**Okay, so I've been gone for too many moons, but I'm back. We'll talk about that later. Right now I'm going to bitch about theatre politics.
When I was thirteen years old my poor mother was subjected to thirteen year old me. This me included but was not limited to hormonal bursts of evil, friends and, perhaps worst of all, a desire to attend the theatre. But decidedly not the children's theatre--no. My desire was to attend edgy and 'real' theatre--theatre that took a hard, high-noise look at the human condition. Since our previous theatre forays included The Wizard of Oz and The Secret Garden (which are both dark in their own rights), she probably felt a little out of her comfort zone. Regardless, she ventured out to fulfill my need.
We lived in Richmond, Virginia at the time and the only theatre that fit the bill was the Firehouse Theatre. It did--still does--contemporary American plays, unhindered by uncomfortable subject matter, unrepentant of adult material, brimming with vitality and gumption and truth and fun. The space itself is delightfully dark and urban: an old firehouse equipped with a simple stage and simple seating--the fundamental tools that you need to make great communal art. The place has an energy that lives only in spaces where theatre is created; it's a little haunting, a little loving. As you can tell by reading, I love the Firehouse, but not just because of the space. I love it--and LOATHE IT, just kidding--because it was the place I discovered that I wanted to be a theatre artist.
You see, to answer my call for 'grown-up' theatre my mom took me to see Edmond by David Mamet and directed by Bill Patton at the Firehouse Theatre. I know not everyone knows the play--but you're welcome to read about it here--so I'll give you the basics: Edmond is inappropriate for most adolescents. The main character kills a nice-enough lady, is imprisoned, then is forced to give a very big man a blow job. I learned a lot by going to see Edmond, a lot I wished I could un-learn, but something within me stirred. That stirring was the realization that there was a space in the world for people to explore everything, even the terrifying--and that was the theatre. That particular magic clicked for me that evening at the Firehouse and it is the number one reason I'm so in love with the art form. It's imperfect and frustrating, but it's home.
The theatre is a place that permits us to explore, to criticize, to implore, to play, to laugh, to win, to lose, to die, and to be reborn--and all within a few hours time. Great theatre enables both the audience and the actor the opportunity to live in someone else's world and to embody that world long enough to realize that it simultaneously is and is not our own. It's thrilling and unparalleled in its ability to simultaneously engage both the performers and the audience.
Recently I was in Death of a Salesman at the Firehouse Theatre and I felt as full-circle as I could possibly get. Here I was sharing the stage with an adopted family I love (including Bill Patton, aforementioned director of the life-altering Edmond), doing a play that totally unsettles and challenges my brain in the theatre that forever changed my outlook on life and art. Salesman was one of the most important plays I've ever done, despite the fact I sauntered onstage, drank some champagne, got yelled at by my friend Adrian*, then shuffled off, and I didn't even realize how important it was for me as I was doing it. It was important because I did it without knowing the tempest that was brewing behind the scene. Carol Piersol, who started the theatre and went to the mattresses for it for over twenty years was forced to resign from her position as founding artistic director--and the news broke practically in tandem with Salesman closing. I don't know the details because the board who forced her hand is--let's be honest--behaving like sketchy and cagey children. They don't want to discuss details, choosing to keep things clandestine and all DaVinci Codey. That's their business. Their behavior is only fueling fires of dissent--and those fires are burning the community. I know that was a very dramatic sentence, but it's true.
I know that I owe a lot of who I am to what Carol and her founding partners built. I know the Firehouse Theatre wouldn't be here without Carol. She is a light and I'm grateful to be touched by her. I think the Firehouse will be a dull din without her. I hope someone gets some sense and puts her back where she belongs. I'm an unrepentant advocate for Carol.
That said, I can't hate any of the folks who want to work at the theatre if Carol doesn't return. That space changed my life and I hope other people have that opportunity too--the opportunity to be the little, naive thirteen year old in a seat, falling in love, dwelling in possibility while watching some truly disturbing--and beautifully acted--theatre. I'm scared of what Richmond would be without the Firehouse and, yes, I'm terrified of what the Firehouse would be without Carol, but at the end of the day the theatre artists (not the Board, I'm pretty sure they're just a bunch of assholes who should be ashamed of themselves) are looking for a home in which to hang their hats for a few hours in order to tell a story. I can't blame anyone for that. There is so much pushing against the arts--decreased funding, recession, reality television--that I can't reconcile being a voice of hate in the theatre. So, I choose to be a voice of love.
I love Carol.
I love theatre.
I love the Firehouse.
I love my community.
I love plays.
I love my whole house!
*Sorry if linking to your IMDB embarrassed you, man, but I did love you as the hot hot dog guy in Sex and the City.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Thursday, November 1, 2012
It's the most wonderful time of the year
Many people think of today--Halloween--as a special day because it's their one opportunity a year to dress up and play pretend; as that's pretty much my job description I'm less inclined to think today is particularly noteworthy. It's basically just a Wednesday, except everyone looks a little sluttier.
I wanted to get into the acting-out spirit, though, but all my ideas came up short. Get drunk? Well, I'm not morally opposed to it but I'm very busy and am the biggest baby when it comes to hangovers. Plus I did that Saturday. Go shopping? I have no money (please note aforementioned job). No, I decided to make today special for me by defriending assholes on the Facebook. I've never done this before because I've never really cared enough to put energy toward the task, but this election season has brought out the worst in some people and I've grown exhausted by it. I don't mind people with opposing views to my own; that isn't the issue. Some of my dearest friends are conservatives. I love them, they love me and we don't shy away from political discourse. I respect these people because their arguments are sound and they're informed. We just have priority discord, if that makes sense.
No. It isn't difference that bothers me. It's terrifying sexists that bother me.
Recently I started a Facebook conversation that revealed some wholly disturbing ideas that are floating around in my immediate community. I asked women who support Mitt Romney why they support him. Women, arguably more than anyone else, have a lot to lose in this election and I oft wonder how they can support a man who won't support them in return. I'm willing to be empathetic and see things from the other side, though. I truly want to understand. So, I asked, "why do you support the Romney / Ryan ticket?" No one responded. Not one woman who 'likes' Romney on Facebook--and I know twenty-two of them, by the way, and I'm an artist so I'm not sure how that's even possible--was willing to stand up and give her reasons. So the next day I prodded a little, saying that I suspect these women have no good reason to support these misogynists.
I know. Strong words, but it riled the crowd.
Most of the comments from liberals and conservatives alike were thoughtful and rooted in good sense. Most of the comments came from people who thought their opinions represented what was best for the country in its entirety. Then, one person said something I couldn't believe as the topic of birth control arose. Paraphrased, he said, "if you can't afford the consequences of sex (offspring) then maybe you shouldn't be a-knockin' das boots."
This is a horrendous idea on a lot of levels, here are just a few reasons why:
1. Preaching abstinence doesn't work. Historically, it has had the opposite of the intended effect: more people have unsafe / unprotected sex when they're told to just not have sex. This results in more pregnancies and more sexual infections.
2. Women aren't asexual. Men are involved. P's go in V's and sometimes that produces B's. Men are incapable of carrying one particular side effect of sex, therefore it's easier for them to cut-and-run from it, leaving women to bare both the baby and the financial burden. There are millions of dollars of unpaid child support owed in this country. Birth control isn't just for women.
3. We're not dogs. Sex isn't just for procreation. Sex is a healthy part of a consenting adult's lifestyle. There are many studies that link mental health with satisfying sexual practice. Think about it, would you rather people get laid and be a little more relaxed when they're behind the wheel of two-thousand pound machinery than drive about with pent up rage from only having sex when they wish to make babies?
4. "Birth control" pills aren't just for controlling pregnancy. I wrote to Rush Limbaugh once explaining what a contraceptive pill does, so I won't totally reiterate it.
5. Giving women birth control helps the economy. People will have sex whether you tell them to or not. We're biologically wired to do so. When women are put in charge of contraception and when it's given to them at little-to-no-cost there are fewer pregnancies, especially in low-income households. This drastically cuts down how much social welfare is dolled out. Bonus, keeping women from getting pregnant also increases the work force; more women work for longer if they're not in the family way and this stimulates the economy. That's right. I read Half the Sky.
When this person proposed that only the people who can afford the consequences of having sex should be doing so I'm sure he didn't realize that he was saying something most of us find incredibly offensive. Though it's obviously an ineffectual--okay, impossible--solution, I'm sure he meant well. I'm sure he didn't think he'd sound like a misogynist bent on controlling women, but he did. In fact, he's a nice enough guy. He just wrote something simple without thinking of the consequences.
In this age it's quite easy to write something snarky and press send without thinking about consequences--believe me. After all, we don't look our audience's square in the eyes anymore. One doesn't have to look at a room of women as one says something degrading about a woman's worth. Ann Coulter doesn't have to answer to a community outraged by her calling the president the R word. It's facile. We stare at a screen that's incapable of taking offense and somehow we think that makes us incapable of giving offense.
**Tangent Alert: Another commenter on the aforementioned post brought up this super valid point: why is women's health care the hot button issue? Tons of people in this country are obese; the direct results of obesity are blatant: diabetes, heart disease and cancer are just the first few that come to mind. Women can't help being women--we are born that way, most of the time--but obese people oft make choices that directly result in their condition, yet, they're still covered by government health care (Medicare and Medicaid). Obesity costs this country a great deal and I'd bet my bottom dollar that it has cost this country more over time than making sure women have access to contraception. I'm sure you could also argue that if low-income families had access to birth control there would be fewer children born into them. Fewer children means fewer mouths to feed. Fewer mouths means being able to afford more nutritious foods. More nutritious meals means fewer incidents of obesity. Bam. Another problem solved. You're welcome, America. You're welcome.
I wanted to get into the acting-out spirit, though, but all my ideas came up short. Get drunk? Well, I'm not morally opposed to it but I'm very busy and am the biggest baby when it comes to hangovers. Plus I did that Saturday. Go shopping? I have no money (please note aforementioned job). No, I decided to make today special for me by defriending assholes on the Facebook. I've never done this before because I've never really cared enough to put energy toward the task, but this election season has brought out the worst in some people and I've grown exhausted by it. I don't mind people with opposing views to my own; that isn't the issue. Some of my dearest friends are conservatives. I love them, they love me and we don't shy away from political discourse. I respect these people because their arguments are sound and they're informed. We just have priority discord, if that makes sense.
No. It isn't difference that bothers me. It's terrifying sexists that bother me.
Recently I started a Facebook conversation that revealed some wholly disturbing ideas that are floating around in my immediate community. I asked women who support Mitt Romney why they support him. Women, arguably more than anyone else, have a lot to lose in this election and I oft wonder how they can support a man who won't support them in return. I'm willing to be empathetic and see things from the other side, though. I truly want to understand. So, I asked, "why do you support the Romney / Ryan ticket?" No one responded. Not one woman who 'likes' Romney on Facebook--and I know twenty-two of them, by the way, and I'm an artist so I'm not sure how that's even possible--was willing to stand up and give her reasons. So the next day I prodded a little, saying that I suspect these women have no good reason to support these misogynists.
I know. Strong words, but it riled the crowd.
Most of the comments from liberals and conservatives alike were thoughtful and rooted in good sense. Most of the comments came from people who thought their opinions represented what was best for the country in its entirety. Then, one person said something I couldn't believe as the topic of birth control arose. Paraphrased, he said, "if you can't afford the consequences of sex (offspring) then maybe you shouldn't be a-knockin' das boots."
This is a horrendous idea on a lot of levels, here are just a few reasons why:
1. Preaching abstinence doesn't work. Historically, it has had the opposite of the intended effect: more people have unsafe / unprotected sex when they're told to just not have sex. This results in more pregnancies and more sexual infections.
2. Women aren't asexual. Men are involved. P's go in V's and sometimes that produces B's. Men are incapable of carrying one particular side effect of sex, therefore it's easier for them to cut-and-run from it, leaving women to bare both the baby and the financial burden. There are millions of dollars of unpaid child support owed in this country. Birth control isn't just for women.
3. We're not dogs. Sex isn't just for procreation. Sex is a healthy part of a consenting adult's lifestyle. There are many studies that link mental health with satisfying sexual practice. Think about it, would you rather people get laid and be a little more relaxed when they're behind the wheel of two-thousand pound machinery than drive about with pent up rage from only having sex when they wish to make babies?
4. "Birth control" pills aren't just for controlling pregnancy. I wrote to Rush Limbaugh once explaining what a contraceptive pill does, so I won't totally reiterate it.
5. Giving women birth control helps the economy. People will have sex whether you tell them to or not. We're biologically wired to do so. When women are put in charge of contraception and when it's given to them at little-to-no-cost there are fewer pregnancies, especially in low-income households. This drastically cuts down how much social welfare is dolled out. Bonus, keeping women from getting pregnant also increases the work force; more women work for longer if they're not in the family way and this stimulates the economy. That's right. I read Half the Sky.
When this person proposed that only the people who can afford the consequences of having sex should be doing so I'm sure he didn't realize that he was saying something most of us find incredibly offensive. Though it's obviously an ineffectual--okay, impossible--solution, I'm sure he meant well. I'm sure he didn't think he'd sound like a misogynist bent on controlling women, but he did. In fact, he's a nice enough guy. He just wrote something simple without thinking of the consequences.
In this age it's quite easy to write something snarky and press send without thinking about consequences--believe me. After all, we don't look our audience's square in the eyes anymore. One doesn't have to look at a room of women as one says something degrading about a woman's worth. Ann Coulter doesn't have to answer to a community outraged by her calling the president the R word. It's facile. We stare at a screen that's incapable of taking offense and somehow we think that makes us incapable of giving offense.
**Tangent Alert: Another commenter on the aforementioned post brought up this super valid point: why is women's health care the hot button issue? Tons of people in this country are obese; the direct results of obesity are blatant: diabetes, heart disease and cancer are just the first few that come to mind. Women can't help being women--we are born that way, most of the time--but obese people oft make choices that directly result in their condition, yet, they're still covered by government health care (Medicare and Medicaid). Obesity costs this country a great deal and I'd bet my bottom dollar that it has cost this country more over time than making sure women have access to contraception. I'm sure you could also argue that if low-income families had access to birth control there would be fewer children born into them. Fewer children means fewer mouths to feed. Fewer mouths means being able to afford more nutritious foods. More nutritious meals means fewer incidents of obesity. Bam. Another problem solved. You're welcome, America. You're welcome.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Climbing trees
When you're someone like me--a person keen for adventure--you expose yourself to everything from true greatness to abject despair (pardon my dramatic flair, I went to theatre school). The beauty and the pain oft mix in a beautiful cacophony of trial and experience. While I wouldn't trade my life for a safer, more sedated one, sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to have lived without a fair share of hurtful experiences--of which betrayal is likely the most devastating for me.
There are all sorts of betrayals, big and small. For example, the top not coming off the pickle jar for you but easily popping for your boyfriend is a betrayal. Though the nomenclature might seem a smidge strong for such a minute event, when you dissect it it truly is a betrayal because you expected something to go one way and then it veered off in a completely different direction. It let you down. That's the worst.
I've experienced betrayal--we all have--but I don't feel it any more acutely than when I am climbing trees. Hear me out.
I like climbing trees. I like the view from up high because it contrasts my own quotidian view, which is naturally limited. I like the way bark feels on my fingertips. I like the smell of greens. I'm a little wild and love variety but sometimes even people like me find one really special tree that totally captivates them. I was at the park and found a tree that I needed to climb--practically inexplicably. It just called my name. So without hesitation I set out to climb said tree. I stepped on one branch close to the bottom and it held my weight. So I wrapped one arm around the trunk and reached for the next branch with the other. I pulled up myself--which is quite a feat because my upper body strength is deplorable. Then I spotted the next branch, a little further up the tree. It was harder to reach, but I'm not a quitter. I'm feisty. That branch, though I couldn't tell for sure from my point of view, looked comfortable and fun and possibly safe so I struggled my way to it and, before tenuously putting out one foot to test its strength, to see if it can support my weight, I ran out full force--possibly with a heavy picnic lunch on my back, adding even more weight--and plopped down. I thought that maybe the branch could take my weight--because I don't weigh that much, really--but before I realized what was happening the branch made that dreadful cracking sound and I started grappling for any bit of tree to hold on to. When I found nothing I tried to let another part of this tree catch my fall, but it wasn't able to cushion my blow. I had to fall hard. I had to hit each branch on the way down to the ground. I had to bump my head and cry like a child for a few minutes--or months--before realizing that, though I fell and it did suck dog balls, I survived. Granted, I probably concussed my head and split my lip, but those bits heal over time. That veil of fuzziness eventually cleared and I was left a more scarred but somehow truer version of myself, because I'm nothing if not persistent.
The scars are indicative of what kind of person I am and what kind of life I lead. I live a life that isn't always happy but is always inspiring. I live a life that is terribly polarized from perfect but incredibly joyful. I fucking live. Sure, falling from a tree that you expected to support you is a massive betrayal--and it hurts plenty--but it is the risk you take when you love to climb trees.
Betrayal is inevitable, but I rather be betrayed by the tree breaking and letting me fall than by myself because I stopped climbing trees.
I try to keep this in mind when I see new trees, but sometimes it's tough. I found a tree I desperately want to climb for a thousand reasons--one of them being that it's totally different from any other tree I've ever seen--but I'm scared. I'm scared because all trees promise they'll never let you fall and, despite this, most of them do. Sure, sometimes I fall because I misstep and sometimes I jump out of the tree because I am weary of the view, but the last big tree I climbed mangled me when it stopped supporting me and it's taken a long time to feel well again--and sometimes the fall haunts me something fierce and I'd by lying if I said what it did didn't affect me forever.
As I get older I know that my bones don't mend as quickly and I have more to lose if I fall hard. I can't spend another year or two of my life recovering from a tumble. I refuse. So the next tree I climb must be a truly special one and this one I spotted last spring is definitely the loveliest tree I've ever seen. I loved this tree so quickly and it took me a long time to admit it; I fear I came dangerously close to never getting the opportunity to know this tree because I was scared. I resisted taking the first step, then I retreated, then I tried again; that tree never went away--probably because it's pretty deeply rooted to the ground, but I like to think it's because it knew I'd be a great climber once I tried.
If I don't climb it and climb it well I'm betraying both the tree and myself. I can't do that. There are enough betrayals in this world without willfully adding another. Besides, I feel an itch to build a tree house in this tree--an amazing, solar-powered tree house--and I haven't felt the smallest inkling to do that in years.
That's something.
There are all sorts of betrayals, big and small. For example, the top not coming off the pickle jar for you but easily popping for your boyfriend is a betrayal. Though the nomenclature might seem a smidge strong for such a minute event, when you dissect it it truly is a betrayal because you expected something to go one way and then it veered off in a completely different direction. It let you down. That's the worst.
I've experienced betrayal--we all have--but I don't feel it any more acutely than when I am climbing trees. Hear me out.
I like climbing trees. I like the view from up high because it contrasts my own quotidian view, which is naturally limited. I like the way bark feels on my fingertips. I like the smell of greens. I'm a little wild and love variety but sometimes even people like me find one really special tree that totally captivates them. I was at the park and found a tree that I needed to climb--practically inexplicably. It just called my name. So without hesitation I set out to climb said tree. I stepped on one branch close to the bottom and it held my weight. So I wrapped one arm around the trunk and reached for the next branch with the other. I pulled up myself--which is quite a feat because my upper body strength is deplorable. Then I spotted the next branch, a little further up the tree. It was harder to reach, but I'm not a quitter. I'm feisty. That branch, though I couldn't tell for sure from my point of view, looked comfortable and fun and possibly safe so I struggled my way to it and, before tenuously putting out one foot to test its strength, to see if it can support my weight, I ran out full force--possibly with a heavy picnic lunch on my back, adding even more weight--and plopped down. I thought that maybe the branch could take my weight--because I don't weigh that much, really--but before I realized what was happening the branch made that dreadful cracking sound and I started grappling for any bit of tree to hold on to. When I found nothing I tried to let another part of this tree catch my fall, but it wasn't able to cushion my blow. I had to fall hard. I had to hit each branch on the way down to the ground. I had to bump my head and cry like a child for a few minutes--or months--before realizing that, though I fell and it did suck dog balls, I survived. Granted, I probably concussed my head and split my lip, but those bits heal over time. That veil of fuzziness eventually cleared and I was left a more scarred but somehow truer version of myself, because I'm nothing if not persistent.
The scars are indicative of what kind of person I am and what kind of life I lead. I live a life that isn't always happy but is always inspiring. I live a life that is terribly polarized from perfect but incredibly joyful. I fucking live. Sure, falling from a tree that you expected to support you is a massive betrayal--and it hurts plenty--but it is the risk you take when you love to climb trees.
Betrayal is inevitable, but I rather be betrayed by the tree breaking and letting me fall than by myself because I stopped climbing trees.
I try to keep this in mind when I see new trees, but sometimes it's tough. I found a tree I desperately want to climb for a thousand reasons--one of them being that it's totally different from any other tree I've ever seen--but I'm scared. I'm scared because all trees promise they'll never let you fall and, despite this, most of them do. Sure, sometimes I fall because I misstep and sometimes I jump out of the tree because I am weary of the view, but the last big tree I climbed mangled me when it stopped supporting me and it's taken a long time to feel well again--and sometimes the fall haunts me something fierce and I'd by lying if I said what it did didn't affect me forever.
As I get older I know that my bones don't mend as quickly and I have more to lose if I fall hard. I can't spend another year or two of my life recovering from a tumble. I refuse. So the next tree I climb must be a truly special one and this one I spotted last spring is definitely the loveliest tree I've ever seen. I loved this tree so quickly and it took me a long time to admit it; I fear I came dangerously close to never getting the opportunity to know this tree because I was scared. I resisted taking the first step, then I retreated, then I tried again; that tree never went away--probably because it's pretty deeply rooted to the ground, but I like to think it's because it knew I'd be a great climber once I tried.
If I don't climb it and climb it well I'm betraying both the tree and myself. I can't do that. There are enough betrayals in this world without willfully adding another. Besides, I feel an itch to build a tree house in this tree--an amazing, solar-powered tree house--and I haven't felt the smallest inkling to do that in years.
That's something.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
My cat scares the shit out of me // Volume 1
I've had one cat for the last eight years and for the entirety of that time I've lived in fear. Many people believe that Penny Lane is my pet, but this is inaccurate. Pets love you and snuggle you; they provide that specific warmth and affection that is unique between mammals where one is dependent on the other for survival. Penny has never known that particular warmth; in fact, if ever I reach out to her for love and encouragement she uses it as an opportunity to put me in my place--which is, as she estimates, wildly below her.
She's a bully and bullies usually inspire intense fear and--admittedly--admiration.
As I write this she's staring at me through the window. I think she knows I'm writing about her and she's wholely unimpressed. It's a gorgeous, nearly autumn day. She should be basking in the sun or lazily sauntering down the sidewalk. Instead she patiently waits, not for me to let her inside, no; rather, for me to let down my guard and open myself for the incoming onslaught. She's so mean.
I'm not the only person to have incurred the wrath of Penny. Virtually every roommate I've had in the last near-decade has suffered from her spite. Haley, one of my best friends in the universe, and Penny have a particularly sordid past, one that could easily be spun into a Kardashian-esque reality television experience. One night Haley ended up sleeping in my bed whilst I was gallivanting out of town (brief back story: this was when Haley, Amy--another bestie extraordinaire--and I lived in Queens together in a two bedroom apartment. I lived in the living room. For two years. Without a door. Or closet. In Queens. Positively third world.) and good ol' Penny the terror didn't care for Haley as a bedfellow. So, in the middle of the night Penny--euphemistically speaking--relieved herself on Haley's pants. Haley woke up in the morning to a puddle of smelly wet on her pretty denim and was--needless to say, probably--not satisfied. Penny Lane smugly twitched her tail as she sat at the foot of the bed; I imagine she received a great satisfaction in knowing that Haley got the message.
*Funny tangent, she got the idea to get in through the balcony from a boyfriend I once had who did something very similar--as in, scaled the building and came in my (living)bedroom through the balcony door. It was terrifying.
She's a bully and bullies usually inspire intense fear and--admittedly--admiration.
As I write this she's staring at me through the window. I think she knows I'm writing about her and she's wholely unimpressed. It's a gorgeous, nearly autumn day. She should be basking in the sun or lazily sauntering down the sidewalk. Instead she patiently waits, not for me to let her inside, no; rather, for me to let down my guard and open myself for the incoming onslaught. She's so mean.
.JPG) |
| Intimidation |
Not too long after the wee incident Haley fell prey to Penny again. This time she was getting ready to take a relaxing, hot shower (at 3AM--at this point in our lives we were all bartending) and she didn't want Penny in the room. Penny didn't like this. Penny wanted to be in the room and Penny always gets what Penny wants. So, when Haley briefly left the room in her towel Penny made a break for it, ran into the room and somehow closed the door behind her. Haley then realized the door was--that's right--locked. The effing cat had locked Haley out of her room while the shower was running. Haley, ever the problem solver, put on some of my clothes, went outside, scaled the side of the building to reach her balcony and let herself back into the room*. Once Haley got back in the room she found Penny happily sitting in the middle of the rug, as nonchalant as ever, basking in triumph in the sauna-like bedroom.
One might think that age would mellow any creature, but I find Pen Pen just gets crazier. To boot, since moving into her new place she has started going outside in her very own urban backyard, which also makes one believe she'd exhaust herself chasing butterflies or the homeless and, therefore, be cooler. Not the case. She's worse. And, now she's started duping the sweet, unsuspecting gaybors.
I have these amazing gaybors (gay neighbors, for those not in the know) who not only have the best front porch on the block but also the best back yard. They're an inspiration. Penny has decided that she rather be their cat than mine which I, admittedly, understand. Instead of being open about it, though, she has decided to play the part of 'feral cat'. Recently I noted to my boyfriend that Penny beshits the litter box about four times the amount she used to; needless to say I was worried. From where did it all originate? I had no idea. Then, whilst having a beer with my gaybors on the porch they asked me if I had seen the adorable feral that had been roaming our backyards. I replied that I had not. They said, "you have to see her! She's so beautiful. She is tiny and has these gorgeous bright green eyes and brindle coat. She's kind of nice but we don't get too close because she seems a little wild. We just leave her food and treats on the back porch."
Consider my suspicion aroused. I absented myself only to retrieve my little bugger. When I brought her out I said, "is this the feral cat?" and they simultaneously screamed, "MONSTER! You're here!" and I retorted, "yes, 'monster' is accurate but her name is Penny Lane and she isn't technically feral. Just a convincing replica."
That slattern. She tricked the neighbors into thinking she was needy in order to get the fancy organic food and here I was picking up the 'remains' and fearing she had some sort of bowel cancer. When she realized she'd run the course of her long-con she smacked me in the face, jumped out of my arms and sauntered away, occasionally looking back and winking--a cute little, 'this isn't over yet' wink that still haunts my dreams.
I'm scared of what else she has up her sleeves.
One might think that age would mellow any creature, but I find Pen Pen just gets crazier. To boot, since moving into her new place she has started going outside in her very own urban backyard, which also makes one believe she'd exhaust herself chasing butterflies or the homeless and, therefore, be cooler. Not the case. She's worse. And, now she's started duping the sweet, unsuspecting gaybors.
I have these amazing gaybors (gay neighbors, for those not in the know) who not only have the best front porch on the block but also the best back yard. They're an inspiration. Penny has decided that she rather be their cat than mine which I, admittedly, understand. Instead of being open about it, though, she has decided to play the part of 'feral cat'. Recently I noted to my boyfriend that Penny beshits the litter box about four times the amount she used to; needless to say I was worried. From where did it all originate? I had no idea. Then, whilst having a beer with my gaybors on the porch they asked me if I had seen the adorable feral that had been roaming our backyards. I replied that I had not. They said, "you have to see her! She's so beautiful. She is tiny and has these gorgeous bright green eyes and brindle coat. She's kind of nice but we don't get too close because she seems a little wild. We just leave her food and treats on the back porch."
Consider my suspicion aroused. I absented myself only to retrieve my little bugger. When I brought her out I said, "is this the feral cat?" and they simultaneously screamed, "MONSTER! You're here!" and I retorted, "yes, 'monster' is accurate but her name is Penny Lane and she isn't technically feral. Just a convincing replica."
That slattern. She tricked the neighbors into thinking she was needy in order to get the fancy organic food and here I was picking up the 'remains' and fearing she had some sort of bowel cancer. When she realized she'd run the course of her long-con she smacked me in the face, jumped out of my arms and sauntered away, occasionally looking back and winking--a cute little, 'this isn't over yet' wink that still haunts my dreams.
I'm scared of what else she has up her sleeves.
*Funny tangent, she got the idea to get in through the balcony from a boyfriend I once had who did something very similar--as in, scaled the building and came in my (living)bedroom through the balcony door. It was terrifying.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
"I'm the seagull...no, that's not it...
I'm an actress! It doesn't matter." (Nina in Anton Chekhov's The Seagull)
When I ask this question I often think about myself and my cohorts from Circle. We attended a prestigious acting school where we cried, studied Chekhov and performed Israeli army exercises on the daily. We risked having our heads slammed into doors by our teachers. We shed blood and sweat and weight for the sake of our art. Best of all, we have pieces of paper to prove it. Now many of us are out there auditioning and performing, actually getting paid a paltry penance to put our craft to work; and we all pretty much love it. Until mid-December I'm among the lucky to be gainfully employed in such endeavors; as soon as In the Next Room closes I will embark on my next vision quest in the laugh-riot Death of a Salesman.
I recently posted on the Facebook the following: "I get to act today. I'm the luckiest girl on earth," and meant it with every sinew inside me. Every day anyone gets to do what he / she loves to do is a blessed one for that individual. As the kids say, "I recognize."
Right now I feel comfortable (I know, Circle kids, we don't use that word) and accurate in calling myself an actor because I'm actively acting. When I'm not working on something--whether it be a scene, an audition or a full-blown production with wigs--I get a little squirmy when someone asks me what I do. Acting is a job, like anything else. It's probably the best, most noble job in the universe--totally unbiased opinion, obvi--but it's still a job. So if I'm not acting am I still an actor? If a banker isn't doing whatever she does with money, is she still a banker? I don't know. I truly don't.
My mates from Circle are definitely actors. I've seen all of their work and when describing many of them I'd say, "oh, _____ is a tremendous actor," because I've seen it first hand. Circle kids, like everyone else who attends acting school, are trained actors who put in their dues. I can safely say that even if my classmates and I aren't being paid today to do plays or commercials or films we are still actors. We earned it. I'd also bet that my classmates are constantly roving life for experiences that they will later use in their work. In a sense actors are always honing their crafts, diving deeper into what it is to be human.
Why then do I have a problem describing myself as an actor when I'm not acting? I have no problem calling myself an artist because I am--I'm a theatre artist. That never changes because I'm always cultivating my craft and writing. But 'actor' has a weight to it--the weight of expectation, the weight of sacrifice, the weight of work being produced. I know the sacrifice being a working actor entails. I've made those sacrifices: moved away from friends and family, lost boyfriends and relinquished financial freedom and security--and those are the easy sacrifices to pinpoint.
I suppose my discomfort surfaces because of how other people sometimes use the nomenclature. It seems that some folks use the term 'actor' as a personality type, as if the term has a specific set of traits like 'introvert' or 'extrovert'; as in, "well, I love being the center of attention. What can I say? I'm an actor!" No, you want to be the center of attention because you want to be the center of attention. It has nothing to do with theatre. It's all about you.
I never want to be perceived as that guy. I never want someone to think, "don't mind that temper tantrum, Maura is an actor so she's difficult," or "Maura is an actor so she loves having people look at her," because that's not what being an actor is. Being an actor is performing for a job: being a storyteller, maybe sometimes holding a mirror up to humanity, many times just entertaining people. What it isn't is a personality type. Sure, certain personalities are drawn to the profession; it's pretty tough to not like speaking in front of people and be an actor, so many actors are extroverts, but many are not. Many are middle-of-the-road extroverts who don't always need to be the center of attention. Honestly, most of the time when we actors are working and we're offstage we like to be pretty normal--you know, just have regular conversations. Performing is exhausting and unless there's art (or money) involved most of the time we don't need to be 'on'; we need to reserve our energy because our job requires a boat load of it.
Also, the best actors I know are keen to observe human beings, to listen. The whole being on stage bit is oft a bi-product of their desire to express what they witness.
I like to think of myself as an actor in practice but an artist in personality: a person with an explorative soul, a sensitive spirit, a passion--a downright need--to create. Acting is just one of the job in which my artistic personality manifests. I'm not an actor and, therefore, an attention seeker. I'm an actor because I have an innate desire to tell a story, to be part of a process.
This sounds pretty high-and-mighty, I'm aware. I honor my craft, though, and get inordinately worked up when a person who hasn't earned his / her stripes begins saying, "I love getting attention! What can I say? I'm an actor!" as if that's the reason an actor acts. It trivializes what's beautiful about the work: giving part of yourself to complete strangers in order for them to see something new within themselves. It isn't a 'look at me' gesture; it's a look at yourself, look at the world gesture. It's a beautiful thing and not something to dwindle down to attention-seeking.
Somehow, if the reason a person gets on the boards is to get attention it makes the whole game far less noble. And--let's be real--anything that keeps you so poor needs to be, at the very least, extraordinarily noble.
My mates from Circle are definitely actors. I've seen all of their work and when describing many of them I'd say, "oh, _____ is a tremendous actor," because I've seen it first hand. Circle kids, like everyone else who attends acting school, are trained actors who put in their dues. I can safely say that even if my classmates and I aren't being paid today to do plays or commercials or films we are still actors. We earned it. I'd also bet that my classmates are constantly roving life for experiences that they will later use in their work. In a sense actors are always honing their crafts, diving deeper into what it is to be human.
Why then do I have a problem describing myself as an actor when I'm not acting? I have no problem calling myself an artist because I am--I'm a theatre artist. That never changes because I'm always cultivating my craft and writing. But 'actor' has a weight to it--the weight of expectation, the weight of sacrifice, the weight of work being produced. I know the sacrifice being a working actor entails. I've made those sacrifices: moved away from friends and family, lost boyfriends and relinquished financial freedom and security--and those are the easy sacrifices to pinpoint.
I suppose my discomfort surfaces because of how other people sometimes use the nomenclature. It seems that some folks use the term 'actor' as a personality type, as if the term has a specific set of traits like 'introvert' or 'extrovert'; as in, "well, I love being the center of attention. What can I say? I'm an actor!" No, you want to be the center of attention because you want to be the center of attention. It has nothing to do with theatre. It's all about you.
I never want to be perceived as that guy. I never want someone to think, "don't mind that temper tantrum, Maura is an actor so she's difficult," or "Maura is an actor so she loves having people look at her," because that's not what being an actor is. Being an actor is performing for a job: being a storyteller, maybe sometimes holding a mirror up to humanity, many times just entertaining people. What it isn't is a personality type. Sure, certain personalities are drawn to the profession; it's pretty tough to not like speaking in front of people and be an actor, so many actors are extroverts, but many are not. Many are middle-of-the-road extroverts who don't always need to be the center of attention. Honestly, most of the time when we actors are working and we're offstage we like to be pretty normal--you know, just have regular conversations. Performing is exhausting and unless there's art (or money) involved most of the time we don't need to be 'on'; we need to reserve our energy because our job requires a boat load of it.
Also, the best actors I know are keen to observe human beings, to listen. The whole being on stage bit is oft a bi-product of their desire to express what they witness.
I like to think of myself as an actor in practice but an artist in personality: a person with an explorative soul, a sensitive spirit, a passion--a downright need--to create. Acting is just one of the job in which my artistic personality manifests. I'm not an actor and, therefore, an attention seeker. I'm an actor because I have an innate desire to tell a story, to be part of a process.
This sounds pretty high-and-mighty, I'm aware. I honor my craft, though, and get inordinately worked up when a person who hasn't earned his / her stripes begins saying, "I love getting attention! What can I say? I'm an actor!" as if that's the reason an actor acts. It trivializes what's beautiful about the work: giving part of yourself to complete strangers in order for them to see something new within themselves. It isn't a 'look at me' gesture; it's a look at yourself, look at the world gesture. It's a beautiful thing and not something to dwindle down to attention-seeking.
Somehow, if the reason a person gets on the boards is to get attention it makes the whole game far less noble. And--let's be real--anything that keeps you so poor needs to be, at the very least, extraordinarily noble.
 |
| Truth and Wig. (Jay Paul took this gorgeous photo) That's me in In the Next Room, y'all. |
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Startling Realization #2
I'm old.
Granted, twenty-seven and three-quarter years isn't old to a vast majority of people, but when things begin happening that one reserved for 'adulthood' one suddenly feels the sweet sting of time flying by.
For some reason in my head time resembles a bee and stings without provocation.
Whenever people ask me how old I am--which happens a surprising amount, by the way--it takes me a second to respond because for whatever reason my gut always says twenty-two--which is cute but inaccurate. I'm not sure why that number immediately comes to mind. It isn't like twenty-two was the best year of my life--it was actually pretty terrible--so it's not that I'm holding on to that age in order to consistently bask in the joy and pleasure that it was: a major break up, a major move, a major shooting at my school and a major ass-whoopin' by acting school. Obrigada, mas não. No, I think my gut says twenty-two because I was dwelling in possibility, in looking out at the world with a certain sweet naivete; that hasn't really changed a whole lot. I'm still learning and vision-questing all over the place. While those basic traits are there it's somehow different. I'm not wildly impulsive; I make decisions based on long term results as opposed to short term pleasure--except when it comes to ice cream. I know so much more about what I actually want as opposed to what people want for me. I could quote Anton Chekhov's The Seagull right now, but you get the picture. I'm mature, dammit.
Really, getting older is awesome. I have a little more money and a far greater understanding of who I am. So, why do I get a slight twinge of regret when I think of being twenty-seven?
That twinge is caused by several things, including but not limited to the fact that I love school and probably won't go back again for purely academic reasons. I'd really only go for something practical--like a PhD in theatre. Boring. (Kidding. That would be incredible.) I notice the school bit every year. I love buying school supplies. I love organizing my new pens. I love the smell of fresh notebooks. But the twinge I experienced today had nothing to do with a composition book. No. Today that twinge was caused by the Olympic Games.
I'll be more specific. My twinge of regret is a direct result of Nathan Adrian. The beautiful, sweet, charming, laughy, tall Speedo-clad Adonis Nathan Adrian. That All-American, multiple Olympic medalist, record-holding swimmer Nathan Adrian--who was born in 1988. Kill me. 1988? I have memories of 1988. They look like this:
When was I no longer the same age as collegiate / Olympic athletes? Like, five years ago, I know, but I didn't realize it until just now. What can I say for myself? I'm slow.
I'll keep you posted.
Granted, twenty-seven and three-quarter years isn't old to a vast majority of people, but when things begin happening that one reserved for 'adulthood' one suddenly feels the sweet sting of time flying by.
For some reason in my head time resembles a bee and stings without provocation.
Whenever people ask me how old I am--which happens a surprising amount, by the way--it takes me a second to respond because for whatever reason my gut always says twenty-two--which is cute but inaccurate. I'm not sure why that number immediately comes to mind. It isn't like twenty-two was the best year of my life--it was actually pretty terrible--so it's not that I'm holding on to that age in order to consistently bask in the joy and pleasure that it was: a major break up, a major move, a major shooting at my school and a major ass-whoopin' by acting school. Obrigada, mas não. No, I think my gut says twenty-two because I was dwelling in possibility, in looking out at the world with a certain sweet naivete; that hasn't really changed a whole lot. I'm still learning and vision-questing all over the place. While those basic traits are there it's somehow different. I'm not wildly impulsive; I make decisions based on long term results as opposed to short term pleasure--except when it comes to ice cream. I know so much more about what I actually want as opposed to what people want for me. I could quote Anton Chekhov's The Seagull right now, but you get the picture. I'm mature, dammit.
Really, getting older is awesome. I have a little more money and a far greater understanding of who I am. So, why do I get a slight twinge of regret when I think of being twenty-seven?
That twinge is caused by several things, including but not limited to the fact that I love school and probably won't go back again for purely academic reasons. I'd really only go for something practical--like a PhD in theatre. Boring. (Kidding. That would be incredible.) I notice the school bit every year. I love buying school supplies. I love organizing my new pens. I love the smell of fresh notebooks. But the twinge I experienced today had nothing to do with a composition book. No. Today that twinge was caused by the Olympic Games.
I'll be more specific. My twinge of regret is a direct result of Nathan Adrian. The beautiful, sweet, charming, laughy, tall Speedo-clad Adonis Nathan Adrian. That All-American, multiple Olympic medalist, record-holding swimmer Nathan Adrian--who was born in 1988. Kill me. 1988? I have memories of 1988. They look like this:
 |
| Me. 1988. Tie-dye was boss. |
Having a crush on Nathan Adrian isn't totally unacceptable though he's a mere twenty-three years old. Besides the fact I have a boyfriend--who's also quite tall and athletic, nbd--this crush is quite harmless, as there is little to no chance Nathan Adrian and I will ever meet or that'd I'd give up my tall drink of water for him. I'm allowed to admire his witty interviews, killer smile, graceful athleticism and--yeah, fine--his hot bod from afar.
I suppose this is what folks call an 'ahah' moment; I realized there are people younger than I who are super hot, skilled and successful and it's completely okay to find them attractive because they're also legal adults. I'm not the youngest kid in the room anymore. I'm a--sorry to say this because it sounds so formal--woman. I'm a twenty-seven year old with a mild-mannered crush on a twenty-three year old. Now I understand Hugh Hefner! Those young stallions are the bee's knees, Hef. We see eye to eye, you and I.
I like this age more than any other so far because it's brought some beautiful things to my life: stability, confidence, love, friendship, commitment and the 2012 Summer Olympic Games; which led to Nathan Adrian, which led to this realization: I'm finally growing up and it's so incredibly awesome.
I'm going from wild child to wise guy...with any luck.
I like this age more than any other so far because it's brought some beautiful things to my life: stability, confidence, love, friendship, commitment and the 2012 Summer Olympic Games; which led to Nathan Adrian, which led to this realization: I'm finally growing up and it's so incredibly awesome.
I'm going from wild child to wise guy...with any luck.
I'll keep you posted.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Eu não entendo nada!
If you ever want to feel like a kid again but in none of the awesome ways--just in the exceedingly awkward ways--I suggest learning a new language when you're twenty-seven.
I've briefly mentioned that I've started learning Portuguese. It's an incredibly beautiful language that has completely captured my heart. Not only is it this trilling, open-mouthed cacophony of smooth sounds, but also a great language to use to talk about people right in front of them; because--let's be honest--in comparison to Spanish speakers the Portuguese speaking population é pequena.
While it's a gorgeous language, learning it is a constant exercise in humility, which everyone who knows me personally knows I hate. This humility surfaces because I'm not perfect at Portuguese--yet--and the person with whom I converse most loves laughing at me when I make infantile mistakes. So far I've only cried twice from his hatefulness and I consider that quite a feat, considering how fucking delicate and sensitive I am.
I'd love to compile a list of things a new Portuguese speaker should avoid doing at all costs, but that list would take us into next Carnival. Instead I will share a few of my blunders with you in hopes that if you ever begin to learn the most beautiful language known to man that you'll be able to learn from my missteps.
1. Don't say sexually explicit things to any Brazilians ever.
I say this very lovingly: Brazilians are prudes. Don't be thrown off by their convivial, warm and affectionate charms; they'll blush faster than any Irish fourth grader you know. Perhaps it is their deeply-rooted Catholicism--eu não sei--but it seems strange that a nationality known for a very sensitive instance of body hair removal is uncomfortable with the use of naughty language. When I first began learning Portuguese I asked my Brazilian amiga if this was an offensive or funny thing to say: "vamos trepar como animais," and her immediate response was one of horror and revulsion. This phrase means, "let's fuck like animals," and it's one of the first full sentences I learned in Portuguese because I think it's preposterous and hysterical (preposterous because I'm saving myself for marriage*, mother, and hysterical because the YouTube is chock-full of funny animals-doing-it videos). Obviously I would never stroll up to an avó and say something so vulgar, but for joking banter with friends I thought this phrase would be perfect. It isn't. If minha amiga's reaction wasn't confirmation enough, when I said it to meu Fe he said, "VULGAR!" (which means 'vulgar' in Portuguese, incidentally) and sprinted out of the room--probably crying. Lesson learned.
2. Say what you mean and mean what you say.
I've treated my Portuguese education like any lady treats a party: if it comes to overdressing or underdressing for the party she always chooses to overdress. With that in mind I've tried to learn proper Portuguese and--aside from my "let's eff like animals" phrase--avoid slang at all costs. This was very evident when I had to apologize to a Portuguese speaker. In Portuguese one can very easily say, "desculpa" to apologize and be done with it, but if one wants to be quite fancy one can say, "sinto muito." I decided to be quite formal and I paid for it. Instead of saying, "sinto muito" I got flustered and said, "muito cinto." This means "much belt" and makes sense to no one ever. Luckily it totally diffused the situation: Nando mercilessly laughed at me and went to watch Cheers. All was well with the world.
3. Quit being sensitive. You will be teased.
Portuguese speakers love to laugh at non-native speakers whilst they're learning the language. It's something they've earned for being able to effortlessly make the ão sound. Just get used to it. O português é uma língua difícil de falar. Hold back those tears and fire back any of the following phrases:
Eu não entendo nada! They'll agree with you and lay off the teasing because you've finally relented: you understand nothing.
Cala a boca! I suggest saying this while ominously pointing a finger about three centimeters from the Portuguese speaker's nose. Sure, you're talking about his / her mouth, but your point will be taken.
Any silly English noun with the augmentative -ão attached to it. Say it loud and proud, too. Let's take the word 'turd" because it's universally hysterical. When your native speaking teacher begins to laugh at you pronouncing the 'h' sound in homem pull out this gem of Portulish: turdão! It means 'big turd' and it'll definitely make him / her laugh with you as opposed to at you. To boot, they'll be instantly impressed at your vast knowledge of the Brazilian propensity for both nicknaming and using augmentative and diminutive forms. You'll come out on top.
Despite--or maybe because of--the mishaps, learning Portuguese is one of my favorite linguistic adventures to date. Sure, it's an occasional ego bruiser, but then there are the glorious moments when you say something properly with minimal accent that make it all worthwhile. Just enjoy it.
A vida é bela...or something close to that...
I've briefly mentioned that I've started learning Portuguese. It's an incredibly beautiful language that has completely captured my heart. Not only is it this trilling, open-mouthed cacophony of smooth sounds, but also a great language to use to talk about people right in front of them; because--let's be honest--in comparison to Spanish speakers the Portuguese speaking population é pequena.
While it's a gorgeous language, learning it is a constant exercise in humility, which everyone who knows me personally knows I hate. This humility surfaces because I'm not perfect at Portuguese--yet--and the person with whom I converse most loves laughing at me when I make infantile mistakes. So far I've only cried twice from his hatefulness and I consider that quite a feat, considering how fucking delicate and sensitive I am.
I'd love to compile a list of things a new Portuguese speaker should avoid doing at all costs, but that list would take us into next Carnival. Instead I will share a few of my blunders with you in hopes that if you ever begin to learn the most beautiful language known to man that you'll be able to learn from my missteps.
1. Don't say sexually explicit things to any Brazilians ever.
I say this very lovingly: Brazilians are prudes. Don't be thrown off by their convivial, warm and affectionate charms; they'll blush faster than any Irish fourth grader you know. Perhaps it is their deeply-rooted Catholicism--eu não sei--but it seems strange that a nationality known for a very sensitive instance of body hair removal is uncomfortable with the use of naughty language. When I first began learning Portuguese I asked my Brazilian amiga if this was an offensive or funny thing to say: "vamos trepar como animais," and her immediate response was one of horror and revulsion. This phrase means, "let's fuck like animals," and it's one of the first full sentences I learned in Portuguese because I think it's preposterous and hysterical (preposterous because I'm saving myself for marriage*, mother, and hysterical because the YouTube is chock-full of funny animals-doing-it videos). Obviously I would never stroll up to an avó and say something so vulgar, but for joking banter with friends I thought this phrase would be perfect. It isn't. If minha amiga's reaction wasn't confirmation enough, when I said it to meu Fe he said, "VULGAR!" (which means 'vulgar' in Portuguese, incidentally) and sprinted out of the room--probably crying. Lesson learned.
2. Say what you mean and mean what you say.
I've treated my Portuguese education like any lady treats a party: if it comes to overdressing or underdressing for the party she always chooses to overdress. With that in mind I've tried to learn proper Portuguese and--aside from my "let's eff like animals" phrase--avoid slang at all costs. This was very evident when I had to apologize to a Portuguese speaker. In Portuguese one can very easily say, "desculpa" to apologize and be done with it, but if one wants to be quite fancy one can say, "sinto muito." I decided to be quite formal and I paid for it. Instead of saying, "sinto muito" I got flustered and said, "muito cinto." This means "much belt" and makes sense to no one ever. Luckily it totally diffused the situation: Nando mercilessly laughed at me and went to watch Cheers. All was well with the world.
3. Quit being sensitive. You will be teased.
Portuguese speakers love to laugh at non-native speakers whilst they're learning the language. It's something they've earned for being able to effortlessly make the ão sound. Just get used to it. O português é uma língua difícil de falar. Hold back those tears and fire back any of the following phrases:
Eu não entendo nada! They'll agree with you and lay off the teasing because you've finally relented: you understand nothing.
Cala a boca! I suggest saying this while ominously pointing a finger about three centimeters from the Portuguese speaker's nose. Sure, you're talking about his / her mouth, but your point will be taken.
Any silly English noun with the augmentative -ão attached to it. Say it loud and proud, too. Let's take the word 'turd" because it's universally hysterical. When your native speaking teacher begins to laugh at you pronouncing the 'h' sound in homem pull out this gem of Portulish: turdão! It means 'big turd' and it'll definitely make him / her laugh with you as opposed to at you. To boot, they'll be instantly impressed at your vast knowledge of the Brazilian propensity for both nicknaming and using augmentative and diminutive forms. You'll come out on top.
Despite--or maybe because of--the mishaps, learning Portuguese is one of my favorite linguistic adventures to date. Sure, it's an occasional ego bruiser, but then there are the glorious moments when you say something properly with minimal accent that make it all worthwhile. Just enjoy it.
A vida é bela...or something close to that...
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