Still I Think of Him

 

June 29, 2013

Dear Mister Heartbreaker,

This letter is more for me. I doubt that I will ever send it to you, or that you will ever read these words.

I still think of you every day. I still love you, even from afar, even apart. When I told you I loved you I meant it.

Here's the thing: even though I may have thought you were the perfect guy for me, it didn't take me long to realize that I wasn't the perfect one for you. I wasn't what you wanted. Realizing that doesn't hurt as much as it used to, thank God.

Eighteen years. It's been more than eighteen years since I first met you, eighteen summers since I was so devastated and heartbroken over you during the hot, humid summer in Japan. I will still be thinking of you eighteen years from now when I am 65-years-old.

I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. I'm thinking of you even more this week because of DOMA being repealed.

I'm grateful to be with Domestic Partner still. We will grow old together. I need him. But he's not someone I would marry. More to the point, I am not ideal marriage material. My family does not have a good track record for healthy marriages. So, even if you had wanted to stay together, I wouldn't be the best candidate to be your husband. That would not have been fair to you.

I am not jealous of your partner which is a relief. But I look at him and think I would have been willing to be Mrs. Heartbreaker. I would have been willing to be your silent and supportive partner in all of your endeavors.

And maybe that would not have been fair to me. But I would have done it.

I regret telling you, after the last time I drove out to see your production company perform, that I still see the young man I fell in love with all those years ago. I regret it because I think it caused you to put some distance between us again. You were probably right to do so.

So, I apologize if I've continued to make you feel awkward with me. I'm sorry if any effort to pull you closer to me only made you push me further away.

God, I love you, Mister Heartbreaker. But here's the other thing: in the last seventeen years since we've left Japan, in all my heartache and despair over you, I think I've built you up in my mind as someone that you're truly not in actual life, kind of a fantasy figure. Again, that's not fair to you, not allowing you to be who you really are.

I keep thinking . . . even if our relationship had been given a fair shot, even if we had tried to stay together when we got back home to California . . . maybe we would not have lasted that long? I wanted to be monogamous with you but I wonder if we would have been faithful to each other? I know that at I least I might have ended up cheating on you, with all of the insecurities I felt when I was with you.

I would have messed everything up.

And your cigarettes! I would never date anyone who smokes, ha ha. I could never stay with a smoker. I keep trying to come back to that one fact . . . but still I think of you.

We met at a bad time. I had spent my twenties attempting to be celibate, had spent the majority of that decade in ex-gay ministry. When I met you I was like a junior high school kid discovering boys for the first time, trying to date with a limited emotional skill set - at 29-years-old! Too bad I didn't meet you when I was more mature, emotionally, and less prone to falling head-over-heels so quickly.

My life is good, I have no real problems. If I did, I probably wouldn't dwell on you so much or think of you on a daily basis. So, I am grateful for that. You've become a symbol, a reminder that I have no serious problems to worry about (even being unemployed for the last several months).

I need to change. I need to let you be who you truly are, the Real You. Mister Heartbreaker 2013.

I'm hoping to audition for your production company in a few weeks. Maybe I'll be good enough for you to hire me as one of your performers. Maybe we'll start working together again this fall.

And maybe we'll spend enough time together, as friends and as coworkers, for me to get to know the Current You better.

One-sided as this obsession may be, I love you, Mister Heartbreaker.

I always will.

Catching Up, Two Steps Back

I was unemployed for eleven months. I am now back at California Pizza Kitchen, the one in our neighborhood, a mile away. The "commute" is much more favorable compared to my former fifty mile round trip.

I am very fortunate. Tips have been good and I like my new coworkers. We've been having fun even though I am about twice the age (or more!) of most of the other servers. I like the changes that have happened in the last seven years since I was last with the company, including more casual uniforms (denim jeans and no neckties!).

California Pizza Kitchen had always been my fallback job in the past, whenever I was out of work as a dancer/performer, which was frequent. I had always looked for the first restaurant job available any time I was out of work. I wish I had followed that old instinct instead of applying for unemployment benefits as a handful of people, including Domestic Partner, had recommended.

But if I hadn't received unemployment benefits maybe I wouldn't have enjoyed being in three musicals this past year. Perhaps I wouldn't have signed with a talent agency for commercial and print work this year if I had taken a restaurant job sooner. Who knows? I am choosing to put performing on hold for now, conflicted as that makes me feel, so I can work night shifts and keep my day time free for auditions.

Okay, not really, not completely. I am also going back to working part time for a children's theater company, the Imagination Machine, a group that tours elementary schools. I had worked for them twenty-two years ago! My first show back is in ten days.

So, I feel as though I've taken two giant steps back. I failed in my attempt to be a real adult, although I deliberately avoided exactly that status for a couple of decades, mission accomplished (poor Domestic Partner!). I've been joking that I tried reality but I didn't like it.

It's good to be making regular, consistent income again. I appreciate the fact that I do not have to be at a job forty-five hours a week. I still feel I should figure out how to accomplish some sort of career, maybe get some additional schooling or training - I still have no actual real-world skills! Management training at the restaurant is one option . . . I'm not sure yet if I'll take advantage of that opportunity.

I've enjoyed my year off, my "vacation," but I'm glad it's over. Here's to 2014 and new beginnings, even if they're "old" ones. Happy Sorta' New Year to me, and also to you!

Grandpa Chuck

Grandpa Chuck was a mountain of a man, at least, in my 11-year-old eyes he was. He had a pot belly which, rather than making him look fat, only emphasized his status as an imposing yet gentle authority figure. He was my grandmother's second husband and the primary grandfather figure in my life.

Grandpa Chuck was brave. He had nicked his hand with a knife in the kitchen, once, and there was quite a bit of blood. I was awed and impressed as I watched him pour salt from a round, blue canister into his other hand before pressing it directly into the open wound.

I regret to say that I don't know or remember where Grandpa Chuck was from, originally. But I think he was from the Midwest, maybe. He seemed Midwestern because he was typical of traditional grandfathers from an older generation. He sprinkled salt on his watermelon, which I thought was weird. He took my brother and me fishing, showing us how to impale an earthworm on a hook.

Grandpa Chuck had an amazing tool collection on one side of his garage where he helped me to imprint designs on a leather belt, a craft needed for a Webelos badge. He grew zucchini and other vegetables in the backyard. Near the vegetables were the elevated cages where he raised rabbits. He had only one male rabbit which he gave to me for the asking when our sixth grade wanted to have a class mascot.

He also raised chinchillas for a while, which makes me a little sad to think about now that I know why he was raising them. But as a blissfully unaware 11-year-old I loved going to the middle part of the garage to look at the cute rodents in their stacked cages under the fluorescent lights.

I was surprised to see Grandpa Chuck be vulnerable. I watched this mountain of a man crumble in tears when my grandmother died of a heart attack. This strong, brave, traditional man stood between the dining room table and Grandma's organ and unexpectedly started crying in front of us, the whole family, as a church friend comforted him with hugs.

I haven't seen Grandpa Chuck in over thirty years. After my grandmother died he remarried. Our family get-togethers with him dwindled, being that there were no longer any blood ties. But he remains in my memory as a male role model. Like many "typical men" of his generation, he didn't talk much. But I'll always remember the example he was of a strong man - strong enough to be weak.

Who's Not Your Daddy?

I used to get asked, now and then, if Domestic Partner and I would ever consider adopting a baby. Domestic Partner always disagrees (or doesn't remember) but I would mention how he was the one to bring up the subject, more than once.

"I'm willing to make that commitment," I had told him. "But you have to think about the fact that it's going to be a commitment for twenty to twenty-five years. It won't just be a year or two of having a cute baby."

I asked him to look around the house and picture it covered in laundry and toys. "Oh, no," he countered. "It wouldn't be that bad with just one baby."

"What does your brother's house look like?" I asked.

Domestic Partner has a niece and a nephew. "Oh, yeah," he admitted.

"Your clean and tidy house would be history," I continued. "All of the nice things you have out now would have to be stored away if you don't want them broken. I imagine you never feel caught up on housework, once you become a parent, especially a working parent."

I also asked him to consider the fact that I would only work part time, if at all. I would be the Mom figure if we adopted one or more children. I would be the one driving kids to soccer practice and dance classes. I would be the PTA parent. I would have to learn how to cook and clean better.

I would also have a perpetual pot of coffee ready, 24/7. I think about BFF Kathy staying up later than her husband and kids - the only time where she can get a few minutes to herself to do things such as read - and getting up in the morning before everyone else. I know I would be tired all of the time, as a parent, but I would do it. You do what you have to do.

Domestic Partner made me really angry during a discussion a few years ago. He didn't think I could make the necessary sacrifices in my own life to become a parent. I guess he meant my selfish desire to perform, to sing and dance in shows. I argued that he should know how nurturing I can be from how I treated his dog when I first met him, although I'm going to guess that caring for dogs cannot be compared to the daily care of actual human children.

I didn't argue further. I was still mad but we had already decided by then that we were not going to adopt. There was no point in fighting about it, seething as I was at the time.

Domestic Partner is seven years older than me. I had asked him to think about how old we were going to be by the time an adopted child was college-age, or finally old enough to move out of the house, even if we adopted a child who was in grade school.

So, it never happened. We decided to continue adopting surrogate kids instead, the canine and feline varieties.

I used to think a lot about being a parent when I was in my teens and my twenties. I used to make plans about how I was going to raise them, how I was going to demonstrate love to them, and make them feel safe. During my thirties I realized that part of my desire to become a parent was to compensate for what I felt was neglected in my own upbringing. Once that realization surfaced, the desire to become a parent decreased significantly.

But I still think about it sometimes. I hope I would have had the patience to be a parent, even if I didn't always have the energy. I sincerely think I would have been able to give up what I need to, put my life and goals on hold, and put my family's needs before my own. I would have tried to be a fun parent, dancing and singing with my children in the house while they were growing up. I would have probably ended up being that Embarrassing Parent as they got older, so maybe it's better that we didn't adopt.

Still, if I hadn't met Domestic Partner, I could have dated a divorced dad with kids. I could have become the evil step-monster.

How I Spent My 48th Summer

Earlier this year I took Miss Jay's on-camera commercial workshop. I knew I was getting my money's worth when I recognized one of the classmates from a Nationwide commercial. I was actually the most inexperienced in our class of eight, having no film or television credits to my name, but I didn't mind being the beginner. It was a good workshop.

Miss Jay turned out to be the real deal. I decided to sign up for her second package where she works one-on-one with her clients to find a commercial agent. Miss Jay knows what she's doing. She is meticulous about details and very business-professional. Plus, she's been doing this for a few years (She's on a current back-to-school commercial that has been airing every day this month).

The process to actually start looking for an agent took longer than I had expected. I wanted to do everything right, as much as possible, so I was willing to wait. And Miss Jay's objective view of my "look" and how to market me turned out to be gold. Once I submitted my new headshots I started receiving responses within the first twenty-four hours.

Holy crap! Why did I wait so long in life to attempt this?

I had a few meetings with talent agencies this past week. They all told me the same thing: They need my look. They're all getting calls for older Asian males. One even told me that they have trouble finding older Asian males that can speak English without an accent.

Really? I find that hard to believe, knowing the competition that's out there, at least for musical theater.

I have a few more meetings with other talent agents this week. I feel like such a novice - again. So I'm a little nervous about making the right choice. I'm also anxious to get started. I'm hoping for beginner's luck.

I'm not so concerned about becoming famous as I am about finding gainful employment after being terminated last year. Fun gainful employment. I was also fired from Disneyland in the 80's. A few months after that I was hired for my first theater job, dancing and singing on stage, and for better pay. Getting fired turned out to be the best thing that ever happened back then.

It's a pattern I'm hoping to repeat this year but on the small screen. Fingers crossed!

The photo above was Miss Jay's first choice to submit to agencies, which worked like a charm! I am grateful for her expertise.

The Old Man and the Cheese Sandwich

We still used the word "hobo" when I was a boy, instead of the word "homeless." Neither word seemed to apply to the old man sitting in the public laundry room. He just seemed out of place in his white robe and simple head covering. Only English-speaking Americans lived in our new apartment complex, as far as I knew. I was seven. My father taught English as a Second Language, and we had just moved to Saudi Arabia.

The old man wasn't scary-looking. I don't remember whether or not he made my mother feel nervous. He was probably just looking for a shady place to rest. His robe looked light, airy, and comfortable: ideal clothing in the oppressive desert heat. The white cloth on his head was shorter than what most civilians wore in the city. There were no black rings to anchor his head covering in place as I had seen other Arab men wear.

His beard and mustache were also white, both neatly trimmed. He didn't seem poor, exactly, just from a different era. He was like my great-grandmother in Japan, who still wore yukata robes and sandals on a daily basis, rather than adapt to western slacks and hard-soled shoes.

Did he speak to my mother, ask her for something? I can't remember. I doubt that he would have spoken much English, and we had not learned any Arabic yet. My mother went into the kitchen and unwrapped a thin square of cheese which she placed between two slices of bread. The old man accepted the sandwich silently and graciously.

We never saw him again, but I have never forgotten my mother's quiet, simple act of kindness.

I Am the Girl in the Splits

There was a time when I believed I would never be able to do it. My body just wasn't shaped right. I would never be able to do wide second splits in dance class, no matter how much I trained. I was forever doomed to be merely hunched over, with my legs spread out and my back curved, hovering pathetically several inches above the floor. I didn't think I could ever "pancake" my upper body flat on the floor the way my dance teacher and some of the women could.

As I got older and started lifting weights more, I learned to use my increased body temperature and warm muscles to increase my flexibility. Certain weight lifting exercises put significant stress on the lower back (and no, I don't wear a weight belt). So, wide second stretches turned out to be a great way to relax the lower back and calm my strenuous breathing.

There was also a time when I was embarrassed to do dance stretches on the weight floor, especially dropping down to touch my toes for a hamstring stretch - as if I was "presenting" to anyone behind me. I had written about that before, when I had first started blogging. Funny how writing about certain fears and insecurities helps to diminish them, once you see it in print.

"Live here," I tell myself while in certain stretch poses. Not forever, just for now, just to give myself some patience to take enough time and stretch slowly. I would picture the girl from the 1980 movie, "Fame" (pictured above), the one who was effortlessly in the same warm up stretch during the dance audition scene. She was relaxed and casual, and so flexible that she could prop her elbows on the floor. I wanted to be like her.

Going to the gym regularly has taught me that it helps to pretend to be other people when I am feeling too weak or limited. Lat pulls are especially hard for me, but I've gotten better at them by pretending that I am Jackie Chan or Jet Li. In certain Pilates poses and exercises, I am Jane Fonda from the 80's. (Have you seen her lately? I'll take being Jane Fonda from this decade!)

I will always have role models, it seems, no matter how old I get. When I feel discouraged, when "being Peter Varvel" isn't good enough, I put on a persona, someone who inspires me, whether they're real or imagined. Just for now, until I can absorb it enough to feel better about myself.

I'm putting on costumes, playing different characters, even when I'm not on stage.

The Real Granny Tranny

Granny Tranny is real! I thought I had made her up but she does exist! I met her a couple of weeks ago.

One of my close friends is a church choir director. He and is wife enlist me sometimes for the choir's special events and performances, to provide choreography or simple movements for the singers. They gave me the heads up about one of their new choir members, a senior citizen who cross-dresses by stuffing rolled up shirts underneath a regular tee shirt.

They knew that I would be neither shocked nor surprised. They had both been at my graduation ceremony when I had completed my undergraduate degree in Gender Studies. I don't think I had ever told them, though, about a character I had included in one of my final papers. I had written in Granny Tranny as a special guest on the fictional television show, "The Gender Kids Club." It was a show where kids could learn about the varying degrees of femininity and masculinity, and a place where they could fit in any place they wanted to along that spectrum, where they could just be their natural boyish and/or girly selves.

I described Granny Tranny as an elderly African-American wearing a salt-and-pepper wig underneath her church-going hat. She favored gloves and purple polyester suits as her signature look. She addressed the kids as "duckling" and "lambkin" rather than trying to learn all of their names.

The Real Granny Tranny was dressed more casually when I met her. She had rolled up her jeans for the 50's theme night. Her tee shirt did indeed look overstuffed despite the fact that my friend, the choir director, convinced her to reduce the double 'D' size she had originally sported. Her bosom still resembled a lumpy, uneven pillow.

I had met her on a good night, apparently. I was informed that the usual stench of body odor was absent that evening. I said a simple "Hi" to her during the microphone sound check, same as I would greet any other choir member.

My friend's mother-in-law was in town visiting, so she was able to attend the performance. She liked the fact that someone such as Granny Tranny was quietly accepted in the choir and church, that there was no open hostility expressed toward her appearance or private protests expressed to the pastor and church staff. I agreed.

I later told Domestic Partner about the Real Granny Tranny. When I described her appearance, he told me that he had seen her on the Metro Link trains and buses in downtown Los Angeles. She is a homeless person, which explains her usual body odor I suppose. It made me happier that the church was willing to let her in their doors on a regular basis.

Granny Tranny looked pretty cleaned up on the night that I met her. I admired the fact that, rather than wear a wig, she had grown out her own natural, silver-streaked hair. It was combed neatly from the top, curling softly on the ends, like a chorus girl from the 1930's. She had about a day's worth of stubble, white and prickly on her chin and jawline.

I later learned that the Real Granny Tranny still goes by her birth name: Joseph.

A Princess Who Looks Like Me

I went to Disneyland last week with my Aunt Pat and her granddaughter, four-year-old Marlow, who calls me Uncle Peter. Never mind that she is my cousin's daughter. She's like a niece to me, in the fun and playful closeness that we already share.

I was happy to experience the Disney parks through a fresh pair of eyes. We started our day at the newer theme park, Disney's California Adventure. Marlow immediately wanted to go on the bumper cars in A Bug's Land. She loved Heimlich's Chew Chew train in which the overweight caterpillar-shaped vehicle eats his way through giant-sized vegetables, fruits, and desserts (um, does Eric Carle know that Disney basically ripped of his book, The Very Hungry Caterpillar?).

I quickly learned that tunnels were not an option. Marlow did not want to go any ride that took passengers into a dark and scary tunnel, including the new Little Mermaid ride. She waited outside with her grandma while I rode Ariel's Undersea Adventure by myself and took pictures (I was surprised not to hear a recorded announcement forbidding flash photography or use of recording devices). When I showed Marlow the photos, she was particularly interested in Ursula, the scary sea witch, and she kept asking me to page back to that picture.

Taking turns watching a four-year-old while she napped turned out to be an advantage. Aunt Pat let me go first in the single riders line of the new Radiator Springs Racers in Cars Land. It only took me ten minutes versus the 45-minute-wait in the regular line. I loved the new ride, and I knew Aunt Pat would love it too, when she took her turn. Marlow had a long nap, so we also took turns going on Soarin' Over California, the hang glider flight simulator.

Marlow loved the Pixar Play Parade in California Adventure. But the best part of the day was when we went into Disneyland park to watch the Soundsational parade. Marlow was bouncing and dancing to the music playing on the speakers before the first float arrived. At one point, when she saw the princess float coming down the parade route, she dug furiously through the items in her stroller, as if she were looking for a camera. When the float passed by, she waved to Snow White, Cinderella, Rapunzel, and Belle.

What had Marlow been looking for? And where were Mulan and Pocahontas? Where were the princesses of color? Oh, well. Each year, as the cast of characters continues to grow, I know it's not possible to include every Disney favorite in one parade. We continued enjoying the parade.

Once again, Marlow dug wildly through her stroller after seeing the next float coming down the street. She tossed items over shoulder, unknowingly hitting the people sitting next to us. Finally she found what she was looking for: her tiara from The Princess and the Frog.

Marlow had recognized Princess Tiana on The Princess and the Frog float several yards away, before it reached the spot where we were sitting. She was so excited! She wanted to show Princess Tiana that she had the same crown that she did. They were the same! Luckily, when the float passed by, Princess Tiana took a moment to acknowledge Marlow and wave at her.

Marlow is four. Her adoptive parents are both white. I think she understands at her age, already, the joy of identifying with someone in the media, someone you admire and want to emulate. The little Japanese boy that I used to be/still am silently rejoiced with Marlow. I spent part of my childhood in Japan, enjoying animé in the 1970's, so I don't think it bothered me as much when we returned to the states and I didn't see any television characters who looked like me (Does "Arnold" from Happy Days count?). Still, it felt like retribution when the Jackie Chan Adventures cartoon series first started airing.

When The Princess and the Frog first started playing in the theaters, my coworker took her half-Jamaican daughter to see it. Her daughter was about Marlow's age at the time. My coworker told me that her daughter stood up on her seat and announced to the audience, "Look, everyone! There's a Disney princess and she looks like me!"

That made me tear up a bit, as well as smile.

As Marlow grows up, I hope she continues to find positive role models in the media to identify with and look up to. It's her turn.

I Am the Girl in the Car

I have been a Madonna-fan from the very beginning. I identified with her music video for "Borderline," thirty years ago, especially when she was riding in the photographer's car. I was seventeen-years-old and I did not have my driver's license yet. I was dependent on my parents and friends for rides to school, church bible studies, theater rehearsals, etc.

The young adult novel that I am struggling to finish features a teenager who yearns for a Vespa scooter. Friends in my writers' group observed that the protagonist is always being driven places, given rides by others, instead of driving himself. I don't think that I was fully aware of that recurring theme until it was pointed out to me. But it's consistent with the character's desire for independence and freedom, and how the sought-after scooter represents both to him.

A used Vespa scooter became my "first car" in the 80's, once I had moved out of my parents' house. I couldn't afford a car. But the sleek, white Italian scooter was all I needed to get around town. I loved my little putt-putt. And it helped to give me the funky, avant-garde image I wanted for myself (at least I hoped it did).

I have had three more scooters since then (and three different cars). I gradually achieved some semblance of increased independence as I got older.

But not completely.

It bothers me a little that I never achieved full independence, at least financially. I have always rented rooms, always had roommates. Delaying college graduation and a "real job" until my forties probably had something to do with it. The best I managed to take care of myself was when I went away on contract in Japan, or when I worked on cruise ships. Housing was provided for both of those jobs - no rent to pay! So, I guess that I still wasn't completely independent with either job.

Even with my "first real job," though (which ended a few months ago), I didn't see how people could afford to live on their own in Los Angeles. I would probably have had to take a second job at night if I were single. I don't know where I would be without Domestic Partner . . . probably still on a cruise ship or in Japan (if they were still willing to hire me, that is).

I am grateful that Domestic Partner and I still together. I'm grateful for my own car, my own transportation, grateful that I am in the driver's seat sometimes. But every weekend, when we go out, I sit in the passenger seat of Domestic Partner's BMW convertible.

Some days I am still that girl in the car.

Back to My Future

This is my Back to the Future year. I turned 47-years-old last week. Not that that specific age makes this year any different than usual. I normally think about my teenage self on a regular basis, wishing I could start over.

I don't like admitting that, common as it may be for one to wish that they could have another chance to do things better. It's completely useless, wanting to be young again so that you can do things differently. It's never going to happen.

So, why can't I stop thinking about it? It's probably just typical of being middle-aged.

But just for kicks what would I have done differently? I would have found a way to be more courageous, in general, more confident. I would have pursued dance and performing more aggressively, instead of feeling so pressured to go to college.

Or maybe I would have mustered up the determination to finish college by my early twenties, all while attending dance classes regularly. I would have started drinking coffee much earlier in life.

And I would have stood up for myself more when it came to how I wanted to shape my future. I would have developed a backbone, despite my fears, especially when it came to dealing with my father and his good intentions.

I'm sure many fans of the Marty McFly trilogy felt the way I did after seeing the first installment: I wished that I, too, could go back in time to visit my parents when they were in high school and change our family's collective fates for the better.

I wanted to improve the foundation of my parents' young adult lives in the hopes of improving our family dynamics in the present, and my own life as a teenager.

Now I am like the middle-aged Marty in the second installment, strumming his guitar and nursing his regrets over dreams unrealized, the could've-beens and the should've-beens.

How pathetic!

How can I use my own regrets constructively? The only useful answer I can come up with is to literally rewrite my own story. I am more than halfway through the first draft of my young adult novel, what I've written so far. And I know how it ends. I know how I want to set it up the last chapter to lead to a sequel, a second novel. But it's been slow writing. I'm having trouble bridging the middle part of the story to the ending.

I owe it to my 17-year-old self though. I owe it to my inner teenager from 1983 to finish the book, even if it never gets close to being edited and published. If I can't do it for myself, my present self, I can do it as a labor of love for him.

This is my Back to the Future year. This is the year I will commit to completing the first draft, one page at a time.

Memories of Moxie

It's over. We said goodbye to Moxie the pug tonight. She was the last surviving dog of the three we adopted from the pug rescue group seven years ago, when she was eight-years-old.

She would have been fifteen this year.

Domestic Partner and I took her on that "last trip to the vet" tonight. I am grateful that she went quietly and quickly, thankful that we had that option. I am especially grateful that Moxie deteriorated so naturally and gradually in the last few months. Except for the last week, she had regular appetite and regular trips to the backyard, sometimes even making it on her own, still, on her frail, functioning legs.

She was a feisty one. She used to bully Prudence, pushing her around sometimes during walks and meals. We had to watch them when they ate. Moxie-the-gobbler would always finish first and try to bulldoze her way into Prudence's food dish. At the adoption fair Moxie and Prudence were one of the pug pairs that needed to be placed together, and we went in knowing that we wanted two. Oscar, the 12-year-old male, also at the pug rescue event, was given to us for free.

Moxie was called "Curly" when we adopted her. We were instructed not to change any names since the dogs had been through so many changes already, from the homes of their original owners to foster homes. Domestic Partner and I had always talked about naming a pug "Moxie" someday, specifically a black, female pug. So we broke that rule.

It was the perfect name for our feisty, bitchy darling. Every time we walked in the door she would assail us with energetic barks, as if to scold us for leaving her alone for so long, or to demand to be fed. She was very sweet, too, especially when she was asleep, or just cuddling next to us on the couch.

I will miss her. There were a few tears at the vet clinic tonight, but not as much when we lost our "only child," Caesar, a few years ago. It was a little easier this time, knowing that Moxie had more of a fair shot at living out her life completely. In addition to a decrease in appetite and losing strength in her hind legs, Moxie even stopped drinking water today, so we knew it was time.

"Are you guys going to get another dog?" people constantly asked us, even when our elderly dogs were still alive and in good health. We always say that we're going to take a break, even though they usually end up being famous last words. But this time I think we mean it. It will be easier to follow through this time because we still have a young, affectionate kitty who snuggles in bed with us while the nights are still chilly.

But I'll never forget Moxie, or her sister Prudence, or old man Oscar. I miss Caesar every day. He was the First and Best Pug, the one with whom I had the strongest bond. And I cherish the memories of all the family dogs before Caesar.

I don't know how it works, this life-after-death thing, but I sincerely hope I'll be reunited with the energy that was/is Caesar and all of the other beloved pets.

I'll miss you, Moxie, my surrogate child. And just like the others that have gone on before you, I will love you always. Find Prudence and Oscar, and maybe you'll get to meet Caesar.

Use some of that feisty bitchiness to put in a good word for me up there.

Hiding From Me

I don't like to admit it, but I've been hiding from myself. I used to hide from myself by not journaling at all, when I was younger. I guess the more contemporary version of that is not blogging at all.

I am still unemployed.

Some of my family members, including me, have an absolute gift for self-pity. We are experts at feeling sorry for ourselves. Fortunately, I am not as afflicted as other relatives with this emotional legacy. It doesn't take too much effort for me to keep even just slight depression at bay.

But I haven't been living very courageously in the last couple of months. That's what bothers me. That's what I'd like to work on, and that's why I'm writing this post today. Even if I feel as if I have nothing to write about, I still need to face myself.

What have I been doing? I've been taking care of our last surviving pug, Moxie, letting her sleep in more. She is fifteen-years-old this year. This past winter, I hated having to wake her at about 6:00 am on cold, dark mornings just so I could feed her before leaving for work. We didn't think she'd last this long. We kept thinking each month was her last. But she is still going strong. I'm glad I can be home with her during her old age and not just in the evenings.

I have a small but joyous part in "Born Yesterday," the current show with Inland Valley Repertory Theatre. I am optimistic about being in the ensemble for their next show, "Cabaret," the musical.

I did not get cast in "Sweet Charity" last month. I couldn't be sad or disappointed about it, though. My ankle is much better after last fall's surgery, but still not 100%. I was just happy to be able to get through the dance audition as well as I did. Something I do not mind admitting is how much the cartilage was crackling in my legs while dancing, like bacon frying, especially when doing the grand plíe. Oh, the plight of the aging dancer!

I just completed an excellent commercial workshop. It's silly how tentative I feel about wanting to find an agent. This is something I've wanted to pursue for most of my adult life. I am more comfortable in my skin, now, so the timing seems good. And as long as I'm free during the day I may as well try to audition as much as possible. This is one specific way I want to live more courageously.

But living as a responsible grownup? That's something I've avoided for most of my adult life . . . It's something I'm still not very skilled at, even after six years of working at "my first real job." That's what I need to be more courageous about, the older I get.

Little Things

I hate to brag (no, really), but I truly am one of the luckiest people alive. One of the reasons I feel so fortunate is that it's fairly easy for me to realize why I am lucky, even when things are at their worst (such as when I lose my full time job).

Most of the time, I can feel grateful for having Domestic Partner in my life. There are times, though, when I feel like he is always in the way when we're both at home, especially in the kitchen. And I don't even cook and clean that much. Is this how married people feel? How can only two people get in each other's way so often in a three-bedroom house?

He's always right there, too, when I want to brush my teeth at night. It's as if there's a magnetic tracking device in him, even when he's in the middle of watching TV. I've tried different times before bed. It doesn't matter what time it is or how silently I try to start brushing my teeth in our not-so-spacious bathroom. Whether it's before 9:00 pm or after, there he is, my pre-bedtime shadow, cutting in front of me to take out his contacts and start brushing his own teeth.

My life is a constant trial.

I've learned to put my frustration aside and just wait the paltry two or three minutes before I resume brushing my own molars.

Loud sneezes - he sneezes at a high volume, directly towards my eardrums it seems, when we're sitting next to each other on the couch or in the car. I've told him that it is possible to sneeze without employing your vocal cords. But I've since become resigned to the fact that I'll probably have to live with the unexpected explosions for the rest of our lives.

It's little enough. At least he covers his mouth.

Apple stickers. Those little decals that are stuck to every individual piece of produce from the supermarket. Those are always in the sink's drain catcher whenever Domestic Partner washes an apple, even though it's just as easy to stick it to the plastic bag lining the trash can under the sink.

Bright green loogie flecks stuck inside the toilet bowl when he uses the Crest mouth rinse. It's better than having them stuck inside the bathroom sink. But still: the toilet has to be flushed right after spitting so that the green loogie flecks don't get attached.

BE REASONABLE. DO IT MY WAY.

I'm sure there are several things I do every day that annoy him, too, things I'm not aware of. We tend to hold things in, Domestic Partner more so than me, even though we know it's not a good habit for couples - letting resentment build up.

But we rarely fight. We have a peaceful home atmosphere, which I usually remember not to take for granted. It's not worth expressing my petty irritation over the little things. I don't even to need to give much thought to picking our battles.

And so, I feel lucky.

Bitchy Boy

Jalen (not his real name) was so bitchy. I met him in rehearsals for one of the shows I did this past year. Sometimes, he complained about the rehearsal process. And he was critical of everything in the entertainment industry. But he adored Britney, so we bonded over that.

Actors and performers who were not la Spears, though, were subject to his immediate criticism and disdain, whether on stage or in the media. He had an opinion, usually low, about anyone's and everyone's performance.

Jalen, himself, was a marvelous performer and rather awkward looking. He was a good "character type." You just knew that adolescence must have been absolute hell for him. It was easy for me to forgive him for his bitchy attitude, once I surmised that it must be a defense technique, built up over the handful of years of his young adulthood.

We shared a brief, memorable moment. On opening night, Jalen and I answered our call to places, squatting behind a set piece before revealing ourselves in the first number. In the dark, just before the curtain and the lights went up, I whispered to him: "Magic!" Jalen responded with a friendly, brotherly squeeze to my shoulder.

Before rehearsal one afternoon, I saw that I was right behind Jalen's car when we had both exited the freeway. His car was closest to the homeless person holding up a cardboard sign. I saw Jalen's hand reach out of his car window, a folded bill in his hand.

I never told Jalen that I had witnessed his act of kindness. But I am inspired by him to continue giving what I can, when I can.

Bitchy Boy has a soft spot.

I Still Want to be Donny Osmond

I go back and forth, between feeling I should be more age appropriate in my performing desires (blah, boring) and saying to hell with it, age be damned. I lean toward the latter (for now), constantly inspired as I am by other people's performances.

Favorite Aunt Pat bought tickets to Donny & Marie's Christmas show at the Pantages. It was her early Christmas present to me. I had been reading good things about the show on facebook, but neither of us expected to enjoy the show as much as we did.

The show was a good mix of traditional Christmas songs, pop tunes, and the Osmonds' well-known hits from forty years ago. All age groups were in the audience, so it was a great show for those of us old enough to remember when they were "a little bit country, and a little bit rock and roll" on their Friday night variety show.

There were no Ice Angels skating on the stage . . . But I didn't know that they would have a chorus of dancers! Four young women and four young men added a lot of fun energy to the numbers. It was like watching a topnotch revue on board a cruise ship.

Marie jokingly inserted references to Nutrisystem, and Donny kept lording over her the fact that he had won his round of Dancing With the Stars. Donny is 55, now, and I watched closely as he kept up with the other male dancers less than half his age. The guy rocks like the white boy that he is, in the hip hop numbers, but the point is that he still rocks!

And they look good, both of them, on top of being as vocally strong as ever. I don't have five decades of lifetime performing to fall back on, the way that the Osmond siblings do. But I am inspired! If they can still kick it on stage, then I still have a few years left to continue auditioning for local shows.

I can't wait!

Next Chapter, Please

Well, there went six years of my life.

I was fired from my job last week, from the film school in LA.

I am okay, grateful, even, which was a little surprising.

I am fine, mostly because I am covered, financially, even emotionally.

It was not completely unexpected. I had been spoken to, earlier in the year, about the option of leaving on my own, voluntarily. Instead, I asked for a probation period to attempt, once again, to improve my performance, to increase my numbers.

Didn't work.

I am only mildly devastated, if at all (Am I in shock? Will I feel it later, like a paper cut?). It was a good job, a great job, even, at times. But I didn't love it. I enjoyed the customer service aspect of it, but not the sales part. I didn't want to take advantage of anyone.

I didn't hate my job, but I wasn't thriving in it. Mostly, I just focused on being grateful to be employed at all in our recent economy.

But no more commuting in freeway traffic, at least for now. No more forty-five hour work weeks, and no more Saturday open house shifts once a month.

It was my first real job after years of waiting tables between far-too-few performing jobs in theme parks and on cruise ships. So, for that I will always be grateful, my first real world work experience.

For now, I will focus on cleaning the clutter out of my house. I will be the anti-hoarder (except for the Furbies, of course). I will inquire about volunteer opportunities while I search online and apply for job positions. I will practice my musical theater songs for upcoming auditions.

And I will write. Now I have no excuse not to start blogging regularly again. I will make an honest effort to complete the rough draft of my young adult novel, Scooter Boy. I may even put pen to paper and fingers to keyboard, to jot down a first draft of the drag queen revue that's been bubbling around my mind for the last few years.

I will meditate on where I want to be six years from now, and let that help me make my decisions over the next few weeks.

I will remain optimistic, even though I know I may not be able to keep feeling so every single day.

Phoenix rising, again.

Mickey on the Radar

Paul was short, short enough to fulfill the five foot tall and under requirement for the costume. He wasn’t a dancer, but he must have attended the same dance audition that I did for the Electrical Parade at Disneyland.

Paul was cast as Mickey Mouse in that parade.

I didn’t know Paul that well, even though we had both graduated from Norco High about a year before we were first hired at Disneyland. I knew who Paul was. I think he was albino, his pale skin and white-blond hair making him distinctive, in addition to his height. I think his eyes were sensitive to bright light. He wore sunglasses in his senior portrait for the school’s yearbook.

Paul had helped out with the football team, I’m not sure quite how, I’m ashamed to say. I never paid much attention to the football games, even when I was playing in the stands or for the half time shows with the marching band. I think he may have helped with game statistics or something.

It was among the football team that Paul was called by his nickname, “Radar.” I read an interview with Paul, I think in the school paper, where he was quoted as identifying with the character of the same name on the T.V. series “M.A.S.H.”

A year after graduating from high school, Paul and I sometimes carpooled to the Magic Kingdom together. I still didn’t get to know him very well. He was nice and polite, but quiet. Once inside Mickey Mouse though, he had the proper enthusiastic energy while atop the big, round float lit up like a Christmas tree, bouncing in tempo to the light and peppy electronic parade music (“Baroque Hoedown,” it was called).

I was probably too closed off to Paul. At nineteen, I was dealing with coming out of the closet that summer, trying to find a compromise between my sexuality and my Christian upbringing. I wasn’t comfortable talking to Paul about what I was going through.

In recent years, I had heard that Paul already passed away, I don’t know how or from what. I was sad to hear it.

In the almost three decades since that first summer at Disney, my strongest memory of Paul was on the last night of the Electrical Parade. Backstage, before that last parade of the summer season, Paul sat with his Mickey head cradled in his lap. He held the pale rubber face and black fur-covered ears as one would hold a beloved pet, rocking back & forth.

Paul was saying goodbye to Mickey. It was too much like someone saying goodbye before having to put a family pet down, so bittersweet.

Being Mickey Mouse may have been the best thing to happen to my classmate who was born five feet tall. Paul had the energy and the experience to audition into the park’s Character department, as I did after the summer parade ended. But perhaps the daytime shifts were not an option for his sensitive eyes, even though his head would have been covered, his eyes shaded by dark, cartoon lenses.

Wherever Paul is now, I hope he’s still bouncing to the beat, as happy and as energetic as his former alter ego, free from any limitations.

Swan Song of the Scooter

I survived my last scooter crash last week, on Wednesday, September 12th, 2012. As much as I hate to have to admit it, that may have been my last scooter ride ever, at least, on the freeway.

I am comfortable splitting lanes, going in between lanes of cars on the freeway, passing everyone and beating traffic. It's legal, here, in California. But my scooter is small, freeway-legal though it may be. I know I'm practically invisible to other motorists.

The guy driving the huge pick-up truck saw me. He was in the carpool lane and he inched over to his left. I felt safe enough to pass him on his right as I accelerated. The vehicle in front of him did not see me. The woman driving that vehicle was crossing the double yellow line to jump out of the carpool lane into the lane on our right. I was too close to her. I couldn't brake and/or swerve in time to avoid colliding with her.

My candy-orange scooter bounced off of her car, and then hit the bumper of a second car in front of hers. I was aware of flying off of my bike, clearing the windshield (thank goodness!), and doing what felt like a rather spectacular single flip before hitting the pavement. The driver of the second car that I had hit stopped in front of me and got out. He asked if I was okay and told me to sit up. He was wearing a sheriff's uniform and he was speaking into his phone.

In less than five minutes I was surrounded by other police cars and fire department vehicles. I couldn't help noticing that I was also surrounded by several young and attractive officers and fire fighters. Using shears, they sliced through my work slacks and dress shirt sleeves to see if any other external injuries could be located. I was glad I had chosen an outfit that I didn't care about losing.

Before the other vehicles arrived I could feel the sprain in my right ankle. I rotated it gently. There wasn't much pain but it was already swollen. I removed my helmet and propped my right foot up on it. Sitting there on the 10 freeway, cars going around our collision site (some of them honking, even), I was thinking to myself that I was going to have to get my ankle checked out at the hospital. I could still probably make it to my friend's play that night, "Prelude to a Kiss," I thought, even though I might have to miss work that day. I could still be back on stage the next night for "Miss Saigon," I had thought, even though I would probably have to stay out of the dance numbers.

X-rays at the first hospital confirmed both a dislocation and a fracture. The need for surgery was also confirmed. I heard the words 'fibula' and 'femur.' I wasn't going to be able to finish the remaining three weeks of "Miss Saigon" performances. I wasn't even going to be able to go to work for a while. I was acutely aware of how lucky I was to come away alive and in one piece, that nothing else was seriously injured besides my ankle, other than a few bruises and scrapes.

I felt both humbled and extremely fortunate.

I was later transferred to a second hospital, one a mile away from my home, which made me much happier. After a comfortable night, surgery was performed the next day.

I'm on crutches now, but even luckier - I haven't been taking the painkillers at all. I haven't even filled the prescription, which includes a narcotic, so I am not anxious to take it. The pain is minimal. I've only been taking Tylenol once a day.

I am anxious to get back to work, to get back to my regular routine and regular pay. But I may have to wait a couple of weeks or more. I have been instructed to rest and keep the foot elevated so that the bones can heal properly, along with a couple of pins or screws that have been placed inside.

I could be sad about not dancing for the rest of the show this month. But I am optimistic about auditioning for shows next year, the year that I will be turning forty-seven. Anxious as I am to get into my car and drive to work using only my left foot, my biggest motivator to stay put is the possibility of dancing again in 2013.

I will miss my scooter-riding days. I'm not sure if that was my last scooter ride ever, but it was the last time I'll commute to work on the freeway on one. I have been pushing my luck for too long, and drivers in L.A. are crazy. Riding a scooter and passing other cars has shown me a number of people texting while sitting in traffic.

I'll miss you, scooter. Thanks for the feel-good days of driving in sunshine and good weather. Thanks for the feeling of freedom I had felt while driving at safe and leisurely speed rates. Thanks for the adrenaline and euphoria during the faster speed rates. Thanks for the me time and all of the songs I had playing in my head while I rode. Thanks for quiet time and meditation I accomplished while riding.

I'll miss you. But I am very thankful to be alive, to have the chance to start over and rebuild from only a fractured ankle.

The photo above is courtesy of the BFF Kathy files.

The Crying Show

Drained, emotionally drained.

I already knew going in, before rehearsals started, that I would be crying quite a bit while learning the music and blocking for Miss Saigon. Even just in first vocal rehearsals, sitting around a piano with the cast, I had to bow my head to weep as quietly as possible while Nicole, our "Kim," sang the moving solo, "I'd Give My Life for You," a heart wrenching song of love and devotion sung to the character's small son, "Tam."

I was glad I was sitting in the back row.

Tam is played by Kyle, a six-year-old actor. He looks like and reminds me of my nephew, who is the same age. Kyle also looks the way my college-age nephew, Shane, did so many years ago, when Shane had auditioned for the very same role.

It's difficult for me to handle when Nicole/Kim is singing to Kyle/Tam in rehearsals. I see my own mother's face as I watch Nicole sing about parental devotion and sacrifice to Kyle, who is a tangible and corporeal representation of my inner child and vulnerability.

And I am absolutely loving the entire rehearsal process. I am trying to be consciously aware of how much I appreciate the opportunity to be part of this amazing and special project. Many of the cast members, from as young as 17-years-old to almost-my-age, have done the show before. A few of them were in the national tour. The directing and creative team sincerely care about and respect the story of the show and the way it's told.

It is not a "happy show," but it is a joy and a privilege to be part of this cast that is synchronized in unspoken understanding and a willing, mutual effort. Everyone demonstrates a high level of professionalism in that they all know how to show up, and shut up, and focus on the task at hand.

I told a coworker that one of the reasons I'm enjoying the rehearsal process so much is because this is one of the first times in my life that I feel as though I'm in the middle of a storybook, bringing it to life.

But oh, how we cry. During a climatic scene in the second act, when the iconic helicopter swoops in from above, we are screaming at an uppermost level of desperation as Vietnamese villagers, pleading with American G.I. soldiers to let us in past the border gates and fences, begging them to save and rescue us. Every cast member has been so genuine in their individual performances that we all seem to feed off of and support each other. The only way I know how to pull off the level of desperation needed for that scene is to think of my late pug, Caesar, as I scream to be united with my son. With the heartbreaking cries and pleas of the other cast members, the desperate tears flow easily.

I am exhausted. And I am at my happiest, my most content, from the fulfillment of doing what I love best and from the satisfaction of getting to be part of such a high quality production. It has been worth the lack of sleep. It hasn't been too bad during the daytime, sleepy at my job's desk, and yet, feeling peaceful and grateful while I anticipate the evening's pending rehearsal.

I have been listening to the music from this show for two decades, now. I should have made more effort to get into a production of it much earlier in my life, even for the national tour. But I have lived a lot of my life in the "better late than never" mode. Now, as an older performer, the young women of the cast affectionately call me "Auntie," partially because of the "mama-san" character I play in the opening bar scene. It is an endearing moniker that warms my overly-emotional heart, reassuring me of the bond we have already formed in our little theater family.

Yes, better late than never.

For information about tickets and show times, please visit Candlelight Pavilion's web site.

(The photo above is from the rehearsal of of yet another emotionally-charged scene where soldiers intimidate and abuse the main character, Kim)