Just Another Tricky Day

I left a voice mail on the cell phone of LO yesterday. I wanted it to be clear that while we are angry and disgusted with the behavior and choices of LO, he is still loved and a part of the family. I have not received a call back and that's fine. I passed along what I thought was an important message and whatever happens now is out of my hands.

I don't know which is worse: worrying about him when I know things are wrong or worrying about him when we don't know where he is and suspect what he is doing. I am proud of myself in that I have not allowed this horrible situation consume me. I was able to really concentrate on the training program yesterday, put together notes for the production meeting last night and get what I needed done.

The trip to Canada will be intense but fun. It's a nice break and I'm now past the spurts of crying I was going through Friday and Saturday. John is one of my favorite people and one of the nights we will be staying at his lovely home. He can always make me laugh until my sides ache.

Last night I listened to a CD of comedian George Carlin, who is another person who can make me laugh until I can't move. The laughter has been good for me. So has the work.

Everyone is so pleased

Today I started a new job. It's a contractor position, and I can keep it as long as I want. I believe I will enjoy it since it offers flexible hours and other perks that will sustain my evening and weekend production, website and writing projects.

I started training for the new job today. My guide told me he was pleased with how quickly I was picking up on things. I told him how pleased I was that my lobbying for this job paid off. The IT guy who came in to show me around my computer was pleased that I knew how to turn the computer on.

So everyone was pleased.

A pleased state cannot be overestimated. It casts a wonderful, pastel hue over everything.

My ride home took longer than normal as a great many people decided to have a car accident off critical ramps and overpasses off I-95. I got home, quickly ate, and headed out to a brief production meeting.

I'm getting ready to head to Canada tomorrow afternoon for a website production meeting with my friend John Frid - a retired actor who on a dare from me bought a computer a few years ago. I volunteered to do (try to do) some fancy flash stuff on his site and this meeting is partly about that. I may have taken on too much here as Flash is fairly new to me.

We'll see if the "pleased" craze lasts.

Nothing but a sad day

The Loved One of Friday's post was released from the facility that detoxed him. He was picked up by a family member and taken home.

He was then told to pack up his belongings and leave the residence. LO was surprised but complied without incident. He gathered up his things, got into his car and was gone.

The fresh hell that awaits us is the outcome. There is a feeling we will never see him again, not because LO is so pissed he will be out of contact but that he will drink himself to death in a hotel room, on the street or take a faster route to suicide.

The love for this individual hasn't dissipated; it's the love for this individual that makes all this so terrible in the first place. The person that we love is in some deep hole and we don't know how to rescue him. We can't rescue him. Only he can do that and we fear he doesn't have the mental resolve to do that.

There's no program for pre-mourning the loss of a loved one. The loss has to happen and then there is the fear of that loss leading up to that moment. The damnedest thing is there is a glimmering sense of hope floating about in the darkness that we have. We are afraid to shine any light on it as trundling down that path is too miserable. To ignore the light, no matter how feint, is equally painful.

To give up is to surely fail. To continue hope in the face of blinding reality is nothing more than self-torture.

Old Fogeydom

I have reached the unwanted goal of Old Fogeydom. The proof stared out at me for most of the afternoon when I went shopping for clothes and a pair of shoes.

I usually can accept any type of pants; not that I would wear all that I have seen but all the designs and accessories on a pair of pants don't faze me.

The tops are another story. The shirts that I saw today weren't just ugly - they were butt ugly. Beyond ugly. Insanely ugly. Buttons and bows in odd places, seams that were far from seamless and the color combinations look like the work of a blind person. I saw a few women trying on various outfits and standing in front of the full length mirror to see how they looked.

Personally, I thought they looked as if they got dressed with the lights out. And selected the clothes the same way.

However, I said nothing. I didn't even do anything with my eyes to indicate how hideous I thought the whole outfit was.

Much fun is made of preppie clothes, but I am beginning to embrace the look more and more.

The Great Escape

In lieu of the less than spectacular Friday, Saturday was devoted to doing fun things and refusing to take any phone calls from LO. Three of us went for a ride in the Pennsylvania countryside and stopped to look at and into some old Quaker Meeting Houses. We also stopped to look at some very old cemeteries, a shared hobby.

It was so quiet in this area that when I picked up a long twig and cracked it, the sound echoed all around us. I collecting twigs for my fireplace while walking. It was chilly and overcast - spitting rain a little - but not so much so that we minded being outside.

It was all very comfortable in the sense that one of us would have a crying jag and there was no need to explain or apologize for it. There were periods of time in total silence, again, nothing having to be explained or apologized for when conversation was too hard to do. In moments such as these, you need to be with people who are in the same situation. Fortunately, we all realized we needed to be doing something.

I was also angry as I had long-standing plans to go to New York City for the afternoon to celebrate the 3rd anniversary of Peter and John's union and Peter's birthday. Obviously I didn't want to leave my mother and I knew I would unwittingly make the event all about me with my crying jags.

I spoke with Elizabeth for whom I am sketching out a concept for her company's website and with whom I am assisting on shoots to complete her independent film. I have ideas for scripts on educational and training films that can be made and offered for sale on the website and to discuss that we are meeting on Tuesday.

I have an incomparable sense of sadness at what transpired on Friday. I stopped beating myself up over it emotionally. I didn't help the situation any, that's for sure and given my tendency to criticize people in similar situations in public places, I felt tremendously silly. But, it's done. Lesson learned. I will not ever go on a rescue mission again for this individual.

I don't even want to see or speak to him. I will mourn that loss but a loss it will remain.

My life goes on.

Pain and Embarrassment

It was supposed to be a very nice day. I had plans to write and do housework in between. The two activities balance themselves out: I keep writer's block at bay by getting up and doing something mind-numbing for awhile and I manage to complete boring tasks because fresh ideas for my writng start to come to me.

Everything went to hell in a hand basket by 1:30 p.m.

A loved one is an alcoholic. I am going to refer to my loved one as LO. I am not ashamed of him because he is an alcoholic but it is his business. I can only share the pain it causes me because it is my pain.

We've been down the road a few times with this disease. It took twenty years before LO finally sought help. After a few attempts, he managed to stay sober for almost two years. He had a relapse upon taking a new, high stressful position. LO got back on the horse quickly after that relapse and when getting another job last week, he relapsed again. This time seemed very different. He was vile, belligerent and prone to violence. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect to see LO in this state - never.

Another family member and I went to the local medical center where LO had gone by ambulance after ingesting enough alcohol to have a 2.7 reading. Whenever this sort of thing happens and we get there, LO pretends like nothing is wrong. When he twiddled his fingers at me, smiling, when I arrived like Oliver Hardy would do, it was all that I could do to not blow up.

I just said hello. The psych nurse came in and said that LO would be transported to a local facility for further treatment. She told LO that he was going about getting help the wrong way and it wasn't fair to his family pretending to be suicidal. He smiled and agreed with that. The other family member stepped outside the room with the nurse and I asked LO "Why didn't you call your sponsor?" He didn't do that either on Monday when all this started again.

"I don't know!" he shrugged with great irritation. "If you're mad just go the hell home."

That did it. I responded in a rather strident way and off we went. Our voices got loud, two nurses and family member came in to quiet us down. LO really started going, calling me a "bitch" and a "loser." That didn't really bother me as I know he was trying to push my buttons but then he let loose with a word that I never, ever, never ever though would come out of his mouth.

He called me a cunt.

I said, "Call me that again and I will slap you." He called me that again and I went to slap him. The police, who are always stationed there in the emergency room area, stepped in before any slapping wad done but just barely. The family member watching all this was in tears and pleading with us to stop. I stopped. I decided to not utter another word as I knew LO was only pressing my buttons and I was letting him. The police pulled him aside and verbally chastised him for using that sort of language to us and then threatened to put him in jail for being drunk and disorderly. LO shut his mouth for a bit and then resumed calling me "a bitch" repeatedly and loudly once out in the parking lot.

This is so unlike LO. Yeah, blame on the booze, sure, but you wonder sometimes if the truth comes out when someone is drunk. And does it hurt any less because the LO saying these things is drunk?

I felt sick to my stomach for two reasons: one, because he called me that vile word and, two, that I allowed him to make me lose control. It was embarrassing as I knew better and that I had put the family member through all that. It was as if I was on the Jerry Springer Show - involved in a near brawl in the emergency room of a major medical center.

All the frustration, anger and fear came out in that moment when I went to slap LO. It was wrong, of course, and something I could have gotten arrested for. Still, that's not the way to handle things and I felt ridiculous.

I was unsatisfied too as my hand was still itching to bitch slap the guy.

But I am human. I felt sick, embarrassed and of course when I cry my head starts to hurt. I was trying to be of some assistance to the family member but at this point I think that goal was shot to shit.

So now I am in the position of deciding if I want anything to do with LO again.

There's a line you don't cross no matter how close you are to someone.

I have a lot to think about.

A History of Room-mating

"Room-mate" is the catch-all word for someone with whom you share your housing or apartment expenses. However, it alludes to the person being nothing more than that. If you live in New York City, the chances are high that you have had at least one room mate in your adult life as that is frequently the only way you can afford to live in a decent apartment in a decent area.

I have had four room-mates in my adult life: one in college, two in New York City and then one in New Jersey and that same one in another apartment in New York City. The latter was originally my landlord and then we became best friends: Kay. She wound up joining me in New York City in 1990 living in the Upper West Side on 92nd Street Street between 1st and 2nd Avenues. We lived in a two bedroom, 5 floor walk up for $1100 a month for four years. Kay had not ever heard "the buzzer" that visitors and delivery people ring at the front locked door to gain entrance. The evening of the day we moved in, I ordered pizza. Kay was resting in her bedroom. When the very loud buzzer rang, I actually heard her gasp and leap out of the bed, quite startled. I was laughing so hard I could barely answer the buzzer.

Four years later, we wanted something cheaper and moved to Times Square where we shared a large studio apartment in the heart of the theater district. I had always dreamed of doing this and now I had the chance. That was $850 a month back in 1994. Our co-existence in this smaller space worked because we had different work hours, other social circles and jobs. I was producing a lot of theater at the time, Kay assisted with that with her brilliant graphic design work and set design skills. We got to be together as friends without constantly being together. We each dated but neither of us would ever move in with a guy so the arrangement worked out beautifully.

By 1998 both of us were making a lot more money and were tired of living in the large studio apartment, convenient as it was. We packed up and moved to Riverdale, just over the line into the Bronx. It was a beautiful area. We rented the second floor of a house on West 236th Street and enjoyed all the space, the closets and available parking. That was $1200-$1300 a month and no central air conditioning. We nearly died during the summer months. We liked the landlords very much and the fact we had our own private deck. However, post-9/11 cost me my job at HBO and when our lease was up, I announced to Kay that I was moving back to my native Delaware, taking Hal Prince's advice about finding work in the theater in Philadelphia and Baltimore. They did new work there with a lot less commercialism. I gave her enough notice to find something on her own or see if anyone at her job wanted a new room-mate.

Kay, a Jersey native, asked if she could come with me. She didn't want to live in the city anymore and had visited my home state enough to know she loved it.

Off we went. The cost of living is considerably less in Delaware than in NYC and I told Kay we could each afford our own one bedroom apartment. When I told friends this, they were surprised: Why live apart? they asked. The more we thought about it, the more we decided to stay together. It is amazing the kind of things you can buy when you pool money together, including getting a better apartment. The two bedroom place we have is beautiful, nicely landscaped and we have a ground floor apartment and patio. No bars over the windows or doors as with NYC. Six inches of cement and insulation around the apartment makes it hard to hear your neighbors. Plenty of parking for two cars.

The apartment is of such a size that you can't hear or see what the other person is doing so there is plenty of personal privacy. And it's $810 a month.

Still, I feel somewhat juvenile referring to Kay as my room-mate. But it's a great arrangement and one that would only change if either of us got married. There is something nice knowing that someone will realize that you did not make it home from that first date with a new guy. The safety factor is something I had not ever really considered before, but now that it has been pointed out to me, I savor this as an important aspect of living with someone who will watch out for you.

If you're really sick, there is something really great about being catered to - another person to go to the store for food or meds.

Both of us have been lucky in finding this ideal situation and have been told this repeatedly by other people through the years.

My best friend is my room-mate. I'm very lucky.

Shifting from the Edge

Teetering on the cliff isn't the list bit inspiring - only nerve-wrecking. I am happy to say that just in the past week my ability to really judge professional priorities according to my interest has been much better. The opportunities are endless and as much as I need variety, there is still the danger of taking on too much out of fear of getting bored.

I spoke about my father in my last post, and the bond we had. We shared an innate understanding of the creative, abstract element. Dad was a brilliant man but was too full of anxiety and uncertainty about his talents that he did not pursue teaching work and other outlets for his many gifts. He wrote newsletters for churches, taught Bible classes and wrote funny poems all of which he received recognition and praise for but he was a frustrated man. The daily job he had was a grind and made him unhappy.

I have always feared of being the Ms. Almost in life, partly because I also shared with my father paralyzing anxiety and uncertainty at the most inopportune times. Over the years I have made great strides to eradicate these feelings. I'm not brilliant but I know I have the talent in the fields I enjoy working in.

What I teach students is that they will always be a work-in-progress. I have told students how old I am and they look at me as if it is amazing I am still alive; I also tell them that down the road they will have moments when they wonder if what they are doing is really what they want, they will want (and should) try other paths, other careers, and to not be surprised that at 40 or 50 they are thinking about still trying other things.

The search for fulfillment is ongoing; our needs constantly change. That said, it is equally important to know that in order to succeed in obtaining a goal you need to be organized and focused.

The past five years have been very difficult on many levels. I have finally moved away from that proverbial cliff onto more level ground. It doesn't have to be safer ground, just more level.

Dad's birthday

Mom, Dad and me 1958

My father would have been 79 years old today.

Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer over the President's Day Weekend, 1999 and given six months to live. By his birthday on March 21st of that year, he had gotten very weak but was able to still take care of himself. We had a little party for him and he enjoyed it (which was funny since he didn't like parties usually).

He died on May 18, 1999.

The first birthday without Dad was hard. He loved getting cards and little gifts and, of course, I couldn't send him anything - at least not without a lot of postage attached.

We had a bond that makes his loss even harder: a love and understanding of the abstract elements of life, writing, philosophy and funny things.

When I think of my father and look at photos of him when I was a baby, I think of how much he looked like Steve Allen, one of his favorite performers. I look like such a cranky baby, didn't I? I miss him still but there are plenty of good memories to hang on to in those sadder moments. I can still smile and I know that would make him very happy.

I can't even write Happy Birthday, Dad here because I know he didn't like computers and, knowing him, probably isn't online in Heaven either.

Untying Knots

The day was not full of physical activity but I got a lot done in my head. Various projects I am involved with have knots here and there and I figured out how to solve the associated minor problems and obstacles.

That said, I did spend time organizing my home office space which is no small feat.

Time to rejoin the "Y". The meds are not addressing the extra hyper-ness I feel and rather than get a stronger dose of meds I know more exercise will help. I love lifting weights and feel so great after the workout. Doing the circuit and swimming is another way to feel fantastic.

Much to do next week. Start the DuPont gig on the 28th which I am excited about.

Time's A-Wasting

You're not kidding!

I have several "house" projects that really need to be done and instead, what did I today? I slept way too long this morning, got up and had a leisurely lunch, played video games, went to Lowe's to look at paint (gonna do over my bedroom and bath), came back home and played more video games.

A totally wasted day. I'm quite aggravated with myself.

How Green Is Thy Begorra?

I do not go out and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in the traditional Irish-for-a-day way.

Sometimes, I forget to even wear a dash of green. With my red hair and freckled skin, I really do not need to call attention to my Irish heritage though my heritage is shared with Scottish, English, Welsh and a dash of German blood. When I am visiting Ireland, I am stopped and asked for directions many times by native Irish people who have gotten lost.

So I look Irish.

I was raised and remain a Presbyterian who has been very pro-Irish all of her life, decrying the British occupation of northern Ireland and even going as far as teaching Irish history and literature in continuing education classes in my native Delaware at the University of Delaware and in Philadelphia. For about five years I wrote for a monthly publication called The Irish Edition. I was accorded a degree of fame namely because I was a Protestant who supported full Irish independence.

For those who know Irish history, there isn’t anything particularly remarkable about that since it was the Protestant-oriented United Irishmen who launched the first uprising against British rule in Northern Ireland. But the British learned a lesson from that uprising and used the time-honored divide and conquer tactic to prevent any future alliances between the native Catholic and invading settler Protestant populations.

I was on radio and television talk shows in the Philadelphia metropolitan area; I traveled to different cities to participate on panel discussions – included Ireland – and all this while writing a political column for the monthly mag. Eventually, I got tired of people recognizing me at events and had my photo removed from the column.

When I was a kid, I thought being famous would be so cool. As soon as I had a taste of it, I discovered how much I disliked it.

For St. Patrick’s Day, I follow the traditional Irish way of celebration: say a prayer, eat some bangers and fish and toast the Welsh Patrick for chasing the snakes and paganism out of Ireland.

Balance achieved

Professionally, finding a balance during the past few years has been difficult primarily due to the savage cuts in arts funding and the post 9/11 economy in New York City. Prior to 9/11 I had my own theater production company and was producing new material and scene nights for aspiring actors. I was also able to simultaneously work in the field of entertainment law which I love. However, all that was starting to change before 9/11 with the "improvements" in Times Square, the area whereby I booked rehearsal and performance space. Those "improvements" sent the real estate value high enough that it became impossible to afford the same rental space anymore.

I figured that was it for me as a theatrical producer. New work was what interested me the most. I interviewed with musical director/producer Hal Prince for a job in his office. He told me his assistant would be retiring soon and he was scouting around for her replacement. The assistant's job was to be his right hand which I would not have minded given what his profession was. However, during the half hour interview with both him and the assistant, Mr. Prince told me that I was a creative producer and should continue my work in the theater. He had tried to raise money for a new show he was doing and it was very difficult. Based on that news, I scarcely thought that Nancy Kersey would have better luck than Hal Prince in raising money for a show.

But Mr. Prince pointed out to me that New York wasn't where all the important theater was being done. The new plays were being done outside the city and getting in on that would be the smart thing to do. At the time of the interview, I was working in the office of Barry and Fran Weissler and on the Broadway productions of Chicago and the revival of Annie Get Your Gun. In short, the promising opportunity wasn't what I had hoped and I wanted out. In time, I came to the decision once my apartment lease was up I was going to move out of New York City and closer to where new theater was being done and at a far less cost.

A few years later, I find myself in a great place. A few days ago, I scored a job in the legal field that will not only allow me to indulge in my love of copyright, internet and trademark law but will pay me well and allow me flexible hours. I have a literary agent who wants to read anything that I write and a friend who is launching her own video production company and offered me the chance to work with her.

Ironically, I have put off my producing new works aspect of my professional life and settled down to write my own stuff.

It's funny how my own writing can scare me. When I am in the process of creating, I can actually experience the senses of the environment I write about. If there is blood, I can smell the sweet sickly scent, if there is violence I can feel the fear and even the physical pain . . . my writing can scare me at times because I meld into the experience, move from one character to the next even as I weave narrative in-between. I will face it anyway. There is much to write about.

Back when I celebrated my 35th birthday, I was able to announce to my gathered friends and myself that I had, at that point, achieved everything I ever set out to do. That said, new goals were created and I am still in the process of achieving those.

Today, I can say that everything is balanced professionally and there are many things to do.

Those Who Can Do, Those Who Can't Teach

How about that quote? Is it true?

If you are a student, wouldn't it be important to you that your teacher have practical/professional experience doing what h/she is teaching?

While I was an acting and playwrighting student at Ensemble Studio Theater in New York City for two years, those who taught acting classes were professional actors who supplemented their income teaching. And they were good teachers. Teaching is a calling, no question about it. It is a gift. These actors were wonderful teaching artists. The same was true in working with several playwrights of the New York and national theater scene who were also good teachers.

I certainly have seen people teach a subject in a very academic way that they have no real experience in. That practice isn't limited to high school; community colleges and some other schools sport instructors in playwrighting or acting when the teacher in question has not done any real work in either subject.

Why complain about all this now?

Because I wanted to make a blog entry, that's why.

The magical year of 48

Since January (and as of this past Friday), three friends of mine - all 48 years old - have informed me of either their engagement or impending engagement to be married.

It's a first marriage for all three.

None of these people ever seemed anxious to get married; never exhibited any drive towards that end unless they were lucky enough to meet someone they really really wanted to marry. In other words, it was not something they learned from the knee that getting married was a goal everyone should have.

And without really looking for it, they all found love and the kind of love that led them to wanting to make a long term, format commitment.

Soon after I turned 40, several people that I knew started having kids - the oldest friend being 43 when she got pregnant for the first time. She had gotten married late in life and feared she would not be able to bear her own children. She didn't mind adopting but having her own was something important. Turns out she had two of her own.

It really bites that men can wait until they are 50 or older to father a child but women have to do it within a certain biological timeframe if they want their own. It doesn't matter whether or not you are ready to get married or want to get married by a certain age - that clock ticks away like it or not. I never liked it but live with it I must.

I love it when people do things in a very unconvential way and this latest news is no exception.

Mr. Kingsfield the Rebel

John Houseman was a guest artist of the University of Delaware's Theater Department while I was in my senior year as a theater student. He was renown at the time for his role in the award-winning film The Paper Chase which was followed by a successful TV series in which he reprised his role as Professor Kingsfield. Much was made at the time in the media that at such an advanced age- well beyond retirement years - Houseman found "fame."

What was hilarious about this acclaim is Houseman was one of the most influential producers in the history of American Theater; plays such as The Cradle Will Rock and others were far away from the standard "feel good" Broadway and Off-Broadway shows during the 30s and 40s. Houseman was involved in the production of extremely controversial work and it was work considered quite left of the right. During a time of deep suspicion of socialism and communism invading the American way of life, Houseman and his colleagues were went boldly where few dared to go lest their lose their careers.

Theater students learn about the Greek tragedies, Shakespeare, Ibsen, Chekov and about the movements that changed the theatrical landscape but detailed history you read in books from the library. I was excited about meeting Houseman because I knew about his career particularly his work with Orson Welles. As it turned out, the head of the theater department selected some seniors (I was one of them) to take Houseman out to dinner and show him campus life. We were given the money to have dinner in a nice restaurant but Houseman preferred to dine in a place where students normally gathered. We wound up taking him to a diner called The Greasy Spoon. He loved it. In private Houseman was far more animated than his public persona and quite enjoyable to listen and talk to. He was very encouraging of all of us in that group and pleased we made the effort to learn about theater history that is not taught.

Funny how such a big deal was made about this man having won fame and fortune when his name had meant something in the theater and film world for almost half a century before Kingsfield came along.

A Blast From the Past

I was in my local grocery store the other day and came across another shopper who was in my 1981 graduating class at the University of Delaware. She was a double major too (both of us got a B.A. in Theater and a B.A. in English)and while standing in the ethnic food isle, we briefly visited our shared past and caught up a bit, promising to "do lunch" in the near future.

As a college student, I learned that the university campus and academics provide a microcosm study of politics. If I never completely understood that life was unfair, I "got it" loud and clear as a college student. These years were the most intense of my life at that point; I was a student carrying two majors and doing professional work both as an actor and a writer. (My parents would only pay for my being a theater major if I also took another major they felt would be more promising work wise hence the English major)

I was not part of any clique in college and that worked against me in some situations but paid off in others. My acting teacher had favorites and nothing some of us did impressed her to give us anything but a "C" or a "B." I was furious about getting a "C" and no important roles for the shows this professor directed.

Then came the announcement that members of the Royal Shakespeare Company would be coming to our campus for a seminar as part of a national college tour. There were about 10 members of the RSC visiting and the three more prominent names included Derek Jacobi, Ian Richardson and Sebastain Shaw. I was familiar with Ian Richardson but that was it. Because of the aforementioned political situation above, I didn't even think about being one of a handful of theater majors who would be selected to participate in the acting seminar.

I was selected in spite of Ms. Acting Teacher.

We got to choose with whom we wanted to work. All of my colleagues except one wanted to work with the younger actors of the RSC. Not me. I wanted to work with the older ones and selected Ian Richardson and Sebastain Shaw. What a smart move that was on my part. They were "old school" and none of this method crap entered into their work.

Our assignment was to rehearse a scene from a play (also assigned) with these two actors and then present our work to the other student actors and the visiting RSC. What was unnerving about that prospect was performing in front of far more experienced actors and members of a renowned acting company. I had very little experience working with Shakespeare text so the prospect of performing in front of the Royal Shakespeare Company was quite daunting.

But I got through it and the performance went fine. I watched Ms. Acting Teacher for any sign of anything after I finished the scene with my partner and got nothing. I was tempted to hold up a mirror in front of her nose to see if she was breathing. Ian Richardson got up after we finished our scene to dissect our performance. Of me he said, "Nancy needs to work on speaking the language of Shakespeare but knows what she is doing and has tremendous stage presence that will serve her well in any stage production. That was a marvelous scene."

I wanted to stick my tongue out at Ms. Acting Teacher and say "Ha! Ha!" but thought it might not be prudent to do so. I resisted, barely. I later go to thinking well, Mr. Richardson had worked with us and maybe he was just saying what he did for that reason."

But other professors who never said a word to me before complimented my work and suggested I pursue classical theater work.

It turned out that Ms. Acting Teacher's precious clique of students didn't fare as well in the seminar during the critiques or the performances. I didn't wish that on anyone but it did make it clear to me and anyone else watching outside of that clique that politics is what is always at play even while you are a student trying to get a good grade.

But my battles on the academic playing field in the quest for a fair grade did not end there.

To be continued. Please don't die of suspense in the interim.

Why a Middle-Aged Crisis?

There are societal norms I've never understood. Our culture trains us, sometimes brainwashes us, into believing there is a way to think about ourselves and you conform to that or suffer being called "a freak."

The only time in my life where being a certain age bothered me was when I turned 30. After that, a birthday was a birthday. I love celebrating my birthday. Who doesnt like a day when it's all about you? Some might argue that I think it's always about me but that's another story.

Why is being middle-aged believed to be something to have a crisis about? By modern statistics, if you live a half-way healthy life you will live another forty years - another lifetime to where you are now. Hitting forty gives you a chance to review and see where you have been, where you are going and decide if you want to keep going in that direction. Most night-time college classes are full of middle-aged people who have decided they another professional direction. You do not have to choose one career in this life and only adhere to that path.

What about a personal direction? I think the pressure to be in situations were are not happy with keeps people where they are. For all of our advertisements about personal choice and individualism there is precious little of that in actual practice. What will so and so think? Am I cool? If you ask yourself either question you aren't doing what you want but what will please others. There is far too much of that.

We are a judgmental society and though there are many more freedoms today for minorities and other viewpoints and lifestyles than there was even ten years ago, the personal freedom of doing what's right for us is still blocked by a concern of pleasing others and measuring where we are in our professional and personal lives against those who follow what we believe to be "the norm."

Hence the perceived middle-aged crisis.

We don't value having learned key lessons in life and being comfortable in our skin. That's not to say that continued growth and learning doesn't happen any more; you're dead where you stand if you stop exploring yourself and the world around you. Relationships are shot to shit because once in a relationship, it's like vacation time when the real work is only beginning. You can find your soul-mate and things still not work if you forget that the soul needs to be re-energized and nutured as any growing entity does.

None of the above ever stops. Change is a natural and necessary part of life. A look at what is working for you and what's not is never a crisis no matter how old you are. There is a tendency to do this at the age of around 40 but the answer isn't any different at 40 than at 30 or 20.

There's no crisis. Only hope and the excitment of new horizons and challenges.

Redhead

I read a news article about a week ago saying that it is believed that natural redheads will cease to be over the next few decades. This is due to the fact being a redhead is the result of a recessive gene and so it will recess itself out of existance.

I am a natural redhead. On both sides of my family redheads stood loud and proud, or maybe just proud. My grandmother Kersey had redhair as did her mother. My mother's maternal side of the family had several redheads, including one Shadrack Short who was known as the Corn King of Sussex County, Delaware. He had redhair and a long red beard. I have three cousins with redhair.

Here I am in first grade with the redhair and freckles galore. Did I look like a problem? I was. I was more hyper than the average kid, couldn't focus and was into everything.

1964

There is an art to being a redhead . . . little things you are aware of and do each and every day because you are a redhead. For example, I can't go into a store and buy whatever soap is on sale, body spray or body cream is on sale. It has to be good stuff, not because I'm a snob but because the less quality brands irritate my redhead, freckled skin. I went in for a thorough eye exam and the intern examining me suddenly excused herself. She came back with the chief doctor who examined whatever so disturbed the intern and pronounced that I was someone of Celtic origin and such folks tend to have clear-looking retinas - it was not a disease.

I have to wear hats and long (I prefer) linen clothing on the beach and when out in the sun. It's a matter of survival. I get extremely ill if I get a sunburn and I'm prone to skin cancer anyway. I used to envy the people I went to school with who did not have red, curly hair that was unmanageable as mine was. I wanted it to be straight but I was stuck with it being red. To make my hair flat, after I washed it I would put a hat on until the hair dried. The end result was that my hair style looked like Oliver Hardy's.

Not being able to tan bothered me a great deal but I've long since gotten over it. Many of those school friends who worshipped the sun (and I had to be so careful) now look about 15 years old than I do.

Makeup - not easy to get the stuff that looks good on a redhead. There are websites devoted to products for redheads which I was thrilled to discover. Fortunately, I don't look good with a lot of makeup so I just have to be concerned with buying basics.

When I was a kid, I despised having red hair because I was practically the only person with red hair in any group I was in such as school. On top of that, I was hyperactive even for a kid so between making myself the center of attention with my antics and having red hair, what I disliked about myself was what my peer used against me. Of course, I have freckles too though they exist only on my arms and face. The whole "carrot-top" name-calling drove me to distraction on top of having curly bright red hair I didn't like. I was tall, gangly and looked like a matchstick.

But now I love having red, curly hair because it is different. Frankly, most entertainers/celebrity women look alike to me. It's hard to tell them apart. There are a few who have distinctive enough facial features that allow them to standout from the other brunettes and blondes but given a choice now, I would keep my hair and skin coloring in spite of the extra care required. Now it's just something that I do and I don't think about the measures I take to protect my skin and buy what suits my coloring.

Here's what I look like today. Red isn't dead as far as I am concerned. I wouldn't be anything else.

Why are we so dead inside?

I read a popular blog today and the entry was called "Why are we so cruel?" Since the dawn of Man, we've been a cruel bunch. There doesn't seem to be any answer as to why.

What fascinates me is that in spite of all of technological advances and modern conveniences that enables us to keep in touch with people, so many of us remain quite dead inside. We connect with others in the loosest sense of the word but actually "connect" and stay connected is far more elusive.

I felt very alone for the first eighteen years of my life so I have no fear of being alone. You can have tons of people around you and even those who may well love you very much but still feel very disconnected and alone. That was my life. I believe getting a life entails learning how to enjoy solitude without feeling alone and knowing how to connect in a real way with others.

The best example of this comes to mind out of a brief relationship I had with a fellow whom I'll call David. He was very good looking and knew it. Intellectually he wasn't a sloucher either. David was definitely a player and prided himself on that fact. He didn't want to be tied down and his initial attraction to me was that I was a woman who wasn't looking to get married and insist that he settle down too. The reasons we liked not being settled down in the traditional sense were very different though. Here's where that example I mentioned earlier comes in.

After about two months into the relationship, David and I were out to dinner, talking about life in general and the subject turned to friends. David said that he disliked being alone and the idea of not having anyone around him was scary. There were many ways to take this so I probed a bit. He said that he would feel very alone if he wasn't in some kind of relationship with a woman. Didn't that just make me feel so special? I have no desire to be another teddy bear on the bed so I asked him, "Do you have someone in your life (other than family) that if you got into trouble at any time or felt like an emotional wreck at 3 in the morning you could call? A good friend?"

The fact that David didn't even understand the depth of the question was enlightening enough for me but I did feel some concern over that. "David, don't you have a friend that you know will be there for you if you need that kind of support?" The bottom line was, he didn't. This guy for all his smarts, all his looks and busy social agenda didn't have a single person he felt would be there for him in a crisis on a pure emotional basis. The only interaction David understood was one involving a penis and a vagina. There wasn't any strong bond between two people if that wasn't involved. Even then, by his own admittance, his fear of being alone was turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy because his fear of being alone was about the fear of emotional intimacy and commitment. He couldn't engage in that behavior which would salve his fear of being alone as he would learn to build solid friendships and/or committed, loving relationship. So unless David learns some lessons, he will be alone. In fact, as far as I was concerned at that moment, he was already alone in this life.

It took me many years into my adult life to learn the value of working to maintain relationships whether they be friendships or romance. When I realized that David was already very much alone in this world, I felt terribly sorry for him. I didn't enjoy the fact that all his strutting thinly masked a person who was building a life for himself that would make his greatest fear a reality. Why was he so dead inside? What created this void?

Friends who will be there for you in times of trouble are worth nuturing. If I learned nothing else in this life, I learned that.