For Ophelia

Once upon a time there lived two households both alike in dignity universally acknowledging the truth that we live in the land of sunroofs and low-rise jeans. We descend into downward dog on our yoga mats, undulate between cat and cow, then take a moment to stroke our freshly waxed brows.

I am sick of to-do lists because I substitute "do" for "be" and "act" for "am."

and maybe Ophelia had it right after all--drowning herself in a shallow pond after debuting a brief and tragic singing career. Just crucify her somewhere between Ambercrombie and Fitch: after a while she'll become emaciated enough to fit into their clothing.

I watch movies where neurotic characters with perfect skin embrace (tenatively at first, then the invevitable crescendo...) I watch these scenes over and over because I long for that fabricated intimacy in my own life. (But what is intimate about creating a scene like that, surrounded by balding fat men in their short sleeves, eating donuts and holding microphones?)

When does it end? Where is the place with no questions?

I grow old.
I grow ild.
With many stories to be told.
Big loves.
Small loves.

IV.V. (Act Four, Scene Five)

I hope all will be will. We must be patient, but I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i' th' cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Goodnight, ladies, goodnight. Sweet ladies, good night, good night.

Exit Ophelia.

Sitting in seat A 108, my fingers tightly interlaced, I worry about how convincing my performance as an audience memeber is.

I does matter who you sit by at the theatre, in the concert hall.

This time, after the ball Cinderelle unzips her tafetta ballgown and leaves that instead of the glass slipper.

You can see her dancing naked, stark raving sane, with mice and pumpkin at midnight.

And that happier incarnation, sweet prince--she's the one.

Goodnight, ladies, goodnight. Sweet ladies, goodnight.

Goodnight.

The 8th Grade Dance vs. Junior Prom...

(That's me in the back with the silver shirt doing what appears to be a veloca-raptor impersonation. Oh, so awkward...)

As promised, here is the tale of my procurement of a date for the 8th grade dance:





I was determined to go with my friend Jerome, whose mother was my social studies teacher. I wasn't really nervous when I asked him, because I thought he would say yes. Instead, he said, "Can I think about it?" And came back a couple days later with "I'd like to go with someone else but if you can't find anyone else to go with, I'll go with you." Kudos for diplomacy. I didn't want a pity date, so I reassessed my options. Turns out my friend Alex had asked my friend Veronica (who also went to my church) but she said no because she wanted to ask my other friend, Chris, (who also also went to my church.) So Alex's friends and my friends got together and chatted. The verdict was passed down that if I asked Alex, he would say yes. So I did and he did.





The dance was nice enough. I wore an emerald green dress with a built-in choker that I got a thrift store. There are a series of awkward snapshots somewhere of the two of us standing in my front yard--Alex in khakis, short sleeve dress shirt and oddly highlighted hair, me in the dress with a hideous fake pearl headband, glasses and braces. And of course I was taller.





We get to the dance and I honestly don't remember much of what happened, only that Alex danced a whole bunch with another girl named Missy who was shorter than he was and sans glasses and braces. Sigh.





Seems ideal to partner this story with that of my junior prom. I was determined to have a date for my junior prom. My mom and I went dress shopping at the mall, not a thrift store as we did in 8th grade. I got a beautiful flamingo pink beaded dress with a lace-up back. Now all I had to do was get a date. I ended up asking six different guys...the first five all said no in one way or another. One of them framed his rejection in a philisophical sense, saying that if he did decided to go to something as silly as prom, he would prefer to ask a random girl on the street. Finally, I found an acquaintance who was willing to go with me (because he was a sophomore and couldn't go otherwise.) It was agreed upon that I would buy the tickets and he would buy dinner.





He picked me up in his 1980 something grey Buick, decked out in a tux. We went to Mountain Jack's steakhouse and had virgin daquaris. As our dinner came to a close, he decided to hit the men's room on the way out. He came out with a funny look on his face.





"What's wrong?" I said.





"I'll tell you in the car." He replied.





"So, when guys go to the bathroom, there are the urinals, you know? And usually, you don't strike up a conversation, you just pee. But this older guy was standing next to me and started chatting. Asked me where I was going, since I was so dressed up. And I told him I was going to prom and he asked me if I had a hot date...I didn't really know how to answer that..."





We rode in silence the rest of the trip. I was a bit miffed. When we arrived, he broke off and hung out with his sophomore girlfriends who were the dates of upper classmen. But he did wander back and danced several songs with me.





The after party was at the local bowling alley. There were many door prizes. I won a stuffed Mr. Peanut, and I think he won a gift certificate to a movie theatre. The night was not especially romantic, but I had attended my junior prom largely unscathed and with a male escort.

I guess neither of these stories are particularly scarring, but the collective effect of pursuit and rejection that has characterized most of my romantic efforts has left me a bit jaded. I am reminded of High Fidelity, when John Cusack's character talks about making out with his first girlfriend on a bench afterschool for three days in a row, but being usurped by a fellow classmate on the fourth day: "It would be nice to think that since I was 14, times have changed. Relationships have become more sophisticated. Females less cruel. Skins thicker. Instincts more developed. But there seems to be an element of that afternoon in everything that's happened to me since. All my romantic stories are a scrambled version of that first one."

I don't want to be jaded. And I'm not some Midwestern version of Bridget Jones. By writing these stories down and reflecting on them, I hope I'm able to move past the bullshit and on to bigger and better relationships. Cheers.

Harriet Tubman and Valentine's Day...

I find myself with a new haircut and an urge to write...as I regaled Sam and Bill at Nymbol's Secret Garden with horror stories from crushes past, I came to realize that, for the most part, there is enough distance so that many of the once crushing (pun intended) stories have become humorous. So I thought I might share a few...I guess I will change the names to protect the innocent...perhaps.

Before I delve into my past humorous humiliations concerning encounters with the opposite sex, I'd like to say that up until the 2nd grade, I was doing alright. I had a boyfriend that I held hands with in pre-school (his name was Lars) and my five year old self was sure that I had nothing to worry about when it came to dating. Ha.

Since Valentine's Day is on the horizon, I'll share this jewel from 5th grade. I had a massive crush on a young fellow named Brendan. I knew I was madly in love with him (as only a geeky fifth-grade girl can be) ever since we played the leads in the 5th grade play. It depicted the life and times of Harriet Tubman and since we were all white kids, the teacher opted, out of necessity, to go for gender-blind casting. Yes, everyone, I played Harriet Tubman. Which is wrong on oh-so-many levels. I know that now. But my 5th grade self was ready for the challenge of playing this part. I thought it had been written for me. This was going to be my big break...

Brendan played my abusive husband. I am afraid that this started what has become a life-long pattern and hazard as an actress: becoming infatuated with my leading men who tend to ignore me in real life. Brendan was tall, dark and handsome (for a fifth-grader) and I was sure that our showmance was going to be one for the history books.

The performances left a bit to be desired. Scratch that. The performance. Singular. (Thankfully.) It took place in the Maywood Elementary School cafetorium. Our audience was the other three fifth grade classes. The show began with the entire cast singing Wade in the Water. I vaguely remember the first scene with dialogue being in the Tubman kitchen, because I threw a handful of dry oatmeal into my husband's face in anger and it all landed on our classmate who was playing our dog. I'm pretty sure I burst out laughing and found it hard to regain my character for the rest of the show.

So Valentine's Day rolls around and I'm determined to do something so perfect that Brendan will be forever mine. I decide to sew a small felt heart pillow stuffed with cotton balls. I sneak in during lunch and place it in his Valentine bag. No note. I'm sure that he'll know I sent it to him.

The pillow causes quite a stir, because he has NO idea who sent it to him. I only tell my friend Rosie that it was me and make her pinkie swear not to tell a single soul. Unfortunately, Rosie's a loudmouth and goes straight to Brendan and tells him. He gives me the nickname "the bad sewer" (or sore, depending how you pronounce it). My ten year old self is crushed and can't understand how he found out because of course Rosie wouldn't have told him. I tried to consider the nickname as endearing, but it didn't quite work...

Join us next post, when I tell of the drama surrounding procuring a date for the 8th grade dance...

Dess...trap...

A Dutch accent is hard. Super hard. Killer, actually. I recently got cast in Deathtrap, which opens at WICA on February 12. I play Helga ten Dorp, Dutch psychic.


In order to prepare for this role, I watched the movie with Michael Caine and Christopher Reeves. Also, Austin Powers in Goldmember. (Please note that Michael Caine is in both films. Coincidence? I think not.)


Chris Fisher directs this stellar cast: Ed Cornachio, Shelley Hartle, Sean Brennan and Phil Jordan.


Ed was my scene partner for the first show I ever was in at WICA: The Good Doctor. I got to scream at him, beat him and jump on his desk in that play. And stab some potatoes with his pen. This play, there's a desk in almost the same position onstage, but I don't get to climp atop it. I do get to scream a bit, but it's not him upon which I inflict physical violence...Deathtrap is great fun and will keep audiences guessing til the very end. Come and see...