To Cable Or Not To Cable?

That is the question, folks. We've been contemplating ditching our DirectTV in favor of no cable TV whatsoever for the last couple of months. That bill is getting unreasonably big, and we find we spend too much time sitting in front of the TV watching the same shows over and over and over ("Big Bang Theory" repeats, I'm looking at you). I think about all that wasted time and money and it seems like a no brainer. In fact, I posed the question to my Facebook friends and the overwhelming response was "get rid of cable, you'll never look back." And these are mostly entertainment industry folks.

But I'm still nervous about it. I do look forward to sitting down and kind of checking out in front of the TV after working all day. I look forward to our "appointment TV" with Survivor on Wednesday evenings, and watching the Green Bay Packers during football season has become a cherished family tradition. Sorry to all you Bears fans back home.

Okay, you guys, I have to come up with some reasons why getting rid of TV is a good thing for me and for my family or I'm never going to pull the trigger.  Here goes:

1. With our Apple TV and Netflix subscription, I can still watch alot of shows. I can add Amazon Prime and Hulu Plus if it gets to be limiting. Not to mention all the shows that stream for free online somewhere.
2. We can still watch Survivor and football through an antenna (though not all Green Bay games since we're not in that region) .
3. No more mindless entertainment. Every time I sit down to watch TV it will be with a purpose, with a show that has been chosen for just that moment, not whatever just happens to be on.
4. I can do more reading. I'm an avid reader, and between the mindless TV and the mindless Internet surfing I do on my iPhone, I haven't finished a book in quite awhile.
5. My 14 year old stepdaughter will have to find something else to do with her time instead of sitting in front of the TV.
6. We'll save over $1000 a year, which can be put towards a vacation instead.
7. I looked on our DVR, and there isn't one show listed that I recorded, except for shows on which I've appeared. It's mostly endless episodes of "House Hunters International" and a variety of cooking shows. I don't need to see any more episodes of people looking for homes abroad (especially now that I know it's all fake) and I have Pinterest and cookbooks for recipes.
8. We don't bundle our internet service with cable, so that isn't going to be affected.
9. I think TV may be robbing me of my creativity. If I pull the plug on cable, I will effectively restore at least a couple of hours a day to pursuing creative interests that I have put off for too long.

Am I missing anything? I'd love to hear your reasons for kicking the cable habit! Please share your thoughts in the comments section below.

10 Promises To My 80-Year-Old Self

I am getting older. It is inevitable. As you read this, you are getting older in tiny, incremental steps. You are older now than you were when you began reading this post. Each second that passes is one less second you have to live.

It's better than being dead, isn't it?

I don't want to view aging with dread. I want to embrace each age as it comes, and focus on the positive. I want to welcome old age with vigor and vitality. I want to sit at the table with it and have a long, lingering meal while we talk about what we did that day, and what we might do tomorrow if the feeling hits us. I want to be one of those awesome old ladies, who actively looks for reasons to be happy and who cultivates new interests and friendships right up until the very end. I don't want to succumb to despair, knowing that most of life is behind me. I want to be grateful for each day that I'm given.

With that in mind, I've decided to come up with a list of ten promises to my 80-year-old self. 

1. I promise to wear whatever the hell I want without apology. I want to be the old lady that is draped in tunics and flowing pants, arms filled with bracelets, neck wrapped in scarves I've picked up from my world travels, gigantic colorful glasses, and natural gray hair shorn into a pixie cut (who wants to deal with hair when their old?). It'll be like wearing pajamas all day except more awesome.
2. I promise to have as many cats as I damn well want. Who cares if anyone thinks I'm a cat lady when I'm 80? I'm a cat lady because cats are awesome!
3. I promise to make romantic love a priority. I will have a boyfriend, and we will laugh together, and dance together, and tell each other stories, and maybe even canoodle now and again. This is, of course, if present hubs isn't still alive. He's got some years on me, so chances are he won't be alive when I'm, say, 90. But if he is, well, yay him! I hope he still has his hearing and cognitive abilities and hasn't gotten grouchy, and that we are the best of friends.
4. I promise to cultivate a diverse range of friendships. I will have an active and vibrant group of friends of all ages who engage me and challenge me and help me feel young and alive.
5. I promise to look after folks my own age, and hope they do the same for me. I have no biological kids, so there won't necessarily be any family to look after me when I'm old. I'd like to  belong to a tight group of old folks who will look after each other's physical, emotional and mental well-being. Perhaps we'll even all live in a big house together!
6. I promise to keep myself in as good a physical shape as possible. I know that my mental and emotional health is closely tied to my physical health, and I will stay active, take walks, garden, and not use my advanced age as an excuse to keep it easy. I will challenge myself physically, and take care of myself when I am sick.
7. I promise to maintain a positive outlook on life. I may be old and closer to death than I've ever been, but I want to have a healthy, upbeat attitude towards life until the day I die.
8. I promise to keep that feeling of child-like wonder about the world, and to continue to discover what is beautiful about life. I want to always feel like a child on the inside, even if my shell looks like an old person. I want to stay engaged with the world, and make new discoveries, and revel in all the small, beautiful details, right up until the very end.
9. I promise to continue to cultivate new interests and to learn new things. It ain't over 'til it's over, so what's wrong with learning to play guitar at 80, or dance the cha cha? Maybe I'll finally have the patience to master French macarons!
10. I promise to look back on my life without regret, because all those choices and experiences have made me the person I am. I want to live a meaningful, mindful life, and even though it will have its inevitable tragedies, I want to look back on it with warmth and fondness.

What do you hope to be like at 80? What promises will you make to yourself?

Me as Millie in "Hot l Baltimore" (2001)
Production directed by Israel Hicks at Mason Gross School of the Arts

Artist's Prayer

Artist's Prayer

I open myself up to the beauty and goodness in the world

And to the beauty and goodness that exist inside me.

I embrace my creativity

And know that I am simply the channel through which it flows.

I surrender my old ideas of what I think I am meant to do

And let my intuition and my heart guide me to my purpose.

It is my nature to be creative.

My creativity is the way in which I serve the world.

I will not allow my feelings of inadequacy or low self-worth

Distract me from my path.

I nurture and protect my creativity

And encourage it to grow.

I am patient, kind and gentle with myself

And encourage patience, kindness and gentleness in others. 

I believe it is never too late for us to walk our true paths,

Never too late to banish fear,

Never too late for understanding,

Never too late to unfold to the world

And to embrace our life’s calling.

- Amy Clites

My Remembrance of 9/11 - Have We Forgotten?

Photo by Chris Schiffner

In writing that date, my heart is heavy. I always find this day very hard to take in. I was a graduate student at Rutgers in New Jersey the day the towers fell. I had gotten up early that day and gone to the gym for the first time that semester. It was our last year of acting school, and my classmates and I had become obsessed about getting in shape for showcase at the end of the year. A friend, Jessica, had met me there to show me some good exercises. She was fit, I was not. 

It was the first week of school, and we had our first on-camera class that morning so I spent extra time getting ready. I even ironed my clothes. As I got close to school, I had this nagging feeling that I had left the iron on, and I was worried that my cat would knock it over and start a fire. I was pretty well consumed with this thought as soon as it occurred to me.

I parked my car in the faculty lot behind the student center. I was a TA so I technically could park there, a relief since there was usually an empty spot, unlike the student lot, and I didn't want to be late. I hurriedly walked through campus to get to class on time. On my way, a random student I had never met stopped me and said, “A plane has just crashed into the Pentagon.” I was flabbergasted. What? What was going on? I didn't linger - I didn't want to be late for class. That was a cardinal sin in our program.

            

As I approached our building, several of my classmates were standing outside. Everyone looked especially nice that day as we were meeting a new teacher on going on camera. One of my classmates, Tammy Jo, was crying hysterically. The information from the events that morning started to come to me in disjointed bits and jabs.

            “Tammy Jo saw it! She was driving to school and saw it from the Turnpike!”

            “Should we go give blood?”

            “There were two planes, the World Trade Center is on fire!”

            “Are we having class? What should we do?”

What happened at the Pentagon? That seemed inconsequential now, considering how close we were to the World Trade Center. It was quickly determined that we were not having class that day.  In a truly selfish moment, I was so grateful. I could drive back home and see if I had left my iron on. I had.

            

Several classmates met back at the house down the street from school. It was the local theatre house, everyone who lived there was a student in the department, about eight or so. The number was never really definite, as boyfriends and girlfriends often stayed, too, myself included. I was dating one of my classmates who lived on the second floor.

            

We sat there that morning and watched the TV in stunned silence. Phone calls were made to check on loved ones in the city. More calls were made to folks back home to assure them we were okay. We saw the towers fall over and over again, the footage looped in case anyone in America hadn’t heard the news yet. How could anyone not have heard the news? The images of the jumpers were shown over and over and will remain seared in my memory of that day. It’s stomach-turning to think about what September 11th was like for them, the horror they faced that made jumping to their deaths below the best option. And the two who were holding hands - I still get choked up thinking about that. Did we ever find out who they were? I've since learned there were over 200 people who jumped to their deaths that day.

            

After a couple of hours of not knowing what to do, and not getting any new information, it was decided that the best thing we could do to help was to give blood. A small army of us coalesced and we headed down to Robert Wood Johnson Memorial Hospital in New Brunswick.

            

The hospital was mobbed and we were turned away. So many people had showed up to give blood that they were overwhelmed. I wouldn't find out until years later that I can’t give blood, anyway. I spent a semester in England in 1995. The Red Cross won’t allow anyone to give blood who spent more than three months in some countries, including England, between 1980 and 1996 because of Mad Cow Disease.

            

Not knowing what else to do, we all descended upon the Edison Diner, a favorite place to score a greasy dinner after rehearsal or a party. I was preoccupied, wondering if I was supposed to have my therapy appointment that afternoon. I had finally signed up for the free therapy they offered at school, to help me through my recent divorce. All my calls to the office went unanswered. I could only assume there would be no therapy that day. We didn’t have any classes for at least a week, as I recall. Most of our instructors commuted to Rutgers from Manhattan, and were trapped in the city.

            

A month later I went to Manhattan with my friends Kristofer and Paul, to interview headshot photographers. We made our way downtown to see for ourselves what had happened. The air still smelled of acrid smoke and – what else, it's hard to say. I’ve never smelled anything like that before, and I hope I don’t again. The site was not yet cleared, sections of charred walls remained, set askew and barely visible over the fences that cordoned off the area. It was a ghost town. Businesses were closed and there were few people walking around. Paul tried to shimmy up one of the temporary fences to get a better look. I didn’t need to see anymore. Our hair still smelled of that acrid smoke on our return to New Brunswick, like when you've been sitting in front of a campfire for too long. 

Those are my memories of 9/11 - faces, pictures, feelings and smells. What a fucked up day. It’s so big and hard to comprehend, the amount of suffering that happened. Suffering that rippled out through the country from Ground Zero that day. Have those waves finally settled? 

I'm watching CNN right now. It's 13 years later. I've so far seen no coverage of that day. Stories of Ferguson, Missouri, the Oscar Pistorius trial, and Obama's speech about ISIS are the top news.

Have we forgotten?

Does Honey Maid Get Their New Stepfamily Commercial Right?

There was a minor stir in my corner of the Internet yesterday. Honey Maid has released a new "documentary" (aka commercial) as part of their This Is Wholesome campaign, featuring what they call a blended family. It features a boy named Isaac with his two parents and two stepparents.

As Isaac sees it, he has two moms and two dads. In fact, the stepmom, in the beginning of the spot, says "I'll never forget the first time Isaac called me 'Mom.'" The commercial then goes on to show how these two stepfamilies have come together to raise their children. We see them all together celebrating a birthday, and playing at the beach. The parents talk about how the situation isn't easy, but that they come together for the sake of the kids. The full clip can be seen at the bottom of the post.

In what world does this actually happen? Is it wrong to say that when I watched this commercial, it made me feel a little queasy?

Please don't misunderstand me - I think it's great. I would love to be part of such a highly-functioning stepfamily.  I'm a stepmom, and I enjoy a healthy relationship with both of my stepchildren. I want to be a positive adult role model for them, and I want them to feel that they can talk to me about anything.  But our stepfamily looks nothing like this TV stepfamily. The bio parents struggle to get along, and it feels like we are almost always on the brink of war. The divorce has unfortunately caused a great rift in my husband's family, and family members have taken sides. It would be a stretch to say that everyone over 20 has acted like an adult at all times. In the beginning, we tried to blend like Isaac's family. We all attended birthday parties and family events. But that didn't last, and we're all still sorting out how to get along well enough to make sure the kids have a good environment in which to grow up. And no matter how much I love my stepkids, I don't expect or even really want them to call me "mom."

I feel like the commercial sets up unrealistic expectations. According to the statistics presented in the commercial, more than 40% of Americans are part of a blended family. How many of those families do you think actually look like this one? From my experience, very few. In a perfect world, we'd all behave like adults all of the time. But in most stepfamilies, the reality is quite different. Seeing commercials like this makes it easy to feel like we're failing, when we are already trying as hard as we can to make the situation as best as it can be amongst people who just don't get along.

I applaud Honey Maid for daring to approach this subject, in the same way I applaud Cheerios for showing a different kind of family in their recent campaign. But I look forward to the day when we can be more honest about how these types of families function so that we don't feel like we have to live up to impossible standards. I gave up trying to look like a swimsuit model long ago, even though that's what the media tells me I should look like. I don't want to be made to feel that I'm also failing as a stepmom, when I think I'm doing a pretty damn good job considering the circumstances.

 

Why Are Good Habits So Elusive?

The number one reason I am writing a daily blog is to establish a good habit of writing every day. Putting it up for everyone to see keeps me accountable. At least I hope it will.

It seems I have no ending of bad habits that have grown on me like fungus, in the middle of the night without my even knowing. Smoking? Check. Drinking too much? Check. Eating crap instead of healthy food? Check. Sleeping too late? Check. Finding excuses to avoid writing? Check.

Why are bad habits so easy to form, and not good ones?

I'm worried the accountability part of the daily blog isn't going to work. I've joined Weight Watchers three times now, and I while think that having someone else weigh me every week will keep me accountable, sometimes it doesn't. If I don't like the weight they see too many times in a row, I just don't go anymore. That's where I am right now. Smack in the middle of a bad habit.

What happens if I think you don't like what you're reading too many times in a row, so I just stop writing?

The challenge of this exercise is to strike a balance between writing about my process, which is inherently selfish, and writing about something that other people will enjoy reading. Hopefully the two coincide somewhere in there.

So far I've been successful at establishing a new, good habit of getting out of bed an hour and half earlier, so I can sit down and write before I check email or Facebook or even get dressed. But how long will that last, before an insidious bad habit takes over? They seem to do that, you know. Creep in silently like a squatter in an empty house and set up residence before anyone knows they're there. Once they're discovered they can't be evicted because they've established squatter's rights.

Bad habits are my homeless squatters.

Lifehack has a great article "18 Tricks to Make New Habits Stick". It has fair dose of good advice, and I'm trying to stick to the guidelines, like starting simply, making it daily, and getting a buddy (in this case, that's you).

Are you trying to establish a good habit, and break an old one? How do you try to do that, and have you been successful?

Until I figure this out, I'll keep getting up at 7am (I hope!) and writing a post every day (again, I hope!).

See you tomorrow!

7 Essential Elements of Successful Friendships

There's no doubt that friendships are the foundation on which we build our lives. The health of our relationships is a good indicator of the overall quality of our lives. Good friends are there to lift us up in troubling times and to celebrate our successes. They give and take in equal measure. They provide a sounding board and a reflection of ourselves. In fact, our friendships are so influential in our lives that motivational speaker Jim Rohn has said that we are the average of the five people we spend the most time with.

That's pretty powerful stuff.

If we approach our friendships with this idea in mind, doesn't it stand to reason that we should be more aware when we choose which relationships to cultivate? Should we not then demand the best from our confidantes, and offer our best in return? This is not to say that if you want to be rich that you immediately go out and befriend the five richest people you can meet. This is about the quality of someone's character, their views on their place in the world, and the attitude with which they approach life.

I've been awfully lucky to have such tremendous friends in my life. Some of it is by pure luck - I stumbled upon some really wonderful people and became friends effortlessly. Others friendships took more time to develop, and were approached with intention and care.

As we get older, time becomes more valuable. We must become more choosy when it comes to deciding with whom to spend this precious commodity. These are the tenets I live by these days when beginning new friendships or nurturing old ones.

1.  A good friend challenges you to become a better version of yourself.

Friendships grow and change over time, as do people. A good friend lets you see yourself through their eyes, in a way that challenges you to make better choices, invest in yourself, and grow. This can take the form of being a cheerleader for you or staging an intervention if necessary. But no matter what form that challenge takes, it is done in a loving manner with your best interests in mind.

2.  A good friend gives you their best self.

Going along with the first tenet, a good friend is willing to give you the best version of themselves. This isn't to say that there aren't tough times when they need support and encouragement. But it's done without excess drama or emotional neediness. A good friend can be vulnerable without sucking all your energy away. They aren't a vortex or a black hole for your goodwill. They understand the gift you give with your friendship, and acknowledge it. They don't try to drag you down with them.

3.  A good friend looks for opportunities to lift you up.

Life is always throwing us curveballs, but good friends are those that look for ways to buoy your spirit, and opportunities to improve your life. This could be something as simple as sending a thoughtful note or as big as recommending you for a great new job. A good friend is on your team and sees your happiness and success as part of a team effort.

4.  A good friend understands to the need to mutually nurture the friendship.

Life is rarely equal. When one friend is experiencing great success, the other may not. But there is an equal give and take between them. Good friends spend just as much time nurturing the friendship as you do. They initiate plans to meet up. They provide an ear when you need to talk. And because they are there when you need them most, they inspire you to do the same for them. Good friendships are two-way streets, with both parties valuing what the other has to offer.

5.  Good friendships have mutually determined boundaries.

It's rare that I would choose to spend too much time with someone who is constantly crossing the line, such as calling in the middle of the night, making unrealistic demands on my time, or asking me to engage in risky behavior of some kind. Good friends know what the parameters of the relationship are, which often grow organically out of mutual respect. They know when to step in when needed, or to take a backseat when you need space. And if they don't know, they aren't afraid to ask.

6.  A good friend keeps an open mind.

Some of my best friendships are with people who have different world views from my own. An essential ingredient to any successful friendship is a willingness to have an open mind and to consider a different point of view. You don't have to agree, but a good friend respects your opinions and finds ways to achieve understanding without sacrificing their own.

7.  A good friend celebrates your success.

Nothing kills a friendship like jealousy, and no two people are going to succeed at the same time or at the same rate. A good friend will nonetheless celebrate your successes with you and not undermine your achievements.

It goes without saying, I hope, that these tenets apply not only to the friends you choose, but also to the friend you choose to be. Cultivating meaningful relationships takes equal effort, and being a good friend can attract good friends in return.

What do you look for in a friend, and how are you a good friend to others? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

The Skinny on Being a Fat Girl

I was a fat girl. I was the kid who never met a cookie, cake, pizza, sugary breakfast cereal, donut or ice cream she didn't like. I didn't really have a shut-off switch, and never learned to practice self control. I drank Kool-Aid with extra sugar with my dinner every night. McDonald's Happy Meals were a staple in my house. I would sneak three Oreos from the cookie jar, eat them, and THEN ask my mom if I could have some Oreos and I would eat three more. I shopped in the "Pretty Plus" section at Sears.

My brother, three years my senior and a normal, healthy weight, found my growing weight problem the perfect tool to use against me. When I irritated him, which was almost daily, he would call me the Blue Whale. Eventually, he and his friends morphed that into Blue Shamu because it had a nice ring to it. Kids in the neighborhood heard him call me that and soon everyone was calling me that. I remember getting off the bus one day after school, and several kids stuck their heads out of the bus windows as I was walking away and shouted "Blue Shamu, Blue Shamu!" at me. It was devastating as an eight year old.  I still think of it from time to time if I'm wearing blue.

I took tap and jazz lessons as a kid, for several years. As I started to gain weight, I started to feel more uncomfortable in my leotard and tights. My mom took notice and suggested it was time I go on a diet. I was bigger than all the other girls in the class. I feigned stomachaches before class so I wouldn't have to go. Eventually, my mom said she wasn't paying for classes I wasn't attending, so that was it for tap and jazz at Miss Shirley's Dance Studio. I was sad but also relieved.

In junior high I tried out for the Tigerettes, our school's dance team. Basically, it was what all the girls who didn't make cheerleader did. You still got to wear the cute cheerleader outfits, but you did a choreographed dance at half time instead of cheering during the game. At my first football game, some boys walked by me and said I was one of the ugliest cheerleaders they had ever seen.  I cried that night, and no doubt soothed myself with a big bowl of chocolate ice cream.

My first year of high school there was this kid, Phil, who was in one of my classes and decided he didn't like me for reasons I can't remember. Anytime I would pass him in the hall he would act like there was an earthquake, because he said I was so fat I made the floor shake when I walked by. That was hard to absorb at 14.

These are the memories that come to mind when I think about being a Fat Girl. No doubt there are many more, and if I took the time to write them all down it would be a Young Adult trilogy series.

At 15 I decided to do something about my weight problem. I was tired of being the subject of scorn and ridicule.  I didn't have the discipline to starve myself, and somehow I managed not to develop a binge/purge problem.  I asked my mom if I could go to Weight Watchers. I was the only kid in the group, which met in the basement of the YMCA.  I bonded with middle-aged ladies who weighed me weekly on a scale set up behind a curtain for privacy.  For the first time, I learned what a healthy diet was. I was only encouraged, never discouraged. It was a safe place, and I was glad I had found it.  These were my people.

I lost 45 pounds and became a Lifetime Member at age 16.

I've gained that weight back, and lost it, and gained it again, and lost it.  It's a pattern in my life.  I still sometimes go to Weight Watchers, and I'm almost 40. My inner Fat Girl is always going to be there. It has become part of my identity, and I suspect it will always be. As an adult, I've learned ways to cope with it.  I've cultivated meaningful friendships with men and women who would never judge me by my weight.  I've learned to treat myself gently, and to love my body no matter what size it is.  But I still feel uncomfortable in my clothes sometimes, and worry that my face is too fat.

I have a 14 year old step daughter, and I see her struggle with many of the same body issues I have. Is that a right of passage for every teenage girl? I am vigilant about not disparaging my body in front of her. I want to teach her to respect her body, to feed it healthy food, and to feel good about it no matter what it looks like. But I have no control over what other people say to her, the media messages she is bombarded with, or what happens to her while she's at school.

All I can do is be good to myself. I try not to equate my self-worth with my pants size. It isn't always easy and I have my good days and my bad days. But really it starts and ends with me. It is essential for my well-being and health that I remain my own best friend. I don't negate compliments I'm paid about my appearance. I smile when I look at myself in the mirror. When people tell me I'm beautiful, I choose to believe them. Because I believe I'm beautiful on the inside, and that shows on the outside, no matter what my physical appearance is that day. I am learning to actively cultivate my inner beauty and share it with the world.

I want to present my true self to the world. And my true self is someone who has alot of issues about food and about weight. I want to show who I am regardless of what I weigh that morning. It's a daily struggle, and it takes a lot of courage and self-awareness, and I have to be my own cheerleader, but it is a battle I think I'm winning.

The Great Bedroom Switcheroo of 1985

I played the bass in Junior High, until I fell down an entire flight of stairs with it at a concert and broke it in half.
That seemed like as good a time to quit as any.

I was so excited when I was in fifth grade because my brother decided to switch bedrooms with me. I don’t know why. I had the tiny, closet-like bedroom and his bedroom was much bigger. His was also farther away from Mom and Dad’s room, which really wasn’t that far because our house was tiny, it was maybe like five feet farther away, but it didn’t share a wall. My closet bedroom was right next to Mom and Dad’s room and didn’t have a closet. But he wanted to switch. I won't question his motives.

Shortly after we did the switch my parents said I could redecorate it. I was SO EXCITED. But we couldn’t tell my grandpa. He would want to help and I guess he wasn’t particularly great at carpentry. One night when he was over for dinner (he came over for dinner a lot, as I recall), I had forgotten I wasn’t supposed to tell him and I was so excited to see the progress that was being made that I blurted out at the table how my room was looking. That opened up a whole can of worms. I remember my mom and dad giving me the stink eye. I remember having to all get up from the dinner table to inspect my Dad’s work. I don’t remember if Grandpa ended up helping or not.

I decided to go full-out princess with my “new room”. My favorite color at the time was baby blue, so I chose baby blue carpet and white paneling for the walls (my family was really big into the paneling, it was in every room except the bathroom). My dad installed a drop ceiling – you know, the kind you find in office buildings with fluorescent lights overhead. We went to Sears to pick out new furniture, and I picked out the set that every girl in the 1980s had, it’s white with gold trim and looks vaguely French Country/Midwest Chic. You can now find it at garage sales across America. What was most exciting was my canopy bed. For some reason, having a canopy bed made me feel like I was rich.

As I got older and started to outgrow the princess look, I started filling the walls with posters. I know for sure I had a Martin Luther King, Jr, poster in my room, I think perhaps it had a quote from his “I Have a Dream” speech on it. Where I got it is anybody’s guess since I grew up in one of the whitest cities in US. I likely put up the posters from all my high school plays. I can be fairly certain I also adorned the walls with tear-out pictures from magazines like Metal Edge. I was in love with Sebastian Bach from Skid Row, so no doubt he was somewhere up there among the mélange, rubbing elbows with Jesus from Godspell.

Although the furniture has disappeared from the room (most likely donated to someone in my family or a family friend), the room still has the baby blue carpet, the white paneling, and the fluorescent, drop-ceiling lighting which I have come to loathe, and which has made me really sensitive to lighting ever since. The carpet even still has the big stain/bleach mark where I had accidentally projectile-vomitted late one night when suffering from the flu, almost immediately after the carpet was installed. That barf went everywhere except in the toilet. All over the floor, the walls, the furniture, sprayed down the hallway as I dashed to the bathroom. Not one drop made it to its desired location.

Now when I go home to visit my parents, I stay in the closet bedroom. My room is now Dad’s office and a place to put things that don’t otherwise have a home. I end up leaving every time with a few new bruises from bumping into furniture that has been squeezed into a shoebox-sized space. There’s just enough room to put my suitcase on the floor, but not enough room to step around it. You have to step over it. You’d think in such a small space the furniture would have nice, rounded corners, conducive to accidental human contact. It doesn’t. It’s all sharp corners and unyielding surfaces. It’s a full-time lesson in grace and agility.

I have daydreams about redecorating my old room for my parents. I could take them to Sears and they could pick out new furniture. I’d take off the paneling, spackle the walls and paint. I’d rip out the drop ceiling and install less seizure-inducing lighting. I’d turn the closet bedroom into a cozy office for my dad, a place where he’d enjoy browsing CraigsList for used riding lawnmowers (my dad collects lawnmowers like other people collect angel figurines or WWII memorabilia).

But for now the room remains the same, stuck in a perpetual “transitional phase” that is emblematic of my entire life. It’s not quite a bedroom and not quite an office. While it may be on the verge of becoming a permanent “junk room”, I have hopes that one day it will be the room of dreams. I don’t know whose dreams, but I have high hopes.