How to Make New Year's Resolutions You'll Stick To

New Year's is different these days. 

I'm over 40.  I don't go buy a sexy new outfit.  I don't strut around wearing next to nothing in weather that makes penguins wish they had coats.  I don't pay $400 to go to some yuppie truckstop where epic battles are waged to get a drink.  

And I don't make New Year's resolutions.

I've had too many years where I swore that I was going to go on a diet, only to have, by January 4, downed a pint of Ben and Jerry's Lardass Swirl.  With my bare hands.

Then I started making more generous and affirmative, new-agey kind of resolutions.  Things like:

"I will accept my body's needs. I will view food as something to enjoy instead of something with which to plug the mouse holes in my emotional foundation.  I will enjoy food in moderation."

And then once again, by January 11, I had consumed enough cheddar bunnies to give a box to every man, woman and child in China. 

Clearly, my New Year's resolutions were broken.

So this year, none of that stuff for me.  Resolutions are not a do-over.  

Resolutions are are about making fundamental changes in your approach -- changes that will result in lasting benefit.  

Below are six examples of two approaches to resolution making, and the sad (and actually somewhat angry and self-destructive) outcome.    

Badass:  I will eat less, work out like it's my job, and have a body like Gisele/Halle Berry/Beyoncé.
New Agey:  I will view food as nourishment, while accepting my body for what it is.
F--k It:  I will treat my body like a temple, meaning I will feed it like it was big enough to have its own address.

Badass: I will get my children on a schedule and to be more respectful of their parents, our rules, and our home.
New Agey: I will stop comparing myself to those "together" moms with their organized lives and compliant children.  I'll accept our family's M.O.
F--k it:  Imma let shit get all Lord of the Flies up in here.

Badass: I'll finally turn my blog into a popular moneymaker.

New Agey: I'll stop the social media insanity and just enjoy writing. 

F--k It: I'm going to set every apple in the house on fire, including the kind I can eat, and then launch them out the window.  

Badass: I will dress fashionably, like I care about my appearance instead of like someone who got dressed out of the Goodwill bin.

New Agey: I must understand that my clothes do not define me.

F--k It: I'll let my broke-ass freak flag fly by rockin' some barrels and burlap sacks. 

Badass: I must make my house look like something straight out of an HGTV staging.

New Agey:  I have to realize that a house where there is life cycles through order and chaos.

F--k It:  I'm going for a kind of Fred Sanford meets Hoarders look in my home.  

Badass: I will be a master of time management.  The clock will be my bitch!!

New Agey: I resolve to leave more time to get places, knowing that some circumstances are outside my control.

F--k it: I'll never arrive on time anywhere again, excluding the toilet.   

Now, seriously.

I had to poke some fun at the whole resolution thing, because it is tempting to think of that new year as a blank slate, meaning that somehow we should be able to be restored to factory settings.  

Unfortunately humans have no such setting.  

We are the sum of our past, and yet we are capable of overcoming great setbacks and loss.  

The problem is imposing things on ourselves.  Kelly Lydick, in Elephant Journal, advises us against "I will" and "I should."  She advocates in favor of "statements such as “I love feeling great in all my clothes,” or “I love how it feels to take a brisk walk with smoke-free lungs."  In words like that, our subconscious hears positive, motivating acknowledgement.

The other stuff -- the badass resolutions -- ARE, in fact, an invitation to your rebellious subconscious to just say f--k it, and to jump headlong into that bag of chips like it was a pool on a hot day.  

Food for thought, right?

So let's set our intentions on things that make us genuinely happy.  Let's not shame ourselves with our resolutions.  

Let's know that this year, our best self is already here.

Happy 2014, Dear Readers!

10 Ways Every Day is New Year's Eve When You Have Kids

1.  A night out costs a small fortune.

2.  Everyone around you feels entitled to celebrity treatment.

3.  The "music" makes you want to shove railroad spikes in your ears. 

4.  Girls hobble around in shoes they have absolutely no business wearing.

5.  You can bet your ass the ball will be dropped. 

6.  By the time you can go get yourself a drink or some food, there's not a thing left.

7.  There are questionable substances all over the bathroom. 

8.  It's 4 degrees out, but people insist upon rocking their skimpiest outfit possible. 

9.  Someone's working really hard to get in your bed.

10. You know you're going to be totally useless tomorrow. 

Isn't it great to know nothing's changed? 

Parents, we're living the dream!  

Happy New Year, my comrades in parenting -- whether you go out or stay in, or pass out at 10:30 pm!

Misadventures in Holiday Card Ordering

Whether you like it or not, you are probably a devout follower of the The Holiday Laws, Article 237, Section 5.  

That's the one says civilized people absolutely MUST send out oodles of cards featuring a photo of themselves, their partner, and/or offspring (pets optional).  It is of the utmost importance that in said photo(s) everyone look like the most attractive and joyful creatures ever to have graced the face of the earth.  

I might mock this custom a little (THE PRESSURE!), but really I love it. I have many friends scattered all over the country, whose gorgeous children I've never met, and may not meet for a long time, if ever.  It's a beautiful thing to open an envelope and see the passage of time through these ever-maturing young people.  

I love seeing a smirk, a smile, or just a fleeting expression that reminds me of my friend, not to mention seeing the faces of the kids that both drive my pals to drink and make their hearts soar.

And since I imagine that pics of my littles do the same for my friends, I treat the failure to send out cards like a felony.

I was slow this year, but since I have a DP (Doctorate in Procrastination), it didn't phase me much. On December 6, while the photo card companies were still handing out discounts like free condoms at a liberal college, I logged into my stand-by, the one that rhymes with Crapdish, and found a design I liked. Like any normal person, I uploaded some choice photos of my kids, and one family shot where we didn't look like candidates for DCFS. And then, after the amount of time it would take to separate conjoined twins, I hit the "submit" button.

With the discount codes my order came to about 13 cents.  Not really, but that's how thrilled I was.  I was ready to get a Crapdish tattoo on my butt.  

But wait. . . That's too cheap, I thought. I googled Crapdish, and found tons of complaints about the quality.

I did what any smart person would do.  I entered into a live chat with a customer service agent halfway across the world.

When I asked him about the paper quality, he never informed me that there was card stock, which is thick and durable and pretty, and then there was photo paper, which is flimsy and thin and once the postal person shoves it in a mailbox with 328 other items will look like a used Vagisil wipe.  

Sure it SAID photo paper.  But when you don't sleep, and two children and a husband have stolen your brain and turned it into cottage cheese, a gal needs a customer service rep with the insight and the BALLS to point out the obvious.

Ooops...

I ordered my cheapass cards and waited.

In two days, I got a notice that they had shipped.  Woot-woot!

In eight days, I went away for the weekend.  

When I came back, Hubs said they hadn't come, when they actually had (the subject of another post altogether).

The next day, I found the box and opened it.

Holy Shit!!! This. Was. All. Wrong. I launched into a diva hissy, and threw myself on the floor. "I canNOT send these cards!  These are HORRRRIBBLLLE!"  I called my bestie in New York, who, although she didn't say so, knew it was all my fault.  

I called Crapdish, and let them have it for LETTING me order such trash, and without emphasizing the difference.  

Graciously, and in accordance with their "satisfaction guaranteed" policy, they immediately refunded my money.  

But I still needed a card!

I scoured the Web for a card that was:

1. cheap

2. beautiful

3. would be printed and on my doorstep in five minutes.

Unfortunately, almost every company was now gouging those disorganized and stupid enough to wait until nine days before Christmas to order their holiday cards. In my book, these companies were now at the level of people who sold  overpriced single tampons.

Finally, after another 46 hours at the computer, I ordered my dream card from a company that sounds like Stutterguy.

Like Meatloaf says, "two outta three ain't bad." I almost had to put a second mortgage on my house to pay for those cards, but they should be here by Friday. 

Or else…

Happy Carding, Y'all!

Tales of Nutcrackers Gone Very, Very Wrong

It’s that time of year again, people.

We are in the sweet beating heart of Nutcracker season.  It’s the time of year when cracking nuts has nothing to do with kicking a dude in the crotch, and everything to do with hundreds of dancers making magic on an elaborate set. 

But did you ever stop and wonder what is REALLY going on onstage?  With the thousands of productions all over the country, let alone the world, there must be some MAJOR mishaps, right?

You bet your candy canes there are!  And right here on Mom’s New Stage some of my ballet dancin’ friends share their Nutcracker nightmares! 

Years ago I was in a Nutcracker performance where the professional guest Cavalier, a fantastic Cuban dancer, was a married man.  Not married enough, however, to keep from conducting simultaneous affairs with two of the women cast as party adults.  One of these women was also similarly "married." The other was a single schoolteacher, and she was head-over-heels smitten.   

During the performance the cavalier Cavalier broke it off with the schoolteacher. Devastated and enraged, she reported him to the police for sexual assault!  During the last act of the final performance of the run a team of police officers stormed into the theater, and began combing the backstage area and the catwalks in pursuit of the suspect. As you can imagine, all the dancers in the production wondered what the fondu a bunch of cops were doing in the wings.

The director begged the officers to let the accused finish the performance.  They permitted the Cavalier to take his bows before whisking him away for questioning.  

The charges were later dropped.  I'd be willing to bet that there has never been a more exciting final act of Nutcracker before or since.  

--- Anonymous

In one performance, my Sugarplum Cavalier got injured doing the last jump of his solo and his replacement was a dancer from the company who happened to be sitting in the audience watching the show. They grabbed him out, stripped him down backstage and got him into a pair of tights during my solo, (very QUICKLY) to make our next entrance. It was a little insane and confusing for the audience for sure.

---Kati Hanlon Mayo, Principal, formerly North Carolina Dance Theater

         


I was apprenticing at Charlotte City Ballet. We were doing the NYC Ballet version and we had an American Ballet Theater soloist dancing Sugar Plum.  It was a big deal; all my friends and family were there. 

Now probably because it was too expensive, the production team didn’t use the dry ice that would create those magical, mystical effects UNTIL THE ACTUAL PERFORMANCES!  In this production the second act started with the Sugar Plum Fairy's solo, so just after the curtain opened they spread the dry ice and then she appeared out of the mist.  The poor woman was like Bambi on ice. She fell about 10 times!

In the very next scene, all of the different dancers, Waltz of the Flowers, candy canes, Chinese, etc. were to run from upstage right to downstage left to bow to her.  So there I am in the wings, waiting and freaking out. Eight dancers went before me, and literally every other one busted her ass. I started praying, Don't let me slip, please don’t let me slip! Everyone is here!

I ran as lightly and delicately as I could, but still managed to wipe out EXACTLTY at center stage.  Completely shattered, I picked myself up, curtsied to the damn fairy, and exited. They ended up having to stop the production, mop and dry the stage, and restart it 30 minutes later!!!  To this day, one of my best friends who was in the audience tells me it was one of the most memorably hilarious moments in her life. 

---Christine Betsill, formerly Charlotte City Ballet

I am proud to say the only part I have ever played in the Nutcracker wasn’t Clara.  It wasn’t the Sugar Plum Fairy or the Snow Queen.  I can’t even say I donned the fabulous stilts in my best Drag garb as Mother Ginger.  (Although, that would have been right up my alley.)  My 5’2” modern dancer ass, complete with hips and a decent pair of tatas, was cast as…drum roll please… the Rat king. 

As if this wasn’t funny enough, my fearless opponent and the hero of our classic story was a 6’2” BALLET GOD.  I decided to play it as quirky as possible to make up for my Napoleonic stature.  Jumps, turns, electrified jolts were done at 160%, including the sword fight.  In the heat of taking down the Nutcracker prince, my sword hit his with such gusto, the blade broke right in the middle.  I had to finish off the battle creatively, with swinging shaft, until my dying breath.

---Jennifer Tarrazi-Scully, Dancer With An Attitude

There were a few times when I went for the shoulder sit and while I was being brought down, my butt tulle got stuck on my partner's hook and eye on his tunic. So there I was, halfway down to the ground stuck on my partner's chest! He finally ripped me off of his chest but needless to say, we couldn't stop laughing! It took about 8 counts for him to get me on the floor!

---Mia Cunningham, formerly North Carolina Dance Theater

It was my first Nutcracker ever with Ballet Austin. For some reason, the company arrived at the theater crazy late, with no time for a spacing rehearsal -- only time to quickly warm-up, get made-up and dressed, and get onstage.

I was rushing to get ready when I heard my music coming.  I was a soldier doll, but I'd never had a proper fitting or dress rehearsal, so I had no idea what to wear.  I grabbed a little military jacket and a matching short circle skirt, threw them on, and ran to place.  My partner and I were to enter from opposite sides of the stage each in our own tip trunks, a “gift” box where you open one side and it’s empty and then you turn it around, tip it over, and it we're there and pop out.  In my box, sitting with my arms wrapped around my legs, I felt a draft around my undercarriage.  #$%@!!!! I had no trunks*!  I only had tights under a super short skirt, and I had tons of crotch-revealing movement.  I was going to make this an X-rated Nutcracker!

So. . .I did the whole variation with my arms plastered to my sides.  My partner was like “What are you doing?!!!” I whispered, “I have no trunks on!”  We were cracking up, with me literally grabbing my lady bits to keep them from being on display.

From the wings, the director shot me withering “WTF?” looks. I thought I was for sure fired.  When I exited he asked, “What was that?”  I flashed him, and he laughed and shook his head.  I did the best I could bottomless.

---Charla Metzker Whitely, formerly Ballet Austin and Ballet Florida

Any Nutcracker bloopers in your past, either as a dancer or from the audience?  Do share!



*essentially the bottom half of a leotard

This Movie Hurts. And You Must See It.

I read Twelve Years a Slave over twenty years ago for a college history class. Nightmarish cruelty permeated every page in this harrowing story of a free black man, a resident of upstate New York, who in 1841 was tricked, kidnapped and sold into slavery in the deep South. It was a book I couldn't stop reading, although I needed to put it down often.  The unimaginable horror and vivid descriptions had a cinematic feel, and I wondered if there would ever be a movie.

And for years there was nothing, or nothing mainstream, until now.

I first learned that Twelve Years a Slave had been made into a movie on CNN, and then read a glowing review in the New Yorker, a magazine whose film critics give wholehearted praise to almost nothing.  I stalked it online -- read every critique -- yet shied away from watching the trailer because I knew it reveal too much misery.  I asked a girlfriend, my “heavy movie buddy,” to go see it with me.  She said she'd think about it, but said she just couldn’t after reading reviews describing scenes “unbearable in their cruelty,” scenes it was impossible to dismiss as “just a movie.”

My mother came to the rescue. She saw it once, and offered to see it again with me.  Although I was grateful for her company, I’m still not sure I understand the profound maternal love – wanting to share the experience with her daughter – that could make someone endure this movie twice in less than a month. 

Any emotional preparation I had tried to do failed miserably. I was a wreck walking into the theater. I couldn't even bring myself to distraction with popcorn or Twizzlers. I didn't want to, and I didn't even try.   The previews -- trailers for the Nelson Mandela biopic and Belle, a film about a beautiful young half black/half white woman (I couldn't help thinking about my daughter) adopted into a noble family in early 19^th century century England – didn’t help; I was teary before the main feature began.

From Twelve Years a Slave’s opening frame my muscles tightened.  I never walk out on movies, but several times I thought I might have to leave the theater.  About halfway through I reached for my phone to see how much time I had left.  While there are brief instances of light, kindness, natural beauty and humanity, the suffering and savagery are constant. I arrived home emotionally exhausted, and over a week later my mind dances with the film’s haunting sounds and images. 

It was a test of my emotional endurance.  And as excellent a movie as it was, beautifully filmed, featuring tremendous performances from all the actors especially Chiwetel Ejiofor, Lupita Nyong’o, Brad Pitt and Michael Fassbender, “I loved this movie” or even “I liked this movie” are sentences I can’t let pass my lips.  All I can think about is slavery, not softened into the mild servitude in Gone With the Wind but as a barbaric stain on American and world history.  More than any movie before it, Twelve Years a Slave makes the audience feel what it must have been like -- the violence, the rape, the dehumanization, the fear, the loneliness, the infantilization, the auction block, the separation of parents and children, and countless daily privations and humiliations.  It makes you not just understand that these things happened, but that they were commonplace -- the absolute power of master over slave, psychologically, physically, sexually and emotionally was sanctioned by law, and in the eyes of slaveholders, by God.  

Very heavy stuff.  So heavy, so depressing, and so disturbing I worry many people won't see it.  It’s so much easier not to. It’s not an escape; it’s not entertainment. Much of Twelve Years a Slave is too unbearable to watch, too evil to let into your consciousness.  

And it brings up far too many issues.  Many folks are tired of hearing about slavery and wish it would just go away, so we can stop blaming people, stop feeling guilty, stop feeling victimized and abused and move on.  

But that's impossible.  Slavery's legacy runs too deep.  And because slavery and race and our feelings about those issues bring out such anger and fear, we’ve stopped talking.  We go on extreme offense and defense when something goes down, but then the dust settles, and the gag goes right back in place. 

And it's such a shame because we need to ask each other questions. The conversation has to continue.  And as much as possible, in person, as opposed to on Facebook where anonymity gives so many people license to let their inner asshole out in full force.  

We need to talk about how a movie like this makes us feel, about why it is painful, and why depending on, yes, our skin color, we might be pained for different reasons.  We have to talk about our ideas and misconceptions. We need to acknowledge that this is an American story not a “black people’s story.”

We need to be open to hearing things we don’t like. 

Slavery’s ghosts still haunt us.  All of us.  Every day.  In things like our booming prison population, our failing urban public schools, the vitriolic opposition to our first black president, the opposition to a Cheerios ad, Trayvon Martin, expulsion over a natural hairstyle, and the list goes on. 

Please see Twelve Years a Slave.  As much as it hurts to watch, it's such a phenomenal and important movie. 

Go. And after you’ve seen and cried and become furious and asked questions and had a discussion, to help your spirit heal, go find a way to see in whole or in part, Alvin Ailey's masterpiece, Revelations.  The strong bodies, leaping, running and reaching for salvation become all the more relevant, soothing and heart-stoppingly ecstatic.  

December Finding the Funny!