F-I-F-T-Y






I forgot I had a blog. I turn fifty next Saturday and I am sure there is absolutely no connection. Remember the Jimmy Buffet song A Pirate Looks At Forty? Well, the pirate just got pushed overboard by a Showgirl Looking at Fifty.

I am not the first to go into that good night. My friends Karen and Peggy turned fifty in September and March respectively making them ever so much older than I. For her birthday Karen planned a private yoga class for the four of us who always celebrate our birthdays together. Afterward she invited some “not as important friends” to join us at her house for dinner and a DVD photo montage of our lives together. It was really wonderful and a true reminder of how often I have changed my hair color. For Peggy’s birthday we hit Las Vegas where some of us retired dancers met up with some still working dancer friends of Peg and one opera diva to see Come Dance With Me at The Wynn. I haven’t hung out in a group of working dancers for a long time and I was happy to find that I could still speak the language. Dancers are fun. Throw in a major opera star (who is also fun ) to sing Happy Birthday and you have got yourself a stellar fiftieth birthday party.
So the bar has been set and what do I want to do for my fiftieth birthday? Nothing. Not that I don’t want a party and presents and cake and presents and Facebook salutations and presents and such, but nothing special. The thing is turning fifty isn’t the big scary thing I thought it would be. Probably because I have felt old since I stopped dancing fourteen years ago. Dancing is a business venture that is short and sweet and when it was over I was left feeling old, useless, and I had no identity of my own. A young adult life spent emulating diferent choreographers and playing different roles does not leave a great deal of time to grow into your own personality. Throw that in with a constant need to please, no job security and being judged only partially by your talent and the rest on how you look and it’s a wonder you can remember your own name. Then imagine being thirty six when most people are moving in to the peak of their careers and you are told you are now too old and too fat to work. AND by societal standards not only are you not fat but look like you could use a sandwich. It screws with your head not to mention your body image. You start your career in a skimpy costume barely breaking a sweat dancing to the most difficult choreoraphy ever inventented and then one day you find yourself on stage at the Dorothy Chander Pavillion prancing around in a hoop skirt waving a fan in Placido Doming’s face and then it’s over. That was life changing and difficult to deal with. Fifty? Piece of cake. Oddly enough something about turning fifty is actually healing. I can have dinner with a group of younger women and I don’t feel like I need to look like them or want to do what they are doing anymore. It is just ok to be who I am now and it only took me fourteen years and a carefully balanced combination of anti depressents and AA metings to feel like that. I have an acceptance now and the ability on most days to appreciate and be grateful for my life. The truth is fifty is different than it used to be. I am not saying it is the new forty because I do not remember having to get a colonoscopy at 40. Yet, fifty is not your mother’s fifty. Old age is going to look very different from how it looked when I was a kid. We have to reimagine how we are going to look and feel as we age. With inovations in medicine, health care. and most importanly injectible facial smoothers, we have the possibility of living longer and looking and feeling beter while we do it. Maybe we are still young and we don’t know it! One good thing about being an “olderish” dancer is I know that getting old doesn’t make you stiff and unable to move, not moving makes you stiff and old. So all my fellow friends of fifty join me! Let’s eat well, move, move, move and get the occaasional facial. There is nothing better than finally knowing who I am and having the health to enjoy it. Here’s to fifty and God willing fifty more.

The Baby or the Tiger

Don and I took the kids to The San Diego Wild Animal Park over Christmas vacation. As part of a special tour with two other families, we were allowed to go with a guide “behind the scenes” of the lion enclosure. What this really means is you get to go see the office where they take notes and look through glass at a concrete cage where they keep the lions when they are “off set.” We were all very excited when the tour guide looked in the room and said, “Oh! Good news, there is a tiger in here!” I was the first one to enter the room, and I looked through the first glass window where I was suddenly nose to nose with a Bengal tiger maybe twelve inches from my face. Self preservation being everything in this world, and thankfully instinctive, I jumped back and kept moving. It was incredibly humbling to be that close to a tiger, and she and I both understood that if the glass hadn’t been there I would have been tiger lunch. Don and I took the girls down the hallway (me moving quickly) to the second window to make room for the other people. The guide had mentioned that the tiger is usually very interested in the little kids, so I found it fascinating when the tiger saw Addie in Don’s arms. Then the tiger looked away for about thirty seconds, and I thought she had completely forgotten about Addie. Turns out La Tigre was totally messing with us. Before you could say Siegfried and Roy, the tiger lept sideways, jumping into the air and traveling the entire eight feet to the window to pound on the glass in front of Addie. No glass, no baby. Addie was very brave and tried not to cry, but she completely understood: tiger vs. man with glass, man wins; tiger vs. man, no glass, it’s the tiger every time. Top of the food chain. No question. Don’t even try. Adios. See you in the next life. Well, you get the idea. It was so scary watching the tiger try to eat my child, yet one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. I mean, I’m super happy Addie didn’t get eaten and all, but the tiger was way cool.

Speaking of tigers… what is all this bruhaha about the Chinese Tiger Mom? If you haven’t heard about the new book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom, written by Amy Chua, it details the Chinese Mom method of parenting. Such as:
No sleepovers.
No plays or drama class.
Many hours practicing musical instruments whether you want to play them or not.
Nothing below an A is even the least bit acceptable.
People, and by people I mean American people, are really upset about this and my guess is they are feeling a bit criticized, which is making them defensive, which is making some of them behave stupidly and overreact. While I agree it is a tad extreme, it’s not all a bad idea. It has made me realize that Don and I don’t require enough of our children and are way too easy on them. We have let them quit activities way too soon. Ms. Chua asserts that things such as playing the piano become more fun as you become more proficient. I can actually attest to this. The first twenty years of ballet are the hardest! Don and I have always joked that our poor Chinese kid was going to be raised by American parents and lower the standard for Asian children in America. Happily, she is proving us wrong even with our lax American parenting. If I am being completely honest I have to admit the reason I can’t be a Tiger Mom is because I am way too lazy and selfish. For instance:
Musical instruments being practiced for four hours?
Who wants to listen to that?
No theater?
Pulease!!
No sleepovers?
When would Don and I have sex?
Anything below an A?
I would have to help with homework and quiz for tests. No thank you. Uh uh. Adios. Not in this lifetime. Well, you get the idea.
So, I thought about changing, but instead decided the best thing to do is hire a Chinese Tiger Mom to raise my children. That way, everyone is happy. Except probably my children. But as a good Tiger Mom would say, “Who cares about that?”

DeAnne at the Lapin Agile
Don gave me a book of Steve Martin’s plays for Christmas. On the plane to Vegas today (later) I read Picasso at The Lapin Agile. I saw the play in New York and I read it before and I truly love this play. It is funny and smart and sometimes I don’t understand what they are talking about and it doesn’t matter. It makes you want to do something good, something important. The play is about one night in 1904 when Picasso, Einstein, and a Visitor (Elvis), meet at the bar Lapin Agile in Paris. Three great minds of the Twentieth Century who changed art, music, and our understanding of the universe.
Picasso: My name is Picasso. Are you an artist?
Visitor: I had my moment.
Picasso: What kind of moment.
Visitor: I had my moment of …. perfection.
Picasso: I know the feeling. I just had it over there.
Visitor: It’s a good feeling.
Picasso: Yes, it is.
Visitor: I think not many people have it.
Picasso: No, no they don’t.
After reading this I put the book down in my lap, closed my eyes and thought about my one moment. An instant that was well….. perfect. I was playing Louise Bigelow in Carousel. For my non theater friends Louise is mainly a dancing role and the first time we see Louise is in the Ballet. I entered the stage in the dark and the lights came up. I raised my arms above my head in complete silence. The conductor was to take his cue to start the orchestra when I lowered my arms and began to dance. Our eyes were locked. My arms were raised and his arms were raised, then in perfect synchronicity we lowered our arms, me beginning the dance, him beginning the music that carried me away. It was a brief moment, a breath, inhale arms up, exhale arms down, but I knew I had just experienced something rare and elusive. It was as if time had stopped and I entered a different reality that was huge and expansive and beyond my comprehension. Where everything begins. Where anything is possible.
I was nineteen.
I am positive we did other performances , but I don’t remember any of them and it didn’t happen again. I have performed in hundreds of shows since then and never once experienced such bliss. That is o.k. I was smart enough not to chase it. I knew I was lucky enough to have that feeling of perfection even once in a lifetime and it was enough.
I am not a genius by any stretch of the imagination. I don’t even know if I was any great artist as a dancer. My moment of perfection will not hang on someones wall or come through your IPod and break your heart. My moment is just mine. It lives inside of me and I cherish it. I can recall the moment with perfect clarity anytime and I will never take for granted that for one short instant I danced with God.

Throwing in the Towel

Today, after six years of sobriety I almost had a drink because my daughter wouldn’t fold the towels in her bathroom the way I wanted her to. I was trying to show her the way everybody with good taste should fold their towels when she told me she didn’t want them that way. What??? So I told her to shut up and then she told me to shut up and then I told her no, you shut up and then I yelled at her for not cleaning the litter box and she said she didn’t know how and I said that was ridiculous because I had shown her a million times and then I decided I needed vodka. I told my husband I wanted to go to an AA meeting but when I got in the car I seriously debated going to a bar instead. But, I had sweat pants on and I didn’t want to go to a bar because I never drank in bars so I decided to go to the meeting and then if I still wanted a drink I would get a bottle on the way home. Good choice. When I arrived at the meeting Veronica* asked me if I would give her a cake for 27 years sober. It made me feel better, but I still thought I was pretty justified in my desire to drink. I was imaging the conversation my friends would have tomorrow:

Karen: Did you hear DeAnne was drinking again?
Peggy: Oh no, what happened?
Karen: Sofie wouldn’t fold the towels the way she wanted her to.
Other Karen (with Tennessee accent): Well, can you blame her?
Then they would all shake their heads and feel sorry for me that I have to put up with such insubordination in my own home. About that time I was awakened from my day dream as someone began to share about just getting out of rehab and having to use a walker for a month while she detoxed and that she couldn’t hold her head still to wash her hair. She had been sober nine years before she went out. Went out is the term we drunks use to describe drinking again. I started to think that maybe Sofie wasn’t so horrible and that it would be pretty unglamorous to begin drinking again over towels. The truth is Sofie wants to do things her own way now and it pisses me off. Teenage girls are difficult, sober Mom’s entering menopause are difficult, but not as difficult as drinking Mom’s entering menopause. So no vodka for me.
It was so easy to parent my son. If I had told him to fold the towels a certain way he would have said, “What towels?” Exactly. Just the way I like it. He never yelled back at me and he always did what I said. I can’t believe I wasted all my drinking years while parenting him. He was so easy. Wait, maybe he was easy because I was drinking…..shit now I am confused.
Alcoholic or not parenting a teen age girl seems to be about knowing when to give up control. She is a good kid and I guess if she wants to live with poorly folded towels that should be her choice. Perhaps someday when she is an adult on her own she will call me and say,” Mom you were right! Your method is a much better way to fold towels!” Or maybe not. But, I might sneak into her house and refold every towel in every bathroom and even the ones in her kitchen. Ha! that’ll show her.
*Not her real name.**
** Yes it is.

A Very Scary Halloween


Halloween in our new neighborhood is fabulous. We live on a dark hill, so we only had one trick or treater. Compared to the 2,000 or so that demanded candy or “else” from us in Toluca Lake, it is a most welcome change. The other good part is, a few blocks away there is a street blocked off to traffic where everyone who is anyone trick or treats. Sofie decided she wanted to go back to the Toluca Lake madness for the night, so we sent her off in her borderline slutty Red Queen costume to join her old friends. Don and I took the cutest witch in the world down to the big Halloween street for some free stuff. Addie was a little shy at first, but when I told her we would go home and not get candy if she didn’t say thank you, she suddenly became the Chinese embassador to the U.N. She asked if they had Halloween in China, and when we told her no she chalked that up to one more in the plus column for the US. It was such a great time. I felt like I was really a part of a neighborhood. It felt safe, wholesome, fun and I was proud we brought Addie here and that she was an American citizen. Then something really scary happened. It was in a front yard about half way down the street, semi-hidden in the light. I couldn’t make it out at first. It was a sign with some words on it… and then it came into focus: TAKE OUR COUNTRY BACK 2010. Usually a sign like that would make me angry, or I would ignore it, but then I actually started to cry. Take our country back from whom? Me? Others who believe like me? Anyone who doesn’t believe like you? Does that mean when you get it back, and you probably will make great strides in that direction today, it isn’t mine anymore? You see, even when people were in control of our government that I didn’t agree with, in fact loathed and dispised, I never though it wasn’t my country, I didn’t assume it belonged to those in power. I thought that through the democratic process those people had been elected and were doing their jobs to the best of their ability, even if I thought they sucked. So stop it, please. I am so tired of this divisiveness, of this hate and fear and name calling. This country belongs to all of us and if we can’t find a way to work together we do not deserve to live here. I do think this is the greatest country in the world. When our plane touched down on the tarmac at LAX from China, Addie instantly became an American citizen. I’m proud of that. I was not so happy that George Bush was president at the time and it’s his signature on the citizenship papers, but nevertheless, it doesn’t matter who signed the papers, the outcome is the same. Get it?

So, I am off to vote now. Yes, I still get to vote and I will even still be able to vote if you GET YOUR COUNTRY BACK. Because that is how we do it here. Now let’s try to play nice with each other no matter what the outcome. o.k? If not, I may have to take my family and move to China.

Boyfriends

I read my first post today and what was I thinking when I was seven? What parents who let their first grader stay up and watch The Smother’s Brothers would vote for Nixon? Please. I myself never voted for a winning president until Bill Clinton. I was on my way to vote for Jimmy Carter in my first Presidential election when I heard him concede the election on the radio. I voted anyway, but it took a little of the fun out of it. The democrats in Hawaii probably just stayed home. But, back to The Smother’s Brothers because I really need to confess something. Tommy Smothers was my first boyfriend. I was madly in love with him. Sadly for Tommy it didn’t last long before Tom Jones stole my heart. That voice and that accent was more than an eight year old could handle. In between Tommy and Tom there were week ends with Bobby Sherman, Michael Nesmith and David Cassidy, but they never really meant much to me. They were just sort of flings. It was rather late in life, thirteen, that I met the man who was destined to change me forever, Clark Gable. I had read Gone With the Wind so I was really excited when my mother took me to see the movie at the Fox Theater in Anaheim. The first time you see Clark is the barbeque at Twelve Oaks. The camera pans down the stairs and there he is grinning up at you. I gasped out loud and my thirteen year old body slipped down the chair almost on to the floor. My mother just reached over and picked me back up without saying a word. I sat there silently sobbing tears of joy that I had finally found my soul mate. Sorry Tommy, Tom, Bobby, Michael, and David, I have left you for Clark Gable. I realized, of course, that he was dead, but it didn’t matter to me, not even the grave could keep us apart. My relationship with Clark ended up being one of the longest of my life (including my first marriage). I don’t remember how it ended. What twisted act of fate made me lose interest? It was not sudden, it was gradual and pretty heartless on my part. Actually, thinking back, I was pretty cruel to all of them. I would profess love one day and then casually move on and not even tell them I was leaving. I hope they have forgiven me and have learned to cope with the loss. Hopefully, I have softened through the years and when I break up with Steve Martin I can be a bit more kind.

Vote For Nixon

I am embarrassed to blog. I thought I was embarrassed because I didn’t want people to think I was so arrogant I thought they should read what I have to say. But, the truth of it is, I am embarrassed because I am so arrogant I think people should read what I have to say. I probably always have been. All that pontificating I did in the first grade when I tried to get my democratic family to vote for Nixon should have been the first clue. I have never publicly admitted to anyone that I tried to get my mother to vote for Nixon (very loudly in the voting booth) until now . My family has never mentioned it again except for my Grammy Lu who referred to it as, “The Unfortunate Incident”. Actually, I really wanted Pat Paulson to win, which segues perfectly into explaining the title of my blog. If you know who Pat Paulson is you were watching the Smother’s Brothers in the late 60’s. Which means you are over fifty or pretty darn close. Well, I am pretty darn close. I thought that by fifty I would be successful, have raised my kids, and could now travel and read alot. At 49 1/2 I have only finished raising one kid, I have a thirteen year old and a five year old at home. I am not successful by societal measures, but my husband is, which makes me successful by default. I do read a lot, but lately I seem to be playing a lot of Sneezies on my IPad ( a game an infant can play) and the only travel I am doing is driving south on I-5 to Disneyland. Fifty doesn’t look anything like I thought it would when I was thirty. Thank God. I am happy and the reason, at least for today, is I have learned I can do anything I want and what I want is what I am doing. Go figure. Me, former shortest showgirl in the world, Disney Princess, and Equity Dinner Theater Star would throw up if I had to go on stage again. I like it in the audience. I like watching my kid on the stage and I have passed the torch. Oh, but what a glorious torch it was! I am very much hoping for another fifty years and I have little to no regrets about the first fifty, except, of course, for “the unfortunate incident” in the voting booth in 1968. All in all, not bad.