Trying to Get My Mansions Green

Wednesday night, I saw a musical production of "Grey Gardens" at the Northlight Theater in Skokie. If you are not familiar with this story, (even if you are familiar, honestly) you might not understand how it could be adapted into a musical. It makes perfect sense to me.

Grey Gardens is a documentary from the 70's that opened the doors on the elderly Edith "Big Edie" Bouvier Beale and her middle-aged daughter, Edith "Little Edie" Bouvier Beale. They were cousins of Jackie Kennedy who lived the life of two deranged old maids in a once-magnificent, now dilapidated mansion, Grey Gardens. Of the 28 or so rooms, they only utilized a single bedroom with a dorm fridge and a hotplate, occasionally traveling to the deck to sun themselves. A gardener, 50 cats, and several raccoons also lived there. It's easy to forget you're watching a documentary, because the subjects are so colorful and lively for the camera. Big Edie sits in her bed and listens to records, mostly. She is constantly looking for missing cats, and warbles along with her music. After awhile, the audience is clued in that the singer on her records is actually her. She did some recording in the 40's, but it's tough to gauge if it's just a personal recording by some rich lady, or if she was truly regarded as a talent. Little Edie, the sole caretaker for her ailing mother, shines for the camera with political statements, personally designed outfits, and song and dance routines. Likewise, the audience soon understands that her every moment is as insane and meaningless as the next.

There is no beginning, and no conclusion. There is simply this moment in time that is Grey Gardens. It's fascinating and frightening to know that a family could shun their own so completely. However, the Beale gals were proud, and didn't seem to want anyone invading their routine. There is Jerry, the long-haired young man who inexplicably comes around and keeps things running. He tokes up now and again, eats some hotplate corn, and offers the women a washer and dryer, which they refuse. The women bicker, but seem to coexist happily. In a shocking climax of rebellion, Edie denounces her mother, packs her belongings in a trunk, wraps herself in a tattered mink coat, and gets about as far as the front porch before being sucked back into her prison.

With all the crooning, softshoe, and monologues, this story was begging to become a musical. The Northlight cast was perfect, the songs were funny, sad, and bizarre. The first act was set 20 years before the documentary, which was nice to get some backstory, however hypothesized. In that act, the two larger-than-life crazies are infinitely more relatable. So much so that the audience can't help but self-examine their own quirky tendencies that could potentially snowball later in life.

I'm a singer. I love to be onstage. I'm getting to the age where I have to decide, though. Is it a job? Or is it something I do to get attention? And when will I know to stop? When does a smoky torch song evolve into a howling session? And all those nights Marky and I enjoy holing up on the couch to fall asleep to the TV. Have we unwittingly become hermits? Is the purple couch our hotplate? We're not nuts (yet), but we certainly enjoy each other's company more than anyone else's. Sure our conversation is repetitive, and we talk to the cat. We talk to the cat a lot. Okay. Early New Year's Resolutions: 1. Have more people over. 2. Get out of the house. We had a friend over for Thanksgiving, and he washed the dishes. He also cleaned the stove. Resolution #3. Clean the kitchen better. Unless, of course, there's a documentary in it for us. No press is bad press.

These Are The Rejections I Know, I Know

Marky's two, now famous, rejections are at the top of the list. Then there's the person who bought my book, and decided to trade it for a scarf, instead. That's not a lose-lose situation, I know, but I count it as a rejection.

I've sent off countless query letters (for only a short amount of time, mind you--I'm being SUPER antsy and sensitive), and have gotten all rejections. At first I said to myself, "Well, as long as book agents are reading my queries, and it's getting out into the collective consciousness, it's okay if I get rejected. They gave me a chance." I'm here to admit, it's much better thinking a book agent didn't even look at the query, than having one ask for the first five pages and then turn it down. Utter heartbreak. At least I send SASE's in my favorite color, lime green. Getting cheery envelopes in the mail seems to soften the blow of the inevitable rejection letter lurking inside.

As fun as it is wallowing in my own goth girl self-pity, there is an unfortunate bright side to this subject. I've started rejecting things, too. I reject the notion that I should feel guilty for someone else's problem. I reject diving into paranoia and mental instability just because the person talking to me is going that route. I reject my former motto, "I can knit anything as long as it's a square or a rectangle." My new motto is, "I can knit anything!" Or perhaps, "I can do anything!"

Oscar the Grouch

Here's one of my life's contradictions: Salmon is my favorite food, but I get sick with anxiety when I enter the aquarium section of the pet store.

Fish scare the hell out of me. Has everyone heard about the new pedicures where fish nibble your feet? Disgusting. Dis-GUS-ting. While cruising along in a pontoon at Elephant Butte, my family heard a loud THUD. After circling back around to the site of impact, we found a dead fish. Not just any dead fish--a fish with rigor mortis. This fish had been dead for centuries. It stunk to high heaven, and I thought I would die from the yuckiness of the whole thing. And then there was my stepdad's Oscar.

Otherwise known as a Cichlid, the Oscar starts out about the size of a silver dollar. Sometime around my elementary school days, my stepdad bought one of those little octagonal cutesy fishtanks, and filled it with a small community of fish. The two I remember well were an Oscar, and a plecostomus (a crap sucker). We named them Oscar (obviously) and Felix (because the sucker cleaned up after the slovenly Cichlid). We took such good care of the fish that they soon outgrew their surroundings. A larger tank was in order. We upgraded to a 10-gallon tank, and outfitted the pair with some new plants and rocks. About a year went by, and we had to get yet another tank, because the beastly Oscar outgrew his home again. This time, per the suggestion of the pet store guy, we got the 55-gallon tank, and hoped Oscar would stop growing.

Not only was Oscar getting monstrously large, but Felix was getting big, too. Oscar had some serious crap to clean up, and Felix worked day and night. For years. I thought those sucker fish were cute at first, but when he grew to the size of a sweet potato, and I could see the gory detail in his sucker mouth and googly eyes, he went from funny to just plain freaky. Oscar mostly ate fish sticks that resembled Chinese crunchy noodles. He often ate to excess, and after a few too many, he would throw them up. It was funny the first few times, but after seeing his repeated bulimia, it just got gross. The pet store guy spoke up again. He suggested live goldfish for Oscar's diet. I should tell you now that I have a certain respect for Oscars. I think they're totally icky, but I feel that they are one of the most emotionally readable animals out there. When we dumped those poor live goldfish in the tank, he went for it. I was okay when he ate the first one. Then the second. The tough part was watching the third goldfish, only half-eaten, still gasping for water, his little mouth hanging out of Oscar's. I know. Horror story. And it was like a train wreck. I was in high school at this point, and had developed a horrible fear of fish. Oscar was more than hungry. He was a murderer. But so was I.

When Oscar and Felix got the deluxe condo upgrade, my stepdad thought he would do the nice thing and set up the small tank in my bedroom. He bought fish, food, aquarium plants, the whole nine yards. All I had to do was feed them. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I hated those fish. I wouldn't feed them. Their starvation became so advanced that they became cannibals. There were little fish carcasses, skeletons, lying on the pebble floor. And this became a vicious cycle, because I just got more freaked out. And then he'd buy me more fish, because the old ones were disappearing. I couldn't win.

Meanwhile, Oscar got to be so big and strong, that he could splash water out of his tank. I'm not talking about a spritz here and there. I'm saying he would rear back, do this quaky-shaky thing with his tail, and SPLASH! Eight, ten ounces of water, all over the living room floor. If you got too close to his glass barrier, he would turn from a lustrous shade of orange, into a smoky, black and brown, dull pallor. If you didn't relent, he would look you dead in the eye, open his mouth wide, and do what I can only imagine was screaming in fish-ese. You're probably wondering why I egged him on, but I stayed the hell away from him. I know he did the chameleon screaming thing because little kids would come to our house and run right up to the glass. And those little kids are probably scared of fish, now, too.

This fish got to be nine years old by the time I went to college. There were many reasons I was glad to leave for college, and one of the biggies was not worrying every morning that I might be the one to find Oscar floating belly up after his extraordinarily long life. He lived to see 11, if memory serves. Mom called me one day and told me that Oscar was gone. I didn't want details. She told me that my stepdad had a private ceremony for his fish, and I'm glad it was special for them. If he is in the ground somewhere, I know there is a tree nearby that is thankful for all that fertilizer.

A Diction Addiction

Since a friend recommended him, I've been listening to Citizen Cope's album, The Clarence Greenwood Recordings, a shitty title if I may say so.  I get turned off easily by titles, and I thought for some reason this would be a country album.  Hold up: I'm not one of the weenies that say, "I like any music except country," I simply wasn't in a country phase at the moment.  I needed something gritty and true and organic.  And I didn't know this was exactly what I wanted.  

Keenly aware that I am a fool for marketing and my opinion can be swayed on a dime, I tried to avoid reviews, and simply listen to the album.  This will be an uneducated look at the work of Citizen Cope.  I don't know anything about this guy, but I have made up a story in my mind.  Here goes. 

Clarence Greenwood was probably born in a town much like my college town.  Dusty, undereducated, access to crystal meth, three mega Wal-Marts.  His rural poetry depicts savvy street hustlers ("Bullet and a Target"), crazy vagrants defending street art ("Pablo Picasso"), and an emergency car ride to the delivery room ("Son's Gonna Rise").  Between the chaotic themes sit the sweet "Hurricane Waters," and the heartbreaking "Sideways," a perfect unrequited love ballad.  

Upon first listen, I was only drawn to a couple of songs, but I let a couple more in, then a couple more, and suddenly the entire album showed itself to soar along a beautifully crafted arc of emotion.  For a girl who is fanatical about pronunciation, I was initially annoyed by Citizen Cope's rhymes.  Pablo Picasso's "Mr. Officer, if you come to take her;  Then that means one of us gonna end up in a stretcher," is a particularly slanty example, but what female wouldn't love for her man to defend her so fervently?  His consistently mush-mouthed words are what I consider less an artistic expression, and more an honest, unaffected interpretation of his world. 

Beside the words, the music is undeniably groovy.  Each song has it's own sexy, hip-swinging undulation.  The simplicity in each arrangement is what's impressive.  This CD doesn't need to be loud or complicated.  Citizen Cope injects a thin piano riff, hands clapping, or a persistent high hat, and each song becomes infectious.  There's nothing new here.  Acoustic guitar, drums, Hammond organ.  It's the way he puts it all together.  

After getting to know his voice really well (I listened to this album non stop for about four weeks--par for the course with my musical obsessions), I was thrilled to hear him in the preview for the new Robert DeNiro movie, "What Just Happened?".  "Brother Lee" is my favorite song off his new album, Every Waking Moment.  I don't know this album as well, yet, but give me a few more weeks.  

Feco De Gato

For all of you devoted readers, this is a repeat, but it bears repeating, don't you agree?

Kitty Litter Cake

Ingredients:
Chocolate Cake Mix (plus any eggs, oil, and water as directed)

Chocolate Pudding Mix (and milk, of course--you can use pre-made pudding, but homemade is better!)

Package of Shortbread Cookies (Keebler Simply Shortbread is my fave)

15-20 Tootsie Rolls

Blue and green food coloring

Small kitty litter tray, plastic litter box liner, and small pooper scooper to serve. 

Prepare the cake as directed, and cool completely.  Prepare pudding as directed.  Crumble the cake into a large mixing bowl.  Fold in the pudding.  Line the tray and pour in the cake-pudding mixture.  Level the mixture with a spatula (It doesn't have to be perfect). 

Blend shortbread cookies in a food processor, adding a few drops of blue food coloring to make a nice grayish color.  Reserve 2 tablespoons of crumbs in a plastic baggie.  Pour the crumbs all over the cake-pudding.  Add several drops of green and blue food coloring to the baggie of crumbs, until they are pine green.  Sprinkle on top of the gray crumbs. 

Form turds of various sizes and shapes from the Tootsie Rolls.  Microwave unwrapped candies for 10 seconds to speed up the process.  This is where you can show your creativity.  Turd forming cannot be taught.  It takes many years of scooping kitty poop to understand the subtleties of feline waste.  This is what will really sell the cake. 

Serve with the scooper.  Enjoy.  Or, at least, try to enjoy.

What Would Breesus Do?

There comes a time in every woman's life when she must decide which path to take...when someone steals her food from the company fridge. I know, I know. One little pear isn't a big deal. But when that pear was handpicked from the overpriced produce section at Dominick's in the dead heat of a company weight-loss competition? Houston, we have a problem.

For 5 months, I started my day the same. Rise 2 hours before work, eat a nutritious brekkie, bike to work, place a salad, an apple, and a string cheese in the fridge.  I'd power through 3 liters of water, get to lunch hour, eat, and look forward to that stupid apple and string cheese as a snack.  There were 23 of us in this competition, and although items had been stolen from the fridge in the past, we as a team outnumbered the bad guys.  No one was taking the holy diet food, even if it was unmarked.  Until the day I brought the pear.  

The pear was a choice I had made through labor intensive fiber study.  By labor intensive, I mean surfing the net between incoming calls at work.  Becoming more dog-like in my eating habits, I needed to find a way to shake things up.  A pear has more fiber than an apple, and it tastes great with white cheese (I prefer cheddar with my apples).  So, not only did I get a pear, I got a gourmet red pear that had the perfect amount of squoosh when you gave it a gentle squeeze.  I so looked forward to the granular, sweet, juicy treasure I lovingly placed in the crisper.  Brekkie, bike, water, lunch, back to work.  That beautiful baby was waiting for me, I just had to get to 3 o'clock.  

It was time.  I rose from my ergonomically unsound sitting device, removed the wireless telecommunication tool from my ear, and made the commute to the northernmost region of the office: The Lunchroom.  I brushed off any passing salutations.  No time for that.  Nay, I would not make the effort to turn off the television set that was blaring a sports match, even though nary a soul was there to watch.  My sights were set on the towering stainless steel box that housed the pear of my dreams.  I grasped the cold black handle.  With all my might, I pulled.  The gleaming lightbulb shone down on the contents of each glass shelf.  Leftover mu shu.  Bottles of half-used salad dressing.  A lonesome diet coke.  Where was she?  My pear was nowhere to be found.  I closed my eyes, then tried to look again.  The string cheese was still there.  But my lady had gone.  

Only one person would stoop so low.  I will protect his true identity, for there is a possibility he is innocent of... something, maybe.  We'll call him Fitch.  I bounded back through the coat-infested hallway, dashed past the overflowing file cabinets, swung the glass door wide open.  And there he was.  In my department.  With red pear all over his mangy muzzle.  One more glass door to open.  I steeled myself.  Be calm.  Do what you can to avoid a scene.  But confront!  I turned the knob and entered.  

"Hey, that's my pear," I casually accused.

"Oh, oh, this?  Oh, oh, uh, oh, I uh, brought this from home.  *Crunch.  Slurp.*"  The coward.  What could I do?  How do you deal with a liar?  And who in their right mind would believe a dog of such low standards would actually pick a red pear from the fancy fruit section?  He probably didn't even know it was a pear!  He probably thought it was an apple with a weight problem.  I tried to pity him.  But I was angry.  Angrier than I should have been.  I went for a walk.  

I called my pastor/guru/drinking buddy for help.  "I know what Satan would do.  I think I know what Jesus would do.  But what do I do?"  

"Well, do you think he did it because he was hungry?  Maybe you could bring him another apple tomorrow," She offered.

"My plan is to take the Jesus route, with a Satan flare.  I want to start knitting cozies for my fruit.  That way, people will know it's mine."

Supportively, she agreed, "Oh, you could embroider a big 'B' on the cozy!" 

"Well, that's where Satan comes in.  I wouldn't embroider my name.  I would write, 'Fuck off, Fatass' instead."

Hysterical laughter ensues.

"And here's the beauty part.  In my fantasy, he pulls me into the head honcho office, cozy in hand, waving it wildly, accusing me of calling him 'Fatass,' but I will just shrug and tell my bosses that I meant my fat ass, 'I'm in a diet competition, and I want my fat ass to fuck off.  I never imagined someone else would misinterpret my diet joke.  Unless Fitch has something to confess.  Do you Fitch?'"

"Well, I suppose if it's in a really nice cursive," Guru insisted.  More laughter.  

That night, I went home and made the most beautiful pear and apple cozies.  And I didn't embroider anything on them.  And the next day I did a double Jesus.  I brought two apples.  One for me.  One if Fitch needed one.  

And before I put them in the fridge, I licked both of them.  

Bouncing Baby Book Born!

But, it's not really a baby book. In fact, I think the book has a somewhat deceptive title. It's not religious, either. Gosh, I think I spend a lot of time talking about what the book isn't. My book summary starts with, "This isn't a book about my husband's kidney transplant." So what the hell is it?

The Blessing of I Understand is my first attempt at a book. It's a funny, touching, life-affirming memoir chronicling the last two years of my life. Here's the skinny: September '06, my husband and I got married. October '06, he got sick. Really sick. July '07, he got a kidney transplant. October '08, we find ourselves transformed in ways we never thought possible.

Writing the book has been the hardest thing since living the actual story. Some nights I would sit at the computer and get sick remembering how difficult it all was. Now that it's all out on paper, it's almost like the memory can have some rest. The story isn't all doom and gloom, though. There are some very funny, real moments. I'm so lucky to be a partner to a man who makes me laugh through thick and thin.

I've learned a lot about myself in writing The Blessing. I also learned what a PDF file is, how to cut and paste with a Mac, how useful a Bcc can be, and that anyone can independently publish a book. It took me over a year to finish, and I'm ready to start new projects! Beginning Oct. 15, the book will be available at: www.lulu.com/breegordon.

Stay tuned for more blogs. I will make subsequent entries much more colorful and ridiculous.

Breezy