There was a dry cough. There was a headache. There was an uh-oh on my part. I gave the high school boy two Advil and off he went to the Hollywood Bowl to see the Killers. The next morning, he woke up feeling horrible. So he stayed home. “You’re exhausted,” I said. “You’re not getting enough sleep. You need to take better – ” He dozed off while I was talking. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last. By early evening, he had a temperature, chills, a drippy nose and a stomach ache. By midnight, his fever spiked. My earlier uh-oh took a dramatic turn. “Oh @#%*! I know what this is!”
Monday, September 21, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
My Brilliant Career
A career is a funny thing. I’m not talking funny ha-ha. I’m talking funny-strange. As in, “That’s strange, where’d my career go? It was here a minute ago.” One day I was writing for TV, and the next, I wasn’t. I turned away briefly, to have my uterus removed, or maybe it was my gall bladder, I forget, and my career pulled an Elvis and left the building. “Are you coming back?” I asked my career. It had no comment. It just skidded out the parking lot, packed up and moved out of town, address unknown. Naturally, my spirits plunged, but I kept going. I vowed to track down my career, no matter what. So I searched and I googled, I twittered and I facebooked, but all I found were some early credits I thought I’d buried for good.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Farvel!
The college boy checks his suitcases, and we stand there and watch them disappear. We bow our heads and say a silent prayer: Please, God. Let both bags arrive at the same time, at the same destination, and not somewhere else, like Mars. His backpack stays on his shoulders, along with some hefty dreams, the kind that weigh more than his luggage. I happen to know this for a fact. Before we leave for the airport, we weigh everything on a special travel scale. The baggage comes in at 85 pounds; the dreams, a ton-and-a-half.
We walk up an escalator and back down again. We aren’t looking for the food court, but find it, anyway. Pizza and chicken wings. Panda Express. Should we have a nosh? We’re not hungry, but we can always eat. No, it’s decided, let’s keep going. We’re looking for a sign, and there it is, the thing I’m dreading most of all: an arrow that points to the departure gate.
All the planning and nagging and packing, and just like that, here it is. It’s time to say “farvel” to the family. Time to hop a plane or two. Catch a ride to Copenhagen. “Study” abroad. Soak up culture. Convert money. Party in a whole new language for five long months. Eat Danish food. Drink Danish beer. Meet Danes, lots of them, specifically, females. With any luck, he’ll find a few who don’t tower over him by more than a foot. Such are the goals of a young man traveling to a foreign land, just because he can, and why shouldn’t he?
Up to the last minute, I do so well. I’m fine. I’m more than fine. I’m great! “Look at my boy. Off he goes. Isn’t he something?” But then, just like that, I fall apart. I lose control. I’m weeping on his T-shirt. Clutching him for dear life. “Don’t cry,” he says. But I keep going. I can’t help myself. My husband looks away. He refuses to join this sob fest of mine. I’m on my own here. My youngest puts his arm around me. He won’t go there, either.
Now the college boy waves goodbye. He turns and walks away and soon we can’t see him anymore. I’m still crying, of course; saying ridiculous things. “It’s so far. He’s going so far.” But then, just like that, I stop. A few deep breaths and I’m done. We’re out the door… in the parking lot… driving away. A long schlep over the hill and we’re home again, sipping Corona Lights, munching falafels we picked up on the way. The next day, the phone rings. “Hi, Mom. I’m here,” says a voice many time zones away. “What about the luggage?” I ask, as if that’s more important. “It’s here, too,” he says. But I know what he’s thinking. “Now what?”
We walk up an escalator and back down again. We aren’t looking for the food court, but find it, anyway. Pizza and chicken wings. Panda Express. Should we have a nosh? We’re not hungry, but we can always eat. No, it’s decided, let’s keep going. We’re looking for a sign, and there it is, the thing I’m dreading most of all: an arrow that points to the departure gate.
All the planning and nagging and packing, and just like that, here it is. It’s time to say “farvel” to the family. Time to hop a plane or two. Catch a ride to Copenhagen. “Study” abroad. Soak up culture. Convert money. Party in a whole new language for five long months. Eat Danish food. Drink Danish beer. Meet Danes, lots of them, specifically, females. With any luck, he’ll find a few who don’t tower over him by more than a foot. Such are the goals of a young man traveling to a foreign land, just because he can, and why shouldn’t he?
Up to the last minute, I do so well. I’m fine. I’m more than fine. I’m great! “Look at my boy. Off he goes. Isn’t he something?” But then, just like that, I fall apart. I lose control. I’m weeping on his T-shirt. Clutching him for dear life. “Don’t cry,” he says. But I keep going. I can’t help myself. My husband looks away. He refuses to join this sob fest of mine. I’m on my own here. My youngest puts his arm around me. He won’t go there, either.
Now the college boy waves goodbye. He turns and walks away and soon we can’t see him anymore. I’m still crying, of course; saying ridiculous things. “It’s so far. He’s going so far.” But then, just like that, I stop. A few deep breaths and I’m done. We’re out the door… in the parking lot… driving away. A long schlep over the hill and we’re home again, sipping Corona Lights, munching falafels we picked up on the way. The next day, the phone rings. “Hi, Mom. I’m here,” says a voice many time zones away. “What about the luggage?” I ask, as if that’s more important. “It’s here, too,” he says. But I know what he’s thinking. “Now what?”
Monday, July 20, 2009
Out to Lunch
During lunch at a quaint New York teahouse, my lunchmate Connie Ray starts to wonder, oddly enough, about her lunch. As in, where is it? My salad sits before me, looking delicious. Her salmon rolls remain elusive. It would be rude to start eating before Connie’s food arrives, and so I stare at my salad with longing, moan a bit, and fondle my fork.
Tall and gorgeous and southern at heart, Connie doesn’t like to cause trouble. She leaves that to me. When there’s a situation, she checks her watch and fidgets and smiles a lot until I take charge. “You want me to get the waiter’s attention?” I ask her. “Yes, please,” she says.
I do my beauty queen wave in his general direction. The results are negligible. I must do something soon, or the theatre district will suffer. Connie, you see, is starring off-Broadway in a play called “Next Fall,” and since I’ve come a very long way to see her, it’s up to me now to make sure she’s served lunch, or else she’ll be late and the curtain will go up without her, and won’t that suck for all concerned? Her co-stars will notice her absence, most certainly, as will the audience.
At the same time, it would be reckless on my part to let her go on stage, unfed. I could just gobble up my salad in one ladylike bite, and offer to step in for her. I’ve starred in many plays myself; mini-dramas that unfold nightly in the recesses of my brain. I’m more than qualified to replace Connie, whether I know her lines or not. I’m a writer. I’ll make something up. It’ll be fine.
And yet, good friend that I am, I keep the suggestion to myself. I won’t bring it up until she starts to bang the table in despair and weep openly. Meanwhile, my salad begins to wilt under the warm teahouse lights. I need to take action. I creep up behind the waiter and scare him half to death.
“Hi. Excuse me. My friend over there is still waiting for her lunch. She’s going to be late for the theater. What’s going on?”
The waiter looks at me, alarmed, as if I’ve just informed him that the restaurant is on fire. “I’m very sorry,” he says, bowing slightly. “There’s been a delay. It will be out in a minute.” He hurries toward the kitchen, anxious to get away from me.
I return to our table, to find Connie in her stage clothes, with full-on makeup and poofed-up hair, already in character. Apparently, the show must go on, with or without lunch.
I compliment her transformation and tell her the salmon rolls are on their way. We clink our water glasses in celebration. A moment later, the waiter reappears, carrying a big fat plate of nothing. “I am so sorry,” he begins. “We opened the oven and there was no fish.”
Connie and I look at each other and erupt into laughter. The waiter has just summed up the absurdity of life. Rather than admit that someone in the kitchen messed up, he blamed this inexplicable occurrence on the universe. He spun the screw-up into Zen-like gold.
Well. It happens to all of us, doesn’t it? Sometimes, we open the oven, figuratively, and expect to find something wonderful awaiting us, only to come up with zilch. Sometimes, all we can do is shrug and say,
“Next.” Sometimes, all we can do is change the order and move on.
“I’ll have a salad,” Connie says. The waiter brings it quickly and tells us it’s on the house.
In the end, she makes it to the theater on time, and all is right with the world, fish or no fish.
"Next Fall" moves to Broadway in March 2010, with the original cast
Tall and gorgeous and southern at heart, Connie doesn’t like to cause trouble. She leaves that to me. When there’s a situation, she checks her watch and fidgets and smiles a lot until I take charge. “You want me to get the waiter’s attention?” I ask her. “Yes, please,” she says.
I do my beauty queen wave in his general direction. The results are negligible. I must do something soon, or the theatre district will suffer. Connie, you see, is starring off-Broadway in a play called “Next Fall,” and since I’ve come a very long way to see her, it’s up to me now to make sure she’s served lunch, or else she’ll be late and the curtain will go up without her, and won’t that suck for all concerned? Her co-stars will notice her absence, most certainly, as will the audience.
At the same time, it would be reckless on my part to let her go on stage, unfed. I could just gobble up my salad in one ladylike bite, and offer to step in for her. I’ve starred in many plays myself; mini-dramas that unfold nightly in the recesses of my brain. I’m more than qualified to replace Connie, whether I know her lines or not. I’m a writer. I’ll make something up. It’ll be fine.
And yet, good friend that I am, I keep the suggestion to myself. I won’t bring it up until she starts to bang the table in despair and weep openly. Meanwhile, my salad begins to wilt under the warm teahouse lights. I need to take action. I creep up behind the waiter and scare him half to death.
“Hi. Excuse me. My friend over there is still waiting for her lunch. She’s going to be late for the theater. What’s going on?”
The waiter looks at me, alarmed, as if I’ve just informed him that the restaurant is on fire. “I’m very sorry,” he says, bowing slightly. “There’s been a delay. It will be out in a minute.” He hurries toward the kitchen, anxious to get away from me.
I return to our table, to find Connie in her stage clothes, with full-on makeup and poofed-up hair, already in character. Apparently, the show must go on, with or without lunch.
I compliment her transformation and tell her the salmon rolls are on their way. We clink our water glasses in celebration. A moment later, the waiter reappears, carrying a big fat plate of nothing. “I am so sorry,” he begins. “We opened the oven and there was no fish.”
Connie and I look at each other and erupt into laughter. The waiter has just summed up the absurdity of life. Rather than admit that someone in the kitchen messed up, he blamed this inexplicable occurrence on the universe. He spun the screw-up into Zen-like gold.
Well. It happens to all of us, doesn’t it? Sometimes, we open the oven, figuratively, and expect to find something wonderful awaiting us, only to come up with zilch. Sometimes, all we can do is shrug and say,
“Next.” Sometimes, all we can do is change the order and move on.
“I’ll have a salad,” Connie says. The waiter brings it quickly and tells us it’s on the house.
In the end, she makes it to the theater on time, and all is right with the world, fish or no fish.
"Next Fall" moves to Broadway in March 2010, with the original cast
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
I'd Like to Thank the Academy
As we like to say in show biz, it’s an honor just to be nominated – pretty much for anything. But it’s a lot more fun to win. The nature of the award, the size of the statuette or plaque, doesn’t matter. Best Kisser. Best Slacker. Best Cell Phone Yakker. Whatever you’re offering, we’ll take it and prop it on our mantle or hang it on our wall. We have no shame. Hand it over and we’ll find a place and spotlight for it. When it comes to acknowledgment we can’t get enough.
The other day, I picked up an award in a little-known category of achievement. The venue was understated, if not altogether lacking in glitz. There was no red carpet, no paparazzi snapping my mug. I left my gown, tiara and stilettos at home. I dressed casually for the occasion, in shorts and flip-flops. I was in summer goddess mode, as I stepped into the office of my esteemed dentist, Dr. Dixit. All I had to do was sit down in the chair and open up my pricey, orthodontured mouth, to receive instant recognition, delivered in a charming, Indian accent, to boot:
“Carol, I have to say, you are, without question, the very worst teeth-grinder I have ever seen. In all my years of practicing dentistry, I have never seen anyone destroy a bite plate the way you do. These appliances generally last my patients for years and years, and yet, you mangle them in record time, within the first few months. You seem so calm and happy, at least while you’re awake. I am really at a loss.”
In between tears of joy and embarrassed giggles, I thanked Dr. Dixit, not to mention the Academy of Dentistry, for this honor. I felt so touched, I could barely speak. Of course, I hadn’t prepared my acceptance speech. This award took me by surprise.
“Dr. Dixit, I’m deeply humbled by…” I paused here for dramatic effect, gazing at my X-rays, as if reading a teleprompter… “your awareness of my talent, my gift for pulverizing my molars till there’s nothing left. I may appear calm and happy to you, but it’s only an act. I’m really a tortured soul. Naturally, I blame my sons. The college boy, home for the summer before jetting off to Copenhagen to ‘study,’ returns most nights at the ungodly hour of 4 a.m. Whatever he’s doing, I don’t want to know. As for the boy of seventeen, he wails at night, bemoaning his latest SAT scores, thinking of ways to repay us for the thousands we’ve spent on tutoring, only to see his scores improve forty points. I tell him that handing over his Bar Mitzvah earnings will suffice, but he doesn’t believe me. He’s holding down three summer jobs and looking for a fourth. Is it any wonder why I’m a champion teeth-crusher, a gold medalist in mastication? And so, with heartfelt emotion, I accept this award, along with whatever new appliance you dream up to help save what’s left of my mouth. There are others to thank, but I’ll narrow it down to my husband, who puts up with my nightly chomping and gnashing, and my sons, for their endless supply of angst.”
The other day, I picked up an award in a little-known category of achievement. The venue was understated, if not altogether lacking in glitz. There was no red carpet, no paparazzi snapping my mug. I left my gown, tiara and stilettos at home. I dressed casually for the occasion, in shorts and flip-flops. I was in summer goddess mode, as I stepped into the office of my esteemed dentist, Dr. Dixit. All I had to do was sit down in the chair and open up my pricey, orthodontured mouth, to receive instant recognition, delivered in a charming, Indian accent, to boot:
“Carol, I have to say, you are, without question, the very worst teeth-grinder I have ever seen. In all my years of practicing dentistry, I have never seen anyone destroy a bite plate the way you do. These appliances generally last my patients for years and years, and yet, you mangle them in record time, within the first few months. You seem so calm and happy, at least while you’re awake. I am really at a loss.”
In between tears of joy and embarrassed giggles, I thanked Dr. Dixit, not to mention the Academy of Dentistry, for this honor. I felt so touched, I could barely speak. Of course, I hadn’t prepared my acceptance speech. This award took me by surprise.
“Dr. Dixit, I’m deeply humbled by…” I paused here for dramatic effect, gazing at my X-rays, as if reading a teleprompter… “your awareness of my talent, my gift for pulverizing my molars till there’s nothing left. I may appear calm and happy to you, but it’s only an act. I’m really a tortured soul. Naturally, I blame my sons. The college boy, home for the summer before jetting off to Copenhagen to ‘study,’ returns most nights at the ungodly hour of 4 a.m. Whatever he’s doing, I don’t want to know. As for the boy of seventeen, he wails at night, bemoaning his latest SAT scores, thinking of ways to repay us for the thousands we’ve spent on tutoring, only to see his scores improve forty points. I tell him that handing over his Bar Mitzvah earnings will suffice, but he doesn’t believe me. He’s holding down three summer jobs and looking for a fourth. Is it any wonder why I’m a champion teeth-crusher, a gold medalist in mastication? And so, with heartfelt emotion, I accept this award, along with whatever new appliance you dream up to help save what’s left of my mouth. There are others to thank, but I’ll narrow it down to my husband, who puts up with my nightly chomping and gnashing, and my sons, for their endless supply of angst.”
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Defy This!
I enter the swankiest of swanky stores in New York City and hold my breath. I’m here on my own private girly-girl adventure. It’s just me, stepping boldly out of my safe cocoon, living out a fantasy, seeing friends and shows and art exhibits, inhaling as much culture as I can get, before jetting back to suburbia, economy-style. “Don’t forget to go to Bendel’s,” Diane tells me, before I leave. And so, I’m following orders. Diane is one of the world’s great shoppers. She believes in retail therapy, above all.
Of course, I won’t be spending a dime, but no one at Bendel’s needs to know that. I just want to browse and dream and admire expensive stuff. I want to ogle the gorgeous Lalique windows. I want to get out of here without opening my wallet. To do that, which I believe is my God-given right, I must first pass through a scary gauntlet of aggressive sales folk, a crazed group of well-trained individuals that use shame and reverse psychology to reel in customers. Yes, I’m talking about the Cosmetics Department. I thought L.A., the capital of youth and beauty, was tough on us gals. But New York kicks it up a dozen notches. I’m barely in the door when a man dressed in black grabs my hand and stares at my eyes with alarm.
“I’ve got the perfect thing for that,” he says. “For what?” I ask, but I know where he’s going. I’ve been there before. “The lines, dear. The bags. The dark circles. I have an age-defier you will love.” “Really?” I say, with a hint of attitude. Oh, did he pick the wrong beeyotch! “Absolutely,” he says, near-giddy, thinking he’s got a live one. “You know what?” I say, as he lines up a bevy of potions for my eyes only. “What?” he asks, tallying up his commission. “I’m on vacation. I’m not going to buy anything.” His face drops. He might weep. I don’t care. In harsh economic times, insulting my boomer-thin skin doesn’t inspire me to spend. I walk away, defiantly. I send out a vibe so snarky, no one else dares invade my space. I may not be from New York, but I’m starting to feel like a native. I walk up a flight to Jewelry, ready to take on the world.
Of course, I won’t be spending a dime, but no one at Bendel’s needs to know that. I just want to browse and dream and admire expensive stuff. I want to ogle the gorgeous Lalique windows. I want to get out of here without opening my wallet. To do that, which I believe is my God-given right, I must first pass through a scary gauntlet of aggressive sales folk, a crazed group of well-trained individuals that use shame and reverse psychology to reel in customers. Yes, I’m talking about the Cosmetics Department. I thought L.A., the capital of youth and beauty, was tough on us gals. But New York kicks it up a dozen notches. I’m barely in the door when a man dressed in black grabs my hand and stares at my eyes with alarm.
“I’ve got the perfect thing for that,” he says. “For what?” I ask, but I know where he’s going. I’ve been there before. “The lines, dear. The bags. The dark circles. I have an age-defier you will love.” “Really?” I say, with a hint of attitude. Oh, did he pick the wrong beeyotch! “Absolutely,” he says, near-giddy, thinking he’s got a live one. “You know what?” I say, as he lines up a bevy of potions for my eyes only. “What?” he asks, tallying up his commission. “I’m on vacation. I’m not going to buy anything.” His face drops. He might weep. I don’t care. In harsh economic times, insulting my boomer-thin skin doesn’t inspire me to spend. I walk away, defiantly. I send out a vibe so snarky, no one else dares invade my space. I may not be from New York, but I’m starting to feel like a native. I walk up a flight to Jewelry, ready to take on the world.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Art Appreciation
The phone rings early in the A.M. My caller i.d. tells me it’s the college boy. I assume something is wrong. This is how my sick mind works. Why else would he be calling me at 8:15? I brace myself. “Hello?” “Hi, Mom, I wanted to tell you what just happened.” I’m thinking, oh, no, uh-oh, here it comes. I take deep breaths, and recite from a script I keep by the phone for such parental moments. I clear my throat and try to sound as natural as possible. “You can tell me anything, honey. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together.”
He forges ahead. “So, you know I’m in that art class, right?”
“Uh huh,” I say, supportively, although for the life of me, I remember zip about an art class. His major is environmental studies. What’s he doing in an art class? Does he have to do a diorama of the rain forest or melting ice caps? No wonder he’s calling me. I did all his dioramas for him back in the day. Maybe he needs me to fly up and do it for him. I run upstairs and grab my suitcase. “You don’t remember I’m in art class?” he says. I detect a trace of hurt in his voice. “I didn’t say that.”
I shove the suitcase in the closet and start to relax. Whatever happened can’t be that bad. “Can you bail me out of jail?” That’s bad. Art class, I can handle. I mean, come on. What can go wrong in art class? It’s an elective. However, I’m sure I can come up with something. It takes half a second for me to ponder a few possibilities: Has he gone and splattered paint on the walls, thereby destroying university property and landing in the dean’s office? Sounds expensive. I hope that’s not it. Has he gone all pre-school… thrown scissors at a classmate… stabbed out an eye? Sounds really expensive. I hope that’s not it, either. I start to get nervous again. He hasn’t committed any crimes against art since that ill-fated pottery class freshman year in high school. I refer to the unfortunate “kiln incident.” The rest is between our family, the school, and of course, the Reseda fire department. I sit down on the bed.
“Remind me again, what sort of art is it?” “It’s a drawing class. We draw stuff.” Drawing. Paper and pencils. Nothing flammable. Good. I feel better already. I sit down on the bed and kick off my fuzzy slippers. “So, what happened, my darling?” “I just walked out of class.” I get nervous again. “You did? That’s not like you.” “I know, but when I saw the old naked guy, I had to get out of there.” "Hang on. Why was there an old naked guy in class?” “We’re drawing nudes. Last week, we had a naked woman in there.” "How’d that go?” “Not too bad.”
“But you drew the line at the old naked guy?” “I’m not drawing the butt of an old naked guy.” “Well, it’s good you took a position on something.” “I felt pretty strongly about it.” “You should have stood in the middle of the room and shouted, ‘Hey! This wasn’t in the syllabus!” “So much for my career as an artist.”
“We’ll still love you, no matter how many old naked guys you refuse to draw.” “That makes me feel better.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
He forges ahead. “So, you know I’m in that art class, right?”
“Uh huh,” I say, supportively, although for the life of me, I remember zip about an art class. His major is environmental studies. What’s he doing in an art class? Does he have to do a diorama of the rain forest or melting ice caps? No wonder he’s calling me. I did all his dioramas for him back in the day. Maybe he needs me to fly up and do it for him. I run upstairs and grab my suitcase. “You don’t remember I’m in art class?” he says. I detect a trace of hurt in his voice. “I didn’t say that.”
I shove the suitcase in the closet and start to relax. Whatever happened can’t be that bad. “Can you bail me out of jail?” That’s bad. Art class, I can handle. I mean, come on. What can go wrong in art class? It’s an elective. However, I’m sure I can come up with something. It takes half a second for me to ponder a few possibilities: Has he gone and splattered paint on the walls, thereby destroying university property and landing in the dean’s office? Sounds expensive. I hope that’s not it. Has he gone all pre-school… thrown scissors at a classmate… stabbed out an eye? Sounds really expensive. I hope that’s not it, either. I start to get nervous again. He hasn’t committed any crimes against art since that ill-fated pottery class freshman year in high school. I refer to the unfortunate “kiln incident.” The rest is between our family, the school, and of course, the Reseda fire department. I sit down on the bed.
“Remind me again, what sort of art is it?” “It’s a drawing class. We draw stuff.” Drawing. Paper and pencils. Nothing flammable. Good. I feel better already. I sit down on the bed and kick off my fuzzy slippers. “So, what happened, my darling?” “I just walked out of class.” I get nervous again. “You did? That’s not like you.” “I know, but when I saw the old naked guy, I had to get out of there.” "Hang on. Why was there an old naked guy in class?” “We’re drawing nudes. Last week, we had a naked woman in there.” "How’d that go?” “Not too bad.”
“But you drew the line at the old naked guy?” “I’m not drawing the butt of an old naked guy.” “Well, it’s good you took a position on something.” “I felt pretty strongly about it.” “You should have stood in the middle of the room and shouted, ‘Hey! This wasn’t in the syllabus!” “So much for my career as an artist.”
“We’ll still love you, no matter how many old naked guys you refuse to draw.” “That makes me feel better.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
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