A Nose is a Nose is a Nose (or Pup Dog, the Card Salesman)


I have always hated my nose. While my three siblings each took after my Mom in the nose department, my proboscis is undeniably a scaled-down version of my Dad’s Irish honker.

Now, I’d understand if friends and family are surprised at this pronouncement. Rhinoplasty has been a life-long — but mostly hidden — dream. Also in truth, as noses go, mine is totally fine, really pretty unremarkable. For the first few years of life it was an adorable little button. But as I grew, the rounded tip and shape of my nostrils put me in mind of the nose cone and twin propellers on a WW2 Lockheed B-14 bomber – the kind with very shapely ladies painted on the side. Lockheed B14 bomber

When compared to the pert protuberances of my cousins or the sweet face of any Disney princess, my nose made me feel unmistakably common. Perhaps because it’s the sort you’d usually find on the jolly farmer’s wife. Or the charwoman with a heart of gold who, after a punishing 12 hour shift scrubbing floors, still remembers to go feed the birds. And let us not forget the chummy best friend sporting the requisite messy pigtails and a defining dusting of freckles. Like many little girls, I yearned to be the princess. But my nose painted me otherwise.

So I started collecting noses, I mean images of noses, with an eye toward getting mine reshaped later for, you know, my ‘real life.’ Myrna Loy was an early favorite. She had a sharp tongue and a sculptured profile which seemed the perfect combination — smart, funny and beautiful. Grace Kelly (in my opinion, a brilliant light comedienne) was not only stunning she had one gorgeous nose.Movie Star Montage resized

But in high school, I became absolutely, positively obsessed with the model Karen Graham. In the 1970s she was the face of Estee Lauder cosmetics. You saw her everywhere; in their ads, in fashion spreads and on cover after cover after cover of Vogue magazine. You couldn’t get away from her, most especially in my bedroom where I had the walls plastered with easily 150 magazine pages featuring Karen’s perfectly symmetrical face. KarenGraham Montage

To me, the one thing these three women shared was a sense of refinement which, at the time, I equated with beauty which, at the time, I equated with acceptance. You know, the circle of life. And the nose on my face seemed anything but refined. So I scoured every beauty magazine looking for any and all suggestions on how to make my nose appear slimmer using makeup. I shaded and powdered in hopes of achieving a more sculptured, lady-like air. But in the mirror, and worse in every snapshot (because that ‘camera adds 10 pounds’ theory seemed to apply strictly to my nose), what I saw told me to go milk the cows and then muck out the barn for good measure.

Lest you think I exaggerate, that this was all in my mind, may I share the nickname ascribed to me in the 6th grade by my friend, Johanna — it was “Pup Dog.” You see, Hanna-Jo (as I called her) and I were an enterprising pair. In addition to starting our own band in her living room (as much influenced by Bobby Vinton as the Rolling Stones — the clear mystery here being why we never secured a recording contract, but I digress…) So, in addition to our musical prowess, Hanna-Jo and I were serious junior business women. In the back pages of an issue of my AMERICAN GIRL MAGAZINE (see below) there was a delicious opportunity. A company, I believe it was called Carlton Cards, had a mini-franchise available. For some clearly affordable price (because we managed to do it), you could order a shipment of their greeting cards. Once the big box arrived, the next step was to sell them door-to-door. (Ding, dong, Avon calling!) The cards came in boxes of standard size cards as well as a monster 24″ x 10″ version. Thinking these would clearly be our huge sellers, we committed half our inventory to these oversized wonders. American Girl layout

Just as the idea of a paper route is always more palatable than the reality of 5:30 in the morning, selling these cards was nowhere near as easy as we’d assumed. Now we (meaning me and my sixth grade girlfriends) found these colorful puppies and kittens with their baby faces sporting huge, welling eyes, positively adorable!! But with our limited audience (the 13 girls in our class and a few accommodating neighbors), we soon ran out of customers.

It was during a pajama party at the home of another classmate, Sue, that we were once again mooning over our cache of cute cardboard canines (we had plenty to go around…) Suddenly, Hanna-Jo pointed to the front of the oversized card in her hand and shrieked, “Your nose looks just like this puppy. I’m going to call you Pup Dog!” Now, she meant it as a compliment, for as I’ve already said, we thought these cards were divine. But to my ear I was being compared to a fuzzy, round-edged cartoon. Less in the mold of beautiful Cinderella, more Goofy Fairy Godmother #3, the pudgy, endlessly blue Merriweather. While I adored the character I kept envisioning her picture over my name in the yearbook. And I didn’t like it one bit!Puppy Dogs

My dream of rhinoplastic refinement remained alive. During the late 80s, a podiatrist I worked for wrangled me a free consultation with a colleague, a tony upper eastside plastic surgeon. Every woman in his waiting room sported the same pert little peak. Apparently I’d walked onto the set of Chapter 2: The Stepford Noses. Ooops, wrong casting call.

In short order I was shown into his very modern, very white inner office. Sitting on the desk, although they were still in their infancy, was a monster PC! The screen pulsed with the promise of beauty and elegance to be had for the asking. I sat in my assigned chair and tried to keep my gaze on the doctor and not gaping out the 12 foot windows framing the glorious Metropolitan Museum of Art directly across the street (when I say tony, I mean tony!) I managed to pay attention as Doctor “Tony” demonstrated exactly what he’d do to my face using his on-screen anatomical line drawing program. He was polite but parsed me a total of 3 minutes. Clearly he’d decided I could never afford surgery at his practice and he was cutting his losses. He exited the room without even shaking my hand.

A few years later, my roommate at the time, Maria, decided it was finally time to fix that deviated septum she gave herself smacking into a diving board back in high school. So she did her research (meaning she found an ad in the classifieds of BACKSTAGE, the gold standard audition rag for actors trying to make it in New York City.) Her only caveat was she wanted a surgeon who would guarantee that no  one could tell she’d had anything done. Although I was rather hoping for the opposite, as her doc offered free consultations, I went along for the ride.

Sitting in front of his desk in the cozy, cluttered office (no distracting windows this time), Doctor Really Nice Guy treated me to a friendly, “So, what are you interested in discussing today?” I was prepared. I started my pitch. “I know it may not look like I need it, but I’ve always wanted to have my nose done…”

He raised his hand to stop me. Though clearly a lovely man (and based on my roommate’s successful — and never questioned — results, a darn good surgeon), I was a bit confused. Suddenly he leaned forward and placed his hands on my face. I must have jumped, because he calmly explained, “I can’t speak to what I can do for your nose without feeling the structure of your face.”

Well, that made miles of sense to me. When I remarked that Doctor “Tony” hadn’t done this he gave a sad little nod of his head. And Doctor Really Nice Guy, he didn’t look bored or dismissive (as had the Prince of Fifth Avenue), instead he began to tell me his story. His real love was reconstructive plastic surgery, helping people come back from accident and misfortune. He confessed he’d grown so tired of treating the upper eastside ladies who lunch, that he’d placed that ad in Backstage hoping for a more interesting clientele. I was feeling better by the minute. After a bit more manipulation, he sat back and announced, “Okay, I can see why you want your nose done. The tip is rounded and it’s upturned, giving you a bit of a porcine appearance. Plus, your nose crooks slightly to the left.” Finally, someone who could see the “real” nose on my face. I nearly wept in relief.

Well, that was over 20 years ago and luckily I have an expanded appreciation of my own non-symmetry. I still haven’t had the surgery. Maybe all I needed back then was someone to assure me I wasn’t nuts, my nose did invite a bit of tweaking to meet the standard of the day. Maybe it was because I didn’t have any health insurance. Or perhaps I was just prescient enough to know someday I would reunite with Hanna-Jo on Facebook. And keeping the face I was born with absolutely invited her to start our first conversation in decades by typing, “Hello, Pup Dog!” After all, no one wants to disappoint an old friend.

I do confess one regret — not having kept one of those 28″ x 10″ cardboard canines. It probably would have become a real conversation piece at parties (but only if I had framed it and hung it on my wall chances of which are, truthfully, pretty slim…)

Finally if I may, dear reader, I’d like to end this tale with a touch of very salient advice. A magical message that will help you in any crisis of faith or beauty:

“Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo…”

Merriweather_Yearbook

Oh well, guess it’s not so bad after all.

O Tannenbaum. Oh, Tannenbaum !#?*!


While I had an almost completely Catholic education — and I mean that in the religious and cultural sense  — because St. John of the Cross School did not have a kindergarten, I began my education smack in the public sector.

My first visit to Hamilton Avenue School, a low-sling brick structure, was when it served as the ad hoc polio vaccine headquarters for Roslyn, PA.  On that particular morning, a summer day one month before I started school, for the first time I had been allowed to dress myself.

“This is fabulous!,” I thought, as I chose my favorite blue flowered dress. Now, of course, I understand my pregnant Mom was just too busy tending to my baby sister. But it unleashed a feeling of power. The patent leather Mary Janes and white ankle socks were easy. But while my 5-year old arms could reach behind my waist, my 5-year old brain couldn’t visualize how to tie a nice big bow behind my dress. So being a problem solver even then, I wrapped it around to the front and tied one there. I thought it was dashing. My mother disagreed.

Once I’d been readjusted (lest anything be out-of-place!), we all took the short walk to Hamilton Avenue School. The vintage 60’s building had a modern entrance that could have served as a carport for George Jetson. Streaming in and out of this opening were mothers and strollers and children. But the thing that caught my eye as we entered the school corridor were the nurses. There were tables and tables of them lining the halls, starched, white and proffering tiny paper cups. And inside? A sweet cube — a sugar square dosed with magic medicine. You were invited to take it and suck on it. Or furiously chew it to bits. Either way, delicious fun. I liked this place! And this was where I’d be going to school? Sweet!

My next visit — the first day of kindergarten — was different and bit more daunting. There were no baby carriages or smiling nurses and all the traffic was going in not coming out. And this time my Mother walked me down the corridor into a bright, windowed room that smelled of chalk and permanent markers. She told me to be good, said goodbye and walked out the door. I stood still, afraid — not necessarily of being alone but of not knowing what to do. Even though I had yet to study the Baltimore Catechism, I was well aware that making a mistake was a CARDINAL SIN.

The teacher, Mrs. Roche, looked comfortingly like a cross between my own and my best friend, Judy Crouthamel’s mom. Tall with a familiar blondish hairdo and red lips. So, I relaxed a bit and looked around. There was a huge (or so it seemed at the time) round table in the middle of the room, large enough for everyone in class to gather round. An art nook around the corner featured easels, brushes and paints in primary colors, the kind that came in little glass jars which, when you opened them, smelled vaguely of clay and vinegar.

A huge stack of green mats sat patiently waiting for nap time, which I soon discovered was the daily activity following cookies and milk. I was not a napper and never slept during this period. However, not wanting to break any rules, I lay motionless on the mat with my eyes closed, steadily inhaling the perfume of plastic and floor polish as the minutes ticked by.

Everything in the room glowed, from the polished blond wood of the tables and chairs to the sun streaming continuously through the huge corner windows. I have fond memories of the day Mrs. Roche’s son (a strapping 4th grader who seemed super adult and dangerously exciting!) visited our classroom. We made butter in a mixing bowl using a hand beater. Everyone got to turn it three times. Then Mrs. Roche made her son do the real work. Our efforts were quickly eaten, spread on saltine squares and served with milk. And then, we napped. It’s still a favorite treat (the saltines with butter, have moved on from the milk…)

But I have a not so fond memory of one particular art class in early December when, decked in my protective cloth smock, I stood at one of those easels, dipping my brush into the little pots of primary color. I was valiantly working on my masterpiece.

Now, I knew what I wanted to paint, but something had gone very, very wrong. And every time I attempted to correct my egregious error, it was compounded instead by that nasty blue I just couldn’t remove from the end of my brush (RGB: 30, 59, 222, in case you need a visual.) I was becoming frustrated and annoyed — no way this was not a mistake and you know what we think of those…

As Mrs. Roche approached me, I started to sweat. My 5 year-old mind tried to will her away. I said a quick Hail Mary, but apparently God was already booked.

Her shadow fell upon me. “So, what are we painting today?”  DRAT. Trying to ignore the third person address, which annoyed me even then, I avoided her gaze and mumbled the words “Christmas Tree” into my smock.  Maybe if I didn’t fully engage her, she would go away. I was desperate to get back to the repairs at hand. Santa was coming to town and this was clearly bad advertising!

But, no such luck. “A Christmas Tree?” she queried, her voice clearly stating she was having difficulty matching the image to the title. A slight pause, then “And what’s that? On the top?” And then it happened. She pointed right at my terrible, awful, no good, very bad mistake. I froze, hoping to disappear. It doesn’t work for bunnies and it didn’t work for me.

The light actually changed as she reached over and tapped the paper right near that blaze of blue. “Is that a —present?” she prompted with a sing-song lilt to her voice. The word echoed in my head, “Present, present, present…”

The combination of her tone and the clearly illogical question immediately cast her as my very first “art patron-izer.” And I didn’t want one. I let rip with a serious “tchh” of the tongue followed by a sigh worthy of the most “oh my GOD. Mother, I can’t believe you asked me that” teenage girl. She didn’t flinch. I was cornered. So, like a wounded animal, I continued to lash out.

“A present?” I sneered, “At the top of the tree?” I swear, although I didn’t know the word, my tone clearly implied “…you bitch!”

But kindergarten teachers are tough, and she kindly ignored this. She did, however, bend down and in her determined schoolteacher block print using a black, permanent marker, forever saddle my creative effort with the mocking title: CHRISTMAS TREE. And then she put my name on it.

Cruelty, thy name is kindergarten teacher.

“She was five,” you’re saying to yourselves. “Clearly a bit of hyperbolic fiction.”  Sadly, folks, I used to cultivate the annoying habit of cataloguing every slight and humiliation I perceived. I’d file them conveniently on a shelf ready to pull out should I start feeling too good about myself. (Ed. Note: See earlier reference to Catholic education.) Though I doubt Mrs. Roche remembered this conversation 10 minutes after it occurred, in my head it’s still clear as day.

Perhaps my retention has something to do with the fact that my parents immediately took said masterpiece, matted and framed it boldly in red. And starting that year and for several afterward, as the holiday season rolled around, displayed my CHRISTMAS TREE on Dad’s easel. And each year, it taunted me. Even when I was pretty sure he wasn’t real, I still worried Santa would find some way to use it against me…

Luckily younger siblings supplied artwork of their own and eventually it was relegated to the basement gallery (right next to my Dad’s college rendition of Toulouse Lautrec’s JANE AVRIL. We were an arty house.) At one point Dad repainted the red frame to black and that’s how it remains today — safely bubble-wrapped in my Manhattan Mini-storage locker. Where it can do no harm.

Okay, I admit. I got over the mistake of my CHRISTMAS TREE. In fact, I love that I still have it around. If I’d had kids, would have hung it in their rooms to teach them that making mistakes is the real pathway to making your own art. Instead, when I move to a bigger apartment, and finally have my office, I’ll hang it up for me — to remind me of that very same lesson.

So next time you’re in a position to judge someone’s creation, be kind but don’t pander. Because — to borrow from Three 6 Mafia  and John Bradshaw — it’s hard our there for an inner kid.

Oh yeah, Merry Christmas!

The Masterpiece

This is a Ma’am’s World…


… This is a Ma’am’s world. But it wouldn’t be nothin’, nothin’  —

Oops — wrong music.

Eastside, westside, all around the town…

Recently, as I walk the sidewalks of New York, a strange thing has been happening. People are passing me by. In droves. I mention this as strange because I am one of those fast, clippy New York walkers. Apparently, the truth is that I used to be one of those fast, clippy New York walkers. The evidence is clear, in the sidewalk game, I’m no longer a leader of the pack.

Here in the city, sidewalks are actually pedestrian roadways. That means, just as with the yellow cabs zooming by, New Yorkers are bipedal vehicles getting where they need to go as quickly as possible (all while trying not to get ticketed for jaywalking.)

I pause for a little safety tip for NYC visitors: nothing marks a tourist faster than someone slowly meandering down the sidewalk. Or groups stopping to gawk at a map. That’s akin to a couple of cars braking mid-highway for a picnic lunch. It can be downright dangerous.

Sidewalk prowess is a point of identity for Manhattanites. Outta’ my way, sucker, I know where I’m going… So the realization that I might be losing my skills cut me to the quick. I started searching for an explanation. Clue #1: Perhaps it was the recent foot surgery. Despite having chucked the cane a few weeks ago, I guess it’s still a temporary handicap. Clue #2: Perhaps being off my feet for those weeks of recovery took a bite out of my usual stamina.

But none of that helps as people continue to step, even zoom past me on the sidewalk, without even breaking a sweat. I’m chagrined to share that recently, when boarding a bus, someone who appeared to be around my age got up to offer me their seat. This happened more than once. I actually checked behind me for their target before I understood it was me. Not that I’m not appreciative of a gracious gesture, but it makes me wonder “Just how tired do I look today?”

And I’d be remiss not to acknowledge the contribution of my old dance injuries, as I delight in romanticizing them, when it comes to getting around town. My knees are pretty much shot. So on a bad day, climbing into a bus or rising from a sitting position can sometimes appear to be an amuse-bouche for avant garde dances to come. Cue Mia Michaels and SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE. I’m available to tour.

Despite these truths, I confess nothing makes me feel older than when I am called “ma’am.” I understand it’s a contraction of “madame,” a polite sign of respect, especially when addressing the Queen of England. But, I’m usually sans crown. (Although, there have been occasions.) So whenever that palindrome is tossed in my face, a virtual arthritis sets in. Suddenly I’m tucked into a rocking chair on some picturesque mid-west porch knitting my own lap robe as I watch life pass me by.

On the occasions I am met with a full-fledged, flat-out  “Pardon me, ma’am” I instantly shrink to become Miss Kitty’s wizened grandmother receiving a tip of the hat from that whippersnapper, Marshall Dillon. (What, you GUNSMOKE fans don’t remember Miss Kitty’s grandmother? Apparently she was too old to appear on television, even back in the kinder, gentler ’50s. That’s how old this makes me feel.)

Now, at the utterance of this delightful phrase, do I smile benignly like a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s? Nope, I want to reach out and slap someone. Apparently, I’m not alone. It’s a widely-held source of annoyance, as illustrated by U.S. Senator from California, Barbara Boxer (Please Don’t Call Me Ma’am) and my illustrious fellow blogger, Kristen Hansen Brakeman (Don’t Call Me Ma’am) — not even a ‘please’ there, it’s that serious. Check them out to appreciate the scope of this comprehensive sociological issue.

Me, I’ve decided to tackle this head on. I’m not interested in finishing out my game, a beachball with a slow leak. I’m back in training, sharpening my skills to rejoin the bustling New York throng. As to that four letter word? I vaccinate myself against it! From now on, I’ll jump up to offer my seat on the bus. I’ll take the E train instead of the C because (woo hoo!!) it means I can climb an additional two flights of stairs to reach the street. I will stop purchasing exercise equipment from TV and actually unpack the AbDoer Twist that’s been sitting in a box in my living room for the past 3 years. (Game on!)

So, there it is. I’ve decided. I will not go on living in a ma’am’s world. Not to be hard-nosed about this, for it’s a lovely form of address — just not for me, just not right now. Perhaps in my 90’s I’ll be ready to embrace it.

So the next time that term of honor comes tumbling from someone’s lips, I’ll put my hand on my hip and pointedly say:

“You can call me Madame. You can even call me Miss. But please…don’t call me Ma’am.”

Grandma 2

Grieve. Then Live.


The Boston Marathon bombings. I sat watching the coverage of streets I know, stunned that another place familiar to me was the victim of mind-numbing violence. Prior to 9/11, I had worked on the 96th floor of World Trade Center Tower One.

The recent events in Boston have me thinking about death. And life. I grew up near Boston. It was my ‘big city.’ The first day I had a driver’s license, I snuck down Route 93 in my parent’s Pontiac Le Mans which I drove smack into Copley Square, an area just beyond the finish line of Monday’s marathon. I never told them, they thought I’d driven to the mall. It’s a bit late to confess. I lost both parents in 2009, three months apart. They were fairly young, only 77 and had been in pretty good health. Except that last year, which was tough on them and our family. But at least we had the chance to prepare, we knew it was coming. Unlike in Boston.

Every day, as I step out of my bathroom I notice a picture of my Dad and me. I’m proudly holding up a cake I’d baked for him. It reads “Happy 56th Birthday and 3rd Anniversary.” After 20 some years in AA, he’d had a small lapse. But he’d climbed back on the wagon and was now celebrating three years sober.

Each day when I see this picture my first thought is how crappy I look in the shot. Yesterday, I suddenly realized, in this picture my Dad is a year younger than I am now. And, he’s gone.

I cannot begin to imagine how the bombings in Boston have affected its victims, families and friends. I only know that, even though we knew death was imminent, dealing with the passing of my parents was still paralyzing. After they died, the oddest realizations cropped up. Can you become an orphan at age 53? Where is Mom’s pot roast recipe?  I forgot to ask Dad how to rewire a lamp.

My parents didn’t leave an inheritance, as such. They’d taken out a reverse mortgage (which we all encouraged.) After settling that and the medical bills, there wasn’t much left to go around. But the contents of their home, which were very much the essence of my parents, were ours to share. Mom and Dad had lived to decorate — it was their hobby and their passion.

For the past four years, I’ve been surrounded by the physical remnants of their lives. Boxes and huge Rubbermaid containers have been stacked in my living room. The roll of an oriental rug lounges in a corner of the room. My grandmother’s china is still safe in the packing boxes.

Until yesterday, these items remained untouched. Finally last night, I opened the first box. Inside I found my Mom’s coffee cup. The two beautiful cereal bowls they used every morning. A pair of cake pans that baked every birthday cake of my childhood. I smiled at finding two commemorative plates I’d gifted them one Christmas. They were from The Greenbriar, the hotel where they spent their honeymoon.

I thought leaving all these boxes sit there for years was just lazy or disorganized. Now, I realize that — perhaps unconsciously — they provided a sort of wall keeping real life at bay. A wall that I needed until I was ready to accept that they’re really gone. And me, whether technically an orphan or not, I’m still here.

After Boston, it’s been underscored for me not to waste a moment. We cannot control things. Life will do what life will do. Our task, just live it.

Boston

I’ve Been SMASHED!!


No, this is not a tale of mammograms, or the movie of the same name from last year which no one went to see. And it sure ain’t a chronicle of my inebriations past (unless we’re talking the morning after a family-size bag of Kettle Chips.) What this is is a status report on one of my current TV passions.

With their move to Saturday nights at 9pm (starting this week) it’s clear the hammer is about to drop on Ivy and Karen and Tom and Julia and Derek and Eileen. Yes, boys and girls, I’m talking about that full on fan letter that supposedly pulls back the curtain on the Great White Way — NBC’s SMASH.

Out of the mind of Steven Spielberg and creatively birthed by Theresa Rebeck (one of my favorite playwrights), the first season of SMASH generated lots of buzz and a flock of die-hard fans. But crappy ratings.

Me? I’m there watching every week. As television musicals go, this ain’t no COP ROCK (apologies to that other Steven – Bochco – though I applaud his effort.) Smartly recruiting forces from the actual Broadway community lends an incomparable level of craft to SMASH, despite the necessary evil of compressing the time and process of creating a Broadway musical into fifteen 42-minute TV dinners. Add to that the multiple layers of television and film experience involved and, baby, you’ve got yourself a show that works (sometimes…)

Last season while I enjoyed many of the characters and could swallow most of the storyline, I did take exception with all those fully costumed, choreographed and well lit workshops. (No, I’m not referring to the dream/fantasy sequences.)  I have never attended a workshop with such incredible production values. Or seen one in a rehearsal space that bright and clean. Everyone’s usually wearing their own clothes and still on book. But I’ll issue a creative license on that point. After all, over the years I managed to embrace such NY shows as FRIENDS and THE GOOD WIFE, despite the fact the wardrobe and apartments their characters inhabit are a total urban myth.

While we’re on the subject of real estate, can I get an “are you kidding me” on the size of Tom’s apartment? Julia’s — maybe, since it’s in Brooklyn. And that penthouse where they installed Derek — it’s too painful to even think about. However, when the show wraps (which appears to be soon), could somebody get me a broker’s appointment to rent Eileen’s “downsized dump”? It’s just perfect!

Back to the story — does the business of show as seen on SMASH ring true? Caveat here, my opinion is filtered through my vast personal Broadway experience — in other words, three years bartending in Broadway houses, several creative team call backs for long-running musicals and one four-month audition process that almost had me treading the boards with Vanessa Redgrave (another post, perhaps…) So, dear reader, snack on this story with as much salt as your taste buds require.

Though I can’t technically call myself a Broadway Baby, over the years I’ve had plenty of friends who are. Despite this connection, and despite the vicissitudes of portraying live theatre within the confines of a TV series, I continue to tune in each week, fingers crossed. So that says something.

I’m sad to learn that the newest Law & Order casting carrot for NY actors may be no more. I really thought this time I had a chance. I’ll admit, over the 20 plus years the legendary Dick Wolf series shot here in the city, all I managed to book was background on two episodes. But as they say, it’s never over if you won’t give up. Or something like that.

After the flush of Season One I started planning my attack. SMASH — just like LAW & ORDER — shoots everything right here in New York. So last summer, I took it as a sign when this notice appeared on my block:

It reads:

Dear Residents and Merchants,
We will be filming scenes for NBC’s second season of “SMASH” in your neighborhood on MONDAY, July 30th, 2012…

I live in what’s referred to as the “theatre district.” Times Square is a block and a half from my front door. My neighbors and I are used to production crews. Many years ago late one hot August night I returned home from work to discover MONEY TRAIN had transformed my entire block into a winter wonderland. It looked so real that, despite the 88 degree temperature, I felt a chill. Another time, I was sitting in a movie theatre watching the 2009 remake of FAME (not by choice, I feel compelled to explain.) Suddenly there was my apartment building on the 30 foot screen, at least triple its normal size. May I say that proved to be the high point of the film for me… 

SMASH shot on my block for several days and didn’t really impede my existence. In fact, it was kind of fun. I kept hoping to see Megan Hilty or Katherine McPhee carefully descending the steps of any one of the giant corrugated Kleenex boxes known as production trailers which lined my street. My friend, Eric did hear Megan rehearsing a duet as he passed by late one afternoon. Alas, no sightings.

So a couple of weeks later, in a completely different neighborhood (where I work in Chelsea), as I left the office one night, a familiar notice was dotting the block:

I did a quick 180 to see if it was Ellis trying to gaslight me. (Poor, Ellis, we hardly knew ye. Although, oddly, that was enough.) Nope, no Ellis. And no Jerry Rand, the reigning villain of the television theatre family this season (played by Tony and Pulitzer Prize winning playwright, Michael Cristofer who just happens to be the brother of a former boss of mine. Six degrees…) This notice was genuine. SMASH was not only shooting on my home block, they’d followed me to work! Odd or opportunity?

Oh come on! Clearly, the serendipity of these shoots could not be ignored. Here it was, my way into SMASH. I just needed to interface with someone, anyone from the SMASH crew, and get my butt on that show. But who? And how?

As I strolled toward my office the fantasy began. I casually pass a trinity of SMASH folk engaged in a frantic (though highly unlikely) conversation.

“What ever will we do?,” Casting Director says to the Producer, “There’s a police incident on the Number 6 train. Our character woman is stuck on the subway.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Episode Director explodes, “We’re just about to shoot that seminal scene inside the Broadway theatre bathroom and I need that Ladies Room Attendant on set NOW! She’s crucial to our story arc.”

“There goes my budget.” sighs the Producer and they fall into a worried silence.

This is it — my chance!!  I take a breath then stop in front of them, ready to pull my best Claudette Colbert, IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT hosiery adjustment. (Okay, I no longer submit to shoving my legs into nylon casings, but this is my fantasy so go with it.) Just as I’m about to seductively straighten of my seams, back in reality I trip on the sidewalk. I glance around the real world. No Director. No Producer. My only possibilities seem to be a couple of gaffers, a best boy and a woman from hair and makeup who’s looking pretty cranky. Not exactly what I had in mind so I continued toward my office.

Suddenly I saw this:

All right! With my new-found knowledge, that day at lunchtime I decided to head east which took me right past Megan’s trailer. But no action. I left work early that day but returned in the evening to finish a project. Upon my return, my taxi dropped me on Fifth Avenue right in the middle of a familiar crowd. Tourists with cameras behind red velvet ropes: a genuine “shoot sighting.” I glanced across the avenue and saw the production set-up.There was lots of activity — clearly they were just about ready for a shot.  Feigning nonchalance, I tried to snap a picture. This was great, perhaps Megan was about to leave her dressing room on her way to the set. I scurried over to check…

Alas. I continued upstairs at my desk and I dialed my friend, Eric. Before I could spill, he said, “Guess what?”

Me, “What?”

“I was just walking down your block,” he continued, “…and decided to drop by Kathy’s [a friend who also lives on the block.]  And guess who was sitting on her stoop?”

“No idea,” I replied.

“That guy who plays the composer on SMASH, I can’t think of his name right now…” he paused, “…and the blonde, Megan Hilty.”

“Wait, wait. On my block? You saw Megan Hilty on my block?”

“Yeah, sitting on Kathy’s steps. Both of them. I had to ask them to move so I could get in the building.”

“Hold on, you’re saying SMASH is shooting on my block?”

Tiny deliberate pause. “Yes.”

“And Megan Hilty is there?”

“I believe that’s what I said.”

Dammit. How and why was Megan Hilty 25 blocks north of her dressing room? Who was shooting on Fifth Avenue? My mind was churning. Eric continued.

“I welcomed them to the neighborhood and told them we were happy to have them shooting here. Mentioned they were both terrific in the show, but I didn’t want to bug them while they were working. So I said goodnight and stepped inside.” Classy guy.

“What’d they say?,” I prompted.

“Oh, you know – thank you. They were very gracious and seemed pleased by the compliment. It was kinda’ fun to see them just sitting there on Kathy’s front stoop.”

I quickly flipped the possibilities, but knew I could never make it home in time. Of course, ultimately it wasn’t necessary because the pattern was now clear. The universe had finally revealed my truth: the SMASH crew was my new neighbor. My television BFF. At work, at home. I’d be seeing them again. And next time, by God, I’d be ready.

EPILOGUE

Well, since Season Two filming completed without me and the news of the likely cancellation of the series, it looks like I’m back to my LAW & ORDER reality. Always the bridesmaid. Never the bride. Perhaps I should try a new wedding planner. I’m open for recommendations…

Mr. Smith Goes to High School


I’ve been a theatre afficianado since I can remember. And like every little girl whose dreams of theatrical success were filtered through Busby Berkley turntables and tap shoes, of course I wanted to be the STAR.

It started early. I logged more hours in front of our little black and white portable than the rest of my family put together. My creative guardian was my Dad, frequently heard pronouncing he could have been the next Fred Astaire. The man could dance. When I was five, he taught me how to jitterbug to Lester Lanin records. It was HIGH SOCIETY right there in our living room as the orchestra thrummed You’re Sensational. No Crosby or Sinatra for this Grace Kelly, my practice partner was the kitchen doorframe. But the biggest deal, the most exciting experience was the afternoon he came home from work and announced (duh-duh-DUH). . .

“I’m going to be in a show!”

I stopped breathing. Seems his boss, Mr. Wright, had a wife, Mrs. Wright, who was to star in this community theatre production. And they’d asked my Dad to be in it! Of course, now I understand this was predicated on that basic truth of amateur theatre, grab every available man then lock the theatre doors. But at the time, I thought we’d won the let’s put on a show lottery. There was Judy and there was Mickey and now — there was my Dad!

This extravaganza was entitled THERE’S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS (I know, so bad it’s good!) and I attended every rehearsal. By week two I knew all the dances, each piece of music and everyone’s lines. I have three distinct memories of this production: my father sang Stouthearted Men as part of a cowboy quartet; Mrs. Wright — looking exactly like Gypsy Rose Lee — sang Let Me Entertain You to a hand mirror while wearing a black corset and fishnets and I nearly plotzed when I observed Mr. Wright devouring a McDonald’s hamburger before curtain on opening night — a Friday. I thought the hand of God was about to come down and slam the box office shut. As I pointed, my Mother quickly mumbled something about different rules and made a “don’t you embarrass me” flap of the hand.  I snuck a Sign of the Cross and went back to my peanut butter sandwich.

Well, my father was a success. A year later, the next show was called CIRCUS DAZE (cross my heart) and this time I had a part. Well, two parts, actually because the savvy director double-cast nearly every role. My Dad played a magician (we got to foster the little white mouse who was his prop) and a trapeze artist. I was cast in the pivotal roles of “circus guest” and (wait for it) tightrope walker!

It was deep into the evening when it came time for the circus grand parade. We entered from the back of the house, down the center aisle. I greeted the crowd from high atop my Daddy’s shoulders, in a get up I remember to this day: Peter Pan green tights and my Mother’s sleeveless black velvet evening top trimmed in rhinestone. This fell below my hips and was belted with patent leather to keep it on my 6-year-old frame. With arms thrown wide to the crowd, you could have mistaken me for Degas’ “Dancer with a Bouquet of Flowers.” As an onstage experience, it set the bar pretty high.

By the time I got to high school I’d sung Buttons and Bows at a Ladies Sodality Luncheon, choreographed several seasons of summertime shows (the concrete floor in the basement was perfect for tap dancing in my Mother’s old high heels) and played the Queen in Sleeping Beauty. I was jonesing for top billing. What I got was a series of support roles. Okay, occasionally I was up for the lead, but my natural jack-of-all-trades abilities usually kept me smack in the middle of character land. Any baseball coach worth their salt knows you never waste a good utility player.

When Nancy Roux contracted mono during rehearsals for THE ROAR OF THE GREASEPAINT… I was plucked from the chorus to be the ingenue stand-in. My heart swelled with excitement but, sadly, it was not be my Peggy Sawyer moment. It didn’t seem to matter that I sang and danced the role of “The Girl” to perfection (much better than Nancy, everyone agreed.) Nancy, she of the sparkling blue eyes and long blonde hair could have stepped right out of the Grimm Brothers fairy tale and she recovered just in the nick of time. [Ed. Note: See "Sleeping Beauty".] So, high deedle-de-dee, the urchin gang for me…

Well ito my first year of high school, I became frustrated that my TV-honed talents were so clearly being overlooked. So one evening, I decided to confront my drama teacher (and de facto director/producer of everything), Mr. Smith and get things straight, once and for all. 

Allow me to set the scene: Immaculata High School — an all girls Catholic institution of some size. Christopher Smith — twenty-three and fresh out of the University of Chicago in his teaching debut. Mr. Smith taught English and Drama and we all adored him. He had a dark, neatly trimmed beard, wore corduroy jackets with suede elbow patches and spoke to us like adults. There may even have been a pipe, it was all very young James Mason.

One day in drama class (that is what we called it) he addressed the room to ask had anyone read “Ghosts?” My hand shot up. It was the only one, so he turned to me and said (tres, tres entre-nous), “Of course, you agree it’s a treatise on morality using syphilis as a thematic instrument, right?” I knew immediately I was screwed. Later I realized he meant the Strindberg play. Howeve, my “Ghosts” was a completely unrelated historical pulp fiction novel I’d devoured the week before. (Although, in my defense, it did have a very serious looking cover.) Self preservation kicked in. I was not about to lose this moment of personal connection with Chris Smith, heart-throb to the theatre community at large. “Oh, yes,” I nodded, “absolutely.”  The end. [Ed. Note: That was the day I learned about Strindberg, venereal disease and when acting like I know what I'm talking about, keep it short. Who says theatre doesn't educate.]

By his second year at Immaculata, Mr. Smith had a veritable harem of female fans, of which I was one. We were all totally in love with him, blindly passionate as only a group of naive Catholic girls of a certain age and era could be for a clearly gay man. When he first arrived at the school, Mr. Smith resurrected the drama department with an energy and enthusiasm that was contagious. My freshman year saw an impeccable production of BLITHE SPIRIT, complete with staircases, gramophones and a flying Elvira. Even though Barb Ashooh did fall from the Foy Flying Harness and break her leg on opening night, we reopened two weeks later with Elvira in a walking cast playing to a sold-out house. Now, that’s show biz!  

We did Anoulih and Shakespeare, conducted a formal ceremony to initiate our own International Thespian Society (Troupe 1055 – see above.) We took bus trips to Boston and New York to see live Broadway musicals. We’d return to class sounding like so many Gene Kellys — “Gotta’ dance, gotta’ dance!” So we did. We staged the prologue from WEST SIDE STORY (that bit with all the whistling and finger snapping) and the Harmonia Gardens scene from HELLO, DOLLY (because we just happened to have a grand staircase lying around) and we loved every bruising minute. Our costumed bodies slid across the floor and descended the stairs — and all this during regular school hours. I do admit I had a leg up here. I could sing. I could dance. And I could steal choreography off the stage or screen like nobody’s business. But I still hadn’t managed to capture that elusive spot light…

INTERIOR.  IMMACULATA HIGH SCHOOL.  NIGHT.

We’d just wrapped our final performance of THEATRE OF THE SOUL by Nikolai Nikolaevich Evreinov, a 1915 monodrama in one-act translated from the Russian. This was full-on theatre of the absurd,  involving endless black drapes, jazz hands and multiple tubes of Ben Nye clown white. (I know, you’re sorry you missed it…) Frustrated by my role — silent in silhouette behind a scrim — I took a deep breath and decided this was the night. I would approach Mr. Smith.

In the darkened hallway outside his classroom, Room 165, my heart was pounding like a drum. Framed in the doorway and backlit by the streetlights below, he looked positively Humphrey Bogart on the runway in Casablanca. I took a breath,  “Excuse me, Mr. Smith?” “Yes?” he smiled and leaned in. Pregnant pause. Finally, “Ummm (polite cough), why don’t I ever get cast in the lead?”

Maybe I surprised him. Perhaps he found my blatant self-promotion unseemly for a Catholic school hallway. Whatever the reason, for the first time in our acquaintance his face darkened. He drew himself up to his full 5’9″ height, glared across the inch between us and said,

As the great Constantin Stanislavsky has said,
“Remember, there are no small parts, only small actors.”

With a jut of his bearded chin, he huffed away. It was a frustrating answer and not the one I’d hoped for. In time I realized Mr. Smith had an impossible task, distributing role after role to his hungry Catholic constituency while trying to maintain a semblance of fairness. As time went on, I also realized that a couple of the girls who had seemed to be his favorites — Sue and Carole — were just more natural Graces to Mr. Smith’s Will.

Luckily, he did not hold a grudge. That summer, Chris Smith realized what I believe was one of his life’s dreams and also fulfilled one of mine. He mounted a production of WEST SIDE STORY. It was my first taste of summer stock and still dazzles my memory. Chris was both producer, designer and star. In truth, his performance as “Tony” was neither the best acted nor the most musical, but it was certainly heartfelt. And he called in every favor and connection he had to get this show up. He secured the Practical Arts Auditorium — a beautiful 1,500 seat theatre; assembled a conductor and orchestra for the recessed pit; and rented the actual road company sets.

Although the rest of the cast were locals, he jobbed in a “Maria.” Noel Fratterigo was a soprano from the New England Conservatory of Music. She truly could not act but she sang the shit out of those high notes, which went a long way when you got to the Quintet. But my favorite move — in tribute to the legend of Jerome Robbins choreography, Mr. Smith had hired four dancers from the Boston Ballet. Our very own ringers — Chita Rivera and George Chakiris would have been proud.

So of course I was cast as a Puerto Rican. My Irish Catholic Consuelo looked perfectly natural next to Maddy Williams Episcopalian Rosalia. Strictly a musical decision, vocal coach Marty Battista declared. She needed us in I Feel Pretty since we were the only two girls classically trained Maria wouldn’t sing right off the stage. Fine with me!

And guess what? Remember that crazy habit of mine, stealing choreography? It came in quite handy on this production. [Ed. Note: Please remember this was way before DVRs or DVDs or even VCRs. WSS was truly event television, broadcast once a year. And I'd seen it every time.] As an unbelievable cast-building exercise, Mr. Smith announced he’d rented the entire downtown movie theatre for the evening and was hosting a private screening for the cast. It was the fanciest thing that had yet happened to most of us.

So of course, the next day at rehearsal I taught everyone the choreography for America and that lovely cha-cha sequence in the gym (you know, when Tony and Maria meet cute and dreamy-like.) Why, yes — the production did have a choreographer, a Miss Evelyn Howard. Her bio mentioned she’d entertained the troops in USO and Red Cross shows, and my guess was WW II. We’d been rehearsing for weeks and she was still blocking the prologue. I was impatient. I decided she was too old and slow, so I took it upon myself to fill in the gaps. Yes, she did notice. But instead of whacking me with her ballet stick, she offered me a scholarship to her dance studio. I dismissed her. (Oh, the ignorance of the young.) I still regret that decision. At the time I was convinced she had nothing to teach me. A few years later when I started to study dance seriously, I realized I’d missed the boat. Had I accepted her offer at age 15, I may have had a fighting chance at developing genuine technique. By 20, it was too late. Hubris, we have a problem…

Mr. Smith did not return to school the next year, no word as to why. I realize in writing this that I never really got to thank him. Not for paying me the compliment of assuming my fluency in Strindberg at age 13. Not for insisting we see the original production of FOLLIES during it’s pre-Broadway run in Boston when Yvonne DeCarlo was still singing Can That Boy Foxtrot before it was replaced by I’m Still Here. And certainly not for tossing a bucket of cold Stanislavksy in my face during the hour of my discontent.

If I could, I would thank him for the passion. The passion he instilled in me for the craft and the business of theatre. He taught us to build actual flats. He introduced us to costume plots and spirit gum. He explained all about Actors Equity and IASTE and Local 1. I’d thank him for the passion he bestowed with equal measure on the dramatic, the scholastic and the musical aspects of theatre. And I’d certainly thank him for the endless hours and I can’t imagine how many personal dollars it took to mount that fabled production.

But most of all I’d thank him for the passion he stirred in the hearts of that group of incredibly lucky girls. In the moment, we all thought we were in love with him and in a very special way, we were. Because Mr. Smith was the magic that is theatre.

I Was a Teenage Candy Striper


Despite the fact that I used to prompt my childhood physician, Dr. Don McDonald (we also had neighbors named Paul & Pauline Paulson with a son named Paul; all redheads. Just sayin’…) Again, despite causing Dr. Don to chase me round and round his office each and every time I needed a shot, the truth is — I’ve always been a medical geek.

I had a Nancy the Nurse doll (she came with a uniform, cape and forceps!) Adored playing the game OPERATION (more forceps!) And I so coveted the full leg cast Mary Elizabeth Devinney clomped into Sister Joel’s third grade class wearing one Friday, I nearly dove out the window hoping to score my own. (Yes, her name was Sister Joel.) But this fascination came to a glorious head the summer I became a candy striper.

I was ready — nearly an adult (eighth grade graduation fast approaching.) And I’d certainly done my homework. Since both the Bookmobile and The Taylor Library had waived their 10 book borrowing limit for me (it saved the librarian time), I was able to devour all 27 installments of the Cherry Ames series, whose titular star was a job-hopping, mystery-solving nurse (oh, yeah!)

…consume the seven Sue Barton novels (where she successfully combined raising a beautiful family with a high-powered nursing career!) 

…and gobble up the biographies of Florence Nightingale, Clara Barton and First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln. (Not satisfied to rest on her White House laurels, MTL worked tirelessly as a nurse tending to wounded during the Civil War. Now we’re talkin’…) 

I was also a dedicated patient of Ben Casey, Dr. Kildare, and Marcus Welby, MD —  unquestioningly following their black and white advice week after week after week. (This was pre-HMO, PPO or POS; a much simpler time.) As I said, I was ready.

Alexander Eastman was a low slung building constructed in 1964. Though a small hospital — at the time it had about 26 regular and 6 maternity beds — AE’s candy striper program was legendary. It’s fair to say that in the town of Derry, NH this program was surpassed in popularity and esteem only by the Miss Patti Mills School of Baton.

I feel I should explain. Pinkerton Academy, the town high school, had a champion majorette and twirling squad. As their coach, Patti Mills was on a mission to ensure PA’s continued success. Therefore, in an effort to develop any and all local talent, the Patti Mills School of Baton hosted lessons for just about every girl in town, from kindergarten age on up. Several students rose to a level of twirling that was so remarkable it could have won the talent portion of the Miss America Pageant. I don’t know that this actually ever happened, just saying it could have. Patti Mills was that good.

At the end of each school year, the Mills students presented a twirling recital that rivaled many a state fair. It was easily three hours in length and filled every folding chair that could fit into the Gilbert H. Hood Middle School auditorium. In addition to the rows and rows of smiling parents, the audience demographic included those with a fascination for watching teenage girls in fringed and spangled leotards as they tossed batons into the air and those with a fascination for watching teenage girls in fringed and spangled leotards as they tossed batons with dangerously flaming tips within inches of a velvet theatre curtain. Come to think of it, that activity could have resulted in a visit to the Alexander Eastman emergency room, but I digress…

So you can imagine how honored and excited I was to receive the invitation to come down to interview to be a candy striper.  I know, I know, you thought this was as easy as joining the Girl Scouts. Or trying out for the Chess Team. No, no, no — not just anyone could don that vaunted striped pinafore with short-sleeve white shirt and matching anklets. You had to earn it!

So the next Sunday right after church, decked out in my most serious serious clothes, I found myself downstairs in the Alexander Eastman kitchen/cafeteria, where the floor to ceiling windows overlooked the slopes of Alexander-Carr Park.

[Ed. Note: This is pure conjecture. I do not now, nor have I ever known anything about said Alexanders; whether they founded (or losted) anything and the order in which they may or may not have done so. But in the absence of research, I'm taking a leap...]

At the far side of the room stood two women in white. The sun streaming in behind them caused their starched uniforms to positively glow. I shook hands with Rose Gerard, RN and Patricia Crabbe, LPN then took their proffered seat. I admit, I cannot remember the actual questions, but I do remember they made my hands sweat. This would be serious business, you’ll be dealing with sick and injured people in a hospital, do you think you’re up to the task? The memory puts me in mind of the feeling I get each time I sit in an exit row on an airplane. You know, when the flight attendant locks eyes with you and rotely inquires, “If this plane happens to crash, do you promise not to panic and leave us all here to die?” I may be paraphrasing… Okay now, back in Alexanderplatz-land my responses were as solemn and sincere as the occasion required. Apparently they were also successful because shortly thereafter, I got the call to come to training.

Yes, Virginia, there was candy striper training — a full week of it. It took place over a school break (Easter, I think), but each girl was still happy to be there. This was real. This was exciting. This was a hospital! First we toured the facility, including the one operating room (“Wicked neat!!!) The nurses on the ward smiled benignly as this gaggle of teenage nightingales fidgeted politely in our stiff as candy cane jumpers. We crackled behind the instructor, a line of starched baby ducks, just hoping to absorb, remember and not trip over our shoelaces.

“Always present yourself for your shift clean and ironed with your shoes freshly polished.”

Our classroom was a corner of the cafeteria. We started with a general first aid review. Then a hour on the proper technique for hand washing. Next we met two important tools of our trade, Lady Bed Pan and Mr. Urinal. We shook and shook and shook their hands until nary a giggle remained. We had an actual hospital bed at our disposal. No, not for napping; we needed to make ourselves one with that mattress. First, we made the bed while empty (piece of cake!) Then we learned to strip and remake it while it was occupied by a patient. No, we didn’t use actual patients; their malpractice coverage would not allow. Each trainee took a turn in the bed, which gave you a lot of information about what it would feel like as a patient being wrapped and handed and rolled. And then a turn at the bed, which gave you a lot of information about the mechanics of trying to move dead weight. While playing patient, I recall some of us were much sicker than others. (I’m talking to you, Sue…) Next we reviewed the controls. Head up, feet down. Feet up, head down. Feet down, no up. Oops, that’s the head…If you were going to make the egregious error of sandwiching a live body inside this mechanical mattress, the time was now. Your training partner was young and healthy. But you might just kill a patient…

And the icing on this sheetcake? That’s right, making hospital corners (no namby-pamby fitted sheets for we!) The hospital sheets were sturdy and starched, pressed flat in an industrial steamer. They felt rough against your fingertips as you struggled to make perfectly angled folds and tucks. The hospital mattress was stiff and unwieldy — this demanded some sweat. Then came the scrutiny; not just one corner, but all four. And if even one didn’t pass, do it again. For the final exam (there was a whole deal on the last day) they actually bounced a dime off the blankets (just like in G.I. Jane starring Demi Moore.) It was worth it, cause that’s a skill that never leaves you…

We were schooled in giving backrubs. Taught where to safely place a flower arrangement. Shown the proper way to fluff and stack pillows. Speaking of pillows, to this day I have never forgotten the instruction we received. One should never “hold the pillow under your chin and breathe on it” as you attempt to slip it into the case. (Apparently “unsanitary” and ‘”germ-laden.”) You should balance the pillow against your chest with your arms extended down and attempt to let the pillow slip itself into the case. I usually try to adhere to this behavior. When I fail, my solace is I’m usually dealing with my own pillows, so the cross-contamination possibilities are pretty circular. To be honest, those hard, stiff hospital pillows are a lot easier to drop into a pillowcase that anything a real person trying for a comfortable night’s sleep at home would ever buy. Just my opinion.

Soon we were on the floor, always working in pairs. And I know I’m not alone when I say that I spent as much time as I could in the little kitchenette. In additional to dispensing reading materials, and flowers, and sunny dispositions, we also provided snacks. There was a little cart which we loaded up with soda, and ice cream and saltines. But we liked to push the milkshakes. There was a fountain mixer in this little kitchen, and anytime we could convince a patient that a milkshake was what they needed, we got to skim a little bit off the top. It was a matter of poor portion control on our part, you simply couldn’t fit it all in one glass…

My most vivid memory was of one particular Sunday afternoon. I was working with Sue (she of the Oscar-winning patient routine, see above.) There was a particular nurse who generated fear in my heart whenever I saw her. I don’t recall her name, but she was dark haired, smart as a whip and wouldn’t take no never mind, if you get my drift. She was a big deal, because in addition to working on the floor, she was one of the surgical nurses on staff. So this particular Sunday, she approached Sue and I (starched and pressed and polished, I assure you) while she was dressed in bloody scrubs. This was different, very different. She told us to follow her and down we went — to the operating room!!!!!!!!

Our eyes were plenty big as she pushed the metal swinging doors open. There was blood everywhere. For me, not in a “Gross, I’m going to barf” way. More a “Wow, this is totally cool.” I could see Sue felt the same. Cleary this nurse knew how to read people. Because the next thing she said was, “Wanna’ help clean up? We just had an emergency spleenectomy and we’re short staffed.” You didn’t have to ask us twice.

Before  you say, “Yuck!” I’ll just let you know that Sue wanted to be a nurse and I wanted to be an orthopeodic surgeon. What happened after high school was that Sue went on to become a nurse and I was accepted into a pre-med program.

However, one day that summer before starting, I called the college and asked, “Excuse me, I’m coming there in the fall for pre-med. But I was wondering, ummm, do you have a theatre program?” The answer was, “No.” So, here I am —never an actual doctor, but ready to play one on TV.

But I was a teenage candy striper. An iconic role, indeed. Just ask Barbie.

I Fired Aaron Sorkin

Quote


Technically, true. I did fire Aaron Sorkin.

It was sometime in the mid- to late-80s and we were both working for a concession company, bartending in Broadway theatres. We were far from friends, but certainly acquaintances. I distinctly remember one night, working the Jackie Mason show at the Brooks Atkinson with Aaron because as soon as the show started, he handed me a script to read. It was his first play — a one-act called “Hidden in This Picture.”

The Brooks Atkinson is an old, small theatre — no cushy lobbys like some of the other houses. You work out in the open with the audience and must remain quiet throughout the performance. So as the show got under way I sat down on one of the theatre’s “antique” settees and quietly began reading Aaron’s script. It wasn’t long before I was beating my hand on the cushion in an effort not to laugh out loud. To this day, I have never experienced anything as funny as the moment when the cows appear on the hill in “Hidden in This Picture.” I don’t want to ruin it for you so I won’t explain how he managed to write cows into a stage play and make them funny, but trust me — he did. Soon there were tears running down my cheeks as I continued to choke down the laughter. I wasn’t wholely succesful and a few audience members turned around to give me the stink eye. Thankfully, Jackie Mason didn’t notice.

A while later I was working with Aaron again, this time managing the bar at the former Alvin Theatre — newly renamed in honor of playwright Neil Simon. Matthew Broderick was reprising his role as Eugene Morris Jerome, the somewhat autobiographical stand-in for the playwright himself. This go round featured BILOXI BLUES, the middle child in the Simon Trilogy. Earlier at this same house, I’d worked the run of the trio’s first-born, BRIGHTON BEACH MEMOIRS. The baby of the family, BROADWAY BOUND, came along soon after.

Bartending on Broadway was a nifty little gig. Not a whole lot of money, but then it didn’t require a whole lot of time. You showed up 90 minutes before curtain, set up the bar and leisurely served drinks before the show (in industry parlance, the “walk-in”.) There was that 15 minutes of human chaos known as intermission, but it wasn’t long before you got to break it all down and say good night. What made this gig different, the delicious cherry on this bartending sundae was you got to watch Broadway actors in Broadway shows—for free!

As this was a cash business, a representative from the concession company made the rounds every night, you know, giving everything the once over: Was your bar set up properly? Are you wearing the correct uniform? Are you keeping your hands out of the till?

Now I was a good manager from the standpoint that I was honest, hardworking and responsible (not to mention incredibly quick, regularly serving 75 people overpriced drinks in the span of 15 minutes.) That, cashing out for the night and inventory was usually all that was required. But one week, Ida (from the office) stopped at my bar after the walk-in. She leaned on one elbow, sucked hard on her cigarette (this was the 80s, remember) and with all the gravity of Edward G. Robinson in LITTLE CAESAR, pronounced,

“Aaron’s not wearing his tie.”

I smiled pleasantly, but when she blew a steady stream of smoke past my ear, I realized she was expecting more of a response.  “Oh, okay.”  She still didn’t move.  “I’ll speak to him?” She nodded silently and was gone.

Now, at this point in my life I could barely confront myself, forget about anyone else. If you’d asked me, “Hey, what do you do?” I would have replied “waitress” or “bartender” despite the years of music and theatre training. Sure, in my heart of hearts I thought of myself as an actress but I wasn’t going to tell anybody about it. That would be forward. That would be gauche. I would wait silently until somebody else told me I had earned my chance at the spotlight…Cue John Houseman, my mother and the Catholic Church. So the thought of disciplining anyone, let alone someone daring and creative enough to write one of the funniest plays I’d ever read, presented a definite challenge.

Aaron Sorkin, on the other hand, did not appear hampered by similar self-doubts. That evening after the show started, when he walked down to the lower lobby to relax until intermission, I took a deep breath and quickly said,

“Aaron, you’re not wearing your tie.”

He barely looked in my direction as he settled onto the sofa with his newspaper. Slightly uncomfortable pause. Well, it was uncomfortable for me.

“Aaron, excuse me, but you need to put on your tie.”

“I don’t have a tie.” He didn’t even look up.

Had he done so he might have seen me smile — not a happy smile, more a facial tick to cover my panic and confusion over what to do next. Crap, you’re the manager. This is part of your job. You need to—

 “Aaron, Ida said you have to wear your tie.”

So there.

There was an almost imperceptible pause. “Well, Dee,” he said casually, “I don’t have a tie.” He turned the page of his newspaper and continued to read.

Bob — the understudy for the role of Eugene Morris Jerome’s Dad, who sat with us in the lower lobby every night until intermission on the off-chance the actor he was covering would sprain an ankle, choke on prop cornflakes or mistakenly walk off the front of the stage — watched me out of the corner of his eye. Seconds seemed like hours. “Well, Aaron,” I finally replied, somewhere between a whisper and a choke, “I guess you’ll just have to go home and get one.” Bang. Zoom. To the moon, Alice!!!

“If I go home, Dee, I might not come back.” He lazily turned another page. [Ed. Note: Aaron lived a 3 minute walk from the theatre. This stand-off was purely academic and may have served as an influence for the tone of THE WEST WING, specifically any scene involving President Bartlet.]

Bob’s eyes clocked back to me like he was watching the final volley at Wimbledon.

“Well. Aaron…If you’re not wearing your tie you — I guess you don’t — I mean, maybe you shouldn’t come back.”

Okay, not exactly an ace. But as passive aggressive shots go, it at least cleared the net.

So Aaron Sorkin slowly folded his paper, tucked it under his left arm and left the theatre, sans neckwear. And he did not return. As I envisioned his chastened journey home, chest emblazoned with a scarlet “A” for arrogant, I scurried to the payphone (again, this was the 80s) to report in to Ida. I was nothing if not the dutiful schlub. So they sent me a replacement bartender and that was that.

A few months later, ME AND MY GIRL opened at the brand new Marriott Marquis Theatre. My good friend, Eric Johnson (yes, dear readers, that Eric) was in the original Broadway cast. (Check him out as the Pearly King with Robert Lindsay and cast at the 1986 Tony Awards. He’s the guy with all the shiny buttons and spoons.) As I was invited to attend the opening night, I walked into the theatre feeling like a million bucks. And who should I see blithely managing the bar in this brand new palace of pleasure, a gig that turned out to be the golden calf of Broadway bartending, raking in unprecedented tip money as a monster Tony-winning musical hit? You guessed it, Aaron Sorkin. Big as life, not a shred of shame or embarrassment at his previous comeuppance, but this time — I noted — wearing a tie. I side-stepped to another bar and ordered a stiff drink.

It took me years — and a few more Aarons — to process the complexity of the life truth it’s as simple as doing what you want. No, I mean actually doing it. After his success, when someone learned that I’d crossed paths with him, their inevitable “What’s he really like” was met with, “He’s an asshole.” After a while I was amending it to, “He’s an asshole — but that’s why he is where he is today.” And I mean that as a compliment.

I have always been his fan, for a while albeit a reluctant one. But now I understand that despite how he appeared to me, and despite the fact that he has been so incredibly successful doing what he loves, he probably has as many insecurities as the rest of us. He just didn’t use them to plan his TripTik.

So should I happen to run into Aaron on the street again someday, and should he happen to inquire, “Dee, how are you? What have you been doing?” I’d reply without hesitation, “I’m great. Still an actor. And now a writer, too — a little like you.”

However whether he’s wearing one or not, don’t think I’ll mention the tie.

She’s Back…


To paraphrase the iconic Carol Anne, she’s back…

No, I don’t mean me — although it is true RIPE and I are finally on the move again. (Yippee!) I’m actually talking about my new BFF. You all know her. I’ve mentioned her here before. The woman I would most love to sit down to lunch and talk low-cal, high fiber recipes with. The gal whose opinion I am curious about — does she watch the THE GOOD WIFE primarily as a law procedural or more for the character-driven drama? And more importantly, is it BREAKING POINTE or BUNHEADS? Or both? (There’s no denying the lady likes to dance, right?)

Of course I’m talking about that first lady of sweater sets, the one who lately has graced every taping from LETTERMAN to LIVE! with KELLY (and dig that co-host of the week), where she actually jumped rope with aplomb. I’m talking about your friend and mine, Michelle Obama.

I’ve been hearing from Michelle quite a bit lately, we just haven’t managed to connect. There was another letter this week. And few recent emails about a lunch get together. But we ran out of time. She’s been busy. I’ve been busy. Sometimes, that’s just the way it goes.

I haven’t written back yet, but this won’t sully our friendship. Nope, cause I know she’s got my back. Well, strictly speaking that’s more feeling than fact, since we haven’t actually met. But everything about her points toward the positive. It’s almost like we’re having a conversation when I read OBAMAFOODORAMA, the Blog of Record About White House Food Initiatives, From Policy to Pie. And you all know my food focus of late, so I relish the good info.

Last fall, when I received that first letter from Michelle — the one that helped inspire my first post on THE RIPE PROJECT — it was totally unexpected and just the kick I required. Actually that reminds me of the time I just couldn’t get my head around cleaning and organizing my apartment. I procrastinated. And procrastinated. Then finally, when I could stand it no more, I cleaned my apartment. [Ed. Note: For those of you who are home – not apartment – dwellers, this reference may lack a certain punch. Here's a little game: take at least half your furniture and belongings and move them into two contiguous rooms of your house. The rest of the space is off-limits except as a storage facility for the overflow, for which you pay $225 a month and can only enter from 8 am to 6 pm. Now, go ahead: live and be neat about it.] Anyway, once I finally broke down and just cleaned the place, you know what happened? It wasn’t that big a deal. I had a much more enjoyable living space and I found a $100 bill. No, it wasn’t magic. I’d always had the money. I’d simply lost track in all the self-created chaos.

My point is, same thing with Michelle. There I was last August struggling for clarity, trying to locate the lost kernel of my idea for this blog when — voila!!! Une lettre de la Première Dame des Etats-Unis! It stopped my in my tracks. At first I was stumped. Compared to Michelle Obama, why should I even try. But a moment later it became just the creative compass I needed. As I compared the map of my life to the map of Michelle’s, at first the differences seemed insurmountable. Eventually Michelle helped orient me to who and where I am and where I want to go.

So take a few lessons in living from our First Lady. Eat healthy. Stay active. And write a letter to a friend. Help keep the US Postal Service in business (it’s nice receiving something other than bills.) Now that we have the Forever Stamp and you can buy them online, there’s no excuse. And won’t your Grandmother be proud?

Ran into a little Interferon-ance…


Well, it’s been a while. To my vast coterie of followers — all 13 or 14 of you — apologies. Best laid plans and all exploded when I received an early Christmas present, a diagnosis of perianal malignant melanoma. I’ll skip the details and let the name tip you to the salient facts. My friend Bob’s response upon hearing was, “So, you’ve got ass cancer.” And there you have it. Shit happens.

If I had to share something with Farrah Fawcett, I would have preferred the hair. It was a surprise find during a routine surgery for (polite cough here) hemorrhoids. Unlike the melanoma we all know — skin cancer — this particular delight accounts for only 0.2% – 0.3% of the disease. Thanks, but I’d rather win the lottery. Being an internet whore, as soon I my surgeon called with the news I jumped online and read every mention of the disease I could find. And the internet, being a bit of a whore herself, generously served up both the possibility of complete cure and a “Ho, ho, ho — you have three months to live” super-size value meal. Merry Last Christmas. God bless us, every one.

Now I’m your basic dreamer/pragmatist, so of course after a day of anger and desperate panic, I immediately began eating a healthy, anti-cancer diet. Yeah, I know. I stopped dairy and red meat. I bought tons of fruits and vegetables and no longer let them just rot in my produce drawer. I started each morning with a fruit and veggie smoothie (finally putting that $300 Montel Williams juicer to use.) Gluten didn’t pass my lips. I vitaminized, mineralized and visualized. In two months I lost 50 pounds (Ed. Note: There’s plenty where that came from, so not as drastic as it sounds.) The phrase ‘eat to live’ became more than just the title of Joel Furhman’s very informative bestseller. It was my new directive. And guess what — pretty quickly I began to feel like a million bucks.

Luckily this wasn’t an instance of that famous last gulp of life before kicking off. I’m still here and, as of my last PET scan, technically disease-free. Apparently, this is what it feels like to eat well and take care of yourself. Guess some of us just need a bigger foot in the butt to pay attention. (Had my mother, the dietician, not been cremated, she’d be turning in her grave…)

Now back to the villain (or hero?) of this piece — perianal melanoma. The logistical reason this was even discovered (because there are virtually no symptoms until it’s usually well on its nasty way) was because I was unhappy with my healthcare situation and wanted to return to my previous physician. That required changing my health insurance, which as a freelancer was actually up to me since I pay out of pocket. (Ed. Note: This would still be on my to do list had there not been SERIOUS effort on my friend, Annette’s part. She would not stop bugging me until I did the paperwork. Lesson here: It’s always Nike time. )

Once on my new plan, even though I’d had one only 4 months prior, as a pro forma gesture I went in for a physical. Dr. Painter, being the thorough physician she is, noticed a few things, sent me to a few specialists who ultimately discovered my early Christmas present thus securing the truth that my decision to change back to Dr. Painter was one of the best of my life. [Ed. Note: See image above.]

Okay, we have the pathology report — what next? Dr. Nandakumar, my colorectal surgeon had never run across this particular melanoma. My brand new oncologist (and who doesn’t thrill to speak those words?) was in the same boat. So they presented my case to the surgical review team at Weill Cornell, seeking opinions on a treatment protocol.  

The group decision: a second surgery (when they used the words ‘wider’ and ‘deeper’ I was ever more grateful to the inventors of general anesthesia) followed by weekly interferon shots — for up to 5 years.

Flashback here to my initial oncology visit with Dr. Popa (a delightfully intelligent woman with great experience and a generous sense of humor.) She gave me the lowdown on standard treatments for melanoma – one of which was interferon. As she outlined the nasty side effects (suicidal ideations, anyone?) she promised it would be prescribed only as a last resort.

Returning to the land of happy treatment news, I looked across at my friend, Eric who’d been a brick, attending every doc visit with me since the diagnosis. He was masking the same “Oh, shit” expression on his face as I had on mine. “But,” Dr. Popa chirped, “It’s the fancy interferon!” Well — I don’t usually go in for labels, but as long as it’s tasteful…

She explained that my prescribed treatment, Sylatron, was pretty new having just been approved by the FDA in April of 2011. Developed by Merck, it is a pegalated (coated) version of the traditional drug. Interferon is the general label for naturally occurring proteins which are released in response to pathogens, such as viruses, bacteria or tumors. So strictly speaking the method of action for Sylatron is to boost my immune system so that my body would target cancer cells and eradicate them. Faster, pussycat, kill, kill!!

I’d like to take a moment for a little life irony here and point out that my freelance job for the past several years has been developing training for pharmaceutical companies. What this meant was suddenly I was uniquely qualified to read and understand the Prescribing Information for my own cancer drug (you know, that multi-folded piece of thin white paper with the tiny, tiny print that you get inside every prescription box. Yes, Virginia, I actually read mine.) Ain’t life a kick!

I chose Friday as my weekly injection day, so I would have the weekend to deal with the promised side effects (fever, chills, nausea — the usual cocktail crowd.)  As I was the first patient to receive this treatment at Weill Cornell, they wanted to observe me at the infusion center for the first 10 or so weeks. Pat, my regular infusion nurse, was the personification of experience, humor and grounded intelligence and would make anyone feel safe. So I happily offered up my arm week after week for my Sylatron dose.

Upon receiving the shots, there was an immediate reaction. First, a noticeable band of pressure developed around my head. Then, according to Eric who was always there to watch, I would sprout a pair of red “Spock” eyebrows while a flush traveled down my face, sometimes ending as a scarlet goatee. My blood pressure would spike and I definitely felt strange. Within 10-15 minutes, the reaction would lessen and once my blood pressure returned to normal, Pat would send me on my way.

I won’t lie. That first night, with a fever of nearly 104 degrees, as I hugged a huge surgical ice pack and struggled to lower my temperature while attempting to keep the top of my head from flying off, I wondered if I could handle this treatment. Luckily a combination of the cold embrace and a Bob Newhart rerun (“Life is a Hamburger,” the one where Carol announces her engagement to Don Fezler, an unemployed would-be poet) at least got me to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, things were much more manageable.

After the first eight weeks, the dose was cut in half. The benefit was some of the side-effects lessened. By week twelve I’d graduated to shooting up at home. Giving myself the needle was the easy part (it’s just like a sub-Q insulin shot) but mixing the drug properly required really paying attention! Luckily it all comes in a sweet little package with instructions and syringes so now it’s just what I do on a hot Friday night.

Well, that’s it. I’ve got cancer? I’ve survived cancer? I’m living with cancer? I’m not sure what my label of choice — if any — will be. What I do know is that a little sense of urgency can be very effective at driving the dramatic structure. So RIPE and I are back on the boards. Countdown to opening night.

So I invite you to stay in touch, and perhaps raise your glass in community each Friday evening as I’m having cocktails for one (on the advice of the manufacturer, not shaken. Just gently turned.) Hear that, Mr. Bond?