The Smell of White Gas, the Roar of the Flame

Home from fire rehearsal to find Arabis and Mojo asleep together on the sofa. I strip off my sooty and soiled clothes in the bathroom and immediately jump in the shower. The water is as redemptive as the fire was. I scrub, smile at the familiar smell of burnt hair, close my eyes and let the water run over my face. Today was a shitty day and I was able to burn it all away this evening.

Someone once asked me what the unifying theme was that all fire dancers possessed (um...like fire?). The person pressed and I replied; "None of us have hair on our arms."

I'm starting to feel like I'm coming back.

Moving Right Along

We are moving. Not far...but far enough that it's still going to be a lot of work, albeit no truck will be required.

We are moving down the hall, relinquishing my 1100 square foot warehouse space for a 2300 square foot space. Suffice to say both Mojo and I are giddy with the possibilities. We will each have room for a personal studio/work space. Our living quarters will be quite separate. No more toddler running amok with art supplies and turning off the computer in mid-sentence! No more books piled high out of reach, leaving barren bottom shelves bereft of baby-borne chaos. (Please excuse the alliteration. I'm really tired.) We will have room to actually put our stuff and no longer be maneuvering through trails between furniture, laundry and baby toys. There will also be much purging of useless items. We will have SPACE!

The downside? We have seven days to move. That may sound like all the time in the world, but Mojo can't take any time off work and I am home alone with the Tiny Terror of Toddler Town which makes any ordinary task challenging (and this is no ordinary task).

We haven't even begun to pack. Also: I have another cold.

The upshot is that you may not hear from me for a week or two. But I am looking forward to having a dedicated workspace to actually write and really get this blog up and running again on a regular basis.

Great things are afoot, but right now I just want to scream.

Argh!!!!!!

Hope Springs...

Found on a burnt husk of a house in West Berkeley this morning while Arabis and I were on walkabout.

Pink Slip

To the part of me that thought giving Arabis a bowl full of apple yogurt and turning my back on her to wash the dishes was a good thing:

You're fired.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

We were watching Sesame Street the other day: Mojo, Arabis and I. The fabulous clown, Bill Irwin, came on and danced in front of a curtain.

"Hey!" exclaimed Mojo. "That's Mr Noodle!"

"No it's not." I told him. "That is the Fabulous Clown Bill Irwin."

And I proceeded to give him a rundown of Mr. Irwin's career from his local Pickle Family Circus days to his film and theatrical endeavors. I waxed poetic about having seen him as a child with the Pickles and later as an adult with his show, Fool Moon. I went on a brief tangent explaining who Geoff Hoyle was and their involvement, as well as the tithes owed to other great clowns of the past like Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd. I was beginning to expound on vaudeville and heading straight for the Italian commedia dell'arte lecture, when I noticed Mojo's eyes glassing over.

"Mr. Noodle is not Bill Irwin. Bill Irwin is a genius! Mr. Noodle is a cheap Bill Irwin impersonator!" I stated with an air of finality. I pretended to ignore Mojo rolling his eyes.

Fastforward to last night. Mojo is surfing the web. I hear a chuckle.

"Could you come here a moment please?" he asks me with a smirk. I have a foreshadowing of my own doom.

There it is. In black and white. IMDB says it's so: Bill Irwin is Mr. Noodle.

We pull up a Sesame Street on "On Demand" and fast forward to "Elmo's World." It's Mr Noodle, all right. Not Mr. Noodle's brother, Mr. Noodle (the late, amazing Michael Jeter), nor is it Mr. Noodle's sister, Ms. Noodle (the annoyingly adorable Kristin Chenoweth). It's Mr. Noodle trying to put on a hat. I look closely, past the wig and false mustache...yep, there he is. Bill Irwin.

I sure hope crow is in season right now. I'm going to be eating a nice big helping.

Jubilations

We've been puke-free for three full days now.

The child was up and playing again as of yesterday, though with a little less enthusiasm then usual. Food is being gradually reintroduced with no upset. We even ventured out into the world today. It's nap-time now and Arabis is in the center of a pile of kitties on the day bed.

I'm trying to gauge whether or not it's safe to take her to her music class tomorrow. We've attended one and missed the following two due to illness. I doubt she's contagious. Just not sure if she's up to it or not. God, I wish the kid could talk.

Although...she did say "caper" yesterday. Heh. My little Bruno.

Thanks to everyone for your well-wishes! We survived (knock on wood, spit thrice)! Yippee!!

State of the Sickie

Arabis went right from having the cold of the century to the stomach virus from hell. And on top of that both ears are infected. We just got back from the doctor. The past 36 hours have been nothing but vomit and diarrhea. The child is a veritable Vesuvius, erupting from both ends. She's lost a pound and a half in weight.

But we have antibiotics for the ear infections and have been doing everything right according to the doctor to keep her hydrated. She's resting now, sleeping peacefully, thank the gods. There hasn't been a lot of sleep for the parental units.

I realize how lucky I am, that this is really only her second illness in 20 months of life, but that doesn't make it any easier. And I had a brief flashback of horror when the doctor said her ears were infected, to my own childhood and my own severe ear problems (resulting in my faulty hearing today). But the days of lancing ear drums are long gone.

She sleeps. I should too.

Courting the Middle Eastern Way

A few days before Christmas, we stopped at the halal market on San Pablo Avenue for supplies needed for the holiday dinner. Mojo, my mid-western goth boi, has developed a taste for Armenian cooking, and I tend to return to my roots when it's especially cold and rainy.

Leaving Mojo in the truck with Arabis and the Monkey Boi, I dashed through the rain and into the market, quickly gathering the necessities (buglar for pilaf, sharia and some paklava as a treat). As I walked toward the counter to pay for my goods, an older man entered and nodded respectfully to the cashier and the butcher, who was standing nearby.

"Happy New Year" he said in English.

"May we all have a happy new year, insh'allah," came the reply.

They proceeded to talk in a mixture of Arabic and English and I caught the word "basterma."

"Do you have basterma?" I interrupted excitedly.

The reply was an enthusiastic affirmative, and the butcher led me into the back of the store, chatting as we walked. He asked me where I was from and I told him I was Armenian. "Then we are cousins," he replied.

Basterma is a marinated and highly spiced meat product, the end result being somewhat akin to beef jerky...only this stuff is lethal to the uninitiated. Mojo, for some bizarre reason, loves it. One of the few odars (non-Armenians) I've ever met who can stomach it.

He showed me where it was kept and began selected a good package for me.

"No, no...not today," I hurriedly told him. "I don't have enough money today. But now I know you have it for next time."

"Not to worry. You don't need money. *I* will buy you the basterma!"

I quickly objected and he insisted that money was no object and the basterma would be a gift from him and that anytime I wanted basterma or soujuk (a spicy sausage) I should come and see him.

"So," he began, "are you married?"

"Yes," I quickly replied. "He is in the car with the children." (NOTE: This is not true. Mojo and I are not married...but marriage is the only concept which carries any weight in this context.)

"Ah. Then, my beautiful cousin, you must buy your own basterma!"

I walked back to the car in the rain laughing happily.

Snotty Nosed Kid

Arabis has THE cold. You know the one? The one everyone is getting/has gotten/or is just getting over? Yeah. That one. The same one that I had and got over. That Mojo had...and got over. That I got again...because sharing is caring. And then he got one more time...can you feel the love?

This is the second time she's ever been sick. In her life. She's almost 20 months old but has been healthy as a little horse. Her first illness was the day before her first birthday. If the kid can't handle turning one, I'd hate to see what happens at her fortieth!

But now? Oh, my goodness! It's Sarah Bernhardt shrunk down to 35 inches tall. She's miserable. And must share. The child is living in a viscous environment. She wants nothing than to lay on Papa and moan. Unfortunately, Papa went to work today. I am currently the second (and non-preferred) choice of cuddle buddy. I don't make it all better like Papa does. (Trying not be bitter. Do I sound bitter? I have a "Daddy's Girl.")

So, to cheer everyone up, and then back to bed, I give you just about my favorite Sesame Street guest appearance ever (...well...the one with Robert DeNiro and Elmo is pretty good too).

"C'mon Monsters! You don't have to cry. We can be happy! Yeah!!"

The Year in Review

I've grown awfully fond of Boogiemum. So much so that I broke my self-imposed cardinal rule and posted a meme in her honor.

And I adore Wannabe Hippie. She did a meme too. So here I am...hopping on the lemming train.

Only it'll be a little truncated since this blog has been in existence for less than a year. The idea is that you post the first sentence from the first post of each month. Click on the month link to read the full entry.

May: I will post in this forum at some point.

June: Bit is obsessed with her own reflection.

July: Post coming soon with lots of photos.

August: We got one of our windows shot out yesterday.

September: I know I've not done a proper update in quite a while, but things have been proceeding at a whirlwind pace and to be perfectly honest, I know of no way to comfortably share with the world the poo-flinging currently going on in my personal monkey hut.

October: On Sunday, Arabis, Mojo and I met my friend Lisa, her husband Evan and their fabulous son Blue for an afternoon of fun at Children's Fairyland in Oakland.

November: Okay.

December: I feel the need to shout out to the world that I live still.

Not terribly exciting, is it? But it is a good reminder that a catchy opening line will do wonders.

Monkey Boi returns to Ohio tomorrow and then things will settle back to normal and I can regale you with holiday photos and tales of joy and mirth...or mayhem and murder. No debauchery. It wasn't that kind of Christmas, not with the two kids around. But we survived, despite my innate dislike of this time of year and the surly countenance that accompanies it.

I do hope everyone had a lovely and safe New Year's and that this upcoming year brings much joy and peace to all of us. This new year is one of transformation, and I am not sorry in any way to see the ass end of 2006 out the door.

Oh, It's a Jolly Holiday

Monkey Boi is in da house. And suddenly Mojo dawns his mantle of Papa-dom. It is an interesting twist on being a parent and I love to see it in action.

Monkey is a typical about-to-turn-13-in-three-weeks boy and has the selective hearing that seems to come with the age. That and the fear of showering. He is fond of stewing in his own musky scent and will do so as long as he can get away with it.

My self-appointed task during the summer was to have him showered and washed every day, along with teeth, and I am proud to say I was rather successful. Of course, he still needed to be reminded numerous times ("Turn on the water, get in the shower, use soap...") on a daily basis before the event actually took place.

As a parent, one can shout "Get in the shower" until one is blue in the face...to no avail. Mojo has a finesse to which I can only hope to aspire. To whit:

"I'm a good natured fellow, a happy-go-lucky scamp. One might even go so far as to describe me as 'jolly.' But if you don't get into the shower right now, I'm going to strangle you with your own large intestines."

Works every time.

God, I adore that man!

Still Here...

...just sick with the norovirus-y thing. Been doubled up in the bathroom or curled under two down comforters in the living room all day. I had to call Mojo to come home when he was barely half way to work, it came on so suddenly.

It was a horrific comedy of errors: my being violently ill in the bathroom and trying to occupy the kidlet and keep her safe and from getting all into my sickness. I had to jump in the shower to clean off and she just climbed right in after me, wearing all her clothes and her cool new ladybug galoshes.

My mom came tonight so Mojo could go to do the radio show, thank the gods. She made dinner, fed and bathed Arabis, tidied the toys littering the living room and rocked the girl to sleep. Me? I just laid on the day bed and moaned. Pathetic!

Mojo was not pleased about having to come home today. I don't know what I'm going to do tomorrow, with him at work, Mom at work and me barely able to move and completely unable to eat. One minute at a time, I guess.

To top it off, Mojo's son, Monkey Boi, is flying in from Ohio on Wednesday night and the house looks like some terrifying space monkeys maybe got loose.

Pleh.

In Which Our Author Crumbles

At last. I have been desperate to write all week and the time to do it has eluded me. Arabis has hit a new high in teething misery and hasn't been sleeping at night. Therefore, neither have I. She's been napping during the day, thank the gods, and though that is an opportune time to write I find myself joining her in the land of dreamy dreams instead.

So now I sit here and stare at the screen with my lids getting heavier and heavier. It's cold and rainy. Has been all week. I've got bread dough attempting to rise in the kitchen and I am praying it will do so though I am beginning to have my doubts. It's too damn chilly in this loft.

I have stopped counting the deaths that have occurred this year. I can't keep track. On Friday I learned of the death of another close friend by drowning. His name was Jorge and I worked with him for many years teaching sea kayaking. He was killed in a kayaking accident in Mexico and his body was never recovered.

Learning of Jorge's death stripped me of any last vestige of "strength in the face of adversity" that I had left. I broke down over the weekend. Called my director at the Dickens Fair on Saturday morning and said I would be unable to make it this weekend (something I have never, ever done {i.e.: not honor a theatrical commitment}). I spent the weekend with my little warped family, cuddling with Arabis and Mojo, watching telly, eating soup, regaling Mojo with stories of kayaking exploits we (Jorge and I) had shared and crying. But it was what I needed. The world had suddenly become sharp and painful and I needed to retreat to a place of greater safety.

Come Monday morning I felt almost human again.

And the irony of this all? All week I have been frantically searching the time to sit and pour my little dark soul out into the ether. So here I am, having achieved my goal of the time to write, and all the words that I had been forming in my head are gone. All the witty stories and pithy sayings I have been mentally composing to get me through the lack of sleep and frustration of being unable to provide long-term relief to my miserable toddler: gone. I have nothing left.

I guess sleep it is for me.

Another Rule Bites the Dust

I've long held an unspoken rule that this space would be meme free, however with the approach of the holidays I felt an exception could be made for this sweet little piece of self-aggrandizement. From the ever-charming Boogiemum.


1. Eggnog or hot chocolate?

Eggnog, please.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just set them under the tree?

Presents wrapped by me. Santa doesn't do squat. I mainly bake for everyone anyway. This year this a lot of knitting being done as well.

3. Colored lights or white?

None for a long time. I like strings of one coloured light, though. May do something this year.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?

Never. I have a cat of very little brain who will eat anything green.

5. When do you put your decorations up?

Haven't decorated for years. That's going to have to change now that I have spawned. The Evil Dwarf will be expecting it.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish?

Lamb. (We're Armenian. It's what we do. Although we did upset my grandmother in years past by teasing her about eating the lamb of god at Christmas {the lord is very tasty with pilaf}. She was not amused.)

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child?

Lying on my back under the baby grand piano at my grandmother's house while my mother played Chopin. Also going down to Union Square, San Francisco, with my grandmother to look at the holiday windows in all the big department stores. We'd do that every year.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?

Santa was never a big deal. I think I always knew. There was a different one at Emporium every year we went to have photos taken, so that was a dead giveaway.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?

We open all our presents on Christmas Eve. And then have a second Christmas gathering (sans gifts) on Armenian Orthodox Christmas (6 January)

10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree?

I haven't had a tree in years. It's the cats, see. Again, we'll have to change this soon, what with the Sprog and all.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it?

Love it.

12. Can you ice skate?

Yep.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift as a kid?

A six foot tall, styrofoam, assemble-it-yourself tyrannosaurus rex skeleton from my Uncle Ben. I *LOVED* that thing. Eventually the pieces disintegrated.

14. What’s the most important thing about the holidays for you?

Family. It was really horrid for a while there, but as time passes and people as well, it's getting nice again.

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert?

Bourma, khadayiff and kurabia (Armenian, remember?) . Also, my mother's peach pie rocks!

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?

Dickens Fair.

17. What tops your tree?

No tree.

18. Which do you prefer: giving or receiving?

Giving.

19. What is your favorite Christmas Song?

Carol of the Bells. Followed closely by The Holly and the Ivy and The Wassail Song (I love the pagan symbolism and origins of these carols).

20. Candy canes?

Okay.

Quick Update

I feel the need to shout out to the world that I live still. I breathe. I eat. I sleep (albeit not nearly enough as I'd like). I had the intent on the first of December to keep up the discipline of daily posting that NaBloPoMoFo gave me, but that quickly fell by the wayside due to lack of practicality and content. There are definitely enough subjects and thoughts carousing in my brainmeats to make for interesting writing (and I hope reading) on a daily basis, but the truth of the matter is that the time to really sit and explore them is severely limited. The best time is when the Teething Terror of Toddler-Town naps, but I have been so exhausted that I have taken to napping with her. At night I have been so tired after the evening tasks of dinner, dishes and bathing the above mentioned Terror, that sitting at the computer is the last thing I want to do.

But after a discussion with Mojo last night (which I will delve into in greater detail on a later post) I have reaffirmed the need to be committed to writing. And this journal is a good practice for me. A place to show up on a daily basis and just write. If it's important, and it is, I need to make the time for it in my life. I'm not sure how this is going to work, or when or what it will even look like. But it's necessary for me to get serious about writing again. As necessary as breath.

Day Thirty

I am sacrificing my computer time and the brilliant farewell NaBloPoMoFo post that I have been composing in order to allow Mojo to finish his NaNoWriMo.

Because he got a paid writing gig after he committed to doing NaNoWriMo, he let it slide. Now that the paid assignments have been completed, he has decided to finish his novel. The boy wrote 32,000 words in the last 24 hours. He has a little over 7,000 words left.

I think I hate him.

A Public Service Announcement

Today's half-written post (in draft form) is being preempted to bring you the following message:

We are sick. Or getting sick. Or just getting over being sick. Three people. Three states of being. All of them crappy. Or pukey. Or just feeling "blah."

We now return you to your regularly scheduled internet surfing.

Eight Random Facts About Me

1. I was born in San Francisco at St. Francis Hospital on the feast day of (you guessed it) St. Francis.
2. I have never owned a lava lamp.
3. I am a published poet.
4. English is not my first language.
5. I love roller coasters but am deathly afraid of ferris wheels.
6. I have a clavicle rib. I am a throwback to when humans were aquatic.
7. I can wiggle my ears.
8. I am afraid of fire...which is one reason I became a fire performer.

Challenging Day in the Life of a Teething Toddler

We did not go quietly about our day. The child is hell bent on destruction. She is fine, but she is not happy.

She only napped an hour today.

She is not eating. She refused lunch and fought getting into her highchair. I finally gave up and took to slipping her bits of food during the day when she wasn't paying attention, then making sure she actually ate them and didn't stash them anywhere.

She has taken two tumbles, one bad(ish) one not so much. She is still trying to climb despite the aforementioned tumbles. She has taken to emptying shelves of books and using them to construct ladders with which to climb on things hitherto unavailable due to their height.

We're really not very happy today.

My mother even wanted to take us out to sushi for dinner tonight and I said no. Mojo was shocked when I told him. Just the thought of trying to wrangle her in public in this state was too much for me. Plus, mom wanted to go to Costco and pick up our new cards and I just couldn't see the double excursion ending well.

Instead my mother came over for her regularly scheduled Monday night dinner with the granddaughter (a standing date since Mojo has his radio show on Monday nights). She brought me some staples from Haig's in San Francisco (buglar, mahleb, gorgod [barley], lokum, lavash hatz) and we had a nice and simple dinner of steak, mushrooms in butter and asparagus. I had made the pilaf prior to her arrival so it was perfect when she got here.

I managed to manhandle (literally) Arabis into her highchair and she actually ate a couple stalks of asparagus (which she adores) and a healthy dose of pilaf (my blonde, blue-eyed Armenian daughter!).

Got her happily scrubbed and clean in the tub without getting drenched myself and she slipped off peacefully to sleep about 20 minutes ago.

I will be delirious with pleasure once these teeth come in. She is having such a rough time and is obviously in pain. I do everything I can (Tylenol, cold things, etc. [Hylands doesn't work for us]) but it is still the most horrible thing to watch your child suffer and be able to offer only so much relief.

I am going to sign off the computer and read a two month old New Yorker. These days that comes perilously close to the height of decadence for me. Isn't that pathetic?

Pleh

I'm beyond tired, beyond spent, beyond knackered even. I am what my friends back in England would say: utterly shattered.

My internal censor just punched out once she found out I couldn't afford overtime, so here I sit, brain (such as it is) to fingers to keypad to screen and out into the ether. Maybe some of the invisible people that live in my computer will leave me comments. I like comments.

See? I've lost it. I'm exhausted. Three days spent walking more miles than I care to imagine on concrete in Victorian-inspired boots; projecting past hundreds of customers, booths, parades, other actors; on my feet with my brain engaged and going at 110% for nine hours a day for three days running. And all done wearing a corset and a Yarmouth accent. Well, there were clothes on over the corset. Obviously.

Today was the day of melt-downs. Of sick children (our young David Copperfield was feeling poorly), people with short fuses and actors with failing voices and aching feet. This third day of the three day opening weekend is always hard, but from a customer and theatrical standpoint came off without a hitch. Personally, I'm barely alive and glad to be back to my poor teething toddler and messy home.

I spent the last few days on my perambulations looking for a friend who I've known for 20 years and is one of the best stage managers I've ever worked with. I finally found him today, not doing his usual job. He hugged me and took off his hat, to show me his bald head with whisps of hair. My smile faded slowly as I realized this was not a fashion choice.

"I have lung cancer. This is from the radiation and chemo," he told me.

I was shocked. His spirit is strong and he says he is doing really well. But I came home tonight and melted into Mojo's arms and cried the tears I could not shed in front of my friend. My friend, who has managed more stages that I have either danced or acted on than I can begin to count; who shares my birthday (though he is ten years older); who has always provided me a place of safety to retreat to in the crazed world of the theatre and the insane world in general; the friend who many years ago wanted to be something more and I kept him at bay; the friend who remained a constant and true friend.

I can't write anymore or make heads or tails of the world right now.