Baby, You Can Drive My Car……To The Auto Shop.

2:32am, August 19th, 2009.

In a mere 8 hours and 28 minutes, I have my road test.
And tragedy has struck.

Never mind that I see little chance of sleep beforehand, or that something in the car keeps sounding like its about to pop loose. Now, this is far more sinister.
The date stamped on my five hour course documentation is wrong. It says I took the course the day before I really did.

Apparently, this is a pretty big dilemma.

I have to find someone, anyone, at the driving school before 11 am.

4:21pm, August 20, 2009

I started to blog about my decade long journey of driving, but both panic and exhaustion took thier toll, and I ended up passed out on the sofa, clutching my cell phone in one hand and the number for the driving school in the other.

So, as I sit here with the sun beating through the window that used to have a tree in front of it, I will write.

When I was 15, my Girl Scout leader let me drive her SUV in a field at camp. I was with my then BFF Christina, who sat in the back and prayed the whole time, certain I was mere moments from killing her. I am sure this goes completely against the laws of scouting, not to mention the laws of New York State, but it is probably one of my more memorable times at camp. (Save for the time Christina came down with what at first glance seemed to be the Ebola virus. That was a pretty memorable night for the whole cabin.)
That would be my first time behind the wheel of a car. I did some circles. I learned what the gas was and what the brake was. I swore never to tell my parents, which I didn’t until I was about 22.

I turned 16 later than my sophomore year compatriots, because my birthday was in June. So while they all ran out to get their learner’s permits, I studied the permit test book and waited while everyone else celebrated what was the best part of the best year ever!
Unfortunately, 16 was not, for me, the best year of my life. In fact it’s probably in the top five of WORST moments in history for me. A lot was happening…too much to go into detail about. Suffice it to say that my 17th birthday rolled around with no permit as well.
I can say, wholeheartedly, that I have no idea why I didn’t get my permit then. I don’t remember at all. But then, I was still recovering from the hellish year I spent before. Struggling to keep my grades up, find a college, and deal with residual crap from Junior year, there was no time.
But on my 18th birthday, I got that sucker.

I took the test once and passed it perfectly. Of course, I had spent 2 years studying the booklet.

I was ready and raring to go. For about 5 months. Then it snowed.
The following several years were filled with excuses. I don’t want to drive in the snow. I can’t afford the 5 hour course. I don’t have time for the 5 hour course. I don’t know how to parallel park. It’s too hot. It’s too cold. It’s raining. It’s dark. I can’t listen to music when I practice. What if I kill someone?
Some of these excuses, like the last one, were based on real issues. In 2004 I was in a car accident with my cousin Duff and my friend Katy. While Duff and I didn’t have any serious injuries, Katy was cut up pretty bad. So for a while there, I didn’t want to risk it at all. And this really scared me, and caused a fear of driving.
Alas, some were just excuses.

Because I really didn’t LIKE driving.

I thought I was a weirdo because of this, and didn’t want to say it. Who doesn’t like driving? And if they don’t, who wouldn’t put up with it just to be free from their parents?
Hi. Right here. That’s me.

I figured out why I hated it on accident.
I did some testing at my doctors, in regards to panic attacks and getting the state to pay for school (Ask me how!) and they told me that I have poor hand-eye-foot coordination. I didn’t know that was a thing, but apparently it is. The doctor asked if I have trouble driving, and wanted me to describe what happens in my head when I approach a stop light.
I see that the light is red.
I must stop the car.
I must move my foot off the gas.
I must move my foot on the break.
I must apply pressure to the break.
I must stop the car before the light.
I must watch the light to see it turn green.

The doctor told me that was a little too much going on in my head, which is pretty much the story of my life. He also said that unless I found a way to get out of my head, driving would always suck.
The problem is, you can’t really get out of your head when you’re driving. Or you’ll kill someone.

So I didn’t drive for a while. My permit still got a lot of use though. I bought my cigarettes. I chalked it to get into bars. It was often used as a coaster. The thing was filthy.
Then, one day shortly after turning 21, I went into Rite Aid for a pack of smokes, and they wouldn’t sell to me. Apparently, the 1983 looked like a 1988 and they thought I was 16. Later that day my friend Tom scrubbed my permit clean, while at a party, using dish soap and a brillo pad. When it was finally clean, I looked at it and I realized “Oh shit…it expired.”
This wasn’t a problem with the cigs, because my friends could buy them for me, or my parents. But then one day I tried to get into a bar for my birthday and was promptly denied.
So, after a while of trying to pass off a birth certificate and a photo id from work as legitimate identification, I broke out the old permit booklet.
I re-studied, and re-took the test. And re-passed it.

At this point, I figured, what the hell. I’m 25 years old and I can’t drive. My father looked at me and said “Brigid. I will pay for the course. I will pay for the permit. I will pay for any fees. I will teach you to drive. I will let you use my car. Just, for the love of God, get your license, so I don’t have to pick you up from rehearsals anymore.”

So I went to the 5 hour course. Which was boring, mostly. Don Johnson explained why I should always wear my seatbelt, even if they didn’t need to on Miami Vice, because that was a controlled setting. Mean Joe Green then demonstrated that me driving a car into a wall is a lot like a freshman with bad 80s hair running headlong into his chest. The girl sitting next to me was born in the 90s, so that was depressing. And the teacher told us to feel free to take cig breaks whenever we wanted, which would be nice if I hadn’t just quit smoking. But on the up side, my 5 hour course was 3 hours long.
That night they call and tell me that the form you have to give the tester was misdated, and I just needed to bring it in to get fixed some time before my test. I scheduled my test online, at the earliest date: 2 months later.

The next two months were spent in a car. I mastered everything, including the ability to change my former litany of instructions for a red light to a simple “STOP THE DAMN CAR.” Then, two days before the test, I tried to parallel park.
And couldn’t do it.
I got too frustrated with my father and sought my mother’s help.
Big mistake.

See, I love my mother.
But we don’t work well together.
I had banned her from the car, actually, after driving out to my cousin’s one night. She insisted the whole time that I should be in the right lane, even if it was filled with potholes, people, open car doors, and buses. Also, she’s a total backseat driver.
Alas, she used to teach drivers ed, and I had 48 hours to learn how to parallel park.
So after much screaming and crying and gnashing of teeth, I politely asked her to JUST SHUT UP AND LET ME DO IT.
And I did it.

Which brings us to 2:30 in the morning yesterday, when I realized I never got the damn date changed.

The gods were with me yesterday morning though.
I called the driving school and found that the only branch open was the one by my house. Convenient. My father arrived home at 10:30am to take me, which was cutting it close as my test was at 11am, but we missed all the red lights and I got the date changed in record time. Then we made it quickly to the gas station, then the test site. The tester was a jovial man who made jokes about the fact I was freaking out. I got in the car.
I put on my seatbelt.
I checked my mirrors.
I turned on the car.
I pulled away from the curd.

I forgot to signal. (Which my mother constantly reminded me of.)

I forgot to check my blind spot. (Which my mother constantly reminded me of.)

While doing the 3 point turn, I forgot to put the car in drive. (Which is an UNBELIEVABLE mistake on my part…I’ve had flawless 3 point turns since I was 18.)

And my parallel parking involved “excessive maneuvers.” (But at least I did it.)

Then, on the way back, I was in the right lane, and the tester told me to be in the left, because driving a city street in the right lane was dangerous…you know, potholes, people, that sort of thing. (When I told this to my mother, she threatened to have him fired.)

Alas, I passed.
I also didn’t breathe for about 10 minutes.
But I passed.

Later, I took my first solo drive, to Tim Hortons for an iced capp. Then I drove to Kevin’s, but he was asleep and his mother was out, so I headed home. And the battery light on the dashboard came on.

My father seemed unconcerned, but would not allow me to use the car until he figured it out. I, who knows nothing about cars, went online and looked it up. I learned that it was likely a broken alternator belt or that the alternator itself was dying. I told my father. He didn’t listen to me, because he just got a new TV and was programming the HD channels. Never mind this was a day 10 years in the making and the car was dying.

Dad and I had a fight of epic proportions over what was more important, the car or the TV. The car, which we needed immediately, or the TV, that didn’t necessarily need the channels programmed at that moment.
In the end, logic won. And we went to dinner at Red Robin. Which was probably not safe, as we were still in the dying car.

On the way home we stopped at Family Video so I could rent the last disc of Weeds, and the car died.

The day I finally get my license, the car dies.
Un-fucking-belivable.
I can only assume it took one look at my license and committed suicide.

Dad had the car towed and they told him that it was likely a broken alternator belt or that the alternator itself was dying. He then proceed to yell about how his “daughter who has had her license for 11 minutes” knew more than he did about the car.

Today, I am waiting for the auto shop to call, as I need the car for this weekend. And my parents need it for general day-to-day existence.

But despite the fact the car killed itself, I am happy, and more than a little proud of myself for getting over my fear of driving. And as I drove down Southwestern Blvd. sipping my iced capp and singing along to the radio, I realized…I LIKE driving.

Just not with my parents in the car.
Sigh.
If only I had figured that out 10 years ago.

Feel free to buy me this.

McKee

My therapist tells me I’m too modest.

This is hilarious. Because there was a time when modesty was not my greatest virtue. Now, as I have chosen to live a somewhat humbler existence, apparently I have gone overboard.

My friend Katie is getting married in a couple weeks. I haven’t seen her in years. Nor have we spoken on the phone. And yet, not only am I invited to her wedding, but I’m reading at it.
A poem.
Which I wrote.

Katie has, more than once, told me that I was a huge influence on her. In fact, I have been told many times by many people that I was a huge influence on them.
Yet this always makes me a little embarrassed.

My therapist says it shouldn’t. She says I should own the good I’ve done for others, or whatever.
It’s hard, though.
With Katie, it was the Explorers. Well, really, with most people who have told me that I’ve made an impact on them, it was the Explorers.
Katie was fourteen when she joined. She was a freshman at Mount St. Mary’s, where my mom went to high school, and her full name was Kathleen, like my aunt Ka. She was cast originally as the friend of the lead (I think…this was a decade ago,) in Stolen Childhood, which I was directing. Then, when we moved Andrea up to the lead, she took her part as what was essentially the character of the town slut. Which, for meek and mild Katie, was a bit of a stretch. In one scene she had to seduce and kiss a guy…who, due to a fit of emergency casting, was a 27 year old professional actor.
I think it is a testament to that little 14 year olds strength that she actually got up the courage to DO IT. (I’m not sure, but I think this dude was her first kiss. And I gotta say, that took balls that no other cast member had.)

Katie and I stayed friends after the show closed. And we had some good times through the years, ranging from throwing coffee creamers out the car windows with Nick, to me convincing everybody she was Polish (she’s Irish…maybe,) to accidentally dying my bathtub purple. (My mother is still a little touchy about that last one.)
Then, she went away to school, and after a while, we lost touch.
Occasionally I would get instant messages or emails from her. My favorite was when her away message once read “Is Brigid Hannon famous yet?” She would read my poetry, which she loved, and always was asking when I was going to write a book, and if it would be dedicated to her.

When I had dinner with my friend Mike this past December, he told me that the time he was in the Explorers was the time in life when he really became himself. Maybe it’s because that’s when he first came out, or maybe just because it was his teens, but our adventures on Johnson Park were apparently a catalyst.
I can think of at least 5 people who have told me the same.
And then they say that I had a lot to do with it, which makes me all self conscious. See, I agree…that’s when I really came out of my shell, too. And yes, I was older than all of them…so I was in some ways a role model for some. But I always credited my growth to Rose, and figured others would as well. But I guess, I was their Rose.

So Katie, as I was saying, was one of these people. And even though we haven’t seen each other in forever, I was not surprised to be invited to her wedding. I was however surprised when she asked me to read one of my poems. (Which is a little difficult because I don’t have any “yay love” poems. All my love poems are of the “nay” sort.) I decided I’m taking Sahar to the wedding…she was my stage manager for Stolen Childhood. I’m pretty sure its going to be a blast.
Provided, of course, I can find a poem.

I think I might just write her one. Then, even if I never get around to writing that book, she can have a poem dedicated to her. And, you know, this blog entry.

If it’s good enough for Canada, it’s good enough for me.

To start, I am a smart girl. I am logical and practical, yet always open to new opinions and ideas. I may not have gotten the greatest marks on my report cards, but then again, I don’t think I ever studied. For anything. Ever. (Don’t tell my mom.) So really, in perspective, those were some impressive grades. I’m a big researcher, and I spend a lot of time looking up things I don’t understand so that I can be informed. I come from a long line of smarty-pants, and I also have an above average IQ.
This said, I have absolutely no idea how to deal with health insurance. I don’t understand a damn word of it. Mind you, I have had 5 different insurance companies in the past two years alone, two of them Medicaid and one Family Heath Plus. So while I can work the Rath building like a pro (for you non-Buffalonians, the “Wrath” building houses all government insurance departments, welfare, SSI, senior services, and the DMV. It’s a horrible, horrible place,) I cannot seem to read a statement regarding my health coverage.
Which is why I have Cathe.
Cathe is a nice woman provided to me by Horizons, which is probably the only health care related place that I haven’t had some major issue yet. Cathe does all the paper work and stuff so I don’t have to. She gives me little cards that tell me where to go and when. And I do, and she’s there, and she talks, and then I go home with health insurance. I don’t know what kind of magic voodoo she does, but I benefit. When she speaks, it might as well be in Swahilli, that’s how much I understand.
Then I get stuff in the mail, and I get a new card. All set. That is, until 5 months down the line when I get a job and have to go through all of this again.

I have friends who don’t have health insurance, and while I know that’s hazardous, I often think what lucky bastards they are, because if they did have it, it would be “just in case.” Oh, how I long to be a “just in case.”
But I am not. I am a “YOU WILL DIE.”
Because, without health insurance, I cannot afford meds. Ergo, I will die from not having meds. There have been times when I have had to fork over hundreds for a bottle of pills. There have been countless doctors who have dropped me because of a change in my insurance. There have been years between doctors visits, because there was no insurance, or not enough of it.
And here is the really crappy part…you have to be totally 100% homeless-brand POOR to get total Medicaid. The moment I get a shitty part time job I can’t even house myself on, they take it away. So then, all my paycheck goes towards health care. Tell me, what incentive is that to get a job when if I don’t have one, you give it to me for free?

The other night I saw some guy TV talking about how national healthcare is a bad idea. I respect the opinions of those who believe this. I understand you want your own insurance and your own choice of doctors and all that jazz. And no, I don’t really understand the issue, because despite exhaustive research, I might as well be reading ancient runes. Even with Wikipedia, which reads my mind and highlights all the words I don’t know so I can click a link and figure it out, failed to teach me as much as I would like to know on the subject.
But I do know this.
The single greatest thing that could happen for me is to have continuous, set in stone, don’t-have-to-pay-a-cent health care. And if there is anyway that could ever happen, I am backing it 100%.

Unless the people opposing it want to handle my co-pays. Then, I’m willing to negotiate.

Fat Girl on Wheels

Holy Flashbacks, Batman!

When my aunt Missy mentioned that she wanted to take her daughter, Erin, and my sister roller-skating, I jumped at the chance to go, too. There was a time, long ago, when I roller-skated everywhere. I’m not talking inline skates, either, which became popular at some point in the mid nineties. Straight up roller skates, with the brown laces and orange wheels.

So today when Bernie woke me and said Missy would be by to get us at one, I was pumped. I took a shower, made something to eat, and got ready to go. On the way there, we listened to Chumbawumba. On cassette. Clearly, that was an omen foretelling the nostalgia to come.

St. Paul’s, where I went to elementary school, never let us have dances, so instead we had roller skating parties. Rumor had it that the priests thought we would forget to “leave room for Jesus,” and figured that getting too close was an impossibility if you had wheels on your feet. The parties were held at Rainbow Rink in Tonawanda, which was built in 1949. By the time I showed up there 40-some years later, there was nothing but day-glo paint as far as the eye could see. Near the entrance, to your right, was a sitting area, where they had birthday parties on weekends and where parents of youngsters sat and waited. Next to that was the skating area, and at the end was the DJ booth, looking down over everything. On the right was the girl’s bathroom, which saw a thousand broken hearts, at least one of them mine, then the boy’s bathroom, then the snack bar, and skate rental. It’s pretty much the same today, except the sitting area is by the DJ now, they put in a skateboard ramp, and added an arcade.
Other than that? Same. Damn. Room.

The carnival ride lights spider webbing the ceiling, disco balls, and excessive amount of black lights remain. The neon arrows painted on the wall are still there, as are the multi colored booths and orange and yellow lockers. The only change in the snack bar is that everything is 50 cents more expensive, and the arcade games are now late 90s instead of late 80s.

I steeled myself upon entry for what I assumed would be a short trip down memory lane, but was surprised by the amount of good and bad memories that struck me. It may have had something to do with the fact that the song playing as I walked in the door was “Cotton Eyed Joe” by Rednex, which played at probably every skating party I attended between 1994 and 1997. I immediately texted Kevin.
His response?
Kevin: WOW.
(Kevin and I not only went to the parties, but spent a few weekends there with Dennis, in what seemed to be Kev’s attempt to impress this girl Autumn with what I assume he thought of as his mad rollerblade skillz.)
Then I had to text Todd and Beth and tell them where I was. Todd responded with a “Wow, sweet!” that had several more w’s and exclamation points. Beth’s reaction was more balanced, asking if she was someday going to have to take the girls there. Part of me really wanted to text Christina too, though I don’t know if she can get them…what with her being in Australia and all. She probably can, but I still find it amazing that Beth, who is in New York, can receive a message from me in an instant. I guess I haven’t got my head wrapped around technology enough to go transcontinental.

I fastened up my skates and made my way out onto the rink, reminiscent of Bambi’s first experience on four legs. After a while I got into a groove of sorts, channeling my 13 year old self…until I crash landed into a wall and hurt my knee.
It was then that I realized that while “Fat Girl on Wheels” would be an awesome name for both a memoir and a punk band, it was not something that was meant to be at that moment. I did a few more laps before my knee, which had developed its own dialogue, told me to sit the fuck down before it completely unhinged itself.
I took off my skates and bought a Dr. Pepper, and got my sis some ice cream, then sat down with Erin and Missy for a break, during which Missy started singing Xanadu. She’s a few years older than me, and that was, naturally, the big roller-skating song of her time. Some of the music they were playing was totally inappropriate, like that cover of “You Spin Me Round” and Akon singing about how his fantasy girl is a go-go dancer, but some of it was good. Typical roller rink fare, like “Wild Thing” by Tone-Loc and Sugarhill Gang’s “Apache.” I tried to think of other songs, but none came to mind.
Then I hear it. And I recognize it immediately, because it was my JAM.

“I live and die for hip hop, this is hip hop for today. I give props to hip hop so hip hop hooray…Ho…Hey…Ho…” etc.

I am fairly certain that Naughty by Nature single hasn’t left that DJ booth in fifteen years.

My sister, who is 13 years my junior and, thus, a completely different species, found my tales of junior high skating parties to be amusing. At one point the DJ called a “Gentlemen’s Skate,” which we did not have. We had a ladies skate and a ladies choice. I assume this was Rainbow Rinks attempt at being politically correct. I went to the bathroom then, which looked exactly the same as it always had. I remembered the days of applying my makeup in there with Christina (this was before her mother let us do it at her house and long before my mother let me do it at all.) I remembered the aforementioned heart break, which, in retrospect, wasn’t all that bad. I remembered all the secrets whispered and the gossip traded…and I remembered that most of that sucked. I remembered sitting on the bench in there with Jill, who was trying to cheer me up at the time, and thinking about Bernie…who was 6 months old at the time.
Now she’s almost 13, the same age I was when she was born.

Recently I caved and friended half my grade school class on Facebook. I wasn’t going to, but I figured that if I had all those girls from high school, why not the people who have known me since I was 4? Not that they all really knew me…but there’s a sad and inexplicable bond you share with the people you started out in the world with. Sure, I keep in touch with some.
Kevin, my brother from another mother, and the whole reason I went to school there in the first place.
Beth, my best friend since Kindergarten, and mother to my “nieces.”
Todd, who showed up in 6th and got kicked out in 8th, only to waltz back into my life at 20.
Those are the ones I keep in close contact with. Plus Nick, and Christina on occasion. I sometimes talk to Sabine via Facebook, and saw Eric last year right before Beth moved. Other than that, I’ve lost touch. Which is, in many cases, perfectly alright. Junior high is a craptastic time for everyone, made worse if you (like me) are the lard ass four eyed girl with unmanageable hair that hardly spoke. I spent a lot of time trying to fit in while in grade school, as I assume most people did. There were a couple girls who were considered “popular” that I became friends with. They managed to look past the outside to what I was really like…I recall shocking a few. They seemed surprised that I was so funny, or so outgoing when not in school. I didn’t understand, I guess, because in my life, if I acted that way IN school, my mother would have killed me. So it was nice, those times when I felt like I fit, though they were rare.
For a long time I held resentment for those years… some of my friends still do. Some of my classmates did not achieve adolescence with the greatest of sympathies. Translation: there were some downright assholes. But, they were kids. And kids can be cruel. I assume these people have grown, as we all have, and learned to accept the differences in others.
Besides, I had to have somewhere to put all the high school resentment, so the grade school resentment had to go.

I look at Bernie, who is about to go into eight grade, and it makes me laugh. Seriously. We seemed so much older, and so much younger, all at once. I thought of the last skating party I went to. The boy I liked told my friend he didn’t like me. Someone else called me fat. It was horrible, I was miserable; I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. The next day my aforementioned friend told me that a girl in the class told her to stop hanging out with me because “it hurts my reputation.”
And that, dear reader, was the day everything changed.
I remember my exact response.
“Reputation?! SHE’S THIRTEEN YEARS OLD. She doesn’t have a reputation, unless it’s for being a bitch!” (I recall one or two people over hearing me and applauding.)

Things that happened then: I didn’t stop hanging out with my friend. In fact, we remained close for another year before the strain of different schools became too much. I got over the boy I’d had a crush on for 5 years, and met the one that would take up the next, oh, 11. I sought both my little revenges and simple peaces with the classmates who made my life difficult. I realized the fact that I had a brand new sister was way more important than the gossip of the day, and so refrained from it. And by the time I graduated, I wasn’t scared of anything, and I wasn’t trying to fit in with anyone.
And I got to high school, which had REAL problems. (And also real reputations. Which became a problem for me, as mine was not so good. But that’s another story for another day.) And with my quest to fit in abandoned, I realized I really DID.

My sister isn’t much like me. Or she is, but it’s like a watered down junior-high-socially-acceptable version of me.
I watched her skating today, and thought about the things she’s never going to know. Like how to work a cassette player, or how to skate in anything other than inline’s. She was never suddenly going to have a baby sister show up and make her realize what was really important.
When I got home, my legs hurt. Muscles I haven’t used since I was 13 were pleading for Excedrin. I was exhausted.
But I was happy.
I had fun, and revisited a part of my childhood. I got to see Erin and Bernie skate around, like I used to when I was small. I thought about people I miss, and people I’m fine with not seeing again.

And I thought of Bernie, and what the next 13 years of her life will be like.

Rainbow Rink, Tonawanda NY

My thoughts on HP6…Spoilers Ahead.

Bare with me. I’m a Potter-head.

1. If we’re going to go ahead and omit chunks of plot from the movie, which is understandable, should you really go and put whole new random scenes in? Apparently, the Fleur-Bill storyline is useless…and I can see that. But I guess they had to cinch the deal by burning down the place where their wedding would have been held. Haven’t the Weasley’s had enough happen to them as it is?

2. I know this is silly, but is there a reason Tonks can’t have pink hair? There was no emo Tonks in the movie, which was fine…but the brown hair made me think she was…until she called Lupin sweetheart. I’m just saying…if I could change my hair at will, it would NEVER be brown.

3. Someone want to tell me how the FUCK Neville got into NEWT potions?

4. I’m a fan of Helena Bonham Carters. That said, get out of the movie, lady. She’s only got the one scene in the book. But, in the movie, Bella is all over the place…visiting Snape, setting the Weasley’s house on fire, showing up in the tower. And, she got, like, 4th or 5th billing. Which I don’t understand. If you’re in the series, and not part of the trio, you kind of need to accept that you won’t be in all the movies for a long period of time. I feel like they added more of her just because she’s…well, her.

5. Felix Felicius is, apparently, liquid wizard marijuana. And I am ok with it. And Harry’s interpretation of Aragog.

6. That which was omitted, for the first time, was fine by me. Except for the fact that if we’re still gonna call it “The Half Blood Prince,” maybe we should put a slight bit more emphasis on the half blood prince.

7. Enjoyed the humor thoroughly. It made everyone much more realistic. In fact, the whole movie made them more human. That was nice.

8. Did not have a funeral, or the Harry/Ginny goodbye. Which I’m cool with, because that just makes me think of Spiderman.

Overall, loved it. My favorite. Of course, its also my favorite of the books. (That is unless you, like me, split the last book into two parts: Harry Potter and the Ridiculously Long Camping Trip, which sucked, and Harry Potter and the Vicious Ass Kicking, which was great.)

Ok, now I’m gonna go pack up my dorkiness and save it for another day.

“Apparently I’ve been on the Catholic shit list for quite a while.” ~Bill Maher

This will be the third time I start this entry.
I’m having trouble getting the thoughts onto paper, which is usually my problem with fiction, not fact.
I am, when provoked, easy to get on a rant. Seriously. Ask me what I think of Target, I dare you.

I just watched Religulous, that Bill Maher movie. I agree with him on many topics: one being that religion, the organized variety, tends to be a little over the top. But then, I believe in God and Jesus. I believe a lot of things he doesn’t. And I don’t think I’m crazy for it.
I have also read the 80% of the Bible and am working on the parts I skipped. And guess what, kids? I’m no fundamentalist. I’m not shoving it down anyone’s throat.
Because I tend to think that God and me got a good thing going, and that the Big Man Upstairs has the best sense of humor you can get. Also, I’m pretty sure people weren’t as smart back then.
Not really a judgment, just a fact. The smart guy in the room back in biblical times was the one that could read. I can attest, having spent time teaching at an alternative school and, you know, being in the world, that simple literacy does not make you the president of MENSA.
And even if the writers of the Bible were mental powerhouses, keep in mind that they had to explain all this to the uneducated masses. So…I’m fairly certain something was lost in the translation. Or rather, the interpretation.
I truly believe that if people put themselves in an objective mindset and read the Bible, they would get a downright kick out of it. Or, if not the entire Bible, you would find little holy moments in which life makes you chuckle. Example: I have heard from a few fundamentalists that God will come and destroy the world because of the wickedness of today. They say they heard from the Bible.
Apparently they missed the entire chapter about how God shone a rainbow down on Noah as a sign of their covenant that He’ll never be doing THAT again.

But that’s just little things that make me smile.
And I really do enjoy being right.

ANYHOO….
I watched this movie and I thought about religion, as I often do. I was raised Catholic, and went to Catholic school for 15 years. I taught Religious Ed for 7 years, and have two God Daughters. Also, my aunt was a Sister of Mercy…so was my mother at one time. Ergo, it was pretty much ingrained.
And that’s all pretty much why I’m not Catholic anymore, too.

That’s only sort of true…there’s other reasons.

I think it started when I realized women couldn’t be priests. I totally wanted to be a priest. I still kind of do. Well, you know…if Catholicism was in practice what it should be in my head. Anyway, I was totally unimpressed with being a nun. My aunt Ka seemed cool with it…sometimes. She was pretty progressive though. I just really wanted to say mass. I mean…think about it…the lights, the sets, the costumes…the nuns didn’t get to be part of the show. They were barely even crew; there were altar servers and Eucharistic Ministers for that. (Denis Leary was once on In the Actor’s Studio, and he said something about how he was an altar server waiting backstage…and the fact that he called it backstage should have been a sign. I totally subscribe to this.)
So I’m just accepting the no priest thing when they spring it on me that I’m eating reincarnated dead person flesh and drinking blood on Sundays. So now I’m a cannibalistic vampire whose substance is centuries old. GROSS. The Lutherans over at my friend Chelsea’s church don’t believe this nonsense…it’s a symbol to them. Same thing with the Baptists I go to youth group with. (Yes…I went to Baptist, Lutheran, and Born Again church groups, but only attended a single CYO meeting. It was totally lame.)
And speaking of Baptists, the church wouldn’t allow one to be my confirmation sponsor, even though we were supposed to pick the person that taught us the most about God. That added to my annoyance.
Then one day I went to church and the priest told me that gay people were going to hell. And I thought…gee…if there’s no drag show in heaven, that’s not a place I want to be.
Then they said the same about Muslims, and I thought well crap…Sahar ALREADY lives too far away.
Then a nun yelled at me and called me a sinner when I told her that I visited a medium. Yelled at me, right there in the dining room of the Convent, in the middle of dinner. (I thought Ka was gonna throw down…instead she told her to just shut it, which wasn’t very Christian, but made me proud.)
Finally, the concept that God will forgive us our sins if we ask for it. But to ask for forgiveness means to say that what you’ve done is wrong. And what about things I don’t think are wrong? I don’t think it’s wrong to swear. So I’m going to hell because when I ask forgiveness, it isn’t for that? And what about those friends that don’t think it’s wrong to be gay, or Muslim? There’s no hope there?
But isn’t God ABOUT hope?
So no. I didn’t buy it.

Then we got a new pope. And he was a Nazi. And no one seemed concerned about this. I mean, I get it…he was a Hitler Youth which isn’t exactly a Nazi and it probably involved a kind of peer pressure we know nothing of, but really. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.
But then he told me I’M going to hell because I read Harry Potter and that was just the end of it for me. I mean, it’s fine…I’ll be down there with Sahar, my favorite author and all the people who were in the movie (including Alan Rickman, who rocks my socks,) and a bunch of queers. Certainly my pot smoking friends will be coming as well, along with pretty much all theater people, and, lets face it, a family member or two. So if someone could just build a stage big enough, and stock the bar, we could have a swinging time. (In fact, that sounds a lot like my last party…sans Harry Potter.)

Then the pope came out with the 10 Commandments of Road Rage, and I knew we had a situation on our hands. That’s downright ridiculous. A couple days later he tried to overshadow that by disregarding Vatican II and adding the prayer for the conversion of the Jews back to the mass.

After that I stopped listening to anything coming out of the Vatican and went to Walmart to buy a copy of The DaVinci Code.

Most of my current religious belief is based on what may or may not be the ramblings of a complete psycho. But I figure, is it that much worse than basing it on the ramblings of some guys who’ve been dead for 2000 years or more?
There’s this book called The Expected One. The author may be a certifiable nut job. Or she may be the reincarnation of Mary Magdalene. Either way, I read the book…then I read pretty much everything else about Mary Magdalene I could get my hands on, and decided that yeah…that sounds about right.

You should know, I have read quite a bit about all kinds of religion. It’s my favorite topic, actually. I eat it up, be it Eastern, Western, or crazy-ass offshoots like Tom Cruise and the Galactic Invaders. (Which would be an excellent band name, BTW.)

I feel, and have always felt, that Jesus is my homeboy. It even says it on my Facebook, so you know I’m serious.
Me and God, as I said, got a good thing going. I have never doubted His existence, though I have had many an opportunity. Sure, I’ve been pissed at him. We’ve had some knock down drag out fights. But I know The Big Guy has got my back. I have formed my own faith around that. And if it all turns out to be a lie, cool. If, when we die, we just die, that’s ok. But while I’m here, I’ll stick with what I got, even if it is in my head.

Like I said at the top, I started this three times. First I tried writing about my quest for happiness. It’s a long quest, nearly 20 years in the making. I’m sure I’ll get to it, eventually. I also started writing about how I ‘m trying to make a decision to do something that might make me unpopular with other people. Instead I ended up writing about religion. Because I watched Bill Maher. And because, let’s face it, I like the topic of religion.
Unless you’re one of those people…you know who I mean. The folks that ask you to respect their beliefs but have no intention of returning the favor.
It’s those people I like to keep the rainbow story for.

So, I ended up on the topic of religion. And you know what happened? I found the answer to the unpopular decision. And I also got a little happy about it.

Funny how it works, eh?

Nomination Time

So after attempting several times to get a video of the nominations being announced, I have given up…it just isn’t going to happen.

So instead, I’ll just say yay, because ART got nominations for both Best Ensemble and Best Actor (Chris Standart) for The Man Who Came to Dinner. (Best actress and supporting actress have yet to be announced…but fingers crossed for more nominations.)

In other news, had first round of auditions tonight, second group tomorrow.
Also, closed the show at Subversive, which was a lot of fun, and made me realize how much I miss being on stage. Perhaps I’ll get the chance again sometime.

Just so I remember it…

I’m writing this while sitting on my bed and enjoying the novelty of my fathers laptop. Which is wearing off with every word I type, because the keyboard is ridiculous. Still, I wanted only to take a moment to say something.
I haven’t been onstage in five years. And when I did act, I never got nervous. But tonight, I was almost shaking…not necessarily stage fright…no, it wasn’t that. It was the adrenaline of actually being there under the lights again, with everybody listening to me as I spoke, and laughing when I delivered a joke.

And I’ll be damned if it wasn’t one of the best feelings I’ve had in these past five years.

That is all. =)

Exploration

I have mentioned before, many times I am sure, about Long December. I don’t really wish to write about it at length; once my best friend Jaime and I came to the conclusion that no matter how much fun the show was, we’re going to remember the bad parts more clearly. The Explorers, in general, were the best time of my life, and it is because of the way things ended that I often forget that.
But this weekend, my friend Justin was in town. I haven’t seen him since shortly after the show closed, because he unexpectedly moved down south. I had dinner with him and Liz, who was also in the show. At one point Justin mentioned that back then, everything was the end of the world. This made me smile, because he was right. Then, it was. Then, any fighting or disagreements made you think it would never be resolved. Case in point: if you had asked me, in the week that followed the close of the show, if I would be at dinner with Liz a few years later, I would have laughed uncontrollably. So would she, I believe.

But the truth of it is, time does heal. Things are forgotten, or mended. And if neither happens, people grow up and learn to be civil, at the very least.

After dinner, Jaime and her boyfriend David came by for a bit. It occurred to me that while I had seen four different friends that day, who I associated with four different reasons for those friendships, each of them had put in their time and energy with the Explorers. I often forget that (with the exception of Jaime) I met so many people through the program that I still keep in touch with…and some who are insanely important to me, like Katy and Mike. I forget sometimes, with all that happens, that they wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t been there.
Then yesterday, I got a phone call from a girl named Andrea, who I directed in Stolen Childhood, which was the first show The Explorers did, back in 2000. I thought it was just a friendly call; we do this every couple years, to catch up.
Nope.
She was calling to ask what I was doing this week, and a few subsequent weekends, because she was in a bind with a show she was doing for the Subversive Shorts. Naturally, I thought this meant she needed an SM, but she said she needed an actress. Me, in my naivete, thought she meant that she wanted me to suggest someone.
Nono, she wanted ME. She’s doing a short called Unintelligent Design and she needs me to play God.
Now, to be fair, it’s a staged reading. And, it’s only 12 pages long.
BUT, it’s also the first time I’ve been onstage since 2004. So naturally, I busted out into the “I am the shit” dance, which I also haven’t done in about five years and was an Explorers tradition.
So right after I get this news, I head downtown to catch the final performance of In Gabriel’s Kitchen, which starred not only my friends Kerrykate and John, but Jimi Konidis, who played the male lead in Long December.
The play was, in a word, awesome. While the only shows I really see are the ones I work on, and therefore have nothing to really compare it to, I can say that this was probably the best thing I have seen in years. The acting blew me away, and said acting came from three people I have seen onstage before…but not like that.
So afterward we went to Underground for a bit, and I told John and KK about my sojourn to the stage. (They both thought it was terribly appropriate that I was playing God. because if you’re going to switch from stage management to acting, that’s apparently the way to go.)
Then I headed home.
So, in two days, I saw or spoke to 6 former Explorers.
Today I was sitting here and thinking about all the people I knew through the five years I worked there. Some, I never spoke to again. Some, I run into and catch up with. Some, I couldn’t get rid of if I tried, and some are my very best friends in the world.
And we’re old, now. Not very old, mind you, but the youngest of us recently turned 21. Which is a little trippy, in its way. For instance, Justin said he would call me after he picked up his rental car, and my immediate thought was “He can drive? He’s only 15!”
Sometimes, like today, when the sun is out and it’s just the right weather to hold a rehearsal in a parking lot, I miss them. Alot.
I can’t really describe what we had back then, but it was pretty amazing.

I wrote a play about it once, but I didn’t do it justice.

Man up before curtain up, or so help me God…

I am not an asshole. Here’s why.
I checked. I went to the website and checked to see that my blog is no longer listed, and it isn’t. I’m guessing I probably dropped the f-bomb one too many times…or maybe cuz I stopped writing solely about theater, Matt took it off Whatever, that’s fine…wasn’t sure how I felt about it being on there anyways.
But I checked, because I am not an asshole.
Now, also because I am not an asshole, I’m also not going to name names in this story. I mean, sure, gather what you will…but the only names I’m throwing out there are those of talented professionals who have never given me reason to see them as anything else.
So you see, I’m not an asshole.
That said, THIS is how I throw down…

I’m sick of being disappointed by people I have come to respect. It happens a lot, and I’m sure it happens to everyone. Still…too many times in my young life have people who are supposedly older and wiser than me turned into colossal fools in my presence.
Older and wiser…let me tell you something about that. Having entered a professional theater setting at the age of 16, I have learned not to give too much credit to that particular turn of phrase. I spent a lot of time trying to prove that young isn’t stupid, and that even those who’ve been at this for years have more to learn. Because there is ALWAYS more to learn.
Also, I have, to date, never gone into work, and then thrown a temper tantrum like a little girl.

Long stories made incredibly short.
I have encountered some crazy. Like the director who repeatedly quit a show, only to come back the next day, apparently having forgotten. Or the contest winner, who smiles to your face but is sure to take it all back the next day, once she has a couple states between the two of you, as a buffer zone. Or the actor who pushes his fellow cast mates to do their best, and in turn crosses a line with the crew. Or the playwright who threatens and demeans and steals the work of others. Or the producer who walks the fine line between business and pleasure, and occasionally trips over it.

These are worst case scenarios.
Real ones, mind you. But worst case.

The funny part is that they will totally blame whatever is going wrong on the others involved, and I think that’s because most don’t really understand the job descriptions of their fellow thespians.

Because I have played so many roles on and off stage, I think that I can say that the performance is what matters. The opening night is what matters. The culmination of months of hard work is what matters. Unfortunately, it is difficult for those who are not jacks of all trades to understand the work behind the performance.
Actors do not understand the bureaucratic work of artistic directors, or the back breaking pressure of directors. They do not understand the poetic choices of playwrights, and nine times out of ten they could not fix a sound or light board to save their lives.
Directors cannot fathom the confusion of the actor. Neither can playwrights. They cannot wrap their minds around why the words aren’t exactly right, the blocking isn’t perfect, the cues aren’t always on time. They are unaware of the way an actor works, much in the way actors are unaware of them.
Playwrights have absolutely no sense of the stage, if they have not acted or directed themselves. They do not understand why some things they write cannot be done. They think in pictures but write in words, and then wonder why the end result does not match what is in their head.
I have done all these things. I have written plays that looked wrong on stage, and had to be changed. I have learned lines that made no sense and movement that felt unnatural, just to please someone else. I have directed, which I must say is probably the most horrifying role in all theater. To be a director is to be the enemy to someone, be it cast, playwright, or corporation. This is why some directors push so hard. They are terrified.
And no one understands being stage manager. Hell, I barely understand it. I have had at least a dozen people ask me why I CHOOSE to do this. Sometimes, I don’t know myself….the stage manager is constantly doing two things at once, and thinking about fifty others. Also, we’re the fall guy. Even if we weren’t in the building when whatever went wrong went wrong. That’s just the job. And that’s fine. I do it.

My point is that we all have a job to do, and we are expected to do that job as well as we can, and with as much professionalism as we can muster, even if we cant wrap our little minds around why things aren’t going exactly the way WE want it to. But putting all that aside, it must be known that in theater, there is a rule…one rule which dictates everything we do.

THE. SHOW. MUST. GO. ON.

(Here’s the part where I get pissed off.)

Seriously, people who have never even seen a play know this.
I did a show once where a girl came in being held up by her father so that she didn’t pass out. Naturally, I cancelled the show, as she was sicker than I’ve seen any human being EVER, but still, she was there and ready to roll.
Speaking of sick…when I did Red Ryder, a girl had stomach flu. So we put a bucket in the green room and came up with an improv to get her offstage.
Rose Tattoo: Marie broke a lamp on stage, and sliced her hand open. Never mind the gushing blood, she powered through that scene.
Oh, and ROCKY HORROR?
Yeah. Car accident.
I had whiplash and couldn’t move my neck.
Speaking of necks, the girl who played Colombia had GLASS in hers.

(Sidenote: after listing these possible show stopping situations, it occurs to me that they all involve women. Whereas 80% of my theatrical temper tantrum experiences have been by men. Just throwing it out there.)

My point here is that these people were professionals. The casts that get sick and come in with their tissues and tea and cough drops? Troopers. The ones that read a review for its entirety, not just that one half a sentence that disapproves? Pros.

Those who save the hissy fit for home?
ADULTS.

I’ve seen a lot of crazy, as I said.

Now, I’ve written about the drama that exists offstage, and trust me, there’s always epic volumes of it, and I’ve written about my distaste for the public temper tantrums of some so called theater professionals. And I do believe that in a certain context, one could take my blogging about this as my own form of hissy fit, and that’s just fine.
NOTE: These aforementioned fits included yelling, swearing, and threatening, all in public. I, during my hypothetical fit, am sipping Diet Dr Pepper and doing a little in-my-desk-chair dance to Bye Bye Lust by Jackdaw. So say what you will, but I think its pretty clear who’s the bigger person here.

What I will never be able to understand is something very clear and precise:

Those who forget that THE. SHOW. MUST. GO. ON.

It upsets me that people think it’s okay to walk out on a performance, no matter what the reason is. Unless the theater is burning down, you get out there, and you DO YOUR JOB.

And I will tell you the same thing I told the teenagers who thought they could give me shit at my old job: I DON’T PLAY.
This isn’t day care, kids. The show must go on. So put on your big kid pants and deal with it, or find another career. I’m making a rule: no more whiners.

Sigh.
What sucks is that I am no longer sad or angry when I see people twice my age behave like this. I am disappointed. (And I am aware I sound like your parents after you crashed the car when you were sixteen, but there it is.) And yes, alot of this comes from the fact that I, a 25 year old woman, am often told to buck up, while grown men get to throw fits. I don’t even mean this specifically….you have no idea how many times i have witnessed this in my life. Yet there is me, who mustn’t let anyone see her cry.

At the end of the day, maybe I’m jealous.
It’s a shame.

That said:

Come see The Smoking Guns…featuring the lovely Alaina Renee Miller doing a series of monologues.
She’s really quite classy.