll tell you later.) and discovers that sweet young seven year old needs to be in her bathing suit now. For the audition. This I was aware of because I had seen the other little girls walking around in theirs to get their Polaroids (yeah commercial casting used to be the only thing keeping Polaroid film alive…but no more…requiem for Polaroid) and thought they were so sweet and fearless and why don’t I like wearing bathing suits anymore—oh yeah it’s that big fat undulating donut encircling my bowels. So Mom says to sweet seven year old “you need to be wearing your bathing suit.” Sweet seven year old looks horrified. She scans the narrow hallway for some privacy. A bathroom. I know the bathroom is outside near the elevators. Nothing. “NOW!” says Mom, “I didn’t carry your sister down here for you to…” Oh my god. Sweet seven year old mutters something quietly. Mom says loudly and very indiscreetly “No one is looking at you! Now change right now!” I stare at the copy which I have now completely committed to memory.

And right at this moment, I failed you sweet seven year old. I had a large coat. I had no ten month old strapped to my chest. My baby was at home. I was once a terribly self-conscious seven year old who would have become paralyzed from the neck down had my mother insisted I take off my clothes, and put on a bathing suit…on a cold metal bench in a HALLWAY! I could have offered to hold up my coat so you could have undressed behind it. I could have taken you to the bathroom. But I, too, was scared of your mother. And I didn't want to intrude. So I did nothing. I stared concertedly at the Xeroxed paper and cringed and hoped you could change quickly. And I feel you did. But still, I should have helped you.

I am a bit traumatized by what that Mom made that young girl do. Not just the auditioning. Because God knows that auditioning for commercials is soul-killing enough after adolescence let alone before. But the public nakedness too.

Resolution to self: as a mother and an actress, help any young girl who needs it. At any time. Regardless of how scary her mother seems. Because you are a grown up now.

Also apologies to Karen. Who I think was actually trying to make friends as we left the building. But I was thinking about the babysitter and if I had time to stop for salmon and I’ve lived in New York for so long that I’ve forgotten I’m a nice girl from Pennsylvania. I think Karen actually reached out her hand when we were leaving and I didn’t take it. It wasn’t until I was descending into the bowels of the subway that I realized, my gosh, I think she would have talked for a few minutes and then maybe even made a date to meet for coffee. Maybe she has a baby too. Maybe she could have been my friend.

I’m sorry to you too Karen. I’ll be looking for you in the shadow of the dragon lady.