A Petunia By Any Other Name

I don’t have a nickname (unless you count “Stef,” which I do not). I’ve been trying to make “Scully” happen for years now. Alas, just like “fetch,” it’s not going to happen.

But when I was very small, I was my father’s Sweet Petunia. And it suited me then, all chubby cheeks and giggles. I’m pretty open about the fact that my relationship with him was complicated, and this nickname represents a big part of that. Long after he lost any right to call me anything at all, he still persisted in using this nickname, and it infuriated me. When I finally cut off all contact with him, I dumped Petunia, too.

Enter Alice Walker.

This sounds far too hokey to be true, but I first encountered Walker’s poem “Revolutionary Petunia” painted on the wall of a building down the street from the office where I saw my first therapist.

Yes, really.

Painted huge on a brick wall, in purple, the words adorned with flowers:

The nature of this flower is to bloom.
Rebellious. Living.
Against the elemental crush.
A song of color
Blooming
For deserving eyes.
Blooming gloriously
For its self.

The first time I saw it I stopped dead in the street, gobsmacked, and I thought, “Oh yeah? Fuck you, Alice Walker.”  I gave it the finger every time I passed it, through 2 years of therapy. Then I switched therapists and didn’t have to see it anymore.

I think what made me so angry was that I couldn’t possibly imagine a time when I would bloom gloriously, least of all for myself. My whole life was elemental crush, and I had been lying there taking it for so long, I truly didn’t know that I had it in me to do anything else.

This past year, I’ve been thinking a lot about Sweet Petunia, 6 years old, with a curly mop of hair and tremendous brown eyes. Full of mischief, full of love. I know it has everything to do with Emerson being 6, and coming face-to-face with what 6 knows and feels. She fascinates me, this younger self, in the the same way photos of the Titanic before it sailed do. I want to yell down the years at her, and warn her where the ice is.

But life is full of surprises, and here’s what’s most surprising of all: somewhere along the line, I reclaimed her, this small girl with her heart and hopes intact. She used to be inextricably entwined with my father, but I’ve found a way to pry her out of his arms. She’s mine now, and she’s brought with her a fresh peace, pale green, with sturdy roots and the smell of rich earth.

Black Box

My mother annoys me.

I love her, and we get along fine. Better than fine, frequently. We make each other laugh, and we’re on the same side more often than not. She adores my daughter and treats her like royalty, like Emerson is here to do something very important and my mother’s job is to nurture her until she fulfills her destiny. And that fills me with tenderness.

Even so. my mother annoys me. Which is an improvement, because she used to drive me to the acidic, smoking, volcanic glass edges of shrieking rage. But after 10+ years of therapy that in large part involved dissecting, pinning open, labeling, cataloging, and filing away everything dark between us — from the queasy vibrating terrors of paradigm altering betrayal to petty hurt feelings — I can say with utter honesty that I love her dearly, and she annoys me.

I’ve also come to realize that, when it truly mattered, she gave me what I needed most.

I’ve been thinking about this because my favorite professor from college has asked me to write a little essay about the value of a theatre education, for a display in the arts building on campus. And the surprise is — it really was valuable. (Why is this surprising? Because while other people were studying for calculus exams, I was lying on the floor in creative rest position pretending to smell an orange.)

I didn’t end up making a life in the theatre, but my education gave me the ability to stand in an empty black room and create worlds. It taught me the rhythm and sensuality of language, the craft of story. It taught me how to swallow my fear, stand up in front of strangers, and persuade them to follow me into laughter or terror or grief. It gave me a bright, clear voice, and the ability to drop or recall my New York accent at will. It taught me that evil can be charming, that goodness can be complicated, that love is sometimes a dagger plunged into your beloved’s heart. It taught me how to think on my feet, how to be in the moment. It taught me how to concept, how to improvise, how to riff an idea with a partner like we’re playing jazz. It gave me a lexicon of private jokes, which make musical parodies and movies about show business infinitely funnier to me than they are to civilians (that’s what theatre people call non-theatre people, and I’m still delighted to be counted in the club, however marginally). It gave me a home, where passion and a black turtleneck were the only price of entry, and everyone valued my broken places and moody sadness. It gave me a safe place to be, until I could make the world safe for myself.

And the reason I was able to pass into this state of grace? To spend my days reading Greek myth and Shakespeare, my nights playing onstage with friends I loved so much they still feel like long-lost family. To wrestle with ancient passions, and pain, and elemental comedy. To be part of something so much larger, so much brighter, so much more complete, so much BETTER than I could imagine real life could be. Something I needed, craved, more than food, more than air, more than love.

Because my mother let me major in theatre.

When I was in college, I knew so many people who were majoring in English, in Communications, not because this was what they wanted or cared about, but because their parents wouldn’t allow them to major in theatre. Because their parents threatened to pull their tuition if they did. As an adult, I have met 50-year-olds who still wistfully look back on those days and wish they could have been braver, could have declared that theatre major, declared themselves.

But not me. I have my regrets, but they are all of my own making. Because my mother not only allowed me to declare a theatre major, she encouraged it. Encouraged me to run with it, as far as I could. To lie on that floor and SMELL THAT ORANGE like no one had ever smelled an orange before. And more. She took me to see Malkovich in “Burn This,” to countless musicals, to the opera, to the ballet. She paid for Saturday theatre school in Manhattan, for performing arts camp. She came to every show, even if she had to drive 4 hours to see me play farmer’s daughter #6 in “Oklahoma.” She joyfully made space in our living room for the “Godspell” set, for the elephant we made for “Barnum.” She welcomed home an endless cast of romantic boys and dramatic girls, all invited to stay as long as they needed to and eat all the American Cheese in the refrigerator, provided they called their mothers first and got permission.

My mother annoys me. In a flash, she can slip a thin silver knife under my skin and make me bleed, just with an offhand remark. And I know I hurt her too. That she craves more closeness with me, and I can be selfish and withholding with my affection. That I struggle to forgive what she believes should be forgotten.

But when it mattered. When it truly mattered, she gave me everything I needed. And then some.

And that is where I’m bringing the curtain down on this one.

Shugg It

Urban Dictionary variously defines “shugging” as: going to the toilet while half asleep (and missing the toilet), furtively masturbating, or searching through a bag of marijuana leaf shake for enough bud to roll a joint.

This post is not about any of those things.

This post is about exercise.

A couple of months ago Jonathan came home with a sledge hammer. Jon’s not really a “knock stuff down with a sledge hammer” kind of guy, and also, we live in a co-op.

Turns out, the sledge was for exercise. He’d found a website for a program called “Shovelglove.” The exercise itself was called “shugging,” and it amounted to swinging around a sledge hammer wrapped in an old sweater for 15 minutes a day while pretending to do things like dig a hole, chop wood, and churn butter.

HAHAHAHAHAHAH! I said. And also, good luck with that.

Eight weeks later he’s got the beginnings of a six pack (it’s a two pack right now), his posture is amazing, he’s got shoulders like a blacksmith, and he’s lost about 15 pounds.

And I have a new sledge hammer.

It sounds crazy, but it is the dream workout — it takes 15 minutes, it’s free after your initial sledge investment, and you can do it naked if you feel like it (What? The word gymnasium comes from the Ancient Greek  gymnós, which means “naked.”)

And it works! You get the music cranking and start waving your sledge around, and within seconds you are sweaty and trembly and using all kinds of muscles that you forgot you had.

I’ve assembled a 20 minute playlist (15 minutes of sledge work and 5 of stretching on the floor) that includes these songs:

Animal (Glee cast version), I Only Want To Be With You (Bay City Rollers), All The Small Things (Blink-182), Love On Top (Beyonce), Fuck You (Cee Lo Green), The Middle (Jimmy Eat World).

As for the movements, I’ve found that adding a little narrative helps me with my form and endurance, so I have “Digging a hole to plant a tree at my Berkshires country home” (which I do not own), “Churning butter with Ma Ingalls”, “Chopping a hole in the door of the burning building to rescue Emmy from the fire” (excellent motivation to keep going), “Chopping wood on a tree stump with Pa Ingalls”, “Chopping down the big tree”  (this is a side to side motion, as opposed to an over-the-head one), the “Bicep one”, and the “Damn you dinner lady arms”.

Oh, what’s that you ask? Do I actually stand in my living room naked waving around a sledge hammer while listening to the Bay City Rollers? No, of course not. I wear a sports bra and underpants. I’m not even Greek.

Confessions of A Bra Snob

I’m what you’d call well-endowed. Or, if I happen to be walking by and you are drunk or wearing a construction hat, you might call me a brick…house (which, well into motherhood, is A-OK with me, and thank you, sir!)

Dealing with my boobs has been an occupation of mine since they first arrived on the scene — demanding an underwire bra — when I was 12.  Hoisting them up, keeping them under wraps, fitting them into shirts without the dreaded button gap. Back when I was an aspiring actress/singer/dancer, I used to bind myself with an Ace bandage, trying to effect a more aerodynamic silhouette. It was a huge no go, as the Ace bandage was no match for my mighty ta-tas, and I would be popping out all over in no time.

I’ve been contemplating breast reduction surgery since my 20s, but I am terrified of general anesthesia. (What if I’m paralyzed but can FEEL EVERYTHING? This could happen, as evidenced by TV.) Instead, I pursue the perfect bra. The Holy Grail of bras. One bra to rule them all. This Avalon bra is supportive, comfortable, cool, and attractive enough that, if a strap should happen to slip out, it doesn’t look like I’m wearing a scoliosis brace. Ideally, it will make me look like a delightful flirty C-cup, like I don’t even need a bra, but choose to wear one just so my perky perfection isn’t too distracting to others.

Assisting me in this quest for the past 6 years is Intimacy, a very posh bra specialty shop on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I first visited them in the summer of 2005, when I was approximately 14 months pregnant during a heat wave. The rack situation had reached unreasonable, watermelon-like proportions (I was a brick…condo complex), and I was chafed, miserable, sweaty and unable to see my feet. The kind ladies of Intimacy got me outfitted in a bra that could double as a baby carrier after the birth, and sent me on my way with instructions to return after the baby came, to get fitted for nursing bras. And return I have, every six months, upping the ante every time in my ongoing quest for the magic bra of transformation. Last time I was there, I spent $200 each on three French bras. They are very pretty, and do many things well, but still — the poke of the underwire, the squeeze of the band.

I despaired. And then there was a miracle.

Like many miracles, it involved the dark, small hours of the night and perhaps a touch too much Maker’s Mark.

Late one night, when Jon and Emmy were sleeping peacefully and I was channel-surfing looking for anything with Russell Crowe in it, I got sucked into an infomercial for the Genie Bra.

Now look, not only am I a very experienced bra shopper, I’m also in advertising, and my mother was an account executive at a private label lingerie company for most of her career. I know bras, I know persuasion, and I know that no good can come from middle-of-the-night drunk ordering.

But these women, they looked so happy. So supported. So cool and comfortable.

I went into some kind of fugue state and ordered SIX OF THEM. For $59.99 (plus P+H).

The next morning I confessed my folly to Jonathan, who laughed heartily and asked if the TV had talked fancy to me. I hung my head, but inside, I dared to dream.

They arrived in about a week. I steeled myself against disappointment, ripped open the package, and pulled one down over my head (they’re styled sort of like a sports bra). There was some adjusting, some pulling and tugging, and then . . . nirvana. I don’t look like a C-cup, of course, and they don’t provide the lift and heft of the $200 French numbers, but they are as promised: light and airy, supportive and comfortable, no digging or chafing.

Jon says they “look like Saturday.” Since they feel easy as Sunday morning, I’m taking that as a compliment.

Reader Roundup (2010 edition, file this under “better late than never”)

The first day of Summer 2011 is June 21, so I figure I should post my thoughts on last year’s summer reading list before I get going on this year’s.

“I’m Down” by Mishna Wolff.  According to the Publisher’s Weekly review on Amazon:

Wolff details her childhood growing up in an all-black Seattle neighborhood with a white father who wanted to be black in this amusing memoir. Wolff never quite fit in with the neighborhood kids, despite her father’s urgings that she make friends with the sisters on the block.

I did in fact read this book, but memory fails. I do recall that it made me sad and angry, as memoirs about unhappy childhoods tend to. I know these kinds of stories are supposed to be uplifting (eventually), but it’s sort of like this ongoing argument my husband and I have about the movie Barton Fink, where he says it’s a comedy and I keep insisting that not only is it NOT FUNNY it’s actually a horror movie because, seriously, the NY playwright suffers crippling writer’s block and literally ends up in hell, writing scripts no one will ever read. Jonathan thinks this is HILARIOUS (and by the way — he’s a screenwriter) but I think it’s a nightmare. I felt the same way about Angela’s Ashes. Everyone was all, “Oh, it’s so wonderful and life affirming!!” but when baby number 3 died? I threw that book out the window.

Reading this book was like that.

“The Passage” by Justin Cronin.

I read this book before I got my Kindle and mostly what I remember is that it was very heavy. I needed a whole other bag to cart this doorstop around. And then I found out it was the first in a trilogy, which kind of astounded me because, really, what else is there to say after a bajillion pages? Even The Stand wound things up after 1,000 plus pages. But OK, I really loved a lot of it, particularly the parts about the night watch in the post-apocalypse city. And I’ll read the next one, due in 2012.

“Fly Away Home” by Jennifer Weiner.

Jennifer Weiner wrote this book, hence, I loved it. I love her. I think she is my friend, although she most certainly is not as we have never met. We are connected on Twitter, however, and I hope against hope that somehow this will blossom into an actual friendship IRL where we shop for shoes together. This book was great, by the way, and quite sexy, which was unexpected and made me feel sort of the way I did when I read Forever for the first time (in the Jurassic period) — that is, naughty and squirmy.

“Overexposed” by Susan Shapiro.

One of my favorite teachers wrote this novel, so I was prepared to love it. This book is so New York, so Jewish, so full of family and food and angst. It was the literary equivalent of eating a great big pastrami sandwich with a side of well-done salty fries and a Diet Coke. Yum.

“The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Yeah, didn’t read it. If I’m not mistaken, I got my hands on the sequel to Waiting to Exhale instead, and that was that. Which, by the way,  pissed me off, because seriously, I know you lost your reclaimed groove, Terry McMillan, but did we need to do that to Gloria? And to Savannah? No, we did not.

You know what I want?

A penguin.

When she wasn’t looking

I had breakfast with a girlfriend this morning, at a place in Chelsea called The Grey Dog’s Coffee. The Grey Dog’s is the kind of snug, romantic, fairy light-strung coffeehouse where it always feels like it’s raining outside. Chet Baker, or something that wishes it was Chet Baker, plays on the sound system. All the baristas are warm and attractive, and you absolutely would love to go see their play or hear their band, if they asked you to.

My friend is about a decade younger than I am, but between her old soul and my, uh, youthful vivaciousness (persistent adolescence? excellent skin? talented hair colorist? love of Mumford & Sons? carefully selected and terribly expensive foundation garments?) we hardly ever notice. But now and then, the conversation turns to the kinds of subjects where experience counts, and I feel compelled to swallow hard and tell the truth.

This morning, we chatted our way through work, and mutual friends, and apartments — my husband and I are buying one in Brooklyn, where she and her boyfriend are thinking about moving — and finally our talk wound its way to kids. My kid, Emerson, specifically, and her upcoming ballet recital and the school where she will go to first grade in September. My girlfriend loves kids, and wants some — you know, eventually. She has all the normal fears and reservations, but tells me that spending time with me, and listening to me talk about Emerson, makes her feel better about the whole thing. That she’s impressed by how I’ve hung on to so much of myself, how I still have interests and talk about non-kid things. How I still have a life.

While she told me all this, I kept glancing over her shoulder at one of the posters hanging on the wall.

It reads “the time has changed when she wasn’t looking.”

The thing is, I still have a life, but not the one I used to. I used to hang out in places like Grey Dog’s all the time. Sometimes I’d sit for hours, reading a book or writing in my journal. I’d stay up much too late, and sleep in, and buy whatever I wanted, and make sloppy mistakes, and kiss the wrong men, and none of it mattered all that much, not really. There was time, time to get it right, to correct course, and I was accountable to no one but myself. And then there was Jon, my husband, and then there was Emmy, and now everything — everything –  feels too impermanent, too fragile, too exquisitely joyous and vulnerable, all at once.

No one tells you how it’s not so much that life changes, but you change in it. Because it’s too heartbreaking to explain, and anyway, you’d never believe it if anyone tried to make you understand. She wasn’t looking for advice really, maybe just some kind of reassurance, and  I felt I owed her something real. So what I told her is that, when you have a kid, it’s the end of the time in your life when you casually sit for hours in a place where jazz plays and you imagine you can hear rain on the roof, even on a sunny spring morning. It’s the end of late nights that edge into morning in loud dark bars, the end of reading for hours on end on a snowy Sunday morning. Not because of the baby, or needing a sitter, or money, or tiredness. It’s partly that, but it’s also because the time for that is done, and now you have other things to do, new priorities, responsibilities, people to account for, people you’re accountable to.

It’s just that the time has changed, when you weren’t looking.