Kreutz's Corner

Bride to Be

Ericka Kreutz — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 17:51:00 GMT

So, I’m getting married.

Like ring on finger. Like picked a date. Like getting Brides magazine delivered monthly to my door, reserving room blocks, and picking out “my colors”.

It’s all a lot of input and should-haves and should-buys and not long after I said yes to a man I was saying yes to websites and wedding favors and steak or chicken and extra tents and a whole lot of material things to make the one non-material thing in my life look really pretty in yellow ribbon and daisies.

And although the semi-addicted online shopper in me enjoys parts of this exploration, it does become a glitter and bubbles-filled tornado after awhile. And I, being me, was spinning out of control.

It happened one late night on WeddingPaperDivas.com. I was searching save-the-date postcards. A simple task and one that I was delighted to do. As I surfed I found sweet pictures of hearts and blossoms and knots and kisses and xo’s all over the place. I found myself specifically attracted to those cards that had photos of the to-be-married couples in them.

You know the ones. The couples are multi-ethnic. They probably live in Brooklyn. Or Portland. Or Prague. They met at an art supply store. Or at a mutual friend’s dinner party on the lower east side. They have good skin and bright teeth and they look so damn happy. Especially on black and white film.

I fell in love with a certain template, (or was I in love with the couple? - hard to tell) so I double-clicked on the slick photo not expecting a new window to pop up. The website asked me to upload my own personal picture. Of me. And my fiancé. A photo of us fresh faced with blown out hair and looking like we just had Eggs Benedict with sixteen of our best friends in a quiet restaurant on a cobble-stoned street. And the picture was taken from a stranger passing by, of course, so taken by the joy emanating from our jaws. We look intoxicated from the mimosas and the calorie-free blue corn muffins and with each other. We look so. damn. happy.

Well, I've got to tell you, there is no such picture of my fiancé and I. And believe me, I’ve searched. We’re both geeks. And freaks. And Hams. We have cavities. And allergies. And I would never wear heels on a cobble-stoned street.

But maybe I need to? Maybe I need to look like I am on top of the world like those girls on these blissed-out wedding blogs. Maybe I need to scream and shout and giggle a lot. Because that is what those brides do on TLC. They are out of their minds in love. And boy, can they say yes to a dress.

But I don’t look like those girls. And I certainly don’t feel like they do. And although Jim and I have been together for seven years there is not one photo in our database where I am not about to eat something. Or about to complain about the blister on my toe. Or about to get a zit.

There is not one picture of us looking longingly at each other. Or about to kiss. Or frolicking in some tall grass meadow somewhere. It just doesn’t exist.

And that is where my tornado touched down.

I do not look like other brides: therefore I am not meant to be a bride. I do not act like other brides: therefore I am not ready to be married. And of course, we are not in love, because what we look like together does not match what these shiny people in sepia tones look like. At all.

I know what you’re thinking. Those girls are nineteen and inebriated and they are getting paid AFTRA minimum to be reactive on a reality show. Or, those people in those pictures are actors, are models, they are pretending, they are posing, they are not real either.

But I am the biggest pretender I know. I can act my way through a funeral. Am I just pretending to be a bride? Am I pretending to be happy? Am I not ready to make a big girl promise?

And that is when the knot in my stomach took over surfing TheKnot.com. I suffered a sugar-crash from all the fluffy white marshmallow mass emails selling me the perfect cake topper and I made a decision to detox. And drink seltzer. And hide under the covers. And have a big long talk with myself.

The thing is, getting married is a big deal. It’s a ginormous deal. And while cutting a deal with the DJ is great and all, it is really about the deal I am making with another human being.

The deal says: I take you, for who you are, forever. And even scarier than that, as I came to realize, is that it is saying: you are taking me. As I am. As I am not. As I will be. Someday.

It is saying: I will let you take care of me. I will let you in. As my partner. As my companion. As my backseat driver. It is allowing someone into my groggy morning rituals, my diet-addictions, and all the various self-created tornados in my head.

We don’t look like other couples. And we never will. In our pictures we are making silly faces. Or drinking beer. Or playing games. Or plucking the others ear hair out.

We are coffees and instant oatmeal and asthma inhalers and mouth guards and clipping coupons and too much TV and too much popcorn and talking to each other twenty-two times a day. And sharing everything.

I still don’t know what love looks like. Or what it’s supposed to look like. But I know what my love looks like.

It looks like a used couch that squeaks. It looks like a fourteen-dollar bottle of wine bought on splurge. There is a candle lit. And music in the background. And I am not wearing any makeup. Or shoes. Or pretenses.

And we are talking. And we are listening. And we are making suggestions on how to live a fuller life. And how to be a better person. And how nothing and everything matters. And we are teasing each other. And we are laughing. And I am so. damn. happy.

Surfing In Surf City

Ericka Kreutz — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 19:04:00 GMT

This is how retirees must feel.

Hours stretch into days, days into weeks, weeks into months,with not much really going on. Conversations with a partner are condensed to pivotal questions like “do you want to go to the grocery store?”, “do you need to do laundry?”, and my personal favorite, “did the mail come yet?”

Frivolous plans are made, which can take up some time, and days become filled with some central activity or another. Knocking a ball around and calling it tennis. A walk to the thrift store to see what’s new. The gym. A movie.

Nights unfold without much to-do. A frozen meal is heated. A three-dollar bottle of wine is uncorked. My toosh is positioned just so on the couch to settle in for a four hour marathon of “John and Kate Plus Eight”. Then I get drowsy. I brush my teeth. And eventually I go to bed. To get up and do it all over again.

This is the life of an unemployed and recently relocated actress.

And I know what you're thinking: “Welcome it! Enjoy it! Drink it in like the summer sunshine! This is real livin’, honey!”

And while I can I attest to enjoying not having to set an alarm (sheer bliss), shopping the neighborhood Farmers Market and having the first pick, attending mid-day yoga, and being free (completely free) for such activities like book signings, impromptu pool parties, and wine tastings at my leisure, I do believe that a 30-something like me should have a little more on her plate. And I’m not talking about cheese and crackers.

And I’m not being lazy, mind you. Resumes fly out of my apartment. Frantic emails are typed daily. Calls are made, solicited or not. I’ve taken classes. I’ve gone to resume seminars. I've changed my home page to Craigslist. There is just so much one can do while waiting for the phone to ring.

So I do what any good-natured and upstanding woman my age would do. I fantasy shop. Online, that is.

I dream of perfect genuine leather white hobo purses and drop them in my Favorites Box. I fantasize about purple suede boots with free shipping both ways. I navigate my way through sales and specials and new Fall Line ups and line them up into my shopping cart.

As I click and drag item after item, I imagine myself walking tall in my new suede purple boots. My white genuine leather hobo bag dangling from my shoulder. Having full confidence that with every step my new ylang-ylang daily shower spray purchased from drugstore.com is magically dissipating the soap scum from my tub. It feels wonderful and I could do it all afternoon. I mean, seriously, how does anyone hold down a job when a virtual model with your exact specifications can try on a bathing suit for you?

I doubt that my father is dabbling in any of this online shopping. My father, who although retired a few years ago, stubbornly refuses to stop going strong. He juggles three jobs, two active hobbies, volunteer ushers at all the local theatres, and is President of his Condo Association. He is the opposite image of my easy-breezy life and I can only imagine what he thinks of me.

He would be disappointed in my empty calendar and empty pocketbook. He would be shocked to know that I wake sometime in the double digits and take a shower “whenever”. He would probably tell me that I am not really supposed to mean it when people ask what I am doing and I answer, “I dunno, just chillin’”.

He would make me feel guilty that my lifestyle consists of taking siestas. All. Day. Long.

And maybe he’s right. Maybe I should be ignoring the lure of the Internet and JCrew’s 20% off final sale items and take a poetry class instead. Maybe I should stop pretending to play tennis and learn how to change a tire. Maybe I should get up with the sun and finish the crossword and put together a bookcase and organize old photos and run twenty errands and make a peach pie from scratch and never once have time to plop on a couch. Or daydream. Or pretend.

But then I see my neighbor, Sol, sitting under the umbrella of his patio furniture. Sol is in his mid-seventies and way into his retirement. His days consist of eating cereal, reading about the weather, talking about the weather, worrying about the weather, and catching fruit flies in a red wine solution. Maybe he takes a trip to Trader Joes, maybe not. His spirits are up but his body is slow. He doesn’t have the energy to pick up a racket or walk to the Farmers Market. He is unable to do downward dog and I bet he has never been to Zappos. And yet his days are full. And pleasant. And he didn’t have to clean out any gutters or run a 5K for charity.

“Any luck on getting a job?” Sol asks me.

“Nothing yet, Sol”, I say.

“Eh, don’t worry. If it was meant to be, it will come. Soon enough.”

I nod and shrug. That’s what all old men are supposed to say. They’ve lived and loved and conquered or failed. But they all have buckets of these one-liners, for people like me, who have nothing to do but listen.

I walk back into my apartment. I sit on my garage-sale furniture and I stare blankly at my calendar. I feel the weight of the guilt of being my father’s daughter and not having one thing to write down. I feel sub-par. I feel embarrassed. I feel shame in my emptiness.

And then I look out my window. And I see Sol looking at the sky. Then looking at his paper. Then taking a sip of juice. Then looking at the sky again.

Maybe Sol has got it all figured out. And maybe he is right about me. Maybe what I am seeking is meant to be and is right around the corner. Maybe this is my catch-up time, my prep-time, my relax-before-the-storm-time. And I should be enjoying it, while it lasts.

Maybe I’m really supposed to be taking my retirement now. Maybe I’ll deserve it. One day.

I’ll still make all my calls. And print all my resumes. And return all my emails.

And I’ll surf the shopping sites and live in a fantasy world for a good twenty minutes.

And then I will step away from the computer. And let go of my guilt. And I will relish in my premature retirement.

I will sip my coffee slowly. I will play tennis badly. I will buy fresh local strawberries and eat them on the way home without washing them. I will walk to the bookstore and read all the cards in the naughty section. I will laugh out loud. I will stop to smell the lavender in the air. I will look at the sky. I will learn how to trap fruit flies with a red wine solution. I will drink the rest.

And then I’ll position myself on the couch just so. I’ll watch my reality shows. I’ll brush my teeth. And I will call it a day.

Because it is.

I Feel a Breakup Coming On

Ericka Kreutz — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 00:02:00 GMT

For many of you, you have been witness to my co-dependent relationship with New York City.

No doubt you have heard my endless complaints about her. Her constant mood swings, her never-ending subway disruptions, her immature refusal to pick up after herself. And you have probably also heard me sing her praises. How she took me out and spun me around and revealed her most exquisite self. From cherry blossoms in Brooklyn to Cherry Jones on Broadway. From Carnegie Deli to Carnegie Hall. She never ceased to delight and amaze. When she smiled on me, I became utterly intoxicated. When she ignored me, life was on ice.

I met her a little more than ten years ago on Halloween night. She was dressed up and boozy with a parade of masked men behind her. Her energy was addictive. She was the leader of the pack, the entertainer, the spark plug. She was, by far, the coolest girl in whole school.

And here I was. Showing up on her doorstep asking for a sublet. I had one suitcase. One pair of sneakers. One highlighted and heavily notated Riverside Shakespeare book. I had nothing. No job. No home. No attachments. No clue.

I was sweet though. I was wide-eyed and pudgy as I strutted Midtown in my Osh Kosh B’Gosh overalls. I dyed my hair from a box and tied it back with a pink rubber band. I was told not to go above 80^th Street, so I didn’t. I was told not to go below 14^th Street, so I didn't. I was told to look ahead, look like I belong, and to get a bikini wax as soon as humanly possible. I was naïve and tender and lost and impressionable. All I wanted was to have her look my way, to have her give a shit.

And she did. Finally. When she wanted to. We fell in love somewhere in the late 90’s and I vowed to finally unpack my boxes, sign a lease, and take a trip to IKEA. I stocked up on bagels and beer and those saran-wrapped deli fig newtons and I told my mother to stop asking when I was coming home. I was going to be here for a while.

And so we lived together, New York and I, side by side. We lived through waitressing jobs and temp jobs and what-the heck-am-I-doing-here jobs. Through Christmas tree lightings, marathons, Mets games, and the Gates. Through pasta in Little Italy, rice pudding in Soho, Indian food in Jackson Heights, and pretzels in the park. Through unemployment lines, audition lines, and those unbelievably long Trader Joe lines. Through broken down subways and broken into apartments. Through shows and reviews and late night tacos from a truck and commutes from Queens and making new friends. I watched as her towers fell down that tragic day and I held her tight. “We’re in this together”, I told her. And I meant it.

But now I don’t know. In the morning light, I roll over and I take a good long look at her. Her skin is ashen. Her lips are chapped. Last night’s mascara all over the pillow. She’s a wreck.

And we’ve both seen bad times. She’s seen me at my most broken- sitting on someone’s stoop after high hopes and higher expectations were carelessly dashed like a cigarette butt. She’s seen me be ignored, stepped on, heart broken, and hit by a car. I’ve been prickly and pissed and painfully arrogant. I have been no party to be with either. I know that.

But something has changed. At our core. And I’m afraid it may be irreversible.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m tired and I can’t take the five floor walk-ups anymore. Maybe it’s because I read too many magazines and take the quiz in the back and it tells me it will only get worse. Or maybe it’s because I just can’t talk to her anymore. “I can’t listen to your silly little dreams”, she says, “can’t you see I have bigger fish to fry?”

And let’s face it, she does.

“It’s not you, it’s me”, I‘ll tell her. But that wont be the whole truth.

The truth is, that in the silence of our apartment and the phone not ringing anymore, I had some time to think. Some time to explore. And I traveled way outside her five boroughs. And I found someone.

And she’s not better than New York by any means. She doesn’t have the class, the charm, the bodegas, the greasy spoons. But she is warm and smells nice and is just, well, the complete opposite of what I’m used to.

I met her at her Trader Joes. It was sunny and pleasant and whispered in my ear, “look, no lines”. I was immediately smitten and went out and bought the first GPS system I could find. I followed her everywhere.

The new girl smiles a lot and likes to go out to breakfast. She wears yellow tops with skinny jeans and flip-flops. She winks and flirts and sleeps in and does yoga. She’s cappuccinos, and cucumber scrubs, and Corona-lights, and all for chilling out.

She’s a little flighty, but I don’t mind. She’s a little slow, but I can deal with that too. She doesn’t know how to drive yet in the “event of rain”- which we are working on- but even that rolls off my back within an hour or two.

Maybe it’s her high elevation. Or her high attitude. Or the fact that I can spread my arms out in any direction and not bump into anyone. But I just feel better with her. More relaxed somehow.

She doesn’t nag, she doesn’t yell, she doesn’t wake me up in the middle of the night. She doesn’t hound me with flyers, she doesn’t curse, and she isn’t obsessed with the stock market. Instead she twitters and tweets and blogs and reads Variety. She eats Tofutti in the middle of February and likes things to always remain a little sunny.

And honestly, those simple little things are enough for me right now. It’s enough for me to wake up next to her and hear the birds chirp. It’s enough to smell honeysuckle in the winter and see the stars at night. It’s enough for me to wake up three hours later than the City that never sleeps and go to bed early. Because I’m tired. And I’m worn out. And I can’t pretend like this is working anymore. For either of us.

I’m not sure how I am going to leave just yet. Probably in the morning after Wall Street has rung it’s bell. When she’s busy and buzzing, opening her maxed out emails and trying to pay for her maxed out credit cards. I will sip my coffee in the other room, savor my last pumpernickel bagel with cream cheese and jam, and adoringly watch Pat Kirin read me the morning papers on NY1 one last time before slipping out.

I will throw on my over-weighted backpack one last time. I will swipe my overpriced metro card one last time. And I will do my best to bury my broken heart as I wave her goodbye from the over-sized windows at JFK.

I don’t know how to navigate through this departure just yet, but I will learn. Step-by-step, road-by-road, highway-by-highway. It’s time for a change. And it’s time I followed my own inner GPS system. And moved on.

You Don't Send Me Christmas Cards Anymore

Ericka Kreutz — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 02:25:00 GMT

As I took down holiday cards taped to my kitchen wall I was hit over and over again with conflicting thoughts and emotions.

My friends who are parents send pictures of their little ones. How fast they grow. How time really does fly. Most of the pictures are of kids that live miles from me. Kids that I never see but once a year. Kids that didn’t know their mommies and daddies when I knew them. When we slugged back vodkas and scooped out Ben and Jerrys and contemplated if there really was life after college. And although I am very happy to report that yes, indeed, there is life after rolling around on the ground and pretending to be animals, I realize that there is still vodka in my freezer and multiple empty ice cream cartons in my recyclables. My friends are rolling around on the ground still, but they are doing it with a new role and new little ones. I can’t help but look in the mirror and wonder if life is passing me by. Everyone around me is changing and growing while I am still grunting in yoga class attempting to get my butt over my head.

Then there are the cards with messages of hope and of love and of best wishes from far away. I reread them as I take them down. I feel blessed with all of their sentiments folded in green and gold, in trees and reindeer. The cards come from all over the country and that we still find a way to touch base, touches me.

And then hits the hard stuff. The Catholic-raised stuff. The stuff that has kept me awake at night and has made me feel inadequate this holiday season. The underlying, the unrelenting, sensation of Guilt.

I didn’t do one thing this winter that I have done since 1993. One thing that has gone astray. That I let go.

I didn’t send out Christmas cards.

My friends and family are award-winning multi-taskers. They do Pilates, they swim, train horses, write poems, make websites, bake, knit, volunteer, garden, walk dogs, organize books clubs and cookie swaps and PTA meetings. They are parents and rock stars and chefs and directors and actors and teachers- all while balancing children and spouses and spicy mother in laws. And yet, they got their Christmas cards out. And early too.

So what’s my problem?

I could blame it on the economy.

That’s an easy one. Blame everything on the economy. Save money on stamps. That’s it. I was saving money on Virgin Mary stamps. That makes me feel a whole lot better.

I could blame it on being “green”.

That would be a great one if I had only thought of it myself. And although I am a recycling-freak, I do know that there are stationary stores in Manhattan that are keeping afloat because my business. I love the smell of card stock. I love the written word. I love a signature in a fancy fountain pen. I love sealing the envelope and putting it in a big blue box and having a postman deliver it to you by foot. Hmph.

I could blame it on being busy.

But that would be a lie. With unemployment and auditions few and far between I have spent most of my fall and winter in the 3 feet radius of my apartment that contain my couch and TV. I can tell you the story lines to a dozen shows and name everyone’s first name on Top Chef, but yeah, busy? Can’t say that I have been.

The truth lies in the simplest part of me. That part locked in my chest that makes it hard to breathe. I was just completely, utterly, uninspired.

Honestly, I didn’t know what to write. I had no catch phrase this year. I had no witty words. I had no “recaps”, no “future sights”, no “wait-until-you hear-this”. I had no new wisdom. No spunk. No joy to the world.

And I felt that any “merrys” and any “happys” would be a little fake. And a bit insincere. And so I never put pen to paper. And I never licked the envelope. And that is why you didn’t get one from me this year. I just didn’t have it in me.

The end of the year always gets me down. Reflection is something that I am really good at, but something I do to a fault. Instead of all the birthday parties marked in my 2008 calendar, I see the catering parties I worked through. Instead of the gigs I did that I was proud of, I see the auditions of all the things I didn’t get. Instead of seeing the busy days, I count up the ones where I was wandering the streets with nothing to do. I see a year full of misses and slips and silence and trying really really hard.

Do you get rewarded in Heaven for trying really really hard?

So with great MERRYIMENT I toss out my old and scratched up 2008 calendar. A reason to sing Hallelujah! Those 12 months are done. A year that will not make a chapter in my memoirs or as an anecdote on The Late-Late Show.

And yet, I have to feel Gratitude that comes with a boring year. I didn’t lose a loved one. I didn’t lose my mind. I didn’t lose all of my hope. I am still at it and I am still loving and I am still trying to throw my butt on top of my head. And I still adore you. And I want to thank you for reading this and being by my side.

And I know in my heart of hearts that my date book, although thorough, does not reflect the laughter, the late night phone calls, the silly emails, the surprises, the support, the movies, the lunches, the coffees, the spirits, the walks, the shopping, the venting, the songs in my soul, or the chorus of Friendship in my life. It is those moments, in between appointments, that thread my day-to-day, month-to-month, that make up a year.

So it is with sincere appreciation that I wish you and your loved ones a very happy new year. May this New Year reignite faith in the human spirit. May it bring you fresh perspectives and fresh ideas. May it bring Abundance in forms of hugs and kisses and good fortune and a thousand open doors.

If I had an envelope I would lick it and send you those words in the mail. With a bright Virgin Mary stamp. And a big Obama sticker.

Knocked Up or Knocked Down

Ericka Kreutz — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 01:27:00 GMT

So the snow globe of life has shaken itself up once again and I am waiting for the pieces to fall gently back to the ground.

It seems that everything this fall has been out of whack, out of balance, out of control. A gust of wind changes direction and minds change and tastes change and no one seems to have any spare change. I am a sensitive one, as many of you know, and so when there are flurries, I too, spin round and round, grasping at empty pockets of thin air, anxiously trying to find my footing once again.

Wall Street. What a mess. And we are all feeling the effects of it. From gas prices to shows closing to extra sneaky charges at airports and fine fine prints. My Pink Slip was handed to me two weeks ago and even though I shrugged my shoulders and said, “who cares, no big deal, hated-it-anyway”, it is debilitating not to get up every morning and have somewhere to go. I had someone expecting me. I bustled in with my overpriced coffee and wore nice shoes. I had a password. Big Brother was watching me. And I was getting paid.

Elections. What a mess. Our presidential nominees- two men who have given their time and money and unrelenting energy to this election. Who have risked their lives or are at risk. Who have stayed up late and stayed the course because each of them believes -whether you like them or not- that they are the best candidate to lead this country.

And they love this country. And they want nothing more than to take care of it and be in charge of it and clean up the mess that we are currently in. And we smear them and jab them and call them names.

These two great men are now being reduced to "the Terrorist” and "that Old Goober”. We no longer see them as who they are. What they strive for. Compassion has run out the door and we now impulsively react with Fear in the room. We are black and white and white and white about how we feel. With the past eight years of kicking and screaming and hatred I hope that we can stop seeing this as a battleground between red and blue and have a election filled with dignity and spirit. No more off-color remarks. No more smears. No more lies.

And mess bleeds on. SAG is talking Strike. Jobs are reduced daily. Christmas parties are canceled. And my phone has completely stopped ringing.

Through this windfall, or because of it, I have been aching to be with the women in my life. My sisters and my sistahs. My Indigo Girls and my secret life of bees and my Momma. I long for their fleshy arms and open minds. Women who wear their hearts on their sleeves and pick at the frosting on cupcakes.

I have been lucky this season to have shared so much with women. To have been in the company of girlfriends who have gossiped and giggled and planned weddings and played charades and drank wine and had lunches and went to museums and book signings with me. I have been soothed by their comfort. I have been inspired by their passion.

And there is a commonality among my women friends this season that can't be ignored. They too, lost in the flurry, in that space between not-there-anymore and not-there-yet, in their own wind tunnel- fall into two categories. They are either knocked up or they are knocked down.

The pregnancies are everywhere you look. Like the Harvest Moon who is full with the blessings of fertility, my women friends are full with the blessing of new life. Their bellies are soft and muscular and their hormones are a-blazing. They are pink and soft and happy and scared and amazed and radiant. Their new power as new mothers-to-be is palpable.

And then on the other side of the sphere are those who have been knocked down. Their hearts splitting in twos and threes and hundreds. And as many embryo-anecdotes as I have heard over the past month- I have been witness to twice as many tears. The heartache and the stomachaches and the emptiness that many of my friends are experiencing is raw and unrelenting. The gust of wind that goes right though their fall coats reminds them that they no longer expect the same warmth.

Sometimes I cry with them. Sometimes I cry for them. Sometimes I blabber on and make no sense and pull some bullshit out of the sky to try and mend them. To let them know they will have both feet on the ground again soon. And they will heal. And they are loved.

My knocked up girls and my knocked down girls. All swimming in the same air. One silently weeping in the bathroom at a baby shower. One needing some air at a wedding. One cheering to success. One drinking to forget. All on new paths. All of them meaningful and frightful and tough. Some carry weight. Some travel light.

I find myself in neither of these categories and I feel lost in that too. The emptiness that is carved out when no one shares your own personal private chaos. I swirl around and around asking questions that lead to more questions that lead to more and more and more.

So I run to yoga class to calm down. I slog to the gym to run around. I slurp down coffee and then immediately need a nap.

But as in the seasons, Change happens. And everything eventually balances out. The rich will find a way to stay rich. Santa will get on his sleigh. People will eat and drink and be merry and go see theatre and music and dance. And the economy will work itself out.

And we will have a new president-elect in less than two weeks (!). And he will be the best man for the job and bring messages of Hope to this country. And my friends’ waters will break. And my friends’ hearts will mend. And I will find my footing among the messy autumnal madness once again.

Ericka's Shout Out: Congrats to Bob and Julie. You tied the knot and had one amazing party.

Congrats to Jen Nails. You wrote a book and it is a gift of your humor and spirit. Please pick up "Next to Mexico" for your young readers and your young-at-heart friends.

Bizie-Newsie: Maine Story plays on! Northampton Ind. Film Festival, October 25th; Ojai Film Festival, Ojai, CA, November 7th & 8th; High Desert Shorts Film Festival, Pahrump, NV, November 8th; Alter-Native 16, Targu-Mures, Romania, November 5-9th; Red Rock Film Festival, Zion Canyon, UT, November 14th & 15th

Ode to a Little Itty Bitty Town

Ericka Kreutz — Sat, 09 Aug 2008 00:03:00 GMT

Okay. So I have to be honest with you.

I got swept off my feet this summer.

It was totally by surprise. I didn't even like the guy. He smelled like manure, was way too quiet, and gave me bumps and rashes and other unmentionable marks. I was allergic to his breath. I was annoyed with his calm temperament. And I was bored stiff.

But he was hot. Like hot hot. Like 102 with high humidity and no signs of relenting. And what can I tell you- around him- I completely lost my cool.

Let me introduce you: His name is Arrow Rock, Missouri and he is a very small town between Kansas City and St. Louis.   He likes antiques, quiet time, and bugs. He drives a tractor. He holds a population of 79 people whom are all...oh, what is the word? Nice.

It wasn't love at first sight. Oh no. Quite the opposite.

I flew in on a Saturday. Little did I know that to travel to the middle of nowhere takes a great amount of effort and time. It took me a cab, 2 planes, a 2 hour shuttle to Boonville, and then Leslie to come pick me up and drive another 20 minutes to my respective dorm room. I had run out of snacks, reading material, and patience. I mean let's be honest, I don't go to Brooklyn if someone isn't tying the knot or having a stroke. I do have my standards.

So after my all day travel day (which should have at least put me in Paris), Leslie helped me carry my stuff into my dorm room. The door opened and a bed, lamp, bathroom, and white plastic hangers were revealed. That's about it. The key to the door was missing, or lost, and Leslie assured me that she will get right on it- but not to worry- no one steals anything here.

WHAT?!

She looked at my puzzled face and laughed, "Oh, Ericka, don't worry, you'll get used to it."

WHAT?!

After a moment I finally spoke. It went something like this :

E: Leslie, where is the kitchen?

L: Oh, it is in the commons area in the other building. You share it with everyone.

E: Share.

L: Yes.

E: Like in sharing.

L: Yes.

E: Leslie, where is the TV?

L: Again. Commons. Everyone.

E: Leslie. Tell me I can get internet service...

L: Sure. When the wind blows the right way.

And with that she winked and shut the door to my doom room. The door that didn't lock.

I unpacked my things and tried not to panic. There is always a way out of things. Someone could die. I could die. Spielberg could call right now. Options were endless. Since it was a Saturday and Spielberg usually calls on Mondays I decided to wait before I asphyxiated and mustered up what little strength I had to walk into this highly suspicious "commons" area.

Oh. My. God. 8 refrigerators. 4 sinks. One trash bin. Chorus girls running around half naked microwaving some form of bread-crusted protein. Skinny college students eating strawberry pop tarts and laughing a little too loud at Reality TV. Scraps of food everywhere. Trash piled up. Frogs stuck to the windows. And I think I smelled feet.

I found the last unclaimed corner of one of the refrigerators (thanks Chris) and marked it. I found one new friend, Gail, who had also arrived today and wore the same look of terror. I tossed her the keys to the company car and made her bond with me. We ventured out onto the long roads, passing cornfield after cornfield, in search of food and safety. We found it 24 minutes north in the form of a 24 hour Walmart. She screamed at the sight. I liked her instantly.

I hunted and gathered in the florescent lights and I must admit, I started to soften, just a tad. They really did have low prices. And everything was bright. And everything was clean. And I could move about with my mega cart and not bang into anybody. That was a first. But I was probably dehydrated and needed potassium or something.  My mental stability could not be relied on at this point.

Gail was a smart cookie. She loaded up on bug repellent, SPF 45, and multiple bottles of wine. I wondered if she had read some sort of guide book before coming here or if she had been awarded a Girl Scout badge in "Wilderness Survival". I followed her lead and tossed the exact items into my cart. I wasn't going to die here alone. At least not today.

I don't remember what events happened next, or in what order, but here are a few highlights of my first week of Arrow Rock:

I made tea in a microwave that might have had 10 thousand remnants of food in it. I closed my eyes and chanted something I sort of remembered from yoga class.  I drank my green tea without looking down. I did not die.

I almost stepped on not one, but two snakes. One was a green and brown skinny fella. I was told he was harmless. The second was a massive black one that was as long as my thigh and as thick as my wrist. I was told he was harmless too. I didn't believe them.   I did not die.

I slid on numerous small frogs that littered the roads.

I choked on huge cottonwoods floating in the air.

I saw the Managing Director go to work on a horse (Hi, Steve).

I sprayed more bug spray on my bare ass than I care to comment on.

I raised my voice above the cicadas so the person standing next to me could hear what I was saying. After awhile, I just gave up, and pretended I was mute.

I went to work. And it was okay. Except for the occasional disruptions of wild raccoons that scrimmaged on the old roof. And on one afternoon, I stood amazed as my strong and limber stage manager, Tony, stopped rehearsal to slither around the rehearsal room trying to scrape up a scared lizard who wanted to make an appearance in a scene. "Everybody wants to be an actor."

WHAT?!

I went to bed early. I studied my lines. I tried to believe that the humidity was cleansing my pores in preparation for my big movie break as I waited every day for that call from the coast. That call from Spielberg that would desperately need me and take me away from this all. It would be a tearful goodbye as I tore up the contract. I would be sure to make a good scene out of it. But in the end everyone would understand that I needed to do what I needed to do, and they would all go back to their Walmart and their snakes and life would go on. Without me.

But the call didn't come in those first few days. Or the first week for that matter. I waited until the 10th day and when five o'clock hit in L.A., I was shaking in my bug bitten legs.

Oh. My. God. I'm stuck here. And I gotta stick this out. And I gotta put on a play.

I went to work. I worked after work. I worked before work. I did suduko. Sort of. I wrote a letter. And I walked.

I put on my ipod to shun out the little itty bitty town but the town wouldn't let me. "Do you need a ride somewhere young lady?" an old truck driver would ask. No. No rides. No thank you. "Do you want to step in and get some air?" the antique store owner asked. Nope. Don't need air. No air for me, thank you. "Oh honey, watch out for the snake that is making his way up past the stream."  Perfect. That's what I'll do. Watch out for the SNAKE?!!!

WHAT?! ARE YOU PEOPLE NUTS?!!!

And that is when my man struck.

I was wearing no make up. I was pissed and sweating. I smelled of ego and wilting antiperspirant. He held out his hand. I had nothing better to do than to take it.

He took me to Vine, the outdoor wine bar. He told me to sit down. He gave me dryer sheets to rub on my arms to keep the bugs away. He clicked on the electric votive candles. And ordered me a glass.

I sipped. I took a breath. And I looked around.

Vibrant flowers tucked in every corner. Christmas lights draped from the lush trees. Jazz played from the music speaker disguised as a rock. The sound of a mini waterfall and orange fish swimming in the pond.  A small whisper of summer wind touched my cheek.

Whatever. "You can get this in Little Italy", I told him. And then he told me to look up.

The sky was black. Like black black. And it went on for miles.

What is that? Stars, he said. No, beyond that. More stars, he said. No, beyond that.  That? That's the Milky Way.

WHAT?!

I looked to the left of me. And then to the right. There were people. People laughing and people hugging and people giving people shit and people looking into each other's eyes. People who had, without me trying, become my friends. My good friends. Through the sweat and pained looks and complaining and exasperation- they took me as I was. Melted and rotten and secretly "secreting" Spielberg- they still took me. And found a place for me to sit. Under the stars.

I realized what they had all known all along. You can't get a cell phone signal here so you might as well pay attention to the person you are sitting next to.  And the person sitting next to them. Because you can't get online you might as well surf the night sky for answers to big questions. Because there's no TV in your bedroom to distract and lull you to sleep, you might as well stay up until 3am playing Spades with the best character actors this side of the Mississippi.  You might as well work hard. And put on a play you are proud of. And sleep in. Then get up and do it all over again.

My New York friend, Nolan, came to visit me and see the show in the final week. I told him over and over not to come. I sent smoke signals and wrote numerous postcards in bold red ink that read: SAVE YOUR MONEY. MIDDLE OF NOWHERE. SNAKES!!! He saw the postcards. And the smoke. And still decided to come. Dammit.

Nolan is use to my over dramatic nature but he had never been to Arrow Rock, MO. He had no clue what he was in store for. He was an adventurous dude by nature but I had never seen him when he couldn't check his email at least once per day. Would he crack? He did call me once after getting the place tickets in a small panic. "Ericka? Can you please tell me where exactly you are? I can't seem to locate you on the map."

And then he did.

I found Nolan on the main sidewalk at the Hodge Podge. He was sitting at the old 1850's counter eating a homemade chicken salad sandwich with a tall frothy Coke. He was the youngest customer by at least 30 years and he was smiling. I was not positive but I think he might have been enjoying himself. Maybe he was dehydrated or needed potassium or something. I wished him good luck as I snuck into the theatre.

After the show I found him still in one piece. He has survived his first 4 hours and was holding up much better than I had as a new arrival. I gave him the entertainment choices of the evening which included the beforehand mentioned wine bar and then a bonfire where an old set was being burned and we were going to eat smores and drink beer out of a can. He was game.

We drank wine. Nolan tossed off his shoes. We giggled and ate frozen grapes. Fireflies buzzed in our hair.

At the bonfire (which was now dwindling) we looked up at the night sky. Nolan nudged me. "You know you would pay $17.50 for this at the Planetarium in New York." He was right.

If Spielberg had called then, it wouldn't have mattered. My phone was back in my unlocked dorm room.

I had cracked open. My Midwest roots spilled everywhere. I had slipped hard and fast and I had no armor to protect me anymore. I was fragile. I was raw. And I think I missed my mom.

I slid up to Quin, the Artistic Director and my friend, who has made Arrow Rock his home for the past four years. "I get it now", I told him. "There is magic here. Something palpable. Like fairy dust or something." He looked at me.  My cheeks had flushed, my heart totally exposed- just sitting there on the edge of my sleeve, as my eyes twitched back and forth staring up into the sky. "I know", he said. "I like to think of it as a lot of good ghosts."

Yeah.

The next morning the young boy from the farm across the way dropped off a bag of red and yellow organic tomatoes for the actors. He was dirty and shy and as sweet as could be. He admitted to wanting to try out for a play next year. I couldn't have loved him more in that moment.

I ate a piece of homemade peach pie for breakfast that John, my stage dad, had made from scratch and sidled up to a table of buzzing actresses telling jokes, telling stories, and singing their favorite tunes from unpopular musicals. We cast ourselves over and over in the best roles ever written. I loved dreaming big over breakfast.

I performed a matinée and people stood. I think I cried a little.

I made dinner. Watched mindless TV. Stayed up late losing card game after card game. I laughed so hard I snorted twice.

I went to sleep.

Early the next day I walked into the commons and they were empty. I finished off my cereal and milk. I threw out my sandwich meat. I took out the massive communal garbage one last time and went up to get my bags. The show had closed. I was no longer employed. It was time I said goodbye.

It was silent when I left. Just like when I had arrived. But I wasn't angry anymore. I had made my peace with the peace. I just wished I wouldn't have resisted him and let his magic in a little sooner.

So a ride, a shuttle, 2 planes, and 1 cab and I am plopped back in my apartment in Queens. The TV is on when the computer is on when the radio is on and the blender is on. The neighbors are yelling and the dogs are barking and the kids are screaming and the sirens are blaring. It's just another normal evening here. Summer in the City.

And I am not going to lie. I miss him. Arrow Rock. Humidity and frogs and snakes and all. I do.

But he is staying there and I am too stubborn not to stay here so we are at standstill. And he will charm another unsuspecting city girl soon enough. She will rant and rave and throw her gadgets in the air and he will take her by the hand and lead her to the wine bar and smooth her brow and tell her to look up. He is good that way.

But I can reminisce. And remember. Remember the hot July days when I didn't wear makeup. When I ate breakfast with sparkling actresses. When I lost at Spades. When I howled at the wrong decisions made on Project Runway with a room full of people. When frogs stuck to windows and cicadas made me silent and little farmer boys brought me yellow tomatoes. When I had no where to look but in people's eyes. And I had nothing to do except listen to their stories. And take them in.

And I hugged. And I laughed. And I cried. And I saw the Milky Way.

Proof Positive

Ericka Kreutz — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 17:20:00 GMT

Getting another chance to play Catherine in Proof at the Arrow Rock Lyceum Theatre.

Between Kansas City and St. Louis there will be a concoction of math, madness, and great chemistry happening on stage. I'm very proud of this production and happy to have the opportunity to bounce the ball back with three amazing actors and a team of dedicated talents behind the scenes.

It is a little bit in the middle of nowhere...but if you find yourself in the Midwest this time of year, please come by.

Here's the link:
www.lyceumtheatre.org

July 25th- August 3rd.

Ericka's Shout Out: July babies! Welcome Charlotte Clissold, Elia Roeca, Sayla Theirl & Finn Barber!

Bizie-Newsie: United Way.

Ah, Seattle...

Ericka Kreutz — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 17:00:00 GMT

Took a trip out west!

Went wine tasting, drank Joe, hiked (oh, did we hike...), ate chowder, went to a first ever Pig Roast, saw a "duck drop", watched fish being thrown at the Market, saw fireworks...it was a delight. Thanks to little sister Erin and Chris for all your hospitality.

Maine Story Update

Ericka Kreutz — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 00:14:00 GMT

Summer reading. Summer barbecues. And Summer Film Festivals.

"Maine Story" Summer Screenings:

12th Playhouse West Film Festival at the El Portal Theater in North Hollywood on Sunday, June 29th at 1pm. Playhouse West is the original home of Sanford Meisner's Los Angeles classes, where he taught beginning in 1987 until the end of his teaching career.

Long Island International Film Expo in Bellmore, LI on July 16th at 4:30pm.

13th Annual Stony Brook Film Festival from July 17-26 in Stony Brook, NY.

Southside Film Festival taking place in Bethlehem, PA from June 17-21.

Maine Story has also received an early acceptance from the Williamstown Film Festival in Williamstown, MA which runs from October 17-26. This will be the 10th Anniversary of the festival.

The Red Pepper Jelly Remount

Ericka Kreutz — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 23:52:00 GMT

Red Pepper Jelly 3: The Best Recipe is coming to Kohler, WI!

WHEN: Tuesday–Saturday, June 17–21, 7:30 p.m.
Sunday, June 22, 2:30 p.m.

WHERE: The Kohler Arts Center in Kohler, WI

"Wit, charm, and half a teaspoon of naughtiness"

"These talented and funny folks are stirring up another batch of saucy monologues, poetry, songs, and dance. Serving up old favorites and new surprises, Red Pepper Jelly 3 is a sweet delight."

“Jelly offers sweet, spicy treats.”—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

For tickets and more information please visit: www.jmkac.org

See you there!

Tribeca Film Festival Spot

Ericka Kreutz — Tue, 13 May 2008 17:21:00 GMT

For those of you with QuickTime- you can view my latest spot for The Tribeca Film Festival.

I think it is really fun. Hope you do too.

http://hungryman.com/#reel/19/1

Olive Branches

Ericka Kreutz — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 14:14:00 GMT

As many of you know, New York and I have been fighting for a couple of months now.

It started out in the usual way. Both of us women in our own right, we choose the silent treatment. She hissed outside as I hibernated and ate soup inside. She refused me hot water for two days as I liberally applied a spray-on tan. She bounced a check. I drank Seattle's Best. She messed with my mail. I shopped at Zappos. And the list goes on and on. But soon she wasn't having it anymore, and the gloves were off.

Before the frost could melt, she began a 6-month construction zone outside of my bedroom window. The start times got earlier and earlier and the drills got louder and louder. She painted constant gray skies and spilled out rain whenever she damn well felt like it. And when it wasn't raining, you can be sure the pigeons were pooping, so it was a good idea to stay covered at all times. She tossed in faulty cranes that created catastrophe and another ironic MetroCard fare hike. Then, she proceeded to take in a long deep breath, and Spitzered all over my face. What a lady.

Recently, when I was sluggishly traveling home from a long catering job, packed into a jammed subway at 2am on a Saturday night, the wobbly gentleman next to me decided to puke. It got my leg, it got my bag, it got all over my shoes, and I don't want to even begin to describe how it smelled. The Puker thought it was hysterical, along with his gaggle of friends, and threw himself into a laughing fit. I was stuck. At the end of the train car. With puke running down my tux pants.

That was it. I threw my arms up in the air and exclaimed, "That's it! I'm done!"

I took the first train out and spent a weekend seeing theatre in New Jersey. (Ha! Take that!) I only watched TV and movies that I knew were produced on the West Coast. (Who needs ya?!) I drank at home and socialized only on email and started to plan trips and pack bags and I swear to you, I almost subletted my apartment without even letting my roommate, who also happens to be my boyfriend, have any clue. Oops.

I rubbed elbows with those from other lands, overseas, with suntans and sunny dispositions. I bombarded tourists and spread scare tactics and told them they better get home quick. I winked at anyone with a thick accent. I was reckless and I didn't care. I was through. (I mean, my vote means more in Indiana right now so why not make a run for it right?)

And then.

She kissed me.

Boy, did she kiss me.

I had been writing to a friend in LA- getting the lay of the land, gathering details, and trying to remember how exactly to drive a car- when all of a sudden- I felt warm.

I went to a window, one that had been locked all winter long with 5 months of dust sitting on the ledge, and popped it open.

Rush.

I couldn't believe it.

Birds chirping. Sunlight flooding in. Her hot breath on my neck awakening me, stirring me. And her perfume- oh God, what was that?

Scents of the morning light hitting the backpacks of the kindergarteners on their way to school. The smell of wet dirt and fresh grass and the first glimpse of a yellow tulip. The smell of delivery trucks and a stack of the Times. The smell of bagels, and bacon, and sausage, egg and cheese. The whiff of a new life, a new love, rumbling underneath the surface.

"Not now", I said. "I am not in the mood."

But she didn't listen. And she stayed. And stayed calm. And stayed consistent, for once. And gave us all, for a whole 24 hours, the most beautiful day.

Girls dug out their flip-flops. Short skirts were pulled out of storage. Restaurants opened their doors and windows and sidewalk dining. Parents danced in the park, picnics spontaneously unfolded, spirits were raised, and even my chip, started to slowly roll, right off my shoulder.

On my way home from another catering job, at the end of the same train car as before, I let out a sneeze. And then another. And then another.

A young man reached into his bag and handed me his pack of tissues. "Kleenex?" he asked.

I turned. And stared at him for a long moment.

New York had pulled out all the stops with this one. She had granted me the one thing I could never resist, my greatest weakness. The one thing that got me each and every time.

Human kindness. From a complete stranger.

Could I get this in LA I wonder? In Seattle? Indiana perhaps? The thoughts buzzed in my mind for a moment and then dissolved.

She's the one. She's always been the one.

Here she was, giving me a peace offering, an olive branch disguised in a travel-sized pack of tissues.

Finally, I looked down at the young man's palm and then looked back at his innocent gaze. "Thank you" I said, as I took a tissue and wiped my nose clean.

"Please, I know...", he said, "it's allergy season."

And so it is, folks. So it is.

Bizie-Newsie: My Law & Order episode, "Bogeyman", airs this Wednesday night, April 30th, on NBC. Also, if in New York, my Tribeca Film Festival ad will be running in previews at local movie theatres.

Those Three Little Words...

Ericka Kreutz — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 14:09:00 GMT

I was riding the 7 train back to Queens last night and was one stop away from my exit. I closed my book, put it in my bag, and got out my umbrella for the walk home. A woman was standing in front of me dialing her cell phone. She waited a moment for the voice mail on the other end to pick up, took a breath, and uttered those three little words...

"Hey, it's me..."

The doors opened. I exited. And smiled.

She has that person too.

I use these words every day and never realized how powerful they were. How intimate they were.

To say "hey, it's me" means that you need no introduction. No smoke and mirrors. No embellishments. They say: you are my one call at the end of the day and you've probably been expecting me. They say: you are my common ground, my rock, my Lifeline on 'Millionaire', my home.

How lucky are we to have that one person in our lives. Whether it be a mother, a sister, a lover, a friend. Who we talk to daily and formal names are never used. Where we can be just "us". Us in our simplest, our most loving, and our most uninhibited forms.

When you are just you and I am just me and nothing more needs to be explained.

Ericka's Shout Out: Welcome baby Katie Cushen into the world! Congrats to Hope and Randy in Atlanta!

Bizie-Newsie: Shot my first "Law & Order"! Stay tuned for air date. And Children's Benadryl National commercial running on a station near you.

Maine Story, in a town near you

Ericka Kreutz — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 00:00:00 GMT

My film, MAINE STORY, is hitting the festival circuit and is being shown around the country.

Please try to support it, and short independent films like it, if you live nearby. I'm so proud of the film, of the work of the entire cast and crew, and especially to writer and director, Nina Chernik. Her talent is immeasurable.

Here is a current listing:

Jan 11-13: Festivus Film Festival, Denver, CO
Feb 20-23: Carolina Film & Video Festival, Greensboro, NC
Feb 21- Mar 2: Big Muddy Film Festival, Carbondale, IL
Mar 6-9: George Lindsey UNA Film Festival, Florence, AL
Mar 7-13: Reel Women Film Festival, Los Angeles, CA
Mar 27-30: Kent Film Festival, Kent, CT
Mar 27- Apr 3: Method Fest, Calabasas, CA
Mar 28-Apr 6: Women's International Film Festival, Miami, FL
Apr 3-6: Wisconsin Film Festival
Apr 10-17: Palm Beach International Film Festival, Boca Raton, FL
Apr 17-27: Barebones Film & Music Festival, Muskogee, OK
May 9-17: Santa Cruz Film Festival, Santa Cruz, CA

And here is Nina's Blog that has up-to-date information about the film:

http://number9picturesmainestory.blogspot.com/

It just won Best Student Narrative at The Carolina Film & Video Festival!

The Februaries

Ericka Kreutz — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 22:25:00 GMT

I never thought that I would be one of those sun lamp kind of people.

I am from Wisconsin after all, where snowfalls and falling temperatures are part of my DNA. It is what creates us Nordic little fighters. 20 inches? Bring it on. Below 40 degree windchill? What else you got. Football in the 40's? Never heard of it.

But this winter I have totally lost my cool about the cold. I have googled light boxes and sunbeams and tropical vacations more times than was necessary. I have sat in front of the microwave for longer than my mother would have allowed. And when I sent in my huge tax checks to the government, I actually used a "loogie" to seal the envelope. It has not been a good time. And I have not been in a good mood. I was in, what I like to call, "The Februaries".

And what's so wrong with February, I have to ask myself. Why such the bad rap?

It is home to Groundhog Day after all. My favorite holiday of the year. Where grown men find themselves in top hats and up at the crack of dawn to watch Punxsutawney Phil look up and look down and tell us what we already know. Six more weeks of winter.

February has V-Day and my B-Day, Lincoln's birthday, Super Tuesday, and The Academy Awards. And then there is that pending question: to leap or not to leap? Lots to love. Lots to celebrate. And yet, I was miserable.

I found solace in dark corners and under the covers. I wore gray sweaters under a gray jacket with a gray hood. I hid in scarves. I stared at the dirt and demanded something to grow. I read Dickinson and Plath and watched every depressing award nominated movie. If it had "Old" or "Blood" or "Devil" in the title, I might have watched it twice.

I wore out my slippers. And my Damien Rice music. And my friend's ears.

But, hells yeah, it is February no longer. To leap or not to leap, I am a year older, and a month wiser, and if one thing is for certain, I am ready for a change.

So I am taking my cue from Mother Nature and have vowed to shed the mittens and the moping and have decided to turn my face upwards, to the sun. It might be hiding, but I know it's there somewhere. I have my faith back.

I am eating lemons and maple syrup. I am listening to internet radio. I am scanning the Self Help section. I am buying yellow candles and watching them burn next to my TV as CNN reports on the best race to the White House yet.

I am thinking about buying a plant. And Swiffering. And maybe cracking the windows a tad. And breathing in.

I still sport my gray coat but my hood is down. My step is lighter as I trade in my winter boots for sneaks. And my head is looking straight ahead, for the first time in a long time, into the inevitable season of change.

I welcome it.

Ah, January

Ericka Kreutz — Wed, 16 Jan 2008 01:05:00 GMT

January is always a tricky month for me.

Filled with a list of resolutions and a blank 2008 date book.

I scratched in birthdays and anniversaries under the empty dates last night just to make sure something was happening in the new year.

The gypsy life is one that I lead and jobs come and go when they feel like it. Like fishing. And my pole, always in the water. Always on the ready for that bite to happen. But in the interim, I must sit patiently and wait.

But who is good at that?

Certainly not me.

I have a good friend that also has nothing on her plate for the new year and has shared her perspective with me. She said that while a blank slate is certainly scary- not to have anything pinned down or planned out- she found a great release and freedom from it. There is nothing holding her back. There is nothing tieing her down. There are no commitments. No signatures scribbled on paper.

I am trying to wear that idea of freedom as I walk into this new year. I have nothing and nothing has me. I can make 2008 whatever I want it to be. I can travel everyday as in a free fall, floating until something catches my fancy and I make the decision to follow.

I am the one in yoga class that can't wait to move. Can't wait to get it on with already. I want it to be hard and I want to sweat and feel all gooey and lightheaded in an hour and 15 minutes. Meditation is what I am the worst at. All that sitting. All that stillness. And yet, when I give over to it (now and then)- I often feel something beside me. An energy shield. A whisper. Something telling me that it is okay. It is okay to slow down. It is okay to be still. I don't have to have commitments to feel alive. I don't have to be busy to just be me.

I am trying to wrestle with that for this month. The month of commercials yelling at me to diet and sign up for a gym and oh yeah, by the way, have you started working on your taxes? When the media is having a field day with makeovers and nutritional plans, Britney and beauty aids, I will try and find some solace and some stillness in me. Try to sit in every day and be okay with doing a little bit of nothing.

Watch the snow. Admire the foam on my cappuccino. Read more. And wait.

Something will come. It always does.

Red Pepper Jelly

Ericka Kreutz — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 22:20:00 GMT

How fortunate am I to be able to start the New Year with New Work!

If you are in the Milwaukee area I would love to see you for another helping of Red Pepper Jelly!

Original Monologues, Poems and Songs by Raeleen McMillion, Jennifer Rupp, John and Susan Nicholson of Frogwater,and myself. I think we have got a great show on our hands and I am excited to open it this week.

Lots of sweat and tears and REWRITES go into making this show, but through and through, it has the most heart out of any show I have been involved in and I am very proud to be a part of it. Thanks to the ladies who make it happen and invite me back.

More info? Visit www.r-t-w.com
January 11th- February 3rd.
Milwaukee, WI
The review: http://www.jsonline.com/story/index.aspx?id=706428

Happy New Year Everybody!

Bizie Newsie: US Cellular commercial airing in the Midwest.

Ericka's Shout Out: Jen Nails and Mike Gold have a beautiful new boy named Zachary! The sense of humor this boy will have!

Personal Note: My mom is fantastic. Thanks for all of you who rang, and wrote, and said a little prayer.

Mere Mortals

Ericka Kreutz — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 21:30:00 GMT

I'm in a play!

Mere Mortals by David Ives at Two River Theatre in Red Bank, NJ.
October 30th- November 18th.

To get there from New York, you can take the NJ Coastline train to Red Bank and the theatre is steps away.

I am proud to be in the company with three amazingly talented, smart, and funny guys who keep me laughing and keep me on my monkey toes. They are Raymond McAnally, Glenn Peters, & Ariel Shafir. There is so much to love about them and so much good clean fun to celebrate.

I hope you can catch it.

More information at: www.trtc.org