I discovered J.D. Salinger when I stole “Catcher In The Rye” from my big sister and read it. I tried to hand in a book report on it in seventh grade and it was rejected because it was on a list of unsuitable books or something. It was Westchester after all. They told my mother I was reading unsuitable books, but really she could care less.

So one Sunday when I was making the usual stop after church with father no. 2 to pick up the Sunday paper at Lippy’s, the candy/toy/comic book/book store, I checked under S and found more books by this Salinger guy. I saved my allowance and eventually got to buy all three.

I took them with me when I had to go to Massachusetts to visit the first father and his second wife, the redheaded stepmother. It was horrible there. The only saving grace was that they had a dog who I spent all my time with. Laddy. Laddy, the bright light of the long summer with the evil stepmother.

The stepmother who hated me.

And the first father, who tried to make up for everything by buying me things which we had to hide in the trunk of his car until I left because evil stepmother would be furious if she knew. The first father, who was tragically handsome but could never get the family thing right. He really wanted a wife and kids and a dog he really did, he just didn’t know how to do it. His mother was a divorced chorus girl who went back on the road and left her boys with various uncaring unkind relatives. So he didn’t know how the family thing was supposed to work or something I guess.

I will never forget the long boring summer in the town of one-story houses. The baking heat with not a tree in sight. Flat. Hot.

The stepmother who couldn’t clean or cook. She specialized in flirting with other people’s husbands. And watching T.V. The minute the father put the key in the ignition to head off for work, the kids were thrown in the backyard and the shades went down and the television was switched on. The house smelled weird, which really depressed me.

So it was into this landscape that I brought J.D. Salinger. I remember sitting outside reading one of his books and feeling the deepest resonating joy. He picked out the stuff of life that was funny and sad-making at the same time. I had escaped the land of the stepmother in my mind. I could think different, be different and rise above the finks. I was learning, like Lydgate in “Middlemarch” by George Eliot, “… that books were stuff, and that life was stupid.”

My whole persona at the time was influenced by Salinger. When a beau told me that when I talked I sounded like “New Yorker” magazine I was thrilled.

I hope there is a closet full of manuscripts in his house and they all get published. Because I MEAN REALLY it has been AGES since I stopped hunting for more of his books under S at Lippy’s. I kept checking for a long time until somebody tipped me off that no more of them were ever gonna come. Ever. Which was sad-making and all. So I salute you my literary Big Daddy. And hope everything gets published because the phony reviewers can’t bother you now.

I thought I was keeping it together really well. I was like, “Wow I am under duress and I am handling it very well.” Then these kind of things started happening and I realized I wasn’t handling it well at all.

A few days later I picked up my cell phone and listened for a dial tone before I dialed. Oh oh.

This is the kind of stuff that happens to me when I’m stressed.

Then I got up this morning and told my husband I wouldn’t be home for dinner tonight because I had a rehearsal.

Then I emailed a director to ask if I could bring a guest to tomorrow night’s screening of a film I was in.

Then I got a call from a friend and she consoled me when I told her how I had spaced and had missed an audition last Thursday afternoon.

Then I emailed my scene partner to tell him we could work tonight if we went up early because my rehearsal was at 8pm.

AND THEN I got an email from the director saying, “Huh? The screening is NEXT WEEK.”

So then I ran to my Filofax and realized I had had it flipped open to the wrong page and had made all these plans based on NEXT WEEK’S schedule. So I had to call my husband, email the director, email my scene partner and change everything and find the sides for the audition I didn’t miss.

This is not good.

I have an ex-boyfriend from high school who is basically a shut in. He stays up all night watching TV, gets up at 2pm, takes his psychotropic medication and starts watching TV again. Once when we were talking he said, “You know Crank, I know all about what is going on. I know all the news and everything. But they never tell you what day it is.”

I immediately sent him a couple of World Wildlife calendars with a note saying:

Dear Bob.

Not knowing what day it is is NOT ATTRACTIVE.

Cranky

Oh Oh.

Now Bob and I are in the same boat. And I had to fix it. So I looked at my life and identified the stressors. A sick relative that I take the loser bus on a horrible trip to depressed upstate to visit. Can’t change that. Rehearsing a show. Don’t wanna change that. The specter of co-producing a piece that I wrote with a summer festival in NYC. Ah-hah! Must change that.

I realized that my mind has been going in circles ever since I got accepted into this apparently fucked festival. I was notified in April that I had been accepted and would get the performance dates by May 6th. I needed the dates to figure out what the hell to do. The festival runs for a month and if my dates were far enough from the dates of the play that I’m IN, then I was gonna perform the piece myself. But if the dates were close to the play I’m IN, then I would have cast another actress. It’s a 20-minute one-woman piece. Also, just in general it would be kinda nice to know what the hell I can DO for the rest of the summer.

So May 6th comes and goes and no dates. So does May 7th. 8th, 9th, 10th, 11, 12th. 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th. 17th. 18th, 19th, and 20th. I send the festival four equally spaced emails explaining that I cannot proceed until I know the performance dates. Do I get an answer? OH NO. Oh oh.

All this time my mind is stuck going in circles. “Should I start working on it? Should I talk to the actresses I know and love? Should I start working on it? Should I have an audition? I wonder if that blond actress I like is doing anything now? Is someone gonna wanna learn a 20-minute piece for three or four performances?”

I feel like this festival is now torturing me. On purpose. How long does it take to make up a schedule? Does the festival care about the playwrights? Or does it just wanna collect the door? Is this usury? Do I hate them now? AH, YEAH.

So I run to my computer and write this email:

Hi All -

I’m sorry to report that I have accepted a role in a production that runs until mid-July.

I have been waiting to hear the performance dates for my piece since May 6th – the original date given to me that we would be receiving our dates.

I’m terribly sorry but I have to withdraw from the festival, as I can no longer keep my life on hold waiting to figure out what I can and cannot do.

I know you must have your reasons but it seem inconsiderate to me and a sign of bad organization.

It does not give me a good feeling about the festival to be continually put off about what I will be doing with my life for the summer.

I do need to be able to make plans and say yea or nay to job offers.

Cranky

And the minute I send it I can think again.

The writer didn’t appear to know what she was doing, but was determined to be the boss. A true Retard Princess.

Getting the Equity paperwork out of her was nearly impossible and we almost missed the deadline. It squeaked in, by me hand delivering it, smiling, begging, and paying a rush fee.

I put the program together and emailed her a copy. She never looked at the email and found a typo the day before opening AFTER it had been printed. Love that.

I let her chose which play would go first. She wanted first, natch. We teched separately. I attended hers to see what we would be dealing with for a set change.

Her set had a rope tied to the sprinkler system on the 18-foot ceiling. A big heavy rope. They will have to bring out a huge ladder and take it down between the plays. Not a swift transition. If they went second it wouldn’t be a problem, but the retarded princess has to go first. So I let it go and figure we’ll deal. You don’t was a cumbersome drawn out set change between plays for the sake of the audience. For my play, we are just using a few black cubes to keep it simple.

We find out the day before opening night that we need someone to help with the box office. When I ask her, before I finish my sentence she says, “Oh I don’t know anybody.” At least make believe you are trying to think of someone before speaking. It’s my fault. My OCD is showing and she can tell I’m gonna take care of it. You have to look like you don’t really care to get her to do anything and I didn’t do that.

On opening night when she is setting up for her play, a giant bag of Styrofoam peanuts appears. “What the fuck?” I think. The next second they are dumped on the stage. To signify an ice flow on a river.

I went to tech. I saw the tech. There was not a peanut in sight. There was not a peanut mentioned. This is why you have tech, so you can strike and set up EXACTLY the way you will be doing it for performance.

I don’t say anything to her. There is no point now. The peanuts are out of the bag.

Everything on the stage for her play is labeled with signs. The rope has a sign that says ROPE. A box has a sign that says DOCK. A play by a retard for retards. I can’t figure out what it is about. Someone eats and apple and commits suicide.

After her play is performed, her actors walk off stage and don’t do dick. My actors are stuck with the fucking peanuts. The director and I jump onstage and start sweeping while her stage manager is doing a high wire act with the rope.

It was all so unnecessary. If this play had a fucking real snow machine from Hunter Mountain it wouldn’t have helped. And why not use a white sheet instead of a five-foot bag of Styrofoam peanuts? Why? Because it would be easy, duh!

We have a reception after the plays. Guess who sets up for the party? Guess who takes care of the comps for both casts? Guess who looks like she is losing her mind?

She arrived for opening night carrying a bag of things for the party. Retard Princess dumps it at my feet and says,” Would you bring this upstairs for me?” I said no. Aren’t you proud of me? When the party was over she asked me if I would bring it home for her and bring it back the next day so she won’t have to carry it. No again sister.

We get fined for the rope tied to the sprinkler. A safety violation. The director of the festival attended the play and charged out of the theater totally beet red faced with fury.

We got reviewed. The reviewer mentioned the ungainly set change. The reviewer also detested her play. The reviewer loved my play. It was Karmic justice, dontcha think?

Since then I’ve only had plays I write produced out of town. Ohio, Kentucky. All I have to do is put them in an envelope and lid the stamps. I’ve been traumatized by working with her and am still in recovery