Wake Up!

Waking up in the morning; honestly, the difficulty eludes me. I seem to be in a minority about this however. It started before having kids when my husband’s alarm would go off and he would press the snooze repeatedly until the alarm simply stopped trying. This usually took 90 minutes. That’s an alarm sounding every 9 minutes for as long as it took him to muster the strength and motivation to push the snooze button. Until finally he would get up with just enough time to get ready for work and sprint to the train, jumping on just as it was pulling out of the station.

And now my children: Teenager #1 has inherited my husband’s practice of waking up, but with none of his urgency. Teenager #2 has inherited my ability to wake up with plenty of time to spare, but with a touch of superiority, which usually comes out in the car while I am driving at breakneck speed to get to school on time, and, as you can imagine, rarely goes over well.

I am still baffled by the complexity made of what is perhaps one of the simplest decisions we have to make all day, getting out of bed. On the simplest level it is just a matter of practicality and logic: I need this much time to get ready in order to be out the door and to where I need to go by this other time. But, of course nothing is as simple as it seems. Waking up is not merely a physical reality it is the first and most important move in the game of Starting Your Day, some might say the most addictive and perplexing game Milton Bradley never invented.

The object: Negotiate the challenges of the morning and make it to the car before the countdown clock goes off.

Set-up: Each player places an alarm clock within arm’s distance of their side of the bed. One player of a parental nature picks the time to be out of the house. Each player goes to bed and the game begins.

To sleep or not to sleep: There are two paths “To sleep” or “Not to sleep.” The path you choose is determined by a roll of the dice. The dice is an eight-sided die each side marked by one of the following:

Incomplete work

Relationship crisis

Unpaid bills

What is that ache

All caught up

Just finished that book

Feeling loved

Looking good

What side you land on determines your opening path. Once everyone’s opening path is chosen, the alarms go off and the countdown clock begins.

Snooze Crossroads: The two paths intersect throughout the playing board. These intersections are called “Snooze Crossroads.” You must stop at each intersection and choose which path you will continue on. After three consecutive Snooze choices you must head directly to “You Snooze You Lose Falls” and remain there for two full turns before returning to the game.

Challenge Cards: when you land on a challenge card spot, you must pick a card. Examples of Challenge cards are:

            Performance review: go back two spaces and change your outfit

           

Major Chapter exam: go directly to panic attack whirlpool and freak out

Old Mother Hubbard: Your cupboards are bare, deduct 15 minutes from countdown clock to stop at Dunkin Donuts.

Shower Wars: If you reach the Shower Wars space on your own, you may proceed with the game as normal. If, however, you land on this space at the same time as another player, you must participate in “Shower Wars.” For this you spin the Shower wheel whose choices consist of:

           

            No hot water

            No more soap

            Soap in your eyes

            Oops I forgot a towel

            Falls asleep in the shower

            Shower complete

Once you spin shower complete, you may move on, anything else causes you to lose a turn.

What Should I Wear: When you reach this space you must undergo a 30 second challenge to find an outfit. You are dealt three cards. You are trying to get one shirt card, one pants/skirt card, and one shoes card. If you get all three in 30 seconds you may proceed. You have 30 seconds to continue picking cards until you get all three. Other cards include:

            Dirty laundry

            Left it in the car

            No matching socks

            Sweat stains too prominent

            You chose a dress and boots-proceed to next space

            You laid out your clothes the night before- skip two spaces.

You must remain on this space until you complete this challenge, regardless of how many turns it takes.

Breakfast Relay: when you’ve completed all necessary challenges you arrive at the final challenge “The Breakfast Relay.” If you are the first to arrive and there is still time on your countdown clock, you may go to “Hot Breakfast Buffet” and take several turns to choose a breakfast and sides. If you arrive second, third, etc, you must join forces in the breakfast relays. This is a physical challenge involving breakable dishware, a full gallon of milk, a mercurial toaster, hot coffee, only one serving of healthy tasteless cereal, and a confined space(all included in game). You and the other players must complete this challenge together. Whoever makes the least mess with time left on the countdown clock may proceed directly to the front seat of the victory car. The loser must clean up the mess and share the backseat with piles of backpacks, and a crying baby.

Winning the Game: There can be more than one winner in the game. You win by making it to the car before the countdown clock goes off. If you do not make it to the car before the clock goes off, you earn 5 stress points for your next game the following morning. Stress points are cumulative and can only be decreased by earning common sense points throughout the game. Common sense points can be earned at “Snooze Crossroads”, setting your alarm clock ten minutes earlier at the start of the game, and for “Sucking it up” at the “Everybody’s Tired” complaint station.

Starting Your Day is not a game you buy to enjoy. It is a game reality hands you to master or fall victim to. I’m not saying it’s an easy game, but I guarantee it is less complicated than Monopoly.

"Use Your Words"

So for the second time in the course of his adolescence my son sent me a text telling me to fuck off. This is upsetting not because of what he said but because he misspelled ‘off’ both times. He left off the second ‘f’ which kind of dilutes the impact and quite frankly the meaning of the insult. ‘Fuck of’ really just sounds like the beginning of the punch line for a dirty Irish joke.

Oh wait a minute…you thought I’d be more upset by what he said. Don’t get me wrong I wasn’t thrilled about it. And, if I’m honest, I judged him a little bit, just as you are doing right now. “What kind of a son says that to his mother?” Unfortunately, probably a lot more than we’d all like to admit. And rest assured, there were consequences; I am not so cavalier or so far in denial as to not see the extremity of the moment. But when you come right down to it, he did use his words, like we’ve been telling them all to do for so many years. Not my favorite words; there were definitely more polite and respectful ways of communicating his sentiment at that moment, but few more succinct.

I was shocked (less shocked than the first time it happened), I doubted my parenting, I feared for his future, I sobbed by myself in the living room when no one else was home. And then I remembered, he is a teenager. And sometimes teenagers can be assholes, because being a teenager sucks. So I tried to remember a few things:

How lonely I felt.

How much I wanted everyone to like me, but I was too shy to let anyone see why they should.

How bad it felt to get in trouble.

How bad it felt to get a low grade on a test or a paper or a report card.

How my parents were suddenly strangers and the last people I wanted to talk to.

How hard I tried to look pretty or cool or awesome.

How stupid I felt most of the time.

How nobody understood me.

How badly I wanted a boyfriend.

How badly I just wanted it to be the future already.

I tried to remember all of that. And that helped but it wasn’t good enough, because he’s not me. There are other rocks in his Sisyphean backpack. So then I had to…

Imagine if all I had to do was login and scroll down to see how much more fun everyone else was having.

Imagine if I had to focus on a test while the girl sitting next to me is wearing tights that count as pants because they’re called “leggings.”

Imagine if I had to start up a non-profit by the time I’m a junior if I hope to get into college.

Imagine if I had to have a tutor when other people seemed to be fine without one.

Imagine if there were 3000 channels on TV, plus Youtube, plus vines to distract me from homework rather than 3 major networks, 2 syndicated channels and PBS.

Imagine if I felt all the teachers hated me because I wasn’t good at the things they wanted me to be good at.

Imagine if no matter how adults spin it or positively couch it, I know there is something wrong with me; I feel wrong…almost all the time.

I had to remember how hard it was for me, and then imagine how much harder it is for him before I assumed I had all the answers. I do not have many answers. I do know that saying ‘Fuck off’ is not okay, that is something I can handle. And when it happens again I will:

a)    Try to remember and imagine before I assume the worst.

b)    Point him to a dictionary if it is misspelled again.

Burping, Farting and Virginia Woolf

Okay, burping and farting. I’m not gonna lie, it happens a lot in my house. I’m not a prude about it; I really don’t have that luxury because I live with three guys. So, it happens, and I can tolerate it to a point, but when it becomes so commonplace that the occurrence warrants no vestige of common proprietary remorse, but instead a disproportionate display of pride, that’s when I wish I had my own apartment. Yes Virginia Woolf, a room of my own; except in my case it would be a quaint one-bedroom apartment with vintage appeal and all new appliances.

And in this apartment there would be order. There would not be sweaty socks and sports clothes on the living room floor or wedged between the sofa cushions. The only shoes I would trip on would be my kicky pumps, which were a steal at DSW. I wouldn’t find dirty dishes in odd places like under the bed or behind the radiator. I could watch whatever I want on TV whenever I want. Everyone who lives there would love whatever I made for dinner. I could have flowered sheets on the bed, and lots of funky yet homey pillows that don’t get tossed to the floor and swept under the bed into a morass of dust woodland creatures. The bathroom would not have tufts of shaving cream lingering dangerously close to my toothbrush. The house would smell like the ocean and not a heady mix of ass, Axe body spray, and Chef Boyardee Mini ravioli. It would be an oasis of comfort, quirkiness, girliness and serenity.

I know you think I wish I was single. I don’t. I love my smelly, gassy, messy guys. I just don’t want to live with them all the time. I just want a little Mary Tyler Moore Haven(we’re talking her first cozy personality-driven apartment, not the clinical neutrality of the second) that I can retreat to and pretend life is uncomplicated, neater and smells better.

Yes Virginia Woolf, I need a room of my own, but not for the lofty reasons you originally implied. And, in fact my impressive literary reference is based purely on a cursory understanding acquired through conversations I had no right to be a part of since I’ve never actually read your book.  My need for fulfillment is not to enrich my soul and strengthen my independent voice, it is in fact to selfishly reacquaint myself with peace and quiet and leave all references to Middle Earth, the latest Vine Video and an encyclopedic knowledge of all things football behind in a noxious cloud of burps farts and the general male musk of territorial entitlement.

I do not need this. I do, however, want it. Badly. The allure of being in charge of my own schedule, life, and general environmental aroma in the midst of the beloved and wretched chaos that is a family. Until such a time exists I will find a room of my own wherever I can; in doing a crossword puzzle on the porch before everyone's up, in a glass of wine accented by cheese and bread whilst they feast on fried chicken, french fries, and Orange Crush, in a late night viewing of Sense & Sensibility on the rare occasion when they are all out of the house at the same time. And then I will metaphorically return home refreshed, balanced, and ready for anything for at least a moment until the silence is pierced by the next burp or fart, or that unique symphonic confluence of both happening at the same time.

The Road Not Taken Isn't Always Paved

I do most things wrong. And I don’t really live in a world of right or wrong. But, empirically, I have made the wrong choice time and time again.

Upon graduating from Northwestern with a theatre degree and then an advanced degree from a prestigious London acting school instead of moving to New York or LA or even Chicago, I went to San Francisco. Why? Simply because I wanted to live there. It was not, in the early 1990s, a teeming metropolis of theatrical activity, but that is where I chose to start my career.

I did eventually make it to Los Angeles to work on a two-woman show with a college friend. When that was over I had a decision: stay in LA and do the LA thing, or move back home to Philly and save some money to move back to Chicago. Guess which one I chose? Fast forward 21 years and my college friend, Ana Gasteyer, who did the LA thing, has gone on to conquer Saturday Night Live, the Broadway show Wicked and continues to tear it up in TV and Movies. Me, I’m still in Philly.

As my “professional” life evolved I chose to specialize in improvisation, which I love and maintain will save the world one day. Now, you’ll notice that I put “professional” in quotation marks. Why? Because by and large, to be a professional means you get paid. And, by and large, to be an improviser means you do not. So yes, I have dedicated my life to an art-form that is “by and large” a volunteer job.

I chose to have children, and we all know how that one’s going.

I chose to marry a lawyer who chose to work for the city, which chooses to make fiscal decisions that prevent even cost of living raises for its employees.

I choose to go to the Acme instead of Whole Foods time and time again

I choose to eat more than one chocolate chip cookie a day.

I choose to knit over cleaning my house or feeding my ambitions.

I choose to read books that I’m embarrassed to recommend to friends because they are on the best-seller list instead of the Pulitzer Prize list.

I choose to feed my kids food with preservatives because they are cheaper and I work for free and my husband works for Philly(which is almost the same thing).

I choose to feel sorry for myself more than I let on.

I often choose ignorance over enlightenment because, quite frankly, I’m tired.

So, by most logic-minded, credential building, agenda-adhering, survival of the fittest humans I have made the wrong choice over and over again. And the thing is, when I made and continue to make most of these choices, logic rarely plays a part (except with the Acme, because Whole Foods really is over-priced). Most of these choices were made because I felt there was no other choice.  Wait a minute. I mean no better choice. On paper most of these choices look wrong, but at every step I chose what felt right.

As a result, I’ve gotten to do a lot of really kick-ass things. I’ve made some remarkable friends. I’ve discovered strength, resolve and vulnerability I never knew I possessed. And yes, I’ve mourned the things I will never get a chance to do.

I often say to whomever will listen (so not my kids then) that we choose the lives we have, the good and the bad. Circumstance and surprise are realities, how we react to them is still our choice, whether intentional or instinctual. They are not always easy; they often lead to the bumpy path not taken; but they are the choices that we can live with, that we are ultimately proud of, and which, by and large, define who we are.

And still there are those days when everything feels wrong, and I often wonder what would have happened if I made that choice instead of this. And then Captain Regret comes knocking. I’m not gonna lie, sometimes I invite him in and we have cookies together. But then I choose not to let him stay in my guest room and leave his wet towels on the floor. I bid him a good day and get on with the next choice, which usually involves whether to work out or not.  And you can surely guess which way that one goes.

Hot Pink Bra Day

Some days are hot pink bra days.

Not for the reasons you may think. Really has nothing to do with being sexy. That pipe dream’s expiration date has long been up.  No, it’s literally about holding me together for the day, not just any day, but those days when you’re not quite sure you’ll make it through. It’s my fall back when meditation and daily affirmations and pithy Facebook memes and cupcakes don’t work. And when I’ve used up my needy friend frequent venting card. That’s when it’s time to pull out the old Calvin Klein hot pink bra to give me that extra boost, so to speak. 

And nobody needs to know. My strap doesn’t have to accidentally on purpose peek out for someone to notice and be impressed or repulsed. As a matter of fact it’s better if they never know. Better if I can just walk around with this secret. Sometimes I’ll even forget and then remember and smile because I know there’s a part of me that’s fabulous. I may have run out of time to make my kids a decent breakfast, I may have nothing interesting to contribute in that meeting, I might have an uninspiring day in front of the classroom, I might say exactly the wrong thing in trying to get my kids to do their homework or expand their horizons beyond the latest screen that has changed their life for the next five minutes, I might fail to really listen to husband, or accidentally step on the dog’s tail, I might lose my touch in every aspect of my life, but….I have on a hot pink bra.

There is still something fabulous about me. Some part of me that made a bold choice in the face of a day that seems insurmountable from moment one. Not because anything particular dramatic was going to happen, but because so many little things form alliances to test my patience, challenge my long held conviction of my own fortitude, and wink their eyes knowingly at my fantasy that I’ve got it all figured out. When I feel beaten down, I remember the hot pink bra and suddenly my bracelets repel bullets and I can kick ass for another moment.

And of course it doesn’t have to be a hot pink bra. It could be outstanding boots, a good hair day, or a tiara, whatever it takes. Because sometimes the simple act of going through a day is the most courageous and daunting thing we do and hot pink bra is the Agent Coulson to my Avengers.

Sweet 16

16 years ago today I became a mother.

I know you’re waiting for the “And it was the best decision I ever made” blog post. This isn’t it.

When my husband and I decided to have a child, it wasn’t some epic moment of thoughtful and philosophical consideration of the impact of this decision on the world at large, it just felt right. We both wanted a child. Talk about arrogant and selfish. I want a child. Like, “I want a pony,” or “I want a convertible.” The entire phrase begins selfishly. “I want…” Well, you better get over that pretty quickly, because “I” won’t factor into much more after the APGAR test.

From that moment on it becomes about them and you are white water rafting. There are patches of chill smooth water where you never thought you could be this content and purely happy. But, let’s face it, that’s not usually why people go white water rafting. So, when the rapids hit, you trust your training will kick in and you’ll row together and know which waves to head into and which ones to ride over. And then while you’re enjoying your victory lap you round the corner and you’re in The River Wild, without Meryl Streep.

And your heart beats faster and you scream and swear and cry and try not to vomit. And remember, you booked this vacation, because you wanted to have a child. That’s right, we’re not in metaphor anymore.

So far the first 16 years of this raft ride has been relentless and exhilarating, shocking, gratifying, depressing, scary, tense, exhausting, thrilling, eye-opening, and the hardest and best thing I’ve done. And I’m not gonna lie or sugar coat it, there are times when I wish I hadn’t booked this vacation. They don’t last long, but I’m not going to Pollyanna this. It doesn’t mean I don’t love my kids, it simply means I’m not sure of myself.

That being said, it has also shown me myself. I’d still love a pony and a convertible, but I will give it all up for my kids. There are many things I will never experience in life (actual white water rafting is probably one of them). I will never be an accomplished actress or writer. I will never be 130lbs again. I will never be able to walk into a store and pay full price for a pair of shoes. I will never be a perfect mother, ever. But I will literally do anything for my kids. Including failing and getting up tomorrow and trying all over again.

I had no idea what I was getting into 16 years ago. I have no idea what the next 16 years holds. All I do know is that I still have to figure out what’s for dinner, check homework before bed, and put my life jacket on again tomorrow.

Poisoned By My Metaphorical Claude Rains

Have you ever seen that movie Notorious with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman? If not, you should, it’s a great movie. I won’t go into the whole thing, but towards the end, when Claude Rains finds out his wife, Ingrid, is actually an undercover spy sent to get info on his Nazi friends, he is told to kill her by slowly poisoning her over time so it looks like she just has some weird withering disease, until Cary Grant, who’s been denying his love for her comes, in all his smoldering spy glory, and carries her out the front door as Claude is judged harshly by his fellow Nazis.

I feel a little like Ingrid Bergman.

Let me explain.

I have always been an optimist; a glass half full, believe people’s motives are pure, lemonade out of lemons optimist.  Recently, however, I have felt a withering away, a tarnishing of my rose colored glasses, if you will, which has even made me toy with changing the title of my autobiography from “Mary had a Little Laugh” to “Death of an Optimist.”

In full disclosure, I do come from a split family; my dad is an optimist, my mother a pessimist. So there is a genetic pre-disposition for either. But let me be clear, I am not talking about being sad or even feeling sorry for myself. No I just find that I am slowly letting go of or lowering my expectations for hope and am settling into a Switzerlandish state of neutrality.

I realize it is an intricate internal security system that I have installed in my psyche to protect myself from all intruders. I had a beta system installed when I was a kid, which handled softball breaches like boys not ‘like-liking’ me and not making the basketball team and my parents’ divorce. But I have since refined it into a high tech comprehensive protection plan complete with emotion sensors and automatic total lockdown to insure ultimate protection against passive aggressive marital behavior(coming from both parties), the past (and therefore imminent) doom and gloom of my children’s relationship to school, the loss of loved ones, the financial realities of the market value of any of my skills, the disappointment at the empty Entenmann’s box at the end of a long day, and all the other shoes that are waiting to drop. It is, in fact, possible that I have acquired a system so invincible that therapists and Prozac couldn’t even penetrate the first lock let alone the floor lasers, the three-headed dog and the rolling boulder. (extra credit if you can name all the movie references)

I haven’t gone full pessimist yet. I do not expect the worst, but I am not surprised when it happens.  I scan my emails at the end of the day with dread for fear of seeing a teacher’s name and the title heading “Teenager #1 in class today,” or “Missed homework for “Teenager #2.” I am grateful for the communication because I am a parent and I’m supposed to be, but it is like another dose of poison administered by my metaphorical Claude Rains.

I still believe that Cary Grant will swoop in (though he’s more of a saunterer than a swooper) and carry me through the door with my flawless skin and impeccable hair. And I know in this case Cary Grant is hope and I will still fall in love with him and he will break my heart again, and the alarm will be tripped and I will go into lockdown recoup my losses, heal and venture out into the wild again because deep down in my nougat center, that’s who I am. Love and pain and panic and euphoria and anxiety and contentment and fear and pride rely on each other for existence. I get it. To allow yourself to feel one you open yourself up to the risk to feel all. I know to feel is to be alive and life is messy an unpredictable. (BTW my inspirational posters are available on Zazzle)

So I will fight the poison and defy Claude Rains. Not everyday, but I’m still aiming for more than half.