Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
Wednesday, November 6th, 2013
Two-and-a-half years ago, I took part in something that still, when I think about it, gives me happy shivers.
I put myself out there.
My words. My self.
One of my proudest moments came in May of 2011, when I read a personal essay in front of a LA audience for Listen to Your Mother, a national show about, well, motherhood.
Talk about empowering. I was among an incredible, talented cast whose stories about being a mother, or having a mother made all in attendance laugh, nod their heads, and more than a few times, grab Kleenex for tears.
Southern California has been without a show the past two years. So my friend Ciaran Blumenfeld and I started talking about bring one here. Could we do it? Could we pull it off?
And we ended up with the same thought: how could we NOT do it? So along with a very talented writer, Katherine Kotkin, we applied.
When I got the congratulations email from National Director Ann Imig, I might have peed my pants. Then again, after three kids, shifting in my chair could have the same results. But this was from jumping up and down and shrieking.
SO excited. SO FREAKING EXCITED! Listen to Your Mother will be here in The OC in 2014!
Those of you who have been lucky enough to participate in a show or simply go to one understand why. The power, the emotion, the truth of what voices of motherhood bring is something you will never forget.
We have six months. The show will be right around Mother’s Day. You won’t want to miss it. Bring your girlfriends. Bring your mother.
We will have information in the coming months about how YOU can audition for the show. That’s right. You. Just like I did, I’m going to ask you to step out of your comfort zone. Imagine how you’ll feel after (here’s my thoughts).
But today is for celebration. Something important – something lifechanging – is going to happen right here in The OC.
I can’t wait.
Monday, October 3rd, 2011
Cheryl, you’re the winner!
Email me your choice of shoe and size.
Congrats and thanks to everyone who entered!
Monday, August 15th, 2011
I don’t talk much about my other site on this space. Mainly because, well, it’s separate. No less dear to my heart, of course. Just different.
Today is special.
Today is when we relaunch the virtual writers community I founded, The Red Dress Club, into its new home, Write on Edge.
I’d love it if you went over and checked it out and let us know what you think.
Tuesday, May 31st, 2011
This was going to end badly. Of course it was.
There is a pond not too far from here that, as spring slides into summer, grows an inordinate amount of frogs.
Cute, tiny little frogs. They’re everywhere. You literally cannot walk to the water without practically stepping on one.
You have to hike for a ways to get there. David decided Monday would be the perfect time to go frogging. So after X went down for his nap, David took Sawyer and Sage, buckets in hand.
Because they were not only going to catch frogs. Their grand plan was to bring them home. That’s right.
We have a no reptile (or, as an astute reader reminded me on facebook, NO AMPHIBIAN) rule in this house. Clearly, David doesn’t realize frogs are absolutely the gateway reptile to all those other creepy-looking creatures like lizards and snakes and then – heaven freaking forbid – rodents. Also, who do you think will be comforting them when the frogs either die or escape?
It won’t be David.
They arrived back home about an hour later and the kids came racing up the street with their buckets to show off their frogs to the neighbor kids. In Sage’s bucket? Two cute little dead frogs. That’s right. They apparently croaked (HA!) on the way home. Because they were in a dry bucket. No pond water.
I mean, even I know there has to be some water!
Sawyer rushed back home to get water for his frogs. And so they live on. For now. But my guess these suckers won’t be around long.
I know we have a no reptiles rule in this house, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be cold-blooded, does it?
What about you? Do you allow creatures in your house?
Friday, April 15th, 2011
We promised we’d marry each other someday.
Not because we were in love. We were just afraid of ending up alone.
We used to joke about being the cliche outcasts. Our very own updated Breakfast Club duo.
I, of course, was the goth. I dyed my hair Coffin Black, a particular shade I found on the Internet. I pierced my nose. Wore nothing but black. And I glowered. A lot.
Remy was the nerd. He wasn’t completely unpopular. Just undatable. Not only because he was smarter than everybody in like the entire school. He was build like a fire hydrant. With wildly curling red hair and a hellacious case of acne.
Both of us wanted to fit in. I just realized sooner than him it wasn’t going to happen, so I made sure everyone knew I didn’t care. Remy thought doing homework for them would make them like him more, but he never quite got their jokes. He laughed a little too loud.
The end of our junior year they decided he was gay. We couldn’t figure out how this happened. We were together all the time, and then I realized they thought I was gay, too. Which was so typical. Like maybe we were holding secret gay meetings in Remy’s apartment, where we hung out after school. Remy’s mother was usually asleep in her darkened bedroom with a bottle of gin.
Remy did his quadratic equations and I would draw. I loved to sketch the beach and the ocean. I’d only been there once, when my parents were still married and went on a vacation to the shore. I know now it was a last-chance attempt at saving their marriage, but back then I just knew they screamed at each other and I’d walk out of the hotel and sit on the beach, my chin resting on my knees. I let my ears be filled with the roar of the waves.
The very boys who Remy tutored in math Tuesday afternoons cornered him after school and asked if he was hot for them, if he wanted them to get naked with him, and they grabbed him by the shirt and pinned him against the wall of the tiny classroom. And Remy was so scared he peed his pants. The boys laughed and called him “Faggot” and he ran.
He didn’t call me that night and when I called over no one answered.
I figured I’d see him at school the next day but he wasn’t there. So I snuck out the exit by shop class and ran in my heavy Doc Martens the five blocks to his apartment. I got there in time to see his mother climb into the ambulance and the the doors shut behind her and as it pulled away I shouted, “Wait! Remy? WAIT!”
He was gone.
I was angry. So goddamn angry.
We were supposed to live by the ocean someday, where he could study the stars and I could draw.
I didn’t know if there was a funeral. No one told me and when I went by the apartment a week later, it was closed up. I guess Remy’s mother hadn’t come back.
I sat in my room and smoked and didn’t care if my mother knew. I sketched a picture of Remy’s back as he looked at the ocean. And then I took it on the side yard and burned it, the ashes falling into the brown grass.
One week later, I received a postcard in the mail with the words, ‘I’m not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido’s Pizzeria. Tell no one.’
This post is fiction for The Red Dress Club, inspired by the prompt, “A week after attending a funeral, you receive a postcard that says ‘I’m not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido’s Pizzeria. Tell no one.’”