lifeinthethe8tre

November 14, 2018

Ninja Grief

At the risk of sounding like a wannabe social media influencer, I wanna talk about my new juicer. I’ve thrown out the box, an uncharacteristic sloughing off where I’m usually way more conservative, so all I can tell you is that the juicer base, emblazoned with Ninja sits on my counter, poised to pulverize the fresh fruits and vegetables which now clutter my kitchen counter and fridge.

This morning, home from the gym, I mashed a blackening banana, one kiwi, a spear of pineapple and some orange juice into a thick, sweet, pap of a drink.

An apt metaphor for the treacly aftermath of my husband’s passing. One part blackening remorse, one huge hairy globule of gratitude ripe for the peeling, three parts fear of forgetting and a dash of anxiety about the future all swirled together by a jolt of the crushing blades of fate. Not as sweetas my morning shake, but tasty nevertheless.

In the days following his death, time has been flaccid, activities random. Chris and I spent the weekend on outings with his dog, Cupid. We walked blocks and blocks together repeating to each other “this is so weird.” Our favorite new conversation was “Do you wanna do it? Do it.” There are currently no obligations to attend to, other than the logistics of contacting people, closing accounts, shifting furniture, shifting expectations.

We rented metro bikes and rode to Little Tokyo to have sushi at Oomasa. Then we walked home, me cursing the fact that I’d left my fitbit at home charging.

We stopped at a boutique on Broadway that’s art drew us from across the street, flaunting traffic. Gentle Monster sells high end arty sunglasses. I found myself imagining if I would buy a pair and shake things up. Chris danced in the window with one of the art installations.

I returned to the gym on Sunday and Monday, grateful for the inclusion in the workout routine of friends, who embraced me and in whose sweaty breathless company I was able to remember how to move my body, to feel the life force again in my own skin. The third day, I rose again from the bed… having worn Jimmie’s pajamas to bed the night before, and the pain of muscles reawakening in my mind echoed the pain Jimmie had been feeling before we went back to the hospital for the last time.

The outpouring of love and support has been unexpectedly moving, the threads cast from friends and associates of all three of us weaving together in a hammock of gentle surrender.

Having time to putter and reposition is a bonus. I remember when my Mom passed away, I undertook a complete repainting of the downstairs at my house. I was crazed with grief and it felt like I was cleaning away the sorrow. I think that is, to a certain extent, to be expected. With the help of the maintenance staff here at my condo, I’ve restored the guest bedroom from hospice suite to hospitality suite again and it feels good to put things in order.

Some of the Beautiful Flowers
we’ve received

One day at a time.

One foot in front of the other.

Open mind, open heart.

This too shall pass.

I think I’ll throw all the cliches in the blender and see what happens next.

November 9, 2018

After the Fall

Arthur Miller’s After the Fall, a production of the Lincoln Center Repertory company, directed by Elia Kazan, and produced by Robert Whitehead and Elia Kazan, opened in January 1964 at the Anta Theatre in Washington Square.

Opened in rep with “Marco Millions” and “But For Whom Charlie” then continued into next season and played in rep with “The Changeling”; “Incident at Vichy”; and ‘Tartuffe”.

Jimmie played The Clergyman in the production, which also starred Jason Robards, Barbara Loden, Faye Dunaway, Hal Holbrook and Mariclare Costello among other actor luminaries.

After the Fall has taken on new resonance, as our lives have been shaped by a single event. Our short-lived period of pain-free peace was shattered by the nocturnal victory of gravity over balance at home one night in the middle of October.

Our dear friend Susan was visiting us from South Africa, a trip booked in a previous period of medical panic, and we were basking in the final moments of her visit, the night before her departure. We were enjoying the end of the Major League Baseball playoffs, soon to gift us with a fourth World Series title in 15 years for our Boston Red Sox. Susan’s May visit was punctuated with an ill-timed trip to the ER, and this time, I’d made Jimmie promise we wouldn’t go again while Susan was here. Little did I think I’d be tempting fate with such a promise. The final night of her October visit, Jimmie tumbled, his Lear-like cry and the resultant clatter of his walker against the mirrored closet doors roused me from the murky depths of a deeply restorative sleep.

I rushed to his side, tripping over the too-heavy-for-LA-comforter which lurks on the floor at the foot of our bed. The fall was traumatic; he was shaken, but I checked him over and finding nothing broken, returned him to bed. The next day, we went to the ER. No fractures, thankfully. This photo we took in the hallway on our way to the ER as Susan waited at the apartment for her ride to the airport.After that foray to the ER, we returned home, and spent about 10 painful days there until last Thursday when his visiting niece Martha and I realized we couldn’t manage his care at home. We called 911 and two strong EMTs came and lifted Jimmie onto the chair gurney.

Martha and I followed in the car, and I caught up with him in the third floor ER. After a CT scan, confirming no fracture, he was admitted to hospital overnight.

I never thought this day would happen. I’d always sworn that whatever happened, Jimmie would stay at home. But when your husband’s a dead weight in your arms, it’s a stark reminder that we don’t always control decisions about our circumstances, especially as we age.

Pain meds are powerful and effective. When administered regularly, they have stultifying effects which exacerbate the pain even more. Pain causes lack of hunger. The combination of lack of hunger and pain meds causes a glassy-eyed ghostly non-presence which descended quickly and in our case, irrevocably.

I watched as my normally impish and flirtatious husband become a vision of St. Therese, gazing up in beatific gape-mouthed wonder. I’ve had a lot of time to think in the past days. These are a few of the things I’ve been thinking about.

I’ve worked hard all my life in my job, very often at the sacrifice of cultivating social relationships. I think it’s probably fairly common in an industry where “I can’t. I have rehearsal.” is a slogan on T-shirts. While I love the people I work with, I wouldn’t necessarily call on them to be with me at my husband’s bedside. That’s not the nature of our friendship. When the social worker said, “this is the time you need to call on your friends,” I realized that our son is the only one I can really talk to about this.*

*Shortly after writing this, my phone rang and it was a dear colleague from school “just checking in on me.” It was so meaningful and amazing that such a brief conversation could have such a restorative impact. Since then, I have had numerous outpourings of support which have cheered us on.

No one prepares you for making tough decisions like these by yourself without your loved one’s input. An Advanced Health Care Directive and Medical Power of Attorney are critical to having control over your circumstances. After a day or two in the hospital, Jimmie wasn’t able to answer a question about what his level of pain was – how could he endorse my decision to take him home and cease medical intervention? These are conversations best entertained in the flush of good health during the early part of your life and marriage. Or the middle part. Tough talks. Gotta do it.

So many people have told me that I have to care for myself in order to care for him. Fighting away the doubt and guilt, the third night of his hospitalization, I succumbed and went home to sleep on his side of our bed, lolling drunkenly in his scent like a dog in roadkill. The next morning, Tuesday, I took time to vote before coming back to the hospital. They were right, I felt more like myself, less victimized by grief and loss of control.

Now, about 20 days After the Fall, we sit patiently by his bedside, now home in the comfort of our shared world, Chris by my side, his little dog Cupid affording us all pet therapy.

The Hospital Stay Play (With apologies to actual playwrights)

Characters
Jimbo – our hero

Elsa – his wife

Lawrence – Trans Male Night Registered Nurse (Nights 1 and 2)

Emily – Sturdy Pacific Islander Certified Nursing Assistant (Nights 1 and 2 and Days 2 and 3 – they never let her leave)

Delauney – The intravenous gold that allows him to sleep in spurts of 2-3 hours

Ms. Contina – the pill that evens out the pain during the day and night.

Place: Limbo, AKA a room on the fifth floor of Good Sam Hospital

Time: Now, then, whenever, an eternity of time that easily spans hours, days, weeks

Set pieces – two medieval torture racks – one with electric controls to raise and lower the back and feet, the other, a decidedly analog roll out hospital cot. A rolling table that barely fits under the bed and rolls up to within 6″ of the patient’s chest, causes anxiety and revulsion.

Scene 1 – \Transitioning from the ER. Jimbo and Elsa enter, Jimbo on a gurney, Elsa, as usual, carrying too much for the given situation. Jimbo moans in pain. Elsa hovers, holding his hand as Lawrence and Emily get him situated. Emily takes his blood pressure. Lawrence nods.

Lawrence: Jimbo, what is your pain level on a scale of 0-10?

Jimbo’s eyes dart left and right, pupils almost too tiny to see, his hand reaching for a hand to clutch. Elsa provides it. Minutes pass, Lawrence waiting patiently next to the bedstead, holding Delauney and a saline chaser in his hand.

Lawrence: (after several moments, giving him the benefit of the doubt) Jimbo, are you still thinking about what pain level you are at?

Jimbo: (silence. Mews in pain. Soon Delauney saunters into the bloodstream and we enter the Beckett zone. Jimbo’s head lolls back.)

(Hours pass. Elsa climbs onto the second torture rack and falls into fitful sleep. Jimbo’s passed out, sprawled on the pillows on the electrical torture rack.)

(Suddenly)

Jimbo: AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Els: (Springing off the rolling rack, wrenching her back) What is it?

Jimbo: Pain! (Els pushes the call button on his rack. Lawrence enters. Unawake, Elsa narrates what Lawrence is doing. Her lack of sleep and general gender confusion cause her to use the wrong pronouns and clumsily, finally, no pronouns at all.)

Elsa: She’s trying to get you positioned, Jimbo! ….helping you to be out of pain.

(once Lawrence has left the room)

Jimbo: Are we alone?

Elsa: Yes

Jimbo: Is she mad at me?

Elsa: Sorry, she is a he, and no he’s not mad at you. (a minute passes)

Jimbo: Is she mad at me?

Elsa: (firmly) No, he’s not mad at you. (a minute passes, and the hellish exchange continues three more times.

(Later)

Jimbo: (genuinely contritely) I’m sorry I can’t go to the theatre tonight with you.

Elsa: We’re not going to the theatre tonight, Jimbo.

Jimbo: Can they hear my voice on stage?

Elsa: Jimbo, we’re in the hospital. We’re not in the theatre.

Jimbo: But can they hear me on stage? Are we in the wings?

Curtain

More days have passed. In a fluke of the world showing it’s perfectly kind underbelly of good Karma, we were sent a caregiver at night who turned out to be a theatre buff, and kept saying loudly by Jimmie’s bedside, “He’s a National Treasure!”

We are still in the wings. To a transitional phase that happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. Only two weeks ago we were back to a pain-free life together. Treasure the moments you have. Be present. Plan ahead so you don’t ever have to plan under duress. (She said, sounding like the logistician/stage manager she is.)

September 30, 2018

Phantom Threads

Though you’d never know it from my silence, this has been an event filled week. After finishing the scones, yes, all the scones, last Thursday, I escorted Jimmie to his surgical procedure and home the same day, quite a feat for the 91-nearly-92-set, and we settled into the recovery period over the weekend.

Though the surgery had gone well, the dreaded C words still prevail – cancer in the biopsy, and catheter in the “leg” as Jimmie said to his sister Kate when we called her this weekend to wish her a happy belated 84th birthday. I could tell from his expression and from reading the handy captions on our phone, Kate wasn’t getting it. I leaned over and mouthed

It wasn’t in your leg, dear, it was in your penis. That’s where a catheter is.

Which of course cracked us both up.

We weren’t cracking up last Thursday when we got home from the hospital. 55V1xr5eSDW3Ng94F5OOXQ I had sent this photo of him to our family, taken in the recovery room, showing him beaming in his lilac paper hospital gown, not yet un-numbing from the epidural he’d had. He repeatedly was asking me why we were in the hospital? What happened?

Every time he woke up, I told him again why we were there and what he’d had done. He just wanted to go home. And so we did by about 4:30 that day.

The next four days were painful, dulled only by the heavy doses of Extra Strength Tylenol. This was the darkest time. There’s little worse than seeing your partner in pain, and it started me on a sober accounting:

is the pain related to an advance of the cancer or just the catheter?
how to be with him as much as possible
when to take time off
how to notify family and friends
how to organize visits so they wouldn’t tire him out
the effects of stronger pain medications on his lovely presence and our quality of life
how much longer do we have

I really went there. I don’t think Jimmie was thinking about it that much, but was just hunkering down with the pain. He was completely distracted and therefore absent, which of course made me worry more. These issues are familiar, having gone through the loss of two other loved ones to cancer, and participating in their final days. But it’s different with your partner than your parent.

Finally, on Tuesday, the fifth day of watching Jimmie suffering in pain, I called his doctor and said we needed something stronger. We went in and much to our surprise, he said he could also remove the catheter. He also gave us a prescription for heavier pain meds; mercifully, we still haven’t had to fill that.

And then, within a day or two, the pain was gone. A miracle. No more Tylenol, the notebook where we’d been recording all the medication sitting on the table untouched now for five days. To say that we won’t resume at some point would be naive, but for now we are out of the woods.

Which brings me to the real reason I started this post. We’ve resumed our lives, the absence of pain and the catheter constantly reassuring. Last night we watched the film Phantom Thread, with Daniel Day Lewis and Vickey Krieps. IMDB summarizes the plot of the movie this way:

Set in 1950’s London, Reynolds Woodcock is a renowned dressmaker whose fastidious life is disrupted by a young, strong-willed woman, Alma, who becomes his muse and lover.

If you’ve seen the movie, you know that it is about so much more than that. For me, the title is a tidy metaphor for Jimmie’s short term memory loss.

We were having dinner tonight- some strange pesto chicken patties I’d gotten at Whole Foods, and sautéed zucchini, an orzo feta salad – when I made an offhanded remark about the texture of the chicken patties. They bordered on pre-chewed, but then I joked about Alma’s cooking from the movie.

Jimmie looked at me and said what movie?

You know, the movie about the couturier who lived in the big house with all the women working there to sew his dresses……..

I then went on to describe the rather bizarre turn the movie took. Aren’t I good to not spoil it for you?

Jimmie: Blank look.

Els: You don’t remember anything about the movie do you?

No, he said, calmly eating his zucchini.

What I love about Jimmie is that he doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed about his loss of short term memory. He is always so present so you could give a fig about whether you have to repeat a story. It used to bother me that when I came home he couldn’t remember what happened in Trumpville that day, but I can easily get caught up with about 10 minutes of CNN. And what a blessing for him that he doesn’t carry this toxic mental waste around like the rest of us have to.

My favorite of his new expressions is “In one head and out the other.”

Els: It doesn’t seem to bother you that you can’t remember details. That’s wonderful that it isn’t causing you worry.

Jimmie: I just feel sorry for you that I don’t remember.

Els: What are you kidding? I can repeat myself endlessly and you never get the least bit bored about what I’m saying. You don’t put your head down on the table and say, For crying out loud, that’s the sixth time you’ve told me that story!

He smiled across the table at me, and we resumed our companionable silence as we ate the rubbery patties. And now I’m worried that I have become Alma…

September 15, 2018

No Scone Left Unturned

This week, unfortunately, I stumbled across a recipe for scones in the New York Times. I don’t know how I could have gotten to the ripe old age of fifty-hand-over-mouth-mumble without knowing how ridiculously easy scones are to make. And now that I’ve lost the illusion of them as something only English people (who seem ever so much more clever than we) can whip up, Lord help me. And you, if you’ve clicked on the link above. Curse you, Susan Guerrero!

Today I made two batches, telling myself that I would share them with others; when Jimmie eschewed a hot fresh scone for a Thomas’ English Muffin this morning, I knew I was really in the danger zone.

And yet, that wasn’t the first good idea I had this week. Yesterday, at the end of the work week, Jimmie and I scootered over to the park for a half hour, happening upon a flash-mob of toddlers all under 3 playing with their parents in a postage stamp of green grass in the center of the park. It was adorable. A diverse group of parents, from the nearly neglectful rockers languishing on a bench as their tow-haired two-year-old dashed madly around the grass, to the maniacally kiss-crazy mom chasing behind her son chortling, “Good job, Joey!” every two seconds. It seemed to be the only thing she could come up with to say, but her adoring offspring suffered her kisses with a delighted smile, giggling into the falling tendrils of his mother’s hair. Meanwhile, his father stood nearby waiting for the two of them to notice he was there. A pair of doting grandparents sat on a bench reading, watching their late twenties daughter tossed a ball with her Boden-clad daughter, sparking the question, “Who wears a skirt to the park to play?” Such a mean-girls thought seemed inhospitable in the midst of “the children’s hour.”

There must have been 13 under-threes in the group. I wondered whether they were a club. They all seemed to know each other, and there were companionable grownup chats happening around the perimeter of the grass at benches such as ours. It was only when I saw a caravan of strollers forming, winding away from us toward the playground area that I remembered seeing the film crew breaking down their setup as we’d entered the park. I noted that the yellow caution tape had been removed from the perimeter of the playground. So, yes, they did know each other because they all shared the same playground at the same time of day. Mystery solved.

Jimmie and I remained in companionable togetherness on our bench, chatting about an idea for a play I’d just had. I hasten to add that this idea comes from the same hare-brained place that the idea to make three batches of scones in as many days comes from, but here it is.

Spin-Cycle: The play takes place in two acts featuring the early morning denizens of a gym to the rumpled, linty late night hijinks of a laundromat. Producers, don’t despair! You could utilize the same cast members, because god knows the morning people make dirty clothes apace. Tag line: What goes around comes around.

Brilliant, right? No, Els, it is not.

These are the idle meanderings of someone whose brain is task-saturated. And that’s my home life. Last week, Jimmie and I careened from doctor’s office to doctor’s office to lab to X-Ray, in preparation for his procedure next Thursday, the same day Brett Kavanaugh most likely becomes the next member of the Supreme Court. Despite that inauspicious coincidence, I have no reason to believe our procedure won’t go well and Jimmie will thrive afterwards. But I’ve become dizzy with details for managing his pain and prep. Simple screwups like the fact that it turns out I’d been overdosing him with Motrin for several weeks.

And so, I’m baking. Never a good sign; since I do spend so much time “researching my first play” at the gym, baking is a self-sabotaging act of dietary regression, and I can see it’s resulting bulges through my sweaty togs. On the other hand, I rediscovered the fascination of cooking good food as well, when Jimmie’s great niece, Niki, came through last weekend, demonstrating the beauty of well-cooked greens and delicately grilled cumin-flavored potatoes with swordfish. This morning I cut the beet greens off the beets I’d bought and made a lovely chopped beet and onion sauté to go with my brown rice and scrambled egg breakfast. Which I promptly followed with a maple walnut scone chaser. Slathered in Earth Balance…

So hit me up if you want a tin of scones or some good play ideas. I clearly have plenty of both.

September 1, 2018

…and in health…

In honor of my 34th Anniversary to the love of my life, I thought it would be worth pushing past the first phrase in this long standing wedding vow because recent posts have lingered far too long on it. This one’s for me, so I apologize I don’t have a more universal framework than the memories of the love we’ve shared.

Over the course of our thirty-four years together, we’ve lived in at least one month together in seven different locations, eight if you count the Magic Hotel in Hollywood during the run of The Iceman Cometh at the Huntington Hartford Theatre on Vine St.

Family_Photos_024_00008 — James Greene as Jimmie Tomorrow

When we lived in New York, we mastered the busses on the Upper Westside, and sometimes just walked from the heart of Broadway to our little fourth story apartment in a brownstone on 70th Street. I would walk down with our dog Jasper, a regal, intelligent german shepherd, who was well-enough behaved to be allowed to sit in the aisle of whatever Broadway theatre Jimmie was currently rehearsing in. Then, the three of us would pad home to our apartment where Nini and Flicka, our two cats waited patiently for us, lounging on window sills, or amusing themselves by tearing around the apartment in mad games of tag. Pity the poor house guest who slept on the fold-out sofa bed when the mother and daughter got it in their heads to play.

Our walks together through the years took us through Central Park at all times of day and night, North Hollywood Park, parks in Hartford Connecticut, Chatham, Los Osos. Jasper accompanied us to Watts Towers, when we moved to Los Angeles and explored our new home.

Where was my fitbit then! In New York, we had our special “gin joints”where we hung out, Palsson’s on 72nd St. where we shared countless nights after the evening performances laughing with friends and Jimmie’s manager, Yvette, a raspy raconteur of sobriety, on whose lap I once rode back into the city from the McCarter Theatre after a performance of Play Memory, the play where Jimmie and I first met. And, coincidentally, Palsson’s where we had our wedding reception up in the cabaret above the main restaurant.

About two years we moved to Los Angeles to shoot The Days and Nights of Molly Dodd, NBC cancelled the show. In one of life’s more poignant ironies, Lifetime picked it up, and resumed shooting in NYC. Jimmie and I had the heady romance of separation and sweet reunions every other week or so when he returned home.

There’ve been so many baseball games in our lives together. Shared from the sanctity of our sofa via our MLB subscription, to the hot, sunny bliss of baseball games with friends.

We’ve traveled together, zigzagging across the country with Jasper in the back seat of the navy blue Bonneville I’d just inherited from my grandmother, seeing the Grand Canyon, and spending ridiculous nights in flea-bag motels.

We’ve spent long, langorous summers in Montana, with our friends at the Alpine Theatre Project, going rafting and hiking and dining al fresco in some of the most beautiful scenery our great country has to offer. Oh, and doing a fair number of shows in the interim. We’ve journeyed multiple times to the elbow of Cape Cod, spending weeks with Jimmie’s sister, Kate, and feasting on Fried Clams and ice cream together and with friends.

I promise our son chose to cage himself.

Together we’ve watched the sun rise over Mt. Haleakala on Maui, cruised to the Canary Islands, and Mexico, and floated in the Dead Sea. If you want to read about that episode, where Jimmie lost his brand new wedding ring, click here.

And the theatre we’ve seen together over the years. Hundreds of plays we’ve seen together, and separately, watching each others’ careers develop. We’ve had the chance to work together rarely, but those times have been sweet.

I’ve remodeled about 4 bathrooms, 3 kitchens, painted two houses (okay, so it’s an admitted addiction) all around the most accommodating and patient man who loathes to have his space invaded by strangers, but who ultimately appreciates the end result, a more beautiful living space.

But of course, our proudest accomplishment has been raising together our beautiful son, Chris, not of our own making initially, but whose achievements of integrity and leadership and good sense selection of his beautiful partner, Whitney, have resulted in one of the greatest joys of our shared 34 years, our granddaughter.

Together we’ve watched countless hockey games, first watching our son play, and now watching him coach. We invested in his skill building, only to see it pay off in his inherent coaching capabilities. There’s nothing like the thrill of seeing your child find his creative and intellectual home.

All of which is not too bad when considering …and in health….

These are the memories that I will carry with me forever. Though this year, there’s no tattoo to mark our anniversary.

August 20, 2018

Receiving Gifts – I See You

The other day while checking my mailbox at work, yes, the physical one in the reception area, I found a simple red envelope inscribed with my name. In a hurry (as I seem to be all the time these days), I shoved it into my purse and carried on with my day. Honestly, it may have been last Friday, or could have been Tuesday or Wednesday when I did that. On Sunday, I saw it sticking out of my purse, and I retrieved it, opening it to see the most unexpected paean to my humanity I’ve ever received.

I’ll spare the sender the embarrassment by excluding the signature, but those of you who work at the School of Dramatic Arts wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to know that the sender is someone who mirrors all that was ascribed to me in the love bomb.

Jimmie and I – we’ve been under fire for some time, love bombs falling with stray abandon all around us. Phone calls to check in, visits by friends foraging through Valley Traffic for hours to have extravagant hot dog and baked bean dinners and watch a little baseball. Most recently, a visit by our friends Tina and Michael with pie. Now we like us some chocolate cream pie just fine. For the record, it would have been any type of pie we wanted. I specified Claim Jumper Chocolate silk pie because I like it, and Jimmie, not remembering exactly what his favorite pie is, always does too.

It wasn’t just the pie, though. It was the laughs we had while sitting around our dining room table on Saturday night, catching up with good friends and appreciating their actions of support. And just having a good laugh.

One of my spin instructors, Brandon, always has us (at the end of his brutal 45 minutes of sweat and lather inducing cycling) lean over our monitors, towel covering the numbers, and extend our hands with open palms facing up so that we can receive the gifts that the day will bring us. I do it because I know how powerful those gifts I get are.

So, to steal my colleague’s phrase, I see you, all of you, who text and hug and cajole, and invite me to the fitbit challenges that keep me engaged. Your love bombs are so appreciated. Carry on!

August 12, 2018October 9, 2018

Lucy Sparrow – Felt the Grocery Store!

One of the best things about living downtown is easy access to cultural events. This weekend, that included attending a pop-up art installation at the Standard Hotel at 6th and Flower in DTLA.

British craft artist Lucy Sparrow has spent a year in her “Felt Cave” back in Essex, England along with her staff of five, building the 31,000 felt grocery items that adorn the felt shelves in the second story Sparrow Mart.

Getting into the exhibit required a bit of patience. When my friend Rob and I arrived, there was a short line wrapped outside near the parking lot for the Hotel. It was warm, but we were in the shade most of the time, and the hotel provided bright yellow umbrellas in a stand near the door for those moments when you found yourself between the dappled leaves of the patio’s trees

Once inside the Hotel lobby, we approached a stand where we made our actual appointment. We arrived at 2:30, but learned that our appointment would be for 5:00pm. Groan, vocal incredulity. We Angelenos are an impatient tribe. Not being a DTLA Hipster, I rarely frequent the Standard Hotel lobby, but nevertheless enjoyed the next few hours catching up with Rob while sipping iced tea and eating a moon pie from the Sparrow Food bar, where you can buy tasty treats and also take home the felt version of them as well. Surrounded by the lobby’s burled wooden walls, and hot pink lounge furniture made the time pass easily, with music by a DJ who played LPs appealing to the over 50 and under 25 sets. Quite a feat.

At our appointed time, we ascended the escalator, and gathered outside the storefront of the Sparrow Mart for brief instructions. Soon, we were inside with a red basket hooked over my arm, looking at an impressive array of animated vegetables, pineapples, cucumbers and peppers, each sporting laughing black eyes. To the right a fish case, filled with shrimp, mussels, salmon fillets, and lobsters. Next to it, a display of liquor bottles leaning drunkenly against each other.

Adjacent to the alcohol, a full case of sushi, dozens of individually stitched hand rolls. The level of detail is mind boggling. And so colorful!

This art installation allows for all of the objects in the store to be purchased. The Sushi pieces are about the most affordable at $10 per piece, but all of the objects in the store are hand painted and all are signed by the artist. So expensive relative to the represented item, but cheap as far as an original art purchase goes.The prices may not be affordable for everyone, but the experience of seeing the objects and enjoying them is completely accessible and charming. These were some of my favorite items.

The atmosphere in the store was festive and celebratory as shoppers moved about the aisles cooing at the brightly colored American items. That is one of the things that impressed me about the different projects of Lucy Sparrow. She made an effort to identify and build items appropriate to the locality of the exhibit.

The various cases around the store were cunning, but the meat counter was particularly detailed.

And should you not have enough cash on hand, there’s even a felt ATM you can admire if not access.

She’s even got the grab-and-go food market covered, with individual pizza slices, and sodas in a case covered in felt, and pretzels. There’s a candy area, complete with gum and chocolate, a cigarette area, and an entire aisle full of over-the-counter medicines. She’s got it all.

Rob and I each selected about three items, and when we went to buy them at the back of the store, I looked down at the hands of the woman who was wrapping my purchases, reading FELT LIFE across her knuckles, and I gasped.

You’re Lucy, the Artist! This is so amazing!

She beamed. Not surprisingly, just as she is in the video, she is friendly and engaged with her audience and I was gratified to have a brief face-to-face moment with her while she wrapped my purchases in black and white checkered paper, then red outer paper wrap with a Sparrow sticker. Here’s a great interview I found online about her work.

As far as diversions go, the Sparrow Mart is high on my list. Definitely worth the wait. Take someone you need to catch up with. Probably go during the weekdays rather than on Sunday afternoon as we did. But it’s a must see. There until August 31st at the Standard Hotel, 550 S. Flower St., Los Angeles, CA.

But that’s just how two of us felt about it.

August 4, 2018August 4, 2018

E(scape) R(oom)s

Recently, Jimmie and I had dinner out at our favorite CPK downtown at 7th and Fig. We are fixtures there, having had a long habit of going there for “strike pizza” after the closing of shows at USC. I’d finish the strike, jump in the car and pick up Jimmie to head out for pizza on a Sunday night. We are highly ritualistic people, and this was one of our favorite outings. The last time we were there, we were greeted at our table by a former student, who told us that she had been working at an Escape Room in downtown LA.

We laughed about the coincidence that two recent graduates from the School of Dramatic Arts had gone into E.R. work, and yet they hadn’t know each other while at USC. I guess it’s to be expected that theatre designers/scenic painters/costumers would find this kind of work engaging and profitable. And that they would have success in it.

My 91 year old husband has developed an affinity for E.R.s this week. You won’t find our favorite E.R. on any list of Immersive Escape Rooms. It’s the E.R. at Good Samaritan, in downtown LA, where we are now on a first name basis with much of the staff. For the record, I’d rank it as very difficult, but so far with a 100% survival rate.

We come in, fill out the paperwork and have a brief wait in the lobby. When we arrived Tuesday night, our first visit this week, the lobby was surprisingly empty, and we were swept in with the speed of a couple with reservations at WP24.

The thing about E.R.s is that they are pretty easy to get into. When you are 91 with a plumbing issue, you rise straight to the top, like the cream on the frosty bottle of whole milk in the milk box.

Milkbox — What my childhood milk box looked like

(Some rurally raised Boomers will get that reference. For the millennials, one used to have milk delivered to your home (even as late as the early 1970s) where they left it in an insulated square box sitting outside your door in the early dewy mornings before school.)

But, as usual, I digress.

Tuesday night, we went in to the Good Sam Escape Room at 6:30pm, and we walked out at 9:30pm, new plumbing features in tact. Our “plumber” had just finished his day of surgeries and is such a wonderful man that he dropped in to assist with the necessary fittings which the competent but overwhelmed nurses were unable to install. Good thing he came along when he did. It was uncomfortable, God-and-anyone-within-range-of-Room-6-knows, but he got the job done and we were home by the 10 o’clock news.

Full Disclosure: I’ve never been to an actual Immersive Escape Room, but found this helpful video on the site of our former student, Madison Rhoades’ Cross Roads Escape Games to get educated about them.

Here are some parallels and differences between Maddy’s carefully curated experience and Good Sam’s (GS):

We enter as a team. Unlike the Hex Room experience, we weren’t separated at any time, except when the plumber insisted I leave the room. And that was okay with me.
You’re isolated in a room and left to your own devices. (CR and GS)
Unlike the Hex Room, there are no magic buttons to push to get a clue about how to get out, and seemingly no puzzles you can do to advance in the line for service. Tuesday night I read the Sunday NY Times Magazine article about Gwyneth Paltrow’s “GOOP” Empire. Friday night, I did two crossword puzzles. No Exit.
It’s a triage system at GS, and judging from Friday night’s line up, we were definitely not high on the priority list. (which, of course, is both good news and bad news). Last night, Nurse Tim resolved our issue quickly, and then left us to languish for about five hours while they dealt with two coronary attacks and a stroke.
At GS, they have players who are helpful and encouraging in furthering your attempts to get out. Last night, Friday, when we returned to play again at 8:40pm, a woman dressed as a kindly nurse’s aid ushered us back into Room 6.

Aide: I just made up this room, knowing that Mr. Nolan would be back in tonight! (cooing) And who are you?

Els: (flatly) I’m his wife.

Aide: Oooh! What a beautiful wife you have Mr. Nolan. (Leaning in conspiratorially, whispers) You take good care of your beautiful wife! (She exits. Jimmie turns to me)

Jimmie: What did she say?
Els: (loudly) She said, You better take good care of your BW! Hey, how did she know our pet name?

In spite of the flattery and kindness of the support players, Jimmie became impatient more than once. I now know that I would be a terrible participant in an actual immersive Escape Room situation. When abandoned in the ER, I become placid and accepting. Over the years, I’ve learned that there’s nothing I can do by having a tantrum that can’t better be done by excessive groveling whenever the support staff enters the room. So our door remained closed, and Jimmie shivered under his sheet for three of those five hours of captivity before I got up my courage to emerge and request a blanket.

Later, I joked with Jimmie that there was a door right behind where I was sitting that opened into the main hallway. Why didn’t we just leave?
Jimmie’s eyes brightened, and he gathered himself to stand up.

Els: No! That would be like running out on your restaurant check. We have to wait until they walk in with the paperwork to sign and then we’ll know you’ve been discharged.

Hours later, I turned to Jimmie and made like we should leave through that door.

Jimmi: No, Els! (patronizing, instructive tone) Don’t you know, we have to wait to be discharged!

Hours later, well after midnight, the beleaguered doctor came in, apologizing for their seeming neglect. We quickly updated her on the successful features of our visit, with strong hints that we should be going home soon. She agreed, and told Jimmie he could get dressed again. That’s when I took the this picture.

Pouting doesn’t help in the escape room experience.

Still, it took another thirty minutes for Nurse Tim’s return with the necessary paper to sign. He then turned, slid the bed to the wall, and at 1:30AM, opened the tantalizing door to the outside hall.

It will be much easier for you to go out this way. There’s a lot going on the other direction.

I think I will advocate the Cross Roads Escape Games next time Jimmie gets bored.

July 30, 2018

My Sanctuary, Fitness

Last November, my gym of 3 years standing folded. Days before Thanksgiving, without any warning, all of the inhabitants of that (insert old gym’s name here) community were rather unceremoniously kicked to the curb. I walked by the still-empty storefront the other day, and rather than feeling the familiar ire about the situation, I felt the curiosity of potential for that space. But those thoughts drifted away like the soft whispy clouds of a late summer’s afternoon as soon as I had walked past.

Transitions are hard. Change is hard. Change is good. Transitions are good.

Working out has become as important to my sustainability as, well, breathing. Dropping my five workouts a week because my gym closed, wasn’t an option. I rely on the cardio workout to reset my brain, my psyche, my attitude. If I go for several days without working out, I find myself grumpier, more prone to look at the dark side of things, just not as even keeled as my life requires that I be.

As a result of having lost my workout home, I began exploring other options. I investigated Pilates, SpeedPlay, Sync Yoga and Spin, and eventually accepted an invitation from one of my favorite sweat-sisters, Allyzon, to try out her new spot, Sanctuary Fitness. Their logo is Peace through perspiration. Couldn’t have said it better.

There were a lot of reasons I shouldn’t like it. My old gym had been right around the corner, about 200 steps from my bed. I had to get in my car to get to this new gym, but of course, at 5:30, there’s not a lot of traffic. I had to feed the meter, but that proved to not be too big an impediment. And after a few mornings of the new ritual, it became comfortable.

I love the physical plant of Sanctuary Fitness. There is a spacious foyer with friendly folks personning the front desk. They give you towels to use, though for some reason I still bring my graying (insert old gym’s name here) towels to sweat into. It’s a little Linus-like, I suppose, my last link to familiarity.

And sure enough, most likely due to the power of my sister in sweat, Allyzon, I noticed familiar faces from (insert old gym’s name here) showing up. The bikes are better. There are weights, and sometimes elastic bands to work the upper body while you are riding. The bike shows metrics with average watts, rpms, calories, miles, etc. It’s accountability at it’s best. And by the time I get home to make a second cup of tea, I have the results waiting for me in an email.

In addition to spin, they have High Intensity Interval Training (HIIT) classes, which I sprinkle twice throughout the week just to remind me that I’m twice as old as almost everyone in the class but my body still works (more or less). The instructors are encouraging, as in encouraging us all away from the comfort of our beds, our comfort zones, our patterns.

For me, fitness is my sanctuary. I’m in much better shape now than I was in my forties, or possibly my thirties. The ritual of getting up, going to the gym, making some time for me, seeing my friends every morning (because I now go 7 days a week, btw), is critical to my hanging in there for another day of whatever life brings me. I appreciate this need for ritual because many of the other things that are ritualized for me are not as personally satisfying and a little more grueling than the forty-five minutes of sweat equity I get at Sanctuary.

So thank you to all the trainers, Allyzon T., Brandon H., Kevin, Reed, and all my workout buddies for the Sanctuary respite that I need and for kicking my butt.

July 26, 2018

Ghoulish Games with Husband #1

It’s been a rough week. Sometimes biology, anatomy, aging and the logistics of bodily fluids management conspire to create hellish circumstances. And so it’s been this week for my first husband and me. Before you put me or him on the pyre for sacrilege, let me assure you that this term has been vetted as completely ironic by the two people it most directly concerns. In fact, when we latched onto it sometime in the course of our dinner last night, it took us both several minutes to recover from the giggles. In the furtherance of medical clowning research, I promise to persist in using it at every appropriate opportunity.

Once we’d recovered, we started riffing on the application process for the next Mr. Collins, and the questions that would be on the application for the position.

Can you list your medications on less than two pages?
Do you sleep through the night? If not, why? Please list these reasons in excruciating detail. NB: I promise, no facts are too small to include here.
Do you ambulate?
Do you use a toy* to ambulate? (*toys are herewith defined as canes, walkers, scooters)
When was the last time you played tennis?
When was the last time you went skiing?
Do you like to travel?

We got really carried away. By now, the only thing distracting us from our ghoulish game was the not-distant-enough and relentless sound of a building’s fire alarm going off. I know it well, because we have the same sound in one of our theatres at work, and when I hear it, I suffer the same heart-clenching panic as the sophomore stage managers who’ve had to evacuate the house because of overzealous haze usage. I walked over to the patio, slid the door open, and looked over the balcony, to find the front steps of the Ralph’s market populated with onlookers and the sound blaring across the street to the balcony. And soon, sure enough, in came the firetrucks.

So we did what any self-respecting hearing impaired couple would do. We chose to have our dessert pudding on the patio overlooking the event. Yes, we rubbernecked with the best of them. In fact, we decided to continue our game playing with a good old-fashioned game of outdoor Scrabble®. Meanwhile, the poor onlookers waited on the steps of the store with amazing patience. I imagined 25 carts half-filled with the makings for dinner, ice cream puddling under the carts eventually because they were there for the longest time. And on and on and on it went.

On our side, things were going rather well on the Scrabble® front. I drew the lowest tile and started off with a few zingers, zit for 24 points followed immediately by buxom for 32 points. I was feeling pretty cocky, until things started to go downhill for me.

Els sweats it out while Husband #1 takes his turn. See the rubbernecking hummingbird watching our game.

Eventually, I recovered, and took the game by a score of 240 to 182, after donating my U tile to Jimmie because I hadn’t seen the Q appear yet. He finished with Quo. (Yes, we play that way).

Anyway, all of these ghoulish games keep us amused and on track even when other things conspire to derail us.