the brownie and its crumbs

We are not feuding
Silently or otherwise
There is no deep-seated resentment from my youth,
An uncovered rage from falling off the diaper-changing counter as a baby.
My mom and I don't even fight much in adulthood, but when we do it's like your pot and your kettle butting up against one another for a few minutes, then sighing, crying, and spending an equal amount of time taking responsibility for the argument in the first place.

You can't fight fire with fire.

A pot with its kettle.

A brownie with its own crumbs.

I don't write much about my mom because it's redundant.
It's a story that's already happening
In the sound of my sneeze
-- for instance--
In the shapes of my fingers and hands.
When we're apart, I hardly notice, because her knees are looking up at me every single day.

I could spend pages raving about how loving and supportive my mom is.
I have a hundred appropriate Mother's Day essays.
But I prefer write the stuff I can't quite figure out.
And I can't quite figure out
Why I don't write more about Shelley Coonen Hoben.

Physical likeness aside, I have these traits of my mother's,
For better or worse
Via nature and nurture
That freeze me mid-gesture in recognition.
My sister is the best at identifying it-- she, who has a collection of her own "mommisms"...

The Shelleyness lives, thrives, most fully and frequently
When I sit across from someone, and nod and nod in empathy,
Occasionally repeating back the feelings,
Paraphrasing the sentiments I hear,
And often finishing sentences.

And then there is this need to "jot things down"...
I used to tease her relentlessly about the odd disconnected phrases in her handwriting left all over the house, the product of phone conversations that date back as long as the house itself:

"Ginna, Chicago, 4:00, January, optometrist?"

"Carrot & cream cheese.  Discount.  Also, gloves."

"Roof repair.  Charlie.  $$$????"  

But, I cannot tease anymore.
My clone-ish handwriting now decorates the notepads and scraps of paper in my own apartment:

"33rd St. and Madison.  Birthday.  Yoga.  What ####????"

"Midsummer and Henry.  Cheryl.  Shoes?"

"Foot-pack."

The Shelleyness is always with me.
It expands with every year.
And, so, rarely does it occur to me to put the matter down in print:
Why write the thought, when the thought is illustrated in the very handwriting!
Like the way you tell a tale so often that you assume everyone knows it...
Even the people you've just met...  Today.

In Reverse Brownie-Crumb Protocol,
Mom has recently taken up some of my favorite practices:
Yoga, creative writing, and a host of my favorite slang.
(That's what I call "the crumbs calling the brownie 'brown'.")

I know I am not as good as she.  I'm not.
I'm not pious or nearly as cheerful.
She eats like a little bird and stops after one glass of wine.
I'll never be as selfless a mom as she was.
But ...
I've been a good friend to many people
And I've been told I'm a good hostess and that my home is warm and welcoming.
And when her friends meet me for the first time they are shocked by the likenesses,
Mostly, "the mannerisms!"
And I like that.
Also, cuz she's very pretty.
And I'm very vain.

So that the traits of hers that live within me do no go unstated, I state it here:  I'm a lucky crumb.

Bakeway is on Broadway in Astoria, right off the Broadway N/Q stop.  The coffee is only okay, but this place is really about the baked goods.  I mean, it's called Bakeway!  25-21 Broadway, Long Island City, NY 11106.  (718) 545-2120

Good Ones

7/22/2015  The short play below has been slightly altered and entered into a contest.  It is now a finalist for The Actors Theatre of Louisville 2015 Heideman Award.  I'll leave the first half of it here until the contest results are in.  Thanks for reading!  

MIRANDA:  What are you doing?

CHLOE:  Feeding the fish.    

MIRANDA:  That’s gross.

CHLOE:  Not if the fish eat it.

MIRANDA:  Your toenails?  Chloe!

CHLOE:  You don’t know.

MIRANDA:  I know.  Gimmee a sandwich will ya?

CHLOE:  Beef or tuna?

MIRANDA:  You brought tuna to the beach?

CHLOE:  What is that wrong, like politically incorrect to the fish?

MIRANDA:  No, it just, sounds gross.  Tuna salad in the sun for a couple of hours?

CHLOE:  But beef in the sun is better?  It’s what they had at the café.

MIRANDA:  Just give me the chips.

CHLOE:  (Looking)  I don’t … see… any potato chips.

MIRANDA:  (Takes the paper bag from Chloe)  I didn’t get potato chips.  They’re terrible for you.

CHLOE:  They’re good for me.

MIRANDA:  No, they’re not.  Here try these.

CHLOE:  What are they?

MIRANDA:  Kale chips.

CHLOE:  Kale?

MIRANDA:  Yes.

CHLOE:  On vacation at the beach?

MIRANDA:  Am I insulting the seaweed?

CHLOE:  You’re insulting my taste.

The Rarely and The Never

She was already pissed.  The coffee shop in Astoria, Queens didn't offer soy milk as an option, and dairy is simply out of the question for Alison J. Rockford.  The J. is for Josephine, which she can't stand, so "J" will do.  She likes its imagined versatility:  Janelle, Jaqueline, Johannah.  So, she is undercaffeinated and grumpy.  She wouldn't have been running late except that she decided to squeeze in a workout at the Queens Gym.  Not because she liked the gym so much (greasy guys), but because it is one of the few fitness establishments left that still houses a Butt Cruncher machine.  Most places have given them up with claims of "dangerous," but Alison J. Rockford knows the proper form. 

And suffers genetically from a somewhat (a very)...  Flat.  Ass. 

The Butt-Cruncher is worth a visit to the gym in her sister's neighborhood, which, let's face it, is otherwise kinda lame.  Getting to and from Queens isnightmare.  Always.  No matter what.  The trains to get there are the N and the R, also known as the "Never" and "Rarely," for their lack of frequency.  But, Shayla was "going through it," was in the middle of it, sinking in it, with J. P. moving out, and now dating that insane girl back in North Carolina.  Whatever.  Alison would do just about anything for her sister.  Even a trip to Queens (gag).  On a weekday (cringe).  They shared a bottle of wine and Thai food takeout and Shayla cried.  Alison did exactly what was expected of her, ceaselessly insulting J.P. and The Madwoman of Charlotte, as they've taken to calling her.  The nickname was Alison's invention.

june bird

Early June is a separate little gift from the rest of June.

Early June is promise and closure all at once. 

It doesn't know if it's a bookend or the beginning of a book.

And it doesn't much care.

in the presence of the king

I arrive fifteen minutes early for my noon appointment.  I am given a stack of papers on which I answer about thirty personal questions of a somewhat sensitive nature regarding my reproduction system and personal habits.
Then wait for thirty minutes.
I am here to see an OB/GYN they call "The King."

He is called "The King" because his patients always get pregnant.  There is nothing dubious, here.  It's just an appointment or two with The King, and parents-to-be from all over the tri-borough area are celebrating.  Legend has it that, after years of trying unsuccessfully, one woman...

I get stupid, I mean outrageous.

I heard Rob Base & DJ E-Z Rock's "It Takes Two" today.

"Right about now... you're about to be possessed... 

Remember this one?

...by the sounds of MC Rob Base and DJ... EZ... Rock...  

and I wept.

Hit it!"

I wept for my high school cafeteria where had my first braces-clad kiss on some Friday night just inches away from the same spot where I ate Fiesta Sticks in flourescent lunchtime lighting every Thursday between '89 and '92.
I wept for the teenage brain that I can never get back.  The one that was the Secretary of Student Counsel and President of the V-Club.  The one that was totally happy believing that sushi was gross and America was great.
Of course, I weep for my teenage waist, too, but I am not strong enough to face that tonight...  "Bartender...?"

Three-Whiskey Hotel

I do a lot of traveling.  I love traveling.  I have stayed in a lot of lodging.  I don't always love the lodging.  Good lodging is like home away from home.  Bad lodging is like an attack on all of your senses and a desire that your skin not make contact with anything.

The things I love include tight white sheets and shades that block out sunlight in the morning, then spring open to reveal abundant natural light when I am ready to get up.  I don't give a rat's ass about room service, but a continental breakfast that includes fruit is high on my list.  I just want one food-thing that is not over five years away from its life source.  A hard boiled egg counts...  unless it is over five years away from its life source.

Cheerleader Me

The Angry Baker, Columbus, OH, is on the corner of Oak and 18th, just East of Downtown in "Olde Towne."

It is a question I have been asked repeatedly in my adult life.  It is a question for which I am never quite prepared.  It is a harmless question.  To anyone else, it is meaningless:  "Were you a cheerleader?"

Often it is not even posed as a question.  Often it is half accusation/ half "I-know-your-type":  "You were a cheerleader, weren't you?

It's been 20 years since high school.  I am a grown woman.  And I am frightfully flattered by the question.  What is it they see in me?  Am I little and peppy?  Am I popular?  Am I cheery!?!

In 1988 as I prepared for the Bishop Hartley Cheeleading Try-Outs, I believed in my heart and soul:  I am a cheerleader.   I  knew all the words to all the cheers, I had the right hair, (well, I had big hair, but that was acceptable), my big sister Katie was already a BHHS cheerleader and coached me mercilessly in the weeks prior to the try-outs ("straighten your wrist, straighten your leg, more to the side, more to the front, higher.... higher.... higher!!!!  Well, you asked me to help; don't get mad.")  I can still remember the first 16 counts of choreography we learned to a New Order instrumental.

Cheese and Rice!

Only in Southern Utah do I go out on a Friday night to do a v & the b and find the coffee shop ready to close "unless you are here for Bible Group."  

I was not there for Bible Group.  

I did not even know that Bible Group was happening... but they hadn't busted out their guitars yet, so I stayed.

I know it's going to seem like I am making fun of religion, but I am not.  I respect religion.  I might however insert a few wisecracks about hypocrites.  I fucking love hypocrites.  They do all the work themselves.  

Southern Utah.  Mostly Mormons.  And Mormons don't drink hot caffeinated beverages and they don't drink alcohol.  This was going to be interesting.  (Please refer to title of blog.)  Turns out there was plenty of coffee to be found and there are liquor shops.  (Just don't buy that beer they sell at grocery stores:  that stuff is Barley-Flavored Soda dressed up for Halloween.)

It also seems like the Mormons don't like The Cussing.

P.B. & G.

We think we should be in commercials.  

Sometimes, we even write them ourselves.

Rarely can we shoot one without laughing.

Peanut Butter.  Take One.

Bitch Sugar

My fixation on signs began a few years ago.  I can't stop collecting them.

This first sign was posted in a dorm at a college in Iowa.  

I like the severity of its words in contrast to its pink hue.

I like the exclamation point at the end.  

I like that some event or events must have prompted its adhesion here.

Breeches and Hose

breeches (/ˈbrɪtʃɨz/breeches or britches) an item of clothing covering the body from the waist down, with separate coverings for each leg, usually stopping just below the knee, though in some cases reaching to the ankles.
hose 1. are any of various styles of men's clothing for the legs and lower body, worn from the Middle Ages through the 17th century, when the term fell out of use in favor of breeches and stockings. (See alsotrousers.) The old plural form of "hose" was hosen. The French equivalent was chausses.
hose 2. are sheer, close-fitting legwear, covering the wearer's body from the waist to the feet. 
ho 3. (ho)  n. pl. hos. Slang A prostitute.

I never wanted a job that asked a dress code of me.  I spent twelve years in a Catholic school uniform where any expression of individuality was squelched (save for colorful socks and creative hair styles; see Bang Bang Perm Fringe)  Even my extra-curricular activities required uniforms: field hockey, ballet class, and that one feeble attempt at a season of Track...  So, these days, I love clothes.  I, in fact, dress-up for a living, sometimes changing up to five costumes in the course of a two-hour play, each with its own set of undergarments and accessories.  Outside of work, I am frequently accused of over-dressing for events.  Yes, as far as I am concerned:
Life is a Party.  Dress up for it.

Bang Bang Perm Fringe

This is the story of hair.  The story starts in 1988 because that's where things started to get interesting.  Before that it was all ponytails, pigtails, and buns for ballet class.  

BORING.

My mother would not let me get highlights or a perm while I was still in grade school.  Hmm, I can't imagine why.  (See below.)  In 1988, during the summer between 8th grade and Freshman year, I got The Perm that lasted me for the whole four years of high school.  The term "permanent" was accurate and the results were unfortunate...

Balls

When I was young I figured I would grow up to be an actor.  Or a professional Ballerina.  Or a nun.  (Nunhood was a fleeting ambition cut short by the unhidden laughter of my sister and parents.  I'm pretty sure that what I meant was that when I grew up I wanted to be Julie Andrews and spin around in the Swiss Alps and then marry Mr. von Trapp... like so many nuns do.)  I had been told that actors don't make a lot of money and that even modest-paying jobs are hard to come by.  I was prepared to struggle.  I was right to...

Animal Crack

I
When I was in sixth grade we got a cat.  Or rather, a cat got us.  In human terms, it was as if a slutty teenage girl had been kicked out of her house, taken a liking to my mom, and flattered her mothering characteristics until there was no other choice but to take the wayward girl home and care for her.  We girls loved that delinquent to pieces!  Sure, she got into fights in the neighborhood a lot, and yes, of course, she inevitably came home pregnant (we still don't know who fathered those four kittens), but we loved her all the same.  Though Mom insisted that we share the duties of cat food and litter box, ...

rural, urban, city, burb

Left the city.
Back in the 'burg.
I'd spent my week-off at home in Queens, but yesterday I returned "home" to Ohio to resume work and take up residence with my parents in central Ohio.  Reynoldsburg, Ohio is a suburb east of Columbus proper (the capital city with a fine downtown), pushing its way into farmland, but not quite there yet.
There is a ten hour drive sandwiched between these two dwellings.  My adult life has taken shape in a small but tidy 3rd floor walk-up with two bedrooms, one bath, and zero driveway in Astoria, Queens, NY.  My parents' home, which is not the house I grew up in but inhabits all the same things as that which I did, is spacious, well-decorated, and can accommodate two cars in its garage and three more in the driveway.
Home vs. home.
A little bird woke me this morning.  A little bird, perched on a branch on the blossoming tree just outside the window of the second floor of the house where M & D live, in which I am allowed to stay when I work in downtown Columbus.  I might have liked that little bird, that quaint touch of country-like living, had it not come to sing before six A.M.
(Daylight savings means nothing to the Robin Redbreast; he's like "heeeyyy all you paartay people!  Let's get ready to Roooooock!  It's Friiiiiiiiiiiiidaaaaaay!")
This is a non-occurrence in New York. . .

Break a Leg

I am one of those actors, one of those people, in fact, who abides by certain traditions, rituals, okay... superstitions.  But particularly in the theatre.  You've had heard it before:  "good luck is bad luck in the theatre," which is why we don't tell one another 'good luck" before a performance.  We say the words "break a leg," or in the dance world "merde," which for the non French speaking, is the fancy-dance-pants way of saying "shit."  Or, numerous other opposites of well-wishing.  My friend Jarvis used to say "go pee."  Basically, it's always Backwards Day backstage.  (Except for my husband, who likes to turn a joke around three or four times and then tell it three or four hundred times.  He learned this fun trick from an older seasoned actor and has repeated its utterance to many a younger actor in his own career.  He waits until "places" is called.  The nervous young actor awaits his/her entrance.  The lights dim, and then the older seasoned actor whispers low, but articulately:  "don't fuck up," and walks onto stage, leaving the fledgling actor sweating and peeing himself in the wings just seconds before he is to enter.)
There are other things, too. . .

Dwell & Tell IX, "Vino and The Jane"

Family is important to me.  It's the understatement of the universe when most of us say it, and seems so now as I type it.  I left Chicago in 1998 to move to Louisville, Kentucky for a year.  The story starts like this...

One of my proudest moments to date was the day my father and uncle Don came to pick me up from Chicago in a U-haul van and move me and my stuff to their sister, my aunt Mary Jane's house in Louisville.  They were unable to park the U-haul on the crowded residential street we lived on and figured we'd just have to double-park until we were packed up.  (I do not travel light.  Never have.  I can cut back on outfits, sure, but oh, the shoes!)  
Well!  After spending a year in Chicago swiveling my little Geo Prism into spaces the exact length of my car, the 23-year old me climbed up into the cab of the U-haul and slid that fucker right in.  No bumps or dents.  The Hoben brothers pulled down their mouths and simultaneously raised their eyebrows in a signature Hoben expression that means, "Huh.  Nice work, Kiddo."
I beamed.
I was not a kid anymore.
I had grown up.
What could be left to learn?

Coincidence: (Dwell & Tell VIII)

Coincidence: noun [koh-in-si-duhns] 1.  a striking occurrence of two or more events at one time apparently by mere chance.  The post below was written last week.  In the week-end that followed (two days ago) I experienced a remarkable coincidence which left me dizzy with wonderment and baffled by the order of disorder.  For 24 hours I have been wrestling with the meaning of this odd coincidence.  Today I have decided that I simply don't know its meaning.  Maybe someday (as illustrated in the tale below) I'll believe I figured out the meaning.  It might be in ten years.  It might be after death.  Or never.  

Lucia was the name of the landlady at mine and Matt's apartment in Chicago up around Kimble and Kedzie.  There was a big family that lived in her apartment which was directly below ours.  She was about 200 years old, and she had a bilingual fit one time when I refused to pay rent until she did something about the cockroaches.  She would occasionally come up --with this sprayer device that looked a lot like a silver fire-extinguisher which appeared to be heavier than her being-- and spray the edges of the room.  The device could have been making cotton candy for all I know and was about as effective.  But don't be misled, we loved that apartment.

Stauf's on Grandview Avenue in Grandview, OH

I spent my time in Chicago acting in children's theatre productions, and making necessary additional money at Starbucks and a World Gym where I was first a receptionist and then taught my first Step aerobics class. That was 1997.  It was the rage!  (Oh, how I miss a good old-fashioned "basic-right, basic-left, turn-step, over-the-top...")  It was a tough year, in retrospect, but I didn't know it at the time.  After graduating college in '96, I spent a year at home in Columbus to pick up the shattered pieces after my big sister's death in '95.

Slick Rick and the Swedish Giant (Dwell & Tell VII)

Slick Rick was an erotic dancer by night, and a highly-demanded personal trainer at the gym where I worked by day.  Not tall, but adorned with beautifully sculpted muscles and maybe the prettiest skin I'd ever seen on a man.  On any given day, you could catch Rick swiveling his hips a little if the right song came over the gym speakers, even at 8:00 A.M.  He was somehow always in the club scene, no matter where he was.  Rick was a firecracker and a little bit of a know-it-all who enjoyed some unheard-of sublet deal on 81st between 2nd and 3rd, so close to the gym that he could walk there in seven minutes and go home if he had an hour to spare between clients.

The head of the trainers was Jake, a dangerously good-looking and arrogant guy who knew someone who knew someone who handled this apartment.  Rick and Jake approached me one day at the gym and explained that the place was becoming available.