You asked if you could buy a Like Home poster, but posters are so fleeting. You deserve more! So we have decided
to pass the savings down to you
to beg and grovel for your charity
to auction off the Like Home original painting on eBay! You’ll never get another opportunity like this one!
Continue Reading 13 comments April 21st, 2006
Like Home opens in one week!
It runs for three weekends! My favorite theatre director—who happens to be my husband—directed the show! And you’re invited!
If you like the possibility of thrills and chills and awkward silences and missing sound cues, come to the Thursday, April 27th preview performance at 8pm (I personally love a good preview, I really do—I always feel much closer to the actors, unless I am one of the actors, and then I just feel humiliated that my underpants were showing in my death scene, or that I forgot my line about the tea kettle and the dwarf and brought the play to a crashing halt).
If you’re a traditionalist, come to the official Opening Night performance on Friday, April 28th, also at 8pm. There will still be thrills and chills, but you may get a glass of wine or a donut out of it.
You know you want to be there, if just to get a chance to say I know the playwright and she should totally stick to blogging or I don’t know the playwright but she looks a lot hotter in that picture at the blog or My dog could have written this shite or Who knew Mattern had such a potty mouth, at least on her blog she only says bum-bum and poo.
Or maybe you’ll like the play. I have heard of such things happening, but not very often, of course.
For reservations and info, go to Main Street Stage online. The cast—Bruce T. MacDonald, Alexia Trainor, Michael Trainor, Justina Trova, Spencer Trova and Linda White—is just plain terrific. Half of them are related to each other in real life, so if you’re getting a degree in family counseling or family planning or anything else family-related, I’m pretty sure you can earn three credits, just for seeing the show. Save your ticket stubs.
The show runs from April 27—May 14th. The theatre only seats 50, so if you think you can make it, please do call and make a reservation. If I know you are coming and the house won’t be empty, I will drink less and be a better mother to my children.
Yes. The future of my children (and my liver) is in your hands.
Hope to see you there. Really. Oh my God. So much. You don’t know. I’ll die if you don’t go. Can you live with that? No, of course you can’t. Do the right thing. Save a playwright.
David painted the picture for the poster. Ruby slippers! Isn’t he good? And he COOKS.
30 comments April 20th, 2006
Come see my play. I’ll give you a free donut and we can go out for beer afterwards.
Continue Reading 54 comments March 1st, 2006
Well, now you’ve gone and done it.
Continue Reading 13 comments February 20th, 2006
Sophie was losing her patience, so this weekend I hammered and glued and painted just enough to get the old dollhouse—the one my grandfather built for me in 1974—into ready-to-play-again condition. I’ll sneak it out of her room at night to feed my obsessive need to add more trim, like painted wooden butterflies and stars and hearts and tiny red lanterns. Can’t. Help. Myself.
See you at the housewarming.
Continue Reading 26 comments January 29th, 2006
Meme Care Bear. Meme me up, Scotty. Aunt Memie. Sweet, sweet memes.
Continue Reading 43 comments December 9th, 2005
Update on the excellent magic dollhouse, with pleasant pictures. Hopefully this will win back those of you who were grossed out by the birth story.
Continue Reading 16 comments November 23rd, 2005
There are many, many things you must not do right now. But here is what you must do: stay calm. Breathe as deeply as you can, which is not very deeply at all. Your ribs are crumpling from the pressure.
In case you lost consciousness for a moment, you are standing two feet away from Meryl Streep, under the suspended halves of a very large boulder belonging to her husband, Don Gummer.
Listen to her husband speak shyly into a microphone about this installation of his; learn that it is titled Primary Separation. Consider your own primary separation: you are less than a yard away from your favorite person that you have never met, and she will never know that you risked your life squirming into two foundation garments just to be here.
She is friendly, engaging, lovely. Did you already say lovely? Yes, you did. It bears repeating. The master of ceremonies takes a minute to state the obvious, perhaps hoping that any gawkers will get it over with, once and for all: Don’s wife, Meryl, is a unique artist in her own right.
She accepts this with low-key modesty, and the focus shifts back to her husband and his work, as it should. Feel guilty that your focus is less shiftable. Reel at the sound of that familiar laugh, right there, right there, no soundtrack! The luck! She is a proud, delighted wife, and it is charming to see. Watch as she and her daughter snap pictures of Don with their shiny cellphones.
Wonder how many of these events they have attended. Wonder what it is like to be lovely Meryl Streep’s lovely daughter and to own such fabulous motorcycle buckle boots at such a young age. Wonder what the Streep-Gummers keep in their refrigerator, and if their pets do unspeakable things to their rugs. One of the reasons you like Meryl so much is that you can so easily imagine her swearing under her breath as she scrapes dog poo out of a braided rug. You can picture her running out for ice cream at 10pm in a hopelessly unattractive parka, or in bed with the flu, blowing her nose and laughing hysterically in her oldest flannel pajamas as she reads an article her publicist has sent her, a piece that describes her as Hollywood royalty.
Rein yourself in. Repeat your mantra: Do not do the things you must not do. Do not do the things you must not do.
It’s not that it is hard for you not to do these things; it’s just that your brain likes to try to convince you that you have done these things. You know that your brain is lying to you, but you are humiliated nonetheless. In the short time that you have been standing here, your brain has already logged a series of very vivid images of you doing various Things You Must Not Do, like punning uncontrollably about rocks (I’m in between a rock and a heart place, because I HEART YOU MERYL STREEP I REALLY REALLY HEART YOU) and barging through a throng of people to grab her hand and tell her that you have the same birthday and that you have always interpreted this as a sign and that you also have a knack for the accents, particularly those of Eastern European flavor.
Put your foot down. Tell your brain if it doesn’t knock it off, you will dash your skull against the rock to beat your mind into submission and you won’t care who’s watching.
The official remarks have just ended, and the crowd heads across the street to the museum for a reception and a tour of some of Gummer’s early work. Follow the crowd. Meryl follows you. Your heels are tingling. A fine day! A marvelous day! So far, you have not attempted a single rock pun. You have not confessed to anyone present that you are wearing two foundation garments. There was the Perrier debacle, true, but overall, this is shaping up to be a most promising afternoon.
As promised, you are on the list. Slap a museum sticker on your muzzled bosom, which growls and tries to break free from the Tube of Death to bite you on your chin. Ignore your bosom and glide into the museum. Make a beeline for the wine.
Try hard to think about art. But it is difficult for a serf to think about art in a room full of vassals, especially when one is a serf who really should be slopping the pigs or sloshing human waste out of the window of her thatched hut. So far, the vassals have not noticed you, but you are sure they will if you make the mistake of opening your mouth. Clamp your mouth shut. Press your plastic cup against your lips and think of pigs.
Vassals, vassals everywhere, and so many drinks to drop. Don Gummer’s exhibition is in a narrow gallery space, and there are a lot of intelligent, tastefully dressed persons milling about sipping wine and saying intelligent, rational things to each other. These people are either being careful not to glance in Ms. Streep’s direction, or they are very good at compartmentalizing and doing the thing that they are here to do, which is, simply, pondering Don Gummer’s art.
Envy them. Stare despondently at a family of rocks resting contentedly upon a row of steel wires. You are not a good compartmentalizer. Everything is connected to everything else; you find signs and symbols and omens and links and parallels and echoes in everything that crosses your path. You feel too much, all the time, and you are hopelessly distracted by the shooting-star stimuli: Is her bag a Birkin? If so, surely a gift? She seems far too sensible to drop $5K on a white leather tote that will be impossible to keep clean.
She is constantly flanked by lovely people or important-looking people or lovely-and-important-looking people. Human buffers, they do not leave her side. Good friends. Your friends would do the same thing. As you reach for another steamed green bean, your mother appears in a little devil suit on your right shoulder. She grabs hold of your earlobe, stuffs her head in your ear, and whispers, You did a wonderful Polish accent in that Holocaust play in Portland. And don’t forget that time you played the nice Manchester granny.
Whisper, Shhhh. Offer your mother a steamed green bean to shut her up. She refuses the green bean and jabs you in the cheek with her pretend pitchfork. Go say hello. Introduce yourself. Shake your head vehemently. It would be terribly rude to barge into one of the inner circles, and besides, that is not what this day is about. This day is simply about the molecules. Meryl Molecules are enough. It is a binary equation: yesterday, you had never been in the same room with Meryl Molecules. Today, you have. This should be good enough for anyone.
Reach for a red grape, then realize that the hand that has just plucked a grape before yours belongs to her daughter, who is now tromping in her miraculous leather boots over to some friends. Realize that you would be disturbed if a stranger evidenced any excitement about eating a grape from the same cluster as one of your daughters. Look neutral. Back away from the grapes and Meryl Streep’s daughter.
Your mother yanks on a lock of your hair and sticks her head in your ear again. Go talk to her. Tell her you’re a screenwriter! An actress! A playwright! Tell her you write a blog! She’ll love the blog!
Shake your head vigorously like a horse plagued by flies. Hiss, Knock it off. She sighs and takes off the devil costume. I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed. Your mother then leaps from your shoulder and disappears under the buffet table.
You are running out of art to look at, and you have already said hi to the two people that you know. Decide that this is it; you have drunk your fill of her molecules, and after one more gallery sweep, you will head back to your life of serfdom, with no regrets. This day will still have been better than the last.
Near the back of the gallery, you realize there are two graphite drawings that you missed, one of a deceased pigeon, and another that is a series of tiny, wonderful sketches of a twisted gum eraser. Inch closer. You like these drawings. You like them very much. Back in the carefree days when you were an unimpressive but happy Studio Art major, sculpture was not your thing, but drawing was. You have always been amazed by what the eye can see in dirt on paper, and these drawings are right up your alley.
Enjoy the drawings for a few minutes. Then decide that it really is time to go. There is no more for you here. The pigs are oinking for their slop.
Reluctantly head for the door at the end of the narrow exhibit hall. Glance to your right: another piece, three stones half-sunk in metal boxes submerged in red earth. Look around for its title: Stay.
Someone jostles your arm suddenly, an expensive-looking man who has just walked away from a chat with Don Gummer, the same Don Gummer who is now standing right behind you. Don Gummer is a nice-looking fellow who looks like he would prefer to be wearing anything other than this tan tweed suit jacket. He is alone, no buffer in sight, and he looks as uncomfortable as you feel.
Carpe the moment. Realize to your surprise that you actually have a question. Smile at him before you lose your nerve. He smiles slightly, wary but willing. Hear yourself say something like, I’m sure you’re really tired of all the schmoozing but would it be all right if I asked you a question? It is far from verbal brilliance, but he has probably heard worse.
He is amenable to entertaining your question, which is probably perfectly capable of entertaining itself, in a pinch. Try hard to speak slowly and rationally. Ask him if his focus is sculpture now, or if he still works occasionally in graphite and charcoal. It sounds all right coming out of your mouth, you decide.
He opens his mouth to answer. He begins speaking, telling you that, yes, he does occasionally still work in—
A blonde woman is approaching on your left. She is talking on a cellphone: Yes, I know, I know. Hang on a minute, Daddy’s right here, let me put him on.
She smiles apologetically at you and mouths the word sorry! as she hands the phone to her husband. He smiles apologetically at you, too, and takes the phone from her.
He turns away, leaving you alone with Meryl Streep.
Excuse me for interrupting, she says. Didn’t mean to break in like that.
Carpe everything you can muster. In no time at all, she will again be surrounded by people, led back into the world of wine-swilling vassals.
Quickly offer your hand. She takes it—takes it in hers. You are shaking Meryl Streep’s hand. It reminds you of your mother’s hand (the full-size version of your mother), soft and quite gentle.
Do not say Hi. Hi or Hello would be far too normal, far too pragmatic. Say something in a breathless rush, something that really wastes time, something that sounds like Would it be all right if I said hi to you?, even though you are already holding her hand, and the two of you should presumably already be beyond this point.
She laughs. Graciously. This is graciousness, pure and simple.
Already, people are closing in on her. You must be quick about embarrassing yourself.
Realize what it is that you want to say. Realize you don’t want anything from her, don’t expect anything, don’t need anything. Realize that what you want to say is thanks, no matter how forgettable this will be to her, no matter how silly this will seem to you in the morning.
The words lurch forth. It’s okay. Let them go, let them fall where they may. You mean well, you know you do. Hopefully she will hear it in your voice, even if she can’t decipher the moist, muddled mess of your words.
Go for it. Tell her that she must hear this all the time, but that you just want to say thank you, because she has been a genuine joy and a delight and an inspiration to you for a very long time, for as long as you can remember.
She smiles politely, but she is distracted by the approaching persons, as are you.
Do not do all the things that you must not do. Do only one of these things.
Say, I know it’s ridiculous but you and I have the same birthday—
Her eyes widen and she leans in. Really? she asks, interested and…pleased? June 22nd?
Nod like a maniac. Don’t hold back; surrender to the Stupid Side. You only live once, and chances are sadly very, very good that you will never again be able to tell her this.
Say, I was born the morning of your 21st birthday I know it’s crazy but I always took it as a sign and it inspired me to become an actor—
Now her husband is handing back the phone to her, and someone else is suddenly talking to her, overriding your silly, serfy words. As she is being led away, she casts you another apologetic glance. The conversation is over. You understand. You are okay with this, surprisingly okay. There are pigs to slop, but you will slop them more cheerfully now.
Watch her leave. She says a few words into her cellphone, a word or two to her walking companion, then pauses. She turns around, back to you.
She smiles warmly. At you. Yes, you. This one is for you, and you alone.
She reaches for your left hand. Yes, yours.
Meryl Streep gives your hand a quick, friendly squeeze. She knows that your conversation ended abruptly. If she were anyone other than Meryl Streep, she might have chatted a moment or two longer with you before her life cut in and demanded that she dance again. She might have.
It is a lovely gesture.
And then, just like that, she is gone, whisked away, spun off into her world.
She will not think of you on her way home tonight. She will probably just take her shoes off in the car and ask her daughter when her school report is due and tease her husband about the shy, adorable way he held the microphone. Meanwhile, you will be cleaning up casserole dishes of vegetable chili and chicken-and-orzo salad after the Parents’ Night dinner at Sophie’s preschool.
But you will be smiling.
*****
Visuals! Quotes! Proof that this was no carb-induced hallucination! Local news coverage and photos of the event await you at the Berkshire Eagle and the North Adams Transcript:
http://www.berkshireeagle.com/entertainment/ci_3095691
http://www.thetranscript.com/localnews/ci_3096068
My mother found me in Picture #10 of the Transcript’s article’s photo gallery. I’m the one with reddish-brown hair in brown pants and cream top, leaning against the farthest pole trying to steady myself, with Meryl and her daughter just feet away. Mom has already ordered an 8″ x 10″ of the photo.20 comments October 11th, 2005
Drive by a bunch of men installing a public sculpture near your home. It is an impressive rock, sliced in half and suspended with steel cords between four metal poles. Squint at it as your husband says, “What the hell IS that?”
Pass the rock several times over the next few days as you run errands. It’s a nice rock, and you are growing fond of it. Sometimes you feel like that rock, split in two, pulled in opposing directions. But you are too busy to philosophize much more than this, for you Must Do Your Part to Keep Your Family Alive and Passably Hygienic.
Attend to your children; attempt to get them to eat more than a half ounce of food per day, attempt to get them to brush their teeth more than four times a week. Fail at these things. Vacuum listlessly. Wonder if it is too late for law school. Wonder why the student loan people are surprised that your MFA in Theatre has not garnered you the $58,000 you still need to pay them off.
Sift through a long-neglected pile of mail. Peruse a calendar of upcoming events at the local art museum, a place that has exhibits like exploding cars, taxidermied tigers run through with hundreds of scary arrows, and photography of forked-tongued women sitting in trees globbed with fake flesh. You like this place.
Stop breathing. You are looking at the name of the husband of your favorite actress in the universe. Her husband is an artist, and an exhibit of his work is opening at the museum. It is HIS rock.
Immediately email your friend who works at the museum. Say you noticed that this artist is having an art opening. Ask when that opening is. Wait. Your friend writes back. He knows what you are asking. The opening is tomorrow afternoon. She is expected, he writes. Would you like me to get you on the list?
You would like. You would like very much. You convey this to your friend via a stream of overly high-spirited punctuation.
Your friend replies at once. You are not surprised, as he is a kind, dependable man, a man who is frequently called upon to accommodate the rabid enthusiasms of others.
His email contains several sentences, but one word rockets off the page, right through your dilated pupils. The word zaps up your optic nerve like cartoon TNT, exploding into your brain: Done.
You are on the list.
At this time tomorrow, if you play your cards right, you will be inhaling the exhaled molecules of the finest actress of all time, the actress you have loved from afar since you were ten years old, old enough to see her films, old enough to be a regular reader of Ann Landers and the horoscopes and the Daily Celebrity Birthdays in the Philadelphia Inquirer.
There is no reason to wait. This is a blog post; you may certainly time-travel if you wish. Fast-forward to tomorrow afternoon, which finds you grappling with foundation garments at the top of your staircase—an exceedingly dangerous place for such grappling to occur.
You have never needed the BG more. You struggle as you have never struggled before, nearly toppling over the banister and plunging headfirst to the most humiliating demise of all time. Wonder if the mortician has dealt with this before, a bloated corpse trapped mid-thigh in a spandex butt girdle.
Hop away from the perilous staircase and into your room, where you lose your balance and slam your elbow against the dresser. Ignore the blinding pain; continue to fight the good fight. Wonder if you can buy one of those Jaws of Life contraptions on QVC, just to keep on hand for times like this. If you cannot get the butt girdle on, you cannot go. The people at the door will refuse to let you in, saying We’re very sorry, but we simply cannot accommodate the beluga whale you’re wearing around your waist.
Cry out in frustration. You are running out of time. Pray to the patron saint of butt girdles. You do not know who she is, but you would bet the farm that she is a she, and that she has a very unattractive name like Hedwig or Katrinka or Myrtle. Decide on Myrtle because you like the idea of a patron saint whose name rhymes with the thing she’s patronizing.
At this very moment, several size-2 heavenly angels in kitten heels are wheeling St. Myrtle into the operating room for a little liposuction. Nevertheless, Myrtle hears your plea. She doesn’t get a lot of calls these days, and she appreciates the business. Feel all tingly as St. Myrtle sprinkles some sparkly, religious butt girdle lubricant on your head and other pertinent body parts.
The BG slips magically into place. You know it is doing its job because your lower body now feels as though it is encased in concrete, or in that carbon-freezing chamber that Han Solo had to put up with for a few scenes.
Elation courses through your veins as you struggle to breathe. If you could gather enough air into your lungs, you would yell, You rock, St. Myrt of the Girt! Instead you emit a strangled guttural noise that sounds like ankooeezus.
I’m sorry. As much as I know you’d like to, you cannot time-travel, not right now. Forget what I said before. You have another foundation garment to struggle into, the flesh-colored upper-body one that will do its best to smash your obscene bosom into submission so that it does not dip into the artichoke dip at the reception before you do.
“What are you doing?” your husband calls from the bathroom at the end of the hall. He asks this because once again you are slamming into walls and furniture and moaning like a wounded antelope.
What are you doing? You are busy being a National Geographic special. You are going to be late to your one and only chance to occupy the same airspace as your hero because you are a chubby, squishy warthog who is being squeezed to death by a vicious Lycra python.
This is not good, not good at all. Abort! Abort!
When you dislocate your left shoulder in a failed attempt to extricate yourself from the Tube of Death, give in and squeal for help like the pathetic warthog you are. Your husband comes to your aid, but he does not know where to grab. Your brain has gone without oxygen for more than three minutes and you are now saying things like, Pull up pull down pull it off pull it in pull it god just pull it pull it pull it.
Your husband gives the Tube of Death one last, savage tug. Miraculously, he has managed to pop it into place. From your armpits to your knees, you are immobile, and it is good. In a short time, your extremities will begin swelling, rendering you blue and unrecognizable, so there is no time to lose.
Now you may time-travel again. Hurry. Opportunity is knocking, and soon you will be too brain-dead to figure out where the knock is coming from.
Mince your way to the big suspended rock across the street from the museum. Lots of people are milling about, but no one seems to be sweating as profusely as you.
Drink a free cup of Perrier. Scan the scene. No sign of her yet. Forget that you have not finished your Perrier when you motion with your cup for a refill. Your Perrier backwash flies from your cup onto the Perrier bartender and into all of the other cups of free Perrier.
Slink away from the Perrier bar and its frowning bartender. Hide behind one of the big metal poles that the big sawed-in-half rock is suspended from. Wonder what the rock means. Wonder if the rock minded. Wonder how many people the rock would kill if the cables snapped.
Take a few steps back. Scan the scene again.
And just like that, there she is. Crossing the street on her way to the rock, greeting friends, laughing. She is lovely. She is coming closer. Two foundation garments, one dislocated shoulder, the Perrier moment—it has all been worth it.
To be continued…
21 comments October 9th, 2005
I like to think that [leave a comment] I could have been a wicked hot cheerleader [leave a comment] if my mom had put me in dance class [you know you want to] before I got fat and had to wear Pretty Plus sizes [leave a comment, for the love of God, just leave a comment].
Continue Reading 81 comments September 23rd, 2005
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