The look on her face clearly said she was at a loss
without a hieroglyphics to English dictionary at hand. The fact that Twinkie* stared at the object
I’d placed on her desk with prolonged bewilderment, prompted my outburst. “It’s my resume.” I offered with my voice slightly cracking. Twinkie
raised her eyes with sphinx like inscrutability and said without a blink, “I’m
just taking it all in.”
So my mind races as the casting director
stares at my resume. It took me three
months to construct a new/fresh/now resume of my comedy driven career. If she can take it all in, more power to her. Damn, that resume doesn’t tell half the story of my life onstage. And off stage you ask? Well, both on stage and off, it feels like I'm starting all over from the middle. Divorced in 2005 from several decades of marriage
to my high school sweetheart, I moved from our neighborhood, the center of the
universe, Tribeca. When hubby (now my ex) and I arrived, the Washington Market Area was barely maintaining daytime activity as a food
distribution center.At night it was a no
man’s land unfamiliar to even New York cab drivers.No stores, no street lights, we were pioneers
settling on the windy far west of New York’s lower west side.The abundant loft living
space drew the adventurous; hubby and I were game for the hulking subsidized
project that had real-people sized apartments and desperately needed residents. As the area developed Washington Market became
SoCa (South of Canal), but really hit its stride with the moniker Tribeca; and
the ensuing gourmet restaurants, designer boutiques, lines of limos and film
festival. It was literally Hollywood on the Hudson. Came the time, I could not go to
Bubby’s on the corner for coffee without a hello to Robert Di Nero, John Kennedy or Lorraine
Bracco, my neighbors.
I came of age in the shadow of burned out shells,
and litter strewn lots, the aftermath of insurrection aka “the riots”. As a pre-pubescent aspirant to the
middle-class, I wanted nothing more than to leave the gritty bleakness of the
ghetto behind. Hubby made that possible
albeit with stops along the way in a ghetto of a different hue - Spanish Harlem
(in the Young Lords' building) and a stint as sextons of a Lutheran church in
Flatbush. I’d made it all the way to the
disco dotted, star cluttered streets of Tribeca and now I was back with head
bowed on my original stomping ground. It
was a big adjustment returning to the place of my birth Brooklyn’s
Bed-Stuy.
When I first
tried to be “serious” about stand-up comedy, I took a comedy class with the
wonderfully supportive comic Tommy Koenig http://tommykoenig.ning.com/
through Caroline’s comedy club. The class had a disparate range of oddballs
that wanted to try comedy – mostly people who had regular jobs and had never
performed onstage a day in their lives.There was a Russian guy who could barely speak English enough to be understood. Several
people were extremely shy. Most could write some mildly amusing material, but
had no sense of timing, stage presence, or honesty in their bits. But I admired
the hell out of their bravery, because no matter how many times I have been onstage
in plays and musicals and public speaking events, nothing prepared me for the
overwhelming terror of holding a microphone and trying to make people laugh
for a few minutes. My stomach fills with terror-butterflies. My hand shakes
with uncontrollable spasms. My voice pitches higher. I liken it to skydiving:
standing at the edge of the open door, knowing you have to jump into thin air,
knowing your parachute may not open and you will plummet for several minutes,
knowing you will die, and there is not a thing you can do about it.
Though I had
some cockiness about my stage experience, I was scared to death to mount those
stairs to the stage and try out my material in front of this class. I had lost my mojo
during grad school, when I was stripped of all my “bad habits” and became
incredibly self-conscious and uncertain that I had any talent at all for
acting. Every posture, facial expression, extra pound, regional accent,
character choice, gesture, all of what I thought I had as an asset or skill, was
criticized and examined under an unforgiving microscope. My emotions were
psychoanalyzed, my body betrayed me daily, and I could not memorize my lines
fast enough. I was told I was undisciplined, unfocused, and fairly
uninteresting as an actor. And I was. My dreams of being on Broadway were a
joke, and I felt I was a fraud. Yet, I moved to NYC anyway, shaky and feeling
stupid, and basically apologizing during every audition I attended, as if to
say “I know I suck. Just let me get through this, and I will leave quickly and
never bother you again.” I had performed comedy exactly twice in my life before
I took the class with Tommy: each time for a nationwide comedy contest in
college, in front of a crowd of hundreds of semi-drunk students who laughed at
almost anything. I didn’t win, but loved the thrill. I guess I hoped I could
try to rebuild my damaged ego by attempting the funny.
I loved Tommy’s
encouragement and words of wisdom. He was enthusiastic and gentle and told me I
had great potential with my honest, original material and my natural ease
onstage (despite my spastic hand shaking.) I had to learn to shape my act, and
have endings to my bits, and keep practicing by going to open mics often to
hone my craft. The advice I got from my other comedy mentors,
the hilarious and incredibly supportive Jessica Kirson http://jessicakirson.com/
and wonderfully kind Gotham Comedy Club owner Chris Mazzilli http://gothamcomedyclub.com/page.cfm?id=67
was this: “You have to figure out what you want to do with your comedy. Do you want
to be a stand-up, a comedy writer, a comedic actor, or what?”
Of, course, I
didn’t fucking know what I wanted to do. I still don’t. I just want it all, I
guess.
Today I read an
email from Gotham’s Director of New Talent, Andy Engel, whom I’ve known since
he was New Talent Director at Caroline’s. He posted a link to a site with words
of wisdom/thoughts from my absolute favorite living comic, Louis CK. I fucking
love Louis, and love his show “Louie.” He writes, directs, produces, edits (or
co-edits), and stars in the brilliantly dark and funny series, and I admire him
most for his unfailing honesty and fearlessness onstage and onscreen. My
favorite comics, too many to list right now, are fearless and unapologetically
revealing. And they work (or worked) on their craft doggedly, tirelessly,
sacrificing financial security, commercial success, and a normal family life to
tell their stories. Darryl Hammond would
work six exhausting days a week on Saturday Night Live, and I’d see him
regularly on his ONE night off, Monday, at the Comedy Cellar in Greenwich
Village, exercising his comedy muscles to keep himself sharp and relevant. I am
in awe of the professional working comic, because it is a fucking GRIND to keep doing it,
day after day, for shitty pay (when one is not a household “name,”) weeks or
months or years on the road, and little to show for their sweat except the occasional
Comedy Central appearance or Aruba tourism commercial.
Read what Louis
has to say, and watch the clips. Watch “Louie” on F/X or Netflix or Hulu or
wherever you can download the show. Go see him live, of course. He has done something
revolutionary lately: he has started offering tickets to his shows, or five
dollar downloads of his specials, directly through his site https://buy.louisck.net/ , rather than having
to pay Ticketmaster and have the scalpers scoop up the damn tickets and resell
them at insane prices. He writes funny emails to his fans, and he is one
hard-working honest motherfucker.
In honor of
Louis, I decided to be honest and finally (!!!) tell my guy I fucking loved
him. It made my stomach stop flipping around in barf-circles and you know what?
He said he loved me right back. Right then. It doesn’t mean the rules of our
relationship have altered or that all will be rainbows and unicorns from now
on. It means that life is fucking short; people should be told they are loved,
and screw the rules. Screw the system of withholding for the sake of preserving
some sort of pride or ego or preventing heartbreaking pain. It’s all bullshit. Just be
fucking truthful when you want to share something of yourself. It will change
your life. And it may change someone else’s perception that they are all alone
in their weird world, and that feeling of “Hey, I am completely alone and no
one gives a shit what I do or think” might just evaporate briefly and be
replaced with a feeling of “Hey, someone fucking gets me.”
And that, folks,
is why I do what I do. It is scary as hell to be vulnerable and reveal your
guts. But you get to fly out that airplane door, see the world from a wonderful
new perspective, and have the thrill of your goddamn life, parachute be damned.
And this final clip shows jumping out of that airplane door, with the parachute... well, you'll see...
(& only the kind who can handle a
frank talk on sexuality with a dash of humor)
I have been feeling
rather flattered lately. Received many
compliments on my photos. A few were
from certain individual men who can at times make me tingle. They now live far enough away that I can
tingle safely. Little chance of actual
contact. We are all so scared of having our hearts stomped on in one way or
another... especially if earlier stompings are still interfering with
free breathing.
In spite of much, I
have to continue to acknowledge my attraction to men. It may or may not be the whole story, but it
is real. I sometimes question my
heterosexuality. I have wondered at
times if I were raised in a free society where neither orientation is
considered the right one or the wrong one, would I be bisexual. Life isn't over, so who knows what lies ahead.
In my senior year of
high school, I joined a filmmaking group and turned out to be the only straight
girl in the group. I went to an all-girl high school where most of the gay
girls were out, at least at school. But,
like in the larger world, the majority of students identified as heterosexual. So it felt shocking to me to discover myself
as the heterosexual minority of one in the filmmaking group. I remember feeling weird the way I would if
everyone had been Chinese or anything identifiably different, and for a moment, I wanted to leave. In my head, it went something like, "If
you leave now, it would be only because everyone is gay. Is that okay with you?No. That's
not a good reason to walk out when minutes ago you wanted to make a film about
the school just like everyone else in this room. If you leave for no other reason than they are
gay, well that is what prejudice is. And they get to make a film, and you don't." So I stayed.
We became friends. They tolerated so many straight girl questions
of mine and did their best to answer. One
of those girls is a woman I am still friends with now. We don't see each other as often as we could I
suppose. But we are in touch, and it is
heartfelt. She and her love came to see
me in a production of Vagina
Monologues.A whole bunch of us went
out one night to see lesbian theatre in the South Bronx.We have mutual admiration for each other. When I told her how patient they were back in
high school with my questions, I learned that they didn't see it that way at
all. They felt so good that a straight
girl wanted to know them and didn't look down on them. They found me so open-minded. When introducing me to other people at times
back then, they'd say, "She's straight, but she's cool." I have since
of course had many gay friends, but that group was my first real experience. So my world wasn't as closed as it might have
been. It has typically had people of
many kinds in it. Plus I live in the
Bronx, New York which makes it conducive to having many different kinds of
people in one's life, helping shape it. Just ethnically speaking, over 20
languages are spoken in this borough. It's
a real opportunity to meet the world. Anyway,
this was the long scenic road to saying that back in high school, I was
introduced to the songs of Lavender Jane (Alix Dobkin). This always remained in
my mind somewhere.
One of the men I was
referring to earlier calls me from time to time to express something
good-natured.When he lived in the same
city as I do, he seemed to want to run toward and away from me at the same
time. I may have felt the same. It was
too close in emotional time to all the trauma of my own hell to feel normal.
Not even sure what my normal is anymore. On one of these calls, he knew I was going
through something hard and he left me a message reminding me that I have a good
soul and that I should have mercy on my soul. His sentiment sounded so sincere, not clichéd,
and actually made me feel better. It
just reminded me that I have the power to let myself feel better much of the
time. And I did have an open heart to
receive his words. At times, I have
rerun that message in my head just to help my shoulders go down and my
breathing flow. I wondered again why we
didn't get together when we could have. I
am trusting God/the bigger picture/the universe that things went as they needed
to for both of us. He's with the woman
he is supposed to be with probably. They
had years together and then were on a break (yes, like Ross and Rachel though
Rachel didn't see it that way -- I was always with Ross on that one). Starting with someone new can feel like
work.But I waver, going back and forth
where I feel platonically toward him and where I don't. In terms of dating, it didn't ever get off the
ground. I don't count a pizza after a
poetry reading that we did not plan to meet at but happened to both go to as a
date. But in terms of beginning to get
to know each other beyond the poetry readings, that did start. And now though he's in another state, he seems
to want to continue. I seem to have
trouble. I think because my heart is
open and tears so easily flow, and I can't stand the sad sack I can be. Yet he seems to be the kind of man with whom I
can feel safe.He has experienced my
anger and disappointment, my affection, my concern, accepted an apology from me
that I needed to give, heard my prose, my poetry, and my comedy, and still says
I’m awesome.I get teary just re-reading
what I wrote.
In some ways, I have
returned to some degree to where I was in my emotional growth before I got
swallowed into a relationship that expired long before it actually ended. I remember in my twenties wondering about me
and the possible bisexual inside. Back
then, homosexuality was just getting off the mental illness list. I was born into a very problematic (yet
special) set of circumstances, and anything else that wasn't considered
"normal" was going to tip the scale of what I could bear. When I was 17½, my family (excluding my
mother) disowned me for dating a black man and not lying or feeling
ashamed about that. It was awful and yet
maybe necessary for me to have had a shot at life. A former therapist and I once called it a
disguised blessing. Anyway, I cannot
imagine that dating a woman would have gone over well. But none of that was conscious at the time. I was a product of the mindset that straight
was normal and gay was abnormal. So even
when a girlfriend in eighth grade wanted me to teach her how to
tongue-kiss, the best I was able to do was explain and draw diagrams.
My grandmother had
gotten upset that I wasn't upset over attending an all-girl high school. It was one of the better schools of my
choices, and she knew that. She wasn't
sorry I was going there, but she was uncomfortable with my comfort. I assured her I liked guys but not 9th through
12th-grade boys. I had little tolerance
for the immaturity. I dated older males.
That wasn't thrilling to her either,
understandably. Everything was layered
with complication.
Anyway, getting into
what turned out to be a very long involvement (that turned into a marriage of
sorts) and staying together beyond the point of it being healthy, stunted my inner
growth. So many things I used to wonder
about have now returned to my consciousness. Many things I used to want to do are in
process. Months after the separation, I
got cast as the title role in "I Am Tricky Nicky" -- a very off
Broadway play by Adam Samtur. We were
reviewed twice, and my performance was highlighted in both reviews. So while I was enduring a terrible time in
some ways, my teenage child getting used to go against me in a divorce and all
sorts of emotional horror, blessings were present in other ways. A long ago person found me, Blake, and that is
another tender-hearted story, but the part that is relevant here is that he
told me that the universe would not abandon me. I held onto that tightly. The mix of things taking place definitely felt
like loved ones who had passed over were pitching in to help me along with
people right here on Earth.
Recently, a man who
only knows me on line told me I was "ridiculously appealing." I assumed that, based on other things he said
with his male friends, that was his cleaned up choice of words. It did feel good, I admit. He's in another state too. First, I wished he
was closer. Then I was glad he was
farther. Oy. In many ways he is ALL WRONG for me. Red flags are flying. I told God, "I get it. I'm being given an opportunity to see what
I've really learned about myself from past decisions and if I can apply it. I get it, God."
So how am I doing on
my midterms you might wonder. The miles
help. Yes, I need the help. There is something very appealing about a high
testosterone man. It lasts for a short
time. If it goes on longer than it
should, I feel zapped. But when it's
good, it's sexy. He sent me this which
probably expresses what I'm trying to better than I can.
That, to me, is one
of the hottest, sexiest, most intense and beautiful 5 minutes on video. But does she look happy!?Yet that emotional turmoil and intensity is
home to me.It’s real and somewhat
tortured and beautiful and passionate; nothing fake. Exhausting though.
Back to off-video
real life. He said he might be able to
visit family in Brooklyn for a week this spring. I said, "Hey! Get back!" We laughed.Days later, he spoke of that falling through and how he’d have no place
to stay.Hmmm.I said nothing.
I do like a man with balls, as
I've said to friends in the past, but getting the size right on those balls --
that's the challenge.
Some things may just
have to remain fantasy for now or for forever or until the right level of
alcohol changes that.
(Not me in the photo – just in my head do I look that fit.)
Some call it laziness*, I call it energy conservation. Just doing my part. You're welcome.
Things that didn't happen over my winter break:
1) My short story(ies)
2) My novel(s)
3) Exotic Trip to Exotic Getaway
4) Clothing change
5) Papers graded
6) Children's book
7) New Material
8) The invention of a line of business attire made from the same material as my comfy bathrobe.
9) Proper diet
10) Exercise
11) Taxes
Things that did happen over my winter break:
1) Spent time with Friends (Words & Scramble)
2) Breaking Bad Seasons 1-4
3) Paul Williams Documentary
4) Read dozens of short stories written by others
5) Depression and Jealousy (see 4)
6) Chinese food
7) Pizza (gluten free for me)
8) Identity Thief (this really would have been better on the "didn't happen" list)
9) Shoprite from Home (shopped online, delivered to my door)
10) Life of Pi (book)
11) Enlightened (HBO series) (see #7)
Talking to my friends is a litany of
ailments and disgust – it appears that the hustle and bustle of the
Big Apple lose their appeal once your body starts turning against
you.
One friend complains all he does is go
to work and come home over and over and over again. He fails to see
the point in such an existence but it could be worse I guess...he
could add housework and eyebrow tweezing but luckily for him those
aren't a part of his boring relentless life.
Housework and eyebrow tweezing seem to
be mainly the domain of the women I know and what a bitch it all is.
Tweezing eyebrows was a pain in the ass and is now near impossible
with the rapidly dwindling sight of a person who has been staring at
a computer screen for the last twenty years.
In fact, even in the realm of the
endless onslaught of bodily malfunctions and strange growths that
happen to us formerly tight, gorgeous youths, the eyebrows have a
horror that stands out – you haven't really been depressed till you
get your first George Whipple eyebrow – you know the white one that
is three times as long as all the nice black ones and its also curly.
You know the one, you have to stand sideways in the mirror to see it
and good luck getting your tweezers onto it. You know you have to
look at it with your bad eye. Oh when does it end?
And housework, well I don't have to
tell you, ladies, that there is no more thankless and repetitive time
waster than housework, except facebook. But facebook has cat
pictures and no gross pee-pee smell.
Another friend is always sick. He's
not sure if he's sick or just old, a common complaint of mine. I
don't want to run to the doctor every time I fart, on the other hand
don't gas and angina feel exactly the same?
When you're in you're twenties it
doesn't matter how shitty you may feel – you realize statistically
you're most likely going to survive. You tough it out, try to get
some sleep, and in the morning, you feel great. In your forties it
is perfectly acceptable and statistically plausible that you could be
getting ready to kick. Confidence, out the window, replaced by fear.
Fear of dying, fear of going to the hospital for a non-lethal
illness and fear of then getting kicked off your insurance or worse,
getting your husband pissed off at you.
A couple of times I did end up in the
ER and oh what a clusterfuck that place is! First of all the EMTs
yell at you. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? DID YOU TAKE ANY DRUGS? HOW
MANY FINGERS AM I HOLDING UP?
Then they put their stretcher on our
new coffee table that got delivered that afternoon! It was
hilarious. I was half unconscious but I kept looking at my husband,
and wondering if he would ask them to move the stretcher. He did!
Hey, that coffee table was expensive!
When I told them I needed a painkiller
they said they don't do that. I said I'd take something from their
personal stash. They were not amused.
Middle age is a disaster that I don't
think one can recover from. Everything is worse now, my vision,
hearing, stamina, strength, and even mental acuity, which is the
biggest slap in the face ever, akin to your first gray pube, which,
let me tell you, is no picnic.
What do you have left when your whole
thing was your smarts? Now I can't remember a single thing. Not a
thing I need to do, like strangle the cat, nor a thing I ate, like a
box or two of Entenmann's donuts. Now I know how those aging
beauties feel – you remember them from your 20's – the fading
gorgeous ladies that came out of nowhere and pierced you with their
sarcastic talons from the wrong side of forty. You didn't even know
you were competing with them, and yet there they are, sitting between
you and your special friend trying to be cute. But forty does not
make you cute. Seventy makes you cute. Maybe.
In fact, the last time I spoke to my
seventeen year old niece, she said of my husband and me, “You guys
are so cute!” I wanted to strangle her too but I didn't put it on
the list, and I already mentioned, if it isn't on the list, it
doesn't happen. That's all.
But here's what will really turn your
stomach – When my husband turned fifty my Mom remarked “Oh I'd
kill to be fifty again!” I practically hyperventilated. Have you
ever heard someone wish to be an age that you haven't even hit yet?
It is shocking and horrible. And once you hear it, you can't un-hear
it!
I wish I had some words of wisdom to
impart but I don't. I just had to share all the horrific stuff
that's been going on! I'm glad I found out I'm not the only one
feeling this way. Anyway, you know what they say about getting old,
it sucks, but the alternative is worse.
Did you have a classmate who seemed out of
place in elementary school? Someone who should
have been on a construction site or lifting crates at a dock, and not your Catholic
school 8th grade “reading buddy”? My “reading buddy” megalith Edwina Preston*, wore a fringe of false hair tied around her near bald head. Picture, if you will, a female Forest Whitaker as a brooding rogue monk.
I’ll admit that when I sat BESIDE my “reading buddy” I felt quietly smug about my excellent comprehension scores. Dear Reader, know I was veryquietlysmug because the rest of the day, every day, I sat IN FRONT of Edwina Preston, who saw before her a ready target; its bull’s eye, literally at her fingertips.
We sat at wooden desks, their inkwells empty with the advent of the cartridge pen,
soon to be eclipsed by the ball point.
I won’t say it was racism (could it have
been alphabetical?) all the black students (three girls and three boys) in
grade 8A were in the back two rows. Last
in my row Edwina Preston was just a dark blur in the peripheral vision of Sister
John Capistrano**. With an assist by her
remote location, Edwina’s genius was the petty nature of her constant attacks. A spit ball to the neck, a tug on my (Peter
Pan collar) uniform blouse, or a quick kick to my shin once a week, could be an "accident" or overlooked. But getting away with all
three and more daily was just brilliant stealth harassment. Of course Capistrano would only notice if I
turned around to deliver my nemesis a retaliatory sneer or righteous scorn; my
infrequent and laughingly ineffectual response to Edwina’s strikes against me.
So as the wussy I was, I took Preston’s petty blows day after day, until this particular day Edwina discovered I offered an additional well hidden point of attack, my ass. The open area between my seat and my seat back left just enough of my rear end exposed to present the perfect (hidden) target for the
pointy end of Preston’s protractor.
After protracted protractor jabs, I raised my hand and asked Capistrano if I could speak with her.
In the hallway outside our classroom I
explained the difficulty I was having and asked if I could change my seat. Sister Capistrano’s response was, “What do
you think this is a restaurant?” As I
walked back to my seat I don’t know who annoyed me more, Capistrano, Preston
or myself for my impotence. I sat down
and immediately felt the point of Preston’s protractor. With no recourse, I was
left annoyed, frustrated and pricked.
No help would be forthcoming
from Sister Capistrano, whose default response to any and all situations was to
torture everyone. Like the time, red faced
and teary eyed, she castigated, fulminated and then sentenced the entire class to
an hour with our hands clasped behind our heads. During lesson she uttered
the heretofore unheard term “Slavs”.To the oblivious ear, it sounded like slobs.The whole class, in a spontaneous collective and
innocent display of ignorance, burst into laughter. To Sister Capistrano our pre-teen hilarity resounded
like a venomous and personal ethnic slur. Who knew?
Edwina Preston my persistent
in-class antagonist just happened to live directly across the street from
me. Somehow Edwina and I never crossed
paths on Putnam Avenue, but clearly no good would come from goading that Forest
Whitaker doppelgänger into switching her campaign of annoyance to the
block. I’m talking Vaseline on the face
and razor blades hidden in the hair, down and dirty fighting. Did I mention my advanced state of wussiness?I did not even watch street fights.At the
first hint of neighborhood fisticuffs, I ran home and hid under an area rug.
This is now, that was then. Yes Dear Reader, I went to school during the
last century. What is the 2013 response
to an annoying primary school classmate?
Kill her… "These boys were
not just bringing a gun to school and waving it around. This was a plan. They
were going to carry out the plan that day, either at morning recess or
lunch," Rasmussen told MSN News. Prosecutor:
Fifth-grade boys plotted to kill ‘annoying’ girl. It’s a new day and a new time. Yes it’s all in the timing boys and girls. *Close, but not her real name ** Her real name, what the heck!
In addition to
my real estate day job, I have a great bartending gig on Sunday and Monday
nights here in NYC. It’s just a short shift, easy because there are ten seats
and it’s mostly wine and mixed drinks, very little side-work, no counting of
receipts, the owners are wonderful to me, I get a free meal and drink, and I
get paid for my credit card tips THAT NIGHT. Amazing. I also have great
regulars. They tip well, like me, and usually keep me entertained. And
sometimes I gain wisdom from their experiences.
There is a
lovely couple who sit at my bar almost every week, and they always order dinner
and plenty of vino, and over-tip me every time. They are somewhat newly married,
and seem to be a great match. She is smiling, open, smart, sweet, and funny; he
is dead-pan hilarious in a corny way that I adore. I amuse them by doing my “funny
jig” – for their eyes only – when I am outside smoking a sneaky ciggie on the
sidewalk. I look ridiculous, and they watch me through the plate-glass window
and laugh. The wife will beg me to do my jig every time. I wait for the
sidewalk to be clear of pedestrians and delivery-men, and quickly make a
complete ass of myself, solely for their reaction. I am a hopeless hack, but I
have always been willing to be completely goofy to elicit a laugh, especially
for these people. They are worth the potential embarrassment.
I was
struggling, as I continue to struggle, to come to grips with the present “uncommitted”
relationship I am in. I have read “He’s Just Not That Into You,” and been told
to follow “The Rules,” and have read countless blogs and advice columns and
psychology articles regarding relationships and commitment and what women
should (Be fun! Play hard to get!) and shouldn’t
do (Don’t call or text him too often! Don’t settle for scraps!) to manipulate/manage
their love lives. It all seems so ridiculous and dishonest. I am nothing if not
ridiculously honest. And I never learned to play games to “catch” a good man.
My mother never instilled in me the need to be anything but my plain old
romantically hopeless self. I had some wonderful, loving, open, mature men in
my love life as a young woman, and I always thought it would be so. As I
thought the well would never run dry of potential mates, I just carried on
blithely, sure that when the time was right, I would settle down, marry, have
two kids and live my life with my love right next to me. That has changed
somewhat, as I think I am too old to start having children, but the basic
thought that I’d find a partner in life has remained.
I shared my
angst with the married couple. The wife looked to her husband and said, “Do you
have any advice from a man’s perspective?” He thought for a minute and
suggested I make a list of Pros and Cons regarding the relationship. Then he
said,” You have to figure out what you want.”
Ah. THAT. My
Achilles heel. What Iwant. What. the fuck. do I want?
My meandering,
indecisive, inconsistent life path has plagued me since I set foot in this
blasted city, and here I am, getting grey hairs and crow’s feet and I still don’t
know what the hell I want. Well, specifically, I don’t know how to clearly
articulate what I want and then set a course that leads me there, or if not
there, then steer myself closely enough to it that I might feel is some sense of accomplishment.
Oh, I have written long lists of my wants in my journals, but then promptly
forgot or buried the want in order to do what I thought I HAD to do to get by. The
day-to-day overwhelms me, it seems. I get things done, sure. But living at subsistence
level is not enough for me.
Here’s what I
want: I want to write and perform my own one-woman show, and have it be a
success, and go on tour after a successful run on Broadway. I want a sunny,
spacious apartment overlooking Central Park with a huge patio and housekeeper
and cook and a beautiful beach house to escape to. I want enough money to
provide my mother with a lovely home wherever she desires, and a pied-a-terre
in the city for when she comes to visit, and give her the bankroll to have
security in her golden years. I want to pay back all the friends and family who
have lent me money and bought me dinner and drinks throughout these lean years,
and always pick up the check in the future.
And I want Love.
Deep, reciprocal, abiding Love. I want company. I want to make coffee and share
my day with someone who likes me as I am. Jigging, goofy, ridiculously honest
me. Intense me. Sexual me. Impatient me. Scattered me. Scared me. Someone who
opens their arms to me when I need comforting, even when I don’t ask for it.
Someone who loves that I love him. Someone who checks in, listens, and talks
about his dreams and fears in return. Someone who likes to lie in bed eating
bagels and lox and reads the Sunday Times with me, sometimes reading aloud his
favorite articles or quotes. A funny and fun guy who dances with me and brings
me pink flowers just because. Someone who treats my parents with love and
respect and understanding, and who loves and respects and understands his own
family, quirks and all. A man who genuinely likes women, and particularly,
strong, funny, sharp-witted ladies. A man who likes my friends, and has great
friends himself. Strong and creative and curious and empathetic. That is what I
want.
I haven’t gotten
close to my career and money ambitions, but I am making changes and have
started to write more, perhaps finally getting to the point where I write my
damn one-woman show. I am trying to be a more focused person, but a lifetime of
bad habits is slow to break. I will endure, and keep trying. It’s what gets me
up in the morning. I am forever competitive. I am hungry for more.
And I have found
someone who fits much of what I’ve been looking for. He is someone I admire and
desire and who makes me laugh often. He is kind and creative and hardworking. He
is affectionate and thoughtful and calls his parents daily. He asked me to his sister's house for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I met his parents. He bought me presents and cards for Christmas, my birthday and Valentine's Day, and spent those days with me. He brings me coffee just the way I like it when I spend the night at his place. He likes the books and videos I suggest. He holds my hand in public, and has introduced me to his friends. He has helped me move, and lets me store my boxes in his spare office space. He pays for dinner and drinks and ciggies. He makes me dinners. And breakfasts. He is a strong man. He is so sexually attractive to me that I have to restrain myself from jumping him 24/7.
I have been dating him for about seven months now. I am in love with him. We have not said "I love you" yet. Well, actually, he said "I love you, baby" the day after Valentine's, at precisely 2:45 p.m. as I was headed to the subway, and though it struck me hard that he said it, I do wonder if it was said rather accidentally, like one tells one's parents they love them before one ends a phone call. I did not say "I love you, too." I was holding my breath, ready to hug him hard and whisper it back to him. But I hesitated, unsure if I would ruin the moment by pouncing on those longed-for words too hungrily. He knows I love him. And his actions tell me he cares very much about me, even if he is not in love with me.
And he loves his Freedom.
He does not want
a Girlfriend. Or more precisely, he does not want to have to commit to only being with me as far as sexual relations go. He wants me in his life, but does not want to be a Committed Boyfriend. At
least, that is what I understand from what he tells me. He is honest, and
always has been. He sleeps with other ladies sometimes. I am free to do the same, either men or ladies, he does not seem to care. We don't talk about specifics, except safety issues and the fact that I don't like to think of him with other ladies. I think he said he felt the same way, but also said he cannot ask me to be committed if he is not. We once spoke of what we would do if we happened upon one another if we were with another person on a date (of course, I brought it up, as I always the only one to bring up the "relationship issues.") It occurred because we ran into each another one night as a young man was walking me to my stop, and though the man was clearly interested in things going further, I bid him a kind farewell (he knew about my "relationship") and followed my guy to our regular bar, because he asked me if I wanted to join him, and I did. So there it is.
We can’t always
get what we want, but am I getting what I need? Does anyone get what they need?
Maybe. I see some of my dearest friends and family in wonderful relationships.
Is it always that way? No. It is work; difficult at times - exasperating,
tiring, unsexy, and gross, trying, and compromising work. But if they come
through the bad shit together, they are ready for the good times with their
hands together, sharing something intimate and deep. They have trust. They have
someone to drink coffee and fry bacon with. I want that shared bacon.
That married
couple from the bar has set some old, rusty wheels in motion. I may have to jig
my silly jig a thousand times to get the gears greased, but I am willing to
make a fool of myself if I can get close to what I really want.
So I am figuring
it all out, day by day. Am I being a doormat, or learning to be patient and
adult and give the space my love needs to find his way? Am I hoping things will
change, or content with the good company I have on occasion? Can I make it
through the day, the days, without a
check in phone call and still know that I am special to this man? Will the
nauseating butterflies in my gut ever fly away, leaving me warm and happy and
feeling fully loved? Am I asking for too much, or not enough? Fuck if I know. All
I can do is keep jigging in front of that damn plate glass window, willing
myself to keep up the dance and watch the people mutely laugh through the
glass. It is who I am; a silly, silly girl in a woman’s body, waiting for my
moment of bliss. I have my freedom to do as I please.
On Saturday afternoon,
I was stretching and crawling and searching and escaping and reaching and
embracing and sliding all over a clean Brooklyn apartment floor in my jeans and
a tank top with my hair long and loose while being photographed and
videotaped.It felt so free and fun in
that creative way like when handed a big lump of clay to mold any way one
wants.I’m not trying to imply I have
that kind of flexibility, but it was that free.Unlike posing for the actual drawing, I didn’t need to hold any position
for more than a second or two.So the
choices were many.The artist told me to
make shapes and do whatever I wanted.She would not direct.With
clothes on, all kinds of leg lifting felt comfortable.It reminded me of the safe comfort of being
in those flannel footsie pajamas as a child.She put on music.I started to
feel I was in a silent movie telling a dramatic tale with my body and face, but
mostly my body.I felt free to
choreograph, which felt new to me and fun.
On Valentine’s Day, I had
found a posting on craigslist for a one-time gig.An hour at most.A female artist needing a clothed female
model to photograph for reference shots.Her process would be videotaped for possible inclusion in a show in
March.The payment was fair.I applied with photos and a description.She got back to me with a link to her site
and wrote that she’d love to work with me.She needed natural light which meant a daytime meeting.We set a time for Saturday, she gave me good
travel directions to her part of Brooklyn, and she included her number if
needed.I’m usually convinced that on
craigslist, like anywhere, more folks are not murderers than are.(Sex offenders – that’s another story.)
In about a half hour,
we were done.I had crawled, rolled,
writhed, and really stretched.She had
taken between 500 and 700 shots.I had a
unique and somewhat therapeutic experience, a combination of dramatic acting and re-visitingtoddlerhood.She seemed
very pleased with the shots.That
matters to me.It never feels good to me
if I don’t feel that I did a good job.She
handed me the payment for an hour’s work.I now was able to put money on my metrocard, and I will get to payday.
Leah Yerpe is having a solo
show at Le Poisson Rouge in the Village on March 6th.Drawings of me won’t be in this show as the
work has already been selected.I’d be
honored if drawings of me are in a future show. I like looking at her work.I like the whole idea.For those intrigued, below are her words and
a sample of the work that will be exhibited.
an exhibition by
leah yerpe
The Gallery at LPR, on March 6th 6:30 - 9:30pm. This solo exhibition features
12 new artworks, including 5 new pieces never previously exhibited.
Stellify means to transform or be
transformed into a star or constellation. Creation myths of nearly every
ancient civilization include stories of humans transformed into constellations.
My favorites are those in which a god, noticing one of our ancient ancestors fleeing
some terrible danger, takes pity and saves them by placing among the stars.
There is something simultaneously beautiful and terrifying about this concept.
Much of my recent work was developed with these stories in mind.
There will be refreshments and an
open bar serving alcohol, so we ask that guests be 21+.
The Gallery at Le Poisson Rouge is located at 158 Bleecker
Street, New York, NY 10012
Sometimes, not only is the person not a
murderer, but they are actually who they say they are.And a collaboration of sorts can take place.
