All You Need is Love. Really.

Cirque du Soleil has never interested me. Never. It's never been on my radar screen. Never. And the few glimpses I had on TV coupled with reviews from friends convinced me that this was a show I could skip. While a fan of the soleil, I am not a fan of the cirque. I know, I know. It's not really a “circus.” My skepticism, and a full list of the performing arts that I found compelling and was willing to shell out the bucks to see, prevailed. And then. . .

A couple of years ago while in Las Vegas, my husband tried to convince me to attend Cirque's “LOVE,” based on the music of The Beatles. In response, I attempted to stand my ground. “Are there French Canadian clowns? Are there mimes?” I asked. “Are they going to infuse the Beatles stuff with creepy Cirque music?” He told me he had no idea and then, in an act of uncharacteristic decisiveness brought about by his love of the Beatles, bought the tickets.

I LOVED it. The plot loosely tracks the Beatles' biography from the London Blitz in the 1940's through the group's formation, rocket ship ascension to stardom, and breakup. Fictional characters from the Beatles' lyrics bring the show to life: Lady Madonna and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds were two of my favorites. “Drive My Car” features a vintage VW Beetle stuffed with floppy-haired young men. “Blackbird” is danced by a bevy of beautiful and graceful ballerinas. There is a bit more dance than acrobatics and an even mixture of comedy and tragedy, all of which seem perfectly matched to each tune. I was high-fived by a performer on his way off-stage. I chatted it up with an usher while leaving. “Wasn't it great to take a stroll down Penny Lane?” he asked. “All you need is love,” I answered.

On the way out of the theater, I was surprised to overhear a few comments regarding the authenticity of the piece. No live music. (The Beatles' music had been remixed by George Martin for this performance.) Not enough acrobatics; what was with all that ballet? Not in the usual tradition of Cirque, some said. I didn't pay much attention at that time; I had nothing to compare it to. As soon as we arrived home, I ordered the LOVE soundtrack.

So, I thought, maybe I was wrong about the Cirque. Fast forward to present day. A few weeks ago, my younger son and I were in Quebec City, home of Cirque du Soleil. We were traveling with 2 other families, all of whom are Cirque fans and when one of the other parents suggested we purchase tickets to the Cirque du Soleil performance in town during our stay, I said sure.

The distinctive yellow and white tents were set up down near the industrial docks of the St. Lawrence River; we could see them from several vantage points throughout the city. Halfway through our stay in this beautiful city on the evening of the performance, the ten of us trekked down Quebec City's hills and stone steps to attend Totem.

The semi-circular seating in the audience surrounded a turtle shell shaped stage. I was seated in the second to last seat near the stage on the right, behind a huge pole holding wires and clamps and acrobatic paraphernalia. As the evening crawled on, I thanked the fake stars in the fake sky above for my obstructed view.

The lights dimmed, and voila! There is a succession of performers dressed as: frogs, Native Americans, alien beings, fishermen, mad scientists, archeologists, monkeys, and surfer dudes. The characters who creep around, like the frogs and aliens, are accompanied by that creepy Cirque du Soleil music. Two of the Native American characters, in roller skates, spin around on a small trampoline. For kicks, there is a slimy Italian gigolo as the clown character, I guess. He isn't funny. And what's this? Four Asian girls balance stacks of plates while on unicycles.

Yeah, I kind of get it. Kind of:  Totem. Evolution and Legend. Science and Custom. The meshing of various views of the universe. And I even appreciate the athleticism and the grace required of these performers. I really do. But, c'mon..

The music is annoying in that whiny way that I had always associated with Cirque. The different scenes have no connection to each other. First there are frogs, then there are surfer dudes? Really? What's with all the Eastern European guys balancing on the sticks? Aliens in unitards? I kept pulling out my cell phone to check the time.

As we were trooping out at the end, I caught the eye of my son who had a seat at the other end of our row. He rolled his eyes back and shook his head. We were in the minority so we kept quiet (for us); as we stood waiting for others in our group to fetch souvenirs, he grinned. “At least I only fell asleep once.”

Lesson learned. No more Cirque du Soleil for us, unless it involves The Beatles.

The Lovers: A Novel

I have to admit that the author's name is what drew me to the novel: Vendela Vita. If she were a character in a story or movie, I would think that the author was trying too hard. As I was contemplating reading The Lovers: A Novel, I found out that she was married to Dave Eggers and co-wrote the screenplay for Away We Go. That settled it: I downloaded it to my Kindle and started reading.

Widowed in her early fifties, Yvonne travels back to Turkey where she and her husband spent their honeymoon 23 years ago. She is going there, she claims, not to relive that time but to remember it. During her stay, she is haunted by memories she was not anticipating: the difficult times caused by their troubled daughter, and the growing distance between her and her husband, Peter. She finds herself way out of her comfort zone, both physically and emotionally. The Turkish cast of characters, from the house owner's estranged wife to the shell-collecting 10 year old boy, add authenticity and depth to the story.

Vida nicely weaves present day events with those in Yvonne's memory. She details bigger-picture conflicts, such as East vs. West as well as the everyday challenges involving men and women, and parents and children.

Read it. You can do it in a day.

Move over Kathy

A guest columnist for the Sunday NY Times labeled himself a "writer/comedian." Can you just call yourself a comedian, or do you actually have to perform on a stage? I call myself a writer; doing so makes me write more. If I call myself a comedian, will I get funnier? Writer/comedian is kinda perfect. I'm stealing it.

Who Knew?

When I pulled my youngest child out of public school near the end of third grade to homeschool, I had some doubts but I was pretty sure it was the right thing to do. We were all miserable and frustrated, parents, child, and teachers alike and homeschooling seemed like the best solution.

Wow, everyone said. This is going to be a huge time and energy commitment on your part. I know, I told them. I got a bit swept up in what a wonderful martyr I was. Anything for the kid.

The truth was it was easier to help him follow his interests and be excited about learning again than it was dealing with the bureaucracy and narrow-mindedness of our public school system. Instead of focusing on what he had difficulties with, we focused on his strengths and passions. He read voraciously (considered a “problem” in school because “All he wants to do is read”). We joined support groups, went on field trips, and became active in our local 80+ family homeschooling coop. That funny, bright, wise-ass personality that we knew before he entered school was reemerging. He made many many new friends. And, much to my surprise, so did I.

I went into this homeschooling thing as a rescue mission. I will sacrifice all my personal interests and time, I thought, because that's what one does as a parent: if your child needs something, you provide it. I was ready to do what it took, and then resume my own life at a future date. Boy, was I wrong.

When we first started going on group field trips, picnics, and gym days I was undeniably aloof. I was here for my kid, I already had plenty of friends, I would like to use this opportunity to read, thank you very much. And, to the credit of the adults around me, I was left alone. Then a funny thing happened. Overheard conversations sounded really interesting. These parents aren't just talking about their kids (although that certainly happened too) but politics and travel and friendships and food. Hmmm.

As more time passed and we spent more hours at the coop, I put my book down more often. I found that I enjoyed the conversation and the camaraderie. Before I knew it, more than a few relationships extended beyond the bond of homeschooling, and true friendships developed outside the realm of what we were doing with our kids. Book groups, martini tastings, trips to San Francisco, snowshoeing, bike riding, coffee drinking. When I received a serious medical diagnosis a few years ago, these new friends rushed to help out in any way they could, making sure the kid got where he needed to go so I didn't have to worry about that, at least. One made me a beaded “Fuck Cancer” bracelet, which showed how much she understands me. On the last day of chemotherapy, I arrived in the hospital parking lot to find that my car had been decorated with with balloons, humor and good wishes. My tears lasted the whole way home.

Most recently, I am part of a writers group which consists of 3 other women whom I first knew through some avenue of homeschooling; this group has been a major source of creative and emotional support over the past year. We meet, we laugh, we eat, we go to the movies, and sometimes we even write. When you share your writing, you share everything. You trust with the truth. These girls have become my go-to safety net and Ultimate Truth Tellers.

What I did 8 years ago for my kid was what he needed and deserved.

What I did 8 years ago for my kid was one of the best things I ever did for myself.

Who knew?

Self Indulgent Rant

Having a hard time lately shaking off this feeling of impending doom. It's like when Charlotte in the Sex and the City movie won't go on her usual runs in the park after she finds out she's pregnant because she's scared. “No one gets everything she wants,” she says. That's what I feel like these days. OK, this week.

Of course this has to do with the upcoming CT scan. It's been 6 months since the last one; that's the longest I've gone. The rational side of me says, that's great. The further out from diagnosis I am with no visible trace of disease, the better. The irrational crazy side of me wonders why am I so lucky? Those teeny tiny cancer cells have come back and are multiplying, we just haven't been able to see them yet.

I've been too cavalier with my health lately. I've let the pounds pile back on. I'm inconsistent with my workouts. I enjoy my martinis too much. I'm mean to people who piss me off. And I'm worried I'll be punished for all of it.

Yes, it's stupid and irrational. But that's the way I'm feeling.

Live Free or Die

I was tooling down Daniel Webster Highway in Nashua stopping in at this store or that because that's what you do when you're in Nashua. My Ford Escape hybrid has Massachusetts license plates, and it is adorned with bumper stickers of various Democratic candidates, from our state senator to our governor to our president. This is something I rarely think about; it just is.

I was in the right lane; the driver's side window was down because it was warm and sunny. Furious beeping started and I looked around to see what was going on. A red pickup truck zoomed past me; the driver was simultaneously leaning on his horn and giving me a determined thumbs down.

It took me a minute: My bumper stickers. I've never had that happen to me before. You have to be pretty pissed off to go out of your way to honk your horn repeatedly and gesture out the window while traveling at 40 miles per hour or so.

It makes me determined to get even more stickers in the next election cycle and travel to Nashua more often.

My Bullies

The bullying tragedy in western Massachusetts has rightfully received a lot of press, with columnists and psychologists and educators commenting on aspects of the case from cause and prevention to warning signs and severity of punishment. I bet there are many of us who can remember an incident or two from our far gone (or not so far gone) school days. Here's mine.

I really, really liked high school. I had a lot of friends, got good grades, and remember laughing a lot both in and outside the classroom. Except for a 3 month period as a freshman, during the spring of 1972.

I was 14 and he was 18; a senior. And not just any senior. He was on the football team. He had just been voted “Best Looking” for the annual yearbook. Not only good looking with his swept back, medium length brown hair and chiseled cheekbones, he was charming and funny and sweet. All the senior girls were gaga over him. He hung out with everyone, not “dating” anyone in particular.

He started talking to me in the hallway between classes. I can remember feeling my cheeks grow bright red as I was singled out. “Hey, what class do you have next?” “I'm going the same way. Let's go!” After about a week of this, he started calling my house and we would talk almost every night. I remember being on the phone for a long time, but I don't remember what exactly we talked about. He laughed at my jokes. I was floating. I was one of those annoying little girls that always “liked” a boy. Or two or three. And boys always liked me. But, still, this was pretty heady stuff.

We went public: movies (Dirty Harry), dinner (lasagna at the local Italian restaurant). And then, the senior girls went into action.

I started getting tripped in the hallway at school. Scathing looks. Pairs of senior girls would walk behind me and whisper loudly. The phone would ring repeatedly at night, and there would be nobody on the line. (We had a yellow rotary dial wall phone in the kitchen. My parents had a table phone in their bedroom, which was quite advanced for our day. No caller ID. No *69.)

Then came the day of the Girls Club vote. The Girls Club was ostensibly a service group set up to fundraise for good causes. It was for girls in grades 10-12. The glitch was that the current members voted in the new freshmen members. I was sunk. The senior girls, one in particular whose name I still remember and would never have had a chance with him even if I was not in the picture (sorry, it still pisses me off), orchestrated my black balling. Every one of my friends got in. Not me.

I never said a word. We continued to go out; have fun. I would listen for the chug of his beige VW Beetle as it made its way up our street to our house. He would come in, talk to my mom, and we'd be off. We went to his house; I met his family and sprayed his little sisters with the hose as we washed the Beetle. He was the first boy to tell me he loved me. In retrospect, I can't believe how well mannered and controlled he was. Sure, we parked and kissed and a little bit more, and I would have rolled for him in a minute. But he never asked for it; it was never an issue.

We double dated with his friends and their girlfriends who were quite nice to me, although also warning me to be careful at school. Notes started appearing on my locker. “Bitch” and “Slut” are what I remember. More phone hang ups.

Then, he stopped calling. Just like that. Even worse, he didn't show up for a long standing date we had discussed for the school's gym show. I was crushed. I didn't see him at school anymore. I cried and cried and cried as only a heartbroken 14 year old can.

A couple of weeks passed and then he showed up at my house unannounced. I was in my room, and I thought, once again, I heard the chugging of the Beetle. I looked out the window and couldn't believe it. We sat on the front porch and he told me he thought is was unfair to feel so deeply for someone when he would be leaving home soon. He realized he was wrong to just stop talking to me; he thought that was all he had to do. He was sorry. At that time, I believed him but I think I would have believed anything he told me. Who knows. He drove off and that was that.

In light of the recent headlines, I wondered what my life would have been like if there had been Facebook and the internet and texting in the 70's. I remember the viciousness of those girls way back then. Today, they would have had many more tools of torture. Who knows what would have happened to me.

Just something I'm thinking about.