Writing Away the Hours

Come Find Me Here!!

2009-11-27T00:01:00.000-06:00

I finally did it, got off my duff and got my personal site up and working where my blog continues to flourish. Come follow my adventures on the high-seas at:

www.deannamoffitt.com/blog

Thanks for following!

The Real Deal Behind D&D

2009-10-24T16:20:00.007-05:00

For over a year now I have been living in other people’s spaces. Spaces that are devoid of my own personal things. I have with me some basics; clothing, computer, royal blue Snuggie and everything else, is somebody else’s stuff.

Its amazing what you learn by living in someone else’s space. Not only about them, but about yourself too.

In 2008 Rance and I had to move out of our apartment six weeks before the start of a contract job working on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean.

With nowhere to go we made plans to sell off a great deal of our belongings, and put the rest of our stuff in storage. We talked about the idea of traveling for six weeks, which would have us spend money we were trying to save, or the possibility of going back to Portland, OR and spend that with our parents. Which had us both breaking out into a cold sweat.

And then thankfully our dear friend Rene came to our rescue. He offered us his guest room/office in his hip, cool condo for six weeks, rent-free while we waited for our contract with Second City to start.

Rance is in heaven. Not only because Rene is a great guy, he’s also a gaming geek. His condo is decked out with every electronic doo-dad a gamer dreams of owning. Huge flat-screen TV. stereo surround sound, Blue Ray DVD, Xbox, Wii, Rock Band with multiple instrument upgrades, and EVERY Xbox game Rance has ever wanted to play at his fingertips.

So this morning after Rene gets up early and leaves to go to his job that affords him all these wonderful toys. Rance gets up puts on his gaming sweats and sits on the couch to spend hours shooting snipers, fighting demons or playing electronic Uno.

Here’s the deal, if you have surround sound, you lose all sense of how loud and agitating the sound of gun-fire and a running footsteps and people dying can sound when you’re not involved in those activities.

To try and escape, I create a little corner in Rene’s guest room to read or work on my computer. Please note that “work on my computer” actually means check Facebook statuses regularly and search for reruns of Little People Big World on YouTube. We all have our coping mechanisms.

It’s in this room that my eyes are opened to a whole new world. There are multiple bookshelves filled to the brim with books like: “Lando Calrissian and the Starcave of ThonBoka”, “Star Wars Galaxies: The Ruins of Dantooine” “The Courtship of Princess Leia”, “Boba Fett: A Practical Man”, “Dungeons & Dragons Player's Handbook: Roleplaying Game Core Rules, 4th Edition”, “Dungeon Master's Guide: Core Rulebook II”, and “Tuesday’s with Morrie”.

I am clearly in a strange, new world.

What helps to get over any judgment I may have about all of this is that Rene is a really interesting, multi-faceted guy. He’s got an IT job he’s good at, he was in the air force, he skydives, he performs with and produces some of the best improv in the city, he loves to travel, his condo not only has the best electronics but he has great taste in art which is evident in his décor, and he would give you the shirt of his back if you needed it. So knowing all these other sides to this complex man help me to reconcile the library of geekdom.

And if I am to be completely truthful, I’ve always had a thing for geeks. Not that I want to live in their world of wizardry and make-believe, but even in high school I believed that it was the geeks who would ultimately have the last laugh and become the successes of our graduating class. I am also drawn to the kind of people geeks usually are: kind hearted, thoughtful, intelligent. They play enough games for entertainment that they don’t usually spend a lot of time playing them in their relationships. It’s when they get together and start talking about their passion for the game that I lose interest. I’m a realist and have always preferred dealing with actuality than fantasy.

Rance takes a break from playing Halo and I come out of the bedroom to the welcoming silence to make lunch and talk about what our respective mornings have been like, which lasts all of about 30 seconds. When Rance drops the bomb.

“Hey, some guys are going to come over tonight to play D & D”

“D & D, Dungeons and Dragons, you’re going to play Dungeons and Dragons here?”
I feel an undertow of anxiousness begin to build. I don’t have anywhere to go tonight. In fact I need to stay home and finish writing a piece I am working on.

“Why do you have to play it here?”

“Rene’s the Dungeon Master and he’s gathering everyone.”

Dungeon and Dragon’s here in this house, while I’m here. My breathing shallows. I’ve never had one ounce of desire to take part in a D & D game. In my conservative suburban upbringing, if D & D was mentioned it was quickly followed up by words like dark, sinister, evil a disturbing game played by troubled kids.

For me it conjures up images of glassy-eye guys, in dark basements, role playing with swords and eating babies. I mean there’s a dungeon master, and spells and dwarfs all of this points to something terrible.

I knew Rance had played D & D when he was younger I just really wanted to believe he had no interest in that sort of stuff now as a grown man with limited responsibilities.

“Do you have the right clothes, don’t you need a cape or something?” I asked in a desperate attempt to abort the event.

Rance burst out laughing, “A cape? What would I need a cape for?”

“I don’t know, isn’t that what you do? Fight each other with swords and twirl around in a cape while casting spells?

Rance doubles over in laughter and I join in reluctantly. I am sure at least some of my assumptions are based in fact. Why else would my parents and the rest of the Christian right be so up in arms over this game.? Clearly they had to know something.

So as the afternoon wore on, my anxiety grew. Rance discussed setup plans with Rene over the phone. Move the table, arrange the furniture, gather the snacks, darken the room, light the candles, assemble the torture devices, slaughter the goats. Yes, I had walked out of the room when the phone call started but I knew the plans they were making.

Rene gets home and the energy in the condo ignites. As Dungeon Master he clearly has a very important role and I watch him from my vantage point of the guest bedroom/office. He rushes into the room with an evil glint in his eye and a lust for blood, grabs a few aforementioned D & D books. The demonic powers are about to appear.

And then the first D & D gamers arrive. I stand in the hallway to get a good look and hopefully enough details of the evil-doers in case some serious shit goes down. In my mind they’ll be dark, gothic looking guys, wearing dark hooded cloaks to cover their tender pale flesh. So imagine my surprise when Neal one of the nicest, dare I say bubbly guys you’ll ever want to meet, walks in.

“Hey Deanna, it’s good to see you, you gonna play?”

“Uh, no”, I reply as I shuffle back to the guest bedroom. Trying to hide my confusion as my brain computes what I’m seeing with what I know is going to happen once the game begins. Neal’s here? I never would have taken him for one of those kind of guys.

Quickly the remaining players all show up and they toss around a light-hearted banter that seeps through the closed door to my room. And then I hear it, a sound that makes me tilt my head like a cocker spaniel trying to figure out his owner’s command. Wait, there it is again.…a woman’s voice. A woman? This does not fit into any imagery I’ve ever conjured of a D & D game. Does she play the role of some sort of token wench? Is she a virgin to be sacrificed? Is she supplying the baby? I come out of the room once again to say “Hi” and let them all know I’m in the spare bedroom. I’m hoping with the knowledge of me being in the house they’ll keep the evil down to a minimum.

What I see stops me in my tracks. I look into that room and am completely confounded. These are all people I know, and moreover I like them all! And the woman’s voice I had heard is the girlfriend of one of the guys now gathered around the table. The lights aren’t low, there are no candles, no torture devices, no goats. In fact if anything can be said they’ve got too many lights on, let’s save the earth people. There’s pretzels, chips and sodas and beers. They’re all laughing and clearly having a great time.

Dungeon Master Rene sits at the head of the table with a pile of books next to him. Now opened these books read more like technical manuals and how-to-references rather than evil scripture of destruction.

The best part though is that instead of whips, and weapons of torture, each of the players has in front of them what looks like a job application and grocery list. Dungeons and Dragons is a game of filling out forms!

And that’s when I lose it with laughter. All these years I really thought D & D was a dark and sinister game and in reality people who play are getting practiced and skilled at filling out a sheet that resembles a form 1040A.

So, for anyone out there who has children and you’re worrying because they play that disturbing game D & D you can stop. Geeks aren’t evil, or sinister or dark they’re just in training to become our future highly successful tax accountants.

Till Death Do Us Part

2009-10-08T12:08:00.001-05:00

Here's a fun movie short that my friend Scott asked me to help him out with for the show "Impress These Apes." They scored 10's across the board from those damn, dirty apes.

What A Friend Will And Won't Do For You

2009-09-27T13:47:00.006-05:00

It’s 1994 and five days ago Paul Moffitt and I got married in Vancouver, Wa. We’re now in Cozumel, Mexico on our honeymoon along with four of our friends. Let me correct that by saying four of MY friends. It should have told me something about my marriage to Paul that I asked my best friends to come along on our honeymoon but that’s a different story for a different time. Today, we’ve planned a day of adventure by renting a jeep and our goal is to find some of the fantastic snorkeling that we’ve read about in the travel books.

As unofficial tour guide I tell the group that there is a private marine park that costs a whopping $3.00 per person, which sets every one off in an outrage.

“Three dollars per person that’s crazy!”
“I don’t want to spend money to snorkel”
“That is such a rip-off!”

We become determined to find a free beach for snorkeling. While driving along we stumble upon a seemingly perfect little cove area, that has all the prerequisites: it’s free, there’s not a crowd and it has a little hut where I can rent snorkel equipment which benefits only me since everyone else has brought their own.

The only other people on the beach are two old, wrinkled, Texan dudes playing poker at a picnic table. They break their game long enough to size us up and down and when they surmise that we’re not here to cause any problems they go right back to their game.

In broken English the guy that rents the equipment tells us that the best snorkeling is beyond the buoy line. Inside the buoy line is good for swimming, beyond is good for snorkeling he says.

I’m so glad they rent fins as well as masks and breathing tubes. I’m not such a hot swimmer and having fins makes me feel like I can swim further and for much longer. They also give me an extra 5 – 6 inches of leg in case I need to stretch my foot down and touch bottom.

It’s perfect weather and we’re all excited about the possibilities. Everyone waits for me to get my equipment and as soon as I’m geared up we’re all in the water swimming for the depths past the buoys.

I immediately encounter problems. My rental equipment is cheap and has been overused. The mask takes on water and the fins are flopping around on my feet. I have to make a stop at the buoy line to adjust my mask.

Even with my leg extender fins, the water is too deep for me to stand so as Paul and my friends swim under the buoy line to the great snorkeling beyond. I pause to make some adjustments. To help keep me afloat as I try to tighten my fins I put my arm over a buoy, which is really nothing more than a volleyball that the rope is strung through.

Within moments I experience a deep, penetrating pain that radiates through my entire right side all the way through to my heart. I feel like my insides are exploding, or my lungs have collapsed or an angelfish has shived me.

It is a pain so severe that I am gasping for breath.
Though I don’t know what it is, I am sure that I’m about to die. And without saying a word to anyone I put my head in the water and propel myself as fast as I can towards the dock.

As I’m swimming my constant thought is just to get land before I die. I don’t want to be one of those bloated bodies of a drowning victim. I believe that I break some sort of torpedo speed record and as I climb up the ladder to the dock I see Paul and my friends all swimming towards me. Though I never said anything to them before racing back they all cut their snorkeling time off abruptly to see what was wrong with me. I am so glad I won’t have to die alone.

I collapse on the dock with my arms raised above my head the pain is unbearable. As soon as my friends circle around me the sounds of their gasps and the look on their faces tell me all I need to know. I’m a goner.

“Deanna, what happened?” Linda asks.

“I don’t know, I think I was stabbed or I’m having a heart attack”.

“You look like you’ve been hung over a fire.” Julie says.

And for the first time I actually look under my arm down my right side. It is fire red and bubbling with welts and blisters.

One of the old, wrinkled Texan dudes stops his game of poker and comes over to see what the commotion is about.

As he joins the circle of my friends he takes one look at me and gives his diagnosis.

“Oh, she’s been stung by fire coral”

“What’s fire coral? What can we do for her? Do we need to take her to the hospital?” my friends ask.

“Am I gonna die” I feebly whisper.

“The best thing you can do is pee on her.” He says

And as I lay there in complete agony feeling like a roasted pig on a spit, I say the words I never thought I would say in my life.

“Please, Please someone pee on me.”

I watch my friends and Paul in complete shock silently weighing in on their ability to rescue me.

Linda and Julie are immediately making excuses because they don’t feel like they can squat and pee out in the open. It does seem ridiculous to have one of them do it when there are three capable men with their own personal hoses available.

The men make their own excuses.

“I don’t’ have to go to the bathroom” Bryant says. “I just went in the ocean.”

“I can’t do that dude, she’s your wife.” Chris says to Paul.

And Paul just looks at me with the most pathetic face and does nothing. I’m laying on a dock in Cozumel in the most pain I can remember feeling in my life and the man I just married can’t even pee on me.

The old, wrinkled Texan dudes tells me not to touch the blisters because it will spread the poison. And then he remembers a salve he has in his little dingy of a boat. He goes to fetch it and brings back a vile of what looks like crystallized urine.

A chorus of thanks rises up from all of us. From me because I’m hoping this salve will help me avoid a trip to a Mexican hospital and everyone else because they don’t have to perform under such stressful conditions.

My friends help me dab on the ointment, we say our goodbyes to old, wrinkled Texans and we climb back into the jeep for the journey back to our hotel.

Two hours later the blisters have all gone down and I’m left with what looks like a horrible rash that stays with me for the next few days.

I learned some valuable lessons that day:

$3.00 is not too much to pay for a private beach.

You should always carry your own snorkeling equipment.

And your partner for life should be willing to pee on you when you need it most.

Jokes of the Week

2009-09-18T16:25:00.002-05:00

I'm currently writing 10 jokes a day, here's some of the best of this past week.

The Obama's next door neighbor is selling his home in Chicago and predicting the home will sell for somewhere around $2 million because while the kitchen and bathrooms need substantial renovation, the home has "good bones." The real estate agent added, some of which have found their way from Burr Oak Cemetery, so you know they're good.

Gertrude Baines, the world's oldest person, has died in Los Angeles, California, at the age of 115. Her nurse said she never drank, never smoked and never fooled around, which ironically means she never lived.

Walt Disney World is about to embark on a sweeping facelift for the Fantasyland section of the Magic Kingdom, in what the resort calls the biggest overhaul in the theme park's 38-year history. "It feels like we might be starting a little late at 38 years old", reported project foreman, Joan Rivers.

The USDA says struggling pork farmers are being hurt in a big way when the virus is called “swine flu.” And are hoping their proposed name “every other kind of meat flu” will stick.

Happy birthday, Catherine Zeta-Jones. You are turning 40 this month. Forty may be the new 30 but your husband is the new mummy.

Dangerous bacteria may be spraying out of your shower head and right into your face, according to a new study. The study discourages people from rubbing spoiled chicken on their showerheads.

Jessica Simpson's beloved maltipoo Daisy was grabbed by a wild coyote that then vanished with the small dog. Turns out the coyote and maltipoo eloped and were located in the honeymoon suite at The Hotel for Dogs.

Facebook has beat its goal of getting out of the red by the year 2010. While celebrating that goal it's downplaying it's other goal beater, of how many annual productivity hours lost to the "What Kind of Fairy Are You?" quiz.

Jon Gosselin in prep for his divorce from Kate is getting rid of his dogs, saying "I'm tired of living with bitches."

"The Newlywed Game" is bringing on its first gay couple. George Takei, who played Mr. Sulu on "Star Trek," will appear with his partner, Brad Altman. In answering the question why were you attracted to your mate George answered, he went where no man had gone before.

Going Down With the Ship

2009-09-13T18:01:00.009-05:00

I have now lived twelve months of my life, a whole year, on a cruise ship. I have traveled to places I never dreamed I’d see, let alone on someone else’s dollar. Malta, Athens, Messina, and Istanbul all thanks to Second City for casting me in their shows aboard Norwegian Cruise Lines. It is a great job, a really great job, I make people laugh for money…but it does have its drawbacks.

One of the drawbacks is that for 12 months of my life I have lived with Rance, a man who is 6’5” with size 14 shoes in a 143 sq ft cabin.

If you’re having trouble imagining what 143 sq feet of living space is like, let me help you. Upon opening the door of our 10th floor, passenger cabin located at the back of the ship you are welcomed into a short six-foot hallway that is approximately two and a half feet wide. Immediately on the left wall of the “hallway” is a door that leads into a bathroom containing the usual commodities: toilet, sink, shower all arranged so compactly that it’s impossible to sit on the toilet normally; I ride side-saddle while taking care of business.

On the right side of the “hallway” are foot-wide floor to ceiling shelves, a small closet, and three compact drawers that are at capacity when filled with only 5 shirts, 4 pairs of pants and a handful of underwear and socks. The hallway opens up to the “living area” that is a 9x9 square foot space, housing a small table and chair, with a TV mounted above it, a “desk” which is basically a triangle piece of laminated wood, and a king size bed that allows only a foot and a half of space on either side of the bed.

All this means that there is approximately a 3 X 2 space at the end of the bed for standing room and this is where Rance likes to leave his size 14 shoes.

I like space, I like to move in my space, I don’t like shoes in my space.

“Why do you have to put your shoes right here?”

“I dunno, ‘cause.”

It can be a little crazy making. There’s no window, no room to move, no outlet to the outside world. The cabin can become a cave of hibernation shutting us off from the constant stimulation of the ship. The world could be ending outside and we’d never know it while we’re locked in our 143 square feet of space.

And tonight that’s exactly what happens. We have spent the entire day at sea after leaving New York yesterday for the start of another seven-day cruise to the Bahamas. It’s been a little rocky but nothing out of the ordinary for the trip down the eastern coastline.

Like most evenings Rance and I who have discovered an aversion to hanging out with passengers telling us how funny they are, while spilling strawberry daiquiris down their shirts, and Lady GaGa blaring in the background. We escape to our room around 11pm to slip under the covers of our trademarked Bliss bed and enjoy the subtle rocking of the ship in the relative quiet of our room.

Kaboom! What sounds like a bomb has just dropped on the top deck of the ship, the red lights of the digital clock go out. The room is pitch black. Seconds later the faithful hum of the air conditioner falls mute. And then something you never want to experience on a 93,000-ton ship. The engines go completely dead. There is silence. It is absolute quiet on the ship. We are floating in the middle of the Atlantic with no power.

On a ship with 2,500 passengers 1,000 crew members I have a constant desire to find a place that is completely quiet with no music, no external voices, no constant drone of activity nothing to intrude on my own thoughts and daydreams. It’s impossible to find. Even here in our small little room, the hum of the air conditioner or the random interruption of announcements is heard. So the moment that silence arrives I am completely freaked out because it’s not supposed to be here.

Rance fumbles for his iTouch and turns on the handy flashlight application that I scoffed at and said he’d never use, and now I’m so grateful he has it. We sit up in bed and grasp for each other and whisper as if on cue “what the f*#k”!

We quickly speculate on what just happened. A North Korean missile? Somalian Pirates? ACORN? I’ve only had FOX News as my news source since being on the ship, so it could be any one of those things.

It’s only dark for about 30 seconds before the lights flash on, the air conditioner begins to hum and we hear the growl of the engines start back up. And then. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP the abandon ship alarm which consists of seven short blasts and one long one, that could wake the dead from any watery grave, begins it’s wail.

Oh. My. God. Rance and I look at each other…”WHAT THE F*#K”? Even before the abandon ship alarm is over Rance is dressed and putting on his shoes that were so easily found at the end of the bed. His mission: to get to our muster station, which is oddly placed, at the complete opposite end of the ship. I however am in a state of shock and not sure what is happening and I’ve made little progress in the act of getting dressed. “Is this for real?” I ask. “I’m not gonna sit around and wait to figure it out, get dressed.”

Rance opens our cabin door to see what if anything is happening in the hallway. The emergency lighting that runs down the entire length to guide people in case of darkness has been turned on.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to determine which clothes would be best to drown in. Do I want something heavy but warm or something I think I can swim in for a while before I drown. I opt for a sweatshirt and yoga pants but I’m still working on the shoes. Tennis shoes? No, too many laces? Italian sandals? No, I don’t want them to get ruined if I die. Crocs? Yes, crocs!! I’ve struck the perfect balance. I’ll be warm in the sweatshirt and float a little while longer before dying in Crocs.

Brett, our cast mate and next-door neighbor opens his door and steps into the hallway, looking like he had just awoken from a winter’s slumber. “Hey, what’s going on?”

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP…the abandon ship alarm starts up again. “Looks like this shit’s for real.” Rance says as I come up behind him, fully dressed for my death at sea. He grabs my hand and without another word to Brett busts past the door and drags me down the corridor.

My mind is whirling with all the possibilities we’re about to face. Oh god what if we’re going down? What’s worse getting caught on the inside or thrown to the ocean? What if sharks are circling? What if Rance and I get separated? What if I’m in the same life raft as Julio, the creepy Argentinean chef, who’s always trying to kiss me? How do you go number two on a life raft?

“Excuse us, Excuse US!!”

We pass a few passengers, Rance practically stiff-arming the confused, helpless souls that have wandered into the hallway. I’m a bit embarrassed and yet oh so grateful to realize the man I love is a take-charge kind guy; a real hero. I get the sense that if need be, he would throw me overboard to save my life.

We round the corner and head down three flights of stairs to reach Deck 7 where all of the main public areas of the ship are located. And what strikes me first is that none of the passengers seem concerned or frightened at all. They are all milling about with their cocktails. They’re talking and laughing as if what we’re experiencing is some sort of high school prank.

And then I see them, groups of crew members, mostly young Filipino women, huddled together, crying, they are losing their shit. There are other groups of crew just standing motionless with their mouth dropped open realizing all of their worst fears of living and working on a ship are coming true.

The dichotomy of this situation leaves me to believe that Rance and I are the only ones who will actually be alive once this ship goes down. The passengers will be too drunk and the crew will be too incapacitated by fear to save themselves. And then I recall an odd statistic that was reported in our safety training. In the last five out of seven ship catastrophes it was the guest entertainers on board who went above and beyond to help people to safety. That’s us! That’s Rance and I! We’ll be the ones to save these people’s lives! Rance will lead the charge!

“Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I apologize for the alarms and momentary loss of electricity. The ship was hit by lightening causing a power outage. The abandon ship alarms went off during the reset process of our security and monitoring systems. Again, I apologize if this has caused you any distress, have a good evening.” And with that our life and death moment is over. We won’t have to save any lives tonight, least of all our own. I won’t have to worry about being eaten by sharks, or getting too close to Julio, or going number two in front of people I don’t know.

Rance, whose adrenaline has shot through the roof, lets out a long stress relieving sigh. He grabs me by the waist and hugs me tight. We turn and walk back arm in arm, laughing with the other crew members we pass who are just as relieved and thankful as we are that the drama is over.

I tease Rance as we head back to the room that he was like George Castanza in the Seinfeld episode where George runs out of the children’s birthday party knocking over an old lady to escape a small contained fire. But truthfully, I’m proud of the way he reacted in the face of danger. And I don’t get mad at all when he gets undressed and puts his shoes at the end of the bed. A hero has to be ready in a moments notice.

Comedy Snips and Bits

2009-09-10T16:00:00.005-05:00

I'm working on my comedic writing skills with the help of this book. It's got a TON of exercises that force you to work and flex some rarely used muscles.

The author also challenges you to write way more than you think necessary, in the hopes that you'll get one or two gems in the list of 50 that you just wrote.

Below are sample set of some of the exercises, it's a fun process to work through, though these first few exercises are not necessarily the types of comedy I'm drawn too. It's fun to think about comedy in a different way.

Ten Tom Swifties

"Kathy you're a bitter old woman," Jake said shrewdly.
"Looks like this one was killed by a hammer blow," the detective said bluntly.
"Doctor, I need a boob job," she said flatly.
"Honey, thanks for changing the light bulb," she said brightly.
"I'm so hungry for donuts," Tom said with his eyes glazed over.
"Your father died," the doctor said gravely.
"I can't answer that question", the defendant said blankly.
"Brad, please don't pop your knuckles," his mom cracked.
"Tony, have you seen my ruler?" his wife asked measuredly.
"Chef, I have to tell you these frog legs are fantastic," she croaked.

Visual Jokes

As if there were cartoons but you'll create the visual in your own mind.

One lone sock left in the bottom of the washer.
"Marco!"

Two cherry tomatoes sitting on the cutting board next to a full salad bowl.
"Okay, let's come up with a code word in case one of us wants to leave early."

A pair of reading glasses sitting on a table next to sunglasses.
"Wow, nice tan, have you been on vacation?"

The number one on a page next to the number three.
"Nice boob job."

An evergreen tree next to a deciduous in autumn time.
"Listen Carla, I'm not going to have sex with you so you can just put your clothes back on."

Never Pay for Electrocution

2009-08-28T17:15:00.003-05:00

I’ve never been afraid to experiment with my hair. It’s been brown, red, auburn, blonde and by horrible mistake jet black. It’s been long, short, permed, straightened, bobbed, shagged, and mulleted. With every experiment that didn’t come out exactly as I had planned I would mutter, “Well, it’ll grow out.”

In the seventh grade I wanted my hair to look like Lori Dunlaps’s. She had feathered bangs that softly framed her beautiful face and the back of her hair had a really cool spiral perm, perfectly coiffed with just the right amount of crunchy, sticky hair gel. She was a year older than I was with a beautiful singing voice and a reputation of someone who the choir director secretly wanted to bone.

I begged my mom to take me to the Montgomery Ward Salon to give me that same look. Not realizing that Lori’s look was actually something she was growing out and her bangs had grown out first.

Tammi, the young, inexperienced hair dresser tried to talk me out of my plan of perming just the back half of my hair. But I wasn’t having any of it. I knew the picture in my head would translate if she would just put those perm rods in my hair and let me bake.

Tammi, was tentative in her perm rod rolling abilities. She also kept shaking her head while she was putting the rods in and saying things like “I don’t think this is going to work out, I’ve never permed just half a head before.”

When all the rods were in she asked if I wanted the new electric perm they were offering. It cost $10 dollars extra but it would cut the processing time in half. Mom had departed to look through all the Gloria Vanderbilt petite clothes in Montgomery Wards so I made the bold decision to say yes and assume that Mom would hand over the extra cash once she saw how cool my new head of hair was.

Each individual rod was now given the addition of a small heated clip making my head feel an extra 20 lbs heavier and appear to be some sort of crazy science experiment. But I didn’t care I was going to have awesome hair in half the time.

After 18 minutes the bell signifying my processing time rang just in time, as I had sat there and quietly suffered as my scalp, a virgin to the electric perm, had sizzled and blistered.

One by one the clips were taken out and then the sweet relief as the rods were dumped into the sink and cool water poured over my head.

“Uh, oh. Looks like you got some owies. That sometimes happens with this perm process.” Tammi dryly commented.

“Got some owies?” ”It sometimes happens?” come on Tammi you could have been a little more forth coming with that information before electrocuting me.

As she sat me up to face the mirror, still towel drying my tender head. I realized I had made a huge tactical error. I had not taken into consideration the fact that my current hair cut was a shag cut, with very short layers at the top. And this perm has now effectively stood those layers up on end giving them a slight bend at the end. The rest of my permed hair poofed out into a nice cotton ball effect. I look like a half blown dandelion.

My mom’s response when she returned with an armful of polyester pants from the GV collections was “Oh, Dee what have you done to yourself.” She laughed about the extra $10 dollars I spent to fry my head, took me home and put some much needed ointment on my blisters.

I still remember the stunned look on my friends faces as I showed up to school the following Monday and the echoes of laughter that quickly followed.

“Don’t worry” I said, “It’ll grow out.”

Just Keep Walking

2009-08-18T12:52:00.017-05:00

While hair braiding for the black culture has survived for centuries across Africa it once again gained popularity for African Americans in the 1960’s and 70’s. The advice offered here is not intended for this audience. I’ve never once seen an African American getting their hair braided on a beach. And even if I did they would look just fine.

So, listen up, if you are on vacation in the Caribbean, over the age of ten and white you should never, ever accept the offer of one of the persistent local women to get your hair braided. I know, I know you want some proof for when you go back home to Tulsa that you were on a tropical vacation, but can’t you just let that horrible sunburn that makes you look like an embarrassed oompa-loo do that for you?

Hair braiding for Caucasian people came into popularity in 1979 shortly after the release of the movie “10” starring Bo Derek. It quickly departed as a fad for most people when they realized that their status was closer to a five or a six.

Maybe it’s the heat and humidity of the tropics, maybe it’s the beaches, maybe it’s the Long Island Ice Teas by the yard at Senor Frogs. I’m not sure what it is, but for some the thinking brain also goes on vacation, and far too many otherwise smart people succumb to the siren cries of the Caribbean hair braiders.

Grandma Hip Hop

And it’s not just the women who succumb; by far some of the worst offenders are men. Because men have many more options than just their head, they’ve got: facial hair, chest hair and dare I say leg hair that is ripe for the braid.

Chest Braids

Mustache Mess

Let’s be honest it’s not a good look. Even if you squint real hard when you look in the mirror, or don that gauzy white dress with the off the shoulder sleeves, or forgo the bang braids. You cannot pull it off.

Exposing wide expanses of virgin white scalp skin is not only unflattering it leads to extremely painful sunburns because you never think of putting sunscreen on your scalp. Which is then exacerbated by the taunt constant pull of the braid. So now, not only are you less attractive, you’re in pain.

Sleeping Beauty

And the pain doesn’t end there. You’ll return home and endure the never-ending refrain of “Oh, I see you got your hair braided”, (an observation is not a compliment) until the time comes for you to come back to reality and call your vacation officially over. Like childbirth you might have forgotten the pain that was caused by your hair being pulled into tight rows that can withstand weeks of sleeping, showering and scratching. But it will quickly be brought to the forefront when you try and take those suckers out.

A close friend of mine who did not heed this advice had to enlist the help of her husband and thirteen year old daughter to take out the remnants of her tropical vacation. It took almost three hours and produced close to two liters of tears for the job to be called complete. What a horrible final memory of an otherwise fabulous vacation.

So, the next time you find yourself in a tropical location and hear the call of the braider. Say, “hell no” and go get yourself a tattoo. That’s what you really wanted anyway.

Firsts

2009-08-17T16:45:00.002-05:00

Ricky was the first boy who ever French kissed me. We were at the Rosemoreland movie theaters and I was 12 years old. In the middle of the movie he put his arm around me and quickly leaned over and stuck his tongue in my mouth. I pulled back, horrified, slapped him across the face and stormed out of the theater. It was the next day when upon retelling this story to my friend Renee I was informed that what Ricky had done was perfectly normal in the world of kissing. I was still grossed out.

The first time I ever drove a car I was 13 years old. My mother took extremely long showers and I snuck the car keys out of her purse and drove her Ford Fairmont around the block. I continued doing this every time she took a shower until I got my learners permit. I don’t think she ever found out.

The first foreign country I ever visited was Haiti. My dad thought it would be an ideal vacation spot. My mom got malaria.

My first performance was in the title character of Mrs. Puddleduck’s Revenge. Looking back I can see she was a spiteful old duck who clearly had parenting issues.

My first serious boyfriend got me a Cabbage Kid for Christmas. He created this whole elaborate adoption ceremony culminating in the signing of the adoption papers. I broke up with him the next day.

I Am A Cow

2009-08-14T10:45:00.004-05:00

Oh. My. God!! I am 38 years old and I am a cow. Not in the body conscience sense. Not in the way some women claim, when they’re actually fishing for a compliment. No, I’m dressed head to toe in cheap imitation fur.

But it appears that I’m a bit confused; I have horns, a cowbell, and what look like cat teats. I am apparently a new breed of animal called a bullcat. Well, Happy Easter everybody!

The worst part is my face is not covered in the slightest. There is nothing to hide behind. The costume covers absolutely everything except the shame and embarrassment exuding from my face.

It’s 8am, I’ve just driven 45 minutes in bitter cold Chicago April weather to the charming village of Schaumberg. I’m waiting with Farmer John and the Easter Bunny in a makeshift greenroom for our start time; the moment we’ll walk out onto the stage, greet our screaming fans and rock the uptight Chicago theater scene to its core. Except this theater is in truth a small tired conference room tucked in the back of Marshall Field’s second floor; past over priced shoes, past cosmetics and perfumes, past the junior section and children’s clothing, past young men’s, and just beyond a rack of Warner Bras and Bali underwear.

The screaming fans are in fact screaming, but that’s because they’re tired little bundles that have been dragged here by their parents to eat breakfast with the Easter Bunny. And there are only a few uptight fans, for the most part they’re overworked parents who are just trying to make memories for their kids in they’re already over-stimulated little lives.

“Here’s your breakfast” says Chip, the perky restaurant manager for Marshall Field’s Woodfield Mall, as he plops down three plates of cold waffle sticks, powdered reconstituted eggs and charred bacon. “The kids’ll be ready for you in just a few, Clara” As he heads out the door with that little smirk that says I’m glad it’s you and not me.

You little prick Chip, I could just twist your happy little neck right off. A year ago I was meeting with Sr. VP’s and IT consultants making decisions with million dollar consequences as an IT Project Manager. I had a corner cubicle with a magnificent view of Mt. Hood overlooking the Willamette River in Portland, OR. I was making a fantastic income on a four day work week; being wined and dined by potential consulting candidates. The Company I worked for profiled me in the company magazine as a “person who gets things done.” Don’t fucking mess with me Chip, I will take you out.

“You look adorable when you’ve got mad cow disease,” says Farmer John. I want to punch him but I won’t because he’s one of the main reasons I’m here in this hellish breakroom. Farmer John, aka Rance is my fiancé. He more than anyone understands the leap I’ve made to give up a secure job, my home and the only state in which I can remember living to come to Chicago to pursue my dream.

My dream. Is this it? Is this what makes up my dream? I am getting paid to act, but somehow I thought it would be different. I thought there would be brilliant scripts, beautiful lighting, symphonic music, huge theaters with packed houses. I thought there would be hours of discussing character motivation, dissecting meaning behind each well thought out word from the finest of playwrights. I thought there would be velour curtains, and middle-aged ushers in maroon blazers. I thought my face would be on the cover of Playbill. I did not ever think I would be Clara the Cow, not once.

Chip pops his fruit striped shirted torso in the door , “You guys have got to get out there, the kids are getting restless and we don’t have breakfast ready yet.”

Better put your game face on Clara you’re about to lose some self esteem. At least the Easter Bunny is fully covered; no one would ever know that underneath is a charming, hungover, sweaty mess of a comedian. If parents could see what was really under that bunny suit I’m positive no parent would let their child sit on the Easter Bunny’s lap.

Farmer John and I exchange knowing glances. At this point in our relationship we can read each other’s minds. At least this will be a great story when we sit down with James Lipton on the Actor’s Studio.

We are not expecting what happens next. A giant white bunny is like Michael Jackson for four year olds. Kids are either extremely excited about seeing the Easter Bunny or completely freaked out. I for one would be in the camp of the freaked out. One look at those dead-like mesh eyes that hide any kind of soul and I would be out the door. And that smile is always creepily perfect like a charming Ted Bundy. Farmer John and I quickly realize our job is to run interference for the Bunny. It’s hard to maneuver in that huge suit and kids either want to run screaming like a banshee or feel around as if they’re future urologists.

Farmer John and I lead Bunny around the tables to say “Hi” get pictures and ask them if they want anything from the Easter Bunny.

“I want to get a PS2!”

“I want new clothes!”

“I want a cell phone!”

“A cell phone? You’re only 7 years old who are you going to call on your cell phone?”
“I dunno.”

And that’s when we turned to see Jacob sitting with his mom and dad.

“Hi there, what’s your name?”

“My name’s Jacob”

Jacob had that twinkle in his eyes that tell you there’s something wonderful going on in his brain. That he’s going to grow up and be someone special. And hopefully he’ll make something wonderful of his life and make those around him happy.

“…Mommy I don’t think that’s a real cow. I think that’s just a lady in a costume.”

Or maybe he’ll just be that asshole that tells you you’re crazy for quitting your job to become an actor.

Quick Jokes from the Headlines

2009-08-13T12:15:00.002-05:00

A Chicago woman says she was mortified when a high school friend said he had spotted nude photos of her on a Web site. The woman immediately suspected her ex-boyfriend who had taken the photos but promised that he would keep them private. Unfortunately, he had also promised to call if he was going to be late, pick up the dry cleaning and not to sleep with her two best friends in her bed again. So she could have seen this one coming.

A 21-year-old man spent the night in jail after he allegedly punched a Chicago police horse near the Lollapalooza music festival. Apparently the horse had been flirting with the guys girl friend all night long and he just got sick of it when the horse had finally promised the guys girlfriend a good roll in the hay.

Lima Sahar is the first woman to make it to the finals of “Afghan Star.” She comes from the most conservative Islamic portion of the country from a family of six brothers who showed their affection by showering her with stones on her return.

Not so Charming

2009-08-12T21:37:00.002-05:00

➢ In any dining situation, there is a 98% chance that I will step away from the table with a new food stain on my lap, chest or sleeve.

➢ Once while sitting in an audience I shouted “find your light” to an actor on stage because he was delivering his lines in the shadows.

➢ I have walked into a room full of mid-level banking executives with my skirt tucked into my pantyhose and no underwear underneath.

So it might come as a bit of a shock to you that I am a graduate of charm school. And not just any charm school, Wendy Ward Charm school ran by our local Montgomery Wards. I’ll let that sink in a moment.

Now my mother thought charm school might instill some lady like behavior in her coming of age daughter and I was willing to suffer through the charm sections to get to the Wendy Ward Pacesetters which was only available to charm graduates.

The Pacesetter classes are loosely termed “model preparation classes” and teaches how to apply make-up, how to work the runway and at graduation I’ll get the opportunity to spend 45 whole minutes standing completely still on a platform in the misses section wearing a peach polyester pantsuit, try my best to convince customer’s that I am an actual mannequin.

But first I have to suffer through the charm sections where I’ve already learned that a gentleman should lead a lady down the stairs and follow her up to catch her in case she falls; that it’s proper if not impossible to enter and exit a vehicle with your knees never separating, and that it’s okay to point your finger at an object but never a person.

Charm school starts promptly at 5:30pm every Wednesday and punctuality is expected. Today, all of that goes out the window, when I spend an hour after school flirting with Randy the after school janitor, and before I know it, it is 4:30 and I only have 28 minutes to make it home, change clothes and make it to the 4:58 bus.

After running seven blocks, I arrive home a red, hot, sweaty mess. And I have no time to cool off. As students of Wendy Ward Charm School we are required to wear either a dress, or skirt and blouse, pantyhose, and pumps.

And so, the search begins; the chaos of my parents impending divorce is reflected by the mess in my room; clothes are thrown everywhere, along with shoes, homework and other miscellaneous 13 year old necessities.

While it is an overwhelming site for the uninitiated, I have a good sense of where everything is and what pile of clothes are clean and what is not. My go-to outfit is a brown tweed fitted skirt, and polyester ivory blouse with lace at the collar. I like it because it looks like something Blair Warner from “Facts of Life” would wear. The skirt is sitting right on top of the clean pile of clothes, pantyhose are found underneath my bed and my ivory top is wrinkled up behind my door. There’s no time to iron. I throw it on, check the mirror and head out the door. It’s now a four-block sprint to the bus stop.

The Portland Tri-Met bus, which drops-off right at Mall 205 where Montgomery Wards is a flagship store, pulls up just as I arrive to the stop. I get on and pay my fare, and I notice there’s only one other person on the bus. An older man who appears disheveled and dirty. His unkempt hair and toothless grin are what I notice first. It’s his smell however that hits me second.

He’s sitting near the front and as soon as the doors on the bus close behind me I can smell his foul odor filling the interior. He smells like a cat box used by a hundred cats.

I find the furthest seat away from him and immediately open a window for fresh air. I keep my fingers crossed that he’ll get off the bus soon. The smell is over powering.
About five minutes into my ride, my prayers are answered and he exits..

Hold on a minute. The stench of cat box is still on the bus, it’s still with me, and it still reeks. That’s when I realize…I am the source of this musty, sour, cat piss.
I look over my clothes, I don’t see a stain but clearly I’m the carrier. One of my mom’s five cats has used my bedroom as her personal catbox and I’m on the 185 bus to charm school.

At the age of 13 one thing is certain analytical skills have not yet been refined. Which is why I continue on towards Wendy Ward, I’m dumb enough to think that even though I can smell myself no one else will.

But I do want to give myself a little insurance, so when I’m dropped off at the doors of Montgomery Ward, I head straight for the perfume counter. I know exactly what will hide my scent: Vanderbilt perfume. I know this because when my grandmother uses it she doesn’t smell as old. Today is not the day to dab a little on my wrists, I need a full on assault. I find the tester bottle and proceed to shower myself in spray mists, until the older woman behind the counter tells me to put – the - bottle - down.

If a were a perfumer I would say that I was now wearing a strong backnote of cat urine, with a heavily infused top note of grandma perfume, and a musky note of teen sweat.

And so I head up the escalators to the floor where furniture and appliances are sold, to a back door that houses the Wendy Ward Charm School. Secretly, I always feel a little privileged going into the Wendy Ward office. There’s no outside signage, and you have to go through the door that says employees only. At 13 I get a little excited to see the corkboard with employee announcements, OSHA standards and store holiday schedules.

The door to Wendy Wards is open and I walk in to see several of the girls already sitting ready to go, the room is filled with teen laughter.

“Hey Deanna, come sit here…have I got news for you!”

Heidi is pointing to the seat that’s right in the middle, front and center. It’s not a huge room there are three rows of chairs. I thought I could just come in and find a seat in the back but Heidi wasn’t going to have any of it.

“Come on, before class starts.”

The slow death march begins. As I settle in my seat, the tone of the room becomes suddenly different. All of the laughter stops, replaced by quiet whispering.

Tammy who is sitting to my right, gets up and says something about needing to go to the bathroom, Julie joins her. One after another, after another each of the girls finds an excuse to leave the room, even Heidi who has big news, now needs water before class starts.

As I sit there in the room all by myself I catch my reflection in the makeup mirrors lining the room and see on my right shoulder the top of what turns out to be a foot long stain that runs down the entire back of my blouse.

It’s confirmed, not only do I know, but I know they know and I know they know I know. And when Ms. Morlan our beloved charm instructor ushers the girls in for class no one says a word to me for the next two hours.

I have no idea what was taught that day, as I sat in charm school with cat piss on my blouse. I was mortified and shamed knowing I was making the girls around me miserable. But I did learn a few things; Vanderbilt perfume only hides old people smell not cat urine, if you think you stink you’re probably right, and sometimes it’s the embarrassing times in our lives that make us the most charming.

Good-byes Suck

2009-02-21T12:05:00.000-06:00

January 25, 2009

Working on a cruise ship provides a lot of good-byes. Goodbye to land life, family, friends, cable TV, and Taco Bell. Goodbye to cooking your own meals, making your own bed and folding your own towels. Goodbye to driving, finding parking or de-icing your car,

But what can be more difficult is saying good-bye to the people you meet on the ship. It’s like saying goodbye to summer camp counselors when you were a kid, but it happens every few weeks.

Recently we had to say good-bye to both of our room stewards, Gerald and Jun. They were finally getting a vacation after working 9 months straight with no days off…EVER. I really liked these guys, they looked out for us and in turn we looked out for them. More than once on the incredibly and stressful NY port days, when they have to turn their rooms over in a matter of hours and were also responsible for getting everyone’s luggage to the right rooms Rance and I made sure they got food. We would go up to the garden and get a plateful of pizza or sandwiches and leave it in our room with the understanding that whenever they had a moment they could come in and eat. If we didn’t do that, they were expected to work through the day with no breaks.

In turn if there was anything we ever needed Gerald and Jun would get it for us. Gerald hooked me up with the tailor on board and he had my five pair of pants tailored to perfection in less than a day and delivered them back to my room free of charge. (Though I did tip him handsomely.) Gerald also commandeered a soft, downy penthouse pillow for me after I complained of my lack of sleep on the cardboard pillows that are standard in the hovel we stay in. –

At Christmas time Rance and I gave Gerald and Jun Christmas presents and Gerald got teary-eyed saying it’s the first Christmas he had been away from his family and how much our thoughtfulness meant to him. Which of course got me teary eyed and we both stood in the hallway with tears in our eyes and hugged.

The great thing about these good-byes is that now there are hellos. Like a few weeks ago when Rance and I got to see our friends from production cast on the Jewel who all happened to be in NY at the same time. And then a few weeks later we got to see our friend Christopher and spend the day with him. And then just this week we got to see our friends Roman and Sasha who are currently on The Dawn, which was parked right next to us in Tortola.

I get to chat with friends from all over the world on Facebook; from Serbia, Belarus, Australia, Hungary, Canada, The Philippines and even Nashville TN. And sometimes I’m even surprised by a face that I said good-bye to a year ago on the Jewel that is now suddenly with me again here on this ship.

So I’ve learned that the hardest good-byes are required before you can have the best of hellos.

Call of the Wild

2009-01-25T16:30:00.000-06:00

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Teenagers on a ship often times become a marauding band of pack animals. While they may make initial contact through the teen club, there is some innate teen call that my over 30 ears cannot hear, that soon has everyone between the ages of 13 and 18 meeting on a passenger stairwell.

At my age and body discomfort level there seems to be at least 53 more conducive meeting places on the ship. The bleachers on deck 14, one of the game rooms, deck 7 outside, just to name a few. But for some reason cruise after cruise the teens find the stairwells. The same stairwells that teetering, older passengers are trying to descend or ascend; and it’s here that they sit for hours on end discussing the day’s important issues. Who likes who, how late can they stay out, and how many soft serve ice creams they’ve eaten already today.

This week’s cruise is particularly animalistic. A group of teens that were on the Jewel with us last year have joined forces with the classic suburban teen group. One of the boys from the returning group has recently learned the word clit. And repeatedly shouted it out during our first improv show. Upon running into them on the stairs he told me I had dropped my clit on the floor. Thank god, I was wondering where it went. One of the other boys told Rance that his name in Syrian means to smoke pot. So Rance is a big hit with this group. Ashley, a member of the suburban group asked me if I thought she was different than any other girl I’d met, and if I’d always remember her. The fact that I’m blogging about her should confirm her belief that I do in fact think she’s “different”.

Rumor has it that one of the returning kids (he’s about 13) was trying to play slots in the casino and when he was approached and asked to leave he opened up his wallet and offered up $100 to the casino host to stay. Ahh today’s youth…they really have learned a lot from our leaders.

A couple of weeks ago Rance watched in horror as a young man who looked to be about 15 berated one of the outdoor cooks who was trying to make him an omelet. This kid who looked like a buff Woody Allen berated the cook for the amount of oil he was using, for not cooking it right, for not using cheddar when it was specifically asked for. And when the chef tried to remake the omelet to the kid’s satisfaction, the kid yelled even louder when the chef tried to put white cheese in his omelet, when clearly that could not be cheddar cheese. Cheddar is yellow! The kid had never heard of white cheddar and wasn’t going to hear of any of the excuses. It was such an ugly display of human behavior Both Rance and I wanted to smack that kid which told us what kind of parents we would be.

I contrast all of this with the family that had the three nicest kids you can imagine. Nina, Zach and Max. Rance had met them the day before when their mom asked Rance to sing Happy Birthday to Nina, for her 18th birthday. And then on New Years Eve they all came into Spinnaker Lounge. Zach noticed Larrance first and came over to tell him how great he thought his music was and to say thanks for performing. And then he looked around and realized the whole cast was standing there. His excitement was radiant. He was literally tongue tied and adorable. He went back and joined his family but he kept looking over at all of us so I went over to talk to him.

And that’s when I got to meet not only him but his older sister Nina and younger brother Max. So polite and so not filled with that teenage angst that is normally prevalent among the pack. I asked them a few questions about themselves and they in turn asked me questions about the show and what it was like to live on the ship.

Then I turned to their mom and asked what was the occasion for them to all be on this cruise? Her expression changed and she said her husband had died in April and it had been a really tough year for all of them and she just wanted to celebrate New Years in a completely different way to get a fresh new start. And as I fumbled for the right words and the “I’m sorrys” came out, I looked again at these kids, and saw that in their father’s death they had learned the secret to life…living each day and appreciating everything they had.

Truth be told these are the kids I will always remember…I’ll probably forget about Ashley once the next set of teenagers arrive on board. But I’ll remember Zach, Max and Nina because in the hoard of pack animals they stood out for being truly different.

Eavesdropping on Life

2009-01-23T20:36:00.000-06:00

January 19th 2009

For some vacation brings out their worst personality traits. There’s a heightened sense of only having 7 to 10 days to pack in all the “fun” they think they deserve because they paid for their cruise. And that condenses everything, including their tolerance and humanity into a very small carryon.

I enjoy overhearing snippets of conversation that in a moment tell me everything I need to know about that person. Usually these conversations are at their best on embarkation day when people are getting settled and trying to figure their way around the ship.

This week I overheard a woman in her 70’s say to her husband. “Well, so far Henry you’re batting a zero on this cruise.” They had been on board a total of 30 minutes, I just hope Henry gets another chance at bat.

Heading toward the laundry room on our floor on embarkation day, I heard a woman with a Russian accent make a request of her overworked room steward. “Yes, I need extra white hangers. Eight of them, no make it 10. And I also need extra towels and I need five bars of soap.” Thankfully her room steward and I had the same question. “Five bars, mam?” “Yes, five bars today. I need to shower.” Oh well then, that makes sense.

We live on the 10th floor at the very back of the ship. Last week after coming down from the Spinnaker lounge on 13th at the front of the ship. We turned down our hallway and could see our elderly neighbor sitting outside her room in her wheelchair. It’s a long hall and she just sat out there for the entirety of our walk until right as we approached her grown son opened the door and ushered her in. We heard her say in a weak voice. “This isn’t my room.” “Oh, God mom yes it is.” We had no idea how long his mom had been sitting out in the hallway before he opened the door to let her in, and I was just struck by how sad the whole picture was. This was clearly not a dream vacation for either one of them.

During a recent “The Not So Newlywed Game Show” (an event that happens every week on the ship), when asked “What is your husbands favorite toy,” wife number 1 with her husband out of the room said. “His toenails.” Of course Ray our cruise director wanted a follow up, how could someone’s toenails be their favorite toy? “He clips them and saves them so he can eat on them later.” Yeah….they’d been married for only a few months. I doubt they’ll make it a year.

Be Our Guest

2009-01-19T16:51:00.001-06:00

January 15, 2009

Living on a ship as a guest entertainer allows me the opportunity to meet and become friends with people I would never have the chance to otherwise: World champion ballroom dancers, Olympic gymnasts, legendary singers, award winning magicians, and Broadway caliber dancers.

And then there’s the one-off guest entertainers that come on board that I call space fillers. The ship needs entertainment every night of it’s itinerary and so sometimes acts come on board that leave me bewildered.

For example, the comedy duo that has purportedly been working together for the last 33 years, and their act shows it. It’s an act of comedy, impressions and singing and if you’re under the age of 60 you’re going to miss out on over half of their material. The fun for me is not watching the show but watching the audience’s reaction. It’s horrified as they see one of them don a old fashioned pilots cap and goggles and do a Japanese pilot from WWII impression. Their big bit is a French character who tells the audience they need “Happiness” in their life only when he says it with his French accent it sounds like he’s saying “A Penis” Ooh boy does the audience have a hoot over that one. No, no they don’t.

The crazy violinist was interesting. I found myself with my foot in my mouth after breakfast one morning when I asked Rance if he had seen the promotional poster down by the theater advertising his act. He looked like a pervy kids’ programming character. A mix between Albert Einstein and something from The Wiggles. Of course as I turned to leave the restaurant I realized Mr. Crazypants was sitting right behind me. His act like his hair was frenetic and all over the place. And once again I watched the audience sit their unsure of what they were really seeing.

We recently had a banjo virtuoso on board who literally asked “Who’s ready to rock?” while pumping his fist in the air with devil horns at the top of his show. This little man in a three-piece suite then sat down daintily on a white stool and strummed his heart out. He was the rain man of the banjo. And I left the theater with an unfulfilled desire to rock.

The juggler/balancing acts are always confusing to me. Their shows often have a high failure rate; We’re on a rocking ship for god’s sake! And almost all of them have a portion of their act where they say “this is the first time you’ll see something like this performed. I’m the only one in the world who does this” And then the poor guy does a trick that I just saw the juggler from three weeks ago do, only slightly better.

I feel really lucky to be doing a show that I love doing. That I know the audience loves too. And that I’m not doing it because I’ve reached a point in my career that I feel I can’t do anything else. There’s a palatable sense of desperation that comes off such acts. And more than anything I want to keep pushing myself so I don’t put off that scent. But at least I know that if I want, if things get really tough, I can brush off my Carol Channing impression and get work on a cruise ship.

Rate This

2009-01-19T16:48:00.000-06:00

Monday, January 12, 09

Each week the ship is graded based off comment cards and survey results from passengers a couple of weeks after they return home. The ship is graded on such things as cleanliness, food, accommodations, itineraries and entertainment, etc. The ship we’re on right now has been rated number one in the NCL fleet since its inaugural sail, just over a year ago. It’s the newest ship in the fleet so ratings for cleanliness, accommodations etc should rate naturally higher. For almost six months of the year it’s also been in the western Mediterranean where each new port is better than the last and as a passenger you’ve got so many opportunities to see and experience something new and wonderful.

That all changed however the week after Thanksgiving after crossing the Atlatic, when we left New York for a new itinerary and all hell broke out on the ship. In Barcelona (the home port while in the Med.), the ship ports early in the morning and then doesn’t leave until 6pm, so the steward staff has plenty of time to get rooms ready and the ship turned over for a new cast of passengers. Most people enjoy breakfast, lunch or even an early dinner on land before coming on the ship so getting food on the ship is a low priority. Because there’s such a long port day the delivery of luggage to the state rooms is spread out and almost everyone has their luggage delivered before we even leave port. Everything seems easy and relaxed.

Contrast that with a New York port day. We arrive at 9am but passengers don’t have to be off until 11:30am. Which means for many of them they’ll get their last breakfast in and hang around in their state rooms until the very last minute. This leaves the stewards only two hours to turn over the entire ship before newly arriving passengers are let on board. It also means that the buffet area has to be completely cleaned out and reset for new passengers who apparently haven’t eaten anything for the last three days. Every week it’s the same madness. All new passengers have to be on board by 3:30pm at the latest and often times their rooms aren’t ready yet so they head to the buffet, where it is utter chaos. Because it is New York and the middle of winter all of the normal outdoor eating areas are only for the bravest of souls. Which means approximately 1,000 people are walking around the garden buffet sitting area with plates piled high with more food than a starving camel should eat in one sitting calling out “Marvin, where’d you go? Don’t walk so fast” “There’s no place to sit, this is fucking ridiculous.” “Hey look, MaryAnn they’ve got cappuccino machines. MaryAnn? Yo, MaryAnn!” Marvin and MaryAnn then end up sitting in the kids section at tables about a foot and a half high on little toadstool chairs. For Marvin and MaryAnn their cruise is over.

For the stewards who have just had to turn around the entire ship in a matter of hours their next duty is to lug the passenger luggage from the fourth floor receiving area to the corresponding passenger room. I’ve noticed that New Yorkers are not a patient lot. They’re vacation has just started and they need their luggage NOW dammit!! This is when I feel the most empathy for our stewards. Often times they don’t get a chance to even stop and eat the entire day. More than once Rance and I have gone to the buffet and beaten off the savages to secure some food, which we hide in our room for our stewards.

Adding insult to injury is the itinerary. While this ship was enjoying it’s number one ranking we were visiting ports like Malta, Naples, Civitevecchia (Rome), Livorno (Florence, Pisa), and Villefranche. Now after leaving cold and bitter New York, we go to Port Canavral where the high lights are Disney, NASA, or WallMart. I’m not kidding, there is a shuttle that will take passengers and crew to WallMart, where people can spend their entire port day lost in a florescent jungle that is consumerism at it’s best.

From Port Canavral the ship sets sail to Grand Stirrup Cay, NCL’s private island. This sounds wonderful and romantic, but in reality it’s a stretch of sand that the entire ship is transplanted to, loud Caribbean music and all. In truth I’ve never gotten off to enjoy the pleasures of sand-flea-island. I usually spend this day in the spa, looking out at the masses in horror from the safety of my hot stone bed.

Next stop is Nassau, Bahamas. For most of the passengers the highlight here is Paradise Island where Atlantis Hotel is located. It’s a ritzy resort with a major casino. Everything on this island is expensive. Everything that is, except the bootleg DVD’s at the straw market, which you can pick up for $5. To get a meal outside of McDonald’s or Burger King it’s going to easily run you 50 bucks for two people. And I’m not talking anything special that’s a gyros, fries and a beer folks. You’ve got to bring deep pockets if you plan on spending the full day off the ship at Nassau.

The last stop on this itinerary is Freeport, which is now famous as the place Jet Travolta passed away after hitting his noggin. We get in at 7am and all aboard for crew is 11am. I have never seen this island. The port area looks like we came into New Jersey for the morning. I’m sure it’s nice somewhere on the island I just don’t have the desire to get up early enough to find it.

From Freeport it’s basically two sea days back to New York. On the itinerary basis alone I can see why the ship’s ratings have fallen from first to last in the pack. I use this itinerary to save money. But I’m guessing if you’ve shelled out money for a cruise vacation you’d like a little more pizz in your azz.

We’re on a new itinerary now that takes us from New York to the southern Caribbean, ports like St. Thomas, Antigua, Barbados, St. Martin and Tortola. I’m almost positive our ratings will go up even if the cruise is over for some after their first buffet experience in New York.

2009-01-19T16:47:00.001-06:00

Thursday, January 8, 2009

For me the ship is a hot bed of people watching opportunities. On a daily basis my mouth drops, I belly laugh, or I experience a full body cringe over what I see, hear and sometimes smell coming from passengers. One of my favorite places to people watch is the ship’s gym. Today was a perfect example.

First, the setup: My go to cardio machine is the PreCore 100i. I had never seen one before coming on the Gem and this ship only has one. It’s a cross between a Gazelle: that piece of cardio equipment hawked by that creepy guy with a ponytail on late night commercials, a bicycle and a stairmaster. It’s almost never in use because it’s also the only cardio machine in the gym without a tv monitor. It’s also in prime viewing area sitting in the back wall, center of the gym

From my vantage point I can see the woman on the treadmill with the worst hairstyle I’ve ever seen. It looks like she couldn’t make up her mind what she wanted so she asked her stylist to stop mid cut. The top 2/3 of her hair which is dyed a brassy shade of blonde is a blunt cut chin length bob, and then in the back there is another layer of hair underneath that is almost a foot longer and in her natural dark brown shade. I have never seen this style before and hope to god she’s not from the future.

I can also see the namaste man. I gave him that name of Rance and I saw him bowing to one of the Phillipino workers in the garden café with his hands in the prayer positions. His skin is that creepy white pallor that matches his white t-shirt and white workout pants. The only color on this man is the orange died hair/transplate/wig thing on the top of his head.

One of my favorite people just wheeled into the gym. Rance named her “Speedy Marie” as she buzzed passed us on the Antigua dock on her three wheeled Rascal earlier in the day. She had spent her time on land getting her entire head braided. Speedy doesn’t have the thickest of hair, but what she does have is now done up in short little blue beaded braids. Which matches the blue muu-muu she’s wearing. She’s parked her rascal right outside the aerobics room and is just sitting there watching the yoga class. I like to think that she’s dreaming about when she was young and looked like Bo Derek and could do downward facing dog, that my friends, was a very long time ago.

Rance got to the gym about an hour before I did, so before leaving he comes by while I am huffing and puffing away to give me a kiss. And I have to give him credit he’s the one who spots her first.

She has come in with her husband, or lover, or male gigolo. She’s wearing short, shorts, a jean jacket, gold lame “track” shoes, and she’s carrying a gold clutch. She looks to be about 45 and she has the same hairdo I had as a senior in HS. She definitely looks like she has a couple of kids who play soccer back home in Jersey. He’s wearing shorts, a golf shirt and boat shoes circa 1985. Clearly they want to get a workout in before dinner. Unfortunately, no two treadmills available next to each other. Their only option is to work out three treadmills apart. And that’s when the fun begins. Joe Boat Shoes, knows his way around a treadmill and he starts off running at a good clip, making a huge racket as his plastic soled shoes slap down on the machine. Jersey mom is on her treadmill and has found the quick start button which starts off at a clip of 1 mph and she starts running. RUNNING!! There is a huge button that allows you to speed up the pace because let’s face it, it’s nearly impossible to walk at 1 mph but to run at that pace, ridiculous. It might be the funniest thing I’ve seen in weeks. I see her lifting her feet up and down and then look over at her man and smile and give him the thumbs up. She’s doing it!! Eventually she gets her speed all the way up to 2 mph and she’s working hard enough to take her jean jacket and gold clutch off her shoulder. After 12 minutes she stops and her man helps her off the machine. She’s completely out of breath. My favorite moment comes as she goes into the weigh room, puts her jean jacket back on and flexes her legs in the mirror. Way to go Mama Jersey.