Unbred Mother

A second monologue for Womenscene, an evening of original works about women (Pittsburgh, May 2008):

A woman in her mid-30s addresses the audience.

I never wanted children. I don't even like children. I never know what I'm supposed to do with them. How to talk to them. How to play with them. And they can smell fear, you know. Like dogs these babies, toddlers, preteens, whatever. They know when you are uncomfortable and it just makes them want to get the hell out of there, too. Don't ask me to baby-sit unless you want your kid to cry for 3 hours. Kids just don't like me. But I'm fine with that.

I never wanted children. A lot of my ex-boyfriends were good with kids, but, then again, most of my ex-boyfriends were essentially just big kids so it came easy to them. They could play with each others' toys. Some guys told me I was fighting my instincts or that it would kick in later. Nope. I've never felt the pressures of a ticking clock other than the one that keeps me at work too long and doesn't let me sleep in enough.

My girlfriends tend to have similar theories as the guys or else they think I'm worried about losing my figure or that I'm afraid of the pain. Sure I don't want to lose my figure. It's far from perfect as it is, so no, I would not like to gain additional weight or get stretch marks. Who would? And pain? Of course I'm afraid of pain. Pain is unpleasant. That's what pain is. But I know pain is temporary. And I think of myself as a tough cookie. It's not like I don't know a little something about pain. No. If I wanted to have a baby, I wouldn't let the pain stop me. But I never wanted children. Period.

Some people say I'm selfish. I tell them that they're selfish for bringing children into this fucked up world just to fulfill their own sick desire to breed! Actually, my world view is nowhere near as pessimistic as that--even now--but it tends to make people shut up...or start recycling shopping bags in a futile effort to save the world for their offspring.

I never wanted children. Hell, I don't even like children. So, why, when the doctors tell me that after this surgery...after this damn cancer...that I won't ever be able to have any...Why...why do I feel so empty?

Retro Hottie

A monologue for Womenscene, an evening of original works about women (Pittsburgh, May 2008):

A woman (mid 40s) addresses the audience. She is professionally dressed
and attractive if a bit plain.

I can’t believe I’m in this position. Me! This shit is supposed to happen to Miss America or pop singers. Minor celebrities. This shit is not supposed to happen to someone like me. I mean, I’m an accountant for Christ sakes.

Okay. Technically, I am an accountant who posed nude. I confess that. But it was a long time ago. A really long time ago. No one was supposed to know. Hell, my husband didn’t even know. I figured that was how it would stay. Look at me. I’m nobody. There was no reason for those pictures to “surface.” Thank you, Internet!

All I can figure is that some guy found the pictures—those stupid amateur pictures—in a box in his dad’s attic or a flea market or something. Ebay? I don’t know. Or maybe it was the photographer. Josh? Or was it Joe? He said they were for his portfolio, whatever that meant. He’d be in fifties now. Probably married.

I guess I should be flattered whoever did it felt a few old photos of me baring it all were worth scanning and posting on a web site. Retro Hotties dot com. Apparently, I’m a “retro hottie.” Who’d have thunk it?

Normally, pictures are dated by the clothes people are wearing. Since I’m not really wearing much—shoes, earrings—that wasn’t the problem. In this case, the retro aspect is provided by the slight discoloration of the photographs, and, of course, my hair. That hair. Teased and sprayed and up to here. I seem to recall spending an hour on just my hair—not to mention how long it took to apply all that make-up, ugh. Nowadays, I’m out the door in 45 minutes. I rarely even blow dry. But that hair is what clearly distinguishes those pictures as old. Retro. I guess the wallpaper helps too. The whole aesthetic just makes me want to laugh.

But apparently, guys still, you know, get turned on by me. Well, the old me. I mean, the young me. I did research, and the site has a small cult following. Who knows who’s looking at those pictures? Kids? Christ, I’m probably older than some of their mothers. What’s wrong with me? I’m losing my mind. I never expected this. I never even thought of those pictures anymore. I’d practically forgotten them. I guess nothing is ever forgotten on the Internet.

At work, it started as whispers. The big rumor. I didn’t know what was going on. I could tell the guys at work were talking about me, but I had no idea why. The first day I was worried about the usual stuff. Is my skirt tucked into my nylons? Is there something in my teeth? What? But it went on. I’d have said something. Asked about someone, but I’m not the type. I just lowered my eyes, got my coffee, and went back to my desk.

Then, it was the CFO's picnic, of all places. Everybody was getting pretty drunk on company-sponsored beer. The guys were laughing. I guess while I was in line for the bathroom, Jeff walked up to Ron and asked him how it felt to be married to a “retro hottie.” Ron, of course, had no idea what he was talking about. So Jeff explained. In detail. One of the guys had seen these pictures and recognized me. Or thought he recognized me. He sent the link around to get other opinions on the matter. As a group they still weren’t sure if it really was me. Jeff, at the behest of the others, was looking to Ron for confirmation.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t married to such a civil gentleman. At the picnic, I really wish Ron would’ve punched Jeff in mouth. Bam. Instead, he shrugged it off. He said he was sure it wasn’t me. Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Her? Jeff nodded but wasn’t convinced or didn’t want to be.

But when we got home and Ron told me about the weird conversation from the picnic, the look on my face couldn’t hide the truth. Ron asked me why I did it. Why do you think I did it? I was young, and I needed the money. Seriously. I was, and I did. How much money? Oh, that’s the best part. For 10 pictures that would come back and haunt me 25 year later? I got 50 bucks. That’s it. I used it to buy pot, and—I think—a handbag. I was an idiot. A young, hard-bodied, idiot.

At first Ron seemed mad. Then he smiled. “Come on, retro hottie, let’s see the real you.” I followed him to the computer nearly afraid of what I’d find.

We found the site quickly. What we didn’t find quickly were my pictures. There I was with my husband scanning through hundreds of pictures of naked and semi-clad women from the 60s, 70s, 80s. They weren’t well organized. You’d think they’d at least sort them by decade. But, no, you just have to browse. It was awkward. Ron and I aren’t really the type to look at naked pictures together. Or apart. Or at least I don’t. I’d glance at the screen and say “no, no, that’s not it,” and then glance away until Ron navigated to a new page. Until…

“Wait.” I spotted a familiar shoe. A bright red shoe. An impulse buy that I rarely wore, but I was still able to recognize it before I even recognized myself. My legs, my breasts, my face, that hair. “Is that you?” Ron asked. I said, “I think so,” even though I was much surer than that.

We went through each of my pictures. At least those were grouped together. First we laughed and joked. He asked me why I don’t wear that “outfit” anymore. I asked him where his secret, naked photos are posted. Soon we were laughing and kissing and…well, turned on. Apparently, Ron likes his retro hottie. Really likes his retro hottie. Let’s leave it at that.

I thinking I was still glowing Monday morning at work. The talk by the coffee machine stopped as I approached, the same way it had for the last couple of weeks. Jeff was there. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “I hear you’ve been looking at some of my old pictures.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so red. As red as those shoes. I got my coffee and walked away.

Words from the bubble

I've lived a pretty sheltered life. Not boring, but really safe. Not that I'm wishing tragedy upon myself. But it seems like somehow I've missed out on a whole culture that my peers all understand so much better than myself. Two topics tend to come up that everyone else seems to know much more about: drugs and crime. Not that I hang around with a bunch of druggies and criminals, but everyone at least has a friend who did this or that. Now, most of the stories are pretty bad. I don't wish tragedy on my friends or acquaintances either. But there are whole categories of culture and slang that I know nothing about. It tends to limit my writing to "safe" middle class type scenarios. Maybe that's not bad, but it's certainly less marketable. I worry about when I will run out of examples of the romantic neurosis of the educated middle class. Is that enough to keep me writing? Even if it is, is it anything that anyone would want to produce?

I wish I wrote meaningful issue plays full of diversity and message, but that's not what comes out of me. I don't believe I should manufacture it. I don't believe that will work. But does that limit my audience. Perhaps. But at least they are my audience. Probably a bunch of over-educated middle class people.