When I did Bye Bye Birdie for the Community Synagogue Theatre Company last year, I got some unexpected gifts. Of course, there was the chance to be on stage after 20 years, the applause, the swelled head. All of that was fun as hell. But the unexpected was the gift of community. It is not unusual in any production to become a family of sorts, but this family was different. This experience was different. And I wanted to be a part of it on a more permanent basis. So I joined the Synagogue. A little backstory. I grew up in an orthodox synagogue, though not in an orthodox home. My synagogue experience was dry, somber, inaccessible. I did not love it. So I had my bas mitzvah and got the %^* outta there, never looking back. When my nieces were little, I started to go to Community Synagogue on the High Holidays and was moved by the music, the sermons, the accessibility. But it wasn’t until last year when I decided. I want a piece of this! So as of July I will be a member. But not just a member. Several weeks ago I get a call from one of the board members of the Sisterhood, asking if I would be interested in being Co-VP of the Social Action Committee on the board of the Sisterhood. My first reaction was, “I’m so busy, blah, blah, blah.” Than I thought, why not?  Why not walk the walk for a change? So in the past week, I have been to three meetings and the Shabbat service installing the new board of the Sisterhood. Everyone is warm, welcoming, lovely. And I feel just a bit like an impostor. As I read my portion of the service, I’m thinking, what am I doing here? As I stood on the bima in a circle of women I barely knew, our arms around each other receiving a beautiful blessing from the Rabbi, I feel that I haven’t earned this.  These women have earned this. I haven’t. They are so Jewish!  I remember nothing from Hebrew School. I eat matzo on Passover only when I’ve run out of English Muffins. They all have children, I don’t. But at some point, I realized that everyone starts at the beginning. Maybe they’re here for all the wrong reasons. Maybe they’re giving back to feel like they belong. To feel important.  To feel good about themselves. Guess what?  It doesn’t matter about our motivations. What matters is that we are here. I have been given an opportunity to be of service. Does it matter that my motives may not be as altruistic as others? Not really. I have also been given a second chance to understand what it means to me to be a Jewish woman. To me. Will I start lighting candles on the Shabbat? Keeping a Kosher home? Nope. Probably not. But who knows? If you had told me a year ago that I would be on the board of the Sisterhood, I would have laughed in your face. 

Woman Praying. A portion of the proceeds go to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. #BCRF #carynjune

I’ve been pondering the fact that I don’t write nearly as often as I used to. Why is that? I illustrate my ramblings with a piece of my jewelry, and as I move in different directions with each piece, they don’t seem to fit as well as they used to.  So I hold off, waiting for the perfect piece to speak. To inspire. Sort of like not buying a new bathing suit until  I lose 10 or 50 pounds. Well, if history proves anything, it’s that waiting for the perfect body means I will be wearing the same old bathing suit until I die.  What am I waiting for? Well, I took my own advice a few months back. I saw an ad for a really cute bathing suit. It looked almost like an old forties suit, like those curvy pinup girls would wear, and I thought, that would look great on me, and it would cover my thighs!  So, I ordered it. I just heard every woman who ever lived let out a collective gasp. “Are you insane!!??? You ordered a bathing suit online?!!?!!” Yes. Yes, I did. I waited and waited and waited. I finally went on the tracking site and saw that it was being shipped from China. That gave me a little pause, but it was cheap so, What the hell!  It finally came and I ripped open the package and it was as cute as I hoped. It didn’t quite look like the Large I ordered, but they stretch, don’t they?  No. No they don’t. After much tugging, yanking, huffing and puffing, I was forced to concede defeat. I sighed and put it back in the packaging and sent an email to the company asking how to go about returning it. They wrote back asking if I had checked the size chart as they were in China and Asian sizes are typically smaller. WTF!?! Shouldn’t a large be large in any country!!?? I bit my tongue before I could start swearing.  “Look, you blankety-blank teeny-tiny person! Are you calling me fat??!??!” I meekly asked if I could just return it. Their answer?  I can, but being as I would have to ship it to China it would cost more than the damn thing cost. I am now the owner of a bathing suit that even if I lose 40 pounds will probably not fit my distinctly not Asian body. What’s the moral of this story? There is no moral, people!! Don’t buy a f%#%*^ing bathing suit online! How’s that for a moral?!?

Red-Headed Woman Howls @ The Moon

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A friend’s stepson passed away this week. He was 37. He was morbidly obese and died from complications of his obesity. Over the years, she had lamented how his issues caused so much pain for her husband and for her. His financial dependence on his family, his emotional abuse, to himself and others, his continuing self-destructive path, all caused deep rifts between him and his family. But he was still their son. And his loss brings grief, pain, regret. Then, out of the blue, his father starts getting emails from his son’s classmates and teachers. You see, he had gone back to school. And unbeknownst to his family, he wanted to be a psychologist. Perhaps he felt he could someday draw on his own pain to help others. Every single email said the same thing. How nice he was.  How empathetic, and helpful, and wonderful.  His father showed us the emails when we paid a shivah call. And with tears in his eyes, he smiled and said, “I never knew this side of him”.  What a gift. To know that every dark side has a light side. Every down, an up,  every grief, a bit of joy.  Every piece of broken glass becomes something new, something cracked, but whole.  

   
Patchwork with Recycled Glass from Broken Car Windows. 

carynjune

Anyone not living under a rock, is aware of the hot mess that is the 2016 presidential campaign.  I got into a heated argument with a fellow board member about  Trump vs. Hilary. Well, honestly, Trump vs. just about anybody. His argument? “I just want a president who doesn’t break the law, and she’s a criminal. ” And I’m all, “sputter, sputter, WTF, dude? Are you insane?” I couldn’t fathom why any seemingly sane person could for a second believe that a hate-mongering lunatic who feels the need to reassure the American people about the size of his penis is a good choice to run this country. Or any country. Just because he hasn’t “broken the law”. What?  WHHAAAT?  But my beliefs are not the point. Fracking?  Immigration? Affordable Health Care? Education? Who gives a #%^* what I think? It’s a free country. My colleague has a right to vote for whomever he sees fit, even if I think he’s a #%^*ing idiotic blankety-blank blank blank. It’s always stunning when others don’t believe the things I do. What do you mean you love “The Way You Look Tonight”? But I hate that song! Salmon? You’re ordering the salmon? Because you want to???!?!!!  Ok, hold up. Let me just tell you all of the ways in which you are wrong. Loudly. Because if I say it loudly enough, you will certainly see that I am right. The point is, who gives a crap? Hate Salmon? Don’t eat it. Unfortunately, elections of any kind are not as black and white. There’s all kinds of grey and people will vote their conscience That is their right, and all I can do is pray that they do what is good for all. And when I say all, I mean me. 

  The Debate

carynjune 

Let’s, for a moment,  take a little detour off of the come back trail that leads to Star City and head to a little place I like to call What the F^**@ ville. As I am sure I am not the only one to discover, one of the side effects of menopause is the onset of sleep deprivation. No matter how sleepy I am, within minutes of my head hitting the pillow, my right foot is tapping and I am awake. Not just awake. AWAKE!!! I’ve tried everything. Valerian Root. Opening the window. Closing the window. Blankets off. Blankets on. Back, Stomach, Side. Pillow flat. Pillow up. Pillow tossed in garbage and replaced with more expensive pillow. Meditation, (makes my heart pound), 4 7 8 breathing, (gives me a panic attack). Last night I decided to Google “soothing sounds”. I found a site that had different types of nature sounds. Birds…Thunderstorms…Nature Mix, which is basically Birds in a Thunderstorm… A Crackling Fire. (Now, I’m hot and awake). And the one they said was the most conducive to sleep, Waves. So I put on my headphones, press “play”, and close my eyes, anticipating the gentle waves lapping at the shore. What I get is..not that. What I get is crashing, loud, better hold on to something so I don’t drown in the tsunami that’s about to carry me off to Davy Jones Locker. It’s worth mentioning that this selection is actually called “Sleep”. Seriously? It should be called “Lack of Sleep”. Or “Anti-Sleep”. Or maybe “This ain’t no time to sleep, fool!  Run for your @#^*in’ Life!” I read. I check out the midnight happenings on Facebook. And eventually I fall asleep. Tomorrow, when the alarm goes off, all I will want to do is sleep. On the train, I will be out. Head against the window, mouth open, probably drooling, REM sleep out. At my desk, my eyes barely stay open. Train ride home,  ZZZZZZZ. I droop over dinner. I snooze in the shower. I nap through General Hospital. And as soon as I turn out the lights?  I’m running for my @#^*in life.

DUCK!

carynjune

I’ve been living in a bit of a bubble for a couple of months. I had the opportunity to dust off my character shoes and my grey hair spray for a production of Bye Bye Birdie. To say I was resistant to getting involved is an understatement.  I had not set foot onstage in 20 years, and if I wasn’t confident then, I was even less so now. My voice was rusty, my headshot was 22 years old and I was downright terrified. There was no way in Hell I was setting myself up for that kind of failure.  And I hated Bye Bye Birdie. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why I didn’t want to do it.  I loathe Bye Bye Birdie.  My sister-in-law, Janie whom I met in the MFA Theatre program at Pitt, was stage-managing  and she kept pointing out how great it would be to work together again after all this time. I wavered back and forth, always coming back to no. No. There are so many reasons I can’t do this. No. Until I realized that I was just scared. Scared I didn’t have it anymore. Scared I never had it. Scared of rejection, failure, all the things that made me walk away from the business 20 years ago. So I said Yes. Yes, I will audition. I don’t have to do anything more. Yes, I will try. Yes. And I beat out 6 other biddies for the part. And I got up there on my somewhat wobbly stage legs and I chewed up the scenery and I smiled and glowed and basked in the praise and I had the time of my life.  And now….? What happens now? I’m still terrified. Maybe more so than before. When the dream was just the past, it was easy to look back with regret and sigh, “if only…”. With every word of praise, “you need to keep doing this”, “you’re amazing”, “This is what you should be doing”, I feel more pressured and more defensive.  Like everything I’ve done for 20 years is really just marking time until I do what I’m supposed to be doing. And maybe that’s true. But maybe it’s not. I’m no different than others who have dreams, but can’t seem to figure out how to make them real. But it doesn’t mean the life I have lived so far is just what happened until my real life starts.  It’s what has made me who I am, someone who might be ready to pursue the dreams. It’s like Pandora’s Box. They’re  out there.  They can’t  be put back in the box.  The dreams are loose. Do I have the heart to follow them?  

  Buttoned-Up Heart Earrings
carynjune

A little etiquette question. Is it bad manners not to go to the baby shower of my husband’s boss and his wife?  Ok, you might need a little more information.  I don’t love parties. I really don’t love party games.  I don’t want to guess how big Mom’s stomach is or pass balloons between my knees to between strangers’ knees or see who can empty a baby bottle fastest. And it’s worse when I don’t know anyone. Half the time my husband doesn’t know anyone. Why does every women my husband has ever met feel obligated to invite him to their baby showers? Why are men invited to baby showers anyway?  I just don’t wanna go. Don’t wanna. Don’t wanna. Maybe it’s a cultural thing, but my husband feels obligated to accept every invitation and that it is a question of honor when his woman isn’t at his side.  I briefly considered lying; “Oh no! They just added a rehearsal on Saturday! Darn!”, and then hiding out in Starbucks all afternoon. But I told the truth.  And while in one breath he said I’m not obligated to go, in the next he made it very clear that it was important to him that I do. Why. Why is it so important?  And why am I so resistant? It’s a few hours out of my life that would make him happy. Why am I so stingy with my time? What do I think I will be missing? Why is absolutely nothing to do so much more appealing than a party, or a class, or anything that involves getting out of my pajamas? I can’t even truthfully say it’s because I need to work, to create. I do, certainly, but I wouldn’t. I’d lie around, watching hours of 2 Broke Girls, and playing every incarnation of Candy Crush. Candy Crush. Candy Crush Soda. Candy Crush Jelly. WTF? How many incarnations is this ridiculous game gonna have?  And how did I get to the sullen teenager phase of my life and stay there? Fine, I’ll go. But not without a lot of eye-rolling and heavy sighs. Who’s the baby now?

   
On the Fence     carynjune 

It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m scrolling through my phone trying to find somewhere to bring in the New Year. Truthfully, I don’t love going out on New Year’s Eve. But I sort of feel like I should. It’s New Year’s Eve, man. It’s a special night! Saying Goodbye to the old year and all its good times and all its crap, and welcoming the New Year with all its promise and all its crap, not to mention most of last years crap. But crap or no, there is something comforting about getting to start over. It’s the New Year. It’s in CAPITAL LETTERS. It must be celebrated! So let’s partay!!!! Or…let’s have a quiet, romantic dinner someplace. Just the two of us! Or…I could cook us a special dinner with a bottle of wine! Or…we could order a pizza in our pajamas and pass around a bottle of tequila until you fall asleep 10 minutes before midnight while I watch Ryan Seacrest pretend to be Dick Clark. Let’s face it. Going out on New Year’s Eve is not all its cracked up to be. (See that? Capital letters. You can’t even write New Year’s Eve without autocorrect capitalizing it. Try it. Can’t be done.) Reasons not to go out on NYE:

• It’s expensive. I read that the Olive Garden in Times Square is charging $400 a person because of its proximity to the festivities. Nope. I don’t care if I can see Ryan Seacrest’s nose hair.  It’s still Olive Garden, people. 
• You have to get dressed up. Nope. Can’t do it. 
• Everybody out there is crazy and drunk and liable to puke in my vicinity. Nope. That’s why I don’t have kids. Or pets. No. Just no. 

The fact is, New Year’s Eve is about endings and beginnings. Friends and Family. Finishing what you start and starting something new. Giving up what doesn’t work but not giving up on your dreams. Endings. Beginnings. Celebrating the year. Celebrating you. In your pajamas, a slice of pizza in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other and a lampshade on your head. 

  HAPPY NEW YEAR!
 Carmen

carynjune

Remember when we were little, and learning to ride a bike? We would pedal furiously, begging our mom or dad not to let go until we were ready. And then, we would fly! We were terrified of falling, but we pedaled anyway, and we flew. Fast forward *mumble-mumble* years, and what happened? We are so afraid of falling, we never take the bike out of the garage! I spent this past weekend at the Art League of Long Island’s Holiday Art Fair. I made lots of money, got approached by a woman who felt my work was ready for wholesale, and won an award of excellence. I pedaled. I flew. Fast forward a day or two. The money has all gone to pay overdue bills, I have yet to follow up on anything that came out of this weekend, and in the past 24 hours, I’ve eaten 2 doughnuts, a couple of slices of panettone, a giant linzer tart, 2 cupcakes, and 2 boxes of skinny cow ice cream bars.  There are 3 things in my closet that fit me, and I can’t zip up my winter coat. Ok, I could feign surprise and shock, but even you all recognize the pattern here. In fact, I’m pretty sure a couple of you are nodding off. Ok. Ok. What’s going on? Success? Eat. Stress? Eat. Happy? Eat. Sad? Eat. This might be a little harder than I thought. Eating is a distraction? True. From what? Does it silence the raging monkey chatter in my head? Certainly. But it also silences all of the others clamoring to be heard. The  ones that cheer me on. The soothing whispers, the non-judgemental voices that encourage me to work hard, nurture my passions, not to give up, or beat myself up. To have faith. What would happen if I just stopped sacrificing myself to feed the beast? Maybe it’s time to find out. What will happen if I send the monkeys packing? If I work hard, nurture my passions? Pedal furiously? I might fall, I probably will fall. But eventually? I will fly.

Fall or Fly

carynjune