Nothing In Between

Kim

2010-11-10T16:04:00.002-05:00

November getaway

2010-11-09T11:23:00.002-05:00

Went to Florida with John's sisters this past weekend for a little getaway.
Here is the view from the deck (uploaded from my Blackberry):

It was a little cold for November, so the beach was practically deserted. I like it that way!

It was a nice weekend, and I appreciated so much the chance to spend some time away with them. They have been so good to me, and honestly, they both treat me like I'm their real sister, not a sister-in-law.

It's been eleven years since I lost my real sister. It doesn't seem that long ago. She was in my dream recently; the first time I've dreamed of her since her accident. Some people think that when you dream of a loved one that has passed away, they are speaking to you.

I've thought and thought about that dream, but can't figure out what Linda was trying to say, if indeed she was speaking to me. Maybe she just wanted to say hello? In the dream, I was at a large party. I was young -- college age, I think. She was at the party, too, and came over to introduce me to her friend. The friend said, " Wow, you two look nothing alike! Your sister is so much bigger than you!"

This was always a joke between us. My sister (and my brother, too) was a little thing, tiny and petite. She wore size 0 jeans and she may have been 5 feet on tiptoe. I, on the other hand, am not tiny nor petite. She was small, dark skinned, and had poker-straight brown hair, and not a freckle on her skin. Again, so opposite of me! She used to introduce me as her "little" sister -- looking up at me, the height difference laughable...and people would get a kick out of the irony.

As I get older, I find that life is full of little ironies. After I lost both of my siblings, I was always comforted by the fact that I did have a far away half-sister that I never knew. I always dreamed of one day connecting with her on some level. Another lesson here to do the things you want to do -- you know, don't put off until tomorrow....

Kim was born when I was 11 or 12. My dad had moved to Texas and remarried a woman that I'll just say wore the "wicked step-mother" title with pride. Anwyay, I met Kim, my half-sister, when she was an infant, but never saw her after that. Things got complicated.

Early this year, I decided to reach out to her. I knew she was recently divorced and living with my Dad on his farm, in a little guest house on the property. I kept thinking about contacting her, but never did anything more than that.

On a Saturday in May (in a very cruel twist of fate or irony, or something deeper that I can't figure out), she was killed in a car accident on her way to her job at a veterinary hospital. My dad was devastated. The event freaked me out on so many levels. My dad has lost three of his four children -- one to cancer at age 40, and two to car accidents at ages 40 and 37. How does this happen?

When my brother Allen died, and then my sister Linda, I stuffed so many emotions and feelings about life and loss...I've blogged about that before. I know it's the worst possible thing you can do. But losing them and then my mom in such close succession just made that necessary.

But the funny thing is, now I'm grieving hard for Kim, this sister that I didn't even know. I am grieving the loss of what could have been and I am finally grieving my brother and my other sister -- because finally now, I realize there is nobody left for me to have that special connection with. I think that is what I am grieving.

Ah. Life is complicated and mysterious, and seems so unfair. But without the ironies and the hurts, there can be no joy and happiness. I know that is true.

That is why this trip to Florida with John's sisters was so nice. I miss my real sister and the other sister I never knew. But I'm happy to have these two sisters, too.

It's time to piss or get off the pot

2010-10-15T14:34:00.001-04:00

My grandfather was famous for his goofy sayings. When my husband first met him, he found the way my grandpa talked hilarious and charming. The sayings were just annoying and embarrasing to me, having heard them over and over throughout my life.

You make a better door than a window.
Is there a hole in the ceiling or did you leave the light on in there?
I guess it's better than a kick in the ass with a frozen boot.

And a thousand more.

He's been gone eight years now, and I still think of those dumb sayings.

A bunch of stuff has happened to me lately. Good stuff. Sad stuff. Crazy stuff. Nothing really dramatic, just the ebb and flow of life, I guess. But introspection has been plentiful. So when I (finally!) opened my blog to write today, I decided that I just need to get my shit together and WRITE. Forget about figuring out some wonderful tidbit to share with the world every day. Good grief, who do I think I am? I'm an forty-something (!) woman, with a house, kids and job, a husband that sometimes irritates the hell out of me, a grandma I have to figure out a way not to feel guilty about, too much weight, and not enough time to do everything I want to do.

Just like a lot of people I know.

Just like everyone else in this world. Trying to figure out a way to be happy and make a happy life for my children. I know that one thing that makes me happy is writing. And this blog is my vehicle. It's a small vehicle, but it's all mine.

So it's time to piss or get off the pot.

Mid July!

2010-07-19T14:07:00.002-04:00

Just finished a nice little book called Crow Lake by Mary Lawson.

It's an "old" book (2002), but I'm a bit behind in my reading...My ~~three~~ four boys (I'm counting John as one of my boys) house, full time job, grandma in nursing home, etc., etc., etc., prevent me from keeping up on my reading.

It's a somber story. Very well written. Insightful, engaging...sweet, sad, heartbreaking and inspiring all at once.

I think the actress in me always analyzes and tries to identify with characters in plays and books I read. There were many aspects of Kate's life (Kate is the protagonist and storyteller) that I identified with -- painfully so in many ways (not so much in others). And I could see parts of her personality that I really didn't like -- because I have those personality traits, too!

The story starts with a quote that foreshadows the story: "Tomorrow is forever, and years pass in no time at all." Maybe I just miss reading...but I couldn't put this one down.
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In other news...something exciting may be on the horizon theatre-wise. Keeping my fingers crossed.

Sunday Blues

2010-05-17T00:04:00.002-04:00

I've definitely got the Sunday blues this evening. I wish the weekend would last just a little bit longer. I'm not happy with my job so that makes Sunday evenings hard. I just don't want to start a new week.

Today was a little rough. When one of your kids struggles, you struggle too. I wish I could help my kids through all their problems -- actually I wish I could just make their problems disappear.

I spent most of the weekend on house projects...mainly painting the dining room...then that looked so good all of a sudden my french doors looked awful, so I painted them, too. Then the doors looked great but the brass hardware ala 1987 looked ridiculous.

Isn't that the way it always is with home improvements? One thing just leads to another and pretty soon a quick little project has turned into a major undertaking!

Many years ago I met a group of wonderful theatre people and we did some interesting experimental stuff down in the Short North -- before the Short North was a fashionable and hip place to go. I remember doing some poetry readings in several of the galleries there. One poem came to mind today -- out of nowhere; I don't know how or why, but today I thought of Howard Nemerov's "Storm Windows". There is something about this poem that I really like. Poetry is like artwork -- sometimes it speaks to you but you don't know why.

Storm Windows

People are putting up storm windows now,
Or were, this morning, until the heavy rain
Drove them indoors. So, coming home at noon,
I saw storm windows lying on the ground,
Frame-full of rain; through the water and glass
I saw the crushed grass, how it seemed to stream
Away in lines like seaweed on the tide
Or blades of wheat leaning under the wind.
The ripple and splash of rain on the blurred glass
Seemed that it briefly said, as I walked by,
Something that I should have liked to say to you,
Something . . .the dry grass bent under the pane
Brimful of bouncing water . . . something of
A swaying clarity which blindly echoes
This lonely afternoon of memories
And missed desires, while the wintry rain
(Unspeakable the distance in the mind!)
Runs on the standing windows and away.

Starting from scratch

2010-05-12T10:57:00.020-04:00

Baby steps. I'm taking baby steps.

A woman I know once wrote "Starting from scratch" as her Facebook status. I thought it was a mysterious yet very telling statement. For some reason, it resonated with me.

As I try to resume my blogging, I'll just take baby steps. If I could figure out how, I rename this entire blog, "Starting from scratch."

Photobucket took over!

2009-11-24T09:54:00.003-05:00

My account was inactive for 90 days, so Photobucket decided to take over? WTF? And I lost my wonderful Pixels by Pixie template!

Schadenfreude rules

2008-09-26T13:02:00.002-04:00

Happy Friday.
Yes, it's pathetic, but sometimes I just can't help myself. Schadenfreude rules, baby. Schadenfreude rules!

And then the lights went out

2008-09-23T23:02:00.003-04:00

As my friend Nancy says, 'Seven days without power is six and a half days too long".

Last Sunday, while the wind whipped the trees in our yard into dangerous contortions, we held our breath, hoping that one of those old trees wouldn't come down and land on the house.

And then the lights went out. It was fun for a minute or two. The kids gathered flashlights and candles and improvised a "survival kit." That evening, we played Sorry by candlelight and watched "Joe Dirt" on our portable DVD player. We had fun "roughing it", for a minute or two.

Then Monday came. The wind had wreaked havoc all over the city. Schools and businesses everywhere were closed. Generators endlessly growled throughout the neighborhood. It was an adventure, and it was sort of fun. For about a minute, maybe two.

By Monday evening the houses across the street had power. We were sure to be next. Monday turned to Tuesday, then Wednesday. There were still over a half-million people in central Ohio without power.

On Thursday we were told that there was a 95% chance our power would be restored by 11:59 p.m. Sunday evening. Sunday! Seven days after the storm. Seven days is way longer than a minute or two.

The laundry piled up. The carpet needed vacummed. The milk was sour. School was closed three days in a row. Every Gameboy and iPod in the house was out of battery, leaving the kids bored and cranky and completely on my nerves.

Sunday evening came, and power -- glorious power -- was restored. It was a long week. And it wasn't fun even for a minute or two.

How one knows she's getting old

2008-09-02T17:06:00.005-04:00

Today I realized that I've crossed over from "older gal" to "old lady."

Here's how I knew: upon getting dressed this morning, I realized that I am more frequently letting comfort win over style. On a regular basis, I'll know something looks bad or silly or utterly awful, yet I still wear it due to sheer comfort or practicality. I'm like the old lady who wears the plastic rain hat or the grandpa whose polyester slacks are too short.

I'm like the man on vacation who wears socks with his sandals on the beach. Black socks.

I've taken to wearing these litte peds with my loafers (peds are like the little socks at the shoe store you use when you are trying on shoes, only they're not disposeable).

These peds stick out, they're ugly, and they unmistakeably qualify me as an old lady.

But they are very comfortable and without them, my feet and shoes smell awful. Okay, so the shoes themselves aren't all that hip either but they've got great arch supports, and do you know what a flat sole does to my heel spurs? Heavens to Betsy!

Fall will bring you all that you want

2008-08-30T01:03:00.012-04:00

My friend Cyndy commented on my last post (and yes, I am well aware that post was in April).

Cyndy said, "Fall will bring you all that you want."

Well, it's Fall.

For the first time ever, I spent all summer at home with my kids. We did a whole lot of 'nuthin, and it was great. I especially enjoyed all of our lazy mornings sleeping in and my not having to be a drill seargent to get them all up, dressed, fed and on their way.

My youngest son went off to kindergarten this week; my middle son to 3rd grade, and my oldest son started high school. High school!

Back in February when I lost my job, I promised myself that I wasn't going to just jump into another company where I'd again end up a cog in the machine...in a job where I had no real pride or passion for what I was doing. I wanted to find something where I would feel I was making a difference, and ultimately doing something for the greater good.

And I meant it. But time wore on and my severance monies began to dwindle. I started to wonder if I was being unrealistic.

Throughout the summer I had a few leads. I went on some interviews. It was depressing. All I seemed to find were jobs in mega-corporations, writing the sort of stuff that wasn't really going to impact or change anyone's life.

I began to face facts: It's nice to have high aspirations for changing the world and all, but it's also nice to pay the mortgage.

And then, Fall.

The day before yesterday, on the very same day my kids went to school, I had two interviews. the first was for a company that outsources call center operations (read: ESL telemarketing) for large clients. The work would be documenting their processes and procedures so they can become compliant for security certifications. 'Nuff said.

The second interview was at Nationwide Children's Hospital in their Childhood Cancer Research Center. Without getting too metaphysical, let me just say that the moment I stepped out of the parking garage and into the lobby I knew that the job was exactly what I had been looking/hoping for. And then when I interviewed with the director, I was absolutely certain .

Long story short: within hours, both companies offered me a job. The job at the first company would be contract for six months and then they would hire me as a full time employee. The Children's job would be a short term contract with no guarantee of permanent employment. And it would pay quite a bit less than the other.

I start my new job at The Research Institute for Childhood Cancer at Nationwide Children’s Hospital on September 8th.

Cyndy was right about Fall.

Well, ONE of us has a job!

2008-04-26T23:32:00.003-04:00

And the good new is, it ain't me. (Yet.)

Woohoo!

Double Whammy Kick in the Ass

2008-04-16T02:02:00.000-04:00

Last month, I lost the job I've had for the past 11 years to "corporate downsizing". It was expected. The particular corporation I worked for has been downsizing for FIVE YEARS (I'm not even exaggerating -- which okay, I admit I do sometimes). I've made it through FIVE YEARS of Thursdays (they always do the slashing on Thursdays) of saying goodbye to friends and I've watched them pack up their stuff and do the proverbial "perp walk".

Only this time it was me. And I wasn't sad or surprised or even upset in the least. Really, I was ready. I had calculated how much money I'd get in my severance package and just how long I could push being unemployed before it started to cause issues with our finances at home. I figured I could squeeze out the summer with my kids and then start looking in the fall. Not too shabby.

My plan would have worked out perfectly had my husband - across town at the job he's had for the last eight years - not lost his job on THE VERY SAME EFFING DAY.

When I called to tell him, he paused for a moment before telling me his bad news. And right then, my thought process went all stream of conciousness and probably sounded something like this:

"This does not happen to normal people ... this is some serious bad luck .... crap, now I'm not going to get the attention and pity I deserve, because he's going to be all crybaby about losing his job and get drunk all weekend while I have to be the responsible one ... double crap, I'm now going to have to spend way too much freakin' quality time with my husband.

And then me, being all supportive and wifely and positive, pretty much shrieked at him, "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME."

After the initial shock wore off, we were able to see the humor in it. Right now I can't think of any of the hundreds of funny things we've found amusing about being in this situation, so you'll have to trust me on that. But hey, dual unemployment is funny.

It seems like we've been busy, but the day goes by so quickly -- much more quickly than it ever did at work. We're looking for jobs. John is coaching second-grade lacrosse. We went to Florida for Spring Break; spent a week at my sister-in-law's beach cottage (it was warm and sunny and the water was gorgeous). Yesterday, John power-washed our deck and today he cleaned the garage. Now, if I can get a TV cabinet built and a screen porch on our deck before he finds a job, I'll swear this setback was divine intervention.

John had two interviews this week and one looks especially positive. Keep your fingers crossed.
Good night.

"Writing"

2008-02-22T10:34:00.019-05:00

Found this photo on my new favorite blog.

The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks seriously cracks me up. People send “pictures” of signs that use gratuitous quotation “marks” to hilarious “effect”.

----------------

I'm a blogger with the idea that I shouldn't post a blog entry unless I have
some deep, meaningful thing to say or unless I have a funny story to share. I abhor reading blogs that are just one incessant blah blah blah about pretty
much nothing but the excruciating minutae of the writer's day-to-day life. And when I say day-to-day, I really mean up-to-the-minute drivel about nothing. They ate spaghetti ... had to wait an extra 15 minutes at the dentist ... the Kitty piddled on the carpet again … and on and on. (I'm not referring to the blogs of anyone who regularly visits here.)

I've been reading Madeleine L'Engle. She wrote more than 45 books, but if you haven't read any of her works or if you just need a bit of inspiration, read Madeleine L'Engle Herself: Reflections on a Writing Life. Sometimes when you read a great writer's words about writing, you just want to forget writing altogether and take up ping-pong instead. But L'Engle makes you want to start writing immediately, and to write with more passion and dedication than ever before.

So, I think I realize now that there must be some sort of "in-between" amidst those daily regurgitation blogs and the type of posts I want to write. L'Engle has shown me that though I've felt in the past few months I haven't had anything worthwhile to say, in reality I've really had way too much to say.

"Inspiration usually comes during work, rather than before it." --Madeline L'Engle

Good Lord, it's December!

2007-12-12T02:04:00.000-05:00

I've been a bit out of sorts the past coulple of months. Haven't talked to my friends, haven't written in my blog (which is very much like talking to my friends), haven't even started to shop for Christmas. Is it December? What happened to November?

Everything is just a little off.

I've tried to put my finger on it. I've sort of tried to anyway -- but like everything lately, I tried half-heartedly. I've not done things I wanted to do, I've let friends get out of touch, I've missed out on auditions I had looked forward to and prepared for for months.

I never want to do anything. I have to make myself do everything, even fun things with my boys. Sometimes I can make myself get started and hope the desire will catch up to me.

To make a long and not-so-interesting story short (you can thank me later), things are still off kilter but I'm working on getting things back on track.

So here I am, trying to tell you all -- my blog friends -- that I'm back and ready to try again. It's funny, there are friends here in the blog-world whom I only know through blogging, but in some ways, I communicate more with them than my real-world ones. And since we tend to bare our souls a bit more --and way more indulgently-- here in the blog world, those ties are unbelieveably precious.

Some friends -- people like Gail and Cyndi and Mikey -- I've known for years and only wish that the business of life would allow us to spend more time together. But I know they're there and sometimes our blogs are our only constant connection. I love knowing that I can visit with them everyday or so through their blogs.

Others -- people like Jeremy and KC -- I don't really "know" in the traditional sense, but I feel I know intimately because of what they've shared in their blogs. I remember when I met Jeremy at an audition -- I just had to hug him because I felt I had known him forever; our blogs had established our "friendship".

I don't know what I mean to say tonight, other than that I've been "gone" from my blog, and "away" from my own life for awhile, too.

I'm coming back.

Friday Foto: 8th Grade Humor

2007-10-05T11:16:00.000-04:00

My 8th grade son changed the wallpaper on our computer to this:

I thought for sure it was an edited image until I checked the West Virginia Mountaineers roster. #92 is indeed Johnny Dingle and #93 truly is Scooter Berry .

It's immature and so 8th grade boy silly -- but you just go ahead and try not to laugh!

The big lie

2007-09-27T11:56:00.000-04:00

My husband is a little bit pissed at me. He tries to hide his irritation, but that's impossible for him, because you see, he's a big fat baby. And have I mentioned how needy he is? Geesh.

Now, I'm not one to go on about things (I'm really not), but he needs to take a tough pill and shut up already.

As wives go, I'd say I'm okay. I mean, I'm not the best looking gal out there, and I'm not always willing to drop everything to wash his socks or perform other wifely duties (if you know what I mean -- and I think you do), but I did BEAR HIS THREE CHILDREN, the last of which was WITHOUT AN EPIDURAL OR ANY MEDICATION OF ANY SORT because he just had to find a closer parking spot and stop in the gift shop for a pack of gum.

Why is he pissed at me? Why? You wanna know why?

Because I'm nice. People think I'm nice. Honest to God, that's what the man is cranky about.

He says our neighbors, the teachers, the principal, my theatre friends and the lady at Kroger all think I'm a nice person.

Oh, and his mother thinks I'm nice, too; and she thinks I'm the best thing that ever happened to him. And he's sick and tired of hearing about it.

See, I'm not always the nicest person in the world, and it's usually my husband who sees that not-so-nice side. But isn't that part of that whole "for better and for worse" thing?

It all came to a head last night.

His mother stopped over with a big casserole dish of macaroni and cheese -- at the precise moment husband was pouring himself a bowl of Life cereal. For dinner.

He used the opportunity to set his mother straight about me: "Do you see what a wonderful wife she is? Look, I'm eating cereal for dinner."

His mother replied with a lengthy dissertation about how hard I work and how difficult it is to keep a house, work full time, be a mother of three boys and still be expected to cook dinner every night. She finished her lecture with, "And you need to do more around here; she's a great mother and you are lucky to have somone so nice."

Right then, I think I saw a vein in his forehead I've never noticed in sixteen years of marriage.

Later, as I sat in bed attempting to read the newspaper in peace, he tried to extend an olive branch by starting a neutral conversation.

Husband: Did you see so-and-so at the soccer game?
Me: No, but I heard him.

Husband: Cheering for the kids?
Me: No, he was standing right behind me going on and on about all the events and activities they have to go to this week. Who the hell cares that their daughter is in ballet and it's at the same time as little Johnny's piano lesson, which ends just in time for karate? He just droned on and on throughout the entire game in that annoying voice of his about his exceptionally talented kids and their precious activities.

There was a lengthy pause.

Husband:

I wish all the people who are constantly telling me how sweet and nice my wife is could hear these things. I really do. You are not a nice person.

Me:

Nope.

After I finished the paper and turned off the light, he tried again.

Husband:

Hey. You tired?

Me:

A little.

Husband

Wanna talk?

Me:

Okay.

Husband

Mmmm.
Me: Hey! I thought we were going to talk!
Husband: Yeah, but I thought it would be nice to...
Me:

Yeah, well I'm not a nice person.
Husband:

Nope.

Friday Foto: Just sayin'.

2007-08-31T10:46:00.000-04:00

Just sayin'.

Happy long weekend, everyone!

For my friends heading to the OCTA (Ohio Community Theatre Alliance) conference: break a leg, and have fun.

I'll be thinking of you; can't wait to hear how it all turns out!

On being an inspiration

2007-08-22T01:54:00.000-04:00

My next door neighbor and I are good friends.

Anne and I are surrogate sisters, I guess. She lost her youngest sister to suicide nearly a year ago, and I lost my only sister eight years ago to a car accident. So, even though we are very different (my sister and I were opposites in just about every way, too) and we don't spend a lot of time together, there's an underlying understanding that we care about each other and we'll always be there for each other.

The months of the past year have been awful for Anne. She's struggling with her sister's death, trying to cope with the complicated combination of grief, pain and anger. She's swimming in a sea of thick, suffocating mud. Some days seem utterly impossible.

I know how she feels. I know what it's like to wake up and just want to go back to sleep forever. I know what it's like to want to scream at anyone who will listen. I know what it's like to walk through Kroger with unexpected tears streaming down your face just because you caught a glimpse of your sister's favorite cereal.

I know that living with heartache really does mean that sometimes your heart aches.

Anne is very public about her grief and how she's struggling, and I think that's very good. She talks to me. She talks to her husband. She talks to her counselor, other neighbors, her children. And I have to think that every tear that is shed, every memory uttered, brings her closer to
learning to live healthily and happily in a redefined world. A world without her sister.

I'm not/wasn't so open about my grief. Somewhere along the line -- before my sister died, and even before my brother died, I learned to cope with life's sorrows by swallowing them deep down and burying them. It was all I could do, really. It was the only way I knew to get myself up out of the corner where I huddled and be a wife and mother and daughter and friend.

And people just seemed to like the fact that I was doing so well accepting the tragedies I'd faced -- and with such courage and grace.

It was just easier for me that way.

Which makes me feel just a little bit uncomfortable when Anne tells me and others that on her darkest days, I am her inspiration. When she says that, I want to confess that I shouldn't be her inspiration because I haven't ever really dealt with the losses I've faced. My sister and brother died just two years apart and then my mom died right after that too; there just was
no way to deal with it all, so I stuffed it away.

But I don't tell Anne that because I want to be strong for her. She needs me to be strong. I'll do anything for her and I'll be anything she needs me to be. My friend - my surrogate sister - needs to get through these dark days and I'm going to be there for her.

And if she needs me to be her inspiration, then by God, I will.

I realize that the ball of hurt and anger I've swallowed can't stay inside forever. My friend Gordon wrote about swallowing grief in one of my favorite essays, ever.

I'll paraphrase, but it goes something like this:

There, in the pit of your stomach, grief becomes an emotional bezoar, knotted and tortured and matted with undigested sorrow. But grief will not be denied. Sorrow will not go away but will remain in your belly, a tumor that no doctor can feel.

And someday you will have to cough that fucker up.

And when that happens for me, Anne will know it. Maybe by then she will be in a place where she can help me wade through that sea of suffocating mud, and help me learn to live healthily and happily in a redefined world.

Maybe, just maybe, Anne will be my inspiration.

After all, that's what sisters are for.

_________________________________________________

Friday Foto: This isn't very, um, professional.

2007-08-10T22:43:00.000-04:00

Made me laugh!

I was going to title this post "Only in America" but it turns out this is a London-based company. Cracked me right up. I'm just so tempted to call them just to hear someone cheerily answer, "Good Morning. Stiff Nipples , how can I help you" or, "Hello, Stiff Nipples! Ready when you are!"

Stay cool, dear friends! Keep that AC crankin'!

Sand Dollar Memories

2007-08-03T01:31:00.000-04:00

Every time we walk along a beach
some ancient urge disturbs us
so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments
or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers
like the homesick refugees of a long war.
Loren Eiseley

As we walked the in the sand our first night at the beach, I noticed broken sand dollars dotting the sand everywhere I looked. Beautiful, large sand dollars had washed onto the beach, but must have broken as the tide tried to sweep them back out to the sea.

As we enjoyed the evening air and the mixture of melancholy and inspiration that only the seashore brings, I was taken back to a time when I was a girl, visiting the same coast.

I had forgotten how enthralled I had been with collecting sea shells, and how I considered finding a sand dollar the best treasure of all.

Every day that summer years ago, I'd scan the printed tides tables for the precise hour and minute of low tide, and then force my grandparents to adjust our plans so that I could be on the beach, searching for treasures.

But I don't remember seeing so many broken sand dollars when I was there as a child. I only remember searching the beach at low tide and coming away with beautiful treasures.

Like those days long ago, on each day of this recent vacation I woke my two youngest boys at dawn's low tide. We'd find our flip flops, don our hats, and tiptoe out of our hotel room to scour the beach like paupers searching for food.

Our morning ritual made me wistful about my children and the memories they'll someday have - not only about this vacation - but their childhood memories in general. It occurred to me that while there are many childhood experiences we adults vow we'll never allow our own children to experience, there are other things that we feel our children must experience or somehow their childhood days just won't be complete.

I found that ironic as I walked along the foggy beach each morning with my boys zig-zagging beside me in the sand.

The funny thing is, I wasn't a very happy child. As a kid I encountered some fairly earth-shattering experiences (I mention this only to illustrate a point) and yet I have a lot of trouble remembering details about any one of those bad things that happened to me. Just as I don't remember so many broken sand dollars along the shore.

But if asked about my childhood days at the beach, a trip to visit my favorite aunt in Madrid, or treasured trips to the movies with my older cousins, I remember it all with great detail and with sincere passion.

I hope my children remember our vacation and our mornings together searching for sand dollars.

I hope they remember the closeness we shared those mornings - and not the complaining they did when I woke them too early.

I hope they remember the excitement of looking to see if anyone else was out there as early - and not my grousing about putting on hats.

I hope they remember the aroma of the morning sea air and the feel of the cold, wet sand under their feet.

I hope they remember a mother who scooped them up and embraced them out there next to the sea, holding them a little too tight and a little too long.

I hope they remember searching the beach at low tide and coming away with beautiful sand dollars, and I hope they too forget seeing the broken ones along the way.

Vacation!

2007-07-19T23:26:00.000-04:00

(W)Holes is over. I was going to say, "(W)Holes closed on Saturday" but that just sounded weird.

(W)Holes was a grand experience and I won't even try to tell you all how good it felt to laugh and play with those people. I gotta say -- we were a funny bunch, we were. My God, I haven't laughed that hard in a really long time.

From Cyndy's "Oscar" to the infamous "DI, YOU WERE MARRIED? HOW LONG WERE YOU MARRIED?" and rubbernecking at the "Botox Bar"...it was really, really fun. And of course, since "there is no room for cattiness in theatre" I'll (ahem) quit right now.

And the show closed just in time, because we five are headed to the sea. Several months ago, my enterprising husband acquired some very, very, cheap air tickets (Skybus rocks, by the way) to Seattle.

We're leaving Monday and will be gone for eight days. Eight glorious days in a place not my house and not Ohio. I say "glorious" NOW, because I'm oh-so-selectively not thinking about the reality of traveling with a needy husband and three almost as needy children.

Four and a half hours on a plane, then eight days in cramped hotel rooms and driving around in a (gasp! forgive me!) minivan. God help me. Please God, I beg you to help me. And God, while I have your attention, I'm really sorry about the minivan.

But it's all going to be worth it because after a night in Seattle, we're going to the sea.

First, we're going here and staying here. So, despite the air travel and the rental transportation, the trip definitely has possibilities.

We'll spend several nights at Cannon Beach, and then move on to Ocean Shores, Washington, where we're staying here.

I'm looking forward to (and will need, no doubt) the therapy-by-default that comes with being at the ocean. Both of our hotel destinations (excepting Seattle) are at oceanfront hotels. That was my only wish when we made the plans.

I need it. I'm tired. I'm emotionally walking on thin ice these days. I need to be at the sea with my family. All annoying five of us -- together. The little ones whining, the teenager griping, my husband harping at them for whining and griping.

And me - just sitting back, reading a grocery-store novel.

We'll go to see Mt. Rainier and Mount St. Helens, and Olympic National Park. We may go on a whale watching excursion and we're also going to maybe see a show here.

But the highlight of the trip for me will be going Roslyn, Washington to see this and have a beer here. (Roslyn is where the best TV show OF ALL TIME was filmed and from what I hear, the town is pretty much exactly the same as when the show was in production.)

So, I'm off to the Pacific Northwest to stand at the edge of the sea, explore, climb, hike, and be free with nature.

In a minivan.

God help me.

2007-07-09T11:37:00.000-04:00

Eleven Super Important Things You Should Know

1. I can't fill in the "Title" box for this post. It's supposed to be titled "Ten Super Important Things You Should Know". Hence, the title change.

2. The first weekend of (W)Holes is over.

3. I'm tired.

4. I mopped my kitchen floor last night. At midnight.

5. Kevin said, "Goddammit, I forgot my share toy," in the car on the way to daycare this morning.

6. Kevin is four.

7. I almost wrecked the car.

8. I don't talk that way at home. (Okay, so maybe I talk that way at theatre parties, but I don't talk that in front of my children, I promise.) Don't hate on me.

9. I have several tomatoes growing in my washtub garden. I also have two kinds of peppers and a couple of eggplants.

10. I didn't plant the eggplants.

11. This is the type of post you write when you don't have much to say but want to annoy your friends just the same.

Hee hee.

It's a feel good place...

2007-06-29T01:01:00.000-04:00

The best part of being involved in theatre is the rehearsal process, I think. I dunno -- there's just something about the energy and excitement around trying new things, seeing what works, laughing with friends.

We're finally into the "real" rehearsals for (W)Holes (the show I'm in). Since it's a show made up of a series of monologues, up to now we've just had one-on-one rehearsals with the director.

My character is fun. At first, I just didn't think I liked her much -- and I thought she was a bit cartoonish. But I'm inside her now, and I'm growing to love her. That all sounds sorta bullcrappy-ish and schlock-"method", I know. I can see you rolling your eyes right about now, too. That's okay.

I forgot how much I miss Rene, how much I love Cyndy, and how utterly wonderful Mikey is. This just feels good. And Thea is a delight.

(W)Holes is an odd little show. It's a beautiful, quirky, heart-wrenching, funny, strange little show.

It's one of those shows where you wonder if you weren't IN the show if you would like to WATCH the show. I really don't know. But as my character says, "it's a feel good place, just like the kitchen table...with a pot of coffee and good friends to keep you company."

Good night.

Lillies

2007-06-14T11:09:00.000-04:00

I had a birthday this week so my sister-in-law brought me this bouquet of lillies.

I just wish you could smell them; they're intoxicating!

Coffee talk

2007-06-01T19:24:00.000-04:00

Had my first rehearsal last night.

I met Mike at a coffee shop near campus, and aside from a dude who refused to move his bare feet off the coffee table so I could get through to give Mike a hug and an Indian chick next to us having what I can only guess was cell phone sex - in the most babyish, Minnie Mouse voice EVER - it went very well.

As an ice breaker, I spilled water on Mikey's shorts.

Then, we spent some time going through the script and just as much time getting reacquainted and talking about motherhood, the very first Starbucks, healthcare, Venice, sex education, Hawaii, you name it.

Happy weekend, friends.

I didn't make it to the play.

2007-05-26T16:26:00.001-04:00

Parker, living up to his reputation for tending to take things just a tad too far:

I mean, why break one arm when you can break TWO?

A Blast From the Past

2007-05-24T23:45:00.000-04:00

Got an email from a theatre friend of long ago, whom I haven't seen in many years.

In 1990-ish we did a very cool show together at LTOB. Moonlight Daring Us To Go Insane was written by E. Eugene Baldwin (a friend of Rene's), and premiered at Chicago's Body Politic Theater in 1987. Rene talked LTOB into adding it to their 1989-90 season and the playwright even came from Chicago to see our production. (Geez, that sounded so "Waiting for Guffman"-ish.)

We had a great ensemble in that show. Rene directed, and the cast included (back row): Michael Schacherbauer, Di Felice, Don Roberts, Lisa Sharf, (middle row): Doug Shafer, Ed Meade, me, Mikey Day, John Falkenbach, (front row): Cyndi Meade, Linda May (oh, I miss Linda).

Moonlight was one of those great theatre experiences that you find difficult to explain to people later. All I know is that there were moments in that show. Rare moments when the actors and the audience disappeared together -- when the play was lost and there was just one single soul in all the world. At the risk of sounding a bit "emo" (stay with me on the hip lingo people), it was - magical.

Geez, I have a tendency to uh, get off track.

So.

My old friend from the show emailed me about a play he's directing and he asked me to be a part of it. Of course I'm thrilled. AND... at least two or three others from Moonlight are part of it, too - including Rene. It can't get better than this, I tell you! It just can't!

And I didn't have to audition, which is good. I used to go into an audition - any audition - and pull off a brilliant performance (even if I didn't really care about getting a role or even if every role in the show was completely wrong for me). And I never got nervous; not even just a wee bit nervous.

But after all these years away, I can't quite do that anymore. For Cuckoo's Nest my audition totally sucked; I know there had to be people wondering what the hell Rene was thinking when he cast me (shit, I was thinking that, too). And I've been to auditions here and there since then and I just cannot seem to keep my nerves intact and get my brain in sync with my body, heart, and soul. I sort of watch myself on stage as if I'm an audience member. I don't feel, I don't think, I don't experience a thing. I just stand there auditioning - detached - just watching myself and reciting lines. Ugh.

I'm off track again. Geez.

So, here's to old friends, new projects, and a respite from auditions!

I have a date with Gail tomorrow night; we're going out to Curtain to see our dear friend Tim B. in Lanford Wilson's Book of Days.

Life is good.

A nice way of saying...

2007-05-08T11:14:00.000-04:00

When I started my blog I vowed I'd never ever post photos of my children, under the full realization that people usually don't find pictures of other people's no-neck monsters quite as adorable as the mothers of those no-neck monsters do.

Well, so much for personal integrity. What the hell.

I'm positng a couple photos of my middle son, Parker. He's seven. And he's killing me.

But, just look at him.

Parker is so much like me when I was his age: full of energy (that's a nice way of saying he's completely hyper), sensitive (that's a nice way of saying he's a bit dramatic), and always pushing, pushing, pushing everything to the limit (I suppose that's a nice way of saying he's a little shithead).

But geez, just look at that face...

Last week Parker had his first experience with what the principal called an "alternative learning environment" (which is a nice way of saying he was in "In School Suspension").

Yessirreee, my kid was sent to lockup in the principal's office for an entire day. First grade.

Apparently they don't take kindly to his fondness for throwing rocks on the playground. The kid's got a hell of an arm, what can I say?

What concerns me is not the fact that he threw a few rocks on the playground (he assures me it was all a big misunderstanding), but the fact that the kid is in the freakin' first grade and he's already done hard time. I mean, the kid's got got another eleven years until he graduates! What's next? Water balloons? Cutting class? Passing notes? Kissing behind the dumpster? Oy! Eleven years! He doesn't graduate until 2019!

(Which is a nice way of saying: I'm totally and completely screwed.)

A conversation that I overheard today (at Starbucks):

2007-04-06T01:40:00.000-04:00

24-ish boy with awful, greasy hair and filthy, ill-fitting jeans: "I went to see a play at a community theatre last weekend. I find adult community theater, by nature, totally and completely depressing."
Girl of approximately same age wearing too much black eyeshadow and whose "shirt" was, I'm pretty sure, a bra: "Oh, God, I know. Everything about those community theatres makes me want to throw myself headfirst down a fire escape."
The boy: "Those people are always pathetic. Imagine their horrible lives."
The girl: "I know. It reminds me of this guy I work with who I can't stand. He's thirty, balding, hopelessly socially awkward, and also does adult community theater. The other day he was telling me about how he really needs to get serious about his acting career, despite the fact that he is constantly yelled at for being a really crappy worker in the produce department at a grocery store. He recently married a woman who could be his twin."
The boy: "People like that make me want to punch myself in the mouth, especially hard."

I laughed so hard I almost wet my pants.

I stuck around, nursing my coffee so I could hear some more. To my dismay, the pair started talking about organic vegetables, and I didn't find that topic nearly as humorous.

I watched them as they drove away in the boy's ramshackle Honda Civic. I looked for bumper stickers (it's something I do). I've found that any guy that young and opinionated has at least one bumper sticker to let the world know exactly how he feels about what is important to him.

I was delighted to see that the greasy-haired urchin had TWO bumper stickers. I had to knock a toddler out of the way and crook my neck a bit to get a clear view (my neck still hurts; I think the toddler is okay), but alas, I was able to read them perfectly. And, Oh. My. God.

I started laughing again, and this time I laughed so hard a little bit of overpriced coffee came right out of my nose.

And I'd like to thank...

2007-04-04T00:28:00.000-04:00

I'm not one to go on about things (you know I'm not) but my blog-friend Jeremy over at Thwarting Complacency listed me as one of the "five blogs that make him think". He even presented me with a "Thinking Blogger" award! I'm speechless. In fact, I'm verklempt.

Here it is. You can hold it but be very careful (it's heavy):

Finally, I can steal my favorite Oscar acceptance line: "I can't deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me!"

This isn't some made up thing like one of those highway billboards that reads something like,"Voted the best beef jerky in the greater Boise area". (Voted by whom I want to know? And how many kinds of beef jerky does Boise have for God's sake?)

Now that I've been "tagged" -- (I refuse to admit that this is a "meme" of sorts -- I despise those darn things. I mean, who gives two shits what my favorite pizza toppings are or when was the last time I told a lie?) -- I am charged with coming up with my own list of "five blogs that make me think".

So, as Jeremy said, "without further ado or anymore guilding the lily"...

(and by the way Jeremy -- according to Word-Detective.com, to gild the lily is"to adorn or embellish something that is already beautiful or perfect; to attempt to improve something that cannot be improved, and thereby to risk spoiling it through excess." Uh, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.)

...here are the FIVE BLOGS THAT MAKE ME THINK (in no particular order):

1. Real Live Preacher - This blog is sometimes a sort of haven for me - a place I go for comfort, for understanding, for healing, for a good laugh. I always get those things; often I get much more. Though I don't consider myself "religious", I am spiritual. And who can resist a preacher who sometimes uses the terms "fuck" and "shit" and writes stuff like this in his blog:

"If you want to write you must have faith in yourself. Faith enough to believe that if a thing is true about you, it is likely true about many people. And if you can have faith in your integrity and your motives, then you can write about yourself without fear."

2. Chick Truths - The tag line says it all: "The world view of a woman with unrealistic expectations."

3. Post Secret - Just try to look at this blog and tell me if you don't find yourself thinking deeply about stuff you never even knew you cared about.

4. Maybe a Letter - My friend Gail's blog entries are beautiful and quietly thought-provoking. I wish she would write more often.

5. Thwarting Complacency -- Although Lizza already "tagged" Jeremy, I can't imagine making this list and not including his blog. Exceptional, on several levels.

So there they are! If, and only if, you've been tagged, write a post with links to five blogs that make YOU think, thenink to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't fit your blog).

Good night, dear friends. I do hope I make you think. I hope I make you smile. I hope I make you feel.

All I know is that I write because I'm afraid to say some things out loud.

It's a jungle out there

2007-03-21T16:30:00.000-04:00

My friend Nancy's husband just lost his job. He's been scouring classified ads, job listings, Monster, and anywhere else he can think to look.

Here' s an actual listing he found:

Position: Eligibility/Referral Specialist 2
Agency: Licking County Department of Job & Family Services
......
Qualifications include regular and punctual attendance in order to perform required duties/tasks in a timely manner; may be exposed to hostile clients/individuals; and, may be exposed to infectious clients/diseases and environment.

Yikes! The hostile clients and the infectious diseases ain't so bad, but good God! Requiring regular and punctual attendance is absolutely unreasonable.

Needlepoint Truths

2007-03-10T22:53:00.000-05:00

Tonight there was a benefit for Mike, a former student of Gail's who is battling cancer. Just a few blocks away, we attended a surprise birthday party for my husband's step-brother.

In many ways, I'm sure the two parties were similar -- rooms filled with family and friends putting their arms around a loved one and celebrating his life.

Today was also my own brother's birthday. Had cancer not taken Allen's life eleven years ago, it would have been his 51st birthday. Though he's been gone all these years, I still celebrate his life. Allen was funny. He was a great artist, and he was loyal and loving to a fault. I miss him.

For Allen, for Mike, for my mom, and for anyone whose life cancer has touched, this simple little needlepoint says it all.

Blogging Can Be Embarrassing

2007-03-06T12:18:00.000-05:00

Today a friend asked me how my day was and I found myself telling her all about a funny post from a blog I regularly read. I’m not used to having friendships with people I’ve never met.

Whenever I tell a flesh-friend (especially a non-blogging flesh-friend) something about a blog-friend, in the course of the conversation I inevitably have to admit that I don’t actually know the person I'm talking about [clear throat].

Me: You should read Dooce [or insert any silly-sounding blog name].
Friend: Who?
Me: Oh, Dooce.
Friend: Is that her real name?
Me: No, that's her blog name. I have a lot in common with her. And she's got such a poetic soul.
Friend: Hmm.
Me: You totally have to go read Dooce ! You’ll love her!
Friend: Awkward pause. Do you know her?
Me: Um…no. But you’ll love her...blushing now...she’s really great.

Oh well.

I joined a book club organized by my flesh-friend Gail, with a bunch of her school-teacher friends. Gail and Connie are the only gals I know in the group, so it'll be fun. This month's book is "Good Girls Gone Bad" by Jillian Medoff. My husband is worried.

I read the script of a play I'm thinking of auditioning for. I dunno. I'm too old to play the young women's roles and I'm WAY TOO YOUNG for the older women's roles, so I'm waffling. Gail and I both want to audition, and that would be a really great thing. We'll see. It might be difficult for both of us to "break in" to this particular production company together. But if we could...geez.

Well, gotta run. I need to check on my good friend All the World's A Stage . You'll love All the World's A Stage ... she's... really... great.

Schadenfreude Rules

2007-02-08T17:35:00.000-05:00

It's February. And it's cold. Really, really cold. My two oldest boys went back to school today after three colder than cold "snow days" off. As hard as it was being pent up in my teeny-tiny house for three straight days with three young boys (I kept the little one home from daycare even though it was open; I'm a martyr), man do I pity those poor teachers today.

Well, part of me pities those poor teachers; part of me is filled with an odd sense of schadenfreude. That's just how I roll.

On Super Bowl Sunday I headed out in the cold to pick my middle son up from a birthday party. I stopped at Speedway to get a cup of coffee, and someone asked the clerk if he was going to miss the game or if he could listen to it on the radio. He quickly replied, "No, I'm taping the game at home and nobody better tell me anything about it before I watch that tape."

The clerk's response reminded me of a show I was in years ago at LTOB in Grove City. We were doing "The House of Blue Leaves", and tech week started on Super Bowl Sunday during the game. A couple of cast members brought transistor radios so they could keep track of the score.

But one member of the crew, "Bob" (not his real name), was adamant about not knowing anything about the game. He was taping it at home and made it clear that he did not want to know anything that was happening. He was sort of irrational and belligerent about it, and I remember being surprised at that, because I thought I knew Bob pretty well and this behavior was something I hadn't seen before.

Back then, I was not at all into football, and on that night I'm sure I didn't even know which two teams were playing. I remember thinking how silly Bob was being, and I remember how surprised I was that Bob was being so unreasonable. Several times during the night, when someone would start to report the score, Bob would curse and storm away from the immediate area so he wouldn't hear.

I was playing Bunny in the show, and at the time it was sort of a typecast role for me so I was really having fun with it. I mean, I got to wear a leopard miniskirt and dance on top of a piano. And the best part is that I looked GOOD in that miniskirt. Damn.

Anyway, I hadn't a care in the world...I was recently engaged, had a lead role in a great show with my favorite director, and it was finally tech week. All was right with the world.

But as the night wore on (as tech rehearsals tend to do) the tension mounted over Bob's impatience with missing the Super Bowl and the rest of us trying to keep any details about the game a secret. The entire cast and crew was walking on eggshells.

At last, rehearsal was over. It was late. After the director gave notes, it was finally time to head home.

This is where the story gets fuzzy, but someone (and for the life of me I can't remember who -- I'd kill to remember who it was) stopped by the theatre to see if we were still there and if anyone was going out.

Whoever the guy was wasn't hip to the fact that we had spent the evening tiptoeing around Bob, desperately trying to keep from mentioning anything about the Super Bowl lest our normally mild-mannered friend pull out a homemade machine gun and let us all have it.

It sort of happened in slow motion. The mystery dude (damn, I wish I could remember) just walked into the theatre, stood in the doorway at the back of the house, and announced the outcome of the game. Just like that. Most of us were still sitting in the front rows after notes, and I can still remember turning around to look up into the booth, where Bob stood peering down.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, like some sort of caged animal, Bob let out a string of obscenities that I swear would embarrass Andrew Dice Clay. Then, he oh-so-quietly grabbed his coat, put on his hat and silently walked out of the theatre.

And one perfect theatre-beat later, I burst out laughing. Schadenfreude rules, man. That's just how I roll.

Well, crap.

2007-01-11T10:55:00.000-05:00

This whole thing maybe could have gone a little better.

2006

2007-01-03T14:13:00.000-05:00

Geez, 2006 went fast.

A lot of things happened this year that were sort of a "coming out" for me. Not THAT kind of coming out; I'm still in love with Matt Damon, thank you (but I still have that not-so-secret girl crush on Queen Latifah).

Get your mind out of the gutter, guys.

By "coming out" I meant that I sort of turned off the road I'd been traveling on in a sort of hypnotized state for years. Years of being wife, mother, employee, student. All of that still remains (except for the student part -- woohoo), but in 2006 I started looking at things differently. Four things this year made that happen:

I finished my master's degree...something I started as a "just for me" project that became more important to me than even I would I have thought.
A close friend became an even closer friend. From that I learned, I lost, and I am left sincerely blessed.
I went back to the theatre, and it was wonderful and horrifying at the same time. I look back on the experience with happiness, with regret, with love for new friends, with longing for another chance, and often with embarrassment for not getting it just right. Thank you Rene, for giving me a chance.

And thank you too, Cuckoo's Nest friends. I went in to the experience knowing almost noone and came away with more than a dozen new friends! Thank you for your patience, your understanding, and your support in what was the most difficult role I've ever attempted. Thank you. And I especially thank you, Tim Patrick, for making RP McMurphy so damned easy to hate. And so damned easy to love.
I started this blog, which I thought would be a fun way to chronicle the Cuckoo's Nest experience. And I did chronicle it. I chronicled it so well that immediately after the show closed I deleted every last word. Leaving those posts open for all to see felt sort of like being forced to show the world my private mirror -- the one that shows only imperfections and flaws (all the things I've learned to hide by wearing black pants and a cute top).

I have many goals for 2007 -- I hate "resolutions" so I call them goals, instead.

Anyway, one of them is to do another show...IF the stars line up and it all seems right. Right director. Right timing. Right cast. Oh yeah, and right role. My fingers are crossed.

But for now dear friends, take care and happy new year! See you soon.

And I didn't even go to Ohio State

2006-12-13T21:29:00.000-05:00

I've spent the past few weeks obsessing. Obsessing more than usual, I guess I should say.

There are a lot of things in my life to obsess about. Like what to get the 13 year old boy in my house (who replaced the utterly sweet boy who used to occupy the room upstairs - last door on the right) for Christmas.

Or I could obsess about the daily reports from my first grader's teacher providing play-by-play details on the lunchroom scuffle, the puddle-stomping recess, the rock-throwing incident, yada yada yada.

Or how in the hell I'm going to get my house adequately clean enough and my laundry pile respectably manageable enough for when my 83-year-old grandma comes to stay with us for Christmas.

But no. I've been obsessing with how to get tickets to the BCS National Championship game. (Gail, that's a football game that the Buckeyes -- the football team from Ohio State -- will be playing in on January 8.)

The game has been sold out for weeks. The cheapest seats are going for $1000 EACH.

So, you can see why I'm obsessing. After jumping through some major hoops, bending the rules, and making a deal on the life of my firstborn (that wasn't too bad since he's turned into that obnoxious, secretive kid upstairs), I was able to buy four tickets for face value through OSU's Faculty/Staff ticket lottery.

Sure, a little good-natured forgery may have been involved, and my husband may have to impersonate his 78-year-old stepfather once we get to Glendale, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, you know? I

didn't even go to Ohio State. My senior year of high school, I visited the campus and got a little overwhelmed with the place. I opted for a small, private school a little further (or is that farther, dammit) from home, where I could be involved in theatre and other activities.

But my husband did go to Ohio State. So did his brother. And his two sisters. And his four stepbrothers. His dad and step-dad were both professors, one of them Department Chair, graduation speaker, and honorary doctorate recipient.

I was born in Ohio and I grew up here. And there are a lot of people around like me. Buckeyes by default. That's good enough for me.

And on January 8 2007, I'm going to be in Glendale Arizona with my husband and my friend Jill cheering the team to another National Championship!

Not so funny

2006-12-08T16:29:00.000-05:00

I have a new boss, and a new boss's boss. I have a new job, too - which has turned out to sorta suck - but the boss and the boss's boss are BOSS. (That means that I think they're both great; stay with me on my hip lingo, will you?)

The job is actually okay, for the most part. I'm in a bit of a "situation" with one of my team members, though. And considering the fact that there are only three of us on this particular team, I'm not doing so well. Exactly one third of my team hates me. That's not good.

Today I sent my boss and my boss boss an email, ranting about said situation. Okay, I didn't really rant so much. I mean, I didn't send the email In ALL CAPS, with NO PUNCTUATION say, like this:

YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT QUEEN BIOTCH SHE DOESN'T LISTEN TO ME SHE TALKS TO ME LIKE IM A FOUR YEAR OLD WHICH IS DEMEANING AND BELITTLING I DIDN'T BUST MY ASS TO GET MY MASTERS DEGREE TO BE TREATED LIKE A JUNIOR HIGH DROPOUT

No, I diplomatically explained why things weren't working out and tried to add a little humor to the end of the email (which only took me three hours to compose on company time, of course). I told them that I am incredulous at some of the things Queen Biotch has said to me and that I had been writing them all down and was considering sending them to Dilbert.

Which I thought was pretty funny. But I have a technical writer's sense of humor, and I realized that my boss and my boss's boss may not have known that was a joke. So, I added (That was a joke) to the end of the part about Dilbert.

But even I know that if you have to say, "That was a joke" it probably isn't a very funny joke.

I'll let you know how it goes.

The only good thing about this whole situation is that I work from home. My boss is in Atlanta, my boss's boss is in New Jersey, and Queen Biotch is in Chicago. I've never met any of them (in person, anyway).

Which is a good thing, because I attend most of our teleconferences and net meetings in the nude. (That was a joke.)

Hey Michigan!

2006-11-20T15:43:00.000-05:00

Don't let the soft spoken man with the sweater vest fool ya; he can flat out coach the game of football.

Tada!

2006-11-16T13:03:00.000-05:00

Hey! Nothing In Between has a new look!

Which admittedly, is sorta ridiculous for a blog by someone who rarely posts and whose posts -- when she does post -- are regularly mediocre.

(God, doesn't it just drive you nuts when people talk about themselves in the third person?)

Do you hear what I hear?

2006-11-06T11:44:00.000-05:00

Today is November 6th. Halloween was just six days ago (I was a very cute Babe-raham Lincoln, by the way). It is a full 17 days until Thanksgiving day.

Yesterday I took my youngest boys to see a performance of Hansel and Gretel at the school where my friend Gail teaches theater. We had a great day together, enjoying a pretty fall day. The air had a perfect chill, the sunshine was golden, and the leaves were still clinging to the trees, displaying a rainbow of pretty fall colors. I just love this time of year!

After the show, we got into the car and turned on the radio. The magical spell of enjoying our fall day with Hansel and Gretel was broken by the unexpected aural assault of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer."

My seven-year old said, "Gee, they're starting Christmas early this year." Yes, they are.

"They" have decided that it's time to flip the switch and declare to radio stations, retail stores, fast-food joints and elevator Muzak operators that the "season" has officially started. I mean, the very second after the last trick-or-treater left my porch, stores were adorned with holiday decorations, the radio started playing "Deck the Halls', and bearded-clad seasonal Santas reported for duty.

Election day is tomorrow. I'll vote for anyone who runs on a platform that includes not allowing anyone, anywhere, to play Christmas music prior to the day after Thanksgiving. Call it censorship if you want, but that shit needs some serious censoring.

They're skipping Thanksgiving. We instantly go from Halloween to Christmas! That just isn't right, on oh-so-many levels (one of them calling Halloween a "holiday", but whatever).

Thanksgiving is a great holiday. It's the holiday you don't buy presents -- because it isn't about presents. It's the holiday when everyone is supposed to take a few moments to be grateful for where they are (or aren't), for what they have (or don't have), and most important: for whom they love (or don't love).

And here's my favorite part: Thanksgiving is the holiday that actually encourages a sin: gluttony.

So BAH HUMBUG until November 24th.

Something new

2006-10-23T23:16:00.000-04:00

Gail has always been a person in my life who pushes me to explore new things and to eagerly embrace things I would normally shun.

We spent some time together this past weekend; we normally don't get the chance to spend a lot of time together. We went to see a dance show called Anna and the Anadroids: The Robots' Dream Tour performed by Anatomical Scenario. Their program says that Anatomical Scenario is "a dance company based on the instinctual expression of human exaggeration". I'm not sure what that means.

From what I can tell, the performance was sort of a mix of experiemental theater, performance art, modern dance, and ballet - from what I can tell. But I can't say for sure.

Gail is sure the show had a deeply-rooted message about social consciousness and consumerism. I didn't really get that. Not even just a little bit. Heck, I was pretty much lost the entire show. But, it was enjoyable, and I suppose one can enjoy something without really "getting" it.

Anyway, we had a great time and we came out of the theater profoundly moved by the same things: how skinny those dancer's thighs were and how they could wear those itty-bitty costumes all night long without ever reaching up to pull their undies/leotards/tutus down over their butt cheeks.

Here, I'm returning your fork.

2006-10-11T17:12:00.000-04:00

“We have no more right to put our discordant states of mind into the lives of those around us and rob them of their sunshine and brightness than we have to enter their houses and steal their silverware.” --Julia Moss Stern*

Today my friend Lisa (the lovely and charming Nurse Flinn from Cuckoo's Nest) sent me an email to ask if I was okay. She'd read my blog. It suddenly occurred to me that my past few postings have been just a skosh negative.

Huh.

See, I can be what some people consider sarcastic. What I think is sorta funny isn't always so hilarious to the next guy.

Like the Thermos bottle thing: I was in Goodwill for the gazillionth time (those damn victorian costumes!) and I saw a thermos just like the one I had in first grade. Except get this: the inside was plastic. I stood there in the middle of the Goodwill store on Indianola Avenue, marveling at the idea that the inside of Thermos bottles used to be glass.

I mean, I wasn't sad, or angry, or bitter about my horrifying Thermos accident. After all, I'm not one to go on about things. I'm not.

So, I'm sorry if I've been a bit of a downer. I just want you all (all two of you) to know that I'm actually singing sunshine and butterflies these days. Really, I am. It's just that I'm usually not one to go on about things. You know I'm not. Really.

How about this? The next time I steal your silverware, I promise to return it in a timely
manner and as shiny as the inside of a Thermos botttle. (As shiny as the inside of a Thermos bottle used to be. You know, back when the inside of a Thermos bottle was glass.)

*I have no idea who Julia Moss Stern is. Neither does Wikipedia.

Stuff

2006-10-05T23:23:00.001-04:00

Stuff that's on my mind (in no particular order):

Thermos bottles don't have glass/metal insides anymore; the inside of Thermos bottles is now plastic. I bet that nowadays a six year old could drop a thermos bottle (on the way to her first day in a new school after moving to a new town) and then at lunch time, when she opened the thermos, the tomato soup inside would still be okay and not filled with little pieces of glass. I bet.
I need to get back on some sort of diet that does not include chocolate. That's going to be difficult.
I probably need to delete my last post because almost every day I think about it and feel guilty. I log in with intentions of deleting, but I re-read it and convince myself that since it's all true it's really not that bad. After all, it's just what I'm feeling. Naturally, after not doing anything about it, I feel more guilt, which in turn, leads to chocolate.
When your next-door-neighbors (whom you love) experience the worst tragedy one could ever imagine, there really is nothing you can say or do to help ease their heartache or to quell your own grief, quiet your sick stomach, or stop the nightmares from creeping in soon after you fall asleep. Rest in peace, Therese; may you rest peacefully in God's loving arms.
I don't like it when people honk their horn at me when I'm in my car (for insignificant matters, such as not flooring my gas pedal the nanosecond after the light turns green). There is way too much horn honking going on these days. Cut it out.
I want to audition for a show coming up, but after reading a Theatre Roundtable review left on the desk at ECP, I've convinced myself that everyone was right: I sucked in Cuckoo's Nest and my acting probably just sucks in general. Naturally, this leads to chocolate, so I'm too fat to audition anyway. End of story.
I can't post photos to Blogger anymore.
Everyone knows that you will impress your friends with your grammar skills if you can distinguish between "lie" and "lay". Confession: I have a Master of Science in English from a distinguished and reputable university, and I can't do it. My solution to this problem is to simply avoid any sentence that requires me to select either "lie" or "lay". This makes me feel like a fraud. I also have trouble with "further" vs. "farther", but alot of people do - so that one doesn't make me feel as bad.

I'm tired and cranky and I did 7th grade homework all night (I helped my son do 7th grade homework, but it's a fine line). You see, since I already went through 7th grade (thirty years or so ago); I'm not real hip to doing it over.

So you'll forgive this post's annoying self-indulgence?

It was either write all this stuff in my blog or open the one-pound bag of M&Ms hidden in the very back of my freezer.

A desk and a chair do not a set make

2006-09-29T09:49:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I spent a really long time crafting one of my best posts ever. I polished it all up, added an appropriate smattering of humor, balanced the humor with a perfect compliment of sarcasm, then added a few heart wrenching details. I clicked "Publish Post".

That's when Internet Explorer displayed a new page -- outside of Blogger -- with an error message telling me "the web page you are trying to access cannot be found". Desperately, I clicked the "Back" button, only to be greeted with a completely empty Blogger "Create" screen. Arrrgggh.

So I'll try again, but this time my muse isn't with me -- so I can't guarantee you'll laugh and cry the way you would've had I been able to post yesterday's masterpiece. Story of my life.

Basically, here's the deal: I'm doing costumes for a show that opens next weekend. I agreed to do this gig way back in June when I was in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest with Rene. I love to sew and I love Rene, and I wanted to support him with his next show. It is my observation that unless your show has a member of this particular theatre's highly exclusive "inner circle" in the cast, you may not receive as much support as you need. (Translation: you are hung out to dry like shit on a shingle.)

So I offered to do the costumes for Rene. Let me say that again: FOR RENE. Yeah, I love the theatre, and I love being part of the whole process, yada yada yada, but I wanted to do this FOR RENE.

Auditions were in August. Rene got sick a couple weeks later and ended up in the hospital. The assistant "director" and the stage manager took over. (Here's where, in yesterday's lost post, I said a whole bunch of sarcastic stuff that was pretty funny and sorta mean and I think THAT's why my post -- karma, you know -- ultimately got zapped; I dunno.)

After a few weeks of continuing without Rene, the stage manager bailed. 'Nuff said.

A couple of weeks ago, I took my youngest son (he's 3) to a rehearsal to get started on costumes -- take measurements, etc. The joy of doing the whole thing was pretty much gone for me since Rene is no longer involved, but I'm certainly not going to walk away from a commitment.

All I can tell you about that rehearsal is that when I left I got in the car, looked at my three-year-old and said, "They are so screwed."

Gail and I often tell a story that happened years ago when we started a theatre company. We love to tell the story of the night a cast member reeled off a whole list of reasons why the production we were working on just wasn't going to work. She ended her rather dramatic monologue with the fact that we didn't even have a proper stage, and proclaimed: "A desk and a chair do not a set make!"

So let me borrow from that experience and say:

An --

...inexperienced theatre enthusiast in charge of a group of well-meaning but unfocused individuals charged with producing a very deep psychological drama set in the victorian-era which requires sound effects technical effects and lighting which has yet to do a full runthrough with very little set no props a ridiculous budget and no support from the theatre where this prodcution is supposed to take place...

--does not a play make.

But the costumes ain't too shabby, considering I have been given NO BUDGET and my repeated attempts to contact the "inner circle" have been ignored. How the fuck am I supposed to come up with three days worth of Victorian-era costumes for six people with NO BUDGET? Don't get me started on that stupid "inner circle" of theirs. Just don't get me started.

Nine weeks of doing Cuckoo's Nest and NOT ONE PERSON FROM THAT THEATRE ever said a word to me. NOT ONE FUCKING WORD.

Okay, that' s out of my system. For today, anyway.

On to brighter news: Rene is much better and doing great. My oldest son's football team brought home its first victory this week: the Kilbourne Middle School Cougars are 1-2-2! I'm trying to talk my middle son into auditioning for Curtain's "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" (of my three , he's the actor) and my youngest has continued his success and has remained clean and dry for several weeks now -- giving up his diapers forever.

Did you know that you can make a great looking victorian-style petticoat out of a 99 cent valance from the thrift store? Woohoo!

Milestones

2006-08-28T16:36:00.000-04:00

Last week was filled with milestones. Too many milestones, really, to grasp and savor any of them the way I wanted.

Two Fridays ago, a slew of us from Cuckoo's Nest went to see fellow cast members Sarah, Jai, and Marc in Pippin at LTOB. It was a really wonderful night. I had dinner with my dearest friend Gail and then we saw a great show. It was really fun to see the gang from Cuckoo's Nest and meet new friends from Pippin. I so enjoyed that evening.

Each of my boys reached a milestone last week: Tyler started Middle School, Parker went to 1st Grade, and Kevin decided it was finally time to give up diapers. (Thank God. I just figured out that since Tyler was six when Parker was born, and Parker was three when Kevin was born...I've had a child in diapers for approximately 10 of the past 13 years. )

In the midst of these milestones, another mother yearned to see her child reach milestones, too. She waited for her daughter to open her eyes, to speak, to move her toes. Rachel Berezinsky was shot last Tuesday evening - very close to my own home - and today she clings to life in intensive care. I haven't been able to shake the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach since it happened.

Then, on Saturday, we learned about Charles, who was with us just two Fridays ago at Pippin. Oh, Charles. We will remember you with such fondness and we will never forget your smile, your kind spirit, or your infectious laugh. Perhaps you too have reached a milestone. Peace to you, dear one. Peace to you.

My latest Girl Crush

2006-08-10T23:10:00.000-04:00

I realize I'm way beyond the age when I (or anyone else) should refer to myself as a “girl”, so lets just get this out of the way: I get that fact, okay?

It's been a while since my last girl crush . Well, girl crush on a celebrity, anyway. It goes without saying that I'll always have a girl crush on my friend Gail. No question about it. Oh, and her friend Becky, too. Of course. If you know either of those women you know what I'm talkin' about.

Sometimes I'll mention my latest girl crush (which frequently changes) to my husband or one of my guy friends. Guys seem to like those discussions. It's so obvious. It's always the same: when I discuss a girl crush with a guy, the guy's eyes instantly glaze over and I realize right away it's because he is hearing really bad porn music in the back of his head. I just want to slap him across the face to pull him out of this state.

So let me say, guys: it's not that kind of thing. It's not a "Girls Gone Wild", girl-on-girl thing. A girl crush is when you know, meet, or see a woman "whose sense of style or brilliant achievements or personal charisma makes you kind of adore and worship her" (according to Grrl Genius, a girl crush expert).

Let's be clear: girl crushes are nonsexual. Guys: Did you get that? Turn off the porn music.

My husband has been teasing me for years about my crush on Queen Latifah. Whenever she's on TV he says “there's your girlfriend."

There's just something about Queen. She's gritty, she's strong, she's beautiful. And she was really, really good in Chicago.

I had a brief girl crush on Anne Heche (when she played that wacky character on Ally McBeal). Don't ask. These things are hard to explain.

I had a friend whom I once called my "best" friend. I'd had a crush on Lynn since we were in the second grade. I admired how incredibly smart she was, and I admired her long auburn hair - always braided in two perfect braids and always secured with two perfect white ribbons.

As we grew, part of what attracted me to Lynn was that her life just seemed perfect. Her parents were perfect. Her grades were perfect. She lived in a perfect house and always had perfect clothes and perfect boyfriends. I admired all of that.

I'm not sure what Lynn liked about me. My life was so different from hers. I didn't have perfect grades or perfect clothes, and I certainly didn't have a perfect life. But I always made her laugh.

Lynn and I stayed best friends through college, weddings, children.

Ten years ago, my brother Allen died. Lynn was at a loss as to what to do, what to say. I understood. Nothing so horrifying had ever happened in her perfect life. We never talked about Allen, his cancer, or how much I missed him.

I realize now that was the beginning of the end of our friendship.

A couple of years later, when my sister Linda was killed in a car accident, Lynn simply pretended it didn't happen. She didn't call. She didn't send a note. I shouldn't have been so surprised, or so hurt. I should have known that the friendship was partly based on us both having happy, perfect lives. When my life got a bit rocky (and I just couldn't make her laugh), I guess she couldn't bear to be around me.

Geez. I just buzz-killed my own post, didn't I? I didn't mean to.

Yeah, my experience with Lynn was regrettable, and losing my brother and sister nothing short of heartbreaking.

But I was talking about girl crushes, and I can't finish without mentioning what I intended to talk about in the first place:

My latest girl crush.

Okay. So last weekend, while channel surfing, I came upon Pulp Fiction. At that moment, Uma Thurman and John Travolta were just pulling up to Jack Rabbit Slim's -- the exchange between Travolta and Uma (and the adorable dance segment that follows) is undeniably the best part of the movie.

There's just something about Uma, you know? And Uma in Pulp Fiction -- simply irresistible. And geez, remember Uma in Batman and Robin as Poison Ivy? Wowee!

Aw, come on...don't start with the porno music thing, guys. AmI gonna have to slap you across the face?

Thou Shalt Not Steal

2006-07-21T00:30:00.000-04:00

Tonight a memory came to me so vividly I was clearly thrown off balance for a moment.

My middle son is six. As I put him to bed tonight, he held something in the palm of his hand, trying hard not to open his fingers so I could see it; hoping I wouldn't notice that he had something in his hand at all.

I asked him to put whatever it was he had in his hand on the nightstand. He reluctantly opened his six-year-old hand and out dropped a white poker chip. He looked at me and with pleading eyes -- eyes that revealed he knew I realized he was lying-- and in a very small voice said, "Robert gave it to me."

My oldest son's friend Robert is sleeping over tonight and Robert just happened to bring his "Texas Hold'em" poker set along.

As I stood there, my heartstrings stretched in several directions, I remembered what happened when I was six years old and got caught stealing a piece of Dubble Bubble from the grocery store.

My parents had just divorced. My dad convinced the judge that my mother was unfit to take care of my brother, my sister and me, and he was awarded full custody. After which he promptly took us to his father and stepmother's house, and then he left.

He moved out of state. He moved way out of state. Texas. The story was that he would come and get us after he found a place to live and got settled in his new job.

And got settled with his new wife (who hated other people's children).

So. My "children are to be seen and not heard" grandfather and step-grandmother raised my brother and sister and me (until my brother and sister ran away, but that's another story).

On the fateful day I committed the heist (the Dubble Bubble incident), I got caught in much the same way that my six-year-old did tonight with the poker chip. I had that piece of bubble gum in my hand, white-knuckles closed around it as if my life depended on it. And I wouldn't take my hand out of my coat pocket.

By the time we got to the car, my grandmother suspected that I had committed the crime. In her ever-so shrill and demeaning voice, she demanded that I take my hand out of my pocket and show her what was inside. When I did, she marched me back into the store and made me tell the grocer what I had done, apologize, and give the merchandise back.

When we got home, I was sent straight to my room and was not allowed to come out for the entire day. As punishment, I had to memorize the Ten Commandments. I can't imagine that was easy for a child of six, who didn't yet know how to read. And, I was introduced to my grandfather's belt. My sister, who was ten, made sure that I wore tights to church the next day so the bruises on my legs wouldn't show.

Tonight, as my son opened his hand and put that poker chip on the table, my eyes filled with tears. Not because my little angel stole something from our guest, not because he lied to me about it, and certainly not because I'm disappointed or ashamed that a child of mine would do such a thing.

I haven't thought of that Dubble Bubble story for a long time. When I remembered it -- in that moment between my son putting the chip on the table and looking up to say, "Robert gave it to me" -- tears of relief, tears of compassion, and tears of utter joy in knowing that I knew how to handle this situation -- filled my eyes.

Tomorrow morning, my son will give the chip to Robert and apologize. No banishment to his room. No Ten Commandments. And he'll certainly be able to wear shorts to camp tomorrow. You can bet on that.

Good God! What were these people thinking? Now that I have three children of my own I can't believe some of the things my grandparents did in raising me. What the hell? For Christ's sake!

You know, there are a lot of things people do for Christ's sake, that have nothing to do with Christ's sake at all.

Hey

2006-07-16T01:07:00.000-04:00

I'm "recovering" after the whole One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest thing.

I'm not one to go on about things ... really, I'm not. But I guess it's taken me a while to get my world back into some semblance of order.

After all, six weeks of rehearsals and three weeks of production made for nine hectic weeks around here. My kids were out of control, my house was a wreck, my husband was needy (okay, needier is probably a better word).

Since Cuckoo's Nest closed, we bought a new car. Went to the beach. I got a new job (same company but I got a promotion and a raise, AND I can work from home all the time if I want, or just whenever I want). So I've been busy, even though right after the show closed I felt like I had so much free time.

Doing that show sorta opened up my eyes a bit, on several levels.

I realized how much I missed the theatre all these years.
I realized how hard it was for me to balance career, motherhood (and all that jazz), with 5-night a week rehearsals, learning lines, etc. (AND going out after rehearsals, too, of course).
I realized it's okay to order pizza for your family once a week (as you're rushing out the door to rehearsal), but twice a week might be pushing it.
I realized that people can be pretty darn judgemental about who they think your character should be and how they think you should play her.
I realized I didn't/don't care who people thought my chracter should be or how they thought I should play her.
I realized there are some pretty cool people in the theatre.

Enough of that. After all, I'm not one to go on about things. Really, I'm not.

But while I'm in this mushy state of mind, I might as well bring up a poem that I had completely forgotten about...I learned it years ago in college, when doing a show called, "And the subject is...love." Get this: the whole show was about love. The subject of the show was love. Really clever title.

Anyway, it was sort of a poetry / theatre / performance thing -- a reader's theatre-ish thing. There was a poem by Carl Sandburg that I did an interpretation of that the show was sort of built around:

Little Word, Little White Bird

Love is a little white bird
and the flight of it so fast
you can't see it
and you know it's there
only by the faint whirr of its wings
and the hush song coming so low to your ears
you fear it might be silence
and you listen keen
and you listen long
and you know it's more than silence
for you get the hush song so lovely
it hurts and cuts into your heart
and what you want
is to give more than you can get
and you'd like to write it
but it can't be written
and you'd like to sing it
but you don't dare try
because the little white bird sings it better than you can
so you listen
and while you listen you pray
and one day it's as though
a great slow wind had washed you clean and strong
inside and out
and another day it's as though you had gone to sleep
in an early afternoon sunfall and your sleeping heart
dumb and cold as a round polished stone,
and the little white bird's hush song
telling you nothing can harm you,
the days to come can weave in and weave out
and spin their fabrics and designs for you
and nothing can harm you

I don't know what made me think of that poem the other day. I went back and found my script and remembered how much I loved Sandburg's words...I remember how much I loved doing the interp of that poem.

I'm not sure what that poem meant to me back then, but I'm pretty sure I didn't understand it the way I understand it now.

Good night.

Monday, Monday

2006-06-19T08:13:00.000-04:00

Ah. The Monday after.

Yesterday I deleted all my blog entries. I didn't even think about it much, just sat down at my computer and started deleting.

Cuckoo's Nest is over. I suppose it felt right to just leave that little slice of my life inside me -- and not let the blog define the experience now that it's finished.

I dunno. I do know that I hate Mondays, and I especially hate Monday mornings after the close of a show.

Sarah, I feel like a teacup, a plastic dollar store cup, and a mug, all at once.