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July 14th, 2010
July 12th, 2010
Although I posted something from this past weekend, it's time to start working my way back over the past year, or at least the past months. Although I catch people on Facebook if I post pictures or videos, I don't catch everyone, and things quickly become buried.
Besides, my son and his friends are regulars on Facebook, so I will cut him a break and not complain in that forum. At least by doing it here, I can say I've put it in writing.
Really, Jeff. Come on. When I said don't have a party while your father and I are away, did I really think you'd listen? Even though it was one of the last things I shouted into your room, along with various other maledictions I was raining down on your head because of other things you had either done or neglected to do?. No, of course, I didn't really think you'd listen.
But come on, make it a little bit of a challenge. If you're going to tell me you stayed home sick all weekend (other than the Friday night jaunt to Atlantic City), for God's sake, allow me to take some pride in my parent super sleuth skills of catching little clues here and there.
Don't leave the blender out.
And if you leave it on another counter, telling me you were searching for your car keys, then please don't leave it plugged in.
Is it likely you would have thrown that large keychain down into the blender container? And even if you had, is it likely that you would have had to add some sticky mixture into the container (which apparently spilled on floor a bit) and turned the blender on in order to retrieve it?
Ignoring me and lying about it is bad. Being such a poor liar is inexcusable. Where do you come from? Certainly not my side of the family. My brother is such a seamless storyteller that no one really can distinguish his worlds, other than by gazing at the color of the skies contained within.
Oh well, enough of that. I'll think back to last Wednesday, when we did that Broadway double header. Sean Hayes, Kristen Chenoweth, and the gang from Wicked.
Maybe I'll let bygones be bygones, I still want a theater companion willing to see LaCage and another round of Wicked, all in the same day.
Besides, my son and his friends are regulars on Facebook, so I will cut him a break and not complain in that forum. At least by doing it here, I can say I've put it in writing.
Really, Jeff. Come on. When I said don't have a party while your father and I are away, did I really think you'd listen? Even though it was one of the last things I shouted into your room, along with various other maledictions I was raining down on your head because of other things you had either done or neglected to do?. No, of course, I didn't really think you'd listen.
But come on, make it a little bit of a challenge. If you're going to tell me you stayed home sick all weekend (other than the Friday night jaunt to Atlantic City), for God's sake, allow me to take some pride in my parent super sleuth skills of catching little clues here and there.
Don't leave the blender out.
And if you leave it on another counter, telling me you were searching for your car keys, then please don't leave it plugged in.
Is it likely you would have thrown that large keychain down into the blender container? And even if you had, is it likely that you would have had to add some sticky mixture into the container (which apparently spilled on floor a bit) and turned the blender on in order to retrieve it?
Ignoring me and lying about it is bad. Being such a poor liar is inexcusable. Where do you come from? Certainly not my side of the family. My brother is such a seamless storyteller that no one really can distinguish his worlds, other than by gazing at the color of the skies contained within.
Oh well, enough of that. I'll think back to last Wednesday, when we did that Broadway double header. Sean Hayes, Kristen Chenoweth, and the gang from Wicked.
Maybe I'll let bygones be bygones, I still want a theater companion willing to see LaCage and another round of Wicked, all in the same day.
Back from the Berkshires, Summer of 2010
Well, back from Endgame.
Perhaps this is a case of my being an illiterate slob. Perhaps I don't understand the finer things in life. But I have to admit, when my husband left the theater after "Endgame," and said "I understand why there was no intermission; people would have fled the theater,"---well, I have to admit, I wasn't even tempted to hit him.
I would have liked to wait outside for a photo-op; but I under the circumstances, I thought it better to just leave well enough alone.
Although my now annual the Berkshire Theater Festival has taken on a life of its own, I still start out with the idea of indulging my hobby as a Randy Harrison groupie.
It's a harmless hobby, really, and actually less costly than many of my other entertainments. It's not as though I stalk him, or fly all over the country if he appears in theaters outside of my geographical region.
Just see a show at the Berkshire Theater Festival (a four hour trip to what is like a Disneyland for the arts--hardly a hardship); and maybe a show or two a year in the city.
Oddly enough, I don't always have my husband attend Randy's Berkshire show. I depends on what else he might be seeing during the trip; the timing, or whether I think he'd like it.
We were arriving on Friday; the show was opening officially on Saturday. Given the crowds and atmosphere of last year's opening, I decided I didn't care that much about attending the opening night party. I forgot that a party attended by Unicorn theater goers would be much smaller in size. It didn't matter; both Saturday shows were sold out; so we went on Friday.
It was just as well; my husband is not known for his tact, and I can just see him going up to the actors and asking them "Are you out of your F#IU%*#YUing mind appearing in that?"
The acting was wonderful, even El Exigente acknowledged that, and he mentioned all the positive points about each actor's performance; but after the show, the audience was pretty silent about what they'd just witnessed, talking more about the festival experience as a whole. I don't know; I may have felt differently if I'd seen it after attending one of the discussions scheduled for this week; had things explained to me.
As it was, I was thinking that to cheer us up, we should find a funeral to attend.
June 9th, 2009
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| Make a Smilebox scrapbook |
How strange it seems. Everyone in my family has lived fairly close to one another, and we've always seen the children so much. I can't believe I now have a nephew who will basically be living across the country.
This little boy has a set of leather lungs when he is hungry, which is approximately once every seventeen seconds. My sister was thrilled to have all his aunts, uncles, and cousins clamoring to lure him away from her. Like all the boys in the family; it wasn't hard; they aren't loyal, they are always swayed by whoever is offering the best package deal. Andrew is not one to miss a meal!
May 25th, 2009
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| Make a Smilebox scrapbook |
My admiration for people who write and/or take pictures for a living. It's exhausting! Between taking a writing class once a week and taking pictures because no one else in the family wants to/can find their camera/can find batteries/has camera charged/can cope with anything more than keeping kids from destroying house/selves/each other; to me has fallen the role of family historian. Therefore, the only pictures taken of me are taken by the kids when they grab the cameras from my hands. I am not exactly coiffed on any day, but I don't usually look as bad as their pictures would reflect.
May 15th, 2009
No experience is ever wasted. Finally, I get some mileage out of my stupid comment to Randy when I attended the Berkshire Theater Festival for the first time.
The good thing about writing this is that I see a pattern; namely that I should probably stick with writing things out, and not open my mouth.
This was an assignment for a writing class, talking about an embarrassing incident.
An Embarrassment of Embarrassments
Thinking of one embarrassing moment in my life is a daunting task; not to be undertaken lightly. I’d prefer trying to pinpoint a moment of unequivocal grace and dignity. At least the mental slideshow required would be less time consuming.
I should have been embarrassed when my son was five days old, and I pointed to the wrong baby in the nursery as mine. At the time, I just shrugged and said that they all looked alike. They did; I still think so.
There was the time I visited my newlywed friends, Tom and Jackie Henaghan. Soon to be married myself, I was on the alert for decorating ideas. Their bathroom was resplendent with its monogrammed towels and accessories, but one detailed disturbed me. I questioned Jackie “How come only one of the faucets has an ‘H’ on it?’ And what does the ‘C’ stand for; when your maiden name was Walsh?”
If Jackie would have had the decency to marry a Decker instead of a Henaghan, this incident would have never occurred, but as things happened, I’m pretty sure this incident will be recapped in my obituary.
I seldom visit Atlantic City but went with a friend once, and in an hour, I won two small jackpots at two different slot machines. Both times, I continued to play until I had lost the money, not because I wanted to keep playing but because both machines had flashed a sign “Cash Out,” when I hit the jackpot. I was annoyed that the casino had such a slap dash attitude towards equipment maintenance, allowing them to run out of cash on a busy summer evening. What could I do to get my money’s worth but continue to play until I’d lost it all?
After depleting my winnings and my two roll of quarter’s initial investment and still needing to wait for my companion, I retired to a bench on the boardwalk in front of Bally’s Wild West Casino, alternatively reading, sulking and reflecting on which of the hordes entering the casino was actively putting Darwin’s theories to the test.”
Only me, apparently, because no one else was unaware that a “cash out” sign means pressing a button on the slot machine, taking the slip of paper the machine dispenses and handing it over to a casino cashier in order to collect your winnings.
Cash out, out of cash? I don’t know, sounds the same to me.
If a basic instinct for self preservation had not caused me to set the
Utter Humiliation bar pretty high, I might not have appeared in public since 1978.
There is one incident that continues to nag at me, even though given my history, it’s quite minor. I think it bothers me because unlike most of my gaffes, which are due to a slip in the mind, this one was really a simple slip of the tongue. I could have corrected myself in a few words, but by the time I was aware of my blunder the moment for damage control had passed.
It was also exasperating that I should have botched an occasion that had first seemed to be such a success. With my teenaged son and two of his friends, I had made a four hour trip to the Berkshires Theater Festival in order to see an actor I admired. I was the only driver, and an extremely reluctant one. I’d never been at ease behind the wheel, and for me, this act was unprecedented. Although I’d only driven 200 miles, I felt as proud of myself as if I’d circumnavigated the globe.
After the show, I did get a chance to speak with the actor. Still giddy with success, and perhaps a little distracted contemplating the return trip, I blurted out a comment about having made this trip to see him “even though I don’t like to make left turns.”
For the initiated, this is a shorthanded reference to my driving displeasure, something easily understood. For this stranger, however, it was merely a confirmation that he’d acquired yet another crazy fan, now a superstitious kook with a phobia about their directional signals.
I’m guessing about this, because the young man has a well-deserved reputation for being unfailingly gracious to his fans. Eyes only slightly glazed, he managed a weak smile as he murmured “Oh, yes, I think you would have to make a few left turns to get here from New Jersey.” No security detail, stun guns or butterfly nets were summoned; he must have decided that although crazy, I didn’t seem dangerous. Besides, I couldn’t very well follow him, given my self-imposed personal driving strictures.
My bubble about the outcome of the evening was burst a few hours later, while we sat in our hotel room, for pizza and post mortem. One of my entourage laughed and commented on the confusion my “no left turn” comment had caused, a confusion I had failed to recognize until that moment. Oh, damn retroactive embarrassment!
I’ve met this actor several times since then, the theatre world is a fairly small one. I doubt he remembers the incident, and we will now exchange nods or straight forward pleasantries that leave no room whatsoever for confusion. And I have NOT grabbed him and blurted out, “Hey, I DO make left turns, I make them all the time.”
At least, I haven’t yet.
The good thing about writing this is that I see a pattern; namely that I should probably stick with writing things out, and not open my mouth.
This was an assignment for a writing class, talking about an embarrassing incident.
An Embarrassment of Embarrassments
Thinking of one embarrassing moment in my life is a daunting task; not to be undertaken lightly. I’d prefer trying to pinpoint a moment of unequivocal grace and dignity. At least the mental slideshow required would be less time consuming.
I should have been embarrassed when my son was five days old, and I pointed to the wrong baby in the nursery as mine. At the time, I just shrugged and said that they all looked alike. They did; I still think so.
There was the time I visited my newlywed friends, Tom and Jackie Henaghan. Soon to be married myself, I was on the alert for decorating ideas. Their bathroom was resplendent with its monogrammed towels and accessories, but one detailed disturbed me. I questioned Jackie “How come only one of the faucets has an ‘H’ on it?’ And what does the ‘C’ stand for; when your maiden name was Walsh?”
If Jackie would have had the decency to marry a Decker instead of a Henaghan, this incident would have never occurred, but as things happened, I’m pretty sure this incident will be recapped in my obituary.
I seldom visit Atlantic City but went with a friend once, and in an hour, I won two small jackpots at two different slot machines. Both times, I continued to play until I had lost the money, not because I wanted to keep playing but because both machines had flashed a sign “Cash Out,” when I hit the jackpot. I was annoyed that the casino had such a slap dash attitude towards equipment maintenance, allowing them to run out of cash on a busy summer evening. What could I do to get my money’s worth but continue to play until I’d lost it all?
After depleting my winnings and my two roll of quarter’s initial investment and still needing to wait for my companion, I retired to a bench on the boardwalk in front of Bally’s Wild West Casino, alternatively reading, sulking and reflecting on which of the hordes entering the casino was actively putting Darwin’s theories to the test.”
Only me, apparently, because no one else was unaware that a “cash out” sign means pressing a button on the slot machine, taking the slip of paper the machine dispenses and handing it over to a casino cashier in order to collect your winnings.
Cash out, out of cash? I don’t know, sounds the same to me.
If a basic instinct for self preservation had not caused me to set the
Utter Humiliation bar pretty high, I might not have appeared in public since 1978.
There is one incident that continues to nag at me, even though given my history, it’s quite minor. I think it bothers me because unlike most of my gaffes, which are due to a slip in the mind, this one was really a simple slip of the tongue. I could have corrected myself in a few words, but by the time I was aware of my blunder the moment for damage control had passed.
It was also exasperating that I should have botched an occasion that had first seemed to be such a success. With my teenaged son and two of his friends, I had made a four hour trip to the Berkshires Theater Festival in order to see an actor I admired. I was the only driver, and an extremely reluctant one. I’d never been at ease behind the wheel, and for me, this act was unprecedented. Although I’d only driven 200 miles, I felt as proud of myself as if I’d circumnavigated the globe.
After the show, I did get a chance to speak with the actor. Still giddy with success, and perhaps a little distracted contemplating the return trip, I blurted out a comment about having made this trip to see him “even though I don’t like to make left turns.”
For the initiated, this is a shorthanded reference to my driving displeasure, something easily understood. For this stranger, however, it was merely a confirmation that he’d acquired yet another crazy fan, now a superstitious kook with a phobia about their directional signals.
I’m guessing about this, because the young man has a well-deserved reputation for being unfailingly gracious to his fans. Eyes only slightly glazed, he managed a weak smile as he murmured “Oh, yes, I think you would have to make a few left turns to get here from New Jersey.” No security detail, stun guns or butterfly nets were summoned; he must have decided that although crazy, I didn’t seem dangerous. Besides, I couldn’t very well follow him, given my self-imposed personal driving strictures.
My bubble about the outcome of the evening was burst a few hours later, while we sat in our hotel room, for pizza and post mortem. One of my entourage laughed and commented on the confusion my “no left turn” comment had caused, a confusion I had failed to recognize until that moment. Oh, damn retroactive embarrassment!
I’ve met this actor several times since then, the theatre world is a fairly small one. I doubt he remembers the incident, and we will now exchange nods or straight forward pleasantries that leave no room whatsoever for confusion. And I have NOT grabbed him and blurted out, “Hey, I DO make left turns, I make them all the time.”
At least, I haven’t yet.
May 14th, 2009
The 2009 version of "Testing, Testing," since my sister wouldn't see this anyway, if I screwed it up. Now that I know I can do things like this, I can finally get around to posting the Scrapook Slideshow from Mrs. Warren's Profession.
May 2nd, 2009
I see that the last time I posted it was after seeing "Thinking." Funny, I'm just about to go see it again. One would think I had nothing else to do.
I'll skill over what I've been doing for the past months, and say nothing too constructive, although I did get to visit my sister in Texas where she was engaged in a race, seeing who would arrive first, her son due to be born in mid-February, or her husband, due back from his deployment in Iraq.
Husband won by a hair; got home with only a little more than 24 hours to spare.
I would not want to live in Texas. Of course, I would also not want to be married to someone in the army. After joining Facebook so that I could get a message through to this brother in law that none of us had ever met, I now have a "Friend" picture showing up for me that has people wondering how he slipped in among the rest of my counter culture cronies. It does look odd, my knowing someone whose profile shot had him in a uniform with the shaved military cut, standing in front of a flag. I thought of adding a disclaimer that he was related to me, therefore I had no control over his actions, but it might have seemed a little hostile. Now his profile picture is of him holding the baby, so I can breath easily. It's just hard to believe that my sister, who couldn't wait to shake the dust of Freehold,, NJ from her feet and live in Washington, D.C., join he CIA, and travel around the world, is now an army wife, living in a house with a deer head in her living room. When I commented on the deer head (well, commented is putting it politely, it was more like shrieked) she asked if I didn't like it, and then added that he had shot the deer himself, as though that would be a mitigating circumstance.
I sat all week, with that beautiful animal's eyes glancing sadly down on me. I know they weren't his real eyes, but still, it left me with that "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore feeling."
I see that time's getting on, so I should get to the point of this and continue on tomorrow; I have to go drive two hours to watch Jeff appear on stage for about seven minutes out of another two hours plus, when he was a very small part in "Carmen" at his school. I used to feel that this was the price I paid for him to have the music scholarship, but since he's changed majors and now just does this for "fun" it seems like I'm being unnecessarily tortured.
Tomorrow it's playing again in the same venue, and I bought three tickets, planning on bringing my usual "date" for these events, one of Jeff's friends who, besides liking Randy likes anything that will get him out of his house. Unfortunately he got invited to a friend's house in south Jersey for the weekend, and I didn't have the heart to remind him we had tickets to the show. Since they were only ten or twelve dollars, I'll let it slide, rather than killing him for his forgetfulness. He still has some credits saved up from November or December, when we went to the Red Bull Theatre to see the opening night of their latest play. They had a reception before the show where you could meet and greet with guest artists from previous productions, Randy being one of them.
I paid a premium price for these tickets, and then ended up getting stuck in traffic and barely making the opening of the play. I sat down in my seats (acquired at the very last minute) bitching and moaning and sulking. Thirty second later, who should sit in back of me?
We actually had a nice chat about Paris and speaking French and if "Thinking" was going to be playing again.
Later, I will go on about why Michael acquired some credit in my good graces but if anyone wants to go to the show tomorrow, I seem to have at least one extra ticket.
Terri, are you out there? Are you going? Want to?
Oh well, off to Glassboro, New Jersey, God help me.
I'll skill over what I've been doing for the past months, and say nothing too constructive, although I did get to visit my sister in Texas where she was engaged in a race, seeing who would arrive first, her son due to be born in mid-February, or her husband, due back from his deployment in Iraq.
Husband won by a hair; got home with only a little more than 24 hours to spare.
I would not want to live in Texas. Of course, I would also not want to be married to someone in the army. After joining Facebook so that I could get a message through to this brother in law that none of us had ever met, I now have a "Friend" picture showing up for me that has people wondering how he slipped in among the rest of my counter culture cronies. It does look odd, my knowing someone whose profile shot had him in a uniform with the shaved military cut, standing in front of a flag. I thought of adding a disclaimer that he was related to me, therefore I had no control over his actions, but it might have seemed a little hostile. Now his profile picture is of him holding the baby, so I can breath easily. It's just hard to believe that my sister, who couldn't wait to shake the dust of Freehold,, NJ from her feet and live in Washington, D.C., join he CIA, and travel around the world, is now an army wife, living in a house with a deer head in her living room. When I commented on the deer head (well, commented is putting it politely, it was more like shrieked) she asked if I didn't like it, and then added that he had shot the deer himself, as though that would be a mitigating circumstance.
I sat all week, with that beautiful animal's eyes glancing sadly down on me. I know they weren't his real eyes, but still, it left me with that "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore feeling."
I see that time's getting on, so I should get to the point of this and continue on tomorrow; I have to go drive two hours to watch Jeff appear on stage for about seven minutes out of another two hours plus, when he was a very small part in "Carmen" at his school. I used to feel that this was the price I paid for him to have the music scholarship, but since he's changed majors and now just does this for "fun" it seems like I'm being unnecessarily tortured.
Tomorrow it's playing again in the same venue, and I bought three tickets, planning on bringing my usual "date" for these events, one of Jeff's friends who, besides liking Randy likes anything that will get him out of his house. Unfortunately he got invited to a friend's house in south Jersey for the weekend, and I didn't have the heart to remind him we had tickets to the show. Since they were only ten or twelve dollars, I'll let it slide, rather than killing him for his forgetfulness. He still has some credits saved up from November or December, when we went to the Red Bull Theatre to see the opening night of their latest play. They had a reception before the show where you could meet and greet with guest artists from previous productions, Randy being one of them.
I paid a premium price for these tickets, and then ended up getting stuck in traffic and barely making the opening of the play. I sat down in my seats (acquired at the very last minute) bitching and moaning and sulking. Thirty second later, who should sit in back of me?
We actually had a nice chat about Paris and speaking French and if "Thinking" was going to be playing again.
Later, I will go on about why Michael acquired some credit in my good graces but if anyone wants to go to the show tomorrow, I seem to have at least one extra ticket.
Terri, are you out there? Are you going? Want to?
Oh well, off to Glassboro, New Jersey, God help me.
October 19th, 2008
Well, thought I'd be back faster from my hiatus. Life has been sucking lately, but at last we're moving, and once that's done, I think I'll be less stressed and in a better mood.
I'll certainly be alone more; we've been living in my parents for several years, and now Jeff's off to school too.
I'll certainly be alone more; we've been living in my parents for several years, and now Jeff's off to school too.
I'll be happy when it's done and everything comes together. Then it's back to school, back to LJ, back to writing and back to being myself, it's been a long hiatius.
I do try to keep up with things peripherally, mainly by being on the mailing list of every theatre group and/or gay and lesbian organization. When I heard about "Thinking" having it's NY showing, I immediately bought two tickets. As the day drew near, however, life kept intervening and being miserable. By the time I was on my way to leave, I was thinking that maybe i should just stay home, I'd only be out $20.
I finally managed to get myself moving (albeit reluctantly) and made plans to meet him at the theatre.. I was on my way to the bus stop listening to the Legally Blonde Cd, and listening to a song where she sings about "seeing my name upon that list, makes someone know that I exist....seing my name in black and white, must mean I'm doing something right..." I was gloomily reflecting that maybe I'd feel the same way if I was listed on anything worthwhile.
We went to the film festival, and I discovered this short format is perfect for my ADD mentality. I had somewhat reluctantly asked my husband to accompany me. I say somewhat, because I doubt that he particularly wanted to go, and I was expecting him to make fun of my going just because Randy was associated with it. I had a greater worry after seeing the first three films, all of whichwere very good.
When"Thinking" started, I began to realize that there was no dialogue, and I got even more uneasy, anticipating his comments. Well, he left no doubt about his impressions of the film, because when my husband laughs during a show, everyone can hear him. And he was laughing a lot. As soon as the opening credits started, he promptly popped out with "That one was the best."
I was scanning the credits, for what I don't know, but I guess I was just waiting for a formal "end." I remained looking at the black screen with the names rolling by in white, and I looked down the alphabetical list and said "Oh, look, the same name as mine, Kathleen O'Neill." All of a sudden, I realized that it was my name; this list was obviously one of individuals who have made contributions to the tAB.
So there it was, my name in black and white right up in front of me. I took it as a good omen.
There seemed to be some flurry of activity in back of us ; we turned around, and there were the two executive producers with a group of friends and fans. Good thing about a theatre that only seats 75, you don't have all that much competition if you want to speak to the people involved. I hung around long enough to exchange a few words, and to snap a few pictures. I did ask first, and he seemed a little surprised taht I would do so, but after his co-star's fit of camera shyness, I thought I'd be nice. I wish I could have gotten him together with Marci, but by the time I got around to fishing out my camera, she was gone.
Naturally, since the camera was a last minute thought, and I didn't care all that much about taking pictures--and in fact, I don't usually in NY--I was surprised that they came out fine, for a change.
I don' suppose there will be a DVD released anytime soon, but I would like to see it again.
Oh well, back to packing.
