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Song: Good Feeling, Flo Rida

     I thought tonight that so much changes every day that the only thing I can count on is my kids peeing in the tub. Not sure if that revelation will stick, but I thought it was kinda cute. Wink wink. Let's arm wrestle.

NEXT! A partly fictional anecdote.

    Today, while online at Costco, a man who appeared to be in his sixties began chatting with me.
   
     "I am not fond of the winter." He said.

     "Yeah, it's pretty cold." I said.
   
     "Not the cold, the dark." He said.
   
      "Hmm. That too."
   
     We moved our carts forward, the line was long. But I didn't feel in a rush.
   
     "I suffer from clinical depression. It's worse in the winter."
   
     "Ah."
 
     "But yesterday I felt a burst of good feeling," He said, putting a body size bag of toilet paper on the conveyor belt. I smiled. He was charming. "I told my wife to call the doctor. She said, don't worry it'll pass."
   
     I laughed with him.
 
     "It gave me hope though, and before I knew it, I had another good feeling." He said. He had on a light brown cashmere sweater, plush and soft, inviting like an ad for carpet cleaner or grandparents, if they were for sale.
   
     He was now separating himself from his cart and positioning it on the side of the cashier while I put my own larger than life purchases on the same conveyor, our items divided by a foot long red plastic stick. He came over to help me with a large bottle of Tide. He didn't make a face like it was heavy but I could see a vein in his neck strain. I should have felt bad, but I didn't.
   
     "I think if I can string enough of these feelings together, I might have what one would call a good mood." He said.

       "You are so smart." I said, laughing.
   
    Then he took the bottle of Tide and swung it at my head, I ducked.  Just kidding. But wouldn't that have been funny?
   
     Really he just finished packing his cart with the check out guy and then walked away.

Good week!! xx
   



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Get Lost

You disappeared without a trace. As if I meant nothing to you. As if we meant nothing to each other.
At first I wasn't sure if I really lost you. If you were gone for good. I tried calling you, again and again, walking from room to room. I'd think he's here, he's got to be in here. Just one more time, please, answer me and be here.  Of course, you never picked up. How could you? I was devastated. I am devastated, still, even though anyone with eyes would think I never cared, that you had been easily replaced. But if you showed up tomorrow I'd gladly return what I have to get you back. What I have now looks better, shinier and new, but it's not the same. So much was lost when I lost you, the images, the memories. The agony of your betrayal. I put you in my world, an all access pass, whoever I knew, you knew. You were with me all the time, we were together all the time. How did I become so careless? I took my eyes off of you for one minute and....

Everything we had was lost in that instant. I must have replayed that night in my head a hundred thousand times. I can never figure it out. It makes no sense. You were there and then you weren't.

But I should have seen the signs You stopped taking my calls as often, you started dropping off as if you couldn't quite hear me anymore. When I grabbed you, you'd freeze and I'd have to backtrack, massage you to get you to act normal again. When our time together used to typically be so easy, now it was strained. I see that now. I didn't want to then. I wanted it to work.

Oh, cell phone. I miss the way you buzzed in my purse. The way you took pictures and videos so easily, capturing all of my favorite moments, moments with my family, friends, pets, clothes, the new bathroom. It had been so long since I backed you up, again, I know that is my fault. I got careless, took you for granted. And now all the pictures of the boys with the new baby are memories in my head, never to be seen in a frame other than my mind. Oh me oh my. Why? Why? Why?

But you know what? I'm done with you anyway.  I've got a newer version, that can actually work in the dark, unlike you, who stammered around half blind, missing everything.  Plus, my case is better, its a hard one and way better than that floppy rubbery thing you used. Who needs you anyway? Not me. I'm glad you got lost, stay lost! "Lose" er!

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Apaco Lacooney

It's the tenth anniversary of one of my favorite shows, Antiques Roadshow. Monday night I watched maybe one of the greatest episodes ever, Jackpot! AR is on the short list for a few reasons.
                  1. The people.
                  2. The appraisers.
                  3. The finds.
                  4. The dramatic stories/history behind each piece.
The people (and me) are rarely aware of what they possess.  It's this innocence juxtaposed against the appraisers expert knowledge that makes each segment unendingly endearing and intriguing. It gives me hope everytime.

"Where did you say you came into possession of this pot?" **
"I bought it at a yard sale in 1986."
"It's a fine example of American folk art. Maybe the best." The appraiser rubs the pot. "See there's no glaze? Glaze didn't start happening until the eighteenth century."
"You're kidding." The pot owner looks at the pot with new eyes, seeing it, like us, for the first time as something more akin to magical than something to hold loose thumb tacks.  "I knew it was special, I just had to have it."
"This pre-dates glaze." The appraiser says, gravely.
"Pre-dates glaze..." The person mouths the words without sound, her eyes transfixed on the pot.
"How much did you pay for this?"
"Oh, maybe two dollars." The person looks embarrassed.
"Two dollars." The appraiser says expressing a burst of air,with a bit of a chuckle indicating that the pot maybe worth three hundred times that. I get a butterfly. I can't take my eyes off the screen.
"Look here, underneath see this mark? This is the mark of Apapo Lacooney." He puts his hands through his hair. "Apapo Lacooney almost never worked in pottery. This is so rare." My heart skips a beat. I have to know. What is it worth?!
"So you paid two dollars."
"I think so, five is my limit, so..."
"Well, you do have some condition issues, there are some scratches in the interior, but that said." He looks at the owner. "Conservatively. At auction. I'd say this Apaco Lacooney is worth at least. $25,000."
"uh, oh my. I um." The person, like me is dumbstruck. Flabbergasted. "I uh, had no idea, I, hahah! That's great. phew."
"Without the scratches I'd say $30,000. Still, not a bad return on your investment?" The appraiser asks.
"No, not at all. I'm speachless. Thank you." They stare at the pot. "My husband said it was ugly. Now how'em gonna get it home."
They laugh together, we laugh together. That idiot husband, she's rich!
** the story is entirely made up from my imagination, if there is an Apaco or Apapo Lacooney, its a coincidence. And I want ten percent.

This week there was a man who had inherited a letter to an editor of one of the most famous and often reprinted newspaper editorials.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

The response to this little girls letter was so inspiring I cried real tears. It is as true then, September 21, 1897 (this week 114 years ago), as it is now. I hate to rush the seasons, but couldn't we all use a little Christmas in September?

God Bless Antiques Roadshow, may they have decades more for us and of course love love love PBS.







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Collection

Cleaning out my old bedroom.  Top dresser drawer, pictures, key chains, costume jewelry, letters, everything addressed to Sue McMahon, my maiden name. Then, address books, a Filofax. I take a look in one of the address books, it has the characteristics of Latter Day Saints women, its Laura Ashley floral and puffy and it ties with a satin ribbon, like their dresses and hair.  I look under C to see if a certain C is there, it seems I put the D's where the C's should have been. Chris Dunne and an address at Fairfield University. It's his handwriting, he put his address in there, probably at a high
school graduation party. I'm happily surprised but it's bittersweet. I can't remember that I ever wrote him. We were more acquaintances in the collective of a big group of middle and high school friends than penpals.

Was it Septemeber 11th? or 12th? Beth's house, she and her husband Alex have an open house for anyone who want to be together in the wake of the attacks. Lists of names of people missing come in. We're from a white collar commuter town. The lists are long. Chris Dunnes on one, he was in one of the towers, along with a bunch of others. Friends seem optimistic in an eyes glazed frenzied sort of way. I go to the bathroom and get sick.  When I look in the mirror I think that my body knows something my brain can't comprehend.

Years earlier, (or was it just one year earlier? just months?) Beth and Alex's wedding. I wear a navy and white striped sleeveless Ralph Lauren full length dress and a broad rimmed white hat with navy sash. I think I look like a knock out, KO. Walking into the ceremony I see my friends mom, I know she gets a kick out of me and my hat. We both start laughing as much as you can in church. I step into a pew, Chris Dunne and Jimmy Horn are standing behind me.
"Looking good Sue..." Jimmy said.
"Why thank you, Jim" I reply with a wink. I think I notice Chris snicker so I squint at him and turn around.

I spend the rest of the ceremony imagining my own wedding.
"Do you Susan Marie, take James Horn..."
"You bet I do." The congregation laughs, our wedding is upbeat, we're a blast. My hat's a veil.

Later at the reception, a tremendous summer evening, cocktails at sunset on the lawn of a mansion. Chris Dunne saunters over.
"Thought I saw you giving Jim the eye in church." He said.
"Thought I heard you laughing at me."
"Yeah, I whispered to Jim, "Someone tell McMahon to get the collection basket off her head." He said.

My eyes turned to slits, even though I'm laughing inside. Bottom line, nothing is less sexy then calling a female by her last name especially when her last name ends in the sound "man." And turning my fab hat into a collection basket... There goes being Mrs. Horn.

"Good one." I call, "Bartender!"

puff puff give

SO. Us here on the south shore of Long Island may have noticed that we are in the midst of a thunderstorm or as weather reporters would say, t-storm. The real feel averages 78 degrees. Did you get that? Real feel? LOVE weather reporter lingo. Anyway. Who was out in it? Yours truly. Why? Digging smokes out of the garbage of course. WHY ELSE?

Come back with me. My arms around your shoulder, we're strolling back to Mexico in December, we're at the airport. We bought three cartons of cigarettes at the Duty Free because although I was pregnant and only smoking like four butts a day ( hah! gottcha. I didn't smoke four butts a day! I smoked four packs a day! gottcha again.) Okay, so we bought cartons of cigs for those in my hubs family who smoke because we didn't want Jen Anistons perfume or a Longchamp bag and can't pass up free duty. But when we tried to give the cartons of cigs to Danny's family they said they quit again and preferred to buy by the pack as a deterent to smoking. Okay. Pay ten bucks for a pack when we bought you a carton for free. Guess we should have brought back silver or something lame like that. Whatever.

So. As a foreward thinker I presumed, "Well I do like to smoke every now and then and whence this baby is out, that'd probably be a good time."

But when I had my baby nothing felt grosser. But then my father passed and the baby wouldn't sleep and the kids want to beat the hell out of each other anxety kicked in and those smokes started calling me. I tell ya! I could just feel them in their plastic duty free bag, up there all sexy on the top shelf of Danny's closet, "Come on Suze, light my fire."' Jim Morrison sang.

Oh fine. What's one? And since then, I've gone through packs. About one every two weeks.I even put them in a shopping bag to donate to a real smoker. Cause for me, it's not a daily grind, I'm not hanging outside under awnings, yet. Well, I wasn't. Until tonight.

But let's go back. Walk with me, talk with me. Now it's Tuesday night, we're reaching for the smokes, just gonna sneak one outside while everybody's asleep, brush our teeth real quick and take a bath in the sink before we get back into bed. Instead, we stop, grab the bag, the one we filled thinking we'd donate them to Good Will, and decide we should chuck 'em. Throw these dirties in the garbage, who needs donated smokes anyway? What kind of a death gift is that? Them being in the house is too much of a temptation.

I threw them out. I'm free. I'm never smoking a cigarette again. That was so easy. Yeay me!!

As I'm driving home tonight I see that Danny has gotten home before me. The garbage is already out. The shopping bag with the goods is in the garbage. By the curb. It's thundering, it's lightening. The infant needs a bath. The kids need baths and story and bedtime. S%$#!!. How am I going to rescue my garbage before the storm hits the curb. By rushing. By acting peculiar and overly stressed and even more bizarre, sweet.

It all gets done. The storm is looming. I don a trench coat over my nightgown and put on a straw cowboy hat made for my three year old and run to the puffs. I should have some dignity and roll the trash cans to the back of the house but then the lightening is so bad and its raining I decide who needs dignity and dig right there on our busy road, cars passing, the name Julian, written across my puny cowboy hat in glitter, the rain drizzling down my legs and find the Lord & Taylor bag, coffee grinds and mango peels scaling the once proud carry all. I dash back up to the house.

And all of the doors are locked. No joke. I felt like Meg Ryan in A Man Loves A Woman. Because that's where addiction takes us. From I'll have just one, to standing in an electrical storm holding a sloppy bag and ringing the doorbell, playing it off. Like its some kinds of normal. I imagine this conversation as I wait, biting the insides of my cheeks, holding my bag, in Julian's hat, in the rain and thunder and lightning, nightgown dry, trenchcoat soaking wet.

I imagine he answers the door.
"What's up?"
"What's up with me? What's up with you?" I say, "Who puts the garbage out the night before? A nerd? What did you do take a prep course for the SAT's? Call your mom on her birthday?"
"Um, Yeah, and you did/do too."
"Whatever, I'm cool. I was cool when I smoked and now that its not cool, I don't."
"Pretty sure you do. "
"Pretty sure, I'm only saving these hundred dollars worth of cigs to donate to those in need."

And then in real life,  Danny answers the door.
"Hey, baby."
"Hi."
"He finally went to sleep." He said. "Nice hat."

Stank So Good

SO. We're driving down to the beach, me and my sons, Colbert (5 1/2) and Julian (3) (baby was home with sitter).  Colbert, who sits in the third row of  the minivan typically shouts me questions like, "Did you know Aniken is Luke Skywalkers Father? Mama? Did you? Answer me, Mama." With an assertiveness I only wish I posssessed back when I was trying to land a part or a better agent or any modicum of respect. But this day he says, "Mama, I'm never going to leave you. Ever." I think, how sweet.
"I'm never getting a job, or having a wife, I'm going to rot on your couch watching t.v. for my whole life." he said.
Hmm, unexpected turn.
"Now, why would you know that's something I wouldn't want?" I asked, because at 5 we haven't addressed him rotting on the couch for the rest of his life.
"Because you hate the Wii and my shows and you only had me so I can buy you a million dollar beach house where you can watch Oprah." He said.
By George, he's daggone telepathic, I think. Should I turn around and hit Atlantic City? If he can read my mind like this, imagine how he can read cards?
"No honey, that is not why I had you," I said, "I had you so you could buy me a MULTI million dollar beach house. and so you can be Oprah."
He cracks up laughing. "told you so, Mama." And then a pause. "You love Oprah more than me." he said. "No, baby." I said.
 "Yes you do, you always want to watch her."
"Well, whenever you come into our bed you sleep on daddio and not me, but I don't think you love him more than me." I rationalize.
"Your armpits smell, Mama." Julian interjects. Sounding bored stiff from his seat directly behind mine. His eyes looking out the window, in a perpetual roll.
"Seriously?"  I asked.
"They stink." Colbert affirmed.
Now, I know my pits stink,. What I didn't know was that anyone else could smell them,. least of all my baby boys and that they talked about them. Now I have to say I've never suffered from body odor, but after I have a baby, for some reason, hormones maybe? For about six months I have this fabulous condition I like to call Stank Pits (that's the technical term). I have to say it's one of my favorite parts of the whole, for me, dredful experience of pregnancy in the fourth trimester. I love it. I probably shouldn't, but, I gotta admit I sneak a wiff now and then and practically get high off my stench. It's SO good. Comparative to leaking an SBD in an elevator and looking around at the faces as they register the smell. I know none of you have ever done that, but ask around or give it a shot. Few pleasures in life compare to the smell of your own gooze (farsi for fart). I'm not sure why and I get totally disgusted when my husband or someone else lets one loose, but my own? Gold. Pure Joy. Okay, this post has taken a detor. I hope it made you laugh. If not, lay a goose and see what happens. It's kind of like the gates of heaven open up and a sound that relates bongs throughout your being. I wish it on all of you. just not anywhere near me. 

Good Week my Larvae!! Cause even gross can be good! xx!!

The Four Agreements

Repost- Originally published July 7, 2011

I know I shouldn't because everyone is but I just can't not. Casey Anthony. I mean, seriously. I don't know if she did it or not, I wasn't there (seems that's where you needed to be in order to convict) but shouldn't her not caring, in fact partying for the MONTH she didn't know where her toddler was be punishable by...I don't know...death?! Or at least something? If I lost my child for twenty minutes, I'm telling everybody, I'm a bereft basket case,  not to mention a day! Thirty days! I'm not drinking, partying, posing for pictures with people in da club, like Holla! Let me rephrase that, if my neighbors kid was missing for a day, I'm not partying. I don't even think I could have a bar-b-que if my neighbors kid was missing, maybe after two weeks, but even then- am I turning the music up? Game time call. Criminal.

Oy. So in a world where family can be counted on to test our strength, coupons seem impossible to figure out and sociopaths roam free, here's what I read to gain peace and understanding:

The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. His teachings are not easy to live by, but they can make living life easy.  (And if you can buy a few copies and get that dream to come true- that the people you want to change will take the hint - life is even easier!) Some genius said, Genius finds the easiest way to do everything. Go be a genius. Make your life easy easier.

These are the four agreements (he's also added a fifth...but that's... later.)

1. Be Impeccable With Your Word. (Use your words in the direction of truth and love. Your word can create heaven on earth but it can also create hell. Also silence is deadly. Be brave enough to show up and express yourself.)

2. Don't Take Anything Personally. ANYTHING, anything. Everything people do is because of themselves and their point of view. It's never about you. Someone calls you a terd, its about them, someone tells you you're a goddess (I get that alot), its about them. Someone doesn't call you back, it's about them (oh, no strike the goddess this is the one I get alot).

3. Don't Make Assumptions. (We don't know what is going on, ask questions instead of making assumptions.)
Sample conversation:

"You didn't call me back- what? You's think I have flee's?"
"No I was getting a haircut."
"Oh, so glad I asked ya's, how's it look?"
 "Decent."

4. Always Do Your Best. (You can't ask yourself for more than that.)

So this is my feeble summary, in no way do I do it justice (hey, I kind of feel like a Florida juror). But I hope I teased you enough that you buy the book, even if you use it once, its worth it.  Hint. Hint. <3

Georgie Wash

This is how we were:

"I tried to read that book on George you gave me, Dad,"I said. "I couldn't even get through one paragraph-so hard."
"I read that and four others." He said.
"Who can get enough." I said, laughing.

oops i dropped something

I can't stand namedroppers, I would never talk about the time I was in a play with Ethan Hawke, Hope Davis, Blair Brown, Kathryn Hahn, Jimmi Simpson, Charlie Day, to not name a few (there are not even more big names but I can't recall as its been awhile) and then me and a bunch of other chorus types. I'm not talking about the best play I ever ensembled, I'm not talking about the best theatrical summer I ever had, I'm not talking about Williamstown Theatre Festival, the summer of '99, baby. oh, yeah.

I have a swarm of memories from that summer in the Berkshires-walking from one building to another and waving to Paul Newman and his sweetheart, Joanne Woodward (she was unbelievably even more attractive than he was) as they picnicked.  Or on final curtain call for Camino Real when Jimmi Simpson bowed revealing a happy face painted on his naked tush to those of us on stage behind him. Or remarking to Bebe Neuwirth as she lazed on a couch in the greenroom, "It's like being in Toone Town, everywhere I look someone from the screen!" and her saying, "we're not cartoons, we're people." I thought "yikes! thats' exactly what a Toone would say!" But what strikes me most is that I was in the main beating artery of the acting world and had no idea until weeks after I got there.

It was the summer before my last year at The Actor's Studio, MFA program, (class of Bradley Cooper -oops, hand on mouth, I dropped one again? obscene!) and my teacher Sam Schacht recommended I go to Williamstown. He told me where the office was on Union Square, to go there and get an application.  He said it was a swell place, he thought I would like it, do well there. I took him up on it because I had no other sense of what to do and when the time came to go I did. Never knowing I was to apprentice under some of the best talent in our country.

Throw your soul through every open door. - Adele


My parents dropped me off. There were a group of about thirty college looking kids hanging outside the building excitedly talking and (re)acquainting themselves. I felt a strong pulse around me, everyone seemed to know each other so I kept to myself. I spent the night in my assigned dorm room with an older woman who was tall in stature and short on words. I tried getting intel on what was going on, what to expect etc. She seemed to know as little as I did, I never saw her after that night. The next day there was an audition, everyone in the company, probably 500 or so people met on that bright summer morning, then sat in a dark theatre and watched as each of us appentices got up and auditioned on a lit stage with the monologue of our choice. It would be the second audition in my life, the first was in order to gain admittance to the MFA program.  I knew from the forms they sent out that we were to come prepared with a monologue, that scared me. I had spent the last two years in classes without venturing from the cocoon of teacher and comraderie.  I didn't feel connected to the few female parts in the contemporary plays I had read and so I wrote my own piece. I wrote it from the sadness kept at the deepest part of my being. I remember tears streaking the ink as my pen fumbled down the page. I must have ran the lines through my head a thousand times before falling asleep. Determined to express my heartache and confusion, I got up and bared my soul. By the time I got to the second line I heard the laughter and then giant booms of laughter after that. I thought with each line, now they'll get that this isn't funny and pushed harder to make my point and then they'd laugh even harder and on and on. At one point I was shouting over their guffaws in order to be heard and then I took it to a real quiet place and they came with me and when I concluded, applause. Feet stomping, whistles and applause. I thought "Well, that went differently than expected." Proof not to act with a result in mind.

When I got back to my seat the girl next to me whispered, "you nailed it."

We were auditioning for parts in the various plays produced at the festival. I got cast into the Main Stage production of Camino Real by Tennesee Williams starring Ethan Hawke and Hope Davis, I didn't know who she was but since I feel like I've seen her in everything. Since, I feel like I see everyone in everything. Everyone but me, just kidding.

A guy named Brad, different from "the Brad", befriended me, he gave me the lowdown pretty much on everything and little by slowly I realized where I was and how it could probably change my life. And knowing that made me act weird. And weirdos don't get asked back. How weird you ask? Well, the day before rehearsals for Camino started some girl told me that Charlie Day, (of then nothing but now, It's Always Sunny...and soon to be released Horrible Bosses), was this hugely talented important up and comer. So when he walked up and said "hi" at first rehearsal like a normal person, I looked up from under my eyebrows and then averted my eyes and cringed kind of like how my five year old does when I ask him to say "thank you" to a clerk or hug his Nana. That weird. I had never been like that before so I didn't know how to work my way out of it so I just stuck with it. Or like when Gwyneth Paltrow was outside taking a smoke break from rehearsing As You Like It, instead of saying, "I really like your work", as I passed her a light, or just passing it, I tried lighting it for her, burned my finger on the matches and tossed the pack at her. That weird. Awkward. And weird. Or like when I shook hands with Paul Newman and he said, "you did great in the play." My eyes welled up with tears and I said, "I love you, you're everything." Joanne Woodward rubbed my back. Other than those and a few more star struck social disasters like them it really was the best summer of my life.  Before I had my little boys, and now playing with them on the beach is. At least there's nothing awkward about that and usually I know why they're laughing at me. Usually.

Souther

So. I love the east coast but up here in the north it's June and I'm still recovering from the worst winter ever. Some days it feels like it may still be winter. Danny barely plugged in the airconditioners before we were hit with a coldsnap. Plus we're busting out of our cozy little abode. With eyes a squinto, I recently made it to the bathroom at 3am only to find my five year old on the VIP seat, "I need privacy mama." He said. For the love of saltines. Did I mention I was 39 weeks pregnant at the time? I need my own bathroom. Time to roll.

We've been contemplating moving souther. You may have noticed I slipped a "y'all" into my first post. There was nothing haphazard about my choice of words, I chose carefully. I was gettin' into the southern groove y'all! Listening to Garth Brooks, Randy Travis and John Turner on my Pandora, thinking about trying grits,  putting a shot gun on the pickup, if we had a pick up, waving a confederate flag, hell, I burned a cross on my front lawn just to get into the spirit of thangs. My neighbors were so confused. What? Did I go too far? I'm ready to save twenty thousand dollars in taxes while existing in nothin' but flipflops and a sundress.

We went down to Charleston, SC last weekend to get a lay of the land. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it totally surpassed that. I have never met such friendly people! And good looking! Now, that is not a combo easy to come by. (that's why people are always shocked when they meet me...elbow, elbow). We were 'Yes, Sirred', and 'Yes, M'ammed' and it was all sweet, none sinister. You know if some one dares to M'am me up here I'm staring the devil out of them. But its not like that. People are not looking to call you a hag.

Downtown is as charming as a cat in a hat with a baseball bat. It also felt international. While waiting outside for our table at brunch, we had a brilliant chat with a couple on holiday from London. Another couple visiting their doctor daughter from Michigan (ok not exactly Spain) gently got our attention during brunch and referred me to the hospital down the street so I could be treated for what turned out to be acute bronchitus, *i'm always sick with something. The staff at the hospital were in no rush, but still I was in and out in under an hour and had a full perspective on schools and neighborhoods, (and a z-pack). The doctor that treated me lived in the village we flew down to scope, I'on Village. UM...can you sing Heaven Is a Place On Earth? Please don't. But seriously, it's gorgie porgie. It's not cheap though. I thought we could move down south and live like kings, but after talking to anybody who would, (and they all will because they're so nice), we discovered that most people commute by plane to work in order to make the kind of money you need to live there. And my bubble burst all over my crabcake and grits.

It's an easy enough commute, an hour and twenty minute flight.  But we can't live without our Danny boy four days out of the week. So, looks like I can take the cardboard out from between the dishes, they won't be broken in a move and keep my boots within reach. More snow and taxes for me...and late night competition for the VIP seat. Oh and the two other incidentals, friends and family are here too:)

***This is kind of unfolding, signish- when we got back to LGA, deflated, I was thinking about Robert Richard Wright that maybe he's right, I'm meant to stay in new york to pursue my "gift", when my eye landed on the license plate on the car parked across from us. freeeeky.

**i'm watching Love Story on OWN right now, the best.

Beginning

BEGINNING

SO. Yesterday, a friend convinced me to start a blog. Well, actually, a month ago a psychic told me I had “star power energy” (I have it on tape so I can prove it to myself as sure as Anthony Weiner sent pictures of his pecker). The Psychic, Robert Richard Wright, was pushing acting and writing. But I did the acting, that ship has sailed, I told him. I have three kids (youngest is 6 weeks old). I can’t be hauling my kitten in and out of the city, trying to get two lines on a commercial. I did that. I feel fulfilled in that way.  As for writing, I wrote a novel last year that went nowhere. He said, shaking his head, pulling another Tarot card, “Yeah, see, this card means Gift. So, you really need to look into this.”   His words haunt me. I dig obscurity. I love my minivan and all inclusive vacations. But ‘tis true I did battle for the limelight for nearly a decade and did pretty well. So, it’s “in me”, so to speak.

Next, I sat down with a $5 palm reader at a crafts fair in Manhasset, NY to see what she had to say and in the first question she asked  if I knew I had a gift  (I did, psychic, Robert Richard Wright told me so last week, thanks) and secondly, what was I DOING with this gift?  Holy shit. Oh no! Not you too! The pressure. The pressure of a gift.

So. Here I am. It’s not a bad way to start. I kind of thought I’d be on the news talking about my gift, maybe hosting my own show on OWN with my new latest credentials. “Hey Ope (in my fantasy convo’s she’s Ope.) Hey Ope, not sure if you heard but two very reliable sources told me I had a gift. And you used to say so on your show all the time when you were talking directly to me, so, how’s about a headlining act? Also Ope, I got your email. Thanks.” Did y’all know that? If you send Oprah an email she writes you back. Does so. Whatever, she wrote me back. A secretary may have mass emailed you, but Oprah Winfrey wrote me and my gift back.

**warning! I’m about to make a hard right turn here. Brace yourself.

I want to wrap up with a little something to think on today, as I’ve been struggling with what exactly my “gift” is and then I’m always thinking of how to get out of some internal mess, as I’m sure we all are from time to time. Sometimes we want to stay in the confusion and the conundrum as long as possible because that is what we are comfortable with. “Better the devil you know, then the one you don’t”, as my mother would say.  I mean, what happens if I do recognize the truth? Where do I go from there?

All we can ever do is make a beginning.  The next steps unfold after that.  Inevitably, where it goes is up to God.  Replace fear with faith. 

I hope you’ll like my blog. I really want a Vlog – video, but…I’m not technologically there just yet. So, to the beginning…and truth…and Ope… and Weiner not sending anymore pictures of his weener. What’s with men sending pictures of their schlong’s out anyway? No one wants to see it, it’s gross. Put it away. Begin there.

Love, S

http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/anthony-weiners-actual-penis-nsfw