Author: Amy Gorelow

We Have To Talk About Single Ply (Can Series #1)

Let me tell you a story:

 

I’ve been peeing and pooping for over 45 years.

I’ve been peeing and pooping in the potty for at least 42 of those years.

 

That’s it. That’s the story. Point is, I have a lot of experience wiping my ass.

 

You’re not tricking us. You’re just disrespecting us. It hurts not to be trusted to use the bathroom.*

Math may not be totally super in this country, but I think that the vast majority of the over-5 crowd know that if you take away half the paper, you need more paper to do the job.** Just let us have it. And if you can read newsprint through said “paper”, newsflash: it’s not paper; It’s an insult.

It’s particularly galling when you’re in one of those stalls where the dispenser doesn’t roll with the paper, and you have to unroll it around the metal thing like you’re unwrapping a head wound, but it keeps tearing because it barely exists***, so you do it like eight times but your arm gets tired, or you get sick of it, or you have to be somewhere else so you just give up and use what you have which is never enough, so now you’re urine-ated. And places like these are the ones that have those rusty soap dispensers that are so ancient that nobody’s refilled the soap since the Clinton administration. It’s like an oxymoron, how you can see dirt in the old, pink soap.

 

*That brings me to Can Series #2: What’s the deal with businesses not letting the public use their restrooms? Will I use up your toilet? Helpful Hint: that’s not how that works! If it’s the paper, I’ll bring my own. If it’s the water, then get the hell out of here and stop being an asshole. We’re not in Flint. We’re in Chicago, and we have an entire Great Lakeful of water. And listen, the alternative is I stand here arguing with you and have an accident on your floor. And ok, if that’s the preferable experience for you, so be it. If that’s how you get your jollies, I say different strokes for different folks. But I ain’t cleaning that shit. You’re on your own. I, with the dignity I’ve gained from having Ulcerative Colitis for 25 years, will march out the door, cross the street, and maintain eye contact with you as I scrape my butt on the grass like a dog with the runs.

**Same with shortening the rolls. You’re fooling nobody, bud.

***Schröedinger’s toilet paper?

To whoever stole my bag at the beach while I was 30-50 feet away with my back turned for 5 minutes

Well. Then. I certainly hope you enjoy my belongings. I hope that you get lots of use out of my two pairs of goggles. I hope you use them at the same time, and see a big scary fish coming right at you. And my floatie. I hope people see you coming from miles away and that you don’t drown. And besides THE CAR KEYS, which are of ABSOLUTELY NO USE TO YOU AND MEAN A SHIT TON TO ME AND MY ENTIRE FAMILY, I hope you enjoy my ~75 rocks, which were, I’ll add, curated lovingly by me, and for the most part, smooth and beautiful. But there might also be a few sharp rocks in the bag, and I hope they cut off your nipple. Just the one.

But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You took my shoes. My shoes, which is why I drove around barefoot and pantsless. (Ok, so the pantsless part was on me, because I didn’t put on pants to go to the beach, BECAUSE I DIDN’T THINK I WOULD BE WANDERING AROUND THE ENTIRE THING, ASKING RANDOM STRANGERS IF THEY’D SEEN MY BAG LIKE SOME KIND OF OBSESSIVE FREAK. So that’s on me.) Well, enjoy them. Both of them. Who the lonely FUCK would look at those paint-splattered, worn down, gungy, ancient flip flops and say, “You know what? I’ll grab those too”? You know what? You’re welcome to them. I think you’ll probably get about negative three years worth of wear out of them. You know, honestly, I can’t be mad. You did me quite the favor. Because I would have worn them for the rest of my days and they are actually quite unacceptable. BUT DON’T YOU DARE THINK THAT MAKES US EVEN.

And what kind of psychological trickery is that, even? If you left my crappy shoes, I would be like, “oh, I’m not going crazy–my bag is gone, and I was correct in thinking I put it here,” instead of thinking, “Did I put my stuff somewhere else and just distinctly remember putting it here because the mind is a fragile thing held together by electricity and mucus?” or “Am I actually losing my mind and I didn’t have a bag at the beach at all? I could very well be that absentminded” or “Was it the universe fucking with me? Did the universe send seagulls to pilfer my stuff?” I WILL NEVER EVER KNOW.

There was nothing in there for you. None of that stuff was yours. And yet, you decided, “Huh, maybe I’ll start open water swimming,” or “ooh, this bag’s really pretty,” or “I’m gonna take this home and not look inside until I get there and it’ll be like SURPRISE! and I love surprises!” None of that was yours. And none of it was even worth anything, because I took out my phone and wallet and left them in the car. Because sadly, YOU CAN’T EVEN TRUST HUMANS WITH YOUR MOST WORTHLESS STUFF. I have my valuables with me now, motherfuckers. Amy: 2, Soulless bag thief: 1.

Oh, and hey! Why don’t you strip my raggedy ass swimsuit off my body too while you’re at it? I mean, it’s not like I could possibly be using it. Who needs clothes? WHO NEEDS ANYTHING, AM I RIGHT??

Because IT’S THE FUCKING PRINCIPLE. IT IS NOT. YOURS. You violated me, dude. And it’s not like you violated me in a vacuum. You did it during the worst week in a loooong time. Dealing with a death. Car not starting in the rain. Car not starting in the garage. Car not starting in Mundelein. Family members having to be in Mundelein. Lots of triggering feelings associated with watching the new Sandler family movie. It took me right back to being 13. Maybe you don’t remember, so I will gently remind you: BEING 13 SUCKS BIG OL’ BUFFALO BALLS.

Bottom line is, please don’t steal things. I shouldn’t have to say this. We live in a community. Let’s fucking ACT LIKE IT and look out for each other.

Happy fucking New Year, you piece of shit.

 

Sincerely,

Amy

“Sharing the Wait”

TUTA Retreat!!! So much fun.*

But the point here is Wain asked us:

What are we waiting for?

And now I wish to experience the question, wash it around in my mouth, and spit or swallow according to my mood.

What a lovely way to put things! Waiting is not inherently a bad thing. As Gandhi said, “The importance to life is not to increase its speed.”** Sometimes you wait, sometimes you don’t, and if you don’t want to wait, often you don’t have to.

At any rate, Wain contrasted it with the word “stuck.” Stuck leaves you nowhere to go. It’s a state of being. You have to actively hunt for ways to climb out of your hole. But if you’re waiting, that in itself can be an active thing. I imagine being on the tips of my toes, listening for the cue that I need to hear to continue on my way, whether “my way” is picking up a first draft, or recording in the booth, or finishing a visual art, baking bread, or going for a walk or run.

But are those cues not always necessary? Many times they’re illusions.

In TUTA, we don’t ask “how?” We ask “when?” I’m really good at asking when. It can be really annoying. But maybe it’s a good annoying.

I challenge the world to annoy itself more.***

 

*Holy hell, Adam helped me better the site and the words are so honking large.

**Thank you, my Ben.

***Especially on the national level. Many of us are waiting for equality, or a better education system, or consequences for the powerful. And the people who are not waiting are slooowly dragging us into the 21st century like a person pulling a semi with their teeth. But if everyone quit waiting…

A Learnable Moment

Hi!

I’ve been studying the Linklater voice method with Andi Arndt. It’s long, and frustrating, and brought up Some Shit that needs to be dealt with, but ultimately it’s changed my life and it’s in the process of changing my career.

I’ve consistently had unnaturally loud breaths. Many of them I’ve edited out. So many hours of editing. But as it turns out, it’s not just the throat that creates them. I’ve been narrating with tension in my chest that stems from shallow breathing, trying to keep it down, sheesh, it’s seven in the morning around here.

That hasn’t happened since Tongue Week*, where I was pretty relaxed and calm, if a little stressed out from focusing on breathing correctly. But today I was back to chest breathing, probably because of a shortened warmup. Then, for some reason, maybe frustration or maybe some push from my deeper self, I took a deep breath. From my belly.

And everything relaxed.

My large, gorgeous belly, which expanded a great deal and let in all the oxygen my body needed. And the only sounds were those of my voice, and my Voice.

That’s the work half done, right there.

 

 

*Which is a little like Shark Week, in that they’re both Weeks.

The Death Penalty

I get very heartbroken when I see the lobsters in tanks in the grocery store, and the trailers of livestock that I assume are speeding away to the slaughterhouse. I see their doom, and even if they don’t know it, I know that their lives are destined to be very short from here on out, and probably painful. I want them to have a fighting chance, even though I’m sure an animal Battle Royale would probably be even more terrifying for them than just getting zapped in the head. But it wouldn’t be worse than getting boiled alive!

At any rate, we have no door screen, and flies seem to be attracted to the flaking paint on our door for some reason. So there are swarms–SWARMS I TELL YOU!–all over our house. And let me just say, I’m getting to the point where I’m about to start murdering some of these assholes in cold blood.

A youthful indiscretion

20 years ago, I wrote a book and a half of a trilogy. It was stilted because I tried to write it in a generally non-time-specific way, and I don’t like how that worked out. The plot, as well, has many many many many issues. Most of the characters are not fleshed out, which is beside the point because even the fleshed out ones were not allowed to live fully because I was not ready to bring all of myself to write a book. It’s totally embarrassing and cringe-inducing, and I hope nobody ever sees it. Ever. EVER.

Lots has happened in these 20 years. But that first draft is a Treasure, because I know who these people are now. And because I haven’t had anything to narrate for two months, I started noodling around with them.

I’m on Chapter 10. Which isn’t saying much. Some of the chapters are shorter than this post. And the story hasn’t even begun yet.

We’ll see what happens. If anything at all. But I definitely wouldn’t be playing around with this if I were still working full-time at a school.

(How many epic sagas* are we missing out on because we don’t have Universal Basic Income? Just idly wondering.)

 

 

*Not that mine’s an epic saga. It wanted to be, 20 years ago. But now it’s kind of laying around in its old age, looking at its bellybutton and wondering what’s inside. So am I, for that matter.**

**Wondering what’s inside the story’s bellybutton, that is; not looking at my own.***

***Well, of course NOW I am.

Start em young

There is a very…advanced kid in one of the classes where I teach music.

On Monday (and many other days this summer), everyone is outside all the time because, well, they can be. So I end up just playing music outside, basically whatever comes into my head, for a couple of hours, and people come to listen, or they play in the sprinkler, or the sandbox, whatever. I’m there if they’re interested.

So in the natural progression of things, I start playing “Let It Go” from Frozen. With no preamble, no “Here’s a little ditty for someone special out there,” just playing it. Someone had an Elsa dress or something.

And the advanced kid walks over to me and says, “Actually, that’s from Frozen.”

And I was duly impressed. That was one of the clearest mansplains I’d ever heard, from someone who probably just turned three.

Out of the mouths of babes. Just another symptom of the apocalypse, I guess.

Boeing Boeing, and more Boeing

Bienvenue! Je suis Berthe, the maid.

We’ve gotten to that point, where we can look back at rehearsal and say, “Cast, I hardly knew ye. But now I do. And I’m grateful for it.” They to a one are the Cat’s Ass. They’re good people, and they’re my people. We each have our own tiny private cabin on the Indiana side of the IN/MI state line, and an even smaller kitchen. But an enormous backstage, and a stellar set.

We spent eight days together last week, and now I miss them. Some imagery and/or quotes:

Lili hacking vigorously at a huge dead log with an axe the size of a butter knife. “Dakotah, your axe doesn’t work.”

Kylie, whispered backstage during a show: “I opened the door too early. I’m gonna kill myself.”

Ok, that’s enough. I fear they veer into inside joke territory. I’m out of practice with this publicly traded blog thing.

Anyway, the deer are fearless, the bugs plentiful, and the beach a 15 minute walk. I’d repeat this experience. 4 stars.

Why I Cannot Get my Entyvio Infusion

  1. I switched my good insurance for a shitty one.

2. Four months later, I saw a doctor, who said we had to do a string of tests to see if I could even take Entyvio anymore, or if I had built up an immunity. I had not! (Although I might have by now.)

3. The lab called. They said before insurance will cover it, the old doctor needed to call the insurance company and cancel the old Entyvio order.

4. The doctor refuses to be on hold for 50 minutes. Can’t blame them.

5. The insurance company refuses to call the doctor. (I totally blame them.)

6. CLIFFHANGER: WILL THEY ACCEPT A FAX??????

 

Find out next time…on Tales From US Health Care, by Franz Kafka.

 

 

BEST OF AMY’S UPDATES: (been reading a lotta Reddit)

I think they accepted a fax. At any rate, I got my infusion! …and then a phone call on the way home saying “You absolutely CANNOT get your infusion, at the hospital (I didn’t). You will be on the hook for paying for it. So don’t do it.” At home, there was a letter waiting for me: “Dear you, YOUR INFUSION IS NOT COVERED! DON’T GET IT! …at the hospital. YOU WILL HAVE TO PAY FOR ALL OF IT AND MAYBE THROW YOURSELF INTO THE SEA! DOOOOONNN’T DOOOO IIIIITTTTT!”

But I did. Twice. CLIFFHANGER: WILL THERE BE A BILL???????

 

Find out next time…on Tales From US Health Care, by Franz Kafka.