I want all my needs and my wants and I want and need them all right now!!!

There is nothing more unattractive than self-doubt and the lack of attention to detail. I know this. Most people get it, although the occasional some don’t. One of my favorite movies is “Closer” starring Natalie Portman, Jude Law, Clive Davis, and Julia Roberts. The movie speaks specifically to human reaction and indulgence.

In one scene in the movie Alice (Natalie Portman) is on the couch sleepily awaking as Dan (Jude Law) comes home from wherever. The scene shows a rather unkept mess backdrop to her frazzled hair and sloppily worn ensemble. A few small words exchange and Dan ends up telling Alice that “this will hurt,” and when asked why he went outside of their relationship he explains “because she didn’t need me.” What a carnival of crashing.

It causes me to wonder... when someone needs you, doesn’t that make them less desirable in most senses when applied to short-entering-long-term relationships? Cause and effects of marriages in my opinion are in most cases affected by money, which is most closely related to the neediness of either individual. Dan cheated on Alice because the other woman Anna (Julia Roberts) wasn’t in need of him, but rather in want. The results of human behavior are as devastating to "real life" events just as they are in movies.

It is so important to ask about the way a person lived as a child. Childhood is important as it directly mirrors the person one becomes and can directly affect a person's wants vs. their needs. In some cases a child with alcoholic parents either later become alcoholics, or run Alcoholics Anonymous centers preventing others from becoming who their parents became. Most applies to other wayward lifestyles as well.

In my household growing up I saw my father as the above average workaholic owning his own business for years and years, hardly making time for himself or his family because of his sacrifice for them. I also developed a need for a simple father figure because of the countless nights I spent dozing off as I waited in pajamas for my kiss goodnight at the bottom where my staircase swiveled into brick from carpet... for my daddy to come home. Some mornings I woke across the bottom of the stairs instead of in my princess bed, which meant daddy was still at the office. Never mind the endless hours I took for granted that my mother slaved around the house picking up after my Smurf collection, Where’s Waldo books, or Easy Bake Oven. Never mind that she did more dishes for every dish I grabbed and threw nonchalantly in the sink as she was up to her elbows in bubbles already. Never mind that the only time I ever saw her was in front of our washing machine, folding the towels, or occasionally cursing at the television. And never mind the appointments she took me to, the gladioli she fiddled with in the garden, the berries on the trees she warned me not to eat-- and then stomach ache, or the boo-boo’s she kissed upper thigh after I fell sideways off my bike--raw skin scratched across the sidewalk... she made me get up and get right back on, my whole body aching. Everybody laughed at that bike because it had tassels on the handlebars but no one laughed when I got so good at riding that I could ride without hands and spread my legs mid-motion wheels peddling below. No, those lessons went thankless. And never once did I ever ask her about her wants or her needs.

My parents didn’t end up together. Mother married someone else. Father stayed working, and became more successful until the competition beat his business into the asphalt, then the sewer. The people who subconsciously get my attention naturally aren’t the middle-men... but the rather successful business men that won’t have time to give me the attention I need (much like my father) or the starving artists, as I can see myself in them.

Such outcomes cause jolts of fascination in me because as much as other instances contributed to my parents’ demise as a couple, I often wonder if the lot of it had to do with my mother not feeling as wanted, or as much needed as my father. Or rather if my father had felt more wanted what would have changed as a family between us all? What selfless sacrifices they made. How important it is to show that you want someone.

Now as an adult I ponder, is the want equal to the need as much? Are aesthetics as important as the foundation? Body vs. mind? Can too much need and not enough want steer a relationship off it’s course just as much as too much want and not enough there to provide fulfillment to needs? Without a happy balance can one appreciate it more when either side is lacking? I am listening to the song from Disney’s “Tangled” soundtrack by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals “I Want Something That I Want,” and perhaps the need keeps you there, but the want keeps you wanting to be there.

Once balance is reached between want and need boredom occurs and the relationship is subject to the natural occurrence of human reaction that isn’t preconceived or well thought out.

What are your ideas on the matter?

Happy Go-Unlucky

I need a vacation from monotony. I can’t afford my own thoughts. Today was a day of defeat and rain doesn’t help. As I was sitting at Coffee Bean-red velvet mocha in hand, I looked around at the vast array of people I sat next to. There were two men, one blond-navy blazer well dressed and one brown haired coughing obsessively having a business meeting by the looks of their notepads and back and forth Q & A. Obviously they were both from some big company. There were two youngish-old women, both with strollers and babies who looked like they went home and asked their husbands for children politely on the same night—and like magic popped them out nine later. And then there was a group of college adults laughing away. I tried to decide where I’d be if I had the choice. What part about admiring each set of these groups of people at each point in their lives had I taken a liking to?

Well, I could admire the businessmen for what I don’t have. A happy job… Go-lucky characters seemed to thrive at the mere discussion of their Holiday Gala, “planning-away” they go… fake laughter-all-the-while. Figuring out how to fire Johnny or James, or if they like Beatrice--- the new ditsy red-haired receptionist, ah the fun. While I struggle with appetite, headaches, and every day some new ailment. I pushed forward to do something I truly loved…

Or, I could if I tried harder—admire the in-between-beautifully freckled women rocking their roller coasters while not having a care in this universe because one of their husbands is a ball player and the other a wealthy headhunter. The one child cried. A baby girl, giggling bows wrapped around her baldhead. Ah, the joys of parenting… rain poured and it didn’t bother anyone a bit. I would have kept those little children in the living room- warm and toasty and been miserable forcing myself still-- for my child’s sake in my rainy day over-protectiveness. Funny how we create these scenes in our heads.

Or really I might place myself in the body of one of the college gals and guys all meeting up for a “study group” where nothing actually got done. I’d probably be one of those well-prepared nerds that studied before the group was actually held because I knew I’d do nothing but joke around and enjoy the company of my ever-irresponsible counterparts. They’d all wonder why I’d pass when they’d fail.

And then I sat back. I had such a bad day today: I scratched the left side of my car when I shouldn’t have bothered driving, once again. I forgot the teapot on and had a minor kitchen fire—the teapot bottom beamed vivid blue around the edges and looked as if it had rusted. And then I got one of the worst phone calls of my natural life. And go figure, isn’t it funny how bad news comes in threes? I search for a miracle. I wonder about strangers. I wish I were anywhere than where I am, I wish I were the old divorced businessmen, or the pair of single mothers, or the lonely college students that I watched this afternoon… anyone but me. Anywhere but here. Oh that and, I really liked that teapot.

Sweet Butternut Squash Soup

I made sweet butternut squash soup last night for dinner. After it was complete with nutmeg and apples and random etceteras I was then asked how I made it, you know, like if there was a specific recipe that I followed? …

I confidently shrugged. I then made some magicianist hand-motion and began explaining how once I know the ingredients that I want, that I then worry less because I know the basics to cooking and making something eatable. Then I went on about how I’d just twirl around in the kitchen with my spices and my golden wooden spoon and taste, “mmm,” giggling on the phone, while cutting up fresh celery and onions. There in my sweet butternut squash soup was the recipe for success.

This balances in comparison with the emphasis I put on my education. This is why when I’m down to my last twenty dollars, I still rush into a bookstore and come out with a bag and a shameless coy smile. I have been raised to love reading and helplessly coerced into thinking that I will read something one day that will change my life. Or better, I will write something one day that will change and benefit the lives of others.

My father, when I was a young girl used to read his newspaper every morning at 6:11am. I lived in a gorgeous two-story home with a view from my window of nothing but trees and honest blue sky. I would sneak down my stairs and see him reading, and then as if seeing him reading gave me nervous energy—I would run back up my stairs, open the window in my room-with that view, and slowly climb out and onto the top of the roof. And I would sit there and read. And sit there and write. After the peak of morning, there was shade and breeze. For hours no one would miss me. I would write these stories that I still to this day have shared with no one. It was one of those days out on the roof; that I fell in love with words.

Twenty years later if not more I look over coincidentally one house down from that home I grew up in. I moved, but to a place on the same street. I, not quite as whimsical, changed. More experienced with what a cruel jokester life can be, and more experienced with what I feel I’d like to contribute to society as a whole.

Today I am not out on the roof. But I am remembering that roof. Lately love has me stuck me in the branch of my favorite tree and I cannot sit waiting, but I cannot climb down. I have come to realize that through education, through fellowship, and through sharing I have created my own sweet butternut squash. This is ok when I have a house full of all of the neighbor’s kids because my eleven-year old son has enlisted help for his disastrous room cleaning assignment. This is ok when I have six deadlines because all of my assignments have conspired against my creativity all at once, all right now. And this is ok when I’m overqualified, when I get no response, or when the position is already filled. This is ok when all I can remember is sitting on that roof alone pulling all of the ingredients together to write the perfect story.

I have yet to learn how to relish in what I’ve created, but I do know that eventually, with enough experience and reading, and after enough “stir-to-taste” aka mistakes… that I will make a living as a writer. All of this I have leaned from making butternut squash soup. Or not.

Keeping It Real

One of the worst things you could ever say to a voice over actor is, “So, do you ever do any REAL acting?” This seemingly innocent question will set any voice actor seething with fury. We may meet you with a condescending smile followed by an uncomfortable silence. You'll see our facial muscles twitch as though we are about to have a stroke as we try to contain our anger and refrain from punching you in the face. Don't believe me? Try asking this question if you ever happen to run into a voice actor. But, don't say I didn't warn you, nor attempt to hold me accountable if the one you meet happens to lose their restraint and ends up decking you right in the kisser. We're kind of sensitive that way.

Even seasoned on-camera actors will ask their voice over counterparts that question. You see, voice over acting is a very specific skill and is considered to be a specialty type of acting. To put it another way, on-camera actors are like the general practitioners of acting, where as the voice over actors are akin to the pathologists or radiologists. We're no less talented, however, you just don't see us as much.

There are some actors who do both voice over and on-camera, and who do it quite well. There are actors who are Oscar winners, yet flounder once they get inside a voice over booth all by themselves and have no co-stars to outshine. And, still, there are those who have, shall we say, a “face for voice overs”, and they remain behind the microphone and simply bless us with their melodious voices.

We are all REAL actors, yet the general public for some reason only considers the actors that appear on screen to be the “real” ones. However, if these “actors” happen to be animated, no one gives them a second thought. With the exception of 5 year olds, I suppose it's because no one truly considers cartoon characters such as Sponge Bob or Fred Flintstone to be “real”. However, the very talented actors that give voice and life to those characters are very real indeed. Let's take Dan Castellaneta for instance... “Who?” you may ask. Why the voice of Homer Simpson, of course! Did you know this immensely talent actor makes over $1 Million an episode?!?! Yes, $1 Million per episode. So, do you think he's a REAL actor or not? I assure you he is, and so is his bank account.

So, the next time you hear a voice over on a radio or television commercial, watch a cartoon or animated film, consider yourself a bit more educated and “in-the-know”, because although you do not see them, you are still experiencing the work of a REAL actor.

Accepting Failure

I don’t think anyone likes to fail. This is when you all hit the unsubscribe button. I get it. But what about? What about when the one person you love says that they won’t stick by you and the only thing you can do is watch them… love somebody else that has it all together. What about the day you thought you completed a project you only thought about completing, because the truth is that you couldn’t finish one more thing you didn’t love doing. What about the days you spent in the house thinking about if you’ll ever be anything, to prove it to whom? You?

I don’t know about my readers yet, because this is only the beginning of our journey. But I certainly hope that they all listen when I express my failure. My triumphs. I think not only the foundation and journey matter, but rather the laughter and the tears we choose and the foods, wines, sleep deprivation, or overly slept time we choose to get there. Countless nights I’ve spent now looking at a pretty swirly white ceiling. Numerous mornings I’ve spent staring at carpets, burning eggs because they only wait for moments, and crying in the shower because crying when the water is running means the water doesn’t know you’re crying.

A person is what they are. A person makes decisions based on the education and experiences that they have thus far. When I start talking about love I mean life. When I talk about life, I mean love. What do you love? Do that. What do like? Love that. It’s hard to imagine my life with any different choices than the ones I’ve loved. Today I attempted to clean the house. I had such high hopes. That house is staring at me wishing for snow right now. It looks like a tornado met a laundry mishap and they decided to have the most daring words they’ve ever mustered. And let me tell you, this writer is not pleased to explain the outcome. Nothing has gone on, that is positive.

I am, currently waiting on take-out, with a glass of nasty white wine and a sink full of dishes my son has half-done. I have officially accepted a failure of a submission that I submitted and I have accepted that my house is not in order, nor will it ever be as I see fit. I have eight loads left. I could stay up the remainder of the night and I will still find something to rev about in the morning. I can vacuum but I will still see dust in the hallway. I can try but I will still fail, sometimes. What is intrinsically important is that I have spent time doing something that I wholeheartedly love to do. What is important is the strive, the fact that I’m going to die doing this—and live giving this everything I’ve got to give it. I am a Writer. Introducing Lalanii, Thank you, for giving me something I love to do.

Young Love...Ugh!

Ahh, young love. It's like a gummy worm. It's sweet and creepy at the same time. My oldest son Kole, who is 7 years old and in the 2nd grade has already become the object of a female classmate's affection. Nearly every day this little girl sends him home with his jean pockets stuffed full of love notes scrawled on little scraps of paper. We actually started putting these notes in a box appropriately given the title “The Sara Box”. One day Kole mentioned to Sara that his mom was a little concerned about all these love notes. That day Sara sent Kole home with an elaborate construction paper love project and wrote on the bottom “Don't show your mom”. The little hussy.

Sara is a nice enough girl, it would seem, however, from Kole's first day of school she has given him plenty of experiences that will most likely keep my poor son guessing about the oddities of girls' behavior for years to come. The best advice I could give him was, “Son, girls are weird. They're confusing and once you think you've got them figured out they do something else to confuse you all over again”. To which he simply replied, “Um, thanks for the advice, Mom”. He then sighed and looked even more confused than ever. Poor kid.

And so it begins. But isn't the 2nd grade a little young for all this talk of love and romance? I suppose I was about 7 years old when I had my first crush on a boy that wasn't James Bond or Ricky Schroder, but I never acted on it. The thought of sending a boy a love note made me want to puke out of embarrassment. I would think that at this age, most boys could really care less. Which is why I was so surprised to hear about Kole's plights each week when Sara would say or do something to make him begin to wonder about the psychology of girls and the reasons for their odd behavior.

The following are actual, word-for-word quotes from Kole. My husband and I were simply beside ourselves with amusement....and sympathy.

“Girls are so weird. Seriously, they don't make any sense at all.
For example, there's this girl at school named Sara. She got mad
at me today because Isabella wrote her phone number and email
address on my hand. She ran off at recess and started complaining
to one of her minions about what a jerk I am, and how much she
hated me and never wanted to see me again! We're in the second
grade for crying out loud!”

Yes, he really did use the word “minions”.

“So I decided to talk to her about it. I said, 'What's your problem?
Why are you mad at me when Isabella was the one who wrote her
number on my hand?' She didn't answer me. Do they always side
together like that?”

Yes, son. They usually do.

“The other girls in the class started teasing me about what we
wanted for our anniversary. Thank goodness the book fair
came along. It saved my life!”

The kids were so excited about the book fair, they forgot all about the drama of Kole and Sara. At least for the week.

“Sara and her friends chase me around the playground a lot.
I like being chased by girls. They're slower than we are. Boys
are faster and we're stronger. They're easy to get away from.
It makes boys feel good to know that and prove that on a
regular basis.”

Just you wait, kid. They'll catch you eventually...brace yourself.

I'm sure he'll figure things out as time goes on. Perhaps when he's in his 60's or so. For the time being, his dad and I will help him out as much as we can. We'll try to give him guidance and insight to the female psyche without inflicting too much damage or causing too much more confusion. But, then again, some tasks are nearly impossible. Especially when it comes to girls. God, help us.