Ye Olde Classroome

Driving to school today, Magnolia recounts the following conversation she had in class yesterday:

Teacher (who is maybe 40 and has 5 tattoos she told the kids about): I need some strong volunteers to help me move this desk. (Then chooses 3 boys).

Magnolia: I'm strong! I rode 10 miles on my bike yesterday!!

Teacher: But you're wearing such a cute skirt! You don't want to mess that up.

Um.

Is it 1955? Did someone NOT tell me that it's 1955??? WTF. I was on the list to get the memo about time travel becoming a reality. Dammit.

Ok, now, in all seriousness...I'm not worried about Magnolia. This IS the child who told off her kindergarten classmates (she's now in 4th grade) when they told her she couldn't like the movie Cars by telling them all they were gender stereotypers. Yes, that happened. That girl is the product of a very strong willed mother and an exceptionally pro-humankind father. She's going to be fine...she knew enough to share this story with me, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't just shared to get a confirmation on the fact that she was wearing a cute skirt yesterday (it was super cute). But let's be honest for a moment. Our society is totally fucked up.

Recently, Lisa Bloom of the Huffington post had THIS to say about how we talk to little girls. It was an interesting article that circulated through many of my friends' facebook pages. It basically talks about how we often praise girl and boy children very differently, and that we are doing a disservice to little girls when we talk about how cute they are all the time instead of talking about their ability to do things. I found the article interesting, and I for the most part agreed with it, but by no means was it a complete story about what we SHOULD be saying to children...I think about this stuff a lot, as evidenced by one of my old blogs, just this week referenced on my FB page by a friend of mine teasing me. I fear that one of the problems with doing as Ms. Bloom suggests is the lack of balance. There is that song in "A Chorus Line" - "Mother always said I'd be very attractive..when I grew up, when I grew up. Different, she said, with a special something and a very very personal flair......Now different is nice, but it sure isn't pretty. Pretty is what it's about. I never knew anyone who was different who couldn't figure that out."

Shouldn't our goal be to create people (not just women) who recognize that there is a whole-istic approach to someone's worth as a human being? That they can be any number of things, and that the only thing that ultimately matters is their ability to be kind, not only to others, but to themselves as well? Our world isn't perfect, in fact it seems to be slipping further and further from perfection every day...and I want to make sure both my kids are prepared with every possible tool in their arsenal to face it...and honestly, to hopefully fix some of the insanity that's out there.

We want to create an army of girls who are strong, feel confident, with the ability to do whatever they set their mind to...but do we really want to put them into this beauty driven world without the confidence of realizing they can be ALL of those things, and be pretty too? There was the recent uproar over the HORRIFIC shirt (now pulled) from the children's section at J.C. Penny- "I'm too pretty to do homework, so my brother does it for me". UM, WHAT? I feel like the march of the progressive movement should be towards acceptance of others- ALL others. I'm a fat girl. You won't find me blasting skinny ones, cause I've got family members who struggle with that issue just as hard as I struggle with mine. We should be teaching our children that it's not that you're either pretty OR strong OR smart...but you can be all of those things. If I could wave a magic wand, I'd make a world where it didn't matter, but as long as it does, I'd like to prepare my brilliant, gorgeous kid for it.

If you read the link from my blog, you'll see Magnolia had it all figured out at 3. She could be strong, brave, smart, AND sparkly.

Jaime Oliver Can Kiss My Fat Ass

Despite what my appearance may lead you to believe, I'm a huge huge nutrition nerd. I know fiber contents and calorie contents and fat contents and glycemic indices of foods most of America has never heard of. As a former teacher in LAUSD, I found the lunches to be disturbingly monochromatic and high on the fat/sugar side. I learned early on that one of the reasons for this was the fact that there is an assumption made that many students on free or reduced price lunch may not get another meal in the day, and so they shove as many calories as possible into school lunches. Considering there is another law making sure that the rich kids in LAUSD schools don't actually get to have meals any different than their other end of the spectrum counterparts, even if the kids are eating 3 squares, they all get the same food, or at least, are supposed to. An interesting and somewhat daunting task, considering the number of schools in the district, the number of students being serviced, and the fact that not all schools even have kitchens they can use.

As a parent, I had mixed feelings. I liked the convenience of school lunches, and even liked that my kids were being exposed to different things, because, even as a someone who loves to cook, I find myself falling into easy ruts as a working parent, and I like the idea of exposure. I don't as much enjoy the "exposure" to daily chocolate milk, coffeecake, or popsicles and ice cream bars...but I decided a little bit of that stuff won't hurt them. More importantly, it will hopefully keep them from becoming teens who, deprived of junk food as children, binge unhealthily on it as soon as they can access it (a story I've heard over and over again from folks who've gone through it, and truth be told, know from personal experience). So I turned a bit of a blind eye to it, for I strongly believe children who are too steered in a nutritional direction WILL rebel and the biggest gift I can give to my children is the gift of choice, of moderation, and of balance (really, when it comes to everything in life).

When I heard of Jaime's Food Revolution, I was interested...but I didn't watch the first season, mainly because I just forget to watch TV most of the time. I followed it through friend's facebook posts and reading the occasional article, and the first season sort of slipped by with semi positive, but not terribly in depth thoughts about it. Then it was time for the second season, and with guns blazing, he was coming to my home, so to speak, and nailing those LAUSD lunches to the wall. Hmm, I thought, seems interesting. The district backlash and defensiveness didn't really surprise me, but I was still on Jaime's side, until I read an article in a parenting magazine talking about the background in this particular fight. In the article I learned that the new LAUSD superintendent was actually interested in sitting down with the British cook and figuring out solutions to LAUSD's very very complicated lunch issues, but that because those kinds of sessions don't make good television, the answer was "no, thanks".

I recently read about the probable victory of getting the strawberry and chocolate flavored milks ("soda in disguise", according to one irate mother) removed from the menus, and was a little more than surprised when I saw this would only reduce the amount of sugars by 6 grams. That's less than 1/2 a teaspoon. Calories stay the same, cause the chocolate milk is fat free, while the regular milk is 2% (really, 38% fat), and we're saving 1/2 a teaspoon of sugar. Why, exactly, are we jumping up and down over this? And, to that irate mother, last I checked, chocolate milk (which my kids never get at home) has calcium, vitamin a, vitamin d, and protein...something I'm pretty sure NO soda has.

I statused on FB- "I hate to say it, but Jaime Oliver lost me. When he turned down the opportunity to sit down with the district people to work out a solution using the limitations that LAUSD has because he is here to "make waves", not ACTUALLY SOLVE THE PROBLEM...I am gone. I hate wave makers who put blinders on and don't try to find a solution. On TV and in life."

Conversation ensued...no one really opposed me, but I'm sure that was more out of a notion of being polite rather than a notion that I'm 100% right (oh, to be 100% right...). And as I proclaimed that I had actual solutions that would be helpful, I was asked to provide them, and I thought- crap...this IS hard. Which isn't really a solution, either. I mean, at least yelling about a problem gets it noticed. Just sitting in a corner and muttering "well, it's complicated" isn't really going to get any more done that the guy riding the quinoa horse and waving around his asparagus (my favorite imagery from one of my comments). So then what?

Look, ain't none of us perfect. This limey comes into to our home and tells us we're doing it all wrong, which many of us know. It's not really his fault that he's got a team of directors, producers, and lackeys all running around him telling him how to do things, what to do, and he's probably not thrilled with the way things are going either. And, at the end of the day, he's just trying to help. He's a father of 4. His kids are gonna start turning their noses up at the whole wheat cous cous casserole as soon as they realize they can. He's got other stuff he can be doing...but at the same time, I have to give him props for at least trying. But what I don't have to do is watch his show...because like all reality TV, it's there for a reason. Entertainment. Ratings. Sponsors. And I don't appreciate him making a group of people look bad who are also trying to do the best they can within the guidelines of what they HAVE to do sandwiched up against laws, budget cuts, facilities, and the fact that kids are just freaking picky. Especially not when those people are feeding my kids. Go into a tiny town that thinks potatoes are a vegetable and teach them how to do things a different way? Ok. But if you're going to come into MY town and try to "revolutionize" it but are not willing to work within the confines we have to abide by? You can move along, thanks.

No, there is no easy answer. There is an obesity epidemic in this country, but the problem doesn't lie in the 6 grams of sugar in chocolate milk. This HAS to be a wholistic approach that incorporates more activity, less empty calories, and the education to help that happen. It may not be "exciting television", but it's the only way it will work over the long term. And even that may fail.

Supposed To

I know I posted that whole thing about bereavement and not judging yourself for your feelings and all, but honestly, I feel kinda guilty. Growing up half jewish and half catholic will do that to you. Cause here is the thing. I feel fine.

I woke up last Friday morning feeling as hungover as I've ever felt, which, for those of you who don't know me, is not saying much, as I've never actually BEEN hungover (it's my superpower). I didn't drink on Thursday at all, but I felt puffy and dehydrated, headachey and like I'd been steamrolled. The events of the week and the amount of tears that had come out of me was the likely culprit. After deciding Zumba wasn't going to happen, I wanted to get all my feelings out and share what had been going on with everyone who had been so wonderful and supportive. So I vomited out all of that here, and honestly, as soon as I was done, it was as though a weight had been lifted. The pressure, the sadness, the hurt, the resentment, the frustration, all those negative feelings left, and I was left with a feeling of peace.

When I started that post, I was pissed. I was ready to take the low road and use my words to smack down the people I felt needed smacking down. I wanted to lash out and make them hurt as badly as I'd been hurt, make them realize that I was NOT the bad guy in this scenario, that I was the child who had been abandoned and cast asunder...not the reverse. Not that I thought any of them actually read my blog, but I just wanted it out there, in the universe, so I'd be heard. By the time I was done writing (which went relatively quickly, but it was so many words!) I truly felt the peace I talked about in the last paragraph. I felt GOOD about having stayed on the high road and had no desire to do anything but.

Here we are, just over a week later, and everyone has been checking in and seeing how I'm doing...and I kind of hate to admit it, but I feel really good. I've barely thought about it except in passing. I feel like now, when I want to hang out with biodad, all I have to do is think about him, not call his captors and make an appointment (the last one I tried to make was denied to me, about a month before he passed) and pretend to be nice and sweet and non judgmental. I just have to think about him and he is with me, and it's so much nicer than before. There is so much of him in me, and instead of it reminding me that I should call or I should visit, it just reminds me of him. It's kind of fun to think of him seeing me and those things without all the bullshit I'd get from him in person. I'm not sure if that makes me heartless, or callous, or just a survivor, but that's the truth. I feel fine.

After I wrote my entry last Friday, I went to my mom and (step)dad's for a birthday dinner for my brother, their child. His birthday was the day of the memorial, so they waited for me to have it, and for the first time all week, I talked to my dad about it. From day one, when I was 8, he never wanted to step on anyone's toes, he never wanted to make me feel like my real father was being replaced. If I had any complaint about him growing up, it was that he should have felt more ok doing that. I could have used a stronger father figure...but he was always super careful. Friday was no different. He wasn't going to bring it up, but I felt like it was the elephant in the room, and frankly, I saw it as the last piece in the puzzle of healing, so I started the conversation. I told him everything that had happened that week (my mom had told him about the death, but not about the treatment that followed), I told him about the memorial, I told him everything I had been feeling...and he listened, was incredulous when incredulity was necessary, was sympathetic when sympathy was called for, and I think, was thankful that we discussed it. Because after all of the rollercoaster of the week was over, I was left with this truth- the man who is my father did not die on May 14th. He's alive and well (and kicking someone's ass in court in litigation) and is there for me and will continue to be there for me. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel about that other guy, but I think I'm done feeling it...and I feel fine.

The High Road

Fuck that. I've been taking the high road all week, and it's downright dissatisfying. Ok, maybe it gives me a little feeling of smug righteous indignation, but my inner bitch is having a hard time not letting loose on someone.

On Saturday, my biological father died. He had a stroke 13 years ago, was convalesced to the point of not being awake for more than an hour a day (according to my stepmonster, who was in charge of him) and was 72. It wasn't a shock that he WOULD pass, but no matter how prepared you think you might be, it still creeps up on you. I got the call from my older brother, technically my half brother from our dad's first marriage, but as far as I am concerned, he is just my big brother. Our dad, Luis, died at home under his nurse's care. His current family was all in New York, where 2 of them live, on vacation. They had been called, and asked my brother to go to the house to wait with the body. My brother was upset, as he and our dad were pretty close, and as the news sunk in, I was unsettled. Having already lost 2 parent figures (my father in law and my aunt), I felt like I overall more experienced in this, and despite not having seen our dad in over a year, I asked my brother if he'd like me to come over to the house and sit with him while he waited. He said it would be fine, so I dropped everything I was doing and headed over. I was sad, but I had emotionally cut myself off from him a long time ago to avoid being continuously hurt by him, so it wasn't as traumatic for me. I was sad, of course, but was confused by all the emotions I was having...and the word of the week became "complicated".

After he was picked up, I headed over to my mom's house. I was now a far bigger mess than I thought I would be in this situation, and I wanted the comfort of my mommy. Having been the woman who he left for this new family, you'd think she'd be bitter, but the only thing she was angry about was that he died alone. The last few years, she'd been increasingly frustrated with the reports from me on his care, and loving soul that she is, even grappled with figuring out a way that she could help, knowing full well that would be impossible under the care of the witch. Even I wasn't allowed to visit, unless I made an appointment, and even then, only under her watchful eye, so there was no way my mother, the woman whose house she wrecked, would be welcome. Visiting that house was like going to Azkaban. My stepmonster is like a dementor in the disguise of an upper middle class housewife, sitting there, ready to suck your soul out of your face. When I'd leave the house, I'd need recovery time...but despite this, I went, and I didn't even question a moment to go there to support my brother. The rest of the week was a blur of phone calls, ups and downs, lots of crying, and rehearsals for the 2 shows I have next week.

On Tuesday night, I got the mass email from the little brother who usually doesn't talk to me, inviting me to the memorial service on Thursday...the day of my last tech/dress for a show I'm workshopping on Sunday, the day that was already set to be my busiest day of the week. I called the appropriate people and rearranged things so that I would not miss what I couldn't miss, and it was set...but I was worried. Would one of them say something to me? Would one of them try to make me feel guilty for not being there more, for "abandoning them" as soon as I was old enough to say ENOUGH to the abuse and stop pretending to be part of that family? If they did, how would I handle it? What should I say? The reality is that I've grieved the loss of that man since the day my little brother was born. The day I was celebrating my 7th birthday when he came to tell me my stepmonster had had my baby brother...but I was more interested in my new rabbit fur coat. Seems I had my priorities straight, because as I went with them to the hospital, and CARRIED HIM HOME in the car on the way home, we went upstairs to the apartment and my bed and dresser were gone, a crib was in it's place, and my room was blue, and I was told I'd be sleeping on the couch from now on. I was given a cardboard box of drawers in the closet to hold my clothes, and was supposed to be happy about the turn of events. From that day forward I had already lost my dad. The next 2 babies didn't help, and by the time my sister was born, I was 14 and done with them. I couldn't sever the umbilical chord, so many years of messy interactions followed, but the reality is that I eventually had to stop caring. I had to stop caring that their house was filled to the point of ridiculousness of pictures of all of them, and I was not included. Had to stop caring that my biodad thought himself to be the picture of the patriarch, but was NEVER there for me when I needed him. That he coached their little league teams and went to their events but didn't come see me in my plays. Then when he had his stroke, woke up, and the first person he asked for was my mom...and the second person was me...I went anyway. He would only speak in Spanish, and I spent time the first few years of his recovery occasionally taking him to physical therapy and other appointments, but it wasn't easy on my schedule...or on my soul, so I eventually stopped. He was alive, but I couldn't think of him as a father. I have a father. My mother met a wonderful man when I was 8, who was always there for me and loved me, and who bent over backwards when I was 15 and their first son was born to make sure I knew he still loved me just as much as he always had. When I was 20, I took his name and he adopted me as his legal daughter...and you'd think that I'd have washed my hands with biodad, but I didn't. I still made an effort, albeit a weak one, to go visit occasionally, but I knew it hadn't been thought of as enough, so I didn't know what I should do if someone were to start yelling.

Everyone told me I was crazy. No way would they do that, cause it's a MEMORIAL service. Everyone plays nice...maybe now would be a time where we could all come together and the 7 of us (3 from his first marriage, me, 3 from his 3rd) could be more like a family, without the divisiveness that he seemed to bring. I shouldn't worry. It would be fine. Then my phone rang on Wednesday night around 10 and it was the number of the one of my younger sibs who I actually had somewhat of a relationship with. The diatribe went something like this:

"What makes you think you have the right to come into our house and be here when we weren't here? How DARE you come into our sanctuary, the place we created for our father to take care of him the last 13 years, while you went and played house and acted like nothing was wrong? You've never even thanked me for taking care of him. You're a coward, you're the scum of the earth. Fuck you. You had better not show your face tomorrow, you are NOT welcome." Ok, so I was shocked, but my very first thought was "SEE!!! I knew this was going to happen." I stayed remarkably calm, wasn't angry at all. Later I likened it to having a crazy person screaming at you "you're an alien! You have green hair!!". If it makes no sense and it totally untrue, it's kind of hard to get offended. I calmly talked to him, saying "I can tell you're angry, but I only went to be there for Dave, I meant no disrespect", but the nasty venom continued to spew. Eventually he hung up on me and when he called back I didn't answer. The next hour or so I spent talking to my older sibs, and making sure I wasn't crazy. They all confirmed that of course I had the right to come Thursday...which truthfully, I would have preferred to avoid.

I had rehearsal all day Thursday, up until I had to leave to go to the memorial, and I stuffed all my emotions inside to get through rehearsal, but as soon as I was released, I burst out into tears. I was just so worried. Turns out, I didn't need to be. I avoided my younger sibs and my stepmother, and they ignored me in turn. I clutched Michael, used my kids as distractions, held the hands of my older siblings, and calmly listened while people spoke of this amazing, ideal father, and I mainly felt happy for my younger siblings that that was their experience. I cried, but not painfully so, and I only had to walk away from listening to the words once. I found appropriate things to say to the strangers who kept coming up and talking to me about how they knew me when I was a little girl, about how much they loved my dad, about how much he helped them and how he was so good to my stepmother and their kids. I spent the last of the time in solitary reverie, sitting in the spot where he had taught me to love the ocean, where I'd learned to surf, where I'd spent hours of my childhood with him, and feeling peaceful. I felt the love of my family, felt the love of my friends who posted on Facebook all day, not even knowing why, as it was all just too complicated to explain the myraid of emotions I was feeling all week, but who knew I needed support and who were so willing to send it to me...and I was proud of myself and the choices I've made, and the person I've become, in spite of what was done to me.

Then I came home and found that the same little brother who called and berated me had unfriended me on Facebook, but instead of feeling angry at him, I feel sorry for him. He has so much hate in his heart, and it is so misdirected. So I guess, as much as my inner bitch would feel so satisfied lashing out at him, I'm gonna stay on this here high road.

Bereavement

When my beautiful aunt died, 3 years, 2 months, and 1 day ago, I wasn't sure which way was up anymore. I had lost people before, but that experience was very different and completely life changing. At the time, my mother in law was friends with the palliative care doctor that had served on my late father in law's case when he was at the end of his life. She told him about what I was going through and he wrote her a beautiful email about the process of bereavement which she forwarded to me. I printed it out and have had it on my refrigerator since then, and often look at it and ponder the meaning of it. It's been very comforting. After my biodad passed on Saturday, I looked at it, and it all of a sudden had new and deeper meaning than it ever had before. It is somehow so much more applicable in this situation than it was in the other, and I am so grateful for it. I am going to share it with you.

Bereavement is a strange creature and it takes whatever shape it needs to capture your attention.

The way out is not to "fight" but to sit and acknowledge its presence. It does not need to be fought or fed or "treated" or medicated away. What it asks is to be acknowledged.

Repeatedly, respectfully recognize the reality of the images and feelings that come up in dreams (and in the waking hours). Sit with them routinely until their story has been heard.

There is no need to judge yourself or others. There is no need to question the validity of the thoughts, memories, and feelings that bubble up from parts unknown.

To judge implies that maybe persons and events could have been "right" or "better". Things just are the way they are. We are just the way we are. As far as the things we have done or not done--what about it?--all we have is the present. To be drawn into the quicksand of the "what ifs" has no value.

How long will it take? This will take all the time it needs. When these memories, images and feelings have been "heard" --and they may need "hearing" over and over--then they will quiet down on their own. You may be surprised to find yourself smiling and thankful for everything -- the pain and loss included.

The fruit of being patient with the suffering you endure will be beyond your expectation. That fruit is compassion.
Dr. Thomas Cuyegkeng

Complicated

Isn't that a song title?

In any case, my biodad died yesterday. I don't really know what I think about it or what to say about it, or how to blog about it in a way that won't piss off everyone that's already pissed off or those who aren't or those who are too selfish to realize what they had or those who are too arrogant to think outside of themselves, or who are too angry to realize self righteousness is never the answer, so I'm going to go with the things that make me happy. Happy thoughts, memories for which I am grateful. In list form, for the most part.

Thank you, Luis Carlos DeCastro, for the following:

Flank steak and rice with onion sauce

Teaching me how to ride a bike

Taking me on bike rides around Santa Monica alleyways to look for fruit so often that I can still spot an avocado tree at 1/4 mile away.

Teaching me how to make Huevos Rancheros

Taking me to the Hare Krishna Festival of Chariots and letting me touch the elephants

Giving me my love of the ocean

Crying when you watched me play Anne Frank

Giving me a sincere appreciation for convertibles

That's what I have in the Grateful column. I hope I'm forgetting things, but I'm pretty sure that's what there was. I don't feel the need to make any other sorts of columns, cause I don't think it will help anyone. I hope he is at rest. I sincerely hope with this last passage comes peace.

It's Only A Matter of Time

Lord. There is no way I'm going to be able to focus all I could say about this topic into one blog post, and needless to say, I shouldn't, cause really, I'm not paying any of you for a therapy session, but I just read a post on my friend Gretchen's blog, and it's making all of these thoughts I've been having percolate inside my brain and burst forth into what else? A blog post.

Hers was called Skinny and Pretty and it was about how she often feels like she's neither. Recently I've been struggling with some notions with regards to those things, and this week has been an exceptionally challenging one, so reading this post could not have come at a better time. I'm going to be really honest right now, so if you're not interested, or if you're feeling particularly judgmental, just click away now...

I don't want to sound conceited, but I know I'm pretty, I get that. But I've been "the fat girl" since I was 8, with a 2 year break from 21-23, and I get that too. The latter, growing up and living in Los Angeles, can be challenging. Yes, even with a husband who can't get enough of me and a huge support system of very loving, very flirty friends and co-workers. I'm completely self-aware. I have worn plus sized clothing for 28 of my 38 years. I have type 2 diabetes. I am on more medication than my 92 year old grandmother. But don't think you know my life. I eat more heathfully than most of my friends. I don't eat fast food. I exercise (at a gym) a LOT. I keep a food journal, I don't drink soda, cook with oil, eat sweets, or do most of the things that people think fat people do. And let me tell you something...it's REALLY fucking annoying. Sometimes I whine that if I'm going to have this body, why can't I just eat whatever I want so that at least it's worth it. For a long time, it bothered me, but I recently came to peace with it, and decided that I was just going to have to accept the fact that this is how I am, and continue exercising and eating right because it was what was right for my body, despite the fact that I don't "look like" I do any of those things. But in November I had to start a new medication, and it's made me gain 10 pounds, despite the fact that I've been working really hard to keep it from doing so. The last week I've carefully measured every morsel that has gone into my mouth, totalling no more than 1200 calories a day, plus I worked out (and yes, I added calories on the days I worked out, so please don't say my body was in starvation mode). I gained a pound. In a week. It's not fun. It's been frustrating, coupled with having filmed a commercial last week where there was a fat joke at my expense, which is something I have to be used to if I'm going to be in this business. My cousin/doctor/brother brought up his concern about this kind of thing happening more now, and him being worried, knowing how hard I am on myself. He hadn't even heard the story yet about the extras behind me at the catering truck on set, who after I ordered my lunch- grilled chicken, sauteed spinach and snow peas and salad, said to each other "well, I didn't see THAT coming". Yes, that really happened. 2 weeks ago. At the time, I shrugged it off, but I can't help but think the meltdown over my weight I had a week ago may have had something to do with these shrugged off feelings.

Recently, I was watching a production I did in 9th grade, and noticed that I was not nearly as fat as I thought I was. This may have been more disturbing than had I been fat. I still describe myself as the "chubbiest Anne Frank ever", and seeing the video made me realize that I was probably the only person who actually thought that was the case. I currently have a 9 year old daugher who is NOT even chubby, who already thinks she's fat because of what she learned at camp, what she hears at school, and what my mother has (unintentionally) said to her. Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? How do I, as a fat person, say to my child- eat healthfully cause it's the right thing to do for your body to stay healthy, when she sees me eating healthfully and looking the way I do? And then to also say "don't look down on people for being fat" and "be comfortable in your own skin" and "no, no you're not fat- not that there's anything WRONG with that" a la Seinfeld? I don't even know how to tell MYSELF that, much less her. To paraphrase someone paraphrasing George W. Bush-- "parenting is hard". My daughter has 2 aunts who lived through major eating disorders and who struggle from the other side of it. I don't want her to have my struggle, and I don't want her to have her aunts' struggle. I want to protect her from all these feelings and tell her that her size doesn't matter...but that's a big (fat) lie. It does matter, and it's only a matter of time before she knows it. Except that that's a big lie too. She knows it already, I just don't know how to fix it. I'm beginning to believe that all confidence is fraudulent. So do I just have to teach her how to fake it? Or to recognize that we're all in the same boat? But just because I try to teach her that doesn't mean she'll actually learn it. Wait, is this what that easy button is supposed to be for? Cause that would be nice.

Pure Imagination

Magnolia just came in from the garden, where she had gone voluntarily to water the vegetables (miracles do happen) and as she passed through the house, she said, "There was a lizard right next to the strawberry bed and he was just sitting there STARING AT ME and it creeped me out". So, naturally, I say, "Cool! Was it trying to pass along a message to you from his lizard world?". She stopped, looked at me like she was 13 and deadpanned, "Haha. Very funny mom. But we both know there is no such thing as a lizard world."

I, without stopping doing THEIR chore of unloading the dishwasher, corrected, "of course there's a lizard world!" Max, shockingly having my back, agreed: "Of COURSE lizards have to talk to each other."

Magnolia, completely annoyed, sighed heavily and continued her path through the house. I pondered aloud "Did I end up raising children without imaginations? Is that what is happening here???" To which Max sighed, exasperatedly, "Mom, you didn't raise us!" At this point, I stopped with the dishes and said "what?" He explained that raising is what you do with children who aren't your actual children. I'm just their mom. I explained that the verb stays the same, and he can feel assured in the knowledge that I am, in fact, raising them.

But what bothers me WAY more about this conversation is the fact that Magnolia doesn't want to play pretend with me and discuss the possibility of a lizard world. Is it that she's growing up, and anything I say is totally annoying to her? Is it that she just learned of the reality of the other fictitious, gift bringing folk in the world (yes, the big 3 are all out of the bag, although her lying skills are coming in handy as far as keeping her brother in the dark about it) and this represents the demise of pretend? Or is it that I truly somehow managed to raise kids who don't have that lust for pretend worlds? Oh, how sad that would make me. Gah, parenting is so dang unclear most of the time I don't know why we try so darn hard.

Perspective

Sometimes I wanna go start a commune with like minded people. I read things like the Obama birther nonsense and it makes me SO frustrated with the world, I just want to hit something. I go to Costco and am surrounded by hypnotized, slack jawed, self absorbed morons the entire time I am there, and I think what is wrong with humanity? Why are people so completely unaware of the world around them and how is it that they seem to not care at all? How can it be that there are people who still throw plastic bottles into the trash? How can it be that there are still people using plastic bottles?? I just don't understand. As the "kids" would say, SMH. I am SMH big time.

Has everyone seen Idiocracy yet? I really feel like it's prophetic and it scares the daylights out of me...until I turn on my inner apathameter and turn off my feelings. I wish I could do that more.

But I know if I started a commune, even with a rigorous screening process, there would be snags. There are always snags. I learned well from Lord of the Flies and Animal Farm that Utopia can only last so long, and then someone's head ends up on a stick. And honestly, as much as I'd love to go live on some sort of autonomous collective (without the King Arthur showing up and getting all bossy), the reality is that putting myself in a progressive, intelligent, earth conscious, not self absorbed, caring, loving, talented bubble isn't going to make the rest of the small minded, bigoted, narcissistic, selfish, idiotic world go away. It might even make it get worse, as a bunch of us would be missing from it.

So what's the solution? Doing our best to make good choices? Living by example? Standing on the street corner with a bullhorn, cattywompus from the dude quoting scripture every weekend, instead quoting all the reasons why we should be recycling, changing to greener energy choices, reducing our trash output, supporting the arts, having compassion for our fellow men and women, allowing consenting adults who love each other to have the same rights as other consenting adults, realizing that there but for the grace of whoever or whatever you believe in go you? I don't know. For now, I'm just blogging. Evidently that's my solution. I suppose it's easier than starting a collective.

Oh yeah? Take THAT.

There is a quote somewhere that says something to the effect of "The sweetest revenge is to live your life well", but more eloquent than that. I'd look it up, but I don't have time. I'm blogging. Priorities, people. You get the idea, right? I don't need to spell it out for ya....

I'm super excited. I just booked my first commercial where I'll be in front of the camera. I recently got an agent and went on my first 2 commercial auditions last week. The first one, I was put "on avail", which basically means I made it on the director's short list. It can mean nothing, as there are other folks on this list, and I may not get picked...but it's still very cool that I made the list. The second one went SO poorly that I walked out embarrassed, horrified, and with my tail between my legs. That one, I booked. I got the call from my agent today and will be filming it on Thursday. She's less than thrilled, as what they listed as the pay has been cut drastically, which they can do, since I'm not union...but she didn't really want me to take it. It's still more than I've ever made for one day of doing ANYTHING and it's an acting gig. So, yeah, I'm cool with it. And I'm pretty much totally geeking out about it.

But here's the thing. When I was around 12, my biodad and stepmother had a dinner guest. I have no idea who it was. I may have blogged about this before, cause it was a formidable event in my growing up and has always stuck in my memory. This dinner guest was making conversation with me and asked me what I liked to do. I said "I'm an actress", cause frankly, that was the only extracurricular activity I ever did. Ever. My stepmother later pulled me aside and told me I was NEVER to answer that question that way again. That I was NOT an actress, that just taking acting lessons and being in plays and student films and psa's that didn't pay and the like did not make me an actress, and it was misleading for me to tell someone that is what I was. I could say "I like to act" or "I do theater" but calling myself an actress was presumptious and incorrect. I stood corrected.

Today I was in the Social Security office, waiting for to get called in line to get a renewal card, and a man overheard me talking to my friend about getting this booking...when I got off the phone, he made eye contact and said- " Are you an actress?"

And I know it's just ONE commercial, and I know it's not even union, and it's not national...but you know what? I have an agent, and I am getting paid, tomorrow I'm going in for wardrobe, and this feels more "real" than anything I've done since coming back to this life...and now I feel pretty freaking ok saying it. Yes, I'm an actress. Take THAT.

Hide of a Rhino

Ethel Barrymore once said - "For an actress to be a success she must have the face of Venus, the brains of Minerva, the grace of Terpsichore, the memory of Macaulay, the figure of Juno, and the hide of a rhinoceros." I have none of these things.

Ok, well, let's break it down.

The face of Venus.
I get told a lot that I have "a pretty face" which, for those of you not in the know, is code for reminding me I do not have the figure of Juno. Now, whether or not said face is equivalent to Venus, I don't know. I like to think I have happier eyes than Botticelli's version. All of Botticelli's women look morose in person. But in the business of acting, having my face combined with my figure, well, it makes casting me hard. "Zaftig" girls (again, with the code) are supposed to be unattractive. I am (modesty aside) not unattractive. Not at least when I make the effort not to be. Wow, lots of negatives there but I think I got my point across. There isn't a lot I can do about the face...it's just there. In terms of acting though, it'd probably be better if I had a more "interesting" (again, code) face.

The brains of Minerva. Well, I'm no Harvard grad, but I like to think of myself as a decently smart cookie. When it comes to acting, I'm certainly in the know when it comes to general theater knowledge, acting awareness, character development, scene study, and the sorts of things you need to know to be an actor. I think of myself as a smart actor...I like having backgrounds and reasons for the choices I make, and I consider what I do when I am doing it. I know I can always learn more, and I may not have the brains of Minerva, I mean, she was born from a head and was a doctor, a war expert, a businesswoman AND the inventor of MUSIC. So it's a lot to live up to. In any case, I'm smart enough to know I could be smarter.

Let's hit the next 3 at once. Grace? Not so much. Memory? HA. Figure? Um, well, let's just say I've been the fat kid since the 3rd grade. I have a figure...but knowing full well what Ethel Barrymore meant, it's not the sort she was discussing.

The hide of a rhinocerous.

Working on it. All the time, working on it. I just got turned down for a role I've wanted to play since 12th grade. Again. In 12th grade, I got coached for several lunch periods from the director, trying to get me to be able to sing it as well as my competition. He wasn't successful, so neither was I. I will play the part one day, but next month in a production in my hometown with 5 of my friends, I will not. I moped a bit, but only within self allotted confines (I got an hour), and then moved on. So far in my "acting comeback", I've been told I'm too pretty, not big enough, and too young. Not terrible. But every time I don't get a part I audition for, it feels like a tiny failure. Silly in a profession where I won't get parts 99% of the time. Where there are 1000 actors for each part being cast. Where even if I am the best they see, they'll still cast the director's babysitter instead. I'm a little fearful about being cast in something where I get told the sort of mean things they tell people in this business. I want to be able to hear it and take it in stride, with that hide, but I know when it comes, it's going to sting. I signed with an agent 2 weeks ago and she told me not to lose weight. I got less competition in my size bracket, you see. But I have to take these things as tiny stings flung from well meaning bows...they won't actually injure me, they'll only annoy until I pluck them out and throw them away.

If I could learn to have this tough skin in my acting life, maybe then I could bring it to my regular life, where an angry email from one friend upset with something I said off the cuff put me in a bummed out, crappy mood for days. Where someone else's off the cuff statement about me can make me second guess all my choices. Where the kids consistently not wanting to eat my cooking makes it so I don't want to cook anymore. Then, after that is solved, I can work on that pesky world peace problem.

Parenting Sucks

Yesterday I posted as my facebook status the following conversation between Max and I:

Max: Mom, just so you know, sometimes, at night, I play with my weenis.

Me: Well, sure, honey, that's normal. It's natural to want to do that. It feels good.

Max: (incredulous) But, how would you play with a vagina???

Me: You can! With your fingers.

Max: Do you play with YOUR vagina?

Me: Yep.

Max: Cool.

To be fair, I only posted Max's first sentence as the status, because I'm all about the funny, and honestly, I was a little embarrassed to admit how the conversation played out. My recently graduated from PI school friend sleuthed it out of me, and it didn't take *much* arm twisting to admit the rest of the conversation. The 36 comments that followed were a mix. I got everything from the *actual* definition of weenis, to being called a stripper, to being called (repeatedly) the best mom ever. Honestly, I felt like this all was part of a larger conversation...and that was what brought me here, to the blog I've all but abandoned the last 6 months. And for the 6 months before that.

I struggle all the time with parenting. Having been raised by 4 incredibly different parents, with 2 auxiliary parental figures, plus the rest of my "village"...I've got a lot of parental baggage to manage. There isn't time in the world to walk through my therapy needs when it comes to sifting through all that craziness, so I'll stick to this particular issue. Firstly, I usually feel like I'm a terrible parent. It's not in any way what I expected. I wanted to be a mom, a stay at home mom like the moms in the books I read growing up, like the shows that I watched, for as long as I can remember. What I didn't really realize, was that they were fictional. I've watched and been responsible for more children than some people have spoken to over the course of their lives. I've been a camp counselor, a child care director, a teacher, a mentor, a camp director...very little of which actually prepared me for the reality of my children. I thought I had a battery full of tools in my arsenal. Good, solid parenting tools which would help me navigate through every new situation and issue which might come up with my own children. The day I realized I was wrong is one of my strongest memories. Magnolia was 18 months old and we had our first throw down. It was after the 90 minute battle that I realized I had no idea what the hell I was doing, no matter what kind of experience I had under my belt.

I was raised (by large measure) by 3 relatively conservative Latinas who gave me a lot of outdated and bizarre notions about sex, many of which were reinforced at Catholic school. I didn't really have any friends, so my actual sex ed came from 1. a nun, and 2. books like Flowers in the Attic. Also, we had cable. It was a bizarre educational experience. I remember setting the table when I was 14, and my mom nagging me about the napkins (totally out of character for her to care) and my response was - "Don't have an orgasm!", an expression I'd read in a book with NO concept of it's meaning. Her reaction sent me looking for a dictionary, I'd never seen anything like that. Obviously (to anyone who has known me more than 10 minutes) I got over all the lack of knowledge, and even most of the shyness about sex...but as much as people may not believe it, there is a friendless, shy, naive, Catholic school girl buried inside me...and I mainly have to fight with her to be me. As a parent, I struggle between wanting to be "appropriate" and knowing what the hell that means.

I fight with myself all the time. Intellectually, would I think a conversation about masturbation with my 6 year old is a good idea? Probably not. But he watches movies that have violence in them (Disney), that have evil in them (Harry Potter), and I struggle with the idea that sex is forbidden and wrong and shouldn't be discussed. The American Puritanical "notion of sex" and the fact that it is to be kept quiet and not discussed FEELS right, but I KNOW it isn't. Interestingly enough, the thing that got me thinking about this a LOT was the movie "This Movie is Not Yet Rated", talking about the mpaa and the rating system for movies, and how absolutely fucked up it is. How can I allow my child to watch a movie where a parent is trampled TO DEATH (thank you, Lion King) and not let him know that playing with his penis is natural? I mean, I'm not suggesting I buy him a box of Kleenex and a bottle of lotion just yet, but I don't want him to have shame in it. I'm sure the time will come when I have to give parameters about appropriateness of where one does things and such, but as of yet, he's kept it private. And above everything, I want my kids to feel they can come to me and ask whatever they need to ask. I don't want to give them shame about their urges.

Last night, a friend called me hippie dippie. She does that a lot. But it's really inaccurate. I struggle with my decisions every day. I hope to Bertha that I am making the right ones, and am not screwing them up too badly. I overanalyze and consider pretty much everything I do and say and often than not snap then I say and do things I regret 5 minutes later. But sometimes I do it right...and I have to say, as squeamish as I feel about the conversation Max and I had, I think it was the right thing to say. I give my kids shame over treating another person badly, or not doing their best, not being good to Mama Earth, not cleaning their room, or beating each other up...but I will not pass on totally misplaced shame we as a society in general put on the issues of sex. I just won't. This doesn't make me the best mom ever, but I'm working on it.