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Category Archives: Choices
A Christmas Carol
I love the classic Charles Dickens’ tale, “A Christmas Carol”. And while I know that I am not alone in this, it is even more present in my mind tonight.
Here as I sit here wondering if I have enough money to buy the top items on my kids’ Christmas lists while there are people who are wondering if they have enough money to feed their children. The food banks are running out of peanut butter (one of the most requested items) because the price has gone up. Donations are down because so many who donated in the past now stand in the same lines for help.
There are people who show up at Wal-Mart and other 24 hour stores at 12:01 on the 1st of each month because their Food Stamps just downloaded and they have gone hungry for days. And I worry about an X-Box 360!
I am reminded of the scene from the story wherein the otherwise cheerful Ghost of Christmas Present reveals that beneath his lush green robes, two horrors stand. Two dirty, starving, clawing children hide in the darkness. Their names are “Want” and “Ignorance”. These two plaques on humanity are the creators of so much strife and sadness. And so unnecessarily.
Wow! How ignorant can I be of the want and need in others’ lives. My children will have a blessed and happy Christmas no matter what sits beneath the tree. They will be safe in a home they can call their own. Maybe not the biggest but they know it is there always. They will have full tummies. And yes, they will have new toys in which to delight.
So I am going to try to keep Christmas rather than simply celebrate it. And in that spirit, I am committing to filling at least one bag for the local food pantry, no matter what that means to my budget. It won’t solve the world’s problems, but imagine what would happen if we could all do that. Even committing to buy one extra item to toss in the barrel at your local store’s checkout could mean the difference between a mom crying herself to sleep after tucking in her hungry children. I am actually choking back tears as I write this.
I admit it. I hope I can make my children’s Christmas wishes come true. I would be a liar to say otherwise or to pretend that I am going to take an entire paycheck to the local shelter. I am not. But I can do this. I will do this.
What can you do?
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The Missing Piece
Imagine a puzzle box. It jangles when you shake it. You can hear the soft cardboard pieces slide from one side to the other just begging to be laid out on a table and slowly built into the whole they once were.
Piece by piece, nooks and crannies connect and a picture emerges. Smiling faces come into focus. A handsome man, two beautiful children, and a woman smiling at you through the broken lines. Their bodies develop before your eyes and as the puzzle comes together, you realize that there are missing pieces.
The border has come together. The man and his children stand fully formed. But the woman is missing a piece or two. Her smiling face is there. Her torso and legs are there but something is missing. Maybe its a hand or a foot. But something keeps the picture of this woman from being 100%. So much is there but the picture is not complete.
People ask me if I miss acting and this the best analogy I can make. The picture of my life is pretty full. I have a beautiful healthy family and they fill my heart. The smile on my face is real. But I am missing something. It is not something I cannot live without but like a missing limb, it is something I miss everyday.
Time has passed and the I still feel the piece that I have not filled. Life has given me so many blessings yet again, the hole remains. If time cannot fill the hole nor love, what will finish that puzzle? That is the question of my life.
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The Sound of Silence
I’m sitting here in half dark enjoying something that I have not had much of lately. Silence. Time to think. Time to write. This has been my first opportunity to tap-tap away and how I have missed it.
I’ve been working these last two weeks and its an adjustment. But I love, Love, LOVE the work. And I am starting to have new opportunities spring from it. But I have had less time with my children and they have let me know that they don’t dig it. In the past, whenever there has been any discomfort for my husband and children in this way, I’ve pulled out. You know how it is. Mommy falls on metaphorical sword.
Well, somewhat to my dismay, I am resisting that urge. When you’re turning forty, you lose a little bit of self-delusion. The delusion that tells you that there is always enough time. You’re still young. Don’t worry about it.
I know that my kids are only young once. I know that no one says on their death bed I wish I had worked more. But I also know that I came into this world with a talent and a dream that has been set to the side a long time.
I have been praying for opportunities to let my star shine. Is it possible to let mine shine without casting shadows on those I love most? I think so. I hope so. Part of me says that I can’t do it because everything will fall apart. And part of me says that I have been the glue for too long and it is time for them to figure things without Mom for a change.
This particular job will end soon and I could simply let things go back to “normal”. But even as I type this, something is screaming inside of me, “NO!” I am forty (in 14 days) and time isn’t slipping into the future, it’s slipping into the past! I am terrified that I’ll wake up and ten more years will have passed in an instant. My kids will be moving on and I will be writing (again) about finding myself in my own life. I can’t let that happen. But what can I do?
What do you think? How do you strike the balance?
14 Days and Counting…
P.S. There has been one positive side effect to this. I have nearly been broken of my TV habit. I just don’t have the time!!!!
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A or B? It’s Not a Multiple Choice Test
Type A or Type B?
I’m talking types but not blood. I’m talking personalities.
Are you Type A or are you Type B?
Type A is usually associated with hard-driving, ambitious people and Type B is most often used to label more easy-going, relaxed types. Here in the U.S., we tend to celebrate “Type A”s. We often associate it with winners — people who have a singular focus and who are willing to do what it takes. The Moguls. The Stars. The CEOs.
“Type B”s don’t get the same respect. Rather than seeing them as people who see life in balance, breathing in life and responding with appropriate effort and energy, we stamp them with the face of Sean Penn as Jeff Spicoli in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”. Someone who takes life so easy that they have no drive, no forward momentum.
Basically in the race of life, the “A”s have it. they are circling the final laps just as the “B”s start their engines.
Interestingly, however, I learned that Type A was a label applied to people with higher risk for heart attack. While the science of these studies has been questioned and the theory has fallen out of favor, the Types have remained a part of our general knowledge lexicon. But not in the manner originally intended.
I am not a Type A but I always thought that I should be. I’ve wanted a singular focus that makes me an undeniable success. None of this” successful upon examination” stuff for me. I want that “everyone is obviously green with envy” success. (Or I thought I did.)
I am pretty sure, however, that I am NOT a Type B either. I certainly stress and worry over things that I shouldn’t. I tend to glance at the forest and never see the trees. The number of roses that I have passed and not smelt would have exceeded the floral budget of the recent Royal Wedding. When I do stop for a moment, there is a constant to-do list still running through my brain.
Do I possess only the worst of each personality type?
Is there a Type C? I have always been a Square Peg and I guess this is no exception. As usual, I don’t seem to fit the check box. A Charlotte who wants to be a Carrie. On a Scantron test, I would be looking for a “None of the Above” option.
So tell me, are you an “A” or a “B”? Or are you like me — should we start the “C”s?
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Sliding Doors, Revisited
Back when I was 38 and Growing, I examined my need to play “What If?”, otherwise known as Traci’s Sliding Doors game. This is not the healthiest of games, as I noted but as time has passed, I have begun to play it a little better.
It is easy to play “what if?” when you don’t know the outcome. And in that easy game, I tend to favor an unknown fate. One wherein all things good come without any loss. Which of course, is ridiculous! Because every single choice that we make informs our present and future.
But what if you could change the rules? What if you could see the other fate? Or least a close proximate.
One of my “favorite” ways to play this twisted game of imagination is to create some idealized artistic life. I would be working consistently as an actress. My husband and I would be living in some chic Brooklyn loft or an apartment in some fun Manhattan neighborhood. In this fantasy land, I am happily living the New York dream and realities like I don’t know, “Where would my kids would live?!?” don’t invade this little spot of Big Apple Heaven.
Well, my trip to New York gave me a quick (because everything in NY is quick!) glimpse at the other side of that Sliding Door. One of my dear friends from grad school is in many ways living my fantasy life. She lives in a cute apartment in a very desirable neighborhood. She goes on auditions and has had a reasonable amount of work.
But I realized that this very cute life doesn’t fit this somewhat cute girlwoman. I do have kids. And as much as they deny me sleep, cause me wrinkles, and all often make me Cuckoo enough for a Swiss clockmaker, they are my life. And I am no longer interested in stuffing them in an 2 x 2 closet to fit my alternate life vision.
So I guess this is my life. The life I’ve chosen. I may not be Traci the Star but I am Star Traci. And I guess that’s all right!
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Trying to Say “Yes”
Those of you who have read my blog are aware that I have control issues. And perfectionist issues. And… well, let’s just say that I have issues.
But in my attempt to stay on the Sunny Side of the Street, I am trying to let go and have some fun. And in that spirit, I am trying to say “yes” more than “no”. Because “no” is a word that I have found myself saying MUCH too much lately.
Saturday morning, my daughter found a bag of streamers. (How I got an entire bag of streamers is a whole other story and one which I will spare you.) She comes to me and asks if we can have a party. A streamer party!Now I am sitting on the couch surrounded by a Spring Break’s worth of laundry. Soccer starts the next day and back to school the day after. The logical side of me screams, “NOOOOOOOOOO!” but miraculously I hear myself say, “yes”.
And this is what came from that “yes”.
And this…
But most of all, this…
And those smiles made saying “yes” (and the accompanying mess) worth it! But there was more. I danced in the streamers. I played. I had fun. Ifelt like a kid which definitely helped me stay on the Suuny Side.
What have you said “yes” to lately?
Full disclosure: I did make the bed before taking the picture. I wasn’t willing to let go that much — LOL!
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Posted in Beautiful, Childhood, Choices, Letting Go, Mommyhood
Tagged Childhood, Mommyhood, My Life, Sonny-Bunny, The Diva
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Why the Oscars Still Matter…
to Me.
Now being the Star that I am, you may assume that I have a mantel full of awards and therefore unaffected by the whims of the Academy. But I am forever in love with the Academy Awards. And not just the red carpet or the dresses. But the actual Academy Awards. And especially this year.
Because this year, a hero of mine is nominated. But to really understand why this matters to me, I need to rewind fifteen years to the 1995 Academy Awards. March 25, 1996. Back when the Oscars were still on Mondays and still in March.
The month prior to the ceremony, I had flown to Chicago where I auditioned for seven Masters in Acting programs. And for the following six weeks, I had been on pins and needles waiting to hear if I had been accepted. Now for those of you who don’t know, a letter is bad and a phone call is good.
And the weeks had been littered with letters. In fact, my husband and I had fought (terribly) when I found a stash of three letters that had come early. He had stealthily removed them from the mail over the course of a week. Unfortunately, his stealthiness (word? I’m not sure…) did not apply to his hiding place — the console between the two front seats of our 1986 Nissan Maxima.
When I found it, I freaked out. I wrongly took it as his lack of belief in me. How could he let me walk around thinking that I still had a chance at these schools? How could he let me be a fool? How could he let me BELIEVE??? This is when he told me that he was sure that I would be accepted somewhere and he didn’t want me to worry. He wasn’t going to trash the letters, just wait until I got a “yes” to tell me about the “no”s.
But two more “no”s had come. And the deadline was fast approaching. Until Monday, March 25, 1996. The night that Annette Bening sat on the Geary stage of the American Conservatory Theater to talk with Barbara Walters. She was one of the guests of Walters’ annual Academy Awards Special. As alumna of the school, Bening had returned to her theatrical home for the interview.
And as you might have guessed her home was one of my “Seven”. One of the two from which I had not received a letter.
On that very night, I got a call from that very school. From that very theater. From her home. My soon-to-be home.
As I remember, the interview began only moments after my call. That may be wrong. Memories are funny things. If someone pulled my phone records and told me that the call was another night, I would be surprised but not totally shocked. But I do remember this.
I felt a surge of joy, excitement, and fear that one only feels when they know that life has changed irrevocably. For better or worse, my life changed in that moment. At that time, I believed it to be the beginning of a magical fairytale wherein all my acting dreams would come true. I believed that I, too, would be answering Ms. Walters’ questions one day. Basically, I believed that I was on my way to becoming the “next” Annette Bening.
Well, a funny thing happened on the way to the Oscars. And, obviously I am not the “next” Annette Bening. I am not the “next” anything.
My life changed that day both for better and worse. My bank account (and enormous pending student loan payments) demonstrate the worse. And, no, I do not have a mantel full of awards to show you the better. But something happened to me that night that I have not thought of for some time.
It was the first time that this dreamer believed. I believed that night that dreams do come true. That dreams could come true to me. And while I had spent the better part of the last year, working, and preparing, and dreaming, it was not until that night that I actually believed that a dream of mine could come true.
Now it would be easy to look at my life now and say that my dream did not come true. But that would be wrong. I went to one of the finest acting schools on the country. I studied alongside many talents, several of which are household names. I acted on that same stage that Ms. Bening graced that fateful night.
But more importantly, I started on a path that brought me to this moment. And so many of my dreams have come true. A quick glance across my kitchen demonstrates my greatest dreams come true, two of them come in rather small packages (one of which turns four tomorrow).
And as for being the “next” something, well, that dream has passed. But as I learned so many nights ago, dreams come true. And I still believe that I can have an acting dream. But this time, I am not looking forward to being the “next” anyone, just the “next” stage of me. What this dream will look like, I do not know, but I do know this. It can come true.
So thank you, Annette Bening. I don’t know if you’ll get your long-awaited Oscar tonight, but you have this. My undying respect and appreciation for sharing your gift and unknowingly shared my dream. I may never have the moment to thank the Academy and you may never hear this thank you but it stands none the less. Thank you for helping me to believe.
I believe that dreams come true, do you?
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Hail to the Chief
I recently saw a poll asking people if they would like their kids to grow up to be president. If my memory serves me (and don’t quote me), only 46% said yes and 52% said no. What happened to the other 2%, I don’t know.
<Side tangent: I am always curious about the “I Don’t Know” categories in surveys, especially when it is a simple Yes or No question that does not involve any specific knowledge of a subject. I’m a little worried for these people — buying coffee must be an arduous task. But I digress…>
Any-catty-statement, the majority of Americans did not want their children to grow up to be President. I must say that I am in that group. In the current political climate, where everything is suspect, even one’s birth, where a political rival is a mortal enemy, and all is fair in hate and war, I don’t dream of them becoming President.
Which is sad. Because once upon a time, I dreamed of becoming President. In an ill-fated conversation with my father, I announced this to my family. In 1984, Geraldine Ferraro made history by becoming a Vice-Presidential candidate. I was so inspired that I proclaimed that I would be the first female president of the United States. To which my father said, “No, you won’t”.
Yes, he did. And this weighed heavily on me for many years. I believed that my father thought I was incapable of being President. There are few things more painful than thinking that your parents don’t believe in you.
Flash forward 24 years. Hilary Clinton is a viable candidate for the Democratic Presidential nomination. Dad and I have a discussion. I “casually” mention that I had wanted to be the first female President but he didn’t think I could be. He looks at me surprised.
“It wasn’t that I thought you couldn’t be President. I just never thought that you would be the first. I was sure that we would have elected a woman by now”. So there you go. For almost a quarter of a century, I thought that my Dad didn’t think me worthy.
Why did I believe that? Did he say it wrong or did I hear it wrong? Does it really matter?
So here I acknowledge that I don’t dream about my children being President but not because I don’t think they are worthy. They are. Therefore, my children will never know that I feel this way. If they dream it, I will support it. And I will say, “Yes, you can”.
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Up In Smoke
Help! My marriage is going up in smoke. I need words of wisdom from my friends.
Dramatic enough beginning? Maybe I over-utilized the hyperbole but I do need some advice.
Do any of you smoke? Because I don’t. But my husband does. And I have begun (and by begun I mean long since past) to lose my patience with the habit.
Part of me says this is not new, he has always been a smoker. That same part says that I don’t have this addiction and I can’t understand.
But then there is the other part.
The part of me that is over it! The part of me that is sick of the smell. The part of me that is sick of coming up with excuses to give my children when he sneaks out (because to his credit, he has never smoked in front of the children). Yes, it is me that is coming up with the lies! The part of me that is tired of paying more and more to help my husband shorten his life.
For years, I was patient. For years, I knew I couldn’t make him quit. For years, I decided that patient understanding would lead him to health.
Well it has been sixteen years of marriage! And now we have children. And he has promised me time after time that he is quitting. That this is the last pack. That he will no longer spend “our” money on the dreadful things.
And promise after promise has been broken. But still I was patient. Until he had a moped accident six weeks ago and all my patience drove off with the ambulance that took him to the ER.
Because when I saw him in that ambulance, I saw my life without him. As my children sat in the back seat of the car chatting with a police officer, I saw my husband lain out on a stretcher. And something in me clicked.
Click. I don’t want to live without my husband.
Click. I don’t want my children to lose their father before they have their own children. (If he were to die at the age his father did last year from smoking, he will likely never meet his grandchildren.)
Click. I am sick of watching my husband commit suicide a little bit every day.
So I have become cigarette police. I have begged. I have pleaded. I have cried to him. I have cried alone. And I have gotten angry.
Which is NOT helpful. I know. You don’t have to tell me because I know. I still know that it is an addiction. I know that it has been his chief coping device of more than half his life. I know. I know. I know.
But right now, I just don’t care. I want it to stop. Now. This minute. Today. No, yesterday.
So, my friends, help me. I need your advice and support because I am being a passive aggressive witch worthy of Dorothy and her Yellow Brick Road. This is not me! But I am not letting go. I am a dog with a bone. And I am not liking the sound my voice now makes every time I see him head for the back door.
How do I help him without harming my marriage? How do I accept something that is fundamentally hurting my husband without hurting our relationship? How do I stop being a b$&*h?
So, if you are a smoker, tell me what he is facing and what would help you. If you are not a smoker but have a spouse/partner/friend that does, tell me what you have done. And if you are neither, but you have an idea, tell me. PLEASE.
Before I go up in smoke.
P.S. For whatever reason, Wordpress has randomly decided that all comments (including mine) require approval. I don’t know how to change it but it is annoying. Almost as annoying as the 200 spams I get everyday. But if you are a WP expert and know how to change this, I obviously need your help, as well.
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I Am a Hypocrite
Okay, I admit it. I am a Hypocrite with a capital H. “Hello, Kettle. Have you met, Pot? Why, yes. Yes, I have.”
I spend a lot of energy and time telling my family that I need help around the house. I look at the things that need to be done and wonder why I seem to be the only one willing/capable/interested in doing them. And I feel put upon. Very put upon. Sometimes even desperate.
So you would think that in that state of desperation, I would grasp hungrily at the crumbs of effort that my children and husband provide. You might think that. You would be wrong.
I wish it were true. I do. I wish that I could just let go. But I don’t.
Why? Because I have standards. Ridiculous standards. Stupid standards. So if they are ridiculous, stupid even, why don’t I kick them down the street like the can in The Twilight Zone?
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the Million Dollar Question. If phrased in the form of a question, it would be Final Jeopardy. Dick Clark is talking while my back is to the big pyramid. You get the picture? Oh. You got it a couple of metaphors ago. I know. But I never met a metaphor that I didn’t like!
So back to the point, pre-metaphor. I need help. A lot. But why don’t I ask my husband to fold the clothes? I mean, he can do that with a broken leg. Well, it might have to do with the fact that he seems incapable of folding a towel the same way twice. He has this bizarre method that excludes matching edges and includes an origami style worthy of a master.
See, I fold the towels in half making sure that the edges are lined up. Fold again (again ensuring that all edges are lined up) and then do a tri-fold which makes the towels sit very neatly on the shelves. My towels may be old but they are neat in there. His do not sit neatly. But if they are clean, out of the basket, and in the linen closet, why do I care?
I don’t know. Well, I suspect that it has to do with parents, and old insecurities, and so on and so forth, but the why doesn’t really matter. because it needs to stop. Because right now, I can’t do it all. I have two children, a new puppy with serious potty-training issues, and a husband on crutches. I am failing miserably and I need to allow people to help me.
So I am starting today. My kids may stuff their clothes in their drawers as long as they get them to their drawers. My husband can fold the towels like a foil swan with Chinese leftovers, as long as he folds them. And maybe, just maybe, if I do that I might find a little time to do something besides worry about what still needs to be done!
P.S. My thoughts and prayers still run to Arizona. Also, today marks the anniversary of the tragic Haitian earthquake, the Haitians, as well as the people struggling with floods in Australia, remain in my heart.
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