On Mother’s Day and Feeling Scared (Blog #773)

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Today, for Mother’s Day, my mom and I continued our tradition that we’ve had for the last several years. We went to see a play, then to dinner. This year the play was The Legend of Georgia McBride, a fun, lively, and hilarious (but also touching) show about drag queens. Well, about an Elvis impersonator/bartender who gets roped into being a drag queen (and ends up liking it) when one of the drag queens at the bar where he works doesn’t show up. Anyway, it was fabulous. There were sequins, wigs, and even a Judy Garland impersonation. My mom said, “I learned so much!” Personally, I just think it’s great that she’d attend such a show. A lot of parents (a lot of people) wouldn’t do that.

After the show, we went to Starbucks, which also part of our tradition. (The above picture was taken there.) This gave us time to chat about the show and catch up with each other. I don’t know, it’s weird when you live with a person (your parent). You’d think you’d talk to them all the time, but you don’t necessarily. And yet today Mom and I had such lovely conversation. This reminds me that it’s important to be purposeful with the people in your life. If you live with them, maybe get each other out of the house once in a while.

For dinner, we did the usual, Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse. (By usual, I mean once a year on Mother’s Day.) Ugh, talk about good food. I had the ribeye, and Mom had the filet. And whereas we normally sit at a table, this year we sat in a booth–a high back. This made our two-hour dinner even better, since it afforded us just that much more comfort and privacy. And here’s the cool part. When I made the reservation online a couple weeks ago and they asked if I had any special requests, I just asked for it–a booth if you have it. And whereas I forgot about the request, they remembered. Today when they walked us to our table and took us to the booth section, I thought, HOW COOL!

Sometimes getting what you want is that simple. You just have to ask.

After dinner, I drove Mom home, and now I’m at a friend’s house, house sitting. Their dog is curled up next to me and was just making high-pitched noises in its sleep. I guess it’s having having a good (or bad) dream. Maybe chasing a rabbit. Anyway, I wish I were asleep too. Last night I went out to eat with a friend then to the symphony, and it feels like this weekend has been go, go, go. All the activity has been wonderful, of course, but I’m ready to slow down, ready to rest. I wish I could hit Publish.

But here’s something.

Today as Mom and I were leaving the show (so before Starbucks and Ruth’s Chris), Mom fell. She was stepping up on a sidewalk, and I guess her ankle rolled on the curb. I was right there, and it just happened so fast. The next thing I knew, she was lying face down on the concrete, her glasses, bent, lying on the ground beside her. Thankfully, she was okay. Well, she probably twisted or sprained her ankle, and she scrapped her hand and part of her face. I’m sure she’ll be bruised in a day or two. But she said she was more scared than anything else.

Ugh. Fear. I felt that too. It’s terrifying to watch someone you care about stumble and fall and not be able to do anything about it. As soon as it happened, I remember thinking, I don’t know what to do. I actually moved her purse from the street to the curb because it was SOMETHING I felt like I could do competently while Mom was re-orienting herself. Three people came over–a couple and an older woman. Y’all, they were so kind. Also, nobody knows what to say. I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you for checking on us.” It’s like all of us were kind of in shock, like, We can’t believe this thing happened. And we all wanted it to be okay. But it HAD happened, and although it was okay, it wasn’t.

As the evening went on, Mom’s ankle swelled more, and walking was harder for her. When I left her at home earlier, Dad had put an ice pack on her leg. So healing has started.

It’s weird the way your brain keeps playing pictures in your mind. What I mean is that although I know my mom is okay, that’s she going to be okay, and that she’s at home right now, I keep seeing her on that sidewalk. The whole thing reminded me of once when I was a teenager and Mom fell in our kitchen. I could be wrong about this, but I believe it had something to do with a medication she was on (or wasn’t on). All I remember is that one minute she was making Cream of Wheat, and the next minute she and the Cream of Wheat were on the floor. Just like that. (Gravity is fast.)

In that instance, Mom ended up spending a few days in the hospital. Honestly, I don’t remember how it transpired. Dad was in prison, so someone probably called a relative to help. Either before or after she got settled in, I probably cleaned up the Cream of Wheat, just like I moved the purse today. Because it was all I could do.

Fuck feelings.

What I mean is that feeling your feelings is difficult. Like today when Mom fell, I kept wanting her to be okay. Not just for her, but for me. Because it hurts to see my mom hurting, and it’s scary to think that things could have been worse or that this could happen again. You know, as long as gravity is a thing. And whereas Mom was OKAY, the fact is that she limped the rest of the day. The fact is the side of her temple was bleeding. There’s a scratch there now. Having watched Mom fall more than once, having seen her in the hospital, these things unsettle me. And it’s like, if she’s OKAY, I don’t have to feel scared.

But the truth is we all feel scared. Feeling scared is part of the human experience, and there’s nothing that can keep us from it. (Although whiskey and chocolate help.) Personally, I’m at a point in my journey where I’d rather acknowledge and feel my fear than ignore it or shove it down. Now, granted, I’ve been putting it off. Writing about it tonight, I saved it for the last thing. (This is called burying the lead.) Still, I’ve been saying that I’ve been trying to keep my heart open to WHATEVER arises, so I’m trying to keep my heart open to this. To feeling scared and being uncertain of what to do. Not because it’s fun but because I’ve shoved my feelings down enough to know that they don’t go anywhere–they just come up later.

So crap. Sooner or later, you have to meet yourself.

A lot of teachers say that when feeling your feelings, it’s important not to “run your story.” To me this means that when I’m scared I do my best to not tell myself, This is so awful. What if it happens again? Rather, I try to experience what being scared is like physically. My heart is beating. I can’t sit still. I have a lump in my throat. This is hard, hard, hard to do, but always brings me out of my fear-based fantasies and into the present moment. For example, after Mom fell today and she sat up on the sidewalk, I noticed that the fall was OVER and that there were kind, smiling people there to help us. This was my experience when I hurt my leg several months ago. Not that the situation was pleasant, but that it wasn’t as terrible as I’d made it out to be.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There is a force, a momentum that dances with all of us, sometimes lifting us up in the air, sometimes bringing us back down in a great mystery of starts and stops.

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All of Life’s Messes (Blog #436)

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Last night I slept six hours, then was up this morning (at ten) to do last-day-house-sitting chores before heading to Northwest Arkansas to see a play. The play was called Until Just Moistened. I could have sworn it was going to be about something sexual, but it was actually about cornbread. That being said, cornbread and many other carbohydrates have served as substitutes for my sex life more than once, so maybe it’s all the same. Regardless, the play was by Crescent Dragonwagon and was part of the Arkansas New Play Festival, put on by Theater Squared. The festival is this weekend and next, and since I have an all-access pass, I’m sure I’ll be talking about it off and on for the next week.

After the play, I killed some time in a new-to-me bookstore, then met my friend Sydnie to teach dance at a wedding reception. (Dancers get asked to do all sorts of things. When there’s food and an open bar involved, we often say yes.) Y’all, as a former wedding photographer (assistant), I’ve been to A LOT of weddings. But this one was in an old airport hangar. And whereas it was hotter than Satan’s front yard on an August afternoon, the atmosphere was killer and the food (Brazilian) was delicious. Granted, getting people to dance felt like pulling teeth, but those that participated did a wonderful job, and it all goes with the territory.

Fresh off last week’s house sitting and cat wrangling gig, tonight I picked up a friend’s dog to watch for the week. I normally don’t bring animals home, but I LOVE this dog. A standard poodle, she’s a total sweetheart, and not only do we get along famously, but we also have the same name (CoCo). Well get this. As soon as I got CoCo to Mom and Dad’s, she quickly ate our dog Ella’s food–the dry and the wet–then promptly defecated all over the carpet. (I had actually just let her outside, but she waited until she was inside to go.) Y’all, it looked like a dinosaur with diarrhea had been through the living room.

And smelled like it too.

A friend I was texting suggested it was just nerves, which I guess makes sense. It’s a new environment. Plus she did eat some foreign food, so it’s not like I can blame her. Still, it was no fun dealing with the mess, which took an entire roll of paper towels and a half a bottle of Resolve to–well–resolve. But now it’s done, and CoCo is in her kennel, resting.

Personally, I can’t wait to go to my kennel.

When I finished dealing with CoCo’s mess earlier, my mom said, “You’re really good at cleaning up shit, Marcus.” This isn’t the type of compliment one goes around looking for, but I guess it’s a compliment nonetheless. Marcus Coker, good shit cleaner-upper. What can I say? I’ve had a lot of practice. Last night while looking behind a couch, I found two cat-vomit spots several days old. They were absolutely hard as a rock, concretized to the floor. Seriously y’all, they should use that stuff to repair interstates. But I digress. I suppose this is life, full of messes and clean-up jobs. Sometimes it’s your mess you’re cleaning up, sometimes it’s somebody else’s. I’m talking about emotional messes, the damage another human can cause. Often in therapy I’ve thought, I didn’t create this problem–my parents did–my ex did–whatever–why should I have to clean it up? But of course, we all cause damage we don’t mean to. And what are you gonna do, leave shit on your carpet?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Authenticity is worth all the hard work. Being real is its own reward."

My Mother’s (Day) Example (Blog #409)

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Two years ago on Mother’s Day I had plans to see a musical with a friend of mine, but they called that morning violently ill. In a mad dash to find another plus-one, I asked my mom to go, thinking she’d say no because she isn’t exactly spontaneous. But she said yes, so then I made reservations at the only place I could find that took reservations online–Ruth’s Chris (Fancy Pants) Steakhouse. Based on Mom’s reaction when we pulled into the parking lot, it completely made her day. (Considering I’d actually forgotten it was Mother’s Day until that morning, this was a huge win.) Anyway, last year we repeated our adventure–saw a play, went back to Ruth’s Chris. (You can read about here.) Again, Mom was thrilled.

And thus a tradition was born.

That’s right, today for Mother’s Day, we did it all over again. First, Mom and I saw a play in Fayetteville at Theater Squared, The Hound of the Baskervilles. A humorous take on the classic Sherlock Holmes story, it’s the same show I saw last week and stars the three talented actors who taught the comedy workshop I attended a few days ago. Y’all, the production was just as hilarious today as last week, even more so. You know how it is the second time around–you notice things you didn’t notice before, subtle little things. At least that’s been my experience with theater productions and boyfriends. (That last part was a joke.) Today there was a line that completely escaped me the first viewing, a reference to a miniature cow, which one of the characters called “a bonsai bovine.” A bonsai bovine–how clever! I’m still tickled.

After the show, Mom and I briefly went to a bookstore, but neither of us saw anything we couldn’t live without. Still, it was fun to look. Then we went to Starbucks because Mom hardly ever goes to Starbucks and it’s still a treat for her to get a Chai Tea. (It’s the little things.) As for me, I got a White Chocolate Mocha and a chocolate-chip cookie because, well, fuck Autoimmune Paleo. (At least for today.)

No regrets.

Leaving Starbucks, Mom and I went back to Ruth’s Chris for dinner. Seriously, the name is weird, but it’s a pretty classy joint. The waiters all smile at you (imagine that), there’s a candle on every table, and today all the mothers got a rose. Oh, and did I mention the food is fabulous? Tonight Mom and I both got steak and split our sides, creamed spinach and southwest mac and cheese. (Can you say fattening?) And then–and then–we both had chocolate cake. (Can you say bitch, it was delicious?)

It’s weird what all can happen in twelve months. This time last year, mom was just about to be diagnosed with breast cancer. Now she’s undergone chemotherapy, had a double mastectomy, and completed radiation. Last week she got a new wig, and today she wore her foobs (fake boobs) for the first time. One is slightly bigger than the other, which Mom said was true to life. (We talk about EVERYTHING in this family.) At dinner tonight I asked Mom how it felt having come through the whole ordeal. Glancing at a bracelet around her wrist that says, “Hope,” she said, “I’m glad it’s over.” This really is good reminder–something worthy of celebrating–that just as challenges can come into our lives, they can also leave.

Never give up on life or anyone in it.

Later I told Mom, “The next time you reincarnate, I’d ask for an easier life. You’ve had more than your fair share of trials and tribulations this go round.” Seriously, the woman has. I won’t go into details, but she’s had it rough. And yet here’s what I notice about my mother, that not only is she able to weather the storms of life, but that she’s able to do so with poise. Not that she doesn’t have bad days, but she doesn’t whine about them. At least from my point of view, she’s not bitter. And whereas I consider my mother’s unconditional love her greatest gift to me, perhaps this is her second greatest gift–her example of grace under fire. Perhaps this too is unconditional love–to refuse to be defined by your bruises, to never give up on life or anyone in it (including yourself), to hope.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Bodies are so mysterious, much more complicated than car doors. They take more patience to understand and work with. They require more than a couple hours to repair.

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Looking Like a Marcus (Even If I Don’t Feel Like One) (Blog #406)

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I’ve been staring at the screen for thirty minutes. Well, checking Facebook. Regardless, I’ve been avoiding the blog. I’m tired today. I’d rather go to bed than write. It was almost five in the morning when I finished last night’s blog about my issues with money, and I was up early this morning (before noon) to attend a comedy workshop in Fayetteville. The point is, I didn’t get a lot of sleep. But who does, really?

Let’s talk about something else.

The comedy workshop I attended was put on by Theater Squared and the cast of their current play, The Hound of the Baskervilles, which I saw last week. (It was hilarious.) The workshop was hosted at the library, and when I got there and saw that there were only a few people in the class, I thought, Shit, I’m going to have to participate. Y’all, I almost turned right around and drove back home. But then I thought, I came here to learn something, so I stepped outside my comfort zone and into the room.

As a general rule, I like meeting new people. Not that I’m “one of those” who get chatty on airplanes or anything, but I certainly could (given enough scotch). Today, however, I wasn’t in the mood to meet anyone new, to be “nice,” to participate. But as I was sitting in my chair and fiddling with my phone, the older lady next to me broke out in a grin and said, “Hi, I’m Janice. What’s your name?”

Reminding myself to smile, I said, “Marcus.”

Janice gasped audibly. “Of course you are!”

I laughed. “Of course I am?”

“Yes,” she proclaimed. “You LOOK like a Marcus.”

Later Janice said she meant I looked stately (like the Romans who originally coined my name), which no one has ever told me before, but I took as a good thing. I just looked up stately on the internet, and it means, “having a dignified, unhurried, or grand manner.” Talk about a high-octane compliment. My head is getting bigger as we speak. And yet, in that moment earlier today, I’m quite sure I didn’t have “a grand manner.” A nervous manner, for sure. First, I was in a new situation. Second, ten minutes after the workshop started, I noticed a missed call from the insurance company of the guy who rear-ended me last summer. Crap, I thought, they’re gonna want to talk about money. I couldn’t stop worrying about it the entire class. All I could think about was calling them back and getting it over with.

Unhurried my ass.

The workshop itself went great. First we talked generally about how a play is written, then talked about how a play (specifically a comedy) is interpreted. And whereas I mostly paid attention, took notes, and “let” everyone else participate, I did get out of my seat to join in an exercise in which a number of choreographed dance steps were performed. Y’all, it really was a fabulous workshop, and my big takeaway was that even when something on stage looks spontaneous, chances are that it’s not. Rather, every sigh, glance, step, and gesture has likely been planned out and rehearsed over and over again.

Three hours later, when the workshop was finished, I called the insurance company back, but they’d already gone home for the day. Consequently, I’ve spent all evening running scenarios in my head–things going my way, things going almost my way, things not going my way at all. I keep telling myself that whatever happens when we talk, it will just be a conversation, and I’ve had plenty of conversations before. But I really am starting to get fed up with the whole ordeal, which has now dragged on for over ten months. I’m sure it doesn’t help that I already feel as if my health and entire life are also on hiatus. Seriously, if only I could get paid for being a professional foot-tapper and watch-looker-at-er.

What if being patient now will make whatever comes later that much sweeter?

One of the concepts discussed in the workshop today was that not only does a play have a beginning, middle, and end, but almost every part of a play has a beginning, middle, and end, as well. For example, if one actor looks at another, that look has a point at which it starts, is held for a certain amount of time, and is then completed. One of the points to this conversation was–don’t rush from beginning to end–the middle is what MAKES the ending. This was a great reminder for me. So often I feel as if my life is on hold, like I’m just biding my time until I settle this accident claim, find consistent work, or whatever. But what if this is the middle part of my story? What if being patient now will make whatever comes later that much sweeter, that much more satisfying? If that’s the case, then surely this is an opportunity for me to practice being unhurried, even if that’s not my default way of acting. Surely I could rehearse “unhurried” over and over again until it actually were spontaneous for me to live in a stately, dignified, and grand manner–like a man perfectly at ease with the speed of life.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our shoulders weren’t meant to carry the weight of the world.

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Remembering (Blog #398)

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This afternoon I saw my therapist and told her about my meeting Del Shores on Sunday. I shared this bit of news as if I were a junior high cheerleader at a slumber party, and she responded in kind. (I love it when people rejoice with me appropriately.) Then I told her about receiving good news about my medical bills last week and ended the conversation by groaning, “So maybe the universe isn’t such a bad place to live after all.” My therapist raised her hand as if she were about to offer a benediction. “It has its moments,” she said, then bowed her head slightly. “It has its moments.”

After therapy and a quick trip to the library, I met my friend CJ for an evening in Fayetteville. For dinner, we went to Herman’s, a steak and rib joint that’s been around for decades, but it was our first time there. Y’all, it was pretty great. We both had steak, and they were super big, super juicy. Good stuff. And I was so proud of myself for staying mostly on Autoimmune Paleo. (I ate hash browns, but NO tomatoes, peppers, or bread!) That being said, when CJ suggested dessert, I did think, Oh, fuck it and started fantasizing about the possibilities. But thankfully (I guess), I didn’t have to exercise my willpower or decide to further break my rules for the evening because Herman’s doesn’t have a dessert menu. What they do have, however, is a basket of (free) multi-flavored Tootsie Pops.

Insert my eyes rolling here.

I can’t tell you how unimpressed I was. When the waitress brought the basket to our table, I felt like I was a toddler at a dentist’s office. Granted, it worked out for my diet, but come on–a sucker for dessert? (I politely declined.) I can only assume a straight person came up with this idea. (No offense, straight people, but a gay man would NEVER propose an idea like this.) I asked the waitress, “Do people actually get excited about this basket of suckers you’ve laid before me?” With a completely serious face, she replied, “Some people do.”

A sucker at a steakhouse. I’m still not over it. (Some things are really hard for me to let go of.) However–for both your sake and mine–I’m going to try to move on with my life. (Here I go.)

After dinner CJ and I went to see a play at Theater Squared. Well, we did stop in a local sex store first, but since we did that last year, it wasn’t exactly a novel or notable experience. If you’ve seen one dildo, you’ve seen them all. That being said, if you haven’t seen a seventeen-inch dildo or a rainbow-colored “pride” dildo like I did tonight, then, yeah, maybe you should get out more often. And I guess the glass dildos were notable, what with their different shapes and colors. Some of them were quite pretty–stunning, actually. Had it been winter and had they not been in the penis-shaped vibrator section, I could have easily mistaken them for Christmas tree ornaments.

Just imagine. Presents under the tree AND on the tree.

But back to the play we went to see, The Hound of the Baskervilles, or as my mother misheard when I told her about it a couple days ago, The Hound of the Basketball Pills. It’s a Sherlock Holmes story, of course, but this version has been adapted as a comedy, and y’all, it was hilarious. Three extremely talented actors played twenty (20!) characters in two acts, and I was completely in stitches. They never missed a beat. It was the perfect way to get out of the house and remind myself, once again, that the universe “has its moments.”

But seriously, I highly recommend the show. Go see it. (It’s playing until May 27.)

Then I stand a little taller.

Something I often notice when I go to therapy or see a wonderful show like I saw tonight is that even if I’ve spent the week worrying, fretting, or even bitching about my problems (my often very real and in-my-face problems), all of that falls away. If only for an hour or two, I forget about the past and am strongly reconnected to the present and the idea that life is good. I love these moments when I forget about myself, these moments when my worries simply vanish into thin air. Then I stand a little taller, without all that weight on my shoulders. Then I move about the earth as a star moves about the heavens–confidently. Remembering that I belong here, that this is my home, I continue steadily along my path.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your life is a mystery. But you can relax. It’s not your job to solve it.

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Let’s Talk about Sex (Stores) (Blog #160)

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This afternoon I ate out for lunch before therapy and developed a two-hour crush on the host at the restaurant. Honestly, he wasn’t really my type–high-water pants, mustache, probably patchouli for deodorant. I mean, I didn’t get close enough to know for sure. But basically, he was a hippy–or hipster–I really don’t know the difference. Plus, it’s so hard these days to tell if someone is gay or not. Once when I was with my aunt at a department store, a hot young number offered to clean our glasses, and I could have sworn he was hitting on me. But short of someone sticking their hand down my pants, I never like to assume. He could have just been on commission.

Anyway, the host at the restaurant. I told my therapist about him and said, “Oh my god, I just realized he had a braided belt on,” and my therapist said, “Like a leather one–from the nineties?”

“Yes, how awful. How did I overlook that?”

“You were just horny,” she said.

Fair enough.

Of course, we talked about other things too, like people pleasing. My therapist said the problem with people pleasing is that it makes us externally focused. What will she say? What will they think? But she said we should ideally be internally focused, which simply means being authentic and true to our own values and morals rather than someone else’s. In short, we should be true to ourselves.

This evening I met my friend CJ out of town for dinner. We weren’t technically celebrating my birthday (which is next week), but she said we were, so woowho! I’m all for early and prolonged celebrations. As my friend Marla says, “You get one day a year all to yourself, you might as well make it count.” Anyway, after eating in Rogers, we headed toward Fayetteville to see a show at Theater Squared. Since we arrived early (a first for me), we decided to go for a walk along Dickson Street, and when we passed Condom Sense, CJ said, “Have you ever been in there?”

“Never,” I said.

Grabbing my arm, she said, “Let’s go!”

Well, right off the bat, the little lady behind the counter told me a sex joke, something to do with the penis jewelry around her neck that could point up or down. She kept playing with it like a see-saw. Well, I’ve been in a sex shop before, but I’m always a skosh uncomfortable. So I just glanced at all the dildos–don’t mind me–and the lady said, “There’s more in the back room!”

Oh, this back room?

Y’all, there was a penis cage. I sort of thought it was like a chastity belt, but honestly didn’t know what it was for. It just looked like a penis-shaped cage with a little lock on it, something you might put on your luggage to feel safe. You know, protect the family jewels. Well, I’m a curious person, so I asked the lady behind the counter, “What about the cock cage?” Then she came down from her perch behind the counter, not even joking, and said, “Which one?” Then she explained that a cock cage is a training device, almost like something you’d put on your kid’s bicycle. And then–and then–she started pointing her finger at me, and said, “You’re the slave. I’M THE MASTER. As long as this is on your cock, you can’t get an erection. You only get a hard-on when I SAY.”

I mean, I grew up in church. How do you respond to that? Uh–yes, ma’am? No, thank you?

Honestly, I was itching to get out of the store because the show was about to start, and I can only listen to a woman my mother’s age talk about erections for so long. But before CJ and I could get out the door, the lady started talking to us about lubes–water-based, oil-based, and silicone. Just imagine this short woman with long hair of indeterminate color talking with a smoker’s voice, pointing her finger at you kind of angrily, and saying, “I’ve been having sex since before anybody knew what sex was. Sure, water-based lubes are better than spit, but it’s nothing like this silicone.”

Dear god, make it stop.

I kept thinking she was going to say, “I used to walk ten miles uphill in the snow to have sex,” but instead she pumped some of the lube on my fingers and then CJ’s fingers. Well, what do you do? So we just stood there, rubbing our fingers together, rubbing our fingers together, as the lady kept talking. I thought, Lady, I’m gay. That’s enough about your vagina. Although, yes–I guess it is cute that you call it Fluffy. Much less threatening that way.

“Boy, CJ, look at the time. The show starts in ten minutes!”

“Okay, Marcus. Let’s go.”

Then the lady said, “Pardon the expression, but come again.”

You can’t make this up.

Okay, I didn’t mean for this blog to be about my trip to the sex shop. But really, how do you beat that? (No pun intended.) Seriously, CJ and I had a great time at the show, a musical called Fun Home. But even a production about a singing lesbian who grows up with a closeted father who works at a funeral (fun) home doesn’t really top a lube-hawking grandma with a sterling silver see-saw penis around her neck. But I suppose few things would.

Currently I’m at CJ’s, spending the night on her farm. I’m inside, but the air outside is the coolest it’s been all summer. The full moon is shining bright in the sky, like a spotlight announcing fall’s arrival. Earlier CJ and I went for a walk down her dirt road, and her three dogs and one of her cats followed along. When we got back, we pulled some chairs off her back porch and into the yard, sat under the moon, and traded stories. CJ said I should have hit on the hippy at the restaurant. “What would he have done?” she said.

Now CJ is in bed. The house is quiet, and the world is still. I can hear crickets outside the door, maybe a neighbor’s dog barking. Across the room there are several five-gallon buckets of dehydrated food. CJ said she bought them cheap from a friend who’s a “prepper,” apparently a person who stockpiles food, guns, and whatever for the end of the world. CJ plans to resale them, but considering each bucket contains 275 meals, if something drastic were to happen tonight, CJ and I should be fine for roughly a year and a half.

So don’t worry about us.

When CJ told me about “preppers,” I thought it was a sex thing, but–then again–it’s been that sort of day. Jokes aside, I thought, That’s so bizarre. Who lives like that? Honestly, it’s the same thing I thought when I saw some of the items in the sex store. I imagine some people reading this blog may find it odd, offensive, too–uh–personal. But it was my day, and, as my grandpa used to say, “It’s a big old world.” Ultimately, I’m glad I live in a time and place where I can talk to my therapist (or the internet) about a hot hippy host, where women who voted for JFK can sell condoms to college students, and where singing lesbians can take the stage. Personally, I don’t want to hoard dehydrated food or put a cage on my penis, but I’m thrilled to be in a world where other people can if they want to. So as soon as I hit publish, I’m going back out on the porch, looking at the moon, and getting some fresh, country air. I suppose that’s all any of us really want–to breathe deep, to breathe true to ourselves, whatever that means.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life proceeds at its own pace.

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Put Your Best Left Foot Forward (Blog #79)

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Okay, I’m running on three hours of sleep here. Well, all right, fine. I’m also running on four blueberry pancakes and thee glasses of Glenlivet. But the pancakes and the scotch are just making me even more tired that I already was, so I don’t think they should even be figured into the equation. No, I’m sure they shouldn’t. Regardless, I’m seriously considering using duct tape to keep my eyes open, maybe taking a cold shower and substituting the bar of soap with a nine-volt battery. Hello!

I got up early today in order to attend the Arkansas New Play Festival, which is a two-weekend–uh–thing involving–damn it, brain–plays. (I’m gonna try this again.) It’s a multiple-day event where new plays, or plays that are still in production, are read in front of live audiences, after which the writers and directors get feedback about what works, what doesn’t work.  It’s like a trial-run for theater shows. At least that’s my scotch and pancakes understanding of it.

Today the festival was at Crystal Bridges in Bentonville. (Tomorrow it’s at Theater Squared in Fayetteville.) Y’all, I have never seen so many people in all my life. It was like the population of Queens descended on the lobby of Crystal Bridges. I guess everyone was there to see the Chihuly exhibit, which I thought had something to do with hot sauce, but actually has to do with blown glass. Here’s a picture of the only exhibit I could see for free. I don’t know what the official title is, but I’m either calling it Pretty Glass Balls in Ugly Water, or simply, Jesus Left His Toys Behind. (As my friend Mary recently said, “Marcus, I wonder about you.”)

But back to the festival. Today’s schedule included two plays with a break in between. I thought both plays were extremely well-acted, and I especially enjoyed the writing of the second play, which was called Comet Town and was written by Rick Erhstin. I’m not doing so great with descriptions tonight, so I’ll just say it was about a fucked-up family with a grandfather with dementia who thought the planes flying over his home were comets and the sounds coming from the pipes in the basement were his dead wife. The dialogue and acting were so compelling that for probably thirty minutes I had a steady stream of tears running down my face. If things had gotten any sadder, I would have needed my bathing suit.

Thank God I sat in the back row.

When the play was over, the lady next to me–who was one of the actors from the first play–struck up a conversation. For a few minutes we talked about the festival and then progressed to–Where are you from?–Where are YOU from?–What do you do?–What do YOU do? (You know how it goes.) Anyway, she was the nicest lady you’d ever want to meet, and when I told her that I was a dance teacher and a writer, she asked if I taught a class on Friday nights. Well, we’d been talking about theater, so I thought she was talking about theater classes, so I said, “Oh no, that’s someone else.” But then she said she meant dancing classes, since she’d heard of a dancer/writer who taught swing dance classes in the area. Well, I have a friend who does that, so I said, “No, that’s someone else. He’s Asian.” And then–AND THEN–she said, “No, this guy is white. He writes a blog about his therapist.”

That’s funny, I thought, I write a blog about MY therapist.

Wait a minute.

Oh. My. God.

(She’s talking about me.)

Seriously, my head got so big that I thought I was going to lose my balance and fall out of my chair.

I told the lady–whose name is Rebecca and has a sister who’s danced with me a couple of times and recommended the blog–that she was the first person I’d met “in real life” who’d read the blog that I didn’t already know. So I asked her if she’d take a selfie with me (I think she said yes) and told her I planned on putting it on the blog because that’s not weird. (Right? That’s not weird?)

Okay, I really feel like we can stop there. Period. The end. What else is important after your day has been made? But fine, I’ll keep going. And don’t worry, my head will return to normal size by this time tomorrow.

Leaving Crystal Bridges, I headed for my friend Betty’s house to spend the night and save myself a lot of time on the road tonight and tomorrow. When I got to Betty’s, she’d just started a yoga workout, so I said I wanted to join. Well, I haven’t done yoga in over six months, so for thirty minutes I stretched, moaned, and discovered aches and pains in muscles I didn’t even know I had. When the video ended, I lay in a pile of sweat and regret and decided to turn my life over to Jesus and repent of my sinful eating habits. I thought, chocolate cake is evil–carbohydrates are for heathens–fried chicken is the devil’s workshop.

And then Betty asked if I wanted pancakes for dinner, and I said, “Hell yes” because–life is ironic.

So the coolest thing. Sometime shortly after 2005 when I opened my former dance studio, I designed the studio’s one and only t-shirt. I think we sold like twenty-five of them. Well, Betty was one of my first students in those days, and she bought one of the shirts and still has it (and wore it tonight for yoga). The front says, “Put your best left foot forward” because I can’t tell you the number of times someone has told me, “I have two left feet,” as if that’s a legitimate excuse for not dancing or not being willing to learn. I mean, THAT’S WHAT LESSONS ARE FOR. Anyway, check out the shirt.

I just remembered that the phrase “put your best left foot forward” came from the guy I was dating at the time. I thought it was so clever–and still do–that I put it on the shirts and planned to use it for fliers, coffee mugs, and maybe a personal tramp stamp. But alas, best laid plans. But even now, I think it’s a great encouragement. So many nights–most of them–I sit down to write this blog, and it feels like I have two left feet. I don’t know where I’m going or how I’m going to get there. More often than not, I think, Just quit–stay where you are. (This happens in life too.)

Standing still is no longer good enough.

However, I’ve promised myself I’m going to write. Of course, I want every word to be glorious. (Is that too much to ask?) I want people to laugh and I want them to cry. I don’t like it when it my words stumble along anymore than anyone else does. But the fact is that sometimes we move with grace and sometimes we move with struggle. This afternoon when I watched the plays, it was evident that things were still in progress. I mean, there were some glorious moments (I laughed–I cried), but there were also moments that fell flat. And whereas I’m often critical of such things, I’ve reminded myself this evening that we all have a right to put our best left foot forward. In fact, it takes buckets of courage and vulnerability for someone to do that.

Maybe I’ve never said this before, but when it comes to dancing and dieting and writing and living–I don’t have it all figured out. (There, I admit it.) I’m sure I never will. But rather than giving up, I’m willing to give it a try, willing to stumble along, willing to put one left foot in front of the other, since standing still is no longer good enough.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"It's really good news to find out that the world isn't as scary as you thought it was."

(A Wonderful) Mother’s Day (Blog #45)

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Judge me all you want, but I traditionally suck at Mother’s Day. I mean, my mom’s not really into “stuff” or “things,” so I usually get her just a card, and sometimes we go out to eat, and sometimes Dad pays for it. (They say confession is good for the soul, and they must be right because I feel pretty good right now.) All that being said, I did a LOT better today, but before I can tell you about it, we need to back up a year.

Last year, I totally spaced out about Mother’s Day, and I’d planned to see the musical Beauty and the Beast in Fayetteville with a friend. Well, that morning my friend called and said, “Marcus, I’m sick. I know it’s short notice, and I’m sorry, but try to find someone else to go.” So it was all very last minute, but I took my mom to the show, and we both had a great time. (I cried.) And then we headed to Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse because it’s fancy and I like fancy things and they were also the only place that took same-day reservations online.

(I didn’t tell Mom where we were going to eat until we got there.)

Well, when we pulled into the restaurant parking lot, Mom’s face lit up, and she said, “Oh, Marcus, Ruth’s Chris! I’ve ALWAYS WANTED to go here, but never thought I’d get to.” (Talk about a win.) And for the last year, she’s consistently told me what a great day she had, how it was one of the best days of her life. (Dad’s response was, “Uh, hello. What about the day you married ME?”)

About a month ago, I cashed in some credit card points for a gift card to Ruth’s Chris, so I asked Mom if she wanted to go back, and she didn’t hesitate to say yes. A day or so later, she said, “Let’s go back for Mother’s Day.” Well, earlier this week I noticed there were a couple shows going on this weekend, so I asked Mom if she wanted to go to one and make a day of it. I said, “The first one is a play, a comedy, and it’s indoors. The second is like a circus, so it’s in a tent.” Mom said, “I’d love to go, and I like air conditioning.”

So our Mother’s Day started this afternoon when my mom and I went to see a play called The Dingdong. (Let your imagination run wild.) The play was basically about a husband and wife, both of whom are considering having an affair, so it was this big slapstick situation with five actors playing over a dozen roles and all sorts of potential lovers hiding in closets and under couches and one person walking in just as another person walks out. It really was delightful, and I don’t know that I’ve ever heard Mom laugh so much, but—thanks to three years of therapy—I kept thinking, These people have TERRIBLE boundaries.

Here’s a picture from the play. If you get a chance to see it (the play, not the picture), it’s at Theater Squared in Fayetteville for three or four more weeks.

After the show, we had a lot of time to kill before dinner, so we went to the square and did some window-shopping, and I bought a thank-you card that says, “Much obliged.” I don’t know who’s going to get the card, so if you want it, feel free to do something really swell for me. Currently I’m in need of medium-sided shirts, a job, and a husband that preferably looks like or is Zac Efron. (I know that’s asking for a lot, but this is an EXTREMELY NICE thank-you card.) Anyway, the store had a really cool neon sign that said, “I bet you look good on the dance floor,” so I asked the girl at the counter to take a picture of Mom and me below the sign. Mom explained, “My son’s a dancer.” (The girl didn’t seem impressed.)

Next we looked around at a vintage store, and then we went to Starbucks because Mom has only been to Starbucks one other time in her entire life. (Amazing, I know.) So we just sat for over an hour and talked. Maybe that doesn’t seem like a big deal, but Mom has spent so many years not talking because of her depression, it’s actually a big deal. Before we left, we took another photo, and Mom told me that it was so nice because we never take photos together, and she also told me that I was required to print them out so she could frame them.

After Starbucks, we went to Ruth’s Chris, and we were there for over two hours. Actually, we were the last ones to leave. If you’ve never been to Ruth’s Chris, sell everything you own and go. It’s great food and great service. Mom said, “I think this is the best meal of my life.” I said, “I really get off on fancy stuff like this—long meals, waiters who scrape the breadcrumbs off the table, bathrooms with individual hand towels.” Mom replied, “It’s like Downtown Abbey.”

Later she added, “I get off on stuff like that too.”

Our final stop for the evening was the buckyball at Crystal Bridges, this really cool geometric “art thing” that lights up and changes colors. Beneath it, there are reclined benches, so you can lie underneath the stars and look up at the lights and shapes. (Apparently, you can also make out with your girlfriend under a blanket, which is what the guy on the bench next to us did.)

On the way home, Mom talked the entire time, which she said was to help keep me awake. (It worked.) Later she said, “I hope I didn’t talk too much,” and even though I had thought, Mom is talking a lot more than normal, I started thinking about all the things I learned about her today, like what it was like when her parents divorced, and how her years with depression have made her a more compassionate person, and why she still feels guilty about that white lie she told over forty freaking years ago. And then I thought about how much closer I felt to her and said, “Mom, it’s okay. I don’t mind your talking. Besides, today literally had your name on it.”

[Mom, I love you. For everything, including bringing me into the world and a wonderful day, I’m much obliged.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s hard to say where a kindness begins or ends.

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