Glo Blog

 Nothing like a ”save the date” notice for a 25th college reunion to set a gal reeling into the abyss of the past.  April 2010.  Three days of reuniting the class of 1985. I am still reeling.  I did not anticipate the shock this gentle reminder would bring. Not to begin with the beguine-but where did the time go?  That August day, 1981.

I will admit, I first landed in the mind set of:  “Well now what?”  I mean, I don’t exactly have the traditional resume of one who graduated from a private, highly competitive, liberal arts college for women.  In fact, I seem to recall a few near misses in the four years I attended and graduated from said private, highly competitive liberal arts college for women.  I will also admit, my four years of surviving ( and singing about) the virgin trees that grew ever tall on campus, helped bend and shape the person I am today.  No wait, the woman I am today.  I had some of the best forward thinking professors and mentors- each one giving me a set of tools uniquely different-each giving me permission to think outside the box.  This very small, southern prestigious college helped me create interesting ways to learn and study. So what if I was not the basic blue (blood) print.  I belonged.  I also met some of the most interesting women from all over the world. 

And then I really starting thinking…….

I remember the day I left for college.  It was a sweltering mid August day in southeastern North Carolina.   I remember what I was wearing. ( purple Izodshirt and aqua walking shorts with color coordinated  plaid fabric belt- my Bass loafers, no socks-my preppy rebel look) I remember waving good-bye to my parents ( I drove myself to college),I remember not crying until I pulled out of the driveway and then suddenly, with window down and Datsun filled to the gills, I was on I-40 bound for four years of what I was not sure, but I was determined I was going to make it. I remember how I felt when I finally arrived, hot and sweaty, my hair all frizzy and big a result of my AC going out somewhere outside of Hillsboro. I drove down the slight slope of the cobblestone hill and parked in front of my dorm. There were parents everywhere,girls everywhere, representatives from the college everywhere.  It was a flurry of conservative, very well dressed and fully prepared people.  One thing should be pointed out about this college:  It had lineage.  Mothers of mothers of mothers had previously attended and became part of the history, the frameworks and traditions.  This school was seeped in tradition.  Many girls attending this college were arriving fresh from prep school-another stop along the way to a plan laid out long ago-a plan that some of these gals were expected to follow. Virgin trees and tradition seeping all over the place. Never mind arrival, first day jitters, I had a sinking feeling I was way out of place.  My preppy rebel outfit I had chosen so carefully stuck out like a sore thumb. Don’t get me started on my hair.

 Welcome to “Sailing Away With Possibilities” the theme for all incoming freshmen.  I found my room, second floor, halfway down,the door marked with two names in color contrasting sails.  I should have known right then and there, rough waters would be approaching. I was not up on nautical terms, and could not tie knot one-other than the obvious mistake when making a bow.  The dorm “mum”, Mrs. B- a sweet lady from England knocked,introduced herself and said my “mate” would be arriving a bit later in the day-she had been delayed. I was given permission to unpack and select my bed, my side of the room and closet.  A couple of hours later I was moved in, all my things neatly put away, bed made, pictures hung on my side and my desk organized and ready.  I checked the schedule of events and had hours until the formal freshmen class meet and greet-”please dress accordingly”. I decided to walk around and check out the other sails-listing names and locations of incoming freshmen, made a few introductions and walked around campus-watching other arrivals and tearful good byes.

An hour of so later I headed back,happy with my accomplishments so far and proud of my room-already set with my eclectic collection of essentials.  No color coordinated anything for me-but more of a mish-mash of odds and ends, photos, bulletin boards still fresh with high school memories, my journals and all the other college essentials.  Back then, computers were not a requirement-we did things the old fashioned way-wrote it all down.There were no cell phones.  There was one phone- at the end of the hallway.  It was a rotary dial. Oh and did I mention, this was not a coed campus.  I sat on my bed-and waited, listening to all the other sounds in the hall.

And then-there they were. The mother-daughter duo from hell. Mother in Lily Pulitzer and pearls, tight-jawed and wiry.  Daughter in matching Lily Pulitzer with the same pissy look on her face. 

Great. 

“Hi!”, I said,  ”I’m Gloria!”. They both looked horrified to see me and checked the sail on the door for clarification. Curt but polite introductions followed, with a few “who do you knows?’-which, of course, I did not.  Mother signaled for father, step father, daughter noted, to bring in the bags, daughter turned and walked out of the room.  We were off to a great start.  Color coordinated monogrammed bags were being brought in two at a time, window treatments, bedding, rugs, all Laura Ashley, very tasteful, not to froo froo.

Wait, is that a mini fridge?  And a window fan?

It all screamed old money and social registry ( which at the time, I had no idea what that meant-except it seemed to be a common theme) I excused myself saying something about checking in with my parents. Mother said nothing- she was already focused on getting the room decorated. Daughter was in the hallway excited to see some girls she knew from prep school. 

 Sounds of other roommates getting to know one another and I am stuck with Ice Queen and the pissy princess. Certainly, I would be learning something from this, right?  In no time, the dorm room was complete and we were allowed back in-the Ice Queen had completed her work-and my roommates side of the room was immaculate and detailed ( the Ice Queen was goooooooood).  In fact, if memory serves me, some of my items were moved to the side-let there be no mistake. Ice queen and her silent second husband were gone-back to the land of who you know.  I was stuck with a girl who seemed to complain about everything and clearly was not interested in learning anything about me whatsoever.  We were going to play the myside/yourside game.

Fine.

Within a month the pissyprincess had moved on to another dorm. “To be closer to the girls she went to prep school with.”  The Ice Queen sent in a formal request so her daughter could be with her own kind.  

Oh the horror the princess must have felt to have been stuck with me.  This independantartsy theater ( what are you wearing?) chick-with nothing that really matched and a penchant for the positive- this me she “just could not get”.  At one point, the princess drew up a schedule so she could rise first and be on her way-I was asked to please not sit with her at meals. The schedule was down to the minute of coming and going, study time and above all avoidance.  Please. 

 My feelings were hurt-but as luck would have it-I got to keep the room to myself- no other roommate was to be assigned.  My room stayed a single and I stayed in it for the next four years.  It became the room to gather and hang ( after studying, of course)  I found friends and for the next four years-and for years to follow we stayed in touch.

To this day I still don’t know what was so traumatic for the princess and I have no idea what became of her and the Ice Queen.  Maybe we will find out in April, 2010. Save the date.

For the last three weeks I have been implementing and teaching an arts enrichment program as part of a Federal grant- an extended learning program for middle school students in the city of Providence.  Most- all of these kids are having to attend summer school-for a variety of reasons.  Most-all of the kids have some kind of behavioral issue-never mind the cultural or socioeconomic issues at play.  My portion of the day is all about arts.  Performing arts.  It is a tough group.  There are no hidden agendas with these kids.  You know in an instant how they feel.  Impulse control is not a strong suit.  I have been paired with a street wise, incredibly talented hip-hop teacher-who prefers to go by his initials and not his name.  At first, I thought perhaps there had been a mistake-but no, we were, as a pair assigned to navigate the troubled waters of these troubled adolescents.  The first day- only three of the 20 showed. Two of them were teen girls-best friends.  They were inseparable with attitude and their tag team routine could be pretty intense.  One in particular was down right proud of why she was there( behavior) and what she had done( behavior) and things she had said to a whole line of teachers.  One minute she was charming and sweet and the next- she was “all up in my grill”.  Not that this is unlike many adolescents, but her in my grill was a bit different than any other 14 year old in my grill. Her words and eyes cut like a knife.  Granted, this is not new to me.  I have been working with girls like this for a long time.  It is the cornerstone of what I do.  I know the arts have a way of transforming certain kids-I knew this would work for her too.  For underneath her cutting eyes was a glimmer of something.  Some thing that needed a nudge of encouragement-even if we had to go head to head-or rather, grill to grill to get there.

She would do the theater exercises, complaining the whole time-but then, once in a while smiling at what she had accomplished. Slowly she began to branch out and work with other students. Even if her friend would not.  She would be loud and distracting and then after being asked to stop- she would.  She would do the writing prompts-at first not wanting to:  “I hate to write- what is this?” (eye roll) “school?” ( eye roll)

#1.  If there were no time or money constraints- what would you do? What is your creative vision?

I wood be famos. And I wood be a dancer and be on tv.

 Whatever was working was working.  Little small shifts.  Me hoping the shifts would turn into new ways of seeing what could be. New language for old ways.  Her not even aware there was any other way.

And then today:  Pouring rain is usually an indication we will have fewer in class.  But she, my grill girl was right there.  She has never missed a class.  Not one.   Gone was the overly provocative clothing and effort was made to look more pulled together.  Grill girl gone good.  And prior to class-with chaos from lunch still looming-and kids getting to where they needed to be-my girl pulls a bag from her backpack and brings forth a batch of brownies she made the night before.  They were for the class. 

“if you guys don’t like them it ain’t my problem-but here”…..and she was off, just like that, back of the room,ready for class.

Grill girl good real good.

I had the first brownie.

Most recently I have been living in a vortex of despair.  This is new to me.  I have known moments of despair-even  ongoing episodes and chapters of despair, but I have been able to move beyond the despair and well, get on with it.  I think, however, life was getting too much-too much of a constant chaos.  Again, not prepared like I thought I would be.  I handle chaos well.  I handle crisis well.  But these two soul suckers served up in a combo platter- is a meal I have dined on for too long. No one tapped me on the shoulder to tell me to take a break from it all-or better yet- how to. 

But here is what happens when the taptaptapping does not tap:  Suddenly, the residue of chaos hangs like a smelly, dirty over sized sweatshirt.  Interest of any kind, in any thing takes a holiday, carbohydrates are consumed in every meal-every snack break, every thought: the saltier, fattier the better.  Fast food looks appealing and I don’t eat fast food.  Unless you count the time I was 18 weeks pregnant and had to have Taco Bell- don’t ask me why-but it was damn good. To hell with exercise-bring on the chardonnay and if I smoked, I am sure I would light up and assume the smokers pose.  Then, like a thick fog, scented with funk-I am surrounded by an unknown element.  Can’t I just pretend I am in an old Elizabeth Taylor movie- with a drink of somekind in one hand and a cigarette in another?  Can’t I sit back, hurl insults, cry and then laugh miserably as my stupor sets in-my misery stupor?

No.  I don’t wear that smelly, dirty sweatshirt well.  Nor do I wear worry and fear well either-though I would chomp at the bit playing a really good Elizabeth Taylor role.  So I rally and take action.  There is something that happens to your brain when it has been repeatedly bombarded by crisis, chaos and tremendous stress.  Even the best and the brightest can’t function-at least those with a conscious. The brain stops producing all the good juice.  As if pouring salt on the wound of the soul helps-but I suppose it is a way to protect the gray matter from shattering. Self preserving the self?  In an odd sort of way, I think so. There I sat in the doctors office relating the situations of the last 8 months-and the everyday situations of carrying on life in a way that is productive and essential. Yes, I know, it is what hundreds of us do every day.  Clearly, she was amazed I was able to walk in the door-much less function.  A testament to my work ethic or my stubbornness I am not sure-but maybe even a whiff of not wanting to be a bother?  Not wanting to accept the fact that the last few months have been brutal. And, I needed help. Or could this really be my ability to push forward-chaos be damned?  I know that when your mother is dying there is no way around not facing this particular chapter. Especially if you are responsible for overseeing her health care-which is a whole other bliggigdidy blog-and if you are now your mothers guardian, which is a whole other set of the stuff that weighs heavy on a heart.

“Make no mistake”, someone very wise said to me, “this will be the hardest thing you will face.”  She went on, in a mademenervousstraightforward manner,

“Despite what you think-and despite how you think you are grieving now-watching the process now-and waiting now- and seeing that everything is in order now- it will not prepare for you for when.”

I think on some level I know this.  I know it well.  I feel it on a very strange intuitive level.  Is it because I am the only daughter- the oldest, the first born?  I don’t know.  But I feel it.  Not because I am any more closer to my mother than my brothers, in fact, I would argue that I am not-but I see it in her eyes and I feel it when I am around her.  I know she will choose her own time and way.  I think we all know this.  It’s that damn southern will-that which she inherited from her own mother( though she will never confess it) that certain sustainable will.  That will that I have and that same superwillgene I see in my daughter ( thank God).  It serves us well-this will. It is the will to survive and find a way-for ourselves or for others.  It is the will to make a house where you find it-to hell with ex-husbands( hers) and hurricanes( too many).  It is the will to know your children will be okay-all of them.  It is the will to know when-and not one day or night before.

twomoredaysofschool-checkthisoffthelist-great- drop off-pick up- off to the  gym- get on that stupid ass machine-just do it- I can’t -can to- okay.okay…….elipse me already. Shuffleschuffleipod- schuffle again…ch-ch-changesturnandfacethestrange……….strange.  Very strange.   OHMYGOD I have got to get my roots done- speed dial Paul- amazing Paul…..root repair on the way- but wait- maybe something else?- Highlights for my low lights?  check the brow…fine…back to biceps, triceps, one for pulling to- one for pushing away….both need to be stronger. Turn up the volume- louder still. Am I getting shorter?  This is a short mirror.  I look tired.  Too tired.  Stop.  Look away from the mirror.  Look away from the what ifs and why not’s dancing through  my head-tapping away at the hours I should be sleeping. Pull on this for the upper back.  Backless dress season is upon us. Pack-have I packed? No- ONE suitcase for us both- damn airlines- cram it all in and think about what is already there-7?  how did she get to be 7 so soon?  How are we going to afford private school?  College?  Public school for now?  I want the best for her-my list is long.   Too much cortisol-too little iron- order holy basil- ancient Indian rememdy..remedies. Daily rituals-neither is working.  Stubborn belly fat is not a myth.  “I am just fine thank-you?  How are you?”  Overly optimistic people worry me.  Sick of Jon and Kate and I have never even seen one episode-fame is a vapor. sick of world news-old news any news-silent vow to shut off the TV for 21 days-it won’t happen-but I will still try.   open the windows- let the damp air funnel in-and while you are at it open those chakra’s……let it go let it all go……ohplease.  Earthbounds, spirit bounds, clearing and cleansing-keep the channel open. I am sore.  Achybreaky sore. I used to run marathons.  Plural.   Just two.more. on. the ab machine-”left a good job down in the city”

I am going to cry. I don’t know why but I feel it.  All this inhaling and exhaling.  That cry right there in the middle of your throat.  The bubble.  Bubbling up?  What the fuck is this?  Menopause?  But it can’t be-my mother was much, much older when she went through “it”. 

Thank you Tina…..proud marymothermay I.  May I please-just move on through this transition of? …..oh great.  Maybe I am depressed.  Look that up online at some point today. EVERYONE IS DEPRESSED.  Never have been depressed ever……maybe this is what this is all about.  Alfie?  Everything is a lyric of every song I have ever known in my head.  Make reservations.   Reschedule.  Restructure.  What would I like to direct?

 Mom?  What to do with mom?  Hospice in for the duration-am I?  I need to ask her some questions-before it all goes or I’ll never get the answers. Am I that brave?  This is not about courage-but more about knowing. Do I need to know? Let it go-let it all go. Forgive.  Forgive.  Where exactly is my third eye?  Just be happy Gloria, for God’s sake be happy. Check in with brothers.  New job?  New life?  Under too much pressure?  Will one ever, ever get it together or end up dead?  What the hell went wrong? Still reeling from the fathers day call.  Narsissism is not a good character trait to have.  Dad.  What went wrong?  Why do phone conversations with my father still upset me when I least expect it.

Ten more.  Ten more supersolidpilateslike crunches designed to tone.  Taunt.  Tone.  OHMYGOD.  I just need to-wait- check the time- gotta go.  Am I someone that I used to know?  Do I look as sad as that woman over there?  Make it go away or make it better.  “ Chchchchanges, turn and face the strange”.

Rain, more rain.  18th day of rain.  Don’t forget to pick up incontinent medicine. FOR THE DOG.  Touch base with,check in with, put the stamps on, write the letter for, thank-you note to, and yes, my daugher would love to attend the ice cream social after school-thank-you,  oh. not everyone is invited?  Only the girls.  Girls and ice cream.  But not all the girls.  Okay? Okay.  Gotta go other line ringing.  Not sure I really understood that conversation. 

Good mother, good wife, good daughter. Task completer.  Finish the book, one woman show, budget, application, bio.  End one career and begin another.  Become the becoming-but not the sterotype. No sterotypical midlife crisis here.  Please God no.  And why do I keep talking to God?  Reality shows have changed the face of reality. Replace the depleted.  With what?  Wondering what.  Sabatical from what?  To where?  Connect.  Reconnect.  Recharge.

I have very bad luck with events.  Especially if I am supposed to show looking somewhat presentable.  This has always been the case.  I went to my junior prom( with a senior) and somewhere between the oyster bar and the gym, all decked out in “Moonlight Serenade”, my date threw up on my dress.  Oysters and beer on my mint green chiffon. Mint Green and oyster yuck all over me and the floorboard of his maroon Thunderbird.  Needless to say, I went home and he did too.  I did not go to my senior prom.

Several years later I was invited to my first wrap party for a movie I worked on with Jacklyn Smith- nooooo, I was not an added angel.  I was her Hungarian maid in a really bad movie of the week, but it was a start.  I had a hell of a perm.  So, there, down south, in the thick heat of an August afternoon, I got decked out in my Victor Costa strapless blue dress which I specifically purchased to show off my fresh tan. I had visions of arrival moments dancing in my head- as did my “date”- my roommate-who had visions of arrival moments dancing in his head too-but for different reasons.  As we made our way down the series of stairs that led from my apartment door to the parking lot, (I,in my strappy, black heels and he in his something very late 80′s I can’t seem to remember)- I felt something stinging the back of my (very tan) legs.  And then suddenly I noticed the stinging was reaching up into the innards of my dress and legs.  Yes, right there.

Somehow the click, click, clicking of my strappy black heels interrupted a bees nest underneath the stairs that sent the occupants of said nest right up my dress.  My size 4 Victor Costa.  Stinging everywhere you can imagine.  All of a sudden I was a flurry of azure, lifting up my dress in the middle of a parking lot, ( yes, mom I was wearing underwear)flapping and screaming, as my roommate tried to piece together what was happening.

“Calm down”, he said-”you are just making them mad”

“YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN.”

There was not one bee anywhere near him.  Not one.

Bees everywhere.  Little stinging bastards going after every inch of flesh I had exposed.  I was going to that party.  No doubt about it.  I WAS GOING TO THAT PARTY.

De-bee’d and still stinging, we rushed back inside to survey the damage.  Raised tan welts everywhere.

EVERYWHERE.

After a Witch Hazel and Benadryl combo- we arrived at the party two hours late-but I was there.  Only, because of the obvious signs of bee-age- I had to choose another ensemble:

Black linen pants and a long sleeve white shirt. Had to leave the black strappys home too.

So there I was in the middle of August in Southeastern North Carolina.  My perm was curl times 100.  My roommate looked fabulous.  I looked like a fucking waiter with hives.

And just this past weekend- as I am making my way to a cocktail party to celebrate the mid-way mark for another film I worked on recently-just 20 feet from the entrance-decked out with my husband-who always has his raincoat-just in case-I felt a teeny tiny rain drop.  A teeny tiny raindrop fell on my face as we were walking across the way-to there-just twenty feet away-to shelter and show business.  We quicken our pace-husband covered-me, not daring to wear a raincoat- over this?  Outfit?  I can see people mingling on the patio -hear the clinking of the glasses-and without warning-none at all, it pours.  Sheets of rain.  Sheets.  We really quicken the pace.

What is that rule?  If you run in the rain you get wet faster?

Did not matter.

Anti-frizz immediatly washes out, I am sure.

Finally in tent, removing water running down- well- everything. Sure my mascara is running too.

Husband not as wet as me.  No comment.

Making some kind of something out of my hair and there, coming over to us is big name and super cool director.

“Welcome!”, he says. “New England weather, huh?!”

No comment.

My husband and I make our way to the bar. A thick mass of other wet sticky people.  Apparently, the tent has a leak.  I apply a fresh slathering of “cool pink”-and rearrange wet fabric. We toast to the night not caring about appearances of any kind.

One of the best parties ever.

High school is not what is used to be.  With a few exceptions.  It is not the world I knew back in the 80′s-not that I would expect it to be- but all the same;  I am grateful I am not currently in high school.

I have been given the rare opportunity to immerse myself back into the essence of high school life via the drama club.  I took on the task of reinventing drama-as an added part of student life- just as it should be.  The past 6 months have been a real eye opener.  Here is what I have learned:

1.  Today’s student is stretched and stressed to unbelievable limits-without the emotional development to deal with it all. They do not get enough sleep, support or financial aide.  It is all about the test and not about the education. Today’s schools are having to provide services that used to fall to other agencies that specifically handled “social services”. Schools are parenting, providing and protecting. AND yes, sports and band still rule.

2. There are exceptions to this-but not many.

3.  Social networking systems are the diaries of today-only everyone is privy to personal thoughts and wishes.   Nothing is sacred-it all must be shared to prove a point, voice an opinion, be heard(with exclamation points), tear someone down and rip someones heart out in front of thousands.  It is immediate and unforgiving-and somehow seems less sincere-except for the personal attacks. Those are real.  Real brutal.

4. Somehow along the way-a sense of entitlement happened.  Kids think they are entitled to things without working for them.  Yes, I know I sound like my mother-but it is true-and I can’t believe I am going to sound more like my father-but- really, I am forever grateful I had to work for everything.   I don’t remember this being the rule when I was in high school.  It really was about working towards something-and then getting it-or not.  And back then, there was no one else to blame-or sue- if we did not.

5.  I don’t give a shit what any evangelical propagandaspeak says.  You can not preach abstinence. It does not work. Kids are having sex and a lot of it.  Preach safe sex.  Preach same sex.  Preach one love.  Preach being smart.  In the moment smart.

6. There are exceptions to this- but not many.

7.  The stereotypes remain:  the jocks, the potheads, the geeks,super achievers, the cliques, the loners and the mean girls. Mean girls: I never liked them and still don’t. Back then it was Sandy Johnson.  She was an absolute horror- she and her posse of she devils. Sandy did not need a social network system or super fast texting device to get her ill gained point across.  She had girls that did it for her.  She would toss her blond hair back behind her right shoulder and watch her ordered havoc take place. Everyone was fair game-but her specialty was going for those already down.  Sandy had a verbal one two punch reserved for hitting below the belt.  And as editor of the school newspaper-Sandy saw that certain written verbal attacks mysteriously made into the “Weekly Viking”.   I truly hated her.  Today mean girls have the advantage of technology and extremely poor impulse control. They seem to have super powers now-that cut to the bone.  They are more conniving, manipulative and destructive.  If they only knew how pathetic they were-if they could see what they are doing is a comment on their own sadness-maybe they would leave others alone. Maybe they would learn that in the grand scheme of things-what they are doing now will come back to haunt them-somewhere down the road.  I never used to believe that when my mother would casually say this in passing-as I was suffering uncontrollably and not able to understand how someone could be so cruel. But it is true.  I have lived long enough to see it.  Maybe- these girls would choose to do things differently and use their words for a greater impact.  Yeah, I know, underdeveloped brains and all that.   I did not see it back when I was in high school and I wasted many tears. Now I see the behavior in girls as early as elementary school….alpha brats in the making.  Not caring who they hurt along the way. 

8. Drama and the process of theater-or the making of theater in a given amount of time- can cure many ills-but not all.  It can add layers to a young soul in the making-but it can not solve all the problems.  It can, for even an instance ,have a profound effect on how someone feels about who they are-and where they want to be- provide another option- another choice.  But drama can not make it all better.  Somehow I thought it would.  I was wrong. There are kids who are golden and shining in spite of.  Kids who never knew they could- and did- and forever will know they did.  This will serve them well.  There are kids who could care less. Parents who care and those who care less too.  Sometimes my heart is overjoyed with what I see happening right in front of me-sometimes it breaks in two.  Theater won’t be the savior it was for me. But I won’t give up. I’ll raise the bar.

9. All the worlds a stage.  Really.

10. I would not trade this experience for anything*

*There are exceptions to this-but not many.

Okay.  I have gone and done it.  There.  I have befriended and been friended and now there are friends out the ying-yang.  Friends I never even knew I had-and some I really don’t know at all. But there they are.  Captured in thumbnails of carefully selected unposed candid photos.  There are things on my wall-and gifts I can give and tests I can take and a thousand people daily- on the network.  The social network. JesusMaryJoseph-the pressure of it all.

Truth of it is, I am really sort of a private person-and I feel a little weird peering into the lives of pepole out there in the world of friends.  Big brother watching and all that.  Yikes! 

So, no promises.  My Twitt did not twitter for too long-so I am not making any promises…..but for now, it is done.  AND so it is.

It’s happening. I can’t stop it.  No, I have not quite perfected the skill of shutting up my thought before it gets to my mouth-but I have been working on it and I will say, I have been successful on numerous occasions. I have, at times, stopped the flow of foot into mouth.

BUT- just as the daffodils break through the cold ,hard top layer of soil “en thaw”-recent thoughts are breaking through my practiced self filters from brain to mouth. My own self entitled “en thaw”.   Me thinks this might be like the compulsive dieter who avoids any and all things deemed bad in the process of dieting-but then breaks down, in a moment of weakness, and eats a whole gallon of ice cream and/or bucket of extra crispy KFC, not necessarily in that order.

I have tried to write out my strongest of opinions-to keep them private and somewhat contained.  I have tried to go ’round my opinions and dilute them with practiced presentation skills; to somehow soften the blow.  Then there are times I can’t hold my tongue-tinged with ego juice I am sure- and I am caught with either someone in agreement-or someone who does not know what to say in response.  Not that my thoughts or opinions carry all that much weight.  I mean, c’mon.  Poor me.  I was born with that particular gene that goes kaflooey at the worst of times.  That being in direct proportion with my strongest of opinion at the exact moment of me expressing it.

I know someone who filters nothing.  She rambles on in a narcissistic tinged thought process that is to be marveled..if not annoying.  Her spews, after all- are simply her opinions. I find it freeing to listen to her ramble on-whether I agree with her or not. But isn’t this the rage of media pop culture now?  Find someone, anyone, with a title, make it up if you have to, and get them on a panel or pay them to appear on a talk show and “give an opinion” on the current crisis, celebrity mishap, missing child, death or instant uber status.  I can not hear one more word on Nadya Suleman.  She is crazy.  Just crazy. AND she has children.  She went from crazy to pathetic and psychotic overnight and the media has been celebrating her nuttiness all along the way-if not being somewhat responsible for feeding it.    If the media would go away she would too.  Her children will suffer for years to come- and if you think she is crazy now, wait until she is no longer the media darling she created herself to be.  Then what?  Her children will suffer even more.  Why not concentrate on the thousands of crazy people having children every day?- or the countless number of repeat teen pregnancies?  What about those?  I can not hear one more word about Caley or Casey Anthony.  Clearly, that is a family that has beeb in deep, deep trouble for a long time.  It is clear the skeletons tucked away in that South Florida home are having one hell of a time.   The daily hanging up of their dirty laundry is nothing new.  Just find her guilty and be done with it.  I wonder what will happen to them all-when they too are no longer in the news?  They’ll write a book.  Just you wait. I am on my third day of boycotting pop media  and I can already see great results.  Besides there is plenty to talk about here in my own little town.

I will always voice  ( impose?) my opinion on issues that matter most to me, my family or for things that benefit the greater good.  I will speak loudest if I am wittness to some great unjust- or unnecessary suffering. And for those who knowingly cause aforementioned unjust or suffering?  Watch out if I lose my temper-I have a hard time finding it.  I think I am beginning to voice  (impose?) my opinion(s) on this town and the rumors surfacing about how the Town Council must raise our taxes again- which would make it the fourth time since 2003. God forbid they let anything exciting and new happen in this town.  Change?  Here? Bite your tongue. No big box, no book store, no nothing of any kind.  At least a good grocery store?  Please, old town council members?  We want more.  Give our kids something to do.  Then maybe you won;t have to hide the ridiculous teen drinking rate- or domestic abuse.  Yes, I know.  But then this would mean the tax payers would no longer be the single biggest and just about only source of a tax base. 

Better watch it, we’ll all leave.  Old and young.  Old timers and young families.  We will forsake the landscape and go somewhere else.   AND then what of your stone walls and vacant buildings?  But I have already been warned-better watch my opinion, they will say.  Hold your tongue missy, when it comes to this town.  Watch what you say, your daughter will suffer.  And that is enough. Enough for even me to forfeit the foot for this tongue.

OK………….I tried.  I am not a Facebooker, a My Spacer or on any of the social networks that are more a time vacum than anything. Really.  I do not need 1,000 followers or friends I’ve never met before.  And the pressure to keep up with all those followers and friends?  I can barely keep up with the dirty laundry and my daughters daily homework.  Filling in 1,000 or more friends on my day to day?  With current photos?  Not ever going to happen.

So I Twittered;thanks to my brother- who tweets on his twitter with much 140 character joy.  He has lots of followers.  Lots.  He tweets in the twee tops all day long.  I bit the tweet back in February and thought I could handle the immediate and compactability of twittering.  But I have not checked my Twitter in days-nor do I remember to update and narrow down  my minute to minute life to only 140 characters.  I have failed as a twitter.  Does this make me a twat?  Twat should I do?  To tweet and retweet or to walk away?

Yes.  I am an actor. I say this with full confidence and commitment to the twenty odd years I have been an actor.  I say this so you will be fully aware when I start talking about actors I too am somewhat commenting on myself-but also speaking to, or rather commenting on things that make me crazy about actors.  Specifically, being in a room full of actors. Waiting to meet the director.  Or casting director….or anyone else who is in a position to give an actor a job.

Someone once said to me, in a rather snippy better than you sort of way:  “What do you know?  You are only an actor?”…..and then she turned on her mid-heeled black pump and dismissed me.

I know a lot.  I do.  And through the course of my adventures in acting, I have learned many things about several things I might not have ever attempted to learn-had I not had to research the topic so I was better prepared to act. I have an unofficial degree in human nature……keen with observation and listening skills-I have fine tuned my instincts.  Not to say, it does not fail me at times-but all the same.  I can handle my own.  And I have. And I do.  The ironic thing about me being an actor?  I fail miserably when I have to act like I am acting.  I do not have the capacity to bullshit and play the game- as some of my fellow actors have perfected.  I am pathectically genuine-which is not what others want to see sometimes-and true to my self- I suffer well when I am not supposed to……stick to a script….make it real.  Tell the story.  OK?  OK. I’d rather think of myself as…well…and artist.  That said, I totally sound like, well, an actor.

I met with a director yesterday.  Big name, big film.  Scheduled appointment.  I was expected.  I had an appointment.  I prepared…with my snippets of lines-pertaining to the bigger story I was not privy to-but all the same.  I was ready.  I knew my lines-I knew my intention-but because of said snippets, I was not real clear on my motivation-except I was reading for the part of “loyal secretary”- who happens to be in this film- loyal secretary to “big  name film star”  Great.  I don’t even look like I could have been someone’s loyal anything for 25 years.  But I was chosen- and so off I went.   I was “meeting with the director”….just like 25 other actors.  Who were just as expected.  Who had their own time slots.  Who were ready to go and get a job………any job.

I hate being in a waiting room full of actors.  Hate it.  I will avoid it at all costs. You can smell the desperation-actors talking to walls, saying their own lines out loud-chattering with other actors “Where do I know you from?”  “Do I know you?”. Making excuses……putting on airs.  Talking way too loud about the job they just booked-the job everyone else wanted-or the job they did not book- though when mentioning that job there is- almost always- an excuse-a justification- that absolves the actor:  “welllllll, “they” wanted someone younger, older, prettier……” OR- “welllllllllll, I was not in: good voice, a good place, I wore the wrong shirt, pants……”  It is all these things- outloud.  Playing manipulation games with other actors in the room and waiting.  Waiting to meet the director.  Sizing up the room-wondering who else is reading for your part and wondering why “they”, in there behind the closed door, will not just give you the job so everyone else can go home and stop repeating those lines that are already yours to the wall.  That was me yesterday.  Surrounded by actors in a room.  Waiting to meet the director.  Usually, I leave if time is running behind and  I walk around the block. That way, I don’t have to suffer through my own little voices in my head responding to what I am hearing”  audible droppings of everyone else’s little voices.  Little voices in my head are not well equipped to overcome out loud voices that activate other voices. I confess, wholeheartedly, I don’t do well in these situations. My insecurities get the best of me and I can not, not listen- to the chattering of actors in a room-or stop my psychoanalysis of everyone else in the room.  And then I turn it on myself- and then know in a second I have: worn the wrong shoes, the wrong bra, the wrong everything..and I should have spent more on a good concealer…or saved up for Botox….and I wait.  Look over the others who are Botox’d and looking less crinkly than I.  Botox nation.  On full display.  OR, younger versions of us all or different ethnicities of us all-(Obviously, “they” don’t know what they are looking for) we are all saying to ourselves. The men too. Here we are foot tapping,nervous taps, reading over highlighted lines-all waiting to go in and be brilliant.  

As time ticked on yesterday I sat there-not able to leave the room.  It was freezing outside-so a walk around the block was out of the question. Quick,before I suffer greatly and the hour drive’s worth of self confidence building music does not go to waste.  Let me just smile and find a bathroom.  A moment of privacy.  Yes.  I will compose myself in a stall of privacy-and then return to be brilliant.  Grab purse and go.  Privacy. Check the face.  Read the lines.  In peace and white tiled quiet.

Just as I made my way back to the room- I hear my name. 

“Gloria?”  ”Where is Gloria?” 

OH GREAT. 

The casting director is standing there- calling my name.  I am messing up her schedule.  She will never call me in again. Ever.  I am thinking as I am quickening the pace-please don’t let my dress be riding up in the back.  Static cling and all that.  That happened to me once in New York.  Half my ass-although covered in black opaque control top- and yes, mother I was wearing underwear-half my ass was showing half way down the hall as I made my way to the door way of a casting director’s office.  There I was at Guiding Light, with the lower half of my dress clinging to the upper half of my ass. 

“Here!”  I say as I am running through the door. All other actor eyes on me.

There were supposed to be four people in front of me? Check teeth- lines running through my mind-be cool.

“Gloria??”

“Here I am” I say in a singsongy-just let me be composed sort of way as I make my way through the door.

Casting director hurries me along.

I walk in, coat off, headshot out- reading glasses off- big name director at the table- plates of cheese and fruit, bottles of water on the table- camera.  Camera guy. All of them unimpressed.  Or at least I think so.

“sorry”, I say to big name director, and according to Google, producing partner of big name actor rumored to star in big film. 

“I was in the bathroom”.  “I. was…..in the bathroom.”   Is no one impressed?  In a nanosecond I know I should have worn my high heels, and the better bra. 

I read through the scene- as asked- with a slight Boston accent.  I break my own rule: never do an accent in an interview unless I am asked and unless I know it like the  back of my hand.

Big name director says to do it again.  Without the accent.

“shit!”, I am thinking.  “Who do I think I am doing a Boston accent in front of a guy who is a southie? 

I do it again.  I am nervous.  I am knowing this is not going as I had hoped.  It was too fast.  have been sized up in a second-well, really, more like three minutes.  Big name director is writing something by my name -there on the list.  He looks up at me and says-

“Great.  That was great.”

Which of course, never means that it was.  What is means is that I am not what he was looking for.  At all.

I know I have been dismissed.  I say my thanks.  I leave.

Out into the waiting room.  Another actor is already half way into the room before I am out. His turn to take his stab at brilliance.

It is 5:18pm.  I will be stuck in traffic for the next hour. 93South will be car to car. Plenty of time for me to think of all the things I should have done.  I know I will not be working on this film.  But I am sure during the drive home my mind will go to other things. 

New day.  Grease auditions at the high school.  I have 50 kids showing up at 2pm to sing and dance for me in the hopes of securing a lead role in the senior show.  The only thing worse than waiting in a room full of adult actors?   Being a high school student waiting to go in and sing and dance for the director.