tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270585492024-02-18T18:11:26.893-08:00LATE BIRDBetter Than Nevertheresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-62054395376200314322013-07-31T12:29:00.004-07:002013-07-31T12:29:39.506-07:00Moving on Up, to the Top...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-41933754485784578092013-07-08T21:49:00.001-07:002013-07-08T21:49:55.393-07:00Take The Long Way Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"<em>The ocean is about 10 minutes from here</em>," Tati informed me that one late morning on the 5th of July as we chilled at her mom's place by the Russian River on a mini-vacation. I think she might have kept talking after sharing that bit of important information with me, but I didn't hear anything she said after the word, "<em><strong>ocean".</strong></em></div>
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"<em>Which ocean</em>?" I asked excitedly. I was already recalculating my plans for the day as the still heat of the Villa Grande air was started to get to me. I was wilting. And you know what they say, if you can't take the heat....get out...<br />
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"<em>Um, the Pacific Ocean</em>," she responded quizzically.<br />
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I laughed at my error. "<em>I mean, which</em> BEACH?"<br />
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And that was that. It hadn't even occurred to me to visit the coast initially during my stay at her mom's place during our Fourth of July holiday. But all of a sudden I had a new plan to hit up all the beaches South of the town of Jenner off Highway 1 in that very moment. <br />
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"<em>You might want to come back this way on your way home. If you drive down the coast, it will take you much longer</em>" she warned me.<br />
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<em>Yes</em>, I thought dreamily, <em>it will take me much longer</em>... <em>.. all the better to see the beaches with my dear...</em><br />
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Shortly after, I said my goodbyes to her family and I hightailed it out to my first destination. About 15 minutes later I had arrived.<br />
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<strong>Goat Rock Beach</strong></div>
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As I stepped out of my car I felt the cool breeze usher me in. I inhaled in the crisp air and let it fill up my lungs- but it wasn't long before I started to notice that the air was a little <em>too </em>cold, a little <em>too</em> windy, and my black hoodie sweatshirt didn't seem to insulate me enough from the big gusts that whipped my hair all around. This beach doesn't have a cliff to shield the visitors from the wind, so it just lets it rip. After walking the shore for about seven minutes, just when I started to feel this beach visit was a total bust, I saw an older couple carrying sticks and looking for something amongst the pebbles in the sand. They were up to something.<br />
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"<em>Whacha looking for</em>?" I probed.<br />
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The man looked at me and held a small piece of light green rock in his palm. "<em>See this?"</em> He said. "<em>It's sea glass. Pretty rare to find, but sometimes it just jumps out at you."</em><br />
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<em>Sea glass</em>, hmmmm....you don't say. Now, up to this point I had only be known for my obsession with looking for the perfect <em>seashell</em>, which is almost impossible to find out here on the West Coast, but sea glass? Now, that could be a new obsession. Especially since it's rare. It's like looking for buried treasure and I just love me a good buried treasure! So I joined them. About 15 minutes later, when I couldn't take the cold anymore (<em>Goldilocks anyone? Theresa is too hot, Theresa is too cold</em>), I had managed to pocket a few small pebbles of sea glass myself.<br />
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<strong>Buried Treasure</strong></div>
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<strong>Needle in a Haystack</strong></div>
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Feeling accomplished I walked back to my car, emptied out the sand in my shoes and waved goodbye to Goat Rock Beach. For this was only the beginning.<br />
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I made a right turn and headed South on Hwy 1. I wasn't getting wifi out in these parts so I decided to let the road signs direct me. It wouldn't take long before I would arrive at my next destination.<br />
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<strong>Shell Beach</strong></div>
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Now as pretty as this place is, don't let the name fool you. There were no shells to be found. Merely tide pools that didn't offer a lot of scenery in the way of wildlife but instead just contained small children who were splashing themselves around in them. However, the main reason why I picked this beach as my next stop was not only because of its deceptive name, but also because its trail was clearly the shortest distance from my car.<br />
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<strong>Choices Choices</strong></div>
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<strong>Um, the Middle One Please...</strong></div>
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<strong>I took one more snapshot after walking the 1000 meters up the hill and back to my car. It's much prettier from the parking lot.</strong></div>
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<strong>1.5 Miles to the next beach walking? No thanks, I will drive there.</strong></div>
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<strong>That will be seven dollars</strong>.</div>
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That's right, you read me. <em>Seven dollars</em> to visit this beach because it was a campground. I slowly backed out of the parking lot, shook the dust off my sandals, wished them well, and sped off. See ya.<br />
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The next stop was literally only a parking lot and not a public beach at all. I did a drive by.<br />
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<strong>And then eventually ended up here. I dug the vibe.</strong></div>
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I parked myself here for awhile and just chillaxed. After 30 minutes or so I got restless and was anxious to see what other beaches were around and the next one in this leg of my trip turned out to be my favorite one.</div>
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Now, this was a popular one and I could see why. Out of all the beaches I had visited on this section of the coast it reminded me most of the kind of beaches my family would go to when we were little kids.</div>
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<strong>Rule #1- Make it accessible for those of us who don't like to walk far or steep distances.</strong></div>
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<strong>Rule #2 - Have a shallow part of the water where kids can play.</strong></div>
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<strong>Rule #3 - Have really cool sand</strong></div>
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This was where I stayed the longest, but after maybe 45 minutes in, I was hungry. My breakfast of two Atkins bars and a bowl of cereal just wasn't sustaining me and my stomach would have to lead me to my next stop.</div>
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I waved goodbye to <strong>North Salmon Creek Beach</strong> in search of food. I was confident that I was now very close to the town of <strong>Bodega Bay</strong> and surely there would be something cute and quaint there.</div>
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I should have known by the word "<em>bay</em>" that my beautiful run with the ocean scenery along the highway would now be ending as I headed more inland towards the bay towns and not the ocean towns- but I didn't realize until it was too late. I finally entered Bodega Bay grumpy. My ocean views were gone... hidden.. buried. You mean now if I had to stop and eat, I can't look over at the ocean waves, but the bay instead? I <em>live in the bay area</em>, I see bays all the time. I even live by a lake--but I don't care. Give me the ocean or give me nothing. I blasted through Bodega Bay disappointed and unwilling to stop until I found a vibe that suited me. A few long winding miles later and now in the middle of nothing but old fields of dead grass, I started to second guess my routing choices. Uh oh, what have I done? Am I ever going to see another ocean again? Should I turn back or press on? Can my blood sugar level take this heat? It was heating up again as I drove further and further away from the coast. But just when I thought I would never make it back to civilization I came upon the little town of <strong>Tomales</strong> and I knew I had been given one more chance.</div>
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I pulled up across the street from a Restaurant/Saloon called "<strong>William Tell House</strong>". It wasn't as small town podunk as I wanted it to be, but it would have to do. It was now 5pm and I was the first one to arrive for their dinner hour and I had the place all to myself.</div>
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"<em>Sit anywhere you want</em>," the waitress informed me. </div>
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Well I live for moments like these, where I can pick a seat with a view, or in a corner, or most importantly...by an outlet.</div>
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<strong>Priorities.</strong></div>
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As Carl recharged, (<em>that's right, that's the name of my smart phone-it's a boy</em>) - I opted for the Chicken Marsala and it did not disappoint. </div>
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I inhaled my dinner and inquired the staff about the location of the nearest and final beach of my mini road trip - <strong>Dillon Beach</strong>. I had visited here a few years ago, but the weather was gloomy and overcast and I did not have a very good time. Now here I was, it was the end of the afternoon and the beginning of the evening and I was hoping for one last ocean stop and a chance to redeem my last memories there.</div>
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I paid my check, walked through the bar and went to the bathroom. I was starting to feel fatigued. A part of me wanted to see if I could make it to Pt. Reyes Station after visiting Dillon Beach or should I just head East on Tomales/Bodega Road and head back to the freeway? I fully knew where I was now being only a quarter mile away from the location of a movie that I worked on for an entire month of night shoots back in 1996. Maybe I would try and squeeze in a visit to the house where they shot the original <strong>Scream</strong> movie on my way back? Maybe?</div>
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I washed my hands and brushed my hair. In the bar I heard <strong>Supertramp's</strong> "<em>Take The Long Way Home"</em> come through the speakers. It spoke to me.</div>
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I got back on the road and about 15 minutes later I arrived at Dillon Beach. Now, I had been warned, via Yelp, that I would have to pay for parking and this time I decided it would be worth it, but when I pulled up in the parking lot, the girl in the booth informed me that they were no longer charging, but just make sure "<em>your car is out of the lot by 8pm</em>."</div>
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No problem.</div>
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Now it was becoming sunset and I would be here just in time to snap a few final shots before heading back. I snapped away.</div>
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After getting a bunch of post card shots, as I walked back to my car I looked down in the sand and I couldn't believe it. I never see these anymore. A sand dollar. Granted, it was broken, but still...pretty cool.</div>
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I pocketed the sand dollar and headed for the Dillon Beach Café to load up on coffee for my ride home. In the bathroom were inspirational quotes by Thoreau.</div>
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Launch yourself on every wave. Pretty cool.</div>
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I made it home by 9pm. It was just now getting dark. I collapsed into bed. It wasn't a day I had planned at all, but I lived in the moment and took the long way home.</div>
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-56263283062992972142013-07-02T18:27:00.001-07:002013-07-02T18:27:55.571-07:00Fourth Born on The Fourth Of July<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I haven't been writing much lately. But I figure if I put something down, anything, it will jump start my creative juices.<br />
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Seriously, I don't know how moms with young kids have the energy to write. The discipline to write. I get up and go to work and then go to the gym and then I am done. But that's not an excuse. I must write.<br />
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I guess I should try setting the alarm earlier and actually getting up when it goes off. I owe that to myself.<br />
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What's been going on in my head lately?<br />
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<strong><u>Confessions of a Late Bloomer</u></strong><br />
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I need to write another solo piece (not an extension of Cat Nanny) and eventually write it up to 60 minutes. <em>Tales of a Fourth Born</em>. Something like that. The humor of birth order and how our perspective is shaped by it. I think I need to go through all my old blogs that are late bloomer themed and see if I can weave them together.<br />
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<strong><u>Solo Workshop at The Marsh in SF</u></strong><br />
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Considering taking this workshop at the Marsh in August. I think it's like 10 weeks or something and then there is a performance at the end. Hmmmm, maybe. Will check out their class performances in late July.<br />
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<strong><u>Audition for Another Show </u></strong><br />
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Don't know if I am right for Rachel Bublitz' <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/187012014796071/187017644795508/?notif_t=like">Babies: The Ultimate Birth Control</a>, but I might as well give it a shot. I sure know that the sound of loud crying babies does the trick for me.<br />
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<strong><u>Online Writing Workshop</u></strong><br />
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I am taking this online writing class, but I am not as active on it as I should be. Not all the writing prompts turn me on, but I think that's okay. It's about weeding out all the other stuff and getting to the good part.<br />
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<strong><u>Fourth Born at the Fourth Of July</u></strong><br />
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Going up to a friend's place for the Fourth of July. Maybe I will get a funny story out of it.<br />
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<strong>Here's to hoping for a creative explosion!</strong></div>
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-82161481247272521132013-06-20T16:58:00.002-07:002013-06-20T16:58:25.703-07:00Where Were You This Week?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Forum; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><span style="color: black;">Writing Prompt #2 in my online writing course.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Where Were You This Week?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Forum; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Forum; mso-fareast-font-family: Forum;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Forum; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;"><strong>Downtown Martinez.</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It takes an important event to bring me back to the place where I grew up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even though Martinez is only a half hour away from Oakland without traffic (aka the Caldecott Tunnel), it’s like a different world when you finally arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to the Martinez Marina this past Saturday with some of my family to celebrate Father’s Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was something my parents wanted to do, and so I picked up my 89 year old grandmother in San Leandro, (<em>the only other Alameda County resident in my family</em>), and hightailed it out to Contra Costa County.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Past the tunnel and six freeway changes later, Grandma and I arrived at my parents' doorstep.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Forum; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Forum; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">My mom, dad, grandma, sister and I all piled in my mom’s white van and rode the 10 minute drive to the marina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The air conditioner went on and the suntan lotion came out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Martinez</span> may only be a half hour away from Oakland, but the Bay Area’s micro-climates will cost you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another reason why I moved out of the town I grew up in-<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could never handle the heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And neither could grandma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Forum; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">Once at the marina, we carried out lawn chairs and umbrellas and begin to look for shade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We found a tree to park all of our stuff under and weren’t seated five minutes when my father decided he wanted to get up and look at the vendors that were set up for the Barbeque Festival that was happening right across the way from where we were sitting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one seemed to want to go just yet, but it was Father’s Day, and like a fourth born who takes after her father probably more than anyone else in the family, I got up and walked with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Forum; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">It wasn’t long before my dad was schmoozing with a Martinez local about the Carnival Cruises he was selling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father with his blunt <em>Archie-Bunker-like</em> Irish temperament was going to tell this young, thirty something vendor all the things that were wrong with cruises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father should know, he has been on plenty of them (<em>probably all my mother's doing and if it wasn’t for my mother those two would never go anywhere</em>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father would be content to just sit in his den in their three bedroom townhouse with the air conditioning blasting, sucking on his sugar free orange popsicles while watching some old movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he had a belly to show for his inactive lifestyle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the fact that he actually wanted to get up and walk around and look at vendors I saw as a good thing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Forum; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">As we continued to peruse the other vendors it was now my turn to chat it up with some women who were working behind a booth that was promoting the Martinez Youth Football program.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I let them know I first got my start in cheerleading through this program back in the 80’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was such a fun time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when they told me they were having a hard time finding girls to try out because costs had gotten so expensive just to be a cheerleader, I bought a Martinez Youth Football tank top to support their cause.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this was the town I had run away from so long ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Yet t</span>here I was, going back to my roots, trying to keep the cheer program alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keep the change.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Forum; font-size: 14.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">My dad and I finally finished walking the plank and headed back to our shaded area on the lawn across the way to join the rest of our family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sipped on overpriced tropical punch and ate corn dogs and curly fries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I played games on my smart phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We chit chatted for a bit. Then finally when we were all finally bored and couldn't take the heat anymore we relented, packed up our stuff, and sought refuge in my parent’s air conditioned house for dessert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-72203171407870313712013-06-05T16:35:00.000-07:002013-06-05T16:35:29.070-07:00Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back Into The Litterbox....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<strong>CAT LADIES ENCORE PERFORMANCES!</strong><br />
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I did a solo piece back in April, along with five other women's solo peformances that sold out every weekend of our run, so now we have added two additional dates for next week!<br />
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I hadn't done theatre in 17 years so my stress level and adrenaline was up pretty high. I am hoping the second time around I will not be so stressed out. Energy up, but not to the point of fatigue.<br />
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In the meantime, I dust off my script, pull the props out of my cat-bag and get back into character. It will be interesting to see how I feel afterwards. I would like to work up to a 60 minute show eventually (my current piece is only 11 minutes) and I want to learn how to not fry myself mentally. <br />
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So, if you haven't already seen the show...come out next week if you can!<br />
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NOTE: I go on first, so if you plan on attending...don't be late! But again, one should nevah be late for the theatre! Nevah!!! Hope to see you guys there!<br />
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<strong><em>WOMEN IN SOLODARITY: CAT LADIES!</em></strong><br />
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Directed by Rachel Bublitz <br />
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The show features female solo performances in honor of our quirky obsession with cats. This show, which was produced in association with the International Home Theater Festival, is All Terrain Theater's second showcase dedicated to promoting the work of female Bay Area theater artists.<br />
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Mon, June 10 & Tue, June 11 @ ...8pm<br />
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PURCHASE TICKETS ONLINE: http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/390190<br />
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This performance will be held at a private residence in Central Berkeley. Reserve your tickets for the address to our venue. Please note that there are cats and a dog on the property, though pets will not be present during the performances. The show is approximately 90 minutes and is wheelchair accessible.<br />
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PUSSY: TEASER EDITION - Written & Performed by Maura Halloran<br />
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CAT NANNY 911 - Written & Performed by Theresa Donahoe <br />
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KITTY'S PRESCRIPTION - Written by Patricia Milton Performed by Martha Rynberg<br />
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THE METAMORPHOSIS - Written by Carol Lashof Performed by Heather Kellogg <br />
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IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME - Written by Rachel Bublitz Performed by Ramya Vijayan<br />
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MISSING: A CAT PLAY- Written by Susan Sobeloff Performed by Colleen Egan <br />
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THE LIBRARIAN WHO WAS ALLERGIC TO CATS- Written by Tracy Held Potter Performed by Colleen Egan <br />
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Stage Management by Chelsey Little<br />
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<em>Produced by All Terrain Theater and The Downward Dog in association with the International Home Theater Festival. </em><br />
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-8972132242687062642013-05-30T12:50:00.001-07:002013-05-30T12:50:38.483-07:00Addicted<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<strong><u>TO THIS:</u></strong></div>
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This is mobile phone game crack. I am on level 191 I think. I don't know anymore. I have lost count. This is a serious time suck. An intervention might be at hand.<br />
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In other news, my wireless mouse arrived for my new laptop, but the actual computer has not arrived at Best Buy yet and I am still waiting to bring her home. My new baby girl. When will the stork deliver?<br />
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And in other other news...my solo performance "CAT NANNY 911!" is back for two encore performances in Berkeley June 10th and 11th. This is in conjunction with our show from back in April, "<strong><u>Women In Solodarity: CAT LADIES!"</u></strong> More on that later. I must look over my script again.<br />
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As I re-enter the theatre scene after a 17 year hiatus, I am relearning something about myself that I had disovered back in high school:<br />
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<strong><em>I love to act but I am not a drama person.</em></strong><br />
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Does this make sense? It means I have interests outside of theater. I don't live and breathe Shakespeare, I don't sing the score to Gypsy all day long and I don't hop from one show to the next one. I write and act, but also take hip hop dance classes and like to hang out with friends from the gym and from church. I spread it out a little ya know. I don't go from one play into the next one. <br />
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I am realizing that within the Bay Area Theatre Community there are all these cliques and not everyone knows each other like I thought they would. You got your Equity actors who also pursue film. I know them from working in film casting. Then you have your independent theatre people who live and breathe non-union art and are playwriting all the time and don't know all the union people. Then you have those people who say "F*** Berkeley Rep!". Then you have the Berkeley Rep people. And not everyone knows everyone. <br />
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And then you have all the solo performers and the solo performer workshops-- this seems to be another clique. This is what I am gravitating to the most right now. <br />
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This sort of "streams of conciousness" blogs will be happening here until my brand new baby girl Lenvo Idea Pad arrives. Then I can take her home and get back to story writing. <br />
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Until then...<br />
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Peace.</div>
theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-16422736723379368892013-05-24T12:17:00.001-07:002013-05-24T12:17:44.700-07:00In Not So Loving Memory....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I realize I have been writing less and less because my next-to-worthless of a laptop, the refurbished Gateway from hell, has been acting up, and then finally a few days ago...it died.<br />
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I wasn't totally sad to be honest. It was a beast of a thing. It weighed too much and I had to lug it around to coffee shops when I didn't have wi-fi. It also gave me an excuse to put the search out for a new writing companion.<br />
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After weeks and weeks of research, I finally bit the bullet and bought a Lenovo Ideapad 15.6 Z585. I pick her up next week at Best Buy. I feel like I am going to the hospital to bring home a newborn.<br />
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From the photos, I see that it will be an adjustment getting used to the keyboard--let's hope she's a keeper.<br />
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R.I.P. Gateway. You were an okay starter machine, but it's time to move on.<br />
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-65656060563169976512013-04-22T13:22:00.002-07:002013-04-22T13:27:06.359-07:00From Martinez to Boston<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In December of 1987 on a Friday night during my senior year in high school, I stood out on the track of Knowles Field in Martinez, California, with my arms folded behind my back while staring at the brightly lit football scoreboard to my left. It would be the last time after seven long years (<em>three with Pop Warner and fours years at Alhambra High School</em>), that I would be a cheerleader out on this field and would be retiring my uniform and hanging up my pom poms for good. Well, <em>that is</em>, once basketball season was over that following spring-- then I would <em>really</em> hang them up. But Martinez wasn't a town known for its basketball team-- it was known for its football program.<br />
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Also out on that field that night, playing in his varsity football uniform, was a junior named Alan Hern. I didn't know Alan very well, but Martinez is a small town and Alhambra a small high school, so you couldn't help but at least know <em>of</em> people even if you didn't know them that well personally--because you couldn't avoid each other. Most social circles would intersect at one point or another. And in a town where my three older siblings and I all went to the same high school, if you didn't know me, you probably knew one of my brothers or sister.<br />
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I have lived in Oakland for about 15 years now and don't really spend much time in Martinez anymore. But last week when I turned on the news and heard that "<em>a boy from Martinez named Aaron Hern</em>" was injured in the blast during the Boston Marathon, I just thought "<em>Hern? T</em><em>hat's gotta be Alan's kid</em>." I mean, how many Herns live in Martinez? <br />
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Sure enough as the story unfolded, it was confirmed that it was Alan's son who was injured in the blast that day while waiting for his mom to cross the finish line. Soon Alan was on the news and being interviewed on the Today Show, and then a picture was taken of Michelle Obama visiting his son in the hospital.<br />
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<em>"This is freaking surreal,"</em> I just thought. Martinez isn't a city known for making international news about anything. It's just a small little town filled with antique shops and it pretty much minds its own business. I mean sure there is <em>some </em>history there, it being the birth place of Joe Dimaggio and the location of the John Muir Museum, and yes-- there is still an argument to this day as to whether or not the Martini drink was really invented there, (<em>San Francisco also takes credit</em>), but that is pretty much it. <br />
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Soon, the city of Martinez was rallying behind Alan's family and local businesses started fundraising and donating proceeds to cover hospital costs. Then a bank account in Aaron's name was opened at Wells Fargo, and a Facebook Page was created to bring the latest news. You see, one of the things about being from a small town, is that it's somewhat difficult to be invisible-- for better or worse. And in Alan's case, especially since becoming the current head coach for Alhambra's Varsity Football team within the last few years, I am guessing the Hern family is pretty well known.<br />
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The good news is, Aaron is healing well and should be able to come home soon. To get the latest news on his recovery and how to donate to the cause, you can visit the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/theresa.donahoe?ref=tn_tnmn#!/AaronHernRecovery?hc_location=stream">Aaron Hern Recovery Facebook Page</a>.<br />
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<strong>His old man in high school.</strong></div>
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-9866618066839938692013-04-12T11:47:00.001-07:002013-04-12T11:47:35.519-07:00Opening Night Confessions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"How you all doing? " Our stage manager, <a href="http://chelseylittle.wordpress.com/">Chelsey Little</a>, peaked her head through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the living room. It was five minutes before the show was about to start and there we were, six female solo performers, hanging out in someone's living-room-turned-green-room at the Downward Dog, the official home venue of <a href="http://www.allterraintheater.org/">All Terrain Theatre's</a> 2013 production of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/#!/events/102148146638070/">Women In Solodarity: CAT LADIES.</a><br />
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"Fine," <a href="http://www.martharynberg.com/index.html">Martha</a>, one of the actors replied, "You know, it's just the throwing up part."<br />
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<em>Isn't that the truth,</em> I thought as I sat at there, at the dining room table, in my cat nanny costume, waiting not so patiently to open the show that first night. That's right. I was opening the opening.<br />
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<em>Why do we do this to ourselves,</em> I wondered, <em>are we masochistic</em>? Why on earth would we continue to pursue this routine of: audition, rejection. audition, acceptance. memorize, memorize, memorize, and then throw ourselves at the mercy of a live audience for possibly more perceived rejection? Are we mad?<br />
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I gazed around the room. Some women paced back and forth reciting their lines quietly to themselves while others sat meditatively in their chairs. Idle chit chat from just a few minutes before have given away to focused silence. Yes, indeed, we were mad.<br />
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I looked out the living room window and saw a man walking his dog along the street. <em>Quick sir, </em>I<em> </em>thought, <em>trade lives with me</em>. I mean, what troubles could he possibly have? <em>I have to go on in less than five minutes and open the opening of a sold out crowd. </em> <em>What do YOU have to do sir, huh? Yeah, keep walking that stupid dog. </em><br />
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"Ready, Theresa?" Chelsey motioned me to take my spot in the wings, and by wings, I mean the top of a spiral staircase in the kitchen that led down to the lower level of the house.. and the stage....and to my impending death. <em>Spiral staircase</em>, I thought, <em>how appropriate</em>. <br />
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Then I hear it. The applause is my cue. I make my way down the staircase and find my place on the stage. I look up at the crowd but not really. I see people, but not any one particular person. "Sorry for the mess," I start with. I ramble on for a few minutes before I start recognize a face or two in the audience. <em>Don't lose your focus,</em> I tell myself, <em>you're the cat nanny</em>. More rambling. Then I see a friend videotaping me in the front row with her camera. <em>That's fine,</em> I assure myself, <em>keep going--be the cat nanny.</em> More rambling. I notice another friend of mine arriving late and scooting her way to some middle seats. <em>Oops,</em> <em>I forgot to tell her I went on first</em>. <em> Focus</em>. More rambling. Then finally, FINALLY after the longest 11 minutes in the world.... my closing line, "I'm a cat nanny!"<br />
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Applause. Pause. Pause. Hold your look. Hold it. Now turn, grab your props and exit. Exhale. There. Done. I make my way back up the spiral staircase and back safely to home base, that is, the kitchen. <br />
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NEXT! <br />
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I sit in the kitchen listening intently to each actor's monologue that follows after mine. I hear a moment of silence, followed by an erruption of laughter. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. As each actor finishes her piece, one more blazes her way back up to the top of the spiral staircase and into the kitchen while letting out a sigh of relief. Except for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/colleen.egan.98">Colleen</a>. She had two monologues to memorize- so she stays focused until her second piece is finished.<br />
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Then finally, intermission. 10 minutes. 10 minutes to go hide back in the living room because the bathroom is now open to the audience and is right next to the kitchen. I play games on my smart phone as our final actor begins to get focused and warms up and preps her props. Knock 'em dead <a href="https://twitter.com/maurahalloran">Maura.</a><br />
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Intermission is over. Audience takes their seats again. I play on my phone in the kitchen and listen one more time as the crowd reacts to the final piece. More laughter, silence and laughter, silence and laughter. Then I hear Maura's final words and all the actors take their place in the spiral staircase to get ready for the final curtain call. Lights off. Applause. Lights on. We all take the stage and give our final bow. I am still not looking at anyone in particular.<br />
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I am exhausted. I give hugs to friends and say hi to people. I decline on invitations to go out knowing I have a matinee followed by an evening performance the next day. Then I remember it's the director's birthday and grab some cupcakes I had purchased earlier in the day. I light candles on them and bring them back down the spiral staircase. We sing happy birthday to her. We give final greetings to friends. I am relieved, but only for a moment, knowing I have to turn around the next day and do it all over again. <br />
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CRAZY CAT LADIES ARE (in order of appearance)<br />
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<a href="http://bayareablogethunderground.blogspot.com/">Theresa Donahoe</a><br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/colleen.egan.98">Colleen Egan</a><br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/ramya.vijayan">Ramya Vijayan</a><br />
<a href="https://sites.google.com/site/heatherkellogg09/">Heather Kellogg</a><br />
<a href="http://www.martharynberg.com/index.html">Martha Rynberg</a><br />
<a href="https://twitter.com/maurahalloran">Maura Halloran</a><br />
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-29551256327921483922013-04-05T16:05:00.000-07:002013-04-05T16:05:50.288-07:00Now, On With The Show<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As I sat, stood, paced back and forth and pantomimed in my studio apartment earlier this week while rehearsing for tonight's sold out opening performance of a show I am currently in, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/#!/events/102148146638070/129562713896613/?notif_t=plan_mall_activity">Women In Solodarity: Cat Ladies</a>, I remembered my favorite acting teacher, the <a href="http://voices.yahoo.com/the-late-jim-kirkwood-acting-mentor-many-6697274.html?cat=49">late James Kirkwood’s</a> "Basic Principles of Acting" techniques. Mr. Kirkwood had studied with such greats as Stella Adler and Lee Strasberg, and as I ran over my lines, I could hear his voice inside my head, challenging me: “<em>What is your motivation? Be more specific. Who is on the other line of the telephone during your conversation? What does he or she look like? Sound like? Are they rich, are they poor? Be more specific.”</em> It was always about being more specific.<br />
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Tonight, April 5th, 2013, marks my return to the theatre after a 17 year hiatus. A flood of questions enter my mind. Do I still remember how to do this? Do I still know how to act? Or to quote Teri Garr’s character in the movie "Tootsie" about getting her energy up for an audition, <em>“How am I going to get it back?”</em><br />
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Now if you tell me acting on stage is just like riding a bike, <a href="http://bayareablogethunderground.blogspot.com/2010/09/girl-who-fell-off-bikes.html">I have a story for you to read later.</a> In the meantime, I recall and remember the pans and praises I have received from the Ghosts-of-Drama-Teachers-past:<br />
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<em>"You’re doing all these things with your face”</em> – <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cliff_Osmond">Cliff Osmond</a>, during my very first "Acting On Camera" class.<br />
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<em>“Try taping your eyebrows when you talk then you can feel what you’re doing with your face.”-</em> Another teacher whose name escapes me, during my second "Acting On Camera" class.<br />
<br /><em>"Do you dance?"</em> - <a href="http://www.mercurynews.com/entertainment/ci_20713727/harvey-berman-grand-leader-area-theater-scene-dies">Director Harvey Berman,</a> while perusing the Diablo Valley College Theater green room one day and casting dancers on the spot in for his upcoming production of Romeo and Juliet. (Most fun I have ever had in a play- ever)<br />
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<em>“You’re 'the friend'”</em> – <a href="http://www.contracostatimes.com/concord/ci_20691811/curtain-calls-sally-hogarty-influential-dvc-instructor-director">Les Abbott</a>, trying to pen me as a character actor <br />
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<em>“You’re funny. You’re eccentric and a bit off-center.”</em> <a href="http://www.dvcdrama.net/aboutus.html">Ed Trujillo</a>, during his Stage Audition Techniques class and confirming the stereotype that I was, indeed, a character actor.<br />
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<em>“I don’t know what to say…your energy was full...”</em> - <a href="http://voices.yahoo.com/the-late-jim-kirkwood-acting-mentor-many-6697274.html?cat=49">James Kirkwood</a>, during his Advanced Principles of Stage Acting class and confirming the fact, that I was simply… an actor.<br />
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For those of you that knew James Kirkwood, for him NOT to say a lot, was a compliment – he always had something to say.<br />
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Thank you <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=chEA-ee4wlE">Mr. Kirkwood</a>, I dedicate this performance to you. Here's to hoping my energy is "full". <br />
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Now--On with the show!<br />
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<br />theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-75257163564513903522013-03-16T11:40:00.000-07:002013-03-16T11:40:45.688-07:00The Shamrock Shake Incident<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The year was 1978. At least I think it was. All of my childhood memories seem to run together these days, but I do remember standing in line with my sister at MacDonald's and they were advertising their latest calendar, which we took home:<br />
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I think my grandma was with us that one fateful March day but I can't be entirely sure. She might have been baby sitting my sister and I and even though my sister wasn't feeling well, she really wanted to come to MacDonald's with us, <em>and she really wanted the coveted Shamrock shake. </em><br />
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We loved the Shamrock Shake because it was sweet, and well, it was green. I don't remember if it was minty back then, but it was yummy.<br />
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After sipping on our shakes for awhile we had to go home and I remember sitting in the backseat of our parents' station wagon with my mom driving in the front. My sister still wasn't feeling well. Do you see where I am going with this? What happens when a kid isn't feeling well, drinks a green shake and then sits in the backseat of a car?</div>
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She throws up all over the backseat.</div>
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Next thing I know there is green everywhere, on the seat, on the car floor, maybe a little on me. Can't remember if my sister cried, but my mom turned around and saw the commotion and stayed calm. We must have pulled over to clean it up, but after that day, I don't think my sister drank another Shamrock Shake again. She was scarred for life.</div>
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I leave you with this ancient Irish Proverb and little bit of a warning for the holiday weekend: <em>He who drinks green, will throw up green</em>. </div>
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Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone!</div>
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-14756113814074363452013-03-13T16:21:00.000-07:002013-03-13T16:21:32.949-07:00March Happenings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I need to write more. I just finished writing a script for my solo piece, <strong><em>"Cat Nanny 911</em></strong>" and it's like I just exhaled, walked away from writing, and put on my acting hat. And by writing, I don't mean journaling--I do that all the time. I mean writing another<em> story</em>, to keep my creative juices going.<br />
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<strong><u>Rehearsal, Rehearsal, Rehearsal...</u></strong><br />
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Speaking of which, I had my first rehearsal for my upcoming show in April, <a href="http://www.allterraintheater.org/?q=node/74">Women in Solodarity: Cat Ladies</a>, this past weekend. I'm telling you it's wierd to rehearse my own writing, but I like it. And finally being able to rehearse it with blocking is helping me understand the very story I have written. It's all coming together now. Meow.<br />
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<strong>You're not going anywhere Bunny Rabbit! (yes, that's the name of my parents' cat who is trapped in my arms)</strong></div>
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<strong><u>Sunrise, Sunset....</u></strong><br />
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Oh Bolinas, it's been a long winter and how I have missed you! I just might visit you this weekend. Speaking of this weekend....<br />
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<strong><u>You mean, I can celebrate Cinco De Mayo AND St. Patrick's Day?</u></strong></div>
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By all accounts, I should be a hard core Catholic with a drinking problem, seeing that I have Mexican and Irish blood pumping through my veins. The countdown to start celebrating my Carlos Murphy roots starts this Sunday.</div>
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<strong>HAPPY MARCH!</strong></div>
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-67420641933153729082013-02-25T16:16:00.000-08:002013-02-25T16:16:31.740-08:00Cat Nanny 911!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<em>" It's not a job for everyone--doing what I do. Taking on the task of taming the frisky feline while its owner is away can be a tricky business. Making sure these furry, somewhat elusive creatures get plenty of love, brushes, fresh food and water can take its toll on a nanny if she's doesn't know exactly what she's doing. When you leave your cat home all alone for more than three days straight, don't be surprised if you come back to an upside down litter box and a clawed up leather couch. That's where I come in. I'm cat nanny."</em> <strong> - Scene from Cat Nanny 911!</strong><br />
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My dream one day is to perform a full length one-woman show and take it on the road, but the thought of it seems so daunting to me. How does one even get started on such a journey? So I prayed about direction and soon after an opportunity opened up for me to write and perform a short solo piece, and finally get my paws wet.<br />
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<em><br /></em><em>All Terrain Theater's Women in Solodarity: Cat Ladies is a showcase featuring female solo performances in honor of our quirky obsession with cats. This show, produced in association with the International Home Theater Festival, is All Terrain Theater's second showcase dedicated to promoting the work of female Bay Area theater artists.</em><br />
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April 5, 6, 12, 13 @ 8pm (Fridays and Saturdays)<br />
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April 6 @ 2pm<br />
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Directed by Rachel Bublitz<br />
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PUSSY<br />
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Written & Performed by Maura Halloran<br />
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CAT NANNY 911<br />
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Written & Performed by Theresa Donahoe<br />
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KITTY'S PRESCRIPTION<br />
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Written by Patricia Milton<br />
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Performed by Martha Rynberg<br />
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THE METAMORPHOSIS<br />
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Written by Carol Lashof<br />
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Performed by Heather Kellogg<br />
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IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME<br />
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Written by Rachel Bublitz<br />
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Performed by Ramya Vijayan<br />
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MISSING: A CAT PLAY<br />
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Written by Susan Sobeloff<br />
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Performed by Colleen Egan<br />
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THE LIBRARIAN WHO WAS ALLERGIC TO CATS<br />
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Written by Tracy Held Potter<br />
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Performed by Colleen Egan<br />
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Stage Management by Chelsey Little<br />
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This performance will be held at a private residence in Central Berkeley. Reserve your tickets for the address to our venue. Please note that there are cats and a dog on the property, and cats may be roaming around during the performances on April 12th and 13th. The show is approximately 90 minutes and is wheelchair accessible.<br />
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PURCHASE TICKETS ONLINE: <a href="http://catladies.brownpapertickets.com/">http://catladies.brownpapertickets.com/</a><br />
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QUESTIONS:<br />
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info@allterraintheater.org<br />
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Produced by All Terrain Theater and The Downward Dog in association with the International Home Theatre Festival.</div>
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-43081989855066035272013-02-07T14:31:00.003-08:002013-02-07T14:31:59.071-08:00Out of Sight, Out of Mind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ariMtDRg6r4UDGmNrSAY1qMZM5Hhd5s7_di45RHh_4ZbbBJ_j9vZy6k8hRLEVJAR55_1lWq_-WBmCfFd8LmQqFMqMaWbgmBU-UjL4913-rL5oxj3c4ZvuA6LuBZk27Q22BCVgg/s1600/hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" jea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ariMtDRg6r4UDGmNrSAY1qMZM5Hhd5s7_di45RHh_4ZbbBJ_j9vZy6k8hRLEVJAR55_1lWq_-WBmCfFd8LmQqFMqMaWbgmBU-UjL4913-rL5oxj3c4ZvuA6LuBZk27Q22BCVgg/s320/hand.jpg" width="180" /></a>The other day I included a bath mat with my laundry and put it in the washing machine. When I went to check on the load a half hour later, the bath mat was so heavy with water that it tilted the entire load and interrupted the spin cycle. No matter how many times I readjusted the bath mat, the washing machine would not complete the spin cycle, so I finally removed it and the load was able to finish.<br />
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The mat was dripping wet, so I laid it outside by the clothesline in the back of my apartment building hoping the sun would dry it out. Then I forgot about it, a few days passed, and then it rained. I do this sort of thing all the time.<br />
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You would think that each time I stepped out of the shower and onto a towel on the floor that wasn't my bathmat, that I would remember to check on how it was drying outside. But instead, I just got used to the towel being on the floor. Because not only am I <em>"out of sight, out of mind</em>", but I am highly adaptable. If something changes in my environment, I just get used to it. If dishes start to stack in my sink, I don't notice them anymore until I have no more clean dishes. If a sweater ends up on the floor, it becomes a fixture on the floor until the weekend comes and I'm like, <em>"hey I should probably vacuum, by the way, what's that sweater doin</em>g <em>there?"</em><br />
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I've been this way for as long as I can remember. I do this at work too. I have all sorts of folders out and pieces of paper on my desk that I should just put away, but the problem with that is if I file them away it's gone forever. So I leave things out. If they are not in front of me, they don't exist.<br />
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Then I try to make lists of things to do, but then guess what happens? I forget where my lists are. Then I'm like, "<em>hey I know there was supposed to be something that I needed to do."</em> So then I send myself reminder emails, and then my inbox gets so full I get overwhelmed. And then I adapt to my inbox being full and forget about it. So then I write myself reminder notes on my hand--- and guess what--this actually works for me.<br />
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So instead of a piece of string around my finger, I opt for ink on my hand. I know it looks tacky, like I was just at the club the night before and forgot to wash the stamp off, but I don't care. I guess I must look at my hands alot? Why does this work?<br />
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I also have to put my gym bag in front of my door the night before a gym day--or I may forget to go the gym after work. I have to put my rent check in an envelope and leave it by the front door, or I will forget to pay my rent. I do have a calendar on my wall and that works somewhat. As long as I remember to actually look at the calendar.<br />
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This "out of sight, out of mind" disease is terrible on friendships. I have a routine and the people I see the most are the ones that are part of my routine. I apologize if I have affected you. It's not you, it's me. No really. IT'S ME. Please forgive me. I will write you on my hands next time. <br />
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-9007822385505651332013-02-06T13:11:00.000-08:002013-02-06T13:11:24.492-08:00A Writer's Meltdown (Not to be confused with "An Actor's Nightmare")<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Years ago when I was taking drama classes at Diablo Valley College, I saw the play "An Actor's Nightmare" by Christopher Durang, performed for the first time.<br />
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I loved it. It was basically a young man on a stage in his underwear, clutching his private parts while staring into the audience like a deer into headlights. Other actors around him came on and off the stage briefly with a few lines here and there, but he stood there in the middle of it all, petrified. He didn't know what play he was in, or what line he was supposed to stay next. It was, indeed, every actor's nightmare.<br />
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As an actor <em>and</em> writer, I get to experience not only the actor's nightmare, but the writer's meltdown. Now, I googled the term, "writer's meltdown" and apparently we all have different definitions of what this means. My meltdown is simply, not so much having writer's block, as much as second guessing what I have already written. Is this funny anymore? Was it ever funny? Does this make sense? Is this redundant? Clear? What I thought was a good idea at the time, or maybe even genius--is now muddled and I am not so sure. And then of course the worst self critique of all - is this BORING? As a performer myself who bores so easily, my biggest fear is that my writing and performing will put someone to sleep. I mean, we <em>are</em> supposed to entertain people, aren't we?<br />
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In the annoying introspection of it all, I sat on the side of my bed questioning myself and praying, "<em>Lord, I know I am good writer, but help me with the translation</em>". I sensed Him telling me to just do it anyway. I am going to have to learn by doing and there is no way around it. No number of writing classes, workshops or lectures is going to make me be a better writer. Writing is going to make me a better writer. I will have to be okay with not being great at first, but just simply, getting through it. As long as I have a support group in place, a solid set of friends, I will be just fine.<br />
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As I closed my eyes, I saw a picture of a fist punching through a paper wall. The wall is thin, and easily penetrated. It's not as difficult as I think it is. I just have to punch through it.<br />
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Alright, enough with the meltdown. And on with the show.<br />
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-39183575313183098932013-02-03T13:26:00.001-08:002013-02-03T13:26:39.145-08:00FIRST LOVES<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Every morning after I wake up, I put my sweatshirt and pony tail on, grab my purse, and walk down the hill to Starbucks to get my usual grande iced coffee with two pumps of classic sweetener. Rain or shine, sleet or snow (well, we have no snow, but you know what I mean). Summer, Winter, Spring or Fall. It never fails me. I want my vice and I want it when I want it. <br />
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I know it sounds expensive, but I don't have kids, so I figure since I am not spending money on diapers and college educations, I can have my Starbucks everyday. It's all about perspective.<br />
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During my daily jaunt down to the main boulevard my mind fills up with all sorts of thoughts and for some reason becomes the best time to get ideas for writing. I have had rest, I am getting my first exercise of the morning and ideas flood my brain.<br />
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This morning I was thinking about youth and first loves. But maybe not the way you're thinking about it.<br />
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You see, I bought a curling iron yesterday. It was an impulse purchase inside a CVS Pharmacy. I only meant to get toilet paper and such and ended up buying a curling iron as well. I took it home, unwrapped it (that was a feat within itself) and plugged it in. I haven't used a curling iron since the 80s. When I was young, I had all that energy to play with my hair. I cared about what I looked like. I styled it and practiced in front of the mirror for maybe not hours, but certainly alot longer than I would ever care to bother now and I just thought--<br />
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Why don't I care anymore? And this got me thinking of a scene from the movie "When Harry Met Sally".<br />
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HARRY: How long have you been dating Joe? 3 weeks?<br />
SALLY: A month. How did you know that?<br />
HARRY: To take someone to the airport, you are clearly at the beginning of a relationship. Which is why I never have anyone take me to the airport at the beginning of a relationship.<br />
SALLY: Why?<br />
HARRY: Because eventually things move on, you don't take them to the airport anymore and I never wanted anyone to ask me, "why don't you take me to the airport anymore?"<br />
SALLY: It's amazing. You look like a normal person, but really you are the angel of death.<br />
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I know it's wierd but this made me think of that curling iron and I just thought- How come I don't curl my hair anymore? Is it because my relationship with my hair is past the honeymoon stage and I no longer care? What happen to all that energy and youth?<br />
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And while I am currently not seeing anyone romantically right now, I can at least rekindle the spark with my hair. I don't know how long this will last, but I am ready to start the fire and passion again. I want to care again.<br />
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<strong>Reunited and it feels so good.</strong></div>
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-64964246547243642092013-01-11T20:49:00.001-08:002013-07-21T19:26:51.843-07:00Confessions of a Late Bloomer: For Art's Sake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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HOW I ENDED UP INSIDE A HOME DEPOT WITH A DRILL IN MY HAND that one fateful Saturday afternoon, I will never quite understand. If memory serves, I was completely frazzled and out of my comfort zone and quite possibly-- my mind. I might as well have been wearing a t-shirt that said: <strong>I DON'T BELONG HERE</strong>. My awkward body language, my walking, then pausing, then walking again. My head tossed up and down, side to side with my eyes fixated on the big numbered signs that hung above each aisle... I must have looked like a tourist. Yes, that's it -I was a tourist inside a Home Depot. Finally a man in his fifties wearing an orange apron approached me. He must have felt sorry for me. <br />
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<em>"Can I help you find anything?"</em><br />
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Oh you can help me alright.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJq0onff_HPGzrW25pmLdw8_mOkkLlvgBBCYn0t23xJBGDI8i4ooDRpwVXBYFiuhbztA-sYlIkrKQ2jPVfDqzJcyQ0xVY38eWE1Kliv5UwRn4g3bbtcH96GdFuB2X83ABKGu9oJA/s1600/pic9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJq0onff_HPGzrW25pmLdw8_mOkkLlvgBBCYn0t23xJBGDI8i4ooDRpwVXBYFiuhbztA-sYlIkrKQ2jPVfDqzJcyQ0xVY38eWE1Kliv5UwRn4g3bbtcH96GdFuB2X83ABKGu9oJA/s320/pic9.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arty</td></tr>
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You see, I was on a mission. Recently, I had inherited random pieces of "grown up" art during these past few months from friends and famiy members, and a pile of paintings were gathering dust on the floor inside my little studio apartment. I was getting sick and tired of looking at them and decided now was the time to hang them up on my walls-- sort of. Well, it's just that some of the pieces were rather<em> heavy</em> and were made up of some sort of material that looked like corkboard on the backside. I couldn't just stick a push pin through it and be done with it like I used to do with all my posters of Madonna and The Brat Prack back in the 1980s. No, this was <em>real art</em> and it required actual hanging and I had never hammered a nail into a wall in my life. I was faced with the challenge of "decorating like an adult"-another rite of passage I had managed to dodge well into my thirties. Gone were the days of taping up movie posters on walls of sheetrock inside a modern tract home in suburbia. In were the days of hanging up real framed pieces of art with naked people on them on the plastered walls of my cool vintage 1950's Oakland apartment building. Did you know that if you hang paintings of naked people up on your walls that means you are mature and arty?</div>
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I had to convince myself that I was not hanging up porn, but with each painting I accumulated of a blissful lady with long flowing hair clutching her naked breast, I just thought: <strong>BOOBIES!</strong> For awhile I avoided putting up any real art by taping up my Fillmore rock posters and world maps, but that proved to be unsatisfying. I could no longer get away with the "college-dorm-room<em>"</em> look and I didn't have a spare room for all my rock-n-roll memorabilia and maps of Korea. I had one studio and it needed to look like a woman over 30 lived there. And when the double sided tape loosened and my mom's canvas paintings came falling off the walls in the middle of the night (that's right, <em>even</em> <em>my mom is arty</em>), I knew I had to bring in the big guns. Which I guess is how I ended up holding a box with a drill inside it at Home Depot. A place I never thought I would end up.<br />
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<em>"Do you have any staff that are experts at hanging pictures?"</em> I asked the man in the orange apron.<br />
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<em>"No, but here are some nails,"</em> he pointed to boxes and more boxes of screws and other pointy objects in all shapes and sizes. <em> "What kind of wall do you have?"</em> He asked me as if I knew.<br />
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After explaining the whole double sided tape debacle to him and how my walls were old school, he suggested I drill a hole before hammering in a nail. A DRILL? I HAVE TO BUY A DRILL NOW? Is this a sneaky upsell? This was turning out to be more work than I wanted it to be, but I nodded soberly, defeated, with my head hung low. And like a sheep led to the slaughter, I followed him to the aisle where the drills were located. He handed me a basic $40 drill and I took it. I didn't know what else to do. Then he brought me a hammer. I nodded solemnly and clutched the hammer as well.<br />
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<em>"Anything else I can help you with?"</em> He asked.<br />
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<em>"Yes,"</em> I said.<br />
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<em>"Where are your posters?"</em><br />
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By the time I got home it was dark and I thought perhaps too late to make noise in the building, lest I disturb the girl living below me. I stared at the open space of the far wall that my bed was pushed up against. Just <em>how far</em> should a nail go in? What's with the whole 45 degree angle thing? Can't I just write a story <em>about</em> hanging up paintings instead? <br />
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The next day, I knocked around the wall "listening for a stud" as instructed by all my friends, family and the man from Home Depot, but I couldn't find a spot that sounded any more deep than hallow to the naked ear. I noticed an old hole from the prior tenant and thought I would start there and started hammering in a two inch nail. It wasn't long before I realized that nail was not going in any further than maybe an inch. It would not budge-this was not good. I ripped it out. I tried a smaller screw type nail that also felt unsturdy. If I could just pull these nails out on my own, well that couldn't be good, could it? What if there's an earthquake? I didn't want some heavy piece of art dangling above my head come crashing down and give me a concussion. Seriously, these are the things that keep me up at night. And as I laid there in my bed, later on that evening, with my walls still bare above my head, I gazed out my window at the full moon and thought to myself, <em>"how did I get like this</em>?"<br />
<br />
Well, I couldn't blame it on my gene pool. Nope, <em>even my mother</em> <em>herself</em> is an artist who would take me to her night school art classes at Alameda City College back in the 1970's. I would sit at a table next to her with paper and pens and pretend to draw while she sat still, patiently painting the latest bowl of fruit or wine bottle. I couldn't imagine all that sitting still and was anzy as I hastily scrawled stick figures on my sheets of paper. Can I go play now? <br />
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Not to mention the many birthdays and Christmases where my siblings and I would receive not only crayons sets like most children, but water color paint kits and colored pencils! Oh soooo many colored pencils! My mother was trying to tell us something. But I didn't get the memo.<br />
<br />
And it wasn't just hanging up art on the wall that I put off for so long, but pretty much furnishing my apartment in general. Let's just say that when the girl who I was subletting the place from decided to move out after two years, she took all her funiture with her and I was left alone sitting on this old beige carpet while staring at four blank white walls. You would think that not having a bed for three months would have made me crazy, but I dreaded lifting something heavy for so long that I slept on a borrowed futon until my 38-year-old neck and back rebelled and could no longer take it. It was no use. I was going to have to put furniture in my apartment. My mother insists to this day that my lack of motivation in things that require exertion is because I am anemic and need iron pills. Even though the doctor who took blood tests on me back when I was in junior high told us otherwise....<br />
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Maybe I have such a hard time with all of this is because I feel like I don't know "the rules" when it comes to decorating and I don't know what looks "cool". And please don't tell me there are no rules to art and it's just "whatever you like" because that is a lie. If I tell you that I bought my art at "Bed, Bath and Beyond", wouldn't you just squirm quietly to yourself with an air of condescension? There are rules and you know it, and the reason I know this is true is because while I may be tone deaf in most things visual, I make up for it with my ear for music and writing. I would never tell someone that good music is "whatever you like" because if they tell me they like musical acts such as "Nickelback" or "Keisha" then I would have to tell them they have poor taste in music. Seriously. Don't think we could even be friends. Hey, I didn't make the rules...<br />
<br />
So after coming to grips with the fact that I was indeed, "art-deaf", I went to Ace Hardware and purchased a battery operated "Stud Finder". And then I called in reinforcements- because as the Book of Ecclesiastes tell us: <em>Two is better than one</em>. Enter my friend Sheri.<br />
<br />
My friend Sheri in some ways is my complete opposite. She's the ying to my yang. Not only is she arty with an eye for photography, she also knows her way around a tool belt. And besides, since she was the person who gave me all those heavy pieces of naked people in the first place, I figured she could at least show me how to put them up. Well, let me tell you, Sheri's a busy lady, but after a month or so of trying to pen her down, we finally set a date for a Sunday afternoon. And when that day finally came, I cleared off all my maps and rock posters from the wall, opened up the package that my stud-finder came in, and discovered my double-A batteries didn't fit. They were too big. So I texted Sheri to bring triple A's.<br />
<br />
At 3pm exactly, she arrived with a supply kit in hand. She laid out all the art work on the floor and we discussed various possible arrangements. She checked to make sure my drill was charged and handed me her triple A batteries. I was exicted. I finally had another eye and hand to help me get this done. Then I noticed that her batteries were too small for the stud-finder. I turned the back of the package over that it came in and read: <strong>NOT INCLUDED: 9 VOLT BATTERY</strong>. Now who the heck carries 9 volt batteries?<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdggOv-pAZavswyfPlF2uM2cFefjvumpuwhzcRNv8wS2xwfq4HeNuacZpXJXwziyTQcMUnIupDwzIgN-WjjtTDbQ2WUg83PkMdt9CPVjEr9xLyFotSl183Eu-UVQIWxyu0kQPAtA/s1600/pic8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdggOv-pAZavswyfPlF2uM2cFefjvumpuwhzcRNv8wS2xwfq4HeNuacZpXJXwziyTQcMUnIupDwzIgN-WjjtTDbQ2WUg83PkMdt9CPVjEr9xLyFotSl183Eu-UVQIWxyu0kQPAtA/s320/pic8.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Studly<br />
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"We'll just knock on the walls to find the stud," she assured me. </div>
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Oh great.</div>
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"Hear that?" she asked me as she pounded on my walls. The singer in me, in fact, <em>did</em> hear it. The note was higher on a stud that it was on the rest of the wall. How come I couldn't figure that out before?</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhViXG_Usd7nbGoERYncmlxxOo6f8KhLnPk7a_xIuKraS5DNkrLSyVliVc7VqCKVsgWf2lFe_7YANcMRLOrjDWZ0ECy6DBmHHxGSGOY4ovPSHRV1cJySFZuFIvIeTdoigv3Z5L4jg/s1600/pic2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhViXG_Usd7nbGoERYncmlxxOo6f8KhLnPk7a_xIuKraS5DNkrLSyVliVc7VqCKVsgWf2lFe_7YANcMRLOrjDWZ0ECy6DBmHHxGSGOY4ovPSHRV1cJySFZuFIvIeTdoigv3Z5L4jg/s320/pic2.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm so bohemian now</td></tr>
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We decided to hang up a funky purple sheet that she had given me years ago but I didn't know what to do with, and used it as a wall covering above my bed. Not only did this give me piece of mind that it wouldn't fall on my head in the middle of the night if there was an earthquake, but it also created the illusion of a headboard that my bed was actually missing. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDwjrCTa6U3rVSzEuXgpIlLc5fsVN8Q0C8ouErWXdTdV6KiAeejAmhOGVBAQ3UctF4gESY9daNnrUlXBV_U3PtlDlIyZ-RBsblkpmxhiVxFkTUW36TbWjWtJgLYYi28wU0AUmeg/s1600/pic10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDwjrCTa6U3rVSzEuXgpIlLc5fsVN8Q0C8ouErWXdTdV6KiAeejAmhOGVBAQ3UctF4gESY9daNnrUlXBV_U3PtlDlIyZ-RBsblkpmxhiVxFkTUW36TbWjWtJgLYYi28wU0AUmeg/s320/pic10.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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Next, to the left of the wall covering, she put up the collage of naked people:</div>
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On the opposite wall we decided to hang up my mom's homage to Andy Warhol.</div>
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<img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaITt90metiV-L74TZrpanrMij_PJmwPe677DN5WRfq9O5KVgW9ggHgJBTWiKpkCmJsYRpehUSe_glxP64wvbv7u73g5q53RK1Sad443j2FhEII1tQkPMJdZa0gHi54onpWmL4jw/s320/pic1.jpg" width="180" /><br />
<br />
<br />
As Sheri lined up these pictures she asked if I had a measuring tape so she could make sure they were even. I scrambled inside my kitchen junk drawer and suprisingly found one. "<em>What's this doing here?"</em> I thought as I handed it to her. Her eyes widened. "This is MINE!" She flipped it over and sure enough, there it was: <strong>PROPERTY OF SHERI WONG</strong>. Oops. Hey, how did that get in there? (<em>Okay, so Sheri and I may have some history of her helping me get out of domestic jams.)</em><br />
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After she reclaimed her measuring tape, she touched up my kitchen with a picture of my mom's egg art on one wall and a cool framed picture above my Wedgewood oven on the other wall:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mebeTUhFSFw0-ESWcAKP_XCouRjM6ju737j-8RnSaEbzwxB6tuRyFYfTu1QjRUrBDl8FShh6oQwWum5khLdvQDZzEhzd4PLXw0xWfjfO0FgcKiTLmxZHPQtefmJDDWCJh2cnGw/s1600/pic7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mebeTUhFSFw0-ESWcAKP_XCouRjM6ju737j-8RnSaEbzwxB6tuRyFYfTu1QjRUrBDl8FShh6oQwWum5khLdvQDZzEhzd4PLXw0xWfjfO0FgcKiTLmxZHPQtefmJDDWCJh2cnGw/s320/pic7.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Does it look crooked, it's not.</td></tr>
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<strong>Mom's egg art</strong></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFlzzdPC4Cy-worQFFh1tnKhUcj-XoxTpVCJnAChaOLGS6-741V_YOAFHplY_GKD9-QutF4ayA_tEo2q2gFNOJHHcUIgsE04oQ9s0wdni4BcZ64DtP2MWCwQIbUVxzL_4-GnYLw/s1600/pic6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFlzzdPC4Cy-worQFFh1tnKhUcj-XoxTpVCJnAChaOLGS6-741V_YOAFHplY_GKD9-QutF4ayA_tEo2q2gFNOJHHcUIgsE04oQ9s0wdni4BcZ64DtP2MWCwQIbUVxzL_4-GnYLw/s320/pic6.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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She checked her phone for the time, packed up her belongings, including her measuring tape and was gone in a dash. What I had put off for months, she had accomplished in a little over an hour. And me? I was left with the task of putting things away. But as I tried to stuff back all the nails and other gadgets into my kitchen's junk drawer it exploded on me: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIP35AnjcGoN-Otvz4w2q8rSWw0Ir3PwBK-_wVPS0kR28SOX9JZfKxVgCbXNouR59hodX4jg5n1ZhfstfpUgvU2d5Ejm1b4ATgvh8u1SpNAXvKBJkOFdUi2wfwDnyrUgQ2KJn1cA/s1600/pic10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIP35AnjcGoN-Otvz4w2q8rSWw0Ir3PwBK-_wVPS0kR28SOX9JZfKxVgCbXNouR59hodX4jg5n1ZhfstfpUgvU2d5Ejm1b4ATgvh8u1SpNAXvKBJkOFdUi2wfwDnyrUgQ2KJn1cA/s320/pic10.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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<strong>I can't close this drawer now, it's stuck</strong>.</div>
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<strong>Then I got ambitious and started emptying out all my "junk drawers" and whadda ya know? Turns out I already had a hammer:</strong></div>
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. <img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Dmij2047BgU4PpJC9-yRCIMgBpasKVf9Qk8-wkiaeuzetRbLPi_J4y3y6LEt1NSvyoIVs9ECOICy4WUEPqlWFuXl_xnSqITFZhcGw6vt7o5NJtAXIGpsdCYUu3Bg3v8LY9Gv4w/s320/pic4.jpg" width="180" /><br />
<strong>Two is better than one</strong><br />
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I learned something that day. Two really is better than one and don't be afraid to ask for help-even if that means calling in the big guns.</div>
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-50052909238750289872013-01-01T16:21:00.001-08:002013-01-01T16:21:04.245-08:00The Girl Who Wasn't There<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Back in 1985, in the movie "<strong>The Big Chill</strong>", starring <strong>Kevin Kline</strong> and <strong>Glenn Close</strong>, a background actor played the part of a body lying in a casket in the opening funeral scene. Pretending to be dead in a casket would have seemed like an easy part to do with guaranteed exposure, right? There were no speaking lines, and all the actor had to do was pretend he was sleeping, knowing that every audience member in the movie theater would see his face once the film hit the big screen. However, when "<strong>The Big Chill</strong>" was finally released in theatres, the footage showing the actor's face in the casket was deleted. It was probably a bit of a blow for the then, unknown actor, <strong>Kevin Costner</strong>, to be taken out of a film that he thought might lead to his big break. Fortunately, for him, as I don't have to tell you, his career recovered. But for every Kevin Costner, there are thousands of unknown (<em>and some known</em>) actors who continue to end up on the cutting room floor.<br />
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In March of 1995, I stepped onto the set of my first television commerical. It was for <strong>Nike</strong> and featured tennis players <strong>Andree Agassi</strong> and <strong>Pete Samprass</strong> who were at the top of their game at the time. I was doing background work in a crowd of about 300 people who were watching a faux tennis match that took place in a busy intersection in downtown San Francisco. When the 30 second commercial aired a couple of weeks later, my friend Kristen, who also worked on the commercial with me, called to let me know:<br />
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<em>"I saw the Nike Commercial. We are not in it."</em><br />
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Well, I wasn't in the 30 second version and thought that I better get used to not making the cut. And then a funny thing happened about six months later. I received a call from the ad agency who produced the commercial and they told me, "<em>We expanded the spot to 60 seconds, and now you're in it. This is your lucky day."</em><br />
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A contract was mailed to me and I became eligible to join the Screen Actors Guild. Boom, just like that. Some actors move to Los Angeles and struggle for years trying to get their SAG card, but me- I thought, "S<em>hoot this is easy</em>."<br />
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A very young Theresa in a purple sweatshirt at about 22 seconds in, runs up to Pete Samprass:<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HkFytHPxa_4">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HkFytHPxa_4</a><br />
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I received a modest amount of residual checks for a commercial that aired for only 13 weeks, but back then I thought it was big money. But then something happened after my first big break--nothing happened, for years. Or so it seemed.<br />
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What appeared to be a great start to a possible acting career and a quick answer to a prayer (Dear God, should I do theater or film?) was becoming more and more confusing. <br />
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The doors didn't open much for me with acting jobs. I'd finally get an agent, only to lose an agent, to getting another agent, to losing that agent. I couldn't seem to build momentum.<br />
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It would only be the beginning of my long journey in the entertainment industry of let downs and being the girl who was "<em>of it, but not in it." </em>From then on, I would work on lots of movies, television shows and commercials that I was not actually "in". Sure I worked four consecutive nights out in the freezing cold in a cable car scene in the <strong>Sandra Bullock</strong> feature film, <strong>"The Net".</strong> But when you watch the movie, I, along with about a hundred other hopeful background players are not in the final cut. All that footage down the drain. And then there was that one time when I worked on the Robin Williams' movie "<strong>Flubber</strong>" playing a high school cheerleader, whom you barely saw on screen even though the camera man gave our cheer squad ample camera time on the set while filming. Then there was that other time where I worked 2 whole months of 12-hour days on the movie "<strong>Scream"</strong> as a stand-in for <strong>Neve Campbell</strong>, only you would never know about it, because I didn't receive a credit. I'm not bitter (<em>sarcasm</em>). There have been lots of movies and television shows where I haven't received credit. This will test your motives, your reasons why you do the things you do. I do it because I love it. And sometimes I do it for a paycheck.<br />
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I have never made a consistent living while doing movie/commerical work and have always needed a day job. And as of January 2012 I still had lingering credit card debt. It was at this time that a new class at my church was being offered titled <strong>"Emerge: Shaping Dreams Into Destiny</strong>" - and the price of the course - $300. My spirit was stirred within me, but where would I find the money? So I prayed about provision and shortly after I got a last minute call to do some "hand model work" on a <strong>Chrysler </strong>commercial. I simply had to put my hands on a steering wheel for an hour and it was the easiest $492.00 I ever made. Now I would have enough money to take the class. When the commerical finally aired during the <strong>Superbowl</strong> that year, my hands were nowhere in the commercial- (<em>even my hands</em> were left on the cutting room floor) Cool spot though:<br />
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<strong>It's Halftime In America...</strong><br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PE5V4Uzobc">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PE5V4Uzobc</a><br />
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Apparently this commercial caused a bit of controversy.<br />
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Then in February 2012, I drove up to the little town of Yountville in the wine country to do some background work for an <strong>American Express</strong> commercial featuring world famous chef <strong>Thomas Keller</strong> and his restaurant, <strong><em>THE FRENCH LAUNDRY</em></strong>. All of us extras were portraying dining patrons and were seated inside the restaurant strategically. Originally I was sitting at a centrally located table (that they called the "hero table") and thought for sure I would be seen on camera. Then at the last minute, before the cameras started rolling, I was asked to switch places with someone else and ended up left of camera, and I assumed-- out of the shot. Yet again, I had been placed in deep background, or so I thought.<br />
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But when the commerical aired during the Oscars, a friend of mine saw it and insisted I was in it. I assured her that was not the case, but she was convinced. Then a couple of weeks later I received a letter from the ad agency for <strong>American Express</strong> saying I had been upgraded from background to principal (meaning I am recognizable and will be getting paid for every time it airs on television) Hey, what do you know, I <em>am</em> in it.<br />
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<strong>Membership has its privileges. </strong>(<em>don't blink, about 9 seconds in, I am sitting at a table left of camera with my hair up drinking a glass of water</em>)<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PevAJBcLI4U">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PevAJBcLI4U</a><br />
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And though, I am almost invisible in this commerical too, when the residual checks started coming in, I no longer seemed to care whether or not anyone could see me in the commercial. Funny how that works.<br />
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In March of 2012, the <strong>Emerge</strong> class officially began. Our pastor had us close our eyes and envision the dream God had placed on our hearts. As we went around the room declaring our visions, I announced that mine was to "<em>do a one woman show and travel with it."</em> I saw myself on a stage in London. I had never thought about London before and besides, how would I pay to get there?<br />
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In April 2012, I started receiving enough residual checks to finally pay off my credit card debt and build a savings. It was at this time also that I attended a theatre show produced by a friend of mine, Tracy Held Potter, titled "<strong>Woman In Solodarity</strong>". It was four women performing solo pieces of their own. Each piece was about 20 minutes and I was inspired. That's it- that's what I wanted to do. <br />
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I continued taking the Emerge classes at church every Saturday afternoon until the end of May 2012. It was a committment, but time well spent. Each week we were building trust with each other while sharing our dreams and articulating our goals. It had kick started something in me.<br />
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In July 2012, while attended another one of Tracy's shows, this time a play being peformed inside a record store (independent theatre, gotta love it) - she told me if I wrote a solo piece for next Spring's Women in Solodarity show, I was in. And the theme of the show- even better. "<em>Cat Ladies</em>". I took her up on her offer and a couple of months later, over Labor Day weekend at a family event, I came up with my working title- <strong>"One ExBoyfriend. Four Cats."</strong><br />
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In the Fall of 2012 I enrolled in a creative writing class hoping to jump start the creative juices and churned out a few pieces over the course of the semester. Now with a deadline for my cat themed solo piece coming up soon, I got get cracking!<br />
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2012 was a year of blessings and transition. In a heart beat, God can change your circumstances- one minute you owe thousands of dollars on your credit card and the next minute, you are debt free, with a savings and the impending birth of a new dream. <br />
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Here's to 2013 and to no longer being <em>the girl who wasn't there.</em><br />
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-39862844439007617102012-12-17T14:03:00.001-08:002013-07-21T19:29:53.530-07:00The Sounds of Sirens<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In between writing drafted stories and waiting until they are ripened to perfection, I forget to jot down streams of conciousness blogs because it seems that, well, that is what Facebook and Twitter are for. But then this blog feels neglected lately.<br />
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I woke up this morning to a perhaps, "2 alarm fire", across the street from my apartment building. When I first heard the sirens around 7:30am, I just thought they were the sounds of Oakland that I have grown accustomed to. Speaking of, I keep meaning to pen down that parody about Oakland to the tune of Simon and Garfunkel's "Sounds of Silence".<br />
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<strong>The Sounds of Sirens- An Ode to Oakland</strong><br />
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Hello loudness my old friend-<br />
Did I just hear from you again-<br />
An onward buzzing and HORNS blaring-<br />
Woke me from my sleep I WAS needing-<br />
<br />
-----<br />
to be continued.<br />
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Anyway, the familar sounds of sirens didn't faze me until they creeped up onto my street and two firetrucks landed right outside my window. At first I thought maybe someone had a heart attack or stroke and I was looking for a stretcher. But then, I saw a hose that was laying flat on the street. I looked up and noticed red flames shooting out of the second story rear side window of the pink apartment building across the street from me. I grabbed my rinky dink smart phone camera and missed my shot because my camera sucks. By the time I powered off and turned back on my phone, I only got a picture of black smoke:<br />
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<strong>View from my window</strong></div>
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I would like to say that my first impulse was to pray, but I would say it was a tie between praying and getting my camera to work. And then praying my camera would work. It's my personal battle of priorities between being a Christian and being a citizen journalist always looking for a story. But I did pray for everyone's safety and in the end, no one was hurt. At one point I saw the house next door voluntarily evacuate an elderly man and their black cat. <em>No animals were harmed in making this blog.</em></div>
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I had my eyes glued across the street for awhile. A few hours later, after the fire department had left, I saw a man go into the half charcoaled building and salvage his Christmas tree. To be displaced right before the holidays- wow. There was no going back to sleep now, which kind of sucked because I woke up yesterday morning with a very sore throat and I woke up this morning with a full-on cold. My Christmas cold came early. Here's to hoping I get it done and overwith before December 25th arrives. I should be okay- I got the stuff to knock it out:</div>
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<strong>It's the most wonderful time of the year:</strong></div>
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But how can any of us really complain about colds and property damage when we have our lives? And for all the sirens I have heard in Oakland through the years, I have never witnessed a mass shooting anywhere around here. It's crazy to think that I was safer in Oakland this past Friday, than a group of kindergartners were in Connecticut. You just never know.</div>
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Alright, the point of this blog was to pause and reflect and hopefully unblock the writer's block that plagues me. </div>
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Until next time....</div>
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-47649735472627458742012-12-09T12:50:00.001-08:002013-07-21T19:29:18.898-07:00The Alarmist<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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IT WAS MY THIRD NIGHT IN A ROW BATTLING WITH INSOMNIA. I woke up around 4:00am to the cold morning air, shivering inside my studio apartment with all my blankets kicked off my bed -again. What started out as a warm Indian Summer October evening had quickly transformed into a brisk early Autumn morning. I quickly sat up in bed, with my eyes still closed, and shut the window. As I scrambled for those abandoned blankets that were halfway to the floor, I noticed my eyes felt glued shut. I must not have properly removed all of my eye make up before going to sleep and my allergies were setting in. Going to bed with mascara on my lids would cause me to look like I had pink eye the next morning, which was the last thing I needed at this moment, not to ignore the fact that I also needed to go to the bathroom- again. Why oh why was it so much colder at 4:00am than at midnight and why were these late night trips to the toilet more frequent these days? Hadn’t I just been there two hours ago? I felt around my bed with my eyes still closed, searching for the abandoned thick tube socks that fit like slippers, compliments of an ex boyfriend. I slipped them back on my feet, attempted to open my eyes, and got up to relieve myself. It seemed that my bladder had become my new alarm clock these days, and as for my actual alarm clock that sat on the nightstand to the right of my bed? Well, it had taken on the role of something else. <br />
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I finished quickly and curled back into bed, this time with three blankets covering every inch of my bodily frame. As I began to get cozy again with hopes of drifting off into a deep slumber, I heard the sound of a car speeding down my street and then I heard it stop and slowly back up. I sat up in bed and perched out the window to my left in time to see a newspaper come flying out of an old white Toyota Celica, hit the front steps of my apartment building, and then dash away. Not many folks around here received good old fashioned newspaper subscriptions anymore.<br />
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I laid there in bed fully awake and stared at the ceiling while listening to wind chimes whistle from the apartment building next door . I looked over at the alarm clock--4:45am. And then the refrigerator in my kitchen, a mere 12 feet away from my bed, started to run.<br />
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Hoping those buzzing noises that came from that oversize appliance I made little use of, (except to house old Starbucks coffee cups and Chinese take-out) would lull me back into a deep sleep, I closed my eyes again.<br />
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<em>“If you fall back asleep now, you should still be rested enough for work,”</em> I assured myself.<br />
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Conversations of the day before, the week before, came tumbling up towards the surface of my mind. Then thoughts about the last minute email I read at 11:30pm before going to bed began to emerge. It was that last minute inconsequential email that would get my mind going at this God forsaken hour. Why was this the time my mind chose to process things? I began to notice the subtle pain in my lower right back letting me know that the Tylenol PM had already worn off. <br />
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<em>“Should I take another one? Half of one? Do I have the sniffles? Should I take a little Nyquil? Just a little maybe….”</em><br />
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In the faint background I could began to hear the sounds of early commuters whizzing in their cars on the freeway overpass about a quarter mile away. Was it that time already? What is it that they do for a living anyway? Were they stockbrokers? Were they club bouncers or waitresses just getting off a late shift? What is this- Vegas? Why weren’t they all in bed like me? That way, it would all be quiet.<br />
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It was now 5:00am. I grabbed my smart phone off the bedside table and checked my Facebook home page, but even my fellow Facebookers were not up yet as an outdated expired newsfeed from the night before sat there- dormant. People hadn’t posted for hours. Boring. And then I decided to catch up on my Words With Friends games, which only occupied me for another 15 minutes.<br />
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I noticed the sounds of increasing cars on the freeway almost sounded like ocean waves. <em>“Yes, those aren’t actually cars,” </em>I told myself, “<em>but high tide instead, and hey, maybe those waves will lull me back to sleep”.</em> Then I noticed a train’s horn in the distance. Society was up, but I refused to participate.<br />
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Then I heard the sounds of a person shuffling around outside. Knowing about a recent increase of burglary in my neighborhood, I quickly sat up and looked out the bedroom window again, only to see a professionally dressed businesswoman sporting a blazer and a hair bun, turn off her car alarm, climb into her Audi and drive away. Freak. I laid back in bed. I am NOT GETTING UP THIS EARLY. What time is it anyway? I shifted my head towards my alarm clock again- 5:30am.<br />
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<em>"It’s not too late to fall back asleep</em>," I assured myself, knowing that my alarm clock was set for 7:10am. I started thinking about the work meeting I had scheduled later on that morning. Was this the real reason I wasn't able to fall back sleep? Because I knew I couldn't afford to oversleep? I never had thought about work outside the office before- what was happening to me? I tossed and turned. <br />
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<em>"Should I just get up now before my alarm goes off?"</em> I wrestled before another voice quickly protested, <em>"NO! You will feel worse. Just lay in bed with your eyes closed. When your alarm goes off, at least you gave your eyes a chance to rest."</em> I acquiesced with the second voice. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep…<br />
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My alarm finally went off to the tune of many voices of talk radio and I didn't hit the snooze button. I found the banter comforting. Stories of traffic accidents and weather reports filled me with vivid dreams. In the calamity of it all, I fell back asleep....<br />
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-28720618715101351062012-10-21T14:32:00.000-07:002012-10-21T14:32:56.566-07:00Justice In America<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
“Veronica stole my pants!” my friend Julie told me one day in Junior High School.<br />
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"What do you mean?" I asked her.<br />
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“I let her borrow my Jordache Jeans, you know the ones with the white swirly stripes on the back pockets…”<br />
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“I love those jeans.”<br />
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“Yeah, me too- well, she borrowed them, stretched them out with her wide-ass hips, and then when I asked for them back, she said they were <em>hers!”</em><br />
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We stood there by our lockers as I listened to Julie rant on and on about her favorite designer jeans, shocked that Veronica could be such a bully. Well, I wasn’t that shocked, truth be told. Veronica had developed a bit of a scary reputation to the point where I had avoided any direct contact with her altogether. But not Julie- Julie wanted to be friends with just about everyone- even the mean girls, and now she was paying the price for it. After this incident, I decided that Veronica had crossed the line. Taking my friend’s favorite new pair of Jordache Jeans- the ones that Julie was planning to wear to our 8th Grade Graduation Party a week from today? I became enraged at the injustice of Veronica’s actions and thought, <em>“why, she can’t take my best friend’s pants and get away with it! This is America!”</em><br />
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“I’ll get your pants back for you,” I assured Julie, “don’t worry about it.”<br />
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Well, I don’t know what came over me that day, thinking I could just confront a girl who I had always been afraid of. Veronica may have not been a big in size, standing a mere five feet, zero inches tall, but she was a feisty little thing and was known for getting into fights with girls much bigger than her - and winning. And I, possessing a whole four inches over her, had never been in a fight in my life, until possibly now. <br />
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But I couldn’t even think about the possibility of me getting my ass whipped, the potential consequences of my soon-to-be actions. I was too busy hatching a plan on how to get Julie’s pants back. Through the rest of school that day, I sat in my classes, dreaming up a scheme of how to get our little revenge on Veronica. And then finally, during my 6th period History class, it came to me- it was perfect. I knew Veronica had P.E. class during second period, and I knew that she had a habit of leaving her clothes on the benches in the girls locker room, rather than putting them in her actual P.E. locker. I decided the next time I saw her wearing Julie’s pants, I would get excused to go to the bathroom during my second period English class, walk over to the locker room, grab Julie’s jeans off the benches and put them back in her hall locker for her.<br />
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The next day at school I noticed Veronica had Julie’s pants on again and I knew that I had to move swiftly. During the beginning of my English class, I stared at the clock on the wall, waiting for precisely 10 minutes to pass before asking to be excused to go to the bathroom. I figured this would be enough time for Veronica to change into her gym clothes and be out of the locker room and for me to snatch the pants back. But when I entered the locker room about 13 minutes into second period, Veronica was running late and was just then exiting. We made eye contact and I smiled at her sweetly as we both said hello.<em> “Darn it,”</em> I thought, <em>“she would now know I was at the scene of the crime." </em>It was a wrinkle in my plan for sure, but I wasn’t about to change my mind.<br />
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Sure enough, as I walked towards the benches, there they were- Julie’s coveted Jordache Jeans with the white swirly stripes on the back pocket, folded neatly next to Veronica’s other clothes. I grabbed them quickly, exited the locker room, and rushed over to Julie’s hall locker, dialed her locker combination that I knew by heart, put her pants inside, and went back to my English class. The plan went perfectly- for the moment.<br />
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But it didn’t take long before word began to travel that day that, “Veronica’s pants had been stolen during P.E. class and that she had to be sent home to get more clothes.” <em>“Serves her right,” </em> I chuckled to myself. However, by the end of the school day, rumors had already begun to spread that Veronica wanted to fight me.<br />
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“I knew it was you that took those pants,” she confronted me the next day at school, “I saw you in the locker room.”<br />
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I didn’t say a word.<br />
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With less than a week away until our 8th grade graduation, I begin dreading going to school, wondering if Veronica would try to start trouble with me. Other girls, who had gotten into fights with her in the past, began to approach me.<br />
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“She’s strong,” a girl named Cindy warned me, “if she pins you down, you won’t be able to get up!”<br />
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“She’s not that tough,” insisted another girl named Jessica, “she just talks tough!”<br />
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“What do you mean she’s not that tough?” Cindy shot back, “didn’t you see what Veronica did to Mandy Peters’ face? She didn’t come back to school for three whole days!”<br />
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My heart started to beat outside my chest. What had I done? Would I make it to the end of the school year alive?<br />
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As each day passed, I managed to avoid any confrontations with Veronica. I found it suspicious that she wasn’t seeking me during lunchtime or after school on the walk to the bus stop, and then I heard the news.<br />
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She was waiting until our graduation party to fight me.<br />
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The party of the year, the one where all the cool kids were going to be at, the one I had been looking forward to for months- would be the boxing ring of our so called rumble. I couldn’t believe she was going to ruin the party over this, but I wasn’t about to back down. Nothing would keep me from going to the social event of the school year. <br />
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“I am wearing my stretch jeans,” I quietly told Julie, as we rode in the backseat of my parents’ station wagon that fateful afternoon on the way to the party. I wanted to make sure I had enough flexibility if I ended up being pushed to the ground somewhere. I may not have ever been in a fight before, but I had wrestled with my older sister Lisa plenty of times and I knew how to tumble.<br />
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“And I,” Julie declared, “am wearing MY JEANS jeans!” She was so happy to have her pants back.<br />
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After my mom dropped us off at the party, we walked around the side gate and into the backyard. About 30 kids were there, mingling, sipping punch from a drink fountain and eating snacks while Quiet Riot’s “Come On Feel The Noise”, played loudly in the background.<br />
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As I reached for a red plastic cup to get myself a drink, I scanned the place in search of my nemesis while trying to not be obvious. And then in the corner of my eye, I saw her- Veronica, standing on the lawn against the back fence, talking with her posse of three other tough girls. She was glaring at me, with her arms folded. She was probably deciding when she should make her move. I pretended to be undaunted. But the night was still young.<br />
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I chatted up with my friends and laughed and joked and even danced a little as the party went on. But a couple of hours later, Veronica still hadn’t tried anything. Was she waiting until it was dark outside? And just how was she going to start trouble when the parents of our party host, were right inside the house? How did she think she was going to possibly get away with taking a swing at me while parental guidance threatened us just a few feet away? Maybe she didn’t care. I heard that about tough girls. And just then, one of her friends approached me.<br />
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“Veronica is ready to fight you now,” she said as if it was something I had agreed upon.<br />
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“So?” I said nonchalantly, trying to not appear scared, but really my heart was beating outside my chest again. Was I actually going to go through with this? Was I really going to let the bully of the school come at me? It was one thing if Veronica had come up behind me when I least expected it and I had to rely quickly on my reflexes-- but to allow me time to become afraid was just too cruel. I gazed back over at the fence to see her still standing there with the other mean girls, just staring at me. Was she expecting that I would make the first move? My mind was still racing when just then, I saw Veronica begin to walk slowly towards me and I had to think fast. I grabbed Julie and told her to come to the bathroom with me inside the house, but really I was going to call my older sister and tell her what was going on. At this point I hadn’t told anybody in my family yet but enough was enough. From the kitchen phone, I confessed to my sister about the whole pants debacle and once she found out, she told her tough friend Tiffany about it, who happened to be with her when I called-- and then it was on.<br />
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“Get Veronica on the phone right now!” Tiffany told me.<br />
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At this point Veronica and her posse could see me on the phone through the sliding glass door that separated the backyard from the kitchen. Julie nervously motioned to Veronica that she had a call, while I escaped to the bathroom.<br />
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I don’t know exactly what Tiffany told her over the phone, but whatever it was, it worked. I exited the bathroom just in time to see Veronica hang up the phone, avoid eye contact with me, and walk back to the backyard. She ignored me for the rest of the party, and although she didn’t quite raise a white flag admitting defeat, I felt vindicated. Crisis averted.<br />
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I never did see Veronica after that night. The school year was finally over, and rumor had it that her family was moving out of town. She would be starting high school 50 miles away from us, never to be seen or heard from again. And as for me- well, I never had a problem with anyone ever messing with me after that. I may have not had to physically fight my own battles, but I didn’t care. I was just happy that Julie got her pants back.<br />
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-52967218130505849642012-09-09T14:15:00.002-07:002012-09-09T14:15:43.194-07:00Those Were The Days<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
THE PET SHOP BOY'S HIT SONG "<em>WEST END GIRLS</em>", always reminds me of my older sister's friend, Heather, laying out in her backyard, while the scent of coconut suntan oil filled the air, back in the summer of 1986. My sister and I had stopped by her place for a visit and this song was playing on her radio. No, actually, it wasn't <em>on</em> the radio, but on a mixed tape of the radio. Heather had taped the radio because that's what we did back then. If memory serves, I think she also was wearing these funky red sunglasses. I have such happy memories of the 80's, I really do. We were carefree teenagers. Life was simple. It was cheesy pop music and suntan lotion for the most part. We were not overly burdened with the cares of the world yet and considered ourselves still kids. Meanwhile, back in East Berlin, Germany, young people our age, who looked just like us with their acid washed jeans and big hair, were fighting for their freedom from a repressive communist regime. Middle class American teenagers were criticized for being shallow back then, but I believe it was because we didn't have a common cause to rally behind at the time. We didn't feel like cold war kids. We had our freedom already, relatively speaking, and if our freedom was what made us shallow, then so be it. I mean, wasn't that part of what the East Berliners were fighting for? Their right to be shallow if they wanted to be? Their right to be kids? It all made sense looking back- why Irish band, U2's music was so rich with political meaning- meaning I didn't understand at the time. They grew up in a war-torn country. I didn't have those memories. I only remember the suntan lotion, the pool parties, the permed hair, and the Guess jeans. So sue me. I was being a kid for as long as I could before I had to go out into the "real" world.<br />
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As a fourth born, being a kid was what I did best. I milked that season of my life well into my twenties. I clung to the walls of home. And when I wasn't clinging to those walls, I had a short leash, just a half hour away, while cat-sitting full time for an employer in Oakland. I never strayed too far from the nest. So when a series of unforseen circumstances came upon me at the age of 35, in the summer of 2006, when I could no longer squat in my home away from home....I came home.<br />
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I just needed a place to stay through the holidays was the plan. And then the holidays turned into February. Then I started looking for what I could afford on my own in an area around my then workplace and the results were disheartening. With my paycheck, I could only pay for the smallest of accommodations, and at one point, was presented with the saddest, loneliest of unfurnished rooms. A simple make-shift studio space that someone had converted from their garage. And it felt cold like a garage. Staring at that room, I got depressed and just thought,<em> "why- I could just sit on that floor all by myself and think about my ex-boyfriend for hours."</em><br />
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Apparently I wasn't ready to re-leave the coop just yet, but I always found comfort in knowing I wouldn't be homeless. I would be an irritant, a rash for sure, to my parents, who had now become grandparents. Grandparents who just wanted to enjoy their Golden Years with the occasional visit from their offspring, and their offspring's offspring, but nothing more. They were done raising us kids. So whenever one of us took advantage of the revolving door that was home, they hesitantly let us in. Especially me. <br />
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<em>"I'll never leave,"</em> I thought as an 8-year-old girl who shared her room with her 9.5 year old sister. A 9.5 year old sister who was already collecting dishes and towels and putting them in her Hope Chest, for "<em>her own place when she was going to move out</em>." She was so independent at such a young age. We couldn't have been more different. I thought that all sounded so scary. How would I make it on my own? How could I ever afford a roof over my head? It was so grown up. I thought you had to be rich in order to live in a house. I thought my parents must be rich, but I knew I wasn't.<br />
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I finally <em>did</em> permanently leave their nest in the summer of 2007 and my old room has now been converted into my mother's art studio space. But there still is a bed in there, for you know... visitors.<br />
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Looking back, as a young person, I have always been fortunate to have shelter, clothes on my back, and the freedom to be shallow. Long live liberty and the pursuit of not having to worry about being homeless. Those deep politcial song lyrics written by U2 went right over my head in a middle class American suburbia bubble. The Vietnam war had ended by the time I was 3 years old and there would be no protesting during my youth. Hippies had become yuppies. Those were the days when we didn't have <em>causes</em>- we had designer clothes.....and we liked it. But mostly, we had suntan lotion.<br />
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-53963832736733783462012-08-31T12:53:00.000-07:002012-08-31T12:53:17.565-07:00Creative Writing Assignment #1: The Room<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>I am taking a Creative Writing class at Laney College this Fall semester. Last week we were given a writing prompt requesting that we simply write about the atmosphere in our classroom. Here's what I wrote.</em><br />
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Theresa Donahoe <br />
English 210A<br />
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The Room</div>
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I hate jazz. He had to pick a jazz cd for us to listen to, to take in, to digest, and distract us from writing our papers. The whistling sounds of that gut wrenching genre of music that brought back negative memories of a former jazz appreciation class I took years ago. I did not appreciate it. Busy saxophones and trumpets over took the classroom and drowned out the more pleasant buzzing noises of what seemed to be air circulating through a vent. Just air circulating through a vent would have been more peaceful. The squeaking of students shuffling in their chairs, with pens in hand, writing fervently on their notepads, would have been enough of a background chorus for me to write to. No soundtrack of annoying horns required. The occasional cough uttered in the room was more welcoming to my ears than any music played by Thelonius Monk or John Coltrane. The soft waxing lull of the teacher’s black marker as it apologetically screeched against the dry erase board, was more compelling than the sound of whiny horns blowing aimlessly in the wind. I looked around the room. Was this how it was going to be all semester? Was this part of the standard required uniform- the proverbial creative writer’s checklist? Long hair in a ponytail. Check. Liberal opinions sputtering about on political issues. Check. Vacant jazz music humming in the background. Check. And there they were- a room of writers, deep in thought, staring at their pieces of paper, feverishly gripping their pens, oblivious to the evil music that filled the room and undoubtedly spawned the likeness of Kenny G.<br />
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theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-76810176510095408722012-08-05T20:02:00.002-07:002012-08-05T20:02:34.828-07:00They Came To Pacifica<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I HAD A FULL EVENING THAT FRIDAY NIGHT IN OAKLAND, filled with eating sushi, hip hop clubbing and late conversation with my girlfriends. After all was said and done, I finally hit the pillow around 2:30am and was ready to dream. I was exhausted from the long work week and had pushed myself to go out that night. I figured- no worries- for I had my entire Saturday to sleep in, lounge around the apartment, doodle on my smart phone, relax, and finally get some writing done.<br />
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Or so I thought.<br />
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The next morning at approximately 8am, I woke up to the sounds of beeping construction trucks and busy maintenance workers speaking in Spanish while drilling into the street's pavement directly outside my bedroom window. If the sunshine of the predicted 90 degree weather forecasted for that day wasn't going to wake me up in these wee small hours of the morning (that's right 8am is wee), the sound of trenchless sewer plumbers would.<br />
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<strong>Rise and shine!</strong></div>
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<strong>This has to be some sort of a joke.....</strong></div>
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Grumpy and defiant, I laid in bed trying to go back to sleep until 10am, which was my normal weekend hour to rise. When I could no longer take the noise anymore, I rose from my slumber with my eyes burning. This was not what I had in mind. <br />
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There went my original plans for that Saturday. With my need for silence and complete solitude in order to create, I would get no writing done if I stayed in Oakland.<br />
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I started to entertain thoughts of staying in a secluded hotel room on the coast as my little landlocked studio apartment began to heat up and I began packing an overnight bag for the sleepy little ocean town of Pacifica. Pacifica: a frequently fogged-in locale that refuses to succumb to any heat wave the rest of the nation may be experiencing. And although I had visited there many times before, I had never stayed overnight. So I quickly read some hotel reviews online and figured I would wing it once I got down there.<br />
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I hopped in my car and sat in the typical East Bay traffic for a half hour on my way to the Bay Bridge. I sailed passed San Francisco and onto the coast. As the freeway ended and highway 1 became a four lane road, traffic begin to pile up again.<br />
<br />
Surely all these drivers weren't headed where I was headed, were they?<br />
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As I made the right turn into Rockaway Beach, I followed a row of other cars in. Apparently my secret destination had become all the rage.<br />
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Since I couldn't find street parking, I went ahead and parked in the "customers only" parking lot of Nick's Restaurant, telling myself I would patronize the establishment later. I climbed out of my car in search of my first task of the afternoon- a vacant cheap hotel room.<br />
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BEST WESTERN LIGHTHOUSE looked pretty good as it sat practically on top of the ocean. It coudn't have been cheap, but I thought I would ask. <br />
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<em>"Sorry, all rooms are sold out this weekend,"</em> I was informed by the front desk clerk. I nodded and left suprised. Pacifica? Sold out? What's going on?<br />
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My next stop was a rickety two star place that had mixed reviews on Yelp. THE MOTOR LODGE INN aka PACIFICA MOTOR INN. I couldn't help but chuckle- would there be any more room left for me at the Inn?<br />
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Well, I almost <em>did</em> get turned away at the Inn as they were originally booked out, but then I heard those coveted words: <em>"We had a last minute cancellation, " </em>and<em> </em>I began to perk up. Then it was followed by, <em>"it's a smoking room." </em> I mused at the thought of this, thinking about how I had just stayed up past 2am the night before at a friend's place, talking about random things, while she experimented smoking inside her house for the first time. I thought about how we laughed at the smoke rings floating above her head and how it reminded us of the 80s.<br />
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In an adventerous and somewhat desperate moment, I looked at the front desk clerk and responded: <em>"I'll take it!".</em> And then my curiosity got the best of me. "<em>Can I see what the room looks like?"</em><br />
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<em>"It won't be ready until 4:30pm," </em>he told me, "<em>but here's a key to the non-smoking room next door, room 303. It's the exact same set up."</em><br />
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At that moment a short Mexican cleaning lady came wandering in. The hotel clerk tried to confirm with her that my room would be ready at 4:30pm. She started to haggle with him and insisted, "<em>No</em>, <em>5pm!" </em>in to which he shot back, "<em>No, 4:30!"</em><br />
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I took the key and went to room 303 and unlocked the door. As promised from Yelp, there was a cramped bathroom immediately to my left. I saw the "uncomfortable pillows" that were also written about, but no one mentioned the four flies that were circling above the bed.<br />
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I took a deep breath and exhaled. <em>Note to self: ask for a fly swatter when you receive your key</em>. I <em>did</em> like that there was a table and two chairs against a window, and I knew I would be able to plug in my laptop there. It would have to do. As I returned the key to the desk clerk, he told me I was<em> lucky</em> to get the last room and that all the hotels were sold out "because of the golf tournament". <em>"Tiger Woods is 10 minutes from here,"</em> he informed me. As I stood there thinking about how I couldn't care less about some golf tournament, another straggler looking to escape the heat of the East Bay entered the hotel lobby looking for a room. "<em>Sorry</em>", he told the 50-something year old woman, pointing at me, "<em>she took the last one. You might want to try a hotel by the airport". </em>"<em>Yes</em>", I thought, "<em>and they probably have less flies."</em><br />
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Needing a way to kill time until my smoky infested room would be ready, I decided to make an honest parking lot patron out of myself and walked over to Nick's Restaurant to grab a bite to eat. I opted for a window seat in the bar lounge overlooking the ocean. I was determined to make this last minute weekend excursion relaxing while waiting for all the dust to settle (pun intended) and I could get into my room.<br />
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I noticed the locals who were seated around me had their eyes fixed on the two televisions that were mounted on the walls above. I never understood what was so great about watching golf.<br />
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I ordered crab cakes and a cherry coke and was playing Word With Friends on my smart phone when I heard a familiar song being sung by an unfamiliar voice over the radio speakers in the bar:<br />
<br />
<em>So you want to be a rock 'n' roll star?</em><br />
<em>Then listen now to what I say</em><br />
<em>Just get an electric guitar</em><br />
<em>Then take some time and learn how to play</em><br />
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I sat there listening, dead in my tracks. I had been humbled. It was the original version of a song I thought I knew. You mean Adam Duritz did not make up these lyrics on the live version of the Counting Crows' hit, "Mr Jones", a version that my ex-boyfriend had put on a mixed cd for me all those years ago? Apparently Adam was quoting another song, that I looked up immediately on my smart phone. A song recorded by the Byrds and released in 1967 literally titled, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/So_You_Want_to_Be_a_Rock_'n'_Roll_Star">"So You Wanna Be a Rock n Roll Star"</a>. And all this time I thought Mr. Duritz was being clever. I was realizing I was not the rock n roll trivia aficionado I thought I was. How did I miss that one?<br />
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As the bar filled up with people and I filled up on my crab cakes, I managed to burn an hour and a half away, pay my check, and move my car into the parking lot of the two star hotel. You would think I would have just walked over to the beach and stared at the ocean waves to pass the time, but lately I have been on a "<em>does your beach have sea-shells</em>" kick and I knew Pacifica's did not. I was strictly in it this weekend for the cool weather and hopefully peace and quiet. <br />
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But peace and quiet would continue to allude me.<br />
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I got my key to room 302 from the front desk clerk, and took my overnight bag with me up to the third floor. As I was walked down the hallway towards my room, I noticed the cleaning lady's cart parked right outside my door. It was 4:50pm and she was still working on it. I approached her and she smiled and insisted that she had just finished. But before she could push her cart away, I took a peak inside my room and sure enough I had to alert her of the flies that circled above my bed. She knew very little English and I had to just keep pointing at them, and saying, "<em>look- mira!"</em> <br />
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She went back to her cart, and I thought she was going to grab a fly swatter. Instead she grabbed a can of bug spray. <br />
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I stood there mortified as she started squirting bug spray in the air right above my bed to kill the flies. Then she took a towel and started to wave them out of the room. All I could think about was how there would now be the scent of bug spray and cigarettes mixed in on my sheets and pillow. <br />
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When the flies and maid were gone, I went downstairs to my car, got into my trunk, and pulled out my emergency sleeping bag made for such occasions as this. The hotel already had my money and I wasn't going back to Oakland so I figured I would make the best of it and besides, at this point, <em>I knew I would be getting another story out of this.</em><br />
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Once I settled into my room it didn't take long for me to realize that I wasn't going to get any writing done. Turned out the loud noises of motorcycles and other vehicles from the four lane highway directly behind my hotel, drowned out any blissful sounds of crashing ocean waves that were a mere block away from me in the other direction. Only the sold-out Best Western Lighthouse stood a chance of providing me with the ambiance that I so desperately needed in order to create. So I took off again in my car and headed to my favorite coffee shop in Pacifica that was two exits away- the Chit Chat Cafe. It overlooked the ocean.<br />
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I pulled up, plugged in by a window, ice coffee in hand, and was getting ready to write when I saw and heard the dreaded familiar noise of a microphone sound-check of a woman and her guitar. Of all the times I have visited this coffee shop, I had never been there for a live music set, and the place was getting loud and packed. Really? Pacifica? Why are you so loud this weekend? Why is everyone here? Why did they all come to Pacifica? The one weekend I needed it to be the loner town that it normally is, was buzzing with people. I got cranky. I thought that maybe if it was just a woman playing instrumental pieces on her guitar, I could still get some writing done. But when a man with a saxophone showed up, I immediately powered down. Not gonna happen. By this time it was beginning to be sunset, so I drove my car back over to the hotel, walked to the beach and took pictures of the ocean instead.<br />
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<strong>Maybe I just needed to do this all along. Sure there were no seashells worth a darn, but look, so pretty.</strong></div>
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After staring at the waves, I started to feel relaxed. The highway noise wasn't so loud now, so would at 9pm on a Saturday evening, finally be the time to start writing? It was.<br />
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I opened my hotel room windows and started typing away. It was late enough at night that the real work would begin. Some say the process of writing is 10 percent actual writing and 90 percent staring at the walls. I say that this time it was 10 percent writing and 90 percent getting in the mood for writing. I guess that means the same thing.<br />
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Around 10:30pm I started to get hungry and walked back over to my go-to Nick's Restaurant to see if the kitchen was still open. It wasn't, but the bar lounge was in full swing with live music and drunk locals. I asked one of the staff if there were any leftover dinner rolls that I could snag. He checked, and came back with garlic bread on the house. Happily, I thanked him and took it and walked outside to stare at the evening waves crashing against the rocks. I thought I would have another peaceful moment, but it was marred by the sounds of a drunk couple arguing in the parking lot. Completely unappreciative and clueless about how amazing the atmosphere was around them, I overheard the man yell at the woman, "<em>and this is why they call this town PATHETICA!"</em><br />
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Munching on my garlic bread back in my room, I continued typing until about midnight, and then decided to retire for the evening. I hoped that at this time of night, as the town went to sleep, that I would finally be able to hear sounds that I was looking for. Instead what I heard was the overspill of more drunk locals walking down the street yelling unitelligible phrases. When I woke up around 2am to go to the bathroom, I only heard the occasional car zooming past on the highway. As far as the ocean- not so much.<br />
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The next morning, I decided to check out early and get on the road, but as I was throwing my sleeping bag back into my trunk, the ocean reminded me I needed to visit her one last time. As I walked past the Best Western Lighthouse, I realized I wanted to envision what my ideal hotel room should look like-so I walked into their lobby, past the front desk, and up the stairs as if I was a guest staying there.<br />
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I roamed the first floor halls in search of that one ocean view room that would have the money shot. A cleaning lady pushing her cart saw me wandering and realized what I was looking for and pointed me in the right direction.<br />
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I came upon room 125 and the door was already open. I made eye contact with another cleaning lady who was changing the pillow cases and she nodded and motioned me inside. She knew what I wanted. I started taking pictures from inside the room.<br />
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<strong>View from Best Western Lighthouse</strong></div>
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<strong>Meanwhile, back at The Motor Lodge...</strong></div>
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<br />The Best Western Lighthouse hotel room was everything I imagined it would be. A room that sat right on the ocean complete with a soundtrack of crashing currents that could lull you to sleep. As beautiful as it was though, it didn't quite compare to a reoccuring dream I have been having lately.<br />
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I have this dream that I am staying in a hotel room that is very low to the ground and practically touching the beach sand. The ocean water is warm and a deep turqouise color. It’s very tranquil and peaceful. It makes me think it might be in Hawaii. When I first started having these dreams, I was always staying in one of the more modest, no frill rooms, but I would steal a peak inside the master suite that was located at the far right end of the hall on the bottom floor. But as the dreams progressed, the last <span style="font-family: inherit;">couple</span> of times I have had them, it is<em> me </em>that is staying in the master suite. I have yet to find that actual room in real life, but I keep searching. I have a feeling it is not on the California coast.<br />
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After finally getting the breathtaking hotel room view I was looking for, I left room 125 feeling a little more satisfied. I got into my car and drove back to the <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">East</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Bay</placetype></place>. With a 15 degree drop in the weather that day, it was finally safe to head back to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Oakland.</place></city></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
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<br />theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27058549.post-67465058562062677012012-07-07T12:20:00.001-07:002012-07-07T12:20:45.804-07:00Confessions of a Closeted Recluse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<strong>I GOT WIERD SLEEP THAT NIGHT I SLEPT ON THE FRONT PORCH</strong>. Although I was bundled up in my sleeping bag with extra blankets to shield my face from the cool midnight air, I still woke up to the sounds of garbage cans banging and dogs howling around 2am and then again around 4. The second time was probably because I am such a light sleeper than when my porch camping buddy got up to go to the bathroom, I followed suit. Then it was back to having wierd dreams until the sun begin to greet me some time after 6am. I ignored the sunlight that hit against my sleeping bag, nature's little wake up call, and forced myself to drift off again until after 8am. When my friend sat on her futon and started playing Scrabble on her i-Pod, I knew I needed to get up.<br />
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I was proud of myself though. As someone who doesn't share space well, especially while sleeping, I managed to get through the night. It would be an unusual thing for me to become such a privacy rat when it came to personal space. As a fourth born, growing up, I shared a room and bathroom with my older sister for many years and I knew how to share. It wasn't until I was 28, while cat-sitting on a regular basis for an ex-boss of mine, that I got a taste of living in complete solitude. And I loved it.<br />
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I loved it a little too much and hadn't realized what kind of reclusive creature I had become until I went on a ladies church retreat in the summer of 2002. At 31 years old, I still considered myself somewhat young at heart as I claimed an upper bunk bed in the cabin I was assigned to among eight other women. In my mind I still saw myself as a 12 year old girl, so imagine my surprise when I couldn't fall asleep the first night of the retreat while being in a room filled with so many other people. This coupled with the fear that I would roll off my bunk and hit my head on the wooden floor. Toto: We are no longer at junior high camp. <br />
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<em>"There are too many people here,"</em> I thought to myself as I took my sleeping bag with me and climbed down to the vacant bunk bed below me. All of a sudden, I felt crowded, like I couldn't get any downtime to just chill and relax. As long as people were around me, I felt busy and occupied. I recognized that the presence of people gave my Sanguine side energy, <em>even while they were sleeping</em>. I couldn't come down from the high, and I was exhausted. <br />
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And so the years went by in my thirties where I would occasionally experiment with taking an overnight weekend trip, here and there, while others loomed around me. I could never quite relax and chalked it up to "well, no one sleeps well when they are not home." But this put a dent in any travel plans I wanted to do. More and more I started daydreaming about taking a trip to Europe...alone.<br />
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Alone, where I could sleep in at my own pace. Wake up late without anyone telling me I needed to be up so we could get to some art museum on time or start a hike before the sun came up. To be on no one else's schedule, where I could just sit in a coffee shop with my laptop and people-watch for hours with no particular place to go, in a foreign land. Yes, that sounded good to me. <br />
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I felt like such a fuddy duddy, turning down group trips, especially anything missions related with the church. I had done the whole missions trip thing in my twenties- group travel riding in a van, sleeping on floors, wherever you could find space. I kept thinking I would get used to it, but with each trip I grew more and more grumpy. While others saw it as an adventure, rich with meaning and deep moments, I just wanted to leave.<br />
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I would have my deep moments later- about two weeks later- when I finally got home had time to myself to reflect about my trip. Reflections of handing out food and clothing to those more needy than me. Reflections about how others living in a third world had materially nothing compared to me, but were content with what they had. Memories of cramming 30 young excited kids into an old rickety school bus and taking them to a playground in a park just a few miles away- kids who almost never left their small village. They were good trips with good things, but those thoughts never hit me in real time. I was too tired and busy being cranky. And don't get me started on the whole "one outhouse for 25 people" type of thing. I just about cracked. This was the total opposite of privacy. You can't say I didn't try. I tried for years. I think it was safe to say that overseas missions was not my calling.<br />
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So there I laid, in my sleeping bag out on the front porch, a few feet from my friend as she played Scrabble. I had made it through the night, without being too wierded out. And I considered it a personal victory.<br />
<br /></div>theresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09892794189574071834noreply@blogger.com5