I’m listening to Stephen King’s “Later” and calling it research.

Who would have thought talking would be so hard? It helps that the book is written as if being spoken and lends itself to narration. That said, Seth Numrich is such a good teacher for me right now. He reminds me to do exactly that: just freaking TALK. HE’S not WORRIED about EMPHASIZING TOO many WORDS, and though he is using a mumbly kind of sarcastic persona, he doesn’t forget to let the humor and humanity in. I think I need to listen to a bunch of great narrators and just mimic them.

However, understated storytelling has never been my style. I suppose it’s something I need to learn, but honestly, people have always used me for being a slice too dramatic. So the question is, do people want what I do, or do I need to learn something completely different to be good at this? Feel free to weigh in, my two beloved readers.

 

P.S. I just tried to read my post as if I were narrating it. It was hard! God, reading!, am I right?!

P.P.S. Also, I’m hearing a lot of clicks from him, and it’s a relief. Apparently, really good narrators can’t help it, either.

Red Door Animal Shelter sent out an email to its volunteers. There is a cat that was brought into the shelter, but he’s depressed and doesn’t want to be there. Can anyone foster him? We call him Strikes, because he seems to like bowling. 

I had lost my cat Kate (I’m really not good with naming) a few months before, so I thought, we could do that. We brought him home. We saw no evidence of him bowling (Kate was actually better at knocking things off of places), but he did enjoy sitting on my arm wherever I was laying down. He was fat, and liked to be petted on his own terms. He had teeth and claws and knew how to use them. He played rough. But when he was relaxed, his favorite thing was to be petted on his belly. His motor was purrfect.

Two years later, Mike from Red Door called me up and said (and I quote), “So…you want to adopt him, or what?” So we did. And we had him for about 8-9 years. He got old and skinny and a little frail. This weekend he went downhill fast, but waited for me to come home from Michigan before dying that night. It was a peaceful, private, and natural death.

We buried him in the front yard where we plan to plant prairie grass this fall. He was a good cat. He held his ground against all the dogs, and went outside from time to time. He was litter box trained until the end, and enjoyed both wet food and cheap ass dry food. He is survived by Adam, me, Miri, and Augie, the latter of whom always wanted to play with him.

My his name always be a blessing.

I got an email yesterday. It was about school, which starts in two weeks, and it made me irate. Don’t remind me! I have 2 weeks and 3 days of summer left! I don’t need to know about my schedule yet. I really  don’t want to know about my “forms” yet. I ain’t filling out nothing until I have to go to work. They don’t pay me enough to stress out like this or think about school until I am physically there.*

So lay off, work. I have more important stuff to do.

 

*See my previous list of what they don’t pay me enough for.

https://www.cnbc.com/2021/07/29/day-care-centers-struggle-to-rehire-worry-many-have-left-the-industry.html

“Across the board, there is difficulty in hiring folks in the early childhood sector,” Hamm said. “We had kind of a quiet crisis before the pandemic in the sector. And now that’s … really coming to the forefront.”

 

Let me ruminate on that for 15 years. Oh wait I have.

It’s like the food service “crisis.” Or the “crisis” of anyone working a shitty* job. I put quotes around it, because it’s a problem that could be solved in a day. And it’s not hard.

Subsidize childcare.

Oh, but we don’t have the money for it.

Then maybe we should tax the dicks going to space, and their aircraft, too. How about companies pay their fair share? I mean, they are people. Or we lay off the military spending. Or just pretend that most childcare workers are white men.

Here’s the part where I tell you why the crisis is “quiet.” Because, like nursing, teaching is an industry full of women. Sure, there’s a man here or there. But honestly, we’re still in the mindset of “Oh, it’s one of those jobs the womenfolk can get to have a little bit of spending money.”

Despite our Bachelors’, Masters’, and Doctorate degrees, not to mention continuing education.

Despite the Early Childhood years being the most crucial to a person’s life.

Despite the fact that we have 12-20 children’s lives in our very hands for 7 to 11 hours a day.

Let me appeal to the conservatives in the country: Honestly, I don’t get paid enough to not teach children to be little socialists**. If you want to make a country of cold, hard capitalists, then you’re gonna have to pay cold, hard capitalists to do it. And I’m not gonna lie, that’s gonna take quite the budget.

 

AND NOW…TWO TALES.

A Hummer, an MQ-9 Reaper, and an F-35A ride into a bar. Then they smash the bottles and tables, run over all the customers and rip their clothes off and demagnetize their credit cards. They suck all the money from the till. Nobody stops them. The world is shit.

Someone who just gave someone a hummer, the Grim Reaper, and a 35-year-old walk into a bar. They ask for a martini, some absinthe, and a seltzer, respectively. They sit down, and discuss world events. There are customers all around them, talking quietly, or just relaxing. Only a few of them tip, because the serving staff’s wages are high enough to make them a nice living. The economy is booming. Nobody is an asshole, because they all went to preschool.

 

 

 

*I say shitty as in pay. Most teachers adore what they do. But if you work at your dream job on minimum wage, it’s a shitty job. If you have to go to another job to support yourself, or live on 2 meals of ramen a day, or have to live in your parents’ basement because you can’t afford an apartment, IT’S A SHITTY FUCKING JOB.

**Heaven forfend kids might learn how to share and take responsibility and care for other people besides themselves, and work for a better and more equitable world.***

***I wonder what kind of early childhood education Mitch McConnell had. Or Kayleigh McEnany.

The problem will remain: preschool teaches you the values you need to create community and work together for the betterment of the world. If it’s followed up by something like Harvard, that’ll beat the ethics right out of you.

This morning after my lake swim, my thoughts went through some old memories and pulled out carpool.

The first carpool I remember was to gymnastics with Lisa A., Lisa P., and, I think, Laura. Each trip, we would switch who had to sit in the front seat. Seems a little backwards, but is it, really? Up front, apart from being the Dying Seat in the case of a crash, you’re up there with the Grownup*, and that’s not fun.

As opposed to the party in the back, with all the friends, and the talking and the bonding and the whispering. My life up to age 30 was ruled by FOMO. And here I can see the origin story. So the person in the front [when it was me] would whine, and beg, and say how much she hated it there. And my mom was a saint for not yanking me out of the car and punting me into the pine trees.**

I remember when she did yank me out of the car and yell at me. It was for a very good reason. We all had to be double-belted with someone, because that’s how you rolled in a big group back then. How many tushies fit on the back bench? Four? Move over, Brooke needs a space, too. So I was trussed up with Mike. Actually, more accurately, he was bound up with me. Poor Mike. I was upset and crying the whole trip that I didn’t want to sit next to Mike, I hated Mike, and Mike sat quietly, because at 3 years younger than me, he was a really nice kid.

Now I’m remembering all the carpools. (Sorry–cars-pool.)

-Swimming lessons with Laura and Lara and the latter wouldn’t stop crying the whole way, every time, because she hated swimming, and Laura and I would roll our eyes at each other unsympathetically.

-Riding home from ballet with Shira. I loved it because her parents would let us ride standing on our heads in the backseat with our legs in the back window. My mom told me not to do that. Sure, mom. I’ll sit correctly while Shira has all the fun.

But the carpool that was on my mind this morning was the Hebrew school carpool. It lasted 6 years, and we loved it. Each parent was a different experience. My mom would entertain us. For theatrics, she prefers the under-18 crowd. But I will tell you a secret: she is a funny lady up there with the likes of Fanny Brice, Anne Meara, and Mel Brooks. And she’s a secret, unless you’re a minor.

Alan would sing to us when he dropped us off. Ian was very serious. But my dad let us cuss. It was sheer freedom for 10-year-olds from middle-class, white suburbs.*** We got in the car, and we’d gear up to start.

“Well, shit.”

“Damn!”

“Yeah…shit!”

And then there would be a triumphant silence, and then an existential silence, and then a silence of disappointment, until someone saw the Mayfield billboard and changed the subject.

 

Before I go, I’d like to say something to Mike McCauliffe. It’s a private message, but you can read it, too.

Hey, Mike. I hope you’re doing well and all your dreams came true and also that you voted for Biden. I am very sorry for my behavior that day in the car. I was a very troubled and depressed kid who was afraid of people. You handled it like a champ. If you wanted to, I’d be honored to be stuck in a seatbelt with you again.

 

*That’s the way I always thought it should be spelled. And I’m a very good speller. So however I want to spell things is correct. I SAID GOOD DAY!!!

**It was Atlanta. It’s mostly pines.

***We’ll get to that later.

This morning, I was taking out all the poop Miri had all over the house because it kind of rained, and as I was standing in the alley, I was struck by how beautiful it was. There was soft, pink light over the double rows of fences and garbage cans leading off into the distance, and it was reflecting off the wet street. The green of the trees overhanging, the silver of the fences, and the ebony of the garbage cans were all in perfect complement, and I just took a minute to marvel in the beauty of the human-made and the natural worlds coming together.

And in the distance, a rat sprinted across and I booked it the fuck out.

Today, I went for my swim, but Lake Michigan scared me. There were several factors involved.

The first was that I was exhausted. My wonderful houseguests and I went kayaking yesterday, and my wings were tired. I added 3 minutes to my lap, at least.

The second was that the sun kept going behind the clouds. It was cool and dark. Visibility was maybe 4 feet. I don’t know why that bothered me today. Didn’t help that I had foggy goggles (which was the name of Adam’s band in college). I guess I felt vulnerable. Often the lake makes me feel safe and loved, but today it seemed to turn on me. It was a little rough, for seemingly no reason. Anything could have roared up out of the murk to overwhelm me. And I guess the murk did. I was overwhelmed.

I think it mirrored the overwhelming (I’ve gotta stop writing that word—it looks weird now) I felt when our lovely houseguests were here. This is the first time people have stayed with us in about two years.

They were delightful. We’re both very quiet couples, and we hung out and read, and just relaxed. But it was also stressful, and I felt some defenses come out. Didn’t want em, but there they were.

In Chicago, lake mirrors you!

Excitement (n): 1. The feeling that your skin is becoming so light and sizzling with energy that it’s about to explode out in all directions to let your soul expand and say, “I’M HERE! LOOK AT ME! THE WORLD IS MAGNIFICENT AND SO AM I!” And your soul then has nothing anchoring it to the ground anymore so it rises up and starts doing beautiful aerobatics for everyone to see.   2. When your soul makes performance art.

My excitement has a little shame attached to it. It says, “How could you lose faith after so little time? Why have you been moping and whingeing around when all you needed was patience?” But my real self tells me, “Nah, Girl.” (It always calls me “girl.”) “You didn’t lose trust. You haven’t been ‘moping and whingeing.’ You’ve been sitting with frustration and worry, and feeling your feelings. But while that was going on, you kept working your ass off.”

And I woke up to a gig offer this morning.

Chicago has one. It’s enormous. And it’s not just for uber rich people! It’s for everyone.

The part that I go to has many rocky places. But if you go into the water far enough, it’s all smooth sand. I start at the rocky end, where there is a small, still pool, and look at the sun and it’s long, watery reflection. I walk along the water line and look for amazing rocks and glass, but honestly, they’re all amazing. I mean of course they are, they’re rocks. I make small talk with them.

“Oh, look at you! Aren’t you just gorgeous. And you! Those little bands–I can’t stand it! Do you want to come home with me for a little while, spend 2-60 years with me? Yay! You’ll be in good rock company.”

And my feet go in. And it’s quiet.*

It is delicious, caring, silence that your skin sucks in through all your pores and the water coaxes you to give up your land habits and slowly become part of it. And before you know it, you’re in over your head and it’s wonderful. And you become your real Self because water doesn’t judge. It wants you the way you are, whether you’re a starfish, a seahorse, or a manatee. You can take up your space in the water because it makes room for you. All of you can fit, and the infinite pool welcomes you.

And then you can play like we forget how to do sometime between the ages of three and thirteen.

I recommend standing in shallow water and looking through your legs at the horizon. It’s the quickest and easiest way to scuba dive. The top of the water is above you, and you are underneath, but breathing easily. You can look up to the surface and see a different world above you. Then all of dry land becomes the new world, and you can look at strangers with the wonder we reserve for sea turtles or whales. You can see them as they really are, which is beautiful. The trees become coral that is a precious commodity for us to protect, and buildings become the incredible engineering of humans, like shells to nautili.

And we get to stay here forever!

 

 

 

*Because let’s face it: I’m a (reluctant) morning person. I don’t want to poop out at nine and wake up at five, but I also don’t want corporations to take big chemical dumps in my river, and I can’t do much about that, either.**

**Yes, I’m aware that I could be an activist, but if I were, I would start with making sure Black people get to live, and receiving health care without going bankrupt is a human right, and that billionaires who go into space stay there.

 

That’s probably not healthy. But I am completely envious of his life. He is a musical theatre dude who left Broadway to teach preschool.

I want to be a preschool teacher who leaves preschool to act full-time.

 

I can’t wait until we have time to talk. We can discuss different definitions of success, and all kinds of theatre. He can tell me stories of NY theatre, and I can tell him about the experimental stuff I like to do here. And he can tell me all about the joys of being Equity, and I can tell him about the joys of being stuck in a low-paying job that nobody respects because it offers really good benefits.

I won’t write down more of the thoughts I have, because they are not constructive.

 

Anyway, he’s a lovely person who has a wellspring of energy that I haven’t seen depleted yet. And he’s a talker. Maybe he can do all the talking this year. And he’ll teach us all how to dance. And most importantly, I don’t think I’ve met such a good hugger in a long time. Every hug a gift. As I’m sure teaching with him will be.