RIP Allstate Commercial

So the Allstate commercial Bob and Amanda have been collecting residuals on for the past 6 years has finally run its course. Funny. Receiving residuals is something that you can never really count on for long. This was an anomaly. It shouldn't have run that long. But after 6 years of regular "surprise checks" in the mail, receiving them stopped being a surprise. They simply factored into the budget. The sudden end to them feels a lot like losing a job. And you know what? There has been plenty of that in this house already.

The upside of being unemployed is that when you get the endless stream of calls from banks and contractors and credit card companies and newspaper subscription services trying to sell you something at 7:30 p.m. every night, all you have to say is: "I'm afraid we're not interested. You've reached a home that is collecting unemployment checks." Invariably, the response is: "I'm so sorry. Good luck to you." and then you hear the click. And then, apparently, they take you off the list. Try it, it works.

That's about it for the upside.

I'm Invited!

The I.R.S. is getting ready to celebrate their annual holiday again - the one in which they reach into my bank account and tell me what I am obligated to contribute to the merriment.

Please understand, I am not anti-tax. I believe we need taxation to run our country and serve our citizens effectively and efficiently. My issue isn't with the "taxes" part. It is with the "effectively and efficiently" part. But you know what? That's a whole other rant I'm not prepared for tonight.

I have been nagging Bob to get started on the taxes for weeks - knowing full well that he puts it off as long as possible. Bob doesn't like to know bad news. He wants to postpone it or ignore it or get drunk and forget it. I on the other hand, know it is coming and want as much time as possible to live with it so that I can avoid the feeling of having had a bucket of ice cold water thrown over me on April 15th. Anyway, Bob finally got "the box" out.

"The Box", is literally an old ugly box where all receipts, records, statements, etc. for the entire year are thrown. No file system. No envelopes. No bags labeled by moth or by purpose. Just a mess. I hasten to add that I have purchased easy to follow filing systems for Bob but he refuses to use them. He tells me if I want to do the taxes I can use them. So naturally, we use the box.

Once the box is out, we commence the two week process of organization. A zillion piles are arranged all over the dining room table and it is only now that we find out how much we made and what kind of write-offs we have.

Well surprise, surprise! In spite of a year that started with me being unemployed and then a job that paid far less that what I earned at Disney, Bob had a fantastic year. In fact we had the best year we have ever had. We added this several times because it was nearly impossible to believe. But we got the same number over and over again. So why, we wondered, weren't we feeling rich? Oh yeah. We paid off thousands and thousands (and thousands) of our debt. And we paid thousands in medical bills. (Even though we had insurance, our portion of Bob's surprise gall bladder surgery in February and the twins' medical tests for our trip to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore last summer was not small.) So even though we made a lot of money, we are still eeking by - not too miserably, but cautiously. And paying off debt and medical bills is not deductible.

So basically, we are going to have to pay through the nose this April. Funny how being out of debt doesn't give us the feather weight feeling we enjoyed last year in view of the fact that cash in hand is at a premium. So far, 2011 is off to a disappointing start - like, zero income for the first quarter. Which means that we are finally having to get into our well protected "cushion". And that is what it is there for, so it really would be would be fine were it not for the fact that Uncle Sam wants the lion's share of our cushion this year.

I.R.S. is taking on a mew meaning this year. For me, it stands for I'm Really Screwed. Because this little party on April 15th is not, as you know, an invitation you can RSVP your regrets to. As invitations go, it's very rude.

Theatre Lessons

We were watching the anniversary concert of Les Miserables on PBS with Grace tonight. In between answering all her annoying questions, like: "What is this about?", "Is he a good guy or a bad guy?", "Why does she love him?" "Does that kid get killed?" and "Hey! Joe Jonas is in this? Why aren't the other Jonas Brothers in this?", we heard a fairly spectacular concert.

At the same time, it took both Bob and me back to the mid 80's when we were both endeavoring to become actors. We both auditioned for this show. They used to hold major Equity auditions in this huge Presbyterian church on the corner of Highland and Fountain, near Hollywood Boulevard in Hollywood.

Everyone, and I mean everyone came out for that show. As far as Broadway musicals go, this one has a really big cast. Like 20 people or something (I'm guessing) and for every part in the show there were 600 people auditioning for it. I went to the open call - meaning without agent submission and why I bothered I'll never know. The casting director never looked at me once the entire time I was in there singing. And I sang my whole song. I didn't get cut off - but he never looked at me once. Oh yeah. Acting is so rewarding...

Anyway, so we're watching this production on PBS and reminiscing about the good ol', bad ol' days. We remembered how badly we and everyone we knew wanted this show. It was a huge hit and promised at least two years of employment and it was, after all, Les Miserables.

So back to tonight. The actress playing Eponine is singing her gut wrenching solo "On My Own" and Grace asks: "So what part did you audition for?" I replied, "Oh honey, we auditioned for the company" and then Bob adds: "We would have given anything for this show back then. We would have done anything to be in it. If they'd wanted, I would have 'tucked it' to play her."

Ahem.

Without missing a beat, Grace asks "What does 'tuck it' mean?"

Bob looked at me in panic and I shot him one of my "I really wish I could kill you" glares. This did not help. Upon seeing this non-verbal exchange Grace knew that Bob had said something horrible and therefore she was infinitely more interested in getting her answer.

"Nothing". I said.

"Oh c'mon! I've eleven years old. I can handle it. "

"No!"

"Daaaaaaaaad. What does 'tuck it' mean".

"Uh, I'll tell you some other time."

"No you won't." I shot him another look.

"Oh c'mon you guys - this is stupid. Just tell me what it means."

This went on for some time. And I was missing the concert for this battle. And then I realized she would likely go to a friend and tell the friend the story, who in turn wouldn't know the answer and would then go to their parent. And then I figured the phone would ring.

I gave up. "Oh GRACE! Okay. It's what a guy sometimes does to play a girls part."

"Huh?" She was going to need more. Crap.

Bob tried to help. "You know Grace, like transvestites."

No kidding. This was Bob's attempt at getting himself out of a bad predicament. I just stared at him in utter amazement. (Oh really, Bob? Did I really have a child with you?)

"No Grace. Sometimes, if a guy has to play a girl he has to tuck his privates between his legs."

She took a moment to soak it in. And then: "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew! Daddy you would have done that?

"No Grace. You dad was kidding."

"Oh dad You're so weird."

And yes, yes he is. Living with Bob is dangerous. He erupts with inappropriateness all the time. On the other hand, she is the daughter of an actor and sometimes you just have to roll with the punches.

I was reminded of an incident about 3 years ago when she was eight and he was in a show called "Too Old for The Chorus" He played a middle aged ex-dancer who was gay. He had a solo where he sang about the man he loved. It was understated but it was there. I watched Grace out of the corner of my eye - this was, after all, her dad. Grace sat next to me on opening night and listened without batting an eye. But when the song was over and the audience began their applause, she leaned over to me and with a droll delivery mature beyond her years, she whispered: "I could have lived without that".

Never dull.

The Open Secret of Bullying

When I was about 5 years old I suppose and living in El Paso, Texas, there was a little blonde girl in my neighborhood who I knew only a short while. Her parents were divorced - which was very unusual at the time - and she lived alone with her mother. For a week or so, we became friends and I remember playing with her - very happily. But I remember another feeling as well - one I could not understand or articulate at that young age. This little girl was too happy to play with me. She was grateful and reliant upon me as a friend. And that made her vulnerable. Weak. Given the fact that I had the power in this relationship, my feelings toward her soured, to the point of contempt, and I abruptly cut off the friendship. She tried several times to get me to play with her and her frustration turned to fear and then to desperation and I remember the last time I saw her. She was crying and asking me why I wouldn't play with her anymore. My response was to stick out my tongue to her and she ran away in tears.

When I was 6 years old attending 1st Grade at Warm Springs Elementary School in Fremont, California, there was a little boy - skinny and odd looking. He walked funny and he was different. I truly cannot remember whether what made him odd was a slowness of mind or that he was highly effeminate - but I hated him. Without knowing him. I hated him because he was vulnerable and weak. And I joined the kids who laughed at him and talked behind his back. Once I remember that I stood behind him on my way to the cafeteria for lunch and thought to myself how easy it would be and how "rewarding" it would feel to kick him. Thankfully, I did not.

It is nearly 48 years since either of these two incidents have occurred, but over the years (and uncountable times) I have thought of these two children and prayed for them. And today I am shedding tears for my grave unkindness in thought and action toward them. God has forgiven me for it. I have even forgiven myself - but it does not exempt me from the consequences I bear from such cruelty, even at an early age.

Strangely, I am grateful that these old sins have continued to haunt me - because I believe it has given me a sensitivity to the suffering from bulling. In fact, I was bullied a great deal in my youth. Not so much in a physical way - but in a psychological way; one from which it is much harder to heal.

As a Christian, I understand that the greatest commandment is to love God with all your heart, all your mind and all your strength. The second greatest is to love your neighbor as yourself. We get this wrong all the time and it starts very young.

All kinds of explanations can be made for why we prey on one another. I couldn't give a damn about any of them. The fact is we do - and it needs to be addressed - and stopped.

My daughter has recently been the victim of bullying. But before I go any further, I will hasten to add that she has been a bully herself. And we often are left to reap what we sew. But at this age, most kids don't consider what they are doing to be bullying. There is a lack of understanding in their actions. There is a belief in the necessity of a kind of "behavior of power" for survival on the playground. There is an utter lack skill or capacity to articulate feelings or resolve conflict. And young people hold a mental picture of a big kid pushing a small kid. That defines bullying in their minds. We know that kids get physical with each other. Infinitely more common though are the times when they gossip. And they spread rumors. And they taunt with "secrets". And they practice exclusion. And they engage in "ditching". And they exercise a wielding of power. All of these practices are a terrible form of bullying and as I have said before, I know my daughter has engaged in this behavior herself. It is rampant in school playgrounds across the country. And it all goes largely unnoticed because of the shame associated with being the one being bullied as well as a fear that any intervention will only make matters worse. It is a secret. But it is an open secret.

Yesterday I picked my daughter up from school and saw that she was hiding behind a tree away from all the girls in her class. When she saw me she quickly came to the car and acted belligerently toward me. I knew something was up and had to threaten to call other moms to find out what it was until it all came spilling out - almost unintelligibly through the sobs and tears. Through gossip (spread in the name of being "truthful" - a justification for continuing gossip), rumor, "ditching" and exclusion, my daughter had been bullied. And I became enraged at the little girls who had driven my daughter to such despair. My initial reaction was to point fingers and judge those girls, to make accusations and to tell everyone I knew what terrible things had been done to my daughter so that they would stand united with me against those who had so maligned my baby.

In other words, my first reaction was to be a bigger bully.

I have spent the past 24 hours reflecting on this incident and realize, perhaps because I know the pain of being bullied myself, that it is often our reaction to deal with bullying by hiding or by overpowering. And there is no resolution in this. Not so easy is civil confrontation where we set aside anger and animosity. In fact, we hold dear our anger. We believe that it is our right. In fact, we behave as cowards.

It is the cowardice of parents that allows children who bully without understanding to grow into teenagers who bully for sport and adults who bully as lifestyle.

At nearly 54, I have to be one of thousands of parents who need to come out from behind that tree without a sword in hand. I need to live loving others as I do myself. And so with prayer for wisdom and courage - and especially for understanding and love - I am picking up the phone to call the other parent.

NCL

Today Bob brought in the mail and threw what looked to be a "thank-you" card sized envelope on my desk. The return address was vaguely familiar and I tried to remember what I had done recently that would prompt someone to thank me.

Frankly, nothing.

So I opened it and I saw the familiar gold embossed logo for NCL - not the cruise line but the organization otherwise known as National Charity League. Having spent 7 years actively involved with this organization with my other daughters, I knew immediately what this was. It read:

Dear Valri:

National Charity League takes great pleasure in welcoming your daughter, Grace Carolyn as a Legacy Provisional Ticktocker of ...et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Oh boy! My three year break between daughters has come to an end.

There is great work done in this organization and I have spent many, many hours volunteering for worthy philanthropies that depend on organizations such as the NCL to keep them going. For seven continuous years, my daughters and I have helped in homework clubs for "at risk" kids, taken elderly, wheelchair bound ladies on strolls through gardens and read to them, done mailings for the Wellness Community, worked fundraisers for the ALS Foundation, staffed parties for under-privileged children, volunteered at libraries, and many, many more activities that were definitely worth our time. But we also attended meetings, and luncheons, and teas and balls. And we have learned all the etiquette that accompanies those activities.

As an adult, I didn't mind any (well most) of the things that were required of me during my years as a "Patroness". My daughters? Not so much. As with most organizations that require meetings and time and dress code, during their years in high school it could be like pulling teeth to get them through it. But a commitment is a commitment - even if it is made very young. So after a great deal of explaining what to expect for the next six years - Grace, has decided that she wants to join and so, I am in. Again. Until 2017. I'll be 60. Shoot me now.

I had an awkward start with NCL. Looking at the note that came in the mail today, I was taken back to 2000 when my friend Candace (of the famously amazing dinner parties) asked me if I would be interested in joining. She was a member of NCL and thought I would really like it. I remember telling her that I had never heard of NCL - what was it? Candace explained to me that it was a mother-daughter philanthropy/social organization that would allow my daughters and me to work together, volunteering for community service needs in the area. She explained that there were meetings to attend and projects to take on and minimum hour requirements, but that it also looked good on a college resume. And that's what got me. Fantasizing about an unrealistic future has always been a favorite pastime of mine, and I looked at my then 10 and 9 year old daughters and imagined them gaining entrance to USC, UCLA, Stamford - all on the basis of their work in NCL. I was in. Candace sponsored me and I received the first of many, many formal invitations - this first one: an invitation to membership.

It was invited to attend a "coffee" at the home of so and so at such and such where I would be introduced to the current board and learn more about the organization and its requirements so that I could make an informed decision about joining. "Uh, okay. What's to decide? Its like Girl Scouts." But I figured I better show up since it was the first meeting and all. I remember it was raining that night. Grace was only two and I had come home from work and thrown on a beat up old pair of light weight pants and a stretched out cable-knit sweater and I got about the business of feeding the baby and picking up around the house when I remembered - the meeting! Candace was supposed to attend this meeting with me but she was out of town so I would have to go it alone. I was already running late. But here was my thinking: "Okay, I don't have time to change. I'm just going to run in and sign whatever papers there are, have a cup of coffee and scoot." I imagined this as nothing more than a "mom's meeting", a formality. I fully expected that all the new members would be similarly running in between their chores at home, and we would sit around someone's kitchen table, filling out papers and sipping coffee from mismatched mugs. Maybe there would be some Oreo cookies on a plate. So I threw on a pair of sandals (remember, its raining outside), grabbed a broken umbrella, my purse - along with my old pants and worn out sweater - got into the car, and followed directions to the house where the meeting was held.

As I pulled into the neighborhood I could see that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Big, grand homes that were spectacularly landscaped and lit surrounded me as I turned the streets to find the address.

Okay, the first missed clue was that the home was in North Ranch. But I had never been to North Ranch. This was "Country Club" living. I didn't know anyone who lived there. Had I, I would have called the hostess with a fake cough and begged off. I pulled up to this mansion of a home - the massive windows lit with the glow of warm lighting inside. I saw other women pulling up. And they were NOT dressed like me. I sat in the car for a moment, realizing that I was WAY out of my league here. SO the question was: do I go to the door and see if a house falls on me or do I just keep driving?

This was clearly not "like the Girl Scouts". I could do the Girl Scouts. But then I thought to myself: "Well I'll see how they react to me. If they tell me that the "help entrance" is around the back then I will just leave and that will be the end of that. But if they let me in, we'll see how it goes." So I walked through puddles in my sandals across the street to the front door. My old pants had rain spots on them and my old cable sweater had a baby food stain on the cuff that I noticed only at that moment. I couldn't properly close the broken umbrella. I took a deep breath and rang the bell. I stood rigid as I waited to be greeted with a raised eyebrow and maybe even a snarled lip. Certainly an icy "hello" with an extremely limp hand extended. A gorgeous and impeccably dressed woman opened the door to me. Upon seeing the mess that I was that evening, she did not gasp. She did not wince. She did not bat an eye. She smiled and said hello and took my ragged old umbrella and coat, welcomed me in and introduced me to the hostesses - who reacted to me similarly. Let me try to give you some perspective: I was the mason jar of "moonshine" in a sea of perfectly chilled Dom Perignon. The house was unimaginably beautiful. I felt I had stepped into the pages of Architectural Digest. There were floral arrangements everywhere, silver coffee service was on the long well polished dining room table with fine bone china and tray after tray of the most delectable assortment of cookies, cakes, and chocolate covered strawberries. I had never seen such an extravagant layout. With me as the sole exception, everyone was dressed in lovely tailored suits and pearls, expensive bags and they all appeared as though they looked like this all the time. They seemed to know or at least have met each other before. I knew no one. As in No. One. There were about 50 women in all- very "top drawer" - and me, looking for all the world like "Ma Kettle" at Buckingham Palace. But everyone was nice. To me. And I was impressed. Of course they had to have been dying inside at the sight of me but they were too well mannered to ever have let on. And I was eternally grateful for that. I found a small chair in the far back corner of the room and planted myself there for the meeting. As kind as everyone had been, I wouldn't have minded if California had produced one of its big earthquakes and the ceiling had fallen down on me. But once it was over, I grabbed my things, shook people's hands, apologized for my disheveled appearance (blaming a crazy day and the baby), and ran through the rain to my car. I guess I had passed. But they passed an unscheduled test as well. I cluelessly showed up as my very best worst. And they didn't flinch. Clearly, these broads were cool.

Above: Sherwood Country Club, home of the annual NCL Debutante Announcement Tea. Will and Kate would be right at home. Oh. And me too.

The Spock Within

So I got this notice in the mail two weeks ago telling me that I had to show up at some office for an interview related to getting unemployment. They sent a form that I needed to fill out showing what jobs I had applied for, how, and then what the results were. This was simple enough. I filled in all the blanks (and then some) and took myself to the Canoga Park address given for my 10:45 appointment - for which I was to be prompt.

It was an odd little meeting. I walked in and it looked like something between the office layout on "Mad Men"and the DMV. Sort of halfway depressing. I walked up to the very long registration desk and checked in with my form and my driver's license and my passport (they required 2 pieces of identification) and the lady behind the desk was very kind and helpful. She explained that I was selected randomly and that the interview would take only about 10 minutes and then she asked me to take a seat. Upon hearing my name a few minutes later, I was called back to the registration desk - but to the far end of it this time, only to learn that my interview would take place there. In other words, I would stand for it. No office, no chair, no privacy. Like at the DMV.

So this very nice man named Ron asked me some basic questions and informed me that they were there to help me find a job - which is very kind, but I don't have a great deal of faith in them because I am in, after all, a government office. And with all due respect, they are not known for their efficiency. He recommended that I take a number of seminars they offer to help me write a cover letter, make a better resume, translate some of my skills into another line of work - all stuff I have been through before. Ad naseum. I was polite and I will follow up because you never know. But then he asked me where I had been looking and what I had been doing and here is where the story goes surreal.

I begin telling him what I am doing with the online job search. How typically, when I am well suited for something, I submit and then I get some email back asking for more information and that once they get the information they need to figure out how old I am, the process abruptly stops. And are you ready for this? In spite of a calm delivery by me and the fact that I'm feeling fairly unemotional in the reporting of this age discrimination phenomenon, tears start spilling from my eyes. And I'm like: "I'm so sorry for the tears! I don't know why this is happening", and he says: "It's okay. This happens all the time". And I'm thinking: Really? The water starts running all by itself? All the time? And then I realize that most people are probably feeling the emotion behind the tears. And I know it isn't the meds because I'm not taking them right now. And I am not experiencing any eye irritations. And my mind goes to "Star Trek" and I wonder if somehow I might be part Vulcan.

So all I can figure is that this business of being unemployed and over 50 in a terrible economy is not a cakewalk. In fact it is pretty brutal. And a long time ago I must have built up a wall of cement to protect me from feeling horrible about my predicament. Because when you think about it, being alerted to the fact that you are not wanted - in spite of how hard you have worked and what you have accomplished - is really tough. But if that wasn't bad enough, in this age electronic job searching, it is painful to realize that you can be rejected anonymously via the Internet. No one even wants to shake your hand. You learn via a computer that you are officially irrelevant. Except how can that be - because you really once were. Not very long ago.

Anyway, Ron responds, well, appropriately. He tells me that while the law says that a company cannot discriminate because of age, we know it happens all the time. (I note that he does NOT try to say anything like "you're too young to be worrying about age discrimination" and for the first time I do feel emotional about it. I hate that no one ever puts up an argument to any comment I may make about me and "age" anymore.) His answer to my discrimination issue though is to suggest that I apply for a government job where, he assures me, they do NOT discriminate - even for age. As if this was my only real hope. (Now this is when I should have cried.) He gives me the websites and tells me it can take 6 months to a year to get a government job. I mention that I hear the benefits are good. He does not disagree. (But I know the pay stinks.) And I'm trying to see myself in a government job and I just cannot wrap my head around it. Not that there is anything wrong with a government job - but my mother had a government job - and I never wanted one myself.

So anyway, I am sitting here pondering an unwelcome shift in career opportunity and the fact that my tear ducts have apparently gone rogue and started performing independently. All I can say is no one had better look at me cross-eyed because at some point I guess I'm gonna explode.

And people may drown.