Buh-bye FarmVille

I'm going to make a confession.  An honest airing of dirty laundry.  And I'm serious, not just trying to be funny:  my husband and children advise that I should absolutely not make any sort of attempt at humor, ever.  I'm going to tell you about the time that I hit rock bottom. The day that opened my eyes to an addiction, and taught me that there are times when you must take a deep, good look at your soul and decide if you like what you find lurking inside.

I'm going to tell you about the last day that I played FarmVille.

It started innocently enough.  Someone asked if I'd ever given it a try.  They said it was fun.  Within days I "gave up city livin' and started a farm!"  Soon I found myself setting the alarm fifteen minutes earlier, so that I could have some uninterrupted productive seed planting time before I had to make breakfast for my family. I became adept at planning my harvesting around daily tasks (strawberries take only four hours to grow, so I could plant them before I picked the kids up from school, and they'd be ready after dinner!). I became very social, stopping by various friends' farms – feeding their chickens for them, even (I really just wanted the bonus eggs). Earning copious blue ribbons for my many accomplishments, I also became a super-achiever. Suddenly an expert at landscaping, I spent hours planting and tending to trees and flowers with my pruning shears and trowel. Receiving gifts from fellow farmers thrilled me in ways that words cannot adequately express.

I bought a tractor.

And a harvester.

I left my city girl ways firmly in the dust and wondered why I had never joined 4H as a kid, since my horses, sheep, cows, and chickens were THRIVING. I decided that if I ever had another child, I just might name him/her "Zynga" (I never told this to my spouse. He wouldn't have understood).

Then it happened.

The morning started out in its normal, chaotic fashion. Lots of running up and down the stairs for forgotten socks, sweaters, backpacks, and the like. I buckled my son into his booster seat and told my daughter to stop playing with the electric lock. Then BAM!  it hit me. I had forgotten to harvest my artichokes! Do you know how much money you can earn by harvesting artichokes??? Checking the clock, I knew that the whole crop would wither if I didn't go to my computer RIGHT NOW and take care of business.

"Stay right here, I forgot something." I ran up and turned on the computer. "Come on, come on, COME ON!" Finally I made my way to the homestead and began working. I decided to use my harvester, even though it would cost me a pretty penny, and wasn't really in my budget. It was moving so slow!!! I mean, I bought the darned thing to aide me in my agricultural endeavors and it was just HOLDING ME BACK. I cancelled the action and harvested manually. Adrenaline shot through my body, better than the strongest cup of coffee.

"Mom!"
"One minute!"
"Mom?  What are you doing?"

We were late for school. No bueno. I drove to and from the school in shame, returning home with the new knowledge that I absolutely had a problem. Beginning right then and there, I decided to let my crops wither.  It nearly killed me, but I ignored all requests from those farmers who were able to function in real life, as well as in the virtual arena of Farmville. No more chickens. No more strawberries. I was done.

So forgive me if I ignore your FarmVille request. I stay away from Café World now, too. Just in case you were wondering...

Jazz Handy

How awesome is this set? Volunteers made all those gears for an adaptation I wrote of Alice in Wonderland

I've been called a genius.
Let me tell you, it feels really, really weird.

Rest assured, I'm not. A genius, that is (I am actually pretty weird). I'm just exceptionally gifted at giving the ol' "razzle dazzle".  I'm an impresario of improv. A facile faker. A peerless pretender. 

In other words, I work in the theater.

I've written, directed, designed, produced, choreographed, and anything else you can think of over 100 productions, mostly for children's theater. I've worked at community centers, community theaters, colleges, private schools, public schools, birthday parties, and churches. It's not so much a passion, as a part of my DNA. If a scientist looked at my cells under a telescope, I guarantee the cells would somehow be waving little cell jazz hands. 

I've spent time on the stage, too, but without really realizing it I morphed from an actor into the role I ended up playing, for the past 20+ years.

My career as a playwright had an auspicious beginning. I was a teenager working for a community theater program, and the director paid me to plagiarize a movie into a script for her upcoming auditions. It's a movie you're all familiar with, I am sure. It includes a good witch and a bad witch. I was to sit in front of a television, pausing and rewinding the VHS tape (Eek: I'm practically elderly!), using a pencil to write the speaking lines. Once that was done (it took days), I typed it into script form, and made photocopies for the incoming cast. Gradually she began to trust me to write my own scenes, when needed. Within a couple of years my work was being used by hundreds of theater kids. It was a total immersion type of learning experience, with very little room for error.

Once I left her program, I began writing and directing my own productions, and somehow snagged a gig as a public middle school drama teacher. The experience was stranger than fiction, and a million times more rewarding. The school was full of students who were more worried about surviving after school, once they left campus, than what was being taught on it. Every week, a student would ask me on a date. I was twenty-three, but they weren't worried about the age difference. One of the boys who was supposed to run sound for me didn't show up, because his social worker brought him to visit his daughter. He was twelve.

One of my students really wasn't digging my theater lessons. She sat in the back, arms crossed. Never participated in games or lessons. I approached her to let her know if she didn't perform the final assigned lesson, she'd be failing the class. I did it as gently, as possible, but you know "You're getting an 'F'" is hard to smile about. She ended up doing the assignment. She was timid, almost inaudible. But she did it. After school, the special education teachers came to my classroom to tell me she'd not spoken in two years. Not even to her family. They had high hopes that this was the beginning of some good recovery. I don't know what happened to her, but I know what I witnessed was the magic of theater.

Sometimes my fervor backfires, a little. I directed a production at a private school, which almost resulted in the theater/gym burning to the ground. I had coached my cast into oblivion. They knew to stay in character, no matter what. When the fire alarm went off during the mermaid scene, in Pinocchio, they stood there, completely still, waiting for direction. Thirty students in fish costumes, paused like someone had pressed a button on a remote. Within minutes the fire department appeared onstage, confused about what the heck was going on. The audience needed guidance, so I used the mic to say, "Please remain in your seats," in my best flight attendant voice -- which, I now know is not the right thing to say to an audience of 300 people, when a fire alarm is wailing. 

It turned out okay. It was determined that the fog machine had set off the alarm, the fire department bid us adieu, and I dimmed the lights. Those kids picked up where they left off, like a bunch of Broadway professionals. I was so proud. After the show we found the burned up plank on the gymnasium floor where a cord had sparked. Another bit of theater magic.

I haven't directed in a while, but my magical memories make me smile. I continue to write. I'm currently working on an upside-down, rock 'n' roll version of Hansel and Gretel. 

It'll be genius.

A Monkey Tale

I was at the zoo with my daughter today, and it brought to memory the time I was attacked by a capuchin monkey. It was an adorable monkey, mind you; it was wearing a sweet little handkerchief dress, and everything. 

It was my first ever outing with the women in my husband's family, without him along. This was 1993, years before we were married, and I was as self-conscious and anxious as one can be. I was already worried about my hair, and if I was sweating too much. California summers can be brutal, and the Santa Clara County fairgrounds aren't known for having a ton of shade. 

Anyway, I'd just put my name in a raffle for a Glamor Shots photo shoot (I won, by the way. The photo is epic, as my kids would say. Lots of leather, and HUGE bangs). I think we were on our way for a funnel cake, and would you look at this: An organ grinder, with his adorable monkey baby, strolled to a stop in front of us.

This is not the actual monkey

The man twisted the handle on his instrument, and the creature danced around, tiny skirt twirling. Amidst applause, the monkey went from person to person collecting outstretched dollar bills. 

I'm not one to deny a monkey a buck, so I put my hand out, all ready to pay up. 

The capuchin had other ideas.

Before anyone could comprehend what was happening, that hairy jerk went Jeckyll and Hyde. First she (it?) ripped that dollar out of my hand, and tucked it somewhere. Next thing I knew, her arms and legs were wrapped around me, little freaky hands and feet gripping tight. She's squealing like I'm the one attacking her, and she decides my fist would make a nice snack.

Oddly even little teeth anchored around my wrist, as people begin screaming and running away. I decided that there is only one way to end this, and began trying to shake the simian loose.

Whomp! Whomp! The air whistled by my ear as I lifted my arm above my head, shaking it toward the ground. After four or five attempts, the beast lost its hold and flew toward her owner, bouncing a few times along the way. 

Silence.

Everyone was frozen for a beat. I looked at my new tooth-mark bracelet, wincing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the monkey and her daddy make a swift exit. In shock, I stood there.

Then we went for funnel cake.

Honest to god. No one said a word: The night just moved right along.

And the funnel cake was delicious.

This haunts my dreams

Elbow-Elbow-Wrist-Wrist

When I was a teenager, I used to spend part of my summers studying at the Ashland, Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Sometime during the June that I turned fifteen, I was in line waiting for a show to open at the Elizabethan Theater when my grandfather appeared and handed me a box of Hot Tamales. “I thought you might want these,” he said, and then he was gone. He lived (as do I) in California. That means he drove across two states to hand me a box of candy. ‘Cause he just rolled like that.

Grampy taught me how to fire an antique Civil War rifle and drive a stick shift, well before I turned twelve. Things that he used to say became a fundamental part of who I am, such as: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,” and “Don’t  worry about deciding what you want to be when you grow up until you’re thirty.” That last one threw my husband for a loop. When I reached that milestone birthday, I informed him that my chosen vocation was Stay at Home Mom.

Around the time of the Interstate Candy Drop, I decided that I wanted to be a beauty queen. I convinced Grampy that I deserved a crown and sash, so he signed me up for The Santa Clara Miss pageant. I think I should explain that where I am from, we don’t do this kind of thing. I realize that there are states in the US of A where beauty pageants are an important part of life, like brushing your teeth. Or breathing. That’s just not how I was raised: Between Kindergarten and college graduation, I knew of four girls who had participated in a pageant – and one of them was a dancer for the numbers when the actual competitors were changing into their ball gowns, or swimsuits, or whatever.

The rest of the contestants had their gowns designed and constructed specifically for that pageant. Mine was not new, nor was it a custom job. Somehow, the other girls knew that they were supposed to sing “Stand by Your Man” or “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.” I did a stand up comedy routine. I wish I could grab Fifteen-Year-Old-Me’s shoulders, shake really hard and yell, “Nononono! Turn away from the light! Don’t do this!” I think it was during the Personal Introductions that I finally realized (with a horrible, panicky discovery) that I did not belong there.

Here’s how it went down:

Announcer: Joining us now is Gardenia McFlowerson! She loves her kitten, Marshmallow. She was sponsored for the pageant today, by Pretty Pettunia’s Florist. Welcome Gardenia!

And next we have Bunny Fuzzipants! She likes to practice perfect posture. Bunny was sponsored by Getterdone Hardware Store! Beautiful smile, Bunny!

And now… we have Shauna. Shauna enjoys writing “biting satirical One Acts”. She was…uhm…sponsored by her grandfather, Paul. Get…up here…You!

It was a disaster, but I did win the award for “Best Personal Interview.” They thought I had an OK personality. Grampy thought I was robbed. He really believed that I should have received the title, to the bitter end.

He passed away before my sixteen year old’s first birthday. He never got to meet my daughter. From time to time, the sorrow of his passing still hits me in the chest like a hammer. One of those giant ones at carnivals, that you use to whack the post and try to activate as many lights as your strength allows. The impact of my mournful hammer is powerful enough to ignite the bulb at the top. Sometimes I feel like he was just here, yesterday.
I was filled with a fuzzy kind of comfort when I read my journal entry from September 26th, 1985, and found that Ten-Year-Old-Me had literally seen him, just the day before.



September, 1985

Yesterday I didn’t play much just got picked up by grampy. I got new earings and a necklace. I got a tea cup, a small one and a tiny house. And a unicorn key chain. I also got a new shirt with a unicorn fighting a pegasis. And my mom gave me her shirt with a unicorn on it. Aaron got a Hulk Hogan shirt and my dad got a shirt that says something about being fed up about morning. I did my speaking assignment about ancestors today, I couldn’t find Germany until the last minute. I like school. Guess what L was giving out packages of stickers. I think other people like him just because of his stickers but I like him (for a friend) so does K.



I wish I still had those Unicorn t-shirts, I think they're coming back in style...

Putting Some Back Back into It

Tomorrow I’m having back surgery to replace some hardware, and fix some other stuff. I’m looking forward to not feeling like I’m one hundred and twelve years old. One can dream.

I’m understandably a little anxious, but whatever happens tomorrow will invariably beat my last back surgery.

My former spine surgeon is a talented guy. He builds things out of titanium and plants them in your body and you're able to walk, when once you might have had a lot of trouble getting around. But he wanted to do my most recent surgery in a hospital that was about to shut down and change hands. In fact, I was the last living patient in the entire facility.

Okay, there was one Other Guy — but his family was just waiting for the doors to close so they could unplug him. I'm not being funny: This was actually the case.

The surgery was scheduled to be completed by mid-morning, and I was supposed to be able to leave before dinner.

Didn't happen that way.

I ended up staying for FIVE DAYS.

The place was completely deserted. There was yellow caution tape criss-crossed over the doors of the offices and rooms that had already been cleaned and sanitized. There weren't any doctors there, except one that was under contract to watch over me and the Other Guy. My own doc had left the country on vacation with his family, because he hadn't expected me to be hanging out there for so long.

The hallways were always dark, except directly in front of the room in which I was enjoying my stay. The same three nurses were always somewhere nearby, and two physical therapists would visit daily and make me hobble around the eerie, shadowed halls with my walker.

The only people who visited were the Other Guy's wife, my family, and our pastor. Everyone always looked very uncomfortable to be paying a visit, during my time at Casa de Creepy.

The night before I was able to leave I had to sleep in a different room — because they were scheduled to renovate mine.

In the morning, there was yellow tape over my former door. Needless to say, I was thrilled to be given my walking papers. As I limped toward the exit, I passed the Other Guy's room. His family was saying goodbye.

If that hospital wasn't haunted when I got there, it surely is now.


Here’s to a less exciting stay!

Rockin’ Christmas

The Christmas Rock
Shauna McGuiness

As Christmas draws nearer, I am reminded of holidays past. I think about my grandmother's famous rice dish (delicious, unless she uses low-fat cheese – then it's actually kind of gross), my brother (who brought nothing but a very large beer for himself one year, complete with foil wrapping paper and bow) and lovely sister, and  hundreds of gifts – some which are still in use today, and some which have retired into the world of yard sales and thrift store donations. Most of all, I allow myself the luxury of remembering people who once shared our warm family gatherings, but who are no longer with us. My beloved grandfather is one of those people.

In early December of 2000 (a year earlier we were all dreading the collapse of the internet and possibly the planet; this year, Jesus' birthday was a much calmer event), I was in a hazy state of panic, because I couldn't think of a thing to put under the tree for my grandfather. Grampy was never one of those people who "already have everything", but rather one of those people who didn't want anything. I don't know if he was trying to make things easier for us, but his request (or rather, lack thereof) threw the entire family into a tizzy.  Every year. What to get for the man who wants nothing? I pestered and cajoled, until he finally caved and said, "Fine, then. Get me a rock."

A rock.

Lucky for him, I knew of just the rock. I quickly did a web search (in 2000 it was still cool to call it "the web") and typed up an email to a man who didn't know me from Adam, but whom I hoped would respond. Soon. Like, that day. Christmas was only two weeks away and Grampy still had squat.

Dear Colonel Ackman,

Please take a moment to review this email – I know you take care of far more pressing matters each day, but I am working on limited time and would love to have just a moment of  yours.

My grandfather, Major Paul A. Weakland, loved the military and was not only a decorated soldier, but is an exceptional human being. He was stationed in Fort Hunter Liggett, in the 1960's, fell in love with it, and more than forty years later continues to bring his grandchildren (of which I am one) to visit every year. We have camped, stayed at the Hacienda, and roomed at the Officer's Quarters. He taught his children, grandchildren, and various neighbor children to shoot firearms, swim, and respect nature on the base – not to mention the hundreds of times that we visited the mission and the surrounding property. When we were very young, we often pretended that we were in the Army and came dressed head to toe in camouflage!

Here is where I begin to sound a bit strange:  Sometime during his station, my grandfather ended up in the Indians with a private and a jeep. He found a rock there, that looks like God put a paint can down on it. It has a white circle on the top, with what looks like white paint running down the sides. He liked the rock so much that he and the private loaded it into the jeep and brought it back to his quarters. The rock was too heavy to bring home, so he had to leave it behind. It still sits, nearly fifty years later, across the parking lot from the Fort Hunter Ligget PX and the movie theater, by the road (it sits in the cactus and rock display). Whenever he brings us for a visit (we are nearly all adults, now) we still stop by to take a look at The Rock on our way home, and he laughs to see it standing there after so many years.

My grandfather is going to be eighty years old in the coming months and has begun to talk about how he won't be able to make the trip to Fort Hunter Liggett, very much longer. My brother, sister, and I would very much like to show him how much he means to us and how much we appreciate all he has taught us – by bringing that rock home to him, for Christmas. We didn't think it would be wise to steal from a military property, so I am writing to ask for clearance to pick it up in time for the holidays.

Please let me know how I can obtain permission to bring this piece of our family history home.

With utmost respect,

Shauna McGuiness

Four days later, I received his response:

Ms. McGuiness,

I have attempted to contact you by phone several times, but I have failed.

Your request to take possession of this rock is approved.  We did discuss the wisdom of granting this request, we do not want to be in the business of providing the public large mementos, of any kind, of the post. However, your grandfather's service to this post and the Army, his continuing interest in both Ft Hunter Liggett and the Army can move even the most hard core.

I ask that you contact [name and phone number]. You will need to schedule a time to make contact with them and identify the rock. You will need to ensure you have the means to safely transport it. Once the rock is identified it becomes your possession and you become responsible for transfer to your vehicle, and you become responsible for anything that may occur. Ensure you have the means to secure the rock for transport. We are not adverse to assisting you, but this is under your direction, since the rock becomes yours and the means of transport is yours. We are not sure which rock you refer to, so please ensure you have an understanding of the weight of this object and what will be required to make safe transfer and transport.

I salute your love and respect for your grandfather. Under normal circumstances such a request would not be granted, but the love of a granddaughter for a man of service cannot be ignored.

Respectfully,  LTC Stephen M. Ackman


Three days later, my husband, my sister, and I left our home in the dark of early morning to make the two hour drive to the base. We arrived as the sun became a pinkish purple smear in the sky, still dotted with stars. Showing our I.D. cards to the uniformed man huddled in the guard shack at the entrance, we were cleared for admittance.  

Passing olive green tanks and Humvees, we finally reached our destination. The Rock. Surrounded by dirt and cacti, it was part of a flower box of sorts on the outskirts of the PX/movie theater parking lot.  It was there, as it had been for decades: round white paint splotch on the top. A tractor rolled up next to us and a giant, friendly man, named George, helped us load the heavy gift into the bed of our El Camino (where it lived until Christmas eve – we probably didn't get the best gas mileage for the following week and a half). The rear of the car was considerably lower, as we thanked him and drove away.

December 24th arrived. My siblings met my husband and I at Grampy and Lulu's house at midnight. It was very much a cloak and dagger affair (in hindsight, we were probably very lucky that my grandfather didn't hear us and come out with a BB gun to order us off his property). That rock was so heavy that it almost didn't make it out of the truck bed, onto the dolly that we brought. It took all four of us to hoist it, and it still threw my poor hubby's back out(he managed to limp through the rest of our Top Secret assignment, thank goodness).  Rolling and dumping The Rock into the front yard, we admired our handiwork and promised to reconvene in the morning.

Hours later, we all giggled as we passed our surprise on the way to the front door, trying not to look in its direction. We also made sure to push our grandparents into the house, as we kissed and hugged and wished a "Merry Christmas." Grampy was dressed for the day, in red pants and an impossibly shiny green shirt – complete with Christmas tie. When everyone finally arrived, we lead him out into the yard.  

Of course, he was confused. "What're we doing out here?" Then he saw it. It was as if he was being reunited with a long lost friend. No:  A long lost love. "My ROCK!" He bellowed in unhidden glee. He knelt to touch the spot where God's paint can had once been. "My rock...", tears came to his eyes and he ran a shaky hand through white hair.

"You said to get you a rock for Christmas." I kissed him on the cheek.

"Well, you got me just what I wanted."  

How often can someone say that and really, truly mean it?

Grampy visited Ft. Hunter Liggett in the spring and visited Lieutenant Stephen Ackman, bringing a photo that he asked me to find for him online, so he could ask for an autograph. He got one. It reads:  

Major (ret) Weakland,

I am so glad that the rock is where it belongs – with those who know and love it. May it energize your memories and those of your family of Fort Hunter Liggett – visit us often!

LTC Steve Ackman

Summertime

I can’t believe another summer has passed. I’m totally relieved, of course:  Anything that brings me closer to Halloween is A-OK, in my book! 

Anyway, this weekend, I had a discussion with a dear friend, regarding a vital piece of the child-rearing puzzle. Something sacred and integral to creating long-lasting summer memories:

Otter Pops.

More specifically, blue Otter Pops. Because, you know, they make you have to cough. Something about them gives you a tickle in your throat, which cannot be ignored. If you eat a blue Otter Pop, you will have to cough — It's one of those great mysteries of life. And yet, if you ask me which color I'd like I'll pick the blue one, every time. Ten-Year-Old Me would have made the same choice, I am sure of it.

Ahhh summer... Being a kid during the summer months was pretty magical, wasn't it? Although, if I could have spoken to Just-Graduated-From-Fifth-Grade Me, I would have told her to make sure to wear lots of sunblock, since this would be the summer that she would burn her face so badly that the tip of her nose would swell up and almost fall off. I'm sure she would have raised her right eyebrow (I still do that, when I think someone is saying something, well, nutty) and said, "Uhm, like, yeahsure and what is sunblock, anyway?" Remember when parents thought that getting that first really good burn was the best way to prepare a child's tender skin for the next few months of exposure to UVA rays?

I also would have warned her that letting her friend's sixteen-year-old sister cut her hair in July would be an unwise choice, even if the budding stylist says that she just wants to give Eleven-Year-Old Me a "trim".

That was the same summer that I began seriously crushing on the boys from the cast of Stand By Me. Okay, maybe not Jerry O'Connell — he didn't really get cute until at least 1991 —but I spent a lot of time looking through issues of Teen Beat and Tiger Beat, trying to find photos of River Phoenix.

HE WAS SUCH A FRIGGIN' CUTIE!

My BFF and I would ride our bikes to the movie theater down the street while our parents were at work, because tickets were only fifty cents and nobody cared if you hopped from screen to screen, all day long. The movies were a few years past their prime, but it didn't matter: We saw Purple Rain enough times to have memorized the lines — though most of what we were quoting was way, way over our heads.

(Yes, I really did just tell you that two eleven-year-old girls were allowed to ride their bikes to a discount movie theater and sit in the dark with strangers watching Rated R movies, for hours and hours at a time. It was a long time ago. If the internet had been around, I'm sure we would have in the house, chatting with strangers, for hours at a time.)

We had MTV (at least my BFF did), but you can only sit through so many dozens of hours of Wang Chung's "Everybody Have Fun Tonight", before you have to move on to the next activity.

Funny, but those are the memories that make me smile. Sunburns, bad haircuts, movies: All of those things were —and are— part of being a kid during summertime.

And blue Otter Pops. Don't forget the Otter Pops