Reflections, Auditions, Birthdays, Twinkies.

On my father's birthday, I decided to go digging. I came up with a piece I wrote for his birthday six years ago.

This piece was my second Neo Futurists audition, leading to my second Neo Futurists callback. Sure, I'm not part of the ensemble. I've been through the audition and callback process three times. The reason I mention it at all is this: the Neos insist on the truthful and personal nature of their work. I brought that every time, and I am grateful to have had the opportunity to do so. I am grateful the company exists so I had a goal and a deadline to write under. I had artists to inspire me to work with them. This company exists and inspired me to keep writing. Also, they're swell people.

Looking at these pieces is good for me as a writer, and better for me as a person. They remind me of my journey and show me a time period of my life in a way that no other writing could. The reflection is pretty accurate, bereft of frills and half truths. It's just me and the time I was in, unflinchingly looking back at me now, wondering why I'm wincing.

My last round of auditions and callbacks was in May of 2011, and it was easily the most intensely personal and difficult. My audition felt like a dirty secret because I was pregnant. I was excited. I didn't want to tell them because it was early, and I would worry about the details later, right? One thing at a time and all that. The morning of my audition, I miscarried. It started an hour before my audition and continued all day. I still went in, not certain what was happening but knowing exactly what was happening. On my audition form, my answers were very different than they had been in previous rounds. "Where do you see yourself in five years?" "Writing...raising a family..." I was heartbroken, hopeful, proud of my work, and devastated by my loss. I was called back, but I just couldn't muster the same enthusiasm. One of my pieces was about losing those close to me, no matter how careful I was. My mother, this child. But I couldn't articulate it correctly. I also didn't tell them why I wrote that piece. I didn't tell them that I sang the song I used in the shower the morning of my audition, praying I wasn't losing this child. I wasn't as honest as I could have been. That showed.

Two months later, I was pregnant with Gilda. I have never been more grateful for anything in my life.

Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 74. My mother is now gone, also, but I wrote this when she was still alive. I had the callback for this piece when she lived with me after her heart attack. She watched me zip in and out the door, marvelling at my energy. Then she went to the back porch to smoke. I joined her later, and we stayed up way too late talking about it all.

So today, on my father's birthday, I revisit the piece that flowed out a bit easier six years ago. I miss him, I miss my mother, and I wish they could have met their granddaughter Gilda. Sweet Jesus, they'd have loved her to bits and pieces.

Long way around, as always: happy birthday, Dad. I love you.

We Always Had Twinkies in the House and I Didn’t Bake You a Cake

 

(Blackout on stage. Corri lights a birthday candle that is in a Twinkie, maybe a couple depending on how much light one candle gives)

She called me to remind me. I always know in the days leading up to it, but never on the day. It's like there's some strange veil over my memory and nothing will trigger it until she calls me.

I try to tell my friends that remembering their birthdays is hopeless for me. I don't want them to get angry, but I can't blame them. Who remembers lyrics to the theme song on a short lived Ann Jillian sitcom and not the birthday of their closest friends? Me, that's who. My commemorative priorities seem pretty out of whack.

But as soon as she calls – calls back, even, after I just spoke to her – and says, "Do you know what today is?" I can say yes and mean it. Because I hear it in her voice, in her low and gravelly voice that can put a twinge of sadness on even the happiest things. Not just because she sounds so sick, but because it's so low and grave. And when her heart is heavy remembering you, remembering you would have been 68 today, mine breaks.

It doesn't break for me today, I have my own days for that. Days that really have no significance because there are so many at this time of year, I need a break. I'll grieve in the spring when there's nothing to remember. My heart breaks today for her. Because she lost her best friend. Her husband. The father of her children. The man who loved her. The man she helped and covered for and tried to heal. The man who may not have made it to 68 even if he didn't take his own life.

But on this day, when we grieve and when my heart breaks for her when she calls, we pretend you would have made it. We talk about how we miss you, and how fall is the best and worst season. She tells me life goes on, and that she can see it in my nieces. They're beautiful and smart and you'd love them to pieces. They hear about you. About your infamous Birthday Weeks and your charm and your humor. Your smile, even if it was as rare as green leaves come that November.

So happy birthday. Happy Birthday Week to you. I love you. I miss you.

But I'll grieve in the spring when there's nothing to remember.

 

What...what is that smell?

It can't be perfume. I only wear that at night so I don't smell like the Office Hoor.

Teen Spirit? Don't be an asshole.

I think...I think it's confidence. I think it's the beautiful scent of actually liking myself. It's so novel, I didn't recognize its fruity olfactory goodness in my nostrils.

Today, I had someone tell me I look, "very Corri Pasko" today. Any other day, I could twist that comment with Hulk-like strength into a twisted wreck of mean, horrible sentiment. Today, I skipped a bit and said, "Thanks." It could be the maroon tights. It could be the new Mary Janes and corduroy skirt. Could be that it's rapidly becoming fall, my favorite season. I have no idea, but I'm not gonna think about it too hard, lest my natural ability to demean myself come parading out to show me what for.

On top of this, I heard my boss make a comment that sounded like me. And I was pleased instead of horrified.

Yesterday, I had a callback and walked out thinking I did my very best. That I felt good about it, and the rest was up to them. It actually felt good to know it was out of my hands. Normally, I'd worry and go over the audition again and again, fixing the past in my brain. Apparently, I love futile activity.

Again, perhaps it's the weather. Maybe I accidentally spiked my coffee. Maybe I'm delusional. I don't care.

I like myself today, and considering my penchant for doing quite the opposite, I will take it. And I might even break my goddamned arm patting myself on the back, thankyouverymuch.

Oh, Nothin...

I haven't written for eight months. Eight.

In that time, I officially reached my mid-thirties, wrote a show, celebrated a Christmas with fake moustaches, produced a show, lost a parent, mourned, and picked the wedding planning back up in the midst of aforementioned show after aforementioned mourning.

Nope. Nothing to write about. I'm really glad I understand the dullness of my existence. Sigh.

I think it's fitting that, after losing my mom, I'm in a ridiculous comedy I co-wrote where I play a superhero. This makes sense to me. I felt like one when I took care of her properly. When I could help. When I could no longer help, I didn't care if I was a hero or not. I just wanted to be there with her. No matter how I felt, there were always lots and lots of inappropriate jokes to be made. Having this come together in one tiny spandex package with tights seems right and happy.

I also am very happy to sit with my fiance and get back to wedding planning. It's a party I am seriously looking forward to, sure. But more than that, I'm looking forward to being married to him.

On Sunday, we sat down with a kickass homemade brunch (and several mimosas) and discussed the wedding.

Talking about a day surrounded by family and loved ones is a pretty wonderful chat. The idea that I'll be going through this without either of my parents is incredibly hard to fathom and also pretty easy all at once. Part of me feels that of course this is how it would be. The other part of me feels that it shouldn't happen to anyone this way.

We almost got married at her bedside, just so she could be there to see us get married. Once she lost lucidity, we decided not to. I'm grateful we didn't, as it would only remind her that she couldn't attend.

She'll be there at opening night, at the wedding and wherever else I need her. My father, too. They do that, loved ones. After they pass, you can ask for them to be somewhere and they just are. It's a request they can only fulfill after death, when you no longer ask for their physical presence. If you believe they're there, that's enough. Sometimes.

Weighty. (Rimshot)

Dear Scale:


I think we both know what this is about. I don't pay much attention to you, and I think you're ok with that. However, I thought maybe I had misjudged you. Perhaps you and I could coexist. Not a friendship, per se, but some kind of mutual agreement where we can share a space. I might even allow you into my home. Perhaps if I just gave you a chance, I could change my thinking and we could bury the hatchet once and for all.


I was so so wrong about that. I was stupid to think we could possibly be civil to one another, but I do have one request that I ask you fulfill in exchange for a satisfying silence from me: I write this letter to ask you to kindlly stop giving me a higher and higher number every time I visit you.

I won't come around often, and you can start to gradually slide back into a digit that doesn't make me hyperventilate when I do visit. Deal? Please?

Hoping,

Corrbette

Dear Corrbette:


Ow. Get off me. Why do you weigh so damned much?

Painfully,
Scale

Dear Scale:

You have no heart.

Weeping,
Corrbette

Dear Corrbette:

...

Scale

A Game I Play

Just to amuse myself, when Ella and Betty (the two female cats of the stripey variety) get on the bed after I've made it in the morning, I turn around to face them. I stand for a second, then throw my hands in the air...

...eerily similar to a way I might throw my hands in the air if I just...didn't care...

and say, "Alll the stripey kitties on the bed say, 'ho-ohh,'" and then watch them, expectantly.

After a moment, when all I get is this:

You can't quite make it out, but that is two stripey cats who are staring blankly at me.

I tell them that they suck at this game.

But...but...I Got Nothin'.

I'm defensive. And I make jokes to avoid that issue.

Don't you tell me you know that already. Your mom knows that already.

Damn.

I am realizing more and more how tightly I hold onto things. Um, the wrong things. And I'm trying to figure out ways to let them go. But, at the risk of sounding crazy corny (mmm...crazy corn), it's damn hard to let walls down you don't even know are there.

I surprised my therapist by crying in session. I surprised my fiance when I called him afterward. Hell, I surprised myself. Emotions aren't supposed to do that, are they? Come over you like some horrible surprise party where self actualization jumps from behind the couch and knocks you into the punchbowl?

Is weeping supposed to be like a lottery win where you get kicked in the face? Sudden, unexpected and leaving you with a swollen face?

Seriously, I know that normal people aren't Movie Pretty when they cry, but holy moly. I put frozen spoons on my eyes this morning to get the swelling down. Then I put on eyeliner to try and dress it up. The upside is not having crow's feet because you're swollen. The downside is you look like an Asian woman with a bee sting. Or I do. I don't know what you look like.

I'm pretty sure one isn't meant to be ambushed by emotions. Which means I cover up a lot, so I probably don't give them the attention they need. I make jokes. I give zingers. I constantly have a comment. I enjoy banter. Apparently, that doesn't communicate zippety dick about my feelings.

The catch is that, on some level, that really does make me happy. I'm laughing when I do that, fer cryeye. When I am on some kind of roll, whipping the comments out (probably at the expense of using the conversation partner as a setup man instead of someone to talk to), I am laughing. Is that...is that not joy?

Therapist questions, "But do you like yourself?"

Is it not good to sit with someone who understands this patter and go until we cannot breathe? Is it not joy if it isn't stillness?

Therapist questions, "Can you be still? And like yourself?"

Is it not joy if it's twitchy, mile a minute, caffeine fueled and brilliant? If I am making others laugh and letting that make me feel good and quick and smart...is that not joy?

Therapist questions, "And do you like yourself?"

Well, no. Not entirely. Because then I wouldn't have this awesome, self effacing wit.

Oh sure...sure NOW it sounds like a weak rationale. But you know, when I was doing it before, it was awesome. You know. When I was doing it...most of...my um...life.

Aw, hell.

Oh For Cryin Out Loud

...because that's what I did. Last night. Out of nowhere. For no good goddamned reason. We were watching tv, drinking Sunday night beer. Eating leftover stroganoff (mm) and generally enjoying ourselves. Then a wave of "You're Horrible, You Know" hit me.

Pasko comes back into the room, bewildered at the sight of my staring off into space with a look on my face usually reserved for...I dunno...remembering the dead. Worrying about the sick. Passing a kidney stone. Something important.

"You look sad. What happened?"

"I'm just wondering if I'm ever going to lose this weight. Actually ever consistently do something about it, instead of just fits and starts. The only thing I do consistently about it is obsess and complain. So i just..."

And then weeping. Open, flat out weeping.

Here's something good about being in my mid-thirties where this type of behavior is not, shall we say, novel: I know where this came from.

Here's something good about being in a long-term relationship: so does Pasko. His idea was different than mine, and we were both right.

My theory is the simple, sweep-it-all solution: I'm hormonal and PMSing enough to fuel an entire marathon of The View.

His theory is far more...well...observant: Every time I have a costume fitting, this happens.

He is correct. So am I, but his sounds less dismissive. Usually it's the man that brushes away all tears with PMS excuses. Way to go, Pasko.

Now, the first part of the costume fitting was great. Things were being built on me to correct and accentuate what I'm lacking and what I have, respectively. That's pretty easy. The second part involved putting on Wal-Mart jeans that were allegedly two different sizes...and yet they were both the same tight fit. Also, I was surrounded by teeeeny women while I stood there in black jeans that looked like tar on a sausage. Not so easy.

Sure, it took damn near 12 hours for it to hit me as hard as it did, but it hit all the same.

Clearly, I need some kind of break from that thinking. It's self destructive and never points me in a direction I need to be in. Also, it won't help me when I'm buying a dress for a wedding this weekend.

Maybe I just need to sit down with some Lifetime television as punishment to think about what I've done, and what I sound like.

(shudder)

Nah. I don't deserve Melissa Gilbert and Tiffany Amber Theisen's fake tears. I wasn't that out of control.

Maybe I just need to punch a bag at the gym and shut up.

Maybe I need to like myself more.

Maybe I need a pony.

Well, I certainly need a pony. I mean, if there's any key need on this list, it's the pony.

Right? What?

Hey...I remember this.

It's blogging! It's writing about things that other people may or may not read!

Honestly, I just found myself moved by other people's writing, so I jumped on board. I am riding the coattails of those more motivated than myself.

Not that I haven't been motivated to write, but lately it's taken the form of writing about superheroes and friendships in a superhero-y world. My good friend Sara Sevigny and I have written a play for the Factory Theater's next season - and it was accepted. So I am, all at once, thrilled and terrified. This manifests itself in furious rewrites and questioning everything we've written thus far. And it was accepted two weeks ago. It doesn't go up until Summer 2010. Perhaps we should calm down a bit...nah. We'll have a reading just to hear it out loud next week. Of course, we've already churned out another draft - just so we can hear better stuff.

Meanwhile, I'm involved in another project that is actually asking for - nay, demanding - creativity from me on levels I'm unfamiliar with. I'm super crazy excited about it. I'll be singing Jon Langford tunes. Lots of them. I'll be wielding fans of some sort to let people know that I am A. a tumbleweed and B. on fire. In my last rehearsal, I was handed two makeshift fans on sticks and told to go play with them for a while. In the empty space I had as my own, I found the ceilings too low. I was then lead into an ENORMOUS EMPTY AUDITORIUM. And, just for kicks, given a big mirror so I could see what I was doing.

"Come on up when you're done."

Uh. Ok.

There was a time when I was small that my parents were busy and something had to be done with me. Perhaps it was my mom checking out my preschool, perhaps it was the two seconds when we went to temple - I'm not sure. I just remember the feeling of being in a wide open space with carpeting to cushion myself and whatever ridiculousness I was going to try. Chances were, there was some other child whose parents couldn't get a sitter, and we made friends for an hour. Did somersaults. Raced. Spun around. Did whatever we wanted because this space was huge and not home.

That's what that rehearsal felt like. I wanted to be able to do so much more than I could - no handed cartwheels (I'll settle for one-handed, which I am determined to learn) or no-handed rolls. Something awesome and beautiful so I could manipulate these fans in a way that exceeded expectations. Though...truly...there were no expectations. I went upstairs, sweaty and spent, watched what the others had been working on and then showed them a few things I figured out. That was rehearsal.

Next week, we sing.

Meanwhile, I'm writing.

During all of this, I'm going home to the man I love. We're coming home to our home together - we haven't shared a home in three years. It feels so good to be back, I get very happily teary and emotional just thinking about what it took to get here.

Someone in my office told me I had been beaming lately. She's right.

I have eight million arms.

I wonder, at times, if I could do so much more in one area if I wasn't doing eleventy things at once.

And then I remember that I'm hardwired to do aforementioned eleventy things at once. I will, therefore, never know.

American Notes is going beautifully. The cast and crew are amazingly kickass, and I hope that my attempts at "telling them where to stand and walk to" are paying off for others as much as I feel they are.

Also, in case I haven't already posted this, I'll do it again. I'm in love with this trailer, along with every piece of marketing for this show. Visually stunning and slightly snarky. The way I love it.


I am realizing, however, that my ability to do eleventy things at once makes for craptacular blog writing. Huh. That's unfortunate.

Sporatic

Seems to be the word to best describe my blogging. Or writing in general, for that matter.

I got my first paid writer's gig for something I wrote years ago that was meant for me. I performed it in a two woman show...so I performed it as myself...never intending for it to go anywhere else. Now it's a short film located here. This is a film company that two amazing friends of mine started in New York. Yep. They moved to New York and started a film company. Coast stereotypes be damned, they're doing it their way.

A short while later, a friend called me in last minute for a voiceover for a training video. Paid me to portray finger puppet renditions of an operator and caller. Good stuff.

So as I struggle to be seen, to mail in, to get called in, to have anyone notice me and somehow spoonfeed me the elusive sense of Chicago Actor Legitimacy I have not fed myself in a while...I get paid for my work from my friends.

I'm not complaining. Just...noticing. Huh.

If..

If anyone has, at any time, had even the slightest hint of a desire to punch me in the face. Today would be great day.

I'm Totally Working

Hello, Giant Turtle. Please don't eat me.

BeneFit of What, Exactly?

I really have nothing that important, save for my bitching...which is very important.

I went into BeneFit yesterday (for people who don't care, i.e. most of you, that's a makeup and face goo store) for no other reason than to replenish my mascara supply. Of course, before I can say Tammy Faye, I've got some 23 year old putting products on my face in the hopes that I'll see how less ugly I am wearing them, and buy them.

This is the tactic with all beauty products - telling you that you need something, but never coming outright and saying, "Good God, how do you go out in PUBLIC like that? Put this on, for all of humanity."

Ok, so I bought one of them. Whatever. I'm not made of stone.

So, as a reward for letting my checking account hemmhorage, I get a free sample of moisturizer. Thanks...didn't I just buy moisturizer? No? Ok, whatever, teen makeup queen.

The 12 year old behind the counter (it's true, they regress in age as you stand there, and you watch them get younger as you buy wrinkle cream) told me that it had a nice "pearlescent finish." In case I wanted to coat my walls with it. She then told me...

...that it was great for aging.

She said it more than once. She said it a lot. She said it so that it burned into my brain. You could say that she said it...I dunno...agey-seven times.

I finally said, "So, it's that obvious that I needed it, eh?" Without skipping a beat, the 8 year old squeaked, "We alllll need it."

Sure you do, fetus, sure you do.

I'm gonna go play shuffleboard and find ortho shoes on the intranets. You know, it's a series of tubes.

Sigh.

Sometimes I Write Like This

And they watched poetry read aloud in a bar. A backroom of a bar with tin ceilings and too much warmth and chairs that were very well upholstered.

And from watching poetry, short stories and humorous notes in bottles, she thought it poetic to begin entries with "and." She thought it made her sound deeper. She realized she was wrong.

She has realized a lot of things about herself recently, and more than just her penchant for speaking about herself in third person like Caesar. That, actually, seemed to help her be more direct about what she had learned, as it sounded like she was talking about someone else's problems.

She listened to lanky men in beards and too-skinny women read about love in very detached ways. Comparing it to pandas and bamboo, scenes in movies starring Wilfred Brimley and mockery of Kevin Costner films. Perhaps lack of food made them detached when speaking of love, as they may faint from over exertion otherwise. Perhaps they were, in fact, quite brave. When was the last time she stood in front of a microphone and talked about what love meant? When was the first time, for that matter?

'Nam.

Just like 'Nam, this is long. And a bit gross. And a little pointless. So if you're into that, keep reading.

GROSS PICTURE WARNING.

Just making sure you knew.

Most of my days, I walk around with a giant boot on so my feet look like this.



Yesterday, I had bandages removed from both sides of my feet and the toe they worked on. According to the xrays, it looks fantastic. According to my eyes, it looked like this.



What's that? You want a closer look at the wire that is partially coming out of my foot? Ok.



They then put bandages over the grossness after removing the stitches and sent me hobbling along my way.

This morning at about 3am, I sat straight up in bed with the most excruciating pain I have ever felt. It was coming from my wee toe, second to the last. The pentultimate toe, if you will.

Now, I am not a wimp about pain. I have a dead guy in my knee. When I fell and tore my ACL, I burned from embarrassment in a TaeKwonDo class, not pain. I believe that vicodin is a foreign term for "pill that makes alien baby rise from stomach," so painkillers aren't my bag. But JesusMaryandJoseph I thought my toe was dangling and ready to fall off. Because it had, at some point in the night, been dipped in hydrochloric acid. I was sure.

Scott once again sprouted wings and sprung into action - getting me another pillow to elevate, ice for my ankle and kisses for my forehead while he alternately told me to squeeze his hand and then remember to breathe. I forgot sometimes.

Finally, at 5AM, I decided the doctor should be called. I didn't want to go to the hospital again. They'd do something terrible like poke it for fun and show it to me. I knew they would.

The doctor called back within minutes. He told Scott to loosen the bandage.

Loosen the bandage? Well, sure. We probably have to look for the top of my toe. Unless it distintegrated, of course.

And so he did. And so the pain stopped.

I felt relief like never before. And stupid like never before. That didn't feel like a too-tight bandage. It felt like microscopic armies had declared war on my toe with spears. And...hydrochloric acid.

Not surprisingly, I was exhausted this morning and I made us late. Scott dropped me off at the Montrose stop, only for me to find out the elevator is broken. Hopping up I went. The train took off a little fast and I had to put pressure on my boot to keep from falling. I could have been incredibly grumpy. But then I realized that's all I've been for weeks.

I started to notice some different things. I was well taken care of, and I have been this whole time. That wasn't news, but it hit me rather hard. Also, other people - strangers - were behaving rather kindly. At least four people asked if I needed help on the way up the el stairs. Doors were held when I got coffee and oatmeal.

Then, when I got here, a co-worker asked how my foot was doing. Berl is an elderly African-American man who came on when we outsourced our Office Services department. Kind to everyone and mild mannered, I told him about what happened. He patiently listened.

He then proceeded to tell me that he completely understood.

"I don't take painkillers, either. I'm with you on that. I had a collarbone injury,"
he began, which already told me this was gonna be way worse than my pain.

"Because I was shot there in Vietnam. Now, to fix that, they also had to cut away part of the deltoid,"

Oh my God so much worse.

"and the bone,"

I am an asshole.

"So, for about a year,"

My toe hurt. My...my toe. That's it. Why am I complaining?

"I had to relearn to move my arm."

You know what? I'm...I'm fine. I really am.

On that note, have a great Memorial Day weekend. If you were planning on fucking off to somewhere, I hope it's somewhere good. If you plan, like me, to fuck off to a couple of barbeques, I hope they're delicious.

Just remember...nothing compares...to a 'nam wound. I really don't care how much you hurt. It's the trump card of pain.

Recooped Up.

Ok, so I'm bad at updates. I make everyone worry and then I run away giggling.

Don't worry. That last part isn't true. I can't run anywhere.

So Mom has headed to a short-term rehabilitation nursing center and has been discharged from the hospital. She's in Skokie, recuperating like a real Jew. I'm so proud. She loves it there. They are having her do physical therapy for her back and all kinds of other stuff she would normally hate and hit people for making her do if she weren't in such nice surroundings. The fact that she has no choice probably helps. As do the pain killers. I'm guessing.

As for me, I had foot surgery yesterday, the very day Mom was discharged and moved to the rehab center. The hospital folk assured me this would not happen and go ahead and have my surgery. Here's a tip: hospitals can promise you nothing. This is my lesson of the week.

As a result, Mom is moved and I can't move. See, my foot surgery went well. But not as planned. I was supposed to be on crutches for maybe three days and then in a walking boot. No dice. They couldn't hold the bone in place with a screw on one of the sides that were operated on, so they have to put me on crutches for three weeks. With a walking boot I can't walk on. It's heavy, but it's acting as a cast.

Seems that if you're on birth control, casts are bad. Blood clots are more likely, and no one wants that.

Birth control can apparently prevent more than one shock when you wake up. (rimshot)

I had twilight anesthesia for the procedure, which means I was pretty much asleep but not knocked out - and I wouldn't remember anything. That was mostly true. I remember going into the OR, thinking it wasn't as cold as I expected, then waking up and wondering if my hands were tied down or if I was simply too lazy to move them. It was the latter. I think.

I woke up at the end of surgery, it seems, hearing what must have been the doc and a medical Makita attempting to drill into my foot - and the doctor cursing like a sailor. I didn't feel a thing, but at least I knew something was wrong.

Today, my doctor told me that he was certain he was more frustrated by the incident than I was, but he was "ecstatic about the bone placement."

I imagine he walked away from the phone, sans crutches, so no. No he is not more frustrated by this than I am.

So. I'm homebound for a few days, and then it's off to compete in my favorite regional sport: See If People On the Train See Your Crutches and Surgical Boot. Here's a hint: they don't. Ladies, don't sweat the footwear. No one's looking, as people have actually kicked my boot or let me stand on crutches from past surgeries. Or maybe they just don't like my face. Whichever...those people can suck it.

Meanwhile, I will attempt to not embarrass Pasko by gushing over his kindness with all of this. But holy crap...I owe that man BIG. You're...you're something else, Scott. Thank you.

While I'm thanking, so many of you have sent well wishes and offers of help...thank you. I sure have some kickass friends. I knew that, don't get me wrong, but when you're forced to be as still...you have some time to think.

Ow...thinking hurts.

Ahem.

(traces small circle in dirt with toe)

(looks up sheepishly)

(back to tracing circles)

Um...sorry I was a sad sack of drama there. It's still rough, and I'm still not sure what's going on. But Woe Was Me won't help much. And...hey. I got off the train today realizing I had dropped my swipe card for work (GASP! HOW will they KNOW when I GOT there??), and a random stranger threw it out of the train at my feet as the doors closed. Thanks, random stranger.

Little things, people. Little things.

I am wearing heeled boots today, as I have foot surgery tomorrow and won't be able to wear heels for a long time.

Little things.

But the martini I'm gonna have after the hospital visit tonight and before my food/drink cutoff...huge.

I Can't Dance to This

Because there really isn't an upbeat note here.
(Rimshot)
(Groan)
(Wayward tomato)

This is one of those Deep Sigh and Then Write blogs, so I'll apologize in advance. The last week has been a roller coaster of epic proportions, only without the part where you went there on purpose and it's fun.

Mom went to the hospital on Sunday. We took her there at her request, and she was sent home with a diagnosis of bronchitis, as well as a prescription for antibiotics, valium for the inflamed muscle due to coughing and an inhaler.

On Wednesday morning, she called me to tell me she had called 911 because she fell during the night. Thanks, valium combined with the nine other meds she's on. Thanks a heap.

I spent seven hours at the hospital yesterday, and my notebook is filled with worrisome scribbling about all the meds, all her illnesses and their potential interactions and the ensuing disaster therein. I was told by doctors that the benefits outweigh the risks. Up until Sunday, that's what my mom said about smoking.

Today is different.

As of today, she is better. As of today, she can sit in a chair despite a fracture in her spine. Today she can cough to get rid of the infection without hurting the tear in her shoulder muscle. Today, she gets breathing treatments every six hours and may or may not have to go into a nursing home for rehab for a while after she's released.

Today, I'm going shopping for groceries to bring her Mother's Day brunch in the hospital.

Today, I am bracing myself to see my sister again tomorrow. I don't speak to her unless my mother is ill. So I'll see her for Mother's Day...despite the fact that she doesn't celebrate it. Maybe she'll enjoy a banana muffin with cream cheese and not judge me. I doubt that.

Today, I am fighting with the man I love and I don't know why. Or maybe I do, and that makes me even sadder. I am not so easy to put up with, and when I'm in crisis I'm reeeeally not easy to put up with.

Today, I don't know what the statute of limitations is on difficult, but I'm waiting for it to run out.

Today, I will try and hang posters for an anti-suicide fundraiser I'm supposed to be helping with, but I need to go to Rogers Park and then Evanston for my mother. This has a tendency to put "helping" in a different perspective.

Today I will try to be a better person.

Because tonight, I will sing my fucking lungs out at Duke's with The Cain Mutiny. And then today can suck it.

But for now, Today, you have me. Fine.

Schmancy.

I go to a fancy gym. I'll admit it. In fact, I did in an earlier blog, only this is a different and even fancier gym. I wouldn't have picked it myself, but it's what work gives me a discount on, and it's around the corner from my office - so I go.

They have good classes. I try to ignore the amazon model-like women wandering around, wondering where they put that tiny shred of emotion that crossed their faces for half a second during spin class. I try to forget that one day when I forgot my socks and they actually charged me $16 for a new pair - with a straight face. I just work out. I shower. I go back to work.

But I've been mildly disturbed today. I know, I know - today? Just today? Really, Corri?

Shut the hell up and let me finish or go write your own blog.

I was getting dressed at a locker right up against a wall. A wall that has a door. I have previously realized that this door goes to the executive locker rooms. I don't know anything about them other than that it costs extra, and there are probably ponies that take you to the eliptical trainer and you can drink a smoothie while the small Thai child you employ does your workout for you. I have no fucking idea what's in there.

All I know is that there is a contraption next to the door, and that contraption is a retinal scanner. Whatever is in there is so top secret, you can't have a key...no no. They need to scan your fucking eyeball so you can get in there, smell the laundry they did for you and wipe your brow with the nearest cleaning woman.

I'm just trying to dress and get to class before it fills up. Somehow, I managed to choose a class to like that is taught by a gay man who makes appearances on E! and various other networks from time to time, touting his fabulous...um...fitness...fabulosity. To the stars. Or something. I have no idea what he does other than ordering us to lunge right, then left, now lift the medicine ball. I digress.

As I'm dressing, I apparently got too close to the retinal scanner, and it ordered me to "please move up a little bit." It actually thought I was attempting to enter the sacred compound of executives.

This is where it's handy to know it's a retinal scan and not an olfactory one. 'Cause otherwise, it would smell the poor on me and probably punch me in the face for getting close to it.

Nothing says "I'm Important!" like an entrance blocked by DNA identification, but nothing says "Creepy" like getting dressed in front of an electronic peephole that tells you where to move.

Simple. Really?

We forget that things can be simple. And by "we," I mean "me," since I don't know that anyone else is reading this. I care not.

A friend of mine looked at me and said, "It's fucking ridiculous that you don't have an agent. But really, it's only because you haven't tried hard enough."

I was about to argue, save that I realized I couldn't. When it comes to that pursuit, and that one alone, I really haven't. She let me know just how many mailings she'd done. I have done considerably less, thinking that somehow I shouldn't have to do that many.

I never thought that consciously, mind you. But my actions spoke for me. Stupid actions.

If you want that, try harder. Do more. It really is that simple. I proceeded to have a complicated argument with a loved one later that night, made only more complicated by the addition of alcohol in my system.

I forget too often what simple means.

I need to cut that out.