Me Me Me

I had a funny encounter today while buying my daily lunch salad. The checkout woman said, “That’s $8.12,” and I said, “Okay,” and she said, “Are you from the south?” 

Just the word “okay” was a giveaway. “Yes,” I replied, semi-pleasantly. “So am I!” she said. “Where are you from?” I said, ”Alabama,” and she said, “North Carolina,” and I gave my usual disclaimer, “But I’ve lived here for a long time. I shouldn’t still talk this way.” Cheerfully, she resassured me, “It’s not so bad. I’ve heard worse!”

Beyond the fact that I will hereinafter avoid this woman’s checkout line at all costs, her comment made me ponder anew WHY I still have this accent more than 30 years after I moved to New York City, never to return south for more than a week at a time. My darling husband lost his Georgia drawl lickety-split in law school. And at this point, I don’t enjoy being mistaken for a tourist, even though most people are nicer about my accent — at least to my face — than Salad Woman. (Thank god those Shake & Bake “And I hay-ulped!” ads went off the air.)

I used to tell myself that the accent was useful in case anyone dared to underestimate me. Go ahead! Assume what you will! I also felt that it didn’t do me any harm in interview situations — although, not long ago a Latina actress took an instant dislike to me over the phone and suggested that I might be racist, something I don’t think would have happened if I’d said the very same thing in a different sort of voice. 

The truth is, I like accents of all types. I love New York accents, even though my adorable Manhattan-born children don’t have any accent at all. Boston accents are great. Midwestern accents can be nice. And I especially like it when actors become successful while holding on to their original speech pattern — hello Holly Hunter! Even if you’ve left where you came from (and never intend to go back), it’s nice to carry a little bit of your past around with you when you open your mouth.

Not only is my darling husband the most intelligent person I ever met, he is also generous and open when it comes to other people. Last night, I was pontificating on one of my usual themes — that the vast majority of people, particularly middle-aged men, are basically boring — and he respectfully disagreed. “I can find something interesting in anyone,” he declared. “I just get them to talk about themselves.”

Um, okay, I am an interviewer. (See my Q&A article archive.) Getting people to talk about themselves is what I do as a profession, and it’s my job to make them seem interesting. But most of the people I interview are creative types, and I’ve done a lot of homework before I embark on a very structured conversation. If an actor starts boring me, I quickly change tacks. Darling husband is gifted at this in everyday life, which makes him an outstanding dinner partner whether he’s sitting next to a trophy wife or a bureaucrat.

I can schmooze pretty well, but the older I get, the more it takes out of me. I could never be a socialite (beyond the obvious obstacles of money and breeding) because the small talk at black-tie events would kill me. Luckily, I have surrounded myself with friends who are lively and fun, and my darling husband is always interesting; it’s strangers and random acquaintances who are the problem. So the question remains: Are most people interesting or boring?

I maintained my love for Bill Clinton about a decade longer than I should have, in spite of the fact that his silly dalliance probably cost Gore the presidency. Oh man, I was spinning through the ceiling with excitement in the summer of 1992 when he picked Gore as his running mate and they climbed on that bus with Hillary and Tipper. Two charismatic (yes, Gore can be charismatic), super-smart Democratic sons of the South? It was almost too wonderful to process. With a little help from Ross Perot, Poppy and Barb got sent back to Kennebunkport. That seems like a lifetime ago now.

Okay, fast forward as Bill and Hillary behave abominably during the primaries. They’re a competitive twosome — we know that — and she expected to get the nomination handed to her (NOT). Faced with defeat, they managed to get through the convention without lobbing any grenades, but since then? The Obama people must be as nervous as an Auburn fan in the fourth quarter of the Alabama game.

Bill shows up this morning on the Today show to tout his global initiative, or whatever. Closet Republican Matt Lauer asks him if he thinks the first presidential debate should be cancelled. This is an eeeaasy question. What does Bill say? Gee, he doesn’t have an opinion, but helpfully adds that McCain had originally asked for MORE debates, so he’s obviously not reluctant to face Obama.

WRONG! Here’s the answer: “It would send a terrible message to the American people to cancel the first presidential debate. If Senator McCain feels he’s too busy getting briefed on what mortgage-backed securities are, just MOVE the debate to Washington rather than flying down to Ole Miss.” Bill couldn’t muster a statesman-like response that also happens to be true AND helpful to Obama. No wonder I find myself avoiding the media entirely! I feel like I’m living in an alternate universe.

Over the course of five seasons (I missed the first, but everyone says it wasn’t that good), I have become obsessed with Dancing with the Stars. Like, maniacally “don’t speak to me, my show is on” obsessed. While watching DWTS, I laugh like a insane person and clap my hands like a toddler playing patty-cake. Who is this demented woman whooping and hollering as Maks shimmies around the floor with an Amazonian volleyball player? (Note to Mel B and Maks: You were robbed!) 

This will be my only meditation on DWTS because, like live theater, I love it too much to become a critic. (For weekly recaps, see Annie Barrett’s invaluable and hilarious missives on ew.com and the astute blogger of “Idol Thoughts,” who has forgotten more about reality TV than I could ever know.) But let me make this unoriginal observation: The true “stars” are the partners, especially the cutie-pie Hough siblings, sexy Maks and dashing Mark Ballas (who, alas, will be soon be gone, saddled as he is this season by Kim Kardashian). Somebody give those four a dance show on Broadway! They are tremendously talented choreographers, along with Cheryl Burke, a pro I used to like before she won twice and got conceited.

Think about the challenge these professional dancers face when trying to teach random B-list people to mambo and waltz, sometimes in the same episode. Yes, there are ringers, like Lance Bass, Toni (”my heart condition”) Braxton and last season’s winner, Kristi Yamaguchi. But most of the time, these so-called celebrities start pretty close to square one, and the pros whip ‘em into shape so that watching the top couples is always entertaining. The cleavage! The headgear! The wondrous panel of judges, particularly the oil-and-vinegar combo of Len and Bruno! That uber-annoying Samantha! The proud spouses and kids maniacally clapping (like Kathy!) on the front row. Who needs an antidepressant when you can start your week with Dancing with the Stars?

Tommy Smothers at the Emmys? Oh my gosh. When I was little, I memorized every routine on every Smothers Brothers comedy album. My late father got my Smothers Brothers obsession started, and I realize now that Tom and Dick Smothers were a huge influence in my growing up to be a liberal. On the surface, their comedy was based on sibling rivalry (exotic to me, as an only child) with Tommy the slightly idiotic, out-of-it brother whining about how “mom always liked you best.” But they were also old-school folkies with a strong progressive bent, which became increasingly obvious on their landmark variety series in the late 60s. There was something about them that I just adored, and tonight, seeing them looking exactly the same, with Tommy daring to speak out about the utter ignorance in American politics at this scary moment in time…it made me very, VERY happy. YES! Tell the truth, Tommy! To see my old hero introduced by the fabulous Steve Martin (his novels? genius), and then to see adorable Josh Groban sing a nutty medley of TV theme songs followed by the cast of Laugh-In (another late-60s obsession) made me think that there might be a glimmer of hope for a sane life on planet Earth after November 4.

Sometimes I feel like Ava on Grey’s Anatomy, the disfigured woman who became beautiful through plastic surgery, fell in love with Alex and then went nuts. She had amnesia, and so do I. I don’t mean that I can’t remember where I left my glasses (although that’s also a problem). No, I have somehow managed to forget huge chunks of my past. My adorable daughter asked me once about my childhood birthday parties. (She and her brother had some pretty darn memorable ones, if I do say so.) I drew an absolute blank. The only one I remember was when the amazing Mary rented the town movie theater for a matinee, and I had a Barbie cake (an actual doll stuck inside a cake dress; it was cool). What did I do on Halloween over the years? I don’t have a clue. A high school friend recently recalled an incident with an English teacher we supposedly loved. Who?! A college friend showed off a photo of me on a camping trip at the beach. How did I get into that picture? I hate camping!

My first boss from more than 30 years ago has a photographic memory, and he amuses himself by recalling random things I said and did when I first got to New York, green as a gourd and splendidly outfitted in mid-70s polyester suits. How does his brain hold on to all that information?

Oddly enough, I tend to remember objects more than people or incidents, which is one reason I love having furniture from my childhood home in my apartment and at our beach house. I recall a trio of groovy octagonal tables in my cousins’ den that fit together like a puzzle. I wish I had those! In junior high, the door of my closet was plastered with pictures of the stars of Mission: Impossible. I can’t remember the plot of a book I read last month, but I remember Martin Landau on my closet. 

Maybe the holes in my memory are related to the fact that I am not very nostalgic. For the most part, my past doesn’t interest me (see previous post about throwing it all in a trunk and sitting on the lid), but that may change now that I have this blog to play in. Who knows what I will remember next?

I still have my original face. I may well be the only woman my age in New York City (other than my immediate circle of friends) who does. I am eager to do something to “refresh” this face, and according to Vogue, I’ve waited at least a decade too long to start. When it comes to aging, denial is a powerful thing — until somebody snaps a photo and you’re confronted with those pesky pleats running down both cheeks. Who cares?! You’ve got your health! Yeah, and I also want my youth. I don’t want to become just another invisible middle-aged woman whizzing toward the AARP.

None of this would matter, I suppose, if I hadn’t formulated my theory that in order to remain happily married, couples must maintain the same level of attractiveness. The sad fact is that men in their 50s somehow preserve their faces better than women in their 50s. Unfair! But undeniably true. At the beginning of the decade, you’re a matched set. By 60, you’re Poppy and Barb Bush or John and Elizabeth Edwards. 

Women fear this fate, and the sidewalks of Southampton are packed with ladies who have subconsciously embraced my theory and attempted to stop the clock. Unfortunately, many of them have swapped their cheek pleats for an alarming death’s head look, mashed potato-like fillers or Mr. Spock eye lifts. No, no, no.

If only I could sidle up to Susan Lucci or Christie Brinkley or Demi Moore and say, “Okay, what did you do, and who did it?” None of this nonsense celebrities tell More magazine about how they have good genes and get a lot of sleep. But for now, I will concentrate on stuff I can control, like seeing my precious young trainer twice a week — in spite of the fact that Equinox is lined with mirrors that force me to confront my face as it continues its downhill slide.

I believe in the basic truth of the zodiac — at least for the signs I know, which are those of my immediate family. I know nothing of Cancer or Aries or Leo or Aquarius. But Taurus, the sign of my late mother, the amazing Mary, and my adorable son? Whoa! There’s power in the bull! Scorpio, the sign of my darling husband? Who knows what that strong-willed man is ever really thinking? My precious daughter, a Pisces? A sensitive and loving fish indeed. Most of all, I believe in the basic truth of Virgo, my birth sign.

Oh lordy, Virgos are so special. And we know it, even if we try to avoid flaunting it. (Virgos don’t toot our own horns, except in our minds, and now in this blog.) We can’t help our perfection — and we can’t help feeling impatient at the relative slowness of people unfortunate enough to be born under the other 11 signs. If only the world were ruled by Virgos — but which of us could possibly be in charge of all the others?! Actually, if Virgos ruled the world, there would be no need for a hierarchy. Each Virgo would do his or her job (perfectly) with no status meetings or memos or reminders needed. Done! Finished! Next?!

I admit that there are negative aspects to our glorious sign. As I said, Virgos are impatient. We are judgmental. We are a teensy bit anal. (Okay, more than a teensy bit.) We are more “by the book” and less “outside the box.” We care too much about what other people think. Sometimes, but not very often, we wish we could let loose and get a little crazy. But the fact is: We are Virgos. We are fabulous. Happy birthday to us!

My birthday is coming up, so I’ve been thinking about my mother, who died nine years ago. Our relationship would fuel about a dozen years of weekly visits with a shrink, but I’ve never had the time to get shrunk. (Or, as I prefer to think of it: Just put all the craziness in a trunk, close the lid, and sit on it for the rest of your life.) I was born in the 1950s when she was 42, at a time when women that age did not routinely turn out their first and only child. There are many upshots from that, most notably that I cannot ride a bicycle (”It’s fine! You might get hurt!”), which is a drag since my darling husband is an avid bicyclist. Another big upshot: She was my fifth grade teacher. Hello, shrink!

Anyway, tales of the amazing Mary could fill an entire blog, but I do wish Mama was around to be the only old lady in my ultra-conservative Alabama hometown to vote for Obama — and to revel in the success of her beloved grandchildren, both of whom ended up going to college in the south. I often think that if I had my mother’s chutzpah (to use a decidedly non-Baptist word), I would now be in command of a magazine with a million readers, twirling the Tony Award medallion on my desk for the play I’d managed to produce in my spare time. Oooh, she was a powerhouse! I can only hope I set the same example of hard work and can-do spirit for my adorable children that the amazing Mary did for me.

When I decided to create an archive of my work, I assumed that I would also include a blog. Hey, it’s the 21st century, and the only way anybody knows what he or she thinks these days is by typing it and sending it out over the internet! But what’s the difference between a blog and a diary of self-indulgent musings better left under lock and key in a bedside table — the kind of stuff you read a year later and go “Ewww!”? I don’t want to write about the thing I know best — theater — because I do that all day at work. My darling husband says I should think of the blog as my personal editorial page, and lord knows I’ve got strong opinions about just about everything. But I am also interested in the whole idea of midlife/empty nest/what the hell do I do now that I don’t have to take care of kids? I have more energy and drive than I did 10 or even 20 years ago — how should I use it? The outer package is getting old, and “old” is a no-no in New York City. But inside? I’m ready to do something big.