Blog Posts

Love, sex and anger

My husband reading my blog. I don’t get it either.

Content Warning: My husband doesn’t ask much of me, but he is rather insistent I write this daily blog. He has been absurdly supportive of my writing habit since day one. I do not wholly understand this as I have not always been supportive of his acting habit. Our marriage is sometimes one-sided. If you are uncomfortable with that, I suggest you stop reading.

This morning I was reading The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green. In the chapter “Bonneville Salt Flats” the author writes about when he and his wife’s gazes meet and entwine as they look at a third thing.

This “meet and entwine” concept is something Green learned about from Donald Hall who wrote about his late wife.

“We did not spend our days gazing into each other’s eyes. We did that gazing when we made love or when one of us was in trouble, but most of the time our gazes met and entwined as they looked at a third thing.”

-Donald Hall

First of all…made love? Keep that to yourself.

Moving on: Hall wrote about the “third thing” first, then Green. My turn.

If I’m understanding Green and Hall correctly, a third thing can be a piece of art, a book, a concert, a play, a child, a mountain or whatever. It’s something that you look at with wonder, then notice your partner looking at it with wonder and then you gaze at each other with wonder. It’s called ROMANCE.

All this gazing and wondering pisses me off. Shared moments. Sidelong glances. Eye contact. Knock it off, people! Or at least stop writing about it.

What if we pushed each other a little more to be independent? What if we didn’t need to discuss and critique and “get each other?”

I want to bring back looking at your partner and thinking any (or all) of the following:

*WTF?

*Why?

*WHY?!?!

*WTF?!?!?

Now these are the moments that make a marriage. My marriage anyway. These are the moments that shake faith, erode trust and create the grit necessary to pack in decades of monogamy. These are the moments that hold secrecy, shame and fear. That’s my kind of adventure!

The alternative:

Symbol by Alexander Liberman stands nearly 50 feet tall on the bike path in Rockford.

Jesse and I go for a nice walk. Jesse looks at Symbol. Then I look at Symbol. Then we look at each other with a love and appreciation of Symbol, Rockford and each other.

No! No, no, no, no, no.

We fight. We yell. We undermine. We hate. We judge. All within one simple, sunny day! And you know what? It’s fine. It’s a part of marriage. Ours, at least.

Thanks for reading. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make love to Jesse. -Connie

P.S. This blog is an example of what you shouldn’t write about: your marriage, your sex life and your anger. It could scare people!

Symbol’s undercarriage.

Education is…


I wrote a guilt poem a couple days ago. It was a haiku intended for Mother Nature. She was supposed to read it, feel guilty about all this cold weather and give us a break. But Old Girl doubled down and dumped more snow on us. The roads are a slushy mess and we’ve postponed most of our Saturday plans.

Most, but not all. Jesse and Fern have “snuck out” to Velvet Robot to pick up our family’s favorite coffee and tea beverages. They should be home before I finish this blog.

***

I was wrong. I did not finish this blog before they got home because Angelo came downstairs and read “A Dream within a Dream” by Edgar Allan Poe out loud to me.

This quarter, Angelo’s 6th Grade English teacher reads a poem to his class nearly every day, even when it’s not National Poetry Month. Angelo then shares the poem with me when he gets home from school, but yesterday we didn’t get around to it. This morning, he read it to me twice and then showed it to me. It’s a beauty. I have never read this poem until today. There’s a section in Poe’s second stanza about “grains of golden sand” that “creep through my fingers to the deep.” 

"...And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?"
-Edgar Allan Poe

Once again, a poet has taken something sad and written about it in a way that fills me with happiness. Edgar Allan Poe was a genius and I love that Angelo is getting more and more familiar with the “master of macabre.”

***

I have zero poetic memories of my 6th Grade English Class. I remember Mrs. Thompson made us copy words and their definitions from the dictionary and that’s about it. I don’t remember why she made us do that.

What I remember about 6th Grade is that John Lennon, Ronald Reagan and Pope John Paul II had all been shot. It was the year I started to pay attention to gun violence.

I heard about John Lennon on the local “rock” radio station WZOK when I was getting ready for school. It was the first time I had heard breaking news on the radio. It is still my “favorite” way to receive news.

In March, Ronald Reagan was shot. That’s when I figured out that pull quotes were important business, no matter how insipid. I remember watching the news and learning that president said, “Honey, I forgot to duck” to his first lady and the reporters went nuts. The next day the stupid quote was plastered across the front page of the local newspaper.

Pope John Paul II was shot less than two months after Reagan and it raised the question about who is more important to the world: the president or the pope? That is my first memory of witnessing emotional debates.

I learned a lot in 6th Grade, just not in 6th Grade. Anyway, guess who just walked through the front door, wet with snow but carrying six piping hot beverages that cost more than our monthly electric bill? I’ll be back.

***

Hi! I’m back and sufficiently caffeinated. Several hours have passed since I started this blog. I went outside to take in the scenery and saw this mourning dove perched in the birch. Unlike me, she was completely unfazed by the snow.

I need to work on being unfazed more and also start cooking dinner. But first, a poem. This one is a senryu, similar to a haiku but (hopefully) has a little comedic “punchline.”

snow covered branches
hold the soulful mourning dove
coo-est mom i know

Thanks for reading my “educational” blog. -Connie

Thank God it’s…

There is still some snow on the ground but the sun is shining and it’s Friday. As Angelo was getting ready for school this morning, he hollered out, “Wait! It’s Friday, isn’t it?” I confirmed the day and date.

“Yes!” Angelo shouted. “High knees!”

“High knees” is something our family says when we’re stoked about something. Angelo’s moment of glee reminded me of the phrase, “Thank God it’s Friday.”

I went to Catholic school for 12 years and we were taught to never be silly when thanking God. So when “Thank God it’s Friday” started to wend its way into common conversation, Sister Vera Marie sat us 7th Graders down and gave us a stern lecture about being grateful for every day of the week, not just Friday.

I liked Sister. She loved poetry and was wonderfully precise with language. But she was over-the-top strict, had to have everything just so, and didn’t like distractions from her everyday routine. Distractions like “Hot Dog Day.”

A couple times a year, for 75 cents, you could pre-order a hot dog, a bag of Lays potato chips and a carton of 2% milk. On the big day, someone’s mom would carry an enormous box of hot dogs up the stairs and down the hallway. The box was so big it concealed the mom’s identity. All we’d see is a big box and legs enter the classroom and then Sister would shoo her away. The room filled up with the scent of boiled hot dogs and soggy buns and we were giddy with anticipation.

“Contain yourselves,” Sister would say, fully irked. “Sit still while I organize.”

She treated hot dog distribution as if it were some overly-complex bureaucratic procedure. She checked to make sure everyone had paid in full, that there were exactly as many hot dogs as ordered and that everyone was in a proper state of mind to receive their dogs. Then she called out our names in alphabetical order. We would walk up, one by one, retrieve our lunch and return to our seats where we were to “sit squarely” until everyone had been served. I’m sure we prayed, but I don’t remember it. All I remember is how fun it was when we could finally eat.

Hot Dog Day was the best. I remember one kid exclaimed, “Hot dog!” when he pulled his hot dog out of the bag. And then he repeated it with great emphasis.

“Hot dog!”

He was practically saying, “Hot damn!” and getting away with it because that was the beauty of Hot Dog Day.

Another kid said, “I could eat two!” I felt the same way and looked over at another kid who was tilting his head back and was pouring the crumbs from his little bag of potato chips into his mouth. We were having so much fun! And that’s when I saw Sister. She stared at us in disgust and scolded us.

“Imagine if you loved God as much as you loved Hot Dog Day.”

Then came the lecture on the Seven Deadly Sins with particular emphasis on “gluttony.”

To Sister, celebrating “Hot Dog Day” was the same as celebrating sin. And saying “Thank God it’s Friday” was disrespectful to the glory of God. I could see her point, but jeez, what a buzz kill, right?

The kids returned to school this week after their spring break. Every day I am shocked (in positive and negative ways) by the stories they tell me about “what happened at school.” It’s going fine, but after reports of lockdowns, gun recoveries and bullying, I am ready for Friday. And when it finally arrives, I silently think, “Thank God it’s Friday” and mean it.

Hey Siri, do birds have groins?

It’s the last day of March and I woke up to a snowfall so bright it hurt my eyes to look at it. I was instantly annoyed.

God, snow, go away, I’m sick of your ass.

By now I’ve usually planted some lettuce or kale in the gardens. Not this year. Our backyard is still a mix of cold mud, frozen weeds and shame. There is no joy in… mudville.

The winter won’t let go and I’m not sure why. Was it something I said?

I’ve decided to write a haiku to guilt the winter into leaving. 

Aches to feed his young
Robin pecks at icy earth
Breaks back, pulls groin, dies

I hope my poem works. Until it does, I’m going to brew some tea, raise the thermostat, put on another layer of clothes and fill up the bird feeders. Thanks for reading. -Connie

I’ll never forget the clicks

It’s nearly 11:00 at night but I’m writing about something I read (twice) in the local paper this morning.

As you know, another variant of the coronavirus is making its way through Europe and there is concern that it will eventually contaminate the United States. That is important information and I appreciate the media’s coverage…to an extent. In two separate stories, the variant was referred to as an “omicron sibling.”

Sibling?

Language like this reminds me of the first time I heard my manager Becky from Marshalls refer to one of her subordinates as “the red-headed stepchild.” That was in 1996 and I remember the moment because I had to ask her what it meant.

“It’s someone who’s not wanted, Connie,” she said as she walked away from me. “Like a stepchild.“

Becky didn’t like me and was always in a state of walking away from me.

“You can take your break now,” she’d say as she walked away from me in her pumps. “Don’t forget to punch out!”

Click, click, click, click.

“You need to mark down the rugs.” Click, click, click, click. “I’m tired of looking at them!”

“Freshen up your end cap.” Click, click, click, click. “It’s ugly as sin!”

It’s been nearly thirty years since I’ve seen her. I don’t know if I’d recognize her from the front, but I’m certain I could pick her out of a lineup of people who were walking away from me. I can still hear the clicks. I’ll never forget the clicks.

Anyway, after Becky explained “red-headed stepchild” to me and walked away, I wondered what part of “red-headed stepchild” was so awful? The red hair? Was it that at least one of the child’s parents had remarried? Or was it because the person with the red hair was a child?

You’d think we could leave “red-headed stepchild” in the 90’s but I’ve heard the euphemism as recently as a year ago from an educator in a university setting. She referred to an entire department as “the red-headed stepchild.” That was in 2021. And this morning, a potentially deadly virus was referred to as a “sibling.”

Do we really need to refer to people (or situations) we don’t appreciate as siblings or stepchildren? If so, how is it that siblings and stepchildren are the root of an adult’s idea of evil?

Thanks for “clicking” through my blog, which is basically the red-headed stepchild of writing. Or is my blog the infectious sibling? -Connie

Keep your tempest in your teapot, please

Twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t even know it was the night of The Oscars. But when I found out it was on, I giddily went upstairs and turned on the television, even though I hadn’t watched most of the films and that I probably wouldn’t recognize most of the stars.

I was a little late, but I was so happy to see Wanda Sykes and Amy Schumer. I didn’t recognize the third host, but quickly liked her.

With any awards show, I expect to be sporadically entertained, sometimes moved and occasionally annoyed. I expect to be intrigued. What I don’t expect is to be triggered.

Furthermore, I don’t expect actors – people who spend a significant portion of their lives on camera – or trying to be on camera – to be triggered.

Backing up a bit: My first memory of The Oscars is when a streaker interrupted the ceremony. It was 1974 and I don’t remember much about it because I was only five years old. But I’ll tell you this: That streaker is the reason I still watch awards ceremonies. It’s been nearly 50 years and I have yet to witness another streaker. Streakers are my Great Pumpkin.

Here’s what I have observed over the years: profanity, actors stumbling over lines or steps, “legends” not as lucid as they once were, wardrobe malfunctions, stunning fashion, ho-hum fashion, exorbitant amounts of cleavage, sleek tuxedos, missed dance steps and late entrances.

Most of all, I’ve observed deft camera work. How many times have I seen cameras cut to unamused actors, overly amused actors, emotional actors, deadpan actors, respectful actors, surprised actors, rebellious actors? In other words, I’ve seen the camera cut to actors.

This brings me to the other reason I watch awards ceremonies: the actors’ reactions. Even though I suspect the reactions are rehearsed, premeditated, predicted and discussed, I enjoy the reactions. In other words, I enjoy the performances.

I am not rich. I am not famous. But I know what it’s like to be in public when my personal and professional stakes are high. I know what it’s like to be upset about something personally but still have to go in public and put on a good face. I mean, don’t you?

I’ve known for years that I don’t understand or appreciate roasts. Even poetry slams are too much for my tender heart. So here’s the deal: I don’t go to them. And if for some reason I attend, I sit in the back. I sure as hell don’t sit in the front row where the public, the people onstage and the camera all have eyes on me. Because, like most artists, I acknowledge the tempest in my teapot and take care not to let it out in public. Period.

So last night’s violent outburst shocked me. Was it really about one man’s family values? Was it really about saying “enough is enough” when it comes to being mocked and teased? Was it really about the pressures of being successful and visible?

Or was it about an entitled millionaire who let the tempest out of his teapot? And was that the first time he ever slapped someone in the heat of the moment? I highly doubt it.

And now what? Wait for public responses? Calculated apologies? Lawyers? Interviews? Cancel culture? For the tempest to be woven into the carefully curated cloth that is entertainment? This is the part that sickens me the most – the waiting, the knowing that this is what will take precedence in popular culture, exaggerated cruelly by social media.

But of course, I don’t have to wait. I don’t have to give it any attention. But I knew I had to write this to find some peace. Ten minutes ago I felt upset and even sad. Now I feel fine. But maybe it’s time I give up the ghost about awards ceremonies and streakers.

Nah.

Hey, thank you for reading. I really do feel better now. -Connie

Unworthy

It’s Sunday and Spring Break is basically over but on the bright side Jesse got home yesterday and he’ll be home until early April. Great!

On the dark side of things, however, I caught him watching something I would rather he not watch. It was something that I disagree with wholeheartedly. Something that hurts all women, not just me.

“Is that Jeff Foxworthy?” I asked. “The ‘You Might Be A Redhead’ guy?”

“Neck,” he said. “Redneck.”

“That’s what I meant. Why are you watching him?”

“I’m curious,” he said. “I want to see if he’s still doing the same schtick.”

“How far in are you?”

“About two minutes,” he said.

I was curious too. About a minute in, Jesse said it was terrible. I agreed but wondered if it might improve.

“Let’s see if it gets any better.”

We watched about ten more minutes before we couldn’t take it anymore. The guy’s a dick. I can’t stand comedians who make fun of their wives, mothers, fathers and kids. By the time our ten minutes were up, Foxworthy had mocked most, if not all, of his family to the laughter and cheers of his audience. Idiots.

Several years ago there was a TV show called Home Improvement that starred Tim Allen. I had never watched it, but one night I was at my sister’s and we were channel surfing. This was in the 90’s. We were both adults, but still very young.

Home Improvement was on and I said I heard it was pretty funny and she said she couldn’t stand the show because the guy (Tim Allen) was always lying to his wife. To illustrate her point, she turned it on and we watched a few minutes of it. Sure enough, within five minutes he was “adorably” lying to his wife while the audience laughed and laughed. We watched less than ten minutes before we couldn’t take it anymore.

Jesse just walked by and asked what I was writing about today.

“I thought I’d write about Jeff Foxworthy.”

“Then leave my name out of it,” he said. “I don’t want anyone knowing I gave that piece of shit any of my time.”

These are the words that warm my heart and make me proud, just as my sister’s observation about Tim Allen in the early 90’s warmed my heart and made me proud. The fact they both have long detested this kind of “humor” speaks to their character.

But Jesus Christ. Unless I’m watching Call the Midwife or Downton Abbey, I need to not be allowed to watch television. It makes me too angry.

Thanks for reading! -Connie

Lend me your (wood) ears

My 15-year-old son Sam and I went mushrooming today for the first time since December. Neither of us were expecting much but we wanted to get a jump on the season, and some fresh air. We went to Aldeen Park, a city park in the center of Rockford. I followed Sam as he led me several yards off the trail.

“I think I see wood ear,” he said as he took off.

“Really?” I shouted after him. “Are you sure?!”

Sure enough, he had found several of the species. He’s found them before and brought them back to me, but this is the first time I have seen them on the tree. This little guy was “born” last fall, but is still very soft.

It’s really quite a joy to find these little guys. Their scientific name is Auricularia auricula and it’s just a joyful little fungus. Below is the same wood ear, turned inside out. It flips just as easily as a dog ear.

The instant Sam turned the specimen “inside out” the fungus stopped being a mushroom and “became” the ear of a mythical animal. It looked and felt like the inside of a mysterious ear and we both felt like we were invading its privacy. Sam closed it up and we kept hiking. It’s been several years since I felt this way but there are times when I am convinced the woods want to be alone.

We didn’t stay much longer but we did stop to check on our old pal the artist conk. We wanted to see if he grew from the last time we saw him in November. And he did! It’s pretty amazing how he just hides in plain sight getting bigger every day, kind of like someone else I know.

Hey, it’s another late night (and short) blog. Thanks for reading and remember to watch what you say in the woods. You never know who’s listening. -Connie

Wired differently

It’s late and I wasn’t sure what to write about so I turned to my photographs for inspiration. I have taken thousands over the years so I decided to use the first weird picture that caught my attention for my “blog prompt.”

It’s a photo of the public restroom inside a restaurant located in Chicago’s West Loop. I took it in 2018.

I swear I’m not in the habit of photographing bathrooms, but the haphazard “wiring” caught my attention. It’s bad enough when wires cross, but somehow this seemed worse. I was worried someone would trip or even get electrocuted. I got the hell out of there.

Tonight, four years later, knowing that nobody got hurt, the picture takes on new meaning for me. I look at it and think, “God. That’s my writing.”

I’m not trying to be even slightly funny. The photo is an accurate depiction of my haphazard writing. I’m stuck on page 13, currently unable to come up with clear solutions to the problems I created.

It’s fine. It’s part of the process, it’s where I’m at writing-wise, tomorrow is another day and now you know why this is such a short (and late) blog.

Thanks for reading. Be safe! -Connie

The weird work

After two years of Zoom, Tuesdays@9 returned to The Annoyance Theatre last night! My mind and soul are still all jumbled up in the best possible way. Great space, lots of hustle and bustle, terrific people. What can I say? Writing, actors and music are as essential to me as food, sunshine and water. The theatre is the only indoor place that refreshes me as if I’m outside.

Kicking off our first night back with Tuesdays@9 creative director Josh Fardon. Photo by Suzy Brack.

I’ll tell you this: I got pretty good at listening to new work on Zoom. And I definitely think the technology is a useful and healthy tool — not just for humans, but for the planet. Zoom conserves energy, reduces driving and gasoline consumption. Zoom events and meetings connect people and help offset each of our individual carbon footprints. Yaye Zoom.

But, speaking only for myself, I am someone who needs to be able to do the weird work it takes to get to and fro the theatre.

I need the commute. I need to deal with parking. I need to be able to say “hi” to people and look them in their shiny, bright eyes. I need to be awkward and nervous and forget to make sure my shirt is pulled over my tummy. I need to turn in pages that I wrote to the best of my ability only to find out they still need so much work. And I need to be in the company of people who grasp why that’s so important.

About my pages: The title of my play-in-progress is Nothing Could Be Finer Than To Be In Southwest China. This new work is lifted from a play I wrote in 2017. The panda mural you see photographed up top was part of my inspiration then and now.

I took that pic in Minneapolis several years ago outside my favorite pho restaurant on Nicollet Avenue. In its simplest form, it’s paint on a brick wall, just as this blog is simply words on a page, nothing more nothing less. Still, the mural ignites my imagination. It makes me long to be in a forest surrounded by pandas and bamboo and mountains. But it doesn’t make me think I am in a panda forest.

In my new play, two pandas are locked in a room with a similar “mural” painted on their walls, and Mama and Papa Panda actually do think they’re in China’s southwestern wilderness. Their imagination (mercifully?) allows that, but as the play unravels, we realize they are prisoners of a panda trafficking industry.

My old play was about the students trapped and killed in the Tiananmen Square Massacre of 1989. That one had a huge cast, close to 20 actors. This play is a three-hander and is about a different trap. I decided to leave most of the other characters behind and bring “Mama Panda” along and start over.

I’ve never done that before. I’ve never taken a character from another play to start another play. Once a play reaches the end of its life, I let it go. To paraphrase Joan Didion, I let the dead be dead.

“…If we are to live ourselves,” Didion wrote, “there comes a point at which we must relinquish the dead, let them go, keep them dead.” 

For the most part, I’ve done that with my writing. I’ve thrown out so much. Moved on. Pushed myself to generate new content. Pushed myself to “be creative.”

Hmmmm.

But I’ve held onto so many other things instead, including the “brace” I wrote about yesterday. Each day I write this blog, I realize I’m holding onto the wrong things. I just need to figure out what those “things” are.

Thanks for reading. -Connie