Taylor and I are sprawled on a sea of wax paper in our parlor. We are covered in icing and graham cracker crumbs. We are spending the afternoon, as one does, creating sculptures of our beloved music director and his baby grand piano out of egg glue and cheap snacks from the dollar store. And of course, love. Lots of love.
I hop up and am en route to the kitchen to examine the rotted clementine peels for potential usage as epaulets for our model music director's costume when I happen to glance out our front window. I note a large rock at the base of our apple tree. I slow my step and furrow my brow. I am fairly sure I have not noticed a rock there before. Then the rock's ear twitches. The rock's two-an-a-half foot brown hairy ear.
OMG. A dream is actively coming true.
"Taylor! TAYLOR!" I hiss. "Get up. Get up and come to the window RIGHT NOW."
Taylor, deeply invested in applying intricate icing detail to the licorice sliver representing F#7, doesn't leap to his feet immediately, so I persist.
"TAYLOR. YOU HAVE TO GET UP AND QUIETLY COME TO THIS WINDOW RIGHT NOW TO SEE WHAT'S IN OUR YARD!"
Instantly on high alert, Taylor springs to his feet and, turning to me wild eyed, gasps "Is it the Thai Food guy?!?"
I consider for a moment how very disconcerting it would be were that the case. But back to the matter at hand.
"No, no, no! Come look!"
Taylor tiptoes to my side. I gaze meaningfully into his eyes: "Taylor. It's happening."
We turn as one to rest our eyes upon the MOOSE IN OUR FRONT YARD. The moose casually napping. Under our apple tree. Ten feet from our window.
There is squealing. Quiet squealing, of course. Frantic cursing and silent scrambling for dead cell phones and phone chargers.
I critically evaluate this moose with my utterly untrained eye.
Obviously a baby, I think, as it is not the size of a Forerunner. Also lacks antlers.
We take hundreds of zoomed in photos on our phones. Unsatisfactory. I want to pet it.
I squint. Approximately the size of an adolescent stegosaurus. Nothing to be intimidated by.
"Taylor," I announce in tones muted and deadly serious, "I think we should go outside."
[It should be noted here that we absolutely should NOT go outside. Moose do not have a history of being lap animals. And, I have since learned, can be quite violent. But I'll be buggered if I'm going to bypass the opportunity to snuggle a baby moose who has wandered onto my front porch.]
We scramble quietly for out boots. We gather in the foyer. I peep through the lace covering the cold glass of the front door. Still there. Still asleep. Taylor expresses mild concern about what we are about to do. I huff and scoff and say something very confidently and entirely untrue about how I'm sure we'll be just fine. Taylor lifts his phone, aims it at the door, and presses record.
I turn the key in the lock. So quietly. Our door is thankfully silent as it opens. I step onto the porch; Taylor follows.
In a voice suddenly three octaves higher, I address the creature.
"Hi, Moose!"
Nothing.
"Hello, Moose!"
Utter stillness.
"Here, Moose Moose Moose!"
I turn to Taylor and his camera, unable to keep an enormous grin from my face. "There is a moose! Right there!"
I decide to approach. Taylor, in turn, decides to retreat to the kitchen to hunt for apples or spinach or candy corn or something with which to entice our new pet.
I step boldly off the porch and directly into a four foot snow drift. Well. This will never do. Being hip deep in snow four feet from a moose- while absolutely awesome- will not serve me well should he fall into an ill temper and decide to gore me to death. I decide to use reason.
"Moose?" I trill. "Are you a vegetarian?" He lifts his head. Yes! Progress.
He blinks tennis ball sized eyes at me. Having read many, many books wherein people meet tragic ends by fiddling around with the offspring of violent wildlife, I feel it prudent to inquire:
"Where is your mom? Your dad?"
He continues to stare. I stare back. Three minutes pass and those three minutes may have easily turned into three hours had I not become suddenly and painfully aware of the late-stage gangrene rotting my left leg up to the knee. I remove myself from the snowdrift and retreat to the porch.
Taylor returns. "Do you think it would like peppers?" I am not sure whether or not moose like peppers, but I have become sure, while standing and thawing my shin out, that if we advance down our sidewalk and then along the fence on the front of our yard, we will then be only two feet from the moose. Which is much better than four.
We tiptoe down the walk- darting glances left and right in search of parental moose units.
Success! We are standing, near disbelievingly, two feet from a moose! And we are safe! There is, after all, a twelve-inch antique wrought iron fence serving as a barrier betwixt us. We feel confident in attempting a selfie. I scoot my icy boots six inches closer to our new moose and am turning to face Taylor with a cheek-splitting grin-- but those six inches. Those six inches were the straw that uncomfortably invaded the moose's comfort zone, as the old saying goes. He lurches to his feet and trots toward our house. I am miffed. Hands on hips. The moose turns to us. Levels his gaze. Lowers his head and takes a step in our direction.
"Audra?" Taylor is backing slowly up into the street. "I don't think he's very afraid of us right now."
I feel that I must appear brave. "Oh, I don't think he's going to hurt us," I announce confidently.
Immediately following this announcement I think, "Why did I just announce that? I know nothing about moose. Is it meese? Oh dear." I decide appearing confident will be the best course of action. Unless of course moose are like bears and want you to act submissive. But I really don't think I want to lie down in the snow right now. Yes. I'm sure I don't want to lie down in the snow. I'll take my chances.
Taylor whispers to me that he thinks we should go around back of the house and let ourselves in that way. We glance back at our new moose. He is busy eating sticks off a bush.
"Ok," I say. "I'll go around back and you stay safely out here on the other side of the fence to distract him."
I tromp quickly to the back of the house, all the while envisioning myself astride our new moose. Up the ramp to the door. Door is locked. Well.
I'm going to have to go in the front door. And our moose, when last I saw him, was chewing on a tree less than six inches from the front porch.
[I am secretly nervous for three seconds. Don't let it smell your fear, Audra, don't let it smell your fear. I can't not go in the house, after all. My warm blue socks are in the house. And all my faux fur hats from Albertson's.]
I spit pine needles out of my face from the low-hanging branch just outside our dining room and peek around the front corner of the house. The moose has not budged. Taylor holds his post in the street.
"Taylor? The back door is locked. We are going to have to go in the front."
I make this announcement with a very confident tone as well, hoping this will translate to Taylor as well as to the moose, and that any thoughts he may have of crossing me will evaporate immediately. The moose. Not Taylor. Taylor may still get back at me for insisting that we go outside.
Well. This is it. I might die now. And miss the 7PM show. Are moose teeth sharp? I'd be kind of embarrassed if I died by moose. I decide instantly to stop thinking about that and instead start walking boldly forward.
"Moose," I say sternly as I walk, "we have locked ourselves out of the back door and have to go in the front and you are going to stay right there." I can't make eye contact. Probably best. Deep breath in, eight steps, up the stairs, into the house.
Yes! I turn immediately to survey the hostage situation in the front yard. The moose, obviously intimidated by my confidence and domineering presence, has turned tail and is all but trotting around the side of the house. Taylor nips up the sidewalk and into the foyer behind me. We run to the windows to track the progress of our moose and follow him with our eyes as he moves like an exceptionally leggy giraffe through liquid caramel along the snowy drifts behind the house and down the alley. He heads back to the mountains.
Later tonight at the theater, I excitedly show our director the first photos of our new moose. He smiles and shakes his head- "Very cool. I'm just so glad you guys stayed inside the house."
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Sunday, December 18, 2016
Fur and Horns
Scene: I have four fur hats.
I'm wearing most of them. The combined degrees of the extended 10-day forecast for Hailey, Idaho add up to negative seven. I sent a screenshot of that weather forecast to my brother and he replied simply, "Don't die, please."
I zip past the back entryway and dumpster of A Taste of Thai as quickly as one can safely zip down an alley covered in ice. Zipping in an attempt to avoid any encore interactions starring myself in a dark, snowy alley and a giant bearded man popping out from the shadows of a dumpster and growling, "Are you finished?"
This evening, I am successful at slipping in unsolicited and stomp my boots smartly on the rug just inside the stage door.
I trot downstairs and survey the snack table. Impressive array, as always. I cram myself into my tights- working up only a minor sweat- and decide that intermission will be a fine time to have someone come in with their iPhone to photograph the baseball-sized bruise on my right hip. For posterity. And to show to my mother. And to remind me how cool it is that I get to walk around pretending to be Alice from "A League of Their Own" in the montage sequence where she bruised her hip sliding into third base.
Sound check. I've shimmied into my shiny purple bloomers, purple skirt, purple t-shirt, and tap shoes. I head upstairs. Where I find everyone else onstage clad in identical attire. We're like a troupe of shapely Grimaces. I attempt a couple of tap steps from a 2005 VA Rep production of "Anything Goes" and are therefore of no use to me at this time whatsoever. I try to keep my fingers off the shiny baby grand because my greasy fingerprints show up under the spotlight.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my fanny. Interesting.
"Oh my gosh," David gasps. "You aren't Aly!"
This case of mistaken fanny identity is entirely understandable. We are after all, dressed as identical eggplants. Calls to mind the question, though- was it the consistency of fanny which clued him in to its owner's identity or something else? I'll generally ask any question which is called to mind, so:
"David? Was it a difference in fanny texture which made you realize? Or something else?"
David states that glancing up and seeing my brown hair made him fully aware of his error. Which is great. If I'm going to be fanny twins with anyone, I'm honored to have that person be Aly Wepplo.
Sound check goes well. I sing some notes which are at no point featured in this production and we all head downstairs to pass my eyeliner around and apply our fake beauty marks.
Once the show starts, I spend a lot of time endeavoring to appear classy and composed and like I'm confident in my ability to walk down stairs in high heels. I salivate for the first tap number to arrive because I know once that happens, I'll be too busy whacking my toes against the floor to notice that my liver has frozen over. I sing a forty-five minute power ballad in pants and pretend I am Debra Wagoner. I remove said pants and play an evil waitress, a beleaguered housewife, and some chopsticks. Then Aly comes out with her saxophone and everything becomes fantastic.
You see, Aly has learned to play the baritone sax for this production. This is funny for several reasons. One- the saxophone is larger than she is. Two- she plays it to the tune of "The Good Ship Lollipop." Three- she plays it very well and no one in the audience is expecting that dainty little lass to nail a gritty sax solo about bon-bons on the Chesapeake Bay. Tonight though- especially good.
As Aly is winding up her number, she prepares to hit the big finale note- a low X-flat - and suddenly, from the dark of the audience, we hear a woman rapturously whisper, "It's beautiful!"
Now- it should be noted that Aly plays this solo exactly correctly. But it should also be noted that you can be to the baritone sax what Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was to the piano and it still will not change the fact that, at any level of executional finesse, the baritone saxophone sounds exactly like a water buffalo delivering a mini-fridge out the urethra. So- beautiful.
And that was just the top half of Act I.
I'm wearing most of them. The combined degrees of the extended 10-day forecast for Hailey, Idaho add up to negative seven. I sent a screenshot of that weather forecast to my brother and he replied simply, "Don't die, please."
I zip past the back entryway and dumpster of A Taste of Thai as quickly as one can safely zip down an alley covered in ice. Zipping in an attempt to avoid any encore interactions starring myself in a dark, snowy alley and a giant bearded man popping out from the shadows of a dumpster and growling, "Are you finished?"
This evening, I am successful at slipping in unsolicited and stomp my boots smartly on the rug just inside the stage door.
I trot downstairs and survey the snack table. Impressive array, as always. I cram myself into my tights- working up only a minor sweat- and decide that intermission will be a fine time to have someone come in with their iPhone to photograph the baseball-sized bruise on my right hip. For posterity. And to show to my mother. And to remind me how cool it is that I get to walk around pretending to be Alice from "A League of Their Own" in the montage sequence where she bruised her hip sliding into third base.
Sound check. I've shimmied into my shiny purple bloomers, purple skirt, purple t-shirt, and tap shoes. I head upstairs. Where I find everyone else onstage clad in identical attire. We're like a troupe of shapely Grimaces. I attempt a couple of tap steps from a 2005 VA Rep production of "Anything Goes" and are therefore of no use to me at this time whatsoever. I try to keep my fingers off the shiny baby grand because my greasy fingerprints show up under the spotlight.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my fanny. Interesting.
"Oh my gosh," David gasps. "You aren't Aly!"
This case of mistaken fanny identity is entirely understandable. We are after all, dressed as identical eggplants. Calls to mind the question, though- was it the consistency of fanny which clued him in to its owner's identity or something else? I'll generally ask any question which is called to mind, so:
"David? Was it a difference in fanny texture which made you realize? Or something else?"
David states that glancing up and seeing my brown hair made him fully aware of his error. Which is great. If I'm going to be fanny twins with anyone, I'm honored to have that person be Aly Wepplo.
Sound check goes well. I sing some notes which are at no point featured in this production and we all head downstairs to pass my eyeliner around and apply our fake beauty marks.
Once the show starts, I spend a lot of time endeavoring to appear classy and composed and like I'm confident in my ability to walk down stairs in high heels. I salivate for the first tap number to arrive because I know once that happens, I'll be too busy whacking my toes against the floor to notice that my liver has frozen over. I sing a forty-five minute power ballad in pants and pretend I am Debra Wagoner. I remove said pants and play an evil waitress, a beleaguered housewife, and some chopsticks. Then Aly comes out with her saxophone and everything becomes fantastic.
You see, Aly has learned to play the baritone sax for this production. This is funny for several reasons. One- the saxophone is larger than she is. Two- she plays it to the tune of "The Good Ship Lollipop." Three- she plays it very well and no one in the audience is expecting that dainty little lass to nail a gritty sax solo about bon-bons on the Chesapeake Bay. Tonight though- especially good.
As Aly is winding up her number, she prepares to hit the big finale note- a low X-flat - and suddenly, from the dark of the audience, we hear a woman rapturously whisper, "It's beautiful!"
Now- it should be noted that Aly plays this solo exactly correctly. But it should also be noted that you can be to the baritone sax what Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was to the piano and it still will not change the fact that, at any level of executional finesse, the baritone saxophone sounds exactly like a water buffalo delivering a mini-fridge out the urethra. So- beautiful.
And that was just the top half of Act I.
Sunday, December 4, 2016
IDAHONAKER: 4. La Mancha, Thailand
Thai food runs rampant in Hailey, Idaho.
This is not a problem.
I'm a recent convert to Thai food, having - no exaggeration - spent my seventeenth year of life ordering the Chicken & Broccoli Combination Platter with White Rice instead of Fried Rice every other day. It got to where I'd be paying with stacks of quarters and dimes. But I was obsessed. I had somehow not experienced takeout Chinese food until I was that far along on my journey and it was love at first mouthful.
That said, I've recently been dragged kicking and screaming into the world of other Asian takeout and- after some serious consideration by my tongue and intestinal tract - have become a fan. I'm still seeing Chinese food seriously and am fully committed, but am now open to the possibility that vehicles for my growth and development as an individual are not solely limited to eggrolls.
I'll admit this development has a lot to do with the facts that, a. reading the Thai food menu out loud is a hoot and b. there exists a dish called Pad See Ew, which- in addition to being fun to say out loud also bears a remarkable resemblance to my beloved Chicken & Broccoli. Only exception being: instead of rice you are served fat blobbly* slabs of noodle which are delectable and melt in one's mouth (if one is able to overcome the initial urge to smash them all over one's face).
So. One shop down from the Liberty Theatre here in Hailey is a Thai Restaurant called A Taste of Thai. It's green.
I remember this restaurant from my last Idaho experience because Leslie, our choreographer, strode in one day after dinner break in one of her fantastic crushed velvet track suits (I believe this one was amber colored) waving a bag of takeout.
"Who wants this? This has pineapple in it and I DON'T EAT PINEAPPLE."
Never one to turn down free food, I accepted it gleefully and spent a good long time later that evening staring into the takeout box trying to decide if I wanted to be unfaithful in my relationship to Combo Platter #6.
In the end, I held strong, and thusly cost myself four years of Thai food enjoyment. But- I knew about this restaurant. So, two days ago, on dinner break, I whisk over in the lightly falling snow. I am the only patron. Everything is green. I am beckoned by a tiny crooked pinkie to the back of the restaurant to place my order. I take a seat to wait. Two employees pass me, giggling loudly. "Hello," one of them says. "How are you?" I smile and reply that I am well. He places a hand on my shoulder, smiles hugely and replies, "That is FANTASTIC! This is the best day IN. THE WORLD!" They giggle away. Awesome. This town is great.
My food is ready near instantaneously and it's delicious. Which-
Inspires me to order more Thai food last night even though my roommate has whipped up a tantalizing pot of goulash.**
I wasn't hungry at the time of initial goulash completion, so I call in some delivery.
The phone call goes as expected, a kind gentleman takes my order and then asks me to please hold for the delivery driver. I am sliding around on the hardwood in my socks and thinking about the Olympics when a loud, gruff, and deep voice sounds in my ear. "Hi. I speak English."
"Okay," I say. I start to launch into detailed instructions on how to arrive at my house and am cut off.
"Yeah, yeah, I know exactly where that is- be ready! I might have to call you to come out and change my tire HAHAHAHAHAHA."
Hmm.
He continues. "What's your phone number just in case?"
I provide my digits. I hear a large intake of air.
"804. What's that area code? That's....Seattle. Right?"
"No sir, that's Richmond, VA."
"VA, huh? Where in VA?"
Sigh. I repeat myself. Then-
"Well, I know ALL about Virginia. I was there for college. What are you doing here?"
Having met nothing but kind and lovely people here, I feel fully comfortable telling him I'm here with Company of Fools doing a show, but barely get the sentence out when-
"Oh, you know, that's great. Just great. As a matter of fact, I have done FOURTEEN MUSICALS. Fourteen pieces of musical theater. And some of them in Richmond. Lots of people think I'm homosexual because I enjoy doing theater but I just tell them- you know what I tell them? I tell them that it's like sports. I've played every sport there is- baseball. I've played baseball. But it's just like theater. You learn to work together as a team."
.....
Though my stomach is slowly eating itself, I reply enthusiastically, "Well, what's your name? I may know you if you've worked in Richmond."
A pause.
"No. I'll tell you when I get there."
The line goes dead.
I walk slowly into the parlor and sit down next to Taylor. I tell him about the phone call. He immediately exits upstairs to make a phone call.
I unlock the front door for David and Aly, who are due to arrive over for an evening of board games at any moment. I return to my seat in the parlor.
Fourteen minutes later, I'm watching "Family Feud" and goggling at the audacity of the producers at what is allowed to be said on that show nowadays when I hear the front door fly open. I rise, smiling and am mid-nimble leap off the couch to greet my friends when I am taken fully aback by the sight of an elderly Paul Bunyan in my foyer. I hold very still.
The giant grizzled man is stomping his snowy boots on the welcome rug. He steps further into the room and lowers a giant cooler to the floor. He begins to remove his gloves.
O.M.G. I mean, I'm not even wearing a bra.
I'm hoping very hard that the cooler leaking all over the floor is full of my dinner and not moose organs when the large man speaks.
"So the main show I did up here was up the road apiece- not the theater you're at right now- how did you get a job there anyway? I figure you're a professional?" I nod. "Yeah- see, I'm not a professional or anything but I - it's a team, you know? So I did "The Man of la Mancha"- I don't know if you've heard of that--" More nodding. "Yeah, so, I did that show up the road a piece and I played what was really the anchor of the show. I was a prisoner, you see, a prisoner who held the whole thing together. I was the bear, the anchor, the stability of all the prisoners, you see? I don't like to have a lot of lines though. So then, they bring in this blonde gal to play the lead. And I'm thinking, oh, she's blonde, she's going to be a dummy, you know? You know? But, and get this- it turns out that she's the first one to not need her script at all! And she's the lead, so, you know, she has way more lines that anyone else. So, she and I became friends. But it was (insert here: I am starving. Are you ever going to stop talking?) so funny because--
At this point my hand shoots out and snatches the check out of his hand. I am hopeful this will remind him that he is working and might have other deliveries to make. Nope.
I take one step back. Now my right foot is on the carpet and not the hardwood. He is standing rather close to me to deliver this monologue.
"Right, so, it's funny because I was next to her when she had to sing her big big song, you know, and, do you know, I had to turn my face away like this (he shows me) each time she sang that song because this would happen--"
He takes a big step toward me and, raising his right hand, takes the first two fingers and trails them slowly under his eyes and down his cheeks. These are to be tears, I assume.
I step back with my left foot. Is the carpet safer? Probably not.
"Wow," I say. She really was doing her job very well then!"
He looks at me. I look back. We are silent for a moment. I can hear Taylor merrily chatting on the phone upstairs.
Suddenly, in a flurry of movement, Mr. Bunyan snatches up his cooler and strides to the front door, growling back over his shoulder, "Well, maybe I'll come see you all, then."
Slam.
It should be noted that my food was delicious. And that, having heard the tale, David remarked first thing upon witnessing my arrival at rehearsal this afternoon that he was very pleased to see me at rehearsal and not chopped up into bits in a cooler.
*It's a word now.
**Goulash- if you don't know, is noodles and tomatoes and sugar and cheese. And beef. It's beautiful.
This is not a problem.
I'm a recent convert to Thai food, having - no exaggeration - spent my seventeenth year of life ordering the Chicken & Broccoli Combination Platter with White Rice instead of Fried Rice every other day. It got to where I'd be paying with stacks of quarters and dimes. But I was obsessed. I had somehow not experienced takeout Chinese food until I was that far along on my journey and it was love at first mouthful.
That said, I've recently been dragged kicking and screaming into the world of other Asian takeout and- after some serious consideration by my tongue and intestinal tract - have become a fan. I'm still seeing Chinese food seriously and am fully committed, but am now open to the possibility that vehicles for my growth and development as an individual are not solely limited to eggrolls.
I'll admit this development has a lot to do with the facts that, a. reading the Thai food menu out loud is a hoot and b. there exists a dish called Pad See Ew, which- in addition to being fun to say out loud also bears a remarkable resemblance to my beloved Chicken & Broccoli. Only exception being: instead of rice you are served fat blobbly* slabs of noodle which are delectable and melt in one's mouth (if one is able to overcome the initial urge to smash them all over one's face).
So. One shop down from the Liberty Theatre here in Hailey is a Thai Restaurant called A Taste of Thai. It's green.
I remember this restaurant from my last Idaho experience because Leslie, our choreographer, strode in one day after dinner break in one of her fantastic crushed velvet track suits (I believe this one was amber colored) waving a bag of takeout.
"Who wants this? This has pineapple in it and I DON'T EAT PINEAPPLE."
Never one to turn down free food, I accepted it gleefully and spent a good long time later that evening staring into the takeout box trying to decide if I wanted to be unfaithful in my relationship to Combo Platter #6.
In the end, I held strong, and thusly cost myself four years of Thai food enjoyment. But- I knew about this restaurant. So, two days ago, on dinner break, I whisk over in the lightly falling snow. I am the only patron. Everything is green. I am beckoned by a tiny crooked pinkie to the back of the restaurant to place my order. I take a seat to wait. Two employees pass me, giggling loudly. "Hello," one of them says. "How are you?" I smile and reply that I am well. He places a hand on my shoulder, smiles hugely and replies, "That is FANTASTIC! This is the best day IN. THE WORLD!" They giggle away. Awesome. This town is great.
My food is ready near instantaneously and it's delicious. Which-
Inspires me to order more Thai food last night even though my roommate has whipped up a tantalizing pot of goulash.**
I wasn't hungry at the time of initial goulash completion, so I call in some delivery.
The phone call goes as expected, a kind gentleman takes my order and then asks me to please hold for the delivery driver. I am sliding around on the hardwood in my socks and thinking about the Olympics when a loud, gruff, and deep voice sounds in my ear. "Hi. I speak English."
"Okay," I say. I start to launch into detailed instructions on how to arrive at my house and am cut off.
"Yeah, yeah, I know exactly where that is- be ready! I might have to call you to come out and change my tire HAHAHAHAHAHA."
Hmm.
He continues. "What's your phone number just in case?"
I provide my digits. I hear a large intake of air.
"804. What's that area code? That's....Seattle. Right?"
"No sir, that's Richmond, VA."
"VA, huh? Where in VA?"
Sigh. I repeat myself. Then-
"Well, I know ALL about Virginia. I was there for college. What are you doing here?"
Having met nothing but kind and lovely people here, I feel fully comfortable telling him I'm here with Company of Fools doing a show, but barely get the sentence out when-
"Oh, you know, that's great. Just great. As a matter of fact, I have done FOURTEEN MUSICALS. Fourteen pieces of musical theater. And some of them in Richmond. Lots of people think I'm homosexual because I enjoy doing theater but I just tell them- you know what I tell them? I tell them that it's like sports. I've played every sport there is- baseball. I've played baseball. But it's just like theater. You learn to work together as a team."
.....
Though my stomach is slowly eating itself, I reply enthusiastically, "Well, what's your name? I may know you if you've worked in Richmond."
A pause.
"No. I'll tell you when I get there."
The line goes dead.
I walk slowly into the parlor and sit down next to Taylor. I tell him about the phone call. He immediately exits upstairs to make a phone call.
I unlock the front door for David and Aly, who are due to arrive over for an evening of board games at any moment. I return to my seat in the parlor.
Fourteen minutes later, I'm watching "Family Feud" and goggling at the audacity of the producers at what is allowed to be said on that show nowadays when I hear the front door fly open. I rise, smiling and am mid-nimble leap off the couch to greet my friends when I am taken fully aback by the sight of an elderly Paul Bunyan in my foyer. I hold very still.
The giant grizzled man is stomping his snowy boots on the welcome rug. He steps further into the room and lowers a giant cooler to the floor. He begins to remove his gloves.
O.M.G. I mean, I'm not even wearing a bra.
I'm hoping very hard that the cooler leaking all over the floor is full of my dinner and not moose organs when the large man speaks.
"So the main show I did up here was up the road apiece- not the theater you're at right now- how did you get a job there anyway? I figure you're a professional?" I nod. "Yeah- see, I'm not a professional or anything but I - it's a team, you know? So I did "The Man of la Mancha"- I don't know if you've heard of that--" More nodding. "Yeah, so, I did that show up the road a piece and I played what was really the anchor of the show. I was a prisoner, you see, a prisoner who held the whole thing together. I was the bear, the anchor, the stability of all the prisoners, you see? I don't like to have a lot of lines though. So then, they bring in this blonde gal to play the lead. And I'm thinking, oh, she's blonde, she's going to be a dummy, you know? You know? But, and get this- it turns out that she's the first one to not need her script at all! And she's the lead, so, you know, she has way more lines that anyone else. So, she and I became friends. But it was (insert here: I am starving. Are you ever going to stop talking?) so funny because--
At this point my hand shoots out and snatches the check out of his hand. I am hopeful this will remind him that he is working and might have other deliveries to make. Nope.
I take one step back. Now my right foot is on the carpet and not the hardwood. He is standing rather close to me to deliver this monologue.
"Right, so, it's funny because I was next to her when she had to sing her big big song, you know, and, do you know, I had to turn my face away like this (he shows me) each time she sang that song because this would happen--"
He takes a big step toward me and, raising his right hand, takes the first two fingers and trails them slowly under his eyes and down his cheeks. These are to be tears, I assume.
I step back with my left foot. Is the carpet safer? Probably not.
"Wow," I say. She really was doing her job very well then!"
He looks at me. I look back. We are silent for a moment. I can hear Taylor merrily chatting on the phone upstairs.
Suddenly, in a flurry of movement, Mr. Bunyan snatches up his cooler and strides to the front door, growling back over his shoulder, "Well, maybe I'll come see you all, then."
Slam.
It should be noted that my food was delicious. And that, having heard the tale, David remarked first thing upon witnessing my arrival at rehearsal this afternoon that he was very pleased to see me at rehearsal and not chopped up into bits in a cooler.
*It's a word now.
**Goulash- if you don't know, is noodles and tomatoes and sugar and cheese. And beef. It's beautiful.
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
IDAHONAKER: 3. Don't Put Your Sticks There, Either.
The newspaperwoman shifts in her seat on the stair and aims her burgundy legging-clad knees more directly in my direction. She is displeased with the brevity of my answer to her previous question, I can tell by the wrinkling of the inch of skin between her eyes, and is now determined to really probe. "But come on, Audra. What's it been like? What's the most intriguing part of doing Harpo in the shower?"
I clear my throat. Lady, I am so not going to answer that.
Ever gallant, David jumps in to save me and provides our interviewer with an insightful and meaningful reply regarding the Marx Brothers and personal character development and yadda yadda yadda....my mind wanders. I wonder if they have those delicious little sunflower seed nuggets RL just brought to rehearsal in Richmond as well....probably at Ellwood Thompson's....
Rehearsals have been going well. My duties in this show include: tap dancing, rapping incredibly slowly, zipping up a banana while wearing a vacant expression, cradling a chicken, and performing a rectal examination on a bicycle. You can see, I'm sure, why I was cast.
I did experience a moment of severe displeasure two days ago. It was announced that there will be a gong in this show and.....a member of the cast will be called upon to bang it. I am elated. Salivating. I have risen involuntarily to the tips of my toes and drawn breath to volunteer myself as Gongess when I hear our wonderful director John say, "....and Taylor will be ringing the gong."
I mean. I wasn't even permitted to audition. I glower across the stage at Taylor. He shrugs sheepishly and mouths, "We can take turns!"
My scowl must've been evident, for rehearsal remains at a standstill while I am fed some rigamarole about my not being allowed to bang the gong due to the logistics of costume changes and assigned entrances and exits, etc. No one seems to understand that I would happily enter and perform an entire tap number sans pants entirely if it meant I got to whack a gong while pretending to be a genie offstage right.
You'll be pleased to hear that I overcame my disappointment and continued with the production.
Today I am practicing my chopstick scoot dance behind the set with David when we are summoned to the stage to work on a tango. Remembering how nicely things worked out when I stored my prop dagger in my topknot during a production I was in one day of "THE CMPLT WRKS OF WLM SKSPRE," I jam my chopsticks into my bun and, pleased with my resourcefulness, trot out and directly into a snug tango hold with Melodie. What I don't know- unfortunately for Cliff- is that the choreography for this number includes his standing directly behind me as we double-team-tango Melodie, but- fortunately for Cliff- I realize the potential for disaster just in time and whip the chopsticks out of my bun before they smoothly implant themselves deeply inside his nasal cavities.
So that's fine. I slip the sticks into the back pocket of my jeans instead.
Twenty seconds later: "So Audra, now you'll crawl downstage on all fours and wait for Melodie to be dipped over your back."
I'm crawling, smiling, enjoying myself. Cliff is tango-ing Melodie in my direction and preparing to drop her in a deep dip over my back. Suddenly he hisses, "Watch your chopsticks!"
Fine. Chopsticks are removed and placed somewhere which I secretly can't remember but certainly is not back where they were supposed to go on the props shelf, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow when I get to rehearsal early to find my chopsticks before we start the run and everyone finds out that Audra was irresponsible with her props. Bottom line is, both Cliff's frontal lobe and Melodie's lower spine remain firmly intact.
The same cannot be said for my lower spine but that's neither here nor there and suffice to say that the next time I pop out of a fireplace in a sprightly and surprising manner I will know to squat way lower.
Moreso than any of this, though- it must be noted that there exists in this beautiful town an event called.....
Ready?
I don't think you are.....
THE PAPOOSE CLUB HOLIDAY BAZAAR.
So. I'll be at that. And likely broke immediately following.
I clear my throat. Lady, I am so not going to answer that.
Ever gallant, David jumps in to save me and provides our interviewer with an insightful and meaningful reply regarding the Marx Brothers and personal character development and yadda yadda yadda....my mind wanders. I wonder if they have those delicious little sunflower seed nuggets RL just brought to rehearsal in Richmond as well....probably at Ellwood Thompson's....
Rehearsals have been going well. My duties in this show include: tap dancing, rapping incredibly slowly, zipping up a banana while wearing a vacant expression, cradling a chicken, and performing a rectal examination on a bicycle. You can see, I'm sure, why I was cast.
I did experience a moment of severe displeasure two days ago. It was announced that there will be a gong in this show and.....a member of the cast will be called upon to bang it. I am elated. Salivating. I have risen involuntarily to the tips of my toes and drawn breath to volunteer myself as Gongess when I hear our wonderful director John say, "....and Taylor will be ringing the gong."
I mean. I wasn't even permitted to audition. I glower across the stage at Taylor. He shrugs sheepishly and mouths, "We can take turns!"
My scowl must've been evident, for rehearsal remains at a standstill while I am fed some rigamarole about my not being allowed to bang the gong due to the logistics of costume changes and assigned entrances and exits, etc. No one seems to understand that I would happily enter and perform an entire tap number sans pants entirely if it meant I got to whack a gong while pretending to be a genie offstage right.
You'll be pleased to hear that I overcame my disappointment and continued with the production.
Today I am practicing my chopstick scoot dance behind the set with David when we are summoned to the stage to work on a tango. Remembering how nicely things worked out when I stored my prop dagger in my topknot during a production I was in one day of "THE CMPLT WRKS OF WLM SKSPRE," I jam my chopsticks into my bun and, pleased with my resourcefulness, trot out and directly into a snug tango hold with Melodie. What I don't know- unfortunately for Cliff- is that the choreography for this number includes his standing directly behind me as we double-team-tango Melodie, but- fortunately for Cliff- I realize the potential for disaster just in time and whip the chopsticks out of my bun before they smoothly implant themselves deeply inside his nasal cavities.
So that's fine. I slip the sticks into the back pocket of my jeans instead.
Twenty seconds later: "So Audra, now you'll crawl downstage on all fours and wait for Melodie to be dipped over your back."
I'm crawling, smiling, enjoying myself. Cliff is tango-ing Melodie in my direction and preparing to drop her in a deep dip over my back. Suddenly he hisses, "Watch your chopsticks!"
Fine. Chopsticks are removed and placed somewhere which I secretly can't remember but certainly is not back where they were supposed to go on the props shelf, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow when I get to rehearsal early to find my chopsticks before we start the run and everyone finds out that Audra was irresponsible with her props. Bottom line is, both Cliff's frontal lobe and Melodie's lower spine remain firmly intact.
The same cannot be said for my lower spine but that's neither here nor there and suffice to say that the next time I pop out of a fireplace in a sprightly and surprising manner I will know to squat way lower.
Moreso than any of this, though- it must be noted that there exists in this beautiful town an event called.....
Ready?
I don't think you are.....
THE PAPOOSE CLUB HOLIDAY BAZAAR.
So. I'll be at that. And likely broke immediately following.
Thursday, November 24, 2016
IDAHONAKER - 2. Showering
Ezra Pound was born in this house.
I did some research. His full name being Ezra Weston Loomis Pound, he was born in Hailey, Idaho- perhaps in the very room I slept in last night- in 1885. He studied lots of stuff and then moved to Europe where he became a very accomplished and admired poet- known primarily for his development of Imagism- which upon learning I first assumed was misspelled, but it's not. Ironically, turns out Imagism stresses clarity and precision of language. It stems from ancient Chinese and Japanese poetry. All this leads me to believe we'd have gotten on swimmingly. We could sit around and criticize people's spelling errors and eat Moo Goo Gai Pan and sushi to our hearts content. If you delve further, you learn that Ezra married some chick named Dorothy Shakespeare (I'm researching her later tonight) and had two kids- a boy and a girl, only one of which could seemingly be bothered to take his last name. He's also got some outstanding facial hair and some very attractive headshots. But. Intriguing as all this may be, none of it leads me to believe that at any point in his long and fascinating life was he forced to undergo the strain and stress of showering upstairs in his own home.
Now- before I launch into my showering debacle, I must first rave. This house is fantastic. It's old as tombs and made of white boards and wrought iron fences. There's an enchanting either apple or chubby green cherry tree adjacent to the curling front walk. Sprinkled with snow. It's riddled with parlors and settees and hardwood floors and shelf upon shelf of old and important books. High blue ceilings, brown velveteen throw pillows, closets stuffed with puffy and soft quilts. A floor to ceiling ancient iron and silver potbellied stove from Detroit Stove Works which we are absolutely not allowed to use but I really don't know what you'd practically use it for anyway unless you were incinerating a body or a cow. A Poptart would lie lonely and alone in its depthless bowels. So, again- this place is fantastic. Not to mention its being pre-stocked with all the toilet paper, paper towels, laundry detergent, butter, and Drano that a girl could wish for. I'm happy as a clam snuggled into a jar of peanut butter. But.
The shower. The shower takes place in the bathroom. Which is upstairs. I entered the bathroom last night for the first time. This is how it went down....
The white, pearly doorknob is cold under my hand. I twist and push. The dark wooden door creaks open. My hands press to my cheeks as I take in the black iron towel rack standing as tall as I and the deep white sink. There's an armchair. A window looking out onto the snowy mountains. I am thinking I am really going to enjoy spending perhaps most of the next five weeks in this bathroom when I turn to take in what will no doubt be the transcendent sight of the toilet when I see it. The sign. The framed, bolded, 50 point font sign upon the toilet featuring your INSTRUCTIONS. I lean cautiously forward. Most people, I feel, don't need instructions on using the toilet past their third year of life. I, at least, had pretty much memorized what to do by that point.
"Water damage in the master bathroom will be disastrous to the dining room wallpaper. Please use extra caution."
So. Extra caution in using the toilet? I decide to assume they mean the shower and thereby relieve myself of having to imagine the epic toilet misdemeanors which could have resulted in the rooms being damaged an entire floor below.
I am pleased to report I use the toilet without having to call the fire department and then boldly turn my attention to the shower. It's one of those clawfoot tubs which stands entirely apart from the wall. It's got white curtains and liners on both sides of the tub. I figure this is a quality precaution and that I may well succeed at this without much difficulty. In I leap.
After I regain consciousness and pick myself up from the floor of the tub I stand dripping and reeling with the knowledge that there does indeed exist in the world a shower with stronger water pressure than Robyn and Ginnie O'Willard's. Fortunately, I have experience with that shower and so may be up to the challenge. It's no small feat to successfully wield razor and loofah all while keeping upright under the poundin deluge and having at least one hand over all your tenderest parts at all times. I check over my shoulder ever twenty seconds to verify that the two liners are indeed meeting at the back of the tub so no water will escape. It's going well. As the steam gathers though, the rubber plastic liners start sucking into the center of the tub. The shower becomes narrower and narrower until I start to feel a hair claustrophobic and like I'm showering inside of a condom or the slit of a Kleenex box. I try to think more positively about the situation. Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe instead of the previous two likenings, I rather resemble naked wet angel with a messy topknot madly flapping her latex wings as she is buffeted down from heaven during a particularly powerful thunderstorm. Either way, I'm exhausted. Suddenly, the hot water fades. Panic. I cram myself into the space between the front shower pole and the spray and wash as quickly as I can. Done. I whip back the curtain with a flourish. Rather proud of myself and certain in the knowledge that I will refrain from sweating for the next five weeks to spare myself going through that again. Climb out onto the white puffy rug. Have nearly finished toweling off when I notice a glint of light to my left. I squint. Oh no. Oh no. It's light reflecting off of a PUDDLE ON THE FLOOR. I wrench my towel from my body and fall to my knees frantically sopping up the water. I sit back panting. Thinking crabbily in my mind that if you were so concerned about water damage, then why put an oriental carpet in the bathroom and line the room below with golden and mahogany lion and stag wallpaper embossed with the scrolling script, "The Wilderness Shall Blossom as the Rose," which was probably transplanted from the Captain's quarters on the Mayflower.
Bottom line- I'm clean. And a tougher woman for it. I see why you went to Europe, Ezra.
I did some research. His full name being Ezra Weston Loomis Pound, he was born in Hailey, Idaho- perhaps in the very room I slept in last night- in 1885. He studied lots of stuff and then moved to Europe where he became a very accomplished and admired poet- known primarily for his development of Imagism- which upon learning I first assumed was misspelled, but it's not. Ironically, turns out Imagism stresses clarity and precision of language. It stems from ancient Chinese and Japanese poetry. All this leads me to believe we'd have gotten on swimmingly. We could sit around and criticize people's spelling errors and eat Moo Goo Gai Pan and sushi to our hearts content. If you delve further, you learn that Ezra married some chick named Dorothy Shakespeare (I'm researching her later tonight) and had two kids- a boy and a girl, only one of which could seemingly be bothered to take his last name. He's also got some outstanding facial hair and some very attractive headshots. But. Intriguing as all this may be, none of it leads me to believe that at any point in his long and fascinating life was he forced to undergo the strain and stress of showering upstairs in his own home.
Now- before I launch into my showering debacle, I must first rave. This house is fantastic. It's old as tombs and made of white boards and wrought iron fences. There's an enchanting either apple or chubby green cherry tree adjacent to the curling front walk. Sprinkled with snow. It's riddled with parlors and settees and hardwood floors and shelf upon shelf of old and important books. High blue ceilings, brown velveteen throw pillows, closets stuffed with puffy and soft quilts. A floor to ceiling ancient iron and silver potbellied stove from Detroit Stove Works which we are absolutely not allowed to use but I really don't know what you'd practically use it for anyway unless you were incinerating a body or a cow. A Poptart would lie lonely and alone in its depthless bowels. So, again- this place is fantastic. Not to mention its being pre-stocked with all the toilet paper, paper towels, laundry detergent, butter, and Drano that a girl could wish for. I'm happy as a clam snuggled into a jar of peanut butter. But.
The shower. The shower takes place in the bathroom. Which is upstairs. I entered the bathroom last night for the first time. This is how it went down....
The white, pearly doorknob is cold under my hand. I twist and push. The dark wooden door creaks open. My hands press to my cheeks as I take in the black iron towel rack standing as tall as I and the deep white sink. There's an armchair. A window looking out onto the snowy mountains. I am thinking I am really going to enjoy spending perhaps most of the next five weeks in this bathroom when I turn to take in what will no doubt be the transcendent sight of the toilet when I see it. The sign. The framed, bolded, 50 point font sign upon the toilet featuring your INSTRUCTIONS. I lean cautiously forward. Most people, I feel, don't need instructions on using the toilet past their third year of life. I, at least, had pretty much memorized what to do by that point.
"Water damage in the master bathroom will be disastrous to the dining room wallpaper. Please use extra caution."
So. Extra caution in using the toilet? I decide to assume they mean the shower and thereby relieve myself of having to imagine the epic toilet misdemeanors which could have resulted in the rooms being damaged an entire floor below.
I am pleased to report I use the toilet without having to call the fire department and then boldly turn my attention to the shower. It's one of those clawfoot tubs which stands entirely apart from the wall. It's got white curtains and liners on both sides of the tub. I figure this is a quality precaution and that I may well succeed at this without much difficulty. In I leap.
After I regain consciousness and pick myself up from the floor of the tub I stand dripping and reeling with the knowledge that there does indeed exist in the world a shower with stronger water pressure than Robyn and Ginnie O'Willard's. Fortunately, I have experience with that shower and so may be up to the challenge. It's no small feat to successfully wield razor and loofah all while keeping upright under the poundin deluge and having at least one hand over all your tenderest parts at all times. I check over my shoulder ever twenty seconds to verify that the two liners are indeed meeting at the back of the tub so no water will escape. It's going well. As the steam gathers though, the rubber plastic liners start sucking into the center of the tub. The shower becomes narrower and narrower until I start to feel a hair claustrophobic and like I'm showering inside of a condom or the slit of a Kleenex box. I try to think more positively about the situation. Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe instead of the previous two likenings, I rather resemble naked wet angel with a messy topknot madly flapping her latex wings as she is buffeted down from heaven during a particularly powerful thunderstorm. Either way, I'm exhausted. Suddenly, the hot water fades. Panic. I cram myself into the space between the front shower pole and the spray and wash as quickly as I can. Done. I whip back the curtain with a flourish. Rather proud of myself and certain in the knowledge that I will refrain from sweating for the next five weeks to spare myself going through that again. Climb out onto the white puffy rug. Have nearly finished toweling off when I notice a glint of light to my left. I squint. Oh no. Oh no. It's light reflecting off of a PUDDLE ON THE FLOOR. I wrench my towel from my body and fall to my knees frantically sopping up the water. I sit back panting. Thinking crabbily in my mind that if you were so concerned about water damage, then why put an oriental carpet in the bathroom and line the room below with golden and mahogany lion and stag wallpaper embossed with the scrolling script, "The Wilderness Shall Blossom as the Rose," which was probably transplanted from the Captain's quarters on the Mayflower.
Bottom line- I'm clean. And a tougher woman for it. I see why you went to Europe, Ezra.
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
Idahonaker.
Today I flew across the country to purchase sweatpants.
I may do other things as well while I'm here- such as tap dance, comb the mountains looking for moose, and goggle at the bright, bright stars- but mostly, I'm here for the sweatpants.
I wake up this morning in Virginia at 2:32 AM when the undercarriage of my bed starts shifting around. I'm too tired to be concerned, so instead of rolling over, I lie there and wait to see what imposter or boogy-creature pops up.
It's my cat. Suprise. Spelled as such because that is how it's usually pronounced.
I'm flattered, and cuddle Suprise until it's time to get up and go.
In line at the airport, I scrutinize the dimples on a baby's knuckles. I love a good dimply baby. But I'm confused. When the hands of a baby are plump enough to have knuckle dimples, the dimples seem to fall directly atop where the knuckle bone would be. It seems to me that the dimples would fall in the valleys betwixt the knuckles. But what do I know about baby fist cartilage.
Upon boarding the plane, I am delighted to discover that there are touchscreen TVs affixed to the backs of all the seats. More so, I am thrilled to find that an option on this touch screen TV is the sequel to "Independence Day." Which I've been really wanting to see for months. I missed it at the Byrd awhile ago and seethed for a solid three minutes about that. I contentedly watch Jeff Goldblum be attractively intelligent and a small gaggle of highly accomplished fourteen year old fighter pilots attempt to save Bill Pullman all the way to Atlanta and only convince myself to leave the plane in the middle of the movie secure in the knowledge that I'll be able to continue the film on my next flight.
If you're ever curious- Concourse F at the Atlanta airport is located just three miles south of Houston. Got plenty of exercise traipsing briskly between terminals. Rode the moving walkways much of the time. I like those. I stop and take a photo of a huge ceramic cat figurine composed entirely of tiny ceramic cat figurines. I am very eager to show it to my friends. But, I sadly discover, my phone deletes the photo immediately because it contracted some virus a few months ago when I irresponsibly tried to order cookies in the middle of the night from a less than respectable website.
I board my flight to Salt Lake City. My eyes widen when I discover that my magical seat back TV isn't functioning properly and so HOW am I going to finish the sequel to "Independence Day" which I really wasn't enjoying at all. I search for, locate, and press the Call button. I watch the girl sitting next to me take a nap by resting her head on her dinner tray. I am told by the flight attendant responding to my distress call that I may take one of the vacant seats in the back of the plane so that I may discover if Will Smith really isn't going to be in the movie after all.
I change seats.
I eat four Twizzlers.
I finish the movie and watch consider ordering from the touch screen menu a platter of cheese cubes and jelly packets for $49.99. I decide instead on watching "Father of the Bride." Which is good every single time.
I land in Salt Lake City. I disembark. I notice outside the window beautiful and scenic snowy mountains. I don't care because I didn't order the cheese cubes and jelly and am hungry and cranky as a result. I follow signs to my next assigned terminal. I sit in this terminal for 3 hours because it's snowing in Sun Valley and we have to wait and see if we are going to fly straight there or fly somewhere entirely different and take a bus for hours and hours. I buy Hannah a Christmas present. I stare at a wall full of books for a long time trying to decide if any of them tickle my fancy to the point I should purchase one. I settle on a book about the making of "The Princess Bride."
Finally, we board a wee, thin and spiny aircraft with no TVs to be found and fly for an hour. The pilot comes over the speaker and whispers very softly - it is never made clear why he whispers - that we might land in Sun Valley and we also might not. We will have to wait and see if the plane in line to land before us makes it successfully. I try to take a nap, but cannot, as now I can see out of the window. Idaho from here looks like a sandbox someone has been doodling in with a silver Sharpie.
We drive around on top of Idaho for half an hour and then, with no word at all from our pilot, descend into the Hailey airport, which could easily be mistaken for a gas station.
I am fetched by our stage manager and driven to my house. It's awesome. It's old and has high high wallpaper embossed with golden lions and flowers on the ceiling. Beautiful stained glass lamps. Sitting rooms, parlors, closets full of toilet paper and quilts, more televisions than make sense, and a snowy front yard boasting a tiny green apple tree blossoming by the sidewalk. It's the birthplace of a poet. Ezra Pound. Books of his work as well as many other novels fill dozens of shelves throughout this place.
I grin until my cheeks hurt - I had forgotten exactly how happy this place makes me - and hustle my buns to the grocery store before I'm due at play practice. In unloading my multiple boxes of cereal, I meet my housemate. Who is lovely. If my friends Sam, Colin, and JS got stirred together, that would be him. We intend to go sit in a hot spring he's read about in one of the pile of brochures in our kitchen.
Rehearsal occurs. I'm late to the proceedings so get three dance numbers tonight. Such good choreography. By brain turns into boiled guinea pig liver at 9:30; it's been many hours since I awoke. Tomorrow we have a Thanksgiving feast. We probably will not infuse our turkey with tequila- as I was advised to do by a young woman in line with me at the grocery store.
I think a turkey would be a fascinating pet.
I may do other things as well while I'm here- such as tap dance, comb the mountains looking for moose, and goggle at the bright, bright stars- but mostly, I'm here for the sweatpants.
I wake up this morning in Virginia at 2:32 AM when the undercarriage of my bed starts shifting around. I'm too tired to be concerned, so instead of rolling over, I lie there and wait to see what imposter or boogy-creature pops up.
It's my cat. Suprise. Spelled as such because that is how it's usually pronounced.
I'm flattered, and cuddle Suprise until it's time to get up and go.
In line at the airport, I scrutinize the dimples on a baby's knuckles. I love a good dimply baby. But I'm confused. When the hands of a baby are plump enough to have knuckle dimples, the dimples seem to fall directly atop where the knuckle bone would be. It seems to me that the dimples would fall in the valleys betwixt the knuckles. But what do I know about baby fist cartilage.
Upon boarding the plane, I am delighted to discover that there are touchscreen TVs affixed to the backs of all the seats. More so, I am thrilled to find that an option on this touch screen TV is the sequel to "Independence Day." Which I've been really wanting to see for months. I missed it at the Byrd awhile ago and seethed for a solid three minutes about that. I contentedly watch Jeff Goldblum be attractively intelligent and a small gaggle of highly accomplished fourteen year old fighter pilots attempt to save Bill Pullman all the way to Atlanta and only convince myself to leave the plane in the middle of the movie secure in the knowledge that I'll be able to continue the film on my next flight.
If you're ever curious- Concourse F at the Atlanta airport is located just three miles south of Houston. Got plenty of exercise traipsing briskly between terminals. Rode the moving walkways much of the time. I like those. I stop and take a photo of a huge ceramic cat figurine composed entirely of tiny ceramic cat figurines. I am very eager to show it to my friends. But, I sadly discover, my phone deletes the photo immediately because it contracted some virus a few months ago when I irresponsibly tried to order cookies in the middle of the night from a less than respectable website.
I board my flight to Salt Lake City. My eyes widen when I discover that my magical seat back TV isn't functioning properly and so HOW am I going to finish the sequel to "Independence Day" which I really wasn't enjoying at all. I search for, locate, and press the Call button. I watch the girl sitting next to me take a nap by resting her head on her dinner tray. I am told by the flight attendant responding to my distress call that I may take one of the vacant seats in the back of the plane so that I may discover if Will Smith really isn't going to be in the movie after all.
I change seats.
I eat four Twizzlers.
I finish the movie and watch consider ordering from the touch screen menu a platter of cheese cubes and jelly packets for $49.99. I decide instead on watching "Father of the Bride." Which is good every single time.
I land in Salt Lake City. I disembark. I notice outside the window beautiful and scenic snowy mountains. I don't care because I didn't order the cheese cubes and jelly and am hungry and cranky as a result. I follow signs to my next assigned terminal. I sit in this terminal for 3 hours because it's snowing in Sun Valley and we have to wait and see if we are going to fly straight there or fly somewhere entirely different and take a bus for hours and hours. I buy Hannah a Christmas present. I stare at a wall full of books for a long time trying to decide if any of them tickle my fancy to the point I should purchase one. I settle on a book about the making of "The Princess Bride."
Finally, we board a wee, thin and spiny aircraft with no TVs to be found and fly for an hour. The pilot comes over the speaker and whispers very softly - it is never made clear why he whispers - that we might land in Sun Valley and we also might not. We will have to wait and see if the plane in line to land before us makes it successfully. I try to take a nap, but cannot, as now I can see out of the window. Idaho from here looks like a sandbox someone has been doodling in with a silver Sharpie.
We drive around on top of Idaho for half an hour and then, with no word at all from our pilot, descend into the Hailey airport, which could easily be mistaken for a gas station.
I am fetched by our stage manager and driven to my house. It's awesome. It's old and has high high wallpaper embossed with golden lions and flowers on the ceiling. Beautiful stained glass lamps. Sitting rooms, parlors, closets full of toilet paper and quilts, more televisions than make sense, and a snowy front yard boasting a tiny green apple tree blossoming by the sidewalk. It's the birthplace of a poet. Ezra Pound. Books of his work as well as many other novels fill dozens of shelves throughout this place.
I grin until my cheeks hurt - I had forgotten exactly how happy this place makes me - and hustle my buns to the grocery store before I'm due at play practice. In unloading my multiple boxes of cereal, I meet my housemate. Who is lovely. If my friends Sam, Colin, and JS got stirred together, that would be him. We intend to go sit in a hot spring he's read about in one of the pile of brochures in our kitchen.
Rehearsal occurs. I'm late to the proceedings so get three dance numbers tonight. Such good choreography. By brain turns into boiled guinea pig liver at 9:30; it's been many hours since I awoke. Tomorrow we have a Thanksgiving feast. We probably will not infuse our turkey with tequila- as I was advised to do by a young woman in line with me at the grocery store.
I think a turkey would be a fascinating pet.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
1776.5
In a world.....where rolling purple prairie skies stretch as far as the eye can see....where be-stockinged men with ribbon bedecked ponytails and resplendent attire hoard furniture and complain about imaginary insects....where opinionated pincushions and pious skunks share the same table....
This is the world of "1776".
Lights up on the antique chair section of the West End Antiques Mall. I am immediately sorry for all the rest of the population of Richmond 2016 and the assorted colonies of 1776 who are obviously without seating in their homes and workplaces.
One by one, every man I know enters the stage. I am not surprised to see Scott, given his Facebook announcement of intended participation in this production back in the fall of 1997. He's got a great wig. Smartly tailored breeches. Two navy tails which he is extremely adept at swishing smartly away from his fanny pre-seating himself on the only bench left outdoors in all of Philadelphia. He delivers a smart, passionate performance and proves that, after all is said and done, he wins the day by whipping out the most prestigious gobo there ever was for his 1:30 AM power ballad. Not once though, did he go get me a soda.
Jason walks in. It may actually have been Ben Franklin. I understand at once why he's taken to sharply sporting fedoras around the city for the past six weeks. Sometimes, in the course of this business, one is called upon to divest certain parts of their person of hair. And then to add it elsewhere. I won't go too far into that-
Except to say that when Andy Boothby makes his appearance, I am reminded at once of a conversation we had in the Novempire lobby weeks ago wherein he pressed his wrist to mine, leaned close, and announced in covert tones, "I'm getting a weave." I chortle. Sure you are. He did.
It's a good weave. Andy's entrance featuring tartan-patterned vest, grey ponytail waterfall, and stick he's snatched out of nature and polished to a pleasing sheen is very effective. He does an excellent grunt near the middle of Act VI. Matt Costello appears in the same costume he wore in "The Crucible" fifteen years ago. He still wears it well. His character also has the distinction of being the only member of Congress with a functioning stomach and bladder and therefore gets to make entrances and exits to visit the bar and the loo, respectively.
Michael Hawke is up center presiding over all of this. He's got a fly swatter and a gavel and the golden opportunity given his blocking to have any piece of reading material down to and including an iPad with which to watch Netflix on his desk to pass the time. He presides and presides, and continues to preside even given the unfortunate fact that he has Ford as his assistant. Ford thinks we don't know it's him because he's wearing hair the color of a Hershey bar and not leaning forward when he speaks. But I cannot be fooled. Once upon a time, you see, I was Ford's assistant. This resulted in a long stretch in prison and the eternal understanding that I am under his purview and required by law to wear an ankle tracker in any and all situations in which I am allowed contact with other human beings.*
Jody strides in. I haven't seen him since we did a kick line downstage center with Emily Skinner, Brandon McKinney, and a jump rope made from hard and painful wooden balls during "Mame" a couple of years ago. I wonder what he'd think if he knew that I looked at a picture of his father in my garage every day from the age of nine til the age of eighteen.**
Ian spends most of the evening gnawing on a metal candy dish- I am assuming in at attempt to vent his frustrations over the ongoing feud between Landon and himself over which of them is actually wearing the authentic Robert Throckmorton Captain Hook doublet from "Peter Pan". Good arguments have been made for both sides, but ultimately Landon starts to question the veracity of his claim and retreats to his home in the treehouse downstage left. The treehouse is under renovation, as evidenced by the painter's tape lining the railings, but it's safely inhabitable, and Landon is quite comfortable there wadding up paper and waiting for Christie to arrive in Philadelphia, which is taking forever. He's almost to the end of his legal pad and the props department is considering putting in for extra budget to replenish Jefferson's office supplies when suddenly Christie appears. She looks beautiful, which is impressive given that we see clearly that she was forced to travel all the way to Philadelphia on foot, jogging, and without a single piece of luggage. She tactfully says nothing about the endlessly ongoing renovation and climbs happily into the treehouse with Landon, where she will likely immediately chew him out for burning through her stationary.
Scott and Jason hang out outside like proper colonial stalkers for a good while and secretly lament the fact that they have stolen all the furniture for Congress because it'd be a lot more comfortable lurking in the street all night if they had something comfortable to sit on. Jason can't take it anymore and exits into the down right box, presumably to get a head start on the score of "Company," but Scott deigns to wait.
He's a little sad- with no benches he has no quality surface upon which to practice his tail flicks- but he resigns himself to the evening with lovely memories of his recent wedding to the stunning Eva and their honeymoon to a beautiful part of the world where one can stand about contemplatively on rocky terrain and have their photo taken, or float effortlessly in a mirror-surfaced pool wearing furry boots and kneesocks. His thoughts turn at some point in the wee small hours to a college pal of Paul Major's -Sarah- who's also in this production of "1776" playing his wife, Abigail. Sarah's thrilled by this because it means she will finally have the opportunity to enter and thusly, to sit down. Frustrations over lack of seating elsewhere in the colonies are spreading, you see. She hangs up Scott's coat and soothes his fears all while maintaining her side of the case in what is clearly an ongoing argument about the necessity of sending dangerous and potentially useless chemicals through the mail.
Off in the distance, the mailman overhears the continuing argument and is relieved when no agreement is reached. As part of his job description, he is required to run everywhere he goes and that's hot enough in leather boots and a jacket, let alone lugging crates of saltpeter. He is more grateful still when, the next evening, Lucas invites him to hang out and have a drink onstage at the Novempire after rehearsal with himself and Mr. Cameron, who moonlights as a camp counselor for children's theater camps during the summer. The guys have a swell time. Kicking back, singing haunting ballads that if one is not careful one can miss on opening night by being in the bathroom that close to intermission.
Serenity reigns. For the moment. Suddenly- bolstered by his hearty breakfast earlier that morning to fuel up for an unprecedented 9-show week, Jody charges in and leads the stage left side of the cast in a rousing rendition of "Poor Unfortunate Souls" during which they all demonstrate their fine posture and dexterity with pivot turns. Meanwhile, up center, Michael Hawke gets in another episode of "Stranger Things."
Alexander's been holding his tongue in his most challenging role to date- that of an incorrectly opinionated and very pink pincushion. He passes the time by crossing and uncrossing his legs in extreme slow motion in an attempt to distract us all from the fact that the back of his jacket looks exactly like a vagina. He displays blatant disregard for any and all of the hoarded furniture by banging his cane against the floor and standing on tops of tables to sing numbers everyone has already voted against him doing in the first place- even to the point of imperiling the life of one older gentleman who's is such a bad way his face is only held together by earmuffs and hot glue.
Steve, who I last witnessed wearing tights in "Once Upon A Mattress," and Craig, who I last witnessed wearing tights in "Into the Woods," are sharing a table with Eddie, who at evening's end, finally brings unity to the group- no small feat at a table shared with a pincushion, a skunk, and Craig From "Into The Woods."
Landon and Ian agree to disagree on the origin of their doublets. Scott is peacefully smug- secure in the knowledge that his gobo, though unseen by all of the other male actors in Richmond who were probably in the rehearsal hall tweeting photos of themselves in period attire- reigns supreme.
Jody alone remains unsettled. But proves the gravity of his emotion by demonstrating again to one and all that when what you have to say in this Congress is truly of import, you develop the ability to walk through walls.
*Ford Flannagan is one of the smartest, wittiest people I know. He also has an extensive collection of envy-inducing M.C. Hammer pants and a chamber devoted entirely to pirates.
**I did not know it was his father at the time.
This is the world of "1776".
Lights up on the antique chair section of the West End Antiques Mall. I am immediately sorry for all the rest of the population of Richmond 2016 and the assorted colonies of 1776 who are obviously without seating in their homes and workplaces.
One by one, every man I know enters the stage. I am not surprised to see Scott, given his Facebook announcement of intended participation in this production back in the fall of 1997. He's got a great wig. Smartly tailored breeches. Two navy tails which he is extremely adept at swishing smartly away from his fanny pre-seating himself on the only bench left outdoors in all of Philadelphia. He delivers a smart, passionate performance and proves that, after all is said and done, he wins the day by whipping out the most prestigious gobo there ever was for his 1:30 AM power ballad. Not once though, did he go get me a soda.
Jason walks in. It may actually have been Ben Franklin. I understand at once why he's taken to sharply sporting fedoras around the city for the past six weeks. Sometimes, in the course of this business, one is called upon to divest certain parts of their person of hair. And then to add it elsewhere. I won't go too far into that-
Except to say that when Andy Boothby makes his appearance, I am reminded at once of a conversation we had in the Novempire lobby weeks ago wherein he pressed his wrist to mine, leaned close, and announced in covert tones, "I'm getting a weave." I chortle. Sure you are. He did.
It's a good weave. Andy's entrance featuring tartan-patterned vest, grey ponytail waterfall, and stick he's snatched out of nature and polished to a pleasing sheen is very effective. He does an excellent grunt near the middle of Act VI. Matt Costello appears in the same costume he wore in "The Crucible" fifteen years ago. He still wears it well. His character also has the distinction of being the only member of Congress with a functioning stomach and bladder and therefore gets to make entrances and exits to visit the bar and the loo, respectively.
Michael Hawke is up center presiding over all of this. He's got a fly swatter and a gavel and the golden opportunity given his blocking to have any piece of reading material down to and including an iPad with which to watch Netflix on his desk to pass the time. He presides and presides, and continues to preside even given the unfortunate fact that he has Ford as his assistant. Ford thinks we don't know it's him because he's wearing hair the color of a Hershey bar and not leaning forward when he speaks. But I cannot be fooled. Once upon a time, you see, I was Ford's assistant. This resulted in a long stretch in prison and the eternal understanding that I am under his purview and required by law to wear an ankle tracker in any and all situations in which I am allowed contact with other human beings.*
Jody strides in. I haven't seen him since we did a kick line downstage center with Emily Skinner, Brandon McKinney, and a jump rope made from hard and painful wooden balls during "Mame" a couple of years ago. I wonder what he'd think if he knew that I looked at a picture of his father in my garage every day from the age of nine til the age of eighteen.**
Ian spends most of the evening gnawing on a metal candy dish- I am assuming in at attempt to vent his frustrations over the ongoing feud between Landon and himself over which of them is actually wearing the authentic Robert Throckmorton Captain Hook doublet from "Peter Pan". Good arguments have been made for both sides, but ultimately Landon starts to question the veracity of his claim and retreats to his home in the treehouse downstage left. The treehouse is under renovation, as evidenced by the painter's tape lining the railings, but it's safely inhabitable, and Landon is quite comfortable there wadding up paper and waiting for Christie to arrive in Philadelphia, which is taking forever. He's almost to the end of his legal pad and the props department is considering putting in for extra budget to replenish Jefferson's office supplies when suddenly Christie appears. She looks beautiful, which is impressive given that we see clearly that she was forced to travel all the way to Philadelphia on foot, jogging, and without a single piece of luggage. She tactfully says nothing about the endlessly ongoing renovation and climbs happily into the treehouse with Landon, where she will likely immediately chew him out for burning through her stationary.
Scott and Jason hang out outside like proper colonial stalkers for a good while and secretly lament the fact that they have stolen all the furniture for Congress because it'd be a lot more comfortable lurking in the street all night if they had something comfortable to sit on. Jason can't take it anymore and exits into the down right box, presumably to get a head start on the score of "Company," but Scott deigns to wait.
He's a little sad- with no benches he has no quality surface upon which to practice his tail flicks- but he resigns himself to the evening with lovely memories of his recent wedding to the stunning Eva and their honeymoon to a beautiful part of the world where one can stand about contemplatively on rocky terrain and have their photo taken, or float effortlessly in a mirror-surfaced pool wearing furry boots and kneesocks. His thoughts turn at some point in the wee small hours to a college pal of Paul Major's -Sarah- who's also in this production of "1776" playing his wife, Abigail. Sarah's thrilled by this because it means she will finally have the opportunity to enter and thusly, to sit down. Frustrations over lack of seating elsewhere in the colonies are spreading, you see. She hangs up Scott's coat and soothes his fears all while maintaining her side of the case in what is clearly an ongoing argument about the necessity of sending dangerous and potentially useless chemicals through the mail.
Off in the distance, the mailman overhears the continuing argument and is relieved when no agreement is reached. As part of his job description, he is required to run everywhere he goes and that's hot enough in leather boots and a jacket, let alone lugging crates of saltpeter. He is more grateful still when, the next evening, Lucas invites him to hang out and have a drink onstage at the Novempire after rehearsal with himself and Mr. Cameron, who moonlights as a camp counselor for children's theater camps during the summer. The guys have a swell time. Kicking back, singing haunting ballads that if one is not careful one can miss on opening night by being in the bathroom that close to intermission.
Serenity reigns. For the moment. Suddenly- bolstered by his hearty breakfast earlier that morning to fuel up for an unprecedented 9-show week, Jody charges in and leads the stage left side of the cast in a rousing rendition of "Poor Unfortunate Souls" during which they all demonstrate their fine posture and dexterity with pivot turns. Meanwhile, up center, Michael Hawke gets in another episode of "Stranger Things."
Alexander's been holding his tongue in his most challenging role to date- that of an incorrectly opinionated and very pink pincushion. He passes the time by crossing and uncrossing his legs in extreme slow motion in an attempt to distract us all from the fact that the back of his jacket looks exactly like a vagina. He displays blatant disregard for any and all of the hoarded furniture by banging his cane against the floor and standing on tops of tables to sing numbers everyone has already voted against him doing in the first place- even to the point of imperiling the life of one older gentleman who's is such a bad way his face is only held together by earmuffs and hot glue.
Steve, who I last witnessed wearing tights in "Once Upon A Mattress," and Craig, who I last witnessed wearing tights in "Into the Woods," are sharing a table with Eddie, who at evening's end, finally brings unity to the group- no small feat at a table shared with a pincushion, a skunk, and Craig From "Into The Woods."
Landon and Ian agree to disagree on the origin of their doublets. Scott is peacefully smug- secure in the knowledge that his gobo, though unseen by all of the other male actors in Richmond who were probably in the rehearsal hall tweeting photos of themselves in period attire- reigns supreme.
Jody alone remains unsettled. But proves the gravity of his emotion by demonstrating again to one and all that when what you have to say in this Congress is truly of import, you develop the ability to walk through walls.
*Ford Flannagan is one of the smartest, wittiest people I know. He also has an extensive collection of envy-inducing M.C. Hammer pants and a chamber devoted entirely to pirates.
**I did not know it was his father at the time.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Talent Show?
It's Talent Show Day.
Always a good time. Well, usually. Much more so when at least three of the children elect for their demonstration of talent to leap spastically around the stage in full uni-tutus to the strains of "Let It Go."
When that happens, the performance is usually very passionate. And all the other children inevitably start to sing along.
Today did not look like a good day for a Talent Show, however.
I know this to be the case when Emily- a wee towheaded camper we've had since she was three years old- creeps silently up to the registration desk. She places her chubby tan dimpled hands on the edge of the table and scratches lightly, nervously on the surface.
No eye contact.
"Yes, Emily?"
Tear-filled hazel eyes lift to mine. "Do I have to do a talent today? In the show? I really really really don't want to."
I have already made this quite clear. In the 45 minute lecture on Talent Show protocol we conduct every Talent Show Eve. "You absolutely do not have to participate in the Talent Show if you do not want to. You can do your part by being an excellent audience member."
A lone tear rolls down a golden cheek. A tear of relief. Emily sighs a shaky sigh and walks back to her table. Still silently, but with a bit more spring to her step.
I finish checking the children in and am preparing for warm-ups when I hear a high-pitched whoop from somewhere behind me. I turn to quell the ruckus before it escalates into an off-putting din, only to find myself face to face- well, face to knee cap- with this selfsame Emily. Who is now beaming and so excited she's practically spitting. She glows up at me. "Miss Audra! Miss Audra! I'm gonna do ballet for the Talent Show!" She sprints away. OK.
So I have no idea what was in those crayons they were using for morning coloring time, but it worked. Or it's hormones. Do five year olds have those?
Here we are. Talent Show begins. Mr. Paul places one of his rubber magic dots at center on the gymnasium floor. I explain the rules- alternating between a manly baritone announcer voice and my very best soothing, smoky female receptionist impression. The children are always dumbstruck when I do this. I think they are confused about where the sounds are coming from, being accustomed to (what I've been told are) the customary Miss Audra grunts and mutters. Mr. Paul and I assume our usual spots for Talent Show at the back of the audience. He at the boom box in case anyone decides they need "Nessun Dorma" karaoke tracks, and myself on the opposite side of the room. This gives the illusion of responsible adult supervision but it's really mostly because we like to have direct eye line to each other should something particularly choice take place and we need to exchange a significant look. Or subtly indicate with violent neck jerks that the other one should take a photograph or what is going on.
First to take the stage (after raising a quiet hand- quiet hands get called on first, you know) is Hattie. Hattie is six years old and has a hazel colored pixie cut. She might weigh fourteen pounds and has not said a word since Monday. Hattie would make a fabulous eccentric great aunt. I bet she weaves socks on a private little girl loom in her bedroom. Anyway. I look her over to see if she's brought any of the usual items- a hula hoop, some dance shoes, a Ziploc bag of vacation photographs. Nope. She is clutching in her claws a crisp, handled paper bag from Starbucks.
Delicious. If Hattie wants to give me beignet as her talent, I will applaud enthusiastically and encourage the rest of the pack to follow suit.
Nope. Hattie approaches the dot. Steps one tiny sneaker onto it with a soft pat sound. Then the next. She announces her name at a volume that would probably carry well at any ant high school assembly and then folds herself into a pile onto the floor. I sit next to her. Many times Mr. Paul or myself are called upon to assist the campers with their talents. Like when they bring DRUMS and cannot carry their DRUMS alone. DRUMS, you should know, with cymbals Scotch-taped to the sides. It takes a lot of Scotch tape to affix a cymbal at a ninety degree angle to the side of snare drum, just so you know. This kid's parents will need to go to the store. Back to Hattie.
I crouch beside her. "What have you brought for us today, Hattie?" She looks shyly up at me. I peep into the bag. Oh. I see. I stand up.
"Ladies and gentlemen, for her talent today, Hattie will be.............gardening."
Hattie proceeds to remove from her disappointingly filled Starbucks bag: a handmade/handpainted flower pot, a gallon Ziploc baggie of mulch, a small Ziploc baggie of water, a small Ziploc baggie of what appear to be pills, and a packet of zinnia seeds.
Hattie and I pot zinnias.
We make an enormous mess. I learn the pills are plant vitamins and after this demonstration- I know this plant is on a LOT of drugs. I also learn that, as cabaret acts go, potting zinnias isn't a surefire way to rev up your audience, per se.
Another child takes the dot.
This child is as tall as I am and again- is six. She announces her name as she yanks tight a black bathrobe sash around her waist. "Today-" she begins loudly and confidently, "today- I'm going to be showing you some martial arts I learned at my preschool."
Dear heavens.
Somewhere in the middle of toddler karate, I feel a tug at my sleeve. I glance down. One of the children - we'll call her Raia- is staring at me with her tongue out.
"Yes?"
"My tooth." I peer into her mouth and notice that said tooth is barely holding on.
"I see your tooth." She forces the loose tooth backwards and forwards a few times with her tongue to demonstrate. I watch. This is, at least, more entertaining than gardening.
"How long do you think til my tooth falls out, Miss Audra?"
I consider. I could say, "Well, I can yank that out right here in under two seconds if you're really committed."
I could say, "Well, you can go home and ask your parents if they know anything about teeth, strings, and doorknobs."
Both of these options will almost surely lead to further discussion, however, and we are in the middle of the Talent Show. I whisper, "From the way that looks, I bet it falls out by tomorrow." Boring answer.
Raia returns to her seat on top of her sister.
There's another Talent Show tomorrow. I am hopeful for more gems. We've got some good potential in camp this week. Acting has happened which has nearly given me chills and we're only on Day 3. We've also got "Stall Queen," as she has been lovingly dubbed by Mr. Paul. Stall Queen is six years old as well, and is known by this name not because of her thick curling mane of brunette hair- which might be compared to that of a pony, but because of her passionate devotion to using the bathroom.
Stall Queen requests no fewer than nine bathroom trips throughout our six hour day. She additionally requests to go along each time another camper makes a bathroom request of their own. We are almost certain Stall Queen does not really have to use the bathroom all of these times. We think she just likes to ask for things. Today, after she downs her liter of lavender Gatorade, she wipes stray droplets from her chin with the back of her fist and springs to her feet immediately, crushing underfoot and permanently grinding into the brightly colored carpet sixteen pieces of Captain's Booty as she does so.
"I have to go to the bathroom!" She shrills.
This is already the seventh time today. Mr. Paul takes the opportunity to get the attention of the entire camp and lecture briefly through mouthfuls of Cheez-Its on anatomy and the streaming and absorption properties of one's kidneys, bloodstream, and ureter, with a special highlight on the digestive tract.
Stall Queen is put off momentarily. But not for long. She will successfully visit the restroom twice more before day's end. But strangely, and notably- not after she sucks down her gluten-free fruit punch Freezie-Pop in one fell swallow.
We know what you're up to, Stall Queen.
At camp day's close, Mr. Paul is leading the children through a brief round of "Everyone Put Your Head Down On The Table And Close Your Eyes And I'll Tap One Person To Come Around And Tap Some Of You On The Shoulder And Then You'll All Open Your Eyes And Try To Guess Who The Tapper Was," or "7-Up?" I think that may be a game called "7-Up." I remember playing something like that in grade school, but cannot remember specific rules and regulations.
This game goes over well. The kids are quiet, and listening as hard as they can to try and figure out who is gliding around in the dark tapping them on the shoulder. Round two: Daniel is designated as tapper by Mr. Paul. Daniel circles the room silently, tapping three people's shoulders- including the left shoulder of his adored big sister, Fia, and returns just as silently to his chair.
"OK, everyone! Eyes open! If you got tapped on the shoulder this time, stand up. You get one guess."
A couple of children guess. They are incorrect. Stall Queen raises her hand and asks to use the restroom. Denied. Another child guesses. Incorrectly. Final child to guess is five year old Lucy. Lucy twirls a blond corkscrew ringlet around a tiny finger, giggles, and says, "Daniel?"
Mr. Paul is impressed. "That's right, Lucy!" Very well done! How did you know it was Daniel?"
Lucy smiles and twirls another piece of hair. "Oh," she says shyly, "I just know the feel of his hands."
Always a good time. Well, usually. Much more so when at least three of the children elect for their demonstration of talent to leap spastically around the stage in full uni-tutus to the strains of "Let It Go."
When that happens, the performance is usually very passionate. And all the other children inevitably start to sing along.
Today did not look like a good day for a Talent Show, however.
I know this to be the case when Emily- a wee towheaded camper we've had since she was three years old- creeps silently up to the registration desk. She places her chubby tan dimpled hands on the edge of the table and scratches lightly, nervously on the surface.
No eye contact.
"Yes, Emily?"
Tear-filled hazel eyes lift to mine. "Do I have to do a talent today? In the show? I really really really don't want to."
I have already made this quite clear. In the 45 minute lecture on Talent Show protocol we conduct every Talent Show Eve. "You absolutely do not have to participate in the Talent Show if you do not want to. You can do your part by being an excellent audience member."
A lone tear rolls down a golden cheek. A tear of relief. Emily sighs a shaky sigh and walks back to her table. Still silently, but with a bit more spring to her step.
I finish checking the children in and am preparing for warm-ups when I hear a high-pitched whoop from somewhere behind me. I turn to quell the ruckus before it escalates into an off-putting din, only to find myself face to face- well, face to knee cap- with this selfsame Emily. Who is now beaming and so excited she's practically spitting. She glows up at me. "Miss Audra! Miss Audra! I'm gonna do ballet for the Talent Show!" She sprints away. OK.
So I have no idea what was in those crayons they were using for morning coloring time, but it worked. Or it's hormones. Do five year olds have those?
Here we are. Talent Show begins. Mr. Paul places one of his rubber magic dots at center on the gymnasium floor. I explain the rules- alternating between a manly baritone announcer voice and my very best soothing, smoky female receptionist impression. The children are always dumbstruck when I do this. I think they are confused about where the sounds are coming from, being accustomed to (what I've been told are) the customary Miss Audra grunts and mutters. Mr. Paul and I assume our usual spots for Talent Show at the back of the audience. He at the boom box in case anyone decides they need "Nessun Dorma" karaoke tracks, and myself on the opposite side of the room. This gives the illusion of responsible adult supervision but it's really mostly because we like to have direct eye line to each other should something particularly choice take place and we need to exchange a significant look. Or subtly indicate with violent neck jerks that the other one should take a photograph or what is going on.
First to take the stage (after raising a quiet hand- quiet hands get called on first, you know) is Hattie. Hattie is six years old and has a hazel colored pixie cut. She might weigh fourteen pounds and has not said a word since Monday. Hattie would make a fabulous eccentric great aunt. I bet she weaves socks on a private little girl loom in her bedroom. Anyway. I look her over to see if she's brought any of the usual items- a hula hoop, some dance shoes, a Ziploc bag of vacation photographs. Nope. She is clutching in her claws a crisp, handled paper bag from Starbucks.
Delicious. If Hattie wants to give me beignet as her talent, I will applaud enthusiastically and encourage the rest of the pack to follow suit.
Nope. Hattie approaches the dot. Steps one tiny sneaker onto it with a soft pat sound. Then the next. She announces her name at a volume that would probably carry well at any ant high school assembly and then folds herself into a pile onto the floor. I sit next to her. Many times Mr. Paul or myself are called upon to assist the campers with their talents. Like when they bring DRUMS and cannot carry their DRUMS alone. DRUMS, you should know, with cymbals Scotch-taped to the sides. It takes a lot of Scotch tape to affix a cymbal at a ninety degree angle to the side of snare drum, just so you know. This kid's parents will need to go to the store. Back to Hattie.
I crouch beside her. "What have you brought for us today, Hattie?" She looks shyly up at me. I peep into the bag. Oh. I see. I stand up.
"Ladies and gentlemen, for her talent today, Hattie will be.............gardening."
Hattie proceeds to remove from her disappointingly filled Starbucks bag: a handmade/handpainted flower pot, a gallon Ziploc baggie of mulch, a small Ziploc baggie of water, a small Ziploc baggie of what appear to be pills, and a packet of zinnia seeds.
Hattie and I pot zinnias.
We make an enormous mess. I learn the pills are plant vitamins and after this demonstration- I know this plant is on a LOT of drugs. I also learn that, as cabaret acts go, potting zinnias isn't a surefire way to rev up your audience, per se.
Another child takes the dot.
This child is as tall as I am and again- is six. She announces her name as she yanks tight a black bathrobe sash around her waist. "Today-" she begins loudly and confidently, "today- I'm going to be showing you some martial arts I learned at my preschool."
Dear heavens.
Somewhere in the middle of toddler karate, I feel a tug at my sleeve. I glance down. One of the children - we'll call her Raia- is staring at me with her tongue out.
"Yes?"
"My tooth." I peer into her mouth and notice that said tooth is barely holding on.
"I see your tooth." She forces the loose tooth backwards and forwards a few times with her tongue to demonstrate. I watch. This is, at least, more entertaining than gardening.
"How long do you think til my tooth falls out, Miss Audra?"
I consider. I could say, "Well, I can yank that out right here in under two seconds if you're really committed."
I could say, "Well, you can go home and ask your parents if they know anything about teeth, strings, and doorknobs."
Both of these options will almost surely lead to further discussion, however, and we are in the middle of the Talent Show. I whisper, "From the way that looks, I bet it falls out by tomorrow." Boring answer.
Raia returns to her seat on top of her sister.
There's another Talent Show tomorrow. I am hopeful for more gems. We've got some good potential in camp this week. Acting has happened which has nearly given me chills and we're only on Day 3. We've also got "Stall Queen," as she has been lovingly dubbed by Mr. Paul. Stall Queen is six years old as well, and is known by this name not because of her thick curling mane of brunette hair- which might be compared to that of a pony, but because of her passionate devotion to using the bathroom.
Stall Queen requests no fewer than nine bathroom trips throughout our six hour day. She additionally requests to go along each time another camper makes a bathroom request of their own. We are almost certain Stall Queen does not really have to use the bathroom all of these times. We think she just likes to ask for things. Today, after she downs her liter of lavender Gatorade, she wipes stray droplets from her chin with the back of her fist and springs to her feet immediately, crushing underfoot and permanently grinding into the brightly colored carpet sixteen pieces of Captain's Booty as she does so.
"I have to go to the bathroom!" She shrills.
This is already the seventh time today. Mr. Paul takes the opportunity to get the attention of the entire camp and lecture briefly through mouthfuls of Cheez-Its on anatomy and the streaming and absorption properties of one's kidneys, bloodstream, and ureter, with a special highlight on the digestive tract.
Stall Queen is put off momentarily. But not for long. She will successfully visit the restroom twice more before day's end. But strangely, and notably- not after she sucks down her gluten-free fruit punch Freezie-Pop in one fell swallow.
We know what you're up to, Stall Queen.
At camp day's close, Mr. Paul is leading the children through a brief round of "Everyone Put Your Head Down On The Table And Close Your Eyes And I'll Tap One Person To Come Around And Tap Some Of You On The Shoulder And Then You'll All Open Your Eyes And Try To Guess Who The Tapper Was," or "7-Up?" I think that may be a game called "7-Up." I remember playing something like that in grade school, but cannot remember specific rules and regulations.
This game goes over well. The kids are quiet, and listening as hard as they can to try and figure out who is gliding around in the dark tapping them on the shoulder. Round two: Daniel is designated as tapper by Mr. Paul. Daniel circles the room silently, tapping three people's shoulders- including the left shoulder of his adored big sister, Fia, and returns just as silently to his chair.
"OK, everyone! Eyes open! If you got tapped on the shoulder this time, stand up. You get one guess."
A couple of children guess. They are incorrect. Stall Queen raises her hand and asks to use the restroom. Denied. Another child guesses. Incorrectly. Final child to guess is five year old Lucy. Lucy twirls a blond corkscrew ringlet around a tiny finger, giggles, and says, "Daniel?"
Mr. Paul is impressed. "That's right, Lucy!" Very well done! How did you know it was Daniel?"
Lucy smiles and twirls another piece of hair. "Oh," she says shyly, "I just know the feel of his hands."
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
Success!
A bloodcurdling howl erupts from inside the ladies' restroom. Sigh.
I push open the door and lean the upper half of my body inside.
"Is there an issue, ladies?"
Grunt. Grunt. Hissssss. Tiny pink and purple sneakered feet swing and flex spasmodically where they peep out from beneath the center stall door.
"Ladies? Does anyone require any assistance of any sort?"
The largest rumbling growl yet, then a wee and crystalline silvery voice trills, "My poop!" [delicate fairy giggle] "My poop! It's just so very large!"
Oh, boy. We've all been there, sister.
GRUNT.
Hmm. At this point I feel I shouldn't leave. After all, we've only had snack so far in the day and I didn't see anyone consuming an entire roast ostrich or anything else that might merit this level of strain. Medical attention may be necessary. Or, at the very least, a good motivational speech.*
"Mmmmmmmmmarrrrghhhhh......"
The faucet drips slowly. Steadily. I can hear Mr. Paul in the other room delivering instructions to the other children on how one properly comports oneself at recess. I should really get in there. I'm not even sure what time he wants us upstairs for---
"FINALLY!!! Whew! La, la, la, la....How the music can free her whenever it starts! And maybe, if the music is groovy...."
Flush.
The child has succeeded. And I admire her dedication to the week's material. We are to perform "Do You Believe In Magic" by The Lovin' Spoonful this Friday as part of our performance, and this young lady understands time is of the essence due to the holiday weekend. Jumping right back in to music rehearsal with no time so spare.
It was a good holiday weekend though. An excellent one. I received a retired bus driver jersey from my father - which I have yet to take off, did not go to the golf course- though I've rescheduled, witnessed Mr. Paul perform "This Is The Moment" from "Jekyll & Hyde" full out- as Jonathan Spivey accompanied him on keys, and accidentally participated in a police force ride-along.
I am also the proud new owner of the hollow shell of a tigress pillow. But I've got batting in my closet. I have batting in my closet for reasons involving abandoned elephants, a basement, and throw pillows which you may or may not be ready to hear more about. I'm gonna stuff her up and have Hannah whipstitch her shut across the crotch/stuffing hole.**
I must now learn some lines. There's a play about campfires and symbolic notebooks and re-hashing conversations for the zillionth time about a family troubled by jaundice and why soda is bad for you coming up shortly here in the RVA. It is preferred that I have the same exact things to say about it every night. And that I sit in the same exact places when I say them.
Whatever.
*I love "Austin Powers."
**I know.
I push open the door and lean the upper half of my body inside.
"Is there an issue, ladies?"
Grunt. Grunt. Hissssss. Tiny pink and purple sneakered feet swing and flex spasmodically where they peep out from beneath the center stall door.
"Ladies? Does anyone require any assistance of any sort?"
The largest rumbling growl yet, then a wee and crystalline silvery voice trills, "My poop!" [delicate fairy giggle] "My poop! It's just so very large!"
Oh, boy. We've all been there, sister.
GRUNT.
Hmm. At this point I feel I shouldn't leave. After all, we've only had snack so far in the day and I didn't see anyone consuming an entire roast ostrich or anything else that might merit this level of strain. Medical attention may be necessary. Or, at the very least, a good motivational speech.*
"Mmmmmmmmmarrrrghhhhh......"
The faucet drips slowly. Steadily. I can hear Mr. Paul in the other room delivering instructions to the other children on how one properly comports oneself at recess. I should really get in there. I'm not even sure what time he wants us upstairs for---
"FINALLY!!! Whew! La, la, la, la....How the music can free her whenever it starts! And maybe, if the music is groovy...."
Flush.
The child has succeeded. And I admire her dedication to the week's material. We are to perform "Do You Believe In Magic" by The Lovin' Spoonful this Friday as part of our performance, and this young lady understands time is of the essence due to the holiday weekend. Jumping right back in to music rehearsal with no time so spare.
It was a good holiday weekend though. An excellent one. I received a retired bus driver jersey from my father - which I have yet to take off, did not go to the golf course- though I've rescheduled, witnessed Mr. Paul perform "This Is The Moment" from "Jekyll & Hyde" full out- as Jonathan Spivey accompanied him on keys, and accidentally participated in a police force ride-along.
I am also the proud new owner of the hollow shell of a tigress pillow. But I've got batting in my closet. I have batting in my closet for reasons involving abandoned elephants, a basement, and throw pillows which you may or may not be ready to hear more about. I'm gonna stuff her up and have Hannah whipstitch her shut across the crotch/stuffing hole.**
I must now learn some lines. There's a play about campfires and symbolic notebooks and re-hashing conversations for the zillionth time about a family troubled by jaundice and why soda is bad for you coming up shortly here in the RVA. It is preferred that I have the same exact things to say about it every night. And that I sit in the same exact places when I say them.
Whatever.
*I love "Austin Powers."
**I know.
Monday, July 4, 2016
A Buffalo In My Brunch
Let me tell you about the bra store.
The bra store is situated in a nook betwixt a post office, a veterinary clinic, and a library.
Right where you'd look for it.
I was harangued into attending the bra store by my own inner monologue. You see, I was to appear in a production of "South Pacific" and had been threatened with the information that, while doing said appearing, I was to wear a "playsuit." "Playsuit" is really just slang for, "Audra, you have to wear a bikini."
Rage. 100% rage. I will freeze! I may as well be nude! You can't make me do that! Feelings that I want to move to a mountain cave in fourteenth century Scotland and clothe myself fully in buffalo furs or even buffalo stomach lining (depending on where I stand with provisions).*
"Oh, Audra! Here's the fabric we're making your playsuit out of. Look, it's rainbow patterned!"
....Pause to consider re-considering.....
OK. I knock it back to 67% rage. It's a real cute suit.
But anyway- I assess my situation. Chase has informed me that my track in this show will include pretending to be pert and cutesy, climbing ladders, marching, becoming a tattoo artist, performing a faux striptease with imitation palm leaves held together by fist muscle and gaffe tape, leaning over, and.......skipping.
I have to go to the bra store.
I have heard of the bra store, and seen people go there and emerge to tell the tale. I feel it's not fatal, but I'm still not excited, per se.
I turn the knob on the bra store door on a stormy Sunday at a quarter to four.
(That's not true. It was quarter past 5. But I really like the sound of that sentence.)
I am able to attend the bra store at this time due to the kindness and generosity of Saint Sue Griffin of The Novempire Costume Shoppe. Saint Sue (along with Saints Sarah, Ruth, Marcia, and Lynn) have been hearing me gripe about my boobs for years. I don't fancy anyone knowing about them, you see. And oft times, I am blessed to be assigned gorgeous costumes which, a. make me feel like a princess, and b. make my boobs a little less of a secret. This being the case once again in "South Pacific," Sue swoops in like an conquering angel with the costume shop's store credit and sends me off to the bra store on a mission to acquire a bra which fits, is comfortable, and saves everyone else from my endless complaining.
So here I am. We are on dinner break between rehearsals and in the rehearsal this upcoming evening, we are slated to don our costumes for the very first time. I intend to be fully prepared.
The knob squeaks as it rotates. The door creaks open. I poke my head inside.
Silence. Deep pink, lacy silence. It's also rather dark in here. I can't tell if that's purposeful to set some sort of mood for spending soul-obliterating amounts of money on underpants or if it's just due to the approaching storm.
Regardless, no one is here. I check the sign on the door. Clearly open. I'll wait. I take tentative steps toward the closest wall of bras. Wall of bras. Well, this isn't going to work. These bras are delightful. Lovely, lacy little confections in gentle spring colors that look like they're made of tissues and fairy epidermis. That's all very well for some boobs, I suppose. If you're a paper doll with a desk job.
I'm going to need more support than that. I like to be completely immobilized, breast-wise. Ideal bra materials include: a saddle. Give me a couple of slabs of Western style saddle leather, curl them into cones, punch in a couple of grommets, run a few lengths of industrial chain across on the appropriate diagonals and clamp it all down with some 4" ratchet straps and we'd be good.***
I don't see any of that here. What I do see, suddenly and shockingly, is a very elderly and small man standing immediately to my right in front of the wall of bras. He doesn't speak. I ask him if he works here. He remains silent, then turns and wanders slowly away into a back room I hadn't previously noticed.
I think about that for a minute. I am programmed to think it is odd to be standing in perusal of a wall of bras with an elderly gentleman, but it isn't. When you break it down, we were just standing looking a wall full of circular sections of fabric and elastic. May as well have been deciding on string cheese in the dairy section.
Anyway. There's still no sign of an employee. That man may have been a ghost. My eyes rove the rest of the store.
Oh, look! A food section.
Now, I've heard of edible panties, and of licking chocolate sauce off a person if you accidentally miss your cup of milk, but some of these items raise questions.
For example- edible candy thongs.
Now. I do not believe in thongs. I will not be convinced thongs are a good idea no matter how much ice cream and Chinese food you offer me. I don't care that it's made of colorful candy droplets and soft string. May as well be made of Cracklin' Oat Bran and garrote wire.
I suppose that'd be healthier. Regardless, I have no wish to snack on my panties.
Suddenly the store mistress appears. She is kind and lovely and receives my monologue of fear and explanation of my presence with aplomb. Sue, it turns out, has warned her I am coming.
I am taken into a curtained off back section of the shop and measured.
I am both humbled and horrorstruck by the result. And we're not going to get into that.
Suffice to say, I am now the proud and grateful owner of a very professional and hard-working brassiere which has seen me safely through a tour of duty in the South Pacific, a short stint as a momentarily slutty nanny, posing as a triplet from the 1940's, and throwing my body against a faux brick wall when overcome with passion for the fella who works at the local florist.
Who knows what's next.
(Title of this piece has nothing to do with the bra store, and everything to do with the fact that I saw the film "Tarzan" today and have so much to say about it I couldn't wait. My very favorite man from television (with the exception of Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter) is playing Tarzan, and so I had to go see it. I have recently learned that said favorite man is suffering from a sinus infection this week. I can be Clara Barton. Lessons learned from the film include:
1. Though they are lethal, I adore hippos.
2. Diamonds are just rocks, people.
3. Monkeys are VERY exciting when they are incensed.
4. Christoph Waltz is never hungry when he makes movies. And perhaps has included in his contract a guarantee he have at least one scene per film wherein he brings a young woman's nerves perilously close to the breaking point over brunch.
*Whether or not there are buffalo in Scotland is far removed from this point.**
**There are.
***Most of this readily available at your neighborhood Lowe's.
The bra store is situated in a nook betwixt a post office, a veterinary clinic, and a library.
Right where you'd look for it.
I was harangued into attending the bra store by my own inner monologue. You see, I was to appear in a production of "South Pacific" and had been threatened with the information that, while doing said appearing, I was to wear a "playsuit." "Playsuit" is really just slang for, "Audra, you have to wear a bikini."
Rage. 100% rage. I will freeze! I may as well be nude! You can't make me do that! Feelings that I want to move to a mountain cave in fourteenth century Scotland and clothe myself fully in buffalo furs or even buffalo stomach lining (depending on where I stand with provisions).*
"Oh, Audra! Here's the fabric we're making your playsuit out of. Look, it's rainbow patterned!"
....Pause to consider re-considering.....
OK. I knock it back to 67% rage. It's a real cute suit.
But anyway- I assess my situation. Chase has informed me that my track in this show will include pretending to be pert and cutesy, climbing ladders, marching, becoming a tattoo artist, performing a faux striptease with imitation palm leaves held together by fist muscle and gaffe tape, leaning over, and.......skipping.
I have to go to the bra store.
I have heard of the bra store, and seen people go there and emerge to tell the tale. I feel it's not fatal, but I'm still not excited, per se.
I turn the knob on the bra store door on a stormy Sunday at a quarter to four.
(That's not true. It was quarter past 5. But I really like the sound of that sentence.)
I am able to attend the bra store at this time due to the kindness and generosity of Saint Sue Griffin of The Novempire Costume Shoppe. Saint Sue (along with Saints Sarah, Ruth, Marcia, and Lynn) have been hearing me gripe about my boobs for years. I don't fancy anyone knowing about them, you see. And oft times, I am blessed to be assigned gorgeous costumes which, a. make me feel like a princess, and b. make my boobs a little less of a secret. This being the case once again in "South Pacific," Sue swoops in like an conquering angel with the costume shop's store credit and sends me off to the bra store on a mission to acquire a bra which fits, is comfortable, and saves everyone else from my endless complaining.
So here I am. We are on dinner break between rehearsals and in the rehearsal this upcoming evening, we are slated to don our costumes for the very first time. I intend to be fully prepared.
The knob squeaks as it rotates. The door creaks open. I poke my head inside.
Silence. Deep pink, lacy silence. It's also rather dark in here. I can't tell if that's purposeful to set some sort of mood for spending soul-obliterating amounts of money on underpants or if it's just due to the approaching storm.
Regardless, no one is here. I check the sign on the door. Clearly open. I'll wait. I take tentative steps toward the closest wall of bras. Wall of bras. Well, this isn't going to work. These bras are delightful. Lovely, lacy little confections in gentle spring colors that look like they're made of tissues and fairy epidermis. That's all very well for some boobs, I suppose. If you're a paper doll with a desk job.
I'm going to need more support than that. I like to be completely immobilized, breast-wise. Ideal bra materials include: a saddle. Give me a couple of slabs of Western style saddle leather, curl them into cones, punch in a couple of grommets, run a few lengths of industrial chain across on the appropriate diagonals and clamp it all down with some 4" ratchet straps and we'd be good.***
I don't see any of that here. What I do see, suddenly and shockingly, is a very elderly and small man standing immediately to my right in front of the wall of bras. He doesn't speak. I ask him if he works here. He remains silent, then turns and wanders slowly away into a back room I hadn't previously noticed.
I think about that for a minute. I am programmed to think it is odd to be standing in perusal of a wall of bras with an elderly gentleman, but it isn't. When you break it down, we were just standing looking a wall full of circular sections of fabric and elastic. May as well have been deciding on string cheese in the dairy section.
Anyway. There's still no sign of an employee. That man may have been a ghost. My eyes rove the rest of the store.
Oh, look! A food section.
Now, I've heard of edible panties, and of licking chocolate sauce off a person if you accidentally miss your cup of milk, but some of these items raise questions.
For example- edible candy thongs.
Now. I do not believe in thongs. I will not be convinced thongs are a good idea no matter how much ice cream and Chinese food you offer me. I don't care that it's made of colorful candy droplets and soft string. May as well be made of Cracklin' Oat Bran and garrote wire.
I suppose that'd be healthier. Regardless, I have no wish to snack on my panties.
Suddenly the store mistress appears. She is kind and lovely and receives my monologue of fear and explanation of my presence with aplomb. Sue, it turns out, has warned her I am coming.
I am taken into a curtained off back section of the shop and measured.
I am both humbled and horrorstruck by the result. And we're not going to get into that.
Suffice to say, I am now the proud and grateful owner of a very professional and hard-working brassiere which has seen me safely through a tour of duty in the South Pacific, a short stint as a momentarily slutty nanny, posing as a triplet from the 1940's, and throwing my body against a faux brick wall when overcome with passion for the fella who works at the local florist.
Who knows what's next.
(Title of this piece has nothing to do with the bra store, and everything to do with the fact that I saw the film "Tarzan" today and have so much to say about it I couldn't wait. My very favorite man from television (with the exception of Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter) is playing Tarzan, and so I had to go see it. I have recently learned that said favorite man is suffering from a sinus infection this week. I can be Clara Barton. Lessons learned from the film include:
1. Though they are lethal, I adore hippos.
2. Diamonds are just rocks, people.
3. Monkeys are VERY exciting when they are incensed.
4. Christoph Waltz is never hungry when he makes movies. And perhaps has included in his contract a guarantee he have at least one scene per film wherein he brings a young woman's nerves perilously close to the breaking point over brunch.
*Whether or not there are buffalo in Scotland is far removed from this point.**
**There are.
***Most of this readily available at your neighborhood Lowe's.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Wednesday Emissions
Leo is circling the oak tree. His left hand trailing along the bark in his wake. He's been at it for awhile now, and I'm impressed. The root system on this tree calls to mind Maleficent's thorn forest from "Sleeping Beauty."
Leo is the last camper waiting at carpool. We stand quietly under the tree as he circles.
"So, Leo. You're doing a really great job at camp. What else do you like to do?"
Circle. Circle. Silent Circle.
"Well, I enjoy creating adventures for my mom and dad and me to go on from the stories in 'National Geographic' magazine."
I am impressed again. That's a really wonderful idea.
"You know, Leo, that's a wonderful idea. The issue from the late 1980s with the feature on Arctic foxes was one of my favorites. I loved that photo spread."
Circle. Circle. Silent Circle.
"Yeah. I do the same thing with the Pottery Barn catalogue."
.....
Earlier in the day, Knox is leaning casually against the wall beside the registration desk. Glistening, jiggling columns of snot roll like slugs down his upper lip. I am aghast. He is casually conversational.
"Poop, grass, cats, hair, dogs, any animal really. My allergies are awful!"
I nod mutely and hand him the seventieth tissue in as many seconds. This pattern continues throughout the day. We run out of all tissue boxes purchased for camp purposes and move on to a roll of paper towels until Knox's nose starts to resemble a rotting persimmon and then it's on to toilet paper. I am following him around with said toilet paper handing him three squares at a time and trying to be inconspicuous in an effort to shield him from any poop humor fueled inquiries into why he is blowing his nose with TP when suddenly he stops in his tracks, turns to face me, reaches gracefully up with his right arm and blasts a vigorous snot rocket onto the floor at my feet.
Aghast, aghast....synonyms for aghast......
I am certain my face turned into a horror waffle. I struggle to compose myself and get him all cleaned up. In that tone of voice Tom Hanks uses in "A League of Their Own" to explain to the sobbing Evelyn how crucial it is that she not miss the cut off, I suggest that Knox never ever ever ever EVER do that again.
He's cool with that. Absorbs the life lesson and immediately resumes smushing squares of yellow felt onto the thumbtip of a gardening glove.*
This serves me right. You see...
Once upon a time on a high school show choir trip to Disney World in the 11th grade, I overheard a boy I liked mention that Miriam** blew "snot rockets in the shower." Now. I had no idea what a snot rocket was. Had never heard the term mentioned before. I investigated. One of the altos was in the know and let me in on the definition- plugging up one nostril by pressure exerted via finger from the outside of the nose and blowing out as hard as you can through the other nostril, thereby heaving all mucous therein out of your body. So, whatever. The shower honestly sounded like the most logical place to do something like that. But, for some reason- I'd hazard to place the blame on immaturity, jealousy-- Miriam was a cheerleader and I secretly longed to have one of those uniforms. The personal suspicion that I just might appear more "skeptical baked potato" than "lissome team spirit builder" in that uniform prevented me from trying out for the squad.***
Combining those two things with the fact that I very, very secretly wanted to impress one or two of the tenors led me to the following: striding evilly up behind Miriam as she walked near the front of our group down the lavishly joyful, flower-strewn, and goodwill-filled Disney World Main Street USA, clearing my throat as we neared the welcoming terrace of Cinderella's castle and bellowing just loudly enough to shatter her princess dreams, "Hey, Miriam! WHAT'S A SNOT ROCKET?"
Desired effect not achieved. Instantly sure I am going to hell. Aforementioned boys stop in their tracks, turn their heads and stare at me in shock and disgust. Up until this point, I have been sweet, shy, puffy-haired Muffin**** with her white high top Nike basketball sneakers and FUBU coat she sometimes borrowed from her favorite baritone. Now I've said this.
I apologize, repair the friendship, and learn a very very huge lesson.
Not sure why I needed the reminder.
*"Star Wars." Trust me.
**So not her real name.
***My self image has since improved. Though I don't know I'll ever get "lissome." One needs, I feel, legs longer than Trapper-Keepers to earn that adjective.
****High school nickname. More on that later.
Leo is the last camper waiting at carpool. We stand quietly under the tree as he circles.
"So, Leo. You're doing a really great job at camp. What else do you like to do?"
Circle. Circle. Silent Circle.
"Well, I enjoy creating adventures for my mom and dad and me to go on from the stories in 'National Geographic' magazine."
I am impressed again. That's a really wonderful idea.
"You know, Leo, that's a wonderful idea. The issue from the late 1980s with the feature on Arctic foxes was one of my favorites. I loved that photo spread."
Circle. Circle. Silent Circle.
"Yeah. I do the same thing with the Pottery Barn catalogue."
.....
Earlier in the day, Knox is leaning casually against the wall beside the registration desk. Glistening, jiggling columns of snot roll like slugs down his upper lip. I am aghast. He is casually conversational.
"Poop, grass, cats, hair, dogs, any animal really. My allergies are awful!"
I nod mutely and hand him the seventieth tissue in as many seconds. This pattern continues throughout the day. We run out of all tissue boxes purchased for camp purposes and move on to a roll of paper towels until Knox's nose starts to resemble a rotting persimmon and then it's on to toilet paper. I am following him around with said toilet paper handing him three squares at a time and trying to be inconspicuous in an effort to shield him from any poop humor fueled inquiries into why he is blowing his nose with TP when suddenly he stops in his tracks, turns to face me, reaches gracefully up with his right arm and blasts a vigorous snot rocket onto the floor at my feet.
Aghast, aghast....synonyms for aghast......
I am certain my face turned into a horror waffle. I struggle to compose myself and get him all cleaned up. In that tone of voice Tom Hanks uses in "A League of Their Own" to explain to the sobbing Evelyn how crucial it is that she not miss the cut off, I suggest that Knox never ever ever ever EVER do that again.
He's cool with that. Absorbs the life lesson and immediately resumes smushing squares of yellow felt onto the thumbtip of a gardening glove.*
This serves me right. You see...
Once upon a time on a high school show choir trip to Disney World in the 11th grade, I overheard a boy I liked mention that Miriam** blew "snot rockets in the shower." Now. I had no idea what a snot rocket was. Had never heard the term mentioned before. I investigated. One of the altos was in the know and let me in on the definition- plugging up one nostril by pressure exerted via finger from the outside of the nose and blowing out as hard as you can through the other nostril, thereby heaving all mucous therein out of your body. So, whatever. The shower honestly sounded like the most logical place to do something like that. But, for some reason- I'd hazard to place the blame on immaturity, jealousy-- Miriam was a cheerleader and I secretly longed to have one of those uniforms. The personal suspicion that I just might appear more "skeptical baked potato" than "lissome team spirit builder" in that uniform prevented me from trying out for the squad.***
Combining those two things with the fact that I very, very secretly wanted to impress one or two of the tenors led me to the following: striding evilly up behind Miriam as she walked near the front of our group down the lavishly joyful, flower-strewn, and goodwill-filled Disney World Main Street USA, clearing my throat as we neared the welcoming terrace of Cinderella's castle and bellowing just loudly enough to shatter her princess dreams, "Hey, Miriam! WHAT'S A SNOT ROCKET?"
Desired effect not achieved. Instantly sure I am going to hell. Aforementioned boys stop in their tracks, turn their heads and stare at me in shock and disgust. Up until this point, I have been sweet, shy, puffy-haired Muffin**** with her white high top Nike basketball sneakers and FUBU coat she sometimes borrowed from her favorite baritone. Now I've said this.
I apologize, repair the friendship, and learn a very very huge lesson.
Not sure why I needed the reminder.
*"Star Wars." Trust me.
**So not her real name.
***My self image has since improved. Though I don't know I'll ever get "lissome." One needs, I feel, legs longer than Trapper-Keepers to earn that adjective.
****High school nickname. More on that later.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Minnie Who?
Woebegone* child in in floral housecoat trudges toward check-in desk.
"Good morning, Hannah! What a nice backpack! Who's that on your backpack?" (It's Minnie Mouse.)
..........
.....................
"Minnie."
Heaves sigh. Begins trudge in direction of coloring pages.
"Now, hold on a minute, Hannah! I know Minnie has a last name! What's the rest of her name???"
Deeper sigh. Stops. Halfhearted glance back over her right shoulder.
"Nobody."
Great. Minnie Nobody. That's actually fantastic. I am so glad this new character name has arisen in result of Mr. Paul's jolly good morning greetings.
Last week we, as a strong and very vocal unit of forty, performed Queen's "We Are The Champions" and Lady Gaga's "Paparazzi" to both the rage and delight of the parents. Delight due to joy in seeing their children passionately sweating and straining through the higher section of the "Champions" chorus while posing as victoriously as possible - fists held high/lying on the floor chewing their shoelace. I myself was moved. From my spot standing perched atop a folding chair where I was acting out all the necessary choreography along with the kids while simultaneously providing a truly horrible example of how to use furniture.
The aforementioned rage comes from the children now insisting upon having Gaga blaring in the car to and from all camp activities and probably to and from the pool, the grocery store, and as accompaniment for bath-time.
It was a smash.
This week: I've branched out. We're looking at a "Star Wars" theme, folks.
Note: Up until very recently, I'd not seen any of the "Star Wars" films, and this has only been slightly corrected. But I figured I knew enough now to successfully write a ten minute play on the subject for a slew of seven-year-olds.
Not so much sort of so.
I quickly toss off four group names for the campers to be sorted into this week. Easy, I think. So, Wookies - wait, that's not how to spell that, who knew -- Wookiees, Ewoks - oh, I love them, they are so cute. I have always wanted to be one for Halloween. And then there was that time Nick Aliff had a dream he was being chased through a forest by Ewok Audra and she was chattering at him irately and firing off arrows in the direction of his person from the treetops. I love that dream. So, Wookiees, Ewoks....hmm. Oh! Storm Troopers - I think those are the white plastic people who look like trash cans, and.....Ah! The Resistance. Great. Group names done.
Children FURIOUS. Storm Troopers are not so much the thing to be, as it turns out. Many of the children are not clear on what an Ewok is. Wookiees they are largely OK with, but the only positive aspect of being a member of the Resistance seems to be having your lunch bag table located closest to the check-in desk.
I would estimate that literally 70% of the children today are wearing the same "Star Wars" T-shirt. Based on the most recent movie. With that little two ball white critter with orange patches and that magical food where you put sand and water in an old Lean Cuisine container and poof! Come up with some dear and green puffy bread. That bread was, I think, my favorite part of that film. I wrote a story about it:
STAR WARS
Anyway- for craft today, we make light sabers out of pool noodles.**
Pool noodles and duct tape. So now, forty seven-year-olds are the proud new owners of personal pool noodle light sabers with which they will be expected to perform a piece of low intensity/high-quality performance art stage combat on this coming Friday at 2:30PM. If anyone's interested. Which you probably should be. Mr. Paul plans to conduct a unit on fencing this week. A fencing intensive. Right after the unit on How To Open Your Own Go-Gurt.
Musical selections for this week will include: "Intergalactic" by the Beastie Boys***, "Think" by Aretha Franklin, "I Have Confidence" from "The Sound of Music," and "We Are Family," by someone I can't remember right now, but I've changed the "sisters" lyric to "friends here," so don't worry.
All this mostly means is that today, I encouraged a gymnasium full of children in "Star Wars" shirts to stop trying to sing on pitch and to make robot noises instead, and that Miss Heather got to conduct an open call for first grader impressions of Chewbacca.
As the above event is going on, I am beginning to think that the uvular trill is something one generally acquires later in life (unless someone has spent an inordinate amount of time watching "The Little Mermaid," and, having nailed down her Ariel impression, has moved on to impersonating Scuttle during "Kiss the Girl), when suddenly Joshua in his snazzy red and white striped shorts trots boldly up to the magic purple dot Mr. Paul has placed on the floor as a mark for this round of auditions and trills his uvula so violently I am surprised he didn't soil his shorts.
Surprised and impressed. I'm not privy to casting decisions on this matter, but I'm eager to see the cast list when it is posted in the morning.
*May be first recorded case of "Resting Woebegone Face."
**I did not know this prior, but cutting pool noodles in half with scissors is a really, really good time.
***Everything I know about this song I know because one summer Scott Wichmann and I were in a show together and we were going somewhere on 64 West with the Beastie Boys album blaring in my '99 Red Chevrolet Cavalier and he was explaining to me how during "The Baseball Game" number in "You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown," the math doesn't add up re. how many runs would be needed to tie or win the game. He's right. It's in the narrative CB sings just before he gets distracted by the trashy ginger in the stands and blows the game for everyone. And once you see that he's right you feel like you have Sherlock Holmes-d the whole affair. And now I cannot think of either song without thinking of this piece of information. Which is one of those things I love about life.
"Good morning, Hannah! What a nice backpack! Who's that on your backpack?" (It's Minnie Mouse.)
..........
.....................
"Minnie."
Heaves sigh. Begins trudge in direction of coloring pages.
"Now, hold on a minute, Hannah! I know Minnie has a last name! What's the rest of her name???"
Deeper sigh. Stops. Halfhearted glance back over her right shoulder.
"Nobody."
Great. Minnie Nobody. That's actually fantastic. I am so glad this new character name has arisen in result of Mr. Paul's jolly good morning greetings.
Last week we, as a strong and very vocal unit of forty, performed Queen's "We Are The Champions" and Lady Gaga's "Paparazzi" to both the rage and delight of the parents. Delight due to joy in seeing their children passionately sweating and straining through the higher section of the "Champions" chorus while posing as victoriously as possible - fists held high/lying on the floor chewing their shoelace. I myself was moved. From my spot standing perched atop a folding chair where I was acting out all the necessary choreography along with the kids while simultaneously providing a truly horrible example of how to use furniture.
The aforementioned rage comes from the children now insisting upon having Gaga blaring in the car to and from all camp activities and probably to and from the pool, the grocery store, and as accompaniment for bath-time.
It was a smash.
This week: I've branched out. We're looking at a "Star Wars" theme, folks.
Note: Up until very recently, I'd not seen any of the "Star Wars" films, and this has only been slightly corrected. But I figured I knew enough now to successfully write a ten minute play on the subject for a slew of seven-year-olds.
Not so much sort of so.
I quickly toss off four group names for the campers to be sorted into this week. Easy, I think. So, Wookies - wait, that's not how to spell that, who knew -- Wookiees, Ewoks - oh, I love them, they are so cute. I have always wanted to be one for Halloween. And then there was that time Nick Aliff had a dream he was being chased through a forest by Ewok Audra and she was chattering at him irately and firing off arrows in the direction of his person from the treetops. I love that dream. So, Wookiees, Ewoks....hmm. Oh! Storm Troopers - I think those are the white plastic people who look like trash cans, and.....Ah! The Resistance. Great. Group names done.
Children FURIOUS. Storm Troopers are not so much the thing to be, as it turns out. Many of the children are not clear on what an Ewok is. Wookiees they are largely OK with, but the only positive aspect of being a member of the Resistance seems to be having your lunch bag table located closest to the check-in desk.
I would estimate that literally 70% of the children today are wearing the same "Star Wars" T-shirt. Based on the most recent movie. With that little two ball white critter with orange patches and that magical food where you put sand and water in an old Lean Cuisine container and poof! Come up with some dear and green puffy bread. That bread was, I think, my favorite part of that film. I wrote a story about it:
STAR WARS
Anyway- for craft today, we make light sabers out of pool noodles.**
Pool noodles and duct tape. So now, forty seven-year-olds are the proud new owners of personal pool noodle light sabers with which they will be expected to perform a piece of low intensity/high-quality performance art stage combat on this coming Friday at 2:30PM. If anyone's interested. Which you probably should be. Mr. Paul plans to conduct a unit on fencing this week. A fencing intensive. Right after the unit on How To Open Your Own Go-Gurt.
Musical selections for this week will include: "Intergalactic" by the Beastie Boys***, "Think" by Aretha Franklin, "I Have Confidence" from "The Sound of Music," and "We Are Family," by someone I can't remember right now, but I've changed the "sisters" lyric to "friends here," so don't worry.
All this mostly means is that today, I encouraged a gymnasium full of children in "Star Wars" shirts to stop trying to sing on pitch and to make robot noises instead, and that Miss Heather got to conduct an open call for first grader impressions of Chewbacca.
As the above event is going on, I am beginning to think that the uvular trill is something one generally acquires later in life (unless someone has spent an inordinate amount of time watching "The Little Mermaid," and, having nailed down her Ariel impression, has moved on to impersonating Scuttle during "Kiss the Girl), when suddenly Joshua in his snazzy red and white striped shorts trots boldly up to the magic purple dot Mr. Paul has placed on the floor as a mark for this round of auditions and trills his uvula so violently I am surprised he didn't soil his shorts.
Surprised and impressed. I'm not privy to casting decisions on this matter, but I'm eager to see the cast list when it is posted in the morning.
*May be first recorded case of "Resting Woebegone Face."
**I did not know this prior, but cutting pool noodles in half with scissors is a really, really good time.
***Everything I know about this song I know because one summer Scott Wichmann and I were in a show together and we were going somewhere on 64 West with the Beastie Boys album blaring in my '99 Red Chevrolet Cavalier and he was explaining to me how during "The Baseball Game" number in "You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown," the math doesn't add up re. how many runs would be needed to tie or win the game. He's right. It's in the narrative CB sings just before he gets distracted by the trashy ginger in the stands and blows the game for everyone. And once you see that he's right you feel like you have Sherlock Holmes-d the whole affair. And now I cannot think of either song without thinking of this piece of information. Which is one of those things I love about life.
Saturday, June 25, 2016
I Find That Bear Unacceptable
I am on my couch.
In my lap is a Target bag full of tiny magical pouches which each contain a surprise Care Bear.
Sounds like incredible news, right? Well, I thought so too.
At first.
A few weeks ago I noticed Mr. Paul had a tiny, but good-looking, blue and shiny Care Bear figurine in the console of his car. Immediate interrogation. Apparently, it's a thing now that Target and Walmart are selling these little sealed and non-transparent pouches full of Care Bear figurines. One bear per pouch. He gave me the one in his car because it happened to be a Care Bear he doesn't care for. So, said Care Bear has been standing on my table next to an antique lamp ever since.
But then, a few days ago, while out shopping for camp supplies, another Care Bear pouch was purchased, and subsequently ripped open while waiting on line in the Burger King drive-thru. Alright, not an excellent bear, but one I was considering bringing into my home.
There wasn't a problem with any of this though, until last night. Last night, a long conversation was held involving these Bears. I was made aware that not only are there Bears, there are also: My Little Ponies, Crystal Pets, Disney Princesses, and - as I discovered this afternoon - KITTENS.
Maggie and Mr. Paul and I plotted on how best to acquire the specific Bears we most enjoy. They produce more of some of the less popular Bears, you see. Maggie and I are partial to, and very eager to find, Grumpy Bear. Mr. Paul has one My Little Pony in particular he is gunning for.
All day today, through rehearsals and twice teaching the children and more rehearsals I was excited for my late afternoon trip to Target for groceries and, well, toys.
I zoom to the toy section and try not to mow over the indigenous toddlers. I am not even sure this Target carries what I'm looking for. I had received distressing news only moments before that Mr. Paul's Walmart no longer does. But- there they are. I find not just one but two bins of My Little Pony pouches. Now- the My Little Pony pouch producers have made the gross gaffe of leaving transparent one tiny swirl of the plastic pouch. So, rather than buying them all, I stand there for ten minutes and squish and squeeze each Pony into a position which allows me to see its color and markings. Unfortunately, none of these pouches contains Mr. Paul's preferred pony. No one lose hope.*
I purchase seven Care Bear pouches.*
I also purchase some very exciting ice cream and lunches for the upcoming camp week.
I get in the car. As I turn out of Libbie Place onto Broad St. I think: OK- what I will do is open one pouch per week at the end of camp. As a prize. I mean- I'll open one now, of course, but other than that.
At a red light on Staples Mill, I tear into the first pouch my hand finds rifling blindly through the bag.
My heart actually pounds for a beat. I glance down- hopeful......I can see an orange tint reflected on the inner silver lining of the bag. Oh NO. The one I opened while waiting on line at Burger King is orange. I bet it's the same one. I don't want another of that one.
It is, in fact, the same one. I am madder than I care to admit. I scowl my way past Wendy's and Cook-Out and recalibrate my plan. I could always give that bear to Maggie. But- I think she said she already has that bear. And I know Mr. Paul doesn't like that bear. Hmm. I know some children. I wonder if Brendan and Meghann's daughter or Heather's son would like this Bear. But then, no- I think these Bears are for 4 years and up. I could throw it away? That seems a waste.
Mostly I'm just angry.
I arrive home and unload my groceries. I am thinking I will still try and save opening the remaining pouches. Scatter them throughout the summer. Seems wise.
I have opened four more. ALL DISAPPOINTMENTS.
The disappointing Bears are now lying on the couch to my left. On top of their discarded plastic shrouds. I've never even heard of one of these Bears. It's pink and has a pink heart at the center of its stomach with rainbow shards radiating all around. It's called Hopeful Heart Bear.
I certainly don't remember that from when I was two.
I want the Cupcake Bear. The Cupcake Bear and Grumpy Bear. I had an actual stuffed Cupcake Bear when I was small. He is yellow. I mislaid him once for thirteen years and was convinced my father had done away with him in an attempt to clean out the attic. My mother tried to convince me otherwise, but I held firm. Until I found him.
My Popple, however, remains AWOL.
So, I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm frustrated. I'm disappointed. Honestly, I feel restricted and torn between the responsibility and maturity which would dictate my saving the remaining pouches and the adrenaline rush that instantly floods in with the gratification of tearing them open all at once.
I have no clever closing line. I'm too miffed.
*Pouches are very cheap.** As though one could ever put a price on heart-pounding day-long anticipation in the lives of children. And people in their thirties.
**Pouches also bear the added distinction of having that new pool float smell. One of my favorites.
In my lap is a Target bag full of tiny magical pouches which each contain a surprise Care Bear.
Sounds like incredible news, right? Well, I thought so too.
At first.
A few weeks ago I noticed Mr. Paul had a tiny, but good-looking, blue and shiny Care Bear figurine in the console of his car. Immediate interrogation. Apparently, it's a thing now that Target and Walmart are selling these little sealed and non-transparent pouches full of Care Bear figurines. One bear per pouch. He gave me the one in his car because it happened to be a Care Bear he doesn't care for. So, said Care Bear has been standing on my table next to an antique lamp ever since.
But then, a few days ago, while out shopping for camp supplies, another Care Bear pouch was purchased, and subsequently ripped open while waiting on line in the Burger King drive-thru. Alright, not an excellent bear, but one I was considering bringing into my home.
There wasn't a problem with any of this though, until last night. Last night, a long conversation was held involving these Bears. I was made aware that not only are there Bears, there are also: My Little Ponies, Crystal Pets, Disney Princesses, and - as I discovered this afternoon - KITTENS.
Maggie and Mr. Paul and I plotted on how best to acquire the specific Bears we most enjoy. They produce more of some of the less popular Bears, you see. Maggie and I are partial to, and very eager to find, Grumpy Bear. Mr. Paul has one My Little Pony in particular he is gunning for.
All day today, through rehearsals and twice teaching the children and more rehearsals I was excited for my late afternoon trip to Target for groceries and, well, toys.
I zoom to the toy section and try not to mow over the indigenous toddlers. I am not even sure this Target carries what I'm looking for. I had received distressing news only moments before that Mr. Paul's Walmart no longer does. But- there they are. I find not just one but two bins of My Little Pony pouches. Now- the My Little Pony pouch producers have made the gross gaffe of leaving transparent one tiny swirl of the plastic pouch. So, rather than buying them all, I stand there for ten minutes and squish and squeeze each Pony into a position which allows me to see its color and markings. Unfortunately, none of these pouches contains Mr. Paul's preferred pony. No one lose hope.*
I purchase seven Care Bear pouches.*
I also purchase some very exciting ice cream and lunches for the upcoming camp week.
I get in the car. As I turn out of Libbie Place onto Broad St. I think: OK- what I will do is open one pouch per week at the end of camp. As a prize. I mean- I'll open one now, of course, but other than that.
At a red light on Staples Mill, I tear into the first pouch my hand finds rifling blindly through the bag.
My heart actually pounds for a beat. I glance down- hopeful......I can see an orange tint reflected on the inner silver lining of the bag. Oh NO. The one I opened while waiting on line at Burger King is orange. I bet it's the same one. I don't want another of that one.
It is, in fact, the same one. I am madder than I care to admit. I scowl my way past Wendy's and Cook-Out and recalibrate my plan. I could always give that bear to Maggie. But- I think she said she already has that bear. And I know Mr. Paul doesn't like that bear. Hmm. I know some children. I wonder if Brendan and Meghann's daughter or Heather's son would like this Bear. But then, no- I think these Bears are for 4 years and up. I could throw it away? That seems a waste.
Mostly I'm just angry.
I arrive home and unload my groceries. I am thinking I will still try and save opening the remaining pouches. Scatter them throughout the summer. Seems wise.
I have opened four more. ALL DISAPPOINTMENTS.
The disappointing Bears are now lying on the couch to my left. On top of their discarded plastic shrouds. I've never even heard of one of these Bears. It's pink and has a pink heart at the center of its stomach with rainbow shards radiating all around. It's called Hopeful Heart Bear.
I certainly don't remember that from when I was two.
I want the Cupcake Bear. The Cupcake Bear and Grumpy Bear. I had an actual stuffed Cupcake Bear when I was small. He is yellow. I mislaid him once for thirteen years and was convinced my father had done away with him in an attempt to clean out the attic. My mother tried to convince me otherwise, but I held firm. Until I found him.
My Popple, however, remains AWOL.
So, I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm frustrated. I'm disappointed. Honestly, I feel restricted and torn between the responsibility and maturity which would dictate my saving the remaining pouches and the adrenaline rush that instantly floods in with the gratification of tearing them open all at once.
I have no clever closing line. I'm too miffed.
*Pouches are very cheap.** As though one could ever put a price on heart-pounding day-long anticipation in the lives of children. And people in their thirties.
**Pouches also bear the added distinction of having that new pool float smell. One of my favorites.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Blood And The Tall Child
Roger* has hair the color of Cheez-Its. A face the exact size, shape, and shade of an empty Mr. Potato Head. Ice blue eyes round and shining as you would find on a porcelain doll. He has just turned six years old and is currently standing atop his chair in the lunch room bellowing and shhhhhhhhh-ing the other forty children in the room with every breath in his little body in an attempt to gain complete silence. He has an important announcement to make, it seems. I observe him from my chair by the stereo where I am nibbling my Clif Bar. No one is really listening, so after one final and very agitated "SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" (he's trembling with effort at this point), he goes ahead with his news:
"Does anyone--" (he redoubles his efforts) "DOES ANYONE HERE LIKE HAM & JELLY?????????"
No one answers him. Well, that sounds disgusting. Probably nobody does.**
I should preface all this with the information that I'm teaching theater camp to children for the next eight weeks. Let's prepare ourselves.
As lunch draws near, I find myself standing in the midst of a round of Barricade- a fantastic game wherein the children are all lumped into a bunch on the far side of whatever room they're in and told their only object is to cross to the other side. In complete silence. We field the usual questions: "What if I have to breathe? Can I breathe?" "What if I sneeze? Can I sneeze?" "What if I had to cough a little bit because my throat hurts maybe today a little bit and maybe I'll need to cough but that's just because I'm sick so I can't help it, does that count?" Counts. Take your vitamins.
The children are creeping across the room like snails in a coma when suddenly one of the tall ones approaches on my right and tugs at my yellow sleeve. I glance down. Her entire face and front are covered in blood. Mr. Paul is reaching for my left sleeve to use me in demonstration of the lethal consequences of error in the next round of the game, but I weigh my options quickly and decide participating in this demonstration probably isn't worth having a child bleed out before lunch.
"I got you," I say, and put an arm around the tall child's shoulders. I escort her to the bathroom. Slowly at first: more quickly when in peering down at her face I notice her teeth are now stained red and blood is falling from her shirt and chin onto the floor as we go. Once in the bathroom, I prop the tall child up in front of the sink and turn on the water. I reach for paper towels but pause midway because I notice the tall child has not taken it upon herself to lean over the sink. She's so tall, I forget she's six. I tip her slightly over. Immediately that thing happens when your nose bleeds into the spray of a faucet and each droplet erupts and multiplies into millions of droplets which spray everywhere and cause you then to have to clean not only your face and the sink but the walls, mirrors, curtains, front lawn, and - in more extreme cases - the underside of the dog. Who is at the neighbors'.
I turn down the spray and evaluate the tall child's current mental state. She seems a bit rattled and shaky, but is making a valiant attempt to keep it together. Once I've got her with an ample wad of paper towel mashed against her nose and comfortably seated in a corner by the trash can I engage in mood-boosting conversation.
"Is this your first nosebleed?" She shakes her head- no- but does not speak through the poultice of towels and clots blocking her face. I go on.
"I've had nosebleeds my whole life. Used to get them all the time. All the time! It just starts bleeding. And nothing even seems to cause it! I'll just be sleeping and wake up inhaling really hard because I could feel even in my sleep that blood was about to fall out of my nose. In fact- my first nosebleed- boy! It scared my mom. I was a very little baby and sleeping in my crib and my mom came in to check on me and saw me just lying there with my eyes closed and a huge pool of blood under my head!"
Silence.
"So, yeah. That made her nervous for a minute."
The tall child stares at me. She lifts a corner of the bloody towel away from her mouth to speak. "You look like you're wearing your pajamas."
Sigh. I'm not. I am in fact wearing my very best and favorite Idaho sweatpants and my third favorite camp T-shirt. I decide I am not insulted. I also decide not to counter with, "That may be, tall child, but you're certainly not thinking about the fact that blood is pouring out of your face and you look like you may have just participated in last week's episode of 'Game of Thrones' anymore, now are you?"
I use all the rest of the paper towel supply for the remaining seven weeks of summer camp to blot out all the blood stains on her teal flamingo T-shirt. We are silent. After that pajama comment I decide not to tell her about my many experiences with nose cauterization surgery. It's a good tale -having your blood vessels roasted and sizzled into charred and useless nubs while you sit fully conscious and inhale the aroma of the blood frying. But she might come back with some sass about my topknot or something even more personal and I'm not having that.
We verify that the nose has stopped bleeding, but I have her keep it blocked up and clotting for a few more moments while I scour the building for a spare shirt of some kind. Just envisioning the impromptu Q&A and potential waves of vomit that would ensue had I walked her back into the gymnasium full of now-lunching children in her blood-soaked clothing was enough to make me willing to craft her a top out of mown grass clippings and string cheese, if necessary.
Mr. Paul directs me to the lone available shirt in the building. I have the tall child change her top. I wash her flamingo shirt out as best I can and make sure she has cleaned the dangling congealed blood wads from the rim of her nostril. That's just not lunch material. She rejoins the pack. I spend the first third of lunch Clorox-wiping blood splatter from the floor. It was a long trail- from bleed initiation to bathroom. "Dexter & Gretel."
After my burrito, it's time for art class. Art class goes well. Mr. Paul can run an art class, let me tell you. At one point he convinces the entire pack of children not to tear or wrinkle their grey sheets of construction paper they are using to make Olympic torches because......."This grey sheet of paper. This grey sheet of paper symbolizes the base of the torch which is the emblem for Olympic Pride in not only our country but every country around the world! We must respect that pride. We must respect the torch!"
Flawless, rip-less torches.
Arts & Crafts is winding to a close when I turn to see one of the children standing before me giving me the middle finger. First-rate offense. I am about to pull the fire alarm when I notice the tip of said finger is covered in gold. I think, "Oh, that's like 'Goldfinger.' That's James Bond, I think. I don't know the song for that one. But it is James Bond, right? It's not 'Goldmember?' No- I think that was definitely Austin Powers and the one with Beyonce and where he does the weird split but it's not a great costume effect and just looks distracting. I feel like I shouldn't bring up 'Goldmember' in front of the children. I love those movies though."
The child is still staring at me. He speaks. "Mr. Paul is making us paint our medals with gold paint and when I washed my hands I forgot a finger."
There are no more paper towels.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Except for Mr. Paul's name.
**My brother used to eat peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches. In front of me. It really speaks the the existence of a higher love-based power that I still allow him in my life.
"Does anyone--" (he redoubles his efforts) "DOES ANYONE HERE LIKE HAM & JELLY?????????"
No one answers him. Well, that sounds disgusting. Probably nobody does.**
I should preface all this with the information that I'm teaching theater camp to children for the next eight weeks. Let's prepare ourselves.
As lunch draws near, I find myself standing in the midst of a round of Barricade- a fantastic game wherein the children are all lumped into a bunch on the far side of whatever room they're in and told their only object is to cross to the other side. In complete silence. We field the usual questions: "What if I have to breathe? Can I breathe?" "What if I sneeze? Can I sneeze?" "What if I had to cough a little bit because my throat hurts maybe today a little bit and maybe I'll need to cough but that's just because I'm sick so I can't help it, does that count?" Counts. Take your vitamins.
The children are creeping across the room like snails in a coma when suddenly one of the tall ones approaches on my right and tugs at my yellow sleeve. I glance down. Her entire face and front are covered in blood. Mr. Paul is reaching for my left sleeve to use me in demonstration of the lethal consequences of error in the next round of the game, but I weigh my options quickly and decide participating in this demonstration probably isn't worth having a child bleed out before lunch.
"I got you," I say, and put an arm around the tall child's shoulders. I escort her to the bathroom. Slowly at first: more quickly when in peering down at her face I notice her teeth are now stained red and blood is falling from her shirt and chin onto the floor as we go. Once in the bathroom, I prop the tall child up in front of the sink and turn on the water. I reach for paper towels but pause midway because I notice the tall child has not taken it upon herself to lean over the sink. She's so tall, I forget she's six. I tip her slightly over. Immediately that thing happens when your nose bleeds into the spray of a faucet and each droplet erupts and multiplies into millions of droplets which spray everywhere and cause you then to have to clean not only your face and the sink but the walls, mirrors, curtains, front lawn, and - in more extreme cases - the underside of the dog. Who is at the neighbors'.
I turn down the spray and evaluate the tall child's current mental state. She seems a bit rattled and shaky, but is making a valiant attempt to keep it together. Once I've got her with an ample wad of paper towel mashed against her nose and comfortably seated in a corner by the trash can I engage in mood-boosting conversation.
"Is this your first nosebleed?" She shakes her head- no- but does not speak through the poultice of towels and clots blocking her face. I go on.
"I've had nosebleeds my whole life. Used to get them all the time. All the time! It just starts bleeding. And nothing even seems to cause it! I'll just be sleeping and wake up inhaling really hard because I could feel even in my sleep that blood was about to fall out of my nose. In fact- my first nosebleed- boy! It scared my mom. I was a very little baby and sleeping in my crib and my mom came in to check on me and saw me just lying there with my eyes closed and a huge pool of blood under my head!"
Silence.
"So, yeah. That made her nervous for a minute."
The tall child stares at me. She lifts a corner of the bloody towel away from her mouth to speak. "You look like you're wearing your pajamas."
Sigh. I'm not. I am in fact wearing my very best and favorite Idaho sweatpants and my third favorite camp T-shirt. I decide I am not insulted. I also decide not to counter with, "That may be, tall child, but you're certainly not thinking about the fact that blood is pouring out of your face and you look like you may have just participated in last week's episode of 'Game of Thrones' anymore, now are you?"
I use all the rest of the paper towel supply for the remaining seven weeks of summer camp to blot out all the blood stains on her teal flamingo T-shirt. We are silent. After that pajama comment I decide not to tell her about my many experiences with nose cauterization surgery. It's a good tale -having your blood vessels roasted and sizzled into charred and useless nubs while you sit fully conscious and inhale the aroma of the blood frying. But she might come back with some sass about my topknot or something even more personal and I'm not having that.
We verify that the nose has stopped bleeding, but I have her keep it blocked up and clotting for a few more moments while I scour the building for a spare shirt of some kind. Just envisioning the impromptu Q&A and potential waves of vomit that would ensue had I walked her back into the gymnasium full of now-lunching children in her blood-soaked clothing was enough to make me willing to craft her a top out of mown grass clippings and string cheese, if necessary.
Mr. Paul directs me to the lone available shirt in the building. I have the tall child change her top. I wash her flamingo shirt out as best I can and make sure she has cleaned the dangling congealed blood wads from the rim of her nostril. That's just not lunch material. She rejoins the pack. I spend the first third of lunch Clorox-wiping blood splatter from the floor. It was a long trail- from bleed initiation to bathroom. "Dexter & Gretel."
After my burrito, it's time for art class. Art class goes well. Mr. Paul can run an art class, let me tell you. At one point he convinces the entire pack of children not to tear or wrinkle their grey sheets of construction paper they are using to make Olympic torches because......."This grey sheet of paper. This grey sheet of paper symbolizes the base of the torch which is the emblem for Olympic Pride in not only our country but every country around the world! We must respect that pride. We must respect the torch!"
Flawless, rip-less torches.
Arts & Crafts is winding to a close when I turn to see one of the children standing before me giving me the middle finger. First-rate offense. I am about to pull the fire alarm when I notice the tip of said finger is covered in gold. I think, "Oh, that's like 'Goldfinger.' That's James Bond, I think. I don't know the song for that one. But it is James Bond, right? It's not 'Goldmember?' No- I think that was definitely Austin Powers and the one with Beyonce and where he does the weird split but it's not a great costume effect and just looks distracting. I feel like I shouldn't bring up 'Goldmember' in front of the children. I love those movies though."
The child is still staring at me. He speaks. "Mr. Paul is making us paint our medals with gold paint and when I washed my hands I forgot a finger."
There are no more paper towels.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Except for Mr. Paul's name.
**My brother used to eat peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches. In front of me. It really speaks the the existence of a higher love-based power that I still allow him in my life.
Saturday, June 18, 2016
Diagonal Bread
Today I sat under some blankets with a giant penguin and looked skeptical.
I was told to do this.
It was a pretty great day. I awoke at 6:24AM to the following: "Well, her name is Theresa too! I didn't have any idea where she got that fabric softener! Cross now! Cross now! Ha ha ha- yeah. Good morning!"
You see- my bedroom window faces Mulberry Street. Which is a great street and almost always features available parking spaces. Mulberry Street also, I learned today, is part of the Richmond Marathon Training Team route. I stayed in bed wide awake for the next half hour just to catch up on the gossip. I now know everyone's business.
I finally just get out of bed because I am unable to go back to sleep now that I've found out where Theresa gets her fabric softener. I weave sleepily into the parlor. Outside my main windows I can now see the runners as well as hear them. They are all wearing rectangular pieces of paper pinned to their chests. Must be a race of some sort. I text my brother. He'll know.*
I get myself mostly together and drive to Chester. I don't get myself completely together because there are people for that. Just kidding. There aren't. Not today. I climb the stairs to Sara and Ashlee's apartment with my blue faux-crocodile makeup suitcase in tow. I note with pleasure the trash bag of bagels. I note with displeasure the trio of ceramic frogs staring at me from beside Ashlee's sink. I send Ashlee a Snapchat announcing that I am in her bathroom. She Snaps back- "Don't mess it up."**
I am in Sara's apartment because John Moon so much enjoyed recording my emotional reaction to having my car washed that he decided to see what would happen if I secretly went over to Sara and Storm's apartment while they are away overseas participating in "Finland's Got Talent."
Apropos of nothing- Pokemon are fascinating.
Anyway. I "do my hair." I am not immediately fired and asked to go home, so I suppose the result is acceptable. It's that Brazilian Blowout.
I spend the next few hours acting like I've never seen a printer before and sneezing. Interspersed with moments where I cut a loaf of banana bread with slanted cuts as opposed to straight across cuts because why not.
Meg Price is also there sneezing. And working out. She didn't mean to be working out but people kept asking her to bang pieces of plastic together in front of the camera and be certain she is not stepping on any pieces of paper while she does so. So she is pretty much doing elevated splits and holding them for longer than seems advisable (if you want your quadriceps to resemble anything other than boiled Spam).
Hallie is there as well. Hallie has long princessy red hair. She has been placed in charge of tape we don't actually need. Soon everyone realizes that this job assignment is a waste of her considerable talents, so, because we don't have any power ballads for her to sing, she is re-assigned to sit in a corner of the floor with Meg and me and talk about pimples.
Suddenly Meg and Hallie leave and I am left alone in bed with my penguin.
This penguin- he's great. He doesn't stand up unattended, which I feel to be a shortcoming in any stuffed animal, but I'll overlook it. He is tall and very soft. His bright orange fur photographs very well under the Clarendon filter on Instagram. I am to sit up tall in this bed and clutch my penguin (I don't know his name- inexcusable- will remedy tomorrow) and look suspiciously at a printer. I do all this while a man with a long blonde ponytail who reminds me of Nick Aliff records me from a corner where he is pinned behind a large black trunk.
After this, I stand in the bedroom and make noises that I would make if I were really frustrated into a grey woolly microphone.
I am then excused. I snag a honey bun. I go home.
*My brother decided one afternoon about six years ago on a lark to go for a run. He returned an hour later having run thirty seven miles and having sweated not a drop. Took to it, I'd say. I tried, and took to it like a hippo takes to the trapeze. Scott now routinely runs marathons. Which is impressive and admirable and has many benefits. Like free bananas at race's end, a large collection of obliterated sneakers, and one of my most prized possessions- a framed 8x10 of he and I snapped by the official Richmond Marathon photographer when I jumped in with Scott for a block in my formal blue velvet winter coat and Red Sox cap on my way to "Fiddler on the Roof" rehearsal at Virginia Rep. I look like an overtaxed dumpling. Scott looks like The Lord.
**I didn't. The 8-inch bobby pin on the floor at the base of the toilet is none of my doing. But I very much want to know where it came from and how I can get some for myself. Girls, I think we're going back to Beeyooteefull.***
***Yellow warehouse on Brook Road wherein you may try on five wigs for one dollar. Birthday party invites forthcoming.
I was told to do this.
It was a pretty great day. I awoke at 6:24AM to the following: "Well, her name is Theresa too! I didn't have any idea where she got that fabric softener! Cross now! Cross now! Ha ha ha- yeah. Good morning!"
You see- my bedroom window faces Mulberry Street. Which is a great street and almost always features available parking spaces. Mulberry Street also, I learned today, is part of the Richmond Marathon Training Team route. I stayed in bed wide awake for the next half hour just to catch up on the gossip. I now know everyone's business.
I finally just get out of bed because I am unable to go back to sleep now that I've found out where Theresa gets her fabric softener. I weave sleepily into the parlor. Outside my main windows I can now see the runners as well as hear them. They are all wearing rectangular pieces of paper pinned to their chests. Must be a race of some sort. I text my brother. He'll know.*
I get myself mostly together and drive to Chester. I don't get myself completely together because there are people for that. Just kidding. There aren't. Not today. I climb the stairs to Sara and Ashlee's apartment with my blue faux-crocodile makeup suitcase in tow. I note with pleasure the trash bag of bagels. I note with displeasure the trio of ceramic frogs staring at me from beside Ashlee's sink. I send Ashlee a Snapchat announcing that I am in her bathroom. She Snaps back- "Don't mess it up."**
I am in Sara's apartment because John Moon so much enjoyed recording my emotional reaction to having my car washed that he decided to see what would happen if I secretly went over to Sara and Storm's apartment while they are away overseas participating in "Finland's Got Talent."
Apropos of nothing- Pokemon are fascinating.
Anyway. I "do my hair." I am not immediately fired and asked to go home, so I suppose the result is acceptable. It's that Brazilian Blowout.
I spend the next few hours acting like I've never seen a printer before and sneezing. Interspersed with moments where I cut a loaf of banana bread with slanted cuts as opposed to straight across cuts because why not.
Meg Price is also there sneezing. And working out. She didn't mean to be working out but people kept asking her to bang pieces of plastic together in front of the camera and be certain she is not stepping on any pieces of paper while she does so. So she is pretty much doing elevated splits and holding them for longer than seems advisable (if you want your quadriceps to resemble anything other than boiled Spam).
Hallie is there as well. Hallie has long princessy red hair. She has been placed in charge of tape we don't actually need. Soon everyone realizes that this job assignment is a waste of her considerable talents, so, because we don't have any power ballads for her to sing, she is re-assigned to sit in a corner of the floor with Meg and me and talk about pimples.
Suddenly Meg and Hallie leave and I am left alone in bed with my penguin.
This penguin- he's great. He doesn't stand up unattended, which I feel to be a shortcoming in any stuffed animal, but I'll overlook it. He is tall and very soft. His bright orange fur photographs very well under the Clarendon filter on Instagram. I am to sit up tall in this bed and clutch my penguin (I don't know his name- inexcusable- will remedy tomorrow) and look suspiciously at a printer. I do all this while a man with a long blonde ponytail who reminds me of Nick Aliff records me from a corner where he is pinned behind a large black trunk.
After this, I stand in the bedroom and make noises that I would make if I were really frustrated into a grey woolly microphone.
I am then excused. I snag a honey bun. I go home.
*My brother decided one afternoon about six years ago on a lark to go for a run. He returned an hour later having run thirty seven miles and having sweated not a drop. Took to it, I'd say. I tried, and took to it like a hippo takes to the trapeze. Scott now routinely runs marathons. Which is impressive and admirable and has many benefits. Like free bananas at race's end, a large collection of obliterated sneakers, and one of my most prized possessions- a framed 8x10 of he and I snapped by the official Richmond Marathon photographer when I jumped in with Scott for a block in my formal blue velvet winter coat and Red Sox cap on my way to "Fiddler on the Roof" rehearsal at Virginia Rep. I look like an overtaxed dumpling. Scott looks like The Lord.
**I didn't. The 8-inch bobby pin on the floor at the base of the toilet is none of my doing. But I very much want to know where it came from and how I can get some for myself. Girls, I think we're going back to Beeyooteefull.***
***Yellow warehouse on Brook Road wherein you may try on five wigs for one dollar. Birthday party invites forthcoming.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Swinging Into Shakespeare, Or: Jonathan Looks Busty....
The clouds had somewhere to be. Lying on my couch last night in the storm-induced early-settler conditions, I watched them out my wide open windows. Steady progress across the sky. Like covered wagons with horses going at a fast walk. I thought about- what if the clouds were the dark parts and the sky was the white parts. I closed my eyes and thought obsessive compulsive disorder thoughts. When I opened my eyes, the clouds didn't look like a prairie caravan anymore. They looked as one. Like a thick, bumpy slug moving along the horizon.
I had just walked home from hearing Ali Thibodeau sing some wonderful, self-composed songs. Ali with her beautiful new guitar which looks blue in certain lights but is reportedly not. Ali can really, really sing. Opera all the way to yodeling. Yopera? Singing also are a girl named Hannah who I know I've seen before and another girl with an orange guitar bigger than she was. The last girl could produce natural reverb when she sang particularly strong notes and dropped her jaw particularly far (as one is instructed to do). I sat on a tall stool across from Mr. Paul and we both sat up poker straight so as not to get our noses or chests into the frame of the video Matt Shofner was shooting of the concert with his phone. Just outside the window behind Mr. Paul, a very smartly attired news anchor was standing waiting to shoot his spot about the large tree which had just fallen across the street outside of the bar. Passerby were astounded. I had never even noticed that tree. It may have been a plant. The news anchor waited quite awhile. Crew persons kept running to their cars and returning with various garbage bags with which to shelter the camera from the rain. He may still be standing there. I saw a boy shooting video of the concert who I once pretended to be in love with under a tree. He wore a white shirt that day and until he donned said shirt and threw some gel in his hair I thought he was the person in charge of gaffe tape and ordering pizza. I had to walk through bramble strewn fields and have my legs chewed to bits as part of the exercise.
My boots and socks got very soggy on my walk home last night. I applauded myself for wisely choosing not to wear my hamburger socks. And on having the foresight to always, always carry my kitten umbrella.
Last night was interesting even before all that, though. Rewind.
I put on as few clothes as is decent and walk to Agecroft Hall. I am covering for Jonathan Conyers tonight so he can go to his school's graduation. What I'm doing so he can go to this graduation is playing someone called Fabian in "Twelfth Night," which Agecroft is currently putting on as a cover for the operation they run every summer to see how many gallons of human sweat they can accumulate over an 8-week period. I am not clear on if this Fabian person is kind or evil, sad or funny, male or female- i.e. if I will be permitted to wear my silver sequined beret. But I do know all the lines.
Adrian kindly fetches me off the street and saves me walking the last quarter mile. We drive deep into the woods behind Agecroft to park the car. Looks like the place where the R.O.U.Ss are in "The Princess Bride." I go sit on the Astroturf bleachers and take a great Instagram shot of Liz and Elisabeth and Noah, in which they are giving sass. Evan and David and Thomas arrive to run over "the boxtree scene" with me. I don't know why it's called "the boxtree scene." All it seems to involve from what I can tell is a speech, some curtains, and The Three Stooges. Back in the dressing basement I crankily wiggle into my costume. Crankily because it involves tucking in not one, but two shirts. I hate tucking in shirts. The shoes are very comfortable, and I'm excited about the suspenders until I realize I've not a clue how to operate them. I flail them around until Evan takes them from me and tries to apply them to my person. They are broken, we decide. Now that that's off the table, I am free to devote the rest of the hour and a half before I go onstage to deciding if I want to wear my hair like a French aristocrat, Pollyanna, or Lady Godiva. Too bad you weren't there to see what I decided.
The dressing room is boisterous and full of energy drinks. People are playing guitars, ukuleles, ouds, harps, harmonicas, Pokemon, whist....heaven knows what else. I think some of these instruments are artifacts. Liz is over at the other end of the room turning into Elizabeth Katharine Grace Taylor Hepburn Kelly with some assistance from the ever-angelic Jackie Cook. That fairy-like blond girl from Live Art who played a fiddle is there too. She has a very elegant neck.
Once the play starts, the dressing room is very quiet. I talk to a boy who looks just like Jesse Mattes. He tells me Eric Stallings is at the play tonight. This is great. I haven't seen him since we both lived in Chicago and he and Jake Ashey got me thoroughly hooked on the San Francisco Giants. Eric is funny and stalwart and has red hair and is a very accomplished snowboarder. There's a whole other tale about Eric and Matt Shofner and me going skiing seven years ago during the run of "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee" which I'll have to tell later. High point is Matt and I flying down the intermediate slope NOT doing pizza feet and having our eyes closed the entire way because goggles hadn't occurred to us and the snow machines were on full force. Thinking in my head "thisisdangerousthisisdangerousthisisdangerous." And then there's skiing in Idaho. See: David Janeski- aka The Patience of Job.
Oh that's right, I'm in a play tonight. I ask someone to alert me when I should make my way backstage. I stand around on the cobblestones behind the risers and think, "I had no idea 'Twelfth Night' was a musical."
I try to tear a wayward string off David Janosik's vest and think better of it when that string almost severs the top joint of my left pinkie.
There are some lovely flowers behind those risers. I touch some of them. They are not as soft as they look. Hardened sweat drippings, I suppose. Also I hear the snake count is on the rise around this joint. I wonder about that job assignment- to go out and count the snakes. That could take forever. And you probably die. When I saw "Richard III" here many years ago, I sat on the back row of the risers. Joseph Papa was either stage-managing or there with me. But I remember thinking, "ooh, I'll be rebellious," and peeping over the back of the risers, where I saw Rick Brandt walking to make his entrance. He was so very good in that show. He seemed in character even behind the risers. That's a lot of character.
Seven hours later, David and Evan do a faux-drunken cross up the driveway from the back courtyard and I know it's time for my entrance. Evan hiss-reiterates, "just remember to be loud!" Don't worry. I yank out my wedgie- these lacy panties are for the birds- and follow David onstage.
I have a great time. David is wonderful at Shakespeare- so boisterous and passionate and well-learned on the subject. And Evan is a fireball - his character in this, as it turns out (I hadn't had a chance yet to see the show) is a lot like a tipsy rabid weasel, so standing between the two of them and watching them say some stuff was a hoot. They are yammering on about something or other and I am standing there adopting different stances involving my pockets and shifts of my weight and trying to figure out how I feel like this Fabienne should be standing and thinking about Eric Stallings and Liz Earnest (who is sitting house right) when suddenly Elisabeth Ashby enters wearing admirable eye makeup and tells us to go hide behind the curtains. But see- in this production- you don't go hide behind the curtains when she tells you to (more's the challenge for those just stepping in) you have to wait until the end of her monologue when she re-iterates that we should indeed go hide behind the curtains and do it stat because Thomas Cunningham is about to come onstage.
Behind the curtains is fun. Thomas is onstage doing an excellent piece of acting. He's so very good. And sweet. And must have moved to Kentucky because I used to see him like, every single day on Robinson St. in the fan walking to and from Starbucks and that hasn't happened in months.
During this part of the show, David, Evan, and I are to pop out from behind our respective curtains repeatedly and interject taunts against Thomas and shush each other and do lots of physical comedy. Thanks to Thomas' impeccable diction, I hear everything I need to hear. I grip my curtain tightly in my right fist. I shush with alacrity. I glance over at the guys midway through the scene- happy to have this adventuresome opportunity in my life. Dave's face is bright and laser-focused. He is fully engaged in what he is doing. I hear my next cue. I pop out, screech at Dave about cars and illustrating and shove him back behind the curtain. Suddenly Evan appears to my immediate right. I know it is not time for us to switch curtains. He is adamant. His eyes are wild, his neck veins abulge. He gestures strongly for me to cross to his curtain. All this is going on in the space of about four seconds. I think, "Hmm. I am 100% sure it's not time for us to switch yet. But, you know, we've never rehearsed this full speed and it's my first time in, and maybe I'm wrong. Evan does look very determined. But I'm pretty sure. I really don't like these underpants! I think I'm going to stick to my guns." I ball up my face and shake my head "No" at him. His eyes widen and I can tell he is going to whisper something very stern but then he freezes- "You right!" He scampers back to his curtain. In the fifth second, it's my turn to shove David behind his curtain again while I scream something about ponies and tendons and the fruits of the spirit and then it's time for us to switch. I say something condescendingly to Thomas' back about an alcoholic woodcock (whatever that is) and then scoot quickly behind the center curtain so I can pop my head out for a line and then have Evan and David sit on top of me so they can pop their heads out on top of mine. The gents are very hip to the fact that I'm not actually Jonathan Conyers so they are not putting their full weights on me. Evan is trying in some fashion to hold me up as they pile on, but all I've really got to cling to for purchase is someone's kneecap so overall, all this part of the scene taught me is that I need to do more planks.
That bit done, I say my last few lines and then we do some audience acting, which I enjoy. We get to watch Thomas. Thomas is later going to wear some bright yellow socks festooned with bright red ribbons of which I am very envious.*
As Thomas is giving the latter 27th of his monologue and we're watching from the audience, I can see the sky over his head splitting with thin lightening. We are definitely not going to do Act II.
As we head for the dressing rooms, David says his favorite bit was when I said "bear-biting" instead of "bear-baiting." I agree. I didn't realize I'd said it at the time, but it tended to slip out in all the rehearsals I'd held with myself alone on my couch, and upon reflection, the image of Fabienne gnawing vigorously on a furry, furry bear is well worth it.
Then it stormed and all the trees fell down and here we are.
*Private asterisk just to remind me of something come October.
I had just walked home from hearing Ali Thibodeau sing some wonderful, self-composed songs. Ali with her beautiful new guitar which looks blue in certain lights but is reportedly not. Ali can really, really sing. Opera all the way to yodeling. Yopera? Singing also are a girl named Hannah who I know I've seen before and another girl with an orange guitar bigger than she was. The last girl could produce natural reverb when she sang particularly strong notes and dropped her jaw particularly far (as one is instructed to do). I sat on a tall stool across from Mr. Paul and we both sat up poker straight so as not to get our noses or chests into the frame of the video Matt Shofner was shooting of the concert with his phone. Just outside the window behind Mr. Paul, a very smartly attired news anchor was standing waiting to shoot his spot about the large tree which had just fallen across the street outside of the bar. Passerby were astounded. I had never even noticed that tree. It may have been a plant. The news anchor waited quite awhile. Crew persons kept running to their cars and returning with various garbage bags with which to shelter the camera from the rain. He may still be standing there. I saw a boy shooting video of the concert who I once pretended to be in love with under a tree. He wore a white shirt that day and until he donned said shirt and threw some gel in his hair I thought he was the person in charge of gaffe tape and ordering pizza. I had to walk through bramble strewn fields and have my legs chewed to bits as part of the exercise.
My boots and socks got very soggy on my walk home last night. I applauded myself for wisely choosing not to wear my hamburger socks. And on having the foresight to always, always carry my kitten umbrella.
Last night was interesting even before all that, though. Rewind.
I put on as few clothes as is decent and walk to Agecroft Hall. I am covering for Jonathan Conyers tonight so he can go to his school's graduation. What I'm doing so he can go to this graduation is playing someone called Fabian in "Twelfth Night," which Agecroft is currently putting on as a cover for the operation they run every summer to see how many gallons of human sweat they can accumulate over an 8-week period. I am not clear on if this Fabian person is kind or evil, sad or funny, male or female- i.e. if I will be permitted to wear my silver sequined beret. But I do know all the lines.
Adrian kindly fetches me off the street and saves me walking the last quarter mile. We drive deep into the woods behind Agecroft to park the car. Looks like the place where the R.O.U.Ss are in "The Princess Bride." I go sit on the Astroturf bleachers and take a great Instagram shot of Liz and Elisabeth and Noah, in which they are giving sass. Evan and David and Thomas arrive to run over "the boxtree scene" with me. I don't know why it's called "the boxtree scene." All it seems to involve from what I can tell is a speech, some curtains, and The Three Stooges. Back in the dressing basement I crankily wiggle into my costume. Crankily because it involves tucking in not one, but two shirts. I hate tucking in shirts. The shoes are very comfortable, and I'm excited about the suspenders until I realize I've not a clue how to operate them. I flail them around until Evan takes them from me and tries to apply them to my person. They are broken, we decide. Now that that's off the table, I am free to devote the rest of the hour and a half before I go onstage to deciding if I want to wear my hair like a French aristocrat, Pollyanna, or Lady Godiva. Too bad you weren't there to see what I decided.
The dressing room is boisterous and full of energy drinks. People are playing guitars, ukuleles, ouds, harps, harmonicas, Pokemon, whist....heaven knows what else. I think some of these instruments are artifacts. Liz is over at the other end of the room turning into Elizabeth Katharine Grace Taylor Hepburn Kelly with some assistance from the ever-angelic Jackie Cook. That fairy-like blond girl from Live Art who played a fiddle is there too. She has a very elegant neck.
Once the play starts, the dressing room is very quiet. I talk to a boy who looks just like Jesse Mattes. He tells me Eric Stallings is at the play tonight. This is great. I haven't seen him since we both lived in Chicago and he and Jake Ashey got me thoroughly hooked on the San Francisco Giants. Eric is funny and stalwart and has red hair and is a very accomplished snowboarder. There's a whole other tale about Eric and Matt Shofner and me going skiing seven years ago during the run of "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee" which I'll have to tell later. High point is Matt and I flying down the intermediate slope NOT doing pizza feet and having our eyes closed the entire way because goggles hadn't occurred to us and the snow machines were on full force. Thinking in my head "thisisdangerousthisisdangerousthisisdangerous." And then there's skiing in Idaho. See: David Janeski- aka The Patience of Job.
Oh that's right, I'm in a play tonight. I ask someone to alert me when I should make my way backstage. I stand around on the cobblestones behind the risers and think, "I had no idea 'Twelfth Night' was a musical."
I try to tear a wayward string off David Janosik's vest and think better of it when that string almost severs the top joint of my left pinkie.
There are some lovely flowers behind those risers. I touch some of them. They are not as soft as they look. Hardened sweat drippings, I suppose. Also I hear the snake count is on the rise around this joint. I wonder about that job assignment- to go out and count the snakes. That could take forever. And you probably die. When I saw "Richard III" here many years ago, I sat on the back row of the risers. Joseph Papa was either stage-managing or there with me. But I remember thinking, "ooh, I'll be rebellious," and peeping over the back of the risers, where I saw Rick Brandt walking to make his entrance. He was so very good in that show. He seemed in character even behind the risers. That's a lot of character.
Seven hours later, David and Evan do a faux-drunken cross up the driveway from the back courtyard and I know it's time for my entrance. Evan hiss-reiterates, "just remember to be loud!" Don't worry. I yank out my wedgie- these lacy panties are for the birds- and follow David onstage.
I have a great time. David is wonderful at Shakespeare- so boisterous and passionate and well-learned on the subject. And Evan is a fireball - his character in this, as it turns out (I hadn't had a chance yet to see the show) is a lot like a tipsy rabid weasel, so standing between the two of them and watching them say some stuff was a hoot. They are yammering on about something or other and I am standing there adopting different stances involving my pockets and shifts of my weight and trying to figure out how I feel like this Fabienne should be standing and thinking about Eric Stallings and Liz Earnest (who is sitting house right) when suddenly Elisabeth Ashby enters wearing admirable eye makeup and tells us to go hide behind the curtains. But see- in this production- you don't go hide behind the curtains when she tells you to (more's the challenge for those just stepping in) you have to wait until the end of her monologue when she re-iterates that we should indeed go hide behind the curtains and do it stat because Thomas Cunningham is about to come onstage.
Behind the curtains is fun. Thomas is onstage doing an excellent piece of acting. He's so very good. And sweet. And must have moved to Kentucky because I used to see him like, every single day on Robinson St. in the fan walking to and from Starbucks and that hasn't happened in months.
During this part of the show, David, Evan, and I are to pop out from behind our respective curtains repeatedly and interject taunts against Thomas and shush each other and do lots of physical comedy. Thanks to Thomas' impeccable diction, I hear everything I need to hear. I grip my curtain tightly in my right fist. I shush with alacrity. I glance over at the guys midway through the scene- happy to have this adventuresome opportunity in my life. Dave's face is bright and laser-focused. He is fully engaged in what he is doing. I hear my next cue. I pop out, screech at Dave about cars and illustrating and shove him back behind the curtain. Suddenly Evan appears to my immediate right. I know it is not time for us to switch curtains. He is adamant. His eyes are wild, his neck veins abulge. He gestures strongly for me to cross to his curtain. All this is going on in the space of about four seconds. I think, "Hmm. I am 100% sure it's not time for us to switch yet. But, you know, we've never rehearsed this full speed and it's my first time in, and maybe I'm wrong. Evan does look very determined. But I'm pretty sure. I really don't like these underpants! I think I'm going to stick to my guns." I ball up my face and shake my head "No" at him. His eyes widen and I can tell he is going to whisper something very stern but then he freezes- "You right!" He scampers back to his curtain. In the fifth second, it's my turn to shove David behind his curtain again while I scream something about ponies and tendons and the fruits of the spirit and then it's time for us to switch. I say something condescendingly to Thomas' back about an alcoholic woodcock (whatever that is) and then scoot quickly behind the center curtain so I can pop my head out for a line and then have Evan and David sit on top of me so they can pop their heads out on top of mine. The gents are very hip to the fact that I'm not actually Jonathan Conyers so they are not putting their full weights on me. Evan is trying in some fashion to hold me up as they pile on, but all I've really got to cling to for purchase is someone's kneecap so overall, all this part of the scene taught me is that I need to do more planks.
That bit done, I say my last few lines and then we do some audience acting, which I enjoy. We get to watch Thomas. Thomas is later going to wear some bright yellow socks festooned with bright red ribbons of which I am very envious.*
As Thomas is giving the latter 27th of his monologue and we're watching from the audience, I can see the sky over his head splitting with thin lightening. We are definitely not going to do Act II.
As we head for the dressing rooms, David says his favorite bit was when I said "bear-biting" instead of "bear-baiting." I agree. I didn't realize I'd said it at the time, but it tended to slip out in all the rehearsals I'd held with myself alone on my couch, and upon reflection, the image of Fabienne gnawing vigorously on a furry, furry bear is well worth it.
Then it stormed and all the trees fell down and here we are.
*Private asterisk just to remind me of something come October.
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