Re-Do Quiz, Part I
A while back, I finished a rather tepid adolescent memoir, Brave Face. I found the whole thing rather privileged and self-indulgent. However, the author did mention a concept in the final moments that gave me something to chew on; that regret is a waste of time since: whatever it is that happened which one might regret - it brought you to the place where you are now. And even if the place you are now is not all roses and accolades, it is temporary and yet another step towards a place where you will be happy.
It got me thinking... and I realize I am not the first person to think of this, but...
Wouldn't it be wonderful if life came with a 're-do' button, lending us all the ability to take a second shot at a given moment in our life?
Who knows what repercussions meddling with certain instances in our lives would have on our overall story arc? But, let's not be concerned with that. Let's concentrate on identifying those 'things we would do differently' if given the chance.
That's the thrust of today's quiz. So, get your hand over your buzzer and get ready to hit that re-do button.
If you could, what would you do differently?
Or... is it a regret you're happy to live with?
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1/ The way you ended a relationship.
In the past, I've written about Josh, the partner I owned and operated a used-a-bit/collectibles shop in South Minneapolis with. So, today, I will turn my attention to...
The artist.
It began in the most romantic way possible. Incidentally, I met both Josh and the artist at the same venue... and both caught my attention because they were bathed in a bright white light in a room of utter darkness. He quite swept me off my feet with promises of a fresh start in L.A., where he lived.
I really should have done my research, but, as I was eager to be swept away from poisonous Iowa, where I had been living for a whole year, what he offered sounded like the antidote I was seeking.
For two years we traveled and lived in various places; Honolulu and Pahoa, HW, Sedona and Scottsdale, AZ, Venice and Santa Monica, CA, and various places through the Southwest, looking at real estate for a planned artist/healing retreat. I got involved with a sect which practiced Science of The Mind - a prosperity theology disguised as utopian one. During this time I made money doing secretarial temp work, waiting tables, painting interiors, and catering retreats. He didn't understand my need to work and I didn't understand his apathy towards the same. I didn't care where his money came from, I liked having my own. It was a matter of self-esteem.
We eventually settled in a tiny guest house in Santa Monica, directly behind a larger house I referred to as The Brady Bunch house. It was fun... for about three months, at which point my tolerance of magical thinking became so strained that I suggested I move out and get a place of my own.
It's at this point that I assumed we had broken up.
But, as I learned months later... he hadn't gotten the memo.
We met up for dinner at a restaurant near my apartment. I thought we were just catching up, like old friends. While I continued to attend the Science of Mind church, I was basically only doing so in order to continue to have an opportunity to sing solos after the weekly sermon or to help organize the pastries and coffee after the service. It's here that I would see the artist. And we remained on good terms.
During the course of our dinner, I mentioned in passing some fun I'd had with my best when I'd returned for a visit to Minneapolis. We'd gone out and picked up a couple of guys and took them home to have some very unsatisfying sex.
The artist burst into tears.
Not a reaction I'd expected. He couldn't believe that I'd be so callous considering I was still in a relationship with him.
And that's where I let him know the truth of the situation; that when I moved out - that was the when I considered us 'over.'
Well, the evening quickly deteriorated and we went our separate ways.
We didn't see each other for a bit after that. Soon, I grew too ill to attend church services any longer. I remember hosting a Thanksgiving gathering at my place and that is when he told me that I was ill because I had turned my back on the teachings of the church. Well.. that made for a joyous holiday.
When I was deathly ill, he, along with the others that I'd hosted that Thanksgiving, completely ghosted me. I'd had to rely on people I worked with in the event of an emergency, which seemed to be happening more and more. I also struggled to get around on my own, in light of my not being able to walk very well at all. To this day, I can't believe people I thought of as friends, could be so unempathetic.
Eventually, I became so ill, I returned to Minneapolis, to die... except I was fortunate to have had a very clever and dedicated doctor in L.A. who hooked me up with a similar physician in Minneapolis; together, they managed to save my life.
Once I began to get better, the artist reappeared in Minneapolis, there regarding an exhibit of his work at a private gallery. He invited me for dinner and at dinner began to make overtures regarding my return to L.A. - as in, he assumed we would resume our relationship.
Well... I lost it.
And I let him have it. In what turned out to be quite the scene, I told him in no uncertain terms how devastated I had been to have been abandoned in L.A. and how angry I was that the only time I saw him during my illness was when I was about to leave so he could rummage through my things to take what he wanted. I remember standing and telling him that was not the way you treated someone you professed to 'love,' and that the foundation he was living upon was nothing but magical thinking and pipe dreams.
I stormed out, my meal untouched.
We've never spoken since, although I have received several requests from him and someone posing as his attorney, that I return a painting of his which currently hangs above the toilet in my bathroom; a most fitting placement.
In retrospect, I wish I'd been more gracious, and not stormed out..
My food looked really delicious and the wine was really expensive.
It's a shame it went to waste.
2/ The way you came on to someone or misread someone's signals.
For some reason the sting of this rejection remains quite potent.
There was this cute guy that I worked with at U.S. Video on Lake Street; short, curly hair, big eyes and a generous mouth. He was always very brusque and business like, therefore unattainable, so... of course I was gaga for him. I loved the fit of his cheap dress pants, his short-sleeved button-ups, and well-worn dress shoes. It was like he was play-acting at being an adult, which I related, for I was in the same boat, wearing the same clothing.
I had just recently come out of the closet and, while I had my suspicions about him, he was still firmly behind the closed door of his.
One night, we locked-up together and I got all hot and bothered putting away the gay porn, so I popped one in a machine we had in the backroom and worked out a load, while he was busy counting cash and writing down figures. The fact that we were there alone was like a aphrodisiac.
Fast forward a few years, I'm out trolling for dick at The Gay 90's, back when it was still a gay bar, and walking into the big room with the main dancefloor whom should I run into? My former co-worker, who is shitfaced and has apparently come out of the closet. He's dressed in vintage clone gear: the leather jacket, white tee, blue denim jeans and leather boots. When he spots me, he acts like we are long lost friends. He babbles on about how much fun he's having and how happy he is and... wait.. is he... is he hitting on me?
Now, the man looks good, and, I'm not going to lie, I thought about grabbing him by the well-filled out crotch of those rather tight jeans and dragging him home... but I couldn't do it. He was drunk as a skunk and it felt predatory. Instead, I made small talk, hugged him, congratulated him on joining our ranks and went on with my evening.
Fast forward to an AIDs Walk I was participating in. After the actual walk, I'm cruising the grounds with a pair of lesbians and we bump into him walking about solo. He's wearing a pair of cut-off denims and a little tank top... in other words, slutty and adorable. Again we make small talk and I suggest we hang out sometime and he agrees. I indicate my gal pals and say that it'll have to be another time and we go our separate ways.
Fast forward a good 15 years. I'm back in Minneapolis, on Grindr and who do I spy with my little eye?
It's him. And in one of his profile pics? He's sporting a pair of denim cut-offs and a tank top. I immediately strike up a conversation with him. I'm thinking, well, this is one hook-up whose time has come. We talk back an forth and I confess about the time I jerked off while he was doing the books and how hot I thought he looked in those denim cut-offs. And, of course, I go to close the sale...
...only to be told I'm not his type!
Wow.
Had I misread that one. I think I tried to save face, but I felt so stung, I couldn't recover.
I thanked him for his honesty, told him to take care and ended the conversation.
I don't know. I'm not his type. You can't argue with that. So why does it sting all these years later?
I believe I ended it succinctly and appropriately.
But part of me wanted to ask about that time I thought he was hitting on me. Of course, he was drunk, so he doesn't remember it?
In the end? The next time I saw him on Grindr?
I blocked him.
Children shouldn't play with dead things.
3/ That time you blew someone off or ghosted someone.
I rarely ghost people, though I wonder if everyone I've encountered would agree. I may have, on occasion, subconsciously ghosted someone... I don't know - no one's ever confronted me about it.
One person I did ghost was the woman who convince me to move to Iowa Falls. She made me all sorts of promises and gave me plenty of reassurance, knowing exactly what I was getting myself into. We did form a production company and began three very successful touring shows, plus I was getting the occasional gig to sing standards with a female duet partner. In the meantime, she eventually followed through on her promise to get me a job at the newspaper where she sold ad space, but that wasn't the only thing she set me up for.
On three separate occasions, the women had me walk into situations where she knew the people involved. They all ended very disturbingly homophobic. In hindsight? I wish I'd said no, taken my lumps in Minneapolis and concentrated on the collectibles shop Josh had created.
Instead? I fled to Iowa, not knowing anything I was walking into.
But this women did. She'd been living and working in the community for three years. She knew exactly what I was coming up against. However, and in hindsight I should have seen this as a red flag, she refused to acknowledge my sexuality. She had blinders on, however, the rest of that little community did not!
To be fair, I'd tested the waters the summer before I moved there. I'd come to town to hold a week-long acting workshop for kids. It culminated with a big, fancy showcase, where the kids had to to act out scenes or monologues we'd worked on during the week. That week? I could do no wrong. Everyone I met was charmed and appreciative. So, when things went horribly wrong in Minneapolis a year later, this women suggested I move to Iowa Falls and do theatre with her.
Well, like a selfish fool, I threw everything and everyone in the air and... ran for the border.
So, some would say, I got what I deserved.
In any event, as things began to sour in Iowa, enter the artist, offering me yet another opportunity to escape an ugly situation.
The woman was very upset that I was leaving, but she was also a great avoider, as in... real emotions? Not her thing, though she did let me know, as I was leaving town, that she'd had to cancel a ton of bookings and it was all my doing.
So... after that, I didn't hear from her. All through my illness? Not a word. However, once I returned to Minneapolis and was well on my way to recovery, out of the woodwork she popped. I got holiday cards and the occasional letter, updating me on all she was doing.
I never answered any of it. I was still a bit bitter about everything that happened in Iowa.
Fast forward, I'm invited to a reunion for the theatre group where I had originally met that woman. And, after receiving assurance from that woman that she was going, too... I accepted the invite. Told her I'd see her there. I arrived, had a pleasant time catching up with people I didn't really care too much about while waiting for her arrival.
And I waited.
And I waited.
Finally, I told the host that, should she show up, to let her know I was there and that I wished her well.
I have a feeling she neglected to come either as a means of payback for ghosting her all those years or because she feared confrontation. As for me? Well, I have no idea what I was expecting that night. Maybe subconsciously I was seeking some kind of closure - even the kind with yelling.
Well, I'll never know.
Instead, I wish I'd been mature enough to articulate my hurt at the time, back when I was still in Iowa. I wish I hadn't let sleeping dogs lie. And I wish I hadn't believed her when she told me that what was going on was all my own doing. At the time, I thought she was referring to my ambitious nature, but now? I think she meant because I refused to live in a closet.
I really liked that woman. She really thought a lot of me, too. I just wish I'd not allowed our friendship to remain so shallow. I wish I'd been able to have those difficult conversations. Maybe I could have kept her as a friend.
4/ That time you stormed off in a huff or quit on the spot.
I adored working at The Minneapolis Crisis Nursery back in the day. One didn't work there for the pay. I loved the woman who founded it and it was an opportunity to work with one of my younger sisters.
Sadly, there came a time when the board of directors decided they wanted to expand operations and get their own building. They convinced the founder to step down so they might move the non-profit in another direction.
I was selected to be on the hiring committee, and I interviewed two candidates. One, I thought was a perfect fit, while the other, I thought was a walking 1980's power suit with helmet hair and a very corporate mindset. She had no sense of humor, something that, surprisingly, comes in handy when dealing with abused children. So, for me, she was a no-go.
Now, I was guaranteed by the board that anything I said about the candidates would be strictly confidential. So, imagine my surprise when, not only did they hire the terrifyingly ambitious bitch in heels, but she called me into her office (she chose the largest room in the facility, forcing three other workers to share a tiny office) and I was confronted with everything I had said about her during the interview process!
I felt betrayed. And hurt. And cornered.
So, I quit on the spot.
In retrospect, with no other job offers in the offing, not a wise thing to do. But... I was a stupid kid.
I should have stayed... and made her life a living hell. The first thing I should have done was go to the phone and call up one of the board members to let them know what just happened. Then, I should have gotten a lawyer and sued them.
But... it was a non-profit providing temporary shelter for children in abusive situations. And one always struggling for funding. So, I walked away.
My sister told me that the woman was a disaster, alienating the staff while never interacting with the children. My sister resigned shortly after I left and my other family members stopped volunteering.
They did go on to get their own building and expand services, but not with that horrible woman at the helm. She was gone after a year.
5/ That time someone totally humiliated you.
I've mentioned on this site my dealings with a particular summer stock director who hated me. Given that, I am not sure why he felt compelled to cast me in his shows, but he did. And since I needed the work...
There was one moment that defined our relationship.
He hated the way I used hand and arm gestures... and granted, the more insecure I was in a show or role, the more likely I was to wave them about like a goosed goose. During one of the more unpleasant rehearsals I endure under his guidance, he took a large, thick rope - the kind used to hoist sets - and tied it around me and told me to do my scenes.
I was totally humiliated. And he was very drunk - for he was a seasoned, fully-functional alcoholic.
I stood, immobilized and recited my lines, dying inside all the while. But I got through it.
Fuck him, I thought. The show was A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum.
Well, a funny thing happened on opening night.
I got my revenge.
I put on so much make-up, I looked like a scary drag queen. Then I gathered all the feather boas I could find, and with the help of the costumer - who hated him, too - I created a head piece and trimmed my toga with the feathers. I looked like classic Phyllis Diller on a bender. I stayed out of sight until my first entrance - and what a grand entrance it was! I spent the night flailing about like a duck in a shooting gallery, doing it up as gay as possible.
The audience loved it. Well, some of the audience. After opening night, I think my act was a bit too much for most, and my antics were frequently met with silence.
He didn't say anything to me. Not a word. And, when the end of summer came, I shook the dust of that town off my feet and never worked for that company again.
In retrospect? Maybe I overdid it.
It certainly wasn't very professional of me. And, as a director, when an actor did something similar in one of my shows, he not only ruined the show, but also killed my chances of being hired by a theatre company that was scouting me that night.
So, really, I should have behaved and exited the scene gracefully. Or... quit on the spot and told him to go fuck himself. Either of those would have been a better choice than derailing his finely tuned engine of a show.
But then, again?
Fuck him.
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