Dolphin Theater

It's Tony® season in New York, and for the first time in almost 15 years, I haven’t seen a nominated play. Sadly, I’ve never even heard of most of this year’s nominated plays.

The Motherf**ker with the Hat. War Horse. Jerusalem. None of them ring even the faintest of bells.

Is Bobby Cannavale the MF with the hat? ACK! It's just galling to me that I don't know.
Production still by Joan Marcus.

There is just one nominated play about which I have only the most rudimentary knowledge: Good People. (Meaning, I know there is a play called Good People.)

Now, batting .250 is pretty pathetic for a baseball player, but it's truly appalling for a former theater geek.

It seems that I'm, officially, out of the loop.

Growing up, theater – specifically, musical theater – was an obsession.

I carved out a good 20 hours a week for Broadway soundtracks: either singing face-to-speaker with my boom box, drowning out the actor’s voice and imagining the orchestra swelling just for me; or performing elaborate stage blocking on the 4’ x 6’ patch of carpet at the foot of my bed.

My dying Eponine was perfection.

Stacks of VHS tapes jammed the back of my parents' entertainment center, most filled with the ABC daytime lineup, several more with Tony telecasts – the tracking worn and shaky from watching and re-watching my favorite performances.

Once I got into casting, my job required that I know actors and their capabilities. That meant seeing a lot of theater, which then meant reimbursed tickets and industry access to even the most hard-to-get tickets.

I saw EVERYTHING. (Well, more accurately, I saw all the Tony nominees.)

And then I had the kids, and I steadily saw less and relied more on the Internet and Variety and my co-workers who were still seeing everything and giving me the lowdown the next morning.

Imagine me: bleary-eyed with lack of sleep, desperately clutching my coffee like Fletcher grips his lovey.

Imagine them: red-rimmed eyes from post-theater drinks, still bubbling with the excitement of the night before…  or, just as often, derisive about the show’s many problems. (Oh, I miss well-placed derision.)

But now, I'm about 850 miles from a Broadway show. Chances of me seeing an original Broadway cast in the next few years are slim, approaching none. So I'm playing the hand I've got.

Atlanta has lots of great theater, and one day I'll get there. You know, that "one day" when I have a great babysitter and some spending change for my non-reimbursed tickets.

Meanwhile, we're taking the kids wherever we go, and last week we took them to see Atlanta's newest hit musical:

Several shows daily at the Georgia Aquarium.

So, okay, yes, your suspicions are on target: the book is terrible and the lyrics uninspired. But the star-making performances far outweigh any negatives.

Plus, there's the best entrance I've seen since Bebe Neuwirth in Chicago.

Just like Bebe, the dolphins rise from below "stage".

Just like Bebe, they're winning and dynamic, absolute naturals.

And just like when I saw Bebe in Chicago or Patti LuPone in Gypsy or Idina Menzel in Wicked, I cried.

Yes, I cried because I was just so incredibly happy to be able to see these creatures do what they do best.

(Have I ever mentioned that I'm a soft touch?)

Bathroom Break

My Brooklyn bathroom was enough to drive me to drink.

Not too much to drink, mind you. Had to be careful not to fill my bladder, as I couldn’t quite guarantee a place to void said bladder. 

One toilet for two adults and a potty-training preschooler meant there was always a queue in the hall. 

Our toilet sat in a cramped corner, opposite a sink jammed diagonally into another corner – the intention, I assume, to provide more room to maneuver.

Mission unaccomplished.

If someone was on the pot and another someone needed to brush her teeth, well, it was pretty uncomfortable.

Other issues at hand: zero storage space, barely any room to kneel at the tub and give the kids baths, and if, say, a hugely pregnant and clumsy woman lost her balance while getting in the shower, the natural place to steady one’s self was the blisteringly hot radiator pipe running floor to ceiling.

The most pressing issue, however, was the aforementioned one toilet.

Not everyone is a guerrilla potty-er.

Some people like to take stacks of reading material and leisurely pore over magazines or comics while they wait for inspiration to strike.

This is almost surely when inspiration would strike someone else in the house.

Thus began an Adams family mantra:

“I can’t wait till we have two bathrooms. Om Shanti.”

I'd love to show you the naked pic of Liv reading her Bible on the pot, but I fear that would make me a bad mom. Instead I'll show you this one from yesterday: she made "earrings" from Scotch tape and ponytail holders. She's like Fashion MacGyver.

Well, now we have three toilets, one for each tenant who doesn’t crap their pants. No one ever has to “hold it”, and we’re all much happier for it.

Except when it comes time to clean: I've gone from cleaning one bathroom to cleaning two and a half.

The master bath has a water closet. It actually gets kind of lonely in here. Good thing we have that basket of magazines.

Olivia's potty. Soon to be Olivia's and Fletcher's.

Guest bathroom. Hardly anyone uses it, so it's - thankfully - not too work-intensive to clean.

And now that I think about it, my work is about to increase exponentially. Once Fletch starts potty training it's going to start smelling like a subway platform in there. 

How do you get a two-year old to aim?

Land of the Midnight Sun

As summer nears, and the sun stretches itself further around the clock, I find memories of my childhood crawling out, interrupting my thoughts like chirping cicadas.

Mother May I?

Fla-Vor-Ice.

Relive your childhood: buy a case of Fla-Vor-Ice..

 Nancy Drew, “Bonanza” reruns and Sandra Dee movies on TV.

How summery is Sandra Dee?
See the movies.

Going to Lakewood, where we paid one dollar to swim and, maybe, 50-cents for a frozen Whatchamacallit.

I call it, "delightful", "delicious" and "delectable."
Thanks to Fancy Nancy for the vocabulary words. Thanks to Hershey's for the photo.

Having rough, sandpapery fingers from days spent in chlorinated water, doing handstands on the rough, sandpapery pool floor.

Shame I didn't discover shea butter till I was much older.
Get some at Sephora.

And, what I remember most of all, going to bed while the sun was still up. Streetlights not even flickering on yet. Kids still playing outside, shouting and laughing, while I lay in my bed, tears pooling in my eyes, hating my parents for being so heartbreakingly cruel.

My 7:30 bedtime was strictly enforced year-round. No exceptions.

Wicked, wicked parents.

How could they listen to me complain night after night and not break, not even bend? They must’ve been dead inside.

Just like I am now.

Because guess who put the kids to bed at 7:30 tonight? With the sun still shining? And children playing in the neighbor’s yard, in full view of Olivia’s bedroom window?

Uh huh. You got it.

Me.

And no, Olivia, I don’t care that it’s still light out. And yes, I’m sorry that those kids are making so much noise. But no, Livvie, I won’t go outside and tell them to be quiet. But yes, I will pull up the covers and give you one last kiss.

And NO, you better get back in that bed: I don’t care that it’s too bright for you to sleep. You would complain if it was too dark – you can’t have it both ways!

Yes, yes, I appreciate that the sun makes it hard for you to see the green stars from your ladybug. 

Twilight Ladybug shines stars in red, blue and green. Liv prefers green.
via Cloud B

No, Olivia, I won’t tuck you in a third time. Twice is enough. Mommy is tired and still has work to do.

No, Liv, we can’t just leave the dishes in the sink and crumbs on the floor; we’d get bugs. You hate bugs.

(Deep breath.)

Livvie, it’s time for Mommy to rest, too. I love you very much. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.

(Crumpling to the floor, spent.)

Yes, all these many years later, I finally get it.

My mom was tired. I am tired. Those kids should be tired. Most importantly, those kids should be in bed, so I can get some rest.

And I don’t feel a whit of guilt. I see the eye rubbing and the behavior spiraling as the clock clicks closer to eight. I know what that means. It means “bed.”

My only problem is living so far west in the Eastern Time Zone. It’s 9:15, and only just now fully dark. By the time summer actually gets here, we’ll be living in the Land of the Midnight Sun.

We’ve got to get some blackout shades for that girl, stat.

School Daze

Five years ago, I waddled around New York, my body swollen with baby, my heart pregnant with hope.

Until someone asked where we were sending this kid to school.

From that moment, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put that burst bubble back together again.

We were going to have to leave the city before she went to kindergarten. Simple as.

Now, that’s not to say there aren’t good schools in New York. Because there are, great ones. And they usually come with waitlists, or as they say now, “wait-pools.”

They also come with big bills. And Mama can’t pay that. 

If they happen to be – GASP! – good public schools, you can bet your bottom dollar there’s a waitlist there, too.

See, there are a limited number of desks in those schools, and my child shouldn’t have to rely on luck and a lottery. My baby should not have to wait on Superman.

Hey, Baby! No waiting for princes or knights in shining armor, either.
August 2006.

She should wait on the bus. And she should wait, quietly, with hand raised, for her teacher to call on her. But not for Superman.

Now, this is not a New York problem. City schools across the country – including Birmingham and Atlanta – are struggling. Which is why we we’re not living ITP. (Translation: Inside the Perimeter. Further Translation: Not the ‘burbs.)

We live about 45 minutes north of downtown, close enough to both good shopping and cow pastures. You know what else is close? Some of the best schools in the state.

You know what might be even closer? Parental meltdown.

The anxiety just radiates off of her, doesn't it?
May 2011.

Kindergarten Meet and Greet was this week: it was a big night for Mom and Dad. Not so much for Olivia. She seemed rather bored. But Mom? Oh, yes, my eyes drank in every detail with excitement… and abject fear.

All the cubbies and desks and books and art supplies and computers and bulletin boards and tissue paper butterflies called, “You’re daughter is going to love us!” Then the empty halls yelled back, “Just wait till we’re filled with fifth graders pushing your kid around. Just wait till someone tells her she’s fat. Just wait till someone tells her she’s stupid, and she doesn’t want to talk in class anymore. Just wait.”

Mean halls. They don’t play fair.

All my school-age insecurities swirl around me now, and tonight I sit here scared that Olivia will fail tomorrow’s Kindergarten screening. There isn’t even a “fail” option, and yet, I’m scared of it. How stupid is that?

I’m struggling to learn a lesson that I comprehend but can’t quite put into action. My behavior teaches Olivia better than most anyone else’s. If I’m scared, she’s scared. If I’m too demanding, she’s too demanding. If I want things just so, she wants thing just so-ier.

I’ve got to calm down and breathe. If I can't, it won't matter how good the schools are: she'll be the smartest, most screwed up little bundle of nerves the world has ever seen.

So, please, wish me luck tomorrow. 

Livvie will be fine. That kid reads like a champ. But me?

Total mess. 

Perhaps I should write, "I will not screw up my daughter" 100 times on lined paper. That'll help, right?

A Brave New World

Honestly, I don’t know how James Carville and Mary Matalin get along.

They must shed their on-camera personalities like snake skins when the tally light goes off, because how can two such passionate, opinionated people – whose opinions seem to be polar opposites – co-exist lovingly?

I love these two.
Carville and Matalin arguing on "Meet the Press" via Life.

I ask because my anniversary date almost ended in divorce court this weekend.

See, Clay grew up in Atlanta, and therefore, doesn’t know any better: he loves the Braves. (This type of joke is maybe – possibly – what got me in so much trouble. But, c’mon, my brothers taught me never to leave a punchline stranded on the roadside.)

Anyhow, he has love for his home team, and I have love for him. So, I twisted the traditional seventh anniversary gift (wool) into a wool ball cap and two tickets to see the Bravos take on the Phillies.

Here’s where it gets sticky.

I grew up in North Carolina and never cared a single whit about the game of baseball.

Then I went to my first game, which happened to be Game 3 of the 2000 World Series, Yanks and the Mets at Shea. That’s one hell of a first game.

Get your own commemorative patch - you know you want one - at Republic Jewelry.

You don’t leave a game like that and not love the GAME.

The following season, I took my first steps into the Cathedral. With 70,000 or so fans cheering, I felt a hush, a peace. Only incense and a priest were missing. The clichés are true: Yankee Stadium feels like holy ground.

#2 is numero uno. Even Clay likes him.
Via NY Daily News

Now, I once prided myself on being an underdog kind of girl, but my love for the Yanks was instant and undeniable. Somewhere a siren sang to me, and I couldn’t resist. When Jeter stepped up to the plate, I yelled like a girl who had never laughed at people who got so riled up over (disdainful grimace) baseball. 

Which, of course, I had. 

In a few short months, I became of those people I used to ridicule. When the Yankees lost the 2001 World Series, my blubbery theatrics made Glenn Beck and John Boehner look positively stoic. Clay, rightfully, laughed in my face. 

Glenn Beck.
via Fair.org

John Boehner.
via "60 Minutes"

Ten years later, I’m less weepy but still as zealous. After yesterday, Clay would argue a bit overzealous.

Yes, I admit it: I was an obnoxious Yankees fan. I didn’t mean to be, I swear! It’s just, well, I’ve never been to a ball game outside of New York before, and it’s a completely different experience.

For instance, there were empty seats at Turner Field. A lot. Georgians just don’t seem to care about the Braves. Coming from a baseball town, that’s just Weird with a capital “W.”

What's Mr. Met doing in a Braves cap?

Also, pinstripes are cool. Foam tomahawks, not so much.

Also cool? Babe Ruth. DiMaggio. Mantle. Reggie and his candy bar.

via booksonbaseball.com

But there are things to love about the Braves. So, as a peace offering to my husband, I will now tell you what I found loved about his team, in his stadium, in his town:

• Jimmie and the awesome beer stand right inside the gates. Fantastic selection of local and imported beers, way cheaper than Yankee Stadium.

Yes, I'm holding two beers. Didn't aid my confusion as to why they had an Ebbets Field sign, but it made me feel right at home. Ah, southern hospitality.

• The Chop Rally. I’m a sucker for a good drumline.

Love it.

• Soldiers from nearby Fort Benning rolling out the biggest flag I’ve ever seen. I love pomp, and if you can throw in some circumstance, all the better.

• Brian McCann. I’ve been sweet on McCann since he was a rookie standing in Jeff Francouer’s shadow. I chose right.

Sweet #16.

• Not only can McCann play some ball, but he makes a damn fine burger and perfect French fries, lovingly sprinkled with sea salt.

I can also recommend the chocolate shake. 

• As much as I mock the National League, I kind of like that the pitcher has to bat. Seems more pure.

Tim Hudson got a hit yesterday. Seriously.
via Time Warner Cable

• Dan Uggla takes direction. In the bottom of the 8^th, I issued him an ultimatum: homer, or I will hate you forever. (It was hellaciously cold and windy, and I needed there not to be a bottom of the 9^th.) He homered. In turn, I will give him All-Star love.

So cold I had to actually put my hood up. First time I've done that in the South.

• The Braves beat the Phillies. Man, I hate the Phillies.

Love Philly, hate the Phillies.

• I got to go home with this handsome fellow. Even if he did just want to tell me to shut up, he didn’t. That must be James Carville’s secret.

And the hat's nice, too, right?

Room to Grow

May was to bring more than flowers this year: my first print byline was scheduled for the May issue of Birmingham's B-Metro magazine. 

Accepting a job in Atlanta, however, meant that I had to give up the Birmingham gig before I got my big debut. 

So, here, ladies and gentleman is my first and last column on parenting in Alabama's Magic City.

Priorities are funny and malleable things.

What was once of the highest importance – things like primetime television, brushing teeth, and sleeping in on weekends – quickly falls by the wayside once kids are part of your everyday life.

Most of those adjustments are happily made. But there are some that are difficult to acknowledge, much less address. These are usually the things that defined “you” as a person before “you” became a parent.

My job and my city defined my adult life. I was a New Yorker in the entertainment industry, spending my days in the soapy confines of “As the World Turns” and nights in Manhattan seeing theater or coaching actors.

I was happy to see my husband in the very off hours and content to be hundreds of miles from our families. Our large-by-New-York-standards (and miniscule-by-everywhere-else-standards) apartment felt like more room than we could ever need.

Then came one kid. And another.

Suddenly, our “large” apartment was bursting at the seams. Broadway shows came and went without my notice. Guilt weighed heavily on me when my daughter didn’t recognize grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. And New York’s non-stop pace – the very thing that used to fuel me – left me winded and sputtering.

All new parents find themselves tossed into a completely foreign landscape. But my landscape limited my children: with no room to run they contented themselves with short sprints down small patches of sidewalk.

New York was the place that defined me. To say I actually wanted to leave the city upset the applecart of my self-identity. But I didn’t want New York to define them; I wanted more for them than this sprint-and-stop life.

And I needed to spread my wings. I needed to see who I could be when I wasn’t rushing for a bus that would either come too early or too late. I needed space to breathe and figure out how to be a mom and still be me. I needed to have family around. Manhattan is an island, but my family didn’t need to be one, too.

So we moved south, closer to family, hoping that everything else would fall into place.

We’re trading bagels for biscuits and terrorists for tornadoes, leaving behind a six-month winter in exchange for a six-month summer. We’re teaching the kids Birmingham manners, which are, unsurprisingly, a little more, well, mannered than Brooklyn manners. And we’re rolling down the windows and cranking the music, enjoying air far sweeter than anything in a New York subway tunnel.

The four of us are still making adjustments and re-ordering our priorities. But this time we’ve got plenty of space, and, most importantly, room to grow.

Best Mother's Day Present Ever

Tomorrow will be my sixth Mother’s Day.

Wait, you say. Olivia’s only four...?

And your point is…?, I reply.

Because, really, let’s be honest here: even though there was no baby to hold or change or burp, my body was busy cooking up a healthy kid.

Between the nausea, backaches, swollen feet, varicose veins and the general itchiness of skin stretched almost to its breaking point, I was gonna get some presents and a day off dish duty.

That first Mother’s Day was wonderful and sweet. 

I never dreamt it would be the most relaxing one I’d have for a long, long while.

Nine-month old Olivia didn’t get the memo that Mom was on holiday. She was teething and wanted to nurse all day. Happy Chew Toy Day.

On a break.
May 2007.

Almost two-year old Olivia spent the day screaming in pain from hand, foot and mouth disease. She curled in my lap and yelled two things over and over: “Mommy” and “no.” This ranks as one of the top 10 worst days of my life.

Prospect Park, the day before Mother's Day 2008.

Soon-to-be-three-year old Olivia was now healthy and drinking milk out of a cup, but Fletcher – still camped out in my belly – was driving me batpoop. It was Contractions: Day 8. If I did anything more strenuous than stand up, the Braxton Hicks kicked into high gear. Lying on the couch isn’t nearly so relaxing when people are staring at you, waiting for you to pop a kid out.

Baking with Grandma Martineau while Mommy lies on the couch.
May 2009.

And last year, with the kids almost 4 and 1, Clay had to work. All day. Guess who did the dishes that day?

No, Fletcher didn't help.
May 2010.

These were not the Mother’s Days I’d imagined. They were just regular days with presents.

But one present, given every year, made my "Day": 20 minutes to relax, enjoy a cup of coffee and read the paper.

This is something I imagine every Sunday. It pretty much only happens on Mother’s Day.

Clay gives me 20 sanity-returning minutes that allow me to parent a little further from the edge of a complete psychological breakdown. 

Even if he has to lock the kids and himself in another room.

Or serve the coffee after the kids’ bedtime.

Sometimes the coffee arrives on a pewter tray. Sometimes in a paper cup. Always with the Daily News, New York’s Hometown Paper.

Not this year. The Daily News is not to be found in the metro Atlanta area.

I guess I can adjust to the Journal-Constitution. As long as there’s coffee and 20 minutes of quiet, I can do just about anything.

"For God and Country"

“For God and country.”

Those are the words the Ground Commander reportedly radioed back, “For God and country. Geronimo. Geronimo. Geronimo.”

Osama bin Laden is dead, and in hours since the news broke, I’ve been trying to process, well, everything.

There is relief that this horrifically long chapter is over. There is concern about what reprisals may occur. There is embarrassment over the cheerleaders performing stunts in front of the White House, those images broadcast worldwide.

via Washington City Paper.

There is an incredible longing to be back in New York, to stand at Ground Zero, to stand alongside the people who lived the horror with me. To circle back. And to walk away.

That’s not to say I will forget – I will never forget – but I have no desire to do shoulder stands and pump my fist in the air.

I feel more like Hillary looks. 

White House photo by Pete Souza.

This whole thing has been a terror. Nearly 3000 lives lost because of someone else’s twisted version of his God and our country. Another 6000 lost defending the United States in Iraq and Afghanistan.

For God and country.

Indeed.

NBC News’ Savannah Guthrie exclusively reported the Ground Commander’s statement. 

A "Bronx" Tale

Lots of things get weighed, prioritized and re-prioritized when deciding where you are going to live.

Sometimes, if you're lucky, you get a sign – perhaps from above – letting you know you’re on the right track. The right road, if you will.

A few weeks ago, we got so lucky. 

As Clay and I drove around the North Atlanta Metro area, we saw our very own sign:

BB's Bronx Bagels.
Voted "Best Bagels in Atlanta."

This is it, we thought. This is where we’re supposed to live!

Short commute? Yes. Good schools? Thankfully. Two Waffle Houses right down the street? You betcha. Best bagels in Atlanta? HELL TO THE YES!

In New York, bagels were a weekend tradition. After worshipping in church, I worshipped at the altar of simple carbs. But after landing in Birmingham, this tradition came to a sudden halt.

See, I'm of the opinion that no bagel is better than a fake bagel, so I've been bagel-less for about five months now. Too, too long.

So, this weekend, we did a church and bagel double feature.

770 McFarland Pkwy., Alpharetta, GA

As soon as we walked in, this place spoke to me. More signs, this time welcoming me in... and welcoming me home.

This sign, however, truly clinched the New York-iness of the joint:

Just as you'd expect for a place boasting the city's best bagels, BB's was packed. But the long line moved quickly; too quickly for me to even look at all the different bagel and cream cheese options.

Kit Kat cream cheese?
I feel as though a gauntlet has been thrown. I accept the challenge.

No matter, though. I decided the best way for me to judge was to compare apples with apples.

Or, more precisely, Everything bagels with Everything bagels.

Now, this is what I call a bagel.
BB's Everything with Veggie Cream Cheese.

The Everything with Veggie is my go-to bagel. I'll occasionally branch out with a Pumpernickel or a Cinnamon Raisin, but at the end of the day, the Everything is my fave. 

Back home I sat down to my bagel. The crust looked perfectly crisp, the inside perfectly soft. Still I was dubious. 

BB’s is very clear about their “Authentic, New York, Hand-Rolled, Kettle-Boiled Bagels, made fresh every day” process, but to have good bagels so close to us (and us being so far away from New York) felt too good to be true.

But, by all the angels and saints in heaven, it is perfectly true.

Love at first bite.

You can tell how good it is by my elevated right eyebrow.

A "thumbs up" from my fellow bagel aficionado.

Livvie's on board the BB's train.

Fletcher, not so much. I had to make him a peanut butter and jelly.
I blame this on his leaving Brooklyn at just 13 months.