(Due to technical issues with Weebly's mobile app, I wasn't able to publish this last night. Weebly, get your shit together, PLEASE.)
I accidentally took a sleeping pill last night. I didn't realize it til halfway through dinner when I began to wonder why the walls were starting to bend. Incidentally, I had a great night's sleep.
Kurt seems poised to get a job soon. That will be a welcome relief on any fronts. As for Monty and school, I guess I'll just keep reading him the Sesame Street Dictionary Letters O through P that I got at a local thrift shop and just kind of hope it's intellectually stimulating enough to earn him a spot at Harvard or whatever I'm supposed to be striving for. I read in the "papers" today that the pope said he agrees with Kim Davis and feels for the priests who raped children. So, I'm guessing the big sociopolitical apocalypse is just around the corner and once that happens pre-school will be the least of our worries.
Before the world falls apart be sure to buy your tickets for
Daisy and Jordan: Rejected Bond Girls
on November 15th at 9:30 pm at Feinstein's/54 Below. So far the line up includes Eric Anderson, Cady Huffman, Beth Malone, The Skivvies, and a super special surprise guest were not allowed to advertise...
If you haven't already, be sure to sign up for my newsletter (which I rarely put out). I will be sending out a special discount code to my newsletter readers in the next few days! Don't miss it.
I was concerned one of my recent blog posts was going to upset my father and it turns out I was right, though not for the reason I thought I'd be. He did not express upset in my confession about my psychological scars from "The Fight". And, of course I recognize that his not expressing upset doesn't mean he didn't experience upset, he just didn't share that upset with me if it did, indeed, upset him. What he did take issue was my characterization of his neighbors as being Right Wing nut jobs who hate gays and women.
And for this, I am truly sorry.
In truth, I don't know my parents' neighbors, so how could I possibly know their stance on gays and women? To be fair, my father only told me about one particular neighbor who is a Right Wing nut job and I extrapolated and, perhaps, exaggerated a bit for dramatic effect.
Some years ago, my father gave me a book called Inventing The Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir. In it there is some talk about using personal history as narrative and of a device often used by memoirists in which some facts or memories are embellished or heightened to serve whatever story they might be telling.
I confess I used this device when I pluralized "neighbor" to "neighbors" and added the stuff about gays and women.
I would like to now amend my unfair, uninformed characterization of my parents' neighbors. Now that I have spent a little more time up here I think I have a slightly better idea of the politics of the general population. So here is my edited version of the offending statement:
My parents are selling this place. It's too far from the city, and some of the neighbors have lawn signs calling to repeal The Safe Act which is a law put into effect this year that calls for tighter restrictions on gun and bullet sales, and there's a big lawn sign right at the beginning of town which states "Impeach the liar Obama. Trump 2016!", and there was this guy at a nearby restaurant telling everyone at his table (and all the others) that "Trump really has what it takes to turn this country around" and that he ran circles around the other GOP candidates in the debate and they couldn't respond to his points because they (his points) were spot on and "how do you debate the truth?", and there was the pickup truck I drove behind today on the way to Albany with this decal on its back window:
And, of course there are exceptions. There always are. Like Jews in Utah. Or Black people in Maine. Or... my parents. And while this is an incredibly beautiful part of the country and there are breathtaking views around every turn, and flocks of wild turkeys running around everywhere, and deer in the backyard, it makes sense that my parents would want to live in place where the majority of the people around them believe in the same principals they do. I get that. I really do.
But, when the apocalypse does come, having a natural water source on your property is going to matter a whole lot more than having like-minded neighbors. And, having repealed The Safe Act, my parents' neighbors will be coming for the water, automatic assault riffles ablazin'!
I spent an hour on an blog entry on Wednesday night and it disappeared to god knows where. It was a good piece and I was so frustrated I punished my blog by not returning to it til now. That'll show it.
I was very out of sorts in Brooklyn. Last year at just about this time I had an epic fight with my parents that was life and relationship-changing. I suppose I didn't want to be in the house on the anniversary of "The Fight." There are enough ghosts in that house. I don't need to hang around with the one where my parents tell me I'm a failure. We headed to the Upstate house a day early, which will be our primary base until one or the other of us obtains gainful employment, and since I'm an actor, that burden basically rests on Kurt's shoulders. Even though the Upstate house was were I got married to a man I didn't love, twelve years ago (Twelve years exactly, actually. We got married on August 30th.) this house holds fewer memories. I can even look directly at the spot on which I said, "I do" and not feel a thing. Plus Kurt and Monty and I are alone up here (most of the time), so it's significantly quieter than Brooklyn.
I feel compelled here to clarify my feelings toward my parents' Brooklyn house and, for that matter, toward my parents. I dislike neither. In fact, I love both my parents and the house. It just sometimes feels like... a lot. It's a small house and they have two dogs including a Greyhound, and when it's me and Kurt and Monty and my parents and my sister and the dogs it's... a lot. One of the results of "The Fight" is that I've become more introspective, more guarded, and slightly less trustful. It's unfortunate, but true. I am aware that this is going to pain my father to read, but there it is. I don't know if I'll ever truly recover from it. And, in a strange way, I'm okay with that. Also, I should say, for the record, that when we are with my family, caring for Monty is significantly easier as there are three extra adults to make sure his head doesn't fall off. It allows for time to write. Or nap.
So, to sum up, I love my parents and am grateful for their warmth, love, generosity, and hospitality. I love my childhood home. But on the heels of the most stressful year of my life and moving across the country in a car with a toddler, I needed some peace.
The Upstate house is pretty far from they city (about 2 1/2 hours), which makes it not practical for commuting. But it is so peaceful and idyllic. Yesterday my step-mother took Kurt on a walk around the property. He came back and said, "When I was standing in that meadow I felt like I was in a painting."
"Excuse me. Meadow?" I said.
"Yeah, the meadow on the other side of the trees," he said.
"There's a meadow?"
There's a meadow. I had never walked the property in the 14 years that my parents have owned this house. I assumed the property ended at the tree line at the back of the backyard. So, Kurt took Monty and I up to the meadow and beyond. There's a fucking meadow, guys. A few of them. And a creek. With water. Do you understand?
I was honestly trying to figure out how we could make farming work. Suddenly I was thinking about bringing professionals in to clear some of the forest to make a path for fucking cows and sheep and goats. And I was telling Kurt that we would have to get one of those movable chicken coops. And I was sure I was going to become a dairy farmer and make artisan butter that I'd sell at the Union Square Farmer's Market. And occasionally someone would say, "You look familiar." And I'd say, "I'm not Lena Dunham!" And we would laugh and then I'd tell them about the lavender butter and how good it is on blueberry scones.
And here's the thing: My parents are selling this place. It's too far from the city, and all the neighbors are virulent Right-Wingers (The kind that hate gays. And women.), and they don't come up here often enough to justify having to pay the property taxes which have increased since all the small dairy farms are dying off because they don't get the subsidies that giant, mega, factory farms get. Some prospective buyers came to look at it today, but when the dude stepped out his Chrysler, wearing purple leather loafers with no socks, my fears of having the house bought out from under us vanished. For today, anyway.
When the apocalypse comes and water becomes a serious issue, they're going to regret having sold this place. Mark my words. Well, they'll probably be long gone by then. But Monty will be like, "What the fuck were they thinking?!" And I'll be like, "What, dear? Hand me that bottle of sleeping pills, a plastic bag, and some duct tape. There's $500 stowed away in the back of the armoire. It's all I have left. I love you."
And now comes the irony. My good friend has opened a daycare in Hamilton Heights and has hired me for a reduced hourly wage in exchange for daycare for Monty. And he wants me there full time. But I can't take the job because I can't commute to the city every day. So, I'm literally being handed a job and I can't take it. Amazing. And no, I can't stay in Brooklyn full time (Please refer to aforementioned Fight.). So, that's a conundrum.
Monty continues to be the best human ever. I know that sounds hyperbolic, but it's just facts. He says "Thank you" when appropriate. He greets everyone with a cheery, "Hiya!" He RARELY tantrums, and by rarely I mean I can't remember the last time he did. He now says, "I love you." and it seems to come from a genuine place of love. I don't know how he knew how to label that feeling. I suppose after the millionth time I grabbed him and hugged him and told him I loved him he realized that one went with other. We took him to a diner tonight and my sister put "Jailhouse Rock" on the jukebox and Monty stood on his seat and air drummed. At the end of the song he yelled, "Rock! And! Roll!!" I mean, come the fuck on.
In other, less personal news, I was trying to come up with something to say in the wake of the several recent shootings. I am profoundly distressed by the state of the gun control debate in this country. I am furious that when I think about sending Monty off to school I now have to worry that some maniac with a gun will take some convoluted frustration out on Monty's class and I'll never see him again. I'm furious that ANYONE has to worry about that. We are completely out of control. Someone tweeted recently that the gun debate in this country ended with Sandy Hook. When it becomes acceptable to kill children, we have lost the fight.
Also, I'm reading an interview with Maya Schenwar who is a prison reform advocate and while I already knew the prison system is a complete failure, some of the shit she talks about makes you want to commit hari kari .
George Carlin said he wasn't interested in making things better or working to change the world because we had already fucked it up so profoundly that there's no going back so we might as well just ride it out while we're here. When you think about the fact that as a species we could have set up life any way we wanted and we designed what we designed it is the most nonsensical thing ever. We somehow decided that life should be a series of responsibilities all meant to pay someone else to make it possible for us to continue meeting our responsibilities.
We can't keep going like this, right?
P.S. I'm aware that I sound more discouraged than normal right now. But I'm actually feeling pretty hopeful and happy. No need to worry. I'm on my meds and looking for a new therapist. Everything is great!
Here's where I spout my brilliance.