My Blog

STILL BODY, RAGING MIND

Sat, 4 Feb 2012 00:51:27 -0500

I remind myself that there are people in wheelchairs.
That there are good people victimized by terrible maladies.
That things can always, always, always, be worse.

It knocks my restless misery level from a 10...to a 9.

And I confirm, once again, that I am not patient. I am an impatient.

My pinky toe is cracked. And who knew pinkies were soooo important? Well, besides orthopedic/podiatry types...

Now, my bone is healing. It’s my mind that’s cracking.

My life has devolved into a state of near-solitary confinement inside the Holiday Inn, which may or may not be worse than actual prison, depending on whether it’s a blue or white collar facility...

I’ve made friends with two shuttle bus drivers, debriefed the restaurant chef on his career, food selection and favorite desserts, and spent quantity time with the front desk. I suspect I would’ve talked up the plants if they’d had any. I’ve watched some truly awful movies, which rather than entertaining me, highlight my desperation. Then, despite the extreme boredom, I cannot sleep.

I haven’t performed in Mamma Mia for a week, and it looks like I’ll be off stage for another two weeks because all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, can’t put my pinkie toe back together again any faster.

I know what you’re thinking...or at least I think I know because all I can do is think all the time. And I think you’re thinking: Hey! This is great! You can read! Watch movies! Sleep in! Not work!

But these are all solitary, sedentary options...and turns out my body and mind can handle only limited quantities of solitary/sedentary. The thrill of tour for me is getting out, on foot, exploring a town, seeing parts of the country I’d otherwise never see.

For example!?!?! Just yesterday, we were on the bus en route to Lincoln, Nebraska...and drove through the town of WAHOO! As if that wasn’t enough kooky fun, we also drove through Oakland (Nebraska, not California), which took the time, trouble and expense to erect a sizable sign proclaiming it “The Swedish Capital of Nebraska”. I had NO IDEA!!! Sweden has an outpost in America’s Midwest! And it has no stoplights, so watch for speeding lingonberries.

Lincoln is the capitol of Nebraska, and capitols are fascinating fonts of information about a state, its history, its people and culture. As an added bonus, you can usually score a free tour! But I’m in isolation. Can’t walk the highly attractive University of Nebraska campus, either. Can’t this, can’t that. blahdy-blahdy-blah.

Tomorrow is looking pretty long, especially with the cast off doing two shows while I languish at Chez Holiday. So I’ve put together a modest 9-item list of things to do to ward off further mental cracking. Because after all, a hotel room is still better than a padded room. I think.

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Will Eileen ever dance again? Or sleep again? Or regain mental stability? Don’t miss a thrilling development! Subscribe to her blog at: eileenfaxas.com/EF/Blog/Blog.html. It’s fun & freeeeeee!

La Crosse, Wisconsin...Land of cheese, snow

Mon, 30 Jan 2012 22:26:43 -0500

First of all, I can’t believe you’re reading this. I must congratulate you on reading The Most Boring Title Ever given a blog and still giving it a shot. Thank you. I will make this worth your time, wink-wink. Why yes, that WAS a cheap stunt intended to lure you in with Faux Sexy...

As the non-exciting title strongly suggests, I am in La Crosse, Wisconsin for the tour equivalent of a one-night stand. These are the groaners on the schedule...you drive into town, perform one show, and drive away before 24 hours are up. Unpacking Unnecessary.

But it’s become a cliche. Always, it’s these one-night stands in one-horse towns that provide a real revelation... the most evocative half-frozen lakes, the funkiest bookstores, the funniest storefronts, the kinds of coffeehouses Starbucks only wishes it was.

We pull in and there is Lots o’ Snow. This worries Tropical Me, but when I step out, it is “only” 40 degrees and refreshing. The town beckons me with an impossibly picturesque assortment of art galleries and candy shops and enough bars to make me think that maybe everyone in town owns one.

Speaking of owning, I find a Bakery on this old-timey Main Streety looking area, and IT’S FOR SALE! In an instant, I’m that sitcom character who flies into Small Town USA for “one night only” and ends up buying a bakery To Get Away From It All and Start Over except she doesn’t actually know how to bake and almost sets the place on fire in a cookie meltdown. My friend suggests my Kooky Big City Baker Character meet the Ruggedly Handsome Owner of the Local Hardware Store who runs in to put out the fire (because he’s the town’s volunteer fireman) and to fix her oven (because he’s the only one with parts), but I think my husband would be discomfited at this romance. Unless, of course, I cast HIM in the role of the Ruggedly Handsome Owner of the Local Hardware Store Whose Eyes Disguise a Secret Past about to Catch Up With Him. SEE?! SEE what this place is doing to me?!?

I’ve included a photograph of this TV Sitcom-Inspiring Bakery for sale. Does it not speak to you??? Is it just me then?

Another Imagination-Captivation locale is The Bookstore with all manner of book stacked up to the ceiling that I feel should be staffed by wizards. The Bookstore is attached to an über-cool coffee house with an ostentatious scone that inappropriately ogles me the entire time I wait for my carb-appropriate espresso.

But the piéce de résistance is the carb-inappropriate Ice Cream and Candy Shop, which is directly in front of my hotel window. If Hollywood was casting a Candy Shop, this would be IT... every kind of sugary thing in square glass jars piled high on wooden shelves.

All this lifts my spirits, which need lifting, because I cannot perform tonight. Or last night. Or tomorrow night. Because I Am Broken. This is an only-slightly dramatic way of saying my pinky toe was violently cracked in a rehearsal incident, hobbling me for a week of performances. So now, it’s Pain versus Boredom in the Battle to see Which Is Worse. And because I feel sorry for myself - which is a dreadful thing to do which I shouldn’t be doing but is nevertheless exactly what I’m doing - I am happy to let visions of sugarplums distract me from the fact that after this outing, it’s back to the hotel for another long, quiet night.

Almost showtime and I look out the window at the now-illuminated candy shop to realize the street has come alive. People are walking, shopping, ice-creaming, and yes, about to go to the theatre. I never get to see them, our theatre-goers, before they enter our world. I find myself imagining their excitement at the evening ahead... a big Broadway show comes to La Crosse, Wisconsin on a Monday night and routines everywhere come to a screeching halt. At least for 2600 townspeople, which is how many seats we sold tonight.

Two and a half hours later, I watch them again from my hotel window as they leave. I try to decipher how much they enjoyed the show from their gaits. But I can’t tell. Perhaps they have to go attend to their bars now. ===========================================
Will Eileen ever dance again? Frozen feet have got no rhythm? Will she buy a bakery? Don’t miss a thrilling development! Subscribe to her blog at: eileenfaxas.com/EF/Blog/Blog.html. It’s fun & free!

Leaving here in Allentown

Mon, 5 Dec 2011 23:19:52 -0500

Billy Joel’s ALLENTOWN is running through my head on a loop never ending.

Meantime, I am ping-ponging from one side of the bus to the other, capturing too-blurry photos on my phone, unusually anxious to capture this place.

Where we are is not actually Allentown. Not yet. The tour bus is rumbling through the Pennsylvania countryside. Eventually, we’ll reach the Airport de Allentown. Somehow, the combination of the Inspiration Location to the famous Billy Joel anthem + Pennsylvania’s rich revolution-era history is irresistible to history-&-music-loving me. My eyes try to absorb everything.

We randomly pass a 100-year old stone house and former farm.

I wonder...did a founding father pass this way?

We’ve left the town of Reading after a mere 21-hour stay, most of it spent in the business of putting on two shows in a mortifyingly small theatre. If there was interesting history there, there was no time to figure it out.

By now, we are well beyond the Reading city limits. And it’s pronounced REDDING, by the way, should it come up.

I spy the Kutztown University Water Tower. And in the distance, the elegant, stately outline of a domed building that could seem out of place in the countryside, except that this is storied Pennsylvania, so who knows who built that when.

The last few days of life on tour are a blur, filled with the basic combination of eat, sleep (little), sing, workout (a little).

We launch the week in Erie - Home of THE Lake Erie! - then spend a night in the Capitol of West Virginia - drive back to Pennsylvania for an unmemorable night in Johnstown (all I remember is performing atop an ice floor) - then, our final stop in the aforementioned Reading/Redding.

More beautiful, ramshackle farms dot Route 222. Every single dilapidated building captivates me with a sense of desolate romanticism. I imagine the life that once lived there in sharp relief to the sorrow of leaving it. Did they know it would fall to ruin?

There is much agriculture here... We pass a tree farm. Then, an improbably large steepled church, surrounded by graves, rises on our horizon. Do they have enough souls left here to fill the pews?

We pass a corn field, stalks gray and dry as bone.

What I have NOT seen are the famous Amish people, and this is their territory, but we do pass a store selling their handmade furniture. If only I could see a buggy.

Now, the fields are doing that patchwork of green thing.
Now, they’re brown.
Now a tree, with two crisp white adirondack chairs below it... A perfect picture of country idyll. But I cannot capture it. We move too fast.

The irony of tour revisits me. Free travel, but someone else picks the stops. I always leave wanting more.

I am leaving now through Allentown, for the Pennsylvania I never found. As is my now-usual habit, I add Reading to a “come back here” list. Billy Joel is back in my head because I realized he’d been gone for a while, so my brain pressed PLAY & REPEAT.

So I listen, and take the liberty to change the lyrics in my head... “And I won’t be going home todaaaaaayyy--aaa-aaa-aaa/aaa-aaa-aaa/aaa-aaa-aaay, and we’re leaving here in Allentown....” Chord-Chord-Chord-Chord......

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To enjoy the musical musings of a traveling bohemian - plus pictures of questionable quality - subscribe to Eileen’s blog at: eileenfaxas.com/EF/Blog/Blog.html. Passports are optional. Full body scans are required.

Before The Parade Passes By...

Sat, 19 Nov 2011 18:30:12 -0500

Just like the last blog...I begin this blog...looking out the window. This is getting to be a theme with me. It makes me wonder if “window-blogging” is a micro-niche.

But instead of a bus window, today’s Window On The World is in my hotel room, and Ottawa’s Christmas Parade has come to me. Or rather, to the street my hotel room faces (Although I much prefer to think of it as coming directly to me.) Google tells me its the 42nd Annual Ottawa Santa Toy Parade.

You might be thinking: Early, isn’t it? We haven’t even had Thanksgiving yet.

Not to worry. Ottawa has another TWENTY FOUR Christmas Parades on the schedule. And this isn’t even the first of the season. In fact, Ottawa is the Indian word for Land of Festive Processions.

Although this is Canada’s capital city, these festivities feel like a small town affair. A local tree farm contributes its light-bedecked minivan “float”. A tinsel-strewn EMT bus partakes. Then a Salvation Army truck. A LOT of trucks participate. So do postal workers. Postal workers? On a Saturday night Christmas parade? Oui. The parade, incidentally, is bilingual.

You’ve got your teenage dance troupes, teenage singing troupes, junior high marching bands, a gingerbread cookie man. And the Shriners. ALWAYS the Shriners. What’s a parade without the Shriners? And yes, of course they bring their clowns and tiny cars and fez hats and squeeze horns. The Mormons bring a nativity scene float. The Asians bring dragons.

I see friends and families atop the flat beds, vigorously waving to the crowds, and think back to my own small-town parades in big-town Miami...being 7 or 12 years old and marching in the Three Kings Parade, which had the huge bonus of going right past my grandmother’s shoe store on Calle Ocho. This, to me, was a Big Deal and Very Exciting. As exciting as this moment I’m witnessing from my window is to those kids cavorting on that flat bed truck impersonating a float.

In that moment, I remember how alike we are... a razor-sharp contrast to the lonely feeling of being a stranger in a strange land, which is what I’d felt just moments earlier on my cold walk through the dark streets of downtown.

As similar as everyone thinks Canada is to the U.S., Canadians are their own breed. Here in Ottawa, 375 long miles from the U.S. Border, the English cannot be mistaken for American. The sun apparently abandons the country in November. Parliament is a fascinating place that doesn’t allow photography in its gorgeous, wood-paneled library, citing privacy reasons, which strikes me as...un-American. The cultural influences are markedly British and French, with a dash of Indian for good measure.

I do not know if the British or the French or the Indian part would like to take responsibility for snacking options like Ketchup Potato Chips. Or Dill Pickle-Flavored Chips. Or a big Canadian fave: All-Dressed Chips, which is apparently what you eat when you want your chip to taste like ketchup and dill pickles and everything else in a condiment jar.

They also like airy chocolate here, as best as I can tell by the abundance of bubbly chocolate bars on shelves.

Then there are the wildly popular BeaverTails. Think flat churro. Or a less amorphous elephant ear.

And so far, no Canadian (nor a convoluted Wikipedia article) has been able to explain my Burning Canadian Question: Why did Great Britain cede Canada its independence without a bloody revolutionary war? (Unlike for you-know-who...)

There’s an airy dill-flavored maple potato chip in it for the most satisfying answer....

And by the way, the parade ended with Santa Claus. He told me to wish you a Joyeux Noël.

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To enjoy the window seat from a traveling bohemian’s point of view, subscribe to Eileen’s blog at: eileenfaxas.com/EF/Blog/Blog.html. Passport optional but full body scans are required.

On The Road Again....

Wed, 2 Nov 2011 12:28:29 -0400

I’m looking out the window again, intensely studying the passing streetscape of what Augusta, Georgia calls downtown. This is the first bus ride of my second season with Mamma Mia.

At first, I am not charitable. I am struck by how shabby and downtrodden Augusta looks.

My insta-thumbs down surprises me. I recalibrate and look again.

I see the colorful homemade signs and creatively named establishments. (Ever heard of Tipsy McStumbles Bar? Or Spend A While Coffee Shop...?) I see a music store selling actual musical instruments. Why was my initial reaction negative, I ask myself. Then I realize. This place is not sleek and shiny and clean (or corporate). What it is, is original. It is then that I begin to see the humble origins, the work, struggle and striving in its facades.

Augusta has a bona fide department store named Ruben’s Department Store that looks just like the ones that existed when I was a child. And Ruben’s is fully stocked with shoes, hats, fashions for ladies “of a certain age”, and oversized, over-shiny costume jewelry. I peer through the windows and feel eight again.

And that, I suppose, is the appeal. There is something inherently nostalgic about the small towns, even for those of us who never came from a small town. Because so much about these towns stood still while we moved on. As if time really is slower here.

This can be bad. My taxi driver regaled me with stories of how rampant racism still is in these parts. Reluctant to change. A reminder of the way things used to be, both good and bad. On the good side, it reminds me of the downtown Miami streets of my childhood, with its glaringly bright department stores chock-full of lace and buttons and plastic costume jewelry and tiaras, and how I marveled at the way the shop ladies wrapped unsewn fabric around a mannequin and made it look so beautiful I quietly despaired at my inability to sew, all while my grandmother shopped for supplies or some thing, (which likely would’ve been called a “notion” if she or any of the Cuban shop ladies had known the cutesy English word for it.)

This is the wondrous part of the touring life, which can also be viewed as good and/or bad. You get to taste life in its endless variations. You find out Augusta was home to Woodrow Wilson AND James Brown (a variation of the Odd Couple) You get to remember the past and then you get to leave it behind again, because on tour, you are always barreling forward.

You go places where you’d never willingly go, and you leave places you’d never willingly leave. It’s a world where 2 days can feel like an eternity and a week goes by in a blink.

It’s a world that, thus far, has allowed me to experience the invigorating glory of Vancouver, the drawling charm of Savannah, the come-hither ruggedness of Boise and the cheesy-meaty earthiness of Milwaukee, as well as the unsettling je ne sais quoi of Salt Lake City, the dangerous-by-day ambiance of Jackson, and the strange sense of emptiness of Schenectady.

Tour is being everywhere and being nowhere. Tour is free travel but on someone else’s itinerary. Tour is always new or a tiring routine (you choose). Tour lets you walk the world, but doesn’t let you plant seeds in it. Tour doesn’t let you sit idle, but it doesn’t let you sit still.

My name is Eileen Faxas, and I am on tour, eyes wide open. Heart, too.
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This little ditty was written on a bus ride between Augusta and Atlanta, Georgia. To enjoy the musings on life from a traveling bohemian’s point of view, subscribe to Eileen’s blog at: eileenfaxas.com/EF/Blog/Blog.html. No passport required.

MY GLAMOROUS ODDELING CAREER

Thu, 25 Aug 2011 15:06:21 -0400

I have been so busy with my nightly singing & dancing career that I’ve neglected to update you on the latest advancements in my Oddeling Career. (For the unaware, Oddeling=Odd Modeling)

It began with a surprise book cover. Then a surprise bus wraparound advertisement. Then I went big-time with a print ad for the Discovery Channel hit “10 Years Younger”.

Now, I am proud to report I have broken into the competitive arena of Buffet Modeling.

Around this time last year, I booked a commercial for Seminole Casino Hollywood, the humble cousin of the better-known Hard Rock Seminole Casino. (Just one block and ten zillion worlds away!)

My favorite part about shooting the commercial that hot Autumn day was the fact that they handed me a tall, bubbly glass of Cava as a prop. And I drank it. And that I didn’t catch Lung Cancer from the secondhand smoke.

But before I ever braved the Marlboro Mushroom Cloud to shoot my subtle commercial scene (which ends with a sophisticated treatment of the word “Ka-Ching”) a still photographer took several pictures.

Naturally, the powers-that-be had us sign a release vague enough as to allow our images to be superimposed (nude) on the face of the moon for the next 700 years. So where would my photos go?

More than six months would pass before the answer would begin to trickle in.

Thanks to the Facebook, one friend/eyewitness after another began reporting Eileen Faxas Buffet Sightings in Fort Lauderdale.

Naturally, this Top Oddel requested (demanded) photographic evidence of said sightings. And Top Oddels always gets what we want. Except those $10,000/day modeling jobs you always read about. Oddels have yet to break into that racket.

Anyway, back to the buffet.... the evidence did appear (thank you Facebook friends/eyewitnesses!), but a few fuzzy Facebook photos weren’t enough to satisfy this Pioneer of Odd Modeling. No! This Pioneer actually trekked to this prestigious and not-at-all dangerous-at-night location to see this masterpiece of buffet modeling for herself (myself). This might be a good time to mention that writing in the third person “is complicated”.

So there I was - staring at myself prominently displayed in the casino parking lot - looking overjoyed as I hold a plate with a huge slab of fresh-off-the-cow meat from the $7.77 Buffet. (Get it? $7.77? It’s a LUCKY buffet!)

And when I say “fresh-off-the-cow”, what I really mean is “ugh-this-is-raw-and-making-me-feel-vomity”. The fact that I look so thrilled holding this slab of bucking bronco is a tribute to my Serious Acting “Chops”.

But my Oddeling Update doesn’t end there!

Just a few steps from my Giant Buffet Ad, you’ll also find a large banner featuring Your Favorite Oddel holding up a super sized glass of red wine and smiling. No Serious Acting “Chops” necessary.

Now, I can list buses, buffets, books, banners and half-makeovers on my growing list of Oddeling Accomplishments.

I’m not boasting here. I’m just trying to be inspirational... a role model for all you crazy kids out there who think that being under 7 feet tall, over age 11, and possessing no actual modeling ability is an obstacle to a rewarding career in this “niche” market that quite possibly I invented.

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For more of Eileen’s unique “life experiences”... visit her official blog site: eileenfaxas.com/EF/Blog/Blog.html and embrace the oddities of life!

THE CLOSEST THING TO THE ORIENT EXPRESS

Mon, 22 Aug 2011 11:01:50 -0400

I am on my first and only train ride of the Mamma Mia tour. My first train ride ever that doesn’t simply travel in a circle (think Disney World).

No! Wait.... I’ve taken a commuter train between New York and New Jersey. But everyone knows that doesn’t count.

Vancouver is behind me, Portland is ahead, Puget Sound to my right, the thick, dark greenery of the Pacific Northwest to my left. We’re under cloudy skies, steady drizzle, and in my ear, the train horn blows like music every time we pass a tiny town with sign to announce its name.

This is foreign territory to me. Both the train travel and the terrain. We’re in Washington State now. About as far from Florida as you can get in the contiguous 48. And it is lush here, just like my corner of the world, but in a fresh, different way.

Vancouver...which really is foreign territory...captivated me, with its snow capped mountains and deep, cool forests that seemed custom-made for a Robert Frost poem. Now, the mountains of Washington - mysteriously shrouded in mist - seem another inspiration for romantic rhyme. The water looks cold. I’ve never thought water could look its temperature. This water does.

Speaking of foreign, my seat mate has spontaneously disguised herself as a Muslim woman. I don’t know if this reads funny, but it is in-person funny.

I had big plans for this train trip. Big plans! There was going to be extensive reading, a little editing of video, important phone calls to make, music to study. I’ve only slept 3 1/2 hours, so simply sleeping would be a wise option. But I don’t want to miss the rolling pictures out my window, the little sailboats in the sound, my only time thus far in the Great State of Washington.

This soft sway of the train and its musical horn have lulled me into some sort of awake coma, where I see and hear but can’t seem to do much else.

Next stop: Bellingham

It’s not exactly like the old train flicks. There’s no heavily-accented inspector looking for a murderer, no femme fatale with heavily rimmed eyes that belie a desperate secret. For that matter, I see no wizards en route to school. But there have been wacky hi-jinks and impromptu singing, courtesy of the traveling troupe of performers aboard. (America the Beautiful at the border, anyone?)

We are now passing something that looks like a shanty town. I’ve seen a number of charming red barns, a giant stack of wood, brown horses in front yards, black and white cows in pastures, and just now - an elderly couple clearly having a vigorous argument in the middle of a crop field. How could I possibly sleep through all this excitement?

Words like bucolic spring to mind. And the term Seasonal Affective Disorder. That’s the depression you get from a lack of sunshine. And this is one rainy, perma-cloudy corner of the country. But for now, at least, the misty, hazy dampness strikes me as novel. And romantic. As exotic to me as the notion of traveling by train...an idea that captured the hearts and minds of men since trains started tracking east to west. Walt Disney developed a life-long fascination with trains growing up in turn-of-the-century Kansas City. Harry Houdini ran away from home by jumping on a box car of a freight train. So did the protagonist of the compelling novel-turned-film Water for Elephants, which I read (but did not see). Understand what I mean? Trains = Adventure/Escape/Possibilities

Next stop: Mount Vernon.

For speed, nothing beats an airplane. But the terrorists and TSA and airlines themselves with their micro-seats and maxo-fees long ago took the romance out of sky travel. The view is lofty, but the hassle is equally high.

Next stop: Seattle.

The houses are getting significantly prettier around here. I wouldn’t be able to tell that from 10-thousand feet up.

The train didn’t even weigh my bag.

And there’s a lounge car and a snack car, if my coma should break and create the desire within me to leave my window seat to the cycle of life, weather and human drama unfolding just beyond these vibrating metal walls.

Plus, there are apparently several stops between here and Portland. You never know when a blood-curdling scream could pierce the peace and a foreign inspector and suspicious femme fatale climb aboard.

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You can view this Blog on EileenFaxas.com to enjoy a few photos of the train ride... Or you can stay right there, in your Facebook-induced coma, and wonder what they would’ve looked like.

What I Learned From My Dog Daughter

Fri, 10 Jun 2011 04:22:33 -0400

Ballerina Paws. They fascinated me. Wispy, delicate paws that looked like they were fashioned by Dr. Seuss. She would cross them when she sat. Always a lady. She didn’t get that from me.

But the Eyes were my inheritance. Big Brown Eyes that lit up when she heard the magic words: Quieres caminar? That’s right. My dog was bilingual. Delicate, brilliant and elegant.

Collie... full name M. Collie Flower Crockett de los Rios (the name kept growing) became our first child nine years ago. A year into our marriage, we thought it was time to heed the call to “start a family”.

It was a mutual rescue.
We adopted her from a rescue group keeping her with some other dogs, which must’ve been distasteful for my little Alpha.
She rescued us from a dog-less existence, delivering us into a world of twice-daily walks where we actually met neighbors (strictly the dog types) and found ourselves fantasizing about visiting a sheep farm so our Shetland Sheepdog could live the dream.

It was actually between 5-year old Collie (tragically named “Cher” by the rescuers) and a 3-year old male Sheltie, whose name I’ve long since forgotten. The boy had the age advantage, but Collie had me at Arf. She sparkled, she spun, I was told she loved traveling...You could actually tell she was smiling. The other dog was painfully shy and suffered car sickness. What competition?

We quickly learned our new Dog Daughter was a sensitive soul. After realizing she wasn’t going back to her foster home, she fell into a depressive state...sitting in the dark... rejecting food...mourning another lost home and generally breaking her new mother’s heart. Her mourning ended after two days when her father spoon fed her homemade noodle soup. (Chicken Soup for The Canine Soul?)

A proud Dominant Dog, Collie was always up for a confrontation with other dogs. So we expected trouble when we brought her along with us on a brief trip to the SPCA... Instead, the smile vanished, the tail drooped, her head dropped. Barely lifting her snout, she gave me The Most Pathetic Look In The World. Suddenly, I realized...she must remember being in a cage. She was afraid we were returning her. I squeezed her tight and immediately carried her out.

We also discovered Collie loved traveling but would get too excited on vacation to eat for days... As i said, she was delicate. She loved running on the sand. Stopped to smell the flowers on her walks (hence the middle name). Slept like a log on airplanes. And once scaled a mountain then found her way back to the cabin we’d rented just one day before. (Where were we, you ask? Desperately searching an entire mountain for our missing party...)

Just like a human only child, Collie Flower eventually started clamoring for a sibling and compelled us to add to the brood by adopting.... A Cat.

That’s right. Collie saw beyond species.
And race.
For years, she would get so desperate every time she saw a black family, I suspected her first parents were black.

Collie packed more bounce per ounce than any dog I have ever seen. Bushy tail high in the air, she fooled everyone into thinking she was still a puppy, which could’ve made a lesser dog egotistical. She acquired the nickname “The Farrah Fawcett of Dogs” for her gorgeous hair. Naturally, she was on television. On my morning show. Stole the show. Traipsed across the entire anchor desk, enthusiastically greeting the weather man, then the traffic man, then my coanchor. That’s the Farrah Fawcett of Dogs for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sheltie adoptions skyrocketed across Houston after that segment....

But my perennial puppy...my delicate Collie Flower...was a fragile thing. A mystery injury befell her, suddenly paralyzing her back paws. Her desperate parents may have spent about four thousand dollars on medical care and testing that couldn’t determine what was wrong or whether she’d ever walk again.

She did.

I witnessed her will to move. I watched her fight sleep. I marveled at this spirit that refused to give in or give up or despair. I swelled with pride as I watched her frustration and confusion transform to ingenuity.

Her recovery was not perfect.
So she found a new way to sit.
Then she found a new way to run.
She learned to live without the ability to jump on furniture. She replaced it with a Jedi mind trick that compelled us to pick her up and place her on the furniture whenever she wished.

Collie became more than my Dog.

She became a teacher.

You fall down. You get up.
Your body feels weak? Your desire to sniff out the perfect patch of grass is stronger.
You can’t move the same way? Find a new way. Find a new way.

She was graceful. Of face and spirit. I was watching her. Noble, serene and spunky, the little one was setting one hell of an example.

Time is a harsh gift. The more it gives, the more prerogative it has to take. And time was taking the puppy dog bounce out of the Farrah Fawcett of Dogs.

Gray was whisking across her distinguished face. The old mystery injury was back, haunting her hind legs. Then her spine. Then her neck.

Getting up was a struggle, but when I came home from tour two months ago, she rose to meet me, tail high in the air, bounce intact.

She’d found new ways to make her body work. And when it denied her, I found she had learned to wait. She knew her grandparents would come to her rescue. She learned to stop panicking when the body wouldn’t budge. She kept finding a new way.

And troubled legs be damned, she still rose at 3am to make her rounds and came to my bedside on my last night home, giving me a long, deep look with the Big Brown Eyes. As if memorizing me. Or loving me. Or both.

I did the same.

I still see her standing there, on delicate ballerina paws, so improbably wispy. I still see the big brown eyes that smiled at me, pleaded with me, melted me, revealed guilt, and flashed unbridled joy. My hands still know exactly where she likes to be scratched until she collapses from the agonizing joy of it.

But my hands cannot reach her.

It happened under a mango tree, on a cool Florida Spring morning.
14-year old Collie laid her head down on the grass, felt the wind in her hair and the hand of God.

Now, it is up to me to honor her life by remembering her lessons.

Get up. Fight sleep. Use intelligence. Keep moving. Accept help. Love with abandon. Be patient and fearless. Persevere. Treat every trip like an adventure.
Show gratitude. Greet everyone in the room.
Really look at people. Be bigger than your body.
Pack more bounce per ounce. Find a new way.
Find a new way.
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View this Blog on EileenFaxas.com to enjoy the Collie photo gallery.

I Write The Blogs, I Write The Blogs....

Thu, 5 May 2011 01:20:38 -0400

If you don’t know Barry Manilow, you have no idea that title up there is a play on his hit “I Write The Songs”. I fear my references are starting to show my 70’s roots....

Look at this. Not one paragraph in to this blog and already, I’m distracted by my .... my... myself.

BACK to the Blog about the Blog at hand. Because that is what this is. Or supposed to be. Whoa. It’s going to be a bumpy night.

OK. The Gammage Auditorium in Tempe, Arizona (that’s practically Phoenix, for you non-Arizonans, and located on the campus of Arizona State University)...ANYWHO... the folks at the Gammage Auditorium asked me to guest-write a blog for their website about our upcoming Mamma Mia! performances.

Since I worked in Phoenix for KPHO CBS 5 for three years, I actually had a lot to draw on and a story to tell.

So here’s a link to THAT blog, my 1st deadline assignment since I can’t recall: asugammage.blogspot.com/

I don’t know how long it’ll be up there, so in case it goes away by the time you are reading this, I’m pasting the blog down below ... below this blog... about that blog.

Oh! And please ignore that they signed my name Eileen FAXES. It’s still FAXAS. I did not marry a Fax machine and take its name.

Thank you.

===========that other blog begins here============

It was the end of the long, hot summer of '98. The days at last dipped below 80 degrees, and life in the desert was magical again. That I was leaving at that moment seems insanity.

But opportunity comes a knockin' on its own schedule, never yours. And after more than three years as a reporter for KPHO-TV Channel 5, I got an offer I couldn't refuse. I left the Grand Canyon State for the Lone Star State and a job leading a brand new investigative consumer unit.

As much as I loved the new job, I hated leaving the Valley of the Sun. I still vividly remember how I felt the first time I arrived in Tempe. The TV station flew me in and put me up at the Tempe Palms. The lights were twinkling in the early evening on Mill Avenue and the sidewalks seemed full of young, ridiculously fit pedestrians.

One look at the row of tall skinny palms and the red rock mountains in the distance and I was in love. I fell for desert life, its unique vegetation (I seriously expected everything to look like the Sahara), marveled at front yards comprised entirely of pebbles and spent many a weekend drinking coffee on Mill Avenue and perusing its shops for dream catchers or something else equally exotic and new to this Florida girl (like river beds without actual river).

In short order, thanks to my job and my own sense of adventure, I traversed the entire state from the Grand Canyon to Tucson to Yuma to Strawberry to Sedona to the Hopi reservation. I worked with the best colleagues I'd ever know and had a life teeming with natural beauty, friends and an utter lack of dull moments. Years after leaving, I find myself thinking of this beautiful place I left that inscribed its indelible mark on me. And I miss it.

So imagine my happiness - bordering on disbelief - when I look at my tour schedule and see I will get to spend an entire week in Tempe, Arizona and stay at the Tempe Palms!

Impossible!

This is what you call a full circle moment.

This time, I'll be back in Tempe not as a reporter but under my new guise as a musical theatre singer and actor. After 15 years in television news, I decided to follow a crazy little dream of returning to my roots as a stage performer. Today, I am touring North America with the worldwide musical sensation known as Mamma Mia! I am in the ensemble and the understudy to Donna (memorably played by Meryl Streep in the film version) and her best friend Rosie. Working as a reporter in Phoenix made me realize ankles can sweat. This time, any workplace sweating will be fueled by Abba hits and a nightly dance party that makes me marvel at how I get paid to sing and dance for a living.

Mamma Mia is the story of enduring love and the powerful bonds of friendship between three women who've taken very different paths in life. One of my own best friends just happens to live in the Valley, hosting a television show called Sonoran Living Live. She may not be fully aware of this, but we have big plans. Between bouts of singing and being a Dancing Queen, I plan for us to take on Mill Avenue, caffeinating thoroughly in order to best attack the cool shops I plan to lightly ransack. There's a Town Lake to examine that didn't even exist when I lived here. There are cacti to be photographed, Papago Mountains to climb and sunsets to be savored. There are old friends to see anew and desert air to breathe in deeply. And because Arizona is...well...Arizona... I expect it'll pull out a surprise or two I didn't see coming. Because everyone knows the wild west is an unpredictable place...
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Eileen’s Roving-Eye blog emanates from her Official Intergalactic Headquarters: EileenFaxas.com. The place is decorated with pink flamingos, rubber cacti and smells like bacon. Free Tours.

Temporarily Yearning Stillness

Wed, 23 Mar 2011 09:53:03 -0400

DATELINE: March 23rd 2011 - On a bus leaving Tallahassee

I want to sleep, but I don’t want to sleep.
I try to read my 600-page Abraham Lincoln book, but can’t concentrate past two paragraphs.
I want to write the narrative insistently flowing through my head, but hesitate.

All I really want is to gaze through the the bus windows at the rolling view to my Florida.

My state of sunshine is so beautiful. I already yearn for her, even though I return in four days.

For now, we are northbound, en route to the state of peaches, for the next four performances.

But I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t aching as we drive north. I gaze upon the greenest greens against the bluest blue sky, now turning gray, and contrasting with the colorful shrubs and trees.

I see bodies of water fringed by broad-trunked trees with low-sloping branches. I see open fields with tall, willowy grasses. I see a leafy driveway leading to a home hidden in the woods and imagine a cozy abode with a wide porch and a hammock and a dog. I see a white church with a slim, tall steeple, surrounded by freshly mowed grass. And part of me, a very large part, just wants to stay. To camp. To lie on the grass and stare at the water and feed the ducks and explore the wood. I want to go all granola and hug a tree and breathe the damp air and be one with my earth.

I love to move. Go Go Go. But right now, I yearn to be still.

As I write, I look out the window, not the keyboard. And I realize I am trying to memorize what I see, trying hard to remember these moving images with a brain that has a tendency to forget.

I feel blessed in that dumb luck-of-the-draw kind of way to come from a land of blue sky and green grass and wet air. I love that my home is 8 minutes away from the Everglades and that sometimes, we have to be mindful of alligators. I love our quirky eccentricities, our roadside shrimp salesmen, the latin accent of half my Floridians and the southern accent of the other half.

I do not count the New York-accented because they are not Floridian.

And I love being able to live in a Big City not-so-removed from Big Nature. I believe it lets you reach up and stay grounded all at once, expanding your embrace.

Out here gives me perspective. And peace.

Concrete is not peaceful. I like the speed of concrete and appreciate how concrete lets me move as quickly as my legs or my vehicle will carry me.
But concrete falls short in the peace, perspective and poetry department. Grass and sky do not.
And right now, traveling away from my native land at 60 mph down U.S. 319, I find myself temporarily yearning stillness.

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Eileen’s Florida-biased blog is based at her Official Intergalactic Headquarters: EileenFaxas.com. Turn left at the pink flamingos wearing spacesuits and sunglasses, hang a right at the gas station that lost its roof in the last hurricane, and you can’t miss it.