And Yet, I Still Want to be Famous

My mother gifted me, genetically, with a sense of style and...actually, that's about it. Oh wait, she also gave me the fear gene. She was governed by—a slave to—fear. We had that in common. Since the day I shot out of her chute (that's what she called it, unfortunately, like a guide at Six Flags Magic Mountain), fear has been my lodestar and the albatross around my neck. 

From my father, Paul, I inherited thin hair, blue eyes and a love of potato chips, the latter of which led in part to diabetes. He had it, I have it, we shared that burden. I now get to fight it every day of my life. He also ran the full-on family show. He was at the helm of our lives, day-in, day-out, for decades. He was some strain of tyrant; the kind that kicks a child in the ribs for not doing the dishes. (THAT day, I remember.) 

If we were writing the screenplay, my father (aka The Controller), would have cast the ensemble. My feeding-tube-thin mother would be our protagonist, stifled by her burdensome children, a boy (perfect) and girl (imperfect). The boy would go on to crush college; the girl would go on to do drugs (not street drugs, mind, you, but the equally debilitating kind—benzos). The boy's crowning achievement would be a PhD. The girl's high-water mark would be beating David Grossman in the sixth-grade spelling bee. 

The girl would arrive to the set late, likely high on said opioids in a Neiman Marcus cashmere sweater. She would have recently shoveled Famous Amos cookies down her throat, which gave her high-octane gas, heartburn and acid-reflux which she combatted with GasX, Nexium and Tums. And that's when the show would end before it began.

Despite this family drama debacle and my fear default, I've always loved a stage. Which is why I once took an improv class with aspirations to be famous. 

But that's another post...stay tuned. 

​