Towanda Becomes Electra

We saw the Pittsburgh Public Theatre’s production of Electra the other night. It was pretty good. Like most plays written by Ancient Greeks, the players just talked a lot – about what had happened, what was happening now, and what they would like to see happen in the future. I can sum up the plot for you in three words. Electra was ANGRY.

From the moment she crawled onto the stage until the play ended about an hour later, she growled, she wept, she wailed, she gnashed her teeth. She had her reasons to be angry. Her mother and her mother’s lover murdered her father and were now ruling the kingdom together. Her sister told her that there was nothing to do but accept it but Electra was bent on revenge, which, for some reason could only be exacted by her brother Orestes, who was out of town. You know- typical family stuff.

I got confused when Orestes showed up and Electra didn’t recognize him, but I found out later that they hadn’t seen each other in 20 years. Wait. How could Electra possibly have sustained such intense anger and fury for 20 YEARS? I’m surprised that she didn’t spontaneously combust.

Maybe Electra could take a lesson from Towanda on taking immediate action on your anger.

In case you are unaware, Towanda is the aggressive alter ego that meek, mild and middle-aged Evelyn Couch, a character in the novel Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café, creates for herself. In one scene, Evelyn is waiting for a parking spot only to have two younger woman take the spot from her, saying “Face it, lady, we’re younger and faster.” Evelyn mutters “Towanda” and then rams her car into the back of their car several times. She then tells them, “Face it, girls, I’m older and I have more insurance.”

I had a Towanda moment myself recently. One day last week I was driving in a parking lot, minding my own business, when a car started pulling out of a parking space in front of me. I simultaneously hit the brakes and laid on my horn, but the driver didn’t hear or see me, and proceeded to back into my car.

I was annoyed but not really angry. Accidents happen and she was going slowly. The “damage” was more of a scratch than a dent, and certainly not worth worrying about. She was clueless, so I nicely explained what happened, and told her I was willing to forget about the scratch on the car. I was headed back to my car, not even waiting for her to say “thank you,” but the lady who just backed into me wanted to talk more about it.

“Well, I guess that’s okay, because we don’t really know what happened,” she said

I reminded her that we DID know what happened – she backed into me.

“But we don’t know whose fault it was,” she said.

I could actually feel my blood pressure starting to rise. I explained that SHE hit ME – it was her fault.

This chick wasn’t done. “Actually, I didn’t see you and you saw me, so it was your fault.”

Okay, I was now Towanda. “BECAUSE I saw you I stopped the car. My car was NOT MOVING when you hit me, ” I was shouting now.

“No, it was definitely your fault,” this witch said, haughtily, “You should thank me. I am just going to forget it, even though my car is brand new, not like yours. You’re lucky.”

Suddenly, the intensity of my fury matched Electra’s.

THANK her????? I wanted to bitch slap her. Would that have been wrong? Actually SHE was the lucky one. I didn’t take her insurance information, or drive into the back of her car several times (although the thought did cross my mind). And, because I neither own nor carry a gun, I did not shoot her on the spot. That WOULD have been wrong, of course, and this, my friends, is why I am a firm believer in gun control. That kind of homicidal overreaction is what got Electra’s family into such a pickle to begin with.

Instead, I went to Dress Barn. I found a beautiful lightweight sweater that I loved. I needed to get a smaller size because of my recent weight loss, AND it was 60% off. I bought two in different colors. I could feel myself calming and my blood pressure returning to normal. Yes, there’s nothing like a little retail therapy to soothe the raging beast. Maybe Towanda and Electra should have tried it.

Fun with Kitty and Cherie

My sister, who was living in Baltimore at the time, invited me down for the weekend to attend a huge Arts and Crafts Fair that was being held near where she lived. She had heard great things about it, and knowing that I really liked arts and crafts, thought I might enjoy it as well. Of course, she was right, and I happily made plans to go to her house for the weekend.

I left work at 2 p.m. that Friday, and drove from Pittsburgh to Maryland. The weather was perfect, and the drive was just like I like it – that is to say totally uneventful.  After dinner, my sister and I tried clothes on Kitty and Cherie, our J. C. Penney website virtual models and alter egos, who we had created to look just like us. Trying clothes on these avatars didn’t really give you an accurate idea of how an outfit would look on your real body, but it did provide hours of fun - kind of like a grown up version of playing with paper dolls.

Saturday morning we set out in happy anticipation to explore the great and mighty Arts and Crafts Fair. We arrived at the fairgrounds where the Fair was being held and....there was nothing there. When I say nothing, I mean nothing. No arts, no crafts, no people, no vendors, no cars. No signs of life whatsoever. Perplexed, my sister checked the ad for the Fair she had cut out of the newspaper to see if she was mistaken about the location, or the date. But no, according to the large, flashy ad, we were in the right place at the right time, but, clearly, the organizers had thrown an Arts and Crafts Fair and nobody came. Except us.

So, there we were, all dressed up and nowhere to go. You know, some people would have let this little glitch ruin their day, but not us! We didn’t tarry long. My sister barely skipped a beat before pointing out that there was a Borders Book Store right across the street from the Fairground. She didn’t have to ask me twice. The absolute joy we find in a bookstore is something we all share in my family. After whiling away a happy hour or two in the bookstore, we were ready to move on.

My sister asked if I might want to go to the mall in York, PA not far away. I’m always up for a trip to a mall, and so off we went. We stopped and had lunch, and had a perfectly fine time shopping at the mall.

All in all, it was a great weekend– a nice, relaxing fun visit with my sister. I always remember the Weekend of the Missing Arts and Crafts Fair (its picture was later featured on a milk carton) very fondly.

That’s the way life is sometimes. You set out with a plan, but sometimes things just don’t work out the way you thought they would. But if you are flexible and open-minded and in the company of good people you can have a pretty fine time of it after all.

Adding Insult to Injury

I went for my routine doctor’s check-up the other day. It’s official. I Ache All Over.


My doctor is a pleasant guy and a very good doctor. I thought that as long as I was dropping by the office to get my blood pressure and cholesterol checked (both of which are fine, thanks), I might ask him about some “issues” I’ve been having.

Like the fact that my hands hurt. Now, I may go for days or weeks without using other parts of my body, but I use my hands ALL the time. I type constantly. I work on the computer all day at work, and then come home and write or tool around on Facebook. I have also become focused on actually finishing the "Rise of Atlantis" computer game I am currently playing. I can’t tell you how elated I was when I finally got past Carthage the other night.

I was sure that the problems with my aching hands could probably be attributed to either arthritis or carpal tunnel syndrome, but my doctor dismissed my diagnoses pretty definitively, telling me that actually my tendons in my hands were just thickened. Well, that didn’t sound any worse than my own diagnosis. He said it wasn’t really a problem unless the occasional stiffening in my hands at some point didn’t go away, resulting in permanently disabled fingers. Yeah, that WOULD be a problem, I think.

However, the one thing that I really wanted to address with my doctor was The Knot. See, I have had a painful “knot” in my left shoulder for many, many years now. I figured it was caused by stress and bad posture. “What that actually is – and you’re going to LOVE this,” my doctor explained, “is gristle that has grown up around your muscle, probably as a result of some injury along the way.

Maybe that’s what they mean when they refer to “adding insult to injury.” Not that it matters, but I just wondered what injury might have caused this.

Was it the time I was thrown from the horse, breaking my pelvis in two places, and hitting my head on a large rock?

Could it have happened when I was rushing to answer the phone at work, and slipped on the carpet-protecting plastic mat, and went headlong into my desk, badly injuring my left arm and sustaining a serious bone bruise on my elbow? I took that phone call, by the way.

Maybe it was the time I fell down the steps at the conference, and went headlong into the wall, injuring my right arm and sustaining a bone bruise of my right elbow. My right side was obviously after equal time.

It couldn’t possibly have dated all the way back to when I fell off my bike onto my mouth when I was 12, could it? Here, all these years, I have just been blaming all my dental problems on that, not giving a thought to what it might have done to my shoulder.

Then there was the time I fell flat on my face, for no apparent reason whatsoever, walking into Arby’s, bruising my nose (which apparently broke my fall) and scratching my eyeglasses badly enough that I had to replace them.

I could go on, but what’s the point? It seems all my years as a klutz have finally caught up with me. Thank goodness I never played any sports, since most of these incidents occurred when I was just trying to walk. Considering that I hit my head in each of the accidents I recounted, I know I should just be grateful that my only long term problem is a little painful gristle on my shoulder and not brain damage.

I guess all those accusations of my being hard-headed are true.

The End of the World as We Know It

R.E.M., my favorite band, is calling it quits after 31 years. It’s funny, because I’ve been thinking about the band a lot lately – they were mentioned in two of my last four blogs.

In the past few years, I haven’t been listening to much music that didn’t come attached to a Broadway musical, so I haven’t been hearing R.E.M. as much as I used to. But they were like an old friend who you didn’t see often, but you always knew they were there if you needed them.

I first discovered R.E.M in 1991 when their Out of Time album came out. "Losing My Religion" was a single playing on the radio during my final semester at California University of Pennsylvania, when I was writing “Rip Wakes Up,” my first column, for the campus newspaper.

Writing the column allowed me to express myself in a very public forum, and I was exposing myself (in a purely figurative sense, of course) for the first time in a very long time. Of course, readers reacted to what I wrote, especially those columns that addressed the current situation on campus, and sometimes it wasn’t all favorable. It was liberating, scary and exhilarating, all at the same time.  "Losing My Religion" really captured the experience for me:

That’s me in the corner,
That’s me in the spotlight,
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh, no, I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough.


That’s how it was with R.E.M. and me. Their lyrics were poetry set to haunting music, and always seemed to reflect some of my experience back to me. The genius of their work is that the lyrics were usually not terribly literal- because they were so poetic, they were up for interpretation. What they meant to me might not be what they may have meant to you, or want the band meant when they wrote them.

So R.E.M has provided a soundtrack for my life. They were among my traveling companions when I was driving from place to place throughout the western part of the state as a part of my job, getting me through many a boring stretch of road, or literally helping me make it through the storm.

They helped me through a few emotional storms, too. I’ve never been one to shun change, but there have been a few times in my life when sudden, dramatic and unwelcome change was thrust upon me, through no fault of my own. These were times when my life and my world were altered forever, because of the decisions and actions of other people. At these times R.E.M’s uncharacteristically literal "Everybody Hurts" from their 1992 Automatic for the People album would just come to my mind:

Sometimes everything is wrong. Now it's time to sing along
When your day is night alone, (hold on, hold on)
If you feel like letting go, (hold on)
When you think you've had too much of this life, well hang on


'Cause everybody hurts. Take comfort in your friends
Everybody hurts. Don't throw your hand. Oh, no. Don't throw your hand
If you feel like you're alone, no, no, no, you are not alone….

So hold on, hold on

That song was like a musical lifesaver to me. It was a lot less expensive than therapy, and probably equally effective.

A funny thing always happens to me during the life-changing bad times. I always come out the other end not just okay, but better - in a better place. I become stronger and surer, and more loved and supported than I was before. Again, R.E.M. says it better than I can-

It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

So now the band is calling it a day, which can’t help but make me feel just a little melancholy. But I hope they feel fine.

I Don't Like to Complain, But...

Lots of people say they don’t like to complain but do it anyway. Complaining comes very naturally and it’s an art that anyone can master. It is a great American pastime, like barbecuing or baseball.


Complaining can also be therapeutic. Sometimes you just need to vent – to get something off your chest. People actually form clubs so that they can complain together about something that affects everyone in the group. They’re called “support groups.”

I’ll be the first to admit that I love to complain, in a non-offensive, constructive and humorous fashion, of course. Heck, I have devoted entire blogs to complaining about one thing or another. Like most people, I have some special little favorite complaints aka “pet peeves” that I hold close to my heart,  If you will indulge me for a moment:

1) Receiving the wrong order in a restaurant.  My husband and I routinely receive food that is wildly different than what we ordered, like Pork Medallions instead Barbecued Chicken Wings, or Beef Tortellini in place of Shrimp Primavera. It is hard to imagine how they could even make these magnificent errors, but sometimes it actually works out. I once received a Pomegranate Cosmopolitan in place of the Peach Daiquiri that I ordered that was absolutely delicious.

2) Hot Flashes- This perfectly natural part of life and the aging process feels like someone lit a bonfire inside your body every time it happens.

3) Snow – I loathe everything about snow, but especially trying to drive in it. I am filled with bitterness every time there is any significant snowfall. I rarely complain about any other kind of weather though because I figure that, well, at least it’s not snowing.

4) Newscasters who commentate - I flinch every time a reporter announces “Get this,” at the beginning of a news story. In my mind, good journalism requires impartiality. There should be no commentary in a news story – just the facts.

5) Plus Size Upcharges - First, manufacturers of wedding fashions cut their dresses smaller than other fashions. There seems to be no logical reason for this, other than to make brides-to-be and their wedding party members feel badly about themselves, but then you realize that these same manufacturers will charge you extra for a larger size. Gee, if they cut the dresses smaller, then they will be able to charge more people the discriminatory upcharge. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

6) Overly Familiar Store Clerks – I am a friendly and outgoing person, but unless I ask, I really don’t care whether the supermarket cashier likes the brand of pantyhose I use. It’s none of the bank teller’s business why I didn’t cash that check sooner. And, certainly, I am not interested in engaging in a long conversation with the teenaged bagger over his astonishment that the R.E.M. concert t-shirt I am wearing is actually mine because he just can’t believe that I am young or “with it” it enough to listen to R.E.M., despite the fact that the band members are my chronological contemporaries.

7) Pretentious Job Titles – There are no more secretaries in the workplace anymore, just “administrative assistants.” And the stewardesses who assisted us when we flew the friendly skies have been replaced by “flight attendants” (and, sadly, the skies are no longer so friendly). But things definitely got out-of-hand when the young man waiting on us in Max and Erma’s informed me, haughtily, that he was NOT a “server”- he preferred the term “facilitator.”

8) Diet Saboteurs – It’s hard enough to stay on a diet plan, without waitresses who cannot wrap their heads around the fact that you don’t want any potatoes with your omelet (“But, ma’am, it COMES with potatoes”), or a friend saying “Oh, you have to cheat sometimes.” while waving a piece of cake in your face.

9) “Stop and Chatters” These people will stop in the middle of the road and shout to each other from their cars, or they will stop in the middle of their work out and sit on the exercise machine at the gym to talk to a friend. They will do this even if you are sitting in your car behind them on the road, or waiting for the machine.

10) The Way Other People Drive Oh, I could write a whole blog about stupid drivers…wait. I already did, didn’t I?

How Can I Keep from Singing?

Everywhere I go I will keep a song in my heart
and usually there will be one on my lips as well…
I will sing loud and soft, high and low, for the rest of my life.
                                                   - Sharon “Rip” Ciraulo, age 16

When I was moving, I found a poem I had written when I was 16 called Dreams. It was about all the things I thought, as a child, that I might want to do or be when I grew up. At the end of the poem I wrote about how I planned to pursue each childhood dream in my lifetime.

One of my things-I-wanted-to-be-when-I-grew up was a singer. I wrote a stanza about each of my other aspirations, but I devoted two and half pages to singing.

It’s hard to put into words the joy I get from singing. I cannot remember a time that I didn’t love to sing. Singing is more than something I like to do. It is something I do automatically, like breathing. My time as a member of the Glee Club and the Folk Mass Group were some of my happiest high school memories.

After graduation, I stopped singing publicly, saving my performances for the listening pleasure of those who lived, socialized or worked with me. Let me tell you that some of them were happier about this than others, although “At the Gates of Heaven” (a great lullaby I learned in 5th grade) was always a pretty big crowd pleaser among babies and children I knew. I sang in the shower and I sang in my car, always preferring to listen to music with lyrics, so I could sing along. Bette Midler is one of my favorite singers, in part, because she and I sing in exactly the same key.

In 1998, I decided to audition for a production of The Music Man. I suddenly discovered that I was absolutely terrified to sing in public, especially in front of a director who was going to judge my ability and then decide whether or not I could be in the show. I discovered that I needed to work on a song with the accompaniment before being able to perform it, and that timing does not come easily to me. While I always did and probably always will get very nervous before an audition, I actually went through a period where I would literally choke when I auditioned – I would open my mouth and the song would get stuck in my throat.

As you can imagine, this led some people to believe that I wasn’t really much of a singer. I couldn’t accept that, so I worked at it. I was fortunate to take voice lessons with some exceptional teachers, and with some experience singing in the ensemble and with lots of practice, I improved. A few years ago, I auditioned for the Pittsburgh Concert Chorale, did NOT choke, and was accepted into the group. Singing with the choir has taught me even more about singing.

When I auditioned for our new choir director, she told me that I really was appropriately placed as a Second Soprano. Beyond just being able to comfortably sing the notes in that range, that is where my voice was at its richest and fullest. I had some higher notes and some lower notes, she explained, but my voice was best in the middle.

That’s all very true, but that hasn’t stopped me from singing First Soprano or Alto, because I never turn down an opportunity to sing. I have sung First Soprano in some shows when the musical director was desperate, but can only hit the highest notes when I am thoroughly warmed up and when the moon and the stars are aligned correctly.

I channeled my inner Alto to play my dream role of Mama Rose in Gypsy, singing eight songs that never went above a middle C, thanks to Ethel Merman. I discovered that I could belt if I had to, and that when I sing low it feels like a reverse falsetto – there is nothing natural about it.

So, it seems that my sixteen-year-old self was onto something. How can I keep from singing? The simple answer is- I can’t.

I Hope You Dance

There was an avalanche of negative reaction at the announcement of Chaz Bono as a contestant on the upcoming Dancing with the Stars. It seems there are a number of folks out there who actually believe that allowing a transgendered individual to dance on a television show will somehow threaten their idea of what America is.

Oh, I shouldn’t have been surprised. There are plenty of small minded and mindlessly mean people in this world. I’ve known more than a few. It’s just that I figured out as a preteen that all people are equal and have the right to believe what they like and live how they choose. What can I tell you? It makes it hard for me to accept such ignorance.

It especially irks me that many of these people take this stance in the name of Christianity. Before I officially became a non-denominational spiritualist, I was Catholic, which IS a form of Christianity. I seem to remember being taught that Christians were supposed to love and not judge their fellow man. Furthermore, I know plenty of real Christians who do just that. So people who use Christianity to defend their hatred of and discrimination against anyone who lives or believes differently than they do not only aren’t really Christians themselves, they are giving a bad name to the good, decent, authentic Christians out there.

People may accuse me of being open-minded to the extreme. Guilty as charged, I’m afraid. Despite this, I never fully understood why people would actually go to the extreme of physically changing their gender. Maybe it is just because the idea of elective surgery is a foreign concept to me. I pretty much limit my surgical procedures to those that are absolutely necessary. Transgendered surgery always seemed such an extreme measure and so very final.

Because of Chaz Bono, I finally get it. He was of course born as a girl named Chastity to Sonny and Cher. As an adult, Chastity came out as a lesbian and was an active gay rights activist. I never had a problem with Chastity Bono but never felt a particular affinity for her either. Then she decided to undergo transgender surgery and became Chaz.

I have not seen the documentary or read Chaz’ book about his journey, but I have seen him on several talk shows. I like Chaz VERY much. He is warm, engaging, intelligent and articulate. It struck me that as Chastity he LITERALLY was uncomfortable in his own skin. I admire that he is making his process so public, and I believe that he is sincerely doing so in an effort to help others, to increase awareness and understanding of transgendered individuals. I appreciate his wit, his candor and his bravery.

Of course, every action has an equal and opposite reaction (and people think I don’t know anything about physics). There were lots of people, including his professional dance partner Lacey Schwimmer, who spoke up supporting Chaz and his right to participate in a televised ballroom dancing competition.

And his mama Cher also took to the internet, mouse ablazing, to defend her offspring. Cher basically said that what Chaz was doing took guts and these haters should give him a chance. She said that no matter how old you or they get, you still don’t stand by and let people mess with your children. Although I’m pretty sure she didn’t originally use the word “mess.” Ah, it was good to hear from Cher again. Chaz thanked his mom and everyone else for their support, and just said that all negative response had made him determined to work harder on his dancing.

So if Chaz Bono wants to dance on DWTS, I say he should go for it. I hope he dances presentably, has some fun and wins some people over with that great personality of his. I’m rooting for him, and am looking forward to seeing Cher cheering him on in the audience.