Sweet Hubby and me - Part One

                                                    THE SEARCH FOR LOVE

The desire to be loved has been the primary urge to shape my life.  I am loved by my family and friends, of course.  (That 'of course' illustrates how carelessly I took that kind of love for granted.)  I wanted romantic, partnership love.  I wanted a man to get to know me and decide his life would be better with me in it.  I wanted to feel safe and secure and not hungry all the time.

I certainly made every possible effort.  I dated all the time, with very little discrimination: skinny and ferret-y, tall and gorgeous, overweight, acne-scarred, intellectual, artsy, neurotic, needy, aloof.  I was three years with a man thirty years older and four years with a man fourteen years younger.  I kept working to reshape myself, to be funnier, smarter, more athletic, more charming.  I didn't really know how to be prettier, as I've never been interested in all that make-up and hair and cleavage business women are encouraged to adopt.  But I figured there were men who preferred au naturel, right?

I just couldn't figure out why that love was so elusive.  I may not have been the most beautiful, but I was certainly not the ugliest, not the stupidest, not the bitchiest.  I could get a man to want to date me, but it never seemed to stick.  At some point he (almost always he) would break it off and I'd be left wondering again "What's wrong with me?  How can I fix this fatal flaw if I don't know what it is?"  I got plenty of advice, of course: make a list, join a club, try the Internet, dye your hair, etc.  The most frequently offered was some version "It won't come to you unless you don't want it."  But I always insisted that a man could love me even if I wanted him to.

It probably didn't help that I was in Los Angeles chasing an acting career.  Au naturel doesn't play well in Hollywood.  Also, my social life was peopled in large part by gay men.  (At least I understood why they didn't want to marry me.) An awful lot of my girlfriends were in the same boat as I, single and frustrated and bewildered, so I didn't feel like a complete freak.  I understood that I was supposed to be happy with my life as it was, to be strong in my single-ness and satisfied with what I had.  But I knew that I wanted to be married, happily married, married for life.  I could never talk myself out of hoping for that.

When I finally healed from an especially bad break-up, I realized it was time for a change, a big change.  I was almost 50, yearning for adventure, discovery, fresh perspective.  I was ready to be new.    I had discovered myself as a writer, which freed me up to live somewhere else, so I left L.A. and moved to a family beach cottage on the central California coast.  There I had an intense relationship with a man who was a famous photographer, a lifelong peace activist, and, it turned out, a sex addict.  When that one also went kerplooey after the highest highs and lowest lows, I knew I had to move again.  There were pieces of him in every activity I engaged in, every friendship I had there.  At that point I could have lived anywhere in the world and, for reasons I have never understood, Seattle began to draw me with a mysterious magnetism.  I didn't know Seattle, didn't know anyone here, didn't have anything waiting for me.  But it's not a good idea to resist when the angels are calling, so I moved to the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and immediately fell in love with my new life. No one in L.A. ever talked about Seattle except as a kind of piney wilderness, so I moved here expecting to find nothing but lumberjacks and salmon fishermen.  Instead I discovered that Seattle is amazingly rich in arts and culture and I found a writing community right away.  I was even deliriously happy about the rain after the relentless sunshine of Los Angeles.  I was still single, still searching, but having a wonderful time.  

In 2005, I was accepted into a playwrighting conference in Denver.  Although I had been applying to writing conferences and retreats and residencies for a while, now that I'd been invited into one I hesitated to commit.  I was barely scratching out a living as an art model and real estate assistant, and wasn't sure how I would pay for airfare and hotel, rental car and food.  But some of my colleagues urged me to go anyway.  "We know you'll love it," they insisted.  "Just make up a reason to go."

"All right", I sighed, and gave the reason I went just about anywhere.  "Maybe I'll meet the love of my life."

  

The yuck of fame

I seem to be thinking a lot lately about celebrities and fame, maybe because I used to want to be one and have some.  And I have to say, it's such a relief to be thinking about that instead of about politics.  A friend and I walked 3 miles around a lake today, as we do twice a week, as we've done for a year.  And we got halfway around the lake before we even began to talk politics, and then only because I said "We've gotten halfway around the lake without talking politics."  For most of the year we've been walking together, politics was our only topic.  It's ever so nice to find that the subject has shrunk down to proper size and isn't taking up so much space in the ol' brain pans.

Anyway, last night I was getting set to dance my ass off to some Rod Stewart, which got me thinking about his ex-wife, Alana Hamilton.  George's ex-wife too.  Decades ago she and I were in an acting class at the same time.  I didn't get to know her well at all, despite the often intimate atmosphere of an acting class.  She seemed serious and unapproachable, not very friendly, and not at all happy.  At the time I accepted that assessment of her personality, but now, with a little more wisdom and a lot more experience, I find myself wondering if perhaps she had taught herself to harden so that people would leave her alone.  She'd become famous, not for anything she'd done but for who she had married, and both marriages had ended.  I won't say failed because they might not have.  In fact, she and George co-hosted an afternoon talk show for a while, the gimmick being that they were divorced, but it was awful.  They had to work at it to look as though they were enjoying themselves and each other.  It seemed so fake and I found it cringe-y to watch.

Anyway, her marriages ended, which must have been painful.  So here she was, famous but with nothing to back it up, and alone.  It seems to me it would be difficult to be happy inside a life like that.

Once you're famous and a lot of new people come into your life, you're never again going to know who wants you for who you are as a person and who wants to be near the reflected glory of your fame.  It sounds just awful.  Even the people who have always known you probably start acting different.  Maybe not everyone.  If I became famous, I would want to be appreciated by my siblings for whatever I had accomplished that put me into a spotlight, but I wouldn't want them to see me any differently.  I'd want them to downplay my success as though it were no more important than one of the little community theater productions I get so many of now.  You know, show a tinge of pride, as though I'd made a good pie crust, and then on to other topics.

I realize I'm making myself famous in this little fantasy, which is almost laughably unlikely at this point.  First of all, I've made it this far without a blowout, so why would I think my upcoming work will be more extraordinary than what I've already written?  Besides, even if I had a play go whatever the live theater equivalent of viral is, I would still probably remain safely obscure.  I mean, tell the truth: Is there any playwright in the world you would recognize on sight?  Okay, Shakespeare's ruffled collar might give him away.  But most of us are ciphers to the public.  This is one arena in which it's possible to be wildly famous without being known.

And the crazy thing is, I might actually become one of those much-produced playwrights and get all sorts of awards and see my stuff produced on Broadway and translated into seventeen languages and turned into movies and TV series.  It's no likely, but it is actually possible.  I don't want to be famous any more, though, not at all.  Gives me the heebie jeebies to think about it.  What I would like is to be a good enough writer to deserve to be famous, even if I never am.  That would be pretty sweet.  And I'd like it if my plays became famous.  I hope they do, because I am just nuts about them.  Writing them is like getting to live out my dreams.  That is the true prize.  Fame is just the price.

It's possible that I'm full of shit and am still just dying to be famous.  But all I have to do is think about Alana and I shake it off.  Life is good here in Nowheresville.

Aging with Jane

 I want to be clear from the outset.  I love Jane Fonda.  She's a terrific actress, of course, and I've always gotten the feeling that she would be a great person to have as a friend.  I have also always respected that she acted on her political beliefs, even if sometimes clumsily, and especially because she was willing to pay a price both professionally and personally.

My strongest connection to her is through her workout videos.  There is where she has made her greatest contribution.  She taught a lot of us that celebrities have to work hard to look the way they do. She got a whole lot of us up and at it, getting ourselves stronger and more energetic.  She taught us that fitness is for any any age.  Her workouts for seniors are just as good as those she made when she - and I - were younger.  She is still able to lead a workout without getting out of breath, without losing the count or the beat, giving continual pointers on form, making little jokes, adding oomph and encouragement throughout the session.  The energy and stamina with which she leads are amazing and genuine.  She really rocks.  She has been an inspiring role model for women - in every way but one.

She did not, or maybe could not, teach us how to age with natural grace.  Her beautiful face now looks stern and false after surgery.  Her boobs have been worked on, and it looks as though she is starving herself to stay thin. I understand why, of course. It must be terribly difficult to have so much expected of one, to be so much in the public eye, to have love go wrong more than once.  Maybe it's too much to ask that a famous actress who wants to keep working defy Hollywood and its false descriptions of beauty and let her aging show naturally.  

But it really would have been something if she had.

Just keep dancing

 Okay.  I was dancing my ass off last night to the somewhat pop-y but oh what great percussion Sheppard, and this is the thought that came to me:

I don't know how to relate to my age.  I know the numbers.  I know with certainty that I have more yesterdays than tomorrows.  Somewhere in my brain, the place where I keep things like remembering that something happened in 1016 - or was it 1042?  1066? - that something happened of significance, like the signing of the Magna Carta or something, which was important because it established public laws or democracy or something - back in that deserted attic part of my brain, I know I'm going to die, that everyone who hasn't already will.  I know that.  I'm not stupid.  (Just, apparently, uneducated or - let's go with forgetful.)

But you don't understand.  I'm not old.  I'm 37.  I'm young and athletic and hopeful, full of vigor and emotions and dreams.  I'm not young the way I was in my 20's.  That insecure, colorful, strong, love-hungry girl is pretty much gone, laid to rest by the ministrations of my darling Sweet Hubby.  I'm the version of me who has learned some lessons, suffered some, has started coming into herself, is deciding who she wants to be separate from who others expect her to be.  She is there, here.  I am she.  But I also now have decades more wisdom and stories and lessons learned than either one of those younger selves.

I'm not ready to be old, even though by most people's reckoning I already am.  My body reminds me of that with annoying regularity.   But I don't feel old in my spirit, in my soul, and I'm nowhere near ready to die.  There are things I still want to do, of course.  I want to see more of the world and finish writing more plays.  But mostly I'm not ready because I love it all so much, and there are the people, all the wonderful people who make my life so rich and interesting and who own so much of my heart.  I'm not ready to leave my friends and what's left of my family.  I want to spend more time getting to know the younger generation.  And I can't stand the idea of leaving S.H. alone.  (Also, I'm not completely confident I'll survive his death). 

All of this came to me right in the middle of the bouncily thrilling "Geronimo", came to me so strongly that I trembled and wept.  But there was nothing to do about it, so I kept dancing.  Maybe that's all there ever is to do - just keep dancing.

I demand self-respect!

I have finally decided some of the changes I want to make in my life this new year.  (I don't use the word 'resolution' because it is so laughably associated with almost immediate failure.)  I am going to do my best to become worthy of greater self-respect.

Mostly that means spending more time writing, and that means kicking an addiction.  Okay, so here we go.  My name is Granny Owl and I'm a YouTube-aholic.

I have to say, I picked a hell of a time to try to stop being glued to the screen.  So much is going on politically right now, I could literally sit at my computer all day and not even notice, slack-jawed with fascination at the (sometimes literally) riotous events in D.C.  I delight in the wonderful righteous confirmation of my own feelings from those commentators who agree with me, and wallow in sickening outrage from those who are getting it wrong.  I'm alternately aghast, fearful, vengeful, and, more often than not, filled with disbelief at what so many people are saying and how they behave.  This has been true for the past four years of chaos, ignorance, corruption, and dysfunction in the White House, but the events of Jan. 6 have heightened the stakes to an almost unbearable level.  Will it all quiet down after Jan. 20, or have we seen the beginning of a true civil war?

Sometimes I'll switch to sweet animal videos or musical performances, which are no doubt less harmful to my health and spirit but which can be just as addictive.  

All of this time spent at the screen is, of course, avoidance of writing.  Actually, a lot of what I do in general is done to avoid writing: doing chores, sending emails, exercising, etc.  None of these behaviors is negative in itself, but I know I'm using them all to avoid the discomfort and fear which accompany the prospect of writing.  The big foolishness in all this is that every time I do finally get myself to sit down with blank pages or a work in progress, the writer in me kicks in within half an hour or so and I become lost in whatever story I'm telling.  But no matter how often that has happened, I'm still filled with dread when I know it's time to write.  So I hide in the vivid and varied world of YouTube.

The only promises I know I'll keep are the ones I make to Sweet Hubby (promises to myself always come with negotiations and back doors), so every other day, for now, I am making the promise to him that I will only use the computer for emails, Zoom meetings, or anything associated with writing.  The days I do give myself permission to Tube, I'll work on strengthening the muscle of limits.

Like any true addict, I don't want to give up what I'm addicted to, and I know I'm going to go through some version of withdrawal, which will probably mean getting cranky (poor SH), and I'm going to have to be careful not to tamp down those feelings with food (dang, another addiction).  In fact, even continuing to write this blog is avoidance of working on my plays, so bye-bye for now.  Thanks for your support, which I'm just going to assume I have.  But really, time to stop this and move to a play I'm working on, which, interestingly enough, is very political in nature, so maybe I should watch a few more YT videos, just to fuel the muse.  No no no, stop  now!  Pick up the pages, pick up the pen!  I'm going to write right after I finish this, but I did want to say one more thing.  I can't think what it is, so I'll just maunder on for a bit until it comes to me.  No no no, stop now!  But I still want to

A day which shall live in infamy

Today is Jan. 6, 2021.  In the future, there will be a lot of people who won't understand the significance of this day, but to those of us living through it, watching with shock and grief and outrage as our democracy is assaulted both from within and without the Capitol Building, this is a grim day, lightened only somewhat by the results of the runoff election in  Georgia.

As I've sat mesmerized and sickened by the events unfolding in Washington, DC, I keep feeling that I have to have to have to do something.  So I am sending the following letter to those Republican Senators who for four years have been Trump's most loyal champions and enablers, 35 letters in all.  I don't expect to get a response, don't even expect these letters to be read, and I certainly don't hold out hope that they will have any effect.  But I can't not speak up right now.

Senator -----

I am writing this letter on January 6 as I watch with horror the ghastly assault on democracy taking place before the eyes of the world.  I am not speaking only of the protestors who have stormed the sacred chambers of the Capitol.  I am speaking of you and the other Senators who for four years have disgraced your oath to serve the people of the United States by supporting and enabling a President you know to be a narcissist, a bully, a sociopath, ignorant of diplomacy and statesmanship, ignorant of the law.

Did you not foresee how this election and its aftermath were going to unfold?  I did.  Many of us did.  Donald Trump’s temperament, his character, or lack thereof, have been evident since even before he decided to run for office.  He is a child with a small, fragile ego who has been given a very large spotlight, a very loud microphone.

However, Trump is not the problem.  He cannot be anything other than what he is.  But you know better.  You have chosen to give him your support and loyalty.  You have chosen not to speak out against him or call on him to be a better leader.  You have heard him speak and must have recognized his lies, his inaccuracies, his bumbling and ignorance.  You must have recognized what he was turning the Republican Party into.

For four years this country has been traumatized by President Trump and the Republican Senate, by the lack of true leadership and partisanship, most particularly during this last year of COVID, when leadership has been even more desperately needed than ever before in my lifetime.  What is happening today is the consequence of your actions and inactions.  I for one will remember these four years and this awful night with bitterness and great sadness.  I hope you do, too, and that you also feel a heavy burden of regret for what you have allowed this country to become.

I urge you – I beg you to work with Joe Biden to heal the Unites States.  I beg you not to obstruct but to unite with the Democratic Senators so that together you might find real solutions to our very real problems.  We have not yet seen the worst of the economic fallout from this pandemic.  This is not a time for agendas and politicking.  We need leadership, not agendas; integrity, not cowardice.  I am calling on you, Senator ----, to return to your best self.

The great big psychic hole

So.  A new year has arrived, and with it comes an unusually keen sense of relief, of the promise and possibility of new beginnings, better choices, more sanity in government.  In spite of the fact that 2020 will go down in American (and possibly global) history as one of the worst years ever, for me and my loved ones, it actually hasn't been all that bad.  This was the first year in a while in which no family member died, and none of us contracted COVID.  We celebrated an engagement and a pregnancy.  There have been regular Zooms for games and conversations to keep us all connected.  Sweet Hubby and I have relished one another's company, and both of us have accomplished enough to feel that the year was well used.

But 2020 has ended for me with the feeling of a big gaping hole in my psyche or soul or whatever part of me registers non-physical discomfort.  That hole is in the shape of a unanswered, possibly unanswerable question: How is it possible that Trump still has so many ardent, fervent, passionate followers?

I can sort of understand staff and Cabinet members becoming his lapdogs, since he notoriously fired anyone who disagreed with him.  (And who didn't see that coming, "You're fired" being the phrase that made him famous when he hosted "The Apprentice"?)  I can sort of almost understand members of Congress going along with him because his time in office and their majority in the Senate allowed Republicans to carry out their agendas with basically no interference from the President, Trump being more interested in tweeting and showboating than in leading.

But why do so many regular citizens regard him with such unquestioning, energetic adoration?  My brother, ever on the search for a balanced look at both sides of every question, has reminded me that Trump did have some accomplishments while in office.  But every President accomplishes something, and no President I've ever been aware of has had followers who were so rapturously, vehemently, slavishly his acolytes.  The equation is all out of balance.  He is widely considered by thinking  people to be the worst President in history, yet he has the most devoted followers.  Even Kennedy wasn't regarded with the unbridled worship Trump's fans give to him.

Does it come down to the fact that he was a TV star and we in this country are way too swoony over celebrities?  But Reagan was a movie star, and although he had many champions, they were not so uncritical, so cult-like in their regard for him.  Is it the fault of Fox and OAN, those shameless, hatred-spewing, conspiracy theorists whose only agendas are to tear down the opposition and stir up their listeners' grievances?  If that's the case, the question persists: Why do so many people choose those channels as their echo chambers?

Why doesn't it bother these people that he boasts about grabbing women by the pussy, that he openly mocks people with disabilities, that he is ignorant of historical facts, that he will maunder on and on at a rally about how long it takes to flush a toilet, that he endlessly brags about how smart he is and how he knows everything better than anybody else, that he comes up with cheap little nicknames for people he doesn't like?   Why didn't his behavior in the first debate with Biden disgust even his fans?  Would they tolerate that childish, disruptive, bullying behavior from anyone else?  So why do they from Trump?

Why didn't his mishandling of the COVID pandemic cause them to doubt him and turn away?  And now, when he continues to make baseless claims about the election having been stolen, when almost 60 of his lawsuits have been dismissed in courts, when even the Supreme Court, including his 3 appointees, refused even to hear his case, how can so many people still believe he is in the right, that he's the man they want representing them in the world and leading them through the next four years?

I just don't get it.  And this is coming from someone who prides herself on understanding human behavior.  Even if I'm wrong, I can always at least come up with a story that makes sense to me about how someone is acting.  But in this arena, I'm mystified, and that mystification leaves me frustrated and outraged.  Is it just that they made their choice back when he was a fresh and stimulating new face, and now they simply don't want to admit how terribly wrong they were?

I'm curious to see if this fervor dies down soon after he is finally out of office.  I expect there will always be those who follow and champion him, but it's possible that once he doesn't have quite so large a microphone and spotlight, once Biden has brought back actual governance, Trump exhaustion will finally set in even for those who loved the excitement and controversy their MAGA hats provided them.  But it's also possible that the sickness and rot he has either caused or exposed in this country will fester and grow, become more violent, infect the next four years of discourse and social interactions.  One thing I've come away from 2020 with is the absolute certainty that I have no idea what's coming next.  No matter what pictures form in my head about the future, I finally realize that they are simply what I've made up in order to have some sense of order about the world.  But really, I just don't know how Trumpism is going to play out or whether the Senate with work with Biden or obstruct obstruct obstruct.  I certainly can't predict the trajectory of this country's economic recovery, especially given that we have not yet experienced the worst fallout from this time of pandemic and political disarray.

Still, it's a new year, and not knowing what's coming actually gives me some ease and a sense of optimism.  I keep saying to myself and to anyone else who will listen: Better days are coming.  Gosh but I hope I'm right about that.  Who knows, maybe I'll finally come to understand Trumpism.  What a relief that will be.