Does idiocy, like bad news, come in threes? If so, I got another one comin’!

Ever have one of those off days… weeks… months? Well, that’s where I’ve been. Summer is almost over and although fall is my favorite season, I still feel a symbolic death at the end of my flip-flop wearing days. For years, September meant a return to school and studying, aka stress. These days, all September signifies is the end to my A/C being on 24/7. I lament the back-to-school sales and the cute, trendy outfits the girls will be wearing on the first day of school. These students belong to a club I am no longer a member of. I’ve become an outcast. School always gave me a sense of purpose—a structure I could depend on. And as hard as I still work, some days that structure and purpose can be hard to find, especially since it’s self-imposed.

Perhaps my end of the season doldrums can account for my moronic behavior of late. More likely, it’s my weak attempt to deflect blame, and maybe I need to admit that age is slowly scrambling my brain. Whatever the cause, lately it seems as if stupidity flows through me like sands through an hourglass.

It all started when I ordered external hard drives from Amazon. I am admittedly an external hard drive geek. Ever since I fried my computer’s hard drive years ago and was forced to pay a whopping $550 to retrieve my data, I have been the “back up queen.” So I did my homework, researched the latest and greatest drives and finally settled on two drives (yes two) from Western Digital. My heart fluttered when I pressed “submit order”. I couldn’t wait to receive my drives and start organizing my data. (Clearly my thrill at backing up data indicates my need to get a personal life but I’ll save that for another blog entry.) A few days later, my drives arrived. But alas, when I plugged one of them in, nothing happened. I downloaded the user guide (something akin to admitting defeat) to no avail. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I picked up the box and stared at it, when it suddenly hit me. The name of the drive was missing the familiar “for Mac” at the end of it. I had bought the PC versions of the drives. Doh. One return shipping label and $12 in shipping costs later, the wrong drives were on their way to Amazon and the correct ones were now in transit.

Then for my second asinine move. I came up with the brilliant idea of doing my laundry before work. Sounds time efficient, right? I mean, what else do we do before work but eat breakfast and watch “Kelly and Michael”? Getting laundry out of the way on a workday allows my day off to truly be a day off. In theory, it’s genius. In practice, however, it presupposes that I’m going to remember to pick up my laundry when it’s dry! Later that night when I went to make my bed, I discovered I had no clue where my sheets were… or my work shirts… or any of my whites for that matter.

So the same night as my hard drive debacle, I walked to the laundromat to find my clothes sitting in a cart. The manager looked over at me and said, “I was wondering who those belonged to.” Oops. While I was gathering my clothes, a customer commented on how he had once left his clothes behind for two weeks. Apparently I’m not the only idiot in Astoria. Whoopee.

And now I’m simply waiting for the other shoe to drop. What stupid move will I make next? Move my car and forget where I parked it? Get ready for work only to remember I have the day off? I know those seem pretty innocuous, but in the heat of the moment, you feel like a first class imbecile. Is this all a sign of some undiagnosed psychosis? Seasonal Affective Disorder, perchance? Essentially it’s a mood disorder where people with normally good mental health experience mood swings in the winter or summer. That would certainly explain my summer blues, but not my turning into an ignoramus. I think my malady is in a class all by itself, and I am hereby declaring it: Dumb-Ass Dina Disorder.

Where is the cure, however, for my particular ailment? The approaching autumn may ultimately prove to be my savior. John Keats’ “To Autumn” speaks of the transition from summer to fall so beautifully:

Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run

Oh Mr. Keats… how I adore your eloquence. It speaks to me of summer’s passing, yet partnership with the coming fall to create a bountiful harvest. Here’s to hoping my life mirrors these sentiments. Let this fog consuming my brain be lifted by the crisp, cool air on the horizon, and allow me to move forward to a prolific and creative mindset. But until that chilly breeze hits me, you can find me sitting in the corner… wearing my dunce cap.

If Age Is Just A Number, Can I Please Pick Another One?

            I’ve always felt that whatever age I’m at; it’s never the right one. When I was 25, I thought I was old. When I was 35, I thought I was… well, old. Now that I’m [gulp] 46, I feel ancient. Or do I? Physically, I feel great. Socially, I can still keep up with the twentysomethings (even though some nights, I’d rather just read a good book). Emotionally, I have the life experience of a “grown-up” with the youthful spirit of someone much younger. On paper, it seems like a great balance.

So what is this hang-up about age that has plagued me for most of my life? I feel like I’m continually in a race, playing catch-up to where I think everyone else is and where I think I’m supposed to be. But by doing that. I’m always looking forward (or backward) and missing out on where I am RIGHT NOW. Why can’t I appreciate that TODAY is the youngest I’ll ever be for the rest of my life? Am I stuck in my head?

“Get Outta Your Head” – it’s the slogan that adorns the Matthew Corozine Studio website. During my years studying acting with Matt, getting out of my head was one of the cornerstones of Matt’s teachings. “Get out of your way” was another one. Every moment in his class was about the here and now and being in the present moment. That’s what acting is. It’s also what getting “outta your head” means.

But let me tell you—it’s harder and scarier than it sounds. Being present means really listening to someone (instead of thinking about the laundry you need to do when you get home from class); it also means responding to someone in an honest, truthful way (as opposed to lying to them and telling them what you think they want to hear). Class trains you to trust your instincts and express yourself accordingly. Easier said than done. Out of the classroom, we are trained to be uber politically correct. As a result, our feelings and instincts can get buried so deep that we need to consult Google Maps to locate them. Or, if you’re one of the lucky ones, you can end up in Matt’s class and he can give you a map, personally devised for y-o-u! There will be some interesting twists and turns, however, as your mind puts up roadblocks and refuses to follow the path laid out for you. But that’s okay, because it’s all a part of the amazing journey you’ve signed up for, and ultimately you will be led to where you’re supposed to be (whether your mind likes it or not). Kind of reminds me of my battle with my age… I’m getting older whether I like it or not. Why not enjoy the journey and let it take me to where I’m supposed to be?

In class, where you’re supposed to be is the land where instincts and feelings roam free. And in this land… anything goes. You might go from yelling to crying to laughing in a matter of seconds. You say things you wish you could say in “real life” but can’t. (Remember the politically correct thing?) Class is a playground, and just like children, we are learning to explore each other and the world around us. But you can find yourself in unfamiliar territory at times, and feel like a kid who’s afraid of the dark. I remember the first time a student told me “I care about you” or “You touched my heart,” during a repetition exercise. I wanted to vomit. This person didn’t even know me… how could they care about me? How could I touch their heart? It wasn’t logical… it made no sense. But as I’ve learned, that was my “head” talking—the same head that tells me I’m ancient.

Acting is not a replacement for therapy, but it certainly can be therapeutic. It taught me how to go off of what I was hearing instead of what someone was saying. It taught me about trusting how I feel instead of what I think. The head can lie to us, but our guts always know the truth. The more you can listen to your gut, the more you are grounded in what is going on right now. And when it comes down to it, right now is all there really is, because yesterday is over and no one knows what tomorrow will bring.

So perhaps class is where I can find some answers to my age obsession. Could it be time to revisit the Matthew Corozine Studio? Perhaps there I can reconnect to the present moment and learn how to appreciate the journey that’s going on right now. After all, right now is exactly where I need to be. The destination is obviously going to take care of itself…

Two and a Half Years In Labor… Where’s the Baby?

            It’s stressful, emotional AND painful… there are times you want to give up. But people cheer you on saying, “You can do it!” or “Keep pushing!” or “You’re almost there!” As much as I appreciate the support, sometimes I just want to politely tell them to piss off. The frustration, the agony, the torture… is it worth it? I have no idea. I’m still waiting for my baby to appear, and by baby, I mean my play.

            It’s been two and a half years since I went into labor with “Elephants and Other Worldly Dilemmas.” Back then, it was a one-act called “The Day Martha Chose to Ignore God,” inspired, in part, by my real-life friend Martha.

            Perhaps it’s not completely accurate to say there’s no baby at all. My play is more like a set of twins. The first part of the delivery went so smoothly. Act 1 (Twin #1) popped out in under two months, and I’ve been nurturing it ever since to make sure it continues to grow and develop.

            But after delivering Act 1, I discovered there was yet another baby still to emerge—Act 2 a.k.a. Twin #2. Together, my set of twins join forces to become the full-length play “Elephants and Other Worldly Dilemmas.” There’s only one problem. Act 2 is simply refusing to make an appearance. When I think of what I’ve been through with my second delivery, I’m reminded of mothers contending with bratty children who throw temper tantrums in the middle of shopping malls. Act 2 requires more nourishment, more care, more growing time… but TWO YEARS’ worth? I guess Twin #2 is going through it’s own version of the terrible twos.

            With four major revisions of Act 2 under my belt, I began researching gestation periods of animals to see if I am not alone in this long and arduous birthing process. To my relief, I found gestation periods ranging from 2 years for elephants, 2-3 years for black alpine salamanders, and 3.5 years for frilled sharks. Phew. I’m not as bad as I thought, although I’m not sure my sanity can hold for 3.5 years.

            Writing truly does feel like giving birth. And what comes out feels every bit like a precious child you desperately love, and at times, secretly loathe as you wonder what the hell you were thinking when you decided to create this little monster!  And of course everyone has advice on how to parent your unborn child. I’ve done countless readings where I survey my fellow writers/actors/artists for feedback as to what I’m doing “wrong,” and each time I feel like a deer caught in the headlights. You know that feeling? It used to happen to me in school. A teacher would be explaining a new concept and it was almost like he or she was speaking gibberish. Sometimes all I could hear was static, like a radio station you can’t tune in. My heart would start pounding, as I frantically looked around me to see if my fellow students seemed as dazed as I was. Nope. Everyone appeared calm and collected. I was an A student—why did it sound like my teacher was speaking a foreign language??? It was only after class I would discover that everyone else was equally dumbfounded. They just had better poker faces than I did.

Well that’s how the process of feedback works too. At first, I’m furiously taking notes even though I have no idea what the words I’m writing mean. Everyone is firing thoughts at me—sometimes simultaneously—and it’s like I’m being hit with bullets. But you just have to take the hits, and trust in time a light bulb will go off and understanding will come.

And such is the case with my latest unborn child, the aforementioned Act 2. The feedback, which is so overwhelming at first, slowly sinks in and gives deeper meaning as to what my piece is about. Now, as I prepare to embark on revision #5, I’m scared but excited at the same time. Each revision brings me closer and closer to seeing this baby finally come to life. I look forward to metaphorically slapping it on its bottom and welcoming it to the world! And to all of you who have helped me along the way—John Olson, Joanie Schlafer, Sue Cerreta, Audrey Attardo, Audrey Sawaya, Drew Dickhart, Melvin Huffnagle, Danny Dragone, Mike Gregorek, Erinn Moran, Martha Arnold, Monica Hanofee… the list goes on—I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have all taught me the importance of being honest and open minded with my work. Someone once told me that art is “creative sharing” and I have to agree. I believe what we create together is better and more profound than what we can do on our own.

            And now it’s time to give birth to this blog entry. This one was a pretty painful delivery too, but well worth the effort!

Just Because You THINK You Don’t Smell, Doesn’t Mean You DON’T!

So it’s been a few weeks since my last entry. I’ve been caught up sending out press releases for my grandfather’s upcoming hearing. For those of you that have read my past blog entries, you’ve already heard about it. For those of you that haven’t, you can find information about his case here: http://www.jewoppy.blogspot.com/2013/06/an-open-letter-to-anyone-that-cares.html

            After all the heaviness of my grandfather’s crisis, I thought it was time to shift mental gears and write something to lighten my mood. Thus, on one of the hottest weeks I can ever remember (though New Yorkers have short term memories when it comes to heat), I felt it appropriate to take a moment to talk about something that really irritates me… the dreaded B.O. It’s been talked about on shows like Seinfeld, where a valet left such a foul odor in Jerry’s car, he shockingly remarked to Elaine, “Nobody has B.O. like this! When somebody has B.O., the O usually stays with the B. Once the B leaves, the O goes with it.” I know what you mean, Jerry. These days, the ODOR does not always leave with the BODY…

            It astounds me just how many people smell like yesterday’s trash. Do they not understand the necessity of showering every day in this kind of heat? I personally shower twice—once at the beginning of the day and once at the end. What’s better than starting and ending your day fresh and clean? I got on the subway the other day at 10:00 a.m. and a person subsequently entered who stunk to high heaven. I was flabbergasted as I pondered how this could’ve happened. After all, it was the beginning of the day… how does someone already reek?

            Besides showering, what about anti-perspirant? And no, I’m not talking about deodorant. I’m talking about the sweat-blocking (some say toxic) antiperspirant. All the naysayers who claim, “I don’t really sweat,” or  “It’s bad for my skin,” or “It has aluminum in it,” are the same people who then swear their deodorant controls the smell. Guess what folks? It doesn’t. I spent years with artistic hippie types who thought their deodorant was doing the job. It wasn’t working then, and it’s not working now. You can tell me until you’re blue in the face that the deodorant eliminates any unpleasant aromas. The bottom line is if you’re sweating, then you’re stinking! And by “sweating,” I don’t mean the moderate amount of secretions we all have due to the sweltering temperatures. I’m referring to Olympic size pools of sweat under your armpits, the resulting stench of which could clear out a room. Only antiperspirant can keep that kind of fluid and resulting odor at bay. If you want to stick to your hippie ways, fine. Wait until it cools off a bit and go back to your deodorant then.

            And perhaps some of the noxious fumes are emanating from people’s garments. Even in this DEFCON-1-blistering hellfire, I’ve heard countless people remark, “I’ve already worn this three times.” Newsflash: WASH YOUR CLOTHES! Ivory Snow has been around since 1879 and it works wonderfully in the sink at rinsing out your sweat-infused wardrobe. And while you’re scrubbing away, why don’t you ask yourself what would possess you to wear your bacteria-saturated apparel more than once in the first place.

           

            Finally, what about perfume/cologne/body spray? I know there are non-toxic and completely natural perfumes on the market if you are opposed to chemically processed perfumes such as Alfred Sung (what I wear). Or how about some good old-fashioned talcum powder? Options are available to help our bodies counteract the unpleasant fragrance that comes with perspiration overload.

I do realize we all have some degree of odor due to this hellish weather. I really do. But when everyone on the train looks at one another to figure out who’s the perpetrator of the malodorous condition scorching their nose hairs, that’s when you know there’s a problem needing to be addressed.

            And what about me? How do I know I am not one of the smelly people I’m complaining about? Well, that’s a good point. I challenge anyone out there… go ahead and take a whiff of yours truly. And if I do, well, STINK, feel free to tell me so. I am happy to increase my current showers to three per day or whatever it takes to avoid any trace of “odeur de le pew.” That’s for French for “smelly girl,” or close to it anyway…