I Can’t Live Without You… or Can I?

            Who’s texting me??? I HAVE to know!!! I am a woman possessed, compulsively reaching into my purse every ten minutes or so to check my phone. In an age where everything consumable is accessible from your fingertips, text messages are my kryptonite. Emails? Nah. Voicemails? Not so much. But text messages? I MUST have them and I must have them NOW! With texting, you know someone is thinking about you seconds after they have the thought. It’s instant gratification of the mind!

            You can only imagine, then, how I felt when I reached into my purse at work and discovered my iPhone 4s was M-I-A! And yes, I did say the iPhone 4s… I’m one of those gals who waits for her phone to die (or in this case go missing) before upgrading to the latest and greatest model. At first, I couldn’t believe it. In all my years of using cell phones, I had never lost one. My coworkers helped me look in every crack and crevice, as they simultaneously bombarded me with questions: “Are you sure you put your phone back in your purse?” “Did you carry it somewhere else and just forget about it?” “Do you think someone is playing a joke on you?”

My coworker Eddie, a technology junkie, is an avid PC devotee and thus, a Mac hater. Despite his disdain for everything Apple, he scoured the Internet on my behalf (via his Samsung Galaxy) and determined we could locate my phone via an application called Find My iPhone. “Does my ‘location services’ have to be turned on to use the application?” I asked. “Yes,” Eddie replied. “Oops,” I responded. “I don’t keep that on, because it drains my battery.” Bummer.

But Eddie the Relentless figured out a way to remotely force my location services to turn on from his phone. Voilà! The hunt for my iPhone was back in business. I watched the compass dial on the “Find my iPhone” app spin around and around… Guess where it landed? At my place of work! Unlike Elvis, it hadn’t “left the building.” Then where the hell was it? By the end of the night, the phone had not materialized and I went home, empty handed. I felt so isolated. Not because I couldn’t play Candy Crush, (which I don’t play by the way). It was like someone had unplugged me and I was completely disconnected from the world.  

All this angst made me wonder about the days when I didn’t even HAVE a cell phone. Wasn’t I fine back then? And wasn’t there a time when I used to write actual letters instead of sending an email? Friends used to tell me how much they loved my letters. “You sound just like the way you talk!” was a frequent comment. I used to write someone a long letter and by the time it was received, the uber-important fight I had described in minute detail, had long since blown over. Isn’t there something charming about that? And how about mailing someone a birthday/anniversary/get well card? Well, those were replaced by e-cards a while back, and these days I simply give the person a shout-out on their Facebook wall. Sigh. I write so infrequently with an actual pen that I no longer remember cursive. Do you?

When I started writing this blog entry, it was simply going to be a humorous anecdote that played out like an episode of “Monk.” I could call it “Mr. Monk and the Cell Phone Caper,” in which Adrian Monk solves the mystery of my absentee phone with his famous line: “Here’s what happened…” But somehow, the words weren’t coming. I realized I was struggling because my story wasn’t just about losing a cell phone. After all, I could replace it practically for free by extending my cell phone contract! No, what was bothering me was how much I had come to rely on this device and what that dependence said about me.

Cell phones have become like our IVs… our lifeline to the world. Or are they? During the 24 hours I was phoneless, I still met up with an old friend who happened to be in the city for the day. We had no prearranged plans; I didn’t even know he was coming to town. Despite that, he managed to track me down at my job, without my ever receiving a text message, an email or a voicemail from him. It made me realize that when someone really wants to contact you, they will find a way to do so. So I ask you—do we really need cell phones as much as we think? Or perhaps the real question is… do I?

Are you wondering what happened to my iPhone 4s? Eddie the Relentless continued to track the phone when he got home and I got an email from him at 3:00 a.m., telling me the phone was still at work and that he was going to bed. As my mom would say, “What a mench!” Several weeks later, the exact whereabouts of the phone is still a mystery, but I have since learned that I did not, in fact, lose it. I subsequently replaced my old model with the newer (though not the newest) iPhone 5. And while it’s nice to have a phone again, I somehow feel different. Don’t get me wrong—I still love my text messages! I just don’t feel the sense of urgency about them. I’ve discovered the people who want to reach out to me, will… one way or another. Perhaps the next step is to change the way I reach out to people. It might be time to break out my old stationary. Let’s just hope my handwriting is still legible...

Dogs Never Judge, So Why Do I?

            It never ceases to amaze me an animal’s capacity to love, and to do so unconditionally. The way they look at you with such honesty and sincerity in their eyes is unparalleled amongst us humans. Perhaps the combination of these behaviors is what makes them free from judgment of the world around them.

            Anyone that knows me is aware of my near-obsession for canines. A passion for my furry friends led me to dog walking (http://www.libertywalkers.net) but even before that, my heart was full of love for “man’s best friend”. It didn’t matter what kind… Labrador, Dachshund, Poodle, Golden Retriever, Cocker Spaniel, Bulldog, etc… I adored ‘em all. Suffice it to say; long before I was ever a dog walker, I was a dog LOVER. I would accost people on the street and shower their dogs with affection before they even had time to give me permission. (These days, living in NYC, I always ask first.) One thing I’ve noticed almost universally is every dog’s ability to instinctively know I was “friend” not “foe.” Owners will commonly say to me, “That’s really weird. My dog isn’t normally so friendly toward strangers.” Actually, it’s not weird at all. Dogs know I want to be their buddy, and they, in turn, want to be mine regardless of what I look like, where I work or how much money I have in the bank. Dogs get what we humans don’t—accepting friendship without qualifying it is a true gift and blessing in life.

As humans, we are so distrustful. We assume everyone has an agenda and everyone wants something, and whatever they want, it can’t be good. Not true with our beloved tail-waggers. You want to pet them, awesome. You want to shower them with love, also awesome. You want to give them treats, even better. Dogs can instantly tell your intentions are good, and if so, all is okay in their world.

And the more I walk dogs, the more convinced I am in my beliefs. Take Bucky, for example:

Isn’t he gorgeous? Bucky is truly a gentle soul, who wants nothing more than to show you how much he cares (usually by pouncing on you and almost knocking you flat on the ground). When I was walking him the other week, I saw a man pushing a shopping cart who seemed to be ranting in a way that made me uncomfortable.  I was trying to move to the other side of the street, but not Bucky. He wanted to go over and say hello. A few seconds later, someone in the neighborhood was talking to the man with the shopping cart as if it was all perfectly normal. In that moment, I knew I had misjudged him. He was possibly learning disabled or handicapped in some way, but he was certainly no threat to me or Bucky. But then… Bucky knew that already.

            I was so ashamed of my behavior. How could I make such a snap judgment of someone? Me, who admittedly so often feels misunderstood herself… how could I turn around and do the same thing to someone else?

            And then there are days when snap judgments are non-existent because I’m oblivious to the world around me. Let’s face it; there are times in NYC, we all tune out. We walk around in a daze, worrying about our lives or maybe something as inane as what we’re going to eat for dinner. In that moment, a canine companion can be the perfect alarm system to alert you to approaching danger.  Meet Hercules a.k.a. “Boogie”:

I still can’t figure out how Boogie’s love for everyone and everything around him can be contained in his little body. He has boundless energy and enthusiasm and it’s so beautiful to see. That said, when Boogie backs away from someone or something, I know to get the hell out of its path. If Boogie doesn’t trust you, I know there’s something seriously wrong with you.

            And then there’s my dog, Fenwick a.k.a. Wicksie Doodle:

Wicksie is no longer with us, but when he was, boy was he a hoot! He was gorgeous, and knew it. So much so, he didn’t need to bother with anyone or anything. He was content to watch the world, and had little desire to interact with it. He certainly didn’t judge… to judge, you have to care, and my darling pup was far too aloof for that. Oh, how I loved him nevertheless!

           

            And I know there are naysayers like my friend Danny who claim, “What about a dog that doesn’t like a certain race of people—Asian, African American, Hispanic? They are obviously judging.” Well how did that happen? Human intervention, of course. No dog decides to dislike an entire race of people by accident. They were trained to do so. It comes down to this: left to their own devices, a dog can sniff you and know if they like you or don’t.

            Which brings me to an important point: judgment versus opinion—there is a difference! Look, as free spirited as I can be, I’m not preaching we all love each other (though I wouldn’t mind if we did). My acting teacher, Matthew Corozine, used to say, “Not everyone is going to like you, and not everyone is going to get you.” Some people are simply not our “cup of tea.” But that’s your opinion. Someone else may meet the same person you didn’t vibe with and think he or she is absolutely divine. No need, however, to slap a judgment on the person: “That person is crazy,” or “What a loser,” or “What a geek.” Just chalk it up to different strokes for different folks and move on!

            And I am giving this advice as much to myself as to anyone else out there, who might be reading this. It’s something worth striving for. Let the ultimate non-judgmental dog—Bella—whose best friend is an elephant, serve as inspiration to us all: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cBtFTF2ii7U

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!