The Twelve Posts of Christmas #1: “Go to the Bathroom, Get a Tissue, and Don’t Do That Again.”

Once again, I’m stealing a page from Paul Cornell’s playbook (because it’s fun!) and doing a series of Christmas posts, starting today! Last year, The Twelve Posts of Christmas were pretty ecclectic. This year, I wanted them to have a theme…

Christmas, in addition to being a religious holiday, is generally a time of year when we stick close to family and friends, reminisce about the past year, and find comfort in tradition. Christmas always makes me feel a little nostalgic, whether I’m doing something Christmassy or not, and so for this year’s Twelve Posts, I’m going to recount some of my favorite (or, most notorious) childhood memories. Because, while Christmases growing up were great, the other 364 days of the year were pretty epic, too. These will all be memories from my early childhood, pre-teen and younger. Prepare to laugh – and be slightly embarrassed for me…

Can we start by talking about this weird semi-mullet? I mean CAN WE?!

“Go to the Bathroom, Get a Tissue, and Don’t Do That Again”

Back in the mid-2000′s, when I was working at a job in corporate sales, I remember talking to my coworkers about what the title of my potential memoir would be. After much thought, I burst out laughing and said, “Go to the Bathroom, Get a Tissue, and Don’t Do That Again.” Why? Because I realized upon thinking about my childhood that this phrase, or variations on it, was kind of a common theme.

Yes. I got told that more than once. Usually by my sister. (Why she was always the lucky one catching me doing weird stuff, I have no idea.)

1) Here’s the thing. Kids pick their noses. The second a kid realizes that his/her finger fits in that face-hole, there’s no stopping it. They will, at some point, stick their finger so far up there that they practically touch brain. Now, there’s a logical progression here. There will come a point in that kid’s life when he/she wonders what his/her snot tastes like. If you say you never wondered this as a kid, YOU ARE LYING. I mean, how could you not wonder? Picture it: you’re about 5 or 6, sitting there picking your nose – I mean, really going to town, right? All of a sudden, you feel something more solid than usual. It’s clogging a very major breathing passage so you, of course, think, I need to get this out of here. So you dig and pull, dig and pull, until finally, there’s this big glob of greenish-clearish-yellowish stuff on the end of your finger. Whoa, you think. That was in my nose! And you stare at it, marveling at the colors. And you know you weren’t supposed to pick your nose in the first place. After all, your mom has already reprimanded you and/or slapped your hand away several times. But what she doesn’t understand is that, sometimes, the tissues are way over there. You can’t be expected to just get up from watching She-Ra, can you? I mean, come on! Pick and wipe, knowwhatI’msayin’? ‘Cause I got TV to watch! But sometimes what you pick out of there is too big to wipe. And so you stare at it. And it looks squishy, and is of a consistency you’ve never really seen before. It kinda looks like a gummy bear.

And that’s when you wonder. Hmmm. I wonder what this would taste like…

Long story less long, I ran the greenish-clearish-yellowish globule across my tongue. And immediately. Started. Crying. It was fucking gross. Also, salty.

My sister walks into the living room as I’m standing there, mid-cry, with a big ol’ bugger on the end of my finger. Well, slightly less of it now that some of it was in my mouth. I remember her being very calm, but also giving me a look like What the fuck is wrong with you? She was in her twenties, and I was in elementary school. And that’s when she calmly said something to the effect of “Go to the bathroom, get a tissue, and don’t do that again.”

You’d think I’d have learned to not stick my finger in holes in which they don’t belong…

OMG, seriously Mom? Bowl cut?

2) Here’s the thing. Kids like sticking their fingers in things. Generally, because their fingers are small and fit into a lot of things. I mean, why wouldn’t you? Kids also have amazing imaginations. It’s sad, actually, how much imagination most of us lose as adults. As a kid, you can easily imagine things like having a robot arm…or being in the jungle while buried in pillows on your living room couch…

Or your finger being a pencil.

So, my sister is an artist, and growing up, I remember her having art supplies all over the house, including a pencil sharpener for her drawing pencils. It was one of those plastic ones with a clear cover on top for the shavings, but it was slightly more fancy because she got it at Pearl Art Supplies and not at, like, Woolworth’s, right? Anyway, so I had her sharpener – I forget why – when I suddenly, and for no reason at all, wondered what would happen if I tried to sharpen my finger.

I imagined my finger coming out of it looking like a flesh-toned colored pencil, and I thought that was cool. I remember holding my index finger up and looking at it, wondering if I’d be able to draw with it once it was sharpened. Apparently, the logistics of skin and fingernails and bone hadn’t yet sunken in by the time I was 6-ish.

I stuck my finger in and turned the sharpener. Hard. And immediately. Started. Crying. It hurt like a mo-fo, and suddenly, under the plastic cover, there was a long curly-cue of skin that looked rather like a pencil shaving, but not, BECAUSE IT WAS MY SKIN.

Once again, my sister – who I’m realizing is truly the tragic figure in all of this – walked in on me in the living room as I was crying. This time, though, I had something of hers. She told me to take my finger out, and I cried that I couldn’t, so she helped me. I don’t know what she did with the sharpener after that, or what ended up happening with that curly-cue of skin, but she said it again: “Go to the bathroom, get a tissue, and don’t do that again.” I did.

I don’t remember very many incidents of me randomly sticking my finger in stupid things after that.

But that just left me wide open to be involved in all manner of other stupid shit.

And for the next eleven days, you’ll hear all about it. Merry Christmas.

I Am My Father’s Daughter

My dad and me, August 2011. The last time I saw him before moving to L.A.

When I look at the picture above, it’s insane to me how much my dad and I look alike. As I get older, I realize that we’re alike in more than just looks. For example, I seem to have inherited my father’s penchant for being late to everything. When I was younger, it would make me so angry, and I used to wonder how the hell my dad always managed to do it. Now that I’m doing it myself, I still have no idea. No matter what I do to be on time (setting two alarm clocks, leaving the house much earlier than I need to, having To Do lists so as to organize my time better), I always manage to get places a little late. Another inheritance? My love of debate. I will argue with anyone about anything, sometimes arguing points I don’t even believe just to see if I can do it. Because it’s fun. Because I grew up in a house where arguing with someone meant you loved them. My dad and I are alike in artistic temperament, in our love of learning, and our pride about The Things We Know. I see my father in some of my best qualities, and I see him in my flaws. But one thing is for sure – I am definitely my father’s daughter.

Which is why it hurts that I can’t talk to him anymore. For those of you who don’t know, my father suffers from dementia and has been in a nursing home for the past five years or so. While his health is pretty good despite several heart-related scares, his mind is gone. I wrote a piece about what that feels like like back in 2008 that’s still pretty accurate, should you care to read it, called Strange Country.

Before I left New York in September, I paid my dad one last visit at the home, which is where the picture above was taken. He barely said anything as my siblings and niece and Robin talked around him. I told him that I was moving to Los Angeles to try and be a television writer, and the news that his baby girl was leaving the state to pursue her writing dream was met with a blank stare and the sighed equivalent of “That’s nice, Dear.” This from a man who himself wanted to be a writer; a man who wrote three full-length plays in his late fifties and early sixties and shopped them around to theaters in New York; a man who wowed everyone with his poetry at a reading I organized. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. It sucked that I couldn’t share my biggest news with him in a way that would get through to him.

However, my dad is never far from my mind as I make my way here in Los Angeles. Even though I couldn’t tell him about my move, or about being published in Whedonistas, or any of my other writing-related successes, I’m absolutely sure that he would be proud of me if he knew. My parents are much older than those of most of my peers, and grew up at a time and in a place where “following your dreams” was the last in a long list of priorities. As much happiness as there was in my dad’s life, there was also a lot of regret, particularly where writing was concerned, and a big reason why he was so gung-ho about sending me to NYU to study acting and writing was, I think, because he saw that I was completely serious about making a go of an artistic life, and wanted to live vicariously through me.

That used to make me feel pressure. It used to make me feel nervous about possibly failing and letting him down. Now? I know that as much as he would’ve loved Being a Writer, what he regretted most was Not Being Free To Write. It wasn’t about being a name or making money at it. It was about him never having had people tell him it was okay to do what he wanted to do. He’d always tell me that one of his biggest regrets was that, as much as he loved his parents, that they never really encouraged him academically. And telling them that he wanted to be a writer? SO not the thing to do as the oldest in a Puerto Rican family in New York in the 1950s. You either went to college for a “real job,” or you got married and got a job out of high school, or you joined the military. So that’s what he did. He did a term of service in the Air Force (pretty much between wars, so he never saw combat, thank God. But he DID see a lot of Greenland when he was stationed there for a year), he married my mother in 1960, and he had a respectable job with the Post Office for about 20 years and fathered three children. Then he started getting restless. He got his Master’s Degree in English Literature in the 80s, when I was a little girl. He studied abroad at that time, in Paris at the Sorbonne, allowing me to celebrate my 7th birthday in France. He changed careers a lot when I was a kid, and I think a lot of that had to do with him not being entirely happy. He was a TA at Touro College in their English Department. He sold real estate. But there was always writing, and when he started to pursue it more seriously in his later years, writing those plays or a collection of poetry, I helped him learn to type and taught him how to use a laptop so he could try to rejoin the writing world in an age of new-fangled technology. He tried so hard, finally finding the wherewithal in himself to just keep writing after a lifetime of not finding it in others. But by then it was too late. His mind started to go, and he eventually couldn’t write anymore. I didn’t appreciate what that meant at the time – I was too busy being annoyed that he needed me to explain how to cut and paste…again – but I appreciate it now, and it’s the thing that allows me to do what I do every day.

I’ve seen what happens when a person who needs to write, or otherwise be creative, stifles that in favor of the kind of life that everyone around you tells them they’re supposed to want. My dad didn’t want that for me, and I don’t want that for myself. And so I keep moving forward, despite the hardship, because I know from his experience that not moving forward, not living as a writer, would be much, much harder.

This Father’s Day, I want to say that I’m grateful for the gift of freedom that my dad gave me; grateful that he always let me know that living as an artist was okay if that’s what I wanted to do. It’s because of my dad that my life feels possible. It’s because of him that I’m not afraid of the insecurity that comes with this life, because I know that there are so many other things of which to be afraid.

To all the other dads out there who are giving their kids all their love, supporting them, and providing for them not only financially, but emotionally, I’d like to say HAPPY FATHER’S DAY! Particularly to my brother Kenny, who’s an awesome dad to my wonderful nephew, William, and my brilliant niece, Hannah. Speaking as a hard-core Daddy’s Girl, I’d be the first to say that I know just how important you wonderful men are. I hope you all have an amazing day today!

One of my absolute favorite pictures of my dad. I took this when I was 13 or 14, and my mom and dad and I went to Lake Ronkonkoma with family friends. He saw this lifeguard chair and just HAD to jump off of it! As was his way.

Helping Dad up after his “death-defying” leap.

“I Want You to Do the Right Thing Because It’s the Right Thing”

Me and my nephew, William.

One day, I hope to be someone’s mother. As I get older, I don’t know when or how that will happen, but I know that it will – whether I have children of my own, whether I adopt, or whether I have a series of foster children. I will be someone’s mother someday. I say this with confidence, because of all the things I do well, the thing I always think of as my best skill is my way with children. And the reason I have this confidence, as well as this skill, is because I was fortunate enough to be surrounded by some amazing mothers in my family who have and continue to teach me that it’s possible to nurture children completely and wholeheartedly without giving up on yourself.

(from top) Caroline, Janette, and Colleen.

I was in college when my older sister, Janette, had her first child, and I thought it was so weird. This was the same person with whom I’d go to the mall and Great Adventure. The same person for whom I took phone messages from many gentleman callers for a quarter each when I was a kid. Now, she was all married and having a kid of her own. It was weird.

She now has two daughters, and I continue to be amazed by how well she is raising them. She always seems to strike the right balance between “fun” and “parent.” She’s not stingy with discipline, but she also realized that discipline starts early – she took her babies out to restaurants and church and other people’s homes from the time they were infants, teaching them how to behave as they went, so they wouldn’t grow up to be the kids you see running around restaurants like little animals. She (and my brother-in-law, Denis) works so hard to give them opportunities that she and I didn’t have growing up – stuff like gymnastics, and dance classes, and martial arts, and Girl Scouts (I couldn’t afford more than a year), and sports. She encourages their talents without pushing anything on them, raising Caroline and Colleen to be caring, hilarious, intelligent, creative people. I don’t say this often enough, but my sister is an amazing mother.

Ann with my nephew William and his little sister, Hannah.

I met my sister-in-law, Ann, when I was a senior in high school and my brother took her on a date to one of my school plays. I liked her from the beginning. So much, in fact, that I wondered what, if anything, would change once she became a mom. You see, she was too cool to be a mom (despite the fact that she, for some reason, wanted to marry my brother!).

What I realized later is that the very things that made her “cool” – her laid-back manner, her friendliness, and the matter-of-fact way in which she’d talk to my brother – are also the things that make her an amazing mom. Her son, William, is autistic, which is not always an easy thing to navigate, but you’d never know it to watch Ann, who seems unflappable most of the time, never afraid to discipline him when needed and never unwilling to coddle him when needed. Meanwhile, she’s raising Hannah to be a brilliant, fearless, verbose girl who makes excellent imaginary tea and can recite Toy Story in its entirety. Ann is an incredible mom.

Dad and Mom at Lake Ronkonkoma – 1994.

And then there’s my mom, who managed to teach me some of the biggest life lessons in the smallest moments. The main thing she taught me? The thing that stands out, and dictates the way I try to live my life? One day she said to me, “I don’t want you to do the right thing because you’re afraid we’re going to get mad at you. I want you to do the right thing because it’s the right thing.” My mother was a person who taught by example. She hardly ever told me what to do. She showed me what to do. She just lived it, and because she was someone that everyone liked, who always made miracles happen despite not having much money, and who seemed to have God on speed-dial, she was someone I wanted to emulate. And so I did what she said. It’s because she (and my dad) did that that I now feel free enough to stumble and make mistakes. Because I know I’m not being judged, and I know that I only have to answer to my conscience and God, and I think I’m a better person for it. I never really had a “rebellious period” growing up. Don’t get me wrong, I was bratty plenty of times. But I rarely got into trouble, and I never really had an entire rebellious phase, because I never needed one. Because my mom never gave me a curfew (so long as I called when I was gonna be really late), never forced me to go to church, and told me how she felt about certain things (like smoking, drinking, sex, etc) without making it sound like “rules.” And so I always called, and I went to church on my own without my parents, and I never did anything overly sordid substance-wise or sexually (not as a kid, anyway). My choices were my own, and had nothing to do with rules set by my parents. It was about doing the right thing. And thanks to my mom, I think I’ve done the right thing more often than not. She made me believe that I could choose the right thing, and that there is power in that choice.

I have the pleasure of knowing so many amazing mothers. Eileen, who’s gone to hell and back for her kids. Jean, who stalks the playground like a lioness for Charlotte. Katie, who is raising her (now) two children with an abundance of love and patience. And even Robin, who’s become quite the stepmom to Marissa. And then there are my surrogate mothers, who’ve at various times taken care of me and taken an interest in me long after my own mother no longer could. Gloria, who’s opened her home to me from the time I was about six, and who worries (just like my own mother would) about when I’m going to finally settle down and get married. Arlene, who’s been treating me like a daughter since I was ten. Joan, who manages to make everyone her son (my good friend, Adam) cares about feel like family.

There are more of you out there, I know, but then this blog post would go on forever. Basically, I wanted to wish all the mothers out there a Happy Mother’s Day. And I’m grateful that, when the time comes for me to be someone’s mother, I’ll have plenty of amazing examples to follow. I’m a lucky girl.

L.A. Year One: You Say Goodbye… (Part 2)

Caroline, Janette, Kenny, Me, and Dad.

Even more difficult than saying goodbye to my friends was saying goodbye to my family. Mostly because these people are both the most worried about me, and also the most invested in my success. When I first revealed months ago that I had decided to move to Los Angeles, these were the people I got the practical talks from. The But You Don’t Have Any Money talks. The But Where Will You Live? talks. What’s really awesome about that, though, is that even though I don’t have my parents anymore (I still have my dad, of course, but he’s in no condition to give me advice), I do have my brother and sister sort of acting in their stead; making sure I’m OK, and making me feel that I haven’t lost a support system at all. That’s so important to me. Even without my parents, I’m not alone. And I love my bro and sis so much. They’ve always taken such good care of me, and I know they always will. And I hope they know that I will always take care of them whenever and however I can.

It was also hard to say goodbye to Caroline. It was difficult saying goodbye to all my nieces and nephew – Colleen, William, and Hannah – don’t get me wrong. But Caroline was first. We have history. She’s 13 now, and I remember getting her a “Future NYU Graduate” bib when she was born, and I was still in college. I babysat her when she was a newborn. I played with her every time I visited my sister. I remember the first time I realized she really cared what I thought and said – when we were playing in her room when she was about 5, and she accidentally hit me in the face. Hard. After I screamed about how she needs to watch what she’s doing as I held my nose in pain, she went to her toy box turned her back to me and started crying. As if she were putting herself in the corner to be punished. After my pain subsided I went to her and turned her around, and she looked up at me with tears in her eyes and said “I’m sorry.” And she meant it. I saw in her face that she knew she hurt me and she didn’t mean to and she was genuinely sorry. She wasn’t crying because I yelled, she was crying because I yelled. You know? It was then that I knew that not only did I love this little girl as if she were my own, but that she was a good person with a good heart. When I saw her for the last time before I left, at the home while visiting my dad, we were talking and she seemed a bit sad that I was leaving. I hugged her and slipped my business card into her hand and said “I know that your mom can always give you my info, but I wanted to give it to you directly, because I want you to know that you can call me or email me whenever you want and as often as you want.” She slipped it into her pocket happy, I think, that I made the gesture. I wanted her to know that even though I’m on the other side of the country, I will be here for her if she needs me. And I will make my holiday visit back to New York in January so that I can be there for her birthday.

Dad and Me

I had mixed feelings about leaving my dad. On the one hand, it’s hard being so far away from him and being worried that one day I’m going to receive That Call, and I’ll have to make sure I can pony up the money to get home ASAP. The idea of not being there for my Dad’s final moments; the idea that even as I continue to go home and visit, and visit him in the home, each visit might be The Last One, scares me. I hate the idea of Not Getting There In Time. On the other hand, my dad was the one person who really understood me as a person. He’s the one I always talked to about my plays when I was acting, and my stories later on. He’s the one who never got to live the life that I’m living now, but always wanted to.  He’s where I get my wanderlust and writerliness from. If anyone would understand my desire to move to a new city that would both benefit my career and satisfy my need to explore, it’s him.

It broke my heart when I saw him this last time, and I said “Daddy, guess what? I’m moving to Los Angeles” and he had no idea what I was talking about. I’m not even completely sure he knows who I am anymore. But it broke my heart, because I know that if he were in his right mind, even though he would miss me terribly, he’d also be excited for me the way he was when I went to Dublin in college.

And then, of course, there was one other person I needed to see before I left.

Me and Mom.

I couldn’t leave without paying my respects to my mother before I went. I went with Robin and my brother, Kenny, and it was a beautiful day to go. Bright and sunny, and we were all in good spirits. I wish I could tell my mom in person all about my exciting new adventure, but a big part of me believes that she’s able to see what I’m doing somehow, and is proud of and excited for me. I hope so. If you happen to be at St. Charles’ Cemetary in Farmingdale, NY and feel like doing me a favor, stop by her tombstone and put a stone or flower or something on the grave. And tell her I sent you.

Corn Flakes With Orange Juice

While I was supposed to be making potato-leek soup and a baked good to bring to the first annual Friendsgiving today with my BFF’s, I had to back out of those plans when I heard some sad news. The grandmother of Vanessa, my oldest childhood friend, passed away this week, and the wake was today. I was touched when Vanessa texted me to tell me, as we haven’t kept in the best of touch over the years, and I knew I had to go.

First, Doña Juanita, as I called her, was a huge part of my childhood. She used to watch Vanessa and me after school, and I was always over at her house to play. She was a fiery woman with an easy to spark temper, but she also cared about her family immensely, and was one of my dad’s closest friends (I guess great tempers think alike?).

That’s the other reason I felt compelled to go to the wake today. In addition to wanting to be there for my friend, and wanting to pay respects myself, I went because my father can’t, and I know that he’d want to if he could. It was a strange feeling, sort of being there as my dad’s representative. As Vanessa’s mother, daughter of the deceased, introduced me to people and explained how I knew the family, I felt the weight of history. Not just my own, but of a history that existed before I was born, when my father used to have a factory, and Doña Juanita used to work in it, and how my mother and Vanessa’s mother knew each other when they were pregnant with us, which is how she came to be my oldest friend. And now, here I was with Vanessa at her grandmother’s wake; my now-married-and-six-months-pregnant friend with whom I ate the orange juice and Corn Flakes concoction we stupidly served ourselves at her Doña Juanita’s house when we were about six after she made us finish it, yelling at us for wasting food. Crazy.

Also, today was the first time in a long time that I prayed a rosary. I’d forgotten how meditative it is. I have my own rosary here somewhere, and I’m going to find it. It’s a really helpful way to pray. And with thirty or forty people in a room all praying it for the deceased at once? It felt like our hearts and thoughts and energies were all working to send this woman directly to Heaven. Do not pass “Go,” do not collect $200. And we were praying it in Spanish. If it’d been a while since I’d prayed a rosary, it’d been even longer since I’d said prayers in Spanish. Yet there I was, reciting the Our Father and the Hail Mary in Spanish as if I’d never stopped. Yet another part of my childhood that resurfaced for the occasion. It was nice to be reminded of a time when Spanish-speaking culture was more a part of my life, as well as to be around people who remember me from when I was under the age of five.

I’ll be attending the funeral service on Monday morning, because I know my father would’ve wanted to attend that, too. If you think of it, send your prayers/good wishes to Vanessa and her family, as they’ve lost a powerful matriarch. Though, since she was 95, it’s not as if she didn’t live a full, long life! She’s earned a good rest.

RIP, Doña Juanita. You were truly a one-of-a-kind lady.

Gratitude

Sadly, I will be working today, so I won’t be able to attend Thanksgiving dinner at my sister’s this year. However, I’ll be doing Friendsgiving with my closest friends on Saturday, which should be wonderful. I’ll even be *gasp* COOKING SOMETHING. I’ll let you know if I end up killing anyone.

And in the meantime, I’ll be at the comic shop today.

But I wanted to take this opportunity to wish all of you reading this in the States a very Happy Thanksgiving! I hope that whatever you’re doing today brings you joy.

I also wanted to take a moment and think about the things I’m thankful for…and there are so many things:

1) MY BROTHER AND SISTER

I have an awesome set of siblings that I know care so much for their little sister. We don’t get to see each other all that often, and sure, sometimes we fight…but they’ve spent a good chunk of their lives taking care of me, and I will always be grateful.

2) MY FRIENDS

I really do have the best group of friends ever. Friends who have been there for me when the chips are down, and friends who know how to party like rock stars when the chips are way up! I feel so blessed to be able to consider them all my Chosen Family.

3) MY NEW APARTMENT

I really lucked into this one! After unwillingly moving out of the house where I’d spent seven years in Astoria, and spending two months staying with friends and not knowing where I was going to end up, fate smiled upon me and sent me an acquaintance from college, Donya, who happened to be moving out of her affordable place in Brooklyn. I now have two great roommates in a lovely little apartment with fabulous amenities all at a reasonable price. I couldn’t be happier with it.

4) TWITTER AND FACEBOOK (AND THE INTERNET IN GENERAL)

No, really. I owe SO MUCH of the good in my life to Teh Intarwebz. I joined a theater company because of a friend I made on the internet. I’ve begun making a living as a writer because of the internet. I’ve made so many IRL friends on the internet. I’ve been able to embrace my geeky identity on the internet. I’ve been able to build relationships with professionals in my field with whom I might not have been able to communicate with otherwise…but Twitter is the Great Leveler of Playing Fields and has allowed me opportunities I wouldn’t have been able to dream of only a few years ago. Thank you, Internet, and thank YOU, Social Media, for making my Real Life better.

5) MY WONDERFUL EDITORS

Speaking of the wonders of the internet, I’m particularly grateful for the editors of online outlets as well as editors I’ve gotten to know via Twitter who have been kind enough to give me a chance and allow me to share my scribblings with the world. Thank you Kevin Smokler, Lisa Fary and John Dallaire at PinkRaygun.com, everyone at PopMatters.com, Pablo Defendini, Bridget McGovern and everyone at Tor.com, Examiner.com, Demand Studios, Barbie Brady and everyone at ChinaShop Magazine, David Pepose at Newsarama, Bart and Kay at Crossed Genres, Lynne Thomas, and Deborah Stanish. Thank you for your faith in me, for your wonderful, thoughtful notes and critiques, and for taking a chance on a newbie when you did. I hope I’ve earned your trust.

6) MY DAY JOB(S)

Deciding to leave my full-time day job in PR to pursue writing was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done. Having to move out of my house shortly thereafter was even scarier. But after lots of resumes going out, lots of interviews, and lots of “While you were a wonderful candidate, we ended up giving the position to someone else” emails, I now have two jobs that, while they don’t pay a fortune, they pay enough for me to make ends meet while allowing me the chance to do things that I enjoy. I now get to spend three days a week caring for one of the coolest six-year-olds I’ve ever met, as well as spend several days a week working in a comic book store. Employee discount, what?! The way I see it, if I’m going to have a job other than writing at all, it should at least be something I enjoy doing. I love children, I love comics, and I now get to work with both.

I could go on, but there isn’t a blog space big enough for all the gratitude I’m feeling these days. As turbulent as my life can be sometimes, things always seem to work out for the best, and I am so, so grateful.

This Is Not My Dad

My dad circa 1993 jumping off a lifeguard station at Lake Ronkonkoma. Because he is SO that guy!

I have to say Thank You to all of you who read my blog post last night and reached out to me, as well as those that I saw reached out to my siblings.  A lot of you expressed that you wished there was more you could do.  Don’t worry.  Just reaching out is enough.  Seriously.  Knowing that I have so many people in my family’s corner is enough.  So again, Thank You.

So, my brother, sister and I went to visit Dad today.  While it was a difficult visit, it wasn’t a bad one.  He was conscious, and he seemed to appreciate the company even if he didn’t seem entirely sure who we were or why our being there brought him comfort.  We all sat with him outside his room in the hallway lounge area watching Forrest Gump and chatting.  I held Dad’s hand a lot and kept hugging him.  I figured if we can’t have quality conversation, which was the main way in which we used to show love, at least I could let him know I care by touch, you know?  Every now and again a word or two would escape his lips.  It was as if we only got to hear select words from a converation he was having in his head.

After a while, my brother and sister left, and I was waiting for Robin to pick me up, so I just sat for a while holding my dad’s hand.  Just sitting there.  I told him how my writing has been going, and I hope that some of it got in there, as I think it would’ve made him really proud.

The visit didn’t become difficult until his nurse came over to talk to me.  She mentioned the fact that every time he talks about his children, he always mentions a little girl, and that he “seems like a Daddy’s Girl kind of a father.”

He is.

And that’s when I kind of lost it.  Well, I didn’t lose it exactly, but I did start to tear up…because she got me talking about the kind of father he is.  And about the fact that he’s really intelligent, and how much I hate it when people talk to him in a patronizing baby voice when he has a fucking Master’s Degree that he earned, in part, at the Sorbonne.  He’s trilingual, and made it a point to learn 4-5 basic phrases in, like, 30 languages just so he could make polite conversation with people in restaurants or on the street and brighten their day.  He’s written three plays and a book of poetry.  He used to read the New York Times every day and finish the crossword puzzles.  I told her that if he mentions traveling around Europe, or being in the Air Force, or anything of the sort that it’s not just crazy talk.  He actually DID travel in Europe, and he WAS in the Air Force, and a lot of the things he continually goes back to aren’t just things he’s made up, they’re memories.  It’s really important to me that people know that.  She made me feel better by saying that she knew he was an intelligent, educated man the day that they talked about Jamaica, where she’s from, and he was telling her things about Jamaican history that she didn’t even know!  She looked them up later and realized he knew what he was talking about.  I was so glad to hear her say that…

Because right now that’s my biggest frustration.  The fact that, even though the body is the same, this is not my dad.  He hasn’t been for a while now, and that sucks.  The nurse asked if we’d ever taken him outside the home for the day, and I told her that we’d taken him out to dinner once but it wasn’t exactly the best idea ever.  The thing is, my dad was always really proud.  He never even told us (well, me – I don’t know what or when he told my siblings) about any of his health problems until well after the fact, because he didn’t want to “worry us.”  He is someone who would never admit he needed help until he absolutely needed it…like when he admitted to my brother that he should probably be taken to the hospital, which was huge.  So, I wouldn’t ever want to take him out to a function or to a restaurant even if he were healthy enough to go outside…because he would never want to be seen like this, and I wouldn’t want to do that to him.  People coming to visit him in a place where he can get immediate care is one thing, but I wouldn’t want to parade him around like this.  I think he’d hate that.

More than anything, I miss being able to TALK to my dad.  I used to talk to him about everything, and as I got older, our conversations got more interesting.  It broke my heart that I’ve had so much good writing news in my life recently, and I can’t even really tell him about it.

So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my Real Dad.  The dad who was lucid.  The dad with whom I could talk about theater, and books, and my artistic endeavors.  The dad who would take me on trips.  The dad I used to argue with all the time about everything from politics to why my “being a girl” has nothing to do with how late I should be able to stay out.  The dad who, despite that way of thinking, was a hugely feminist influence in my life, because he never doubted that I could do anything – from being a nuclear phycisist to being a writer – and he always made sure to get me dolls AND chemistry sets.

The dad who insisted on jumping off a lifeguard station at Lake Ronkonkoma just to prove to me that it was nothing to be afraid of.  I can’t remember if I jumped that day or not, but I know that any assertiveness I have at all comes from my dad.  And if repaying him for that means visiting him more often to hold his hand as he’s wincing in pain and struggling to form words as he’s lying in a wheelchair, then that’s what I’m going to have to do.  Difficult, or not.

Bad News Doesn’t Stop For Good Days

So, I was all gung-ho about my online release party tonight, but had to postpone it, because about 10 mins before I was about to go on, as I was applying some make-up and changing my shirt, I got some bad news and I suddenly didn’t feel like throwing a party.

Bad news doesn’t stop just because you’re having a good day.

So, my father’s health has rapidly declined.  Long story short, his heart is now only working at 15-20% strength, and he’s going to begin hospice care at the home tomorrow.  Code for “keeping him comfortable until his heart stops.”  What’s frustrating is that this is apparently “indefinite.”  He could go any day, OR he could go in several months.  It’s the not knowing that’s the worst bit.  Actually, there are a couple of things competing for the Worst Bit:

* I was just thinking “I haven’t seen my dad in a while!  I think I’ll visit this weekend!”  Now, I have to.  And I’m going with my brother tomorrow.

* From what I’ve been told, my dad is barely responsive right now.  I was told “He responds to his name, but that’s about it.”  So, I’ve waited to see him, and now he might not even know that I’m there.

* I feel bad about being disappointed that I couldn’t do my book party tonight.  As if that’s in any way important by comparison.  But it was to me, and I was really looking forward to it.  The thing is, my dad is a writer, and if anyone would understand the importance of that event, it’s him.

Well, there’s nothing I can do until tomorrow.  Needless to say, Teatime With Teresa has also been canceled tomorrow, as I’ll be going to see my dad then.  I was debating whether I wanted to blog about this…but I’m a writer, and this is how I deal with things.  So, there.

You should know, however, that copies of On The Ground Floor ARE available for purchase if you want one.  I would’ve liked to announce it with more fanfare, but there you are.  Check out the details at the link in my sidebar.

Also, I have a new Facebook fan page.  If you’re already my friend on Facebook, do me a solid and “Like” my fan page, as I’m hoping to eventually have THAT be the place where I post my writing links and stuff, so I can keep my personal FB page separate (though they’ll probably never be completely separate…). And, as I only friend people on Facebook that I’ve met IRL, for the rest of you, this is my only Facebook presence, so head on over there.

Tonight, I’m doing laundry, drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and eating ice cream.  That’s about the extent of what I feel like doing right now.  My phone won’t be back up and running until tomorrow, but if you know me, I certainly wouldn’t mind Gchatting tonight. 

Oh, and after Jerry’s done watching Supernatural, we’re going to play some Rock Band.  Which is good, as I usually play the drums, and I could really stand to hit something repeatedly right now.

If anyone has an in with Tony Stark and can get my dad an arc reactor, that would be awesome.

Caprican in a Tauron Body (or, Remembering Mom)

From whence I get my good looks! Mom in the late 50's/early 60s.

My mother, Mariana Hernandez Jusino, passed away on April 5, 2006.  I’ve been posting the eulogy I read during her wake for the past couple of years as a memorial.  This year, though, what I’ve been thinking about are my feelings about my mother and how they relate to my connection to sci-fi.

Yeah, I know.  Yes, I am that much of a geek.  Bear with me.

I actually addressed it in a blog post shortly after my mom’s death, where I talk about watching the “Sarek” and “The Offspring” episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation to help me through the grieving process.  But lately?  It’s Caprica that makes me think about my mom.  However, it isn’t the stuff actually having to do with death that does it.  It’s the Tauron elements.

But first, some back story…

Joanna, Me, and Eileen. I was about 13 here.

Some of you may have heard this one before: I was in seventh grade, and it was just after gym class.  I was getting changed, when two girls in my grade, Bridget and Myra, came up to talk to me.  This was strange, because they were “popular girls” and never voluntarily came up to talk to me.  They were also fellow Puerto Ricans.  “What are you?” one of them asked (I forget which one, as they’ve become a composite blob in my memory).  I knew what she was asking, but I wanted her to ask me outright if she was going to ask me.  “What?” I replied, playing dumb.  “What are you?” the other one asked. “I’m a New Yorker,” I said, a bit annoyed that they were asking me this out of the blue when they never talked to me before. “No!” the first one said, frustrated. “What are you?  Like, what’s your background?”  “I’m Puerto Rican,” I said.  The two of them in their doorknocker earrings and slathered-on red lipstick looked at me as though I had five heads.

With knit eyebrows, one of them said “Really?”  And the other said “You don’t act Puerto Rican.”  And then they just walked away.

I was 12, and I wasn’t prepared for my identity to be called into question like that.  Certainly not while I was putting my pants back on after gym class.  I didn’t say anything, and I tried to forget about it for the rest of the day, but I couldn’t shake it.  On the walk home from school, their words kept playing over and over in my head.  You don’t act Puerto Rican. I wondered what this meant.  I speak Spanish, and spoke it at home.  My mother watched novelas on Univision every day, and sometimes I’d watch them with her (Maria Del Barrio and Te Sigo Amando were favorites).  I was raised loving arroz con pollo even though I hated pasteles (“But they’re the food of your people!” my mom would say, to which I’d reply “Well, the food of my people is gross!”).  I attended Spanish-language mass with my parents… It was one of the first times my being Puerto Rican was called into question, and it wasn’t the last.

A couple of years ago, Robin and I went to Puerto Rico on vacation and stayed with my aunt Ana on my father’s side.  We visited my mom’s relatives in Guaynabo, and I nicknamed it The Place Where Everyone Looks Like My Mom.  On a day trip, Robin and I took a cab, and I chatted up the cab driver in Spanish.  After a while, he asked me where I was from.  I said “Yo soy Boricua!”  He asked me in Spanish, “No, where are you from?”  I told him I was from New York, and he said “Ah…you’re ‘Nuyorican.’ That doesn’t count!”

I’m rarely given a hard time about my ethnicity by non-Hispanics.  There was one instance in my teens when I was walking down the street with a non-Hispanic friend and when we were stopped by a cop and asked a question about a robbery that had happened near our high school, that “friend” said completely seriously, “He probably stopped us because of you.”  But usually, I just get surprised reactions from them when I mention I’m Puerto Rican.  “Really?” they ask, and I know they’re thinking But you speak so well! even if they’re not saying it.  Also, as an actress, I’ve definitely been “too ethnic” for many roles.  However, I’ve always been given the biggest hard time by fellow Hispanics, fellow Puerto Ricans.  Because for some reason, despite the language I was raised with and the food I grew up eating, despite my skin tone and a town on a Caribbean island where everyone kinda looks like me, I’m never Puerto Rican enough.

Sam and Joseph Adama on Caprica

So on Caprica, when Sam Adama tells Joseph Adama that he’s a “Caprican in a Tauron body,” I know how it feels to have someone in your family, your culture, your tribe say that to you.  It hurts.

Honestly, the Taurons are the reason why I love Caprica rather than just like it.  I understand Willie Adama not liking the Tauron food his Tsattie makes for him (pasteles, anyone?  Ick.).  I understand Joseph Adama and his desire to be educated and successful and part of the establishment, even as he’s proud to be Tauron.  I understand his frustration at being too Tauron for some people and not Tauron enough for others.

But I also understand Sam Adama.  I understand being the youngest in a family and clawing at your heritage, desperate to hang on, because you’re the furthest away from it.  I understand being frustrated by the distance of years, and by seeing that your heritage doesn’t seem to mean the same thing to your older sibling(s).

And I understand that culture means even more to you after you start to lose family.

It’s always upset me when people call my heritage into question, because I’ve never believed that Being Puerto Rican required any one set of criteria.  “Puerto Rican” is a broad label that encompasses a million shades,  body types, interests, and experiences.

Though both my parents are Puerto Rican, I’ve always associated my own Puerto Rican-ness with my mother.  She was the one I spoke Spanish with at home.  She was the one who cooked the rice and beans, and it was with her that I watched trashy Spanish-language TV.  It’s mostly her family I visit when I go to Puerto Rico, because most of my father’s family came to New York.  So it’s especially painful to think of Not Being Puerto Rican Enough in the years after her death.  It hurts that I’m starting to lose my Spanish from lack of practice.  It hurts that I never asked my mom to teach me how she makes her rice and beans.  And it hurts that, for whatever stupid reason, my memories and the life I’ve lived aren’t enough to “qualify me” for Puerto Rican status to a lot of people.

So, let’s make a deal, OK world?  Let’s just agree right here and now that this IS what Puerto Rican looks like and acts like.  I was raised in Queens and on Long Island, and I’m Puerto Rican.  I spoke Spanish only at home, and I’m Puerto Rican.  I’m a sci-fi geek, and I’m Puerto Rican.  I’m a writer, I’m smart, I’m well-spoken, and I’m Puerto Rican.  I’m Puerto Rican whether anyone likes it or not.  I, however, happen to like it.  I’m proud.

I only wish my mom were here so that I could practice Spanish with her.  I always imagined that she’d help me teach it to my future kids.  I’ll have to do that myself, I guess.  And I will, in her memory, with lots of love.

RIP, Mommy.  I love you.

Photo from Mom & Dad's first date! Late 1950s. The inscription reads: "For Ray, Save this as a memento of our first day together. With all the care and love I profess to you, Mariana"

Top 10 Events of the Decade

With 2010 upon us, we’ve been subjected to every sort of “Best of the Decade” list.  Lists for Top Songs of the Decade, Top Movies of the Decade… That made me think about my life in the past 10 years, and I realized that during that time, the time of my life between the ages of 20 and 30, more has happened to me than ever in my life.  I suppose it’s the same for everyone.  Our 20s are the first time when we are adults who can make things happen for ourselves, and in that time we experience the most change we’ve ever experienced.  I’ve had a really interesting decade!  Here are my Top Ten Events of the Decade:

Dad, Me, and Mom at my high school graduation - 1997

10. MY MOTHER PASSES AWAY – After many years of diabetes and heart-related health problems, my mother passed away in 2006, and this event gets the #10 spot, because it was the very worst thing to happen to me this decade.  Losing a parent is always difficult, I’m sure, and in my experience it’s especially difficult when you’re still in your twenties, and you’re not completely the person you want to be.  It’s especially difficult when you’re not in a relationship, you’re still “aspiring” to your chosen career, and you haven’t yet gotten to show your mother that you’re going to be OK; that all her work, love, faith, and sacrifice for you was worth it in the end.  You can only hope she knows that you loved her, that you miss her, and that she might have been proud of you even if you weren’t done cooking yet.  Losing her made me reevaluate everything: my relationships, how I live my life, what I believe, how I choose to behave and treat people.  I think that I’m a stronger, better person now that I was when she first died, but that didn’t happen without a lot of floundering and missteps.  For better and for worse, this event is probably the most responsible for making me the person I am today.

9.  MY FATHER GOES INTO A NURSING HOME – He’d been slowly deteriorating in health and becoming forgetful for a while, but when my mother passed away, it was as though something in my father’s brain cracked, and from then on there was a quick downward spiral.  One night, he asked my brother to take him to the hospital because there was something he needed to get checked out, and he was never able to come home.  It was clear that his dementia wouldn’t allow him to live alone, and neither my siblings nor I had the resources or space to take him in ourselves.  What’s so sad about this, is that my dad was always the person I talked to about the things I love most: writing, theater, politics, art…when I was acting, he was the one who got the most excited about my plays, and when I wrote anything, he seemed so proud.  He was always reading something, or doing a crossword puzzle, or watching the news, or trying to have as much of a social life as possible.  He was the person in my family I was able to relate to the most.  Now, conversations with him are cyclical, and can only last for 15-20 minutes at a stretch before petering out.  My father is still here, and I still love him, but I also miss him.  Even though he’s still alive.

I actually know these people.

8.  MY JOB IN PUBLICITY – I started the job as an internship while in college.  When I graduated from college, it was my first post-student job.  It’s the job I have now, and I’ve had it on and off for about 8 of the past 10 years.  As much as I’ve complained about it for various reasons, I owe so much to this job. I’ve learned so much about the entertainment industry, about dealing with people, about being a strong woman in a demanding field, and about being true to myself.  I’ve been lucky in that I’ve had a boss who, even if she sometimes lectures me or makes a face when I ask her for something, usually gives me what I need if it’s within reason.  I’ve had a boss who’s let me wear casual clothes to work for most of my working life, and I’ve had a boss who’s treated me like a friend.  I’ve made a friend of our colleague with whom we share an office, and the three of us have kept each other sane, and often laughing, as we go about our work days.  This job’s been full of ups and downs, but all in all, I’ve been very, very lucky to have it.  And despite everything, I continue to be lucky.

Graduating from NYU! Nicole, Dayna, Me, and Anne - 2001

7.  GRADUATED FROM NYU – I had made the conscious decision to study two extremely useless careers in college – Drama and English Literature – and by golly, I stuck to it!  I wasn’t anywhere near the overachiever I was in college that I was in high school.  In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize that I didn’t particularly enjoy college very much.  However, I AM grateful for how independent NYU made me.  You kind of had to be to survive, because unlike other college environments, NYU wasn’t about to hand you anything.  While I was primarily a Drama major, I made most of my best friends – Liz, Jean, and Katie in particular – through my English classes; though there were some notable exceptions (I’m looking at you, Dayna – not only a good friend, but my first roommate after college!).  I performed in plays, had some very interesting experiences (ritalin and alcohol shouldn’t mix, but they work wonders when you’re trying to write a 10 page paper on Hamlet overnight), had some quality teachers, and had time and space in which to grow.  I suppose that’s what college is for, isn’t it?  So, in 2001, I sat in the sweltering heat with a couple hundred other graduates, listened to Ang Lee speak, and graduated with a BFA in Drama (with a double major in English Lit).

Halloween party at The Revolving Door Commune - 2004

6.  I MOVE INTO THE REVOLVING DOOR COMMUNE - My friend from NYU, Beth, put out the word that she was looking for a new housemate in this 5-bedroom house she was renting in Astoria.  I was living with Dayna on the other side of Astoria at the time.  She was a great roommate, but if I took Beth up on her offer, I could pay $100 less a month in rent for a bedroom about 3X the size of my shoebox of a room in my old apartment, AND I would be living in a proper house, not an apartment.  I couldn’t turn it down.  So I moved in in June 2003, and I’ve been living here ever since!  It’s been one of the most insane, tumultuous, and also rewarding and fulfilling experiences of my life.  It earned the nickname “Revolving Door Commune”, because roommates have tended to come and go.  Once Beth left, and I took over the lease, I’ve gotten to know all sorts of people and experience all sorts of new situations all without leaving home.  Living here, it’s like the world comes to me a lot of the time.  I’ve realized that I love living with people.  Whenever I describe my situation to others, they always look at me like Wouldn’t you be happier getting your own place?  But I wouldn’t.  I’m too used to having people around.  I’ve gone from living with my parents, to living with roommates in college, to living with one roommate, to living in a flophouse, and I’ve come to love the bustle of having lots of people in the house.  Of course, there are times when it gets to be a bit much – you can’t have lots of people in a house without tempers flaring (haven’t you watched The Real World?) – but there are always times when no one is home except me, and I get to have the place to myself in peace and quiet, and I can always escape to my room when I need to.  But right now, I have absolutely no need to live anywhere else.  I’ve come to love our home and the makeshift family we’ve created.

5.  BOYS, BOYS, BOYS – I’ve been a late bloomer about just about everything.  I never dated in high school.  I went on my first actual date when I was 18, and there was no second.  Then, when I was about 23, I went on another date.  Then about a year later, I went on another.  Then there was another.  Then there were a couple of random make-outs.  Then there were more than make-outs. There were attractive guys, and there were not-so-attractive guys.  There were deep loves, there were mediocre crushes, and there were guys I fooled around with just because they were there.  I’ve never been in a long-term relationship, and I’m certainly not a Man Magnet by any stretch, but when I think about it, my twenties weren’t entirely bereft of male company either.  As much as I complain about this area of my life, I haven’t done shabbily, all things considered.  And in the past two years, men have seemed to come out of the woodwork in a way they never have before.  Here’s hoping 2010 leads to more of that! 

Me and William at Ann's baby shower! Sometimes, he likes smacking me in the face...

4.  WILLIAM, COLLEEN, AND HANNAH – While my oldest niece, Caroline, was born just before the beginning of this decade, 2000-2010 saw me become an auntie to a brood of Jusino/Murphys.  I have loved watching my Nieces Pieces and my little nephew grow and change in the past 10 years…and they’re still growing!  Caroline is thisclose to junior high, she’s got braces, and is a heck of an athlete (swimming and basketball, mostly).  William is a sweetheart, autistic and a bit hard to handle sometimes, but also incredibly loving, very smart about certain things, and quick to smile once he’s warmed up to you.  Colleen is Caroline’s opposite in that she’s a girly-girl, but she’s also obsessed with video games and has a machine-gun laugh that cracks me up.  Hannah is just starting to be an actual person.    She loves everyone, is very bright, and is always quick to get in there and participate with whatever’s going!  I love these kids, and I’m looking forward to seeing what the next decade has in store for them.  Caroline legally drinking??  William and Colleen in high school??  Hannah starting to go through puberty???  EEEEK!!! 

Me and some other students in the Dublin NYU program on a day trip at Blessington Lakes in Co. Wicklow. Note that I'm hiding my non-Baywatch self behind my friends.

3.  STUDY ABROAD IN DUBLIN – One of the most life-changing experiences of my life was studying in Dublin in the Spring of 2000.  I had originally auditioned for the Study Abroad drama program in London, but got rejected and was SO upset.  I got waitlisted for Dublin, and ended up signing up for that program instead.  At first, I thought it couldn’t possibly be as awesome as studying Shakespeare in London.  I could NOT have been more wrong.   I loved, loved, LOVED Ireland – the people, the city of Dublin, the theater community, the literary history…  Because we were the first Dublin program NYU had ever had, there were some snags at first – NYU housing wasn’t complete when we got there, so we ended up living in a homey bed and breakfast on Aungier Street called The Staircase most of the time (home of the oldest staircase in Dublin!), then got apartments across the street from Christchurch.  However, these snags meant that we weren’t insulated by the university establishment.  We got to just live in Dublin like the locals.  There was Trevor, the 40-something undertaker who lived in The Staircase and hung out with us at the pub.  There was the time that I tried to bring food to a hungry family living in a trailer park, and ended up being humbled by having a group of ungrateful 8 year old boys take it instead.  There was the party with Irish film students at Jim Sheridan’s house in Dun Laoghaire.  James Joyce Tower in Sandycove.  Having the dialect coach at the Abbey Theater compliment me on my flawless Galway accent.  Seeing Ralph Fiennes perform Richard II in London.  Being inspired by a wonderful acting teacher, Michael Caven.  Being inspired in an entirely different way by my classmate, Sara Barron, who without realizing it, taught me about the kind of outgoing, boisterous person I wanted to be.  Oh, and then there was smoking pot for the first time, accidentally drinking a fifth of Jameson’s, passing out, and throwing up all over an antique bedspread that NYU had to pay to have cleaned.  Ah, college.  Dublin was an amazing time.  I look forward to going back someday.

Adam and I at the NYC RNC protest march in 2004

2.  MEETING ADAM – I am lucky in that I have a lot of amazing, long-standing friends.  I might have crappy luck in my romantic relations, but it’s balanced out by the fact that when I make a friend, I tend to keep him/her forever.  Of all the friends I’ve made in the past 10 years, the one who had the greatest impact on the most areas of my life has been Adam.  He answered an ad I placed on the NYU alumni list serve in 2004 about a room for rent.  We hit it off immediately, and we chatted in the living room until about 1AM about everything from politics to Star Trek.  After he moved in, we became closer friends, and about 3 or 4 months after meeting, I confessed that I had a crush.  It wasn’t reciprocated, but I was let down very gently.  In the years we’ve been friends, we’ve seen a lot of ups and downs, but my friendship with him has done more to teach me about myself and the world than just about anything else.  It’s because of him that I’ve been able to let my geek flag fly – not only did I have someone to talk Star Trek with, but he introduced me to comics.  We all know where that lead…  It’s because of him that I’ve met a LOT of my current friends – Liz#2, Lindsay, Alana, Ruth, Evan, Dana, Justin, Diana, April, Carsen, the folks at the dance studio, etc – all wonderful people that never would’ve come into my life had it not been for him.  It’s because of him that I realized that silence doesn’t always mean tension (sometimes it’s the purest way to just be with someone), reticence doesn’t always mean one doesn’t care, reading stories aloud is an amazing pastime, non-monogamy isn’t always negative, and consensual violence can be fun.  He joined me in collaborating with Stone Soup, and ended up writing me the best role I’ve ever played.  It’s because of him I went on an amazing trip to France for a month.  It’s because of him that I know that my heart is the strongest muscle I’ve got, stronger than I give it credit for.  He was one of the strongest shoulders I had to lean on when my mother died.  He helped me wrap my dog in a blanket when she died, and patted her on the head and endured her living here even though he hates dogs.  And even though it’s difficult for him to tell people how he feels about them, he’s always ready with a kind word, or sound advice when I really need it.  And the fact that we’re still friends, even after everything we’ve been through, makes me think that we’ll continue to be friends through the next decade and beyond. I’m very grateful.

Me at 4 years old, valedictorian of my nursery school class. The first time in my life when I knew I should be a writer.

1.  MAKING THE DECISION TO WRITE – Two years ago, I had an epiphany.  I decided I wanted to pursue writing fully, giving it my complete attention.  For years, I had been a hyphenate: an actress-writer-producer, but then I realized that I couldn’t do any of those things well if I pursued them all at once.  Since I made the decision to give myself over to writing, opportunities seem to have fallen from the sky.  I started writing for Pink Raygun, which not only gave me the opportunity to write about stuff I love, but gave me two wonderful friends in Lisa and John, and allowed me to go to my first conventions and interview all sorts of geeky icons.  I got accepted to the comics section of PopMatters.com.  I have a paying column at Examiner.com, and I’ll be writing for Tor.com in the coming year.  I’m also in loose talks with an editor about a book on geekery.  I’m more motivated than I’ve ever been, and I’m currently working on a webseries, which will be followed by a first draft of a novel.  This decision earned the #1 spot on my list, because it is the thing that will carry me into the next decade.  Hopefully, it’s the thing that will make the rest of my life.

To Be Continued…    Here’s to the next ten years!