Chicago or Bust: The Next Generation

Hit the links to see the first two posts in this series if you're interested: Chicago or Bust: Part 1 and Chicago or Bust: Part 2.

 Sometimes parents pass their shit on to their kids whether they want to or not. For example, Elvira got in trouble at church for rolling her eyes at her Sunday school teachers. When somebody came to complain to me about it, I rolled my eyes and said, "You're kidding me. That's the sword you want to fall on with a teenager?" And Drake has to pick up anything that's not glued or nailed down and fiddle with it just like his dad. (This is a truly annoying habit -- far more heinous than eye-rolling.)

One thing I did not want my kids to inherit from me was this awful performance phobia, and they haven't. Both of them suffered only normal nerves before recitals, plays, festivals, and other performances. If anything, they were strangely confident.

Drake performed in his first play when he was only seven, and he even had a solo. It was Benjamin Britten's opera of A Midsummer Night's Dream, which is an exceptionally challenging piece of literature. On opening night, I was more nervous than he was, even though we'd rehearsed together so much I could have stepped in and sung any of the parts. Even after one of the other fairies threw a big piece of glitter in his eye, he just kept on singing until he was supposed to exit the stage. What a relief! Even if I couldn't get on stage myself (at that time), I could live vicariously through my children.

Later Drake performed in many plays at a local community theater that offered a teen program. I wasn't a stage mom though. I mostly drove him, dropped him off, and picked him up. He was so good at memorizing I rarely even ran lines with him. Obviously he hadn't inherited my phobia.

But something happened one afternoon when he was about 13 or 14 that brought home to me just how easily my stupid phobia could still affect one of my kids.

I drove Drake to an audition that was especially important to him. It was one of the teen/adult plays the theater put on sometimes, and the roles were harder to get. He had prepared his monologue; he was ready and confident. I dropped him off and waited in the parking lot because they were auditioning by appointment.

When he came out he was upset.  He said he'd gone up on the stage and when he was asked to perform his monologue, he couldn't remember the first words. I asked if he'd started where he did remember, and he said he couldn't remember any of it. He stood up there and tried for a while but his mind was blank. He finally told the director he couldn't remember it, and he left without really auditioning.

I pulled out of the parking lot as we were talking and headed home. We'd gone about a mile when he said, "Mom, I remember my monologue now. I want to go back.

I said, "You can't do that. You had your appointment time and it's over."
"I want to try," he said. "I really want to be in this play."
"I'm sure it doesn't work that way. You get a chance to audition and then it's over," I said, because I was such a big fucking expert. I kept driving.
"I don't see how it could hurt to ask the director."
Jeez. This kid was not giving up. I was already thinking about what I needed to fix for dinner. "Drake, give it up. That's not how it works. Other people are signed up for the rest of the appointments. You had your chance. There will be other plays." I was almost to the interstate. I turned up the radio to discourage him from talking about it any more.
"But I want to be in this one. And I know I can do my monologue now. Why not go back?"
"I said no....."

It hit me then. The reason I hadn't turned around and gone back wasn't because it was unreasonable to do so. The director was a guy Drake had worked with several times before. He was a mentor and a friend. The worst he could do would be to say no. We weren't on the interstate yet. Turning around was easy. Even if he did audition, it would take maybe 20 minutes or half an hour to do it.

No, the reason I wasn't turning around was because I hadn't gone back after my audition all those years ago and asked to try again. And I hadn't gone back the next year. Or the next. And nobody had encouraged me to take another run at it, helped me conquer it while the phobia was an weak, helpless infant.

I felt like I'd been kicked in the head. 

I pulled my van into a u-turn and headed back toward the theater. "You're right. It can't hurt to try," I said.

I pulled into the parking lot, let him out, and parked the van again. While I waited I thought about how close I had come to making my fears his problem, how easy it is to feed kids learned helplessness one little dose at a time until it becomes a way of life, and how close I had come to forcing it on Drake. I replayed that audition I'd failed all those years ago when I was about the same age, and how I'd gone home and nobody asked me how it went.

I tried to imagine a different outcome. What if somebody had suggested I go back across the street to the high school and ask for another chance? Or what if somebody had urged me to try out again the next year, and helped me practice for it so I was better prepared? What other things might I have done that I was afraid of if I'd gone back and tried again?

I gave myself a mental kick in the ass for coming so close to repeating my own past.

After about 20 minutes, Drake opened the van door and crawled in. "Did they let you audition?" I asked, hoping for a yes.

"Yep. I remembered my monologue this time. I think I did a good job. We can call tomorrow for the cast list."
"I'm really proud of you," I said. "It took guts to go back and ask for another chance to audition."
He shrugged. "Not really. I just wanted to be in this play. He could have said no, but he didn't."
"No, it did. A lot of people would have given up. I would have given up."
"That's not the way you raised me, Mom." He always thought I was a much better mom than I ever was.

I headed home a second time. For Drake it was over. He'd done his best at the audition, and now he'd wait like he'd done before for other plays. He had replaced his "failure" with the outcome he wanted. I was crazy proud of him.

As for me .... I felt like I'd just avoided landing in a big, steaming pile of stinky parental shit -- the kind you don't want to drag your kid into with you. I couldn't stop thinking about how easy it would have been for Drake to give up, and worse, how easy it would have been for me to force him to give up. All I had to do was turn onto the interstate and keep driving until we were home. That simple.

The next day he called the theater for the cast list and found out he'd been cast in the play. The failed audition was ...... what failed audition?

If you were 17 would you....?

This is going to be one of my new rules: If the birds are singing when I get home after a night out, I probably stayed out too late ..... and yet, what is too late when you're having fun? (Yes, I back-date these posts that I write in the early hours. I start my day later and end later than most of you. It's still a day. Right now it just happens to be 5:39 AM.)

My good friend D posed these questions tonight at the pub. He asked, "If your 17-year-old self could meet you, would she like you? And if you met your 17-year-old self, would you like her?"

Immediately I answered yes, my 17-year-old self would like me. Take tonight, for example. She was a basketball jock, so she would like that I went on a 9-mile bike ride during a thunderstorm early this evening. She would like that I'm living in the heart of the city in an old house, and that I spend a lot of time socializing with people downtown and that I ride my bike from here to there on the sidewalks even though it's illegal to ride on the sidewalks. She would like the fresh tuna burger I ate at a trendy little restaurant with my friend the Architect, and the wine-tasting down in the District after. She would like the band playing live music at the pub and the sexy banter between friends. She would like that I still dance with long- haired boys and short-haired girls at a pulse-pounding nightclub. And she wouldn't be at all surprised that I come home with dirty filthy feet that I have to wash in the dewy grass before I come inside. We never liked wearing shoes. Yes, she would like me.

I answered the second question the same way. Yes, I would like my 17-year-old self even though she was a hard-headed little bitch with a mean tongue and a well developed distrust of grown ups ... but I would tell her I was worried about her and there are few things I'd like to tell her that might make things easier. She was a hard-drinking, smoking, kick-ass and ask questions never kind of girl. She left home when she was 17, and on her way out she said she'd never be back. I'd like to tell her it's OK to let people in .... except I'm not sure I believe that. I'd like to tell her those long-haired boys will grow up and they won't still be assholes, but that's not necessarily true --although some of them will be great friends. I'd like to tell her to quit smoking, for fuck's sake. Everything. Just stop it now. And that vodka isn't one of the 4 food groups.

I could go on and on about the things I'd like to tell her, but that's not the question. The question is whether I would like her. And the answer is yes. She was doing the best she could. It's so much easier to like her now than it was then when I thought she was too fat -- and too fat was the basket that held all her other faults.

She wouldn't like me giving her advice.

If the birds weren't chirping out there and I didn't have another bike ride scheduled just a few hours from now, I could say a lot more about this. But I'd rather hear from you.

Would you like 17-year-old self? Would your 17-year-old self like you?

Read the Book

(Warning: Possible spoilers for Game of Thrones, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and We Need to Talk about Kevin.)

I'd had enough violence for one week by 7:00 Tuesday evening this past week. Not real violence, of course, but screen violence -- lots of graphic screen violence. And not nearly enough sex to keep the balance.

I also made a firm and irreversible decision about the decades-old question: Should I see the movie after I read the book? Or before? Should I even see the movie at all once I've read the book? (No question whether to read the book or not. Of course you should read the fucking book.)

The answer is to read the book first, and although there are several reasons, the most compelling is simply so you know when to close your eyes. Obviously you can't do that when you read the book, so there's only one way this formula works. You must read the book first.

As evidence, I offer my violence diary for this week.

Sunday night the Diplomat came over for dinner (grilled salmon, zuccini and sweet potato, and  a decadent salted caramel brownie that was almost as good as a cookie), a walk down by the river in the rain, and some bloody, gory TV. First we caught up on Game of Thrones.

I've read the first chapter of the first of five books in the series. The Diplomat has read all of them, some more than once. He remembers the dozens of kingdoms and the hundreds of characters and even when each of those characters dies -- as apparently they all must. Not only that, he once ate dinner with George R. R. Martin, so he wins great big geek cred.

That means I can't watch the show without him, because I have to pause the DVR every 5 minutes and ask who is being killed or raped or tortured now. He remembers all of the characters and gives me the back stories from the books, which makes the show much more interesting, but that's not the only reason I need to watch it with him.

I  just wanted a photo of my beloved Ned here so I can look at him while I write. My king. I will never forgive George R. R. Martin for taking him from me.

He also tells me when to close my eyes to avoid the often gut-wrenching violence. He warned me before Ned -- the love of my life -- was cruelly beheaded in season 1. I still cried. He warned me when the dire wolf died and the horses. Sunday night he warned me to close my eyes just before the soldier's leg was sawed off*, although there was nothing to be done about the sound of a saw grinding through bone and the screaming.

Sadly I report, he also warns me about the sex. Oh, you laugh, but I'm not kidding.

Lots of people get naked in GoT. Lots of people get it on in GoT. It never turns out well. Never. And I just keep hoping someday ..... But here's how it usually goes.  The clothes start coming off and I jump up and down on the couch and shout, "Somebody's getting naked! Here come the cookies!" I slap the Diplomat's arm lightly to make sure he notices the naked people on the TV. "Tell me if you want me to hit pause or rewind!"

And then he turns to me slowly, a look of apologetic pity on his face, and gives a tiny shake of his head. Shake.

"No," I whimper. "Don't tell me there won't be any cookies again." I pause the DVR.

He lifts one eyebrow in a sympathetic curve, sips his beer and shrugs. "Enjoy it while you can," he says diplomatically.

"No, I don't believe you. You don't remember everything. This one will end with cookies. I know it will," I say as if my denial will somehow change what was filmed months ago. I press play and as the steamy, squirmy naked scene unfolds ..... yeah.

He's always right. Either some guy is doodling his sister while they ride on horseback and doesn't realize she's the baby sister he hasn't seen in 20 years, or somebody gets beaten or raped or -- and I'm not even kidding -- somebody will say, "You're doing it wrong," and stop them in mid-hump. Every single fucking time. 

Read the book.

I know, right?

 After we emptied the DVR of GoT, we popped in the movie the Diplomat brought: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I wasn't sure I wanted to see this movie because I've read all three books in the series and I knew the rape scenes would be graphic and disturbing. They were, but two things helped.

First, Daniel Craig is gorgeous, and if I dated, I would date him.

Second, I knew what was coming after the rape scene. It was awful to watch -- well played on the part of Rooney Mara -- unflinching, that scene was. If I hadn't known there would be more tattooing to come, I might not have been able to continue watching it. This movie is not light-hearted; it's dark, moody, bitter in places. I recommend it. But only after you ... 

Read the book. 

Tuesday evening I joined one of my community theatre sisters at our little downtown art theatre to watch We Need to Talk about Kevin, a movie based on the book by Lionel Shriver.

I've been eagerly waiting for ...Kevin to come to town .... and dreading it at the same time. Shriver is one of my literary heroines. The woman has written some of the best prose I've ever read -- some of it about cookies. But there are no cookies in this book.

It's the story of a school shooter (although not with a gun) told through a long, rambling letter written by his mother to his father (yes, she takes on the dreaded second-person POV). There is nothing sexy in this story, but there are lots of nasty, graphically written surprises (like the one I just gave away, but many more). As I read the book, I didn't see many of them coming. Or maybe I didn't want Shriver to treat her characters the way she did. She's brutal.

Anyway, it's the most compelling, unexpected story about a school shooter I've ever read or seen. She doesn't leave out any details, because the mother, Eva Khatchadourian, has all the time in the world to tell her story.

Tuesday, I was relieved I'd read the book. Because Shriver so meticulously blew up my brain with words, nothing I saw on the screen shocked me. The images couldn't compare, although not for lack of trying. This time I didn't even have to close my eyes, although at one point, I probably should have.

But I also knew the story in all its complexity -- not just what there was time to show on the screen. Same with Dragon Tattoo. So much is always left out of a movie.

If I hadn't read the book, I probably would have left the theater feeling ill. The movie was slow too, with lots of cinematic masturbation: slow, sometimes fuzzy, camera shots and a lot of reliance on the actors' expressions. It's tense and uncomfortable from the very first shot until the brutal ending. And the kid in this movie makes the psychos who stalk my life look like cuddly little puppies.

In fact, the only thing more disgusting than the violence at the end was the couple sitting behind us who came in 10 minutes late with bags of popcorn that they crunched and munched throughout the entire movie as they commented on every single fucking thing that happened as if they were in their own living room .... which of course they fucking weren't. After the climactic, gory scene I leaned over to my companion and said, "He did that because those people behind us wouldn't shut the fuck up."

I recommend the movie if you like dark, artistic movies that move slow but don't give you room to breath. It's worth the discomfort.

But what I suggest, so you'll always know when to close your eyes, is to just
read the book. 

* Have I written about my amputation phobia here? No? Forget it. Enough with my phobias.

Literary Cookies

A dedicated reader sent me this book excerpt just for night like this when I've stayed out too late singing karaoke listening to other people sing karaoke ..... OK, I sang one song, but I mostly listened. Anyway, for your literary pleasure: a cookie. Enjoy.

From Ceremony in Death by J. D. Robb, a writer who obviously knows her cookies. (J. D. Robb is a pseudonym used by Nora Roberts, but who really gives a shit as long as there are cookies, right?)

Who doesn't love cookies?

May Day Musings

As the Beltane fires burn high tonight and the earth rises to meet the passions of spring, I begin NaBloPoMo*, a commitment to post every day through the month of May. Thirty-one posts in thirty-one days. This is the third time I've done NaBloPoMo, and I have to admit, it's not easy to keep up. But I've done it twice and I can do it a third time. I've got a lot to say this month about cookies, vaginas (what's one without the other?), and life through the eyes of a crazy redhead, but if you have a topic you'd like me to explore, please feel free to shoot me an email or leave a comment.

I feel rather nostalgic today. In the small Iowa town I grew up in, we celebrated many Pagan rituals -- Yule logs, fall bonfires, and May Day.

Every year we danced the Maypole  in gym class, winding and weaving long colored ribbons in a basket-weave pattern and then unwinding again--boys and girls together. I don't remember what it was supposed to mean, but I'm pretty sure nothing was said about the sexual aspect of Beltane.

After school all the kids in town ran home to make May baskets created out of construction paper cones, or those little pleated paper candy cups used to hold nuts and candy for baby or wedding showers, or paper Dixie cups with pipe cleaner handles, and then filled them with popcorn, small candies, and maybe even violets or dandelions we picked in the backyard. Once the baskets were made and filled, the hanging began.

Early in the evening, Mom would drive my brothers and sisters and me around town so we could deliver our baskets to our friends. We couldn't deliver baskets to everybody we knew, so only our top five or six friends got them. It was a hard decision sometimes whether to hang a basket on the door of someone who was already a friend or someone I wished I was friends with.

We would pull up to the friend's house, and I would run to the front door, hang the basket on the doorknob or set it on the porch, ring the doorbell, and then run as fast as I could back to the car. If the friend was home, and not out delivering baskets herself, she would chase me and try to catch me. If she caught me before I touched the car, I had to let her kiss me. Of course, if the friend was home, she was waiting right beside the door for someone to ring the bell, so I had to sneak up so I wouldn't be caught in the act of hanging.

I don't remember ever delivering baskets to boys -- because of the kissing, of course. I don't think my mom would have let me, and it certainly would have made a statement about who I had a crush on. No, girls delivered to girls and boys delivered to boys ..... or at least that's the way I remember it. Hmmm. Boys must have been kissing boys in my hometown on May Day. Maybe that's why Iowa is one of the pioneers in gay marriage.

Anyway, the only downside to delivering May baskets was that baskets were delivered while we were out delivering,  so we didn't get a chance to try to catch everybody. We tried to deliver our baskets as fast as possible so we could go home and wait for baskets to be delivered so we could try to catch and kiss our friends.

I assumed the May basket ritual was performed by kids all over the country until Drake was old enough to do it himself. We lived just north of Boston for 10 months. He was 4, and we made May baskets, filled them with candy and flowers, and took them over to his little neighbor friends' house. He hung them on the knob, knocked on the door, and ran like mad when they came to the door. They just stood there staring at him like he was crazy. Ooops. By the time I explained the ritual to their mom, it was a little late for the chasing and the kissing. I was more disappointed than Drake was.

Turns out not everybody grew up celebrating May Day with candy, flowers and kisses. I miss that. As I've gotten older and reclaimed those Pagan roots as my own, the Beltane fires have taken on deeper, more adult meaning. Maybe someday somebody will hang a May basket filled with cookies on my door, ring the bell and run ...... a girl can hope, right? (Hey, my mom can't stop me from kissing boys now.)

How about you? Did any of you deliver May baskets on May Day? Do you do it with your kids now?

* National Blog Post Month. Click on the gadget to the right for more information.