All right, if you are not in the mood to read about someone's bad day, skip this post!
Before I tell you about yesterday, let me say this: the most important thing, nay, the only important thing, is that no one was hurt.
OK, so a little back story: Jeff and I have the keys to the new house and are planning on spending all of June packing, moving and cleaning the old place. We are under lease until the end of July. We told our landlords that we would, of course, honor the lease, but since Jeff has been here over twelve years, if they wanted to spruce the place up, throw on a new coat of paint and get a jump on University students returning in the Fall, we would be happy to be out by the end of June.
Our Landlady, without giving us a for sure yes on the early out, said they'd like to look at the apartment to see what needed to be done. Could this happen next week?
Now, normally, I'd say, No, like every other landlord on planet Earth, you can wait until we vacate. But, because we want something from them, I'm being good.
However, this means spending this week moving AND getting the place in reasonable shape for a viewing. And I should tell you, Jeff has some weird landlord issues, which I believe stem from childhood poverty.
Anyway. So, yesterday, I got down to the basement in the morning. I have a huge plastic tub of books and whatnot. I sort through it, purging about half of it. Saying goodbye to some old friends. At the bottom of the tote (Which is the size of a small bathtub!) are several copies of "The Stranger" containing articles of mine. I fill the now empty space with pillows. Oh, also, I kept a couple of original "Polyester" scratch n sniff cards.
Upstairs, Jeff hasn't been so good about purging. I understand that sometimes it's hard to let go of things. And I don't press the issue. If we have to move a box of junk, so be it.
Jeff is going to duck out mid morning. There is a thrift shop he goes to that was having a blow out sale and needed some cheap jeans to garden in. I stay and continue to box up the kitchen and bring things downstairs.
He called at one point and said he'd run into an old friend at the thrift shop and was going to give her a ride home and probably stay for a cup of tea.
Well, the long and the short of it was that he was gone for over three hours. But, I couldn't deal with that. Our apartment seemed to be getting more chaotic not less.
Jeff finally gets home, we pack up the Volare. The big tote goes on top and off we go to the new place.
En route, our dog, Pullo, who has not been handling the change of routine very well, sees a dog while we are at a red light and just goes ballistic. He's on my lap in full snarl and thrash. And thank god I didn't have a tire iron handy.
We get the dog calmed down and hop on 99. A mile or so south of Downtown, we hear a crunch. We don't see anything. At the next opportunity, we pull over and YIKES, the big tote is gone. Victim of a broken bungee.
We loop back, terrified of what we'd find. We were able to spot it. Thank god it was far enough over to be out of traffic. We go through downtown and head back. There's no shoulder and it is much too close to an exit to safely stop. And really, nothing in that tub was worth risking a life for. Like I said, I'm just thankful no one was hurt.
And really, I hadn't looked in that box for a couple years. And I can't even remember all that I put in there except the articles and the scratch n sniff. Relics of the past.
But, part of me felt deflated. Like the remnants of a life I once had were dumped, nothing but litter.
But. Nothing to do about it. Just gotta go forward.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
I'm back
(I am back. The interweb was down at home and I was dashing quickly to the library to check the email. Not fun when you are in escrow, but it's done now. We have a house.)
OK, not that I would ever do it. But after the last couple months I completely understand why people run away from their lives. Just fill a single bag, grab a little cash and head to the Greyhound Station. You stare straight at the tired old guy behind the counter. You are tempted to pile your money on the counter and say, "how far will this get me?" But you don't want to be remembered. So instead, you glance at the board to see what's leaving soonest. San Antonio. OK, new life begins in San Antonio.
On the bus you deliberately sit next to someone who doesn't look all that well. You're hoping he expires en route and you can lift his wallet and identity. This doesn't happen. Instead you hear stories about all the dry wall he's hung in his life and a daughter who only calls when she needs money. You forget the details moments after he says them. But the raspy quality of his voice stays with you.
The San Antonio you arrive in isn't actually today's San Antonio. It's the San Antonio of the 1950's. Which is important because you are able to get a tiny apartment and a job without showing i.d.
The landlady and the folks at the diner know you as "Joe" because it's the most generic name you could think of. You love the lunch rush because it gets busy and there's no time to think.
You hate getting a beer with the waitresses after your shift because all they can talk about is the customers they just served.
It doesn't take long before you wake up in the night and say: "Texas? In the 1950'? That's all you could come up with?"
And it hits you that although you went back in time, your body actually got older. And you're a sixty two year old guy living over a vacuum repair shop. You work right across the street making tuna melts and salads of ice berg lettuce.
You check your pockets. You still have the bus ticket dated fifty three years in the future. Maybe, if you hurry, it can be undone.
OK, not that I would ever do it. But after the last couple months I completely understand why people run away from their lives. Just fill a single bag, grab a little cash and head to the Greyhound Station. You stare straight at the tired old guy behind the counter. You are tempted to pile your money on the counter and say, "how far will this get me?" But you don't want to be remembered. So instead, you glance at the board to see what's leaving soonest. San Antonio. OK, new life begins in San Antonio.
On the bus you deliberately sit next to someone who doesn't look all that well. You're hoping he expires en route and you can lift his wallet and identity. This doesn't happen. Instead you hear stories about all the dry wall he's hung in his life and a daughter who only calls when she needs money. You forget the details moments after he says them. But the raspy quality of his voice stays with you.
The San Antonio you arrive in isn't actually today's San Antonio. It's the San Antonio of the 1950's. Which is important because you are able to get a tiny apartment and a job without showing i.d.
The landlady and the folks at the diner know you as "Joe" because it's the most generic name you could think of. You love the lunch rush because it gets busy and there's no time to think.
You hate getting a beer with the waitresses after your shift because all they can talk about is the customers they just served.
It doesn't take long before you wake up in the night and say: "Texas? In the 1950'? That's all you could come up with?"
And it hits you that although you went back in time, your body actually got older. And you're a sixty two year old guy living over a vacuum repair shop. You work right across the street making tuna melts and salads of ice berg lettuce.
You check your pockets. You still have the bus ticket dated fifty three years in the future. Maybe, if you hurry, it can be undone.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Morphing
I've been thinking a lot lately about change and transformation. About how we shed and don different roles throughout our lives.
I suspect -- or I guess more accurately I should say, I hope -- that my very final role in life will be a colorful local eccentric. Kind of a wizzened cross between Linda Hunt, Truman Capote and Oscar Wilde. A kindly old uncle given to long winded anecdotes and occasional inappropriate public behavior (both exacerbated by drink.) I'll probably carry a walking stick. Often greatly loved, sometimes merely tolerated.
But here's the thing, I have at least one, and probably two or three personas to go through before getting there. And I haven't a clue what they are.
If it's clear to everyone but me, and you know the answer, please let me know!
I suspect -- or I guess more accurately I should say, I hope -- that my very final role in life will be a colorful local eccentric. Kind of a wizzened cross between Linda Hunt, Truman Capote and Oscar Wilde. A kindly old uncle given to long winded anecdotes and occasional inappropriate public behavior (both exacerbated by drink.) I'll probably carry a walking stick. Often greatly loved, sometimes merely tolerated.
But here's the thing, I have at least one, and probably two or three personas to go through before getting there. And I haven't a clue what they are.
If it's clear to everyone but me, and you know the answer, please let me know!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Jinx'd
It's my fault. I should never have let Jeff play around on the Sherman-Williams website. See, it's kinda cool. You can load a jpeg of a room on there and then change the color of the walls and trim to your heart's delight.
And of course, I'd mentally put my hive of bees out back and established my puppet workshop in the basement.
We might as well have hung signs around our necks saying "Kick Us!"
Here's the delio: we were --no, we ARE -- in escrow. The house inspection (400 clams thank you very much) passed with flying colors. We talked with an agent about home owner's insurance. We patted ourselves on the back for getting it done by the end of April so that we'd get the tax credit. We figured out a way around the FHA requirement of mandatory connection to the public sewer system. All that was require was the inspection of the septic tank and we (and Sherwin Williams) would be good to go.
The way is was phrased to us was "The septic tank has reached the end of its life." As if the tank were lying in a dimly lit room, propped up on pillows, surrounded by loved ones.
Now, here's what I just don't get: the connection fee to the local sewer --not the pipes, not the labor, just the privilege of connecting to a service that will then bill you monthly -- is $16,000.
To be this close and have it yanked away. It feels like a taunting.
I feel like I've been run over by a cartoon steam roller and am now an eighth of an inch thick.
Weeks of stress and sleepless nights and it's square one again.
Ah well. I suppose the good thing about being run over by a cartoon steam roller, instead of the real thing, is that all it takes is a bicycle pump to be back in shape.
And of course, I'd mentally put my hive of bees out back and established my puppet workshop in the basement.
We might as well have hung signs around our necks saying "Kick Us!"
Here's the delio: we were --no, we ARE -- in escrow. The house inspection (400 clams thank you very much) passed with flying colors. We talked with an agent about home owner's insurance. We patted ourselves on the back for getting it done by the end of April so that we'd get the tax credit. We figured out a way around the FHA requirement of mandatory connection to the public sewer system. All that was require was the inspection of the septic tank and we (and Sherwin Williams) would be good to go.
The way is was phrased to us was "The septic tank has reached the end of its life." As if the tank were lying in a dimly lit room, propped up on pillows, surrounded by loved ones.
Now, here's what I just don't get: the connection fee to the local sewer --not the pipes, not the labor, just the privilege of connecting to a service that will then bill you monthly -- is $16,000.
To be this close and have it yanked away. It feels like a taunting.
I feel like I've been run over by a cartoon steam roller and am now an eighth of an inch thick.
Weeks of stress and sleepless nights and it's square one again.
Ah well. I suppose the good thing about being run over by a cartoon steam roller, instead of the real thing, is that all it takes is a bicycle pump to be back in shape.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
It will be the death of me!
OK. I'm going to proceed with our real estate saga until you beg me to stop.
So, we are in escrow. Earnest money plunked down. Four hundred clams spent on the inspection.
Went to Jonah's wedding on Thursday, told everyone that it looked like we were getting this house. In fact, it's almost all we talked about.
Friday morning, call from Liz. FHA doesn't like septic tanks when you can be connected to the sewer system. In fact, they would need it done by closing....have I mentioned that we've already put a hefty chunk of earnest money down?
It's tens of thousands of dollars to connect to the sewer system. To make it worse, Liz called while I was reading "Beekeeping for Dummies." She said, there were still some angles to work, and that somehow we would make it work.
I curled up in a ball. Wept.
We could not have one more thing snatched form us. And even if we got out of this deal, we'd never make the April 30th deadline for the big Tax Credit.
Long story short. We (I hope, I think) found a way around it. If you can show the bank that it would be a hardship to put connect to the sewer they can waive the requirement.
So, Liz was having a bid put in to find out how much it would cost. And FHA has a guideline (Which I wish was a rule, but no, it's just a guideline) that if the cost is greater than 3% of the house, it could be a hardship.
So, I think we have dodged that bullet. For now. But, it's caused another night of poor quality sleep. And it has me terrified that there is another bomb lurking to sink our dream.
And, today I'm feeling like I'll never have the head space to write again.
Ohhh! This all must end sooooon!
So, we are in escrow. Earnest money plunked down. Four hundred clams spent on the inspection.
Went to Jonah's wedding on Thursday, told everyone that it looked like we were getting this house. In fact, it's almost all we talked about.
Friday morning, call from Liz. FHA doesn't like septic tanks when you can be connected to the sewer system. In fact, they would need it done by closing....have I mentioned that we've already put a hefty chunk of earnest money down?
It's tens of thousands of dollars to connect to the sewer system. To make it worse, Liz called while I was reading "Beekeeping for Dummies." She said, there were still some angles to work, and that somehow we would make it work.
I curled up in a ball. Wept.
We could not have one more thing snatched form us. And even if we got out of this deal, we'd never make the April 30th deadline for the big Tax Credit.
Long story short. We (I hope, I think) found a way around it. If you can show the bank that it would be a hardship to put connect to the sewer they can waive the requirement.
So, Liz was having a bid put in to find out how much it would cost. And FHA has a guideline (Which I wish was a rule, but no, it's just a guideline) that if the cost is greater than 3% of the house, it could be a hardship.
So, I think we have dodged that bullet. For now. But, it's caused another night of poor quality sleep. And it has me terrified that there is another bomb lurking to sink our dream.
And, today I'm feeling like I'll never have the head space to write again.
Ohhh! This all must end sooooon!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The State of the day
Me: You know, I'm going to feel so much better if I can get even a little bit of writing done.
Low Level Nagging Stress Headache: Umm. No. Not gonna happen.
Low Level Nagging Stress Headache: Umm. No. Not gonna happen.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Phew
And, just barely in time, it happened. Just as I was about six inches from the end of my rope. Just as I was about to scream "I don't want a house, I want a divorce!" Just as I was about to give homelessness a try. We made an offer on a place and it was accepted and it has passed our inspection.
And (oh, I hope I'm not jinxing myself by saying this before it becomes final) I kinda love this house. It's a wee bit further out than I'd ideally prefer. But it's kinda great. A roomy two bedroom, nice sized kitchen, wood burning stove. A soaker tub! With Jets! Oh, and get this: a phone by the toilet! A semi-finished basement to make puppets in! A deck. An attic for the toys.
And the lot is freakin' enormous. It'll take some work, because it could get a little away from us. (Ivy and blackberries currently at bay, but they never rest). But it's kind of fantastic. You're gonna think I'm crazy, but I might just get me a hive of bees! Or two! Maybe chickens are in our future!
There's still mountains of paper work to plow through and I'll miss Capitol Hill and we'll have to pinch a penny or two. And, of course, there is the hauling of our chattel. But at the end of it all: Chickens, bees, baths.
And (oh, I hope I'm not jinxing myself by saying this before it becomes final) I kinda love this house. It's a wee bit further out than I'd ideally prefer. But it's kinda great. A roomy two bedroom, nice sized kitchen, wood burning stove. A soaker tub! With Jets! Oh, and get this: a phone by the toilet! A semi-finished basement to make puppets in! A deck. An attic for the toys.
And the lot is freakin' enormous. It'll take some work, because it could get a little away from us. (Ivy and blackberries currently at bay, but they never rest). But it's kind of fantastic. You're gonna think I'm crazy, but I might just get me a hive of bees! Or two! Maybe chickens are in our future!
There's still mountains of paper work to plow through and I'll miss Capitol Hill and we'll have to pinch a penny or two. And, of course, there is the hauling of our chattel. But at the end of it all: Chickens, bees, baths.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Quick Note
OK, quick note. We put in an offer yesterday and I think, pending inspection, they accepted it!
I'm going from giddy to hyperventilation. The number are so big and getting the right amount of money in the right place at the right time makes me nervous.
Did I mention that this new place has a telephone by the toilet?
I'm going from giddy to hyperventilation. The number are so big and getting the right amount of money in the right place at the right time makes me nervous.
Did I mention that this new place has a telephone by the toilet?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Rolly Coaster
OK. Here's how the first four days of house hunting went:
Friday we go out with Sarah's sister, Liz. We love her. We see a couple ok places: a very small town home and then a funky little house with an Anne Frank attic and maybe a funny smell in the background.
Then, we go to this... this...I don't know, I don't want to gush, but it was fabulous. Four bedrooms. Two fireplaces. Three bathrooms. Cute yard right up against a greenbelt. We checked the bus lines on Liz's iPhone, quite doable commute. Oh, have I mentioned the hardwood floors? And cheap! Well, not cheap, but within our meager budget. We had Liz call the agent right there. She left a message. I had my doubts right away that we'd get it, so I said we should push on and check out our last house of the day.
Well, we didn't even get down the block before the agent called back to say there were already three offers on the table. (Damn table.) We trudge on, our shoulders sagging a little, to the last place. Which was OK. But after the two fireplace house, it just had no sparkle.
Saturday was just a bad day. I had been looking forward to a Printer's Devil Theater meeting/in-town retreat for weeks and weeks. It was kind of going to be the high light of a difficult month. A whole day where I could feel like a writer again. Long story short, Jeff cut his finger pretty bad slicing potatoes and I had to leave the meeting about twenty minutes after it started. (And then get scolded later in the day because I seemed more upset about the aborted gathering than I did about the injured finger.)
OK, so while Jeff was getting a stitch and a tetanus shot, I wipe away the tears and poked around online and found a nice house. When Jeff got home from the ER, he agree. We got a hold of Liz and she arrainged for us to meet there on Sunday morning before an open house she had.
Oh, this cottage! Smaller than Ms. Two Fireplaces, but cute. On nice lot. Good layout. Closer to where Jeff works. Close to some friends. Straight shot to downtown on the bus. We fell in love all over again.
Liz calls. We part. Jeff and I cruise the neighborhood, take Pullo for a walk in a near by park. We go home. Stupidly we start to mentally plant things in the garden, figure out where the furniture will go.
Liz calls. She says they have another offer, but we could come in strong. We go into her office on Sunday evening, draft up an offer that sweetens the pot a little. Sign and initial the hell out of that offer, Jeff doing so with bandaged hand.)
We cross our finger and go home.
Jeff's exhausted. Nobody has slept well, so he calls into work on Monday.
Liz phones about ten, the seller has gone with the other offer.
Here's where we see how differently Jeff and I react to disappointment. Me? I like an initial overreaction: sky's falling, it's the end of the world. I collapse, but briefly. Soon, often after a good night's sleep, I pick myself up, good as new and am ready to face the world.
Jeff on the other hand, got a little rabid. He sat down at the computer and, with only a couple breaks, started looking at listing after listing until seven that night. It scared me. I kept trying to get him to take a break, to no avail. And, if I voiced doubt about a property (oh, have I mentioned that every ten minutes he'd say, "Honey, come look at this one") I was somehow sabotaging the home search.
Oooooh.
Today is only day five. I'll keep you posted.
Friday we go out with Sarah's sister, Liz. We love her. We see a couple ok places: a very small town home and then a funky little house with an Anne Frank attic and maybe a funny smell in the background.
Then, we go to this... this...I don't know, I don't want to gush, but it was fabulous. Four bedrooms. Two fireplaces. Three bathrooms. Cute yard right up against a greenbelt. We checked the bus lines on Liz's iPhone, quite doable commute. Oh, have I mentioned the hardwood floors? And cheap! Well, not cheap, but within our meager budget. We had Liz call the agent right there. She left a message. I had my doubts right away that we'd get it, so I said we should push on and check out our last house of the day.
Well, we didn't even get down the block before the agent called back to say there were already three offers on the table. (Damn table.) We trudge on, our shoulders sagging a little, to the last place. Which was OK. But after the two fireplace house, it just had no sparkle.
Saturday was just a bad day. I had been looking forward to a Printer's Devil Theater meeting/in-town retreat for weeks and weeks. It was kind of going to be the high light of a difficult month. A whole day where I could feel like a writer again. Long story short, Jeff cut his finger pretty bad slicing potatoes and I had to leave the meeting about twenty minutes after it started. (And then get scolded later in the day because I seemed more upset about the aborted gathering than I did about the injured finger.)
OK, so while Jeff was getting a stitch and a tetanus shot, I wipe away the tears and poked around online and found a nice house. When Jeff got home from the ER, he agree. We got a hold of Liz and she arrainged for us to meet there on Sunday morning before an open house she had.
Oh, this cottage! Smaller than Ms. Two Fireplaces, but cute. On nice lot. Good layout. Closer to where Jeff works. Close to some friends. Straight shot to downtown on the bus. We fell in love all over again.
Liz calls. We part. Jeff and I cruise the neighborhood, take Pullo for a walk in a near by park. We go home. Stupidly we start to mentally plant things in the garden, figure out where the furniture will go.
Liz calls. She says they have another offer, but we could come in strong. We go into her office on Sunday evening, draft up an offer that sweetens the pot a little. Sign and initial the hell out of that offer, Jeff doing so with bandaged hand.)
We cross our finger and go home.
Jeff's exhausted. Nobody has slept well, so he calls into work on Monday.
Liz phones about ten, the seller has gone with the other offer.
Here's where we see how differently Jeff and I react to disappointment. Me? I like an initial overreaction: sky's falling, it's the end of the world. I collapse, but briefly. Soon, often after a good night's sleep, I pick myself up, good as new and am ready to face the world.
Jeff on the other hand, got a little rabid. He sat down at the computer and, with only a couple breaks, started looking at listing after listing until seven that night. It scared me. I kept trying to get him to take a break, to no avail. And, if I voiced doubt about a property (oh, have I mentioned that every ten minutes he'd say, "Honey, come look at this one") I was somehow sabotaging the home search.
Oooooh.
Today is only day five. I'll keep you posted.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Common Sense? Never heard of it.
Reason is like a seventeen year old getting off the Greyhound Bus, first time in the big city. Doesn't stand a chance.
Reason is a dainty violet in a cow pasture.
Reason is a soap bubble in a nail factory.
Why is the irrational so powerful? So resilient?
Sweet, sweet reason, rest in peace.
Reason is a dainty violet in a cow pasture.
Reason is a soap bubble in a nail factory.
Why is the irrational so powerful? So resilient?
Sweet, sweet reason, rest in peace.
Friday, April 9, 2010
New Plan
OK, I have got to start letting the chips fall where they may.
'Cause this current system I have involving worrying about the chips, just ain't working!
I worry the falling chips are gonna put somebody's eye out. I worry the falling chips will be loud and wake the neighbors. I worry the chips will distract a driver causing and accident. (Probably a school bus driver. Driving a full bus. On the edge of a ravine.)
And those are things that falling chips could theoretically do. See, I quickly move on to worrying about things chips are incapable of.
I worry that chips are made of plutonium and that they'll land on a pile of other plutonium chips causing said pile to reach critical mass and explode. I worry the falling chips will cause cancer in some mother of four living in Omaha (let's call her Beth.) I worry the chips will waken a vengeful spirit.
Then I go on to worry about the chips themselves. I will worry that the chips will be hurt in the fall. I worry the chips will blame me and judge me harshly. I worry the chips will report me to the government. I worry that the chips only understand French (a language I do not speak) and we won't be able to communicate. I worry that the chips like Beth better than me.
But all that's in the past. From here on out: fall, baby, fall!
(But carefully, please.)
'Cause this current system I have involving worrying about the chips, just ain't working!
I worry the falling chips are gonna put somebody's eye out. I worry the falling chips will be loud and wake the neighbors. I worry the chips will distract a driver causing and accident. (Probably a school bus driver. Driving a full bus. On the edge of a ravine.)
And those are things that falling chips could theoretically do. See, I quickly move on to worrying about things chips are incapable of.
I worry that chips are made of plutonium and that they'll land on a pile of other plutonium chips causing said pile to reach critical mass and explode. I worry the falling chips will cause cancer in some mother of four living in Omaha (let's call her Beth.) I worry the chips will waken a vengeful spirit.
Then I go on to worry about the chips themselves. I will worry that the chips will be hurt in the fall. I worry the chips will blame me and judge me harshly. I worry the chips will report me to the government. I worry that the chips only understand French (a language I do not speak) and we won't be able to communicate. I worry that the chips like Beth better than me.
But all that's in the past. From here on out: fall, baby, fall!
(But carefully, please.)
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Real Estate
Jeff and I are starting the house search.
We've been looking at listings on line.
There are three main variables: Price, location and the house itself.
Within our price range the closer to the center of things, the smaller the place. Go a little further out and you're not just looking at town homes, but actual share-no-walls houses. With Yard! And Mudrooms! God I love a mudroom. (What does that say about me?) But with the yards and mudrooms and basements, you wonder about bus schedules and how late you can stay after shows.
I feel like the trick now is to try to guess who I will be in five or ten years.
If we pick the smaller city place, will the future me feel cramped and dissatisfied with our digs?
If we pick a roomier place on the outskirts will I feel like an isolated prairie wife and miss the urban hub-bub? (Ooh, that's going to be my band name: Urban Hub-Bub.)
I'll let you know what we decide.
We've been looking at listings on line.
There are three main variables: Price, location and the house itself.
Within our price range the closer to the center of things, the smaller the place. Go a little further out and you're not just looking at town homes, but actual share-no-walls houses. With Yard! And Mudrooms! God I love a mudroom. (What does that say about me?) But with the yards and mudrooms and basements, you wonder about bus schedules and how late you can stay after shows.
I feel like the trick now is to try to guess who I will be in five or ten years.
If we pick the smaller city place, will the future me feel cramped and dissatisfied with our digs?
If we pick a roomier place on the outskirts will I feel like an isolated prairie wife and miss the urban hub-bub? (Ooh, that's going to be my band name: Urban Hub-Bub.)
I'll let you know what we decide.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
The Count
I recently took the exam to be a census taker (and did very well on it, by the way).
I worked the 1990 census and taking the test last week brought back a swarm of memories. The exam, given in the back room of a coffee shop, had the same taste and texture of the meeting two decades ago. The forms, the pencils, a young woman having to read government language verbatim with out too much eye rolling to a roomful of people who didn't really want to knock on strangers' doors but really needed a job, even a very temporary job.
It felt like just a few months had past since we (me and my census pod) would gather for coffee with Fran, our pot smoking, Buddhist leader to be handed our weekly assignments.
I loved working the census. It was a beautiful Spring and I remember just walking and walking. The vast majority of people were very friendly, apologetic that they'd forgotten to send back the forms. I got to know my neighborhood well.
I had a curious feeling that the last twenty years hadn't taken place at all. Like my life was a piece of string and I'd brought the ends together. I'd been suspended in amber, forever twenty-six.
Walking home from the test, through the very same streets I'd canvased in 1990, I came to the corner of John and 18th. On one side of the street was the apartment of a man I'd dated in 1991, on the other, the apartment of a boyfriend from 1994.
The clock hadn't stopped in '90, it had just started. Time standing still was an illusion.
In the last twenty years I've written and produced dozens of plays (hundreds if you count short ten minute pieces), moved five times, gotten married, been to Portugal, Spain, France, Thailand and Dubai. Friends have had kids (who are now graduating high school), friends have died. The bulk of my life has happened since that census.
Jeff and I are looking for a house now, and there is no way we can afford to buy a place here on Capitol Hill, where I've lived for sixteen of the last twenty years.
So, if I do end up working the 2010 count, there's a good chance it will be a goodbye to this neighborhood.
I worked the 1990 census and taking the test last week brought back a swarm of memories. The exam, given in the back room of a coffee shop, had the same taste and texture of the meeting two decades ago. The forms, the pencils, a young woman having to read government language verbatim with out too much eye rolling to a roomful of people who didn't really want to knock on strangers' doors but really needed a job, even a very temporary job.
It felt like just a few months had past since we (me and my census pod) would gather for coffee with Fran, our pot smoking, Buddhist leader to be handed our weekly assignments.
I loved working the census. It was a beautiful Spring and I remember just walking and walking. The vast majority of people were very friendly, apologetic that they'd forgotten to send back the forms. I got to know my neighborhood well.
I had a curious feeling that the last twenty years hadn't taken place at all. Like my life was a piece of string and I'd brought the ends together. I'd been suspended in amber, forever twenty-six.
Walking home from the test, through the very same streets I'd canvased in 1990, I came to the corner of John and 18th. On one side of the street was the apartment of a man I'd dated in 1991, on the other, the apartment of a boyfriend from 1994.
The clock hadn't stopped in '90, it had just started. Time standing still was an illusion.
In the last twenty years I've written and produced dozens of plays (hundreds if you count short ten minute pieces), moved five times, gotten married, been to Portugal, Spain, France, Thailand and Dubai. Friends have had kids (who are now graduating high school), friends have died. The bulk of my life has happened since that census.
Jeff and I are looking for a house now, and there is no way we can afford to buy a place here on Capitol Hill, where I've lived for sixteen of the last twenty years.
So, if I do end up working the 2010 count, there's a good chance it will be a goodbye to this neighborhood.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Oh, Pepper Schwarz
There is a genre of fiction that I have become fascinated with. Those practicing this form of writing have brilliantly created a parallel universe where everything is almost the same. The rules of this alternate world are very clear. There is a breath taking precision to it all. It's clockwork, beautiful clockwork. The only thing that stumps me is that it is never labeled "fiction." It never tips its hand, never winks.
I'm speaking of course of relationship advice, either newspaper columns or helpful books.
It's all so bafflingly rational. Phrases that begin "Honey, you probably weren't aware of this, but it bothers me when you ____" actually produce results! "Dear, it hurts me when you say/do that" is followed by a sustained change in behaviors!
The parties involved sit down (probably at a long wooden table in Geneva) discuss their needs and a lovely compromise is reached.
See, in my world (and hey, I may very well be the one living on Earth 2) I don't even know that I'm in an argument until it's too late. And even then I don't know what it's about.
Example:
Jeff: I've been cutting your hair for years. It's time you cut mine.
Scot: What?
Jeff: It will save us $15 toward the house.
Scot: You're serious?
Jeff: Why wouldn't I be serious?
Scot: Jeff, last time you baked a cake, you didn't trust me to frost it.
Jeff: It's OK. I got a book from the library. "Hair Cutting for Dummies." You just have to follow the diagrams and be able to make a straight line.
Scot: Just?
Jeff: *sigh*
Scot: Are you gonna be mad if it turns out bad?
Jeff: You never really wanted to buy a house! Did you?
To be fair, I am as irrational in my own way. I am conflict avoidant. Which, of course, leads to a host of tiny things building up until I burst forth with something like:
"You left the lid off the peanut butter! You aren't the man I fell in love with!"
I suppose that's why I could never be a relationship adviser. I'd tell people things like "Muddle through!" "Suck it up" "It's not such a big thing" "Don't try to understand it, it's marriage" "Try distracting him when he does that, maybe fake a seizure" "Hey, could be worse" & "Just cut his hair, that'll shut him up."
I'm hoping that house hunting will bring out the best in us. We'll rise above our usual selves. That's another distinguishing feature of the real world: Denial.
I'm speaking of course of relationship advice, either newspaper columns or helpful books.
It's all so bafflingly rational. Phrases that begin "Honey, you probably weren't aware of this, but it bothers me when you ____" actually produce results! "Dear, it hurts me when you say/do that" is followed by a sustained change in behaviors!
The parties involved sit down (probably at a long wooden table in Geneva) discuss their needs and a lovely compromise is reached.
See, in my world (and hey, I may very well be the one living on Earth 2) I don't even know that I'm in an argument until it's too late. And even then I don't know what it's about.
Example:
Jeff: I've been cutting your hair for years. It's time you cut mine.
Scot: What?
Jeff: It will save us $15 toward the house.
Scot: You're serious?
Jeff: Why wouldn't I be serious?
Scot: Jeff, last time you baked a cake, you didn't trust me to frost it.
Jeff: It's OK. I got a book from the library. "Hair Cutting for Dummies." You just have to follow the diagrams and be able to make a straight line.
Scot: Just?
Jeff: *sigh*
Scot: Are you gonna be mad if it turns out bad?
Jeff: You never really wanted to buy a house! Did you?
To be fair, I am as irrational in my own way. I am conflict avoidant. Which, of course, leads to a host of tiny things building up until I burst forth with something like:
"You left the lid off the peanut butter! You aren't the man I fell in love with!"
I suppose that's why I could never be a relationship adviser. I'd tell people things like "Muddle through!" "Suck it up" "It's not such a big thing" "Don't try to understand it, it's marriage" "Try distracting him when he does that, maybe fake a seizure" "Hey, could be worse" & "Just cut his hair, that'll shut him up."
I'm hoping that house hunting will bring out the best in us. We'll rise above our usual selves. That's another distinguishing feature of the real world: Denial.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Wist
There are chef who say that if you want to bring out the sweetness in a dish, add not more sugar but a pinch of salt.
Everything beautiful and joyous and funny has a whisper of sadness to it.
Last night the small theater company I'm part of held an event, "Soup &." We served homemade soup and four local theater artists we had commissioned performed short, original pieces.
And it was great. People showed up on a rainy Monday night. The soup was tasty, and the performances were delightfully unexpected. It wasn't a precious, sipping broth and listening to quiet reflection while you sat knitting kind of evening. It had an edge. It had quirk. It had surprise.
The night was the two things I love most about live theater: intimate and idiosyncratic. And therein lies the tragedy. They are the twin "i"'s that doom excellent theater, economically at least. Forty people in a room, nobody more that fifteen feet from a the stage, it's a lovely experience, but can't really pay anybody's rent. And, as far as the other "i" (idiosyncrasy), people say they want new, fresh, innovative work. But most don't really. Truly odd stuff will always be niche.
Last night gave me a tingle, a frission, a charge. But it also reminded me that -- at least for now -- I'm not in a place where I'm free to be Bohemian.
Everything beautiful and joyous and funny has a whisper of sadness to it.
Last night the small theater company I'm part of held an event, "Soup &." We served homemade soup and four local theater artists we had commissioned performed short, original pieces.
And it was great. People showed up on a rainy Monday night. The soup was tasty, and the performances were delightfully unexpected. It wasn't a precious, sipping broth and listening to quiet reflection while you sat knitting kind of evening. It had an edge. It had quirk. It had surprise.
The night was the two things I love most about live theater: intimate and idiosyncratic. And therein lies the tragedy. They are the twin "i"'s that doom excellent theater, economically at least. Forty people in a room, nobody more that fifteen feet from a the stage, it's a lovely experience, but can't really pay anybody's rent. And, as far as the other "i" (idiosyncrasy), people say they want new, fresh, innovative work. But most don't really. Truly odd stuff will always be niche.
Last night gave me a tingle, a frission, a charge. But it also reminded me that -- at least for now -- I'm not in a place where I'm free to be Bohemian.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Who's your daddy
"I have of late, but wherefor I know not, lost all my mirth."
While, in the balance Shakespeare has given me more tedium than joy, there are lines and passages I adore. Like the one above. It's a perfect way to describe a funk.
I had been thinking last week that it has been ages since I had laughed so hard that tears had come to my eyes.
But, then, a few days ago, it happened. I was scootching Pullo over on the couch and he yelped in pain.(Like a little girly puppy) Jeff looked over at me like I'd been putting out cigarettes on the dog's haunches. "You have to be careful!"
"I didn't do anything," I pleaded. "I hardly touched him!"
Jeff look over at Pullo. "Poor old guy! Maybe we should --"
Every once in a while, Jeff gets these classic hare brained (hair brained?) ideas that can catch me off guard.
"Yes, Honey? What should we do?"
"Well, I can get some hospital sheets. The two of us could move him like nurses move patients."
This is when I lost it. Tears, gasps for breath, red faced laughter.
This dog is already a little prince. And now Jeff is suggesting we make him a -- a what? Mahraja? The Dali Lama? (Hmm, the Doggy Lama, now there's a nick name!)
But, and there is always a but, isn't there?
The yelping turned out not to be an isolated incident. He's twisted or sprained some muscle or joint. Pullo not Jeff. And curiously he won't tell us in plain English what's wrong.
And of course, we've done the one thing you're not supposed to do: We've rewarded these cries of pain. If he whimpers we immediately rush to comfort him. Teaching him that whining is the way to get your Dads to drop everything and pet you gently. (Is this classic conditioning? Or the other kind? And who exactly is being conditioned here? Paging Dr. Skinnner.)
And, although we haven't gotten the hospital sheets out yet, I did use boxes and mats to build a little staircase up to our bed.
One bright spot. If the afterlife is run by dogs, Jeff and I will be sitting pretty for eternity.
While, in the balance Shakespeare has given me more tedium than joy, there are lines and passages I adore. Like the one above. It's a perfect way to describe a funk.
I had been thinking last week that it has been ages since I had laughed so hard that tears had come to my eyes.
But, then, a few days ago, it happened. I was scootching Pullo over on the couch and he yelped in pain.(Like a little girly puppy) Jeff looked over at me like I'd been putting out cigarettes on the dog's haunches. "You have to be careful!"
"I didn't do anything," I pleaded. "I hardly touched him!"
Jeff look over at Pullo. "Poor old guy! Maybe we should --"
Every once in a while, Jeff gets these classic hare brained (hair brained?) ideas that can catch me off guard.
"Yes, Honey? What should we do?"
"Well, I can get some hospital sheets. The two of us could move him like nurses move patients."
This is when I lost it. Tears, gasps for breath, red faced laughter.
This dog is already a little prince. And now Jeff is suggesting we make him a -- a what? Mahraja? The Dali Lama? (Hmm, the Doggy Lama, now there's a nick name!)
But, and there is always a but, isn't there?
The yelping turned out not to be an isolated incident. He's twisted or sprained some muscle or joint. Pullo not Jeff. And curiously he won't tell us in plain English what's wrong.
And of course, we've done the one thing you're not supposed to do: We've rewarded these cries of pain. If he whimpers we immediately rush to comfort him. Teaching him that whining is the way to get your Dads to drop everything and pet you gently. (Is this classic conditioning? Or the other kind? And who exactly is being conditioned here? Paging Dr. Skinnner.)
And, although we haven't gotten the hospital sheets out yet, I did use boxes and mats to build a little staircase up to our bed.
One bright spot. If the afterlife is run by dogs, Jeff and I will be sitting pretty for eternity.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Shalt not Covet
Sometimes I get envious of other people's art form. I just finished Lorrie Moore's book "Gate at the Stairs.' It's good. I love novels. I'm usually in the middle of one. I don't understand people who say things like, "Oh, yeah, I read a novel last year. Or was it the year before?" I'm jealous of the novelist's expanse and structure and the respect they get and the book tours they love to complain about and the fact that someone can stumble across their work at the bottom of an old trunk and be captivated.
I am not a novelist. I've taken a couple stabs at it. It's just not who I am. I get lost in the size of it. I like to be able to look at a whole work in front of me, map out a play on one big piece of paper and look at the entirety of it. A novel's too big to do that. I'm all about economy and distillation. Oh, and I'm too anxious and disbelieving of the future to be a novelist. To spend a year, year and a half working on something that might not work. That's a lot of faith. I can write and produce a couple of plays plus a half dozen short pieces in that time. If some of them don't work, oh well, move on to the next. And I think I'm too introverted. If I were a novelist, I'd give into the introversion, I'd give up on people all together. My hair and fingernails would grow long and I would become unfit for human company. Theater forces me to work with others to get stuff done. Oh, and you know another big advantage to play writing? I get to see my audience as they experience my work. And a writer reading an expert of his/her book ain't the same thing.
The other art form I get jealous of, for different reasons, is solo performance. Not because I think it's a superior form of theater, but because it's a much better economic model. If a writer/performer keeps the tech simple and does some good marketing, they can make some money. Not huge amounts, but often enough to live on. They can be completely portable. Always ready to pack a show in a bag and fly off to a festival half way across the world. They don't have to worry about anyone flaking out on them. Don't have to split the door. But, like I know I'm not a novelist, I also know I'm not a performer.
It's funny. Painting, sculpture, music, they're great. But I never have days when I really yearn to be a composer or visual artist. For me, it's always gonna be words. And those words aren't gonna be a novel, and it's not gonna be me saying those words. I think it's the sheer proximity of the other means of expression that can make me wistful on good days, tormented on bad.
But, as the great philosopher and man of the sea, Popeye, once said, "I yam what I yam."
I am not a novelist. I've taken a couple stabs at it. It's just not who I am. I get lost in the size of it. I like to be able to look at a whole work in front of me, map out a play on one big piece of paper and look at the entirety of it. A novel's too big to do that. I'm all about economy and distillation. Oh, and I'm too anxious and disbelieving of the future to be a novelist. To spend a year, year and a half working on something that might not work. That's a lot of faith. I can write and produce a couple of plays plus a half dozen short pieces in that time. If some of them don't work, oh well, move on to the next. And I think I'm too introverted. If I were a novelist, I'd give into the introversion, I'd give up on people all together. My hair and fingernails would grow long and I would become unfit for human company. Theater forces me to work with others to get stuff done. Oh, and you know another big advantage to play writing? I get to see my audience as they experience my work. And a writer reading an expert of his/her book ain't the same thing.
The other art form I get jealous of, for different reasons, is solo performance. Not because I think it's a superior form of theater, but because it's a much better economic model. If a writer/performer keeps the tech simple and does some good marketing, they can make some money. Not huge amounts, but often enough to live on. They can be completely portable. Always ready to pack a show in a bag and fly off to a festival half way across the world. They don't have to worry about anyone flaking out on them. Don't have to split the door. But, like I know I'm not a novelist, I also know I'm not a performer.
It's funny. Painting, sculpture, music, they're great. But I never have days when I really yearn to be a composer or visual artist. For me, it's always gonna be words. And those words aren't gonna be a novel, and it's not gonna be me saying those words. I think it's the sheer proximity of the other means of expression that can make me wistful on good days, tormented on bad.
But, as the great philosopher and man of the sea, Popeye, once said, "I yam what I yam."
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Goethe
For years I have been joking that I am quite ready for my Faustian deal.
In my mind it was a TV show. A sort of a cross between "Facts of Life" and "Home Improvement." Or, maybe it was writing the book for a musical based on "Bridget Jones' Diary."
But I am seeing sings now that it will be shabbier and most likely march under the banner "New Media." (Which is a term that does nothing for me. In fact it reminds me of those lazy art curator labels, "mixed media" which can mean anything from "A variety of metals and polyvynl" to "A bunch of crap glued together.")
I've had a handful of meetings and email exchanges in the last week about different vague projects. All of which I could do quite well (with hands tied behind my back.) None of which excite me.
Now, I am someone who tends to tell short, economical tales. But these ventures seem beyond short. They seem fragmented, designed for an audience that is always and forever a moment away from checking out the ball scores or a new kitten video or an Ashton Krutcher twitter.
I guess I got old. "User Generated" and "Interactive Content" just seem like code for "Writing isn't really that important."
The other difference between this and "The Facts of Home Improvement as told to Bridget Jones" is that the new business models and revenue streams are experimental at best, elusive at worse.
But there is an anxious urgency, because there are stories told about people who got in on the ground floor of a ridiculous idea and are now having lunch with the likes of Richie Rich and Scrooge McDuck.
There is a feeling that if you say "no" to the wrong project, you will not only live to regret it, but that in the future you will be used as a text book example of a short sighted fool. (Probably in economics texts books, or more likely, interactive educational economics websites.)
Why is it that with so many new things coming at us all the time, it still feels like end days?
And Yeah, when Mephistopheles comes a' knockin' with my Faustian deal, my response will be: "Yes! Yes, sir! Of course! Please! Thank you!
That's the thing about the devil, he's patient. He's willing to wait until the market is right and there are bargains to be had.
In my mind it was a TV show. A sort of a cross between "Facts of Life" and "Home Improvement." Or, maybe it was writing the book for a musical based on "Bridget Jones' Diary."
But I am seeing sings now that it will be shabbier and most likely march under the banner "New Media." (Which is a term that does nothing for me. In fact it reminds me of those lazy art curator labels, "mixed media" which can mean anything from "A variety of metals and polyvynl" to "A bunch of crap glued together.")
I've had a handful of meetings and email exchanges in the last week about different vague projects. All of which I could do quite well (with hands tied behind my back.) None of which excite me.
Now, I am someone who tends to tell short, economical tales. But these ventures seem beyond short. They seem fragmented, designed for an audience that is always and forever a moment away from checking out the ball scores or a new kitten video or an Ashton Krutcher twitter.
I guess I got old. "User Generated" and "Interactive Content" just seem like code for "Writing isn't really that important."
The other difference between this and "The Facts of Home Improvement as told to Bridget Jones" is that the new business models and revenue streams are experimental at best, elusive at worse.
But there is an anxious urgency, because there are stories told about people who got in on the ground floor of a ridiculous idea and are now having lunch with the likes of Richie Rich and Scrooge McDuck.
There is a feeling that if you say "no" to the wrong project, you will not only live to regret it, but that in the future you will be used as a text book example of a short sighted fool. (Probably in economics texts books, or more likely, interactive educational economics websites.)
Why is it that with so many new things coming at us all the time, it still feels like end days?
And Yeah, when Mephistopheles comes a' knockin' with my Faustian deal, my response will be: "Yes! Yes, sir! Of course! Please! Thank you!
That's the thing about the devil, he's patient. He's willing to wait until the market is right and there are bargains to be had.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Just a little Monday Moring navel gazing
I was twenty four when I moved to Seattle. I didn't have much. A job in a movie theater and a small apartment. My roommate wasn't moving up for a couple months. That summer I read, "Lolita" and "Great Expectations" and "One Hundred Years of Solitude."
Now books longer than 400 pages intimidate me, like they are asking too much of me.
There is a lot about being young that I don't miss. Lots of uncertainty,insecurity, false steps. None of that has gone away, but I have a better handle on things. I know that rough patches come and go. I've picked up some tricks along the road.
Oh, but the time to read big books. To sink into a project, like sinking in warm mud up to your neck. To think about some little thing for hours. To dwell with an idea for weeks at a time.
On the surface, this seems a ridiculous thing for me to get weepy eyed about. What do I have to complain about? It sure looks like I have plenty of time and space. But here's the thing: a free hour squeezed between two commitments is not the same as a free hour sitting between two other free hours. And four hours added up over the day isn't four hours straight. It's hard to explain why being in a crowded coffee shop is being alone in a way that just being in another room in the apartment is not, even when the door is closed.
Sometimes it's easier to be creative while you're doing a data entry job than it is to sit unoccupied physically, but worrying.
When I was twenty-one I hitchhiked around Australia for two months with only what I had on my back. Once in college I had so few belongings I was able to move from one house to another on foot.
Here is where I must stop and scold myself. Today I long to be so unencumbered. But back then, all I wished for was more. Not, of course, more tangible stuff, but the stuff of life: accomplishments, attachments, experiences. Never dreaming that those treasures would sometimes feel like a burden.
I don't really want to live in a small white room with only a bed and a chair. And I know that a rhythmic, mindless task is soothing for about a week and a half before it becomes oppressive. And I know that a time with no messages to return and no deadlines to meet soon becomes purposeless. And a world where you're not concerned about others, thinking about others, caring for others gets lonely.
But nostalgia has it's own warped logic.
A logic I'm going to have to shake if I'm going to move forward. To find some balance and some peace. Some midway point between not enough and too much.
I can do this.
Now books longer than 400 pages intimidate me, like they are asking too much of me.
There is a lot about being young that I don't miss. Lots of uncertainty,insecurity, false steps. None of that has gone away, but I have a better handle on things. I know that rough patches come and go. I've picked up some tricks along the road.
Oh, but the time to read big books. To sink into a project, like sinking in warm mud up to your neck. To think about some little thing for hours. To dwell with an idea for weeks at a time.
On the surface, this seems a ridiculous thing for me to get weepy eyed about. What do I have to complain about? It sure looks like I have plenty of time and space. But here's the thing: a free hour squeezed between two commitments is not the same as a free hour sitting between two other free hours. And four hours added up over the day isn't four hours straight. It's hard to explain why being in a crowded coffee shop is being alone in a way that just being in another room in the apartment is not, even when the door is closed.
Sometimes it's easier to be creative while you're doing a data entry job than it is to sit unoccupied physically, but worrying.
When I was twenty-one I hitchhiked around Australia for two months with only what I had on my back. Once in college I had so few belongings I was able to move from one house to another on foot.
Here is where I must stop and scold myself. Today I long to be so unencumbered. But back then, all I wished for was more. Not, of course, more tangible stuff, but the stuff of life: accomplishments, attachments, experiences. Never dreaming that those treasures would sometimes feel like a burden.
I don't really want to live in a small white room with only a bed and a chair. And I know that a rhythmic, mindless task is soothing for about a week and a half before it becomes oppressive. And I know that a time with no messages to return and no deadlines to meet soon becomes purposeless. And a world where you're not concerned about others, thinking about others, caring for others gets lonely.
But nostalgia has it's own warped logic.
A logic I'm going to have to shake if I'm going to move forward. To find some balance and some peace. Some midway point between not enough and too much.
I can do this.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Here Comes Spring!
I know the whole "Spring Awakening" thing is a bit of a cliche, but by golly, this time of year really does rouse me. (What a great word, rouse!)
Sometimes however, one does not wake dressed in a diaphanous white gown running through a meadow, chasing butterflies and kissing daffodils.
Sometimes you open you eyes to find that while you were hibernating, person or persons unknown threw a giant college-style party in your house. Everywhere you look there are red plastic keg cups and bottles with cigarette butts in 'em and empty bags of Doritos and stains and the smell of bong water. (Hmm, everywhere you look there is the smell of bong water? Iffy) That "extra hour of daylight" does nothing but illuminate the mess. And you know that before you can frolic in a meadow, you have to --
PULLO: Excuse me.
ME: Pullo, I'm right in middle of a metaphor here.
PULLO: Oh.
ME: What did you mean, saying "Oh" like that?
PULLO: Like what?
ME: That was an eye rolling "oh" if I ever heard one.
PULLO: *sigh* OK.Sometimes, your metaphors are a little...
ME: A little what?
PULLO: Well, kind of Life-Coachy, Lady of the canyonish, Watered down spiritual, Dr. Philly, Artist's Way-esque, Chicken Soup, Footprints in the Sandy...I don't know, hard to put my paw on.
ME: Fine, I'll just --
PULLO: Dial it back?
ME: Yes.
PULLO: Put away the dream catcher?
ME: Yes.
PULLO: Write more about talking animals?
ME: Well, there's no shutting you up, is there?
PULLO: Nope.
ME: Where was I?
PULLO: Something about Spring?
ME: Spring, Right. Happy Equinox everyone.
Sometimes however, one does not wake dressed in a diaphanous white gown running through a meadow, chasing butterflies and kissing daffodils.
Sometimes you open you eyes to find that while you were hibernating, person or persons unknown threw a giant college-style party in your house. Everywhere you look there are red plastic keg cups and bottles with cigarette butts in 'em and empty bags of Doritos and stains and the smell of bong water. (Hmm, everywhere you look there is the smell of bong water? Iffy) That "extra hour of daylight" does nothing but illuminate the mess. And you know that before you can frolic in a meadow, you have to --
PULLO: Excuse me.
ME: Pullo, I'm right in middle of a metaphor here.
PULLO: Oh.
ME: What did you mean, saying "Oh" like that?
PULLO: Like what?
ME: That was an eye rolling "oh" if I ever heard one.
PULLO: *sigh* OK.Sometimes, your metaphors are a little...
ME: A little what?
PULLO: Well, kind of Life-Coachy, Lady of the canyonish, Watered down spiritual, Dr. Philly, Artist's Way-esque, Chicken Soup, Footprints in the Sandy...I don't know, hard to put my paw on.
ME: Fine, I'll just --
PULLO: Dial it back?
ME: Yes.
PULLO: Put away the dream catcher?
ME: Yes.
PULLO: Write more about talking animals?
ME: Well, there's no shutting you up, is there?
PULLO: Nope.
ME: Where was I?
PULLO: Something about Spring?
ME: Spring, Right. Happy Equinox everyone.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Things Shrouded
Our sad eyed rescue dog has this weird habit. After we get home from a walk and take off his leash, he stands there and looks at me expectantly. Expecting what I don't know. Clearly at some point in the many homes he's been in, there was some end of the walk command or ritual or treat. This is a mystery that will never be solved. I will never be able to give him release.
Now, I thought about making some grand metaphor about expectations, and the feeling of needing permission that will never be granted. But it's St. Patrick's Day, so fuck it. Instead, Pullo and I are staging "Waiting For Godot." I got us a couple of colorful matching hobo outfits and fashioned a bare tree out of a lamp and we went to town.
We started out with just using our American accents (Pullo's is a little bit Bayou, him being born in New Orleans.) But soon switched to Irish. We were having a grand time of it until I realized we had left Beckett far behind. Pullo was lost in the Lucky Charms commercial and I was shilling for Irish Spring. Something like this:
Pullo: Godot, he's worth the wait, him being all Magically Delicious.
Me: Aye, he's strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.
Pullo: Ya stupid feck, that's not Irish Spring, it's Secret Deodorant. Irish Spring is "I like it toooo."
And then I thought, I've got him where I want him. He's talking, I can ask him about that post walk look of longing.
But he just sighs as if to say, "A dog's gotta keep some mystery."
Later today, we'll be re-enacting the Potato Famine.
Now, I thought about making some grand metaphor about expectations, and the feeling of needing permission that will never be granted. But it's St. Patrick's Day, so fuck it. Instead, Pullo and I are staging "Waiting For Godot." I got us a couple of colorful matching hobo outfits and fashioned a bare tree out of a lamp and we went to town.
We started out with just using our American accents (Pullo's is a little bit Bayou, him being born in New Orleans.) But soon switched to Irish. We were having a grand time of it until I realized we had left Beckett far behind. Pullo was lost in the Lucky Charms commercial and I was shilling for Irish Spring. Something like this:
Pullo: Godot, he's worth the wait, him being all Magically Delicious.
Me: Aye, he's strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.
Pullo: Ya stupid feck, that's not Irish Spring, it's Secret Deodorant. Irish Spring is "I like it toooo."
And then I thought, I've got him where I want him. He's talking, I can ask him about that post walk look of longing.
But he just sighs as if to say, "A dog's gotta keep some mystery."
Later today, we'll be re-enacting the Potato Famine.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Oh, life
*Sigh*
Ok, look: the one thing, the only thing, the very last thing I had going for me was that by and large, most people did not think I was an asshole.
I can kiss that goodbye.
How do these things happen? I mean, there was a time when if you'd told me that casual, private conversations of mine would end up in the newspaper, I'd have told you you were crazy. Not anymore.
OK, not a conversation, an email. And not really the newspaper, the Slog. But really, I did not mean for it all to go public. And it's all my own stupid, sloppy fault. If I was going to vent, it shouldn't have been to Paul Mullin.
And maybe I am the asshole. But you know, sometimes you get a little tired of being offered the crumbs and the chance to lick the gravy stains off the table and having to smile and say thank you.
I will wear the scarlet "U" for Ungrateful son-of-a-bitch, who given a reading at the Rep and still had the gall to complain.
Ok, look: the one thing, the only thing, the very last thing I had going for me was that by and large, most people did not think I was an asshole.
I can kiss that goodbye.
How do these things happen? I mean, there was a time when if you'd told me that casual, private conversations of mine would end up in the newspaper, I'd have told you you were crazy. Not anymore.
OK, not a conversation, an email. And not really the newspaper, the Slog. But really, I did not mean for it all to go public. And it's all my own stupid, sloppy fault. If I was going to vent, it shouldn't have been to Paul Mullin.
And maybe I am the asshole. But you know, sometimes you get a little tired of being offered the crumbs and the chance to lick the gravy stains off the table and having to smile and say thank you.
I will wear the scarlet "U" for Ungrateful son-of-a-bitch, who given a reading at the Rep and still had the gall to complain.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Keeping Busy
Ah, nothing like a little contact with the outside world. Just what the doctor ordered. Finished a 4Culture grant and submitted it. I've got a reading tonight at the Rep. Helping to organized Printer's Devil's Soup & night (which goes up in a couple weeks.) Had a rehearsal on Sunday for the piece Keira and Evan will be touring next summer. I'm feeling a little like a writer today!
Monday, March 8, 2010
Sense and Nonsense
I gotta say, I do love me a no-nonsense woman. (Possibly because i was raised by a much-nonsense mother.) And apparently my husband Jeff loves 'em too. Recently his guide and guru has become the goddess of practicality herself, Suze Orman.
Jeff got a copy of one of her books at a thrift store. On her advice he checked his FICO. You gotta understand, for Jeff, owning a home is a big dream. He's been Jonesing for it for a while. I'm more like: "Oh, sure. A house would be nice. Can you pass me a bagel?"
Turns out Jeff's FICO is pretty good. Good enough that home ownership is no longer a distant taunting mirage floating in the clouds, but a real possibility here on the Earth.
Which is kind of scary for me. I've seen how the whole house buying process has driven rational folks crazy. And we are not rational folks.
Also frightening is that whole idea of being anchored down. Which is nuts because I'm not exactly on the verge of grabbing a hobo-stick and tramping off across the wide open spaces of this world, singing the hiking song, hitching a ride with whoever will stop. (Although I did do that twenty five years ago.)
But most terrifying is the difference that lies between "Must have house" and "Yeah, why not."
When worked into a frenzy, when the bug bites him, Jeff will even say things like, "I'll live in a tool shed!" "I'll live in a trailer!" Which hurts my feelings because, I will not live in a trailer, and he knows this. Hobo stick before mobile home.
I'm bracing myself for months of no-win situations. ( Me: "Honey, it's OK, we didn't get this house, we'll get another one." Him: "You never wanted a house to begin with!! You're denying my dream!!)
I'm perfectly happy making compromises. I'm sure it will be small. I'm sure it will be further out than I like. (But please, not Burien.) It will be fine.
OK, here's the other thing I'm dreading. The activity that give me the most joy in life is writing and producing shows. Lately, I've been feeling like that's been pushed down on the list of priorities. Like maybe, when I wasn't looking it drifted down to #2, or #2 1/2. And I fear that house hunting and all the hoops to jump through and forms to fill out and the worrying and fretting and uncertain days will push writing down the list. I wish I were one of those people who could compartmentalize. But I'm not. If I'm waiting for a phone call or wondering how we're going to get all the furniture out of the apartment or stewing in vague financial anxiety, I can't really delve into writing. Which makes me feel selfish and childish and indulgent.
I wish there was a fast forward button on life I could hit and zip through this next bit.
Oh! Or better yet, I wish the process could be accomplished in montage. Quick shot of us talking to a friendly banker. A humorous shot of us surrounded by a ridiculous mountain of paper work. Twenty super quick shots of different houses (Mansions, houseboats, teepees.) Then you'd see us pulling a "For Sale" sign out of the ground in front of our cute little bungalow. And a final image of us eating take out food by candlelight surrounded by unpacked boxes.
Deep Breath. Think about the last shot. Find the strength.
Jeff got a copy of one of her books at a thrift store. On her advice he checked his FICO. You gotta understand, for Jeff, owning a home is a big dream. He's been Jonesing for it for a while. I'm more like: "Oh, sure. A house would be nice. Can you pass me a bagel?"
Turns out Jeff's FICO is pretty good. Good enough that home ownership is no longer a distant taunting mirage floating in the clouds, but a real possibility here on the Earth.
Which is kind of scary for me. I've seen how the whole house buying process has driven rational folks crazy. And we are not rational folks.
Also frightening is that whole idea of being anchored down. Which is nuts because I'm not exactly on the verge of grabbing a hobo-stick and tramping off across the wide open spaces of this world, singing the hiking song, hitching a ride with whoever will stop. (Although I did do that twenty five years ago.)
But most terrifying is the difference that lies between "Must have house" and "Yeah, why not."
When worked into a frenzy, when the bug bites him, Jeff will even say things like, "I'll live in a tool shed!" "I'll live in a trailer!" Which hurts my feelings because, I will not live in a trailer, and he knows this. Hobo stick before mobile home.
I'm bracing myself for months of no-win situations. ( Me: "Honey, it's OK, we didn't get this house, we'll get another one." Him: "You never wanted a house to begin with!! You're denying my dream!!)
I'm perfectly happy making compromises. I'm sure it will be small. I'm sure it will be further out than I like. (But please, not Burien.) It will be fine.
OK, here's the other thing I'm dreading. The activity that give me the most joy in life is writing and producing shows. Lately, I've been feeling like that's been pushed down on the list of priorities. Like maybe, when I wasn't looking it drifted down to #2, or #2 1/2. And I fear that house hunting and all the hoops to jump through and forms to fill out and the worrying and fretting and uncertain days will push writing down the list. I wish I were one of those people who could compartmentalize. But I'm not. If I'm waiting for a phone call or wondering how we're going to get all the furniture out of the apartment or stewing in vague financial anxiety, I can't really delve into writing. Which makes me feel selfish and childish and indulgent.
I wish there was a fast forward button on life I could hit and zip through this next bit.
Oh! Or better yet, I wish the process could be accomplished in montage. Quick shot of us talking to a friendly banker. A humorous shot of us surrounded by a ridiculous mountain of paper work. Twenty super quick shots of different houses (Mansions, houseboats, teepees.) Then you'd see us pulling a "For Sale" sign out of the ground in front of our cute little bungalow. And a final image of us eating take out food by candlelight surrounded by unpacked boxes.
Deep Breath. Think about the last shot. Find the strength.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Song in my head
Today the song in my head is "Oh Mr. Sellack" by the Roches.
(Lyrics:
http://www.lyrics007.com/The%20Roches%20Lyrics/Mr.%20Sellack%20Lyrics.html )
I was yearning today to have a little temp job. Maybe answering phones or some light data entry. An office in back with a window and a modest view.
Yes, yes, I remember when that was my life and it wasn't the idyllic existence I make it out to be today.
But, that's what makes the filter of nostalgia so lovely. And, yes, I know that when I'm dreaming of being a temp again, it's time to straighten up, stop feeling sorry for myself and get busy. Still, let me just have this one morning.
(Lyrics:
http://www.lyrics007.com/The%20Roches%20Lyrics/Mr.%20Sellack%20Lyrics.html )
I was yearning today to have a little temp job. Maybe answering phones or some light data entry. An office in back with a window and a modest view.
Yes, yes, I remember when that was my life and it wasn't the idyllic existence I make it out to be today.
But, that's what makes the filter of nostalgia so lovely. And, yes, I know that when I'm dreaming of being a temp again, it's time to straighten up, stop feeling sorry for myself and get busy. Still, let me just have this one morning.
Nothing grand
I'm feeling a little distracted today. Like, wander from room to room distracted. So I'll probably just offer some mini-posts. Stray thoughts.
Jeff and I were watching TV last night when from outta the blue I turned to him and said, "I read in the paper today about this guy who tried to kill his dog with a hammer."
Jeff look at me in horror and said, "Why did you tell me that!"
"Um...because I read it in the paper?"
"Well, maybe it's time to stop reading the paper. I'm going to have nightmares tonight."
Why do we do that. Why do we feel a need to blurt out terrible stuff?
Jeff and I were watching TV last night when from outta the blue I turned to him and said, "I read in the paper today about this guy who tried to kill his dog with a hammer."
Jeff look at me in horror and said, "Why did you tell me that!"
"Um...because I read it in the paper?"
"Well, maybe it's time to stop reading the paper. I'm going to have nightmares tonight."
Why do we do that. Why do we feel a need to blurt out terrible stuff?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Day After
Wee Birthday hangover. Not from booze but from the day itself.
Need to find some motivation!
Need to find some motivation!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
46
Today's birthday set off a chorus of voices in my head, ranging from the stupified panic ("Good god! Look at the size of that number! Forty freaking six!!")to the excited embracing ("I've earned those years, look out world!") to the folksy ("Like a fine wine, not getting older, but better!") to the philosophical ("Every measurement of time is arbitrary, hell, every measurement of anything is arbitrary.") to the comforting ("When you're 86, you'll look back at this time as being in your prime") to the downright weird (" 46 is the number of chromosomes humans have, 46 is the the atomic number of Palladium, 46 is your birth year backwards!")
To steady the rocking boat, I tried a little exercise. I challenged myself to list one memory for every year of life. The rule was I had to be sure that I could tie a memory to a specific year. A lot of memories are kind of loosey-goosey, they could reasonably be within a two/three year window. (That trip to the Grand Canyon with the grandparents could be anytime from '74 through '76.) Those uncertainties wouldn't cut it. Here's what I found: I gave myself a grace period for the first three years. I have plenty of memory fragments, but can't nail down exact years. The first for sure memory that I can link to a year is 1968 which is when my brother Leif was born. (My parents were hustling us off to Mr and Mrs Buttler's house on the way to the hospital, I lingered by the car chatting with my mother about the moon.)
I had some trouble with 1978, the middle of the junior high years. Plenty of memories, but the chronology is tricky. 1986 is likewise a little hazy and the only anchor I have is the space shuttle Challenger disaster, but somehow that feels like cheating. 1987 didn't feel 100 % right either. And, I had to really, really think about 1993.
Then, curiously, it got really easy at 2000. Partly because it was more recent. But also because that's when I started to produce shows like clockwork and because I've had Jeff around since 2002 and there are joint activities to cement the date.
To my surprise and delight, making this compendium of years has left me calm and ready for the next 46 years.
To steady the rocking boat, I tried a little exercise. I challenged myself to list one memory for every year of life. The rule was I had to be sure that I could tie a memory to a specific year. A lot of memories are kind of loosey-goosey, they could reasonably be within a two/three year window. (That trip to the Grand Canyon with the grandparents could be anytime from '74 through '76.) Those uncertainties wouldn't cut it. Here's what I found: I gave myself a grace period for the first three years. I have plenty of memory fragments, but can't nail down exact years. The first for sure memory that I can link to a year is 1968 which is when my brother Leif was born. (My parents were hustling us off to Mr and Mrs Buttler's house on the way to the hospital, I lingered by the car chatting with my mother about the moon.)
I had some trouble with 1978, the middle of the junior high years. Plenty of memories, but the chronology is tricky. 1986 is likewise a little hazy and the only anchor I have is the space shuttle Challenger disaster, but somehow that feels like cheating. 1987 didn't feel 100 % right either. And, I had to really, really think about 1993.
Then, curiously, it got really easy at 2000. Partly because it was more recent. But also because that's when I started to produce shows like clockwork and because I've had Jeff around since 2002 and there are joint activities to cement the date.
To my surprise and delight, making this compendium of years has left me calm and ready for the next 46 years.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Rabit, rabit
When I was a kid, I loved the month of March. Exuberantly. The very flipping of the calendar page was exciting. The air changed color. Ordinary objects buzzed with promise. This year, i aim to recapture that irrational love of our third month.
March is chock full of good stuff: The beginning of Spring. The ides of March (when we got rid of that awful Julius Cesar). A heckuva lot more sunlight. Oh, and yes, my birthday.
Let's not forget that March (along with May) is also a verb. An active verb at that.
So, just for today: no introspection, no self-doubt, no whacking myself on the back with birch branches.
Today we celebrate March.
March is chock full of good stuff: The beginning of Spring. The ides of March (when we got rid of that awful Julius Cesar). A heckuva lot more sunlight. Oh, and yes, my birthday.
Let's not forget that March (along with May) is also a verb. An active verb at that.
So, just for today: no introspection, no self-doubt, no whacking myself on the back with birch branches.
Today we celebrate March.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Staffing Issues
At this time of record unemployment, when so many (including us) are struggling with financial difficulties, I feel a little guilty for bringing this up. But I must. It's the help. Jeff and I have been having terrible problems with our servants.
Let's start with Sofia-Louise (So-Lo to her friends). She is our Belgian maid. When we hired her we thought the Belgians were as fussy as their neighbors, the Swiss. We were wrong. A typical day will start with me bringing her coffee. "Sofie? Time to get up sweetie."
"Why?"
"Time to clean!"
"Too early. Without sunlight, I won't see the dirt."
"Sofie, it's 10:30."
This gets her up. Mostly because that's when her favorite show is on. (An incomprehensible Euro Soap.)
When I suggest she vacuum, she shakes her head. Apparently American Electric outlets are just too different from what she's used to and she isn't sure of their safety.
Dusting? Why bother when it will just be dusty again tomorrow? If I tell her to make the beds she looks at me accusingly, "Make the beds? Are you expecting company?"
My favorite Sofie-ism relates to clutter, "Hey, it is not my fault that you guys have too much stuff."
Then there is Hans-Lars, our chauffeur. He has such a beautiful uniform. All braiding and brass. But there is no denying it: he looks very out of place behind the wheel of the '79 Plymouth Volare.
Jeff (who can get very BBC on us) insisted on a stable boy.
"Honey!" I protested in vain, "We don't have a stable!"
"Well, you know, he's more to keep Sofie company."
Our cook,Beverly, does make some fine food. Although, be careful, if she offers you a cup of tea: find an excuse to skee-daddle. Otherwise you'll be trapped for hours as she dabs away tears with the edge of her apron and tells you all about her troubles with her husband, Bert. Seems he's at the pub every night and have a roving eye. She keeps wanting me to hire him as either a groundskeeper or a gamekeeper, despite our short supply of ground and game.
Beverly is sometimes known as Hurricane Beverly for her ability to use every last bowl, spoon, pot and counter top when making anything. She could fix you toast and manage to dirty the garlic press and the bunt pan.
Does she clean these dishes?
"Oh no! I would be taking work from poor Sofie-Louise. I would be insulting her if I did the dishes."
And Sofie? "No. The kitchen is Beverly-land. Ever since the war we Belgians are very sensitive about invading someone else's territory."
What we really need is a dog nanny. And we will get one, a real Mary Poppins. Just as soon as I can hook up the nanny-cam. Hmm. Nanny Cam. Maybe there's a way to make the Nanny position pay for itself. I'll have to talk to my tech savvy friends. Nanny cam sounds dirty. People pay for dirty. Right?
If you'll excuse me, I have an onerous task ahead of me. I need to broach the subject of the bathroom with Sofie. Last time she bit me.
I know I should leave it to Mrs. Effington, our housekeeper. But the woman scares me. She spends so much time just staring at that portrait of Jeff's first husband.
Let's start with Sofia-Louise (So-Lo to her friends). She is our Belgian maid. When we hired her we thought the Belgians were as fussy as their neighbors, the Swiss. We were wrong. A typical day will start with me bringing her coffee. "Sofie? Time to get up sweetie."
"Why?"
"Time to clean!"
"Too early. Without sunlight, I won't see the dirt."
"Sofie, it's 10:30."
This gets her up. Mostly because that's when her favorite show is on. (An incomprehensible Euro Soap.)
When I suggest she vacuum, she shakes her head. Apparently American Electric outlets are just too different from what she's used to and she isn't sure of their safety.
Dusting? Why bother when it will just be dusty again tomorrow? If I tell her to make the beds she looks at me accusingly, "Make the beds? Are you expecting company?"
My favorite Sofie-ism relates to clutter, "Hey, it is not my fault that you guys have too much stuff."
Then there is Hans-Lars, our chauffeur. He has such a beautiful uniform. All braiding and brass. But there is no denying it: he looks very out of place behind the wheel of the '79 Plymouth Volare.
Jeff (who can get very BBC on us) insisted on a stable boy.
"Honey!" I protested in vain, "We don't have a stable!"
"Well, you know, he's more to keep Sofie company."
Our cook,Beverly, does make some fine food. Although, be careful, if she offers you a cup of tea: find an excuse to skee-daddle. Otherwise you'll be trapped for hours as she dabs away tears with the edge of her apron and tells you all about her troubles with her husband, Bert. Seems he's at the pub every night and have a roving eye. She keeps wanting me to hire him as either a groundskeeper or a gamekeeper, despite our short supply of ground and game.
Beverly is sometimes known as Hurricane Beverly for her ability to use every last bowl, spoon, pot and counter top when making anything. She could fix you toast and manage to dirty the garlic press and the bunt pan.
Does she clean these dishes?
"Oh no! I would be taking work from poor Sofie-Louise. I would be insulting her if I did the dishes."
And Sofie? "No. The kitchen is Beverly-land. Ever since the war we Belgians are very sensitive about invading someone else's territory."
What we really need is a dog nanny. And we will get one, a real Mary Poppins. Just as soon as I can hook up the nanny-cam. Hmm. Nanny Cam. Maybe there's a way to make the Nanny position pay for itself. I'll have to talk to my tech savvy friends. Nanny cam sounds dirty. People pay for dirty. Right?
If you'll excuse me, I have an onerous task ahead of me. I need to broach the subject of the bathroom with Sofie. Last time she bit me.
I know I should leave it to Mrs. Effington, our housekeeper. But the woman scares me. She spends so much time just staring at that portrait of Jeff's first husband.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Rusty
I am so excited for Thursday night.
It's the first rehearsal for a reading of "My Dog Saw Me Naked" (March 9th, sponsored by Northwest Playwrights Alliance at Seattle Rep.)
I have to restrain myself from putting on a gingham frock and skipping about the room shrieking "Company's comin'! Company's comin'!"
An added bonus is that the rehearsal is here, which means our lazy maid will have to switch off those Belgian soap operas and actually clean the apartment.
I've been feeling a little cleaved lately. I'm becoming two people: the domestic guy and the man-about-town once or twice a month playwright. I miss being one person.
I was talking to a friend over the weekend who said she was going through the same thing. This weird divide between too many never-get-out-of-pajama days and absolutely in her element time at the theater.
It leaves me feeling not always so strong. And when I'm not feeling strong, I can get petty.
Yesterday, for example. Got an email about the reading basically say, "Hey, the reading isn't going to be in the Leo K (One of the Rep's smaller spaces)They're using the space during the day and aren't sure what shape it'll be in. The reading will be in the Leo K rehearsal room. Please tell audience to enter through the side door."
Nothing to get upset about. For goodness sake isn't a Rep priority. And for that matter, the reading isn't magically better for having been at the Rep. Listing it on my resume will never cause one of my scripts to float to the top of a pile. The Rep is being totally magnanimous about offering space. It's exactly the sort of thing big theaters should be doing. The room they provide will be perfectly fine for a reading. The Rep is a busy place.
But. But nobody likes being reminded how far down the list they are.
For just a moment the cranky, petulant eight year old in me (let's call him Rusty) came out in full force. He screwed up his freckly face and whined, "Like what? A broom closet?"
I sigh, "It won't be a broom closet. It might be smaller, but this particular script might actually benefit from a more intimate space. And come on, it's not like throngs of people come out on a Tuesday night to catch a play reading."
"Are there gonna be people coming through with bus tubs full of dishes? Dirty dishes?"
"Rusty, this is a theater, not a diner."
"Are we gonna have to be out by a certain time? Like, are they gonna flash the lights on us?"
"Rusty! It's not a long piece. We'll be out by nine."
Rusty can be hard to placate, at least with reason and common sense.
"Rus, buddy, how about we make it a game?"
"A game? What kinda game?"
"Let's say that the last time the NPA had a reading at the Rep, some of the people involved got drunk --"
"Like Uncle Freddy get's drunk?"
Uncle Freddy? "Uh, Sure Rusty, just like Uncle Freddy. And they did some damage."
"Like they trashed the place?"
"Yeah, like soccer hooligans. And the Rep banned future NPA readings. And what we're doing is snaking in. A guerrilla reading. Not Gorilla like the ape but --"
"I know what guerrilla means."
"Sorry. Most eight-year-olds don't."
"Heh heh. We'll show them! Top secret reading! Yeah!"
The irony of Rusty getting all upset is that he can't even go to the reading. He's eight and "My Dog Saw Me Naked" has a couple of very dirty sections.
Gotta go wake up the maid. Ciao.
It's the first rehearsal for a reading of "My Dog Saw Me Naked" (March 9th, sponsored by Northwest Playwrights Alliance at Seattle Rep.)
I have to restrain myself from putting on a gingham frock and skipping about the room shrieking "Company's comin'! Company's comin'!"
An added bonus is that the rehearsal is here, which means our lazy maid will have to switch off those Belgian soap operas and actually clean the apartment.
I've been feeling a little cleaved lately. I'm becoming two people: the domestic guy and the man-about-town once or twice a month playwright. I miss being one person.
I was talking to a friend over the weekend who said she was going through the same thing. This weird divide between too many never-get-out-of-pajama days and absolutely in her element time at the theater.
It leaves me feeling not always so strong. And when I'm not feeling strong, I can get petty.
Yesterday, for example. Got an email about the reading basically say, "Hey, the reading isn't going to be in the Leo K (One of the Rep's smaller spaces)They're using the space during the day and aren't sure what shape it'll be in. The reading will be in the Leo K rehearsal room. Please tell audience to enter through the side door."
Nothing to get upset about. For goodness sake isn't a Rep priority. And for that matter, the reading isn't magically better for having been at the Rep. Listing it on my resume will never cause one of my scripts to float to the top of a pile. The Rep is being totally magnanimous about offering space. It's exactly the sort of thing big theaters should be doing. The room they provide will be perfectly fine for a reading. The Rep is a busy place.
But. But nobody likes being reminded how far down the list they are.
For just a moment the cranky, petulant eight year old in me (let's call him Rusty) came out in full force. He screwed up his freckly face and whined, "Like what? A broom closet?"
I sigh, "It won't be a broom closet. It might be smaller, but this particular script might actually benefit from a more intimate space. And come on, it's not like throngs of people come out on a Tuesday night to catch a play reading."
"Are there gonna be people coming through with bus tubs full of dishes? Dirty dishes?"
"Rusty, this is a theater, not a diner."
"Are we gonna have to be out by a certain time? Like, are they gonna flash the lights on us?"
"Rusty! It's not a long piece. We'll be out by nine."
Rusty can be hard to placate, at least with reason and common sense.
"Rus, buddy, how about we make it a game?"
"A game? What kinda game?"
"Let's say that the last time the NPA had a reading at the Rep, some of the people involved got drunk --"
"Like Uncle Freddy get's drunk?"
Uncle Freddy? "Uh, Sure Rusty, just like Uncle Freddy. And they did some damage."
"Like they trashed the place?"
"Yeah, like soccer hooligans. And the Rep banned future NPA readings. And what we're doing is snaking in. A guerrilla reading. Not Gorilla like the ape but --"
"I know what guerrilla means."
"Sorry. Most eight-year-olds don't."
"Heh heh. We'll show them! Top secret reading! Yeah!"
The irony of Rusty getting all upset is that he can't even go to the reading. He's eight and "My Dog Saw Me Naked" has a couple of very dirty sections.
Gotta go wake up the maid. Ciao.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Conversation with a ghost
Spring has come early to Seattle. Which means my annual two weeks of hay fever have come early. (I much prefer "hay fever" to "allergies.") So I have taken a Zyrtec, which promises to be "non-drowsy." *sigh* The first broken promise of Spring is so bitter sweet.
I guess I don't mind the wonky-ness. (In fact, in the 10th grade I briefly used antihistamines recreationaly.) Just don't expect much of me.
I'm spacing out, looking at the leafless horse chestnut trees that line our street. They look like heads of broccoli bisected. Broccoli makes me think of brains. Which reminds me of the last time I saw a human brain (it was at one of those traveling anatomy sideshows). The brain without a scull looks smaller than I imagined it would be. It --
"Hey! Mr. Science! Put a sock in it. You're giving me a headache. And if you're short a sock, it's your lucky day. And extra one turned up in the wash."
I've been joined by the ghostly figure of a middle aged woman. At first I think it's my friend Jennifer's Mom. Than I realize.
"Hey! You're Erma Bombeck!"
"Yeah."
"You're dead!"
"Tell me about it."
I was tempted to make a crack about Over the Counter Meds and how the label didn't include the warning: "May hallucinate deceased syndicated columnists>" But I remembered how Scrooge was mocked when he tried to blame Marley's visit on an undigested potato.
Pulling my self together, I smile. "You were a big part of my childhood."
"Please, stop."
"Twice a week you were the high point of the newspaper."
"Three times a week, but who's counting?"
"You were a big influence on me. The whole notion of finding humor in what could be a dull existence."
"Dull isn't the half of it."
"And the whole concept that problems could be laughed at."
"Could and should, sweetie."
"Sometimes I wished you were my mom."
"Trust me, that's a wish you're lucky never came true. I'll give you my kids' numbers. They'll set you straight."
"I'm kind of housebound myself at the moment."
She glances around the chaos of the apartment. "If I were you, I'd fire the maid."
"Believe me," II said, "The maid would love to quit."
I get a ghost of a smile. Literally.
"Mrs. Bombeck --"
"Please, Erma."
"Erma. How did you do it? You made it seem easy."
"Easy? Did you read my column?"
"Uh..."
"Wait, how old were you when you stopped reading?"
"Early teens?"
"Yup."
"Ok, Ok. I get it."
"Well," She sat down and leaned back, "To be fair, there were things that never made it into the newspaper. The speculation about what flavor of Tuna Helper would best hide the taste of poison. The time my hilarious husband couldn't find something right under his nose and I suggested we could put it in a place where he'd always know where it was. The time I was cleaning under the bed and decided to stay down there because the dust bunnies were better company than my family."
"Harsh."
"Yeah, pretty much anything I submitted that involved daytime drinking, self-mutilation or bouts of unexplained crying got spiked."
"But it's ok, right? There's a noble element to it all. Yeah?"
She picks up the bottle of Zyrtec, shakes it till it rattles."How many of these did you take?"
"Erma!"
"Oh, relax. I'm just fuckin' with you."
I am stunned at her use of the F word.
"Look," She says, "Ask yourself this: Why me? Why of all the billions of dead people, did you pick me to show up."
Huh.
"Oh, Jeez! Look at the time. Hey, I got a load of whites that are just hitting the spin cycle. I'm pretty sure that's where socks appear and disappear. Hey, that's my big advice for you, why I'm hear today -- don't start counting the socks on laundry day. Drive you nuts. And it doesn't fuckin' matter which way the toilet paper goes on."
And she's gone.
Two weeks. That's how long my hay fever usually lasts. I'm guessing tomorrow Ann Landers will show up suggesting counseling or a chat with my minister. Please don't let me laugh at her hair.
I guess I don't mind the wonky-ness. (In fact, in the 10th grade I briefly used antihistamines recreationaly.) Just don't expect much of me.
I'm spacing out, looking at the leafless horse chestnut trees that line our street. They look like heads of broccoli bisected. Broccoli makes me think of brains. Which reminds me of the last time I saw a human brain (it was at one of those traveling anatomy sideshows). The brain without a scull looks smaller than I imagined it would be. It --
"Hey! Mr. Science! Put a sock in it. You're giving me a headache. And if you're short a sock, it's your lucky day. And extra one turned up in the wash."
I've been joined by the ghostly figure of a middle aged woman. At first I think it's my friend Jennifer's Mom. Than I realize.
"Hey! You're Erma Bombeck!"
"Yeah."
"You're dead!"
"Tell me about it."
I was tempted to make a crack about Over the Counter Meds and how the label didn't include the warning: "May hallucinate deceased syndicated columnists>" But I remembered how Scrooge was mocked when he tried to blame Marley's visit on an undigested potato.
Pulling my self together, I smile. "You were a big part of my childhood."
"Please, stop."
"Twice a week you were the high point of the newspaper."
"Three times a week, but who's counting?"
"You were a big influence on me. The whole notion of finding humor in what could be a dull existence."
"Dull isn't the half of it."
"And the whole concept that problems could be laughed at."
"Could and should, sweetie."
"Sometimes I wished you were my mom."
"Trust me, that's a wish you're lucky never came true. I'll give you my kids' numbers. They'll set you straight."
"I'm kind of housebound myself at the moment."
She glances around the chaos of the apartment. "If I were you, I'd fire the maid."
"Believe me," II said, "The maid would love to quit."
I get a ghost of a smile. Literally.
"Mrs. Bombeck --"
"Please, Erma."
"Erma. How did you do it? You made it seem easy."
"Easy? Did you read my column?"
"Uh..."
"Wait, how old were you when you stopped reading?"
"Early teens?"
"Yup."
"Ok, Ok. I get it."
"Well," She sat down and leaned back, "To be fair, there were things that never made it into the newspaper. The speculation about what flavor of Tuna Helper would best hide the taste of poison. The time my hilarious husband couldn't find something right under his nose and I suggested we could put it in a place where he'd always know where it was. The time I was cleaning under the bed and decided to stay down there because the dust bunnies were better company than my family."
"Harsh."
"Yeah, pretty much anything I submitted that involved daytime drinking, self-mutilation or bouts of unexplained crying got spiked."
"But it's ok, right? There's a noble element to it all. Yeah?"
She picks up the bottle of Zyrtec, shakes it till it rattles."How many of these did you take?"
"Erma!"
"Oh, relax. I'm just fuckin' with you."
I am stunned at her use of the F word.
"Look," She says, "Ask yourself this: Why me? Why of all the billions of dead people, did you pick me to show up."
Huh.
"Oh, Jeez! Look at the time. Hey, I got a load of whites that are just hitting the spin cycle. I'm pretty sure that's where socks appear and disappear. Hey, that's my big advice for you, why I'm hear today -- don't start counting the socks on laundry day. Drive you nuts. And it doesn't fuckin' matter which way the toilet paper goes on."
And she's gone.
Two weeks. That's how long my hay fever usually lasts. I'm guessing tomorrow Ann Landers will show up suggesting counseling or a chat with my minister. Please don't let me laugh at her hair.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Um, about that perspective thing
I wrote a couple days ago about keeping perspective. That we have glamorous and not so glamorous periods in our lives. And when you find yourself in the midst of not especially stellar days, take heart, the wheel will turn.
But, I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't mention the flip side of perspective, and what happens when you pull the camera back even further.
This is how my silly ol' brain runs on that:
Certainly climate change is a reality (regardless of the idiots who mistake local anomalous weather for climate. Climate change has always been a reality. (We really aren't that far past the last ice age.) Now, I do believe in being green and all, and doing what we can for endangered species(although we are actually already about six thousand years into a great extinction phase.)
I don't think humans will go extinct soon (eventually, sure. Soon? How soon is soon?) But with seven billion people on Earth, I just don't think we can maintain that number. I think we'll have a population collapse within the next hundred years (my definition: at least a billion deaths within ten years.) Probably linked to a disruption in the food or water supply, with some added political chaos. It's a problem that we may be able to alleviate, but not solve. (Unless of course, an asteroid takes us all out sooner.)
Why all this catastrophic thinking? Well, Jeff just found out he's got a pretty good FICO score. And I was gripped with the vision of us getting a house just in time for the start of the apocalypse. Nothing does a number on property values like the end of the world.
But, I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't mention the flip side of perspective, and what happens when you pull the camera back even further.
This is how my silly ol' brain runs on that:
Certainly climate change is a reality (regardless of the idiots who mistake local anomalous weather for climate. Climate change has always been a reality. (We really aren't that far past the last ice age.) Now, I do believe in being green and all, and doing what we can for endangered species(although we are actually already about six thousand years into a great extinction phase.)
I don't think humans will go extinct soon (eventually, sure. Soon? How soon is soon?) But with seven billion people on Earth, I just don't think we can maintain that number. I think we'll have a population collapse within the next hundred years (my definition: at least a billion deaths within ten years.) Probably linked to a disruption in the food or water supply, with some added political chaos. It's a problem that we may be able to alleviate, but not solve. (Unless of course, an asteroid takes us all out sooner.)
Why all this catastrophic thinking? Well, Jeff just found out he's got a pretty good FICO score. And I was gripped with the vision of us getting a house just in time for the start of the apocalypse. Nothing does a number on property values like the end of the world.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Flashlights required
Just a quick mini post.
Have I mentioned that the streetlights on our block (and only on our block) have been our for several days now? I sent a message to the city to no avail.
Part of my mind is reaching toward the metaphorical on this: stumbling through the uncertain darkness...searching blindly...something-something enlightenment. Nothing especially original.
The more literal part of my brain is like, "I'll bet it's the Rape Van Crew. They found a way to knock out the streetlights. Easier to get away with whatever it is they do when no one can see!"
I'll keep you posted.
Have I mentioned that the streetlights on our block (and only on our block) have been our for several days now? I sent a message to the city to no avail.
Part of my mind is reaching toward the metaphorical on this: stumbling through the uncertain darkness...searching blindly...something-something enlightenment. Nothing especially original.
The more literal part of my brain is like, "I'll bet it's the Rape Van Crew. They found a way to knock out the streetlights. Easier to get away with whatever it is they do when no one can see!"
I'll keep you posted.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Perspective
A rut. A little bit of a rut. That's all it is. Of course, I've blown it all out of proportion. I have become the Prisoner of Zenda. Is that the same thing as the Man in the Iron Mask? No, no. They're separate people, I'm sure. Hmm, but is one of them the Count of Monte Cristo? And why is a Monte Cristo sandwich called a Monte Cristo sandwich? Who wants a sandwich with so much baggage? Wow,Scot, so somebody who is wrongly imprisoned for years in a dungeon merely has "baggage?" Wait..."wrongly imprisoned in a dungeon"... I think if it's a dungeon, the "wrongly" is kind of implied.
Arggh! This is what it's like in my head when I'm in a rut. Hamster wheels! Dozens of hamster wheels.
But, my point today (And I don't really have one, but let's pretend) is to bring up Perspective.
There was a study I read about where they phoned up people across the country, some experiencing nice weather and some dreary weather. And they asked these folks "Are you satisfied with your life." NOT "how are you doing today." Well, of course (or else I probably wouldn't have remembered the study) the people with miserable weather tended to say they weren't so very satisfied with their lives, their whole lives. And the good weather subjects said their lives were pretty good.
I know things will change, it just doesn't always feel that way.
And, oh, how I wish I were one of those people who stood at the prow of their ships and boldly carved out their lives! But I'm not.
(If fact, given my vast reservoir of insecurity, my inherent crippling shyness and my general fear of the future, it's kind of amazing I've made it this far.)
But, we're not dwelling on that today, instead we are focusing on...on..on what? Ah, yes, we're remembering how I've gotten out of ruts in the past. My technique (and this is going to drive you bold carving prow standing folks crazy) is -- oh, before I tell you, I want to explain about the Roman goddess of good fortune whose name escapes me, so we'll call her Mandy. They -- the Romans-- say that when Mandy comes running by, grab her by the forelocks, because she's bald from behind.
And that's what I've done in the past. Seized opportunity for change, grabbing it with both hands.
I envy those people who don't wait. Those who "Make their own opportunity."
But I y'am what I y'am.
Arggh! This is what it's like in my head when I'm in a rut. Hamster wheels! Dozens of hamster wheels.
But, my point today (And I don't really have one, but let's pretend) is to bring up Perspective.
There was a study I read about where they phoned up people across the country, some experiencing nice weather and some dreary weather. And they asked these folks "Are you satisfied with your life." NOT "how are you doing today." Well, of course (or else I probably wouldn't have remembered the study) the people with miserable weather tended to say they weren't so very satisfied with their lives, their whole lives. And the good weather subjects said their lives were pretty good.
I know things will change, it just doesn't always feel that way.
And, oh, how I wish I were one of those people who stood at the prow of their ships and boldly carved out their lives! But I'm not.
(If fact, given my vast reservoir of insecurity, my inherent crippling shyness and my general fear of the future, it's kind of amazing I've made it this far.)
But, we're not dwelling on that today, instead we are focusing on...on..on what? Ah, yes, we're remembering how I've gotten out of ruts in the past. My technique (and this is going to drive you bold carving prow standing folks crazy) is -- oh, before I tell you, I want to explain about the Roman goddess of good fortune whose name escapes me, so we'll call her Mandy. They -- the Romans-- say that when Mandy comes running by, grab her by the forelocks, because she's bald from behind.
And that's what I've done in the past. Seized opportunity for change, grabbing it with both hands.
I envy those people who don't wait. Those who "Make their own opportunity."
But I y'am what I y'am.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Too Much of a Good Thing
I love spending time alone. I crave it. I get cranky if I don’t get it.
But being stuck here at home (and I promise that in the not so distant future I will elaborate on why this is the situation) is pushing the limits. Even my limits. It can make you wiggy. Yes, you heard me, wiggy.
Social contact keeps us sane. You have to modify your behavior when you’re with others, keep on top of things. Think of all the little activities you do when nobody’s watching: the weird food eaten, the little things you hum, the strange private rituals and superstitions. And when you find yourself with oceans of solitude, well, the peculiar little gnome inside can get a little bold. I’ll get back to him in a sec.
The other thing about self imposed home detention is that your world can shrink a bit. The walls close in and you gain a new appreciation for “The Yellow Wallpaper.” Little domestic annoyances become signs of the apocalypse. A stopped up drain becomes an epic tragic opera. Fixing dinner transforms into an onerous, Sisyphean burden. Do you remember in the film “Safe” when Julianna Moore’s character discovers that the decorators have gotten the color wrong. And she stands there in her living room saying “No. This isn’t right. It’s just not right.” And she’s devastated and panicked? I have those days I know that panic.
On the upside, I feel like I’m part of a long literary tradition. Thematically linked to enforced domestication. “Taming of the Shrew,” “Hedda Gabbler,” Erma Bombeck. Oh, and that one from the ‘70’s about valium addiction: “I’m Dancing as Fast as I Can.” Not that I have succumbed to drugs (Although there are days when that Nyquil bottle looks pretty inviting.)
That little gnome I spoke of – let’s call him Schlagghammer – he loves to encourage me to free associate, knowing that it’s a sure path to madness. And he loves looking backward, raking over the coals of the past. The first time I experienced periods of solitude was when I would stay home sick from school. I loooooved staying home sick. Growing up in a family of five kids, being home by myself all day was a luxury. And I savored it. The house was a completely different building when it was filled with silence. I could hear my thoughts. I was untroubled by interruption. My true self could emerge. And then I could turn on the television.
You know what fascinated me most was “The Price is Right.” Furniture sets, washer/dryers, his & her watches (well, his & her anything really), and of course A New Car! Oh, those fabulous show cases! (And how exciting it was when someone won both of them by coming in within less than $100 and not going over!) Those assholes in Contestants’ Row who bid “one dollar!” Or, one dollar more than the last bid.
But let us not forget: The man himself, Mr. Bob Barker. I used to think he had the best job in the world. But now I wonder if maybe he didn’t have a late in life crisis. Like he’d wake up at 3 a.m. muttering “All I did with my life was hand out crap. Carp never brought anyone real happiness.”
Now days I never watch TV during the day. TV during the day makes me sad. Daytime Television is a mediocre comic in the corner of a busy bar trying to get people’s attention, tapping the mic, asking no one in particular, “is this thing on?”
But I am curious about shows I used to enjoy as a kid. Take Mr. Rodgers. Loved that show. Not the boring part with the sweaters and the fish tank and that odd delivery man. I loved it when the little trolley showed up to take us away from the mundane drudgery of the real world to the bright, shiny (but still black & white on our TV) Neighborhood of Make Believe. (Someday soon I’ll tell you all about how life wouldn’t be worth living without talking animals.) But I fear a return to the NOMB would be colored by my current socialist leanings. I mean come on, it’s ruled by a king. A freaking king for gods sakes!!
Yeah, benevolent. They all start out benevolent.
I think the revolution’s chief instigator would be Lady Elaine Fairchilde. She’d stand on top of her Museum-Go-Round delivering speeches about the inevitable march of history! She’d give up the title “lady” and insist on being called Citizen Elaine Fairchilde. Both X the Owl and Daniel Striped Tiger are dumb enough to fall for her utopian promises.
The castle would be stormed. Kind Friday XIII would be hung from the tree. X’s Tree. (I’m skipping over the farce of Friday’s trial. The parade of false witnesses, trust me, no one can lie like a puppet.) Queen Sarah Saturday would have her head shaved and be forced to work in the factory. There’s a factory, right? A pencil factory run by a little rodenty guy…Corky? Am I remembering correctly? Anyway, don’t ask about Prince Tuesday. Too sad, too soon.
At first everything’s great. X and Henrietta Pussycat don’t have to hide their forbidden love. In the spirit of equality (meow meow – quality) inter species marriage is legalized. It gets ugly quick. The Platypus family watches as their bagpipes are tossed onto a bonfire. And then they are boarded onto the little red trolley and off they go to the Gulag of Make Believe.
Arrgh! See what I mean about free association?! Damn you Schlagghammer!
OK, deep breathes. A little perspective. Those are the things I cling to. My current situation won’t last forever. Nothing does.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The Eyes and Ears of the Neighborhood
My special assignment for today was to keep an eye on the Rape Van. I've had to channel my inner Mrs. Kravitz.
The Rape Van is one of two vehicles owned by Creepy Old Guy. The other is a truck that he seems to live out of. Which I guess make the Rape Van (you know what I mean: white, non-descript, no windows on the side) his office. Creepy Old Guy has a friend: Aging 80's Hustler: skinny, dyed black hair, somewhere in his thirties, always has on sunglasses, wears a studded belt. A lot of thought and crystal meth went into this look.
I'm specifically trying to figure out if this unholy duo has moved in downstairs or are just good friends with the lads who live under us.
My husband and I rent the top half of a duplex in what was until two weeks ago a very nice neighborhood. Our downstairs neighbor is the son of the owners (the owners are a group of siblings, so he's the son of one, nephew to the rest). We'll call him X. Oh, and X lives down there with his boyfriend. (But please, keep that under your hats!)
I don't want to tattle on anyone. And I don't know if it would do any good. When we've hinted in the past that X is not the best person to live over, we haven't exactly gotten a rousing response. More of the glazed look of denial. I guess nobody wants to think of their little boy (now pushing 40) as being a mess. A big mess. A mess you don't mind foisting on your real tenants.
I mean, it can't be much of a surprise to them. A couple years back X called the cops on his Dad who'd dropped by. (Oh, and let me tell you, my husband was mortified at the five cop cars that pulled up out front! "Everyone's gonna think it's us!")
I'm torn between (rapidly dwindling) sympathy for somebody down on his luck and being seriously creeped out by Creepy Old Guy. (And not thrilled about the possibility of paying for the water that showers him.)
Oh, hey...Let me introduce myself. My name is Scot and I'm the Existential Househusband. Somehow, a combination of the weak economy, an indulgent spouse and some odd life choices (choices that range from the misguieded to the ill-advised to the downright self-destructive) have me staying home these days acting out some strange parody of American domestic life.
Welcome.
The Rape Van is one of two vehicles owned by Creepy Old Guy. The other is a truck that he seems to live out of. Which I guess make the Rape Van (you know what I mean: white, non-descript, no windows on the side) his office. Creepy Old Guy has a friend: Aging 80's Hustler: skinny, dyed black hair, somewhere in his thirties, always has on sunglasses, wears a studded belt. A lot of thought and crystal meth went into this look.
I'm specifically trying to figure out if this unholy duo has moved in downstairs or are just good friends with the lads who live under us.
My husband and I rent the top half of a duplex in what was until two weeks ago a very nice neighborhood. Our downstairs neighbor is the son of the owners (the owners are a group of siblings, so he's the son of one, nephew to the rest). We'll call him X. Oh, and X lives down there with his boyfriend. (But please, keep that under your hats!)
I don't want to tattle on anyone. And I don't know if it would do any good. When we've hinted in the past that X is not the best person to live over, we haven't exactly gotten a rousing response. More of the glazed look of denial. I guess nobody wants to think of their little boy (now pushing 40) as being a mess. A big mess. A mess you don't mind foisting on your real tenants.
I mean, it can't be much of a surprise to them. A couple years back X called the cops on his Dad who'd dropped by. (Oh, and let me tell you, my husband was mortified at the five cop cars that pulled up out front! "Everyone's gonna think it's us!")
I'm torn between (rapidly dwindling) sympathy for somebody down on his luck and being seriously creeped out by Creepy Old Guy. (And not thrilled about the possibility of paying for the water that showers him.)
Oh, hey...Let me introduce myself. My name is Scot and I'm the Existential Househusband. Somehow, a combination of the weak economy, an indulgent spouse and some odd life choices (choices that range from the misguieded to the ill-advised to the downright self-destructive) have me staying home these days acting out some strange parody of American domestic life.
Welcome.
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