But who can afford to travel?

I admit it. I was the naysayer. I was the one who said, "Nay." "Nay, beloved, we absolutely cannot go to the Canadian Rockies, (nor any Rockies, for that matter) as we have no money, and are both marginally employed. We have debt. We have dentist bills. Here in the city we have not yet paid rent, and upstate there is a sewer hook-up to penny up for, besides. Nay. Nay nay nay nay nay."

"Ah," said my lover, ignoring my goat-like allocution. "What you do not realize is that we are both mostly unemployed. My dear, there is a big difference between mostly unemployed and all unemployed, now isn't there?"

These sound like the words of the Devil if I ever heard them, not the quote from The Princess Bride I know it is. Temping me further into debt. Debt, a four-letter word synonymous with Lucifer in my mid-west upbringing. My grandmother, 100 years old this summer, would not take out a loan if her life depended on it. Especially if her life depended on it.

But I found a list in the bedside table soon after that day, in the drawer on my side we never open. It was a list of all the national parks he'd like to visit, and there are check marks next to the ones he's been to, (all three of them) and pitiful, vacant little squares outlined next to all those he hasn't. I've been raving about the color of the water in the glacier fed lakes and rivers in Banff ever since I visited years ago. I know he would love it, with his photographer's eye and his outdoorsman's heart. And I am drawn back to the mountains like a flower to the sun.

"Let's make a budget," says he. A budget. Just like his always next-thing-to-bankruptcy theater company is always having meetings about. No, thanks. I can do the math in my head. A budget will not give us more money than none! Anything we have "extra" should be going toward debt. Or classes for me, or a new camera for him.

To humor him, mostly, I sit down at the budget meeting.

And next thing you know, (four months later or thereabouts...) we're on a plane. Eight hours by way of Dallas, to Calgary, from New York, albeit, but...on a plane. To the vacation of a lifetime.

You know you're on a vacation of a lifetime when there are lots of Asian people and old people already there when you arrive. They know how they want to spend their precious days on the continent, or left on this earth. They know exactly where they want to be. And that was where we were, at the feet of glaciers, gargantuan things drifting and melting like ice cream between your toes, but between cyclopian, beautiful mountains, embracing you from each and every direction you look. On the American side of the park, those will be gone by the year 2030 or before.

How often have I heard this from my friends? "I would love to travel, but I just don't have the money." I'm here to tell you that with a little determination, it may not be entirely as out of reach as you think. For the record, this is how we did it:

First, we got American Airlines Citibank credit cards. (I accidentally got two. 'Nother story.) At the time the deal was, you get 20K miles after you spend $259 on the card. Colin got himself bumped off planes over Christmas and got some vouchers. Between us, we had more than enough American Airlines "cash" to get us there for free.

So, our expenses were:

Taxis $61 (unavoidable expense with luggage in NYC)
Gas 160.05 (we did drive over 1200 miles - it's pricey in Canada)
Lodging 614.58 (camped 3 nights, stayed with friends 2, then B & B's)
Boat rentals 80 (couldn't pass up a ride on a blue lake...)
Park fees 78.40 (bummed us out a little that it was that much)
Car rental 383.08 (yeah, that was a biggie)
_________________
SUBTOTAL = 1397.91

(I don't count food, because you have to eat anyway, but in the interest of full disclosure we did spend 400 bucks on food.)

Subtract ($470) We sublet our apartment for $500, minus $30 in PayPal fees

TOTAL COST OF TRIP = $927.91
(Split in two = 463.96)

So, for less than 500 bucks a piece, we had ten days of the most fabulous vacation ever!

Our itinerary at a glance:

Day 1) Flew into Calgary, drove down to Glacier Mountain National Park in Montana and spent the night at a hotel in rural Alberta between. (When I called to confirm the reservation, a young woman's voice wailed, "You're from New York and you're staying HERE? That's Hi-LAR-ious!!!"

Days 2,3 &4) Camped in many Glacier Campground three nights, were joined by our friend John.

Days 5 & 6) Stayed with John and his lovely (and newly expectant) wife, MB, in Kalispell, for 2 nights.

Days 7,8 & 9) Then we chugged up to Banff and stayed in various B & B's for three nights,. which ate up most our budget but was worth it for the fireplace at the first, which yes, we needed to take the chill out of the August air.

Day 10) Stayed at a Thriftlodge in Calagry, ready to get our 7am flight. blech!

A lot of my IC friends admit astonishment that I would attempt such a trip. Many of us won't get on a plane, plane and simple (get it?) much less have sex. And 8 hours? Fugettaboutit. The wait on the tarmac, the stress on the pelvic floor muscles caused by sitting, the general sick feeling you can get...but I have a couple weapons.

First and foremost, I got an aisle seat. Second first, I got a massage the day before we left, with emphasis on the low back and pelvis. Second, I make my way quickly to and from the bathroom just as I notice the door closing and fasten seat belt signs illuminating (if it's spasming, a little hand pressure onthe lower abdomen always does the trick for me) , and engage the help of the flight attendants if there appears to be an unforeseen wait (almost always when flying out of La Guardia.)

I say, "I have a bladder disease and will need to use the restroom about every (half hour)? " "?" denotes tone of voice. But it must also be accompanied by certain body language and facial expression. For those who were not raised in the mid-west or are otherwise friendly-challenged, practice this in front of a mirror: Eyebrows upturned, slight smile (but eyes steady...you do not expect to be denied such a reasonable request...) and lastly, the universal gesture of peace, palms upraised. I'm serious, studies have been done on this. Eyebrows raised and palms upturned is the posture least likely to get you killed when making first contact with another culture. Try it.

Then I say, "Can you tell me right before we're about to take off,?" (or help me figure out how to get to the bathroom within my contraints, etc.) This way you've 1) not done anything sneaky, like get up when you're not supposed to (horrors!) which pisses them off (get it?) 2)enlisted their HELP and appealed to their greater sensibility as a good employee and good human being, as opposed to making demands which put one on the defensive.

I have seriously never had a flight attendant deny me after this approach. In fact, they seem eager to help. from what i can gather with my super-human intuitive skills, the most flight attendants want to 1) encourage us to follow the rules and 2) have something easily within their power they can help with. 3) be proud of the job they're doing. 4) know they've helped somebody out, just like that! It's win-win. We folks with Interstitial Cystitis CAN fly!

I sometimes add drugs like Bentyl or Pyridium to this routine, or a motion-sickness drug. And a little stretching in the airport, walking about during the flight , etc. This time I didn't feel I needed the bladder anasthetic, but I did make sure there was a steady stream of Celebrex in my blood for a few days, to control inflammation, bladder and elsewhere, and I used it liberally on my trip. I also took a small amount of muscle relaxant.

ON the trip, we camped near the bathrooms, and I kept a small "chamber pot" (tupperware) in the tent for those really cold nights - it got down to 38F. I have a Thermarest Dreamtime. If you're not a camper, well, what can I say but that it's the shit! It's an inch of blow up mattress, a half inch of foam and a fleece cover on top of that. I knew that no matter how the beds were wherever we stayed, I could sleep on that comfortably without tweaking my back.

When deciding daytime activities, I let my Ego have a discussion with my Self. With full knowledge that my ego does not always do what is best for my Self. I caused my Self to win. Sure, my ego wanted to do that all-day hike 1700 feet up to Grinell Glacier, like I would have before, and it made it worse that the boys were going (C and his friend) . But I found another ranger-led hike going to Grinell lake, which was only 1.5 miles in and mostly level, I had really good, new tennis shoes, and I hiked with the old people and the children and I liked it. I even kept radio contact with C part of the time, so I felt liek I was part of the fun.

Even better, I could walk the next day. And the next.

The trip was spectacular. I could go on and on. Look for links to C's 900 photos in the future - they'll probably go up on his website. I just want to say that what you may think impossible may in fact be within your grasp, with a bit of planning, talking with you Ego and willingness to be flexible. I'm glad C talked me into it with is Barnum-like sales pitch. It was way worth it.

Now there's only the problem of re-entry.

Talking to My Uterus

So, I saw my Grampa Gyne today. My gynecologist for the past couple of years, I call him Grampa Gyne because of his gray hair, crackly voice, sharp eyes, little glasses and most of all his patient, gentle manner. Gramps never rushes me.

I came to Grampa Gyne on the recommendation of a nurse practitioner at Planned Parenthood, where I've found I usually get some of the best care in the land, no matter what state I'm in. This woman sensed she was out of her element quickly, and wrote down his name and number. "He's an immunologist with a specialty in gynecology," she said. "He's just the guy for you."

Framed pictures of his four grown children are yellowing on the walls of his office, and one of them is the spitting image of a dear friend from Christian summer camp I lost touch with years ago. Somehow this put me at ease. Unusual for a doctor, Grampa always asks how my career is going (dismal, I'm afraid) and how my pelvis is feeling (part of the cause of the former).

GG is a short, overweight, stumpy kind of man, turning seventy this year. I still can't get over how it is that after his wife passed away just over a year ago, he always seems to be on a date. Not that i suspect foul play. It's just that - he's Grampa Gyne, you know? Having asked about what performances I was up to these days, he brought one to my last choir concert. She looked to be in her late 40's, long, sleek black hair, intelligent, slim, and confident. All I could think was, god, women must be desperate these days.

For the first months of our relationship I was very positive. GG seemed to know just what was up. A true scientist, he had more ideas than the last 700 stumped docs behind him. Under his care my yeast named "Crusai" was slaughtered, which had for 16 years withstood onslaught from about a thousand doses of monistat, fluconazole and other antifungals. This man may be old-fashioned, but he has a microscope and he knows how to use it, I mused happily.

GG plunged just as methodically into the question of why my pelvis hurts all the time. Yes, we know about the bladder disease. But why does my uterus hurt? And yes, as a team we can distinguish that from the ever-nagging bladder pain. And why all these white blood cells, this inflammation, and my general feeling of malaise? "Even a hang nail can make you feel very lethargic." he explained. "There's a whole cascade of chemicals which respond to any infection, which cause a whole resulting cascade. All your body is interested is in that one little thing."

This man was determined. Together (and he made me feel it was a team effort) we tried things no one had ever tried in almost 20 years of pelvic purgatory. Several courses of antibiotics (some of which took me to the edge of puking daily) and a couple courses of steroids later, (what are you doing? Oh, just shooting steroids up my hoo-ha!) we had our results.

He says I have just as many inflammatory cells as before. And my uterus still hurts, thank you, you can stop poking that, which means the source of the inflammation is probably the uterus or thereabouts. And yes, I've had it biopsied. (The doc who did that PROMISED it was more painful than childbirth.) It was negative.

GG explained this kind of chronic endometritis is usually seen in people who have infections from their IUD's. I've never had an IUD. I've never dared.

But I do have chronic inflammation elsewhere. Why, just last week I had an MRI of my wrist and what did the film say to my doctor? Inflammation. Years ago somebody stuck a camera down my gut and looked around there. Results? Inflammation. Somebody else peeked inside my bladder, once, too. What did they find? Inflammation. Knee? Inflammation. Hip? Inflammation. Throat? inflammation. Vocal folds? Inflammation. Ankle? Inflammation. I think that soon I will blow up like a balloon.

But all of these doctors will insist that these results have absolutely nothing to do with each other, the eldest with the most vehemence. Meanwhile, all the natural medicine people are out there crying "Inflammation! Inflammation! Inflammation is the root of all evil! HARK! The heart disease, the diabetes, the muscle strains! Exorcize it now! Eat as much stinky-burpy fish oil as you can possibly consume! Drink liquid silver! See your acupuncturist! Eat raw veggies! Do it NOW!!!"

GG asked me if I FELT like any of the antibiotics had made me feel better. No. Steroids? Maybe a little. He said we could keep trying those and see if we get any results.

Call me crazy, but isn't that the definition of insanity? Keep trying something and expect different results?

...other than that or a hysterectomy, he's out of ammo.

I keep talking to my uterus: "What did I ever do to you? I never beat you, I never said nasty words, I never had any babies to beat you up, or stretch you or stick you with little fingers and arms and legs to disturb you in any way. And you! Bladder! What is is you got a gripe about, eh? Did I cheat you in poker in another life? Hip, knee, ankle, wrist, shoulder. You! UTERUS! WHAT! tell me! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

Grampa Gyne said maybe it was just feeling ignored.

Fire Escape Garden

There is a song to summer in Park Slope, Brooklyn. There's music everywhere; an old man playing a Japanese 2-stringed violin on the subway platform at Atlantic Avenue, Opera in Central Park, Latin dance beats coming from open car cars along Sackett Steet which rattle the glass sitting next to my bed. Today I'm drawn out the window of my kitchen by the sound of a woodwind quartet practicing. The sounds float upward for four stories, from a yard 48 feet down and exactly three postage stamp lawns to the West.

I love such an excuse to climb out the window and visit my Fire Escape. My haven - A.K.A. "my "deck." It's my little corner of paradise in rent stabilized Brooklyn where I can escape it all. As the ceiling to the bathroom literally implodes from an unabated flood in the building, and we try to blow up tiny inches of space inside the apartment as if they were some kind of balloon by re-organizing and micro-organizing each desktop, each closet, each cubical foot below the bed, the space OUTdoors gains and gains in importance. Thus, so does summer.

I know the fact I have ten- no, look! Eleven - tomatoes ripening on two vines on my little iron playground in the sky has nothing to do with the spate of 90 degree weather we had at the end of May; their performance must be solely because they know they are loved.

In the midafternoons I pull a rug out to soften metal rungs, place a pillow against the brick wall at my back, spread my legs out where my toes can touch the opposite rail and watch my tomatoes grow in the sun. All mine. (And yes I've been reading books on managing chronic illness and I'm learning about what to do after a stressful day.) I count them, I touch them, water them, dig around in their soil to make sure it is just loose enough, and most of all watch them for any nuance of change, however subtle, since yesterday or the day before, in their little fruits. These have to be the best loved tomatoes in New York City.

There are a few days each year, magical days, when trips out to bask in my green, mid-tree view are not accompanied by the low hum of air conditioners all around. It is not too hot, and not too cold. Someone practices singing in a building across the courtyard. A bluejay alights on the edge of my pea plants and pecks, and I fix the damage done by yesterday's hungry squirrels. In contrast to the competition for space, money and success in the whole of the city, two tiny tomatoes rising from even tinier yellow flowers which I planted in the dirt seems a small miracle.

Of course, I'm not supposed to have this. Any sort of obstruction on the fire escape is strictly vorboten by fire code and a million other laws of common sense, I suppose. But I'm careful to keep things arranged against the outer edge, or hanging; there is plenty room for passing foot traffic (which will surely be necessary in my life time, I'm not altogether naive.) And I figure my landlord will get around to officially forbidding my garden as soon as he fixes the doorknob which has fallen off once a week for three years, the fogged up windows, the broken heat registers, the dark, dangling hallway light and the imploded ceiling, which is about the same time hell will freeze over or thereabouts, so I'm not over worried about losing my little fragment of green just yet.

And the naughtiness of my fire escape garden is half of what is so appealing. I sink into it like a sensual dream. Eve probably felt similarly for her apple. So delicious. So tempting, to pick a tomato a little bit early or over-harvest the herbs. So unlike the rest of my world, where the financial realities of being an artist in NYC bite at my ankles with regularity and the noise of traffic and subways insult embarrassingly delicate ears. Where restless legs disturb sleep, only to become a true nightmare when one discovers a thumb-sized cochroach on one's side in the night. The crushing forces of the Big City have sharpened me, like a pencil, and now I am free to draw the outline of my destiny.

I took my first Indian singing class last Wednesday. Friday I watched a skilled chorus perform a piece written by a friend from Chicago. Last night I walked three blocks to hear an African fusion band. A friend played cello. Two weeks ago Reverie chose its annual playwriting competition winners. The winner is a favorite of mine, about a group of Vietnam Vets who reunion in a Northwestern Cabin and wind up talking about today's military engagements. A friend is premiering a short version her new company's manifestation of Orpheo et Euridice last week and next.

The woodwind players down on the ground are not very good - they squeak and squack with the telltale signs of adult beginners. But there is almost a scent to the air which carries such tones, and it gentles the aura of ineptitude to one of a private, happy, and lofty nostalgia. Here in my Escape in the trees, a reminder of all the good reasons I've come to live in this place of unrelenting fire - distinct challenges, unique opportunities and fine artists who make good music.

Dreams

The town car is quickly encroaching on my space in the cross walk. It's black, and it moves like an animal; impatient, and menacing. Hunting pedestrians, I presume.

It's 11am. I'm a block from home, and still wearing my pajamas. Colin has already made one valiant effort to get the drain in our shower working, and I've already made one valiant attempt at eating. Both have failed. I've come out here for stronger Draino and baby food.

"Hey!" I yell! I reach out my free hand to tap loudly any metal I can touch, which is what walkers and bikers in the city do when threatened as such. The predator/car stops before I get the chance.

It's then I notice the Jesus decals, affixed, one each, on the car's headlamps. I wonder fleetingly if those have been installed just so that when a pedestrian like me is finally run down, in the last moments of their life, they will see the face of Jesus. Getting closer and closer, and then , BOOM! Perhaps they will mistake it for the light at the end of the tunnel, with Jesus, just as they'd always thought he would look, floating at the center of the funnel of light. Perhaps the driver finds that comforting.

What I would find comforting right now is simple food. Having taken only 6 of the 14 required days of my course of two antibiotics for an infection of my ovaries and uterine lining, I must anticipate a bumpy week ahead. I've taken metrodinizole (flagyl) several times before, and always been treated to days on end of nausea and general stomach upset. Followed by months of chest pain, which no one believes, because no one else has ever reported it to Phizer. Now it's gone generic, and even Phizer balks and responding to any such report. This time I'm obliged to mix it with another antiobiotic, at half the dosage but twice the length of time, so I'm laying in supplies for the coming week. White bread, meat, rice, pasta, and sugar for when I need a quick boost.

Boost in energy or spirits, I'm not sure I can tell the difference. Colin came home last night from the theaters at 59 East 59th (called, incidentally, 59 East 59th theaters.) Dr. Ruth came to see Rearviewmirror, (http://www.reverieproductions.org/ ) and loved it (or so the person sitting in front of her said - "there was this little tiny woman sitting behind me who loved the show!") There have been three very positive reviews published. The director is well known and the writer, a brilliant, award-winning friend of ours, is also beginning to make a name for himself. The venue is equally reputable.

Yet the New York Times has not come. Normally a show with such a pedigree would attract the attention of the Times - After all Billboard, Reverie's last show, with less well-known actors, writer, and director, and at the same location but a smaller theater, at least scored a big photo and some coverage, if not a review. Half the Times review staff is on vacation, or so they tell the P.R. representative at 59 E. 59th, and they won't review a show a week before it closes.

The irony is that if The Times reviewed Rearviewmirror, it may not have to close, The theater is encouraging Colin to extend it, which, however attractive to the two actors who would get their Equity cards if that occurred, is tremendously financially risky. Colin is lamenting his fate when I get in the door. Bitterly lamenting.

When a child falls down and skins its knee, a parent has a couple of choices about how to respond. Does she coddle the child, smothering it in kisses and hugs and words of comfort? Or she can freak out and feed them anxiety about the risks of going out into the world with all those knees and elbows all over the place. Or shall she discipline the child, going on a tirade about the new jeans he's just ruined? Ignore said child until he calms down?

I usually choose a combination of coddling, judging and ignoring when Colin gets like this. Yes, it sucks but it's going to be OK, and yes, you should probably be more financially responsible and get a day job to support your theater company habit, and having said that I think I'll ignore you until you calm down.

Tonight I turned on him. (This may fit into the "freak out" category of coping with the hurt child.) "Aren't you just SICK TO DEATH of other people controlling our lives???" I think he was a little shocked. "I mean, I've been auditioning SOLIDLY for months now, and only ONE CALL BACK! And you labor and sweat over this theater company and the Times doesn't come and it's like some major tragedy, you leave the house early before I'm even up and come home after eleven and I never see you except tired and grumpy, we still can't pay fucking rent!!!"

Well, that's not exactly what I said, but you get the idea. Maybe it's because my infected female organs have not been dutiful in producing whatever happy hormones keep me sane (or deluded) on a regular basis. I feel I've been given a dose of empathy, these past few weeks, for my friends with clinical depression. It's as though someone picked me up by the scruff of the neck, lifted me over a pot of depression, and dunked me in. I wake each morning for my daily dose. So I have to tell it like I see it.

Colin sat on the couch. Silence. "Are you ready?" I asked. "Are you ready to give this all up and have a reasonable life? We both have masters degrees and I haven't been able to buy a new pair of tennis shoes in four years! What the fuck is WRONG with us, anyway?"

We watched Little Miss Sunshine last night. The thing that struck me was that by the end of the movie, every single character had a dream they held dear utterly shattered. Sometimes it was their fault, but most the time it was due to circumstances beyond their control. The teenage boy was colorblind, the father didn't have a recognizable name, the little girl had a bad coach for her routine. But at the end of the day, everybody was fine. Just fine. 'There are winners and losers in this world," the father kept repeating. "The winners never quit." But despite heroic efforts on his part, even he could not force events to shape as he'd wanted them.

Thanks be to Grandpa, who sets Olive straight. "The real losers are the ones who never tried."

I've never suffered delusions of grandeur. All I've wanted in coming to the city was to work in my chosen field, grow in knowledge and skill, and be part of high-quality work. Because the pursuit is artistic doesn't make me different from anyone else. If you were an enterprising scientist, you would want to go where all the best scientists go, right? If you were into space, you'd settle in Houston. If you had cancer, you'd be heading to the best cancer center in the world if it could be afforded.

I was inborn with the skill of singing and communicative movement, therefore naturally I ended up in New York. I've always enjoyed sharing my talent, and honing it. Indeed, it's made up the greater part of my life's work. As a child I was counseled by my father to "Do something you love, and you'll never work a day in your life!" and so I did. And it was fun. When I was actually doing it.

Now I spend 90 percent of my time auditioning for work, and almost none actually doing it.

I had a few regional jobs and a stint on a Broadway National Tour, (which I quit) and since then I've been involved with a few start-up shows in town, all produced on a shoe-string, with material of lower quality than anything I ever did in the middle of the country. At what point does having a dream become counter-productive? When pursuing it causes you to be unable to grow?

Clearly we're not alone on this rambling existential path. Last month I noticed a sign up at the Equity Building: "Starting: A support group for those in their 30's who are thinking of giving up the business. Meets first Tuesday of every month. 7pm, Room 204." Pretty much ALL my actor friends in their 30's are thinking of giving it up. They begin to pine over things like children, a stable a home, and health insurance. And then things get - interesting. Some keep going. Some continue thier waitressing job and continue to train and audition. Some move to Montana, get a job at an architecture firm, and buy a house.

I'm picturing myself, around 80 years old, sitting on my chair, reflective (what are the odds I won't be the reflective type even when I'm 80?) I'm trying to predict which action I take today will produce more regret - not having given to the end of my talents with my very last breath, or not having savings to live comfortably, or even afford that oxygen tube I need up my nose at all times. Or will I wish for something in between?

Then again I may not make it to 80. One of those town cars with Jesus on the headlamps could end my dull if somewhat bizarre life today, or, people apparently die each year from coconuts falling on their heads. (http://www.straightdope.com/columns/020719.html)

For years I've joked about any number of alternate paths I could take. I could dismantle my entire life and moved from the city, on my own or not. With Colin, I could move upstate, where our mortgage on our three bedroom house would be less than what we pay in rent for our one-bedroom apartment here. I or we could open a B & B in the Caribbean - Colin could take people our on sailboat rides for an extra fee.. With my leftover college/retirement fund, I could start a school of International Folk Music in the City. ("World Institute of Music," or WIM - I have already named it.) Would Colin, for his part, be willing to take a right turn or a left with me?

And would turning to a different path produce regrets, or instant and life-long bliss?

"Maybe." Colin says to my query, for the first time in our acquaintance.

Lost and Found

Diaries, 2-13-07

Lost and Found


Above: Mr. Hammond with my Wallet. Alex with his phone


I pack the box carefully. Two white pillar candles and one yellow scented one which I made by hand, wrapped in several layers of bubble wrap and nestled between inches of crisp, shredded paper. Gently, I place a naked kandles business card on top. Next to it, I press a twenty dollar bill. Now to the next box.

These boxes are made of the strands of the fabric of the un-torn part of the universe, I remind myself. No sense shirking on the good stuff. I put a silver phone in one, and close them, snug.

Flashback to last Wednesday, when neither Colin nor I could catch a break. I was in Brooklyn, which, like most of the northeast, has been held under a spell of intense cold for weeks. No cold snap, it promises to linger for weeks to come.

My car, Striker, is beginning to show sure signs of transmission failure. Sure signs. Knowing the cost of a new transmission, I begin to sort out my options. Buy a new car? Out of the question. Buy a used one? Possible, but what would I really get on my meager budget? More problems, for sure.

Leave it parked in a neighborhood where I can be almost certain of its meeting with a chop shop within hours? An interesting consideration. But, oh, morals.

A little disappointed to abandon my exciting plan for insurance fraud, I turn to Alex, proprietor of the body shop which fixed my car after I totaled it in the rain on Flatbush Avenue last year.

How did Alex get in the picture? It's the friends network, of course, working again. My friend Amber knows this girl, Jessica. Jessica used to live across the street from this Turkish repair shop. I don't know how they did it, but they fixed my car for one third the cost I'd been quoted at any other shop. Of course I paid in cash. Of course there were splatters of silver paint all over the car, and used parts left inside. But what did I care? It ran.

This time I show up with baklava in hand. "Sure, we feex transmissions!" says Alex, Turkish accent heavier than usual in the cold. Then he looks down. "Nooo. actually we don't." he smiles. "But I take care of you, Nee-Kee, I take care of you."

He hurries to the door, where there are a number of numbers written down. He picks up the phone. I think years of working in a body shop have erased Alex's ability to speak at medium volume. "Hey! Nikolai! I got nee-Kee here, she is my bes, bes-bes-bessst customer! '95 Satrrun! WHAAT can you do?"

And I find myself promising to bring it back Monday, for a transmission fix at half the price and twice the warrantee time I'd previously been quoted.

"Where should I drop it off? " I ask.

"Oh, no," says Alex, "I drive! *I* take it to da place! You bring it, HERE and I will take it for you!" Big smile. MAybe too big. What, is it going to some witness protection hideout, some top secret warehouse in New Jersey? To a member of the Turkish mafia?

It should be ready Tuesday, he says - plenty of time for me to drive down to Richmond, VA for a call-back audition for Into the Woods next week. Plenty.

I will bring cash, of course.

Back to last Wednesday, the air in the apartment on Sackett Street is dry as the Sahara Desert. I've been waking with my mouth so dry it hurts too much to sleep. Time to get a humidifier.

So I put on my winter suit: two pairs of socks, (one wool), two pair of pants (one polartech) , a long cotton tank, a long-sleeve shirt, a polartech sweatshirt, a large polartech scarf, and wool hat with polartech inlay, boots, and my big, black winter coat. I take most the bulk out of my wallet, carrying only essentials, and I head out.

Which sets in motion the following sequence of events:

Walked 5 blocks, up the hill, bought humidifier.

Walked 5 blocks, down the hill, to bank. Oh, no! I don't have my wallet!

(Stuffed in layer up on layer of winter clothing, the Almighty only knows where I might have dropped it and not noticed.)

But do have a large, cumbersome box dangling from my arm. Need to ditch.

Walked 5 blocks home, up the stairs, deposited humidifier.

Retraced my steps, up the hill, hoping to find wallet. Asked several crossing guards if they'd seen it.

Back at humidifier place, searched boxes of humidifiers - just in case I left it on top.

Guy there suggests perhaps I left it in the box with my humidifier.

Seems like reasonable suggestion; I walk back home. Down the hill, up the stairs.

No wallet. Went back to bank.

Cancelled my ATM card, along with other errands I'd originally intended at the bank.

I kid you not - LEFT MY GLOVES at the bank.

I don't know if I can blame this day on the well-known phenomena of CFS/fibromyalgia "brain fog," or not. Surely we all have times when we walk into a room and can't remember why we're there, but incidents like this have been multiplied many fold for me, ever since I got mono in 10th grade.

Like, I remember, before 10th grade, math was not so easy-breezey like all the other subjects. I had to concentrate, and sometimes got confused. But after returning to school post having mono, I remember sitting in alg/trig class, with the distinct sensation that my teacher had suddenly started expressing herself in Russian. Her copious, curly blonde hair became tentacles which zoomed in and out of focus as I wildly tried to grasp at the merest notion of what she was trying to say. Then I gave up, sitting up, sleeping. Then and there, a whole swath of career paths closed their doors to me. I heard the thud.

Anyone who's ever watched The Princess Bride will remember the scene when Inigo finally comes face-to-face with the six-fingered count. Cornered, the Count promises him fame, riches, power - anything he wants.

"I want my father back, you son of a bitch!"' Inigo says, as he rams the knife into his victim's gut. How many times I have imagined that scene; I am facing my illness, I have cornered it, it is up against a wall, perhaps one of us -or both- is dying.

"I want my BRAIN back you son of a bitch!" And I kill it, right there, on the slope of my semi-consciousness.

It makes me feel better, every time.

Meanwhile, across town, and despite the fact that he appears to have access to most his brain cells, Colin's not faring much better than I.

Two nights ago at 59 E. 59th Theaters, several of us stayed until well after midnight, tearing down the last remnants of Billboard, Reverie's latest show. It was a sleek set, and thankfully not very involved, but lights have to come down, equipment organized and returned, garbage disposed of, workers fed, and lastly, the floor of the theater re-painted. Several hours' work for several people. We made it fun. (Until my car, driven into Manahttan expressly for sherpa duties, was ticketed to the tune of $115. But that's another rant.)

By Wednesday, Colin had but one thing to return - a sound board which would not fit into my ailing Saturn or Dave's hatchback. So, on Wednesday, Colin:

Called a cab service for a van. Set aside the quoted $30 to go 2 miles to the shop.

Van showed up, only it wasn't a van - was a car.

Driver wouldn't help by calling in for a van (as if that would lose him his fare???).

Called the cab company. They told him sure, they'd send a van - in 30 minutes, and now $50.

Said, "fuck that!" So started hailing vans on Park Avenue.

All refused to lower seats in the back for the sound board.

Trekked to U-haul, a mile away, rented a van for $19.99.

Van was in a separate lot, with 7/8 tank of gas... Know where this is going?

Dropped off the sound equipment, put two gallons of gas in the van.

I kid you not, that U-Haul is still trying to charge him $30 for gas!!!


A week later, thinking it would perhaps have been better if I'd never gotten out of bed for the duration of the cold spell, I was still trying to pick up my car. Twice I actually showed up with my $800 in cash, in 50's, to pick it up, and it wasn't ready. Friday at 2:50 I come again, and it'll be ready in 1/2 hour.

So I go to Dunkin Donuts, burning with the cash. Cash feels like a strobe light, especially in such a "transitional" neighborhood. At least they have a bathroom...

doh! psyche! "Out of order" signs posted on BOTH of them. Out of Dunkin's mood, is more like it. Explaining that I'm not a vagrant, I try to gain access. No dice. I go back to Alex's. "I bring it to you tonight, at home!" Promises Alex, an hour later. I am not thrilled; I'm meant to leave for Richmond in the morning.

That night the car never arrives. The next morning, sweetly, Colin offers to pick it up. And he does.

So I'm driving down the New Jersey Turnpike, thinking, wow, this week has been a pain in the ass.

But all is as rectified, as much as it will be. I guess. Credit cards are cancelled, sound board returned, and the car, except for a few intermittent rattles and pings, appears to be in good health. Striker, now over 113,000 miles old, will live to crash another day.

I'm listening to a book on my ipod when I hear some strange music emanating, I think, from somewhere in the car. Radio? Should be over-ridden by my ipod. Pod? Must be some sort of mal-function. Maybe from a passing vehicle. It stops. I begin to peer around me in the car. No - focus on driving.

My phone takes a message. It's Alex. "Nee-Kee! Hello! How arrr you? Listen, I tink I left my phone in your car!" Calllll me, let me know!"

You see what this was, don't you? Perhaps it's because you're reading a streamlined (really!) story, and you know I wouldn't give you any information which was not relevant to the telling of it. Because I, unlike the universe, value your time. (Meanwhile, my real life has plenty of irrelevant information passing through it, and plenty of wastes of time.)

So I didn't put it together. Even when the strange, dance-mix music started up again, and again, I totally figured I'd imagined it. (Another common side-effect associated with chronic illnesses like IC, fibromyalgia and CFS - spontaneous lack of belief in your own perceptions...)

But in the end I did figure it out, find the phone, called Alex, arrived at Rick's In D.C., ran down to Richmond to do the audition, drove back via Amanda's place on the opposite side of D.C., and headed home a day early, in order to beat the "COMING! WINTER STORM!" Two and a half days after picking up my car, exhausted and barely able to sit down, I listened to my messages in Brooklyn.

This is nearly the end. Really.

Beep. "Hi, Nicole? This is _____ from Commerce Bank calling. We've been contacted by a person who found your wallet? If you would like to contact him, his number is..."

No. Way. No WAY did I lose my wallet on the street in Brooklyn, and someone not only didn't steal it, but made the effort to locate me using the few clues available to them.

But it's true.

I called the Hammonds. They regaled me with tales of trying to find me, based on a Colorado driver's license, a Commerce Bank ATM Card, my inhaler, and a receipt from J & R, where I bought the humidifier. A retired couple, clearly they had little else to entertain them for a few days. That, and the impending "COMING! WINTER STORM!!!" Mrs. Hammond tried to make it sound like it was a bit daunting, but really, you could tell it was fun for her.

"I was like a private investigator!" says Mrs. Hammond. "he found it on the ground, on 7th Avenue, and first we wondered if it was someone in the bank..."

So today, I am not going to try to accomplish anything - it seems that by trying, I only pull myself in deeper. Instead I strive only to mend what was unraveled in the past two weeks. Rewind the stopwatch to zero. Return what's lost and retrieve my own. I have packed a little box of my most attractive candles for both the Hammonds and for Alex.

I will set out by foot to pick up my wallet, swing by the bank to retrieve the gloves I left, (and by then my hands will be nearly frozen, so that's a good thing) then get in my car and drive to the body shop, where Alex's phone will be returned to him.

As the Narrator in Into the Woods says, "ALL IS ...REPAIRED!!" And then he dies.

Dreaming of a White Christmas in Middle America

Dreaming of a White Christmas in Middle America - '06


First of all, Christmas in the Hinterlands of Wisconsin - - it's supposed to be snowing, right?

I peer out the window of my mom's suburban, two story house into its huge back yard, and I can barely see the neighboring house on the far side. Socked in by fog, and bathed in a soft drizzle which hasn't stopped in two days, the neighborhood gives the impression of a soaked, small-ish American town suspended not only between being small and being large, but between continents, perhaps on its way to Cork, or London.

And as if given excuse by the rain, though surely not truly explained by it, we lost power yesterday. Frenzied shoppers waited in long lines and blinking traffic lights - (aka "stop and gohhh lights" in Wisconsonian.) Christmas revelers, desperate for boofy do's to look their best for the relatives they see only once a year, were stranded at the hair salon, with nary a curling iron or a "blowdryer" to assist in expanding their curls still further skyward.

Every time I come home for the holidays, I expect that it will feel like some sort of coming home. Indeed, it always feels slightly more like being abducted by aliens. Aliens who have been observing me - very closely - and taking meticulous notes since before I was born. I return roughly annually for further inspection.

Upon descent into the alien midwestern landscape, one is immediately impressed that whole blocks of streets in a modest-sized town are lit with tiny bright lights. Like Times Square, but a personal, not a commercial endeavor. In NYC very few people even bother with lights or knick-knacks... where would they store them the rest of the year? Plus, most are renters, only loosely attached to the places in which they live. And I am hard-pressed to find, among my acquaintances here, practicing Christians. I did see one building with mardi gras beads and a few bows strung along the stark tree in front, and a few wreaths. Could have been more for the art than any religious sentiment. For the most part, most New Yorkers don't have time to bother.

Macy's does, of course, for the tourists.

This reminds me that it seems at no time is the divide between middle and urban America greater than around Christmas. We know there's a difference - just look at the last presidential election - but somehow we are all puzzled by this polarity in our day-to-day lives. Residents of Washington, D.C., 98% democrats, were shocked to discover that a Republican president who couldn't pronounce the word, "nuclear" properly was actually elected. Folks in Iowa were similarly puzzled that there was ever any doubt.

To the eyes of an alien, Christmas manifests itself with many miracles in the midwest. Christmas paints itself like a watercolor before us. The local Kiwanis club sponsors a literal waterfall of lights displayed at the zoo. People plant life-sized reindeer and sleighs atop their roofs. People actually wear matching Christmas clothes, and pins and hairpieces, and sweaters.

Around Christmas, the midwest shows, proudly, its Christian feathers. We are Christians, the farmlands and suburbs and midwest cities proclaim. Further, we are going to Heaven, and the rest of you are not. Now we will celebrate that fact by opening our malls at 2am, maxing out our credit cards and giving away electric gadgets and toys beyond our means. (My seven-year-old niece will tell you all about it, when she talks about "all the bad people who don't love Jesus.")

Meanwhile, NYC residents are busy walking the streets in protest of a police shooting of an unarmed man in a bar last week. And shoppers from out of town are perturbed that they cannot walk across the street for lunch due to the rabble-rousers.

The contrast is striking.

Coming home feels like a return to innocence to me, to a place where, even in hectic holiday traffic, drivers wait for hours to make a left rather than disobey the law (and - holy patience, Batman! - no one honks!) people make time to go to church, (whether they enjoy it or not,) people still make skating rinks in their back yards, (and mostly don't expect to get sued,) keep treasures in a scrapbook and, in general, are more interested in being nice than really anything else.

My favorite of the miracles most mid-westerners take for granted is otherwise known as Customer Service. My Dad and I spent an hour in Best Buy - not a place known for speedy help - and every time we stood in one place for more than 30 seconds, somebody (very clean-looking) approached us and politely asked us if we had any questions. Not only did they answer questions, they answered the ones we asked, which just about blew me horizontal, just like that. And then they'd stand there and ask you if you wanted to ask more! They would pick up the thing you were looking at, and demonstrate it for you. And then they'd answer more questions. Sure, they might step away, but before that, they'd say "I'll be right back." And then they would be. Just like that. And as if that weren't enough, if you were interested in an item they'd ask, "Can I go get it for you?"

It nearly made me cry.

I realized how often I feel invisible in the city. Part of a large, undulating amoeba. A needle in a haystack. A feather on the belly of a large, hungry, very nervous bird.

Nowadays I'm never quite certain how to behave properly inside a Wisconin home fully decorated for Christmas. It seemed intuitive when I was a child. But now I keep my hands by my sides at all times to prevent sure disaster. There are always a million tiny things which seem especially attracted to my elbows; glass snowmen, nutcrackers, Santa candles, families of snowmen and houses which can be added to every year, poofy 4-foot sitting Santa Clauses, (weighted so they can sit outside in the wind) clocks with figurines of tiny carolers attached, ceramic lions dressed up to look like they had anything to do with the birth of Jesus, (as the snowmen surely did,) and, of course, the ever-fragile ornaments.

As you can imagine, for the non-resident alien the experience can be daunting.

In the bathroom, there are special soaps, color-matched and shaped like Christmas trees and snowmen, snowflakes and Santas. I'm never sure whether I should really use them - they never lather, and I know mom puts them back in the cupboard after everyone, including me, leaves so she can re-use them next year. And the special folded hand-towels, you mess those up once and you'll never get them folded back they way they were when you found them.

Someday I'll ask Mom for a tour of all the bottles, brushes, tubes and creams she has, but for now it looks like a daunting array of things which could, possibly, torture me. I tried some moisturizer from one of the bottles this morning; concluded seconds later that the people who design these products must count on a female population of the age where they have begun to lose their sense of smell. It made my eyes water.

I know my mom is not alone in her zeal for decorating the house for the holidays. The added items only increase the sense that perhaps I need some re-orientation. Everything in my mom's house is small, adding to the impression that wherever I am, it is not inhabited by Earthlings. Though her house dwarfs my apartment in square feet, there are aspects of it which make me feel like I've been shoveled into a fun house. My mom stands five foot two -on her toes, in the morning, after stretching. In her house, everything is suited to her stature; all the pictures hang low, bathroom countertops feel like they're suited more for wheelchair access than for a standing person, and when I look in the full-length mirror, I can only see up to the tops of my shoulders. I never know if I have something stuck in my teeth. At night I sleep in a twin-sized bed, to which my lanky limbs are not accustomed.

Then again there's the ample counter space. No mice in the kitchen, no cochroaches. And windows I can see out of that also go up and down. A fireplace -mmmmmm - a really nice tree with bright, bubbly things on top. Knobs stay in place when you use them and there's no one stomping overhead, all of which makes me feel like at least I've been abducted by benevolent aliens.

Then there's my bedroom - clear evidence that I must have grown up here. (The fact that I regain my accent after a few days is absolute proof.) This is the same room I slept in from ages one and a half through eighteen, and it is a monument - to me.

The only time you see memorabilia like that around Brooklyn is when someone dies. Families collect pictures and trinkets, combine them with candles and put them on the sidewalk in front of the home of the deceased.

In my room pictures - of me - hang everywhere. I'm surrounded by images of myself. I keep banging the ones hanging on the wall in my sleep - me in a wedding dress, as Irene Molloy in the high school production of Hello, Dolly....me on the cover of a program from the Theater Guild - mom had that one framed....a sketch of me a friend made in Africa....and hundreds more photos sleep inside the custom-made cupboards below. Mom even keeps plaque, in which she has engraved the names of shows and characters I've played since college.

The creepiest thing by far in my room are memorabilia provided by a very dedicated 7th grade math teacher. The #1 winner in creepiness factor is the two foot high doll which looks like me. (There's also ceramic plates in Alice in Wonderland theme, provided after I played Alice and literally hundreds of 8x12 photos he took of my friends and me.) The doll's costume was replicated down to the last detail- sequins, fringe, precise colors, and little ballet shoes - from a costume I wore in a dance recital. The doll's scrappy, dark-blonde hair was modeled after mine, too. Eeeeeew!

Mom always thought this teacher was "just a lonely man who was very involved with his students," and I followed along. (Remember, in Wisconsin it's more important to be nice than admit you're creeped out.) He was probably not a child molester, but after about the 100th index card I got with a joke on it in my locker, I began to wish I could avoid him. So did my pre-teen friends.

He still brings Christmas presents to our door.


It's culture shock for anyone from the east coast, who will, naturally, tell someone to BACK OFF before considering the background, intent and feelings of a person who's crowding their space. Just a little survival tactic, not considered rude or unusual at all. One I could have used in 7th grade, I guess.

My friends from NY like to poke fun at me for being from Wisconsin, the proverbial "naive" state (this happens when I actually wait for a walk signal or occasionally bust out with phrases like "ohhhh, jeeeeez!") Then they ask me, "Now, Wisconsin, where is that again?"

But I think they don't know what they are missing. Even without snow, America's core land is a wonder world of fog and mist, a moonscape land of "Tyme Machines", "bubblers" and matching candy-striped socks, marred only by the fact that many children have never heard of Hanukkah. Or Ramadan. Or know why we celebrate Christmas when we do, around the time of the Winter Solstice.

It's a place where a person can afford to build one's own home. Learn English. Get a good job and raise a family. Love that family. Where kids can grow up with - seriously - not one immigrant in their classroom. A body can breathe. Can take responsibility for one's own actions. And disapprove of Islam. And birth control. And gay marriage. All in good company.

It's a mixture of experiences I never forget. And as the airbus A319 closes its door on Middle America for another year, I open my fantasy novel so I don't think about my roots too hard.

Wuthering Heights - a post-script


So it's over. I have Wuthered and gone to emotional heights alongside a brillaint ensemble and my character died and no one cared because I was just Someone's Mother.

Was it a success, you ask? Well, if by success you mean: did audiences like it? would YOU have liked it if you saw it? it would seem that depended on the color of your hair.

If you look in the mirror and notice that the top of your head is yellow, reddish, black, or some shade in between, chances are good you would not have liked our show. You would have found the dialogue cliche´, the romance over-played, the deaths repetitious. you may even have found the whole thing so overly-dramatic as to tickle your funny bone, as many blonde and blue and black-haired people did.

However, if you peer into the mirror and see perhaps a strand of gray, or two, or maybe a whole headful (or perhaps you must admit to yourself that it is white-ish underneath the Feria) you may have come to our show and found yourself muttering things like "WONderful!' under your breath after every song. Which some people with gray were known to do. These were often the same people found to be saying to one another things like, "Who's that?" "that's the SISter! he's marrying the SISTER!" "Ohhh!" loudly enough during the touching, quiet moments that we could hear it backstage. These were generally, overwhelmingly the same people who filled the seats in the lobby to capacity more than one hour before the show, (indeed they were there long before the cast) and could be heard arguing about the six dollars they had to pay for tickets (the irony of it being that if you'd been one of those who liked it less you'd have paid the full fare of eighteen dollars.)

My explanation for this preference by hair color is that the show, being written by a man in his 80's, at least, simply used an older language than that of Genertion X and Y-ers, dramatically, verbally and musically. This language is more heightened, more melodramatic, and uses more legit singing than modern plays. It harkens from the innocent days of silent movies and vaudeville and operetta. And a population with gray hair is far less cynical and willing to accept on stage things as truth, things which those of us in the younger crowd, assimilated to television and reality shows and "The Lion King" from an early age, simply cannot.

But was it a success? If by success you mean did i have a good time, it was quite smashing. I found every member of the cast to be someone I wanted to get to know; interesting and varied people. REAL people, with lives and stuff. It was especially fun for me during the run of the show because I had such a small role and so little to sing I had absolutely nothing to stress about (except the day after i nearly ripped the toenail off my big toe with the door to the deli across the street and i had to stuff that foot into high heels for a few minutes on stage, somehow). i also had, therefore, plenty of attention to give to chatting with my fellow cast members backstage, in whispers, of course, who proved themselves to be an unusually stable bunch. Three had homes in the suburbs, two had families, all but one of the cast (and the children) was attached, romantically (and i set him up with my friend who lives upstairs, with initially stunning and five days after, disastrous results.) The director also turned out to be a very competent guy, and he brought in a set and costume designer, both Yale grads like him (and colin - he approved) and they also proved themselves to be extremely professional and accommodating.

This made for a highly friendly, functional group, lacking in sensibility only at the very top. Our shining producer and her husband, the composer/lyricist, thankfully paid us our meager wages on time and secured the space. And also thankfully there were less hearing-related misunderstandings in person than we'd all had over the phone as they were trying to hire us. (When Kimberly called to accept the role of Catherine, our producer became determined her name was Tim, and for five minutes demanded to know how she'd gotten this number.) Alas, each teetering on the threshhold of both sanity and health, they were a bit out of touch, and though inexperienced as producers, believed with all their hearts their mode of operation was "the standard." They sometimes gave us a littel something to moan about.

One night we virtually forced the composer to call an ambulance for his nearly unresponsive wife. Usually very, um, feisty, she had been slumped in a chair all evening; it took me 10 minutes to walk her 12 feet to a more comfortable chair. She lacked balance and coordination, and seemed to forget what she was doing every few seconds. (Amid this, horror of horrors, the stage manager mumbled to me, "you're the closest thing to a nurse we've got...") Well, that would just not do. We placed a phone call to the mother of one of the children, a real nurse by trade, and she came over from her hovel at Starbucks, where she waited for her daughter to do the show every night, and she took control of Mrs. Producer during that night's show. She recommended immediate hospitalization. Still they both refused medical assistance.

To us, it seemed incomprehensible for Mr. Composer to deny Mrs. Producer's illness and pretend it would go away with going home. Anyone with eyes could clearly see she was not herself, and very sick. Finally, after a recommendation from a male friend and doctor, our esteemed producer went kicking and yelling away from the theater toward the hospital, to be diagnosed with pneumonia, and kept for further testing.

After that we missed her relative competency at the ticket booth, as her creatively inspired husband would rather chat with one of us, (especially if we were pretty,) for 10 minutes than attend to the crowds of people with walkers lined up to buy tickets to his show. One practically had to beat him with an umbrella to get a seat.

As annoyed as we could all be with the antics of the couple, we couldn't help but be inspired by their admiration for one another. As Kimberly put it, "I can only hope that when I'm that age, I'll love someone as much as they love one another." Indeed the composer credited his love for his wife for his ability to write two characters so desperately in love, one haunts the other after her death. And indeed the main characters of Wuthering Heights are both indeed, flawed. As is my writing, as I repeat certain words too much. Perhaps, then, we can all love one another, flawed, and maybe until death do us part.