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Time for Some TCM and Hocus Pocus

Shelley Stolaroff SegalLeave a comment

My God, the news is so bad—I mean, really exceptionally bad–that the only relief is the TCM or the Halloween channel. Sometimes both. The Halloween channel is unofficially Freeform. Sometimes SyFy. Josh is content to watch something creepy with me, but if it’s really scary, (lots of ghosts, but no blood) I  go it alone. Because it’s not scary. At all. Scary is climate change, oil spills, paralyzed government, Covid, violent death, Facebook, blah, blah. Anyway, in honor of my favorite holiday, I’d like to make a few recommendations for your viewing pleasure. And yes, this is subjective. And yes, I left out the animated stuff and probably some of your favorites. I generally prefer Gothic—especially if it was made in the 1960’s. Anyway:

The Haunting   (1963 version with Julie Harris) TCM around the end of the month.

The Innocents (Deborah Kerr, based on Henry James short story) Might have to buy.

The Exorcist (Yes, it’s still terrifying) Should be streaming somewhere.

The Changeling (The one with George C. Scott) Prime Video?

Crimson Peak, (Mia Wasikowska and Jessica Chastain. A little bloody) Netflix, Prime Video

If you want a pure Halloween experience—Hocus Pocus, for a good laugh . . . and some good creeps. On Freeform all month. (Record it because there are tons of commercials.)

If you want something that will genuinely scare the shit out of you, (I couldn’t finish it) then watch Anya Taylor-Joy in The Witch. The atmosphere is . . . well, feel it for yourself.

Happy Halloween!

Where Have All the Ballots Gone . . .

Shelley Stolaroff SegalLeave a comment

No, I haven’t written in over seven months. I penned something just before the impeachment, which now seems like a ridiculous exercise from a bygone era. It’s the usual problem. I become so outraged by the latest travesty that I have exorcise my demons on the keypad. But when I finally get to my computer to unload, the insult has gone into hiding. You know, it’s vanished to make room for the next insult, and the next one, and the next one, until I’m too demoralized and disoriented to remember which travesty I was upset about. I’ll tell you what else is disorienting. The migraine that tortured my head for five days. The one that started pulsating after RBG’s death. Three days over the right eyebrow, one day over the left, and then a vestibular plant right in the middle of the head. I had to hold on to the bed so it would stop spinning. The bed, I mean.

Yes, I grieved this remarkable woman’s death, but I grieved her legacy even more. And then I grieved over the predictable shit show to come. It’s been much worse than I expected. I anticipated maniacal glee from Trump, McConnell, Barr, and the sycophants, but the rest of the lot?  Complete senatorial acquiescence? (With the exception of Murkowski and Collins, whose gestures are empty at this point.) I was foolish to cling to any notion of honor. But yada, yada, I could go on for days about the ugliness of the Supreme Court and election battles, etc. Our democracy is at stake, the American experiment is failing, blah, blah. I’ve been paralyzed over the power grabs and the prospect of a Trumpian future for days–despite the vertigo.

So I’ve discussed/disgust/snarled about all this ramming of the nominees, and the voter suppression ahead, with my husband, who is accustomed to my histrionics. But I haven’t been histrionic. I predicted how all of this mess was going to play out almost a week ago. I’ve managed my expectations too much to wig out. Any hysteria over this nightmare has morphed into a calm paranoia.  And I don’t care what he says, or the Wall Street Journal, or even Nate Silver. We do have something to fear.

And no, it’s not Trump, the autocrat baby, refusing to leave. He’ll be forced out kicking and screaming if he’s shown the door. We have the military for that. And Bill Maher. No, what keeps me up at night are the ballots. It won’t matter if Biden wins in a landslide if the landslide can’t be counted. And I’m not being simplistic. We received a letter from Florida the other day that took over five weeks to arrive. Five weeks. (Hats off to DeJoy, he knew what he was doing.)  I don’t care what the cut-off is, if people start mailing their ballots this very second, what guarantees they’ll arrive in time to be processed? “Ballots that are postmarked by Election Day will count, if received within six and nine days of the election.” (NPR) Nine days? What about within three weeks of the election? Or five weeks like our letter?

CNN reports, “But beyond Trump’s rhetoric, his campaign and Republicans at the state and local level are moving to make it more difficult for voters to cast a ballot, more difficult for states to count votes and more likely that tallies will be challenged in the courts — with a particular focus on mail-in voting.”

Every vote must be counted—no matter how delayed–if we’re going to be beat this man. God knows he’s pulling every dirty trick he can to win. I don’t want the ballots, like the insults, to go into hiding.

Feeling Trumped. (But I’m Almost Done.)

Shelley Stolaroff Segal4 Comments

There’s a reason I haven’t contributed to this blog in well over a year. And with a plethora of SENTIMENTS ABOUT FAMILY, SOCIETY, AND DUMBFOUNDING HUMAN BEHAVIOR, there’s really no excuse. It’s not that I haven’t been writing—as paralyzed and hopeless as I’ve been feeling for the past 1109 days—it’s just that every time I start to unload on my computer I’m incited by another ridiculous, jaw-dropping political event, and my blood pressure goes up. I have to stop clicking in preparation for the sleazy, salacious details. Am I “shocked” about the latest national insult? Of course not. Demoralized, but never surprised.

I know I’m not the only one who’s been stuck in mud and despondent over our president’s antics. I have plenty of friends who’ve re-enameled their teeth because they’ve gritted them so much for the past three years. (That’s actually a lie, I don’t even know if there’s a procedure for that except for wearing one of those horse-bit things at night.) But I do know people who, like me, have taken to the bed only to throw their covers over their heads and pray that it’s just been an ugly, protracted dream.

I mean—and I know you’ve heard this before—it’s just that when you compound Trump’s behaviors with the sins of his relentless defenders—and they’re buzzing all over the place like worker bees—you wonder how the country will ever recover and regain its equilibrium. You attempt to hold on to your personal guardrails and remain stable in a republic you don’t recognize anymore. One that is morphing into an autocracy every day. This shit keeps me up at night. As well as the 24-hour news cycle.

I must liberate myself from the tyranny that is Trump. I’ve given my power over to him and I’m ashamed of myself. Besides, I have too much work piling up. And I don’t care if I sound melodramatic about all this. I’m a dramatist after all, so it’s okay. But more importantly, I’m an uber patriot, daughter of a double war veteran who’s just heartbroken about the current state of our union. I don’t care how good the economy is. (Don’t repeat that to my husband.) If I scratch my head one more time about the dumbfounding things I’ve witnessed lately I’ll need hair replacement soon. (Like tomorrow.)

Yes, you’ve heard all of this before. I swear I’ll refrain from posting anything else about our Useful-Idiot-In-Chief. I won’t mention his breathlessly corrupt colleagues, his turkey-necked partner-in-crime, McConnell, his treasonous, two-faced toady, Lindsay Graham, and the rest of the sycophantic turncoats in Congress. I won’t mention my disgust over the neutered impeachment trial, or the clear and present danger of Fox and Friends, The Hannity File, The Ingraham Angle, The Rush Limbaugh Show, and the Lou Dobbs whatever.

Yes, I’m done feeling Trumped, it’s just too unhealthy. I mean it. And you better damn well bet I’m taking it to the ballot box. Hell, I don’t care if the democratic nominee is Tarzan, he’ll get my vote. He’s certainly smarter and more civilized than the malignancy in office now. Take heart patriots and international friends, an election is upon us, and the American nightmare will soon be over! That’s what I tell myself anyway, when I finally cast off my covers, ready to face another unpredictable, “shocking” day.

 

All Too Aware

Shelley Stolaroff Segal2 Comments

It’s easy to feel jaded about Autism Awareness Month when your child is 21. It’s redundant. You’ve lived, breathed, and been consumed by autism for years, so when your special month rolls around you just feel numb. At least that’s what you tell yourself.

I’ve dodged the blue lightbulbs and puzzle pieces for a while now. I celebrate new research, but eschew the activities that accompany this special time of year. It reminds me of Christmas. Some people are gleeful when it finally arrives, others are depressed or feel pressured to enjoy it.

I’m crazy about my son just not about awareness month. I thought I would remain indifferent about all of it until recently. I gave a TED talk a few weeks ago where I took material from a play I wrote in 2008 inspired by my child, and mashed it up with material from Driving Miss Daisy. The talk addressed racism, ableism, discrimination, empathy–The Other—and I presented it with three other actors. I had to stop performing the full-length years ago because it was emotionally draining. I knew I wouldn’t have a problem with this talk however, because it was short and similar to one I gave in 2010. Save for a brief monologue at the end.

I started writing the original play when my son was seven. We were busy “fixing” him at the time, and even though I was overwhelmed and insecure I had faith he would get better and lead a healthy, independent life. But I’ve learned to manage my expectations at this point. Josh is still severe. Without the benefit of a medical breakthrough, or a miraculous stem cell operation, or extreme advances in the way I pray, he won’t experience the life I’d envisioned. It never occurred to me how prescient my writing would be. Many of my fears about his future have come to fruition. I used to joke that I needed to live to a hundred to ensure his well-being and safety. Today I am just relieved and blessed that Josh is happy and he senses how much we love him.

I typically bring that love with me when I perform. On the evening of the talk, when it was nearing its end, it was finally time for my character to recite the final monologue. I had relaxed into the piece and started breathing. I looked away from the audience like I typically do to deliver the mother’s lines. She’s pretending to whisper to her young son, trying to guess what’s in his head. Suddenly, when I was looking down and speaking to this imaginary boy, every memory of Josh and his childhood exploded in my brain. Flashes, momentary eruptions, of Josh at the pool, Josh having a rage, Josh having a seizure, Josh at his work table, Josh in the bathtub, my husband and I fighting, my daughter swinging with him, me crying with him, me lying next to him in his car bed, Josh having an EEG, a blood transfusion, a brain surgery. I could feel my throat tightening and my eyes burning. I was used to channeling my son onstage but this was different. This mother was still craving normal.

Then the monologue was over. I had to tuck myself back in. I pressed my lips together for a minute so they wouldn’t quiver. I felt my nose running. After we took our bows I stepped offstage for a moment to release the pressure.

I was tired after the conference, but sometimes exhaustion bares secrets you’d rather not admit to yourself. It hurts that it doesn’t matter what day, week, or special month it is I still have the gnawing desire for my son to hug me back when I put my arms around him. I still wish he could tell me what he was thinking. “And I dream that one day he will look me in the eyes and say, I love you.” I am not indifferent or numb. The longing will always be there, and I’m all too aware of it.

My Daughter, I Will Miss You, But I’m Glad You’re Going Away

Shelley Stolaroff SegalLeave a comment

When my husband and I dropped our little girl off at sleep-away camp the first time, I remember lying next to her brother in his car bed gripped by something I hadn’t experienced before. My son wasn’t feeling it, my husband wasn’t feeling it, but there I lay, frozen, thawing out only from brief spasms of grief and its accompanying tears. Yes, it was that dramatic.

My son has special needs, and it took a long time for him to fall asleep that night. Finally, when I able to exit the room I called my mother, who had been a child therapist for several years. “Mom!” I wept, “Oh my God, what’s happening to me?” “It’s just separation anxiety, my darling. It will pass, trust me.” “No, no it won’t!”  My poor brain had conjured up too many images of creeping snakes and camp food dysentery to believe her. “She’s going to have a wonderful time without you–a fantastic time–and you will feel better knowing that.” A fantastic time without me? How counterintuitive.

My daughter had a fantastic time without me. And I did recover a few days after she left. Her lack of homesickness was refreshing. Of course, when I was eight-years-old and went away to summer camp I wasn’t homesick at all. I just missed my cat. And I was gone for a month, (a gift for both my mother and me). Still, my initial reaction to her departure concerned me. If I’m this bad off now how am I ever going to handle it when she goes off to college?

Not very well, actually. The day she left I hunkered down in a dark room with nothing but my sorrow and a huge box of Kleenex. The kind with lotion. After two days I called my mother. “Will this ever go away, Mom?” I can’t keep circling the cul-de-sac with a handful of Kleenex reviewing every wonderful thing she ever said or did for me.” “Yes, this too shall pass. You’ve officially cut the apron strings and it hurts a little.” My mother was right, the pain eventually subsided to the point where I could pass by my daughter’s room without sniffling. Getting her phone calls helped. Learning about what she was learning helped. So did remembering some of the things she’d said and done in the past that weren’t so angelic.

Now, it’s her junior year and she’s leaving soon to study abroad in Scotland. The holidays and last-minute logistics have kept me safely distracted from her departure. Predictably though, in the wee hours of the morning, it hit me that she was leaving. This time for six months. I assumed the frozen position once again when I realized she wouldn’t be a town away, or a city away, or a state away. She would be an ocean away. And even though we had “separated and individuated” when she went to college, I felt that familiar separation anxiety burning in my chest.

“Mom! She looks so young, and the city’s so big—will she be able to navigate it safely? What if it intimidates her? And it’s cold there—a wet cold– what if she gets sick?” My mother reminded me that when I went off to London 35 years ago for a post-graduate program—for a six-month program–I stayed there for almost two years. And when it was absolutely necessary to come home for my sister’s wedding, my friends had to pry me off of a column in Heathrow airport to get me on the plane.

I’m glad my daughter won’t arrive in cowboy boots the way I did so many years ago, but she might arrive with the same trepidation. Mine only lasted about a day or two. Of course I wasn’t leaving a boyfriend behind, or a twin brother, or a job working with special kids. I never worried about what was behind me, I just anticipated the adventures ahead. Thankfully, I kept most of them to myself. (Except a toga party that practically killed me. Running around in sheets with a bunch of drunken Brits in January was fun/dumb.) Good thing my mother had ESP. Extra Sensory Pneumonia. She always sensed when I needed her.

If my daughter needs me I’m only a phone call or FB message away. Yes, we are close, but I’m not going to visit her. Some parents do that. But this is her adventure. Her time to break free and experience a different culture, and to get perspective on her life. She’s routinely put others first. I told her, “Be selfish! This is your time. Study your books, but study what’s around you too. Eat pub grub. (But not haggis.) Enjoy bagpipe rock. (The Red Hot Chili Pipers’ version of Smoke on the Water is quite original.) Develop a brogue that Shrek would envy. Challenge yourself always, but have fun. And I quoted my late father, “These are your golden years, take advantage of them. Be a citizen of the world.” Her self-discovery will be invaluable, whether she listens to me or not.

I’m praying my excitement over her journey will supersede the burning tears I’m sure to shed at the airport, and on the way home, and in the cul-de-sac. And I will be calling my mother. “Doesn’t this ever ease up? What the hell is it going to be like when she gets married?” And my mother will say something like, “Yes, it hurts, but consider the alternative.” And she’ll be right. I will be blessed to miss my daughter. And blessed to know she’ll be having her own adventures, and learning the world her way. All that broadening should be enough to keep the tissues in the box.

 

*I wrote this a few weeks ago and never gave it to Jordan. But she’s doing just fine. And my eyes are dry.