Irene Ziegler's Blog, page 11

My Monologue is Going to be Off-Broadway!

My new best friend, Robyn O'Neill told me about a monologue contest. There's a play Off-Broadway (at The Westside Theatre) called LOVE, LOSS AND WHAT I WORE. Written by Nora and Delia Ephron and based on the book by Ilene Beckerman, the show is a scrapbook of stories about unfortunate prom dresses, the traumatic lighting in fitting rooms, high heels, short skirts and the existential state of having nothing to wear. Accessorizing these tales — which are mostly comic but often sad or sentimental too — are the mothers who disapprove, the men who disappear, the sisters who've got your back.

The contest was a call for monologues in keeping with the show's theme and tone. So I sent in a monologue. Those of you who read my blog will recognize its "bones."  I sent it in and forgot about it.

I was just notified I'm one of the winners. My monologue will be read immediately after the Mother's Day performance on May 8. I don't know what actress will be performing it, but the cast consists of Rosie O'Donnell, Samantha Bee (of The Daily Show), Tyne Daly, Katie Finneran and Natasha Lyonne.


UPDATE: The May 8th cast wil include Conchata Ferrell, Anne Meara, AnnaLynne McCord and B. Smith.

I invited my mom, but she's not sure she's up to it. I don't blame her. She lives in Florida. The last time we went to NYC together she said "It's like being in a dream" and she didn't mean in a good way. She might change her mind.

La la la la!

Here's the monologue I sent in. And thank you, Robyn O'Neill. You're the BEST!

****

When my sisters and I were kids, long bangs were the rage. Beatlemania, dontchaknow.  But when hair got in eyes, my mother lost her patience and came at us with the scissors. Not pretty. She always, ALWAYS cut our bangs too short. If you've been on the receiving end of a too-short bang cut, you're feelin' me. The humiliation!

My family calls them Charlie Chocks bangs. Maybe your family calls them Buster Brown bangs. Or refuse-to-leave-your-room-until-they-have-grown-back-out bangs. Or perhaps just ugly ass bangs. All are good.

Perhaps this same inclination explains my mother's seeming inability to hem pants without turning them into clam diggers. She still does it! You can say it until you're blue in the face: not too short! Not too short! Save your breath. You're going to get too short. How many times did she make us suffer the indignity of high-water pants?

On only one occasion did her scissor-happy proclivity come in handy. It was in 1971, and I was sixteen; go-go boots kicked, and miniskirts were the rage. My groovy Aunt June from San Francisco, who shopped at I. Magnin's, sent me white, vinyl go-go boots and the cutest yellow dress of cotton jersey. But the dress hit at the knees and might as well have been a granny gown, as far as I was concerned. There was no way I could wear it to the Homecoming game. I was devastated.

Mom to the rescue. After careful measuring, cutting and hemming, my frowsy yellow dress became, to my father's horror, a micro-mini, and I couldn't have been happier. Of course, I couldn't bend over,sit down, or raise my arms, but who cared?

Unfortunately, I had the bad sense to let her trim my bangs at the same time. Afterward, Charlie Chocks. But I needn't have worried, as my father was quick to point out: in my new go-go boots and micro-minidress from I. Magnin's, no one was looking at my bangs.
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In Which I Ask You to Tell Me About Your Adventures in Penmanship

So I'm writing this play. And I'm hoping you'll help by sharing some of your experiences.

The play is tentatively titled MISS PALMER'S SCHOOL FOR PENMANSHIP AND CIVIL BEHAVIOR, which takes place in 1972. I'm attempting to draw a correlation between the disintegration of our national handwriting, and the erosion of civility.

But mostly, it's about Miss Palmer, an almost extinct species of teacher who remains passionate about "beautiful, useless things" in spite of emerging technologies and America's obsession with pop culture. When the ill-mannered mother of one of her students openly challenges her by offering a course in keyboarding, Miss Palmer goes head to head with the future, and is forced to see the handwriting on the wall.

Here's what I need your help with:

Please leave a comment and tell me about your experience learning cursive handwriting. Was it torture? A pleasure? Was there anything your teacher did or didn't do that contributed to your attitude about learning penmanship? How much time did you spend on it in class? How would you describe your handwriting now? Do you think quality penmanship is important?

Your experiences will help me construct the pro and con attitudes about the importance of penmanship in a technically advanced world. I hope you'll share them with me.

Thanks!


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In Which Our Heroine Calls for Back-Up

This is a continuation of yesterday's post, in which an alien, vampire, or avenging angel took up residence in my house, and was MOVING FURNITURE in one of the upstairs bedrooms as I sat at my desk, minding my own business and peeing my pants.

The Mister came home and did a thorough sweep of the upstairs rooms, shaking his head and saying things like, "You know, when a roof slate comes loose and goes clattering down the roof, that can sound pretty scarey," and, "You know, the AC unit has a fan, and sometimes, when it starts up..."

That's when I threw my orthopedic shoe at him. I missed.

No one believes you when you have bats in the belfry, literally or figuratively. But I had to admit, no droppings, no feathers, no blood, no disturbed furniture, no sulfuric smell. But I wasn't fooled. It was still there. And now that it knew we knew, it was holding its breath and being vewy vewy quiet.

Several times during the night, while watching TV, I thought I heard something and engaged the only technological innovation worth having in the post-Apocalypse world: the mute button.

Still nothing.

But I knew it was still there. Waiting.

I didn't sleep well. The Mister snored like a man oblivious to doom.

Then this morning, alone once again, I heard it. And it was intense. Only this time, it was under the staircase, which meant it wasn't upstairs after all, but in the basement. I called the The Mister at work.

"I heard it again."

"Well, we had some wind last night. Maybe another slate—"

"Slate doesn't fly or move furniture."

"How could anything get in the basement?"

"What do I look like—? Agent Scully? I need back up!"

Armed with a flashlight, a broom and a trash bag, we descended the stairs. A door which had been resting against the wall had been knocked to the floor. Evidence!

"I told you it was moving furniture."

"There's nothing down here, Irene OH MY GOD!"

At first I thought it was an owl. Then I thought it was a cormorant. But It was a duck.

A big duck.

A big flapping, flying duck. But just a duck.

The Mister scooped it up and set it free. Of course, it's a pariah now, because of human smells on it, but at least it's not in the basement anymore.

But The Mister is.

Reality Ghost Story

It's 4:45 pm on Monday, and there's something big moving furniture upstairs and I'm too chicken to go up there to see what is. (Maybe it's a chicken.) At first I thought there was something in the attic and thought if I ignored it, it would go away. Or die. Than I thought something was scampering across the roof and would soon get tired or fall off. Or die. Then the sucker actually moved a chair across the floor upstairs and THAT's when I realized I wasn't in Kansas anymore.

So I did what any calm, right-thinking American woman would do. I called my husband and told him to come home and maybe stop and pick up a priest.

Now it's 4:51. I'm still alive.

And it is, too.

A Film Director Walks Into a Barn...

A film director just came to BarnStone and auditioned me for his graduate thesis film, SPEAK NOW. His name is Cavin "Jai" Jamison, and he looks like this:
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Not really. He looks like this:
Great photo, right? I'm using it without permission. Anyway, Calvin read me for the part of Aunt Agatha. Let's see, how to describe Aunt Agatha. Umm, she's Phyllis Diller meets Elaine Stritch meets Joan Rivers. On a bad day.
I'm perfect.

I was impressed with young Mr. Jamison. First of all, he has his own camera AND his own producer named Steve. (Do you have your own producer named Steve? I don't.) And he wrote the script, and will direct it, then enter the film in contests, and get discovered and become famous.That's the ten year plan. (Do you have a ten year plan? I don't.)

Calvin needs $10,000 to make his film, and is soliciting funds on Kickstarter. If he meets his goal, Kickstarter will double it. I gave him $25.You can learn all about the film and contribute as much as you want by clicking here. Even $10 helps.

You're probably wondering why I'm hawking a director I just met and helping finance a film I'm not even in. I don't know. I just liked this kid. And I like to support artists.

Okay, okay. I'm trying to buy the role. I'm so busted.

I'll let you know if it worked.

Babes of a Certain Age, or The Mystery Panel That Rocked

The Virginia Festival of the Book was held in Charlottesville this past weekend, and I was one of the lucky ones. I got to be on a panel. Not just any panel.body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height: A panel consisting of Babes of a Certain Age Who Write Mysteries and are Funny and Wise. That wasn't the name of our panel but it should have been. Observe:


That's Joanna Campbell Slan, Meredith Cole, Yours Truly, and Ellen Crosby. We talked about the amateur sleuth heroines who propel our plots, and the challenges of writing a book that readers won't throw against the wall. We packed the room, then made 'em laugh. Then we gave each other pedicures and dished about writers who weren't there.

Not really. We traded shoes and swapped husbands.


Here's the thing. Book festivals (and conferences) are great for meeting like-minded peeps who get you. Joanna Slan endeared herself to me forever when she introduced herself and told me she was reading (and liking) ASHES TO WATER. Even though she comprises 50% of my entire readership (not counting my mom), she talked to me like I was an equal, which I clearly am not. These authors are all blazing impressive paths to success. Joanna has a successful mystery series starring Kiki Lowenstein. Meredith is a major award winner, now writing her third novel. Ellen writes (and yes, SELLS) a novel a year, which all take place in Virginia wineries. Me? I've written two books in as many decades, and I was honored to be in their company.
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And with that festival, I pretty much wrapped up my scheduled book events. So I'm, like, totally available to talk to your baby sitting co-op about how I get my ideas, or how to kill an agent. (Oh, sorry. I meant, how to employ an agent.) I also do high school reunions and foreclosure auctions. But you better act now. Because unlike my new friendships,

This offer won't last long.

To My Adoring Fan: I Don't Think So

FROM: X.X. Xxxxx
DATE: Sunday, March 13, 2011 9:25 AM
TO: Irene Ziegler Aston
SUBJECT: adoration

My Dear Mr.Irene Ziegler,

Good morning.I sincerely hope that you are keeping very fine,in good health.

This is one of my countless attempts to reach you,as you  have always been my source of inspiration,I'll be grateful to you,if you please bless me,with your autographed photograph.Though I never got despite my countinous efforts,but I hope that you would not disappoint me,this time.I pray that may God always keep you happy and healthy.

With high regards
X.X. Xxxxx

From:-
(Man With Indian Name)
Xxxxxx Xxxxxx Road
Kolkata-700006
West Bengal
INDIA

**

Dear (Man With Indian Name),

At least, I assume you're a man, as you assumed I am. Hail fellow well met.

Indeed, I am keeping very fine, thank you for asking. I must admit to feeling a bit apprehensive lately, however, as I am in receipt of your "adoring" email, and frankly, you're flipping me out.

I'm going to assume the slightly threatening tone I perceive in your request is due to a bug in the translation application you're using. The fact that my father is not banging on your door with a bat this very minute (thank you for including your address) is testament to my generosity in giving you the benefit of the doubt. Further, I feel compelled to offer you advice as you pursue contact with your other sources of inspiration, for if you persist in this way, an eighty-two year old man wielding a baseball bat will be the least of your problems.

1. Tone down the solicitation. American women do not appreciate being called "my dear." Nor do they appreciate being called Mr., but that could just be me.

2. While "adoration" makes for a provocative subject line, it suggests an unstable mind. Have you spent any time with me lately? I'm not that adorable. Ask anyone.

3. Referring to your countless attempts to reach me sounds like you're getting a weency bit exasperated. Be assured, this is the first time I have heard from you, and there is no need to start drawing mustaches on my avatar.

4. Are you aware of the cost of sending an autographed photograph to West Bengal, India? I don't see an offer in your email to reimburse me (in American dollars) for the postage. In the future, please arrange for an electronic transfer into my PayPal account, offer to add one American dollar for handling, and I will consider your request.

5. You did not mention what you plan to do with my autographed photograph once you receive it.

6. While it has never been my intention to disappoint you, have you stopped to consider how much more disappointed you might be once you receive my photograph? Do you know I have chin hairs and a bunion on my right foot? And I'm not really a blonde. There's no such thing as a real American blonde, so sorry to disappoint once again.

7. My friend Jan says I should send you an autographed photograph, anyway. I don't think so. But if you would like Jan's address, please email again. In the subject line, put "adoration my dear Mr. Jan" and I'll make sure she gets your request.

Best wishes to you and your interesting hobby,

MS. Irene Ziegler

PS If my dad shows up, tell him we're cool.

Writing What Scares Me Most

I can't remember my pin number.

I've punched in that pin number over a duhzillion times. I use it at the ATM, online, and occasionally as a password. It's four numbers, and there's a 3 in it. That's the best I can do.

I'm going to blame this on lack of estrogen (I blame everything on lack of estrogen), and trust the number will bubble up from whatever underwater vacation it's taking, and resettle itself in my short term memory where it belongs. It's just that it's been a couple weeks now, and I could really use some cash.

It's times like this when that movie, Iris, starts to haunt me. You haven't seen it? Well, if you can't member a phone number long enough to dial it, you might want to skip it. Iris is about Iris Murdoch. Rather, it's about the mental deterioration of the writer that was once Iris Murdoch, based on the book by her husband, John Bayley. As far as movies go, it's excellent, but for me, my worst fear.

The novelist Francine Prose says one should "write what scares you most." Susan Isaac says the same thing. What I fear most is not being able to come up with the word "aqua," when blue isn't right. I fear the ghost of Iris Murdoch hovering above my keyboard. I fear dying without recognizing my husband. I fear not having a husband to recognize.

So I hope this pin number shows up pretty soon. If not, I may have to kill someone, just to jumpstart my brain. Oh, don't worry, I'll get away with it. I have the perfect excuse.

I don't have any estrogen.

In Which I Lean too Close to the Fire and Create a New Look For Myself

I created a new hair-do for myself last week.
I didn't do it on purpose.
I leaned too close to the fireplace. I heard ZZFFFT, then the unmistakable smell of burning protein.
Now I've got a sort of bi-level thing going on. On one side, jaw length. On the other, earlobe. Sort of like the picture, only not that cute.
I'm trying very hard to hard to like it a lot. It helps to attach strong adjectives: unique, original, one-of-a-kind.
Then there's stick-out-like-a-sore-thumb, ahead of it's time, and what was she thinking.
The fireplace is big enough to crawl inside. Perhaps that's what I was thinking.

When my sisters and I were kids, long bangs were the rage. Beatlemania, dontchaknow.  But when hair got in eyes, my mother lost her patience and came at us with the scissors.
Not pretty.
She always, ALWAYS cut our bangs too short. If you've been on the receiving end of a too-short bang cut, you're feelin' me.
The horrah.
Perhaps this same inclination explains my mother's seeming inability to hem pants without turning them into clam diggers. You can say it until you're blue in the face: not too short! not too short! Save your breath. You're going to get too short. How many times did she make us suffer the indignity of high-water pants and Charlie Chocks bangs?
(My family calls them Charlie Chocks bangs. Maybe your family calls them Buster Brown bangs. Or refuse-to-leave-your-room-until-they-have-grown-back-out bangs. Or perhaps just ugly ass bangs. All are good.)

But this fireplace hair-do, I don't know. I'm leaning toward pretend-you-did-it-on-purpose.
I think I'll call it The Cinderhella.
Or The Hot Head.
For Greek myth lovers: The Icarus.
I'll keep working on it.
My former hairdresser, Richard Breaks, once told me I should file such failed experiments under "S"—Seemed like a good idea at the time. Except this wasn't an experiment.

I'm pretty sure my mother pushed me.

Open University

I had two speaking engagements this week, both part of the Open University, an organization that offers classes to senior citizens. I spoke at the Shepherd Center and St. Luke's Presbyterian Church.

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I'd never heard of Open University. When Jack Welsh, a retired theatre educator and director, called and asked if I'd be interested in presenting an after lunch program, I said

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HECK YEAH, because not only are they local gigs, but Jack said his wife would make me a sandwich. Sold!

I fell under the Behind the Headlines Category. Among the other speaker programs The Open University offered in Jan/Feb were:
The Coal Mines of Central Virginia (Barry westin, UR, Retired)
Patrick Henry and the Parson't Cause (John Tucker, VA Patriots, Inc.)
James River Journal: The Story of a River (Rex Springston and Kevin Morely, RTD)

That's just three. They offer travelogues, topics in arts and humanities as well as history, business and law. My buddy Jack Welsh presented "An American Master playwright: Horton Foote."

I really liked being a part of this program. Thanks, Jack. And thank you, Carol Harris, for making me feel so welcome.