Dad Doing Taxes

It’s impossible for me to do my taxes without thinking about my dad. Growing up, Tax Day was a scary time in the Clark household. My dad would lock himself in the office for hours, while my mom did her best to keep my sister and I quiet/as far away as possible.

This was hard for two reasons:

First, because my sister and I were very loud. Our favorite games were scream-singing The Lion King and The Music Man, and trying to break each others’ bones. Once, we danced so hard that Jessie threw up in my ear.

Second, because at that age, I found it nearly impossible to stay away from the office. I loved the computer. I’d spend hours up there, curating quotes for my AIM profile, playing Monkey Island, asking Jeeves for pictures of Vin Diesel, previewing ringtones for the cellphone I didn’t have, scanning photos of myself into the computer and using Microsoft Paint to give myself cleavage, etc.

I LOVED the computer. But the picture my mom painted of “Dad doing taxes” put the fear of God in me, so I stayed away.

“What are these ‘taxes,’ and what have they done to my father?!” I’d cry as I imagined him up there, grumbling, cursing, kicking my beloved scanner.

A few hours later, he’d emerge from the office, bleary-eyed and pale, mumbling incoherently about “quick books” and “that damn cat” throwing up somewhere.

I go into all of this because now, as a full-grown tax paying adult, I realize I have become my dad. I learned this as proper tax paying behavior. So when it comes time for me to file, I repeat what I have learned.

This became abundantly clear yesterday when, after growling at 1099s for two hours straight, I looked up to find Heather staring at me, eyes wide with a mix of fear and concern.

“I think you should take a walk,” she said. “You scare me when you get like this.”

Maybe she saw in me what I saw in my dad. Or maybe she wanted to Paint her cleavage in peace. Either way, I took her advice and got some fresh air.

While I blame my dad for this behavior, I’m not mad at him. He’s taught me a lot of lessons. Some – like how to change a tire or make rice – I’ve conveniently forgotten. Others, like self-sufficiency, storytelling and how to make Beer “Gatorade,” I hold dear.

My dad teaching my sister Jessie (left) and me how to fish.

An update

As most of my friends and family know, this pandemic is my worst nightmare realized.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been terrified of germs.

And sperm.

But most days: germs.

When I was a child, I’d patrol the bathroom to make sure my family members washed their hands.

Also when I was young, I wouldn’t touch a quilt my great aunt made for me because I was worried she’d pricked herself while sewing it, thus leaving behind an invisible trail of disease-ridden blood.

In elementary school, I threw away a pair of Skechers because I accidentally stepped on a dead bird.

In fifth grade, I ruined our family reunion because I was convinced the 100-year-old Italian home we rented was empty because its inhabitants had died of the plague.

In middle school, I thought I had Mad Cow Disease.

In high school, I got tested for Mono at least four times. (And ended up getting it! Huzzah!)

In college, I convinced myself I was pregnant without having sex.

Ah, wait.

That’s sperm.

In college, I went to the ER because I convinced myself I’d been given a dirty flu shot needle.

A few months ago, I started feeling sick while listening to “Outlander” because Claire and Jamie kept talking about small pox.

I’ve never seen Contagion, 28 Days Later, or any of those types of movies because I know they will be my absolute undoing. (I’m ruling out Parasite, too, based on name alone. Though I hear it’s great!)

In summary, my anxiety has been training for this my entire life.

I’ve spent the last few days in a series of highs and lows. One minute, I’ll be perfectly fine. Laughing, joking, eating the myriad of treats my roommate, Heather, keeps making for us.

The next, I’ll feel like I’m about to pass out.

“Unraveling.” Captured by Heather.

I am slipping back into old habits. I’m not returning phone calls, texts or emails. I’m not listening to people when they talk to me; my face is simply there to hide the panic behind it.

My stress dreams are no joke. Here is one entry from my journal:

Tuesday, March 17

“I had a nightmare last night that I had COVID-19.

I was at an Irish pub. I started feeling really weird and hot. Someone served me a blueberry muffin with eggs on top. 

Next I was home, screaming for my mom but no sound would come out. Eventually she heard me and took me to the hospital.

I was ‘first in line.’ They gave me the test. It was a cheeseboard set up with tiny amounts of fermented food. I put each one in my mouth and drank a weird liquid. Apparently that was the test. I tested positive.

They then asked if we were going to stay at the hospital or in a hotel. I told my mom to make the decision. We picked a hotel room that had a Tasmanian Devil theme.”

I am fortunate in that I have the resources to support myself during my complete isolation. I know many people have it much worse than I do. People have lost jobs. Money. Time with loved ones. So much. And this thing is only getting started.

I have no idea what’s going to happen.

It feels like waiting for a tsunami.

I’m reading Little Women which feels like a terrible decision.

I needed to write about it because I’m feeling up to it today.

Young Love

In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I’m reposting some of my boy-crazy diary entries from elementary school. I shared these a few years ago on my blog and totally forgot about them until recently.

I transcribed them word for word, typos included, but I had to change the boys’ names, as I still know them and would hate to reconnect. My annotations are in italics.

January 5, 1997: Dear Diary, I like lots of boys but my friends make fun of it. (I was 8 years old in 1997)

November 1997: Today was just a day. I did go to bball practis (sigh) my life is usaly O.K. (My first love: b ball.)

“bball practis”

April 1998: I watch a T.V show called Keenan and Kel. Kel is cute!

Oct. 2, 1998: In my earlyer writing I said, “but above all, I like Leonardo Decaprio.” Well now I don’t like him I like Nick Carter off the Backstreet Boys.

December 26, 1998: Youve heard alot about Megan, but most things were complaints. (Sorry, Megan. I love you.) Well Megan and I are best buds. We used to do friendship tests. Most of them said “you and your friend are in troubled waters.” Well, we didn’t pay any attention to it but now I think its right! For Christmas she got me bath beads, witch I love. But she knows how much I love Nick Carter and gave Maddie a lifesize poster of Nick! – signed, Heartbroken.

Honestly Megan how dare you.

I am also now the Godmother of Megan’s daughter.

Just a random letter to Christina Aguilera

Sept, 26, 1999: I like Jack, so what else is new? Andy said that Jack liked me and tryed to call me. He said that Jack didn’t go to the skating party cause i didn’t. it turned out to be a lie. It turned out that Jack asked Megan for her #. It turned out that Megan was overjoyed and my heart was crushed. I called Jack and asked him if he called me. He said no. I have come to this: “When some hearts are lifted, others are dropped” – Joanna Clark. (I quoted myself and signed it.)

Lol. Calling a boy to ask if he called me. Strong choice. Feels on-brand though, tbh.

Feb 2, 2000: I really wanted a boyfriend for the sock hop and valentines day. Sam asked me out. I said no. Then I told Kelly to tell Jake i liked him. She did. Before that, Andy told me that Jake was going to ask out Mallory (ugg). Then Andy said Jake liked someone else. Then Andy called me and said

“Will you go out with Jake?”

“Can i call u back?”

I called Lonna but Kelly was at dance (this makes no logical sense). Lonna told him i said yes, so now i have a sweatheart. Oh yeah? The funny thing is i said “yes” today which just HAPPENS to be groundhogs day AND my dads bday. Pretty cool, huh?

Yes. Very cool.

This has to be The Haircut.

No date, but 5th grade for sure: Dear Diary, I got my hair cut! (See above.) Anyways, i am soooo afraid that Jack likes Chelsea. I luve Jack sooo much. then again, i dont know what luve is so i like Jack sooo encredibly much! he is so hot, sweet. he is PHAT. I wish he would put his arm around me soooo much.

PHAT

I think we’ll end on PHAT.

Second date

I’ve never been on a second date. Not since I moved to Chicago. Or started using dating apps.

Usually, we just never speak again.

Getting this guy out was like pulling teeth. Can’t tell if he’s into me anymore, but I guess that’s what we’ll find out. 

I need to chill. 

I look like Joe Pesci. 

I couldn’t find my traveling hand lotion so I went elbows deep in Aquaphor on the way out of the house. I hope it lasts. 

I have arrived.

I am the only person in this bar.

The bartender was reading a book.

It is dead silent.

My beer arrives as my date informs me he will not be coming. 

Cool.

I can hear the bartender microwaving his dinner; he can hear me breathing. 

His dinner is ready. 

Lest you think I’m exaggerating about the ghost bar. I was so shook up I filmed this vertically.

He came out to talk to me. 

I’m trying to figure out how to close my tab without making it obvious I’ve been stood up.

We talk about jury duty. 

He’s nice. 

I’m sad. 

I’m leaving. 

I take a Lyft line home and I’m the only passenger. 

There is a God. 

At home, I am fucking fuming. I realize there’s humor in this situation, and that I will be perfectly fine tomorrow, but for the moment, I am pissed. My time is precious. My free nights are everything to me. I don’t make time for dating because I’d rather do just about anything else. But the first date was great, which never happens. So I agreed to a second. 

I don’t feel sorry for myself. I feel mad for myself. 

I missed going to see a movie with friends for this! Now I’ll never know what happened in 1917!

I cried for a while, which felt good.

I had some wine and biscotti, which felt better.

I watched Real Housewives of New Jersey and am now cured.

I’ve still never been on a second date. 

It’s Not a Bunion

For the last few weeks, I’ve been telling everyone I know (and some I don’t) about my bunion. Friends, coworkers, potential sexual partners…I even listed it on my 2019 accomplishments.

“Bunion” has to be one of the most disgusting words in the english language, so I was doing my part to normalize it. To raise awareness on behalf of my bunion brethren.

“I am bunion. Hear me roar.”

Etc., etc.

But I recently got some news that turned my world on its head. And now, I feel compelled to issue a correction. To call everyone I’ve come in contact with and let them know I’ve gotten some news:

It’s not a bunion.

It is Hallux limitus.

My right big toe has been “traumatized” beyond the point of repair. So it no longer moves.

The irony is that I do everything to protect my feet. After nearly losing my right index toe (an unrelated toe trauma) back in 1999, I never go barefoot. I do NOT get pedicures. I buy new running shoes regularly and I flat out refuse to sleep with anyone whose feet may brush mine in the night.

Delicate feet in marine environments.

I take my foot protection very seriously. And yet, here I am, doomed to walk on a stale baguette for all eternity.

Am I in pain? Yes.

Will I need surgery? It’s likely.

Will I ever stop talking about this? Absolutely not.

Thank you for listening.

Good night, and God bless.

The Hangover

Before I even open my eyes, I begin to count.

How many drinks did I have last night?

One before dinner, two at dinner, one after dinner…

I count the drinks like a child counts sheep. As if the counting and not the drinking will determine whether or not I’m able to rise from the ashes.

But as is my curse, my fate, my destiny: my counting is futile.

I am hungover.

So I begin to assess.

My cats aren’t in bed with me; I am a disappointment.

My clothes are human-shaped heap on the floor, like I Bathilda Bagshotted out of them.

I stretch my legs and hear the familiar crinkle of plantain chips, a half-eaten bag waiting for me under the covers, just out of cat’s reach.

I roll over.

I regret it. 

It’s going to be a long day.

I strike out for provisions, Donald Ducking across the kitchen in search of water.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stifle a scream. I hope my roommate doesn’t wake up and find this creature—this hunched, half-naked chip demon—rifling through the pantry.

She would never recover.

Back in my bed, I reach for Excedrin: my favorite drug. The perfect drug.

I take it and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I am Paul Sheldon. And the tide is most definitely out.

I hate myself. Why did I do this? Why does this happen to me? Am I allergic to alcohol? Have I been poisoned? How can I make this go away?

I start to pray for it to go away. But then I remember I don’t really pray, haven’t in years. And if I start now, with this request, surely I will be smoteth.

I decide the only way forward is through. To repent. To forgive myself, but to never forget.

A tattoo! A tattoo should do it. A permanent symbol to mark my darkest hour; a reminder to never end up here again.

I begin to design the tattoo in my head. A coffin. A rat. A black spot on my hand to mark the plague that will inevitably hunt me down and kill me should I deign touch The Drink.

Thinking about the tattoo makes me dizzy. So I change fantasies.

A cold pool.

An ice hat.

A quick and painless death.

I fantasize about waking up the next day, hangover-free. Like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning, after the horror that was his final haunting.

“I will live an altered life!” I scream, before finally succumbing to the aspirin and darkness.

fin.

Reflections II

Things I did in 2019

Ate restaurant ramen for the first time.

Officiated a wedding / became a Father.

Grew my first bunion.

Joined a new improv team.

Launched my first music video.

Saw my first show on Broadway.

Went to my first Cubs game.

Overpaid to see a Bravolebrity (for the second year in a row).

Purchased The Labyrinth and a piano.

Started wearing bodysuits.

Founded Daddy’s Wine Club and Sunday Sconeday.

Vegetarian poutine

Ate poutine in Montreal and cheese curds in Milwaukee.

Also went to Charleston, Phoenix, Connecticut and New York.

Got “Dead Last Place” at a murder mystery dinner.

Cut my hair off.

Continued to talk about the time I went to Ireland.

Things I learned in 2019

Broadway is a street, not a theater.

How to put on a record.

How to spell diarrhea.

Charles Manson and Marilyn Manson are two different people.

Snails have better sex than I do.

Never park under a train track.

Good cheese curds squeak between your teeth.

The term “rotgut” comes from before bourbon was regulated when people would put cigarette butts and dip juice into bourbon barrels to create a tobacco-y flavor, effectively poisoning the masses.

Champagne houses played a major part in The French Resistance during WWII.

Tinsley Mortimer was in an episode of Gossip Girl.

I look like a Fraggle Rock villain in tiny 90s sunglasses.

 

 

Aerosmith and Cats

I’ve always wanted to be in a music video. I think it comes from my childhood fascination with MTV Spring Break, and now, perhaps, my current obsession with musicals. Sometimes, when I’m running and need a mental distraction, I picture myself stepping on stage at a karaoke night and blowing everyone out of the water with a haunting rendition of “On My Own.”

But I have a terrible voice, and so this will never happen. I know this because I have tried and everyone in the bar took a cigarette break during my performance of “Memory.”

Before I moved to Chicago, I was inspired to make this lifelong dream come true. “Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing” came on the radio – fine, not the radio, a curated playlist – and I realized it perfectly summed up the way I felt about my cats. The idea hit me so hard I nearly pulled the car over to begin storyboarding my vision.

I’d like to say it was the hand of God, but a therapist would probably say it was my uncontrolable impulse to self-sabotage.

I brought up my idea for this video at work, casually mentioning to my friends how I planned to make it happen. To my absolute delight, they offered to help me make it. They showed up to the shoot with a green screen, fog machine, real camera equipment, the works. The perks of working in advertising!

Thank you to Joe Stockton for putting this together after all this time! And for watching the actual Armageddon music video an ungodly amount of times to make my dreams come true.

Thank you to Duncan Pop, Chase Stewart and Joe for filming this. And thank you to my fearless bandmate and lead musician, Hank Evans.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZ0FQmG78U0&feature=youtu.be

 

 

Wishing

Last week, my roommate and I watched Aladdin for the first time in years. (We got Disney+. And not a day too soon, as, in a fit of insanity, I almost spent $13 to rewatch Revenge of the Sith.)

When the Genie first appeared, I was struck by a thought.

“What would you wish for?” I asked, swirling my wine around in its glass, hoping to god it would breathe and taste less like compost.

About to do some cosmic tinkering.

Heather sat still for a while. As did I. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single thing to wish for. This is, perhaps, for two reasons:

One, because I’m pretty happy.

Two, because I have a tendency to overthink things. I’ve read “The Tale of the Three Brothers” by Beedle the Bard. I’ve seen The Butterfly Effect (and, for that matter, read The Cursed Child.) I know how tricky cosmic tinkering can be. Before therapy, I would be paralyzed by every tiny decision, like taking one road over another, getting a flu shot at Walgreens instead of Target, eating an airport salad vs. an airport sandwich, in case I chose wrong and died. Or got listeria.  

I was also wary of blowing out birthday candles, in case some evil shadow voice came out of the back of my head and tacked on a terrible qualifier, à la Maleficent, at the end of my wish.

E.g.: “I wish my one true love will find me … AND TAKE ME TO A CHRISTIAN ROCK CONCERT!”

I’ve since calmed down. But I still take these matters very seriously.

I could wish for my dream comedy writing job, but what if what I thought was my dream comedy writing job really wasn’t suited for me? And, in jumping right to it, I missed all the other, better suited opportunities along the way?

I could wish for a more consistent writing habit, but what if that manifested itself in a sick obsession, and I forgot to eat, sleep and drink, and eventually wasted away into a pile of dust, like that episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where people dance to death?

When I was little, I wished for a made-up boyfriend named Brice (who, tbh, sounds like a real asshole), a Ford Taurus and the ability to read peoples’ minds. I also wished Aslan the lion would fall in love with me, which is problematic and I think proves my point quite decisively:

Magical wishes are dangerous, because what I think I want today might not actually be what I want tomorrow. 

Except for unlimited vacation funds and the ability to speak to animals. 

And maybe for my cats to be dog-like in their willingness to travel with me. Or, at the very least, the ability to take them for a car ride without James shitting himself.

Eventually, my daydreams of a cameo on Camping with Cats came to an end when Heather finally said, “I think I’d wish for one selfless thing, like a solution to climate change, or a cure for something. And then use the other two wishes on myself.”

This pulled me up short. I hadn’t even considered using a wish on something selfless! What a monster I must be!

Perhaps Brice and I really do deserve each other.

31

I am about to turn 31. On Tuesday, actually. I’m thinking about this as I scoop a blueberry scone into my mouth, using only my right hand. My left hand I am reserving for dirty work, specifically typing this post, checking my phone, touching anything that will not be going into my mouth, etc.

I find this tactic works really well with just about every snack, except pistachios. Pistachios require two hands, and so I’ve learned I cannot text, type, change the channel or stick my hand in the garbage whilst eating them. This is, perhaps, one of the biggest breakthroughs I had in Year 30. (The other being the time I realized I didn’t have to take off my backpack to pee in an airport bathroom.)

I have finished my scone. I am now up and running with both hands.

Thirty was a great year. I really enjoyed telling people I was 30. It made me feel mature, inexplicably cool, and, to be quite honest, a little better than everyone else.

Thirty was also an adjustment year. My body changed. My skin changed. And I became a minister. In that exact order.

In the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking about my past selves. I went through a lot of iterations of Joanna, most of which I mark by the clothes I wore at the time, like rings on a tree. Bodycon Joanna appeared fun and carefree, but lived with an irrational fear of penetration-less pregnancy, MRSA and being generally despised. Power Blazer Joanna made her first work friends, who remain among her best friends today. Cool Tank Top Joanna got her ass in regular therapy and made a big life change.

I still think it’s crazy that you can completely change your life/dream/career/whatever and be okay. Three years ago, I couldn’t fathom becoming anything other than a top copywriter/creative director. Six years ago, I couldn’t fathom being anything other than a PR guru with an Ann Taylor Loft credit card. Twenty years ago, I couldn’t fathom being anything other than Catherine Zeta Jones in Zorro when her dress gets slashed off (yikes) and her hair is so long it covers her boobs. What a dream!!!

Me, at the peak of my Catherine Zeta Jones obsession. I had a ways to go.

Today, I really don’t know what I want to be, and I’m okay with that.

That’s a lie.

I thought if I wrote it out, it would have to be true.

Some days, I feel comfortable with my slow (VERY, VERY SLOW) foray into the comedy world. Others, I feel like a failure. The newness of my career change (or, “retirement,” as some put it) has worn off, leaving me feeling anxious and static, like I’m not moving fast enough, doing enough, writing enough, performing enough, etc. I see how often my friends perform or how much content they produce, and I freak out. Am I doing what I’m supposed to be doing? Am I cut out for this? Am I actually even good at this?

I keep wearing myself (and probably everyone around me) out with this pattern of behavior. I (and likely they) are tired of hearing me say “I just need to start reading more/writing more/journaling more/looking into more improv classes/etc.,” only to do none of it. It’s maddening!

Finally, a friend recommended a book to me. It’s about a lot of things – fine, it’s a self-help book, stop asking me! – but one of the chapters focuses on keeping the promises you make to yourself.

I decided to do this. I started small. Monday morning, I promised myself I’d get a flu shot. After work, I didn’t want to get a flu shot. I was tired and hungry and scared of getting a used needle. But I got one anyways, because I really didn’t want to fuck up my first day of the rest of my life. And all that.

Because I kept my Monday promise, I kept my Tuesday promise, which was to work out after work. And because I kept my Tuesday promise, I kept my Wednesday promise, which was to go to a coffee shop on Saturday and write this post.

My point is, I guess, I’m going to start saying my goals out loud and holding myself accountable. So, in the next few months:

I’ve promised myself I will find an acting class that meets the Conservatory audition pre-req.

I’ve promised myself I will start going to therapy again.

I’ve promised myself I will not cut my hair until I am confident it will completely cover my boobs.

I hope they do not drop on Tuesday because I am getting very close to achieving this goal.

The last time I got my hair cut. January 2019.