10 Apr 04

Winter sports have never been my “Cheez Whiz”. I love the balmy breeze as it hits my face while I water ski over a calm, glassy lake. I love the lack of clothing necessary to engage in this sport. A swim suit and a life vest and I am good to go. Plus, I used to get paid very well to glide across the water looking athletic and serene. So when the opportunity arose for me to take a trip to Whistler, B.C., I balked.  “Ahh gee, can I stay in the chalet with a hot toddy and some hors d’oeuvres?” You see, that may have worked when I was younger and without a child, but knowing how athletic I was and still am, my son would not let me get away with hunkering down in an overstuffed love seat in front of a cozy fire. So I acquiesced and took the road to Whistler from Vancouver; an impressive and picturesque drive about 1 hour and 45 minutes from home.  It was a relatively balmy spring weekend. The temperature was in the low 60’s.  Quite tolerable.  I arrived mid-afternoon and felt confident that I would not be pressed to go skiing that particular day.  After all, true skiers get out in the early morning, ski until midday and then retreat to their accommodations for apres ski and dinner. (Love that apres ski thing, especially the boots and clothes.)  Our hosts provided a sumptuous dinner and the wine flowed. (It only flowed for me about 2 times, I am a two drink drunk…and a two day hangover).  The following morning was the moment of truth.  Luckily, my husband and son wanted to go to the village after breakfast. (Breakfast was served mercifully late) We looked into skiing lessons but were too late for some (whew!) and too conservative financially for others (whew!).  However, my son insisted we take the 25 minute gondola trip up the mountain to scout out the area. Easy stuff - sit, ride, jump off, look around, eat, sit, ride, jump off (you get the picture).  But as we ascended what seemed to be three miles of mountainous terrain, a change came over me.  I saw young, old and in-between, alike, having fun.  I saw novices and experts shushing down all types of runs.  My eyes grew bigger and bigger.  “I think I can do this!”  Given my slightly competitive nature and my sense of adventure, I began to feel the pull of the slopes.  I began to understand the attraction, the seduction of the snowy powder, the need to have a cute bunny suit and fabulous sunglasses.  I couldn’t get enough of the warm sunshine on my face (with SPF 60, but on my face, nonetheless).  I was convinced that this was my next frontier.  My next Mount Everest.  My next MAJOR investment!  I mean, do you know how much all those accoutrements cost?  Regardless, I am going to throw caution to the wind and suit up!

But, alas, it will have to wait until next year, ski season is about over and it has gotten warm again. Sand and surf here I come!

In 1988, I was shuttling between two repertory companies -The Riverwalk in New Orleans and St Louis Union Station in St. Louis, Missouri.  I was on the New Orleans to St. Louis leg of this particular trip.  As my travel companion and I boarded our flight I recognized a slight figure, in jeans and a baseball cap, hurry past me and take his seat.  This particular man was (and still is for that matter) a great, GREAT dancer.  An inspirational dancer.  Inspirational to me and many of my fellow company members.  I had taken classes at ABT when he was Artistic Director between 1980 and 1989.  He was, god-like, with God given talents and beauty.  I revered his talents.   I am not easily star-struck, when push comes to shove, they are pretty much just people.  I am sufficiently satisfied to admire them from afar or at the very least use elements of their talent, professionalism and experience to enhance my own art.  But this was Mikhail Baryshnikov!
 
For some reason, on this particular day, on this particular flight, I felt it behooved me to very quietly, nonchalantly, approach him for an autograph (ok I was still young but haven’t made that mistake since).  I was a bit nervous because after all when one is face to face with an icon it can take your breath away.I took a clean drink napkin, and with no regalia, walked back to his seat. I leaned down so as not to make a spectacle of myself and said barely above a whisper, “Mr. Baryshnikov, I am a dancer and an admirer of yours, may I please have your autograph?”  Without looking up or looking at me, he snatched the napkin from my hand, scribbled his name (today, I still swear it looks like it says Mikhail Gorbachev not Mikhail Baryshnikov), and again without looking up thrust it towards my face. I must have looked dumbstruck because the woman sitting next to him looked at me and mimicked “I didn’t know who he was” and then shrugged like she felt sorry for my moment of humiliation.  I went back to my seat and didn’t say anything for a moment.  Then my travel companion asked what had happened and I recounted my moment of ecstacy and pain. When we landed, I was greeted by my entire company, complete with balloons and signs and singing.  What a contradiction!  From humiliation to validation in the span of a plane ride!  Mr. Baryshnikov disembarked, took note of the fanfare and scurried off.  I told one of the company members and he squealed and took pursuit, returning only minutes later to declare that Misha had left the building on a flight to New York.  Dissed by the best. I’m ok with that!

In 1988, I was shuttling between two repertory companies -The Riverwalk in New Orleans and St Louis Union Station in St. Louis, Missouri.  I was on the New Orleans to St. Louis leg of this particular trip.  As my travel companion and I boarded our flight I recognized a slight figure, in jeans and a baseball cap, hurry past me and take his seat.  This particular man was (and still is for that matter) a great, GREAT dancer.  An inspirational dancer.  Inspirational to me and many of my fellow company members.  I had taken classes at ABT when he was Artistic Director between 1980 and 1989.  He was, god-like, with God given talents and beauty.  I revered his talents.   I am not easily star-struck, when push comes to shove, they are pretty much just people.  I am sufficiently satisfied to admire them from afar or at the very least use elements of their talent, professionalism and experience to enhance my own art.  But this was Mikhail Baryshnikov!
 
For some reason, on this particular day, on this particular flight, I felt it behooved me to very quietly, nonchalantly, approach him for an autograph (ok I was still young but haven’t made that mistake since).  I was a bit nervous because after all when one is face to face with an icon it can take your breath away.

I took a clean drink napkin, and with no regalia, walked back to his seat. I leaned down so as not to make a spectacle of myself and said barely above a whisper, “Mr. Baryshnikov, I am a dancer and an admirer of yours, may I please have your autograph?”  Without looking up or looking at me, he snatched the napkin from my hand, scribbled his name (today, I still swear it looks like it says Mikhail Gorbachev not Mikhail Baryshnikov), and again without looking up thrust it towards my face. I must have looked dumbstruck because the woman sitting next to him looked at me and mimicked “I didn’t know who he was” and then shrugged like she felt sorry for my moment of humiliation.  I went back to my seat and didn’t say anything for a moment.  Then my travel companion asked what had happened and I recounted my moment of ecstacy and pain. When we landed, I was greeted by my entire company, complete with balloons and signs and singing.  What a contradiction!  From humiliation to validation in the span of a plane ride!  Mr. Baryshnikov disembarked, took note of the fanfare and scurried off.  I told one of the company members and he squealed and took pursuit, returning only minutes later to declare that Misha had left the building on a flight to New York.  Dissed by the best. I’m ok with that!

Yesterday was bright and sunny! A welcomed relief from the usual rainy, dark, spring days in Vancouver. The window on the driver’s side of my car was down, the radio was playing pop music and my son was chattering in the backseat. We were headed to our favorite neighborhood restaurant for Friday lunch. I had placed my cell phone on the dashboard after talking with my husband. As I made a right turn, my phone (in slow motion) slid all the way across the dashboard at just the right angle and trajectory, out of the driver’s window and onto the street. It landed smack dab in the middle of the lane of oncoming traffic. I quickly pulled over. I carefully jumped out of the car, making sure I did not become a statistic, and watched as my phone was run over by a moving van. Then a car. Argh, this is not happening. Luckily, this was a 2 lane, surface street near a school so I did not take my life into my hands when I approached what I was certain was a pile of glass, fragmented plastic and wires. The next oncoming car stopped, mercifully. To my complete surprise the phone was STILL WORKING. Although the back cover was bent and mis-shapen and the glass plate was cracked, it still worked. That is a commercial if I have EVER seen one. I am going to call the cell phone manufacturer and tell them what a sturdy product they have made. In the past, I have a history with cell phones…my last one was dropped off a boat, into the Pacific Ocean, by Phil Hartman, the week before he died. Don’t ask.

Aging is inevitable but slipping into midlife in anticipation of old age and dying is not! I am learning to allow myself to morph and change…the person I am now is certainly not the person I was in my 20’s or in my 30’s and I truly hope today I am a BETTER person not just an aging person. I spent years, since I was 12, strictly in the entertainment industry. My careers as a stunt person, dancer, circus artist and professional water skier are over but the memories aren’t and my experiences have not been negated just because,  I don’t work in those jobs anymore. What has emerged, however, are things I started doing at a young age, maybe just for fun, that will carry me through the rest of my life regardless of my age. Writing, my love of heritage homes and their restoration, singing and producing socially conscious shows for television have become my passions. When I was younger I didn’t have the knowledge or in most cases the finances to propel these interests. But now, after a few years of investing bit by bit, I am reaping HUGE benefits because I took a chance, dug into my emotional reserves and coaxed talents out that I previously dismissed.  Most importantly I opened myself up to new endeavors and tried to ignore my inner voice telling me I couldn’t do it or I shouldn’t do it and I should play it safe. I looked fear in the face and jumped in with both feet. I realized my new road didn’t have to be a boulevard but perhaps a quiet country road and if it stayed a quiet country road I would still been satisfied. However, you don’t if you will end up in a parade on your big boulevard until you take the first step!

I own rats. I mean I really OWN 2 adorable, boy rats. On purpose! They weren’t vermin in my home, I adopted them! When I declare my adoration for my 2 boys (which brings my household to 5 males and ONE female)I get two definitive and opposite reactions. “Oh, that is amazing, I LOVE rats, I had them when I was growing up!” “My child has rats now, they are SO easy to care for.” “Can I come by and see them?  We love rats.” OR “You’re kidding, right? Rats?” My house-sitter’s reaction was the piece de resistance (accents missing) “When you called to ask me to house sit I was sure you said you had new baby RABBITS. Maybe it was my connection. I mean, you couldn’t have said rats, no one in their right mind would have rats!” OK, I have not claimed to be in my right mind for a long time, or ever!  The biggest groan I get out of people is:  if their tails were different than maybe they would be ok, but their tails are just GROSS!  However, these two little creatures have won our hearts. They can eat almost any healthy food that my family eats. They are clean and their cage is easy to take care of. Once a week I scoop out the bedding, wash their little cloth beds and replace everything. They have adopted OUR schedule instead of their inherent nocturnal schedule. I am thankful for that one concession. The rats are in our son’s room. My son could sleep through a monsoon, but my husband, who sleeps in his room when he is afraid of the dark, was kept awake several nights by their activities. “What do they find to do all night?” They love to sit on our shoulders and nibble on our ears (I can hear groaning out there!) and we don’t have to walk them, change their litter pans, or listen to any barking. We can even spend a night or two away from home and they are perfectly self sufficient with the food and water provided for them. I may not convert any non-believers but I will endeavor to shed light on the difference between the vermin that runs between the walls and the “Fancy Rats” that I now own. (More grumbling…a rat is a rat is a rat!) Perhaps like politics and religion, some twains may never meet.  But my little menagerie has expanded in VERY interesting ways.

Last November I was returning from the gym to pick my son up at school. It was raining (it does that in Vancouver) and my yoga shoes were wet on the bottom.  I pulled up in front of the school, as I had done a hundred times before - I put my foot on the brake and, in a very surreal moment out of a Fellini film, my wet foot slipped off the brake onto the gas and my car lurched forward.  I tried to avoid a collision but in the blink of an eye - BAM!!  I hit the wealthiest family in my son’s school, in their BRAND NEW Mercedes SUV - and it was parked.  Imagine my shock, my dismay, my FEAR. MY FIRST ACCIDENT!!!!!!!!! And it was ALL MY fault. There was no denying it, no excuses, no way out.  Luckily, I have the world’s most understanding husband.  “That is why they call them accidents, sweetheart.”  Little consolation, some, but little.  Of course, the insurance company took care of everything.  Unfortunately MY car was not insured for damages but they would have their $3000 plastic bumper replaced post haste.  I drove around in my car with the black eye for months (the left headlight and hood were obliterated).  I wanted the reminder of my altercation. After I felt I had suffered sufficiently I plunked down the $1200 and had it repaired.  That could have been an entire summer’s worth of cute shoes and skimpy dresses.  At least we all walked away without a scratch. (that is, physically, I still have brutal flashbacks!)Story #2

A blog is a blog is a blog…but in my contemplation and my webmaster’s suggestion of a blog, I wanted to make this an UN-blog.  By that I mean, I will not subject you to insufferable daily ramblings about what I had to eat, who I talked to on the phone, my latest argument with my mother (however, that MAY be the subject of a column) or how much chocolate I ate and regretted. I thought I would use this opportunity to post published and unpublished articles I have written and excerpts of my two new books - Grown Up Angst - a book of prose and poetry and 12 Ways to Pursue Your Dreams - a humorous look at “going for it”. There may be stories about my life, observations, musings, impressions, or rants and raves. But I will not talk about my bowel health, the virtues of a good waxing (scared of that), my son’s report card or my hairdresser’s latest trip to SPAIN (lucky him, but I travel, too). My writing may address motivation, inspiration,  current events, injustice, politics, indiscretions in the media, world affairs, health, relationships, spirituality, childrens’ issues, animal issues, the lastest in anti-aging (I have tried almost all of it) fashion, or the latest film or series I loved/hated or was indifferent to…This won’t be tabloid in the least. Hope you come away with something on this journey! Let me know!