Notes from the Road
Part Seven: Des Moines
I woke up early this morning in my Air B and B to pee and saw what I thought was a dried leaf on the kitchen floor. It didn’t make sense. I was fairly certain it wasn’t there when I went to bed. And the trees are pretty bare in this eternal winter. It was a mouse. It was a dead mouse. It was on its back. It might as well have had its tongue lolling out with little black Xes over its eyes. Like it came home from the bar really late and couldn’t find its apartment and stumbled around my kitchen for a while until it just keeled over and died. I went back to bed and dreamt of dead mice and my ex-husband.
Yesterday I got $5 in quarters to do my laundry. $2 for the wash and $2 for the dryer. Today, once my wash was done, I moved my clothes into the machine next to the washer, put in my $2 of quarters, closed the door and started manipulating the dials. It wasn't until the water started flowing into the machine that I realized I had put my washed clothes into another washer. Now I have wet clothes and 25 cents too little to dry them.
Not a terrific day so far, folks.
Though I will say the palm oil free hazelnut spread that I found at the local over-priced market is making things tolerable. Same great flavor, now with fewer dead monkeys!
Also, I saw a really hot person at said over-priced market and it highlighted the fact that I still have no idea how to talk to attractive people. I just gasped and then browsed near them until they left. Smooth.
I left my laptop in the women’s restroom at the Des Moines airport.
The details are not worth going into. Suffice it to say, I was NOT using my laptop ON a public toilet, as some have suggested. I just had it in my hand when I went into the stall and didn’t have it in my hand when I came out of the stall. I had been up since 4 am, been on three flights and in four different airports. I wasn’t particularly focused. However, I had finally finished writing the first draft of a pilot on my flight from Seattle that I’d been ruminating on for months. And I didn’t want to pay the $6.95 for internet access to upload it to the great hard drive in the sky. Also, my phone did some random update and dumped all my pictures onto my Google drive. So, if someone can get into the computer, they’re going to have access to some compromising material. Hell, maybe it’ll finally be my ticket to fame and fortune.
Kurt called yesterday to tell me that Monty is now registered for Kindergarten. Kindergarten.
Kindergarten was where I learned to hate school. Miss Mooney, my teacher, was sharp and cold and screamed at me for coloring something in “wrong.” For show and tell I brought in a ziplock bag of deer poop I had collected on my latest hiking trip with my dad, and a classmate, Robin brought her pompoms in and chanted “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Miss Mooney! Miss Mooney! Yaaaaaaay, Miss Mooney!” Robin could speak for herself, I thought. I was on to those lemmings and this broken system from the jump. This was back when public school teachers could still hit children and did so regularly. I escaped that school before first grade and avoided a teacher who locked students in the closet if they misbehaved. I took my deer poop and hightailed it out of there.
Monty will love Kindergarten. Right?
Notes from the Road
Part Six: Palm Springs
When Monty was a baby I sang to him constantly. I had a set I did every time I put him to sleep. You Are My Sunshine, I Will (The Beatles), Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and a song that Kurt and I (but really mostly just Kurt) made up called Schreetz Times (“Sleep Time”?). Sometimes I would add One for my Baby, or What’ll I Do. There was a period of time where I sang Let it Go from Frozen every night. Kids go nuts for that damn song. Anyway, I don’t know when it happened, but at some point Monty was tired of being Pavolv’s dog and didn’t want to eat every time the bell rang, if you get what I’m saying. He associated my singing with going to sleep and for some psychotic reason, he doesn’t like going to sleep. So, he stopped letting me sing to him.
My last night in Seattle, two nights ago, he had the hiccups. I tried everything to help him get rid of them. I did this weird witchy thing where I rubbed his back and pretended to gather up his hiccups and pull them out of him. It didn’t work. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am not a witch. I know, I was surprised, too. Finally, around 10:30 I started singing You Are My Sunshine, fully expecting him to stop me immediately. 15 minutes later, after Let It Go, he said, “I can’t sleep because you’re not singing enough.”
You guys. I sang my son to sleep.
Maybe I am a witch.
I’m in Palm Springs for Dinah Shore. It’s my coming out ball. Minus the balls.
I scheduled this vacation in November. I was going to sleep with every hot queerie I could consensually get my hands on. And then I met Ryan.
The summer after I left my husband, in 2005, I reconnected with a guy I had met while I was married. I was living in L.A. and he was in NYC. I planned a trip to NYC to see him for a couple weeks and then started seeing a guy in L.A. who didn’t understand how I could go to NYC and sleep with someone else when I had been sleeping with him. More than that, he was incensed because I had sat on his lap at a party. Apparently in his culture (white bro culture) when a woman sits on your lap she is committing herself to you for eternity. Or until he finds a younger woman to neg into sleeping with him. Not for nothing, but the guy in NYC ended up being an immense bucket of garbage. He told me I had put a hook in him and he was considering relocating to L.A.. Not for me, but that I was there was definitely a draw. He was all about me until another woman who had been flirting with him turned 18. The day after her birthday he told me I was too clingy. No offense white bros, but you guys are kinda the worst.
One of the benefits of being in a relationship with someone who’s married is I can spend time with them on my vacation at Lesbian Prom, and also go play if the mood and opportunity strike. That is to say, this is one of the benefits of Polyamory. People who proclaim to be monogamous and have affairs can be awfully possessive. “Yes, yes, I know I have a wife and you’re my side piece, but you’re my side piece, damnit!” Attractive. Plus, I can be really shy, and if I were here alone I would probably spend most of the time buried in a book trying to not to make eye contact for fear that someone might actually…talk to me. “Did you see the woman with the amazing butt laying by the pool?” “You mean the one who literally read Jeanette Winterson and didn’t talk to anyone during all of Dinah Shore?” So, Ryan will be the chatty one and I’ll be the one sipping a pina colada and trying not to seem like a bulimic at a Vegas buffet. No offense to bulimics. Some of you are truly lovely people. Not my roommate in my first semester at NYU, though. When she wasn’t yacking in our only bathroom for hours, she was stealing my make-up, and talking about how smart she was. Jesus. She was awful. I got back at her by barfing all over the carpet one night when I’d had too much to drink. Oddly enough, she didn’t seem that phased by the barf.
Some day, when I have lots and lots of expendable income, after Monty’s entire school career has been paid for, I’m going to go on a vacation where I stay in a really nice hotel. Like, one with room service. One where the bed isn’t literally a murphy bed. One where there’s not stains… from hopefully pre-eaten food… on the plastic blinds. One where the bathroom sink will probably not rip away from the wall if you put any weight on it. One where there’s not a dirty washcloth left over from the people before you in the shower. One where someone was definitely not tortured and murder and stuffed into a suitcase. You know. A nice place.
And now off to see the lesbians! Maybe I won’t even bring a book…
Notes from the Road
Part Five: Boston
There’s approximately 8000 inches of snow on the ground and it’s still snowing. The entire city is closed. Yesterday while grocery shopping I somehow managed to talk myself out of buying pasta? I think I ate one vegetable the entire week I was in Schenectady, so it’s probably just as well I don’t have an entire box of pasta to eat on my own. I did buy Oreos and ice cream, though. So, I’ll be okay. Also, I bought two bottles of wine and drank…more than I should have last night. I could really use some pasta.
I felt better after writing last night. Go figure. It’s one of those things that I know to be true but very easily forget.
During our video hang out last night Monty gave me and Kurt a concert. I have to say, it started off pretty bad, and I almost asked for my money back. He spent the whole first part of the concert standing on his piano announcing a song and then he just walked off. Like, who the hell do you think you are, man? Have a nervous breakdown on your own time. Your fans are expecting a show. But then he came back out on his scooter, introduced his scooter (“Scooty”), and played a cover of “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go,” which, while it sounded absolutely nothing like the original, was really something else. His version is just sound effects from his keyboard. He then played two original tunes. The first was called “Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day,” and the second was called “Seaside, Oregon Vacation,” and went like this: “Best vacation/Seaside, Oregon/With the best Mama and Papa.” Just wait til I take him to Disneyland. He is going to lose his god damn mind.
One of my castmates suggested I rethink my living situation with Monty and Kurt because I’m missing Monty’s childhood and it only happens once. It was a really helpful comment. I didn’t already feel tremendous guilt for “choosing my career” over fulltime parenting. I wasn’t already mentally castigating myself daily for not being there for my child. I don’t already want to jump off a roof every time Monty is too mad to look at me during our video chats.
Oddly, this arrangement of Kurt and Monty living in Seattle for now turned out to be sort of perfect. Kurt’s father is dying, so it’s worked out nicely that Kurt has been able to be there with his dad. I think it’s important for both Kurt and his father that they’re getting this time together. Not to mention the logistical help Kurt is able to offer that would be impossible from across the country.
Most of the rest of the company is staying somewhere else in Boston. I’m all the way the hell out in Braintree because I’m cheap and didn’t want to spring the extra money for the closer hotel. The Thomas Kinkade puzzle is really coming along.
Notes from the Road
Part ONe: Seattle
I kept Monty home from school on Wednesday because he was complaining of a sore throat and had been coughing throughout the night. He absolutely could have gone to school, but my feeling is, if you can afford (time and/or money-wise) to keep your kid out and prevent the entire rest of their class getting sick, do it. It’s a courtesy to the other parents and, eventually, to yourself again… I’m painfully aware that most American parents don’t have the means to do this because our system is garbage. But if you can, you should. Also, I’m leaving in less than a month, so a day with Monty was welcome.
I was worried that keeping him away from screens was going to be a challenge. Play time activities are not my forte. But we did all kinds of nifty things. We spelled words. We played with blocks (he got upset with me because I asked him not to knock the affordable housing complex I was building down. I can be SUPER unreasonable). We listened to music and jammed out. I tried, unsuccessfully, to build a fire. We took out all his stuffed animals and counted them, and jumped on them, and buried ourselves under them.
At one point he took out his favorite rabbit, Rabbit, another rabbit, Dotty, and a small mouse and said it was a family. The mouse was the baby, and Rabbit and Dotty were the “Parentmates.” Parentmates, you guys. In this case, Rabbit and Dotty were sitters, presumably raising the mouse baby together.
I have been trying to figure out the right terminology for my relationship with Kurt. “Baby Daddy” is… let’s say problematic; Reductive, to say the least. “Co-parent” is okay, but also kind of reductive. But “Parentmate?” Sure, it sounds like a term used in a science fiction novel. Like the person to whom you’re assigned to raise offspring with in order to repopulate the nuclear war ravaged Earth. But, it’s also kind of perfect. Kurt is not just Monty's Dad to me. He means more to me that just the identity of being Monty's Dad. He's my Parentmate.
Parentmates, people. Get on board.
Notes from the Road
Part One: Seattle
I was listening to my news podcasts while making breakfast just now, yelling at my phone every two minutes in response to the horrific GARBAGE going on in the world, and I felt compelled to sit down and write. I don’t know what I want to say, necessarily, but considering I call myself a writer, I figure I should heed the call to write when it strikes, regardless of cohesive ideas. Especially given that I have seven rounds of Words with Friends waiting, and a new Nintendo DS (Thank you, Liza Walter!!) with a handful of games I’m eager to play, the compulsion to write is unusual. As Dorothy Parker said, “I hate writing, I love having written.”
And yet (or and so?) here I am.
I don’t know how or where to begin with the state of the world. It is honestly terrifying. If I were unemployed right now, I’d probably head down to Alabama and help Doug Jones. I don’t know much about him besides headlines I’ve seen in passing, but I do know this: He’s not a pedophile. Jesus Christ.
Al Franken resigned today. Democrats have generally taken the high road when it’s come to dignity and morals, not stooping to levels many republicans will to win votes, or calling on fellow democrats to do the right thing in light of accusations or scandal (Bill Clinton notwithstanding), and sometimes we (I) wonder if we should go ahead and play as dirty as the other side does. These are scary times and sometimes it seems like we’re moving backwards, but all in all, haven’t we, as a country generally moved forward in terms of civil rights? I’m talking about the larger picture. Yes, our record is still deplorable in many, many ways, and we have a long way to go in terms of granting every human being basic human rights, not to mention equality, but we have been moving forward in incremental steps and I wonder if that’s because we have refused to get into the mud with the other side. We take a few steps forward and a few steps back, but I think the momentum is generally in the right direction. So as scary and as important as the loss of Franken is to the Senate, it may be the right thing in terms of the way this country deals with abuse toward women. Zero tolerance is zero tolerance.
It seems like the GOP’s long game is about securing money and power for a very small group of people so that when the shit does inevitably hit the fan, they imagine they’ll be shielded from it (perhaps they should ask the French how that worked out for them…). Maybe our long game is securing basic rights and dignity for everyone so that life gets generally better for everyone. And that means sometimes falling on our sword?
I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed and sad and California is burning.
But. Monty asks to cuddle with me every morning. So, I have that. I don’t know what I’ll do when my time in Seattle is up. I may end up Tindering my way through the country just for cuddle-buddies. (TBH, full disclozsh: Monty is the only person I actually want to cuddle with.)
He’s a bit obsessed with my belly. I think it started last spring when he learned that he was in there when I was pregnant. He asked to get back in. I explained that he was too big, and he curled himself up into a ball to try to be small enough. Ever since then he wants to look at, squeeze, and sleep on my belly whenever he can. He likes it when I push it out and make it big. Last week I told him that someday he’s going to meet someone with a big, fat belly, and they’re going to fall in love, and he’ll get to cuddle that person and their big, fat belly. This morning he made me tell him that story again.
When I dropped him off at school this morning, his classmate, Kennedy, who was seen yesterday morning sobbing in the corner because her breakfast plate was blue and not pink, announced that she was going to marry Monty. She going to have to stop worrying about the color of her plate and start eating what's on it if she wants that to happen.
I'm really good at parenting.
Notes from the Road
Part one: Seattle
When Monty was about a year and a half, a friend with a kid the same age asked what she should do about her kid trying to climb out of her crib. I suggested she put her kid back in a sleep sack for a while to discourage her from climbing at night. Another mother with a kid around the same age as ours said, “No, no, no! She needs to learn how to sleep with a blanket!”
She needs to learn how to sleep with a blanket.
Take a moment and imagine an adult who never “learned how to sleep with a blanket.”
“Where does this thing go?! Do I sleep on top of it? Do I throw it in the air and somehow position myself so it lands on me? Do I wrap it around my neck? How does this work?! WHY DIDN’T MY MOTHER HELP ME LEARN HOW TO USE THIS THING?! CURSE HER!”
Kurt and I recently went to a parent-teacher conference at Monty’s pre-school. Monty’s teacher was a bit concerned because Monty brings his stuffed rabbit to circle time every day and always uses her for show and tell. She also mentioned that he’s having trouble putting letters in the correct order when he’s writing words. Also, he holds his fork in a fist.
In his defense, he’s four.
I went to his class for a Thanksgiving lunch and saw the posters all the kids made. In true American schooling fashion, they all made exactly the same damn thing. A collage turkey with the words “I’m thankful for” written at the top, the things they’re thankful for written in the feathers, and at the bottom “Happy Thanksgiving.” I told Monty how proud of him I was and how impressive it was that he wrote words. Then I saw the other kids’ posters and realized, Monty’s was really a mess. I mean, it was truly a collection of letters in a mish-mash. Two feathers had the words “mom” and “dad” which he never calls us, and the third was just scribbles. At the bottom, as best I could make out, was written, “THAXXXX4Y HAL,” in a variety of font sizes. The closest another kids’ writing was to Monty’s was one that said,
Which, at least, is decipherable.
So, yes, we need to pay some attention to Monty’s writing skills. And it’s a good reminder. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in how good he is at drumming, or how comfortable he is around adults, or that he’s doing pretty well with reading, that we forget there are other skills he might need in life that require our focus.
That said, he’s four, and I’m fairly confident he’ll figure out that letters need to be written in order from left to right to form English words. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to walk into his freshman orientation at college holding his stuffed rabbit. And the chances are good that eventually he’ll develop the dexterity to hold his fork in an “acceptable” manner.
THAT BLANKET THING, THOUGH.
Notes from the Road
Part One: Seattle
I was talking with a castmate and friend the other day about my co-parenting situation with Monty’s dad, Kurt. It’s too complicated to explain, and since I’m interested in keeping readers, I’ll skip it. Suffice it to say, I’ve been living in NYC since May while Kurt and Monty have been in Seattle. It’s largely due to finances. It sucks and it’s far from ideal, but it was the only way we could find for me to continue pursuing my career. We didn’t know how long this arrangement would last, only that it wasn’t permanent and that the end goal was to get to a place financially where all three of us could live near each other in NYC.
I told my castmate that it may be we end up finding a three-bedroom place. It would be more affordable than getting two two-bedroom places, and certainly more livable than the both of us living in studios with Monty shuffling back and forth between us. That shit ain’t cute.
No one is suggesting that this is an easy solution. For instance, it would make dating difficult, to say the least, but frankly neither of us are at a place right now where we’re trying to find partners. It turns out I love being single. Also, between my career, my child, and the tornado that exists in my head, I don’t have time for anyone else. And whoever we both do end up dating, they’re going to have to be 100% on board with our arrangement. Kurt and I are close. We get along really well. And we’re raising a human together. And that’s that. Neither of us have room for jealousy, possessiveness, or insecurities.
My castmate asked if I thought maybe we were setting Monty up with false expectations about the way the world works; That parents who separate usually don’t live together anymore. It’s a fair question. But here’s the thing, I think the way the world works now is pretty terrible. Extreme hetero- and gender-normativity, along with virulent misogyny and homophobia have created a system in which most families can’t function in a healthy way. Parents stay married “for the kids,” or because it’s financially impossible to separate, and if they do separate and make their kids deal with the logistics of their failed relationship. People marry who never should have. People have kids who definitely never should have. And MOST of the time, if one parent has to sacrifice their career in order to raise the kids, it’s the mother. No one sneezes at the thought of a father working so much he’s rarely home. But people ask me constantly if I feel guilty for not being with Monty. (The answer by the way is “yes,” but I’d be suicidal if I gave up my career.)
So, what’s the false expectation? What’s the damaging lesson we’re teaching Monty? That two people who love each other in many ways and have a kid together can figure out a way to make it work so that their child grows up with both parents around? That making enough money two have two separate places big enough doesn’t seem to be in our wheelhouse? That people don’t have to be romantically involved in order to make a relationship that is “supposed to be” romantic work? That people are capable of all kinds of different relationships? That his parents love him so much that they decided to buck tradition and figure out what worked best for their family?
I told my castmate that when Monty is old enough to understand the concept of romantic love we can explain to him that his parents used to feel one way for each other and they’re relationship changed, and they figured out how to make it work. God forbid he learns that people are complicated, and relationships are nuanced. What if he grows up to be the kind of person who doesn’t blindly accept what everyone else tells him about the way his life should be? What if he learns that men and women can have relationships with each other that don’t involve sex or romance? What if he learns that even after we stop loving someone romantically we can still care for them, be kind to them, and carry on with them in our lives? What if he realizes that he can choose to keep people in his life based on how they enrich each other’s lives, and get rid of the ones who are damaging? What if he comes to view relationships as living things that change and grow and require maintenance and attention?
I left my castmate and met up with Monty and Kurt at the playground. I asked Kurt what he thought about how we would explain things to Monty when he’s old enough to understand what romantic love is.
“Daisy,” he said, “I’m almost 50 and I still haven’t figured out what romantic love is.”
Amen, Brother. Amen.
As per usual, I haven’t been posting new blogs because I want them to be perfect. Perfection is the enemy of creativity. So, I’m lowering my own bar and trying to just get words out.
I’m in an in between place right now, having just spent a day on set, filming a small part for a TV show I’m a fan of, and waiting for my next gig to start in a couple weeks. Here's a picture of me on set:
I can’t say what gig I’m about to start as they haven’t announced the cast officially yet. I’m just waiting to suddenly get a bunch of texts and Twitter notifications to tell me the press release has gone out. They won’t even tell those of us who are already cast who else has been cast. So, I continue to wait.
I’m finally getting my room unpacked and set up. It’s stressful because I’m painfully aware of my lack of design talent. I bought red curtains in an attempt to add color to my room and I think it was a regretful choice. The good news is, I’m leaving in a month for nine months, so the curtains will hopefully be someone else’s problem.
Yesterday was the first cold day of the season. After weeks of summer-like weather; swampy, soup weather, it was suddenly fall. Cold and a bit blustery. I spent the day in-doors battling a headache and depression. I had plans with a friend that I bailed on. He’s annoyed with me. But I did get some work done on my room which I’m seriously behind the eight ball on. Walking in here for the past couple months and sidling past boxes and bins has been making me insane. So, it has to be done.
I have always been really bad at unpacking. Suitcases are left untouched weeks after I return from trips. I moved to Los Angeles in 2003 and unpacked my last box in 2005, after moving in to my fourth place. I moved this box from New York, into a house I bought in North Hollywood, into my last apartment I shared with my ex-husband, and finally into my first place by myself and when I finally got it together to unpack it I found half-burned candles wrapped in newspaper. And not expensive or sentimental candles. Just random shit you can buy at Rite Aid.
Worse than the tangled-up mess of cheap Christmas lights that don’t work anymore, and the empty notebooks, and the bottles of expired vitamins, are the notes and letters. I have learned at least to not open old diaries (that trap will have you sitting on the floor until four a.m. crying and eating Entenmann’s cake right out of the box). But I have hundreds of postcards from when I worked at a university for a few years. I asked people to send me postcards for my office wall and I got an enthusiastic response. I have held on to nearly every card and letter I have ever gotten. I have old cigar boxes full of them. But I made the decision that I didn’t need to carry most of these postcards around with me anymore. They’d served their function when I had an office, but for the past eight years they’ve been sitting in a box. So, I went through them with a largely indiscriminate fervor. I kept the ones whose images spoke to me and the ones loved ones sent and tossed the rest.
The hardest part was reading the ones Kurt sent. And he sent dozens. I had nearly forgotten how funny he was. His sense of humor was one of the things that drew me to him in the first place. He sent postcards that were images of random street scenes from the past and ascribed dialogue to the people in the photos. He wrote of the fates of the subjects of the photos. He gave horses punchlines. I sat on my floor, pouring through these, laughing and feeling tremendously sad.
He and Monty have moved into their own place near Seattle. I Skype with them twice a day on good days. At breakfast and dinner. Monty shows me the latest thing they’ve added to their apartment. They have a map of the five boroughs over their kitchen table with pins marking where Monty’s important people are. Monty is, as always, happy and well-adjusted. Kurt is shouldering full time work and parenting on his own and he never complains. The most I’ll hear is “Weekends are hard.” I tell him how terrible I feel that I’m not there and he tells me that they’re proud of me how important what I’m doing is. Is it? It’s not like I’m saving lives. I’m not doing embassy work. Or even teaching. I’m just… being an actor. But Kurt is endlessly supportive.
And I’m sad that we can’t be together anymore. I’m sad that we can’t make it work. Sometimes I think we can try to fix things, and then I remember that even if we could work out whatever emotional wrinkles we had, I’m not attracted to men. That, as far as I can tell, some switch has been flipped in me and I generally find the thought of being physically intimate with any man akin to licking the bottom of a shoe. But I’m reading these old postcards and laughing and crying and wishing things could be different. Wishing I could be different.
Maybe the upside to all this is that because there’s no possibility of a romantic relationship anymore we may be able to find a way to live together platonically and co-parent. We certainly like each other enough to make something like that work. Or, at least, I like him. I assume he likes me, too…
I want to write here about the relationship I had over the summer – with the woman who flipped my switch, as it were – but we have mutual friends and I want to be respectful. I loved her (and still do, I think?) and think about her every day, even nearly two months after it’s been over. The relationship was unhealthy for a host of reasons; we triggered each other enormously. Ultimately, I think our major error was moving far too quickly. We tried to build a house without putting down the proper foundation. So, when the house came tumbling down it did so hard and fast and we were both badly bruised in the process. I still think I’m digging my way out of the rubble.
I am overwhelmed by what’s happening in our country politically. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is doing unspeakable damage. Every day we all seem shocked at how much lower he has managed to sink, taking us down with him. The situation is Puerto Rico is devastating. I feel helpless. I don’t know how his party allows him to remain in office. I keep thinking they must have some kind of plan. Nefarious though it may be, and it most likely is, they have to know what they’re doing right? How can they just be letting him dig himself and his party (and the entire country) into this hole without some reason for it? Are they just willfully destroying their party? Are they trying to set the stage for some kind of Tea Partyesque take-over?
Honestly it feels trite to even address any of this. There are others doing it much better than I ever could. I have nothing significant to add to the discourse.
But, I don’t know how pushing policy that kills poor people is helpful to them. I understand they think poor people are detestable, but they do know they can’t continue to benefit off the labor of the poor and struggling if they kill them all off, right? Isn’t there some fine line they have to walk between keeping us sick and barely surviving and out-right killing us off? Doesn’t it seem like their policies are designed for the latter? Who’s going to clean their toilets, serve their food, and raise their children if they kill us all off?
Okay, I’m getting off my soapbox now. Mostly because I still need to unpack it. It’s probably filled more junk I’ve been dragging around with me for 38 years.
Several times now I have posted a blog here declaring I would begin posting more often, only to then fail to keep my word. I’m like that friend who keeps saying, “Let’s tooooootally get together soon!” but never actually makes a plan to see you. Yeah, I’m that guy.
I’ve been trying to figure out what’s keeping me from posting more often, or even, in truth, from simply writing more often. (I say “simply writing” as if writing were ever simple. As if sitting down to write wasn’t excruciating.) A conclusion I’ve come to is that I tend to write with rigorous honesty which is exhausting and scary even when you don’t plan on sharing what you’ve written with the world (and by “the world”, of course I mean the modest handful of people who read this blog).
We are supposed to project and air of success. People want to work with successful people. Our persona on social media is supposed to be one of cheery optimism. No one wants to work with a drag. But I suffer from depression and anxiety, as I’ve made abundantly clear in previous posts, and I tend to share the world as I see it, through blue-tinted glasses. It turns some people off, I know. It may cost me some jobs. But I believe it a) is more interesting than being Sally Sunshine (which I couldn’t be if I tried), and b) can help others who experience depression or anxiety. The more we share our struggles, the more normalized they become and the more likely people are to reach out for help if they need it.
When Monty was born I was given a clean slate. A fresh start. I was able to forgive myself my regrets and “bad” decisions. Every step of my life brought me to Monty. It was and is the ultimate lesson in gratitude.
I left NYC in 2003 because I was restless. I left because I wasn’t disciplined enough in my career and I felt I had developed a bad rep among casting directors for giving less than terrific auditions. Whether this was true or just a paranoid perception, I can’t say. But I was auditioning very seldomly and getting cast even less. My heart wasn’t in the game anymore. I felt beat down and tired. So, I escaped my life and went to Los Angeles.
When I moved to L.A. I was in the middle of what I now call my “20 Year Lost Weekend.”
I did not spend 20 years in a drug-induced, blacked out stupor. I worked. I made a few movies. I was on Broadway for a third time. I played a variety of women in various states of duress on TV. I got married and divorced. Bought and sold a house. Quit the business. Finished school. Got back into the business. I lived my life. But generally, when I look at the time between when my mother died when I was 13 to the time I had my son, almost exactly 20 years later, I don’t recognize that person. It’s as if a stranger was living my life for two decades.
And suddenly I had a human life I was responsible for (“Suddenly” means 41 weeks of pregnancy, of which I was only away of 30 weeks…). I had a white, cis male that I had to raise to be… better. Better than a lot of the white, cis men I have known. Better than the toxic representation of white, cis men that he will be bombarded with from every corner of our culture.
Better than me.
I take that responsibility very seriously.
The great weight of that responsibility, coupled with depression that was now hormonal and chemical, meant I have spent much of the past four years feeling as though I were treading water. True, I’ve managed to make huge strides in my career. I wrote and produced a one-woman show before Monty was a year old. I won awards for my writing. I made the gigantic (and terrifying) leap to move back to NYC. I have managed to turn a corner in my career with regards to my discipline and my abilities. I have worked hard. (Success! Success! Success!) But, if my achievements were taken away, what would be left? I am Monty’s mom. I am an actor. I am a writer. But who am I beyond that?
I have made the agonizing choice to leave Monty with his dad in Seattle while I pursue my career with a focus and discipline I’ve never had before. I feel like a monster most of the time for doing this. It feels incredibly selfish. But my other option is to move to Seattle and, what? Try to make a living doing theater in Seattle? Give up acting again? Be miserable? I would be with my child, true. But I would be giving up my dream and who would that make me? What kind of mother could I be? How can I teach my son to follow his heart and never give up on himself if I am doing just that? How can I teach him to be better if I’m not being my best? How can I teach him how to be better than me when I don't know who "me" really is?
How can I stop being a stranger in my own life?
I’m hoping he will forgive me for not being there. Hopefully he will understand this sacrifice. Hopefully he won’t resent me for too long. I am his mother. He will resent me. Just hopefully not for this or just hopefully not for too long.
I am incredibly lucky that Kurt, Monty’s dad, is a superhuman with a massive capacity for understanding. I would not be able to do any of this without his seemingly endless support. There are times I worry that all I’m doing is traipsing around New York City, seeing shows and schmoozing, while Kurt works full time and raises our son day in and day out. He is there for all the stubbed toes and ear infections, the bathtimes and bedtime stories, breakfasts and dinners, tantrums and nightmares, hugs and kisses. All of it. And I’m here. And he never fails to remind me that what I’m doing is vital. He reminds me that in order for me to be the best mother to Monty that I can be, I need to be here. And he does this despite the fact that we aren’t together romantically anymore. He does this while knowing that I’ve been falling in love with someone else. He does this while being the world’s best dad.
Monty is in the best hands possible.
But he’s not in my hands, which torturous. And necessary. At 37 years old, I finally get to figure out who I am. I have to figure out who I am.
I recognize that this is intense navel-gazing. So, feel free to move on. I hear there’s a great piece about single, working motherhood on Goop…
Kurt got some bad news on the job front yesterday. It was extremely disappointing and puts us back in panic mode. Mild panic. Not full on running around like maniacs panic. But, you know, how-are-we-going-to-pay-the-bills panic. We were very confident about his chances on this one. The CEO TOLD him he wanted to "move forward" after Kurt's FOURTH interview. He said we would hear by the beginning of this week. So "move forward" meant "not hire you" and the beginning of this week meant Friday, I guess. It's as if hiring someone for a really well paying job with benefits for their family isn't something that person might be, you know, waiting to hear about. It's been a long week.
Monty woke up in a terrible mood and stayed that way all day. We're trying to do the whole "no time outs" thing because it's sort of a terrible thing to do to a kid who doesn't understand feelings and isn't fully capable of communicating his needs. "You're mad, therefore we'll abandon you!" So we do a lot of redirecting. We do a lot of looking at the sun coming through the clouds. We do his Frozen puzzle. We listen to music.
Today we went out to the apple orchard (by orchard I mean four trees in a field) to pick apples and clear out some saplings that my father said were encroaching on a few more apple trees. The axe we found in the garage was basically a large hammer. God knows when if it was ever sharp, because it sure isn't anymore. I decided that taking down the saplings would be my job. I needed to swing an axe at some trees pretending that they were the CEO. It was that or run into traffic.
Turns out the saplings aren't so much "encrouching" on the apple trees as apple trees are growing in the forest. It was a forest. I set out to chop down a forest with a dull axe.
Here's what I learned about chopping down trees:
1. It's hard.
2. Like, hard.
3. Check to make sure the axe head is secure to the handle or it might fly off and narrowly miss hitting your toddler who is innocently standing by eating an apple and insisting, "No. Monty can cut da trees!"
4. If you ever come across a handsome lumberjack out in the woods chopping trees while you're on a camping trip with your girlfriends like that chick from the 1970s-era porn, Bad Girls, skip going down on him because I guarantee you he has a cup or so of sweat accumulated in his underwear. It smells like a bucket of chum down there. Just steer clear.
5. Wear gloves.