We all have a face that we hide away forever

"And that's when Billy Joel touched me... in my heart." Photo by Spencer Ritenour.

I did this show a couple of weeks ago called the Soundtrack Series. It was fun, and terrifying. I love doing readings, but this was my first time storytelling, without all the words written on paper so I could remember what to say. I was about 80% sure that I would forget my story and cry until someone came up and led me off the stage. Fortunately, I was wrong, and all went according to plan.

For the show, each storyteller picks a song and discusses the memories they associate with it. When I was asked I knew right away the story I would tell. Here, for your enjoyment, is the story of THE STRANGER, my ill-fated Billy Joel musical. It's only eight minutes. LISTEN.

And now let's discuss my hair, which is out of control. I'm trying to grow it out, and it's...it's getting so big. No matter how I tamp it down, it sproings up again. I can't remember how to have more than two inches of hair. It's been a while. I also don't remember if I always had curly/wavy hair or if this is a new thing. (That's how long it's been.) This hair certainly seems different than the hair I remember from my youth, and not just because it's gray. Did pregnancy change my hair? Stress? Drugs? Magic?

On art, and fun, and saving your life

This Saturday was my first watercolor class ever, at the Brooklyn Museum.  I thought I knew my way around watercolor, but the more I learn, the more I learn that I don't know what I'm doing.  And really, I just want an excuse to paint for a couple of hours a week. It's a ten-session course, and I get to take it with my dad. Not to mention a lively assortment of art nerds. I say that without judgment, as I am one of them. These are my people. You shall know us by the graphite smudges on our cheeks.

One of my class paintings. Oh, but I have a lot to learn.

I cannot begin to tell you how fun this class was. It was stupid fun. I can't explain it. We didn't do anything ground-breaking. But by the end of the class I was giddy. I get such joy from this, it's embarrassing. Why is it embarrassing, you ask? That is an excellent question, and one I should bring up with my imaginary therapist.

It's been too easy, over the past few weeks, to set this new habit of mine aside. Life gets tiring and complicated and by the end of the day I'd rather watch the Daily Show than haul out my paints or find something to sketch. (The other day I sketched Jon Stewart. Multitasking!) I have to push myself, but I'm so much happier when I do it than when I don't.

As I wrote in my latest blog post over at Babble, I started painting after my psychiatrist suggested I figure out what "fun" meant, for me.

During one of my sessions with my psychiatrist, most of which were spent with my head deep in the tissue box, he asked me what I did for fun.

“Faaaahn?” I said.

“Fun,” he said.

“What is this ‘faaahrn’?” I said.

It seemed like there was a trick to his question, like my source of fun would have to be esoteric and challenging, something that hadn't occurred to me before. Like samba lessons, or advanced magic. I considered art, and disregarded it at first because it was--well, not easy, but natural. I've been drawing and painting my whole life. It seemed like cheating. Like I was getting away with something. As if fun needed to be hard. I am a slow learner, folks.

I want everyone else to have something like this. Especially those of us dealing with depression--we who tend to focus more on feeling okay, on avoiding pain, than seeking out joy. If you could do anything that's pure fun, what would you do? Bonus points if it's embarrassing. I suspect you're all secret clog dancers.

We do kick him out when it's Mommy/Daddy Sheet Monster Time

I'm going to conclude the DonorsChoose Blogger Challenge series tomorrow (I needed a break today--reliving those years is causing me to both gnash my teeth and rend my garments. I'm running out of garments! And teeth!), but before that, let's talk about my essay in the April issue of Ladies' Home Journal.

The essay deals with Charlie's penchant for sleeping in between me and Scott. Under the covers. Which got a little complicated (although, it turned out, not impossible) when he had to wear a cone.

I love the way the piece turned out, and the photos may cause my heart to burst. (The medical authorities have been put on alert.) An unexpected bonus has been the nice emails from LHJ readers. NONE of them have threatened me with 1)legal action or 2) prayer, which puts them well above the Good Housekeeping crowd, or at least the readers who bothered to write (okay, there were just two of them. But a thing like that, it stays with a person).

Anyway. Welcome, new people! Please do not be frightened by my grade-school photos. Regular programming (poop jokes, neurotic rants, cat monologues) will return next week.

Tomorrow is my last post for DonorsChoose. I promise to cover both eighth and ninth grade. And, hell, beyond. Because I can't end this with my ninth grade photo. I cannot. I WILL NOT.

You need to be alive in order to make stuff

I wrote a post about writers and depression over at Babble. Here's an excerpt:

There has long been this notion that in order to be a writer or artist, you should also be an emotional car wreck. That–whether you struggle with addiction, depression, anxiety, psychosis, or a heady mélange of all of the above–your demons are somehow part and parcel of your identity as an Artist. With this in mind, too many talented writers and artists have gone and drank themselves to death or allowed their illnesses free reign, because it was more important to serve the Muse than live a rich, full, happy life, and there was certainly no way to do both.

This is a steaming pile of horseshit.

Come on over and tell me what you think, won't you? Thank you, I love you, more soon when I'm done wrapping these eleventy billion gifts.