On getting attacked by a cat.

So as you may have heard, I got attacked by a cat last week. We were cat-sitting for neighbors of the family that I nanny for because we are always looking for ways to make money while watching Woody Allen movies. Scot and I were very excited for a four day stay-cation at their beautiful condo in Wicker Park. We had really exciting plans for the weekend, like washing our clothes and bathing in a shower which has anything resembling hot water and water pressure. All-in-all, our visit lasted a brief 12 hours. The apartment's wifi network is called "S____'s world" after their cat S_____. And indeed, it was S's world... and he wanted us to get the hell out. On Thursday night, he welcomed us with hisses and began to watch us rather creepily from behind counters and couches. Perhaps in retrospect we should have been more concerned about his mounting rage. But what would we have done about it anyway? Cats get mad. Cats pee on things. Cats don't usually try to eat you. Tigers try to eat you.

In middle of the night, the little tiger began to try to speak human outside our door making a bizarre braying sound which I have never heard a cat make before. In the morning, I gave him his constipation medicine (yes really). He took it well, but when I reached out to pet him, he bit my hand hard. Destructokitty then chased me around the kitchen, launching at me multiple times to bite and scratch my right arm and leg. It was like that scene in The Grinch where the cat from the garbage can clings to Jim Carrey's face.  Scot somehow got between us, sent me to safety in the hall and got the cat locked in the bedroom. I'm so grateful he was there, as my own defenses were simply to shake, cry and say "GET HIM OFF OF ME." All in all, I had about two dozen scratches and punctures.

My hand.

Scot took me to work at the hospital and they sent me to urgent care. In some bit of cruel irony, Immediate MD on Clybourne Avenue is next to Paws Chicago, a cat adoption storefront with about twenty cats in the window and cat posters the size of small cars. The folks at urgent care power-washed my punctures, bandaged me up, tetanus booster-ed me and sent me on my way with a prescription for antibiotics. I'm expected to fully recover. Most importantly, I was about to knit after only 3 days. The owners, of course, feel terrible and plan on taking the cat to a cat whisperer (yes really). Mom said, "Time for kitty to go night-night forever." Scot's concern was really sweet. One night shortly after the attack, he said, "I like animals better than people generally, but I really, really hate that cat." But I'm happy to take one for the team because fortunately, he attacked the one of us who has health insurance.

People's reaction to the attack have been the best part of it. The theater community is particularly good at spreading dramatic tales quickly. The other night at a reading an actor I know came up to me and said, "I heard what happened to you. Shelley was acting it out at work!" Now, I've not seen Shelley since this happened. Ed at Northwestern told Shelley about it and she ACTED IT OUT for my co-workers at Kaplan. I really really want to see her performance of what happened to me. It's the best game of telephone ever. At Northwestern, I just began working with a local actress whose work I particularly admire. The cat attack became the topic of our first conversation. Before work the other day she said to me, "I heard about what happened to you and I think about it all the time. I spent a long while last night staring at my cat and wondering if he wants to attack me." As Scot said, "It's a moment for all of us to pause and consider our feline relationships." Another SP I work with, but had never talked to, said to me, "You don't know me, but I was at dinner the other night at my friend's house and she said that a terrible thing had happened while they were on vacation. Their cat attacked the cat-sitter! And I thought, I KNOW THAT PERSON!" It's a small, small world.

In conclusion, maybe humans should let cats that can't poop without assistance move on to the big yarn basket in the sky. I'm never going to be the cat lady that my grandmother is (11 cats and counting) and I'm definitely a supporter of de-clawing now.

On my father and having enough.

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. -Melody Beattie

My father said something really amazing to me when I was talking to him and Mom over Christmas about continuing my educational pursuits in a graduate degree program. We hadn’t even been talking about said future schooling for ten minutes when my dad offered to help me pay for it. My parents have already paid for an expensive undergraduate degree in Acting because they love me so. Since graduating, I’ve prided myself in being a financially independent artist (who is, I admit, very grateful to be on the family cell phone and health insurance plan). And so I responded that I did not expect any financial support, but hoped for their emotional and ideological support. Without the slightest hesitation, my dad replied plainly and confidently, “If I have the money, I’d rather spend it on that. I don’t need any more stuff.” I admire my parents for so many reasons, but something about this specific expression of generosity has stuck with me. I kept hearing that phrase in my head, “I don’t need any more...” 

I am blessed that I have parents who have enough to offer financial support to make my dreams into reality. When I was 19, I told them I wanted to be a professional actress and that I needed a BFA from the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis to do that. Six years later, I am working for a professional theater performing and teaching Shakespeare to 8th graders. I would not be here if they didn’t write a check to a school they had never seen in a state they had never visited for me to get a degree which made them nervous. 

I think my father’s wisdom is rooted in knowledge of himself, what he has and what he needs. How often do we say to someone, “Here, take this. I don’t need any more. I have enough."? Enough to be comfortable and content. Enough to share with others. Enough to give of ourselves. As my artistic collaborator Ron Clark pointed out, enough is not a word we hear a lot in this country these days. And indeed, many people don’t have enough. Enough to support their children through school. Enough to quit their second job. Enough to buy health insurance. Enough to take off work to see their kid in a play. Enough to take a vacation. Enough to retire. 

Yet, even if we don't have enough money, we usually have plenty of something else. We just might have enough time to call an ailing relative. Enough energy to volunteer on a Saturday. Enough clothes to donate to charity. Enough care to pick up the garbage in the alley. Enough books to pass along to a colleague. Enough passion to write something more than a Facebook status. Enough pasta to invite a friend over for dinner. Enough patience to play “Is this a hat?” for the thousandth time with the kid we nanny. Enough faith to say a prayer for peace. Enough perseverance to try again to reconcile with our estranged spouses. Enough love to do the dishes. Enough respect to put our phones down and listen to each other. Enough to share. Enough to give.

What do you have enough of? My 25th birthday is on Thursday. Instead of giving me anything (because I definitely have enough), give something you have enough of to someone who needs it. In the wake of bombings in Boston, Iraq, Yemen, Pakistan, it's just about all we can do. 

And after all, it’s hard to think about how little money you have when a toddler is excitedly putting random things on your head and you are repeatedly asking him if the object in question is indeed, a hat.

My dad and me when I was a toddler. I am a Super Baby and not wearing a hat.

On losing The Game and quitting things in your mind.

A recent episode of Wiretap, one of my favorite podcasts, highlighted something called “The Game” which I’m sure I’ve heard about before, but can’t remember where. The aim of The Game is to forget you are playing The Game, ie, every time you remember you are playing The Game, you lose The Game. Thus because I am writing about The Game that means I am thinking about The Game and have therefore lost The Game. You, dear reader, now know about The Game and are currently thinking about The Game, so you too, have lost The Game. Are we having fun yet?

While on lunch break at work, a bunch of actors/standardized patients were sitting around a table wearing paper gowns talking about how hard it is to be actors. Someone offered that when one gets discouraged with the actor’s lot of failed callbacks and low-paying, sporadic work, the best thing to do is to quit acting in one’s mind. Don’t quit for real, just quit in your mind to take the edge off. If you’ve quit, you’ll seem less desperate, you’ll go out more, you’ll take a trip, you’ll read a book. Then when you come back from your hiatus which you told no one about, you’ll be better, happier, stronger, older and thus more likely to book the job, in theory.

I think I did something similar with my writing this winter. As a rule, I write in my journal or blog when I see something that inspires me or something interesting/funny/story-worthy happens. I write when I have something of value to contribute to this flooded cesspool of people's mindful and mindless musings. Phrases will come to me out of the stratosphere while riding my bike or knitting quietly. This winter, the phrases didn’t come and neither did the impulse to tap the keys of my undergraduate Mac with the smudged screen. I forgot I was a writer (well, a person who writes). If writing was The Game, I was winning.

I think there is a sweet spot to quitting something in your mind. You gotta know when to join back up; you must sense when you are full of things to write about or full of energy and ideas to act or create again. I missed my sweet spot. I forgot I was a writer for so long that I stopped asking the phrases to come, stopped looking for the stories, stopped observing the people around me. I’ve become more interior and self-critical, less generous and content. Certain stories are now past their time and cannot be written. Even writing this feels labored, clunky and a chore. But I writing it.* I’ve lost The Game because I remembered I am a person who writes. No qualifiers, I just write.

Scot in the greenhouse.

The bunnies on Easter morning after the egg hunt.

So what did happen during these last three months? We traveled to Iowa City to perform in The Exit Interview. Those two months proved very fruitful to us. Scot continued to write and refine his plays and cared for Kathy's greenhouse. I knitted and sewed a dress for Stephen’s wedding. We both read a lot (Scot’s favorite read was Building Stories by Chris Ware and mine was Like Life by Lorrie Moore). It’s hard to believe we met almost a year ago at the opening night of Timon of Athens at Chicago Shakespeare. We continue to inspire, delight and confuse each other every day. We saw Scot's daughter Emma dance wonderfully in a modern dance showcase and spoke to her drama class at Toledo School for the Performing Arts about being Chicago actors. I gave up Facebook for Lent. Quitting cold turkey was a great way to reevaluate how I use my time online and on social media. As I write this, I am happy to say that I don't have a Facebook tab open on my browser. Facebook is a sometime food. This past Easter weekend we celebrated with our friends here in Chicago by hosting the traditional brunch. I made a ham using Nina’s wonderful apricot and mustard glaze recipe. We selfishly hoped there would be leftovers for ham sandwiches, ham omelets and ham cookies. Ham is an anytime food. But alas, by the time everyone left Sunday evening, that ham bone was picked cleaned. We saved it for soup.

Beautiful Easter ham.

What has been on my mind the most (and perhaps why I’ve not written) is applying to school again. I’m not ready to go into all that right now, but soon. My blue and yellow sundress under a wool sweater harkens the arrival of spring in Chicago. We are sitting in the Map Room on Armitage Ave, which we thought was a coffee shop and is more a place where men day drink together. This post is a warm-up for a personal statement which I’m on a deadline to write. The blank Pages window beside this one shines white full of possibility and potential, just waiting for me to personally state something on it.

One thing is for sure, I better not tell them what a loser I am cause I think about The Game all the time.


*This is an typo from my first draft left intentionally because (1) it makes me laugh and (2) it shows the depths of depravity my writing has come to. I WRITING IT, DAMN IT!

DIY: Bloomin' Bike Helmet

Me looking CRAZY at a bike rally in my original helmet. Do not do this outfit yourself.

Leading a Segway Tour on the Stone Arch Bridge

I made my bloomin' bike helmet when I was working as a Segway tour guide in Minneapolis. After graduation, I liberated it from the "Magical History Tour" and now wear it as I ride around my beloved Chicago streets. My favorite thing about this helmet is that encourages strangers to talk to me. Usually I am riding by or stopped at a stoplight and they shout at me, "Cool helmet! or "I love that!" I guess they figure I must be some sort of eccentric who probably wouldn't mind if they add one more voice to the ones in my head. Besides protecting my brain, a helmet like this leaves an impression. I remember one day during undergrad I arrived at class and set my bike helmet on the desk. The guy next to me gasped, "You're the Flower Helmet Girl!?! I see you all the time! Whoa... I feel like I just unmasked Spiderman."

Years have passed and my helmet is looking a little worse for wear, so I decided it was time to spruce it up and create some DIY instructions to boot. You too can be FHG!

Ingredients

You'll need:

A helmet, skater style works best/looks coolest.

Fabric flowers, be aware that scrap-booking ones will bleed if it rains.

Tacky Glue

Gorilla or Super Glue

Scissors

Gems

1. Wipe down the helmet with a damp rag to clean off any dirt.
2. Pull flowers off stems and cut off any plastic centers in the petals.
3. Glue fabric flowers onto helmet with Tacky Glue.
4. Glue gems into centers of fabric flowers with Gorilla Glue. Hold for 20 seconds.
5. Get on your bike and ride into the sunset. Beware of how much attention you will now be getting because of your newfound awesomeness.

And if you are lucky like me, you'll only superglue one rhinestone to your dining room table.  Happy Easter and many safe rides to you! And seriously, wear a helmet. Own your inner dork. Mine is flower flavored.

On the people you see every day.

I prefer to imagine that my wife, a few friends, and occasionally my mom are the only ones who read what I do, though I realize that this is somewhat unrealistic.  -Chris Ware

Santa gave Scot Building Stories for Christmas. Santa said he had to share it with me.

On this rainy January day, I'm sitting in front of the window in Prairie Lights, an independent bookshop in Iowa City, caffeinating and attempting to finish a post I began last year which was supposed to be my homage to the people of Chicago before I left the city for two months to rehearse a play at the Riverside Theatre. Perhaps I am thinking about these abandoned people today because I am halfway through reading Chris Ware's imaginative and melancholic graphic novel, I should say experience, Building Stories which explores the lives and minds of half a dozen Chicagoans living in the same apartment building.

So more on Iowa and 2013 later, because there are some people I've wanted to introduce you to...

Last December, on my ride on the El to Dr. C's downtown office, my knitting was interrupted when an entire second grade class stormed through the sliding doors of the Blue line train. All the kids were yammering away loudly and bumping into each other playfully when the tallest kid in the class bellowed over the other seventeen squeaky voices, "HEY GUYS! This isn't play time. Hold onto something." I was touched by both his leadership and the genuine concern in his voice. Amazingly, the children obliged. I wish every teacher had a kid like that in their class, a kid the other kids respect or like or fear enough to do as he/she says. The best people to lead us are the people that are people just like us.

While I waited for the Doctor, his receptionist told me she was looking forward to Christmas but it was bittersweet for her because her father had died two years earlier on the day. She said to me, with tears and faith in her eyes, "My daddy loved Christmas so much and God decided to take him home on the day he loved the most." The calm faith of strangers often awakens and stirs my own questioning faith. Don't aggressively hand me a Bible on a street corner. Tell me how certain you are that God holds your father in the palm of His hand. That's inspiring.

Audrey Hepburn, photographed the year I was born.

As I waited for the train home, I swayed to the music of an accordion player in the Jackson Blue Line stop. I closed my eyes and pretended to be in Paris eating spaghetti at a candlelit cafe. It seems in my fantasies, I am eating Italian food in Paris and I'm also dressed like a mime minus the white face paint and the tear.  So basically I'm dressed like Audrey Hepburn in any movie ever and if I'm crying it's only because the food is so delicious.  After boarding the El, I saw an elderly woman across from me on the deafening train take out one of her ear plugs and silently insist that the man across the aisle use it. After an initial protestation, he too obliged. I hope they knew each other, or maybe not. That's sort of amazing too.

After arriving in Wicker Park, I saw a plump woman screaming at a jolly young hipster man in cupcake truck. Who knows why? I laughed. She stormed away angrily. He called her back and the altercation seemed to be settled when he gave her a free sweet potato cupcake for the road. A diabetes-inducing happy ending.

Earlier that week,  I was at the laundromat with a young mother and her two kids. No one wants to be at a Chicago laundromat on a Thursday night. I'm sure she was tired; she'd probably worked all day and she had about five loads of laundry. Yet she was still in a good mood and was helping her daughter with her homework and teaching her young son how to work the dryers. One dryer wouldn't stay closed, so she set up a chair in front of it and had him sit there by telling him it was his job to guard their clothes. Forget the firemen, this woman is one of Chicago's finest. The single women who have kids, no washing machines in their homes and still manage to have smiles on their faces at the end of the day. 

Even kitties can read picture books.

I asked Scot today why Ware writes such sad characters, characters who can't help but be cruel or thoughtless to each other. "Does he want us to read this and be better, kinder people? The characters seem so hopeless at times, does he think we can be better?" Scot, who has read much of Ware's work, answered, "I think it's about empathy, Ware wants us to understand that the people we see on the steps of our apartment buildings are all experiencing some sort of unique, real struggle." That seems to be a worthy goal for 2013. It seems easy to empathize with and care about the families of the victims of the Newtown shooting, but can we empathize with and care about our next-door neighbors whose names we didn't care to learn?

On the lesson learned by finding a doctor on the Internet.

I starting seeing Dr. C a year ago when I moved to Chicago. He was the first doctor on my insurance's online list of providers in downtown Chicago. He went to Harvard and received strong reviews and many awards. The first time I went to see Dr. C, I was forced to confront my own, well, not racism and sexism exactly, but what I'd call racial and gender expectations. Upon my arrival, it didn't surprise me in the least that the curvy, black woman working the front desk was, well, a curvy, black woman. It wasn't until an elderly, black Dr. C came into the waiting area that I noticed quite suddenly that I was the by far the youngest and the only white woman in waiting room which was adorned with paintings of black mothers and children. It was the tiniest of reactions, a small surprise, a reversal of a subconscious expectation I didn't know I had.

When I think of the word "doctor," a middle-aged white man in a lab coat and plaid pants comes to mind, even though surely throughout my life I've had male and female doctors of different races. My subconscious has little more imagination than a 1950's children's book about careers (which is strange, since knitter/fake patient/nanny/actress was never featured in such a book.) Understand, I don't care what race my doctor is, but I didn't expect my doctor to be black. I noticed it. So what does an experience like this mean? In Dr. C's office ( and in many neighborhoods in the still very segregated Chicago), my age and race place me in the minority. I imagine when Dr. C started practicing medicine years ago many white women would not be treated by a black gynecologist, Harvard degree or no Harvard degree.  As the years have gone on, his patients have aged with him, except for those of us new ones who wander in confusedly off the street because we found his name on the Internet.

While I could list all the reasons why I'm not racist to make myself feel better, it seems more productive to admit I found an inadvertent flaw in my social constructions of race. We shouldn't be afraid to start a dialogue with ourselves about our racial expectations or biases. How else can we confront, challenge and seek to change them? It is 2012 and this country has not only elected, but reelected Barack Obama as president.  When I think of the word "president," I see a black man in my mind's eye.  But I've never met Barack Obama. I do meet doctors, teachers, engineers, artists, scientists, lawyers, human resources managers,* business owners and psychologists. And these people are not all white or men. They do not default to white or young or male or straight, for that matter. 

When my daughter thinks of the word "president," I hope she can see a woman's face. I'd also like her not be surprised when her doctor is elderly, a woman, black, Hispanic, or gay. She'll learn that from me, that's a promise. 

*For the record, thanks to Miss Tina Le, HR managers will always be Vietnamese in my mind.

Emma's Tardis Mitts

Not to get all sentimental on ya'll, but this is my 50th post! Wooooo! Something special is occuring. I made these Dr. Who Tardis mitts for my boyfriend's lovely and talented daughter, Emma, who is a super fan of the show. I wasn't wild about any of the patterns that already existed for Tardis mitts because many of them lacked a thumb gusset, so I made my own pattern!

MATERIALS

Any 3 skeins of a DK or light worsted weight yarn in blue, black and white.
Mine use: Blue Primarily Speaking Merino Wool, Black Blue Sky Melange, and White Malabrigo Rios.
Size 4 DPN
Size 6 DPN
Stitch markers
Tapestry needle

The yarn. 1/3 from stash.

INSTRUCTIONS

PM: Place marker
K: Knit
P: Purl
M1: Make one stitch by knitting into the front and back of the stitch.

In blue and smaller (size 4) needles, cast-on 45 stitches using the long tail cast-on method. Place 15 stitches on each of three DPNs. Join in round, being careful not to twist sts.

Work for 2 inches in K2, P1 ribbing.

Round 1-4: Switch to larger needles (size 6). Continuing in blue, knit 4 rows in stockinette.

Round 5, 6: Holding 2 strands together if you are using sport weight Melange, K 2 rows in black

Round 7-8: Knit 2 rows in blue.

Round 9: Begin thumb gusset as follows...

• Needle 1: K2, M1 by knitting in the front and back of the stitch, PM, K to end
• Needle 2: Knit all.
• Needle 3: K to 3 stitches to end, PM, M1, K2

Round 10: Knit all stitches.

Round 11: K to 1 stitch before marker, M1, K around to next marker, slide marker, M1, K to end.

Round 12: Knit all stitches.

REPEAT rounds 11 and 12 three more times so that you have a total of 55 stitches.

On the final repeat of round 4, knit to marker, remove marker, K2 and then cast off 12 stitches, K2, remove marker and continue knitting Round 19, being sure to pull the yarn tightly when you come around to join both sides. (42 stitches)

Round 19: Knit

Round 20: Knit in black.

Round 21-25: Work chart (see below) by K2, then beginning with the E. My version is K2 POLICE K5 BOX K6.

Round 26: Knit in black.

Round 27-29: Knit 3 rows in K2, P1 ribbing in blue.

Cast off!

*I used the chart for the letters from Sarah's rad pattern on her blog. CLICK HERE TO USE CHART.

I embroidered the windows on the top side of the gloves using a darning needle.

Emma proudly rocking her mitts!